Reposted by mk 🦔
mk 🦔
@mkwritesfic.bsky.social
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She/her. 31. Ace. Aspiring author with no motivation. I like cozy games, books, coffee, animals, and democracy. No AI. Current WIP: CultWIP
She/her. 31. Ace. Aspiring author with no motivation. I like cozy games, books, coffee, animals, and democracy. No AI. Current WIP: CultWIP
![Black text, green background, “well“ highlighted pink
[BigBad] lies on the floor of the teleporter platform, and the screen is black. Are we dead? Did Dad kill us?
The lights on the console tell me Evie's body's still going. Maybe if she looks like herself, maybe it's enough to stop Dad, the way going from Evie to [BigBad] was enough to stop the Cheetah. But Caleb was so specific for the Cheetah, and Dad knows I'm still in here.
[Big Bad] doesn't move. How long until he comes to? Is he aware now?
It doesn't matter. I have to wake Evie. I undo my bindings and stumble to the console, killing that damn noise.
"Wake up. Evie, this is Ace! I'm telling you to wake up." My fingers stumble over some buttons that I've seen [BigBad] use to give Evie commands. "You have to. Please, wake up, now!"
"WELL, this is new."
My breath catches in my throat, and I don't dare move, much less turn around to face him. "I'm saving us."
"And what an admirable job you're doing, Acey." His voice drips with false sweetness. "Go ahead, let's see what you've got. Then we'll talk about how we're going to deter you from getting loose again."
My hand falls from the console. "Evie," I whisper, "save me."](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:vbqlqxpicu52t5t6qqsosjiv/bafkreigjrysze56ekaeznoqvfxx23cx3x2cmzbbdzldeedstiyncqbxedy)
![[Roman’s] cerulean eyes, bright with preternatural light, survey the street, deserted save for the lone sentry in front of the warehouse door. “This is the ‘prime hunting ground’ you mentioned?” he asks me in a low voice, though the party’s gatekeeper, a tall, broad-shouldered man built like a battering ram, cannot hear us from the narrow alley where we’ve hidden ourselves. Night veils us, and my sire has drawn down the deep shadows around us for greater stealth.
I grin, pleased with myself. “Yeah! In there is a whole crush of people vibing with the music, tripping out on drugs, having the time of their lives. We’ll slip right in and out without anyone noticing us. It’ll be fun.”
His mouth flattens into a thin line, conveying exactly how much fun that sounds to him. I can’t help but giggle, looping my arm through his and pressing myself against him. He is solid beneath me, all hard muscle, and for a moment, I waver between dragging him by the hand into the party and purring in his ear to take me back home instead.
His gaze flickers over my face. I don’t know which kind of lust he sees in my expression, but he graces me with a knowing smirk either way. “Fine. Might as well, since we came all the way out here,” he says.
—The Heart Is a Weapon, draft #3, work in progress](https://cdn.bsky.app/img/feed_thumbnail/plain/did:plc:3mbiqnsd5kcchkt53vldmoan/bafkreigzmqq3qxmtjhcxffu7revchvlpfbparkn6rpm2krejd4t2cadq5q)
