#coil theory

[that-one-raccoon]

More Magic and Mystery lets gooooo

[marquisegallery]

Happy very late MerMay everyone!! Finally got this done, and with the amount of characters here, I guess better late than never, lol

So yeah, a whole bunch of different mermaids on display here. Based off that one post I did a while ago! Why? Mainly for the fun of it honestly. Though maybe next year I will limit myself to a nice illustration of just one or two of these designs together. Would certainly be a lot easier to handle. :P

[mylastmoleculeofserotonin]

I honestly have no idea if this was intentional or not, but I love how the writers of the Bad Batch basically confirmed that Omega is canonically trans bc there’s no other simple explanation for her. Like, they said that she’s unaltered, not genetically identical, which means that the Kaminoans didn’t alter her chromosomes (also, what would be the in universe reason for that?), it’s not Force magic bc she’s not Force sensitive, and the Kaminoans’ cloning tech would be designed to prevent random mutations, especially for something as important as their backup copy of Jango’s DNA, the future of clone production for the Republic. The only logical explanation is that she’s trans and this is the hill I will die on.

[ekp0133f]

The Koloman Republic are from the Presbyterate disguised as Surfacers

[emotionally-charged-arson]

A Very, Very Unfinished Pile of Theory of Everything Headcanons (Ayreon)

Last semester, my English final was a presentation relating the overall theme of the Forever saga to that of the more popular works of H.G. Wells. Details of that argument aside, the thesis was that Ayreon’s emotional core was the presence of small-scale acts of love juxtaposed against large-scale existential tragedy, balanced in their individual power. That we are messy and self-destructive, and in the grand scheme of things we mean very little in the universe, but we are resilient and alive and human and that has to be worth something.

I really like this aspect of the main story, and it got me a perfect score on that assignment. It had a ten minute time limit and I was fighting for my life to stay under it. While I was downsizing the script, I couldn’t help but think of an earlier idea I had drafted about how The Theory of Everything on its own was a really incredible example of the mad scientist archetype turned completely on its head (it was a science-fiction analysis class). Specifically how that script was almost three times longer than the original H.G. Wells one, that took me a solid twenty minutes to read aloud. 

I literally wrote an hour long lecture about The Theory of Everything. No headcanons. No extra theories. Literally just picking apart its canon plot. 

I think this is why I have so little extra writing for it. The story as its given is airtight and just…fucking incredible. Arjen wrote it with a very clear theme in mind like he did with Transitus, but TToE isn’t missing half of its story because he couldn’t pull in the cash to make a movie out of it. You can feel the intention behind every single character, they feel like real people, it has so many layers to it and it is literally, objectively, the greatest prog album ever made. Fight me. 

But anyways: For lack of better phrasing, there isn’t much to “fix” in that sense. Almost all the headcanons I have for The Source or Transitus boil down to a few things:

I was being self-indulgent with a favorite character and it snowballed into a genuinely informative trait/subplot that informs the main story (a certain hc I have where Henry just fucking shoots Daniel in the back by mistake sometime between Two Worlds and Talk of the Town, turning into this weirdly effective commentary of how Daniel is conditioned to his brother’s shitty behavior and Abby hauling ass to get him out of that headspace)

I am curious about aspects of an album’s worldbuilding and get a little excited while filling in the blanks that were perfectly fine being left alone (doing mental gymnastics trying to build a version of The Source where these five academics, three politicians, two religious figures, one robot and one random spaceman viably know each other)

The rarer option that I am genuinely disappointed by how a part of the story was handled and completely ignore this small part of canon to make the overall story be more effective. Or attempt it, at least (Lavinia’s entire character undermining Transitus’ themes and her contradicting her own motivations, and me, in turn, just writing her character from scratch while keeping with the basic story beats [her seeing ghosts, doing shady shit with Henry, etc.])

But with TToE I’ve felt very little need to do any of these. If I were to really dive into it with intention I think I would start building off of the whole bank robbery plot in Phase III (just a slightly weirdly framed plot point for me), but I haven’t thought about it. It’s not that glaring of an issue and there’s few other places in the story where I think adding anything would make it more effective. 

This isn’t to say that Transitus and The Source are objectively worse in any sense, but they leave a lot more up to interpretation, allowing me to write so many add ons that they become structured and essential to each other’s function. 

It’s fun with those two albums. With TToE I really have to look for cracks to fill and it’s kind of useless. 

Not entirely, though. I’ve got a few hcs, and maybe they’ll warrant dozens of google doc pages of context one day like the other two albums: 

Two central things sparked curiosity. Setting, and how the parent characters came to hate each other that much. Naturally. 

This started four-ish years ago when I was pacing around my parents’ house with TToE on the mind (as it often is), and my brother put on this show called His Dark Materials. I watched the intro to it all of one time and just…knew this was the aesthetic TToE should have.🔗 At least combined with dark academia. It’s an album about physics and ghosts, that seems reasonable enough. 

…funnily enough, as I later found out, His Dark Materials itself has a very dark-academia-esque vibe, and the plot is entirely based upon the intersectionality between science and mysticism and trivial human attempts to make sense of it. 

So. Pretty fitting. 

This really stuck with me, and a handful of the characteristics of the show and books became the basis for the way I picture The Theory of Everything. Mainly the visual aesthetic, like I said, but also the fact that the story starts at a parallel version of Oxford University. I don’t have some giant case study for this like with Transitus/New England. I just think it’d be a cool and vibey setting. Maybe it’s the American in me but there’s something about a thousand-year-old college with a campus made of literal goddamn castles that borders on the fantastic. 

From there, you have a decent excuse for The Prodigy to run off to Ireland, where you can choose from one of like 200 different pretty little isolated lighthouses for him to lose his mind in, far enough away for him not to be found as long as he did. Not to mention it lowkey matches with the overt Celtic influence of the music. Or Scotland, if you want some weather symbolism from the North Sea. 

Solid setting, if I say so myself, and it actually influenced the family’s whole situation. Here, The Father (Mike) is a physics professor at Oxford, and The Mother (Cristina) is the director of the Bodleian Library. It’s how and where they meet in 1991 (though the mother is in an attendant position at the time), as shown by the only part of this I have drawn out:

They hit it off, and marry in 1993. Their first and only child is born two years later and they love him half to death. Everything is more or less nice and normal. 

In 1996, Mike stumbles into “proof,” more or less, of the theory of everything being a singular, solvable equation through his work, practically by accident, and begins focused work on it with enthusiastic support from his wife. Life is going great, Cristina is promoted and the two are balancing things well enough. 

The boy shows little to no social development into his toddler years, but his parents don’t think much of it. His father was similar at his age; they’re not worried. They even go as far to say he’ll turn out just as ambitious and smart as his dad and relatives, coworkers and family friends go along with it, setting insanely high expectations for this literal three year old. Mike keeps working on his theory. 

The boy enters preschool at age four; still no improvement. Just isolates himself and draws indiscernible patterns on everything you put in front of him. His parents finally try to intervene to some degree, hiring private instructors and talking with some other psych/child development people they know through the university, to no avail. Nothing changes. He just stares off into space, doesn’t interact with any of them and supposedly doesn’t pay attention to lessons. He still isn’t speaking. Cristina is finally concerned

Around the same time, Mike makes a significant breakthrough in his work, gaining worldwide attention. He receives massive grants from in and outside of Oxford to continue his work, and quits his teaching job to make more time for the endeavor. Cristina is left as the family’s sole provider. She understands and is in agreement on that decision, that’s not the problem yet. The problem is that Mike is becoming more or less indifferent to their son hits five, not seeing any previously projected greatness he was supposed to have in his father’s footsteps. Cristina, much more conscious of balance in her life and how having kids works, isn’t sure what to make of that. Their relationship starts to strain. 

From there, as Mike keeps working, Cristina takes the kid to all sorts of specialists around England but none of them can pinpoint what’s “wrong” with him. She tries much more actively to connect with him like they’re telling her to (though she still enrolls him in the university’s affiliated primary school program, against their suggestions), bringing him everywhere. Buys him little memory games since that’s all that seems to hold his attention. She’s past any belief of him being some secret genius like his dad, not that her opinion of her husband is super positive at this point anyway. She’s just dead-set on her son having some sense of normal in his life. 

By 2002, Mike has completely secluded himself and works nearly constantly. He has made no progress on his theory since 1999 and the fame garnered from his breakthrough has faded. The family is running out of money and Cristina is exhausted. The boy is ostracized at school and still (almost) totally nonverbal. Her coworkers keep suggesting these weird holistic remedies that she refuses. She knows better than to fall for all that new age, pyramid scheme bullshit. 

The son’s condition, whatever it is, worsens until mom, desperate, puts her foot down in 2008 (or “gives up,” if you wanna put it like that) and drags her husband and son to this private practice in Scotland she was told about by a friend, suspicious but ready to put up with anything at this point. 

😐👍

[sepublic]

The Shock Coil Theory

Sylux’s Shock Coil is a weapon based off of the classic Tesla Coil concept; Thing from which arcs of lightning just shoot out from randomly, usually being drawn to any target(s) that enter range. The Shock Coil is said to be an “unauthorized prototype” that mysteriously disappeared from a Federation laboratory, like the suit he wears.

The phrasing makes it sound as if these were separate incidents; And they also sound a lot like the circumstances in which the Metroid egg was hatched and ‘lost’. Sylux really knows his way around a Federation facility… Furthermore, the fact that the Shock Coil is unauthorized makes me wonder if it’s a banned weapon; Meaning Sylux is wielding blatant evidence of the Federation being shady.

Corruption does mention a Horus Rebellion said to be ‘nasty business’ and it could just be a reference to Warhammer 40k, so I’ve heard, it could also be relevant.

Because to use an example from another piece of media, Star Wars had an Arc Pulse Generator that also functioned like the weaponized Tesla Coil trope…

This thing incinerated victims into ash. Its bolts were drawn to the unique alloy of their armor, but could also be programmed to target other materials as well. Because this armor was made of a unique substance, allies wouldn’t have to worry about being targeted.

What if the Horus Rebellion used a much larger version of the Shock Coil, meant to target multiple people at once? But its use was much less precise, and perhaps accidentally (or not) disintegrated civilians who weren’t supposed to be targeted. Maybe Federation troops were even caught in accidental friendly fire as well.

It could’ve been that the Shock Coil wasn’t tested properly, or maybe it did exactly what it was supposed to. But the wider Federation found out and decried it as a war crime, so the Shock Coil was banned. But some Feds still wanted to use it, so they funded unauthorized development of a perfected, handheld version of the Shock Coil; One that can only target one person at a time, but still deadly, and even capable of draining electricity to refuel itself and whatever it was attached to.

The Shock Coil refuels Sylux’s health whenever they use it; This suggests it drains something from its targets. Given the life force that Metroids drain is meant to be a total enigma, showcasing how advanced and enlightened the Chozo are, the Shock Coil probably relies on bioelectricity. All shocks are just a closed current, a loop, being established for electricity to run through; So the Shock Coil uses neutrinos to close that gap between itself and a target, cycling its and the victim’s bioelectricity in a constant loop the user is shielded from. The victim dies, and their bioelectricity is added to the Shock Coil, which then feeds whatever power suit or other device it’s linked up to.

Corruption also mentioned a Project Dread, whose name was a tongue in cheek reference. But its purpose was to use Metroids as a power source for weapons. If the barren planet and rainforest we see in Beyond are the same area on Sylux’s homeworld of Cylosis, at different points in time? What if the large-scale Shock Coil was used to harvest bioelectricity from the local fauna, in order to fuel whatever the Federation wanted? And this mass death led to the collapse of Cylosis��� ecosystem.

Hell what if they even knowingly murdered a native population for it? Or maybe it was an accident, maybe they didn’t know sapients, Sylux among them, were present beneath the foliage when they swept the Shock Coil across the surface of Cylosis. Maybe they used the power to fuel other weapons to further genocide in a positive feedback loop of destruction.

And the Space Pirates, who have no pretenses of ethics, wanted to do their own take but with Metroids, who can transfer the energy they’ve absorbed into other things if they’re willing; As seen with a Metroid who imprinted on Samus, and used the energy of her enemy to heal her.

Sylux has a Metroid that imprinted on them. They might hate the Space Pirates but they need them to perfect their failed Project Dread, and it’ll be a success because their Metroid will actually obey orders. Maybe they plan to build an enormous Shock Coil, and augment it with the Metroid to absorb all of the life from the Federation, before using that power to finish off what’s left.

This is where the Mochtroids come into play; Just one Metroid is not enough. Mochtroids can drain energy and are obedient; They lack the invulnerability and gripping power of actual Metroids but they don’t need that. Sylux needs energy; Even their own suit’s giant shoulder spikes might function like the Shock Coil, to drain multiple targets at once; Something to pair up with and augment the prototype that Sylux wields. Or the spikes are meant to emphasize the Shock Coil in resemblance.

So why time travel? Does Sylux plan to drain all of this energy to create a super weapon that can stop the Federation’s harvest? In Federation Force, which set up Sylux and their Metroid and the Space Pirates’ continued losses, we got the Doomseye; A giant ship with a giant laser to blow up capital ships.

Maybe the Space Pirates will build another Doomseye and it’ll be even more powerful with Metroid/Mochtroid and Shock Coil compatibility. Maybe Sylux is here to harvest Cylosis itself, knowing their Homeworld’s fate is sealed regardless, but at least they can be the one to harness their home’s power (because if anyone is entitled to the blessings of Cylosis, if anyone is allowed to make that decision, Sylux is) to destroy the Federation with a weapon to make the Doomseye look like a firecracker. The weapon might not be a traditional laser, but a massive version of the Shock Coil to drain entire cities and fleets with; All as karmic revenge for Cylosis.

The only limitation to hypothetical weapons like that is sufficient power; Phazon could’ve made up for it, but it’s gone now. But vampiric assets can gather so much energy so easily… Normally, the time and power required is better spread out across multiple ships and soldiers, because you don’t need to invest in a cannon when a hammer is sufficient. But what Sylux needs is something to overwhelm the Federation totally and immediately; And with Mochtroids and the Shock Coil, the time and difficulty of acquiring such power has been drastically decreased…

Maybe Sylux dies sacrificing their own energy, which they may have a lot of given their ability to turn into the Lockjaw, to power a weapon to take down their enemies with; It could be the ultimate weapon itself, which while not powered enough for the intended goal, can spite a LOT of Federation ships by obliterating them. So the day is technically saved, the objective technically achieved, but Sylux manages to get a last laugh in by sacrificing a lot of Federation soldiers anyway.

(Sylux also destroys Samus’ gunship because Fuck You and that’s why she has to go back to using the older one from Echoes.)

[the-avaricious-meddler]

I have a suspicion the tigers are trying to make a move against the fingerkings using that contraption. "Effective against dreams". Against.

And from what I've seen regarding people's research into the build, I doubt it's going to be harmless to those it's used on. It has unnervingly dawnlike properties.

[tiktaaliker]

full mortally coiled timeline so far

excluding worldbuilding events/non directly plot related events and/or events without a concrete point in the timeline. this is already extremely fucking long. order of events subject to change

hark, lythe, and sar'kai decide to create a domain together. this is the mortal coil (start of creation era)

hark makes the sun + stars

lythe and sar'kai make khetzal. sar'kai gives khetzal hunger

khetzal eats the sun. stars can now die. hark blames sar'kai

lythe forms planets from energy released from dead stars, including the mortal soil

hark creates life on the mortal soil, sar'kai creates death. hark holds a grudge

khetzal settles on mortal soil, lives among mortals as a prophet before withdrawing from society completely

hark tricks sar'kai, who is trapped in and corrupted by the mortal coil

sar'kai breaks shit. mortals call the trapped sar'kai noxa krov (destruction era begins)

noxa krov rampages, levels cities, empires and civilizations collapse

noxa krov destroys a town near a novice mage's hometown

the novice mage researches experimental magic, creates a spell to rend noxa krov asunder

spell goes wrong. noxa krov's soul is torn in two, novice is unmade, fallout levels surrounding area (including the novice's hometown)

novice looses most of their identity, coalesces as an almost-formless demon

sundogs begin to form due to power vacuum

trees are planet in formed crater, creating a monoculture forest

the two halves of noxa krov reform. one half forms underground (null) one half forms in the monoculture forest (nil)

some sundogs get word of the duo's possible existance, plans start to manipulate one of the halves in order to gain favor from sar'kai when restored

roach learns The Secret. fane and roach fight. roach seals self in creation-era crypt

panik + tyto find young nil, and tell nil that they need to find and kill their other half

the monoculture forest + cave system beneath floods. nil is driven from the forest, null is driven from the caves (start of cycle 1)

fane + bang find null. they do not tell null about being half of a god, but do tell null that nil and co are hunting them down

fane + bang + null go sight seeing. fane and bang obscure their whereabouts, sending nil and co on a wild goose chase

null eventually learns of their origins, tells fane + bang to stop hiding their movements

nil confronts null on a cliff overhanging the now-flooded crater where noxa krov died

after meeting their other half face to face, nil gets cold feet. tyto plans on supporting the decision, but panik causes nil to fall off the cliff and die

null is petrified into stone, and sar'kai is restored (end of cycle 1, start of balance era)

fane abandons duties of a sundog, decides to stand guard over null's petrified corpse. bang moves on

temple of rest-no-longer is built around fane and null. fane considered gaurdian of rest-no-longer and the bog of the lost

mooncats begin to form due to new imbalance - oskar is one of the first, with lovelace and capgras formed as his angels

irregulars start appearing via hark - people who do not fit in the four iid archetypes

civilization advances - major technological and magical breakthroughs

young rasputin takes pilgrimage to rest-no-longer, speaks with fane

rasputin begins working for + rises in the ranks of a major magical institute

gar begins research into eclecto-mechanics

rasputin learns more of sundogs, eternals, etc. starts plotting to ascend into godhood

rasputin pulls a hostile takeover, is now in charge of the institute

rasputin restructures institute- splits institute into the broken chain + children of the unseeing eye

rasputin recruits gar, DIRE is established

the first eclecto-mechanical unit is completed (lockjaw), project is abandoned by DIRE due to funding concerns. Lockjaw temporarily deactivated

rasputin meets and recruits young gazer (start of cycle 2)

Gigo joins DIRE

second eclecto-mechanical unit is mostly completed (talos), project abandoned by DIRE while still in prototype stage due to failure to meet goals in expected timefrane. Talos temporarily deactivated

third eclecto-mechanical unit is completed (sidequest) and successfully implemented to automate research and testing. Lockjaw and Talos reactivated to provide manual labor in automated lab

rasputin returns to rest-no-longer to consult with fane- enters the lost bog in secret, finds corpse of nil, takes stinger from tail

rasputin forges the godkiller knife from nil's tail stinger

rasputin has the children of the unseeing eye hunt down sundogs. one is captured and rasputin successfully kills it with the gk knife

rasputin stabs self with gk knife, becomes a dragon from transfered eternal energy

fourth eclecto-mechanical unit is completed (ransom), determined too dangerous to continue testing/research, contained in single quarentined computer. DIRE shifts focus from eclecto-mechanics to eclecto-biology

DIRE begins the Living Handsome project

rasputin continues hunting sundogs

young doc deadly is orphaned and greviously injured, taken in and experimented on by DIRE

rasputin declares start of the third infinite empire as emperor

rasputin starts conquering cities

Judge is created from one of rasputin's massacres

LH becomes only semi-successful product of the Living Handsome project. project is terminated, LH becomes a lab assistant/test subject, doc deadly promoted from test subject to experimenter

rasputin uses knife to ritualistically kill and revive gazer as a dragon

gazer becomes rasputin's attack dog, kept at his side, sicced on dissenters

gar leaves DIRE, DIRE is effectively gutted of funds, given no new projects

rasputin and gazer returns to rest-no-longer, rasputin intending on killing fane

gazer steals the gk knife and kills rasputin, leaves fane be

gazer becomes new emperor of the third infinite empire

continues conquoring

kakisto + hellkite created from one of gazer's massacres, taken in as judge's angels

gigo downloads ransom onto a flash drive and leaves DIRE to track down gar

morris makes contact with sidequest

gazer asks doc deadly to revive the living handsome project, and wants LH to be used as a weapon

LH + doc deadly escape DIRE

sidequest, lockjaw, and talos escape DIRE

Gazer returns to rest-no-longer intending to kill fane

LH, doc deadly, gigo, ransom, lockjaw, talos, and sidequest all end up at rest-no-longer when gazer arrives

gazer is overpowered and killed

fane stabs self with gk knife. null is unpetrified, fane and null are permanently bound together as dragons (end of cycle 2)

gk knife returned to nil's corpse

fane and null leave rest-no-longer. temple is left in disrepair

nil's corpse and boghast are raised from the dead due to extreme amounts of eternal energy in the area now that fane is gone. bog inhabited by whisps, ghost cranberries begin growing

Lure, an Eternal, takes interest in mortal coil, leaves a cutting, and begins parasitizing the domain in secret. Psychologically tortures a few mortals just for funzies

amounts of bog cranberries are found outside of the bog. discovered to be effectively magic-batteries, allowing for extremely powerful spellcasting

rumors about magic bog is spread- cranberries effectively magic-batteries for mages, allow for extremely powerful spellcasting

smuggler(s) find bog, attempt to steal cranberries to sell, killed by boghast

blacktar is formed in the bog from the dead smugglers

brutus is raised in temple alongside close friend (start of cycle 3)

judge takes up task to create new mooncats. has kakisto and hellkite manipulate mortal to cause the deaths of almost everyone in temple. brutus and friend are mortally wounded but still alive

judge kills brutus's friend directly, Sanctuary is formed

novice approaches brutus, offers deal to save brutus's life- brutus is brought back to life as demon

judge punishes hellkite + kakisto for "failure". h+k rebell, become fallen angels

Lunker, an Eternal, takes interest in the mortal coil. Leaves a cutting, starts a research project in secret to see if mortals can create their own domains. Poses as a nature deity when interacting with mortals

judge forms new angel, de jure

judge attempts to kill brutus + the novice while brutus learns how to live as a demon

h+k blame each other for becoming fallen- join opposite sides of a conflict, try to kill each other

Lunker takes Sebastian in as a priest. Seb realizes almost immediately that Lunker is lying, but plays along anyways

robber kills bystander, takes hostage, and flees. end up in lost bog. robber kills hostage, robber killed by blacktar, both resurrected as roupgaruke

Lunker and Sebastian start dating

brutus and the novice meet k+h, team up to confront judge + de jure

judge is demoted, k+h become mooncats (in name alone) in judge's absence

brutus and the novice fuck off to go live in relative peace (end of cycle 3)

roupgaruke lures a lost wanderer into the bog and kills them in a (failed) attempt to impress boghast. wanderer is ressurected as lungfish

Moonshine, a sundog, begins to harass Garte, a retired fisherfolk turned lighthouse keeper

Pedal is created by Lythe to act as an acolyte of balance

Khetzal begins getting regular nightmares of the consumed sun

Bailey + Razar meet at a digsite, start dating, and work together regularly

Lucky Shot is sold a gun by a traveling charlatan.

B+R discover an unnaturally pristine crypt from the creation era (start of cycle 4)

Bailey opens a sealed room, containing Roach

Built up entropic energy destroys the crypt, kills Bailey, and injures Razar

Razar looks into necromancy to bring Bailey back

Lungfish leaves the bog, but is still bound to it + to boghast

Lucky Shot is driven out of town

Pedal becomes intrigued by Roupgaruke specifically and keeps trying to interview the undead murderous wolf-horse-thing

Razar tries to ressurect bailey, which technically fails, but does directly prompt reformation of roach + bailey

Bailey and Roach are bound together as Dragons

Bailey learns The Secret

Bailey + Roach begin killing people for reasons related to The Secret

Razar, Lungfish, and Lucky Shot each seperately track down Khetzal to ask for advice

Khetzal, at this point convinced that the world is ending, has a bit of a breakdown and/or midlife crisis and suggests that the best course of action is for the four of them to go on a roadtrip together

they go on a roadtrip together

Lucky Shot realizes that the gun he was sold was a prop gun. It is revealed that the entire time, he was technically a mage, and using the prop gun as a magic focus. The only spell they know how to use is "bullet"

Lungfish learns they can break the bond with boghast + the bog by binding themself to someone else. Lungfish willingly binds themself to Lucky Shot

Razar confronts Bailey and convinces her that indiscriminate murder is not the answer. Roach isnt as quickly convinced but is actually kind of sick of the whole death and entropy thing so goes along it eventually

Khetzal confronts the whalefall-esque corpse of the sun they ate.

The Sun tells khetzal [REDACTED] (end of cycle 4)

[mechanical-magician]

Chapter 1 is up!

Not gonna be a super long fic, but a little longer than what I usually do so I decided to split it up into 3 chapters. Enjoy!

[blackspellbook]

It’s such a loss that Cristina Scabbia never returned to other Ayreon albums.

I’m a big Lacuna Coil fan, so i’m might be a little biased but I just love her performance in The Theory of Eveything. It’s strong and emotional. And tbh I love it when vocalists from other metal subgenres sing in Ayreon. Kinda tired of symphonic, prog and power metal.

[mayra-quijotescx]

yearning for a boba tea but yesterday I was so tired I nearly walked out in front of a car (Meli was there and prevented my stupid ass from getting roadkilled) and today after some very bad sleep that got interrupted so regularly I eventually gave up I am twice as tired, so going outside is Inadvisable for me at present

[ariichive]

HOSTAGE──★

when you’re suddenly taken from them, they do everything to take you back to their side.

cw: gen. neutral reader, kidnapping, violence, slight yandere but i’ll tag it anyways, written on my phone, kremnoan and ohkeman beef, PHAINON LEAK/THEORY SPOILERS!!!!!

hi guys i’m back, in honor of mydei’s banner, im on a posting spree rn

mydei

being the newest chrysos heir was already no easy job. but being from the rival kingdom of kastrum kremnos made it even harder.

mydei had been walking a narrow path from the moment he claimed his place—too much loyalty to one side, and the other would brand him a traitor. too little loyalty to either, and he risked being swallowed whole by both.

you, of course, stayed by his side; there ever since the journey to slaughter eurypon—a grim memory neither of you spoke of often. you remembered the blood, the screams, the bodies that littered the path behind you. the way mydei had barely slept those nights, keeping one hand curled in a fist and the other on your arm—like letting go of you would mean death.

when the others had died — one by one, torn apart by the horrors that clung to eurypon’s shadow — you had been the only one who survived with him.

it felt like a thread of fate held you two together.

mydei had grown possessive since then—never far from your side, always finding some reason to justify it. you could see the tension coil in his shoulders whenever you spoke to others. the way his eyes lingered too long when someone stood too close.

so when a lowly gang in okhema seen you as his weakness, he was in shambles.

they didn’t know who they were dealing with—not at the time. they thought they’d found an easy target; new to okhema and gullible. mydei’s trusted companion, the one who’d stayed with him through blood and war. the one who knew too much, saw too much.

and most importantly, the one he couldn’t replace.

the gang moved fast. faster than you expected. one minute you were weaving through the crowded streets of okhema, and the next a rough hand yanked you into a shadowed alley.

you fought—hard—elbow driving into someone’s ribs, a sharp kick catching another in the shin. but there were too many. ropes bit into your wrists, a grimy cloth stuffed into your mouth before you could shout.

“kremnoan’s should never get too comfortable somewhere they don’t belong.”

one of them sneered, dragging you deeper into the slums. “think he’ll hand over half his kingdom just to get ‘em back?”

he. they meant mydei.

you struggled harder. you knew what he was capable of.

you managed to spit out the cloth in your mouth, “let me go! you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!” you tried to plead with them.

this was so frustrating!

being in okhema was supposed to be a fresh start, especially for mydei. the people were nice, and both aglaea and tribbie seemed wonderful.

aglaea even gifted you a new wardrobe with your exact measurements—you weren’t going to question how, but you had your suspicions mydei had something to do with it.

mydei’s rage was a slow burn and once it was ignited, nothing could stop it.

now, mydei was bound to harbor anger in the people of okhema if you didn’t find a way to get out fast enough, before he got here.

you thought back to your old companions, ones who fought so dominantly on the battlefield.

you had to wait for the right moment, for these men to be distracted.

when the chance came, you were quick to rub the rope around your wrists against the hard pavement under you until eventually, it snapped.

wasting no time, you jolted up and ran.

the dim light of the alley barely illuminates your path as you stagger onto the cold cobblestones. every sound is amplified in the silence: your own rapid breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the echo of your footsteps bouncing off crumbling walls.

you can still hear the angry shouts from the gang behind you, their curses fading into the night. but there’s something else. a heavy, anticipatory silence that suggests a reckoning is coming. you know mydei’s fury is inevitable.

your heart pounds in your ears as you press yourself against a rough wall, scanning the darkened corners for an escape route. you realize that you have only minutes—maybe even seconds—to vanish into the maze of alleys, to slip away before his vengeance becomes all too real.

with one last look over your shoulder, you take a deep breath and push forward into the uncertain night, every step a desperate bid to outrun the impending tempest of mydei’s retribution.

with a quick turn around the corner, you were taken off guard by the chest you ran into.

the impact knocks the breath from you. you stumble, barely catching yourself as a pair of intense eyes lock onto yours. mydei stands before you, his presence impossible to ignore—fury and concern mingling in his gaze.

for a moment, the world slows: the pounding of your heart, the ragged rhythm of his breath, and the distant echoes of chaos outside. his hand, strong and sure, grips your shoulder, steadying you. there’s no time for explanations, no room for hesitation.

“i’m here,” he growls, voice low and dangerous, as if every syllable is meant to ward off an unseen threat.

you stood there, struggling to catch your breath and mydei simply observed.

there was no anger; there was just nothing.

which was even worse.

"mydei..!" he continued to just stare at you, looking you over. the only sign of a reaction was the slight twitch of his brow and pointer finger.

he walked away, going towards the way you came.

mydei was going to make sure his position as a chrysos heir was not one to be messed with.

phainon

phainon stared in absolute horror as the flame reaver emerged from the darkness.

he was prepared for another battle with strong being, but he wasn't prepared for it to lunge at you.

it all happened quickly; all it took was one slip-up, one miscalculation, and you were no longer there with him.

when you finally regained consciousness, it felt as if you were floating within time itself; just an endless abyss.

but he was there, you could feel it.

your eyes adjusted to the dark space, the only light coming from what appeared to be stars.

he spoke before you, "i... am not weak this time."

his words carried weight, reverberating through the void like a vow only the cosmos could witness. a hand—his hand—reached toward you, hesitant yet determined.

"every other time, i've failed." you squinted as its hand brought itself up to its masked face, promptly removing the mask.

the familiar blue eyes were staring at you. though, they looked way more clouded and dead. "now, you're here with me, and i don't... i can't let you leave, [name]."

"p-phainon? what..?" you brought your hand up tp your head, feeling nauseous.

he took a step closer, the eerie quiet of the space only broken by the heavy thrum of his breath. "i’ve waited too long, [name]. every failure, every mistake—it’s been for this. i can't lose you again."

his voice was hoarse, raw, like it hadn't been used for years.

your heart raced, and despite the ache in your head, you managed to focus on him, on the way his eyes flickered between desperation and something darker. something desperate.

"you're the flame reaver? i... i don’t understand," you murmured, your voice barely rising above the void's haunting silence.

"you don't have to," phainon whispered, his gaze never leaving yours. "just know, i won’t let you go. not this time."

you could feel his hand trembling slightly as it reached out, brushing the tips of your fingers, as if afraid you might vanish if he held too tightly.

your entire body felt heavy, like something was weighing you down, keeping you trapped in this endless abyss. phainon’s presence was the only solid thing anchoring you, yet even that felt… wrong. his touch was cold, unsteady, as if he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or let you slip through his fingers.

"phainon..." your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. "where are we?"

his grip on you tightened ever so slightly. "a place between," he murmured. "a space where time bends, where the past and present blur together." his gaze darkened. "where i lost you before."

his words sent a shiver down your spine. the way he looked at you—it wasn’t just desperation. it was grief, old and worn, like he'd lived through this moment before.

"lost me…?" your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his coat. "but i’m right here."

he let out a quiet, bitter chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "you always say that."

the stars around you pulsed, and for a moment, the darkness shifted. flashes of something flickered in the void—visions of a battle, a figure reaching out, a violent burst of flames. the echoes of distant screams rang in your ears, but they weren’t your own.

they were his.

your breath hitched. "phainon… what did you do?"

his expression twisted, and for the first time since you awoke, you saw it—fear. not of you, but of your reaction. of your realization.

"i tried," he whispered, his voice barely holding together. "again and again, i tried. but no matter what i did, no matter how strong i became—" he clenched his jaw, his fingers trembling as they curled into fists. "you still died."

his words settled deep in your chest, a weight heavier than the abyss itself.

"but this time…" he exhaled sharply, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling. "this time, i brought you here first. before fate could take you away again."

your stomach dropped. "phainon, you—"

"i won’t lose you," he interrupted, shaking his head. "not again. not ever."

the void around you seemed to pulse in response to his words, the stars flickering like they, too, were holding their breath.

and in that moment, you understood.

this wasn’t just a place between time.

this was where phainon had kept every version of you that had ever been lost.

anaxa

irritating. everything about this was extremely irritating.

for that woman to send okhema's soldiers to take you away took a lot of nerve.

anaxa sat in his quarters, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair, the rhythmic tapping the only sound in the otherwise silent room. his jaw tightened as he recalled the way they had come for you—swift, efficient, as if they had every right to tear you away from him.

as if he would just sit back and allow it.

he let out a slow breath, willing himself to think. acting recklessly would get him nowhere, but the longer he sat here, the worse the irritation festered.

his patience had already worn thin.

he stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushed away from it. his coat billowed behind him as he strode toward the door, purpose in every step.

if aglaea thought she could take you from him without consequence, she was about to be sorely mistaken.

the halls of his residence were empty, the air thick with the quiet tension of something about to break. anaxa had no need for guards; no one would dare to step in his way. yet tonight, the silence felt suffocating. suffocating because you weren’t here.

his fingers twitched at his sides. this wasn’t just irritation anymore. this was anger, slow-burning but ready to consume.

he knew where they had taken you.

it wouldn’t be difficult to reach you—not for him. the real question was how much destruction he was willing to cause in the process.

he sighed, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop. what an annoyance. what a hassle.

but it didn’t matter.

they had taken you from him.

he would take you back.

anaxa didn't care if they needed you at okhema, you were his personal assistant. whatever they needed could have been asked through him

(he ignores them, hence why aglaea sought after you).

by the time he stepped into okhema, the air was thick with the scent of the city—metal, incense, and something faintly electric crackling beneath the surface. okhema’s soldiers weren’t subtle; they never were. it wasn’t difficult to track their route, and anaxa wasted no time cutting through the winding paths that led to the hero's bath outer quarters.

then he saw them.

a squad of soldiers, stationed outside a secured chamber, their stance rigid, their hands hovering over their weapons. they were expecting trouble.

good.

anaxa didn’t slow his stride.

"halt," one of them commanded, stepping forward with a hand raised. "by order of the—"

anaxa didn’t let him finish.

with a flick of his wrist, anaxa held his gun pointed to the soldier's head, his other hand materializing his orb.

"move," he said flatly.

one of them made the mistake of reaching for a communication device.

annoying.

with a simple flick of his fingers, a sharp wave of energy lashed out, slicing through the device before the soldier could utter a word. their breath hitched as the realization sank in.

they weren’t winning this fight.

anaxa stepped closer, his patience nonexistent. "last chance."

the soldiers shared a look before making the smartest decision of their lives. they turned and ran.

cowards.

he continued onward, reaching a secluded room in the bathhouse.

he paused for a moment, his hand on the handle, taking a deep breath. he didn’t know what state you’d be in, but that didn’t matter now.

what mattered was that you were still here.

the door swung open with a smooth motion.

“[name],” he spoke your name like a command, his voice low but steady, holding an edge of urgency.

you looked up, eyes wide, disoriented. but when your gaze met his, something clicked. the tension that had been suffocating him finally lifted.

he stepped inside without hesitation, his eyes locked onto yours. “we’re leaving. now.”

[em1i2a3]

Good Grief

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Enhanced!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Bob is spellbound when he watches you train. It’s his favourite part of the day, and it’s his way of getting to know you. This is how the two of you grow a bond that is practically inseparable, and extremely protective.

Warnings: Hints of Angst and Fluff, Mentions of Violence (because of the training), Reader purposely puts themself in danger to coax out Sentry (this is to test a theory), Accidental Training ‘Injury’, Reader is Enhanced (super strength pretty much)

Author’s Note: I liked this request and the idea, and I kind of ran with it a bit and spiced it up at the end! So I’m glad I could write a nice little blurb for it! Thank you for the request! :)

P.S. I may or may not miss a day this week to upload something for a different Lewis Character….I won’t say who…But some people might know who it is for lol 🤓, or we might get a double update day! Who knows. Just thought I’d put that out there though.

Word Count: 6,163

The training bay was silent except for the soft slap of bare feet on mat and the distant hum of ventilation through the compound walls. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long shadows that pooled at the edges of the room. The space smelled faintly of sweat and vinyl, clean but lived-in, the kind of place where discipline lived in every corner.

Half a dozen padded dummies stood propped in a wide arc across the center of the mat. Each one anchored with care, their placement intentional–neither random nor symmetrical. You’d paced the bay in slow circles earlier that morning, nodding to yourself before gesturing for Bob to help shift one a few inches to the left, another slightly forward. He followed your directions without question, even if he didn’t quite understand the pattern you saw.

He stood beside you, palms resting awkwardly against the top of the shoulders of one dummy, eyes flicking between them.

“Yo-You sure you don’t want to go one at a ti-time?” He asked, his voice soft but edged with concern.

He didn’t mean to doubt you–he never did–but this setup was different. Not just reps. Not just sparring. It looked like a battlefield mapped from memory, and you were the only one who knew how to walk it.

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with a knowing smile. “Trust me.”

And he did.

You stepped away from him, shedding the lightweight black zip-up that clung damply to your arms from your warmup. Underneath, you wore a ribbed charcoal-grey sports bra, cropped snug against your chest, the hem riding high enough to show every breath you took. Your training shorts were low on your hips–matte black, skin-tight, with thick waistband support and slits up the sides for flexibility. Scuffed tape wrapped around your knuckles and a faint sheen of sweat already coated your skin, catching on your collarbone, and the dip of your stomach.

Bob was doomed from the start.

He took his usual place–cross-legged at the edge of the mat, your water bottle already in his hands–and watched.

And then you began.

A sharp inhale, a roll of your shoulder, and the first strike landed–clean and fast, a side kick directly to the gut of the closest dummy. You barely touched down before twisting, rolling into a shoulder drop and springing up again in a tight coil of movement. Your limbs snapped into each new angle like memories were guiding you. Like your body had done this a thousand times in another life.

Bob’s grip tightened on your water bottle.

You had told him once–over take out cartons on the roof of the Watchtower–that you were a gymnast before any of this. Before the field ops program. Before the blacksite conditioning and chemical rewrites. Before they molded your hands into weapons and trained you to end lives instead of chasing crappy medals that meant nothing.

That past still lived inside you though, and every single movement was proof of that.

The way you twisted midair and landed softly on the ball of your feet. The perfect, calculated bend of your back as you rebounded into a cartwheel, launching into a split aerial that folded into a kick. It was impossibly smooth–violent and beautiful all at once.

Bob could feel Sentry stirring the way a storm stirs just beyond the clouds. A pressure in the center of his chest. A weight behind his eyes.

“God she is beautiful…” Sentry whispered.

Bob exhaled shakily.

He had never seen anyone move like you before, and he was obsessed with it. He wished that he was able to see you on the field, to watch you take down actual threats, but ever since he voided the majority of New York's population, they had him sitting out until he could fully control himself. So this–this was all he had. And still, he couldn’t imagine anything more intoxicating than what he was watching now.

Your punches echoed through the room like cracks of thunder. Each one landing with calculated force, a precise explosion of movement that rolled through your shoulders, down your spine, and out through your fists. Bob could feel the vibrations in the air.

He sat perfectly still, barely breathing, with your water bottle gripped between his palms, the plastic creaking faintly under his thumbs. Steam hadn’t started yet, but it would, and he could feel it building under his skin.

You didn’t look tired, but there was a sheen of sweat forming now–glowing against the line of your throat, collecting at your lower back, glistening on your collarbones with every twist–but you didn’t breathe heavily, and your pace didn’t falter. If anything you moved faster, like the rhythm inside you had finally caught up to the shape of the room.

Bob’s eyes followed you like a man possessed.

You twisted, and ducked, and rolled seamlessly into a sweeping leg kick that took one dummy down with a harsh crack. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t hesitate. You flipped up onto your hands and spun into a tight, two-point kick, knocking a second dummy halfway backward before landing clean, knees bent, palms open.

It wasn’t training anymore. It was a ritual. It was instinct. A muscle-deep, cellular kind of memory, more ancient than tactics and more intimate than breath.

Bob could feel his throat tighten.

Your fists snapped with brutal precision, thighs flexing with each powerful step. And your eyes–glistening with anticipation–were locked on the next target with such focus that it felt like gravity bent towards you.

You landed on one hand, and kicked upward with explosive strength, sending a dummy rocking on its base.

Then–you pivoted low, gathered your weight and launched.

A scream of momentum–nothing verbal, just kinetic energy in its purest form.

Your shoulder slammed forward, with one final strike, and the last dummy flew.

Launching across the room, skidding off the mat with a plastic-laced screech before it smashed into the far wall–loud enough to echo with a thunderous boom.

Silence followed.

Thick. Charged. Unmoving.

You straightened slowly in the center of the mat, chest still rising in a quiet rhythm, arms loose at your sides. A fine mist of sweat clung to your stomach and thighs. You tilted your head just slightly, watching the dummy slump on the other side of the bay with a smirk on your face.

Bob stared at it as well, not blinking, nor breathing.

“Oh to be a dummy…I’d let her launch me across a room.” Sentry whispered, “I’d kneel at her feet, just to feel her shadow pass over me.”

The water bottle in Bob’s hands began to hiss.

Not audibly, it was just a faint pressure, a heat coiling inward, steam threatening to rise. The plastic beneath his fingers had begun to soften, warping faintly where the heat of his palms pushed in. But he didn’t even notice, because his senses weren’t registering anything except you.

You were still on the mat, framed in the center of his vision like some living storm–shoulders rising and falling in slow rhythm, now a towel slung lazily around your neck, with its ends brushing the curve of your chest as you dragged it across the glistening lines of your collarbone.

You looked like power incarnate. Like something divine caught in a human frame. And Bob? Bob was drowning in you.

You ran the towel down your stomach, catching the sweat that shimmered on your skin like dew on glass. You weren’t even looking at him yet, but he still flinched when you finally turned and strode toward him with that same slow, dangerous confidence you carried on the mat.

“How was that?” You asked casually, voice still slightly breathless. “Good form?”

Bob blinked.

Then blinked again.

And the world snapped back into sound with a pop.

Literally.

The lid of the water bottle burst off with a sharp crack, steam hissing faintly from the top as the pressure released, shooting the cap somewhere behind him. It clattered to the floor and rolled in a lazy half circle before spinning to a stop.

“Oh…Oh Je-Jesus.” He breathed, glaring down at the now-lidless bottle in his hand. You laughed–a puff of amusement–as you stepped towards him, holding out your hand.

“I’ll take that from you now,” You said. Bob’s eyes widened still fixated on the warped bottle in his hands.

”I-I could get you a new one…Th-This one is basically boiled.” You shrugged, stepping even closer, your shadow now brushing over his lap like a tide coming in.

“Water is water,” You commented with a lazy smile, “I don’t mind.” He swallowed hard, the sound thick in his throat. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to not hand you this half-melted, Sentry-steamed, probably-dangerous bottle of lava–but your fingers brushed his anyway, curling lightly around the neck of it.

Bob relented, blushing furiously as he let go.

You brought it to your lips without hesitation. The plastic crinkled under your grip as you tilted it back and drank–really drank–head tipped slightly, throat working, the rise and fall of your chest steady despite the heat. The soft sound of water hitting your mouth was too much, and Bob had to look away–eyes darting to the dummy you launched, to the vent above the door, anywhere but at the way your lips wrapped around the bottle’s edge.

You drained it in a few long gulps.

Then–with a snap of finality–you crushed the softened plastic in one hand and passed it back to him, like it was a token from a battle won.

A droplet clung to your bottom lip, and you licked it off slowly. Like it meant nothing. Like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

“Tell Sentry thanks for the impromptu tea,” You murmured, voice all syrup and smoke. Then you slung the towel back around your neck and turned away, already walking toward the locker room. “I’m gonna go shower off. Meet you on the roof?” Bob couldn’t look at you.

Not when his entire face felt like it was glowing. Not when Sentry was humming in his veins like molten sunlight.

He nodded, eyes on the mat. “Y-Yeah. I’ll–I’ll be there.”

—————————

The roof was quiet except for the soft rustle of wind and the distant city stirring far below.

Bob stood near the ledge, forearms braced loosely against the cool concrete, the weight of his body leaned into it like he needed the grounding. His hair was still damp from a quick rinse, curls pushed back by a hand that kept running through them nervously. The sun hadn’t fully crested the skyline yet, but the horizon was blooming in soft bands of color–mauve to gold to the faintest hint of fire. The sky looked half-awake, as if the day hadn’t decided yet whether to stretch or sleep in.

Behind him, the rooftop door gave a soft clunk as it opened.

You stepped out into the cool air wearing a hoodie that hung a little too long at the sleeves and a pair of loose sweatpants rolled once at the waist. Your socked feet were shoved into slip-ons, and your hair–still damp from your shower was clipped back, the ends brushing against your collar.

You were a completely different version of the woman who had just launched a dummy across the mat, and somehow, to Bob, you were even more dangerous this way.

He heard your footsteps before he saw you. You weren’t trying to be quiet–you never did up here–but there was something about the way you moved that always gave him pause. Even when you weren’t fighting, even when you were soft and warm and dressed in clothes he’d seen you nap in, you moved like a threat. Like someone who could shatter him without ever raising a hand.

He turned when you stopped beside him.

You held out one of the two containers tucked under your arm–clear plastic, condensation fogging the inside, layers of oats, berries, protein powder, almond butter, and a mess of chia seeds and yogurt.

“Added extra almond butter for you,” You said casually, like you hadn’t just left him speechless fifteen minutes ago in the training bay, “I’ve seen you eating it by the spoonful.” Bob smirked, and took the bowl from you with a soft, stuttered thanks, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second.

You leaned against the ledge beside him, shoulder nearly brushing his as you opened your own container and sat it down on the concrete ledge. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The wind tugged at the strings of your hoodie, and your eyes stayed on the skyline.

It had started as a fluke, months ago. You had finished training early, Bob had offered to bring you a smoothie he’d prepped the night before, and you both ended up watching the sun rise in silence, chewing half-thawed berries in tired satisfaction. But the ritual had stuck. And now…This was just what you did.

Watch the city wake up. Together. Every time you trained early.

Bob peeled the lid off his breakfast bowl and picked up the spoon you’d shoved into the side.

“Th-this is my favorite one,” He said softly, glancing sideways at you, attempting to break the silence. You didn’t look away from the skyline when you responded.

”I know…You’ve told me.” That made his cheeks pink again. But he didn’t look away this time.

You were quiet for a moment. Chewing. Thinking.

Then, just barely loud enough to hear:

”I got a…Curious question for you.” Bob gulped softly, the sound nearly lost to the wind curling off the rooftop. His spoon paused midair, a dollop of almond butter sliding off into the bowl. He glanced at you, cautious but attentive, like someone approaching a line they didn’t know they were ready to cross.

“A-Alright…” He said carefully, the word sticking to the back of his throat.

You didn’t meet his eyes.

Instead, you scooped a spoonful of frozen berries from your container, crunching down slowly as the chill settled into your jaw. Your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, almost like you were tasting your words before saying them out loud.

“If Sentry is in there…” You said around the fruit, eyes still on the horizon, “Why haven’t I met him?” Bob’s eyebrows rose, and he blinked at you like you’d reached across the space between your shoulders and tapped directly on his soul.

”I do-don’t know,” He replied quietly, “Why do you ask?” You finally looked at him.

Not with challenge, not with anything harsh–just honest curiosity, softened by morning light and the glint of something deeper.

“I kind of want to see him, that’s all,” You said with a shrug. “Sometimes I can feel that he’s there, behind your eyes…” You gestured loosely to the general space around his face, your hand lifting just enough to draw a vague halo around his features. “But I just haven’t seen him. And I’m curious. That’s all.” You looked down into your bowl for a second, then added, “Yelena mentioned he talks differently too, so I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Bob choked on a breath.

Not dramatically, not loud–but just enough for his shoulders to twitch and the tips of his ears to go scarlet.

“Y-Yeah, well…He–He kind of only comes out in ex-extreme cases…” Bob glanced away again, fidgeting with the edge of the plastic lid. “I’ve been able to get a little bit of co-control over him these past few months but…I-It’s not like switching a light on…Not yet at least.”

“Extreme cases?” You echoed, your tone gentle but laced with curiosity. You swirled your spoon around the half-melted oats in your bowl, watching the almond butter spiral through the yogurt like a lazy storm. “What do you mean by that?” Bob cleared his throat. He adjusted his stance slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I–uh–I-if anyone I care ab-about is in danger…” He explained, voice tight, eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of the roof. “Th-that typically triggers him.”

You turned your head slowly to look at him.

Anyone I care about.

The air seemed to pause for a moment. Not in a dramatic, thunderstruck way—but in that quiet, split-second beat where something subtle shifts. Where the wind changes direction.

“Really?” You said, just barely above a whisper. Bob nodded, slow and honest.

You bit your bottom lip.

Then you looked away–at the skyline, at the bowl in your hand–and cleared your throat softly. “Huh.”

Bob glanced over, unsure what that huh meant. He opened his mouth to ask, but before he could speak, you placed your container down on the ledge beside you with a faint plastic clack, and then–you pushed yourself up onto the ledge.

Bob froze.

His breath caught like you’d pulled a pin from a grenade.

You didn’t do anything wild–not yet–you just perched there, casual as ever, one leg dangling off the edge of the rooftop and the other folded beneath you. The city stretched wide below your feet, vast and golden and humming with distant morning traffic. But Bob only saw you.

And your eyes–when they turned to meet his–were gleaming with something dangerous.

Playful. Calculating.

“I wonder,” You said slowly, tilting your head, “How close to the edge I’d have to lean before he decided to show.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “Wh–what? N-no, no, don’t–don’t you dare–”

You grinned.

“You just said it yourself…Extreme cases of danger.” Bob stepped closer immediately, alarm blooming in his chest, his breakfast long forgotten.

“P-please get down. Th-that’s not funny.” But you just arched an eyebrow, the wind tugging at the hem of your hoodie.

“I’m not gonna fall. I’ve done this a hundred times.” Bob’s pulse was a living thing in his throat.

He watched–helpless, breath caught, fingers twitching–as you stood.

One slow, deliberate motion. A shift in your hips, a plant of your foot. Then the other followed. Smooth. Balanced. Effortless.

You rose from the ledge like it was solid ground, and there wasn’t a ninety-story drop waiting just inches behind your heels. His entire body went tight.

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“P-Please,” Bob choked, one foot already shifting forward as if sheer will might anchor you back. “Please don’t–just–get down, okay? I–I’m serious–”

But you weren’t listening. Or maybe you were–and that was worse. Because your gaze was steady. Calm. Amused. The wind tugged strands of hair into your face, and you didn’t even blink.

“Bob…I used to be a gymnast. I’m fine.”

Your foot shifted ever so slightly on the ledge—only an inch, maybe less—but the wind caught just right, and your body flinched. Just a twitch. A minor, involuntary jerk of balance.

And that was all it took.

One blink.

And then–

He was there.

A rush of gold.

A flash of heat.

Your breath hadn’t even finished catching before arms like tempered steel wrapped around your middle, yanking you from the ledge so fast your feet barely had time to register air. The skyline spun, the wind cracked, and then–you were grounded again.

Back pressed to a broad, heaving chest. Hands banded across your ribcage, fingers splayed like molten iron beneath your hoodie. You burst into laughter–a sharp, bubbling giggle that sounded almost wrong in contrast to the divine tension crackling through the air now.

The grip on your waist didn’t ease.

It tightened.

And when you tilted your chin back to look behind you–just slightly, just enough–you saw them.

Gold….His eyes that burned like sunlight through glass, pupils sharp as stars. Sentry.

“Hi,” You said cheerfully, still grinning, breathless from your own stunt.

”No,” Sentry replied, voice rich and low, echoing like thunder rippling through marble, “No ‘hi’…You almost fell off the roof.” It wasn’t a reprimand exactly…But he took the kind of tone that was reserved for things that were precious, vulnerable, and untouchable. His voice vibrated against your spine like something too old and too vast to be fully human.

You glanced down at the way his arms were locked around you–solid and certain, pressed against the soft fabric of your hoodie, heat blooming where his skin met yours.

“I won’t climb back up…I just did that to bring you out, you can let go.” His grip didn’t ease right away. You could feel the tension humming in his limbs. Like holding you was the only thing anchoring the storm.

“Can’t believe you did this deliberately.” He stated, words molten. You smirked at his comment.

”I knew you cared about me.” You teased, then there was a beat of silence. Not empty, not cold–but charged. Like lightning was being held back by sheer force of will.

And then Sentry groaned softly, tipping his head forward, forehead nearly brushing your shoulder

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” He murmured, his breath warm against your neck. You swore you felt the heat of a small sun in that exhale.

“I think my plan worked perfectly actually,” You replied, twisting in his grip slowly until you were facing him. He let you go gradually–arms loosening, like letting go was something he didn’t quite want to do. You stood in front of him now, keeping your eyes locked on his.

“You’ve been watching me,” You added, softer now. “So I thought I’d introduce myself.”

Sentry stared at you, golden gaze intense, unreadable.

“And how do you know I’ve been watching you?” You shrugged.

”The room kind of gets super hot whenever I’m around you,” You trailed off, playfully, and then added, “And the boiled and semi-melted water bottle during my training this morning really confirmed my suspicions.” Sentry’s gaze lingered on you for a long moment–longer than most people could withstand without blinking, without looking away, without shrinking under the weight of something celestial sizing them up.

But you didn’t shrink.

You just stared right back, lit by the bleeding edge of sunrise, hoodie sleeves bunching slightly as your arms crossed beneath your chest

He inhaled deeply through his nose.

The kind of breath that stirred the wind around you. Like he was tasting the moment.

Then–

“Well…” He exhaled slowly, gold eyes narrowing faintly, heat rolling off his skin like he hadn’t quite put the sun back in its cage, “We like watching you train, so…” A slight smirk, nearly imperceptible, “Sue me for melting the water bottle.”

You laughed, head tilting, teeth catching your bottom lip for a second before you let it go. “Oh, you do?” You echoed, all exaggerated with mock surprise. “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

He said nothing.

So you stepped a bit closer, toe to toe now, looking at him, chasing eye contact.

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

The question hung in the air between you like a dare. A thread. A fuse.

Sentry’s jaw tensed.

Then slowly–very slowly–he bit the inside of his cheek and glanced away, gaze drifting out toward the edge of the city as though it might offer him a safer answer than the truth.

“Not that I know of.”

Smooth. Measured. Deceptively calm.

And a lie.

You could feel it ripple through him like static.

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the minute shift in his expression. The way his mouth twitched like there was something sitting right behind his teeth that he didn’t trust himself to say.

But he wouldn’t betray Bob. Not even a little. Not even now, not when his hands still remembered the shape of your waist and the weight of your pulse thudding wildly against his palms.

You let the silence stretch, the smirk pulling at your lips again.

“Liar,” You muttered, voice low. Not accusing. Not even disappointed. Just certain.

His eyes flicked back to yours–sharper now, searching.

And for one breathless second, you swore the skyline bent around the shape of his frame. Like the sun tilted its arc to catch the side of his face, painting him in a soft gleam of fire and gold.

“Maybe,” He murmured finally, voice like molten glass. “But I’m not the one you want to hear it from.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Not because you didn’t know what he meant.

But because you did.

And for once…You didn’t push.

Instead, you stepped back, just enough to give him space. Just enough to keep the tension intact.

————————

You stood at the center of the mat again, barefoot, hands wrapped, shoulder blades flexing beneath a sleeveless compression top. You were rolling your neck in lazy circles as you waited for your new sparring partners to get their shit together.

“Jesus, how many wraps does it take you to tie your boots, Walker?”

John scoffed without looking up, still crouched in the corner tightening the laces on his combat shoes. “Some of us don’t train barefoot like monks on a mountaintop.”

“That’s because you’d trip over your own ego,” You muttered under your breath.

“C’mon now,” Bucky called from across the mat, stretching his arms behind his back, black long-sleeve rolled to his elbows. “Play nice, kids. I’m not pulling any punches today.”

From his spot on the edge of the mat, Bob looked up quickly at that–eyes flicking between the three of you, concern flickering across his face like a warning light. He was already perched where he’d always sat during your solo drills, long legs folded under him, with your water bottle in hand–now reusable and stainless steel–watching quietly like you were the only thing in the world that moved in color.

Walker clocked it immediately.

His head turned toward Bob with a crooked grin, already half-laced boots squeaking faintly as he stood. “Does he always sit there like that?” He asked, nodding toward Bob. “Watching you like it’s a one-woman stage play?”

You didn’t even blink.

“He always does,” you replied smoothly, turning your wrist in a light circle to loosen your shoulder. “Is this a new thing you’re just realizing?”

Bob flushed–brilliant red blooming beneath the collar of his navy crew neck–but said nothing, just curled his fingers more tightly around the water bottle.

Walker smirked. “What–you need an emotional support human to pummel some dummies?”

You turned toward him fully then, one brow raised, lips already twitching. “I’m glad you’re calling yourself a dummy so I don’t have to.” Bucky let out a laugh from his spot near the wall, shaking his head.

“Alright, alright–enough with the bickering. Let’s go for another round, huh?” He rolled his shoulder and stepped toward you, that slow, loose gait of someone who’d seen more fights than birthdays. You nodded once, tightening the wraps on your wrists.

“Let’s.” You muttered.

Bob settled deeper into his spot at the edge of the mat, posture stiff but eyes locked on you. Sentry stirred beneath his skin again–he could feel it like pressure in his spine, heat behind his ribs. Watching you get ready, watching you glow with motion and discipline, was like watching a match hovering over gasoline.

And then you moved.

You and Bucky danced the way soldiers did–tight and calculated, strike and recover, quick feints that turned into fast contact. He wasn’t going easy on you, and you wouldn’t have let him if he tried. Walker hung back at first, arms crossed, smirking, tossing in the occasional jibe about your stance or form.

Until you spun low and landed a solid elbow to Bucky’s ribs. He let out a grunt, rubbing the area with the flat of his hand.

“Had my guard down,” he muttered, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth said otherwise.

You cocked your head. “You always do.”

Walker snorted. “Alright, let me get in on this now.”

You cleared your throat, barely disguising your amusement. “Don’t be shocked when you get humiliated.”

“Big words for someone who’s at a one man disadvantage.” He said, cracking his neck as he stepped forward onto the mat.

You rolled your shoulders. “Yeah? Let’s see what you’ll be saying when you’re on your ass.” From the sidelines, Bob’s grip on the water bottle tightened.

It started slow–Walker lunged, you ducked, Bucky feinted–and then all at once, it shifted.

The three of you moved like an orbit, tight and reactive. A storm of limbs and instinct.

Walker threw strength. Bucky threw precision. You threw heat.

And Bob? He watched like he was studying scripture.

Your body was in constant motion–every movement timed perfectly, every dodge low and tight, using Bucky’s stance to redirect Walker’s force, using Walker’s height against him to launch yourself higher. You pivoted with a fluid snap, stepping off Bucky’s knee to catch Walker’s shoulder with your heel, spinning out of reach before either of them could tag you.

You were alive in a way that made the room bend around you.

Bob had stopped blinking. His heart beat like a war drum behind his ribs, the kind of rhythm that only came when Sentry hovered near the surface, watching through his eyes like a god hungry for movement.

You slid under a punch, twisted Walker’s momentum to force a stumble, and kicked Bucky’s thigh hard enough to send him back a pace. The two men glanced at each other then—silent communication—and came at you together.

You grinned like you were being handed a gift.

Your foot landed on Bucky’s shoulder and you pushed off, flipping neatly in the air, body tightening mid-rotation. Your leg caught Walker’s bicep and you twisted, but his center of gravity adjusted quick–too quick–and suddenly–

Your body slammed into the mat.

Hard.

The noise cracked through the air.

Bob surged to his feet.

You wheezed–chest collapsing, eyes wide, lips parted but no air catching–and for one sickening second, you didn’t move.

And that was all it took.

The heat slammed into the room like a detonated sun.

Sentry burst through Bob like goldfire ripping seams in his skin. One moment it was Bob’s widened eyes and open mouth–

And the next?

The mat shook under the force of Sentry’s arrival.

He was halfway across the floor before anyone could react, a golden blur slicing through the fluorescent haze. The floor steamed faintly beneath his bare feet. His fists were already clenched, molten lines of fury pulsing under his skin like veins lit with solar flares.

He didn’t think. He moved.

Straight toward Walker.

“Hey!” Walker shouted, palms already lifted as he stumbled back a step. “Jesus Christ–It’s not like I meant to do it!”

Sentry was drowned in the roar of protection and wrath, his eyes wild, glowing like twin cores of a star gone supernova. His mouth opened, teeth bared like something celestial barely contained in a human shape.

“You hurt her.” The voice wasn’t loud–it was deep. Like stone cracking under pressure. Like a threat too old to need volume.

Bucky stepped in without hesitation.

“Whoa–hey! Hey, easy! Stand down!” His voice was sharp but not panicked, hands up in a calm brace, body angled between Walker and the god.

Sentry didn’t listen.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just stood there, vibrating with heat, jaw locked, eyes fixed on Walker like he was calculating exactly how many bones to break.

On the floor behind them, you coughed–one harsh, painful breath, then another. You rolled onto your side slowly, eyes blinking hard against the light, one hand braced on the mat as you forced yourself upright.

“Sentry–” You wheezed, chest still hitching, still attempting to catch your breath.

His head snapped toward you. Immediately.

“I’m fine.” You said, firmer this time. You winced as you sat up straighter, hand pressed against your ribs. “Don’t…Don’t worry. I’ve had worse happen. Calm down.” Sentry’s eyes flicked from you…To Walker…Then back to you.

His chest rose and fell once. Sharp. Controlled.

And then–like a pressure valve easing open–he exhaled. The heat softened just enough that Bucky didn’t feel like he was standing in front of a furnace. His fists slowly loosened at his sides, muscles still taut, but held.

Sentry turned fully toward you, and for the first time since appearing, his voice shifted–just barely.

Lower. Softer. Still fire-wrapped, but laced with something else.

“He slammed you.”

You gave a weak smile through your breath, “We’re…We’re sparring, accidents happen, you don’t have to…Scare the crap out of Walker.” Sentry’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

“Yeah, no need to scare the crap outta me,” Walker echoed, huffing a laugh like he was trying to keep things casual even though his heartbeat was still visibly pounding in his neck. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking between the three of you. “And also–when the fuck did Sentry suddenly come back?” He asked, motioning to him.

“He’s been coming back for a while.” You blinked at Walker, still cradling your ribs lightly, and shrugged.

“You’re the one that triggered him by hurting me, moron.” Walker’s mouth opened in disbelief.

“Me?!”

“You slammed me,” You clarified, not unkindly, but with a smirk twitching at the edge of your lips. “Like…full-body slammed me.”

“You jumped on me!”

“You adjusted your center too fast–”

“Guys,” Bucky said mildly, hands raised, “No more arguing please.” Walker, still shaken, jabbed a finger toward Sentry, who was still standing like a stone beside you, radiating enough heat to keep the entire bay at a slow simmer. His golden gaze hadn’t left you once.

“I’m just saying,” Walker said, eyes narrowed, “You make it sound like we should’ve known. Like this was a thing. I’m still caught up in the fact that we haven’t seen him appear in almost a year, and now suddenly he’s back up and running—no warning, no update, just–” He gestured to Sentry’s still-glowing hands. “–bam, golden demigod about to fry my ass.”

“That’s not fair,” Bucky said, his voice quiet, but laced with warning.

Walker rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m saying it’s insane.”

You leaned your head back, letting out a slow breath. Sentry’s hand moved–just barely–hovering again near your spine like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to touch you. You shifted to sit up straighter, letting your shoulder brush his forearm gently.

“It’s not like Bob can snap his fingers and summon him,” You said, keeping your tone level. “Sentry shows up when he wants to. Or when Bob needs him.”

“Which is usually when someone’s in danger,” Bucky added, folding his arms and glancing at Walker meaningfully. “Someone Bob—or Sentry—cares about.”

Walker stared at that. Then looked at you. Then back at Sentry.

The dots were not subtle.

Sentry still hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. His silence was heavy. Watchful. The sun pressed into a man’s body.

You reached out and gave his wrist a light touch, enough to feel the heat still thrumming beneath his skin. “It’s alright,” you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone else to hear. “I can breathe now.”

Sentry blinked slowly. Then–almost imperceptibly–nodded.

The heat around him dropped by a few degrees.

Not gone.

Just…Tempered.

Walker, still trying to reconcile what had just happened, ran a hand over his face. “Look, I didn’t mean to–if I’d known he was even still awake in there, I wouldn’t’ve–”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” You interrupted, waving him off, wincing a little at the motion. “You’re just an idiot. But that’s not new.”

That earned the tiniest snort from Bucky.

Sentry, finally, tilted his head just slightly. “You’re in pain.”

You turned to look at him.

The golden light in his eyes had softened–just a touch. It was still otherworldly. Still ancient. But there was concern there. Sharp and clear.

“I’m sore,” You corrected. “Not dying.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Come on,” Bucky said, stepping forward, placing a steady hand on Walker’s shoulder as he glanced between the rest of you. “Training’s over. Let’s all cool off before someone actually does get launched through a wall.”

Walker muttered something under his breath and turned toward the exit.

Bucky lingered a moment longer, looking at you. “You alright?”

You nodded. “Just bruised, but I should be fine.” Bucky’s gaze slid over to Sentry.

”Should I be worried he’s gonna explode if you ever truly get hurt?” You smirked faintly.

”Let’s hope we never have to find out the answer to that question…”

[mortallycoiled]

i think khetzal is the funniest prank sar'kai and lythe have played on hark so far

GENUINELY. whats funny is that. i havent worked it out entirely but in the eternal coil it's kinda common to make these sub-spaces that typically act as like. batteries. but because of how difficult they are to make it requires a group to make anything worth having. so the mortal coil was specifically made by the three of them working together but for a very long while it was just hark fucking around and making rocks in what was SUPPOSED to just be like. a way to shore up power.

and so lythe and sar'kai were like. oh youre putting stuff in our battery space we want to do that too and then immediately invent murder on accident

[tea-with-eleni]

So today I learned that our planetarium dome at work had such a hard time getting started that they legitimately called in a witch to do a cleansing ritual on it.

apparently the giant tesla coil about fifty yards away is "a portal" and was allowing all kinds of chaotic entities to gain access to the dome. plausible enough, I guess.

the dome is now warded and mostly functional. most of the time. sage was smudged. crystals were placed. spells were cast. not sure what the software company thought, but they were probably relieved they no longer had to keep coming out from utah.

apparently there's still a chunk of black tourmaline under the front of the dome that we really shouldn't remove. other sundry assorted crystals may be elsewhere within the dome. don't remove those either.

[dragoneyelashart]

under investigation

smut ୨ৎ warnings: g!p billie, daddy kink wc: 2.1k

the case board stretches wall to wall, red string tangled in chaotic brilliance, notes scrawled in billie’s narrow, slanted handwriting. names, timestamps, surveillance photos, scribbled quotes, and maps pin together like the nerves of a monster only she can tame. her eyes flick across it like she's reading something no one else sees.

she stands before it now, half-lit by lamplight, black slacks riding low on her hips, the sleeves of her white button-down rolled up to her elbows. her dark hair’s been pulled back messily, loose strands stuck to the sheen of sweat along her neck. one pen rests behind her ear. another twitches between her fingers, not because she’s nervous. billie never gets nervous. she vibrates on a different frequency. always calculating. always coiled.

you’re supposed to be working.

instead, you’re watching her hands. the way they flex when she gestures. the way her fingers twitch when she’s mid-theory, when the storm is building behind her eyes. you’re watching how her mouth wraps around words like “staging” and “intent.” they way she chews on her pencil when she’s trying to think. how, sometimes, when she forgets you’re in the room, she murmurs thoughts under her breath, fast, obsessive, brilliant. the sound always makes your skin prickle.

you’ve spent enough time in her orbit to know this isn’t just case energy. tonight, she’s restless in a different way. controlled tension radiates off her like heat from the pavement after rain.

and she knows you’re watching her. she’s letting you.

“the victims weren’t meant to be found when they were,” she says suddenly, slicing through the quiet. she lifts one arm and gestures to a map dotted with red pins. “the watches weren’t trophies. they were time stamps.”

you shift slightly on the couch, the leather warm under your bare thighs. you’re cross-legged, your notepad forgotten in your lap. “and the barefoot thing?” you ask, voice low, measured. you’ve learned to keep your tone steady around her. she pounces on anything that cracks.

she turns to you. sharp. that signature, hungry smile curls at the edge of her mouth, the one she uses right before she proves someone wrong or pulls a confession out of thin air. “that’s where you come in, y/n.”

you roll your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “you say that like i’m not the one who flagged that both scenes had talcum powder near the bodies.”

she hums, low, approving,  and strolls toward you, slow and languid, like a cat circling prey it already owns. “mm. my brilliant little assistant.”

her voice dips on the last word, almost a purr.

heat flares in your stomach.

you don’t move as she approaches. you don’t have to. billie likes to close the distance herself, likes to see if you’ll hold your ground, if you’ll let her invade your space without protest.

you always do.

she stops just in front of the couch, towering over you even without heels. her gaze flickers to your lips, your throat, your exposed knee. she leans in, one hand bracing against the wall behind the couch, the other ghosting near your temple — not touching, just close enough to feel the air shift.

her knee presses between yours. your legs part instinctively. she notices.

“you know,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been sitting there for over an hour looking like you want me to pin you to the board.”

your throat tightens. your heart kicks hard in your chest.

you wet your lips. “maybe i do.”

she studies you, unreadable, calculating, for a beat that stretches too long.

then her mouth is on yours.

it’s sudden. fierce. a collision of heat and want and unspoken understanding. her hands grip your waist, strong fingers digging into your hips as she pulls you up, off the couch, with practiced ease. your notepad falls to the floor. her body is already flush with yours by the time your back hits the edge of the desk, cool wood biting through the thin fabric of your shirt.

you gasp into her mouth as her hips slot between your thighs. her kiss deepens, harder, wetter, and you feel yourself unraveling by the second.

she breaks from your lips to trail kisses down your jaw, biting lightly just beneath your ear. her breath is hot against your skin.

“you always taste like trouble,” she murmurs, voice low and ragged.

you try to reply, something witty, sharp,  but your brain short-circuits as her hand slips beneath your shirt, palm splayed across your stomach, fingers sliding upward, dragging the fabric with them. her mouth is at your throat now, kissing, sucking, nipping.

and then her hand moves lower.

she doesn’t bother with finesse, not now, not with the way your breath’s hitching. she presses her palm firmly between your legs, cupping you through your clothes, and rubs slow, deliberate circles that send white-hot sparks up your spine.

you moan, hips jerking forward.

her voice darkens with amusement. “so eager, already?”

“billie— daddy—” you try to catch your breath, try to stay present, but her touch is a fuse, and you’re already burning.

she grins against your neck. “that’s what i thought.”

she kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand gripping your ass, the other slipping beneath your waistband to press where you’re already soaked. your legs tremble. her fingers stroke lazily, expertly, teasing you right to the edge of losing control.

then, just as your breath hitches, just as your knees nearly give out—

buzzzz.

the shrill ring of the desk phone slices through the tension like a blade.

you both freeze.

billie exhales a low groan against your neck. “oh, for fuck’s sake—”

her hand stills, but doesn’t move away.

you blink, dazed. “ignore it,” you whisper.

but she’s already turning toward the phone, lips parted in irritation.

the caller id flashes.

inspector heller.

you groan. “tell him to get a life.”

billie reaches for the receiver, but she doesn’t move her hand from your waistband. if anything, her fingers press harder.

as the phone rings again, she glances at you with a look you’ve come to recognize: cold calculation, tempered by something far more dangerous.

a smirk.

she picks up the receiver.

“heller,” she says crisply, voice cool and composed, as if her hand isn’t currently shoved down your pants, as if her thumb isn’t making slow circles over your most sensitive spot.

your breath catches.

you try to squirm, to hold back the moan threatening to escape, but billie pins you with a look that says don’t even think about it.

then she frees herself.

long. thick. flushed at the tip, already dripping.

you’ve felt it before, pressed into your thigh, your stomach, teasing between your legs. but seeing her like this, cock heavy in her hand, shadows flickering over her skin, voice smooth on the call, it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

she jerks her chin.

“under,” she mouths.

your heart skips.

you slide down slowly, knees hitting the hardwood, and crawl beneath the desk. the space smells like cedar and paper and sex. her thighs part. her cock rests against one, throbbing faintly, sticky with pre-cum.

you don’t hesitate.

your lips wrap around the head, soft and warm. leaving soft kisses on her sticky tip. her taste is clean, faintly musky, and your tongue swirls slowly, deliberately. above you, her breath catches.

but her voice doesn’t falter.

“yes,” she says smoothly into the receiver. “tox reports from both scenes. what about blood panel analysis?”

your mouth works rhythmically, your hand stroking the base in time with your tongue. her fingers slide into your hair and tangle tight, not pushing, just holding, a leash made of want.

her hips twitch forward once.

you hum.

billie’s breath stutters.

“timestamp data,” she says, almost too quickly. “i want the autopsy reports cross-referenced with the surveillance pull.”

you take her deeper, hollowing your cheeks, your hand stroking faster. she pulses against your tongue, leaking, jaw tight. her hand tightens in your hair.

she snaps suddenly, “no, i didn’t mean you, just send the fucking files heller.”

she covers the mouthpiece. looks down.

her voice drops lower.

“gonna make me cum on the call, fucking pathetic,” she rasps. “so fucking desperate to please me. come on keep going.”

you moan around her, wet and needy, pushing deeper until your throat burns. her thighs are shaking now. you know she’s close, her grip in your hair tightens, her breath going ragged, jaw flexing.

she finishes the call just barely holding herself together.

the second she hangs up, she pulls you out from under the desk with one hand and hauls you into her lap. you’re straddling her now, her cock hard and slick between your thighs.

“oh, poor baby,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re soaked. look at you. wet from just sucking me off under my desk. that’s fucking pathetic, princess.”

you whimper, grinding down on her. her hands find your hips, bruising grip.

she slides your panties to the side and drags the head of her cock through your folds.

“beg for it.”

“daddy, please,” you breathe, barely coherent. “just want you to ruin me.”

she slides inside, slow and deliberate, filling you inch by inch. you cry out, the stretch, the fullness, the heat. she holds still for just a second, letting you feel it.

then she starts to thrust.

deep. slow. controlled.

each stroke sends shocks through your core. her hand slides to your throat, cupping it lightly, not squeezing, just there. claiming.

“taking me so good, baby,” she pants against your mouth. “so fucking tight. so perfect.”

“please, daddy, cum in me. please. need it, need you” you whimper, the words slipping out, raw and messy.

she growls.

“gone that fucking dumb on my cock, baby? just need me to fill you with my babies, hm?” she murmurs, soft and low in your ear.

your head nods fast, broken strings of “yes’s” falling from your lips.

your nails drag down her back as your orgasm crashes through you. she holds you tight, fucking you through it, hips relentless, voice hoarse.

and when she spills inside you, hot and deep, she bites your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud, your eyes rolled as far back as possible.

you’re both panting.

“next time heller calls,” she breathes, voice rough, “i’m putting him on speaker.”

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