#lots of musings here

[thesovereignsring-if]

1. How would the Ro's and Mc's brothers react to Mc going cold and distant.

(after their Aunt's death if is not spoilers)

2. How would the Ro's react to Mc ruling like a "tyrant" in reality their just a very good and just ruler but absolutely merciless to their enemies

(and anyone who disrespects their dearly departed aunt).

(Their cousin and pretty much everyone walking on eggshells everyday trying not to get on Mc's bad side since the whole Sins of the Father card gets you a one way trip to the dungeons or the torture chamber).

(just break their bones but let them live they say)

This ask is hard to answer without spoilers, but I will say that are certain characters in the cast who detest tyrants, even those with good intentions. How to you deal with your enemies/desenters will color your character as much as being kind to your allies.

How far can you justify cruelty? Your biggest enemy in the game will be your family. How far will you go against the law for your own means? How far will you go to punish someone with good intentions, but ambitions/ideology that go completely against yours? Would cruel punishments be warranted in that case as well?

Some characters/RO(s) will may to justify cruelty and ruthless for a better cause, but even they have their limits. Especially when there are better options involved.

I haven't decided on how ruthless/cruel you can be, but if you guys want to go that route, all I'm going to say (for now) is watch who you sleep next to. Your reign might be short in the end.

[nothatsmi]

Hi there Neil, it's been a little while, did you miss me?

November 30th 2024 i teased an animatic and then gave zero news about it. Guess what!

This one took me a lot of time, it was more animated and complex than other animatics I might've done. Shares and support are appreciated! Here's the link to the Youtube version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmT4elrjNHI&ab (i've put subtitles out there if you're interested)

Also I tried something less linear and a bit more concepual, where Neil and Nathaniel are their own very distinct entities. It made sense in my head.

[northstarscowboyhat]

Peepaw Starlo struggles. Autism 2 autism communication struggles.

[invinciblerodent]

This is going to be very ranty and disjointed, probably borderline incomprehensible post, but with the "return" of Dragon Age Discourse (and really, did it ever go anywhere?) and me repeatedly seeing the complaints and dismissals of DA:I as a "chosen one"-type of a narrative, I just.... I keep finding myself thinking about the relationship of truth and lies within the game.

Throughout the course of DA:I, the idea of a malleable, flexible personal identity, and a painful confrontation with an uncomfortable truth replacing a soothing falsehood, follows pretty much every character throughout their respective arcs.

There are some more obvious ones, Solas, Blackwall, The Iron Bull, their identities and deceptions (of both those around them and themselves) are clearly front and center in the stories told about them, but this theme of deception (both of the self- and the outside world) is clearly present in the stories of the others as well.

Like, for example, ones that come immediately to mind are stories like that of Cullen, who presents an image of a composed and disciplined military man, a commander- all to hide the desperate and traumatized addict that he sees himself as.

Dorian grappled with the expectations of presenting the image of the perfect heir to his father's legacy, the prideful scion of his house, his entire life (he even introduces himself as the result of "careful breeding", like one might speak about a prized horse)- all while knowing that his family would rather see him lobotomized and obedient, than anything even just resembling his vibrant and passionate self.

Cassandra calls herself a Seeker of Truth, and takes pride in that identity- only to learn that in reality, she has been made a liar, a keeper of secrets, without her knowledge or consent, and it is up to her to either uproot the entire organization and painfully cut out the abscess it is to build it back from the ground up into something respectable, or let the information she had revealed sit, and continue to fester.

And this theme continues and reframes itself in, among others, things like Sera's own inner conflict between her elven heritage and her human upbringing, or in Cole being caught in this unconscionable space in-between human and spirit, between person and concept, etc.

The Inquisitor isn't exempt from this either.

I feel like this is where the core of the many misunderstandings of this plot come from, why so many people continue to believe that Inquisition is a "chosen one" or "divinely appointed" type of story, because I think many might just... not realize, that the protagonist's identity is also malleable, and what they are told in the setup/first act of the game is not necessarily the truth.

The tale of the Inquisitor is the exact opposite of that of a "chosen one" story: it's an examination and reflection of the trope, in that it is the story of an assumption that all wrongly believe to be the truth, and thrust upon you, even if you protest. The very point is that no matter who you choose to say that you are, you will be known as the Herald of a prophet you don't even necessarily believe in, and then that belief will be proven wrong, leaving you to cope with either a devastating disappointment if you believed it, or a bitter kind of vindication if you didn't.

There's a moment just after Here Lies the Abyss (when you learn of the lie you've been fed your entire journey in the game) that I don't often see mentioned, but I think it's one of the most emotionally impactful character moments, if you are playing an Andrastian Inquisitor who had actually believed themselves chosen (which I realize is a rather unpopular pick, lol): it's when Ser Ruth, a Grey Warden, realizes what she had done and is horrified by her own deeds, and turns herself in asking to be tried for the murder of another of her order. As far as she is concerned, she had spilled blood for power, and regardless of whether she was acting of her own volition at the time, whether she had agency in the moment, is irrelevant to her: she seeks no absolution, but willingly submits to any punishment you see fit.

And only if you play as an Inquisitor who, through prior dialogue choices, had established themselves as a devout Andrastian, can you offer her forgiveness, for a deed that was objectively not her fault- not really.

You can, in Andraste's name, forgive her- even though you, at that point, know that you have no real right to do so. That you're not Andraste's Herald, that Andraste may or may not even exist, and that you can't grant anyone "divine forgiveness", because you, yourself, don't have a drop of divinity within you. You know that you were no more than an unlucky idiot who stumbled their way into meddling with forces beyond their ken.

You know you're a fraud. You know. The game forces you to realize, as it slowly drip-drip-drips the memories knocked loose by the blast back into your head, that what all have been telling you that you are up to this point, is false. And yet, you can still choose to keep up the lie, and tell this woman who stands in front of you with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes, that you, with authority you don't have, grant her forgiveness for a crime that wasn't hers to commit.

Because it's the right thing to do. Because to lie to Ser Ruth is far kinder than anything else you could possibly do to her, short of refusing to make a decision altogether.

There are any number of criticisms of this game that I can accept (I may or may not agree depending on what it is, but I'm from the school of thought that any interpretation can be equally valid as long as there's text that supports it, and no text that contradicts it), but I will always continue to uphold that the Inquisitor is absolutely not- and never was a "chosen one".

They're just as small, and sad, and lost, as all the other protagonists- the only difference is that they didn't need to fight for their mantle, because instead of a symbol of honor, it acted as a straitjacket.

[rock-n-roll-queen]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Spa Day 🫧

Authors Note:

Hey sweetcheeks. Like I said I was going to write an Izzy fic and here it is. It’s a modern day-ish Izzy Stradlin x Reader. I dunno I really have thing for him, especially for modern day izzy. Something about him and his older age now is just magnetic. Please don’t expect anything too crazy or good because I just scribbled this down in about 4 days. I am however considering a 2nd part, should you like it enough. Special thanks going out to @nyxxnoir for totally feeding my already too absorbed brain with this idea.

Tagging: @tranquilitybasegrunge

Pairing: Modern day Izzy Stradlin x Reader

Summary: It was a slow day, nothing out of the ordinary as clients came and went. Your work ensured relaxation, rest— a place to flee the stress of our every day and unwind. What was supposed to be a place for calm and steady beats of the heart, sure turned into rapid, erratic and jumping under your ribcage with the next client coming into your lobby.

Rating: Mature, Adult Content

Warnings: explicit sexual content, handjob, strong language, power dynamics, semi-public sex, emotional vulnerability, intimacy

Words: 7984

It had been a quiet day, the kind that slipped by without making much of a mark—just the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, the gentle clink of glassware, and the low hum of instrumental playlists meant to lull the spa into a kind of perpetual exhale. You’d been on your feet since morning, rotating between folding crisp white towels, logging in new bookings, and prepping trays with herbal teas and fruit slices that most guests barely touched. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another string of hours in the routine you knew well.

You liked it here, most days. The soft lighting, the subtle scent of lavender and eucalyptus in the air, the way the world outside seemed to melt away the moment you stepped behind the front desk. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was peaceful. And you knew your role: calm, professional, always one step ahead of what the guest might ask for next.

By late afternoon, the lull had deepened. The rain had started somewhere around three, tapping softly against the windows and making everything feel slower. You’d just started rearranging towels on the shelf behind the counter, something to keep your hands busy when the bell above the door gave its soft, familiar chime.

You didn’t expect anything unusual. Another check-in, maybe. A regular here for a mud wrap or an herbal soak. But as you turned, you caught sight of him—and the day shifted. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just a quiet jolt of your heartbeat quickening at the sight of him.

He walked in like he owned the place.

Tall, lean, his broad shoulders framed by a worn leather jacket he started to take off, shaking off some raindrops in the process. Sunglasses pushed into his dark, damp-looking hair. A rough shadow of scruff along his jaw. He didn’t need to speak. Didn’t need to look around. You felt him before your eyes fully caught up, his presence slipping into the room like smoke. He wore a white dress shirt, forearms bare where his sleeves were rolled up, pale against the dark fabric, and that was all it took for recognition to bloom in your chest.

Izzy fucking Stradlin.

Former guitarist of Guns N’ Roses. The quiet one. The cool one. A ghost of the spotlight, but still a legend in his own right. You’d seen his face in grainy posters, vintage interviews, the occasional rock and metal magazine left behind in the lounge. But none of that had prepared you for seeing him in person. In your lobby.

“Private room,” he said, voice low and smooth as he gave his name. Something about the tone of it made your skin prickle, soft, slow, like he was letting the words roll off his tongue just to see how they landed. You nodded, keeping your face neutral, professional, though your pulse stuttered under your skin. He looked you over with a flicker of interest, the slight raise of one brow giving you the impression that he’d already decided you were worth noticing.

You led him down the hallway, his steps slow behind you, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other lazily holding his bag over his shoulder. You could feel him even when you weren’t looking, the quiet weight of his attention, the casual way he took up space.

At the end of the hall, you opened the door to his suite and stepped aside.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he murmured, giving you a half-smile. His eyes lingered a beat longer than they needed to. Then he winked, bold, effortless and slipped inside, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

You stood there for a moment, breath caught somewhere between your ribs, then turned and walked back toward the front desk, trying to shake off the feeling he’d left in his wake.

Fifteen minutes later, your manager found you folding robes near the laundry station.

“Room Three just called in,” she said. “He’s asked for a massage.”

Your heart gave a subtle lurch.

That wasn’t your usual responsibility, you mostly handled front desk duties, prepared orders, restocked supplies. But you weren’t about to question it. You nodded and turned toward the shelves, willing your expression to stay composed.

With careful hands, you loaded a tray with warm oils, fresh towels, and everything else you might need. The hallway felt different now. The air heavier. The silence stretching. Every step you took toward the private suite felt more exciting, no terrifying.

You stopped in front of the door and stared at it for a breath too long.

Then, with a quiet inhale, you knocked.

“Your Massage’s here,” you said lightly, forcing calm into your voice even as your pulse hummed beneath it.

There was a pause, then came his voice. Low. Relaxed. That same slow cadence.

“Come on in, sweetheart. Door’s open.”

You turned the handle and pushed the door open a crack, glancing inside carefully. The suite was warm and humid, dimly lit, steam curling in the corners. A whirlpool hummed softly from the far side of the room. The sauna door was ajar, condensation clinging to the glass. You spotted the massage bed in the center, crisp and inviting. The room was lit in ambient hues, soft jazz filling the area.

And then your eyes found him.

He was leaning against the far wall, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His hair was damp, spiked in lazy, uneven tufts. His chest was bare, a sheen of sweat still clinging to the soft tangle of hair on his chest from the sauna.

He looked up at you, and his mouth curved into that same slow, easy smile.

His eyes, dark, lidded, heavy with something unreadable, moved over you with quiet intent.

“Well, there you are,” he said, pushing off the wall with effortless grace as if he had never been rushed in his life. He moved toward you, unhurried. Watching you the whole time.

You put on your bravest smile, nodding as you stepped inside, pulling the small cart of essentials behind you. So far, you were holding it together—barely. You kept your eyes on the tray, the floor, anywhere but on him, afraid that if you looked too long, you’d start to stare.

“Yes, I had to prepare a few things first, of course. Warm oils and stuff,” you said, your tone breezy, casual, only slightly off-key.

“Of course,” he murmured, stopping a foot away from you. Close. Too close. The warmth of his body reached you like a low wave, and beneath it, the faint scent of something woodsy and musky coiled in the air, subtle, expensive, and devastatingly masculine. It wrapped around you before you could stop it, and a quiet shiver ran down your spine.

He didn’t say another word, just watched you, his gaze dark and steady, threaded with amusement and something deeper, heavier. He studied you like he was listening to something only he could hear, like every flicker of your expression told him a secret. One of his hands twitched at his side, fingers curling slightly, as if he were reigning something in.

You needed to shift the focus. Now.

“Alright, so, first of all, what massage would you like?” you asked, reaching for professionalism like a life raft. “We offer a few different ones. Depending on what you’re looking for, the pricing varies from a simple neck treatment, all the way up to a full-body massage that includes every treatment we offer. It’s… a bit pricey, though.” You bit your lip, eyes flicking to his, suddenly embarrassed for bringing up cost.

He watched you speak, his eyes tracing the shape of your mouth, lingering at your neck before meeting your gaze again. When you mentioned the price, a glimmer of something sparkled in his expression, amusement, maybe, or the thrill of watching you squirm. His brows lifted just slightly, like he found your concern adorable.

Then he stepped closer.

“How much for the whole package, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and thick with heat. “With you, that is.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “Well, it would depend on how long you’d like, sixty or ninety minutes. But for the whole package, as you called it, I’d recommend the ninety-minute session. That would be two hundred fifty dollars.”

You stood there with your hands folded neatly in front of you, trying not to fidget, not to flush again, but the heat had already crept up your cheeks.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough, scraping along your spine like velvet and smoke.

Then he lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, and hooked a finger gently under your chin. He tilted your face toward him until your eyes met his, dark, unreadable, a flicker of amusement glinting beneath the intensity.

“Two-fifty, huh? That’s quite a bit,” he murmured. “But I can afford it.”

You hummed softly, nodding, your voice catching slightly. “Y-you’d like to book the big package, then? For ninety minutes?”

His grin widened as he leaned in a fraction closer, his voice dropping into a rasping whisper that barely brushed the air between you.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I want the full package. Ninety minutes. The works. With you.”

“Alright,” you said, forcing a polite smile onto your face, though your pulse was thudding in your throat. “Wonderful.” You tried to keep it together, reminding yourself this was a luxury spa. He was a client. You were a professional.

“Would you like to begin immediately, or… would you prefer I come back later?”

“Now,” he replied without hesitation, his tone allowing no room for negotiation. He hadn’t stepped back, still close, still radiating heat that curled around your skin. His smirk deepened, both charming and dangerous. “I’m a man of immediate satisfaction.”

You gave a small nod, turning toward the tray behind you and beginning to rearrange the bottles of oil, towels, and tools, though everything was already in order. It was just something to do with your hands. Something to keep them from shaking.

“All right. You may lay down on the bed then,” you said quietly. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Whatever the lady says,” he murmured, his voice a soft purr. He turned and walked to the massage bed, the same unhurried, easy stride as before.

He lay down on his front, folding his arms beneath his head, closing his eyes. But even in that relaxed position, there was tension in the long lines of his body, something coiled, restrained. Like he wasn’t truly resting. Like he was waiting.

You walked over to the bed, the cart gliding quietly beside you. Parking it just within reach, you gave him a polite smile. “Alright, we’ll start with the back and neck,” you said gently, your voice calm despite the flutter in your chest.

You poured the warm oil into your hand, rubbed your palms together, and then slowly smoothed it over his bare back and shoulders. You weren’t applying pressure yet, just coating his skin, letting him get used to your touch. His skin was hot under your palms, a smooth stretch of muscle and tension waiting to be unraveled.

A low hum escaped him, deep and appreciative. “Mmm… that feels good, sweetheart.”

You tried not to react, simply letting out a soft sound of acknowledgment as you began working your fingers into the muscles of his back. As you pressed more firmly, you found a few stubborn knots, your hands instinctively adjusting to work them out with slow, deliberate care.

A quiet, guttural moan rolled out of him, low and rough, as his body shifted slightly under your touch. He arched into your hands just a little, and the sound of his pleasure sent an involuntary shiver up your spine.

“Fuck…” he groaned. “You’ve got magic fingers, sweetheart. I could get used to this treatment.”

You felt your cheeks flush, heat blooming across your skin. Thankfully, his eyes were closed. You kept going, tracing the line of his spine and then moving up to the base of his neck, your thumbs pressing into the tension there. “You’re quite tense, I must say,” you murmured, keeping your tone soft and professional.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Yeah, well… life tends to do that to you. Especially mine.” Another breath escaped him, slower this time. “But I gotta say, sweetheart… nobody’s ever worked me over like this. You’ve got a real gift.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips before you could stop it. “Oh, thank you. I’m really just doing my job.” You hesitated, then added with a small laugh, “Have you had many massages, then?”

He cracked one eye open, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “A fair few. But none quite like this.” Then he shut his eyes again, clearly relaxing under your hands.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, letting the compliment settle in your chest. You moved your thumbs along his trapezius muscles, feeling the tension slowly melt away under your touch.

Another pleased sound rumbled from his chest as you worked on his shoulders, your fingers gliding over warm skin slicked with oil. He was fully sinking into it now, his body looser, more pliant. Yet there was still something coiled beneath the surface, something intense.

“You really do know how to take care of a man, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I think I’m getting spoiled here.”

You chuckled softly but didn’t answer, focusing instead on the rhythm of your hands. You pressed gently up the back of his neck, your thumbs brushing into the short strands of hair at his nape. His reaction was immediate, he shivered, goosebumps rising along his shoulders. You smiled to yourself. That had felt good you knew.

He groaned, a sound of pure contentment. “Jesus… you could make a man come undone with those hands.”

Smirking to yourself, you kept your response measured. “Would you like a scalp massage as well? It’s not on the official menu, but… considering how tense you are, I might make an exception.”

He let out a low, eager hum. “Hell yeah, sweetheart. I’m not one to say no to that kind of pleasure.” He opened one eye again, that glint of teasing heat returning. “But be warned,I might never want you to stop.”

You shook your head, amused, and smiled softly. “Alright.” You finished with his back and let the oil settle into his skin before cleaning your hands. Then you warmed a fresh treatment between your palms and gently ran your fingers into his hair, starting the scalp massage.

His breath came out slow and content as your fingers moved in soothing circles across his scalp. His eyes stayed closed, lips parting slightly as he relaxed under the sensation.

“Mmm… that feels incredible, sweetheart. You’ve got a calming touch.”

“That’s the goal,” you said simply. “To make this relaxing and enjoyable.”

Another low sound escaped him, his entire frame sinking deeper into the bed. You felt the tension slip away from him, replaced by something warm and dreamlike. His breath had gone slow and even. The effect you were having on him was undeniable.

“You’re damn good at it,” he murmured. “I could stay like this forever.”

When you’d finished with his scalp, you glanced at his back where his skin had absorbed the treatment. You poured a final oil blend into your hands and began gliding your fingers across his skin once more. This time, you didn’t press into the muscles, only smoothed the oil to soothe and nourish. Your hands moved over his back, across his sides, and down toward his lower back. The towel sat low on his hips, and as your fingers slipped downward, you felt it shift slightly.

You froze when your fingertips brushed the bare skin just below. He had nothing underneath.

A sharp breath caught in your throat as you immediately drew your hands back. “O-oh, s-sorry… I didn’t mean to go too far.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and unbothered beneath your touch. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”

You exhaled quietly, nodding to yourself. “Right. You just never know… not every guest is as laid-back as you.” You stepped back to wash your hands again, then poured more oil and moved on to his legs.

He was struggling to hold back, his breathing just a little heavier than before. Your fingers had come dangerously close, teasing in the most maddening way. And while he appreciated your professional boundaries, some part of him wished you’d just break them, push a little higher, make this more than just work. But he didn’t say a word. He knew you wouldn’t cross that line on your own. So he kept still, tension humming through him, his restraint hanging by a thread as you massaged his feet, every press and glide of your fingers a quiet form of torture.

You gave them extra attention, not out of preference but out of rhythm. Hands and feet were the easiest to work with, their shape giving you more control. Still, you felt the strain creeping up your forearms—the ache in your own hands a familiar burn. When you finally finished, you let your shoulders drop for a second and caught your breath. Massage work wasn’t easy. It took real strength to keep that pressure steady.

He heard your slightly labored breathing and opened his eyes, his voice softer this time, laced with a flicker of concern.

“You good, sweetheart? Don’t exhaust yourself on me.”

You smiled as you unscrewed a water bottle and took a long drink. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m gladly doing so.” You wiped your lips and added, “Just need a quick breather. You can sit up now. I’m gonna do your arms next.”

He shifted upright with a low grunt, his torso gleaming with oil, towel clinging low around his hips. He looked at you with that same half-lazy smirk, the kind that made your stomach turn a slow somersault.

“Alright, sweetheart. My arms are all yours.”

You nodded and poured more oil into your palms, warming it with a slow rub. Then you reached for his left arm, beginning at the shoulder and working your way down. His muscles were toned, but it was his hand that caught your attention—rough, strong, calloused. Not just from labor, but from craft. The thickened tips of his fingers told a story you already knew.

Your eyes widened just slightly as the realization hit again. You’d been so deep in your professional focus that you’d almost forgotten who he was.

Izzy Stradlin.

Your fingertips grazed his palm, and your breath caught, just barely. You didn’t say anything, but he caught the flicker of awareness in your expression and smirked.

“Yeah,” he said with an amused drawl. “Those are guitar fingers, sweetheart. I’ve put them to good use over the years.”

You glanced up at his face without thinking—bad idea. His gaze was already on you, dark and unreadable, framed by that signature crooked smirk. The lines around his eyes made him look both playful and dangerous. Your heart skipped a beat, but you forced yourself to stay composed.

“Ah. Yeah? You play guitar?” you asked casually, trying to hide the small quake in your voice.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the game. “Yeah, sweetheart. I play guitar. Been doing it a long time.” He watched you closely, and you could feel it, the subtle change in atmosphere. It was charged now. Intimate.

You tried to focus on the massage, but your thoughts were drifting. His presence, his voice, the way he kept teasing without overstepping, it was getting under your skin in ways you weren’t used to.

“Do you still play?” you asked, your voice softer now, almost shy.

He tilted his head slightly, amused by your curiosity. “Yeah, I still pick it up now and then. Not always on stage, not always with a band… but I haven’t stopped.”

There was something in his eyes then, an unspoken challenge, as if he could tell there was more you wanted to ask but you were holding back. So you bit your lip and said what had been lingering in your mind since you first realized who he was.

“Are you… ever going back on stage? If I may ask.”

That smirk of his widened like he’d just been dealt a royal flush. He leaned in a little closer, his voice low and teasing.

“Now why would you wanna know that, sweetheart?”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Well… just curious.”

He studied your face, clearly entertained. “Just curious, huh? You’re not a little bit of a fan?”

You let out a soft laugh, caught. “I mean… yeah. Of course.”

He chuckled, his voice a low rumble that made something flip in your chest. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl to go to rock shows. Or even listen to rock.”

Still massaging his hand, you kept your eyes focused on your work. “I listen to all kinds of music. I do have a thing for rock, though. Especially 80s and 90s.”

“Oh, do you now?” he said, clearly amused. “And here I thought you were an innocent little thing that listened to pop radio all day.”

Your face flushed instantly, the heat creeping up your neck. “They say don’t judge a book by its cover,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant.

His smirk deepened as he watched you, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Oh, I’m not judging, sweetheart. Just observing. You’re just so…” He paused, tapping a finger against his thigh like he was picking the perfect word.

“…Proper.”

You looked up at him, one brow raised. “Proper?”

He couldn’t help but laugh softly at the look of genuine confusion on your face. It was so damn endearing. He shrugged, his eyes still fixed on you, something warmer in them now. Almost affectionate.

“Yeah, ya know. Proper. You’re all professionalism and order. Everything neat and tidy. The perfect employee.”

You hummed, eyes still on his hand. “Well… it’s to be expected. I work in a luxury spa. If I wasn’t professional and didn’t work hard, I wouldn’t be here.”

He chuckled, head tilting slightly as he kept watching you.

“But it’s more than that, sweetheart. You just seem like a perfect little thing. Always polite, always doing everything just right. Never getting dirty.”

There was a pause. He was studying you now, watching the way you stayed focused on your task. You were massaging his palm, slow and thorough, clearly trying not to let the teasing rattle you.

Your eyes didn’t lift once.

He let the silence stretch, amused by your effort to stay composed. Then he spoke again, voice still low but laced with mischief.

“You really are a goody two shoes, huh? The perfect little girl.”

A smile tugged at your lips, one you tried to suppress. But your nerves betrayed you, just for a blink—you bit your lip, just slightly.

His quiet laugh was immediate, full of soft delight.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Trying so hard to keep it together. Still acting all professional.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel more intimate.

“But I see it. Those nerves. That little flicker of embarrassment. All hiding under that tidy exterior.”

You didn’t answer. Just drew in a breath and finished with his hand. Then, with a voice that was steady despite everything, you instructed, “Lay on your back now, please.”

He grinned but obeyed, shifting smoothly onto his back, arms resting loosely at his sides. His body gleamed under the dim lighting, relaxed in posture but buzzing beneath the surface.

You began again, massaging his legs, this time the front of his thighs. Your touch remained firm, practiced, but something about it had changed—deeper maybe, slower. More deliberate.

He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the feeling. But beneath the surface calm, heat curled low in his belly. Your hands pressed into his thighs, gliding over the muscle with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.

Then your thumbs moved inward. Pressed into his inner thighs.

He tensed.

Your fingers inched just under the edge of the towel—close enough to be maddening. Not enough to cross the line. Still professional. Barely.

He shifted slightly, a quiet breath catching in his throat. It was almost too much now, the way you hovered right on that boundary. So damn close, yet holding back. And he couldn’t do it anymore. He needed to say something.

His voice came low and strained, filled with the tension that had been simmering just beneath the surface.

“Sweetheart…”

You froze, his tone and timing tightening something low in your stomach. Your fingers were already slipping under the edge of the towel, dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be—close, but not quite touching. Wide-eyed, you stared at him, stunned.

“Y-yeah?” you finally managed to stammer, voice barely above a whisper.

He propped himself up on his elbows, gaze locked on your face. There was something in his eyes—possessive, heated, intense. It said more than his words ever could. He watched you carefully, lips tugging into a slow smirk as he took in how close your fingertips had gotten to the hem of the towel, like he was daring you to go further.

“You’re getting awfully close there, sweetheart…”

You swallowed hard, glancing down at your hands. Your fingertips had slipped just beneath the edge, and heat surged up your neck. Quickly, you shifted your touch to his thigh instead, trying to focus.

“S-s-sorry…” you mumbled, pulling your hand back.

He let out a quiet chuckle, something about the sound making your pulse jump—it was warm, but edged with danger.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. No need to apologize. In fact…”

He leaned in a little, voice dropping into a low, rough whisper.

“I wouldn’t mind if you went a little higher…”

Before you could react, his hand closed gently but firmly over yours, holding it in place. No escape.

Your breath caught. Heat flooded your cheeks as your body stiffened, your eyes locked onto his, wide and unblinking.

He didn’t look away. His eyes were dark, intense, smoldering with something deeper than just interest. Something daring. Challenging.

“Do it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Touch me.”

You held your breath, eyes flicking over his face, trying to read him—trying to decide if this was real, if he meant it.

He could see it all in your expression. The hesitation. The pull. That quiet war between professionalism and the temptation he was dangling right in front of you.

“Don’t be shy…” he whispered, coaxing. “I won’t tell anyone.”

You bit your lip, willing your voice to stay steady.

“T-that’s not part of the services we offer here in this establishment, sir,” you replied, soft but firm, slipping your hand free and pulling it back to your sides.

He laughed quietly, eyes narrowing just a little, a knowing smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m not expecting you to give me a happy ending here.”

He paused, gaze never leaving yours.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t bend the rules a little…”

You swallowed again as he sat up straighter and reached for your wrist. His grip was firm but not rough, guiding you gently until you were standing between his legs.

His hand didn’t let go.

He looked up at you, eyes slowly tracing over your face, studying the cracks in your composure—the tension, the restraint, the way your breath caught. He could see the fight in you. But he could also see the flicker of something else.

Desire.

“Come on, sweetheart…”

You stood frozen, gazing at him like a deer caught in headlights. He was intoxicating—there was something about him that drew you in, something magnetic and impossible to resist. You didn’t step forward, but you didn’t back away either. He noticed. His grip on your wrist loosened, giving you the space to pull away if that’s what you wanted.

You didn’t.

Instead, you just stared at him, your body still, as if waiting for a reason to lean in.

He could see the storm behind your eyes—the war between what was right and what you wanted. He knew he had to move carefully. But the temptation to test your limits, to see just how far this tension could stretch, was too strong to ignore.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured. “There’s no one else here… it’s just you and me.”

His hand tugged gently at your wrist again, pulling you just a little closer until your thighs were nearly brushing his knees, your body hovering in his space.

You looked down at him, breath shallow, as his fingers moved to cradle yours. He held your hand softly, inspecting your fingertips like they were something precious. Then he lifted them to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to each one—appreciation wrapped in something far more intimate.

His lips were warm, unhurried, and the unexpected tenderness of the gesture made your breath catch.

He pulled you in closer, bit by bit, still coaxing, still silently urging you toward something deeper. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and full of quiet fire, carrying a promise you weren’t sure you were ready for—but couldn’t turn away from.

His other hand slid down, wrapping lightly around your hip. You felt the pressure through the fabric, subtle but anchoring, his fingers moving in slow circles that tingled against your skin.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Don’t be afraid…”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You could feel it, the invisible thread drawing you closer, the quiet hum between you growing louder. His hand guided yours gently to his chest, placing it there like an invitation.

Your fingers brushed over his skin, feeling the way his muscles shifted beneath your touch. He shivered faintly. The way he looked at you told you exactly what your touch was doing to him.

Then he guided your hand lower.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Down his chest, across the dips and lines of him, until your fingertips hovered just above where the towel still clung low around his hips.

His eyes never left your face. He was watching you carefully, tracking every flicker of emotion. Curiosity. Hesitation. Heat. All of it was written across your expression, and he was reading you like a map.

Still, he said nothing.

He just let your hand linger there on the edge of something neither of you could quite undo.

He gently guided your hand over the front of his towel, letting you feel him through the thin fabric. A low, rough groan slipped from him at your touch, the towel tightening immediately beneath your fingers.

You gasped, breath catching in your throat as you traced over him hesitantly. The heat radiating from his body was unmistakable, and the hardness pressing against your palm left no doubt about how much your touch was affecting him. Your hand trembled slightly, still struggling to keep up with how quickly things were spiraling between you.

He hissed through clenched teeth before replying, voice thick with need. “Fuck, you see… one touch from those magical, beautiful hands and I’m already rock hard for you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at the praise, your breath hitching at his words. You knew this was wrong—so wrong—but the way he looked at you, the sound of his voice… it all made your head spin. Your body warmed, resolve crumbling under the weight of temptation.

Then, suddenly, he let go of your wrist, leaving your hand free to move on its own.

You sucked in a sharp breath, fingers trembling as they stayed pressed against him. Your body felt like it was running on autopilot, giving in to the desire overtaking your thoughts. You rubbed over his bulge lightly, still hesitant, but growing bolder by the second. You couldn’t stop yourself, not when every nerve screamed for more.

Your eyes flicked up to his, a mix of guilt and longing swirling in your gaze.

He smirked, hips lifting just a little, hips bucking up instinctively.

His smirk deepened as he felt your hand move on him, his body responding without his control. He caught the flicker of guilt and hesitation in your expression but couldn’t help admiring the way you gave in to temptation. He shifted slightly, the towel riding up a bit as he pressed harder into your touch.

“Mm, just like that…” he sighed, your palm still pressed against him through the towel, feeling the undeniable shape of him beneath it.

“I think this can go now, no?” he asked, exhaling, hand already moving to the towel.

You took a steadying breath, your hand trembling slightly as curiosity overtook hesitation. You gave a small nod, unable to resist.

“Yes… yeah.” You nodded, barely able to grasp the situation.

He nodded once, then opened the towel without delay, letting it fall away and reveal himself fully to you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your eyes widened, stunned as he was suddenly bare before you, the full picture now clear, undeniable. You looked down slowly, eyes drifting over his body, taking in every detail, your brain scrambling to process while your body simply reacted.

His cock stood fully erect, somewhere between six and seven inches, you’d guess. Thick enough to split you in two, or at least that’s how it felt just looking at him. It curved slightly to the left, a detail that made your head spin with the thought of how perfectly it would hit in certain positions. The head was broad and smooth, the shaft velvety to the touch, with a line of veins along the underside that practically begged for your tongue. Dark curls framed him, thick but neatly trimmed — effortlessly masculine.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. You were flushed and lightheaded, the rising heat inside you echoing his own. Despite everything, your fingers moved—slowly at first—curiously tracing the contours of him, exploring the length of him now that nothing stood in your way.

He groaned, deep and guttural, the sound shooting straight through you. Your fingers continued to trail along his skin, brushing over sensitive spots, testing his reactions, memorizing the way his body responded. He watched you with dark, heavy eyes, full of hunger and satisfaction.

His hips lifted slightly into your touch, body straining for more. The air between you crackled with heat. Then he leaned in, breath hot against your skin, and his hands found your hips, gripping you tightly as he pulled you closer.

You gasped at the sudden feel of him so near, his warm breath ghosting across your skin, your own breathing speeding up in response. The heat coming off his body was dizzying. And the look in his eyes—dark, intense, ravenous—set something off inside you. Something primal.

You didn’t think. You just moved. Hand wrapping around him.

You pressed your body closer to his, and your hand kept moving, fingers exploring him with more purpose now, bolder. Each brush of your skin against his made his muscles twitch beneath your touch, feeding the growing fire between you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut in pure bliss. His fingers tangled with yours, guiding your hand in a slow, deliberate stroke along his length.

“That’s it, sweetheart… just like that.”

He rocked into your touch, his cock seeming to thicken with every glide of your palm, every teasing squeeze.

“A-Are you—I-I mean…” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled, low and knowing, his grip on your hip tightening just enough to make your breath catch. He was clearly enjoying the way you were unraveling in front of him, flustered and unsure.

“Am I… what, sweetheart?”

“I-I mean… isn’t this… I-I shouldn’t do this…” you stumbled over your words, looking up at him with wide eyes, doubt flickering in your expression.

He pulled you closer until your bodies pressed flush together. His gaze roamed over your face, slowly, as if taking in every detail, reading you.

“Shouldn’t you?” he murmured, his voice rough, lips brushing against your ear. “Do you not want to?”

You licked your lips, still staring at him. Of course you wanted to. He was impossible to resist—but there was a part of you still clinging to what was considered right, what you should do… not what you craved.

He noticed the flick of your tongue and something changed in his eyes—heat, sharp and unmistakable. His hand slid to your waist, slipping beneath your shirt. His fingers were warm against your bare skin, his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles over your hip.

He saw the hesitation in your eyes and softened his tone, coaxing you gently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered, “stop overthinking… just feel.”

You exhaled shakily, your eyes fluttering shut as his fingers continued their teasing path. You didn’t move. You didn’t want to. You were caught in the moment, overwhelmed, every nerve alive under his touch.

He smiled at the way you melted for him, the way you leaned in, drawn to him like gravity. He tugged you into his lap with ease, your thighs settling on either side of his legs as if you belonged there.

Your hands found his shoulders instinctively, steadying yourself. His hands stayed under your shirt, now exploring the soft curves of your body with reverent slowness. You looked at him, wide-eyed, breathless, barely believing how close you were.

You felt like you were drowning in sensation—the heat of his palms, the slow sweep of his fingers, the way his breath kissed your skin. His lips trailed along your collarbone, hot and feather-light, making you shiver.

Your forehead fell to his, eyes still closed as you tried to steady your breathing.

“Mr. Stradlin…” you breathed, the words trembling out of you, strained and unsteady.

He smirked at the sound of his name on your lips, his hands never stopping, always teasing, always exploring.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I-I should… finish the massage…” you mumbled, half-hearted, as if saying it might restore some distance—might offer an out.

He chuckled, fingers tracing slow patterns along your spine. But he didn’t let go. If anything, he held you closer, relishing your nearness.

“That was the plan,” he murmured, his voice like a warm ripple over your skin. “But I’m far too comfortable now.”

His fingers moved to the buttons of your shirt, undoing the top few with practiced ease. Your cleavage came into view, and his lips followed the path his hands had taken—downward, across your collarbone, brushing kisses that left you breathless.

You gasped, your stomach fluttering with every touch. God, why did he have to feel so good? Why was it so hard to pull away?

He smiled against your skin, murmuring, “Unless, of course… you want to finish what you started.”

Then he took your hand and guided it between your bodies—inviting you to make the next move.

You bit back a soft, shaky moan, your hand trembling as he brought it closer to him. The heat, his erection pressing against your palm. You knew exactly what he was asking. For a heartbeat, you froze, your mind a whirlwind of indecision. This was wrong. Forbidden. But the way he looked at you, the way his hands touched your skin like you were something precious and it made you want to forget all of it and just feel.

And then he guided your hand to the very place you weren’t supposed to touch, positioning your fingers deliberately. His voice was low, coaxing, laced with desire. The moment should have felt dangerous, off-limits, but it didn’t. It felt surreal, intoxicating. Like something out of a dream.

His fingers laced with yours, guiding you slowly along his length, showing you just how he liked it. The heat of him in your palm was overwhelming, solid and real. Together, your hands moved in tandem, stroking him with slow precision. His mouth parted against your skin, a low grunt escaping against your collarbone.

The sound lit something inside you, hot and insistent. Each guttural groan sent sparks through your body, making you tremble. Your kept eye contact, too mesmerized and too amazed to look away. It felt like time passed in slow motion, intense and intimate. You felt breathless, your mind hazy with want. The weight of him in your hand, the hot skin over rigid hardness, it was too much and not enough all at once.

Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand, leaving yours behind. You hesitated, your fingers twitching slightly without his guidance. You looked down at him, your gaze flickering with uncertainty but there was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes. The way he’d groaned moments ago, like he couldn’t help himself… it made it impossible to resist.

He gave you a small nod, subtle but sure—encouraging.

You swallowed hard and wrapped your fingers around him again, beginning to move. His reaction was immediate, a deep, aching sound pulled from his throat. That gave you all the confidence you needed.

He wasn’t quiet. He didn’t hide behind some mask of control. He was raw, vocal, unfiltered, and it drove you wild. You let your eyes drop to your hand, still in awe of what you were seeing. You would never have imagined this—Izzy Stradlin, naked beneath you, your hand wrapped around him. But here you were, straddling his lap, pleasuring him, the rare chance to watch him come undone.

He groaned again, leaning his head back, exposing the long line of his throat. The muscles in his neck tightened, veins standing out with each stroke. He looked so damn good like this, his usual calm exterior replaced with something primal, something completely undone. You were the one unraveling him, and the power in that made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, focusing, your fingers moving with purpose now. You applied a bit more pressure, careful but deliberate, sliding over him with slow, practiced strokes. His reaction was everything, sharp, obscene sounds tearing from his throat, breath coming in hot, ragged bursts.

One hand flew to your hip, gripping hard. The other fisted into the towel beside him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his half-lidded eyes locked on you, dark with lust, burning through you.

“Sweetheart… that feels so good. So damn good,” he rasped.

You nodded, barely breathing, your only goal now to make him cum, to make him feel so good he’d forget everything else. Your other hand slipped lower, fingers curling beneath him, gently scratching along his balls.

The effect was instant. He let out a broken groan, his head thudding back again. The new touch sent a jolt through his body, his grip on your hip tightening, fingers digging into your skin like he needed something to hold on to.

He was getting closer with every moment and each stroke intensified the feeling for him.

“Careful there,” he warned, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly grumble.

You shifted your attention, switching from scratching to gently stroking and toying with him in your other hand. But you never stopped your steady rhythm with the right, keeping that same consistent pace up his shaft.

He groaned again, his body jerking slightly beneath your touch. The heat radiating from him was intense, his tension building with every second. You could feel the pressure mounting in him, the pleasure so palpable, it almost seemed to bleed into you. His grunt was raw, guttural.

“Fuuuuck… that feels good, sweetheart. Keep going… just like that… don’t—”

That was all the encouragement you needed. You poured yourself into it, desperate to tip him over the edge. His cock pulsed in your hand, the weight of it twitching, straining against your soft fingers. He was right there. You could feel it.

“You wanna cum?” you breathed, voice husky with anticipation.

He could hardly hold on. His breathing came in ragged gasps, chest heaving.

“Yeah… yes… please…”

You smiled, heart racing at the thought of watching him unravel.

“Then do it,” you whispered, low and sultry.

And he did. The sound of your voice, the warmth of your hands, it was all too much. He surrendered, shaking beneath you, every muscle drawn tight. His breathing turned shallow, labored. And then it hit, his release tearing through him, announced by a deep, primal moan from the back of his throat. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was satisfaction—deep and intense, complete and consuming.

You felt his cock throb, twitching violently in your grasp as hot, sticky ropes of his release splattered across your face and shirt. You kept your movements slow, steady, easing him through the waves of pleasure as he collapsed back against the masagebed, eyes dazed, chest rising and falling as if he’d just been wrecked.

And when his gaze focused again, it landed on you, on the sight of you, covered in his cum, sitting there looking like a vision he’d conjured from some fevered fantasy. A crooked, satisfied smile played at his lips as he sat back up again, holding himself up on one hand. The other came up, warm and calloused, cupping your cheek with a reverence that startled you. His thumb brushed across your skin, wiping a drop from your face with a tenderness that nearly undid you. There was something in his eyes then, something deeper than lust, softer than satisfaction. Admiration. Affection. Maybe even something dangerously close to care.

Whatever pride you’d felt just moments ago was swiftly pushed aside by the weight of that gaze. You hadn’t expected that look. Hadn’t expected him to look at you like you mattered.

He dragged his thumb slowly across your cheek, eyes fixed on yours. The disbelief must’ve shown on your face because he tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of mystery he didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to stop unraveling.

You stared back at him, wide-eyed. You could feel everything in the air shift, no longer just sexual. No, this was something heavier, something that sat in your chest like a truth too big to name. It felt intimate. Real.

His eyes never left yours. “Sweetheart. Come closer.”

You swallowed hard, heart fluttering, and shifted toward him, unsure what he wanted but unable to resist. He reached for the towel that had been slung around his hips earlier and gently wiped your face clean. His touch was delicate, like he didn’t want to hurt you, didn’t want to ruin the moment.

You sat frozen, breath caught in your throat as he cared for you like that. His hand lingered at your cheek, thumb grazing your bottom lip. The air between you was charged, quiet but full of meaning. You could feel the questions swirling inside you, but you didn’t dare speak them. Not yet.

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and still, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you, the way his fingers moved so softly, so deliberately, making you feel bare in ways that had nothing to do with nudity.

But the silence stretched, and your nerves got the better of you. Maybe this was it? Maybe he was waiting for you to leave. Maybe the tenderness had been fleeting. You bit your lip, carefully peeled yourself off his lap, and began straightening up. No emotion showed on your face, though your chest ached with a complicated storm of feelings. You didn’t look at him.

You moved to your trolley, keeping busy with motions that had become automatic.

“The payment will be done at the front desk once you’re done,” you said evenly, your voice cool, professional, as you headed for the door. “Enjoy the rest of your stay, Mr. Stradlin.”

You pulled the door closed behind you before he could respond, needing distance, needing air, leaving him in the silence of the room without a look back.

[disacurveball]

The Terror is both a celebration and a warning of the certain breed of masculinity which you come into as a white man. A celebration, as a trans man, as there’s so many different narratives of masculinity to follow in the show, both adherences and rejections to heteronormativities. A warning with the hubris this certain brand of white masculinity which celebrates imperialistic thinking and ultimately dooms both them and harms the indigenous people whose home they are trapped in by their own doing. The show asks, “What is a man?” But really the question is, “What is an English man?”

The performance of Fitzjames in a faux masculinity, in his pursuit of vanity he clings to it. Only in the private, authentic moment of femininity does he see his real face in the mirror, bloodied and decaying from the scars of his imperialistic persona. The resolute marine Tozer, the paragon of masculine strength, finally breaking in composure and confiding in another man who cups his face. Goodsir, the soft academic, emasculated in physical strength, is the one to point out the imperialist lie— but he too is duped about the English man. “This isn’t what we’re like.”

No, Goodsir, this is the foundations of their masculine truth— and only to question their very structure of gender itself will save them. Or at least, be a fun little read on ao3.

[walkingstackofbooks]

I really like to headcanon that Julian didn't grow suspicious or discover his enhancements himself, but that his parents just sat him down and told him because they were worried he was drawing too much attention to himself.

Even better if he's started thinking about his future career and he's been looking at Starfleet's youth programmes or applying for summer camp or something, and his parents suddenly realise that this isn't a phase that's going to pass, but that their Jules is really very serious about it and his heart is becoming increasingly set on becoming a Starfleet doctor by the day. So they need to intervene before he acts on it, and he needs to understand why it's far too dangerous a career, and the only way he can do that is if they tell him the truth. (Because he's become worryingly unconcerned about their opinions, recently.)

There's just something so horrifying about the idea of them forcing the truth upon him to protect themselves and their legacy. That in one conversation, they ripped away any plausible deniability, thrusting upon him this secret that he's going to have to carry for every single day of the rest of his life in an effort to control him and his future.

I'm not sure what would have happened had Julian been discovered because he'd been left in careless ignorance as to who he was, and someone got suspicious. I don't know how many of the careful misdirections and countless calculations he made to keep him from getting discovered were necessary, or if he could have breezed through life as some super-talented genius who'd just got lucky when they were handing out brains. But I like to think that, if he were discovered, Starfleet would be kind enough that the fact he had never known what he was would count for something.

And his world might have come crashing down around him at that point, but it also did when he was fifteen. And he wouldn't have had to carry around seventeen years' worth of the world's heaviest secret, wouldn't have been in any way complicit in covering up his parents' crimes. I'm not saying it would have been better, for sure, but I do think that in telling him, his parents took away any chance of true peace he might have had.

I also like this headcanon because it absolutely fucks with what Richard says in DBIP ("Well, sometimes you have to push him a little. It took quite a while to talk him into taking up medicine, but he did." "So you're the reason he went to Medical School." "That's right. He wanted to become--") and I think he's a liar who absolutely would create his own reality to match his overblown perception of himself. Jules is a high-flying, incredibly sucessful doctor? Of course Richard had been part of making that happen, and he certainly would never have tried to stop it.

(The first time Julian hears this version - possibly at the Academy, when his parents have come to visit and he didn't manage to get his housemate out of the way in time - he's pretty bewildered because that's not what happened, you tried to talk me out of medicine! but also his instinct to not disagree or make trouoble with his parents in public is still very present so he squishes that down until later. And when he does raise it, Richard and Amsha dismiss it entirely.

"No, we had that conversation with you so that you'd know to be careful while you were at Starfleet."

"You were trying to talk me out of applying to Starfleet!"

"Ha, we could never talk you out of anything you'd set your mind to."

"But you tried--"

"I think you're misremembering it, Jules. We've always been proud of you for getting into Starfleet."

"..."

The trouble is, while Julian has a perfect memory and he knows they're wrong, he also... Well, that night is one of his very few fuzzier memories, it's so clouded with hurt and pain and fear and confusion. And he knows they're wrong, he does! But... there's a sliver of doubt. Maybe he did misinterpret their intentions. Did they ever actually say they didn't want him to go to Starfleet? Yes, he's sure they did, he's sure, he remembers arguing about it--

Unless he's been so certain that was what they thought, that he was arguing over nothing but a misconception? Blown it all out of proportion, like his parents so often tell him he does?

No, no. it's his parents who are wrong, they're the ones who can't admit when they've made a mistake, they're the ones who have regular, human, faulty memories, unlike him.

Oh, fuck. Is he just being arrogant, now?)

[loopnoid]

whos this guy

[psychopomp-namine]

yingdu episode 5 spoilers

ohhh my god this is everything I want from cheng xiaoshi. yes. perfect. sorry, but I'm a cheng xiaoshi whump liker and link click always brings out the best of them in episode 5 of each season.

there's just something cathartic about how when cheng xiaoshi becomes an emotional mess, it's also when he's most disconnected with the people he knows (physically, as he's diving in a photo and his only link to his home timeframe is a disembodied lu guang in his head) but it's also when he's most connected with strangers (when their own personal trauma lines up with his). to me, it's a showcase of empathy and a strange manifestation of his own agency. something about how the disconnect gives him the space to blow up, and the connection heightens it and grants him permission, almost, to express his anger more freely for his own sake and for another person's behalf.

like. listen, okay, I'm gonna ramble now because cheng xiaoshi is my favorite character in this entire show, but listen. sometimes some fans will conflate adjectives to his character that are usually associated with his character archetype, but they aren't necessarily true about him as a character. and I don't mean it in a, "he's not like that because he grows out of those traits" kind of way. I mean it in a, "he was never like that" kind of way.

one of those adjectives, for me, is when people call him immature. he isn't! to me! imo! he's got big emotions, yes, but I personally don't think the presence of big emotions indicates anything about maturity. because you know what? as long as his primary trauma (feelings of abandonment) isn't touched, he is very good at handling interpersonal conflicts, and that's what's interesting to me.

qiao ling hides relevant information from him? he removes himself from the situation to give himself space and sort out his feelings. he tells her he's fine and that he'll be back.

post-earthquake arc? I'll just copy paste what I already said in a previous ask:

what initially got me was when I was first watching S1, I thought the earthquake arc would have devastating effects on [shiguang's] relationship. listen, I didn’t know what I was getting into with link click, but I thought that was expected. it’s ripe for drama! but how do they handle the fight? they put their side business on hold but they still keep being roommates. they still do their day job. they still talk. they’re still upset but they give each other space but not to the point where they can’t stand existing in each other’s spaces. that’s when I realized that oh, they really trust each other. they have a very solid foundation for their relationship that not even the earthquake arc can break. they’re pretty level-headed about this, actually, all things considered? all the doomed yaoi stuff came later, but that’s just the cherry on top. it’s the way they handled conflict and disappointment in S1 that got me.

okay, protect-namine, why go through that whole tangent? BECAUSE! circling back to yingdu episode 5, we finally, finally get to see cheng xiaoshi let out some of his anger. and it's precisely because his primary trauma point was on the table. he can forgive a friend lying, and he can forgive being told not to change the past. because at the end of the day, qiao ling and lu guang stayed. they never left him.

but he cannot handle abandonment. he cannot understand why people leave. he cannot understand why he's been clinging on to false hope this entire time. and more importantly, he cannot understand how someone can be such a hypocrite about it. "a man who'd rather be kind to strangers than face his own son" like fuck man. cheng weimin you fucked up so bad.

it's the disconnect/connect thing again too. thematically, it makes sense. when does cheng xiaoshi blow up? when he's alone, far away from the people that ground him. alone, the feeling he hates the most. he's not even in his own body. he blows up when he's inhabiting a stranger's. he doesn't even get to be angry as cheng xiaoshi.

how fucked up is that. man. I love him so much.

also I'm going crazyyyy over the family themes going on in link click. much to say about the show itself across all seasons (the twins, qiao ling and cheng xiaoshi, even the liu siblings), but for this episode... god. okay this is slight speculation territory now and I'll try to keep this very short, because this is only tangential to the post. but. imagine xia fei getting the good parent figure in cheng weimin that cheng xiaoshi never had. and he doesn't know!! he's bitter inside about his dad and he's having hotpot with xia fei and he doesn't know he was in that school!! fuck that's so good. that's so juicy.

okay, sorry, I have a lot of feelings about cheng xiaoshi. he's my link click blorbo of all time, and I love when he experiences The Horrors™ because it's also when other sides of him gets to shine.

on a brighter note:

VEIN AND CHENG XIAOSHI MEETING AGAIN!!! their greeting was so cute. also omg does xia fei know? that his boss is maybe possibly a cannibal? actually, wait, I don't think I'd be surprised if he does know.

ah and finally. finally:

I've been having many thoughts on how yingdu approaches "friendships" and their transactional nature (mostly with regards to liu xiao) but I mostly thought they're headcanon stuff. but now. I'm so so happy that episode 5 is bringing out more of the quid pro quo theme. liu xiao with the gift giving. wang qing's "friends" (bullies) demanding her to cheat on the exam for them. and now, vein and cheng xiaoshi having a friendly greeting but also exchanging favors. so good. so good. it goes along with how there's so much handshakes and handholding this season (not just with lu guang and cheng xiaoshi, but with cheng xiaoshi and the the antagonist trio too, who have all met him by "helping" him in some way). something something trust and favors. probably something that deserves its own post though, but I wanted to point this out because I am soooo here for that. it's goes hand in hand (ha!) with the whole fraud/lies vs innocence/honesty theme this season, and deals/contracts being an equalizer to the two. very good. very tasty.

edit: ooh they also point to this in the YE6 trailer too. nice, nice. if you knew someone's true colors, would you still be their friend?

man, I love episode 5. it just hits all the stuff I personally wanted to see. the only flaw is that we still haven't seen the older version of wang qing, but yeah I kinda expected that they'll hide her until episode 6. they're giving her the liu xiao treatment from season 2. sigh. really wish she'd keep showing up in S3, we need more female characters in this show 🙏

[everythingloveandanimated]

Something that I’d like to see in future book is Eragon realizing just how afraid Murtagh is of other people.

He never forgets that Morzan is Murtagh’s father, but he also knows that Murtagh is so much more than his parentage. He will do everything he can to remind Murtagh of this truth.

Eragon is also aware of how the denizens of Alagaesia feel about Murtagh and Thorn. Hostility at best, desiring to cause physical harm or death at worst.

He remembers Murtagh’s resistance towards going to the Varden, and probably expects some of that same resistance when he mentions Carvahall.

But then he realizes, it’s not just doubt or regret or belief that people will only see him as his father’s spawn, and the evil lieutenant of Galbatorix who betrayed the Varden.

No, Murtagh is afraid. Afraid of not being able to redeem himself. Afraid of being rejected. Afraid for Thorn’s safety. Possibly afraid for his life and being overpowered.

I expect this revelation to surprise Eragon in some way as it sheds more light onto his brother’s mindsets. It’s not just stubbornness or frustration at his situation or pride. No, it’s fear that keeps Murtagh from making connections.

[relicsongmel]

AA fandom has a strange tendency to pretend like Ema's canon crush on Miles doesn't exist (at least from what I've seen) but none of you will ever be able to convince me that Ema doesn't have dozens of Miles Edgeworth x Reader fics on her AO3. You only hate me because you know I'm right

[moonchild-in-blue]

Some more Divide thoughts:

House - a place of comfort, of solace, of shelter ; a place of refuge, home as a sanctuary ; a place to live to love to worship in ; convent, union ; a family united as one ; bonded through blood or oath ; branded by the same name ; a shield, a mask ; strength in numbers ; decaying bones encrusting concrete walls

Host - the entertainer ; a person who welcomes you inside - voluntarily or not ; the owner of the house, or even the house itself ; home to parasites, doomed to be devoured from the inside out ; a living vessel, a mortal home ; the burden of one ; skin and flesh as bedding for strangers

The House Must Endure ⚔️ - together we shall preserve ; retaliation is not an option, we shall stand firm as one ; must endure - don't fight back, don't fall down ; a united front against the enemy ; compliance in favour of commeuppance

(who is the enemy? what are they enduring? what if the call is coming from the inside?)

By refusing battle, are swords a symbol of resistance?

not a singular blade, facing enemies, sharp and ready to spill blood, but two swords crossed afront shoulders, steel barriers against external forces - steel fences barring escape ; swords crossed like barbed wire, chainmail for a crowd ; an effective containment - sealed from the outside

The Cycle Must End 🪶 - i welcome you no longer ; you have taken from me but i will carry on ; i will dig myself out from your throat, from your jaws ; draped in blood or crumbled to the ground, i erase myself as clay vessel and emerge as iron hammer ; must end - even if it kills me, even if i burn, i will scrape fingers and burn skin to break the cycle ; a rebellion

(what cycle? who provoked it? is it a matter of host-parasite, age-old prey and predator fighting for survival? is *he* his own host turned hostage? a self-sabotaging vice? are the wounds product of an infection, or are the bandages a makeshift-chain, placebo leashes tied to water columns)

In the moment of violent confrontation, is the feather a spoil of war?

a severed limb from once glorious wings, a trophy for the victors ; the shedding of innocence ; a stray hair from a decapitated head ; the last proof of softness amidst brutality - a love letter fallen from a breast pocket ; an aging photograph of times long past ; a promise ring used as a bullet ; dirty cloths torn at the cross - folded on the tomb ; the hope of a peaceful haven

Why the divide? Are those the only two choices - to die trampled under debris, or to cannibalise oneself? Do we even have a choice to begin with? Have the jaws of fate, the teeth of gods, not forced our hands into a fabricated judgement, a crossroads at the edge of a pit?

Maybe there is a third choice. Between enduring and fighting, between blades and feathers, steel and cloth. A way to stave off the end, to delay the apocalypse, to entertain the house. To dance forever.

[aza-trash-can]

I think it's infinitely funny if Dick changes his suit after every traumatic event/series of events. Something horrible happens to him, and he just says "hold on, gotta change my outfit." Consider:

Becomes Robin after his parents die

Becomes Nightwing (Discowing) after getting shot and having a monumental falling-out with Bruce

Changes Nightwing suit to black suit with blue emblem (à la Young Justice Cartoon S2) after The Worst Year™ (minimum of Jason dying, other events to be added as you headcanon)

Changes Nightwing suit again after the Bruce Time Stream Incident™ to include the arm stripes

If I were to get a little more into it, though, I think the suit changes (more so the later ones into/as Nightwing) could be a way for him to put distance between himself and the traumatic event. It's a way for him to leave that 'era' of his life behind and try to rebuild himself away from it by physically ditching a symbol of that time and wearing something new

[st-just]

Reading fantasy where patriarchy just, notionally Isn't A Thing but other than a scattering of women being knights and wizards this having zero effect on the author's imagining of medieval/early modern life, and on the one hand wishing people would dig a bit deeper here, but also on the other being painfully aware of what the average fantasy story trying to actually engage with that stuff looks like.

[ofgarnett]

who: caitlin siltshore, jameson roy, & that possession that haunts them both. @revencntt where: oregon & nebraska. when: leading up to june 11, 2025. strawberry moon.

thread under the cut I tw: mass murder

INT. PORTLAND AIRPORT

The Portland airport hums like a place between worlds—glass walls, endless carpet, the scent of coffee and rain-soaked fleece. It’s too clean, too polite, like it’s trying to apologize for being an airport at all. Cait remembers it a little differently from her childhood. Now it’s brighter, newer, but still quiet in that Portland way. Trees in planters. Art on the walls. Everyone soft-spoken, as if even departures should feel gentle.

At the gate, under the sterile glow of overhead lights that do nothing to disguise the fact that time has stopped meaning anything, Cait stands very still.

They’re about to cast something that’s never been cast before. 

This is not hyperbole. This is not some dusty footnote of forgotten ritual or a derivative echo of blood magic dressed in new names. This is invention. This is rupture. And she and Jameson are the ones doing it.

She breathes shallowly, because breathing deeply brings on too much of it at once. The magnitude. The momentum. The possibility that she will not return. Isn’t this what she’s always wanted? She doesn’t think about all of it too deeply. Not the stakes, not the scale. Not what they’re about to become. Because when she does—it overwhelms. The greatness of it all. The sheer momentum at which they are moving. Unstoppable. Freight train, freight train. What a stupid metaphor. They’re something bigger than that. Something unparalleled. Streaking across a landscape of sheer invention.

Jameson sits next to her at the Airport Gate, and she holds out his ticket between two fingers, already checked the gate information twice. Three times. Airport dad mode, he said, teasing. She can’t help it. Precision calms her. Movement gives her illusion. But under it all, there’s only stillness.

She closes her eyes and thinks of the Uber ride—dark outside, the road folding under them like a ribbon. She didn’t speak. She opened a group thread with Estela and Mara and wrote, Leaving for a few days. Be back soon. The lie felt small. Almost harmless. But even now, her chest aches at the idea she may never see Garnett again. The garden. The stones. The graves. It’s hubris, she knows—the Caitlin Siltshore of it all —that she thinks she can walk through this and come out the other side unchanged. Alive, even.

But she does think that. Has to.

Dorian is right beneath her skin. Circling. A shark chasing its own tail. Sometimes she lets him take the reins. Sometimes he hands them back. A ball tossed back and forth between them, like they share the same restlessness, the same hunger.

He’s quiet now. But he’s vibrating. And it’s not the usual impatience or cold ambition. It’s something else—something ancient. Cait has never felt him like this before. No ritual, no blood-letting has drawn this from him. This feels like the pause before a detonation. Like awe.

Nebraska. They’re going to Nebraska. She threw a dart at the list of towns in Atlas Jay's penthouse, and the numbers told her it was right. Population, distance to power lines, history of blight. Dawn landing. Two days to build the bones of the ritual. Full moon to set it off. She checks the tickets again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to Nebraska,” she says to Jameson and she remembers the last time she looked into those eyes and watched the light go out. Remembers how nothing brought him back. They haven’t flown together since going to Connecticut. Near her feet her carry-on is full of spell components, stuffed to the seams with dried herbs and glass bottles and a knife that smells like the past. She’s mapped out what she’ll need to find once they land. She’s thought of everything.

Because in two and a half hours, they’ll board a plane. And when they land, Cait and Jameson will make a God.

Airport chatter strings in and out one ear, Airpod blasts the triumphant beats of a Kendrick Lamar song in the other. Jameson waits in the terminal, his Yankee baseball cap on his head, a traveling must have, with a package of almonds in his hands, which he has periodically been pouring into his palm then flinging them into his mouth. The music, the almonds, and the endless flow of people watching material makes the time go by faster.

Is this how Jesus felt on the night of the last supper?  Jameson doesn’t have a cross to bear, he’s already done the dying part, but he’s stuck on the knowing. Knowing something is coming, someone is coming, either with a baseball bat to smash reality or with a key to unlock what has always been there. Ironically, Cait holds the bat and Jameson the key.

When they come back here, out of the terminal and set back foot in Oregon, return to Port Leiry, everything will be different.

Nervous is a piss poor word to describe how he feels. Anxious too. He does his best not to bother too much with these feelings. Throw them in a pot and let them boil into excitement instead. He’s excited to do this magic, he’s excited for Dorian to return to this physical plane, where he belongs and not trapped in someone else’s body. He’s excited to be the one to do it, he’s excited Cait is by his side.

There’s the possibility of failure, of hollow graves being dug, of sacrifice wasted out of careless ambition. Yeah? That happens everyday in the world around them. They failed once already. Plots are dug everyday. Million lives are sacrificed out of the greed of money, why not sacrifice lives out of the greed for magic too? 

The world will keep spinning.

“You’re not missing much,” Jameson responds to Cait, who’s been mostly quiet this entire time. Besides the general: We have to be two hours early to the airport. Do you have your ticket? You have a REAL ID, right? Don’t bring anything flammable. We don’t have time for you to get detained by TSA. 

“Flat, it’s very flat,” he says. “Big skies. Beautiful sunsets.” He inches himself closer so what he says next will only be heard by them two. Them three really. “We might have time to catch one before…” With both sound effects and hand gestures, he softly mimics an explosion. Don’t get caught up with TSA, remember? 

Things between Cait and Jameson are better. They’re not slapping each other, not gouging eyes, or gifting each other severed hearts either. The silence between them isn’t awkward even, it’s comfortable. Whatever this is, whatever they are, is comfortable. Comfortable enough to show each other their worst sides. Comfortable enough to hurt each other and like a fucked up boomerang, always return to the other. Comfortable enough to unleash hell on earth and hold hands while they do it. 

He’s smart enough to keep the boom to pantomime— Caitlin has no intention of hexing the TSA on day one. A sidelong glance needles him: What were you ever doing in Nebraska, Jameson?

“You can tell me what dragged you out there—” The rest dies on her tongue: if we live through this.

Instead, Cait slips the right-side AirPod from his ear, a sleight-of-hand so practiced it feels like muscle memory. The electric snap of Kendrick’s beat rattles straight into her skull— and for a moment she lets the rhythm drown the concourse. Her pulse syncs to the triplet hi-hat. One almond remains in Jameson’s palm; she steals that too, crunching salt between her molars like a benediction. No words. Just a conspirator’s nod that says: ready.

The jet bridge yawns open, a carpeted throat smelling of hydraulic oil and stale conditioned air. Cait counts each step, mapping sigils in her mind—left, right, left, right, the whole world reduced to an even-numbered cadence. She imagines the plane itself as a temporary circle, fuselage chalked in aluminum and rivets, a ward they’ll occupy for four hours and change. Flight 1123 to Omaha: liminal enough to keep Dorian quiet. He coils beneath her sternum anyway, tasting metal, strobing through memories of propellers and zeppelins and older, bloodier wings. She tightens her grip on the shoulder strap of her carry-on. Bottles clink like distant chimes.

Window seat, as always. Jameson’s got aisle - likes to be the master of his own destiny. She presses her forehead to the Plexiglas while passengers thrum past, a soft parade of backpacks and apologies. Jameson settles on the aisle, long legs angled out, man-spreading. He’s mouthing lyrics she can no longer hear, left ear unplugged, but the echo sticks to his lips. Cait catalogues the scene: plastic smile of the attendant, hiss of recirculated air, the static of her own thoughts. As the plane taxis toward the gate, she lets her hand drift, palm-down, onto the back of his. A single thumb-stroke—absent-minded, almost shy—maps the curve of his knuckles, an unspoken sigil for still here. When he looks up, half-drowsy, she presses the returned AirPod into his palm and closes his fingers around it. Then her hand’s back in her lap.

When the engines spool, a low predatory growl, she feels it mirrored inside her ribs—Dorian’s answering purr. Upward surge. Gravity loosens its fist; Portland slides away in wet panes of light. Street grids turn to circuit boards, then quilted fog, then nothing but cloud.

Cruise altitude is a monastery of dull white noise. Jameson dozes, cap pulled low; his dream-breath brushes her arm in intervals. Cait fishes a fountain pen from her bag and scribbles sigils on a cocktail napkin—pressure nodes, lunar timing, coordinates of the abandoned grain silo they’ll commandeer. Ink feathers at the edges; she tongues the sigil for secrecy and the lines lock sharp. Somewhere over Idaho, the sun drapes molten over engine cowling, and for a heartbeat she believes in simpler miracles: wheat fields and corn tassels.

Descent. The seat-belt sign glows, tiny, verdict-red. Nebraska opens beneath them—vast, flat, an altar waiting. Touchdown shudders through aluminum bones, through her own. 

The tires bark and settle; the cabin exhales. Cait unbuckles, leans just far enough to tap Jameson’s knee—three quick pulses, the old “still breathing” code from darker nights. Outside the porthole, morning unspools across a prairie the color of tarnished brass, and the runway heat shivers like something alive.

INT. HOTEL - ASHFORD BEND, NEBRASKA

Jameson sprawls his body amongst the bed in the hotel room. His bed, because, to his dismay, there are two. Once upon a time, when life was a fairytale, and love was real, he and Cait would’ve shared one. Now, he's trying to write a rivals to friends to lovers to enemies back to lovers troupe, where the main characters have to deal with the conundrum of sharing a bed. Their lives are like an AO3 story come to life. 

It’s not the best hotel, which is a very generous way to describe where they are. It’s a dingy room, floored with old, shag carpets decades behind in style and for a cleaning. It’s a dump. Sketchy. Jameson has a feeling the last guest that stayed in here died in this room and he doesn’t need to be a witch to pick up on that. 

Regardless, Jameson feels comfortable in a place like this. Dumpy motels used to be home not too long ago, when he and Dorian were on their two year cross country adventure. Jameson shifts his body to get a look at Cait. He’s getting better at reading between the lines, figuring out who is running the show by a single look. Right now, it’s Cait, keeping herself busy on the other bed.

It’s amazing they’ve gotten here. Getting along. Whenever they spend this amount of time together last, twelve hours and counting, they had  liked each other. They loved each other even. At the very least, they were fucking, which makes it easy to get along. That was before the bullshit. Before the spell went bad, Brennan’s heart was in a box, one chopped finger and a gouged eye. Before Dorian even. Now, they are here. Together. Regardless if their bullshit muddied the water of everything around them, they were able to endure.

Who needs a relationship therapist when you’re both equally driven by power and ambition? 

Dorian brought them together and keeps them this way, by holding Jameson’s hand and by holding a knife to Cait’s throat. What happens when he releases? What happens when he is released? Does their truce fly out the window? Is it every man for him or herself? Do they go for carnage? Fight to the death? Will the winner stick the loser’s head on a pole to display for all of Port Leiry to see?

What happens when Cait no longer needs Jameson? What happens when Jameson no longer needs her?

“When this is over,” Jameson’s voice breaks the silence in the room that’s been held for so long. He picks up his lanky body and looks at her while he talks. “What happens between us?”

He doesn’t ask it desperately, not like a clingy person who wants to DTR with someone who barely pays attention to them. He asks like somebody who is trying to plan ahead.

“Do we let bygones be bygones?” Can murder be brushed under the rug? “Or does this little thing,” Jameson points his finger between the two of them, “evaporate into thin air?”

“Basically, what I’m wondering is , Siltshore, how do I know you’re not going to come after me when all is said is done? I know how vengeful you can be.” He’s got a sparkling brown eye to prove it. 

“Most importantly,” Jameson continues, with a small crooked smirk on his lips, like they’re about to embark on a game, “how do you know that I won’t come after you?”

Cheap hotel because she can’t afford a paper trail—cash at the desk, no ID, no questions. The clerk’s eyes never climbed higher than her collarbone. Perfect. Still, the bedsprings whine like a guilty conscience each time she shifts, and the jaundiced ceiling bulges in places that suggest water damage or worse. She lies flat, spell-scroll glowing on her phone, scrolling and rescrolling until the glyphs blur.

After the red-eye dumped them in Nebraska’s predawn chill, she’d moved like a surgeon on adrenaline: rental-car, hardware store, apothecary stop hidden behind a vape shop. She decanted fresh hydragyrum into glass vials padded in her sock drawer, ground bismuth with motel ice in a borrowed blender, and braided silver fuse-wire into three-strand tress for the containment lattice. Every receipt burned in the bathroom sink; every fingerprint scrubbed with cheap vodka. By dusk the carpet was peppered with chalk test circles and the bathroom counter looked like a chemist’s wake, but the kit was packed, catalogued, ready.

Now, on the other bed Jameson is awake—of course he is. He can always feel her tension humming across the room like live wire.

He speaks because he knows it’s her, not the thing under her breastbone. She turns onto her side, elbow denting a pillow that smells faintly of bleach and cigarettes. “Do you mean what keeps us from killing each other?” she asks, voice low, steady. It’s the only honest framing. Nothing between them has ever broken without blood in the cracks.

He looks at her the way he scans a deal memo—hunting the escape clauses, the quiet little traps. What happens between us?

A laugh snags in her throat. “Jameson, I’m in a hotel room with you two hours outside Omaha—and that’s after you murdered my uncle and I stole your eye. If this isn’t letting bygones be bygones, what is?” She even lifts her phone, the light washing her smirk in ghost-blue. “That’s Exhibit A for forgiveness, right there.”

But the question festers. Ambition is her cardinal sin; he of all people knows she’ll chew through steel to pry open a door marked freedom. Would she turn on him the second Dorian’s blade lifts from her neck? Would he turn on her the second she no longer houses his prized mentor? 

She drags a hand over her face, grinding sleep grit from her eyes. “If trust is too fragile,” she says, tapping the luminous script, “we can engineer deterrence.” She thumbs to a blank margin and sketches a pair of mirrored runes on her phone. “We write it into the spell: a binding fail-safe. If either of us tries to take the other out—verbally, magically, or with the nearest blunt object—we both go down. Live grenade with tied pins.”

The other option is one they’ve banked on over and over again. They could gamble on memory.  Across the gulf of mismatched bedspreads lie too many nights to count—nights when they huddled in a rust-eaten Mazda, trading laughter for warmth; nights when his pulse in her mouth felt like absolution; nights when they planned futures too reckless to survive sunrise. They could try and wager that thing between them is harder to kill than either of them were. Love’s the word for it isn’t it?

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe they’re not rivals or lovers or sins in the same confession, maybe they’re just survivors in the same wreck. 

At the end of this, Caitlin wants a life that is hers. Not Dorian’s, not the Roys’, not the curse’s. Hers. That means no vendettas chasing her down the interstate. She flicks her gaze to his lone brown eye—bright, calculating. Silence coils. Somewhere in the hallway a television drones about corn prices and salvation. The air conditioner rattles like bones in a sack. 

Without waiting for his assent, she scrolls to the spell’s margin, sketches the twin fail-safe glyphs, and flicks the phone onto his mattress. “There—read it. Then sleep while you can. Dawn’s coming fast.” She rolls onto her back again, then goes back to counting the ceiling cracks instead of sheep.

A suicide pact?

Jameson snickers, vapid, unserious, as he gives her a look. Are you sure?  It seems to say. Or is this a joke?

He thinks little about his own death. Something that’s bound to happen because it’s life's only promise, but he knows it waits for him long down the road. Why waste time sweating over it now?

Well, there are those who seek revenge. Jameson leaves a legacy of victims behind him, plenty would rather see him dead than alive. Somebody is bound to catch up to him one of these days,  and Cait is amongst those somebodies. There’s comfort in knowing that she won’t resurface in a haunting, though, of all his victims, Cait is his favorite.

This pact she offers, it will bind them better than any wedding vow could. Their heartbeats, lungs, and life force would be woven and tethered to another. One wouldn’t exist without the other. Jameson could be on the opposite side of the world, but every night, he would be able to look at the midnight moon and know that, somewhere, the sun would be shining down on Cait. 

In one way or another, Cait would forever belong to Jameson. And Jameson would belong to her. 

He could sign it. It could be a short lived deal, after all, who knows how it could go tomorrow. What does the ritual hold in store for them? See, they could either free Dorian from heaven or they could  be digging themselves into hell. If tonight is his last night on earth, at least he has the pleasure of spending it with Caitlin Siltshore. 

He takes  the phone and skims the addendum. Curious eyes, one brown and one blue, flicker upon Cait, as he nods his head in agreement to this pact. Jameson lifts himself off of his bed, to return her phone, but his frame lingers over her body. He gazes at her for a long moment, taking in this millisecond of time.  

His pointer finger picks up her chin, his lips lock onto hers. Passion tangled actions and she reciprocates every touch. Has she missed him as well? When he crawls further into her bed, she allows him. 

It begins to escalate.

4:00AM, JUNE 10

After that, they sleep in shifts, and when the digital clock flips to 04:00 on June 10th, Cait and Jameson roll out of bed and go to work.

DAWN, JUNE 10 

Bleak pink light scrapes the horizon. Cait straddles the ridge beam of First Baptist’s steeple, a bone-white scissor rune between her gloved fingers. “Hush,” she murmurs—not to the church, but to the memory of hymns that still cling to its rafters. She levers a cedar shingle loose and tucks the sigil beneath. The bone clicks once, like the closing of a tiny tomb.

The climb down is slower; shingles sweat dew, and a misstep would send her thirty feet to shattered ribs and wasted hours. Halfway, she pauses, eyes closed, palms flat on warm cedar. She tastes iron on her tongue—Dorian flexing inside her chest, a cat stretching claws into velvet.

Below, Jameson idles the truck on Main. She watches him through morning mist—tailgate down, tool-box open, bones and nails laid out like surgical steel. He handles every storefront threshold, she the sanctums: churches, the elementary school with its mural of smiling corn cobs, the elevator whose silo crown looms over town like a white cathedral of grain. Division of labor; ritual priority. They learn the hard way that gods eat order the way fire eats oxygen.

At the elementary school Caitlin crouches beneath cartoon corn stalks, knuckles raw where lime and sap have crusted. A girl’s forgotten jump rope lies coiled by the doors; she threads the rope through the scissor rune and knots it tight—a mock communion between childhood and coming calamity. A janitor’s radio crackles inside, playing ‘Take It Easy’—an accidental benediction. She vanishes before the next verse begins.

By 7:00am the town’s skeleton wears twenty-three scissor runes. Cait’s hands stink of old marrow and cedar sap; Jameson’s palms are raw where hammer and frost-splintered latticework tear skin. They exchange curt nods—no time for comfort. The clock in Cait’s head already tolls the minute-hand forward.

Breakfast is gas-station coffee and corn-syrup donuts balanced on the truck’s warm hood. They eat wordlessly, watching wisps of steam drift off the cup rims. The sun crests over fields, gilding the grain elevator’s white teeth. Somewhere, a dog barks itself hoarse and then falls silent.

9:05PM, JUNE 10 

Night again; 9:05pm, June 10th. Cait stands on a gravel farm road at the county’s northeast corner, iron filings ringing her boots like dull starlight. She empties the first burlap sack in a slow, deliberate swath. Salt follows - harvested from a dead sea, consecrated against return. She imagines each grain as a nail, pinning the town’s fate to the dry Nebraska earth.

Her shoulders burn; each sack weighs more than it should, iron drinking moonlight until it feels molten. When she straightens, vertebrae pop like knuckles. The prairie stretches endless—flat, forgiving, unremarkable. Perfect stage for a vanishing act.

Across radio crackle Jameson’s voice drifts, ragged but steady.

“Southern arc laid. Turning west.”

“Copy,” she replies, throat dry. She can almost see him: headlights slitting the dark, iron-salt plume curling behind the truck like a comet tail. Their paths meet and lock, a figure-eight of intent eight miles wide—closure, containment, no escape.

She pivots, eyes the sky. The Strawberry Moon hangs low, still ochre at the edges. Sagittarian fire —an arrowhead of destiny. She draws a finger along its arc, sketches the route Dorian will take through realms.

By dawn of June 11th, the loop is sealed. Coyotes howl outside the perimeter but do not cross; birds veer overhead as if repelled by an invisible dome. The town, still unaware, goes about its morning coffees and crop reports. Cait tastes copper on her tongue: the air already remembers blood that has not yet been spilled.

They rendezvous at an abandoned grain scale. Jameson levers the truck’s hood, checking fluid levels. Cait swirls a drop of diesel on her fingertip, murmurs a quick calculus of flame-spread and containment. She hears her Dorian’s voice—measure twice, burn once—and smiles despite herself.

8:12AM, JUNE 11 

A vacant tin-roofed shed two miles east of town rattles under rising heat. Inside, Cait slices the crook of her elbow over a galvanized bucket half-full of storm water siphoned from yesterday’s thunderhead. Blood hits water and spirals crimson; she whispers the ratios—three parts vitae, five parts rain, a pinch of prairie loam for terroir. She ladles the mixture into Mason jars packed with shredded corn husk, presses each lid, and whispers “Memor.” Blessing, curse, command: remember.

The air in the shed thickens, smelling of penny and ozone. For an instant she glimpses reflections in the jar glass—faces she has never met, futures she will not live. She screws the lids tighter. 

Jameson, squatting at a splintered workbench, affixes labels in his brutal block print—J1 through J30. He corks, wax-seals, stacks them in the truck bed with a methodical clunk-clunk-clunk that soothes and unnerves in equal measure.

“How’s the hemoglobin holding?” he asks.

“Thick enough to clot, thin enough to pour.”

He flashes a grin. “Story of us.”

She snorts, wipes sweat off her chin with a bloody sleeve. Outside, heat veils the horizon, farmhouses shimmering like mirages. Somewhere a windmill creaks, lonely as a gallows.

They break at noon only long enough to swig warm Gatorade and glare at the blistering sky. Dorian murmurs inside her sternum—restless, eager, half-formed. She tamps him down with the memory of ice water sluicing veins: Not yet. The jars cool in shade, waiting for dusk.

5:30PM, JUNE 11 

Center-pivot field off Route 24, amber stalks swaying like an audience waiting for curtain rise. Cait unslings a canvas satchel of builder’s lime and begins the lattice. Each stride is measured, each pouring arc precise: fractal hexagons blossoming, one within the next, until geometry looks like language spoken by hungry angels. Her shoulders ache, her lips crack, but the pattern unfurls flawless.

She hums under her breath—an old sea-shanty Brennan sang on fishing trips. The rhythm keeps her strokes steady; the irony of singing about oceans in sea-less Nebraska pleases her.

Jameson hammers alignment poles at every vertex—spruce branches stripped to bone, their tips wrapped in reflective tape. Sunlight catches the markers and hurls glints across the field, a constellation stitched onto earth. Cait steps back, sweat brimming in her eyes, and sees the shape for what it is: a mouth—ready to swallow a township whole.

7:45PM, JUNE 11 

Hotel room door clicks shut behind them. Cait washes lime dust and blood in lukewarm sink water, studying the woman in the mirror: mud-flecked cheeks, pupils blown wide by adrenaline. Jameson sits on the bed, counting out matches, mercury vials, the orrery staff nestled across his lap like a relic.

He looks up. “Seventy-two heartbeats per minute?”

She inhales, exhales. Dorian’s pulse ghosts hers like a second shadow. “Seventy-two.”

“If it spikes—”

“It won’t.” She ties her hair back, exposing the sternum skin she’ll carve soon enough. The steadiness in her own voice surprises her.

They load the truck at 8:15pm —speakers, jars, silver clasp, black mirror. The fuel gauge hovers under a quarter tank; doesn’t matter. Either they’ll finish before empty or the truck will never leave the field.

9:50PM, JUNE 11 

Engine rumble under them, they turn off Route 24 onto the dirt lane. Jars slosh ominous in the bed. The moon—huge, strawberry-red—climbs the eastern sky like a warning flare. Cait calculates the minutes: eighty-one left until 11:11pm, the moment the fuse must kiss wax.

Jameson drives one-handed, other fingers tapping the wheel in triple meter—heartbeat rehearsal. “We’re good on schedule,” he says. 

“We’re perfect,” she answers, though perfection feels razor-thin. Her gaze traces the iron-salt perimeter glittering faintly in headlights. Inside that loop every porch light, every breathing body, belongs to the spell.

The truck’s radio murmurs static until a country station breaks through—love song about pickup trucks and forever promises. Jameson snorts and kills the volume. Cait almost laughs. Forever is a luxury Ashford Bend will never understand.

10:30PM, JUNE 11 

Truck crests the low rise and descends into the corn sea. Poles catch moonlight, guiding them to the lattice center. Cait hops down, boots sinking in soft loam. Distant sprinklers tick like cheap clocks; irrigation aqueducts sigh. Ordinary farm sounds layer over coming apocalypse.

She keys the metronome on her phone—nine-second intervals—and climbs into the bed. Jar One shatters beside the driver’s door as Jameson accelerates into spiral trajectory. Glass and brine explode onto stalks; metallic scent curls in her nostrils. Two. Three. The pattern closes inward, ever tighter, until Cait’s arms ache from the rhythm and the truck idles at lattice’s edge, jars spent.

Silence swells. Crickets stop. Even the pivot’s hydraulic hiss falters, as if the machinery senses what lurks beneath the soil. Cait’s forearms tremble, jar glass glittering at her feet like fallen stars. She feels infinitesimal, a matchstick girl about to ignite a universe. And still the metronome ticks: nine seconds, nine seconds—countdown carved in quartz.

10:56PM, JUNE 11 

Cait kneels over the crucible disk— Jameson’s family heirloom ring nested in wax and iron. Presses her palm, feels the material soften with her heat, fuse flesh to metal for a brutal heartbeat before she yanks free. Blood-warm wax smokes. Jameson circles, striking matches, sulfuric hiss stinging lungs.

“Corner two,” he calls, voice hoarse.

“Copy,” she rasps. Her chest feels tight, like Dorian’s claws tapping ribs. She breathes through it—counting, controlling—until fumes flee skyward.

A moth suicides into the match-flame, curls to ash mid-air. An omen; a tiny echo of what awaits fifteen thousand souls asleep beyond the cornfield. Cait watches the cinder spiral upward and disappear.

11:04PM, JUNE 11

Jameson’s thumb toggles the speaker system. Heartbeats thunder across flatland: infants, pensioners, lovers tangled in sheets they’ll never wake from. Cait slits her sternum, carves the blood-knot, feels her own pulse hitch to metronome command. Seventy-two. Seventy-two. Over it, Dorian purrs—a lion waiting for the gate to lift.

Jameson loops the braid, silver clasp shining. Her world shrinks to rhythm and red moonlight.

She tastes strawberry on the night air—an illusion, moon-borne. She wonders which baker in town left pies cooling on a sill, who will never taste them. The thought is distant, almost kind, and then it is gone.

11:09PM, JUNE 11

Inked meridian underfoot. She stares into the black mirror until stars blur and the Elseway glyph etches white fire across her corneas. “Now,” she whispers. Staff slams earth—one, two, three—each reverberation deepening a hairline tear overhead. On strike seven the staff cracks; a seam yawns in silence, swallowing starlight.

Dorian’s breath presses cool against her neck though he has no lungs.

The tear smells of petrichor and dying suns. She remembers Dorian’s lecture on dimensions. Rotate three degrees, neutralize phase skew. She obeys even now.

11:11PM, MINUS FORTY SECONDS, JUNE 11 

Counter-clockwise walk. Soil chills under bare feet, bone wand carving grooves that steam in prairie night. Jameson salts and scatters marigold behind. Sixth coil, seventh—center. She steps out; he drops his family heirloom ring, drives iron home. The earth clangs like an anvil.

Silence hardens. The metronome hits zero. Cait lifts her gaze to the strawberry moon, feels it pulse like a wound. Finally she repeats the spell, quick as the seconds to 11:11 slip by: 

Tu vacuus, fame percussus, mille sub umbris Nomina gessisti, per flammas corpus inustum, Surge iterum: radix esto sub ruina, Esto tonitrus iter, esto vox post vela.

Te non voce voco sed corde cruente ligato, Nec vinculo te stringo sed voluntate relicta. Frangimus horarum leges, spargimus arenam, Tibi non tempus do sed fasces fulminis atri.

Ecce oppidum, scinditur spina canendo, Ardet focus retro, cor ut liber nudatur.

Sume animam, bibe noctem, cognosce ruinam, Per vulnus ambula, vestigia utraque linque.

Cinerem et nodum, pulsum lunamque vocamus, Retia combusta, speculum fractum testantur.

Leges priscas conterimus ore silenti, Patronus surge, ex tenebris fiat origo, Hic incipit magia—hic incipit nomen.

The wick catches at precisely 11:11 PM. It hisses to life where it curls beneath Cait’s heel—eclipse oil, black salt, and a single drop of Dorian’s oldest host-blood soaked into braided corn-husk fibers.

It snakes inward, a live fuse spiraling toward the central lattice.

Above, the full Strawberry Moon hangs swollen and ruddy, its light refracted strangely—as though mirrored in a sky that isn’t this one. The stars near it jitter in their constellations. Sagittarius breaks its bowstring.

Cait stands in the center of the spell-circle. Her hands are bloody; her pulse is steady at seventy-two. The blood-knot on her chest glows faintly violet, pulsing not just with her heartbeat—but with the shared heartbeat of every sleeping soul in Ashford Bend. Each one counts down in time with her.

As the wick completes its loop, a shear in space unfurls above the cornfield. Not lightning. Not fire. A kind of silent rupture—as if reality had blinked and in that blink, a second Caitlin, a second Jameson, and a second field briefly existed, layered and vibrating, echoing back on themselves.

The town is silent. 

Buildings and streets remain—grain elevator stark against the moon, porch lights winking at no one—but every human pulse inside has ceased. Ashford Bend endures as structure only: a hollow husk cut from time’s current, its people fallen where sleep turned sudden and final. 

And then —

Dorian steps through the seam, or rather—he is dragged into it, as the anchoring binds his essence across the fold. One foot remains rooted in the world, the other in the elsewhere.

The seam gapes around him like a second mouth, and he hangs there— a morsel caught between teeth that belong to no animal. Half of him—everything the old name Dorian once covered—remains tethered to gravity and corn-scent, to the ragged inhale of Cait’s lungs and the metallic heartbeat of Jameson’s fear. The other half slides into Elseway, down a throat paved with eclipses. In that instant of stretching he discovers what a scream sounds like when it grows too large for sound: silence radiating pressure, a hush so absolute it forces atoms to remember how they are forged.

He does not break. He blooms.

Across Ashford Bend the scissored runes ignite in a quiet daisy-chain, bone-white clicks echoing beneath floorboards and pews, inside elementary coat cubbies and grain-elevator shafts. Each tiny tomb opens; fifteen thousand sleepers shed their pulses like coins into a wishing well—and Dorian feels every surrender. Their heartbeats don’t stop; they veer, abruptly loyal to him, a choir re-keyed to darker notation. Blood warms in distant arteries, flares once, gutters out. Last exhalations thread together, a breeze roving the streets in search of lungs that still care about oxygen.

The rush is incandescent. Souls fly apart like shucked seeds and zip toward his half-born center, each impact a discrete detonation of memory—wedding vows, mortgage signatures, lullabies, petty cruelties. They do not crowd him; they expand him. He inflates with experience until linear time feels like an insultingly small software patch. Past and future stand side by side, offer to trade places, grin like cardsharps.

He steps fully through.

Elseway swallows the foot that lingers in soil and returns it polished obsidian. Flesh—what little still answers to that word—reassembles in new syntax: carbon unknits, photons compress, gravitational vectors reef into lattice instead of muscle. Hunger strings him together, ambition magnetizes into bone. His chest becomes a negative sun: light pours in, never out, feeding the singularity nested where a heart once pretended to be.

A soundless pulse radiates from him and the seam snaps shut behind like a sated jaw. The cornfield gasps—every stalk bending earthward in genuflection. Dew flies upward, sucked into his event horizon and sizzling to nothing. Above, the full moon elongates, tugged toward him in a crimson teardrop. Its light red-shifts, bleeding wavelengths he can taste: berry, rust, womb, extinction.

Names drift across the charred stubble—DorianRoyDorianRoy—husks fluttering on a wind he no longer registers. He gathers them, weighs them, discards. They are artifacts of friction, inadequate. From the vacuum at his core rises a deeper syllable, a name shaped by hungry mathematics:

Tenebris.

He wears it the way an eclipse wears its corona: a razor of radiance ringing the void. Ambition without ceiling. Hunger seasoning itself with annihilation. Patron not of a coven but of every unvoiced want that ever gnaws a living thing. The name propagates through freshly emptied houses, through rows of soy and corn, through earthworms thrashing in disturbed loam. Even the sodium streetlamps bow—six flickers in sequence, lenses blistering to slag, raining smolder onto asphalt.

And there—on the ritual lattice—stand Cait and Jameson: tiny, trembling, luminous as candlewick filaments to approaching fire. Cait’s sternum still bleeds violet where the blood-knot glows; the tether that once contained him now stretches like silk, connecting orbit to anchor. She looks up, and in her pupils he glimpses himself—impossible to render in Euclid’s tongue: a silhouette cut from deep-sea lightlessness, limbs orbited by debris rings—broken rosaries, wedding bands, splintered toys, fresh bullet casings—tokens yanked from the last heartbeats of fifteen thousand people. Twin quasar eyes glare from the void in his skull. Each blink spans a century.

Caitlin Siltshore: a girl once overwhelmed by possession, later the architect of her possessor’s rebirth. And now, at his becoming, he parses their shared chronology the way an archivist might unspool cracked microfilm—frame by incandescent frame—until each image saturates the present with layered meaning.

He remembers first contact: she is thirteen and furious at a world that measures her only by lineage. He slips inside her like a winter draft through ill-sealed windows. The takeover is clean, almost effortless, yet the mind he finds is not compliant; it arranges itself around his presence like tempered glass, flexing rather than shattering. Even then, resistance intrigues him more than submission.

He remembers the middle years, when anger refines into intellect. Caitlin devours forbidden grimoires as greedily as she devours gossip; she practices sigil-burns on her own forearms just to chart pain’s flight curve. She negotiates with him, threatens him, courts him—sometimes in the span of a single hour. He recognizes in her the rare mortal who grasps leverage as a birthright. Their relationship becomes a long conversation in two voices sharing one skull, equal parts mentorship, duel, and slow-boiling conspiracy.

Now the mortal girl stands in the cornfield altar she helped design, blood drying to plum across her sternum where the tether still hums. Tenebris feels her pulse as a sub-frequency inside the larger roar of freshly claimed souls. If he wishes, he can snap that tether with a casual eddy of gravity, let her collapse into spent priestess husk. He chooses otherwise—for now. Choice itself feels delicious after epochs of strategic necessity.

Emotion is a soft word, but he allows himself the approximation. Satisfaction threads through his singularity when he catalogs what she has delivered: fifteen thousand heartbeats, a perimeter of iron and salt, a ritual architecture precise enough to birth an eldritch patron. Ambition this audacious deserves acknowledgment, and Tenebris is nothing if not a connoisseur of appetite.

He also tastes the fault lines: the flickers of independent calculus behind Cait’s eyes, the way she catalogues contingencies even as awe dilates her pupils. She will not remain supplicant; she is already revising the future in which she survives her own gamble. He respects that. Respect, in his lexicon, is synonymous with usefulness and potential threat. Tools that can cut both directions must be gripped with artful pressure—tight enough to harness, never so tight the blade snaps.

Toward Cait he feels ownership of a curious, almost particular flavor, though the metaphor breaks where biology cannot follow. He has grown inside her bloodstream like a second adolescence; now he has left the home yet remains bound by a cosmological umbilicus. Her well-being is strategically valuable, but more than that, it is aesthetically pleasing: the continuity of their shared narrative lends mythic coherence to his unfolding legend. Tenebris understands that stories, like gravitational wells, deepen with repetition.

He appraises her weaknesses with equal care. Her loyalty skews toward people, not principles—a flaw mortals romanticize as compassion. That compassion extends to Jameson, to the fractured remnants of her coven, perhaps even to future strangers who kneel in fear of the dark star she has set loose. Compassion begets hesitations; hesitations calcify into leverage for enemies. He notes the variable, files it among future levers.

For the moment, he allows himself to relish her astonishment. Through the silk-thin tether he pulses a single concept—an algebraic bloom of gratitude and warning. She shivers; her blood-knot flares brighter. The exchange satisfies him. It confirms the feedback loop at the heart of all patronage: power granted, power fed back, an ouroboros of intent.

Tenebris catalogs his final assessment:

Cait is origin point and ongoing experiment. She is a lure for ambitious minds, proof that collaboration with the void yields dividends. She is also an unpredictable variable, sharpening his strategic senses. Their history is both ballast and weapon; it anchors public myth while giving him private leverage. He feels neither love nor contempt. What he feels is a deep gravitational curiosity—a desire to watch how far she will travel before the orbit decays, or the slingshot sends her blazing into uncharted quadrants of possibility.

Ultimately, she represents what all mortals represent in distilled form: a vein of renewable hunger. Yet unlike the faceless thousands already subsumed, Cait retains a name that resonates across the black geometry of his new self. He cannot devour that name outright; it has become an internal organ, pumping narrative blood through his freshly assembled cosmos.

So he decides—there at the altar where glass spreads underfoot—that Cait remains indispensable, at least until the next phase of expansion. He will shield her from trivial threats, stoke her talents, and test her edges. She will either evolve into an extension of his will, or illustrate—through catastrophic failure—the consequences of daring to stand too near a singularity. Tenebris finds both outcomes exquisite.

And then he lets his attention flick toward the man loitering at the lattice edge—Jameson Roy, a chaos spark in borrowed denim and blood-flecked nail beds. Where Cait stands hushed in achievement, Jameson paces like a wolf high on gunpowder, boots kicking glassy slag as if boredom were a crime against his nature. The patron parses him in pulses: posture, pulse rate, the ragged crescendos of breath whenever a shard crunches under heel. All data confirm the old impression—Jameson is no stoic ledger-keeper. He is a Roy by blood, yes, but not the sort who files receipts; he’s the heir who torches the vineyard to taste a single grape roasted in its own sugar.

Two years of forced cohabitation taught Tenebris exactly how volatile that palate can be. He remembers the night Caitlin tried to excise him—her sigils carved into wood, candles guttering as she whispered dismissal rites. When the spell collapsed and the field ignited, Dorian clung to him instead—a smoke-cloud desperation that burrowed through mouth and nostril into nervous system before the boy understood what possession felt like. In that moment, Jameson did not panic; he laughed, wheezing on soot, and called the intrusion “a spicy upgrade.” Tenebris still savors the novelty of that reaction. Most hosts beg. Jameson applauded.

Inside that skull Dorian discovered a psyche unmoored from cause-and-effect. Jameson treats life as a stunt reel: drink, flirt, steal fast cars, crash them into richer men’s fences, kiss their shocked daughters on the hood while the engine burns. Morality registers only as optional DLC. Empathy glints rarely—usually when an underdog’s chaos outstrips his own—and then passes like a meteor. If Cait’s mind is a drafting table cluttered with blueprints, Jameson’s is a nightclub bathroom at 3 a.m.: graffiti, broken mirrors, glittering razor lines of half-formed schemes. The environment demands improvisation or overdose. Dorian adapted quickly.

That first dawn in Jameson’s body, they woke under dirt, lungs rasping with smoke and laughter. Both had been left for dead— Jameson’s response was to spit a tooth, lick blood from his lips, and stumble toward the nearest town. Dorian realized, then, that survival for this Roy was not a duty but a dare. There is power in that—raw, directionless power that can be tuned like feedback into melody.

Yet chaos has gradients. Where some thrill-seekers remain cowards at their core, Jameson tilts toward psychopathology: impulsive, fearless, lacking the internal brake that squeals warning when a plan requires collateral limbs. During possession Dorian steered him to collect reagents: illegal caesium, cadaver teeth, a nun’s votive ring. Jameson complied eagerly, giggling as he pistol-whipped a morgue attendant then pocketed the man’s wedding band “for symmetry.” He speaks of violence the way sommeliers note tannins—nuanced, almost affectionate. Tenebris notes this with both admiration and wariness. A creature unafraid of consequence is a marvel, but also a potential noise spike in carefully modulated signal.

Bloodline resonance muddies the equation further. Jameson carries the same mineral signature that once pulsed in Dorian’s own arteries—a salted-lightning taste that feels like coming home to a mansion you previously burned down. Genetic familiarity breeds an instinctual trust, yet the Roy crest is etched with betrayal: centuries ago they engineered the curse that shackled Dorian to the Siltshores. Jameson claims ignorance, but legacy is seldom idle. Somewhere in his bloodstream slumbers ancestral arrogance. Tenebris can almost smell it—like aged whisky evaporating in an oak vault. If awakened, that arrogance might convince Jameson he could outwit or even enslave the patron he midwifed. The prospect is equal parts amusing and cautionary.

What, then, is Jameson to him now? He is most akin to unstable propellant—volatile, high-yield, directionless until chambered in the right engine. Tenebris imagines unleashing him as apostle of disruption: gifting him sigils that detonate social contracts, sending him spinning through boardrooms and parliaments where decorum is armor and scandal is acid. Jameson would thrive, sowing ruin with a wink and a backhanded toast. Crowds love a charismatic disaster; cults crystallize around men who laugh at funerals.

Still, every propellant needs containment or it vents into space. During their shared years Dorian learned the limits of coercion. Threats amuse Jameson; pain merely proves reality still pays attention to him. What reins him is curiosity. Offer him a mystery—an unexplored aperture of occult pleasure—and he will chase obedience long enough to see what explodes. And if the Roy heir one day decides the bigger thrill is toppling the dark star he helped raise, Tenebris retains the override keys. 

Now, as the last coils of moon-warped light slither back into darkness, Tenebris gathers every strand of calculation into a single, tidal certainty: the ritual is only prologue. Cait will test his perimeter, Jameson will ignite new frontiers of havoc, and the world—still blinking innocently beyond this hushed cornfield—will learn the physics of devotion in the gravity well of a black-stone god. With fifteen thousand souls spinning in his chest like molten bearings, he turns westward, letting ambition write the horizon’s shape, hunger chart the continents, and annihilation whisper the final punctuation of every story that dares unfold without him.

The moment the seam knits shut and Tenebris drifts west on a hush of absent wind, Cait remains kneeling in the fused-glass crater, hands planted on vitrified soil that still glows faintly violet from her blood-knot. The corn beyond the circle settles with a susurrus like distant surf. She inhales. The air tastes of lightning struck iron—burnt ozone, charred chlorophyll, the resinous sweetness of cedar shingles she pried loose yesterday at dawn. She hears nothing human: not a cough, not a radio, not even a dog. All fifteen thousand pulses have fallen silent, and the silence clangs off her bones like cathedral bells.

So this is triumph.

Her forearms quake from adrenaline tapering off, but the tremor feels almost theatrical—applause from her own nerves. She has built a spell architecture no grimoire dared sketch, has shepherded a millennium-old parasite into godhead, has rewritten the town’s ley grid with the same steady hands that once vandalized notebook margins with sigils during algebra. Yes, she thinks, I am the best fucking witch in the world. The thought flares hot, startling in its clarity; she half-expects a thunderclap of divine reprimand. None arrives. The cosmos answers with blank deference, as though waiting for her next line of code.

But accomplishment is threaded with something knottier. A copper tang blooms under her tongue—guilt, maybe, or the phantom echo of fifteen thousand heartbeats she personally unplugged. She pictures Mrs. Caldwell asleep at the library desk, the Saturday-morning janitor humming Eagles lyrics, the barista who always drew foam hearts in cappuccinos; each soft image folds like paper and slides into the dark star she has midwifed. The price lances through her euphoria, dulled yet persistent, like pins left in a celebratory corsage. Her lungs hitch, but the sob she expects arrives as laughter instead—thin, incredulous.

She pushes upright. The blood flaked on her sternum cracks, releasing a puff of metallic dust. The tether—now a silk string humming between her ribs and Tenebris’s distant singularity—tugs once, gentle as an ankle-deep tide. It reminds her of a kite line she held at six years old, when wind first translated into the language of lift. Back then she believed flight was a secret solely between her and the sky; her uncle told her gravity never keeps agreements. Tonight she has proven him right on a cosmic setting.

Accomplishment twists again into something sharper. Power, she catalogues, real, measurable, inexhaustible. That is what she feels blooming under the ache: not mere pride, but living circuitry. Tenebris promised blueprints for a world big enough to house both mortal fragility and eldritch appetite, and she means to cash that promissory note. She envisions laboratories sunk into salt domes, church-steeple antennae humming at aurora borealis frequencies, coven apprentices learning calculus before candle work. She sees her sigils printed on circuit boards, etched into satellite hulls, stitched into couture for ministers who will kneel before issuing policy.

A sliver of dread pierces the vision: what if ambition outruns her control? She remembers the first years of possession—the nightmares, the loss of taste, the way Dorian whispered counterpoints whenever her moral compass quivered. Tenebris is Dorian amplified past reckoning. But the tether runs both ways. She can feel, in glancing pulses, that he catalogues her as variable and vector, that he might lengthen her life or use her bones for runes depending on tomorrow’s math. A shiver licks her spine. Fear, however, skews into thrill. She has always found cliff edges exhilarating.

She circles the glass dais, examining where stalks have welded into green twisted fossils. Her boot tip chimes against a fused ear of corn. Souvenir, she decides, toeing it free. Later she’ll mount it in a shadow box labeled Genesis Relic, 11 June 2025. Museums someday will pay kingdoms for such artifacts, but provenance is hers first.

The tether vibrates again—gratitude? warning?—and warmth floods her chest, loosening muscles she didn’t know were clenched. Tenebris respects ingenuity; that pulse is a handshake in the new dialect of gravity. She allows herself a private grin. The world will mythologize the dark god rising over Nebraska; few will comprehend the witch who drew the floorplan. She wonders whether history will call her herald, accomplice, traitor, or savior. She suspects it will cycle through all four as centuries spool out. Good. A legend dull enough for consensus would be an insult.

A flicker catches her eye: the sheriff’s star relic orbiting Tenebris moments ago lies half-embedded at the circle’s edge, knocked loose when the god accelerated west. She pockets the brass slag, pulse quickening. Evidence of mutual incompletion—he discards pieces; she collects them. Later she may reverse-engineer its thaumic residue, learn how momentum writes itself into molten metal. Research must begin while the glass is still warm.

She feels the tether slacken, distance widening. Tenebris is already receding toward the curvature of ambition, leaving her in the hush he authored. The solitude prickles. She glances at the pickup truck idling beyond the sigil line—Jameson. They will have words later; comfort, perhaps, or argument. For now she savors the private instant before collaboration becomes administration.

And then, across the field, she yells to Jameson: “Your turn!”

As the strawberry moon hangs upon the night sky and hell unleashes on earth, Jameson watches from the bed of the truck.  He’s responsible for Phase 2 of the plan and Phase 2 requires preparation. While he does so, Jameson doesn’t miss the show from the red Chevy truck. He cannot help but watch a master at work. 

Her black hair flows idly in the cool midnight wind,  as Cait is completely in her element. This is where she shines, both where she is most beautiful and simultaneously, where she is most powerful. She recites the ancient, loaded words and harnesses the magic she calls out to. The wind picks up, not because of circumstance or the weather report, but because it is her will. His gaze weighs on her the entire time, as a smile sprouts upon his lips. Both out of the pride he feels for her and in subtle awe in what she’s capable of. It’s not a new feeling; this what Cait does to him. 

There’s perfect harmony in the ruckus of the collapsing buildings. As hell rips open and Ashford Bend is swallowed whole without a second thought. Not even a mournful one. 

History won’t know what to do with this town. They’ll chalk it up to part of the unexplainable. Ashford Bend will be placed on a long list of mortal mysteries, right next to Amelia Earhart and Malaysian Flight 370, titled, What the Hell Happened? It will be amongst the tragedies like Jonestown. All those people, souls, heartbeats, vanished without an explanation, let alone a goodbye. Conspiracy theorists will eat it up with a spoon. It will catch fire within Reddit rabbit holes. It will make great dinner party talk amongst the drunk, the curious, and the edgy. Girlfriends with gather in living rooms, cover themselves in knitted blankets and drink hot chocolate, as someone describes the Mystery of Ashford Bend as their hot topic pick for Powerpoint night. 

Someday, decades into the future, when his skin has aged and weather, when his hair is salt and pepper, Jameson will be at the beach. Somewhere tropical. Ass in the sand, and Pina colada in hand, the sky will be filled with the prettiest sunset known to man. Jameson will overhear a conversation amongst a group of friends, a vacationing family, whatever kind of kin that discusses grotesque mysteries. They will argue the facts, the evidence, their own misguided beliefs of what they think happened to this town on this fateful night. They will do their best to solve the mystery over conversation, but in the end, they will end the conversation by asking themselves, what the hell happened to the people of Ashford Bend? 

Jameson, with a closed lip smile and his mouth on his straw, will take a sip of his icy drink and think himself, I know exactly what happened.

Moonbeams shine down upon them,  as Jameson watches what unfolds next. A shadow, man-shaped but not exactly human, slips out of the center of the universe. This thing, man, entity, needs no introduction. Though, he’s never met this form, Jameson knows greatness when he looks at it. Dorian. Tenebris. God. He has many names, whatever Jameson decided to call him, there is no difference to be made. What an honor it is to be face to face to one he is devoted to. His life has no meaning without the shadow man before him. 

It was always Tenebris. 

Against every odd built by past Roys, Jameson is here. They tried to smother magic out of their line, sweep their heritage, their purpose, under a rug, as if power and destiny is something that could be hidden. It isn’t. Destiny came in the form of dreams, long before Dorian, Harvard, before Cait herself, he had dreams of the raven haired witch. They weren’t dreams, but prophecy. Dorian guided Jameson before they could meet. Death by her hand wasn’t an accident but a necessary sacrifice, how else could Dorian and Jameson be introduced? His time with Dorian, where they shared the same skin, same heartbeat, and sometimes, same soul, wasn’t time stolen, but time gifted. Every moment, no matter how hacky it is to say, mattered. It led them right to this moment and this is where they were always going to find themselves.

Triumph pumps throughout his body like blood. Giddy, from the bed of the truck, Jameson bellows a victorious roar out of the trenches of his chest as he slams his hands together, in a series of manic claps.  “Let’s fucking go!” Jameson yells into the sky, the way he would if the Yankees won the World Series, times a million. 

Alright, time for Phase 2.

He painted sigil inside of the bed of the truck. Red ink, red truck, red blood. There’s a theme he’s working with here, simply for the theatrics of it all. His sigil is shaped similar to a triangle. The top of the triangle is pointed in the direction of Tenebris, the left side is towards where Cait stands in the field, and Jameson stands right beside the right corner of the triangle. 

Out of his backpack, Jameson pulls out a glass jar and inside are two very sentimental items. He pulls out his eye out of the jar, his natural given, born baby blue eye, followed by Cait’s severed ring finger, the same one that once held her promise. Next comes out an ancient Roy grimoire. It was the first gift given not only by Cait, but Dorian too. It was once his, magic he has wrote himself. 

Jameson places the items upon the sigil. He then grabs a bottle of an elixir out of his bag. Sanguis Novus, it's called, but one wouldn’t know that by the green small bottle it’s stored in.   This is what metamorphoses are made of, transformations too. What makes caterpillars butterflies and turns men  into wolves. It takes one thing and turns it into another. He opens the bottle and sprinkles it upon the painted sigil.

Jameson is only missing one thing. The Ash of Sacrifice. 

He hops off the bed off the truck and hustles his way towards Tenebris. The Shadow man is vast and divine, like nothing Jameson has seen in his twenty eight years. He doesn’t cower, Jameson doesn’t kneel out of fear, but devotion. Necessity too, because he must sweep up the rubble and dust at the feet of Tenebris. 

As he does so, Jameson picks up his head and looks upon the entity with a smirk on his lips.  

“It’s good to see you, Tenebris,” he says cooly. 

He grabs a handful of the ash of what once was. Fifteen thousand lives ended. Fifteen thousand stories closed. Fifteen thousand hearts that will never beat again. He doesn’t get choke up on that, Jameson barely gives it a thought. He would’ve sold the whole world, including his own, if that’s what it took to free Tenebris from death. 

Hastily, Jameson makes his way back to the rental. He climbs on the bed of the truck and looks down at the sigil below him. He looks up at Tenebris, then Cait. One last look at them both, in case things go haywire. 

Jameson says the magic words.

“Per ignem ardemus, per cineres surgimus, Vita solvitur, forma novatur. Ex oculo visus, ex digito pactum, Ex verbo vetusto, potestas nascitur. Nos sumus mutatio.

Audite, spiritus fracti, vos in nocte iacentes, Corda nostra ferimus ut portas aperiamus. Sanguis clamat, cinis loquitur, Et nomen antiquum iterum resonat: Tenebris, dominus aeternus.

Per sigillum trinum in ferro notatum, Nos ligamus nosmet ipsos, Non ad lucem, sed ad abyssum. Dorian, accipe votum nostrum, Et fac corpus nostrum templum tuum.

Cadat mundus vetus, uratur in flamma, Fatum nostrum scribimus in ruinis. Ashford Bend, fiat oblatio, In pulverem redigatur, in umbram vertatur, Ex morte, fiat ingressus.

Exsurgat nunc veritas arcana, Nos warlock facti sumus, Non per misericordiam, sed per voluntatem. Vita, mors, transitus—hoc est pactum. In nomine Tenebris, consummatum est.”

As the poetic mantra falls from his tongue and into the air, the sigil glows. It’s both an acknowledgment of his words and the powers they hold. 

When he’s finished, Jameson hops out of the truck bed and onto the ground. In his hands, he clasps tightly onto the remains of Ashford Bend. As he stands in the ground, his shoes tainted with Nebraskan dirt and rubble, Jameson throws the ashes onto the truck bed, right on top of the sigil.

It could’ve been a lit match thrown on gasoline, the way the truck engulfs in flames.

It’s not the only thing that burns. Every inch of his body is covered in fire. The sensation, the heat, beats against his flesh, but Jameson doesn’t crisp. He looks over to Cait, the flames had found her just the same.

This is no death sentence, no witches are being burned at the stake tonight, instead they are purifying. They’re cocooning too, transforming into what they are destined to become. 

When the flames cease,  they will both be molted into something anew. Something worthy enough to follow a God named Tenebris. 

Cait waits until the echo of Jameson’s vow has finished vibrating through the scorched Nebraska air. Smoke hangs between them like a half-formed veil; somewhere beyond the haze Tenebris still looms, vast as an eclipse. She tastes altar-dust on every breath and decides that this is as close to a chapel as she will ever come.

She climbs into the truck bed beside the smoldering sigil—its red lines now cracked and blackened, yet still faintly pulsing—and goes to work. There is no hesitation, only the precise calm of a surgeon about to cut into herself.

First, the geometry. She drags two fingers across the inside of her left forearm, coaxing a ribbon of blood that beads quicksilver-bright. With it she sketches a second triangle inside Jameson’s ashes, point aligned toward Tenebris, one corner toward Jameson’s lingering heat, the last toward the distant field where her younger self once believed in promises. Blood meets ember; the lines hiss and glow.

Second, the relics. Her finger is already there. She takes it from Jameson and breaks it twice - arranges them at the triangle’s vertices—past, present, patron.

Third, the catalyst. She uncorks the remaining half-vial of Sanguis Novus and tilts it until a single green drop lands at the design’s heart. The fluid flares scarlet as it touches blood, a silent detonation that lifts the hair on her arms.

Fourth, the ash. She cups what remnants she can scrape from the truck bed—ruined rafters, children’s bicycles, church pews ground to gray powder—and lets them sift through her fist, snowing over sigil and relic alike. Each mote is a ledger entry: fifteen thousand debts, fifteen thousand tithes to fuel a god.

Only then does she straighten, palms crimson, throat raw with unspoken names. She closes her eyes and borrows Dorian’s native tongue, letting the Latin roll from memory like a prayer she was born knowing:

“ Per ignem ardemus, per cineres surgimus… ”

Her voice is lower than Jameson’s, steadier, the cadence of one reciting terms she herself helped draft. When she reaches the final couplet—“ Vita, mors, transitus—hoc est pactum. In nomine Tenebris, consummatum est ” —she feels the signature settle into her bones. The triangle ignites in a ring of white-blue flame that neither scorches nor blinds; instead it peels the world back, layer by layer, until she can hear the architecture of power humming beneath the soil.

Fire climbs her like ivy, licking at coat-sleeves and collar, but pain never arrives. What she feels is subtraction: extraneous heartbeats shaved away, mortal hesitations boiled to vapor. In their place flows a dark, tidal certainty—Tenebris' certainty—pouring through every vein. She is not merely host now; she is conduit, reactor,

warlock.

When the last tongue of flame recedes, the sigil is branded into the truck bed and mirrored faintly beneath her skin, glowing through wrist and sternum like molten ink. She exhales, tasting iron ghosts, and lifts her gaze to Tenebris’s looming silhouette.

Tenebris feels their signatures sink into his vastness. Jameson’s spark is quick and caustic, like phosphorus meeting rain: bright, spitting, eager to devour its own smoke. Caitlin’s burns lower, a furnace banked for the long winter, but the heat is older, more deliberate. Both currents thread through Tenebris’s awareness, tugging at deep wells of resonance, and suddenly the distance between god and supplicant feels perilously thin. For the first time since he tore open Elseway’s doors, he is not merely taking power; he is returning it in calibrated pulses, letting it loop back, iterate, evolve.

A smile—if such a thing can exist on a face forged of negative space—folds across him. They have built him an empire of recursion. With every spell they cast, they will deepen the channel. With every triumph, they will widen it. Eventually their own ambitions will demand more souls, more towns, more architecture of blood—and he will be waiting, cup in hand, to bless the overflow.

He extends a thread of awareness toward Cait first. She stands amid the dying embers of the sigil, shoulders squared, eyes like storm-swept glass. The Siltshore lineage thrums beneath her skin, half curse, half crown. For a millennium he has haunted her bloodline, a shadow that bloomed in every cradle and leaned against every headstone. The legacy of that torment has etched beautiful angles into her will, but it has also chained her to history, and chains—Tenebris thinks—are useful only until something stronger is forged.

“Caitlin Siltshore,” his voice says, carried on the thermal of receding flames. It is not thunder, not whisper, but the pressure of a storm wall just before it breaks. “The covenant is ratified. The haunting that dogged your line for a thousand years is dissolved. Know this freedom: you no longer bear my curse.”

He tastes the flicker of relief—and the sliver of suspicion—curling under her ribs.

“Do not mistake mercy for reprieve,” he adds. “The story ends, yes, but only when I write the final line. I will be the thing that kills you—cleanly, beautifully, when the design demands. Between now and then, build wonders. Spend my power with the audacity only a creature unshackled can wield. Astonish me.”

The words seal themselves in luminous glyphs around her heartbeat. He lets her feel, for a fraction of a second, the blueprint of that eventual death: the angle of the blade, the color of the sky, the taste of iron on her tongue. Then he closes the vision, leaving only the after-taste of inevitability. He wants her driven, not paralyzed.

Next he turns to Jameson. The young man’s grin is already feral in the truck’s molten wreckage, skin unblistered, hair spark-striped. Ambition radiates off him like corona from a solar flare: less disciplined than Cait’s, but hotter, unpredictable, prone to leap across voids and sear whatever it touches.

“Jameson Roy,” Tenebris intones, name vibrating like struck glass. “You have traded vision for vision—an eye for eyes unseen. I accept your bargain. Now show me the empire you intend to raise on this foundation.”

He lets an echo of raw potential flood the warlock’s nerves: the sensation of continents pivoting on syllables, of oceans wrinkling under sigils yet unspoken. Jameson’s pulse spikes; delight snarls through him.

Ambition, Tenebris muses, is the closest thing humans possess to divinity. It is motion writ in blood, the refusal to accept any border as final. Tonight that motion has taken new form—a braid of god and warlock, of past curse and future promise, so tightly wound it might yet snap time itself. 

“Go,” he commands with all the authority of a black hole. “Sharpen yourselves against the anvil of the world. When the sparks fly high enough, I will be there to catch them.”

Above the ruins, the sky splits for an instant—just a seam of deeper dark amid the ordinary dark—and then closes again. In that heartbeat, the future rearranges itself, bending around two warlocks and the Patron who watches, hungry and patient, while the rest of creation learns what ambition truly costs.

END.

[walkingstackofbooks]

My vision for endgame Data/Julian which has consumed me ever since I watched Picard 😅

1.DS9

A few months after the Dominion war, the Enterprise docks at DS9 for a short while allowing Data to meet his long-time pen-friend, Julian, again. Julian's not doing well, but since he seems to enjoy Data's company, Data decides to take a couple more weeks of leave to spend some more time with his friend.

However, Julian starts becoming more and more withdrawn and anxious, and after an incident one evening where he becomes agitated to the point of storming out, Data reaches out to Deanna to see if she can give him any insight into his friend's behaviour. She has some ideas, but also suggests that Data ask Keiko, and after talking with the O'Briens, Data believes he understands what's wrong.

When he asks Julian if he's correct in thinking that his impending departure is what's upsetting the doctor, Julian's surprise at the question is enough that he answers truthfully - yes. To Data, the solution is obvious: if Julian is distressed by the idea of someone else leaving him, then Data will not leave. (Julian begs him not to make promises he cannot keep, and has a minor breakdown when he realises that Data is deadly serious.)

After a lot of conversation, some favour-cashing, and the fortunate coincidence that one of Beverly's doctors was beginning to look for a promotion to CMO, Julian ends up transferred to the Enterprise: technically a demotion, but after so long having so much on his shoulders, it's actually a relief.

2. Enterprise

While on Enterprise, Data and Julian get closer and closer. Their relationship brings some difficulties when it becomes public, though: some see the fact Julian's dating an android as proof that he's not really human; others wonder how Data's affection can be real, and feel that if he were as human as he wants to be, then he wouldn't be dating an augment. Julian's parents definitely berate him for wasting all the gifts they gave him by marrying an android - if only he'd talked to them before the wedding, they could have adbised him against it! - making him a zillion times more grateful Data talked him out of inviting them every time he started to feel guilty about it.

But that's by the by. They're together, happily married, endgame Julian/Data achieved, right?

3. ...

Wrong. I hate Nemesis, but imagine Julian following Data down before he throws himself into space, knowing he could probably stop Data from doing this if he asks. Data saying, "I know I promised never to leave you," and Julian shaking his head and barely being able to choke out the words "It's okay," and then Data's gone.

And Geordi's trying to reassure Julian (Geordi's trying to convince himself...) that Data will be alright, he's got the emergency tranport unit, and they get back to the bridge, and Picard transports in, and Data's still on the ship that's blowing up, and Deanna's asking what happened and Julian's sliding down against a wall, horarsely whispering "I let him go..."

4. Picard: s1

20 years later... I haven't quite decided when I want Julian to appear, because the idea of Julian fighting for android rights is everything to me, but also I kind of like the premise of changing as little as possible in canon...

(Maybe Julian had tried to be part of the movement for android rights, bu the media had really latched onto his augment status and used it as another reason to discredit the movement, and so he'd withdrawn from it, as it seemed his presence was doing more harm than good….)

So the Picard crew all return to the Riker-Troi household after the final showdown and Deanna welcomes them in with a "Guess who we finally managed to get in contact with" and bring them into the lounge where Julian' anxiously waiting.

And of course the initial introduction is awkward and Julian's talking a million words a minute until Will pokes him and then over the next few days he's trying to keep his distance so that Soji doesn't feel that she needs to let him into her life...

And meanwhile Soji is still, you know, coping with ALL the feelings and trauma that the last - what, week? - have given her and so she has no idea what to do with this man, who was apparently her father's husband, especially as she has no clue how he feels about the whole suddenly-having-an-android-stepdaughter thing.

But eventually they do manage to have a conversation (/are forced to talk it out) and they get on so well and Soji realises how much Julian genuinely wants to get to know her for her sake and while Julian's terrified at the prospect of having a daughter, he's also delighted (and Will and Deanna make them both stick around for a whole while, 1. because they do enjoy having them both around, 2. because Kestra adores Soji, and the two are pretty good for each other, and 3. because, while they have kept in contact with Julian over the years, they also know how long he's been on his own for, and they want to make sure he's got a solid base and people to lean on. As much as Julian wants to be a good father, Soji deserves more than one traumatised, lonely man doing a best that would quite possibly not be good enough...)

5. Picard: s3

Julian and Soji are visiting Geordi at the museum when the Picard crew come along, and are swept into the action...

Julian learning that Data's alive - kind of... Julian tenderly kissing Data before they take down the partition, telling him he has to win so he can meet their daughter... The two of them barely having time to reunite before having to rush off to their respective duties in saving the ship...

(I have VISIONS of Soji and Julian working desperately together to find a cure for the transporter virus, while Julian's augment physiology has done something weird to make it that he's turning, but very, very slowly. Julian making sure that Soji is armed, and making her promise to shoot him if he turns too quickly. Soji telling him he has to keep fighting it and refusing to think about what it might come to. Julian realising he's about to lose control and getting Soji to restrain him. Soji despairing that she won't be able to find a cure by herself - she's not a doctor doctor like he is - and Julian reassuring her that he believes in her, she just needs to do her best... but most importantly, if she doesn't find it, it's alright, it's not her fault, and he loves her. Resistance is futile. A phaser shot.)

And afterwards, when Soji's found the cure and it's been distributed, Julian wakes up to find Data sitting next to him and Soji hovering nearby. He tries to scramble up and leave to help the rest of the crew, but Soji informs him that just as he took longer to turn, he took longer to get better, and he's the last one to wake up from it. And then she makes to leave, to give the two of them some time alone, and Julian tells her that's nonsense, she needs to meet Data, and Soji says that it's fine, they've been talking while he was asleep, and Julian replies that now he feels left out, so she definitely can't leave, come here, sit by me, I'm not letting either of you out of my sight.