#Classify Raw Text

[undyingdecay]

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, phone sex, pillow humping, faint overstimulation, mentions of nursing, mentions of breeding.

this had been your third away mission this month. 

you and ava—who still didn’t talk much unless it was necessary—had been flown out to mazar-i-sharif, a city currently red-flagged in quiet backchannels between the cia and what was left of stark intelligence. there were reports of reality seams warping in the industrial district, things slipping through and slithering back—too fast to record, too quiet to leave proper trace. the initial scout team sent out—disguised, civilian—had stuck out like fucking neon in a blackout. none made it back. one body was recovered, bloated and arched backwards like it had been hit with a concussive blast inside its own skull. a single tooth embedded in the inner cheek.

being part of the so-called “new avengers” made your gut churn with something like betrayal. not just guilt. the name “new” carried a kind of sacrilege in it, like pissing on an open grave and calling it progress. it was a marketing team’s word—something valentina must have approved while chewing her way through a cocktail olive and a classified kill list. natasha. steve. even sam had ghosted off radar, half the team scattered or dead or morally gutted. “new” meant hollow.

you and ava tried not to talk about that. you blended as best you could. ava knew how to disappear; you knew how to talk. it worked.

by the seventh club of the night—a collapsed-looking industrial rave wedged into a half-burnt bakery—you were raw-eyed and bone-tired. the music had teeth. the air reeked of cheap rum, cannabis tar, and that too-sweet, too-human scent of sweat and sex. the man wasn’t there. neither of you had even a quarter ounce of faith in the blurry polaroid that had come paper-clipped to the mission folder. ava didn’t even look at it. you had stared at it until you swore it moved.

you called it a night. no leads. nothing but phantom static and whispered names: “the gold man,” “shining eyes,” “godflesh.”

once you’d gotten back to the hotel—an over-warm maze of marble and carpets worn to threads—you muttered a soft “goodnight, ava,” and she returned it without looking at you.

you peeled out of your mission gear like shedding skin. the hot water from the shower felt criminally good. you wrapped yourself in a towel that smelled faintly of bleach and cigarette smoke, then finally dropped into bed. the hotel’s linen was too soft, luxurious in a way that felt untrustworthy. like it had been cleaned too well. like it had something to hide.

you reached for your phone without thinking.

and then you froze.

the screen lit up, casting a cold white glow over your face—and what stared back at you made your stomach drop. a few texts from bob earlier that morning, just the usual: updates, soft check-ins, his quiet way of saying he missed you without actually using the word. but then—beginning at 10:47 pm and flooding up until three minutes ago—your entire notifications tab was nothing but his name. call after call. message after message. some in all lowercase, your name typed out like a chant. others blank. just missed connections. pleas, maybe. the sheer volume of it made your skin prickle.

you glanced at the hotel clock. 11:52.

you didn’t even bother scrolling through the texts. the knot forming in your chest was too tight, too familiar. you hit “call” immediately, heart crawling up your throat with the kind of panic you usually reserved for the aftermath of gunfire or something moving behind your reflection.

it rang once.

then—his voice.

not even his full voice. just a breathy, broken whisper of your name, dragged out and trembling like it hurt to say. a soft whine that slipped through the line like he was trying to crawl through it.

in the background, something wet echoed faintly—too loud, too slick, unmistakable in its rhythm. the kind of sound you knew couldn’t be faked. there was too much of it.

“‘m sorry—couldn’t help it.”

the desperation in his voice was so thick it lodged in your chest, cracked open something you weren’t ready to look at too closely. warmth stirred low in your belly, sharp and immediate.

“tell me what’s the matter, baby,” you cooed, soft and coaxing, a slow sweetness that you knew would ruin him. you heard the stutter of breath, the shudder on the other end of the line—and then a choked, broken sob.

“need—more,” he gasped. “need you, please.”

your fingers tightened around the phone.

“are you touching yourself the way i taught you to?” the question came out hushed, threaded with something tender beneath the heat.

it had taken time—real time—for bob to even see masturbation as something other than a task. something he rushed through with clinical detachment, like brushing his teeth. just another way to get his body to shut up. before you, it was never pleasure. it was barely release. just something to get over with, to check off in silence before staring at the ceiling again and wondering if he still belonged to himself.

“mhm,” he breathed.

you heard the shift of fabric, the rustle of movement as he repositioned. his voice came through again, this time soaked in shame and need both: “i wanna touch you—please, can i use your pillow? mine won’t feel the same… it—it doesn’t smell like you.”

you sighed, deep and indulgent. as if you weren’t already aching. as if your thighs weren’t already pressing together.

of course you were going to say yes. you always did. bob using your pillow as a makeshift toy wasn’t exactly a surprise anymore. it had become a habit. one you were still trying to break him of—not because you didn’t like the thought, but because it was a nightmare to clean. you’d caught him more than once trying to sneak it into the laundry pile like it hadn’t been completely soaked through the night before.

but what did catch you off guard—what dragged a small, stunned exhale from your lips—was the sudden flicker of movement on your screen.

his camera had turned on.

the phone had been propped up against the lamp on his nightstand in a rush, tilted just enough for you to see the full, devastating picture: bob, flushed and panting, his boxers shoved halfway down those strong thighs. a plain white t-shirt clenched between his teeth, his jaw tight from biting down. his chest heaved. his arms were braced on either side of your pillow, caging it in like it was alive—like it was you.

his hair was damp and curling against his forehead, clinging in slick strands. his hips were moving in slow, desperate grinds. the pillow beneath him was already soaked.

“you’re such a pretty boy, bob,” the words tumbled from your lips unfiltered, thick with heat. you didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard the tiny, helpless whimper he gave in response.

you shifted under the covers, already sinking down into them. your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts without hesitation. your body answered for you.

patience.

but just barely.

“oh—oh! fuck—”

bob’s voice pitches up, ragged, cracking in a way that sounds like it’s being wrenched out of him, not spoken. you hear the slap of skin against fabric and the low, animal creak of the bedframe with every thrust. the rhythm’s brutal now, desperate and without elegance—he’s fully rutting against the pillow like something that forgot how to be human, all survival and instinct and you.

tiny, pitiful 'uh-huh's slip from his throat like affirmations, little nods to some fantasy playing out behind his glassy eyes. your name gets lost in there too, choked on the back of each whine like it’s the only word he knows anymore. you can’t even tell if he’s aware he’s saying it, or if it’s just muscle memory now—etched into him like scar tissue, something old and automatic, something holy.

and despite the slight tilt of the camera—angled just-so against the lamp, like he couldn’t even wait to set it properly—you can see it. all of it.

his cock, flushed and leaking, glistening wet in the low yellow light of his room, absolutely soaking the pillow beneath him. the precome is everywhere—slicking down the shaft in thick ropes, pooling at the head, gluing soft chestnut curls to his pelvis in damp little tufts. a dark, spreading circle blooms on the pillowcase like a halo, obscene and devotional, a shrine made of mess.

the cotton’s clinging to him now. you can tell it’s started to catch—too saturated to offer any friction anymore, but still he grinds against it like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. like if he stops, he’ll fall off the planet completely.

“fuck, fuck—please,” he keens, voice cracking, “are you… are you touching yourself? please, just wanna make you feel good, ‘jus wanna—”

his words dissolve into a hitching moan, his hips stuttering.

the way he says it—make you feel good—it’s not about control. not with bob. it’s always been about purpose. something to do with his hands that isn’t destruction. something to be useful for, other than ripping the sky in half. it’s service. it’s worship. he wants your pleasure like a man wants salvation, like maybe if he brings you there, he’ll be pulled from the pit too.

and it hits you then—how much of bob exists in this exact moment. every part of him that doesn’t know how to exist quietly. every ugly, wanting corner he doesn’t show the others. not to walker. not to bucky. not even val. none of them would believe this part of him even existed—the part that mewls your name while soaking through your pillow, raw and exposed and beautiful in a way that would terrify them.

you let your fingers dip lower, slipping through your own wetness, and it’s instant. a spike of pleasure that borders on pain, aching and hot as it shoots up your spine. you groan low, and the sound must’ve carried through the speaker because bob freezes, chest heaving.

then—

“are you—are you really?” his voice is breathless, full of awe, like the idea of you actually touching yourself for him is some miracle. he groans, hunching deeper into the pillow, fucking it harder. “jesus, oh my god—thank you—thank you—”

as if you’d gifted him something sacred. as if your body was an answered prayer.

your thumb brushes your clit and your legs jerk. a slick wet sound rises between your thighs, echoing faintly through the call—and bob sobs. sobs.

he keeps swallowing—again and again, compulsively—his throat working like it hurts, like the absence of you is something stuck in it. you can see the way his adam’s apple bobs with each gulp, frantic and shallow, as if he’s trying to tamp something down but it keeps rising, flooding.

you know what it is.

he’s used to having something in his mouth—you. his tongue, his lips, his whole desperate mouth always latched somewhere: your tits, your shoulder, the inside of your thigh. nursing. nuzzling. mouthing. needing. it’s never been about sex, not just—not only. it’s something older, more infantile, more devout. a craving that doesn’t end at climax. a part of him that needs to cling. to suck. to soothe.

and now?

now he’s alone. no skin to mouth. no nipple to drink from. nothing to suck between his flushed, spit-slick lips except air, which he swallows like a starving man pretending it’s soup. you can see the gloss at the corners of his mouth, how they twitch like they’re trying to shape around your name again. it’s almost sad. it’s almost holy.

then it hits him—fast, like he didn’t see it coming. like his body made the decision before his brain could catch up.

“i’m—cummin’!”

the words rip from his throat like a gunshot, fast and panicked and soaked in relief. his whole body seizes—a full-body convulsion like his bones are short-circuiting. he hunches deeper into the pillow, the muscles in his back flexing so hard you can see them ripple even under the shitty lighting. 

his fingers claw at the sides of the pillow, gripping so hard you swear you hear it tear, the fabric giving under his strength with a muted ripping noise that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—gonna get you pregnant—fuck, gonna fill you up,” he’s babbling now, coming so hard he’s barely even conscious of the words leaving his mouth. “make you warm, make it stick, i—ohhh—”

and then it happens.

you watch it happen.

the pillow’s already soaked, but now it’s worse—somehow wetter. the flood of come from his cock is viscous, obscene, splattering thick into the ruined fabric like he’s pouring himself into it. it’s leaking from the tip in heavy, twitching spurts, trailing down the plush cotton and sticking to his thighs, the base of his cock smeared in creamy slick and sweat and saliva from where he’d drooled earlier without noticing.

you swear you can hear it—the wet sound of him milking himself against your ghost. the cum doesn’t even soak in fully anymore; it pools, thick and syrupy, catching the yellow glow of the lamp in a way that makes your stomach twist with hunger.

your own fingers stutter.

he’s still grinding, even through it, rutting forward like he doesn’t know he’s finished. his hips have a mind of their own, cock pushing against the hot mess he’s made like he wants to fuck it in deeper, like he believes if he presses hard enough, it’ll reach you.

he’s letting out plaintive little cries now, weaker, softer, like his body’s finally started to register that it’s empty. that the release didn’t fix it. that even in the wreckage—come-sticky, thighs trembling, pillow soaked and unusable—he’s still hungry for something he can’t reach through a screen.

still, he rocks lazily against the pillow in slow aftershocks, hips twitching like muscle memory won’t let go just yet. it’s less about getting off now and more about staying close to the feeling of you. the last trace. the last pulse.

then he turns his face toward the phone—his cheek pink, wet with sweat and saliva—and smiles.

it’s a dreamy, breathless little thing. a laugh spills from him, all shaky and sugar-sick, like he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling anymore. he just knows it was for you. that it meant something.

it doesn’t matter, though.

not when he lets himself melt across the bed like butter left out too long, one arm sliding off the mattress, his legs spread open and useless. his boxers are barely clinging to one ankle now, and there’s a damp patch on the sheets beneath him where the mess finally leaked through the pillow.

his eyes flutter shut.

“love you ‘s much,” he murmurs, voice thick and blurred at the edges. “miss you ‘s much.”

he says something else, low and soft, words smudged like watercolor. you don’t catch it, but it doesn’t really matter. you get the shape of it. the feeling.

you pause for a second, letting the sound of his breathing settle into you—deep and rhythmless, the kind of sleep that only comes after something raw. then you slip out of bed, padding softly toward the bathroom.

there’s the brief rush of water, the soft hush of skin meeting towel, the familiar ritual of cleaning up under sterile hotel light. you avoid the mirror. avoid looking at your own flushed face. not out of shame—no, never that. just reverence. quiet.

when you return, you glance down at the phone still glowing on your bedside table. the screen’s dim, but the call hasn’t ended. bob’s still there. his camera’s tipped just slightly now—angled toward his chest, rising and falling, slow and steady. his mouth is slack in sleep. he’s beautiful in the way aftermath is beautiful—ruined and soft and done.

you smile.

sliding back under the covers, you nestle the phone beside you like a second heartbeat. you don’t even bother turning it off. just let the weight of his presence settle into the bed with you, real as anything. real as warmth.

you fall asleep to the sound of bob’s breathing.

(bob now has such a nasty habit of sending you the most filthiest things while your away, from little voice messages of breathless whimpers to full on videos of him fucking himself into his fist.

always paired with a message under it reading; 'love you so much, look at the mess i made' all while you're seated on a plane right next to ava on your way back home)

[33-108]

The 27 lunar mansions are divided into three primary types: Deva (divine), Manushya (human), and Rakshasa (demonic). This division isn’t meant to moralize, but to describe the nature of the energy each nakshatra embodies. Among them, the Rakshasa nakshatras carry the most volatile and boundary-pushing qualities. These are the nakshatras that stir, disturb, seduce, and transform. They are not concerned with order—they exist to test limits, reveal power, and often provoke the hidden forces in others.

Rakshasas in the Vedic and Puranic texts are powerful beings, often portrayed as enemies of the gods or disturbers of cosmic harmony. But the stories also reveal something deeper: they are embodiments of forces that cannot be easily controlled—especially sexual, magical, and destructive forces. They are not just brute beings but are frequently portrayed as intensely learned in occult knowledge, adept in shapeshifting, and capable of wielding energies that gods themselves must confront.

Nine nakshatras are typically classified under the Rakshasa type: Krittika, Ashlesha, Magha, Chitra, Vishakha, Jyeshtha, Mula, Dhanishta, and Shatabhisha. These nakshatras are often ruled by Mars, Ketu, and Rahu—planets associated with raw desire, instability, transformation, seduction, and karmic upheaval. The deities linked to these nakshatras—kartikeya, the Nagas, Indra-Agni, Nirriti—speak to this darker or more intense nature. The qualities these nakshatras represent are not evil, but they are uncomfortable. They confront stagnation and test authenticity.

A significant theme in the lore around Rakshasas is sexuality—not as romantic idealism, but as a force of power and confrontation. Rakshasas often use sex as a weapon, a snare, or a ritualized tool to destabilize the righteous or gain energetic control. Ravana was not just a lustful king—he was a being whose desire itself disrupted the balance of worlds. Rakshasi women like Shurpanakha openly expressed sexual desire, an act punished with mutilation. These stories highlight the taboo nature of sexuality when it’s stripped of societal control, and how Rakshasa energy challenges the repression and moralization of these forces.

Rakshasas are also shapeshifters, and this quality runs deep in their mythos. They can alter form, gender, age, and appearance. Their ability to transform is both literal and symbolic—it points to their mastery of illusion, maya, and astral manipulation. In this, they share a common thread with beings in other traditions, such as succubi and incubi—sexual entities known to engage in intense dream encounters or astral unions with humans. Such beings offer ecstasies and pleasures far beyond the scope of ordinary human experience. Rakshasa qualities carry a similar force—seductive, penetrating, and often obsessive. The pleasure they represent is not for comfort but for initiation.

To be born under multiple Rakshasa nakshatras is to carry these very qualities. In my own chart, Saturn—is placed in Shatabhisha, a nakshatra known for secrecy, healing, and the intense probing of hidden systems. It is a domain of veiled knowledge, ruled by Rahu and presided over by Varuna, the cosmic enforcer of truth and unseen law. This makes my karmic approach and endurance saturated with subversive insight, detachment, and confrontation with collective shadows. My Moon is in Magha, placing my emotional core in the realm of ancestral pride, power, and the hunger for status and remembrance. Mars, my lagnesha, is in Ashlesha, a nakshatra ruled by serpents, known for its hypnotic charm and instinctual manipulation. My Mercury is vargottama in Chitra, ruled by Mars and Vishvakarma, the celestial architect. Chitra is seductive, visually oriented, and carries the Rakshasa trait of dazzling, refined presentation masking a deeper drive to shape, manipulate, and beautify reality. My Jupiter Atmakaraka and Rahu are both in Vishakha, which burns with obsession and the drive toward union—whether divine, erotic, or destructive.

Taken together, these placements reflect a Rakshasa-dominant chart. Not because they make one evil or monstrous, but because they anchor me in the qualities these nakshatras express: uncompromising, untamed, and transformative. These energies demand responsibility. They can’t be repressed without consequence, nor indulged recklessly without risk. But when recognized, respected, and skillfully directed, they offer a power that is direct. Rakshasa energy isn’t a curse—it’s a call to embrace the real, the raw, and the revelatory.

Interestingly, Rakshasas have also been symbolically linked to the figure of the clown—a connection that speaks volumes. In certain folkloric and esoteric circles, clowns are said to descend from or reflect Rakshasa-like beings. With their exaggerated features, garish colors, unnatural laughter, and chaotic presence, clowns embody a paradox: they entertain and terrify. Like Rakshasas, they manipulate reality, they play with masks, and they provoke a visceral reaction from deep within the subconscious. Their role is to disturb normalcy while delighting the crowd, much like how Rakshasa nakshatras disturb ordinary karmic rhythms to catalyze transformation. This explains why clowns, though meant to bring joy, are often the focus of unease, nightmares, or even phobias. Beneath the paint and the spectacle lies a powerful, shape-shifting force—just like the Rakshasa: one who dances at the edge of pleasure, fear, and revelation.

While no direct historical evidence exists - Grimaldi, who is known as the creator of the modern conception of the European clown, it is alleged that his creation may have been partially inspired by a friend who visited India in the early days of British colonialism and/or that future variarions of the clown may had been evolved due to the influenceof rakshasa. The story goes that some became fascinated with the multi-colored and terrifying appearance of these trickster deities (Rakshasas) and that people modeled clown outfits and persona partially based off of them.

[endofthelinegang]

so she waited

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker is haunted by the quiet, tender love he lost — a woman who waited for him without promises, made space for him without demands, and slipped away when he didn’t know how to be loved gently. now, in empty motel rooms and half-remembered dreams, he’s left chasing the memory of a home he only realized was his when it was gone. this is based on the song “party 4 u” by charli xcx.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ angst. 

SEND ME MORE SONG REQUESTS PLZ THIS WAS SO FUN

She used to wait for him, like really waited. Everyone in her life thought that she was crazy because she never asked questions; rather she made space. John doesn’t know how to explain that to anyone without sounding like he’s making it up — like he wants to be pitied, or worse, forgiven. But it’s true. She used to wait. For texts that came too late or not at all. For flights that landed hours after she’d stopped pretending to sleep. For days when he’d come back from somewhere too far, too bloody, too classified, and completely silent until he left again. Places he couldn’t name and things he couldn’t wash off, no matter how hot the water ran or how raw his knuckles got.

She had clean sheets that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. Dim lighting, the glow of a bedside lamp softened by a coat she must’ve left there for him, so everything wouldn’t be too tighty, in her mind, she wanted him to feel like he was home, and a home should feel lived in. Music would play low from her phone — always something too delicate, too beautiful for the things he carried home in his chest. He never knew the names of the songs, just the way her voice would hum along, soft and a little out of tune, almost like a lullaby to soothe the excitement she felt, not knowing what John would be like when he returned. 

Sometimes he’d come back late — way too late — and still find her awake. She would do anything for him, including sacrificing her sleep. She would run around and clean things, bake, put makeup on, and do her hair just to try and keep herself from passing out. In fact, when John comes home, her makeup is still on, smudged a little at the corners of her eyes, but still somehow perfect. Hair done, tumbling over one bare shoulder in loose waves like she hadn’t touched it in hours but hadn’t let it fall apart either. And God, he never said anything. Never asked if she’d done it just for him, but she had, and knows that now. And sometimes, it hits him out of nowhere.

Like the other night, when he was sitting in some godforsaken motel, the kind where the air conditioner rattles against the window and the sheets smell like bleach and old cigarettes. Some song came on — something slow, with a woman’s voice so slow and smoky— and it yanked him under so fast it made his throat ache. It was just the type of thing that you would have on. 

He remembered a night, clear as if it were happening all over again.

He’d gotten back at nearly three in the morning, at least from what he could recall, he had checked his phone briefly in the car, boots muddy, hands still streaked with dirt and blood. Everything he touched from the inside of his car, the stairs leading to the apartment, and the doorknob needed cleaning from the trail he was leaving. Every part of him sore, every nerve frayed. The world had felt too loud, too sharp, too cruel. He’d opened the door to her apartment and half expected the place to be dark, cold, and empty. Besides the bedroom, where she would be asleep.

But the living room light was on. It was soft and dim, and all of the harsh kitchen lights left the space he walked through pitch black. The faint scent of her perfume and warm linen hung in there as she sat on the couch. She sat in a matching pajama set so dark it gleamed when she moved, legs crossed at the ankle, hair down in soft, deliberate waves. A song played on her phone that sat on one of the small tables near the couch — some old love song with a crooning voice, something about forever and hearts breaking slow. A glass of wine half-finished on the table beside her, lipstick marking the rim. She was folding laundry of all things at three in the morning. A little white basket sat next to her legs as she pulled items of clothes out one by one, breaking focus to look at him. 

She smiled when she saw him not wide or bright, but soft, and real, and just for him, “Hey, soldier,” she murmured, voice rough with sleep but still teasing, still warm. She sat down his folded shirt into one of his piles. 

He hadn’t said a word, didn’t trust himself too, couldn’t think of anything worth saying. Just crossed the room in a few ragged steps, dropped to his knees in front of her, dirt making a faint cloud as he fell, and let his head rest against her lap. And she’d sighed — this little sound, like her heart cracked open right there — and her fingers threaded through his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, grounding him, quieting the storm. She didn’t ask him a single question, did not complain about the mess his boots had just made trailing through the room. All she gave him was her.  Warm and safe and so heartbreakingly beautiful, wearing pajamas for a man who didn’t think he deserved it, who didn’t know how to tell her that she was the only good thing he carried home from those dark places. He could still feel it. The weight of her hand in his hair. The faint scratch of lace at her wrist. The way her perfume clung to his skin long after he had gotten out of all of those clothes, not bothered to put on pajamas, and climbed into her bed. 

And it guts him now to replay that memory, how he never told her a damn thing. Never said thank you, I missed you, or even I love you. He just let her make space for him and filled it with silence.

Now, lying awake in too many empty rooms, he can’t stop thinking about it. About the way her laugh sounded at two in the morning when he would tell her stories about anything but what he had been up to. About the press of her body against his under a thick comforter. About the way she made everything ugly in his life feel like it wasn’t so heavy, at least for a little while.

He’d give anything to go back and tell her anything, but especially to beg her to wait one more time. But she doesn’t wait anymore, and he can’t blame her for that, either. It’s been over a year, three hundred and something days since he last heard her voice. He had been counting, but had to stop out of fear it was all he would ever be able to think about. It had been so long since the warmth of her laugh curled into the hollow spaces in his chest and made the dark feel less unbearable.

But he feared now that she was really gone forever. Not in a dramatic way, there was no screaming, nothing broke besides John, and there was no final argument where everything ugly spilled out between them. It was just distance. The slow, creeping kind. The kind that sneaks up on you like fog, so light and harmless at first, you don’t even notice — until you’re standing in a room full of memories and it’s so thick you can’t see your own hands anymore.

It started so small. A text unanswered here. A missed call there. A delay in her replies that stretched a little longer each time, until days passed and his phone stayed silent. Until the songs stopped playing from her side of the bed. Until he came home and everything was dark, even the living room, and even worse, the living room, and the sheets didn’t smell like her perfume, and there were no more wine glasses with lipstick stains. And the worst part is — he can’t blame her for a second. Because he never gave her a reason to stay, he never told her to wait; in fact, he never even bothered to say, I’m coming back to you. But he mostly blamed himself for never saying the words, I love you, even when the words sat heavy on his tongue like lead and burned his throat with how badly he wanted to.

He never made promises; he let you make a bunch all the time. Things as small as promising to get the groceries or big ones like coming to pick him up from random locations. But he never allowed himself to be that soft, that exposed, that real. Because back then, he didn’t know how to be loved gently; in fact, he didn’t believe he deserved it. He thought she was the white flag, the little break in it all.  A soft place to land when the blood and the dirt and the screams under his skin got too heavy. He thought she was temporary, like a quiet night between missions. A body to tangle up with when the nightmares came.

But she wasn’t; she was the only place he was ever whole. And now, sitting in a too-small room with peeling wallpaper and the hum of a vending machine outside his door, he feels it like a wound that never scabbed over. The memory of her is everywhere. In the scent of cherries, when some stranger walks by. In the taste of cheap red wine that never measures up to the bottles she kept stashed for nights when he’d come home wrecked. In the ghost of her fingers brushing over the back of his neck when the silence gets too loud. He remembers how her skin felt beneath his palms — soft, impossibly warm, like she was made of every good thing the world forgot to save for him. Remembers how she’d press her lips to his temple when he was too tired to undress, murmuring, “Come to bed, John. You don’t have to be anyone else here.”

And God, he hadn’t understood it then. Didn’t know what it meant to have someone see him — not the soldier, not the shield, not the weapon the world forged in blood and orders — but just him. The broken boy beneath the scars and now it’s too late. Because he didn’t for her hand when she needed it. He didn’t go out of his way to check on to do his part.  And the cruel thing is, he still dreams about her. Not the way she left, but the way she stayed.

Always matching, even though sometimes he wouldn’t see until morning. Barefoot on the kitchen floor at midnight, hair tangled or thrown up on top of her head, and that little smile on her face before she watched to see which one of them would step first. Then she’d kiss him like it wasn’t a promise, like it was a fact—like he was hers and always would be. He wakes up with her name on his tongue, the phantom weight of her body curled beside him, and he can almost hear her speak.  And every time, it breaks him all over again. Because she never had a break from the war. She was home. And he walked away without ever telling her. 

Sometimes he dreams of her apartment. Not her, not exactly, not in the way he wants to — not warm beneath his hands, not breath catching in her throat when he kissed the hollow of her throat. Most depressingly, not the way she would smile against his lips and put her hands on the sides of his face. His brain was his own hell, only allowing him to dream of the space. The soft, familiar clutter of it. The gold lamp by the bed, still crooked from where he’d bumped it with his elbow one night. The faint hum of its old bulb filled the room with that low, steady warmth. The chipped pink mug resting on the windowsill, half-full of iceless water. A lipstick print smudged along the rim like all of her other glasses, like she’d been there only minutes ago. Her quilt, which she used during the winter months and the smell of cinnamon that stuck to it from the way she would bake and keep herself warm, waiting for the buzzer, sat at the end of the bed. The cheap, fake candles flicker along the dresser. Their small, artificial flames cast a soft, amber glow that pools in the corners of the room, chasing away the sharp edges of shadow. One of them sputters, the plastic wick faltering, and in the dream, it makes his throat ache because she always meant to replace the batteries, and never did.

But most importantly she’s there, not like a ghost, not like a figment. He was more the ghost than her. But she was as real as anything, as though he could reach out and thread his fingers through the ends of her hair and feel the warmth of her skin against his knuckles.

She’s sitting on the windowsill to his right where he lay,  one knee drawn up, her bare foot pressed against the glass, her other leg dangling down. She’s wearing one of his shirts — an old, faded thing, threadbare and soft, hanging off her shoulder. It pools against her thigh in a way that makes his stomach tighten, makes his chest ache. Her hair’s down, a little messy, loose curls catching the city light that spills in through the window. It paints her in warm golds and soft shadows, and for a moment, the world feels quieter, smaller, bearable. Her eyes are soft when they meet his, like she knew he would come back, like he was always meant to find his way back here. And she smiles, just a little. The kind of smile that lives in the corners of her mouth, the kind that says I remember you. I never stopped. But she doesn’t speak, and he wants to, but his voice is gone, his mouth opens, and not a peep. Because in the dream, he’s torturing himself, his subconscious is using him as a puppet to show him what could’ve been.  Words have always been clumsy in his mouth, too sharp or too heavy or too late. But he does not give up as he waits for her.  The way the candlelight catches on the curve of her cheekbone. The way her fingers absently trace the lip of that ugly pink mug, tapping out a rhythm or at least some type of constant. The small, contented sigh she lets out as she tips her head against the windowpane, hair falling across her face. He wants to go to her, to close the space between them in a few long strides, press his hands to the curve of her hips, rest his forehead against hers, and breathe her in. To bury his face in the warmth of her throat and murmur, I missed you. I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed.  But he can’t, he now realizes he cannot feel his body. He is trapped, watching her, trapped, doing what he had done the entire time they had been together. And he’ll wake up alone in a cold, unfamiliar bed with nothing but the ache in his chest and the taste of her name on his tongue.

So he lays there frozen in that space between want and regret. Watching. Memorizing. Willing time to let him just see her smile right at him as he silently prays that she will walk across the threshold and kiss him. And then — always — the dream slips.

The light dims all of sudden, he isn’t in complete darkness but everything looks like a shadow besides the candles but then they sputter, and her figure softens at the edges like smoke caught in a shaft of light.  And just before he wakes the lights flash, it is just her face, and  she looks at him one last time. Eyes so full of something — love, maybe, or forgiveness, or some impossible in-between thing neither of them ever knew how to name. And she whispers, so soft he almost misses it, “I waited.”

Then nothing. Darkness. The cold scratch of motel sheets against his skin. The sour taste of old coffee in his mouth. His throat raw with words he’ll never say. And the unbearable, suffocating emptiness of a world where she isn’t waiting anymore.

It comes back to him in flashes now, at random points in his day whether he is busy playing the long arm of the law or just brushing his teeth in the morning he thinks about the quiet way she’d dress up even when they weren’t going anywhere, the way she’d hum under her breath while she brushed her hair, like she was softening the world for him, and the way her hands would tremble sometimes after he would give her the okay to touch him, just slightly, after he came home from a mission, like she was afraid to touch him and even more afraid not to. She never said it, but he knows now: She only did those things for him. She was trying to keep something alive between them. She thought he was worth the wait. 

He tried texting her once with a pathetic: hey. hope you’re good. sorry i was. just. sorryHe never hit send. She wouldn’t want that. Not now. Not when he’s got nothing but hollow apologies and a reputation still soaked in the blood of a man whose name he never learned. She doesn’t want him anymore. She wanted the version of him that might have existed. And he killed that version the day he walked away from her and called it mercy.

[fullscoreshenanigans]

*All the farms have English as their primary language of communication, but each farm has a different secondary language they also teach. **I don't have general headcanons for the farms as a whole, but I headcanon specific human characters as multilingual besides Ayshe and Norman speaking the old demon language (share in the reblogs/replies)

Headcanon and not canon because it's more interesting and because for simplicity sake's I think Shirai would say everyone living in the demon world speaks and writes in English by default for reasons below the cut:

• The Western setting was chosen to intentionally make the anachronistic aspects of the farms feel more natural:

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 1)

• The majority of the legible text shown not related to the original faith is in modern English in the Japanese raws for both humans and demons (them using international Morse code and sounding it out in English as opposed to using Wabun, the signs in Goldy Pond being in English) due to Shirai writing for a modern audience:

(Chapter 1 | 4 | 17 | 41 | 52 | 57 | 64 | 65)

However, Shirai's never said other languages weren't formally taught at Grace Field besides Latin:

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 4 Q&A)

And even if the children were being taught to the tests for commentary on standardized testing, you could argue the kids could learn on their own time if language books are classified under the arts based on the first light novel's description of the library's contents:

(TPN Light Novel 1: A Letter from Norman - “The Day Emma Cried”)

With the issue of "why didn't Ray ever bring up learning other languages after reading all the books in the library?" coming down to the same reason as this:

(Mystic Code Book Chapter 6 Q&A)

He just never brought it up. _(:△」∠)_

Also to promote @puff-poff's demon culture posts (found here and here):

[isthiscoinsidenceorasign]

She's Theirs: By Your Side

Title: By Your Side

Summary: Nick experiences Sub-space for the first time.

Word Count:  12,310

Warnings: Sub-space, fluff, light flirting, some suggestive dirty talk. A teeny bit of praise kink if you squint.

Tags: fluff

Author Notes: Hey y'all! Here's chapter nine. This chapter I feel is more emotional than some of the others. But I feel like it really moves the story along and further solidifies Nick, Jake, and Bradley's bond. If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters let me know. And if there's anything you'd like to see in the story don't hesitate to tell me. Maybe I'll be able to put it in!

Nick stared at the flight simulator data scrolling across her screen, the numbers blurring together like runway lights through fog. Last night with Jake and Bradley had been... transcendent. The way they all connected on a more deeper and romantic level.The way they made her feel so loved, so cherished, so safe. But now, sitting in her ergonomic chair at the Naval Air Systems Command facility, she felt hollowed out, a fighter jet running on fumes.

"Boss, these thrust calculations from Jones look off by at least three percent," One of her subordinates said, dropping a stack of papers on her desk.

"So fix them," she mumbled, reaching for her fourth coffee of the morning. Her hands trembled slightly, not from the caffeine but from the emotional crash that had been building since she'd woken up alone in her apartment. Jake and Bradley had needed to report early—some classified briefing they couldn't get out of. They both gave her kisses and told her to go back to sleep. She did but when she woke up her mood had only gotten worse.

“Are you okay Boss?” Her coworker asked out of concern.

"Fine, just tired," Nick replied, forcing authority into her voice. Her colleagues didn't need to know she'd spent half the night with her body tangled with two of Top Gun's finest pilots. "I'll look at the thrust data after I finish the stabilizer analysis."

She turned back to her screen, but her mind drifted to Bradley's hands, calloused yet gentle, holding her own soft ones. To Jake's mouth against her neck, whispering promises that had made her gasp and arch against him. To the way they'd taken care of her, the way they wiped her tears away when she became emotional.

Thinking back to last night and how vulnerable she became brought tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away yet they still threatened to fall. Something had to be done to get her emotions in check.

Nick hastily dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, grateful that most of her team was focused on their own work in front of them. The vast room hummed with the sound of dozens of engineers working, the tap of keyboards, machines running, and low murmurs of technical discussion creating a white noise that usually soothed her. Today, it felt like static against her raw nerves.

She glanced at her phone, sitting face-down beside her keyboard. The device seemed to pulse with an energy of its own, a tether to the two men who had systematically dismantled her carefully constructed walls. Nick had always prided herself on her compartmentalization skills—it was what made her such an effective engineer. Emotion in one box, intellect in another, never the twain shall meet. But last night, those boxes had been thrown open, their contents scattered like clothes across her bedroom floor.

She knew they agreed to keep a healthy distance from each other on the base, as to not draw suspicion. But right now all she wanted was to be near them.

Without second guessing herself she turned her phone over and pulled up there group text.

Nick: Hey what are you guys doing?

A few minutes passed before Jake and only Jake responded.

Jake: Just some paperwork Darlin’.

Nick: Can we find a place on base to meet?

Jake: Is everything okay?”

Nick stared at Jake's message, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Was everything okay? No. She felt like she was spiraling out of control, like a jet with compromised ailerons. But how could she explain that in a text?

Nick: I just need to see you both. Please.

She set the phone down and tried to focus on the stabilizer analysis again. Numbers and equations that normally made perfect sense to her now seemed like hieroglyphics. Her phone vibrated against the desk.

Jake: Maintenance hangar 4. 15 minutes. It's empty until 1400.

Nick felt a rush of relief so intense it made her dizzy. She quickly saved her work, smoothing down her navy-blue blouse as she stood.

"I need to check something in the test bay," she announced to no one in particular, grabbing her security badge and phone. "Back in thirty."

Once she stepped into the hallway, she nearly sprinted toward the hangar. Like Jake had said—the place was deserted.

The cavernous space of Hangar 4 swallowed her footsteps as she slipped inside. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching dust motes in golden beams that cut across the concrete floor. The massive doors were sealed, leaving the hangar in a strange limbo—not quite dark, not fully illuminated. A perfect metaphor for how she felt.

"Nick?"

Jake’s voice came from behind a partially disassembled F/A-18. He stepped into view, flight suit unzipped to his waist, white t-shirt underneath. His brown eyes swept over her, immediately registering her distress.

"Hey," she managed, her voice smaller than she intended.

"Is everything okay?"

Nick opened her mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sob.

Jake closed the distance in swift, unthinking steps, reaching her before she could fold in on herself completely. The scent of him wrapped around her—coffee whiskey and warm vanilla, rich and grounding, like late-night conversations and steady hands on cold mornings.

"I got you," he murmured against her hair, one hand cradling the back of her head. "What happened, darlin'?"

Nick clutched his flight suit, burying her face against the solid warmth of him. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she choked out. "I can't focus, I can't think straight. I keep thinking about last night, and—" She broke off, unable to articulate the storm inside her.

"Where's Bradley?" she whispered, hating how needy she sounded but unable to stop herself.

"I don't know. Haven’t seen him since our briefing this morning. Did he not respond to the group chat?" Jake’s thumbs brushed away her tears.

"No. Can you try him? I need both of you."

Jake nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket while keeping one arm firmly around her. "I'll call him."

The ringing echoed in the empty hangar, unanswered. After several rings, it went straight to voicemail.

Jake slipped the phone back into his pocket and guided her toward a small alcove where maintenance equipment was stored. He cleared space on a workbench and lifted her onto it, positioning himself between her knees, hands steady on her waist.

"He didn’t answer," Jake said as she sniffled. "Probably in a test flight." His thumbs made soothing circles on her hips. "He'll be here as soon as he can."

Nick nodded, trying to steady her breathing. The trembling wouldn't stop. She felt pathetic, falling apart like this—over what? A night of intimacy? What kind of aerospace engineer, what kind of Maverick’s daughter, unraveled because two men had shown her tenderness?

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "This is stupid. I shouldn’t have pulled you away from work."

Jake’s eyes narrowed. "Don't. Don't apologize for needing us." His voice was firm but gentle. "Talk to me, Nick. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

She inhaled shakily. "I woke up alone and I just… spiraled. Last night was…" She struggled as more tears spilled.

Jake sighed. "Do you know what sub-drop is?"

Nick nodded.

"I’ve read about it," she admitted, wiping at her eyes. "But I didn’t think… we weren’t even doing a scene. It wasn’t like that."

Jake’s expression softened as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "From what I read, it doesn’t have to be a formal scene, darlin'. Any intense emotional or physical experience can trigger it. And last night was pretty damn intense for all of us."

Nick leaned into his touch, craving the contact like oxygen. "I’ve never felt like this before. Like I’m coming apart at the seams."

"That’s because you’ve never let yourself be this vulnerable before," Jake said, his usual cocky grin momentarily replaced by something softer. "You let us see all of you last night, Nick. Not just the brilliant engineer or Maverick’s tough-as-nails daughter. The real you."

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. She lowered her head, a sob overtaking her.

Jake pulled her closer, pressing his forehead to hers. "Hey, hey… I’ve got you."

"It’s just—" Nick’s voice cracked. "I’m not supposed to be like this. I’ve always been independent, in control. And now I can’t even make it through a morning without falling apart because you two aren’t there."

Jake’s hands came up to cradle her face, his thumbs gently wiping away her tears. "You know what I think? I think you’ve been in control for so damn long, you’ve forgotten what it feels like to let go. To trust someone else to catch you."

Nick closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. "It’s terrifying."

"Scarier than flying supersonic?" His voice

held a hint of teasing.

A small laugh escaped her. "Way scarier."

The hangar door creaked open, and they both froze. Nick's heart pounded against her ribs as she instinctively tried to pull away from Jake, but he held her firmly, his body shielding her from view.

"It's just me," Bradley’s deep voice called out, and Nick sagged with relief.

He appeared around the corner of the alcove, his face lined with concern. Still in his flight suit, his hair was slightly mussed, as though he’d been running his hands through it.

"I got your messages as soon as I finished my flight," he said, his eyes sweeping over Nick’s tear-stained face. "What’s wrong?"

Jake kept one arm around Nick’s waist. "Our girl’s having a rough morning."

"Sub-drop," Nick murmured, her voice small. "At least, that’s what Jake thinks is happening."

Understanding dawned on Bradley’s face.

Without hesitation, he stepped closer, settling at Nick’s other side. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing away a fresh tear.

"I should’ve checked in earlier," he said, his voice rough with regret. "We shouldn’t have left you alone this morning."

Nick leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from the warmth of his palm. "It’s not your fault. You had to report. I just… I didn’t expect to feel like this."

"Like what?" Bradley asked gently.

"Empty. Shaky. Like I’m free-falling without a parachute." Her voice trembled as fresh tears welled up. "I can’t focus on work. I can’t stop thinking about last night."

Jake and Bradley exchanged a look over her head, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Come here," Bradley murmured, guiding her off the workbench and into his arms. His broad chest was solid against her cheek, anchoring her. Jake moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist just below Bradley’s. She was completely sandwiched between them.

"We’ve got you," Bradley whispered against her hair. "You’re safe with us."

Nick closed her eyes, surrendering to their hold. The emotions she’d been trying to keep at bay surged forward, spilling out in uncontrolled sobs.

Bradley’s steady heartbeat thumped against her ear, while Jake’s breath warmed the back of her neck. Neither of them rushed her or hushed her tears. They simply held her, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety in the cold, echoing hangar.

"That’s it," Jake murmured, his lips brushing her hair. "Let it all out, darlin’."

As her crying ebbed, Nick became aware of Bradley’s hand making slow circles on her back, matching her breaths. Jake’s fingers traced soothing patterns along her hip, grounding her further in their presence.

"I don't understand why this is happening," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I've had sex before. I've had relationships. Why is this happening.” She asked, still finding fault with there earlier explanation.

"It's not just sex," Bradley said softly, his voice resonating through his chest against her ear. "What happened between us last night was more than physical."

Jake’s arms tightened around her waist. "We connected on a whole different level, Nick. All three of us."

She sniffled, her breathing still uneven. "I've never… felt so much at once."

"That's why you're crashing now," Bradley said, his fingers threading gently through her hair. "Your body flooded itself with dopamine, oxytocin, adrenaline—and now those levels are dropping. Your system is trying to recalibrate."

Nick pulled back slightly, looking up at Bradley with red-rimmed eyes. "Is that the pilot talking, or did you actually research this?"

A faint smile touched his lips. "It was Jake actually. After you said you were into BDSM he did some research and passed it along to me.”

Nick blinked in surprise, turning slightly to glance at Jake over her shoulder. "You researched this? For me?"

Jake’s usual cocky smirk softened into something genuine. "Of course I did. The moment you mentioned it that first night, I wanted to know everything." His fingers traced a slow, reassuring path along her spine. "I wasn’t about to mess this up by being uninformed."

A fresh wave of emotion swelled inside her. These men—these impossibly strong, skilled pilots—had taken the time to understand what she needed before she even fully understood it herself.

"We both did," Bradley added, his deep voice rumbling against her. "Jake sent me articles about the lifestyle—sub-space, aftercare, sub-drop, all of it. We wanted to..."

"Be prepared," Nick finished for him.

He nodded. "For when you were ready."

Nick’s eyes welled up again. "That’s so sweet of you both."

"Shhh, it’s okay," Bradley murmured, pulling her closer.

Jake’s hands slid up from her waist to her shoulders, kneading gently at the tension there. "You need aftercare, darlin’. Even if we didn’t plan a formal scene, what happened between us was intense. We should’ve stayed with you longer this morning."

Nick swallowed hard, hating how right they both were, how much she needed this. "I've never let anyone see me like this before," she whispered.

"Like what?" Bradley asked, his fingers still threading through her hair.

"Weak. Needy." The words felt sharp against her throat.

Jake’s hands stilled on her shoulders. "Is that what you think this is? Weakness?"

She nodded against Bradley’s chest, unable to meet their eyes.

Bradley gently tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was steady, filled with concern—and something deeper.

"This isn’t weakness, Nick. This is trust." His voice was quiet but unwavering. "Do you know how much strength it takes to let someone see you like this?"

Jake moved to her side, his hand resting protectively on her lower back.

"Most people spend their lives building walls, never letting anyone in. But you trusted us enough to let us see you."

Bradley’s presence against her chest was grounding. "Trust requires more strength than independence ever will."

"He’s right, darlin’," Jake added, his breath warm against her ear. "You think we don’t need this too? That we just walked away this morning and went about our day like nothing happened?"

"You didn’t?" Nick blinked away fresh tears.

"Hell no," Jake said fiercely. "I was distracted all morning. Couldn’t focus worth a damn during the briefing."

Bradley nodded. "I nearly botched a routine landing because I couldn’t stop thinking about you—about us."

Nick searched their faces for any hint of dishonesty but found none. "Really?"

"Really," Bradley confirmed, gently brushing away a tear. "I kept checking my phone between flights, worried about you. When I saw your messages, I told the flight instructor I had a family emergency."

Jake’s lips quirked up. "Which isn’t far from the truth, if you think about it."

The word _family_ lingered between them, heavy with implication. Warmth unfurled in her chest, pushing back against the hollow feeling that had threatened to swallow her whole.

"Family," Nick echoed softly, testing the word on her tongue. It felt right, even though what they shared was so new—so undefined.

Bradley tightened his arms around her. "Well, maybe not family exactly. More like—"

"Boyfriends and girlfriend?" she asked, hopeful.

Jake and Bradley exchanged a look over her head, another silent conversation.

"Is that what you want, darlin’?" Jake asked, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it. Gone was the cocky fighter pilot who strutted across the flight deck like he owned it.

Nick took a shaky breath. "I… I don’t know what this is between us. But I know I don’t want it to end."

Bradley cupped her face, his calloused thumb stroking her cheek. "Neither do we."

"So, you're both my boyfriends?"

Jake chuckled softly. "I think we’re a bit beyond conventional labels, but yeah—if that’s what you want to call it."

Bradley’s eyes softened. "Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever you want to call us, we’re yours, Nick."

The declaration settled something deep inside her, a restless part of her soul finally finding anchor. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Bradley’s chest, reaching back to grip Jake’s flight suit.

"I’ve never done this before—a relationship with two people. I don’t know the rules."

Jake caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "We’ll figure them out together. Make our own rules."

"Right now, though," Bradley said, voice gentle but firm, "we need to take care of you properly."

Nick nodded, suddenly aware of how drained she felt. The emotional storm had passed, leaving her exhausted but lighter somehow, as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. "I'd love that, but we all have work to get back to."

Jake’s thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist. "Work can wait. You're more important."

"I can't just disappear," Nick protested weakly, though the thought of returning to her desk and facing those thrust calculations made her stomach clench. "I told them I’d be back in thirty minutes."

Bradley reached for her phone. "Text your team. Tell them you’re consulting on a mechanical issue with the F/A-18s. It’ll buy us the rest of the afternoon."

Nick hesitated, torn between duty and the undeniable need for comfort. "I shouldn’t—"

"Nick," Jake said, gentle but firm. "You wouldn’t fly a jet with compromised systems. Don’t try to function when you’re emotionally depleted."

She relented, typing out a quick message to her team lead. When she finished, Bradley took her phone and slipped it into his flight suit pocket.

"What did you have in mind?" Nick asked, her voice small but steadier than before.

Jake’s smile was warm, lacking its usual edge of cockiness. "First, we’re getting you out of here."

"And we’re going to make sure you eat something," Bradley added, his arm still protective around her shoulders. "When’s the last time you had a real meal?"

Nick realized with a start that she’d skipped breakfast, too wound up to eat. "I… had coffee?"

Jake shook his head, exchanging a concerned look with Bradley. "That settles it. Food, hydration, rest, and touch," Bradley said softly. "Physical contact helps with the drop."

"Won’t it look suspicious if all of us leave?" Nick asked.

"I already told them I had a family emergency," Bradley said. "That’ll cover me."

Jake’s hand slid to the small of her back, his touch firm but gentle. "I have to meet with your dad and Cyclone, but as soon as that’s done, I’ll be out of here."

"So how about I take you back to your place, get some food and rest into you, and Jake meets up with us later?" Bradley offered.

Nick leaned into Bradley’s solid warmth, considering his suggestion. The thought of being alone again made her chest tighten, but having Bradley with her sounded like exactly what she needed.

"Okay," she whispered, nodding against his chest. "That sounds good."

Jake stepped closer, tilting her chin up with his finger. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, darlin’. I promise." His green eyes were intense, searching her face. "Two hours, tops."

Nick nodded, feeling steadier than she had all morning. "I’ll be okay. Bradley will take care of me."

"Damn right I will," Bradley affirmed, his arm tightening around her shoulders.

Jake leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. The tenderness of it made her eyes sting with fresh tears. "No more crying," he murmured against her mouth. "I hate seeing you cry."

She sniffled and lowered her eyes. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t be sorry," Bradley murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "It’s not weakness to feel things deeply."

Jake reluctantly stepped back, his hand lingering on her arm. "I need to go before Cyclone sends out a search party, but I’ll be thinking about you both."

Nick watched as he straightened his flight suit, slipping back into his Hangman persona. But his eyes—soft when they met hers—betrayed the man beneath the callsign.

"Text me when you get to her place," Jake told Bradley.

Bradley nodded. "Will do."

Jake was about to turn away when Nick called his name. He paused as she detached herself from Bradley and rushed to wrap her arms around him.

"Thank you, Jake."

Jake closed his eyes as he held her, one hand cradling the back of her head. "Anytime, darlin’," he murmured against her hair. "That’s what boyfriends are for, right?"

The word sent a warm flutter through Nick’s chest. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, surprised to see vulnerability in his usually confident gaze. Rising onto her tiptoes, she kissed him again, pouring her gratitude into it.

When they separated, Jake’s eyes had darkened. He cleared his throat and glanced at Bradley. "Take care of our girl."

Bradley’s gaze softened, the weight of the moment settling over him. "You know I will."

With visible reluctance, Jake stepped away, his hand trailing down Nick’s arm until their fingertips parted. He gave her one last look before slipping out of the alcove, his footsteps echoing across the hangar floor.

Bradley sighed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Why don’t you grab your things? I’ll meet you at my car."

Nick nodded, drawing a deep breath. The emotional storm had passed, leaving her drained but somehow lighter. "Okay. Give me ten minutes."

Bradley’s hand cupped her cheek one last time. "I’ll be waiting. And Nick? It’s going to be alright."

She managed a wobbly smile before stepping back, straightening her blouse and running a hand through her disheveled hair. "I know. I know, and it’s all thanks to you and Jake."

Nick's apartment welcomed them with cool silence, the afternoon sun filtering through the partially drawn curtains. Bradley guided her inside with a steady hand at the small of her back, his presence solid and reassuring.

"Go change into something comfortable," he said, his voice low. "I'll make us something to eat."

Nick nodded, suddenly aware of how constricting her work clothes felt against her skin. She padded to her bedroom, the emotional exhaustion making her movements sluggish. After closing the door, she leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Once she was out of her work clothes, she rifled through one of her drawers for something clean and soft to wear. Her fingers landed on Bradley's TOP GUN sweatshirt, and a small smile tugged at her lips. She had worn it after the rainstorm ruined their picnic, and the next morning, she had refused to take it off.

Nick slipped the sweatshirt over her head, inhaling the faint scent of Bradley that still clung to the fabric—a mix of clean laundry and the smoldering spice of his cologne, rich with black pepper, tobacco, and vanilla. It was sharp yet warm, unmistakably him, settling around her like an echo of his presence. The oversized garment swallowed her frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She paired it with soft sleep shorts and headed back to the kitchen, her bare feet silent against the hardwood floors.

Bradley stood at the stove, having shed his flight suit jacket, leaving him in a white T-shirt and uniform pants. The sight of him moving so effortlessly in her space sent a wave of warmth through her chest.

He turned at the sound of her approach, his eyes softening as they swept over her appearance. "Nice sweatshirt," he said, a small smile playing at his lips. "Looks better on you than it ever did on me."

Nick tugged at the hem self-consciously. "It's comfortable. And it smells like you."

Bradley's expression warmed further as he turned back to the stove. "I'm making grilled cheese and tomato soup. Nothing fancy, but it's comfort food."

Nick slid onto one of her kitchen barstools, watching his sure movements as he flipped a sandwich in the pan. There was something unexpectedly intimate about watching him here—not in the cockpit of a fighter jet, not suited up for training—but standing at her stove, completely at ease in her home.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For being there for me today."

Bradley glanced over his shoulder, eyes steady. "You never have to thank me for that."

He slid the perfectly golden sandwich onto a plate and ladled steaming soup into a bowl beside it. After placing the meal in front of her, Bradley brushed a strand of hair from her face, his calloused fingers gentle against her skin.

"Eat," he encouraged, his voice soft but firm. "Your body needs fuel, especially after an emotional drop."

Nick picked up half the sandwich, suddenly aware of the hollow ache in her stomach. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the rich aroma of melted cheese and butter hit her senses. The first bite nearly made her moan.

Bradley moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency, making his own sandwich and texting Jake as promised. Once his food was ready, he settled onto the barstool beside her, their knees touching.

"Better?" he asked after she'd eaten half the sandwich and several spoonfuls of soup.

Nick nodded around a bite of her sandwich. “Not one hundred percent, but definitely better.”

Bradley went to dunk his own sandwich in t

he hot soup when his phone vibrated.

Bradley checked his phone, a smile playing at his lips. "Jake’s getting ready to head into his meeting. Just wanted to see how you're doing before it starts."

"Tell him I'm okay," Nick said softly, watching Bradley’s fingers tap out a response. "Tell him I miss him."

Bradley’s smile deepened as he typed. "Already did."

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the simple meal warming Nick from the inside out. With each bite, she felt more grounded, the shaky, hollow feeling gradually receding.

"I feel so stupid," she finally admitted, staring into her half-empty soup bowl. "Breaking down like that at work."

Bradley set down his spoon and turned to face her fully. "Nick, look at me."

She reluctantly raised her eyes to meet his.

"What happened today was a physical and emotional response to something intense and new. It wasn't weakness. It wasn't stupid." His voice was firm but gentle. "It was your body and mind processing everything that happened between us."

Nick swallowed a lump in her throat. "I just hate feeling like this. I used to get panic attacks a lot, and this felt very similar. I always felt ridiculous every time I got one."

Bradley’s expression softened, his brown eyes warming with understanding. "There’s nothing ridiculous about your body's natural responses. Panic attacks, sub-drop—they’re both physical reactions to emotional states."

He reached over, taking her hand in his. His thumb traced gentle circles against her palm, the callouses on his fingertips creating a delicious friction against her skin.

"You know what pilots learn in training?" he asked, his voice low. "That our bodies will react to stress whether we want them to or not. Fighting those responses only makes them worse."

Nick leaned into his touch. "So what do you do instead?"

"We acknowledge them. Accept them. Work with them instead of against them." Bradley’s fingers intertwined with hers. "The strongest pilots aren't the ones who never feel fear—they're the ones who feel it and fly anyway."

Something about his words resonated deep within her.

Bradley’s fingers tightened around hers. "When I get up in that cockpit, I feel afraid sometimes. So does Jake, though he’d probably rather crash than admit it."

Nick’s lips quirked up slightly. "Yeah, that sounds like him."

"The point is," Bradley continued, "we don’t overcome fear by pretending it doesn’t exist. We acknowledge it, respect it, and then make it work for us instead of against us." His thumb traced the delicate bones of her wrist. "Same goes for what you're feeling now."

Nick stared at their intertwined hands, processing his words. "So I should just... accept that I had an emotional crash?"

"Accept it. Understand it." Bradley’s voice was steady, reassuring. "And know that Jake and I are here to help you through it."

She nodded slowly, finishing the last of her soup. "That was perfect. Thank you."

He smiled. "What would you like to do now? I can run you a hot bath, set up the hot tub, or tuck you into bed with some TV."

Nick considered his suggestions, the warmth of the food in her belly making her realize just how physically and emotionally drained she truly was.

"A bath sounds amazing, but..." she hesitated, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"But?" Bradley prompted gently.

"Would you join me?" The vulnerability in her voice was unmistakable. "I don’t want to be alone right now."

Bradley’s gaze grew tender as he reached for her hand, squeezing gently instead of tucking her hair away. "Of course I will."

He stood, gathering their empty plates and placing them in the sink before leading her toward the bathroom. Nick let him guide her, watching as he moved with practiced efficiency, turning on the faucet and testing the temperature with his wrist.

"Do you have any bath salts or oils?" he asked, glancing around the ne

at bathroom.

Nick pointed to a cabinet beside the sink.

Bradley opened the cabinet, revealing a small collection of bath products. He selected a bottle of lavender bath oil, pouring a generous amount into the running water. The scent immediately filled the bathroom—herbal, calming, familiar.

"Lavender helps with stress," he said, catching her questioning look. "My mother used to swear by it."

Nick smiled softly at this glimpse into his life. "Your mom sounds smart."

"She was," Bradley said simply, a flicker of old grief passing across his features before he turned back to the filling tub.

The intimacy of the moment struck Nick—not the physical closeness they were about to share, but this quiet emotional openness. Bradley rarely spoke of his family, of the mother he'd lost too young and the father whose shadow still loomed large over both their lives.

Steam curled into the air as Bradley turned to her. "May I?"

Nick nodded, lifting her arms slightly as Bradley’s hands found the hem of his sweatshirt. He pulled it over her head with gentle efficiency, his gaze steady. There was nothing heated in his expression—just tenderness, quiet care, something that made her chest tighten.

Instead of tucking her hair behind her ear, Bradley smoothed his palm down her arm, reassuring in its warmth.

When his fingers brushed against the waistband of her sleep shorts, Nick caught her breath. Bradley paused, his eyes searching her face.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yes," she whispered, trusting him completely. "It's okay."

He slowly slid the shorts down her legs, his touch reverent. When she stood before him in just her underwear, Bradley pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"You're beautiful," he murmured against her skin.

Nick's eyes stung with unexpected tears. Not from embarrassment or vulnerability, but from the simple, honest care in his voice. Bradley seemed to notice, his thumbs gently wiping away the moisture before it could fall.

"No more tears today," he said softly, echoing Jake's earlier words.

Nick nodded, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. "Your turn."

Bradley allowed her to undress him, standing still as her fingers worked at removing his clothing. Unlike their passionate encounter the night before, this disrobing was unhurried, tender. When they both stood naked, Bradley tested the water once more before stepping into the tub and holding out his hand to help her in.

She took his hand and let him help her into the tub. Once her feet were firmly in the water they both sat down, letting the warmth envelope them.

"This is nice," Nick murmured, her head resting against his shoulder.

Bradley's hands moved in slow, soothing circles across her shoulders, his thumbs working at the knots of tension there. "You're carrying a lot of stress here," he observed, his touch gentle but firm.

Nick closed her eyes, surrendering to his ministrations. "Hazard of the job. Staring at screens, blueprints, and leaning over engines all day."

"Hmm," Bradley hummed against her hair, his breath warm against her ear. "And the emotional crash probably didn't help."

She sighed, sinking deeper into the water. "No, it didn't."

Bradley's hands continued their gentle exploration, working down her arms, then back up to her shoulders. His touch was therapeutic rather than sexual, focused entirely on her comfort and relaxation.

"You know," he said softly, "what happened between us last night wasn't just physical for me and Jake."

Nick's eyes remained closed, but she tilted her head slightly, listening.

"I've never experienced anything like that before," Bradley continued, his voice low and intimate in the steamy bathroom. "Not just the sex, though that was... incredible. But the connection. The three of us together."

Nick felt a flutter in her chest at his words. "Me neither," she admitted. "It was like... like flying, but better."

Bradley chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest against her back. "Better than any flight I've been on that's for sure.”

Nick laughed softly, the sound breaking the tension that had lingered around her all day. "That's saying something, coming from one of Top Gun's finest."

Bradley pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder, his lips lingering against her skin. "I mean it, Nick. What we have—what we're building together—it's special."

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Nick leaned back further into his embrace, letting the water lap gently around them. For several minutes, they simply existed together in comfortable silence, the only sounds the occasional drip from the faucet and their synchronized breathing.

"Bradley?" Nick finally whispered, her voice barely audible over the quiet splashing of the water.

"Hmm?" His fingers traced lazy patterns along her upper arms.

"I'm scared." The admission fell from her lips before she could reconsider it.

“About what beautiful?”

Nick swallowed hard, gathering her courage. "About this. Us. What happens when everyone finds out? What happens when my father discovers I'm dating not one, but two of his pilots?" She shifted slightly to look up at Bradley's face. "What if it interferes with your careers? With my job?"

Bradley's arms tightened around her, his expression thoughtful. "Those are valid concerns," he said, his voice low and steady. "But we'll figure it out together."

"My dad would lose his mind," Nick whispered. "He's always been so protective, and this... this would be beyond anything he could have imagined for me."

Bradley's thumb traced gentle circles on her shoulder. "Mav loves you. It might take time, but he'd come around."

"And what about the Navy? The fraternization rules—"

"Technically," Bradley interrupted gently, "you're not apart of the Navy. And Jake and I aren’t dating each other. We’re just dating you.”

Nick considered Bradley’s words, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. "So... just to make sure I understand—we're not two separate relationships happening at the same time. This is something different. Something that's ours."

Bradley met her gaze, his expression steady. "Exactly. It’s not about being separate. It’s about the three of us building something together."

The water lapped gently around them as Nick let his words settle. "And you two are okay with… sharing me?"

Bradley’s grip on her tightened slightly, reassuring. "It’s not about sharing, Nick. It’s about us being what each other needs. Jake and I—our connection is different. Not romantic, not sexual. But we trust each other, and we’re both committed to this."

Nick tilted her head, watching him carefully. "So you’re... becoming friends?"

Bradley huffed a quiet laugh. "I don’t know if I’d go that far."

Nick smirked. "You sure about that? Because from where I’m sitting, you seem like friends."

Bradley's lips curved against her temple in a slow smile. "Maybe you're right. Maybe this thing with you is changing everything."

Nick felt a flutter in her chest. "And what exactly is this?"

Bradley’s voice softened, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her damp skin. "It’s something that matters. Something worth protecting, worth caring for. Something worth fighting for."

The sincerity in Bradley’s voice made Nick’s throat tighten. She turned in his arms, water sloshing gently over the edge of the tub as she shifted to face him. His brown eyes were warm, open—revealing a vulnerability she rarely glimpsed beneath his composed exterior.

"I feel the same way about both of you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "And it terrifies me how quickly this happened. How intense it feels."

Bradley brushed his thumb across her cheek, his touch grounding. "Some things don’t follow a timeline, Nick. What we have... it may have happened fast, but that doesn’t make it any less real."

Nick leaned into his touch, the warm water enveloping them like a cocoon. It made voicing her deepest fears easier. "What if I’m not enough? For both of you?"

Bradley’s expression softened, his gaze never wavering. "That’s not possible. You’re more than enough."

"But what if—"

"Nick," Bradley interrupted gently, his hands framing her face. "The way you connect with each of us is unique. What you share with Jake isn’t the same as what you share with me, and that’s exactly how it should be. You don’t have to be everything to everyone."

She closed her eyes, letting his words settle. "And what if it all falls apart? What if we can’t make it work?"

"Then we’ll face that together too." Bradley’s voice was steady, grounding. "But I believe this—us—is worth the risk."

Nick searched his eyes, finding nothing but sincerity. Slowly, she nodded, allowing herself to believe in the possibility of them—this unconventional trio navigating uncharted waters together.

"The water’s getting cold," she murmured, suddenly aware of the dropping temperature.

Bradley pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Let’s get you dried off and into bed. You need rest."

The water was indeed cooling, breaking the spell of their intimate conversation. Bradley stood first, water streaming down his muscular frame as he reached for a towel. He wrapped it around his waist before grabbing another and holding it open for Nick.

"Come here," he said softly.

Nick rose from the bath, suddenly feeling shy despite their intimacy the night before. This vulnerability was different—emotional rather than physical. Bradley enveloped her in the towel, his movements gentle as he patted her skin dry.

"Let me take care of you," he murmured, running the soft fabric over her shoulders and down her arms.

Nick allowed herself to be tended to, Bradley's careful ministrations soothing something deep within her. When he'd dried her thoroughly, he reached for his discarded sweatshirt.

"Arms up," he instructed softly.

Bradley's hands were gentle as he guided the sweatshirt down over her body, the soft fabric falling to mid-thigh. The tenderness in his movements made Nick's heart constrict. This wasn't the rushed passion of last night, but something equally intimate—a quiet demonstration of care that spoke volumes.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low.

Nick nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. The emotional rollercoaster of the day, combined with the warmth of the bath, had drained what little energy she had left. Bradley seemed to notice, his arm coming around her waist to steady her.

"Let’s get you to bed," he said softly, guiding her toward the bedroom.

The cool sheets welcomed Nick as Bradley helped her settle in. She expected him to join her, but instead, he tucked the comforter around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Aren’t you going to lay in bed and watch TV with me?" she all but pouted.

Bradley’s expression softened at her tone. "Of course I am. I just need to grab my phone, see if Jake messaged us."

He disappeared briefly, returning with his phone in hand. After quickly checking the screen, his expression warmed. "Jake’s meeting is running longer than expected. He says to tell you he’ll be here as soon as he can escape Cyclone’s clutches."

Nick smiled sleepily, lifting the comforter in invitation. Bradley slid in beside her, now wearing only his boxers. The heat of his body immediately warmed the space as he reached for the remote on her nightstand.

"What do you want to watch?" he asked, his arm coming around her shoulders.

Nick nestled against his side, her head finding the perfect spot on his chest where she could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She watched as he scrolled the guide, speaking up when he landed on a show she liked. "I love The Big Bang Theory. Can we watch that?"

Bradley smiled, clicking on the episode. "Sure."

Nick snuggled closer as the familiar theme song played, the warmth of Bradley’s body and the soothing hum of the sitcom lulling her into a state of peaceful relaxation. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder through the sweatshirt, each touch grounding her further.

"Thank you," she murmured against his chest, her eyelids growing heavy.

"For what?" Bradley’s voice rumbled beneath her ear.

"For today. For understanding. For being exactly what I needed." Nick’s words were slightly slurred with approaching sleep.

Bradley pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You never have to thank me for that."

She fought to keep her eyes open, wanting to savor this moment of perfect contentment, but the emotional exhaustion of the day was catching up with her. The last thing she remembered before drifting off was the steady sound of Bradley’s heartbeat beneath her cheek and his voice softly humming along with the TV theme song. His fingers continued their gentle exploration, tracing idle patterns across her arm and back. The sensation was both comforting and intimate, lulling her deeper into relaxation.

"Sleep if you need to," Bradley murmured, his lips brushing against her hair. "I’ll be right here when you wake up."

Nick wanted to respond, to thank him again for his unwavering support, but exhaustion pulled her under. Her breathing deepened as she surrendered to sleep, secure in Bradley’s protective embrace.

She drifted through layers of consciousness, vaguely aware of Bradley adjusting the blankets around her, of his phone vibrating with incoming messages, of his voice—low and soothing—as he spoke to someone, presumably Jake. The familiar sounds anchored her as she floated into a peaceful slumber.

The soft click of the front door roused Bradley from his thoughts. He glanced up from the living room, where he’d been quietly unpacking the last of Nick’s boxes while she slept, to see Jake entering the apartment. Jake had changed into civilian clothes—dark jeans and a fitted white Henley—with his Wayfarers perched atop his head.

"How is she?" Jake asked immediately, his voice low as he set his keys on the counter.

Bradley nodded toward the bedroom. "Sleeping. She was wiped."

Jake’s usual cocky demeanor had softened, concern flickering in the lines around his eyes as he peered through the partially open bedroom door. "Has she been out the whole time?"

"Pretty much," Bradley confirmed, folding the empty cardboard box and setting it aside. "She crashed right after our bath."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Bath, huh?"

Bradley shot him a look. "Not that kind of bath, Hangman."

Jake smirked but shook his head. "Sorry—force of habit." He reached up, pulled his sunglasses from his head, and set them down next to his keys before running a hand through his hair. The casual gesture did little to mask his concern. "How bad was she when you got here?"

"Better than at the hangar," Bradley said, moving to the fridge and pulling out two beers. He offered one to Jake, who accepted with a nod. "The food and bath helped. She opened up about some of her fears."

Jake twisted off the bottle cap and took a long pull. "Fears about us? About this… thing between the three of us?"

Bradley leaned against the counter, nodding. "Mostly about her dad finding out. And how it could affect our careers."

"Valid concerns," Jake admitted, his tone unusually serious. "What did you tell her?"

"That we’d figure it out together." Bradley’s gaze met Jake’s over the rim of his beer bottle. "That this is worth it."

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Jake’s mouth—nothing cocky, just something real. "Good answer."

He took another swig of beer before setting the bottle down and heading for the bedroom doorway. "I’m gonna check on her."

Jake moved quietly into the room, his footsteps barely audible on the carpet. Nick lay curled on her side, her face peaceful in sleep, Bradley’s oversized TOP GUN sweatshirt swallowing her petite frame. Like this, she looked younger, vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be when awake.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. His hand hovered over her shoulder before brushing a strand of hair from her face with unexpected tenderness. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling back—but Nick stirred just as he moved to stand.

"Jake?" she murmured, voice thick with sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on his face.

"Hey, darlin'," he said softly, his usual swagger replaced by something gentler. "Didn’t mean to wake you."

She reached for his hand, fingers curling around his. "You’re here."

Jake’s smile warmed. "Course I am. Told you I’d come as soon as I could."

Nick shifted, making room for him on the bed. "How was your meeting with my dad?"

"Boring as hell," Jake admitted. "Cyclone wanted to go over new protocols for a possible mission. Even Mav looked like he wanted to bolt."

"Sounds awful," she slurred.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured. "We’ll wake you when it’s dinner time."

Nick stared at Jake through half-lidded eyes, her exhaustion winning out. "Mkay," she whispered, drifting off once more.

Jake watched her sleep, her features relaxing as unconsciousness reclaimed her. He stayed there for a long moment, simply observing—the way her lashes fanned across her cheeks, the steady rise and fall of her breath. Something unfamiliar tightened in his chest—an emotion he wasn’t quite ready to name.

When he finally returned to the kitchen, Bradley was leaning against the counter, nursing his beer with a thoughtful expression.

"Still out?" Bradley asked.

Jake nodded, retrieving his own beer. "Like a light. Woke up for a second, but crashed again." He took a long pull from the bottle. "Never seen her like this."

Bradley exhaled, rolling the bottle between his palms. "Sub-drop hits everyone differently, I guess. I never even heard of it until you sent me that article." He took a sip. "Today was the first time I actually saw it happen."

"Me too."

Jake settled onto one of the barstools, his usual swagger momentarily set aside. "You know, when I first met Nick, I thought she’d be just another conquest. A challenge." He shook his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. "I had no idea…"

"That she’d get under your skin?" Bradley finished, his expression knowing.

"Yeah." Jake ran a hand through his dark hair. "Or that I’d be sharing her with you, of all people."

Bradley raised an eyebrow. "Having second thoughts?"

"Hell no," Jake replied without hesitation. "What we have… it works. I don’t know how, but somehow it just does."

They fell into a comfortable silence, the hum of the refrigerator, TV, and Nick’s steady breathing the only sounds filling the apartment. Despite their initial rivalry, despite the unconventional nature of their situation, they had become close. Maybe even friends, though neither would say it outright.

Jake’s gaze drifted toward the bedroom door. "What do you think about ordering dinner? She’ll probably be hungry when she wakes up."

Bradley nodded, setting his beer down. "Good idea. Thai? She mentioned liking that place on Third Street."

"Perfect." Jake pulled out his phone and started scrolling through a delivery app. "Pad Thai for her, green curry for me, and…" he glanced up at Bradley. "What about you?"

"Red curry, extra spicy," Bradley supplied.

Jake’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. "Should’ve guessed. Always gotta one-up me, don’t you, Rooster?"

There was no bite to the words, just the familiar rhythm of their banter. Bradley shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Not everything’s a competition, Hangman."

"Says the guy ordering his food as a test of endurance," Jake muttered, his eyes still on his phone as he placed the order. "Food will be here in forty-five minutes."

Bradley finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the counter. "Should we wake her when it gets here?"

Jake glanced toward the bedroom, his expression softening. "Let’s see how deeply she’s sleeping. If she’s still out, we can always reheat it for her later."

He stood, stretching his tall frame. Bradley’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, noting the effortless strength in his movements. For a moment, neither spoke, something unspoken settling in the space between them. They were different in nearly every way—Jake with his cocky confidence and impulsiveness, Bradley with his steady pragmatism and careful thought. Yet somehow, they had landed in the same place.

"I never thought I’d say this," Jake admitted, his voice quieter, "but I’m glad you’re here, Rooster. For her. She needs both of us."

Bradley nodded, a flicker of surprise passing over his features at Jake’s sincerity. "She does. In different ways, but yeah… she needs us both."

Jake exhaled slowly. "When I saw her crying in that hangar today… I’ve never felt so damn helpless."

"I know," Bradley said quietly. "That’s why we need to be better prepared next time. Make sure she never crashes that hard again."

Jake met Bradley’s gaze, something unspoken settling into place between them. "Agreed. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it."

Bradley extended his hand, the gesture simple but weighted. "Partners?"

Jake grasped it firmly, his green eyes steady. "Partners."

The word lingered between them, carrying more weight than either had expected. Not just partners in caring for Nick—but in figuring out what this meant for all of them.

The moment was interrupted by a soft sound from the bedroom. Both men turned as Nick appeared, Bradley's oversized sweatshirt hanging to mid-thigh, her dark hair tousled from sleep. She blinked in the kitchen light, looking between them with groggy curiosity.

"Hey," she murmured, her voice still husky. "What are you two plotting?"

Jake's trademark smirk returned as he released Bradley's hand. "Just ordering dinner, darlin’. Thai food from that place you like."

Nick padded barefoot into the kitchen, drawn by the casual domesticity of the scene—her two pilots, relaxed and chatting as if they'd been doing this forever.

Jake sat back down and patted his lap. "Come here, sleeping beauty."

A sleepy smile curved her lips as she crossed to him, letting Jake pull her onto his lap. She settled against his chest, legs draped across his thighs, and sighed as his arms wrapped securely around her waist.

"How are you feeling?" Bradley asked, standing beside them, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.

Nick leaned into his touch while remaining nestled in Jake’s embrace. "Better." She looked between them, her expression soft with gratitude. "I really mean it—thank you both."

Jake pressed a kiss to her temple. "No thanks needed, darlin’. That’s why we’re here."

Nick traced a lazy pattern on Jake’s sleeve, voice tinged with curiosity. "Did you two have a heart-to-heart while I was sleeping?"

Jake chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest against her. "Something like that."

"We've come to an understanding," Bradley added, his hand still resting on her shoulder.

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Not at all," Jake assured her, arms tightening slightly around her waist. "Just making sure we're on the same page about taking care of you."

"I don’t need to be taken care of," Nick muttered, though there was no bite to her words.

Bradley brushed a strand of hair from her face, his expression soft. "Everyone does sometimes. Even the strongest people."

"Especially the strongest people," Jake added, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Because they’re usually the last ones to admit it."

Nick looked between them, these two men who had somehow become her anchors. The day’s emotional turbulence had stripped away her usual walls, leaving her too raw for pretense.

"I’m not used to this," she admitted quietly. "Letting people see me when I’m not… together."

Jake’s thumb traced small circles against her hip. "Well, get used to it, darlin’. Because we’re not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

Bradley knelt before her, taking her hands in his. "Promise," he echoed, his voice steady. His dark eyes held hers, something in them making her breath catch. "You don’t have to be strong all the time, Nick. Not with us."

Jake tightened his hold around her waist, his chest solid against her back. "What he said," he murmured against her hair. "We’ve got you."

Nick felt a prickle of tears—not the overwhelming storm from earlier, but something gentler, warmer. She blinked them away, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"I guess you’re stuck with me then," she said softly.

"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Jake replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The warmth in their voices settled around her like a security blanket, replacing the hollow ache that had consumed her earlier.

"So," she said, clearing her throat, "you ordered Thai?"

"From that place on Third you like," Jake confirmed, fingers tracing idle patterns against her hip. "Should be here in about half an hour."

"Perfect," Nick murmured, leaning back against Jake while keeping her hands linked with Bradley's. "I'm starving."

Bradley smiled, giving her hands a gentle squeeze before rising to his feet. "Good. You need to eat."

"Yes, sir," she teased, some of her usual spark returning.

Jake chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest against her back. "There she is. Our girl’s coming back to us."

"All thanks to you two."

Jake kept his arm around Nick's waist, his fingers playing idly with the hem of the oversized sweatshirt she wore. "You know, that's becoming my favorite look on you," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "Bradley's clothes, bed-head, and that sleepy smile."

Nick felt a blush creep up her neck. "I must look a mess."

"You look perfect," Bradley countered, leaning against the counter as he watched them, his gaze warm and appreciative.

Jake nodded, his hand sliding to her thigh, just below the sweatshirt’s hem. The touch was possessive but gentle, his thumb tracing small circles against her skin. "Exactly what I was thinking."

Nick smirked, tilting her head slightly. "I bet I’d look just as good in something you own."

Jake’s eyes flickered with interest, the corner of his mouth tugging into a familiar smirk. "Darlin', you’d look incredible in anything of mine." His fingers traced higher on her thigh, just beneath the sweatshirt's hem. "Though I gotta admit, seeing you in nothing but my dog tags would be something else."

Nick's breath caught at the image, heat blooming low in her belly despite her lingering exhaustion. Bradley watched them, his expression warming as he observed their interaction.

"I think that could be arranged," Nick replied, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. The emotional rawness from earlier was receding, replaced by the comfort of their easy banter.

Bradley moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. He uncapped it and handed it to Nick. "Which we can save for another night. Tonight should be all of us, especially you relaxing."

Nick accepted the water gratefully, taking a long sip. The cool liquid soothed her throat, reminding her how dehydrated the emotional day had left her.

"You're right," she admitted, leaning back against Jake's solid chest. "I don't think I have the energy for anything more strenuous than eating Thai food and watching a movie."

Jake's arms tightened around her, his chin resting on her shoulder. "Whatever you need, darlin'. We're just happy to be here with you."

The sincerity in his voice, so different from his usual cockiness, made something warm unwind in Nick's chest. She glanced at Bradley, finding the same genuine care reflected in his steady gaze.

"How about we move this to the couch?" Bradley suggested, nodding toward the living room. "More comfortable than kitchen stools."

Jake stood with Nick still in his arms, lifting her effortlessly as she let out a surprised squeak. "Show-off," she mumbled against his neck, though she made no move to protest as he carried her to the living room.

"You love it," Jake replied, his voice warm with affection as he settled onto the couch with Nick in his lap.

Bradley followed, carrying Nick's water and his own. He sat beside them, close enough that his thigh pressed against Jake's, Nick's bare feet naturally coming to rest in his lap. Without thinking, his fingers began to massage her arches, drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

"That feels amazing," she murmured, her body gradually relaxing further between the two men.

Jake's arms remained securely around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as Bradley continued the gentle foot massage. The three of them fit together with surprising ease.

“I never realized til now what tiny feet you have.”

Nick wiggled her toes under Bradley's touch, a small smile playing at her lips. "Are you saying I have dainty feet, Rooster?"

Bradley's fingers worked magic on her arches, his touch firm yet gentle. "I'm saying they're perfectly proportioned to the rest of you."

Jake nuzzled against her neck, his breath warm against her skin. "Everything about you is perfect, darlin'."

Nick rolled her eyes, but couldn't suppress the warmth spreading through her chest at their words. "You two are incorrigible."

"Big word for someone who just woke up," Jake teased, his lips brushing against her pulse point.

The doorbell rang, interrupting their moment of domestic tranquility. Bradley gave her foot one final squeeze before standing. "That'll be dinner."

Nick made to move from Jake's lap, but his arms tightened around her waist, keeping her firmly in place.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jake murmured against her ear, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

"To get plates?" she offered, though she made no real effort to escape his embrace.

"Bradley's got it," Jake said, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive spot just below her ear. "Your job right now is to stay right here and keep letting us take care of you."

Nick relaxed back against Jake, watching as Bradley paid for their food and brought the fragrant bags to the coffee table. There was something mesmerizing about seeing these two skilled pilots—men trained for precision and control—engaged in something as simple as unpacking dinner.

Bradley opened the containers, releasing the spicy-sweet aroma of Thai food into the room.

He went to hand Nick her meal, but Jake took it instead, flicking open the container and grabbing a fork.

"What are you—"

"Open," Jake interrupted, his tone casual but firm.

Nick blinked at his sudden command, but the tenderness in his expression made her comply. She opened her mouth, and Jake carefully fed her a bite of pad Thai. The flavors exploded on her tongue—sweet, salty, tangy, with just enough warmth to settle deep in her chest.

"Good?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Nick nodded, swallowing before speaking. "Perfect." A blush crept up her cheeks as she glanced between Jake and Bradley. "But I can feed myself, you know."

Bradley settled beside them, opening his own container of red curry. "We know," he said simply. "But tonight is about taking care of you."

Jake offered her another bite, which she accepted with less hesitation. There was something unexpectedly comforting about being fed this way, cradled in Jake’s lap while Bradley sat close enough that his presence grounded her.

"But what about your food? Won't it get cold?"

Jake chuckled, taking a bite of his own curry before offering Nick another forkful of pad Thai. "I can multitask, darlin'."

Bradley watched them with a soft expression, his usual intensity mellowed in the relaxed atmosphere. "We both can."

Nick accepted the next bite, gradually surrendering to their care. The Thai food was exactly what she needed—warm, flavorful, soothing. The three of them ate in companionable silence, the only sounds their quiet appreciation of the meal and the occasional clink of utensils against containers.

"This is nice," Nick finally murmured, leaning back against Jake’s chest. "Weird, but nice."

"Weird how?" Bradley asked, raising an eyebrow.

Nick gestured vaguely with her hand. "Being fed like I’m a toddler."

Jake chuckled, the vibration rumbling through his chest against her back. "Not like a toddler, darlin'. Like someone precious."

"Someone who deserves to be taken care of," Bradley added, his gaze warm as it met hers.

Nick felt her cheeks flush at their words. She’d always prided herself on her independence, on never needing anyone. But here, nestled between these two men, she found herself surrendering to their care with surprising ease.

"I’m not used to this," she admitted softly, accepting another bite from Jake. "Being the one who needs taking care of."

"Get used to it," Jake murmured against her hair. "Because we’re not stopping anytime soon."

Bradley reached over, his hand finding hers. "Not ever, if we have anything to say about it."

The simple declaration settled something in Nick’s chest, and again she wanted to tell them she loved them. But just like last night, she kept it to herself.

Nick’s heart skipped a beat at Bradley’s words. The intensity in his eyes matched the quiet certainty in his voice. She glanced back at Jake, finding the same conviction in his expression, though tempered with his characteristic playfulness.

"So this is really happening," she said softly, more statement than question. "The three of us."

Jake’s arm tightened around her waist. "Oh, it’s happening, darlin'. Has been since that first night."

Bradley nodded, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. "I think we all knew it then, even if we couldn’t name it yet."

Nick took another bite of pad Thai, using the moment to collect her thoughts. The emotional rollercoaster of the day had left her raw, exposed in ways she rarely allowed herself to be. Yet here, nestled between these two men, she felt strangely protected.

“Do you want anymore?” Jake asked.

Nick shook her head, setting the half-empty container on the coffee table. "No, I'm full. Thank you."

Jake pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering against her skin. "Good girl."

The simple praise sent a warm flutter through her chest, different from the heated desire his words usually evoked. This was comfort, security—a feeling of being treasured.

Bradley finished his curry and set the container aside, his hand returning to rest on her ankle. His thumb traced idle patterns against her skin as he watched her with those steady brown eyes.

"What do you want to do now?" Jake asked, his voice low and gentle. "We could watch TV, or just talk, or if you're still tired..."

Nick considered the options, acutely aware of the warmth of Jake’s chest against her back and Bradley’s steady hand resting near her ankle. The emotional exhaustion had faded, replaced by a comfortable relaxation.

"We could watch the Dodgers game in bed," she suggested, settling deeper into Jake’s lap. The storm had passed, leaving behind a peaceful calm that felt both foreign and familiar.

"You heard the lady," Jake said to Bradley, his voice warm with affection. "Dodgers in bed it is."

Bradley gathered their empty containers, clearing the coffee table with efficient movements. "I’ll clean up dinner while you two get settled."

Jake tightened his arms around her waist. "Ready for bed, darlin’?" he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Nick nodded, allowing him to lift her effortlessly.

Jake carried Nick to the bedroom, her arms looped around his neck. The intimacy of the gesture wasn’t lost on her—this cocky pilot, known for his swagger and bravado, cradling her with such quiet tenderness.

"You don’t have to carry me everywhere, you know," she murmured, though she made no move to pull away.

Jake’s lips curved into that familiar half-smile as he set her down gently on the bed. "Maybe I just like having you in my arms, Mitchell."

There was something in his voice—a vulnerability beneath the teasing tone—that made Nick’s heart flutter. She watched as he moved around her room with unexpected familiarity, finding the remote and fluffing pillows against the headboard with one hand while the other rested lightly at her side.

Jake adjusted the pillows behind her, movements careful and deliberate. "Comfortable?"

Nick nodded, pulling Bradley’s sweatshirt down over her thighs as she leaned back against the headboard. "Perfect."

Jake's eyes darkened as they swept over her, taking in the sight of her bare legs and tousled hair. "You have no idea what you do to me, looking like that."

Before Nick could respond, Bradley appeared in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. He was dressed casually in a t-shirt and boxers, his gaze sweeping over them. "Everything okay in here?"

"Better than okay," Jake replied, his eyes still on Nick. He straightened, moving to the other side of the bed. "Our girl's all settled in."

"I just need my boys to cuddle me."

Bradley's expression softened at her words. In three easy strides, he crossed the room and settled onto the bed beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Jake was already kicking off his shoes and shucking his jeans, leaving him in a fitted henley and boxer briefs.

"Your boys, huh?" Jake repeated, a pleased grin spreading across his face as he slid under the covers on her other side. "I like the sound of that."

Nick found herself enveloped between them—Bradley's steady warmth on her left, Jake's lean strength on her right. She sighed as Bradley reached for the remote, finding the Dodgers game already in the bottom of the first inning.

"Who's winning?" Jake asked, his arm sliding around her waist, pulling her closer.

"Dodgers up by two," Bradley replied, his hand closing gently over Nick’s, holding it against his chest.

Nick nestled between them, the familiar hum of the baseball game creating a comforting backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment. Bradley's thumb traced lazy circles on the back of her hand while Jake’s fingers idly played with the hem of her sweatshirt. The ease of it struck her—how quickly they'd fallen into this pattern of casual touch and shared space.

"This is nice," she murmured, her head finding the perfect spot against Jake’s shoulder.

"Mmm," Jake agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Though I never pegged you for a baseball fan, Mitchell."

Nick smiled, watching as the Dodgers' pitcher struck out another batter. "My dad and I used to watch games together when I was growing up. It was our thing, especially after my parents divorced."

Bradley's grip on her hand tightened slightly. "Maverick doesn’t strike me as a baseball fan."

"Oh, trust me, he is. Whenever the Dodgers needed some extra luck, he'd bring out his lucky bat."

"His lucky bat?" Jake laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest against her. "Captain Mitchell had a lucky bat? Now that’s something I never expected."

Nick smiled at the memory, sinking deeper into the comfort of their embrace. "It was an old wooden thing from when he played in high school. He’d wave it around during crucial plays, convinced it channeled good energy to the team."

Bradley’s thumb kept tracing soft patterns against her knuckles. "Did it work?"

"Sometimes," Nick said with a quiet laugh. "But I think it was more about us believing it worked. Those were some of my favorite memories with him—just the two of us, eating hot dogs and waving that ridiculous bat around."

Jake’s arm tightened slightly around her waist. "You two really are close, huh?"

"We are. Not that my mom and I aren’t, but I was always a daddy’s girl," Nick admitted, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Even when he was deployed, he’d send me postcards from every port. Sometimes just a line or two, but I kept every single one."

Bradley’s expression softened as he listened. "That explains a lot about you."

Nick turned slightly to face him. "What do you mean?"

"Your determination. Your loyalty." Bradley’s voice was gentle. "The way you never back down from a challenge."

Jake’s fingers traced idle patterns near her hip. "And your stubbornness," he added with a

smirk. "Definitely got that from Maverick."

Nick jabbed Jake playfully with her elbow. "Watch it, Hangman."

"He's not wrong," Bradley added with a smirk.

Nick scoffed. "He's going to kill you both when he finds out about this, you know."

Jake chuckled, though a flicker of genuine concern passed beneath his bravado. "Worth it."

"Absolutely worth it," Bradley agreed, his voice steady.

Nick lifted her chin. "Well, if he or anyone tries anything, I'll protect you both."

Jake laughed, eyes crinkling with amusement. "You'll protect us? From Maverick? That's adorable, darlin'."

Nick narrowed her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. "I'll have you know, I can be very intimidating when I want to be."

Bradley’s arm curved around her shoulders, pulling her in. "Of course you are, baby."

Nick huffed, a petulant frown crossing her face. "Okay, so maybe I couldn't physically intimidate him. But I have other weapons in my arsenal."

Jake arched a brow, clearly intrigued. "Do tell, darlin'."

"Emotional manipulation," Nick said, her grin mischievous. "I've been wrapping my father around my little finger since I was born. One tearful 'Daddy, please,' and he melts like ice cream in July."

Bradley chuckled. "I can actually see that working. The man who never backs down from anything, completely defenseless against his daughter's tears."

"It's my superpower," Nick confirmed, nestling deeper between them. On the television, the Dodgers scored another run, but none of them were paying much attention anymore.

Jake stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry," he murmured. "That meeting with Cyclone and your dad drained me."

Nick studied his face, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes. "You're tired. Both of you probably are after dealing with me all day."

Bradley’s fingers threaded through her hair, his touch soothing. "We're fine. Tonight is about you."

"No," Nick said firmly, surprising both men with the sudden authority in her voice. "Tonight is about us. All of us." She shifted, pulling the blankets higher around them. "You’ve both been taking care of me all day. Let me take care of you now."

Jake shook his head. "I'm fine, darlin'."

"No, you’re not," Nick countered. "You should get some rest."

Jake looked ready to protest, but Nick pressed a finger to his lips. "No arguments. You’ve been up since dawn, had a full day of flying, sat through hours of meetings with my father and Cyclone, then rushed over here to take care of me. You’re exhausted."

The gentle authority in her voice seemed to catch Jake off guard. He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured, a tired smile playing at his lips.

Nick reached for the remote, lowering the volume on the game. She adjusted, making herself the center point between them, and guided Jake’s head to her shoulder.

"Rest," she murmured, her fingers threading through his dark hair. "I’ve got you now."

Jake’s resistance crumbled under her touch. With a soft sigh, he nestled against her, his arm still draped protectively across her waist. Bradley watched them with warm eyes, his own exhaustion becoming more evident as he allowed himself to relax.

"You too," Nick told him, extending her other arm in invitation.

Bradley hesitated only briefly before settling against her other side, his head finding the perfect spot on her shoulder. The weight of both men against her was comforting rather than overwhelming, their solid warmth anchoring her in a way she’d never experienced before.

Nick pressed a gentle kiss to each of their foreheads, a tender gesture that felt both new and strangely familiar. "Sleep," she whispered, fingers tracing soothing patterns through their hair. "Let me take care of my boys for a change."

Jake mumbled something against her neck, already drifting off. Bradley lasted a bit longer, his hand still holding hers, but soon his breathing deepened as well. Nick found herself the only one awake, cradled between these two men who had shown her such unwavering tenderness throughout the day.

The baseball game continued on the television, the distant cheers and the announcer’s low commentary creating a soft backdrop. But instead of watching the game, she found herself watching them.

Taglist:

@meg626

@lunatygerqueen

@og-baby-ob14

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[writtenbyshama]

Memory Theatre (Sylus x Reader)

Synopsis: Y/n is a protocore researcher who is looking for answers about how an aether core got lodged into her heart and why is it messing with her brain. In the midst of this elaborate maze of dead ends and false answers, she encounters a man who seems to be very interested in her and is willing to find ways of providing her with the answers she's seeking.

Author's note: Y/n is not a hunter; she is a Master's student (not based on myself at all) and a part time protocore researcher at the Association. No changes to Sylus, although there may be situations in the story where he might be a little out of character. Mentions of the other LADS men, but they are not the love interests here.

Chapter 3: It Is But A Scratch

When the phone call ended, I switched on all of the overhead lights of the villa. 

After eating one entire peeled carrot from the fridge, I rolled up my sleeves and set about deep cleaning the entire place. My shoulder throbbed but I disregarded the pain and cleaned over and under every object and chased away the dust. When everything in the villa was spotless and I was the one covered in dirt, I washed my hands and threw a batch of frozen meal into the slow cooker and headed to the bathroom for a nice, boiling shower. 

Mashi perched on the dining table beside my plate after I got dressed and sat down to eat with my laptop open to the Association’s preliminary database search engine. 

There was nothing about Onichynus that I could access with my credentials as a mere part-time researcher. I texted Jenna, saying that I was gonna attend the auction and needed access into the classified database. She sent me her own credentials and I was scrolling through the bowels of classified information minutes later. 

The search was disappointing, to say the least. Most of the records were about the crimes attributed to Onichynus and its mysterious leader. The profile was threadbare: the leader was a male, age unknown, name unknown. The rest was speculated from rumours: he was ruthless and merciless against his enemies, he was a highly successful and intelligent individual with a godlike evol.

I chewed my food thoughtfully, reading through the files again. Was Onichynus that good at keeping itself wrapped underneath the shadows or was the Association incapable? I spooned the last of the rice into my mouth, logging out and shutting down the laptop. Guess I’d find out the answer next week. 

I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen before securing the doors and windows and switching off the lights. Mashi settled in his nest as I undressed and crawled underneath the blankets. 

Sleep was a long way to come, partly because of me sleeping through the entire day and partly because I kept thinking about the auction and what I’d find there. 

Very little was known about the aether core and its origins. It wasn’t that easy to obtain, hence I was curious about where the fragment in my heart had come from.  Grandma had told me that the core had lodged itself into my heart during the Chronorift catastrophe. I didn’t remember much about it, but I knew enough to understand that she’d been lying, but she’d died before I could confront her about it. 

The aether core amplified my physical power and led to memory lapses. It was powerful enough to bring me back from the most devastating injuries to my body. However, I always remembered one memory from my past, a small shard of light in the crowded shadows of questions. I had been a kid, lying down on a white bed in a lab of some sort, and grandma was one of the people who watched me from the other side of the observation window. She had been present, her face a stony mask when a machine electrocuted me (I screamed and screamed my throat raw) until my heart stopped beating. 

And the aether core had made it beat again.

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

Follow me at _writtenbyshama on Instagram for more. Happy reading!

Part 1: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[tatiejosie]

Oh gosh I love the Character ask game!!! I had to really limit my questions because I didn't want to just spam you with questions lol.

So how about:

- 2, 3, and 12 for Donald

- 1, 9, and 24 for Cecil

- 6 and 15 for Eve

You DO NOT have to answer every question!!! You can pick and choose which ones you want to answer, I know I'm asking a lot!! I just really want to pick your brain about these characters because every single piece of art you do of them I'm nodding my head and going "yes. Perfect. This is Exactly how I see this character" lol.

GET SWARMED WITH TEXT, WOOSH ⚡✨

✨DONALD

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

He has William registered in his phone contacts with a little picture of him. I think it’s cute

There’s so many things about him that I love, it’s not fair!!! He’s kind and dependable and devoted. He’s strong and skilled and still gentle nonetheless. He genuinely cares for others and does his best to try and help when he can - whether it’s for Cecil, or for some civilian kids he doesn’t know.

[spoiler of S03E06 below]

He’s not a mindless lapdog, he’s on the side of morality. Helping Invincible behind Cecil’s back and giving out classified data from the GDA would really put him in the sauce, but at this moment, he’s not a secret agent helping a blacklisted superhero. He’s facing Mark, a 19 years old who’s had the weight of the world on his shoulders, who constantly gets grown adults coming for his arse. He’s helping a kid, he’s giving him all the info they have because he just doesn’t have any moral reason to hold on to it, when Mark is left to fight by himself. Yeah, Cecil would chew him out for that, going out of his way to help a hero that he perceives as a potential threat - but still, he’s just a kid. I think Donald sees that.

[end of spoiler]

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character? It’s the devotion to the United States military that’s kinda icky. He should get that boot out of his throat for a minute and radicalise himself.

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character? WHICH!!!! PICK ONE FROM THE LIST!!!!

Donald doesn’t have much of an appetite. Being a cyborg affects his perception of food, and while he can digest nutrients and process food normally, he only eats a bit - once in a while - to give his organic brain the nutrients they need.

However, he enjoys cooking. It’s methodical and peaceful - it’s a prime activity to do while dissociating, it’s relaxing, and it’s also fundamentally human. Having a private chef or sustaining on the GDA cafeteria food feels oddly alienating. Making his own food, for himself, for others, the process of turning raw ingredients into a meal to be enjoyed beyond the simple need to refuel, is grounding to him. He meal-preps a fuckton of shit and proceeds to not eat any of it because he’s nOt HuNgRy.

He’s on the autism spectrum. His glass lenses are opaque because it allows him to hide the bad visual contact and maintain a proper body language at the workplace. He’s not a very expressive person, but he has a plethora of niche special interests; transhumanism and nanotechnology, Balinese and Shinto mythologies, obscure sci-fi french comics from the 70s (Métal Hurlant…), the radium craze of the 1910s and collecting artefacts from that time, collecting tarot decks. He’s normally not a chatty person, but he’ll turn into an unskippable cutscene and yap your ear out if you mention one of these subjects. Cecil knows by experience.

✨ CECIL

1. Why do you like or dislike this character? Hot old man with bad temper. Cunty af. Morally grey. What more do I need to say?

9. Could you be roommates with this character? No because I would make him pregnant

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them?

TABITHA SCARLET FROM SCARLET HOLLOW!!!

Disgruntled blonde who’s emotionally constipated and hard to approach, leads a trainwreck of a company with an iron hand and not because they like it but because “there’s no other choice”, is okay with being hated by employees/surrounding because of their job and temper, lots of repressed angst that they don’t address because it’s a can of worms and at this point, nothing can be done for them.

✨ EVE

6. What's something you have in common with this character? Really not much. I guess wanting to help and make a difference in the world? Genuinely wanting to have a purpose as someone who helps?

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.) I don’t really ship Eve with anyone ngl. I couldn’t care less about Mark/Eve, and Don&Eve is platonic. I really think that this girl should learn to be happy by herself, to discover the joy of being celibate and feeling complete.

[isavulpix]

Eyes Don't Lie (Part 1)

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

Eyes Dont Lie Materlist

Part 2 | Part 3 |

Warnings: English isn't my first language so there will be mistakes, I haven't read a DC comic so the characters may be a bit OOC.

I hope yall like and enjoy it <3

isavulpix masterlist

It was one of those days in Gotham elementary school, the season flu was active, and some parents didn’t care about it. Sending their sick kids to school, it reminded you of your own school years. You weren’t the kind to get sick often, but when you did it was bad. Though, school and grades where way too important than a virus in your body.

So, you had double work, beside teaching and taking care of the kiddos, you had to make sure that the kids didn’t get to close to the sick kids. You can manage anything, from kids fighting about a toy to parents demanding their kids to have A’s. But you certainly didn’t want a full class of sick kids, the universe can’t be that cruel...

Jason’s was working on one of his bikes, his been doing this from very early in the morning. The same nightmares coming to hunt him, he learned that it was better to not fight it and just accept that he won’t be able to get drop of rest.

He cleans the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand when his stomach remembers him that he hasn’t touch food since the day before. He takes the cue and gets ready for the day, taking a hot shower and heating up an instant food that will surely taste like shit. While the food does circle in a box with small amount of radiation, he looks at his phone for the first time in the day. He first looks at the hour it was 2:37 pm, he must have lost the scene of time while in the garage. Then he looks at the notifications, emails about subscriptions he always forgets to cancel, a news of Mr. Freeze again being beat up by Batman and Robin, and some messages from his family that he decided to ignore for now. They didn’t look urgent, what he does read is the only text he has from Roy.

>> Hey dude, I’m in a last-minute mission so I need you to pick up Lian from school. She comes out at 3 pm, don’t be late…she hates it and will make you pay.

Jason smirks at the text, Lian is the only little kid he can tolerate to be more than 10 minutes around. Maybe he will take her out for ice cream to win points for the best uncle title, he was sure he will win against Dick. Jason looks at the time again and his eyes widen, its already 3:00 pm he needs to move fast. He stops the microwave and prints to the garage; he was putting on his helmet when he remembers he can drive with Lian as a passenger and decides to drive to the Manor to switch from the bike to one of the SUV.

In the car he looks again at the time and curses, its 3:30 pm, he was more than late. Lian will not let this go for the end of times, and her old ass teacher most likely will scold his ear off about it. God how he hates teachers, really any form of authority…

You sigh as you look at the time for the million time, it was 3:46 pm and Lian dad hasn’t picked her up which was rare of him. Roy harper was one of the first to pick up his little girl, you where sure that if you let him, he would stay all day here with her. You often heard bad things about him, most things you only would classify as rumors from moms that where peak in high school and crashed in reality after it. God, how you hate parents like that, it was better to drink raw eggs than to deal with them.

Taking a glance at Lian to rest your eyes from the work you were doing in the laptop you see her drawing in a piece of paper you gave her earlier, so she won’t “Die from boredom”. “That a pretty drawing your making, who are the people?” You could pin pont that the red head stick was her father, but the rest was hard to say.

“This is Uncle Dick” Lian points at the black hair guy that was in a cable…in the air? “And this is Jay” She points at the bigger guy with white in his hair and a scowl on his face. Her grandpa? Wait no, if it was, she would have said it. Oh right, you heard some moms talking about a guy called Jason, maybe they are the same person? If you remember the rumors correctly, he was the partner of her dad. Maybe Roy harper likes older men? You almost laugh at the idea, obviously your mind being exaggerating and imagining Roy with a wrinkly old man.

The door of your classroom opens, and your eyes widen, it was a guy…a handsome one…too handsome, like crafted to be one of those sculptures. He is tall pretty tall in fact, surely 6’0 or a bit more, black hair with some white stripes…wait hold on. White stripes? Like Lian drawing? THIS IS JAY? JASON? ROY PARTNER? DAMN. Roy Harper is a lucky bastard.

You watch the man don’t even glance at you and beeline to Lian. No yeah, don’t even offer a good evening and sorry for being late man. Though you can find in your heart to late it slide this once because 1. The sole presence of that msn in earth is a gift, and 2. Lian looks to be ready to bring him hell.

Jason looks at the pouting Lian and knows he isn’t wining points today, but he does have to admit that she looks cute with the uncoordinated pigtails and the pout. After promising her some ice cream for his lateness and tickling her tummy so the frown goes away he and sending her to pack and get her stuff he prepares himself to face her teacher. He turns around to face you and the words he practiced in the car got stuck in his throat. You aren’t an old hag, not even close. Since when teachers are hot? In his time teachers were ugly.

But you? YOU ARE DIVINE, GORGEUS, like one of those people authors take reference to describe their protagonist. Wait...what’s happening to him? Is this some kind of spell? He can’t be thinking like this, well he can but this is Lian teacher he can’t…but then you smile at him, and he is goner. Fuck, pretty face and pretty smile, a killer combo.

You smile at the man feeling a bit awkward since he is just looking at you with a scowl in his face. Don’t tell me he is the time of parent that jokes that the time of the school ending should be 4: 00 pm or you will lose it.

Jaason finally arrives back to earth and clears his throat. “Uh sorry about the time..got stuck in traffic…” He looks at your eyes and something feels weird, not bad…but a sensation he can’t describe almost like his body…turning less tense?

You know the man is lying, the reason why pick up for the smaller kids is at 2:00 pm is to avoid traffic. “Don’t worry, I stay after hours anyways.” Usually, you would have been stricter about it, but for some reason you let it slide.

Jason thinks that teachers aren’t that bad after all, or maybe it only applies to you. Teachers like you where quite rare, he remembers that one of his English teachers where out of the school before the kids. He hopes you get paid well, maybe he can get Tim to hack Gotham’s School Bank account and raise your pay… “Thank, and sorry again. I um, my name is Jason” He offers his hand at you, and you shake it.

How soft. How rough.

He and Lian say your goodbyes and leave the cozy classroom, Lian talking his ear off about what she did that day, but he finds himself looking back at you and notices that something changed in your eyes...they seem less shining? Maybe he is finally presenting dementia.

Jason takes Lian to the nearest Carvel and lets her decide on her ice cream if she won’t tell Roy about his tardiness. He doesn’t want to get his picking-her-up privileges revoked…So, now he eats some brownie ice cream while Lian talks about random things like how your favorite color changes often because you like all of them. Thing that he found peculiar but cute.

[herrenxenoberg]

Fandorm Showcase #23 - The Black Cauldron

Our final fandorm for the season 2 batch.

Introducing the menacing and eerie dorm inspired by The Black Cauldron...

Marwolord!

It combines the words Marwol (Welsh for deadly) and lord.

This dorm focuses on pure ambition and desire for power, a force not to be reckoned with. This is also a dorm every student tend to avoid in Night Raven College, but it's not what it seems at the surface. In actuality, students in this dorm are professional musicians of the rock/metal music genre, so they tend to be loud and aggressive. Their type of music genre in my own TWST lore is called Necro-Metal, a kind of metal music genre that is rumored to be able to raise the undead if played harmoniously and with the combination of resurrection magic, which is classified as a forbidden type of magic to practice in modern times.

Yes, they're a rock band-

"A dorm founded on the Dread Sovereign's spirit of resolution. Students in this dorm are encouraged to harness their inner power and perseverance through aggressive music."

Requirements and Traits:

Prefers rock/metal genre of music

Have extensive knowledge in ancient texts or runic inscriptions

Strong desire for power and control

Dorm Uniform Design:

This is my most complicated design for a dorm uniform yet, I tried to combine a rockstar aesthetic with the overall theme of The Horned King. I found a reference for a skull-like hole pattern on a shirt and decided to use that idea but also make the shirt semi-transparent. (Yes, the housewarden would basically be bare torso-wise if not for the additional fur jacket.) Well, at least that is avoided with the ribcage-like mesh harness worn underneath all that.

Bow down to the king of Necro-Metal himself...

Character Roster:

Caxir Arwest, a third-year housewarden of Marwolord and a fae of immense capabilities, is a commanding presence in Twisted Wonderland, a Necro-Metal virtuoso whose raw talent and dark charisma have earned him both adoration and fear. Caxir’s music is as intense as his personality. Known for his electrifying guitar solos and haunting compositions, he has a near-magical ability to captivate his audience, leaving them entranced by his performances in the Nero-Metal band, "The Cauldron-Borns". Offstage, however, he is a man of few words, speaking with a deliberate, commanding tone that makes every word feel significant.

Caxir Arwest (Twisted off The Horned King)

While his fame brings him adoration, Caxir is not one to bask in it. His goals go far beyond simple recognition—he seeks to inspire and control, channeling the raw energy of his music to awaken something primal in his audience. He thrives on power, not just over his instrument but over those who dare to underestimate him. Yet beneath his stoic exterior lies a profound loneliness and a burning desire to find someone who understands the depths of his passion and ambition.

Notable Members:

Geraint Skreech (Sophomore) - A wyvern fae who likes keeping others on their toes, often speaking in cryptic words and peppering his conversations with dark humor. He's the synthesizer of the band "The Cauldron-Borns". (Twisted off the Gwythaints)

Cree Hoblin (Vice Houewarden, Sophomore) - A scrappy and excitable fae who adores the excitement of being apart of the band "The Cauldron-Borns" as the bass player, as well as the morale booster for the band. (Twisted off Creeper)

Osburn Moreva (Junior) - A man with the most enchanting singing voice that anyone who hears it are compelled to listen to his whole performance, as if they're hypnotized by his songs. (Twisted off the witches of Morva)

Mors Quietus (Freshman) - An aloft and blank-minded boy who is a reanimated corpse with no recollection of his past, but he has skills in playing excellent backup guitar rhythms for the band. (Twisted off The Cauldron Borns)

Bronn Boiler (Freshman) - A golem crafted from the alloys that formed the infamous enchanted cauldron of the dread sovereign, who now relies on Necro-Metal resonance to fuel its essence, and is the drummer for the band. It rarely speaks a word but only Caxir understands its needs. (Twisted off The Black Cauldron)

Synopsis:

It's Night Raven College's annual cultural fair, and the SDC (Song and Dance Competition) has returned to find their new winner for this year. This time, joining the contest for the top spot is the band from the dreaded Marwolord dorm, "The Cauldron-Borns", led by Caxir Arwest, the housewarden and lead guitarist/vocalist. Their performance has been famously known to draw huge audiences from around the world, which also happens in the SDC contest. But something dark and sinister is happening within the band, as Caxir has plans to harvest the resonance of the audience to his performances for his ultimate goal.

Annnnnd that is all for Season 2 fandorms! Stay tuned for more to come!

[electricdissonance]

[That had made the other a bit eased, at least. Still didn't ease the slight sting of the miscommunication.]

"....I'm glad we agree." [He takes a deep breath, their tail curling in a bit around their side, perhaps self soothingly. He seemed a whole lot more pensive and hesitant than in the text messages.]

"You must understand that it.... Is perhaps more alarming to one whom is.... Like myself, Speaking to one who looks like how you do at this time."

[A twitch of his hand, sharp tipped fingers digging into the fabric of their suit.]

"To answer your question previously... I-I classify as a salmonid to be precise... From your.. reaction... I-I take it you have not seen even any fish of my type.... Perhaps not even any animalia...." [Silas frowns, their pointed teeth sticking just slightly from their lip]

"You are not from my world, nor am I from yours... How very terrifying, and... rather exciting. I... I am sorry for the confusion, then. People without features like other animals tend to... have a very hard time surviving. I promise you, It was only a compliment on your part earlier..." -🐟

One glimpse of that tail and as abruptly as it cut on, the other's camera light flickered off.

The pangs of hunger *actually hurt* now, and it was much harder to hide the involuntary reactions of his body, his breathing appearing slightly out of sync and his eyes wild, darting pinpricks.

A *salmon?* He was a goddamn bear and he was talking to a fucking *humanoid salmon??* The joke writes itself!

And as downright frightening as it was to succumb to something so unexpected... There was a growing thrill in it all. Experiencing these new sensations had his mind racing about the psychological implications - where did he end, and the bear begin? What exactly was encoded in him that was making him act so uncontrollably?

His claws were digging into the fur of his arms, thought it was fortunately thick enough to prevent him from breaking through to the skin underneath and instead left deep gouge marks that marred the smooth sea of brown.

And then there was this fishy fellow. The biggest curiosity of them all. He referred to himself as animalia, but it was quite obvious that their lineage had gone in quite a different direction than that of Earth's.

"W-we... Have animals on my planet... But they're just... normal animals...? Fish are just... Hm..."

Images of raw fish haunted his consciousness, making it hard to articulate.

How many more like them were there?

What planet were they all located?

...How did they taste?

"Y-yes, a... A compliment. O-of course..."

It had been difficult to focus on what the other was saying while still trying to wrest control of his own mind - leaving him with an uncharacteristic stutter. He hadn't even realized he had received so many other new messages - Perhaps taking the time to browse those would help restore his thoughts somewhat.

[irismfrost]

July 13 - Longshan Temple, Ximen, Yuyu Yang

There is much to update today. First off, yesterday after I published my blog, I visited the Raohe Night Market. Night markets are an interesting phenomenon that doesn't exist in the US. In Taiwan, nighttime is reserved for leisure and social interaction while in the US, nighttime is usually a time for "private pursuits" as mentioned in our texts. It is less about the purchases you make and more about spending time with friends and eating interesting food. There are many shops packed in to a small space, all selling unique foods and items. There is less mainstream vegetarian food than I expected and so much fried food. Yesterday, I had fried quail eggs on a stick, a brown sugar donut, mango juice, and a beer. This was my first time having quail eggs and they are more rich than chicken eggs - the lady put a TON of oil in there. The donut wasn't as sweet as I thought it would be, but the mango juice was sweeter and thicker than I expected. I don't know too much about beer to begin with, but this beer was more bitter, bubbly, and definitely stronger than a Busch Light. I also totally got scammed - was not worth NT$300 (~ US$10). I also purchased some jewelry because why not. Though I don't speak any Chinese, it wasn't too hard to communicate with the vendors. Most of them speak a little English and if I have questions, I've gotten pretty good at Google Translate. I've also been sharpening my skills at mentally estimating NT$ to US$. It's fun to just stroll into the side shops and see what they have. Most of the food vendors are in the middle strip. Taiwan also does not have many trash cans in public areas. I think this is to prevent trash in the streets; it is very clean here. In contrast to the night markets are day markets. These are more about the purchase than the social time. You see more fruits and raw meats than ready-to-eat foods and trinkets. There is more of a variety of foods here than in the US. Here, you can find "unique" items such as a WHOLE chicken (feet and head included), squids, fruits that I didn't recognize, as well as other lifestyle items like clothes and bags. One commonality between day and night markets is the hustle and bustle. There is a constant stream of people moving and they are all moving in the same direction. It's hard to describe but i'd classify it as organized yet chaotic.

Our first stop today was the Longshan Buddhist and Daoist Temple. The Buddha is located in the center of the temple. Daoist gods are scattered throughout and along the sides. The Daoist gods speak through the offerings. You deliver the offering, pray, and take the offering back when you're done. You also can ask questions using moon blocks (Jiaobei). the blocks are shaped like little red moons. One side is flat and the other side is curved. To ask a question, you throw two of them on the ground. If the flat side is facing up for both blocks, it is a maybe/ unresponsive. If the round side is facing up for both blocks, it is a no. If you have one of each, it means yes. You can also ask more specific questions by drawing a fortune stick. These sticks have numbers. The number corresponds to a little box that has poems in them. The poem is your answer and you have the responsibility of interpreting it. You can also confirm these answers using the moon blocks. These blocks can be found at both Buddhist and Daoist Taiwanese temples.

Next, we visited the National Museum of History, featuring work by Yuyu Yang. He is a very famous artist. His work can be found all over the world and he is talented in many style and mediums. In his early years, he seemed to focus on more drawings and bronze sculptures, the moving into stainless steel sculptures later in life. His work integrated architecture, landscaping, and what I believe are engineering marvels. Some of his work is more realistic while some is completely abstract. This museum carried 3 stories worth of his art.

The Xiamen Red House is a cultural and historical landmark first built in 1908 by Japanese architect, Kondo Juro. It was the first government-built market in Taiwan and one of the most well-preserved historical buildings. Currently, a day market opens on the weekends. I bought a few items myself today.

Reflection

There is so much to take in here. The culture is different from the US and I think this is mostly due to religious and historical differences. Time is not as linear and structured here compared to the US. In the US, time is a limited resource and efficiency is rewarded; I think if this as being future-oriented as you are focused on maximizing your time to prepare for the future. In Taiwan, time is a measure of moments and experiences; I think of this as being present in the moment. Take the night markets for example. Your time at a night market is spent making memories with friends - it isn't measured or categorized. As someone from the US, I feel guilty if my time is not used being productive. It's almost an automatic reaction and it is stressful. I think it would be helpful for me (and probably most others from the US) to focus on pursuing a balance between the two perspectives of time.

Another point that makes me curious is the religious influences here. Everyone is so tolerant to the point that Buddhists and Daoists share the same temple. Our guide mentioned that his family is Daoist. He shared a story of him as a boy asking his grandmother how it's possible that you pray to your ancestors (Doaism) and you are reincarnated after death (Buddhism). His grandmother just chided him for asking the question. The people here do not see a reason to squabble over the differences and I think the US could use a little bit of that energy. The way people treat religion here is representative of the way people live their lives. They seem free and adaptable. They are understanding and give people the benefit of the doubt. For example, if someone pushes past you in a rush to get to their destination, a typical reaction from a US citizen would be "wow that's so rude of them", while a Taiwanese reaction might be "wow, they must have had a tough day". I believe this mentality is also correlated to Taiwan's historical background of changing "ownership" many times. They HAVE to be adaptable if they are going to live under the rule of so many different groups that change so often or they would be in constant war. They never know when a strong earthquake or typhoon may happen - they are at a high risk for both. The future is very unknown, so it's important for them to treasure the present.

[pathfinderunlocked]

Mana Manifest - CR8 Elemental

Raw magic, bound into living form.

Artwork is in-game art from Hearthstone, by Konstantin Turovec, copyright Blizzard Entertainment.

Mana Manifest is classified as an aether elemental - a rare element that’s sometimes mistakenly called “pure magic” or “pure force,” but is actually formed from a buildup of mainly ethereal energy mixed with all four primary elements in order to create something new.  Aether is nevertheless a very good conduit for what most wizards would consider “pure magic” or “pure force,” and this creature makes use of those powers to attack.  It’s quite intelligent for an elemental, and has more varied powers than a typical elemental.

This creature is designed as a boss fight; you probably don’t want to have more than one of them in a fight at a time, partially because it would be a lot of things to track and partially because it has high HP and low damage.  Some of the gravitating orbs that I posted earlier this week would make good minions for this boss.

See also the CR 14 Elder Mana Manifest.

Although it’s an aether elemental, a mana manifest lacks the Telekinetic Invisibility and Telekinetic Throw abilities of typical aether elementals.

Mana Manifest - CR 8

Clad in what appear to be magic bindings, the swirling multi-colored being of living magic floats above the ground effortlessly, and rises almost 25 feet tall.  Its pure energy form is in the shape of a reverse teardrop with a long tail, and two massive clawed arms.

XP 4,800 N Huge outsider (aether, elemental, extraplanar) Init +7 Senses blindsense 60 ft., darkvision 60 ft.; Perception +17

DEFENSE

AC 19, touch 19, flat-footed 16 (+8 deflection, +3 Dex, –2 size) hp 145 (10d10+90) Fort +15, Ref +10, Will +9 Defensive Abilities telekinetic deflection Immune elemental traits, force

OFFENSE

Speed fly 30 ft. (good) Melee 2 claws +14 (1d8+6) Space 15 ft.; Reach 15 ft. Special Attacks energy building, telekinetic maneuver

Spell-like Abilities (CL 10th; concentration +13)     3/day—magic missile, mana fissure (ranged touch +11, DC 17, see text)     1/day—anti-summoning shield, mana bombs (DC 19, see text)

STATISTICS

Str 22, Dex 16, Con 26, Int 16, Wis 18, Cha 16 Base Atk +10; CMB +18; CMD 39 Feats Improved Initiative, Iron Will, Skill Focus (spellcraft), Spell Focus (abjuration), Toughness Skills Acrobatics +16, Escape Artist +13, Fly +16, Knowledge (arcana, planes) +16, Knowledge (religion) +13, Perception +17, Spellcraft +22, Use Magic Device +16 Languages Aquan, Auran, Ignan, Terran

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Energy Building (Su) Once per day as a swift action, a mana manifest can begin building up an explosive charge of aetheric energy.  The mana manifest begins visibly and audibly vibrating and pulsing with a hot glow at increasing speeds.  Five rounds later, if the mana manifest is still alive, the explosive charge detonates at the start of the mana manifest’s turn, dealing 8d8 force damage in a 60 foot burst around the mana manifest and pushing all affected creatures and unattended objects back 20 feet away from the mana manifest.  The mana manifest is dazed on the round when it detonates.  A DC 25 Reflex save halves the damage and the distance pushed.  The save DC is Constitution-based and includes a +2 racial bonus.

After detonating, a mana manifest is sickened until it rests to regain its spells.

Mana Bombs (Sp) As a standard action, as a spell-like ability, a mana manifest can make ranged touch attacks (typically +11) against up to five different targets within short range (typically 50 feet).  Each target must be at least 10 feet away from any other target.  Targets hit by these ranged touch attack are struck by bombs of magical energy, which stick to them.  If one of these ranged touch attacks misses, that bomb is instead stuck to the ground beneath the target (or the closest surface, for a flying or swimming target).  The bombs immediately begin beeping and flashing.  A bomb can be removed with a Strength or Escape Artist check equal to the spell DC (typically 19).

After one round, the mana manifest can use a standard action to cause the bombs to detonate.  A bomb attached to a creature expends that target’s highest-level spell or spell-like ability that it is capable of casting, and deals damage based on its spell level.  If the target’s highest-level spell is a prepared spell, it loses one of its highest-level spells at random.  If the target’s highest-level spell is a spontaneous spellcaster, it loses a spell slot of the highest level it can cast.  If the target‘s highest-level spell is a spell-like ability, it loses a daily use of that spell-like ability.  A bomb attached to a non-spellcasting creature or to an object simply deals damage.

Each target takes 3d6 force damage, plus an additional 1d6 per spell level of the highest-level spell or spell-like ability that it is capable of casting.  Additionally, other creatures within 5 feet of the target must succeed on a Reflex save (typically DC 19) or take half as much damage.

Treat this as a 5th-level abjuration spell.  Spell resistance applies.

Mana Fissure (Sp) As a standard action, as a spell-like ability, a mana manifest can create a mana fissure with a 10-ft. radius at a point within medium range (typically 200 feet).  Creatures within the mana fissure take 2d8 force damage, and must succeed on a Will save (typically DC 17) or the next spell they cast during the mana fissure’s duration is automatically cancelled as if it were counterspelled.  This mana fissure persists for 10 minutes, and any creature that enters its area or ends its turn within the area is subjected to its affects again.

Treat this as a 3rd-level abjuration spell.  Spell resistance applies.

Telekinetic Deflection (Su) A mana manifest gains a deflection bonus to its AC equal to its Constitution modifier.  This bonus is already included in its statistics.

Telekinetic Maneuver (Su) A mana manifest can attempt a ranged combat maneuver check, as per telekinesis, with a CMB equal to its Hit Dice + its Dexterity modifier (typically +13).  This maneuver can be used against a target within long range (typically 800 feet).

[reallyhappyyouth]

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keywords;

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Natural Language Processing (NLP) – Understanding and structuring unformatted text data.

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Real-Time Data Processing – High-speed AI-powered analysis and transformation of big data.

[xtruss]

From Peasant Fodder To Posh Fare: How Snails And Oysters Became Luxury Foods

— Beth Daley | The Conversation | May 22, 2025

An Oyster cellar in Leith. John Burnet, 1819; National Galleries of Scotland, Photo: Antonia Reeve

Oysters and escargot are recognised as luxury foods around the world – but they were once valued by the lower classes as cheap sources of protein. Less adventurous eaters today see snails as a garden pest, and are quick to point out that freshly shucked oysters are not only raw but also alive when they are eaten. How did these unusual ingredients become items of conspicuous consumption?

From Garden Snail To Gastronomy

Eating what many consider to be a slimy nuisance seems almost counter-intuitive, but consuming land snails has an ancient history, dating to the Palaeolithic period, some 30,000 years ago in eastern Spain. Ancient Romans also dined on snails, and spread their eating habits across their empire into Europe. Lower and middle class Romans ate snails from their gardens, while elite consumers ate specially farmed snails, fed spices, honey and milk.

An Ancient Roman mosaic dating to the 4th century AD depicting a basket of snails, Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta, Aquileia, Italy. Carole Raddato/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

Pliny the Elder (AD 24–79) described how snails were raised in ponds and given wine to fatten them up. The first French recipe for snails appears in 1390, in Le Ménagier de Paris (The Good Wife’s Guide), but not in other cookbooks from the period.

In 1530, a French treatise on frogs, snails, turtles and artichokes considered all these foods bizarre, but surprisingly popular. Some of the appeal had to do with avoiding meat on “lean” days. Snails were classified as fish by the Catholic Church, and could even be eaten during Lent.

For the next 200 years, snails only appeared in Parisian cookbooks with an apology for including such a disgusting ingredient. This reflected the taste of upper-class urbanites, but snails were still eaten in the eastern provinces.

Schneckenweib, or Snail Seller, illustrated by Johann Christian Brand in Vienna, after 1798. Wien Museum

An 1811 cookbook from Metz, in the Alsace region in northeastern France, describes raising snails like the Romans, and a special platter, l'escargotière, for serving them. The trend did not travel to Paris until after 1814.

French diplomat Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord (1754–1838) hosted a dinner for Russian Tsar Alexander I, after he marched into Paris following the allied forces’ defeat of Napoleon in 1814. The chef catering the meal was the father of French cuisine Marie-Antoine Carême, a native of Burgundy, spiritual home of the now famous escargots de Bourgogne.

Carême served the Tsar what would become a classic recipe, prepared with garlic, parsley and butter. Allegedly, the Tsar raved about the “new” dish, and snails became wildly popular. A recipe for Burgundy snails first appeared in a French culinary dictionary published in 1825.

It is ironic that it took the approval of a foreign emperor, who had just conquered Napoleon, to restore luxury status to escargot, a food that became a symbol of French cuisine. Snails remain popular today in France, with consumption peaking during the Christmas holidays, but May 24 is National Escargot Day in France.

Oysters: The Original Fast Food

Oysters are another ancient food, as seen in fossils dating to the Triassic Era, 200 million years ago. Evidence of fossilised oysters are found on every major land mass, and there is evidence of Indigenous oyster fisheries in North America and Australia that dates to the Holocene period, about 12,000 years ago.

There are references in classical Greek texts to what are probably oysters, by authors like Aristotle and Homer. Oyster shells found at Troy confirm they were a favoured food. Traditionally served as a first course at banquets in Ancient Greece, they were often cooked, sometimes with exotic spices.

Music-cover sheet for ‘Bonne-Bouche’ by Emile Waldteufel, 1847-1897. © The Trustees of the British Museum, CC BY-NC-SA

Pliny the Elder refers to oysters as a Roman delicacy. He recorded methods of the pioneer of Roman oyster farming, Sergius Orata, who brought the best specimens from across the Empire to sell to elite customers.

Medieval coastal dwellers gathered oysters at low tide, while wealthy inland consumers would have paid a premium for shellfish, a perishable luxury, transported to their castles.

French nobles in 1390 preferred cooked oysters, roasted over coals or poached in broths, perhaps as a measure to prevent food poisoning. As late as the 17th century, authors cautioned:

But if they be eaten raw, they require good wine […] to aid digestion.

Oyster Seller, Jacob Gole, 1688–1724. Rijksmuseum

By the 18th century, small oysters were a popular pub snack, and larger ones were added as meat to the stew pot. That century, it is believed as many as 100,000 oysters were eaten each day in Edinburgh and the shells from the tavern in the basement filled in gaps in the brickwork at Gladstone’s Land in Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.

Scottish oyster farms in the Firth of Forth, an inlet of the North Sea, produced 30 million oysters in 1790, but continual over-harvesting took its toll. By 1883 only 6,000 oysters were landed, and the population was declared extinct in 1957.

As wild oyster stocks dwindled, large oyster farms developed in cities like New York in the 19th century. Initially successful, they were polluted, and infected by typhoid from sewage. An outbreak in 1924 killed 150 people, the deadliest food poisoning in United States history.

Costumes of Naples: Oyster Sellers, c. 1906–10. Rijksmuseum

Far from the overabundance of oysters we once had, over-fishing, pollution, and invasive species all threaten oyster populations worldwide today. Due to this scarcity of wild oysters and the resources required to safely farm environmentally sustainable oysters, they are now a premium product.

Next On The Menu

Scarcity made oysters a luxury, and a Tsar’s approval elevated snails to gourmet status. Could insects become the next status food? Ancient Romans ate beetles and grasshoppers, and cultures around the world consume insects, but not (yet) as luxury products. Maybe the right influencer can make honey-roasted locust the next species to jump from paddock to plate.

[officialbambiprescottdeardearest]

Got it — no female characters. I’ll rewrite the entire scenario focusing exclusively on male characters, keeping the tone intense, seductive, and crime-thriller focused with a dating sim flair.

Here’s the revised and expanded “Day 2” story, now featuring an all-male cast:

DAY 2 – “The Brief Affair” (Rewritten, Male-Only Cast)

Setting: Private corporate tower in the heart of a sprawling crime-influenced city.

8:30 AM – Office HQ Lobby

You (PA/Player1) clock in. No hangover today, just tension in the air. You’re intercepted by the project manager:

Project Manager: Ellis Thorn

(44, cold steel eyes, crisp black suit, former military intelligence)

"We’ve reassigned your duties. Mail distribution, parcel runs, and delivery of a confidential brief to Floor 5. Precision, silence, and speed. Understood?"

Objective List:

Distribute internal mail to designated offices.

Deliver a confidential brief to Julien Voss on Floor 5.

Return the borrowed keycard to Office Coordinator Marco Saint.

Marco hands you a temporary access card.

Marco Saint (33, flamboyant but sharp, tattoos hidden under a designer blazer):

"Try not to touch anything or anyone. Unless you’re into that… then return the keycard after."

10:50 AM – Floor 5

You slide the keycard and enter the silent, sleek executive floor. You head toward Julien Voss’s private office. The glass is tinted, but you can see his silhouette.

Julien Voss (38, lean, polished, sleeves rolled, voice like velvet):

"Come in… you’re the new assistant?"

You nod. He smiles, almost too warmly.

Scene Trigger: Passion Event (Optional Choice)

He locks the door behind you. Before you can speak, he brushes your cheek with his fingers.

"I hate wasting time."

He leans in. A heated kiss follows. You’re pinned to the wall, then the desk. It’s raw, unplanned, magnetic. You forget the brief until—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Czar McDhoughty Duooguer (Boss, 51, slicked-back hair, dangerous smile):

"Julien, is my boy still in there?"

You straighten your tie, wipe your mouth, slip out the side door, and deliver the brief to Corynn Bliss on Floor 4.

Corynn Bliss (29, bright, jittery, with a poetic sense of dread):

"Thanks. This one's… classified. Be careful."

3:30 PM – Your Desk

A manila folder has slipped out from the brief. Against better judgment, you read it. Inside:

Classified kill contracts.

Logs for “clean-up” missions tied to known cartel names.

A hit list: one target is someone you met yesterday.

You now realize the company is laundering, fixing, and spying for criminal elites.

4:20 PM – Assignment from Czar

Czar:

"Drop by Tryst Corp. and pick up a package. No questions. Use your charm if necessary."

Tryst Corp. – Lobby

You're met by:

Viktor Zelenko (41, ex-Soviet enforcer, thick accent, shirt unbuttoned to the chest)

"You’re Czar’s boy? Hmm. Strong hands. Ever think about freelancing?"

He steps closer, pressing something into your palm: $200 in cash.

"One favor. One relief session. Five minutes."

OPTIONAL: You follow him into the sauna chamber of the private gym.

What follows is intense, sweaty, and silent except for groans and moans bouncing off wet marble.

5:15 PM – Back at HQ

You deliver the box. As you hand it off to Czar, the tape catches on a desk corner.

RIP — the box splits open.

Out falls:

A leather-bound restraint set.

Double-ended toys.

Lubricants labeled in Russian.

An ominous-looking remote control with blinking lights.

Czar raises an eyebrow.

"Well, that’ll make tomorrow’s meeting interesting."

He lights a cigar and waves you out.

Branching Path Options

1. Text from Julien Voss:

"I want to finish what we started. Come back tonight."

→ Leads to after-hours rendezvous in the server room.

2. Viktor’s Offer:

"You have potential. Come to the East Lot at midnight. Bring gloves."

→ Unlocks Fixer Path — criminal missions, body disposal, double-agent perks.

3. Unknown Number:

"We saw you read the file. Keep digging. We’ll protect you — if you play smart."

→ Unlocks Whistleblower Spy Path

Would you like to expand Day 3 next — including more steamy options, rivalries, relationship drama, or undercover cartel missions? You can also unlock romance paths with other characters like:

Tariq Lane – The bodyguard with secrets

Diego Vincente – The cartel-connected courier

Arlo Maddox – The shy intern who’s a voyeur with a cam habit

Let me know which direction you want to push it.

Personal Assistant's Diary – Day Two

I thought Day One was the worst day of my life. I was wrong.

I walked into the office with fresh coffee (from Little April Showers Café again — not taking chances), clean slacks, and the memory of spilling lukewarm lattes on a white button-down still haunting me. Mr. Allure—aka Mikhail “Misha” Dragunov—gave me a nod from across the floor, that smug bastard. Still smelled like exotic sweat and forest fire.

At 9:14 AM sharp, Gregory Knowles, our terrifyingly punctual Project Manager and Time Management Administrator, strutted over to my desk with a clipboard and a smirk like a man who’s never missed a minute in his life.

“You’re delivering parcels today. Don’t screw it up. The last intern who lost a memo ended up back working for Instacart.”

He handed me a stack of packages, inter-office envelopes, and one sealed briefcase marked “L7 - Internal Affairs Only.” I was about to ask for directions when Jean-Claude Montecristo, our smooth-talking Brand Strategy Analyst, waved me down by the espresso machine.

“Hey newbie. You headed to L7?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Give this to Dr. Teymour Rafi on 7A. Here’s my card. Don’t lose it. And, uh—don’t peek inside that brief.”

His smile said "I'm dangerous." His cologne said "European clubbing aristocrat." His breath smelled like figs. I should’ve said no. Instead, I nodded, tucked the card into my blazer, and made my way to the elevator.

L7 was quiet. Cold. Carpeted in ominous gray with heavy wood doors. I knocked on office 7A. The frosted glass read:

Dr. Teymour Rafi – Internal R&D

He opened the door, shirt slightly unbuttoned, forearms like tension cables, and eyes like black diamonds.

“You’re early,” he said. “Good.”

He took the brief from me and motioned me in. The room was full of abstract diagrams, neon-splattered whiteboards, and one giant leather sofa that looked like it belonged in a Milanese bachelor’s lair. Then it happened.

He grabbed me. Pressed me against the door with a tension I didn’t know I liked. His breath was hot, and his touch burned. I should’ve pushed him away. But I didn’t. Ten minutes later, the sound of a knock shattered the spell.

“It’s Mr. Duooguer. Open up, Rafi!”

Panic. Rafi tossed me a silk robe (his?) and shoved me into the adjacent utility closet.

“Stay quiet.”

I held my breath as the door opened.

“Where’s the brief?”

“Signed and sealed, sir.”

Boss grunted and walked out. I slipped out seconds later, fixed my hair, and bolted toward the elevator. Brief delivered. Keycard returned. No evidence.

But back at my desk, as I was organizing packages, I noticed something.

One thin folder had slipped out of the brief. It was marked:

Black Index Operations – Clients: Sinaloa, NightJacket, Vory v Zakone

Inside were payment logs, delivery addresses, and codenames. It was real. The company did “fixing” for cartels and kingpins across the city.

I put the folder back in my drawer and zipped it shut.

Later that day, Mr. Duooguer himself summoned me again.

“Pick up a box from Midas & Sons Legal Trust on 8th. Discreet.”

The office was polished like a mob museum. A receptionist with aviators and a neck tattoo handed me a large black case and winked.

“Some of the guys want to thank you for your… delivery efficiency.”

One guy, Dante Voss, a tall intern in suede, leaned in and said,

“You ever jerk someone off for a thousand bucks?”

He handed me an envelope. I stared.

“No cameras. Just gratitude.”

I took it. I did it. Don’t judge me.

Back at our office, I handed the case to Duooguer.

He opened it in front of half the board.

WHAM.

A rainbow explosion of silicone, whips, and remote-controlled devices fell onto the floor like a sex-themed apocalypse.

Silence.

Dante’s card was inside.

Duooguer blinked.

“You met Dante, huh?”

The boardroom erupted into laughter.

I stood there, sweat beading down my back, holding an empty coffee cup and a thousand-dollar sin in my pocket.

Current Objectives:

Investigate the Black Index Operations file (side mission: “Coded Hands”)

Avoid Mr. Rafi… or don’t (romance path: “Passion of the Analyst”)

Retrieve keycard from Jean-Claude before he notices it's gone

Ask Dante if he meant what he said about “gratitude”... again

Love Interests So Far:

Mikhail Dragunov – Mr. Allure. Office rival with a secret heart.

Jean-Claude Montecristo – Mysterious agent with smooth moves.

Dr. Teymour Rafi – The dangerous mastermind with chemistry in his touch.

Dante Voss – Dirty intern with deep pockets and no shame.

To Be Continued…

[globalnodes]

Key Features of Our OCR & Intelligent Document Processing Solution

In today’s fast-paced digital world, businesses deal with massive volumes of documents daily—invoices, contracts, receipts, and forms—that require accurate and efficient processing. Traditional manual data entry is time-consuming, error-prone, and costly. This is where an Intelligent Document Processing Solution powered by Optical Character Recognition (OCR) and Artificial Intelligence (AI) comes into play.

At GlobalNodes, we provide a cutting-edge Intelligent Document Processing Solution that automates data extraction, classification, and validation, helping businesses streamline workflows, reduce errors, and improve productivity.

In this blog, we’ll explore the key features of our OCR & Intelligent Document Processing Solution, how it works, and why it’s a game-changer for industries like finance, healthcare, logistics, and legal services.

What Is an Intelligent Document Processing Solution?

An Intelligent Document Processing Solution combines OCR, AI, and machine learning (ML) to automatically capture, classify, and extract data from structured and unstructured documents. Unlike traditional OCR, which only converts scanned text into digital format, an AI-powered document processing system understands context, validates data, and integrates seamlessly with business applications.

Why Businesses Need It

✔ Eliminates manual data entry – Reduces human errors and processing time. ✔ Improves compliance & accuracy – Ensures data consistency and regulatory adherence. ✔ Enhances operational efficiency – Automates workflows for faster decision-making. ✔ Scales with business growth – Handles increasing document volumes effortlessly.

Key Features of Our Intelligent Document Processing Solution

Our Intelligent Document Processing Solution is designed to handle diverse document types with high accuracy. Here are its standout features:

1. Advanced OCR with AI-Powered Text Recognition

Our solution uses AI-enhanced OCR to accurately extract text from scanned documents, handwritten notes, PDFs, and images. Unlike basic OCR, it: ✔ Supports multiple languages and fonts✔ Reads handwritten text with high precision✔ Processes low-quality scans and distorted documents

2. Smart Document Classification & Sorting

Not all documents are the same—invoices, contracts, and IDs require different handling. Our Intelligent Document Processing Solution automatically: ✔ Classifies documents (e.g., invoices vs. receipts) ✔ Routes them to the correct workflow✔ Identifies key fields (dates, amounts, vendor names)

3. Context-Aware Data Extraction

Traditional OCR extracts raw text, but our AI-driven solution understands context, such as: ✔ Invoice numbers & payment terms✔ Customer names & addresses✔ Contract clauses & key datesThis reduces manual corrections and speeds up processing.

4. Automated Data Validation & Error Correction

Mistakes in data entry can be costly. Our system: ✔ Cross-checks extracted data with existing databases ✔ Flags inconsistencies (e.g., mismatched invoice amounts) ✔ Suggests corrections using AI-powered validation

5. Seamless Integration with Business Systems

Our Intelligent Document Processing Solution integrates with: ✔ ERP systems (SAP, Oracle, QuickBooks)✔ Cloud storage (Google Drive, SharePoint, Dropbox)✔ CRM platforms (Salesforce, HubSpot)This ensures smooth data flow across departments.

6. AI-Powered Fraud Detection

For industries like banking and insurance, detecting fraudulent documents is critical. Our solution: ✔ Identifies forged signatures & tampered documents✔ Checks for duplicate invoices & fake IDs✔ Alerts compliance teams in real-time

7. Scalable & Cloud-Ready Deployment

Whether you need on-premise, cloud, or hybrid solutions, our system scales to meet your needs. Benefits include: ✔ High-volume processing (thousands of documents per hour) ✔ Secure cloud storage with encryption✔ API access for custom workflows

8. Customizable Workflow Automation

Every business has unique document workflows. Our solution allows: ✔ Rule-based automation (e.g., auto-approve invoices under $1,000) ✔ Human-in-the-loop validation for complex cases ✔ Custom reporting & analytics dashboards

9. Compliance & Audit Trail

For industries with strict regulations (GDPR, HIPAA, SOX), our solution provides: ✔ Full audit logs of document processing ✔ Role-based access control✔ Secure data redaction for sensitive information

10. Real-Time Analytics & Insights

Beyond extraction, our Intelligent Document Processing Solution offers: ✔ Trend analysis (e.g., peak invoice processing times) ✔ Performance metrics (accuracy rates, processing speed) ✔ Predictive analytics to optimize workflows

Industries That Benefit from Our Intelligent Document Processing Solution

🏦 Banking & Finance

✔ Automates loan applications & KYC verification ✔ Detects fraudulent transactions

🏥 Healthcare

✔ Processes patient records & insurance claims ✔ Ensures HIPAA compliance

📦 Logistics & Supply Chain

✔ Automates shipping labels & customs forms ✔ Tracks inventory via purchase orders

⚖ Legal & Compliance

✔ Extracts clauses from contracts ✔ Manages case files efficiently

📑 Government & Public Sector

✔ Digitizes citizen records ✔ Automates permit & license processing

Why Choose GlobalNodes’ Intelligent Document Processing Solution?

✅ Higher Accuracy – AI reduces errors compared to manual entry. ✅ Faster Processing – Cuts document handling time by 80% or more. ✅ Cost Savings – Reduces labor costs and operational overhead. ✅ Security & Compliance – Ensures data privacy and regulatory adherence.

Final Thoughts

Manual document processing is no longer sustainable in the digital age. Our Intelligent Document Processing Solution leverages OCR, AI, and automation to transform how businesses handle documents—improving speed, accuracy, and efficiency.Whether you’re in finance, healthcare, logistics, or legal services, our solution can be tailored to your needs