#takes on this new sense of foreboding and anticipation

[invisiblecities1972]

i love the way the air smells right before a storm

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐁𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.1k

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Secret mutual pinning, angst, emotional turmoil, mentions of insecurities, EVENTUAL SMUT, confessional sex, cunnilingus, unprotected p in v sex, long distance relationship

𝐀/𝐍: I didn’t expect this to be so long. Also hey @lazyjellyfish300 remember this blurb?? We’ve got the smut🥳

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Saying goodbye to you wasn’t part of Miguel’s plan. As you prepare to leave Alchemax for a prestigious new role, Miguel struggles with the realisation that he’s about to lose more than just a colleague.

“What are you doing?”

Miguel watched intently as you packed away your belongings in a box, clearing up your workstation. It wasn’t just a casual clean up— this looked like something more final.

You meticulously removed the photos from the wall, gathered your notes, and neatly stacked your research papers. The once vibrant workstation, full of personality, now looked eerily bare.

“Clearing my work station.” you said matter-of-factory. His chest felt heavy with uneasy tension, a sense of foreboding growing with each second.

“Yeah, I got that much, genius,” he shot back, stepping closer and stopping right next to your desk. “Why are you clearing your desk?”

You turned to face him wordlessly, his question only carrying more weight between the two of you like an unwelcome guest. His mouth went dry as he locked eyes with you.

Up close, you always managed to take his breath away, a quiet beauty that never failed to stir something deep within him. But today, there was a different kind of tension in the air, a sense of finality that he couldn’t grasp.

“Well?” he prodded, though he had a sinking feeling that whatever was going to unfold would change everything.

“Well uhm…I put in my two weeks notice today.”

He almost choked at your words. This was worse than he anticipated. He thought maybe you were moving to a different workstation, not leaving the company entirely.

“What?” his voice was barely a whisper. He could feel his pulse thundering in his ears. You were leaving— he was losing you.

“I’ve been offered a lead geneticist position at another company. But it’s in Raleigh, so…I’m gonna have to move.”

You had worked as a research scientist at Alchemax for several years, and because of the nature of your work, you and Miguel collaborated on a daily basis.

Discussing experimental results, debating research protocols— it all came so naturally. Over time, what began as a professional respect grew into something more personal. And now, that bond was about to be severed.

You were leaving for a bigger, fancier job in North Carolina. The thought twisted something deep inside him and he struggled to keep himself together.

“I can’t turn it down. I’ve busted my ass on the application and the whole interview process.”

“Congrats…” The word came out strangled, forced through clenched teeth. Trying to talk without being overwhelmed with emotions was like trying to hold back a flood with a paper dam.

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.” you half-joked, but there was a note of concern in your voice.

You were right, his response wasn’t the best cover-up for his true feelings. The mere idea of you leaving filled him with dread, despair and most of all, jealousy.

“Of course I’m happy for you. I know you’ve been working hard— you deserve the opportunity.” He managed to hide most of his turmoil behind a cold wall of control. But deep down, the words felt hollow.

He knew he had no right to feel this way. You had every right to leave, to seize this incredible opportunity. This wasn’t something that came around often, and he didn’t want to be the one to hold you back.

You set the box down on the desk— the box that held all your belongings. “I’ll still be here for another two weeks.”

“Two weeks…” he echoed, the words sticking in his throat like a curse.

Two weeks. How was that enough time to prepare for losing you? What was he supposed to do after that? Just accept that you were gone? His heart couldn’t take that.

“I’ll visit Nueva York whenever I get the chance,” you said, trying to sound reassuring.

“You better. You’re not allowed to just drop off the face of the earth once you’re gone…” it was getting harder to keep his tone light.

“Of course…Nueva York and Alchemax aren't going to leave my mind anytime soon.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of us every now and then…and I’m certain this place won’t forget you…”

“I doubt it.” you scoffed, a bit of edge to your voice. “The higher ups will probably replace me before I even step foot in North Carolina.”

Miguel’s heart sank at the thought, though he knew there was some truth to it. The idea of someone else taking your place, of your work station filled with notes and projects by another rando, was too much to bear.

He could already picture the empty space where your personal touch used to shine through, replaced by some faceless new hire who was unaware how amazing you were

“Yeah, knowing them, they’ve probably already written up your job description, listing your position open for applications.” he sighed solemnly.

The company never had the best moral compass when it came to their employees, and would replace anyone that wasn’t serving their needs in a heartbeat.

“It’s okay, I’m sure I’ve left my mark here, even if I feel like I didn’t do much.”

Miguel almost let out a laugh in disbelief. You were always such a hard-worker, always a quick-thinker. You had single-handedly helped him out more times than he could count.

Another company had even recognised your talent and wanted you to work for them…yet you still doubted your capabilities.

“Are you serious? You’re irreplaceable. You’ve saved my ass more times than I could remember.” His voice was firm now, desperate to make you see things from his view.

“Mhmm.” You hummed. “Now, I’ll soon be the lead geneticist in another company, just like you.”

The enthusiasm in your tone was impossible to miss, and it reflected in your eyes. It should have made Miguel happy for you, and in a way, it did.

But the guilt still gnawed at him, guilt that he couldn’t match your excitement. Deep down, all he wanted was for you to stay, for purely selfish reasons.

“Yeah…just like me.” he repeated your words, the tiniest edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

You didn’t seem to notice. “I guess all those late nights of research finally paid off. And all your teachings too.”

Miguel recalled all those nights together— just the two of you, the lab quiet save for the hum of machines and the scratch of pen on paper.

Mundane tasks became memorable simply because you were there. The memories sent a shiver up his spine, a bittersweet reminder of what he was about to lose.

It was a painful realisation that not everything lasts forever, especially the good things.

“Don’t count all this success as being attributed to just me, you did a lot of studying, too.” he chuckled lightly. “You really put in the hard work…you earned it.”

But even as he spoke, the words tasted bitter. Even if he was proud of you, it didn’t make the ache in his chest any less potent.

He glanced back at the box on your desk. No one could replace you— not in the lab, and certainly not in his life.

“But, I wouldn’t be here without you, so I have to give you some credit.” you smiled warmly. “If I ever win an award in this field and they make me stand on those podiums and talk to a huge audience, I’ll be sure to mention your name.”

Miguel felt his stomach flip at your words. He was at a loss for words. You’d mention his name if you won an award? He didn’t realise he had made such an impact on you— to be someone you viewed as admirable enough to acknowledge publicly.

The thought alone could possibly make him faint. To have his name mentioned in such a light by you…it was almost too much to handle.

He swallowed thickly. “Ah…you don’t have to go that far. I’m just some scientist,” he said coolly, though his pulse quickened. “Really, you’re gonna go places, make a name for yourself— you don’t need to credit me.”

“But I will. You've been a big part of my career here,” you insisted.

Your words hit Miguel square in the chest. You were adamant about recognising his role in your life. It was almost overwhelming, the way you considered him to be that much of an integral part of you.

He forced out a playful scoff, hoping to mask the surge of emotions rising in him.

“Yeah, I guess I helped you with some projects…but don’t go listing me as some co-author in your resume.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I know my limits.”

~

The next few days felt like treading on thin ice, where one wrong move could crack the fragile tension between the two of you.

Since the day you told him you were leaving, you’ve been unusually reserved, quieter than usual— a shift that didn’t go unnoticed by Miguel.

The sudden change in your energy tightened the coil of anxiety in his chest, and it was made worse by his inability to figure out why you were acting this way.

Whenever he would look your way, you always seemed distracted, lost in thought. Your responses were always brief and you would only speak when spoken to.

Miguel couldn’t help but feel concerned over you, but he was hesitant to ask you about it, not wanting to intrude or overstep any boundaries.

One evening, you both found yourselves working late again in his lab alone. The atmosphere was quiet— filled with the soft sounds of typing and the occasional shuffle of papers.

Miguel couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at you. You were staring at your work, but he could tell your focus was elsewhere, lost in your own thoughts that were weighing you down.

As the evening wore on, the solitude of the lab and the waning hours seemed to offer the right moment. His concern outweighed his hesitation, and he turned his chair to face you.

“You’ve been quiet all day. Is everything okay?” He asked gently.

You looked up at him from your papers. The lightning highlighted the tiredness in your eyes, your expression weary and distant.

“Yeah, just thinking.” you mused.

“Is it about leaving? Are you upset?”

He could see the hesitation in your face, your eyes darting away from him and focused on the desk in front of you. “It’s not about leaving…well, maybe it is, in a way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about how I’ve been in relationships…you know, what I wanted, what I didn’t get. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve been asking for too much.”

Miguel blinked, taken back by your admission. He hadn’t expected that, but now that you brought it up, he was curious to know more.

“Too much? What could you possibly have asked for that was too much?”

“Just…little things. Being held, feeling safe, someone who actually listens after a long day,” you replied. He didn’t miss the tinge of bitterness in your voice. “I thought those were normal things to want, but it was like… like they were a burden to give.”

Hearing you feel so unappreciated made his chest tighten with frustration. How could someone make you think you were asking for too much? You deserved everything you asked for and more.

“That’s not too much to ask. It’s not a burden— it’s what you deserve.”

This wasn’t a passing thought; it was clear you’d been hurt before. The idea that someone had made you feel unworthy of love you craved infuriated him.

If you were with him, you wouldn’t even have to ask for that. He’d give you everything you wanted, and then some.

You let out a tired sigh, still not fully convinced by his words. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever find that. Or I’m chasing something unrealistic.”

No, don’t think that.

“You deserve someone who will give you all of that.”

You looked up at him. He could tell his words resonated with you when he saw something hopeful in your eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” he said— he kept his tone low, hiding the fierce enthusiasm he felt. He could go on about everything you deserved, but he didn’t want to come off as desperate. “And if you have found it yet, it’s not because you’re asking too much.”

There was so much more he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to do— but he held himself back. He wanted to pull you into his embrace, just to share your warmth.

He wasn’t going to confess to you, that wasn’t the smartest move. Instead he pushed his feelings down for your sake, and pretended his love for you was just platonic.

“Are you in a relationship?” you asked suddenly.

Miguel had to hold himself back from giving a puzzled look. You’ve worked together for years now— wasn't it obvious that he was single? Maybe he’d been too vague about his love life, that was probably why you were asking.

He thought that by never mentioning a partner, it made him seem more available to you. But it seems you’ve overlooked that.

Not that he was inexperienced. He had his fair share of relationships— some short-lived, others too casual to be called serious.

They were a balance of good and bad, each leaving him with lessons to learn.

But he could confidently say that none of them had ever made him feel the way you did. He longed to express that with you, to tell you why you had his heart wrapped around your finger. But he knew that would only complicate things more.

“No…haven’t been in one in a while.”

And you’re the reason, he wanted to add.

“What about you? Found anyone special yet?” A small part of him dreaded to hear you answer, even if either response wouldn’t serve him any good.

“No.”

If you weren’t leaving the company, that answer would’ve brought him joy. But now, knowing that you were available it made the situation more poignant— a reminder that he had missed his chance.

Ironically, it would’ve given him more clarity if you said yes.

He had gotten used to concealing his true feelings since the day you told him that you’ve given your two weeks notice. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

So he offered you a reassuring smile instead, “Don’t worry. You’ll find someone who will cherish you the way you deserve.”

I’m right over here.

From the look of your face lifting up, he knew he managed to sound convincing and encouraging.

“I do have my eyes on someone though…” you added.

Your words echoed in his head and wrapped around his throat like a vice. A storm of emotions hit him all at once, leaving him struggling to navigate through the confusion.

On one hand, he was dying to know who you were referring to. On the other, he felt shattered that someone else managed to make their way into your heart and he wasn’t even aware of it.

He swallowed the lump in his throat before speaking. “Oh really? What are they like?”

Each question he asked felt like digging himself deeper into a pit he might never climb out of. Even while he forced himself to act neutral, it was hard to predict when the nonchalant facade would eventually crack.

You let out a sheepish laugh before answering. ”Well…he’s pretty tall,”

Miguel’s mind raced through every tall colleague he could think of, analysing every conversation you’d had with them, and trying to think back to any clues that would give away your feelings for them.

Miguel knew he was probably being overly cautious, but his instincts flared up. It wasn’t just his jealousy— though there was no denying that he was feeling a tinge of envy— but he didn’t want to see you get hurt by anyone.

Especially after what you revealed to him earlier. But he brought those thoughts to the side for a moment and continued to listen to you.

“He’s… a little grumpy but that’s what adds to his charm,” you added. There was something reflecting in your eyes, a sparkle that he couldn’t quite grasp, but he dismissed it.

Grumpy? You found that charming? He thought back to all those times you had called him grumpy.

His stomach fluttered as he felt a new sense of hope. But he didn’t let that sway his judgment and got optimistic too quickly.

“What else do you like about him?” Miguel asked. Deep down, Miguel felt a change of heart and he was desperate to know more, hoping that there was even the slightest chance that it might be him.

“He’s always there when I need him, even though he tries to hide it, he secretly has a heart of gold.”

You were killing him, little by little, with every answer you were giving him. It was all the qualities he was proud to have, yet he still felt doubtful.

He managed a small smile, trying to hide the longing in his heart. “Sounds like a good man. I’m sure he’s lucky to have your affection.”

“Yeah. I really hope he feels the same. Otherwise, all those coffees I gave him would be a waste,” you let out a sigh, clearly lost in thought about the man you admired.

You couldn’t have been more obvious. His heart fluttered as he recalled all those coffees you would give him in the mornings, especially during your joint projects.

Thank the stars that he was a master at keeping a tight lid on his feelings. There was no way he was going to let his excitement show— not yet, not until he was sure

“Those coffees?” he asked. “Why do you give them to him?”

“I was hoping I’d stand out to him and not just be a colleague he sits with.”

“Stand out? What other things are you willing to do?”

“Maybe offer to help with his paperwork— if he doesn’t mind.”

Miguel couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but his heart swelled with happiness with each word. You wanted to stand out to him. Offer to do his paperwork.

You didn’t have to do all of that to get his attention; he had eyes on you for a long time, but all these little things you did were an added bonus.

“Do you think I should buy him more coffee?” you asked, you gaze locked with him, searching for his approval. You were asking for his opinion too.

“Coffee’s a good ice breaker. Maybe you could add a little note too, I bet he’ll notice you after that,” he kept his tone casual, but Miguel couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

You looked so eager, willing to take whatever advice. After all, if you were talking about him, you’d take his advice even more seriously, right? It only made sense.

“Maybe you could ask him out on a casual date, nothing too big. Just to see how he reacts,” he teased, way too excited with how you’ll respond.

Will you ask him out now?

“You know…I think I’ll call him now,” you got up to leave the room.

Everything came crashing down on him in an instant. His heart shattered, taking all his hopes with it. So, you weren’t talking about him after all.

“Ah, alright…good luck with that,” he tried to maintain a neutral tone, but the strain in his voice betrayed him.

The weight of his unrequited love pressed heavily on his chest, it was almost palpable. Each step you took away felt like a knife twisting deeper into his heart.

How could he have been so foolish? Of course, it wouldn’t be him.

From the sound of your footsteps, you walked a few doors down, away from his earshot. You probably didn’t want him to overhear.

Sadness and disappointment surrounded him like a suffocating fog as he slumped back at his desk. He hadn’t heard from you in half an hour.

You were either working up the courage to call your love interest or caught in an extended conversation. But what he didn’t expect was to see your name pop up on his phone screen when his phone rang.

Although he didn’t want to hear how your conversation went, he still wanted to be supportive. He loved you too much to ruin your happiness.

He cleared his throat, bracing himself for whatever you had to say, expecting to have his heart shattered again, before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh, don’t say ‘hello’ like you haven’t saved my number,” you teased.

Miguel forced out a chuckle, trying to match your lightheartedness. “You got me there. Of course I have your number saved. So, how did it go?” he asked, his voice filled with forced anticipation, even as his heart pounded in his chest.

“Well, that guy I was talking about earlier…”

You left the sentence hanging, as if daring him to grasp the meaning. Miguel cleared his throat, keeping his composure and hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his pain. “Go on…what happened?”

There was a pause that went on for a few seconds, but it was enough to make his stomach twist as he waited for your response. Finally, you spoke.

“Well, did you know that it was you and were just acting clueless? Or did you not pick that up, yet?” you asked.

Miguel froze, the words processed in his mind. For a moment, he was stunned into silence, his grip tightening around the phone near his ear. His mind replayed the conversation you had just shared to see if he missed anything.

Then, a small smile slowly crept on his face, a mix of disbelief and dawning realisation. Now, hearing you confirm that it was true, he couldn’t hide his relief and the warmth that spread across his chest.

“I…uh…had…my suspicions,” he stuttered, his voice thick with emotion. “But hearing you say it now…it means more than you know.”

He paused for a moment, realising he might be sounding too eager, too vulnerable. “But what did you mean when you said ‘did you not pick that up’? Was it…was it not obvious that I had feelings for you too?”

“No, actually.”

A soft sigh of relief escaped Miguel’s lips. He’d tried so hard to keep his feelings for you hidden, fearing rejection to avoid an awkward situation that might follow, especially with you leaving the city.

But knowing now that he hadn’t been as obvious he feared— that you hadn’t noticed— was a strange comfort. Still, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different if he’d confessed first. Would he have had the courage? Probably not, even with your imminent departure.

“Well…now that we both know how we feel, what does that mean for us? Are you…happy that I have feelings for you too?”

“Duh.”

Miguel let out a chuckle at your blasé response. The tension in his chest from earlier was starting to ease, allowing him to bask in the moment.

But the reality of your limited time here was starting to set in, dulling his joy with a stab of regret.

“So…you’re still leaving, huh?” he couldn’t hide the solemn tone in his voice.

“Yeah, I am. But that doesn’t mean this has to end before it starts.”

His heart stuttered at that. “You really think we could make it work.”

“If we both want it, I don’t see why not.” The determination in your voice was palpable, even through the phone. It made him feel more desired than ever.

“I want it. More than anything. And right now, I really want to kiss you.”

“Hold on, let me come to you,” you hung up the phone and Miguel could hear your footsteps getting closer.

Once you finally arrived, you looked back up at him. Miguel could see the eagerness and the tinge of mischief in your eyes.

“Kiss me please.”

At that moment, he knew there was no use waiting any longer. His lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive.

He couldn’t believe this was really happening, he had always dreamed of this moment but now that he was experiencing it in person, it felt too surreal to be real.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as his lips moved lovingly against yours. Breaking the kiss, he took a moment to study your face.

He wanted to kiss you again, to tell you sweet nothings that he had been holding back for so long. But he knew he had to compose himself and give you a moment to breathe.

“Lock the doors,” your voice echoed in his mind, sending his mind into a frenzy. He chuckled but still obliged, giving you both a newfound privacy.

Everything else felt like a blur and the next moment, he was unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it to the side. He didn’t waste any time doing the same to your pants.

His throat went dry when he noticed the wet patch on your undies, a sign that you were just as turned on as he was.

Just as infatuated.

It drove him crazy. As he leaned in, he felt your hands hike up under his shirt too. He took this as a sign to remove it, his toned body now in full view. His muscle’s glistened under the light.

He pressed your bare chest against his— the raw feeling of your skin against his was pure ecstasy. He lifted your body with ease and set you on a clear desk.

His body was still pressed against yours as he kissed over your neck and down your collar bone. He felt so lucky to have you in his arms like this, even better in his lab.

You were finally his…

He knelt down between your legs, his hands caressing over each thigh. His lips found your inner thigh, kissing over your skin, dangerously close to your core.

It was his ultimate goal to memorise every curve and crevice of your skin, what made you tick and all your favourite spots you liked to be touched. He wanted to savour this moment as much as he could.

His tongue slowly ran over your soaked cunt, finally getting a taste of you. Immediately, you gasped and your legs twitched in response.

You tasted incredible, or maybe that was just the heat of the moment. He continued to pleasure you with his mouth, his tongue tracing delicious, slow patterns around your sensitive bud.

He heard you gasp out his name which motivated to continue. His hand reached up to intertwine with yours, his touch grounding and tender as he continued to pleasure you with his mouth.

“Oh God…right there, Miguel—”

Your free hand reached into his scalp and gently tugged on his curls. Feeling your hips grinding against his tongue only drove him further, desperate to coax your orgasm.

That’s it…

Give yourself to me.

He knew the moment you reached your peak when he felt you tighten your grip on his hair and cry out his name. Seeing the way you threw your head back in the throes of your climax sent an overwhelming shiver through his body— a sensation he couldn’t describe.

Your body convulsed against his mouth as you squirted on his tongue— and he licked you clean eagerly. Finally, he pulled his mouth away, his tongue leaving your body with a final, tantalising flick.

He ran his fist across his mouth to rid your wetness before rising up to his feet. You were completely spent, your body limp and your breath came out ragged.

Your legs were still shaking from your fresh release. He couldn’t help but glide over your cheeks, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone.

He felt you lean into his touch as he savoured the feel of your skin beneath his fingers.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, catching your breath. “Like this? All sweaty and musty? You must really love me then…”

Only you would throw a sarcastic comment after he ate you out. After a moment of stillness, you came down from your high. He spread your legs apart as he hovered over you on the desk.

The precum that leaked from his tip mixed with your wetness as he positioned his tip over your entrance. Slowly, he pushed himself in and was immediately overwhelmed by your cushiony grip over his tip.

Your fingers gripped onto his biceps, keeping yourself steady as he pushed further. Once he bottomed out, you lifted your head to see the light bulge on your belly.

A sense of pride washed over him, seeing your eyes feast on the lewd sight of him filling you up. Every inch of him was all yours.

He dragged himself out with your wetness coating his dick before pushing back in again. His body moved against yours in a perfect harmony, every motion was driven to heighten the pleasure between the two of you.

As the ecstasy reached a new height, Miguel’s body trembled slightly. He couldn’t resist letting out a soft moan followed by your name, his voice filled with all the love he had for you.

“Just like that…” you murmured against his lips.

Hearing your praise, Miguel’s lips curled into a smile, his expression filled with a mixture of confidence and pride.

Every stroke hit a new depth, sending a shiver through both of you.

All he could think about was being connected with you in every way possible. Physically. Emotionally. He angled himself so his pelvic bone could rub and stimulate your bundle of nerves.

“Miguel-!”

You let out a cry when he changed his pace, your nails digging into his back. He wanted you to feel him for weeks, remembering this night. Each sharp, precise thrust, hitting your sweet spot over and over and driving you over the edge.

He could feel his own peak crawling up with each passing second. His thrusts grew more desperate and frenzied, aiming to chase his high with your body wrapped around his own.

“Look at me…I want to see you,” he breathed.

The sight of you under him, taking everything he was giving you, sent him over the edge. His body tensed as he reached the pinnacle of his own climax.

With one last thrust deep into your heat, his cum pulsated into you in strong waves. He stayed balled deep until each were drained and waited for a moment before he pulled his hips back.

He felt withdrawal as he released himself from your grip, his deflated dick now hung between his legs.

His body slumped weakly against yours, the intensity of the moment leaving him content and blissfully exhausted. The world around him faded into the background. In that instant, everything felt perfect.

The pulse in his ears gradually quieted to a gentle hum, and his muscles started to relax as he settled against you.

As he kept his arms around you, holding you close, he felt at peace for the first time in what felt like ages. It all felt so right— like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He wanted to stay like this, savouring the closeness, but your soft gasp tugged at his concerns.

“Are you okay?” he asked, still feeling lightheaded from the afterglow. “What’s wrong?”

You quickly sat up on the desk, adjusting your clothes with a sense of urgency. “We need to put our clothes back on.”

The seriousness in your voice jolted back into reality. The sterile scent of the lab and the harsh fluorescent lights snapped into sharp focus, reminding him where you were. He carefully pulled himself away from you, his mind scrambling to catch up.

As he gathered his clothes from the floor and desk, the remnants of your passion, he couldn’t help but glance back at you— disheveled, flushed and utterly captivating.

Once he was fully dressed, he looked at you with amusement. “I think we can slip out before anyone asks what we’ve been up to,” he teased with a grin.

You buttoned your shirt, still appearing slightly frantic. “Did we make a mess?”

Miguel scanned the lab, his eyes sweeping over the desk and the floor. He didn’t spot any obvious signs of a mess, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. The weight of what had just happened hung in the air.

Still, the room would be locked overnight— no one would see anything.

“Well…” he replied with a casual shrug. “I’m not too worried about any physical evidence. As long as they didn’t hear you cry out my name.”

You shot him a mildly annoyed look, pressing your lips together. “We should clock out before anyone suspects us.”

Just as you were about to move, Miguel gently pulled your arm. “Before we go…I need to know if this is something you truly want. Not just a temporary escape.” His voice was soft with vulnerability as he searched your eyes.

Your lips curled up into a reassuring smile. “Let’s go out to dinner and talk more there.”

Miguel’s eyes sparkled, the tension on his shoulders lifting. The idea of an intimate dinner, just the two of you, felt like the perfect addition to the connection you had just deepened.

He felt a sense of triumph as he allowed himself to experience this with you after the long, silent yearning.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d love to have dinner,”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Come on then, let’s get out of here.”

Miguel quickly switched off the lights and locked up before taking your hand in his. The two of you stepped out into the crisp night air, leaving the lab— and its memories— behind.

~

Miguel sat behind the wheel of his car, gripping on the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. You both agreed that he’d drive you to the airport, allowing you to spend these last moments together.

The car ride was silent, save for the occasional crackling of the chip packet in your hands. Miguel's eyes flickered towards you as you reached for another chip. You seemed calm and collected, but he knew better.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to break the silence, but nothing came out. Words that normally flowed so easily from him were caught in his throat. What could he possibly say that would make it any easier?

“Do you want some?” you offered, holding out the bag.

He shook his head, lips twitching into a forced smile. “I’m not really hungry right now.”

His eyes were back on the road. The thought of food was the furthest thing from his mind right now. All he could think about was the impending goodbye as the streets of Nueva York blurred past.

“Are you okay?” your voice, a soft caress.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. Of course he wasn’t okay. How could he be? But he nodded anyway, giving you a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m fine…just a little nervous about dropping you off at the airport, that’s all.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either.

The truth was too raw, too painful, to voice. He didn’t want to admit how devastating he was and burden you with his feelings, not now.

“I’ve never done anything this big before.” you confessed. He could hear the uncertainty in your voice. “Moving to a completely different state…”

He felt a mix of sadness and pride in his chest. He was so proud of you for taking such a big step, but at the same time, he wished things were different and you could stay with him a little longer.

If only he had known sooner, maybe he would have had the courage to confess— to hold you close and never let you go. To have you to himself just a little longer.

“I know, it’s a big deal,” he tried to sound comforting. “But you’re smart, and capable, and I know you’re gonna do amazing.”

“Thanks, I needed that reassurance.” you sighed. “I’m a little nervous. What if I don’t fit in and I’m too…Nueva York-y for them.”

With one hand, Miguel reached over and gently squeezed your thigh, while the other gripped the steering wheel.

He tried to radiate some of his warmth and comfort, despite his emotions swirling like a vortex inside him.

“You’re going to fit in just fine. You’re the most adaptable person I know. And even if you are a bit ‘Nueva York-y’, as you put it, I think the people of North Carolina could use a bit of that.”

He glanced back at you, catching the flicker of unease in your eyes. It was refreshing to know that, despite your excitement, you were still feeling the same apprehension that had been eating him.

It gave a sense of connection— knowing this change was just as daunting to you as it was for him.

“You’re going to enlighten them with your 'Nuyorican’ charm, trust me,” he said lightly.

As the airport car park came into view, Miguel felt a shudder. The moment of truth was closing in with each passing second. The parking lot was busy, surrounded by the hum of engines and the distant echo of rolling suitcases.

Once he found a parking space, he switched off the engine and sighed— the sound heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Part of him wanted to stay rooted in his seat, to delay the inevitable just a little longer.

But he knew better. There was no escaping this. No loophole.

Even if it killed him.

He stepped out of the car and opened the trunk. The reality of the situation was hitting him as he helped you with your luggage. This was really happening.

Inside the terminal, the building was bustling with activity— people rushing to catch flights, families reunited, and others parting with goodbyes. The overhead announcements echoed across the vast space, creating a backdrop of noise.

But the chaos felt distant to Miguel, like it was happening in another world. His entire focus was on the small details of you— how tightly you gripped the suitcase handle, the way your eyes darted around and scanning signs to find where you were supposed to go.

Every little movement you made seemed to carve into his memory, as if he were trying to etch these final moments into his mind.

He tried to keep himself distracted by glancing at the departure board, watching to see when your flight’s status changed to ‘boarding’. Meanwhile, you checked in your flight and dropped off any checked baggage.

Once that was done, Miguel walked with you to the security gates. His heart grew heavier with each step. The moment of separation was looking closer and closer like a looming shadow.

“Alright…this is it…” you announced, finally reaching the security gates. Only ticketed passengers could pass, so this was where he would have to let you go.

There were a few guards already waving people through, urging the crowd to keep moving. The noise of shuffling feet, distant conversations, and the occasional beep of the scanners filled the air, but it all seemed muted to Miguel. He looked back at you one last time, his heart hammering in his chest.

He wanted to say something— anything— to keep you from leaving. Words like ‘don’t go’ or ‘I love you’ hovered on the top of his tongue, but he knew they were pointless. You were leaving, the ticket was booked, and nothing he could say would change that.

“I’m… I’m gonna miss you…” the word felt insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But they were the only truth he could manage.

He knew it was pathetic to confess that now, like it wasn’t obvious already, like it was going to change anything.

“I want to give you something…” you reached for your bag, and Miguel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw what you pulled out— a Polaroid picture.

He took the picture from you, a nostalgic smile spread across your face when he saw the image. It was a picture from your early days at Alchemax, back when he had still been pretending to be annoyed with you.

In the photo, he was giving his signature grumpy glare, arms crossed over his broad chest, while you stood behind him and grinning widely. You were not bothered at all by his gruff demeanor.

“I wanted to wait until the last minute to give it to you,” you rubbed your neck sheepishly.

Miguel chuckled at your words. It was so typical of you, waiting to give him something special at just the right moment.

“Of course you did.” he replied fondly, his fingers tracing the picture gently. He slipped the photo in his wallet, a place where he could keep it close. “It’s perfect…thank you,”

It was more than just a picture, it was a snapshot of a moment in time, a memory he’d hold onto long after you were gone.

You look back up at him, your expression earnest and vulnerable. “Bésame?”

“Con mucho gusto, mi amor,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he closed the distance between the two of you.

He cradled your face in his hands, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. His lips traced over the contour of yours, savouring the moment before fully capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

The kiss was everything— desperate, filled with unspoken words and unfulfilled yearnings. He wanted to hold onto this moment forever, to keep you with him like this just a little longer, but he knew he had to let you go.

Reluctantly, he pulled away, though he rested his forehead on yours, his breath becoming in ragged gasps.

“Be safe, okay?” he murmured.

“I’ll call you when I land...if I get any signal,” you replied with a shaky smile.

You start to queue up for the security gates, your luggage trailing behind you. Miguel’s heart twists as the line slowly gets shorter, the distance between you growing with each passing second.

He couldn’t do anything but watch with his hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets. His eyes were fixated on your figure, memorising every last detail of you.

He knew that once you went through those gates, he would never be able to kiss you, or hold you, or touch you.

Just as you disappeared out of sight, behind the security gates, the airport intercom called out your flight number and announced the final boarding call.

He watched the departure board change to ‘In Air’ which was the final push to turn away. He walked back to his car, the Polaroid photo in his wallet burned into his psyche.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @nina-from-317 @yougavemeyourheartyouknow @cupcakeinat0r @club-danger-zone @kavimoo

@fullmetalgizzy @frogs-and-oscar-brainrot @embearlyhere @soymiguelsesposa @twwcs

@safixiovi @tatatida @ghostsdoll @hyjionie @tomalymme

@saintdiior

Look, I know the smut seems a little rushed here but I didn’t want to focus on the spice in this story but rather the bittersweet, emotionally rollercoaster.

Ayrus xoxo

[venus-haze]

Damned If You Do (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: You're almost certain Bo's getting tired of you. You're not so sure how much longer you can prevent the inevitable, but a slip of the tongue in a moment of desperation proves to be your salvation.

Note: Female reader but no other descriptors are used. I missed writing for Bo! I might be kinda rusty, but I hope y’all like it🖤 Please read the warnings before reading. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Canon typical violence. Prolonged captivity and isolation. Stockholm syndrome (some basement wife elements). Mentions of past torture. Extremely dubious consent. Sexually explicit content involving vaginal fingering, sadism, degradation, choking, knife play.

You were sure Ambrose was gonna kill you if he didn’t first. The damp, dead air permeated the basement walls, filtered in thick through the vent in the ceiling and filled your lungs with each breath. It would choke you once summer settled in, foul and unforgiving. Almost as unforgiving as him, whose presence inspired fear and loathing in you. Lately, however, the lack of it brought a foreboding sense of dread over you as your isolated mind raced to its logical conclusion.

Bo was getting tired of you.

One cursory glance at the state of your body made you panic—bruises fading, cuts and cigarette burns scarring over without fresh marks to replace them. For the first week or so you were there, every part of your body pulsed with pain. He found your limits with the efficacy of a bloodhound and brutally forced you past each one. 

All you felt then was dull aching, kinda hungry, too. Didn’t bode well for your long-term survival.

You shifted on the old, lumpy mattress on the floor, stained with blood, sweat, and cum that reeked with the breakdown of others’ bodily fluids. Probably the girls in the Polaroids all over the walls. He’d taken a few of you since you’d been down there. Hadn’t done that recently, either. Mostly came down there to feed you, take you upstairs to use the gas station bathroom, bring you back downstairs to throw you around a little and fuck you, and then leave. Shit. You were becoming a chore.

Bo had plenty of chores around Ambrose already. Would grumble about them to you, the closest he ever got to pillowtalk. The movie theater, the church, even the houses were his responsibility. You weren’t quite sure why, less able to clearly picture the town you’d driven into the longer you spent as Bo’s captive. There weren’t any immediate red flags that popped out at you. After all, you’d driven straight to the gas station on your blown out tire. Didn’t take the time to do any sight-seeing. He made sure of that. From what you’d gathered from Bo, the only living souls in town were he and Vincent, with the recent and temporary addition of yourself.

The floor creaked above you, and you pulled your knees to your chest, anticipating his arrival downstairs. It was almost impossible to tell what mood he’d be in whenever he’d pay you a visit. Tried listening for the sound of his footsteps, the way his boots pounded against the linoleum above to the cement stairs to where you waited for him, as if you could do much else. There was the TV, but the glimpse into the outside world left you feeling especially helpless when your own face flashed across the screen on the 6 o’clock news not long after you became captive in Ambrose. Then after a week or so, all mention of you stopped. Seven days for you to be rotated out of the news cycle. They’d gotten tired of you long before Bo did.

You screwed your eyes shut, as he ambled down the stairs, racking your brain for what to do. Opened them just as quickly to give him your undivided attention, just how he liked. Panicked and hopeless, you blurted out upon seeing his face, “You’re gonna kill me soon, aren’t you?”

He set the bottle of soda he’d undoubtedly brought down for you and smiled. Charming, disarming, like the one he first gave you when you naively drove into town on the roadkill guy’s advice—Lester. His name was Lester. Could he have known? Was he in on the whole thing? You hadn’t seen anyone but Bo for weeks, and he only made mention of Vincent, his brother, who you were certain had no interest in rescuing you from your plight.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

‘Tire blew out,’ you had told Bo, feeling silly and self-conscious when he laughed. ‘I can see that.’ Threw a wink your way and assured you he’d have you back on the road before it got dark. You trusted him because he was handsome and laid on the compliments thick. Made you think maybe driving over that broken bottle in the road wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Within an hour he had you in that fucking basement.

“You—you’re bored of me,” you said. “You don’t come down here as often as you used to.”

“Aw, you miss me? Is that it?” he mocked.

Maybe. Maybe it was the security of knowing you were wanted, that the longer you kept his interest, the longer you’d be alive. Maybe even earn his trust enough to get a chance to escape back into the world that’d forgotten about you. But Bo wouldn’t forget. He’d keep you immortalized on those cinder block walls with all the others. Disgustingly sentimental. Part of you preferred being part of his shrine to his own depravity than a black and white photo people carelessly flipped past in the local paper.

“How are you gonna do it? Tell me,” you begged.

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes at you as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I like to get that shit over with quick, but you might be worth slowing things down for.”

“Like—like how?”

As soon as he made his way toward you, regret filled your gut. You crawled backward on your hands, trying to put some distance between you until your back hit the wall. His hands were around your neck, his hungry eyes drinking in your distress.

“If you were most girls, I would just keep squeezing until you stop breathing,” he said, squeezing harder. “Pretty clean.” Black spots filled your vision as you fruitlessly tried clawing at his hands. “Makes it easier for Vincent to get to work on you that way.” He released your throat, and you fought through the coughing fit that burned in your chest as you gasped for air. Tears streamed down your face, and you wanted to smack the smug expression off of his.

“But that ain’t always fun,” he said.

Bo stood up and kicked your legs apart with his boots. Grabbed something from the nearby tool cart. The fucking knife. You swore he kept the blade dull on purpose just so it’d hurt more, leave nastier scars behind in its wake whenever he dug it into your skin, dragging it through your flesh with horrifying precision that only came from experience, because you never needed stitches.

“For you, I think I’d be a little more personal.”

He straddled you, sitting on your legs so you couldn’t possibly move them in an attempt to escape or defend yourself. You could feel his hard-on straining against his jeans, pressing into your bare pussy as he leaned over you, knife shining menacingly in the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. He made rags of your clothes not long after you became his and never offered any replacement.

The blade pressed against the middle of your chest, right between your breasts, making you shudder. He licked his lips. “I could shove this knife on in there, open you up all the way down to your cunt.” His fingers brushed your clit. “‘Beauty’s only skin deep’, that’s what my mama used to say. But sluts like you all look the same on the inside. Crack open your ribcage, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you from all the rest.”

You whimpered as he dragged the blade down your abdomen with a deceptive gentleness, his fingers still working your clit, making it hard for you not to jerk your hips, risking a slip of the knife directly into your belly. 

When he lifted the knife, you couldn’t even let yourself feel relief as your eyes followed it to one of your wrists. 

“Could take it nice and slow. Let you bleed out,” he pressed it against your skin, dangerously close to a vein. “It’d take hours for you to die, then. Messy as hell, too, but we could get up to some fun, you and me. A good fuck for ol’ times’ sake, then I can sit back with some popcorn while I watch the lights go out in those pretty eyes of yours.”

You let out a shaky breath, fear and arousal mixing with your lingering lack of oxygen so you could only half-grasp what exactly he was saying, just that he had a knife to your wrist, and he was enough of a homicidal monster to kill you that way. He slid his fingers inside you, and you could feel your orgasm creeping up on you, your head heavy and fuzzy as he kept going. 

“But if we’re talking easy and personal, then I’d just—” He brought the blade up to your throat until you could feel your rapid pulse beating against it. 

Bo curled his fingers, pleasure tearing through you as you jolted in place, feeling the cool metal superficially pierce your skin. 

Your voice came out as a strangled sob. “Please, Bo. Please don’t—” 

He kissed you, an undertone of fondness in the gesture that filled you with relief and terror. “You won’t have to worry about any of that for a long while,” he said, his voice low, reverberating through your aching bones. “I’m not finished with you yet. Not even close.”

[buggysangel17]

The Bride of A Warlord

Summary: You have arrived to what you now call your new home, it was scary and confusing, but at least you have someone else to keep you company. Characters: Dracule Mihawk x Wife!Female Reader (Amihan). Perona Word Count: 1,198 Chapter Warnings:  Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence (I am still in episode 20 of OP Anime so please bear with me on the fucked up timeline of events here)

Masterlist | Series Masterlist || Send Me An Ask?

You were consumed by a cocktail of fear and excitement.

But that was only natural to feel in your current predicament. Taken from your home due to circumstance that was no longer in your control. You turned to what you now call your husband. Dracule Mihawk was a man not to be trifled with, one of the Seven Warlords and dubbed the Greatest Swordsman in the world.

“I will have your room prepared as soon as possible.” Mihawk spoke, interrupting you from your train of thoughts.

All you could do was nod. You were taken from your own home, miles away from what you had once been so familiar with, a place that you had deemed had become your own prison. Any form of freedom you would take, even if it means being under the circumstantial marriage with one Warlord such as Mihawk.

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, having no right to complain or react negatively for a short wait.

Even without looking at him, you’ve noticed his sharp yellow eyes glued fall to you. Turning to looking up at him, you noticed his narrowed eyes, a frown that was something you had gotten so used to rest on his lips.

“You will call me by my name, I do not agree to have you calling me of anything else while under you are under my care.”

You gulped, but nodded your head in agreement. This man, as handsome as he was, still scared you. Having caught firsthand the destruction his sword could make to your entire island should his will make it.

“You are not here as my prisoner, you can freely explore the castle should you wish to do so. All I ask is you not to leave unless you tell me or have me to accompany you, is that understood?”

“Yes—Mihawk.” You responded quickly.

As you step off the grandiose boat onto the rocky shore of Kuraigana Island, your heard races with anticipation and uncertainty. The sea breeze carries the scent of salt and new adventure, but it’s the sight before you that leaves you breathless. Your new husband’s castle, looms high above, perched on a ragged cliff that seems to defy gravity.

The castle is a dark, imposing fortress, its jagged spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a giant’s skeletal hands. The stone walls are as grey and foreboding as the thunderclouds that hover over the island. You can’t help but shudder at the stark contrast between the castle and the vibrant, tropical island that surrounds it.

Your arrival has not gone unnoticed. From the castle's towering parapets, you catch glimpses of shadowy figures watching your every move. As you start to climb the narrow, winding path that leads to the castle gates, your footsteps echo in the eerie silence.

The closer you get, the more details you can make out. The castle is adorned with intricate, Gothic architecture, with gargoyles leering down from the eaves. The windows are narrow and slit-like, like the eyes of a predator, and they seem to be keeping a watchful gaze on you. The walls are covered in ivy and moss, as if nature itself is trying to reclaim this imposing structure.

You can't help but feel a sense of unease as you approach the massive, iron-bound gates. The air feels heavy with centuries of history, and you can't shake the feeling that the castle holds secrets, both wondrous and sinister, within its ancient walls.

As the gates slowly creak open, revealing the cavernous darkness beyond, your heart pounds in your chest. You have entered a world unlike any you have ever known, a world of mystery and danger. And as you step across the threshold, you can't help but wonder what awaits you in this forbidding castle on Kuraigana Island.

As you step through the imposing gates of Mihawk's castle, your heart is still pounding with trepidation. The exterior of the castle had filled you with a sense of foreboding, but as you cross the threshold and enter the grand foyer, you are struck by a stark contrast.

The interior of the castle is a complete surprise. The space is bathed in warm, inviting light that spills from ornate chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. Elaborate tapestries hang on the walls, depicting scenes of epic battles and exotic landscapes. The polished marble floors beneath your feet reflect the glow of the many candles that line the corridor leading deeper into the castle.

Your husband, Mihawk, takes your hand and leads you forward, his expression unreadable. His grip is reassuring, grounding you in this unexpected change of atmosphere. You exchange a glance with him, and for a moment, you both share a silent understanding of the paradoxical nature of the castle.

The air inside is fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, and the walls are adorned with vibrant paintings and delicate porcelain vases filled with blossoms.

As you explore the interior of the castle, you discover cozy sitting rooms with plush sofas and grand dining halls set with opulent feasts. The contrast between the grim exterior and the opulent interior is almost surreal, and you can't help but marvel at the transformation.

Mihawk guides you to a balcony overlooking a breathtaking garden bathed in moonlight. The sight of it takes your breath away, and you realize that the castle holds a world of beauty and wonder that you could not have imagined.

As you stand together on the balcony, surrounded by the enchanting sights and sounds of the castle, you can't help but feel a glimmer of hope and excitement for the future that awaits you here, in this magical, enigmatic place.

It wasn’t your home, no, far from it, but with this new found freedom, all you could think of right now is what the world could possibly be able to give you now.

“You have a guest along? That’s surprising from you.”

You tensed, immediately finding yourself stepping closer to the man you now call your husband. Turning to the owner of the voice, the sight of a pink-haired girl over a decade younger than you had floated towards your direction with what you think were ghost accompanying her.

“Not a guest.” Mihawk explained his gaze was on you, you tensed as his hand had rested on the small of your back. “My wife.” He introduce without much of a hesitation in his tone.

“Wife?!” The girl gaped and was immediately all over you, questioning you and your life decisions and how much of a sour sport Mihawk was to her especially as he had left her all alone in the castle.

“You have a daughter?” You inquired.

“No, just an unwelcomed guest.” He explained earning the offense of the girl that you now learned was named Perona. “But she will keep you company for the instance that I will be out for a while.”

You nodded turning your attention to the package that came with now living in the same home, in the same castle, and in the same Island as your new husband. It was a chaos that you were slowly but surely coming to enjoy as time goes by.

[esggs]

[ #2, Lord!Sukuna x knight!reader, heian-era trueform Sukuna, d/s relationship, graphic descriptions of torture and violence as a metaphor for love, misogyny, yandere!reader, jealousy, gnc reader, 800+ words ]

pt.1 (feast)

No one wants to bring the news to you: Sukuna has taken another knight. 

One he found mid-battle, similar to you. Young Gojo-kun, a sprightly boy only a few years younger than you, possesses the Six Eyes and Limitless cursed technique. One who apparently professed his loyalty to Sukuna in exchange for training. One who sits pampered in his tent across the post-war encampment. 

That you raged back into your tent, fell down weeping, bashed your things at the walls, ripped your hair and tore your robes off screaming in anger… it was all heard by the worried guards posted in front of your chambers. Never had they seen their noble knight with veins of cold steel so. It did not calm them down when you emerged from your doors, kimono falling off your shoulders, eyes puffy red, hair dishevelled, and your hand grasped, with foreboding surety, around your sword. 

The All-Seeing Gojo-kun titters at your state. His tent is among the largest, his throng of admirers sitting around like so. His feet are slung over a makeshift throne, about 20 paces from your determined steps.

“What an honour! The Butcher, in flesh!” He mocks. “Make space, Benkei, find a seat for the mistress-in-chief’s royal ass!” He takes no notice of the audience gasping, the inconceivable disrespect for someone like you. 

10 paces. “Won’t you please us with a dance, dog? Like you do for your master? A little tail-wagging?” Gojo-kun has nothing to worry about. Not only is he blessed with God-like sorcery and the heirdom of the Gojo Clan, he has the protection of Sukuna himself. Nothing can wee old you do to him.  

5 paces. “Please, I only tease you as a friend, haha! Will you go tattle to Sukuna now?”

3 paces. “But he won’t care, will he? Not when he’s bored with his old toy. One with no cursed technique.”

2 paces. “Not when he has me, the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery.”

1 pace. You plant your footing in front of the smug Gojo-kun– “Keep crying for him like a virgin bride, you know that he’ll never return your pathe– ” and you cut his head off in one clean flash of your blade. 

Screams, a rushing crowd, weeping maidens, enraged men. Damn, you muse. That brat must’ve really gotten to me. My hand shook so much. Because why else would a few untorn threads of muscle still dare to patch his idiotic head onto his neck? The boy is still breathing. Good.  

You drag Gojo-kun’s body, his ornate robes collecting grass-dirt, by the hair. People stand by terrified lest they catch your eye. In his last moments, you correct his previous statement: you do have a cursed technique. Pain like rats are clawing through their chest, pain like they are being skinned and broiled alive, pain like their eyes, tongues, fingers and genitalia are being torn off…You can give one such pain at the time of their death. And the way his dead eyes are crying, you know that he’s penitent. 

His body flops to the ground as his neck-muscles finally snap apart. Tsk. Now you have to carry the head in one hand and rest in another. All the way up to the master tent, where Lord Sukuna must be holding court. 

No guard dares stop you. The courtiers part in haste. Sukuna himself sits up, eyes wide in shock. Like a wolfdog bringing a dead sparrow to present to its master, both parts of the corpse are dropped, as are your knees, to the ground at your Lord’s feet. 

“I caught this rat stealing from your granary, Sukuna-sama.” What a bold-faced lie, but which fool would correct you? “I protected you.” 

Sukuna knew that you were tamed in the sense that you did your best to be tame for him. He did anticipate some ill-feelings from you when he brought the boy along, not blunt murder. Should he punish you? You certainly deserved to be disciplined; he had grand plans for the Six-Eyes. But to look into the insanity carved in your stony eyes as you pointedly refuse to call him ‘my Lord’... No, I understand now. 

This was your way of saying, if the brat deserved to survive, he would have. Your cruel mouth says he wasn’t worthy of you. Your jealous heart says I am all that you require, my Lord. 

You dragged his corpse all the way here not to profess guilt but for something completely different: you want praise. Sukuna has never denied you anything. 

“Well done, knight.” Your Lord’s voice rumbles like rocks through the silence. “We are all grateful for your service.”

You offer him a deep prostration before you excuse yourself. The next time Sukuna spots you is at the dinner banquet, merry-making and loud-laughing with your comrades, sake and deer-meat aplenty, your knight uniform shining, long hair tied neat, sword pristine as a white lily. 

masterlist

a/n: Set in the Heian era (794-1185 AD), this Gojo isn't our Satoru Gojo, to clarify that. He also never got the chance to activate his Infinity before getting his head lopped off, poor guy ig.

knight!reader primarily fights with conventional weaponry, infuses cursed energy and uses New Shadow style techniques (which they discovered and founded), cuz their CT is pretty useless in actual battle. Most people, like Gojo-kun here, think that they don't have one. they're a horrifically savage fighter, tearing enemies into chunks, hence is also called 'The Butcher'.

While the biological sex of the knight is whatever the reader wants it to be, socially they play a male role. they dress in male military uniform, fight alongside men, were given a man's education, and get duties and respect that a man of that time would get. realistically, a woman would never get the high ranking of a knight.

knight!reader is not Sukuna's mistress or anything like that. it's just mean-spirited gossip. their relations are intensely close and kinda fucked up tho :)

[moonpetrichors-blog]

you're currently carrying 'avatar x reader' with your absolutely amazing works, so i have another request for you, love, if that's alright <33

no idea how to properly start this, but basically neteyam and y/n are a thing- and even though y/n is like super grateful for his protection, lately she's been feeling just like another of his many responsibilities, not a partner. so they grow a bit distant, to that point where even his family notices, and when they try to talk it out they get into an argument. pretty much angst (because i love it👹👹👹) !!!!!!!!!!!!! and it's totally up to you if it ends with fluff or angst. oh and i thought maybe it could take place when they arrive to the metkayina clan, because it would mean y/n left everything behind just for neteyam (and his amazing family ofc🤞🤞🤞), but the way he begun to treat her, makes her think she might regret that decision= more aNGST‼️‼️but that's up to you- whatever you're more comfortable with :)) okay, byeee!!! have a nice day!!!

(i'm @introvert-pansexual btw😧)

Not A Responsibility

Tags: Neteyam x Omaticaya!Reader, Oneshot, Fem!Reader, Angst, Fluff At The End (Not Really)

Warnings: Tiny Bit Toxic, Mentioned Jealousy

Ever since you left the Omaticaya clan for your boyfriend, you’ve felt suffocated by his overprotective nature. You’re his partner, not just another one of his responsibilities or trouble-seeking siblings. And it hurts, knowing that he treats you like you are less his mate than burden. You think you might regret leaving your home for him.

UR SO NICE OMG😭😭❤️❤️ I love every request I get HSJQISIWJ some days my brain is just poop cause i cant think up ideas so these are nice to get ☠️☠️ also yuh I kinda inferred that u switched accs bc i stalk my followers LMAOAOAO anywayss this deffo isnt my best work but ive been kinda tired lately so like sorry if its not that great 😭😭

* ˚ ✦ 1096 Words • Read below the cut  

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-╰┈➤ ❝ [08/01/23] ❞   

 You and Neteyam have been dating. For a long time, actually.

You grew up together, and the tight friendship you built inevitably developed into feelings of attraction. You were anticipated to be mated to one another, and the Sully family cherished you.

Jake used to torment his son before you began dating. He'd make remarks about how you two reminded him of him and Neytiri, and how Neteyam had to entice you with the superb wooing genes he inherited from him. Neytiri would slap him on the back of the head and order him to be quiet. However, she couldn't argue with Jake's teasing. A lovely girl like yourself resembled a second daughter to her; if her son didn't put a ring on it, she would drag him by the ear.

You felt your throat constrict and your eyes burn with tears the day Neteyam informed you Jake was forcing his family to pick up and move. How were you supposed to just carry on and forget about your relationship?

You couldn't. As a result, you left with him. You would fly for a thousand days on an Ikran, cross vast oceans, and abandon your home a million times more for Neteyam and his family. Neteyam considered himself extremely fortunate to have you.

However, after finally settling in with the Metkayina, you began to sense a twinge of foreboding. You felt homesick, and you knew that relocating to a whole new clan would be difficult. Neteyam appeared to be taking it the hardest though, so you did not want to complain.

You noted how his shoulders tensed more frequently, or how he wore a faint grimace when alone. You were outsiders in this place, and they treated you as such. Neteyam couldn't help but be uptight whenever the olo'eyktan's son harassed his siblings, but he lost his composure when he sought to bother you.

Or, more accurately, flirted with you. Neteyam had a reputation for being a jealous boyfriend. You and his family were fully cognizant of this, but to the casual onlooker, he always appeared calm and collected. When Aonung penetrated your personal space, you recognized how Neteyam would surreptitiously linger nearby, or extended an arm around you. It drove him insane.

When he first started acting that way, you would coo at him and envelop him in your embrace while calling him sweet. You believed his protectiveness over you was adorable, and it was flattering to say the least. Neteyam, on the other hand, had nothing to be concerned about. You were solely interested in him.

...

Regardless of your unconditional affection, it seemed that the more Neteyam stayed in the Awa'atlu village, the more awful he grew.

Irrespective of Aonung's unwanted attention (which had long since faded), nothing made Neteyam happy anymore. When you tried to kiss him, he would either accept it reluctantly or brush you away. If you wished to spend time with him, he would acquiesce, but would eventually talk about his siblings or babysit. Nonetheless, he would be fiercely protective of where you went or what you did.

You couldn't condemn Neteyam for being nervous and tense all the time, but it seemed that no matter what difficulties you were encountering in your relationship, he began to treat you as if you were just another one of his trouble-making siblings. Another chore added to his long list of responsibilities.

Neteyam’s protection used to be charming, but it was now just smothering. It seemed like you were so distant from your boyfriend, yet also so close to him. You began feeling less like his partner, yet it also caused you to feel guilty when you were emotional in front of him. You knew you had no right to complain because you left the Omaticaya clan by your own volition. How could you grumble about it when your lover was enduring greater struggles?

This was a recipe for disaster.

...

You no longer felt comfortable communicating your concerns to your boyfriend. Each time you sought to bring up your reservations about how Neteyam was treating you, he was too preoccupied with his own life to give much heed to your conversation or relationship.

You eventually gave up on your efforts to work it out. If he were to behave distant from you, you would respond with the same energy. You two gradually drifted away, the gulf between you expanding by the day. Neteyam's family became quite alarmed when they noticed how seldom you two were interacting nowadays.

Jake and Neytiri encouraged Neteyam to try to spend some quality time with you again, and that he could set his other obligations aside. They'd maintain a close eye on their other children so Neteyam wouldn't have to fret about them.

He agreed begrudgingly, unable to say no to his parents. You were thrilled when he sought you out for a casual date, the first in a long time. There was a nagging whisper in the rear of your mind that gnawed at you, warning you he just wasn't the same, but you dismissed it. He'd come to find you, hadn't he?

...

You were deflated throughout the duration of your date. The longer time passed, the more you could feel the ominous mood rattling deep in your bones. During your time together, all Neteyam could think about was how much this move had stressed him out, and now he had to be concerned about paying you attention as well. It was apparent from his expression that he was not enjoying himself.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

You snapped at his indifferent attitude. “Can you stop zoning out and actually listen to me for once?”

If Neteyam was trying to fake a smile before, he definitely wasn’t anymore. “What do you mean? This whole entire date I’ve been only listening to you!”

You scoffed at this. His mind was in a whole other place for the entire duration of it. “You never have time for me anymore, and when you do, you act like I’m some burden on your to do list!”

Neteyam felt his blood go hot. Before he could stop himself, he began to yell. “It’s not my fault I can’t give you attention all the time! My parent’s are always putting pressure on me to make sure everyone’s looked after and well behaved, including you!”

Then, his voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “Do you think I wanted to go on this date?”

That was the juncture at which you felt so enraged that you couldn't prevent the tears from cascading down your flaming cheeks. Neteyam's countenance didn't alter in response to your outburst, which only served to make you angrier.

You practically screamed at him. “You’re such a dickhead! You’ve changed, Neteyam.” You began sobbing.

“The only reason I’m mad isn’t because you don’t give me enough attention, it’s because every time we’re together you completely neglect my feelings! You make everything about you!”

He remained still as you wiped your angry tears away, then jutted a finger against his chest. “For someone who acts like they’re always looking after everyone else, you’re so incredibly selfish with me.”

In the face of your harsh comments, Neteyam remained silent and unmoving. He was speechless; he didn't know what to say. The rage was still coursing through his veins, but all he could do was hearken to your never-ending shouts.

Your voice dropped an octave, and you glared into his eyes which you once looked so fondly into. “I’m not another responsibility of yours. I regret ever following you here. If I knew you’d turn out like this, I would’ve saved myself the heartache and found a new partner instead of leaving everything behind for someone that won’t even give me the time of day. You could at least try to act happy to be around me.”

That made his heart break, and he could feel the tears beginning to gather in his eyes too. He couldn’t believe you would have ever found it in you to say that to him. “Fine, do what you want. I tried to spend time with you, and you turned it into an argument.”

He pivoted on his heel, and stormed away from you on the threshold of tears. When he was far enough away, he let the tears flow.

Your voice carried from halfway across the beach. “Fine then, if you want me so bad, I guess I’ll go!”

You, too, turned your back on him and dashed away to find somewhere to cry privately. You felt like such a child.

...

It was growing dark, and eclipse was approaching.

You still hadn’t returned to the marui you shared with the Sully family, and Jake was beginning to get worried. “Where’s Y/N?”

That question was obviously directed towards Neteyam, but he remained sulking instead of replying.

Neytiri’s patience was thinning with her son’s out of character behavior. “That girl doesn’t know her way around the Awa’atlu village. She could be lost!”

Jake rubbed the bridge of his nose, glancing at the sky. He shared Neytiri’s sentiment, as his son still wasn’t talking. What the hell happened on your date?

Although Neteyam appeared furious, he was actually feeling quite guilty. Your reality check tugged at his heartstrings, and now you could be injured, or worse, lost, because he told you to be. He sprung from his seat and raced out the marui, unable to sit still any longer.

Jake's shouts for his son to return at that instant went unfulfilled. Even if Neteyam was angry with you, he was still afraid that something awful would happen, and he'd never forgive himself if it did.

Neteyam called your name as he ran throughout the village. However, no matter how much terrain he covered, or how many times he bellowed your name into the frigid night air, your voice did not respond. He was sweating nervously now, terrified about not being able to locate you. What if he never found you?

Those fears, however, were quickly dispelled into the wind whipping behind him as he hurried towards the sound of sniffling behind a nearby tree. Neteyam scratched the back of his neck, unsure what to do. As he drew near to your weeping figure, he stepped on and snapped a twig, capturing your attention.

You spun around to investigate the source of the noise, only to discover that it was your idiot boyfriend. Neteyam urged you to relax, then sighed and settled besides you.

Before you could protest against him taking a seat next to you, he hugged you tightly and apologized.

“I’m sorry. I’m the way I am right now because I don’t want anything bad happening to you, or my siblings. I can’t imagine ever losing you.”

You let your rage disappear, leaning into his embrace as he continued to talk.

“I know I’ve been a real idiot lately, and I’ll try to show up more in our relationship. My personal problems aren’t your fault.”

Your prior resentment faded as he brushed your tears away with his thumb, and you buried your face in his chest, allowing your arms to wrap around his midriff.

“I’m sorry for saying I wished I stayed behind and found someone new. That was a lie, I’d never be able to move on.”

Neteyam felt his chest tighten at your words, and merely hugged you tighter. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

[strayrockette]

The Dragon & The Griffon: The Ripple in the Path

The Dragon & The Griffon: Where the Path Leads- A Taste, The Beginning of the Path

Summary: Takes place a week and 1 month after Irene Atreides gives birth to Amina Targaryen.

Warnings: Bene Gesserit schemes, mentions of death, foreboding feelings, unease, tense environments, and a simple planet named Draconis (hehe my brain hurt too much to come up with a more complex name for the Targaryen planet, so do not come for me please ❤️😂)

A/N: This took a while to write. There were a lot of ideas and so much to filter through. Not to mention getting the details right or making it feel seamless. Hope you enjoy! ❤️ Revised 9/7/2024, 9/9/2024

The Reverend Mother's Unease - A Week After Irene’s Passing - Reverend Mother’s Chambers

The dimly lit chamber of the Reverend Mother was thick with the heavy scent of incense, its smoky tendrils curling around the ancient stone walls and faded tapestries. Each breath pulled the weight of the room deeper into her lungs, mingling the aromas of burning resins, candle wax, and a hint of spice. Seated in her high-backed chair, the Reverend Mother’s eyes were half-closed, her face calm and inscrutable as if carved from the very stone surrounding her. But beneath her composed exterior, a flicker of unease simmered, hidden yet unmistakable.

The silence of the room was broken by the creak of the chamber door. An emissary entered, his steps careful and his face drawn, shadows stretching behind him in the flickering light. He bowed deeply, his voice strained as he delivered his news. “Reverend Mother, urgent word from Draconis. Lady Irene has given birth to a child—a daughter of House Targaryen. And… all the sisters sent with her have been killed.”

The Reverend Mother’s expression did not waver, but the atmosphere in the room thickened, charged with tension. She remained silent, letting the words sink in. Irene’s mission had been unequivocal: infiltrate House Targaryen and eradicate its last remnants. Instead, Irene had not only failed but had birthed a child of Targaryen blood, and the sisters sent to ensure the mission’s success were all dead. A chilling ripple of unease coursed through the Reverend Mother. The implications were vast and dangerous.

She drew a slow, measured breath, her senses reaching out into the vast, unseen currents of the universe. A faint shiver ran through her, a sensation that was neither fear nor surprise but a deeper, more unsettling awareness—an understanding that something fundamental had shifted, altering the fabric of fate itself. There was a disturbance, an ancient power stirring that she could not yet fully grasp, and it was tied to the birth of this unexpected child.

Her gaze turned to the intricate tapestries that adorned the walls, each thread a silent testament to the Bene Gesserit’s long, calculated rise to power. But now, the once-familiar patterns seemed to writhe and shift in the dim light, vibrating with a dissonance that mirrored her inner turmoil. House Targaryen, nearly extinguished, had defied them. This was not just a failure; it was a harbinger of a larger, more perilous struggle.

“How did the sisters die?” she asked, her voice sharp and controlled, though a shadow of anger tinged her words.

The emissary hesitated, his eyes darting nervously. “It was swift and precise. The reports are conflicting, but it seems as though the planet itself rose against them. A force beyond what we anticipated… something ancient.”

The Reverend Mother’s eyes narrowed. The sisters sent to Draconis were among the best, their loyalty and skills beyond question. Their deaths were not just a setback but a sign that House Targaryen had defenses they could not have foreseen. Worse, the birth of this child—whose name was still unknown—was an ominous twist, a new variable in a game the Bene Gesserit had thought they controlled.

She summoned her closest advisors, who entered the chamber with urgency, their faces etched with concern. They bowed before her, sensing the gravity of the situation. “We cannot allow this to derail our plans,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the tension. “Increase surveillance. Strengthen our networks. This child must be watched at all costs. We are dealing with a resurgence that is more than a mere complication—it is a threat to everything we have built.”

The advisors nodded, retreating swiftly to carry out her orders. Left alone, the Reverend Mother stared at the dying embers in the braziers, her mind racing with calculations. The unknown daughter of Irene Atreides and Daeylor Targaryen posed a threat unlike any they had faced before—a convergence of power and bloodlines that could tip the balance of the universe itself.

She could feel the tremors of change deep in her bones. This child’s birth was not a mere defiance of their plans but a declaration of something far more profound. The Bene Gesserit would need to act with swift and unyielding force to contain this threat before it consumed them all. For now, the Reverend Mother did not know the child's name, but she knew that whatever it was, it carried with it a legacy that could not be ignored.

The Message Arrives - Caladan, Duke Leto’s Study - A Month After Irene’s Passing

Duke Leto Atreides sat in his study, surrounded by dark wood and the quiet dignity of a room steeped in tradition. Maps and books lined the walls, their edges flickering in the muted glow of candlelight. The restless sea beyond the stained glass windows mirrored his turbulent thoughts. The heavy oak door creaked open, and a messenger entered, his expression grim. He approached with a deep bow, the gravity of his message evident in every line of his posture.

“Duke Leto,” the messenger began, voice tight. “I bring word from Draconis. Your sister, Lady Irene, has passed… but not before giving birth to a daughter of House Targaryen.”

Leto’s fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair, the wood creaking under the sudden pressure. Rising slowly, he moved as if bracing against a heavy weight. The usual quiet hum of the study felt stifling, each breath dense with the unspoken loss. Irene’s absence hit like a cold wind, stripping the room of its familiar warmth.

He stared into the crackling fire, flames dancing with a restless energy that mirrored the storm brewing within him. Irene’s death was a wound he had not anticipated—more than just a loss, it was a fracture in the foundation of House Atreides. Yet amid the grief, a spark remained: Irene had left behind a daughter, a merging of Atreides and Targaryen blood.

Leto moved to the map of the universe, his gaze tracing the lines that connected Caladan to distant, hostile worlds. The implications of his sister’s child swirled in his mind. This was no ordinary birth; it was a bridge between two powerful but isolated houses. Where others might see danger, Leto saw potential—an uncharted path that could redefine alliances and power.

The Targaryens, formidable and fiercely independent, had long been a looming presence. But now, with the birth of Irene’s daughter, they were no longer untouchable. Leto knew this was a chance to shift the balance, to turn an unpredictable situation into an advantage for House Atreides. He crossed to his desk, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment, the quill scratching across the surface as he penned his thoughts with urgency.

He crafted his words carefully, expressing grief for his sister’s loss while hinting at the possibility of a future bound by shared blood. This was not just an offer of condolence—it was a proposal for dialogue, a subtle yet unmistakable gesture toward a potential alliance. Leto’s mind worked like a seasoned strategist, weighing every phrase, every implication, setting the stage for a new chapter.

Sealing the letter with the Atreides sigil, Leto summoned the messenger, watching as the wax cooled, solidifying his intentions. As the letter was whisked away, he returned to his chair, eyes fixed on the fire. The flames seemed to flicker with renewed purpose, reflecting his resolve.

Leto’s thoughts turned inward, assessing the risks. The Targaryens were known for their pride and suspicion, and any overture could be met with defiance. But Leto was no stranger to navigating perilous waters. This was more than just a personal loss; it was an opportunity to turn the tides in favor of his house. Irene’s daughter, a living symbol of both families, could be the key to a future where House Atreides thrived, not just through power but through unexpected unity.

As the fire crackled softly, Leto made a silent vow: to honor his sister by forging ahead, transforming potential threat into opportunity. House Atreides had always been adaptable, and resilient in the face of shifting sands. Now, with this new connection to House Targaryen, Leto saw the future clearly—a path lit by the unyielding flame of his family’s will and the promise that Irene’s legacy would not fade into darkness.

A/N: if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! If you’d like to be tagged just shoot a comment and ask! Please comment your thoughts, like and reblog ❤️❤️

Taglist: @aoi-targaryen, @mysticalpandora, @storiesfromafan

[eksvaized]

Part Eight [ Previous 〡 Next ]

Like a mouse in a maze, you trail behind Simon. Your senses are heightened to a near painful acuity as you’re enveloped in a choking cloud of fearful anticipation. Your neck feels stiff, almost petrified. You don’t dare move your head. Yet, your eyes are as alert as a hawk’s, wide open and scanning the surroundings. Despite the promise you made to yourself, the promise of not attempting an escape just yet, your mind can’t help but analyze your environment. As you walk, you’re noting every detail, every potential exit, every conceivable hideout.

Until now, your new reality has been limited to a dank basement and the meager comforts of your room.

Your so-called bedroom is on the second floor, opposite a bathroom down a long hallway. Other doors punctuate the corridor, two to be exact. When you had the opportunity, on your hurried trip to the bathroom, you found that they were locked firmly. Still, you suspected that one of these rooms was the eerily empty one you had first woken up in—a room marked by peeling wallpaper, bare of furniture, and filled with an air so pungent it was almost palpable.

As you and Simon descend the staircase together, his eyes keep darting back towards you. It’s as if he needs to constantly verify your presence, ensuring that you’re still walking behind him. Every time your eyes lock, even if it’s just a fleeting moment, you find yourself instinctively looking away, unable to hold his gaze.

At the very bottom of the long staircase, you find yourself standing in the grand foyer. The sight of the towering front door, ominous and foreboding in its stature, sends a chill down your spine. Your heart begins to quicken, thudding violently against your chest as a wave of adrenaline courses through your veins; your muscles coil tight. Every instinct, every fiber of your being, is screaming at you to bolt, to run as fast as you can towards the promise of freedom that lies beyond that door. But despite this internal chaos, your feet remain stubbornly glued to the cold, hard floor.

All the while, Simon stands idly by your side. Unbeknownst to you, he’s engaged in a silent wager with himself — will you muster the courage to make a break for it, or will fear hold you captive? Despite the turmoil raging within you, his posture remains relaxed, almost nonchalant. It’s clear that even entertaining the idea of sprinting towards the door would be utterly foolish because there’s absolutely no chance he would have been careless enough to leave it unlocked.

Suddenly, the trance-like state you’ve found yourself in is shattered as Simon’s fingers gently tug at your elbow. His grip is unyielding as he guides you towards an enormous living room. Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse something that resembles a kitchen, and directly opposite to it, another hallway stretches out, lined with a multitude of closed doors; you wonder if one of them leads to the basement.

One peculiar thing you can’t help but notice is that most of the curtains in this sprawling house are drawn shut. It’s an unusual sight, but not entirely unexpected considering Simon’s character — his paranoia of someone peering into the house is apparent, even if the likelihood of another living soul lurking within miles of this isolated place is practically non-existent.

“Sit,” he commands with an undeniable authority in his tone that leaves absolutely no room for protest or debate.

You take a moment to scan the meticulously decorated living room. Your eyes drink in the sight of the luxurious white couch that is contrasted by a plush, round rug of a darker shade. A towering bookcase stands against a wall. Its shelves teeming with a multitude of aged books that seem oddly out of place in the otherwise modern decor of the room.

You are gently steered towards a small, round table nestled next to the window. There are two chairs. You sit down.

Your attention is drawn towards the window as Simon, with a graceful flourish, unveils the view by pulling back the weighty curtains. Outside, the twilight’s soft, velvet embrace shrouds the world. Yet, even in the dusk’s muted light, you can discern the backyard of the house. This is a corner of his property you hadn’t seen from your upstairs bedroom. Under the night sky, you spot a large swimming pool, shimmering like a sapphire in the moonlight, a few lonely lounge chairs, and a notably tall, black fence standing out against the darkening horizon.

You’ve been told that the downstairs area is off-limits — that’s the non-negotiable rule. But as you take in the view, a longing stirs within you. You wonder if you could perhaps ask Simon to walk around the backyard. The thought of feeling the fresh air on your skin, the gentle wind rustling through your hair, and the simple yet significant joy of being outside is tempting. But when you turn to Simon, your lips parting to frame the question, you swallow it back. You decide that the answer is likely a firm ‘no.’ There’s no way he’s allowing you to step even a foot outside this gilded cage. Not yet, at least.

“For you,” he declares, his voice echoing like a soft melody, drawing your attention back to the here and now. With a gentleness that contradicts his usual demeanor, he nudges a paper cup towards you. It’s the sort of tall, nondescript cup you might stumble upon in a quaint, tucked-away café. As you wrap your fingers around it, you’re surprised by the soothing warmth that seeps into your skin.

A lid sits atop the cup. You hesitate, your heart pounding like a drum in a silent room, echoing your anxiety. You don’t dare to take a sip until you see Simon lift his own cup, an identical twin to yours, to his chapped lips, and take a generous gulp. It’s a silent demonstration.

“I’m not drugging you. Not tonight,” he grumbles, the words rolling off his tongue like thunder in the distance. His annoyance is palpable. His piercing gaze is locked onto your trembling hands, not wavering until you finally give in, raising the cup to your mouth.

The drink turns out to be a simple coffee, a plain dark blend that’s excessively sweet. The flavor is unbalanced, the sugary sweetness overwhelming, like a symphony played too loud, drowning the subtle bitterness of the coffee.

“So,” he continues, causing you to shift uncomfortably in your seat. The skirt rolls up your thighs as you move, and you find yourself silently thanking your luck that the table you’re sitting at doesn’t have a transparent surface. “What would you like to talk about?”

Your mind races like a wild horse with no reins. Your first instinct is to lash out, to pepper him with questions sharp as shards of glass, mirroring your frustration and fear. You want to demand to know why he’s such a crazy sick bastard, why he won’t just let you go—you would even promise not to tell anyone about what had happened and how he kidnapped you. But you’re smarter than that, you know better than to provoke him with such inquiries.

Unexpectedly, your knee brushes against his under the table. It’s an accidental and innocent contact, but it sends a jolt of awareness through you, making you pull all your limbs away from him as if you’ve been scorched.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, shrugging your shoulders when you don’t come up with a suitable topic of conversation.

The situation is beyond strange. It’s downright bizarre. You’re sitting in a living room with the man who kidnapped you, sipping on black coffee that is sickly sweet, like cough syrup masked with sugar, from disposable paper cups that crinkle under the slightest pressure; you’re both trying to maintain the pretense that this is just a normal, everyday date.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Simon says, his words wafting towards you, heavy with expectation. For the first time, his voice doesn’t cast a shadow of a command, but rather paints an invitation for conversation.

You take a tentative sip of your drink, the edges of the paper cup soft from the heat. The coffee slides down your throat. You wrestle to keep your face neutral, not wanting to grimace at the cloying taste that clings to your tongue.

You harbor no desire to peel back the layers of your life for him. He’s already intruded upon your most sacred spaces, seen the bare canvas of your body, treated you with a harshness that made your skin feel like fragile porcelain under his touch. Now, when you finally have some semblance of control over the situation, you want nothing more than to keep your private life just that - private.

The idea of telling him about your likes, your memories, or what your life is like outside of this strange situation, beyond these suffocating walls, feels as ludicrous as inviting a wolf into a sheep pen. You want to keep those pieces of yourself hidden, safe. He doesn’t deserve to get to know you.

The idea of lying crosses your mind. It could be harmless, and it would be easier than telling the truth. But the threat of him seeing through your deception, of him discovering your fabricated tales, looms like a storm cloud on the horizon. The potential danger of that scenario makes you hesitant, unsure if you’re willing to take that gamble. And so, you say nothing, allowing the silence to stretch on, filling the space between you.

“I don’t know what to say,” you eventually confess, your voice barely audible.

Simon lets out a weary sigh—a tangible display of his simmering frustration. He finds it incredibly challenging to have to coax the words out of you, to have to draw out your thoughts and feelings like pulling teeth. He despises the fact that this conversation is so difficult, all because he merely wishes to engage in a simple dialogue with you. Yet, you seem to erect walls of silence around yourself for no reason, making this simple desire of his seem like an uphill battle.

He had thought that by offering you a taste of normalcy - letting you out of the cold basement, allowing you to clean yourself up with a warm shower, and even going as far as to take you on this pretend-date - you might relax. But contrary to his expectations, these actions had only caused you to retreat further into your shell, made you more withdrawn, more closed off than before.

A part of him wants to give in to his rising anger. He is tempted to demand answers and to bark commands because he knows this approach would work. With just a bit of force, a slight nudge like a sharp gust of wind pushing a leaf from a tree, he could pry open your pretty pink lips, transforming them into a fountain from which words would flow freely.

But he restrains himself. His fists clench around his paper cup with such intensity that the sides crinkle like crumpled parchment. He forces himself to maintain his composure, deciding to throw you another lifeline, to offer you just a little more time before he resorts to confining you back to the basement if you decide that spending time with him is not worth it, even after he has been so kind to you.

“What do you like to do?” He asks, hoping that a simple question might finally elicit a response from you.

You ponder for a bit, mulling over whether you should answer or not. Eventually, you decide that it wouldn’t do any harm.

“Baking. I do like baking,” you say. Your sentences are short. It’s a struggle for you to provide more details, but you push yourself when you notice Simon unconsciously leaning in across the table as if he genuinely is interested in what you have to say. “I bake a lot on weekends. And I like to watch films.”

Simon nods. You fall silent again, not wanting to continue talking. Instead, you decide to pose him the same question, hoping to shift the focus of the conversation. But he shakes his head.

“Not important,” he says, leaning back in the chair and spreading out his legs. Your knees bump into his once more. “I just want to talk about you.”

It’s a struggle for you to suppress a sigh or a groan, but you manage to keep your emotions in check. It’s not really necessary, though, because your face is an open book that Simon can read quite easily.

For the next hour, he bombards you with questions. At first, they are quite innocuous, almost laughable. He inquires about your favourite colour, your preferred beverage, the time of the year you love the most, and your preferred cuisine. However, as time progresses, his questions take a turn, becoming more personal, and it all starts with, “Are you single?”

You are tempted to lie, to say no, even though you don’t have a boyfriend. But deep down, your intuition tells you that an imaginary man wouldn’t deter him, wouldn’t make him reconsider and let you return home. So, you just shake your head.

“So, you were at the nightclub when we met to find a one? Or were you just looking for a one-night stand?” he probes further. The sound of his teeth clicking together, like a predator ready to pounce, makes you realize that each word you utter must be carefully chosen.

The truth is, you were at the nightclub hoping to find someone, anyone, even if it was just for a single night. You have been feeling rather lonely… But despite hours spent in the club that night; you were quite unlucky with men. That’s why when Simon, an attractive stranger, approached you, you were thrilled and so eager to go with him.

“No, I wasn’t looking for anyone,” you lie, and instantly, his eyes narrow. He remains silent, clearly expecting a more detailed explanation, a plausible reason. “Since I only recently moved into the city, a couple of my college friends invited me for a night out and I didn’t want to decline their invitation.”

His eyes ignite, his face radiates with joy when you mention that you’ve just moved in to the city. It’s the perfect star aligning in his twisted constellation because now he won’t have to worry about prying eyes noticing your absence. It will be a significant amount of time before anyone realises you are missing.

However, his expression then abruptly shifts as he sternly says, “You’re lying. You don’t have any friends from college because you don’t go to college.”

Your lips part in surprise, as if pulled by invisible strings, and you inhale. How does he know that? For a moment, you forget that you aren’t supposed to raise your voice or show anger. You forget you should behave, keep your mouth sealed, and remember that you’re sitting across from a man who kidnapped you and would not hesitate to punish you. Thankfully, before you can react in anger, he continues speaking.

“I have taken the liberty of visiting your apartment—an atrocious neighborhood, by the way.” He rolls his eyes with a dramatic flair. “And I have taken the time to look around. You see, I wanted to get to know you better, which is precisely why I know that you are trying to lie to me now.”

Your eyes droop down to your lap. You feel like a small child being reprimanded. Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, trying to escape the awkward situation.

“This is your one and only warning. Don’t lie to me. Never,” Simon’s voice drops to a threatening whisper. His tone is serious and chilling. He leans over the table, the distance between you two diminishing rapidly. His fingers curl around your chin with a firm grip and he forces you to meet his gaze. His face is just mere inches away from yours, so close that your noses are almost touching. You can feel the heat radiating from his breath on your skin, making it prickle with unease. “Because, trust me, I know more than you think I do, and — you are a terrible, terrible liar.”

taglist: @kingsprettyangel if you want to be added - let me know!

[kaitou-kid-my-beloved]

A Little Ghost in a Bowtie (@livmadart's Phantump Conan AU)

(Chapter 2 of 4) (Prev) (Next)(Ao3 link)

Heiji and Lucie caught the first bullet train to Saffron City the next morning, with only a brief ‘goodbye’ to his mom and a note explaining where he was going left on the kitchen counter. He’d get an earful for his recklessness later, but that was nothing new.

Paying admission for Tropical Land was annoying, but worth it for the juicy evidence he was sure to find there. After all, no pokemon had been found at the scene, but that didn't mean that none of them had witnessed it. The police would never think of questioning wild pokemon- it was one of the best advantages Heiji had.

Even in the daylight, the space behind the ferris wheel operations building looked like a place where shady stuff would happen. One side of the area was just a cold, concrete wall, and the other side was enclosed by foreboding trees, reaching out over the grass with wooden fingers. Still, creepy or not the presence of nature here was good for his chances of finding something.

Heiji peered between the trunks- soon spotting his prize. A Pidgey nest sat there, neatly nestled between two branches- in perfect view of the clearing.

“Hey!” Heiji called. He could barely see the top of a feathered head- so he knew it was occupied. “You over there! Feel like talking for a sec?” The feathers moved, but the pidgey didn’t respond.

“Let me try,” Lucie said, stepping forward.” “Hey,” She growled loudly. The pidgey jumped, standing on the edge of its nest defensively.

“W-what do you want?” It squawked back.

“Information,” Lucie responded, her voice returning to a low, cool rumble. “A few months ago a human boy was killed here- do you remember?”

“Oh yeah, nasty stuff,” The pidgey chittered, calming down a little. “The blood made the grass stink for weeks!”

Finally, a new lead! Heiji felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the thrill of the case rolled over him.

“Did you see it happen?” He asked eagerly, taking a step forward. The pidgey just looked at him blankly. Ah, right. By now, most Pokemon in Goldenrod had figured out that he could talk to and understand them- but anytime he went anywhere else, there was a bit of a learning curve.

“He understands us,” Lucie shrugged. “Answer his questions too,” She ordered.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, yeah I did,” The pidgey nodded, and Heiji clenched his fists in anticipation. This was all he could have hoped for. “Two guys wearing black clothes bonked him on the head, and then fed him something weird.. And then they left. A few of us got worried about the other guy, since he was screamin’ a lot, but by the time we got to him he was already dead,” it twittered sadly “But it’s not so bad, since-”

“You said they fed him something?” Heiji cut it off, focusing on possibly the most interesting bit of that.

“Wha- oh, yeah, they did,” It nodded again, and Heiji put a hand to his chin in thought. So, Kudo had been poisoned. That made sense- but what sort of poison didn’t show up on such a thorough autopsy?

“There were two culprits?” Lucie added, bringing them back to the other important tidbit.

“Sure was,”

“Can you remember anything else about them? Other than the fact they were wearing black clothes?” Heiji prodded. The color of clothes honestly wouldn’t be that helpful in tracking them down.

“Uhh… One of them had really long hair. I remember being impressed- well, at least until he killed that guy,” The pidgey said, making a sort of pantomime gesture of how long it was with its wings.

“That I can work with!” Heiji grinned, noting down the new information, and its source, in his notes app.

“Happy to help I guess, but if you really want the good stuff, you should be asking Conan- not me,” The pidgey said, ruffling its feathers and settling back down into its nest.

“Conan?” Heiji blinked at it. That was a western name… the name of another pokemon, maybe?

“Yeah- he’d know a lot more about the situation than I would,”

“Where would we find this guy?” Lucie interjected.

“I’m pretty sure he said he was gonna go live with that girl- the one the humans in blue brought here, uhh, I think her name was Mouri? Yeah, find that girl and you find Conan,” The pidgey nodded, mostly to itself.

Ran Mouri- the current Kanto champion, and the only witness to the murder of Shinichi Kudo. Of course they’d have to go to her. Heiji hadn’t really wanted to bother her- but he’d also known that they would need to. Other than the surrounding pokemon- she was their best chance of answers.

“So you question the girl, and I find and question this pokemon of hers, right?” Lucie growled at him, confirming the obvious course of action.

“Yeah, I guess,” Heiji sighed. Hopefully she wouldn’t be too upset with them- they were just looking for justice for her friend, afterall.

They left Tropical Land, mourning the admission cost for only a moment before carrying on. Though, that place looked pretty fun. Maybe he’d have to take Kazuha sometime…

The Mouri Detective Agency loomed large over them, foreboding and cold. Speaking to people who’d just lost loved ones was the hardest part of the detective job- in Heiji’s opinion. This one was almost worse, since two months had passed- Heiji felt like he’d just be ripping open a newly closed wound by being here.

“Can I help you?”

Heiji jumped at the voice, and Lucie rumbled in a laughing way. Behind them on the sidewalk was a girl riding a venusaur- her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, with a green headband positioned fashionably behind her bangs- possibly to hide the strange way her hair stuck out closer to the front- almost like a horn. Heiji recognized her; this was Ran Mouri, exactly who they were looking for.

“State your business,” The venusaur rumbled threateningly.

“Uhh-” Heiji tried to answer Ran-chan’s question, but Lucie cut him off to answer the venusaur first.

“We’re here to investigate the murder of Shinichi Kudo- A little pidgey told us we’d find a pokemon here called Conan who would give us more answers,” Lucie nodded- and for some reason, the venusaur seemed to find that funny.

“Right, uh-” Heiji tore himself away from the pokemon’s conversation to pursue his own. “My name is Heiji Hattori, I’m… I’m a highschool detective, and I thought-”

“Oh, you’re here to ask about Shinichi, aren’t you?” She sighed, and slipped off of her venusaur.

“...Yes,”

“Well, Chives seems to like you guys, so I’ll humor you,” She said, her voice colored with a deep exhaustion, even as she gave her venusaur- Chives, a fond pat on the head.

“Conan should be inside- I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to talk to you,” Chives said, a wide grin splitting across his face.

“And I’m sure we’ll be thrilled to talk to him,” Lucie raised an eyebrow at him.

“Should we go inside then?” Ran-chan asked, recalling Chives into a pokeball.

“Oh, sure,” Heiji nodded. He wondered just what kind of pokemon this Conan was.

[merinsedai]

For @dreamlingbingo

And here is snippet 3 for The Wizard and the Unicorn:

Square/Prompt: B2: Creature: Harpy (replacing The New Inn is a temple)

Title: The Wizard and the Unicorn

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: minor character death

Additional Tags: The Last Unicorn au, unicorn Dream, wizard Hob, magic, quests, castles by the sea, falling in love, learning to regret, magical transformations

Summary: "You can find the others if you are brave. They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints..." Are all the unicorns gone from the world? Is he the last? What happened to the others? To find the answers to his questions, Dream must leave the sanctuary of his forest and face the dangers of the mortal world. Along the way he will encounter friend and foe, witches and wizards, harpies and highwaymen, and a demonic bull guarding the way to a crumbling castle by the sea...

A snippet from Chapter Four:

The circus holds sway during the day, drawing crowds of mortals from a nearby settlement, no doubt. Dream can see little, but he can hear the cacophony clearly. The gasps and shrieks of awe. He idly wonders what they see-what rouses them so- but whatever it is is hidden inside the striped tent and does not spill out. Dream knows little enough of mortals in these times and with his magic dampened, he cannot sense their imaginings. It is very limiting. Unicorns are not given to fear, but it disquiets Dream nonetheless, this disconnect from his wider senses.   All day while there is noise from the tent, there is stillness in the circle, even  Ruhk having finished his rounds and disappeared long since. The other enclosures remain shrouded and silent. Alone with his thoughts, Dream paces, and waits.

As evening draws in, though, attention turns to the Midnight Sideshow. Dream watches Ruhk and another man move amongst the cages, removing curtains and lighting torches with a practised efficiency, while a small crowd of humans gathers and waits with an air of excited anticipation.

For the first time, Dream is able to see his fellow prisoners.  Illusions are laid lightly upon them, made to fool the credulous and weak-minded and nothing more. Dream is neither, and even limited to mortal senses as he currently is, he sees these creatures as they truly are. They are a sorry lot, he thinks: a decrepit lion, an ape with a twisted foot, an elderly lizard…. Ordinary animals made weak by old age and captivity; though those who want to believe will see the ferocious manticore in the stead of the toothless lion. It is a base use of magic, Dream thinks contemptuously as his eyes follow the two men as they unveil more of the cages. A lizard made to look like the Midgard serpent, a poor spider believing herself to be Arachne. Shadows and mirages. What good is it? No true mage would waste their time with such empty work. 

The men finally reach and uncover the last cage, working with far more hesitancy than with any of the others. This is the cage that Dream had noted earlier and as he meets the eyes of the revealed occupant, he takes an unknowing pace backwards.

Now he understands why he was drawn to this cage, to that sense of darkness and foreboding that was seeping out from the darkness. She is no illusion, no old vulture-turned-legend by this Mama Thessaly’s cheap tricks. Dream knows her, has encountered her before in ages long past. She is Celaeno. The harpy. And she is as real as he is. 

Celaeno says nothing but she looks at Dream, and he sees death in her eyes.

[wonder-worker]

"The feast of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist being appointed as the day upon which the coronation of the king [Edward V] would take place without fail, all both hoped for and expected a season of prosperity for the kingdom."

-Excerpt from the Croyland Continuator / David Horspool, Richard III: A Ruler and Reputation

Even though Edward IV’s death was unexpected, after twelve years of peace there need not have been too much of a sense of foreboding about the succession. The great dynastic wound from which the Wars of the Roses had grown had not so much been healed as cauterized by the extinction of the House of Lancaster. There was no rush for London, as had happened in earlier, disputed successions. The royal party didn’t set out from Ludlow for ten days after hearing the news of Edward IV’s death, while Richard took his time, too. And the new king had [his mother the dowager queen and] two uncles to support him: his mother’s brother, the sophisticated, cultured, highly experienced Earl Rivers; and his father’s, the loyal and reliable Duke of Gloucester, to whom Edward IV had entrusted unprecedented power and vital military command.

... [Richard of Gloucester] had achieved his goal by a mixture of luck and ruthlessness, and if he made it appear, or even believed himself, that destiny played a part, this only made him a man in step with his times. Modern historians have no time for destiny, but sometimes the more ‘structuralist’ interpretations of the events surrounding the usurpation can come close to it. When we read that ‘the chances of preserving an unchallenged succession were . . . weakened by the estrangement of many of the rank-and-file nobility from . . . high politics, which was partly a consequence of the Wars of the Roses and partly of Edward IV’s own policies’, it is hard not to conclude that an unforeseeable turn of events is being recast as a predictable one. But without one overriding factor – the actions of Richard, Duke of Gloucester after he took the decision to make himself King Richard III – none of this could have happened. That is, when the same author concedes ‘Nor can we discount Richard’s own forceful character’, he is pitching it rather low*.

Edward IV had not left behind a factional fault line waiting to be shaken apart. Richard of Gloucester’s decision to usurp was a political earthquake that could not have been forecast on 9 April, when Edward died. After all, Simon Stallworth did not even anticipate it on 21 June, the day before Richard went public. We should be wary of allowing hindsight to give us more clairvoyance than the well-informed contemporary who had no idea ‘what schall happyne’. This is not to argue that Richard’s will alone allowed him to take the Crown. Clearly, the circumstances of a minority, the existence of powerful magnates with access to private forces, and the reasonably recent examples of resorts to violence and deposition of kings, made Richard’s path a more conceivable one. But Richard’s own tactics, his arrest of Rivers, Vaughan and Grey, the rounding up of Hastings and the bishops, relied on surprise. If men as close as these to the workings of high politics at a delicate juncture had no inkling of what might happen, the least historians can do is to reflect that uncertainty [...].

(*The author who Horspool is referencing and disagreeing with is Charles Ross)

[freesia-writes]

Tech, Phee, and a Fix-It Fic

Took this post from @ashyybees-art and ran with it, though it totally got away from me. It should have been wayyyy shorter and more simple. But, alas, here we are. Also... this was really hard to write cause I'm not a huge fan of Phee just yet. :/ Sorry. Prolly cause I was elbows deep in my own Tech/OC fanfic when she came onto the scene. But it's a lil somethin to hold us over with a happy headcanon until we get further news in season three. <3

Words: 2k SPOILERS for the season 2 TBB finale! -=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Phee had always told herself she would be independent. Capable. Self-sufficient. Strong. She didn't need anyone but enjoyed the company of others… a little too much, recently. The squad of "deviant" clones had left a lasting impression in her life that she hadn't quite been able to shake, especially the demeanor and appeal of one bespectacled crew member in particular. 

So when she put a tracking beacon on the Marauder, she told herself it was for practicality, for protection. She wasn't one of those clingy sorts who got too attached and fawned over someone; she was a clever and skilled woman who thought of backups and contingency plans for herself and those she… loved? It wasn't something she would utilize unless she absolutely had to; better to have it in place and not need it than to wish she had. 

Something felt different the night they left. Omega, typically delighted to share anything and everything with her, had been uncharacteristically cryptic about their covert mission. She'd made an attempt to get a clue from Tech, but he was even more shifty than usual, and eye contact was enough of a struggle to get from him, let alone a straight answer. She couldn't tell if he was distant because of stress or anticipation, or perhaps she had done something to offend him? Perhaps he had changed his mind from the warmth and interest he had shown when they first arrived on Pabu?

Regardless, she had responded to his nervous little goggle adjustment with the typical flutter of the heart and a small smile. She knew him to be incredibly proficient, unassumingly strong, and incomparably intelligent. So they parted with a casual farewell, and she anticipated the next time they would see each other. Perhaps he would share what had been weighing so heavily on him for this particular mission. 

She couldn't sleep that night, alternating between tossing and turning with anxious hypotheticals and drifting into periods of sleep that were punctuated with disturbing nightmares. This was unusual, and in the wee hours of the morning she gave up, heading to the balcony of her home to watch the sunrise. It wasn't an obsession, or a need to have him in her sight the whole time… just an undeniable sense of foreboding. She doubted he would react favorably to her shadowing him, but perhaps if he didn't know… 

Breakfast found her equally unsuccessful in focusing on anything else. The nagging feeling had only grown, to the point that it was becoming unbearable. She hit her limit. An hour later she was prepped and in her ship, activating the tracking beacon. She'd just take a look, a quick fly-by, to assuage the unrelenting plague of worry. 

It wasn't her first time having to sneak past Imperial ships, and she transmitted a trusty clearance code that hadn't failed her yet. As she descended, the radar's beeps came more quickly. She dropped into the atmosphere and her eyes were met with towering rock formations poking above the clouds; it was impossible to tell how far below the planet floor was. Her heart leapt in her chest -- there was the Marauder! It was neatly folded against one of the cliffs, perched on a perfectly-sized ledge. No sign of light or activity, however, so she took a gentle loop to see where they may have gone. 

Sudden alarms notified her of the approach of incoming craft, and she peeled away to avoid being seen, diving down toward the forest canopy. Her ship was small and easy to navigate, and she lowered it into a small clearing as a handful of Imperial fighters shot overhead. She whipped out her electrobinoculars, following their path, and the scene that met her eyes made her stomach drop to her feet. Blaster bolts flew between skyrail cars, and the ships pelted them with shots on a fly by before arcing through the air to come around for another run. She spotted Hunter's red bandana leaning out the window of one of the cars as he sent a few shots at the opposite car, and then a swinging figure caught her attention. 

She gasped aloud. Tech. Dangling far below the cars by a single wire, attempting to climb but moving too slowly as the fighters approached yet again. Her mind raced. What could she do? She wouldn't be able to launch fast enough before they came by again, and even if she did, she would likely be shot down, outnumbered as she was. Before she had the chance to think of any other options, a single blaster bolt fired from Tech's suspended form, breaking the skyrail coupling, and he began to free fall, along with an entire car following above him. 

Simultaneous fear and focus kicked into high gear. She plotted his trajectory, fighting down the waves of nausea that broke upon her, and began to sprint into the forest. The trees and rocks seemed to reach miles into the sky above her, a sickening realization, and she picked up the pace, gasping for air but refusing to slow down. 

Crashing through a wall of bushes that scraped along her arms, she let out a cry as she saw his crumpled form ahead, unmistakable with the white armor and colorful accents. His backpack, cracked in half, dangled from a sharp branch above, and his helmet had splintered, scattering shards across the clearing. Collapsing to her knees next to him, she gently rolled him onto his back, taking a sharp inhale at the horror she saw. His fall had been broken only by tree branches, each one leaving a mark as it hit him with full force. One had whipped across his head, shattering his goggles, which dangled from one ear, and horribly disfiguring his face. Dirt mixed with blood and bone, and she fought to maintain consciousness. She didn't know how extensive the damage was, but she had to get him somewhere, anywhere, and fast. 

***

Shapes and shadows, muffled sounds… Waves of pain… Dreams of light, always ending in darkness. Weightlessness and water began to form in his mind. The rhythmic sound of mechanical breathing. But all was dark.

Suddenly, weight returned. He was being moved; the ground was shifting below him. He was lying on his back, as far as he could tell, but movement was nearly impossible. Everything felt so heavy, as if he were made of the thinnest glass and could shatter at a moment's notice. And the darkness, the murkiness. He thought his eyes were open but there was nothing but shadows, appearing from nowhere and startling him, taking form and then melting away. 

The whirring sound of servos grew nearer, accompanied by a robotic voice, "CT-9902, can you hear me?"

It took a few swallows to remedy a dry mouth despite the recent emergence from water, and his voice cracked as he spoke, "I can."

"I am your assigned 2-1B medical droid. You have sustained heavy damage."

"Diag… diagnostic report," he breathed, fighting a rising sense of panic at the unresponsiveness of his vision. He tentatively attempted to move fingers and toes, shifting his weight to and fro, but he could see nothing but vague patches of dark and darker. As the droid recounted his injuries, his claustrophobia grew. It was irrational. It served no purpose. But the inability to snap out of it, to look around at his surroundings, felt suffocating. Focusing on the droid's analysis as a way to ground himself, he calculated the possibilities of his future. 

It wasn't a fruitful endeavor, nor did it have its usual soothing effect. He had always been one to successfully employ mind over matter, logic over emotion. But the sensation of being trapped within his own body was a novel one that was proving to be insurmountable as of yet. The droid finished its debriefing, machinery indicating some kind of movement, and the pit in his stomach grew heavier.

"Where am I?" he asked with a gravelly voice.

But there was no reply. 

Time stretched into eternity, and his ability to analyze and predict was significantly less sharp than he was used to. His nose was assaulted with the sterile scents of a medical bay and his ears picked up every beep, whoosh, and whir. His mouth felt dry and metallic, and the sensations throughout his body were a myriad of pain, awareness, and comfort. But his vision was gone. Almost entirely. He assessed the likelihood of what had happened, slowly bringing a hand to a heavily-bandaged face. His eyes were not covered, however, confirming his fears.

Solitude usually didn't bother him, but he found himself yearning for his brothers. The factual analysis of his situation did nothing to improve his mental state. He needed answers, and patience was not a prominent strength of someone who had been able to make things happen quickly and effectively his whole life.

"Well… You've certainly looked better," came a familiar voice, breaking him out of his morose reverie. It was not a voice he had expected, but it was an improvement to the circumstances nonetheless.

"Phee," he said quietly, "What happened?"

He felt a weight on the side of the bed, accompanied by a shifting shadow overhead, then the gentle, warm touch of a hand to his bare cheek that made him flinch involuntarily. A quiet sound of sympathy came from her, and the hand disappeared.

"You decided to go flying without a jet pack," Phee answered, "And the local landscape seemed to have an issue with that. Particularly the trees. And the ground."

"It was necessary," he replied, still struggling to speak more than a short sentence at a time. "My vision is impaired?"

"Your whole body is impaired," she said, attempting to keep it light, though the gravity was betrayed by the emotion in her voice. "You're lucky to be alive. But yes, for now."

Tech let out a small sigh, resting his head back on the pillow in defeat, "That is not ideal."

"You being alive is all that matters. You hear me?" she said with empathetic conviction.

"I do," he answered, resigned to the fact that a satisfactory response would require more stamina than he could afford. Phee rose to her feet.

"Good. Now you work on healing so we can get out of here."

***

The process was painstakingly slow, even with the miracles of bacta and medical droids, but finally the day arrived that they would be able to return to Pabu. Tech managed to shower and prepare on his own, feeling along the walls and fumbling about for each step. The whoosh of the door notified him of someone's arrival, and the identity was quickly confirmed by that euphonic voice.

"What are you wearing?" Phee asked as she saw him. He was wearing the medical bay defaults, which looked similar to his blacks, but had folded and tied an extra shirt around his eyes like a bandana. She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. "I think Hunter has already claimed that particular fashion statement."

"It is likely that the appearance of my face is disconcerting, considering the damage from the fall. I did not want to be the cause of any detestation."

"Detestation! Listen to you. Come here, Brown Eyes," she invited, drawing close. "I'm taking this off, alright?"

"You may have to select an alternative term of endearment," he said as she gently pushed the makeshift bandana up and off his head. His face had indeed healed, but the rich brown eyes that had so captivated her were covered in a thick layer of milky white, and moved unseeingly in her general direction. Scar tissue tracked from his temple on one side to his ear on the other, creating a knotted texture on his previously sharp profile. He dropped his chin a bit, in a posture of shame, and her heart broke.

She dropped the folded shirt on the nearby bed, reaching for his hands with her own. His startle reflex had diminished only slightly; it would take a while to get used to a world of shifting shadows. She traced her hands up his arms, feeling him stiffen slightly at the touch, then up to his cheeks, cupping his face with as much tenderness as she could convey. She gazed into those eyes, wishing he could see the emotion on her face as she did.

"You're not gonna get off the hook that easy," she said, gently brushing his cheekbones with her thumbs. "Besides, Brown Eyes, the phenotypic eye color for all clones is brown, you know, even if you can't see them," she said with a grin that could be heard in her voice.

And for the first time since the accident, a small smile curved the corner of his lips as well.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Requested Tags: @32rotations @cocolinagoodnight @thenonsensebatch

If you enjoyed it, feel free to check out other works on Wattpad or Ao3. :) Got a full-length Tech fic, a short cute "first date" with Gregor, a short-ish rivalry of Tech/Crosshair fighting over you, and an ongoing full-length canon-aligned backstory on Howzer. :D

HANG IN THERE TIL SEASON 3! Much love!

[ironwitchpainter]

Star Trek: Planetary Perception and Pursuit, Episode 8: Bridge of Time

The Enterprise, her crew weary but triumphant, emerges from the swirling maelstrom of the space-time continuum to find themselves face-to-face with a celestial anomaly. A planet, unlike any they have encountered, lies nestled within the embrace of unusual space phenomena—storms of colorful cosmic energy dance around it like a veil, obscuring its surface from their sensors. The bridge is abuzz with excitement and anticipation as the science officers attempt to make sense of the readings. "Captain," says Spock, his voice calm and measured as always, "our scans indicate that the planet is inhabitable, and the phenomena surrounding it are not naturally occurring." Kirk nods, his eyes narrowing as he contemplates the mystery before them. "Take us closer," he orders, his curiosity piqued. The ship glides through the vibrant, tumultuous sea of energy, the viewscreen flickering with the chaotic beauty of the alien spectacle. The planet's surface, once hidden, begins to resolve into a breathtaking mosaic of land and water, untouched by the hands of civilization. The crew, seasoned explorers all, exchange glances filled with wonder. They know that with every new discovery, there is the potential for danger, but also the promise of knowledge and understanding. Kirk's hand rests on the armrest of the captain's chair, his grip tightening. This is what he lives for—the thrill of the unknown, the chance to boldly go where no man has gone before. As the ship draws nearer, the phenomena part like a curtain, revealing a world ripe with potential. The adventure of a lifetime awaits them, and Kirk knows that whatever challenges they may face, they will conquer them together, as a united crew, bound by duty and friendship.

One of the phenomena that the Enterprise encounters is the vibrant, swirling storms of cosmic energy that envelop the uncharted planet. These anomalies are not natural in origin, hinting at the presence of an advanced civilization or technology at play. The colors are mesmerizing, a symphony of light and energy that seems to pulse with a life of their own. The ship's instruments struggle to provide a clear reading, the energy interfering with their sensors like static on an old radio. The storms create a barrier that is both awe-inspiring and foreboding, a challenge to be met with both caution and excitement. As the Enterprise approaches, the crew can't help but feel a sense of reverence and curiosity about what secrets the planet holds. Kirk, ever the explorer, is eager to uncover the truth behind the enigmatic veil, his spirit undaunted by the mysteries of the universe. This new discovery, a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, is precisely the kind of challenge that fuels his soul and drives him to seek out new life and new civilizations. The planet itself, a jewel in the vast cosmic sea, holds the promise of friendship, knowledge, and perhaps even danger. Yet, Kirk is unfazed, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the uncharted. This is the essence of Starfleet's mission, and as he stands on the bridge, surrounded by his loyal crew, he knows that together, they will unravel the mysteries of this celestial curiosity.

Another of the phenomena that the Enterprise encounters is a series of floating, geometric structures that orbit the planet at varying distances. These structures, reminiscent of ancient Earthian artifacts, appear to be constructed from an unknown metal that reflects the light of the nearby star in a dazzling display of shapes and shadows. The objects are arranged in a precise pattern that suggests an intentional design, yet the purpose behind their existence remains elusive. Kirk, ever the chess player, sees the potential in these cosmic pieces—either they are the pawns in a grander game, or the very essence of the planet's defense and communication systems. As the ship moves closer, the structures react, their formations shifting in a silent dance that seems to welcome the newcomers yet maintain a watchful eye. The science officers hypothesize that these structures could be the work of an extinct civilization, their purpose lost to time, or perhaps the sentinels of a society so advanced that they have transcended physical form. Kirk orders a detailed scanning of the artifacts, his mind racing with strategies to establish peaceful contact or, if necessary, navigate them safely. The tension on the bridge is palpable, the air charged with the excitement of discovery and the sobering reality that they are venturing into the unknown. The crew's eyes are glued to the viewscreen, their hearts beating in unison with the rhythm of the stars. They are pioneers, charting the unexplored, and the geometric enigmas before them are merely the opening gambit in a cosmic chess match that could reshape their understanding of the universe.

The sensors on the Enterprise pick up a variety of unusual energy signatures emanating from the planet and its surrounding phenomena. The first is the cosmic storms of vibrant color, which pulse with a complex blend of subspace and bioelectric energy. These energy fields interact with the ship's systems in a way that suggests a form of intelligent control or manipulation, hinting at a sentient presence or an incredibly sophisticated technology. Secondly, the floating geometric structures are emitting a constant stream of tachyon particles, indicating some form of subspace communication or propulsion. The tachyons interact with the ship's sensors in a way that suggests the structures are not merely inert, but rather active and responsive to their surroundings. Additionally, the planet itself exhibits a unique magnetic field, which is oscillating at frequencies that could be indicative of a highly advanced power source or perhaps a method of harnessing the storms' energy. There are also faint life signs, hinting at the presence of an ecosystem that has adapted to the extreme conditions created by the planet's unusual environment. The readings are a puzzle that Spock and the science team are eager to solve, each piece offering a glimpse into the heart of the mystery that is this alien world. Kirk, ever mindful of the potential for first contact, orders the ship to maintain a safe distance while they gather more information. The crew's anticipation is palpable, their senses heightened by the promise of what they might find on this planet, and the thrill of the discovery that awaits them is like a drug, pushing them to the edge of their seats, ready to leap into the unknown.

As the Enterprise draws closer to the planet, the crew begins to notice small anomalies occurring within the ship. Flickers of light dance in the corners of the eyes, and the occasional murmur of unexplained whispers echo through the corridors. Equipment malfunctions in peculiar ways—a computer terminal blinking erratically, a turbolift door sliding open and shut without command, and a sudden drop in temperature that makes the hair on the back of necks stand on end. These small disturbances, while not immediately threatening, are disconcerting and serve as a stark reminder that the ship is not in the realm of known physics anymore. Kirk, ever the pragmatist, orders Scotty to conduct a full system check while keeping the ship at a safe distance from the planet. The anomalies are discussed in hushed tones, the crew exchanging worried glances. Spock, ever the voice of logic, suggests that the ship may be interacting with the alien phenomena in unforeseen ways, potentially causing the malfunctions. The medical bay reports a slight increase in heart rates and the occasional bout of nausea among the crew, symptoms that mirror those experienced during the initial exposure to the hallucinogenic artifact. McCoy, ever the skeptic, suggests that the crew's collective anxiety may be manifesting as physical symptoms. Kirk, however, remains calm, his eyes never leaving the viewscreen. He knows that fear is the mind-killer, and he will not let it take hold of his ship or his crew. He orders Uhura to monitor all communications channels for any signs of intelligent life or messages that could explain the anomalies. The bridge is a hive of activity, each member of the crew working tirelessly to unravel the mysteries before them. They are on the cusp of something momentous, and Kirk is determined that the Enterprise will come through it unscathed, ready to face whatever lies ahead.

The anomalies within the Enterprise increase in strangeness and frequency. Crew members begin to report brief sightings of their comrades, only to find them vanishing into thin air moments later. The engineering team discovers that recent repairs have inexplicably reverted to their damaged state, as if the very fabric of the ship is being rewritten by some unseen force. Kirk calls for a full red alert, his voice echoing through the ship's intercom. The crew moves with a newfound urgency, each person aware that the very structure of their home is being compromised. Scotty reports that the ship's systems are fighting against some form of temporal disruption, a phenomenon that threatens the integrity of the vessel itself. Spock hypothesizes that the planet's unique properties may be affecting the ship's subspace field, causing objects and people to phase in and out of existence. The science officers work feverishly to understand the nature of the disturbance, their consoles flickering with the chaotic interplay of energy and matter. Kirk, his brow furrowed in concentration, leans over the science station, his eyes scanning the readouts. The disappearances are not random—they appear to be connected to the ship's proximity to the geometric structures. The crew's safety is paramount, and Kirk knows that they must find a way to stabilize the ship's condition before it's too late. He orders the ship to retreat slightly, to buy them time to understand and counteract the effects. The tension on the bridge is thick, the air heavy with the weight of the unknown. Yet amidst the chaos, Kirk's resolve remains unshaken. He will not leave this mystery unsolved, not while his crew's lives hang in the balance. He instructs Spock to attempt to establish a subspace communication with the planet, to see if they can make contact with whatever intelligence may be orchestrating these events. The fate of the Enterprise and her crew rests on the Vulcan's shoulders, and as they await his findings, the ship groans around them, a silent sentinel in the cosmic ballet of forces that now engulfs them.

Scotty stumbled through the corridor, his toolkit clanking against his side as the red alert lights flickered and died above him. In their place, an impossible blue sky unfolded, the steel and plasma giving way to a serene panorama of clouds and distant mountains. The ship's sirens were replaced by the mournful wail of bagpipes, the haunting melody drifting through the corridor like a phantom from a long-forgotten glen. The deck beneath his feet transformed into cool, dewy grass, and for a moment, he was a lad again, running through the fields of his youth. He blinked hard, his hand reaching up to touch the ethereal sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. The corridor walls had vanished, replaced by the rolling landscape of Earth, so real he could almost smell the scent of heather and peat. "What in the name of...?" he murmured to himself, his Scottish brogue thick with wonder and confusion. The scene shifted again, and he found himself standing before the gates of an ancient castle, the pipes growing louder, beckoning him closer. He knew this was no hallucination—his mind was too sharp, his senses too keen for that. This was something more, something that defied the very laws of the universe. He took a cautious step forward, the grass beneath his boots a stark reminder that he was still aboard the Enterprise, no matter how real the illusion. His heart raced, his mind racing through every bit of engineering knowledge he had. If this was the doing of the alien structures, then they had to find a way to counteract it before the ship was torn apart by the forces at play. He turned back towards the bridge, his steps quick and sure, the pipes fading as he moved away from the vision. "Kirk," he called into his communicator, his voice tinged with urgency, "we've got to get out of here before we're all lost in this bloody waking dream!" The line crackled with static, but Kirk's voice was clear. "Understood, Scotty. Full reverse, and prepare for evasive maneuvers. We're not leaving until we know what we're dealing with." Scotty nodded, his hand hovering over the controls, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice. The Enterprise groaned around him, a living, breathing entity caught in the grip of the planet's strange embrace. He gritted his teeth and whispered a silent prayer to the engineers of old. They were in uncharted waters now, and it was up to him to keep her afloat.

The retreat of the Enterprise does not halt the time anomalies. The bridge's viewscreen flickers, and for a brief, disorienting moment, the stars are replaced by a breathtaking panorama of Earth's continent of Africa—an Africa untouched by the hands of colonization, its landscapes vast and untamed. Uhura gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as she takes in the ancient savannah, teeming with creatures long extinct. Her eyes fill with tears as she witnesses a world that existed before the scars of history were etched into its soil. The scene shifts again, and the bridge is plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the screens that pulse with the alien energy. Kirk's hand tightens on the captain's chair, his knuckles white. "Hold steady," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. The ship lurches as it's caught in a crossfire of temporal forces, the crew bracing themselves against the consoles. The anomalies are not just affecting the ship—they are reaching into the very fabric of reality, peeling back layers of time itself. The implications are staggering, the potential for disaster immeasurable. Yet, as the anomalies intensify, so does Kirk's resolve. He will not allow his ship or his crew to become lost in the annals of time. He orders Uhura to keep trying to communicate with the planet, to find some semblance of order in the chaos. The whispers of the past and the cries of the future echo through the bridge, a cacophony of temporal echoes that threaten to drown out their voices. But Kirk's voice rises above the din, clear and strong. "We're not going anywhere until we understand what's happening here," he says, his eyes burning with determination. The crew, looking to their captain for guidance, nod in silent agreement. They are the vanguard of humanity, and it is their duty to explore the unknown, to seek out new life and new civilizations, and to boldly go where no one has gone before. And as the Enterprise sails through the tempest of time, her captain and her crew stand united, ready to face whatever the cosmos throws at them.

Sulu, navigating through the corridors on his way to the bridge, stumbled into a scene that seemed to have been plucked from the pages of Earth's history. The arboretum, usually a bastion of peaceful botany, had transformed into a battleground. Samurai warriors clashed with Chinese foot soldiers, their swords flashing in the artificial light, the air thick with the scent of sweat and fear. The samurai moved with a grace and precision that seemed almost supernatural, their armor gleaming like the metal of the stars outside. The Chinese warriors, their faces a mask of discipline, fought with a fierce determination that spoke of a deep-rooted loyalty to their emperor. The sound of clanging steel and the cries of battle filled the air, a stark contrast to the usual hum of the ship's systems. The sight was so surreal, so utterly alien to the sterile corridors of the Enterprise, that Sulu felt his breath catch in his throat. He watched, transfixed, as the combatants danced in a deadly ballet, each strike and parry a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity. He knew he had to report this to Kirk, had to share this bizarre phenomenon with the captain. He reached for his communicator, his hand trembling slightly. "Sir," he began, his voice shaking with a mix of awe and horror, "you need to see this." The communicator remained silent, the signal lost in the maelstrom of energy that enveloped the ship. He tried again, but the only response was the static hiss of the void. With a deep breath, he turned away from the battle, his eyes on the path ahead. He had a duty to perform, a mission to fulfill. The ship needed him, and he would not fail her. He broke into a run, the clang of swords and the cries of the fallen fading behind him as he sprinted towards the bridge, his heart pounding in his chest. The Enterprise was in trouble, and it was up to them to find a way out of this temporal maze before they were lost to the annals of history, forgotten by time itself.

The crew gathers in the briefing room, their faces etched with concern and confusion. The stories of their visions are as varied as the stars in the sky—Chekov has seen the grandeur of a Russian winter, McCoy the rolling hills of the Old South, and Sulu the ancient battles of Asia. Each member has witnessed scenes from their own past or ancestry, vivid and real, as if they had been transported back in time. The room is filled with the murmur of their voices, sharing their experiences, trying to make sense of the madness that has gripped the ship. Kirk, his eyes still gleaming with the light of the alien planet, stands at the head of the table, his hands folded behind his back. "It seems," he says slowly, "that the planet's energy is not just affecting our ship—it's reaching into our very minds." He pauses, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "We are seeing echoes of our past, reflections of our heritage." The room falls silent, the only sound the hum of the ship's engines, a constant reminder of their precarious situation. Spock, ever the Vulcan, speaks up, his voice calm and measured. "The temporal disturbances are interacting with our personal subspace fields, causing us to perceive these...hallucinations. It is a curious phenomenon, one that suggests a level of sophistication and control beyond our current understanding." Kirk nods, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his crew. "We must remain vigilant," he says firmly. "These visions are not just a distraction—they are a puzzle, a key to unlocking the secrets of this planet. We will find a way to communicate with this...whatever it is. And we will do so together, as a team." The room nods in agreement, the unity of purpose palpable. They are the best and the brightest of Starfleet, and together, they will conquer this new frontier. The meeting adjourns, and the crew disperses, their thoughts racing with the implications of their discoveries. As they return to their stations, the ship's walls seem to whisper of the past, hinting at the secrets that lie in wait on the planet below. The Enterprise, a bastion of science and exploration, is now a vessel adrift in a sea of memory, her crew bound by the very fabric of time itself. Yet, they are not deterred. They are the explorers, the seekers of truth, and they will not rest until they have uncovered the mysteries that lie before them.

In the solitude of her quarters, Uhura felt the ship around her shiver and shift. The walls faded, the sleek Starfleet design replaced by the rough-hewn timbers and plaster of a medieval market. The smell of roasting meats and the cries of merch

Uhura retreated to her quarters, seeking refuge from the chaos of the ship's temporal disturbances. As the door slid shut behind her, the walls began to ripple and change. The familiar, sterile white of Starfleet design melted away, revealing the warm, earthy tones of a medieval marketplace. The smell of roasting meats and the cries of merchants selling their wares filled the air. The cobblestone streets were bustling with a cacophony of voices and the clanging of metal. She stepped out into the bustling crowd, her heart racing as she took in the sights. Then, she saw them—Klingons. They were not the brutish stereotype she had studied in the Starfleet archives, but rather, a group of traders dressed in rich fabrics, their foreheads adorned with intricate jewelry. They haggled with the local merchants, their deep voices a stark contrast to the chatter of the humans and aliens around them. For a moment, she was lost in the scene, her mind racing with the implications of such a historical anachronism. Then, she remembered her duty. This was no mere vision—it was a message, a clue to the planet's secrets. She took a deep breath, her hand reaching for her communicator. "Kirk," she said, her voice steady despite the wonder and fear that gripped her, "I've found something. The ship's systems are being overwritten by temporal echoes. We need to find a way to communicate with whatever's causing this before we're all lost in time." The communicator remained silent, a cold, metallic silence that mirrored the emptiness of the market around her. The Klingons turned to look at her, their eyes piercing through the veil of her disguise. She knew she had to act fast. With a nod to her unseen comrades, she stepped into the fray, her mind racing with the knowledge that the fate of the Enterprise and its crew rested on her shoulders.

As the scene around her shifted, Uhura felt a gentle tug at her wrist. She turned to find K'Ehleyr standing there, her familiar Klingon features a comforting presence amidst the chaos. The medieval market faded away, leaving only the two of them standing in Uhura's bedroom on the Enterprise. "K'Ehleyr?" she breathed, her heart racing. The Klingon's eyes searched hers, a hint of urgency in her gaze.

"I thought you went back to your own time," K'Ehleyr said, her voice laced with confusion. "What are you doing here?" Uhura blinked, her mind racing. K'Ehleyr was supposed to be a memory, a friend lost to the ravages of time. Yet here she was, as real as the ship around them.

"We don't have much time," Uhura said, her voice low and urgent. She gripped K'Ehleyr's hand firmly, feeling the warmth and solidity of the other woman's grasp. "We need to get to the bridge, now."

K'Ehleyr's eyes narrowed, her instincts sharpened by years of diplomatic intrigue. "What's happening?" she demanded, her voice a soft growl.

Uhura's gaze darted around the room, ensuring no one else had stumbled upon their unexpected reunion. "The planet's energy is causing us to phase through time and space. The ship, the crew—we're all at risk."

K'Ehleyr nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. "We must find the source of this disturbance and negotiate with it," she said firmly. "The Klingon Empire has faced stranger foes."

Uhura nodded grimly, and together, they sprinted towards the turbolift, their hands clasped tightly together. The corridors of the Enterprise twisted and shimmered around them, as if the very fabric of reality was being stretched to its limits. They dodged the flickering apparitions of crew members from different eras, each locked in their own moments of panic or confusion. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone, a sure sign of the escalating temporal chaos.

Hand in hand, Uhura and K'Ehleyr dashed through the shifting corridors of the Enterprise, their eyes locked on the prize—the bridge. Time anomalies played tricks on their senses, making the ground ripple like the surface of a pond, the lights pulse with the rhythm of a dying star. They leaped over consoles that appear and vanish, duck beneath archways that shimmer in and out of existence. The ship's structure groaned and shifted around them, a testament to the strain it was under. Yet, their urgency propelled them forward, their connection to each other and their mission a beacon in the madness.

They arrive on the bridge, breathless and disheveled. The air is charged with energy, the consoles flickering erratically. Kirk, Spock, and the others are huddled around the captain's chair, their eyes wide with shock as they stare at the viewscreen, which shows a dizzying array of images from across time and space. Uhura, her voice firm despite her racing heart, declares, "Captain, these aren't just hallucinations. These are real moments from our pasts, our futures, and our histories—and they're all converging here, now." Kirk turns to her, his gaze sharp, "You're saying these visions are... manifestations of reality?" Uhura nods, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, sir. We're not just witnessing history—we're interacting with it." The bridge crew exchanges worried glances, the implications of her words sinking in. The Enterprise is not just a ship anymore—it's a vessel for time itself, a conduit for moments that have been, moments that will be, and moments that never should have been. And it's up to them to navigate this storm before it consumes them all.

K'Ehleyr steps forward, her gaze unwavering as she addresses Kirk. "Captain, I believe we should attempt to communicate with the sentience behind these structures. My experience with temporal beings suggests that they may not intend us harm, but rather seek understanding or assistance." She gestures to the viewscreen, where the geometric forms seem to pulse in response to their distress. "The tachyons they emit are the key. If we can find a way to harmonize with their frequency, we may be able to negotiate." Kirk considers her words, his hand resting on the chair's arm, the weight of his decision palpable. "You're suggesting we reach out to these...entities?" K'Ehleyr nods. "I am. My diplomatic background, especially with those who manipulate time, may be of use here." She glances at Uhura, whose nod of support is almost imperceptible. "We've encountered beings of great power before, and we've found common ground. This may be our only hope to restore order to our timeline." Kirk's expression is a mix of skepticism and hope. "Alright," he says slowly, "let's proceed with caution. Uhura, prepare a communication protocol that will allow us to interact with these...beings. Spock, plot a course back to the planet—we need to get closer to the source of this disturbance." The crew springs into action, their movements precise, their determination unshakeable. They are Starfleet's finest, and they will not be undone by the whims of time.

As the Enterprise draws nearer to the uncharted planet, the bridge is bathed in the soft glow of the alien structures' light. The anomalies subside, allowing K'Ehleyr to address the geometric forms. She speaks slowly, her voice a blend of Klingon and Universal Translator, her words resonating with a deep, almost musical quality. The structures respond, their patterns shifting, the tachyon emissions altering. It becomes clear that these are not mere constructs—they are living machines, sentient beings that evolved within the planet's surface. They are the guardians of a timeline long forgotten, a history buried beneath the sands of eons. They seek to understand these interlopers from the stars, to determine if they come in peace or with malicious intent. Kirk watches with bated breath as K'Ehleyr weaves a tapestry of words, a dance of diplomacy that could mean the difference between salvation and oblivion. Her voice, filled with the wisdom of her Klingon heritage and the eloquence of her Starfleet training, reaches out to the ancient guardians. The air on the bridge crackles with anticipation as they await the structures' reply, the fate of the ship and its crew hanging in the balance.

The structures' response is not immediate, their deliberations stretching into what feels like an eternity. The crew holds their collective breath, their eyes glued to the viewscreen, their hearts pounding in their chests. Then, the screen flickers, and an image forms—a tableau of Kirk and his senior staff, standing in the very spot they are now, but in a different time. They see themselves, older, wiser, yet still bound by the oath they swore to Starfleet and the friendship that has carried them through so much. The message is clear: the guardians understand the bonds that hold them together, the unity that has made them strong. Kirk's eyes meet K'Ehleyr's, and he knows what he must do. He stands, his hand on the captain's chair, and speaks to the screen, his voice a blend of steel and hope. "We come as friends, as explorers, seeking knowledge and peace. We mean no harm to your world or its history. Let us join forces to ensure that your legacy is preserved, that the future may learn from the wisdom of the past." The structures pulse once more, and then, as if by silent agreement, the temporal anomalies cease. The ship's systems stabilize, the viewscreen snaps back to the star-studded void of space, and the bridge breathes a sigh of relief. The guardians have accepted their peace offering. The Enterprise, now a silent witness to the tapestry of time, continues on its mission, its crew forever changed by the whispers of history that have brushed against their minds.

As the tachyon emissions from the floating structures coalesce into coherent images, a vision of the future unfolds before the bridge crew. K'Ehleyr gasps as she sees herself, dressed in the unmistakable red of a Starfleet ops uniform, standing confidently beside Kirk in a scene that seems to be set decades from now. The sight of her future self, entwined with the destiny of the Enterprise, sends a shiver down her spine. Her hand tightens around Uhura's, their shared moment of disbelief and awe a silent testament to the profound nature of the revelation. The structures, it seems, are not just observing them—they are showing them their potential futures, hinting at a deeper connection to the ship and its crew than any of them could have imagined. Kirk's gaze lingers on the image, a hint of wonder in his eyes. "K'Ehleyr," he says softly, "what does this mean?" Her reply is equally hushed. "It means we have a role to play in the grand scheme of things, Captain. A destiny that we must embrace, together." The structures' intent becomes clear: they seek to forge an alliance, to weave the threads of their timeline with those of the Starfleet officers. The bridge falls silent, the weight of their newfound purpose heavy upon them. They have been chosen, not just to explore strange new worlds, but to safeguard the very fabric of time itself. And as they stand there, united by fate and the bonds of friendship, they know that they will face whatever challenges come their way, together.

Several days later, the Enterprise sails through the cosmos, its mission to understand the temporal anomalies now supplemented with a deeper understanding of their role in the continuum. K'Ehleyr, now an esteemed guest with a temporary quarters aboard the ship, finds herself in Uhura's care as they navigate the corridors to the training deck. Uhura's gentle guidance and patience are a stark contrast to the urgency of their recent encounter. The air is filled with the soft hum of the ship's systems, a gentle reminder of the journey that lies ahead. K'Ehleyr carries a PADD under her arm, filled with the knowledge of the Federation and Starfleet protocols, a stepping stone to her newfound aspiration to attend the academy. As they walk, Uhura speaks of the camaraderie and the rigors of the institution, her voice filled with both fondness and the challenge it represents. The Klingon woman's eyes are alight with determination, the fiery spirit of her warrior heritage melding with the intellectual prowess required for such a pursuit. The friendship between them has grown stronger through adversity, and now, as they stand on the precipice of a new chapter, it is clear that their bond will be instrumental in forging a future where their people stand together as equals. As they enter the training room, the door sliding open to reveal a holographic classroom, K'Ehleyr takes a deep breath, ready to begin her academic odyssey. "Let us begin," she says, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. Uhura nods, a proud smile on her face. "Welcome to your first lesson, K'Ehleyr. Together, we'll make sure you're ready for whatever the universe throws at you." And with that, the two friends embark on a new adventure, their hearts and minds open to the boundless possibilities that await them in the stars.

[thegodthief]

Hexennacht 2024

"Master?"

"Yes, Adiutor."

"Are you sure you want to do this? You're not in a good state of mind for anything other than going to bed."

"Like I have a choice, Adiutor. Either I have some say in how I meet him, or he snatches me when I least expect it. He has few obligations on me, but this is one of them."

"And is not one of your names, [Rebellion], Master? What good is an obligation when it pains you more than it rewards?"

"... Because otherwise, I'm nothing."

There was no pomp or celebration. No decorations. No ritual clothing set aside. I had watched so many others show their preparations online. There was lots of encouragement across disciplines and time zones. Lots of anticipation and expectations.

I was meeting none of them and was glad no one knew just how empty my everything seemed to be at the time.

Adiutor had said nothing while I was preparing the absinthe. She didn't chide me for not using the special absinthe spoon or the box of cubed sugar I had bought specifically for the drink. She didn't tease me for not preparing the drink the "traditional" way nor did she ask questions about why I was doing it the way I was. She didn't remark on the use of ice cubes in the stemless martini glass or on the absinthe bottle's brand as I measured the serving before pouring it over the ice.

As the oils froze and crystallized on the ice cube peaks, causing the ice to shatter and crack from the sudden assault of room temperature liquor, I saw and heard patterns that filled me with a deep sense of foreboding and dread.

I'm doing this wrong and the spirits of the night are displeased. But either I do it wrong and be corrected, than not do it at all and be punished.

The method by which I prepare absinthe for ritual use takes but a few minutes to actually do anything, but then at least two, if not three, hours of waiting for everything to homogenize in the covered glass. While I am permitted to do anything I want to do in Step 2, regardless of what my hands may be doing, my thoughts are often swirling in a tightening meditation on the focus of the night. (Step 1: Assemble the glass.; Step 2: ???; Step 3: Profit!)

By the time the ice has nearly completely melted in the glass, I am often already in a ritual daze without having so much as tasted the prepared drink. But not this time. I had ran out of things to do almost immediately, and the usual time-killers that would keep the hands busy and the mind free just weren't doing anything for me.

So I sat in the unlit room by the open window and watched the sky fade into night in as much silence as the glass would let me. The ice occasionally tinked as the melting shards rolled over in the increasing fluid in the glass. A random crack and pop would strike my ears as the tap water ice yielded to the room's warmth. The night was neither warm nor cool, but I began to shiver just the same.

That I should be afraid again. Some witch I have turned out to be.

All of my attending and captive spirits held silent watch as the night, and its attendant darkness, deepened. When Adiutor impressed upon me that it was time, I was not able to see the room's clock to confirm the passage of time. But, I didn't have to. For all my lucidity and wakefulness, even I could tell that a smothering darkness had assembled in the room.

It covered me with the gravitas of the thick blanket that was still on the bed. I could feel its anticipation slowly constricting around my throat. I reached for the glass and Adiutor spoke her concern clearly. It was the first voice I had heard since I assembled the glass. She had no counter nor comment to my answer.

I woke my tablet and unlocked the screen to a notes app already loaded with the ritual prayer for the night. Quietly and with steady tones, I read the prayer with the same resolve as a condemned prisoner reading out their last statement. The prayer concluded, I took a sip of the prepared drink.

It tasted like ink.

The absinthe bottle is new. The seal was broken when I prepared the drink hours ago. It is not a new brand to me, and the contents smelled the way it always has. The tap water used to make the ice wasn't anything unusual and we weren't under a water notice. It was the same tap water that I regularly drink and cook with. All the same conditions mean all the same outcomes, right?

I took another sip.

As a fountain pen enjoyer, I have inadvertently tasted many inks. And each ink has a distinct taste depending on formulation. But all the same, there was a basic taste that they all shared, and this glass of absinthe was presenting that ink taste first and anise as a distant second.

This was a sign that I should have taken comfort in. I started to cry, instead.

I can't face him. Not after all that has happened. Not after all that I've done. That I haven't done. His attention is wasted on me and if he comes, surely it will be to take back everything he has given.

A stray thought distracted me. I could walk away, first. Pour the glass down the drain. Throw away the tokens. Leave the path I claim to be on, as if I was ever walking it in the first place. But that would mean destroying Adiutor's doll and coffin, as well. And would mean having nothing to defend myself with should the glory-eaters come for me again. To give up and walk away would mean cutting myself in pieces and burying them again.

Wasn't the whole point of this to put myself back together? Wasn't it? Is it, still?

Another sip. More ink, much less anise, but an after-taste of fennel that I found to be comforting somehow. The fennel reminded me of the field that he had dragged me out of the River into. The field where I had to face the memory of being beaten in the name of Jesus as part of an exorcism ritual. There were no flowers in that room when the bruises were bestowed upon me. There was no soft dirt to hold my shattered mind when they reminded me that to save my soul from my flesh's damned lineage, they had to bring that prideful flesh into submission one way or another.

The scent of fennel kept me from being consumed by the memory of the ritual. There were no flowers in that room. There were flowers in the field that he dragged my spirit into. There were flowers in the field where he made his proposal. There were flowers in the field where I accepted.

I did not realize that I had taken another sip until a fresh scent of anise and fennel smothered my face. I opened my eyes to find his hand lightly gripping my neck and holding me upright in the chair. His other hand was holding my hand as it held the stemless martini glass upright as well. I had taken at most, a third of the prepared drink.

Ink-black eyes stared coldly into mine a few inches from my face.

"Why are you here, [Keri]?"

His grip kept me upright, only barely so. I had freedom to speak or to remain silent, whichever I chose.

"... To meet my obligation to you."

"Liar." He tightened his hand on my neck, just enough to remind me of his strength. "Why are you here?"

I was confused. Wasn't it an obligation? Didn't I dismiss my first Hexennacht after our agreement as other people's celebration, only to be literally dragged kicking and screaming to the Witch's Night? Wasn't it made clear that there were now certain expectations upon me that if I did not voluntarily meet, I would be forced to abide by, no matter what?

"Take your medicine, and loosen your tongue." He brought my hand and the glass it held to my lips. I meant to take but a sip but he tilted the hand and forced the second third of the drink into my mouth. I had to choose between swallowing the gulp or spitting it out to breathe.

I swallowed and felt my pride clawing in my throat as the drink slipped between body and spirit.

My body reacted by trying to fight against the force pinning me to the chair, but the absinthe worked its magic fast and my free hand fell limp in my lap as my sight dimmed.

"Now. Speak to me. Why, [Keri], are you here?"

I felt the truth curling in my tongue and was helpless to hold it back. "To meet the expectation of the tradition it has become. It is expected that I would take part, so I'm taking part. Because [teacher] had mentioned it was part of [their] yearly rituals, so I adopted it as well." I felt one more wormy truth contort in my mouth. I tried to chomp it into silence, but it slipped out just the same. "Because I want to feel like I'm part of something. Because... I want to feel."

Something cold and sharp grazed across my cheek and I realized he had wiped away an escaped tear with his thumb. "You want to feel. You live and breathe, is that not feeling enough?"

I thought of how empty I felt. How close to ending it I have been for the past several months. How disconnected from life I have been for months, if not years. I live and breathe, yes, and it hurts so much to do so that I can't feel anything else anymore. I thought of many possible answers to his rhetorical question, but in the end, said nothing. Instead, I only surrendered to his grip and continued silently crying.

"You, dear [Keri], in the language of your understanding, are going through it. Perhaps I was mistaken to make a bargain with you. Perhaps you are not capable after all of leaving the grave I found you in."

"... dragged me through." I don't know where my voice came from. The correcting rebuttal sounded so far away from this place.

"Pardon?" He sounded amused and that terrified me to the core of my being.

My sight failed me entirely, but in return, my voice gained strength. "... You didn't find me in any grave, not most of me, anyway. Some pieces had been buried, but you used what was free to trawl through the graves to find the pieces that had been buried." The memories of our encounters before I made my bargain with him ignited some withdrawn part of me that I had forgotten about. My free hand twitched.

"Oh. So I had. How careless of me to discard you as you have been discarding yourself. Since it seems that you will be engaging with the night's tradition after all, tell me, you this bird that I have captive in my hands, why are you here?"

This time, I had an answer. "To renew the bargain."

His face brushed against mine as he leaned in to take in my scent. "If I consent, I will break you."

"As if I'm not already broken. You have to hold me with both hands as it is, lest any piece fall away tonight."

"If I consent, I will stain you. No church will ever take you again."

"As if I was ever part of any church. As if they did not treat me as an unclean garment, ripped and ready for the fire. As if they did not make my presence the catalyst and excuse for all their sins."

To say that his body covered mine would be a malicious and deliberate error. He has no body. There is nothing physical about him. No, his presence covered me from head to toe, soaking between folds of flesh and seeping along every hair on my form.

"Let me be your Black Man. Let me be your Devil. Let me be your Escort and your Teacher." The words were whispered over every inch of my being.

"And in return, if I yield to you, what will you yield to me?"

He murmured a chuckle that tightened as a threatening vibration around me. "If you yield to me, I will yield to you [certain promises], and the symbols of my promise will be [these specific things]. Do you accept?"

I could see nothing. I could feel nothing. I had no idea if I was still holding the glass, if my body was still seated in the chair, if I was still breathing. All I knew was I had the ability to refuse, to say 'no'.

"Yes."

The glass was suddenly at my lips, but instead of the remaining third of the absinthe I had expected, it was now filled to the brim with a cold and ink-black fluid. "Then, drink what I offer to you, and consummate what you have begun."

There was no scent of anise nor fennel in the glass. The temperature was colder than any ice my freezer could create. I knew that despite his words, this was my last chance to turn away. But in the clarity of the moment, I knew what that would do to my psyche. To refuse would be to die. To accept would be to take the chance to live.

I downed the glass in one gulp, but as I tilted my head back to empty it, my thoughts emptied instead and I fell backwards into a waiting pool of nothingness.

~~~

A series of beeps was increasingly getting on my nerves as the series gradually increased in volume. I turned over in my bed to slap at my phone hoping that I remembered the gesture to turn off the alarm. I did. I burrowed my face in the pillow cursing the sharp light from the phone screen that dared to remind me that I was alive.

... that I am alive.

I jerked my head up. I'm in my bed. The phone alarm is snoozed for another eight minutes. It's early morning on May 1st. I have to get up and get ready for work. My head is pounding. My mouth is dry. It feels like I have been chewing on sticks and bitter leaves all night.

I look over at the chair. An empty stemless martini glass is sitting on the desk next to it. It is covered and I cannot see the contents from where I am. I get up and see I'm in my pajamas. The room is as expected for any night with the exception of the glass.

I start to reach for the glass cover when the snoozed alarm announced its frustration with me. I jump in surprise, turn off the alarm, and snatch the cover off of the glass before I lose my nerve.

It's empty and dry. There was a drop of some last bit of drink, but it had long evaporated leaving only enough of a ring to show that it needed to be washed.

I sat down in the chair and tried to remember what happened.

All I could remember was fennel and shadows.

"Adiutor."

"Master." Her voice slipped gently into my mind, dodging the unacknowledged hangover easily.

"What do I need to know about last night?"

"When the time comes, you will remember it in full, Master."

"Adiutor, how will I know when the time comes?"

"You will know because you will be able to face the consequences of your actions without fear, Master."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh. Well. Shit. This might take a while."

"Agreed, Master."

I looked at her coffin with a sour look but she gave no reply in word nor emotion. I looked back at the glass and tried to summon any memory of it from the night before. I remembered getting the ice and the shot glass. I remembered breaking the seal on the new bottle of absinthe. I remembered sitting down at the desk with the covered glass and settling in for a wait. I remembered nothing else.

Twelve hours had been removed from my memory and all I had to show for it is a soiled martini glass.

"Okay. Whatever happens, happens, I guess. Let's go."

~~~

In the following seven weeks, I face the other consequences of my other actions. I am reminded of who I am, who Weaver is, what I am, and what I am seeking to be. I am forced to see clearly how I have been harming myself all these years in the name of "safety", and that for people like me, there is no safe harbor. There is no "home" to take shelter in. There are only bargains that have to be renewed, terms to be negotiated.

I see myself clearly, accept the consequences of my actions, and begin to make plans to help myself recover even though those plans scare the shit out of me.

I have been living my life in fear for so long, that I learned to mistake bravery as foolishness and took comfort in the weight of chains.

And with that realization, I remembered.

And with that memory, came permission to write.

And so, it has been written.

Make of that, what you may.

[starlessskies94]

Consequence (Joel Miller x OC)

Summary: What if Joel survived his injuries from the Abby and Fireflies attack but ends up with really bad amnesia. He can’t remember his wife, Ellie, or the Outbreak; only before. How will his family bring back the man they once knew?

Pairing: JoelMiller x OC

Note: We're back with Ada and Tommy for this chapter and I've got to say; I like the way they work together and their sibling bond as bro and sis in laws. I have a headcanon that Tommy always wanted a sister when he was little; so now you got one my guy! Hope you enjoy!!

Chapter Twenty Four

Though it took a while to find their way in. Eventually Ada and Tommy found themselves stuck in the darkness with only their flashlights to light the way. It seemed the plan to wait until nightfall had worked. The horde had eventually moved on in search of easier prey. Chasing off after wildlife that had also come out at night to hunt for its next meal. 

To say the abandoned quarantine zone was rather unsettling at night was an understatement. With no streetlights along the roads or storefronts lit up with their open signs hung in the windows, it was like walking through a ghost town. Though with all the bodies of both the long deceased and put down infected littering the floor; it appeared to be an accurate likeness. The shadows seemed to move of their own accord, against the moonlight that hung clearly in the sky. The roads no longer looked like roads anymore, overgrown with an abundance of trees and vines twisting themselves around every building and sprouting from the cracks of the tarmac to the point; the surrounding area looked more jungle than town. Rain water and burst water pipes had run through streets working its way through the decaying structures; leaving nature to craft her own ponds and rivers, bringing with it a long dead old world that was now evolving into something new. The sound of the rushing water did nothing to calm the nerves, and Ada and Tommy were very much still on edge. 

They kept close, both very aware of the fact that neither had any bullets left to defend themselves with; instead taking with them more blunt objects of wood and a lead pipe found in a scramble as they’d made their way inside. It was better than nothing in their opinion.

They moved on, never uttering a word to the other until they came to an abandoned check-in point. Finding bodies of burned infected scattered by the front an old rusted gate. The bodies had long gone cold but as the two shared a look, they both knew it had to be the work of Ellie and Dina. 

They’ve been here. The thought crossed both their minds as they continued on further into the town. It brought with it a sense of relief for Ada. That heaviness in her stomach dissipating even just a little bit, knowing that the girls had made it past the horde and hopefully somewhere safe for the night. She fell back into a steady pace beside Tommy as they walked, hands gripped on both their weapons ready at an instant to strike at any moment. Boots scrapped against the hardened ground, kicking the gravel of loose concrete and crunching dry grass that poked through, in its struggle hide the ugliness of old forgotten roads. 

Breaths echoed in the air that seemed to thicken with tension. Waiting for a screech, a cry or a gut wrenching roar of the infected… But it never came. Silence was all that greeted them. Endless and foreboding. Ada moved to follow her brother in law as he darted down an alleyway, both instinctively keeping their backs against the wall as they moved. And then they heard it. 

A cough. A single cough. 

It stopped them both dead. The anticipation of the silence being shattered had caught them cold. They glanced at one another, Tommy raising his finger to his lips and Ada nodding in understanding as he gestured forward. They made their move, squatting slightly and keeping low as they rushed forward towards the sound. 

The man, around forty years of age, heavy set build and balding slightly, stood with his back to them smoking a cigarette. The two crept up behind, and before Ada could stop herself, stumbled against a shard of glass, smashed from an old car window. The man swiftly turned on his heel at the sound, eyes wide at seeing the two. 

“Oh fuck!” He hissed with hatred in his glare. His hands fumbling for the shotgun strapped to his back, as he moved to aim it at Ada, but Tommy was quicker. Swinging the lead pipe down upon the man's skull with a sickening crack as he fell to the ground. With failing strength the man pulled a blade from his belt; slashing it at Tommy’s middle, the younger Miller quickly sidestepped the attempt as he swung the pipe down over his head over and over. His breath heavy and ragged as he grunted and hissed with every ounce of strength he had in him. The man’s head beaten and crushed, until all that remained was a bloody mess, the splatter marking Tommy’s face as the adrenaline drained from his body in an instant. Letting the bloodied pipe slip from his fingers as he took a step back, he gasped a breath as his chest heaved and burned. 

Ada stood a little shaken for a moment though it quickly passed, as she looked at Tommy. 

“You okay?” She breathed. He nodded weakly. “Yeah. I’m good.” He sighed deeply, leaning over to retrieve his fallen weapon. “Better than him anyway.” He joked darkly with a snicker. Ada couldn't help the breathy laugh that quirked at her lips and exhaled through her nose. She turned to make her way back towards the alley when the sound of his voice called her back. 

“Hey Ada… Check this out.” Tommy hollered after strapping his weapon back onto his backpack, he’d leaned down to check over the dead man’s pockets. But it was the patch worn on his bulletproof vest that had caught his eye. He’d pulled it off the man’s shoulder and threw it to her. She caught it effortlessly, her green eyes narrowing in confusion as she read the letters and stared at the etching of a wolf. 

“WLF? The hell does that stand for??” She wondered. Tommy shrugged.  “No idea, but this bastard must of been pretty fuckin’ important to be this heavily armed.” He said, as he checked over the man’s holsters on his belt. Four pistols, two on each side. A shotgun and sniper rifle strapped to his back too. Wherever the man had come from, he’d obviously been planning to run into a fight. Tommy didn’t waste any time in checking the pistols were loaded before handing two to Ada and taking the other two for himself. 

“Military maybe?” Tommy shrugged again, rising to his feet. Holstering one gun and tucking the other down the waist of his jeans. “If he is; he’s not like any Military person I've ever seen before.” 

“What if he’s ex-Fedra?”

“Whaddya mean??” 

“I mean, every other zone seems to have ended the same as this one… with the residents fighting back against Fedra. What if some of them managed to get away and regrouped to form their own militia?” 

The man pondered it over for a moment; his brows creasing in thought before shrugging once again. “I mean it makes sense. Taking back the town they used to control with the government. I imagine when most of the QZ’s fell, the government high tailed outta the place without a second thought.” Ada nodded in agreement. “Which means there’s more of these bastards around and we need to be careful.” She said, “I just hope the girls haven’t run into em’ yet.” 

With that the two checked themselves over before moving on further down the road. Relieving the dead man of the rest of his weapons, Tommy taking the sniper while Ada had the shotgun. They strode down the street with purpose in their stride before Tommy faltered slightly as he paused in his tracks. 

“Hold on…” He paused. 

“What?”

“If we’re right and there are more of them; then that means they’ll have a base somewhere right? And a base means supplies…” he started, staring at his sister in law with a pointed look. 

“And supplies means…” he trailed off expectantly waiting for her to catch on.  

“Guns. Ammo... I’m with you. But how do we find it?” She finished, crossing her arms over her chest, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. They were both on the same page now. He took a second to survey the area turning on his heel to face her again. His head tilted upwards as she followed his line of sight along the extension of his arm pointing to a building in the distance. 

“We get to higher ground. Get a good lay of the land and we should be able to scope it out with any luck. At least now we’re armed again, we're not running around blind.  But these won’t last long. Especially if we run into any more infected.”  

“Right so… apartment building?”

“Apartment building.” He curtly nodded in agreement as they took off together. 

When they reached the building, dawn was fast approaching. The morning light bursting through the softly painted clouds with warm rays of a red and yellow shade. And though the dawn could be mistaken as perfectly picturesque; both were on full alert. There were fresh footprints along the dusty floor tiles. They made their way through the floors of the apartments cautiously; reaching the top level to find it empty. Though with air clearly disturbed and the couch noticeably slept on. There were empty cans left upon the coffee table and discarded packets of old beef jerky left on the floor. It was evident that someone had been staying in this apartment, though whoever it was had undoubtedly moved on now. 

Ada silently followed Tommy as they made their way to the fire escape that led out onto the roof. Once at the top they took in the view before them. The town was bigger than they’d anticipated. Much bigger. The unmistakable walls of the quarantine were bordering most of it. Holding the crumbling and decaying buildings like caged animals. Though in the distance it was easy to make out a hole in the structure. Most likely blown apart by explosives during the uprising against Fedra. Ada took in the view, her tired eyes scanning every road and alleyway. Every building window and doorway she could make out, knowing Ellie and Dina were out there; below them. Somewhere. Her stomach twisted at the thought, the more it ran through her mind. 

Please be okay. Please be okay.  It repeated on a loop through her head like her very own mantra in a poor attempt to focus on the task at hand. It didn’t work. 

“There.” Tommy announced pulling her from the cacophony of her brain. She looked to where he was pointing. Noticing a banner hanging from a balcony; the same initials and etching marking the sign. 

WLF, the wolf. 

“Hospital. Pretty on the nose don’t you think?” she said sarcastically. Her brother in law chuckled lowly at her words. “Well you know as well as I do Ada, supplies are hard to come by. And where is likely to have the most supplies? A hospital. Shall we?” 

“By all means, age before beauty.” She smirked. The blonde rolled his eyes dramatically as he picked up a plank of wood and laid it across towards the roof on the other side. “Cute…but I’m pretty sure we’re the same age.” he pointed out with a childish huff. 

She scoffed at his sulking. “I stand by what I said, get moving Miller.” 

Tommy paused, his brows rising slightly as he grinned at her words. “Again…you’re also a Miller because you marrie- you know what, never mind.” He dismissed in jest as he took a tentative step forward onto the wood. Ada watched with bated breath as he made his way across, the wood strained and creaked against Tommy’s weight. Dipping lowly in the middle as he shuffled himself over. His heart raced as he heard the wood crack and splinter under his feet. 

“Tommy!” Ada cried. It happened all too fast for him to register. His feet moved of their own accord, twisting and running as the plank snapped and crumbled beneath him. He propelled himself forward, as he felt his body hit solid ground with a heavy and painful thud. He’d grazed his forearms as he held him out instinctively to catch himself. His knees burned from the impact as well as he groaned in pain. Pulling himself to sit up, he twisted to see the damage he’d left in his wake. The plank of wood was gone. He, on one side of the large gap between the buildings and Ada on the other. 

“Shit! Fuck!” he hissed as he dragged himself to his feet. He looked at the gap between them, then down at the ground below. It was a long way down. “Can you jump it?” He asked, already knowing the answer as Ada’s nostrils flared at the absurdity of the question. 

“Of course I can’t fucking jump it, Tommy! Don’t be ridiculous!” He sighed in defeat, cradling the worse of his injured forearms against his chest, turning on his heel and looking out to formulate a plan. “Okay…Alright…You see that radio tower, a few miles east of the hospital. Meet me there, from the looks of it; you should be able to get to it by crossing that river down there. I’ll make my way back down when I can and meet you there before we head out for the hospital.” 

He turned back as the wind picked up, whipping around him. Swaying his tired frame against the heavy gales. Fluttering through his tied hair and pulling at his jacket. Ada took a moment to think through Tommy’s plan as she stared out to the path below. 

“That okay with you?” He prompted when she still didn't answer. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess it’ll have to be.” She called back. “If neither of us makes it by tomorrow morning, then we both assume something is wrong?” He nodded, turning back to take one last look at the hospital in the distance. “I’ll see you soon then. Be safe.” He said. Ada sent back a firm nod as she began making her way to the fire escape to climb back down. 

“You too.” 

And with that, the two parted ways. 

[lesewut]

A beautifully half-leather bound book by the lawyer August Nicolas of the royal court in Bordeaux "Philosophical Studies about Christianity". Translated from French in the seventh edition in 1857 by Silvester Hester originally "Etudes philosophiques sur le Christianisme" (Paris, 1841–45), which reached a twenty-sixth edition before the death of the author.

Eventhough considered as obsolescent, it is exciting to read an Anti-Voltaireian clinging on a philosophical apology for the chief Christian dogmas. History of law and the legitimation of rules through legality, are very interesting aspects to understand the development of our known judicial system and how society had to accept terms and condition, that are self-evident for our own kind. Justification (of believe) and the exegesis are taking huge parts of the understandment. The teaching of pisteís, the instruments of persuasion, is an important tool to strenghten the basis of argumentation. It should not be sophistically perverted as another form of dialectical rhetoric, but as a possibility to be more capable for theories, that have a need for explanation. Just as anarchistic souls (talking about my humble self, as I had to learn to domesticate reason..) can not understand the high demand of organizational and systematical regulation. That law is not just a collection of forbiddings, but also the keeper of commandments, forming the statutory framework.

Persuasion with the power of dogma. Penetrate those supreme words and bring them up, where they will be solemnly pronounced as a law.

Science, sharpens the ancient weapons of truth, seeming miraculous for the keener and to the untrained. Just as Aristotle put the beautiful and the wondrous at the beginning of philosophical considerations.

In the want to grasp the beauty, to understand it and by looking at it, we become more and more beautiful ourselves. Every new insight will seem like a miracle, like magic, to the ignorant.

And at the beginning the seeker himself awas also one of those, who allowed himself to be amazed and how should one not, among all the manifold phenomena?

How can the individual arm himself and sharpen this sentiment, so that we are no longer weakened by illusions that bear the face of truth but are seductive, because they are so much more beautiful and dazzling?

Developing from myth to logos, from the dominance of the body to the interrelationship of mind and heart, the deep content of the teaching will increase people's intimate relationships as they begin again to shed the inherent vanity.

There will only be mysteries that are part of the dark metaphysics, like definitions that we adorn but cannot further articulate without leaving the determined human mind. People are guided by the intelligence that lives in them and they will naturally notice that what is most beautiful is also what is good and that recognition will be the great law of our togetherness.

Our feelings will no longer boil us and make us dance in pots of oil. The general consciousness and the moral feeling will play an important role in our organism.

Like the Astronomon, we will use our senses to comprehend our surroundings, but we will look from within. We will anticipate the conclusion, but the notes will come from thinking and connecting. Our senses will be our tools and we will treat them well and sharpen them, but not to turn them into dangerous weapons that supposedly let us see more than is.

It will be the glow of your inner eyes.

Just as every feeling involves a thought implicite and every thought a feeling explicite, we will accept the foreboding as master over us to the extent that we have already got to know it:

As the voice of our conscience.

Feeling always precedes thinking, but it must be shadowed so that we as humans can grasp the contours and optimize ourselves. It will not be possible to reconcile the rules of the heart with the rules of the mind.

We should allow both their autonomy, as they have their own order and procedures. Perhaps we can use reason to explain reason, but how can we use the heart to explain love?

The love that begins as a seedling, germinates and grows and sometimes we are surprised to discover, this jungle within us, so should this not be considered as a sign of its naturalness? For her purity?

When it suddenly burns like a sea of ​​fire and consumes us, often becoming wider and deeper without our direct influence, without our doing, do we still wonder about ourselves?

Or is love given to us?

Love exhausts itself, to fathom and understand it is the reason for madness. Denying the inner love is the first step into the insatiable heat of hell. Not being able to fulfill and live the felt love is the great test that causes us to love more and more instead of suppressing this up-lifting feeling, because at first this thought seems more pleasant to us than bearing the pain.

The shame because the one has lost oneself in this jungle, loves to lie in the shade and hear the splashing. The air will be retracted in the lungs like this soulscape is worth too much more than real life and maybe this invisible not materialistic area is much more precious.

Perhaps love, the foreboding of paradise and its downside, the bare nerves and the trembling heart, is the weakness that overwhelms the unruly, clothing him in his own hell...

Now we have this regularity of appearances, the all-encompassing love, the self-creating nature, the coming into being and passing, is this life a cycle?

Doesn't the end eat up the beginning or vice versa?

Isn't dying just a change of being?

What inner realization did quantum physicists had to develop that at the end of their days, they apparently and suddenly believed in a supernatural power? Thinking of Heisenberg and Mach... Were they overwhelmed by what they have discovered and could not discover? From the vastness of space? And can we speak of a space if one must assume that a space also had to “be in” something?

And the soul, whose origin one could most likely assume to be in the cosmos. Does the cosmic soul give us ideas of infinity, freedom and love? If she were untalented, wouldn't we be the prey of nothingness?

Wouldn't the body then outlive the soul? Can the power that gives us the life, also have the will to take it away from us?

How much will can be in the battered man if, against the natural law of preservation, he chooses death?

Is this autonomy, like the ancient Greeks? To decide for oneself when and how one dies, isn't this a high form of man who can deny himself and die because he wants to?

Here the thought of Auguste Nicolas inspired me, namely:

“As the will-power required by suicide has its source in a being which would be annihilated by that very power; in a word, how could the power of the soul destroy the soul itself?”

The will kills the body, but who kills the will?

La Fontaine “Les deux rats, le renard et l’oeuf”