#Distant Object method

[rajansmoorthy]

Experiment: Determination of Focal Length of a) Convex Lens b) Concave Mirror by Obtaining the Image of a Distant Object

Focal length of a convex lens & Concave Mirror: a). Focal length of a convex lens: Objective: To determine the focal length of a convex lens using a distant object (like a sun, tree or tall faraway building). Principle: A convex lens converges parallel rays of light (from a distant object) to a point called principal focus (F). The distance between the optic centre (O) of the lens and the…

[sugarplumfairy777]

𓊆ྀིWHIPLASH METHOD:𓊇ྀི

⏝ ͝ㅤㅤᛝㅤㅤ ◟🎀 okay so if you know or don’t know aespa, they have a song called whiplash. in the song there’s a part that goes like “Just close your eyes, breathe in and visualize” and I thought “woah that sounds like a cool way to induce pure consciousness” so anyways I came up with a “method” to induce the void state in a fun way inspired by the song! (and note: you don’t have to follow it verbatim whatever resonates with you is just as fine!) now anyways enough of me yapping here’s the method! buuuut before any of that we must remember a few things:

your god, you are the one who creates everything in your reality. you are the most powerful form in the universe—you are the universe basically. nothing can ever change the fact that you are god. everything is within you. do not focus on the 3D that is your old story=old thoughts & assumptions. you are I AM/VOID/PURE CONSCIOUSNESS, and this state is so easy to induce because you are already in it. there’s nothing to enter, and finally you are limitless.

𝜗℘ step I | close your eyes and drift off: softly close your eyes and drift off into a state of peace, do not force anything simply be. imagine yourself laying on a soft cloud; focus on the darkness behind your eyes.

𝜗℘ step II | take a deep and gentle breath; breath in like you’re taking in the scent of something sweet and familiar. as the air fills your lungs, feel it bring warmth and comfort, wrapping around your body like a soft, invisible hug. hold it for a moment, then exhale slowly, releasing any tension, any tiny worries, as if you’re letting go of everything that’s been weighing on you. each breath pulls you deeper into this quiet, safe space, where nothing else matters.

𝜗℘ step III | visualize; visualize yourself somewhere soft and warm. anywhere; if you don’t want to do that you can visualize any object or thing or person or place you want to!

𝜗℘ step IV | whilst doing all of the following, with each breath you take imagine your self slowly sinking into the thing your visualizing and beyond whatever it is that your visualizing it’s just darkness; with each deep breath your getting pulled closer and closer. now finally after one-six deep breaths sink fully into the state of pure consciousness. after this you’ve induced the void state!

꒰ঌ🎀໒꒱ a little reminder since, no offense, some of you are dense: you are limitless. this state? it’s not just some distant thing you have to reach for. it’s already yours, i mean it is YOU. you’re so powerful that tapping into the void is like flipping a switch. no hesitation, no struggle. everything you desire, everything you dream of, is already within you. you just breathe and step into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world because it is. nothing is hard for you. you are that girl, and the universe bends for you, flowing with your energy effortlessly. your dreams, your goals, your peace; it’s all just waiting for you to claim it. you don’t even have to chase anything, you are so powerful that everything falls into place the moment you decide it will. the void is your space, and you glide through it with the grace of someone who knows that everything is already hers. failing at this state is impossible.

remember, you’re not here to struggle and your not here to waver, the more you realize how easy this is, the more unstoppable you become. you are limitless and you are literally god. ♡ ♡ ♡

어디서나 거침없어 I'm the coldest 오직 나만이 이 판을 바꿀 changer 🖤🎀

[nasa]

A simulated image of NASA’s Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope’s future observations toward the center of our galaxy, spanning less than 1 percent of the total area of Roman’s Galactic Bulge Time-Domain Survey. The simulated stars were drawn from the Besançon Galactic Model.

Exploring the Changing Universe with the Roman Space Telescope

The view from your backyard might paint the universe as an unchanging realm, where only twinkling stars and nearby objects, like satellites and meteors, stray from the apparent constancy. But stargazing through NASA’s upcoming Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope will offer a front row seat to a dazzling display of cosmic fireworks sparkling across the sky.

Roman will view extremely faint infrared light, which has longer wavelengths than our eyes can see. Two of the mission’s core observing programs will monitor specific patches of the sky. Stitching the results together like stop-motion animation will create movies that reveal changing objects and fleeting events that would otherwise be hidden from our view.

Watch this video to learn about time-domain astronomy and how time will be a key element in NASA’s Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope’s galactic bulge survey. Credit: NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center

This type of science, called time-domain astronomy, is difficult for telescopes that have smaller views of space. Roman’s large field of view will help us see huge swaths of the universe. Instead of always looking at specific things and events astronomers have already identified, Roman will be able to repeatedly observe large areas of the sky to catch phenomena scientists can't predict. Then astronomers can find things no one knew were there!

One of Roman’s main surveys, the Galactic Bulge Time-Domain Survey, will monitor hundreds of millions of stars toward the center of our Milky Way galaxy. Astronomers will see many of the stars appear to flash or flicker over time.

This animation illustrates the concept of gravitational microlensing. When one star in the sky appears to pass nearly in front of another, the light rays of the background source star are bent due to the warped space-time around the foreground star. The closer star is then a virtual magnifying glass, amplifying the brightness of the background source star, so we refer to the foreground star as the lens star. If the lens star harbors a planetary system, then those planets can also act as lenses, each one producing a short change in the brightness of the source. Thus, we discover the presence of each exoplanet, and measure its mass and how far it is from its star. Credit: NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center Conceptual Image Lab 

That can happen when something like a star or planet moves in front of a background star from our point of view. Because anything with mass warps the fabric of space-time, light from the distant star bends around the nearer object as it passes by. That makes the nearer object act as a natural magnifying glass, creating a temporary spike in the brightness of the background star’s light. That signal lets astronomers know there’s an intervening object, even if they can’t see it directly.

This artist’s concept shows the region of the Milky Way NASA’s Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope’s Galactic Bulge Time-Domain Survey will cover – relatively uncharted territory when it comes to planet-finding. That’s important because the way planets form and evolve may be different depending on where in the galaxy they’re located. Our solar system is situated near the outskirts of the Milky Way, about halfway out on one of the galaxy’s spiral arms. A recent Kepler Space Telescope study showed that stars on the fringes of the Milky Way possess fewer of the most common planet types that have been detected so far. Roman will search in the opposite direction, toward the center of the galaxy, and could find differences in that galactic neighborhood, too.

Using this method, called microlensing, Roman will likely set a new record for the farthest-known exoplanet. That would offer a glimpse of a different galactic neighborhood that could be home to worlds quite unlike the more than 5,500 that are currently known. Roman’s microlensing observations will also find starless planets, black holes, neutron stars, and more!

This animation shows a planet crossing in front of, or transiting, its host star and the corresponding light curve astronomers would see. Using this technique, scientists anticipate NASA’s Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope could find 100,000 new worlds. Credit: NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center/Chris Smith (USRA/GESTAR)

Stars Roman sees may also appear to flicker when a planet crosses in front of, or transits, its host star as it orbits. Roman could find 100,000 planets this way! Small icy objects that haunt the outskirts of our own solar system, known as Kuiper belt objects, may occasionally pass in front of faraway stars Roman sees, too. Astronomers will be able to see how much water the Kuiper belt objects have because the ice absorbs specific wavelengths of infrared light, providing a “fingerprint” of its presence. This will give us a window into our solar system’s early days.

This animation visualizes a type Ia supernova.

Roman’s High Latitude Time-Domain Survey will look beyond our galaxy to hunt for type Ia supernovas. These exploding stars originate from some binary star systems that contain at least one white dwarf – the small, hot core remnant of a Sun-like star. In some cases, the dwarf may siphon material from its companion. This triggers a runaway reaction that ultimately detonates the thief once it reaches a specific point where it has gained so much mass that it becomes unstable.

NASA’s upcoming Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope will see thousands of exploding stars called supernovae across vast stretches of time and space. Using these observations, astronomers aim to shine a light on several cosmic mysteries, providing a window onto the universe’s distant past. Credit: NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center

Since these rare explosions each peak at a similar, known intrinsic brightness, astronomers can use them to determine how far away they are by simply measuring how bright they appear. Astronomers will use Roman to study the light of these supernovas to find out how quickly they appear to be moving away from us.

By comparing how fast they’re receding at different distances, scientists can trace cosmic expansion over time. This will help us understand whether and how dark energy – the unexplained pressure thought to speed up the universe’s expansion – has changed throughout the history of the universe.

NASA’s Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope will survey the same areas of the sky every few days. Researchers will mine this data to identify kilonovas – explosions that happen when two neutron stars or a neutron star and a black hole collide and merge. When these collisions happen, a fraction of the resulting debris is ejected as jets, which move near the speed of light. The remaining debris produces hot, glowing, neutron-rich clouds that forge heavy elements, like gold and platinum. Roman’s extensive data will help astronomers better identify how often these events occur, how much energy they give off, and how near or far they are.

And since this survey will repeatedly observe the same large vista of space, scientists will also see sporadic events like neutron stars colliding and stars being swept into black holes. Roman could even find new types of objects and events that astronomers have never seen before!

Learn more about the exciting science Roman will investigate on X and Facebook.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[ddarker-dreams]

What Remains Unspoken.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan Feitan

Warnings: Yandere themes & unhealthy relationships. Word count: 2.2k.

If there’s anywhere Feitan looks out of his element, it’s in the sun. 

The celestial object serves as his antitheses — warm, bright, and inviting. Given his pallid countenance, he must agree. On the rare occasions you can go outside, he keeps to the shadows, whose darkness could never match the depravity festering inside his rotten soul. You believe night itself would flee from him if it knew a fraction of his crimes. 

When you first saw him enter direct sunlight, a certain superstition overtook you, triumphing over reason. You observed with tentative expectation, waiting for something to happen, whatever that something may be. For his skin to break out into blisters, flesh to sizzle, and howls of agony to dominate the air as he disintegrated into a pile of ash; in short, a demise befitting a monster like himself. Regrettably, this didn’t happen. Disappointment weighed heavy on your chest when he went on his merry way. 

Presently, he stands hidden amidst a cluster of trees, acting every bit the fairytale ghoul your overactive imagination wished him to be. Through the branches' interstices, light speckles his dark outerwear. It’s a hot, balmy day, though evening’s arrival soothes the worst of the heat. 

Unlike him, you’re dressed for the weather. This morning, upon leaving your shower, you found the comfortable clothes you picked out beforehand ‘mysteriously’ replaced. A short, light blue dress featuring a sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps laid there instead. That wasn’t all. Jewelry, heels, and other various accessories were tossed haphazardly alongside it, like you’d been undecided on what to wear before a first date. Except you hadn’t been the one to get everything out. Feitan was. Prior to that, he never took any interest in what you wore. 

No, that attribute belongs to another, whose memory fills you with sickening dread. 

You sit at a wooden picnic table, examining the park’s abundant foliage. There’s little else for you to do. Feitan’s yet to give any indication as to why you’re here. Typically, his modus operandi consists of stashing you far away from the public’s purview. From time to time, you’ll travel elsewhere, always using methods that limit your potential interactions with others. This part of the park may be less populated, but hikers and families can still stroll by. You take care not to draw attention to yourself when they do. 

Sighing, you stand, fully aware of the eyes monitoring you in the distance. Unsure of what else to do, you approach the last place you spotted Feitan. He says nothing as you approach. You hug yourself, almost regretting your decision to seek him out. By giving you no parameters to work with, you’re left constantly second-guessing yourself, fearing that you’ve broken some unspoken rule. Standing by his side feels like a safer bet than risking a stranger coming over to strike up a conversation. 

“Bored?” Feitan asks. 

You freeze, thinking over your next words with care. If he believes this little outing is a ‘privilege’, you doubt he’d appreciate you maligning it. Then again, he’s suggested creative punishments for your tongue whenever it’s formed a lie. Considering this, you decide it’s best to redirect the conversation. 

“I’m just wondering if there’s anything I should be doing,” you say. When he raises a thin eyebrow, you hastily add, “Sorry, I mean—” 

He flicks your forehead, silencing you. 

“So nervous,” he croons. “Like little rabbit.” 

Irritation bubbles up inside your chest, like a geyser ready to erupt. You want to scoff, asking why he thinks that is, but the provocation goes unchallenged. He isn’t wrong, per se. Every snap of a twig or distant conversation the wind carries instills unease. Endless grisly possibilities swarm your mind. All it could take is a greeting, wave, hell, even a look for Feitan to decide that person’s committed the ultimate transgression. 

Suddenly, this preoccupation flees your mind.

Shivers erupt all over your body. Your breathing halts, as do all other forms of movement. The five senses that categorize and make sense of the world recede, like the shoreline moments before a tsunami. What remains eclipses common sense. It’s this unprovable premonition, a whisper amidst the universe’s chaotic chorus few can ever hear. No tangible stimuli support this phenomenon. You’d believe yourself temporarily mad, if not for one damning detail. 

You’ve felt this before. 

The time you’d been found after your first (and only) escape. 

After a well-meaning Hunter pried you from the shackles of captivity, for less than a minute. 

Then, at the height of your hubris, when you yelled that your first love would be your last. 

The intensity honed to a fine point. It pierced through you like a gunshot, so visceral that you’d check yourself for signs of the wound. You never found anything. You think it was how your brain wanted to make sense of the unknown, mistaking the force of concentrated emotion for a flesh wound. This extremity wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t malevolent either; it was oppressive. Heavy, carnal. A starved beast prowling toward cornered prey. 

When you’d been subjected to this, the subjugator always spoke some variation of— 

“—Apologies. My control waned there, for a moment… but can you blame me?” 

Someone’s touching you. Someone’s cupping your face in their hands, devouring each detail of your being, and Feitan’s letting them. You stumble back, only to be caught. The hands holding you in place are larger than Feitan’s. Warmer too, a little less calloused, though no less stained in oceans of blood. If Feitan’s eyes are knife-like, trying to stab through your skull for any hint at your inner thoughts, then these eyes are calm. Calculating in a way that makes you feel small. 

“You’re lovelier than I remember,” the man murmurs. A breeze passes through, displacing your hair, which he tucks back into place. His lips twitch upward, indicating amusement. “What? Did you believe you’d ridden yourself of me?” 

Despite your reverie, you shake your head. The man before you — Chrollo Lucilfer — smiles. It’s deceptively soft. Had you not known him better, you’d think the fondness he currently regards you with as warm; the gentle flames of a hearth. There are tells that reveal another story. His grip varies in strength as he’s reminded of how delicate you are, indicating a lack of his usual ‘mindfulness.’ You both know he’s putting on a front of normalcy, yet the charade is rarely this lackluster. He descended upon you faster than the human eye could comprehend. There’d been no casual stride, just an impulse to have you as immediately as physics would allow. His pupils are dilated and his cheeks slightly flushed, like you were a substance to get drunk off of. 

The embrace he pulls you into is tight enough to make you squeak. 

You expect him to rile you up, whispering teasing words into your ear, yet he’s silent. Unusually so. He buries his face into the crook of your exposed neck, breathing you in, holding you close. Any pretense of cordiality is dropped as he acts like the greedy man he truly is. This neediness is reminiscent of a child reunited with their lost, favorite toy. 

The unsettling intimacy doesn’t last for long. 

Chrollo releases you from his grasp. The relief is fleeting, as you’re acutely aware of Feitan’s presence. He’s stationed not far behind you, watching the scene in silence. The sadistic man’s capacity to share fully eluded your understanding. From what you can remember, Chrollo’s more willing to discuss their past, but solely on his terms. He’s never explained why Feitan is the way he is, or how he views you. 

“He’s fond of you, in his own way,” is the most you got out of Chrollo, during a late-night talk. “He’s just shy.” 

“It’s good to see you again, Fei,” Chrollo greets. 

Feitan nods — his way of returning the sentiment, you reckon. In Chrollo’s absence, you’ve learned to interpret his behavior to minimize friction. The deference he has for Chrollo is subtle yet undeniable. Others might misinterpret Feitan’s silence as indifference, but you know better. In Chrollo’s presence, he straightens his posture, giving him rapt attention. He follows any order given by his boss. 

Especially those regarding you. 

Ever since that fateful September, Feitan went from a background character in your life to the lead role. He didn’t reveal much, just that you wouldn’t see ‘the boss’ anytime soon, as he needed to ‘fix things.’ York New was a sore subject that you rarely broached. Nearly ten months have passed since you’ve last seen Chrollo. Physically, he’s the same. There are bandages wrapped around his forehead, covering his forehead tattoo. He’s wearing his teal earrings, dark jeans, and a gray v-neck. 

Seeing him now, it’s almost like nothing’s changed. 

Almost. 

“Lost in thought, love?” Chrollo wonders. 

Blinking rapidly, you realize they’re both staring at you, awaiting an answer. 

“You’re… you’re back,” is your genius observation.

“I am.” 

“You were… um… gone,” you fiddle with your fingers, “For a long time.” 

“I was,” he agrees with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You see dark circles forming beneath them. “This entire affair has proven itself tedious. No matter. In a few short days, it’ll all be over.” 

“There’s more to take care of?” 

He hums, the sound low and somehow eerie. “You could put it that way. Originally, I was going to wait until after I evened one last score to see you, but impatience got the best of me.” 

“Ah,” you shift your weight from foot to foot. “That explains it, then.” 

“Explains what, dear?” 

“You seem, I don’t know… off? Creepy to the second power? Cubed?” 

Chrollo gives you a blank stare. Feitan’s hissing something about how you ‘talk too much,’ his displeasure evident. It dawns on you then that you haven’t interacted with Chrollo in so long, it’s possible his tolerance for your nonsense isn’t what it once was. Especially considering the state he’s in now. Regret churns your insides as silence fills the air, thickening it like smoke. You think to apologize, only to recall their dislike for insincerity. Feitan never wanted apologies, whereas Chrollo accepted them if proven genuine through a rigorous process. 

You wince at the sound Chrollo muffles behind his hand. 

Then, much to your disbelief, it evolves into a chuckle. 

His shoulders tremble as his eyes turn crescent-shaped, gleaming with mirth. He shakes his head and clears his throat. After a few seconds, he regains control of himself, though his posture is less rigid. This visage aligns better with your memories of him. He liked pretending he was ordinary — almost as much as you liked pretending to believe him. 

Feitan clicks his tongue. “This girl… always says. Never thinks.” 

“You must admit, it’s a cute habit,” Chrollo says.

To this, Feitan mutters a phrase in his native language, turning his gaze away from you. 

You cross your arms over your chest. They both had an irritating tendency to talk about you like you weren’t present, a pet peeve you hadn’t had to deal with in a while. The candidness they displayed made you wonder what they spoke about when you weren’t around. A pandora’s box best left unopened, surely. 

Chrollo pries one of your hands free to hold in his own. “Words cannot convey how much I missed you."

He follows this admission up by kissing the back of your hand.

“... I can’t stick around much longer, I’m afraid,” he murmurs. “Bear with me a while longer.” 

Another chaste kiss. After allowing his lips to linger on your skin a while longer, he relinquishes his grip, tucking his hands into his pockets to deter him from further indulgence. 

Unexpectedly, it’s Feitan who shifts the topic. 

“Boss,” he speaks, now lurking by your side. “She watch the fight?” 

Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance between them, thrown off by the cryptic language. Truthfully, you don’t want to know about whatever it is Chrollo has to do. From what you can glean, it’s likely to involve people getting hurt or dying. You’ve learned the best way to keep your conscience clean is to remain ignorant. If you press on certain issues, Feitan will gleefully overshare gritty details you could’ve gone without. 

His response is swift and firm. “No, not this one.” 

“... That bad?” Feitan asks. When all Chrollo does is smile, he adds, “Heh. Poor clown.” 

Chrollo’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Upon reading the caller’s name, he steps away. “Keep an eye on her for me a while longer, Fei.” 

The aforementioned man grunts. 

Chrollo spares you a long, final look. 

His lips part, as if he intends to say something, before they shut. Inquisitive, you tilt your head, not used to him hesitating. He’s always projected this self-assured image — untouchable, near omnipotent. Flaws don’t suit him. There's this invisible screen that separates you from men like him and Feitan. Their access to abilities beyond comprehension elevates them, setting them apart.

You prefer it that way. Categorizing them as 'others' is easier than reconciling the fact their more human than infernal.

Eventually, he gives you an unusually reserved smile. 

"After everything's over, I'll find you."

[elationeffect]

Light Yagami NSFW headcanons

Here are some NSFW headcanons I have for these this dumbass. I’m back in business baby, please feel free to send an ask! Do not read/interact with this post unless you are over the age of 18.

cw: afab!reader, dubcon, oral, fingering, imbalanced power dynamics, edging, physical marks/restraint, rlly bad @ tagging but lmk if there is anything else i should include

— Light is manipulative and charming in that order. This is a fact. He is attentive when he presses your back to the wall, unyielding when he forces your hips closer to his, and seemingly desperate when he grabs your jaw and traces the line your neck with his gaze. More than the taking, it’s the withholding that hurts.

— He takes great care in memorizing every touch that elicits a breathlessness from you. His thumb in the hollow junction of your neck and shoulders, his lips against the butterfly-thin shell of your ear, his face between the soft curves of your thighs.

 — And when he has you at the edge of his bed with your legs thrown over his shoulders, and he genuflects to perhaps the only person worth worshiping, Light is methodical.

— His hands would move slowly up your leg, grabbing and massaging where he can before pulling your legs apart to reveal a dark spot clinging to the contour of your cunt. Devastatingly slow, he would run his fingers across your twitching form, making sure to rub slow circles along your slit until you’re shaking.

— And when you can’t bear it for one more second, one whimper away from anger, his mouth would be on you. Underwear pulled clinically to the side, he’d press his tongue into your folds and start his slow ministrations. He’d force you to watch as he circles the tip of his pink tongue around your clit, never quite giving you the satisfaction you deserve.

— Light likes to edge you, to see how long you can withstand him. He relishes in taking his time and forcing your hands above your head, made up in knots sometimes by his own weight, other times by his crimson tie.

— But after the kindness wears off and he immerses himself deeper into the game, his God-complex would start to get the better of him.

— One of his favorite ways of owning you is to take your jaw in his hands and face fuck you. Your whole body would be immobilized, forced to kneel in front of him as he shoves his thick cock into your mouth. He’d call you filthy for drooling and grab your hair by the roots to take him from the base. Of course you’d cry, tears converging with your spit, but the sound wouldn’t register as you gagged to the beat of his unrelenting pace.

— He’d take what he wants when he wants it. No God should have to wait after all and you hardly have the power to resist him. He threatened your loved ones after all.

— Despite his inherit need to hurt, Light doesn’t truly harm you. At least, not where anyone can see. Yes, his fingertips are a tattooed bruise on the inner parts of your thighs, and his teeth have left permanent scars on your ass, but he never gave you anything you couldn’t handle.

— Still, he’d tend to your wounds. He’d be distant and objective but at least he still cares. At least, until he returns to his desk and begins the work anew.

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |15|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Fifteen: Reel Around the Fountain

warnings: physical violence (choking), highly suggestive content (off-screen smut with a build up), psychological trauma and grief, references to pregnancy loss, manipulation, trauma, and references to death.

note(s): you're officially caught up with my wattpad and ao3.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

One week since your return, and the cabin still feels like hostile territory. Conversation dies when you enter a room. Glances follow your movements, some curious, some wary, some outright hostile. You've become accustomed to the weight of their judgment, have learned to move beneath it like carrying a physical burden.

Natalie is the worst, her anger manifesting in cutting remarks and pointed silences. This morning, as you reach for a cup by the makeshift stove, she deliberately moves it out of your grasp.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Did you want this? Weird, it's almost like objects just disappear sometimes without explanation. Must be confusing."

You say nothing, reaching for a different cup instead. Her metaphor isn't exactly subtle.

"Nothing to say?" Natalie presses, leaning against the counter. "No witty comeback? No explanation for why you let us think you were fucking dead for weeks?"

"Not this morning, Nat," you mutter, pouring yourself water from the pot.

"Not this morning, not yesterday, not the day before." She makes a show of checking an imaginary watch. "When exactly is a good time for you? Should I pencil something in for next month? Or are you planning another wilderness retreat before then?"

You take a deliberate sip of your water, using the moment to gather your patience. "I've already apologized."

"No," Natalie corrects, her voice harder now. "You said 'sorry' once when you first got back. That's not an apology, that's a fucking placeholder."

Before you can respond, Shauna enters the cabin, arms laden with freshly washed clothing. Her eyes flick between you and Natalie, assessing the tension with a single glance.

"Everything okay?" she asks, the question directed at neither of you specifically.

"Peachy," Natalie replies, pushing away from the counter. "Just catching up with our resident ghost. Did you know they can actually speak? Rarely, but she  can."

She brushes past Shauna on her way out, leaving you alone with the one person you've been most diligently avoiding.

The silence between you stretches uncomfortably as Shauna begins sorting the laundry, separating items into neat piles on one of the bunks. You watch her hands—steady, methodical, familiar in their movements. How many times had you seen those same hands sort through supplies, tend wounds, stroke hair away from your face when nightmares pulled you gasping from sleep?

The memory makes something twist in your chest, a sharp ache of longing for what's been lost. Before your departure, after Jackie's death, you and Shauna had become inseparable—grief and guilt binding you together in ways you couldn't articulate. Nights spent huddled for warmth that became something else, something deeper—her fingers tracing circles on your back as you finally surrendered to sleep, your arms around her when sobs would wrack her body in the dark hours before dawn.

Now, she won't even look at you directly.

"Need help?" you offer, gesturing to the clothing.

"I've got it," she replies, voice neutral but distant.

You nod, taking another sip of water to hide your disappointment. "Sure."

She continues working in silence, and you should leave—give her the space she clearly wants—but your feet remain rooted to the spot. There's something almost magnetic about her presence, drawing you in despite the clear boundaries she's established since your return.

"How are you feeling?" The question slips out before you can reconsider it.

Shauna's hands pause briefly over a shirt—Travis's, from the size of it—before resuming their task. "Fine."

"You look..." You hesitate, unsure how to complete the sentence without touching on subjects she's made clear are off-limits. Thinner. Sadder. Different. "...tired."

She glances up then, meeting your eyes for the first time in days. Something flashes across her face—anger? Pain? Longing? It's gone too quickly to identify.

"We're all tired," she says flatly. "It's kind of a prerequisite for being stranded in the wilderness."

The dismissal stings, but you push forward anyway. "Shauna, I—"

"Don't." She cuts you off, her voice suddenly sharp. "Whatever you're about to say, just... don't."

The cabin door opens before you can respond, saving you from whatever ill-advised words might have escaped. Lottie enters, her movements graceful despite the bulky winter clothing she wears. Her eyes find you immediately, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"There you are," she says, as if she's been searching for you specifically. "I was hoping you could help me gather some herbs today. I found a patch growing near the southern clearing, but it's too much for one person to carry."

You glance between Lottie and Shauna, caught in the sudden tension that seems to fill the small space. Shauna's expression has closed off completely, her focus returned to the laundry with almost aggressive intensity.

"Sure," you finally agree, seeing no graceful way to decline. "Just let me grab my jacket."

As you move to retrieve your things from your sleeping area, you catch the look that passes between the two women—Lottie's expression serene but somehow challenging, Shauna's a flash of something that might be irritation, might be jealousy. The exchange lasts only a second, but it settles like a weight in your stomach, a complication you're not equipped to navigate.

Outside, the air is sharp with cold, the sky a brilliant, merciless blue above the skeletal trees. Lottie leads the way into the forest, her steps confident despite the unmarked path. You follow silently, grateful for the physical activity, the chance to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cabin.

"She doesn't like when I talk to you," Lottie says suddenly, without turning around.

The observation catches you off guard. "Who?"

Lottie glances over her shoulder, her smile knowing. "Shauna."

You focus on the uneven ground, careful not to slip on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Lottie slows her pace until you're walking beside her. "She watches you when you're not looking. Gets tense whenever I'm near you. It was the same with Jackie."

The casual mention of Jackie's name makes your breath catch. "Don't."

"Don't what? Speak the truth?" Lottie's voice is gentle, almost sympathetic. "Jackie knew it too. Why do you think she was so angry that night? The night she..."

"I said don't," you snap, harsher than intended.

Lottie falls silent, but there's no offense in her expression, only that same eerie patience she's displayed since the crash, as if she's operating on a different timeline than the rest of you, privy to outcomes you can't yet see.

You walk in silence for several minutes, following a path that seems to exist only in Lottie's mind. The forest around you is hushed, dormant, waiting for a spring that feels impossibly distant.

"Here," Lottie finally says, stopping at the edge of a small clearing. She points to a cluster of plants growing improbably through the snow, their leaves dark green against the white backdrop. "Winter herbs. They have properties that help with... dreams."

You kneel beside the plants, recognizing them from Lottie's previous foraging expeditions. "Bad dreams?"

"Dreams can't be categorized that simply," Lottie says, kneeling next to you, close enough that your shoulders touch. "They're messages. Sometimes warnings, sometimes... invitations."

Something in her tone makes you look up, finding her gaze fixed on you with unsettling intensity. "What kind of dreams have you been having, Lottie?"

Her smile deepens, a private amusement playing across her features. "I told you. Dreams about you."

Before you can question her further, her hand comes to rest on yours—a deliberate touch, skin against skin. The contact sends an unexpected jolt through you, a reminder of how long it's been since anyone has touched you with anything resembling gentleness.

"You've been hungry," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not just for food."

You should pull away. Should put distance between yourself and whatever strange energy radiates from Lottie in this moment. Instead, you remain frozen, caught between the desire to retreat and the desperate ache for connection that's been building since your return.

"We should get back," you finally manage, withdrawing your hand with an effort that feels physical.

Lottie allows the retreat, but her eyes never leave your face. "Of course."

You gather the herbs quickly, stuffing them into the makeshift sacks you've brought. The task gives you something to focus on besides Lottie's proximity, the knowing way she watches you, as if seeing beneath your skin to the turmoil beneath.

The walk back to the cabin passes in tense silence, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath your boots and the occasional call of winter birds overhead. By the time the clearing comes into view, you've almost managed to convince yourself you imagined the strange intensity of the moment in the forest.

Then Lottie's hand brushes against yours as she takes some of the herbs from your arms—a touch too deliberate to be accidental, too brief to acknowledge without seeming paranoid. She smiles at your startled glance, then moves ahead toward the cabin, leaving you to follow in her wake.

Inside, the others have gathered for the midday meal—a thin stew that stretches their dwindling supplies, supplemented by whatever protein the morning's hunting has provided. You take your usual place at the edge of the group, aware of Natalie's pointed silence, Van's sympathetic glances, Tai's barely contained disapproval.

Shauna sits across from you, her eyes carefully averted, focused on her bowl with an intensity the watery soup hardly deserves. You try not to stare, but your gaze keeps drifting back to her—to the sharp line of her jaw, the way her hair falls in front of her face when she leans forward, the restless movement of her fingers against the rim of her bowl.

It's pathetic how much you miss her. Miss the quiet conversations in the dark, the way she'd seek out your hand under blankets when the others were talking around the fire, the soft sound of her breathing as she fell asleep beside you. Miss how after Jackie's death, you'd become each other's anchors in a sea of grief and guilt—holding each other through nightmares, whispering confessions too dark for daylight, finding moments of impossible tenderness amid the horror of your situation.

"You're staring," Lottie murmurs beside you, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

You look away quickly, focusing on your own barely-touched meal. "No, I wasn't."

"It's okay," Lottie continues, as if you hadn't denied it. "I understand hunger."

The way she says the word—hunger—makes it sound like something sacred, something primal. You shift uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how close she's sitting, how her knee occasionally brushes against yours beneath the crowded table.

"I'm not hungry," you lie, pushing your bowl away for emphasis.

Lottie's smile suggests she knows exactly what kind of hunger you're denying. "If you say so."

The meal concludes with the usual distribution of afternoon tasks. You volunteer for wood gathering, hoping for some time alone, but Tai assigns you to inventory instead—a deliberate move to keep you within sight of the cabin, you suspect. The others disperse to their duties, leaving you to sort through their meager supplies, counting and recounting items that barely sustain survival.

You're halfway through tallying their dwindling medical supplies when Shauna approaches, her expression unreadable.

"We need to talk," she says without preamble.

Your heart lurches at the words, equal parts hope and dread flooding your system. "Okay."

She gestures toward the door. "Not here."

You follow her outside, past the immediate clearing to a fallen log that's become an unofficial meeting spot when privacy is needed. She sits, leaving enough space beside her that you can join without touching, a calculated distance that speaks volumes.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. You watch her profile, the way she chews slightly on her lower lip—a nervous habit you've always found endearing.

"What are you doing with Lottie?" she finally asks, still not looking at you.

The question is not what you expected. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb," Shauna says, an edge to her voice now. "The herbs, the touching, the little private conversations. What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you reply, genuinely confused by her apparent concern. "She asked for help gathering herbs. That's it."

Shauna finally turns to face you, her expression tight with something that might be anger, might be fear. "Lottie isn't... she's not who she was before all this. Talking about dreams and visions and things that—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "Just be careful."

"Careful of what? Lottie's always been a little weird, but she's harmless."

"Is she?" Shauna's voice has dropped nearly to a whisper. "Are you sure about that?"

The question hangs between you, loaded with implications you're not sure you understand. Before you can press for clarification, Shauna continues.

"You left." The words come out flat, accusatory. "After everything—after Jackie, after... after everything else we've been through. You just disappeared."

There it is—the conversation you've been avoiding since your return. "I needed space."

"Space," Shauna repeats, the word dripping with disdain. "So you faked your death? Let us mourn you? Let me think—" She stops abruptly, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say.

"Let you think what?" you press, turning to face her fully.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter now." She starts to stand, but you catch her wrist, an instinctive gesture you immediately regret when she flinches.

"Shauna, please," you say, releasing her immediately. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I was messed up. I couldn't handle being here, seeing you every day, knowing what—"

"Don't," she cuts you off harshly. "Don't pretend this was about Jackie, or about us. This was about you being a coward."

The accusation lands like a physical blow. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Shauna laughs, a brittle sound that bears no resemblance to happiness. "Was it fair to make me think you were dead? To leave your blood on Jackie's jacket where we would find it? Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

"I wasn't thinking clearly," you admit, the closest you've come to a genuine explanation since your return.

"Clearly," she agrees coldly. "And now what? You're back, you're saying nothing about where you've been or what you did, and suddenly you're spending all your time with Lottie of all people?"

There's something in her tone—possessiveness? Jealousy?—that makes your pulse quicken. "I told you, she asked for help. It's not like I'm seeking her out."

"No?" Shauna's eyes narrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're replacing one fucked-up relationship with another."

The implication sends a flash of anger through you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have a pattern," Shauna says, her voice rising slightly. "Jackie, me, now Lottie. You just can't help yourself, can you? Always gravitating toward whatever's most likely to blow up in your face."

"That's bullshit," you snap, standing now too. "Jackie and I were—that was different. And you and I were never—we didn't—"

"Didn't what?" Shauna challenges, stepping closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to smell the pine soap she uses to wash her hair. "Didn't hold each other every night? Didn't whisper things we'd never tell anyone else? Didn't cross every line except the one we were both too scared to acknowledge?"

Her words leave you breathless, confronting truths you've kept buried beneath grief and guilt and the consuming task of survival. "Shauna..."

"And then you left," she continues, relentless now that the dam has broken. "After everything we shared, after I told you about the baby, about my fears, after I held you through your nightmares and you promised—you promised—you wouldn't leave me alone out here. You just disappeared."

"I'm sorry," you repeat, the words woefully inadequate against the tide of her anger.

"Sorry doesn't bring back the weeks I spent thinking you were dead," Shauna says, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "It doesn't erase the nightmares. It doesn't change the fact that when I needed you most, you weren't there."

The accusation hangs between you, heavy with unstated losses. You think of her pregnant belly, now flat again, the question you've been afraid to ask.

"What happened to the baby?" you finally manage, your voice barely audible.

Shauna steps back as if struck, her expression shuttering completely. "You don't get to ask me that. Not now. Not after—" She shakes her head, arms wrapping around her middle in a protective gesture that makes your heart ache. "Stay away from me. And for god's sake, be careful with Lottie."

She turns and walks away before you can respond, her posture rigid with anger or pain or both. You watch her go, the distance between you widening with each step, a chasm of your own creation.

You remain by the fallen log long after Shauna has disappeared back into the cabin, trying to process the confrontation, the revelations it contained. The admission that what existed between you wasn't just grief or convenience or the desperate need for human contact in the face of tragedy—it was something deeper, something neither of you had been brave enough to name.

And now it's broken, possibly beyond repair.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You look up, expecting—hoping, perhaps—to see Shauna returning. Instead, Lottie emerges from between the trees, her expression serene as always.

"I saw her come back alone," she says by way of explanation. "Thought you might want company."

"I don't," you reply, harsher than intended.

If Lottie is offended by your tone, she doesn't show it. Instead, she sits beside you on the log, closer than Shauna had, her thigh pressing against yours despite the ample space available.

"She's angry," Lottie observes, her voice light. "But anger isn't the opposite of love. It's just another form of it."

"Don't," you warn, echoing your earlier response to her mentions of Jackie. "I'm not in the mood for cryptic bullshit right now."

"Not cryptic," Lottie corrects gently. "Just true. Shauna loves you. Has since before. Will after."

"Before what? After what?" You turn to face her, frustration building. "Can you, for once, just say what you mean instead of playing mystic?"

Lottie studies you for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Before the crash. After you leave this place." She gestures to the wilderness around you. "Time isn't linear here. I've seen it—how threads connect, overlap, double back. Your threads and Shauna's are... entangled. Always have been."

"You don't know what you're talking about," you mutter, but there's less conviction in your voice now.

"I do," Lottie insists, her hand finding yours on the log between you. "Just as I know about the hunger. The emptiness inside you that nothing seems to fill."

Your head snaps up at that, meeting her gaze with shock. Those were your exact thoughts during your self-imposed exile, words you've never spoken aloud to anyone.

"You—"

"I told you," she says simply. "I dream about you."

Something cold slithers down your spine—fear or anticipation, you're not sure which. "What exactly do you dream about, Lottie?"

Her smile deepens, something predatory entering her expression. "This," she says, and before you can react, her free hand is at the back of your neck, pulling you toward her, her lips meeting yours with surprising force.

For a split second, you're too shocked to respond. Then instinct takes over—anger, confusion, and weeks of isolation converging into a surge of adrenaline that has you shoving her away violently. Lottie tumbles backwards off the log, landing in the snow with a soft thud.

"What the fuck?" you demand, standing, fists clenched at your sides.

Lottie makes no move to get up, simply looks up at you from where she's fallen, that same knowing smile playing at her lips. "You're not angry because I kissed you," she says calmly. "You're angry because you wanted me to."

"That's bullshit," you snap, but even as you say it, you're aware of a treacherous heat in your blood, a response your body had no right to have.

"Is it?" Lottie sits up slowly, making no attempt to stand. "You've been starving for weeks. I can see it in the way you watch her, the way you flinch when anyone comes near you. It's eating you alive."

You take a step toward her, fury building at her presumption, her ability to see through defenses you thought impenetrable. "Shut up."

"Make me," she challenges, still seated in the snow, looking up at you with an expression that borders on anticipation.

Something snaps inside you—control, reason, restraint, whatever thin veneer of civilization has survived the months in this wilderness. You move without conscious thought, dropping to your knees in front of her, one hand coming to her throat, pushing her back until she's pinned against the ground.

"Is this what you wanted?" you growl, your face inches from hers, fingers pressing just firmly enough against her windpipe to be felt, not enough to truly restrict her breathing. "Is this what you dreamed about?"

You expect fear, resistance, perhaps even tears. What you don't expect is the slow smile that spreads across Lottie's face, the deliberate way she arches her neck against your grip.

"Yes," she breathes, the word barely audible.                                                                                                           

The admission should repulse you, should make you recoil and retreat. Instead, it ignites something dark and hungry within you, a need that's been growing since Jackie's death, since your isolation, since Shauna's rejection.

Before you can reconsider, your mouth crashes down on hers, the kiss nothing like the gentle exchanges you shared with Jackie, nothing like the hesitant, tender moments with Shauna. This is raw, almost violent, teeth and tongue and desperation.

Lottie responds with equal ferocity, her hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer. You're dimly aware of the cold seeping through your clothes from the snow beneath you, but it's distant, irrelevant against the heat building between your bodies.

When you finally break apart, gasping for breath, Lottie looks up at you with pupils blown wide, lips swollen from your assault. "Take me," she whispers, the command clear despite the breathlessness of her voice.

You should stop. Should pull away, apologize, retreat to the safety of distance and denial. Should remember Shauna's warning about Lottie being different, dangerous perhaps.

Instead, you surrender to the hunger that's been consuming you for weeks—for touch, for connection, for oblivion however briefly it might be found. Your hands move to the fastening of her coat, pushing it open to access the warmth beneath, and Lottie's triumphant smile is the last thing you register before giving yourself over completely to the primal need that's been building inside you since the moment the plane crashed, stranding you all in this wilderness where normal rules and restraints have long since ceased to apply.

In the back of your mind, a voice whispers warning—that this is a mistake, that Lottie is not what she seems, that there will be consequences you can't foresee. But the hunger drowns it out, silences caution and reason alike as you lose yourself in the temporary escape of skin against skin, of pleasure sharp enough to eclipse grief, of connection however fleeting or false it might prove to be.

[bananarrlele]

"A Study in Affection"

plot: “mr. silvair attempts to unravel the complexities of human affection for his human partner. struggling to understand love, he embarks on a series of clumsy, awkward, and sometimes failed attempts to bridge the gap between his scientific nature and the intimacy his partner craves." established relationship, living in the otherworld, couple issues, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional angst, introspection, miscommunication/language barriers, unconventional romance, dark athmosphere, suggestive, but no actual sex (no smut). everything written in bold refers to the otherworld language. word count: 5k+.

The cold little room that served as Mr. Silvair's laboratory could easily be described as grotesque. The environment seemed more like an extension of his cold and methodical mind than a space dedicated to medical practice. The stained tiles on the walls, once bright, reflected the pale light from the slightly flickering overhead lamps. Chains hanging from the ceiling adorned the room's edges, standing out as silvered, rusted threats. Moreover, the ceiling resembled a web of deteriorated pipes and conspicuous marks of grime, far from ignorable to the eyes.

In the central part of the room stood a metal table, marred by scars: cuts, scratches, and stains whose origins were better left unquestioned. On that table, the instruments of the monstrous doctor reigned supreme: scalpels, too sharp like ruthless razors, tweezers and hooks in unusual shapes, and syringes ranging in size from practical to utterly questionable. The jars and flasks on his shelves were disparate in coloration and aspect. Some were nearly translucent and strangely pleasing to the eye, while others were as dark as the pitch-black of a cursed night. Some housed creatures, or fragments of them, floating in viscous liquids that emitted a ghostly glow. Moreover, faded and aged papers lay scattered across the laboratory bench, like petals fallen from a withered flower. Their yellowed, fragile edges seemed on the verge of disintegration at the slightest touch, yet the hurried scribbles in black ink remained clear, implacable in their precision. Mr. Silvair’s handwriting was fine, almost ethereal, but hasty, as though every thought had to be recorded before it vanished into the chaos of his analytical mind. Anatomical diagrams, sketches of strange tools, and the flow of liquids in organic systems followed one another, interspersed, suggesting the persistence of carefully laid plans for convoluted practices and experiments.

These convoluted experiments were far beyond your comprehension. They had always been so, and would always remain, no matter how distressed a human heart might feel. Cold, sterile, devoid of sentiment, and strangely fascinating in its functionality. The space was an exquisite portrait of his mind and his nature, so distressing in certain lights yet profoundly intriguing. Undeniably, loving him was a painful dichotomy. The brutal precision of his mind was as admirable as it was overwhelming. How many times had you admired him, standing with his back turned, his long pale hair flowing gently like veils across his back, moving majestically as he traversed the space, immersed in his experiments? His slender, weathered hands, at times healing, at others injurious, were the object of your desire, evoking an incessant yearning that transfixed your chest. Whether watching the doctor dismember pieces of a low-sentience monster or performing sutures with an almost frightening calm, sewing living tissues and intertwining remnants of life as if it were an art, there was something about him that left you in a state of near avidity. He was there, within arm’s reach, yet he seemed so distant. His touch seemed cold and nonexistent, like trying to grasp mist. His presence was a contradiction — solid and unyielding, yet intangible, as if he occupied a space you could never truly enter.

You often wondered whether he noticed the painful chasm between you, a gap carved not out of cruelty but by his very nature. The way his sharp, attentive gaze slid over you as if examining one of his experiments was a lasting reminder of his habitual coldness. Yet still, in fleeting moments like the beat of a heart, there were times when he lingered just long enough for your senses to string together his gestures as fragments of a demonstration of his love.

But Mr. Silvair did not understand the meaning of love. Perhaps love was one of the most meager concepts capable of transcending the doctor's capacity for comprehension. He could not grasp it and would likely never manage to assimilate its ephemeral and unfathomable nature, being so obsessed with cataloging results and his own experiments.

A weary and restless sigh escapes your lips. "Such selfishness of mine. To demand that a ghost like him understand the complexity of love and the relevance of physical touch to human beings. I should be content with the fact that he likes me enough to keep me around — and I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world." That’s what you thought, your lips twisting in consternation, as you watched him meticulously suture a cut on Mr. Chopped's brow, his precise, impassive hands closing the wound without the slightest tremor.

But deep down, you yearned. You yearned for his touch, for even a single word, something to escape that clinical silence and confess that he loved you. Something to prove that he liked you, not as a domesticated experiment or a laboratory pet, but as someone real, someone who mattered.

The sigh does not go unnoticed by the doctor. His fingers, stained with dark remnants, finish the suture with an almost inhuman precision before resting Mr. Chopped on the cold examination table. The monster, inert and stitched, seems as insignificant as any of his other experiments.

Silvair straightens slowly, the subtle sound of his movements filling the sterile silence of the room. When he turns to face you, his scrutiny is calculated, as if analyzing an anomaly in a body. But this time, there’s hesitation. A minor, almost imperceptible detail suggests that he notices.

“Something wrong.”

He murmurs in his flat voice, devoid of any exceptional emotion. A simple statement, almost scientific, as if identifying a fracture or an irregular heartbeat in some random creature. Yet, for some reason, the way he says it makes your throat tighten.

It was so typical of him: noticing that something was out of place, but never understanding what it was or why.

Then, without warning, he somberly turns on his heels and picks up Mr. Chopped with indifferent ease. The sound of his footsteps echoes briefly before being lost in the silence, leaving you alone in the cold laboratory, enveloped in your own thoughts.

When he returns minutes later, the absence of the bubbly head in his arms only makes the focus of his attention more evident. Silvair stands still in a particular spot in the room, slender and upright like a somber tower of an abandoned abbey, with his hands clasped behind his back in an almost theatrical gesture, and his gaze fixed unmistakably on you, so much so that you feel your own skin burn in anticipation. His posture was clearly inquisitive, as if seeking invisible cracks he might examine and decipher.

But the uncertainties of your heart were superficial and easy to find. It was as though your chest refused to be secretive, or perhaps it was your human nature that contributed to that piercing sensation, like an unending hammer, which made you so vulnerable in relation to the doctor.

“You not well.”

He attempts to approach, his slender, angular silhouette stepping into the dim light illuminating the room.

“Something bother you.”

“Something change.”

He furrows his brow minimally. His expression remains essentially unchanged and impenetrable, but there is a shadow of discomfort there, as if being confronted with a situation beyond his control was something inexorable, distressing to him.

You don’t respond, your throat caught in a strange combination of fear and hope. The desire for him to approach and truly see you, as someone real and complex, almost hurts.

“You different. Me want know.”

The statement sounds like a challenge. An awkward silence then persists for a few seconds, long enough for him to tilt his head slightly. That was a gesture that often accompanies moments of genuine curiosity.

You try to find the right words, but the truth is you don’t know how to tell him that you want something more, something beyond the platonic and scientific care he offers. Furthermore, the language of monsters was insufficient to express what you truly felt and yearned to release. Although Silvair had learned multiple words of your natural language almost flawlessly, it was as if the vocabulary in both expressions was lacking to convey all your frustrations. You take a risk, anyway, the words spilling out like an unrestrained, dragging outpour, alternating between the two languages.

“I just wanted…” — You begin, but feel an unbearable knot in your throat, like tight vines. Silvair remains waiting for your voice, curious to dissect the cause of such profound anguish.

After a long moment, you finally let out, almost like an exasperated sigh:

“I just wanted your touch. I want your care, not just for stitching wounds or manipulating medicine. I don’t just want to be near you. Me want touch. Me want feel loved.”

The impact of the words falls like a hammer between you. Silvair recoils, a fleeting shock passing over his usually relaxed features, as if carved in marble and immortal in their imperturbable beauty. He had never heard anything like this before. For him, touching someone was merely a means to an end — a technical necessity for healing wounds or maintaining control over a specimen. Never to express anything more.

“Me confused. Me not understand love.”

His confession is almost inaudible, as if he were finally admitting his inability to understand anything beyond the boundaries of the rational.

You shrug, trying not to show how painful it is to hear those words from his mouth, even though he didn’t say them with the intent to hurt.

“I know. That’s why it hurts.” — You whisper to yourself, drawing in your lower lip in consternation in a futile attempt to maintain your composure, while those treacherous blue shards escape your eyes like tiny fragments of crystal falling from a cracked stained glass. At that moment, the fissure in your chest, opened by Silvair’s words, felt deeper than the crack slicing through one of the aged laboratory walls, where so many strange things found their way.

The doctor’s gaze drop to the ground for a moment, as if he were genuinely trying to understand, but failing. He seems lost, his hands restless before his body, and you feel a wave of compassion and frustration mixed together. He would never be able to fully understand, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t wish for something more from him.

Then, as if an internal switch had been flipped, Silvair withdraws, the sound of his heavy steps echoing through the room. The door creaks as it closes behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unexpected emptiness. For a moment, you feel a deep sadness, as if he had taken a part of you with him — something you had never known you expected to receive from someone like Silvair.

The rest of the day was irredeemably dull and dragged on. You sat on the sofa in the small antechamber outside Mr. Silvair's medical inspection laboratory, absentmindedly fiddling with a Rubik's cube that Mr. Masque had given to Mr. Crawling, the latter having generously offered the artifact to you, the one he affectionately called his "favorite human." But nothing could lift your sullen mood.

You turned the cube between your fingers, rotating its colorful faces without focus, as if it were a meaningless distraction. Your mind wandered between the pain of your conversation with Silvair and the endless hours during which he vanished into the vast, gloomy corridors and pathways of the ghosts' apartment. Where might he be now, with his measured steps, the smell of formalin clinging to him, and the crimson metallic richness of blood lingering on his skin, his long locks streaked with dried, vital fluid? His scent, mannerisms, and even his voice were like precious gems in your memory — existent but not within your grasp. It was disturbing how he seemed to occupy every inch, every corner of your mind.

You tried to imagine: had he completely ignored your complaints, shrugged them off, and returned to his pragmatic experiments elsewhere? Was he perhaps even more focused than usual, desperately trying to understand what love truly meant? Or was he simply sitting, lost in some thought you couldn’t conceive?

Your gaze swept across the room, now empty and shadowy, lingering on the shelves filled with jars, scalpels, and preserved specimens. Each one seemed to carry a story, a small piece of the enigma that Silvair was. At the same time, however, the ache in your chest only grew. You had never met anyone like him — so complex, yet so incomprehensible. Silvair was the embodiment of mystery, a cold enigma you longed to unravel but always seemed just out of your understanding.

You sighed, clutching the Rubik's cube in your hands more tightly until the colors began to blur. And once again, you asked yourself: What was he doing now?

While you were engulfed in creeping melancholy for hours and hours, in another dim and desolate room, its walls as cold as a stone embrace, Mr. Silvair idly sifted through a pile of abandoned objects. It was a tolerated habit for the doctor, even though he considered most of these items irrelevant. Among organic samples and scribbled notes, he stumbled upon something unusual: a worn magazine cover with vibrant colors and an eye-catching illustration of two humans in what he vaguely recognized as a kiss.

He approached it, his pale, elongated hands reaching for the booklet with a mix of curiosity and reluctance. It was obvious who had left it there — Mr. Gap. The fissure monster was a sporadic but unforgettable presence. Gap had a habit of appearing with all sorts of items: newspaper fragments, festival pamphlets from non-existent events, and now, a human magazine titled The Secrets of Passion.

There was a small note scrawled in the corner of the cover in messy handwriting, as if Gap had struggled considerably to hold the pen:

“Kiss seems to say heart. I want heart. Give me heart. Kiss like.”

Silvair read Gap's words in silence. The figure of the fissure monster, who would occasionally appear with clippings and fragments of newspapers on the most varied subjects — ranging from trivialities like cookie recipes to stories of a serial killer wreaking havoc — was now immortalized in a curious observation about kisses and human desire. Silvair frowned. What was a kiss, after all, to someone like Mr. Gap? What did the other monster know that he didn’t? Silvair knew his studies had not prepared him for such a question. He had studied anatomy, human behavior on a physical level, hormonal responses, everything that could be analyzed and understood. But love?

He closed the magazine, his rigid hands gripping the cover tightly, trying to make sense of what was stirring inside him. Something moved within his being. Mr. Gap had once again managed to plant a seed of discomfort — or curiosity — in the doctor’s essence. For a moment, he found himself wondering if he could learn the art of kissing, or at least understand why humans seemed to find this gesture so important. And more than that: if the kiss was the key, could it be the gateway to love?

Suddenly, with a faint, restless twist of his lips, Silvair shut the magazine, holding the piece of paper in his hands as though it were a precious object of study. Deep down, he felt that something was about to change. Drastically.

Silvair had isolated himself in recent days, immersing himself in meticulous studies and attempts to understand human gestures of affection. He spent hours poring over those magazines and fragments brought by Mr. Gap, consumed by an unrelenting search for something beyond the physical, something that could truly touch the complexity of love and human relationships.

The magazine he had found held much more than scientific explanations about kisses and touches. As he delved into its pages, something else captivated him: the images. There, on the yellowed paper, he found photographs and illustrations of couples in moments of such intense affection that they seemed to transcend simple physical contact. Bodies intertwined in a way that felt almost mystical, as though they were on the verge of merging into a single entity. It was more than just a kiss, more than a loving embrace. It was an intimacy so profound, so visceral, that he could hardly comprehend it.

The images left him stunned. He observed them, analyzed every detail, every touch, every curve of skin and movement, but he could not grasp the reason behind that energy. He stared at the figures repeatedly, as if trying to decode them.

"Strong contact. Not medicine explain. Me not understand..." he muttered, running his pale fingers through his light hair, visibly frustrated.

Dr. Silvair’s Attempts

PROCEDURE I: “The Mannequin”

The mannequin stood before him, its cold and rigid structure serving as a substitute for human flesh. His sharp gaze scanned every detail of the object, with his fingers firmly positioned to replicate the gestures described in the magazine. His lips slowly approached the mannequin’s face. He pressed them gently against the plastic surface, attempting to emulate the act of a kiss. There was no warmth, no response. The chill of the plastic was a stark reminder of the distance he still had to traverse.

Observations: "Objective: Simulate a kiss on a non-living object to observe physical responses. Result: No emotional reaction observed. Conclusion: As suspected, reciprocity seems to be a crucial factor in human interaction, something that cannot be reproduced without an active second party."

PROCEDURE II: “Self-Imitation”

After failing with the mannequin, Silvair decided to try a different approach: he would be his own test subject. Sitting in front of a mirror, he repeated the motions he had seen in the magazines. His lips touched his own with almost scientific precision. He observed every micro-expression in the mirror, analyzing his own eyes, the way his facial muscles reacted, trying to detect some emotional response in his body. But again, all he felt was the absence of something. The touch generated no internal reaction, no change.

Observations: "Objective: Attempt to experience the act of a kiss in a self-conscious context, observing facial and bodily reactions. Result: No observable changes in physical or emotional responses. Conclusion: The emotional response to the action is not triggered by the mere repetition of the act. The emotional factor appears crucial to eliciting a genuine reaction. Reactions cannot be replicated without a real connection."

PROCEDURE III: “The Monstrous Rose”

Inspired by the magazine’s mention of simple yet symbolic gestures of affection, Mr. Silvair recalled his collection of monstrous flowers — his own creation, with black petals and iridescent edges, exuding a sweet and peculiar aroma that was almost hypnotic. He believed that the symbolic gesture of offering a flower could elicit a stronger emotional reaction, as humans often associated gestures like this with affection.

When he finally entered the little room where you were, half-asleep on the sofa, he observed your figure curled up like a bird with battered wings. The Rubik's cube had already rolled to the floor, having slipped from your hands. When he approached, you looked up at him, surprised.

“Me offer gesture.” — He said, his voice tinged with an unusual softness, extending the flower to you.

You raised your eyes, somewhat startled, but accepted the flower. The fragility of the gesture made your heart leap slightly, and for a moment, the smile on your lips seemed genuine.

“Thank you, Silvair.” — You murmured in your native tongue, bringing the flower close to your face, inhaling its scent of burnt caramel and polished copper. — “Beautiful. But why you bring this to me?”

He watched your reaction carefully, registering every micro-expression. He stood poised and expectant, like someone awaiting immediate validation.

“Me test affection.”

You furrowed your brow slightly, nodding. “Of course, you test. Gestures like this need come from heart, not through testing, Silvair.” You spoke in a tone of gentle reprimand, your voice tinged with lingering frailty. He captured a considerable part of your message, his expression tightening slightly.

He blinked slowly, as though processing your words. “Heart… not functional in this context. Me try again.”

You sighed as he retreated, taking the flowers with him, which now seemed like a failed experiment.

Observations: “Positive reaction observed: increased heart rate, pupil dilation. Receptiveness to symbolic offering generates some level of emotional bond but is insufficient for deep or intimate engagement.

Additional Consideration: “The symbolic significance of a gift may generate an emotional response, but it does not equate to a deeper or more intimate interaction. The flower functioned as a marker of interest but not as a gesture of complete emotional surrender.”

After the episode with the monstrous flowers, the night dragged on in silence, filled with a quiet tension that lingered in the air. The laboratory was illuminated only by a soft light that fell over the notes scattered across the tables and the flasks containing mysterious substances. Silvair was engrossed in his thoughts, the tip of his pen furiously scratching paper, his focus fixed on his observations. You watched him while lounging carelessly in a chair, your legs hanging over its arms. You bit the tip of your thumb absentmindedly as something churned within you, responding to his dissociated behavior. The silence had become nearly unbearable, as had his repeated absences. If before it was agonizing to witness him steadfastly preserving his immutable exteriority, never attempting any kind of affection, seeing him obsessively conducting literal and absurd experiments to determine love and turn affection into a performative, perfectly calculated act was an even more tormenting experience. You felt excluded — and more than that, you felt an ever-growing need for something more between you two, something beyond studies, the clinic, and his cold behavior.

The suffocating silence between you was unbearable, and the impulse overcame reason. You approached him cautiously, positioning yourself behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Your fingers, hesitant at first, slid across his cold torso. Your touch was gentle, a silent invitation for something more intimate.

He finally stopped writing but did not move. His body remained rigid, motionless like a statue.

“Why so distant?” — You asked, pressing your face against his shoulder, seeking some sign of reciprocity.

“Me busy.” — He replied, his voice as cold as ever, but there was something else there — perhaps a note of uncertainty that didn’t escape your notice.

Your frustration grew heavier. You slid your hand lower, attempting to draw his attention, but he caught your wrist, halting any further progress. He wasn’t harsh, but his grip was firm enough to make it clear he didn’t want this.

“Not now.” — He said, releasing your hand and returning his focus to his notes.

You stepped back, hurt. The words were simple, but they carried a devastating impact. He didn’t lift his eyes to you, didn’t notice the gleam of tears threatening to escape as you walked away.

“Alright." — You murmured, your voice trembling. — “Sorry.”

When you left the room, the sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have, as if sealing an abyss between you two.

Mr. Silvair remained still for a few moments after your departure, the pencil suspended in midair. His mind, normally so focused, seemed scattered.

“Intimacy…” — He murmured to himself, recalling the figures from Mr. Gap’s magazine he had examined days earlier. Images of intertwined hands, deep kisses, and bodies so close they seemed symbiotic. He remembered a note written in Gap’s erratic handwriting:

“Love strange. Bodies together, mind too. Sex? Kiss? Very strange. But good?”

Intimacy and sexuality echoed in his cloudy mind, interweaving uncomfortably. At the time, he had dismissed Gap’s erratic scrawlings as a disconnected ramble, but now, recalling your pained expression, something inside him began to shift.

“They try. Me fail?”

He shut the notebook forcefully, the sound reverberating through the empty room. For the first time in a long while, he felt something that could be described as regret.

A few days had passed since Silvair’s initial, frustrating attempts to comprehend the complexities of human nature. The tension between you had reached a silent breaking point, like a rope stretched beyond its limit. He spoke little, and you even less. But his silence always felt calculated, while yours was laden with emotions that could not be translated into words.

That morning, an unexpected accident occurred during what seemed like an innocent game with Mr. Machete — a friendly duel of blades and laughter, a competition of skill, escalated beyond what it should have. The playful match resulted in a deep cut on your left thigh, far more severe than anything reasonable for a mere game. Mr. Machete’s blade had slid more smoothly than anticipated, slicing through the skin and leaving a wound that stretched across a considerable portion of your leg.

Silvair acted quickly, faster than usual. He did not show panic, but his movements were swifter and more precise than normal. With you seated on the inspection table, he brought his tools and began cleaning the wound. Despite the pain, you noticed something different about him. His hands, which always moved with unwavering firmness and methodical precision, trembled slightly.

“You scare me.” — He murmured as he applied antiseptic, his eyes fixed on the wound as if avoiding your face. There was an irritation in his tone that you couldn’t quite define, a discomfort that spilled into his voice. — “You not should play like that.”

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible in his reprimand. “You stop this need. Not do again, not with them.” — He seemed to hesitate before adding. — “Not with machete man. Careful you must be. Should.”

“Don’t worry so much!” — You said, offering him a soft smile to ease his indignation. — “Me know you try care for me.”

“Not just about the cut.” — He murmured, more to himself than to you.

His fingers, in an involuntary movement, touched the edge of your thigh, the skin around the wound. The sensitivity of the area, paired with his gentle touch, made your body flinch slightly — but not from pain. It was his proximity, the way he seemed to feel the suffering you were enduring without truly knowing how to handle it.

Suddenly, Silvair’s hands moved up to your face, touching your cheeks with an unexpected delicacy. His fingers, cold and trembling, traced the lines of your face as if trying to understand every contour, every expression you offered, like an impossible equation to solve.

His closeness made your heart race in anticipation. His presence was intense, as though he were on the verge of doing something even he didn’t know how to accomplish. You felt the tension between you rise, charged with something ready to reveal itself, though neither of you knew how to act.

He hesitated, perhaps unsure, but his focus never wavered from you. Silvair seemed unable to withdraw, unable to let go of you, and this was unexpected. It was a fine line between desire and hesitation, between human impulse and his incapacity to comprehend it. When he finally leaned in closer, his face coming dangerously near yours, his touch against your skin seemed to dissolve the barriers between you.

The air was thick with hesitation, but without warning, he leaned in further, his lips brushing against yours softly, as though trying to understand something he still could not define. The kiss was uncertain, hesitant, reminiscent of the first time he had tried to mimic the gesture with the mannequin. Yet there was something profoundly human about it, something he, perhaps unknowingly, longed to grasp.

But this time, there was something more. A shiver ran down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his lips moving with increasing firmness, as if trying to unravel the mechanics of a gesture that had now become part of him. He explored the softness of your lips with the tip of his tongue, touching them with unusual gentleness, yet also with an impulse that spoke louder than words. Silvair tasted you, and something stirred within his chest, something he could neither name nor explain. He pulled you closer, his touch assertive, strong, commanding — yet his hands moved to cradle your face delicately, soothingly, as though he feared breaking you. One hand traveled further, gripping your waist firmly, as if to show you the depth of his desire, which he could barely comprehend himself.

The kiss grew more desperate, less measured, almost voracious, with the caresses reaching a peak of urgency. He felt your breath, ragged against his skin, quickened to match his, and with slow, deliberate movements, he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the cold surface of his inspection table. His hands never left you, lingering near, almost possessive, as he leaned over you, his features focused and intense. His hand traveled over your skin with more confidence, touching places where he felt the vibration of your body beneath his fingers.

His tongue intertwined with yours, now bolder, yet retaining the same careful attention as if deciphering the meaning of every touch, every movement. His fingers glided smoothly, exploring the curves of your body with reverent silence but an intensity that grew, as though trying to absorb every fragment of warmth you emitted. He touched you with a tenderness that concealed a quiet hunger, as though it were his first time allowing himself to feel the warmth of affection, the discovery of care, and the growing desire for something deeper, something genuine.

As your lips parted momentarily, just long enough for him to catch his breath, Silvair kept his forehead pressed against yours, his manner captivated and almost possessive. His breath was heavy as he whispered, more to himself than to you:

“Fascinating...”

He lifted his gaze, the movement delicate, almost attentive, as if he were trying to decipher the rhythm of your breath, the scent of the air around you, every minute detail in his surroundings. The blindfold that covered his eyes was no impediment; on the contrary, it seemed to heighten his perception, creating a sharper sense of closeness, as if he could feel every beat of your heart, every soft sigh you let out. His hand slid to your waist, the touch firm yet purposeful, as though mapping your presence through the sensation of your skin.

With a slow but resolute motion, he tilted his face, planting a kiss along the line of your jaw, then down the curve of your neck, with the same curious care as before. Yet this time, there was something more deliberate in every touch.

“You make me curious. Me want… discover more.”

And without saying anything further, he leaned in again, his lips capturing yours once more, this time with an intensity that promised he was far from finished with his exploration. The promise of something more lingered in the air, carried in his touch, in the force of a desire he seemed to still be struggling to name — a desire he now seemed determined to unravel, piece by piece, like an enigma he was unwilling to abandon.

“Tell me, is this… what you wanted? What you have been waiting for?” — He asked quietly, brushing his thumb over your lips gently in an electrifying motion. “This human desire mean, yes?” — His voice, hoarse and intense, reverberated like a promise of a lost paradise, echoing in your ears as he struggled to murmur the words in your language.

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a soft, provocative laugh.

“If you have to ask, perhaps something is still missing from your research, doctor.” — Your voice was low and measured, careful to ensure he caught every meaning and syllable, but tinged with mischief, as your fingers slid to his neck, tracing short, almost electric touches. It was a gentle but daring gesture as you pulled him closer. — “Me demonstrate, yes?”

Silvair’s lips curled into a faint smile, despite being unable to see, as though he already knew exactly what you meant. He tightened his grip on your waist, his fingers firm but still containing an unexpected gentleness.

“Demonstrate?” — He repeated slowly, as if savoring the idea, his tone deeper now. — “Me think good. But you not expect me gentle all the time.”

Before you could respond, he acted. His hands, which had rested on your waist, slid to the middle of your back, pulling you against him with determination. His lips, previously hesitant, now gave themselves fully. With an almost cruel tenderness, he traced the outline of your mouth with his tongue, as if issuing a silent invitation. Each touch was a promise, a wordless request for entry. His fingers traced a slow, suggestive path along your thigh, gradually climbing toward the center of your body. Each touch, every subtle caress, sent shivers throughout your entire being, and you felt as though you might melt under his dissecting hands, arching gently like a flower unfurling in the sun on his inspection table.

Between kisses, you drew a deep breath, a faint whimper, and a slightly tense laugh escaping against his lips.

“Not bad for someone who’s learning. Fast learner.”

He paused, the laugh escaping his lips a small victory.

“Then, teach me.” The command was clear, but the accompanying promise was even more enticing. With a firm motion, he leaned you back, your body becoming an instrument in his hands. The intensity of the moment overwhelmed everything, and you realized, with a mix of surprise and satisfaction, that he had finally let himself go.

Thin, translucent tears of joy adorned the corners of your eyes, inevitably. In that moment, you finally understood that what he sought wasn’t merely understanding but surrender. And in that moment, you knew: he was learning how to love.

phew. this was laborious, but so much fun to write. giggling, kicking my feet, and twirling my hair for this man, no lie. it's really interesting to write for silvair, and I've been wanting to do so for weeks. he’s so complex, and his inscrutability and unusual gentleness are captivating. i’m sure these traits would leave anyone confused in a relationship. mr. silvair would be kind in terms of care and service, but terrible when it comes to communication and effective displays of affection, so I wanted to explore this issue in this long text. the ending is suggestive because I think that learning would inevitably lead to situations like the one narrated. who knows... maybe I’ll write more. my thirst for mr. silvair never ends :) it's christmas eve in my homeland (brazil), and for those who are reading and are in the same territory as mine, or at least on a similar rhythm/time zone, merry christmas eve! to the fans of mr. silvair out there, consider this text a gift. we urgently need more stories about this man, like, ASAP. thank you so much if you read all of this, and have a lovely day or night! ♡  (this text is open to corrections and edits. english is not my native language, and the original was entirely written in portuguese. time for some sleep, finally.)

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Now it starts!

Love it <3

Pairing: Dark!Witch Wanda x Reader

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Warnings: +18

Summary: You don't understand why Professor Maximoff watches you so much, apparently, neither does she

Read here: Prologue | ENVY | MULTIVERSAL ANCHOR

FUEL

The awakening was abrupt but not uncomfortable. Wanda blinked slowly, adjusting to the dimness of the room. The hand resting on her waist was large, familiar, but rough—different from the softness she had expected. For a moment, she wished for something else, but as she turned, she found Vision, his calm, usual expression still present as he slept.

Wanda's chest tightened. It was like a reverse dream—something desired yet distant. She slid out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him, but memories began flooding her mind, blending with the conflicting emotions pulsating in her chest.

In the hallway, she encountered Tommy and Billy, still sleepy, one chasing the other with muffled giggles that warmed her heart. For a moment, she almost forgot she didn’t belong there. Almost.

Even with them there, even with Vision by her side, something was missing. Something she couldn’t ignore.

Wanda took a deep breath, heading to the kitchen and pouring herself a cup of coffee. The memories of this universe began to align, filling gaps. She was a teacher, a respected and feared figure on campus. Vision was her husband. Her children, healthy and happy. Everything seemed perfect, but the emptiness persisted, like a hole she couldn’t fill.

The emptiness had an oblique face and a delicate shape. Sharp eyes, yet kind. Her heart burned—for something, for someone. But Wanda didn’t understand. Something was wrong.

Vision entered the room, his presence methodical and precise as always. “You’re up early again,” he remarked, his yellow eyes analyzing her with customary objectivity.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Wanda replied, closing the book without looking at him.

Vision tilted his head, the gesture almost human, but something was missing—emotion, spontaneity.

“Is something on your mind? Can I help?”

The question was logical, a rational attempt at a solution. But that was always what was missing: human warmth, the living flame

Wanda felt should be there.

“No, Vision. It’s not something you can fix.”

He frowned, as if trying to understand.

“I detect a change in your behavioral patterns since this morning. There seems to be an increase in emotional tension. Are you feeling dissatisfied?”

Wanda looked at him and, for a moment, tried to find the same spark that had drawn her to him in another time, another place. But it wasn’t there. Vision was precise, methodical, and though kind, he lacked passion. He never had it.

“I’m just... confused,” she admitted, resting her chin in her hands.

Vision moved closer, sitting beside her with carefully calculated motions. He took her hand, like a rehearsed gesture.

“Wanda, you have everything you ever wanted. Me, the boys, a respectable career. What more do you need?”

The words hit like a punch.

“Everything I ever wanted,” she repeated bitterly. “Yes, of course. That should be enough.”

Vision tilted his head again, observing her with almost clinical curiosity.

“If there is something else you desire, we can recalibrate our environment to meet your needs.”

“Recalibrate?” She laughed without humor, pulling her hand away from his.

“You think this is about the environment, Vision? It’s not that simple.”

“Then what’s missing?” he pressed, the logic in his voice starting to irritate her.

Wanda remained silent for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“What’s missing… is life, Vision. You don’t understand because you don’t feel it. You’re… functional. Logical. Precise.”

Vision processed her words, but his response was direct, almost mechanical.

“My purpose is to ensure your well-being and that of the boys. If I’ve failed, I can correct it.”

“You haven’t failed,” she replied, tiredly. “I just... I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He stayed silent, perhaps trying to calculate an appropriate response. But Wanda knew it was futile. Vision couldn’t be what she needed. He wasn’t passionate about life. He didn’t understand it and never could.

She looked at him, trying not to feel guilty. He couldn’t grasp what it meant to be human, nor the emptiness she felt.

“You’re good, Vision. A good father to the boys. A good partner for... whoever you believe I am here,” Wanda murmured, standing.

“Wanda, you’re speaking as if you’re somewhere else,” he remarked, with his usual precision.

She paused at the door, not turning around.

“Maybe I’ve always been.”

And with that, Wanda walked away, leaving Vision alone in the room, silent and unchanged, as always.

[...]

Wanda’s heels echoed through the university hallways like a warning, and you felt your heart race even before lifting your eyes from the notebook. Professor Maximoff was coming.

She was the kind of woman who could stop time, who made others bow with just a glance. The rumors about how even the administration feared confronting her were not exaggerated. Wanda Maximoff wasn’t just a professor; she was a force of nature.

You’d never admit it out loud, but there was something about her that always left you on the edge. It wasn’t just her stunning beauty or the low, firm tone of her voice, but the way she seemed to see you differently. As if she knew more than she should. As if she could strip you bare with a simple raise of her brow.

She stopped directly in front of you. You looked up, meeting those emerald-green eyes fixed on you, and felt your throat go dry.

“Miss...” she began, her voice low and drawn out, as if considering whether it was even worth speaking to you.

“Y/L/N,” you quickly completed, trying to sound confident, but the hesitation in your voice betrayed you.

“I’m well aware of your name,” she replied, a hint of disdain in her voice. “Don’t think I forget my students.”

Wanda Maximoff hated you. Not with a simple, petty hatred, but with something more complex, more visceral. Every word you spoke in her classes, every glance you held, was an affront—not just to who she was but to what she had fought to build.

You didn’t seem to fear her like the others. You didn’t buckle under the weight of her presence, nor stumble over your words like so many other students when Wanda directed her penetrating gaze at them. Instead, you challenged her in ways she couldn’t ignore, even when she tried. It was in the details: the way you held her gaze a second too long, the faint curve of your lips suggesting that you knew something—something Wanda didn’t want anyone to know.

She hated you because you were a distorted mirror, reflecting the cracks in her flawless facade. Your audacity—subtle or otherwise—was an uncomfortable reminder that, no matter how much control she had over her world, there was something about you that eluded her grasp. It infuriated her, and at the same time, it ignited a fire she didn’t know how to extinguish.

Your face warmed, but you masked it by shifting your gaze to your notebook. “Of course, Professor.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, and you felt her eyes boring into you, assessing, intimidating.

“You’re aware that your analysis of Blindness is overdue, aren’t you?” Wanda asked, leaning forward slightly, arms crossed over her chest.

You swallowed hard, trying not to get lost in her scent, which seemed to wrap around the air around you. “Yes, Professor. I... I’m finishing it; I just need one more day.”

“One more day,” she repeated, as if savoring the words, her lips curling into a half-smile that promised nothing good. “You always have an excuse, don’t you?”

“I don’t—” you started, but she raised an eyebrow, and the words died in your throat as she noticed the slight stiffening of your shoulders.

“Perfect,” she thought, feeling a cruel satisfaction. There was something almost addictive about watching you struggle to maintain your composure in front of her. It was a game Wanda hated playing, but one she couldn’t walk away from. Not when it came to you.

“Spare me, Miss Y/L/N. I’m tired of hearing excuses from students who think they can survive my course with mediocre effort.”

When your eyes finally gathered the courage to meet hers again, there was a palpable tension in the air, as if it had grown heavier. Wanda could feel the heat rising in her skin, but she attributed it to anger—it had to be anger.

You challenged her again, with that look that seemed to dare her: Go on, Maximoff. Break me, if you can.

It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

Your heart was beating so fast you thought she could hear it. But instead of feeling ashamed, something else was coursing through you. Admiration? Desire? Maybe both.

“I promise I’ll deliver something worthy, Professor,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though you knew she could detect your hesitation.

As you spoke, your voice filled with a sweet blend of hesitation and boldness, Wanda realized she wanted more than just to crush your defiance. She wanted to understand why you did this—why you dared to draw her attention at every turn in this place. Why she couldn’t keep you under her control. Every word you said was a conscious effort to maintain power, but the truth was, she also felt something close to fear—fear that, somehow, you were seeing more than you should.

More than anyone ever had.

Wanda tilted her head slightly, her eyes fixed on yours as if searching for something. “I hope so. It would be a shame to waste the talent you have on laziness.”

You almost smiled but held back. She had just complimented you, even if indirectly. That was rare coming from her.

“I won’t disappoint you,” you replied, your voice low, almost a whisper.

“We’ll see,” she murmured, straightening up and casting you one last look before turning to leave. “Don’t waste my time, Miss Y/L/N.”

You watched her walk away, her firm steps echoing until they faded. Only then did you release the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

As intimidating as Wanda Maximoff was, you knew you couldn’t avoid her. You didn’t want to. The truth was, there was something about her that made you want to be noticed, even if it was with a stern gaze.

And you were willing to do whatever it took to earn that gaze.

At the end of another exhausting class, you sat on the grass near the university entrance, laughing at the silly jokes Kate made about a professor who, apparently, fell asleep during his own lectures.

"I swear, he blinked so slowly he had his eyes closed for, like, three minutes!" Kate gestured dramatically, pulling hearty laughter from Yelena, who was munching on something crunchy and undoubtedly unhealthy.

"Maybe he was just meditating," Bucky suggested, biting into an apple with the nonchalance of someone who had seen it all.

"Or he died, and no one noticed," Yelena retorted, her mouth full, making Kate almost choke from laughing too hard.

"You guys are terrible!" you chuckled, trying to focus on finishing your report on your laptop.

"No, you're terrible," Kate said, pointing at your screen. "Still working on that? You know Professor Maximoff is just going to look at it, laugh in your face, and toss it in the trash, right?"

You made a face, and Bucky gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Relax, you'll survive. Just don't look her in the eyes; rumor has it she can read souls."

"She already read mine and found it disappointing," you muttered, eliciting more laughter from Yelena and Kate.

Before the banter could continue, your phone buzzed. A notification flashed, summoning you to meet Wanda Maximoff in her office.

"Uh-oh," Kate teased, peering at the message. "Someone's in trouble!"

Yelena sighed dramatically. "Goodbye, my friend. It was nice knowing you."

"You're all horrible," you retorted, standing up with a knot in your stomach, trying not to let your growing nerves show.

“Come in,” her firm voice called out as soon as you knocked on the door.

With hesitant steps, you entered to find her seated behind the desk, her reading glasses perched on her nose and an open notebook in her hands. She didn’t even glance up as she began speaking.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, Professor," you replied nervously.

She closed the notebook with a sharp snap, finally lifting her piercing gaze to meet yours. "Let me clarify, then. This," she gestured toward a paper on the desk, "is unacceptable. Not only are you failing miserably in my subject, but you're also wasting my time and that of your peers."

"I can improve," you said quickly, the tension rising in your voice.

She tilted her head slightly, a cold smile tugging at her lips. "Improve? It's far too late for that. I’m failing you—preemptively. And understand this, darling, it’s not about me; it’s about you and your persistent inability to meet my expectations."

Heat flushed your face, and your hands trembled with adrenaline as you faced the weight of her authority. But you refused to back down so easily. "Maybe your expectations are too high," you shot back, crossing your arms defensively.

Wanda let out a low laugh, a sound that pierced your confidence like a dagger. She rose slowly, walking around the desk with calculated precision, as though she owned the room—and you.

"Do you really think you can challenge me here, in my office, after weeks of subpar performance?"

"I know I'm not perfect," you managed, your voice faltering slightly. "But that doesn’t give you the right to humiliate me like this."

She stopped just steps away from you, leaning in slightly so your faces were mere inches apart. Her emerald eyes seemed to strip away every fragment of pride you clung to.

"Oh, humiliate you? No, darling. You couldn’t even begin to comprehend what I’d do if I truly wanted to see you in a truly degrading position," she whispered, leaving your knees feeling like jelly.

Yet, there was something in her gaze—a blend of authority and something darker, more elusive—that stirred something within you. It wasn’t just anger or frustration; it was as though she was testing you, pushing you toward a boundary you didn’t know existed.

"Whatever you want," you said, your voice trembling with a mix of courage and vulnerability, "fail me. I won’t beg." You finished, pride laced in your tone.

Wanda’s lips curved into a smile that almost looked satisfied. "Such a brave little girl, aren’t you? And yet, here you are in my office, trying to justify this deplorable behavior."

She circled you like a predator stalking its prey, each step echoing as a reminder of who held the power. "But you know as well as I do that the fall of the proud from their pedestal is always glorious to watch."

"Then maybe you’ll fall along with me," you snapped in a moment of reckless defiance, instantly regretting the words.

But instead of anger, you heard a low, vibrating sound—Wanda’s deep, rich laugh. You swallowed hard, feeling your heart hammering against your ribs.

When Wanda stopped behind you, her presence was almost suffocating, the heat of her proximity wrapping around you like a smothering cloak. Her voice was a low whisper, heavy with a nearly physical weight.

"Tell me, Miss Y/L/N, just how far are you willing to go to save your scholarship? To avoid tarnishing your already fragile reputation?"

Her words struck you like a blow. Your heart raced, and tears welled in your eyes.

"Please," you began, your voice breaking. "I can’t fail. I’ll lose my scholarship. I… I can’t afford to stay in school if that happens."

Wanda arched a brow, as if dissecting you with pure disdain. Slowly, she leaned against the edge of the desk, her posture radiating dominance.

"Oh… so now you’re willing to beg? Where’s all that courage now?"

You nodded quickly, the lump in your throat making it hard to form words.

"Beg," she commanded, the word sharp and cutting.

"I… what?" you asked, lifting your head in shock.

"Beg," she repeated, slicing through the silence. "Show me that you understand your place. That you grasp what it takes to redeem yourself."

The knot in your throat tightened as your pride warred with the growing urge to yield. But deep down, you knew Wanda would always win. She always did, with a precision that was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

"Please," you whispered, barely audible.

She tilted her head, feigning that she hadn’t heard you. "Louder. Make it worth my attention."

Tears spilled freely now, and your hands clenched in your lap, struggling to hold back sobs. "Please, Professor. I’ll do anything. Just don’t fail me. I—I'm trying, really trying to do better…" you stammered, the words crumbling in your throat.

"Trying," she repeated with a smirk, standing and approaching slowly. Her measured steps were like a drumbeat of inevitability. "Trying isn’t good enough. Do you think I’m here to entertain mediocre excuses? To tolerate justifications from a student who can’t even meet my gaze as she speaks?"

Your heart pounded as her intense stare bore into you. You tried to speak, but your words refused to come.

Wanda took another step, so close now you could feel the heat radiating from her. "Look at me when I’m talking to you," she ordered, her voice low and cutting.

You obeyed, your tear-filled eyes meeting hers.

"I… I’m sorry," you managed to whisper, your voice shaking.

"Sorry doesn’t fix anything," she countered, leaning in close, her whisper brushing against your ear. "Do you think you have the right to waste my time?"

Wanda watched you from above, her eyes fixed on you as her mind oscillated between anger and a cruel pleasure she couldn’t fully comprehend. The humiliation you exuded, the vulnerability manifesting in every tear streaming down your face and the tremble in your voice, seemed to fuel something dark within her.

For a moment, Wanda felt as if something in her soul was awakening. An ancient warmth, a spark of long-dormant power, began stirring in her chest. It was as if parts of herself she barely understood in this universe were reacting directly to your submission and the palpable fear emanating from you.

When she noticed the warm liquid trickling down your legs, the realization of what you had done struck her like a wave. And in that moment, satisfaction coursed through her so intensely that her eyes glimmered with faint, red sparks.

The weight of Wanda’s psychological dominance was crushing, like an invisible hand tightening around your throat. It wasn’t just the fear she inspired; it was the way she dismantled every layer of your defenses, exposing parts of yourself you didn’t even know existed. She had a cruel talent for finding the cracks in your emotional armor, carving a direct path to the core of your vulnerability.

“Are you really this fragile?” Wanda asked, her voice laced with a soft disdain that was anything but accidental. She tilted her head, studying you like a predator sizing up its prey. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet, Dekta. It’s just... words. Just me.”

Her gaze was so piercing it felt like she was invading your mind, pulling out your innermost thoughts and laying them bare in the open. It was terrifying, but there was also something inexplicably captivating about the way she wielded power—not just over the room, but directly over you.

As she stepped closer again, her movements were slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Wanda stopped just in front of you, leaning slightly so her eyes were level with yours. Her smile was almost gentle, but her eyes—those hauntingly captivating crimson eyes—betrayed the intensity that burned within.

“Do you know what I find fascinating?” she murmured, her voice now soft, almost seductive. “How you try to resist, try to hold on to some semblance of dignity and pride... but I see. I see exactly what’s happening here.”

There was something hypnotic in the way she spoke, as if every word was a sweet spell, wrapping around you and tightening with each syllable. Your body reacted before your mind could process it—cold sweat on your skin, a slight tremor in your muscles that you couldn’t control.

“I think you know I could destroy you with a snap of my fingers,” Wanda continued, the tip of her fingers brushing your face in a gesture that was almost tender. “But that would be too easy. Too quick. No, I prefer this... I prefer watching you break, piece by piece, knowing you’ll never be a match for me. Because you know I’m already in your head.”

Wanda stepped back slowly, an almost imperceptible smile curving her lips. “Pathetic,” she murmured, though there was something else in her voice—a dark satisfaction.

With your face flushed red with shame and your hands trembling, you stammered, “Please, professor. Forgive me. I won’t fail again.”

She tilted her head, as though assessing your sincerity, and finally allowed a small smile, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Perhaps you can be useful after all,” Wanda said, making a great effort to move away from you and your pleading eyes “But don’t think of this as a favor. You will work for me. As my assistant. That means you’ll be in my office every day after class, doing exactly what I tell you. Understood?”

“Yes, professor,” you replied, quickly wiping away the tears.

“Good girl,” she murmured, returning to her desk and resuming her paperwork. “Now leave. And don’t make me regret being generous.”

You left hastily, your face burning with embarrassment and your mind still reeling from everything that had just transpired. Deep down, a small part of you knew this second chance came at a high cost—but you also knew you had no choice.

Later, sitting on the central lawn with Kate, Yelena, and Bucky, the group’s usual chaos surrounded you. Yelena was stealing fries from Bucky’s lunch while Kate lamented a presentation she had to give.

“So, what’s the big news?” Yelena asked, her mouth full, noticing your troubled expression.

You hesitated before blurting it out. “I’m going to be Professor Maximoff’s assistant.”

The trio froze.

“What?!” Kate choked on her soda. “Professor Maximoff? The one who looks like she walked out of a gothic horror movie and makes the board of directors quake in their boots?”

“The very same,” you admitted, bracing for their reactions.

“No, this isn’t just weird; it’s a death sentence,” Bucky said, crossing his arms and giving you a serious look. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“She was going to fail me. I begged her not to, and this was the deal.”

Yelena burst into incredulous laughter. “So she made you grovel and now she’s turning you into her butler? I already like this woman.”

“It’s not funny!” you snapped, crossing your arms.

“It’s hilarious,” Yelena replied with a mischievous grin. “But seriously, do you need help? Should we start a student revolution for your freedom?”

“Or sabotage her office,” Kate suggested.

Bucky sighed. “You two are terrible advisors. Look, it might not be so bad. You’re smart. You’ll survive. Maybe even learn something… other than how to be terrified.”

You gave him a weak smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Buck.”

That evening in the dorm, you sat on your bed hugging a pillow, while Darcy worked on her laptop at the desk nearby. She wore an old t-shirt and shorts, her hair tied up haphazardly in a way that somehow made her even more stunning to you.

“So, what happened today?” Darcy asked without looking up from her screen.

“I got ‘promoted’ to Professor Maximoff’s assistant,” you said, your voice heavy with defeat.

Darcy chuckled and finally turned to you. “Seriously? That woman’s terrifying. How did you manage that?”

“It’s not like I wanted to,” you muttered.

She walked over and sat beside you, leaning in casually but close enough for you to catch her scent. “I think you must be special to her. She doesn’t seem like the type to do favors.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” you said, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks.

Darcy met your eyes, hers sparkling with a mixture of amusement and something more subtle, almost predatory. “You look so good today.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Just sayin’,” she teased, laughing lightly, though her tone carried an edge of something deeper.

You knew Darcy enjoyed toying with you, pushing your limits. It felt like she understood how you felt and used it to keep you on edge, perpetually yearning.

“It’ll be fine with Maximoff,” Darcy said, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “And if she’s too mean, just call me. I’ll protect you.”

“I think you’d be the one needing protection,” you joked, trying to mask how much her touch affected you.

“Maybe,” Darcy replied with a playful smirk, giving you a wink before returning to her laptop as if nothing had happened.

And there you sat, watching her, caught between hope and frustration—an impossible tug-of-war Darcy seemed to enjoy orchestrating.

[...]

You sat in an uncomfortably stiff chair in Professor Maximoff's office. The space was pristine—shelves lined with worn-spined books, meticulously organized as if by military precision. Sunlight streamed through the large window, casting a warm glow on the polished wood of her desk.

Your gaze, however, was fixated on a silver frame atop the desk. Inside was a photo of Wanda beside a tall, elegant man—Vision, the name you'd heard whispered through the hallways—and two smiling children, Tommy and Billy. The image radiated serene, stable happiness, the kind that felt utterly unattainable to you.

Your chest tightened. That was her life: perfect and orderly, with a loving husband, happy kids, and a flawless career. In contrast, you felt like an intruder, someone scrambling to hold it together while navigating college and life.

“You’re not allowed to snoop.” Wanda’s sharp voice cut through the air behind you, making your shoulders stiffen.

You turned in the chair, wide eyes meeting hers. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” you muttered, quickly averting your gaze.

“You always have something to apologize for, don’t you?” Wanda’s voice was calm but laced with disdain as she walked toward you, her heels clicking against the hardwood, each sound amplifying the tension. “Do you know what happens to little girls who break the rules?”

“I didn’t mean to; I just…”

She raised a hand, silencing you immediately.

“I don’t want excuses. If you’re going to work here, you’ll learn to follow the rules. Rule number one: my personal life is none of your business. Rule number two: what happens in this office stays in this office. Understood?”

You swallowed hard, shame warming your face. “Yes, Professor Maximoff.”

“Good.” She leaned in slightly, her face only inches from yours. “Do you know what else I expect from you?”

“I… I don’t know,” you stammered, your voice faltering under her piercing gaze.

“Excellence,” she murmured, the word a threat and a promise all at once. “Nothing less. And if I sense you’re not giving your best…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but the look in her eyes said enough.

You nodded quickly, the weight of shame and insecurity pressing heavily on your shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”

“I hope so,” Wanda replied, straightening her posture and smoothing her blazer with a decisive gesture. “Now, organize these papers and make sure my desk is spotless. You have thirty minutes.”

You quickly rose to comply, trying to ignore the persistent tightness in your chest as you passed the desk again. The photo still sat there, smiling at you like a cruel reminder of everything you’d never have.

As you began sorting through the papers, Wanda stood nearby, her eyes fixed on you. At first, it seemed she was merely ensuring you were doing the task correctly.

But then something shifted.

It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible. Wanda’s jaw relaxed slightly, her breathing became deeper, less controlled. Her eyes, sharp and calculating moments before, began to wander over the movements of your body. They lingered longer than they should have—on your legs, where the hem of your uniform skirt rode up slightly more than intended when you leaned forward.

Something inside her stirred, a spark kindling deep in her chest.

Wanda blinked, once, twice, as if trying to clear her thoughts, but the sensation persisted. It wasn’t just your presence that unnerved her, but the vulnerability radiating from your every gesture. The way your fingers trembled as you handled the papers, the flush on your cheeks, the faint hitch in your breath when you felt her gaze. It was intoxicating, feeding a part of her she had long suppressed.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, the faintest glimmer of red flashing at her fingertips before she reined it in. It was enough to make her close her eyes for a moment, battling the power threatening to surface.

“Control yourself,” she muttered under her breath, the words so soft they were almost inaudible.

But it wasn’t so simple. The abyss within her was widening, and the Scarlet Witch—the part of her she had locked away in chains—was straining against its binds.

She tried to look away, but her thoughts were already spiraling. Blurred memories surfaced like waves, unrelenting: warmth, the soft sound of breathless gasps, the damp heat of skin pressed against skin. Her mouth went dry, and a familiar heat spread through her chest.

“You really don’t know how to be appropriate, do you?” her voice came out harsher than she intended, though it carried an unspoken weight she couldn’t hide.

You froze, your hands pausing mid-motion. “What did I do now?” you asked hesitantly, your voice trembling.

“That skirt,” Wanda pointed, her expression deliberately neutral as she fought to maintain control. “Do you think it’s suitable for a professional environment? Or are you just trying to distract everyone?”

Your face flushed immediately, and you tugged at the hem of your skirt instinctively. “It’s the college uniform… I don’t choose the length.”

Wanda took a step closer, her presence suddenly overwhelming. “You don’t choose, but you certainly enjoy the attention, don’t you?”

“No, I swear I don’t…” your voice cracked, and you dropped your gaze, discomfort radiating from you.

Wanda leaned in, her words brushing past your ear with a mix of reproach and something else you couldn’t quite name. “I don’t like distractions, especially the ones coming from you. So if you want to stay here, learn to be invisible.”

You nodded quickly, unable to respond as the weight of her gaze bore down on you.

Wanda stepped back, straightening and exhaling softly, as though trying to smother the heat coursing through her. She knew it was wrong—knew she should stop—but the power and control she felt in reducing you to submission were addictive.

“Finish this and leave,” she said, turning toward the window, as if the view outside might cleanse her thoughts. “And next time… be more mindful of what you wear.”

You continued organizing the papers, her words echoing in your mind. That tone—a mix of scolding and something unnameable—sent shivers down your spine.

“Distractions, especially the ones coming from you.”

You weren’t sure why, but the idea of destabilizing someone as composed as Wanda Maximoff—even slightly—sent your heart racing. She was practically untouchable, the most feared and respected figure on campus, and yet… something in her gaze, in the faint tremor of her voice, ignited a spark in you.

You glanced at Wanda, who now stood with her back to you, her posture rigid, hands clasped behind her. Deliberately this time, you leaned forward slightly, letting the skirt ride up just enough to test the waters.

“Leave,” she commanded, her tone clipped, without even looking at you. But there was something strained about her voice, something forced.

You obeyed but couldn’t resist one last glance before walking out. Her face remained calm, but the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers gripped the edge of the desk betrayed her.

Maybe you weren’t as invisible as she wanted you to be.

[...]

The first time Wanda saw you, something inside her stirred. It wasn’t hatred, nor was it passion. It was a pulsating, inexplicable irritation, like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. You weren’t particularly remarkable—at least, you shouldn’t have been. Just an ordinary student, dressed simply, with an attitude that oscillated between nervousness and boldness. But there was something about you, something Wanda couldn’t ignore.

Your clumsy, awkward demeanor seemed tailor-made to test her. That first day, when you rushed into class late, cheeks flushed, stumbling over your own feet and nearly dropping your backpack, Wanda couldn’t help but roll her eyes. A strange, unjustifiable anger bubbled in her chest, as if your mere presence was a personal affront.

But it wasn’t just that. As she watched you shrink under her sharp gaze, something else began to stir beneath the surface—a familiar energy she had long since forgotten. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up. Her fingers tingled, and the air around her seemed to hum faintly.

“Do you think you can waltz into my class late and just take your seat as if nothing happened?” Wanda’s voice was as sharp as a blade.

You mumbled an apology, stammering, and Wanda saw the blush on your face deepen. Your vulnerability should have soothed her irritation, but instead, it only fueled it. There was something deeply satisfying about seeing you so submissive, so intimidated.

In the days that followed, Wanda began noticing small details that annoyed her even more. The way you chewed on the tip of your pen while trying to grasp her explanations. The muffled sound of your whispers to classmates, though you clearly lacked the courage to challenge her openly. Your almost naive persistence in trying to please her, even when she deliberately ignored your efforts, made her grit her teeth—and feel something else. A thrill that defied logic.

And then there was that moment when you raised your hand to answer a question, hesitant but resolute. Your eyes met hers, and Wanda felt a pulse of something deep within her. Your presence was like a crooked mirror, reflecting parts of herself she didn’t want to see, parts she preferred to keep buried.

She didn’t understand why her powers—dormant for years, stifled by a “perfect” and mundane life—seemed to stir every time you were near. Perhaps it was the way you appeared so fragile and yet so impossible to ignore. Or maybe it was something deeper, something Wanda didn’t want to name, because to do so would mean admitting that you, in some way, held power over her.

And Wanda Maximoff couldn’t bear the thought of not being in control.

Now, as the room lights were dim, and classical music played softly in the background, Vision was attentive as always, delicately tracing the contours of Wanda’s body with steady hands. Yet her mind was elsewhere.

She tried to focus on the man’s hands caressing her skin, tried to feel the heat, the passion that once united them. But every touch of his felt pale, distant, almost lifeless. As if something essential was missing.

It came suddenly, like a raw and uncontrollable wave: the image of you. Not the “you” who was both docile and irreverent, always striving to please her, but the “you” who was desperate, tear-eyed, and begging for a forgiveness she had denied.

The muffled sound of your pleading echoed in her memory, and Wanda felt the warmth Vision was trying to rekindle explode with an almost painful intensity. The memory of the tremor in your voice, the way you begged, submitted, and allowed her to hold power over you until you wet yourself, tears streaming down your face as she crushed you emotionally…

A heat surged through her body. Her heart raced, and she felt a sharp tingling in her hands and her own core. Unknowingly, red energy began to spark around her fingers.

Vision noticed, tilting his head slightly but misunderstanding. “Is everything alright, my love?” he asked, his voice as gentle as ever.

“Yes,” Wanda lied, though her breathing was heavy, almost ragged. She closed her eyes, trying to push away the guilt beginning to surface. But the pleasure was far more real now.

The image of you lingered, growing stronger. The way your short skirt revealed just enough of your backside to make her crave more, your legs trembling with nervousness, the blush that painted your face as you shrank under her gaze. It was wrong, but Wanda couldn’t stop. You were fragile, so easy to break, and the thought awakened something ancient and primal within her.

She bit her lower lip hard, stifling a moan that wasn’t meant for him. No, it was for the vulnerability she had seen in you. For the way your submission made her feel something she hadn’t felt in years: raw, palpable, and absolute power.

Wanda longed to have you begging for her, but in a different way now. She wanted to press your pretty face between her thighs, smothering you until you turned purple from her suffocation. Wanda wanted to shove her fingers into your mouth, making you drench them with your saliva—so it’d be easier to slide them inside you.

Could you be a virgin? Pure?

At that moment, Wanda only wanted to wear a strap-on and take you from behind, punishing you for wearing that tiny skirt and for having such a sharp tongue. She’d thrust into you so hard that the only thing you’d be able to scream would be her name, like a sacred and solitary mantra—as if she were a goddess needing prayers to grow stronger. You’d offer her your sweet little cunt.

Wanda wanted to pour herself into you, to leave her seed inside you... she wanted… Wanda wanted...

“Wanda, your magic…” Vision stepped back slightly, puzzled.

The heat within her grew, fueled by the energy now visibly pulsing in waves around her hands. Scarlet hues filled the room, and the woman nearly floated.

She opened her eyes, realizing the lights in the room flickered and the bed trembled faintly. “I… I’m fine. Just keep going…” she insisted, gently pushing him.

“Perhaps you should rest, my dear,” Vision suggested, ever logical.

Wanda nodded, wanting to end the moment before he noticed anything more. He left the room, respecting her space as he always did. As soon as the door closed, Wanda collapsed onto the bed, panting.

The realization hit her like a punch. She had nearly climaxed thinking about you—not Vision, the perfect husband, the father of her children, but you, a pathetic and insignificant student. Her soul twisted with hatred at the truth, but hatred was a fuel. It ignited her.

“Little bitch,” Wanda whispered to herself, her words heavy with a rage that seemed endless. She got up abruptly, her bare feet meeting the cold floor.

She walked to the large mirror in the corner of the room, staring at her reflection with eyes glowing redder than they should. “What’s wrong with me?” she murmured, though she knew the answer. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a desire so primal it eroded her reason, leaving only instinct in its place.

She closed her eyes again, trying to banish the image, but it was useless. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, anger boiling under her skin. “I don’t want this,” she said louder, as if speaking the words aloud could undo the knot of desire and hatred tightening around her.

But the Scarlet Witch within her smiled. It wasn’t about wanting or not wanting. It was about giving in. About realizing that the control Wanda prided herself on was slipping through her fingers when it came to you—as if she couldn’t control you.

She hated what had just happened, but she hated even more how much she enjoyed it.

When Vision murmured something as he reentered the room, Wanda turned to look at him. There was a calmness on his face that brutally contrasted with the storm inside her. He loved her. He would do anything for her.

And yet, it was you that Wanda wanted to crush. It was you she wanted on your knees, sobbing, begging.

And it was you who, somehow, made her feel alive again.

For the first time in a long time, the Witch within her desired something.

~*~

As the great philosopher Selena Gomez once said: If you wanna, come and get it

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[izzyezalea]

Rescue Mission

Ghost x Freader

The night air was thick with tension, the kind of tension that makes every heartbeat feel like a countdown. You had been part of a highly covert operation—a mission that seemed straightforward enough. In and out. But nothing ever goes as planned.

The sudden ambush took you by surprise. Your team was scattered, chaos ensued, and before you knew it, they had you—captured, restrained, and taken deep into hostile territory. The only thing that kept you from losing yourself was the thought of your team and the one person you couldn’t stop thinking about.

Ghost.

He was your teammate, your friend, and—though you’d never admitted it—someone who had quietly crept into your heart, even when you fought to keep your distance. The thought of him coming for you made your chest ache, but it also gave you a shred of hope in this seemingly hopeless situation.

You could hear the distant rumble of footsteps approaching your cell, the clatter of weapons, and the low murmur of voices. Every sound felt amplified in the silence that surrounded you. You could only imagine what Ghost and the team were doing. They were coming for you. You just had to hold on.

Simon "Ghost" Riley wasn't one for sentimentality. He never showed much emotion, never allowed his guard to slip. His skull mask was his shield, both in battle and in life. But when you were taken, when he heard the crackle of static over the radio as your call went silent, something inside him snapped.

Your voice was gone. And in its place was the eerie quiet of a situation gone wrong.

"Stay focused," Price ordered, his voice steady, but even he knew the stakes. "We get her back, Ghost. No matter the cost."

Ghost nodded silently, his jaw clenched beneath the mask. He didn’t need to be told twice. Your safety wasn’t just a mission objective—it was personal. He’d never say it out loud, but he cared about you in ways he couldn’t explain, and if he had to burn the whole bloody world to get you back, he’d do it without hesitation.

He was a soldier, but right now, his focus was on one thing and one thing only: you.

The team moved swiftly through the dense forest, keeping their movements tactical, staying low, listening to every crackling leaf and rustling branch. The enemy was close, too close. They had no time to waste. You didn’t have much time.

You didn’t know how long you’d been in the damp, concrete cell. The enemy was methodical, always keeping you just out of sight, but never out of reach. They were waiting for something—waiting for your team to make a mistake. The cold chains around your wrists were a constant reminder of your helplessness.

Your thoughts drifted to Ghost again. You’d always admired him—his dedication, his resilience, his ability to lead without saying a word. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? You didn’t just admire him. You cared for him. More than you should.

The sound of footsteps grew louder, and your heart pounded in your chest. The door creaked open, and a harsh light blinded you. One of the captors stepped inside, smirking as he approached.

"You’re the medic, right?" He spat the words with disgust. "Think your team’s coming to save you? I wouldn’t bet on it."

You didn’t respond. It was what they wanted—a reaction, any reaction. Instead, you stayed quiet, your mind working quickly to find a way out. But your options were limited.

Ghost wasn’t used to waiting. But now, as he crouched in the shadows, his eyes scanning the enemy's compound, every minute stretched like an eternity. He could feel his blood running hot under the weight of the urgency.

"They’ve got her somewhere inside," Soap muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "We hit hard, we hit fast. No hesitation."

Ghost nodded. No hesitation. He wasn’t planning on letting them keep you for long.

He motioned for the team to move. There was a sharpness to his movements, a determination in his every step. They breached the compound, taking out the guards with surgical precision. No room for error. The clock was ticking.

You flinched as the door slammed open again, but this time, it wasn’t one of your captors who entered. You didn’t need to see the figure to know who it was. The familiar, imposing silhouette. The skull mask. The voice that haunted your thoughts.

"Move," Ghost commanded, his voice cold and controlled.

Your pulse quickened. You didn’t need him to say anything more. You knew that tone. That was the tone of a man who would stop at nothing to bring you home.

Ghost moved swiftly, his fingers working to release the chains around your wrists. His touch was gentle, despite the urgency. His eyes scanned your face briefly, searching for any sign of injury. There was relief in his gaze, but it was brief—his focus was on getting you out, not on any reunion.

"We’re not out yet," he muttered, offering you his hand. "Stay close."

You took it without hesitation, your heart pounding in your chest. His presence was a lifeline, and for a brief moment, the world outside the walls didn’t matter. It was just you and him.

But the quiet didn’t last. The compound erupted in chaos as gunfire rang out. You and Ghost moved as one, darting through narrow hallways, ducking into corners, and evading enemies with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Your heart raced, but you couldn’t afford to focus on the fear. Ghost had you, and you had him. Together, you could make it out.

"Don’t stop moving," he barked, his grip tightening around your wrist as he pulled you forward. "We’re almost there."

But the enemies were closing in fast. The compound had been crawling with them, and now they were everywhere. The sound of boots pounding the concrete floor echoed through the halls, a growing wave of pressure.

The moment you burst through the door to freedom, the outside air hit you like a tidal wave, fresh and sharp. But there was no time to breathe. Ghost had already pulled you toward the extraction point, his movements quick and instinctual.

Suddenly, a shout rang out, and before you could react, a soldier emerged from the shadows, weapon aimed directly at you. Your heart stopped. But in a flash, Ghost was there, knocking you to the side and taking the hit.

A grunt of pain escaped his lips, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not now.

"You’re bleeding," you gasped, panic rising in your chest as you grabbed his arm. He’d been shot, but it didn’t slow him down. His face remained impassive under the mask, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the strain in his movements.

"I’m fine," he said, his voice cold. "Just get to the extraction point."

You didn’t argue, though every part of you wanted to scream at him to stop and let you help. But you knew. You knew he wouldn’t.

The helicopter hovered above you, its blades roaring in the night air. You sprinted toward it, Ghost right beside you, the two of you cutting through the enemy fire. You were almost there—just a few more steps.

And then, you were in. Ghost helped you into the helicopter first, then climbed in after you, barely avoiding another shot. The door slammed shut behind him, and the helicopter jerked into the air, taking you both away from the chaos below.

As the ground shrank beneath you, you looked at Ghost, your chest heaving with adrenaline. He was bleeding, his mask cracked, but there was something in his eyes—something that told you the mission was over. He’d done it. He’d gotten you back.

He looked at you, and for the first time since the mission started, the mask seemed to fade away just a little. There was a flicker of relief, of something soft, before the hardened soldier took over again.

"We’re not done yet," he muttered, though his voice had a gentler edge. "But we’ll make it. Together."

You nodded, your heart swelling with a mix of gratitude and something else—something far deeper. The bond between you had been forged in fire, and now, it was unbreakable.

You were both alive. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself feel the weight of that victory.

[phan3145]

Title: Slippery Slope. Fandom: Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes. Rating: M ( Cursing, blood, minor character death, mature themes) Pairing: Eventual Noa x Human!Reader.

***Notes: I am so sorry this is so late, you don’t understand how this chapter nearly ended me. I also had no intention of making it this long. Broken record, right? Want to say a big THANK YOU to @sttudnobright for commenting on my poll, because it was their comment that made me finally realize how to frame this chapter. Tagging @imaginarydreams since they asked to be kept updated. Also, reminder to check the rating for this chapter.

Chapter 6: Jumbled

You

When you opened your eyes again you were in your bed, fire going steadily across from you, lighting up the entirety of the cave. You didn’t remember leaving that much kindling on it, but decided you must have. At least it was warm. You let out a whining groan as you attempted to stretch your body. Your arms went above your head, your back arching, toes extending before curling a few times. Your body hurt so much.

Your left shoulder blade felt as if someone had clubbed you, your thighs not faring much better. They felt tight, vice-like. You swayed your hips slightly, hearing a pop in your right joint that relieved a fraction of the tension. You brought your arms back down from where they had been resting above your head, seeing your wrapped hands. Thankfully, you hadn’t bled through the cloth, but the skin underneath felt hot. You didn’t want to think about what it looked like.

Memory flooded back to you then; the library, the boar, the leap of faith off of the horse, and then falling asleep on the way back. This caused you to bolt upright, realizing you were in fact in your bed and not riding on a horse. As you did, the large figure that had been silently sitting next to you, watching your every move, sprung to their feet. You jerked away from them, a scream dying in the back of your throat when you realized who it was.

“Noa.” You gasped, hand coming up to clutch at your too dry throat. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Noa appraised you a moment, eyes trailing up and down your form so methodically you felt naked. You fought the urge to bring your blanket up, knowing you were still wearing the same clothes you had on before. Speaking of which, your bed was dirty now that your outside clothes had touched it. That was probably the least of your worries though, remembering how your jacket had completely lost its backing. Though summer was approaching, spring was holding on with a vengeance at night when the sun went down.

Noa, apparently done with his study of you, handed you your canteen. You took it gratefully, saying a quick thank you as you drank. He chose to speak then, “Watching over you…could not wake you when we arrived…had to have Anaya…help move your rock.”

That frightened you, turning towards your entry way to see the rock moved to its normal open position. You swallowed thickly, “You two were able to open it?”

“Was not easy.” Noa replied, walking towards where your fire was going, and bringing something back wrapped in a large leaf. “Took much time…difficult to open…but not impossible.”

You noticed as he carefully handed you the leaf, that Noa’s eyes went distant, as if he was remembering something from a long time ago. Distracted by the new object in your hand, you unwrapped it to find fresh salmon. That explained the extra kindling, he must have just finished cooking it…you could still see steam rising from the ends. You were surprised how well the leaf insulated against the heat. Leaning over, you reached for the dagger under your pillow, slicing slits into the cooked fish to release the heat. You tore and picked at the edges of it, only then realizing how hungry you really were.

Noa eyed you warily, watching as you used the dagger to cut into the meat. You were too hungry to act shy about the weapon, shoving a huge chunk of meat into your mouth using the blade as a type of spoon. You swallowed quickly, waving the dagger in the air before explaining, “In case something else ever gets in. Last line of defense. It’s better to be safe than sorry, but I’ve never had to use it before.”

Noa grunted, apparently willing to leave it there. You took another bite, eyes trailing back over to your entry. The day you met the trio, Noa was able to budge the rock slightly, just by himself. You had marveled at his power, never fearing he would ever be able to break in from the outside, regardless of his strength. A part of you was grateful that they were able to get it open, giving your body time to rest in bed and wake up comfortably. Still, you felt uneasy at the thought that only two apes had been enough to pry open your sense of safety.

As if hearing your thoughts, Noa added, “Almost gave up…several times…in the beginning could barely…find it…then together could barley…move it at all….Soona suggested taking you back…to village for the night.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, eyes widening, and stomach dropping. You shook your head, “No. No, that would have been a very bad decision.”

Noa scoffed, “Anaya said…same thing…do not see why…would have been there with you…as I am now.”

Before you could say anything else, Noa was in front of you again, handing you an apple. The oddness of him feeding you struck you then, taking it from him but setting it down next to you. You weren’t done with your fish, but your appetite had suddenly vanished. You carefully moved the leaf and its contents off to the side, freeing up your lap so you could swing your legs over the side of your bed. You braced your hands on the edge, leaning forward slightly, attempting to take inconspicuous deep breaths.

Of course, Noa noticed something was wrong. He crouched to be eye level with you, something you noticed he always seemed to be doing. Anaya and Soona would move freely, but if Noa was speaking to you he would be sure to be on your level, or at least mirror your body language. You tried to avoid his gaze, that feeling of being exposed returning as he commented, “You should…eat more…no food since sunrise.”

You shook your head, “I’m not that hungry anymore.”

“Rest then?” Noa asked. “Can sleep…will stand watch.”

“Maybe later,” you mumbled.

Noa’s eyes scanned your face, fighting to catch your gaze. That in itself must have been telling, as he said slowly, “You…are…upset?”

You were suddenly hot, pulling your arms a little too roughly out of the sleeves of your ruined jacket. You held it in your hand, thumb rubbing at the shredded ends of the back. You didn’t think there was any chance of mending it, wondering if there was a way to repurpose it. For now, it did keep your arms covered at least.

You looked up then, seeing Noa’s expression shift from concerned to sorrowful. You weren’t sure if it was due to your silence or your tattered jacket. You tried to put some life into your voice, softly but kindly explaining, “You don’t have to stay, Noa. I’ll be alright.”

“Want to…stay.” Noa replied, shaking his head.

“Why?” You asked, a self deprecating chuckle leaving you as you ran a hand through your hair.

Noa didn’t hesitate, “Worried…about you.”

You didn’t say anything to that. He probably had good reason to worry about you…at times like this you worried about yourself too. Usually you were fine, but then there were days where you would feel the reality of your life crash into you and panic over the situation you found yourself in. It happened the day after meeting Noa, all the ways things could have gone wrong if he was a different ape, how things could still go wrong. God…just the thought of waking up, not knowing where you were, potentially surrounded by other apes, had your stomach turning.

So lost in your own thoughts, you didn’t notice Noa raise his hand up, his thumb attempting to brush over the mark he had placed on your forehead. You flinched back out of instinct. He did the same, snatching his hand away and tilting his head at you. You forced your muscles to relax, mumbling, “Sorry, didn’t mean to do that.”

“You..do not like…being touched.” Noa paused, it wasn’t a question. “Then…sometimes you do…why?”

That was one of the questions you didn’t want to answer, knowing there were things you would have to explain that Noa might not understand. There were also things that he wouldn’t like if you explained them to him. Today had been an eventful day, you were not only emotionally exhausted, but physically as well. You wanted to trust Noa, tell him everything you kept trapped and secret in your mind, but you didn’t know if you could trust yourself. It was all too heavy, it would crush you under its weight. He didn’t push though, patiently waiting for your response. You almost smiled, knowing he would probably wait all night for you if he needed to.

Not thinking too much on the action itself, you pushed yourself from your bed, lowering your body onto the ground to be closer to…well, Noa. As much as you hated to admit it, there was something about him that brought you comfort. If you were in your normal mindset you might question that further, but for now, you wanted the comfort of his closeness. His eyes widened a fraction, letting out a small hum as he shifted from his haunches to a seated position on the floor as well. His legs were spread out in front of him, yours were bent at the knee, feet feeling the cool stone beneath you as you rested your hands on your knees. If your foot moved an inch or two to the right it would be touching Noa’s, and you had to shake that thought from your head.

Your fingers tapped out a rhythm, trying to distract yourself as you admitted, “I mainly flinch out of fear. I don’t really mean to, but I’ve been alone for so long now that…usually if something is touching me, it’s not a good thing.”

“Fear…” Noa repeated, mulling over you or answer. “Why…are you afraid…of apes?”

“Apes can be dangerous,” you replied honestly.

“When?” He asked.

Your brows furred, “What do you mean?”

“When did it…happen,” Noa clarified. “When…were apes dangerous…to you?”

“I -I didn’t say-” you started, but Noa cut you off.

“Fear does not happen…for no reason,” he huffed. “When did apes…make you afraid?”

You hesitated, throat feeling tight again “ Years ago.”

Noa leaned in closer, tone softening, “What happened?”

Well, this was it. The thing you swore you would never speak about again for as long as you lived. You didn’t have to answer, but you had come this far, and not explaining this to Noa meant that he would never understand your fear. It might even drive a wedge further between you two at some point in the future. Today already took an emotional toll on you, so how much worse could this be?

“I…I told you I lived in a vault once, right?” You stammered.

Noa hummed.

You took a deep breath then, “There was a virus- which I’m not sure if you know about. It took away the ability for humans to speak, made us really sick. Sometimes…it even killed us.”

Noa nodded, “Know…about it.”

You swallowed, “It didn’t effect most of us in the vault….I think before I was born the ones in there were immune to it. I was-was tested when I was born, and I was allowed to go outside with my parents whenever I wanted. For m-most of my life everyone came and went as they pleased, living in nature, even farming. This…apocalyptic world our scientists were always talking about, didn’t seem so bad at the t-time. I had freedom, a family, and f-friends. I lived a happy life.”

“How old…were you?” Noa clarified, “When…it happened.”

“S…seventeen.” You mumbled, pinching your eyes closed for a moment and running a hand through your hair. It had only gotten longer, and you reminded yourself then that you should cut it soon. “I wasn’t…wasn’t even considered an adult yet. I never in my wildest nightmares imagined that I could lose everyone I…it happened so fast.”

“Where are family…friends…now?” Noa asked.

You took in a breath, “Hopefully, they’re all dead.”

Noa visibly reacted to this, “Why…would you hope…for that?”

“Because the humans the gorillas didn’t kill outright,” you gritted through your teeth. “Are the ones they decided to keep as pets.”

“Gorillas…killed?” Noa didn’t seem shocked, but it still seemed like a hard concept for him to understand.

You felt a shiver run up your spine, and you forced your body not to show it as memories assaulted your mind in response to the question. You couldn’t speak, choosing instead to jerk your head once in a single nod.

“What is…pet?” Noa asked, raising his left hand in a closed fist, before making a back and forth motion with his right hand over top of it. “Not pet like…this?”

“No,” you shook your head, teeth clenching. “Not like that at all.”

You had to take a moment to swallow the anger, knowing this was a genuine question. Noa was not the one you were angry with, he was the one who was here after you got hurt. He was the one who made sure you didn’t fall off the horse. He was the one that never harmed you no matter how easy it would have been to do so. He was the one listening to you, the one who was worried about you. He cared about you.

With your emotions in check, you explained, “A pet is an animal humans would domest- tame…an animal humans would tame to keep with them. We would give them names, and put collars around their necks so others knew who they belonged to. We fed them, and gave them shelter in exchange for their loyalty and companionship.”

Noa was hesitant, but admitted, “Does not sound…bad…we raise Eagles…very similar…we wear their feathers and…have names for them to…tell apart.”

You shook your head, “It’s not the same. The clan and the eagles are the same, equal. I’ve even heard Anaya refer to Eagle Sun as your older brother.”

Noa huffed at that, looking away a moment before asking, “How is it…different then?”

“First of all,” you started. “For humans, a pet was treated as something under us. We cared for them, loved them, but they were not our equals. We chose them, cared for them instead of letting them fend for themselves in the wilderness. Secondly, the gorillas did not share the same amount of care for their pets that humans did theirs. They treated them brutally.”

“How do you…know?” Noa challenged.

You looked him the eye then, refusing to so much as blink as you confessed, “Because I was trapped in a cage as a pet for over a year.”

You’d never seen an ape be sick before, but Noa looked awfully close. His face was incredibly scrunched, and unless it was a trick of the fire, he looked two shades paler. His body seemed more hunched in, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He breathed out the only word he seemed to be able to form, “What?”

Your hand covered your own mouth for a moment after the confession. Now that you said it out loud, it was real again. Nausea crept up on you at the epiphany, the fish in your gut souring the back of your throat. You turned away from Noa then, your other hand moving to your stomach and legs falling to the ground as you fought the overwhelming feeling. You already started, you couldn’t let yourself stop now. No one on this planet knew what happened now that your mother was gone. Someone else besides you should know. You took very deep breaths, hearing Noa start to make those humming noises again. They reminded you of the day you two had met, and that thought grounded you.

You turned back to Noa then, “My friends and I left the vault, three males and two females. We were traveling along a river, one we were very familiar with, when a group of gorillas and a few chimps approached us. We weren’t sure what to do, we had never seen apes before. The males simply stood in front of my friend and I. They had weapons, for hunting, but my friend and I had nothing.”

You saw the look in Noa’s eyes, the despair he held for you. You shifted again, bringing your knees up to tuck into your chest. You wrapped your arms around them, turning your head to face Noa as you rested your cheek on your knees. You tried to smile, “My friends were so brave, and if it weren’t for them, I might not be here now.”

“Do you…” Noa started. He opened his mouth as if to gulp the air, canines visible for a moment before he continued, “Do you…want silence?”

You shook your head, “I need to tell you, I need to say it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say it again if I stop now.”

Noa nodded, grunting as he stamped a closed fist against the ground a few times. You weren’t sure what it meant, but it might have been involuntary as he sighed through his nose, “Will not…speak…until you are…finished.”

“Okay.” You sighed, closing your eyes and letting the memories overtake you.

…

Kieran and Erik were at it again, trying to prove who was stronger. Somehow you and Eden got dragged into it, both of you being picked up and thrown over one of the boys shoulders as they ran down stream. Eden was absolutely losing it, snorting as she screamed in glee. You on the other hand, were just trying to make sure Kieran didn’t drop you. Even you had to admit though, it was pretty funny, a few giggles escaping as Kieran tried to trip Erik.

“I will strangle you if you trip me Kieran, I swear to God!” Erik shouted, stumbling slightly as Eden continued to squeal.

You slapped Kieran on the shoulder, “Fight fair! If you make Erik drop Eden he’ll have to get in line to strangle you.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Kieran called, picking up the pace, as you imagined the river’s edge was close.

You raised your head to see Micheal bringing up the rear, multiple bows and packs of arrows slung across his back as he attempted to keep up with his two younger brothers. Your eyes locked and you smiled at him, who in turn blushed and looked away. You enjoyed flustering him, not sure when he started acting differently around you, only that ever since, he had trouble keeping eye contact with you.

You would probably marry him one day. He was two years older than you, and while looks had never been something you were a particularly good judge on, you supposed he was decent enough. He was about your height, with dark auburn hair and brown eyes the color of a rich wood. More than his looks though, he was smart, smarter than Kieran and Erik for sure. He was the main hunter, knew how to be patient and find solutions to problems most wouldn’t think of. You admired that in him, how he never pretended to be something he wasn’t, never boasted or bragged that he was strong. He let his actions speak for themselves. While Eden might appreciate Kieran or Erik for their playfulness and macho displays, Micheal was the one who had your full attention.

Just as you thought that, Kieran jerked to a stop, and you felt your body go forward as he let you down, hollering his victory over Erik. Eden was still laughing, giving Erik a quick peck on the cheek in an attempt to comfort him.

“Hey, I won,” Kieran protested. “Shouldn’t I be the one to get a kiss?”

“You tried to cheat,” Eden accused, finger pointing at him.

Kieran smiled, “Key word being tried. I didn’t actually trip Erik.”

Eden rolled her eyes, turning to Micheal who was just now catching up, “I think he should be disqualified. What about you?”

Without missing a beat, Micheal said, “Absolutely. Erik wins by default, congratulations you two.”

Eden cheered, giving Erik a high-five as Kieran sulked. I patted his shoulder, “Better luck next time. Hey, I appreciate that you didn’t drop me.”

“Do I get a kiss for that?” He asked.

I snorted, “Yeah, sure.”

I leaned forward to kiss his cheek when Kieran suddenly turned his head, kissing me on the lips. I pulled back immediately as he grinned, looking so proud of himself. Of course, never one to boast when he actually does something outrageous. I practically growled at him, raising a leg to take my shoe off.

“Oh, shit!” Kieran cursed as he attempted to run.

“Get back here you ass!” You called as you chased after him, “Come take your beating like a man!”

Eden pulled Erik back playfully as he made to grab him, but Micheal was suddenly there, lunging forward and grabbing Kieran around the neck in a type of chokehold. This surprised you, but you just chuckled evilly, ready to get your revenge. Micheal saying your name however, stopped you in your tracks. That’s when you noticed his eyes locked on to something up ahead of you. Even Kieran stopped struggling as he caught site of what Micheal had.

Eden, Erik, and you all turned at the same time to find out what the other two were staring at. That’s when you saw it, apes on horseback. You had never seen an ape in person before, and you had to wonder what they were doing here. The five of you had frequented this river since you could walk, this wasn’t claimed territory. You were too scared to look away or make a sound now, feeling like something was terribly wrong. Running didn’t seem like a good idea though.

You heard Micheal call your name again, “Put your shoe back on and get behind me. Eden, you too. Erik, back up to me with Eden slowly.”

We all did as he instructed as the caravan of apes got closer. There were five gorillas and three chimpanzees. Two of the chimps were walking alongside the group instead of riding. That must mean there was a settlement nearby. A new ape settlement.

You felt Eden wrap her arm around yours, attempting to pull you back further. You didn’t want to move, afraid to look weak, and Micheal was right in front of you. He hadn’t reached for his bow yet, but his hands were ready. Erik and Kieran on the other hand weren’t willing to wait, arrows strung and pointed towards the ground.

The apes stopped then, probably 20 feet away from you, making a few noises that you assumed was their way of communication. You noticed them scanning your group, the biggest gorilla locking eyes with you for a brief moment before turning his attention to Erik. He was shifting from foot to foot, arrow pointed slightly off the ground now, as if he sensed danger.

“We mean you no harm,” Micheal’s booming voice called out. “As long as you mean us no harm. We understand if this is your territory, we did not know. We will respectfully leave and return to our homes and not come back.”

The larger gorilla huffed at one of the chimps on the ground, who paced to the back of his horse. He then turned to the smaller gorilla on his left, pointing to Micheal. You felt your stomach drop, not understanding what that meant, but having a feeling it wasn’t good. You felt Micheal’s hand on your stomach then, pushing you back as he whispered, “Start backing up, but don’t run unless I say.”

You hummed, too afraid to speak as the group slowly started inching backwards.

The large gorilla spoke then, the deep scratchy voice sending chills down your spine. “Human who can speak…comes with us.”

Ice flooded your veins then, looking to Micheal who seemed to be assessing the situation. Erik, upon hearing that, raised his bow in the air, aiming for the gorilla who spoke. No sooner had he done that, you heard a Thunk noise, and a gasp be ripped from Erik’s mouth. You turned, watching in slow motion as Erik took a step back, allowing you to see the spear lodged in his chest.

You watched the realization hit him at the same time as the rest of you, a final glance to Micheal before he collapsed. You couldn’t react, shock gripping your being as you saw Eden cover her mouth to smother the scream she wanted to let out, visibly shaking now as she clung to you. Kieran was smart enough not to raise his bow further, but he and Micheal shared a devastated look before facing the apes again.

“Run.” Micheal hissed, and time seemed to not only resume, but speed up.

The gorillas all practically leapt off their horses. The two chimps on the ground hurling spears, not trying to hit you but trying to keep you all in one place. Eden took off alongside you, and for once, you were thankful she was smaller than you, it allowed her to be faster. You heard Micheal and Kieran behind you, turning your head over your shoulder once to see the apes gaining. Micheal did the same, and you saw the calculating look in his eye as he turned back around.

He called out then, “Kieran you’re with me, you two don’t stop running for anything! I mean it!”

You heard Eden whimper ahead of you as a sort of confirmation, and you stumbled a moment, wanting to stop but knowing if you did, whatever Micheal intended to do would be in vain. Two sets of footsteps stopped echoing behind you, so you kept running, dodging over limbs and bushes as you both strayed from the rivers edge in search of cover.

You heard arrows flying alongside apes screeching and roaring in tandem. You couldn’t look, couldn’t see who was winning. You had to keep going…..but then you heard Kieran scream. You turned then to see one of the chimps dead on the ground, and a Gorilla struggling to breathe next to the corpse, half dead himself. He had more than seven arrows lodged in his chest. There were two more gorillas though, one restraining Micheal and the other…

Kieran was on the ground, body twisted in an unnatural position, with the second gorilla above him. You saw dark arms raise before fists came down over his body. Micheal struggled in a net next to him, screaming and cursing at the apes. You looked away, hearing the pain in Kieran’s voice each time the Thump of fists came down on him. You heard a wet, cracking sound following the next blow that echoed in the forest. Then, there was no more screaming. No more hits to the ground. No more sound. You knew Kieran was dead.

You heard the pound of running steps behind you then, and you knew what was about to happen. You gasped in air, forcing your body to go faster, run harder. Eden was so far ahead of you…you knew she would probably get away if she just kept going. You willed your voice to be steady as you screamed, “Don’t stop, Eden! Run faster, give it everything you have! Don’t stop until you’re home! Don’t look back, just run!”

You didn’t hear a response, but you saw her shift slightly, running more on the balls of her feet and picking her legs up higher, arms jerking back and forth harder than they were before. You saw her duck behind a tree and then she was out of your line of sight. Part of you was comforted by that, but that relief was quickly extinguished when something smacked into your back and you quickly hit the ground. You scraped your chin when you landed, letting out a small cry of pain as you wriggled in the net you found yourself trapped in.

There was a tug, and you were being dragged back towards Micheal and the other apes. The Gorilla above you huffed and snarled as you continued to struggle, raising a leg and kicking you in the stomach. You groaned, curing in on yourself as another gorilla on a horse approached.

The gorilla holding you pointed towards where Eden had been, “Find the human and their nest, take the ones who speak…kill the rest.”

No

Eden was going to lead them home, and there was nothing you could do about it. You felt tears start streaming down your face, as the ape holding you sniffed loudly, throwing you next to Micheal, another ape gripping the closure of the net. The larger ape growled, “Weak human…bleeding…stinks.”

The ape above you seemed to huff in agreement, and as awful as this was, you were relieved that Micheal had escaped the slaughter. You were happy he was here with you. You actively avoided looking at his brother laying on the ground next to you as you thought this.

…

The two of you were thrown across a horse, a chimp walking alongside it as you tried to track where you were and where they were taking the two of you. You were separated from Micheal when you arrived to the ape settlement. It was built on the side of a cliff, apes working on a large wooden fence around the front. As you rode in you noticed they were taking you off to the left, but taking Micheal all the way to the back. Neither of you said anything, knowing that if one of you had the chance to escape you would do so, and maybe send help for the other.

There was a crude room made from a small stone alcove in the rocks. You were taken out of the net and thrown in, rolling on the ground from the unexpected force. You didn’t try to run, the colony of gorillas overflowing, it would only be a few steps before you were caught. A makeshift door of bamboo was shut behind you, leaving you in the small space to explore alone. You decided to bide your time and look around for anything that could be useful to you. A large nest of leaves and furs was off to the side, some baskets filled with fruits, and other random odds and ends were scattered around the room. Nothing you could use at present. You tried to not look too closely at the bones that were scattered on the floor, deciding it didn’t matter if they were human or not as long as they weren’t yours.

The larger gorilla from earlier slammed open the door then, ground shaking as he made his way towards you. There was nowhere for you to go, but still you tried to back up as far away as you could from him. In seconds, your back was against the stone of the cave as the gorilla closed the distance between the two of you. You refused to cower, but you did freeze in place. His height was staggering, standing on all fours but his eyes were level with yours. Only then did you realize that looking him in the eye was a mistake, watching as he yanked you by your ankle.

You hit the ground hard, attempting to catch yourself on your elbows before he dragged you half under him. You tried not to cry or scream, thinking it would only aggravate the ape further. He jerked on your limbs, pulling you this way and that, then grabbing you by the neck. He pulled you close, taking a deep whiff before throwing you back to the ground. Your skull practically bounced off the stone below you and you whimpered, clutching at the back of your head.

This seemed to catch the gorilla’s attention, seizing you now by the hair and using it to pull you into a standing position. He chose to stand on two legs now, raising you up with him, and you barley dangled on your tip toes in order not to have all of your weight hanging my your head.

“You can make noise,” the gorilla snarled. “No point in having you if you don’t. Understand human?”

You whined, still struggling against his hold, “Yes! Please let go, it hurts!”

The gorilla made a satisfied noise, yanking up once very hard before dropping you entirely. You couldn’t help it, you collapsed onto your hands and knees while tears fell from your eyes. The pain was overwhelming, feeling like your skull was on fire, and you sobbed in fear as the gravity of your situation finally set in. Your body began to shake, the air you gasped into your lungs getting more and more shallow no matter how deep a breath you took. The ape circled you the entire time, intently watching your reaction.

“You are young,” he commented. “Will get much use out of you if you do as you are told.”

You tried to quiet your noises, tried to focus on his words. He made a fist as he raised his arm, and you yelped, wrapping your arms around your head. The ape hooted in delight, “You are smart…that is good. You will refer to me as Gol. Understood?”

“Y-yes.” You stuttered, slowly dropping your arms.

Gol reached for you again, grabbing you by the neck and hauling you up. You dangled in the air once more, feet kicking as you felt his grip close around your throat. Both hands scratched across his arm for any sort of purchase, attempting to hold yourself up to pull any amount of air you could get into your lungs. He watched you struggle before explaining, “You will come when I call, you will stay where I put you, and you will eat when I give you food. You will do what I say without question or hesitation. Do you understand?”

You nodded, gasping, “Yes!”

“Yes, what?” He huffed.

“Yes, Gol!” You practically spat in an effort to get the words out.

He dropped you to your feet then, not giving you a chance to catch your breath as he grabbed your hair, leading you by it like it was a leash. You were marched through the settlement by his unrelenting grasp until you reached the human cages. A door was opened for Gol by a chimp, then you were thrown in. You scrambled on your hands and feet before the door was promptly slammed in your face. You sniffled, watching as the apes hooted and chuffed before leaving you alone.

Not entirely alone

You heard a deep sigh behind you and saw Micheal crouching in the back of the cage. Though your body was sore and you were pretty sure your chin was still bleeding, you ran to him. He opened his arms and allowed you to collapse in them, sinking to the ground with you as you remained wrapped in each other. He tried to soothe you as you cried, but there was nothing he could tell you that would fix this. His brothers were dead, and Eden was leading the other apes to your home.

Home…you wanted to go home

As if hearing your thoughts Micheal squeezed you tighter, whispering, “I know…but we have to be smart. We will not be here forever. We will not die here. We just have to bide our time. Trust me, I promise you’ll get to go home.”

You wiped the tears from your eyes, burying your face in the warmth of his chest and the comfort of his smell. You trusted him, as long as he survived you would too. You would live for each other in hopes of making it out of here alive. Who knows, there were a few mechanical weapons in the vault, maybe Eden made it before the apes could stop her. Maybe your parents were planning a rescue mission as you sat here.

Micheal called your name then, forcing you to look up. He kissed the top of your head, holding you closer, “As fucked up as this is…and as much as I wish you weren’t, I’m really happy you’re here with me.”

You nodded, tucking your head back into his chest. Your fingers dug into his shirt, swallowing hard before you started, “I’m sorry about-”

“Don’t.” He interrupted you, “Just…don’t. Not yet. Have your breakdown now, I’ll have mine later.”

You hiccuped then, “I’ll be there for you when you do.”

He smiled then, genuinely, smoothing his fingers through your hair as you clung to each other, “Thank you.”

….

You had lost track of time, how long you had been here…but now you remembered with painful clarity. There were two things that you were sure of. The first, your home was either never found, or everyone there was killed. You woke up anxious every morning for days, weeks, but you never saw anyone from your vault brought to the settlement. The second, is that you were a year older. You had been taken in the early summer, and summer was once again upon you.

You had been here for over a year. You and Micheal had saved each others lives more times than you could count; sharing food and water, keeping each other warm during the freezing days of winter, sharing pain when punishment was inflicted…and in your case, it was inflicted a lot. You were more aware now of how tired you were, how wrong your body felt compared to how it had been. Even Micheal was not unaffected, he could no longer string a bow, even if he was ordered to. Both of you it seemed could barely carry more than your body weight.

Gol had stopped by your cage today, yanking you out while another gorilla gathered Micheal. For the first time since the two of you arrived, you were separated. You couldn’t do anything about that though, worrying for your own safety when Gol brought you back into his room. There was a large basket in the center of the room, steam billowing out of it. You thought it was food for a moment, disappointed as you approached it to find only water.

Gol grabbed your hair, as he was accustomed to, forcing you to your knees as you cried out in pain. Nowadays the pain blended into itself, to the point you were almost numb, almost couldn’t feel it. The rub was, if you didn’t reassure him that you were hurt by his actions, he would be sure to be rougher with you until he got the reaction he wanted. He grabbed a ragged piece of cloth nearby, dunking it into the water before ringing it out above your head. The water was too hot, causing you to hiss, lurching forward and away from him, your fingers running through your hair to try to alleviate the burning feeling. You didn’t mean to do it, but your scrambling away from Gol and the hot water was a mistake you hadn’t rectified quick enough.

This angered Gol, who let out a roar before grabbing you by the ankle and yanking you back to him. His hand came down and hit you hard across the head, dazing you for a moment as you tasted blood. He had split your lip. At the faintest smell of blood the Gorilla growled his irritation, “Stinking human. Even more vile with that smell on you now. You should be grateful the water is warm. I should throw you in the river like last time.”

The memory caused your body to be wracked by chills, recalling late last winter, just before spring, when you had gotten your monthly. Gol usually ignored it or ignored you until it was done, but something about this one set him on edge. He had opened your cage and dragged you from the settlement, Micheal following after you but too weak to do much about it. Gol had thrown you, clothes and all, into the river to “purge himself of your smell.” You had nearly just stayed underwater, the cold getting to you and the will for air nowhere in sight as you imagined what you had to go back to.

A moment later Micheal had dove in after you. Stark naked, he pulled you out of the river, both of you shaking. Gol had sniffed once and deemed you acceptable enough to return. Micheal quickly stripped you of your clothes, as if you were a child, while you both followed Gol back. He wore his pants, but as he carried your wet clothes he forced you to put on his dry, warm shirt. It barely kept your modesty, but it wasn’t wet or cold. It was enough. Neither of you spoke about you staying under for that long; Micheal didn’t want to believe you would leave him, and you were too ashamed to admit that for a moment you were ready to.

The shame of the memory flooded you, forcing you to find your voice, “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

Gol threw the rag at you, stepping overtop and away from you then before sitting in his nest. He huffed as he studied his most recent trinket he had found on a scouting mission, ordering, “Strip and wash yourself. Do not put your old clothes back on.”

You swallowed and did as he said, mumbling, “Yes, Gol.”

Though you were two different species you still turned your back to him then, every nerve ending in your body becoming a live wire as you sensed the danger behind you. You did enjoy the warmth of the water once it had time to cool, but you did not languish in its comforts, wanting to be done as soon as possible so you could put on fresh clothes.

When you finished, you stood, trying not to hold yourself in a way that showed that you were uncomfortable. Gol glanced at you before rising from his nest, ordering you to follow him. You felt shame well up inside of you as he paraded you back to your cage, jaw clenched as you imagined how many ways you could kill the ape if you only had a weapon. Micheal was already there, also missing his clothes. You both took one look at each other, before quickly glancing away, and pieced together exactly what it was the apes were plotting. Gol shut the door behind you and walked away. Oddly enough, the apes had been avoiding the human enclosures completely today, and now you knew why.

It was early summer, warm enough that there was no chill, but still you felt your skin pebble. Micheal called you then. His back was plastered to the wall of your enclosure, legs and arms spread as he looked away. His eyes were closed for good measure, motioning for you to come sit. He held the only blanket in one hand and you moved without hesitation to sit between his legs, trying to avoid looking at him too out of courtesy. He wrapped the blanket around both of you then, using your back pressed close to his chest to pin a corner in place, doing the same with his back and the wall.

For once, he seemed just as nervous as you. You could feel his heart beat ricocheting against his chest. He blew out a ragged breath, leaning his head back as you curled in to make yourself as small as possible. You felt him swallow, his heart rate slowly lowering until it was back to its normal rhythm. Then there was just silence.

After what felt like an eternity, both of you sitting there, waiting for something to happen, you felt Micheal shift closer to you. He leaned in to whisper discreetly in your ear, “We have a choice to make. Their way, or our way. One way or the other, I need you to trust me.”

You looked up at him then, his mouth set in a harsh line and his eyes stone cold. You reached for his hand under the blanket, squeezing once before admitting, “You know I do.”

“Good. Try to sleep for now,” he whispered. “You’ll need your rest.”

What he was asking wasn’t difficult, no sooner had you closed your eyes did you feel yourself being nudged awake for dinner. In some cosmic joke, both of you were given fresh fruit and fish for dinner. Clean water too. You were shocked, but Micheal was not. He made sure you both ate your fill, hiding an apple and an orange in the folds of his blanket. When the apes returned to take your trough away they leered at the two of you before hooting to each other.

You sneered at the retreating apes, “Apparently, it doesn’t matter what species, all men are pigs.”

“Hey,” Micheal chuckled. “I’ve been nothing but a gentlemen this entire time.”

You scoffed, “You’re the exception, not the rule.”

“That’s more like it.” He teased before becoming serious once more, “Are you ready? We’re moving in about five minutes.”

“Shouldn’t we wait a bit longer?” You asked. “That seems so soon after they just gave us food and water.”

Micheal shook his head, “They left us alone all day with the exception of our baths. They think the privacy will help, so I say we use it against them. It’s already dark, they’re all at the bonfire. No one will come to check on us until sunrise, and we need to use every second we have.”

You nodded, “Alright.”

And true to his word, Micheal was slowly easing two bamboo bars away from where they were spiked into the ground. You were surprised he was able to do it, but he showed you where he had been secretly bending them for weeks to make it weaker. He held it open while you slipped through, then he slipped out backwards himself. He held it as long as he could before slowly releasing it. It snapped back into place and you marveled at his strength, noticing how winded he was from the effort.

“I thought…” you began to say but stopped yourself. “Have you always been this strong?”

Micheal sighed, “More or less, it depends on the day. I couldn’t show the apes that or they would have worked me to death. Can’t say the lie didn’t weaken me still.”

He turned to you then, wrapping the blanket around you. He tied the material in strategic places, ripping and tearing where he needed to so you were covered, but still had full mobility. He used the excess at the bottom to craft a makeshift carrier to hold the apple and orange from earlier. He tied it around your wrist, and just as you wondered why you couldn’t hold it he explained, “We’re going to be climbing, you’ll need both hands.”

You blanched, eyes huge as you hissed, “You intend to scale down the mountain in the dark, barefoot, and naked?”

“Yes,” he said with confidence. “It’s our best chance. I’ll go first and you’ll follow my footholds.”

As you two made it to the edge you glared at him, “You are actively insane.”

He swallowed, “I hope so, because if I wasn’t I don’t think this would work.”

There was just enough moonlight for you to see Micheal, watching carefully as he began to descend. Once he was down a few feet he stopped, holding himself up and motioning for you to follow. The strain on your arms was nearly unbearable, but the idea of freedom forced you to keep your limbs locked and straight. One foot after the other, hand over hand, just don’t look down. You repeated it like a mantra, stopping when he told you to and continuing when he told you to.

After what felt like an eternity, you heard Micheal hit solid ground. You felt your heart kick up and butterflies surge in your stomach. Just as you reached the bottom you felt Micheal’s hands brace you. You let go and allowed him to catch the rest of you. You could have screamed with joy, looking up at the cliff for a moment before turning your attention to Micheal. His brown eyes were shining with happy tears, both of you letting out a few breathy laughs. You embraced then, only for a moment, before Micheal grabbed your hand and set off in a dash to the surrounding woods.

You weren’t sure where you were going, or if he knew where he was leading you two until you came to the river. That was perfect! You could cross and follow it back home, even though you were downstream you knew this river and its path home like the back of your hand. Micheal was a genius!

You turned to tell him as much, when you noticed him picking up a rock from the ground. He examined it closely before rinsing it in the river.

“What are you doing?” You asked, tilting your head in confusion as you stared at the rock in his hand.

He looked at you then, eyes sorrowful, whispering, “I made a promise.”

He dug the rock into the palm of his left hand then sliced it, letting blood run down his wrist and into the grass at your feet. He hissed, dropping the rock and clutching his closed palm.

“What are you doing?” You nearly screamed, remembering to keep your voice low.

He smiled sadly, “Making sure you get home. Why do you think I made sure you were the one covered, and had food?”

You looked down now at yourself then to him, tears prickling your eyes, “You promised we wouldn’t die here, you promised we’d go home together.”

“I have no intention of dying,” he smirked. “But sometimes things are out of our control. It’s almost dawn, I need you to cross the river while I lead the blood trail as far downstream as I can. If I can evade them until noon then I’ll cross and backtrack. If all goes well I’ll get home a day or two after you.”

Tears were streaming down your face now, Micheal pulling you in for a hug, making sure to avoid getting blood on your blanket. You reached up then, grabbing his face in your hands and looking at him. It may be the last time you would be able to do so. With that thought spurring you on, your brought your mouths together in a clash of lips and teeth. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hungry and full of promise. Truthfully, it was a first for you both.

You felt his uninjured hand cup the back of your head, pulling you in closer as the two of you breathed each other in. You broke apart for air, taking a few real breaths before he leaned forward again. It was softer this time, his lips melting into yours as he brought your bodies together. Your hands wrapped around his neck and you felt heat pool in your stomach, mouth falling open as he deepened the kiss.

He groaned in the back of his throat, as if sensing your excitement, but ultimately pulled away. You both were panting, and he had to stop you from leaning in again, tears drying against your cheeks. His pupils were so dark they nearly suffocated the brown, and when he leaned down you thought he would kiss you again. Hell, by the way he grasped onto you, you thought he would take you right here. Instead, he surprised you, choosing to rest his head against yours. His body swayed into yours a moment, and rocked back with you as you pressed firmly into him. You felt the nails and heat of his right hand biting into the flesh of your hip through the blanket, his hold firm but not painful. When had it moved to your hip?

He let out an aggravated groan then, harshly kissing the top of your head, before gently pushing you away, “You need to go. I’ll see you at home in a day or two.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing your heartache as you took a step back. He was still breathing raggedly, nails now biting into his crossed arms. He was holding himself back by the barest of threads. You couldn’t ignore that, respecting his restraint as you slowly made your way into the water. You saw Micheal bend down and wipe his bleeding hand along the ground, away from the edge of the water. He straightened, pushing out more blood before wiping the red streak across his chest.

He noticed your hesitation, a cocky smile taking over his features, which would have seemed more natural on Erik or Kieran as he admitted, “Just so you know, in different circumstances, no one else around, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Even now, you still drive me crazy.”

You felt a blush tint your cheeks, confessing, “Just so you know…I love you. I would have married you in different circumstances.”

True fire lit up his eyes then, a joyous noise coming out in a rush as he pointed his injured hand at you, “You remember in two days that you said that! I’ll come home to you if it’s the last thing I do. If some beast manages to get me before then, I’ll find you in our next life.”

A watery laugh escaped you then, “You still believe in reincarnation?”

“I have to now, don’t I?” He countered, “It’s the only way I’ll be able to marry you more than once.”

You giggled, feeling a chill run up your spine as silence engulfed the two of you. You swallowed, whispering, “I have to go now.”

Micheal hummed, “You do, before dawn breaks. Please, be safe. I love you.”

You nodded dumbly, turning then and diving into the water. The current was strong, but you didn’t fight it, allowing it to carry you as you crossed. When you made it to the bank on the opposite side you crawled until you hit stable ground. It took effort to lift your body from the mud, but you managed. Once you were standing again, you turned to look for Micheal. He had followed you along the edge of the bank on the opposite side, giving a small wave before continuing down stream. You waved back weakly, tears flowing again as a sob threatened to escape your mouth. You choked it down, smothering any noise as you turned towards the woods. You walked in the opposite direction, just as he told you to do, hoping that home was still where you had left it. And, if it wasn’t, you hoped that it would find you in two days.

….

You wiped a tear from your face, scrubbing at your cheek slightly before turning your attention back to Noa. His mouth was slightly open, lips pursed, fingers fidgeting with each other. He looked as sad as you felt. He was true to his word, staying silent through your retelling. He also didn’t rush to say anything after, which you appreciated. You needed this reprieve now that you re-opened that wound. Could you bleed out from emotional pain? At the moment, burying your head into your arms, it felt like it was possible.

Noa moved his arm, as if he was going to comfort you, but thought better of it, pulling it back to his side.

You gasped in a breath, “When I started to recognize where I was on the river, I took off and didn’t stop until I reached home. I had never run so fast in my life…except for maybe the day we met. I found out the gorillas did attack the vault, trying to take people, but were ultimately killed. No survivors were able to report back where the vault was. We lost a lot of people though….my friend, she didn’t make it. I left with my mother a week later. We travelled for months until we settled here. That was about four years ago. She mainly built this place. I helped, but she was the one who thought of everything.”

“Where is…mother?” Noa asked, hand raising under his chin to correspond the sign with the word.

You felt the tears spring forward again, and you looked up to try to stop them from falling. You let out a shaky breath, “One step at a time…I’ll tell you about her some other day, I don’t have it in me right now. She meant...she means so much to me.”

Noa looked down then, something you said striking a nerve in him. He fiddled with the band on his arm, avoiding your eyes. A long sigh came from his nose, his hand coming up in a very human way to rub and hold his brow. His voice was rough as he spoke, “The Echo male…why is he…not here?”

You paused, wishing the words you were about to say were different. “He never came home.”

Noa kept his gaze from you still as he whispered, “I am sorry.”

You hummed in return. What else could you say? You waited for him as long as you could, but ultimately you couldn’t stay there. Your mother knew it too, which is why you both made the selfish decision to leave, sneaking away during the cover of night. You sat up then, pulling your jacket back to you from where it rested on the bed. It had been your mother’s, which she gave to you during the cooler nights of your journey. She never seemed to get cold, though in hindsight she had probably just put your needs before hers, hiding any cold or discomfort from you. You weren’t exactly present during the first half of your journey, just a shell at that point. Living as if life was a dream and nothing mattered. You wished now you could remember those earlier days, showed more appreciation for your mother while she was alive. She had given up everything for you.

Noa sniffed, pointing to the jacket in your hand, “Clothes are…important to Echo?”

You had to smirk, Noa thought it was a safe question to ask. You nodded, “Mhm. They keep us warm, and safe from the outside elements. This belonged to my mother, but now that she’s gone, it belongs to me.”

“Why were your…clothes taken?” Noa asked, lips curling up slightly in what you supposed was confusion or irritation. “After so long…sounded like…there was a purpose…do not understand.”

You bit the inside of your mouth, trying to think how best to respond. Of course Noa wouldn’t understand shame or modesty, it was inherently human after all. You decided to just spit out the ugly truth of the situation, not having a good way to sugar coat it, “The gorillas were trying to get us to reproduce…for whatever reason. Obviously, humans don’t have fur like apes, so clothes not only cover our bodies but our sexes too. Usually, if we remove that barrier in front of someone of the opposite sex, it’s a signal that we want to…mate, I suppose is the word you would use?”

Noa’s gaze finally returned, eyes piercing into yours as he asked, “What word…would you use?”

You shrugged, “We have a few words, I guess it depends on the intent. If it’s for reproduction, which in this case it would have been, then it would be called sex. If it’s with a partner, someone you care about and just want to be with, it’s called love making.”

“Partner…” Noa hesitated. “Is mate?”

“Not necessarily,” you responded. You were grateful for the brief interlude into human customs, even though the subject would have been considered wildly inappropriate with anyone else. “A wife, or in my case, a husband would be the term for a partner that I’d be with for life. A partner in general, can be anyone.”

Noa thought for a moment, “Partner can be…someone who is courting you? Not ma- husband…not husband?”

“Right,” you chuckled. The old English term was rather endearing, though humans preferred the more modern term of dating. Noa didn’t need to know that part, you liked courting better.

Noa looked to the fire then, gaze distant as he allowed his mind to wander with everything you said. You took that moment to enjoy the silence once more. Your next breath was deep, and the air felt cleaner, lighter. The weight of your past had been lifted, even if it didn’t last until morning. Just telling Noa, having him listen and show empathy as you shared your pain, momentarily healed some fractured piece inside of you. In a strange twist, you found yourself wanting to reach out to him now. The sudden pull was undeniable.

“Noa?” You called, getting his attention.

He turned to you then, grunting in response. You reached your hand out then, stopping just an inch or so away from his hand, looking for permission. Surprise was clear in his gaze, looking between your eyes and your hands, so close together but not quite touching. He hooted softly, raising his slightly closed hand, knuckles brushing against yours before you turned your palm, sliding it under his to gently grasp his wrist. His fingers twitched against your skin before you felt him mimic your hold.

For the first time, you noticed his eyes were not focused on yours, trained instead on your joined hands. He tilted his head, turning his arm slightly too in order to get a closer look at what he was holding. He had probably never seen a human up close like this before, his other hand rising to trace the details of your fingers. Your slightly crooked pinky was a moment of interest to him, then the webbing of skin between your fingers, before he moved on to the small scar on the top of your middle knuckle.

While he was focused on exploring your skin, you took the time to study his face unencumbered. You noticed all the muscles there that shifted under the weight of each new thought and emotion. How could one ape be so expressive? Mouth, jaw, and brow just seemed to be an extension of his gaze. He was an open book now that you could see close enough. Confusion, intrigue, and the desire to learn more, all written there, burning within his eyes. Now, it was reflected in his touch as well. You had to fight the urge to laugh as he brushed against the small hairs on your arm, seeming to take interest in the fact you did have hair that was not on your head. You let him continue, wanting the moment to last a bit longer.

You realized this was the first time you had voluntarily let him touch you, and sought out to touch him in return, since the river. This strange truth took you by surprise. That couldn’t be right, thinking back to all of your interactions, but coming up with nothing. Riding together would have been the closest you could think of, but even then it wasn’t necessarily voluntary. It had been out of forced proximity. Maybe that’s where it had started? You couldn’t deny the warmth of his hand, the strange feel of his skin compared to yours was like a balm. It soothed something deep inside of you. Or, maybe that was just Noa. Even that first day you met, when you had invited him back to your shelter, you sensed there was something different about him. It’s like you recognized it subconsciously, some strange likeness in him that called out to you.

Whatever it was, you were grateful for it now. You couldn’t bring your voice above a whisper as you admitted, “I’m glad you’re here with me. It was nice not to wake up alone…even if it did startle me at first. Thank you for bringing me back, and thank you for listening to me. It strangely felt…good, to say it all out loud.”

Noa’s mouth pressed in a thin line, eyes traveling from your hands, up your arm to your shoulder. They paused briefly at your neck before jerking to your face. You felt his thumb twitch against your wrist, next to your pulse, before he said, “You saved me…after your history with apes…means more now…than before…thank you…will always be here…if you need me.”

You couldn’t lie, throat tight as you confessed, “You shouldn’t think so highly of me because of that. I had no plans to save you. The truth is I don’t know or understand why I did it. I saw you fighting for your life and I just…reacted.”

Noa’s grip tightened a fraction, his gaze reflecting something similar to clarity. It was if a great weight had been lifted from his mind. That’s when his eyes lowered, his free hand smoothing over the top of yours, trailing up to your forearm before sliding back down. You watched in rapt fascination, the graceful movement of his hand as he did it again. You thought he would say something, but he didn’t, seemingly too focused on the moment. Too focused on his hand going up your arm, then back down. He didn’t seem angry or upset about your telling him the truth, so you took comfort in that. That’s when you felt your thumb, clasped loosely around his wrist, start to mimic his hand, sweeping up and down in that same soothing manner. The hair there tickled your skin as you moved it.

His eyes were never wary of yours, but you noticed a flitting back and forth between your stare and your stroking hands. It was contemplative, but soft at the same time. You both continued to just watch your hands move, easing into the actions of the other. He continued his hypnotic back and forth movement, causing a contented sigh to be released from you. The next time he caught your now drowsy stare, the right side of his lips curved upwards. Your mouth parted slightly, breath caught in the back of your throat as your heart skipped a beat. It all fell apart for you then; suddenly feeling too intimate as you continued to sit, touching Noa, in silence. You broke eye contact, looking down as you stopped moving, very slowly and gently pulling your arm from his grip. He noticed your discomfort immediately, releasing you just as gently.

Always so careful with you. Always allowing you to decide when to pull away.

He brought his hands slowly back to his lap, and you brought yours to your chest. You felt your heart pounding against your palms, and you wondered when that had started. You felt the tension in the space rise, your eyes sliding back up trepidatiously to meet Noa’s. There was that intensity again…and you wished you knew what he was thinking

“Jumbled.” Noa finally said.

You saw his mouth move, but didn’t quite hear the word over the sound of your pulse in your ears, “What?”

Noa made that same gesture he had at the library, hand to his chest, “Inside…jumbled spirit.”

You scoffed, trying to lighten the mood, “I killed a boar today, and I’ll give you the fact I hit the pavement like a rag doll, but I’m not jumbled, Noa.”

“Yesterday,” he corrected, smiling now. You rolled your eyes playfully before he continued, “You feel alone…even when you are not…do not want to be touched…but enjoy when you receive affection…scared of apes…but care about Anaya and Soona.”

“And you,” you added unintentionally. The way it rolled so naturally off your tongue surprised you.

Noa chuffed, grinning triumphantly, “See?…How can you be scared…and care at the same time?”

You leaned back against the stone ledge, shrugging, “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because humans are complicated and capable of complex thoughts and feelings?”

Noa turned his head away from you, making a gesture you didn’t understand as he blew out air from his mouth. It felt like a natural response to you being cheeky though. When he turned back he pointed at your chest, “I fix jumble…you teach to read odd sounding…book.”

You tilted your head then, “Are you trying to make a deal with me?”

“No,” Noa huffed, arms crossing. “You have no say…this is what I have…decided.”

“You do realize I was going to teach you to read anyway?” You laughed.

Noa hummed, “Yes…but now I…give back.”

He was always giving back

“Ah,” you said. “And how exactly do you plan to fix the jumble?”

He moved from his sitting position then, standing in a crouch to offer you both of his hands, “Will let you know…when I figure it out…one step…at a time Echo.”

You chuckled in the back of your throat, hesitating only a moment before taking his hands. At first, you expected a swift jerk or a harsh pull upwards, but instead you felt his grip shift. He was carful of your palms, holding the backs of your hands and your wrists now as he carefully pulled you towards him. You were able to keep both feet under you, and Noa merely braced your weight as you pushed yourself to stand, making sure you were stable before releasing you all together. At times like these, you appreciated the intense focus he seemed to have around you, for it allowed him to notice the smaller details you wouldn’t normally think of yourself.

Noa looked down towards the ground for a moment, brows furrowed, then at his still open hands in front of him, before mentioning, “You have never denied…an offer…to touch you.”

“What?” The suddenness of the statement confused you.

Noa stretched out his hand then, as if to demonstrate, “When I offer…you take…when I ask… you agree…you are not afraid when I touch you…when you know I will.”

You shrugged, “I suppose, but that only makes sense. I’m expecting it.”

Noa shook his head then, arms mirroring the motion, a strange look in his eye as he tried to explain, “Ape touch…my touch…not bad.”

“Noa.” You tried to follow, to understand what he was saying, but he was either too excited or he didn’t fully comprehend what he was trying to say either. “I know you have no intentions to hurt me. I know that, but I can’t help my reactions sometimes when-”

“You do not dislike…when I touch you.” Noa interrupted, and it somehow sounded both like a question and a statement.

You licked your lips then, finally understanding what he meant. Your eyes darted to his palms before returning to his face. You shook your head, “I don’t dislike it.”

The admission made heat rush to your cheeks, even though it was an innocent statement. Noa hummed then, swaying slightly as he took a step away from you. You felt your next breath come in a bit easier. He picked up your spear from the ground, where he had been sitting earlier, leaning it against the rock of the cave before saying, “We will start there…build on that.”

The heat did not dissipate from your cheeks from his words, your mind adding fuel to the fire as you imagined multiple ways “building on that” could go. You choked down the heat enough to steady your voice as you asked, “Are you leaving?”

Noa turned then, smirk playing on his lips and brow raising, “Want me���to stay?”

How in the hell were you meant to answer that?! You were sure for a moment your brain stopped working as you attempted to process his words. As if sensing your turmoil, Noa shuffled in place, huffing, “Must return…time approaches for…Great Climb of the season...as Master of Birds I have…much to do.”

You nodded, not quite understanding, but appreciating that he saved you from further embarrassment. You cleared your throat then, legs stiff as you took a few steps towards him, “I’ll walk you out.”

Noa waited for you to be next to him before he took another step towards the exit. You walked out first, watching comically as he had to bend at the waist to get out. He eyed your entrance, wondering, “You will…be able to move rock…now and later?”

You sighed, “Probably not, I’m going to close it half way, nothing should be able to get in that way and I can still slip out if I need to.”

“Sore?” He asked.

“Very,” you half laughed. “It was an…eventful day. Not sure if I can say that it was a good or bad one though. When you aren’t so busy with preparations, we’ll start your reading lessons. So, let me know, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” Noa said confidently, swaying slightly closer to you. “After midday.”

His eagerness did not surprise you, smiling, “Alright. Tomorrow, midday. The three of you can meet me by the creek. Same place as usual.”

He nodded, glancing over to his horse, whose tail was swishing back and forth in irritation at being tied up for so long. Noa returned his attention to you then, sighing, “Be safe…will see you…tomorrow.”

“You be safe as well, it’s dark.” You stated the obvious, internally kicking yourself before giving a small wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

[zsakuva]

I'm sure this has been asked, but I had found your stuff recently and absolutely love how the different characters are with each being just as charming as the next. My question is what is the thought/writing process? I am wanting to be better at defining my ocs and characters without falling into the same trope and behaviors the characters have exhibit. Obviously there are different methods for different people, but I'll like to know a little bit of the process for you. Do you have any tips to make the voices distinct and consistent through out a piece of writing?

Thank you!

For me, because I have a proclivity for world-building (meaning I am absolutely obsessed and must know the lore before I do anything), I like to understand the path a character has chosen. Their past experiences and upbringing have a dramatic impact on how they shape their own life, and that informs me of how a character acts, talks, and how they both see and react to the world around them.

I'll use Isaac Rhoades as a brief example (I wrote brief but this is not brief at all, my bad xD).

From the beginning, Isaac was written with a sealed heart and a cold personality. He's an articulate and smart man, a workaholic, but he lives in solitude.

I always ask myself how and why a character is who they are, and what decisions they made/experiences they've had to bring them to this point.

For Isaac, his background paints quite the picture:

Born to loving parents, and his grandfather is a successful private investigator — The early part of his childhood nurtured love and care. His mother in particular showed him what it meant to love unconditionally.

His parents are murdered because of his grandfather's choice — Isaac was taught that even the people you love can hurt you, and that nowhere is a safe space.

Learning under his grandfather — Because of his vast portfolio and cases, Isaac is taught more about the workings of the world, and how to stay cautious. There was no space for fun or games; his only objective was expanding his knowledge in many subjects that his grandfather deemed worthy.

Getting stabbed by the maid — This reinforced the thought of a perpetual threat and the need to stay vigilant. It instilled paranoia in him to trust no one.

University in England and Andrew — Here, he remembers the love of his childhood, but also the threat of losing someone else because of his own decisions, taught by his grandfather.

Learning the reason of his grandfather's decision — Isaac was taught that there is always more to one person, for better or worse, as taught by the maid. Due to this and what he's learnt thus far, Isaac decides to seclude himself so he's never forced to make that kind of choice.

Succeeding his grandfather — Being a private investigator opened his eyes to humanity's extremes: the lengths they would go for their own desires at the detriment of others, and the yearning others had to better the world. His work reminds him of his life experiences, and these beliefs constantly clash.

Isaac is distant and cold at first because his life taught him not to trust anyone—even the unassuming—and he doesn't want to let anyone in; they could either betray him, or he could lose them. And yet, despite that, his mother's teachings managed to peek through when he saw Pickle in the alley, alluding to his true nature. Through Isaac's story, his internal struggle begins to rear: desperately wanting to feel love again, but knowing the cost if he does give in and the inevitable choice he might have to make if he opens his heart again.

Isaac is articulate and smart because of his grandfather's teachings. One can assume he stayed in that house for the rest of his teenage years until he left for university, so the only person he really interacted with was his grandfather. Because of this, he's factual, precise, and seldom makes jokes because mostly every conversation had been connected to work in some form. Small talk is a waste of time, and he doesn't indulge others unless there's a reason for it. He's meticulous with when to speak and when to listen.

Isaac is a workaholic because that is what his life has been shaped to be, also likely influenced by his grandfather. He has money, but continues to work. Why? Perhaps it's because he'd be without purpose otherwise. Or is it because he feels it's his duty to continue in his grandfather's footsteps and find the one thing that matters in the ocean of bullshit?

All of this shapes who Isaac is. It wouldn't make sense for him to have the same disposition as Andrew. Though they are similar in ways (articulation, education, work addiction), they take different forms and stem from the unique experiences they've lived. Where Andrew can engage in small talk (he had a freer childhood, a rebellious and fun twin brother, and more public school education/social interactions), Isaac can't. And though they both carry the weight of their own regrets alone, Andrew chooses to live with what he has, but Isaac chooses to endlessly bear the weight of the world and live up to his grandfather's bravery.

SO. With that being said, a suggestion I can give is to constantly remind yourself who your character is with every decision they make. Is it true to them? Does it make sense for them? But remember, humans are also notoriously contradictive, and one is not the same as another. We experience and react to the same conditions in completely different ways; who you are and what you've been through can determine the outcome.

I hope this has helped in some form of way!

Again I apologise for this monstrous post have fun writing aaaaa-

[zomboivex]

What ‘core’ personality each Tokyo Debunker Character has!

This is not meant to be taken seriously at all. Hence why I’m only sourcing the info I get specifically from one of my favorite books, Surrounded by Idiots by Thomas Erikson.

Pretty much any information I use will be from the front of the book. I won’t go too deep into the whole study or whether or not this is actually scientific. It’s literally just for fun on my end. Take it as it is.

I am doing this solely based off of their face-value self presentations and not a deeper dive.

So- without further ado-

Red

Extrovert/Active/Implementer

Task-oriented and Issue Oriented

Aggressive - ambitious - strong-willed - goal-oriented - pushing - problem-solver - pioneer - decisive - innovator - impatient - controlling - convincing - performance-oriented - powerful - results-oriented - initiator - speed - timekeeper - intense - opinionated - straightforward - independent

Jin Kamurai

Aggressive - Ambitious - Persuasive - Distant - Pushing - Self-Centered - Sensitive - Objective - Impatient - Controlling - Convincing - Powerful - Initiator - Intense - Straightforward

Leo Kurosagi

Aggressive - Ambitious - Talkative - Goal-Oriented - Pushing - Problem-Solver - Pioneer - Decisive - Innovator - Impatient - Controlling - Convincing - Persuasive - Creative - Correct - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Speed - Timekeeper - Intense - Opinionated - Social - Seems Insecure - Expressive - Charming - Analytical - Self-Centered - Methodical - Seeks Facts - Needs Attention - Scrutinizes - Sociable - Logical - Questioning

Taiga Hoshibami

Aggressive - Ambitious - Goal-Oriented - Persuasive - Creative - Innovator - Impatient - Spontaneous - Expressive - Pioneer - Self-Centered - Powerful - Adaptable - Initiator - Speed - Flexible - Intense - Independent

Romeo S. Lucci

Aggressive - Ambitious - Talkative - Goal-Oriented - Pushing - Persuasive - Impatient - Controlling - Convincing - Performance-Oriented - Powerful - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Speed - Timekeeper - Intense - Opinionated - Straightforward - Independent - Social - Expressive - Charming - Self-Centered - Sensitive - Needs Attention

Ritsu Shinjo

Aggressive - Ambitious - Strong-Willed - Goal-Oriented - Pushing - Problem-Solver - Talkative - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Conscientious - Systematic - Decisive - Expressive - Correct - Conventional - Controlling - Convincing - Performance-Oriented - Powerful - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Self-Centered - Sensitive - Objective - Structured - Analytical - Perfectionist - Intense - Opinionated - Straightforward - Independent - Communicative - Methodical - Seeks Facts - Quality-Oriented - Scrutinizes - Follows Rules - Logical - Questioning - Meticulous

Edward Hart

Aggressive - Talkative - Patient - Pushing - Problem Solver - Persuasive - Producer - Convincing - Spontaneous - Conceals Feelings - Powerful - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Charming - Intense - Opinionated - Self-Centered - Adaptable - Needs Attention

Lyca Colt

Aggressive - Ambitious - Strong-Willed - Goal-Oriented - Enthusiastic - Reliable - Problem-Solver - Creative - Optimistic - Loyal - Modest - Decisive - Expressive - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Persistent - Reluctant - Impatient - Sensitive - Adaptable - Inspiring - Kind - Powerful - Open - Speed - Timekeeper - Intense - Opinionated - Straightforward - Independent

Yellow

Extrovert/Active/Implementer

Relation-oriented

Talkative - enthusiastic - persuasive - creative - optimistic - social - spontaneous - expressive - charming - full of vitality - self-centered - sensitive - adaptable - inspiring - needs attention - encouraging- communicative - flexible - open - sociable - imaginative - easygoing

Kaito Fuji

Talkative - Enthusiastic - Discreet - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Seems Insecure - Optimistic - Social - Reluctant - Thoughtful - Follows Rules - Expressive - Considerate - Kind - Full of Vitality - Self-Centered - Sensitive - Needs Attention - Encouraging - Communicative - Open - Sociable - Easygoing

Haru Sagara

Talkative - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Creative - Optimistic - Social - Spontaneous - Expressive - Charming - Full of Vitality - Self-Centered - Patient - Relaxed - Ambitious - Strong-Willed - Goal-Oriented - Pushing - Problem-Solver - Pioneer - Decisive - Innovator - Impatient - Controlling - Convincing - Adaptable - Inspiring - Reliable - Speed - Encouraging - Helpful - Producer - Persistent - Sociable - Easygoing - Kind

Towa Otonashi

Aggressive - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Creative - Optimistic - Relaxed - Controlling - Spontaneous - Expressive - Loyal - Powerful - Full of Vitality - Self-Centered - Sensitive - Intense - Opinionated - Needs Attention - Imaginative

Zenji Kotodama

Talkative - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Creative - Optimistic - Social - Spontaneous - Expressive - Charming - Full of Vitality - Patient - Relaxed - Sensitive - Loyal - Inspiring - Needs Attention - Encouraging - Communicative - Understanding - Lengthy - Open - Sociable - Imaginative - Easygoing - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Persistent - Thoughtful - Considerate - Kind

Green

Introvert/Passive/Reserved

Relation-oriented

Patient - relaxed - self-controlled - reliable - composed - loyal - modest - understanding - lengthy - stable - prudent - discreet - supportive - good listener - helpful - producer - persistent - reluctant - thoughtful - conceals feelings - considerate - kind

Lucas Errant

Aggressive - Ambitious - Strong-Willed - Goal-Oriented - Pushing - Problem-Solver - Talkative - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Patient - Relaxed - Self-Controlled - Reliable - Composed - Loyal - Modest - Understanding - Decisive - Optimistic - Social - Stable - Performance-Oriented - Charming - Full of Vitality - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Persistent - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Speed - Adaptable - Inspiring - Thoughtful - Straightforward - Independent - Encouraging - Communicative - Flexible - Open - Sociable - Considerate - Kind - Easygoing

Alan Mido

Patient - Relaxed - Self-Controlled - Reliable - Composed - Loyal - Modest - Understanding - Consciousness - Systematic - Distant - Problem-Solver - Stable - Conventional - Straightforward - Independent - Objective - Structured - Discreet - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Reluctant - Needs Time - Reflecting - Conceals Feelings - Considerate - Kind - Seeks Facts - Quality-Oriented - Follows Rules - Questioning - Reserved

Sho Haizano

Relaxed - Self-Controlled - Reliable - Composed - Loyal - Modest - Understanding - Objective - Structured - Stable - Quality-Oriented - Discreet - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Reserved - Conceals Feelings - Considerate

Subaru Kagami

Patient - Enthusiastic - Self-Controlled - Reliable - Composed - Loyal - Modest - Understanding - Lengthy - Stable - Prudent - Discreet - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Seems Insecure - Creative - Optimistic - Social - Reluctant - Thoughtful - Conceals Feelings - Considerate - Kind - Perfectionist - Needs Time - Reflecting - Charming - Quality-Oriented - Scrutinizes - Sensitive - Adaptable - Inspiring - Meticulous - Reserved - Sociable - Easygoing

Haku Kusanagi

Patient - Relaxed - Self-Controlled - Reliable - Composed - Social - Modest - Understanding - Charming - Stable - Adaptable - Discreet - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Encouraging - Communicative - Flexible - Open - Sociable - Thoughtful - Conceals Feelings - Considerate - Kind - Follows Rules - Easygoing - Reserved

Rui Mizuki

Talkative - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Creative - Optimistic - Social - Patient - Relaxed - Self-Controlled - Reliable - Composed - Expressive - Charming - Full of Vitality - Modest - Understanding - Sensitive - Adaptable - Stable - Prudent - Discreet - Supportive - Good Listener - Helpful - Producer - Encouraging - Thoughtful - Conceals Feelings - Considerate - Kind - Flexible - Open - Easygoing

Blue

Introvert/Passive/Reserved

Task-oriented and Issue-oriented

Conscientious - systematic - distant - correct - conventional - seems insecure - objective - structured - analytical - perfectionist - needs time - reflecting - methodical - seeks facts - quality-oriented - scrutinizes - follows rules - logical - questioning - meticulous - reflecting - reserved

Tohma Ishibashi

Patient - Relaxed - Conscientious - Systematic - Ambitious - Composed - Conventional - Goal-Oriented - Stable - Objective - Structured - Analytical - Problem-Solver - Prudent - Discreet - Supportive - Methodical - Seeks Facts - Quality-Oriented - Performance-Oriented - Helpful - Producer - Persistent - Logical - Questioning - Meticulous - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Conceals Feelings - Reserved - Intense - Straightforward - Independent

Ren Shiranami

Relaxed - Self-Controlled - Distant - Modest - Objective - Discreet - Scrutinizes - Follows Rules - Logical - Reluctant - Reserved 

Yuri Isami

Aggressive - Ambitious - Talkative - Enthusiastic - Persuasive - Creative - Conscientious - Goal-Oriented - Pushing - Problem-Solver - Pioneer - Decisive - Innovator - Impatient - Controlling - Convincing - Performance-Oriented - Systematic - Results-Oriented - Initiator - Speed - Timekeeper - Intense - Opinionated - Self-Centered - Sensitive - Adaptable - Correct - Needs Attention - Seems Insecure - Communicative - Structured - Analytical - Perfectionist - Needs Time - Methodical - Seeks Facts - Quality-Oriented - Scrutinizes - Follows Rules - Logical - Questioning - Meticulous 

Jiro Kirisaki

Patient - Conscientious - Systematic - Distant - Reliable - Composed - Loyal - Modest - Objective - Structured - Analytical - Supportive - Needs Time - Reflecting - Methodical - Seeks Facts - Quality-Oriented - Helpful - Producer - Follows Rules - Logical - Conceals Feelings - Reserved

I would give input on why I selected these but I really don’t want to right now.

[yandere-genji]

Hi, big fan of your work!! Could you please do Yandere Genji or Cassidy snooping through their fem s/o's internet history to make sure she's been a good girl, only to discover she's been looking at all different kinds of sex toys?

tw: yandere, abuse reader is gender neutral

💚 Genji

What sets Genji apart from other yanderes is his method of keeping his darling under control. Genji works from a distant. Sure, stalking goes without saying, but his motive runs deeper than simply watching his darling from afar. Since his time in Blackwatch, he’s worked in the shadows. Honed the ability to use himself as threat to subdue enemies. Because when you realize he’s made you a target, it’s already too late. 

So he might not be by your side commanding your every move, but he’ll be there. The unsettling wind at your back, the shuffling of footsteps somewhere in the distance, the displaced objects in your home. He might confront you face to face, depends on what he has planned for you. But by technicality, you’ll have your own space. 

But is it yours, really? Because you can’t relax when you have eyes on you. You’re hyper vigilant, all too aware of any vulnerability you might expose. Still, Genji doesn’t have time to keep watch on you at every second. He has business to attend to from time to time. So when you do have those moments alone, you’re quick to take advantage of them.

Unfortunately for you, Genji is always sure to check up on you when he returns from his duties. He has a few excuses for this, namely that he wants to make sure you’re doing alright, that you’re safe. It’s thinly veiled, though, when he rummages through your delicates, unlocks your laptop and searches your internet history. It was only a matter of time until he stumbled across your unsavory interests, but he can’t help the smile that creeps on his face at the victory of unveiling them. 

When you come home, the atmosphere is uneasy, an eerie shroud weighing heavy at your breast. Small things had been misplaced in ways that don’t make sense. You flick the lights on in your bedroom, and you’ve seen Genji before, but never so close and in such an intimate space. 

He approaches you and you’re too stunned to even move. He holds up his hand and turns over a particularly impressive toy you’d had your eyes on, though the sight of it now has you ill at ease. 

“This one caught your eye?” your face burns red as he examines the toy in his hand, “You’ve indulged me this much, I thought I might return the favor.”

❤️‍🔥 Cassidy

If you’ve never had a helicopter parent, Cassidy is going to take a lot of adjusting too. He loves to baby you, always watching over your shoulder and keeping you on a tight leash. His trust is gained in drops and lost in buckets, so his vigilance all depends on your temperament. That being said, he is very generous in rewarding good behavior, the conditions of which involves varying degrees of eager submission. Just be a good baby, and you’ll have nothing to worry about. 

But it’s not the worry that gets to you. It’s the constant hovering, he’s by your side whenever he can be and watching your every move. You have to be his perfect little angel or he’ll be sure to correct you, and God does he take every chance he can get. The more you gain his trust, though, the more forgiving he will be. 

At first, he’ll shower you with little gifts like clothes or trinkets, he might even let you have some TV time. Then it’s trips to the park, picnic dates and even some restaurants, with the condition you never leave his side. Still, the outside exposure is dearly missed. And when he buys you a laptop, you wonder if it’s a test.

Despite his experience in a highly technical organization, Cassidy is completely oblivious to anything involving technology or computers. It was never a skill he had use for developing, his brute strength capable enough to render any other ability useless. So, he was handing the responsibility to you, trusting you wouldn’t betray him. 

And you didn’t, you were really good, especially when it was new and exciting. The little things were enough to satisfy you, watching YouTube videos, listening to your own music, or simply reading the news. It’d been so long since you had internet access. As time went by, you got a little bolder, messaging some friends and playing video games. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the urge you felt when Cassidy was sent out in a mission, leaving you all to yourself. 

When he was here, you had your fill of sexual attention. Honestly, you couldn’t get his hands off of you. Though it could be exhausting, it trained in you a need. Something you couldn’t quit cold turkey. And without Cassidy to satisfy that craving, you developed a terrible habit of browsing sex toys. 

And what a stupid habit it was, especially when Cassidy caught you red-handed on an early return. The way his smile beamed made you want to recoil into yourself, vanish right then and there. 

“Cassidy! I can explain!” your mind was already in the process of spinning some story, “There was this stupid pop-up ad, I didn’t mean to click it - actually I was clicking out of it, but the stupid track pad- Oh my gosh, I swear.”

You knew he was going to laugh, you were prepared for him to tease you, you knew it was going to happen. But the preparation wasn’t enough to shield your embarrassment. 

“Naughty thing, ain’t ya?” he purred, his lips curling in a wily grin. 

“Please don’t be mad at me,” you pleaded with big doe eyes you knew would melt him. 

“Oh, pumpkin,” he cupped your chin and circled a thumb over your lips, “Must’ve missed me bad. Let me take care of you.”

From then on, pandora’s box was open. Cassidy loves to see you embrace your sexual side, especially when he can take advantage of it. And your new interest is another opportunity to do just that. He’ll have you put 

 on display while he sits back and enjoys a nice cigar and cool glass of whiskey. 

[neeksparksg]

Cold-Birth

Cybertron – The Distant Past

The skies above Kaon were dark, twin moons casting shadows over the remains of what once had been Cybertron’s proudest city. It was now a fortress, the base of the Decepticons

Soundwave returned. with a team of elite Decepticons. The mission had taken them far from the battlefront, to a planet far away from cybertron almost completely destroyed after a war far more ancient than the current civil war.

None of them really expected to success, after all they were hunting for a myth. Something that rivaled the Matrix of Leadership. A lost artifact born not of Primus, but of Unicron. the Matrix of Conquest

And they had found it.

Megatron stood before the artifact. The Matrix of Conquest it looked nothing like its counterpart. Instead of the golden orb of the matrix of leadership, it was a violet, star shaped, Its energy felt wrong.

“Finally, Unicron's power it is mine,” Megatron said, stepping forward, optics staring at the matrix. "with this I shall obtain a far greater power than anyone can imagine"

Megatron reached out, servo claws inches from the glowing object. The moment his fingers touched its surface, the Matrix reacted. Violently

A surge of energy burst from it, slamming Megatron back across the chamber. The few decepticons in the room stared in silent, A faint smile apperead in Starscream's faceplate, but he didn't dare to make a sound

The Warlord screamed—not in pain, but in rage. “It rejected me,” he growled, rising slowly, energon sizzling down the metal of his chestplate. His optics burned. “It dared reject me.”

The artifact floated calmly again, as if nothing had happened Shockwave stepped forward, analyzing silently. The scientist tried to gently touch it but the matrix reacted threatening to not get close “how curious, it seems to be somehow sentient.”

“I will not be denied!” Megatron snarled, his voice shaking the room. “shockwave, take it with you, I want you to study it and create A weapon. capable of harnessig its power”

The Labs of Shockwave – years Later

Shockwave spends months studying the matrix before he started constructing countless prototypes, each abandoned when they failed to spark interest from the Matrix.

it remained still.

Until they found it.

A vault. Deep under the wreckage of one of the moon's of the planet where they found the matrix .

It was Half of a body.

It was unmistakably Cybertronian, but incomplete. The head and one arm were present, a partially constructed torso. It had no spark. No signs of life or coding. But it was ancient, perhaps as old as the Thirteen themselves. Unfinished, as if creation had been interrupted And when they brought it near the Matrix of Conquest… It glowed.

Not violently. Not explosively. But faintly… almost with recognition. Shockwave recorded everything. “Conclusion: the Matrix identifies some level of compatibility. Partial resonance detected. Further experimentation required.”

He cut out segments of the corpse’s and began building around them.

It mostly worked, he used part of the chest plate to try and create a weapon to control the matrix, the matrix did allow itself to be placed in it, but Shockwave couldn't detect any success in using it's actual power

He took a different approach, logically if the matrix showed recognition of the body, it might be the best option to use it So he began working

The body was ready. A flawless design if he said so himself, Shockwave not only finish it, he also improve the body a modified T-cog was installed allowing various alternate forms, it was the best of all his creations, no other cold constructed or any forged cyberteonian came in comparacion, if he had emotions he would detect pride in himself for it, But there was still one issue it had no spark.

Shockwave considered traditional methods. using a constructed spark, like all the other cold constructe have

Then discarded them. His created needed something better and after all the matrix was made by unicron, and by what logic dictates the half builded cybertronian was also his creation, (thought Shockwave consider it his, after all he had done more work on it, and actually finished it) so it needed a fitting spark, something as twisted and cruel as it's creator

So He began a new experiment. Something dark. Something no other Cybertronian had dared to try: forcing sparks together

Autobots were captured from the front lines—scouts, warriors, medics. All brought in alive.

They were not interrogated. They were not granted any mercy

They were Dissected. Their sparks were painfully extracted—not deactivated, not released into the AllSpark—but kept alive. Tortured. Compressed. Torn apart and stitched together like fabric.

One by one, their sparks were forced to combine.

It took cycles of agony. The sparks rejected one another, repulsed like magnets of opposing charge.. But eventually, Shockwave succeeded in creating something new. A massive, unstable spark, Any sane cybertronian would call it an abomination an insult to Primus himself

“Spark stable.” Shockwave said coldly. Staring at the blue orb The chamber was silent.

The prototype lay on the platform, She was beautiful in the way a blade is—sleek, dangerous, cold.

The Spark was inserted.

Instantly, the body convulsed. Power surged through the limbs. Lights flickered, machinery screamed. The prototype’s frame arched violently, her optics not yet online. The energy overwhelmed the laboratory. The Matrix floated overhead, responding to the birth.

Then it struck.

The Matrix of Conquest shot forward. It hit her square in the spark chamber.

She screamed.

Her voice could be heard across the lab, a cry of angony The matrix forced itself into her violently, unwilling to allow her choice in the matter. It did not embed itself neatly. It clawed its way inside, burning through systems, rewriting her core code, injecting its hatred and power.

The scream lasted for minutes.

Then silence.

Her optics blinked open. Not blue. Not red. they glowed green for a moment before turning Violet

Shockwave stepped forward. “Unit online. Systems synchronized. Spark stable. Matrix… integrated.”

She sat up slowly, the digits on her servo moving slowly, she adjusting to living

“Welcome Y/n” Shockwave said giving his creation a name.

Shockwave turned to his comms.

“Lord Megatron… the weapon is ready.”

[soullessbullshit]

Okay, hear me out.

Raz and Darien play very similar narrative roles in their respective factions' storylines, but their core characters are night and day from one another.

Razum-dar is cunning, keen, and deceptive. He plays the role of a flirtatious rogue with a daedra-may-care attitude, masking the manipulative, hyper-observant machiavellian that lies beneath (which, looking back at some of my years-old Raz posts, actively deceived me for a while).

Raz deliberately carries himself with an air of shallowness, nonchalance, and overconfidence to ensure that most underestimate him, providing more opportunities to subvert their expectations. By feigning minor incompetence, Raz is able to more easily manipulate not only his enemies, but his allies as well, into lowering their guard just enough to get what he needs. It's through his mastery of this routine that he so fervently excels in the realm of espionage and inquisition.

In several instances throughout the game, Razum-dar has lowered the mask just enough to showcase how ruthless, driven, and pragmatic his methods truly are (reprimanding the Vestige for refusing to let him die in Senalana, killing a seditious extremist in front of his father with zero hesitation or remorse, etc.) His laziness is just as much of a ruse; the guy conducted a full-blown investigation on vacation (which he only took out of mandate in the first place) simply because the opportunity presented itself and his Spy-dey senses started tingling.

Razum-dar has been likened even more so to fellow Fruit Ninja Naryu Virian, as both are incredibly charismatic covert ops who toe the line between distant and gregarious at every turn. That being said, I would genuinely argue that Razum-dar is an even more detached individual than Naryu. For all her "heartless assassin" swagger, Naryu has prioritized attachment over pragmatism or responsibility on at least a couple occasions, while Raz has yet to make a major decision for any known reason beyond responsibility or fixation. Were Raz in Naryu's shoes during the Morrowind DLC, I earnestly believe he'd kill Veya unless physically prevented from doing so.

Darien Gautier, on the other hand, is a lot of what Raz pretends to be. He's idealistic, he's naive, and he's incredibly cavalier. He's an aspiring knight in shining armor with, much like Raz, a genuine knack for his vocation.

In overt contrast to Raz, Darien is an individual with whom what you see is what you get. His methods and occupation take a far more direct approach as a front-line warrior, imposing himself between danger and those he's sworn to protect while beating back threats in direct combat.

For all his growth in his time as the Golden Knight, we only get to see so much of it (easily one of the most glaringly missed opportunities in the game), as he only shows up towards the end of his tenure for half of one DLC that afforded little room for individual characters to breathe. That said, while he does come off as far more level-headed and situationally aware in that time, he clearly retains a more centered version of his defining characteristics from the Covenant questline. Darien is optimistic, encouraging, and hopelessly devoted. He's the radiant heart of every team. He's a warm font of hope and morale. He's defined by his compassion and his desire to do right by those who need it.

While both have willingly sacrificed themselves for others, Darien did so in last-ditch efforts to protect the people for whom he cares, while Raz insisted on doing so out of a sense of pragmatic obligation. While both have manipulated others for the advancement of their objectives, Darien did so as a case-specific (albeit self-indulgent) necessity, while Raz does so both as his modus operandi and as a far broader, pettier pastime. While both are characterized by a fierce devotion to their respective vocations, Darien's is rooted in altruism and a heroic ideal, while Raz's is rooted in personal loyalty and a desire for purpose and fulfillment.

If these two were to work together, beyond the hyper-tangential capacity in which they did so in the Summerset DLC, I believe they'd have very different opinions of each other.

Darien would likely buy into Raz's persona completely, maintaining an active rapport and (ironically enough) trying to get him to take a more active initiative in their objectives. Raz would immediately figure out exactly what makes Darien tick, seeing him as an incredibly simple and useful asset to manipulate, but also a potential liability should his idealism cloud his judgement. He would definitely still enjoy engaging and interacting with him, though he'd be about as surface-level as can be, presuming Darien not to last long as the front-liner he is and devising plans around that notion.

In any moral decision, the two are butting heads. Unless Raz manages to successfully gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss Darien into submission and/or confusion, most of his solutions to such quandries would most certainly prompt a less-than-favorable response, and in some cases, maybe even direct intervention.

The difference between the two is genuinely one of my favorite things to consider while writing Khoshekh, considering the comparable degrees of significance (albeit of wildly contrasting natures) the two play in their life over the years.

No way in Oblivion I'm not absolutely milking the rare crossing of threads come Summerset. Especially with the SBverse Summerset arc occurring nearly a decade into the story after a several year timeskip, rather than literally the entire game happening in the same year (y'all can't tell me that entire questline isn't some table-indulgent high-level post-campaign shit).

That drama's gonna be fun.

[unhonestlymirror]

"Astronomers from Vilnius University, Lithuania, together with foreign colleagues, have discovered a rare exoplanet — a gas giant AT2021uey b, located in the halo of the Milky Way, far from the center of the galaxy

This is only the third such case in the history of observations.

The planet was found using the method of gravitational microlensing — when a massive object amplifies the light of a distant star, acting as a magnifying glass.

The discovery was made possible thanks to the Gaia telescope and ground-based observations, including data from the VU observatory in Molėtai.

The planet is 1.3 times heavier than Jupiter and orbits a cool M-type star in 4170 days.

The results are published in the journal Astronomy & Astrophysics."