#What is Lean Data Governance

[avinashkumar1202]

The Imperative of Lean Data Governance in 2024: A Technical Perspective

In the ever-evolving landscape of data management, the significance of lean data governance has reached paramount importance in 2024. As organizations navigate through unprecedented volumes of data, the need for a streamlined and efficient governance framework has become indispensable. In this blog post, we delve into the intricacies of lean data governance, exploring its technical nuances and highlighting its criticality in contemporary data-centric environments.

At its core, lean data governance embodies the principles of agility, scalability, and efficacy in managing data assets. Unlike traditional governance models characterized by bureaucratic hurdles and rigidity, lean data governance prioritizes flexibility and responsiveness. This approach is particularly pertinent in 2024, where data landscapes are characterized by exponential growth, diverse data sources, and stringent regulatory requirements.

One of the key tenets of lean data governance is its emphasis on leveraging automation and advanced analytics technologies. By harnessing machine learning algorithms and artificial intelligence, organizations can automate data classification, lineage tracking, and access control mechanisms. This not only accelerates decision-making processes but also enhances data quality and integrity, thereby mitigating risks associated with erroneous or obsolete data.

Moreover, lean data governance promotes a culture of collaboration and cross-functional alignment within organizations. By breaking down silos between IT, data management, and business units, organizations can foster synergistic relationships conducive to data-driven decision-making. This collaborative ethos is instrumental in ensuring that data governance initiatives are aligned with organizational objectives and regulatory compliance mandates.

Furthermore, lean data governance advocates for a modular and adaptive governance framework that can evolve in tandem with changing business requirements and technological advancements. By adopting an iterative approach to governance implementation, organizations can incrementally enhance their governance capabilities while minimizing disruption to ongoing operations. This iterative methodology also enables organizations to swiftly adapt to emerging data privacy regulations and security threats, thereby future-proofing their data governance practices.

In conclusion, the imperative of lean data governance in 2024 cannot be overstated. In an era defined by data ubiquity and complexity, organizations must embrace lean governance principles to effectively harness the power of their data assets. By prioritizing agility, automation, collaboration, and adaptability, organizations can establish robust data governance frameworks capable of driving innovation, ensuring regulatory compliance, and mitigating risks. As we continue to traverse the data-driven landscape, lean data governance will undoubtedly remain a cornerstone of organizational success in the digital age.

[saad1505]

Master Data Governance Solutions | Mining Industry 

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[flwrkid14]

Tim and Danny: Love, Trust, and the Weight of Protection

part 1

Danny knows what it's like to be hunted.

It’s been his reality for as long as he can remember—forever glancing over his shoulder, never truly at ease. Between vengeful ghosts, government agents, and countless other dangers, his survival has depended solely on his instincts, his powers, and the fickleness of luck. He has his friends—two best friends and a sister who would drop everything to stand by him, who he knows would always have his back. But the weight of that reliance feels heavy, a burden he can't quite shake.

Trusting others, truly leaning on them, has always felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford. He wants to feel safe, to let someone else take some of the weight, but the thought of putting them in danger because of him? That’s a risk he can't bring himself to take.

Then he meets Tim Drake.

At first, Tim’s protectiveness doesn’t faze him. It’s Gotham. You don’t date a Wayne-adjacent vigilante and expect anything less than a little paranoia. Danny’s been through worse. A tracker on his phone? Standard. Tim pulling files on his professors? Honestly, kind of funny.

But then, Danny finds out how deep it goes.

He stumbles upon a folder on Tim’s desk—his name printed neatly on the tab. Inside? Background checks on his classmates, neighbors and friends. Surveillance reports. A detailed map of his daily routine. Heart rate data. Sleeping patterns. Eating habits. There’s even a file on Phantom.

For a moment, Danny froze.

This should terrify him—it used to. Being watched, tracked for his every move, reminded him too much of those who hunted him, who’d wanted to tear him apart and dissect him like a lab rat. His first instinct was always to run.

But at that moment? He felt... safe. The notes in the margins weren’t cold or clinical like the ones his parents would have written. No, instead, they were worried. Make sure he’s eating enough. Possible threat? Keep an eye on this one. Look for ectoplasmic spikes—could mean trouble.

This wasn’t someone trying to control him. This was someone trying to protect him.

Tim’s not like the people who hunted him in Amity Park. There’s no malice in what he does. No intent to control or hurt. It’s all fear. Love, even. Danny can see it in Tim’s eyes when he stammers through an explanation, bracing himself for anger or rejection.

He’s scared Danny will leave.

And that’s what gets Danny.

No one has ever cared for him like this, no one willing to go through such lengths just to ensure his safety. Yeah, it’s intense, maybe unhealthy, even by the standards of a world that isn’t known for its normalcy. Danny knows Sam, Tucker, and Jazz would do the same—they’ve all put their lives on the line for him before, and he loves them for it. But Tim is different.

Tim is strong enough to face the dangers of Danny’s world and carry the weight of his burdens without hesitation. It’s something Danny could never ask his friends to do—not because they wouldn’t, but because they have their own lives, their own paths. They would drop everything for him, just as Tim would, but Tim does it with the resolve of a vigilante, already living a life where protecting others is his duty. This is someone who understands the risks, who’s already made those sacrifices, and still chooses to say, “I will protect you, no matter the cost.”

So, he smiles. He kisses Tim’s cheek. And he asks, “Can I put a tracker on you too?”

The way Tim’s eyes light up? Yeah, Danny thinks. This is love.

-----------------

The batfamily doesn’t get it.

They corner Danny one day, all serious expressions and careful words.

“Danny, we’re worried,” Dick starts, voice soft. “About Tim?” Danny tilts his head. “About both of you,” Steph says. “This… surveillance thing. It’s not normal.”

Danny shrugs. “Neither am I.”

They might understand—on some level. They’d lived through their own kind of danger, faced their own threats. But for Danny, it was different. They didn’t grow up being hunted, didn’t spend years hiding from people who wanted to tear them apart just for existing. For him, trusting the wrong person wasn’t just a risk; it was a matter of life and death.

Tim’s methods might be extreme, but Danny sees the intent behind them. It’s not control. It’s care. Tim watches his back because he knows what it’s like to lose people. Danny lets him because he knows what it’s like to be alone.

“Tim’s the first person who’s made me feel safe,” Danny tells them, voice steady. “You see obsession. I see someone who cares enough to watch my back.”

They don’t know what to say to that.

-----------------

Their relationship isn’t conventional. But in a city like Gotham, love isn’t always soft and simple. Sometimes, it’s vigilance. Sometimes, it’s knowing someone’s tracking your heartbeat because they’d die if it ever stopped.

Tim watches over Danny. Danny watches over Tim. It’s not about control—it’s about trust. About knowing that, no matter what, someone’s got your back.

The bats worry. They whisper about boundaries, red flags and healthy relationships.

Danny doesn’t listen. He knows what he’s got.

In a world where ghosts and vigilantes collide, where danger lurks in every shadow, Danny’s finally found someone who won’t let him face it alone.

And that? That’s everything.

[hello-gloomy]

Wearing their Colors

Transformer headcanon:

On wearing clothes with their colors/ designs and motifs and showing it to your cybertronian partner.

A/N: I FUCKING MISSED MEGATRONS BIRTHDAY *this is to make up for my sins* also sorry if Bee's part seems rushed.

Megatron:

Armor

You had to get it specially commissioned, which took a lot of design.

You had to have it made of metal, too. It was pretty heavy, even though the group that made it said the armor was lighter.

You wore silver, slightly heeled, thigh-high boots. Some of your thighs were exposed but covered with black fabric. Like him, you had matching sharp shoulder pads. You had a medium-length skirt tass in the back of your armor instead of armor in the front that matched his modesty planting.

Your Breast planting matched his chassis; you had the Decepticon symbol in the same spot as he was.

The final piece to match him was a Valkyrie-styled tiara with the same spikes on his helm.

You were so excited to show him it, hoping he would like it. Currently waiting in his Habisuite, sitting on his desk, looking at the shiny metal on the walls to see your blurry reflection.

Soon enough, you heard his booming footsteps approaching the door. A hiss sounded off, and you spun around and stood up as tall as possible while trying to calm your nerves.

He's still looking at the data pad in his hand while he walks over to the desk and sits down; you strut up to his arm to get his attention, pressing yourself on him the best you can.

He sets down the data pad when he notices the hard silver on his arm; he ex vents a bit louder for you to be able to see while giving you a lustful once-over

You twirl a little when you lift yourself off of him; you step up directly in front of him, and he lifts one of his servos to drag the tip of his digit over your upper thigh armor. You drag the tip of his finger to the matching Decepticon symbol on your chest, and he lets out an appreciative sigh at the sight of it.

He leans his helm down and kisses you and your armor before he speaks

"What a lovely Decepticon you make."

Optimus prime

It came in a pair of gogo boots and a matching jacket

You gave yourself one last look over in the mirror before you went out to meet with Optimus

He was finally free from most of his meetings on the newly built Cybertron government for the week, so he sent out a message to you.

His message was perfect timing as you finished your little surprise for him. You smooth out the leather of the jacket and zip up the boots.

You told him to wait at the base and that you'd meet him there. You grab your skateboard and make the fifteen-minute commute in relative silence. Walking through the special entrance for humans, you watch the lights of the ceiling.

You arrive at his room and text him quickly, telling him you are outside. The doors swish open, startling you. Peering inside, you see him looking at data pads at his desk, still doing work when he was supposed to be taking a break.

You walk closer to where he's sitting before giving a whistle to grab his attention. He looks down at you, and his optics widen when he sees your clothes; he leans over and grabs you to look closer.

He ex vents softly while taking it all in. You match his finish. A cute little mini him in human form that's all his. It makes his spark beat so fast in his chassis.

He presses his helm against your head before he whispers to you,

"My little Prime."

Bumblebee

A Yellow and Black Varsity Jacket

The jacket had his numbers alongside his name on the sleeves of it

It took forever to find the jacket that perfectly matched his colors; you just took it upon yourself to sew on all the decals that represent your alien lover.

You're sitting around the Autobot base while waiting for Bee; you showed Ratchet the jacket, and he gave you a small smile before returning to work.

Three vehicles pulled in, and you raced to the yellow one.

Their younger human charges got out of them, and the Cybertronians transformed into their bipedal mode

Miko and Raf noticed your jacket first; Miko excitedly pointed it out to the rest before asking you to make one for her and Bulkhead; you whispered to Raf that you'd let him borrow it when it was just him and Bee.

You told Jack that maybe him and Arcee could have a matching biker jacket for him, she chuckled with a small huff

The five of them walked off, and your lover and you were left. He hadn't made a single beep since they arrived; you tilt your head at him and smile. He leans down to pick you up; sitting in his palm, he moves the jacket's fabric slightly to look at all the words representing him.

He brings you close to his face and beeps out a sweet 'I love you.' just for you and him.

[incognit0slut]

MASTER OF PERSUASION

Part 4 of kinktober | main masterlist

meandom!Spencer/Hotch x fem!reader; Threesome, creampie, dumbification, degradation, brat taming, abuse of power, edging, dubcon

Your involvement in a heinous crime was questioned by the two FBI agents who were eager to do anything to get you to talk.

Words: 6802

a/n: This one is dedicated to my nasty, touch-starved btches who secretly wants to be manhandled by two older men. Enjoy this pure filth🫶

YOU WERE FAR FROM BEING A GOOD PERSON. From the surface, you seemed like a normal, typical woman, just one of the countless faces within the crowd. But when the doors shut behind you, you find yourself involved in endeavors you should never have pursued in the first place.

You knew too much. You were acutely aware of how many crimes happening in your vicinity. The number of deaths resulting from these heinous acts should be enough to terrify you, but it didn't, because unbeknownst to your peers, you were one of the reasons why they happened.

Although you never played the role of the perpetrator, you were the person these criminals came to for information. You were good with technology, you could hack into any secure system in the blink of an eye. It was almost as if you were a deity of the dark web, a mastermind whose mere presence served as a godsend to those carrying out these crimes.

It was easy money; you gave what they wanted, received what they paid you, and most importantly, you made sure to never look back. You always wiped everything out after each job was done, but somehow, after working on so many deals, your luck finally struck out.

Somebody hacked into your system—no, somebody good hacked into your system. This person knew what they were doing. They managed to hack through your firewall and retrieve a few of your data while also discovering your identity.

You honestly wanted to praise whoever was on the other side because you had never encountered someone who could match, if not surpass, your own skill. But it wasn't until you heard the loud banging on your front door, followed by people in uniformed vests rushing in and pointing their guns at you, that you finally realized who had breached your system.

It was the FBI.

So that was how you found yourself sitting inside an interrogation room hours later with two agents across from you. A very tall, intimidating man stood at the corner, his arms crossed as he watched you silently. Dr. Spencer Reid was how he introduced himself, and the way he emphasized the title in front of his name, you were certain he was the type of person who took extreme pride in his intelligence.

He seemed a little too cocky.

Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, on the other hand, was hard to decipher. The older man appeared somewhat guarded as if his job had forced him to put on a facade devoid of genuine emotions. Maybe it did. He was, after all, a federal agent. Both of them were. These men were probably taught to master the art of maintaining an inscrutable poker face.

Nevertheless, they were both intimidating, and you wondered to yourself, was good cop bad cop not a thing anymore? Because as far as this was going, none of them seemed inclined to make things easy for you.

The man in front of you cleared his throat, his voice was a well-practiced blend of authority and curiosity. "You've been quite elusive, haven't you, Miss Y/L/N?"

You leaned back, studying him through half-lidded eyes, your fingers tracing the edges of the table with a cool, almost casual detachment. "Elusiveness is a matter of perspective, Agent Hotchner. I prefer to think of it as adaptability."

"Adaptability?" He leaned in closer, his sharp gaze never wavering. "You've made quite a name for yourself. You've infiltrated government agencies, stolen classified data, and even orchestrated financial heists... Impressive, I must say."

A faint smile danced upon your lips, revealing just a glimmer of amusement. "I simply explore the hidden avenues of the World Wide Web. It's not about the thrill; it's about the knowledge."

His eyes narrowed. "But your actions have consequences. You've caused quite a chaos, don't you think?"

"Consequences are a part of every action, whether in the digital realm or the physical world. As for chaos..." You met his gaze with unwavering confidence. "Well, sometimes chaos is necessary for evolution."

He leaned back, his expression unyielding. "Evolution or anarchy?"

"As I said, everything is a matter of perspective, even anarchy," you replied, your voice smooth as silk. "In the grand scheme of things, I'm just a catalyst. Society's flaws were there long before I came along."

The man in the corner took a step forward. His eyes bore into you with resolve as if he had grown weary of the ongoing debate. "You've had your say," he interjected with a steely tone. "You know why you're here. Our victim's files were found on your computer, we need to know who requested them."

You met his gaze with a mixture of defiance and amusement, unfazed by his direct approach. "Doctor Reid," you said, your voice laced with a hint of mock surprise. "Always chasing ghosts in the machine, aren't you?"

His expression remained composed, his intellect undeniably sharp. "We're not here to discuss my pursuits. We're here to talk about the life you've disrupted."

"Disrupted? I'd say I've merely revealed the cracks in the system. Your victim, as you call them, was a casualty of a much larger game."

"Games have rules, Miss Y/L/N. You seem to operate outside of them."

"Rules are made to be broken, Spencer," you retorted, your tone cutting like a blade through the air. "I can call you that, right? I hate having to speak with such formalities."

"It's Doctor Reid," he corrected. "Tell us who you're working for."

His unwavering determination was met with a subtle, knowing smile from you. You leaned forward, your eyes locking onto his with a hint of intrigue.

"I don't know, Spencer," you began, your tone slightly softer, as if you were letting him in on a secret, "The digital world is a labyrinth of information. Files come and go, they disappear and reappear... It's like trying to catch a shadow in the dark. It's useless."

He addressed you with a cold stare. "You're playing a dangerous game here."

You raised an eyebrow, your voice honeyed with allure. "Oh, I'm well aware of the game we're playing. But don't mistake my refusal to cooperate for arrogance. It's just that some secrets are meant to stay hidden."

The room seemed to contract, the air thick with unresolved tension. Aaron cleared his throat and your eyes fell back on him. "Miss Y/L/N, give us a name and we can make things easier for you. But if you don't cooperate..." His eyes traveled down along your body, the goosebumps rose on your skin in response to the heat of his gaze. "I'm afraid we have to resort to extreme measures."

A brief pause hung in the room. There was something in the way he was staring at you. He was looking at you with a profound determination that seemed very different from the way he assessed you before. Under the weight of his scrutiny, you felt your body growing hot. Your breath hitched, and a flush of warmth crept up your neck and tingled in your cheeks.

You regarded him for a moment before you finally spoke, your voice calm but tinged with a hint of defiance.

"If you think you can break me, Aaron, you're gravely mistaken. But if you're interested in the name..." you leaned back, crossing your arms. "I guess you'll have to earn it."

The tension in the room escalated as your words hung in the air. His jaw clenched, and when you thought you had won the upper hand over this battle of wits, he surprised you by waving his hand in the air, and Spencer came forward.

It was as if they had planned this. The way Aaron instructed his partner to move seemed rehearsed and calculated. Spencer walked over to you and before you could register what was happening, he grabbed onto your arm and wrenched you out of your chair with a force you didn't know he possessed.

Your voice carried a mix of anger and frustration as you protested, "What the hell are you doing?"

You suddenly felt him run his hands along your arms. "Checking for weapons."

The scoff you gave him was loud. "Oh, now you're treating me like a criminal?"

"It's a mere precaution."

And then you felt it, the way his touch lingered on your body. It was far from any normal search. His hands felt warm on your skin, even over the material of your shirt, as he continued to pat down your arms. There was a certain roughness in his movements as he slid his arms around your backside and you couldn't mistake the way he gripped your ass more than he should probably have.

"This is ridiculous," you muttered under your breath. "You won't find anything."

"I'll be the judge of that." He slightly shoved your shoulders. "Put your hands on the table."

You reluctantly did as you were told, silently gritting your teeth. His hands moved with purpose, and as much as you wanted to stop this questionable act, your body was reacting in a way that had you questioning yourself instead.

Why was your heart beating so fast as he stood behind you? Why was it getting so hard to breathe when his hands slipped around your waist? And why did it seem you were anticipating more when his palms slightly hovered over your breasts?

"Is this really necessary?" You asked quietly, trying to act as if his rough hands on you weren't affecting you. "This feels more like an attempt for intimidation."

You could practically hear the smugness in his voice as he asked, "Are you intimidated, Miss Y/L/N?"

You liked to think that you weren't, but honestly, you didn't know anymore. You had tried your best to put on a mask to avoid appearing weak, but as he started to squeeze your breasts in the palm of his hands, it finally dawned on you what was happening—You were finally caught, there was a high chance of you ending up in jail, and now a federal agent was touching you inappropriately, groping you in a crude form of patting you down.

And to your dismay, you actually liked it.

But you had too much of a pride, that was why you found yourself lying through your teeth. "No."

Spencer hummed a reply as if he didn't believe you. He squeezed your breasts through your shirt again, palming at them as he slightly felt your nipples stiffen through the material, and he couldn't resist rolling them as his touch continued lower. Your breath hitched as he mapped out your curves, one of his hands delving between your thighs before he stopped right at the center of your heat.

You let out a gasp.

"I-Is this even legal?"

Your mind went blurry as you felt his fingers touching you through the thin fabric of your pants. "Are you questioning how the law enforcement works?"

You couldn't answer him. Not because you didn't want to, but because you weren't able to form any coherent words as he continued to palm your sex, his fingers continuing to rub you. You were suddenly so focused on the way he was touching you, your head hanging low as you felt the sensation throughout your body, that you didn't even hear Aaron calling out your name.

It wasn't until Spencer retrieved his hand from between your thighs, and yanked your hair from behind, that you were forced to meet Aaron's gaze. "He called you," Spencer mocked, tightening his grip.

Aaron leaned forward, assessing the way you were arching your back with both of your hands planted on the table. "You have two options. One, we can play nicely, you give us a name and we'll go easy on you." His voice dropped lower as he continued, "Or two, you keep with this attitude and we might have to coax the answer out of you."

You locked eyes with him, a silent challenge burning in your gaze. Despite being in this vulnerable position, there was an undeniable strength in your stare, a refusal to surrender to their intimidation. Aaron met your gaze with a profound understanding.

"The hard way it is then." You saw him lean back in his chair as he crossed his arms, the subtle movement actuating his broad chest. "You know what to do, Reid."

There was nothing remotely gentle about the way Spencer handled you after those words. He shoved you, knocking the air out of your lungs as you gasped, your body pressed against the cool surface of the table. Somehow between your struggles, he managed to slide his hands around your waist, unbuttoning your pants before pushing them down your legs.

The air hit your bare skin, and even when you felt the cool breeze, your body was seething with fire, burning through your veins. The warmth spread along your cheeks as you realized you were wearing your skimpiest underwear, a flimsy material of dark lace that barely covered your sex. He gripped your ass with the palm of his hands, fingertips digging into the plush skin as he spread you apart.

"Well, aren't you a pretty thing?" You felt him shift behind you and you imagined him kneeling right in front of your heat. The moment his knuckles brushed along your wet patch, your hips bucked involuntarily. "She's wet, Hotch, I think she's getting a little too excited."

"I'm not surprised," the older man said. "She does seem like a slut."

Your head snapped at him. "I am not a slut."

"Oh, you are a slut." He leaned forward and reached out his hand, holding your chin in a vice grip, forcing you to look at him. "And we'll prove you how much of a whore you actually are."

Right on queue, a surprised gasp left your lips when Spencer's large palm burned your skin, giving your ass a harsh slap. The sound echoed in the room and he repeated the motion, watching in satisfaction the way your ass rippled for him. You fell into a false sense of security as he began to soothe his hand against your burning skin before pulling back to give another loud smack, and your mouth fell apart in pleasure.

"Not a fucking slut?" Aaron taunted, his thumb brushing on your lower lip. "That's the most farfetched lie you told us ever since you walked through that door."

You glared at him, but your defiance slowly shattered when you felt Spencer pulling down your panties over the curve of your ass, slipping them down your legs. The evidence of your arousal stuck onto the fabric and you felt your cheeks going warm in embarrassment. Spencer sucked in a gasp as he took in the sight of your lower half completely naked for him.

"Barely even touched you and you're soaking wet," he murmured, letting his thumb brush over your pussy, gauging your reaction. Your nose scrunched as you tried to bite back a moan that threatened to slip out. He started with gentle strokes, keeping his fingers only on the outer side, yet you could still feel his touch everywhere.

Each downstroke he made gave a light pull against your clit without giving any direct contact, and each time his fingers came back up, he slowly spread your folds open for him, briefly allowing your slickness to come in contact with the cold breeze of air.

Your mind became hazy, and just when you thought your body couldn't react more to his touch, he slipped a finger between your folds, feeling your slick against the dainty flesh. The motion caused your hips to buck erratically and your hands immediately reached up to grip onto the edge of the table.

He slipped deep inside you as your arousal coated him, circling your tight entrance as he felt the way your walls fluttered around the tip of his finger. He let out a low grunt as he felt how tight you were around him, curling at the knuckle while he began to drag his calloused pad against the soft spot inside you, making your body shake just from the mere contact.

The subtle reaction didn't go unnoticed by Aaron and he watched as your eyes glazed over. He couldn't stop himself from smirking, his features revealing a hint of amusement.

"You're enjoying this too much. I'm starting to think you're keeping your silence for the sake of this." You moved your head away from his grasp, only for him to grip your jaw harder. "Don't fucking move. Keep your eyes on me while he fucks your tight little pussy."

You never thought you'd be hearing such crude words from him, not with his stoic demeanor and polished facade, nor did you expect your body to react the way it did when those words filled your ears. You couldn't help it, your body betrayed your mind as your cunt continued to throb between your thighs. You could feel the desire building inside you, threatening to burst as you felt your body shake, and Spencer was well aware of this as he felt your walls clenching around his finger.

The laugh coming through his lips rang in your ears, sending shivers down your spine. "She liked that."

Aaron raised his eyebrows at you. "You like it when I talk like this?" He taunted. "You like it when I tell you how much of a slut you are taking his fingers so deep inside you?"

Your eyelids dropped lower at his words, and right at that moment, a lewd squelch filled the room as Spencer slowly slipped another finger into your dripping cunt, stretching you out as he began to thrust them inside you at a steady pace. Your body quivered as your breath quickened, and you found yourself grinding against his touch, desperately trying to get him to press the same spot inside you.

"Look at you fucking yourself on my fingers," Spencer cooed, his free hand smacking your bare ass again, and you found yourself arching your back. "You really are filthy."

Aaron laughed. "Acting like you didn't want it a second ago." He gripped your jaw tighter, forcing a gasp out of you at the subtle pain. He took advantage of your opened mouth by slipping his thumb inside. "Suck on my finger, Sweetheart."

You didn't know which one surprised you the most, his sudden term of endearment, or the order he gave you. You hesitated, because the moment you willingly sucked on his finger, you knew you would lose. The moment you followed through to his demand, he would have the upper hand and you would simply be the pawn in this game.

Aaron, as you realized, wasn't a patient man. His other hand reached for your hair and then, with a sharp and sudden yank, he tore at your hair. "Don't make me use more force than I already am."

Your roots tingled, your scalp throbbing, and a few tears welled up in your eyes. You blinked them away, not wanting to show any sign of weakness, and leveled your gaze at him.

He pulled your hair again. "Suck."

The pain was so much for you that you found yourself wavering. You swirled your tongue around his thumb before closing your lips and sucking with an approving hum. A husky moan was pulled from deep within him, overwhelmed by the feeling of your mouth on him, and, especially, the sight of you. "That's it," he praised you. "Suck on it as if you're sucking my cock."

Your walls clenched again. A sound of pleasure erupted from Spencer as he felt your cunt sucking in his fingers, and without warning, he pumped them into you with so much force you couldn't stop yourself from moaning this time. He laughed, as did Aaron, and your body shook as you felt that familiar sensation tightening along your body.

The room around you seemed to blur and melt away at the pleasure coursing in your veins. It started in the pit of your stomach, a warm, liquid sensation that spread like a slow-burning fire, radiating outwards in waves. Your hushed moan was muffled by Aaron's thumb in your mouth, but the sound of your pathetic whining didn't go unnoticed by both men.

You were so fucking close you could feel every nerve in your body on high alert. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, and your body quivered with the intensity of the sensation. Your eyes fell shut as the lewd sound of your arousal filled the room, and just when you were about to let go, Spencer suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, wrenching away that peak of pleasure you were desperately chasing.

Your eyes shot open, dilated pupils now wide with shock and confusion. Aaron met your gaze with amusement, a sadistic smile dancing on his lips as he pulled his thumb out of your mouth with a pop. "Stupid girl, thinking we'd actually let you cum."

The abrupt contrast between the heights of your pleasure and the stark void that followed was jarring. But before you could comprehend your disappointment, you heard a shuffle behind you followed by footsteps circling you. Spencer finally came back into your line of vision and with no one standing behind you, you tried to push yourself from the table, only to be shoved back down by Aaron.

"Fucking stay where you are," he commanded, his sharp voice piercing right through you. Your eyes were fixed on him, gaze unwavering as he slowly rose from his seat. And then suddenly he was the one behind you, and now Spencer stood right in front of you, looking down at you with amusement.

"You know," he started, his fingers trailing the side of your face. You moved your head away from his touch, but unlike Aaron, he didn't force you to look at him. He merely chuckled as he continued, "You wouldn't be in this position if you had given us the name."

Hearing this, you finally glanced up at him. The self-confidence he carried was starting to annoy you and you couldn't stop yourself from spitting venom, especially when he had ripped away the pleasure thrumming in your body. "I told you to fucking earn it."

The remaining air was knocked from your lungs when the palm of his hand collided with your cheek, your head jolting to the right from the force of the impact. Bright white stars danced behind your closed eyelids, and for a second you thought that you were dizzy from the shock. But then you felt it, the pressure that had been building in your core giving way, a wave of pleasure washing over you.

"Dirty girl," he taunted. "Here I was trying to shut you up and you actually liked that? You like being slapped around?"

You remained quiet, looking away from him.

"And don't worry, you will tell us by the end of this." You faintly hear the sound of metal ringing in your ears. Your eyes fell back on him and your heart sank when his hands moved down to his belt, unbuckling it as he let it hang around his hips.

His fingers moved to unbutton his pants before tugging down the fly. The sight of his hard cock tenting beneath his briefs had your cunt clenching in anticipation, as much as you hated to admit it. Then his thumbs dipped into the hem of his boxers, tugging the fabric down, and you looked up at him with wide eyes. He was bigger than you'd expected. He was thick and solid, veins danced along his length and the droplet of wetness on his tip was too mesmerizing you couldn't look away.

He wrapped a fist around his length, hissing in relief as he made his way towards you. "Now let's put that filthy mouth of yours to good use." He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, half-lidded eyes gazing down at you as he leaned forward. "Open."

The musky scent of him overwhelmed you as you breathed in and you involuntarily opened your mouth wide to accommodate his girth. The flat of your tongue pressed against the underside of his cock as he gave soft, shallow thrusts inside your warm mouth. His fingers held onto your face as he watched his length disappear inside you.

"God, look at you—" Spencer rasped, his voice sounding strained. "Good fucking girl."

Each roll of his hips has more of his thick cock slipping inside your mouth. His palm moved to the back of your head, holding you steady as he forced his length further down your throat, watching as your cheeks darkened and your eyes watered. Your hands moved up to push at his thighs as you struggled against his grip, the desire to breathe overwhelming as you tried to push him away.

You suddenly felt lightheaded from the lack of oxygen and you began to cough and splutter around him, your throat constricting as the sensation flowed directly through his cock. The sensation made him groan out in pleasure as he finally eased his grip on your head and leaned back, allowing you to breathe as you continued to splutter, drool dripping down your chin as you gulped for much-needed air.

Your head felt delirious. You were too focused on catching your breath when you unexpectedly felt something thick pushing into your cunt in one swift motion, knocking you over as you let out a scream.

"Hotch," Spencer laughed, tightening his grip on your hair while he positioned his cock back onto your lips again. "You shocked her."

Aaron merely grunted a reply as he held onto your hips and started to thrust his cock into you. His thickness sent a ripple of pain between your legs. He was definitely bigger than anyone you'd been with before, your breath coming out in soft, shallow pants as he drove more of himself inside your tightness. Your teeth bit down on your lower lip as a dull ache filled your body, trying to ignore the pain as he continued to stretch your tight heat.

There were no words after that, the room was hazy with desire as the heat built within the small space. The two men focused their attention on your body as you took them at the same time. It was filthy, depraved, and something you'd never done before. You never thought you would be in this position, nor did you think you'd actually enjoy being used like this.

Because you did, you really fucking did. Your entire body felt hot, a scorching fire flowing through your veins as you embraced the sensation, an indescribable pleasure taking over as Aaron's cock curved towards that delicious spot inside you with precision.

Your body was pressed against the table, sweaty and exhausted. It was torture, the way he was slamming his cock inside of you at the pace that left you breathless, it hurt and burned with pleasure at the same time. Each thrust had you hanging on the edge of release, unable to think straight as your mouth continued to mindlessly babble around Spencer's cock.

Every so often he'd hold the back of your head securely so you couldn't move away as he continued to bury himself in your throat. A pleased sound escaped his lips as you started to choke around his girth. It felt like you were starting to drown yourself as he shoved into you ruthlessly. Your lungs cried out for air as you began to feel woozy from the lack of oxygen, desperately trying to breathe through your nose.

"Fuck," he hissed, finally easing his hips back to give you relief. You spluttered as you gasped for air, a mixture of his arousal and your spit dribbled down your chin. "So fucking messy."

You tried to calm your breathing, but it didn't take long for your brain to turn into mush again because Aaron snapped his hips, pulling a moan from your lips as he started a harsh pace. Fingertips dug into your hips as he buried more of himself inside your tightness, your inner walls pulsing around him.

His thrusts were hard and you were certain you'd have marks on your skin from the way he was rutting against you, a dull ache panging inside your lower half. Your mouth fell open in a constant moan as you tried to hold your body up against the table. A throb coursed through you as you tried to hold onto the edge, your breath coming out in harsh pants. You were so desperate for your release, your body so close to coming undone.

"Fuck, Sweetheart, are you going to cum?"

You mumbled out a garbled reply as he continued thrusting into you relentlessly, your fingertips digging into the table as you felt his cock dragging against your inner walls. Aaron grunted at the sensation of you clenching around him. His eyes drifted down to where your bodies were connected and watched the way his cock slid in and out of your tight cunt.

He was on the edge of his release, you could tell by the way he thrust into you desperately. You prepared yourself for your own pleasure, your hips moving involuntarily, meeting his erratic movement, as you seek more friction from him. You whimpered, feeling his fingertips dig into your skin almost painfully and you felt the familiar sensation traveling along your body. Fuck. Fuck yes. You were finally going to—

A drawn-out whine left your lips when he pulled his cock out from your tight heat. The sudden emptiness had your body shaking violently. It wasn't until you felt a streak of wetness spluttering on your back that you realized he had reached his own high without letting you reach your own.

"Shit," he gasped, slapping your ass as he watched his own liquid seeping down the curve of your back. "That was incredible."

You groaned. Fucking selfish man.

"What was that?"

It then dawned on you that you actually mumbled those words out loud. You shook your head and he groaned at your lack of words. "That didn't sound like nothing."

And suddenly, as if you weighed nothing, he grabbed onto your body and turned you over, pushing you onto your back. You were too weak to even fight him as he shoved your pants off your feet before spreading your legs apart. You watched as he leaned down and a long string of clear liquid fell from his lips toward your cunt, letting it trickle down between your folds.

"Knew you were a slut," he hissed, before straightening himself and tucking his cock back in his pants. Your eyes drifted toward him. He was big, just as big as you felt him inside you. But it wasn't his sheer size that surprised you, it was Spencer standing by your feet that had your heart peaking up its pace. Aaron smirked as he stepped back and Spencer quickly took his place between your legs.

"Look at you still holding back," Aaron taunted, genuine curiosity lacing in his voice as he paced around the room. "You're worn out. You're filthy. Aren't you tired of playing this game?"

You looked over at him tiredly. Amidst the pulsing waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, you fought to maintain your focus. "Y- You haven't done anything m-much to earn—"

His laughter sent a chill through the room. "Oh, Sweetheart, you think you're winning, but you're not." He then locked his gaze on you. "Trust me, we already have you in the palm of our hands."

You tried retorting back but the once-sharp edges of your concentration began to blur when you felt Spencer's throbbing cock right between your pussy. Each pulse of pleasure sent tremors through your resolve as he eased his hips back to drag the thick, swollen head through your outer lips. His eyes focused on the way you spread for him as though inviting him inside.

"You're already fucked out," Spencer murmured, dragging the tip of his cock through your wetness, feeling it catch against your tight entrance. "Yet look at you swallowing me."

He let the underside of his cock split your folds open, resting it between them snugly as he let out a low groan at the heat radiating from your core. The sinful noise that left your lips had his cock throbbing painfully, the thick veins protruding from his length. He angled your body against him, pushing more of his thick girth inside your trembling body, feeling the way you squeezed around him as he stretched you out.

Spencer pressed his fingers into the curve of your hips as his gaze flickered between your face and his cock splitting you apart. You gasped, your breaths growing more erratic as he managed to push all of his length inside you. He ran his hand over your abdomen as he tried to feel his cock inside you, pressing against your pelvis as he pulsed at the sensation.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, "Taking me so well."

And then he slowly dragged his cock away from you, keeping just the tip in your entrance before plunging back inside in a harsh, jarring movement, jolting you in surprise. You arched your back and tipped your head back in pleasure, just to find Aaron towering above you, looking down at you with an eerie smile.

His fingers trailed down your shoulder blades before they hovered at the buttons on your shirt, slowly unbuttoning them. "I think it's time that you give us a name."

Your body writhed in response to the waves of sensation as you tried to ground yourself. But it was hard to keep thinking straight when he grabbed onto the underlayer of your bra and lifted it over your chest. The way your perky breasts spilled out from beneath the fabric made both men hum in satisfaction.

Calloused palms grabbed onto your breasts and your eyes rolled at the back of your head at the sensation. His thumb brushed against your soft nipple, watching as it began to rise to a stiff peak as he mimicked the action on your other breast, all the while as Spencer began thrusting into your cunt at a painfully slow pace.

"Come on, Sweetheart, don't you want to cum on his cock?"

"Fuck," Spencer grunted, feeling you clench around him. "Keep talking to her."

Aaron chuckled as he continued playing with your breasts. "It's torture, isn't it?" He closed his index finger and thumb around your nipples, pinching ever so gently. You let out a soft sigh and closed your eyes as arousal flushed through you. "Give us a name and we'll give you what you want."

And then you felt Spencer rocking his hips at a steady rhythm, burying himself deeper and deeper before he slowly began increasing his speed. Your body jerked wildly each time he pushed deep into you. Noticing this, his thumb moved to your clit as he pressed messy circles against the sensitive nub, twisting it beneath his calloused pad. It felt too good, so good that you could no longer hold back from moaning out loud.

Your cries of pleasure snapped him into action and his hands moved down to your ass, holding you up to him as he started pounding harder into you. Your head fell back, chest heaving up and down, and that was when you felt Aaron closing his lips around one of your nipples. You writhed, your body thrashing underneath both men. Your senses reeling, the warmth of multiple hands on your skin sent jolts of electricity down your spine, igniting a wildfire of pleasure within you.

Aaron pulled away from you and your eyes flickered open at the loss, only to be met with Spencer hovering above you. Your eyes swept over him, and you looked down where you were joined, watching how his hips moved in constant thrusts. He was enjoying this, you could tell by the way his fingers burned your skin and the occasional grunt escaping his lips.

At the sound of his voice, you looked up at his face, glistening with a sheen of sweat while his messy hair tousling over it. The moment your gazes met each other, something inside you snapped. The muscles in your core began to coil, tightening and constricting around him right as your climax slowly pushed through the fog inside your head. Spencer felt it too, and he suddenly slowed his pace, throwing you a cunning smile.

You felt your resistance starting to crumble. The intensity of your pleasure grew almost unbearable, and you could no longer deny it. Your eyes welled with tears at the overwhelming sensation, and the thought of having your orgasm ripped again from you seemed like another torture you didn't want to endure.

You were going to regret this. You definitely would. But you couldn't dwell on the consequences of your actions when desperation coursed through you like a fever, an all-consuming hunger that you couldn't deny. Your body ached for release and craved it with an intensity that was maddening. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps, and then your eyes, wide and filled with desperation, pleaded with him silently as you found yourself finally giving in, muttering a name you had tried to keep to yourself. A name involved in the crime these men had been pestering you for. A name that had Aaron smirking devilishly as he leaned over to you, brushing his knuckles on your cheek in a caress that was so foreign.

"Good girl," he mumbled, his voice lacing with satisfaction at the way you finally crumbled. He was right, you were already in the palms of their hands, it was simply a matter of time until you caved in. "Good fucking girl."

Once you surrendered, you couldn't stop the whine falling through your lips. Your desperate moan rang deeply in the room, snapping something primal inside Spencer, and he trusted his hips into you roughly. A gasp escaped your lips, legs falling open wider as he split you wider than you already were.

Your mind went absolutely numb with pleasure as he kept rutting up inside you, your body becoming nothing more than a mess, overtaken by a wave of sweat and erotic bliss. You felt yourself trembling, your breathing becoming more ragged as his thrusts became sloppier.

“Fucking hell,” he grunted, noticing the way your mouth fell open as pleasure engulfed you. "That's it, baby, let me fuck you dumb."

You cried out, babbling incoherent sentences as he thrust harder, grabbing your hips and tilting into you slightly, making him go even deeper as he moved with you.

"Go on, cum on my cock," he growled breathlessly through his rapid pounding. "Let me feel you."

“Fuck—” You cried out for him, your overstimulated body shaking beneath him. Wave after wave of pleasure came rushing through your body, erupting in the most intense way. He watched the way you convulsed beneath him in your release, watching the way a white, sticky liquid circled his cock every time his skin brushed your inner walls. His thumb was unrelenting against your clit and you tried to angle your body away from his touch, the pleasure too intense as your lower half throbbed around him.

You continued to clench around him between your bliss, your legs trembling from the position as he arched his back, focusing the power of his thrusts straight into your tightness. A shiver burst through you at the sensation. And with one final thrust, his whole body tensed. He pushed forward, burying his cock in your soft, warm cunt, spreading his warmth in much slower and shallow rolls of his hips.

You were breathing hard, trying to regain your composure, and a moan left your lips when he finally pulled out. Cringing at the fluid slowly leaking out of you, you tried to close your legs only to be stopped as he gripped the back of your thighs, spreading your legs apart to expose your body. You were so wonderfully disheveled, your cunt clenching around nothing, gleaming with your arousal and his own release.

“Look at the mess you made." Piercing eyes watched you as white liquid trickled down your ass. A feeble mewl left your lips as his thick fingers moved down to catch it, deliberately pressing against your folds as you wriggled in his grasp. A laugh left his lips as he dragged the string of wetness along your sex, pushing it back inside you.

"I think I ruined her."

Aaron's laughter filled the room, and just as you were about to push yourself off the table, you felt him grasping both of your hands, pushing them above your head. Your eyes widened in shock. "Wh-what are you doing?"

Then you felt it, the cool metal wrapped around your wrist, sinking into the flesh of your skin as you tried to move from his grip. An unexpected panic surged within you. "Sweetheart, we know you're involved in more than one crime." The soft click of the metal lock was loud in your ears. "You need to give us more names."

Your body, still tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure, now felt more exposed than ever. You looked up to find both men staring down at you, and at very moment, you realized, as you felt the handcuffs digging into your wrist, that you were going to be here for a very long time.

[walkingnearfoxes]

The Right of the First Night (Homelander x Reader)

After Vought's Christmas gala, the Homelander kindly pays you and your husband a visit at home.

I deleted this on accident on account of being an ancient being who doesn't understand Tumblr. Enjoy. Again. Oi.

NSFW below the cut. Mildly dubious consent and Homelander not respecting the sanctity of marriage. Female, she/her Reader. A lot of filth.

Vought demanded a lot from your husband. As one of the newest managers in data analytics, he spent most of his waking hours twisting this number or that data point to make the Seven look as stellar as possible. You honestly didn't understand very much of his work; on the rare days he worked from home, the multiple screens he processed through looked like a sci-fi movie to you. The quirky but lovable coder hacks the government with three clicks. Luckily, you didn't need to understand the intricacies; you just had to ensure he ate and drank water between crunching enough percentages to make your head spin.

On the weeks when you scarcely saw his face, you had to remember the positives. His salary, for once, was enough to keep you both comfortable without you needing to contribute. You did, of course, but primarily out of guilt. Your husband, the unfairly wonderful man he is, reminded you repeatedly that the money didn't matter; he just wanted you to be happy. That was an additional positive.

Another one was the fact that his work events were absurdly over-the-top. Vought was determined to make each holiday celebration the best holiday celebration. Your favorite had become the Christmas gala. The tower became a winter wonderland; you could spend hours admiring the unique silver snowflakes that dotted each dining table, the stunningly ornamented pine trees that reached the ceilings, or simply the beautiful outfits the most important faces of the company put together - not to mention that this was the closest you ever got to the superheroes.

Your husband didn't speak much about or to the heroes. If something was terrible enough in data analytics for a supe to come directly to him, something had gone wrong. Starlight was his favorite, by far. She was kind, and genuine, and was still the only hero who had introduced herself to you at a gala.

"Your husband is a miracle worker," she told you warmly last year. "I don't know how he makes those numbers work, but he does."

You didn't know either, but it was nice to know that at least one of the Seven appreciated your husband’s long hours. The others were, at best, polite. His brief elevator interactions with Maeve were scarce, Black Noir's silent visits to the department were fine, and the Deep was an idiot. None of this surprised you. What intrigued you most were his comments on the Homelander.

"He's...focused." Your husband said one day over dinner when you asked. "I mean, if the head of the Seven has to come to my door, it's not a pleasure visit.”

You tilted your head curiously. "But what's he like?"

He smirked at you over his glass. "Besides stunningly handsome, you mean?"

You shot him a glare. Your little crush on the Homelander was a well-known secret between you. "Yeah, besides that."

He shrugged. "Nothing bad enough has happened for us to speak directly. But he seems...fine."

There was clearly more to it than that, but your cat knocking over a plate derailed the conversation. You never got a complete answer from him about the Homelander, and the curiosity carried you to the latest Christmas shindig.

As usual, Vought went all out. You are leaning against a standing table, tilting your head to admire the blue tapestries hung to mimic a night sky. A bright red drink is placed in front of you, and you look up to meet your husband's warm eyes.

"A merry, merry margarita for you," he says, holding a green concoction. “And a Christmas Cookie Cocktail for me."

You snort as you sip the margarita, cinnamon and tequila delicately touching your tongue. "These names get better every year."

"I clearly picked the wrong department." He looks across the room and makes accidental eye contact with a data director. "There it is. You sure you don't want to make handshaking rounds with me?"

You shake your head. "They want to talk to you, not me. I don't even know what I would say."

"Hello, maybe?"

You nudge his arm. "Go. I can survive on my own for a few minutes."

"Fair enough," He kisses your cheek and then steps away. "Don't let the Homnelander whisk you away, alright?"

You wave him off with a flush. "No promises."

You easily kept yourself busy as you meandered around the spacious room. You waved to a few familiar faces, refilled your cocktail, and even briefly conversed with Starlight about the carolers. They had apparently won a few Grammys. You finally end up next to the newest statues of the Seven in the middle of the celebration. Somebody, you could only assume a poor intern, placed Santa Clause hats on top of each solemn hero’s stony head. You can’t help but laugh under your breath.

You hear your first name from behind you. The voice is vaguely familiar, but you can’t place it. It’s a shock to your system when you turn to see the Homelander smiling at you. 

Your immediate instinct is to check around you because there's no way that the captain of the Seven is standing here and greeting you like an old friend. In events past, you only ever saw him swarmed with the top faces of the party. What is he doing here, alone, staring at you with a growingly puzzled expression?

Oh. You're staring at him now.

He tilts his head with a curious smirk. "I got your name right, didn't I?"

"Oh! Yes!" you say quickly, inwardly cringing at how breathless you sound. “I'm so sorry. I'm still not used to seeing heroes so close."

Dear God, that sounded awful.

Luckily, his grin just widens. "But this is your fifth gala, isn't it? Surely you're used to our faces by now."

Does he know you? You blink in surprise as he saunters closer to you, his arms gently folded behind him. "I'd be a horrible leader if I didn't know our best managers,” He explains.

He tilts his head again and asks you - more as a formality, it seems - if you are indeed your husband's wife. He uses your husband's first and last name, to be sure.

You nod with a smile, tightening your grip on your glass. "Yeah, that's me," you say softly, making the Homelander flash a grin with teeth. “Do you know everyone here?"

He glances at the crowd casually and then back at you. "Only the interesting people," He corrects. "Enjoying the party?"

Your nod. "Yeah. These galas get more fun every year."

"More crowded, you mean," He walks to stand beside you, close enough that your elbows touch, and sighs dramatically up at the statue. "This I did not agree to."

You follow his line of sight to the Santa hats. You giggle softly and hope he doesn’t notice your nerves - though you’re positive he does. "But it makes you all so festive. Besides, red is your color."

The Homelander turns to look at you with a new glint in his eye. "True…”

Before you can respond, you feel a familiar hand wrap around your elbow to the opposite side of Homelander. You look up to see your husband's face. He's smiling, but you know him. His brow is slightly furrowed, and his smile is too wide. He almost looks worried.

"Sorry that took so long, honey," He greets quickly, gently squeezing your arm. "I couldn't-"

The Homelander cuts off with an enthusiastic greeting of your husband's name. He turns to clap his shoulder, his red glove contrasting with your man's dark suit. The movement makes the three of you form a close triangle in front of the statue. When Homelander speaks, his voice is loud. Dominant, even.  "Can't thank you enough for your help on those point differentials in Montana. Gotta figure out who's in charge of things out there, huh?"

Your husband lets out a forced laugh. "Yeah, it's no problem."

Homelander is still holding onto his shoulder. "Quite a wife you have here," He says with a nod to you. "Hope you don't mind I stole her time...can't leave a gorgeous woman like this alone. You never know what might happen."

Before your husband can reply, Homelander lets him go. He turns to you and holds a hand. "So nice meeting you, but I have a grumpy senator or two I need to charm."

On instinct, you hold out your hand to him. His fingers easily encompass yours - and for a fraction of a moment, you feel he may never let go. You feel his raw strength electrify the touch and imprison you; your whole body clenches. He gives you a private wink, and then he lets go. "I'll be seeing you soon."

With a whisk of his cape, he's gone as quickly as he arrived.

You stare after the stars and stripes as they slowly disappear into the crowd. Only when you can no longer see them do you look up at your husband's pale face. "Was that weird?"

Your husband takes your hand, the same hand Homelander had just held in his grasp. "Not really."

You know a conversation shut-down when you hear one and don't press further. After all, you remember, it's not wise to gossip about a person with supersonic hearing.

~-~

You stay at the party for another hour, but your husband’s mood has shifted. He doesn't seem unhappy, but he's undoubtedly unsettled. There's a new suddenness to his movements, as if he's ready to scan the room at a moment's notice - far too vigilant for a holiday party.

The early cab ride home continues in this strange silence. It's not tense, but it's not comfortable either. The air feels charged down the roads of Manhattan to your townhome. You don't test it. Something about that interaction with the Homelander has unnerved your husband in a way you don't understand. If your husband is still silent when you get home, then maybe you'll broach the subject. 

When you do get home, you go about your usual routines: turning back on the lights, checking on the cat, and refilling their food and water bowl. Your husband takes care of that while upstairs to scrub the makeup off of your face. You turn on the lights in the ensuite bedroom.

The Homelander is sitting at the foot of your bed. 

Shockingly, you don't scream. You stare. He sits there like he's been there for hours, his hands folded in his lap. The calm facade peels into a friendly smile at your lack of a reaction to him - as if he ran into you in a grocery store, not in the middle of your bedroom.

"Thought you could sneak out early on me, huh?" He asks. 

You stutter. "What..." You shake your head. "What are you-"

"Honey?" Your husband's voice calls as he bounds up the stairs, only to stop dead behind you at the sight before him. You can't see his face, but you can feel his fear. "H-Homelander..."

"Oh, why the shocked faces?" Homelander laughs and stands off the bed, sauntering towards both of you. "I told you I’d be seeing you later, right?"

Your husband steps in front of you. "Whatever this is about-"

Homelander says your husband's name like he's speaking to a puppy pissing on the carpet. His left hand curls into your husband's shirt, and he lifts him an inch off the ground with horrifying ease. He places him down in the nearby chair and pats his cheek twice. "Don't make a fuss. I'm not gonna hurt her."

It takes you a moment to recover from seeing how easily he moved your husband before finding your voice. "Why are you here?" You whisper.

He turns and slowly lowers his face to be level with yours. His lips are a breath away, and his eyes run over every part of you like savoring a meal. "For you, of course. This is my favorite part of the gala."

You make a sound halfway between a gasp and a squeak. The Homelander smirks. "Oh, come on. You've been dreaming of this, haven't you? That comment about me whisking you away?" He winks at your husband before looking back at you. "I mean, I'm not gonna lie, I've thought about fucking you for a while now, but that just sealed the deal."

Your husband stutters. "Homelander-"

"Nuh uh, buddy," Homelander holds a finger in your husband's face before slowly turning to look at him. "This is not a negotiation. You'll be a good little boy and sit over there while we have fun."

Your husband’s eyes widen, but he says nothing and settles back in the chair. Homelander laughs. "That's what I thought. I know a fucking cuck when I see one."

You’re staring at your husband. Homelander notices this, and his hand angles to cup under your jaw. The leather of his red glove is smooth and warm against your skin, sending a shiver through you. His thumb brushes slowly across your lips. "Don't worry about him," He purrs. "You won’t be giving him a damn thought in a minute.”

The Homelander uses his hold on your jaw to tilt your chin up. For a moment, he simply observes you. To him, you are a prize. Then, he presses his face forward and runs his nose up the length of your neck. He inhales loudly. Goosebumps prickle along your skin when he growls. “Fucking perfect.” His free hand traces along the bottom of your dress, gently pushing the fabric up your thigh. He possessively grabs your smooth skin. “This an expensive dress, honey?”

You swallow, watching his eyes follow the movement down your throat, and you find your voice. “Yes…”

He hums. “...well, put in an IOU.”

In an upward pull, Homelander rips the fabric of your dress in half like he’s ripping tissue paper. He tosses its remains to your husband without looking at him. He’s instead looking at your matching bra and panties with an approving whistle. “Oh, buddy,” He looks at your husband with an almost sympathetic gaze. “You were going to get some tonight. What a damn shame.”

Homelander comes forward and slowly, as if he’s savoring the wait, takes your breasts in his hands. You hear a low sigh of approval under his breath as he gently squeezes, his thumbs brushing delicate circles over your nipples. You inhale sharply, and looks up at your face with a knowing smirk. “Don’t play coy, sweetheart. I can smell how wet you are. Must be uncomfortable.”

One of his hands rubs down your stomach - he growls under his breath again at your soft skin - and curls his fingers around your underwear. “You’re used to boys tugging at you like a little sex doll. It’s okay now. You have me. You have a god.”

He rips away the last of your clothing so you stand fully exposed in front of America’s icon. The chill of the air and the complete attention of the two men in the room light your skin with more goosebumps. Homelander takes a moment to look at you again; he has all the time in the world. Finally, he steps forward and rests a hand gently on your hip. “Well, no wonder he tried to hide you from me…”

He’s kissing you. He kisses you to devour you whole, all tongue and teeth and passion, in a way that makes your head spin. You don’t even realize how your hands curl into the front of his suit, how your body instinctively presses to his. He maps out every inch of your mouth, and you moan for him when his hand curls around the back of your neck. He shows no signs of stopping, but you are only human and must breathe. You pull away as much as the hand on the back of your neck will allow you - which is your lips remaining an inch apart. Your eyes open, and you’re in awe at the hunger in his blue stare. “Atta girl…”

Your unconsciously look to your husband. He hasn’t moved from his seat. He sucks at his lower lip, and when your gaze wanders, you can’t help a quiet gasp. He’s hard.

“Back here with me, pumpkin,” Homelander murmurs, grabbing your chin to bring you back to him. “You’re mine tonight, remember?”

You tentatively nod, but he shakes his head. “Oh no, I’m gonna need to hear you say it.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he eagerly follows the movement before you reply. “I’m yours tonight.”

Homelander hums in thought and then sighs playfully. “Sounds like someone needs some convincing…up we go.”

Both of his hands move to your hips, and with an ease that startles a yelp out of you, he lifts you clear off the ground. You don’t have time to ground yourself before he’s tossing you backward onto the bed. Despite being airborne for a moment, he seems to be careful not to hurt you - not right now, anyway. You land on your back with a quiet “oof” and instinctively move to sit u, but findyou cannoto move. You look down to find Homelander keeping you trapped with just the tips of his fingers on your hip. He stands at the foot of the bed and stares down at you, a slight tilt to his head that ambles somewhere between playful and devious. “Where’d you think you’re going?”

He moves his hand to your knee and tugs you down the bed, smirking at the soft squeal from you it earns him. He slowly kneels while hooking your legs over his shoulders, careful to mind his eagle pads. “You have any idea how hard it was not to bend you over in that fucking shitstorm of a gala? I should have. No one could’ve stopped me, not even your poor husband. God, you would’ve loved it. All those eyes on you while I fill up this pretty pussy…”

His lips are gentle as they kiss along your thighs, stopping only to leave nips that make your hips jolt. One red glove lays flat on your hips to easily hold you down so he can carry on at his own pace. When he finally reaches your cunt, you’re pretty positive you would do anything the hero asked of you - and when his tongue licks a slow stripe up your lips, you’re certain. 

You had never spent much time wondering how good the Homelander would be at going down on someone, but he is good. He feasts. He goes from licking your pussy leisurely to devouring you in time with when your body needs it; later, you will wonder if he uses his superior senses to guide the way to your pleasure. Now, you’re too far into heaven to think. He sucks at your clit with a pressure that would make your body convulse if he wasn’t holding you down. There’s no need for him to shift or adjust; he could be here for days. When one of his hands moves to press two fingers slowly into you, stretching you around the rich leather of his gloves, you cry out. There’s no pain, no uncomfortable twitch - just pleasure. “Fuck!”

Homelander chuckles and presses a few quick kisses to your clit. “Watch your mouth. Might have to find a better use for it.”

“Please do,” You reply breathlessly, and your hand locks gently into his hair. It’s softer than you thought, but that only makes you hold on harder.

Surprise flickers in his expression, so brief you nearly miss it, before he grins manically. “With pleasure. But first thing’s first…”

He dives back in with sloppy kisses against your pussy. He curls his fingers just right, fucks them into you mercilessly, and the suddenness of your climax takes you by surprise. It curls down each of your limbs and then bursts in vibrating waves. You are vaguely aware of the animalistic sounds you make, but they’re lost to the dizzying heat. You barely recognize your own voice. When you slowly come back down, your hands both now locked in Homelander’s hair, he’s looking at you with a slacked jaw and a mouth soaked in your juices.

Behind him, you vaguely make out the shape of your husband, and his hard cock slowly pumping in his fist.

“What a show,” Homelander praises, quickly drawing your attention back to him. There’s a low buzz to his voice now, and your squirm at the realization that he’s as excited about this as you - and evidently, your husband - are. He presses feather kisses to your stomach as he speaks. “But next time…you have to ask me before you come.”

As he slowly begins to stand again, you nod your head. “Yes, sir.”

He barks a laugh. “Sir, huh? Aren’t you the sweetest little thing…”

He saunters around the bed, not even blinking as he looks up and down your form. He reminds you of a snake coiling you tighter and tighter in his grasp. His hand drops down to his belt; he undoes them just enough to pull out his swollen cock. The rest of his uniform remains pristine. You’re are so locked on the generous length between his legs that you overlook Homelander removing his gloves and tossing them across the room to your husband. “Hold this for me, would ya?” He calls to him. “You doing okay over there, buddy? Enjoying the show?”

Your husband doesn’t respond, but you hear the rhythm of him fisting his dick.

“Keep it up, champ. Use the glove if it helps,” Homemlander chuckles before returning to you. His hand gently strokes his cock.  “And you are going to put those pretty lips to work now, sweetheart.”

You obediently shuffle up the bed - he coos at your eagerness - so his cock is right beside your mouth. His free hand gently curls into the hair at the back of your head and pulls you towards his crotch. You obey, parting your lips and sucking his dick into your mouth. The hiss he makes thrills you. He slowly rocks his hips but you end up doing most of the work, bobbing along his cock as far as you can take him from this position. Your eyes have fallen shut, so you don’t notice his free hand trailing down your body until his fingers are pinching your clit. You moan loudly around him, and the vibrations make him buck forward. When you gag, he laughs and pulls back a bit. “Whoops,” He says, completely unapologetic as his fingers deftly swirl your clit. “Remember what I said, kitten…don’t come unless I’ve told you you can.”

Much easier said than done. The heady smell of him, the weight of his cock against your tongue is enough to thrill you - not to mention your body is still loose from the last climax he gave you. His fingers are rubbing at what little restraint you have left. He slowly presses a single finger into you, but even that slight friction nearly pushes you over the edge-

His hand is gone in an instant and instead clamps around your throat. Your eyes fly open, and you arch away, but he holds you in place with his cock still down your throat. He tsks in disappointment down at you and gives your throat a little squeeze. “What did I say?”

Homelander pulls out of your mouth, a shit-eating grin on his face at the whine you make. He uses his grip on your hair to manoeuver you slowly; he isn’t rough because he doesn’t need to be. You couldn’t fight his strength in your dreams. He settles you on your hands and knees, facing the bottom of the bed. You don’t realize you’re cold until his warmth envelops you, his chest to your back. He’s still fully dressed - fully in costume. 

“Ignoring what I say and ignoring your poor husband over there…” He murmurs into your ear before pressing lazy kisses against your neck. “Talk to him. Tell him how good you feel.”

You look at your husband. He looks nearly as gone as you. He’s still stroking his cock slowly, his lips gently parted as he stares at you. You moan as Homelander bites down at your neck. “H-he feels…so good.”

“Hm…more specific,” Homelander murmurs as his hands fall to your hips. Without waiting for you to speak, you feel his hard, slick cock slowly pressing against your pussy. He thrusts into you with a slow, patient push that leaves you gasping for breath. He fills you. There is no going back from this. A sharp slap against your ass brings you back to reality. “Hello? Earth to slut?”

Your body unconsciously clenches around him, and you don’t miss the pleased grunt he makes under his breath. “He’s so…big,” You say, your voice unsteady. “I-I…f-fuck…”

“Whoop, she’s cock drunk,” Homelander laughs and gives you a small, teasing thrust. Over your head, he smirks at your husband. “Sorry, pal. We’ll work on that.”

You don’t have the brain power to ponder what he means. Instead, you’re completely wrapped up in the way he starts to fuck you. He’s slow at first, allowing your body to accommodate to the way he stretches you. Then, with that sixth sense he seems to have for your body, he picks up the pace the moment you’ve adjusted. He presses all of himself inside hard and slowly pulls back out, using his hands on your hips to pull you back on his cock. You are powerless under his control, and he loves it. “Look at your husband,” He commands in a hiss as he tugs at your earlobe; he’s getting lost in it, too. “Look at your husband while I fucking claim you.”

You are in a haze as you raise your eyes to meet your husband’s. You can barely see him. “Fuck…fuck me harder, Homelander…please…”

He responds immediately, suddenly moving at an inhuman pace. You feel him curl tighter over you to wrap an arm around your waist and a hand back around your throat. He pulls you up to your knees, your back still to his chest, without faltering in his brutal fucking. Your hands claw at his arm, but you won’t hurt him. You can’t hurt him.

“I can feel you clenching on me. I can smell how desperate your little cunt is,” He whispers into your ear. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Come again. Come on my fucking cock.”

He squeezes your throat and bites hard at your shoulder to leave a mark. That’s all you need. You cry out his name as you come, his tight grip on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing down onto the bed. You’re vaguely aware of the sound of your husband groaning in his own climax, nearly in sync with Homelander coming inside of you. You have no sense of time or reality; nothing makes sense besides how good this feels - and the lengths you would go to feel this good over and over again for the rest of your life.

You aren’t sure how much time passes, but you eventually find yourself gently placed back onto the bed. Homelander’s hands push you onto your back lazily. You blink, clearing your blurry vision, and see that he is gazing down at you with a smile that almost looks fond. Almost.

“Welcome back,” He teases. He leans down and presses a soft kiss against your lips. You’re too exhausted to respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls away to stand back up and brushes a hand through your hair. “Now, you stay right there.”

He tucks himself back into his pants before turning to look at your husband. He is still holding his cock, his hand soaked in his seed. Homelander chuckles under his breath at the sight before nodding towards the other room. “The men are gonna discuss a little arrangement.”

[midnightshindig]

I need to see Donald being a wingman for Cecil 🙏 Like maybe the reader is also a high-ranking member of the GDA and Donald knows they both have trouble opening up? Ty!

omg finally getting to my requests omg!! happy days, everyone

I love this request, I LOVE Donald as a character I'm so happy to write for him ^^

hcs under the cut

You were one of the GDA's lawyer, inspecting the place to make sure-- legally-- everything was as airtight as possible. Suing a superhero is much more difficult than suing the government, after all. And the people want an outlet.

Your job was to make the GDA as un-suable as fucking possible.

And Cecil admired you for it

You provided a valuable service, you were always courteous to him and his subordinates, and you looked pretty good in a suit

What wasn't to love?

So you saw him quite a bit, it was an easy enough job with your team doing most of the difficult paperwork for you

It wasn't unusual to see you chatting up Cecil or Donald or really any higher up about the ins and outs of the process-- PURELY for research, obviously, and not because you're just cool and friendly

You would talk to Cecil quite a bit, inquiring into the functions of his job and just generally picking his brain about anything and everything

It was nice to have someone be so interested in him, Cecil couldn't help but grow fond for you

Instead of his initial annoyance, he quickly become excited when you entered his wing of the Pentagon.

"Heyyy big man! What're your thoughts on that attack this morning? Crazy stuff, right?"

He subconsciously moved to straighten his tie and fix the cuffs of his suit jacket, looking back at you with a wobbly, unpracticed smile

"Yes, Y/n. It was interesting all right- I have Donald and the boys at the lab working on samples from the monsters dna right now."

A beat

"Care to see?"

And so Cecil slowly grew to trust you more, not enough to show you the White Rooms by any means, but that wasn't personal, that was national security.

This had gone on too long, it was messing Cecil up

he liked you, he was grown up and mature enough to accept that fact

but there was no way you-- some hot shot lawyer with an intelligent mind and knack for conversation-- would find him worth your time

Position as head of the GDA be damned, he didn't think he could pull you.

He's too much of a rock to say anything, but Donalds entire job is to observe Cecil and his needs, to keep the GDA running smooth

"You know... I hope this isnt' out of line, Sir. But Y/n has taken quite a liking to you."

Cecils eye twitches with stress "What...?"

Donalds eyes widen a little, trying to save the situation "I just mean that it is unusual for Y/n to spend so much time here. With you. Data shows elevated heart rate and dilated pupils when they see you. It would make sense, is all."

Cecil let out a frustrated sigh, leaning against a desk "And what do you propose I do about it, Donald? Fire them?"

"No!" Donald was frantic, fixing his glasses and recomposing himself "The opposite, actually. I think it would be beneficial for both parties as well as the greater good of the GDA if you asked Y/n out to coffee."

Cecil was skeptical, like he always is, like his job requires.

But Donald knew it would make the both of you happier

Maybe you just needed a little push?

The next few days are torture for everyone working at the GDA

everyone can see you enjoying Cecil's company, and even casually hitting on him, and Cecil losing his edge over it

He's frazzled by you, shaken a little by Donald's suggestion he ask you out

But he steels himself and presses on, content to ignore his silly crush

Donald ain't having none of that shit.

So he finally confronts Cecil

"Cecil, sir, with all due respect, you need to make a move."

"What."

"This whole pining thing is disrupting everybody else's work, nobody can focus with the will-they won't-they sitcom happening."

"Donald please, Y/n is a professiona-"

"They really aren't. Ask them out. I'm serious." and Donald leaves, leaving Cecil disincensed and frazzled

So, two days later and you're back for a visit

but things are different?

the GDA analysts and office workers are all quiet around you, not in a gossipy way, just.... quiet?

You go to find Cecil, wanting to pick his brain about something you saw on the news

When you get there, Cecil looks nervous, not anxious per se, just.... hesistent?

"Hey Cecil! What's going on today? Everyone's super quiet... did I miss something?"

"No, y/n... uhm-" he pulls at his tie a little "Everything is fine, have a seat? I have something I want to talk to you about."

You raise an eyebrow at his formality, taking a seat in the leather chair across from his desk

"Y/n...." He sucked in a deep breath, clearly nervous

"What? Is there some huge lawyer scandal I'm not aware of?" You try to lighten the mood, cracking a smile

Cecil sighs, combing his hand through his hair "Y/n, would you...." he looks past your head to see Donald giving him a thumbs up through the door window

jesus christ

Ugh- fuck it-

"Y/n, can I take you out?"

silence.

"Like...." you start cautiously, a concerned look on your face "Like on a date? Or like...." You drag your finger across your throat, poking your tongue out to mimick death

Cecil's eyes widen as he stands up, placing his hands on the desk "Like a date! Not- ugh.... I should've phrased that better..." he seems so defeated, deflating back into his chair.

Much to his surprise, you perk up and grin "Sure!"

"What? Really?"

"Yeah! I've been waiting for like weeks for you to ask me out. What do you say to coffee?"

He blinks in surprise, straightening his tie and sitting up straighter "I would like that."

BONUS:

As you leave, you notice Donald standing casually outside the door to Cecil's office, presumably needing to tell him something important

after you leave, Cecil comes out himself, giving Donald a side eye

"Donald."

"Sir."

"....Thank you."

Donald gives a small smile and adjusts his glasses "You're welcome, sir."

[lanaroff]

House of Broken Hearts- Chapter 14

Paring: Wanda Maximoff and Reader

The ride to D.C. is quiet.

You sit in the back of the car, sandwiched between Wanda and Natasha, your hands clenched together so tightly that your nails bite into your palms. The file Sharon gave you rests in your lap like it weighs a thousand pounds. Inside it are months of her work—intel, surveillance, intercepted communications. The kind of evidence that should clear your name. That should be enough.

But you’ve seen how truth doesn’t always matter.

Wanda’s fingers graze your knuckles, her thumb brushing gentle circles into your skin. It’s the only thing keeping you tethered right now. You glance sideways and find her already looking at you, her expression soft but stormy—love in her eyes, yes, but rage too. She doesn’t want you to go in there. Not alone. Not without her.

And you’re not. She’s not letting you do this alone.

By the time you get to the federal building, your heartbeat is so loud in your ears it feels like static. You’re ushered through the cold marble halls with stern faces and too many armed guards. It’s not an official arrest. Not yet. But it might as well be.

They lead you into a sterile, windowless conference room. There’s only one person waiting inside.

General Thaddeus Ross.

He doesn’t stand when you walk in. He doesn’t offer you a seat. He barely looks up from the folder in his hands.

“This better be good,” he says, voice clipped, already full of disdain.

You sit slowly, back stiff, eyes flicking to the security camera in the corner. Wanda remains standing behind you. She’s not sitting. Not for him. She crosses her arms, eyes never leaving Ross.

You clear your throat, even though your voice is already shaking. “I came to explain—”

“I don’t want your explanations,” Ross cuts in. “I want to know how a former Avenger, one we trusted with our nation’s most classified intel, ended up feeding information to HYDRA.”

“That’s not what happened,” you say quickly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I was undercover. I was working under Fury’s directive.”

“Fury,” he says with a scoff. “Convenient, isn’t it? The one man who could verify your story suddenly vanishes into thin air?”

“I have proof.” You slide Sharon’s file across the table. It takes everything in you not to flinch when your fingers brush the cold metal. “This is intel gathered during my mission. HYDRA infiltrations, safe houses, names. Some of these operations have already been dismantled based on this data.”

Ross flips the folder open. His eyes skim the documents, but you already know he isn’t really reading. He’s waiting. Waiting to tell you you’re lying. Waiting to watch you fall apart.

After a long silence, he closes the file slowly. “Looks authentic. Hell, maybe it is. But I’ve seen fakes better than this. You could’ve staged all of it.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but your voice breaks, and you shut your eyes tightly.

Ross leans forward, voice low and cold. “You think a sob story and a few stolen files are going to erase everything? Your face has been on our watchlist for six months. The public wants blood. And unless Fury walks through that door with a miracle, your future’s already written.”

Something in you shatters, right there. Because you can’t bring Fury through that door. And Ross is right—without him, you’re just another ghost with a thousand secrets and no one willing to vouch for them.

You don’t notice your hands trembling until Wanda speaks.

“She’s not the one you should be questioning,” Wanda says quietly, stepping forward. “The question you should be asking is how a government you serve let this happen in the first place.”

Ross raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “And who are you supposed to be? Her lawyer? Her girlfriend?”

Wanda doesn’t flinch. She steps closer to the table, placing her hands on it and leaning in just enough that Ross stiffens. “I’m the person who will burn this country to the ground if you lay another hand on her.”

“Is that a threat, Maximoff?”

“It’s a promise.” Her voice is deadly calm. “She was tortured. Left to die. She did what she had to do to survive. While you sat here playing politics, she was bleeding for you.”

You open your mouth to stop her, to say something, but the words die in your throat. Because deep down, you’re grateful. You needed someone to see it. To say it. To not pretend it was anything less than it was.

Ross doesn’t back down, but he doesn’t interrupt again either.

“You want to accuse someone?” Wanda continues. “Accuse HYDRA. Accuse the ones who planted their agents inside your system. She’s not the traitor. She’s the scapegoat. And if you don’t clear her name, if you even think of hurting her—I’ll destroy every last inch of your precious system.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Ross looks at you again, but this time there’s something almost uncertain in his eyes. “You’re lucky she’s here,” he mutters, pushing the file back across the table.

“I know,” you whisper.

He sighs and finally leans back in his chair. “I’ll review the intel. We’ll run it through our analysts. Don’t expect miracles. But if your story checks out—if it really checks out—we’ll talk about clearing your name.”

You nod, but you don’t trust it. Not yet. Not until it’s real.

Wanda places a hand on your shoulder as you both stand. “We’re done here,” she says, more to you than to him.

And you let her lead you out. You let her guide you through the building, back into the light, back into the car, where Natasha is already waiting.

You don’t speak until the door closes and the engine starts.

Then it hits you all at once.

The weight. The fear. The exhaustion.

You press your face into your hands and try to breathe, but the tears come anyway. Wanda pulls you in without a word, cradling your head to her chest like it’s the only place in the world you’re safe.

“You did so good,” she whispers. “I’m so proud of you.”

You nod, but you’re not sure you believe it yet.

All you know is this: you’re not alone anymore.

And for now, that’s enough.

That night, the farmhouse settles into stillness. The wind rustles the fields outside, and the soft hum of insects echoes just beyond the open window.

You sit on the back porch alone, the stars scattered overhead like distant promises. Natasha had slipped you a secure satellite phone before retreating to bed—“In case you want to talk to Sharon,” she’d said, her voice unusually gentle.

And you did.

You always do.

You dial the familiar code, fingers trembling slightly. When Sharon picks up, her voice is soft and warm and so deeply hers that you nearly break down.

“Hey,” she says.

Your lips twitch into a small, exhausted smile. “Hey.”

There’s a pause. Then—“How did it go?”

You sigh. “About as awful as we expected. Ross thinks I made the whole thing up.”

“Of course he does,” she mutters. “He always hated you.”

You huff a dry laugh. “He hates all of us. But—Wanda was with me. And she—God, Sharon, she lost it. For me. You should’ve seen her. She stood between me and him like she would’ve burned the whole damn building down if he looked at me wrong.”

You glance down at your hand, still faintly red from how tightly Wanda had held it.

“She said things I never thought she would. Things I didn’t think anyone would say for me. Not after everything.”

Sharon is quiet for a second, then says, softly, “You didn’t think she’d still love you.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “I didn’t think anyone could.”

There’s a long pause. The only sound is the wind brushing against the wooden porch rail, and your breath—slow and shaky.

“But she does,” you whisper. “God, Sharon, she loves me so much. And I love her.”

You hear the crack in your voice. You don’t stop it.

“She’s been so patient. So gentle. Like I’m something fragile she refuses to break. She doesn’t push. She waits. She sees me. She’s not scared of what happened to me. She’s not scared of the mess I’ve become.”

You feel the weight of your words, the truth of them pressing against your ribs.

“I wish you were here,” you whisper. “I wish we could all be here, safe. But—” You glance over your shoulder, back toward the house. Toward the room where Wanda is. “I think I’m in a good place right now. I think she’s helping me get there.”

There’s a smile in Sharon’s voice. “She’s always loved you like that.”

You nod again, swallowing down the knot in your throat. “I just didn’t think I deserved it.”

“You do,” Sharon says, firm now. “You do. And if Wanda’s reminding you of that… then I’m glad she’s there.”

You don’t see her—but Wanda hears it all.

You don’t hear the creak of the floorboards behind you. You’re too caught in the silence after the call, in the way your own words still echo softly in your chest. The breeze has picked up now, brushing over your skin like ghost fingers. The stars above are clearer than you’ve ever seen—bright and distant and untouchable.

Your hands are in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined. You feel hollow and full all at once.

Then you hear her.

Barefoot steps.

The soft scrape of wood under weight.

You turn your head.

Wanda stands at the edge of the porch, the moonlight catching in the strands of her hair. She’s wearing one of Clint’s old flannels, sleeves rolled up, collar open enough that you can see the soft line of her collarbone, the shadow of her heartbeat.

You freeze. Your heart stumbles.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” you say softly, voice barely more than breath.

She steps closer. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You know why.

She lowers herself beside you with quiet, deliberate ease. Her knee brushes yours. She looks out at the open fields, the dark horizon, the stars that don’t care how broken you are.

“I didn’t mean to listen,” she says.

You nod, staring at your fingers. “I didn’t mean for you to hear.”

“But I’m glad I did,” she says again—firmer now. And then she turns to you, her eyes luminous in the low light, red-rimmed but steady.

“I needed to hear that you know what I see in you.”

Your breath catches.

She lifts one hand and traces the side of your jaw with the backs of her fingers. It’s not even a touch, not fully—just a ghost of one. Like she’s asking permission without words.

You lean into it. Just barely.

“I don’t know if I deserve any of this,” you whisper. “Not you. Not this peace. Not this… life.”

Wanda’s brow furrows. “You survived hell.”

You close your eyes. “I let it change me.”

She exhales sharply—like that hurt her more than anything.

“You think I love you in spite of what happened to you,” she says, “but I love you because of all of it. Because you’re still here. Because you feel. Because even with all the darkness, you still choose to love.”

You turn your face to her, and her hand cradles your cheek now—firm and sure.

“I heard you,” she whispers. “Every word. I heard how scared you were. And how much you love me. And I just… I needed to tell you this too.”

She leans in. Her lips brush yours like they’re testing the shape of your sorrow. It’s a slow kiss, tender and unhurried, but it still makes your heart race in your chest like it’s trying to claw its way closer to her.

And you kiss her back like you mean it.

Like you’re still alive.

Like that means something now.

When she pulls back, you’re breathless.

“I would’ve burned everything down in that room today,” she murmurs. “I would’ve destroyed him. If he had looked at you the wrong way… if he’d touched you…”

You press your forehead to hers. “You scared me.”

She smiles softly. “Good. He should be scared too.”

You both laugh, just a little. Just enough.

Wanda’s thumb strokes along your cheekbone, and her voice dips into something quieter, more vulnerable.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” she says. “Not to HYDRA. Not to the government. Not to the ghosts in your head. I’ll fight them all if I have to. Every last one of them.”

You nod, tears stinging your eyes. “I’m trying, Wanda. I really am.”

“I know.” She kisses your temple, slow and warm. “I see it. Every single day.”

She reaches down with one hand and threads her fingers through yours.

“Come inside,” she says gently. “Let me stay with you tonight.”

You nod again, and let her lead you inside—like she always does. Not dragging. Not pushing. Just walking beside you.

Later, when the farmhouse has gone quiet, when the lights are off and the sheets are pulled up. The only sound is the chirping of crickets outside the window and the slow, steady rhythm of Wanda’s breathing beside you in bed.

Or… was beside you.

You lie there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The sheets are soft. The pillows smell like her. Everything is safe. Everything is fine.

And yet your chest feels like it’s caving in.

The weight is too much.

You move quietly, slipping from the bed like a whisper. The wood floor is cold beneath your feet, but it grounds you. It’s familiar in a way comfort never quite is.

You settle on the floor beside the bed, pulling a pillow down with you. Your knees curl up to your chest. Your back rests against the edge of the mattress.

And just as your body begins to settle into that familiar ache of exhaustion, you hear movement above you.

The sheets rustle. A deep breath. The creak of the bed frame.

You turn your head, confused, just as Wanda climbs down beside you. She’s carrying a pillow in one hand, a folded blanket in the other. She doesn’t say anything at first, just starts arranging them on the floor with practiced ease.

Your eyebrows draw together, voice quiet, rough. “What… what are you doing?”

She settles down beside you, blanket pulled halfway over both of you, and lies on her side, facing you. Her hand finds yours beneath the covers. “I’m going to sleep.”

You stare at her.

There’s no edge to her voice. No judgment. No pity.

Just a simple truth: I’m going to sleep. Here. With you.

Your chest tightens. “You don’t have to do this.”

She shrugs. “I know.”

“But the bed’s more comfortable.”

“I know.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Her voice is firm now, but gentle. “I want you to feel safe. And if this is where you sleep, then this is where I’ll be.”

And just like that, she shifts a little closer, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it behind your back like she’s done it a thousand times.

You watch her.

She’s really doing this. No hesitation. No dramatics.

Just her. Just Wanda.

And it breaks something open inside you—something soft and aching and full of gratitude.

You scoot closer. Not thinking. Just feeling.

You wrap your arms around her and bury your face into the curve of her neck, holding her tightly. Desperately. Like you might fall apart if you let go.

She exhales shakily and wraps her arms around you just as tight, her fingers stroking the back of your head.

The silence between you stretches long and warm.

You whisper into her skin, “It’s just for tonight.”

She laughs softly, low and full of affection. “Sure it is, sweetheart.”

You smile.

And for the first time in so long, the dark doesn’t feel like it’s trying to swallow you whole.

Because she’s there.

And you don’t feel alone anymore.

Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @justarandomreaderxoxo @yelldontwhisper @raven-ss @chickenlittlsblog @username23345 @justyourwritter69 @ayrtonwilbury

[typewritingyip]

Arcturus Three

Part One - Introductions

———

In 1975, nine years before the Quintesson invasion, it was the waning years of the space race between the United States and the USSR. Not long after the end of the Vietnam war came the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project, where both major space programs attempted to dock together for the first time. After it’s success came further joint missions and projects to be had in what was dubbed space stations. 

It wouldn’t be until after the end of the Cold War and war against the Quintisons had started that the then American Vice-President and Russian Prime Ministers would make plans for a new space station after the previous failed attempts, this would come to be known as the International Space Station. 

The ISS sits in a low Earth orbit, intending to be a laboratory, observatory and factory along with roles that were added in 2010. 

It’s initial intentions would be adjusted to fill the need of the different mech based organizations on Earth attempting to retrieve data from the alien invaders, to decipher where they were coming from or at the very least what they are. These attempts have so far been limited in success. 

Six mecha pilots have attempted to follow the stream of data received by the ISS from the unknown invaders to potentially end this decades long conflict. All six pilots have lost contact with Earth. Another ten pilots are scheduled to follow the same data in the next five years. 

Pilot(s): 3141, 6986, 17741 for Arcturus Three, plus medical officer RH.

Pilot(s): 12437 for Arcturus Four, solo mission.

Pilot(s): 555, 1060, 4341, 17740, and 3113 in suit eleven for Arturus Five, the last projected mission.

—

Two Years Post Arcturus One - One Year Post Arcturus Two

The pilots were sitting backstage, leaning around a small table talking quietly, “I mean, there has to be something they aren’t telling us.” Sitting back, the pilot lightly scratches at his implants, it was a habit most pilots who’d nearly faced rejection picked up after a while, “I mean no offense, but I thought we were all told that our seniority would be the judge of these missions.” Nodding some, another one of the pilots sighs, “We were initially told that, yes, but certain things must be accounted for.” The other pilot threw his hands up lightly.

They all were staring at each other, they couldn’t help it, “Alright, I’m not the only one who thinks it’s weird that this mission has me, one of the designers of our suits, the best female pilot on the planet, and supposedly a medical officer.” He kicked his feet up on the table, sending the tablets and papers on it flying.

He winced, “Uh, sorry, but seriously. This can’t be a normal mission, not like Arcturus one or two. I still don’t think we know all the details for those either.” Finally, one of the other pilots leaned forward, “No one is making you do this Roddy.” The other pilot grins before shrugging slightly, “Think of this as an adventure.” Then another pilot then spoke up as well, “A mission where it is likely you’ll be able to catch fire as often as you desire.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Now that sounds like fun.” ‘Roddy’ had a killer smile and was unafraid to display it. 

—

The media room was packed with reporters, as it always was for any mecha announcement but another packed room because it was combined with a NASA announcement. As per-usual, Swindle was wearing his overly charming smile while some government schmuck was talking the ears off the reporters. 

It was almost easy to zone out, to remember the past and how the fight felt in those earlier years that these government geeks loved to reminisce on. Like the one next to him was currently doing, hemming and hawing over details that 99.9% of people didn’t care about. 

Sighing deeply, Swindle shifts forward in his seat, “I am sorry to interrupt you Rick, but uh, we do in fact have a time frame to fit into, so if we could wrap up the science and make way for the pilots that would be great.” The NASA expert, Richard something, quickly shut up.

Scratching lightly at his jaw, Swindle smiles his award winning smile and stands, adjusting the microphone, “Well, it’s good to see all your familiar faces again. Welcome back to the Kennedy Space Center, we’ve got some exciting news for today.” Several hands were already in the air, but he elected to ignore them, “We have the absolute pleasure of introducing the crew of Arcturus Three and their spacecraft the Iliad, which yes, I know that was supposed to come before the Odyssey but we didn’t think we’d go with the mythology aspect till after the first shuttle was painted.” A few reporters chuckle and others keep their hands up.

It took a moment for him to take a breath and gesture to one of the reporters with their hand up, “You,” she smiles and stands, “Lillian Carmichael, The Wall Street Journal, are you going to talk about the loss of pilot 2672?” Nodding slowly, Swindle takes a breath, “His call sign was Cliffjumper, that was his name, not his number Lillian. They are people who are giving their lives for our planet, there is no greater sacrifice. So, no, we aren’t going to talk about Cliff cause his family will be watching this broadcast and it’s hard enough to miss him then to hear us talk about his sacrifice as if it meant nothing.” Clearing his throat a bit, he nods.

“Now, we’re here today to introduce the crew of Arcturus Three and their spacecraft.” He smiles and steps to the side, a projection lighting up behind him, “Meet the Iliad, the newest version of NASA’s space shuttle.” It looked nothing like the space shuttle and looked much more like something that would attach to the international space station, “Richard, you know more details on this.” Sitting back down, Swindle adjusted his hat. 

This state of the art spacecraft was designed specifically for the transportation of mech suits and the study of the foreign enemy, from space of course. Swindle would not let another good pilot die cause they sent them up there with little to nothing. 

The Iliad would be sent up initially in pieces, which would come together to reform the outer structure of the ship. Those pieces would remain in orbit where the rocket would be able to connect it and the suits necessary for the mission, while propelling the entire structure out into space. The pilots wouldn’t go up with the pieces, just their suits and the initial shuttle, it would give them more maneuverability in the long run and something for Mecha to maintain contact with when all the pilots kicked the bucket, again. 

It was a horrible thought, Swindle knew this but what other choice did any of them have at this point? These things were getting bigger and badder, and in the two years since Arcturus One the number had gone up by another thousand pilots. Most of them died in compatibility testing in other countries, but that didn’t take away from the fact that there were another thousand dead pilots and nearly another million civilians. 

The man from NASA lightly cleared his throat,  “Sir?” “Hmm?” Glancing back up, Swindle smiles, “Oh, my turn again? Great.” He stands back up, smiling brightly and adjusting his suit jacket.

”Ladies and gentlemen, now I have the absolute pleasure of introducing you to our pilots for Arcturus Three!” The door to the side of the stage opens and he extends an arm, grinning as each pilot comes out to their name. “Pilot 3141, callsign Perceptor. Pilot 6986, callsign Hot Rod. Pilot 17741, callsign Arcee. Along with their medical officer, code name Ratchet.” The four people come up to the stage and take their seats, dressed in NASA gear. 

—

Swindle was talking on and on, about the differences for this mission and how nothing like Arcturus Two would happen to this group and blah blah blah. 

Currently, Jesse was twirling a pen through his fingers, running his tongue along his teeth and very clearly bored. A few reports snapped pictures, which he was almost smiling for without even trying. His look was very reminiscent of IceMan from Top Gun in that moment, bored and full of potential.

The female pilot to his right was quick to snatch the pen from his hands, whispering harshly, “Would you stop that? This is a press conference.” Cecilia put the pen back on the table, just out of his reach with a scowl, “We’re meant to look professional.” Jesse tried not to smirk, whispering back, “Yeah, I don’t think you reprimanding me is helping that case much Arcee.” She went to open her mouth again before just scowled and shifted her attention back to the speaker from NASA.

Now there was a pilot who knew what she was doing, Arcee had come to the program more recently than most. At least more than those still alive. She had made waves protecting Washington DC and the Chesapeake area in the last four years, for a lot of people it was like she had come out of nowhere. 

Those in the program had known her and her mentor for longer, though she was young, too young to get the implants up until a few years ago. Now, she was leading in this year's kill count, even as others were falling and the survival rate of pilots was dropping. Originally, she wasn’t scheduled for an Arcturus Mission till the fifth one, but certain securities must be taken.

Afterall, you needed someone who knew how to fly that was mentally stable enough to do it. 

Preceptor was the only other pilot on the stage and he was taking notes of everything that the engineer from NASA was saying, biting the end of the pen every time the speaker took a breath. He’d worked on this project from both sides and was keeping track of what was being said, compared to what was actually happening. The man from NASA wasn’t entirely accurate. 

It still dragged on before questions were finally allowed to be asked, at which point Swindle stood, “Let’s stick to the guidelines people, you know what you can ask the pilots and what you can’t. Keep it PG if you can.” Most of the reporters laughed, not realizing the last bit was for the pilots on the stage. 

Several hands went in the air and questions were being shouted in every direction, “Hot Rod, why did you sign up for Arcturus?” “Preceptor, Sir, why have you decided to become a full time pilot?” “Arcee, what do you think the commander will think of this change of schedule?” “Hot Rod, are you sad your other group mate Springer is not on the register for these missions?” “Arcee, are you prepared to fly such an experimental spacecraft?” “Preceptor, why do you think you’re going on this specific mission?” And they went on. 

—

The workshop was dark except for an area in the corner, where an older man was working by the light of a desk lamp, a large wrench was leaned against his chair and his hair was tinted with grey.

Swindle closes the door with a bang, hands in his pockets as he starts over, “You were missed at the press conference.” The older man grunted in response, rolling his chair back while lifting the obscenely large wrench, moving over to another workbench and turning on a small lamp there. 

It left a soft glow on his scowling face, sighing, he looked up, “What do you want, Swindle?” Smiling, Swindle heads over slowly. The whole space was generally kept tidy but lately it looked like a bull had been let loose in the china shop, “Just to talk about Arcturus Three.” Ratchet groaned.

”I don’t know why you keep pestering me about the project, and honestly I don’t appreciate you interrupting my work.” Swindle lightly kicked something out his way, humming, “Because you’re a part of the crew for this mission Ratchet. You know that.” Ratchet set the wrench on the table, likely so he didn’t swing it at Swindle’s head. 

Moving over, Swindle leans against the edge of the desk, “You know why you have to go Doc.” Ratchet scowls and glares at Swindle, “Shouldn’t it have been my choice?” Smiling sadly, Swindle shrugs a bit, “It would have been, had you not taken that thing into your little workshop here.” There was an angry rev from the dark corner of the shop, Swindle loosely waves his hand, “Oh shut up you overgrown pile of bolts. Look, the only safe place for that thing—““His name is Deadlock.” Standing, Ratchet jabbed a finger at his chest. 

With a nod, Swindle removes his hand and scratches at his old implants, they’d been capped years ago but still would itch with scaring, “The only safe place for him is as far from Shockwave as he can be, we both know this.” Slowly, he lowers himself onto a nearby stool.

Ratchet stared and shook his head, “He’s been plenty safe here.” Swindles laughs, “Has been and will be are two entirely different statements and you down well know it. If Shockwave gets so much as a whiff of him, he’ll do worse than dissect him, he’ll dissect you for protecting him. And we both know I can’t stop him.” He adjusts his blazer slightly, shaking his head.

Swindle had tried to fire the psychopath more than once, on a number of grounds, even his own torture but the congressman was far to popular and the government footed to much of the bill. His constituents footed most of the bill. Sure, not having to worry about putting his own money into the company made him a bit more at ease but that didn’t take away whatever the hell Shockwave was. 

“Shockwave wants to move into a bigger lab space and we’ve bought the plot next door, there is no way your friend there would be safe and I think it’s best if we stuck with human technology torturing us all. Not whatever the hell he is.” There was another angry rev, though it sounded much more like a growl. Swindle nodded slightly and put his hat back on, “Plus, Roddy is going on this mission. It’s starting to get around that you and him have grown close because of experimental tech.” Ratchet’s eyes widened and he glanced towards Deadlock, hidden in alt mode in the dark. 

Taking a breath, Ratchet looks back, “So, you’re launching me into space to face certain doom then?” Swindle shakes his head, “I’m sending you after who we’ve lost.” With a scoff, Ratchet stands and heads back to his other work space, “I can’t believe this.” Swindle followed, “Neither of you are safe if you stay.” The growling started back up, accompanied by a voice, “I can keep us safe.” Swindle glared at the car, “Like hell you can! Not against a man who has been working on the mecha program longer than most pilots have been alive!” He turns back to Ratchet. 

A loud bang drew Swindle’s eyes back to Ratchet, who had slammed his project against the table, “We can handle that threat.” Swindle laughed, pulling at his hair peeking out from under his hat, “You can’t. This is the man that convinced Blurr back into a suit, the reason why Vortex is the way he is, and a monster unafraid to do whatever it takes to reach his fucking monsterous goals!” He jabs a finger into Ratchet’s chest, “He wants all of us dead Ratchet! He doesn’t even see it that way, but he is willing to kill every living thing to end this war!” He grabs Ratchet’s shoulders and starts shaking him.

The sound of grinding metal and shifting gears was loud, but Swindle didn’t let go of Ratchet, “He will kill you and that thing that is your friend if you don’t go! And I won’t let him kill the one person who tried to save us!” Trying to catch his breath, Swindle stared at Ratchet’s wide eyes, “Rusty, I can’t let him kill you. I owe you my life and I will fulfill my debts.” Ratchet rolled his eyes slightly before resting a hand on Swindle’s shoulder, “Alright, alright.” He sighed slowly, letting go of Ratchet and taking a step back, adjusting his blazer.

Turning, he could have shit his pants as something almost as big as a modern mech glared down at him.

Ratchet’s hand came down and rested on Swindle’s shoulder, “Relax kid, he’s just trying to protect us in his typical asshole kinda way.” The thing growled again, “Like I said, in his asshole kinda way. Breathe and go back to recharge.” It grumbled before turning back into a, well, it looked like an EMT chase vehicle. 

Nodding slowly, Swindle sighed, “We both know Shockwave would want his hands on that kind of—“”You say technology and he will shoot you.” Nodding again, Swindle adjusted his hat before looking back to Ratchet, “You fly in a year’s time. I can get him up on part of the Iliad as soon as next month, but it does need to happen.” Ratchet sighed and nodded, “We’ll talk about it later.” Swindle nodded before starting back towards the door, touching his implants briefly, “I meant it Ratchet, I owe you a debt and this is how it’s going to be paid.” Then he left. 

—

It was late and the warehouse was empty except for a few pilots and their mechs being fitted with new gear, but that would start in the morning. At the moment, Hot Rod, Arcee, and Preceptor were sitting around a small table eating take out. 

Jesse was once again twirling around what he was holding, though this time it was a chopstick, “I want to know why they have sent five people on this mission and with one missing our mission isn’t potential recovery.” Cecilia sighs before shaking her head, “Cliff is gone Roddy and I don’t think anything is going to bring him back.” Percy hummed, setting down his food for a moment. 

It took a moment for him to figure out how to phrase what he was going to say kindly, “Cliffjumper was a strong pilot but not one built for solo missions, I think sending him on Arcturus Two was their easiest way of getting rid of the problem child.” Jesse snorted and Cecilia hit his shoulder, he deserved that.

”I’m being serious Percy, Cliff is either dead or wishing he was, and I don’t wish that on anyone.” They fell quiet for a moment, Percy picking his food back up and Roddy stabbing his chopsticks into the sushi on the table.

A door across the hanger from them banged open and a familiar face came strolling in, white coat a stark contrast to the dark space as always, Jesse looked up and grinned, “Ratchet, come on, we got your favorite.” He moved over slowly and grabbed one of the chairs, turning it before sitting in it with the back of it against his chest and grabbing his takeout container, “Thanks kid.” Percy smiled a bit, “It was Jesse’s idea for us to do this tonight.” Rusty hummed.

It had been two years to the day since the launch of Arcturus One, one year since Arcturus Two and a year from this day would be their own launch. 

Jesse popped a piece of sushi in his mouth and started talking, “So, why the four of us? I mean, I know Springer wasn’t found compatible for this specific mission but I know some of Breakdown’s brothers wanted to go. We all know Aid’ was supposed to be on this mission, but uh,” They all shifted a bit uncomfortably, “And Jazz’s brother wanted on but he got stuck with like, Arcturus Five, right?” Cecilia nodded, sighing. 

Clearing her throat, Cecilia sat forward, “We know why suit eleven isn’t going,” “It’s too heavy for the Iliad to carry it up.” Percy nodded slightly and Arcee rolled her eyes, “As for everyone else, I don’t think we’re going to know. I think we’re just going to be kept in the dark on that front.” Jesse rolled his eyes and Rusty nodded.

The older man sat forward, “I think dwelling on who could have been on this mission is the wrong move, we can see who is going to be on it and now we’ve got to figure out not only how to work together but how to understand each other.” Percy nodded and Cecilia shifted a bit in her seat.

Pilots were not team players typically, not since, well, regardless they weren’t team players anymore. 

“I still think it needs to be said and asked, why us?” Roddy gestured around with his chopstick, which he went back to twirling through his fingers. They all glanced at each other and honestly, none of them knew why this group was paired together.

Cecilia shifted again, “Well, I’m the only one who knows how to fly, so that’s a bit of a given. Ratchet is medical as well as he can work with Preceptor, the Iliad is an experimental spacecraft.” Percy nodded, “Very experimental.” She smiled a bit and looked back to Jesse, “So the only one in question is you Roddy.” He was quick to throw a potsticker at her, “Can it Arcee, who asked you?” Ratchet chuckled, “You did.” “Oh shut up.” He was pouting now. 

Rain started to hit the metal roof, leaving a soft ringing sound throughout the hanger space. Three suits against the wall with tool boxes around them and supplies across the way; new seals, paint, and upgraded tech were all called for. Soon, three of the four of them would have to go through the next steps for their suit upgrades with the upgrades to their integrated tech, even before the NASA training would even start. 

It was daunting and scary, but in the moment of the four of them sitting around a commandeered workbench covered in takeout, talking like tomorrow would be the same as any other day gave them all some bit of relief. 

They would take off three years to the day from Arcturus One.

One year, counting down to July 10th 2016. 

———

A/N

So here is the something different! Now, this series is going to be 5 parts, compared to Arcturus Two’s single part which was logs from MECHA databases.

To clarify, Jesse is Hot Rod, Cecilia is Arcee, Percy is well Percy, and Rusty is Ratchet. The old man of the group.

This also confirms the timeline! Which originally before I fucked up the way space time works, I wanted this series to take place in 2004. I messed up and the current point in Arcturus One is them in 2014. They took off in mid 2013.

We will go back to our regularly scheduled programming, in which I continue to just try and keep writing and not lose inspiration.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @astridkolch @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscarpheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @pour1tin @thetrexartist @naaaafam

As always, I want to thank @keferon for this amazing AU and just giving us generally free rein.

[devdozes]

Why does the weather keep changing?!

Weather scientist reader x Scientist phainon whos artificially changing the weather :0 what could possibly go wrong PHAINON FANART AT THE END OF THE POST!!

The moment you saw the weather reports go haywire, you knew something was wrong.

For years, you had dedicated your life to understanding the unpredictable nature of the skies—studying storm patterns, atmospheric shifts, and climate changes. Weather was a delicate balance of science and nature, governed by centuries-old principles that even the most advanced meteorologists struggled to predict with absolute certainty. And yet, something—someone—was tipping the scales.

It started subtly. A mild anomaly here, an unexpected shift there. A sudden drop in pressure that meteorological models hadn't accounted for. At first, you chalked it up to a rare, yet natural deviation. Uncommon, but not impossible. But as days passed, the anomalies became more frequent. More erratic. More impossible.

One evening, you sat in your lab, staring at satellite images that simply did not make sense.

According to every forecast model, the eastern seaboard was supposed to experience heavy rainfall over the next 48 hours. But outside your window? Nothing. Clear skies. No clouds forming where they should have been. Not even a hint of humidity in the air. It was as if the storm had just... vanished.

You double-checked the data. Triple-checked. Ran simulations, compared historical trends, even consulted with your colleagues in other departments. Nothing added up. The storm should have happened.

The next day, the opposite occurred. A severe thunderstorm erupted out of nowhere, completely unpredicted by any meteorological model. Lightning struck in regions that had no atmospheric conditions to support it. You stared at your screen, watching real-time data pour in, and felt your stomach sink.

“This isn’t natural,” you muttered, fingers tightening around your stylus as you scrolled through satellite readings. “This isn’t possible.”

You reached out to national weather agencies, but they were just as baffled as you were. Some blamed equipment malfunctions. Others suggested it was a rare atmospheric anomaly. But you knew better. This wasn’t an error.

Someone was artificially changing the weather.

And you were going to find out who.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your investigation led you to an independent research facility under the name "Elysiae Dynamics." A company that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, its research papers riddled with vague references to “atmospheric influence” and “climate engineering.” No one in the meteorological community had ever heard of them until recently, and yet, they had just filed a patent for atmospheric manipulation technology.

That’s when you met him.

A tall, cheery young man, 6’2 with messy white hair and cerulean blue eyes, wearing a lab coat over a wrinkled button-up shirt and sneakers that looked far too casual for someone playing god with the atmosphere.

“Ah! You must be the weather scientist!” His voice was bright, chipper, like he wasn’t single-handedly disrupting global climate stability. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you are?”

“Phainon! Head of experimental meteorological engineering here at Elysiae Dynamics.” He beamed, extending a hand. “I’m the guy who made it rain during your picnic last weekend. Sorry about that! Just had to test a hypothesis.”

You didn’t shake his hand. “You—you what?”

“Oh, don’t look so mad! You should be impressed! I successfully altered the weather without any negative ecological consequences!” Phainon leaned against his desk, arms crossed, still grinning like a fool. “Come on, you of all people should appreciate this. Isn't controlling the weather the dream of every meteorologist?”

“It’s not a dream, it’s an ethical nightmare!” You snapped. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? The slightest miscalculation could throw entire ecosystems off balance! Not to mention the political implications—”

Phainon tilted his head. “But I didn’t miscalculate.”

His confidence was infuriating. His logic, irritatingly sound. And worst of all? You couldn’t deny that what he had accomplished was groundbreaking.

“…This is reckless,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “And insanely impressive. But mostly reckless.”

Phainon’s grin widened. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You groaned. “I need access to your research.”

“Oh-ho, so now you’re interested?”

“I was always interested. But now I need to make sure you’re not about to cause the next ice age.”

Phainon chuckled, stepping closer—too close. His presence was overwhelming in the way only someone deeply, unapologetically passionate about their work could be. “Tell you what, partner,” he said, voice teasing, “help me refine it, make it safer. You’re the expert on natural weather—I’m just the guy making it unnatural. Work with me, and we can create something truly extraordinary.”

You wanted to refuse. You really, really did.

But damn it, he had a point.

“…Fine.”

His eyes lit up, like a storm forming in the depths of a clear sky. “Excellent! Now, let’s get to work—I was thinking about making it snow in July next. Just for fun!”

You groaned. This was going to be a long partnership. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ And long it was. Over the next few weeks, you found yourself sucked into the chaotic whirlwind that was Phainon’s scientific madness. He worked at an impossible pace, throwing around ideas that shouldn’t have been possible but somehow were. One minute, he’d be theorizing about localized heatwaves, and the next, he’d be actively making them happen.

“You can’t just create a thunderstorm over the city because you think it would look cool,” you hissed one afternoon, watching in horror as Phainon gleefully adjusted dials on his control panel.

“Oh, but I can,” he countered, eyes gleaming. “It’s all about the precision. Watch—three, two, one…”

A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the city below.

“…Boom.”

You stared at him. “You are so going to get arrested.”

“Nah, only if they catch me.”

You groaned, shoving your hands into your lab coat pockets. “Unbelievable. You’re like a child with a god complex.”

Phainon grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Damn it. He had a point. Again.

The worst part? You were starting to enjoy it.

Lately, though, you had been feeling exhausted.

The late nights, the stress, the mental load of balancing scientific integrity with Phainon’s chaos—it was all catching up to you. Your movements were slower, your focus slipping. Even Phainon, for all his oblivious enthusiasm, noticed.

That afternoon, when the sun was unbearably hot and the air in the lab felt thick and suffocating, you slumped over your desk, barely listening as Phainon rambled about his next experiment.

And then, suddenly—

A breeze.

Cool, crisp, and carrying the scent of oncoming rain. You blinked in confusion, looking up just in time to see Phainon, standing by the open window, a knowing smile on his face.

“You looked like you needed a break,” he said simply, leaning against the sill. “So I changed the weather. Just a little.”

Your eyes widened. The screens behind you, once displaying the sweltering forecast, now showed cloud cover rolling in. The suffocating heat? Gone.

“…You did this?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Phainon grinned. “Of course. Can’t have my partner melting away on me, can I?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Damn him.

“C’mon,” he suddenly said, pushing off the window ledge. “Let’s go outside for a bit. We’ve been in this lab for too long, and I changed the weather for you. C’mon.”

Before you could protest, Phainon grabbed your hand and dragged you toward the exit, leaving behind a room full of stunned scientists, their jaws practically on the floor as they watched him whisk you away like a force of nature itself. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The moment you stepped outside, a crisp breeze greeted you, carrying the scent of damp earth and something electrifying—the prelude to a storm. You glanced up at the sky, expecting the soft cloud cover Phainon had crafted just for you, but instead—

A downpour.

Cold, heavy raindrops pelted down from the heavens, drenching the both of you in an instant. It wasn’t just a light drizzle or a gentle summer rain—it was an absolute deluge.

You gasped, half in shock, half in disbelief.

Phainon, still holding your hand, blinked up at the sky in stunned silence.

Then you burst out laughing. Loud, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh my god—did you leave the machine on auto mode?!” you choked out between fits of laughter. “Phainon, the weather just changed again! WHAT DID YOU DO?”

He stared at you for a second, then back at the rain, and then at you again.

“…I might have forgotten to turn off the randomization function,” he admitted sheepishly.

Your laughter only grew. “Are you kidding me?! We barely made it outside, and now we’re stuck in an artificial monsoon!”

Phainon, despite his momentary fluster, grinned widely. “Well, on the bright side—at least it’s refreshing!” And with that, he spread his arms out dramatically, embracing the torrential downpour like some mad scientist turned weather god.

You shook your head, still breathless with laughter. Your clothes were already soaked through, hair sticking to your forehead, rain streaming down your face—but in that moment, you didn’t care.

Phainon turned to you, eyes gleaming mischievously through the rain. “So, do you wanna run back inside? Or…” He took a step back, still holding onto your wrist, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Oh, you knew that look.

He was about to do something reckless.

“…Phainon,” you warned.

“Catch me if you can!”

And just like that, he took off—sprinting through the rain like a madman.

You groaned. Of course.

But your feet moved before you could even think about it, chasing after him through the drenched pavement, laughter bubbling in your chest. The other scientists, who had peeked outside to witness this chaos, simply stood there, utterly baffled as their two most brilliant colleagues—one being the cause of this entire mess—bolted through the facility grounds, completely soaked.

“Phainon, get back here!” you yelled, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“You’ll have to catch me first!” he called back, voice bright, wild, and full of life. "YOU STUPID LITTLE-"

THE SILLIES ARE BACK AAGIN I LVOE THEM SO MUCHCH AUGH

[avinashkumar1202]

From tech to creative, we'll delve into effective strategies for attracting top talent and building a versatile, high-performing team. Discover the CEO's perspective on navigating the challenges of cross-domain recruitment and unlocking the full potential of your workforce. Let's redefine the hiring landscape together!

[jjmcquade-misc]

How Obama Transformed the U.S. Intelligence System into an Untouchable Force

The sprawling U.S. intelligence apparatus wasn’t Barack Obama’s invention, it emerged in the wake of 9/11 under George W. Bush, who laid the groundwork with the Patriot Act and a retooled security state. But Obama didn’t just inherit this system; he refined it, expanded it, and entrenched it so deeply into the fabric of American governance that it became nearly impossible for anyone, even a president, to rein it in. His tenure marked a pivotal shift, normalizing a decentralized, privatized, and largely unaccountable intelligence leviathan. Here’s how it unfolded.

The story begins in the early 2000s, when the Bush administration responded to the September 11 attacks with sweeping surveillance powers and a new security architecture. The Patriot Act of 2001 granted agencies like the NSA and FBI unprecedented authority to monitor communications, often sidestepping traditional oversight. By the time Obama took office in 2009, this framework was already in place, but it was still raw, controversial, and subject to scrutiny. Obama’s task wasn’t to build it from scratch; it was to polish it, protect it, and make it permanent.

One of his earliest moves came in 2011, when he signed a renewal of the Patriot Act with a Democratic-controlled Congress. Rather than scaling back Bush-era policies, he leaned into them, signaling that the post-9/11 security state wasn’t a temporary overreach but a new baseline. That same year, he authorized the drone strike that killed Anwar al-Awlaki, a U.S. citizen, without judicial review—a decision rooted in a secretive “Disposition Matrix,” a kill-list system driven by CIA intelligence and insulated from external oversight. Over his presidency, Obama would greenlight over 500 drone strikes, far surpassing Bush’s tally, establishing a precedent for extrajudicial action that relied heavily on intelligence feeds.

Surveillance took a leap forward under Executive Order 12333, which Obama expanded to allow warrantless collection and sharing of raw signals intelligence (SIGINT) across federal agencies. What had once been concentrated in the NSA and FBI now seeped into every corner of the government, from the Department of Homeland Security to the Treasury. This decentralization diluted accountability, as data flowed freely between departments with little public scrutiny.

The 2013 Snowden leaks threw a spotlight on this system. Edward Snowden, a contractor for Booz Allen Hamilton working with the NSA, exposed illegal mass surveillance programs like PRISM and bulk metadata collection, revealing how deeply the government had tapped into private tech giants, Google, Facebook, Microsoft, Apple. Obama’s response was telling: he defended the programs, prosecuted whistleblowers like Snowden, and declined to hold the architects accountable. PRISM became a blueprint for a public-private surveillance partnership, unregulated by Congress, immune to FOIA requests, and beyond democratic reach. Meanwhile, the reliance on contractors like Booz Allen ballooned, by the end of his tenure, 70–80% of the intelligence budget flowed through private firms, funneling billions into an opaque ecosystem.

Obama also shielded the intelligence community from legal consequences. In 2014, the Senate’s Torture Report laid bare CIA abuses, black sites, waterboarding, and even spying on the Senate investigators themselves. Yet Obama refused to prosecute, famously urging the nation to “look forward, not backward.” This stance didn’t just protect individuals; it cemented a culture of impunity, signaling that the intelligence apparatus operated above the law.

Beyond surveillance and legal protections, Obama supercharged the bureaucracy. The Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI), created under Bush, gained sweeping coordination powers under his watch, but rather than centralizing control, it added layers of insulation between the president and field operations. He also empowered hybrid units like Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) and CIA task forces, which blended military and intelligence functions. These shadowy outfits operated in dozens of countries with lethal authority, secretive chains of command, and minimal oversight from Congress or even their own headquarters.

By 2017, as his presidency wound down, Obama made a final play: he authorized a rule change allowing the NSA to share raw, unfiltered data with 16 other intelligence agencies, stripping away privacy safeguards. This move ensured that the system he’d built could hum along without presidential intervention, its reach embedded in local “fusion centers,” secret courts, and corporate data pipelines.

The outcome was staggering. By the time Obama left office, the intelligence network spanned 17 agencies, leaned heavily on unaccountable contractors, and fused with private tech infrastructure. It wasn’t just bigger, it was untouchable, legalized through executive loopholes and shielded from reform. Obama became the first president to weave intelligence into every layer of government, from foreign policy to law enforcement, but in doing so, he relinquished control. The republic did too. No future leader would easily dismantle this machine, not because it was too strong, but because it had become too diffuse, too ingrained, too essential to the modern state. Obama's Intelligence Policy

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Steve Brodner

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

February 21, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

Feb 22, 2025

In an appearance at the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) yesterday, billionaire Elon Musk seemed to be having difficulty speaking. Musk brandished a chainsaw like that Argentina's president Javier Milei used to symbolize the drastic cuts he intended to make to his country’s government, then posted that image to X, labeling it “The DogeFather,” although the administration has recently told a court that Musk is neither an employee nor the leader of the so-called Department of Government Efficiency. Politico called Musk’s behavior “eccentric.”

While attendees cheered Musk on, outside CPAC there appears to be a storm brewing. While Trump and his team have claimed they have a mandate, in fact more people voted for someone other than Trump in 2024, and his early approval ratings were only 47%, the lowest of any president going back to 1953, when Gallup began checking them. His approval has not grown as he has called himself a “king” and openly mused about running for a third term.

A Washington Post/Ipsos poll released yesterday shows that even that “honeymoon” is over. Only 45% approve of the “the way Donald Trump is handling his job as president,” while 53% disapprove. Forty-three percent of Americans say they support what Trump has done since he took office; 48% oppose his actions. The number of people who strongly support his actions sits at 27%; the number who strongly oppose them is twelve points higher, at 39%. Fifty-seven percent of Americans think Trump has gone beyond his authority as president.

Americans especially dislike his attempts to end USAID, his tariffs on goods from Mexico and Canada, and his firing of large numbers of government workers. Even Trump’s signature issue of deporting undocumented immigrants receives 51% approval only if respondents think those deported are “criminals.” Fifty-seven percent opposed deporting those who are not accused of crimes, 70% oppose deporting those brought to the U.S. as children, and 66% oppose deporting those who have children who are U.S. citizens. Eighty-three percent of Americans oppose Trump’s pardon of the violent offenders convicted for their behavior during the attack on the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021. Even those who identify as Republican-leaning oppose those pardons 70 to 27 percent.

As Aaron Blake points out in the Washington Post, a new CNN poll, also released yesterday, shows that Musk is a major factor in Trump’s declining ratings. By nearly two to one, Americans see Musk having a prominent role in the administration as a “bad thing.” The ratio was 54 to 28. The Washington Post/Ipsos poll showed that Americans disapprove of Musk “shutting down federal government programs that he decides are unnecessary” by the wide margin of 52 to 26. Sixty-three percent of Americans are worried about Musk’s team getting access to their data.

Meanwhile, Jessica Piper of Politico noted that 62% of Americans in the CNN poll said that Trump has not done enough to try to reduce prices, and today’s economic news bears out that concern: not only are egg prices at an all-time high, but also consumer sentiment dropped to a 15-month low as people worry that Trump’s tariffs will raise prices. White House deputy press secretary Harrison Fields said in a statement: “[T]he American people actually feel great about the direction of the country…. What’s to hate? We are undoing the widely unpopular agenda of the previous office holder, uprooting waste, fraud, and abuse, and chugging along on the great American Comeback.”

Phone calls swamping the congressional switchboards and constituents turning out for town halls with House members disprove Fields’s statement. In packed rooms with overflow spaces, constituents have shown up this week both to demand that their representatives take a stand against Musk’s slashing of the federal government and access to personal data, and to protest Trump’s claim to be a king. In an eastern Oregon district that Trump won by 68%, constituents shouted at Representative Cliff Bentz: “tax Elon,” “tax the wealthy,” “tax the rich,” and “tax the billionaires.” In a solid-red Atlanta suburb, the crowd was so angry at Representative Richard McCormick that he has apparently gone to ground, bailing on a CNN interview about the disastrous town hall at the last minute.

That Trump is feeling the pressure from voters showed this week when he appeared to offer two major distractions: a pledge to consider using money from savings found by the “Department of Government Efficiency” to provide rebates to taxpayers—although so far it hasn’t shown any savings and economists say the promise of checks is unrealistic—and a claim that he would release a list of late sex offender Jeffrey Epstein’s clients.

Trump is also under pressure from the law.

The Associated Press sued three officials in the Trump administration today for blocking AP journalists from presidential events because the AP continues to use the traditional name “Gulf of Mexico” for the gulf that Trump is trying to rename. The AP is suing over the freedom of speech protected by the First Amendment to the Constitution.

Today, a federal court granted a preliminary injunction to stop Musk and the DOGE team from accessing Americans’ private information in the Treasury Department’s central payment system. Eighteen states had filed the lawsuit.

Tonight, a federal court granted a nationwide injunction against Trump’s executive orders attacking diversity, equity, and inclusion, finding that they violate the First and Fifth Amendments to the Constitution.

Trump is also under pressure from principled state governors.

In his State of the State Address on Wednesday, February 19, Illinois governor J.B. Pritzker noted that “it’s in fashion at the federal level right now to just indiscriminately slash school funding, healthcare coverage, support for farmers, and veterans’ services. They say they’re doing it to eliminate inefficiencies. But only an idiot would think we should eliminate emergency response in a natural disaster, education and healthcare for disabled children, gang crime investigations, clean air and water programs, monitoring of nursing home abuse, nuclear reactor regulation, and cancer research.”

He recalled: “Here in Illinois, ten years ago we saw the consequences of a rampant ideological gutting of government. It genuinely harmed people. Our citizens hated it. Trust me—I won an entire election based in part on just how much they hated it.”

Pritzker went on to address the dangers of the Trump administration directly. “We don’t have kings in America,” he said, “and I don’t intend to bend the knee to one…. If you think I’m overreacting and sounding the alarm too soon, consider this: It took the Nazis one month, three weeks, two days, eight hours and 40 minutes to dismantle a constitutional republic. All I’m saying is when the five-alarm fire starts to burn, every good person better be ready to man a post with a bucket of water if you want to stop it from raging out of control.”

He recalled how ordinary Illinoisans outnumbered Nazis who marched in Chicago in 1978 by about 2,000 to 20, and noted: “Tyranny requires your fear and your silence and your compliance. Democracy requires your courage. So gather your justice and humanity, Illinois, and do not let the ‘tragic spirit of despair’ overcome us when our country needs us the most.”

Today, Maine governor Janet Mills took the fight against Trump’s overreach directly to him. At a meeting of the nation’s governors, in a rambling speech in which he was wandering through his false campaign stories about transgender athletes, Trump turned to his notes and suddenly appeared to remember his executive order banning transgender student athletes from playing on girls sports teams.

The body that governs sports in Maine, the Maine Principals’ Association, ruled that it would continue to allow transgender students to compete despite Trump's executive order because the Maine state Human Rights Law prohibits discrimination on the grounds of gender identity.

Trump asked if the governor of Maine was in the room.

“Yeah, I’m here,” replied Governor Mills.

“Are you not going to comply with it?” Trump asked.

“I’m complying with state and federal laws,” she said.

“We are the federal law,” Trump said. “You better do it because you’re not going to get any federal funding at all if you don’t….”

“We’re going to follow the law,” she said.

“You’d better comply because otherwise you’re not going to get any federal funding,” he said.

Mills answered: “We’ll see you in court.”

As Shawn McCreesh of the New York Times put it: “Something happened at the White House Friday afternoon that almost never happens these days. Somebody defied President Trump. Right to his face.”

Hours later, the Trump administration launched an investigation into Maine’s Department of Education, specifically its policy on transgender athletes. Maine attorney general Aaron Frey said that any attempt to cut federal funding for the states over the issue “would be illegal and in direct violation of federal court orders…. Fortunately,” he said in a statement, “the rule of law still applies in this country, and I will do everything in my power to defend Maine’s laws and block efforts by the president to bully and threaten us.”

“[W]hat is at stake here [is] the rule of law in our country,” Mills said in a statement. “No President…can withhold Federal funding authorized and appropriated by Congress and paid for by Maine taxpayers in an attempt to coerce someone into compliance with his will. It is a violation of our Constitution and of our laws.”

“Maine may be one of the first states to undergo an investigation by his Administration, but we won’t be the last. Today, the President of the United States has targeted one particular group on one particular issue which Maine law has addressed. But you must ask yourself: who and what will he target next, and what will he do? Will it be you? Will it be because of your race or your religion? Will it be because you look different or think differently? Where does it end? In America, the President is neither a King nor a dictator, as much as this one tries to act like it—and it is the rule of law that prevents him from being so.”

“[D]o not be misled: this is not just about who can compete on the athletic field, this is about whether a President can force compliance with his will, without regard for the rule of law that governs our nation. I believe he cannot.”

Americans’ sense that Musk has too much power is likely to be heightened by tonight’s report from Andrea Shalal and Joey Roulette of Reuters that the United States is trying to force Ukraine to sign away rights to its critical minerals by threatening to cut off access to Musk’s Starlink satellite system. Ukraine turned to that system after the Russians destroyed its communications services.

And Americans’ concerns about Trump acting like a dictator are unlikely to be calmed by tonight’s news that Trump has abruptly purged the leadership of the military in apparent unconcern over the message that such a sweeping purge sends to adversaries. He has fired the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Charles Q. Brown, who Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth suggested got the job only because he is Black, and Admiral Lisa Franchetti, the Chief of Naval Operations, who was the first woman to serve on the Joint Chiefs of Staff and whom Hegseth called a “DEI hire.”

The vice chief of the Air Force, General James Slife, has also been fired, and Hegseth indicated he intends to fire the judge advocates general, or JAGs—the military lawyers who administer the military code of justice—for the Army, Navy, and Air Force. Trump has indicated he intends to nominate Air Force Lieutenant General John Dan “Razin” Caine to be the next chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Oren Liebermann and Haley Britzky of CNN call this “an extraordinary move,” since Caine is retired and is not a four-star general, a legal requirement, and will need a presidential waiver to take the job. Trump has referred to Caine as right out of “central casting.”

Defense One, which covers U.S. defense and international security, called the firings a “bloodbath.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[iraot]

Previous entries to Heat Haven Series Heat Haven, Alpha Equation, No Turning Back Summary: She was a nurse, he was a pilot and surrounding them was a whole host of government inadequacies that end up changing their lives forever. Word Count: 16.4k Warnings: Shitty government protocol, shitty discriminatory behavior from superiors, Gideon's shitty flirting, heat induced horny, dub con? ( cause of heat? she wants it tho i swear ). A/N: This took me 1 day to finish, which isn't my usual writing pace. NGL my head is about to explode. If you like it please comment and let me know what you think! Archive of Our Own

The first time she met Dr. Holt, she’d just arrived on base—still in the pressed slate-grey of her regulation uniform, her boots carrying the last dust of the tarmac, her orders fresh in hand. The med bay was stark and cold, all steel and silence, the hum of machinery behind every wall, a familiar kind of sterile she had never liked. She’d worked in trauma centers where blood slicked the floor before noon, where screams were as regular as shift changes, where survival was carved from chaos. But here, the tension was different—contained, quiet, something behind the eyes of every person in uniform that said: don’t step out of line.

She was shown into a glass-walled office where Dr. Holt waited behind a desk, arms folded, face impassive. Major Caulder stood to one side, arms behind his back in that careful military posture that meant he’d say nothing unless it mattered to him. She gave them both a crisp nod, standing straight with her data tablet in hand, every credential visible—trauma nurse specialist, surgical tech experience, Omega regulatory compliance signed and verified. She extended it to Holt first. “Reporting for assignment, sir.”

Holt didn’t reach for the tablet. His eyes flicked to her face, then down—to her chest, to the small embossed marker beneath her name: Omega. That was when something in his mouth twisted, almost imperceptibly, like a reflex he didn’t bother to mask. “You’re the one they sent?” he asked, voice calm in a way that wasn’t calm at all. “I assumed they’d assign someone more… tactically appropriate for front-line med work.”

She didn’t flinch, but the chill of his tone settled over her like frostbite. “My file includes civilian trauma experience, advanced surgical certification, three years of field rotation, and three commendations for frontline composure under pressure,” she said, evenly, without pride—just facts. “I’m not here to meet assumptions, Doctor. I’m here to treat soldiers.”

Major Caulder glanced her way, but still said nothing. Holt leaned back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’ll be assigned to secondary support—post-trauma, medication dispersal, charting. You’ll assist as needed, but you won’t be leading trauma intake.”

“That’s not the assignment listed on my orders,” she said flatly.

Holt didn’t even blink. “I reserve the right to adapt staffing for medical efficiency,” he replied, each word deliberately bland. “We run a tight facility here, Lieutenant. I won’t allow biological volatility to compromise surgical discipline.”

There it was. Biological volatility. As if she were a failed circuit. As if her body was something unpredictable and dangerous by nature. Her spine straightened, chin lifting a degree. “And yet you’re fine trusting a man whose hands shake during his own post-rut cycle to handle critical patients?” she asked, cool as steel. “Funny how that volatility never seems to interrupt his assignments.”

That earned a moment of silence sharp enough to cut. Caulder’s eyes flicked toward her—faint surprise, or maybe wariness—but Holt’s face remained a blank wall, his voice clipped. “We’ll expect you to conduct yourself with discipline, Lieutenant.”

“I expect the same,” she returned, not backing down. “Sir.”

Caulder stepped in then, voice smoothing over the tension without erasing it. “You’ll rotate through trauma as scheduled. Dr. Holt is within his rights to manage his staff, but the orders are active.” His tone, carefully balanced, made clear that any further argument would be seen as insubordination—not by her, but by Holt. Maintain professionalism. As if what had just happened qualified as anything less than quiet warfare.

She gave a stiff nod, then turned and walked out, pulse steady despite the heat in her chest. The door hissed shut behind her, and she didn’t look back. But she could feel it—Holt’s eyes on her, the weight of that old-world judgment, that curated disdain for what she was.

She’d felt it before. From patients. From colleagues. From supposed allies who wanted quiet, well-behaved Omegas who kept their heads down and their scent muted. But she hadn’t survived the halls of civilian trauma by being soft. She didn’t break when blood sprayed her visor or when someone screamed in her face with their guts spilling through their hands.

And she wouldn’t break for him.

Not here. Not ever.

— The unmistakable whistle was already echoing down the corridor before the med bay doors even slid open. That damned whistle always came first—too casual, too confident, a herald of the strut that followed it. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Only one man on base walked like the hallway was his personal runway and greeted medical staff like it was open mic night at the local bar.

“Tell me you missed me,” came the drawl, syrup-slick and shameless. “Don’t break my heart.”

She didn’t blink, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of her, inputting the last of a post-op debrief from a gunner with a pulled rotator cuff. Her fingers didn’t pause on the touchpad, her face didn’t lift from its neutral angle—but her mouth, traitor that it was, fought the hint of a smirk. 

She fought harder. “The cardiac ward’s three doors down, Captain. They handle broken hearts.”

He clicked his tongue, boots heavy as he stepped inside like he’d just returned from a long vacation instead of the tarmac. “Ouch. And here I thought we had something special.”

She turned, finally, and met his gaze levelly. “Special implies mutual consent. Sit on the exam bed.”

The man was a wall of muscle in flight fatigues, his name badge faintly scuffed, jacket half-zipped like he’d left it that way on purpose. Short black hair, neatly trimmed, brown eyes like sun-warmed espresso—warmth without expectation. The med bay lighting made the natural tan of his skin look deeper, more golden. His body carried the kind of weight that didn’t come from vanity, but from use—shoulders thick from years of hauling equipment, from cockpit cramping, from working without ever asking for an easier way.

He slumped dramatically onto the bed, arms spread like he was offering himself to the gods. “Don’t be shy. You can poke and prod all you want. Long as I get dinner after.”

“I’m already sick of your voice and I haven’t even checked your blood pressure,” she said, dry.

He grinned, teeth bright and easy. “You wound me, nurse.”

He used her title deliberately, the same way she used his. He never called her by her name, never tested that line. Other Alphas might’ve tried. Might’ve leaned in close to scent her, to let their fingers brush against her wrist during vitals, to see what would happen when an unclaimed Omega was cornered. She’d had to write more than one report for that kind of thing. But not him.

He flirted like a man who expected rejection. Like he liked the sound of her saying no. And maybe he did.

She crossed to the counter, tapping into his file on the tablet mounted beside the sink. “You’re here for your pre-deployment clearance. Nothing new on your chart since your last physical?”

He kicked his boots off the side of the bed, letting them thud against the wall with zero grace. “Not unless caffeine addiction counts.”

She didn’t look at him. “I’d have to report that. It’s against regs to sedate yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Then thank god they haven’t caught me with the good stuff.”

Her fingers moved quick across the screen, her tone all business. “Any dizziness? Chest tightness? Trouble sleeping?”

“Negative.”

“Shortness of breath?”

He exhaled with enough exaggeration to qualify as a groan. “Only when you’re in the room, doll.”

She turned then, slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Captain, I’ll take that as consent to start with your respiratory rate.”

He grinned wider, unrepentant. “Breathe deep, got it.”

She reached for her stethoscope, the cold metal a familiar weight around her neck, and stepped closer to him. The moment changed. Not dramatically. Not enough to be obvious. But his posture shifted—subtly, unconsciously. Still relaxed, still teasing, but something pulled in behind his eyes.

She’d seen it before. The moment an Alpha remembered what she was. What she wasn’t allowed to be.

Her hand was steady as she pressed the bell of the stethoscope to his chest. The heat of his body radiated through the thin layer of fabric between her fingers and his skin. “Deep breath in. Hold. Release.”

He obeyed. No jokes this time. His chest expanded under her palm, ribs flaring slightly, heart beating a slow and even rhythm that vibrated faintly into her touch. She moved the scope, adjusted the angle, and listened.

Another breath. Then another.

His voice, when he spoke again, was low. Quieter.

“You always this gentle?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just moved to the next point on his chest, focused, methodical. “You’d rather I press harder?”

“Maybe,” he said softly, “if it meant you’d stay close longer.”

She didn’t look at him, didn’t give him the satisfaction of even a glance. But her hand lingered a half-second longer than necessary before pulling the stethoscope back. Her expression didn’t change. “You’re fine. Vitals normal.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t a sigh, but it tried to be. “Knew you’d say I’m perfect eventually.”

She set the stethoscope aside. “You’ve still got vision and reflexes to clear. Stand up.”

He did, slower than he needed to, like the longer it took the longer he got to stay in her presence. Not leering. Not imposing. Just present. There was something about the way he moved that didn’t demand attention—it asked for it, and acted surprised when it got it.

She handed him the reflex hammer. “Sit. I’ll test your knees.”

He plopped back down. “This is the one where you slap me, right?”

“Not hard enough, apparently.”

The tap of the rubber mallet against his patellar tendon made his leg jerk, a twitch reflex she tracked with professional detachment. She repeated the motion on the other side. Both responses are within normal range.

“Eyes forward,” she said. “Tracking next.”

He followed her finger without complaint as she moved it left to right, up, down, diagonals, watching his pupils. Nothing abnormal. Nothing slow. Just those warm brown eyes, always so open, so eager, watching her like she was some rare creature he’d caught sight of once and had never quite gotten out of his head.

When she lowered her hand, he was still watching.

“Your file’s clean. You’re cleared for flight.”

He didn’t move. Not immediately. Just sat there, hands resting on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched—not in exhaustion, but in thought. “You ever get tired of being treated like a risk factor?”

She froze. Just a flicker. Just for a second. Her mouth opened, then closed.

He didn’t wait. “Everyone here’s walking around like your biology is a bomb they’re trying not to set off. Doesn’t that piss you off?”

Her voice, when it came, was measured. “What pisses me off is that I need a mate to be taken seriously.”

“Then why don’t you have one?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

“Because claiming isn’t the same thing as choice,” she said flatly. “And I don’t want to be owned to do my job.”

His jaw worked for a second. Then he nodded. Just once. “Fair.”

She turned to her station, logged the clearance note into the system, her back straight. She didn’t say anything else.

But as he reached the door, he paused. Just enough to let the air shift.

“You ever need someone to remind command that you’re not the problem?” he said, quietly. “You know where my spot in the barracks are.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He never did, but this time she watched him go.

The storage room was hotter than it should’ve been, the overhead lights flickering slightly with every surge of the air handler struggling to keep up. Shelves of gauze, medkits, fluid bags, and antiseptics surrounded them in tight aisles that smelled faintly of plastic and sterile cotton. She was kneeling by the lower bins, scanning barcodes and cross-checking numbers on the clipboard balanced against her thigh, when Maya let out an exaggerated sigh and dropped a box of gloves onto the nearest shelf.

“You know,” Maya said, brushing her frizzy bangs out of her face, “if the actual doctors around here pulled their weight, we wouldn’t be stuck doing all this.”

She made a noncommittal noise in response, dragging the next tray of sutures closer. “The ones we do have don’t want to be here. They’re either chasing real surgeries or busy stroking their egos in civilian hospitals.”

Maya gave a bitter little laugh. “Or both.”

The silence that followed was only broken by the occasional beep of a scan and the crinkling of packaging. It wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d done this together enough times that the rhythm of working side-by-side was almost meditative. But the heat, the frustration, and the long list of backlogged tasks were wearing thin, and she knew Maya well enough to sense when she was about to veer off-course.

“You know,” Maya said again, too casually this time, “we should just requisition a new doctor and list 'not an asshole' under qualifications.”

She smirked but didn’t look up. “We’d never get one. The system would flag that as an impossible request.”

“True,” Maya said, half-laughing. “I still can’t believe Dr. Holt said what he did last week. About you being a hazard.”

She paused in her scanning, just for a moment, then resumed. “He’s said worse. Just usually not when people can hear.”

“He’s a crusty old prick,” Maya said with a snort. “Like your hormones are going to explode and start a riot. God forbid anyone admits the real issue is how the alphas act, not you.”

It wasn’t news. Holt had hated her being assigned here from day one. He hadn’t said anything overt at first, but it didn’t take long before the microaggressions sharpened into barbed comments—muttering about scent contamination, refusing to review her patient notes, rerouting cases away from her when he was on base. Once he called her a complication in a room full of orderlies. Said it like it was a joke, like they were supposed to laugh with him, like it wasn’t dangerous that a man with rank and power could make her seem like a liability with one word.

“I don’t need him to like me,” she said quietly, standing to slide a restocked drawer closed. “I just need him to stay out of my way.”

Maya’s expression softened as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely over her chest. “Still. It’s a hell of a thing. You do twice the work, half the credit, and you get called a risk factor on top of it.”

She shrugged. “If I had a mate, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Maya scoffed. “Yeah, because nothing says professional freedom like needing to be claimed just to do your job.”

That earned a dry smile. “Trust me. I’ve considered it. Even wrote the registry application once. But you know how it is—they don’t want ‘claimed omega nurse.’ They want ‘owned omega who stays in her lane and doesn’t remind anyone she has teeth.’”

Maya rolled her eyes. “You’re too smart to settle for someone like that.”

“I’m too stubborn,” she corrected, “which is a much bigger problem.”

The last box of saline was shoved into place, the label noted, and she turned to move the empty crate into the back hall. Maya followed with another, barely concealing her grin now. They passed the narrow breakroom, then the side door to triage, where the air was slightly cooler. And that’s when Maya dropped her voice just enough to make the words deliberately conspiratorial.

“Captain came in earlier.”

She didn’t have to ask which one. There were dozens of captains on base, but when Maya said it like that, she meant one in particular.

“He’s up for deployment again,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Pre-flight physical.”

Maya leaned against the doorframe, lips curving. “Mmm. He seems to like you enough.”

She scoffed before she could stop herself. “He likes hearing himself talk.”

“He likes hearing you talk more.” Maya bumped her shoulder. “He’s not subtle.”

“No, but he’s harmless.”

That was true. She believed it. He flirted with that lopsided smile, the kind that tried to pretend it wasn’t real charm. He played the rogue, the scoundrel, the bad boy with good intentions—but he never crossed the line. Never touched her without asking. Never invaded her space. He was sweet underneath it, in a way that always felt like he wanted to be liked but didn’t know how to accept it if someone did.

Maya arched a brow. “Come on. You’re telling me you don’t think he’s cute?”

“Of course he’s cute,” she said, waving it off like it didn’t matter. “That’s half the problem.”

Maya’s grin widened. “Half the problem?”

“He’s cute, and charming, and probably not serious about a damn word he says.”

“You sure?”

She didn’t answer.

Because she wasn’t.

Part of her believed he had someone. Not from any evidence—he never talked about a partner, never came in smelling like anyone else, never made her think he was spoken for—but it was safer to assume. Safer to believe the smile he gave her was the same smile he gave everyone else. That the way he looked at her—warm, curious, just a little soft—was a game he played with every medic, mechanic, and munitions officer he ran into.

It had to be. Because the alternative? That he meant it? That maybe he lingered after his appointments because he liked her? That he watched her like she wasn’t a complication but something capable, worthy?

That was too dangerous.

That was how people got hurt.

“I don’t have time for a love life,” she said finally. “Not when every part of this job is about survival.”

Maya didn’t argue. Just nodded once, her eyes sharp. “Still. If you ever wanted it… he wouldn’t be the worst choice.”

She shrugged. “That’s not the same as being a good one.”

But the thought stuck, lingering like the scent he always left behind—warm, clean, a little sharp like ozone after a storm. Not the kind that tried to smother. Just the kind that stayed. She turned back to the supply list, but her mind drifted, just for a second. To brown eyes, to the curve of a grin, to the possibility.

She’d searched for him.

Late one night, lights dimmed in her quarters, the familiar hum of the base generators throbbing beneath the floor, she’d opened Heat Haven again and entered Gideon’s name in the Alpha search bar. She wasn’t even sure what she expected to find—part of her hoped he wasn’t there, and part of her feared what it would mean if he was. Her breath caught the second the page loaded blank, no profiles found. No grinning headshot, no pheromone rating, no crude review written by some slick-drunk Omega curled up post-knot.

She was relieved. And ashamed.

Because she shouldn’t have looked. She wasn’t allowed to need that. Not when her contract with the military came with monthly injections that flatlined her hormonal cycle, burned her heat symptoms into a quiet ache that never escalated. It was supposed to be liberation. 

–

The first time she’d met him, she’d been halfway through reorganizing the med kit cabinet when the door slid open with a loud hiss and a distinctly cocky whistle cut through the sterile quiet. “Tell me you’ve got a magic touch and a minute to spare, Nurse,” came the voice—warm, low, playful. She turned slowly, eyebrows arched, and found him standing there with a blood-soaked patch of fabric wrapped around one arm and the world’s most unapologetic grin on his face. “Magic touch, yes,” she said dryly. “Minute to spare? You’d have to earn it.”

His grin widened, boyish and bright, and he ambled in like he had all the clearance in the world, even though he technically did. “Guess I’ll have to charm you, then,” he said as he hopped onto the exam bed, boots squeaking against the floor. “Lucky for both of us, I’m very good under pressure.” She snorted as she reached for gloves. “From what I see, pressure is not what you were under when you let yourself get sliced on a maintenance ladder.”

“Okay, ow, but also—fair,” he laughed, flinching a little as she peeled the makeshift wrap away to assess the damage. “I was distracted. Something about the new med bay nurse being distractingly attractive.” She looked up slowly, unimpressed. “Try that line again after you’ve lost less blood.”

But he didn’t backpedal—not even close. He leaned in just slightly, grin softening around the edges, and watched her with open fascination, like her every word was a puzzle he wanted to study up close. “You’re quick,” he murmured, not teasing now, just quietly impressed. “Sharp tongue. Steady hands. I’m gonna be real honest—I’m in trouble.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she reached for the dermabond. “You’re in for six stitches and an alcohol wipe. That’s the only kind of trouble you’re getting tonight.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking from her hands to her face with an almost reverent kind of curiosity. “But honestly, I think I like it.”

She tried to brush it off, but something about the way he looked at her—genuine, interested, completely present—stuck with her. Most Alphas flirted with expectation. He flirted with awe. When she was done, he didn’t rush to leave. Just sat there swinging his legs slightly, watching her clean up like it was the most fascinating thing on Earth.

“Gideon,” he said finally, offering his name with an easy smile. “You don’t have to remember it. But I hope you do.” She didn’t answer, but she did glance at him one more time before turning away—long enough for him to see the smallest curve of a smile.

And he filed it away like a man who knew he’d be back.

—

Suppressants made her professional. Suppressants made her safe.

Except the last time the needle slid into her arm, she flinched.

“Wait, what?” Maya’s voice had been sharp, loud enough to echo slightly off the steel paneling of the med bay supply closet. She’d dropped the clipboard in her hands, pens scattering across the floor. “They make you what every month?”

“Suppressants,” she said, too calm for how her stomach twisted. “I sign for them. I administer them myself. It’s part of the clearance to work in a high-Alpha density facility.”

“That’s not clearance,” Maya snapped, crouching to retrieve the pens with stiff fingers. “That’s a leash. That’s—fuck, that can’t be legal.”

“It is.” Her voice had gone flat. She’d practiced that tone for years. “We signed away a lot when we enlisted. Hormonal regulation falls under the clause for ‘occupational reliability.’ They get to decide how risky our biology is.”

Maya had looked at her then—really looked—like seeing something she hadn’t wanted to believe. “I knew the regs were bad,” she murmured. “But this… this is surgical. They’re cutting your instincts off at the root.”

She didn’t answer. Because Maya was right, and she’d known it from the start. But that didn’t change the contract she’d signed. And it didn’t change that every injection came with a signature and a warning: Failure to comply may result in reassignment or bond-mandated sedation during peak cycles. The law didn’t forbid suppressants. It encouraged them. Omegas with too much agency made the brass nervous.

The silence stretched, heavy between them, broken only by the distant whir of the centrifuge two rooms over.

“Do they hurt?” Maya asked eventually, softer now.

“The injections?” She shrugged. “Physically? No. Not much. Emotionally?” She let out a humorless breath. “I don’t think I’ve felt anything real in so long, I’m not sure I’d recognize it.”

Maya moved slowly then, placing the last box of gauze into the cabinet with mechanical precision. She didn’t look up. “That’s not how it should be. Not for anyone.”

But that was the thing. It was how it was. For Omegas like her—unmated, undesired by the registry, too competent to be transferred to a domestic base—it was either this or surrender. She’d chosen control. Even if it came with a needle and a signature and the fading memory of what her own scent used to be like when it bloomed warm in the back of her throat.

“I used to get them,” she admitted, voice thin, fingers tightening on the edge of the storage bin. 

“Heats, I mean. Back before I signed up. They were brutal. My whole body would shake for days. Couldn’t focus, couldn’t move, could barely breathe without crying.”

Maya tilted her head. “And now?”

“Now I’m hollow.” She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Which, apparently, makes me a perfect employee.”

They both knew what that meant. Her scent wasn’t dangerous anymore. She didn’t make the Alphas tense in the mess hall. She didn’t spike anyone’s rut cycle or get called into medical for her own good. She was compliant. Efficient. Safe.

But that wasn’t the same as being whole.

“You ever think about stopping?” Maya asked after a moment.

That made her laugh—sharp, humorless. “And risk a heat on base? Risk the wrong Alpha scenting me in the corridor? Risk Holt dragging me out of the med bay by my hair for being a ‘disruption’ to workflow? No. I don’t get to be reckless.”

Maya didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. She just leaned back against the steel shelf, arms folded over her chest, jaw tight. 

“Still wrong,” she muttered. “Still fucked up.”

The room smelled of antiseptic and overstocked disinfectant wipes. But beneath it, faint and haunting, was the phantom scent of heat she hadn’t had in over two years. Not real. Just memory. Just her body remembering what it meant to want. Not desire. Need.

And in the privacy of her bunk, when the suppressants wore thin, when she woke up in a cold sweat with the ghost of slick between her thighs, she thought of profiles on Heat Haven. Of the things Omegas were still allowed to ask for there. And of a man with warm brown eyes and a crooked smile who wasn’t on the site at all, but somehow lingered in her thoughts anyway.

Because even if she couldn’t have it, even if she’d signed it all away for stability and the illusion of respect, part of her still wondered.

What it would feel like to be touched by someone who didn’t see her as a liability.

What it would feel like to choose.

The med bay was quiet, a rare lull in the late morning shuffle. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in their usual rhythm, casting sterile white light across clean floors and polished metal equipment. She sat at her workstation near the corner, the soft click of keys her only companion, charting the morning’s recoveries and routine check-ins. The paper logs were nearly all digitized, and she preferred the ritual—data input kept her hands busy, her mind steady, and her presence in the room a little less conspicuous when Dr. Holt was around.

Holt, of course, was here today. A cluster of wounded soldiers had come through earlier from a malfunction during a training sim—shrapnel wounds mostly, concussive injuries, nothing fatal but enough to merit his attention. He stood at the main surgical console, barking orders at one of the junior techs, his posture rigid and voice clipped with disapproval. He hadn’t spoken to her once since arriving, which was just fine by her. His presence felt like static in her veins, and her body still remembered the sting of his last comment.

She finished the last chart with a swift keystroke, eyes scanning for errors, double-checking the date and time stamps. Everything was perfect, as it always was. Supplies alphabetized, medication carts locked, the coolers calibrated to exact temperatures—when she or Maya ran the med bay, there was no room for chaos. She hit submit, watching the file transfer before shutting down the system. The sleek, high-tech interface powered down with a soft whirr—military-funded equipment came with its perks, even if the people didn’t.

She stood to stretch, neck rolling to the side with a faint pop, when the doors burst open and Gideon strode in like he owned the place—even though he was cradling his arm in a very un-alpha-like display of discomfort. 

“Well,” he drawled with a crooked grin, “turns out you can fall off a jet if you’re in too much of a hurry to grab your damn helmet.” His flight suit was unzipped to his waist, a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, and the shoulder of his shirt beneath was stretched oddly, slightly higher than the other side. Dislocation. Obvious. And not urgent enough to pull Holt away from his precious trauma cases.

She arched a brow, hands already moving to grab gloves and wave Maya over from the next station. “You dislocated it after landing?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” He grinned, teeth bright despite the faint strain in his voice. “Wasn’t during the flight. Slipped on the goddamn stair ramp like a rookie.”

Maya appeared beside her with the sling kit and immobilizer already in hand, her expression unreadable but her pace efficient. “You’re lucky it didn’t break.”

“I’m lucky it’s you two and not Dr. Doom,” Gideon muttered, jerking his chin subtly toward the other end of the med bay where Holt was still barking instructions. “He looked at me like I’d pissed on his desk just walking in.”

She didn’t answer, but her lips twitched. Gideon climbed onto the exam table with a wince, moving carefully as he adjusted his hips, letting his bad arm rest across his lap. The way he sat, relaxed but wary, was familiar. He’d been in this room before. Always came in alone, always left with a thank-you and nothing else. He was comfortable here. Not just with her—but with being seen.

Maya gently pushed his collar aside, inspecting the bruising already forming along his shoulder. “You’re lucky you didn’t tear the capsule. How’s your range?”

He moved his fingers with minimal grimacing. “Still have feeling. Just hurts like hell.”

“We’ll do a closed reduction,” she said, stepping to the side to prep the equipment tray.

She stepped in beside him, gloved and calm. “Deep breaths,” she murmured. “On my count.”

“Gonna buy me dinner after?” he muttered, teeth gritted.

She ignored the comment and pressed her palm to his upper arm, the other stabilizing his shoulder. Her fingers tightened, motion precise, years of practice guiding the angle. “Three... two... one.” A sharp push and rotation, and there was a pop, followed by a gasp from him, breath catching in his throat as the shoulder slid back into place.

“Fuuuck me,” he hissed, half-laughing now, his good hand clutching the edge of the table.

“Not part of the standard care protocol,” Maya said dryly, already looping the sling around his arm.

He grinned through the pain, leaning back as the tension drained from his face. “Damn shame.”

She finished the assessment in silence, checking the alignment, testing mobility, her hands impersonal and clinical—but her eyes flicked to his, just once. And he was already watching her. Quiet, curious, not teasing now. Something else. Something steadier.

She stepped back, stripping the gloves off with a snap. “You’re grounded for forty-eight hours. I’ll write the note.”

He tilted his head. “That mean I get to hang around and annoy you for two days?”

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t tell him no.

Gideon flexed his fingers experimentally in the sling, testing the limit of movement with slow, measured gestures. The faint grimace tugging at his mouth made it clear he was still in pain, but he wore it like a badge, casual and unbothered. She finished inputting the post-reduction vitals into his chart, pretending not to notice how his gaze followed her movements. It wasn’t invasive—not quite—but it lingered, threaded with something playful, unspoken, waiting for her to acknowledge it.

“So, nurse,” he drawled, his voice warm like honey laced with smoke, “when do I get the gold star for bravery? Or at least a lollipop?”

“You want a sticker, Captain?” Her tone was flat, unimpressed. “We can put one on your chart. Right next to the part where it says ‘fell off own jet.’”

Maya snorted behind her mask, turning slightly to hide it as she sterilized the tray. Gideon’s grin stretched wider, unbothered by the jab, probably even enjoying it. “I’ll take whatever you’re handing out, sweetheart,” he said, his voice pitched lower now, just enough to ride the edge of propriety. “You know, I could get hurt more often if it meant seeing that pretty scowl of yours.”

She didn’t answer. Just pivoted, tapped the screen to finalize his clearance hold, and moved to the counter to print the grounding note. The thermal printer whirred softly beside her, a small but welcome interruption. Her fingers itched to say something sharper, something firm, but she knew the rules—every word she said, every shift in expression, would be dissected if anyone overheard. She didn’t get the luxury of being flustered. Not with him sitting in her bay and Holt pacing just thirty feet away.

And as if summoned by thought alone, Holt’s voice cut through the space like a scalpel.

“Captain,” he barked, loud enough for the nearby medics to pause mid-task, “is this your idea of a formal visit? Or are we running a recreational facility now?”

She didn’t look up, but the air around her changed. She felt the temperature of the room dip—not physically, but in that particular way an Omega could feel Alpha tension. Gideon, to his credit, didn’t bristle or stiffen. He turned his head toward Holt with maddening calm and said, “Just making sure your team gets the respect they deserve, sir.”

“I see,” Holt said, eyes cutting to her like a blade. “So that explains the flirtations in my facility.”

She froze, her breath going still in her throat, fingers halting over the paper. There it was. The accusation wrapped in formality, the implication that she was the one inviting attention simply by existing. Maya’s posture went rigid beside her, but she didn’t speak. This wasn’t the first time Holt had said something like that, and both of them knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“I wasn’t aware basic medical care required commentary,” she said evenly, turning around with the printed note in hand. “Captain dislocated his shoulder. We set it. He’s grounded for forty-eight hours pending follow-up.”

Gideon took the paper when she offered it, his eyes flicking between her and Holt. His expression didn’t change, but she could see the calculation behind his gaze, the way his shoulders tightened even as he lounged on the table. “They were professional,” he said flatly. “You’ve got a good team here, Doctor.”

Holt’s lip curled. “I’ll be the judge of what qualifies as professional.”

She didn’t blink. “Then feel free to review the chart,” she said. “Everything is documented.”

The silence that followed was sharp and heavy. Holt didn’t answer—just turned on his heel and strode back toward the trauma ward like the conversation hadn’t happened. But the damage had already been done. The eyes in the room—those of the junior medics, the flight tech who’d been waiting for clearance at the door—had all witnessed it. Again.

Gideon eased off the table with a soft grunt, the motion slow to avoid jarring his arm. He adjusted the sling, exhaled a tight breath, then looked at her with something softer in his expression. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“You didn’t,” she said, though the words came too fast, too clipped.

Maya handed off the disinfected tray without a word, stepping into the back room with a little more force than necessary. The sound of the door swinging shut echoed through the sterile quiet. Gideon lingered, thumb brushing the edge of the printout, eyes fixed on her like he wanted to say something more. Something real.

But she turned before he could.

“We’ll call you when your follow-up’s scheduled.” Her voice was smooth. Controlled. Bulletproof.

He hesitated, then nodded once.

And then he was gone. — The sirens hadn’t even finished wailing when the med bay doors slammed open and Gideon came barreling in, arms wrapped around a soldier soaked in blood. “GSW to the abdomen—he’s fading fast,” he barked, voice all clipped control and urgency, his flight suit streaked with red. She was already moving, gloves snapped on, the trauma bed cleared, barking orders to two junior nurses as she grabbed gauze and saline. Holt wasn’t on base—grounded by some emergency consult—and with no other doctors available, all eyes turned to her.

The soldier was barely conscious, breath coming in ragged bursts, blood pooling too fast beneath him. “Vitals crashing—BP’s sixty over thirty,” Maya called from the head of the bed, panic simmering beneath her voice. She didn’t flinch. “Two liters of saline, pressure bag. We’re opening him up right now.” Gideon didn’t speak, just handed her the surgical shears as she sliced through the uniform, her movements swift and sure.

She felt Gideon beside her, not hovering, not questioning—just there, a steady presence as she worked. He passed tools when she asked, held pressure when Maya’s hands faltered, his usual charm gone, replaced with a grim kind of reverence. His eyes never left her hands, watching the way she clamped a bleeder with precise, practiced fingers, her face a mask of focus. No trembling. No hesitation.

They got the soldier stabilized—barely—and she didn’t realize how soaked she was until they wheeled him out, the bed streaked in red and the silence ringing in the aftermath. Her shoulders slumped, gloves snapped off, and for a moment she just stood there, breathing like she’d been underwater. “You were…” Gideon’s voice broke the stillness behind her, low and quiet. “You saved his life. You didn’t even blink.”

She turned, not sure what to expect, but found him watching her like he didn’t quite know what to say—like the woman in front of him had rewritten something in his mind. “There wasn’t anyone else,” she said simply, voice hoarse, raw from adrenaline and restraint. “So I became someone.” He nodded slowly, then offered her a clean towel with a faint, shaken smile.

She took it, and for the first time in hours, she let herself feel the weight of what she’d done. And Gideon, for once, didn’t flirt, didn’t joke—he just stood with her, silent and steady, the way good men did when they knew they’d witnessed something extraordinary.

—

She was halfway through her end-of-shift checklist when the glint of broken glass caught her eye beneath the edge of the supply cabinet. The overhead lights reflected off the shattered edges, tiny crystalline shards scattered like ice across the sterile floor. Her brows furrowed, and she crouched down to get a better look, careful not to kneel too close in case anything had leaked. There was no residue, no odor, no vapor cloud curling into the air—just fractured glass, likely from one of the trauma vials used when Holt had been working in a rush earlier.

Accidents happened. Especially in the middle of treating three soldiers with shrapnel trauma, blood pressure tanks crashing, and adrenaline vials flying left and right. She grabbed gloves, a sterile bag, and the broom from the corner of the room, sweeping the remnants quickly, efficiently, and without much thought. When everything else was perfect, something like this stood out—out of place, but not suspicious.

She logged it in the end-of-day report under “minor inventory loss,” finished the last of her charting, and shut off the med bay lights. Outside, the dusk heat clung to the air, and the buzz of distant helicopters hummed over the hangars as she made her way back to her quarters. Once inside, the quiet settled around her like a second skin. She dropped her bag by the door, peeled off her boots, and turned toward the small kitchenette to start dinner.

It was always the same—rice, steamed vegetables, sometimes protein from the base rations if she hadn’t skipped too many meals. Tonight, she added soy sauce and sesame oil, trying to trick her senses into feeling something more indulgent. She ate standing at the counter, letting the muted sounds of her quarters ground her: the hum of the air vent, the faint ticking of the wall panel’s time display. When the dishes were washed and her shower was done, she slipped into her tank top and shorts and collapsed onto the couch, prepared to waste the rest of her evening in blissful silence.

But the heat came slowly, crawling up her spine like a whisper she couldn’t shake.

At first it was easy to ignore—just a flush across the back of her neck, a slight sheen of sweat along her collarbone. She adjusted the room temperature, assuming the heating grid had glitched again. Then her thighs began to feel sticky, her pulse stuttering, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for a glass of water that did nothing to quell the warmth blooming beneath her skin. Her mouth was dry, but it wasn’t thirst.

She sat there for several minutes, trying to will her body into calming down. Trying to rationalize the sudden warmth and sensitivity. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like this—off-kilter and aching in a way that felt biological. Suppressed Omegas didn’t get flushy without reason. Something was wrong.

She grabbed her datapad from the nightstand, hands unsteady now, and scrolled through her contacts until Maya’s name lit up the screen. The line clicked almost immediately, static giving way to Maya’s voice, half-asleep but instantly alert. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“I think I’m—” she stopped, pressing a palm to her chest, trying to focus. Her breath came shallow, too fast. “I feel feverish. Not like a cold. It’s…it’s under my skin. My hands won’t stop shaking.”

There was a pause. Then rustling. Then Maya again, sharper now. “Did you miss your suppressant this month?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I got it on schedule. Three days ago. I documented it in the log.”

More silence. Then: “Anything weird happen before you left the med bay?”

She closed her eyes, retraced her steps—her routine, the checklist, her shutdown of the system. Then her eyes opened slowly, the image in her mind like a shard catching light. “There was a broken vial. I found it under the supply rack. No label. No scent. Just glass. I cleaned it up and tossed it.”

“Shit,” Maya hissed, voice now fully awake. “Do you know what ward it came from?”

She shook her head before remembering Maya couldn’t see her. “Holt was in trauma. Could’ve been one of his. It didn’t smell like anything.”

“If it was a raw concentration,” Maya said slowly, “and it was unfiltered… it wouldn’t have had to smell.”

Her stomach flipped. Not from fever, but fear.

“What if it was an Omega compound?” Maya added, voice grim now. “What if it was an unneutralized heat stimulant?” The silence between them was suddenly heavier than her own breath.

“That compound wouldn’t even be on base,” she snapped, her voice tight and rising too fast for comfort. Her body felt too warm now, the waistband of her shorts suddenly abrasive against the curve of her hips, her tank top clinging to her chest in a way that made her want to tear it off. “We don’t stock Omega-cycle stimulants, Maya. You know that. The only place that carries anything close is Research Logistics, and that’s three buildings over—behind two levels of security clearance.”

Maya’s voice stayed calm, but it was the kind of calm born of realization, not reassurance. “Unless someone brought it from off-base. Or had access to something Holt was running off the books in trauma. He’s high clearance—you really think it’s impossible?” There was a pause, then, soft but pointed, “Do you really think it's a coincidence you found it?”

That landed hard. Too hard.

She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles going white. Her thoughts were starting to stutter—quick jolts of panic between the low, thrumming pulse of something igniting deep inside her. Her thighs pressed together, involuntarily, as her stomach gave a traitorous twist of heat that felt terrifyingly familiar. No. Not now. Not here.

“Maya,” she said, breath trembling, “I can’t be on base like this.”

“I know.”

“The suppressant—if it’s been counteracted, or triggered by something—” Her words faltered, body twitching with a spasm that left her panting. “I’m going to full heat. It’s starting. Fuck. I need off-base. Now.”

The other end of the line went silent for a second too long. Then: “Okay. Okay, listen to me. The apartments have scent barriers, your vents are isolated, and no one will catch on immediately. You’re not leaving a trail. You’re still lucid.”

“For now.” Her voice cracked.

“You’ve got a few hours before it gets bad enough to show. Pack a bag. Say your suppressants made you nauseous and you’re checking in to the offsite clinic. You’ve used that excuse before, right?”

“Yes,” she breathed, already rising unsteadily to her feet. Her muscles felt too loose, too hot, the seam of her shorts catching in places it never should. “I need to… need to cool down first. Shower again.”

“No,” Maya said sharply. “You shower again and you’ll trigger it worse. Your body’s already mistaking everything for prep. Don’t stimulate your skin. Don’t do anything that increases circulation.”

She swore under her breath, dragging her hands through her hair as the wave of heat crested and rolled down her spine. It wasn’t full-blown yet, but the tremors had started in her knees, and her scent—gods, it was climbing. She couldn’t smell it yet, but she could feel it rising like steam from her skin. She grabbed her datapad from the counter and opened the base transport request system.

“Do I risk it?” she whispered. “Calling transport off-base might flag me.”

Maya hesitated. “Use the civilian channel. You’re off duty. It’ll take longer, but it won’t go through command. Keep the window open, act casual, and keep your door locked. If you have anything that dulls scent, wear it.”

“I don’t,” she said, jaw clenched. “We ran out last week, remember?”

“Shit.” A beat passed. “Okay. Then get moving. I’ll meet you at the clinic door.”

She ended the call, her fingers already trembling as she pulled open her wardrobe and yanked out a plain duffel. Nothing fancy—just enough to pass for a medical overnight. A spare set of clothes, her ID, a water bottle. She thought about grabbing her emergency suppressants, but they’d do nothing now. Whatever had hit her had slipped under the monthly shot like a virus—quiet, precise, and devastating.

The scent barrier in the apartment held. She knew because when she opened the vent screen and leaned her head into the airflow, there was no return scent—no whiff of other Alphas, no residual pheromones. The barriers were thick, government standard, regulated for exactly this kind of disaster. Her fingers shook as she zipped the bag, hands brushing over her already-damp skin.

It was going to get worse. Fast.

But if she could just make it to the street… if she could just make it past the gates without being seen she had a chance.

She moved through the apartment with a frantic precision, packing her go-bag with fingers that trembled at the seams. The duffel held everything essential—change of clothes, ID, two water bottles, her data tablet, and a small thermal pouch for leftovers. Even in the growing fog of heat, her muscle memory held fast: the stovetop was checked twice, her meal containers sealed and stacked, lights powered down room by room. She paused only once, by the mirror near the door, and stared into the reflection of someone she barely recognized—flushed, drawn, a fine sheen of sweat already kissing her temples.

The air outside was thick with desert heat and engine oil, the familiar scent of the base’s main lot overwhelming—but it was hers, she’d walked it a thousand times before. She kept her head down, pace brisk, the collar of her jacket pulled up high despite the heat as a useless psychological shield. No one gave her a second look, and the base’s scent barriers held—no pheromones bleeding into the air, no alphas on patrol snapping their heads toward her. She clutched her duffel tighter and slipped into the stream of foot traffic that curved toward the south gate where Maya would be waiting with a civilian shuttle requisition.

But fate wasn’t done kicking her yet.

He appeared just as she stepped into the long, exposed corridor that ran between the parking structure and the gate checkpoint—hands in his pockets, flight suit half-unzipped, dark hair tousled from a post-flight rinse. Gideon’s easy stride faltered when his eyes met hers, and then stopped completely. He tensed—not the way most alphas did, not with hunger or threat—but like someone catching the scent of smoke and knowing something was wrong. His nostrils flared, eyes narrowing as the scent hit him square in the chest.

“You’re in heat,” he said, voice low, steady. Not alarmed. Not eager. Concerned.

She stepped back instinctively, her palm lifting between them in warning, even as the flush spread down her neck and pooled in the hollow of her spine. “Don’t,” she said, breath shallow, vision flickering at the edges. “Please. I’m handling it. I’m not—I’m not a threat.”

He didn’t move closer. He didn’t even blink. “You’re not a threat,” he said evenly. “You’re suffering.”

“I’m not your problem.” She clenched her jaw. “I don’t want to drag you into this. Just let me get to the gate.”

“I’m not here to claim you, or scent you, or do anything you don’t want,” he said, hands still loose in his pockets. “Let me help you get somewhere safe. That’s all.”

Her chest ached at the kindness in his tone, the way he spoke to her like she was human—not a hazard, not a walking biological emergency. She looked away for a moment, struggling against the next rise of heat already boiling under her skin, her thighs clenching on instinct. Finally, she nodded once, sharp and short. “Fine. But don’t touch me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They walked in silence, her steps growing less sure as the distance wore on. His presence beside her was comforting in a way that shouldn’t have been—broad-shouldered and calm, just there, without pressing in on her space. He didn’t pepper her with questions, didn’t make jokes, didn’t treat it like a novelty. He just matched her pace, hands still pocketed, eyes flicking around with quiet vigilance.

But twenty yards from the meeting point, her body gave out.

The crash hit like a freight train—slick flooding, knees buckling, heat blooming so violently she whimpered and doubled over, her duffel hitting the ground as she braced herself on a trembling leg. Her breath stuttered, eyes glazing over, and the whole world tilted sideways. Too hot. Too fast. Her scent, suppressed for so long, finally broke loose in full force—a punch of sweet, aching Omega heat that no one within ten feet could have missed.

“I can’t—” she gasped, the word catching in her throat.

“I’ve got you,” Gideon said quickly, moving only when she gave him a weak nod. He grabbed her bag with one hand and wrapped his other arm gently under hers, guiding her away from the gate. “We’re not going to the clinic. You’re not going to make it. I’m taking you to my barrack. It’s closer.”

“I can’t go there,��� she slurred, head rolling back slightly. “It smells like you.”

“I know,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “But it’s safe. And right now, that matters more.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue. He kept his grip loose, only touching where she allowed it, supporting her weight without pressing his body to hers, despite the overwhelming scent spiraling between them. Her heat clawed at the inside of her ribs like a wild animal, dragging guttural whines from the back of her throat, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t react. He just moved, fast and sure, cutting through the base toward shelter with every step measured and merciful.

And behind her eyes, as the fever claimed her, she tried not to imagine how it would feel when the scent of him finally wrapped around her like a second skin.

Gideon had barely gotten the door shut behind them before she slumped against the wall, hands fisting in her jacket as another wave of heat rolled through her, sharp and dizzying. Her face was flushed, sweat beading at her temple, jaw clenched tight against the low moan threatening to escape. He set her bag down gently by the couch, then pulled out his comm unit and stepped to the far side of the room, giving her space even now. His thumb moved fast over the screen until Maya’s name connected, the line picking up with immediate urgency.

“She didn’t make it to you,” he said, voice low but steady. “She’s with me. Heat’s fully triggered—she collapsed outside the south checkpoint. I couldn’t leave her in the open.”

Maya’s sigh cracked in his ear, heavy and tight. “I figured. I could smell it before I even made it to the gate. Someone on patrol’s going to report it any minute if they haven’t already. She’s lucky it was you who found her.”

“I’m trying to keep her comfortable,” Gideon said, glancing back at the Omega now curled on the floor by the edge of his bed, fingers dragging over the carpet like it hurt to touch anything. “She’s burning up. She needs a nest. Do you have suppressants?”

“I can bring some,” Maya said. “But if she’s that deep, they might not work fast enough—if at all. And if anyone notices, you’ll be questioned.”

“I can take the heat,” he replied, without hesitation.

There was a pause, and then Maya’s voice dropped into a darker, dead-serious tone that hummed with threat. “You hurt her—if you touch her without her saying so, without her really saying so—I’ll find a way to kill you that leaves no witnesses, and I’ll be smiling at your funeral in dress whites.”

Gideon didn’t laugh. “I’d let you,” he said, and meant it. “But I won’t lay a hand on her unless she wants it. Really wants it. I know it gets foggy when things escalate, but I’ll keep my distance unless she reaches out.”

“Good,” Maya said after a long breath. “She doesn’t trust easily. She pretends she does, but you’ll know when it’s real. Let her lead, and for fuck’s sake, don’t treat her like she’s broken.”

He promised again, softer this time, and they ended the call. When he turned back, she had dragged herself upright and was now half-sitting, half-hunched near the edge of the bed, shivering despite the visible heat radiating off her skin. Her eyes were glazed but aware, pupils blown wide and breath shallow as she clung to the leg of the bedframe like it grounded her. Gideon didn’t speak, just moved quietly to the linen closet and grabbed every clean blanket he owned—thick military-issue fleece, spare sheets, even the old throw from his flight locker.

“They’re clean,” he said gently, kneeling near her without crossing the invisible line of scent and space between them. “But they smell like me. I know that might not be what you want, but it’s what I’ve got. You can take whatever helps.”

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at him, eyes glassy with heat but not unseeing. And then—slowly, almost reverently—she reached forward and took the top blanket from the pile. Pressed it to her nose, breathed deep, and let out a broken sound that vibrated in her throat like relief.

He backed away as she began building her nest. It was a quiet process, not frantic or messy—methodical, even in her haze. She layered the blankets across the bed, bunching some near the pillows, others at the edges like borders. The bed was too big for her alone, but she moved like she’d done this before, hands trembling as she arranged everything into soft, circular safety.

It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t hers. But it was his, and somehow that made it feel less terrifying.

The scent of him was everywhere—in the walls, in the sheets, in the air—but instead of recoiling, her body began to settle, her nerves relaxing just enough to let her fold into the heat rather than fight it. His scent didn’t crowd her. It didn’t demand. It surrounded, protective without pressing in, present without crushing.

And hadn’t she looked for him on Heat Haven?

Hadn’t her fingers typed his name without her even realizing what she hoped to find?

She sank deeper into the nest, curling into the blankets as her body trembled again, lower now, like the worst of the storm had hit and begun to pass. There was more coming—she could feel it in the bones of her hips, in the ache building between her legs—but for now, she was safe. She had warmth. She had silence. She had him—at a distance, but here.

–

He soaked a rag in cool water from the small sink near his bathroom, wrung it out carefully, then crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. She was curled in the center of the bed, wrapped tightly in the blankets he’d given her, her breathing shallow but steady now, her skin flushed and glistening with the deep fever of early heat. He didn’t ask to touch her—just knelt beside the bed, reached out carefully, and laid the rag across her forehead with the same tenderness he might use to touch a live wire. She stirred at the contact, murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away.

That was permission enough.

He moved to grab the canteen from her bag, unscrewed the top, and returned to the bed with slow hands and soft words. “You need to drink,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Even if it’s just a sip.” She blinked blearily up at him, lips parted, and when he tipped the canteen to her mouth she accepted it with a shaky swallow, her throat working under his hand.

He steadied her head while she drank, watched the line of her jaw tense and release, watched her body curl tighter when the next pulse of heat dragged a soft whimper from her lips. It broke something in him—not lust, not possessiveness, but a visceral protectiveness so strong he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for her more fully. This wasn’t about rut. It wasn’t about the sweet ache in the air. It was about her, raw and trembling and still trying to hold onto her pride.

He pulled the rag back, rewet it, replaced it on her head. She hummed at the contact, almost grateful, and turned her face into the scent of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Gideon sat back on the floor, one hand braced on the carpet, and let his thoughts wander for the first time since the whole damn night started. He thought about how they’d met—not in some moonlit neutral zone or a city cafe, but in a steel-and-white med bay with blood on the floors and regulations stacked like cages around her. She hadn’t looked at him like an Alpha then. She hadn’t looked at anyone like that.

And yet here she was.

He wondered what would’ve happened if they’d met somewhere else—somewhere far from the military, far from Holt and regulations and scent blockers and walls thick with obligation. If he’d bumped into her in a bookstore, or on a crowded shuttle. If she’d smiled that quiet, tired smile at him and asked for directions, not clearance papers. Would she have laughed with him? Would he have gotten to know her voice before he knew the cadence of her medical reports?

He shook the thought loose—it was pointless. They’d met here. Now. With her body burning from a chemical sabotage neither of them could prove and her heat clawing through her like wildfire. And yet—despite it all—she was still trying to be composed. Still trying not to ask for help, even as she sank deeper into his scent.

He stood carefully and adjusted the nearest blanket, tucking it closer to her shoulder, watching as she sighed and burrowed deeper into the pile. “You’re safe,” he said quietly, knowing she might not even remember the words come morning. “You’re not alone. Not tonight.” The words weren’t promises, just truths, low and steady and real.

She whimpered softly, one hand reaching out—not to him, but toward the warmth of the bedspread, the scent-soaked center of her hastily built nest. He didn’t take it as invitation. He just stayed close, sitting on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, back against the frame. A silent sentinel, not a lover. Not yet.

He would’ve given anything to take the fire from her, to carry some of it himself. But all he could do was keep the water full, the rags cool, and his voice low. To offer something no one else ever had the decency to give her.

Time. Patience.

And the promise he would not take what she didn’t offer.

She moved under the blankets like something pulled by instinct rather than thought, her fingers tangling in one of the folds, then reaching blindly beyond the edge of the nest. Gideon felt it before he saw it—that sudden gravity shift, the ripple of scent that grew sweeter, sharper, impossible to ignore. Then her hand found his shoulder, trembling and uncertain, and her lips parted around a single word that cracked straight down the middle of his chest.

“…Alpha.”

His breath hitched, not from surprise but from how easily it slid under his skin—how it summoned every fantasy he’d tried to keep buried beneath humor and duty and half-hearted distance. The word wasn’t a command. It was a plea, cracked and fragile. Her hand slid from his shoulder to his jaw, cupping his face with soft, fever-warm fingers, and he leaned into it like he was starving.

And maybe he was. For her.

For too long, he’d carried the image of her like something sacred. Her sharp tongue. The tired curve of her smile. The way her fingers danced over tablet screens with surgical precision. He’d imagined kissing her too many damn times—behind the breakroom, in the med bay after hours, once even on the launch deck when she’d laughed at something stupid he said, a laugh that didn’t belong in a place so sterile. It was stupid, wasn’t it? A big, broad-shouldered Alpha fantasizing about brushing his thumb along her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear like some daydream-drenched teenager.

Now her heat-slicked skin burned inches from his own, and her eyes—wide and glassy and beautiful—searched his face like he was something she wanted, not something she feared.

“Promise you won’t hate me when this is over…” His voice broke around the words, quiet and cracked open as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. “Please. I couldn’t take it.”

She blinked slowly, her thumb dragging along the stubble at his jaw, her breath fanning against his lips. Her scent was everywhere now—honey-slick and sun-warm and desperate—and it should’ve made him lose control. But it didn’t. He didn’t move an inch closer until she whispered, soft and certain, like it cost her the last of her strength:

“Could never hate you.”

It undid him.

His mouth met hers with the reverence of someone who had waited too long and never thought it would come. The kiss wasn’t rough. It wasn’t claiming. It was slow, deep, aching—like pouring water into cracked earth. Her lips parted with a soft, needy sound, and his hand rose to cradle the side of her face, his thumb brushing her temple as he kissed her again, deeper this time, until her fingers curled against his chest and pulled him closer.

He didn’t climb into her nest.

He stayed on the edge, balanced on the precipice of restraint, giving her everything except the one thing she hadn’t asked for yet.

But gods, the taste of her was going to haunt him. The heat between them wasn’t just biological—it was want, buried for too long, fed in secret moments and stifled dreams. He kissed her like a starving man, like the future was folded into her mouth, like if he let go too soon she might vanish.

And when she whimpered into the kiss, her body trembling with fever, Gideon whispered against her lips, “I’ve got you.”

Even if he only got to have this once.

She pulled her shirt over her head with a clumsy sort of grace, fever-slick hands trembling slightly as the fabric caught for a second at her elbows, and then it was gone—tossed blindly into the corner of the bed. Gideon’s breath caught in his throat, not just at the sudden reveal of skin but at the way she moved—unselfconscious, flushed, driven by need. He’d imagined peeling her out of her clothes slowly, kissing every new inch of exposed skin, letting his hands do the work while she writhed under him. But this? Watching her strip for him, desperate to feel air on her body, to get closer—it was fucking devastating.

He smiled, a slow curve of heat beneath the restraint, as she reached for the waistband of her pants next and shoved them down, dragging underwear with them in one ungraceful tug. Her thighs parted instinctively as she lay back into the nest, body flushed and glistening, and he could see how wet she already was—slick dripping onto the blankets, pooling at the crease where her legs met. His cock strained against the confines of his sweats, painful and throbbing, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. He’d been hard since the word Alpha left her mouth like it belonged to him.

She reached out, fingers curled in demand now, and tugged him down into the nest with a soft growl of frustration. “Too far,” she muttered, and he laughed under his breath as he kicked off his shoes, then crawled in beside her, still fully clothed. The second he settled between her thighs, the heat of her slick soaked into the front of his pants, soaking through the cotton like steam against his skin. She whined, fingers tugging at his shirt. “You’re still dressed. That’s not fair.”

“I was trying to be polite,” he murmured, lips already ghosting across her jaw as he leaned in. “You did say no touching without permission.”

“You’re in my nest,” she shot back, voice breathy. “You’re already touching.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” he chuckled, then kissed her—deep and hot, tongue sweeping into her mouth while her hips lifted to grind against him, slick smearing wet and obscene across his front. His hands roamed now, finally, smoothing over the curve of her waist, the underside of her thighs, mapping her like a territory he’d memorized in dreams. When he broke the kiss, it was only to trail his mouth down the column of her throat, slow and reverent, until he found the pulse thudding just beneath the skin of her scent gland.

The moment his tongue dragged over it, she keened, her legs tightening around his hips as her fingers clawed into the back of his shirt. “More—please, Gideon—there, again,” she begged, voice thin and wrecked with need, her scent blooming sharp and dizzying around them. He flattened his tongue against the gland and sucked gently, lips closing over it, and her entire body arched beneath him like she’d been electrocuted. The sound she made—high, broken, completely gone—shot straight to his cock, and he groaned against her skin, rut instincts clawing at his spine now, vicious and unrelenting.

She tasted unreal there—like ozone and honey, sweat and heat, everything his instincts said was right. His mind spun, thoughts dripping out of order, dissolving into raw desire, and he couldn’t stop picturing what she’d taste like between her thighs. The scent of her slick was thick now, coating the air around them in syrupy, wanton perfume, and he swore he could feel it through his pants, wetting his cock even through the layers. He slid his hands lower, down the back of her thighs, spreading her open just enough to see how she glistened in the low light dripping, soaked, her cunt flushed and swollen and begging to be tasted and gods help him he wanted it more than anything.

He kissed a path down her body like it was scripture he was finally allowed to read—mouth brushing over the soft slope of her sternum, the curve of her ribs, the trembling muscles of her belly. Her skin was hot to the touch, damp with heat-slick sweat, her scent rising off her like steam, coating his tongue with every pass of his lips. When he reached her thighs, he spread them gently, reverently, pressing kisses along the insides, nipping at the tender flesh just enough to make her jolt. She moaned, high and desperate, hips lifting as if her body had already given itself to him a hundred times in her dreams.

He settled between her legs like it was his home, arms looped under her thighs to anchor her open, and buried his face in her cunt without hesitation. Her slick hit his tongue hot and thick, an obscene flood of salt and sweetness that made his hips rut against the bed beneath him. He groaned into her folds, nose brushing against her clit as he licked her open with slow, greedy strokes, savoring the way she cried out with every movement. His tongue circled and dragged and thrust, and the sounds she made—gods, the sounds—drove every last thought out of his mind until only her taste and the scent of her heat remained.

She twisted above him, heels digging into the blankets, fists knotted in the sheets, her voice a breathless chant of his name. “Gideon—please, I need—I need you inside—I can’t—” she gasped, thighs trembling around his shoulders. He flicked his tongue across her clit one last time, slow and deliberate, then lifted his head, chin slick with her, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. 

The way she looked, eyes glassy, mouth open, her entire body glistening with fever and want was something he knew would be burned into him for the rest of his life.

He sat back on his knees, yanked off his shirt in one rough motion, then shoved his sweatpants down over his hips, finally freeing the aching weight of his cock. It slapped against his stomach, thick and flushed, the tip wet with precome, twitching as if it had been waiting for this moment since the day they met. 

Her eyes dropped to it, and she moaned, one hand reaching between her legs to spread herself open, the other bracing behind her as her hips lifted toward him. Gideon growled low in his throat, grabbed her thighs, and raised them, resting her calves on his shoulders, lining himself up with her slick, fluttering entrance.

He pushed in slow, careful, watching her face the entire time as his cock breached her heat-swollen cunt. The slide was perfect, tight and wet and so fucking hot he had to bite his lip to keep from losing control right then and there. She gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, her back arching as he filled her inch by inch, her body clenching around him like it was made for this. He groaned as he bottomed out, hips flush to hers, the pressure inside him unbearable—but he held still, chest heaving, drinking in the sight of her undone beneath him.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Tell me and I’ll stop.”

She just whimpered, eyes locked on his, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Please—don’t ever stop.”

He held there for a moment, cock buried to the base inside her, trembling with the effort not to move too fast, too hard, too much. Her body clenched around him in slow, rhythmic pulses, each one coaxing a strangled groan from his throat. She was so wet, slick dripping down his shaft, pooling under her, every inch of him surrounded by heat and pressure and her. Gideon pressed a kiss to her ankle where it rested on his shoulder, then another just below her knee, trying to ground himself with the taste of her skin.

He rolled his hips forward, slow and deep, and the breath she released was a broken, high-pitched thing that made his cock throb inside her. He pulled back just enough to feel her flutter around the tip, then sank in again, dragging against her walls with a slow grind that made her head fall back against the blankets. 

“Fuck, you feel…” he couldn’t even finish it, the words lost in the haze of wet heat and her gasping breaths. She looked wrecked—blushed skin, swollen lips, pupils blown wide and he couldn’t look away from the way her body arched into him, greedy and open.

“More,” she whispered, voice thinned by the desperation in her throat. “Harder—please, Alpha, I need it—need you deeper, need you to fuck me.” The sound of it—Alpha, from her lips, hoarse and needy—snapped something in his spine, his hips snapping forward with a sharp thrust that dragged a scream from her. She tightened around him like a vice, and he groaned, deep and guttural, fingers digging into the meat of her thighs as he set a punishing rhythm.

The slap of skin filled the room, raw and wet, her slick splattering with every thrust, soaking him, the blankets, the sheets beneath. His cock drove in and out of her tight heat, dragging along every sensitive ridge inside her, his own vision beginning to blur at the edges. She writhed beneath him, nails clawing at the blankets, her head tossed side to side as her heat consumed her entirely. And he was with her, inside her, every thrust a promise—you’re safe, you’re mine, I’ve got you.

He shifted his grip, sliding his arms beneath her knees, bending her more, folding her open, deeper now, the angle making her sob. 

“So fucking tight,” he growled, rut pulsing in his blood now, animal and thunderous, but held back by the thin thread of control she’d trusted him with. 

She was babbling now, lips glossed with spit, voice cracking as she begged for his knot, begged to be filled, bred, taken. He hadn’t knotted anyone in years—but the way her cunt milked him, the way she pleaded—he didn’t know how long he could hold it back.

“Gideon,” she gasped, and that—not Alpha, but Gideon—nearly undid him. Something personal. Real. Not just heat-driven instinct, but her, seeing him through the haze. He leaned down, bracing himself over her, and kissed her again, mouths wet and desperate, his cock driving up into her so deep her breath stuttered against his lips.

“Gonna come,” he growled into her mouth, and she nodded frantically, hips grinding up to meet every thrust. 

“Want you to come with me, sweetheart. Want to feel it.” Her walls tightened with brutal force, the rhythm of her cries breaking as she shattered around him, shaking, sobbing, slick gushing as her orgasm tore through her like fire. He felt it—every spasm, every pulse—and then his own climax surged forward, brutal and blinding.

With a growl torn from somewhere feral and primal, his hips snapped forward one last time, locking them together as his knot swelled, locking them tight.

And he came, hot and endless, spilling deep inside her with a groan that echoed through the room.

—

She woke to the sound of his heartbeat, heavy and solid beneath her ear, the slow rise and fall of his chest steady against her cheek. His arm was curled tightly around her waist, the weight of it anchoring her to his bare chest, and his breath warmed the side of her neck where he’d tucked his face in the night. Her body ached in the most intimate way—hips sore, thighs damp with the evidence of everything they’d done—but it wasn’t pain, not exactly. Still, as her eyes adjusted to the filtered morning light spilling through his narrow window, panic licked at the edge of her thoughts.

The heat hadn’t broken. Not entirely. It simmered just below the surface, low and taut, like something gathering in her bones to strike again. Her skin felt too hot, her thighs still slick, and though she didn’t want to move from the safety of his hold, she felt the anxious twist of biology reminding her that it wasn’t over—not yet.

Her hand drifted up slowly, fingertips brushing his jaw, coarse with stubble that rasped gently under her touch. He stirred with a grunt, breath catching for a moment, then slowly blinked awake, his eyes meeting hers from beneath heavy lashes. Honey-brown and clear, even in sleep, and gods, they saw her. No fog, no haze of rut—just him, Gideon, looking at her like she was the only thing he wanted to see.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, still rough from sleep, his lips brushing the curve of her throat.

She swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out at first. The heat pulsed once beneath her skin, a cruel reminder that her body wasn’t done with her, and she had no idea how much more she could take. But his eyes were calm, his voice grounding, and for a moment the panic eased just enough for her to breathe. “I don’t know,” she whispered honestly, “It’s not done. I thought it would be but... it’s coming back.”

He didn’t flinch. He just nodded, his hand tightening slightly at her back in silent reassurance, and pulled her in closer like she was something to be shielded, not endured. “We’ll get through it,” he murmured, lips pressing a kiss just below her ear. “I’ve got you. However long it takes.”

Tears pricked her eyes—not from pain or heat, but from how easy he made it sound, like taking care of her wasn’t something difficult, wasn’t an obligation. Like she hadn’t spent the last years of her life proving over and over that she didn’t need anyone, only to unravel in his bed, in his arms, with his scent still filling her lungs. She buried her face against his chest again, pressing a kiss just above his heart, clinging to the fragile quiet between one wave and the next. “Don’t let me lose myself when it comes back,” she murmured. “I want to remember this part. You.”

His arms flexed around her at those words, like her confession had slipped beneath his skin and anchored there, deep and unshakable. His hand moved to her back, splaying wide, fingertips tracing the subtle ridges of her spine as if to remind her she was still here, still held. “I won’t let you forget,” he said, voice low and thick, the kind of promise spoken from the center of his chest. “Even if the heat drags you under again, I’ll be here to pull you back up. I’ll keep your name in my mouth if that’s what it takes.”

She shuddered—not from fear, but from the way those words settled in her, warm and heavy like something sacred. Most Alphas talked about claiming, about ownership and need and the bite at the end. But Gideon’s vow wasn’t to mark her—it was to remember her. To hold on to who she was even when she couldn’t.

Her fingers pressed into his ribs, just enough to feel the solidness of him, the way his heart beat under her hand. “Don’t let me disappear into it,” she said again, quieter now, her voice fraying at the edges. “When it gets worse—don’t treat me like something broken. I don’t want to come out of this feeling like I was… something to endure.”

“You’re not.” He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his honey-brown eyes clear and soft and burning all at once. “You’re not broken. You’re not too much. And I’m not here to survive you—I’m here to stay with you, all the way through.”

She didn’t respond, not in words. Her mouth found his, slow and full of gratitude, of ache, of hope. He kissed her back with care but without hesitation, lips parting to drink her in, one hand rising to cradle her cheek like she was something fragile—but not delicate. She could feel the need pulsing in her belly again, lower, deeper, heat swirling in her blood like a storm gathering on the horizon.

But when she pulled away and rested her forehead against his, she was still breathing steady. She was still herself.

And that was because of him.

The heat lasted what felt like an eternity.

Days blurred together inside the scent-heavy cocoon of his barrack, her body constantly moving between trembling aftermath and desperate, slick-drenched need. Gideon lost count of how many times he’d held her down with one hand and cradled her face with the other, whispering her name while she broke apart around him. Her heat didn’t just come in waves—it crashed, rising without mercy, wringing her dry and then flooding her again, and he stayed through every second of it. He was hers—not in instinct, not in some rut-blind haze, but by choice.

He sent the first message to command somewhere between the third and fourth cycle, his fingers flying over the data pad, jaw clenched in fury. His words were sharp, unfiltered: This wasn’t natural. Someone used a synthetic stimulant. Someone did this to her, and you better fucking believe I won’t let it go. When he didn’t receive a reply within twelve hours, he sent a second—more venomous, more detailed, attaching a timestamped report and a request for immediate investigation. There was no protocol in place for this, but that didn’t mean he would let them bury it.

He accused Holt directly in the fifth message.

You let it happen under your watch. If you didn’t do it, someone in your ward did, and you turned a blind eye. She’s not a complication—she’s a soldier. One more hour like this and I’ll bring her to the command office myself, so you can see what you’ve done.

In the quiet moments between her cries and the slick snap of skin against skin, Gideon stared at his screen, waiting, daring them to answer. But they didn’t. Not at first. And so he kept her warm, kept her safe, fed her water and broth that Maya dropped off every twenty hours in sealed containers—each one labeled in Maya’s tight, neat script: hang in there, asshole. if you hurt her, i’m cutting your cock off. He grinned the first time he saw it. After the third delivery, he stopped laughing.

Because her heat didn’t break.

It just kept coming.

She’d curl up in her nest, trembling, flushed and damp, whispering his name like a prayer. Then she’d roll against him again, thighs parted, heat igniting under her skin until she was soaked, needy, begging to be filled. He gave her everything—his mouth, his fingers, his cock, over and over until his knot ached so deep he thought he’d never pop one again. And then she’d whimper, say his name just right, and he’d swell again like it was the first time.

He’d never come so hard in his life. Never so often.

She took it all—shaking and moaning, her cunt pulsing around his knot, her body clinging to him with every orgasm like she couldn’t breathe without him. He watched her fall apart over and over, wrecked and slick and beautiful, her eyes unfocused but always turning to him. He knew when she was still there, knew when the heat blurred her—but even in the worst of it, she never screamed for anyone else. Just him. Always him.

By the fourth day, his hips ached. His cock throbbed with phantom tension even when he wasn’t inside her. His balls were drawn so tight it felt like every release drained something deeper than just come—and still she’d move against him, moaning, “Please, Alpha—again, I need it again—”

And fuck if he didn’t give it to her.

Because every time she pulled him into her, every time her body opened for him, slick and fluttering and desperate, he felt her come back a little. A flicker of clarity behind the heat. A quiet murmur of his name instead of just Alpha. A kiss pressed to his throat. Her fingers curling into his hair like she knew him.

So he stayed. He fucked her through every fevered peak. And every time he knotted inside her and held her close, he whispered into her skin, “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”

It broke on the seventh day.

Seven days of slick, of heat, of trembling cries and desperate hands clawing at his back, begging for another knot, another push, another deep, slow fill. Seven days of her burning under his hands, her scent thick as syrup in the air, clinging to his sheets, his skin, his soul. When she finally stopped shaking—when her body stilled and her breath came deep and even, her head heavy on his chest without tension—he didn’t believe it at first. But then her scent changed, softened, no longer sharp with need but mellow, clean, and he knew she was finally on the other side.

He’d never moved so fast and so exhausted in his life.

While she slept like the dead, curled deep in what remained of the nest, Gideon stripped the bed bare, dragging every towel, sheet, and shirt into the washing bin, the floor damp with the scent of her heat. He messaged the higher-ups again, this time with a full biological log—seven days of persistent heat, unheard of, unrecorded, and undeniably artificial. No natural Omega cycle lasted that long, not without some chemical interference, and his report was sharp, clinical, and laced with fury.

He was out of towels, out of blankets, out of clean anything.

The place looked like a war zone—a very specific kind of war—and he didn’t care that his back ached or his knot felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. He opened his food app and ordered the greasiest, fattiest, most indulgent meal two people could legally share without risking heart failure: grilled cheese soaked in butter, honey-basted chicken, cheesy potatoes, and fried dumplings stuffed with pork and garlic. If he didn’t replenish calories soon, he swore he might pass out—and she was going to need it just as badly. He'd lost at least five pounds, and yet he’d do it again without blinking because she was worth every goddamn second.

He padded barefoot back to the bedroom with the scent of food trailing behind him, his hair still damp from a sink wash, his chest bare, his body marked with faint love bites and fading claw scratches. She was still asleep, soft and loose-limbed in a fresh blanket he’d managed to pull from a reserve locker, her face no longer twisted with need. It was peaceful—she was peaceful—and something about that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He knelt beside the bed and brushed her hair back from her face, leaned down, and kissed her cheek, just beneath the eye.

Her lashes fluttered, a small, pleased hum slipping from her lips, and when her eyes opened and focused on him, she smiled—really smiled. Not the heat-drunk, breathless curve of her mouth he’d seen a dozen times, but something quiet, present, full of awareness and something almost shy. He leaned in again, this time kissing her mouth, slow and soft, lingering as her fingers curled in the back of his neck. When he pulled away, her lips chased his slightly, and it made him grin.

“Come eat,” he whispered, nudging his nose against hers. “I ordered everything I’m not supposed to eat for the next six months. It’s disgusting and drenched in butter and carbs and I swear it might kill me, but you need it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, and his voice dropped lower. “And I want to watch you smile like that again while we eat like absolute animals.”

She climbed out of bed slowly, her legs a little shaky but her body her own again, no longer ruled by fevered instinct. One of his shirts hung off her frame—too big, soft with wear, and smelling like him—and she hadn’t asked to wear it, hadn’t needed to. She’d spotted it on the floor near the bed and tugged it on without hesitation, grounding herself in his scent now that it didn’t make her want to crawl out of her skin. It felt like claiming something back, even if only a piece of calm in the aftermath of chaos.

Gideon was already in the living room, barefoot and shirtless, surrounded by takeout containers spread open on the coffee table like a feast for starving beasts. He looked up when she appeared, and something soft flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or awe, or just her, upright and lucid and real. “Hey,” he said, his voice warm and low as he held out a drink with bright packaging. “Full of electrolytes, vitamins, sodium, sugar… basically every sin your heat just wrung out of you.”

She smiled as she took it, fingers brushing his briefly, and he turned back to the table, already loading up a plate for her with buttery chicken and carb-heavy sides. “I got extra of everything. And dessert. And probably a week’s worth of calories.” He handed her the plate, eyes flicking to hers as his voice dipped. “Didn’t know what you’d want. I just wanted you to have… anything.”

She sat down beside him on the couch, the food smelling like heaven, the warmth of his body anchoring her even though he didn’t reach for her. There was a tightness behind his words, something unsaid pressing against the back of his throat, and it mirrored the guilt blooming quietly in her chest. She picked at a dumpling before finally speaking, her voice quiet but certain. “I didn’t mean to take over your life. I know you didn’t ask for this.”

He shook his head, setting down his drink with a soft clink and turning toward her, his knee brushing hers. “I wasn’t going to let you go through that alone. But…” His throat worked as he swallowed, eyes searching her face. “I just hope you don’t regret it. Or me.”

She blinked, then leaned in without hesitation, her hand curling behind his neck as she kissed him—slow, deliberate, full of everything she hadn’t been able to say during the blur of heat. His hand settled on her thigh, grounding, still careful, but he kissed her back like it meant something deeper. When they parted, she rested her forehead against his, their breaths shared in the narrow space between them. “I don’t regret it,” she whispered. “Not even close.”

A beat passed between them, quiet but heavy, before she laughed softly, brushing her thumb along his jaw. “I looked you up,” she admitted. “On Heat Haven. Before all this. Wanted to see if you were there.”

His brows lifted, eyes crinkling. “And?”

“I was happy you weren’t.” She smiled against his skin. “It meant this… wasn’t something you just do. That it was just you.”

They ate in companionable silence, the clatter of chopsticks and forks the only sound between them. She devoured everything he gave her, each bite easing some tension from her frame, each swallow grounding her a little more in the now. He watched her with quiet satisfaction, nursing his own food more slowly, as if just seeing her upright and sated was enough to feed him. No words were needed, not yet—not after everything.

Afterwards, she padded toward the bathroom, her limbs still sore, the weight of exhaustion draped across her shoulders like a second skin. He followed without a word, hands steady as he helped her undress, kissing her temple but nothing more. The shower steamed around them, hot water pounding over bruised skin, and they washed in tandem—gentle hands, slow movements, her head resting against his chest. Neither of them touched with intent; they couldn’t, not after what their bodies had already given—she was half certain she’d pass out, and he was entirely certain his cock had gone into hibernation.

When they dried off, she leaned into him with a tired smile, and he pressed a kiss to her damp forehead, breathing her in like she was something sacred. That night, they lay tangled in clean sheets, stripped of tension and fire, just quiet, steady breathing and the closeness of bodies at peace. “We have to find out who did it,” she murmured as they settled under the blanket, voice raw but resolute. “They put me in heat on base.”

“We will,” Gideon said, eyes already narrowed in the dark. “We’ll burn them down together.”

—

INTERNAL MILITARY REPORT — CASE #476-B: UNAUTHORIZED DISPENSAL OF CLASSIFIED COMPOUND

Investigation Summary:

Following an incident on Base 09-B in which a member of the medical team experienced an uncharacteristically prolonged and chemically induced Omega heat cycle, a full investigation was launched under command oversight. Biological logs submitted by Lt. Gideon M. (Flight Officer) revealed a cycle duration of seven days, exceeding known physiological parameters for natural Omega cycles. Subsequent forensic testing of site residue near the med bay supply cabinets confirmed the presence of Compound X-9—a heat stimulant synthesized for controlled medical study only, not cleared for active deployment or storage.

Findings:

Dr. Elliot Holt (Chief Medical Officer, 09-B) was found to have accessed Compound X-9 from Research Logistics under falsified requisition tags three weeks prior to the incident. Surveillance records show Holt entering the trauma ward supply cache alone after hours; broken glass from a stimulant vial was recovered post-incident by the affected Omega (Name Redacted per Omega Protection Statute), who was not informed of the compound’s presence or exposure risk. Holt's personal terminal contained unencrypted messages referencing the Omega nurse as a “regulatory vulnerability” and “biological instability risk,” indicating premeditated targeting.

Disciplinary Action:

Dr. Elliot Holt has been relieved of duty effective immediately. His medical license has been revoked under Military Medical Board Ruling 221-F. He has been formally discharged and barred from any future affiliation with armed medical institutions. Civilian criminal charges are pending review by federal authorities for violation of Omega Safety Act (OS-12) and Chemical Compound Control Statute (C3S).

Case Status: CLOSED

—

They left the military with no fanfare, no medals, no sendoff ceremony—just packed duffels and clean resignation letters, handed over to a command that never apologized for what it let happen. Gideon’s name stayed on the flight roster for another two weeks after his departure, someone’s last-ditch hope he’d change his mind. He didn’t. He was already running flight paths for a commercial line, gliding over cities and coastlines, greeting passengers with that same easy grin but saving the softest version of himself for when he came home.

She found work at a private clinic tucked between a coffee shop and a quiet corner bookstore, a haven for Omegas in a city that actually gave a damn about them. No more regulation injections. No more alphas circling like vultures. Just real care, real choice—and a soft chair in her office where she sat each evening, watching the sun fall against the blinds, counting the minutes until he walked through the door.

Their apartment wasn’t much, but it was theirs. Two rooms, a tiny kitchen, a balcony just big enough for a table and two chairs. The couch was too old and too soft, the pillows smelled like them, and she swore the place grew warmer every time he was near. He’d come home smelling like jet fuel and wind, pull her against him, bury his face in her neck and breathe deep like she was still the only thing that made sense.

Tonight, he was already on the couch when she got in, one arm slung over the backrest, hair tousled and eyes lighting up the second she dropped her keys in the bowl. “Long day?” he asked, voice rumbling with that always-there affection, the kind that crept under her skin and made her feel rooted. She nodded, toed off her shoes, and fell into him without hesitation, tucking herself against his chest like she’d never left.

His arms wrapped around her, warm and solid, and she let out a sigh as she melted into the spot under his jaw. They sat like that for a while, curled together as the city moved quietly outside their window, the rhythm of his breath lulling her down until all she felt was the slow thud of his heart against her ribs. His hand slid up her back, fingers tracing gentle lines until they found the bond mark on the side of her neck—he touched it like a prayer, thumb circling it slow, reverent.

She trembled, just barely, her voice catching in her throat. “When you touch it like that it makes me feel—” she paused, not sure how to finish it, because there wasn’t a word for what it did to her. It wasn’t just arousal. It was belonging. It was the ache of always.

“I know,” he murmured, voice thick, rough with everything he didn’t need to say.

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, full of gravity—and stood, lifting her effortlessly into his arms like she weighed nothing. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her to the bedroom, the door already cracked open, the sheets waiting.

Their life was quiet now.

But real.

And he would spend every night reminding her she was home.

[aprocessionofthoughts]

The Best Laid Plans

ectoberhaunt24 day 7- EH past, bury fandom- dp x dc TW- implied major character death summary- they can't let them win

masterlist ao3

This hadn’t been the plan, not really. The portal needed to be blown up before the GIW could send a nuke through, but they had wanted to evacuate the town before hitting the button to blow up the portal.

They hadn’t expected the GIW blockade, including the ghost shield around the town. There were GIW forces surrounding the entire town, there was nowhere to sneak through, and the ghost shield went underground. Danny had checked. 

They were blocked in. No one could get out. 

Now Sam, Tucker, Jazz, and Danny sat in Sam’s room, staring at each other.

“What are we supposed to do?” Danny whispered. “There’s too many agents, and there are too many protections against ghosts and people.”

“We can’t let them nuke the Zone, that would destroy everything. On both sides.” Sam said.

“But if we destroy the portal…” Jazz trailed off.

“It would blow up the whole town.” Tucker finished. “That much backlash energy… who knows how far the destruction would reach.”

“So, what do we do?” Danny asked. How could they decide? If they failed to stop the GIW, it would mean the end of everything. But if they went through with their plan, then… the whole town would die. His friends would die. His sister and parents would die. And what would happen to him? Would he become a full ghost? Would he be Ended?

“We need to do it.” Jazz said. “It’s–it’s the only real option. We’ll die either way.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Danny kept hoping Clockwork would intervene, would make the GIW disappear, or let Danny go back in time to stop everything sooner.

“I agree.” Sam whispered, drawing her knees to her chest. Danny and Tucker scooted closer to her, leaning against her sides. Jazz sat next to Danny and draped her arm over his shoulders.

“Tomorrow.” Tucker said. “They aren’t planning on nuking the Zone till tomorrow evening. So, we’ll act tomorrow morning. We deserve one more night before…”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” Danny said. 

They spent the rest of the day together, curled into each other, talking quietly, or watching movies, playing Doomed. But mostly they just sat silently together. Danny only left once to check on the GIW to make sure plans hadn’t changed.

They fell asleep all curled up together.

The next morning, there were tears and hugging before they sat gathered in a circle around the remote detonator. 

“There’s just… one more thing.” Jazz said, sharing a glance with Tucker and Sam before getting up and grabbing something from Sam’s dresser behind Danny.

His friends shared a look before turning to him.

“Danny…” Sam started. Tears were welling up in her eyes, and Danny’s eyes started to well up again. “Just remember we all love you. And you deserve a second chance.”

“What are you–” Danny started, but then there was a click behind him, and he was enveloped in blue light.

—--

Way up, in a secret satellite orbiting the planet, sensors began to scream as screens flashed. Heroes rushed to see what had happened. The data indicated a huge burst of energy had originated from somewhere in Illinois, an area that, according to mapping data, was supposed to be uninhabited. 

But when Batman looked into it to see what the possible source could have been, he came across government censors. His fingers froze above the keyboard for a second before he began issuing commands for a reconnaissance mission.

Whatever had happened, Batman was almost positive, it was not without casualties. 

And he was right.

The center of the destruction stretched on for miles of barren land originating from a large crater. And the towns nearby were showing signs of destruction as well as the effects that were associated with nuclear radiation. Most of the League had gone to those areas to help, but Batman, Superman, and Martian Manhunter had remained to investigate the starting location.

So far, they had found nothing. But then Martian Manhunter had paused.

“What is it?” Batman asked.

“I sense a presence. They are barely aware, and their thoughts are muffled, but there is someone here.”

Batman and Superman followed Manhunter toward a seemingly empty patch of land. “Under here.” he said.

Superman scanned the ground before he began digging through the dirt. It wasn’t long before he pulled up a small cylindrical object that resembled a– thermos?

“The presence is coming from in there.” Manhunter said.

Batman frowned. “We’ll take it with us. We can investigate further in the Watchtower once we’ve made sure it wasn’t the source of the explosion.”

They headed back to the ship. Batman looked once more over the destruction. He couldn’t help but think that this could have been prevented if he’d noticed something sooner. There was something that he had missed. And it wasn’t just that this area looked uninhabited on maps. Someone had gone to great effort to hide something here. He’d need to look into it. Find out what had been hidden.

He looked at the thermos that Superan carried. Hopefully, whoever, or whatever, was in that thermos could help. And hopefully, the League would be able to make up for not preventing this in the first place.

[mariacallous]

Next year will be Big Tech’s finale. Critique of Big Tech is now common sense, voiced by a motley spectrum that unites opposing political parties, mainstream pundits, and even tech titans such as the VC powerhouse Y Combinator, which is singing in harmony with giants like a16z in proclaiming fealty to “little tech” against the centralized power of incumbents.

Why the fall from grace? One reason is that the collateral consequences of the current Big Tech business model are too obvious to ignore. The list is old hat by now: centralization, surveillance, information control. It goes on, and it’s not hypothetical. Concentrating such vast power in a few hands does not lead to good things. No, it leads to things like the CrowdStrike outage of mid-2024, when corner-cutting by Microsoft led to critical infrastructure—from hospitals to banks to traffic systems—failing globally for an extended period.

Another reason Big Tech is set to falter in 2025 is that the frothy AI market, on which Big Tech bet big, is beginning to lose its fizz. Major money, like Goldman Sachs and Sequoia Capital, is worried. They went public recently with their concerns about the disconnect between the billions required to create and use large-scale AI, and the weak market fit and tepid returns where the rubber meets the AI business-model road.

It doesn’t help that the public and regulators are waking up to AI’s reliance on, and generation of, sensitive data at a time when the appetite for privacy has never been higher—as evidenced, for one, by Signal’s persistent user growth. AI, on the other hand, generally erodes privacy. We saw this in June when Microsoft announced Recall, a product that would, I kid you not, screenshot everything you do on your device so an AI system could give you “perfect memory” of what you were doing on your computer (Doomscrolling? Porn-watching?). The system required the capture of those sensitive images—which would not exist otherwise—in order to work.

Happily, these factors aren’t just liquefying the ground below Big Tech’s dominance. They’re also powering bold visions for alternatives that stop tinkering at the edges of the monopoly tech paradigm, and work to design and build actually democratic, independent, open, and transparent tech. Imagine!

For example, initiatives in Europe are exploring independent core tech infrastructure, with convenings of open source developers, scholars of governance, and experts on the political economy of the tech industry.

And just as the money people are joining in critique, they’re also exploring investments in new paradigms. A crop of tech investors are developing models of funding for mission alignment, focusing on tech that rejects surveillance, social control, and all the bullshit. One exciting model I’ve been discussing with some of these investors would combine traditional VC incentives (fund that one unicorn > scale > acquisition > get rich) with a commitment to resource tech’s open, nonprofit critical infrastructure with a percent of their fund. Not as investment, but as a contribution to maintaining the bedrock on which a healthy tech ecosystem can exist (and maybe get them and their limited partners a tax break).

Such support could—and I believe should—be supplemented by state capital. The amount of money needed is simply too vast if we’re going to do this properly. To give an example closer to home, developing and maintaining Signal costs around $50 million a year, which is very lean for tech. Projects such as the Sovereign Tech Fund in Germany point a path forward—they are a vehicle to distribute state funds to core open source infrastructures, but they are governed wholly independently, and create a buffer between the efforts they fund and the state.

Just as composting makes nutrients from necrosis, in 2025, Big Tech’s end will be the beginning of a new and vibrant ecosystem. The smart, actually cool, genuinely interested people will once again have their moment, getting the resources and clearance to design and (re)build a tech ecosystem that is actually innovative and built for benefit, not just profit and control. MAY IT BE EVER THUS!