#THE ENTIRE DOMINION WAR?

[thesearchforbluejello]

Why does St*r Trek Pic*rd feel like Trek for people who don't like Trek.

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Guizhong (don't mind me re-dropping this with the fixed ones, shh)

[youngpettyqueen]

I have officially gotten to the point where ive made an entire private discord server just so I can write out and organize an entire starship full of OCs and all their plotlines and arcs and dynamics because im just going to write my own Star Trek show apparently

[regina-cordium]

The problem with this dw au is that now I’m thinking of a Star Trek au, bc that is ultimately the sci-fi show my heart belongs to

[urdreamydoodles]

MARK VARIANTS X FEM!READER

You are his lover in all universes, and in these you have joined him—what is it like to be his queen?

Characters: Sinister Mark, Mohawk Mark, No Goggles Mark, Prisoner Mark, Sheisty Mark, Bald Mark, Goggles Mark, Viltrum Mark & Omni-Mark

Sinister Mark / Capevincible

- You are his moon in a sky perpetually painted in blood. The only thing he does not destroy. He moves through the world like a blade cutting through flesh, carving out civilizations with the efficiency of a butcher, and yet, when he looks at you, there is something like reverence in his eyes. His love is not gentle; it is a possession, a claiming, a cruel kind of worship. He touches you with the same hands that have torn bodies apart, and the contrast is almost poetic—his violence does not reach you, but it is there, always simmering beneath his skin.

- When he kisses you, it is not an act of love but of conquest. His lips press against yours with the force of a war drum, his teeth scrape, his tongue invades. He wants you breathless, drowning in him, a willing offering on the altar of his dominion. There is no hesitation in his touch, no uncertainty. He owns you, and you do not resist, because resistance is meaningless. He is Capevincible. He could rip apart the cosmos itself if it dared to keep you from him.

- The nights are a battlefield. Sheets twisted like bodies in the aftermath of war, your throat hoarse from gasping his name, from the unbearable weight of his body pressing into yours, pinning you down as if he fears you might vanish into the ether. He does not love with tenderness—he loves with hunger, with ruin. There is no act between you that does not leave its mark, no moment of intimacy that does not feel like surviving something primal. And yet, you cannot imagine belonging to anyone else.

- He whispers terrible things against your skin in the dark, the same way he speaks before executing his enemies. His breath is hot, his voice like the edge of a blade, telling you how beautiful you look when you break, how you are the only thing he will never destroy. And you believe him, because even monsters can have their treasures, their obsessions. You are the one thing he will not lose, and that means he will kill for you, destroy for you, burn entire worlds if you so much as shiver.

- There is a moment, sometimes, when you wonder what you have become. You were once human, once fragile, once bound by mortal morality. But now you sit beside a god of carnage, watching the universe bend to his will. You no longer flinch at the screams, no longer care for the lives snuffed out like candles in a storm. He has made you his Queen, and a Queen does not weep for the conquered. You were beautiful before, but now? Now, you are terrifying.

- And perhaps, that is why he loves you. Because in the end, you are not just his lover—you are his legacy. When the stars finally collapse under the weight of his brutality, when there is nothing left but blood and ruin, he knows you will still be there, standing beside him, unshaken. Because you are his, and there is no fate more absolute than that.

Mohawk Mark / Movincihawk

- He is laughter in the midst of carnage, grinning wide as his fists tear through bodies like they are made of paper. He does not kill with duty, nor with hatred. He kills because it is fun. And you? You are the only thing he keeps intact. His beautiful little trophy, the only thing he does not mock, the only thing he does not break. He calls you gorgeous like it’s an insult, mine like it’s a death sentence. And it is. No one touches what belongs to him and lives.

- He does not worship you—no, that is not his way. But he adores you in his own twisted fashion, in the way he pulls you into his lap as blood pools around his feet, in the way he tilts your chin up to kiss you even as his hands are still warm from crushing a skull. He loves you the way a wildfire loves a forest—devouring, consuming, leaving nothing untouched. You burn under his attention, and you love every second of it.

- The bed is not a sanctuary; it is just another battlefield. He is relentless, insatiable, merciless in his desire for you. His strength is overwhelming, his need all-consuming. He does not ask permission—he takes, he claims, he leaves bruises like war paint on your skin. And you let him, because there is no greater thrill than surrendering to a force that could end you, yet chooses to keep you instead.

- He talks while he fucks you, taunting, teasing, mocking. What, can’t take it? And here I thought you were my little Queen. Pathetic. But his grip tightens when you moan, his breath stutters when you rake your nails down his back. He wants you, needs you, in a way he will never admit. So instead, he laughs, bites at your throat, leaves marks that scream to the world that you belong to him.

- There is no peace with him, no soft moments of love and tenderness. There is only the thrill, the rush, the violence of passion that never fades. He does not say I love you. He says you’re mine. And it means the same thing.

- One day, when the universe is nothing but dust beneath your feet, he will still be laughing, still be reveling in destruction. And you will be beside him, his Queen, his equal in this glorious, endless reign of chaos. Because love, for Movincihawk, is not a chain—it is a fire. And he will burn for you forever.

No Goggles Mark / Nogogglesible

- He is arrogance incarnate, a god among insects, untouchable, invincible. And yet, you have touched him. You have brought him to his knees, not with force, but with something far more dangerous—desire. He is cruel to everyone, but with you, it is different. He does not kill you. He does not mock you like the others. Instead, he craves you, like a dragon hoarding treasure, like a king unwilling to share his throne.

- He is insufferable, cocky, and childish in his amusement, always grinning, always talking, always taunting. But when he touches you, all that arrogance melts into something sharper, hungrier. He does not like to be denied, does not like to be challenged. And you? You challenge him. You push back. You make him work for your affection, and it drives him insane.

- The way he takes you is almost playful—almost. He grins as he pins you down, as he makes you beg, as he ruins you. Is that all you’ve got? he teases, even as he’s shaking, even as his hands tremble against your skin. He is obsessed with making you fall apart beneath him, with proving that even the Queen of Invincible is his to break.

- But the moment someone else so much as looks at you? That arrogance vanishes, replaced by something much darker. He is a nightmare when jealous, a force of pure annihilation. He will kill without hesitation, will make sure the universe knows that you are his and his alone.

- He likes to watch you after, basking in his victory, stroking your skin like a dragon hoarding gold. He tells you you’re beautiful in the same breath that he tells you how easily he could break you. And yet, he never does. Because he is already broken for you.

- In the end, the universe will crumble, the stars will die, and he will still be here, grinning, mocking, loving you in his own twisted way. Because he is Nogogglesible. And you? You are the only thing he has ever truly wanted.

Prisoner Mark / Prisonincible

- He is not the Mark you once knew. That Mark—the hesitant boy with wide eyes and too much hope—died long ago. What stands before you now is a man sharpened into a blade, honed by violence, stripped of mercy. He is not kind. He does not pretend to be. The world tried to break him, so he broke it first. And yet, despite all his cruelty, all his rage, you are the one thing he cannot hurt. He holds you with hands that have wrung the life from countless enemies, hands that have tortured, ripped, shattered. But when they touch you, they are careful. Reverent. As if you are the last beautiful thing in a world of ruin.

- He doesn’t ask for your love. He takes it. The way he takes everything else. His kisses are bruising, possessive, his grip unrelenting. You feel his strength in every touch, in every whispered threat against your throat—Mine. Mine. Mine. He is not gentle. He is not soft. He does not worship you; he claims you. And you let him, because what else is there? He has remade the world in his image, and you are the only thing that remains untouched. Untouched, but not unmarked. He ensures that.

- The bed is a battlefield, a place where he does not have to hold back, where the rage that simmers beneath his skin finds its release in you. He grips your wrists too tight, drags his teeth along your skin, leaves bruises that bloom like violets against your flesh. He loves the sight of them. Proof of his claim. Proof that even the Queen of Invincible belongs to him.

- He whispers terrible things when he is inside you—promises, threats, dark admissions. If anyone ever touched you, I’d rip their spine out through their mouth. His lips are at your ear, his breath hot, his voice raw. He does not speak of love. He speaks of possession. And you don’t need to hear the words to know what he feels. His love is in the way he would burn the world for you. In the way he already has.

- And when it is over, when the sweat cools on your skin, when the bruises begin to fade, he holds you. Tightly. Desperately. As if letting go would shatter him completely. His lips press against your temple, his breath ragged. There are no apologies. No guilt. There is only the silence, the aftermath, the unspoken truth that neither of you will ever leave. You are bound to him, by blood, by war, by something darker than love.

- And in the end, you do not want to leave. Because if he is a monster, then you are his Queen. And monsters do not weep for the fallen. They stand among the ruins and rule.

Sheisty Mark / Hoodvincible

- He is chaos given form. A force of destruction wrapped in arrogance, in crude words and bloody knuckles. He does not fight for duty, does not conquer for power. He does it because he can. Because he enjoys it. Because he looks at the world and sees something to break. And yet, when he looks at you, it is different. He does not see something to destroy. He sees something to keep.

- His love is reckless, feral, unyielding. He grabs your chin when he kisses you, bites at your lower lip, pulls at your hair like he is daring you to fight back. He wants you to. He wants the challenge, the game. But you never win. You can’t. He is stronger, faster, crueler. He does not let you have the upper hand. Not in the fight. Not in bed. Not ever.

- He fucks like he fights—wild, unpredictable, merciless. He throws you down and drags you back up, leaves scratches down your thighs, bruises on your hips. His voice is raw with laughter, with dark amusement. You’re still breathing? Damn. I must be getting soft. But his hands tell a different story. They shake when they touch you, as if the thought of losing you makes something inside him unravel.

- He hates how much he needs you. Hates the way his body betrays him when you sigh his name, the way his chest tightens when you smile. He is cruel to everyone else, but with you, there is something else beneath the mockery, beneath the swearing and the sneers. Something fragile. And that terrifies him. So he covers it with arrogance, with insults, with violence. But you see through it.

- When the world is quiet, when the battles are over, when his body is slick with sweat and exhaustion, he does not let you leave his arms. He holds you with a grip that is too tight, too desperate. Don’t fucking go anywhere, he mumbles into your skin, voice slurred with sleep. And he will never say it, never admit it, but you know what it means. Stay. Stay. Stay.

- And so you do. Because you are his, and he is yours, and there is no world where you would ever choose anything else.

Bald Mark / Capvincible

- He is a nightmare wearing a smirk. He does not kill out of duty, or necessity. He kills because he enjoys it. Because he loves the way people scream, the way their bones crack beneath his fists. He is the worst kind of monster—the kind that does not believe he is one. And you? You are his one exception. His one indulgence. His one weakness.

- He touches you with the same hands that have torn men apart, but with care. Not because he is gentle, but because he wants to savor it. To take his time. To draw out every moment, every sound, every shudder of your breath. He likes when you squirm beneath him. When you beg, when you break. Not out of cruelty—no, this is love. Love, for him, is the act of unmaking you piece by piece, then putting you back together just to do it all over again.

- He makes you beg. Not because he needs to hear it, but because he wants you to admit the truth. That you need him. That you want him. That you are his. He drags it out, teasing, taunting, watching your resolve crack like fragile glass. Say it, he purrs against your throat, breath hot, hands relentless. Say you belong to me. And you do. Of course, you do.

- He whispers against your skin as he takes you apart—dark promises, wicked threats. You’d look so pretty covered in blood, sweetheart. Maybe next time, I’ll let you have a little fun with me. He means it. You know he does. He would kill for you. He already has.

- When it is over, he watches you. Eyes dark, unreadable. There is something terrifying about the way he looks at you—like a lion watching its mate, possessive, protective, utterly devoted. You own him as much as he owns you, and he knows it.

- And so, when he kisses you again, slow and deep, it is not a claim. It is a vow. No matter what happens, no matter who dares to stand in his way, he will never lose you. And if the universe tries to take you from him, well—he will simply have to burn it all down.

Goggles Mark / Gogglesvincible

- He is stillness—a predator that does not need to snarl, a killer that does not need to raise his voice. Where others rage, he is quiet. Where others lose themselves in the thrill of bloodshed, he remains composed. There is no excess in him, no wasted movement, no unnecessary cruelty. When he kills, it is efficient. When he destroys, it is deliberate. And when he looks at you, it is with that same terrible focus.

- His love is calculated, methodical. He does not indulge in theatrics. He does not waste words on affection. Instead, he watches you, memorizes you, understands every detail—what makes you shiver, what makes you whimper, what makes you beg. When he touches you, it is with the same precision with which he tears the world apart. There is no hesitation, no uncertainty. He knows exactly how to unravel you, and he does. Slowly. Mercilessly.

- He does not speak of love, but he shows it in the way he possesses you. His fingers trace the marks he leaves behind, his lips linger over the bruises, his grip tightens when another dares to look at you too long. They are insignificant, he murmurs, voice calm, deadly. They don’t matter. But I will kill them anyway. And he does.

- In bed, he is merciless. He does not give without taking. He does not allow you to simply exist beneath him—you must surrender, you must earn every touch, every moment, every gasp of air. He denies you what you crave until you are shaking, pleading. Until you forget your own name and can only sob his. He listens to your every breath, your every sound, adjusting, fine-tuning, perfecting the torment he inflicts. And when he finally gives you what you need, it is overwhelming.

- He does not rest after. He remains awake, watching, waiting. He traces patterns over your skin, his expression unreadable. You ask him what he’s thinking, and he only tilts his head, gaze unwavering. Nothing. A lie. Everything.

- And when you sleep, he remains at your side, a silent sentinel, guarding the only thing in the universe he has ever allowed himself to keep.

Viltrum Mark / Viltrumincible

- He was raised with purpose. Raised to be strong, to be ruthless. To conquer, to rule, to win. There is no hesitation in him, no doubt. He knows what must be done, and he does it. Earth belongs to the Viltrum Empire. You belong to him. There is no question, no argument, no alternative. You are his Queen, his consort, his everything.

- And yet… there are moments. Small, quiet moments. A flicker of something behind his eyes when you say his name softly. A hesitation in his grip when his hands are rough against your skin. A sigh, barely audible, when he allows himself to rest against you. A part of him still remembers the boy he was before he chose power over love. Before he became this. He does not speak of it. He will not speak of it. But you see it all the same.

- When he takes you, it is with the force of a conqueror. His hands do not ask—they demand. His kisses are not gentle—they are devouring. He does not let you hide from him, does not let you breathe without his permission. You are mine, he growls against your throat, his body pressed against yours, unyielding, overwhelming. He does not need to hear you say it. He already knows.

- He does not tolerate weakness. Not in himself, not in you. If you dare to challenge him, if you dare to push, he meets you with force—pinning you down, forcing obedience from your lips, making you submit with teeth and tongue and hands that refuse to let go. And yet, there is a thrill in it. In the way he wants you to fight, to resist, just so he can remind you who you belong to.

- When it is over, he does not move. His arms remain around you, his breath warm against your shoulder. He does not speak, does not soften. But his grip tightens, just for a moment. As if he is afraid. As if he knows that, despite everything, you are still the only thing he cannot afford to lose.

- And so, he does not lose you. He will not. If the Viltrum Empire demanded it, if his father ordered it, if the entire universe conspired against him—he would burn it all before he let you go.

Omni-Mark / Omnivincible

- He is cold. Detached. The world means nothing to him. His past means nothing to him. Even his own name is an afterthought. He does not care for nostalgia, does not waste time on regret. He has seen too much, lost too much. Love is a weakness, attachment a liability. And yet—you.

- You are the one thing he cannot ignore. The one thing he cannot abandon. He tells himself it is not love. He tells himself it is possession, a claim, a consequence of habit. But even he is not so deluded. He needs you. And that terrifies him.

- He does not speak of his feelings. He does not tell you he loves you. Instead, he shows it in the way he keeps you close. In the way he stands at your side, unwavering, even when it would be easier to let you fall. In the way he touches you—not with passion, not with desperation, but with certainty. As if you are the only thing in existence that he will allow himself to have.

- When he fucks you, it is methodical. Efficient. Every movement is controlled, every touch calculated. And yet, there are moments—brief, fleeting, almost imperceptible—where the control slips. A sharp breath, a tremor in his hands, a growl that is just a little too raw. He buries them quickly, forces them down, but you notice. And it is in those moments that you understand—he is afraid of how much he feels.

- After, he does not speak. He does not hold you. He does not linger. He watches. As if waiting for something. As if expecting you to vanish. And when you do not, when you remain at his side, when you reach for him with hands that are too warm, too soft, too human—he exhales. A slow, quiet thing. As if he has been holding his breath for years.

- He will never say it. He will never admit it. But you know. You are the only thing in the universe that he has not abandoned. The only thing he will never let go. And if the world burns because of that—so be it.

[helis97]

Dude megatronus Prime forever starving and Mad that Is hell.

Well he was Chained for a very Long Time and will he Be ever free If yes will He Be good now or Bad cause you know forever starving and wants revenge or Something.

Have a nice day and stuff bye.

He does get to be free and that DOES make him everyone else problem! Mainly because he is a powerhouse (a sadistic one) and has some dominion over dark-enegon! (Primus made him that way to fight Unicron).

At some point during the Autobot/Decepticon war, Quintessons’ society implodes to a point where there is no longer a society, but a bunch of individuals that use their immense knowledge and resources to take control of planets or entire solar systems. Tytanus Quintus, with his small army of genetically modified transformers, takes the dead and now abandoned planet of Cybertron (Orobhos follows him shortly after).

Quinntessa takes her fleet of warships and the Fallen Prime (aka Megatronus) and starts a nomad empire by capturing and enslaving any sentient creature that finds itself floating in space. That DOES INCLUDE any unfortunate cybertronian scatered in the cosmos after the death of their home planet. Megatronus has happily gone along with Quinntessa’ s plan because he gets to rule/torment anyone that gets caught.

Megatron gets to taste said torments when he is caught while trying to escort a fleet of refugees back to Cybertron (after the events of the movie). As stated before, Megatronus has dominion over dark-energon and Megatron happens to have his entire f@king being infused with that!

previous post about this

[calder]

Themes of Gay Identity and Homophobia in Fallout: New Vegas

Revised and extended 4-30-25. Much of this essay is no longer available on the wiki. Please read attached PSA at conclusion.

Released in 2010, Obsidian Entertainment's Fallout: New Vegas actively concerns itself with the realities of gay existence, and is widely recognized as a noteworthy work of queer science fiction. New Vegas extensively examines social attitudes towards homosexuality among the game's major factions, and primarily conveys this lore through gay and bisexual characters describing their own experiences. It also allowed the player to mechanically set the Courier's sexual orientation. By taking both available perks, the player character can be bisexual. By choosing neither, the player can opt out of seeing flirtatious dialogue options.

Uniquely, Fallout: New Vegas explores homosexuality in the context of wasteland societies, and touches upon related issues. The core theme of New Vegas is that the desire to recreate the past is driven by irrational nostalgia, and any endeavor to manifest past glory is dangerous and doomed. The social issue of homophobia is used as a demonstrative example. The resurrection of corporate and military power structures presents new avenues for Old World problems such as institutional homophobia to reemerge. One of the many issues that divide the New California Republic and Caesar's Legion is the latter's open persecution of gay people. The NCR is described as tolerant and even accepting of same-sex relationships, though acceptance tends to fall off the further one moves away from the developed, urbanized core of New California.

In recent years, the Republic's rapid economic transformation has led to an unforeseen erosion of the humanitarian ideals which it was founded to serve. In practice, to recreate America was to take on its shortcomings and its sins. As subsistence scavenging has dried up, the people of the NCR increasingly turn to wage labor, entrepreneurial venture, or military enlistment to keep their families fed. Meanwhile, their government enacts morally corrosive imperialism (narrative verbiage from the PRIMA guide), their dominion expanding indefinitely as their infrastructure crumbles from within. This has led to a profit-based imperial monoculture which must conquer, consume, and coerce to perpetuate. As personal politics and service labor grow in importance, people find themselves more inclined to present as "normal" in the interest of financial stability and political expedience. A loading screen visualizes this culture of artificial social normalcy: the portrait of President Aradesh on the NCR 5$ bill neglects to depict his unibrow, earring, and facial scarification, overall portraying the once-chieftain so cleanly-cut as to be unrecognizable at first glance. He also appears to be wearing a collared shirt or suit as opposed to the robe he wore in Fallout.

In the Legion, Caesar has mandated that every legionnaire take a wife and produce children, citing high infant mortality rates and the constant need for soldiers, and going as far as instituting child quotas. He treats human beings as a resource to be exploited for war. Ostensibly in this aim homosexuality has been declared a capital offense punishable by death. Historically, routine demonstrations of violence towards women and gay people are a deliberate feature of fascist societies, the only logical cultural conclusion of a government devoted entirely to war and control.

In Forlorn Hope letter 9, an NCR soldier wrote wrote the following to his boyfriend:

Dearest Andrew, Writing this seems pretty morbid, but tomorrow we march into the no man's land between our camp and Nelson, which is crawling with Legion. The Major insisted I write this damn "if you get this, I'm dead" letter so here it is. What a crock. I have the luck of the devil and your love on my side, so I'll be home soon. Keep the porch light on for me. We'll party in New Vegas when I get back. I love you. —Devin

Devin believed he would prevail over the Legion because his love would keep him safe. He was found dying or dead on the battlefield, the letter was found on his body. In a post-release patch, the injured soldiers were removed from the battlefield for performance reasons, and never re-implemented.

Driven largely in reaction to the Legion's hyper-masculine posturing and misogyny, rumors persist across the Mojave that gay male relationships are not only common within the Legion, but condoned. These rumors are repeated commonly in NCR society. A closeted NCR Major mentions that the Legion is "a little more... forgiving" about close male "friendships," speaking in a hushed tone to avoid suspicion. At the same outpost, the player can encounter Cass, a bisexual civilian woman. She may flirt with a male Courier, who may imply they are gay, prompting her to imply gay men are more common in the Legion. Even as gay men fight and die in the name of love under his command, NCR General Oliver may remark to Courier Six at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam: "If you think after all that's happened, I'm going to grab my ankles and take it like the Legion..."

This writing pertains to institutionalized homophobia which manifests in practice though power structures and social interactions without being written into law. Simply put, in his derogatory remark, the general expresses to his army that military surrender is gay, much like their gay enemy. From the brevity and bluntness of this remark, it's clear that this sentiment is already well understood among his ranks. Logically, to project strength in the eyes of such a leader, one might also project homophobia by scrutinizing and harassing one's peers and subordinates. In this atmosphere, the expression of homophobia is not only normalized, but materially incentivized. For the ambitious, it becomes a tool, and a way of casting shame upon rivals. For the closeted, homophobia becomes a survival tactic, hoping to throw scrutiny off oneself. This is why Major Knight is immediately frightened when a male Courier flirts with him. He is so profoundly alienated that he romanticizes life as a gay man under the Legion. The Legion punish homosexuality with death, and yet Knight characterizes them as more "forgiving" than the NCR. Through these apparently disparate events, the audience can trace how a distorted perception of gay people emerges among insecure men in a military environment, and subsequently becomes ingrained in the corresponding civilian culture.

At the 188 Trading Post, a lesbian from the Brotherhood of Steel named Veronica also wryly remarks that she believes legionaries have gay sex about as often as straight sex. She also notes that this only applies to men, as women have no rights whatsoever in Legion society. In this aside, she conveys a pre-existing frustration with lesbophobic social norms. Veronica also mentions that the people of her bunker would rather she remain on the surface.

The Mojave Brotherhood of Steel has no official policy prohibiting homosexuality, but an implicit attitude among its dominant members that their limited numbers require everyone to have children to avoid extinction. Numerically, this may seem logical on the surface, given their reluctance to recruit outsiders. However, given their tiny population, this is an ineffective countermeasure, as they do not have nearly enough members to maintain genetic diversity for more than a few generations. 

This approach is not universally supported by all family units within the Brotherhood, but every individual is ultimately at the mercy of the elder. Veronica was in a lesbian relationship, but they were quietly separated by Elder Elijah, due to the dominant culture of enforcing heterosexual pairing among their population. No Brotherhood character makes any remark conveying hatred or disgust towards homosexuality; malice is not a necessary ingredient of homophobia. Fear, ignorance, tradition, and control are forces that shape their society, resulting in the needless oppression of gay people. The subject remains subtextual, apparently taboo, which may reflect their culture's origins in the U.S. Army. Additionally, the Brotherhood's medieval theming dovetails intuitively with these themes of traditional propriety, regressive superstition, and closed-minded stagnation.

Caesar's law has not ended homosexuality within his domain. Despite the obvious risks, some legionaries have continued to pursue relationships behind closed doors, especially given their access to slaves. So long as members complete their societal obligations and fulfill the child quotas, they are able to pursue romance with other men in secret. One line suggests homosexual relationships in the faction are relatively equal to the average Legion husband and wife in some ways, apparently a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" sort of open secret policy. Despite this, gay legionaries must always make sure to keep their activities hidden.

A centurion was once almost caught fraternizing with the teenage boy he had chosen to tend his tent. Despite previous "romantic" intentions, he quickly resolved to dispose of the slave to dispel suspicion. Had they been caught together, the centurion would have been charged with homosexuality and sentenced to death. This story is only known because the enslaved young man, Jimmy, managed to escape execution. Further illustrating the cruelty intrinsic to Legion governance, it's stated that homosexuality was the crime, and not the rape of a young slave; in fact, it seems Jimmy was forced to contribute to the child quota despite being a gay teenager, and the experience left him traumatized. He has resolved to never have sex with another woman, as the very notion triggers memories which fill him with disgust, and (in his own words) makes him feel like a slave all over again.

The Strip is indifferent to gay people, viewing them as another opportunity to make caps. Both the Gomorrah and the Atomic Wrangler are interested in maximizing profits, and their prostitution services cater to clients regardless of their orientation. The openly gay Jimmy works at nearby Casa Madrid, but there is some tension among his peers due to his co-worker Maude's blatant homophobia. She supposes he's "okay, for one of those," and if propositioned by a female Courier, Maude will direct them to Sweetie for such "perverted" services. Pretty Sarah must regularly intervene to keep the peace among her staff.

New Vegas ventures further into themes of healing from the trauma of sexual violence, from the perspective of a lesbian character. NCR sharpshooter Corporal Betsy is a survivor of rape, and suffers with PTSD from the incident. Her unprocessed trauma has manifested as a maladaptive tendency to aggressively and explicitly proposition the women she encounters, in an effort to reassert a sense of control. This defensive hypersexual impulse has negatively impacted her ability to connect with other women. A male superior officer notes that her behavior is inappropriate for anyone of her stature, but abstains from disciplining her out of sincere concern for her mental health. The Courier can help her begin to recognize these problems, and convince her to seek treatment from Doctor Usanagi at the New Vegas medical clinic, which proves helpful to her as she processes and heals from her trauma. An NCR side-quest involves finding and killing her rapist.

A more significant movement out west, the Followers of the Apocalypse only control one major outpost in the Mojave, the Old Mormon Fort, somewhat ironic given the social and historical connotations of Mormonism. They allow outcasts and downtrodden to take shelter among their tents here, and do not stigmatize sex workers or addicts. A bisexual ghoul sex worker named Beatrix Russel can be encountered here, and the Courier may do business with her.

The Followers tend not to form hierarchies, and insist that the Courier choose non-violent approaches while carrying out their quests, which involve directly bettering the surrounding community of Freeside. Among other tasks, the player may be tasked to distribute Fixer (a medicine comparable to methadone) to homeless people experiencing withdrawal, or aid those abused by chem dealers. The main quest giver for the faction is community coordinator Julie Farkas, a doctor with a bold and unusual mohawk.

At Red Rock Canyon, the Courier can help a young man find purpose and kinship by convincing him to leave home and join the Followers. Jerry the Punk is a Great Khan who has been ostracized for writing poetry, and the upcoming masculinity rites expected of him by his small, tense village give him reason to actively fear for his life. Jerry has positive memories of the Followers from his childhood, because there was a time when they would bring books to share with the Great Khans tribe. The Punk finds a sense of purpose and connection when he leaves his isolated home settlement of harsh, angry men to live among the Followers, who see value in his gentle, creative nature as opposed to belittling him.

At the time of the events of Fallout, the Followers of the Apocalypse presented as benevolent secular monks who opposed the Children of the Cathedral cult. In the wake of the Unity Crisis, the city of Boneyard peacefully joined the NCR. The fiction of New Vegas establishes that, in pursuit of their founding principles, the Followers developed into a transgressive force for leftist values, openly critical of the NCR's capitalistic profit-based society. Director J.E. Sawyer freely acknowledges that the values of the Followers of the Apocalypse were informed by leftist philosophy:

"The Followers of the Apocalypse: Libertarians, socialists, communists, or greens?" Sawyer: "They vary significantly, but range from anarcho-syndicatists to socialists to communists. Their general tendency to be inclusive and non-hierarchical means they don't have a single outlook or 'platform.'"

The distinctive character design of faction representative Julie Farkas resembles an archetypical punk woman. Being a far-left counterculture of a capitalistic empire, the Followers of the Apocalypse generally evoke and directly mirror the goals and organizational methods of the modern punk movement--more acutely, they embody the sensibilities of America's rail punks, a highly transient subculture who overwhelmingly emphasize volunteerism and anti-imperial philosophy, as opposed to the sensationalism of the reactionary punk rocker scene, which is defined by the moving target of aesthetic/social transgression. This read is further informed by the Followers' inclusiveness, abundantly evidenced in their care for people marginalized by other wasteland societies, including unhoused people, addicts, sex workers, gay people, tribal people, political dissidents, criminalized people, and mutated people.

The most prominent member of the faction is Arcade Gannon, a player companion and openly gay man, who was born an illegal person under NCR law. Upon meeting Courier Six, Arcade offhandedly makes his gayness known, unprompted. The audience must face the fact that Arcade's apprehension of the Legion is far from abstract; under Legion law, he would be put to death.

Arcade will not hesitate to abandon the player if he disapproves of their actions, but if his trust is carefully earned, he will reveal his origins. Arcade was born into the Enclave just before it collapsed. He hides this because his existence is a crime under New California Republic law. He abandoned his fascist background to serve the Followers' ideology of learning, harm reduction, and antifascism.

Additionally, Arcade is critical of the NCR, and encourages the player to re-route the power of HELIOS One to Freeside rather than the NCR power grid. Should the Courier sell Arcade to the Legion and subsequently lead the NCR to victory at the Dam, Arcade will ultimately be identified as Enclave-born and arrested from his position of slavery to spend the rest of his life in an NCR prison. As a gay man originally born to the Enclave, his very existence is criminalized under the law of both the NCR and the Legion.

Another possible ending provides further insight into Caesar's hypocrisy: should the player sell Arcade into slavery and leave Caesar alive, he will keep Arcade as a personal physician and philosophical advisor. They intellectually spar at length, and Caesar grows singularly fond of him. Accordingly, Arcade imitates the historic suicide of Cato the Younger by disemboweling himself, rather than suffer the favor of the mad Caesar. The Legion's remaining medics attempted to save his life, but none were Arcade's equal. Caesar understood his doctor's final gesture of contempt, and mourned him for months.

In Old World Blues, the Think Tank are five floating brains in jars who express themselves by waving robotic arms bearing screens depicting facial features. Before the War, they were federal scientists who committed crimes against humanity in the name of weapons development. Each is stuck in some sort of neuro-bionic feedback loop which prevents them from moving forward with their projects, mentally binding them to their central laboratory. Walking through their homes at Higgs Village, it's clear each was deeply neurotic before they were transformed into floating brains.

Now without bodies, they attempt to maintain the illusion that they are exempt from sexuality as purely mental beings, but each displays obvious interest in the human form. They have codified this shaming with the term "formography." Most of the men are obsessively defensive over their complete disinterest in penises, which they talk about constantly. However, the shameless Dr. Dala shows overwhelming interest in observing and recording any and all human functions. Already androgynous in her pre-War life, Dala has taken to self-identifying as a "gender neutral entity" (though she is not known to use they/them pronouns). Regardless of the Courier's gender, they may coquettishly scratch themselves, clear their throat, and stretch in front of Dala until her biomed gel decoagulates. Dr. 8 also responds positively to graphic masturbation advice from Couriers of either gender.

The X-8 research facility is ostensibly a massive immersive shrine to Doctor Borous's hatred of Richie "Ball-Lover" Marcus, a long-dead child who bullied Borous centuries ago. He also clings to his resentment of one Betsy Bright, who refused to attend a dance with him, supposedly so she could "go smoke with RICHIE MARCUS." Clearly arrested in development, Borous has literally built a temple to the fantasy of torturing his adolescent romantic rival and feeding him to dogs. His frozen, static characterization of the jock Richie Marcus as a "pinko-commie" who "likes balls" reflects the shallowness, pettiness, and overall misanthropy underlying his patriotic identity.

It remains apparent throughout Old World Blues that the Think Tank are all chronically sexually repressed, which is inseparable from the values of the violent and judgmental pre-War culture which created them. With time and isolation, this ingrained repression has manifested as various intense and deranged psychosexual behaviors, including rage-fueled homophobia, voyeurism, and the obsessive performance of puritanical pretense.

____

“Although I’ve been out for a very long time, I made a conscious effort to be out with relation to this project, as I wanted to be visible as a lesbian in the game industry. New Vegas itself is, I think, one of (if not the) best games out there in how we treat homosexuality – and all of that is very intentional.”

“If my work on FNV, if my being out has helped even one gay person, then I have succeeded.”

— Tess “Obsidian’s Gay Cowgirl” Treadwell

____

written (with help from other editors) for Nukapedia.

Nukapedia has been seized by an alt-right high-control group.

Please see this post for more information.

[camellias-garden]

I Can Live With It. 2025, oil on canvas board. just finished this painting of Captain Sisko reciting his famous monologue from one of the most popular episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, "In the Pale Moonlight." This was a fun paint, and only took me about 15 hours, which is pretty quick for one of my paintings.

Transcript:

At 0800 hours station time, the Romulan Empire formally declared war against the Dominion. They've already struck 15 bases along the Cardassian border. [beat]

So, this is a huge victory for the good guys! This may be the turning point of the entire war. There is even a

"Welcome to the Fight" party tonight in the wardroom!

So, [beat] | lied. I cheated. I bribed men to cover up crimes of other men. I am an accessory to murder.

But the most damning thing of all...I think I can live with it. And if I had to do it all over again... would

Garak was right about one thing--a guilty conscience is a small price to pay for peace in the Alpha Quadrant. So I will learn to live with it. [beat]

Because I can live with it. I can live with it.

Computer, erase that entire personal log.

[auren-zagarra]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day!

English is not my first language so forgive me if I make any mistakes.

Can I request Malleus with a female lover who is quite greedy and hungry? Not hungry for food, or greedy for jewels and lands, but for his love and undying attention, for him. She doesn't just want to be close, she wants to consume his essence along with everything he can offer her, as if fusion were the only way to quench her aching stomach.

I’m sorry if this is weird or confusing 😭

draco et reginae

Content Warning: Mallues x f!Reader, sexual content, greedy sex, MDNI

Characters Count: 5990

In the old tales - those whispered myths of princes, fairies, and kingdoms ruled by thyrans - dragons were always cast as greedy beasts. They hoarded coins that no longer held meaning, conquered kingdoms they could never rule and stole away princesses not for love, but for possession. But perhaps the stories were never quite honest. Perhaps the dragon’s hunger was not for gold or dominion, but for the forbidden. For that which shimmered with defiance, pulsed with life, and whispered, “you were never meant to touch this”. Oh, how exquisite it is - to hold what fate had never intended for your hands. And maybe, just maybe, the dragon never desired to own the princess… but to be destroyed by her.

You were Malleus’ princess, yes… but in truth, you also played the role of a dragon. It was not he who hoarded treasures or casted flames across kingdoms - it was you, with your greedy hands pulling him closer, your lips devouring his like fire hungrily kissing the edge of a temple. Your body moved against his with a need that transcended flesh, seeking friction not just for pleasure, but for something deeper… raw love. You did not fear him, as so many others did. You did not tremble before his blood or his otherworldly power. No - your soul sang for it: you craved not safety, but to give yourself wholly to the fae prince, to become the object of his longing, the creature of his most sacred desires. You longed to be undone beneath his touch - not as a victim, but as a willing offering, like a sacrifice for a mortal god. You did not wish to be saved, you wished to burn with him - your soul linked to his in a dance more precious than any crown, any throne, any fairy tale.

To say he wasn’t intrigued by this side of you would be a cruel and graceless lie. No, Malleus was enchanted. And you could see it in his eyes, those ancient emerald flames flickering with something dangerously close to amusement… and devotion. In your hunger, in the way you reached for him with reckless desire, there was no fear. And how could he not be drawn to that? How could a being so accustomed to the noble life not be captivated by the one soul who sought not his throne, nor his power, but his touch? You wanted more - more of his kisses, more of his presence, more of that strange, inhuman love he offered. It was not the love of a human prince, full of poetry and fragile promises. It was boundless as the night sky and deep as the roots of the earth. And still, he could never deny you.

Yes, Malleus Draconia, the fae prince feared across generations, held power vast enough to bend reality itself - yet in your presence, he was willing to kneel. You, who could command him with a whisper, not through magic but through the sacred weight of your longing. He would do anything you asked - not because of weakness, but because you were the one asking. And for all the histories carved in his name, all the might thrumming in his veins… he had never known a force more absolute than the spell you cast with nothing more than your gaze. He was a creature feared by many, and yet, before you, he was entirely, exquisitely at mercy.

You were straddling his lap, hands tangled at the nape of his neck as you pulled him down, as if you could tether a star to your gravity. The kiss you shared was no gentle caress - it was war, worship and surrender all at once. Tongues moved in a desperate rhythm, a dance choreographed not by grace, but by the hunger that smoldered between you. There was no time to think, no breath untouched by fire. You tried, for a moment, to keep your composure - to wear the mask of control, to remain dignified in the presence of a prince. But how could you? How could you when the man before you kissed you like he wanted to burn away every trace of that restraint? Malleus didn’t want you composed. He didn’t want your practiced elegance or polite restraint. He wanted your chaos and craving. And as he felt your body press closer, felt your fingers clutching at him with a desperation as primal as it was sacred, something within his chest stirred - a rare, fierce flutter. His heartbeat - usually slow and steady - stumbled for you… for the mortal who dared to kiss a king like she owned him. And at that moment, he welcomed it. The frenzy. The fall. The way your need fed his own… Because if this was madness, it was the kind he would gladly drown in.

Perhaps the moment you truly descended from your divine grace was the instant he entered you - slowly, yet with a hunger he could no longer restrain. There was a trembling care in his touch, as if he feared the sheer intimacy might unmake you both. And still, beneath that gentleness, a fire burned - quiet, intense. You remained astride him, your body trembling as his hips rose to meet yours, setting a rhythm that felt more like ritual than mere desire. It was a dance unbecoming of saints and angels, a liturgy of flesh that would never be sung in cathedrals - yet it was no less holy. Each thrust, each gasp, was a delicate desecration - and oh, what a beautiful sin it was. You clung to him, arms wrapped tightly around his form, seeking refuge in the one place where time and titles held no meaning. Your moans, soft and breathless at first, gave way to something more raw, more urgent - your voice lifting his name like a sacred chant.

“Malleus…”

And how sweetly you spoke it, not with fear, but with need - with love. Your voice trembled like candlelight in a darkened hall, every syllable gilded in longing. He was power incarnate, a being respected and feared - but in this moment, he was yours entirely. Yours to guide, yours to take, yours to call. And he answered not as a prince or dragon, but as a man helpless in your greedy arms. This act, wrapped in velvet darkness and moonlit grace, though born from desire, meant something deeper… something divine in its defiance. And so, if this was sin - if you had indeed fallen - it was into something far more exquisite than heaven could ever offer.

[frommybookbook]

Earlier today, some friends and I were discussing one of those Star Trek captains memes. You know the ones I’m talking about, the ones that pit the captains against each other with pithy descriptions that glorify and champion the men and shit on Janeway. The ones where Picard is describe as the wise teacher and scholarly diplomat; Kirk is the brave trailblazer and lovable rogue; Sisko is the take-no-shit commander and more-than-human uniter; Archer is the quick thinking explorer and the avenging do-gooder; Pike is the empathetic Boy Scout and the quippy everyman…and Janeway is an irrational murderer and erratic loose canon. And, as usual, I went on a bit of a rant. They (looking at you @redsesame, @epersonae, and @emi--rose) told me to share it here so, if you trudge through this whole thing, blame them.

Does Janeway make some questionable decisions throughout VOY (Prodigy!Janeway is a different conversation for another time)? Yes, absolutely. But here’s the thing: every captain does. What I still love about her though and will champion until I'm blue in the face is that Janeway owns her decisions more than I think any other captain does.

Picard and Kirk hide behind the Prime Directive a lot. That's the reasoning Picard gives for not interfering in the drug running in “Symbiosis” and leaving the Ornarans trapped in dependence on the abusive Brekkans. His line, “Beverly, the Prime Directive is not just a set of rules. It is a philosophy, and a very correct one. History has proved again and again that whenever mankind interferes with a less developed civilization, no matter how well-intentioned that interference may be, the results are invariably disastrous." is a cop-out we hear from him time and time again, especially to Dr. Crusher, as she is the one who most often calls him on his bullshit.

Kirk does the same thing. We still this when he leaves Shanna and the other thralls behind in "The Gamesters of Triskelion" and when he forces Elaan of Troyius into a marriage she clearly doesn't want because it's "for a greater good." And all the while, he's got Spock at his side giving him confirmation bias that he's following regulations.

And Sisko, Sisko makes some of the most horrific and destructive decisions of any captain and uses not only the Prime Directive to fall back on, but he's got the Dominion War to blame. He poisons an entire planet to get back at one man he feels betrayed him in "For the Uniform" and don't even get me started on his actions in "In the Pale Moonlight".

Enterprise is so unjustly shat on by the fandom that I almost hate to bring some of Archer's questionable choices into this conversation but I'm going to do it anyway. Similar to Sisko and the Dominion War, Archer has the threat of the Xindi in his back pocket to excuse some of his worst behavior. If Tuvix is the worst thing people can point to for Janeway, then we have to talk about Archer and Sim, the simbiont created solely to be a living tissue donor for an injured Trip, a procedure that will kill the living, breathing, sentient Sim. Archer orders Sim created against the arguments made by Dr. Phlox. He rationalizes his decision with the same argument for the greater good that we see from all the others. He says to T'Pol before Sim is created "…we've got to complete this mission. Earth needs Enterprise. Enterprise needs Trip. It's as simple as that." And it doesn't end there. When Sim is grown enough for the procedure and has figured out what's going to happen to him, he challenges Archer himself, arguing for his own right to live, and Archer sticks to his guns. This exchange directly between Archer and Sim is haunting.

Archer: I must complete this mission; and to do that, I need Trip. Trip! I'll take whatever steps necessary to save him. Sim: Even if it means killing me? Archer: Even if it means killing you. Sim: You're not a murderer. Archer: Don't make me one.

Not only do all of these captains (except Archer, who arguably writes the damn thing himself at the end of the series) have the Prime Directive to fall back on, they also have Starfleet/the Federation/Vulcan High Council right there on speed dial to validate their choices and hear their excuses and give them another commendation. They all know that ultimately, they can turn to someone higher in command to turn to for help.

Janeway is alone. She is alone with her crew 70,000 lightyears from home with only her training and her own moral compass to guide her. Yes, she claims the Prime Directive a lot but she also goes with what she feels is right and she is clear about that with her crew. When she makes the decision to split Tuvix, despite what everyone else says, she sticks to it and more importantly, does the procedure herself. Picard would have forced Beverly to do it, saying Doctor I gave you an order, your conscience be damned, and Archer does the same to Phlox with Sim, but Janeway takes the tool out of the Doctor's hand and says it's my call, I'll do it. When everyone is angry and mad about her destroying the Caretaker's array, she stands up for her decision and says yes, I did it, because it's what my Starfleet training said to do AND because I think it was the right thing and it's on me to make the hard choices.

She also can admit when she made the wrong decision, which isn't something we see from the other captains. In the season 5 opener, "Night", we see her in a depressive state because she's questioning her decision to effectively strand her crew in the Delta quadrant but she comes out of it when she's reminded by her senior staff that the crew believes in her and trusts her, she should do the same for herself. When the Doctor has a mental crisis in "Latent Image" after questioning his own choice to save the life of Harry Kim over that of another crew member, Janeway admits she did the wrong thing by first deleting his memories of it so he could get back to work and then sits with him for days while he works through it because that's what captains do.

And she does all of this without the backup and support of Starfleet. She doesn't have anyone higher on the chain of command. She's 70,000 miles away from the admiralty and her support system. There's no one higher than her to give her a break from making every decision.

To quote my fellow Missourian Harry Truman, for Janeway the buck stops with her in a way it doesn't for any other captain and she is painfully aware of that and owns that and that is why I love her and she's my captain.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The Royal Welcome

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“My royal decree of the Tekmek Authority Council, this world is now under the dominion of Tekmek Autocracy. All rights, privileges, and claims of ownership by the Terran Confederation are hereby rescinded and void. Prepare for the arrival of your new overseer.”

 The announcement was played over and over on every frequency to the people of Devron V as the human population looked up and saw a Tekmek fleet orbiting their planet. Their ships long and slender like icicles slowly circling the planet in their hundreds with the largest concentration of them hovering in lower orbit just above the planet’s capital city Arminius.

There had been no announcement over the galactic news or word from Earth regarding this sudden change of affairs, but the Tekmek’s were quite insistent that their new overlordship of the world was sound. To the current planetary governor, Claus Beckler, this was an outright proclamation of war that he would not take lightly. Yet as his military advisors were well to warn him, the difference in current military power was vast and should they choose to resist destruction on a global scale would surely be a result.

Beckler was well aware his standing defense forces were only sufficient to repel the occasional alien raiding party. He also knew that even with the dispatches sent back to Earth it would take at least twenty three days for a relief force to arrive. He needed to play for time and thus came up with a devilish plan.

“We welcome our new overlords of the Tekmek Autocracy.” Beckler said over a video communication link to the Tekmek flagship. ��Allow us the time to prepare a proper welcoming party here in the capital so we may celebrate the new dawn you bring us with your enlightenment.”

Drowning in their smugness and the performance Beckler made to stoke their egos, the Tekmek gave him three days to assemble a proper celebration.

From around the planet human convoys could be seen making their way to the capital carrying all manner of lavish gifts and offerings. During this time Beckler made repeated conversations with the Tekmek discussing the finer points of the transition of power and assisting them with getting any requested information such as current mineral veins and outputs along with agriculture surplus. From these dealings Beckler was able to piece together that despite their grandeur the Tekmek were in dire need of raw materials and had made the gamble of taking Devron V to prop up their failing economy. To his annoyance he also learned that they had chosen his world as it was far enough from human core territories that it would be listed as a low priority world and more negotiable for transference.

Three days came and went and by the dawn of the forth the capital city was alive and thriving like never before. It was as if the entire population of the world had come as every street and alleyway was bustling like never before in celebration.

From the flagship came a lone landing craft decorated entirely with gold and studded with all manner of jewels that formed elaborate murals. Several squadrons of fighter craft escorted it to the surface followed behind by bulky landing craft that bore the occupation forces of the Tekmek military.

At the outskirts of the capital a grand landing pad and walkway had been erected for the Tekmek to land on that led directly to a raised platform. Beckler and several honor guard stood atop the platform watching their new rulers land while the walkway was lined with soldiers on either side carrying large flags that fluttered in the wind. A small crowd of civilians had gathered behind the platform waving a variety of flags and cheering as the ornate landing craft touched down and the boarding ramp slowly lowered.

For the first time Beckler had come to see the Tekmek in person and he was likewise unimpressed.

Like their ships the Tekmek dressed in overly elaborate clothing that in their eyes was meant to highlight their superiority, but to the average human screamed of obnoxious indulgence. Peering behind the delegates Beckler could see the soldiers were no better as even though they wore more practical combat armor and weaponry they too were decorated with studded jewels here and there.

Claus had to suppress a smile thinking of them trying to sneak through the night in such adornments and standing out like a disco ball.

Pulling himself together Claus stepped forward as the Tekmek’s strode down the walkway and made their way to him at the platform.

“We welcome our Tekmek guests to the planet Devron V.” Claus began as the lead delegate finally reached the platform and stepped on to it.

Standing before him he noticed that they were slightly taller than the average human coming in around 6.3 ft tall. Claus had to tilt his head back to look up at the lead delegate, a Tekmek named Con’gorda he had spoken with before. They held out a document that was in short a transfer of ownership of the planet and all its assets to the Tekmek in which Claus was meant to sign.

It was certainly a surprise that instead Claus slapped a pair of security cuffs on to Con’gorda’s arms with an overly loud locking sound as they activated and trapped the delegate.

“By the powers of the Terran Confederation I hereby place you under arrest on charges of unwarranted aggression, planetary threat, illegal occupation, violation of sovereignty, inciting unrest, and disturbing the peace.”

Without waiting for Con’gorda to react Claus turned to his security detail and shouted “NOW!”

Without hesitation the guards reached into nearby decorative flower vases and pulled out pulse rifles. Shouldering them with smooth precision they opened fire on the other Tekmek’s as they stood dumbfounded. The delegates went down screaming as the pulse rounds tore them to shreds while the soldier’s armor took the rounds better.    

“Activate city shield!” Claus shouted into the transmitter nestled into his ear. He drew his own pistol and popped off a few shots and the dwindling alien guards as Con’gorda fell to his knees from a stray round clipping his thigh.

In the distance Claus could see a tide of Tekmek soldiers now rapidly disembarking from their landing craft and the wings of fighters swinging around to start a strafing run on the city.

A loud humming sound came from behind Claus and he turned to see an energy beam shoot up from the center of the city. It had just reached higher than the tallest building before it began rolling back down in a giant dome shape. Claus watched as the energy shield crashed down into the ground, bisecting an unfortunate Tekmek soldier in half.

Several Tekmek soldiers were not cut off from their reinforcements who were now trapped on the opposite side of the shield. With nowhere to retreat and no reinforcements they laid down their arms and surrendered to the human guards as they encircled them. The gathered crowds of civilians behind the platform began cheering as Claus turned to them and held up a now cowering Con’gorda.

“My countrymen,” Claus began as he addressed the crowd, “in the coming days much of you will be asked but as you have seen just now I assure you our victory is inevitable!”

The gather crowds cheered louder as outside the enemy fighters began firing off pot shots at the shield to no avail. The energy barrier was capable of withstanding sustained orbital bombardment for thirty days before the energy reserves ran out, but even then Claus knew the Tekmek would not know this nor risk the life of their official who was now his prisoner.

Springing the trap had gone flawlessly and now all Claus and the citizens of Devron V would need to do was wait for the relief force to arrive and wipe out the orbiting Tekmek forces. A notion made much easier by conveniently using the excuse of a party to gather provisions and the entire population into one easily defensible area.

[startrekprodigyfan]

Here’s an unpopular Star Trek take.

I’m tired of every alien species’s home planets being destroyed.

We had the Klingon moon Praxis explode weakening the Klingons.

We had the Romulan Star go supernova and destroy Romulus.

We had Vulcan being destroyed in one of the alternate timelines.

We had Cardassia destroyed due to the Dominion War.

The Klingon one was meant as an allegory for the then very relevant dismantling of the Iron Curtain and end of the Soviet Union. That’s fine…

But then they did it again. And again. And again. Every new alien threat gets their world destroyed. I think Romulans are far more interesting before the evacuation has to take place. I do not see how destroying Romulus gives us better insight into the Romulans or allows us to tell better stories. It’s just taking away an entire Alien’s race before we ever really truly got to know them. Again, with the Klingons we had like 30 years of conflict and we knew a lot about their culture. But Romulans were intentionally secretive. We only got bits and pieces and small glimpses of them before it was all destroyed.

I hate this trend. I see no value in it. It’s just taking away world building (literally) and it’s overused and over done now. It also makes prior episodes of Star Trek worse now. So much for “reunification” with Spock and the Romulans. Let’s wipe out the enter Vulcan home planet to make Spock get angry and then never really address it again.

Sorry, but this is one of those things that pisses me off.

[hexx-bunny]

Ok but what if Hera noticed Odysseus? She never seems to care about humans at all, much less heroes (Jason Happened but regardless), still she is the goddess of marriage. And of enduring a cheating bastard of a husband. The Trojan War is over, the spoils are getting collected, soldiers returning home and there is Odysseus messing up every step of the way. Singing about his wife and son. And he won't shut up about them. Hera blessed their marriage she must at least know a bit about those two. Why isn't their bond weaker ten years apart? Why is he still dreaming about her? He doesn't miss the comfort of his kingdom he misses his wife. And then stuff keeps happening and it keeps getting weirder. He pisses off the gods, he won't lay with Circe and even she is like "damn ok, guess I'll help you", a PROPHET tells hims he will never return home and Odysseus Keeps Going. He KEEPS singing about his wife, he sees Penelope on the sirens, he hallucinates her. Hera watches as Zeus uses the vision of Penelope to make him sacrifice his entire crew. It works. They lock him up in an island for 7 years with a goddess and he still. Won't. Cheat. He is disgusted by the notion of being a pet, of breaking his vows. Gods will go astray for much less. On the other side of the bond. Hera watches Penelope (weary, tired, heartbroken) fight off the suitors that won't respect her sacred vows, she schemes, she dreams of her husband, she refuses to believe him dead. And the suitors keep showing zero respect for her marriage. Zero respect for Hera's dominion. Hera would despise to marry any of them to her.

But still, it would be easier, safer, to marry any of them. Just as it would be easier for Odysseus to cheat, even for comfort. They are just mortals. Why won't they do it? How many marriages has Hera observed? She knows they break for much less, she doesn't understand. 20 years apart and their bond shines just as bright as the day Hera blessed their union What if Hera, for once in her eternal life, looked down from Olympus and watched? And cared?

[minoulapin]

Chapter Three: Weight of Watching - Between Giving & Taking - Y. JW

Pairing: Demon!Jungwon x Angel!Reader

Genre: Forbidden Love, Fantasy, Romance, Mystery

Wc: 6.8k

Synopsis: A love unspoken, a fate unwritten, An angel and demon, forever forbidden. Bound by the laws of heaven and hell, A story of longing they dare not tell. At the Academy of the Occult, angels and demons coexist under a fragile truce. But when a celestial heir is assassinated, war looms, secrets unravel, and forbidden desires ignite. In a world where their love is a crime, will they defy fate or be consumed by it?

A/N: Coucou!! Now bear with me guys, there is a love story involving Jungwon, I promise. But I’m way too much of an angst and slow-burn fan to make them all kissy-kissy this early. It’s going to take time and maybe a little suffering, but it will happen eventually. Just hoping the wait will be worth it 😮‍💨 - Joe

Tag list: open!! (Comment to be added) @stormy1408 @whateveridontcaresheesh @indigoez @riribelle @iifrui @m3l4nchol @bamguetismee @w1dyvnn

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Angels were not born. They were made.

Forged from celestial fire, shaped by divine hands, their existence was dictated by purpose. There was no uncertainty, no deviation, only order. Unlike demons, who were shaped from chaos, angels were given clarity, obedience woven into the very core of their being. They existed to serve, to uphold, to maintain balance as the Dominion commanded.

At least, that is what they were told.

The Dominion saw their creation as proof of their divine right to rule. Angels were the children of light, the enforcers of harmony. They had no need for questions. No need for doubt. There was no space for uncertainty in the celestial hierarchy.

But what happens to angels who begin to doubt?

The ones who question, who rebel, who seek their own truth, they are exiled.

Some fall to the Infernal Court. Some vanish without a trace. And some, the ones who refuse to choose a side, are erased from history altogether.

The Dominion does not speak of them. The records do not remember them. They are not mourned. It is said that to question is to fall. That those who wander too far from the path will never return. And yet, throughout history, there have always been whispers.

Angels who disappeared. Names that faded into nothing. Unfinished stories left to rot in forbidden archives.

Some say they were unmade.

Others say they fell.

But one thing remained certain:

Angels who strayed too far never came back.

Dust coats the worn leather of the book's cover, its ancient spine barely holding together as Y/n turns another fragile page. The dim candlelight flickers against the towering bookshelves surrounding her, casting long shadows in the farthest corner of the library. Here, beneath the weight of history, the air is thick with silence, watchful, suffocating, like a presence lingering just beyond her reach.

She closes the book, fingers tightening around the edges of the page. Her pulse is steady, but there's a quiet unease creeping beneath her skin.

She knew, deep down, that she shouldn't be reading this. But she couldn't stop. Because this wasn't just history. This was a warning. And she was doing exactly what angels were never meant to do.

She moves carefully, slipping between lessons and training sessions, her eyes skimming over the world around her, but never truly seeing it. If anyone asked, she was just another student walking the halls, fulfilling her duties. But her thoughts were elsewhere.

She was collecting details, threading together half-truths and inconsistencies, piecing together fragments of a story no one wanted told. The deeper she dug, the more the cracks in history widened. Records contradicted each other, timelines blurred. Events that should have been monumental were barely documented at all. Some things, things that should have been impossible, were missing entirely.

No one seemed to notice. Or at least, she thought no one noticed.

But then there was that feeling.

A pressure against the back of her neck, the subtle weight of something unseen, someone just out of sight. It followed her between classes, through empty corridors, into the dim corners of the library where dust clung to forgotten books. A ghost in the periphery, vanishing the second she turned to look.

She ignored it. Because if she started questioning everything, she'd never get anywhere. She kept her head down and continued digging, knowing she was running out of time before someone did notice.

But what she didn't realize, Someone already had.

Jungwon never meant to follow her.

Not at first.

The first time had been an accident. A late-night walk through the academy grounds, his mind heavy with thoughts. He had seen her then, shoulders hunched slightly forward, footsteps deliberate, lips pressed together in quiet determination. Alone, moving like she belonged in the shadows rather than among the celestial.

He should have left. But he didn't.

Instead, he had lingered, just long enough to see the way she hovered outside the restricted archives, fingers grazing over the locked door as if she could will it open. She had stayed there for a long moment, unmoving, and then disappeared down the hallway, silent as a ghost.

Jungwon told himself it was nothing.

But then it happened again.

And again.

The same pattern. The same movements. Late at night, early in the morning, whenever she thought no one was looking.

But he was looking. He didn't know when curiosity became habit. When watching became something he needed to do.

At first, it was logical. Practical. Someone had to keep an eye on her before she got herself killed. That was all.

But then there was that moment in the training hall. He had felt her presence before he had even seen her, the way the air shifted when she entered. It wasn't her magic, it wasn't anything celestial. It was her. Like a disturbance in an otherwise perfect system. A sharp edge where there should have been smoothness.

She was chaos. She didn't belong. And yet, she was still here. And that made him angry.

Jungwon never acted on impulse. Never lost control. He was methodical, disciplined, unwavering. He followed the rules. He enforced them. But she made him hesitate. She made him linger. She made him care. And he hated that. She was a problem, loud, stubborn, reckless. She didn't know when to stop. She didn't know how close she was to getting herself erased. And now, somehow, that was his problem. He should stop. He knows he should stop. But he doesn't.

He won't.

Because now, he's not just watching her. He's waiting. Waiting for the moment she pushes too far. And when she does. He'll be there. Not to save her. Not to stop her. But to see what happens next.

The celestial training grounds were vast, an open expanse of polished marble, ringed by towering columns and enchanted runes that pulsed faintly with energy. Overhead, golden light filtered through the arched ceilings, casting an almost holy glow over the sparring matches taking place.

But Y/n wasn't thinking about the beauty of it. She was focused on the fight.

She grinned. "You sure you can handle me, blondie?"

Jake circled her, his steps slow, calculated. His stance was relaxed, but she knew better than to let her guard down. He had that glint in his eye, the one that meant he was about to pull something unfair.

Jake smirked, tossing a dagger between his hands. "I don't know, Y/n. You look a little tense. Something on your mind?"

Yes.

But she wasn't about to tell him that. Instead, she rolled her eyes. "You talk too much."

"And yet you keep listening." She didn't respond, she was already moving.

Their classmates sparred around them, blades clashing, bursts of celestial energy cracking through the air. Some students fought with elegant, controlled precision, their magic weaving effortlessly into their movements. Others relied solely on their spells, letting power do the work.

Y/n?

Y/n fought with instinct.

She struck first, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. No hesitation. Her footwork was sharp, her movements instinctive, honed by years of knowing that magic would never be her strong suit. She relied on speed. Precision. Strategy.

Jake dodged, barely. Then he grinned. "Too slow."

She didn't let the taunt get to her. Instead, she pivoted, feinting left before lunging right. It was a trick that worked on most people, except Jake wasn't most people.

He saw it coming. He always did.

Jake ducked under her strike, his arm shooting out. Y/n barely managed to twist out of reach before his dagger could land against her ribs. She gritted her teeth. Too close.

"Come on," Jake teased, twirling his blade lazily. "You're gonna have to do better than that."

They had sparred together for years. He knew how she moved, how she thought. And more importantly, He knew her weaknesses. She didn't answer. She just moved. She was fast. Faster than most. She darted behind him, slamming the heel of her boot against the back of his knee, forcing him off balance. He recovered quickly, twisting around to block her next attack, but she was already two steps ahead.

This time, she was winning. She could feel it.

Jake had no opening. She kept him moving, forcing him to dodge instead of counter. She struck again, faster, sharper, forcing him back.

One more move. One more second. And she had him.

Then—it happened. A pulse of energy surged through her veins, sharp and electric, like static crackling beneath her skin. It burned, cold and searing all at once, and for a split second, her vision blurred. Her magic flickered.

A brief lapse. A force she couldn't control, couldn't even predict. The air around her wavered, shifting unnaturally, just enough to break her momentum.

Jake saw it instantly. And he took full advantage.

Before Y/n could recover, he knocked her off her feet. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back, staring up at the sky as Jake stood over her, victorious. Again.

She clenched her jaw, frustration boiling under her skin. "Damn it."

Jake grinned down at her. "You're getting predictable."

Y/n scowled. "You're getting annoying."

She took the hand he offered and let him pull her up with a huff. Except, this time, Jake didn't let go immediately. He was still holding her wrist, studying her.

"You hesitated," he said, quieter now.

She stiffened. "No, I didn't."

Jake tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Your magic—"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

He held her gaze for a beat longer before sighing. "Fine."

But she could tell by his expression, he wasn't convinced.

She ignored his smug look and let him pull her up. "I had you."

Jake laughed. "Almost had me."

Almost.

She scowled, brushing dust off her uniform.

"Again?" Jake asked.

Y/n rolled her shoulders, ignoring the sting of her pride. "Again."

She couldn't let this go.

Her magic had always been her greatest flaw. Uncontrolled. Volatile. Flickering at the worst moments.

Most angels were proud of their celestial gifts, wielding them with precision and ease. Magic was second nature to them, effortless. Even the weakest students had more control than she did.

Y/n?

She relied on something else.

Speed. Strategy. Reflexes.

She was fast, faster than most. Agile. Sharp. Dangerous in close combat. If magic wasn't involved, she could take down anyone in her class. But celestial society didn't value physical combat.

Magic was everything.

And she had never been enough.

Her grip tightened around the hilt of her blade.

She should be getting better. She should be learning control.

But recently?

Recently, it had been getting worse.

Her magic had always been difficult.

Now, it felt like it was fighting her.

And she had no idea why.

But she wanted to find out.

Sparring was just another reminder of that.

The training grounds were still buzzing with energy, students filtering out in groups, laughing, stretching, going over their matches.

She barely heard any of it.

Her frustration still clung to her skin, thick and suffocating, a mix of annoyance, exhaustion, and something deeper she didn't want to name. She should have won that match. She would have won if her magic hadn't betrayed her at the last second.

Beside her, Jake walked in easy silence, rolling his shoulders like he wasn't bothered by the fight at all. He didn't seem mad, just watchful, as if he were waiting for her to say something first.

She was just about to, when a voice cut through the air instead.

"Tough loss, angel."

She stopped walking.

Jake, already on edge, immediately stiffened beside her. His jaw ticked before he even turned around.

Because, of course, it was Heeseung.

He leaned against one of the stone pillars, looking far too amused for someone who had done absolutely nothing all day. His uniform was as careless as ever, tie undone, sleeves rolled up, like he hadn't even bothered with the formality of dressing properly. He looked effortlessly untouchable, and he knew it.

She exhaled sharply. Not now.

"What do you want, Heeseung?" she said, already tired.

He grinned. "Now, now. Is that any way to talk to a friend?"

Jake scoffed. "You're not her friend."

Heeseung chuckled, slow and deliberate, like he found Jake's irritation entertaining. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean I'm not friendly."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Heeseung—"

He moved closer, the shift subtle but noticeable. "I was just admiring your technique."

Jake let out a low breath, rubbing the back of his neck like he was actively holding himself back from punching him.

Y/n, meanwhile, wasn't buying it. She arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Didn't realize you were watching."

Heeseung smirked. "You make it hard not to."

Jake's patience snapped. "Cut the bullshit, Heeseung."

Heeseung sighed dramatically. "You celestials are always so high-strung. No wonder you're all so miserable."

Then, his eyes flicked back to her.

And his amusement shifted into something else.

Something calculating.

"Or maybe..." Heeseung's voice dipped, soft, smooth, dangerous. "You're just more interesting when you're not playing by the rules."

She froze.

The words felt too sharp, too precise to be casual.

Jake noticed her hesitation instantly.

His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. "What the hell does that mean?"

Then, loud enough for Jake to hear— "You're doing something you shouldn't be doing, aren't you?"

Y/n quickly glared at Heeseung. "Shut up."

But it was too late.

Jake was already looking at her like he knew.

Like he knew something was off.

His voice was lower this time. Calm. Controlled.

Too controlled.

"Y/n."

She swallowed. "Jake—"

"You told me you wouldn't."

Her stomach twisted. She had told him that.

And she had lied.

"Heeseung is just messing with you," she tried, grasping for something, anything to get Jake off her case.

"Oh, am I?" Heeseung's smirk widened. "Funny. Because I don't remember lying."

Jake clenched his jaw. "Y/n."

She hated how his voice sounded just then.

Like he was disappointed.

Like he actually expected better from her.

She exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to—"

"Because you didn't want me to what?" Jake snapped. "Stop you? Keep you from getting yourself killed?"

She winced. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it like?"

She had no answer for that.

And Jake knew it.

For the first time in the conversation, Heeseung actually looked pleased.

He took a slow step forward, lowering his voice, leaning in toward her.

She stiffened as he dipped his head closer.

Then, right at her ear, he murmured, "I might know something that could help."

His breath was warm against her skin, a deliberate act of intrusion, making the space between them feel suffocating.

Jake immediately moved.

Before she could react, Jake was in front of her, stepping between them, his shoulders squared, his presence sharp and tense.

"Back. Off."

His voice wasn't loud.

But it was dangerous.

Heeseung laughed. "Relax, celestial. I was just saying—"

"Yeah, yeah," Jake snapped. "You were just saying something you shouldn't."

She didn't stop him.

Because she knew Jake was right.

Heeseung was bad news.

But she was still intrigued.

Because when Heeseung smirked and leaned back, he wasn't done.

"But if you ever want to know what I know..." He tapped his temple. "You know where to find me."

She clenched her jaw.

She didn't trust him.

But she couldn't ignore him either.

The moment Heeseung disappeared, Jake turned on her.

"Later," he said, voice tight. "Our dorm."

"You're telling me everything, " he said, quiet but firm.

She crossed her arms. "And if I'm busy?"

"You're not."

She narrowed her eyes.

She bristled. "Jake, I—"

"No." His voice was sharp. "Not this time."

Jake continued, tone leaving no room for argument. "This time, you don't get a choice."

She blinked, thrown off by how serious he looked.

Y/n hated that she couldn't argue. Because he was right.

She sighed. "Fine."

Jake didn't move. He just watched her for a moment, like he was debating whether to say something else.

Jake ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Think you can stay out of trouble for a few hours, or do I need to babysit you?"

She frowned. "What?"

"I'm leaving."

She stared at him. "You're, what?"

He let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, because if I stay, I'm just going to say something I regret."

Her stomach twisted. "Jake, don't be like that—"

"Like what?" He let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. "Like someone who actually gives a shit? Because I do, Y/n. That's the problem."

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Jake's jaw clenched. He took a step back, shaking his head again.

"I'll see you at the dorm."

And then, he walked away.

Y/n stood there, still, silent, hating everything about this conversation.

Because for the first time in a long time, Jake was truly mad at her.

Jake was pissed.

And honestly? He had every right to be.

But that wasn't what annoyed her the most.

What annoyed her the most... was that she had no one to blame but herself.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet.

The usual hum of students moving between dorms had faded, leaving only the distant flicker of torchlight and the soft echo of Y/n's footsteps.

She moved quickly, her mind tangled in frustration.

Jake was pissed at her.

Heeseung had thrown her under the bus just for his own entertainment.

And now, she was alone with nothing but the weight of her own decisions pressing down on her.

She needed a moment. A breath. A second to clear her thoughts before heading back to the dorm where she'd have to deal with Jake's inevitable lecture.

But the universe, apparently, had other plans.

Y/n rounded the corner.

And collided into someone.

She stumbled back, already irritated. "For fuck's sake—"

Then she saw who it was.

Jungwon.

Her stomach twisted.

Not in fear.

Not in shock.

But in something else, something sharp and hot, something that made her fingers twitch with the sudden urge to push past him and not look back.

Because the way he was looking at her.

Like he had been waiting.

Like he knew something.

Y/n exhaled sharply, straightening. "Move."

Jungwon didn't.

His lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smirk. It was something colder. "You're in a bad mood."

She scoffed. "You're observant. Congratulations."

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, gaze steady, arms still lazily tucked in his pockets, like blocking her path was nothing more than an afterthought.

Y/n took a step forward, fully intending to brush past him without another word.

But then,

"You should be more careful."

His voice was quiet. Controlled.

But it stopped her.

She frowned, slowly turning back.

"What?"

Jungwon blinked at her, slow and unreadable. "I said, you should be more careful."

Her irritation flared hotter.

"I can take care of myself," she snapped.

"If you actually cared about yourself, you wouldn't be involved with Heeseung."

Y/n froze.

Her irritation flared hotter.

"I'm not involved with Heeseung," she snapped.

Jungwon clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Could've fooled me."

She scowled. "Oh, I'm sorry, was there a rule about who I can and can't talk to?"

Jungwon let out a slow breath, controlled but sharp. "There's a difference between talking to Heeseung and whatever it is you're doing."

Y/n narrowed her eyes. "And what exactly am I doing?"

"You tell me."

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair. "Oh my god. If you're going to be a cryptic asshole, can you at least get to the point?"

Jungwon's expression didn't shift, but something in his gaze sharpened.

"What did Heeseung say to you?"

She stiffened.

It was so quick, so subtle, she almost convinced herself she hadn't reacted at all.

But Jungwon noticed.

He always noticed.

She forced a scoff. "Since when do you care?"

Jungwon's jaw tightened. "I don't."

Y/n arched an eyebrow. "Right. That's why you're stopping me in the middle of a hallway."

Jungwon exhaled sharply, tilting his head slightly like he was sizing her up. Then, finally—

"Heeseung plays games," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "You're not as good at them as you think."

Y/n's breath hitched before she could stop it.

She bristled, narrowing her eyes. "And you are?"

Jungwon didn't answer.

He just watched her, gaze steady, unreadable, long enough for the air between them to feel thick, suffocating.

Then, in one smooth movement, he stepped closer.

Too close.

She hated the way her breath caught.

"You should go." His voice was quiet, unreadable. "Dark places aren't meant for an angel like you."

She had to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. The space between them shrank, and for the first time, she felt the weight of his presence in a way she hadn't before. There was something unsettling about it, about him. He was sharp edges and quiet intensity, and right now, all of it was directed at her.

Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

Jungwon saw it.

His lips curled, amusement flickering across his face. "So you can get scared."

Y/n stiffened, irritation quickly replacing the fleeting hesitation she had let slip. "Go to hell," she muttered, voice tight.

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "I'd love to go back home."

Y/n's jaw clenched. His arrogant, untouchable demeanor was grating, and she was beyond done with his cryptic bullshit.

She moved first, stepping past him deliberately, her shoulder brushing against his.

Jungwon didn't stop her.

Then she scoffed, shaking her head as she walked away. "You're an ass," she threw over her shoulder. "Leave me alone."

Jungwon didn't move.

He stayed rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides.

He had been watching her for days, lurking in the edges of her world, waiting for an opportunity to pull her away from the mess she was running toward.

But somewhere along the way, she became the problem.

She was supposed to be another reckless idiot, another celestial too blind to see the bigger picture. Someone he could dismiss.

But Y/n wasn't that.

And it infuriated him.

She had a habit of getting under his skin, making him notice things he shouldn't. Like the way she never backed down, even when she should. The way she looked at him, not with the blind admiration or quiet fear he was used to, but with something challenging.

And worse, he liked it.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

He needed to stop.

He wouldn't.

Y/n sat cross-legged on her bed, a mess of papers, books, and hastily scribbled notes spread around her like fragments of a puzzle she couldn't quite piece together. Ink-stained fingertips tapped anxiously against the margins as she skimmed through her findings, if she could even call them that.

Because, in reality, she had nothing.

Jake sat at the edge of his own bed, watching her in silence. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, not with anger anymore, but something quieter.

She sighed, rubbing at her temples. "This is useless."

Jake didn't answer right away. Then, after a beat, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Walk me through it."

She hesitated. "Jake—"

"Just do it." His tone left no room for argument.

She exhaled sharply, sorting through the mess of parchment. "Okay. So, I started with the official records, but the further back I go, the more inconsistencies I find. Nothing outright missing, but... altered."

Jake frowned. "Altered how?"

"Dates that don't match up. Events that contradict other records. And then there's this" She flipped a particular page toward him. "Mentions of missing angels, but only in fragmented footnotes. Never by name. Just vague references to those who 'strayed from the path.'"

Jake's expression darkened as he studied the text. "And you think this connects to the heir's murder?"

She leaned back against her headboard, shaking her head. "That's just it, I don't know. But something isn't right. The way history's been rewritten... it's like someone doesn't want the full truth to be known."

Jake's grip on the paper tightened. "And you think digging through this mess is gonna get you anywhere?"

She glanced at him. "You don't believe me."

Jake sighed. "I believe something is off. But that's exactly why I don't like this, Y/n. You don't just stop when things get dangerous, you dig deeper."

His words hit harder than she expected.

Because he was right.

She flipped through the pages, her fingers moving with sharp, restless energy. Notes, records, scattered fragments of information that led nowhere. It felt like trying to hold water in cupped hands, every answer slipping through before she could grasp it.

When she finally exhaled, pushing one of the books aside, he leaned forward. "Okay," he said. "Tell me why this is worth driving yourself insane over."

She glanced at him. "I told you already. The heir's murder doesn't make sense."

Jake shook his head. "No, I mean, why do you care so much?"

Y/n hesitated.

For a second, she considered brushing him off. Giving him a half-truth, something easy.

But Jake wasn't asking to annoy her.

He was asking because he knew there was more.

She leaned back against the headboard, fingers drumming idly against the parchment in her lap. "Because it shouldn't have been possible."

Jake didn't respond, waiting for her to continue.

She frowned, looking down at the notes scattered around her. "I mean, think about it. You know how strict the celestial laws are. We're literally created with obedience woven into us. No angel has ever truly rebelled and gotten away with it, not without facing immediate consequence. So how the hell did someone break the laws, successfully? And not just any law, but the most sacred one?"

Jake's expression shifted slightly, his gaze sharpening.

Y/n exhaled, pushing a hand through her hair. "It's not just about the murder, Jake. If someone was able to break the laws so completely, then what does that mean? About the laws themselves? About us?" She hesitated before adding, quieter, "About me?"

Jake's grip on the paper tightened.

She let out a breath. "Maybe it's stupid. Maybe I just want an explanation for why I've never felt like I belong here." She shrugged, but it was forced. "Or maybe I just want proof that we're not as controlled as we think we are."

Jake studied her for a long moment.

He had known Y/n for years. Known that she never let things go once they got under her skin. But this wasn't just stubborn curiosity.

This was something deeper.

And for the first time, he understood why.

She wasn't searching for an answer about the heir.

She was searching for an answer about herself.

Silence.

Jake's jaw clenched.

Had seen the way she stood out, not because she tried to, but because she simply didn't fit. In a world that prided itself on order, on tradition, on sameness, Y/n was an anomaly.

She had always been different. Not in a way that made her weak. In a way that made her untamable.

Jake had never once thought of her as a mistake.

But he knew that she did.

She let out a sharp breath, dragging a hand down her face. "Shit. I'm being dramatic."

Jake rolled his eyes and stood, moving beside her to sit at the edge of her bed. "Yeah, well. You've earned it."

She let out a weak laugh.

Jake sighed, running a hand through his hair before finally pulling back. He didn't look happy about this. Not even a little.

But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Resigned.

"Alright," he muttered. "I'll let you keep digging."

She blinked. "You... will?"

"Yeah." He exhaled sharply. "But under conditions."

She groaned. "Of course there are conditions."

Jake shot her a look. "You're the one getting tangled up in some conspiracy shit, Y/n. You're lucky I don't chain you to this bed and call it a day."

She smirked. "Kinky."

Jake scowled. "I'm serious."

Y/n snorted but bit back a real response, settling for a nod instead. "Fine. Let's hear it."

Jake leveled her with a look before holding up a finger. "One. You tell me everything. No more sneaking around."

She rolled her eyes but nodded. "Fine."

"Two." Another finger. "The second you get a solid answer, you stop. No 'one more clue,' no excuses."

Y/n hesitated. "Define solid answer."

Jake gave her a deadpan stare. "Don't test me."

She sighed. "Alright, alright. Keep going."

Jake held up a third finger. "No recklessness. No going off alone. No doing stupid shit just because you're feeling bold."

She exhaled, dragging a hand down her face. "You're sucking all the fun out of this."

"Good," Jake said dryly. Then, more seriously, "Four. Be careful who you trust. Not everyone is your friend."

She didn't argue that one.

She didn't need to.

Jake hesitated for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter this time. "And five."

His gaze locked onto hers, unwavering. "Under no circumstances do you get yourself killed and leave me in this boring-ass place without you."

Y/n's breath caught in her throat, just for a second.

Jake wasn't joking.

There was no teasing, no sarcasm, no hint of lightness in his tone. Just something sharp and heavy, something that made her stomach twist.

She scoffed, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

Jake exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "Says the one digging through centuries-old lies like she's going to find a neat little answer tucked between the pages."

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't argue with him.

He was right.

She snorted, but the amusement faded quickly. This was serious.

He was serious.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders like she could shake off the weight pressing on her. "I'll be careful."

Jake didn't look convinced. "You better."

Jake studied her for a moment, he held her gaze for another long second before sighing. Then, without another word, he leaned over and flicked her forehead.

She flinched. "Ow—what the fuck?"

Jake smirked. "For being an idiot."

She scowled. "You're such an ass."

Jake just shrugged, standing up and stretching like this entire conversation hadn't just aged him ten years. "Yeah, well. Someone has to keep you from getting yourself killed."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something lighter in her chest now, something less suffocating. She watched as Jake grabbed a book from his own desk, tossing it onto his bed before turning back toward her.

He nodded toward her mess of notes. "If you're gonna keep obsessing, at least do it quietly." She smirked, leaning back against her pillows. "No promises."

Jake muttered something under his breath, something suspiciously close to pain in my ass, before finally collapsing onto his own bed with a groan.

And just like that, the tension eased. She still didn't have answers. But at least, for now, she had this.

Y/n's dreams are not dreams.

They are something else.

Something worse.

A sensation, sharp and intrusive, coils around her mind like a whisper she can't quite hear. Cold fingers of static trace down her spine, slipping beneath her skin, clawing at her ribs, dragging her toward something she doesn't understand. The darkness behind her eyelids shifts, too heavy, too real, curling at the edges like ink spreading through water. Shapes flicker in the void, just out of reach, fragmented whispers scraping against the inside of her skull.

A voice, no, not a voice. A pull. It isn't gentle. It isn't kind. It demands.

She jolts awake with a sharp inhale, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Her skin prickles, every nerve on edge, charged with something she can't name.

Her room is dark, but something is wrong. The sensation doesn't fade. It lingers, pressing down against her like a weight, like a summons, like something clawing at the edge of her consciousness, refusing to let go. Her pulse pounds against her ribs. She glances at Jake. He's still asleep, curled on his side, breathing steady. Peaceful. Y/n swallows hard. She should wake him. She should. But she doesn't. Because the pull is still there, electric beneath her skin, humming through her veins, dragging her toward something beyond this room, beyond reason.

Y/n swings her legs over the edge of the bed. And she follows it.

The Academy is different at night. She had never noticed it before, not like this. The air is thick, charged with something she can't name. The grand hallways, so rigid and pristine under daylight, stretch endlessly into the dark, their towering stone pillars twisting into shadows.

Everything is too quiet.

Not just because the students are asleep, but because the Academy itself feels different. Like it's holding its breath. Like it knows.

Y/n moves soundlessly, her pulse steady, her breath shallow. She doesn't know why she's here, only that she has to be. The pull is stronger now. A silent, unrelenting pressure behind her ribs, something winding around her lungs, her spine, tugging at her veins like invisible strings.

She turns a corner, And stops. At the end of the hall, framed by two towering columns, is a door. A door she has never seen before. That shouldn't be possible. She knows this school. She's spent years memorizing its corridors, walking these halls, mapping every shortcut and hidden corner.

But this, This is wrong. Or maybe... Maybe it was always here. Waiting. The pull pulses, sharper now, pressing against her temples like a heartbeat inside her skull.

She steps closer. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She shouldn't be here. But she has to know. Y/n reaches for the handle—

"You shouldn't be here."

The voice slices through the silence like a blade. She freezes. A sharp chill crawls down her spine as she whirls around, Professor Aldric stands a few feet away.

He isn't angry. But his eyes are steady, sharp, cutting through the darkness like he sees something she doesn't.

She forces herself to breathe. Her pulse is steady. She smooths her expression.

"Professor."

Aldric doesn't move. His gaze flickers to the door behind her before settling back on her. The silence stretches. "You felt it, didn't you?"

She stiffens.

Aldric's voice is quieter this time, almost contemplative. He studies her, his head tilting slightly, like she is a puzzle he is trying to solve.

She exhales slowly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Aldric hums, but the sound is unreadable.

Y/n's fingers curl at her sides. She tilts her chin up, feigning confidence. "I was just walking."

Aldric doesn't blink. "And yet you ended up here."

She doesn't answer. The moment stretches between them, heavy, suffocating.

"Curiosity is dangerous in this Academy," Aldric murmurs.

She exhales sharply. "So I've been told."

Aldric's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his gaze, something old, something knowing.

A pause. Then— "I had a student like you once."

She stills.

Aldric glances at the door again. His posture is still, unnervingly calm, but the weight of his words settles deep into her bones.

"Restless," he continues. "Always looking for something they weren't meant to find."

A slow, creeping unease curls inside her. She swallows. "What happened to them?"

Aldric's silence is an answer. Then, finally "They stopped looking." Y/n's stomach twists.

Aldric exhales, like he has already said too much. "Go back to your dorm, Y/n."

She clenches her jaw. "Why?"

The air shifts. For the first time, Aldric's voice is quiet. Steady.

"Because the Academy isn't as safe as it used to be."

Something in she stills. Not because of what he said. But because of how he said it. Not a warning. A fact. The weight of it lingers between them. Aldric studies her for another moment, then steps back, inclining his head slightly.

"Good night."

Y/n hesitates for half a second, but there's nothing left to say. Nothing he will say. She exhales sharply, turns on her heel, and walks away. Her footsteps echo against the stone, steady but clipped. She doesn't stop. Doesn't glance back. She forces herself forward, past the columns, past the shadows, ignoring the way the air still feels too heavy around her. She won't get answers here. Not tonight. She disappears down the hallway, her silhouette swallowed by the dim torchlight.

Aldric didn't move. His gaze remained fixed on the empty space beside him, on the shadows pooled along the farthest corner of the hall. And when she is finally out of reach, Aldric exhales.

without turning, without raising his voice, he speaks into the darkness.

"You too, Jungwon."

The shadows shift. A figure steps forward. Jungwon stepped forward, expression unreadable, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he hadn't just been standing there, lurking. Watching.

Y/n was already gone. But the weight of her presence still clung to the air, thick and lingering. Jungwon met Aldric's gaze without hesitation. "I was bored."

Aldric merely observed him, his face impassive. "Strange," he mused. "I didn't take you for someone who enjoyed standing in the dark, listening to things that aren't meant for you."

Jungwon's expression remained unreadable. "Isn't that what you do?"

Aldric hummed, unimpressed. "I listen when necessary. The difference is, I don't hover."

The silence between them stretched, heavy and deliberate. Jungwon should leave. He should turn and walk away like none of this had ever happened. Like he hadn't been standing there, watching Y/n, following her every move.

But he didn't. Instead, he spoke.

"She's going to get herself killed."

Aldric didn't react. No flicker of surprise. No concern. Instead, he sighed, a quiet, almost thoughtful sound. "Perhaps," he admitted. "This is often the fate of those who ask the wrong questions. But that depends entirely on how much she's willing to know."

Jungwon's fingers curled into fists. That answer irritated him more than it should have. For a moment, his thoughts tangled into something sharp, something reckless.

But then he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to step back, to distance himself from whatever this was. He wasn't here to discuss her. He didn't care what Aldric chose to do about her. And yet, his voice came out lower, rougher than before.

"She's reckless."

Aldric merely glanced at him. "And yet, you're the one standing here."

Jungwon's expression didn't change, but something inside him twisted.

Aldric wasn't wrong. Y/n was the reckless one. Y/n was the one stepping into dangerous territory. But the problem wasn't just her. It was him, too. Because while he wasn't bound by celestial law, she was. He was the one trailing after her like a fool. And if anyone found out how often he had been watching her, how often he had been following her, Y/n would be the one to suffer for it. Not him.

She was the one bound by celestial law, the one whose loyalty would be questioned if the wrong people started noticing their paths crossing too often. Celestial protocol may have been new, but its purpose was clear. The law had been put in place to prevent another war from breaking out between angels and demons. There were rules. Boundaries. Lines that weren't meant to be crossed. And yet, he kept crossing them.

Jungwon exhaled sharply, fingers curling at his sides.

It wasn't that he cared if she got caught.

It wasn't that he cared if she was reckless.

So why the hell was he still here?

Jungwon scoffed, low and humorless. "Celestial laws are bullshit."

Aldric raised a brow, but he didn't argue. "They are absolute."

Jungwon huffed, shaking his head. "Nothing is absolute."

Aldric's eyes darkened slightly. "Then I suggest you be careful where your thoughts lead you, Jungwon."

Jungwon didn't reply. His thoughts had already led him too far.

Aldric studied him for another moment before finally stepping back, turning away. He disappeared down the corridor, robes whispering against the stone.

Jungwon didn't move. Y/n was reckless. Y/n was dangerous. But he was the one who kept looking for her. He was the one who couldn't seem to let it go. Jungwon exhaled sharply, forcing his fingers to unclench.

He should stop.

He would stop.

And yet,

Jungwon turned sharply on his heel, heading down the opposite hallway. He told himself he wasn't following her.

But deep down, he already knew,

He would never be far.

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

[hypertechnica]

i’m not saying that what Odo did in s6 while the dominion occupied the station WASNT fucked up beyond imagination, but am i the only one who thinks it completely makes sense why it happened (and why Kira forgave him?)

to be clear, i absolutely think the show forgave him too fast - it should have been a full arc on screen, not in a single off screen discussion in a closet. that was a massive writing failure. but! i don’t think that the arc is usalvageable at all.

(CW for discussions of grooming)

from what i knew of the dominion collaborator arc before i watched it, i assumed Odo had taken an active role in betraying the federation basically because he was lonely and horny and prioritized his own feelings over his values. i didn’t see that at all.

Odo’s betrayal lied within his inaction - his refusal to help kira and the resistance when she needed him most, ruining their plans and in the end costing thousands of lives. Kira (and everyone else) had every right to never speak to him again - so why did she?

Odo, to me, seemed completely dissociated the entire time his betrayal took place. where just before he had been talking of wanting to rip out his strong feelings for Kira, he then takes on an eerie apathy towards everything, stating things “used to” matter and that he felt nothing. he doesn’t even know how much time is passing. the crux of this, of course, is the link - Odo stresses that it’s an experience that can’t be compared to anything solids can do. Kira just “doesn’t understand.” that she can’t understand. what is so life changing about linking that makes him do a full 180 on everything he’s ever stood for? it’s basically just goo sex, right? right?

the Voice of the Link (the female changeling but i refuse to call her that because it’s a stupid fucking name) is manipulating him with his desire to link and to experience his culture. but linking is more than a metaphor for sex, it’s quite literally the emotional fusion between beings. the show compares it to sex, yes, but the emotional intimacy of the act transcends humanoid notions of sexuality in a way Odo had never experienced at this level before. the Voice already had power over him. she’d been building his trust and teasing him with hints at their culture for seasons at this point, it wasn’t a huge step to fully let her enter his mind. the Voice wanted Odo to join the Great Link - but she also wanted that minefield to be destroyed. Odo says she didn’t find out about their plans, but was he correct? what are the Voice’s true motives? she says she doesn’t care about the details of the war, that she just wants to be with Odo for companionship - i don’t buy it. she has to know about the resistance. she’s too smart to not have figured it out. it’s two birds with one stone - fully sway Odo to the side of the dominion, and ensure that the minefield is destroyed.

they’d linked before, but never in totality or for that length. she knew he’d be vulnerable to it. that he would lose himself to the overwhelming emotional intensity and melding of their minds. Odo was an extremely young changeling with little to no experience linking, and was thrust into an out of body extremely emotional and sexual experience literally transcending the boundaries of self with a thousand+ year old founder who knows exactly what buttons to press. of course he would lose his sense of self and detach from reality! she’s literally both attacking and assuaging every vulnerability Odo has in an extremely precise manner!

Odo wanted nothing more than to be able to link with another changeling but the power imbalance was too great. he was putty in her hands. it was really uncomfortable to watch and i dare say it was an act of predation rather than “Odo was horny and folded immediately” or “Odo was lonely and prioritized that over his friends.” yes, he was both of those things, but in the context of his relationship with the Voice… good lord. i wouldn’t even be surprised if Odo genuinely didn’t know the extent of the damage he caused until after things were over - he was completely and utterly gone.

it makes no sense for Odo to suddenly abandon his entire moral and value system just because The Link Is Cool and Awesome and i’m Learning About my Culture and then change his mind once more once shit starts hitting the fan. he’s not that gullible. he can’t rip out his feelings! but he can be coaxed into a state of derealized semi consciousness by continuous linking and isolation from others.

by linking with the Voice he lost track of where he ended and she began. his ego had been destroyed. he was nothing, and nothing mattered but the link. the totality of it. his loneliness was amplified by a thousand degrees every time they separated, she knew how to make him feel just right, she knew how to make him lose his independence completely.

but the spark within him, his love that he’d tried to get rid of, the kind that didn’t require becoming nothing but a drop in an ocean, saved him from her. Kira helped him remember himself and what he believed in right before it was too late.

Odo is far from a defendable character in many cases. he’s a very very flawed person. but i would argue this isn’t his worst moment. his extremely authoritarian tendencies and the amoral decisions he’s made while in complete sound mind are honestly more culpable to me than what happened to him in s6. the scale of the disastrous consequences resulting from his betrayal make it way worse obviously, but he was literally getting groomed and NOT in his right mind. he seemed almost drugged to me at points.

so he SHOULD have gotten another arc afterwards explaining all of that in detail instead of “well, he talked it out offscreen with Kira. he’s forgiven now!” BRO HE INDIRECTLY KILLED SO MANY PEOPLE dissociated or not he SHOULD face consequences for that!! make him grapple with it!! make him realize the extent of what happened not only the consequences but the the way he was taken advantage of! its literally existentially terrifying in every way! and of COURSE in that context Kira would forgive him. trust would have to be rebuilt, of course, but it’s one thing to actively put the entire alpha quadrant at risk for some strange, it’s another thing to have your vulnerability taken advantage of and be put into a dissociative state.

tldr: the Voice is a great villain and Odo has never done anything wrong ever in his life

[mylittleredgirl]

unpopular opinion but i really enjoy "field of fire," the ezri dax "to catch a serial killer" episode. for all the scenery chewing and deep space nine's continued vulcan smear campaign, i'm not going to pretend it's objectively the best of the ezri a-plot episodes, but it's my favorite for what it reveals about her.

jadzia was emotional, headstrong, and sometimes impulsive (as was curzon), but ezri is reckless.

of course she is! she's young! she's unqualified for everything that has happened to her, and honestly, so are all her peers. she ran away from a fucked-up home to starfleet at a time when, as we saw with nog, they're field-promoting cadets at top speed to fill the ranks as starfleet suffers massive war casualties. she's more or less the same generation as the red squad cadets on the valiant who decided to fight the dominion war by themselves behind enemy lines.

and she wouldn't be ezri dax otherwise. the reveal in "equilibrium" is a secret known only the symbiosis commission and the starfleet offiers who were physically in the room. to the medical staff on the destiny and ezri tigan herself, the odds of rejection from an improper trill joining are overwhelmingly likely and fatal. but ezri still volunteers to join with dax! she's probably going to die in this uniform anyway, right?

jadzia was a focused, rule-following, straight-a student before she met the party worm, and it took dax a season or two to loosen her up, but ezri was probably already unhinged.

so of course she's the one who decides to take her inner murderer off the leash at the slightest provocation. sisko asks her to help odo out, and ezri somehow interprets this as feeling like she's solely responsible for finding the killer when she only took one class at the academy in forensic psychology and didn't even like it. odo and o'brien are continuing their own investigation off-screen the whole time! meanwhile, she probably had to look up the trill emergence ritual in a book. she has not read the fine print on ANY of this.

and she sticks with this crazy plan, even when it becomes clear that she's right on the edge of becoming a danger to society. but ezri's whole starfleet career, maybe her whole young life of ignoring and plotting her escape from her emotionally abusive family, certainly her whole joined experience, has been lived right on the edge.

all the scenes she has with joran in and around quark's bar to me are her technique for staying grounded in reality. they often happen after joran pushes her too far, so she uses being public as a distraction from that one-on-one intensity—even though it means she looks insane and everyone's staring at her. even joran is like ".... shouldn't you have told sisko about me?" she is full in dax stubbornness on this deeply dubious plan.

and it works!! and in the final account, i think she liked it a little: the power of playing a killer, the power of being stronger than joran, and the soft ending she has with him during reintegration.

her symbiont, her whole life on the station, her friends, her romantic interests, they were all jadzia's first, but jadzia was afraid of joran and would never have played this game. in this one way, ezri has a closer relationship to her unearned symbiont than jadzia did.

ezri's beta canon trajectory of switching to a command track is okay, but it makes me sad to think she'd ditch her chosen career entirely. i could see her getting into criminal psychology. her brother's a murderer (she hasn't unpacked that AT ALL), one of her past hosts was a murderer... with that backstory, she'd do numbers in a federation law & order procedural series. i'd watch it.

but honestly, in the federation spirit of rehabilitation, she might be uniquely qualified to treat violent criminals as well, rather than hunting them down. she could reach in and heal that part of herself and then use that experience to reach others.