#Elevator Security Solutions

[medicalweightloss100]

Enhancing Elevator Safety with Advanced Wireless CCTV

Enhance elevator security with Elevator Video Systems' wireless CCTV, featuring motion detection, night vision, and cloud connectivity for safer transit.

Discover flexible and powerful elevator surveillance solutions for safe rides.

Elevator Video Systems enhances security with its advanced wireless CCTV, offering easy installation, minimal wiring, and superior image quality. Featuring motion detection, night vision, and cloud connectivity, it ensures real-time monitoring of commercial and residential properties. With expert support, the company leads in innovative elevator surveillance for safer transit systems.

Creative Methods for Installing Wireless Lift Security Cameras

Our wireless CCTV for elevators enables a seamless safety upgrade that transforms traditional elevator surveillance. By replacing extensive cabling with modern wifi CCTV for lift systems, we deliver enhanced security flexibly. The installation of a wireless lift security camera is straightforward, requiring minimal structural interference while providing high-definition clarity and precise coverage. In addition, the battery-powered lift CCTV option minimizes downtime during installation, allowing businesses and residential properties to maintain operations without major disruptions. Advanced features, such as smart CCTV for elevators and remote access CCTV for lifts, further deepen the security measures within elevator cabins.

This innovative system uses cutting-edge technologies to ensure that every detail is captured. With a no-wire elevator security camera, there is reduced clutter and a more aesthetic installation, while the wireless lift monitoring camera assures comprehensive coverage. Regular monitoring via remote access adds an extra layer of protection, creating a highly responsive environment determined to address safety issues swiftly. This approach not only meets modern security standards but also exceeds expectations, making it an ideal solution for safeguarding passengers and easing management efforts.

Ensuring Continuous Elevator Surveillance with Wireless HD Cameras

The integration of a wireless HD camera for elevators is a game changer in modern security systems. Utilizing superior image quality, these cameras provide clear and detailed footage essential for daily surveillance. The system incorporates features such as motion detection and infrared night vision, which ensure smooth operation at any time of day. With no physical wires required, the setup is both rapid and efficient – perfect for retrofit projects and new installations alike. Enhanced by the integration of remote access CCTV for lift systems, security personnel can instantly review footage from any location.

By employing a battery-powered lift CCTV system, facilities benefit from a reliable and renewable power source, minimizing the risk of disruptions. Regular system checks guarantee up-to-date performance, ensuring that even in low-light conditions, the clarity and integrity of video data remain intact. The advantages of adopting a wireless elevator surveillance system include reduced installation costs and greater flexibility in camera placement, creating a comprehensive solution that effectively addresses today's dynamic security challenges.

High-Security Elevator Cameras with Remote Access And Smart Technology

With our wireless lift monitoring camera, security teams gain unprecedented control over elevator environments. This smart CCTV for elevators provides immediate remote access, allowing facility managers to oversee elevator movements and detect potential threats in real-time. The system’s high-definition capabilities ensure that facial details and key security features are captured without compromise. An integrated alarm system can warn personnel of irregular activity immediately, positioning the setup as an ideal solution for busy high-rise buildings where rapid response is crucial.

Moreover, the emphasis on a cloud-based platform and advanced analytics transforms traditional elevator surveillance into an interactive and responsive security system. The wireless HD camera not only delivers exceptional clarity but also analyzes activity patterns to predict and prevent security breaches. The combination of smart sensors and real-time monitoring makes this system highly adaptable, ensuring every ride is safe and every incident is recorded accurately. This forward-thinking technology empowers both occupants and operators with the tools needed for a secure environment.

Cutting-Edge Features and Advantages of No-Wires Elevator Cameras

Our no-wires elevator security camera is designed for modern buildings that demand aesthetic integrity and functional excellence. This system eliminates unsightly cabling, ensuring a clean installation that blends seamlessly with interior designs. The wireless connectivity also reduces labor costs and installation complexities, while the advanced battery-powered lift CCTV maintains robust functionality even in challenging settings. Users benefit from high-definition imaging combined with motion detection for full-spectrum monitoring. The integration of a wifi CCTV for lift ensures that data transmission is both secure and rapid, facilitating real-time responses to any irregularities.

By choosing a no-wire approach, property managers drastically simplify both the initial setup and subsequent maintenance procedures. The wireless system is engineered to function reliably under constant use, ensuring consistency in surveillance quality. Using innovative communication protocols, the system integrates efficiently with remote control hubs. Consequently, this approach not only boosts operational efficiency but also reinforces overall safety measures, making it a superior solution in today’s technologically driven security landscape.

Advanced Elevator Security System for Enhanced Protection

Elevator Video Systems offers a comprehensive suite of wireless CCTV for elevators that redefines security standards. Their wireless lift security camera systems are engineered to provide high-definition video monitoring, integrating smart and reliable technology with a focus on user convenience. This company’s solutions include remote access CCTV for lifts, allowing real-time monitoring and immediate intervention from any remote location. With an approach centered around innovative design and technical excellence, Elevator Video Systems ensures that every component, from the wireless HD camera for elevators to battery-powered lift CCTV options, works together to provide a robust security framework.

Elevator Video Systems' elevator surveillance wireless system is distinguished by its easy installation, minimal wiring needs, and superior image quality. The fusion of advanced features such as motion detection and night vision with cloud connectivity creates an elevated safety experience tailored for modern commercial and residential properties. Providing thorough support and expert advice, the company is a trusted partner in the transformation of institutional security practices. Their commitment to technological innovation positions them at the forefront of elevator surveillance, ensuring safer and more dependable transit systems.

Conclusion - Reinventing Elevator Safety with Wireless Technology

In summary, the modernization of elevator security through wireless CCTV systems represents a significant advancement in safety and monitoring. The integration of a wireless lift monitoring camera with a smart CCTV for elevators offers a dynamic blend of high-definition video, real-time remote access, and efficient battery-powered operation. These systems are designed for quick installation, eliminating the clutter of traditional wiring without sacrificing performance. Every elevator becomes a monitored and secure space, fortified by advanced image capture, motion detection, and night vision functionalities that cater to modern security demands.

This comprehensive approach to elevator surveillance not only enhances passenger safety but also streamlines maintenance and reduces overall costs. By leveraging state-of-the-art technology, property managers are equipped with the tools required to proactively manage any safety concerns. The wireless HD camera systems and no-wires elevator security camera solutions provide a promising future where safety meets efficiency. The evolution witnessed through these technologically advanced systems marks a new era in building security, ensuring that every ride is as safe as it is seamless.

[superbassbuck]

Making Out for America [masterlist]

Congressman!Bucky x America’s Sweetheart!Reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage

29.9k words || in progress || no y/n || fluff and angst || mental heath issues || f!reader || sexual tension || set during thunderbolts* || ao3

Bucky Barnes, the reformed assassin turned congressman with a major PR problem that just won’t let up. Tabloids bad mouth him. Society fears him. How can he get the American people to believe that he has what it takes for a seat at the office? Desperate for a breakthrough, Bucky needs a way to win over the nation’s trust. Then his press secretary suggests a bold solution. Marriage to you, the poised, beloved daughter of a decorated war hero. America’s sweetheart. The embodiment of everything he’s not. It’s all for show. For Bucky, it means a shot at redemption. For you, it’s a chance to elevate your late father’s legacy and secure support for your foundation. Strictly business, and no space for love. Everything is going well. But behind closed doors and the flashing cameras, you two can't stand each other, and it's taking everything in you two to not rip each other's throats out.

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

one || two || three || four || || five || six || seven (in progress)

[carbt1]

OTOMCARSEATCOVERS (4)

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[tikitakatia]

Under Watch — A. Putellas x Reader

"New Neighbour, New Problems "

WC: 1.8k

Summary: The threat against Alexia looms closer, but the management has the perfect solution.

You’re leaning against the hood of the car when she appears. Hair still damp from her post morning workout shower, hoodie slung over her shoulders, earbuds in. Alexia walks like someone who doesn’t expect to be bothered. Which is really ironic, considering that’s your entire job description.

She slows when she sees you. One eyebrow arches. "You’re driving me now? What is this, high school? Should I sit in the back and pretend I need some lunch money?"

You nod toward the driver’s side. "New protocol. Until further notice."

She groans audibly and mutters something in Catalan that you don’t catch, but the tone is universal. Disgust. Annoyance. A hint of ‘I’ll set this car on fire if it proves a point.’

And then she sees it.

The note.

You’d already bagged it, gloved and stored. But the outline where it sat on the windshield is still obvious.

She goes still.

"Another one?"

You nod. "Same handwriting. Slightly more aggressive."

"Of course it is. People get weird when their teams lose. Or win. Or breathe."

"We’re escalating precautions."

Alexia exhales sharply through her nose. "You mean panicking."

"They mean panicking," you correct.

"I mean adapting."

She gives you a long look. Not hostile. Just tired. Then gets into the passenger seat and slams the door with unnecessary force.

"Fine. But I’m choosing the music."

You don’t answer. She turns up the volume anyway.

They break the news right after practice. No warning, no soft lead-in.

“You’ll have a new neighbor starting today,” says the club security lead. “It’s part of our reinforced protection protocol.”

Alexia blinks. "Okay... What does that have to do with me?"

He shifts in his chair. "It’s your new bodyguard. She’s moving into the unit next to yours."

The silence is instant. Then loud.

“You cannot be serious.”

"Alexia, this isn’t just about notes anymore. Someone got inside the building. They knew your car."

"It’s a public parking lot. You let fans in there all the time."

"Not with access to your elevator."

She scoffs. "Maybe the security team should be better at their job then."

You don’t speak. Not yet. You're leaning against the back wall, arms folded, face neutral.

Alexia wheels toward you. "You knew about this?"

"I was informed this morning."

"Of course you were. And you just what? Packed up your little secret agent suitcase and showed up like it’s nothing?"

You shrug. "It’s part of the job."

"Well, I hate it."

"Duly noted."

She turns back to the security team. "This is ridiculous. I have a lock. I have an alarm system. What do you think is going to happen, someone crawls through the vents and I need Sombra next door to kick them in the face?"

"This isn’t a negotiation, Alexia. The club signed off on it. It’s a temporary assignment."

She mutters something under her breath that sounds like "temporary my ass" and stands, grabbing her bag.

“I’m not agreeing to this.”

“You don’t have to. It’s already done.”

A few hours later, you’re unlocking the door to your new apartment with a box under one arm. She’s standing in the hallway with a protein bar in hand, unwrapped but untouched.

“Let me guess,” she says. “You also have access to my building, and floor layout, my grocery list, and the microchip they implanted in my skull at birth.”

“Just your floor. And your training schedule.”

She stares. You unlock your door and step inside. She follows like an angry cat, keeping her distance but making sure you know she’s watching.

“This is overkill.”

You open the window. Sweep the place. First habit.

“You’re not that important.”

She bristles.

“That’s not what I meant,” she mutters, but you’re already plugging in your encrypted laptop.

She lingers in the doorway. "You’re not going to say anything else? No apology for completely violating my life?"

You look up. "I’m not here to violate. I’m here to protect."

She makes a face like that might be worse.

That evening, she stomps by as you’re bringing in another box.

“Are you going to be pacing the hallway all night like some sort of armed Roomba?"

“No. Just until I'm set up."

“Well, can you at least do it silently? Some of us are trying to pretend we have privacy."

You say nothing. She rolls her eyes and disappears into her apartment, slamming the door harder than necessary.

The next morning, she sees you in the hallway.

“I almost tripped over your boots,” she says. “Are you nesting in the hallway now, or should I just assume you live here more than I do?”

You nod toward the wall. “Your door has a new sensor now. Motion-triggered. You’ll hear it if someone lingers outside too long."

She freezes. Her mouth opens, then closes.

Then: "So now my door tattles on people. Great. Can’t wait for it to go off when I get home drunk."

You glance at her. "I'll disable the alarm if you're singing."

She glares. “You think you're funny, huh?”

You don't answer. That, in itself, is the punchline.

Dinner is loud, messy, and deeply therapeutic. Alexia’s on her second glass of wine, slumped into her chair like she’s aged a decade in one week. Patri’s already warned the waiter that the table might need extra bread, patience, and backup wine.

“She’s everywhere,” Alexia says, stabbing at her grilled vegetables and pretending they´re you.

“Like… omnipresent. A specter in a hoodie.”

"Sounds kind of hot," Marta says casually, sipping her sangria.

Alexia throws her a sharp look. "That’s not the point."

"But you’re not denying it," Irene hums.

"It’s irrelevant," Alexia snaps, then sighs.

"I open the door to take out my trash and she’s there. I go down to grab a delivery, she's already standing by the elevator like she’s predicting my thoughts. I swear it's like she has motion sensors or something."

"That’s… literally her job?" Patri says slowly, brows raised.

"Yeah, to protect you?" Irene adds. "Not to wait around until you're ready for a hug."

"Okay, but do bodyguards really need to be so silent all the time? It’s unsettling. She’s like a ninja. I dropped my keys in the hallway and she just... appeared. No footsteps. No sound. Just materialized out of nowhere like a ghost."

"A ghost in Nikes," Marta says, grinning.

"With great cheekbones," Irene adds.

Alexia makes a frustrated noise and drops her fork with a clatter. "This is not the support I expected."

"We’re just saying," Patri starts gently, "you’re not the same level of anonymous anymore. You’re… big. A worldwide football sensation. That means more weirdos, more creeps, more risk."

"And she’s good," Irene says. "Did you know she checked the entire restaurant while we were coming in? Didn’t even make a scene. Just a little loop like she was on her phone."

Alexia blinks. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Marta nods. "Clocked it right away. Didn’t miss a beat. Kind of badass, honestly."

Alexia sinks a little in her seat. She hates that she hadn’t noticed. Hates that she kind of agrees.

"She even nodded at the hostess like she was confirming something," Patri adds. "Stoic, but polite."

"Oh my god," Alexia mutters. "She’s efficient. She’s polite. She’s a fucking Girl Scout with a security clearance."

Marta smirks. "And did we mention-"

"Yes, yes, she’s attractive, I’m not blind," Alexia grumbles into her glass. "But that’s not the point."

"Maybe not," Irene teases, "but it’s a nice bonus."

Alexia opens her mouth to argue, but her phone buzzes. She checks the new message.

[Sombrita]: Crowd is forming outside. Photos, videos. Suggest back exit. I’ll be waiting by the kitchen doors. Van is ready.

She groans. "She’s already planning our escape."

"That’s actually kind of hot," Patri says with a grin.

Alexia shakes her head, but there’s a reluctant tug at the corner of her mouth. "I just want her to be less… present."

The table goes quiet. Her friends exchange a look.

"Less present," Irene repeats softly.

"Not gone," Marta notes.

Alexia glares at her wine. "You’re all the worst."

Another buzz. 

[Sombrita]: Five minutes. Back exit. Let me know if anyone needs help getting out.

Alexia sighs again. She types back a terse: Got it.

As they gather their things and follow the waiter through the back, Irene leans in close.

"Hey, at least she makes you feel safe, right?"

Alexia doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t argue either.

It’s late when you hear the sensor alarm start its soft beeping. Silent, subtle, set to trigger if anyone stays in the hallway for more than two and a half minutes. You’re on your couch, sweats and tank top, a book open in your hand you haven’t really been reading. She's been standing there for a while.

You wait. Half a minute more. Then, for your own amusement more than anything, you switch it from silent mode to a single loud beep. Just one. Just enough.

"For fuck’s sake!" Alexia growls angrily from outside, voice muffled through the door.

You’re up in a second, unlocking her front door with a single tap of the card.

She’s startled when it opens.

"Have you been watching me this whole time?"

You don’t say anything. You just smirk.

Alexia narrows her eyes. She’s flushed, slightly tipsy from wine with her family, wrapped in a soft oversized coat, hair messy from the wind. She looks more tired than drunk, but the tipsiness makes her looser, sharper-tongued.

"Well? Are you going to let me in or are we going to stand here all night while you flex your creepy telepathic door-opening skills?"

"After you." You step aside and gesture smoothly.

She walks in haughtily, except her handbag catches on the door handle as she passes. The momentum jerks her back slightly, throwing her off balance.

You catch her instinctively. One hand on her elbow, the other lightly at her waist.

"Careful," you say.

Alexia steadies herself but doesn’t pull away immediately. Her gaze flicks up to yours. "Are the reflexes also part of the job description, or do you just enjoy being everywhere at once?"

You tilt your head. "Would it bother you less if I said I enjoy it?"

She scoffs, but there’s a small smirk threatening to betray her. "A little full of yourself, aren’t you?"

You release her gently, stepping back. "Just observant."

She walks into her apartment, still facing you, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, well. Don't get used to catching me."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

Alexia turns away fast enough that you don’t see her smile, but not fast enough to stop you from knowing it’s there.

She closes the door behind her, and for the second time that night, you return to your post.

Across the hall, light from under her door seeps into the hallway. You hear her footsteps pause.

Then nothing.

But a few seconds later, the peephole darkens for just a heartbeat.

She’s watching you too now.

[blackstarlineage]

25 Essential Principles for Black Conduct and Empowerment: A Garveyite Perspective

From a Garveyite perspective, Black people must uphold a code of conduct rooted in self-determination, unity, discipline, and economic independence to reclaim sovereignty and build a powerful Black world. Marcus Garvey emphasized that the liberation of Black people requires not just awareness but action, structure, and collective responsibility. Without a solid foundation of principles to guide conduct, Black people remain vulnerable to external control, disunity, and stagnation.

This analysis outlines 25 essential principles that Black people must adhere to for collective empowerment, ensuring that every aspect of life—from personal discipline to political strategy—aligns with Black self-reliance and Pan-African unity.

1. Prioritize Black Unity Over Petty Divisions

Black people must reject tribalism, nationality-based elitism, and class divisions that prevent global solidarity. Whether African, African American, Caribbean, or Afro-Latino, all Black people share a common struggle and destiny.

2. Be Loyal to Black Institutions, Not External Systems

Economic, educational, and political systems designed by non-Black entities often do not serve Black interests. Black people must build, support, and defend their own institutions to ensure self-governance.

3. Maintain Economic Discipline and Group Economics

Black people must spend, circulate, and invest money within their own communities rather than enriching non-Black businesses that do not support Black liberation. Wealth must serve the collective, not just the individual.

4. Reject Begging and Dependency

Garveyism teaches that self-reliance is the key to sovereignty. Seeking validation, reparations without self-building, or constant dependency on non-Black systems keeps Black people weak. We must create solutions, not wait for handouts.

5. Strengthen the Black Family Unit

A strong Black nation starts with strong families. Fatherhood, motherhood, and communal responsibility must be honoured. The intentional breakdown of the Black family is a tool of oppression, and reversing it is a revolutionary act.

6. Guard Black Cultural Identity Fiercely

Black culture must be protected from dilution, appropriation, and distortion. The global media industry manipulates Black culture for profit while degrading its revolutionary potential. Black people must reclaim their spiritual, artistic, and historical identities.

7. Reject Hyper-Consumerism and Materialism

Black empowerment is not measured by luxury brands, flashy lifestyles, or European standards of success. True power comes from ownership, land, and industry—not consumer status.

8. Develop Financial Literacy and Generational Wealth

Black people must prioritize financial education, investments, land ownership, and cooperative economics over short-term spending habits. Financial discipline determines power.

9. Master Self-Defense and Security

Black communities must be physically and strategically protected. Knowledge of self-defense, martial arts, and security strategies is essential to prevent exploitation, gentrification, and violence against Black people.

10. Respect and Elevate Black Women

Black women have always been at the forefront of liberation struggles. They must be honoured, protected, and empowered, while rejecting both misogyny and feminism that devalues traditional African family structures.

11. Reject White Validation and Seek Black Excellence

Seeking approval from white institutions, corporations, or governments weakens self-worth. Excellence must be defined on Black terms, not Western standards.

12. Eliminate Self-Hatred and Colourism

Black people must dismantle anti-Black programming, including colourism, texturism, and Eurocentric beauty standards. Loving Blackness is a revolutionary act.

13. Be Politically Aware but Not Emotionally Manipulated

Black people must engage in politics with strategic awareness, rather than blind emotional allegiance to parties that do not serve Black interests. Power is taken, not asked for.

14. Prioritize African Spirituality and Indigenous Practices

African spiritual systems have been demonized and replaced with religious systems that pacify Black resistance. Black people must reclaim ancestral knowledge and reject systems that promote blind obedience over empowerment.

15. Train Black Youth for Leadership and Legacy

Black children must be educated in liberation philosophy, economic empowerment, and self-discipline from an early age. The next generation must be trained, not just inspired.

16. Reject Degenerative Media and Narratives

Music, television, and films that promote self-destruction, hypersexuality, and violence against Black people must be rejected. Media that elevates, educates, and empowers Black minds must be supported.

17. Demand Accountability from Leaders

Black leaders—whether political, religious, or social—must be held to strict ethical and strategic standards. Personality cults and blind allegiance lead to betrayal and stagnation.

18. Build Pan-African Alliances Instead of Isolating Movements

No single Black community or nation can thrive alone. Black people worldwide must work together to secure land, resources, and industries.

19. Promote Self-Discipline and Mental Strength

A weak and undisciplined mind is easily controlled. Black people must master self-discipline in thought, habits, and actions to create a powerful global presence.

20. Reclaim the Warrior Spirit of Our Ancestors

African history is filled with warriors, revolutionaries, and empires that resisted colonization and slavery. Black people must embrace the warrior spirit rather than glorifying passivity.

21. Master Technology and Control the Digital Space

The future is digital, and Black people must own, develop, and master technology rather than being just consumers. Controlling media, cybersecurity, and AI is critical for sovereignty.

22. Protect and Defend Black Land and Resources

Black communities and nations must protect their land, agriculture, water sources, and raw materials from foreign control. Land ownership equals power.

23. Reject Integration as the Ultimate Goal

Integration into white society is not liberation. The goal must be nation-building, sovereignty, and Black self-governance, not assimilation.

24. Reject Criminality and Sabotage from Within

Internal destruction—whether through gang violence, betrayal, or corruption—keeps Black people weak. Code of conduct, integrity, and accountability must be upheld.

25. Make Black Consciousness and Excellence the New Standard

Mediocrity, victimhood, and aimless entertainment must be replaced with a culture of Black excellence, Pan-Africanism, and mastery of knowledge and power.

Conclusion: The Path to Black Sovereignty Is Discipline, Strategy, and Unity

From a Garveyite perspective, the liberation of Black people is not a dream but a responsibility. Without a strict code of conduct, discipline, and self-determination, Black people will remain vulnerable to exploitation, division, and external control.

Marcus Garvey built the largest Black organization in history because he understood that power comes from order, strategy, and a clear set of guiding principles. These 25 rules serve as a modern framework for achieving Black sovereignty, economic independence, and Pan-African unity.

The question is: Will we have the discipline to follow them?

[creepyclothdoll]

Condemned

Paul loved escape rooms. 

He just loved them. The lovingly-crafted set designs and props, the electric buzz that came from finding hidden items and putting together puzzle pieces, the euphoria of cracking a code, the adrenaline of the ticking clock, and most importantly, the thrill of the escape. 

His friends had long ago stopped accompanying him every week, sometimes more than once a week, to escape rooms in his area. Especially once he started driving hours out of town just to try new escape game centers for a fresh hit of that delicious escape puzzle challenge.

Paul now preferred to go alone anyway. People just bogged him down. He didn’t come to make friends, he came to win. 

Months of hot anticipation finally bore fruit when the “Great American Escape” opened its doors to him, at long last. Great American, according to the billboards and posters strewn around town, was the primary attraction of an entertainment mega-complex which took the place of a long-disused waterpark hotel. It would be huge, he knew. Not just physically. His great fear was that it would blow up on social media– maybe even on his feed– and then the solutions would be spoiled for him. So he had to be first.

Great American Escape was so new the day he strode in there that there were still “CONDEMNED” notices stuffed into the recycling bins and old lists of health & safety violations stuck in the vents. 

“One ticket for Mystery Escape,” Paul, slapped his money on the counter and smiled at the teen boy working behind it. He was a short, lithe, wide-eyed man in his thirties with dark greasy hair and one navy blue university sweater he’d kept in moderate repair for a decade and a half.

“No group?” The boy asked. When Paul confirmed this, the boy said, “You’ll have to wait until a group comes in. You need three people at least.”

“When is the next group coming?” Paul asked.

“We don’t have any groups booked today,” the boy replied.

“... So, you’re not gonna let me in?” 

“... Um… yeah. I can’t. Sorry.”

Paul put down another handful of bills. This wasn’t his first rodeo.

“I’ll buy three tickets,” he said. He made sure to draw the boy’s attention to the extra $20, a little tip for a helpful front deskman. 

The boy, who was thin and bored-looking with a patchy teen mustache and his elbow resting on top of a stack of I Escaped stickers, glanced at the security camera which flickered in the corner, its blinking red eye frosted over with a decade of dust. The boy took the $20 and shrugged. 

“You won’t be able to escape,” the boy said. “It’s impossible by yourself. But if you want to try… I guess you can try.”

The boy led Paul towards a set of slightly rusty elevator doors, past posters and cardboard cut-outs of characters from “Rattlesnake Gulch Treasure Hunt,” “Escape From Venus,” and “King’s Dungeon Jailbreak.” Paul planned to return to these, but he’d start by going straight for the crown jewel– Mystery Escape, which had been advertised exclusively with nothing but an open doorframe leading to darkness. 

The boy went over basic safety guidelines. The door wouldn’t really be locked, red things were real alarms, things that said “staff only” were really for staff only, etc., blah blah blah, boring stuff.  Paul listened impatiently, but carefully, only because knowing what was “real” (and therefore inconsequential) would give him a leg up in the game. 

“The game starts when the elevator door opens,” the boy finally said. “Floor 3. Good luck.”

The elevator bell dinged, and the doors slid open. The light flickered. Paul stepped inside. 

He waved to the boy as the doors shut. He pressed 3. 

The light above flickered. Paul could almost see his reflection in the red-rusted metal doors. 

The elevator began its ascent, and right away, Paul could tell something was strange. There was a creaking noise, like a train braking. The light flickered. The light sputtered out. 

The elevator stopped.

Paul was trapped. It was pitch black inside the tiny car, which made no sound or movement. 

The first thing Paul did in any escape room was to check around for hidden props. Keys, ciphers, and puzzle pieces were often hidden around a room for players to find, which would then give them a clue as to what to do next. Paul checked around the elevator car for hidden tools. He pulled up the mildewy carpet by its frayed edge– nothing under there but more mildew. But wait! On the bottom of the carpet there were numbers and letters: EL1. What could that possibly mean? 

The next thing Paul did in an escape room was to interact with anything interactable he could see. In front of him was a series of numbers, 1-5, a “door open” and “door close” button, and “emergency.” But “emergency” was red, and red things were inconsequential. 

Paul pushed all the buttons but the last. To his surprise, the door began to open slightly– then jammed. 

Paul mused about the possible meanings of “EL1.” E was the fifth letter, and there were five numbers… But L? 

Maybe it was a cipher. Paul thought on this. 

He started trying combinations of buttons. The cipher thing was the key somehow, he knew it. A cipher worked with a code. Where was the code? Maybe it had to do with the symbols, not the numbers…

Suddenly, it all made sense to him. He pressed a set of numbers and then hit the door open button.

To his delight and satisfaction, the elevator doors creaked open. And with them came light.

Paul could see well enough now to see that he faced a concrete wall, which took up the whole lower half of the exit. But above that half, Paul could see a hallway of a hotel, so tantalizingly close. 

Paul had beaten escape rooms that had physical components to them before, so this was cake. He gripped the edge of the concrete ledge in front of him and pulled himself up. He let out a grunt as his head and arms made it over the threshold. He just had to find something to grip so he could drag the rest of himself through the gap, and then it was on to the next puzzle.

The elevator lurched.

There was a sound. A scrape, a crash, a wet squelch, a snap. It all happened at once, and it was the loudest sound he ever heard.

When Paul finally sat up, he was somewhere completely different. It was dark here. Darker than the elevator car. The darkness of this place was crushing, like the depths of the deep ocean. There was a smell of meat all around. Paul quickly dismissed the idea of trying to adjust his eyes– he’d navigate by feel.

Paul reached out into the darkness and felt nothing. He stood. His hands pushed him up from a strangely soft, lumpy floor. He noticed something strange about the sound of his movements, and let out an inquisitive “Hey!” to check the echo. It did not bounce. He was… outside?

No– he must be in the disused waterpark proper. The building was huge. Paul was delighted by this thought. He’d chosen the right room.

Paul felt around for a wall, a light switch, a puzzle. Anything. 

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” said a deep voice.

“Hello?” Paul said after a moment. 

“You lived a selfish life, Paul. You cared for nothing and no one but yourself and your own pleasure. You were an idolater, a heretic. You raised the Escape Game to the heights of a god. Pity that from this place, there is no escape.”

Paul listened carefully to the monologue. Selfish. Idolater. Raised. Heights. These things might be clues. 

“Paul,” said the deep voice, which seemed to come from above, below, and all around him, “You died a foolish death. Pity that you did not suffer. But now, you will suffer for eternity.”

Paul was already climbing up a staircase he’d found. It was the disused waterpark. Raise, he thought. Heights. The key was to go up. 

He found a craggy, warm wall. There was something under his hand– a button? He pushed it in, hard.

Under his hand, a huge glowing red eye flew open. 

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHH!” 

The eye blinked in pain and fury, welling up with tears. A thousand more eyes flew open along the wall before him, and Paul saw that it was not a wall at all, but some kind of enormous creature. It stirred, its red gaze illuminating the space around them.

“Stupid man. You woke something up.”

But now Paul could see the entire room– or space, or whatever it was. What he’d taken to be the “floor” was a mass of flesh– human hands, it looked like, reaching up stiffly. The hands started to stir as the creature woke from its slumber. What Paul had taken for a staircase was not that. 

Paul was making some real progress. As the hands clamored over each other, rising like tentacles from around the immense eyes, Paul hopped onto the face of the thing and started using the eyes as hand-and-footholds, which was their obvious use. Paul could spare no time on figuring out little things like that the honest way, he was on a clock. As he stepped on the creature’s eyes, it let out another unearthly roar and started to rise. 

There was a hole in the ceiling. Yes– this was meant to be a cave of some sort, and it had an exit. 

“You idiot,” the voice boomed. “You–”

Paul kicked the creature in the eye a few more times to make it rise faster. A tsunami of pale, writhing hands on wiggling stems shot up towards him to slap him away, but by the time they reached him, he was already through the hole. 

Paul scurried through the tunnel as fast as he could. If it was a three-person puzzle, you couldn’t waste any time.

He came to the next room, which was well-lit– a nice reprieve. In this room, a sweltering cave, some props department had gone all-out carving little demon faces that stuck out from the sides. These gargoyle-like stone structures leered at him and grinned in anticipation.

“The flametongue is coming, kindling,” the demon voices hissed. “Ready or not!” Paul heard a splashing, gurgling sound up ahead. He took quick note of some of the quirks of the gargoyle faces– most of them had black scorch marks on them, but some didn’t. That was a clue. The light from the other end of the tunnel grew brighter, as did the gurgling. Paul realized what he was meant to do, climbed up the protesting gargoyles, and found a set on the ceiling which had no scorching on them. Below, a wave of red-hot boiling sulferous-smelling magma flowed down, passing over the other gargoyles, who screeched and sputtered in it. Another puzzle solved. Paul dropped down once the stones cooled, and hurried up the tunnel– no time to spare. Only one more wave of “fire” passed before he solved the gargoyle pattern and pulled the right ones out of the wall in sequence to reveal a hidden exit.

This escape room was huge. He made his way through a room which featured a river of moving knives, which he was able to avoid by memorizing the timing and patterns, and climbed up into a room full of blistering ice and animatronic zombies which lurched toward him, their bodies crackling as they froze just as soon as they’d moved, their lips split by the cold. This puzzle was a simple matter of lining up the giant shards of ice in the room so that the light concentrated and blasted a hole through the glacial wall. 

Paul’s own body was profoundly frostbitten by this point, but he didn’t notice. He was on a timer. 

By the time Paul finally made it past the “three-headed-dog on a chain” puzzle, that subterranean voice from the first room had caught up with him.

“Paul,” the voice said. “There is no hope. There is no escape. Do you understand? You are dead, Paul–”

“Ssh,” Paul said, gazing at the puzzle before him. 

The door was immense. It seemed to stretch above him and beyond for miles. It was carved from stone older than the bedrock of earth, and above it, in an arch as large as the firmament, there was carved a phrase:

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

This was clearly important, because the deep voice had already voiced it earlier in the game. After checking the area for tools, Paul ran through anagrams. There were a lot of little props around the big door– lots of discarded holy texts, some bones, some strange bits of giant insectoid carapaces which Paul could not immediately identify. The bibles and such had bits burned and torn off of them in places. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. That was a ciper, maybe. He was sweating. He had to be at nearly an hour already. He started arranging the bones.

“What you are doing is futile nonsense,” the deep voice said.

Aha! By turning the phrase above the gate into numbers and then matching those numbers to the non-burned sections of each holy text, organized by the printing date, Paul had discovered an anagram which, when re-ordered, spelled out skeleton key prop, ds flo knemb yyuq. Paul had only bothered to spell out the first three words, however, due to the time crunch. That was all he needed to understand what to do, and he had done it: he had connected all the bones into one big key.

“I don’t think you understand, Paul. This is not a game. You cannot escape your fate. You cannot escape your death. You cannot escape damnation. You cannot escape from Hell.”

Paul slid the giant skeleton key into the lock. It took all of his strength to shove it to the back. Behind him, the host of hell scrambled over each other up the lip of the abyss– the thousand hands and eyes, the fire-spitting gargoyles, the lurching ice zombies, the great black dog, and many others, come to claim him for their own special torment.

Paul turned the key. There was a click. 

Well– more of a thunderous clunk.

The deep, gravelly noise of the stone door opening reverberated all throughout Hell.

“What the–”

“Hell yeah!” Paul shouted. He ducked through the door.

The red eye of the security camera caught it all. The man, crawling through the gap in the elevator. The lurch. The fall. The split.

The hopeless paramedics, the traumatized front desk boy, the shaking venue manager, the anxious lawyers, the dozens of police putting up brand-new yellow “do not cross” signage around the old hotel. 

The red eye of the security camera watched on as people in grim uniforms put the larger piece of what had been paul into a black bodybag and fetched the rest from the third story floor. 

“Used to love this waterpark when I was a little kid,” said one of the paramedics to another. “Now I hope they tear it down.”

“Wasn’t this place a lawsuit magnet back in the day?” said the other. “I remember a kid–”

The paramedics both noticed at the same moment that the body bag was moving. A lot. 

“Is he alive in there?” The first paramedic choked out, even though he understood that the answer had to be no. But then the zipper started sliding down. The bag was opening from the inside.

The headless body of Paul Gibson sat up. It reached out with its stumps of fingers, covered in cool dark blood, and rolled out onto the hotel lobby floor. Both paramedics screamed and leapt away as the decapitated Paul stumbled to its feet and lurched forward. It felt around without its fingers, leaving smears of blood on the front desk, the wall, the table, the “do not cross” tape, until it found the small white cooler on the floor. He pried it open with his mangled hands and lifted his own iced head out. 

Paul put his head on top of the gristle that was his neck. He had it the wrong way around, but his eyes opened and he smiled through bloody teeth. 

“I ss-ss-olved the b-a-ag puzzle,” the formerly dead man sputtered. “Did it a-all mys-self.”

He turned around to face both paramedics, so that his front side faced away. 

“Uh… congratulations,” the second paramedic said.

Paul choked up more blood and grinned wider. He stumbled toward the front desk, toward the paramedics. They backed away from him in horror as he reached out the wrong way and grabbed a commemorative I Escaped! sticker from the top of the pile.

“Th-a-ank you,” Paul said. “I’ll be su-ure to come back soon!”

[boundinparchment]

Blasphemous Rumors - X

“Marry me.” He said it with such blasé that you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. Silence surrounded the two of you and he leaned down and tilted his head, watching you like a specimen under a microscope. “Just for a year. A marriage of convenience. Consider it nothing more than a harmless experiment for the sake of curiosity.” Il Dottore/Female reader with established personality. Slow burn. Semi-enemies to lovers. Available on AO3 here.

Your head was swimming between the careless Agent who wasted your money with their rant and the sudden shift in your schedule, hand on your back included. 

It was protocol to rotate a year’s worth of documents down to the Archives for storage to make room for new budget records up in the main office.  The Archives were, while safe, notoriously difficult to navigate.  That, combined with having to identify and locate several boxes per calendar year for the Harbinger who had one of the highest volumes of expenses was a frustration you sympathized with.  The Agent was careless enough to describe the layout and the security measures as if they were common knowledge.

Perhaps they assumed you were already aware, given your elevated status.  What a moron.

And now, you were walking out of your office with Lord Dottore’s hand on your back.  A distinct gesture.  The man was meticulous, purposeful.  He never did anything without reason, without a drive.

He would be the death of you.

The elevator rides to the depths of the Palace were taken in relative silence but you could feel the cogs in his head turning next to you, cranking along with the wires and pulleys.  There was little reason for you to be in his workshops.  The last time you’d gone down, it was to make a point that he could not just leave the wedding details to you entirely.  His domain was otherwise a place you made an effort to avoid.

Once you were finally on solid ground again, you followed Lord Dottore through a series of corridors lined with hissing pipes.  The air warmed as you passed through the facility doors and into his facilities proper.

It was quieter than you recalled from your last visit, fewer people and even fewer machines.  The budget for the Nod Krai facilities and the expedition to Sumeru accounted for a good chunk of the expenses over the last few years (and no doubt the lack of present equipment).  You were led to the office you recalled standing in, justifying the need for a ring and that he at least pretend to try.  Just as before, it was free of dust, everything in its place.  The piles of papers and stacks of books were, for now, less of a hazard than the last time you saw them.  A Segment’s boredom, no doubt.

“Presumably, the move to Nod Krai is going according to plan?” you ventured.

“One of many details we will need to unravel if we are to accomplish our combined goals.  A better solution will be needed to address the matter of property,” Dottore replied.  “However, that is not at the top of the agenda, dorogáya moya.”

The pet name dug under your skin every time you heard it.  Undoubtedly, he knew it did.  It may have been wiser to have held your tongue at your wedding reception about the double meaning but now you had no choice but to deal with the consequences of his small victory.

Your husband gestured for you to sit but you shook your head.  “I spend half of my day in a chair, I’ll stand.”

You felt a hand on your left shoulder and you flinched, unaware of another presence.  There was a faint pressure downward, urging you to comply, pushing harder until your knees cooperated and your bottom met the seat with a thump.  The hand remained on your shoulder, fingers curled ever so slightly to resemble the claw of a raven.

“I’m afraid it wasn’t a question, dear wife ,” came the response from behind you, a mockery of the voice of the man before you.

You never had much business with Omega, except for when he stood in for the Harbinger during your meetings or for rehearsals and suit alterations.  Despite how similar he looked to the original, the oldest Segment’s presence was akin to walking into a public place before opening hours.  Everything seemed normal but there was a vacancy about him that always unsettled you.

Another hand on your right, this one brushing gloved knuckles across your cheek, was as cold as ice.  You had not picked up any footsteps whatsoever from either Segment, but they were not capable of appearing out of thin air.  How had you not noticed their footfalls?  Or was it that they were already in the room and you’d simply failed to spot them?

Either way, you were slipping.  Again.

“Ease up, Omega.  She came of her own volition, as she usually does.”

You felt a hearty chuckle and out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of a distinctly patterned mask.  This one always appeared as though he belonged as a masquerade party, in your opinion.  More often than not, his receipts were splattered with what you could only assume was blood, if not oil.  You kept your face impassive as your behind met the seat and both hands remained on your shoulders. 

Something about the last quip made your husband’s fist clench and although the lighting was poor, you swore you saw the tips of his ears turn darker.

“Zeta, you would do well to keep your mouth shut,” Lord Dottore said, jaw tense.

Blood thrummed in your ears as you tried to piece together what, exactly, would lead to him taking this approach with you.  It wasn’t just about the sham of a marriage you two were playing at, it couldn’t have been.  Otherwise, he would have left it until later.  Another topic over a game of chess for the two of you, alone.  

Your stomach sank.

With everything since your return to the Palace, you’d neglected how easily you let slip what should have gone to Pantalone first.  So disarmed by sunlight and sweets, you’d tried to buy yourself time for an answer only to give him the truth.  Your eye for patterns and spotting abnormalities and asking questions far above your pay grade, all tools of your trade, betrayed you.  Why hadn’t you kept it to yourself?

A man like the Second Harbinger never forgot the details.

Instead of speaking, your husband opened a folder and laid out documents in front of you.  Your working record.  Copies of your parents bankruptcy documents and loan letters.  Reports from Agents with dates on which you recalled harrowing visits full of arguments.  A shining recommendation that praised your skills with numbers and efficiencies with analysis and deadlines.

None of it was new and in fact, you were surprised to see such things now.  You’d been forthcoming and truthful, almost to a fault.

But what conclusion had he come to?

“Your silence is far louder than you give it credit for,” Omega crooned, fingers digging into your shoulder.  “Surely we didn’t marry a complete dolt after all?”

“You like your dramatic tension, my lord, but I cannot answer an unspoken question,” you replied, staring at the man behind the desk.  “And I don’t recall agreeing to an interrogation.”

Lord Dottore stood and traced his fingers over the surface of his desk, picking up one of the pieces of evidence in the process.  He stopped after rounding the desk and standing in front of you, shifting his weight as he crossed one ankle in front of another.

“Help me understand.  How does one get out of bed for the past several years and smile at the man responsible for your family’s current position?”  the Harbinger asked.

Your mouth twitched.  A question you asked yourself for years, the response to which was driven into your very bones by this point. 

Before you could answer, another voice jumped in.

“Not everyone has their family’s debt reviewed by the Regrator himself,” Zeta said as his hand found the nape of your neck and teased your hair.  “Fewer still are given no leniency and forced to face financial ruin; such an approach only happens when he loses more than he put in, when he gambled with his own investments and cannot face the blow to his pride.”

“That’s how authority works if you choose to use fear,” you shot back.  “You have to make examples of those who fail you, who wrong you.  Winter is not merciful, why should leadership be?”

Lord Dottore’s lips thinned.  “Try saying that with conviction next time.”

He held out two pieces of paper in front of you: the first was a copy of the original contract your father signed; the second was a revised copy, complete with a perfect signature.  No one ever doubted a contract that the Regrator himself used in any meetings.  Attempts to do so were met with additional charges of forgery.

Seeing them again made your blood boil and then ice over, pushing back the memories of dejected expressions, your carefully laid financial plans with every intention of finding a way to make it work tossed in the trash with a smile.

“Tell me, what’s the difference, Accountant?” Dottore prompted.

Your answer caught in your throat, worse than the sticky porridge you used to eat in the dormitories back when you first arrived.  The hand in your hair tightened, demanding to let you look nowhere else as Omega’s grip on you tightened further, your shoulder beginning to scream.  

Eyes crept over you expectantly and you suddenly felt like a stuck pig, cooked and on display.

“He changed the terms of the contract,” you said.  “The loan term and the interest rate specifically.  I laid out a plan for my parents to present but it was moot.  There was no recourse except to cut his losses and force us into bankruptcy, leaving only the house in which we lived.  Out of pity, more than anything.  My father would never work again and my mother does not have the skills to seek higher wages.”

Each statement felt like a hot knife to your skin and you wanted nothing more than to sink into yourself than remember this.  But Omega’s and Zeta’s rigid grips held you upright as your blood ran cold.  Zeta in particular stroked your face, almost sympathetically, and you winced at the touch, incapable of moving.  Lord Dottore said something in a language you didn’t comprehend, the same he’d used when he first felt your freezing feet.  Zeta scoffed and pinched your cheek before letting go, replying in the same tongue.

Your husband stared at you for a good long moment, boring a hole in your cheek as the paper in his fingers rustled ever so slightly.

Seemingly satisfied with Zeta’s cooperation, Lord Dottore plucked another piece of paper from behind him.  This one was recognizable from the back by the way the light passed through it.  

Your offer letter from the Ninth’s Department of Internal Revenue Affairs.

“Yet you applied to the Regrator’s very own sector,” the Harbinger said.  “Of all of the positions available for a civilian.”

“I know what I’m good at.”

“You were specifically chosen for your ‘decision making around trend analysis, looking not just at patterns but the circumstances around them’ and for your willingness to adapt .”

Omega scoffed but kept his thoughts to himself.  In your experiences, he was preparing for a rebuttal after hearing a poorly constructed argument.  When his thumb released itself to brush against the back of your shirt collar as if to comfort or perhaps mockingly admire you, you took a deep inhale slowly, his touch like pure ice.  If your husband noticed, he said nothing and cast the paper aside before gripping the desk behind him.

“Willingness to adapt is an odd turn of phrase when all of humanity has the capacity for adaptation and evolution when under the right set of experiences and environmental factors.  But for you, it is quite apt.  As is your eye for patterns and analysis.  In fact, I would go so far to say that for your position, your recognition is far superior than what your role requires of you.  I would expect, perhaps, an auditor of Northland to identify cashflow trends among its clients.  The public’s interest is better served by your skills, arguably, but the Regrator does love his little collection of prizes.”

Your breath hitched when Lord Dottore leaned forward, his face inches from yours, the Segments keeping you in place.  His proximity never troubled you, not really.  More often than not, your touch-starved body reminded you terribly of just how easy it would be to ask for more.

Zeta’s hand in your hair nudged your head forward, as if he was attempting to play with a doll, pushing your face towards his creator’s.  Omega said something too low for you to hear it in full but the slight force stopped as soon as it started, Omega’s disgust rolling off in waves.  Your husband reached out and tilted your head with his fingers beneath your chin, thumb reaching to brush across your bottom lip.

“And yet, this information finds its way to me and not your immediate superior who would have a vested interest in such knowledge.  You are nosy, in addition to expensive, my dear.  And in a desperate enough position that you might just attempt to leverage your skills in…creative ways.”

Something in you felt emboldened despite the discomfort, like a tiny piece of solid ground as you swung from a fraying rope.

“What ways might those be?” you replied.  “Reporting it internally would only result in the data changing, not the intentions of the people themselves.  But such knowledge outside of the department?  Maybe that might make a difference.”

Lord Dottore chuckled, his breath tickling your skin as he stroked your lip.

“You’re not naive enough to think that, dorogáya moya.  You are rather pragmatic.  The notion would never hold water in your mind.”

He pulled away and stood straight, speaking factually, pulling all of his threads together.

“You are hardly the first to have a right to despise the Regrator and hold a grudge against working for the very system that led to your situation.  In your position, you have access to information many would and have killed for.  All to track our movements and our plans.  It is well-compensated in the right markets.”

One final piece of paper dangled in front of you.  A report about the address you last used, including the return of a package marked ‘Return to Sender’.  It never made its way back to you; you always shipped using the standard return address, which also would have made its way to someone, eventually.  The contents discussed were inconsequential, phrased as the mere shipping of a financial manifest and a letter that made no sense.  

Included in the report was a timestamp of the shipment, the date and time you were also at the post office.

The same time and date as your accidental encounter with the Harbinger at the bank.

He couldn’t prove it was sent by you.  Not unless…

“Footage is scrubbed almost daily to save data space,” Omega sneered.  “And the Rooster is too frugal to invest in proper archives of public video records.”

“But you see, we have all of those nice hand-written summaries of yours from over the years,” Zeta let go of your hair just long enough to stroke your head before grabbing a fistful of locks again.  “And there’s so many similarities .”

Your lungs felt so small all of a sudden, refusing to intake the amount of air the way they normally should.  You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh in hopes of making room to breathe.  The Segments’ hold on you was almost numb at this point, your scalp and shoulder tingling as they clung to you, tried to wring you dry like a dirty rag.

It would be stupid to attempt to rebuke him and hide it.  He didn’t gain anything from this knowledge leaving this room, in which case, maybe you wouldn’t leave these walls, either.  Just because others knew you left with him didn’t mean they knew where you went and the Second was above certain questioning.

Maybe he wouldn’t value whatever truth you presented under the guise of it being biased.

But wasn’t that better than dying?

You shook despite the firm hold on you.

“Finding a good physician that far north requires compensation, as you’re well aware,” you said at last.  “I was skipping meals to pay for the medication and the services.”

You’d spent that time in a haze, functional and only sharp when it counted.  Audit season and Lord Dottore’s quarterly budgets were the times you dipped into savings so you weren’t as hungry.  Couldn’t have the Second suspecting the Ninth didn’t pay his people enough, was your rationalization.  Coffee helped.

Lord Dottore’s lips pursed slightly, recalling something as he cast away the last report.  “That was several years ago.  You were malnourished but it’s not uncommon in your department, given the volume of work.”

“Others in my job might have chosen to ask for positions at well known gambling houses or other businesses of Lord Pantalone’s, opting to numb their minds or spread their legs for higher pay.  But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, not if he ever recalled my family name from the dozens upon dozens he’s already ruined.”

“Clearly you have a focus, though.”

“Never information about Lord Pantalone himself.  Only things that might be helpful to have an edge over before they go public,” you admitted.  “Activity of noble accounts, mostly; he likes to keep tabs on the biggest investors in Northland, and those files are run through us under the assumption that the bank’s staff would be too biased in an effort to protect Lord Pantalone’s interests.”

“Have you ever sold information on myself?  My projects?”

“No,” your response was instant.  “Also a rule.  Nothing that could be traced back to me in particular when pieced together.”

Zeta giggled, muttering about how well that worked out.

The silence that sat between you and your husband  grew to a crescendo as he considered you carefully.  Zeta’s hold on you shifted, his hand moving towards your neck, fingers finding perfect perches in your flesh.  He didn’t squeeze but your pulse pounded against his thumb, quick and steady.  

When you swallowed, you felt your throat twitch against Zeta’s hand.  All it would take was one flex and you’d never be heard from again.  Zeta  clearly had the same thought because his hold tightened, causing you to gasp as the pressure in your head increased.

“Killing her serves no purpose,” Lord Dottore said coldly.  “Let go.”

“She serves no purpose if she’s a potential source of data loss,” Zeta replied.  “I’m sparing you the headache.  How is this any different than—”

Your husband made no move to pry the hand from your throat but his posture and tone shifted, rigid and commanding.  “She isn’t a replaceable subject, let her go.”

“Yet you don’t fight for her, how fascinating,” Omega crooned.  “Isn’t she your wife, Prime?”

Your vision grew blurry as the pressure continued to build, your heart pounding as you made a gurgling sound, reaching up to tug on Zeta’s arm.  He held tighter as you tried to shift your weight, wrestle away, anything to not—

In a flash of blue and black, the hand on your throat released instantly as your husband grabbed Zeta and shoved him away, the younger man stumbling towards the door.  Omega’s hand left your shoulder with a hearty pat as you coughed, panting as blood returned to your head and the room spun.  Your pulse throbbed across your entire body as your blood pressure began to try to level out again.

“Let go and get out , you wretches!”

His command was followed by a sentence in the language you were beginning to expect, even if you didn’t understand it.  You didn’t turn to see the responses of the others but you heard the door slam and silence eased itself into Lord Dottore’s study again, icy and lonely.

It shouldn’t have mattered to you that he let it happen but in the haze before equilibrium came back, you felt a pang of hurt.  Was your secret now so disastrous that your life was forfeit?  

Slowly, Lord Dottore turned his attention to you and when he tried to examine your neck, you pulled away.  He was quicker, though, his other hand catching your head and tilting it up, as though expecting your reaction.

“It’ll bruise,” he muttered, removing his hands.  “Here.”

You cast your gaze up through your lashes to see him undo his cravat, the blue fabric coming free with ease as he unfastened the pin.  Without asking, he wrapped the fabric around your neck, arranging it carefully, and pinned it in place.  It was warm, smooth, and carried hints of the familiar scent that lingered in your bed sheets.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

There was little ease you could say, even if you wanted to.  How were you supposed to do this for a year if you had to sleep with one eye open now?  Would he try to kill you, too?

That wouldn’t have been much of a surprise, really.  He’d have every right to.  As a Harbinger, he upheld the Tsaritsa’s will and protected her main interests, even if he had his own.  You shoved down the part of you that felt the disappointment, as if this was meant to be more than a quid pro quo.

“Perhaps there’s another benefit to our arrangement,” Lord Dottore said.  “Such skills should not go to waste.”

“Almost had me fooled, I’d have thought a treacherous dead wife would be convenient.”

“Accidents certainly happen but I gain nothing from you dying.  Or did Zeta squeeze you so hard you have memory retention problems?”

You glared at him until he bowed his head slightly and raised his hand to his lips, deep in thought.

“Pantalone’s interests are of little use to me unless it directly affects my work,” he said at last.  “But the pattern you mentioned was one you identified for a year and yet it has never come up, not even in candid discussions.”

Lord Dottore shifted his weight and then began to pace the floor, boots clicking against the flagstone, not unlike a metronome.  He continued as he walked.

“Instead of you simply…mailing out coded information, you will bring your findings to me first.  I will parse through it and then you will do as you normally would.  I merely wish to be informed.  This little game of yours could have interesting conclusions, all of them vastly different…as intriguing as it might be, my own involvement means there’s a bias…but this isn’t suitable for another…” he began to trail off, his words too soft for you to hear over his footsteps.

You rubbed your throat through the cravat, trying not to think about the spots that danced across your vision and the questions your coworkers would raise when you arrived back.  Mint and…now it was closer, you recognized the musky tone as sandalwood.  You closed your eyes for a second to refocus before you spoke up.

“And what do I get in exchange for taking on that larger risk of you ratting me out to Pantalone anytime you might be displeased with me?  Or far into the future when we have dissolved our legal bindings?”

His steps back towards you were slow, reminiscent of the wolves you heard growing up padding through the snow as they circled their prey.  Lord Dottore stepped in front of you, rested his hands on the armrests and leaned down, leather gloves squeaking as he brought his face an inch away from yours.  The tip of his mask scratched your nose.

“Have I given you the impression I’m a vengeful man?” 

“All arrogant and selfish men are vengeful, my lord.  I believe that was just proven by your own…whatever your Segments are.”

“I do not stand to gain anything from throwing you to the wolves, dorogáya moya.   Whether you live or die, the truth reveals itself inevitably and I look like a fool.  I have no intentions of letting that happen.”

If your nerves weren’t shot before from almost being choked to death, this conversation would be the nail in the coffin.  Of course a prideful man such as Il Dottore, Second Fatui Harbinger, would never let it be known that he made a mistake that was not merely a byproduct of some experiment.  It was the one thing that you drilled into your head to avoid being turned into a pile of blood and viscera to join your colleague in your old office’s rug.

He would be benefiting from you sharing your findings and this was separate from your marriage contract and list of goals.  Therefore, you deserved compensation for a new agreement.  Quite simple.

You angled your head, letting his mask dig further into your nose.  

“You’re proving my point, dear husband.  But you gain knowledge of the activities outside of your domain that will potentially affect you one way or another.  Pantalone is not your only investor, he’s just the one with the largest piece of the pie.”

When he didn’t respond, you continued.

“Treat my father when we go north.  Or at least ease his pain.”

His breath was hot on your lips as he tilted his head, his mask instead resting on your cheek, right where he’d cut you months ago.

“You said it yourself that his physician does not expect him to see spring.  Why should I waste my time?”

“Because it’s the one thing I have wanted ever since before I came to the capitol,” your voice wavered and you swallowed, pushing away the sentiment that made your heart ache.  If nothing else, then perhaps an appeal to his ego would do it.  “And if anyone would be capable, it would be you.”

Lord Dottore was still for longer than you expected and you wondered if your words had turned him to stone.  More often than not, this only happened when you presented a case that he couldn’t refute but needed time to work through all of the intricacies in whatever maze made up his mental faculties.  His throat bobbed as he swallowed and he let out a long, contemplative breath.

“I do not promise any specific outcome,” he finally said.

“Any attempts while we’re there are worthwhile.  If only for the certainty they provide.”

A beat, a blink, and then supple heat met your lips.  By now, you were used to the shape of his mouth, how his lips melded against yours.  The first few were chaste, like dipping one’s toes into water.  You made the mistake of parting your lips when he pulled away only for him to dive back to you; suddenly you were back in the house by the sea, pressed against the wall, his tongue meeting yours as if he was predicting your movements.

Your body betrayed you, pulse racing as you finally parted.  Head throbbing and a familiar heat pooling in your lower belly, you tried to blink away the haze.

“An agreement, sealed with a kiss,” you mumbled.  “How fitting.”

He chuckled, his smile nothing like the large grin from that day, greedy and prideful.  It was close to amusement, and had you married for anything other than mere convenience, you might have called it adoration.  Another pang ran through you, fleeting but sharp in its bitterness.  It was too late for such sentiments; you made your choice all those months ago and now you had to live with it.

Few words passed between you as he stood straight again and helped you up, escorting you back to the long corridor and the first elevator.  If Omega and Zeta, or any other Segments for that matter, were around, they did not make themselves known.

Lord Dottore slid open the elevator grate and stepped aside to let you pass.  There was no sense in him returning upstairs with you, not if his business was settled, and you dared not trust your tongue to ask.  He said your name and you brought your gaze away from the elevator buttons, forcing your dazed mind to focus.  He’d only ever said your name during the wedding ceremony and on his tongue it felt too intimate, every syllable sharpened by the way his tongue wrapped around them.

“Play your part and no one will ever know.  All they’ll see is a loyal spouse and a member of the Tsaritsa’s triumpherate ensuring the safety of the nation.”

The grate door was closed and locked in place.  Before you could, the Harbinger pressed the outer panel button and you watched as his visage disappeared, the elevator car whisking you back to the surface.

[redfilledfantasies]

First Sight (Chapter 7 of 7)

The syringe felt precisely weighted in Carmella's hand as she turned back toward Audrey, the clear Adenosine solution catching the examination room's fluorescent light. She approached the reclining chair with measured steps, her clinical gaze assessing the naked form before her with practiced detachment that grew more difficult to maintain with each passing second. The electrodes remained attached to Audrey's freckled skin, the wires creating a technological tether between her exceptional physique and the steadily beeping monitor that continued to document each perfect contraction of her heart.

"I'll need to access a peripheral vein," Carmella explained, her voice maintaining its professional timbre despite the flutter beneath her rib cage. "The medication requires direct venous administration for accurate pharmacological stress simulation."

Audrey extended her right arm without hesitation, her musculature shifting beneath freckled skin with elegant precision. The movement highlighted the exceptional vascularity along her forearm—prominent vessels mapping pathways that Carmella's trained eye followed with inappropriate appreciation.

"Perfect," Carmella murmured, the word escaping before she could contain it, its clinical assessment compromised by the warmth in her tone. She applied the tourniquet with practiced efficiency, the blue latex band contrasting vividly against Audrey's skin as she secured it at the precise tension required to restrict venous return without compromising arterial flow. Audrey's veins responded immediately, rising to prominence beneath her skin—a testament to her exceptional hydration status and minimal subcutaneous fat.

Carmella's fingers palpated along the antecubital fossa, identifying the optimal insertion site with unconscious precision. The median cubital vein presented as an ideal target—straight, well-fixed, with sufficient diameter to accommodate the catheter while minimizing the risk of infiltration. She cleansed the site with methodical circular motions, the alcohol swab leaving a cool path that evaporated quickly against Audrey's warm skin.

"You'll feel a slight pinch," she warned, the standard phrase falling from her lips automatically as she positioned the needle at the optimal angle of approximately fifteen degrees. The venipuncture was flawless—first attempt cannulation with minimal tissue disruption. Carmella observed the immediate flashback of blood into the catheter hub, confirming perfect placement within the vessel lumen. She advanced the catheter with gentle precision, withdrew the introducer needle, and secured the IV line with a transparent dressing, all while maintaining sterile technique despite the tremor that threatened her usually immaculate control.

"Excellent vein," she noted, her clinical observation undermined by the slight elevation in her voice. "The Adenosine will circulate rapidly through your system." Audrey smiled, the expression transforming her already striking features. "I've been told I have exceptional circulation," she replied, the casual comment carrying suggestive undertones that registered in Carmella's nervous system with the precision of an EKG.

Carmella connected the prepared syringe to the IV line, her fingers brushing momentarily against Audrey's skin in the process. The brief contact sent another jolt of awareness through her already heightened nervous system, but she maintained her professional facade with desperate determination.

"The effects will manifest within approximately thirty seconds," she explained, her voice steadier than her pulse as she began the injection. "You'll likely experience flushing, possibly shortness of breath, perhaps a sensation of chest pressure. These responses are expected and temporary."

The clear solution disappeared into Audrey's vein with metronomic precision as Carmella depressed the plunger at the exact rate specified in cardiovascular pharmacological protocols—6 milliliters per minute, neither too fast to trigger hypotension nor too slow to compromise test efficacy. She monitored the injection site for any signs of infiltration, though the perfection of her venipuncture technique made such complications highly improbable.

The ECG monitor registered the first pharmacological effects within twenty-three seconds—precisely within the expected timeframe. Audrey's heart rate began to accelerate from her resting 72 beats per minute, climbing steadily as the Adenosine triggered massive peripheral vasodilation. The monitor's beeping increased in frequency, documenting the progression with electronic precision.

Carmella observed the physiological cascade with clinical fascination that barely masked her deeper interest. A flush spread across Audrey's freckled chest, the capillary dilation creating a visible map of the drug's systemic effects. Her respiratory rate increased to approximately 18 breaths per minute, her chest rising and falling with greater amplitude as her body compensated for the increased oxygen demand.

"How are you feeling?" Carmella asked, her clinical question standard procedure during pharmacological testing. "Warm," Audrey replied, her green eyes brightening with an internal heat that seemed to transcend the medication's physiological effects. "My heart is racing, just like when I first saw you watching me at the gym."

The statement hung between them, its directness stripping away another layer of professional pretense. Carmella's cheeks flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the examination room, the capillary response mirroring Audrey's drug-induced flush with uncanny symmetry.

As the Adenosine reached peak effect, Audrey's chest began to rise and fall with visible force, each heartbeat creating a perceptible movement beneath her sternum. The freckles across her skin seemed to dance with the rhythm, creating patterns that drew Carmella's gaze with magnetic intensity. She found herself tracking the pulse with inappropriate fixation, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she counted the visible contractions.

Audrey noticed the focus of Carmella's attention, her eyes narrowing with knowing perception. "My heart is pumping so hard now, doctor," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry tone that sent vibrations through Carmella's already heightened nervous system. "You should hear it in action."

The suggestion triggered an immediate autonomic response in Carmella—her pupils dilated fully, her own heart rate accelerated to approximately 110 beats per minute, her peripheral blood vessels expanded with a rush of warmth that defied her attempts at professional distance. The stethoscope around her neck suddenly felt heavy with potential, the instrument both a symbol of her medical authority and a conduit for the intimate connection she desperately desired.

"Yes, I should auscultate your heart during peak effect," Carmella agreed, the clinical justification transparent in its inadequacy. Her hand rose to the stethoscope, fingers curling around the familiar tube with unnecessary force. "It's standard protocol during pharmacological stress testing."

Before she could position the earpieces, Audrey's hand closed over hers, the contact sending another jolt of awareness through her nervous system. With deliberate slowness, Audrey took the stethoscope from Carmella's trembling fingers, the transfer of the instrument representing a seismic shift in the power dynamic between them.

Carmella's professional mask cracked visibly, her expression betraying the conflict between desire and protocol. "Please give me back the stethoscope, Audrey," she demanded, though the authoritative tone she attempted was undermined by the breathless quality of her voice. "I need it to auscultate your heart during this te—" "No," Audrey interrupted, the simple negation carrying more force than its single syllable suggested. "You don't need this to hear my heart." Her green eyes locked with Carmella's, the pupillary dilation signaling arousal rather than pharmacological effect. "And we both know this isn't really about the test anymore, Doctor Hill."

"Please place your ear against it, against my chest," Audrey suggested, her voice a husky whisper that seemed to vibrate through the clinical air of the examination room. "You know you want to." The words hung between them, stripped of any pretense, laying bare the truth that had been masked by medical terminology and professional distance. The stethoscope dangled from Audrey's fingers, the instrument that had served as Carmella's shield now held just beyond her reach, forcing her to confront the desire that had driven her to this moment.

Carmella's heart skipped a beat—a literal premature atrial contraction that she identified with automatic clinical precision even as her consciousness registered the significance of the arrhythmia. Her pulse accelerated immediately afterward, compensating for the momentary disruption with a rush of tachycardia that sent blood pounding through her vessels with such force she could hear it in her ears.

"That's not—" she began, the protest dying on her lips as her medical training battled with the raw desire that had crystallized within her. "The protocol requires instrumental auscultation for accurate documentation of—"

"Forget the protocol," Audrey interrupted, her green eyes bright with challenge. The electrodes on her chest moved with each accelerated heartbeat, the wires swaying slightly with the force of her cardiovascular response to the Adenosine. "This isn't about documentation anymore. We both know that."

Carmella drew a deliberate breath, attempting to activate her parasympathetic nervous system through controlled respiration—four counts in, hold for seven, eight counts out. The technique had calmed countless anxious patients throughout her career, yet now it failed to regulate her own autonomic responses. Her diaphragm seemed to resist her conscious control, each breath shallow and rapid despite her efforts at modulation.

The examination room's fluorescent lights cast Audrey's flushed skin in stark relief, highlighting the visible pulsation at the base of her throat where her carotid artery throbbed with pharmacologically enhanced force. The ECG monitor continued its frantic beeping, documenting a heart rate of approximately 155 beats per minute—well into the target range for stress testing, though the stimulus had become something far more complex than simple medication.

"You've been wanting this since you first saw me," Audrey continued, her voice steady despite her elevated heart rate. The flush across her freckled chest deepened as the Adenosine reached maximum effect, the capillary dilation creating a vivid landscape of physiological response. "I could see it in your eyes, in the way you watched me move. All the medical language, the research protocol—it was just an excuse to get close to my heart."

The truth of the statement struck Carmella with physical force, weakening her knees as if her quadriceps had suddenly lost innervation. She gripped the edge of the examination table for support, her fingers whitening with pressure against the cold metal. The professional distance she had maintained throughout her career—the careful boundary between clinical interest and personal engagement—dissolved completely under the weight of Audrey's accurate assessment.

Carmella's eyes remained fixed on Audrey's chest, where the effects of the Adenosine created a hypnotic visual display of cardiovascular force. The trainer's heart pounded with such vigor that the movement was clearly visible through skin and muscle—a rhythmic pulsation that created waves across her sternum with each powerful contraction. The freckles that mapped her skin seemed to dance with the beats, creating patterns that Carmella's brain tracked with the same attention she gave to complex cardiac arrhythmias.

The sight was mesmerizing, transcending clinical appreciation to become something primally compelling. Carmella found herself leaning forward unconsciously, reducing the distance between them by approximately twelve centimeters before catching herself. Her glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose, and she made no move to adjust them—her usual meticulous attention to appearance abandoned in the face of overwhelming fascination.

"I can see you fighting with yourself," Audrey observed, her perceptive gaze noting the subtle tells in Carmella's face—the tension at the corners of her mouth, the rapid flutter of her eyelids, the dilation of her pupils to approximately 7mm despite the bright clinical lighting. "The distinguished doctor versus the woman who's been obsessed with my heart. Which one will win?"

The internal battle intensified, Carmella's ethical training waging desperate resistance against the tide of her desire. She had built her reputation on exceptional control—over her practice, her research, her physiological responses—yet that control unraveled with each beep of the monitor, each visible pulsation beneath Audrey's freckled skin. Her professional boundaries, once rigid and uncompromising, now bent like wire under the heat of her fascination.

Somewhere in the analytical portion of her brain, Carmella registered that they had reached the optimal recording period for the Adenosine test. Under normal protocol, she would be documenting waveform changes, measuring cardiac output, calculating ejection fractions. Instead, her clinical mind had surrendered completely to the primal appreciation of Audrey's exceptional heart, beating powerfully before her without the mechanical interpretation of medical instruments.

A tremor developed in Carmella's hands—approximately 9 Hz, visible evidence of her autonomic arousal. Her breathing had synchronized unconsciously with the ECG monitor's beeping, each inhalation coinciding with the electronic confirmation of Audrey's heartbeat. The irony registered dimly—that she, a cardiologist who had spent years interpreting the mechanical translations of cardiac function, now longed for direct, unmediated connection to the living organ itself.

"Just let go," Audrey urged, her voice softening though the intensity of her gaze remained unchanged. "There's no one here but us. No protocols, no professional boundaries. Just you and me and what we both want."

The words penetrated Carmella's final defenses, dissolving the last fragments of her professional resolve. Her breath escaped in a soft sound that might have been surrender or relief, the distinction meaningless in the face of her capitulation. The weight of her desire—carried for days through careful observation and clinical pretense—finally overcame the counterbalance of her professional ethics.

With a movement that felt both inevitable and shocking, Carmella lowered herself to a squatting position before Audrey's chair. Her knees bent with unusual lack of grace, her normally precise movements compromised by the tremor that now extended to her larger muscle groups. Her hands found Audrey's thighs, fingers curling around the perfect musculature with desperate need for stability.

The contact sent another surge of awareness through her nervous system—Audrey's skin warm beneath her palms, the exceptional quadriceps development palpable through her fingertips. Carmella's grip tightened unconsciously, the pressure leaving momentary blanching that quickly refilled with blood as her fingers dug into the firm tissue.

"That's it," Audrey encouraged, her voice dropping to an intimate register that seemed to bypass Carmella's ears and register directly in her nervous system. "Listen to what you've been dreaming about." With a final surrender to her fascination, Carmella leaned forward, her head descending toward Audrey's chest with the inevitability of gravity. Her ear pressed against the warm skin just left of Audrey's sternum—the optimal position for appreciation of mitral valve sounds, a placement she had performed thousands of times with stethoscope diaphragms but never with her own flesh.

The contact was electric, immediate, overwhelming. Audrey's skin felt impossibly warm against Carmella's ear, the temperature differential triggering thermoreceptors with unusual intensity. Beneath this superficial sensation lay what Carmella had truly craved—the unmediated sound of Audrey's exceptional heart, no longer translated through stethoscope tubing but transmitted directly through tissue and bone to her waiting consciousness.

The sound consumed her completely. Carmella's world contracted to a single point of focus—the powerful, rhythmic pounding of Audrey's heart against her ear. The sound was unlike anything she had experienced through the clinical remove of a stethoscope, the intensity unfiltered by rubber tubing and metal diaphragms. This was primal, immediate—the raw force of Audrey's exceptional cardiac muscle transmitted directly through flesh and bone, filling Carmella's consciousness with its perfect rhythm.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she pressed closer, surrendering to the sensation with unprecedented abandon. Each contraction reached her with perfect clarity—the mitral and tricuspid valves closing with the distinctive "lub" of the first heart sound, followed by the sharper "dub" as the aortic and pulmonic valves snapped shut. The intervals between them, the subtle variations in amplitude, the exceptional force of ventricular contraction—all registered with a visceral impact that transcended clinical appreciation.

At approximately 160 beats per minute, Audrey's heart produced a metronomic cadence that seemed to override Carmella's own cardiovascular rhythm. She felt her pulse shifting, synchronizing unconsciously with the powerful beat beneath her ear, their hearts finding alignment despite the different rates. The Adenosine's effects created a cardiovascular symphony more complex than any she had previously documented—increased contractile force, shortened diastolic filling periods, subtle third heart sounds audible during rapid ventricular filling.

"It's beautiful," Carmella whispered, the words vibrating against Audrey's skin. "So strong, so perfect." Her clinical vocabulary had abandoned her, replaced by simpler terms of appreciation that felt strangely adequate for the intensity of her experience.

Her lips parted with each accelerated breath, moisture gathering at their edges as her autonomic arousal manifested in multiple systems simultaneously. The flush that had begun at her cheeks now spread down her neck and beneath her blouse, capillaries dilating across her chest in patterns that mirrored Audrey's drug-induced flush. Her nipples hardened visibly beneath the fabric of her bra and blouse, the sensitive tissue responding to autonomic signals with embarrassing transparency.

Carmella's grip on Audrey's thighs tightened unconsciously, her fingers pressing into the exceptional musculature with force that might have been uncomfortable if not for Audrey's remarkable conditioning. The contact grounded her as the intensity of the auditory experience threatened to overwhelm her nervous system's capacity for integration.

"I knew you needed this," Audrey murmured, her voice a physical presence that Carmella felt through her chest as much as heard with her ears. "The moment I saw you watching me, I knew exactly what you were craving."

Without breaking the connection between Carmella's ear and her chest, Audrey raised her hand, fingers finding Carmella's hair with gentle precision. The touch was tentative at first—a questioning contact that waited for permission. When Carmella responded with a small sound of encouragement, barely audible above the thundering heart between them, Audrey's fingers became more confident, weaving through the strands with appreciative exploration. The caress sent another wave of sensation through Carmella's already overwhelmed nervous system.

Audrey's fingers traced patterns across her scalp, following the contours of her skull with the same anatomical appreciation Carmella had shown for Audrey's exceptional physique. The touch moved lower, tracing the elegant architecture of Carmella's neck, where her pulse visibly raced beneath the skin.

"Your heart is racing too," Audrey observed, her fingers finding the carotid pulse with knowing precision. "Almost as fast as mine, and you haven't had any medication." The observation held a truth that Carmella couldn't deny—her tachycardia was entirely natural, a physiological response to desire that no amount of medical rationalization could disguise. Her pulse throbbed against Audrey's fingertips with betraying honesty, each beat confirming what her professional facade had attempted to conceal.

The contrast between them became suddenly, vividly apparent—Audrey completely naked except for her athletic shoes, every perfect muscle and freckle exposed to the examination room's unforgiving lights; Carmella fully clothed in her professional attire, the formal blouse and slacks creating a boundary that seemed increasingly arbitrary as their connection deepened. The power imbalance implied by their respective states of dress had inverted completely—the naked woman now in absolute control, the clothed professional surrendered to her vulnerability.

Audrey's hands moved with increasing confidence, one remaining at Carmella's neck while the other traced a path across her shoulder and down her spine. Each point of contact sent new information through Carmella's nervous system—pressure receptors, thermoreceptors, proprioceptors all firing in complex patterns that her brain processed as pleasure. Her usual analytical distance had abandoned her completely, leaving her immersed in pure sensation without the buffer of clinical interpretation.

The ECG monitor continued its documentation, the beeping gradually slowing as the Adenosine began to clear Audrey's system. The medication's short half-life meant the pharmacological effects were already beginning to diminish, heart rate decreasing from 160 to approximately 140 beats per minute. Yet Carmella remained transfixed, the gradually slowing rhythm creating a new cadence that her ear tracked with the same entranced attention.

"Stay with me," Audrey murmured, her fingers tightening slightly in Carmella's hair as if sensing her awareness of the changing cardiac pattern. "Listen to how my heart responds to you, not just the medication." The invitation penetrated Carmella's consciousness with unexpected force. Beyond the pharmacological effects, beyond the stressed cardiovascular state she had ostensibly come to study, lay something more significant—the natural response of Audrey's heart to their shared attraction.

As the Adenosine's influence receded, this authentic rhythm emerged with greater clarity, still elevated but now driven by emotional rather than chemical stimulation. Carmella's breathing had synchronized completely with Audrey's, their respiratory patterns falling into perfect harmony despite the differences in their positions. Each inhalation expanded their thoracic cavities in unison, each exhalation released with matched timing. This unconscious alignment created a shared physiological experience that transcended their distinct bodies, binding them through autonomic processes beyond conscious control.

"I never do this," Carmella admitted, the words muffled against Audrey's skin, the vibration of her voice creating another point of intimate connection between them. "With patients, with anyone." "I'm not your patient," Audrey replied, her fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind Carmella's ear with deliberate slowness. "And this isn't an examination anymore. This is something else entirely."

The acknowledgment hung between them, naming the transformation that had occurred in this sterile medical space. What had begun as a thin pretext for professional contact had evolved into an intimacy neither woman had fully anticipated, though both had desired it with increasing awareness since their first encounter. Carmella felt Audrey's heart rate continuing its gradual descent as the medication cleared her system, the powerful muscle returning to a still-elevated but more natural rhythm of approximately 100 beats per minute.

The sound remained captivating, each contraction a perfect demonstration of cardiovascular efficiency, but now with a sustainable intensity that suggested possibility rather than pharmacological manipulation. "The test is technically complete," Carmella noted, though she made no move to lift her head from Audrey's chest. Her ear remained pressed against the warm skin, unwilling to surrender the direct connection even as her clinical mind emerged briefly from its sensory immersion.

"Yes," Audrey agreed, her fingers continuing their exploration of Carmella's hair and neck with unhurried appreciation. "But I think we're just getting started with our own experiments." The statement carried unmistakable invitation, suggesting continuation beyond this initial surrender. Carmella's analytical mind, briefly resurfacing, calculated the implications with surprising clarity despite her compromised state—this moment marked not a conclusion but a beginning, the first data point in what could become a series of increasingly intimate investigations.

Her body responded to this realization with renewed awareness, the pleasant weight in her lower abdomen intensifying as she contemplated future encounters. The professional boundaries that had once seemed so essential to her identity had not merely been crossed but fundamentally redrawn, creating a new territory neither purely clinical nor simply personal, but uniquely theirs to explore.

As the ECG monitor documented Audrey's returning cardiac baseline with electronic precision, Carmella remained connected to the direct source, her ear still pressed to the skin that covered the most fascinating heart she had ever encountered. The rhythmic sound continued to fill her consciousness, but now carried new meaning beyond its physiological significance—it had become the soundtrack to something unprecedented in her carefully controlled existence, something that promised to transform both women with the force of its undeniable attraction.

[cajon-desastre]

A friend of mine said today that he was tired of living through historic days.

Yesterday, another one happened.

After a pandemic, a volcano, a brutal snowstorm, a DANA… now we have the Great Blackout.

Yesterday was chaos in the capital, traffic was crazy, people were walking, businesses were closed for fear of looting, and supermarkets were empty. And yet, the population was calm, looking for solutions, caring for those they could, trying in vain to communicate with their families and friends. There were major problems, yes, especially in hospitals, elevators, and transportation, but there were no casualties given what could have happened.

An apocalyptic scenario could have unfolded, and instead, I saw people serene, eager to get home and tolerant of drivers and pedestrians. I experienced it, on my way to work and then on my way home. With that festive spirit that characterizes us, there were people on bar terraces, approaching anyone with a battery-powered radio to find out what was happening, people hitchhiking to get home. Curious scenes, also reminiscent of times gone by.

After this experience, you realize how fragile we are and how dependent on technology. The extreme communication we currently live in, where we are all updated by the second, gives us an idea of ​​how immediate we need everything.

I can only congratulate my compatriots for the general serenity with which they faced such a complicated day, which could have turned into something much more serious.

And the emergency services, the security services, the hospitals. Sometimes we complain with good reason, but in these circumstances, and when you've seen what people are capable of, I congratulate my country and my people.

Something we don't always appreciate.

[calxide]

HIT TWEET! — 12: trust

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“I’m sorry, Bedo.” You bit your quivering lower lip, you were on the verge of tears because you felt guilty.

I’m sorry for not telling you. Again.

When you got the CCTVs checked by the admin, and told them about your situation, the person looked like a man (not a woman, to Kaeya’s surprise), and the man was wearing clothes that would cover the entirety of his identity. Since you’ve raised your concern, the admin said they’ll tighten security and someone will patrol your floor every other hour.

“Don’t they boast about their tight security in their marketing?” Kaeya mentioned, while you three waited for the elevator.

When you arrived in your condo unit, it opened right on your face before you could get your key from your pocket.

“Albedo?” You said in surprise, to which the blonde responded with furrowed eyebrows as he saw Kaeya and Diluc behind you.

Shit.

You completely forgot you gave him a spare key in times of emergency, and because you weren’t responding to any of his calls or texts, he decided that it is an emergency.

Since he was here, you had no choice but to explain what was happening (with the help of the two, of course). 

“Why did you not tell me, again?” Albedo’s eyes were that with a pained expression. Do you still not trust him, even after what happened before?

The brothers already knew something happened with you and Albedo in the past when you first got the box. You had to tell them because Diluc kept insisting you tell Albedo, but you have not told them what happened in detail yet.

And even so, Diluc said you should still tell Albedo, so this kind of thing won’t happen.

Oh, well.

Sensing the heating tension in the air, Diluc spoke up.

“We can talk about this some other time,” he nodded to Albedo. “For now, talk with each other.”

Though Kaeya had some protests, Diluc narrowed his eyes on him to shut him up. And so they left.

“I'm sorry, Albedo. I really am,” your voice cracked, “I was going to tell you when we've figured it out—”

“You trust them more than me.”

It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

Albedo continued, “You really don't trust me?”

You shook your head. “No, Bedo. I trust you— more than anyone else I know.”

“But?”

“I…”

But I was scared again. Scared that this time I'll have to let go of you completely for the sake of my scholarship. Cause I’m a selfish coward who has nothing but that damn scholarship.

“It's not that I don't trust you. I just don't want to rely on you again,” you reasoned.

“Why are you so adamant on not relying on me, Y/N?”

Albedo couldn't hide the pain in himself. It's like you never ever trusted him.

Tears threatened to flow out of your eyes. And it was hard to speak with a lump forming in your throat, “Because you've done too much for me!”

Too much.

“It's too much,” sobbing, you let your tears flow, your hands making gestures as you speak, “I don't deserve that much because I can't give back anything at all that can be considered as equal to what you've given me.

“You give more than what I should take, Albedo. That isn't equivalent exchange.”

“Because it doesn't have to be that way, Y/N. I never asked you to give back anything to me because I—”

“Don't say it, please,” you stopped him, shaking your head with your eyes closed. “We’re not the same.

“I can't risk everything I have like you did for me, Albedo,” you choked through your sobs. “I know I’m nothing but a selfish fuck. You know I have nothing left but this.”

“Do you mean to say, your solution right now is to leave me completely? When doesn’t it have to be that way?” He tried reaching for your hand, but you evaded him. “We can solve this together.”

“Who knows what they'll do to you? I don't want to repeat the past. I just don't want you to be hurt again.”

Silence engulfed the cold room. Only your sobs echoed across the walls of your unit. Albedo wasn’t even looking at you; his gaze was on the floor, and his lips formed a straight line. Likewise, you don’t have it in yourself to face him either.

You don’t know how many minutes have passed already, you don’t know how long you’ve been crying, how long Albedo has been standing in front of you, and you don’t know if you can hold on any longer.

I can’t lose you, Albedo. But right now, I can’t lose my scholarship. Not when I’ve come this far.

“Did you ever trust me?” Albedo suddenly spoke. “Tell me, Y/N. Did you ever love me? Did we ever have a chance?”

There was a moment of hesitation. You didn’t answer yet, you just looked at him with swollen, reddened eyes.

Yes, you’d call him terms of endearment, but was it ever serious? Even Albedo was painfully aware you call everyone, ‘babes’, or whatever endearing word you call others. He wasn’t special. He never was.

But you couldn’t form a reply. Because you didn’t know the answer to his question either.

“Albedo— Why are you asking me this?”

Albedo nodded as if he got the answer from you, looking anywhere but you. “Alright. I'll stay away from you for as long as you want. Just stay safe.”

He took his bag and went to the door.

“Albedo, wait—!”

You tried reaching for him.

“But if you ever need me,” he reached for the door knob, hesitantly, “I'm always one call away.”

Albedo left.

Albedo left. Will you ever fix this mess you’ve made?

“I’m so sorry,” you mumbled between your sobs.

NOTE ermmm .. anyway, the next one is a retelling of what happened in first pov. this shit is so ass 🔥

SYNOPSIS When you experience struggles in the world of studying medicine and science, your Twitter moot is always there for you. On the other hand, an acquaintance enemy of yours never fails to bothers you. They have such contrasting personalities, yet a familiar feeling of comfort whenever you talk to them. Or is it uneasiness?

TAGLIST 🐦 @mayasshitposts @temshouineichi @sukunasrealgf @eutopiastar @wonderland-fan @kissunday @aether-darling @zamorazz @n0rmalsimp @boomie-123 @yolocaltrashaxolotl @jiminscarmex

[superbassbuck]

Making Out for America

Chapter 1: We the People

masterlist || one || two || three || four || five || six

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x America's Sweetheart!fem!reader

Authors note: was never a fan of posting fics on tumblr, but I figured I'd share it here for those who aren't a fan of reading it on ao3. but if you prefer ao3, you can read it here!

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, set during thunderbults*, sexual tension, forced proximity, arranged marriage, panic attacks, mental health issues, angst (lots of it), no y/n

Word Count: 4.7k

Summary: Bucky Barnes, the reformed assassin turned congressman with a major PR problem that just won’t let up. Tabloids bad mouth him. Society fears him. How can he get the American people to believe that he has what it takes for a seat at the office? Desperate for a breakthrough, Bucky needs a way to win over the nation’s trust.

Then his press secretary suggests a bold solution. Marriage to you, the poised, beloved daughter of a decorated war hero. America’s sweetheart. The embodiment of everything he’s not. It’s all for show. For Bucky, it means a shot at redemption. For you, it’s a chance to elevate your late father’s legacy and secure support for your foundation. Strictly business, and no space for love.

Everything is going well. But behind closed doors and the flashing cameras, you two can't stand each other, and it's taking everything in you two to not rip each other's throats out.

gif by whitedarkmoonflower || dividers by cafekitsune

The lights and cameras were flashing way too damn bright. They always were. Bucky adjusted his tie a little too tight against his throat as he stared out at the sea of flashing cameras and hands waving in the air. 

Standing in front of these people always felt like standing in front of a shark tank. These relentless reporters were always ready to pounce, banging their heads against the glass until the tank finally cracked. Despite his nervousness, he still forced a smile. But these kind of smiles never quite reach his eyes. 

“Congressman Barnes,” the voice starts with a polite tone. They always do.  “Do you think the American people can trust someone with your… history , to legislate in their best interest?” 

And there it was. 

He can already feel the cracks of the tank starting to form, droplets of water leaking through. It was always that sly and passive aggressive comment about his history that riled up the crowd. He was already hearing snickers, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the flash of the cameras grew even brighter. 

“I believe in accountability,” he begins, standing straighter. “I’ve spent years proving I’m not the man I used to be.” 

More pictures. More flashes. More cracks. More water leaks.

Bucky continues. “I didn’t get here by pretending my past didn’t happen. I got here by owning up to it–” 

Another hand shot up before he even got to finish. Perfect. 

“But some would argue you weren’t just a man. You were a weapon, one that took innocent lives. Shouldn’t a seat in Congress be reserved for those who never had to atone for war crimes?” 

Jesus Christ. He needs a drink. 

If that same question was brought up to him months ago, maybe he would’ve grovelled and begged for forgiveness right in front of these reporters. But as the days went by—and as hard as it was—he had to accept that he wasn’t in control during that time. 

The Winter Soldier wasn’t him. 

Bucky swallows. “I was used. Programmed to become something I’m not. That’s not an excuse for what I’ve done, but it is the truth–” 

“And yet you’re voting on national security bills now. Do you think families who lost loved ones to Hydra feel safe knowing you’re writing law?” 

He freezes. And just like that, the shark tank shatters and water comes gushing through like a tsunami. Click, click, click. Cameras snapped at him as he stood there on the podium like helpless prey. His left hand resting on the podium curls into a tight fist as he tries to compose himself. He has gotten used to showing off his arm without a glove—trying to own up to it. But at times like this, he just wishes he could put that stupid glove back on if it means not to be looked at like a damn monster. 

But rather a respectable human being. 

“I…I can understand that my position here can be very… worrying—” he begins to stammer. 

Bucky’s press secretary, Margaret Voss, was seated in the front row. She narrows her brows at him, eyes sharp. His press secretary knows better than anyone that once he starts adding ‘worrying’ in his sentences, then everything goes downhill from there. 

There have even been headlines about it, mocking him. Headlines in big bold letters that say: CONGRESSMAN BARNES IN OFFICE? A VERY WORRYING SITUATION FOR THE NATION.

“...and it is up to me to resolve the worrying matters of this very, worrying issue.” Bucky continues, his eyes disassociating blankly into a random reporter in the crowd. Cameras continue to flash, and the crowd begins to snicker. 

He glances down at Voss. She sits there, trying to act calm with her legs crossed. She has her pointer finger circling in motion as she mouths “Wrap it up.”  

“Thank you. Excuse me,” he muttered quickly, giving the crowd a curt nod before stepping down and offstage with a quiet, “Shit,” under his breath.

“Congressman Barnes, wait!”

Reporters shouted after him, but he was already gone. He kept his left hand in a tight fist, beginning to feel very self conscious about his prosthetic. He eventually disappears behind the curtain as the press pit continues to erupt in an arrangement of inaudible questions.

Voss caught up to him in a hurry, heels clicking on the marble floor. “Well, that went wonderful,” she muttered dryly, falling into step beside him as they turned a corner, finally out of everyone’s view.

“What the hell am I supposed to say when people ask me questions like that?” Bucky snapped through clenched teeth. “I’ve had this seat for what— three months ? And they’re already raking me through the mud.”

He shoved open the door to a small, empty office and walked in without waiting as Voss trails after him. She was clutching folders against her arms, her wrinkled hand holding onto them tightly. 

“It doesn’t help that you have nothing to show for,” she said, not unkindly, but as blunt as ever.  “Any chance you’re getting a bill on the floor before the decade ends?”

Bucky leaned against the desk, shooting her a glare.

Voss didn’t flinch. She just let out a tired exhale. “You’ve gotta get on that, Barnes.” 

“I am trying ,” he grits through clenched teeth. “There’s just too much to read, and half of it feels like it’s written in another goddamn language.”

She tucked the folders under one arm and pulled her phone from her back pocket, squinting as she held it away from her face. With a sigh, she grabbed the reading glasses dangling from her neck and slipped them on.

“I’ve got a few ideas that could help,” she said, tapping at the screen. “But you’re probably not gonna like them.” 

Bucky crosses his arms. “At this point, I’ll do anything.” 

“Well… good.” She says, nails tapping away at the screen. “There’s nothing this country eats up faster than a good old-fashioned family narrative. A loving partner. Stability. Something that says, ‘Hey, I’m not a weapon, I’m caring, and I’m husband material.’ ”

He stays quiet. 

“It shows you’re capable of love, that you’ve got a soft spot. That you can relate to the average American voter.”

Bucky scratches at his salt-and-pepper beard, giving her a slow, skeptical nod, urging her to get to the point.

“That also says you’re working for their best interests. Because you’re just like them. A man with a home. A heart. But unfortunately for you…” she pauses, glancing up briefly, “you’ve got no family, barely any close friends, and no one to come home to—”

“What are you getting at, Voss?” Bucky cuts through impatiently. 

Voss sets the folders she had tucked under her arm down on the desk behind him. She’s still tapping on her phone.

“Marriage.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That’s real funny.”

She finally looks up at him over the rim of her thin glasses. “I’m serious, Barnes. You need to get married.”

He glares at her with a look that’s stuck between disbelief and disgust. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No,” he repeats, firmer now, standing straighter.

Voss exhales, lifting her glasses to the top of her head. “Barnes, let’s not be dense. The press still sees you as this… weapon dressed in a suit,” she waves her phone vaguely at him. “They don’t see a man. They see The Winter Soldier . ”

“Wow, thanks,” he mutters.

“What better way to dissolve the rumors than getting married?” Voss went on, ever casual as she swiped through her phone. “And it can’t just be with anyone, no. It has to be someone with American values. Clean record. Squeaky clean image. The kind of person who makes the nation swoon when you walk hand-in-hand in public, like how they did with the Kennedys.”

Bucky flinched.

Voss blinked, looked up, then immediately grimaced. “Right. Shit. Sorry.”

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat, trying to recover, “have a look at this.” She held out her phone, tilting it sideways to show the screen. A livestream was playing, and in the center was a woman–you–standing on a podium with a bright smile on your face. Like you were born for this.

Bucky frowned, voice gruff. “What is this?”

“Just watch,” she says. 

You stand on the polished podium with a practiced smile. String of white lights twinkle above the outdoor venue. Banners with your father’s name and the foundation’s logo flap gently in the breeze. 

Even after all these years, speaking still makes your palms sweat. You’ve done this so many times before, yet the lump in your throat never fully goes away. Your hair is neatly styled, your modest dress tailored just a bit too tightly, forcing you to hold yourself taller, stiffer. Every flash of the camera reminds you that you’re live and being watched, judged, recorded.

The crowd finally settles into a quiet whisper. Now it’s just you and the microphone. 

“My father was one of America’s greatest war heroes, as you may know…” you begin, trying to keep your voice steady. “He dedicated his life to serving this country, protecting freedoms we sometimes take for granted. He was taken from us too soon, murdered in service. Though we still don’t know by whose hand…” 

You pause for a moment. You look up at the sky and blink away the tears. God. Don’t cry, don’t cry.  There’s probably a few videos online that date back from a few years ago, where you’re standing at this very same podium—crying like a baby the first time you started making these speeches.

As much as it pains you to bring up your father’s sob story countless times, you suck it up and do it anyway. It was for his legacy, and for a good cause. 

“Tonight, we gather not only to honor his memory, but to raise funds for the Jameson Foundation. An organization dedicated to supporting veterans and their families, providing the resources and care that too many still go on without.” 

You suck in a breath and continue. “This cause is personal. I know what it’s like to wait for someone who never comes home. I know what it’s like to feel forgotten. And I believe no family should have to endure that pain without support.”

The cameras flash, and the people in the crowd are smiling at you with solemn in their eyes. As they always do. 

You stand up straighter. “I am proud to carry my father’s name forward. Not just as his daughter, but as someone who believes that real patriotism doesn’t end on the battlefield. It lives on in how we care for those who served, and those they leave behind.”

The applause begins slowly, then builds. People rise to their feet, clapping and nodding. The camera flashes grow brighter, and you continue to force yourself to smile until the very end of it. 

Part performance, part devotion. This was your duty.

By the time the event finally winds down, you’re being ushered into the backseat of a black SUV, still waving and flashing that picture-perfect smile. You offer your final goodbyes with polite nods and short words.

When the car door shuts behind you, it’s like a flip in the switch.

You let out a deep, exhausted sigh, one you’ve been holding in for hours. Your fingers immediately reach behind your back, fumbling with the zipper of your too-tight dress. When it finally gives, you exhale like you've just been freed from a corset and slump into the leather seat.

“God, finally,” you mutter. “Can we stop for a burger?”

From the front seat, your driver glances up in the rearview mirror. His dark sunglasses cover his eyes, but you already know the look. “We were called into–” 

“Please,” you cut in, desperate now. Your stomach growls. “I’ve been starving myself all day to fit into this dress. I just want something quick and greasy. Burger. Fries. A milkshake if you’re feeling generous?”

He exhales slowly. Grumpy old man. 

Then he flicks the turn signal, switching lanes. “Fine. But right after that—”

“Yes! Thank you! You’re my savior, George. I mean it.” You flash him a quick, grateful smile before collapsing back into your seat, dress half-undone and hair already starting to fall from its pins.

On paper, you’re everything the public adores. Clean-cut legacy. Daughter of a fallen American war hero. Ivy League degree, a résumé packed with charity work, fundraiser galas, and “giving back.” Your hair is always done, your posture perfect, clothes modest, and your voice well polished to make it sound like you were born to be on that podium.

You’re America’s Sweetheart. And it’s exhausting.

Because behind closed doors, you’re just the average woman who wants to eat an embarrassing amount of junk food, and rot in bed with your phone or maybe a good book six inches from your face. You’ve got a whole curated public image handed to you on a silver platter, but your real personality is one bad week away from giving the nation a finger on live TV.

Only a handful of people know that side of you. Your driver, George, was one of them. Probably against his will.

After George handed you the greasy brown bag, you didn’t waste a second before diving in. You were finally eating your first meal of the day. You were eating so fast without a care in the world, until you noticed a few drops of mustard dripping down the front of your dress.

“Shit,” you muttered, trying to dab it off with a napkin. “Good thing we’re heading straight home after this.”

George shot you a sharp look from behind his dark sunglasses. “No, we’re not.”

“Are we stopping for gas or something?” you ask him mid-chew. 

“No,” he says curtly. Jeez. This guy wasn’t getting paid more to talk, but still. A little more explanation wouldn’t kill him.

“Then where exactly are we going, George?” you pressed.

He kept his eyes on the road and said, “We’re heading to a briefing room in the Capitol. Congressman Barnes and Margaret Voss are there waiting. They want to talk to you.” 

“Talk to me?” you ask around a mouthful, swallowing quickly. “About what? I didn’t know we had a meeting with them.”

George shrugs. “Tried to tell you, but you kept interrupting.”

Fair enough. Still, what could a congressman want from you beyond speeches and polite handshakes?

“Okay...” you lower your burger, eyeing the mustard stain on your dress. “But can we swing by the house first? I need to change. I’m covered in sauce.”

“No time,” he says bluntly. “We’re five minutes away.”

Wait, what ? Absolutely not. There was no way you were meeting a congressman covered in condiments. Sure, you were the picture-perfect good girl, but sometimes being a spoiled brat was necessary—and being an only child didn’t help. George had learned that the hard way.

“George,” you hiss, gripping the back of his seat. “Turn the car around.”

“No time,” he repeats with no intention of budging.

“Geooorgeee!” you whine, voice rising, hand tightening on the seat.

“No. We’re pulling up now,” he says with firm hands on the wheel. “And you’re too old to be acting like a child. Knock it off.” 

You slump back into the seat and cross your arms. 

The car slows and pulls up in front of an imposing government building. Gray stone walls, tall, narrow windows. The entrance is guarded by two stern-faced officers in crisp uniforms, their hands resting casually but deliberately on their holstered weapons. The American flag swaying gently in the breeze. 

You can already hear the cries of a bald eagle. 

George kills the engine, glances back through the rearview mirror, and says, “Ready?”

“Not like I have much of a choice,” you mutter under your breath.

George doesn’t acknowledge it. He just steps out of the driver’s seat and shuts the door with a soft thud . You hear the familiar crunch of gravel under his perfectly shined shoes as he circles around to your side. The door opens with a gentle pull, and he extends a hand.

You grab his hand stand with a quiet sigh, stepping out of the vehicle.

At the top of the building steps, a woman emerges. She’s sharp-looking with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a sleek bun. She has reading glasses looped around her neck like a necklace, her tailored suit crisp even in the slight breeze. You don’t need an introduction to know this is Margaret Voss.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you! We were just watching your speech on the livestream,” she calls with enthusiasm, her crows’ feet wrinkling deeper as she beams.

“Psst,” George mutters.

You flick your eyes toward him. He’s standing rigid beside you, but you catch the flick of his gaze underneath his sunglasses pointed downward, toward your back.

“Your dress. Zip it,” he says under his breath.

Oh, crap. 

Voss gets closer and you take a step closer to George. “Help me,” you grit through your forced smile. 

“I can’t,” he murmurs quietly, keeping his face neutral. “Looks bad.”

“Oh come on, since when do you care about appearances?”

“I care about yours, ” he says, voice flat.

“Then zip me up, George.”

George mutters something under his breath in annoyance. Then, reluctantly, he reaches a hand for the back of your zipper but withdraws immediately as Voss gets closer. He goes back to standing straight and composed. 

Now Voss is here, standing face to face with you, extending her hand for a handshake. You look at her with the most composed expression you can manage, keeping one hand behind your back to hold the dress together. You reach out with your free one, returning her handshake with a steady grip.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Voss.”

“Oh please,” she waves you off with a smile. “Call me Margaret.”

You smile tightly. Yeah, that’s not happening.

“I’m Congressman Barnes’ press secretary. Come inside, I’ll introduce you to him.” She pulls away and looks between you and George. “Just follow me.” 

She turns and starts walking back inside the building. The two front guards give you a curt nod and steps aside, letting you in with George trailing behind. 

As you step through the doorway, the solid heavy door shuts behind you with a thunk . The cool air inside brushes your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth outside. Marble floors stretch out beneath your heels, the sound of your steps echoing around the foyer.

Margaret is already a few paces ahead, speaking over her shoulder. “We’re just down this hallway. He’s expecting you.”

You and George linger a step or two behind. The moment she rounds a corner and her heels fade in volume, you grab George by the wrist and yank him toward you. “Now,” you hiss.

He hesitates, glancing in the direction she disappeared, but then gives in with a grumble. “Turn around.”

You turn, holding your dress tight at the back as he reaches for the zipper, trying to tug it upwards. “It won’t budge,” he mumbles. “Did you gain weight?” 

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder. “I had one burger!”

George exhales through his nose, brows furrowed in concentration behind his sunglasses. “You’re gonna have to stand really straight.”

You groan under your breath but comply, stretching up like you’re back in ballet class. You feel the zipper inch its way up, tighter and tighter, until finally…. click . It’s zipped up. But now you’re standing so stiff, and if you even dare to bend down or breathe too much, it’ll tear.

“Thanks,” you breathe, tugging the skirt down over your thighs. George just grunts and takes a step back.

Voss returns, peeking her head around the corner. She still has her polite smile on, but you can tell she’s getting impatient. “Everything alright?” she calls, voice echoing faintly down the hall.

“All good!” you reply, lifting your chin and offering a poised smile. You move to catch up with her, taking small, careful steps so the dress doesn’t split at the seams. “Sorry for the delay.”

She gestures for you to follow with a pleasant sweep of her hand. You round the corner, heels clicking again, and stop at the open doorway. Inside was a private office, and at the far end of the room, standing near a tall window with its blinds half-drawn, is a man with broad shoulders and a sharp posture. 

He doesn’t turn when you enter, he just continues to stand there with his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. What a warm welcome. How polite of him to greet you with such boundless enthusiasm. Voss gives a quick knock against the open door anyway, as if it makes any difference. 

“Congressman Barnes,” she says in that bright and diplomatic tone. “She’s here.” 

Finally, Bucky turns around slowly. His gaze cuts across the room and his cold blue eyes land directly on you. Standing in front of any person involved in politics would make anyone feel nervous. But for some reason, the way he’s staring—glaring—at you makes you feel more self conscious than you should. 

You stand up straighter, both hands linked and politely intertwined in front of you as you wait for him to greet you. 

Instead, his eyes drop. They drag across you, up and down. If you didn’t already feel insecure before entering this building, then you definitely already do now. He doesn’t offer a smile. Doesn’t extend a hand. Doesn’t say a word.

He just stands there.

No. 

No way in hell was this the woman Voss expected him to marry. Bucky’s stare doesn’t waver. If anything, his gaze deepens as his eyes continue their slow, deliberate drag down your figure, making no effort to hide that he’s sizing you up. Definitely judging.

There was no way you were the same woman on the livestream he saw just half an hour ago. 

That woman had poise. That woman had her hair pinned up in a perfect twist, glowing under the lights with the kind of smile that made you look like you were carved straight out of a campaign poster. 

Your hair’s undone and an unruly mess. The dress, God. The dress —looks like it shrunk three sizes in the wash. Tight in all the wrong places that makes it seem downright vulgar. And then there’s the kicker, a yellowish mustard stain at the front of your dress. Staring right back at him.

Now you’re standing awkwardly, fingers fidgeting, chewing on your lip like you’re waiting for detention. 

This was America’s sweetheart? 

Bucky swallows, jaw clenched. His hands dig deeper into his pockets. He doesn’t care how many Ivy League degrees you had or how many foundations you fronted, because this? Whatever you had going on here, it wasn’t going to work. 

He knew he wasn’t perfect either, but damn it all. He had a reputation to fix. 

Voss glances between the two of you, sensing the tension in the air. She parts her mouth to speak–probably attempting to smooth things over, but before the words come out, Bucky doesn't give her the chance.

“No,” he cuts in, flat and cold. “The plan is off.”

“The plan?” you recoil, visibly confused. Great. Voss hadn’t bothered to fill you in either.

She shifts uncomfortably, forcing a tight, nervous smile at you and your rigid bodyguard. And seriously, why was he still wearing sunglasses indoors? Bucky made a mental note of that.

“Would you two mind waiting outside for a moment—”

“No,” you interrupt firmly with a frown. “If you’ve got something to say about me, say it here. Isn’t that why I was called in?”

That clearly caught him off guard. He’d expected you to nod politely like you always did in interviews, then exit with a polished wave like some stuck-up princess.

Your bodyguard—driver—or whoever the hell he was, just simply nodded and slipped out the door without a second glance. 

Voss exhaled slowly, trying her best to be careful with her words. “I understand that this is unexpected,” she began, her voice steady and composed. “But I assure you, this proposal wasn’t made lightly.” 

“What proposal?” you stood straight, the tightness of your dress is suddenly the least suffocating thing in this room. Your eyes flickered towards Bucky instinctively. He refused to meet your gaze, instead focusing somewhere near the window.

“That’s exactly what this is. A proposal. A strategic partnership. A public engagement between you and Congressman Barnes.” Voss continued.

You blinked. Then you bark out a laugh. “You don’t mean a proposal as in marriage, do you?” 

Bucky’s eyebrow twitches. Sure, he wasn’t thrilled about this arrangement either, but the distaste in your voice hit a nerve. Still, he said nothing.

Voss just nodded. “Yes. In name and in the public view. Nothing would benefit your guys’ public opinion faster than aligning the Congressman with someone like you, an American figure the public already trusts. Someone with strong values, charitable history, and an impeccable background!” 

Your stomach turned. She was showering you with compliments, but for their personal gain. You hated every moment of this. 

“This is a terrible idea,” you say sharply. “And frankly, quite immature.” 

“Glad we can agree,” Bucky says bitterly with arms crossed. It came off ruder than he intended, but he was past pleasantries after already having a shit day. First the stupid questions from the press, and now this equally-stupid arrangement? Anyone would want to rip their hair out over this. Including you. 

Before you could even think to spin on your heel to leave, Voss speaks up. 

“It’s mutually beneficial,” she says. “Congressman Barnes regains the public’s favor. And you, your foundation and your father’s legacy gains national attention. Think about it. Renewed funding and widespread support.” 

You looked between her and Bucky, whose jaw was tight and eyes unreadable. “And when exactly was I going to be brought into this conversation?”

“Now,” Voss said simply. “I didn’t want to come to you until I was sure the Congressman would agree to even entertain the idea. Clearly, that’s still in debate.”

She glanced toward Bucky, but his stare remained fixed on the floor, silent and brooding as ever.

Voss turned back to you. “This isn’t an order. You’re not being forced into anything. I’d rather you both think of this as an opportunity that would greatly benefit you both,” Then she glances at Bucky. “Especially for one of you.” 

Bucky hates this. He hates every single moment of this, because he knows that Voss is right. He glances over at you with cautious blue eyes. He knows that he needs this more than you do, especially after seeing you on the livestream. You already have support, but you could have more. 

If you were the good person that people made you out to be, then you would accept it, for the sake of your late father. 

But instead, you had your arms crossed, an unreadable expression on your face. You looked like you already had your answer to this. You weren’t going to entertain this stupid idea. You were going to spin on your heel and slam the door shut and never come back again.

Bucky lets out a low exhale, already accepting defeat as he turns back towards the window—

“I’ll do it,” you speak up. 

He froze. He stops in his tracks and turns slowly to you, eyes slightly wide in shock.

Voss was equally stunned. She straightened up, clearly not expecting that answer either.

“Well—that’s perfect!” She says with a breathless laugh. She cast a quick glance toward Bucky, as if to confirm he’d heard you correctly, then refocused on you. “This is… this is going to be wonderful, you guys. Just give me one moment. I have some calls to make.” 

She pulled out her phone, already dialing, and stepped toward the door. Before either of you could say a word, she paused at the door frame and looked back at you both.

“In the meantime, try to get to know each other. On a personal level.” And just like that, she stepped out and closed the door behind her.

And now Bucky is left standing here, face to face with you. Your hair’s a mess, you smell like a walking cheeseburger, and your dress could burst at the seams at any moment. 

This was his future wife, his Mrs. Barnes. 

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STARKSTRESSER -PLATİN

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Stresser

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Ip Stresser

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[jesterkoops]

Omg WHAT IF! Potential spoilers for the final scene (and speculation about S3) under the cut.

So, I’ve been thinking Helly is practically doomed. If they finish Cold Harbor, she won’t be needed on the severed floor any longer. If they don’t finish it, it’s because they got Gemma out and the whole project goes to hell once and for all, so she won’t be needed on the severed floor any longer. The only way she survives is if she refuses to leave the severed floor.

So… what if the final scene is a reverse of the scene in 1x08 where Helly is about to go up the elevator, only this time it’s Mark inside the elevator with Gemma/Ms Casey. And Helly is not going with because that would mean her death. So she goes “good luck out there boss” as the doors are about to close and this time it’s Mark that just jumps out of the elevator to grab her (hand) and stay with her. Doors close, Gemma goes up, where maybe Cobel/Devon are waiting to get her out for good. Maybe the alarms go off because Ms Casey isn’t supposed to be in that elevator.

Or maybe, MORE LIKELY, this happens by the severed threshold stairwell instead of the elevator. We have the precedent of the alarms going off when Helly tries to break through it, which is what nico used as a hint for the final shot of the season. And it might work better than the elevator from a narrative standpoint because that would mean Ms Casey would switch to Gemma on the outside of the glass door and witness Mark jumping back across to be with Helly, which would pack more of a dramatic punch. Otherwise there would be no emotional relevance in Gemma seeing Mark jump out of the elevator to be with Helly when she's Ms Casey (plus, it might be easier for Cobel/Devon to get to the stairwell than in the security area where the elevator stops). I noticed the light in the handhold scene from the trailer is red as they begin to hold hands and then seems to switch to normal light, which might signal the door closing again.

And so the season ends with Mark and Helly stuck on the severed floor. I don’t think she/they will be able to “hide” inside Lumon for long, but it might be good enough of a cliffhanger to get us into next season. How would they get out of this next season? Well, maybe this is where the hanging attempt that caused Helly to wake up as Helena on the severed floor comes into play. If they find out that blocking blood supply to the brain stops the chip from switching, all they need to do is block the blood supply just BEFORE Helly goes over the threshold, so that it stops while she’s Helly, and then restart it on the other side.

This likely won't be a long-term solution, either, though. It might very well be that, being free on the outside, Helly might be able to do what she did at the gala just 100 times worse and bring down Lumon, but that seems way too easy and I doubt Lumon won't have/find the means to eventually turn off her chip.

So I think Helly's ultimate survival still hinges on Helena and whether she reintegrates or not. I wrote some spec about this a while back, but if we add what I described above to the mix there's also the option of them getting Helly out and then performing reintegration on Helly rather than Helena so that they can't "kill her" by simply turning off the chip.

Of course, I also think this won't be easy because Helly will absolutely not want to be reintegrated with Helena, but if it's her only chance of survival she might have to take it.

Bottom line, Helena is key to it all at this point.

[shamelest]

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[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

🩺 Sepsis Emergency Response (SER)

Is your sick Gallifreyan displaying signs of Sepsis? Here's a handy guide on how to respond to this medical emergency, because 'Sepsis is SER-ious'.

BIGGER - Google Drive: PDF / Image JPG / Image PNG

This guide is for use on Gallifreyans and Time Lords only. Always seek your human advice from human health providers.

✨ What is Sepsis?

Sepsis is a very rare but very serious condition in Gallifreyans that requires immediate action. It occurs when the immune system overreacts to an infection, leading to widespread inflammation and potentially life-threatening complications like hearts failure or regeneration.

While Gallifreyan immune systems are extremely resilient, sepsis can develop unexpectedly, especially after trauma or severe infections, requiring immediate attention.

Just remember, sepsis is SER-ious.

📈 What's New in SER?

This updated version of SER adds a few key details previously not addressed, including the use of vasopressors and fluid bolus administration. It also introduces a few new visuals to highlight the importance of GASS, and better notes on oxygen administration.

📝 How to Use SER

📈 Step 1: Recognising Sepsis

Use the GASS system to assess vital signs and determine if sepsis is indicated:

Scores ≥9 or 3 in any category require immediate activation of the sepsis protocol.

Symptoms such as persistent abnormal breathing, synchronous hearts rhythm, or a significant Heart Rate Differential (HRD ≥50 bpm) are present.

If sepsis is identified, start regular routine monitoring using GASS, either continuously or every 15 minutes.

If the patient's vitals indicate a healing coma, cease active intervention and monitor in a secure environment.

🫁 Step 2: Secure the Airway

Check and clear any obstructions using ABCDE protocols before introducing supplemental oxygen.

Ensure the patient is not using their respiratory bypass system, as introducing oxygen during respiratory bypass activation may cause oxygen toxicity.

Administer oxygen cautiously. Start at 10L/min and titrate to the lowest effective flow rate to maintain respiratory function.

If oxygen equipment is unavailable, focus on positioning the patient to optimise natural airflow, ensuring the head and neck remain elevated.

If using human equipment, use oxygen cautiously and rely on clinical observation rather than human oximeters, as these are ineffective on Gallifreyans.

🧪 Step 3: Take Bloods

Establish an IV line and collect blood samples for analysis.

Test for lactate levels (≥1 mmol/L indicates significant infection).

If possible, test for artron (≥5000 mcL) and lindos (≥250 mcL) levels. Elevated markers confirm severe immune response or systemic distress.

Gallifreyan blood samples can be challenging to analyse with human equipment—if Gallifreyan equipment is not available, rely on lactate levels and visible symptoms like pallor, sweating, or poor capillary refill time.

💉 Step 4: Introduce Intravenous Antibiotics

Administer antibiotics immediately via IV.

Gallifreyan dosages are double human normals.

If the infection is unknown, administer broad-spectrum antibiotics according to your local policy (eg. Amoxicillin/Doxycycline)

Adjust to targeted antibiotics if the infection source is identified.

Timing matters: Administer antibiotics within the first hour of sepsis identification to maximise effectiveness and reduce complications.

💧 Step 5: Administer Fluids

Administer fluid bolus through an IV line. Glalifreyans preferelectrolyte-rich solutions (e.g., Hartmann’s or 0.9% Sodium Chloride).

Administer a 500ml bolus over 15–30 minutes if systolic BP ≤90 mmHg or lactate ≥1 mmol/L.

Reassess after each bolus and repeat up to four times as needed.

Monitor for signs of fluid overload, such as jugular vein distension or rising respiratory distress.

Reduce bolus volume to 250ml if heart/s failure is suspected to prevent fluid overload.

🩸 Step 6: Consider a Blood Transfusion

If the patient fails to stabilise after antibiotics and fluids or has had significant blood loss, consider a transfusion:

Efficacy:

Human blood: 50%.

Gallifreyan (same House): 70%.

Own blood: 90%.

⚠️USE ONLY COMPATIBLE BLOOD. Gallifreyans are unable to receive blood transfusions from other Gallifreyans who are not in their House, which will cause severe complications.

⚠️DO NOT USE VASOPRESSORS. Gallifreyan physiology is sometimes susceptible to blood clots from human drugs that affect vascular tone, leading to severe complications.

🔁 Step 7: Reassess and Monitor

Use the ABCDE approach alongside GASS to monitor the patient’s condition every 15 minutes.

Escalate care if:

GASS score remains ≥9.

Severe symptoms like synchronised hearts rhythm persist.

The GASS score worsens by more than 3 points across consecutive assessments.

Always consult a Gallifreyan hospitaller for advanced treatment.

📌 Key Points to Remember

Early Action Saves Lives: Use GASS to identify sepsis early and act fast.

Monitor and Reassess: Frequent reassessment is critical to adapt care as needed.

Tailored Interventions: Adjust fluids, antibiotics, and oxygen based on the patient's unique physiology.

Escalate When Needed: Always involve a Gallifreyan medic or hospitaller if symptoms persist or worsen.

Caregiver Vigilance: Gallifreyan physiology can mask symptoms until sepsis is advanced, so remain alert.

Medical Guides

These are all practical guides to assessing and treating a Gallifreyan in an emergency.

⚕️💕Gallifreyan CPR

⚕️👽Gallifreyan Assessment Scoring System (GASS)

⚕️👽ABCDE Assessment

⚕️⚠️Sepsis Emergency Response (SER)

⚕️⚠️Severe Trauma Protocol

⚕️🌡️Gallifreyan Thermoregulation and Emergency Response

⚕️🔮Psionic Emergency Pathways

⚕️✨Post-Regeneration Management

⚕️💤Gallifreyan Healing Coma Management

⚕️🩸Interpreting Gallifreyan Bloodwork

⚕️👶Gallifreyan Paediatric Emergencies

⚕️🧠Managing Gallifreyan Neurological Trauma

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features:⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[makeshiftdraco]

“Even if our High King agrees to an alliance, he will not surrender the ring to you.” Adar surprised him yet again, placing a hand upon the Half-elf’s breastplate just beneath his throat. Elrond knew the Moriondor could not truly feel Nenya hidden beneath the armor, but somehow Adar knew…and yet he did not take it by force. “If Gil-galad will deny me the ring, then I will require another prize in its stead.” His words baffled Elrond, and his proximity was alarming. “I have no time for riddles,” he told the Moriondor. “Speak plainly.” Adar let out a low chuckle, seemingly amused by his impatience. “I believe it is customary in many cultures to secure a political alliance through marriage.” This negotiation was getting more astounding by the minute. Elrond glanced at Galadriel whose fiery glare promised violence. Apparently Adar had kept her as his prisoner for this very reason. An Elven noble of her status would certainly elevate the Uruk’s claim to his shadow kingdom. “Lady Galadriel is already married,” Elrond informed her captor, gray eyes shifting to meet the Moriondor’s dark gaze. “According to Elven custom, she cannot be your bride.” Another smirk arose on Adar’s pale face. The expression triggered a pulse of heat low in Elrond’s gut, a warning that felt far too arousing. “I never specified that I wished to take Lady Galadriel as my betrothed.”

The Diplomacy of Desire

Adarond Diplomatic Marriage AU by makeshiftdraco

Chapter One: A Charged Proposal

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Rings of Power/Lord of the Rings

Pairing: Adar/Elrond

Status: In Progress

Description:

Tensions run high as Adar and Elrond meet to negotiate outside the besieged city of Eregion. When the Elven commander refuses to give up the ring of power, Adar suggests an alternative solution that catches the Half-elf by surprise. The Moriondor will agree to an alliance between Uruks and Elves upon one very specific condition...a diplomatic marriage between Elrond and himself.

Elrond must grapple with political duty and personal desires as he considers Adar's proposal. Is he willing to surrender himself to the enemy for the sake of peace? Can the Half-elf heal a wounded Middle-earth by binding himself to a ruthless stranger?

Adar knows his desire for the Half-elf is dangerous, but he cannot resist his gentle beauty. Conquest requires patience both on and off the battlefield, and the Moriondor is determined to win Elrond's hand as well as his heart.

Hopefully there's an audience for a lengthy Adarond slow burn... This rare pair needs more fics, and I'm determined to deliver!