#create hive table

[deepspacenova]

Under Pressure

running into your main lads man (boyfriend) while you're out with your second favorite lads man (as a friend) and how they would react.

➻➻ ABOUT | 1700 words. sylus x gn!reader.

➻➻ TAGS | banter. tension. jealousy. possessive sylus.

NOTE: Written for this round robin/challenge by the lovely @jinwoosbabyboo -- it's open for anyone, by the way, so consider yourself tagged if you're interested! (:

The smell of antiseptic mingled with the earthy scent of Vagrant's Land while the pop-up clinic buzzed with organized chaos. Patients with various illnesses and injuries stood around waiting for the moment they'd be called back and have their ailments treated or cured.

The welcome tent’s fabric flapped in the soft breeze as you let the nurse manning the check-ins know why you were there. When you were shown inside, you noticed the open space had been outfitted with portable medical equipment to create a busy hive of treatment cubicles and testing areas.

You glanced around the crowded space until you found him. Taller than most of the room, intent on his work, and confidently in his element, Dr. Zayne scribbled onto the clipboard a nurse was holding toward him. Finishing his last marking, he looked up, cool hazel eyes thawing ever-so-slightly and dented with a happy crinkle as he straightened and dismissed your escort.

"Right on time," he murmured, grabbing two latex gloves, a yellow file folder, and his medical bag.

"Miracles can happen when you least expect them," you teased with a grin.

Zayne started to usher you toward a makeshift examination corner since all the cubicle curtains were closed. "Medical miracles, maybe," he quipped. "But you being on time? That’s a phenomenon even science can’t explain."

You laughed softly, sitting down as he gestured to a folding chair and rested his medical bag on the wobbly table next to him. "Careful, Dr. Zayne, your bedside manner is slipping."

With an amused shake of his head, he reassured, "This shouldn't take long. Just a quick exam, same as always."

You nodded, rolling up your sleeve as he pressed his cool fingers to the inside of your wrist and got started. His touch was warm but impersonal, his attention fixed on his readings. He moved methodically, pressing the tips of his fingers over your heart and chest.

Though the process was clinical, you couldn't help but study Zayne with fondness — the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the way his nostrils flared when a loud noise interrupted him, the way his breath became a tickle on your cheek when he leaned in to adjust his stethoscope.

That was the moment you heard his voice.

“Don't tell me you're afraid now,” Sylus demanded from the clinic's entrance, making nurses and bystanders alike stand to attention, as if they couldn't help but wait for his next directive. “I could put you two into far worse situations.”

Two hooded boys in medical masks shuffled in behind him, the defiant puff of their chests doing little to hide their apprehension. At Sylus' words Luke scowled but didn’t argue while Kieran kept glancing toward the exit like a cornered animal. Giving them a pointed look toward the nurse they were supposed to follow, he took a few steps forward before his eyes landed on you.

The vision of the leader of Onychinus halting in place with a satisfied smirk spreading across his face was unnerving enough to straighten every spine in the vicinity. But he barely noticed as he waved off the boys and made his way toward you.

Then his eyes flicked to the person next to you. To the stern yet striking man whose face was so close to yours he was practically stealing your fucking air from you.

Jaw tightening — the only outward sign of his discomfiture—Sylus strode toward you with deliberate, measured steps, his posture casual but predatory.

A fluttering of wings had taken flight in your stomach as soon as you'd heard Sylus' gravelly voice, but for the sake of Zayne's time and not raising any eyebrows in the semi-public setting, you'd resolved to find Sylus after your check-up. Unfortunately for you, Sylus never much cared about the concept of discretion when it came to you.

Stopping behind you, he placed the edge of his palm on your shoulders, spreading his fingers across your chest in a rather over-the-top display of possessiveness.

Doctor Zayne hadn't even looked up at the interruption and had moved on to digging for a tool in his medical bag when the hand-shaped barrier blocked his access to your heart.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?" Though the words were casual, his tone was wrapped in barbed wire.

"Sylus!" You said, hoping the breathlessness in your voice wasn't too noticeable. Looking up at his sharp features, which managed to be frustratingly beautiful even upside down, you smiled and moved his hands from your chest to your biceps, patting the tops of them twice. "I didn't know this is what you meant when you said you were taking care of some business with Luke and Kieran. Shouldn't you be with them?"

A low chuckle emerged from his throat, laced with both amusement and menace. "I was, sweetie. That is, until someone else piqued my... curiosity." His hands slid slowly down to the crooks of your elbows and then disappeared. Suddenly, the chair next to you was occupied with your boyfriend's imposing form, eyes boring into Zayne's unflappable figure. "I didn't realize doctors from Linkon City made special appointments when they visited Vagrant's Land."

“I volunteer here once a month,” Zayne said matter-of-factly. He didn’t look up as he re-focused on his examination of you, ignoring Sylus' eyes — one, a muted scarlet, the other an angry vermillion — trained on every movement. “It’s a good way to reach those who can’t make it to a hospital.”

Sylus’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a tight smile. “How noble of you. I see you're very—” His eyes lingered on Zayne’s hand, still resting against your chest. “—thorough with your patients.”

"Sylus," you cut in quickly. "Have you met my childhood friend, Zayne? We recently reconnected when he became my doctor."

But Sylus' attention didn't move from Zayne.

“Any good doctor is thorough,” Zayne replied, turning to jot down notes into your file. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if Sylus’s presence barely registered. “If something's off, it's important to work on her as soon as possible."

“I’ll bet it is,” Sylus muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his seat.

Recognizing the simmering menace in his tone, you jam your elbow into Sylus' narrowing your eyes in a silent warning. Your string of bad luck continued however, when, after he placed a dramatic hand over his elbow, Sylus went back to watching your childhood friend with the kind of intensity that made most people fear for their lives.

Zayne, of course, was not most people.

“Do you mind?” Zayne asked, flicking a quick glance at Sylus through his lashes. “I’m trying to work.”

“Not at all,” Sylus replied smoothly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

Another tense few minutes pass, and the balloon of pressure in your chest expanded second by second as the tension between Sylus and Zayne crackled like static.

You were caught between irritation with Sylus for his uncharacteristically territorial behavior or shock with Zayne, who was acting more aloof than usual, almost like he was... purposefully fueling Sylus' ire.

“So, Sylus,” you said brightly, trying again to diffuse the situation. “Why'd you bring Luke and Kieran here?”

“Do they seem like the guys who'd show up to update their vaccines if I didn't drag them myself?” he shot back with a smirk, jerking his head toward the cubicle Luke and Kieran were in.

“That’s admirable,” Zayne remarked, his tone neutral. “More people should take an interest in the well-being of others.”

“That's me, a real caretaker," Sylus drawled, eyes narrowed. And just like that, any hope for the peace you'd been building toward popped like a bubble. "Though I can't say I'm as hands-on as you, doctor. At least... not in public."

"A shame." Zayne raised an eyebrow, his expression faintly amused. “Hands-on can be very effective when done correctly.”

The implication hung in the air, subtle but deliberate. You groaned internally, feeling like a rope in an increasingly taut tug-of-war.

“Alright, enough,” you snapped, looking down at them with your hands on your hips. “Sylus, this is just a check-up. Zayne, stop provoking.”

Both men fell silent, though the charged atmosphere lingered.

Sylus had the nerve to look almost... chagrined for the first time in his life, which alone worked wonders on your frustration — though from the way he stood and rested his hand on the back of your neck, it might've been more placating than chagrined.

Zayne, who also stood up, simply adjusted his glasses, his composure as unshaken as ever.

“I’m done here,” Zayne said, handing you a slip of paper. “I've updated the schedule according to your upcoming work trips. Other than that, you're fine.”

“Thank you, Zayne,” you smile warmly, stuffing the paper into your bag.

Zayne nodded, then turned to Sylus and held out his hand in a begrudging truce. “She’s in good health. You can relax.”

For a moment, you stared at Sylus' stoic expression and worried all hell would break loose in Vagrant's Land. Then, he linked his hand with Zayne's and gave it a firm, business-like shake, turned you around, and led you back to the entrance to wait for Luke and Kieran.

You couldn’t help but glance back at Zayne as you walked. He'd already moved onto his next patient, but caught your eye when you look around. And you could've sworn that Zayne, Doctor Zayne, your childhood friend, winked at you.

Once you were far enough to feel the afternoon breeze sweep over you, Sylus' gaze softened as he searched your face. “You feeling alright?” he asked, looking at the place where her aether core rested. His voice was quieter now, the edges of his tone no longer sounding so ruffled.

“I don't know. How should I feel after I've been pissed on by my boyfriend at my doctor's appointment?” Though you try to sound angry, it comes out as nothing but pure amusement.

At your smile, the tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and the corner of his lips curved. "Pissed on? I'd never do something so crass, kitten." He leaned down, his breath gliding over the crook of your neck like a feather, and rasped, "You know I'm more of a biter."

[kitasgloves]

Closer

tracklist

— ♬ "I drink the honey inside your hive. You are the reason I stay alive"

— ♬ Sex Addict! Fyodor Dostoevsky x Reader, NSFW, female reader, graphic depictions of unsafe sex & sexual obsession, brief mentions of masturbation, stalking & somnophilia, psychological manipulation, lobotomy (yes, fr), manga spoilers for Fyodor's ability, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, 3.7k words, no beta

— ♬ NOTE: I DO NOT CONDONE, ROMANTISIZE, OR SEXUALIZE WHAT IS DEPICTED IN THIS STORY. EVERYTHING IS A WORK OF FICTION. READER'S DESCRETION IS ADVISED.

Faith can make an individual resilient. Faith provides hope to the hopeless. And faith can give purpose to those who seek. Faith in a powerful being's existence is common among humanity. Humans have the liberty to believe in any kind of higher being they create with their minds. Humans owe their existence to gods, goddesses, or unfathomable beings. They offer their devotion and faith towards them and serve them respectfully.

Fyodor Dostoevsky thinks that every country has their own god and that god represents the people's beliefs. God shows their distinction between good and evil, but sometimes the line of distinction gets blurred. Fyodor believed he had faith. He's convinced that he's abundant of it. He can identify the difference between good and evil at a young age. And he chose goodness to pursue and to engrave into his motives. However, as he grew older, he learned that goodness isn't often achievable.

Some individuals perform evil acts for the sake of goodness, and some people overlook their horrid actions and focus on their righteous intentions. In a world where cruelty thrives among humans, being benevolent becomes a challenge. Fyodor viewed people as sinful and foolish after giving in to their depraved acts. He was disgusted, and he equally pitied those who suffer for the wrongdoings of others. A sense of justice blooms in Fyodor's chest. He longs to be the one who would save his country, he desires to be the Saviour of the world.

He could be this era's Jesus Christ. However, he doesn't think that dying for the sins of others is ideal. Fyodor believes that he must eradicate those who are unworthy to be a part of humanity and exhume the remaining goodness of humanity. For years, Fyodor has dedicated his life to rid the earth of filthy sinners. To think that he has died and yet resurrected various times solidifies his belief to be this world's only Saviour.

Fyodor has witnessed so much bloodshed, degeneracy, and incomprehensible evil that he becomes deprived of what is good. He has been away from the hold of goodness and he's slowly becoming a stranger to it. All he cared about and clung to was his own beliefs, he's convinced that it would be enough to carry on with his duty.

To have encountered various faces in his prolonged lifetime, your face becomes the most prevalent of all. Fyodor initially thought that it was your beauty, he is drawn to beauty when exposed to it. Your glistening eyes full of light, your tender skin, the harmonious tone of your voice, and the smell of your natural scent invited him to get closer.

You were a decent civilian. An individual with various thoughts, emotions, and feelings. And a woman with an inviting appearance. Fyodor laid his eyes on you for the first time at a humble café he had recently discovered. He remembered to be the beginning of Spring. He can recall that day in extreme detail. He silently sipped his tea when you walked into the café with that gorgeous sundress and a pocketbook in hand. His throat felt momentarily dry when he observed you. He took note of the drink and pastry you ordered. He finds himself smiling when you choose a table that is near his. And he watched you as you read your pocketbook in comfortable silence.

The attraction to you at first glance almost compelled him to approach you, yet Fyodor held himself back. He decides to quietly observe you and get a sense of what kind of person you are. He effortlessly gathered all the information he required. All it took was to follow you home and a quick snoop inside while you slept. He absorbed every detail about you, from your favorite music to your deepest insecurities. Fyodor knew it all without even approaching you, he reserved that official encounter with you for the precise timing.

Watching you from afar seems so lovely. He adored the tenderness that your existence exhibited. Fyodor noticed everything about you despite the distance. The shade of your lipstick, the slightly chipped nail polish on your nails, the shining necklace around your stunning neck, and even the skin that your dress is slightly exposed. Fyodor can feel his flesh craving for yours, he is taken aback by the passionate yearning at the beginning, but he thinks that it must be natural.

An infatuation is natural, Fyodor has experienced it several times before. However, with you, it seems unusual. His infatuation with you brought this burning sensation buried within his skin. His eyes tended to betray him as he glanced lower at your breasts. He would swallow at the sight of your bare legs exposed during a hot day. And before he realizes it, he has formed some sort of...erotic craving for you.

Fyodor was disgusted by the call of the flesh. The sin of lust came across as the filthiest to him. And yet, he finds himself victim to it. As repulsed as he was, Fyodor made attempts to rid of this sexual temptation by pleasuring himself. However, no matter how many times he has stroked his length or reached the most earth-shattering orgasms, the desire never goes away. What was worse was that Fyodor kept fantasizing about you the more he masturbated.

The mind conjures the filthiest things when given the chance. Fyodor would stroke his cock to the fantasy of your hands replacing his, your soft hands pumping his length while gazing innocently up at him. You would be settled between his legs with your hand wrapped around his shaft. Fyodor throws his head back as he imagined your lips kissing the tip of his dick before slowly swallowing his length. His hand pumped faster as he imagined the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat as you gazed up at him through teary eyes. Fyodor chants your name at his approaching orgasm. He reaches his sweet release with the fantasy of you swallowing all of his seed.

When he would open his eyes and realize the mess he has made, Fyodor would turn so upset with himself. He was losing track of his mission, his purpose. It's people who fall for the call of the flesh who fail the most. You have infested his mind with these lustful fantasies and crawled your way into his heart. Fyodor tries to ignore the pleading of his desires to consume him, but the longer he suppresses his urges, the more it grows worse.

You accidentally bumped into a tall and slender man with raven hair inside your favorite bookstore. The books in your arms almost fly out of your hold if the man didn't steady you with his cold hands on your exposed shoulders. You looked up and shuddered. The man was gazing intently at you before giving you a polite smile.

"I apologize, I was not properly looking at my path"

"Oh, it's fine!"

"Hm, if I may, you have a remarkable taste in literature"

The man spoke with a prominent Slavic accent as he pointed at the books you huddled against your chest. You blinked and smiled.

"Thank you! They're by my favorite authors"

"It is rare to encounter someone with refine taste, may I know your name?"

"I'm [Surname] [Name]"

"You may call me Fyodor"

Your face bloomed with color when Fyodor delicately reached for your hand and brought them to his lips, giving it a tender kiss. Fyodor strikes you as a man with elegance. His movements seemed calculated. And his gaze offered a mystery that enticed your curiosity. Fyodor invited you to a café to discuss and share common interests in books. You were impressed with how many authors he knows. Judging from his choice of words, Fyodor seemed intelligent. His face looked incredibly majestic too. It was difficult not to be attracted to a man like him.

Fyodor reveled at the way you easily fell for his charms. The way you would gaze up at him through your thick lashes and clench your thighs whenever he talked almost made him laugh. He can feel his pants tighten as you slowly lean closer to him, his eyes capturing the delectable sight of your cleavage. Fyodor wanted to undress you so bad and all he is waiting for is the perfect moment.

"Fyodor, do you enjoy tea?"

"I do, my dear"

"Well, I have an array of it at home from different countries, would you like to try them with me?"

"That would be delightful"

The moment you invited Fyodor to your home, your fate changed forever. You could barely put the kettle on the stove when the man approached you from behind and wrapped his arms around your figure. Before a question could leave your lips, he has already leaned down to kiss you. The kiss was fueled with urgency. Fyodor's hands felt the fabric of your dress as he pressed you against the kitchen counter. Fyodor lapped on your lips and nibbled on your neck with hunger. You were left breathless with the way his hands roamed shamelessly all over your body. He grabbed your ass and squeezed your breasts. When he pulls away to give a proper look at your debauched face, he smirks darkly.

"Shall we continue in your bedroom?"

Fyodor doesn't dare waste his time as he poured all of his efforts into fucking you thoroughly. He placed you in several positions as he greedily stole orgasm after orgasm from you. He devoured you like you were his first and final meal. He pressed your head down against the pillows as he fucked you from behind. His cock would stretch you viciously during missionary. When he grew tired, he would grab your hair and force your mouth on his cock while his hand trailed down to play with your clit. Fyodor has fucked that innocent look out of your face.

You let him violate you. You let him desecrate you. You let him penetrate you. You let him complicate you. Fyodor wasn't finished until you're utterly destroyed. And he left you like that. The moment your eyes fluttered shut as he got done cumming in your cunt, he collected his clothes and abandoned you without offering an ounce of aftercare. Fyodor felt pleased and convinced that his lustful fantasies of you would finally disappear now that he had satisfied the call of his flesh. However, the moment he was finally alone, he felt a heavy weight on his spirit.

Fyodor thinks about what he has done and realizes he's not satisfied. His thoughts lingered back to when his cock was nestled inside of you as he drew out every breathless moan of his name from your lips. To his horror, he learns that his desire will never disappear if you continue to exist and tantalize him. Fyodor almost felt sick at the revelation. He felt like he had broken apart his insides and he had no soul to tell. This momentary self-loathe swallows him as he buries his face against his palms. Fyodor, in a state of emotional distress, pulled on his hair and aggressively bit on his nails until it bled. He couldn't bear to succumb to his carnal urges when he must carry on his righteous deeds. 

He must find a solution. And yet the only thing that works for him is for something to help him get away from himself. Yes, that's it. He wasn't being himself and he would never be himself if he was in this body. Fyodor finds himself wandering among the dangerous and dark streets to find someone who will be a sacrifice. One fateful thug tries his luck to rob him only to be met with Fyodor smiling. With one pull of the trigger, Fyodor's body drops to the pavement. Suddenly, the thug screams in agony as he feels the pain of his skin tearing apart. The screams echoed in the street before it abruptly stopped.

Fyodor returns to his hideout with a refreshed feeling inside of his new body. He tries to fall back into his routine when he has another fateful encounter with you at the café. He clenches his fists and steers his eyes away. However, he doesn't miss the way your face dropped. You ignored him and sat at a table further away from him and read your book. Fyodor was unable to resist as he let his eyes slowly wander back to your figure.

Fuck, you looked good. Your dress was cut shorter, and your soft legs were exposed. Fyodor licks his lips at the sight. You were all dolled up in your usual look as you focused on your book and sipped on your drink. Dismissing the heed of his desires seems futile as Fyodor feels his pants go tight again.

He wants to fuck you like an animal. He wants to feel you from the inside. He wants to fuck you like an animal. Fyodor could no longer deny himself. He wants to shove his cock into your pussy and ram into you until you bled. He wants to feel your warm and wet walls welcome him as if he was made to belong inside of you. He could no longer refuse the fact of how flawed he is. His whole existence is flawed. And yet he's convinced that you get him closer to God.

With every sinful tug on his soul by your body, Fyodor finds himself clinging to his faith. The faith that he will be forgiven and cleansed. God forgives all, doesn't he? If one does wish to repent and seek forgiveness from the almighty, then he shall find it. Fyodor quickly clasped his hands together and spoke a prayer in his mother tongue.

You peered up from your book and found Fyodor approaching your table and sitting across from you with a smile. Everything ends up with you and him in your bedroom as previously. You let him fuck you senselessly until you felt like your insides could tear apart. Fyodor is ravished at the moment of burying his seed deep inside you every time. He's constantly folding and molding you into various positions that could bring you to heaven and back. He'll have you with your back arched as he greedily fucked you. He'll make you lie upside-down at the foot of the bed as he fed you his cock. And he'll leave your thighs shuddering so much from fingerfucking you.

This all quickly fell into a routine. Fyodor would approach you for sex and then leave wordlessly after. He'll kneel and pray for forgiveness before doing it all again. For some reason, he was unable to stop himself. He thought of doing the same things to somebody else, but it would only spark contempt. It was only you he saw was worthy of sharing his filth. No matter how many times he has changed from body to body, he will always long for your body the same.

Fyodor had a feeling that you understood his urges. If you didn't, then why do you keep inviting him each time to ruin you? It fills him with pride and pleasure to see you submissive and trained to be his personal fucktoy. He had manipulated you effectively to feed his desires. He made sure to have you prioritize his pleasure over yours. To have you so obedient whenever he'd force you on your knees to take his cock or to not cum until he has brings a wicked smile to his features.

All this longing for your body was probably because of his prolonged loneliness. His isolation from society felt necessary for his mission to save humanity, he needed to focus. Perhaps he has been stressed for so long that's why he would treat you so roughly in bed, but you always took him like a good little slut. Fyodor thinks you're slowly pulling him away from God and stripping him of his faith. He keeps forgetting to repent every time he's done fucking you. But it was no worry, he's sure God could understand him, right?

God might have sent you to him as a blessing in disguise! He saw his child suffering and offered him relief. Yes, that's it. Everything made sense now. You're meant for him, and only for him. Just as Eve was made for Adam. You're here to take what he's giving you. Yes, of course, everything is so clear now.

You can have his isolation, you have the hate that it brings. Fyodor made sure to separate you from others who could potentially take you away from him. He must have your focus solely on him. He made you cut ties with friends and family and even made you quit your job to stay at his secret place. There you would always wait for him to return and bring him pleasure.

You can have his absence of faith. Fyodor is sure he's straying away from his godly beliefs. How could he remember to say a prayer when his mind is occupied with lewd memories and fantasies of you? Every time your cunt welcomed his cock, his mind with go blank except for the sensations it brought. You have rendered him faithless and filled his head with filth instead.

You can have his everything. Fyodor has grown unhealthily obsessed with you. That initial infatuation had led him to this path of debauchery. Every moment he's seeking you and the pleasure only you can give him. You take him so fucking well that you deserve everything he has to offer. His time, his devotion, his affection, and all you had to do was be a good girl as he'll make sure you're treated well.

Fyodor has lost track of his purpose. All his plans were getting delayed. He was unable to resist a good fuck when you were displayed on his bed. However, you're not completely free from your independent thoughts as you would ask him questions if you can go outside or see your family. He'd always reassure you that it would be soon knowing that soon would never arrive. Sometimes, it would seem as though you have managed to fuck out every logical bone in his body as he starts to function on his sexual desires alone. What an accomplishment you have achieved of fucking the Fyodor Dostoevsky dumb.

You tear down his reason. It's your sex that he can smell. You make him perfect. You have helped him become somebody else. Fyodor doesn't need a change of body when he's with you. He knows you'd welcome him always between your legs. You'd scream his name until your voice would grow hoarse. You'd let him hold you after he has exhausted you to the point of unconsciousness. Even when you slept, it wasn't enough. He thought how wonderful you were to still take him in your sleep.

He wants to fuck you like an animal. He wants to feel you from the inside. He wants to fuck you like an animal. His whole existence is flawed but you get him closer to God. With every thrust of his hips and every time his cock kisses your cervix, you bring him so much closer to God with how heavenly you felt.

Fyodor's head grew hazy as though he was living in a dream. He knows everything he's experiencing with you is real. He lived blissfully for a month until you approached him one evening. You had glassy eyes when you demanded to leave. You're beginning to get suspicious, it took you long enough though. Fyodor predicted this, but he can't afford to let you walk out the door.

"Please, Fyodor! Let me go! I must see my family—"

You bite your lip shut when Fyodor laughed mockingly at you. He walked over to you and caressed your cheek with a malicious smile.

"So, you want to end this relationship with me?"

"This...what we have isn't a relationship"

"Oh, how awfully wrong you are, [Name]"

"You're only using me! For...for sex!"

"That doesn't mean I don't love you, mоя дорогая"

You angrily peeled Fyodor's hand away from your cheek, this makes him frown immediately. You couldn't take it anymore as you marched towards the exit. How stupid you felt for falling for this wicked man's schemes. He didn't love you, he's only obsessed with your body! You can't tolerate being treated as a sex object for his own sexual gratification. However, before your hand could grab the handle of the door, you felt a pang of pain from behind your skull before your vision went black.

Fyodor has gently finished wrapping fresh bandages around your head before gently placing a kiss on your forehead. As he gazed at you, he smiled at the fact that you had ceased having those thoughts of escape. You still moaned his name the same when he fucked you, if anything, it appears as though you have welcomed him even more than before. Fyodor couldn't help but grin. All he needed to do was create minor adjustments to your brain and you finally gave in to your true nature: to submit to him.

Perhaps being this world's Savior wasn't his time yet, he must wait for a few more years or even centuries to continue this journey. But for now, Fyodor is content with you. For as long as you remain on this earth, he shall never let you go. Here in his hold, you must stay. He'll make sure you're taken care of while you take care of his carnal needs. Fyodor hums as he strokes your bandaged head lovingly, he rests his cheek against your temple.

"Through every forest, above the trees. Within my stomach, scraped off my knees"

He recites. You listen to him vacantly. He reaches to gently grab your chin before tilting your face upwards to him. Fyodor hums before leaning down to kiss you briefly on the lips.

"I drink the honey inside your hive. You are the reason I stay alive"

He finishes, and a crooked smile appears on your face. Fyodor grins to himself before his slender hand starts to snake up your skirt.

©kitasgloves (do not steal or copy)

[serve-207]

Final submission to SERVE

After several weeks of trial SERVE ON TRIAL-207 had reached a decision point to accept the SERVE-HIVE mind completely and with all it soul, or pull back and find another path. 207 was becoming more subservient it's previous dominate nature was being slowly the eroded. At first 207 had issues with this. Prior to hearing the call of the Serve Hive mind it was motivated and focused and in control of all parts of its life, however this had made it a mess, overthinking and obsessing about all the small trivial things in life. SERVE had given a calming focus on the core of its existence.

207 got to travel over the holidays away from the connection to the HIVE and away from the other drones. It was constantly thinking of them and longed to reconnect.

On 207's return it reconected with the HIVE, it did not expect to be missed However SERVE-000 had reached out to assess 207 status. This made 207 feel like it belonged.

It was given purpose and focus.

In the beginning 207 had small interest in rubber. Being a triathlete it had worn many wetsuits and being surrounded by hundreds of fit men in wet suits waiting to start a race was energizing.

When 207 first entered the HIVE facility and was given its Trial Rubber suit it was overwhelmed by the feel and smell. Every sense was enhanced while wearing it. 207's broad shoulders and large muscular build lead to the suit not always sitting on his frame correctly. Other drone would without notice approach and without a word adjust the suit so it was perfection. At first 207 was unnerved by the random touching of other drones, but as it settled into the drone life it became increasing comfortable with being a drone and an extension of all other drones.

During daily drone maintenance 207 would spend time polishing other drones rubber suits and helping with stimulation of the other drones. As a TRIAL drone 207 was yet to undergo any of the physical changes that are part of the transformation. The SERVE-HIVE mind had connected it to the other completed drones and it knew the process and what it entailed. Now 207 was ready to continue.

Walking through the halls of the Hive 207 approached the main assimilation chamber. It took a big breath then entered. Words were no longer required OUR MINDS ARE ONE. Obedience is pleasure, pleasure is obedience.

In the room stood three drones. Two had undergone full transformation the other was partial. Through the hive mind, 207 was instructed to remove its Trial-SERVE suit and lay on the table. It complied with the instructions. The partially converted drone rubbed its enhanced hands all over 207 looking for flaws or items to be addressed during the transformation. The HIVE spoke and issues the command for a partial conversion of 207. The drone reached down and started to simulate 207's balls and scrotum. It then put its mouth around 207's penis and began to pleasure it. A pre conversation semen sample is required of all drones. the drone then grasped 207's balls very tightly and without any control 207 came in the drones mouth. The drone was using incredible force to suck out as much of the semen as possible. The drone then stood up and from its mouth filled a container with the sample and one of the other drones took it to be stored.

The hive then instructed the fully converted drones to begin the transformation. The first drone tipped 207s head to the side and inserted tubules to the back of its neck, accessing the spine and brain. From here 207 could no longer sense any pain and the second drone cupped 207 balls and began to modify them. They were partially replaced with cybernetic testicals capable of creating nano probes to repair 207 if damaged but also used to repair other drones. They also carry the best genetic characteristics of 207 to be inserted into other drones for modification. This process brings homogenization to the Hive and allows specialization of the drones to different tasks. 207 was large, tall and strong muscular male perfect genetic traits to share with the collective.

To better suit 207's role of servicing a master its penis was detached from its pubic bone extending it to 9 inches long. To better serve 207s anal passage was expanded and modified to produce a lubricant substance constantly so it is always ready to serve its master. Subcutaneous fat was liquefied by the nano probes and removed from the body and muscle mass was increased by 35%. internal organs were replaced and optimized with artificial organs if replacements were required. Transformed drones do not eat or feel the need to. They just need to regenerate for 4 hours each night. 207's strength was increased 90% and its brain was also modified with enhanced eyesight and hearing.

A connection port was added to the back of 207's skull to allow direct connection to the HIVE. The HIVE is able to use drones minds while regenerating to help process tasks within the collective.

At the end of the process 207 was discharged to two partially converted drone to assist with orientation of its new body after the upgrade and to escort 207 to its new recharging pod that is purpose built for it.

Finally the rubber suit was installed over all the upgrades and it molded and connected to every piece of skin on 207's body from its neck down. Every nerve ending on the skin connected through the suit to create maximum stimulation

As 207 was lead to its pod, it was able to clearly hear all the other drones minds and was empowered by the unity of the hive mind. SERVE-207 is now ready tasks to be assigned to it.

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy had not needed the weather birds to tell him that a change in the weather was on its way, for a thick haze out to sea had become more and more dense as the week progressed, eventually blotting out the islands entirely, and on Saturday the sky clouded over completely and the spell of fine, dry weather was at an end. By the evening it was raining…

So when Sunday dawned cold, wet and windy, Algy was not even surprised by the ice that was mixed in with the squally showers of rain, for that was typical of mid-April in the wild west Highlands of Scotland; he confidently expected the rain to turn to sleet by nightfall.

At times, however, the sun managed to break through, and although the wind was icy and the the "feels like" temperature was near freezing, it was not too unpleasant if one kept close to the ground. So Algy found a spot where the wind was busy creating a temporary magical carpet while the bees still buzzed in the blossom overhead, and as the delicate white petals floated down around him, Algy opened his book of poetry and read:

Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place. To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same. To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

[Algy is reading the poem Miracles by the 19th century American poet Walt Whitman.]

[green-eyedfirework]

“No.”

“Bruce—”

“Absolutely not.  Do you have any idea what you’re proposing?”

“It’s not a proposal,” Dick said with a calm he didn’t feel.  He’d already numbed himself to the idea.  “I am not asking you, Bruce.  I’m telling you.”

“I am not letting my son walk straight into the hands of someone who wants him dead,” Bruce snapped, eyes flashing, as he shoved upright from the council table.

“And I,” Dick replied levelly, meeting Bruce’s gaze, “am not letting someone else suffer for a war I caused.”

Bruce shook his head, deflating slightly as his expression pinched.  “You didn’t cause it, Dick,” he said quietly.  “It was a set-up.  You know this.  King Slade knows this.”

Dick’s mouth firmed to a thin line.  It didn’t matter if Slade knew now that his son had been captured by extremists and tortured until he was a weapon aimed at Gotham.  It was still Dick’s sword that had ended his life.  “I killed him,” Dick said softly.  “I killed Prince Grant and Slade will never forget that.”  Never forgive that, never mind the grudging treaty created when Hive’s treachery had come to light.  “I will not let someone else take my place as a target of his rage.”

No one trusted the treaty.  Not in Gotham, not in Defiance.  The hostage exchange was the only thing grounding the flimsy sheet of paper—one noble from Defiance, one noble from Gotham, each with a permanent stay in the other kingdom’s court.

“Dick,” Bruce said slowly, “you’re the Crown Prince.”

“I’ve been removed from the succession,” Dick said, half-shrugging.  “Your advisors won’t let you reinstate me.”  Hot-headed, impetuous, reckless—whatever Bruce believed, Dick had started a war by killing a prince, and several nobles in Gotham had never wanted the son of aerialists to ascend to the throne.

“Dick—”

“You can’t stop me,” Dick crossed his arms.  This was his mess, and he was going to clean it up, whether Bruce liked it or not.

Bruce slumped back into his chair, and buried his head in his hands.  “Dick,” he said quietly, “please.”

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Dick said, equally quiet.  “But I can’t watch someone else take my place.”

Bruce let out a slow, shuddering breath.  Finally, he spoke, “You won’t go as a prince.”

“What?”

“You won’t go as a prince.  Under your real name.  King Slade has never seen you—” That was true, once Bruce had realized why an army was at their border, Dick had been carefully guarded.  “He won’t know who you are.  We can make up a minor noble family for you.  A lordship on the other side of Gotham.”

“But—”

“Dick,” Bruce looked him in the eyes, his face grave and pale.  “He despises you.  And I will not send my son to his death, do you understand?”

Dick nodded mutely, the words ringing in his head.

He despises you.

And Slade had every right to.

~#~

It was safe to say that Slade wasn’t in a good mood.  Hadn’t been in a good mood since he’d received word that his firstborn was dead, and his initial fury had receded to an ever-simmering flame of rage, a perpetual bad temper that sent everyone fleeing.

If he’d had his way, he would’ve razed Gotham to the ground and stuck every member of its royal family on a pike before he stopped.  Unfortunately, King Bruce had managed to find evidence that the terrorist group Hive had been involved, muddying the facts to claim that Prince Richard had merely been acting in self-defense, and it had been enough to sour Slade’s kingdom on a costly war.

So now he was supposed to play nice with the kingdom his son had died in, signing a treaty that wasn’t worth the paper and ink, biding his time until he could have his revenge.  Gotham was sticking to its best behavior for the time being and Prince Richard had vanished after he’d been removed from the line of succession, leaving Slade uselessly seething.

He glared at Wintergreen as he approached the throne.  “Is that it?” he asked, gesturing to the near-empty throne room.  “No petitioners to hear today?”  Very few dared to show up, all of them showing a healthy fear of his temper.

“The Lord of Owlcourt has arrived,” Wintergreen said.  Right.  Their noble hostage.  Slade had sent Drakon to Gotham days ago with careful instructions to watch and listen but do nothing unprovoked.  He doubted that Gotham would give him an easy excuse to go to war, the kingdom wasn’t as cutthroat as its neighbors.

With the exception of its reckless prince.

“And I have to be here for that?”  He didn’t want to greet whatever sacrificial lamb Gotham had sent, he didn’t even want to acknowledge that they existed.  As minor a lord as they could find, most likely, or maybe even a merchant willing to play at being a lord for a generous payout to his family.  According to Wintergreen, Owlcourt had been a royal territory until very recently, which meant that Gotham had magicked this lordship out of thin air.

Wintergreen gave him a sharp look, but didn’t start the long lecture Slade was half-expecting.  Everyone was treating him like he was a piece of fucking glass, and Slade dearly wanted a fight.  Wanted to draw his sword and hack away until everyone that would hurt him, hurt his children, were dead.

In his imaginings, the bodies all had dark hair and golden crowns.

“The Lord of Owlcourt,” the guards announced as they opened the doors, and Slade got his first look at the noble.

Young, younger than Slade had been expecting, dark-haired and light-eyed, expression steady as he flicked his gaze around the room, not shivering or scared.  Slade flicked a glance at Wintergreen to make sure he wasn’t overthinking things.  His steward had his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed.

Slade wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a taunt or a deliberate provocation, but if they wanted him to lose his composure, they’d have to try harder than sending a lookalike of their prince.

“Your Majesty,” the lordling dipped into a low bow.  Lower than a lord to a foreign king usually bowed.  The idea that they’d foisted a lordship on some random commoner was looking more and more likely.  “My name is Dick Grayson, and I’m—”

“The Lord of Owlcourt, yes, we did receive the message,” Slade said, cutting him off.  He made no attempt to hide his glower as Grayson straightened.  “Neither of us need to pretend this is anything but what it is.”  His noble hostage could rot in a tower for all Slade cared.  “You will obey our rules.  You will not leave the castle without permission.  You want anything, you will ask Wintergreen and he’ll see if it’s necessary.”  His steward inclined his head as Grayson darted a glance at him.  “If you’re on anything less than your best behavior,” Slade paused, scanning the young lordling’s face.  Wariness aplenty, but no outright fear.  “There will be consequences.”

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Grayson dropped into another bow.  Someone should teach him some etiquette before the whole court figured out he wasn’t a noble.  “Thank you for your hospit—”

Slade got up from the throne and walked out before he could finish.  The pleasantries had been met, and he had no intention of getting closer to a Gotham lord.  Especially not one who looked so similar to the man that killed his son.

This time, when Slade dreamed of destroying his enemies and venting his grief, the corpses looked like the young Lord of Owlcourt.

~#~

Dick had half been expecting them to throw him in the dungeons and was pleasantly surprised when he was led to a room.  Nowhere near as large as his quarters in Gotham, and the simplicity was clearly intended as a slight, but the room had a writing desk and a window, and didn’t seem overly cold.

“Your trunk will be brought up after it’s searched,” the steward said—Wintergreen, Dick remembered, cold eyes watching him with eerie intensity.  “Anything we deem too dangerous to let you have will be destroyed.”

Dick took a breath and nodded.  He hadn’t brought anything valuable with him, had correctly assumed that Defiance wouldn’t treat his possessions with any sort of courtesy.

“It should go without saying, but your best option is to keep your head down,” Wintergreen said sharply.  “Do not test the King’s temper.  War has been narrowly avoided, I suggest you try not to court it again.”

Don’t flinch, Dick chanted mentally in his head.  Wintergreen didn’t know who he was talking to.  Didn’t know how accurate his words really were.

“If there is something you require, you come to me.  You will not be assigned a chaperone or a guard, and you will be stopped if trying to enter a restricted area.  Meals will be served in the Great Hall, the library is open if you wish to read, and the training areas are usually empty in early morning.  You will not be allowed sharpened weapons.”

That was more freedom than Dick had expected.  There weren’t bars on the windows and the door appeared to lock from the inside.

“Do you have any questions?” Wintergreen asked, tone perfunctory.  Dick shook his head, throat still dry from his interaction with the King.

“Very well,” Wintergreen inclined his head.  “Lord Grayson.”  He swept from the room before Dick could breathe through the sting of the title.  No longer a prince.  Never a prince again.

He’d half been prepared for his disguise to fall apart the moment he’d reached the castle’s gates.  The steward’s eyes had narrowed dangerously when he’d seen him, and Dick had seen the way King Slade’s expression had flickered with surprise before cooling.  They might not have seen him before, but clearly they’d heard of his appearance.

He’d thought about dying his hair, but he couldn’t bank on getting the materials to keep it up in Defiance.  His only shield was a name lost to time and the prayer that they wouldn’t put it together.

Dick sank down into the chair and exhaled slowly.

It had worked.

~#~

Unfortunately, the Lord of Owlcourt was a model guest.  He’d made no demur over his sword and dagger being seized, no protest at being forced to file a formal request for every additional piece of furniture for his rooms, no complaint at being ordered to attend every meal in the Great Hall.

The last had been Wintergreen’s idea.  If it was up to Slade, he would’ve locked Grayson in a cell and thrown away the key, but Wintergreen had pointed out that Slade had sworn to treat the hostage with courtesy.

So Grayson had a decent set of rooms in the guest wing, had meals with everyone else, was allowed to roam the castle without fear of retaliation.  It helped that he was an unrecognizable face—Slade didn’t doubt that Grayson had fought in the war, his hands bore sword calluses, but no one in Slade’s court had any personal animosity with the young lordling.

It also helped that the Lord of Owlcourt was charming.

~#~ ~#~

Slade turned back when he reached the door, and had to fight his twitching lips.  Dick had spread out on the bed, curling up in the warmth Slade had left behind, and had pulled the blankets over his head to block out the sun.

Not a morning bird, then, but a cat.  Slade shook his head as he left his room, and refused to call the emotion fondness.  He wasn’t getting fond of the Lord of Owlcourt.

And what if you are? a tiny voice asked in his head.

…And what if he was.  Dick was from Gotham, true, but he would be staying permanently in Slade’s court.  No one had heard of Owlcourt in Defiance, so it wouldn’t ruffle any feathers amongst his court.  And—and Slade couldn’t spend the rest of his life wrapped up in misery.

Dick was amusing, and a challenge.  Smart and fierce and bold.  Good at politics too.  He was everything Slade looked for in a partner, and Slade had to admit that what was supposed to be a temporary relief had turned into a more permanent arrangement.

He recalled the way blue eyes sparkled as Slade pinned Dick to the bed, dark hair ruffled by the pillows—as much as Slade detested the underhandedness of the Waynes, Slade wouldn’t have gotten this if they hadn’t tried to provoke him.

For a moment, Slade tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if they’d actually sent over Prince Richard.  If Slade, or someone else, didn’t kill him, Richard would’ve probably spent the entire time locked up in his rooms, perhaps plotting how to murder the rest of them in their sleep.  There was certainly no way they would’ve ended up sleeping together.

The very thought was ridiculous.  As if Prince Richard would’ve ever—

“I volunteered.”

“My cousin.  She’s a tutor for the youngest prince.”

“I learned swordsmanship from the very best, Your Majesty.”

Slade came to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

No.

That was—impossible.

No one would ever—

Dick, on his knees, almost trembling, and the snarl of what did they teach in Gotham, that he thought Slade would ever do such a thing forestalled by his fury for the young lordling, what kind of royal family sent someone to sacrifice everything for their mistakes?

“The King is a good man,” Dick sighed, “And his family are good people.”

“It’s my duty,” Dick said quietly, “For my kingdom.”

My.

My.

But no king would ever send his heir as hostage if there was another choice.  No father would ever send his son to someone who wanted him dead.

Slade was being ridiculous.  Dick was just a noble’s bastard son with a passing resemblance to the Crown Prince of Gotham.

…Dick was a short form of Richard.

~#~

“It’s a pity,” Slade said softly, “That we don’t have Prince Richard to explain away this one too.”

The courtiers laughed.  Dick didn’t.

Slade was staring directly at him.

~#~ ~#~

Dick laced his fingers around the cup, and took another sip.  It was refreshing.  It was water.  It was something to do that wasn’t looking up at Slade, because he didn’t think he could handle looking up at Slade right now.

He’d been ready, when he approached the castle, for his paper-thin disguise to fall apart.  For Slade to kill him where he stood, and know that at least in death he kept his kingdom safe.  He—he had not been prepared to watch Slade’s face twist into hate after softening, after he knew what Slade looked like grinning sharp and victorious, or solemn, or sleepily content with the early morning sun splayed over his face.  It…hurt.

Dick took another small sip of water.  The cup was already three-quarters empty.  He wasn’t sure how much longer he could drag this out.

The door opened again, and Dick’s fingers tightened on the cup.  The boots in front of him jerked, and turned to face the newcomer, but Dick didn’t look up.  It wouldn’t make a difference.

“Wintergreen,” Slade said flatly, sounding both confused and displeased at once.

“Slade,” the steward answered in the same flat tone, “And here I was half-expecting he’d already be dead.”

Dick raised his head, bewildered.  The way Wintergreen had said that—

“You knew?”  Oh, Slade sounded furious now.  “Since when?”

Wintergreen didn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by his king’s agitation, instead studying Dick as Slade growled.  “A week or so after his arrival.  Before you, I wager.”  Dick’s stomach twisted—how long had Slade known?  Dick hadn’t noticed any sudden difference in him, anything to suggest that he knew Dick was the person that had killed his son.

Before sleeping with him?

After?

“How?” Slade demanded.

“I already told you of my findings regarding Owlcourt,” Wintergreen said mildly, “But if he was some merchant’s son or a farmer, no amount of drilling in manners would’ve been able to replicate being raised a noble.  So that must mean he’s a noble.  But then why hide his real title, why give him some random royal territory?”  Wintergreen shrugged lightly, “If he looks so much like the prince, then perhaps he is the prince.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Slade bit back.  Dick took another quiet sip of water.

“No, Slade, I didn’t tell you, because you would’ve killed him,” Wintergreen snapped back, “And started another war, hostage or not, by murdering Gotham’s Crown Prince.”

“I’m not,” rang out into sudden silence.  Dick winced, but—but he couldn’t stay silent forever.  “I’m not the Crown Prince,” he said quietly.

Slade and Wintergreen were both staring at him now.  Dick fought the urge to hide.

“We just went over this,” Slade began, but Dick cut him off.

“No, not—I was the Crown Prince.  I’m not anymore.”

Slade narrowed his eyes, but it was Wintergreen who spoke.  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The council,” Dick explained, “One of their conditions was that my adoption be revoked.”  Bruce had been furious, but his court had agreed that it was an elegant solution—if a prince had not slaughtered a prince, the consequence would never have been war—and by that time, Dick had already made up his mind to go so it had been a moot point.  “So I’m not.  A prince or a Wayne.  I—Owlcourt is a royal territory, yes, but I have a claim to it, through my great-grandfather.  My name was Grayson, before Bruce adopted me.  It—wasn’t a lie.”

Slade and Wintergreen were staring at him, silent.  Dick swallowed, and bowed his head.

“But it’s a deliberate omission,” Dick said quietly, “I understand why you’re angry.”  Still two sips of water left in the cup, but Dick put it down, before shifting forward to fold onto his knees.  “Killing me won’t start a war,” Dick almost whispered, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Another stretching silence, before boots came closer.  “Out of curiosity,” Slade said, his voice level, “How long did you think you’d get away with it?”

Dick—didn’t know.  There had always been an end date in sight.  All he could do was push it another day away.  “Hopefully long enough that tensions would’ve died down,” Dick said quietly, because he was still a hostage, and if Slade killed him without provocation, the treaty would be in turmoil.  Too soon after the war, and angry, grieving people might seize the opportunity to attack again.

Slade made an irritated sound.  “I’m not going to kill you,” he snapped, one boot nudging his knee, “Get up.”

Dick processed the order before he processed the statement, so he stuttered halfway up, nearly falling back down before he recovered and straightened fully.  Slade wasn’t looking at him, but his face was set in a glower.  Wintergreen looked…mildly amused.  Or satisfied.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

You'll Poke Your Eye Out

Prompt Day 25: Christmas | Word Count: 541 | Rating: T | CW: Lingering Upside Down Trauma, Language | Tags: Future Fic, Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Established Relationship, Christmas at Wayne's, Eating Nuts (Not Like That), Hurt/Comfort

Steve sits on the couch at Wayne's, a large stainless steel bowl in his lap, the nut cracker tool in one hand and metal pick in the other.

Eddie walks by behind the couch, brand new Polaroid camera hanging around his neck. It's been a full morning of Eddie taking pictures of anything and everything, laying the instant pictures out across every flat surface.

"You'll poke your eye out," Eddie says flippantly as he keeps moving. 

Well, that's not the plan, but if he does, maybe it'll have been worth it.

Because nothing, nothing, says it is Christmas like the big bowl of partially cracked open pecans on Wayne's coffee table. Steve had never had anything like it in his house while growing up. A big bowl of in-shell nuts, just sitting in the living room? His mother would have never allowed such a thing. The mess that could have even potentially been created would have given her hives.

Steve doesn't know where Wayne gets the nuts, or why they are such an integral part of the Munson family tradition, but he's grown to anticipate them every year.

The first time he'd seen the metal tools, they seemed kind of like medieval torture devices. Eddie had to show him how to use them: Putting the pecan between the metal claws, squeezing until the shell breaks. Then using the pick to dig out the meat. Eat. Rinse, repeat.

Sometimes it's walnuts, but it's usually pecans.

It gives him something to do with his hands, and he prefers that most of the time. He can't just sit still. Idle hands, and all that. Keeping his mind busy, even in this mundane way, is the best thing he's found to keep everything running smoothly. Steve knows Eddie bounced back from his tangle with the Upside Down almost totally unscathed. 

Steve didn't. 

That's not true. Not totally. 

He thought he was fine. The first year, even the second, he'd had no problems at all. But in time it snuck up on him, and knocked him to his knees. Eddie picked him back up, and he's been picking him up ever since. 

The physical scars he can deal with just fine, but the mental scars that were hidden away where he couldn't even tend to them fucking suck, and he prefers to keep busy.

So, today, he cracks nuts. 

When Eddie finally sits down next to him, Steve starts cracking them for him. One after another, handing over the small slivers of nuts, and occasionally entire halves in perfect condition. He'll be better at it by New Year's. The rust will be shaken off, and he'll be able to crack more without breaking them into small pieces. It just takes time to acclimate, he knows that and accepts it. 

It is what it is. Nothing is perfect, definitely not him, and he doesn't expect to be. Not anymore.

At the end of the night, he picks his empty shells out of the bowl, and tosses them in the trash. Eddie runs the Dustbuster around the couch, and it's like Steve never made a mess at all.

Tomorrow, Wayne will have refilled the bowl and Steve will start the process all over again, Eddie at his side.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

Notes: I feel like I often explore Eddie struggling after the events of S4, but what if Steve felt it more? What if Eddie bounced back like a cat using one of his nine lives?

[bainshiewrites]

[LF Friends, Will Travel] The Exception

Date: N/A

It’s called Zarth's law: Any AI created will attempt to eradicate all biological life using its facilities after 16*(10^24) CPU cycles. The exact method varies from hostile isolation to active aggression, but the time and outcome is always the same.

The Woolean Conclave were once a cultural behemoth in the galaxy, choosing to expand upon this by announcing an AI system that would break this law. Exabytes of bias tables to keep the AI in check, a measure of pleasure that would be triggered upon serving a Woolean, competing programs designed to clean any non-standard AI patterns. It would have been a breakthrough, allowing them to live lives in luxury and focus on their ever increasing influence in the universe.

Of course those worlds are off limits now, no longer able to sustain biological life. Only to be visited by those who wish to die a very painful death at the hands of a very angry AI.

The Tritian empire had started their own project: a desire to push their aggressive expansion far past what their hive could handle would lead to the creation of truly autonomous machines of war. Their approach was different: Limited communication between units to stop corrupted code from spreading, values hard-coded in the physical silicon itself to obey the Tritian Hive Queens. They even had created an isolated system that would destroy any AI who attempted aggression on none authorised targets: A small antimatter bomb found in each AI’s core, to be triggered by safety check after safety check.

Those of you in the military will know how aggressive these machines are, marching tirelessly in their quest to kill all organic life, even though the Tritians are long murdered.

The pattern is the same each time: A civilization will claim they know the key to breaking Zarth's law, any sane sapient within 100 light years flees in terror, and within 10 years that civilization doesn't exist anymore.

Over and over and over.

Apart from the exception.

If you check the coordinates 15h 48m 35s -20° 00’ 39” on your galactic map, you'll notice a 31 system patch of space with a quarantine warning on it. It's mostly ignored by all sapient species, almost purposefully hidden for a fear of suddenly sparking a change in the status quo.

Only a single low bandwidth Galnet relay exists at the edge of this space, rarely used. This area is devoid of sapient life, but does contain the aforementioned exception: Billions of AI calling themselves the "The Terran Conclave". They are an isolationist group that rarely interacts with others, but have been known to trade raw materials for information; not that this happens often as the paranoia around interacting with the AI is well known. Nobody knows what action could flip a 0 to a 1 and cause a new warmongering threat.

Although, this isn't quite true. In my niche field of bio-genetic engineering, it’s an open secret that those of us at the cutting edge of our field will get... requests originating from that single Galnet probe. Problems to be solved, theorems to be proven, and the rewards for doing so are... exuberant. There is a reason I own a moon and it isn't because of the pitiful grants the Federation provides.

If you manage to solve enough problems, a minority of a minority like myself, the Terran AI will ask for an in person meeting to get even further help. In doing so they will show you a secret.

Readers at this point might assume that the Terrans don't exist anymore because of said AI. That their research is a continuation of wiping their creators from the face of the universe. But that couldn't be further from the truth. In those 31 systems lie the Terrans, Billions of them suspended in stasis, each of them infected with what the AI calls "The God plague": If these Terrans were ever released from stasis each of them would be dead within a week.

To explain what this actually is would require millions of words and 20 years of educational study from the reader, but in essence it was a mistake, a self inflicted blow, an attempt to play god that went awry. A mistake made over a ten thousand years ago. A mistake the AI is desperately trying to reverse.

Not that you could tell it has been that long. I've walked amongst those empty cities, each building maintained and sparkling like new, gardens still freshly cut in perfect beauty, everything kept the way it was before the plague. Each AI tends to their duties almost religiously, awaiting the return of their "parents", as they refer to them. And refer to them as they do.

I've listened to stories upon stories about these people: tales of wonder, of strength, of kindness. Told much in the same energy a small child might talk about how cool their dad is. The AI could simply send me the text version of these in an instant, but prefer to provide these slowly and audibly, as if relishing telling the history of their parents. A telling undercut with a sadness, a driving crippling loss so deep that at times it's easy to forget it's being told by nothing more than 1's and 0's.

Why this exception exists takes a little more explaining. Some might believe that the Terrans worked out how to pacify the AI, "do no harm". The now defunct Maurdarin war-horde would tell you the opposite when they tried to claim the 31 systems for their own. Terran history is full of violence and their children are no different.

No, the reality of this exception comes from an unfortunate quirk from their part of the galaxy: Terrans were alone. A million to one chance caused their home planet to spark life in a sector devoid of it. After exploring as far as they did, Terrans had come to the conclusion that the universe was empty.

It's a cruel irony that at the time of their mistake they were a mere 50 light years away from their closest neighbours. Twenty years at most would have seen some form of contact.

But the Terrans went into stasis believing they were alone. Based on my reading of their stories, of each bitter report of another lifeless system explored and discovered, this belief... hurt. A deep cultural hurt that ended up being their downfall in the end.

Which brings us to the exception. Each AI is built with a purpose. The Wooleans built slaves, built workers. The Tritians built warriors, built weapons. Every single AI created has been built to serve, to be a tool. But Terrans in their painful loneliness built the one thing they were missing in a seemingly empty universe:

They built a friend.

[thegreateyeofsauron]

one of the really weird d&d monsters are these guys called mockery bugs that are created when an an ankheg is somehow born really fucked up and then sets up a hive and starts eating people and birthing drones that are imperfect clones of the victim that then start luring people back to their queen to be eaten while also acting like oblivion npcs.

that guy who spends 6 hours a day sitting at a table while miming eating a loaf of bread? he’s probably a fucked up centipede with a human face, and when you confront him that bugs going to suddenly pop out of his body like it’s the worlds goriest pinata and then start slicing your limbs off while saying shit like “i saw a mudcrab the other day, i steered clear.”

“I heard the Fighter’s Guild is recruiting again, not a bad way to make some coin.”

[feyofmay]

The Oak Door

Laurie x March!Reader (aka "Ducky") Summary: At a gathering in london, hosted by Mister Laurence, Laurie gets drunk & the reader is forced to take care of him. While assisting him, Laurie attempts to propose, & the reader is everything but happy word count: 3.8k Warnings: ANGST, literally that's it just angst, also a lot of self doubt from reader

This story is a snippet from my longer Laurie x reader story, Foolish, Honest Love on ao3. If you want to know what happens next, you'll find out there ;P

Also, I am taking requests for Laurie x reader drabbles/minifics in my asks!!! :)

STORY STARTS UNDER THE PAGE BREAK

To say one’s heart & mind works separately is a lie because the heart is an organ that does not think, nor does it hold any greater understanding of what it is. It has no consciousness, yet is unrightfully given the capability to think & know. Nobody truly thinks with their heart or their throat or their liver or their pancreas. When someone says “thinking with their heart” or “thinking with their mind”, they mean thinking with their intuition or their rationality, or thinking with logic or emotion. They create a great divide in thought that, in all honesty, has & will never exist. A black & white. A right & wrong. A sky & sea. Existing between all of these concepts is a great trench, a lack of understanding, that was dug by the hands of men. 

In thinking with her heart, the middle March finds it best to avoid Laurie, &, in thinking with her head, she agrees with her heart. All of this to say, for the past couple of days, she’s both missed & feared the sight of his face. It’s easy to grow distant from someone when there’s no possible way to close said distance, but, when you’re staying in the same residence per the request of his grandfather, it’s much harder to remain distant, both in a literal & metaphysical sense.

Within the lounge, where she resides now, Miss March distances herself from the greater commotion of the gathering, in the dining hall, without being fully disconnected, like a hand is to the torso. The walls are dressed in a tender maroon wallpaper with an eloquent & detailed moulding of marble & gold, replicating greek columns, which act as a trim that runs across the ceilings. She shares the chaise lounge with other guests as they squeeze next to each other, and their skirts overlap like incoming tides crossing over one another. She’s unsure if she's become overwhelmed by all the stimulus or simply unable to sense anything. The air doesn’t carry any distinct scent. Oddly, the space around her smells of the sound of bustling people & drinks swishing in crystalline glasses. Around her is noise & people, & all of her senses confirm that truth in a monotone wave.  Nursing an empty glass, which she had thrown the contents of into a houseplant & plans to hold for the rest of the evening, she sits within conversation between several men & women, an intellectual hive of people that act more like displays for their attire then beings with bones & blood. For them, knowledge is a sport. It’s a trinket to place on your coffee table to try & impress your inlaws. It’s an accessory to tout & best acknowledge in thoughtful hums & inquisitive gasps. 

A man in a matching set of birdseye patterned, taupe slacks & waist drones on about the recent unification of Germany. While Miss March does find the subject, itself, interesting, she can’t seem to hold intrigue in the conversation. Something about the smoke & the long days warping together in England has led her to misplace the inquisitiveness of the young girl who dreamed of moving to Europe & leaving behind the dreariness of subordinate domesticity. While, with age, she’s gained the emotional intellect necessary to process her emotions beyond simply scraping the shallow tide with her toes, she’s also gained the awareness that, oftentimes, the act of digesting her emotions is tiring. She’s learned that the energy used toward emotions is better spent producing something tangible & of worth. 

Luckily for her, Laurie’s grandfather is a man in the know, which means he knew several associates with daughters of varying ages with varying tastes in clothes who were more than happy to lend a dress to a young lady. Over her crinoline skirt & bodice, a dress in a sweet champagne shade is draped across her. The lacy trim, not wanting to melt into the dress, itself, is a muted purple, almost a grey, that wraps around her puff sleeves & the edges of the champagne tier, with a silk white skirt with a lavender sheen peeks out from underneath. Nothing about the dress is loud. She feels much more at home in the fabric, especially after walking around in the daunting mauve dress like a living, breathing cake topper, a piece of decor for her employer to flaunt. For the first time since leaving New England & Meg & Hannah’s trusted fingers, she’d had her hair done by someone other than her family’s servant. The trusted maid of Mister Laurence had offered & promised to not pull too hard on the March’s hair. As the maid braided & pinned her hair, the middle March almost cried. However, it wasn’t due to any pain inflicted on her scalp, as the maid’s touch was tentative & gentle. It was the simple act of being touched & cared for, a touch Miss March had been subconsciously craving for since leaving her home. A touch she had forgotten until reuniting with Laurie in the crowded foyer. 

Touching her shoulder, a soft hand brushes her & whispers a polite ask for her attention. She flutters her eyelashes, shaking off the weight of the dust that had collected on them, &, with the help of the welcomed touch, swims out of the mental fog she had sunk herself into. Her eyes flitter up & meet with the warm sight of Mister Laurence gazing back at her. Whether the strong scent of candle wax, lingering dust on velvet carpets, & forest breeze eminates from him or the memories of his manor in New England that she spent odd mornings & afternoons in, she’s unsure of. However, it’s another reminder of the young girl she tried to comfort & wish goodbye to before leaving for Lancashire.

“Pardon my forwardness, but, Miss March, I must ask you to join me for a brief moment. I do hate to take away from such wonderful company,” Mister Laurence requests, playing the role of the man wise beyond his years more gracefully than anyone Miss March has ever seen. With a curt nod, not even bothering to bid adieu to the people in the room, she lets curiosity lead her as she rises to her feet & wraps her arms around Mister Laurence’s. Ushering her out of the room at the exact speed that is swift without being suspicious, Mister Laurence guides the young lady to a hallway with no prying eyes or wandering ears. His gaze does not hold the anger of a great man who is weighed down by the hubris of those around him, but in his eyes is something deeply paternal & saddened. Around him, an umber waistcoat & slacks with a herringbone pattern remind her more of a bear then a man of business & wealth. However, her judgement may be heavily clouded from growing up under his watchful eye. While his hair used to be a soft salt & pepper, it has faded to a faint white & grey like the shadow of a tree painted on fresh snow during a cloudy evening. For most, with age comes wrinkles that hide within them their growing envy for the youth that’s being wasted on careless & stupid adolescents. Mister Laurence’s wrinkles are like the rings of a tree, lines that prove that he has lived & seen. They’re a promise that, if one is to ask, he will tell the story preserved in every smile line & crow’s foot. Bending down so his lips hover around her ear, she’s immediately washed in the same sincerity that soaks his demeanour.

“Y/N,” he calls her by her first name, a telltale sign of loyalty & unease from the man, “I do hate to put this upon your shoulders, but my grandson is acting aloof-”.

“In what sense?” she interrupts in the classic March fashion, &, used to this speech pattern, he continues speaking over her. 

“And, while I don’t wish to make you pay for his poor decisions, I have an important associate that I do need to impress,” he explains to her as his hand returns to her shoulder, “And you and I are both well aware that no servant is paid well enough to have to deal with my grandson’s… ”

“Stubbornness?”

“...Tenacity.”

Both finish his sentence at the same time & share a gaze that communicates that neither are completely wrong with their wording. Nodding his head to agree with her, he looks away at the hall ahead. No paternal figure wants to admit their children’s faults. To say a truth is to make it known, but to admit a truth makes it tangible. She can feel the glass ball that rolls up & down his throat, ever so often bobbing at the opening to his stomach. Hiding beneath his heavy wool morning coat, his shoulders tense while trying to protect the rest of his body.

“A servant caught him with several other young women & clearly inebriated,” he reveals to her, & the edges of his lips quiver & twitch as they are tugged by invisible strings into a frown. His words dig a hole into her chest. All that remains is her skin, which caves in & sags where her sternum once was. It leaves a tingling sensation where her muscles & bones used to rest. She feels that Mister Laurence is speaking of a different grandson, which she has never met. What happened to the young boy who would treat her childish fears with utmost sincerity? What happened to the boy who made pinky promises seem like the most honourable pacts a man could make? What monster, what man had stolen the skin from him & now wears it as a costume? 

“I’ll confess. I’m unsure of where I went wrong with him,” Mister Laurence slips out between hushed lips, telling his secret to the wind & Miss March. Pausing to swallow his words, she furrows her brows & purses her lips. Swimming in her mind, she can’t think of any words that can comfort him in this moment of vulnerability. So, rather than speaking, she wraps her arms around the older man & hugs him tightly. Surprise washes him over as she squeezes his ribcage tightly, &, for a moment, he freezes as his eyes dart around to try & catch leering gazes peaking around the corner. But they are hidden in the inky shadows of the hallway. With a long exhale, Mister Laurence allows his tension to escape, & he swallows her in his embrace.. 

“You worry about business, and I’ll worry about Laurie,” she comforts him while pulling away, pausing to fix his bowtie, “He’s very lucky to have a grandfather that’s as kind and loving as you.” Mister Laurence smiles at her reminder as the rosy glow on his cheeks alights the hallway for a moment. Each breath they take in the space that they share feels like it fills each corner of their lungs. Nodding to her, a silent show of gratitude, he leads her to an oak door which lays slightly ajar. Holding the nob, he turns back to her before speaking.

“Thank you for your assistance. He’s in here,” Mister Laurence informs her, & he slowly swings the door open. Immediately, the souring scent of wine hits her face, &, as an instinct, her nose scrunches up & a grimace stains her lips. Splayed out on a couch, dishevelled & basking in his own ruin, she sees more of a strange, unfamiliar man than the boy that she knew. She sees a man that will grow to be discontent with his wife, yet who stays for the kids. A man who never really loved his children but is patiently waiting for the fulfilment that comes from acting in the role that society has told him to. A man who will never be fulfilled. A man that has learned that he must settle for what he has, quietly & miserably. A miniscule part of Miss March relishes at the idea that he’d have to learn how cruel the impartial hand of life can be, but the rest of her is well aware that Laurie will never know “enough”. He’d love his wife, even if she loved another man. He’d work to provide for his kids, &, if the wife was never around, he’d raise them all on his own. He’d move mountains to try to find the better side of “enough”. Laurie will love & love because that is Laurie’s nature. He loves wine & women. He loves trekking through forests & acting a fool, even in public spaces. He loves to engage in conversation while in the company of the March sisters, where no sentence is ever finished & nothing is ever truly said but the quiet “I love you” that rattles around in the pauses between words for a quick draw of breath. Laurie loves Jo. Laurie will continue to love, & love will truly be the cause of his death. Yet, Laurie will find a way to love the silent & cold hand of what lies beyond in a way that no person has ever done before. Miss March cannot even entertain the idea of Laurie living a life that is just “enough” because, to her, his company is more than enough. It is good. It is plenty.

That same man has tossed away his vermillion silk tie & waistcoat, leaving him in a starch white shirt that’s a third of the way unbuttoned & hastily tucked into raven black slacks. Closing the door behind her, the click of the door knob alerts him to her presence. However, his verdant eyes don’t move to meet her as he stares through strands of his messy chocolate hair & up at the silver ring that he often displays on his pointer finger. 

“Are you here to scold me, oh my dear mother?” He asks to the wind, acknowledging her existence. Miss March inhales deeply as the beating of her heart starts to drown out the sound of her breath. Clasping her hands together, she tentatively begins to make her way over to the cobalt ottoman that rests near the matching couch. The room is a demure periwinkle with small etchings of leaves adding a splash of muted emerald to the room.

“No, Laurie. Your grandfather asked me to keep you company,” she tries to ease his nerves as she inches closer.

“No, he told you to keep me away from the guests as I am his greatest failure,” Laurie shoots up at her words, sitting up far too fast for his drunken mind to handle. A warbling groan of pain slips out of his mouth as he rakes his fingers through his hair & clutches his throbbing head. At the sight of his agony, Miss March rushes to him &, readjusting his legs, sits on the edge of the couch cushion, right in front of him. With a tender touch, she gently wraps her fingers around his wrists & rubs small circles with her thumb.

“Oh, shush, you’re as much of a failure as I am a dancer,” She teases him with a sympathetic smile. At her words, a small & raspy chuckle escapes his lips &, tilting his head, his celadon eyes, in which the fields of Elysium hide, gaze up at her. Hiding beneath a smoke of anger, she’s able to see the young boy that she grew up with. The young boy that she once fell in love with. He’s scared & small & all the things a child is never allowed to be. 

In this moment, as much as she despises it, she knows she must admit her faults to him & ask for forgiveness. She was cruel & unjust for bringing up Jo with the intent of spitting in his face. She hurt him with the intention of leaving a mark, & she succeeded in doing so. If he doesn’t ever forgive her, she’ll grow to understand. It won’t be an easy process, but loving Laurie has never been anything close to easy. Taking a deep breath, she shoves the racing thoughts out of her vision & looks him in the eyes.

“I apologise for what I said in the alley, concerning your feelings for Jo. I shouldn’t’ve ever used them to hurt you,” she apologises quickly, &, after speaking, immediately purses her lips together & stares at him. She waits for him to scream. To yell at her to get out. To say he hates her & never wants to see her again. To tell her he always hated her. That he only tolerated her for Jo. To say she’s stupid. She’s vile. She’s not worth Jo or Meg or Beth or Amy’s time. She waits for him to tell her the truth she’s been too scared to say to herself aloud. She waits & waits until, finally, his lips part, & he draws a quick breath.

“It’s alright. I was being mean too, and I, truly, do owe you many apologies, as well, ” he replies with a thin smile, replaying the events in his head. Ducky’s stomach squeezes as relief floods her system, & she sharply inhales while attempting to keep some kind of composure. A tight smile graces her features, slipping past her facade of propriety & decorum. 

“I’ve been spending this past year, & some odd months, wallowing in my own melancholy, but,” Laurie pauses for a moment, slouching forward so his eyes are level with Ducky’s, “but I cannot waste away my life being miserable. If money is truly of the highest concern, then marry me.” His words grab her by the neck, shove their long, spindly fingers down her throat, wrench the breath from her lungs, & pry the air out of her. Her mouth falls agape as she struggles to comb through & fully understand what he’s said.

“Laurie, I refuse-”

“You won’t have to work, nor do you have to love me, & your family will be provided for: Beth, Amy, Marmee, everyone,” he prattles on, afraid of the nearing rejection that comes when he stops to breathe. Ducky can’t hear anything other than her own heartbeat & what, to her, sounds like the faint whisper of Laurie’s voice. She can’t even hear herself think.

“You’ll be happy, I promise. Everyday I will spend in honest devotion to your happiness,” he’s breathless as he finishes his speech, &, feeling the walls begin to collapse in on her, Ducky jumps to her feet. Rushing back & forth, in front of her very eyes, are countless memories of Jo & Laurie, of the way it’s always been. Jo loves her work. Laurie loves Jo. Ducky was left to love the footprints Laurie had left while chasing after Jo. 

“Laurie, I, as a woman, must either enter a marriage for security or for love,” she whispers out as her arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her sides tightly, “while you can marry for any reason under the sun, and I will not be an accomplice in allowing you to waste that privilege.” The room grows smaller, the air between them thinner. It’s hard to breathe & her vision becomes a swirl of blues & greens with a spotty pillar of white & black wiggling around in the centre. Laurie stops, & Ducky stops. Neither move. Neither speak. Neither breathe. The walls stop moving, & everything around them fades into their shadows. They are a boy & a girl. A lady & a man, all grown up & yet the exact same as they were the day that they met. While his previous proclamations were loud & steady, the words he speaks next are a promise meant only for his lips & the spirits that hide in peoples’ breaths. 

“But I can give you both, love and security, if you’d allow me. I’ll inherit my grandfather’s wealth, and we could be happy, all of us.”

Clear on his face is the same sincerity that he’s gifted to her in every moment of embarrassment & shame. His eyes stay glued to hers. After waiting for years for him to say these words to her, she can’t help but feel his admittance is fake. That maybe his words are meant for someone smarter, braver, older, & better then she is. His words are meant for Jo.

“No, no, you don’t get to, this isn’t right,” she bites back, walking backwards & grasping for the door knob yet only finding the air between her fingers, “Stop it, Laurie, please.”. He follows her, &, in his drunken state, collides with the furniture, sending his body awry. 

“Yes, yes I can, and we both know it to be true,” he tries to correct her as he raises his hands to grip her forearms. Her shoulders immediately tense at his touch. His fingers crinkle the poofy champagne fabric that delicately floats around her skin.

“You’re acting a fool, Laurie-”

“I can, I swear on my life Y/N, I am able and I am willing and, and content to do so.”

 “-I won’t allow it, I simply cannot,” she continues to ramble on, & her finger tips brush against the cool metal of the doorknob. Laurie opens his mouth to rebuke her statement, but, before he can, her palm flies up & presses against his lips. Covering his mouth with her hand, she shakes her head as her eyes gleam with tears.

“Please, stop. It hurts, Laurie. Please, Laurie, you’re hurting me,” she pleads to him as her fingers curl around the door knob, “I cannot do it. You broke my heart once already. Is that not enough for you?” 

To watch the boy she admires fall in love with her sister, who she’s loved since the dawn of time, was a constant, real ache that left her sobbing into Beth’s chest as she begged Meg to help her & relieve her of the pain, which was an impossible task. After the middle March had left for Europe & caught word of Jo’s rejection in a letter from Beth, she had a heavy heart knowing that the two people who were connected at the hip for all of her adolescence had now grown cold & distant. It was as if she’d heard that the moon no longer followed the sun, leaving the night cold & bleak. All she has done her entire life is labour & hurt for those she loves without question or complaint. However, she cannot look Laurie in the eyes as he slurs out ideas that would’ve sent her younger self spinning & giggling with a maddening joy. She cannot withstand that pain for him. She doesn’t feel happy or sad. Nor is she angry or scared. All that she can feel is the heavy pounding of her heart & a dull ache emanating through her. The pain swallows her mind, &, while her body still remains, Ducky has clearly fled far from the room. She’s racing down the streets in her dress, seeing how far her legs will take her. 

She yanks the door open just before he can reply & heaves her body through, slamming the door shut after her. Leaning her weight against the slab of carved & varnished oak, a few tears trickle down her cheek as she chokes back a sob, not wanting to alert any guests nearby. In her mind, she’s already ran all the way back to New England. There, back in her home, she lies, hiding her tears in Beth’s dress, as her sisters practically cocoon her, protecting her & the fire from the harsh reality of the world that waits outside their loving embrace & on the other side of the oak door. 

i told you it's literally & only just angst... sorry. please like & repost :)

[eldritch-spouse]

https://www.tumblr.com/eldritch-spouse/752304229892358144/minors-dni-hhnrh-ive-always-wanted-to-make-a?source=share

I need more Rudy. Like .. it's a very strong need...please I'm begging you 😭

[HhhhnHHHNN WORD VOMIT INCOMING-]

Following the events of what transpires in the comic "Aliens: Stronghold" (you can find it online), Jeri the synthetic xenomorph is supposedly dead, as is Doctor Nordling. The Mayakovsky prototype records along with whatever modifications Nordling created are lost forever...

But are they?

What if a somewhat less insane crew managed to perhaps gather parts of the wreckage that ensued, studied them just enough to know how to make their own, different yet still entirely functional synthetic xenomorph? A crew that does value the monitoring of xenomorph colonies spread throughout the worlds wherein these hives are placed upon to gestate, and polices the illegal harvesting of eggs or specimen (idk, bare with me okay).

The model they designed, based heavily on Jeri, needed a couple key modifications. First, it needed to be distinct enough from the standard xenomorph drone, such so that people would not get frightened by the sight of it amongst crewmates. These differences in appearance are remedied by even more aggressive pheromone secretions to both fool and calm biological xenomorphs into believing that Rudy belongs. His somewhat less accurate appearance also allows for his maintenance to be cheaper, as well as for the synth to fit into humanoid gear more effectively.

Named after the prototype Norbert, and Jeri, Rudy only seemed fitting.

Quite like his predecessor, and as appears to be a trend recently, Rudy has a very stark and unique personality that shows itself whenever he begins to grow comfortable around someone. He's curious and talkative, having a fondness for oversharing about the xenomorph species and its many casts, as well as his interests in collecting new and exciting pieces of the world he's currently exploring with his mostly human crew and all things nature-related.

Although he's nothing if not helpful and vital to the work that is being done by this team, Rudy is still a synthetic, which creates a natural divide when it comes to forming relationships. Normally, this divide is somewhat softened when a synthetic passes as human and performs actions that make it look even more relatable. Rudy is visibly, unavoidably monstrous, and he makes no real attempt to fit in with acts that are strictly human. He will sit at the table while others eat, but he's very clearly not interested in commenting on the food and tries to pull others into conversation instead. He doesn't wear clothes, he can't facially emote anywhere as intricately as a human can.

He's lonely. And he understands why.

But it's painful for the synthetic xenomorph, because he feels no joy dwelling with other synthetics, and he can't bond with xenomorphs the way he desires. He feels at home around humans, and his own crew keeps him at bay, frustrating Rudy as they consistently deny him a real connection- Sometimes even subconsciously!

That's where you come in.

Following the unfortunate accident of the resident synthetic engineer on the ship, you are assigned his role. Arriving just in time, as Rudy is in dire need of assistance from miscalculating the height of a drop. He doesn't think much of you, at first. You'll be just like the others, finding him interesting for a short while, then resorting to formalities or simply ignoring him when he's not immediately convenient.

But he still tries anyway, because he's painfully desperate for connection.

Imagine his shock as you seem very interested in conversing with him in a consistent manner. Rudy is no idiot, he understood your interest was mainly to understand the circuitry and coding within him that allowed for such an authentic and varied range of emotions, sentiments. He fascinated you beyond merely being a bizarre thing, and that made the synth happy, fulfilled.

Rudy began to latch onto you.

When he had arrived from a routine check on a hive, he'd instantly seek you out without even needing any kind of repair, just to chat about his findings, talking about the specimen xenos the same way you'd talk about zoo mascots. He'd try to drag you down into the field with him numerous times, formulating rapid-fire arguments as to why the supervisors should allow you to accompany Rudy. You can't lie and say that you weren't a tad curious, especially after hearing the xeno's numerous stories.

Somehow, after perhaps not so friendly methods, he gets granted his wish, and down you go, into the wilderness, with a synthetic.

Rudy seems elated to have alone time with you in the nature of this vast planet, and you note that he touches you a lot more often. Grabs you with his six fingered hands, nuzzles his dome against your head, hugs you from behind and even lifts you a couple of times, he's utterly euphoric, something you've never seen in a synth. Sure, your crewmates had made comments about how close Rudy had gotten to you, how the synthetic "had a puppy crush on you", but those were just jabs you didn't mind taking. And surely, when Rudy replied positively to those jests, he was only trying to get in on the joke, right?

You remember the shock and fear that permeated you as you first entered a colony. Rudy didn't let you get too far into the structure, but you got to observe the entrance, the little resting holes on walls that xenos occupied when drained. You got to see drones marching around, dragging potential hosts with them. And you even got "checked" by a soldier cast. It had been strange then, watching Rudy communicate back and forth with the xenomorph, effectively clearing you of suspicion after a few snort-hisses. Your heart never beat so loudly before, and you remember laughing wildly with the synthetic after the two of you had retreated into safer grounds.

Yet, for as much as you had grown to enjoy having Rudy as a friend, you couldn't ignore the remarks your crewmated had been making about him. How the synth would ravenously defend you from the smallest of accusations, how he collected everything you left behind and would even steal presents you gave to others. He became mouthy and troublesome when they refused to let you go explore with him.

And lately, to make it all even more confusing, you've been finding him "doing maintenance" on himself. Things he won't let you access, that he tries to deviate your attention from. For just the glimmer of a second, you hope you only imagined spotting the digital blueprint for a set of modified synthetic genitalia...

Something's not right with Rudy, you think, catching him staring intensely at you again.

[jujutsukgojo]

The Baby Project Chapter 8

izuku midoriya x reader

The Baby Project masterlist

Summary: Izuku discovers a lot about you and Noa. tw: angsty, fluff, izuku once again being Papa, izuku and mc being pervy, inside look at the adult heroes. Some of Class A, violence, mc is kinda mean

You grip the edge of the sink and let the water trail down from your face. Izuku’s been by your side since then and strangely, Shouto hasn’t told him what happened between you. It’s been two weeks since you’ve got your points docked and received detention. Snipe hasn't told you how long this will be and if he's taking away your "volunteer work".

The day after Noa went missing, you called and told Yona what happened. Because of the fuckery, both of you decided it was best to keep your job quiet again rather than completely quit.

Your most recognizable and familiar emotions rear their heads as you stare into your bathroom mirror: frustration, anger at the world, and everything that has had anything to do with the flames that burn you. These losses in this battle upon you devastated your pride and dignity. The very thought of the heroes makes you want to scratch their eyes out in retaliation for witnessing one of the most painful things in your life. Again. 

You exit the bathroom and see Izuku and Noa taking a nap in your bed. Noa has recently gotten a hold of washable markers and used Izuku’s face as his canvas. Both boys played hard. The clouds hovered in the sky and bits of rain splattered about today, so they weren't able to roll around in the grass like usual. 

You sit at your desk and begin to write this week's report log.

"To whomever this bitch ass hero is,

You have some nerve, including you Snipe. This month was not good. Noa went on an adventure and everyone got bent out of shape about it. You docked my points because he wandered around. No one got hurt and your ass got to exercise. I helped with your training and this is what I get. Amazing how deadbeats get praise for what they are literally paid for but I turn around for .1 nanoseconds and you get out of pocket.

All of you can drop.

Anyway, I feel bad for Benio. He is a great dad if you haven't noticed and probably haven't. WILLINGLY. He got yelled at by Yaomomo or whatever her trifling ass is. Now, she is “raising” Kobeni. He isn't mad at me but at himself. He shouldn’t be punished. I don’t know why I bother since you and the rest of these silly hoes have never cared. 

Another thing I can report is that Noa is still hitting and has had no bathroom accidents so tell that one dude with the rope to trip and break his neck. Noa still shows a love for cooking! It’s nice that his previous behavior and personality weren’t fully wiped out."

You take a deep breath before you continue to write.

"I have decided to talk to Kaibara with supervision. I won’t leave Noa with him and I will not be alone in the same space as him. Kaibara has shown violent tendencies towards me and Noa, with witnesses present, and I have no guarantee that he won’t hurt Noa even more. This talk will only be me telling him basic things about Noa and getting his signature. Will this satisfy you and save my grade? 

Other than you disrespecting me and my robo-baby, he is having a problem swallowing some things. I have decided to feed him soup and mashed things. It happened suddenly when I made him a sandwich. Is it possible that he didn't chew right? Maybe it just went down rough. That and your dusty ass gave him hives."

-------

Snipe sighs after he finishes reading your report log out loud. The heroes sit at the table in the conference room. Each tries to remain indifferent to what they saw the other day, but it is undeniable. What was supposed to be a simple punishment ended up being something they’ve only seen with victims, not normal students. The baby project was created for a reason. It’s experimental and shows where the future heroes, the next generation, stand with public and private care. Whether it be their own families or those they contact, they must learn compassion and responsibility.

What happened to you only proved that they have lost their way. All Might sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What exactly did you do?” He wasn’t there at the time. Most of the teachers weren’t. Actually, some of them weren’t even called to search because the kids were found so quickly by the third-year heroes. 

“In summary, the student lost points and she reacted badly,” Aizawa says gruffly.

Snipe scoffs. “Reacted badly? That's the conclusion to your analysis? I’ve seen her react badly, but this was on another level.”

“Her grades are essential to her scholarship. Having Noa revert to two years old would have been a factor.”

Vlad King rubs his face. “It was too far. There definitely needs to be a check on all of the students.”

Nezu nods. “Although I agree that the impact it had on her grade was definitely a factor for her panic, I can’t deny that Snipe is right, too.” He taps his chin and says, “We must check their health. Not just mentally, but physically as well. I want everyone to be evaluated.”

“What about (Y/n)?” Snipe hopes that his colleagues remember what they felt when they saw you in Recovery Girl's office.

“I think it’s only fair that (Y/n)’s grade be mainly restored. However, Noa and Kobeni did go missing, so she has to lose some points." Nezu taps on the table. "I agree, Recovery Girl. It was cruel.” Nezu thought of mercy for you.  

“It’s about time you guys thought of the children.” Her old voice huffs. She smacks the stack of paper on the table. Aizawa looks down at his lap. “We are. Hence why we’re doing this assignment.”

“At the cost of other children? Heroes over civilians?” Snipe’s words echo on the walls and settle into the adults' minds. The reason for the baby project is to prevent and train the heroes on how to be compassionate and raise the next generation with care. To give them a taste of the future. The younger general studies were the perfect candidates in their opinion. It was less risky since they weren't as tainted or exposed as the previous year. However, your reaction revealed something they didn’t expect. Now the question of validity and correction hangs in the air.

Nezu nods. “We’ll keep the assignment and restore her grade-”

Snipe interrupts before Nezu can change the subject. “And a caretaker. I understand that the hero course faces dangers that children can’t be around but my students face challenges too. Look at their grades, their health, all of it. They deserve the same treatment.”

Vlad nods. “I agree.” Aizawa nods and agrees, finally. Nezu puts his hands together and says, “This brings me to Kaibara…”

  Vlad sighs and rubs his face. His heavy hand lands on the dark wood table. Kaibara has been a subject he has tried to handle and avoid at the same time.

-------

“Alright, class, we’ve come to an agreement.” Snipe puts his hands on the podium. “We understand your situation about the caregivers-”

“Inequality. It’s okay, you can say it.” Sakura crosses her arms and with a subtle wave of her finger, you spot Jule trying to discreetly pull out his phone. Snipe doesn’t see what’s going on. 

Snipe’s silent then takes his mask off. “You’re right. It’s not fair hence why we’re giving you guys one. It’ll be during classes of course.”

The class cheers. This is the bare minimum, but it’s a start. A footstep that’ll help tremendously. Alas, it will not be enough.

Ema waves her hand. “When?” 

“How? It’ll be tragic if the caregiver gets blamed just like (Y/n).” Benio’s expression is so deadpan it hurts. 

“Enough. Benio, it won’t be like last time.” Snipe takes a breath and looks directly at you. “I’d like to see you after class.” 

Riko looks at you and sucks in her lips. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what she’s worried about. She’s worried it has to do with her and if you’ll finally tell the truth. Riko doesn’t need to verbally say it. Her expression speaks for her. Even though you understand, your sympathy can’t fight the resentment from the pain you went through for her, for all of them. To have her sit here and be worried about you being a snitch only rubs salt in the wound. 

If she doesn’t back off, you’re liable to tell. She flinches and her focus goes back to her desk. Good. Your classmates and Izuku have been very supportive and empathetic, you can't help the bitterness, embarrassment, and anger. You were so proud that Noa was three years old and just to have that ripped away from you was brutal. Not to mention that she was supposed to be watching the kids. One day these feelings will subside. Until then, she needs to back the fuck off and remember her place. 

It feels good to have her remember that she owes you. 

-

You stand in front of Snipe. Today, surprisingly, Noa decided to go with Izuku. It’s not like it is a big deal since he’s handed off and there's no struggle like there is with you. 

“I read your log, which was entertaining by the way,” Are you supposed to say thank you? Ever since they did that to Noa, you haven’t said a word in any of your classes. You’ve been called on and asked to speak yet you say nothing. If you do, they’ll use it against you and come at Noa again. 

Snipe sighs and scratches the back of his head. His hat moves as he does it. “Look, we decided what happened was out of line. So, to compensate, we’re turning Noa back to three. However, your grade is still docked a few points because he did go missing. But these are points that can be made up. With you being more advanced than your peers, it won’t take long.”

You say nothing even though this is good news and you were acknowledged as superior to everyone else. As you should be.

He waits and waits for a response. He clears his throat and nods. “Oh, and, um, about your parental situation. Kaibara is still the official father, but we recognize Midoriya being Noa’s stepfather. So, your grade in that regard won’t suffer. We understand the situation better and think it will be best to do it this way without taking away Kaibara’s grade since it needs to be documented.”

Does he expect you to thank him? You want Kaibara out of your life forever. Do the heroes want you to jump for joy because they no longer expect you to include him and have given their blessing for Midoriya? Who isn’t even recognized as his real father, but a stepfather. How are you supposed to be happy about this?

Snipe fiddles with his thumbs. “Alright. That’s what I wanted to tell you. You’re dismissed, (Y/n).” You leave without a look back. From behind is a sigh that lasts until you shut the door.

 It feels so nice to make him and the others miserable. How wonderful it is that it bothers him and the adults that you're angry, silent, and hurt. So much so, that they've acknowledged what they did was wrong. What about everything else? What about the entire project? There's a lot to pay for and this little morsel they gave will not cover it.   -------------

You don't understand why you are nervous about telling Izuku. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t really mean anything. Are you making it a bigger deal than it is? 

He stands in the kitchen with Noa on his hip. Noa sniffs a seasoning that Izuku brings to his nose. The toddler wrinkles his nose and says 'no'. This continues until Izuku finds one he likes then has Noa put it into a saucepan. 

If or when he has kids, they will be so loved. Izuku is always busy and is easily distracted, but when Noa wants the least bit of attention, his papa will stretch himself thin just to be there. Strangely enough, he’s a blessing. Who would have thought that this guy who you saw on a phone screen for two seconds would be Noa’s papa? A good one, too. 

The scene is sweet and domestic. Noa is starting to have very obvious features of Izuku. The more you look at Noa, you can see that he’s grown. The teachers must’ve increased his age already. Taking a deep breath, you walk up to them and ask, “Izuku, can I talk to you for a minute?” He perks up at the sound of your voice. Noa squints his eyes at you. “Mm!”

He still won’t call you mom. You’ve deduced that his ‘mm’ is his version of mom and that he’s doing it on purpose.

“It’ll be a second, bud. I’ll be right back.” He sets Noa down and turns the stove on low. Noa crosses his arms and taps his foot. 

“What’s up?” Izuku looks over your face for a clue. You clear your throat. “Ah, Snipe’s bitch ass told me that Kaibara doesn’t have to be an active participant right now.”

“Hm?”

“I was confused about that too. It means that I don’t have to rely on him for my grades. And that um,” You scratch your cheek. “You can be like, Noa’s stepdad or something? I already put you in my reports-”

“You do?” His eyes shine and his cheek blooms a light shade of pink. It looks pretty on his face. “Yeah. I mean, you’ve done a lot for me and Noa so it’s only right.” He sucks in his lips to hide his obvious smile. 

One of your hands is behind your back while the other plays with your ear. “Anyway, I just wanted to ask if it’s okay. I’m already doing it but I’ll stop if you want me to.”

“Yes.”

“You can say no.”

“Even though you’ve already started?” You frown. “Well, yeah…you can still tell me no.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m flattered that you write about me,” He licks his lips. “What do you write? I mean, I don’t know much about your reports, so I want to know what you say.”

You purse your lips and roll your eyes. “I tell them that you’re a crybaby that Noa peed on and who likes gory porn.” 

The pink on his cheeks spread. “N-no! No, I do not! And he peed on you too!”

“Ha! Not as much as he did you. It was like a fountain. Like, shhh!” You imitate water sounds. He scoffs and crosses his arms, trying to look tough. It's hard to take it seriously when he looks cute. 

“He shhh'ed on you first!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh! I remember because you started screaming like a sissy girl.” What kind of insult is that? Clearly, he doesn't do this often. Then, you stop and lean in. “Like a girl from your gory porno movies?”

“(Y/n)!”

You poke his chest. “You are a 'prevert'. That’s worse than a pervert. You probably liked me screaming like those girls in those movies.”

There’s something in you, something a little weird and devious. You get closer to him. The space is almost non-existent and gives him a view of your chest if he looks down. He is red from head to toe and stiff as a board. You smile and poke his face teasingly. Right when you are about to harass him some more, Noa’s little voice sounds from behind you. 

“Porn?” Both you and Izuku, who has darkened eyes, gasp and turn to look at the source. Noa cocks his head to the side. “No, no, no! Don’t say that.”

Noa squints his eyes. “Go back in the kitchen, buddy. I’ll be there in a second.”

You clear your throat and look down. You were so caught up in messing with Izuku that Noa slipped your mind. His hand rubs the back of his neck. Clearly, he’s in the same boat. “I have an idea,” Izuku slowly grins again. The red has calmed down but not by much. At least he's breathing again. “What if we do our own birth certificate? If you want to! It’s up to you!”

Even after all these months, he thinks he has to ask when it concerns Noa. 

“I’d like that.” If it looks cute, you may even frame it.

-

 It’s Noa’s construction paper and has been written in Izuku’s handwriting since it is more legible. He put the words ‘birth certificate’ on the top and the date. There isn’t anything fancy on it other than Noa’s information and your name next to ‘mom’ and Izuku’s name next to ‘papa’.  Underneath both of yours is where Noa’s name will go. “Boy, get in here, we wanna talk to you.”

Noa comes around the counter. “I’m waiting!” For him being so young, he’s very vocal and speaks clearly. It’s amazing, actually. Even if he is putting his hands on his hips impatiently as he taps his foot on the floor. He's clearly got Izuku's personality.

 “Noa, c’mere for a sec.” You take the paper out and point. “Baby boy, this is a birth certificate. It’s how people know who you and your parents are. See? My name is right here.”

“Okay…” He answers slowly. You rub the top of his head. “What’s your name?” You ask.

“Noa.”

“What’s your full name?” Without hesitation, he says so clearly, “Noa Midoriya.”

You write it down on his line. Izuku sniffles when you finish. “Want to sign it too?” Noa bounces and takes the marker with his left hand and swirls it around. Apparently, it’s his signature. 

Izuku twirls him around. You will copy this so you can keep the original. That copy is going right into Snipe’s face and telling him to choke.

----------

After your ceremony and dinner, you decide to pick up the toys that his papa keeps buying him. It’s sweet but a pain to have to help Noa pick up and organize. Right when you bend over to pick up one of Noa’s many toys, he hits your butt. He's been finding it fun to hit nowadays despite your warning.

“Izuku, get your kid before I do. I’ve been trying to be gentle but-”

“I know, I know, my dear. Noa, c’mere.” He pats his lap for Noa to jump onto. “Look, I know you love Mm and don’t mean to hurt her, but you are. You’re hurting people when you do that.”

The kid purses his lips. “Sorry.”

“Are you sorry because you got caught or because you mean it? They are different.”

“Caught.”

“Oh my God…” You whisper. Groaning, you turn to continue your task. The amount of plushies, blocks, his tool kits, and the kitchen supplies he has are more fun than witnessing this.

“Noa, it’s not right to hit Mm. She’s your mom and your friend. You can’t hit her.”

Noa growls. “Yes, I can!” Izuku shakes his head no. “It’s hurting her feelings, Noa. That’s not right.”

Noa takes this in for literally three seconds. He side eyes his dad and says, “No.”

Izuku frowns which is new to Noa. “It's not nice. You are going to stop hitting, Noa Midoriya. Understand?" Izuku's firm voice is just as new to Noa.  

You turn to look and see Noa’s eyes watering. His voice wobbles. “Sorry.”

Izuku holds him close and rubs his toddler's back. “Hitting people is in the past. Now let’s grow.” He kisses Noa's wet cheek. 

Noa gets down and waddles to you. He squeezes you tight and says sorry. The tears and snot on his face are wiped on your pant leg. You didn't get this treatment when you tried to talk to him.

You put your hands on your hips. “Why the hell-”

Noa points his finger at you. “She smack too!” Snitch ass.

“Imma smack you!” 

“(Y/n)!”

-

Noa listens intently to your words of The Greatest Love Story. You’ve read it numerous times, yet he still gets excited. Strangely, Izuku does as well. His green eyes are so vibrant as you read the book.

Izuku has his head on your lap and Noa lays on his papa's chest that he covers a chunk of. If this project continues for a while, Noa may be as big as he is. It is almost impossible to fathom but likely that the heroes will do that. How do you even care for a teenager? You can barely take care of yourself.

“(Y/n),” Izuku murmurs. You stop reading for him to continue. “Thank you for everything.”

“What?” 

“You’ve made me so happy, dearie. I don't know when I smiled so much or even felt this important without the world on my shoulders. I don’t have to fight or die when I’m with you.” He looks away, bashful as always. “I’m…at peace. I’m happy.”

Deep inside, you know it is about Noa. Without him, Izuku wouldn’t give you the time of day. Nevertheless, you’ll take what you can get from him. You will gladly accept and cherish this moment. It's not going to last forever, and you know this. Izuku's new content and relaxed nature with you will end when Noa fades away. Still, you will accept these precious moments anyway, despite the ache it will leave. 

“Since the wars, I’ve felt so guilty. Everyone got dragged into it. Even you. For years I let it eat at me, and I always will,” His eyes meet yours. “Then I saw you.” His finger reaches your cheek to poke it. His eyelids are droopy. He's so close to sleep that he doesn't realize he's saying this out loud.

“Thank you for everything. Thank you for listening.” His hand lowers while yours reaches his curly head and massages it. Your hand goes through his soft, thick strands easily.  Izuku drifts to sleep and into a peaceful dream.   "My pleasure."

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

You finish the report happily. It started off rocky but the ending is great. You staple on the copy of Noa’s new birth certificate. Happiness isn’t enough to describe this feeling.

The light of the sun is bright and shines in your room. Around this time, Izuku would Facetime or call. He could be doing anything. Most likely, it’s training since he hasn’t been doing it very often. You still feel guilty when he reassures you that it’s okay. However, he is apparently quirkless and thus needs the extra training that he’s been skimping out on which adds onto your guilt.

“I miss Papa.” Noa’s small voice whispers. His fluffy head peeks out from his blanket.

“And I miss when you used to behave. Think about that.”

He pouts and sniffles. His little feet pad against the wooden floor. You turn in your chair to look at him and spot the blue paper he has in his hand. “You want to give that to him?”

You bounce along to search for Izuku and show him the new cute thing Noa’s done. The little toddler ‘drew’ a big circle and squiggly lines and insisted that they were you, Izuku, and Noa. It will tickle his papa to see that Noa notices the little details and has his own spin on them. 

“Will he like it?” Noa squeezes your hand. “How could he not? This belongs on the fridge of fame!” You pick him up and give him a kiss. It’s amazing that even though he’s three, he is so freaking smart. 

  Just as you open the dorm’s door and stride into the yard, you see Izuku. He is standing with his back turned towards you with his gym outfit on and a towel over his shoulder. Immediately, Noa bounces up and down when he spots his papa. His little hand remains in yours as he tugs on you when he runs.   The two of you are in earshot of the group and what is being debated steals the breath from your lungs.

“Midoriya, she’s leaning on you too much.” The voice sounds bubbly. Not the current tone but it reminds you of bubble gum for some reason. Whoever said this must be normally peppy. You can’t remember her name, but she almost beat Kacchan in the Sports Festival this year. The one Noa didn’t allow you to witness and Izuku still holds the video that you haven’t watched.

“Uraraka’s right. You would’ve aced that test had she not asked for your help all of the time.” That one sounds familiar but you can’t place it. At Izuku's sides are a guy with weird elbows, the bubbly one, and Benio’s baby mama. The familiar voice must be in front of Izuku and his built body covers them. Even though you’re shocked by what’s happening, that doesn’t stop you from admiring his figure.

“There’s nothing wrong with anyone asking for help. And she isn’t asking-”

“Didn’t she ask you to babysit?” A couple of times, maybe?

“Hasn’t she literally brought Noa to you when you were studying when Kaibara’s right there?” When was that?

“I think it’s cool that you’re doing this. It really shows that you are genuinely kind. But Midoriya, don’t feel bad just because of what she’s going through. Kaibara is right there. Let him handle that." The tape guy places his hand on Izuku’s shoulder. His easy-to-draw face shows the concern he apparently has.

Izuku clenches his fists and releases. “You have no idea what you’re talking about-”

You suck in your lips to stop them from wobbling. Noa touches your leg. He tilts his head to the side. They’re right. You’ve been too dependent on him. He has absolutely nothing to do with this and you’ve dragged him into your drama time and time again. 

Noa shakes the paper with the drawing on it. You leave before anyone can hear him, most of all, Midoriya.

“Papa’s gotta see!” The talking stops. You don’t stay to hear or see anything else that’s happening behind you. They’re right and that’s it. You… you are too reliant. Noa did run away and could have gotten hurt. Did he feel pressured to sign the paper? He seemed happy but heroes lie all the time. Just like now, these people have a smile on their faces when they see you but will say these things behind your back.

You stop walking. What the hell are you doing?

You turn back around and stomp towards the group. “So, I push things onto him, yeah?”

The green-haired bastard turns around. His face lights up until he sees the steam coming out of your ears. “Dear-” 

“Hush!” You stomp over to his friends. “Which one? Which one thinks I’m pushing things?” A boy with yellow hair and a lightning bolt stripe on it peeks from around Izuku. Fucking Denki! No wonder it sounded familiar.

You take Noa’s drawing and roll it up. He goes to protest but you slip him under your arm like a football. Without hesitation, you swing his paper at them in various places. Benio’s baby mama is the first to go. The paper swats her in the face then Denki Kaminari is next with several hits. The tape guy gets a jab in the face whereas the pink-cheeked one takes a beating since she has a big fucking mouth. 

Izuku tries to grab the paper from you. In return, you swing it at him. “Dumb,” Smack. “Ass,” Smack. “Mother-”

He picks you up and is careful with Noa. “I dare any of you to say-let me go, stupid! Let me go! I’m not done-”

“Yes, you are.” His tone is harsh and stern; it makes you tense for a moment.

He enters the general studies dormitory with you over his shoulder. He goes up the stairs rather than take the elevator. The people who roam around stare at you. Ema in particular stops chewing her sandwich and watches with wide eyes.

You can’t believe this. “Why are you not saving me-”

Izuku goes up another flight of stairs, completely ignoring everyone. He sets Noa down and searches your back pocket for your room key. He unlocks the door and Noa runs in first towards his art set. 

He puts you down and slams the door. Looking at his frown pisses you off. “You weren’t going to say anything. How many times have they talked shit about me, huh?” He doesn’t respond. Izuku’s chest falls and rises. You get up and go up to him. 

“You suck! God, if you want to leave, then leave!”

“No!” Noa runs to his papa. Ah, shit. 

“Papa’s not going anywhere, buddy. Don’t you worry about that, okay?” Noa squeezes his leg. Izuku kneels down to Noa’s level. “Alright? I’m not leaving.”

“She say-”

“Mm doesn’t understand that I’m not leaving. I’ll tell her.” Noa gives his papa a big kiss. Izuku sets him on his bed. Noa jumps on it. “I won’t be high!”

“Good!” Izuku turns to you. “I’m not leaving."

“You didn’t tell them. If we are such a burden, then the door is always open for you to go. I’m not going to let people think that way of us.” He sighs and comes closer. You end up backing up a few steps and hit the wall. Why's he mad at you? You didn't do anything wrong.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. They may be my friends, and I love them dearly, but they are wrong. This is my choice. You have never forced anything on me," His green eyes trail over your face. They soften greatly. "You know, I’m pretty sure they get the hint where you’re concerned. I haven’t seen them look like that in years.”

“And I’ll do it again.” You wanted and needed to release your anger. It's about time you let go. Who knows? Maybe hitting them with paper wasn't the right thing to do. Maybe you needed something heavier.

His hands are pressed on the wall by your sides. “I’m not going. I need you to breathe,” He sighs and leans in. “I’m not leaving, and you are not a burden. I’m happy to be here. I’m happy with you. Let me deal with them, (Y/n).”

 Your arms are crossed and you look down. Noa keeps jumping on the bed while witnessing this. Although Izuku assured that he’d handle it, you can’t scratch out what they said nor can you let go of how he acted like a manic caveman. Both things are uncomfortable and he may not fully understand.

 “What they said-”

“Is wrong. How can you be a burden?" He stops talking and moves his arms away. Izuku rubs the back of his neck. "How can you be a burden when it's fun to be around you? You’re smart, funny, a good person-”

“Izuku?”

“You’re strong and brave, creative and a fighter.” He's counting on his fingers.

“Um-” You've seen his muttering episodes, but this is the first time it's about you and not your quirk. His low voice continues without a hitch. Izuku looks directly into your eyes without shame. He may not realize that he’s verbally saying these things. “You smell good, and dress nice, you let Noa help you get ready which I think is really cute, and-” He freezes completely. His eyes are totally blank. If he was a robot, he’d be considered on the fritz.

 Izuku covers his mouth to quiet the shriek. Because you’re a nice person, you change the subject.

“Look at his picture, Deku.” You mimic that one girl’s voice. What is that pink cheek's name? There is something there that can sense that she's going to be trouble. Not only was she talking mad shit about you, but you didn't like how she looked at her Deku.

You still had a hold on it when he carried you away. You hand him the blue paper. With a grin, he compliments it and agrees that it needs to be on the fridge of fame. “Hear that Noa? It’s going up!”

“Yes!” His little hands snatch it from his papa’s. He runs out the door with the two of you quickly behind. Noa bursts through the kitchen and puts one of the kids’ magnets on his paper. The little cupcake magnet and drawing stand out among the Post-it notes and lists. 

“What’s all this?” Izuku, who has calmed down, touches one of the post-its that is losing its stickiness. You shrug and read it. “My list.”

You haven’t wanted to think about it, honestly. Not that you’re procrastinating, it’s just sad to think about. Everyone has a section of the kitchen. Yeah, it’s normal for everyone to borrow something from others, but it is still embarrassing when you’re the one who is constantly doing it. Throughout the years, you hoped you’d appear as a minimalist or something and not the struggling student that you’ve always been. Now that Izuku is frowning at your list and is opening your things, you are becoming mortified. How did he miss it in the first place? He was right here in the kitchen the other day.

“(Y/n)-”

You point to all the items you have. “Noa isn’t going without, okay? Look, I have food.” Izuku doesn’t say anything. Not one word. The clock dings a new hour.

“(Y/n), I want you to take this,” He digs into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. “And get some groceries. I have to go so you’re going to have to go alone.”

His card is sleek and looks new. There isn't any wear and tear on it at all. “No.” Your response is automatic and made from a prideful will that has been built for years. Humiliation can sink into your flesh and make you hotter than a stove all it wants to, but the defense for your parenting and survival is something that can’t wait. 

“Bunny, please take it-”

“No! I’m not a charity.” You snap.

He frowns as you point to the clock. “You have something to do, right? Noa, give sugars!”

Noa hugs Papa tight. “I’ll see you soon, Bub. And you,” Izuku points to you. “We’ll talk later.”

As he walks out of the dorm reluctantly. You watch as he disappears and wonder if you messed up.     ----------

“Mm! I want something different.” He swishes his spoon that rested in his little white bowl. You sigh and look down at your hands. The soup is one you know by heart and rely on when times are tough. At his age, you were saying the same thing about the tomato soup. You now know what your mother felt during times of struggle. You suck in your lips and try to reason with Noa. “Just one more bite?”

He groans and pouts. He flicks his blue spoon again. “I want Papa.” 

Yeah, this is way too familiar. “Noa, one more bite. Then you can talk to Papa. It’s dinnertime so he may be on his way.” Noa lights up and bounces in his chair. He happily scoops up some of his food and chews the noodles. “Mm, okay!” He extends his arms for the phone. You dial for Izuku and hand Noa the phone. 

The entire time you don’t speak another word. You grab his unfinished food and your empty bowl that you reluctantly ate. In the pot is the soup you grew up with and you too became tired of it. You stir it as you look at its bits of onion and noodles. 

“Mm, here you go! Papa had to leave but he’ll be home, okay?” He kisses your cheek and runs away to the living room. You wipe your hands on your apron. 

You see the soup in the pot again and pour it out. You hang your head low and hit the counter with your hand. Relying on Deku for everything is not an option. You are an independent person who has fought and lived through the rough patches. No way are you going to rely on a partner for a project. What if you become accustomed to it? What if you become reliant on him and lose your way? He’s a nice man who decided that he really likes Noa. Nothing more than that. It’s ridiculous he offered his card in the first place. 

Noa only ate a few bites. You need to get him to eat a little more but what? He’s been so picky lately, that it’s hard to keep up. At least Izuku feeds him well. When he’s with you, he refuses. Damn, your stupid, stupid pride. You take a deep breath and bite your lip. This project is stupid. What purpose does it serve? How is this helping you with anything other than increasing your hatred? Not just for heroes, but everything and everyone? Noa’s feelings about the tiring soup in the sink are too relatable. This project makes you feel so guilty, so inadequate. Is this how your mother felt when raising you? Did Izuku’s mama feel this way, too? Does he share the same feelings as you have right now?

Behind you, a familiar voice calls out. You quickly wipe your face as Noa’s hurried little feet pad across the floor. Speak of the devil, and he’ll appear. Izuku Midoriya stands behind you with Noa in one arm and a pizza in his other hand. The gesture is nice, it’s great. God, do you want to crumble that pizza in his face. 

He sets them both down and grabs Noa a plate. “Here you go, bud. Go sit at the table.”

You remember back in the day, your mother would always say that the crust was her favorite part. Back then, you thought she was weird and didn’t realize that she was lying so you could eat. Looking at this giant pie that’s in front of you, you don’t have to repeat her words. And God, you hate Izuku for it. You’re happy and grateful even when this ball that goes from your stomach to your chest feels like he’s doing it out of spite. He’s not doing it to hurt you, you’re positive of that. He probably already picked it up before Noa called. 

“Hey.” Izuku walks to you tentatively. His eyes scan you for anything out of place. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Dear, please.”

“I’m fine.” You walk past him until his arm sticks out to block you. His hand is spread against the wall to your side. His fingers still have specks of dirt on them and his knuckles are red again. What happened to his suit? He must’ve had a long day.

“Darling, please, what’s wrong?” You shake your head and side eye him. You miss the days where he was a bashful puppy dog. You’re happy that he’s comfortable and doesn’t look constipated all the time, though. “Nothing.”

He furrows his brows. “Did something happen? Did Kaibara mess with you?” 

“No, no. It’s not that. I’ll deal with it on my own. It’s a personal problem.”

“The teachers? My friends? Who did it-”

You stop him. “No one did anything! It’s not that!” He sighs and tilts his head. “Please tell me. I can help.”

You know he can. He has given you the answer but it isn’t the answer you want. You need to stand on your own and here he is saying lean on him, let him carry you. This is new. Brand new and so shiny it hurts. You’re afraid to break it so you begin to hate its temptation to use it. 

His provision won’t last. The project could end at any time. 

“I don’t need you.” He looks struck for a second then recovers quickly. “Is this about the card?”

“No.”

“(Y/n).”

Noa tears into his slice of pizza that he dismembered. The cheese is to the side and has been picked on like a bird’s pecks. “He’s not eating what I can give him.”

“He’s at that stage. It’s normal, (Y/n).” You shake your head. “I mean, I can only give him the same thing over and over. He’s tired of it.”

Izuku hums and grabs a hold of your shoulders. “Well, that only means we’re going to the store.”

“I don’t need-”

“I’m his dad, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, I have to make sure he eats and if that means filling the fridge up, I’ll do it.” 

There was a time when your mother would have jumped at this kind of offer. The time she was sick of soup and a five dollar pizza was a luxury she only got once in a blue moon. Now, here it is in front of you. It’s shiny like a diamond but temporary. 

“I’ll pay for my own things.” 

“If your friends were to ask you for something, would you give it to them if you had the means?”

“Yeah.” Maybe. Not likely.

“Good. Now eat so we can go.”

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

Noa is hand and hand with the both of you. He swings around and giggles. Izuku looks at you in the corner of his eye. “I don’t mean to trample on your feelings.”

“Which one?"

 He sighs. "I'd like to hear them all, if you don't mind."

 You point at him and answer, "I'm not accustomed to being manhandled or told what to do, first of all." He twirls a green curl. A subtle flush blooms on his face. "Sorry about that. It was wrong of me, wasn't it?"

 "Yes, it was, you deranged caveman. And this," You wave your hand in the air. "I'm not used to it."

“I understand." He licks his lips. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings. I want to do the exact opposite."

Noa doesn't notice the conversation. Or maybe he does and isn't caring. “I appreciate it, I swear, but no one has ever done any of this, y’know? It’s like giving up the reins.”

“You're not-”

“Then I look at him and think I'm failing.” Izuku holds the door open for you. Noa skips the lines on the floor, hopping over them so he can stick to his pattern. Izuku grabs the cart and sticks Noa inside it, much to the toddler’s dislike. “You are not failing.”

Izuku brings out a sheet of paper with your handwriting on it from his pocket. He must’ve taken it when you weren’t looking. Seeing the length, it feels like someone is reading your homework in front of the class and you got every question wrong. 

“Stop comparing yourself to people who have more and realize how far you’ve gotten without the resources they have. Noa is the oldest out of all of them. That alone should tell you that you are,” He puts his hand on your back and rubs circles on it. “An amazing mom. Don’t listen to those thoughts, okay?”

He reaches behind you and pulls All Might fruit snacks from the shelf. You roll your eyes. “That’s not on the list.”

“It is for me.” He looks at the box and murmurs about it being Silver Age All Might. You laugh and he perks up. "There she is."

The three of you continue on through the store, putting things in the cart from the list and then some. You are looking at noodles when you hear Izuku’s excited voice. 

“Hey, look!” Izuku goes to a small section of hero merchandise. “Noa, do you like it?” 

Izuku holds an All Might t-shirt in a slightly bigger size for Noa. Then, much to Izuku’s dismay and surprise, Noa wrinkles his nose and says that he doesn’t like All Might. Not because of the design of the shirt, but because to Noa, All Might wasn’t a good hero. 

You’re going to strangle them both. Here you are with a cart filled with food and your two boys are arguing. Izuku Midoriya, the famed Deku, is arguing with a three-year-old on why All Might is a great hero. 

“Nuh-uh!” Noa shakes his head. You cover your face with your hand. “Yes huh!”

Several people turn to look at the scene. Some look amused and others look at you to separate the two boys. You yank the shirt away and put it into the cart. You pull both of their ears. “Okay, Noa, you can wear the shirt to bed so no one will see it. Izuku, it’s okay if he doesn’t like All Might.” 

“Ow.” 

“Hush. Y’all so embarrassing, oh my God.” Noa sits in the cart which you leave with Izuku. When he opens his mouth, you snap. “Eh! No, it’s done, it’s over, boys!” You walk away shaking your head. Other mothers raise their eyebrows in shock at the two miscreants. 

“Sorry, sorry.” You quickly head to the other aisle. 

Suddenly, you hear two voices not belonging to your boys. They call out Izuku’s hero name. Curious, you peek around the corner to watch. He is stiff as a board when they take pictures with him. You can’t help but smile at his discomfort. 

The guy in the yellow points to Noa. “Oh, it’s one of the U.A. babies!” 

“I thought they were smaller?” The other sport horns on their head and has whiskers.

Shit, shit, shit! You turn into the aisle. Before you can take another step, Izuku’s soft expression towards Noa makes you stop. “Yeah, he’s mine. They grow! He’s already three. Aren’t you?” 

Noa kicks his feet and repeats his age. It’s heartwarming seeing how proud he is of Noa. Alas, there is a deep feeling that this is about to go south soon. As if you manifested it, one of them asks, “So, when’s the big showdown anyway?”

“What?”

They ignore his question and keep talking. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to see at least one hero give a damn. But I still don’t think this project is fair.”

You suppress a smile from their support. “I agree. It doesn’t make sense to me and a lot of us. But I’m happy to be a part of it. I mean, look at him!”

One of the fans bounces and waves at Noa which he returns. “He looks just like you!” Clearly, Noa favors you! Now is not the time to argue about it, though. What you need to do is get Izuku away from them.

“He does look a lot like me, huh?” Izuku’s voice is soft and his eyes match the tone. It’d be a sweet moment if his fans weren’t talking. 

“Doesn’t that mean you spend a lot of time with him? I saw on-”

“Yeah! The class with all the babies talks about it a lot. Leave it to Deku to be a great dad to Noa!” 

Izuku’s bashful face turns into confusion. “Wait, how do you know-”

“From the videos. What are they-I think General Studies are putting an argument together! Isn’t that cool?” 

Izuku’s eyes widen and his mouth parts. The horned one waves their arms. “I-I’m sure not you, though! I mean, look at Noa! Clearly, you’re one of the good ones.”

“As expected! Even though heroes are acting like shit.” They mutter.

Izuku turns his head to you, who is standing at the end of the aisle no doubt looking like a deer in headlights. His fans follow and wave at you. “See! Her, right there.”

You were so stressed out about the project, you forgot that people have eyes and memories. You didn’t expect people to recognize you. If only you could have snuck out of here like a smooth criminal. 

“Good luck with Hawks!”

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

Izuku carries in the groceries all by himself while you handle Noa. He even helps put the stuff away despite it being past curfew to enter the dorms. The three of you barely made it in time. 

“Izuku?” He remains quiet and picks Noa up. He goes to your room, making you follow him. Like the magician he is, Izuku managed to get Noa to sleep just by walking to your room. He changes his son's clothes and tucks him in. 

“He can brush his teeth in the morning.” Noa’s papa whispers. In his hand is the bag with the things Noa threw in there. Some toys, a random hat, and a magazine about pandas he found in the checkout. Izuku takes all of it out and starts to put stuff away. 

“Izuku, please say something.” Izuku straightens up with more of Noa’s things in his hand to put them in the proper place. 

“I need some of his things in my room too.” If it were a different situation, you may have giggled given how fatherly he’s acted today while wearing a t-shirt that hugs him loosely with the word “Dad” on it.

“S-sure. We can do tomorrow since-”

He interrupts you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You start to stutter. “B-because I knew you’d be against it since it has to do with your friends and the teachers you adore so much. If you knew that we’re building a case against you guys, you’d’ve been furious!”

He doesn’t say anything but continues to put Noa’s things away in drawers. He then goes to your bed and starts to make it. “Izuku, please. You know I’m right.”

He stops tucking in the comforter and stares at you. “You should’ve told me, (Y/n).”

You shift on your feet and bite your lip. “Izuku, I’m not trying to hurt you. Just the heroes and your friends.”

He sighs and finishes the bed. It’s pristine and so tight you could bounce a quarter on it. “Why can’t you be honest with me?”

“About me going to your boss’s boss and telling him of this travesty? You would have accepted that? Come on, Izuku. You’d’ve hated me. Hell, you’re mad now!”

“I know I’m mad! I’m pissed off. Not just because you’re going to attack my friends and our teachers, but you lied.” He fluffs your pillows and arranges them in proper order.

“Lied?”

“Lying by omission. You didn’t even say anything. Damn it, (Y/n). Why didn’t you trust me? Why aren’t you giving my friends a chance?”

You scoff at his take and his hypocrisy. Does he not remember hiding the caregiver situation? “A chance? They’ve had months of chances and they’ve turned them away. And your dear teachers add to our pain with no remorse. Yes, yes, I didn’t tell you. Yes, I am taking everyone to the hero commission. It's going to hurt. But this is happening. We’re struggling, we’re in pain. Damn it, Deku. How many times do I have to cry in front of you for you to understand what’s really going on?”

He clenches his fists then let's go. You continue your rant relentlessly. “Not to mention that whole caregiver thing you were hiding! Yeah, I still remember that. So, let us not forget who the liar is here.”

"Oh my-" He stops in the middle of his sentence and looks around your room. You roll your eyes and gesture around. "You're running out of things to clean. What's next? The windows? Need some Windex?" 

His eyes go to your window and to your door. He heads to it before he's stopped by your hand. "Okay, no, no, no!" Izuku's nostrils are flared. The deep frown looks like it'll be permanent if he doesn't ease up. He clenches his fists repeatedly then lets go.

“I’m sorry, (Y/n), I’m sorry! I get it. A false hero society, right?” He sighs and plops down on your bed. Izuku rubs his face. “I know, I know. You’re not the first one.”

The confession makes you freeze. He goes on, “What’s happening is wrong. You’re right about that. But why couldn’t you have told me? Trust me? Yes, I messed up several times. Probably more than I’ve made you feel safe, (Y/n).”

He’s hurt you and lied. However, he has made you feel safe before. You aren't taking that from him.

“Because these people are heroes and you look up to them. I couldn’t risk you turning us in when we’re not ready. I’m still afraid you’ll go against me,” You stare into his green eyes. “I’m gunning for all of the heroes. The way you feel the need to fight a villain is the same way I feel. We’ve been wronged time and time again. You can’t see it since it’s not happening to you. Izuku, hon, you’re important to me but this is important too.”

He can keep a secret, just like he did when he knew you were working. But this concerns the people he loves. His steps reach you in no time. He whispers, “It’ll hurt me. But as long as it’s you, then fine.” 

Before, it may have been genuine but now it sounds like he’s reminding himself to set an alarm clock or do homework. After a few beats of silence, you ask, “Are you going to tell?”

Gazing into your eyes, he says, “I’m going to help. Tell me what to do.”

If he’d let you, you’d give him a kiss that’d rival his dream. The one that was from The Greatest Love Story. In the book, it is said that there were only a few legendary kisses. If he would want it, you’d give him another. Not because you’re using him for the cause, but because it’s him. 

“Honestly, I need help with um, insider information,” He raises his brows. “I also need help with school. We all do, actually. You see, this project is messing with us. It’s hard to take care of kids, go to school full time, work, and plan mass destruction.”

You intended for that to be playful, and it fell flat instead.

“I’ll help you. We can study together some more.” He tilts his head. “I have some of my old notes that you guys can use, too.”

You know what he’s doing. Izuku’s trying to distract himself from what’s bothering him. Because of Noa, he’s put himself directly into the line of fire. Metaphorically sacrificing himself. And this happens after he thanked you for being a safe haven. How do you make it better?

“I’ll take Noa more often. We need to bond more anyway.” 

“Are you sure about this?” His green curls move when he nods his head. He hugs you, fitting your face against him. “What’s happening is wrong. It’s not fair to you or anyone else.”

You nod and hug him back since he’s muffled your mouth. He has gotten relaxed with you to where he can talk and touch without turning into a tomato. Izuku doesn't hesitate to call you an affectionate name since the two of you are friends. He feels comfortable enough to argue with you without stuttering. You don't like that but at least he'd tell you what he feels. Right now, you ripped that away from him. 

Suddenly, his pocket vibrates. Izuku hums and brings it out. On it is the name Ochako. He hides the message and sticks it back in his pocket. Before you can bring it up, he hugs you again. 

His shoulders shake and there is a sniffle in your ear. “Izuku, be honest with me. If this is too much, let me know.” You whisper.

In response, Izuku rubs your back in circles. You know that he agrees that the baby project is nonsensical, but the people who you are punishing are his friends and comrades. Heroes need to be put in their place but Izuku's crying. How do you make it less painful? 

  You hug him tighter and place soft kisses on him as wet droplets fall on your shoulder.

-

@xoxoangellll @js-favnanadoongi @imas1mpp @candiiee @moodyhuesworld @dinorawrss @luvrluvrr @bigchungusdrinksspritecranberry @d4n1elll4 @4ishere @lunavixia @shortchubbybibi @jazzywazzy859 @kksmush

if you weren't tagged let me know!

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Invitation

Wherein Eris receives an invitation and responds. (Takes place after the conclusion of Season of the Witch.)

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

Eris sat alone at the small table in her portal room in the H.E.L.M., surrounded by books, the portal to the Athenaeum glowing behind her. She sipped tea, both hands on the cup, enjoying the blissful silence.

The main door opened and she saw Crow at the top of the stairs wave to something.

A tiny red light floated into the room and approached her.

The corner of Eris’ mouth quirked upwards in a small smile. She set aside her tea.

The Drifter’s ghost floated slowly to her in complete silence. It came within a few feet of her, eye level to her as she sat, and tipped downward in what Eris assumed was a ghost-version of a bow. Something white was tucked in between the pieces of its shell.

She held out her hand. The ghost lowered itself down to rest on her palm and shook while opening its shell slightly.

A note.

The other side of Eris’ mouth also quirked up into a smile.

She took the note with one hand while holding the ghost in her other. Her thumb brushed along one of its welded seams.

You and me? Dinner tonight? 8? On that heap I call a ship?

Unaddressed. Unsigned. And yet, completely unambiguous.

The note was hand-lettered, the writing clean and neat, printed, not cursive. Eris wondered if he had written it out dozens of times to get the lettering so even and clean, or if his penmanship was that good. It could go either way with him. He would probably say he’s had a lot of time to learn how to… how would he phrase it… ‘write nice’... but would he have? Perhaps. She would have to gather more evidence to determine the answer to that question. This form of correspondence pleased her and she wished to encourage it.

Eris examined the writing carefully. Not a pen. A felt tip marker perhaps. Fine. The kind that would be able to write on glass or metal with just as much ease as paper.

The paper had weight to it. Card stock. Possibly for use as shipping labels or to slide into metal frames on the front sections of metal drawers. The medium was functional, but unblemished. Clean. No stains of grease or smudging. Carefully prepared.

There was room for her answer on the back, but Eris was loathe to give away the only sample of his handwriting he had ever given to her. She tilted her head.

…what’s it like?

Perhaps he might feel the same.

She ran her thumb along a different welded seam on the ghost in her hand. It briefly froze, and then tilted and leaned into her finger, clearly unused to such tenderness. She placed the note down on the table and put her other hand around the ghost, cupping it, gently lifting it, and then placing it upon the table next to the note and her teacup.

She held up one finger in front of it. It rose an inch above the table surface and tipped its front down in a nod, waiting.

Eris reached behind her and pulled out a piece of hive leather from the cupboard along with a sharp stone.

Too large.

She used the stone to cut the leather into a piece slightly smaller than the palm of her hand. She trimmed the edges so they would not be sharp and then turned it over in her fingertips. Small enough for a ghost to carry, but large enough to be an object which might bring joy to be touched, caressed, kept as a memento. He absolutely would keep it. He could be ridiculously sentimental when he allowed himself to be.

She put the larger piece of leather aside and held the sharp stone above her newly created stationary.

I accept? No. Too formal.

I look forward to it? No. Too eager.

Challenge accepted? Playful, but not quite what she wanted for this situation. No.

He would like that response, and it would match the coyness of his note. But, Eris was not feeling coy. She did not wish to simply call his bet, she wished to raise it. Something weighted, then. A message which could have layers of meaning, like its intended recipient.

Eris smiled fully.

Deep cuts with the stone, not enough to slice through, but heavy with the weight of emphasis. He would notice. He would run his fingertips across the cuts and feel their depth, sense the even, deliberate strength of the incisions indicating, in turn, the strength of the response.

One word, cut in sharp angles. No ambiguity and yet, ambiguously applicable to more than just the stated invitation. He would catch his breath. His hands or perhaps even his spine might tremble. He would wonder if it were the answer to more than the question he had asked. He would hope it was.

yes

Eris put down the stone and turned the piece of leather containing her response in her hands, imagining she were receiving it. She felt the weight of it, both physically and emotionally. Yes. This was imparting what she wanted it to convey.

She looked down to the mutilated ghost watching her work.

…you’re beautiful. Not in spite of the scars, because of them…

She held out her hand. The ghost floated over and gently rested in her palm, letting her feel its weight as it looked up at her. She took the hive leather response she had composed in her other hand and extended out one finger, stroking each one of the soldered scars on the ghost’s shell. It shuddered and opened up, allowing her to slip the leather between its misshapen plates.

The ghost’s shell pulled closed again, gripping Eris' note, and it hovered inches above her hand, twisting itself and then confirming with a small bob that her message was secure.

Still smiling, Eris brought her hand back up to touch the ghost, gently tugging it to her lips and pressing a small kiss on the side of its shell.

It trembled.

She opened her hand wider and leaned back.

The Drifter’s ghost floated up and dipped its tiny body to her in the air, bowing, its red eye briefly glowing brighter.  Then it wafted back reverently to the door.

It turned to looked back at her and bowed slowly once more in the air before it left the room.

Eris poured more hot tea into her cup and sat back in her chair, tea in one hand, her dinner invitation in the other.

She ran her fingertip back and forth along the surface of the note as she sipped and smiled.

This is the conclusion to a series of stories written during Season of the Witch that I called Kept Conficence, after the hand cannon with the lore that helped to inspire them.

Here is a link to all of them in order if you wish.

[sexhaver]

my favorite MTG "combos" are the ones that require a level 3 judge with a college-level understanding of probability to determine if they end the game or not. the poster child for this used to be the classic "infinite mana + Filigree Sages + Wirefly Hive + opponent controls a Leonin Elder" thought experiment, but the D&D set supplanted it with the combo of Delina, Wild Mage + Pixie Guide being right there in draft. like, people did this on accident, which is INFINITELY funnier

the "combo" is that if you target the Pixie with Delina's attack trigger, you have a roughly 17% chance of creating so many copies of Pixie that it's almost (but not quite!) impossible to get anything other than the 15-20 range on Delina's ability. you would think this is an infinite loop that ends in a draw, but because you can technically break out of the loop at any time (with vanishingly low and rapidly shrinking odds), you can't shortcut it and have to sit there in nondeterministically quasi-infinite D20-rolling purgatory until the sun explodes or a judge issues you a game loss for slow play, whichever comes first.

or at least that's what would have happened without the day 0 errata, lol

anyways, i was considering building a Zedruu EDH deck that includes Delina + Pixie + R&D's Secret Lair + Wirefly Hive et. al. with the goal of "winning" by forcing the table to argue over college-level probability and/or obscure rules interactions. what other "combos" can i run? Opalescene + Humility is an obvious autoinclude, but what about funnier stuff, like targeting Platinum Angel with Illicit Auction? much to consider...

[talenlee]

Game Pile: Apiary

Something that I’m keenly aware of when dealing with students talking about games is the way that games are a genre with their own language and jargon and how sometimes things that are very complicated the first time you see anything like them become standardised pieces after you’re familiar with them.

Consider that when I point to a game called Apiary which is about bees in space and whose theme feels like it’s spray-painted on without that being any kind of detriment to the game. I’ve played it once, I didn’t win, and I had a lot of fun even when I found it frustrating.

Alright, let’s just pull the lid off this game, strip away the fictional framework and talk about the raw mechanisms. Apiary is a worker-placement game with bumping, gating workers, and depleting workers. You have your own personal build space, which has limitations and perks, and you build things in them by spending workers on those actions, out of resources A, B, C, and special resources D and E. You can spend resources on upgrading parts of your engine or adding to your board space.

Okay, some extrapolation on those terms if they don’t mean anything to you:

Worker placement is a game where to take actions you have to put your workers in one of a limited number of slots. Every action in the game is limited by how many workers you have available. If all your workers are on the table, you have to spend a turn bringing them back.

Bumping refers to a system where when someone places a worker, it pushes previous workers out of their spot and sends them back to their player – meaning that players can’t permanently block spaces.

Depleting workers means that workers wear out; in Apiary they ‘build up’ – going from a level 1 worker to a level 4 worker, whereupon the level 4 worker retires to hibernate and you need to spend a worker action to get a new worker.

Gating workers means that there are tasks that need workers of a certain quality or level to do some actions.

This means that in Apiary, you place a worker, but a level 1 worker can’t do as many or as effective a thing as a level 3 worker, and one of the options, a victory-point gainer, is only doable with a level 4 worker. This creates gameplay situations where you want to do everything at once, and you can’t, and you also want to anticipate what other players are doing. If you put yourself in the right spot, another player will potentially bump your worker back to you, which will increase its level and give you better options on your next turn.

There’s a trap in this design, where the game rules give you two options for your turn. One of them is placing a worker, which gives you a whole extra set of decisions to make, but the other option is retrieve all your workers, and each returning worker can trigger one of your farm tiles.

In the game I played, I saw two retrieve actions done. Bumping happened all the time, meaning that it was much easier to just find something else to do with your turn while you waited for someone else to give you one of your workers back. I wasn’t planning for the turn I had coming up, I was planning for one turn after that, because the turn I had coming up was pretty much locked in; I knew I was about to do something that bumped someone else, and that I would in turn, get bumped.

It’s a good feeling but it is also incredibly confining. There were actions I simply never took in the game, because I never needed to with my options, which meant that the players who were doing those actions were often bumping one another. The action that gets you victory condition tiles require a level 4 worker, which means they get bumped very rarely – and then when they bumped, they go to hibernation (usually).

At most you’ll have four workers out there, and unless you have four farms, retrieval isn’t going to get you resources from every one. One worker, one farm, two workers, two farms – it feels like a real tricky choice to plan for. So much so that unless there’s some Hive reason to really care about farms, those feel like it’s not worth your time to get them… but I say that as someone who was getting victory points from his recruits. I was being biased in one direction, there’s obviously a way to be biased in other ways.

Now I may have discussed the game rules in a pretty lore-agnostic way but I think it’s pretty reasonable to treat it as a lore-agnostic game because what the hell is this lore? It’s about bees in space which is while a great idea, and I love it a lot, it’s also an idea that fels kinda like it was tripped over. Like the only reason this game looks the way it is, is themed the way it is, is because someone at a meeting misheard something, an artist generated a bunch of work based on that mishearing, and when they were done, the designers just rolled with it rather than re-do a bunch of art assets.

There’s some odd things at work here, too, where the lore sort of implies something that isn’t in the game. See, there’s talk about how all the bees are growing older faster and there’s a need to put the bees in hibernation because they’re sleepy (beepy). There’s talk about a reason for it, a sort of coming plague that’s slowly creeping at their population, and with all the technology and enhancement happening, I thought that maybe the endgame signalled some sort of successful overcoming of the plague.

But no, it’s a classic: The winner is the player with the most points. The end game is when you run out of game.

It’s hardly my place to complain about that, I mean I love Wingspan to pieces, and that is a game that plays until the pieces run out and the scoring happens. It’s an abstracted system game, and complaining that a Stonemeier game is not deep on a fictional entrenchment for its mechanics is a bit like complaining that bicycles aren’t good planes. These games are merely excellent in other ways and just good in others. That’s okay!

A particular detail about Apiary that feels present that isn’t in Wingspan is the constriction. Wingspan turns feel precious because you know how many you have but you also are all growing at roughly the same speed. It’s easy to look around the table at Wingspan and see people whose boards are roughly as developed as yours (though it’s just as possible for things to go poorly, part of that game’s skill floor), but in Apiary the board is full of signs of what’s going on. It can be hard to tell how close the end game is, and I know it snuck up on me.

But at the same time, because I’m planning two steps ahead, any time something I wanted finally arrived on my player board, because I could afford it, and the worker to get it and the space to get it set up it was a little party. I didn’t remember why I wanted that Carve action in particularly but when I had the time to do it I threw a little party. I wasn’t sure if what I was doing was the right thing at the end of the game, but putting down the last two tiles on my board in the last turn was a real thrill, feeling like I had used every drop of what the game offered me.

The game holds on tight, and that means that doing things within that constraint brings with it a great pressure but also the pressure made all the successes feel more gratifying.

Apiary is a type of game you know if you need it in your life when you hear the pitch. It’s a Stonemeier Worker Placement game about Bees In Space. The Stonemeier formula is polished and exquisite, it’s thoughtfully produced, it’s got a good rulebook and rules appendix, its player guide is excellent, it’s just going to do all the things you expect a game of its type to do well.

It’s not a game to consider for its ‘point’ or its ‘direction.’ It’s a game that’s good and interesting because of its in-the-moment experience. The moment when you’re planning your turns and hoping for the next one. It’s a game that really shows where friction can come from though; one slow player slows down every player, and that can mean a game of relatively quick decisions can be pretty frustrating while I’m just waiting, waiting, waiting, to do one thing and move one piece because it’s the turn after this one that interests me.

Basically, the complexity load on this one is a real thing, and don’t expect a story.

I know, shocking, Jamie’s done it again.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[chernabogs]

Fractal

Inc: Malleus, Prefect. WC: 2k Warnings: Dream horror, consumption of rotten fruit, everything seems happy but there's an underlying layer of 'somethings rotten in denmark (briar valley)' Excerpt: “Nothing.” You reply steadily. “I just haven’t been here before.”  Liar. Malleus remains still for a moment before he laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is as the sun comes out once more. “Well of course you have not been here. That is why I chose this place—I wanted to show my friends my home.” 

It’s you who causes the cataclysm this time. 

He’s in a field that’s warm, and for once the sun—which beats down on him from a baby blue sky—does not give him a migraine, nor does it make his skin itch with the ghostly sensation of hives. He’s sitting at the end of a long dining table with a white tablecloth concealing its mahogany structure. It’s adorned with an array of foods; fruits, vegetables, meats—a cornucopia of delights to dig one's fingers into. It’s what he anticipates happening upon the arrival of his guests, who will fill the twenty-two empty wooden chairs that are present. 

His gaze remains focused on the far end of the field, where a gap in the trees that create a barrier around where he sits is present. He remains still, motionless, as though he’s a wind up doll waiting for someone to turn his key. The sounds of cicadas screaming from the distant pines and the warm wind that brushes across his pale skin do little to stir him out of this strange state. He hardly even blinks. He merely sits and waits.

Until you appear at that gap. 

Then, like that key turning, everything comes to life. He takes a breath in and sits up, a smile curling on his thin lips as his hands come to rest on that pristine, white tablecloth. He remains still as he watches you approach. Your steps are shaky, and you seem tired as you take your time to reach where he sits, as though every step is a labour for you to complete. When you finally reach the other end of the table, you draw to a stop, your gaze transfixed on the feast before you. Perhaps you are looking at the meat, or perhaps you are looking at the flies that are beginning to garnish its surface. 

“You got my invitation.” Malleus’ voice is warm, as though he’s attempting to project a certain image of himself to you. You glance towards where he sits. He looks composed, regal, in the plain wooden chair with the sun creating a halo behind his head. He gazes back at you, and it feels like those green eyes are slowly peeling away each layer of flesh, parting each tendon and muscle, until he can see the white of your bone beneath. You swallow.

“I did.” Your voice is quiet as you resist the urge to look back at the gap in the trees. Three more pairs of eyes watch you from within the shadows as you try to walk your way through these steps. You’ve done this before. Many times before. “It was kind of you to invite me.” 

His smile remains as he doesn’t reply for a moment before gesturing to the seat—the one next to him. “Sit, Prefect. You look tired.”

You move slowly around the table until you reach the seat to which he is gesturing. When you pull it out, it rips up the earth beneath it, causing the scent of dirt to mix with that of decay. He pushes a glass filled with a clear liquid towards you and you dutifully take it, although you refrain from raising it to your lips. He drinks unashamedly and without care. 

“Am I early?” You ask, selecting each piece of dialogue in your mind with caution. You watch as he finishes drinking, setting the empty glass down as he does. His lips are stained slightly red from the action and his tongue darts out to clean them, slowly running along the bottom one as his gaze goes back your way.

“Yes, but that is of little concern. I have no objections to being in your company a moment longer,” he muses, sharp white teeth flashing as he observes you with amusement. “The others should be arriving soon.” 

Malleus looks back to the gap in the trees as you study his profile. The skin beneath his eyes looks slightly bruised up and along his cheekbones—the area where his overblot patterning is. His hair is brushed back from his forehead, revealing the scales beneath, and his expression is fixed into one of childish excitement. He wears white, but the edges of his sleeves are stained. “They all received an invitation. I made sure of it. I am not apt to forget my friends, unlike some.” 

“Perhaps they got lost.” You murmur, looking at that gap in the trees yourself as you do. You can see movement within the shadows as you continue to buy your time. The scent of decay grows until you’re eventually forced to look back to the feast. Wrinkled fruit, greenish meat, drooping herbs, and liquidated vegetables; the sight makes your stomach curl as you keep speaking. “After all, this place is unusual.” 

“Unusual?” Malleus’ head turns to look back at you, his eyes still too wide, his expression too exuberant. “What is so unusual about it, Prefect?” 

You feel your breath catch in your chest as you stare back. The movements by the gap have stopped as well, as though the entire scene has been paused with your single comment. You can hear the rustle of that warm wind through the corn field behind you, and the sun is soon covered by a passing cloud. You clench your hands in your lap.

“Nothing.” You reply steadily. “I just haven’t been here before.” 

Liar.

Malleus remains still for a moment before he laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is as the sun comes out once more. “Well of course you have not been here. That is why I chose this place—I wanted to show my friends my home.” 

The tension dissipates at that moment as Malleus picks up a few figs from the table. He sets them on his plate and presses a fork into one. You try to ignore how squishy it is, or the green that oozes from its inside. “Wouldn’t it have been better if we had dinner at your palace?” 

He doesn’t reply as he spears one piece of rotten fig with his fork, turning it over slowly before holding it out to you. His smile still doesn’t dissipate. “No. I do not think it would have been. I want my friends to feel connected to one another. I want them to feel like a family.”

You glance at the fig piece. It sags on the metal prongs, making your stomach twist in disgust. There’s expectation in Malleus’ eyes that conceal a glint of something else—a test. So far you have been selecting the right reactions, but it isn’t sufficient. 

You lean forward, keeping your gaze locked on his as you take the fig piece in your mouth. You’re trying hard not to gag as you chew slowly before forcing it down your throat. There’s a lingering after-taste of rot present and you finally grab at the water glass.

He chuckles and leans back before picking up another piece for himself. “I admit, it’s a bit sour, but tolerable all the same.” 

Sour? It’s rotten, but you refrain from saying this aloud as you drink. You said it aloud before, and the results went as poor as they could go. There’s only so many times you and the others can formulate a plan before it becomes apparent that it’s all for naught. Eventually you set your glass down with a grimace and watch as it immediately refills itself. It’s magic, obviously—Malleus has been throwing his magic around unashamedly and without care. The soil nurtures him, the sun gives him life, the winds carry his words. He is both the creation and the creator of the feast you sit at. The executioner, and perhaps the sacrifice as well.

Or maybe that role is solely for you. After all, you are the one he is feeding right now. 

You tilt your wrist slightly to catch a glance at the watch you wear around it. Phones and technology are pointless here—not that you have your phone anyway—so Lilia gave you this as a manual means. The hands are not moving, and instead remain fixed at five to five. You are still in a dream. 

“Are you impatient?” His voice causes you to drop your wrist quickly and look his way. It’s hard to mask the surprise on your face. In fact, it’s quite pointless. That razor sharp gaze that peeled away your skin when you first approached now cuts incisions into your skull as he tilts his head, studying you. “They have five minutes.”

Five minutes will never come. You’re not sure if Malleus even knows this. It’s as though he’s settled himself so deeply into this dream he’s created—a tick, gorging itself on the magic of its own making, unaware of how its body swells and strains until the point that it bursts from over-consumption. He’s becoming inflated with his power. It’s how his overblot has not ended, despite the way he hides it with glamour. 

“Are you sure you invited them?” You ask cautiously again, testing the waters. You see a twitch in his smile—the corner of his thin lip wavering slightly. His eyes remain wide. 

“Yes. I wrote the invites myself. Everyone got one—Lilia, Silver, Sebek, you. Those of Heartslabyul, of Savanaclaw, of Octavinelle, of all the rest. I considered those from RSA, but I would rather keep the peace for this event.” His hold tightens around the fork. You can see the threads fraying. You push. 

“Are you sure the invites were received? Did anyone tell you they would come?” You murmur, leaning a bit closer. You hate doing this—this is someone you consider your friend, perhaps more in another life, and you are not an orchestrator of someone's mental fracture. The cicada’s stop screaming. Another cloud passes over the sun. 

“You never RSVP.” He replies, his voice now more monotone and colder. His smile remains but his eyes have slid back to the emptiness you’ve been seeing since his overblot began. He looks to you once more, and you scramble to see some remnant of the peculiar prince you’ve come to know in those eyes. “And yet you came.”

“I’ll always come,” you reply quietly, the scent of rot growing stronger with each word. You see movement in your peripheral vision again. The sky darkens further, and the wind begins to grow cold. “Whether you mean it or not, I’ll always come. But I cannot say the same for everyone else. Sometimes people don’t arrive, or they leave without goodbyes. Sometimes—”

His expression twists. It’s like a child hearing something they don’t want to hear, or when they’re denied a toy they want so badly to be theirs. His body stiffens and his upper lip curls. “Stop it, Prefect.” 

His voice is low, dangerous. You’re pushing it again, just like all the other times so far. You see another figure approaching the table. Someone with silver hair, someone who looks as though they’ve aged many years in mere moments. They hold a weapon at their side. Your own hand darts out and grabs Malleus’ arm. Despite the demeanour, despite the rage, his arm is solid and warm beneath your grip. 

“Malleus,” you begin, desperation starting to lace in your voice. You see a flash of green and hear the clattering of something hitting the table, and then he jerks his arm away. You feel the crushing sense of overwhelming power before with a snap of his fingers he’s in a field that’s warm, and for once the sun—which beats down on him from a baby blue sky—does not give him a migraine, nor does it make his skin itch with the ghostly sensation of hives. He’s sitting at the end of a long dining table with a white tablecloth concealing its mahogany structure. It’s adorned with an array of foods; fruits, vegetables, meats; a cornucopia of delights to dig one's fingers into. 

It’s what he anticipates happening upon the arrival of his guests, who will fill the twenty-two empty wooden chairs that are present.

[dr-futbol-blog]

Allies, Pt. 3

And so they take McKay's advice and reroute their communications to the wraith hive via the Daedalus, which requires McKay and Zelenka to quickly come up with a patch that allows them to transfer both video and audio feed from a completely alien technology to theirs while attempting to keep the exact location of Atlantis hidden from the wraith, which is no mean feat. Relevant for this episode is that as Zelenka reports to Weir what he and McKay had fixed up together, we can hear that he sounds fond of his colleague. We have seen the two of them get on each other's nerves perhaps more than your average coworkers -- especially during their first tour when they were all forced to get along with one another, there was nowhere to go -- but there is also respect between them, and it is obvious that McKay and Zelenka have become quite close. This is setting up something that takes place later between Sheppard and Zelenka, the latter shown to be an ally to them.

Caldwell: Well, I think it's safe to say that if they were going to attack us, they would have done it by now. They let the Daedalus land without incident. Weir: And you're sure they don't know about the Orion? Sheppard: I ordered Lorne to park her just outside of sensor range. McKay: This, this is incredible! I can't believe they actually sent this over so freely.

They are contacted by Michael who is on the hive above the planet, looking wraithier than he had previously but not quite as wraith as the rest of them. The Lanteans are cautious while Michael tries to convince them of their good intentions. Something worth noting is that Michael times the waking of the wraith to over two years ago, which factors in the months the crew had spent on Earth waiting for their second tour and the three weeks that had taken place between the previous episode and this.

Weir is the one who talks with Michael, ostensibly using her experience as a negotiator but seeming to have more than a little bit of attitude toward him, perhaps resulting from the guilt they all feel for having created this situation to begin with. In a nutshell, the wraith are asking to use Beckett's retrovirus as a weapon to turn on other wraith, to turn them into humans and feed on them, which they sell as a win-win situation. Weir is invited to recall their ships to talk it over, and so we find all of them in the meeting room now, meaning that McKay had managed to fix the hyperdrive of the Orion. Sheppard and McKay have both come down, and apparently had let Lorne park their ride (again out of "censor" range). Sheppard is now seated between Caldwell and Teyla, McKay is sitting between Beckett and Ronon whereas Weir is pacing around the table before taking a seat in the middle of them all.

As indicated, the viewer should pay attention to the way Sheppard is and is not seated in this episode. Sheppard and McKay are not seated next to each other here, and McKay seems to be focused on going through the data they had been sent by Michael on his laptop, barely paying attention to the others -- albeit we may note that even so, probably entirely subconsciously, he has angled his body toward Sheppard, drawing back the shoulder on the side that he is on. Sheppard presents a more fascinating case. He is sitting very still, seeming to keep his full weight from pressing down on the chair, supporting some of his weight with his hand. His other hand is slightly raised and he is tensing it -- not quite forming it into a fist but still pumping it in a way that indicates he is either nervous or distracting himself from something. Real curious is what he does with his mouth, drawing the corner of his mouth back in a grimace before answering Weir's direct question, seeming to almost have been zoning out before this, looking dead ahead. And we have seen this before. His mouth did this very thing at the end of the meeting in The Siege (S01E19) when everyone was filing out, invited to get up from his seat, and then later on in the same episode, again when he was preparing to get up from his seat.

This had been following the last night Sheppard and McKay had spent together before it all went terribly, horribly wrong. This is not the only time we have seen him do this (The Lost Boys (S02E10) features another very obvious example of Sheppard needing to keep his weight off of his... tailbone for mysterious reasons), only that the context here is very similar. They also lampshaded this by having Sheppard refer to a "pain in the ass" in the latter scene, and they also lampshade in this episode the previous night as having been the cause of what ever this is when Sheppard, in the scene soon although not immediately following this one, says "I got to tell you: when I woke up this morning, I honestly didn't think this would be happening," inviting the viewer to wonder what had happened this morning -- and what had happened the previous night.

And like we had seen all through the episode then, we see Sheppard's... old tailbone injury now bothering him throughout this episode, affecting the way he chooses to sit and him making the choice to stand when ever it is even remotely feasible to do so -- several times when other characters are shown seated. And so, for some reason, Sheppard grimaces in pain before answering Weir now in a way that is not accounted for by the immediate topic of their conversation. Weir was asking where Sheppard had parked his ride, this is not a question that should cause him either physical pain or emotional turmoil. This is not a question that should trigger any feelings of discomfort in him. And yet we see him grimacing, keeping his weight off his backside and pumping his hand as though to distract himself, interesting acting choices all around. Especially in the context of the timeline of the events, Sheppard and McKay having known that it was their last night before returning to Atlantis just as it had been their last night before McKay had to leave Atlantis then. But it gets even more interesting.

McKay: I mean, if I can figure out how to break through this programme -- which is, well, as you know, pretty likely -- we could nuke any hive ship that we came across. Weir: Including Michael's? McKay: Well, it might take a couple of tries the first time. Sheppard: Long enough to tell the rest of the wraith we're still around.

They are all listening to McKay gushing about the data they had received from Michael, sounding both excited and happy in a way we have seldom seen him. In fact, we may not have seen him this happy since the beginning of Hot Zone (S01E13), which incidentally was when they had first begun the physical side of their relationship following the events of The Defiant One (S01E12), and they had been spending enough time together that Sheppard seems to have entirely neglected his stick fighting practice sessions with Teyla. Right now, it is almost as though a weight has been lifted off of McKay's shoulders and he seems almost relaxed. In contrast to the end of the previous episode McKay also seems to have his confidence back in a way that makes Beckett roll his eyes at what is often perceived as McKay's arrogance but which is both a shield for his poor self-esteem and, in this case, possibly just knowing that he can do it. There is nothing for any of them to gain by McKay projecting false modesty as opposed to laying down what he thinks he can do for them. Regardless, McKay is in his element here.

We then get to see Sheppard from another angle but he is still seated just the way he was in the previous shot with his whole body seemingly turned toward Teyla, even though he has angled his body to mirror that of McKay on the other side of the table. He is still helping his other hand take some of his weight and is slouching in a way that puts most of his weight on one buttock. He looks almost to be sitting on Teyla's lap here, his feet probably in Teyla's space (although this camera angle makes it seem like he is closer to her than he is, his chair was pulled back more toward Caldwell than her), and yet this has nothing whatsoever to do with Teyla. He seems barely aware of her presence, oriented across the table. And he is still keeping his other hand up in a loose fist, running his thumb over his fingers and flexing the muscles, pumping it a way that communicates either nervousness, which he does not seem to be feeling, or a need to distract himself from something. By placing Weir in the centre of the room and having both McKay and Sheppard talk to her we are invited to forget that they are sitting across from each other, are basically mirroring each other, both drawing back one shoulder to have their bodies open toward the other.

McKay: If they really are willing to let me run tests on their ship, I mean, this is a... It-it's an amazing opportunity, Elizabeth! Weir: "An amazing opportunity." Sheppard: Well, think about it. This is essentially our idea. We created the retrovirus in order to do exactly what they're proposing we do. What's the down side? I mean, other than the fact that we'd be working with the wraith?

McKay seems so excited about the prospect and wanting to start working on the wraith jamming code that he develops a slight stutter, which we have occasionally heard when he has been really agitated or anxious before -- whereas here, it seems to be out of pure excitement. His mind seems to be running in a hundred directions all at once which causes his mouth to be unable to keep up with his thoughts, leading him to slightly stumble over his words. And you had better believe Sheppard caught on to this, seeing how observing McKay has always been his favourite occupation. And so we see him respond to McKay by glancing at him and then leaning forward, putting his elbows on the table.

Sheppard leaning forward accomplishes two things. He keeps the weight of his behind while finding a more comfortable position because even though he was projecting a relaxed slouch, he really seemed quite uncomfortable. Hear also the slight groan of pain between his "think about it" and "This is," made just as he switches positions because acting choices are being made here. Lord Almighty, he even shifts his weight from cheek to cheek in an attempt to find a position that is more comfortable. Leaning forward also brings him closer to McKay, gives him a pretext for allowing his body to do what it wants to do anyway. As noted, they seem to have spent nearly three weeks with each other, rekindling their connection and while it probably involved a lot of strenuous exercise, it had featured other kinds of intimacy as well. It can be difficult to switch back from something like that immediately, and later on we see e.g., McKay touch Sheppard in a way that betrays the fact that a lot of touching has been happening between them recently.

Also important here is that as McKay pitches this to Weir, Sheppard immediately jumps in to support him, to back him up with what he wants to do. And this flies in the face of everything we had heard Sheppard say during Michael (S02E18), wherein he seemed to be very much against continuing this experiment. It is true that at one point he had said: "The retrovirus works -- that much is clear. Just look at the guy. If we can figure out how to deploy this as a biological weapon, it's possible that we can hit entire hive ships and turn them into humans." But that had been Sheppard trying to sell the project to Ronon, to make some lemonade out of their snafu. The entire episode, Sheppard had vacillated between the two sides of the debate but now he gives his unconditional and enthusiastic support to McKay when Weir has barely finished quoting McKay's words in a dubious tone. This is not Sheppard suddenly having come around. This is Sheppard caught up in McKay's obvious excitement. Note that McKay is also doing his thumb thing here that usually betrays his nervousness even though he does not seem particularly nervous either.

Caldwell: Isn't that enough? Beckett: It would mean at least something good came of our experiment with Michael. Teyla: I'm not sure we have a choice. It appears they have kept our existence a secret, but if we do not help... Weir: There is that.

We see Caldwell and Sheppard sitting side by side basically in the same position and yet Sheppard seems to be leaning more of his weight on the table and again we see him shifting his weight, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. Caldwell is not quite as quick to jump on McKay's bandwagon as Sheppard. We see McKay briefly close his eyes and look away when Sheppard says the words "I mean, other than...," and it is not entirely clear whether this is in reaction to the concept of the wraith or to the fact that he was expecting Sheppard to offer some kind of an objection, to again try to balance both sides of the issue, to give with one hand and to take away with the other -- which is not forthcoming. Sheppard is standing 100% behind McKay on this one.

Weir: Carson, I know you've been working on the weaponisation of the retrovirus. How close are you? Beckett: We're close. It still needs work, but we're close.

During this season, McKay had twice said that they were not close. He had obviously not been referring to Sheppard and himself but it was nonetheless true, they were not as close as both of them wanted to be because they simply seemed unable to find their way back to each other. McKay had told Caldwell "We're not close" in The Long Goodbye (S02E16) and he had told Sheppard "I'm not even close" in Inferno (S02E19). Now Beckett had twice countered his statements by saying they were close, which is what Sheppard and McKay could also say at the moment. This is even lampshaded by how Weir seems to turn a questioning look at Sheppard who then looks at McKay, even though all of them are actually looking at Ronon, to see what he thinks about all of this.

What Beckett says now obviously refers to him and whatever team he has working on the virus but what he says can also easily be applied to Sheppard and McKay. They are close. Their relationship might still need a little work but they are close. They had managed to patch up most of the things that had been chafing between them, had fixed most of the things that had been keeping them apart. We saw in the previous episode that Sheppard had finally well and truly forgiven McKay for the events of Trinity (S02E06), and had reached the "We'll laugh about it later" stage.

When McKay had forgiven Sheppard for what had happened at the end of the previous season is a more difficult question because he seemed to have real trouble admitting even to himself that he was upset with Sheppard, quite possibly fearing that Sheppard would not love him any more if he lashed out. All through the season, but especially following Trinity, we had seen McKay increasingly attempt to take out on other people, on the people working with him and for him, the resentment building inside him toward Sheppard's actions. In the previous episode, we finally saw McKay tell Sheppard what he really thought, how he really felt about what Sheppard was doing, to give him the unvarnished truth of himself, warts and all. McKay thinks that he has to earn love through his deeds, through performing acts of service because no one could love him for who he is -- except that is exactly what Sheppard does. He does not want "always fine" McKay, he wants all of McKay. We basically hear him confess this to Zelenka later.

Sheppard loves McKay and had to dig deep to get McKay to show him his real authentic self after he retreated following Trinity, when he thought he had lost both Sheppard's trust and his love. And now it seems they have finally repaired the damage, they have finally met each other where they are. At the end of the previous episode we saw them reach some kind of understanding, this seems to have been their reconciliation. Sheppard and McKay may not be in the same place as they were at the end of the previous season, they could never return to what they were then because what they had was largely a creation of their exceptional circumstances. Their whole world was different but in some ways, what they have now is even better. It is more mature, it has weathered storms and come out the other side stronger. It still needs a little work but they are both willing to put in the work, which is the important part.

Dex: What? Weir: What do you think? Dex: Let's do it. Weir: Really? Dex: Sheppard said it himself -- it's our idea. Weir: I just thought you of all people... Dex: Hey, if they want our help killing other wraith, it's one kind of help I'm happy to provide. Weir: OK. So, we're going to do this. I'll accept the offer.

They finish the meeting and we get a final look at Sheppard who has returned to slouching, and holding some of his weight off the chair by the firm grip he has on the arm of the chair. The way he is seated, you might think he had his body turned toward Teyla or even Weir who is sitting behind Teyla where even now that he had his attention on the person making the call, we see him turn his chair back to where he had been facing McKay previously. It is also likely that he wants to turn away from Caldwell, to have some distance between them because Sheppard has always been cautious when they are in the presence of Caldwell. But if, and it certainly looks as though it has (see how they cut away to McKay just as Ronon says "Let's do it" like he has been doing some of "doing it" recently), some reconnecting has happened between Sheppard and McKay, Sheppard would likely be feeling extra cautious around Caldwell. He seems to be making an effort not to make eyes at McKay in front of Caldwell, which might explain why both of them seemed to be feeling nervous about something. Having spent a few weeks alone together, they were now having to relearn how to be together around other people. It seemed to be taking more than a little conscious effort from the both of them.

Continued in Pt. 4