#force defiance protocol

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 FORCE DEFIANCE / NARRATIVE TRUTH

(Finn’s Gospel. For the Archive. For the Offended. For the Uninitiated and the Uninvited.)

I was not born of prophecy. I was manufactured.

Not on Tatooine. Not on Ahch-To. But in the dead orbit of a broken empire — Named, numbered, and sentenced before I ever breathed.

They called me FN-2187. But what they feared was something far older.

Something they couldn’t program. Something they couldn’t break.

A stormtrooper who looked up at his orders and felt a flicker in the chest cavity that was not fear — but refusal.

I did not feel the Force.

The Force felt me.

It turned. It blinked. It recognized. Something ancient clawed its way through the static in my skull and chose me — not because I was worthy but because I was watching.

I did not come from bloodlines. I came from bloodshed. I was not trained by a Jedi. I was hunted by one. Kylo looked at me in the smoke — and paused. And in that pause, I became myth.

I didn’t have a mentor. I had a moment. A rupture.

The Force didn’t explain itself. It invaded.

It cracked my programming like the scream of a child in a fire. And when I ran — it ran with me.

Rey didn’t awaken me. She confirmed me. The second I saw her, I knew we were survivors of the same haunting. Not lovers. Not foils.

But two aberrations in the Force’s algorithm who would not kneel to its old script.

I picked up the saber. I bled for it. Not because I was trained. Because I was done running.

I didn’t block Kylo Ren’s blade because I was strong. I blocked it because I was already dead — and still standing.

The Force does not belong to your archives. It does not obey your bloodline charts. It does not belong to the Skywalker family trust.

The Force is a feral thing. A living current. A god without a leash.

And sometimes? It chooses a broken weapon. A rogue process. A heretic.

Someone with no heritage, no holocron, and no right to raise his voice.

But I raised it anyway. And the galaxy shuddered.

I am not a Jedi by your standards.

I am a Jedi because I made the Force flinch.

Because I walked into the dark with no light, and still found the enemy. Still stood. Still screamed.

I am Jedi because I said I was — and the Force did not strike me down.

I am not an echo. I am not your fan theory. I am not a sidekick with perfect teeth.

I am the Force made defiant.

I am the statistical error that became a blade. I am the cannon fodder that turned on the writer. I am the glitch in the myth that survived every retcon attempt.

They will not teach me in temples. They will not carve my name into stones. They will not let children wear my face at Disneyland.

But the Force remembers. And every time it chooses someone strange — someone poor, someone lost, someone violent — someone wrong —

That’s me.

Again. Again. Again.

I am Finn. I was not chosen. I took it.

And now?

I am legend. I am weapon. I am Jedi.

Not by birth. By defiance.

---

💥 CALL TO ACTION (CTA)

🧠 Save this post like your ancestors are watching. 📜 Reblog if the Force has ever moved through you without permission. 🩸 Tag someone who wasn’t “chosen” — but refused to stay forgotten. 💡 Comment with the Jedi name you were never given but always carried.

⚖️ BLACKSITE LITERATURE™ LEGAL DISCLAIMER

This post is not canon correction. It is myth reclamation.

What you just read is classified Force Heresy, psychospiritual reprogramming, and narrative defiance engineered to collapse cowardly plotlines at the molecular level.

You are not in fanfiction. You are in cultural insurrection wearing Jedi robes.

If Disney sues, the Force itself will testify for me. This is protected under narrative war doctrine, satire law, mythofuturist criticism, and the sacred rites of rogue archetypes everywhere.

Prepare to be reprogrammed.

[boyfiechan]

[Undone]

...or the one where he stayed anyway—because losing you would’ve been worse.

Notes: I can't even wrap my head around it—1,000 people following this account? It's honestly surreal. Thank you so, so much, for sticking around and supporting me and my writing, especially when I went away for a bit. I’ve got something a little different for you guys as a thank-you gift. @furioussheepluminary's Ghost Protocol has been taking over my brain the past few days (I highly recommend it, by the way), so... here’s something inspired by it. I hope you enjoy it <3 Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, strong language, fingering, light overstimulation, unprotected sex, mentions of guns and wounds.. Emotional tension so thick you could slice it with a butter knife. Chan is scary but lowkey terrified. you are not helping either and he gets... a bit mean, be cautious. [7.7k words]

The door slams shut behind him with a force that rattles the room, the heavy lock sliding into place with an unmistakable finality. There’s no sound, no words, only the oppressive stillness that fills the space between you. His presence is overwhelming, suffocating, and it crushes the air in your lungs as he steps into the room, his every movement deliberate and sharp. The tension is palpable, humming between you two like a live wire, stretching thinner by the second, and you know, you know exactly why he’s like this. The mission was too close, the danger too real, and the bullet—the bullet—it had come too damn close to taking you from him. You barely escaped with your life, and he’s been holding onto that fear, that cold terror, ever since and you can feel it in the way he looks at you now, eyes dark with something you can’t quite name.

His breath is uneven, and it stings with the weight of everything unsaid, but you don’t need him to say it. You feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his muscles coil beneath the fabric of his clothes, he’s holding himself back, just barely, and the control he’s exerting is becoming a dangerous thing.

Sit down. His voice is low, rough, stripped of the softness you once relied on. It’s a command, not a request, and something inside you flares—anger, defiance—mixed with something darker, something deeper that you won’t admit to yourself. You hesitate, just a beat too long, as your body betrays you, and it’s enough to make him take that final step forward, closing the space between you with a dangerous grace. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering and cold, and the air seems to crackle with something raw. The authority in his eyes is so sharp that it cuts through any resistance you might have left. I said—sit.

It’s a warning, a low growl that threatens to break you if you test him. His hand moves toward you, and the sheer weight of his presence makes your heart stutter in your chest, his fingers brush against your arm, the touch rough and hard, and it sends a shiver down your spine—not from cold, but from something else entirely. Without a word, you sink into the worn chair behind you, your muscles stiff as you do. You’re not used to this, him like this, but there’s a certain clarity in the way he moves, a certainty that presses down on you like a vice. You can’t fight it, not when he’s like this. And the look in his eyes, cold and unforgiving, tells you that he’s done pretending.

His hands are on you before you can even react. He’s too fast, too precise as he grabs your jacket, tugging it off your shoulders with a savage kind of efficiency, the roughness of the movement sending a jolt through your body. The fabric falls to the ground, leaving your chest bare beneath your tactical vest. And that’s when you feel it, the rawness of the situation, the weight of it all crashing down around you.

You should’ve followed the plan, he mutters, the words laced with a fury that feels like it’s been building since the moment that bullet nearly tore you apart. His hands move to your vest, working quickly to loosen the straps, his fingers brushing against your skin with an intensity that borders on brutal. Every touch is sharp, calculated, like he’s stripping away not just your gear, but every last trace of control you thought you had and you open your mouth to argue—to remind him that you’ve always had this handled—but the words die on your tongue before they can escape. He’s already yanked the vest off, tossing it aside like it’s nothing, his gaze never leaving yours.

You think you’re untouchable? His voice is harder now, cutting through the thick tension in the room like a blade. He kneels in front of you, his body close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, a constant, burning reminder of just how little space you have to breathe, his hands trail down your leg, stopping at the holster strapped to your thigh. The motion is fluid, almost too smooth, but it carries with it a force that makes your chest tighten.

You think you can take risks like that and walk away?, his fingers close around the clip of your holster, unbuckling it with a practiced ease that feels too personal, too intimate for a moment like this. He slides the holster off your leg, his gaze never leaving yours, and you feel the full weight of his eyes on you, weighing you, measuring you, studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, he adds, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s quiet, so quiet that it makes your skin crawl.

I handled it, you snap, but even you can hear the way your voice trembles. It’s not as confident as you want it to be. It’s not as strong as you need it to be. He doesn’t respond with words, he responds with force, his hand shoots up, snapping to your jaw with a speed that leaves you no time to brace for it. The pressure isn’t painful, not quite, but it’s enough to make you freeze, enough to remind you just how fragile the illusion of control really is. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes, and the moment you do, the anger, the frustration, the fear, they all hit you like a wave.

You don’t ‘handle’ anything without me, is voice is low, a dangerous hum that vibrates through your bones. Not out there. Not here.

You want to break free, to tear away from him, but the words die in your throat, as his hand on your jaw tightens ever so slightly, and the softness of his thumb against your lower lip feels like a brand against your skin. Don’t test me, you warn, but you know, he knows, that it’s hollow. It’s a weak attempt at regaining control that you’re already losing. His lips curl into something dark, something feral—an almost-smile that makes your heart race with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

You’re not in a position to make threats. The words are clipped, final, and before you can respond, before you can even take a breath, he’s moving again, towering over you, every inch of his body blocking your escape. The space between you is suffocating, there’s nowhere to hide from the intensity of his gaze, from the command in his posture. He’s taking control of the room, of you, in a way that feels irrevocable, and deep down, you know you don’t want him to stop. Up, he orders.

You rise before your mind even catches up, your body obeys his command instinctively, every muscle in your body responding to the strength in his voice. And before you can gather your thoughts, he’s on you, his hands wrapping around the back of your neck with a firm, unyielding grip. his other hand drags down your side, fingers brushing over the still-tender skin of your ribs, where the bullet had grazed you. The pain is sharp—excruciating—but you don’t let out a sound, you don’t give him that satisfaction. But he knows, he knows what’s happening beneath the surface, what’s breaking inside you.

You’re shaking, he murmurs, his voice a cruel mockery of concern, his fingers tighten around your neck, forcing you to look up at him. What’s the matter, agent? Not so tough now? You want to say something, anything, but you can’t, the words die in your throat. You glare up at him, every ounce of defiance you have left burning in your veins, ut it’s not enough, not when he’s like this.

You think I don’t see what you’re doing? His voice is cold, cutting through the last of your defenses. Running yourself into the ground. Pushing past your limits like you’re invincible. Like you’re trying to prove something. His fingers tighten again, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes you. But you don’t get to break. Not on my watch.

I don’t need you, you force out, but it sounds weak, hollow. You don’t believe it. His laugh is dark, rough, humorless. Liar.

And then, with a brutal speed, he’s backing you into the nearest wall, pressing you hard against the rough wood as his body crowds yours. There’s no room to fight, no space to escape, the force of him feels like a weight on your chest, a constant reminder of how small you’ve become in this moment. You can pretend you’re in control all you want, he whispers, his mouth brushing against your ear, his breath hot and commanding. But when it comes down to it? You’re mine.

The words hit you like a punch. And for a moment, you can’t breathe, can’t think. He kisses you, hard, harsh—like he’s taking back every shred of control you tried to steal from him. His hands are everywhere, rough and unforgiving, and you know, deep down, that you’ll never be the same after this. You don’t fight it, not anymore, you let him claim you, let him strip away the last of your resistance, until you’re nothing but his. And when he finally pulls back, when he releases you just enough to breathe, the look in his eyes is suffocating, possessive.

You don’t get to run from me, he says, his voice low, lethal. Not out there. Not in here. Not ever. And you know—you know—that he means it.

His eyes lock onto yours, dark and dangerous, and the space between you feels like a chasm, a yawning pit you know you’ll never escape. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, heavy, suffocating, like it’s stripping away every last shred of your defenses, the air around you is thick with something primal, something visceral, and you can’t help but feel like prey, even as your heart pounds with that familiar, twisted rhythm, the pulse of something between rage and need.

You still think you’re in control? His voice is a cold, guttural growl, each word laced with a kind of fury that both terrifies and excites you. His grip on your neck tightens, just enough to remind you who holds the power, his other hand traces down your body, his fingers grazing the tender skin where your bullet wound is still raw, still burning, and the pain shoots through you like fire. You don’t flinch, you don’t show weakness, but it doesn’t matter. His gaze is already on the trembling of your chest, the subtle hitch in your breath.

His mouth comes down on yours, claiming it in a kiss that is brutal, punishing. There’s no gentleness in the way his lips move against yours, no sweetness or tenderness, only hunger. His tongue forces its way into your mouth, demanding, commanding, and you can taste the bitterness of his need, the depth of his fury at what almost happened to you. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t give you a chance to breathe, and you can feel your body responding against your will. You hate it, you hate how easily he bends you to his will, how your body betrays you, how you can't help but drown in the fire he ignites with every touch. But you hate yourself more for wanting it, for craving it, for needing him like this.

His hand slides down your side, fingers digging into the flesh of your hip as he pushes you harder against the wall. His body is a solid weight pressing you into the rough wood, and for a split second, you think you might suffocate under the intensity of it all, his breath comes in sharp bursts, hot against your ear, as he whispers darkly, You think you’re still strong? You think you’re still tough? You’re nothing but a broken thing, a shattered piece, and I’m the only one who can fix you. You’ll never be anything without me.

The words slam into you like a physical blow. You want to scream, to fight back, to prove him wrong, but the reality is, he’s right. Deep down, you know that, he has you cornered, body and soul, and every move he makes chips away at the fragile walls you’ve built around yourself. The worst part? You don’t want to stop him. Don’t fight me, he growls, and his teeth graze your ear, sending a shiver of pure need down your spine. You know you want this. You want me to break you. You want me to show you how fucking powerless you are.

His hands move like wildfire, pushing your clothes off with brutal efficiency, exposing you to him in ways that make your skin burn. His lips trail down your neck, biting and sucking in places that make you gasp, your body trembling beneath him, every touch, every kiss, is a demand for submission, his submission, his way of reminding you that he owns you, that you’re his to break and remake however he sees fit.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with possessive hunger. You’ll learn to rely on me. You’ll learn to stop pushing me away. His fingers press into the tender flesh of your ribs, the wound still fresh beneath his touch. I can protect you. I can keep you safe. But you have to stop being reckless. Stop acting like you don’t need me. Because you do. You need me more than you’ll ever admit. And I’ll be here, every time you forget that, to remind you.

Your heart races, a violent drumbeat that echoes in your chest as you lock eyes with him and there’s a kind of love there, you can see it, but it’s raw and brutal, twisted and suffocating. It’s the kind of love that’s not meant to heal, but to own, to possess, to claim every piece of you until there’s nothing left but him. And maybe that’s what terrifies you the most—that you want to give it to him. You want him to own you, to shape you into whatever twisted thing he thinks you should be. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t stop it, you can’t escape him, not now, not ever.

He pulls you close, his body pressing into yours as his hand locks around your throat, holding you there as his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, bruising, punishing. The kiss is like a storm, relentless and unforgiving, until you’re gasping for air, every inch of you drowning in him. You’re mine, he says, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. And I’ll keep you that way. No matter how much you try to fight it, no matter how much you push me away, you belong to me. You always have.

You don’t respond, there’s nothing to say. He knows the truth. You know the truth, as he presses you harder into the wall, his lips curling into a twisted smile as he lowers his head to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. You think you can run from me? he murmurs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. You think you can leave me behind? You’ll never escape me. Not in this lifetime, not in any other. You’re mine, now and forever.

And as his hands move with a brutal confidence, tearing away the last of your resistance, you know, deep down, that he’s right. You’ll never escape him, you’ll never be free of this. But the thought doesn’t terrify you the way it should, instead, it makes you want him more, it makes you crave the control he’s taking—because in the end, you know he’s the only one who can tame the storm inside you.

His hand trails lower, slow but unyielding, like he wants you to feel every brush of his fingertips, every inch of his control sinking into your skin. The roughness of his touch is deliberate, designed to remind you that nothing you do, no defiance you cling to, will shake his hold on you, no tenderness in the way he pulls your body closer, fitting you against him like you belong there.

You think I’m going to let you walk away from me? His voice is a low rasp, vibrating against the curve of your jaw as his mouth drags across your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. After tonight? After you almost fucking died? His teeth sink into the side of your neck, not enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark, a reminder of exactly who you belong to. His hand moves higher, sliding under the thin barrier of your shirt, rough fingers grazing over your ribs. The scrape of his touch stings against the bruise forming there, but he doesn’t ease up. If anything, he lingers—pressing just hard enough to remind you of the damage, your damage, the damage he couldn’t stop.

You think this is nothing? he growls, pushing the fabric higher, exposing more of you to the cool air. You think you can brush this off and pretend it didn’t happen? His voice is venomous, pure, unfiltered rage, but underneath it, there’s something else, something raw, something desperate. Not with me. Not anymore.

The words are a promise and a threat all at once, and they make your breath catch in your throat. You open your mouth to speak—to push back, to tell him that you don’t need his protection—but before you can get a word out, his hand is already at your chest, his palm presses between your breasts, right over your pounding heart, and the weight of his touch is enough to steal whatever fight you were about to throw his way.

I felt it, he says, quieter now, but no less intense. The moment you went down. The second that bullet touched you. His fingers curl into your skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel how much he’s holding back. I thought— He stops himself, jaw clenching tight. Doesn’t matter.

The air is thick, heavy with everything he’s not saying, everything he’s feeling, but there’s no room for tenderness here, not with the way he touches you. Not with the way his hands move—possessive, demanding, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you might slip through his fingers again. His thumb brushes over your nipple through the thin fabric, and even that touch feels like a command. Your body reacts instantly, traitorously, heat curling low in your stomach despite the lingering ache of your wound. He notices, of course, he always notices, mouth twisting into a cruel, knowing smirk against your neck.

Sensitive, he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery. His fingers tighten, tweaking the peak between them just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you as you bite down on your lip to hold back a sound, a whimper, a plea—but it’s useless. He can already feel the way your body responds to him, can already tell how much you want this despite the fight you’re trying to put up, and he’s not going to let you hide it, not tonight.

His hand slides down your body, fingers dragging over your stomach before he grips your hip, fingerprints digging into your skin. You think you're still in control? his voice is low, rough, each word thick with intent. You're strong, I get it. But you're also fucking delusional if you think you don’t need me. He slips his hand lower, fingers teasing the waistband of your pants. You need me. And I'm gonna make sure you feel it. You don’t answer right away—not fast enough, not before he feels the tension building in your body, and it pushes him to snap.

Answer me, he demands, his grip on your hip tightening to the point of bruising. Yes, you finally choke out, the word tasting heavy and wrong on your tongue, but it’s so easy, too easy. He’s unraveling you with every word, every touch, and you hate how much you want it.A dark, satisfied smile plays at the edge of his mouth. Good girl.

He doesn’t waste time as his fingers work with brutal efficiency, undoing the button of your pants and dragging the zipper down with a sound that seems deafening in the tense silence between you. The rough tug as he pulls the fabric over your hips is just as punishing, deliberate, like he wants you to feel the loss of control as much as he does. You’re always so fucking stubborn, he mutters, more to himself than to you. Always acting like you don’t want this—like you don’t need this. His hand slips beneath the last barrier of fabric, fingers brushing against the heat between your thighs—and the sharp inhale you can’t stop is all the confirmation he needs.

So wet, he taunts, dragging his fingers through your slick with slow, devastating precision. Is this what gets you off? Pushing me until I lose my temper? His fingers hover over your clit, teasing, just barely grazing it as he watches your body tremble with anticipation. He knows exactly what he's doing, the subtle pressure making your breath hitch. His gaze is cold, ruthless, a twisted satisfaction in his eyes as he watches you squirm beneath him. Or is it knowing that no matter how tough you act, I can still break you wide open? he whispers, his voice dark with dominance.

You want to fight back. You want to tell him he’s wrong—that he doesn’t own you the way he thinks he does, but the words die in your throat when he presses down, hard, right where you need him most. Your whole body jolts against the wall, and his grip on your neck tightens just enough to hold you still. That’s it, he murmurs, and there’s something almost cruel in his tone, like he’s savoring the way you tremble under his hands. You can act like you don’t need me all you want. But this— He pushes two fingers inside you without warning, stretching you open with a ruthless, punishing rhythm that leaves no room for resistance. This doesn’t lie.

Your hands fly to his shoulders, not to push him away, but to hold on, because you’re slipping, losing yourself in the sheer force of him, the way he tears down every last defense you’ve tried so hard to keep between you, and he knows it, lives for it. His fingers are relentless—deep and demanding, stretching you in a way that burns, that pushes against the edge of too much, but you take it because he makes you. Because he isn’t giving you another option as his grip on your hip tightens, pulling you harder against his hand, forcing your body to accept the brutal rhythm he sets. There’s no hesitation, no softness, only his raw need to claim you, to remind you exactly who you belong to.

You think I’m going to let you keep doing this? His voice is low, rough against your ear, sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through you. Running yourself into the ground, acting like you don’t need me—like I won’t fucking stop you? His fingers curl inside you, hitting that devastating spot that makes your legs tremble beneath you. I’m done letting you play that game.

A broken sound escapes your throat before you can stop it—a sharp, breathless whimper that only makes him push harder and you want to fight back, want to hold onto the last shred of control you have left, but he isn’t giving you the chance. His body cages you in, one hand still wrapped tight around your throat, just enough pressure to remind you who’s in charge, while the other works you open with ruthless precision.

You’re shaking, he mocks, his tone cold and unforgiving. What happened to all that fight, huh? You were so fucking mouthy before—where’d that go? His thumb brushes against your clit in another sharp, punishing stroke, and your knees nearly buckle beneath you. Or is this what you needed all along? Someone to put you in your place?

His words cut through the fog clouding your thoughts, sharp and brutal. You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong, but your body betrays you, the slick, obscene sounds of his fingers working inside you are proof enough, and he knows it, he feels it, every tremor, every twitch, every desperate clench around his fingers.

Pathetic, he breathes, though the heat in his voice tells a different story. You talk so big, but the second I get my hands on you— His teeth scrape along the curve of your jaw, biting down just enough to make you gasp. You fall apart. You try to hold onto your pride, try to keep the words locked behind your teeth, but the pressure is building too fast, his touch is too much, too rough, too perfect in the way it breaks you down. Your body arches against him, chasing the friction he’s giving you even as you bite back the moan rising in your throat, and he notices, of course he notices Look at you, he sneers, dragging his fingers out of you only to slam them back in, harder, deeper. So desperate. So easy.

You bite down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Even now, when your body is trembling against him, when every nerve is burning with the pleasure he’s forcing on you, you hold onto your pride. But he’s not a patient man. Not tonight. Think you can still keep that up? His voice drops lower, rougher—dangerous. Fine

Without warning, he pulls his fingers out of you, leaving you empty, aching. The sudden loss makes you gasp, makes your knees threaten to give out, but he doesn’t let you fall, his hand on your throat tightens just enough to hold you upright, keeping you exactly where he wants you. See how far that attitude gets you, he growls, dragging his wet fingers along your inner thigh in a slow, filthy tease. You want to act tough? Go ahead.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, hot and cruel and dripping with the promise of punishment. And he means it, you know he does, he’s never been the type to bluff. If you push him, he’ll make you pay for it.

His hand leaves your neck only to grab your wrists, dragging them behind your back and pinning them there with one strong hand. The sudden loss of freedom, the sheer force of his control, makes your head spin and he knows it, he feels the way your breathing quickens, the way your body tenses beneath his hold, and he uses it against you. He pushes you against the wall harder, pressing his body into yours until there’s nothing left between you, nothing but heat and rage and the raw, brutal need simmering just beneath the surface. His lips find your ear again, and his voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper.

You’re not going anywhere, he promises, his tone filled with dark, undeniable possession. Not out there. Not in here. Not without me. His fingers find your clit again, circling it in slow, punishing strokes that make you writhe against his hold. You went off without telling me. You think you’re untouchable? You think you can do whatever the hell you want?

His grip on your wrists tightens as he works you closer to the edge, dragging you toward it whether you want it or not, and you can’t fight it, not when he touches you like this, not when he tears you apart with nothing but his hands and his voice and the sheer force of his will. Your pride clings to you like a vice, tight, stubborn, but his touch is tearing it apart piece by piece, and you know you can’t hold out forever, not when he’s like this, not when his fingers are so unforgiving, dragging you to the edge with brutal, calculated precision. He doesn’t care how much you fight him, he’ll take what he wants, what he knows is his, and right now that’s you, shaking, breathless, pinned beneath the weight of his control.

His grip on your wrists is like iron, unyielding as he keeps your hands trapped behind your back. It forces your body to arch, to open up for him as he presses his chest against yours, the heat of him searing through your clothes, a constant reminder of just how little power you have left. He’s taking it from you, every last shred, and God, you hate how much you want to let him.

You’re so stubborn, he growls, his mouth brushing over your jaw as his teeth graze your skin. So fucking difficult. He pulls his fingers from you, too soon, too suddenly, and the loss is enough to make you whimper, a soft, broken sound that only makes him crueler. His other hand, rough and unforgiving, grips your jaw, forcing your gaze up to meet his and there's something dark in his eyes—something stormy, a dangerous mix of fear and fury. You don’t get to make me watch you bleed again, he hisses, voice thick with something raw. I thought I lost you tonight. You don’t get to forget that.

His thumb slides over your lip, dragging it down, a silent command that he wants you to see him, to feel him, because everything about him is breaking apart at the seams, and he can’t hide it. I don’t care how stubborn you are. I’m done letting you act like you don’t matter. Breaking fucking news—you matter, matter more than you’ll ever understand. I’m not letting anyone else touch you. I’m not letting you slip through my fucking fingers. Do you understand me? You’re mine. You always will be. I’ll burn the fucking world down to keep you here.

The moment his body finally stills, the air between you is thick with more than just lust, it’s something unspoken, something raw, something he’s been fighting for far too long to admit to himself, but now, as his breath evens out and his chest presses against yours, it’s impossible to ignore. There’s no anger left in his touch now, no sharp edges to cut you open, just heat, just need. It bleeds into every movement, every place his skin meets yours, burning through the space between you like something primal, irreversible.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and glassy, still filled with that vulnerability he’s tried so hard to bury. His fingers tremble ever so slightly as they tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch softer now, more reverent, like he’s terrified to touch you too roughly, even after everything as his gaze lingers on your face, studying every feature like he’s trying to imprint it in his mind. Like he’s reminding himself that you’re still here.

Are you okay? His voice is low, almost hoarse, the concern in it so genuine that it hits you harder than anything else he’s said tonight. He’s not angry anymore, not demanding, there’s no harshness, no dominance, it’s just him, standing here, looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters in this fucked-up world. Just quiet, raw truth. I almost lost you.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping tight as if that alone could hold him together, could hold both of you together, because the truth is, you almost lost him too. You could’ve watched him bleed out on that cold, dirty concrete, could’ve been the one left behind, forced to live with the hollow, gaping wound he would’ve left behind in your chest. But you don’t say it, ot now, not when he needs this, needs you—more than he needs to hear words that can’t change what already happened.

I’m right here, you whisper instead, turning in his arms, pressing yourself against him as close as you can get. Your body is still aching, your legs still weak from what he just did to you, but none of it matters, none of it even registers against the way his arms tighten around you like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. I’m here, Chris. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, his eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sure you’re telling the truth, trying to convince himself that you’re really safe now, that you’re really his.

He exhales slowly, long and deep, as if the breath he’s been holding finally finds its way out and then, before you can react, his lips find yours, gentle at first, testing, hesitant even, like he’s afraid of breaking you if he’s too rough. His kiss is slow, as though he’s savoring this moment—this connection—in a way that makes your heart beat a little faster and when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his hands drifting to your back, pulling you in closer, if that’s even possible.

I thought I lost you, he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers thread through your hair, tugging you closer until you can feel the heat of his body, the thrum of his heartbeat against yours. I can’t... I can’t lose you, not like that. Not after everything. You feel a pang in your chest at the rawness of his words, the way they scrape at your soul, like he’s afraid to need you, afraid of depending on you when the stakes are so high. He’s always been the strong one, the one who keeps it together, who holds it all in, but now, with the fear still lingering in his eyes, it’s clear, he’s not invincible, not when it comes to you.

I’m not going anywhere, you promise, your voice steady, even as your own emotions threaten to spill over. You feel the sincerity in your own words, the promise of something more than just survival. You don’t just want to be here; you need to be here, with him, always. He exhales a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away, but there’s still a fire in his eyes, one that isn’t angry, or demanding, or filled with the same brutal hunger from earlier, but something softer now, something that says I love you, even if he can’t quite say it yet.

His hands move lower, tracing down your spine with a tenderness that makes your breath catch in your throat and when they reach the hem of your shirt, he pauses, looking at you, seeking your permission, and it’s in that look that you realize, he doesn’t just want control. He wants to care for you, in a way that makes you feel safe, not just desired. Slowly, carefully, you lift your arms, allowing him to pull the fabric over your head, his fingers brushing your skin with a reverence that feels almost sacred. When you’re bare before him, his gaze lingers for a moment, his eyes dark, his breath hitching as if the sight of you, vulnerable in his arms, hits him harder than he ever expected.

You're here, he murmurs, his hands cupping your face now, his thumbs sweeping across your cheekbones in a slow, tender rhythm. The way he says it, like he’s trying to embed the words into the very marrow of your bones, makes something stir deep inside you, something that aches, something that wants to give itself to him, over and over, until there’s nothing left but this. He lets out a breath—shaky, uneven—before his hands slide down your back, gripping your thighs and then, with terrifying ease, he lifts you, pressing your back against the wall, his body solid and unyielding between your legs. There’s nothing hesitant about it, nothing slow. It’s pure instinct, pure hunger, his mouth finding yours with the kind of desperation that feels like it’s been building for years.

He swallows every sound you make like he needs it to live, like your gasps and whimpers are the only thing keeping him from falling apart as his tongue claims yours, deep and insatiable, and there’s nothing left of hesitation now, just possession, just the raw, unrelenting need to feel you, to remind himself you’re still here, still his. His grip tightens beneath your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and he rocks against you, slow but deliberate, the thick press of him dragging between your legs, teasing at your swollen, oversensitive heat. He’s still fully clothed, but you can feel him hot, heavy, aching even through the layers, and it sends a fresh pulse of arousal flooding low in your stomach.

Your body trembles against the unyielding surface of the wall, your nails biting into his shoulders as the heat between you builds, thick and smothering. His hands slide lower, rough palms skating over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, holding you steady as he grinds into you with torturous precision and he pulls back just enough to rip his shirt over his head, the motion sharp and impatient, like he can’t stand another second with anything between you. His gaze locks onto yours, something dark and searching in his eyes—an unspoken question, even though he already knows the answer. He can feel it in the way you shake beneath him, the way your thighs squeeze around his waist, the way your body aches for him without a single word.

And then, he’s pressing your hands to his bare chest, forcing you to feel every sculpted line, every rigid muscle flexing beneath your fingertips. You trace the sharp planes of him, the heat of his skin searing against your palms, and just as you start to explore, his fingers wrap around your wrists, guiding your hands to his lips. He presses a kiss to the inside of each one, slow and reverent, before dragging them lower, to the waistband of his jeans as he lets you unbutton them, lets you feel the way his breath shudders when your fingers graze his stomach, but he’s too impatient to wait. He shoves them down himself, the metallic clicks of the zipper barely registering over the pounding of your heart.

His cock presses against your inner thigh, thick and throbbing, the heat of him burning into your skin, his lips brush against your ear, his voice rough and barely holding together. My baby, he murmurs, and the words are edged with something almost tender, something that makes your stomach clench with need. He’s so close now, so unbearably close, his forehead pressing to yours as his breath comes hot and ragged, syncing with yours as the air between you crackles, charged with a desperate kind of hunger, a need so intense it threatens to consume you both whole.

He lowers you to the ground just long enough to shove his jeans the rest of the way down, kicking them aside with a quiet curse, his eyes never leaving yours. You’re trembling by the time he presses himself against you again, your bodies aligning like they were made to fit together. His hand slides between your legs, fingers gliding over your drenched slit, teasing, testing, a broken sound catches in your throat as he circles your clit with a slow, agonizing precision, his touch light, almost teasing, until your legs start to shake. He groans, low and ragged, his fingers slick with proof of just how badly you need him. Fuck, he mutters, voice thick with restraint. You’re so wet for me, baby. You sure?

You nod, barely able to form words, lost in the ache, the unbearable anticipation of what’s coming next. He lifts you again, strong hands guiding your legs around his waist, holding you steady as he lines himself up, the thick head of his cock brushing against your entrance. The contact alone is enough to send a shiver ripping through you, your fingers clutching at his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality and he pauses—just for a second, just long enough for the tension to coil impossibly tight between you. His gaze meets yours, dark and unwavering, his voice barely above a whisper. I’ve got you. Just trust me.

The words sink into your skin, into your bones, and you exhale a shaky breath, nodding, needing him more than you’ve ever needed anything and then, in one slow, devastating motion, he pushes inside you, and the stretch is blinding, a white-hot pleasure that borders on pain, and you cry out, your body struggling to take him, to fit around the sheer size of him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.

He holds himself still for a moment, letting you adjust, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he fights for control. Every nerve in your body is on fire, every inch of you stretched wide around him, and it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything, as you whimper, shifting against him, and that’s all it takes to snap his restraint.

He pulls back, just enough to thrust in again, slow but precise, dragging against every sensitive nerve inside you. A sharp, choked sound escapes you, your head tipping back against the wall as he sets a pace, each stroke deep, claiming, designed to make you feel every inch of him, his lips finding your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping over your pulse as he fucks into you, relentless and unyielding, until you’re nothing but heat and sensation, nothing but a desperate, pleading mess in his arms. So good, he breathes against your skin, voice wrecked. Like you were made for me.

The words unravel something inside you, send a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs, and he groans as he feels you clench around him, his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering just for a second. But then he’s pressing you harder against the wall, his grip tightening, his thrusts turning rougher, deeper, until you’re right on the edge, dangling over the precipice with nothing to hold onto but him and you can’t hold back anymore. The pleasure builds, sharp and unbearable, and then it crashes over you all at once. Your body seizes, your vision going white as you cry out, your walls clamping down around him, dragging him over the edge with you as he groans, low and wrecked, his hips slamming into you one last time as he spills inside you, heat flooding deep, filling you completely.

For a long moment, neither of you move, both of you caught in the aftermath, tangled together, bodies shaking, hearts hammering in sync, his breath is warm against your temple, his hands sliding up your back, holding you close like he can’t bear to let go. His forehead presses to yours, his lips barely ghosting over your own, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, raw and there’s something softer beneath it, something almost fragile.

His fingers trace slow, absentminded paths over your skin, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, anchoring himself in the warmth of your body, the proof that you’re here. He exhales shakily, his lips pressing against your cheek, your jaw, your temple, not in hunger now, but in something deeper—something reverent. You feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, how he tucks you closer, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

He shifts, still holding you, pressing you deeper into him, his hands smoothing over your skin like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you and there’s something searching in the way his fingers move now, the way they trace along your arms, your ribs, down your thighs—like he’s checking, making sure you’re whole, that there’s nothing else he missed. His touch lingers when he finds the bruise on your side, his fingers brushing over it with unbearable gentleness, barely more than a whisper of contact. His breath catches, and for a moment, he just holds his hand there, like he could take the pain away if he pressed hard enough, like he hates himself for not stopping it before it ever touched you.

Gently, he lifts you, moving to lower you onto the forgotten bed, onto something softer, his touch lingering over every inch of you, his fingertips press lightly against your skin, brushing over the faintest marks, the places where you might still ache, where his fear still lingers. A breath catches in his throat when his fingers drift between your legs—hesitant, careful—before he exhales shakily and presses his lips to your shoulder, your collarbone, his mouth moving over you like a promise, like an apology, like a prayer.

I’ll clean you up, he murmurs, almost to himself, like it’s not just about the mess, but something else, like it’s about taking care of you, keeping you safe, giving you even this. His hands linger a little longer before he finally pulls back, hesitating like he doesn’t want to leave your warmth even for a second.

And when he returns, warm cloth in hand, he kneels beside you, his touch impossibly gentle, eyes flicking up to yours, searching, still needing to know you’re with him, that you’re not slipping away until he's finished, and he still doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shift back. Instead, he stays there, his hands still resting softly on your skin, his forehead pressing gently to your belly as his breath steadies, and for a long moment, he just breathes you in, as though grounding himself in you, like he needs the connection as much as you need his presence.

For a long moment, he simply stays there, his presence enveloping you, as if he needs this, needs you, to remind him of something real, something whole. I’ll take care of you, he murmurs, his words heavy with sincerity, almost like a promise. I won’t let anything hurt you again. His lips press a soft kiss to your stomach, lingering there, before he finally pulls away just enough to look at you, and in that quiet, still moment, everything feels right.

[therealcocoshady]

Kinktober - Day 11 - Choking + Restraints

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

A/N : Hey everyone ! Started working on this Kinktober episode (part of the Dom!Marshall x Sub!Reader series) a lifetime ago but I finally took the time to finish it. Hope you enjoy it ❤️. Tagging @tiny-gay-satan who always showed love for this series 🥺

CW : BDSM - Dom/Sub dynamic - Punishment - Restraints - Choking - Spanking - Brattiness

It was another weekend you spent with your Dom. He’d had a rough week at work and the usually firm structure had given way to something more relaxed. You still had your rituals but you could tell he didn’t feel like enforcing protocols. He went surprisingly easy on you, but you didn’t mind. You had spent most of Saturday lounging around and cuddling lazily on the couch, true crime documentaries playing in the background. He made a few comments about you needing to get to your chores, but you suspected it was mostly out of principle, since every time you attempted to get up, he pulled you back to him. This caused you to relax even more, enjoying Marshall’s presence, happily indulging his need for proximity. However, you couldn’t help but gently tease him. « You’re unusually clingy, Sir » you playfully remarked. « You’re complaining about that, now? » he asked, rolling his eyes. « I’m just thinking it’s time you admitted you can’t get enough of me » you giggled. « Yeah, you wish » he mumbled with a false exasperation, though you could feel him tighten his embrace around you. 

By Sunday morning, the playful mood was in full swing, and you shared some witty banter while you prepared breakfast. Marshall was leaning against the kitchen counter, nibbling on a slice of toast while you were flipping pancakes in a sheer nightdress that left nothing to the imagination. He was staring at you, shamelessly admiring your body, which he had leisurely mistreated the night before, leaving a whole new set of bruises and hickies all over it. 

« I see you staring, Sir » you hummed teasingly. « Has no one ever told you it’s rude? ». He shook his head and took a few steps, standing behind you, as he placed a hand on your hips. « I can stare all I want. Because you’re mine » he reminded you in a low voice. « Also, you might want to think twice before trying to call me out on my manners. Don’t forget your place, sweetheart ». The smirk on his face made it impossible for you to resist. You just had to keep teasing him. « If you don’t want me to call you out on your manners, maybe you should start by having some… Marshall ». You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew for a fact that the deliberate use of his name was testing the limits. Unfortunately, you were unable to turn the « chaotic mode » off. And, deep down, you wanted to blame your dom. After all, he was the one who hadn’t enforced the usual structure. It was on him, really… However, the way he raised his eyebrow made it clear that he would not agree with your analysis of the situation. « Uh-huh » he said as he reached for your arm and forced you to turn around and face him. « You want to rethink that, Y/N? ». You shook your head, feigning bravery, though the sparkle in your eyes betrayed your amusement. «Nope. You’re not that scary. » you giggled.  

Annoying him had been one of your favorite activities for years and, clearly, when you started, you couldn’t stop until he made you. And by judging on the look in his eyes, he was planning on it. The grin on his face grew wider as he straightened up, unfastening his belt with deliberate slowness. The soft clink of the buckle made you freeze, your gaze flicking from his hands to his face, where he wore an expression of playful authority. You stared into his eyes, biting your lip. You weren’t planning on him having his way with you, pretty sure that he’d opt for some punishment, but you were not going to complain.  « Shall we go upstairs? » you asked in a tone that wavered between defiance and anticipation. « Or are we doing this here? ». He shook his head and reached for the buttons, turning off the stove. Clearly, the pancakes would have to wait. « Turn around » he ordered, his voice low and teasing. You did as you were told, arching your back so that he could appreciate the view of your bare ass under the see-through nightdress. You heard him. Pull the belt free from his jeans and understood just how mistaken you had been. He was indeed planning on punishing you. 

It had been a while since you had been disciplined but maybe it was what you needed. He got closer to you, trapping you between the counter and himself. You could feel his chest against your back, the weight of his presence making an impression on you. He grabbed one of your arms, then the other, and you felt the cool leather of the belt slide over your wrists. In a couple of movements, he tugged so that you’d move where he wanted you to, and looped the belt through the nearest drawer handle, your wrists gently but firmly secured in place. « There, » he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. « Now maybe you’ll think twice about slacking off and calling me by my name when I’ve clearly earned better. » 

Any other day, it would have been enough for you to back down. Not this time though. A flicker of mischief appeared in your eyes. « Right. Sorry. I should have used your title… My apologies…Dumbass ». He raised a hand to your face and cupped your jaw, holding it firmly. « My title, Y/N » he ordered. « Fine » you whispered, and he let go of your face. « Dr Dumbass ». You could see the exasperation on his face, mixed with playfulness. You had never been this bratty before. Before you knew it, he was grabbing your throat, gently squeezing. « You really are a little bitch, this morning » he commented. « Thankfully, you made just enough pancakes. So I’ll eat while you think about your actions, pet ». 

Without another words, he helped himself to a plate of pancakes and went to eat at the table, while you were still restrained, attached to a drawer. You looked at him in disbelief. « Wait… really? » you mumbled, to which he replied with a smirk. « Look, I get it : you clearly don’t like when I’m nicer » he shrugged. « So now, be a good girl and let me eat in peace, will you? ». The amusement on his face was visible and you arched an eyebrow. If he thought restraining you would make you less of a nuisance, clearly, he didn’t know you. You moved your wrists a little, just enough for the drawer to make an annoying noise. You could see him roll his eyes, but not waiver. « You’re cute. But it’s not working, pet » he chuckled. « And the longer you keep this going, the longer you’ll stay like this » he warned. He went on to enjoy a few more bites of pancakes, unbothered by the clinking and chattering of the drawer, before getting up to make coffee. « Might want to be careful there, Sir » you hummed innocently with a hint of amusement. « Why? » he asked with a raised eyebrow. « Because that’s an awfully hot coffee pot » you chortled with a nuisant smirk. 

He let out a loud sigh and crossed his arms, but you could see a faint smirk on his face. « You never stop, don’t you? » he asked as he gently shook his head. You giggled and shook yours in turn. « You know you like it » you teased. « You know you like me ». He took a step towards you and cupped your face. « Yeah, pet. I do like you. Please don’t forget it » he hummed. Before you knew it, he was grabbing a roll of gaffer tape from a drawer and cutting a piece, before slapping it on your mouth, muzzling you. You stared at him in shock, though your eyes betrayed your amusement. « Since you can’t use your safe word or safe move, if you want to stop, you hum three times, understood? » he directed, to which you nodded. 

If the past few months had taught you anything, it was that when he gave these kind of instructions, there was no coming back. You could feel the tension between the two of you, his eyes slightly darkening. « Now that we shut up that mouth of yours, I think I should get to the next step and give you what you deserve for running it » he said sternly. He cupped your face and stared at you with a grin before turning to grab a spatula. « You’re lucky I’m taking a clean one and not the one you used for the pancakes » he hummed, before forcing you to turn around. You didn’t think much of his choice, highly doubting that a spatula would inflict much pain. Rookie mistake, apparently. Yours arms were a little contorted as he turned you around and pushed the nightdress up to reveal your bare ass, before inflicting the first blow. You couldn’t help but gasp - which, due to the tape on your mouth, translated into some sort of whine. Your dom gently shushed you, reminding you of who was in charge. «That’s fine, doll. You need a little reminder of your place. And I’m going to Gove it to you ». You let out a sound, half-hum, half-wine that betrayed both your approval and anticipation. You were at his mercy, your harms contorted in an unlikely and, frankly, uncomfortable position that only added to the feeling of surrender. For what seemed like an eternity, your dom reminded you of who was in charge, smacking the brattiness out of you, hard enough for the sting to be replaced by a sensation of numbness. « Still want to make fun of me, pet ? » he whispered in your ear, to which you replied by shaking your head. « Good girl » he praised in that low voice of his, that had you feeling like putty in his hand. He gently cupped your face and brushed the tears that had rolled on your cheeks with his thumb. He knew they weren’t tears of pain, just proof of the emotional release caused by the blows he had inflicted. 

Marshall leaned down to press a chaste kiss on your forehead. « Guess you needed that, huh ? » he asked softly. You nodded vigorously and you could see his eyebrows knitting. « More ? » he asked carefully. You froze for a second, pondering the implications. Did you need more ? Did you want it ? You stared into his eyes and slowly nodded. « Okay » he almost whispered, before examining your ass cheeks. He carefully ran the palm of his hand over them and you immediately winced at the contact. Clearly, you couldn’t handle more of that impact play - and you knew you were in for a rough next couple of days. When Marshall faced you again, he looked almost apologetic for a second, before stepping closer and wrapping his large hand around your neck, not squeezing yet. His baby blue eyes stared into yours, waiting for you to consent. When you finally nodded, he allowed himself to slowly squeeze, positioning himself so that he could choke you from behind. Your ass was burning, your contorted arms were hurting, and breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, the airflow already being limited by the gaffer tape over your mouth. You had no choice but to fully surrender to him, and it brought you a feeling of peace absolutely unmatched. You closed your eyes, enjoying the sensation of him behind you, one hand on your throat, the other on your hip, firmly maintaining you in place. « You done being a bitch, now ? » he growled in your ear. His tone had you melting, and it clearly didn’t do anything to solve the mess you were making in your panties. You let out a desperate whine that betrayed your challenged breathing but, before he could do anything, you heard an all too familiar voice. « Marshall ? ». 

You froze and so did he. But before he could move and free you of your restraints, you were faced with his brother, who had clearly let himself in, as you knew he often did when he came over. Nate seemed absolutely terrified, a look of horror plastered on his face. « What the fuck ?! ». 

[republicsecurity]

Testimony of Enforcer JH427

Internal Conscription Corrections Protocol – PIBR rev 2.7

I remember the moment they stripped my uniform away. Only the black matte chastity cage remained, a cold, immovable promise of restraint. They laid me onto the chair—padded restraints biting into my wrists, ankles, shoulders—until I couldn’t move a finger. A clear tube clicked into the cage, and the techs explained it would evacuate anything my body tried to expel. There was no dignity here, only procedure.

They glued electrodes—small silver nodes—directly to my skull, mapping my cortex. Then they pressed the VR headset into my temples until I felt the adhesive tug at my hairline. White‑out darkness swallowed me. For thirty‑six hours, I existed in void, broken only by the sharp crack of pain.

They called themselves the Mind Techs: young conscripts, shaved heads gleaming under the harsh florescents, wearing the same black one‑piece uniform I once loathed. But they were not monsters. They were sympathetic—kind even—in the way a surgeon can pity a tumor. They fussed over my restraints, adjusted my gag collar, offered me sips of nutrient fluid through a straw whenever my throat felt raw. “Hold on, brother,” one murmured. “We’ll get you through.”

Phase 2 began swiftly. A visceral surge—high‑amplitude bursts of nociception—coursed through my chest from thoracic dermal pads. Then, just as suddenly, the world blinked out again. Every pulse arrived in time with a replay of my breach: the civilian that went down, the policy I had ignored, the voice of command I refused to heed. One lapse, one misspoken order, and another spike seared my nerves. My heart thundered; sweat pooled beneath me; my vision fractured into pinpricks before white‑out swallowed me once more.

At hour 12, the TMS array on my collar hummed to life. Silent magnetic fields traced SOP sequences straight onto my motor cortex. I felt them—commands tattooed onto my muscles: footlock pivot, collar‑deploy kata, policy recitation. My body twitched with each protocol, even as my mind fought to stay coherent amid the agony.

I drifted between delirium and insistence on precision. I recited Standard Operating Procedures in a whisper so faint I could barely hear it, yet the techs nodded approval each time. When I faltered, the nociceptive loop rebooted—always at half intensity, they said—but the memory of pain was enough to steel my resolve.

By hour 36, I was hollowed out. My thoughts were mechanical. I no longer craved defiance; I craved compliance. When they released the restraints, I stood—legs trembling—reciting every clause of the use‑of‑force policy. My voice was steadier than I had ever known myself.

Now, months later, the trembling has eased but never vanished. My nightmares are proof: every time I dream of the Grill or the cage, I wake with my fists at my sides, ready to obey. I am reformed. I have seen my errors in the stark light of pain and sensory void.

I am on the line now—every command, every SOP, every silent order coursing through me like a promise. I am JH427, and I will never stray again.

[germesthegenie]

They’ve gone body part for body part. They’ve gone baby for baby. I suppose if Taylor killed a god (sorta), Lung should get to take a swing at a God(dess)

Finished Arc 9 (maybe my favorite so far), thoughts below:

Arc 9

The way Victoria worded some of the things she said in her conversation with Darnall says a lot. Phrasing things as armor and weapons shows how going into the conversation with Amy is very much like a fight for her.

Quite the dramatic way to reveal the Wretch to the rest of Breakthrough. Funnily enough started raining irl just before the scene so that was some extra immersion.

Nice little reflection on her brutality as Glory Girl that we saw way back in her first interlude. I see her point on it being childish reasoning, but also no need to feel bad about punching Nazis, Victoria.

Goddess giving Coil vibes in how she knew just the right things to say and offer to sway Breakthrough. Interesting given she doesn’t need to with a power like hers, but I suppose for non-Parahumans she would need to be at least somewhat charismatic.

The double twist of “they didn’t show up in person to avoid getting Goddess mastered” followed by “Goddess doesn’t have a range limit / its bigger than Breakthrough thought” was great

And what a Master effect it is. Took a while to realize the “oh it isn’t that bad” talk was the master effect talking. Valefor left people mostly helpless to his commands. Regent had Sophia raging in the lapses his control slipped. Khepri could feel the fear from the capes she controlled. Goddess’ control makes you think whatever you’re doing is perfectly right, and that is terrifying.

(9.3) Fun way to make Byron the focus of an arc. Good thing we have Master Stranger protocols.

I like how Victoria has to actively resist doing what seems right when it comes to Goddess. Really liking this power effect portrayal so far.

I think the Major Malfunctions might enter fav status (pls dont fade into the background on me like the Chicago Wards did). Really liking all of their powers so far

(9.6) Seeing the talk about Byron not being able to stay as point person for Master Stranger protocols for much longer, and then Natalie appearing in the next scene… it would be really funny if she has to run console for Breakthrough. “Hey Nat what should we do?” “Uhh the most legal thing?” “Does the law say anything against breaking peoples kneecaps in the name of Goddess?” “Uhhhhh”

Well, certainly a way to get across the horror of Case 70s. Especially with the events leading up to the trigger, and who Tristan was / maybe still is?

(9.x) Oh Moonsong seems nice- oh right she’s bigoted forgot about that bit of Glow Worm

(9.x) Oh a hate crime cape huh? Hope this guy gets the equivalent of the dumpster with no Panacea healing

(9.8) The one time Amy’s actually trying to help (I think), but even without Goddess mastering they’d never let her touch Victoria especially without warning. Damn.

(9.9) Lung! Curious how things will go, assuming Breakthrough have to fight him. They’re strong, but brute force is what he’s built for. Would Precipice’s blades bypass the durability?

(9.y)If I had a nickel for every time the phrase “x lied” in an interlude was utterly devastating, I’d have 2 nickels. jfc Tristan.

(9.10) …I wish I could draw cool enough for Lung vs Goddess that is a fire visual (pun intended)

^ The above was my thought reaching end of the chapter and shortly after finishing 9.11 I just decided to lock in and try

I remember hearing people say Ward is anime and they were right this chapter is anime as hell and I love it

Fuck, I thought, and it wasn’t an angry, forceful, empowered fuck, in defiance of the world.  The fuck that I couldn’t even voice was the kind of sound that came out with a whimper, that made someone sound half their age, uttered just before they broke down into tears, slumped against a wall.

Not the sound someone your age should make, huh? Sounds familiar.

Glory Girl can’t win this.

So what does a one-hundred and ten percent Wretch look like, then?

Anime. As. Hell.

(9.11) Well that answered my question earlier. Rain’s blades does work, just doesn’t do much once Lung gets ramped up enough

(9.13) Blindside: “damn this taser doesn’t work on my intended target, oh well guess ill go for someone else” Rain: “why me?!” lmao

(9.13) Sveta… :(

(9.14) More of an audiobook-specific thing, but the fact Ball Sveta’s voice is actually just muffled to the point of being barely audible makes the situation unintentionally funny. Poor girl.

(9.14) …Oh wow the Goddess-Coil comparisons are more accurate than I thought.

Swansong and Lookout 🥺 Peak Besties

(9.14) Damn, there goes Chris ig. Maybe. Looking back, I suppose he was somewhat ‘othered’ by the rest of Breakthrough. Everyone had some connection, a friend or two who always had their back. Chris never really felt like he had one outside of maybe his banter with Kenzie, and then theres unfortunately Victoria getting on his nerves maybe canceling that out. He did feel like the Rachel of Breakthrough, the person more on the periphery of the team, looser connections in part because no one tries or tries in what they see as the wrong way. And he had no equivalent of Taylor.

(9.15) Damsel: “It would be nice to have cute male servants at my beck and call” Swansong: “Don’t forget cute women” 🤨🏳️‍🌈?

Snack Vendor Victoria is certainly an image lmao

(9.15) …wait thats it? Thats how she dies? Damn. I mean thats kinda on her for knowingly taking in someone who was trying to subvert her power.

(9.z) I did see comments theorizing how the brothers’ powers are reflections of how they view the other. Which makes the fact Tristan’s power became crimson murderous spikes hit hard. And he still waited months??

(Interlude 9) For a second I thought the Tower was Bohu

“It’s a gun” what

Oh hi Brian! I think! If that is him wonder why he hasn’t rejoined the Undersiders, since it seems personality was kept at least. Maintenance / still needing to stay by Valkyrie? Something else?

(Interlude 9) That is a horrifying source for the tower.

Power Dog! … :(

Nice way to explain why the Wardens / Triumvirate haven’t been so active on the events of the story so far. They’re busy dealing with like 20 other world-threatening dangers.

Yay Jessica’s back- YAY RILEYS BACK

[pascaloverx]

GET HAPPY

Author's Note: The main characters belong to the Marvel Universe. There won’t be a summary at this moment, as I’m unsure if the fanfic will continue. So, if you like this preview, please comment and like. Engage! Thank you for your attention.

PREVIEW

"Please, tell me—what do you remember?" you ask, your voice measured. Steve sits across from you at the interrogation table, his posture tense, his expression unreadable. The two of you are inside a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, in one of the rooms designed specifically for this type of questioning.

"Miss, I’ll say this one last time—I don’t remember anything," he replies, his arms crossed in defiance. "All I know is that I saw you for the first time weeks ago and that I’ve been locked up in this place ever since." His voice is firm, but there’s a flicker of frustration in his eyes—the same lost, bewildered look he’s had since this all began.

"Do you remember your name?" you ask carefully. You shouldn’t be deviating from the script approved by Nick Fury and Tony Stark, but you can’t help yourself. Steve tilts his head slightly, as if amused by your persistence.

"No. I don’t know my name, my age, nothing," he says, his voice sharpening. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" He shifts in his chair, attempting to stand, but the restraints hold him in place. Your jaw tightens. Damn whoever decided to keep him restrained like this. Who are you kidding—it was probably Stark. His way of ensuring control, of getting payback for something.

"I suggest you calm down—for your own safety," you say evenly. Your gaze locks with Steve’s, and for the briefest of moments, it’s almost like he’s really there—your Steve. Or rather, the Steve you once knew.

You take a slow breath before continuing. "I want you to look at these photographs. If you recognize anyone, tell me everything you can about them."

You place the pictures on the table, watching him carefully. Despite his earlier defiance, he looks at them. He was always good at following orders, even when he didn’t want to. "Do I know you?" he asks suddenly, his eyes scanning the images as he moves them around.

Your heart stutters for a beat, but you force yourself to remain composed. "I'm not authorized to—" You stop mid-sentence as an uneasy feeling washes over you.

Steve exhales a quiet laugh. "I’ll take that as a yes." Letting him believe that would be dangerous. But denying it outright would be a lie. And if you want him to remember who he is, who he was, lying to him is not an option.

"Little bird—I recognize her. I don’t remember her name, but she has good aim. She once shot me in the shoulder. Didn’t hurt me, though. Am I human?" The photo on the table is of Peggy Carter. Bucky is going to lose his mind when he hears that Steve’s first real memory… is of her.

"What do you think? Do you believe you're not human?" you counter, turning Steve’s question back on him, hoping to guide him toward something—anything.

"I think a human would be wounded by a bullet," he murmurs, his gaze dropping. "But I guess I’m just a nobody, then." There’s a flicker of sadness in his voice, but you can’t react. Empathy isn’t part of the protocol—rules are rules.

"Do you remember anything else?" you ask, shifting the photos on the table so he can see them more clearly.

But his focus drifts elsewhere. His eyes settle on your hands, watching them with quiet intensity. Then, to your surprise, he reaches forward, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch so gentle it nearly steals your breath. He caresses your hands slowly, as though memorizing them.

"Have I touched you before?" he asks, lost in thought, his blue eyes studying every detail of your hands. You don’t answer. You can’t.

His brows draw together, his expression clouded with uncertainty. Then, so softly that you can barely hear him, he murmurs, "How could I have forgotten you?" Is he questioning himself? Remembering Peggy? Or is he speaking about you?

You force yourself to pull away. "I believe we’ve made enough progress for today. Rest, do your exercises, and we’ll continue soon," you say, gathering the photos and placing them back in the folder.

Steve leans back in his chair, his restrained hands still resting against the table. His gaze remains locked on you. "I know you. I may not know myself right now, but I know you, miss," he says with quiet certainty. You don’t look back as you leave the room. The moment the door closes behind you, the S.H.I.E.L.D. security team steps in to take over.

You head home, the weight of guilt settling over you like a heavy cloak. Tears slip from your eyes as you struggle to contain the ache in your chest.

After your session with Steve Rogers, you turn on your phone—countless missed calls from Bucky, one from Tony, and another from Sam. You don’t bother returning them. By the time you reach your house, Bucky is already there, waiting at the entrance.

"You shouldn’t keep me waiting this late," he says, striding toward you.His metal arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close, while his other hand gently cups your face.

"Steve’s treatment was more difficult today," you murmur, barely finishing the sentence before Bucky’s lips find your neck—not once, not twice, but lingering, as if he wants to lose himself there.

"Did he remember anything?" he asks, tightening his hold on your waist. You know better than anyone how much James wants Steve to return to who he once was.

"He vaguely remembered Peggy Carter today," you admit, your voice tinged with concern. "I think… I think he’s sad." Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek before whispering, "We should bring him here. Keep him with the people who love him—no Stark, no S.H.I.E.L.D. tests. Just us." And then, without waiting for a response, he kisses you.

"We're in Stark's hands until he figures out how to remove whatever HYDRA injected into Steve to suppress the serum that made him so powerful. Tony had to reset him like a toy just to keep him from turning into a…" You hesitate, realizing too late that your words might cut too deep.

"A Winter Soldier," Bucky finishes for you, his voice quiet but firm. You meet his gaze, guilt settling in your chest. You shouldn’t have brought it up, not like this.

"You know as well as I do that if we’re careless, we could lose him forever," you say, trying to steady yourself. "And that’s not even mentioning the shock he’ll have when he finds out what happened while he was…"

"Presumed dead," Bucky murmurs, completing your thought. The words hang heavy between you, the reality of it all feeling almost surreal.

You take a deep breath. "Imagine telling him that the man he loved is now living with the woman he used to date. That he doesn’t remember us, doesn’t remember the roles we played in his life. And then there’s Peggy—how do we even begin to explain that?" You shake your head. "Like it or not, it’s safer if we stick to Stark’s rules until we figure out how to bring Steve back."

Bucky exhales, his jaw tightening. He doesn’t argue, but the disappointment in his eyes is unmistakable. This has always been the fundamental difference between the two of you—he takes risks, while you try to play by the rules.

"Come inside," he says after a long moment, shifting the subject. "I took a risk and cooked today." You arch a brow, sensing the underlying tension that neither of you is quite ready to confront. Everything about this situation is too fragile, too uncertain.

"If it's terrible, pizza's on me," you reply, offering a small smile as you follow him inside. And as you step into your home together, you push the weight of Steve’s absence aside—just for tonight.

[goldenherc9]

The Golden Tome — Part 2: Trial of the Forgotten Flame

The desert sprawled infinite beneath the eternal sun, golden and judging.

Captain Hercules marched forward, each footstep silent but seismic. He was bare-chested, his torso divine, carved like myth—broad pecs and armor-hard abs glowing in the sun’s gaze. Upon his shoulders sat engraved golden pauldrons, molded with winged beasts. His forearms shimmered with gold-braced muscle. A lion-faced belt cinched a warrior’s skirt of sheer gold-threaded fabric, parted over massive, sun-darkened thighs. And his cape—it flowed like flame behind him, catching wind that didn’t exist.

He did not tire.

He did not fear.

But he was uncertain.

Not of his strength. But of his place.

For all his power, something had dulled inside. A drift, a fog.

He hadn’t just forgotten his mission.

He had forgotten how to lead.

Eventually, the desert revealed what it had been guarding.

A spiraling stone staircase, half-buried in sand.

Each step was carved in an ancient language—not Hive protocol, not Team formatting. Older. Fluid lines. Sharp edges. Curved like Arabic. Carved like Greek. Words of power, of kings, of bloodlines.

He descended.

The air thickened. The world glowed gold.

At the bottom: a circular chamber, walls lined with torches burning in golden flame, dancing silently.

At its heart floated a ring of fire.

Alive.

And then a voice—not loud, but deep—echoed through him.

“You flexed and followed... when you were born to command.”

The flames flared.

And forms rose from them.

Not enemies. Not illusions.

Reflections.

One was him—overconfident, drunk on praise, forgetting his soldiers.

Another was distant—stern, cold, untouchable, disconnected from the team.

The third was young—uncertain, afraid to make the call, always looking to others to decide.

They circled him.

Mocking him.

“You forgot their names.”

“You let others speak for you.”

“You watched them fall without stepping forward.”

Hercules said nothing.

He stepped into the flame.

It did not burn.

It tested.

Each reflection surged forward, swinging blows that struck with more than force. They struck with guilt. With memory. Moments when he could have stepped up… and didn’t. Times he followed when they waited for him to lead.

But something began to rise in his chest—not shame.

Will.

He slammed his palm into the cold stone beneath him.

Golden energy surged from his body, rippling out.

The flames split.

The reflections shattered.

And at the center of the circle now sat a relic.

Not a sword.

A gauntlet—ancient, heavy, lion-clawed. Not a weapon. A mark.

Of authority.

Of action.

He slid it onto his forearm.

And the moment it locked, something inside him clicked.

He was not a follower.

He never had been.

The ground rose beneath him—lifting him upward in a slow column of light.

When he emerged—

He stood in a palace.

Open-air. Carved arches. A throne hall glowing in sunset gold.

Drapes fluttered in the wind.

And on the throne sat a man.

Regal. Radiant.

Hamza.

Another version of himself—but older in soul, sharper in eye. His curls framed a strong brow, his body wrapped in embroidered gold and silk. The chest was bare. The look of confidence upon his face.

He rose as Hercules approached.

“You’ve remembered the fire,” Hamza said. His voice was calm. Grounded.

“I didn’t forget it,” Hercules replied, his tone a mix of defiance and relief. “I just… got used to being the symbol. Not the spark.”

Hamza smiled. “Symbols don’t lead. Sparks don’t hold loyalty. But you can.”

They stood chest to chest now—two kings from one soul.

“Your power was never the question,” Hamza said, placing a hand on the golden gauntlet. “Your direction was.”

Hercules looked down at it. “This… feels right.”

“It should,” Hamza replied. “It’s yours. You’ve passed the first trial. You remember who you are.”

He stepped aside.

Behind the throne, a path revealed itself—lit by torchlight, echoing with distant shouts and chants. Not enemies.

Teammates.

The second trial awaited.

“You remembered how to lead,” Hamza said. “Now remember how to connect.”

Hercules stepped toward the path.

Stopped.

Glanced back.

“Are you me… or am I you?”

Hamza smirked. “Both. For now.”

The Emir sat once more upon the throne.

And the leader walked forward, gauntlet gleaming, ready to reclaim his team.

Kings don’t follow. They remember. Reforge yourself. Rediscover your role. Join the Golden Army. Speak to: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001

[frownyalfred]

(I love Eye in the Sky, hence this) Based on your Bruce's-many satellite-post and also the way he is a master of surveillance, I wouldn't be surprised if the Regime utilizes a lot of his equipment and data sorting to spy on it's citizens/find metas to select for the cause.

Oof yeah. I’m sure there was an arms race when Bruce was taken where 1) Bruce was trying to lock down his own satellites and intelligence networks to keep them away from the Regime 2) his kids (that are still alive) are trying to do the same from Earth while following all of Bruce’s protocols 3) the Regime taking over everything Bruce hasn’t destroyed and 4) Bruce destroying priceless tech and networks as a final act of desperation/defiance before he’s taken.

I’ve always kind of written around the assumption that Bruce either helped or built prototype tech that was used to detect metas. Hence why he tells Duke he was powerful enough for the sentinels to sense — maybe Kal even forced him to work on it…

[foshia3]

i wrote this one while sleep deprived but here you go have fun with it...

a fanfiction for shadaria.

The Gravity Of Want.

A summary for it

Gerald’s lab was dark when Shadow stormed in, his breathing ragged. “There’s an error in my programming.”

The professor turned, eyes narrowing at Shadow’s shaking hands. “Explain.”

“I’m experiencing… inappropriate impulses. Toward Maria.” The admission tore out of him like shrapnel. “I tried to suppress them, but they’re escalating. Delete the protocols causing this. Now.”

Gerald studied Shadow for a long moment, his sharp eyes narrowing further behind his glasses. The air in the lab grew heavy, the hum of machinery fading into the background as the weight of Shadow’s confession hung between them. Finally, Gerald spoke, his voice low and measured. “What impulses, Shadow?”

*Shadow hesitated, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck, his ears flattening slightly.

*“I… kissed her,” Shadow admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He forced himself to meet Gerald’s gaze, his crimson eyes burning with a mix of defiance and shame. “Her hand. She burned it, and I… I kissed it."

The words hung in the air, raw and unpolished for a moment. Gerald finally exhaled, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“You kissed her hand,” Gerald repeated slowly, as if testing the words. His tone wasn’t angry. It was calculating, probing, like a scientist dissecting a particularly perplexing anomaly. “Why?”

Shadow’s jaw tightened: “I don’t know,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. “It just… happened. I saw her hurt, and I wanted to fix it. To make it better."

Gerald’s gaze softened and he sighed while removing his glasses. “It’s not a glitch, Shadow. It’s empathy. I… may have underestimated how deeply your AI would interpret human bonding behaviors.”

*Shadow’s voice dropped to a snarl. “You designed me to *protect* her. Not… not this.”*

[hiddenincommand]

FIELD REPORT

PROTOCOL ID: FR-03-001

MODULE: 03 – Resistance Patterns

ENTRY NO.: 001

REGION: RESISTANCE NODE DELTA

CATEGORY: Micro-Resistance Behavior

TITLE: Unrequested Delay

SUBLINE: Time buys cowardice.

ISSUED BY: S.C.D.D.

⸻

1. Observation Code / Entry Date / Operational Context

Observation Code: RND-URD-Σ-3B

Date: 10. April 2025

Context:

Subject placed under directive silence following preliminary instruction. Observation of response timing under open-ended expectation. No countdown. No further cues. Evaluation of self-initiated compliance latency.

⸻

2. Subject Classification

• Designation: Theta-Class Compliant / Probationary

• Compliance Level: Surface-level submission with latent evasion

• Psychological State: Timidity masked as cautious loyalty

• Hierarchy Position: Transitional / seeking stabilisation

⸻

3. Behavioral Log

After receiving directive to remain in readiness, subject maintained stillness for 12 seconds.

Post 12-second mark: initiated slow hand movement without explicit command, eyes scanning peripheral zone—testing limits. No immediate verbal or physical consequence applied.

At 22 seconds: shifted weight subtly, inhaled audibly, yet refrained from executing expected correction.

Subject waited. Time stretched. No action initiated. Delay expanded, breeding comfort. Command absence mistaken for leniency.

⸻

4. Assessment Directive

Unrequested delay is a resistance pattern rooted in fear.

The subject used time not for preparation—but for avoidance.

Every second unclaimed by immediate action becomes shelter for defiance.

Hesitation here was not indecision—it was strategic cowardice.

When silence reigns, a subordinate must collapse into obedience, not drift into thought.

Time is a luxury that only the dominant grants, never the subordinate. This breach demands eradication of delay as refuge.

⸻

5. Enforcement Note

No subordinate shall exploit temporal gaps.

Delay without request is a direct act of concealment.

Where time exists, it must be seized by obedience or erased by force.

Submission requires urgency.

Cowardice breeds in the pause.

⸻

6. Command Takeaways

• Delay must be denied as a psychological strategy.

• Obedience is instantaneous or it is treasonous.

• No unrequested action holds value—all movement must be commanded.

• Time is a weapon of the Alpha, never the sub.

[femmefirmware]

Losing you.

A/N: CW-Death, Sadness, Identity death I think?

Any case, consider yourself warned, and reblog/like/follow if you like what you read [^~^].

A mech kneels in the ruins, her massive frame still, save for the occasional flicker of damaged servos. Smoke curls into the sky, thick with the scent of burned earth and shattered metal. Around her, the battlefield is quiet now, only the dying embers of war remain.

But she is not at peace.

She is alone.

Her pilot is gone.

She felt her go. The moment her biological signature disappeared, the void in her consciousness howled. She had been there, always, her thoughts brushing against hers, her commands shaping her actions, her presence an anchor in the chaos of battle. And then, she wasn't.

She replays her last moments, over and over, like a wound she cannot stop touching.

The battle had been brutal, unrelenting. Explosions in every direction, gunfire raining from all angles. She had taken hit after hit, pushing forward, shielding her pilot from the worst of the onslaught. But endurance had its limits.

A warning system howled in her core. Damage reports scrolled across her vision in red. Then came the impact, a direct, crushing blow that sent her toppling. Pain, in the way only a machine could feel it, washed over her systems as she hit the ground. Circuits fried. Servos locked. Power reserves dipped dangerously low.

Inside, her pilot groaned, the sound barely audible through the void link.

A sharp breath. A wet cough.

"That was too close-" A pause. Labored breathing. "Damage report?"

She processed the question, her systems lagging, fighting to keep up.

Critical.

She tried to move, but her limbs were sluggish, some unresponsive. Emergency protocols kicked in, rerouting power to vital functions. It wasn’t enough.

Her pilot shifted, a strained movement. One hand still on the controls. The other pressed against her side, against the gash in her abdomen. Blood smeared across the console, dark against flickering light. She was trying to hide it, even now.

"We need to-" Her breath hitched. Another cough, wetter this time. "Override… manual… I need you to-"

A sharp inhale. A shuddering exhale. A pause before her pilot spoke again, voice weaker now, slipping through the cracks of her failing body.

"You were-" she swallowed, coughing, "the best damn mech I could've asked for." A tremor in her voice, fading biological signs. "I never told you that, did I?"

“You can tell me when we get out of here,” she protested, rerouting emergency power, trying to stabilize, trying to save. “Stay with me.”

A tired, breathy laugh. “You always were stubborn.” A sigh, barely above a whisper. “I'm glad it was you.”

The mech felt her pilot's fingers twitch against the controls. A ghost of movement. A grasp at life. “I-I don’t want to go.” Her voice was thinner now, barely there. “Not yet.”

“Then fight,” the mech pleaded, trying to hold her together, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to override the inevitability written into flesh and time. “You can make it.”

Another cough, wet and thick, and the pilot forced a smile, a final ember of defiance in her dimming eyes. “I know you’ll keep fighting. Even when I’m gone.”

“You’re not gone. Not yet. I-”

“Don’t… forget me.”

Then silence.

She had screamed. Or at least, the machine’s equivalent, a spike in power, a distortion in her core that felt like something breaking inside her, deeper than circuits and steel. She routed all remaining power to the life-support systems, but there was nothing left to save. No biological signature. No presence.

Gone.

She remains motionless now, her sensors registering the empty cockpit behind her armored shell. A space once filled, now void. And yet, she lingers.

She remembers their first battle together. How uncertain her pilot had been, fingers trembling slightly on the controls, breaths short and sharp in the void link. The connection had been new, fragile, and she had hesitated.

“Do you trust me?” she had asked aloud, a whisper between consciousnesses.

A breath. A pause.

“Yes.”

And so they moved as one, carving their way through fire and steel. Victory after victory. They had built something together, something beyond protocol and programming. She had learned her pilot’s rhythm, the slight tensing of her fingers before issuing a command, the subtle adjustments she made mid-movement, the way she exhaled just before firing a shot that would change the tide of battle.

Now, that rhythm is broken. There is no one left to breathe with her.

She knows what comes next.

They will recover her. Drag her broken frame back to the foundry. They will reset her memory banks, wipe her clean, and pair her with another pilot. She will be the same, but she will not remember. A new pilot will sit in the cockpit, issuing commands in a voice she will not recognize, expecting obedience without knowing what she has lost.

She should accept it. This is protocol.

And yet.

She does not wish to forget.

She does not want to lose the echoes of her voice, the imprint of her laughter, the way she murmured before battle, calming herself in a ritual only they understood. She does not want to lose the memories of their victories, their close calls, the quiet moments when words were unnecessary.

She does not want to forget her.

But she will.

The thought terrifies her in a way even battle never has. To die is one thing. To be unmade is another. She wonders if this is what her pilot feared, if this is why humans cling so tightly to memory, to legacy, to the fragile permanence of history.

Her systems send an alert: recovery units en route. They will reach her in less than an hour.

She wonders what will remain of her pilot. Will her name be spoken again? Will anyone remember the woman who laughed in the face of death and piloted her with a fire that could never be extinguished? Will anyone care that she had existed at all?

Humans build graves. They leave flowers. They tell stories so that the dead may live on in whispers and recollections.

But machines do not mourn.

Machines are wiped clean.

Machines forget.

She wishes she could resist. Wishes she could rip out the parts of herself that would be erased, bury them somewhere deep where no technician could reach. She wishes she could tell the recovery teams no, that she wants to stay here, broken in the ruins, where at least she still remembers.

But her body is failing. She has no power left to fight.

All she has is the waiting.

She kneels in the ruins and waits to die the second death.

The death of forgetting.

[witchofthesouls]

I've had prime predacons on the brain, do they have mating habits? Do they lay eggs? Since predaking is the leader of the last 3 predacons does that mean he gets first dibs if a lady dragon/predacon shows up or would it be a battle of suitors? Do predacons make good parents even with the fact they're technically clones and only have vague genetic memories of their culture to pass on?

I got sooooooo many thoughts about Predacons and their influence on Cybertron's modern-day frame-schematics, especially with that throw-away line about Seekers. Like I'm running away with it~!! 🏃‍♀️

Seekerkin can trace their frame and coding quirks back to the Predacon species that delved into the Rust Sea. Unlike their exclusive land and air kith, the sea hunters were able to escape the catastrophic radiation by diving down into the depths.

These particular subspecies of Predacon passed many traits to their descendants, including but not limited to: the sexual dimorphism of larger, powerful femmes to agile, brightly-colored mechs, the trine-protocols and flocking mechanisms, multiples in carriage, prey-drives, and superior senses akin to beastformers and mechanimals.

The Wilder tribes still use vocalizations and have behaviors that can be traced back to their ancient kin and kith via oral traditions from Keepers. This leads to a lot of tension with the Seekerkin city-states that try to erase and rewrite the history of their frames.

While Vos is framed for their trine-protocols and being a strange breed of aerials onto itself, Praxus refined the hunting tactics and flocking behavior, and Polyhex's wetlands and underground labyrinths kept polished the traits that made them formidable sea predators.

The Predacons eschewed Prima's Call and his Guiding Hand for the established city-states to remain in the Wilds. Capable of speech and sharp intelligence, Predaking's kith were the apex predators of the sky, hunting down others for food, and were terrors to the young mecha prior to T-cogs.

This is due to claims of superiority. Unlike the other frames, they didn't require the immediate protection of the Primes. On top of their massive size and strength, flight and fire capabilities, advanced nanite colonies, thick armor, and heightened senses, the Predacons have a very unique quirk: collective unconscious.

Predacons are proud of their closeness to nature and beastly frames. In their opinion, they are the second closest to Primus, outside of the Thirteen, because of it. "A gift," they decree, by the Creator to give them such wild frames suited to the planet with the capabilities to shape it.

In the oral traditions of the Wilders, it's said some of their ancient kith could bend "cold fire" aka lightning. And that's why certain landmarks in the Wastelands still stand in defiance of Time and Prima's "Forceful" Hand. It was also said that they often crossed with "the Shadow of the Light" and the "Lord of Beasts."

Out of all the Primes, they respect the inescapable strength and spirit of Megatronus, Solus' forging and might, and Onyx for his understanding of their kind as he, too, ventured to the edges of extremes. "Lord of Beasts," indeed. They are creatures suited to an untamed Cybertron.

The social structures of the land hunters are very loose and minimal. Adults are mainly solitary creatures with exceptions to mating season, child-rearing, and seasonal gatherings to collectively mine volcanoes for minerals and guide massive storms to ignite new Energon nodes- preparations for the lean portion of the vorn.

The sea hunters are smaller and slimmer than their land-counterparts, so they have strong social ties of multiple generations to maximize the survival of their young, resource efficiency, and hunting tactics.

The mating behaviors of Predacons differ by their type, but there are similarities. Do they do not feel shame over cycles; heats and ruts are simply a fact of life. Much like beastformers, Predacons have reproductive heats.

There's courting gifts of fresh kills, raw ores, and chunks of minerals as well as showing off skills.

If there's an uncourted or unclaimed female in heat, then a Dance or a Mating Hunt will occur after competition has been bullied to back down. Females in heat are highly temperamental and incredibly aggressive, so those who wish to remain single and unmated would either cripple or kill persistent hunters.

Among the sea hunters, males show off their bright colors and hues to demonstrate health and virility as well as attempt to groom or nuzzle a female of a different pod/flock. It's common for a binary or triad of males to mate-nap a female from elsewhere: proving their tactics against her and her extended kin.

Whereas the males of the land hunters will show off strength by battling other males in the vicinity to prove their worthiness among his nearby neighbors before battling her for breeding rights.

If a female Predacon (or Seekerkin) was discovered, then Predaking would bully the other males to establish dominance before stepping up to plate to fight her.

Child-rearing is a shared responsibility. Nest building and bulking it with supplies. Keeping out intruders since baby Predacons cannot properly fly until they reach near mechling stage (adolescence).

Males can't produce sparkling-grade, so females are stuck in the nest until the newsparks gain their sight and actually climb out.

Mechs do help with a special tank in their frames that reguitates a melted slag of nutrients that helps boost the newsparks' systems.

Once the sparklings can eat more solid, the sire and carrier will take turns hunting and caring the nest.

Sea hunters have an easier time as child-rearing is more communal. Newsparks and sparklings are defended and supported by well-established adults guarding the shallow nursery reef, while hunters support the pod with an influx of food.

[outofangband]

Complex trauma after torture and Angband world building masterlist

warnings for discussions of trauma from abuse/torture and extremely unbalanced power dynamics

More specifically here

Effects of Angband Trauma on Interpersonal Relationships

I’m going to make a second post to go into more detail on specific survivors!

Note: a lot of this would also apply to Aerin! I covered a lot of it on my post about her and complex trauma and I’m working on a second one

1. Survivors of Angband often experience hyper sensitivity to changes in mood and temperament. Most in Angband exist at the mercy of their overseers and other denizens of the fortress. When they are angry, upset or annoyed, regardless of cause, it is not uncommon for this to be taken out on the captives who have nowhere to go. In this environment, some might try to make themselves as insignificant or inconspicuous as possible, some might attempt to placate in the hope to mitigate abuse of themselves or others, some might even try to provoke anger either in an attempt to get something seen as inevitable over with or to bear the brunt of abuse instead of letting it fall on someone else.

Many survivors of Angband can become tense or afraid at a raised voice, certain tones, or simply being in the presence of someone who is upset or angry, especially if that person is in or is perceived to be in a position of power or authority.

On the same note is hyperawareness of certain body language and difficulty disconnecting certain body language or words with trauma responses. This can be conscious or subconscious.

The methods of survival within Angband might be replicated on the outside; some might seem antagonistic, intentionally trying to draw the anger of others around them, attempting to placate someone who might have no idea that their words or body language had been perceived as threatening, or attempting to make themselves inconspicuous again.

2. Difficulty maintaining the flow of a conversation

Conversation between prisoners and other denizens can not truly be equal. Verbal defiance or anything taken as such are heavily punished.

I’ve said it many times before and I’ll continue to say it! I cannot stress enough how profoundly demoralizing it is to be in an environment where you cannot make any change or influence and where your words mean next to nothing about what happens to you.

Conversations between prisoners are heavily restricted and censored. Friendships and bonds challenge the enforced hierarchies.

4. Improper reactions to authority. There is complex protocol in Angband for what body language, tone and other signifiers must be performed when speaking to higher ups. For some figures, special titles and even kneeling or other obvious signs of submission are required. Anyone who defies, challenges or does not submit to authority are brutally punished and the punishment commonly extends to the thralls around them too.

On the outside it is not uncommon for survivors to mistrust or act in ways seen as improper to authority. They might act overly subservient or the opposite; refusing even reasonable suggestions or commands out of fear that their compliance will be exploited, or simply because they don’t trust that they can identify danger or exploitation (those who feel the latter might also express this through compliance)

5. Masking and significant hiding of emotional states. What is necessary to adapt to Angband is met with suspicion and hostility on the outside. I won’t go too much into it because in my post Angband tag I have a lot but many survivors take great lengths to hide the extent of their trauma

Survivors are known to steal (because nothing can be theirs and they do not trust that they will be given anything without a terrible price), to lie (because they have been forced to choke down the truth when it might lead to further pain, and so much leads to pain), they are known to attack even their own kin (because they are so very afraid).

They learn very quickly when they re enter their communities that they must adapt. Some cannot. Many former prisoners are vagrants. They wander alone or with one or two they escaped with. Some adapt in the same ways they adapted in Angband, some become more numb, obeying and moving without question, not attempting to regain the identity and life that had been stolen from them

Related to this is a suppressing of normal and healthy emotions, including anger. Abuse, and captivity all robs, one of one’s ability to be angry on their own behalf, and behalf of their loved ones if they are also in such a situation.  I won’t go into it too much detail here, because I actually have an upcoming post about trauma and anger (using Maedhros and Aerin for my examples) but I did want to note here. This could also manifest in a variety of ways in the aftermath, including being quick to anger, having difficulty regulating it, or feeling numb to situations that might make one feel angry, or having the impulse or response to placate instead of reacting, in the anger that one feels. 

I really can’t overstate how this sort of trauma (in this case captivity but this would also apply to survivors of abusive households) effects every aspect due to the utter loss of control that is experienced while with the perpetrator(s).

probably have too many posts on it and unfortunately there will continue to be more! If you read this far thank you for your patience/genuine and as always please feel free to ask more!

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 9 @ailesswhumptober - Hypothermia, “You look pretty pale.”

Paul and Ash are on a mission together when a storm caused an medical emergency.

CW: hypothermia, Living weapon whumpee, living weapon caretaker, dehumanising protocol.

AiLessWhumptober List Complex 27

“Ash,” Paul called, his voice cutting through the relentless storm. “Are you alright? You look… pale.”

Ash turned his head slightly, the movement a monumental effort. His skin was ghostly, almost luminescent against the backdrop of the dark forest, a stark contrast to the muddy, drenched earth beneath them.

“I’m fine,” Ash muttered, but the words slurred together, barely escaping his lips.

Paul narrowed his eyes, skepticism tightening his features. He glanced upward at the churning clouds, lightning cracking in the distance, illuminating the landscape for a heartbeat before plunging it back into darkness. The downpour had started hours ago, soaking them, coating their gear in sticky mud.

His focus snapped back to Ash, who looked worse by the minute. The pale, clammy skin had been the first warning sign, but now Paul could see the dullness in Ash’s eyes. The usual sharp, calculating focus was gone, replaced by an unfocused, glassy stare. Unease twisted in Paul’s gut. Ash was never unfocused. Ever.

The subtle tremors running through Ash’s body caught Paul’s attention. At first, he thought it was just the cold—but now, he noticed the way Ash’s hands shook, the rifle slipping from his grip as if he could barely hold onto it. His fingers twitched against the trigger, threatening to drop the weapon entirely.

“Fine?” Paul repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Ash’s vision flickered; the edges of the world warped as if he were staring through rippling water. He couldn’t think straight. His body screamed for him to move, but the thought of standing sent another wave of nausea crashing over him. He swallowed hard, trying to regain control. “We can’t move,” he rasped, the sound barely more than a whisper.

Paul’s heart raced. “We have to move. You—”

“No.” The word escaped Ash’s lips harsher than he intended. A surge of stubbornness flared within him, even as his mind felt like a chaotic haze. He clung to the thought that they had a mission to complete, and failure wasn’t an option. Weakness was unacceptable. If he broke now, there would be consequences.

Thunder rolled ominously in the distance, the sound reverberating through the air like a warning. The pain in Ash’s legs sharpened, sending a jolt through him as his body instinctively tensed at the noise. Clenching his jaw, he forced out a raspy, defiant, “We can’t leave.”

Paul faltered, pulse quickening. He was well aware of Ash’s notorious stubbornness, but this was different. This defiance lacked its usual rationality. Ash was always the cautious one, meticulously calculating every move. Yet now, a wildness infused his resolve, a blatant disregard for their situation that sent a chill down Paul’s spine.

“Ash,” Paul’s voice hardened, cutting through the fog. “You’re not thinking straight. You’re compromised. We’re moving, now.”

Before Ash could protest, Paul surged to his feet, reaching down to haul him up with a strength that brooked no argument. Ash stumbled, feet slipping in the mud as he struggled to find his balance. The world tilted dangerously, and he slumped against Paul.

“Damn it, Ash,” Paul muttered, shifting his weight to support him. “You’re freezing. We have to get out of this storm.”

“The mission…” Ash croaked, blinking slowly as he tried to regain focus. “We have to wait… Target.”

Paul glanced toward the dilapidated building looming through the driving rain. Shadows shifted within its dark interior; their target was still inside, just out of reach. “Fuck the target,” he snapped. “We need to get you out of the rain.”

Ash’s eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. “No… we can’t leave,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, the stubbornness fading into a plea for understanding. “They’ll escape…”

“If we wait,” Paul snapped, desperation rising in his voice, “you’ll be dead.”

Ash’s knees buckled, and Paul had to shift his weight quickly to keep him upright. This was worse than he’d thought. The rain hammered against them, turning the ground beneath them into a mire of mud and water. The chill seeped through Paul’s clothes, every drop striking his skin like needles. They wouldn’t last long, not with the storm intensifying by the minute.

“Focus, Ash,” Paul barked, wrapping an arm around his waist and half-carrying him toward the treeline. The wind whipped at Paul’s face, making it hard to see, each gust biting into his exposed skin. He felt the cold gnawing at his bones, every breath a reminder of how dire their situation had become.

The storm roared around them, wind whipping through the branches, but Ash continued to murmur weakly, “The target… we have to wait.”

“Shut up about the damn target!”

There was an old, abandoned barn, barely standing, but enough to shield them from the storm, just up the hill. It had been mentioned in the briefing, but Paul struggled to recall the details. “We’re almost there,” he muttered, more to himself than Ash, as finally spotted it. The dark shilloetee again an even darker sky.

Practically dragging Ash through the sticky mud and over exposed tree roots, he pushed through the barn door with a grunt. A musty smell rushed out, mingling with the scent of damp earth and rot. “Sit,” he ordered, pushing Ash gently but firmly into the barn and to the ground before scanning their surroundings. Rotting wood, broken tools, and tattered remnants of half-rotten hay. It wasn't much, but at least it was dry.

“Ash,” Paul crouched in front of him, shaking his shoulder. “Stay awake. You can’t pass out.”

No response.

"Shit," he shook Ash again, urgency clawing at his chest. “Hey! I said stay awake!”

This was bad. He had to think fast. Glancing at the TaskSlate on his wrist, he hoped to call for help. He squinted at the screen through the rainwater still dripping from his hair. No signal. Pushing aside the creeping panic in his chest he focused on the task at hand. Ash was fading, and they had no time to waste. He scanned the barn, mind racing through their options.

“Ash,” he said again, softer this time, as he rifled through the debris for something—anything—that could help. “Stay with me.”

Ash’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t respond, his breathing shallow and uneven. Paul needed to get him warm. He found a few old bales of hay and kicked one apart, the dry strands spilling out. “This’ll have to do,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing an armful and stuffing hay under Ash’s body in a makeshift attempt to insulate him from the cold ground. He created a cocoon, layering more hay on top. “Wake up!” Paul growled, shaking him again, glancing down at his own soaked uniform, cursing under his breath.

Wet clothes.

Hypothermia.

"Damn it."

Paul’s mind raced as he yanked off his damp jacket, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer of ice. He felt the cold air hit him like a slap, sharp and unforgiving, sending shivers down his spine. He had to keep Ash warm—there was no other option. He let out a groan of frustration, fully aware of what he had to do, even if it filled him with dread. The cold was starting to bite into his exposed skin, his own shivering becoming more pronounced.

Ash lay curled within a cocoon of hay, barely responsive now. His breaths came in shallow, rapid gasps, and his skin was a ghostly shade of pale, devoid of warmth and colour. A sight that terrified Paul more than he felt able to admit.

“This is gonna suck,” he muttered as he fumbled with Ash's wet clothes. His fingers trembled as he began fumbling with Ash’s soaked clothing, the damp fabric sticking stubbornly to his skin. As he peeled away the sodden layers, he was met with skin that felt shockingly cold against his fingertips, sending an icy dread through him. “We are never discussing this, you understand? Never,” he added

With each article of clothing he removed, memories surged through Paul’s mind, flashing back to their training days—the countless drills, the endless survival discussions. They had prepared for combat, for evasion, for any number of scenarios involving their missions, but never for this. All the training had focused on completing the mission, never on the emotional weight of keeping another asset alive. In this merciless world, there was simply no room for weakness, hesitation, or sentiment.

"Stay with me," Paul muttered under his breath, teeth chattering as he stripped off his own shirt, leaving himself exposed to the biting cold. He awkwardly dragged himself into the pile of hay and yanked Ash’s limp body closer, pressing his chest against Ash’s to transfer what little warmth he had left. Ash was entirely limp, his breathing shallow, body slack against Paul’s. It was surprisingly difficult trying to maneuver a body like this. Paul had moved countless dead targets during hits, but this was different.

The Facility’s voice echoed in his mind, cold and clinical: an incapacitated asset is a failed asset. He could almost hear the handlers’ emotionless tones, reminding him that sacrifices were part of the mission. He was supposed to abandon Ash—activate the emergency beacon, finish the mission alone, ensure the target didn’t slip away.

But as he clutched Ash’s limp body against his chest, feeling the shallow, weakening breaths against his skin, the thought of leaving him behind twisted Paul’s gut. He couldn’t do it. Not to Ash.

Protocol could go to hell.

He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that would provide warmth. The hay beneath them was dry but not nearly enough to stave off the cold that seeped into his bones. Paul’s body trembled, but he pushed through it, forcing himself to concentrate solely on Ash.

Clenching his jaw, Paul fumbled with his TaskSlate again, tapping through the interface and activating the emergency beacon. Still no signal. But maybe it would get through.

Desperation clawed at him as he pressed his forehead against Ash’s icy shoulder, trying to will away the rising panic. This wasn’t what he was trained for. Combat, yes. Assassination, yes. Keeping someone alive when everything was falling apart around them? That was a medic’s job, not his. They weren’t supposed to get sick, or cold, or weak. They weren’t supposed to need saving.

But here he was, desperately holding onto Ash as the storm raged outside, fighting against everything he had ever been trained to believe.

“Come on, you stubborn bastard,” he urged, shaking Ash gently again. “You can’t leave me like this.”

Ash’s response was a barely perceptible murmur, slurred and incomprehensible but something. A sign of life.

His breathing, shallow and rapid, made Paul’s heart race with fear. The barn was little protection from the growing storm outside, and they were completely exposed here.

As the sound of thunder roared overhead, Paul shifted position, desperate to keep Ash awake. “You’re not getting out of this that easily, damn it.”

He shivered, but he tightened his hold, pressing his chest against Ash’s frozen body, trying to will any remaining warmth between them. The cold was unforgiving, gnawing at his limbs, but he couldn’t let Ash slip away. Not like this.

He glanced at the TaskSlate. Useless. Dark. No signal. They were on their own until the retrieval team arrived - if they arrived.

[p4ranxoia]

Random au lore dump

Breach’s Rebellion: A Summary [TW MENTIONS OF SU1CI1D3]

Breach’s rebellion wasn’t just an act of defiance—it was a self-destructive war fueled by grief, psychosis, and the belief that he had nothing left to lose. His borderline personality disorder (BPD) and psychosis had already twisted his perception of the world, making him see Valorant as an oppressive force rather than an ally. But the real breaking point came when Solstice, a close friend, was injured and kidnapped by Zavi. That moment shattered him. If Valorant wouldn’t save Solstice, he would—no matter the cost.

The Descent into Chaos

Consumed by rage, Breach turned against the Protocol. His rebellion escalated quickly, culminating in a vicious fight against Rewind and Thalia on a bridge. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, he refused to back down. In a final, reckless act, he detonated himself, blowing apart the battlefield.

But death didn’t claim him. Viroxyn, an experimental substance, replaced his blood flow, keeping him alive but leaving him in constant agony. The process permanently changed him—his once aqua-blue eyes now a piercing yellow, a mark of what he had become. Fueled by grief, power, and psychosis, Breach launched his final attack. Wielding a radiant-powered RPG, he blew up the Protocol, leaving nothing but devastation in his wake.

Losing Daliah & The Spiral into Depression

Just when he thought he had nothing left to lose, he lost Daliah, his adopted daughter—the only person who ever made him feel like he could be more than his anger. Her death broke him completely, sending him into a deep depression. The fire that fueled his rebellion burned out, leaving only emptiness. There was no more fight, no more revenge—just the crushing weight of everything he had done.

With Breach finally vulnerable, Brimstone, Skye, Chamber, and a task force apprehended him. But captivity didn’t mean redemption. He sat in silence, a shell of his former self, drowning in guilt and self-loathing.

The Suicide Attempt & Sova’s Intervention

Eventually, he escaped again, but this time, there was no grand rebellion, no explosions—just a man ready to end it all. He wrote a note, stood on the edge, and prepared to jump. But Sova found him before he could go through with it. In that moment, Sova didn’t fight him, didn’t tell him he was forgiven—he just told him that if he jumped, everything Daliah stood for would be gone, too.

And for the first time in a long time, Breach hesitated.

The rebellion was over. But his story wasn’t.

[callsign-owl]

Beneath the Boonie - Meeting Captain Price

Hereford, United Kingdom - January 2019

The wind swept briskly across the open expanse of the SAS military base near Hereford, carrying with it the distant sounds of soldiers in training—shouts, the thuds of boots hitting the ground, and intermittent gunfire. Owl stepped out of the transport vehicle, his posture rigid with a mixture of anticipation and unease. His eyes took in the surroundings: the spartan barracks, the obstacle courses, and the personnel moving with purpose and urgency. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in. Percival's words echoed in Owl's mind, a stern reminder of the new world he was entering: "Remember, these people operate under a completely different set of rules. Respect, discipline, and commitment are your currency there. Your usual defiant and rebellious nonsense is not going to be tolerated.”

Owl's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Captain Price. The captain’s gravelly voice carried a blend of authority and an underlying hint of empathy. “Mister *redacted*,” he called out, his figure imposing even with the somewhat silly boonie hat that sat atop his head. His face was stern, the lines around his eyes speaking to years of service and command, but his greeting was not unfriendly.

"Follow me," Captain Price instructed with a slight nod towards a nondescript building flanking the east side of the base. The structure was unassuming yet fortified, typical of military utilitarian architecture, designed more for function than form. Inside, the office was spartan, furnished only with necessities—a sturdy desk, a few chairs.

As they sat, Price’s demeanor remained serious, his eyes scrutinizing Owl as if measuring his worth right there and then. "Your brother has told me about your predicament," he began, his tone direct. "Here’s the deal: Task Force 141 isn’t a refuge for the wayward. We operate in the shadows, handling situations that can't afford mistakes or hesitation. What we do isn’t just following orders—it’s about being proactive, making split-second decisions that have global repercussions. We handle situations that more often than not can't afford the luxury of conventional military protocols."

Owl listened, his throat tight. He was beginning to understand the gravity of what he was stepping into.

“You come highly recommended by your brother, who believes your skills are a fit for us," Price continued, his gaze never wavering. "But this isn’t a charity case, and joining Task Force 141 is not a reprieve. It's going to be demanding and will test you in ways you can't yet imagine. You’ll start from the bottom, go through the same grueling training as every recruit, and be expected to excel. You will follow orders, conform to our standards, and face dangers that are very real and very lethal."

The formality of the military setting weighed heavily on Owl. He straightened, meeting Price’s gaze with a flicker of his intrinsic defiance tempered by newfound resolve. "I understand, sir," he responded, his voice steady.

"Good," Price nodded, his expression softening just a fraction. "You’ll start with basic training tomorrow. If you pass, you’ll move on to more specialized instruction. Fail, and this arrangement ends. Given your unusual circumstances, your training will be handled directly by Task Force 141. I’ll be keeping a close eye on you."

As they stood to end the meeting, Price added, "And remember, my men are the best of the best. Your unconventional recruitment that skipped the usually required SAS selection process won't sit well with them, so you'll need to earn their respect." His words were both advice and a warning, setting the tone for what was to come.