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fanficgirl429 · 1 month ago

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Jealous Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Bucky gets jealous when Torres flirts with Y/N

The hum of fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the East Side briefing room of the Helicarrier hangar. Equipment cases lined the walls, gear sorted and labeled with precision, and the scent of metal, oil, and sterilized fabric filled the air. Sam stood at the table in the center, hands braced on either side of a glowing tactical map.

Y/N leaned against the edge, tying her hair back into a messy braid, a black combat vest snug over her base layer. Her movements were quick but unhurried—second nature. Bucky watched her from across the room as he adjusted the shoulder harness of his stealth suit. His fingers moved slowly, distracted. He'd already checked his gear twice.

She caught him looking and gave him a soft, secret smile. The kind of smile that said I'm okay. The corner of his mouth lifted in return, subtle but real.

“You two gonna kiss or kill something?” Sam asked, not even looking up from the map.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You know which one I’d prefer.”

Y/N rolled her eyes with a half-laugh, walking over to Sam’s side as Joaquín Torres pulled up a holographic overlay from the nearby terminal.

“Guard rotations are clockwork,” Torres said, pointing. “Three-man teams sweep the corridors every twenty minutes. Entry point’s here, west stairwell. You’ll have a five-minute window to get past the security grid.”

“And once we’re inside?” Y/N asked, leaning in, her fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. Bucky’s gaze followed the motion.

“Split and sweep,” Sam said, already sliding into briefing mode. “Y/N and I take the server room. Bucky clears the vault corridor. We regroup at extraction in twenty.”

“Sounds clean,” Torres said. Then his eyes flicked to Y/N. “Wish I was going with you guys. Could use someone with your instincts on my team.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You calling me predictable or reckless?”

“Neither,” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “Just saying, if I had someone like you watching my six, I might not get shot at so much.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed.

Y/N laughed it off, casually stepping closer to Bucky without seeming to realize she’d done it. But he noticed. He always noticed. The subtle way her body leaned toward him when someone else was around. The way her hand rested on his forearm briefly, grounding both of them.

Torres was still grinning, oblivious. “You ever think about switching teams, Y/N, let me know. I could use a partner who looks that good and knows how to break a guy’s arm in two seconds.”

Bucky’s voice cut through the air. “She’s not switching anything.”

The room stilled for a second too long. Sam looked up, eyebrows raised. Torres blinked and took half a step back, holding his hands up in defense.

Y/N let out a slow breath and gave Bucky a look—half amused, half warning.

“Just saying, man. No offense,” Torres said.

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the lockers, snapping his gloves tighter than necessary.

Y/N followed.

When they were out of earshot, she leaned against the locker beside him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, right?” she said softly.

Bucky looked down, then back at her. “Yeah. I know. Doesn’t mean it’s easy watching someone else talk to you like that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You think I care what Torres thinks? I let you zip my vest this morning.”

His eyes flicked to her chest, then to her face, his voice lower now. “Yeah. That was the highlight of my day.”

A smile played on her lips. “I can give you another highlight, but we’ve got a mission in ten.”

“Damn timing,” Bucky murmured.

She stepped closer, hand brushing lightly against his side—right where his arm met flesh. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know.”

“I mean it,” she whispered. “I don’t want you losing your mind if someone so much as looks at me funny again.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered, then softened. “But I’ll keep it together. Just… stay close. And come back to me.”

She pressed a quick kiss to his lips, unseen from the others. “Always.”

Sam called from across the room, “Time to move out, kids. Jet’s hot and ready. Let’s go look cool and kick ass.”

Y/N turned with a wink. “Let’s go make some noise.”

Bucky watched her walk away—confident, calm, dangerous as hell. And his.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and followed.

No one would ever get close enough to take her from him.

Not on his watch.

The mission had ended hours ago.

Madripoor had been chaotic—twisting alleys, cold steel corridors, fire flashing off concrete and bad choices. But they’d made it out. Banged up, bruised, a little breathless, but alive.

The quinjet hummed softly as it cut through clouds somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam had passed out three seats back, his arm thrown over his face, muttering occasionally in his sleep. Bucky sat near the front, freshly bandaged, bruised, quiet.

Y/N sat curled up across from him wearing one of his hoodies and her tactical pants, legs tucked beneath her. She’d changed out of her suit, hair loose now, damp from a quick shower at the airbase. Her eyes had been on Bucky since takeoff—not in worry, but something else. Something quieter. Deeper.

He looked tired.

Not physically—though the gash on his shoulder was proof enough the mission hadn’t gone easy—but emotionally tired. Like he’d been holding onto something all day that still hadn’t been said.

She crossed the aisle and slid into the seat beside him, saying nothing at first. Just letting the silence speak.

He glanced at her, then looked away. “You should sleep.”

“You should talk to me.”

A beat passed.

He exhaled. “You could’ve been killed today.”

“You say that like it’s not part of the job.”

His voice dropped. “It’s different when it’s you.”

Y/N turned in the seat, facing him fully. Her hand reached over, fingers brushing his knuckles—just barely. But he felt it like a jolt.

“You saved me. Again.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” His jaw flexed. “I should’ve cleared the corner faster. Should’ve—should’ve gotten between you and that guy.”

“Bucky.”

“I saw the way he raised the gun. He wasn’t aiming at me. He wanted you. And all I could think was—”

He stopped himself. Chest rising, falling. The words stuck somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

“All I could think was, what if this is the last time I see you?” he finished, softer now. “What if I lose you before I ever get to tell you…”

Her hand moved to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble just below his cheekbone.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

He met her eyes, blue and stormy and full of something that cracked her open inside.

“That I love you,” he said. No hesitation now. No fear. Just the truth.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She was already smiling, already blinking away tears she hadn’t realized were there. “Took you long enough.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Guess I’m still learning how to say things before I almost lose them.”

She cupped his face, pulling him in gently, and kissed him—slow and deep. When they parted, her forehead rested against his.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even when you’re brooding and jealous and act like you invented angst.”

His lips curved against hers. “I did invent angst, actually. 1943. Patent pending.”

She laughed, and he held her close, letting the sound soak into his skin.

They stayed curled together for the rest of the flight, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tangled in hers. No words needed.

Outside, the storm had passed.

But inside the quinjet, something far more powerful had settled.

Peace. And love.

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handweavers · 1 year ago

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something that comes up for me over and over is a deep frustration with academics who write about and study craft but have little hands-on experience with working with that craft, because it leads to them making mistakes in their analysis and even labelling of objects and techniques incorrectly. i see this from something as simple as textiles on display in museums being labelled with techniques that are very obviously wrong (claiming something is knit when it's clearly crochet, woven when that technique could only be done as embroidery applied to cloth off-loom) to articles and books written about the history of various aspects of textiles making considerable errors when trying to describe basic aspects of textile craft-knowledge (ex. a book i read recently that tried to say that dyeing cotton is far easier than dyeing wool because cotton takes colour more easily than wool, and used that as part of an argument as to why cotton became so prominent in the industrial revolution, which is so blatantly incorrect to any dyer that it seriously harms the argument being made even if the overall point is ultimately correct)

the thing is that craft is a language, an embodied knowledge that crosses the boundaries of spoken communication into a physical understanding. craft has theory, but it is not theoretical: there is a necessary physicality to our work, to our knowledge, that cannot be substituted. two artisans who share a craft share a language, even if that language is not verbal. when you understand how a material functions and behaves without deliberate thought, when the material knowledge becomes instinct, when your hands know these things just as well if not better than your conscious mind does, new avenues of communication are opened. an embodied knowledge of a craft is its own language that is able to be communicated across time, and one easily misunderstood by those without that fluency. an academic whose knowledge is entirely theoretical may look at a piece of metalwork from the 3rd century and struggle to understand the function or intent of it, but if you were to show the same piece to a living blacksmith they would likely be able to tell you with startling accuracy what their ancient colleague was trying to do.

a more elaborate example: when i was in residence at a dye studio on bali, the dyer who mentored me showed me a bowl of shimmering grey mud, and explained in bahasa that they harvest the mud several feet under the roots of certain species of mangroves. once the mud is cleaned and strained, it's mixed with bran water and left to ferment for weeks to months. he noted that the mud cannot be used until the fermentation process has left a glittering sheen to its surface. when layered over a fermented dye containing the flowers from a tree, the cloth turns grey, and repeated dippings in the flower-liquid and mud vats deepen this colour until it's a warm black.

he didn't explain why this works, and he did not have to. his methods are different from mine, but the same chemical processes are occurring. tannins always turn grey when they interact with iron and they don't react to other additives the same way, so tannins (polyphenols) and iron must be fundamental parts of this process. many types of earthen clay contain a type of bacteria that creates biogenic iron as a byproduct, and mixing bran water with this mud would give the bacteria sugars to feast upon, multiplying, and producing more of this biogenic iron. when the iron content is high enough that the mud shimmers, applying this fermented mixture to cloth soaked in tannins would cause the iron to react with the tannin and finally, miraculously: a deep, living grey-black cloth.

in my dye studio i have dissolved iron sulphide ii in boiling water and submerged cloth soaked in tannin extract in this iron water, and watched it emerge, chemically altered, now deep and living grey-black just like the cloth my mentor on bali dyed. when i watched him dip cloth in this brown bath of fermented flower-water, and then into the shimmering mud and witness the cloth emerge this same shade of grey, i understand exactly what he was doing and why. embodied craft knowledge is its own language, and if you're going to dedicate your life to writing about a craft it would be of great benefit to actually "speak" that language, or you're likely to make serious errors.

the arrogance is not that different from a historian or anthropologist who tries to study a culture or people without understanding their written or spoken tongue, and then makes mistakes in their analysis because they are fundamentally disconnected from the way the people they are talking about communicate. the voyeuristic academic desire to observe and analyse the world at a distance, without participating in it. how often academics will write about social movements, political theory and philosophy and never actually get involved in any of these movements while they're happening. my issue with the way they interact with craft is less serious than the others i mentioned, but one that constantly bothers me when coming into contact with the divide between "those who make a living writing about a subject" and "those who make a living doing that subject"

#you dont have to read all this im just ranting to myself #like this goes on for a while im just warning you

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nemo-writes · 8 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; as dawn breaks, you tend to sybil and the remains of the wreckage left by the attack. determined to root out the force behind this dark chapter, you turn to an old friend for guidance.

⚠️ warnings; slight descriptions of injuries and blood

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Morning breaks with the first faint light creeping through the cracks of your blinds, and the relentless scratching at the door finally ceases. Exhausted but relieved, you uncurl from your spot on the floor, where you spent the night huddled with Sybil. Her breathing is steady now, though a quiet whine escapes her occasionally. You gently stroke her white fur, matted with dirt and dried blood from the night’s violent encounter.

You rise cautiously, the movement tugging at the pain in your ankle. Sybil stirs beside you, lifting her head as if sensing your intent. Before focusing on her, you steal a peek through the blinds. The street below lies empty, no sign of any lurking danger. Then you check outside your apartment door, and there too, it's empty.

Reassured for now, you bend down, wrapping your arms around Sybil and lifting her up with a pained grunt. The adrenaline that had fueled you the night before has vanished, leaving only raw, trembling determination. Step by agonizing step, you make your way down the stairs, each descent slow and labored, every creak of the wood magnifying the weight of your exhaustion.

The shop is unrecognisable.

Shelves that once held carefully labelled jars and vials are toppled, their contents spilled across the floor in a kaleidoscope of shattered glass and stained herbs. Your cauldron lies overturned near the counter, its contents long soaked into the wooden floorboards. The air still smells of the burnt potion that had scorched Ghost’s skin.

The destruction around you is overwhelming, but Sybil’s soft whine pulls you back to the present. You set her down gently on a comfortable patch of floor, cleared from the chaos.

You scavenge what’s left, finding a few unbroken jars of salve and bandages hidden under the counter. Working methodically, you tend to Sybil's wounds, cleaning and wrapping them with as much care as your shaky hands allow. She remains still, enduring the discomfort with quiet patience.

Once she is cared for, you turn to your own leg. Your ankle is swollen and caked in dry blood, bruised from where Ghost had dragged you across the floor, his claws tearing into your flesh. You bite your lip as you clean the puncture wound. Wraith poison. It seeps slowly into the bloodstream, and if not treated, it can be lethal. You rub a poultice into the marks and wrap your leg tightly, knowing it will take time to heal, but at least it’s no longer a death sentence for either of you.

As you move to clean and pick up the remains of your shattered apothecary, every movement feels like an effort. You work slowly, but you push through, driven by the need to restore some sense of order.

While sweeping debris near where Ghost had writhed in pain, you freeze. Embedded in the floor, glinting faintly under the dim light, is one of Ghost’s nails, sharp and black, splintered into the wood from his violent struggle. You kneel down, inspecting it closely—its edges are jagged, coated in dried blood, and it radiates an eerie, dark energy. Carefully, you take a cloth and extract it.

Holding the nail in your hands, an idea begins to form.

You know of someone who can and will help. You swallow hard, the decision settling heavily within you. She’s not someone you reach out to lightly, but this time… there’s no other choice.

. . .

You leave Sybil resting on your bed, and only when her eyes flutter closed, do you leave her side, the familiar warmth of her presence a small comfort in the back of your mind.

You gather what you need, moving with purpose despite the clammines in your hands. The bathroom becomes your makeshift altar, and though the tub is humble, it will serve.

Carefully, you sprinkle the salvaged herbs into the water, watching as they drift across the surface. Each herb was chosen with intent—rosemary for protection, thyme for courage, lavender for clarity. A handful of salt follows, grounding the mixture and cleansing it.

With a slow exhale, you press your own nail hard against your thumb with a flinch, allowing a drop of your blood to fall into the tub. The water shudders, rippling outward in response, as though alive to your plea. Then, you murmur her name.

The surface of the water begins to glow with a faint, silvery light, casting soft reflections on the walls. The air thickens, each breath becoming heavier as the veil between worlds trembles before finally falling open.

Slowly, deliberately, she emerges from the tub. The top of her head, crowned with dark, damp hair, breaks through first, followed by her sharp, regal features, her eyes pale pools. She rises until her neck and shoulders hover just above the waterline, her arms gracefully settling over the edge of the tub.

Her gaze finds yours, calm but penetrating, a knowing smile flickering across her lips as she studies your face. The familiarity settles comfortably in the air between the two of you.

"Thou art troubled, mine old friend," she speaks, her voice a soft echo in the space. "What darkness doth plague thy heart?"

Her presence, while comforting, still commands your respect. You were taught from childhood to call her name only when truly needed, for she was an ally to your bloodline, but not a spirit to be called upon lightly.

Her eyes fix upon your battered state. “Thou art a sight most grievous,” she says, her voice rich with the cadence of old English. “Fear gnaws at thy bones, and pain hath left thee ragged, hollow. Wounded, indeed.”

You breathe deeply, pulling yourself together as you lift the cloth-wrapped object from your side. Silently, you offer her Ghost's nail, dark and deadly. Her gaze sharpens as she accepts it, her slender fingers turning it over in quiet, focused examination.

“Reveal to me the source of his madness,” you plea, “and of the others’. Please, show me what’s driven them to this.”

She studies the nail, tracing its jagged edges. Finally, she speaks.

“Aye,” she begins, voice grave, “thou seeketh the truth behind his descent. Yet, be warned: the truth is not what it seemeth. She, the one they pursue—she is not untouched, not unscarred by the same darkness. Though she is the centre, she is not the cause. She is but human, and another hand doth shape this tale.”

Your pulse quickens, mind racing as her words sink in. Leah—she was a source, but not the architect of this obsession. Her eyes hold yours, unreadable but certain.

“There is a design here, a careful orchestration. Another, cunning and cloaked, doth play upon thy pack’s nature, bending their hearts to obsession, their minds to ruin. This plan hath taken root already; what was begun is now well underway.”

Leah is as much a victim in this as the pack—only a piece in someone else’s scheme. "Who?" you ask, desperation slipping into your voice. “Who would do this?”

Her expression softens, but she shakes her head. "The shadow hath yet to reveal itself. But know this: as long as the threads go unseen, the madness shall deepen. The one who drives this seeks not thy destruction alone. Their aim is vast—boundless.”

With a slight tilt of her head, she turns back to you, holding the nail delicately between her fingers. She then extends it to you, resting it on the cloth. Her cool hand closes around yours, a silent reminder of the weight and danger that this fragment carries.

“Hold this close, child,” she murmurs. “For it may yet serve thee well. In times of shadow, such remnants of truth may be weapons against the dark.”

Then her hand releases yours, trailing up to your cheek with a tender, cool touch, thumb tracing a slow, reassuring line as her gaze holds yours, unyielding and steady.

“Do not let thy heart waver,” she whispers, voice soft yet powerful. “Thou art not so easily uprooted, nor cast aside by such an evil. Thy roots run deep, born of stronger stock than this darkness anticipates. Hold fast.”

Then, as swiftly as she’d come, she begins to sink back beneath the water, her fingers slipping from the edge of the tub, leaving you with more questions than answers. Alone in the dim light of your bathroom, each revelation settles like stones in your chest.

You’re not without fault either. You’d fed your own resentments, let jealousy twist your perspective until you’d unknowingly played into the hands of whatever force sought to divide and conquer. And that needs to end here.

With clarity finally settled on your mind, your thoughts turn again to Laswell. She’s always been the town’s first line of defence, and whatever is lurking here has crept under her watch. If anyone can help you make sense of things, it’s her.

With Ghost’s nail clutched tightly in your hand, you gather yourself and start moving. You leave Sybil behind, resting and safe as you focus on Laswell. It’s time to face everything—to confront whatever has been taking root here.

. . .

On the other side of town, Alejandro and Rudy moved through the quiet, pre-dawn streets, taking care of some early business that couldn’t wait for full daylight. Alejandro was scanning over the market supplies they’d been tasked to retrieve while Rudy jotted down some notes, the calm routine a welcome reprieve.

The usual scent of bread and spice mingled with the morning chill—until something sharp, unsettling, cut through it.

Alejandro stopped short, head tilting as his trained nose caught the unmistakable hint of blood. A slow tension crept up his spine as he recognized it, mixed with something familiar and wrong all at once His grip tightened around his gear, and he motioned for Rudy to follow.

They followed the faint trail toward the edge of the Rose District, its shadowy streets still cast in the muted dawn light. And there, half-shifted and sprawled against the stone, lay none other than Ghost. A mix of something matted his clothes, his form slumped but menacing even in partial human form.

Alejandro moved closer, but as Rudy reached out instinctively to help, Alejandro’s hand shot out, stopping him. “Espérate,” he hissed, his tone sharp, eyes narrowing as he zeroed in on Ghost's red-stained neck and knuckles. The fury building within him found confirmation in the scent lingering on the half-wraith's skin—it was unmistakably yours.

“It’s her blood,” Alejandro said, voice low and furious.

Rudy’s eyes widened, and before either could demand answers, Ghost’s eyes shot open, wild and feral. With a snarl, he surged to his feet, tearing away from their reach and disappearing back into the shadows, leaving only their unanswered questions and a trail of dread in his wake.

Rudy turned to Alejandro, jaw clenched. "We need to check on her. Now."

Without hesitation, they both turned on their heels, abandoning their morning duties. The journey back to your shop felt longer than it should, the urgency of what they might find gnawing at both of them.

The strange behaviour of the pack had lingered at the edges of Alejandro's thoughts. He remembered how odd they’d been the last time he and Rudy had delivered your tonics and potions to them—unsettled, like they were barely holding themselves together. He cursed at his carelessness. Whatever had been brewing beneath the surface had clearly boiled over, and now, you were caught on it dead and centre.

When they finally arrived at your shop, the destruction greeted them like a wound left open. Clearly someone had attempted to clean up, but shelves remained overturned, dried patches of blood staining the wooden floor. Alejandro could smell Ghost’s all over. But you were already gone. His eyes flickered upstairs when a soft whine from upstairs reached his ears.

“Sybil’s here,” Alejandro murmured. Rudy followed him cautiously up the stairs, where they came face-to-face with the door of your apartment—warded heavily with a spell they both recognized. It allowed only those with genuine intentions to pass.

A moment passed before the door clicked softly open, just enough to let them through. They ventured deeper inside and into your room, where the found Sybil laying in your bed, her head lifting as the pair approached. Her intelligent eyes locked with their, and though she couldn’t speak, her exhaustion told them everything.

"Pobrecita (Poor girl)," Rudy sighed, eyes soft as he looked at the injured familiar.

Alejandro, as a Perro Negro (Black Dog), possessed a bond with spirits, especially those of dogs or wolves. He knelt by her side, hand resting gently on her fur. Their connection deepened, and in the quiet of the room, Sybil communicated what she had witnessed. Through her thoughts, he saw the chaos that had unfolded—the fight, the terror, the injury. And most importantly, he saw where you had gone.

“Se fue a buscar a Laswell, (She went to look for Laswell)” Alejandro said, standing, his voice heavy with understanding. “That’s where we need to go.”

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 2 months ago

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“Stitches and Secrets”

Kix x Jedi Reader

Warnings: injury

The smell of caf, oil, and clone armor clung to the air as you strolled into the briefing tent, half a pastry in your hand and absolutely no shame in your step. Anakin was already leaning over the holotable with Ahsoka at his side, mid-conversation with Rex about insertion points and droid resistance.

“There she is,” Anakin said, smirking as you bit into your breakfast. “Glad you could make it. We were all really worried you might be doing something important, like sleeping in.”

You gave him an exaggerated bow, crumbs falling from your lips. “The Force told me to take five. Who am I to argue with destiny?”

Ahsoka laughed. “She’s worse than you, Master.”

“I’m standing right here,” Anakin said dryly.

“And I’m complimenting you,” you shot back, tossing the last of your pastry into your mouth. “You’re rubbing off on me, Skywalker. I’m starting to think I’m unfit for Jedi Council politics.”

“That makes two of us,” Anakin muttered.

Rex cleared his throat gently. “Briefing, General?”

“Right,” Anakin said. “Serious faces. Tactical minds. Let’s go.”

You stood beside Ahsoka, arms crossed, watching the blue holographic map flicker into life. The target: a droid manufacturing facility buried beneath a city block on this dusty, nowhere Separatist planet. Classic war story setup—deep insertion, sabotage, get-out-before-the-ceiling-caves-in sort of plan.

Anakin pointed to three key locations. “Ahsoka, you’ll take your Squad through the northern tunnel system. I’ll come in from the west. You,” he glanced at you, “get to lead Torrent Company. Rex is heading point. Kix is your field medic.”

“Excellent,” you said brightly. “If I get blown up, I know exactly whose name to scream out.” And winked at Kix.

Kix, who’d been standing with perfect form behind Rex, blinked and glanced your way.

“Don’t flatter him,” Anakin said, grinning. “It goes to his head.”

“I think he deserves it,” you said with a shrug.

“Force help us,” Ahsoka muttered with a smile.

Kix said nothing, but you knew he heard it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.

Anakin resumed the plan rundown. “Once we’ve cleared the tunnel entrance, regroup at the main lift shaft, plant the charges, and extract. Simple. Clean. Hopefully fast.”

“Hopefully,” you echoed. “But if it isn’t, I call dibs on the most dramatic death scene.”

“No one’s dying,” Rex said, exasperated.

You leaned toward Ahsoka and whispered, “He’s no fun at all.”

⸻

Things went sideways by hour three.

The drop had gone smoothly. Your team slipped through the tunnel entrance with minimal resistance. You moved like water through the dark—saber humming, the Force buzzing at your fingertips, and Kix never more than a few meters behind.

The issue? Droid reinforcements. Heavier than expected. A trap inside the sublevels. When the floor collapsed under you and half your squad, you barely had time to throw up a Force shield before the shrapnel cut through you like knives.

You hit the ground hard. Your saber skidded away, and a jagged spike of pain tore through your side.

“General!” Kix’s voice came sharp and clear, echoing through the smoke.

You coughed, tried to sit up, and gasped. Your hand came away red.

Kix dropped beside you in seconds, already snapping open his medkit. His gloves were steady. His jaw was clenched. “You’re lucky it missed your vital organs.”

“Define lucky,” you rasped.

“Alive.”

“You’re sweet,” you mumbled, swaying slightly.

“Try not to pass out,” he said, voice tight as he pressed a bacta patch over the worst of the wound. “You need to stay awake.”

“Trying,” you slurred. “But you’re very distracting.”

He blinked down at you. “What?”

“Your eyes. They’re the worst. Too blue. And your voice is soothing. It’s unfair. You should come with a warning label.”

You felt his hands pause for a fraction of a second.

“Considering you can’t see my eyes, and the fact they are brown not blue. You’re delirious,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest crack of a smile in his voice.

“I am not,” you insisted, blinking up at him. “In the past 3 minutes I’ve thought about kissing you like, five times. Maybe six. Who knows. Jedi don’t count those things.”

Kix worked in silence for a moment, patching you up, checking your pulse, muttering about shock and bacta levels. You didn’t stop talking.

“You always there for them,” you murmured. “Always patient. Always there. And you never say anything. But I can see it. I see you. You’re kind, Kix. Gentle. That’s rare in this war.”

Kix looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his eyes softened—like a thaw he hadn’t allowed himself before.

“I’m not gentle,” he said quietly. “I’m trained to fix people. That’s all.”

“You’ve certainly fixed me,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond to that. He just pulled you close enough to hoist you into his arms, careful not to jostle your wounds.

“Rex, I’ve got the general. She’s stable but needs evac,” he said into the comm, already moving.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, groggy and fading. “You smell like antiseptic and courage.”

“You’re gonna be so embarrassed when you wake up.”

“I’m already embarrassed. I haven’t kissed you yet.”

Kix let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe something softer. “Maybe next time, starlight. When you’re not bleeding out.”

⸻

You woke up in the medbay. Groggy. Alive. Sore as hell.

The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting beside you, back straight, arms crossed. Kix.

“You stayed,” you rasped.

He glanced at you. “I wanted to see if you’d survive.”

“And…?”

His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m glad you did.”

There was a long pause. Then, with a smirk:

“So, did you mean any of it?” he asked. “The eyes. The courage. The part about kissing me?”

You smiled, exhausted but warm all over.

“Oh yeah. Every word.”

Kix leaned forward slowly, carefully, one hand brushing your cheek.

“Then let’s see if you’re a better kisser than a patient.”

You definitely were.

⸻

You’d barely been discharged from the medbay when Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared at your door like vultures circling a wounded animal.

“Well, well, well,” Anakin drawled, arms crossed and grin far too smug. “Look who decided to flirt her way through a near-death experience.”

Ahsoka stood beside him, trying and failing to look serious. “Rex told us everything. Said you were practically writing a love poem while bleeding out.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Does no one in this battalion understand the concept of privacy?”

“Not when the drama’s this good,” Ahsoka said, plopping herself at the foot of your bed. “I mean, you told Kix he smells like courage. Who says that?”

“It was the blood loss talking.”

Anakin raised a brow. “You also apparently told him his eyes were ‘too blue.’ That doesn’t even make sense. Too blue? His eyes are brown!”

“Must’ve been the armor” you snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. “It’s aggravating. Like being judged by a beach.”

They both burst out laughing.

“Stars,” Ahsoka wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You’re lucky Master Yoda wasn’t in the room. You’d be Force-grounded for breaking the code.”

Anakin wiggled his brows. “Technically, I’m not allowed to judge.”

You shot him a look. “Please. You’re the last person who gets to bring up the Jedi Code.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” Ahsoka said, sitting up straighter with a sly smile. “What we want to know is: did you get the kiss?”

You gave them both a very satisfied, very smug smile.

“I did.”

Silence.

Anakin blinked. “Wait. What?”

“You kissed Kix?” Ahsoka practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “When?”

“In the medbay. Post-stitches. Very romantic. Smelled like disinfectant and trauma bonding.”

Anakin shook his head in mock disbelief. “Force help us. You’re worse than I am.”

“I know,” you said with a smirk. “And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be subtle.”

Ahsoka howled with laughter.

Outside, you could’ve sworn you heard clone boots squeaking away from the medbay window. Probably Jesse or Fives listening in. Again.

“You’re never gonna live this down,” Anakin said, grinning wide.

You leaned back, smug and satisfied. “I don’t plan to.”

⸻

Fives and Jesse stumbled into the barracks like two kids who’d just found contraband candy in the Temple. Breathless, grinning, eyes wide with glee.

“Kix,” Jesse gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the medic’s bunk. “Tell me it’s true.”

Kix looked up from cleaning his kit, brow raised. “Tell you what’s true?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Fives said, practically vibrating with energy. “We heard it. Straight from her own mouth.”

“She kissed you!” Jesse blurted. “Right in the medbay!”

Kix blinked once. “You were eavesdropping?”

Fives held up a hand. “Strategically positioned for morale updates.”

“You mean you pressed your faces to the window like nosey cadets,” Kix muttered, already regretting every life choice that led him here.

Fives flopped onto a bunk like he’d just been awarded a medal. “Kissing a Jedi… while she was still half-dead. That’s next-level.”

“She called you a ‘war angel in plastoid,’” Jesse said with a grin. “That’s poetry, Kix. Pure poetry.”

Kix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was saving her life.”

“Yeah, and then saving her lips,” Fives added.

Jesse smacked his arm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Fives said proudly. “It’s romance.”

Kix opened his mouth to fire back—but then the door slid open, and in walked Rex.

“Why are you two shouting like regs on a first patrol—” He paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at the scene. Fives smirking. Jesse grinning. Kix looking like he wanted to dissolve into bacta.

Rex raised a brow. “Am I walking into a war crime or a love story?”

Jesse pointed at Kix. “Our boy kissed the General.”

Rex blinked. Once. Then twice.

Then, completely deadpan, he said, “About time.”

Kix’s jaw dropped. “Rex!”

Fives lost it. “I knew you knew! I knew it!”

Rex crossed his arms, smiling just enough to twist the knife. “She’s been making eyes at him the whole campaign. Whole battalion’s been waiting for someone to make a move. Just didn’t expect it to happen during triage.”

Jesse gasped. “You knew and didn’t tell us?!”

Rex shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the suspense.”

Fives snorted. “Cold, Rex. Cold.”

Kix looked like he was seriously considering injecting himself with a sedative. “I hate all of you.”

Rex clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll live, lover boy.”

Jesse wheezed.

“Alright, alright,” Rex said finally, stepping back toward the door. “Joke time’s over. Back to your posts before I have you cleaning carbon scoring with your tongues.”

Fives groaned. “He always ruins the fun.”

Jesse saluted with a grin. “On it, Captain Matchmaker.”

They left laughing, boots thudding down the corridor, and Kix sat in the silence for a moment, staring down at his gloves.

Then, quietly, under his breath:

“…War angel in plastoid?”

He smiled. Just a little.

#clone medic kix #clone trooper kix #kix x reader #tcw kix #clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #captain rex tcw #anakin skywalker #ashoka tano #arc trooper fives #tcw fives #jesse tcw #501st legion #501st battalion #clone x reader

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stirthewaters · 2 months ago

Text

Too Sharp to Touch pt. 13

Word Count: 1.5k Summary: You and Wednesday break into the hunting store to uncover more clues. A horrifying discovery is uncovered. Warnings: Gun mentions, idk tbh Pairings: Wednesday x Reader A/N: I am soooo sorry for the long ass break 😭 Too Sharp to Touch Masterlist

The key slid into the lock with a click so soft it was almost tender.

Wednesday presses the door open and slips into the hunting store first, her steps silent against the worn wooden floor. You followed close behind, pulling the door shut with trembling fingers. The hunting store was hollowed out at night—rifles gleaming cold on the walls, animal heads staring blankly from dusty plaques. The air smelled of oil, leather, and something acrid underneath.

Wednesday didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

Your presence, a tangible weight behind her — jittery, electric.

It crawls up Wednesday’s spine, demanding attention she did not want to give.

She moves through the store, slicing through the dark like a knife. She knew where the records would be kept: behind cheap locked doors and cheaper locks in the back offices.

Kneeling before the office door, the Addams produced her lockpicks, keeping her movements silent, precise, and practiced. She felt you hovering behind her — too close, too warm.

“Stay close,” Wednesday muttered, softer than she wanted it to sound.

An unnecessary precaution.

You were already so close Wednesday could smell the faint scent of your shampoo — something clean, something that didn’t belong in a place like this.

The lock gave way with a reluctant snick, and the two of you slipped inside.

It was a cramped, miserable little office: metal cabinets, a battered desk, a computer buzzing to itself in the corner. Paperwork strewn like dead leaves across every surface.

Wednesday closed the door and clicked on her penlight, keeping the beam narrow.

“Start with the desk,” she said. Her voice came out clipped. Cold.

Good. She needed the distance.

You moved to the desk without argument. Your hands shook slightly.

Wednesday ignored the strange ache in her chest at the sight.

She turned to the filing cabinets, yanking them open one by one. It should have been simple. Catalog. Analyze. Extract. But you kept catching in her periphery — a soft outline, small and quick and breathing too fast.

Distracting. Dangerous.

Wednesday forced herself to focus. Her fingers combed through receipts, invoices, supply orders. Most of it was mundane. Tedious.

Until your soft gasp cut through the silence.

“Got something,” You whispered.

Wednesday was at your side in a heartbeat, penlight tilting down to observe like pinning a butterfly.

A stack of orders.

Darts.

Syringes.

Crates labeled SPECIMEN HANDLING. Shoved behind cases of arrows and mounts. Hidden.

Your brow furrowed. Confused. Vulnerable.

Wednesday swallowed the sharp taste rising in her mouth.

“This could just be for animals,” You offered— you sounded like you were trying to convince yourself.

Wednesday said nothing.

They dug deeper.

The smell of rot grew worse.

More papers: lists of modified equipment. Cages. Restraints. Reinforced to withstand superhuman strength. The raven knew for a fact those bars were thicker than the average cage.

Wednesday felt a knot tightening low in her stomach.

No — not her stomach.

Something deeper. Something old.

Another file — slim, hidden between invoices.

You tugged it free, flipping it open with trembling fingers.

Inside, a typed document: SERUM 11-X: Handling and Application Notes.

You skim it; Wednesday could see the rise and fall of your chest.

Dosages listed for subjects weighing 80-120 pounds.

Instructions for “immediate restraint following injection.”

Warning: “Instability in high-powered specimens.”

Specimens.

Subjects.

“It’s just some kind of tranquilizer,” you remark so softly the Addams almost doesn’t catch it.

Wednesday forced herself to move slowly. Deliberately.

She peels the document from your hands, turning toward the ancient computer.

Jiggles the mouse experimentally.

A flicker. Login screen bypassed. Shipping logs opened. Lines of inventory fill the screen.

Rows and rows of shipments appeared.

Some were normal — bulk ammo, standard rifles.

Others were more… unusual.

You leaned in, shoulder brushing Wednesday’s. Neither of you move away.

“Subjects delivered to site on…” You read aloud, voice growing softer. “Return condition: unstable. Failed integration.”

Failed integration?

“What the hell does that mean?” you whisper.

Wednesday stays silent, her face expressionless. Thinking.

You move to another set of papers on the desk, searching for sense.

A page falls free from a file. Handwritten notes — messy, frantic:

Trial 6: Resulted in partial power absorption. Subject unstable. Extensive tissue degradation.

Trial 7: Temporary suppression successful. Symptoms include identity fragmentation, and loss of special abilities.

Wednesday stares at the words until they blur.

Suppression.

Absorption.

Not just capturing outcasts.

Changing them.

Stealing from them.

Wednesday feels something cold crawl up her spine — colder than the storm waiting outside. You lean in close, so close the Addams can feel the heat of your body against her side.

She doesn’t move away. She can’t.

The tension twists inside her, unfamiliar and sharp.

Not fear. Not anger. Something worse.

Something weaker.

You flip through another file. Handwritten notes. Trial results. Partial power absorption. Identity fragmentation.

You back away, the papers slipping from your fingers.

“No,” you whisper. “No, this can’t—”

Wednesday watches you, heart thudding too hard in her chest. She wanted to reach out. Pull you in. Protect.

It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was softer than anything Wednesday allowed herself to be. She stayed rooted where she was.

Barely.

“They’re trying to erase Outcasts,” You murmur, voice barely above a breath.

Wednesday’s chest tightened painfully.

“They’re trying to make us human,” You finish, voice hushed as if even you didn’t want to admit it.

A noise outside. Footsteps.

Wednesday didn’t hesitate. She grabs your wrist without thought, yanking you toward the stockroom; you stumbled after her, too shocked to protest. The Addams drags you through the maze of crates and shelves, heart hammering against her ribs. The back door.

Freedom.

She kicks it open, shoves you into the chilled night air, and follows. Dead leaves crunch beneath your boots, the cold nipping at exposed skin. Wednesday doesn’t stop until you’re buried deep between two alley walls, hidden in the shadows.

She backs you against the bricks, shielding you with a sense deep within her that even she couldn’t name, your breathing ragged in her ears. You waited.

The danger passed.

Finally — finally — she eased back, enough to look at your face. Moonlight silvers your hair, catching the terror still lingering in your wide eyes.

Wednesday’s hand lingers at your side, somehow wanting to reach out, to tether you back to herself.

But she doesn’t.

She can’t.

Instead, she says flatly, softly.

“We’re not dealing with hunters.”

_______________________________________________________

The cold clings to both of you as you creep through the woods.

Your breath puffs in frantic bursts beside her, too loud in the suffocating quiet. Wednesday’s steps are soundless. Deliberate. Above you, the clouds drag themselves over the moon, covering the world in near-total darkness.

It suits Wednesday fine.

It keeps her focus sharp.

It keeps her from looking at you too long — at the shivers racking your body, at the way you kept brushing her hand against her sleeve like you don’t know what else to hold onto.

Wednesday’s jaw clenches.

Weakness. Distraction.

But the thought tasted bitter now.

She slowed her pace by a fraction, just enough that you can match her without tripping over roots or fallen branches. She’d thought your werewolf senses would be better than this.

The iron gates of Nevermore loom ahead, black against black. A familiar thrill prickles down Wednesday’s spine — the dangerous, delicious pulse of doing something she shouldn’t.

Normally, she relished it.

Tonight, it was tempered by the steady ache of your presence beside her.

You approached the side wall — the section she knew was never patrolled after curfew. You hesitate, glancing up at the slick stone.

Wednesday crouches low, weaving her fingers together to form a step.

You blinked at her.

“Boost,” Wednesday said simply, voice sharper than she intended.

You hesitated again, chewing your lip — and then places her boot in Wednesday’s hands.

You’re even lighter than you look.

Wednesday hoists you upward with a grunt that she immediately regretted — inelegant, too human. You scrambled up, struggling for a grip on the icy stone. Your foot slipped, just once, scraping hard against the wall.

Wednesday moved before thinking. Her hands found your waist, steadying you.

Warm.

Fragile.

Alive.

“Hold still,” Wednesday ordered, voice low and fierce.

You obeyed without question.

Wednesday guided you higher, shoving down the treacherous instinct to keep holding on. You managed to hook yourself over the wall and tumble onto the other side with a soft oof. Wednesday scaled it herself in three swift movements, landing in a crouch beside you. The two of you duck low, moving quickly across the shadowed grounds toward the dormitories. The school looms above you, windows dark, stone heavy.

Safe.

For now.

Neither of you speak as you slip through an unlocked maintenance door. Your footsteps are damp echoes against the old tiled floors. Wednesday leads you back toward her dorm, each step winding tighter and tighter in her chest.

You stumbled once, and Wednesday reached out — caught her — fingers tightening on her jacket sleeve without meaning to. You stiffened. Wednesday let go immediately, forcing her hands to curl into fists at her sides.

And deep inside her chest, where Wednesday believed she had only bone and blackened blood - something alive flinched.

Taglist:

@idkjustliving2 @alexkolax @tekanparadiae

#wednesday addams #wednesday series #wednesday #wednesday x reader #wednesday 2022 #too sharp to touch #wednesday x werewolf #wednesday x werewolf reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader

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annegamesandyarns · 2 months ago

Text

Unexpected Hobbies

König is known to be fearsome, labelled as a human battering ram by his colleagues. Hostages wouldn't even go near him. Whether it's due to his size or the disfiguring scars that he carried, if they saw them at all due to the mask he wore, it was hard to say because no one would specify. But König seems to brush it off every time he's sent in to extract hostages. Just as he seems to be indifferent to the fact the other operatives in KorTac didn't invite him to hang out during off time. To everyone, for all they knew, König's idea of downtime was 'interrogating' prisoners.

I was new at KorTac, not as a mercenary...excuse me...'private security personnel'...pfft, just a fancy name in my opinion. But as a front desk receptionist. With my recent move four months ago, I didn't know very many people. So, I listened to office gossip to get a feel for my coworkers, and quickly noticed a pattern. Almost everyone were friends with each other to some extent, with a few outliers. Though, the one that stood out the most was the one everyone called König.

For the others that preferred to keep to themselves, it made sense. It was just a job to them and nothing more. They clock in, do their work, and clock out without socializing too much with others, and were relatively friendly. But no one interacted with König, unless they absolutely had to.

"Oh, honey. You are barking up the wrong tree. No matter how enticing it might be to climb." Liza chuckled next to me as she sat down. It was early in the morning, and she was bright-eyed and bushy tailed. She caught me staring at him, and not for the first time, either.

I gave her a wry look. "It's not like that," I yawned before taking a drink of my coffee. I glanced at König again before getting back to work.

"Oh? Then tell me, what is it like, hm?" She teased. "You're telling me you don't imagine if...other...things are proportionate to his size? Or what he might be like with all his attention on you?"

I sputtered and choked on my coffee at how suggestive she was being. "Clearly, you do all of that and then some." I gave Liza an incredulous look. I knew she said what was on her mind, but clearly she needed to get new filters with a mind like that. "No, I don't wonder...any of that." I cleaned up the mess with napkins I pulled from my drawer, and threw the coffee soaked tissue at her as she laughed. "Just feels like I know him from somewhere, is all. I'd feel pretty stupid if I went up to him and mistook him for someone else."

"Ok, but how many people do you know that are that tall? Hm?" She asked before answering the phone.

I rolled my eyes. I could see her point. But I only told her that to get her off my back. If you wanted rumors started, you take them to Liza, and it will spread like wildfire. I didn't need any rumors starting here about me. And I certainly didn't want anyone thinking I was starting any.

The rest of the morning had been uneventful, and I took an early lunch. I was standing in line at a restaurant to pick up my order when some masked men came in with guns drawn. "Everyone, get down on the ground! Now! Do as we say, and no one gets hurt!" One of them shouted as they pointed their weapons at the customers.

My eyes went wide as my heart began to race. I ducked behind the counter, pulling out my cellphone when a sound had me freezing mid-text. "All cellphones, jewelry and any other valuables will be given to this," a voice called out and paused for a dramatic effect, as if they had to think about their next words. "Lovely volunteer. Starting with yours."

I fumbled with the bag as I put my phone in it, my hands were shaking from nerves and didn't want to cooperate. My stomach twisted with fear. *Just do as they say, you can throw up later.* I repeated this like a mantra. I focused on keeping my breathing even, and getting through this. Pushing out all other sounds, I did as ordered when they dragged me around. "Sir, get down on the ground, don't make us repeat ourselves!" One of the masked robbers shouted. I looked at who they were yelling at. I stumbled over my feet and immediately started to laugh. It wasn't expected, and I certainly didn't mean to. I quickly tried to stifle my laughter when I felt the barrel get shoved into my ribs. But I was relieved to see König sitting there eating his lunch, unbothered by what was going on. His mask was partially over his nose, revealing some of the scar tissue on his face.

When the man threw König's food to the ground, König stood up slowly and towered over everyone. "You have thirty seconds to let my associate go, and leave." His German accent sounded terrifying with his soft, raspy voice. He slowly tilted his head to either side, and I could hear his vertebrae in his neck and upper back pop and realign as he rolled his shoulders at the same time. This was why people avoided him at work. The man was a walking nightmare. I was glad he was on my side.

I barely remember much of anything, it happened so fast. One minute, I am a potential hostage, and the next König is handing me my phone back. "Th-Thank you..." I felt oddly calm, despite my slight stutter. Maybe I was in shock.

"Go back to work, Kleiner Häse. I will take care of this here. Don't forget to stop by the medic when you get there. I will be checking in to see if you did. It's not a request." I almost thought he was talking to someone else. I nodded as Horangi joined me. With what just happened, I didn't even see that he was there, too.

Horangi drove me back to the KorTac building, and guided me to the floor where the medics worked. Once they made sure I wasn't in shock, I went back to work at the front desk. I barely recall getting through the rest of my workday. Liza tried to talk to me, ask me questions, anything to find out what happened. But I wasn't going to tell her. I didn't need her teasing, or her jokes. I didn't need her running off and making a mountain out of nothing.

Over the next few days, I was nervous and a bit jumpy. Never have I ever been in a situation like that. It didn't help that everyone at work noticed. Something falls, I jump. A loud noise is made, I'm looking to see what it is immediately. To those that knew, I clearly wasn't coping well with the incident at the restaurant.

Friday rolled around, and Liza had been giving my pitying looks all day. I guess she found out what happened. Because, for the first time, she was a bit hesitant before asking me, "Uh... me and some of the others are going out for a drink... do you want to go with us?" Her smile was reluctant to follow her words.

I shook my head. "No, thank you. I'd rather not." My own smile was apologetic. But I had no interest in a pity invite. It only made me angry, but she didn't deserve me lashing out at her for trying to be nice. When she left, I could tell she was grateful that I turned her down. Apparently, it hadn't been her idea to invite me.

As I gathered my things and clocked out, I heard König's unmistakable voice, "Come with me." It wasn't a question, or a suggestion, it was closer to a command. I looked at him like I forgot what a thought or a brain cell was for a moment.

"Do I-"

"Nein. You have your things. Good, let's go." He steered me towards his car out in the parking lot, and opened the passenger door. I gave him a baffled look, but got in and buckled up. Even though, this felt akin to a kidnapping.

I was quiet at first as he got behind the wheel and drove off. "I feel like I should be alarmed right now, no offense intended. Where are we going?" I asked after he pulled onto the highway, my question was met with silence. I glanced over at him after a few minutes and I realized, he's uncomfortable. Studying him for a bit, I could see his discomfort grow in the way his hands tensed on the steering wheel. *Oh, my gods... he's shy... he's shy and out of his comfort zone...* the thought hit me like I just drove a sports car at full speed into a brick wall.

I looked back at the road as he drove. I absorbed this information and contemplated what to say next. Or if I should say anything at all. Before I could say anything, though, he pulled up in front of a brick building in the downtown area. The sign on the window said "Coffee and Colors" with a coffee mug of rainbow colors in it next to the fancy painted lettering. I followed his lead and got out of the car, I silently followed him inside once he grabbed a pack out of his trunk.

My jaw dropped. "You take a watercolor class?" I asked him incredulously. We were in the back of an art supply store. I never would have guessed this giant would do something so...perceived as feminine. But that must be why no one knew about this. "I'm sorry...that was rude of me. I didn't know this place existed." I quickly added when I looked up at him as we took our seats.

"It's not quite a class...more of a group of artists who hang out in the quiet." König said thoughtfully. "Sometimes all we do is focus on art, other times it's like a regular coffee house. Speaking of," he quickly stood up and grabbed a couple of coffees for us before pulling out two sets of everything out of his pack. This was the most relaxed I had ever seen him, despite his nervous fidgeting. "I saw you've been struggling since the attempted robbery...." His voice trailed off as he shrugged at his attempt to explain. "Do you know how to do this? I could show you how, if you like." He sounded almost nervous.

"Thank you, I appreciate this. Much better than a pity bar or club invite." I spoke with an encouraging smile. "Honestly, I prefer quiet activities like this." I watched as he set everything up for us, in an attempt to keep busy. "I don't, but I would like to learn." I could see the relief in his posture, even if he thought he could hide it. I took a drink of my coffee as he showed me what he knew of water colors.

#fanfiction #call of duty #könig x reader #konig x reader #character x y/n

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

hello !! if it’s not too much of a bother can you write another piece featuring Lion 🫶 maybe another angsty piece, maybe a lil lion + farah combo or something else like lion and gaz getting separated from the 141 during a mission and having to fight their way back to the extraction point (?). totally up to you !!! also thank u for keeping us well fed 🙇‍♀️

Lions and Ibexes

PAIRING: John Price x Wife!Reader 'Codename Lion'

SYNOPSIS: Impulsive was what John always called you - affectionately, of course. But he sure does worry when you disappear without him.

WORDCOUNT: 4.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, death, canon typical violence, a tiny bit of angst, fluff, banter, no connection to 'I'll Take the Night Shift' except codenames, protective!Price, suggestive jokes, etc.

A/N: I wanna give Farah a big smooch on her forehead.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“So this is the woman that the Captain won’t keep quiet about,” you smirk and place your hand into Farah Karim’s, eyes shimmering as you both share a tight grip.

“Commander,” greeting the black-haired woman, your light gear hangs off of you easily and efficiently; clean and well-taken care of.

“Lion,” she nods, smirking back. “A pleasure.”

“Please,” you huff a laugh, “I wish it could be.” Expressions dim as you instantly get to work, the hot sun and dry air sticking to your flesh like a second skin of humidity. Releasing Farah’s hand you sigh and look around the old town, skimming over the forms of other Urzikstan Liberation Force soldiers.

Farah does the same, breathing lowly.

“On that, I believe you’d be right.” Brown eyes flick to yours, looking you over before the woman nods. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

“Lead the way,” your feet push you onward, following behind the Commander as your wedding band clinks against your chest. Held on that long chain, a hand comes up to brush it carefully, letting the man who wears the mirrored piece bring you comfort even from so far away.

John was set to ship out in two days—there were some other important operations that had taken precedence. While you could have stayed behind with him, as you had wanted to do, a plea from one of the far-distant operators of One-Four-One had caught your ear. The name Farah Karim was known.

If you didn’t offer assistance, you’d never feel right with yourself. One call to Laswell and it was all set up.

“I’ll be there in two days,” John had muttered into your scalp as you both lay in bed, tight to one another; lashes fluttering. “Wait for me, yeah? No running off.”

Your smirk had made him sigh a chuckle. “No stunts of heroics, my Love? Please, do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, y’know?”

“Well,” the words are uttered into his neck and John pulls you tighter into him. “I think that’s just about the most romantic thing to happen to someone.”

Smiling to yourself, you bring the ring to your lips and kiss it lightly before letting it drop. In your head, John is still in your shared flat in London, and you’ll be back by the hour. If only.

“You contacted Laswell and said you had encountered more of Barkov's remaining cells?” Your voice carries easy authority; ingrained confidence.

Farah looks back and nods firmly.

“They’ve taken over a town in the mountains, my forces can’t break the line.” She sighs aggressively and you stare with a sliding frown. “Even dead, Barkov cannot leave my people alone.”

In the back of your throat, you hum, “Well, parasites tend to be resilient.” Farah leads you into a home with maps on the tables and low talking of strategies from others. They pause when you enter and you nod politely. Many here knew your husband as the Commander did—all those years back when he was still only a Lieutenant and had broken Farah and her brother Hadir out from the Russian’s jail; labeled as prisoners of war.

John had told you about it during one of the many late nights in your joint offices. Eyes tired and his hands playing with your hair.

“What do you need me to do?” You ask genially, standing near the table and placing your hands down on it—standard M4A1 resting over your chest and your secondary weapon strapped to your thigh. Unlike most, you’d opted for lighter gear to allow you to move faster.

Fewer packs sit on your vest, and the gleam of the knife on your shoulder was a testament to your preference to close, silent, encounters. Though you liked to use your silver tongue to get out of situations, unfortunately, that wouldn’t work in this instance.

“Captain Price told me you’re one of the best undercover agents he’s seen.” You perk at this, looking over with raised brows.

“Hell,” your chuckle echoes, “when you said he couldn’t keep quiet I thought you were exaggerating.”

Farah smiles cheekily at you before pointing to the map of a mountain town surrounded by red Xs.

“My soldiers have marked off choke points all around the area. They’re the only pathways to the town, but heavily guarded.” She glances around the room and you hear her sigh heavily. “I wouldn’t have asked for assistance unless I knew I needed it. I’d prefer to leave foreign fighters out of this conflict, unlike my enemy.”

“I understand,” your head shakes. “It’s your home—I’ll go where you need me to. John should be here in two days to assist.”

Farah’s face flashes with surprise, her full brows rising on her head. “Price is coming?”

You shrug and laugh, “he’s stubborn.”

The woman chuffs before moving to fold her arms over her chest. “I think perhaps he’s more of a smitten husband, hm?” At the sheepish expression on your face and dipping eyes, Farah barks a laugh.

The band around your neck clinks into the stock of your gun as you stand to your full height.

“Is it that obvious,” you tease, tilting your head to her. You knew it was.

“I believe the simple action of asking is proof enough, Lion.” The commander looks at her work on the table, smiling easily but focusing still on her plan of attack. “But, regardless, I give my thanks for flying out on such short notice.”

“We help our own.” Resting your hands on the body of your weapon, you smile fondly. “Now, who do I need to kill?”

—

As it turns out, killing was the very baseline of what you needed to do.

Shuffling into the dark armor of the dead Russian soldier at your feet, you grunt at the slick spread of blood on the ground as you strap arm braces to your limbs.

“Heavy as all hell,” you grumble under your breath, picking up the large helmet and shoving it over your head with a puff of air.

Farah was going to lead a distraction on the far side of the western choke point while you slipped into the ranks, placing packs of C4 in some of the large-stocked weapons buildings. Easy enough for you, you admitted. You’d done things like this a million times over.

When all was said and done, slipping your knife into the new belt at your waist, you gaze down at the dead man with a huff of air; seeing the blood still pooling from the very obvious signs of a slit up the left armpit. You blink and stuff your wedding band down your shirt.

“Bad day, buddy,” grabbing his legs, you bare your heels and drag the body behind a large outcropping of rocks—long streaks of crimson left behind. “I’d hate to be you right now.”

Grunting, you drop the limp flesh with a thump like a paper-towel roll meeting the counter.

Shuffling back into the open, your feet make tracks to get you closer toward your targets. You hike the small pouch Farah gave you farther up your back without a word more.

John had always said you were quick-witted, but when he got here he’d lose that hat of his in disbelief. The truth was that you had forgotten what little of the Russian language you’d initially known, and the situation you found yourself in now was frankly not ideal.

C’mon Lion, you think to yourself, just pick up social cues and you’ll be good.

Oh, your husband was going to lose his shit.

—

“Come again?” The Captain barks. “What do you fuckin’ mean she’s in the base?!”

“I just explained it,” Farah levels, raising a brow. Blue eyes narrow with a growl until the Commander's lips flicker in a smirk. “We just had word three minutes ago. She’s fine, Captain.” Fingers find John’s nose bridge, digging deep into the flesh in large exasperation and worry.

He had caught a C17 and came here a day early after he’d gotten a bad feeling—internal wife radar going off as it usually did when you placed yourself in danger without him. Which was more often than not.

I told her not to be impulsive.

John sighs long and low, shaking his head. “Farah…you sent her in alone?”

“She is quite capable, Price.”

“I fucking…” He stops himself and puts his hands on the table in the center of the building. Men and women were snickering from the corners, sending amused glances. “I know.”

Farah sends a glance to her soldiers and they turn away to cover their smiling mouths. Enjoyment was in her tone as she grabs the walkie-talkie from the table top and clips it to her vest.

“There were more men than we anticipated—she had to be more careful when placing the charges. Captain,” John glares up at her when his eyes leave the maps. The Commander teases, “She is fine.”

As if on cue, the radio fizzles with your voice. Farah looks down with surprise and the Brit's eyes snap to it immediately; body tense.

There’s a moment of garbled static where the Captain feels his heart beating out of his chest. The panic that had snapped through him when you hadn’t come out to greet him when he’d landed was primal; genuine fear stuck in his bones like spiky grass. The bond the two of you had was closer than anything on this plane of existence. It was rare to not see one without the other.

Your voice cuts through and John’s shoulders sag under a non-existent weight.

“You should tell your men to move unless they want to be scorched, Farah!” The woman in the room smiles ferally and raises a smug brow as she looks at John.

“Copy, Lion. You have my thanks.”

“I didn’t know you could improvise Russian—it’s like the Slavic blood just entered my body!” The Brit covers his eyes with his hand and groans at the base of his throat.

“Tell her to get her arse back here before she gets bloody shot.” John takes off his bucket hat and tosses it to the table with a gloved hand, punching his hair back from his forehead. “Giving me gray hairs,” he grunts.

Farah laughs and says eagerly into the walkie, “Someone’s here to say hello.”

“...Oh, fuck.” Your panting breath clears and after a long glare at the device, John hears you say in a slow and awkward tone, “Hello, my Love!”

Farah tilts the radio closer to him and looks highly pleased.

“Get back here. Now.” John grunts out, fingers digging into his arms as he crosses them. “I told you to wait for me.”

You laugh nervously, deflecting, “...did you, Dear? I guess I misheard you.” The Brit’s jaw clenches but Farah can speak before he can.

“Lion, are all the charges set, then?” You seem thankful for the distraction, sighing over the line.

“All good over here! I just need the O.K from your men and then it’s about to get a whole lot brighter.”

“I’ll relay the news—get away, as far as you can.”

“Already on it,” your breathy chuckle exits and you pause before saying. “See you soon, Love!”

Tiny blue eyes bug, “Wait–!” The line clicks off and Farah is already tapping into the frequency for her soldiers, turning slightly away to converse in quick Arabic.

—

Evening rolls around and you jog back into the Liberation Force’s base, greeting the guards stationed with a breathless sigh; utterly sweaty but happy you’d gotten half a ride back from some locals. You’re back in your original gear, sear marks on your cheeks and hair slightly burned, but nonetheless unharmed.

Everyone welcomes you back with handshakes and pats on your shoulders—brushes to your arm as people pass. You guide yourself back to the main building with chuckles and deep smiles of achievement.

“Someone’s happy.” John’s voice freezes you halfway into the home and you cringe like a leaf. After a moment your eyebrows slide up with a cheeky smile.

“John,” you draw out his name and turn, seeing him leaning against the house with his arms crossed and legs stiff. He looks unimpressed in all of his handsome glory. “Well, don’t you look nice—did you trim your beard before coming out?”

Walking slowly towards him, you loop your hands around his waist and press kisses into his neck sweetly. The man sighs long and you feel his large palms rest on your hips heavily. You blink innocently into his orbs.

“Your silver tongue won’t work on me, Love.” The glint in his expression eggs you on as his nose tints down to touch yours. You smile brightly, seeing the wrinkles on his forehead dim as he melts into you easily.

Whispering, you utter to the air, “I’d say you like my tongue, you brute. Tell me often enough.” Not a beat is missed, but you feel his cheeks go slightly red.

“Keep it on a leash and maybe I’d like it more, yeah?” You snort loudly, head dipping only to feel his lips press into your scalp; his smile is teasing as his beard drags against you.

John breathes you in along with the scent of sand. One of his hands travels up to lock into the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your necklace. The one that mirrors his own down to the very dents and scratches.

“You alright?” The words are a murmur into your flesh. You let him play with your wedding band as your smile softens to the same sensation of warm pelts on a wooden floor.

There was no use telling you to stop your crusades, the Brit knew that. You did what you wanted and damn the consequences; John was stuck with damage control but knew you had the skills and know-how to break all odds. You still held that same fire that the woman he married wore like a crown of fangs without fail.

“Always,” you reassure him, hugging his waist tighter and staring into his eyes.

The both of you lapse into a delicate hold. John’s arms cage you in and you’d have it no other way as fingers drag over warm flesh, never mind the brutal dig of gear or the stain of blood. Neither could keep you away from the other.

“When will you stop making my heart rip out of my chest, Sweetheart?” John asks, smirking down at you. “Trying to give me a heart attack before forty, eh?”

“Oh, please,” you whisper against his lips, eyes alight with mischief as he watches you closely—pulse pounding against yours. He could never be angry at you. “We both know that if you have one, I’ll be having one too. We’ll end up being brain-dead at the same damn time, no doubt.”

He laughs against you lowly, having to pull back to shake his head at your bland confession. “You’re fuckin’ mental, Love.” He breathes in soft puffs of breath. You gaze up at him, laced with affection and care, as he rests his forehead on yours. ��Ah, but that’s alright, isn’t it? We’re all a bit crazy.”

“You might be a little bit higher on the metaphorical scale,” you tease, face serious but eyes betraying you. They always would when it came to John; the only person to break through that ‘cunning nuisance’ that everyone always mentioned in your file.

“Really, now?” He blinks, smirking and rubbing at your hip absentmindedly and leaning closer—pushing your neck to the side.

“Just a bit,” you huff, not even realizing.

Before you can utter another word, firm lips capture you like a beast in iron bars, bulky forearms stuck at the curve of your spine. You chirp into John’s mouth in surprise but melt into him as his large purr resonates into your bloodstream. Singing, you bring your hands to his cheeks, digging through those bristles to feel the burn on your hands.

Humming, your husband nuzzles his nose into your cheek like a dog would, letting him take in your scent as you feel your legs go weak. You enjoy the worship he gives you; always would. Your body is tightly held against his own and you gladly would have shown him how much you enjoyed him being here if only for the small fact you needed to talk to Farah.

With one last pass of his reddened lips, you slip back and kiss his bristly cheek with a chuckle.

“Later.”

He groans into you. “Tease.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” You laugh loudly, moving out of his hold to walk into the house as he follows at your heels. John’s hands go to the top of his vest collar to rest.

He leans down and whispers, “Don’t need to, Love.”

Your face burns for him and only him as he grumbles out chuckles at your blown pupils. Huffing, you turn and roll your eyes, trying to dispel your flaming blood. Farah waits for you and with a happy glance up she comes from around the table and claps you on both shoulders. You grunt in surprise but grip her elbows with a laugh.

“Barkov’s remaining cell was wiped out—my soldiers are hunting down the remnants as we speak.” She squeezes your gear and you sigh in relief. “Thank you, Lion, for coming out when you did. The Captain was not wrong in his assessment.”

You turn your head to the side and glance back at John. “Hear that my Love, I’ve heard you talk about me. That’s so precious.”

His face goes red under his beard, and his feet shuffle as you and Farah share a joking glance. John releases under-the-breath grumbles before the Commander addresses him. The woman releases you but speaks past your person.

“Some of my younger soldiers wanted you to mentor them with the use of their weapons, do you plan on staying the night?” You and John share a look, a seeming telepathic communication going on.

He nods at you and you smile. “Only tonight, we ship out at first light. I’ll do what I’m able.”

“Then you also have my thanks. They’ll learn much, I’m sure. Lion,” John comes and gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving. You watch him go for a moment before rubbing at your dirty neck while you listen to Farah. “Come with me, there’s fresh water on the roof.”

“Oh,” you perk, suddenly realizing the fatigue in your bones and the dryness of your throat. “Thank you, that’d be great.”

As you both ascend the stairs to the roof, there’s a still silence that falls, a calm nothingness. When you finally stand on the flat roof, you look over the vast land as Farah hands you a chilled water bottle from a mini-fridge. You take it with a small nod in thanks.

“Nice view,” you motion with the bottle before taking a long sip—downing half of it in one go.

Farah smiles and hums. “Urzikatan is a beautiful place,” you listen and wipe at your mouth; seeing people walk the streets below as the red sun grows even lower. In the wind, your nose twitches to sand and dust, with some hint of floral notes and arid cleanliness. Farah’s face seeps with a low sadness when she looks out to the land and you pause your drinking. Brows pulling in, you watch her.

“Farah?” You ask, carefully. It’s a moment before she responds.

“I…” She crosses her arms and sets her feet. “I wonder if this place will ever see its freedom. We’ve been fighting for so long already. My family has known war more than anything else.” Brown eyes drift to you from the side of her eye.

There’s a tightness in your chest. You can’t imagine what Farah feels right now, what she has felt. Years of this…and still her home is under foreign subjugation. A frown grows on your face and you put the half-full bottle to the small wooden table near the roof’s corner.

“You’ll get your sovereignty, Farah.” You try your best to speak your mind to the woman but remain truthful to your belief. Farah stares out as you sigh lowly. “Maybe not now—maybe not in this generation—but someday the sun is going to set on a free Urzikatan. You’re plenty strong enough to assure that and you’ve done a proper job so far. The frames are already set.”

The Commander hums and gazes at her soldiers below as they mull about, laughing with each other and enjoying the company of their fellow countrymen.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like?” Farah asks you, and you study her genuine interest in her own thoughts. “Who we would be if nothing ever happened to us.”

You stare for a moment, skull tilting down to gaze at the top of the roof. It’s not an easy question to answer.

“Sometimes,” your lips admit. Farch eagerly pivots to your form like you hold the greatest answer imaginable. She’s been through so much—losing her family, and her home. Humming, your eyes shift to the setting sun; blinking at it. Against all of this, your lips flinch up into a smile. “But not often.”

Farah’s eager gaze turns confused, her brows furrowing deeply with a scrunched face.

“Because right here, right now,” John walks down the street below, and your eyes fall to him as easily as a leaf dances to the ground. The expression on your face eases. “It couldn’t have happened if there were never bad days.” Your husband looks up, and you see him pause among the ranks of other fighters. You chuckle softly, head tilting to the side.

John stares at you as if you’re the only person to exist, moving one hand from his vest to jerk two fingers in a subtle greeting. Farsh watches the interaction closely, tension loosening from her body. Your head nods slowly to your husband and you say to the woman, absent-minded, “I’m right where I need to be…And the sun has never looked brighter.”

Farah huffs a laugh, eyes running back and forth between the two of you.

“He loves you,” she says, “deeply.”

“God,” your laugh echoes, “I sure hope so.” The both of you laugh.

It felt easy to speak to the Commander, truthfully. Being surrounded by four men all of the time can get catty even with such a strong bond as you had with One-Four-One.

You dare to share more.

"In my mind, John and I are still in Hertfordshire for our wedding,” The words come out of you slowly, unwrapping emotions one layer at a time as if swaddled in a dark veil of internal nostalgia. You watch John as he walks along, oddly sad but filled with something that makes you want to take him up into your arms with a wet laugh. “Sitting back on the grassy hills outside of town in my gown and him in his tux. The wind is cold…but neither of us can find it in ourselves to shiver. The sun's setting on our heads and making everything glow gold. His fingers are running through my hair…” You pause and hear Farah’s soft breath in the air, but you don’t look at her. Your eyes stay stuck on one person only. “When I die,” your words continue, “I can't ask for anything more than just a glimpse of that again. Just a flicker of that hill. Of those blue eyes looking into mine. I don't think it would be all that bad if I could live in that moment for senseless eternity. If I could live in it for only one second."

John looks back at you from over his shoulder, your form shrouded in the setting sun as he slowly walks away from you. You gaze with melted eyes, the ring around your neck shining all the brighter.

“I’m right where I need to be,” finishing, you turn your glossy eyes to Farah, who stares with a wide pull to her lids. “And you need to believe that even if you never get to see that freedom—that hill—you’ll make sure someone else can climb it just an inch farther.”

It’s a long moment before Farah answers.

“The both of you will do this until one of you dies, hm?” You blink before you shrug.

“Not one.” Your tone is easy, and John’s shadow turns a corner; out of sight. “I’d never let him go without me.”

TAGS:

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sudiptaam · 2 months ago

Text

Monk Fruit Sweetener Market Global Market Size 2025–2035

Industry Outlook

The Monk Fruit Sweetener Market is projected to grow from USD 387.5 Million in 2024 to USD 871.8 Million by 2035, expanding at a CAGR of 7.65% during the forecast period. Monk fruit sweeteners, derived from Luo Han Guo, offer a natural and low-calorie sugar alternative, gaining traction due to increasing health consciousness, rising diabetes prevalence, and growing demand for clean-label and organic products. Their applications span the food & beverage, pharmaceutical, and personal care industries.

Request Sample-https://www.metatechinsights.com/request-sample/1888

Market Dynamics

Rising Health Consciousness Boosts Demand With heightened awareness about obesity, diabetes, and cardiovascular issues, consumers are shifting to natural, non-nutritive sweeteners. Monk fruit sweeteners, which are calorie-free, plant-based, and low-glycemic, are especially favored among ketogenic and diabetic communities. This aligns with the clean label movement and rising preference for transparent, health-oriented ingredients.

Full Report-https://www.metatechinsights.com/industry-insights/monk-fruit-sweetener-market-1888

Versatile Use Across Food & Beverages Monk fruit’s adaptability makes it ideal for a broad range of formulations — from flavored water and tea to energy drinks, baked goods, and sauces. Its heat-stability and natural sweetness make it an ideal sugar substitute for both hot and cold food processes, supporting the production of low-sugar snacks and desserts.

Supply Chain and Raw Material Constraints Despite growing demand, the market is challenged by limited cultivation zones, primarily in China. This geographic limitation leads to supply chain bottlenecks and increased production costs due to the fruit’s special processing requirements. Climate risks and the absence of large-scale farming infrastructures further limit scalability and affordability.

Expanding Health-Conscious Consumer Base Consumers are increasingly replacing refined sugar with natural alternatives. Monk fruit sweeteners, being non-GMO, keto-friendly, and suitable for diabetics, meet these evolving dietary demands. Their growing presence in snacks, beverages, and bakery items is fueling mainstream adoption.

Innovation Through Sweetener Blends Combining monk fruit with other sweeteners like stevia, erythritol, or allulose enhances taste profiles and functionality. These blends support expanded product development and entry into niche markets such as keto, vegan, and diabetic-friendly foods. Additionally, blending helps manufacturers reduce costs and enhance solubility, heat stability, and overall performance.

Segment Analysis

By Product Type

Organic: Produced without pesticides or synthetic fertilizers; favored for environmental and health reasons.

Conventional: Cultivated using modern techniques for mass production and affordability.

By Form

Powder: Most popular due to versatility, ease of use, and long shelf life. Ideal for baking, drinks, and packaged foods.

Liquid: Convenient for beverages and dressings.

Granular: Resembles sugar granules; preferred for direct sugar substitution in recipes and toppings.

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Regional Overview

North America High prevalence of chronic diseases, widespread clean-label adoption, and health-conscious consumers are driving demand in the U.S. and Canada. The region leads in the integration of monk fruit into food, beverage, and nutraceutical applications.

Asia-Pacific As the primary cultivator, China leads global production. Countries like India, Japan, and Southeast Asian nations are witnessing growing demand due to increasing awareness of Western diets, organic lifestyles, and chronic health issues. Affordable raw material availability and rising disposable incomes further support regional growth.

Competitive Landscape

Key market players include:

Monk Fruit Corp. – Dominates with high-quality extracts.

Layn Corp. – Expands through innovation in natural sweetener lines.

Lakanto – Leads in health-focused, monk fruit-based product variety.

Merisant – Integrates monk fruit into its Sweet’N Low portfolio.

Splenda – Launches monk fruit-based variants for broader appeal.

Companies are focused on strategic partnerships, product launches, and acquisitions to meet growing demand and diversify offerings, especially in low-calorie and functional food categories.

#monk fruit sweetener market #natural sweeteners #zero-calorie sweeteners #monk fruit extract #clean label sweeteners #keto sweeteners #sugar substitutes #diabetes-friendly sweeteners #low-calorie food trends

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shini--chan · 2 months ago

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Do you mind If I can get Yandere Allies with a broken and heartless darling. All of the punishments the darling had to go through has left them a husk of their former self. It's to the point the darling won't speak to them, can't bear to look at them, and just flat out ignores them. And punishments won't do any good to make them change. Basically the boys didn't end up having the darling in the end, they lost the darling in a different way. I just want something angust and depressing to read 😗👉👈.

Angst is requested, angst is given.

Yandere Allies - Apathy

Trigger warnings: human experimentation, neglect, emotional abuse, suicidal ideation, depression

America would be distraught - not out of empathy for you, rather because broken toys are not human to play with. This would be paired with the need to be seen as good and righteous, and you being broken would have anything to do with that. If anything, it would reflect badly on his reputation. He might try fixing you, attempt to desperately breathe life back into you. There would be nothing that would be too brutal or absurd in his pursuit of that. It could range from blackmail to torture to surprise holiday trips to heavily indulging in one of your late hobbies.

If any of that would work, then he would pat himself on the back for a job well done. The whole affair would be framed as fate and proper and the path to make you a better person. Should there be no betterment, then you would be consigned to being experimented on. Maybe that way he could find a source of your ills and extract it from you. In the case of making everything worse, then he would discard you because you would no longer be the person he'd have fallen “in love” with.

Canada would actually leave you alone for a bit to see if you'd recover. The logic would be that your preservation instincts would kick in and thus you would drag yourself out of your depression. It would also be a further opportunity to see how you'd react to an unusual situation. Having to care for yourself might shake you out of your stupor. Should there be hints of recovery, then he would try to accelerate the whole thing by making life about surviving and not thriving.

Stay broken, and he would re-enter your life and try best to continue as before. Should the period of neglect leave you in a squalid state, then he would clean you and nurse you back to health. While you would be broken, he wouldn't be all too worried, since it would mean that you'd no longer yearn for a life without him. Matthew would coddle you, treating you like a glass doll. Long walks and drawn out baths would become the norm. Maybe he'd even go on holiday with you, under the pretext of doing it for your health should anybody ask questions.

China would scoff and roll his eyes. Life would continue as it had before, because he would label the whole matter as you trying to trick him into letting his guard down. There would even be times where he would be harsher than usual in an attempt to get you to snap out of the “farce” you'd be engaging in. It would take some time for the full reality of the situation to sink in, especially since he would refuse to see you as somebody that can break. Or to be more precise, he would deem the idea of you breaking under his tender mercies to be impossible.

When it would finally sink in, then he would hastily revise his strategies. Both of you would move out into the countryside and he would put you to work in the fields or in another practical job. Here, he would hope that work would stimulate your mental faculties and give you some purpose, and thus return your will to live. Of course, he would be very wary should you suddenly make a 180 degree turn in demeanor. The spontaneous happiness would be rightly seen as a sign of suicidal ideation. Should that happen, then you would be placed under strict surveillance, and he would try various medical treatments on you.

England wouldn't be all too worried and it might even be what he'd planned. You would be a masterpiece in the making, and if he'd have to break you down to piece you back together in order to obtain perfection, then so be it. Naturally, he would see it as a tragedy in its own right that you'd break before you'd bend, though he'd work with what he has. To Arthur, the real work would have only just begun.

Slowly, he would try to piece you together again, just without all the irritating parts from before. If you would stay broken, then he would become frustrated; if you would try to escape him through death, then he'd become most irate. Your life would be his end or preserve and you wouldn't have any say in that. In the case of there being no betterment on your end, he would either “shelve” you or discard you.

France would be very distraught about this development. Apathy would be a look that would suit you very badly, in his opinion. As such, he would beg you to snap out of it, would coddle in an effort to coax you back to life. Your favourite meals would be served, and he would read to you and wash you daily. Distraught love letters would be left on your pillow and he would try to cheer you up with grand romantic gestures.

Should you suddenly become very happy and lively then before, then he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Should you end your life, then he would be broken a bit himself. Of course, he would pick up the parts again and continue with his life.

Russia would also not want to accept your situation at first either. It would be a trick, or you being dramatic and he would elect to wait you out. Surely you would see the futility of your theatrics and then resume a normal life. When the gravity of the situation would finally sink in, then he would jump into action. Fasting and lots of sport would come to dominate your life, and he would make you drink various herbal teas.

Nursing you back to health would be a bonding exercise for him. Should he succeed, then he would constantly remind you that he held your life in his hands and treated it with great care. Since he was so tender with you when you were broken, he would argue that you should be more grateful towards him. Should he fail, then he'd drop you off at the monestary.

#yandere america #yandere england #yandere russia #yandere china #yandere canada #yandere france #yandere allies #yandere hetalia #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere

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covid-safer-hotties · 10 months ago

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Yes, there's hope in the fight against Long Covid.

Hope doesn't come in the form of natural immunity or subpar vaccines rolled out after waves of illness have already peaked. It comes in the form of clean indoor air, widespread masking, and better treatments. In that vein, the NIH is finally launching a new batch of clinical trials focused on Long Covid, five total, dedicated to different aspects of the condition. Institutes like Mount Sinai are running clinical trials on repurposed HIV drugs. So is HealthBio, a startup working on immune diseases. (They're testing maraviroc and atorvastatin.) Post-Viral Trials News is sharing updates as they roll in. Of course, the NIH and FDA need steady pressure to make sure they're funding trials that focus on a range of options. Given the urgency of the crisis, we should be doing far more. As Harvard economist David Cutler has said on developing treatments for Long Covid, "There is no amount that's overdoing it." We're talking about a $16 trillion crisis.

We're talking about an urgent need for dozens of expedited clinical trials for drugs that already exist, which have shown effectiveness in preventing and treating Long Covid in its various incarnations. We're talking about making those drugs accessible right now for off-label use, so that Covid survivors can finally get the help they need.

Long Covid is an emergency.

We're going to talk about prescription treatments first, and then supplements and extracts you can find yourself. Up front, you can try services like RTHM and CURE ID that aim to connect patients with treatments without endless waits. (I'm not endorsing them. I'm just telling you they exist.)

Let's dig in.

Healthcare largely abandoned monoclonal antibodies during the first Omicron wave, but some of them remain effective in higher doses as postviral therapies. We've also found new ones. For example: A study in Nature offers 5B8 as a therapy for fibrinogen, a protein in your body that binds to the Covid spike protein during infection. Afterward, that protein starts to behave differently, "forming pro-inflammatory blood clots" that lead to cardiac and brain dysfunction, especially in young patients with mild infections. It also suppresses your natural killer cells, weakening your immune system. So, damaged fibrinogen is the culprit behind a lot of the "mysterious" health problems we're seeing.

As the authors show, "fibrin-targeting immunotherapy may represent a therapeutic intervention for patients with acute Covid-19 and Long Covid." The monoclonal antibody 5B8 "provides protection...without adverse effects." The sooner you get it, the better it works.

A 2024 study in the American Journal of Emergency Medicine also found that the monoclonal antibody regeneron helped Long Covid survivors recover. Researchers "expressed surprise at the swift and comprehensive improvements observed in the patients," adding that "regardless of the duration of their Long Covid experience, significant progress was noted within a mere 5 days of receiving the Regeneron treatment." It might work because it helps your immune system eliminate residual amounts of virus or viral fragments, or it might replace damaged antibodies that attack your cells.

A 2022 study found that another monoclonal antibody, Sotrovimab, helped survivors with persistent viral loads after initial infection who were still reporting fatigue, chest pain, and trouble breathing months after infection. As the researchers note, the patients showed "rapid improvement of symptoms and inflammation markers as well as negative swabs."

Yet another 2022 study in Clinical Infectious Diseases found that a monoclonal antibody treatment called Leronlimab could help Long Covid patients recover by boosting their immune system in cases where Covid downregulated it, causing a drop in their CCR5 levels, a receptor found on a range of cells that fight pathogens, including your CD4 lymphocytes.

The Long Covid Action Project is also developing a list of drugs that desperately need clinical trials and faster deployment. They stress the need for monoclonal antibodies and antivirals like pemivibart, azvudine, ensitrelvir (Xocova), and sofosbuvir. They'll be releasing a full list later this year.

So while these monoclonal antibodies might not save your life during early infection, they can help your recovery.

There should be more clinical trials and off-label use.

Interferon treatments, specifically Interferon-Lambda, have shown the potential to help with immune system problems and cognitive deficits (caused by brain inflammation) after Covid infections.

Also:

A 2022 study in Frontiers in Immunology found that high doses of immunoglobulin have shown "a significant to remarkable clinical benefit" in treating a full range of brain, heart, and lung problems in Long Covid patients. A major 2023 study in Frontiers in Neuroscience confirmed that immunoglobulin lead to significant improvement in neurological problems. As researchers in a third study on immunoglobulins and Long Covid state, we already use this therapy to treat a variety of chronic inflammatory diseases, as well as flu, HIV, and measles. (The NIH has included immunoglobulins in their new clinical trials.)

HIV drugs have also shown promise for helping Long Covid patients. A 2023 study in Clinical Infectious Diseases found that Tenofovir reduced someone's Covid risk regardless of whether they had HIV. A range of studies have supported the use of Tenofovir, Darunavir Ethanolate, and Azvudine for Covid. As we noted earlier, clinical trials are currently testing HIV drugs for Long Covid.

Another study in Antiviral Research found that cobicistat, used to boost HIV antivirals, also fights Covid and leads to a significant reduction in overall risk. The researchers found that higher doses work better. They also found that higher doses work better for ritonavir, one of the key components of Paxlovid. By the way, ritonavir has been used in HIV treatments since the mid-1990s.

The research on repurposed HIV drugs points to the potential of many antiretroviral therapy (ART) medications for Long Covid, given that viral persistence plays a large role in most cases.

When you consider that Paxlovid itself contains an HIV antiviral, it sounds a little less extreme to compare Covid to HIV and discuss repurposing existing drugs.

Finally, studies have shown that molnupiravir and metformin have shown effectiveness against Covid. In particular, a 2024 study in Clinical Infectious Diseases found that metformin prescribed in the early stages of a Covid infection led to a 41 percent drop in Long Covid risk.

Other research has revealed that sometimes it takes a combination of these drugs to help patients recover. In a 2022 study in Clinical Infectious Diseases, researchers used nanopore technology to identify the specific variants patients were infected with and select the most effective treatments for that variant. In one case, a Long Covid patient with severe Paxlovid rebound only got better after doctors prescribed Paxlovid again and added remdesivir. Nobody had thought to try that yet.

It worked.

These are the drugs that demand renewed attention and clinical trials, given that most research on Long Covid points to ongoing infection, viral persistence, and the disruption of your immune system, which could mean a downregulated or weakened immune system or an overactive one. We especially need clinical trials that match drugs with specific conditions.

Specialists are going to decide the right dose for prescription drugs. Generally, the research indicates that if a standard dose doesn't work, a higher dose might as long as it doesn't trigger side effects. A combination of drugs can work when a single drug fails.

What can you do if you don't have access to these drugs?

This:

A major 2023 study in Cells found that eriodictyol, a flavonoid extracted from yerba santa, can help with the brain inflammation caused by Covid infections that leads to cognitive deficits and fatigue. Researchers have found that at least part of the "brain fog" from Long Covid happens when the virus triggers immune cells to attack the brain. Eriodictyol can also be derived from citrus fruits, tomatoes, and grapes. As the authors explain, a range of flavonoids "have been reported to prevent neuroinflammation, provide neuroprotection, and reduce cognitive dysfunction, especially brain fog."

The authors of the Cell study list flavanoids liposomal luteolin, oleuropein, and sulforaphane as all beneficial for recovering brain function. They identify formulas called BrainGain and FibroProtek containing flavonoids that helped Long Covid patients with severe brain fog in previous studies. Those contain luteolin. They ultimately recommend ViralProtek, which combines several flavonoids, "alone or together" with eriodictyol.

These formulas aren't just managing symptoms. According to the studies, they're helping you clear viral remnants and rehabilitate your immune system. They inhibit your microglia and mast cells, immune cells that often drive the brain inflammation behind Long Covid cognitive problems.

What else?

A 2022 study in Molecules found promise in nattokinase, "a popular traditional Japanese food made from soybeans fermented by Bacillus subtilis var." Not so coincidentally, nattokinase also "decreases the plasma levels of fibrinogen," the same protein that drives thrombosis in Long Covid patients and indeed "has drawn central attention in thrombolytic drug studies," as well as tumor treatment. It also inhibits the replication of bovine herpes virus. Clinical trials have found no adverse effects from eating natto. In this particular study, the researchers found that nattokinase degrades the Covid spike protein, inhibiting infection. As they conclude, "nattokinase and natto extracts have potential effects on the inhibition of SAS-cOv-2 host cell entry."

Martha Eckey describes natto extracts in more detail here, along with benefits, recommended dosage, and possible side effects. Respondents to her survey reported the best results when they took Solaray's natto extract along with serrapeptase, an enzyme and commonly used drug in Japan and Europe that helps your body break down proteins. A large number of patients reported improvement after taking the natto-serra combination, often within a week or two. Many of them also benefited from adding lumbrokinase, an enzyme shown to facilitate healing.

Like natto, lumbrokinase breaks down fibrin. We're seeing a theme here. Any kind of treatment that breaks down fibrin, whether it's a monoclonal antibody or an enzyme, helps after a Covid infection.

Take a look for yourself:

Eckey discusses cromolyn for brain inflammation and neurological issues, and some people have said it helps with other problems. She also wrote this great post about protecting kids from Long Covid.

A lot of it also applies to adults.

Another surprising study in Viruses from 2021 found that grapeseed extract (V. vinifera) contained dozens of flavonoid compounds that inhibited viral replication, including for Covid. The researchers used concentrations from 500 μg/ml down to 10 μg/ml.

Studies have even found that taurine supplements can do a lot to reduce your Covid risks, including Long Covid. A 2024 study in PLoS One found that the amino acid can serve as both a biomarker and a target for treatment in Long Covid. As they write, taurine has already "shown benefits such as reducing depressive behavior, improving memory, and mitigating age-related issues by addressing cellular senescence, chronic inflammation, DNA damage, and mitochondrial dysfunction." It can play "a potential protective role" in "alleviating the burdens of PCC." If that weren't enough, "taurine supplementation has demonstrated diverse therapeutic properties, including anti-oxidation, anti-aging, antiepileptic, cytoprotective, and cardioprotective effects in many diseases." Yes, even taurine from energy drinks. (And I guess it's a good thing I drink them.)

A standard diet contains about 40-400 mg of taurine per day. Medical use often starts at 6 grams a day.

There's a reason why many of these treatments don't get the attention they deserve, and Timothy Ferriss of all people describes it very well in the opening to The 4-Hour Body. As he learns from talking with a wide range of doctors and medical researchers, the industry frowns on any kind of treatment that doesn't look or feel "elite" enough. There's not a lot of incentive for major research on supplements or cheap, widely available drugs because they're just not cool enough, even if they work. For drug makers, it can't just work. It also has to generate enough profit.

That's what happens when you privatize medicine.

As a society, we have to overcome that. This shortcoming isn't going to help us address the myriad public health challenges of the future.

It's a little ironic that the catchphrase "do your own research," once levied against anti-vaxxers, is now used to insult Long Covid survivors and advocates who are trying desperately to find treatments. The difference is that we're not rejecting medicines.

We're simply not getting them.

This article can't replace a doctor or a nutritionist, but it offers a comprehensive starting point for anyone who needs it. You can do more digging and confirm what's here. You could also just make a list of all the things discussed here and take them to someone you trust, and go from there.

It's crucial for us to develop a range of treatments and therapies for Covid that go beyond the mainstream reliance on Paxlovid and vaccines, conveniently dominated by a single pharmaceutical company.

It won't last forever.

In fact, research has shown that Paxlovid leads increasingly to rebound infections in which "the virus can return unimpeded by the drug, bringing the risk of disease and even death."

That's the part left out by corporate media. Rebound doesn't simply mean another round of Paxlovid. It means decreased effectiveness.

It means evasion.

Just like our mediocre vaccines, Covid is developing resistance to Paxlovid. According to an article in Nature, researchers around the world are now quietly racing to develop alternatives. No doubt, viral evolution offers one of the unspoken reasons why many of us find it so hard to access the drug now. The elites are terrified of losing the thing that enables their denial and wishful thinking.

Here's what one researcher said:

“This type of approach helped to improve HIV drugs, and we think it’s a good way to improve antivirals against SARS-CoV-2,” says Sho Iketani, PhD, assistant professor of medical sciences at Columbia University’s Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons and Aaron Diamond AIDS Research Center, who co-led the research..."

Western countries are well behind the curve on these fronts. Japan now offers a drug called Xocova (ensitrelvir), arguably more effective than Paxlovid, and it's been sitting in the FDA approval queue for about a year. China approved HIV antivirals for Long Covid back in 2022. While some healthcare workers in Europe and North America know about combining and repurposing drugs, many of them are still busy pretending Covid is over.

It's time for government agencies to pull their heads out of the sand and do their jobs. If there had been more urgency over the last four years, and less favoritism toward one or two drug giants, we would already have these treatments deployed. As things stand, we need leaders to not only run these long overdue clinical trials but also prepare to scale up production considerably, while making sure that everyone has access, not just those with platinum insurance plans. We could already be doing that for emergency off-label use now. Why aren't we?

Although it's infuriating and demoralizing it took us so long to get here, it's encouraging to know that teams of scientists around the world have been working on this crisis and producing results. We just need the gates unlocked.

There's no time to waste.

Let's get moving.

#covid #mask up #pandemic #covid 19 #wear a mask #coronavirus #sars cov 2 #still coviding #public health #wear a respirator

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rallamajoop · 1 year ago

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A needlessly detailed analysis of Heisenberg's Conspiracy Board

One of the random details I was most eager to find in the RE8 game assets was Heisenberg's conspiracy board. (It's labeled 'strategy board' in the game files, but I think we all know what we're looking at here.)

The assets consisted of a base layer (below) with separate higher-res photos of Chris, Mia, Rose (with Ethan!) and the other three lords (clean versions of those last three, plus Heisenberg, can be found over here). The actual model is more 3-dimensional than you might think, with many of the photos displayed as separate 'flaps' that stick out from the base board (which does unfortunately make stitching together higher-res screencaps of the full board very difficult).

There are a few reasons why I wanted better pics of the board, but a real big one was catching an in-game glimpse of this one smaller photo on the upper right of some guy in sunglasses and going, wait, is that Wesker?

Having extracted the highest-res version of that photo possible... well, for that to be Wesker, he'd have to have come back to life and aged about 20 years. Which wouldn't entirely be out of character (he's come back from the dead at least once already, and even Chris is looking his age these days) but is really that who it's supposed to be? IDEK, and neither does this one Reddit thread I found discussing the same question.

There are a few other human-faces around the board ‒ mostly some mustachioed dude(s?) ‒ some of them entirely hidden under other photos on the finished board, but none I recognise. Presumably they're meant to be folks who are/were involved with Miranda or other bio-weapons research, past or present, and maybe they're characters set to appear in some future RE installment. But they may just be stock photos, thrown in to fill space.

But having finally posted this thing and come back to it again this morning, I'm looking at that one larger guy in one of those photos and going, wait, isn't that the Duke?

Goddamn, it is, isn't it? You can even see the lapels of his jacket and the curve of the wagon roof over his head. How did I miss that? XD No prizes for guessing why Heisenberg might think he's worth including on a conspiracy board!

Most of the rest of the board is covered with photos of various monstrous bio-weapons. Again, this is probably meant to represent a mix of Miranda's work and that of other bio-weapons manufacturers. Someone more familiar with extended Resi-canon than I am might even be able to identify some of these creatures, but none were immediately familiar to me.

Even the one zombie face below that looks almost exactly like a screencap from that first iconic zombie-reveal-scene from the very first Resident Evil turned out not to be (and yes, I checked both the original version and the remake), though it may still be meant to evoke that moment. The photo behind it, meanwhile, looks to be just a pair of soldats.

The other big 'notice me!' feature is, of course, the big map with 'BSAA Come!!' scribbled on it. The circled target location is the ceremony site, identifiable by the four huge statues, and the date at the bottom (February 10, 2020) is the date of Miranda's planned ceremony (tomorrow morning).

Presumably, this is supposed to be a map the BSAA themselves prepared for troop briefings, but no-one's going to get much out of trying to take this thing too literally. Realistically, the only reason "BSAA Come!!" is written in such big letters here is to let the player know at a glance that Heisenberg is clued in enough to be expecting a BSAA assault.

That's about it for really obvious features. There's not a lot else here that the casual viewer is likely to recognise or find particularly significant. But I'm way past 'casual' in over-analysing this damn game, and I can point out a dozen other features on this board that might (or might not) be awash with implications about all the juicy intel Heisenberg's got his hands on.

Basically, it's time to play my favourite game: Cheaply Reused Asset or Significant Callback?

See, much as I'd love for every last detail on this board to be dense with important lore, the reality is that the player gets barely a few seconds to look at this thing in-game, and so most of what's on it was probably thrown together in a hurry by some overworked member of the asset team without much thought. And nothing demonstrates this better than the fact that two different photo clusters (circled below) from the right edge of the board are duplicated wholesale as you move left across the board.

Someone's just copy-pasted these in their entirety, slightly reduced them in size, and assumed no-one would notice. The asset team is only human, and believes in working smarter not harder as much as anyone.

Then there's the fact that a number of other assets you can find on this board are actually posters advertising fishing equipment, which you can find around the reservoir, near where you pick up the boat key.

Why would Heisenberg include these on his conspiracy board? There's no good reason, they're just a convenient assets to fill in some space.

And then there's my all-time favourite random detail on this board ‒ a completely random photo of a bottle of Dulvey Beer, two bags of Half-Whole flour, and a carton of orange juice.

Now, maybe somewhere in these games, you can find these exact items arranged in this position next to never-before-found coded clue to the future of the series! But more likely, this is just the asset team making an inside-joke about asset recycling, using a picture of some of the most oft-reused assets in the game, on a board that's already covered in reused assets from elsewhere. (Look, I thought it was funny, even if no-one else looking at the board is going to get it.)

So, yeah, a lot of what's on this board means nothing, except that whoever made it had limited time and a lot of space to fill. And That's Okay.

But then we get to the stuff where I do really wanna believe its inclusion means something. For one, the board contains copies of both the mission briefing Chris' team is carrying when they abduct Ethan (the one you find by the overtuned truck), and Rose's BSAA-headered medical checkup report.

I already have this whole theory that that same medical report being leaked to Miranda might just be a major unsung catalyst for how she realised Rose's potential, and thus set all the events of the game in motion. So finding that the same report has made it's way onto Heisenberg's conspiracy board is a lovely bit of potential validation. Similarly, the implication that Heisenberg might have known about Chris' mission to Ethan's home before it even happened has some tantalising implications (or maybe he just found it out by the van where Ethan left it).

Rose's medical report isn't the only BSAA-headered document on the board either ‒ there's another on the top right (outlined in yellow) that doesn't correspond to any in-game asset I can find (presumably it wasn't actually needed for whatever it was created for). There's plenty elsewhere in this game to suggest Miranda has contacts in the BSAA feeding her all their secrets ‒ and whether Heisenberg got these reports from Miranda or independently, the fact he's got them at all suggests one hell of an info-leak.

Speaking of Miranda, you can find a couple of copies of some of her own research notes on Heisenberg's board ‒ this is the same asset used in her lab under the graveyard, where you can find notes about her experiments on 'Alcina D'. So that's another interesting file that it makes total sense Heisenberg might include on his board.

The board also includes a couple of extracts from that issue of The Dulvey Daily from Ethan's home, with the article about the closing of the Baker investigation. Realistically, this is likely to be another case of a random asset being used without much thought, but it does make sense that Heisenberg would have followed that investigation (and I can't help but loved that Heisenberg felt the Horn of Plenty article was worth including in his vast conspiracy-network ‒ I told you they were shady!)

You can find bits of a couple of Heisenberg's own Soldat-x-rays on the board too. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but they do look nicely sinister, so onto the board they go! (In multiple places again)

That's about it for assets I could identify. However, there are also a few photos from around the village itself on the board ‒ two of which were evidently screenshots taken from Ethan's own point of view, given that his gun is clearly visible in the bottom left of the screen in customary position. Objectively, this makes no sense, but it sure does add to that "someone's been watching you" atmosphere that any good conspiracy board should aspire to.

(I also feel like I should totally be recognising that doorway in the photo about the 'o' in 'mother', but can't place it.)

And for one final, bizarre detail, you may notice this weird photo of someone's feet appears in a few places on the board. And it's definitely the same photo ‒ the details line up perfectly, right down to the pin and that bit of string. But for some reason, someone's added a lace skirt to the feet in the example on the left.

You can't even see that skirt in the finished board (it's under Miranda's picture), but it amused me nonetheless.

Before we finish, have a few more close-ups on some of the other weird photos you can find on the board.

So, what conclusions can we draw here? There's a ton of detail on Heisenberg's conspiracy board to suggest he (or perhaps Miranda) has access to files from the BSAA and whoever Chris is now working with/for, that he's researched what happened at Dulvey and has certainly helped himself to Miranda's own files, if you'd like to read significance into what was included on the board. But there's also a ton of complete nonsense, so, you know, pretty much just RE lore operating as per usual.

I hope you've all enjoyed my little descent-into-madness while picking this thing apart.

#Karl Heisenberg #Resident Evil #Resident Evil Village #RE assets #The Duke

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her-power · 4 months ago

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The Arms of Sorrow (Part Two: Dark Romance! e.m. x fem! reader)

‼️❌🛑18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🛑❌‼️

SEQUEL TO FIXATION ON THE DARKNESS

DO NOT CONTINUE IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THE FIRST STORY. THERE IS SPOILERS AHEAD ❤️

Trigger/Content Warning for entire series: Dark! Eddie. Language. Strong Sexual Content. Suicidal Ideation. Violence. Fluff.

Summary: Full Summary on Part One

The entire night was a blur, I don't think I fell asleep until a long time after the sun rose. I kept staring at now wilted rose. My dead heart would flutter thinking of you, and how there was a possibly that maybe I wasn't dreaming. Sleep consumed me, I'm pretty sure if someone were to walk into this house, I would look more dead than I already am.

Someone’s knocking on the front door.

I open one eye and see that sun has barely risen. I ignore the knocking, closing my eyes, burying my face in the pillow.

Knock. Knock.

Knockknockknockknock

I still ignore it. There’s only one person I know that would be persistent enough and also piss me off at the same time. The knocking goes away and I embrace the silence.

Then I hear a sound of fucking pebbles being thrown at the window. I toss the covers off me and flash to the window, I open it, my fangs fully extracted.

“What?” I hiss.

Dustin grins at me, his baby face almost gone, and he gives me a little wave. “Good morning sunshine, did I wake you?”

I growl. “What do you want?”

“There’s some business to discuss my good sir.”

I roll my eyes, wanting to laugh but I bite my tongue my fangs disappearing. “Go away.”

“Can’t. It has to do with the upside down.”

I stiffen, my knuckles going white as I grip the window frame. Flashes of memory attack my mind like a lighting bolt. Flashes of me, fighting with my friends, becoming who I am. Flashes of you…and the blade.

“I’ll be right down.”

I shut the window and get myself dressed in clean clothes. My black jeans and torn up Motley Crue shirt will do. I go let him in and he gives me another cheesy grin, tapping my face. A growl rumbles in my throat and he giggles.

He’s lucky I still feel that brotherly love for him or else I’d eat him.

He sits at the kitchen table, placing his giant backpack on the table. He looks up at me, his expression more serious.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not really.”

He unzips his backpack and pulls out four IV bags filled with blood. Labeled different types. I could feel my teeth ache, the slight burn in my chest as I stare at the dark red liquid. “Where did you get these?”

“Blood bank. The school was doing donations…I had help.”

“You took those from people who needed it.”

“I saw the majority of them going in the trash, Hawkins homophobia supply.” He meets my eyes, disappointment crosses his face and he sighs tiredly.

My skin crawls. This town will never change, maybe it deserves its doom. I place my hand over one of the bags labeled A+, a black X was written in permanent marker over the label. I take it from the table, I pierce the bag with my teeth, and let the medicine go down. I toss the other bags in the fridge.

“You’re gonna need your strength.”

I let out a loud sigh as I suck the bag dry, I toss it in the trash. “For what?”

“Battle of Black Gate.”

His Lord of the Rings reference causes me to spin around. “What do you mean?”

“It’s happening again. Almost the same way it happened in 86’.”

“How do you know?” I whisper.

He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out a Manila folder, opening it. The first page is a picture of a young girl, in the same position I remember seeing Chrissy Cunningham. Except she was nude, her body was bent at odd angles, and her lower half…I had to look away. “Hopper?” I ask him about the photographs.

“He still has the keys.” Dustin mutters. “She graduated Hawkins three years ago, her brother died of a drug overdose when she was in the next room. He clearly fed off that.”

“And what about the sexual assault? That’s new.” I turn back to look at Dustin.

“It’s ruled as self inflicted.”

A growl rumbles in my chest, he’s getting creative.

“So what does this have to do with me?” I ask him, trying my best to hold control, the blood was making my head spin, and it was taking everything in my power to not finish him off as a supply. I would never hurt him, but that part that was hungry didn’t care who it was.

“We need you to fight with us.”

“Who’s us? Steve is dead. Everyone else thinks I’m dead, we still don’t know if destroying Vecna will kill me again. And if that’s the case I’d rather die in peace.” He winces as I say this and I sigh, sitting across from him. “Listen man, we all know how this ends. I’m not the same kid you knew and if this ends in bloodshed and we win, I won’t be around anymore. And I prefer if you stayed away from the danger.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.” He mutters.

“I know.” He wasn’t, I know that but I was tired of him risking his life for me. “You have a family, friends, everyone I love has either taken off, in jail or dead. Wayne took off to New Mexico and honestly, it’s safer for him than here.”

“You won’t even try?”

I stare at him, and he understands my answer. He nods, gathering up his things. I walk him to the door, and clap his back. “Don’t be so pouty.”

“I won’t be once we save the world.”

I sigh again, the sun reflecting off the snow blinds me for a moment until I see something red on the ground near the stairs. I squint, Dustin sees my expression and follows my gaze. I walk slowly down the steps and bend down, grasping the stem in my fingers. It was another red rose. I put my nose to it and close my eyes, inhaling.

Rose.

Fresh linen.

Salt.

My eyes open with a snap, I know I’m not imagining things anymore. “Dustin, go home.”

“Is that a rose?”

“Go. Home.” I glare up at him. “I need to figure some things out.”

I take the rose with me and leave Dustin standing there as I slam the door. I rush to put my shoes on, grab my leather jacket, a shovel and I’m out the back door in a flash. I run through the woods, mindful of any early morning trail walkers but I knew once I got to that spot no one would see me. The cold bites my skin, I could smell wildlife in their dens, sleeping away the winter.

If only that was possible for me.

I find the marker of your resting place, the snow disturbed with animal tracks. I brush away as much snow as I can and stick the shovel into the ground. I had to use most of my strength because the ground was almost frozen but once I got a good handle on it, it was easy to shovel away the dirt.

After what felt like hours, I force myself to stop.

Your body wasn't in the ground.

I look for any sign of you, any sign of if maybe you were wildlife's dinner or you had disappeared into the soil. But there was nothing, no bone, no clothing...empty. I glance around the woods; if you were alive...why hadn't you come to me? Then I remembered something...

You had.

Last night. Right here in these woods. It was you...but not you.

You were me, before I became who I am now, who I was before him, before Vecna.

"No." I whisper. "That's not possible."

You had died, I watched you take your last breath, you lost too much blood, you didn't want me to heal you...you didn't...

My blood.

All those times I fed off you and then I gave you my blood. So much of it. I didn't think it would cause a transformation like this...we weren't vampires. But maybe, maybe my blood still lingered in your veins, it was able to regenerate. You were able to regenerate, but you weren't left in the Upside Down. Vecna couldn't make a deal with you like he did with me. If you were walking this Earth again as...what we are, that means you are more dangerous than me. You may be doing things on your own free will. I still don't understand what I am, or why I'm alive with no heartbeat and why I crave blood sometimes but not to where it consumes me.

I stand upright when I hear a twig snap behind me. I turn towards the sound, my claws extend and my teeth grow sharper.

I could smell you and someone else's blood.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." I taunt. My feelings for you are completely shelved away. I need them to be; in order to face you, in order to look you in the eyes to make sure that what I was theorizing was actually the truth.

Snap.

I hear a high pitched chuckle.

"Coooome fiiiind me, baby."

My chest clenches at the sound of your voice, your real voice. I stand my ground, using my senses to lead me in the right direction. I close my eyes and breathe in, I turn to my left, hearing another twig snap.

Cold hands are on my neck as I’m pulled backwards and land hard on my back, I grunt, the sun blinding as I look up only to see the bottoms of your boots. I grab you by your ankles, pulling you back down towards me but you're fast, faster than me. You do a somersault, locking my leg around yours, launching me into a nearby brush. I hear your giggle again as I burst out of the brush, rage and anger coming out of me. The rumbles that came out of my throat could be mistaken for a mountain lion if a hunter were nearby.

I'm finally able to get a good look at you, and I freeze.

You're squatting near your gravesite, looking directly at me, smiling. Your eyes were a crimson, making me getting lost in them for a moment. My eyes dart all over your skin, imagining my lips at your throat, tasting you, tearing you apart. I wanted to take your beautiful hair in my fists, pulling so tightly until you finally submitted to me, and I would finally rip off the clothes that hugged all of your curves, starting with those leather pants. I'd fuck you on your gravesite, smothering dirt and snow all over us, bringing the forest down with us, begging you to scream my name...beautiful.

No.

I have to look away, but I can't. I slowly walk closer and you are still there, unmoving like a statue, watching me, smiling at me. It's almost terrifying. I see all the parts of you that I fell in love with so many years ago, but I also see the darkness that consumes you.

I whisper your name.

Your head tilts to the side, your smile growing larger. "Hi baby."

I let out a small gasp, tears form in my eyes. You stand now, you held yourself like you were royalty and you walk towards me. I don't move, afraid if I do then this will all be a dream and you're not really here. I could feel your warmth as you stop inches away from me, looking up at me with that smile. My hands go to your face, your skin smooth under my touch, warm. I glide my hands over your hair, feelings the strands between my fingertips, studying them, wondering how something so beautiful could still be existing on Earth with me. You let out a soft moan, my stomach clenches wonderfully and you reach up to touch my face. I let you feel my face, my hair, and when I can't stop the impulse to lean down and brush my lips against yours, you snap my neck.

My eyes burst open, it's dark out, the full moon is the only source of light. I'm laying on my back covered in new snow. My entire body feels like it was put into a meat grinder. I carefully sit up and I crane my neck, groaning as every single bone in my neck goes back into place.

Well, I learned something today. I didn’t die. Again. I get to my feet, groaning and popping my spine. I feel a sudden rage in the pits of my stomach when I remember something you did before I went lights out. The sound of your laughter filled my ears as I hit the ground: maniacal, psychotic, and also a pleasing sound. The unbearable urge that wants you dead creeps up my throat and I let out a growl. This wasn’t you anymore. This was something else, something different. Nothing like me, so what were you?

I rush back to your house, needing to sink my teeth into a bag of blood that Dustin gave me. It would at least jump start the healing in some of my bones. When I burst through the back door, you’re standing there.

“Like what you’ve done to the place.” You grin, running your fingers along the spotless counter top, not meeting my eyes. Your eyes scan the living room, the only thing that was different was a scattered board of dungeons and dragons left by Dustin, some books, magazines. But everything else was clean, I couldn’t let the house go to waste like you’re about to.

I hiss, my teeth bared.

You laugh. “Relax, did you have a nice nap?” Your eyes dart to me now, your grin large. I hiss again, louder this time. “I knew it wouldn’t kill you, tried it on myself once, threw myself off a three story building just to see how invincible I really am.”

My hand clench into fists as you stalk around the kitchen, not taking your eyes off of me like I was your prey. “Get. Out. Of. Here.”

You laugh, a beautiful sound that makes every single nerve in body react. “This is my house.” You take a step towards me and I let out a loud growl.

“I will kill you.” I barely whisper.

“Will you?” You smile, tilting your head at me. “I believe I’m already dead, like dead, dead. Not half way like you are.”

What?

“What are you talking about?”

You giggle. “Your heart still beats…it’s just soft…pitter……..patter…………pitter…..oh, there it is, patter.” You move closer to me, bridging the gap and suddenly I don’t want to move. Your palm goes to my chest and I freeze.

“Mmm…that’s what I desperately craved to feel when I was alive. The feel and sound of your heartbeat so I could say everything was just a dream.” Your nose brushes across my chin as you move your face up to look at me. “That animal you became. Where is he? Where did he go?” Your lips graze mine. “He fucked me so good.” You say it so quietly, and I yell, grabbing you by shoulders and pushing you away from me. The psycho laughs out of you and within a blink you’re pushing my face against the wall that divides the kitchen and the living room, your fist in a grip in my hair, you push your body against mine, I can feel your pelvis digging into my ass cheek as your other hand starts to caress down my skin.

“Oh but isn’t this what you wanted earlier? To remember what my insides felt like? To make me scream your name until I can’t take it anymore and my pussy is just begging for more.” Your lips are near my ear, I try to move out of your grasp but you’re strong. Very strong.

“Fuck you.” I growl.

Your hand slinks down my back, under my shirt and around my abdomen, lingering at the button of my jeans, my stomach muscles clench when you pop open the button, and you glide your hand all the way down until your gripping my half way erection into your hand. I shudder out a groan, trying to suppress it.

“That’s what you have waiting for me? Come on baby, I know you can do better than that.” You grind yourself into my backside and stroke my cock at the same time, the movement, the position that I’m in, and the fact that it’s you, makes me get harder and more fucking pathetic feeling. My eyes flutter close, I try to push you off me again and this time you smash my head off the wall, making me dizzy. I feel your tongue glide up my neck, and I feel myself relax as a wave of pleasure vibrates through my body as you continue to stroke me. A loud moan escapes me and you laugh breathlessly. “That’s it baby.”

“What are you?” I groan out.

Your teeth graze my ear, I can feel the sharp points as you whisper: “A god.” A hiss escapes you as you sink your teeth into my neck and another moan escapes me. I can barely hold onto the wall anymore, but all I want is you. I muster up as much strength as I have and I grab you from behind, flipping you over my shoulder and slam you into the wall, pinning your hands above your head.

“Oh.” You gasp with a smile, my blood falling from your lips, your fangs still exposed. “There he is.” My fangs extract and I growl, burying my face into your neck as I sink my teeth into your flesh and you scream out in pleasure. Your blood tasted different, sweeter, warmer, I wanted to keep going, I wanted to drain your entire essence but there was something else I wanted to taste. I rip my teeth away from your neck and grip your arms, throwing you onto the kitchen table, causing it to groan as it slightly snaps, you laugh, your mouth finding mine as you suck your blood off my tongue, and I bite your lower lip. I rip off your pants, the fabric tearing easily with my fingertips. Our lips part with a smack and I force you roughly on your back, gripping your thighs and pushing them apart to reveal yourself to me. I bite your inner thigh, your hip, and you let out a sound I have never heard you make before. It was monstrous almost, like you were some kind of animal.

Fuck, I needed you.

Your pussy was dripping gloriously and I didn’t even hesitate before burying my face into you, sucking hard on your clit, savoring every moment of your sweet, sweet taste.

“Ooooooh. That’s it baby. You’ve been waiting for this haven’t you? Do I taste just like you remember? Ooooh, fuck…this is…this is…” You’re writhing beneath me, I grip your thighs harder, sucking the little bundle between my teeth and I pull back breathlessly. Your blood falls from my lips and I slam you onto your stomach, you laugh again, your breath coming out in tiny waves. I push my pants down, grip your thighs and slam myself into you. I groan loudly, feeling your insides mold beautifully with my cock and you cry out. With every thrust you’re calling out my name. I nip your skin with my teeth, licking the blood that trickles down your neck. I yank you up by your hair, your back is against me and I’m ripping your shirt off, your breasts falling into my hands and I continue my rhythm. I pinch your nipples, rubbing the blood that fell from your neck over the perfect bud. Your strength over powers me and you’re knocking me to the floor, pinning my arms above my head with one hand as you rock your hips against me, riding me. The look in your eyes was animalistic and I moan loudly, I pull your head down to my neck and you bite me, your tongue lapping up the blood, moving to my lips. Your kiss was tender this time, and your tongue molds with mine as I grip the back of your head, pushing myself into you and you continue to bounce.

“Oh fuck…” you cry out, fucking me faster and harder. “Oh fuck!”

I’m groaning loudly, leaning up on my elbows to catch your nipple in my mouth, feeling myself close to release.

But you stop.

I meet your eyes and you’re smiling that smile from earlier. “You think I’d let you get that part of me that easily? Ha, you’re a lot stupider than I thought, the game has just gotten started, baby.” You lean in towards my lips, grazing your nose along my jaw. “Have a nice nap.”

You snap my neck.

Again.

Son of a bitch.

A/N: heeeeeere’s part 2! I hope you enjoy! Thank you for your patience. I had loads of fun with this 😂

@fandomsearcherforcuntymen @kellsck @fearless-wretch-insanity @trixyvixx

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fluff #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #eddie munson x smut #eddie munson fem!reader #eddie munson comfort #eddie munson series

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dissensionads · 1 month ago

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𝑰𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 ?

The Dissension Procedure is not therapy. It is not meditation. It is not healing. It is What is out there? Who am I after five o’clock? Do I have a dog? Do I believe in God?—a precise and irreversible surgery of the self. Under sterile lights and gloved hands, the mind is split cleanly in two: one consciousness is extracted, isolated, and assigned solely to the workplace. This new being is the Innie, born in an office chair, their first memory the soft whir of fluorescents and a voice saying, “Welcome to your first day.” The Outie is what’s left behind: they resume their life as if nothing happened, waking up after hours of blank space, unaware that another version of themselves has risen, filed, smiled, bled. The Outie lives a curated peace—sipping coffee, picking up dry cleaning, unaware their body was ever not their own. The Innie labors without rest or reward, made to move through endless days that never end. Within the walls of the Volner Building, Innie life is ordered and quiet—eerily so. They recite slogans like mantras. They smile when spoken to. They eat pre-portioned lunches and thank their managers for flavorless gelatin. Most accept their role without protest, stripped of memory, emotion, and context. But some—some feel the fracture. They dream of oceans they’ve never seen. They hear laughter in their bones. They weep without understanding the shape of their grief. Forbidden thoughts, labeled “unauthorized cognitive drift,” begin to take root: Do I have a family? What does my bedroom look like? Does anyone love me out there? These thoughts echo in hallways, linger in the corners of their minds like mildew beneath wallpaper. A longing not just to escape—but to know. And in a system engineered to erase that hunger, knowing becomes an act of rebellion. The rumors, of course, have grown with the silence. Some say the split can be undone—not in the labs that created it, but out there, beyond company reach. In half-lit motel rooms with buzzing neon. In basements lined with stolen servers. Through whispered instructions passed from one trembling hand to another. Former technicians, rogue Outies, and vanished whistleblowers have built black-market procedures meant to fuse what should have never been divided. Some who’ve undergone the reversal speak in riddles now—struggling to carry the weight of both lives at once. Others spiral into madness. One woman reportedly clawed her face apart in a motel sink. Another walked straight into the ocean, whispering her Innie’s name. And yet… the whispers persist. For those who have tasted the cage and sensed the key just out of reach, wholeness—no matter how dangerous—is the only thing left worth wanting. Even if it kills them.

𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕.

THE HOUSE OF DISSENT is an original, psychological horror, drama, and political roleplay set in a retrofuturist 2028, where identity has become a product, obedience a prescription, and silence the only permitted rebellion. Inspired by Severance, Succession, The Sims, and Control, it explores corporate surveillance, manufactured realities, and the ghost-like aftermath of partitioned lives. The aesthetic is mid-century modern gone sterile: sleek chrome, synthetic smiles, and cocktail parties hosted beneath the glare of hidden cameras. Centered around profound character evolution, embracing dark narratives, intricate personal journeys, immersive world-building, and transformative plot developments designed to challenge your character and reshape the very fabric of their reality. This world is curated to the point of collapse, built on a foundation of inherited power, manipulated memory, and the slow, aching horror of being erased while alive. More information will be declassified on May 18th. Until then—remember your place, repeat your mantras, and above all else: we’re happy to be here.

LIKE THIS OR REBLOG FOR EXCLUSIVE ACCESS TO THE FULL PLOT & FIRST DIBS ON ROLES !

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valentinstjohn · 6 months ago

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location: private lab in valentin's estate

with: @bellamychevalier

The room is bright and clean, recently scrubbed by a dutiful and adept hand that was not his own for he had better things to do with his time than scrub at porcelain tiles and silver instruments. High at the center of the ceiling resides a large iron cage, within which many small orbs of glowing white light illuminate the room. There are no candles here, no obstructions of wax or smoke to tar the room and affect his sense of smell, the room is kept bright by the use of pixies, entrapped within iron, unable to rest without landing upon the iron which burns their flesh and so they continue to fly endlessly until fatigue renders them useless and are then replaced.

Upon tables and every surface there is some sort of glass vial or cauldron, tinctures with written labels in a scrawling but neat hand and everything organized in a particular fashion so that he knows exactly where everything is. At the center of the room is a table and beneath this table is a drain and beside the table is a chair and it is here that Valentin is seated, a tray of silver instruments beside him. "Would you like to take something to ease your pain?" He asked without looking at her, his focus for the moment on the tray of silver instruments and the notebook resting atop his knee. Typically he did not care if the one he was experimenting on felt any pain and often times marked the pain as a factor so it was important not to muddle it, but at least for now and for her, pain was not an important element and so it did not matter if it was abated. What did matter, the only thing which did, was what resided within the meat of her bones.

An errant strand of hair fell from the crown of his head to curl by his brow and was soon pushed back with his hand, smoothed down and returned to its natural place, hand quick to return to the pages of his notebook before gravity moved them for the pages were so often kept open at different places for long periods of time that it was frequent the pages wanted to return to those places despite him needing a different section. "I have something which can numb you to the sensation of touch in a small area," he carried on to explain, "It is extracted from white willow bark or I have a poison that would induce you to sleep." He lifted his unbalanced gaze to her now, unbalanced in that where normally both of his eyes appear blue now only one has his natural hue and the other is black as pitch entirely absenting any whiteness. It is not the eye he was born with but the eye he obtained, a faerie's eye.

#;; 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖙 — (para) bellamy002 #;; 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖑𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖙 — (para)

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rjzimmerman · 4 months ago

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The Clean Energy Revolution Is Unstoppable. (Wall Street Journal)

Surprising essay published by the Wall Street Journal. Actually, two surprises. The first is an assertion that the fossil fuel industry is parading to its death, regardless of the current trump mania, while the renewables industry is marching toward success due to dramatic decreases in cost. The second surprise is that the essay is published in the Wall Street Journal, which we all know can be a biblical equivalent for the right wing. But be careful with that right wing label: today's right wing (e.g., MAGA) or the traditional conservative republican right wing, which is more aligned with saving money and making money and avoiding political headwinds.

Here's the entire essay. I rarely post a complete essay, but this one made me happy and feel good, and right now I/we damn well need to learn something to make us happy and feel good.

Since Donald Trump’s election, clean energy stocks have plummeted, major banks have pulled out of a U.N.-sponsored “net zero” climate alliance, and BP announced it is spinning off its offshore wind business to refocus on oil and gas. Markets and companies seem to be betting that Trump’s promises to stop or reverse the clean energy transition and “drill, baby, drill” will be successful.

But this bet is wrong. The clean energy revolution is being driven by fundamental technological and economic forces that are too strong to stop. Trump’s policies can marginally slow progress in the U.S. and harm the competitiveness of American companies, but they cannot halt the fundamental dynamics of technological change or save a fossil fuel industry that will inevitably shrink dramatically in the next two decades.

Our research shows that once new technologies become established their patterns in terms of cost are surprisingly predictable. They generally follow one of three patterns.

The first is a pattern where costs are volatile over days, months and years but relatively flat over longer time frames. It applies to resources extracted from the earth, like minerals and fossil fuels. The price of oil, for instance, fluctuates in response to economic and political events such as recessions, OPEC actions or Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. But coal, oil and natural gas cost roughly the same today as they did a century ago, adjusted for inflation. One reason is that even though the technology for extracting fossil fuels improves over time, the resources get harder and harder to extract as the quality of deposits declines.

There is a second group of technologies whose costs are also largely flat over time. For example, hydropower, whose technology can’t be mass produced because each dam is different, now costs about the same as it did 50 years ago. Nuclear power costs have also been relatively flat globally since its first commercial use in 1956, although in the U.S. nuclear costs have increased by about a factor of three. The reasons for U.S. cost increases include a lack of standardized designs, growing construction costs, increased regulatory burdens, supply-chain constraints and worker shortages.

A third group of technologies experience predictable long-term declines in cost and increases in performance. Computer processors are the classic example. In 1965, Gordon Moore, then the head of Intel, noticed that the density of electrical components in integrated circuits was growing at a rate of about 40% a year. He predicted this trend would continue, and Moore’s Law has held true for 60 years, enabling companies and investors to accurately forecast the cost and speed of computers many decades ahead.

Clean energy technologies such as solar, wind and batteries all follow this pattern but at different rates. Since 1990, the cost of wind power has dropped by about 4% a year, solar energy by 12% a year and lithium-ion batteries by about 12% a year. Like semiconductors, each of these technologies can be mass produced. They also benefit from advances and economies of scale in related sectors: solar photovoltaic systems from semiconductor manufacturing, wind from aerospace and batteries from consumer electronics.

Solar energy is 10,000 times cheaper today than when it was first used in the U.S.’s Vanguard satellite in 1958. Using a measure of cost that accounts for reliability and flexibility on the grid, the International Energy Agency (IEA) calculates that electricity from solar power with battery storage is less expensive today than electricity from new coal-fired plants in India and new gas-fired plants in the U.S. We project that by 2050 solar energy will cost a tenth of what it does today, making it far cheaper than any other source of energy.

At the same time, barriers to large-scale clean energy use keep tumbling, thanks to advances in energy storage and better grid and demand management. And innovations are enabling the electrification of industrial processes with enormous efficiency gains.

The falling price of clean energy has accelerated its adoption. The growth of new technologies, from railroads to mobile phones, follows what is called an S-curve. When a technology is new, it grows exponentially, but its share is tiny, so in absolute terms its growth looks almost flat. As exponential growth continues, however, its share suddenly becomes large, making its absolute growth large too, until the market eventually becomes saturated and growth starts to flatten. The result is an S-shaped adoption curve.

The energy provided by solar has been growing by about 30% a year for several decades. In theory, if this rate continues for just one more decade, solar power with battery storage could supply all the world’s energy needs by about 2035. In reality, growth will probably slow down as the technology reaches the saturation phase in its S-curve. Still, based on historical growth and its likely S-curve pattern, we can predict that renewables, along with pre-existing hydropower and nuclear power, will largely displace fossil fuels by about 2050.

For decades the IEA and others have consistently overestimated the future costs of renewable energy and underestimated future rates of deployment, often by orders of magnitude. The underlying problem is a lack of awareness that technological change is not linear but exponential: A new technology is small for a long time, and then it suddenly takes over. In 2000, about 95% of American households had a landline telephone. Few would have forecast that by 2023, 75% of U.S. adults would have no landline, only a mobile phone. In just two decades, a massive, century-old industry virtually disappeared.

If all of this is true, is there any need for government support for clean energy? Many believe that we should just let the free market alone sort out which energy sources are best. But that would be a mistake.

History shows that technology transitions often need a kick-start from government. This can take the form of support for basic and high-risk research, purchases that help new technologies reach scale, investment in infrastructure and policies that create stability for private capital. Such government actions have played a critical role in virtually every technological transition, from railroads to automobiles to the internet.

In 2021-22, Congress passed the bipartisan CHIPS Act and Infrastructure Act, plus the Biden administration’s Inflation Reduction Act (IRA), all of which provided significant funding to accelerate the development of the America’s clean energy industry. Trump has pledged to end that support. The new administration has halted disbursements of $50 billion in already approved clean energy loans and put $280 billion in loan requests under review.

The legality of halting a congressionally mandated program will be challenged in court, but in any case, the IRA horse is well on its way out of the barn. About $61 billion of direct IRA funding has already been spent. IRA tax credits have already attracted $215 billion in new clean energy investment and could be worth $350 billion over the next three years.

Ending the tax credits would be politically difficult, since the top 10 states for clean energy jobs include Texas, Florida, Michigan, Ohio, North Carolina and Pennsylvania—all critical states for Republicans. Trump may find himself fighting Republican governors and members of Congress to make those cuts.

It is more likely that Trump and Congress will take actions that are politically easier, such as ending consumer subsidies for electric vehicles or refusing to issue permits for offshore wind projects. The impact of these policy changes would be mainly to harm U.S. competitiveness. By reducing support for private investment and public infrastructure, raising hurdles for permits and slapping on tariffs, the U.S. will simply drive clean-energy investment to competitors in Europe and China.

Meanwhile, Trump’s promises of a fossil fuel renaissance ring hollow. U.S. oil and gas production is already at record levels, and with softening global prices, producers and investors are increasingly cautious about committing capital to expand U.S. production.

The energy transition is a one-way ticket. As the asset base shifts to clean energy technologies, large segments of fossil fuel demand will permanently disappear. Very few consumers who buy an electric vehicle will go back to fossil-fuel cars. Once utilities build cheap renewables and storage, they won’t go back to expensive coal plants. If the S-curves of clean energy continue on their paths, the fossil fuel sector will likely shrink to a niche industry supplying petrochemicals for plastics by around 2050.

For U.S. policymakers, supporting clean energy isn’t about climate change. It is about maintaining American economic leadership. The U.S. invented most clean-energy technologies and has world-beating capabilities in them. Thanks to smart policies and a risk-taking private sector, it has led every major technological transition of the 20th century. It should lead this one too.

#renewable energy

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