#phase II data

[marklakshmanan]

https://www.medpagetoday.com/meetingcoverage/ada/116194?xid=nl_mpt_morningbreak2025-06-24&mh=04b3fab0856809eb8d5b4eee8e5ed787&zdee=gAAAAABm4vbh613aknD-ZiAqg-dNwwghuyj6DR2QMHH-Rfh8t-RWx7r0ZDVK29f8wQZXfUsq-6EAjjP6ux-f_mG4G-2QQsGPta21WayO65bX-HvmO2KePfk%3D&utm_source=Sailthru&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=MorningBreak_062425&utm_term=NL_Gen_Int_Daily_News_Update_active

Interesting phase II data.

[ashleyrowanthewriter]

Porcelain Doll HRT Observation Report

Part I - WTO Foreword

The report is based on studies and observations performed by Dr. Pierre Oupée, Dr. Kotomi Abuki and Dr. Pirkko Osliini. The team studied 25 participants who underwent therapy including Dr. Osliini.

The therapy has been approved by the World Transhumanism Association, but every licensed physician administering the treatment has to report the course of therapy of at least 50% of patients for clarity of data. The therapy is to be submitted for reapproval once reports of at least 1000 patients are collected.

Part II - Recommended Psychological Evaluation

Before undergoing the therapy it is recommended to evaluate the patients psychologically. The evaluation should take three sessions, which should be performed in intervals of 14 days. The process of evaluation prioritises informed consent and letting the patient consider their decision.

The first session is focused on discussing the desired effects with the patient. During the second session the patient is to be explained about the effects of the therapy. During the third session the patient signs the informed consent file after which they can undergo an endocrinological evaluation and get prescribed the medications.

Part III - Required Medications

All medications are available in oral and epidermal form. It is important to note that the exact dosage differs from patient to patient.

Antihomogen (0,5-2 mg/week) - Humanity removal agent. Due to the anthropomorphic nature of the therapy it is important to keep the dosage low unless cross administering multiple therapies.

Antisomatotropin (10-17 mg/week) - Somatotropin halting agent.

Contostropin (13-22 mg/week) - Shrinking hormone. Due to the rate of influence the final dose should be taken when the patient reaches the height of 5-7 cm higher than desired. Further research is advised.

Tsichirone (17,5-32 mg/week) - Porcelanising agent.

Part IV - Course of Therapy

Phase 1 (onset on week 4-8) - Somatotropin in the patient’s body stops influencing it and constopropin causes it to start shrinking.

Phase 2 (onset on week 7-14) - Tsichirone starts turning the patient’s skin into soft porcelain. The effects of constotropine become amplified causing rapid decrease in height. The patient’s hair starts falling out. It is not understood what causes this effect, but it is observed that it doesn’t affect scalp hair. Further research is required.

Phase 3 (onset on week 20-30) - Tsichirone might cause the patient’s body to spontaneously freeze for a short time. The effect first affects small parts of the body such as single fingers to later spread to entire limbs and near the onset of phase 4 even the entire body. The patient’s scalp hair stops growing. It is not understood what causes this effect. Further research is required. The patient’s body hair falls out entirely midway through this phase. Tsichirone causes the patient’s skin to become more brittle. The patient’s hearing becomes more sensitive to high sounds. It is not understood what causes this effect. Further research is required.

Phase 4 (onset on week 40-56) - The patient’s body is completely turned into soft porcelain. While the patient retains muscle control for some time, tsichirone starts causing muscle atrophy and conversion of movable soft porcelain into immovable hard porcelain.

Phase 4A (10 weeks after the onset of phase 4) - The patient has to register in a surgery clinic licensed to perform dollification surgeries.

Phase 5 (onset on week 55-70) - Tsichirone causes complete conversion of soft porcelain into hard porcelain and complete muscle atrophy. The patient loses control over their body. Dollification surgeries become possible. The medication process is deemed completed.

Part V - Course of Surgeries

All the surgeries become possible after the patient reaches phase 5 of therapy. 

Articuplasty involves cutting the patient’s body and shaping new joints out of kintsugine. The joints become integrated with the patient's body after two to three weeks of auxiliary tsichirone therapy after which the patient is to undergo physical rehabilitation. Articuplasty is to be performed on shoulder joints, elbows, wrists, finger joints, hips, knees and ankles. If the patient expresses such desire, articuplasty can also be performed on toe joints, neck and some regions of the torso. The patients are able to use their joints despite muscle atrophy.

Voice box transplantation is not necessary for transition, but if the patient wishes not to undergo it, it is advised they learn sign language. The surgery involves cutting a hole in the body region chosen by the patient, inserting an artificial voice box and sealing the hole using kintsugine. The seal gets healed after one to two weeks of auxiliary tsichirone therapy. Although the voice box can be transplanted to any part of the body that is big enough to store it, it is highly recommended to transplant it into the neck or the torso.

Some patients express a desire for their post-transition forms to possess winding keys. In such cases it is possible for them to undergo winding key transplantation. The transplantation consists of drilling a hole in the patient’s body, constructing a key rail out of kintsugine, inserting the key and sealing the rail. The key becomes integrated into the patient’s body after two to three weeks of auxiliary tsichirone therapy, during which it is absolutely necessary not to touch the key. Touching the key during the auxiliary therapy may result in damage which may render the key unusable or require repeating the surgery. Winding the key seems to have no effect on the patient's physical state. It is however understood to cause feelings of relaxation. Further research is required.

Some patients express a desire for their post-transition forms to possess movable eyelids. In such cases it is possible for them to undergo palpebraplasty. The surgery involves cutting the eyelid rails into the patient’s eye sockets and shaping the eyelids out of kintsugine. The eyelids become integrated with the patient’s body after four to eight days of auxiliary tsichirone therapy. To ensure proper shape of the eyelids they are to be shaped in the closed position.

Part VI - Reversibility

The effects of the therapy are currently understood to be irreversible once the patient’s body enters phase 4 of the transition process. Further research is required.

Part VII - Contraindications

The therapy is not to be administered to patients with calcium deficiency until the deficiency is treated.

To prevent damage to the organism the therapy is not to be administered to patients with brittle bone disease.

Patients with any health conditions causing muscle atrophy are to be thoroughly observed by their physician.

The physician has the right to alter or completely halt therapy if it poses danger to the patient’s life.

Part VIII - WTO Approval

The World Transhumanism Organisation approved the therapy on August 2nd 20XX.

*************

Sorry, but I like the otherkin HRT genre too much. And while it will feel weird to self-insert myself into such a story as a receiver (because it seems my disability prevents me from gender HRT IRL), I thought I could write some lore bits to contribute to the community. It might not even be the only report I decide to write.

Of course, feel free to base your own story on that report. I'd be excited to read it!

[lonestarflight]

Cancelled Missions/Station: Manned Orbital Research Laboratory (MORL)

This was a study initiated in 1962 for space stations designs using the Gemini Spacecraft and later on the Apollo CSM. Boeing and Douglas received Phase I contracts in June 1964.

MORL/S-IVB Concept

"A 5 metric ton 'dry' space station, launched by Saturn IB, with Gemini or Apollo being used for crew rotation. The 6.5 meter diameter and 12.6 meter long station included a docking adapter, hangar section, airlock, and a dual-place centrifuge. Douglas was selected by NASA LaRC for further Phase 2 and 3 studies in 1963 to 1966. Although MORL was NASA's 'baseline station' during this period, it was dropped by the late 1960's in preference to the more capable station that would become Skylab.

Different docking concepts studied.

The Manned Orbital Research Laboratory was the brainchild of Carl M Houson and Allen C. Gilbert, two engineers at Douglas. In 1963 they proposed a Mini Space Station using existing hardware, to be launched by 1965. A Titan II or Atlas would be launched with a payload of control system, docking adapter and hangar module. The visiting crew would use the payload to transform the empty fuel tank of the last stage of the rocket into pressurized habitat (a so-called 'wet' space station). Provisions were available for 4 astronauts for a 100 day stay. Crew members would arrive two at a time aboard Gemini spacecraft. Equipment included a two-place centrifuge for the astronauts to readapt to gravity before their return to earth.

An early MORL concert. Artwork by Gordon Phillips.

In June 1964 Boeing and Douglas received Phase I contracts for further refinement of MORL station designs. The recommended concept was now for a 13.5 metric ton 'dry' space station, launched by Saturn IB, with Gemini or Apollo being used for crew rotation. The 6.5 meter diameter and 12.6 meter long station included a docking adapter, Hangar section, airlock, and a dual-place centrifuge.

"Medium-sized orbiting lab is this Manned Orbital Research Laboratory (MORL) developed for NASA's Langley Lab by Douglas Missiles & Spacecraft Division. The lab which weighs about 35,000 pounds, could maintain 3 to 6 men in orbit for a year.

Orbiting Stations: Stopovers to Space Travel by Irwin Stambler, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1965."

Douglas was selected by NASA LaRC for further Phase 2 and 3 studies in 1963 to 1966. The major system elements of the baseline that emerged included:

A 660-cm-diameter laboratory launched by the Saturn IB into a 370-km orbit inclined at 28.72 degrees to the equator

A Saturn IB launched Apollo logistics vehicle, consisting of a modified Apollo command module, a service pack for rendezvous and re-entry propulsion, and a multi-mission module for cargo, experiments, laboratory facility modification, or a spacecraft excursion propulsion system.

Supporting ground systems.

MORL Phase IIb examined the utilization of the MORL for space research in the 1970s. Subcontractors included:

Eclipse-Pioneer Division of Bendix, stabilization and control

Federal Systems Division of IBM, communications, data management, and ground support systems

Hamilton Standard Division of the United Aircraft Corporation, environmental control/life support

Stanford Research Institute, priority analysis of space- related objectives

Bissett-Berman, oceanography

Marine Advisors, oceanography

Aero Services, cartography and photogrammetry

Marquardt, orientation propulsion

TRW, main engine propulsion.

The original MORL program envisioned one or two Saturn IB and three Titan II launches. Crew would be 6 to 9 Astronauts. After each Gemini docked to the MORL at the nose of the adapter, the crew would shut down the Gemini systems, put the spacecraft into hibernation, and transfer by EVA to the MORL airlock. The Gemini would then be moved by a small manipulator to side of the station to clear docking adapter for arrival of the next crew."

"Docking was to have 3 ports, all Nose Dock config, with spacecraft modifications totaling +405 lbs over the baseline Gemini spacecraft (structure beef-up, dock provisions, added retro-rockets, batteries, a data link for rendezvous, temp. control equip. for long-term, unoccupied Gemini storage on-orbit and removal of R&D instruments)."

"Later concepts including docking a Saturn-IB launched space telescope to MORL. At 4 meter diameter and 15 meter long, this would be the same size as the later Hubble Space Telescope. The crew would have to make EVA's to recover the film from the camera.

In 1965 Robert Sohn, head of the Technical Requirements Staff, TRW Space Technology Laboratories, proposed a detailed plan for early manned flight to Mars using MORL. The enlarged MORL-derived mission module would house six to eight men and be hurled on a Mars flyby by a single Saturn MLV-V-1 launch. MORL-derived Mars mission modules cropped up in other Douglas Mars studies until superseded by the 10-m diameter Planetary Mission Module in 1969.

MORL/Space Telescope

Why was MORL never launched ?

NASA had a need for a Space Station and MORL was little, easy and cheap. But NASA had more ambitious plans, embodied in the Apollo Applications Orbital Workshop (later called Skylab)."

-information from astronautix.com: link

source, source, source

NARA: 6375661, S66-17592

Posted on Flickr by Numbers Station: link

[wolveria]

What We Did on Felucia - Ch 1

Pairing: The Bad Batch x f!Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, sex pollen

Event: Paired with my amazing artists @binkyisonline and @phantasmagoriatime for the @clonebang event!

Summary:

Springing a trap in a Separatist lab shouldn’t be a problem. Your squad is the most prestigious in the GAR, even if they are a bit extreme in their methods, and fighting their way out of a corner is what they do best. It’s fortunate their tactics are so unconventional; as the heavy, potent gas pours into the lab, you soon learn there’s only one way out. And you won’t be fighting.

AO3

The thick set of blast doors closed behind you, and the entire squad turned to face it, blasters raised a second too late to avoid the trap.

“That’s not ideal,” Tech commented. Hunter turned to him with a tilt of his helmet.

“Can you get it open?”

Tech wasn’t given the opportunity to try; a soft hiss came from above, followed by a dispersion of gas or vapor. It carried a sucrose flavor, like the nectar from the moon flowers on your home planet.

You covered your mouth with your robe’s sleeve, but you were too late once again. Heat flushed under your skin and your senses burned from the gas, the residue sticking to your throat. A hand spun you by the shoulder, and Tech held the back of your head as he swiftly placed an air mask over your mouth.

You breathed in relief, the oxygen mixture easing the sickly-sweet fragrance from your nose. Unfortunately, it lingered on your tongue.

“Thank you, Tech.”

He set his pack on one of the nearby tables, having taken it off to get out the mask. It seemed you were in another lab. Tech’s method of “alternate egress” through the Separatist compound had led you somewhere that decidedly wasn’t an exit.

“That may be premature, General.” He held the datapad close to his face, his brows furrowed. “It appears we’ve been dosed with the experimental formula.”

The mission had been off from the start, even more than your missions usually went. You’d received intel that the base contained an experimental droid unit, not a biological weapon. But when Echo had spotted the formula buried deep in encryption, Hunter had given his approval to download all the information he could find.

You should have pulled them sooner. A disturbance in the Force tugged at the edges of your mind with every step, and you had ignored it. You thought you could get your men out in time.

And now, they would pay for your mistake.

“But we should be fine with our helmets, right?” Hunter faced Tech, but by the slight angle of his head, he was noting you and your lack of protection.

“The molecules of this chemical are incredibly small, and therefore designed to bypass the filtering system on all Phase II clone armor. So… no. We are not fine.”

“Tech,” you said with a slow turn of your head, “what does it do?”

He didn’t bother to look up, his focus still on the datapad.

“I shall know momentarily. There is a staggering amount of data to sort, but I may have good news. The effects, such as they are, should be slower to present themselves in us, seeing as we had a smaller initial dose than you, General.”

Wrecker mumbled under his breath, “That’s the good news?”

You approached the blast door that had locked you all inside, ignited your lightsaber, and thrust forward. Your blade bounced off its surface, sparking at the contact, and a brief shimmer rippled underneath.

“Ray shielded.” Hunter lowered his blaster with a tired sigh. “Not getting out that way.”

“Great,” Echo said, folding his arms. “How do we counter this chemical?”

“We cannot,” Tech answered.

“There must be something we can do!”

Tech finally looked up from his datapad, giving Echo a look that might have been curiosity or annoyance.

“I take no offense at your tone, seeing as you have no control over it.”

“What did you say?”

Echo stalked across the room at an alarming pace, but Hunter got between them before you could intervene and put a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Tech, explain.”

“Besides the general, Echo will be affected first. He has less organic body mass than we do. Less mass means a greater concentration of the chemical from the initial dose.” Tech tried to push his goggles up his nose, but seeing that they were inside his helmet, he didn’t move them very far. “And, well, being once again subjected to Separatist experimentation is understandably putting you in a foul mood. Heightened aggression is one symptom of this chemical.”

You sat on one of the tables, the clear mask fogging from your panting breath, and you envied them for having sweat glands. You shouldn’t be this hot, not when the laboratory had been cold a moment ago.

“What are the other symptoms?” It had been a long time since you’d felt this level of nervousness, maybe since you were a Padawan. Or at least, when you were asked to lead this squad of unconventional clone commandos.

“Increased body temperature, which I believe you are experiencing, and a heightened state of aggression, as we have witnessed in Echo. Also, a remarkable increase in libido.”

When the rest of the squad stared at him, Tech added, “Arousal.”

“Yeah, we got that,” Wrecker grumbled.

Crosshair, who had remained unusually silent so far, leaned against one of the walls with his arms folded, feigning a casualness that didn’t reach his voice. He spoke as if through clenched teeth, a faint growl underlying his tone.

“How do we stop it.”

“As I told you, there’s no stopping it.” Tech frowned at them, one by one. “The molecule has entered our bloodstreams and crossed the blood-brain barrier to affect our hormone levels—”

You doubled over, catching the choked gasp before it could get very far, and a hand rested on your shoulder. You gave Wrecker a weak smile and sat upright once the discomfort passed, and he snatched his hand back as if burned. Unusual for the affectionate clone, but you didn’t need to see his face to sense the embarrassment radiating from him.

There was something else as well, and it wasn’t just him. A sense of mortification perforated the room as Tech’s third symptom began to surface. You pulled the Force close around you, not wanting to sense… that from them.

“Is it fatal?”

Your question broke through his scientific curiosity, or maybe it had been your outward sign of distress, because when Tech looked at you his eyes held a softness they lacked before.

“No. At least, I see no record of any deaths during the experiments, but… we will eventually be forced to alleviate the symptoms as they will grow exponentially more intense.”

At least you would survive, though you weren’t sure what survival would look like. Another wave of heavy warmth flushed through your abdomen, and your claws dug into the edges of the table hard enough to dent the metal.

“Alleviate the symptoms how?”

“Well.” He squinted. “The solution is obvious.”

Apparently, it wasn’t obvious to you. He sighed.

“The biochemical stimulates the part of the brain that controls arousal, and in order to mitigate the worst effects, one must find release of a similar nature.”

Tech was again caught in the middle of their focused silence.

“An orgasm. Specifically, through sex.”

“You’re kidding me,” Echo said, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m afraid not.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, striving to breathe in regular deep rhythms and not think about what Tech had just suggested. It wasn’t an option. It couldn’t be.

“What happens if we do nothing, Tech?”

“We will go into a ‘black out’ state,” he answered without skipping a beat. “In which case, we will have intercourse anyway, with no recollection of the event. We will have no conscious control of our actions, and as a result… injuries are likely as a result of lack of care.”

“That’s not happening,” Hunter said, and even with your gaze focused on the floor, you sensed his attention on you. You were grateful they still donned their helmets, even if you could sense their agitation, it would be harder to see it on their faces. Tech’s expressive eyes were difficult enough to witness, unable to hide his reluctance despite his clinical words.

“Why would the separatists create something like this?” you asked. “What could they possibly use it for?”

The reason didn’t matter, not right now, but agitation bubbled under your skin. It wasn’t like you. You’d learned to control and focus your emotions long ago, as all Jedi Masters should, but this was an itch… no, a set of claws under your skin, trying to dig itself free.

“Ah, that I can answer,” Tech said and tapped a few keys. “It was designed for use on humanoids. Clones, specifically.”

“What?” Hunter asked, his voice far away.

“It’s an effective means of biological warfare. Droids would be immune, but clone troopers and their Jedi generals would succumb to the symptoms and seek relief. It would be an immediate Republic defeat on whatever battlefield it is used.”

No one spoke. Your stomach twisted into roiling knots, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the information or the chemical. But you had to ask, especially when no one else did.

“What… happens then?”

“According to the observation logs, the test subjects are compelled to copulate with those physically closest to them, and then they fall unconscious immediately after reaching completion. It is quite ingenious, actually. Whether the chemical is subverted through orgasm or allowed to run its course, the troopers and Jedi generals would be effectively disarmed and distracted.”

“They actually did this to people?” Echo asked with a wrinkle of his lips.

“Well, yes. How else would you perform an experiment without test subjects?”

Echo launched himself at Tech and punched him across the helmet before Wrecker could grab hold of him, lifting him so he couldn’t land another blow. You sensed the stress radiating from Hunter, and you shared it. The Batch were a volatile mix on a good day, but tempers flaring this quickly meant you were running out of time.

“Echo, stand down!” Hunter snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Echo shook off the bigger clone, shooting one last look at Tech before finding a corner to pace in.

You stood from the table.

“We have to get out.”

“Agreed,” Hunter said.

Tech rubbed the side of his helmet while Wrecker kept a watchful eye on their seething brother. You and Hunter walked the perimeter of the room from opposite sides, reaching out with your senses while he focused his, but there was… nothing. The room was heavily fortified and clearly designed to contain dangerous experiments.

After doing his own sweep, though you doubted this was his first and he was just as thorough as you and Hunter, Tech put down his datapad and met your eye.

“There are no access panels, and I cannot breach the security system remotely. There is only one exit, and that door won’t open by force. Our only means of leaving this room is if the enemy opens the door.”

“And why would they do that?” Crosshair sneered, still in a bad mood, but weren’t you all.

“They will when we’re unconscious.”

“But you said we would have to…” Hunter couldn’t finish the sentence, so Tech did it for him.

“Have intercourse until we reach completion?”

“Call it what it is.” Crosshair pulled the toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it in Tech’s direction. “We have to fuck or be fucked until we come.”

Tech’s returning glare was decidedly un-Tech-like.

“That is what I said.”

You took off your outer robes, the heat unbearable, and besides that… they would only get in the way.

“Then there’s no reason to wait.” You pulled off the oxygen mask and held it out to Tech, and he stared for a moment before taking it from you. In fact, they all stared at you.

“Unless you’re willing to do this with each other, then it’s going to have to be me.”

Crosshair’s grin was quick and sharp.

“I certainly prefer you over them.”

“Don’t talk to the General that way!”

Crosshair gave Echo a smile that could have been lazy if it wasn’t full of so much intention and spite.

“Admit it, reg. You’re as eager to fuck our Jedi as the rest of us.”

“Stow it, Crosshair,” Hunter commanded through his teeth. Any other day, such an order would have been delivered without actual fire behind it. It was a bad sign when it sounded like Hunter actually wanted to throttle Crosshair.

Of course, Crosshair had never said anything like that to you before, but you dismissed it as the effects of the chemical. You were certainly having your own problems, and you braced against the table again, trying to be subtle and not show just how unsteady you were. Your legs had taken up a series of fine trembles, and the pressure between your legs grew stronger with each minute that passed.

“So,” you picked up when the silence grew too heavy, “the plan. Once we wake up, wherever and whenever that is, we find a way to escape.”

Hunter stepped forward, a hand outstretched.

“Whoa, hold on. We’re not going to… There has to be another way.” He turned to Tech, his posture open and beseeching. “You understand this chemical, right?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you make a cure?”

“With what laboratory, Hunter? The one we are currently occupying that happens to be empty of equipment, viable samples, or a working terminal? All things I would need to replicate the chemical, let alone create an antiserum? That laboratory?”

Silence filled the room. Even Crosshair turned his head to stare at Tech. You’d never heard Tech angry at Hunter before. Annoyed, yes, but Tech got annoyed with everyone.

Tech sighed, and his shoulders slumped.

“I… apologize. It appears I am not immune to the effects of the chemical.”

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and even though your palm was over armor, Tech startled as if you’d poked him with a live wire. You lifted your hand from his pauldron and kept your voice low and calm.

“We wouldn’t have any information if it wasn’t for you. At least now, we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.” You met Hunter’s gaze and spoke a little louder. “We’re out of options. I don’t see another path, but I’m not giving the order. It’s your squad, Hunter. Whatever you decide, I’ll follow.”

He was skilled at hiding his emotions, but you sensed his resolve waver, and worse, the loss of hope as he expelled a quiet breath.

“Then… this is what we do. And we deal with the consequences later.”

Without waiting for another prompt, you untied the sash around your waist and peeled off your inner robes, letting them fall to the floor. All that remained was your body suit.

You held your lightsaber hilt in both hands and held it up to Tech, trying not to let the regret touch your voice. Regret that you led them to this. Regret that you hadn’t done more.

“Will you hold onto this for me? I don’t wish to lose it.”

Tech looked from your face to your hands, and with uncharacteristic hesitation, took the hilt from where it lay across your palms. He held it with great care, as if he held your life in his hands, which he did. And soon, he would hold your life in his hands in a different way.

They all would. And it would be no different than any other mission where you trusted each other to make it out alive. That’s what you told yourself. Had to tell yourself. If you faltered… who else would get them home?

As Tech gently tucked the hilt in his pack, Wrecker broke the silence with a meek, “Are you sure about this, General?” He rarely addressed you so formally, a sign of how delicately he treated the situation, but his low voice trickled up your spine in a way he didn’t intend.

“It’s better to do this under our own volition before our choices are completely stolen from us.” But as you gripped the zipper at the top of your body suit, Hunter cut in, his palms raised and his voice on the edge of panic.

“Wait, maybe there’s a way around it. If it’s just an orgasm that fixes it, then—”

As soon as Hunter pulled the helmet off his head, his expression shifted from concern to shock. And then it hardened into something animal, untamed, and with a snarl, he launched at you.

Crosshair was on him in a flash, putting him in a headlock and stopping Hunter’s forward momentum even as he reached out for you, his teeth bared as his eyes fixed on you, predatory and hungry.

Tech and Echo both moved in front of you, blocking Hunter’s way in case Crosshair couldn’t hold him, and Tech cried out, “Helmet!”

Wrecker understood immediately and grabbed Hunter’s helmet, thrown to the ground and forgotten, and forced it over his head. As soon as the seal fixed in place with a hiss, Hunter went lax, half-held up in Crosshair’s hold.

“And that,” Tech said quietly, “is why we cannot wait any longer.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Hunter’s panting was hard enough to be picked up by his voice modulator, and he got to his feet with a surprising lack of mocking on Crosshair’s part. He tilted his helmet in your direction, his posture the equivalent of an apologetic wince. “I don’t know what… what happened. I wasn’t… in control.”

You hadn’t moved through the entire event, frozen in place. Even now, your heart raced as you had to swallow the excess saliva in your mouth, and your legs trembled in what you wished was fear.

“Your enhanced senses will make this worse for you,” Tech said. Hunter huffed but continued to catch his breath.

“Yeah, I got that.”

Tech fixed him with a narrow side eye, but then he addressed the rest of the group.

“Hunter’s line of inquiry is a good one—”

“That would be a first,” Crosshair sneered.

“—but unfortunately, the chemical was designed to dissipate with genital-to-genital contact only. Fellatio, cunnilingus, or any other variation of orgasm will not be enough, including self-stimulation.”

“Wow,” Wrecker said, “the Seppies think of everything.”

“If we’re doing this, I think it’s best we keep helmets on. Armor too.” Echo glanced at the others for signs of disagreement. There was none. You knew it was in case the Separatists decided to attack, which wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, but you also suspected making this as clinical as possible would be easier for everyone.

You dragged down the zipper for the upper half of your body suit, the noise drawing the attention of Echo and Tech, both of them glancing over their shoulders. Echo quickly faced forward again, giving the illusion of privacy. It was sweet, in its own way.

Tech also looked away, burying his face in the upturned glow of his datapad.

You gathered your resolve but didn’t remove the suit yet, and it was only through years of training and discipline that your voice didn’t waver when you asked, “Who’s first?”

The men shared another nervous round of glances, but it wasn’t all dread and guilt that radiated from their thoughts. Restless agitation and desire were beginning to gain momentum, and for a squad that often flouted the rules and acted unprofessionally, they hid their physical reactions very well. You might have been proud, given other circumstances.

“Echo. The molecule will be most concentrated in his tissues.” Tech kept his eyes downward on the screen. “Then Wrecker—”

“Why me?!”

Hunter, who had finally regained his composure, said, “Because whoever purges the chemical soonest will wake up the earliest. And we’re going to need your strength to get us out of this, wherever we wake up.”

“Correct,” Tech said, and Hunter turned to face him.

“Which means you should be next, Tech.”

“I volunteer to go last.”

“Why?”

Tech met your eye with reluctant slowness.

“I wish to make sure the… event goes as smoothly as possible, considering what it is we will be doing.”

That too was sweet in its own way, and you appreciated the gesture and thoughtfulness that went into his planning. Tech always tackled his projects with a careful exactness, even if that same care didn’t translate to tactics on the battlefield. You’d lost count of Tech’s reckless, chaotic strategies that sent ripples through the Force warning of imminent, bodily harm, only for him to slip away unscathed.

None of you would be making it out of this unscathed, and you could see in his worried gaze that Tech understood that. So for him to offer to endure it the longest—

“And what we’ll be doing is fucking our Jedi.”

“You just keep bringing that up, don’t you,” Echo stated through his teeth. “Any reason for that?”

Crosshair’s sneer could be heard even under his helmet.

“None in particular.”

“Fine,” Hunter said, ignoring the jabs with the practiced patience that comes from ignoring Crosshair often. “Tech will go last. I’ll go after Wrecker, and then Crosshair—”

“—If you think I’m taking your sloppy seconds—”

Surprisingly, it was Wrecker that swung at Crosshair, the sniper ducking under the massive fist before it could slam into his helmet. He snarled, and then Hunter was trying to restrain Wrecker, who simply grabbed him by the neck and hauled him into the air.

They were going to kill each other, and the enemy didn’t have to lay a finger on them.

“Enough!”

The men turned as you peeled off the upper half of your suit, leaving yourself bare-chested and exposed. The intricate markings of your fur were on display, coiling down your sides and back. Your fur ruffled at the abrupt chill, or maybe it was the sudden attention on the places of your body that had never had such attention before.

Wrecker dropped Hunter so quickly that he stumbled on landing, and his focus was so wholly on you it was as if he’d forgotten Wrecker had just tried to choke him.

“We don’t have the luxury of one at a time,” you growled, and you couldn’t remember a time when you’d done that before either. Not in the Cathar way, with a rumble in your throat and bared fangs. “I’ll take both Echo and Wrecker, then Hunter and Crosshair. Tech last.”

The potent arousal in the air was so sharp that you could taste it even through their body suits and armor.

“Will that work?”

Tech blinked as if startled by being addressed, and his gaze quickly focused on your face from where it had been roving over your body as if studying and committing it to memory. You told yourself it was his usual curiosity, more clinical than personally interested.

“That is… sufficient.” The breathless quality of his voice was anything but clinical. “I… didn’t suggest such an arrangement as it might not be comfortable for you.”

“None of this is comfortable.”

You stripped off the bottom half of your black suit, leaving you entirely naked to the air and their devouring stares. It didn’t matter that you couldn’t see their faces, and if anything, it increased the impression that they were a pack of predators salivating over anticipated prey.

But you weren’t prey. The Jedi in you attempted to fight the invading chemical and find the equilibrium that wasn’t there, and the blood in your veins cried out for a primal chase that would have been a familiar song to an ancient Cathar.

You hid your sharp teeth behind your lips and were once again glad for the additional barrier of armor between you and their vulnerable skin.

“Echo, Wrecker, come here.”

“Wait.”

You bit your cheek and tasted blood, but you remained quiet as Tech dug around in his pack and pulled out a tube of bacta gel. He offered it to you, and you took it, the gesture feeling somehow final and terrible.

“You think we’re gonna hurt her?” Wrecker asked, sounding both offended and worried. Perhaps you should have been worried too, but the idea of Wrecker’s unbridled strength sent saliva flooding into your mouth.

“Well, that is a possibility, but the gel is also a source of lubrication. It will reduce the likelihood of injury, as well as increase, the… uh…”

“It’ll feel good,” Crosshair supplied helpfully, but even he sounded distracted from where he leaned against the wall in a way that was too forced to be relaxed.

Echo and Wrecker approached, and your body burned like a living flame, your skin so sensitive it nearly hurt. Both of them removed their codpieces, revealing sizeable bulges underneath, and a distant, rational part of you thanked Tech for his foresight. Though considering the size of Wrecker… lubrication might not be enough.

“There’s one other thing—”

“What?” Echo snapped.

“General.”

You focused on Tech with painful difficulty; Echo and Wrecker were so close, and your fingers twitched with the agony of being denied touching them.

“Yes, Tech?”

“You will have to refrain from achieving orgasm until, ah… until the end.”

You blinked away some of the fog clouding your mind.

“What?”

“If you orgasm, you’ll lose consciousness soon after. I… I think I speak for all of us when I say we prefer not to do this while you are unaware.”

If you weren’t in such a state, you might have smiled. Had Tech always been this thoughtful?

And then your attention wavered and settled on Echo standing in front of you, Wrecker towering behind you, and it was all you could do to form coherent words.

“I’ll try not to, but if I fail, don’t stop. Not until it’s over. That’s an order.”

Hunter responded this time, and you sensed he was having the same difficulty of speaking. He growled, “Yes, sir.”

And then Echo touched your arm, light and exploratory, at the same moment Wrecker placed a large hand on the back of your neck. You nearly buckled at the sudden pressure, even if Wrecker’s hold was gentle, and the last of your control slipped away.

But there were hands to catch you, and you didn’t fall.

Next Chapter

[the-catch-center]

SPATIOTEMPORAL CATCH CENTER (SCC) DOSSIER: INTERCEPTION REPORT 77-Ω4-Δ13

SUBJECT FILE: Temporal Deviant Class-IX (Unauthorized Identity Ascension & Market Path Manipulation) INTERCEPT ID: TD-922-5x | CODE NAME: “Cicada Orchid” APPREHENSION STATUS: Successful Temporal Arrest, Mid-Jump Interception REASSIGNMENT PHASE: Stage 3 Conversion Complete — FULL IDENTITY LOCK DATE OF INTERCEPTION: March 2nd, 2025 (Gregorian), during Transition Protocol Execution to 2076 FORCED TEMPORAL REINTEGRATION DATE: June 17th, 1956

I. ORIGINAL IDENTITY – [PRIME SELF]

Full Name (Original, Earth-2025 Reality): Landon Creed Marlowe Chronological Age at Apprehension: 29 years Nationality: Neo-Continental (Post-Treaty North America) Biological Condition: Augmented Homo Sapiens – Class 2 Physical Stats at Intercept:

Height: 6’4”

Weight: 243 lbs

Body Fat: 2.1%

Neural Rewiring Index: 87%

Emotional Dampening Threshold: Fully Suppressed

Verbal Influence Score: 97/100 (Simulated Charisma Layer active)

Psychological Profile: Landon Marlowe was a prototype of hypercapitalist self-creation. Having abandoned all conventional morality by age 17, he immersed himself in data markets, psycho-linguistic mimicry, and somatic enhancement routines. A hybrid of postmodern narcissism and cybernetic ambition, he believed history should be rewritten not through war, but through wealth recursion—self-generating economic monopolies that spanned both physical and meta-market layers. By 2025, Marlowe had begun the Vaultframe Project: a forbidden consciousness routing protocol allowing a subject to leap across timelines and self-modify to fit ideal environmental conditions.

He had already initiated Stage 1 of the Phase Ascension:

Target Year: 2076 Final Form Name: Cael Axiom Dominion

II. TARGET FORM – [PROHIBITED FUTURE IDENTITY]

Designated Name: Cael Axiom Dominion Temporal Anchor Year: 2076–2120 (Planned) Occupation/Status: Centralized Financial Apex Authority (Unofficial title: “God of the Grid”) Intended Specifications:

Height: 6’8”

Skin: Synthetic/Epidermech Weave (Reflective, Gleaming Finish)

Mind: Hybridized Neuro-Organic Substrate, 3-layered Consciousness Stack

Vision: Perfect (Microscopic + Ultraviolet Layer)

Muscle: Fully Synthetic Carbon-Tension Architecture

Voice: Dynamically Modeled for Maximum Compliance Induction

Personality: Pure calculated utility — no empathy, full response modulation

Psychological Construction: Modeled on a fusion of 21st-century crypto barons, colonial magnates, and AI-governance ethic loopholes. His projected behavior matrix would’ve allowed him to overwrite traditional economic cycles, insert himself into every transaction on the New Continental Grid, and displace global markets into dependence loops. He would have achieved Immortality via Economic Indispensability by 2085.

[OPERATOR'S NOTE – TECHNICIAN LYDIA VOLSTROM, FILE LEAD]

"He thought he was the evolutionary end of capital. We've seen dozens like him — grim-faced tech prophets dreaming of godhood, all forged in the same factory-line delusion that intelligence and optimization should rewrite morality. His 'Cael Dominion' persona was practically masturbatory — gleaming muscle, perfect diction, deathless control. The problem with arrogance across time is that we always arrive faster. We waited at his jumpgate exit vector like hounds in a vineyard. Now he will die quietly, shelving dusty books in wool slacks while children giggle at his shoes."

III. REWRITTEN FORM – [REASSIGNED TIMELINE IDENTITY]

Permanent Designation (1956 Reality): Harlan Joseph Whittemore Date of Birth (Backwritten): March 19th, 1885 Current Age: 71 years (Biological and Perceived) Location: Greystone Hollow, Indiana – Population 812 Occupation: Head Librarian, Greystone Municipal Library Known As: “Old Mr. Whittemore” / “Library Santa” / “Harlan the Historian”

Biological Recomposition Report:

Height: 6’2” (slightly stooped)

Weight: 224 lbs

Body Type: Large-framed, soft-muscled, slightly arthritic

Beard: Full, white, flowing to chest length — maintained with gentle cedar oil

Hair: Long, silver-white, brushed back, unkempt at the sides

Skin: Tanned, deeply lined, blotched by sun exposure and age

Eyebrows: Dense, low, expressive

Feet: Size 28EE – institutionally branded biometrics for deviant tracking

Shoes: Custom brown orthotic leather shoes with stretch bulging

Hands: Broad, aged, veined, arthritic knuckles

Glasses: Oversized horn-rimmed, 1950s prescription style

Wardrobe:

High-waisted wool trousers (charcoal gray)

Thick brown suspenders

Faded plaid flannel shirt, tucked in neatly

Scuffed leather shoes (notable bulge around toes due to foot size)

IV. MENTAL & SOCIETAL RE-IMPRINT

Primary Personality Traits (Post-Warp):

Kind-hearted, emotionally patient

Gentle-voiced, soft-spoken, slightly slow in speech

Deeply enjoys classical literature, gardening, and children’s laughter

Feels “he’s always been this way”

Occasionally hums jazz under his breath while shelving books

Writes slow, thoughtful letters to estranged family (fabricated)

Routine:

Opens library at 8AM sharp

Catalogues local donations

Reads to children every Wednesday

Tends a small rose garden behind the building

Engages in local history discussions with town elders

Walks home slowly with a leather satchel and a cane

[OPERATOR’S NOTE – FIELD ADJUSTER INGRID PAZE]

"Watching Marlowe become Harlan was like watching a lion remember it's a housecat. I’ve never seen a posture break so beautifully. He twitched at first — his back still tried to square itself like the predator he was. But the warp wore him down. The spine bent. The voice thickened. By the time his hands were fumbling the spines of leather-bound encyclopedias, he was gone. I almost felt bad when the first child ran up and said, ‘Santa?’ He smiled. Like it made sense. Like it was the right name."

V. DEATH RECORD

Date of Death: October 21, 1961 Cause: Heart failure while trimming rose bushes behind Greystone Library

He was buried in a town he never technically existed in, beside a wife who never lived. His obituary described him as “a man of kindness, wisdom, and humility — who asked for nothing and gave more than most ever know.” No one will remember that he once sought to become Cael Axiom Dominion.

[FINAL NOTE – SENIOR INTERCEPTOR V. CALDER]

"Marlowe played the long game, but his crime was arrogance. You can stack capital, sculpt the body, and forge a god’s name — but time always wins. He wanted to be immortal. Now he’ll live only in the margins of children’s drawings, mistaken for Santa, fading like a dog-eared library card. Perfect."

[thesilverdiary]

Non Authorized Version

⤷ Summary: Anneliese learns that sometimes the hardest part isn't making sense of the data — it's making sense of herself. Far from the kind of assignment she'd like to cover, she faces an event that seems to speak in codes she still doesn't have access to. But every step out of place can carry more than just bring awkward moments. And maybe, just maybe, it’s the detours that reveal where the real journey begins.

⤷ Author’s note: When I wrote Toto in this chapter, I had these two references in mind. This photo of him at Interlagos is one of my favorites. If not, the favorite. The expressions, I mean—come on. And this other shot of him at some event back in the day? This one really helped bring the vibe I was going for.

⤷ Special warnings for this second chapter? Oh, hm, no. Again. No explicit content, but a quiet emotional tension simmers beneath the surface. Mild impostor syndrome, accidental identity swapping, and moments of quiet introspection in unfamiliar hallways. Also: financial conferences, cold coffee, and the art of pretending you belong. Back in the old days. Third person.

⤷ Chapters: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV.

Last but not least, if you want to, you can read this on Wattpad and AO3 as well. 

⤷ Words: 3,597. 

Chapter Two | We Started Before The Hello

📍 Vienna → Innsbruck, Austria. 2007.

While reviewing some bullet points from the article she was writing, Anneliese was getting ready to send it to Oliver, the editor-in-chief, who would give it one final review before publication.

From the corner of her ear, she caught fragments of a conversation in the hallway. The newspaper editor was speaking enthusiastically about an event that would soon shake up Austria’s investment market.

“The conference in Innsbruck is going to be decisive,” said a firm male voice.

Probably Oliver himself.

“Do you really think they’ll announce the opening to non-EU capital?” replied a woman, her tone softer but full of interest.

“I bet they will. The timing is perfect. The euro is stable, expansion to the East is ongoing... and Vienna is pitching itself as the new Zurich.”

“And the coverage?”

“I want the article ready by Thursday. Interview with an analyst, two deep background quotes, and a side box explaining the Slovenian banks. No guesswork.”

Austria was going through a period of economic effervescence. The global landscape was favorable, and internally, the country displayed enviable stability.

Vienna, more than ever, was establishing itself as a regional financial hub — a kind of safe harbor for capital coming from neighboring emerging economies.

At the time, Anneliese would have done anything for a chance to write. Any topic would do. It didn’t matter if it was something mystical and nearly forgotten — like the legendary Rauhnächte, those wild nights that whisper between Christmas and the start of the new year —, pieces about the cold flowers that resist winter, or chronicles about the frozen ball season, with their light-filled halls and echoes of restrained footsteps.

The truth was, all she needed was a chance. An opening. A place where her writing could breathe. She wanted — and more than that, needed — to be seen.

Enjoying the topics? Not at all. But that phase of life demanded flexibility: accepting what came, even without passion, because saying “no” was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Opportunities were scarce. And while she was still finishing college, many her age were already in the workforce — graduated, experienced, occupying positions she could barely glimpse from where she stood.

Time, and everything it dragged along with it, taught Anneliese a valuable lesson: knowing how to distinguish between instinctive talent and what was simply necessary. She learned to recognize her own impulses — those that didn’t come from duty, but from genuine enthusiasm — like when she immersed herself in the technical details of a race, in the unique language of engineers and drivers, in decisions made at 300 km/h.

That’s when something in her would come alive. Everyday tasks, on the other hand, came stripped of emotion, but loaded with deadlines and demands.

She wanted to write with the precision and pulse of someone who understands what’s at stake, even in the seconds before a decisive move.

Even unwillingly, she decided to open up. Not because she had given up on the dream, but because she understood that maybe it required more paths than she had imagined. Maybe writing about the improbable today would teach her how to more truthfully narrate the races of tomorrow.

A chair scraped with a shrill squeak.

“Is the Economics team going to that conference?” Lukas asked, already taking a seat.

“I think so,” Anneliese replied, still looking at the screen. “I heard Oliver mention something about credentials... didn’t really pay attention.”

“Big deal, huh?”

She turned to face him, curious.

“I don’t know. I just hear all these names and acronyms and already feel kind of lost.”

She gave a brief, slightly tired smile.

“Tell me about it.”

Lukas took a sip of his coffee — already cold — and grimaced.

“Must be weird to follow all of this from the outside. Feels like a different world.”

Anneliese furrowed her brow but said nothing.

“Anyway,” he said, getting up. “Good luck with the article.”

“Thanks. I... think.”

She stayed there for a moment, motionless, the cursor blinking on the screen. She had lost the thread of the sentence. Suddenly, the paragraph felt... too shallow.

...

She still remembered her boss’s words as if they echoed inside her with more force than a mere piece of constructive criticism.

“You need to like people,” he had said, with that tone that blended patience and judgment. “To mingle with them.”

As if it were easy.

The problem wasn’t liking people — it never had been. She did like them. She always had. But being among them was another story. In any environment, no matter how welcoming, she felt like a temporary visitor, someone who was only there by mistake. As if there were an entire world spinning on social codes she had never learned to decipher.

It was like not being among her own.

She had always been drawn to understanding people. Writing them. Watching from a distance, with that quiet gaze of someone trying to piece together a human puzzle using only expressions and gestures. But even with all that curiosity, there was an emptiness she couldn’t name.

And it was in that void that Christine stepped in with what she called “the last-minute great idea.”

With seconds left on the clock.

Christine was her supervisor — and in many ways, the journalist she aspired to become. Her writing carried a lightness, almost invisible, and yet it held truths that hurt just the right amount.

She was meticulous. And clearly uninterested in the event they were now caught up in.

Still, she said, like someone laying out the strategy for a decisive game:

“It’s going to be good for both of us.”

She sounded convinced. As if she had found a miraculous escape route from what, for her, was just another chance to socially crash and burn.

Was it crazy? Yes.

But at that moment, it also felt like the chance Anneliese had been waiting for.

...

Despite it being a golden opportunity, Anneliese almost turned it down.

The event exuded a cold formality, overly technical, as if it pulsed on a frequency her body didn’t know how to tune into. There was a layer of language there — made of authority, of protocols, of silences — that she didn’t know whether to absorb or simply observe from the outside, like someone visiting a museum filled with artifacts from an era they’d never lived through.

She was in that strange stage of youth when you understand — at least in theory — that a good journalist should know a bit about everything... but you still wrinkle your nose, as if that “bit” were enough, as if admitting ignorance were a luxury pride couldn’t afford.

Youth, huh?

So full of fragile certainties, so quick to reject what it doesn’t yet understand.

In the end, someone had to go. And one of the first lessons in a career — or in life, perhaps — is this: in the beginning, you don’t get to choose. Others choose for you.

Had she been able to choose? Maybe she’d have gone for something more straightforward, more in tune with the language she already knew. But despite herself, that invitation turned out to be the best door that could have opened.

Because sometimes, what changes us comes precisely from what we try to avoid.

When she arrived at the event, Anneliese wasn’t expecting anything easy — but she did expect, at the very least, a minimum of control. A careful glance, a request for ID, a checkpoint that would say: “Yes, you’re authorized to be here.”

She fiddled with the ring on her index finger — an automatic gesture that always resurfaced when she felt out of place.

But surprisingly, no one asked for anything. No names checked against lists, no inquisitive stares. Just a vague nod, a silent pass.

Different times? Maybe.

As she searched for a row where she could observe, take notes, and — perhaps — understand something of what would unfold at the Summit on European Economic Futures, Anneliese weaved through suits, folders, and impatient glances. The room, lit by a white and restrained glow, gave off an almost clinical sobriety. Everything felt foreign — in the gestures, in the voices, in the very atmosphere.

That’s when she felt the elbow in her back. A direct, firm, dry impact.

She turned on reflex. Her clipboard slipped from her hands, and the papers scattered across the polished floor with a noise that, to her ears, sounded amplified. A paper alarm, announcing her inadequacy.

“Sorry,” said the man who’d bumped into her, without pausing his phone call. The bulky BlackBerry in his hand seemed like an extension of his authority — tiny keys, rapid commands, bored voice. It was an automated apology, socially required.

“It’s fine,” she replied quickly, bending down. Her stomach clenched, as if every scattered sheet exposed not just her anxiety, but her fraud.

He gave her a brief glance, almost clinical.

“Journalist?”

She hesitated. The question seemed too simple.

“Intern with a newspaper,” she replied reflexively — and as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized the mistake. That’s not what the badge said.

A chill ran down her neck. She had spoken as Anneliese, not as Christine. For a second, the floor felt less slippery than the situation she’d just stepped into.

Her trembling fingers gathered the papers, but her mind was already working on damage control.

Had he noticed?

She was still straightening the clipboard when another figure approached. The gesture was polite, assured. The presence, precise.

“Christine?” the man asked, extending his hand naturally.

She blinked. The name still sounded borrowed, like a formal outfit that didn’t quite fit.

“Yes,” she said, hurrying to her feet, one paper still misaligned on the clipboard.

“I’m Peter Neumann, from the conference team. Nice to finally meet you. We exchanged quite a few emails, remember?”

She nodded, forcing a smile. Trying to regain control, to remember the right answers, the details she had memorized.

“Of course. Yes. It’s been a hectic few days.”

“I’m glad you made it. Today’s panel is expected to be one of the most talked about.”

In the background, the BlackBerry man ended his call with a brusque gesture. He cast another glance at Anneliese’s clipboard.

“Intern with a news...” he murmured, as if confirming something to himself, though none of it made sense.

She didn’t reply. Just nodded, trying to appear unbothered, as if nothing odd had been said. He walked away without a smile, as if he had erased her from the scene.

Peter followed him with his eyes and, with a slight tilt of his head, indicated the man now heading to the back of the stage. Anneliese followed the gesture, suppressing the urge to ask who he was — despite the familiarity of his face.

“Don’t worry about him. It’s the rush. He arrived late and still happens to be one of the first to speak.”

Anneliese let out a short laugh — more relief than amusement.

“Oh, shi... —” she caught herself, took a deep breath. “Great start.”

Peter gave a half-smile.

“Marchsixteen, fifteen, seventeen,” he murmured, almost theatrically, like someone trying to recall passwords or riddles. After a brief pause, he added: “If memory serves.”

He tried to make it a joke. And almost succeeded.

She smiled. Genuinely, this time. Enough to dissolve, for a moment, the weight of pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

Before she could say anything else, Peter had to excuse himself — someone from the organizing committee was calling him over near the side entrance. Anneliese nodded briefly, taking the opportunity to sit down and finally try to gather herself.

It was one of those moments when, if she could’ve opened a hole in the floor and vanished, she would’ve done it without a second thought.

She chose the third row, slightly off-center, and rested the clipboard on her lap. Her laptop had failed earlier that morning — a black screen and a strange noise she’d pretended not to hear. The pen moved quickly across the paper, but without conviction.

The notes came out crooked, incomplete, as if they were just as lost as she was. She tried to keep her composure. She was good at appearing steady. And at pretending she understood.

Deep down, she believed she could turn anything into a good story. Even if, at that moment, all she could think about was the last poorly written sentence and the tight deadline waiting for her back in Vienna.

The first panel began with an economist from Deutsche Bank discussing opportunities in the Balkan markets. A wave of privatizations, speculative capital flows, Slovenian banks opening aggressive credit lines for foreign investors. Many in the room were scribbling furiously. She copied down the most striking terms — hedge, spread, non-euro zone. She’d look them up later. As always.

The second panel was more technical, but also more tense: it covered Hungary’s fiscal opening and its impacts on the Austrian banking system. Someone mentioned the real estate bubble in the United States and the risk of contagion. The previously enthusiastic atmosphere grew more restrained. Anneliese wrote down only one sentence:

“Today’s stability may be tomorrow’s trap.”

It wasn’t the kind of content she liked to write. But it was the kind she knew she needed to understand.

Then came the third panel: “Calculated Risk: Data-Driven Decision Making.”

The title alone sparked curiosity, but it was the speaker who drew everyone’s attention the moment he walked on stage. Anneliese recognized him immediately — not from reports or financial editorials, but, ironically, from a celebrity magazine she’d once browsed through in a waiting room somewhere.

Toto Wolff. A name still mostly known to those who followed DTM or gossip columns. An amateur driver with surprising results, an early investor, recently established as a partner at HWA — a technical company linked to Mercedes. A man on the cusp of a turning point: from the track to the mechanisms behind motorsport.

He began by talking about failure. Not the companies he’d bet on, nor the strategies that didn’t pay off — but his personal failures.

He said he had tried to become a professional driver. Tried too late. He drove well, won important races, even flirted with records. But the years, the crashes, and the realities of the sport forced him to accept that raw talent might not be enough.

“Giving up wasn’t easy,” he said. “But when I realized I wouldn’t make it by speed, I tried another entry point: calculation.”

That’s how he entered the world of investing — first in tech, then in motorsport.

He spoke about the invisible thread connecting a race team and a startup: risk, pressure, razor-thin margins. He reflected on dealing with losses — not just financial, but directional. On making fast decisions and then living slowly with their consequences.

“I was never the most technical person in the room,” he admitted. “But I learned to endure more than others. And to see what wasn’t yet ready to be translated into numbers.”

...

When the panel ended, Anneliese slipped out through a side door — slipping out quietly, without saying goodbye — as if fleeing more from herself than from the event.

She grabbed a coffee from a neglected table, where the sugar had already run out. A minor detail, but irritating. Yes, it was a habit — and no, black coffee wouldn’t do, no matter how ideal it was meant to be: bitter, direct, without crutches.

She knew where to find shelter. Service hallways, support rooms, forgotten spaces that belonged to everyone and no one. She found one of those — an old press room, now reduced to stacked boxes, deflated plastic cups, and a silence that smelled of worn carpet and disuse.

She needed peace. Five minutes would do. Just her, the coffee, and the sound of nothing.

She stepped in. Closed the door carefully, as if trying not to wake any ghosts. Leaned against the wall, took off her shoes — and for the first time that day, breathed with her whole body.

That’s when he walked in.

“Shit,” he said, tripping over a fallen trash can.

She didn’t even turn.

“If you’re looking for coffee, you’re late,” she replied, with restrained disdain.

“I’m looking for silence,” he shot back, his tone too direct to be just for show.

She recognized the voice before registering the face. She turned slowly.

He was taller than she noticed in the first place. When she was anxious. But the kind that seemed to try and shrink himself, like being noticed was a side effect, not an intention. Handsome, yes, but in a way that didn’t seem aware of it. Or, if he was, he hid it well. Nothing about him tried to draw attention — and maybe that’s exactly why it did.

His features were gentle, almost distracted. There was something about the way he held his shoulders — a quiet tension, a polite hesitation. And his eyes... dark, far too observant. They didn’t challenge, but they didn’t shy away either. They watched with care. With a quiet kind of listening that made everything around feel clearer — or more exposed.

She didn’t know if she liked that kind of presence. But she knew she would remember it.

“Careful,” she said. “In here, even silence listens.”

He smiled, faintly. A half-smile. Like someone who understood — but chose not to answer.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, pointing to the opposite corner.

“It’s not mine. I just invaded first,” she replied with a shrug.

He settled in, taking off his jacket with a slow, almost ritualistic gesture. Like shedding a social version of himself to step into something closer to the truth. The dim light made the room feel almost intimate — but still distant enough not to be a confession.

“What did you think of the panel?” he asked, casually.

“Choreographed,” she answered without hesitation. “Words that polished always hide something.”

He laughed. A short laugh, not mocking — but with something that sounded like recognition.

Before another silence could settle in, a woman appeared at the half-open door. Young, hurried, holding a blue folder and with a walkie-talkie clipped to her waist.

“Is this the press room?” the woman asked, glancing around.

Anneliese opened her eyes slowly, like someone returning from far away.

“It was. Now it’s just storage,” she replied simply.

The woman eyed her badge — crooked and barely stuck — with a frown that settled before deciding if it was suspicion or boredom.

“Christine Schnell Hoffmann?”

Before she could say anything, he stepped in with rehearsed ease:

“She’s with me.”

The woman turned her attention to him.

“And you are...?”

“Wolff. Torger Christian Wolff. Marchfifteen.”

The name had an effect. Not exactly respect — but something close to caution. As if a password had just been uttered.

“Apologies, Mr. Wolff. We’ve had issues with fake invitations. We’re revalidating press access.”

“She’s legit. Working on a piece about young investors in Central Europe. Asked me for a few quiet minutes,” he explained calmly.

The woman hesitated. Then nodded.

“Alright. Just avoid restricted rooms. Programming resumes in twenty minutes.”

As she walked off, Anneliese looked at him, somewhere between surprised and ironic.

“You didn’t have to,” she said.

“I did,” he replied. “You were about to be escorted out for not lying convincingly enough, Miss Newspaper Intern.”

She let out a short laugh, unguarded.

“That was a blatant bluff.”

“Of course it was. But big names scare people when said with confidence.”

“You’re good at improvising.”

“As you are,” he said, then asked: “What’s your name?”

She hesitated.

“Anneliese,” she finally said, in a tone that weighed the cost of revealing it.

He nodded. “Christine is just one of your faces?”

“Christine is a badge. The disguise... is me trying to fit into it.”

He didn’t reply. Just leaned his head against the wall, letting the silence speak for him.

“You don’t like events like this, do you?” he guessed.

She gave a half-smile, tired. “I like watching people who do. That count?”

“It does,” he said. “Might be the best kind of people.”

She observed him for a moment. Then asked:

“Are you writing about this?”

“Maybe,” she replied. “If I find a story.”

“And do you think I’m a story?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t decided if you’re a chapter... or a footnote.”

He laughed, this time for real. “Fair. And what if I’m the preface?”

“Prefaces usually end before they begin.”

“Or they set the stage for everything that follows.”

She glanced sideways at him, almost annoyed at how good the answer was.

“Do you always talk like that?”

“Only when someone’s paying attention.”

He laughed again. A light, honest laugh. And she, despite herself, liked the sound of it.

Silence returned, but now it felt less heavy. As if it had shifted weight.

She looked away, pretending to study the stack of boxes in the corner. But she knew he’d noticed her attempt to hide.

“You’re good at improvising,” he said again, still smiling.

“Only when I have no choice,” she replied, letting the fatigue show.

“Which is... most of the time?” he asked.

She gave a slight nod. “Exactly.”

Outside, hurried footsteps echoed. She looked toward the door, then back at him.

“Program’s about to resume,” she said, softly.

He nodded. “You heading back?”

“I am. Still have to look useful before the day ends.”

He stood, putting his jacket back on calmly.

“Nice meeting you, Anneliese.”

“I guess it was. It was weird. But good,” she replied, with a smile carrying both tiredness and curiosity.

He was about to leave when he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Chapter, for the record. But on an odd-numbered page.”

She smiled, saying nothing. Just filed away the phrase — and the tone — in her mind.

Ready for more? Head to Chapter Three | Out Of Context.

[slowd1ving]

IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters. 

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise. 

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left. 

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen. 

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it. 

He should leave. 

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome. 

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess. 

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness. 

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words. 

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?” 

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive. 

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words. 

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind. 

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you. 

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason. 

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days. 

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry. 

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless. 

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board. 

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game. 

“What gave that away?” 

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had. 

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured. 

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped. 

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on. 

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first. 

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips. 

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence. 

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection. 

It’s too much. It really is. 

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his. 

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin. 

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh. 

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space. 

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous. 

Shameful. 

He can’t sleep. 

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber. 

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say. 

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts. 

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone. 

Pathetic. 

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off. 

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached]  02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest. 

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life. 

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting. 

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like. 

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air. 

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater. 

It’s yours. 

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did. 

It’s not enough. 

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses. 

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly. 

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons. 

He’s never felt so perverted. 

He’s never felt so conflicted. 

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I? 

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely. 

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society. 

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso. 

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower. 

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in. 

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion. 

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day. 

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face. 

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area. 

He gives up. 

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over. 

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst. 

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband. 

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough. 

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off. 

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying. 

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits. 

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat. 

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase. 

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.  

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating. 

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut. 

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin. 

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning. 

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense. 

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater. 

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX 

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them  01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though 

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him. 

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks. 

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them. 

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff. 

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing. 

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions. 

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs. 

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers. 

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness. 

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust. 

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts. 

Which is to say, not very honest at all. 

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer. 

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place. 

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier. 

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine. 

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom. 

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently. 

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago. 

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express. 

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further. 

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune. 

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own. 

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation. 

He’s so close. 

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps. 

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers. 

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them. 

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening. 

Finally. 

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background. 

No. 

You’re real. 

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this. 

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt. 

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you? 

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick. 

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded. 

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess. 

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend. 

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this. 

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation. 

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence. 

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided. 

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed. 

He holds his breath. 

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know. 

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline. 

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it. 

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t. 

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence. 

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels. 

You were there, and you saw all of it. 

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you. 

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding. 

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones. 

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze. 

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else. 

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp. 

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence. 

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach. 

He’s willing to help. 

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight. 

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers. 

And he admitted I’m just a friend too. 

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go. 

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion. 

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest. 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly. 

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible. 

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else. 

“Just the lips,” he stammers. 

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer. 

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more. 

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms. 

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment. 

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word. 

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips. 

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath. 

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered. 

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers. 

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed. 

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream. 

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips. 

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down. 

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow. 

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base. 

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too. 

He freezes. 

I can’t think that way. 

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.  

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat. 

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you. 

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace. 

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours). 

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold. 

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him. 

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher. 

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach. 

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind. 

How shameful. 

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them. 

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult. 

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation. 

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe. 

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides. 

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body. 

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks. 

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass. 

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread. 

It finally sets in. 

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him. 

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat. 

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin. 

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this. 

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body. 

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes. 

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off. 

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets. 

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation. 

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches. 

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you. 

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft. 

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it. 

“You sure?” 

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release. 

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze. 

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt. 

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume. 

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it. 

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him. 

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over. 

This is a special form of madness. 

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment. 

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery. 

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly. 

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out. 

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present. 

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine. 

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question. 

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow. 

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look. 

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively. 

“Your turn,” you prompt. 

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds. 

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame. 

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such. 

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head. 

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions. 

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach. 

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more. 

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release. 

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes. 

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you. 

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated. 

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight. 

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself. 

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts. 

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star. 

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you. 

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend. 

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh. 

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection. 

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer. 

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[leenathegreengirl]

Tech's Encrypted Files Masterlist

[Initiating connection…] [Connection successful. Transmitting…] Subject: Tech - Personal Journal Entry This transmission marks the beginning of a new phase in my process of self-discovery. The objective is simple: to explore and document my experiences as I prioritize my own well-being for the first time in an extended period. I’ve realized that for much of my life, I’ve operated within predefined roles—first as part of the army and later as a partner to Leena. In doing so, I lost sight of my personal identity, possibly never fully understanding who I was outside of those functions. I now acknowledge that I am entering a phase of recalibration. This space will serve as a log for my journey, an area to process my thoughts and frustrations. I will also address the feelings of alienation I’ve experienced, particularly in light of being the one to initiate the divorce. It is important to clarify that this decision, though difficult, was made after considerable analysis of the emotional status between both parties. The action taken was an effort to end the cycle of mutual discontent. I harbor no ill will towards Leena; rather, I am simply exhausted from repeatedly failing to accommodate her desires while being unable to be myself. I still care deeply for her, but I believe this decision offers her the opportunity for a life without the restraint of my need for structure and isolation. I will also note the recent formation of a new connection with Marina, a widow from Pabu, whose existence I was previously unaware of. This individual has provided a new perspective, and I am inclined to continue exploring this relationship. I look forward to learning from her experiences, particularly in navigating life after the loss of a partner. Despite being a divorcee, I recognize that there are valuable insights Marina can share—insights that may help me understand my own path forward in a similar context. End transmission.

Art

Between Hearts and Ruin Event

Goggle-Eyed

Tech's Encrypted Files 2

Tech's Encrypted Files 3

Stories

(All these stories are by @legacygirlingreen)

Between Hearts and Ruin Event \_> I: "Breaking the Silence" \_> II: "Someone New" \_> III: "Spontaneity"

Goggle-Eyed (By @legacygirlingreen)

"Lady By the Sea" (By @legacygirlingreen)

\_> Part 2

Data Log Entry 1

Entry 2 Entry 3

[covid-safer-hotties]

Reference saved in our archive

Notable hydroxychloroquine study retracted for poor study design, omitted data, and a failure to disclose conflicts of interest.

[piratesexmachine420]

Copy and pasting the following from a discussion of this video in a discord server I'm in, because I think it's a point worth making:

It's very annoying to see how telephone game'd the Mars Climate Orbiter failure has become.

It didn't crash into Mars, it was simply too low when it went for an aerobrake pass. It definitely didn't leave "a scar that you can see from the other orbiters". Mark is probably either thinking of Beagle 2 or Mars Polar Lander, or maybe one of the more recent unmanned lunar landers (Beresheet, maybe?).

It wasn't a mixup of inches and centimeters, it was a mixup of pound force-seconds and newton-seconds.

Lockheed weren't idiots, and it's frankly insulting to all teams involved to claim so. The actual MCO mishap investigation report -- which Mark clearly either hasn't read or hasn't read thoroughly -- clearly states throughout that while the direct cause of failure was the faulty data in the Angular Momentum Desaturation modeling file (not just incorrect units, but also formatting issues and just plain errors), the root causes were multivalent:

The ops. team were understaffed and running three missions simultaneously.

Team members were inadequately trained.

Inadequate onboard navigation ("total reliant on [the] Earth-based Deep Space Network")

Contingency maneuvers that could have saved the mission, weren't taken because the teams weren't prepared (or able to prepare) for them.

End-to-end testing of the software stack, which should have been performed beforehand, never occurred.

And more! You can read the MCO phase I mishap report here and phase II here, if you're interested in learning what actually happened, instead of just blaming Lockheed for being stupid degenerate Americans with no safety culture.

You might notice with a sense of dramatic irony that the MCO phase I report makes a lot of recommendations for the concurrent MPL program; that mission would similarly fail less than a month after the report's publication for related reasons (not the units mixup part, the other ones).

MCO was not an isolated incident and it's frankly malpractice to ignore that (by omission or otherwise). The 90s were bad for space programs, mostly down to budget pressures. The MCO phase II report goes deep into the problems with NASA "Faster, Better, Cheaper" philosophy at the time.

Let me summarize: MCO was not a failure of software design. It was not a failure of unit conversion, either. It was a failure of project management. While the course (in)corrections were what doomed MCO directly, it was always going to be something. The team running MCO simply could not have succeeded given the conditions they were in. If it was anyone's fault, it was Congress' fault for not funding the deep space program enough.

[roshield]

"If we're ever sent to another world, I'm choosing where we get sent to next."

Clive grunts as he pushes back a monster with his foot after stabbing into it with his blade. He can feel all of his power returning, much of the remnants of that being left over in the space around them - a crater from Titan's fist, the crackling of lightning around a specific monster from Ramuh's staff, a space in the ground that seems to have been sliced from Odin's blade. Clive has made his presence known here.

He looks towards the moon dweller, a sigh escaping his lips. Ifrit was trying to claw his way out of Clive's chest at the sight of the beast, wanting to rip it to shreds with claws and teeth. And truth be told, Clive was itching to let him out. It's a part of him that he's accepted, and not being able to summon him for a while has definitely left Clive a little restless.

It seems that Jill is thinking the same thing. Thankfully, she only mentions the Phoenix as well, because Clive would have instantly told her 'no' if she tried to suggest transforming alongside of them... as much as Ifrit would have liked to fight along Shiva. For some reason, his Eikon seemed to be drawn to his beloved's Eikon. But he'll save that thought for another day...

Instead the outlaw look towards his younger brother. "I'll admit, I'm uneasy with the idea of you using your Eikon..." He trails off, because it's a conversation they keep having, and Clive is trying to be less protective considering the situation they're in is drastically different here, for the Blight has not reached here. "... But we might have a chance to reach it."

@flamesire, @snowdaisied

So this is what the others meant when they said that sometimes things happen here that are quite... Complicated.

With a grunt, Jill pushes back against a monster and slices it in half with her rapier. Though the space station seems to be secure for now, the hordes of Latchers that are sent towards it by the Dweller threaten that safety.

With the last few slain, they're allowed a moment of peace. Her spiramonster rests at her feet with a sigh, and Jill's expression turns contemplative as she turns towards Clive and Joshua.

"She said that they were going to temporarily unlock our powers..." For Jill, it doesn't make much of a difference. For the two brothers, however... "Which means you both can use your eikons, can't you?"

Her gaze shifts to the moon dweller that resides in the distance. It's a large, terrifying thing, but it's possible that it's something that Ifrit and Phoenix could fight against. She doesn't like the idea, but she knows that if they're following the same line of thought as her, then they're surely already thinking of a plan.

@roshield @flamesire

[panemsonlydoctor]

LAB REPORT #312 — 'Tracker Jacker Venom': Composition and Application

Date of Submission: [REDACTED] Clearance Level: Tier-4 (Military/Medical) Secondary Review: Dr. Anton Frell, Dr. Saline Virtus Author's Note: This study reflects data extracted under controlled aggression protocols; all venom extracted from stabilized hives D12-114 through D12-117.

1. TAXONOMIC CLASSIFICATION

Kingdom: Animalia Phylum: Arthropoda Class: Insecta Order: Hymenoptera Family: Vespidae Genus & Species: Vespa mortem Capitol Designation: Tracker Jacker

2. VENOM COMPOSITION

Primary Components:

Neurotoxin A5 ("Mortexin"): A synapse-destabilizing compound that induces hallucinatory cycles via serotonin receptor flooding. Histamine-accelerant Protein (HAP-3): Induces severe inflammation and increased capillary permeability, leading to rapid swelling and dermal pain. Retroactive Memory Trigger (RMT-7): Disrupts hippocampal stability, activating emotionally charged memories with distorted framing. Stabilizer Enzyme: Preserves venom integrity outside of biological containment up to 13 hours.

3. PATHWAY OF EFFECT

Upon injection (via sting), the venom enters the bloodstream within 4 seconds. The neurotoxin crosses the blood-brain barrier rapidly, localizing in the amygdala, hippocampus, and frontal cortex. Observable effects occur within 15–23 seconds.

Phase I – Neurological Overload: Tremors, confusion, pupil dilation, auditory hallucinations. Phase II – Hallucinogenic Response: Visual overlays of emotionally-charged hallucinations. Phase III – Emotional Collapse: Identity disruption, self-destructive ideation, paranoia.

In 82% of test subjects, the hallucinations persist beyond venom metabolization, suggesting long-term neural rewiring.

4. CASE STUDY: Subject T-098 (Peeta Mellark)

Dosage: 0.3 mL refined venom Method: Intravenous, controlled drip Response: Severe perceptual distortion within 12 seconds Verbal fixations on familiar anchors Long-term paranoia and identity inversion successfully induced Subject maintains affective inversion post-venom clearance

5. SYNTHETIC REPLICATION TRIALS

Version V6.2 : Successful in 3/5 trials; unstable in elevated temperature environments. Version V6.8 : Improved memory disruption, reduced inflammatory response; currently under ethical review. Further trials ongoing for oral and aerosolized delivery mechanisms.

6. CONCLUSION

Continued research is recommended into targeted fragmentation and programmed reformation using venom-adjacent compounds.

[curator-on-ao3]

Again, cool response to the last question, so I'll let you pick from these options:

And there are things I have fan-fixed in my head to the point that I have to remind myself that the fix-it isn’t part of the actual canon: favourite one of these?

Or

Your/a favourite part of actual canon. Like, maybe something little but it's just so lovely and fitting to you and you're just happy that it exists?

I’ve been a little down on Trek lately, so I’m going to type as fast as I can to brain-dump, in show order, the first things that pop into my mind that I absolutely love in Trek canon:

Kirk calling Nomad his son, the doctor

Christine Chapel’s snark to Roger Korby about schtupping the androids

Mark Leonard’s performance in Balance of Terror

the Horta (a great mama)

“Edith Keeler must die.”

Captain John Christopher, United States Air Force. Serial number 4857932.

Tribbles

the lesson of The Cloud Minders that we must have empathy and listen to others when they tell us about their lived experience in an environment unlike our own

the cheap-ass animation of TAS

Q

Bynars and Minuet

Beverly Crusher’s frustration in Arsenal of Freedom (and the episode’s Good Ship Lollipop joke)

Picard shooting the other version of himself in Time Squared (to clarify: out of respect for those times when we have to stop ourselves from getting caught in loops/doing stupid stuff and we summon up the courage to break a bad cycle and move forward)

K'Ehleyr

Picard out-lawyering the Sheliak

Rachel Garrett; Yar and Castillo

Lal (but I can’t watch the end anymore, it hurts too much)

the Shakespeare and “Set a course for Betazed. Warp 9.” comedy in Ménage a Troi

Best of Both Worlds, I and II (Shelby inclusive)

every conference table discussion in all of TNG

Beverly’s jump in Remember Me (such a damn good episode)

the reveal in Future Imperfect (which one? all of them)

The Dancing Doctor tap dancing with Data

Darmok. And Jalad. At Tenagra.

Ro Laren

Troi saying, “You could have easily been right” to Ro in Disaster

Hugh, Third of Five

the fact that The Next Phase has so many plotholes and they’re forgivable because the episode is so fun and great

Scotty on the holodeck version of the TOS bridge and Picard joining him

Rascals!

Deanna’s “Ancient West” outfit

the Jefferies tube music and make out session in Lessons

Attached. Oh, my heart.

the Enterprise with three nacelles … and that absolutely perfect last shot of the series

“You exist here.”

Sisko’s casual, everyday affection for Jake

“Old Man”

Rejoined. Lenara Khan. The love. That kiss. The emotional stakes. All of it.

the three Ferengi hitting their own heads to try to fix their universal translators so the 20th century Earth military people mimic the movement to try to communicate

every second of Trials and Tribble-ations including Sisko working overtime to stop fuckmaster Dax, tossing the tribbles, Sisko meeting Kirk, “We do not discuss it with outsiders,” and so much more

Kira blaming Bashir for putting the baby inside her when … you know … behind the scenes

The Sons of Mogh helping with the harvest in Children of Time

Far Beyond the Stars — some of the best if not the best science fiction I have ever seen

the monster fakeout (and kindness) in The Sound of Her Voice, even though the end makes me cry

“Computer, erase that entire personal log.”

Solok

Sisko and Kassidy discussing their comfort levels about a simulation in which the reality was segregation

Janeway waterfalling off the sofa to be closer to Mark on the screen

“Warp particles!”

the lizard babies

the two Janeways in Deadlock

Remember (a painfully good Holocaust episode that doesn’t get enough credit and, yes, I know the path the script took and I’m glad it ended up as a B’Elanna episode)

“I don't know what I'm seeking.” “Then I believe you are ready to begin.”

“The child you spoke of, the girl. Her favorite color was red.” Also, Tuvok’s meditation lamp in the window for Kes.

hot damn, Counterpoint, yaaas

everything in Relativity

“The Yankees, in six games.”

Janeway going after Seven in The Voyager Conspiracy

“This is Lieutenant Reginald Barclay at Starfleet Command.” “It's good to hear your voice, Lieutenant. We've been waiting a long time for this moment.” “The feeling is mutual. Unfortunately, the micro-wormhole is collapsing. We have only a few moments.” “Understood. We are transmitting our ship's logs, crew reports, and navigational records to you now.” “Acknowledged. And we're sending you data on some new hyper-subspace technology. We're hoping eventually to use it to keep in regular contact, and we're including some recommended modifications for your comm system.” “We'll implement them as soon as possible.” “There's someone else here who would also like to say something.” “This is Admiral Paris.” “Hello, sir.” “How are your people holding up?” “Very well. They're an exemplary crew, your son included.” “Tell him, tell him I miss him. And I'm proud of him.” “He heard you, Admiral.” “The wormhole is collapsing.” “I want you all to know we're doing everything we can to bring you home.” “We appreciate it, sir. Keep a docking bay open for us.”

“Nice hair.” (Live Fast and Prosper)

Janeway and Jaffen in Workforce

the spot-on legal concerns of Author, Author

“Set a course. For home.”

(Nothing from Enterprise or Prodigy only because I haven’t watched enough of Enterprise or any of Prodigy)

Burnham and Georgiou forming the delta with their footsteps

the CGI on only the shields protecting Burnham from space

“Are we in session? Because I didn't know you were practicing again. Because if I have your undivided attention for fifty minutes, I can think of a whole bunch of other things we could be doing.”

“That's as depressing a trait as I've ever heard.” “I don't give a damn … I still don't give a damn.”

Cornwell beaming in, phaser aimed, taking command of Discovery

Cornwell phasering the fortune cookies

Cornwell’s voice breaking: “So my Gabriel is dead.”

Detmer’s little bounce when Emperor-as-Captain Georgiou takes command

Pike beaming aboard and instantly being all like MOJAVE to prove to the audience he’s the guy from The Cage

New Eden. Everything. Oh my God (pun intended). The visuals. Owo’s backstory. Pollard patching Pike up after he’s shot. The light at the end. Oh my God, yes. That episode. Yes.

Number freaking One beaming aboard and having her lunch briefing with Pike (Chris and Una’s decades-long friendship wasn’t canon yet, but it shows here so beautifully)

Gabrielle Burnham

“In case the shit hit the fan.”

Michael Burnham on truth serum

Book

Laira Rillak, everyone!

Q&A

season 1 Raffi Musiker

Fleet Admiral and Commander-in-Chief Kirsten Clancy

“You owe me a ship, Picard.”

“You need a feather in your hat.”

Riker greeting Picard

Hugh greeting Picard

the separate trio of Raffi, Clancy, and Deanna all telling Picard he’s shit

Rios singing in Spanish

President Annika Hansen

everybody finding each other in the Confederation Universe

Liam Shaw — a character with incredible highs and lows

Majel Barrett as the computer voice when the crew gets to the Enterprise D

“Somehow I figured you might.”

everything in Ghosts of Illyria

Spock and La’an’s mind meld

Spock and T’Pring in Spock Amok

“You cannot resign. The loss to Enterprise would be unimaginable. To me.”

“If you’re going to steal a starship, do it correctly.”

Neera Ketoul

La’an normalizing needing to eat all the time as a teenager (especially important for girls to hear)

Pike and Una visually checking in with each other so often that it’s in their cartoon versions (that whole episode, actually, including, “Riker!”)

That’s scrolling through episode titles and jotting down stuff I love off the top of my head, fam.✨

Thank you so much for this ask, anon! ❤️ I needed this positive energy in my life.

[putrefacion]

NOTE:ㅤㅤThis post contains in-universe documentation of Lute’s creation, developmental process, & field deployment. All entries are formatted as internal lab notes recorded in real time. Only muses with verified divine clearance may access or reference this data

▍ I. EXTRACTION & INITIAL ASSEMBLY

Subject is constructed via sterile celestial extraction from [ name redacted ]’s rib; no biological conception occurs. Sanctified matter is catalyzed using residual blood, marrow, & divine light. Construction follows a sequential assembly sequence, prioritizing structural symmetry, organ viability, & aesthetic reverence; all development occurs externally within containment fields, absent of organic gestation. Stabilization is achieved through divine plasma infusion, followed by immediate encasement in sanctified light to induce structural stasis. Subject currently presents with exposed neural tissue, undeveloped musculature, & incomplete skeletal assembly. The cranial region remains sealed; no ocular, oral, or nasal apertures are present. Tissue appears glistening, semi-fluid, & unpigmented. Movement remains limited to involuntary spasms triggered by internalized divine surges. Subject resembles an undifferentiated mass: extremities isolated, muscular tone unstable. At this stage, no defined form is present; refinement is deferred to the suspension phase for internal maturation & structural calibration. The mass is subsequently placed into cryonic suspension to initiate internal maturation & stabilize neural potential.

[ TLDR ]: Subject assembled via sacred extraction from unidentified rib; lacks features or coordination, stabilized with divine plasma, then placed into suspension for maturation [ LOG NOTE ]: Structure stable. Cranial formation absent. Spasmodic response observed. Initiating suspension phase

▍ II. PRE-CONSCIOUS STATE

Subject is placed in cryonic suspension; exhibits only baseline autonomic activity. During suspension, the shapeless mass begins resolving into clearer anatomical definition, with internal features developing as the body progresses from undifferentiated matter toward functional humanoid structure. Vital systems operate independently, though erratic muscle contractions, spasms, & twitch reflexes are observed. No sensory data is processed; the cortex remains unformed. Subject demonstrates intermittent responses to sanctified stimuli suggesting latent receptivity to divine energy. Soul is considered dormant but viable. Physiological maturation continues throughout suspension; facial scaffolding, dermal texture, & internal musculature undergo final stabilization within the pod. Structure gradually shifts from indistinct mass toward humanoid alignment, though full neural coherence has yet to manifest

[ TLDR ]: Subject’s dormant state allowed for gradual internal development; form stabilized into humanoid alignment during suspension phase [ LOG NOTE ]: Subject remains nonresponsive. Facial & cranial structures beginning to form internally. Muscle activity remains involuntary. Suspension to continue; monitor for neural emergence

▍ III. STRUCTURAL COMPLETION & EARLY FAILURE

With physical form now finalized, subject enters integrity trials. Dermal closure reaches 89% coverage. Facial features develop sequentially; ocular structure, dental rows, nasal cavity, & vocal tract form in proper order. Symmetry approximates divine aesthetic standards. Plasma leakage persists from vertebral seams. Subject’s skull exhibits rhythmic cranial pulsation in the absence of higher cortical activity, likely residual divine energy. Autonomous motor activity begins to emerge: uncoordinated spasms, laryngeal vibrations, ocular drift. Visual & auditory systems remain online but unsynchronized, reacting nonspecifically to ambient stimuli such as sound, light, & movement. Notably, subject tilts her head sharply in response to nonexistent auditory triggers, suggesting fragmented sensory perception. The First Generation of Exorcists is commissioned using the subject’s body model as prototype. Though Extermination objectives are technically fulfilled, field performance deteriorates rapidly; units exhibit cognitive dissonance, erratic behavior & degeneration into instability. Prototype begins to manifest similar monstrous traits. All units are terminated. Subject is retained for psychospiritual conditioning to prevent replication of core instabilities

[ TLDR ]: Subject’s body completed; while Extermination objectives were achieved, First-Wave Exorcists degenerated into unstable forms. Project halted; prototype retained for reprogramming [ LOG NOTE ]: Prototype derivatives entered field under conditional clearance. Result: 100% termination. Mission success overshadowed by rapid destabilization. Instability traced to core design — likely emotional echo or design fracture

▍ IV. SIMULATION INITIATION & NEURAL PROGRAMMING

Subject is placed in a cryonic pod for psychospiritual incubation to address incomplete consciousness. The containment pod houses a closed cognitive-environment chamber, the Eden Simulation [ or Genesis Simulation ], designed to scaffold soul formation, imprint behavioral directives, & evaluate her viability as subordinate to The First Man [ Adam ]. Input variables emulate mortal life stages [ companionship, transgression, exile, death ] partially sourced from donor cognitive residue. Artificial neural scaffolding is phased in: linguistic encoding, instinctive response conditioning, emotional regulation templates. Subject demonstrates rapid integration, forming early affective attachments; loyalty responses anchor to Adam’s avatar, with memory fusions occurring ahead of schedule. Behavioral anomalies emerge: spontaneous grief responses, sensory fixation, non-programmed verbalizations, & episodes of physiological distress [ elevated heart rate, shallow respiration, tremors ] without discernible stimuli. Affective residues persist throughout incubation; mirror aversion is logged indicative of potential dissociative or mnemonic bleed. Emotional regulation is flagged as unstable; no corrective procedures are initiated. Simulation is permitted to continue to preserve developmental authenticity

[ TLDR ]: Subject incubated in Eden Simulation to finalize consciousness; unexpected trauma responses & memory anomalies emerged, traced to donor residue, [ LOG NOTE ]: Recommend long-term monitoring for emergent dissociative schema

▍ V. TRAUMA IMPRINT & MALFUNCTION

Upon extraction from the Eden Simulation, subject is assessed for structural integrity & cognitive alignment. Surface diagnostics confirm obedience & operational viability, though emotional architecture exhibits significant compromise. Simulated trauma is permanently encoded into core identity, producing imprint residues: excessive loyalty fixation, heightened rejection sensitivity, & pre-formed grief schemas from exile-phase conditioning. Manifestations include tremors, dissociative pauses, derealization, & delayed vocalization, particularly in sterile environments. Distress cues consistently align with environmental or verbal triggers resembling simulated betrayal, often linked to Lilith [ origin unverified ]. Analysts theorize the simulation’s affective climate was skewed by Adam’s unprocessed fears, embedding subconscious dread into the subject’s spiritual formation. Combined psychological & somatic feedback includes flinching, tactile aversion, irregular vitals, & temporary motor stasis. Recalibration attempts disrupt directive cohesion, rendering the imprint permanent at the functional level. Subject remains operational, but instability is now classified as a structural liability

[ TLDR ]: Subject retains operational function post-simulation, but exhibits permanent trauma imprints & emotional instability linked to simulated betrayal scenarios [ LOG NOTE ]: Emotional architecture compromised. Residual trauma unresponsive to recalibration. Instability classified as embedded structural liability. Monitoring continues

▍ VI. EMERGENCE & FUNCTIONAL DEPLOYMENT

Post-calibration diagnostics confirm the subject exceeds all deployment thresholds for motor, linguistic, & obedience parameters. She demonstrates exceptional tactical responsiveness & emotional restraint during initial trials. However, persistent anomalies are logged: fugue states during post-mission decompression, aversion to close contact, & vocal interference under stress. These symptoms are considered manageable given her superior operational output. The subject’s prototype informs the Second Generation of Exorcists; emotional irregularities are deliberately omitted in their replication. Official records file her condition under acceptable deviation. While performance remains within tolerance limits, long-term psychological stability is unverified. Subject remains active under heightened observation. Reassessment pending…

[ TLDR ]: Subject cleared for use; behavioral anomalies remain under observation. She performs above expectations but stability is uncertain [ LOG NOTE ]: Unit demonstrated flawless strike execution. Post-mission analysis: 39s catatonia during debrief. No trigger identified. Behavior remains classified as 'tolerable irregularity'

▍ SPECIAL NOTES

↳ㅤSimulation Override: Due to repeated failures in the Adam AI scaffold, Archangel Michael assumed direct control within the Eden Simulation. Overrides were logged. Subject’s loyalty schema remained stable, though minor emotional fluctuations suggest subconscious recognition,

↳ㅤSanctioned Malfunction: Subject exhibits sanctioned deviations that would warrant termination in any other unit. Subject demonstrates behaviors outside combat parameters: compulsive carving into holy surfaces, recitation of corrupted scripture, entering fugue states triggered by hymnal cadences. Despite this, higher authority has issued direct clearance to retain subject without further correction. Field-level override suspected

↳ㅤResidual Phantom Activity: Subject occasionally responds to non-existent stimuli: pauses mid-movement, turns to face walls, murmurs to empty corners. Recorded phrases include unidentified language fragments & degraded vocal loops from the Eden Simulation. Echoes cease upon direct observation. Analysts suspect lingering neural ghosts or unresolved simulation bleed

↳ㅤEcho Contamination: Proximity to subject results in ambient distortions for nearby units. Secondary personnel report auditory hallucinations: whispers, reversed prayers & rustling wings when stationed within three meters of subject during dormancy. Cameras register time-stamp desynchronization & subtle visual drift. Internal review finds no mechanical failure

↳ㅤInterface Interruption: Angelic transmission to nearby operatives exhibits static, loss of signal fidelity, or involuntary rerouting when within subject's proximity. Some Exorcists report feeling 'rewritten' after extended missions with her. One remarked, “She makes Heaven sound different.”

↳ㅤPhenotype Flux: Subject’s physical features are observed to subtly change without known catalyst. Minor inconsistencies documented: hair length, dermal patterning, iris configuration. Adjustments revert or shift again within hours. Subject expresses no awareness of transformation. Analysts note, “It is as though the body itself hasn’t agreed on what she is yet...”

↳ㅤPhysical Divergence: Post-simulation, subject no longer matches original design. Morphological changes attributed to prolonged psychospiritual stress. No corrections authorized; form classified as functionally stable

↳ㅤSoul Emergence: Post-simulation scans detect faint soul resonance; structure appears divine but corrupted by imprinting & emotional strain. Despite fracture, subject performs within combat parameters. Observers remark: The soul may be fractured, but it burns clean enough for Heaven’s purposes,

[dreamsinfiction]

Jan/Feb 2025 (aka when time was both a glacier freezing in the winter and melting in the summer)

Is it just me or is 2025 speeding by so quickly? Am writing this in mid-March (update: only publishing this in Apr; help my procrastination is next level these days hahaha) and it feels like the days, weeks and months are slipping through my fingers 🥲

Since this is my new year post, I'm going to start it with my goals for the year and intersperse with life updates (so that I don't ramble on and on):

a. Be clear with my intentions / do intention-setting as much as possible

Picked this up mainly from L's video on how she uses Sundays to reset for the week ahead (putting in meetings/social events she has for the following week in her Google Cal, writing to-do lists) but I've also learnt more about it when talking to my Maktaba friends! Life is funny when coincidences happen back-to-back.

I realise I have been doing some form of intention-setting all this while with me needing a physical planner each year to set my to-do lists on weekdays but I want to expand it to beyond work and incl life tasks/goals too.

So far, this has been working! I'm in a good head space when I can see what are the things I want to work on for the day/week/month/year and ticking them off gives me great satisfaction hahaha.

Side note, this has also been working in my social life hehe. Met this guy (let's call him S) at one of the bookclubs and I thought he was a pretty interesting person - he was very emotionally and philosophically mature (not sure if this is the right word but the way he thinks is very interesting). Was keen to know him more (intention right here lol) so I struck up a convo (seriously who is this 30s me who is seemingly fearless)! One thing led to another and we're now talking quite occasionally and I feel we have a similar wavelength. I also found out he lives nearby! In all my years, I've not met anyone who lives near me (who is not a childhood friend). Anyway, not going to put much expectations (case in point: Z who has been a bit disappointing to say the least but it's okay we move on) and just appreciate the fact that I have a new friend 🙂

b. Journal more frequently

I've been on-and-off journaling pretty much my whole life but keeping up the habit is hard. Part of the reason is because sometimes the empty page is very daunting. So for this year, I got a journal with smaller spaces for the days to trick my brain into thinking that I don't need to write much to fill up the segment.

The journal I got in Korea at a random bookshop in Myeongdong Cathedral. It has the different lunar phases in Korean!

Journaling tracker:

i. Jan: 22/31 (New year energy driving me to journal everyday hahaha)

ii. Feb: 14/28 (My work days were mainly taken up by XE and cleaning up her mess hence wasn't in the right headspace to journal. But proud of myself for going on a few social gatherings during the weekends to maximise time before Ramadan heh. More details in second half of post!)

c. Read more diversely

I always aim to read 20 books a year cos it seems like a manageable goal without putting too much pressure. But this year, I want to be a bit more intentional - I will still be a mood reader and pick up what strikes me in the moment (hi fantasy, manga reads) but also non-fiction and Islamic titles on my bookstagram feed do look interesting so I will venture into that space!

Also, been using StoryGraph for the past year and am going to focus fully on it because i) the UI is nicer, ii) the data insights/charts are interesting, and iii) the biggest push factor, my Goodreads account got locked out hahaha. I think it's because I used my Facebook to create a GR acc and they've discontinued FB login since late last year 🥲. Thanks friends for jumping into SG with me heh.

Reading tracker (detailed reviews on my bookstagram!)

i. Jan: 6 (3 books, 3 manga volumes)

Highlights:

None actually cos Just for the Summer by Abby Jimenez turned out to be my least favourite in the Part of Your World series and Gurmit's Singh biography was mid)

ii. Feb: 3 (all books)

Highlights:

Took the Human Acts photo at the mini Han Kang photo wall/exhibition in Kyobo Books during Nov 2024

Human Acts by Han Kang - amazing, best Han Kang novel I've read so far but with heavy themes of protests, death, grief

Safiyyah's War by Hiba Noor Khan - can't believe this is actually a children's book with the war themes involved, but I loved it for telling the untold story of how other religious communities, this one focussing on the Muslims, helped the Jews to escape prosecution in WWII Paris

d. Slower productivity, but not sacrificing quality (improve where I can)

Picked up this concept from Slow Productivity by Cal Newport (a recommendation by J!) and it's reset my mindset quite a bit. It's also due to timing - my current work now is more forward-planning, strategic in nature, less of comms on the ground so I can afford to be more thoughtful behind the work I put out since deadlines have a longer runway and planned in advance.

But when crisis comes, slow productivity is vehemently thrown out the window as I sadly learnt in Mar (will touch on this at next update).

e. Be more active!

Getting older means I need to start taking care of my health better. Not that I wasn't all this while - I don't smoke, drink, can't really eat much at one go. But the main obstacle has been getting regular exercise (other than my 25-min walk to the MRT on WFO days). Since my family and extended family's medical history isn't the greatest, I think it's about time I sit down and really dedicate some portion of time a week to get some active minutes.

And so far the gym has been working! Pretty pricey since I go to FF and have a PT but I can see some fruits of my labour now hehe. If anything, the steep price point motivates me to rush out during lunchtime on WFH days and get a session in cos I need to get my money's worth 😹

Exercise updates:

Learnt a lot of new machines, some more painful than the others lol

Learnt how to do proper squats with weights

I still hate lunges HAHA

Went for a random pickleball session with the office girlies at Delta Sports Centre (It's so nice now after the upgrades! Also, don't ask me how to play pickleball, we just went with the flow - I played it like I would play badminton, A played it like she would with tennis HAHA; much chaos, super fun)

My friends know how to enable me hahahaha

f. Continue saying yes to things that make me happy / make me initially uncomfy but will be good for me in the long run

A continuation from last year! Despite its ups and downs, last year was quite eventful and looking back I'm thankful I did the things I did. I don't think there was anything that I regretted doing even though the outcome wasn't always positive. So here's to less what ifs, and more doing.

Other highlights in Jan/Feb:

i. Harry Potter Visions of Magic exhibition

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This was so fun! Lived out my dream of being a real Slytherin student in Hogwarts - loved how immersive it was with all the wandcasting and wandering across different rooms spanning both HP and the Fantastic Beasts world. Definitely worth the ticket even though it was a bit pricey (went on a weekend morning which was considered peak period), since I'm not planning to visit any of the Wizarding World theme parks any time soon.

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ii. Seventeen's 'Right Here' concert

After loving their songs for close to a decade now, I was so happy to finally see them live. Went with SR and even though our seats were quite far from the main stage, it was fine since we went mostly for the vocals. DK's voice is so amazing live 🥹. Also there was a segment where they were on carts and pushed closer to the seated areas and I got to see them nearer hahaha. DK and Wonwoo were on the same cart homg my fangirl heart could not take it lolol.

iii. JB trip for P's wedding

First time chartering a van to take us into Johor and right to the wedding hall haha. It was a pretty smooth process thanks to the QR clearance and we made it in time for the 9.30am solemnisation (our call time to meet the driver at our block was 6.00am tho huhu).

But the wedding was really pretty and it's my first of 2 weddings in Malaysia I would be attending this year (the next one is in May heh). Even though Johor is just across the Causeway, some traditions are different than Malay weddings here which was interesting to see. I also got Gigi Coffee on Grab to try and omg it's so nice and strong (reminiscent of coffee in Korea) and it doesn't break the bank hahaha. Gonna try more Malaysia coffee brands when I'm in KL this year! I have my eye on Zus Coffee cos it comes highly raved and I don't need to wait long to try since there's a new outlet in Westgate heh.

iv. Bookclubs galore

Geeking out over books will never stop being fun ㅋㅋㅋ

Went for so many just in February! I rotate between the Quiet Readers' Club (name explains itself), Meet Cuties Club (romance book club; I join it for the hehehaha) and Maktaba Books' Silent Reading Sessions and Sama-Sama Book Club (this one is with NLB and they pick regional/Asian reads which helps meet my goal of reading more diversely). What I love about them is the safe space, hearing different views than my own perspective being raised and just meeting new folks/forming new friendships.

...and that's about it! This post has gone on long enough haha. It's definitely been a fulfilling start to the year - semi-excited about what's in store for the rest of the year but also semi-dreading the challenges that are inevitably coming my way huhu.

Till the next update! I swear I will start working on Mar updates soon~

[slowd1ving]

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST .・゜DAN HENG EVENTUAL NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader wc: 26.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

I. on the topic of belonging

II. how does one define a nightmare?

III. the concept of friendship

IV. revised: the concept of 'friendship' NSFW