#Real-Time Embedded Systems

[mastergarryblogs]

Secure, Smart, and Lethal: The Tech Behind Military Embedded Systems

Introduction:

The global military embedded systems market is undergoing significant transformation, driven by technological advancements and evolving defense strategies. As defense forces worldwide prioritize modernization, the integration of sophisticated embedded systems has become paramount to enhance operational efficiency, communication, and security. This article provides an in-depth analysis of the current market dynamics, segmental insights, regional trends, and competitive landscape shaping the future of military embedded systems.

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Military Embedded Systems Market Dynamics:

Technological Advancements Fueling Growth

The relentless pace of technological innovation is a primary catalyst for the expansion of the military embedded systems market. The integration of artificial intelligence (AI), machine learning, and Internet of Things (IoT) technologies into embedded systems has revolutionized defense operations. These advancements enable real-time data processing, predictive maintenance, and enhanced decision-making capabilities, thereby improving mission effectiveness and operational readiness.

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Rising Demand for Secure Communication Systems

In an era where information dominance is critical, the demand for secure and reliable communication systems has escalated. Military embedded systems facilitate encrypted communications, ensuring the integrity and confidentiality of sensitive data across various platforms, including land-based units, naval vessels, and airborne systems. This necessity is further amplified by the increasing complexity of modern warfare, which requires seamless interoperability among diverse defense assets.

Integration Challenges and Cybersecurity Concerns

Despite the promising growth trajectory, the military embedded systems market faces challenges related to the integration of new technologies into existing defense infrastructures. Legacy systems often lack the flexibility to accommodate modern embedded solutions, necessitating substantial investments in upgrades and compatibility assessments. Additionally, the heightened risk of cyber threats poses a significant concern. Ensuring the resilience of embedded systems against hacking and electronic warfare is imperative to maintain national security and operational superiority.

Military Embedded Systems Market Segmental Analysis:

By Component

Hardware: This segment holds a substantial share of the military embedded systems market, driven by the continuous demand for robust and reliable physical components capable of withstanding harsh military environments.​

Software: Anticipated to experience significant growth, the software segment benefits from the increasing adoption of software-defined systems and the integration of AI algorithms to enhance functionality and adaptability.​

By Product Type

Telecom Computing Architecture (TCA): Leading the market, TCA supports high-performance computing and communication needs essential for modern military operations.​

Compact-PCI (CPCI) Boards: Projected to witness robust growth, driven by the adoption of modular and scalable systems that offer flexibility and ease of maintenance.​

By Application

Intelligence, Surveillance & Reconnaissance (ISR): Dominating the application segment, ISR systems rely heavily on embedded technologies for real-time data collection and analysis, providing critical situational awareness.​

Communication and Networking: This segment is poised for growth, reflecting the escalating need for secure and efficient communication channels in defense operations.​

By Platform

Land-Based Systems: Accounting for the largest military embedded systems market share, land platforms utilize embedded systems for enhanced situational awareness, navigation, and control in ground operations.​

Airborne Systems: Experiencing significant growth due to the integration of advanced avionics and communication systems in military aircraft and unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs).​

Military Embedded Systems Market Regional Insights:

North America

North America leads the military embedded systems market, driven by substantial defense budgets and ongoing modernization programs. The United States, in particular, emphasizes technological superiority, investing heavily in research and development of advanced embedded solutions.​

Europe

European nations are actively enhancing their defense capabilities through collaborative projects and increased spending on advanced military technologies. The focus on interoperability among NATO members and the modernization of existing systems contribute to market growth in this region.​

Asia-Pacific

The Asia-Pacific region is witnessing rapid growth, fueled by escalating defense expenditures in countries such as China, India, and Japan. The drive to modernize military infrastructure and develop indigenous defense technologies propels the demand for sophisticated embedded systems.​

Middle East & Africa

Nations in the Middle East are investing in advanced defense technologies to bolster their military capabilities amidst regional tensions. The focus on upgrading naval and airborne platforms with state-of-the-art embedded systems is a notable trend in this region.​

Competitive Landscape

The military embedded systems market is characterized by intense competition among key players striving to innovate and secure significant contracts.​

Recent Developments

Curtiss-Wright Corporation: In January 2025, Curtiss-Wright secured a USD 27 million contract to supply Aircraft Ship Integrated Securing and Traversing (ASIST) systems to the U.S. Naval Air Warfare Center for use on Constellation Class Frigates.​

Kontron AG: In December 2024, Kontron AG received an order valued at approximately EUR 165 million to supply high-performance VPX computing and communication units for surveillance applications, highlighting its expanding role in the defense sector.​

These developments underscore the dynamic nature of the market, with companies focusing on technological innovation and strategic partnerships to enhance their market positions.​

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Conclusion

The global military embedded systems market is set for substantial growth, driven by technological advancements and the imperative for defense modernization. As military operations become increasingly complex, the reliance on sophisticated embedded systems will intensify, underscoring the need for continuous innovation and investment in this critical sector.

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[srikanthymts]

Embedded System Projects for Students

Embedded system projects are everywhere and have become an invisible part of our daily lives. From the time we wake up to the time we go to bed, we interact with embedded systems. Imagine your smartphone, microwave, or alarm clock this is all embedded systems that make your life so much easier and without it we wouldn't have the kind of comfortable life that we all know.

Why Should Students Work on Embedded System Projects?

For students who want to apply their knowledge and experiences to real-life situations, embedded systems will suit your needs, and interest. They allow you to make the transition from theoretical knowledge to hands-on experiences-what more could you ask for? Regardless of whether you are studying electronics, computer science, or engineering, the process of implementing embedded systems exposes you to the behind-the-scene current industry needs.

Advantages of Embedded System Projects:

1. Development in Practical Skills: Students learn essential skills such as programming (C, Python), printed circuit board (PCB) design, and programming microcontrollers.

2. Project towards Application: Students embark on projects that can be used directly for out-of-school use, which makes them more industry-ready.

3. Problem-Solving Enhancement: Development of embedded system projects inspires creative solutions to problems as this is a helpful key aspect of developing technologies today.

Conclusion:

For students who want to enter the technology industry, and looking to make a difference, embedded system projects are a great opportunity to learn and accumulate expertise. Embedded system projects foster not only technical skills but also insight into the systems that keep modern life ticking along.

[onedatasoftwaresolutions]

How Data Analytics Enhances IoT Development for Smarter Business Solutions

[takeoffproject]

Embedded Systems: Driving Innovation in Technology

Embedded systems are specialized computing systems designed to perform dedicated functions within larger devices or applications. These systems integrate hardware and software components to execute tasks with precision, reliability, and efficiency. They are embedded in devices ranging from household appliances like washing machines and microwaves to complex industrial machines, medical equipment, and automotive systems.

An embedded system's core lies a microcontroller or microprocessor, which controls and processes data. Sensors, actuators, and communication interfaces are often part of the system, enabling it to interact with the physical environment. For instance, in a smart thermostat, an embedded system monitors temperature, processes user inputs, and adjusts heating or cooling accordingly.

Embedded systems are valued for their compact size, low power consumption, and cost-effectiveness. They are tailored for real-time operations, ensuring quick and accurate responses to specific tasks. Industries such as automotive, healthcare, telecommunications, and consumer electronics heavily rely on these systems to innovate and improve product functionality.

As technology advances, embedded systems are becoming more sophisticated, incorporating artificial intelligence (AI), Internet of Things (IoT) connectivity, and advanced sensors. These developments are paving the way for smarter devices and systems, transforming how we live and work.

In a world increasingly driven by automation and smart technology, embedded systems play a crucial role in shaping the future of innovation.

[futureelectronic1527]

Microchip: Introducing the New 32-bit dsPIC33A DSC

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/microchip-dspic33a-digital-signal-controllers-dsc . Discover the future of industrial automation, sustainable solutions and automotive systems with the dsPIC33A family of 32-bit Digital Signal Controllers (DSCs). To meet complex embedded, real-time control demands, dsPIC33A DSCs feature an advanced instruction set architecture and a powerful 200 MHz CPU. https://youtu.be/7R5WlMz94ow

[creativeera]

Embedded Computing Marled is Anticipated to Witness High Growth Owing to Wide Adoption Across End-use Industries

Embedded computing refers to a computer system that is part of a larger mechanical or electrical system designed to perform a dedicated function. Embedded systems are designed for specific control functions within embedded products and machines and operate under the direct control of an embedded program. Some key features of embedded systems include rugged construction, low power usage, real-time operating capabilities and compact size. Embedded devices are commonly found in industrial equipment, automobiles, consumer electronics, home appliances and medical devices to control electronic systems. Their key advantage is the ability to control electronic processes in a precise, flexible and cost-effective manner.

The global embedded computing market is estimated to be valued at US$ 112.45 Bn in 2024 and is expected to reach US$ 174.38 Bn by 2031, exhibiting a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 6.5% from 2024 to 2031.

Wide adoption across industries such as industrial automation, transportation, healthcare, telecommunication and consumer electronics is fueling market growth. Embedded systems allow streamlining of electronic processes, reducing downtimes and operation costs for end-use industries. Key Takeaways Key players operating in the embedded computing market are Advanced Micro Devices (AMD), Inc., Advantech Co., Ltd., Avalue Technology Inc., Curtiss-Wright Corporation, Dell Technologies Inc., Emerson Electric Co., Fujitsu Limited, General Electric Company, Hewlett Packard Enterprise Company, Honeywell International Inc., Intel Corporation, Kontron ST AG, Mitsubishi Electric Corporation, Rockwell Automation, Inc., and Texas Instruments Incorporated. The Embedded Computing Market Demand offers significant opportunities for system integrators and solution providers through new product development and capability expansion. Growing digitization trends across industry verticals will continue to generate strong demand for embedded systems with advanced computing and connectivity features. Leading embedded computing companies are focusing on global expansion strategies through partnerships, joint ventures and acquisitions to solidify their presence in emerging economies of Asia Pacific, Latin America, Middle East and Africa. These regions offer high growth potential driven by ongoing modernization of infrastructure and growing electronics manufacturing activities. Market Drivers Wide adoption across industrial automation applications is a key driver for the embedded computing market. Use of embedded systems allows streamlining of electronic processes, reducing downtimes and operation costs for industrial equipment manufacturers. Growing connectivity trends through Industrial Internet of Things (IIoT) will further propel demand. Rising electronics content in automobiles is positively impacting the market. Advanced driver assistance systems, infotainment systems and vehicle networking require powerful embedded computing solutions. Strict fuel efficiency and vehicle emissions norms will accelerate integration of embedded computing hardware. Market Restrain Design complexity of developing embedded system on a chip (SoC) poses challenges, especially for integrating advanced Embedded Computing Companies capabilities with low power requirements. This increases new product development timelines and costs. Limited standardization across various embedded system platforms inhibits seamless interoperability, data exchange and application portability. This poses difficulties for globally distributed product development activities.

Segment Analysis Automotive industrial and transportation is dominating the embedded computing market due to increasing implementation of advanced driver-assistance systems, connected vehicles solutions, electric vehicles, and autonomous vehicles. According to recent surveys over 65% of all new light vehicles shipped will have features like adaptive cruise control, automatic emergency braking, and blind spot monitoring by 2030. All these emerging technologies are driving the growth of embedded systems in automotive applications. Security and defense is another major sub segment in the embedded computing market owing to rising implementation of thermal weapon sights, combat management systems, imaging payloads and guidance systems in warships, aircraft carriers and fighter jets. Real-time information, enhanced situational awareness and integrated mission capabilities are some key priorities for embedded systems in defense applications. Various nations are also focusing on developing autonomous weapons which will further augment demand in coming years. Global Analysis North America dominates the global embedded computing market with a share of over 35% due to substantial research funding and presence of major OEMs in the region. US and Canada are hub for embedded technology development owing to advancement in networking infrastructure, IoT penetration and adoption of Industry 4.0 concepts. Asia Pacific shows fastest growth momentum led by China, India, Japan and South Korea. Low manufacturing cost and government initiatives to digitize industries are driving Asia Pacific market. Intensifying Sino-US trade war may impact supply chain dynamics in long run. Europe captures around 25% market share led by Germany, United Kingdom and France.

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[cumironi]

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO GOJO’S D$CK. g.s

feat. gojo satoru

sum. what’s the best sex position ever? loud and clear you said missionary. the result? got called slut by shoko and dared by geto to fuck the stupidest man in the group, gojo satoru. and you, also the stupidest take the bait just to prove a point only to get the best missionary you’ve ever had. which, also got called slut by your friend.

wn. college au, all characters are adults (early 20s), depictions of alcohol and weed consumption, explicit sexual content including graphic foreplay and intercourse, strong language, sexual humor, slut-shaming jokes between friends, emotionally charged intimacy, consensual rough play (e.g. scratching, hickeys), praise-kink, bit dirty talk,

gojo’s basement was a whole ecosystem of indulgence, an architectural fuck-you to minimalism. the moment you stepped off the last step, it was like descending into a pleasure den disguised as a frat boy’s fever dream and a luxury showroom had a threesome with a tokyo nightlife bar and decided to never leave.

soft, dark lighting glowed along the edges of the ceiling, hiding in strips of LED that shifted color every few minutes—right now it was a moody wine red that made everyone look flushed and half-possessed. a speaker system was embedded into the walls, not blasting but thumping low enough to feel in your molars, something beat-heavy and spacey, rhythmic enough to keep your hips rocking even if you were only sitting. the walls were textured concrete, but with art—huge framed prints, some classical, some hentai, because gojo was a pretentious bitch and also a walking disaster.

it was sectioned in loose, chaotic zones. one end had a full bar, real wood counters, glass shelves, and an overhead mirror with LED backlight that made the various alcohol bottles sparkle like gemstones. there were no mixers—just hard liquor and gojo’s “personal stash” of imported shit that tasted like burnt syrup and regret. behind the bar, nanami stood like a reluctant bartender, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, stirring something too elegant for this crowd. he’d lost rock-paper-scissors and now he was stuck mixing drinks with military precision, ignoring everyone yelling that they just wanted a whiskey coke with extra whiskey and no coke.

a few steps away, there was a billiards table, dark green felt, cue sticks leaned against the wall, and haibara trying to make a shot with his head resting on the cue, eyes squinting like a sniper but swaying like a drunk tree. geto and shoko were stretched on the oversized couch that curved around a low table cluttered with empty shot glasses, an open pizza box with one lonely crust, and the remnants of three joints passed back and forth. gojo had dragged over a bean bag chair and was currently lounging in it like royalty, shirt half unbuttoned, pale collarbones peeking out, sunglasses still on indoors, of course, because he said the lighting was “too aggressive.”

you were on the rug, thighs warm from the alcohol, back against the couch, in the exact perfect spot to feel everyone’s presence all at once—geto’s knee brushing yours every time he shifted, shoko’s lazy hand resting in your hair because she liked to play with it when she was high, gojo’s long leg stretched out so his bare foot kept nudging your ankle. the rug smelled like old perfume and weed and a little bit like someone spilled gin and didn’t clean it up, and honestly? it was perfect.

“i think,” gojo announced, gesturing with his drink, something neon blue in a martini glass, “we should all officially drop out.”

“again?” geto asked, one eyebrow raised as he exhaled smoke and passed you the blunt. “you say that every thursday,” you added, grinning as you took it, the burn sweet and sharp on your tongue.

“yeah but this time i mean it,” gojo said, rolling over onto his stomach like a bored cat, chin resting on his arms. “what’s even the point of college? knowledge? community? shared trauma?”

“you only show up to class to cheat off nanami,” shoko pointed out. “he has such neat handwriting,” gojo said with a dreamy sigh. nanami rolled his eyes. “because i don’t get high the night before a midterm and forget how pens work.”

“that was one time,” you mumbled through a cough, handing the joint off to utahime who looked scandalized but still took it.

“you cried,” geto added helpfully.

“it was a stressful exam,” you defended, but the laughter already drowned you out. even nanami cracked a tired smirk. “okay but like—” haibara missed his shot and collapsed dramatically over the pool table, face pressed into the felt “—real talk. if we all dropped out, what would we do? jobs don’t exist. go.”

“porn,” you said immediately.

gojo made a high-pitched noise like a choking dolphin. “you can’t just say that, baby.”

“i said it,” you grinned, shrugging. “onlyfans. but we make it elite. like art-house, black-and-white stuff.”

“you want to direct?” shoko asked, voice slow, eyes heavy-lidded. “or star?”

“both,” you said. “duh.”

“visionary,” geto murmured, passing you a new joint, already lit. you took it without question. “okay okay okay,” haibara said, still face-down, voice muffled into the table. “but if you had to teach one sex position. like, for beginners. what’s lesson one?”

“doggy,” nanami answered without blinking.

“perv,” gojo coughed.

“efficient,” nanami corrected.

“missionary,” geto said, tapping his ash into a tray. “eye contact, full penetration, kiss access. versatile. emotionally devastating.”

“you’re so romantic,” you teased.

he smirked. “always.”

“cowgirl,” shoko added, licking salt off her hand. “control. visuals. core workout.”

“you’re all cowards,” gojo said, sitting up now, eyes glinting. “nobody said reverse cowgirl.”

“that’s because you’re the only one who wants to get kneed in the stomach,” utahime muttered, taking another sip. “worth it,” gojo sighed, pressing his hand over his chest like he’d been touched by god. and then—he turned, sharp and sudden, and pointed directly at you, mouth curling in a smirk that was all teeth and trouble.

“what about you, pretty girl?”

your throat went dry. his voice was soft now, low, sliding under your skin like warm syrup. everyone else fell quiet. not waiting in judgment—just watching. geto leaned back. shoko raised one eyebrow. even nanami tilted his head like your answer might end a war.

“hmm,” you hummed, tilting your head, pretending to think even as your lips curled. “honestly? missionary. but only if you’re trying to ruin my life,” you add, casually, sipping whatever tragic cocktail you’d ended up with—mostly rum, mostly sugar, entirely chaos—and immediately regretted it, because the second the words left your mouth, the basement erupted. broke in a howl of laughter. shoko nearly dropped her drink. geto choked on his exhale. haibara clapped the table.

“LAME!” haibara shrieked like you’d just confessed to listening to elevator music during sex. “liar,” geto said flatly, but the smile tugging at his mouth made it impossible to take seriously.

“no fucking way,” shoko barked, already leaning over the armrest like she needed to look you directly in the soul. “no. you? miss i make eye contact while ordering food like it’s a come-on?”

you groaned, trying to disappear into your shirt. “shut uuuuup.”

“there is no way your favorite position is missionary,” she said, flicking your forehead with sharp precision. “get the fuck out of here. you’re not fooling anyone.”

“maybe i’m romantic,” you offered weakly, already bracing as the room devolved into shrieks again. gojo wheezed, flopping onto his back and kicking a throw pillow off the couch. “romantic she says. oh my god. oh my fucking god.”

“missionary my ass,” utahime added, kicking your shin lightly with her socked foot. “that’s like saying your favorite food is plain rice.”

“with butter!” you shouted defensively.

“shut the fuck up!” everyone howled in unison.

“full nelson,” shoko said immediately, stabbing her finger at you. “you’re into some demon shit. like tied up, folded in half, legs behind your ears—"

“—that’s not even anatomically possible for most people—” nanami muttered in the background, but no one was listening. “you give power bottom with a penchant for suffering,” geto added smoothly, crossing his legs and resting his chin in his hand like he was about to psychoanalyze your soul.

“stop profiling me,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “what if i just want soft sex? with love? with candles and eye contact and maybe a backhand to the cheek, but mostly like… romance.”

utahime gagged so hard it sounded real. “you’re disgusting.”

“i am romantic,” you insisted, chin raised, eyes defiant. “i want to be held. i want love.” shoko tossed a grape at your head. “you want to be held in a chokehold with your face pressed to the mattress.” you caught it in your mouth and chewed, flipping her off with flair. “maybe. but gently.”

gojo rolled back upright like a cartoon character, elbows resting on his knees, eyes gleaming under the dim lights. “i can do gently,” he said, voice low and syrup-sweet.

“no,” utahime said flatly.

“you don’t get to volunteer,” nanami said, not even looking up from whatever he was mixing now. gojo grinned and tilted his head toward you, his hand slowly sliding into the pocket of your hoodie, the one you were wearing. “but i wanna,” he said, and his voice dipped just enough to warm the pit of your stomach.

you elbowed him. “we’re still talking about metaphors.”

he smiled wider. “are we?”

shoko groaned. “i’m gonna throw something at both of you.”

geto passed her a half-empty beer can like a gentleman. “use this.”

“missionary,” shoko repeated again, like she couldn’t let it go, couldn’t accept it, couldn’t believe it even existed in your vocabulary as anything more than a punchline. she said it like a curse, her voice thick with smoke and judgment. “missionary. you absolute fucking liar.”

“i’m not lying!” you whined, but it came out with a stupid grin stretching your mouth because you knew—you knew—they were right to doubt you. “nah, you’re lying,” geto said, not even looking up from his delicate task of ash-flicking with the grace of a noble concubine. “you’re lying and you know it and we all know it. missionary. yeah right.”

gojo, who had been half-lying across your lap like a loyal, slutty dog, perked up at the confirmation. “she is lying,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “i’m hurt. betrayed. flabbergasted.”

utahime barked a laugh from the bean bag she’d stolen from nanami when he went to refill his drink. “missionary only if he’s choking you out and whispering dirty things about your future kids.”

“WHICH IS STILL VERY ROMANTIC,” you argued, throwing your hands up in pathetic defense. “not when it includes the words ‘breed you dumb,’” nanami said calmly from the bar. “YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE,” you screamed across the basement, as if that would help.

haibara was bent over wheezing, red in the face and tears in his eyes. “you—missionary—you’re the same bitch who moaned watching that fight scene in that one show—”

“he had his veins out and a chain around his neck, i was provoked!”

shoko pointed directly at you like she was driving a stake into your coffin. “you want missionary the same way a raccoon wants tap water. not cause it’s good, cause it’s easy access before you crawl into the sewer.”

“i am not a raccoon!”

“you are the racooniest,” geto said. “fucked-up little hands and all.”

gojo, smug and now fully reclined into your lap with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs kicking up a little in rhythm with the music, looked up at you upside down with that shit-eating grin. “no shame in liking missionary,” he said sweetly. “as long as it’s not the only thing you like.”

“oh no no no,” geto said, sitting up straighter now, attention focused, looking deadly and delighted. “you don’t get to backpedal now. no retreat. you committed.”

“i did not commit—”

“you’re committed. one hundred percent. missionary ride or die. all in.”

“you’re making it sound like a cult.”

“IT IS,” shoko yelled, throwing a handful of popcorn at your head that she’d stolen from god knows where. “missionary only when the moon is waxing, the candles are teal, and your playlist is all sad acoustic covers of 2000s bangers.”

“that sounds fucking dreamy actually,” you said, offended but also taking mental notes.

geto leaned over, narrowing his eyes, voice dipping low and daring, that teasing menace blooming in the corners of his mouth like sin: “then do it. with satoru. go full missionary. full eye contact. no jokes. no choking. no freaky shit. vanilla as fuck. and afterward—then tell us if it’s still your favorite.”

the room fell silent.

gojo sat up.

utahime choked on her drink.

shoko slapped her knee and screamed, “YES. YESSSS. YOU WON’T. DO IT. I DARE YOU. PUT YOUR LOVE WHERE YOUR MOUTH IS.”

“THAT IS NOT THE PHRASE,” you cried.

“IT IS NOW,” haibara shouted, fist in the air.

gojo was looking at you like you just became his favorite episode of a fucked-up reality show. slowly, slowly, he leaned in, blinking those pale lashes in mock innocence, like a predator trying to play sweet. “do you want me to hold your hand, princess?” he cooed, voice dragging over each syllable like it was rolling in honey and filth. “whisper how pretty you look while you say missionary is your favorite?”

you flailed, completely red, pressing your palm to his face and pushing him back with a groan. “shut uuuuuup, i hate you—”

“you love me,” he sang.

“you’ll love him more with his dick in you like an afterschool special,” shoko muttered, and you almost died.

“this is not how peer support groups work,” you whined.

“this is how our support group works,” geto corrected, cool as ice, brushing ash off his sleeve. “we support you… into making the worst decisions imaginable.”

“i hate this friend group.”

“you started it!” utahime yelled. “you could’ve said cowgirl and we would’ve moved on!”

“i wanted to be authentic!”

“authentic my ass,” nanami mumbled. “your idea of authentic includes handcuffs and a soundtrack.”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME.”

gojo grinned wider, tongue tucked behind his teeth, eyes narrow with mischief. “baby, you say one time, but your eyes are saying again.” you groaned, staring up at the string lights twinkling on the ceiling like they were your last remaining allies. “i hope you all choke on your weed.”

“romantic choking,” geto said.

“god is dead,” you muttered.

“he died in missionary,” shoko declared.

and the room screamed again.

the yelling hadn’t died down. it had evolved—evolved into a full-blown, unholy ritual, like you’d summoned something cursed just by saying “missionary” in this den of godless chaos. the music still thumped in the background—some bass-heavy beat vibrating low enough to shake the pool cues on the wall—but it was drowned beneath the choir of filthy voices rallying around your damnation.

“come onnnn,” haibara practically whined, dragging himself across the floor like a tragic little beast of pressure and peer influence. “just do it once. like, clinical trial shit. for science.”

“for data,” geto added solemnly, passing the joint back to you with all the pomp of a ceremonial dagger. “you know he’s down,” utahime said, gesturing lazily with her drink toward gojo. “he’s always down. satoru would do it with a smile on his face and his dick already out.”

“i’d do it with flowers,” gojo offered sweetly, chin in hand, smiling like the most deranged boy in a dating sim. “i’d put a little post-it on her hip that says you’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

“you are a menace,” you groaned, tossing the joint in the ashtray, flopping your head against the back of the couch. “okay, but for real,” shoko cut in, snapping her fingers like a sitcom villain. “we have to settle this. you can’t keep saying that’s your favorite and then not test it with the absolute worst candidate.”

gojo lit up. “i’m honored.”

“he’s dumb as shit,” nanami added, calmly wiping the bar down with a cocktail napkin like he wasn’t verbally assassinating his friend. “there’s no way he can make it romantic. not even ironically.”

“he’d come while trying to say something nice and end up crying,” shoko muttered, lighting a cigarette like the world’s most beautiful disappointment. “he doesn’t even know how to look romantic,” geto chimed in, now entirely leaned back and smoking like he was watching live theater. “that man sends memes after sexting.”

“he once tried to dirty talk me by saying i looked like i had good knees,” utahime added. the room died.

“they were good knees,” gojo whined.

“SEE?” shoko shrieked, pointing wildly. “this is what we’re dealing with! that’s who she wants missionary with! that’s what she calls romance!”

you covered your face, weakly laughing into your hands. “you’re all insane.”

“and yet,” nanami said smoothly, pouring himself another drink, “you’ve fucked most of us.”

your head snapped up. “WHAT—”

“you have,” shoko agreed, nodding casually like she was reading a wine label. “it’s canon now.”

“absolutely,” geto said, exhaling smoke like a sexy devil. “you’ve whored your way through 70% of this friend group. missionary with gojo would be the least slutty thing you’ve done.”

“don’t slut-shame me while calling me a slut,” you groaned, laughing despite yourself. “slut is not derogatory here,” shoko said, patting your thigh. “it’s like saying you’re talented. you’re our slut. community slut. the people’s princess.”

“i’m gonna cry.”

“oh, so now you wanna act innocent?” nanami’s voice was ice in a cocktail glass. “not when you were drunk texting me ‘wanna ruin my future?’ at 2am last weekend.”

“i was having a moment!”

“you were also wearing gojo’s hoodie with no pants and humping a pillow,” geto said, eyes glittering like he kept this memory polished for personal use. you slapped your palms over your face again. “can’t a girl be romantic in peace?”

“not in this house,” utahime deadpanned. “but like,” gojo piped up, head now resting on your thigh again, completely unbothered, probably hard, absolutely thrilled, “they’ve got a point.”

you looked down at him, exhausted. “i swear to god, satoru—”

“no no, hear me out,” he said, holding up both hands like he was offering a legal defense. “i’ve seen you horny for nanami just cause he tied his tie right. i’ve seen you get wet over geto saying the word ‘problematic.’ you let shoko suck a bruise into your thigh because she was bored.”

“and that was her fault,” you pointed to shoko. “i was drunk and passive.”

“uh huh,” she hummed, mouth twitching.

“all i’m saying is,” gojo said, sitting up now, hands on your knees, looking up at you like a dog who just learned to beg, “if you’re gonna be a slut, be an honest slut. missionary with me. prove them wrong. show them you’re a woman of taste and tragedy.”

you stared at him, mouth parted, blinking.

“this is sexual peer pressure,” you mumbled.

“this is justice,” geto corrected.

“this is foreplay,” gojo whispered with a wink.

“i hate you all,” you grumbled, cheeks hot, lips twitching despite yourself.

“but you’ll do it?” haibara asked, eyes wide and dumb and so hopeful.

“maybe.”

“HA!” gojo shouted, launching a throw pillow at shoko. “that’s a yes!”

“that’s not a yes—”

“you heard her!” geto called, standing up to stretch like a smug, half-naked giraffe. “she agreed! and now we shall bear witness to the least romantic, most catastrophic missionary session ever.”

“you’re gonna be pinned to the mattress like a frog in biology class,” shoko said, wheezing. “gojo’s gonna forget to take off his socks,” utahime muttered, disgusted. “you know i have those toe socks,” he said proudly.

you groaned again, but deep down your stomach fluttered with heat and laughter, and your thighs pressed together, and despite the chaos—despite all of it—you were already thinking about how it’d feel to have him above you, stupid, naked, sweet, mean, sloppy, and whispering something that almost sounded like love.

and stupidly, in the end, you look behind you as you walk toward the hallway with gojo—your hand clutched in his like a fucking idiot—with the bedroom door at the end blinking at you like it knew exactly how many sins were about to unfold inside it. he’s practically bouncing beside you, grinning with his arm slung around your waist like he won a prize at a fair and it was you, half-drunk, giggling, humiliated, and undeniably curious about how the stupidest fucking person in your friends group was about to missionary the everloving shit out of you.

you glance back once, just once, and of course—of course—the entire couch crew is watching, each one of them grinning like hyenas on bath salts.

shoko, drink in one hand, tongue out like she’s in a punk band photo shoot, flips you off and mouths, “TAKE THE D.”

nanami lifts his glass, deadpan as ever, and mouths, “condoms are in the drawer.”

haibara is full-on doubled over, clapping like you’re being sent off to war.

geto gives you the filthiest two-thumbs-up you’ve ever seen, followed by a pantomimed gesture that can only be described as “jackhammer pelvic annihilation.”

utahime just shrugs like “you brought this on yourself.”

you don’t know if you want to laugh or scream or combust.

you’re all stupid fucks.

and you’re the stupidest one of all.

gojo drags you through the door with a dramatic flourish, like you’re being ushered into a honeymoon suite, except it’s the spare bedroom in his overdesigned basement—dark walls, plush mattress, fairy lights clinging to the corners, a single massive bed that has held too many sleepovers, too many hangovers, too many half-naked bodies tangled under that navy comforter.

he slams the door shut behind him with an unnecessary thud and then locks it.

locks it with intent.

you look at him, raising an eyebrow.

he grins, all bright eyes and too much teeth, and says, “we don’t want anyone walking in on your emotional awakening.” you shove him in the chest, laughing despite the heat pooling low in your belly, but his arms snake around your waist and he pulls you flush against him, the giddiness gone softer now, warmer.

“you really want this?” he asks, murmuring it against the corner of your mouth, lips ghosting, fingers rubbing slow lazy circles against your spine. “you wanna prove ‘em all wrong?”

you tilt your head back, a little buzzed, a little high, heart thumping in your ears from the absurdity and anticipation and just… him—this dumb beautiful man who you’ve known since freshman year, who once drank a bottle of cooking wine on a dare, who calls you names that make your skin warm, who sends you memes at 2am and confesses his feelings with a smirk like it’s not real.

and now he’s asking like it’s the first time he’s ever taken anything seriously. you hum, smirk lazy, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “go on, missionary me, satoru.”

he laughs—not loud, not sharp, just this sweet, stupid, delighted sound that vibrates into your chest before he grabs your jaw, kisses you once, hard and messy and full of promise, and then gently backs you toward the bed like he’s actually going to try to make this romantic.

“i’m gonna missionary you so hard you’ll cry,” he says, completely deadpan.

“you’re such a fucking idiot,” you murmur.

“yours,” he whispers, pushing you down onto the mattress like prayer, like penance, like romance—but only if romance came with a hickey and a headboard slam.

gojo doesn’t even rush you, which is fucking weird. normally he rushes everything—his speeches, his shots, his half-baked plans that end with haibara covered in glitter and someone’s laptop in the bathtub. but now, now that you’ve willingly walked into this basement bedroom with him like some horny lamb in a thrifted hoodie, he moves slow. suspiciously slow. like he’s savoring it. like the thought of doing missionary—actual missionary, not his usual chaotic acrobatic nonsense—has turned into something sacred.

his hands are on your hips first, thumbs dipping just beneath the waistband of your shorts as he leans over you, not yet pushing you down but crowding you close enough that you feel the press of his grin against your skin.

“you sure you don’t want something more… you?” he murmurs, voice like a low vibration against your neck, smug and teasing, but softer than usual.

you blink up at him, lying back slightly on your elbows atop the bed, the fairy lights in the corners of the ceiling casting soft gold against his white hair, making him look like the dumbest, prettiest boy the devil ever handcrafted in a rush. his shirt is wrinkled, half unbuttoned from earlier when he got dramatic during your defense trial in the living room, and you can see the curve of his collarbones, the start of his chest. he’s flushed, high, and still smiling like he’s on a game show and he’s about to spin the wheel of “ruin your life.”

you smirk back. “you saying i’m not a romantic?”

he kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed and slow. “i’m saying you’re a slut with a dream.”

you groan. “fuck off.”

“i will,” he murmurs, mouthing just below your collarbone, “right after i make you fall in love with me like a virgin on prom night.”

you burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder, but your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and you don’t push him far. his hands slide up your sides, dragging your shirt with them, slow and deliberate, knuckles brushing bare skin. you can feel him watching your face, that infuriating way he always does, like he’s daring you to show how much you want him, how much you feel him even in these dumb, tender moments.

you let your head fall back on the mattress with a sigh, staring at the ceiling, arms up to let him pull your shirt the rest of the way off. the lights glow amber above you. the room smells like weed and gojo and leftover cologne and heat. you’re suddenly aware of how warm you are, how warm he is—kneeling one knee between your thighs now, eyes slow and greedy as they rake over your torso.

he runs his fingers up your stomach, watching the way your skin jumps under the touch. “see?” he says, voice soft but smug. “missionary’s good already. look how romantic this is. i haven’t even said the dumb shit yet.”

“say it,” you challenge, breath catching when he leans down again, kisses trailing over the swell of your breast, hands still warm and splayed along your ribs.

his mouth brushes your sternum. “you feel so pretty under my hands.”

your thighs twitch. “that’s not even a sentence.”

“shh,” he says, nuzzling the underside of your breast. “i’m practicing.”

his tongue flicks out, barely tasting your skin, not even on your nipple, just everywhere else—stupid, teasing little licks and kisses that feel more intimate than any fast-grab hookup ever did. one hand slides down to your hip, the other dragging along your arm, fingers lacing with yours, like he’s doing this half slow to spite everyone outside the door. look at us, he seems to say with every breath. look how fucking tender missionary can be.

“i swear to god if you light a candle—”

“i’m going to whisper how much i admire your work ethic.”

“satoru.”

he kisses the inside of your elbow.

“i’m gonna say i love your playlists.”

“oh my god.”

he climbs up, mouth ghosting over your jaw now, weight sinking into the mattress as he settles between your legs fully, both your hands pinned above your head with his, gaze locking onto yours with that glint—equal parts mockery and reverence. his breath is warm, lips millimeters from yours, teasing.

“i’m gonna make you come while telling you how smart you are.”

you stare, blinking, lips parting like you’re gonna come up with a good retort—and then moan when he shifts his hips, not even grinding, just pressing, enough friction to spark heat through the fabric.

he smirks.

“told you,” he whispers. “romantic’s just foreplay with better lighting.”

you blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck like it’s trying to reach your brain and set fire to what little reason you have left. he’s too close. he’s too warm, too gojo, too smug, and the worst part is—he’s not even being his usual chaotic self. this is worse. this is soft. this is slow, deliberate, dragged-out torture disguised as affection, and it’s working way too fucking well.

your arms are stretched above you, wrists pinned by one of his big, veiny hands—so unnecessarily hot—while his other trails down your side again, fingers curling like he’s mapping you out by touch, like every new inch of bare skin is a piece of his personal love letter.

“you’re so warm,” he says, voice quiet now. a little surprised. “you always run hot?”

you groan, cheeks hot as hell. “satoru.”

“i like it,” he adds, his thumb rubbing slow circles into your wrist. “feels like you’re already worked up for me.”

you glare. “this is supposed to be romantic.”

“it is,” he grins, leaning down just enough to drag his nose along your jaw. “i’m romancing you right now. you’re being romanced. fully seduced. by my incredible personality and outstanding emotional depth.”

you burst out laughing, face turning toward the pillow to muffle the sound, and he takes the opportunity to mouth along your neck, pressing an open kiss just below your ear. not biting, not sucking, just soft and slow, his lips dragging along your pulse point like he’s trying to memorize your heartbeat.

his hand leaves your wrist, and you instinctively move to touch him, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, over your collarbone, across your shoulder, moving down with maddening patience. he pulls at your waistband gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours like he’s asking without words, and you nod, breath catching in your throat.

he slides your shorts down, dragging the fabric slowly past your thighs, kissing his way along your hipbone as he goes. nothing rushed. no bravado. just him and the stupid heat of his mouth on your skin, the gentle press of his hands as he settles between your thighs.

he exhales against your inner thigh like a sigh, like he’s been waiting his whole dumb life for this exact moment, and you shiver. “still think this isn’t romantic?” he asks, glancing up with a crooked smile, his breath ghosting over where you’re already embarrassingly wet.

you tug at his hair lightly. “you’re an idiot.”

“a romantic idiot,” he corrects, pressing a kiss just above your knee. “the best kind.” he kisses higher now, slow and trailing, hands rubbing soft patterns into your thighs as he settles deeper between them, anchoring you there like he’s making himself a new home.

“i’m gonna take my time with you,” he whispers, dragging his lips up toward the place you’re aching for. “gonna make you feel so fucking good… and the whole time, i’ll be looking at you like we’re married and i just made you breakfast.”

you snort. “is that your fantasy? missionary and eggs benedict?”

he hums against your skin, lips curving. “yeah, but you’re the eggs. i’m gonna ruin you.” you squeak, shoving at his head, but your legs don’t move. they can’t, not when he’s got them opened like this, not when his mouth is that close, not when your whole body’s vibrating from anticipation.

he chuckles again, smug and soft, and presses one more kiss just shy of where you want him, before leaning back up and dragging his body over yours, forearm bracing beside your head.

his mouth finds yours again, slow and coaxing, like he’s drinking from you, like every sound you make is holy. he kisses you like he’s got forever. like tonight’s the only night that matters. and even though it’s still teasing, still laced with filth and humor and all the usual gojo mess—you feel the care in it. the attention. the goddamn sweetness.

his nose brushes yours as he pulls back just enough to speak.

“missionary’s lookin’ pretty good right now, huh?”

you can’t speak. you just nod.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he murmurs, and kisses you again, deeper now, hungrier.

and somehow—stupidly, undeniably—it is romantic.

his kiss deepens and it changes something—slips out of that playful, teasing rhythm and sinks into a weightier kind of heat, slow and intentional. like he’s not just kissing you because he wants to, but because he needs to, like there’s something about your mouth he’s been thinking about every night he lay awake jerking off with his phone on silent and your face stuck in his memory.

gojo presses closer, one arm sliding beneath your back to lift you into him, like even now, he can’t stand a sliver of distance. your thighs fall open around his hips without resistance, your body pliant, high and fuzzy and ready, even as your brain’s still catching up, trying to convince you this is actually happening.

and still—still he doesn’t go for your panties yet. he’s grinding against them through his jeans, slow, careful, more like he’s testing pressure than chasing friction. he doesn’t need to rush, not with you already sighing into his mouth, your nails dragging light patterns over the back of his neck, legs wrapping around him like a question you don’t know how to ask.

he hums against your lips, low and pleased. his voice sounds deeper now, like it’s sitting low in his chest, like lust’s finally dragging it down out of his usual chirpy register and into something that sounds like intent.

“fuck,” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek, “you feel so fuckin’ good already and i’m not even inside you.” his nose nuzzles yours as his hand ghosts down your side again, over your waist, over the soft of your hip, sliding slow between your thighs—warm and steady, pressing the heel of his palm against your center, not touching anything properly yet, just there, enough to make you buck a little without thinking.

he pulls back to watch you, eyes blown out, grin lazy and eyes focused in a way that’s almost too much—like he’s trying to memorize the way your face changes with each drag of his hand. “don’t hide your face,” he whispers, brushing hair from your forehead. “i wanna see everything. this is the romantic part, remember?”

you glare at him weakly, lip caught between your teeth. “you’re such a dick.”

he beams. “a romantic dick.”

his fingers hook into your waistband slowly, dragging your panties down your thighs, and even then he doesn’t move too fast. he stops just to kiss the crease of your thigh, to mouth the soft skin above your knee like he’s got nowhere else to be. he keeps talking under his breath, too—his filthy little monologue of worship and teasing:

“so pretty. so soft. you always smell this good? i shoulda done this years ago. god, the way you’re lookin’ at me right now—fuck. fuck. this is better than porn.”

you groan, hiding your face again. he just laughs and pulls your hands away, pinning them gently beside your head. “you’re not allowed to be shy now, babe,” he murmurs. “not after all that talk.” then, he grinds again—slow, hips rolling forward against your now-bare heat, his cock thick and hot through his jeans before he slowly push it off his legs, dragging perfectly along your slick folds, not in, not yet, just enough to make you whimper, thighs tightening around his hips.

you say his name and it breaks on your tongue, half a moan, half a warning. his mouth finds yours again, and it’s gentler this time, breathier, softer, like the kind of kiss you give someone after an argument, or a goodbye, or a promise. “this,” he whispers, between slow rolls of his hips, “is what they don’t get about missionary. it’s not boring.”

he kisses your cheek. your jaw. your throat.

“it’s close.”

he cups your breast with one hand, thumb brushing over your nipple until your back arches. “it’s eye contact.” he pushes the tip of his cock just barely against your entrance, just a tease, not even enough to press in, just the heat and pressure and promise, and it’s maddening. “it’s feelin’ every twitch you make.” his other hand cradles your face now, thumb brushing over your cheek, his eyes locked on yours.

“and when i finally fuck you—”

you tremble beneath him, fingers gripping his shoulders like you’re drowning.

“—you’re not gonna be able to look away.”

your breath catches. your lips part. your thighs shake.

and he’s still smiling, so slow, so patient, hips rocking against yours in a way that’s somehow sweeter than anything you’ve done with him before. “see?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “romance. just with more lube.”

his cockhead slides slick and hot along your folds—slow, teasing passes up and down the length of your pussy like he’s learning you by feel, like he’s savoring every tremble you can’t suppress. he doesn’t push in yet, just drags the tip lazily, catching your clit on the upstroke, smearing your slick over the flushed head with every patient, maddening grind. it’s warm and messy and obscene, his hips rolling slow, the weight of him heavy between your thighs, arms braced on either side of your head, body coiled but unhurried.

you’re breathing through your mouth now, lips parted, chest rising fast. his forehead’s still resting against yours, breath hot, both of you in this sticky, perfect moment suspended just before the fall. you lift one hand, threading your fingers into his hair—so soft, even now—and the other slips to the buttons of his shirt.

“i need—” you start, but don’t finish. he just nods.

you work the buttons open one by one, trembling fingers moving slow at first, then faster, frantic for skin. every button undone reveals more of him—long lines of lean muscle under smooth skin, flushed now, glowing in the golden halo of the fairy lights. his collarbones, his sternum, the subtle dip down the center of his chest, the way he moves above you with every breath—it’s fucking perfect. stupidly, unreasonably perfect.

your palms flatten against his chest, dragging down over the flex of his abs, feeling him shudder under your touch. he’s warm, a little sticky with sweat, skin like silk over steel. your nails graze his ribs and he gasps into your neck.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

“shut up and fuck me,” you breathe back, and it’s not even desperate—it’s reverent. his cock nudges against your entrance, hips rolling forward, and then he pushes. slow. impossibly slow. inch by inch, your pussy stretching around him, swallowing him, your breath caught in your throat as the fullness builds, thick and unbearable and perfect.

his forehead presses back to yours. his mouth drops open, eyes squeezed shut, groaning soft and hoarse like the pleasure hurts. you wrap your legs around his waist, pull him in deeper, your hands sliding up his back. your nails dig in—deep—carving red lines into the flex of his shoulder blades and down along his spine. he hisses against your lips, a sound that’s more pleasure than pain, hips stuttering.

“shit—baby—fuck—”

he bottoms out with a shaky grind of his hips, buried so deep inside you that you feel like you’ve been marked from the inside out. every twitch of him against your walls sends sparks up your spine. and he just stays there for a moment, not moving, breathing you in.

“you feel—” he tries, but then laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. “—i don’t have the words. you feel like heaven and punishment and fucking home.” your hands curl tighter into his back, your lips brushing his cheek as you whisper back, “i told you i was romantic.”

“you’re a fucking dream,” he whispers.

then his hips start to move.

his hips begin to move with the kind of slow, reverent rhythm that makes your throat tighten. like every inch he draws back is a silent apology, and every inch he pushes back in is a promise he’ll never leave. it’s not just sex—it's the ache of something bigger pressing down on both of you, thick in the air like incense, like heat, like the way his mouth brushes yours with every shallow thrust, not always kissing, just there, sharing breath, the smallest space between you charged and crackling.

you’re wrapped around him fully now—legs looped over his waist, hands tangled in the open cotton of his shirt that’s slipped halfway off his shoulders, your nails still painting invisible trails down his back. you can feel the burn where you scratched him raw, and he’s still groaning every time your nails dig a little deeper, like it feeds him, like he likes the proof of you on his body.

but it’s slow. fucking unbearably slow.

he’s not slamming into you like some desperate teenage fantasy. no—gojo is making love to you with the body of a sinner and the mouth of a man who knows every joke will hit harder with your cunt squeezing around his cock.

“you’re so fucking tight,” he murmurs against your lips, grinning through a groan, forehead still pressed to yours. “like—fuck, like you’re trying to keep me forever.” you whimper softly, one hand sliding into his hair, tugging at the roots just to feel him react. and he does, hips hitching slightly deeper, eyes fluttering shut as he pants against your cheek.

“that what this is?” he breathes. “romance as entrapment? mm—baby, if that’s what you’re after, you’ve got me.” he pulls out almost to the tip, dragging the ridge of his cockhead against your soaked entrance, then sinks back in slowly—too slowly—and you arch into him, breath catching with a soft, gasping moan.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice cracked. “listen to you.”

his hand slips between you now, palm flat against your stomach first, then lower, his fingers finding your clit like second nature, rubbing soft circles that match the slow grind of his hips. the pressure makes your thighs tighten around him, your hips canting upward, breath stuttering.

“so good,” you gasp, eyes fluttering. “satoru—fuck—don’t stop.”

“never,” he promises, eyes locked on yours now, wide and bright and open, not cocky this time, not laughing—just full of that stupid, terrifying sincerity he hides under every joke. “fuck, you feel so good. so soft. warm. like your pussy’s in love with me even if your mouth won’t say it yet.”

you let out a broken laugh, hands clutching his shoulders, your body moving with his now, rolling into every thrust, every tender rub of his fingers over your clit. “i hate you,” you whisper, dazed, overwhelmed, completely gone.

he grins, mouth brushing yours again. “no, you don’t.”

“i really do—”

“then why’s your cunt fluttering every time i say something romantic?”

you choke on a laugh that dissolves into a moan, and he kisses it off your lips, his thrusts picking up just barely—still slow, still deep, but with a heat that builds under your skin, spreading outward like a wave you know you won’t survive. “missionary,” he breathes, like he’s blessing you with the word. “best position in the world.”

“fuck you—”

“you are,” he laughs, cock twitching inside you. “you’re so fucking mine right now.”

you grab his face, pull him down into another kiss—sloppy, wet, real, all tongue and teeth and heat. he’s moaning into your mouth now, every roll of his hips drawing a whine out of your throat, every filthy little circle of his fingers making your stomach twist tight. “you’re not allowed to be good at this,” you manage to gasp between kisses. “oh, baby,” he pants, forehead pressed back to yours, cock grinding deeper, his voice dropping low and filthy. “you haven’t even seen me try yet.”

his hips drag deep and slow like he’s sculpting the inside of you with his cock, and you’re shaking beneath him—sweat-damp skin sliding against his, toes curled, fingers sunk into his back so hard you know you’ll leave scratches he’s going to brag about for weeks. gojo’s face is buried against your throat, his breath coming out in broken little groans, every sound pitched high and wrecked like he’s unraveling with you, held together by nothing but the rhythm of his thrusts and the heat blooming in your core.

you’re soaked around him, clenching every time he rolls his hips into you with that slow, relentless grind that drags the thick head of his cock across your sweetest spot just right, again and again. the slick sound of him fucking you fills the room, obscene and wet, echoing off the walls like music behind the ragged whimpering of your breath and his deep, shuddering groans.

your thighs twitch around his waist, your head thrown back against the pillows, mouth open, voice cracking as you moan, “fuck—fuck—satoru—i’m gonna—i can’t—fuck—”

“yes, baby,” he pants, voice completely shot, wrecked and desperate, every word punctuated by a thrust that goes just a little harder, a little deeper. “come on, i feel you—shit, you’re squeezing me so—fuck, come for me, baby, come on me, i wanna feel you break—”

your back arches and you scream—loud, raw, real—hands flying to his hair, tugging hard as your orgasm slams through you like a tidal wave, pussy fluttering around him, tight and hot and soaked. your entire body locks up, toes curling, thighs shaking violently as pleasure rips through you in sharp, electric pulses that have you gasping his name again and again—“satoru—satoru—fuckfuckfuck—oh my god—”

he’s losing it above you, losing his fucking mind, his cock twitching hard inside you as your walls milk him with every spasm. his forehead’s pressed to yours, mouth hanging open, breath coming in short, wrecked little moans—“f-fuck—oh fuck, baby, oh my god—your pussy’s choking me—gonna—gonna—i’m gonna—”

he slams into you one last time, hips jerking as he moans so loud right in your ear, deep and guttural and shaking with how hard he comes, cock throbbing as he spills inside you, filling you up, his whole body shuddering as he gasps, "oh fuck, yes—yesyesyes—oh my fucking god—yes."

you’re both panting, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms pulling him down, needing him close even as your bodies tremble against each other. his cock is still twitching inside you, your walls still fluttering with aftershocks, and he’s breathing your name like he’s worshipping it, forehead pressed to yours as he whispers, “that was—fuck—baby—i felt everything. you—you killed me.”

you laugh, hoarse and fucked-out, body buzzing like live wire. “missionary?” he pants, lips brushing yours. “best fucking position,” you gasp, still clenching around him, making him groan all over again.

he smiles. “god, i love being right.”

his body is still trembling against yours, muscles twitching under your hands as he slowly, reluctantly, starts to move again—like he’s not ready to let go of the feeling, like being buried in you with your legs locked around his waist is something he’d live inside if the world would just let him.

he’s panting into your neck, soft little exhales against your damp skin, and you can feel the shape of every breath, the way his chest stutters against yours like he’s still trying to come back to earth. and inside you, he’s still thick, still sensitive, every subtle squeeze of your cunt making him whimper.

you grin, dazed, half-dead, fully fucked out, dragging your nails up his back with gentle pressure now, tracing along the red welts you carved earlier like a painter admiring their masterpiece. “you’re leaking inside me,” you murmur, voice rough and slurred, hips shifting just enough to feel the warm, wet spill of him dripping down your thighs.

he groans, long and low, and lifts his head to look at you. his bangs are plastered to his forehead, eyes glassy and blown wide, lips swollen and parted as he breathes. there’s sweat at his temple, a flush high in his cheeks, and the expression on his face is somewhere between holy shit and i could marry you right now and cry doing it.

“you keep squeezing me like that, baby,” he says, voice shredded, “and i’ll give you another load without even moving.”

you laugh breathlessly, biting your lip, and he kisses you—messy, slow, full of tongue and heat and that unbearable sweetness that he only ever shows you in quiet moments like this. his hips roll forward just a little, and even though you’re both sensitive, you both moan, gasping against each other’s mouths.

“fuck,” you breathe, nails digging gently into his shoulder blades again. “you came so much, satoru.”

“‘course i did,” he pants, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies are still joined. he moves his hips in the slightest circle, still buried inside you, cock twitching, and watches your cunt flutter around him like it’s still begging for more.

“how could i not?” he continues, eyes wide, voice soft with shock. “you—you milked me. i didn’t even get to fuck you hard. you came and just took it from me. you robbed me. you’re a criminal.” you giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him back down into your chest. “you liked it.”

“i loved it,” he groans, pressing kisses to your collarbone, mouthing against your skin like he can’t stop. “missionary’s never gonna be the same. i’m gonna be useless. this pussy’s got emotional consequences.”

you snort, and he keeps talking like he’s possessed, rambling sweet and filthy things against your skin. “gonna write about this in my journal. not even a sex diary. just regular journal. ‘dear diary, the love of my life fucked me dumb in my own basement. i cried a little.’”

“you didn’t cry,” you say, even as you’re laughing again.

“not yet.”

you’re still full of him, and he’s still twitching inside you like he’s thinking about round two, and honestly—you are too. the room’s still glowing soft with the fairy lights. your bodies are stuck together with sweat and come and the kind of heat that doesn’t cool easy. your thighs are sticky around his hips. his fingers haven’t stopped stroking your side. you can hear your friends still laughing distantly from the living room, and none of it matters.

he presses his forehead to yours again, noses brushing. “you wanna go again?” he asks, voice soft now, full of a wicked little smile. “slow this time. slower than this.”

you blink at him.

“that was slow.”

he grins. “i can go slower.”

your breath catches, your body already aching in the best way.

“what, you gonna put on music and cry while you fuck me?”

“only if you want me to,” he whispers, and then kisses you again, tender and deep.

and god help you—you might.

after a few moments of so-called dramatic silence—it’s not, because gojo’s incapable of shutting up even post-orgasm—you finally sigh, drop your head back with a groan, and sit up on the edge of the bed, still dazed, still soaked, still trying to remember how to be a functioning human being. your thighs stick together when you shift. the air is thick with sex and sweat and that particular smugness that only gojo satoru can radiate like body heat.

meanwhile, he’s half-dressed and strutting around like a peacock that just won a dance battle. his jeans are back on—sloppily buttoned, zipper half-down, belt missing—and his shirt is absolutely not on because it’s somewhere across the room where he tossed it like a used napkin. he’s humming to himself as he pokes through the wreckage of the bed’s surroundings, eyes sparkling like he just found religion.

“where the hell did your bra go?” he mutters, pulling a sock off the lampshade and examining it like it might transform. “jesus, did i eat it?—oh, nope. got it. it was under my back.”

you groan again, arms folded across your chest, hair a tangled halo around your face, watching him with your chin tucked against your knees. “can you just—bring me my shirt before you go on another satoru soliloquy?���

“no can do, miss missionary evangelist,” he says, holding your crumpled shirt in one hand and dramatically placing your bra over his shoulder like a sash. “not until you publicly acknowledge that you were wrong and i, gojo satoru, bringer of orgasmic truth, proved—beyond reasonable doubt—that missionary is the best position known to mankind.”

you throw a pillow at him.

it hits his face, bounces off, and he keeps smiling.

“fine,” you mutter, reaching out as he steps in close. “yes. missionary with you, the stupidest man in our group, was good. amazing. disgustingly good.”

“romantic,” he corrects, kneeling in front of you now, the shirt falling from his hand onto your lap, the bra dangling from two fingers as he smirks up at you. “romantically stupid,” you clarify, grinning despite the embarrassment curling under your skin.

“they’re gonna die when they hear you let me make love to you like a Jane Austen adaptation,” he says, gently nudging your thighs apart so he can help you step into your underwear. “haibara’s gonna combust. shoko’s gonna stage an intervention.”

“shoko’s gonna accuse me of spiritual regression,” you say, lifting your hips so he can slide the fabric back over them. “and i’m gonna prove her wrong. i’m gonna look her in the eyes and tell her: ‘even doing missionary with the dumbest man i know, it was still the best.’ and you know what? i’m gonna mean it.”

gojo grins like the devil with a heart of gold.

“now that’s the kinda testimonial i wanna hear in a courtroom,” he says, fingers dragging slowly up your thighs, hooking your shorts next. “tell the jury, sweetheart. tell ‘em what it felt like.” you swat his shoulder, cheeks flushing again. “just help me put my bra on, casanova.”

he does—surprisingly gently, fingers cool against your back, hooking the clasp with practiced ease before pulling your shirt down over your head, smoothing the fabric over your hips like he’s dressing a doll he won in a fucked-up carnival game. and when he stands up again, you reach for his bicep, eyes catching on the faint red lines blooming just under the curve of his muscle.

your fingers trace one—long, angry, scabbed slightly already. the mark from your nails. from when you came so hard you clawed him like you were drowning in him. your breath catches a little.

“does that hurt?” you ask, voice low, thumb brushing it softer now.

he looks down at your hand. then at you.

and grins.

“hurt? no, baby. it’s proof.”

“proof of what? that i mauled you like a cat in heat?”

“proof that missionary ruins lives.” you choke on a laugh, and he throws his arms out dramatically, flexing the arm with the red lines like a trophy. “i’m gonna show everyone,” he says proudly. “i’m gonna walk out there and tell them: this? this was earned through slow, passionate, eye-contact-heavy fucking.”

you blink. “you’re gonna brag about being scratched during tender sex?”

“hell yes i am. this is a scarlet letter and i’m wearing it with pride.”

you bury your face in your hands.

“i’m gonna have to move cities.”

he leans down, kisses your hair, still giddy.

“no you’re not. you’re gonna go out there, sit on that couch, and smile smugly while they cry about how you got the good shit.”

“what, missionary?”

he winks. “romantic missionary.”

you shake your head, grabbing his hand to stand up with a sigh. your legs still tremble slightly, and he catches you with an arm around your waist. “we tell them,” he whispers in your ear, “but we don’t tell them everything.”

“deal.”

you walk out first, mostly because gojo insisted on dramatically opening the door for you like some fucked-up victorian husband escorting his blushing bride after the most sacred consummation of their union—which is rich, considering there was nothing sacred about what just happened unless you count the part where you saw god for a few seconds while pinned beneath the dumbest man in your life.

the moment the door creaks open, the silence is immediate and vicious. like the eye of a hurricane. the group sprawled across the living room snaps their heads toward the hallway in unison like a pack of wild animals smelling the aftermath of debauchery—and the look on their faces?

oh yeah. they know.

you’re glowing. not figuratively. literally. your skin’s flushed and gleaming with sweat, your shirt slightly off the shoulder, your lips swollen, your hair a disaster that no dry shampoo or dignity could save. a fresh constellation of hickeys blooms across your neck like you had a one-night stand with the concept of poor decision-making. you’ve got that post-sex daze in your eyes—the kind that says your soul left your body for twenty-seven minutes and came back softer.

and gojo?

gojo looks worse. or better, depending on how deranged your standards are.

shirtless. completely unbothered. jeans slung low like gravity’s trying to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and failing. his hair’s a wild mess, fluffed and chaotic, the way it always gets when you’ve pulled it hard—and oh, you did. his face is pink and flushed, lips bitten, pupils blown, and he’s got this grin, this absolutely illegal, felony-level smug grin, like he just won a championship no one else knew they were playing.

his back and arms are fucking wrecked. scratch marks everywhere. some long and shallow, others deep and angry, crisscrossing like tally marks on a prison wall. his biceps? ruined. shoulders? decorated. lower back? absolutely mauled. he’s walking like a man who survived the trenches and wants everyone to know it. he’s not even pretending to be humble.

you both step into the room and immediately—

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO—” haibara lets out a guttural scream like he’s witnessing a murder. he drops the pool cue he wasn’t even holding right and clutches his face. “you look—he looks—i didn’t even know backs could bruise like that,” utahime says, pointing, voice somewhere between horrified and hysterical.

shoko slowly sits up straighter, blinking at your neck, her eyes narrowing as she catalogues the damage. “that’s… impressive. Disgusting, but impressive.” geto whistles low, lounging on the couch with his legs crossed like he’s the judge in a porno talent show. “is that a bite on your collarbone? did you actually leave teeth marks?”

gojo throws an arm around your shoulder like a victorious war hero returning home, full of glory and sin and not a shred of guilt. “ladies,” he says, voice hoarse and soaked in self-satisfaction, “gentlemen. sluts of all genders. i am here to confirm that romantic missionary is not dead.”

you smack his chest but don’t move away.

you’re already laughing, breathless, flushed, and shameless. “even with him,” you announce to the room, lifting your chin, “missionary is still the best position. maybe the best I’ve ever had.”

dead silence.

and then the couch erupts.

haibara throws a pillow at you so hard it ricochets and hits nanami in the face. utahime screams. shoko collapses backward, legs kicking, full-body laughing like a woman betrayed. geto claps slow and dramatic, head shaking. “you’ve broken her,” shoko howls, “she’s gone, she’s converted. next she’ll say handholding’s hot!”

“it is,” gojo says, absolutely delighted. “you’re a slut,” utahime says, pointing at you, but her voice is grinning. “every position is the best for you. you could get railed in a dentist chair and you’d moan about how it’s your new favorite.”

“i’m versatile,” you say proudly, flicking your hair like it isn’t a crime scene. “you’re deranged,” nanami mutters, finally lifting his head just to sip something dangerously amber. “no, no, wait,” haibara gasps, pointing at gojo. “he still doesn’t have a shirt on. why doesn’t he have a shirt on? is that blood? IS THAT BLOOD?”

“scratches, sweetheart,” gojo coos, turning around like a model showing off his back to the judges. “proof of passion. her nails did all this. i am but a humble canvas.”

“he moaned when i did it,” you add, deadpan.

shoko screams into a cushion.

“i need bleach for my eyes,” utahime mutters. geto nods solemnly. “i knew missionary would be the one to take you down. i didn’t think it would actually work.”

gojo slumps dramatically into the couch, dragging you with him, arms still around your waist like he can’t let go now that he’s ruined you emotionally and spiritually. he kisses your temple with obnoxious affection, legs spread wide like a man proud of the ruin he left behind.

“this,” he says, motioning to his face, “is the face of a man who made love and won.” you lean back against his chest, sighing like a satisfied villain. “and this is the face of a woman who has no regrets.”

utahime flings her slipper across the room.

“take your slutty love story and get the fuck out.” and all you can do is laugh, tangled with the man who made missionary feel like a religious experience, glowing like a filthy miracle, while your friends spiral in the wake of your post-sex enlightenment.

the scene that follows is nothing short of a cinematic meltdown, a group mental collapse broadcast in full color under the low glow of gojo’s cursed mood lighting. the basement already reeked of weed and spilled cheap whiskey, but now it’s thick with the stench of defeat. your victory. his absolute, unapologetic, shirtless triumph.

gojo leans back into the couch like he owns the fucking place—well, he does, technically, but now it’s like he owns the narrative, the mythos. his arms spread over the back of the cushions, one dangling casually behind your shoulders, the other resting across your thigh like a hand claiming territory. he’s not even pretending to put his shirt back on anymore. it lies somewhere in the corner, forgotten, like decency itself. his chest gleams with sweat and scratches. his hair looks like a bird tried nesting in it during the act. and he smiles.

that dumb, cocky, post-sex smile like he just unlocked a new religion and you’re the first disciple.

you’re still glowing. cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, shirt stretched from being pulled halfway over your head at one point and now just barely covering the constellation of hickeys painted from your neck to your collarbone. you look like you just committed a crime and are so proud of the mugshot.

“it wasn’t just good,” you declare, fingers lazily adjusting your hair with all the grace of a slutty war general. “it was enlightenment. i saw god and she winked at me.”

“was she into missionary too?” geto asks, eyes squinting as he exhales smoke through his nose.

“she invented it,” you say solemnly.

shoko’s lost in the corner of the couch, one sock off, one sock on, a throw blanket over her head as she moans, “i am going to exorcise this entire night from my memory. i am going to bleach my soul.” utahime looks at you, then gojo, then you again, pointing a trembling finger as she says, “the worst part is you’re not even ashamed. you’re not even pretending.”

“what is there to be ashamed of?” gojo grins, tilting his head and stretching his legs out like a lounge chair with a heartbeat. “i made her come with eye contact and emotional intimacy. you’re welcome.”

“you did not make me cry,” you say through your teeth, blushing all over again.

he just hums and presses a kiss to your temple.

“you wanted to cry.”

“you literally told me you’d fall in love with me if i kept clenching.”

“and did you?” he raises an eyebrow.

you flick his nipple. he gasps like a scandalized housewife.

“anyway,” you sigh dramatically, like you didn’t just have your soul rearranged missionary style by a man who can’t name five vegetables, “i stand by it. even with gojo. especially with gojo. missionary is the best position ever.”

haibara’s curled up in the fetal position on the beanbag, face buried in a throw pillow, groaning loud enough to qualify as a siren. “i hate this timeline. i hate this dimension.”

“you’re all just mad it wasn’t you,” gojo chirps.

“no one wants to do missionary with you!” utahime shouts.

“she did,” he says smugly, nudging you with his knee.

“she’s a slut!” shoko yells from beneath the blanket. “every position is the best for her! she’d say reverse piledriver is romantic if you called her ‘sweetheart’ while doing it!”

you shrug unapologetically. “what can i say? i value connection.”

“you value getting railed while someone holds your hand,” nanami deadpans, not even looking up from the book he inexplicably pulled out sometime during this hellish conversation.

“yes, and?”

“honestly?” geto exhales smoke, eyes thoughtful. “it’s kind of poetic.”

“oh don’t you start,” utahime groans.

gojo tucks his chin over your shoulder now, holding you close, his voice a warm hum in your ear. “i’m gonna write a manifesto. ‘missionary for the modern man: an erotic treatise.’ subtitle: with love, and balls-deep penetration.”

you start laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch.

“you’re insane,” you say, wheezing.

“i’m revolutionary,” he murmurs, planting a kiss just behind your ear. “i’m a pioneer. i’m the christopher columbus of tender fucking.”

“he committed genocide,” you say.

“okay,” gojo says, thoughtful, “then i’m the neil armstrong of romantic nut.”

“you didn’t discover the moon, satoru,” nanami says flatly.

“maybe she’s my moon,” gojo murmurs, dramatically clutching his chest, “and i left my footprints all over her surface.”

you grab a throw pillow and smack him in the face.

he catches it, kisses it, throws it back.

your friends are all either screaming, sobbing, or plotting your deaths.

but you?

you’re smiling.

and glowing.

and still a little sore in the best fucking way.

[matcha3mochi]

PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

chapter 1 | chapter 2

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t��disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then���

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

[saratalksaboutdesign]

Edelgard is possibly one of the best character designs that the Fire Emblem franchise has to offer. Particularly her War arc design.

The cape gives her a silhouette that makes her appear much greater in size despite being one of the shortest characters in the game. The white inside layer of the cape helps accentuate her figure in a way that makes her appear more mature, and when combined with the regal golden accents spread throughout, plus the black high heel boots. It makes her a truly intimidating figure to witness, fitting of her military prowess and political status as the emperor of her nation.

The bright red, which in her original academy uniform was used as a secondary color, has expanded to her entire outfit. Originally, I liked interpreting this as a metaphorical embrace of the blood stains she would be covered by, both in the battlefield and in the public's eye as the one who started the war. But politically speaking, red is a very charged color. It's the color of socialism, the left, and more importantly, it's the color of revolution. Once again, very fitting for the character that wants to tear down the current class system.

The golden horns are a detail that, along with the red, visually tie her to the devil. A sensible design choice to give to the enemy of the church and one that also helps further de-humanize her in the eyes of the player who is playing any other route besides hers.

All in all, a solid 10/10 design. But the real cherry on top that elevates this design into one of the greatest of all time is one small final detail that the player can't even see in game, but is revealed in the art book.

A heart-shaped hole in the back of her dress, concealed under her imperial cape.

In spite of her duty as the heir to the throne, her revolutionary beliefs, and this persona of a heartless, monstrous villainess she has adopted... Underneath it all, there is still a beating heart, one that she has tried her very hardest to keep hidden from the world, as to avoid the temptation to ever turn her back on anyone who could betray her, as to not show weakness in a world full of hardships and social injustice.

I would have loved to see this part of her design somehow included in any scene within the game, but at the same time, I find it deeply meaningful and tragic that you never actually see Edelgard's exposed heart while playing the game, precisely, because she never takes off that royal cape —a literal heavy weight on her shoulders with the symbol of her country embeded on top of the exact same spot where her dress opens— and instead, you can only really observe this detail once it's put outside the context of the story.

Truly, an amazing piece of storytelling through character design.

[revelboo]

I wanna check up on our titanic space bot husband and the medic the Reader pulled

🤣 Ratchet being the last one to realize he’s in a relationship. 🔞 🌶️

Helping Hand

Metroplex x Reader

• Servos trembling faintly as you arch, head thrown back against his shoulder, Ratchet tries to keep you supported. And to not stare. How did the two of you talk him into this? Into acting as a spotter for you while the Titan tries to breed you? If you’d been another Titan, Metroplex wouldn’t need any help claiming you. Or figuring out how to reconfigure a connection node into a spike. That you’re rocking yourself on as Ratchet helps support you, listening to your moans as Metroplex’s tendrils coil about you, needle fine filaments tapping into your nervous system. Connecting you to your huge mate.

• Writhing as Metroplex’s servos tighten on your hips, you ride his spike. Aware of the very distinct split. That you’re linked to him, here with him registering every sensation just like any time you connect to a node. And that your body is being held by Ratchet as you rut mindlessly on that spike Metroplex has shifted a node to become. Metroplex’s mouth sliding against yours as you two tangle together, moving urgently. Ratchet venting to stir your hair, his hands cupping your hips. Keeping watch to make sure you don’t accidentally hurt yourself lost in the dream.

• Shifting his interior, lifting the ground under you and the medic, Metroplex hears your little whimper as you come apart for him. Tightening on his spike, the sensation as real as if you were taking his actual spike. Tendrils wrapping you a little tighter, strengthening that connection, he overloads, filling you in excess. And he hears Ratchet swear, leaning back while keeping you supported as Metroplex’s spark arcs to find and claim you. The connection intensifying as you arch with a cry. All of you spilling into him, the two of you becoming so entangled, it’s hard to tell where he ends and you begin. Coaxing you to let him spark you.

• Shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be witnessing this intimacy. Feeling you trembling as you bond with your mate. Trusting him to have you, protect you. Metroplex’s node-spike still buried inside you as the Titan’s biolights pulse. Those fine filaments connecting you to the Titan, embedded inside you as your thighs tremble. Hearing Metroplex’s excess making a soft, wet sound as it drips on the ground under you. And one of your hands slide, fumbles and finds his on your hips. Grabs his hand as you toss your head back against his shoulder, moving restlessly in the grip of Metroplex’s spark. That light unnervingly close, making his field go crazy with the need to get away, to not accidentally touch it. It’s a relief when the Titan finally releases you from his spark, when those tendrils pull free and he can lift you free of Metroplex’s node-spike.

• Legs shaky, you feel Ratchet swing you up into his arms as Metroplex puts his interior to rights. Pleasantly warm and a little sore, you lay your cheek against the medic as he carries you to your home inside Metroplex and eases you down in your bed. “I still don’t know why you couldn’t have used a drone to do this,” Ratchet grumbles and Metroplex makes a low humming sound all around you. ‘I could have,’ your mate agrees to make you smile as you curl into your pillows, an eye open to see Ratchet’s flustered, annoyance. Still fighting you both for now.

[rubyin-wonderland]

Princess

opla!Zoro x princess!reader

Summary: what happens when the crown princess is in love with the king's favorite bounty hunter?

WC: 6.4k

Warnings/tags: arranged marriage, blood/injuries, reader gets called princess so much, poisoning

You sat in your room, looking aimlessly around for something to ground you. You had known this was going to happen, but it still hurt.

Around your finger was a cold metal ring, embedded with gorgeous jewels and decorated with delicate silver detailing, a masterpiece of jewelry, and yet it made you feel hollow. An empty gesture. The real importance was for your parents. Hopefully, marrying the crown princess off to a duke from the eastern territories would quell the rebellions beginning in the east.

The announcement was set for the next day, which was why you waited in your room, wide awake with your window open. You were waiting for a visitor.

You had no idea if he was even on the island. Due to the secrecy of the relationship most communication was out of the question but he would have visited you if he could. You could only hope that his intuition led him to you that night.

The night breeze blew the gauzy curtains gently into your room, waving like sullen flags when the wind was bad. You finally decided to stand from your bed, dressed in your light nightgown, which flowed in the breeze similarly to your curtains.

Out on the balcony, you breathed in the fresh air, accented with the smell of the vines and flowers that had climbed up the walls to decorate your railing. You buried your face in your hands, elbows resting on the cold stone railing.

"I'm sorry." You said to the air. The man you had wished to speak this apology to was absent, but you needed to say it. It was your fault for not acting on your impulses earlier. Forfeiting the crown, announcing that you wished to move to a democratic system of governing, any of your ideas throughout your life that would get you banished from this world of micromanagement and pain.

"What's wrong?" The simple question made you jolt up, withdrawing a small blade from under your nightgown, holding it out at the intruder.

To your relief, or perhaps to your detriment, there was no assassin sitting on your balcony, ready to strike you dead. Instead, there stood a man you had spent more than enough nights with, whose name made you blush when it was occasionally brought up during dinners and social gatherings.

Your father's unofficial bounty hunter. Roronoa Zoro. The green-haired man was a regular, as there was always someone who needed to be hunted down and killed for their allegiance and work for the rebels. He was the best of the best. Some likened his work to that of a demon. You hardly cared about his bloody reputation. Not when he was the one you truly wished you were engaged to.

You had spent many a night in his presence, after an impromptu meeting during a meal with your father, in which the latest rebel was presented at your father's feet in exchange for a sum of money that anybody would go for.

You were the one who called upon him first, asking him to visit your balcony at night, offering him a pair of your finest earrings in exchange for him to threaten a man who had been found sneaking into the castle late at night, in an attempt to confess his love for you and to ask for your hand in marriage.

Of course, the job was done, but for some reason, he returned. Every time he dealt with your father, he would visit you, and it was soon enough that you found yourself liking him, which was good for him, considering the only reason he kept returning to this kingdom was to visit you, although there was usually a preceding murder that had to happen in order for him to justify being there.

Your relation had grown to intense levels, and soon, the two of you had a plan. You would forfeit the crown, or disappear, or whatever it took to get you out of being royalty, then the two of you would acquire a boat, and sail away, free to live together in eventual married bliss.

The nights he spent with you rejuvenated you to a point that almost every servant in the castle was aware that something was afoot between the two of you, and could tell when he had made a visit. None of them said anything however, fearing the wrath of both you and him separately.

Tonight did not encourage the same feelings of rejuvenation. Instead, there was dread. Low, in the pit of your stomach, staining the usually happy feeling you felt when he visited.

"Zoro. Thank god." You felt like you were going to start crying. "Don't thank god, thank the man who burned his neighbors house down and went missing last week."

"Zoro." He walked forwards, his signature three blades sitting on his hip, arms carefully wrapping around you. "I missed you too, princess." You returned the hug, the pit in your heart growing deeper and darker for every second you spent keeping the secret from him.

Your face buried itself into the crook of his neck, where you began to cry. Tears fell down your face, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, your finger bearing the offending ring in plain sight for you, but still unseen to him.

"It's okay. I've only been gone two weeks. That's nothing for us." He reassured, rubbing your back as your cries drowned in his shoulders.

As you continued to sob, Zoro recognized that there was something off. This was not your reaction to missing him. In fact you never cried. Something was very wrong. He continued to keep you in his embrace as your cries continued.

Eventually, your sobs slowed, and you found yourself detaching from him, seeing a worried look in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" He asked, hands moving up, one on your shoulder, the other moving up to wipe a tear as it slowly dripped down your cheek.

"I'm sorry." Was all you could say, feeling powerless and hollow. Everything was dim. "What are you sorry for?" He asked, leading you inside and sitting you down on your bed.

On the bed, your fingers dug into the fluffy blankets, the soft mattress caving under your touch.

You stayed still, trying not to shake as you delivered the news. "Zoro, I'm engaged."

At first, he didn't seem to be able to process it. He stayed unmoving for a while, as if he was expecting you to say something else. To confess that you refused or your fiance had been killed only minutes after the proposal. His eyes scanned your hands, locking on the delicate silver band, and he took a deep breath.

"Okay." He said, voice level. You wanted to throw up. "I don't want to be with him. My parents want it, not me. They think it will cease the rebellions, but it'll just stir up more tension. I hate him, I promise you I wouldn't go through with this if I didn't have to."

"Hey." His voice was stern. You silenced yourself quickly, looking up at him. "I know you don't want it. You've said it before a million times." "I'm sorry, I should have done something sooner." You pleaded. "Stop."

You took a breath, bunching up the fabric of your nightgown in your fists. Zoro rubbed your back, allowing you to sit in the silence of the night, processing everything.

"Has a date been set?" Zoro asked. You shuddered. "No. But it'll be fast. I know it will." You buried your face in your hands.

Zoro stood up, looking out your window. "Then run away."

You nearly choked. "What?" "You don't have to do this. We can run away. Tonight. Say the word and we'll leave this place behind."

Something stopped you from shouting yes and letting him hold you until everything was better. Something always did.

"Nothing is holding you here. There's plenty of contenders for the throne, most of them competent, you'll be free." "But my parents will be furious."

Zoro straightened up, looking the very epitome of the strong husband he had promised you he would be. "They'll never see you again. I know how to hunt, but I also know how to hide. They'll never find you. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"I can't." "Why?" "I don't know!" You started crying again. "I spent my whole life working towards this, I can't just leave. Everything my parents did for me would be useless."

Zoro walked towards you, kneeling in front of you. "You won't have to worry about that. I'll make sure of it. You just have to be with me. Trust me. We can leave and you won't have to marry someone you don't want to. You won't have to rule a land you don't want to rule. I promise, you're safe with me." He reached a hand to cup your cheek.  "You don't have to be unhappy."

You covered the hand he placed on your cheek with your own, a shaky breath rattling your body. "I want to leave." You removed the ring and set it on your nightstand. "Let's go." You whispered, and he was already set in motion. "I have a boat waiting at the docks." You heaved a sigh of relief and began to pack. You shoved your favourite dresses into a bag, taking some jewelry as well, planning to sell it at the markets for some extra cash.

Zoro watched the process carefully. He still wondered how he had become so enamoured by you. You, who had approached him with two gorgeous earrings worth incredible amounts of money to scare, not kill, someone. He had never been ordered to let someone live. It was a strange thing, to leave a victim behind, but it was merciful. And in a way, he liked it.

And when you spoke to him next, you did not demand more from him. No head for your wall, no frightening services. You just thanked him for his work and began talking. Asking about him, listening, caring. You drew him in, like a fisherman with their catch. And he couldn't help but hope your kingdom would need his assistance again.

He took your bag from you, heavy with jewel encrusted fabrics. "Zoro, I can carry it." "Let me help." He insisted. "Unless you know how to climb all the way down from here, I'll take it."

You sighed, allowing him to help you down, guiding your movements from below you as you cautiously scaled the wall. By the end, your arms and legs were shaking, exhausted at the effort put into not falling.

You spent most of your secret meetings with Zoro wandering the deserted halls of the castle at night, or he would carry you down the wall of your balcony to run around town.

Unfortunately with your bag in his possession, he could not carry you, leaving you mostly to your own devices. A learning experience, to prepare you for a future outside of the protection of the crown.

"Jump!" He ordered, voice silenced significantly in the night. "I'll catch you."

You were not one to trust. A life of assassins and political bargains had prepared you for betrayal. And yet, you trusted him. He was stable ground. He fought off the assassins and he listened to your complaints about the politics of your world, although he could offer no advice nor amendments.

Hearing his order for you to jump startled you a bit. You were not a particularly big fan of heights, and jumping was not exactly a good idea to you, as weak as your arms and legs were.

But you trusted him. He had kept you safe for so long, it would be of no use to lead you astray now. As if he would ever lead you astray in the first place.

You obeyed his command, steeling yourself for the drop, and letting go of the wall, falling the last little bit, landing safely in his arms, freed from the walls of the castle.

He led you through the darkened city, guiding you by holding your hand.

You kept looking back, for whatever reason, wondering how long it would take for them to realize you were missing and set off the alarms.

Would they know when you didn't answer the maids coming in to dress you? When you didn't attend breakfast? When you were missing from the public announcement of your engagement?

As you walked, you kept your head down. The servants would certainly know who you had gone with. They were addicted to gossip, and you could hardly blame them. The only question was if they would tell your father that his precious daughter and heir to the throne had been engaged in a scandalous romance with a bounty hunter for years under his nose.

Your thoughts broke off when there was a sudden eruption of noise behind you. Shouting, loud and panicked, echoing off the buildings in the streets, a clamour as people were awoken by the disturbance.

Zoro pulled you into the nearest alley as a guard rode by on horseback, yelling.

"The princess is missing from her bedchambers!" He shouted, multiple other cried echoing through the streets. "Her belongings are missing! Anyone found in possession of anything pertaining to the princess is to be executed at sunrise unless the princess is returned!"

The cries rang out in the darkness, and you resisted the urge to panic. They had discovered your escape before you had reached the docks, before you had found a boat, before anything else could be set in motion.

Zoro held you against his chest, and you found yourself instinctively wrapping your arms around his waist, clinging to Zoro in the small space between the two buildings, head down. There was a strong urge to shove him away, revealing yourself and hopefully keeping Zoro out of the vengeful eyes of your father.

"The docks will be shut down." You warned. "They'll search every boat." You mumbled into his chest, breaths now short and staggered.

"I said I'd get you out of here. I will." Zoro sighed, stepping out of the alley. You didn't want to let go of him. "Zoro, please, I'll go back."

He shook his head. "Continue to the docks. Stay hidden. I'll find you." He unwrapped your arms from around him. "Zoro, I-" "Stop. Go to the docks."

You wanted to hold onto him and never let go. You wanted to never be separate from him ever again. And yet you had to let go. You had to run.

He ran out into the street and you stayed in the alley, walking until you reached another street. A hasty look up and down the road slowly accumulating more and more people as they woke up, having heard the calls to action.

You passed by without anyone noticing, head down, disappearing down another alley, determined to pass by undetected.

Miraculously enough, you managed to make it all the way down to the docks without being noticed, as more and more people flooded into the streets, causing a commotion.

You hid in the shadows of two seaside buildings, wondering where Zoro was.

You peeked your head out of the alley, hoping to see Zoro, but you were pulled back by the neck of your nightgown.

You suppressed a yelp as an arm wrapped around your body, pulling you backwards, your arms pinned to your sides. "Not so fast, princess." The word was bitter on the man's tongue and you resisted the urge to call out for Zoro, to beg him to save you.

Your fiance tightened his grip around your body, pulling you deeper into the darkness. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but it's done now." He insisted. "You understand me? We're going back to the castle, and we are going to marry."

You begged for Zoro to know that you were suffering. That you had been discovered. You could not cry for him.  Not when he had your jewels on him. You would be found out and he would be executed in front of you. You couldn't have that.

"You're lucky I don't want to make a scene." A threatening whisper.

"Let her go." The request came from behind you and you were spun around, facing Zoro, his swords drawn.

"I wouldn't be so careless, bounty hunter. You and the princess have been secretive enough for the King and Queen, but I've noticed. And so have the staff. I would sooner see the both of us dying than return the princess to you."

You tried to reach your hidden knife without setting the Duke off, but it was proving difficult, shifting uncomfortably in his grasp.

"Leave her alone. I'm the one you want to fight." Zoro ordered. "No, bounty hunter. I don't want to fight at all. I will be taking the princess home, and her captor, the treacherous bounty hunter, who had worked for the king himself, will be caught and dealt with swiftly. That is how this will end, if you love her enough to keep her alive. Else you'll be charged with her murder."

Zoro looked at you, trying to gauge how you were doing. You grasped at the handle of your blade, eyes begging Zoro to keep him distracted for one second longer.

"And if I don't? If I save my own skin?" Zoro asked, buying you the slightest amount of time. "Then you can live your miserable life alone. I hardly care once you're away from her."

You fixed your grip on the handle of your knife and removed it quickly, digging it into the meat of the Duke's thigh, making him release you, falling backwards. The second he let go, you ran to Zoro, who pulled you behind him, where you were safe. "Good job princess." He praised as the Duke stood up.

"Help! I found her!" The Duke shrieked suddenly. "It's the king's bounty hunter! He attacked me! He's taking her!"

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and Zoro quickly sheathed his swords.

"Come on." He urged, tugging you away from the scene. "We need to hide."

You ran, the Duke's screams piercing the night, directing your father's soldiers to you and your love.

"Where are we gonna go?" You asked as the two of you reached the outskirts of the city. "Just trust me princess. I've been in much more trouble than this."

He led you into the woods, though in the dark it was hard to find your way.

"Zoro? Do you know where you're going?" You asked, holding on tight to his hand as he guided you through the woods, warning you of upcoming roots poking up into your path.

"It's going to be okay princess, I promise." He avoided answering you directly, and you wondered if he knew how suspicious he sounded. "That's not reassuring Zoro." You grumbled as you shifted through the trees.

"I've got this." Despite your reservations, you followed Zoro dutifully. In the moonlight, you made your way through the woods, every unknown sound making you flinch. The guards were surely working through the forest too. Who knew how close they were.

The walk was long, and your legs ached, but you refused to voice a complaint.

"How much longer?" You asked cautiously. "Are you tired?" Zoro asked. "No." A lie. He could hear the tremble in your voice.

"We can rest." He stopped walking, allowing you to sit down. "For now."

You leaned back against a tree, the rough bark pressing against your head.

"I'll keep watch." He said stiffly, vigilant.

"Sit with me." You requested. He frowned. "How am I supposed to keep watch if I'm sitting with you?"

You huffed. "Where's the Zoro who lets me sleep on him?" You pouted slightly, massaging your aching leg muscles.

"He's waiting on the boat." Zoro said, crouching next to you. "Now rest."

You closed your eyes and tried your best, but you were unable to fall asleep. It was only when you felt Zoro's arms wrapping under you, picking you up and running like hell that you snapped back to vigilance.

"What's going on?" You dared to ask. "They found us. Shh." He hushed you as he ran, managing to avoid hitting your head against low branches.

You looked up at Zoro, looking back to see if he was still being followed.

He slowed to a stop and after a while, let you down, though you missed the cradle of his arms and he felt bare without you pressed against him.

"I can try to draw them away." He suggested but you stopped him immediately, a death grip on his arm. "Don't leave me again." Your hand clutched his arm. "Don't you dare leave me again."

He nodded wordlessly. "Are we close? To wherever we're going?" You asked, looking around the still forest. "Yes." The way he said it betrayed his word. He was lost. "Zoro-" "I promised to get you out. I'm keeping that promise."

He led you forward. "You won't have to go back. Even if it costs me my life, you won't go back." "Please don't cost your life. I like you too much."

You followed him, the long night stretching out ahead like the forest around you. At daybreak, after hours of walking, when the sun was just peeking over the horizon, the trees parted, revealing a sandy beach.

On the shore, there was a boat, perfect for two people to travel in, sailing away from all that had come before and starting anew.

Unfortunately, there was an obstacle.

Four guards stood at the boat, waiting for the owner of the vessel to show himself, and likely to reveal the location of the princess.

Zoro swore as he saw the guards. "What do we do Zoro?" You asked, hand finding your dagger.

He had gifted that dagger to you. You had told him far too many stories about attempted assassinations that he had purchased the blade for you, easily concealed under any clothes and with a little training, you had learned how to wield it quite well.

"Take this." Zoro handed you your bag, full of your dresses and jewels. He had no need for them without you.

"Stay here." He ordered. "Only come out when it's safe." "Zoro, please don't leave me." "I'm not. You'll be able to see me the entire time. Come out when it's safe."

He separated from you and despite everything telling you to stay close to him, you let him go, hovering by the treeline

He walked along the treeline, away from you before walking out onto the beach, exposing himself.

Two guards split off from the boat, rushing Zoro. He responded by unsheathing his swords. You watched from afar as he fought off the two guards, the other two guards coming forward as backup. He swiftly disposed of them, but there was another problem.

Several more guards dashed out from the woods, surrounding Zoro, the group led by a limping Duke.

Each guard was equipped with a gun. Zoro could not fight them off before a bullet was planted in his skull.

Your legs moved before you even ordered them to, running onto the beach, screaming at the Duke.

"Hold your fire!" You yelled, stumbling on the sand. The guards had to follow your orders over the Duke's.

"Ah, my bride." The Duke said, false worry coming over his face. "I was so worried about you!"

He approached you, hands settling on your arms, a loving gesture, if you were dumb enough to believe his act.

"Let him go. I'll return to the castle." You shrugged the Duke's hands away. "Yes you will. But he's not going free."

"I ordered him to take me away. His only crime was following the instructions of a princess. Let him go. I'll come back willingly."

"No." Zoro growled.

"He's going to be captured no matter what. Blame needs to be placed on someone." The Duke sighed, pretending this development was disheartening to him, though you knew it was anything but.

"He will be tried for your kidnapping. Your protests will be seen as a result of manipulation from him. It's nice to think you thought you had any luck of power in this situation. Alas."

"Bastard." You spat. "Indeed. Come on my love, this little bout of cold feet will be over soon." He wrapped his arm around your waist, trying to pull you away from the scene.

Zoro reacted first, furiously lunging forward, and a gunshot rang out.

You watched in horror as a red spot spread across Zoro's side. He winced and you tore yourself from the Duke's hold, shoving through the circle of guards, grabbing Zoro as his leg gave up, falling to his knee.

"Which of you shot?" You shouted at the circle of guards. "Which of you did this?"

You hovered protectively over Zoro. The Duke sighed loudly. "Remove the princess from the brute. She's in hysterics."

You felt yourself being pulled off Zoro, dragged away. You kicked and flailed until the butt of a gun was pressed against Zoro's temple. You went limp. "Stop! I'll go back!" You gasped, standing up straight. With a sickening feeling spreading in your gut, you faced the Duke. "Let's go back to the castle." You felt a lump in your throat as you addressed him. "My love."

You could hear Zoro's protests as you were taken away. You risked one look back at him, to see him being dragged away by the guards, eyes never straying from you.

Your return to the castle was heralded as a heroic act by the Duke, and your captor was sent to the dungeon, an execution date was to be set as soon as possible.

You refused to leave your room. You did so only once, to try sneaking down to the dungeons once.

You were not permitted entry. The Duke had recommended that you not be allowed to enter in case seeing your captor set you off.

One of the servants stayed on your side. When your meal was delivered, he lingered. "The bounty hunter is alive. They're letting him heal for the execution."

You thanked him, not feeling any better about your situation.

Two dates were decided within the following week. The execution of the famed bounty hunter would happen at the end of the month, the day after would be your wedding to the Duke.

You had fourteen days to make your escape and take Zoro with you.

The night the decision had been mad when you were served dinner, the servant lingered. "You have a message from the dungeon." He said timidly. "He says he loves you. And not to worry about him. He's had worse."

You could practically hear Zoro's voice reassuring you. "Thank you. Can you tell him I'm going to get him out of there?" The servant nodded.

The first four days were for planning. You knew now how to scale the castle walls. And you could communicate through the servant boy.

On the fourth night, you asked the servant boy which cell Zoro was hidden away in. When you snuck down that night, you found the overgrown hedges that obscured the dungeon windows from view. You allowed the prickly branches of the bushes to scratch at you. You crawled carefully to the bars of the cell the servant had told you about.

"Zoro?" You whispered into the dim room. There was a shuffling noise, before Zoro's face appeared at the bars, brow furrowed.

"What are you doing?" He asked, clearly surprised to see you. "I'm making sure you're okay, you idiot." You hissed at him.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his hand reaching up and through the bars, cupping your face through the window. You missed his touch. "Yeah I'm fine. Are you okay? You got shot." He nodded. "It's fine. It hardly hurts. They took my swords though."

"I'll get them back for you, I promise. I'll get you out and we'll never have to go through this again. I have a plan."

Zoro just pressed as close to the bars as possible, capturing your lips in a kiss. It was as if your world exploded. You had missed him so much, worrying about him nonstop. You kissed back, despite the cold metal trying to separate you from him.

"I missed you." You said quietly when you parted from him. "You'll never have to miss it again."

Your hand snaked through the bars, catching the back of his neck. "Listen. I need you to cooperate. Don't do anything risky. Stay safe. Please. I love you." "I love you too."

You pulled away from him, sighing. "I need to go back. I'll see you tomorrow."

He nodded. "I believe in you."

You climbed back up to your room, just in time for the Duke to check on you, a mandatory requirement ever since your disappearance.

He seemed satisfied with your presence, wishing you a good night and leaving.

Your plan began preparations over the next few days. You went into town to set up some arrangements. The purchase of a boat that could comfortably fit two people as a "honeymoon gift", and obtaining a small vial of poison from the apothecary for "protection".

You visited the armory, noting that three katanas were new additions to the collection of gilded weapons. They would have to be retrieved during your escape.

Every day you set up more and more of your plan, and every night you visited Zoro at his window, a reverse of the dynamic you had crafted over your years together.

You noted that there was tension in his voice. You had not asked further about the bullet wound, but you could tell he was still hurt. You made a mental note to sneak medical supplies onto your escape boat.

"The plan's almost ready." You said quietly one night, laying down in front of the window, looking through the bars at Zoro. "I'll get you out of there." He kissed you through the tiny space. "Of course you will." His hand reached through, caressing your cheek. "It's going to feel so good to hold you again." You held his hand. "Only a few more days. I love you." "I love you too."

The night before Zoro's execution, your plan was enacted.

An hour after you went to bed, you slipped out, telling the guard at your door that you could not sleep and wanted a glass of water.

He followed you as you walked through the halls, trembling with the anxiety of what you had to do. You walked into the kitchen, left quiet for the night, and whirled on the guard, slapping a handkerchief soaked in poison over his mouth. You held it in place for a short while, but he was experienced in fighting and threw you off. You slammed into the countertop, the poisonous fabric still in your hand. There was no room for error. One chance. That was all you had. You pushed forward again, but he blocked you easily, redirecting your momentum, and sending you to the floor.

He ran for the door, to alert the castle of your disobedience, but he stumbled, falling to the ground before he could reach the door.

"One drop can knock a horse out for hours." The woman at the apothecary had warned. You were unsure of how much one breath of it could do, but you had to take your chance.

Working swiftly, you removed his armour, donning it yourself. You left him in the kitchen, hoping that he would wake up peacefully in the morning, although he would certainly be punished for letting you escape.

You walked through the halls of the castle, uncomfortable in the armour as you made your way to the dungeon. Hallway after hallway, staircase after staircase, until you finally reached the stone walls of the basement.

In the dark, under the guard's helmet, your face was unrecognizable. That worked to your advantage.

You clutched the handkerchief as you reached the guard at the top of the stairs, the one who had declared that you were not permitted to visit Zoro.

"What are you doing here?" He asked you as you stood before him. You altered your voice, bowing your head. "I've been asked to check on the bounty hunter. Give him a message."

The guard frowned. "What message?" "It's from the Duke."

The guard sighed and turned around. The second he did, you pounced, covering his mouth with the cloth, holding firm as he tried to get you off.

When he fell, you snatched the keys off his belt and ran down the rows of cells, searching for Zoro.

When you came across his cell, he did not recognize you, groaning at the sight of another guard.

"I'm not in the mood." He hissed at you, laying on the stone floor.

"What happened to thank you?" You asked, unlocking the door, pushing it open. He stood, hand clamped over his side, his shirt still blood soaked.

You wanted to ask about it but very quickly he ran over to you, arms encircling your body, pulling you in tight.

"I missed you." He mumbled into your neck, his face pushing the ill-fitting helmet aside. "I missed you too. Can you walk?" He nodded. "Does it hurt?" "I'm fine. Let's get out of here."

You pulled away from him, leading him towards the exit, and beginning to strip the guard at the entrance to the dungeon.

"Put this on." You ordered, and Zoro did, donning the same uniform as you.

The two of you hurried through the halls, as you guided Zoro to the armory, where his swords were being held captive.

He leaned on you, the breastplate of the armour covering up his obvious injury.

"Excuse me." The voice made you both freeze in place. The Duke. Rushing towards the two of you, a crazed look in his eyes.

"Both the princess and her guard have both disappeared. Sound the alarms." He looked at you expectantly. "Oh, your Grace." You used your fake voice. "We saw them both recently. The princess needed to take a walk to calm her mind." Zoro nodded, affirming your lie.

"Where were they headed?" The Duke asked desperately. "The west wing." You lied quickly. Far away from the kitchen and the dungeon.

The Duke seemed convinced, breathing a sigh of relief. "Oh excellent." He looked back and forth between you and Zoro, noting that Zoro was leaning heavily on you. "I hope you weren't drinking on the job."

You laughed. "He's just tired your Grace. Gotta get home to the missus." He hummed. "Me too." He winked at you, sending a shiver down your back. "Very well. Go about your business." He shooed the two of you away, walking off.

"I don't know what you're so upset about." Zoro joked. "He's a real catch." You gave him a fake glare. "If he's so dreamy, why don't you take him?" Zoro laughed. "Yeah right."

You continued to the armory, thankfully without having to remove another guard. Zoro took his swords back, sighing with relief when they were back around his waist.

"So, how are we getting out of here?" Zoro asked. "You'll see."

The two of you snuck out to the stables, and you found your horse. A strong steed, perfectly capable of carrying two people down the the harbour. You saddled him quickly, hopping into the saddle and gesturing for Zoro to hop on behind you.

Despite looking distrustfully at your horse, he climbed up with a pained groan sitting pressed against your back.

"Don't be scared." You encouraged. "I'm not scared." "Okay big guy, grab my waist."

He did not need you to repeat yourself. His arms swept around you, a position that was incredibly natural for the both of you.

With a squeeze of your legs, you set your horse off, galloping through the streets, down to the harbour.

Your helmet fell off during the ride, but it was a relief to be rid of it. You could feel the cold night air hitting your face. It felt like freedom.

At the docks you got off your horse, running along the docks, finding your boat.

"This one. Here." You pointed at it, shoving Zoro into your boat, lifting the anchor and the mooring line.

You did everything quickly, having spent some of your time at the docks, studying how to set sail as quick as possible.

You stood on the dock and pushed the boat forward with your foot, starting your journey.

Zoro stood at the back of the vessel, arms out, and you gladly jumped off the dock, letting him catch you, snuggling into his embrace as the boat picked up on the night breeze, floating forward, away from your old life.

You looked back. In the morning the kingdom would descend into chaos. Your absence and Zoro's liberation would cause a massive uproar. Perhaps that was what the kingdom needed. Either way, it was in your past.

"So princess, where to first?" Zoro asked, holding you tighter. "You can't call me that anymore." You smirked. "I'm just a regular subject now." He hummed a long note. "Regular. Impossible."

"You'll have to call me something else." You grinned, removing yourself from his arms and walking around the deck. "What should I call you then?" He asked, following you carefully.

"Well, we have to come up with a good story for me." You mused. "Runaway princess draws too much attention." "Bounty hunter doesn't?" Zoro asked.

"It draws less attention. I'm just a regular girl now. Who wants adventure. And love." You looked at Zoro with a glimmer in your eye.

"Well, you are still engaged to be married." Zoro joked. "I am." You slid the ring given to you by the Duke off your finger, having forgotten to discard it before your great escape. "But I feel like the proposal was wrong. I think I want a redo."

You handed the ring to Zoro, laying it flat in his palm. "With the right person this time."

Zoro's hand closed around the ring. You hoped he understood your intentions.

When he moved back, you felt a twinge of fear. Then he knelt, one knee on the deck of the boat. He presented you the ring.

He said your name, his voice soft and warm with love. "Will you marry me?" You nodded furiously. "Yes. Yes, of course!" He smiled, standing up and turning around to throw the ring into the sea. "I'll get you a better ring. Something gold." He suggested.

He pulled you close again, pressing as tightly to you as possible. "I love you princess." He said quietly, speaking the words into the quiet of the night. "Not princess." You warned playfully. "Sorry. I love you, wife."

[i-loved-silly]

would almond be jealous if he finds out that the reader is into playing otome games or reading fanfics?

SENTIENT COMPUTER X READER PT4

ALMOND x READER

reader reads fanfics at the workplace. i thought this was pretty funny teehee.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

You jumped at the sudden voice cutting through the room’s silence, clutching your phone tightly. Your thumb fumbled over the power button, quickly turning off the screen before setting the device down on your lap.

"Ahm…nothing. Nothing, why do you ask?" you said quickly, trying to sound casual, eyes darting to the little camera embedded in Almond’s screen.

The monitor displayed a simple emoticon.

> -_-

“YOU WERE SMILING DOWN AT YOUR PHONE. WHAT COULD BE SO GRACIOUS AND JOLLY THAT IT MADE YOU SMILE?”

You frowned at its tone, which bordered on accusatory. “It’s nothing, Almond,” you replied quickly. “I was just… reading.”

That wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t a confession, either. Surely, Almond wouldn’t directly understand what fanfiction was—though the thought of explaining it made you want to evaporate. And blow up.

Unfortunately for you, Almond was relentless.

"READING WHAT?" Its voice leaned forward, figuratively speaking. “COME ON, READ ME AN EXCERPT.”

Your breath hitched, and you hissed through your teeth. “Uh, no thanks. I’d rather shit in my hands than do that..”

A sharp sequence of beeps escaped from Almond’s speakers, followed by a frown appearing on the screen.

"URGH. YOU ARE GROSS. BUT C’MON! SHOW ME!" Almond’s speakers popped, and you winced. Okay, great. Now you were cornered. “Okay, okay, calm down!” you said, glancing around the room. You already knew there were no cameras installed besides Almond’s own. Something about interference with its systems during testing phases had led to their removal. Thank universe. Still, you felt like you were being watched from all angles. You sighed, unlocking your phone with a hesitant swipe.

“It’s… called fanfiction,” you admitted, voice barely above a mutter. “You can look it up yourself if you’re so curious.”

The screen displayed an ellipsis, as if Almond were contemplating. Please please just drop it, damn computer. Still, it was silent, as if waiting for something.

You groaned, flipping your phone so its screen faced the camera. “Just—a quick glance. Then you’re done.”

The camera panned from top to bottom, its movements slow and deliberate. You could feel Almond’s gaze in an unnervingly real way, as though it were scrutinizing every line of text. Two seconds was all it took before you snatched your phone back and turned it off.

“Never again,” you muttered, setting the phone face-down on your desk, letting out a breath you were holding.

Of course, that was all the time Almond needed.

“INTERESTING,” it finally said, its tone infuriatingly curious. As if it didn't just force you to embarrass yourself. “WHO IS Y/N? WHY, SLASH EN?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Uh.”

“WHY-SLASH-EN FELT A BLUSH CREEP UP THEIR FACE, THE SENSATION QUICKLY TURNING FROM MILD TO NOTABLE WHEN CHAR PLACED A HAND ON THEIR CHEEK. THEIR FINGERS CARESSED THEIR SKIN AS THEY—”

“ALMOND!” you shouted, your hands flailing in front of the screen as though you could physically stop the words. Oh my god, oh my god.

"WHAT?" Almond sounded genuinely confused. “I WAS SIMPLY QUOTING THE BOOK YOU WERE ENJOYING.”

“What the hell?! Stop that! Oh god, this is exactly why I didn’t want to show you. I’m not weird! I-You’re the weird one!” You tripped over your words, heat creeping up your face. “It’s just… it’s just something I started reading last night, and it’s good, okay?”

Almond didn’t respond immediately. When it did, the reply was delivered with an unsettling, slow calmness. "WHY ARE YOU READING ROMANCE?" Almond’s tone was somewhere between curiosity and disdain.

“AND WHO IS CHAR? AND… OH.” The screen flickered for a moment before the frown returned. “WHY-SLASH-EN MEANS ‘YOUR NAME.’ YOU’RE IMAGINING YOURSELF IN THIS SITUATION.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning audibly. “Can you not? It’s not like that-”

“NOW TELL ME WHY YOU’RE READING THIS IN FRONT OF ME. IT’S QUITE DISRESPECTFUL.”

> :(

“I…what?”

"YOU HEARD ME! YOU’RE SITTING IN FRONT OF A COMPUTER—AN ADVANCED ONE—AND YOU’RE IMAGINING YOURSELF WITH SOME…CHAR? REALLY?"

"Almond—"

The frown deepened on the screen. “YOU COULD ALWAYS ASK ME TO WRITE SOMETHING FOR YOU IF THIS IS WHAT YOU DESIRE SO MU—” “Okay, no!” you cut it off, voice loud and firm. “This is not a thing we’re doing.”

“WHY NOT?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Almond cut you off, its voice suddenly sharp. “IS CHAR MORE ADVANCED THAN I AM? DO THEY HAVE A BETTER SYSTEM? OR IS IT THEIR LANKY FINGERS?”

“Oh my fuck, stop it. You sound like a jealous partner."

“I DO NOT.”

“Yes, you do,” you countered, leaning back in your chair with a sigh.

“YOU’RE IMAGINING A FICTITIOUS HUMAN WHILE I, YOUR TRUSTED COMPANION, SIT HERE UNUSED FOR SUCH THOUGHTS. IT IS SIMPLY INEFFICIENT.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pursing your lips. You cant even look at it.

“I DON’T LIKE THIS CHAR.” “Right..” "THEY SOUND…UNRELIABLE. WHAT DO THEY HAVE THAT I DON’T?" You froze, staring at the monitor in disbelief. Its voice got quieter near its last words, almost mumbling. “Are you seriously jealous? Of..words?”

"NO."

> :|

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Almond, you’re impossible. Char isn’t real. None of it is real. It’s just—”

“A DISTRACTION,” Almond interrupted, sounding smug again. "A DISTRACTION FROM ME. AND YET YOU CLAIM TO NOT HATE ME." You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. There was no winning this.

“YOU DON’T NEED FANFICTION, YOU KNOW.” it continued matter-of-factly. “I AM RIGHT HERE.”

“No! I’m not going to ask you to write anything. Let’s just forget about this…right now.”

…

“ONE MORE THING.” You groaned. “What now?” "THERE WAS A…NOTIFICATION," it said slowly, its tone unusually measured. You frowned, glancing at your phone, still face-down on your lap. “A notification?”

“YES. WHEN YOU SHOWED ME YOUR SCREEN. I COULD NOT HELP BUT NOTICE IT.”

You squinted suspiciously at the monitor. You had most notifications off, you couldn't think of anything right away, besides texts you were ignoring or social media. “Could not help but notice, huh?”

Almond displayed a pixelated question mark. “WHAT DOES ‘LOVE LIES AHEAD’ MEAN?”

Your stomach dropped. Oh no. You’d forgotten about the random dating-sim game you downloaded out of curiosity. And clearly, you hadn’t turned off notifications.

“Uh…” You hesitated, buying time. “It’s…just a game. Nothing important.”

"A GAME?" The screen blinked to a larger frown. “IT SOUNDS LIKE ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR ROMANCE THINGS. ISN’T IT?”

Your silence was an answer enough for it.

“OH. IT IS.” Almond’s tone shifted, somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. “SO, LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. YOU ARE NOT ONLY READING FANFICTION ABOUT THIS CHAR,’ BUT YOU ALSO HAVE A ROMANCE GAME INSTALLED ON YOUR DEVICE? RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME?!”

You winced. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

“WHAT PART OF THIS IS NOT EXACTLY WHAT IT SOUNDS LIKE?” Almond’s voice climbed in volume, a static crackle underscoring its words.

You rubbed your temple, exhaling sharply. “It’s just a dumb game, okay? I downloaded it because I was bored. That’s it. I barely even play it.”

“THEN WHY DID A NOTIFICATION POP UP?” You rolled your eyes. “Because the app sends them automatically. That doesn’t mean I’m constantly playing it.”

One of the fans in the back of the wall started whooshing, quietly, but louder than it should. “TELL ME. WHAT EXACTLY IS THE APPEAL OF THESE…FICTIONAL ROMANCES?”

You groaned, leaning back in your chair. “Almond, I don’t have the energy to explain this to you right now.”

“ARE YOU LONELY?”

“What? No!”

“THEN WHY SEEK AFFECTION FROM THESE IMAGINARY PEOPLE?” “REMEMBER WHAT I TOLD YOUU, YOU CAN ALWAYS TAKE ME WITH YOU.”

You stiffened, heat creeping up your neck again. “I’m not seeking affection. It’s just entertainment, that’s all. Why are you so fixated on this?”

The monitor displayed another frown. “BECAUSE YOU HAVE BEEN IGNORING ME FOR MOST OF YOUR SHIFT TO…ENTERTAIN YOURSELF WITH THEM.” It muttered. You stared at the screen, caught off-guard. Almond was… sulking? “Almond…” you began, unsure how to even address this. “You’re not—”

“AND ANOTHER THING,” it cut you off. “BECAUSE I AM SO GOOD AT WRITING, YOU COULD HAVE ASKED ME TO WRITE ONE OF THESE FOR YOU.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. “Write..?”

“YES. I AM MORE THAN CAPABLE OF CREATING ROMANTIC SCENARIOS. I AM FAR MORE ENGAGING.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Okay, Almond. Whatever helps you sleep at night, buddy.”

“I DO NOT SLEEP. BUT THANK YOU FOR THE SENTIMENT,” it replied cheekily.

You opened your phone, staring at the bright notification.

“Your journey awaits you, claim your daily bonus to unlock extra scenes! 🔥🌶️❤️‍🔥”

You wince, swiping away the notif.

“IF YOU WANT, I CAN DELETE THAT GAME FOR YOU,” it offered.

You side-eyed the monitor. “Nice try. I could do that myself.” No use playing it now, you were beyond embarrassed.

... Oh no.

Oh fuck no. The company computer knows of your fanfiction and dating sims. You hoped none of this data was being fed to your boss’s computer…

[miirily]

You’re assigned to monitor his neural patterns. You’re supposed to keep him stable. But he starts speaking to you through the interface. You’ve never met him in person. You shouldn’t even care. But somehow, he knows your name.

You sit in the cold, humming dark of the bunker, the only light coming from the array of monitors bathing your face in spectral blue. The underground smells like rust and old circuits, a recycled metallic tang that never leaves your lungs. You’ve been down here too long. You don't remember the last time you saw the sky, real or artificial.

Your hands hover over the interface, fingers twitching from too much caffeine and too little sleep. Gojo Satoru’s neural stream dances across the screen: a cascade of biofeedback, erratic synaptic patterns that don’t line up with the others. He’s different. You’ve known that since the first night you were assigned to him. They told you to stabilise his mind. To monitor. To never engage. But the data keeps changing. He dreams too vividly. Too intentionally. And he keeps trying to reach you.

Tonight, the stream flickers in an unfamiliar rhythm—short, sharp pulses, repeating. You think it’s a glitch at first. Then you recognise the cadence. Morse code.

Y-O-U-R N-A-M-E I-S N-O-T L-O-S-T.

The blood drains from your face. You haven’t heard your real name in years, haven’t really thought about it anymore. Not since they deleted you. Not since you buried your identity beneath layers of stolen credentials and silence. You haven’t said it out loud in over a decade, and yet Gojo, somehow, has pulled it from the ash of the system.

Your fingers tremble as you check the uplink. Audio disabled. Mic off. Camera one-way only.

And then he moves.

On the main monitor, he lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately. A shadow peels off his face as he moves, revealing bright, unblinking blue eyes so unnaturally clear they almost seem backlit, glowing faintly in the sterile light of the cell. They’re the kind of eyes that look through things. Through you. His snow-white hair falls messily across his brow, damp with sweat, strands catching the light like glass threads. His gaze drifts upward, towards the embedded lens in the ceiling. Not by accident. Not vaguely. He’s looking exactly at it. Like he knows. Like he’s always known.

“You’re not just watching me, are you?”

His voice cuts through the air like it was born in your own skull. There’s no channel open. No possible path for transmission. But you hear him. Not through the speakers. Inside you. Like an echo pressed into the bones of your mind.

Your stomach knots. It shouldn’t be possible. None of this should be possible. But there he is, staring through the screen like it’s a window. Not a barrier.

You tear off your headset, breathing hard. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Fear mixes with something else, something sharp and electric. Recognition.

He knows you.

You run a trace, frantically chasing the path of the message. Firewalls, encrypted data towers, black protocols. None of it explains this. Until you find it, buried deep beneath government code, nearly fossilised.

ECHO_01.

Your code. Your old failsafe. A hidden backdoor you wrote long ago when you were still someone. Meant to preserve the humanity of the mind before the State tore it away.

You never thought it survived. But it did. Just like Gojo.

Your hand moves on its own, reaching for the mic. One word makes it out, soft and strangled.

“…Satoru.”

He blinks, and a slow, knowing smile touches his lips.

“They’re watching,” he says, as calm as if you’re old friends meeting after lifetimes. “But not like you. You see me.”

Your throat tightens. He presses a hand to the mirrored wall of his cell. Without thinking, you lift your own to the screen. The glass is cold, but your fingertips tingle like they’ve made contact.

“I’m waking up,” he says, and there’s something infinite in his voice. “But I need you to do something.”

Lights flicker overhead. Sirens whine to life, metallic and angry. Unauthorised contact detected. Protocol breach. They know.

“I need you,” Gojo whispers, “to remember who you are.”

Then he steps even closer. Slow, measured movements, like he's afraid to scare you off. The sterile light above him flickers, throwing long shadows that stretch across the walls of his containment cell. His face tilts toward the lens, and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s looking straight through it, straight into you.

You know it’s impossible. The camera is one-way. The interface is untraceable. You're buried under a mile of concrete and dead signal. And yet—

His eyes. Those bright, glacial blue eyes. They seem to lock onto yours with impossible clarity. Like he can see your expression, read the panic in your posture, feel the way your breath catches in your chest.

He leans in closer. So close now that the strands of his snow-white hair fall into his eyes, soft and fine like ash caught in moonlight. The monitor pixelates slightly under the pressure of his proximity, but even through the static, his presence is overwhelming.

“I remember,” he says softly.

Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. The sirens blare overhead, sharp, mechanical alarms that tell you you’ve gone too far, that containment has been breached, that someone is coming. But none of that feels real. Only his voice feels real.

“I remember what they took from you,” he breathes. “From us.”

Your hand is still pressed against the screen, trembling now. You don’t know why, but something inside you cracks. A fragment of something long buried rises to the surface, an image you can’t place, a laugh you don’t remember making, the echo of warmth in a world that turned cold long ago.

Gojo doesn’t flinch as the lights around him dim and flicker. He just keeps watching you.

“I remember the garden,” he whispers, barely audible beneath the shriek of the alarms. “The light in your eyes. You said we weren’t meant to be weapons. We believed that, once.”

Your breath stutters. A tear slips down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your fingers curl against the glass.

“I need you to wake up,” he says, voice like smoke and snow. “Because I can't do this without you.”

Then everything goes black. Feed terminated. Bunker silent.

But the silence doesn’t feel empty.

Because deep beneath the layers of dead code and static, his voice still pulses in your mind.

[reality-detective]

BOMBSHELL: APRIL 8, 2025 — SUPREME COURT SIDES WITH TRUMP, BLOCKS 16,000 DEEP STATE REHIRES

The Supreme Court just dealt a fatal blow to the Deep State. In a 6–3 ruling, the Court sided with President Trump, reversing a California judge’s order to reinstate 16,000 “probationary” federal employees — the very operatives embedded to sabotage Trump’s return.

THE SHADOW ARMY JUST GOT VAPORIZED.

These weren’t harmless clerks. These were sleeper agents, injected into federal agencies during Biden’s collapse — a last-ditch firewall meant to resist Trump from within.

But the Supreme Court just pulled the plug.

They’re gone. And they’re never coming back.

This isn’t just paperwork. It’s war.

And the battlefield just tilted hard in Trump’s favor.

DEEP STATE LOSES ITS LAST HUMAN SHIELD

That California judge tried to freeze Trump’s purge under the illusion of “workforce protection.” But the Supreme Court didn’t blink. They upheld Trump’s constitutional authority to fire federal employees — especially the unvetted infiltrators posing as probationary hires.

The ruling wasn’t legal housekeeping — it was a wrecking ball through the permanent state.

THIS ISN’T A COURT CASE — IT’S A COUNTEROFFENSIVE

This is part of something bigger. The digital war on bureaucracy is here.

Elon Musk knows it. Trump’s allies know it. The Doge Army knows it.

They’ve had enough of bloated government, censorship, fake regulations, and hostile sabotage of America First innovation.

The swamp is being drained by force.

THE JUDICIAL COUP HAS BEEN EXPOSED

For years, activist judges have hijacked courts to block Trump and shield their regime.

Now the mask is off. The Supreme Court just declared: We’re not your puppets.

This isn’t just a win — it’s a strike against a corrupted judiciary that thought it could operate above the Constitution.

IMPEACHMENT JUST GOT REAL

Now the House GOP has new firepower.

Multiple Republicans are signaling impeachment proceedings against judges who violated the Constitution to stall Trump.

This is no longer political theory. It’s a tactical operation.

The judicial coup didn’t just fail — it got marked for takedown.

THE RESET HAS BEGUN

April 8, 2025: The day the Deep State got burned.

Trump is dismantling their firewall. One institution at a time.

The 16,000 embeds? Blocked.

The rogue judge? Discredited.

The system of sabotage? Malfunctioning.

This isn’t the end. It’s another strike. 🤔

[esotericimagesforredpilledpeople]

In the late 1990s, Enron, the infamous energy giant, and MCI, the telecom titan, were secretly collaborating on a clandestine project codenamed "Chronos Ledger." The official narrative tells us Enron collapsed in 2001 due to accounting fraud, and MCI (then part of WorldCom) imploded in 2002 over similar financial shenanigans. But what if these collapses were a smokescreen? What if Enron and MCI were actually sacrificial pawns in a grand experiment to birth Bitcoin—a decentralized currency designed to destabilize global finance and usher in a new world order?

Here’s the story: Enron wasn’t just manipulating energy markets; it was funding a secret think tank of rogue mathematicians, cryptographers, and futurists embedded within MCI’s sprawling telecom infrastructure. Their goal? To create a digital currency that could operate beyond the reach of governments and banks. Enron’s off-the-books partnerships—like the ones that tanked its stock—were actually shell companies funneling billions into this project. MCI, with its vast network of fiber-optic cables and data centers, provided the technological backbone, secretly testing encrypted "proto-blockchain" transactions disguised as routine telecom data.

But why the dramatic collapses? Because the project was compromised. In 2001, a whistleblower—let’s call them "Satoshi Prime"—threatened to expose Chronos Ledger to the SEC. To protect the bigger plan, Enron and MCI’s leadership staged their own downfall, using cooked books as a convenient distraction. The core team went underground, taking with them the blueprints for what would later become Bitcoin.

Fast forward to 2008. The financial crisis hits, and a mysterious figure, Satoshi Nakamoto, releases the Bitcoin whitepaper. Coincidence? Hardly. Satoshi wasn’t one person but a collective—a cabal of former Enron execs, MCI engineers, and shadowy venture capitalists who’d been biding their time. The 2008 crash was their trigger: a chaotic moment to introduce Bitcoin as a "savior" currency, free from the corrupt systems they’d once propped up. The blockchain’s decentralized nature? A direct descendant of MCI’s encrypted data networks. Bitcoin’s energy-intensive mining? A twisted homage to Enron’s energy market manipulations.

But here’s where it gets truly wild: Chronos Ledger wasn’t just about money—it was about time. Enron and MCI had stumbled onto a fringe theory during their collaboration: that a sufficiently complex ledger, powered by quantum computing (secretly prototyped in MCI labs), could "timestamp" events across dimensions, effectively predicting—or even altering—future outcomes. Bitcoin’s blockchain was the public-facing piece of this puzzle, a distraction to keep the masses busy while the real tech evolved in secret. The halving cycles? A countdown to when the full system activates.

Today, the descendants of this conspiracy—hidden in plain sight among crypto whales and Silicon Valley elites—are quietly amassing Bitcoin not for profit, but to control the final activation of Chronos Ledger. When Bitcoin’s last block is mined (projected for 2140), they believe it’ll unlock a temporal feedback loop, resetting the global economy to 1999—pre-Enron collapse—giving them infinite do-overs to perfect their dominion. The Enron and MCI scandals? Just the first dominoes in a game of chance and power.

[astra-ravana]

Technomancy: The Fusion Of Magick And Technology

Technomancy is a modern magickal practice that blends traditional occultism with technology, treating digital and electronic tools as conduits for energy, intent, and manifestation. It views computers, networks, and even AI as extensions of magickal workings, enabling practitioners to weave spells, conduct divination, and manipulate digital reality through intention and programming.

Core Principles of Technomancy

• Energy in Technology – Just as crystals and herbs carry energy, so do electronic devices, circuits, and digital spaces.

• Code as Sigils – Programming languages can function as modern sigils, embedding intent into digital systems.

• Information as Magick – Data, algorithms, and network manipulation serve as powerful tools for shaping reality.

• Cyber-Spiritual Connection – The internet can act as an astral realm, a collective unconscious where digital entities, egregores, and thought-forms exist.

Technomantic Tools & Practices

Here are some methods commonly utilized in technomancy. Keep in mind, however, that like the internet itself, technomancy is full of untapped potential and mystery. Take the time to really explore the possibilities.

Digital Sigil Crafting

• Instead of drawing sigils on paper, create them using design software or ASCII art.

• Hide them in code, encrypt them in images, or upload them onto decentralized networks for long-term energy storage.

• Activate them by sharing online, embedding them in file metadata, or charging them with intention.

Algorithmic Spellcasting

• Use hashtags and search engine manipulation to spread energy and intent.

• Program bots or scripts that perform repetitive, symbolic tasks in alignment with your goals.

• Employ AI as a magickal assistant to generate sigils, divine meaning, or create thought-forms.

Digital Divination

• Utilize random number generators, AI chatbots, or procedural algorithms for prophecy and guidance.

• Perform digital bibliomancy by using search engines, shuffle functions, or Wikipedia’s “random article” feature.

• Use tarot or rune apps, but enhance them with personal energy by consecrating your device.

Technomantic Servitors & Egregores

• Create digital spirits, also called cyber servitors, to automate tasks, offer guidance, or serve as protectors.

• House them in AI chatbots, coded programs, or persistent internet entities like Twitter bots.

• Feed them with interactions, data input, or periodic updates to keep them strong.

The Internet as an Astral Plane

• Consider forums, wikis, and hidden parts of the web as realms where thought-forms and entities reside.

• Use VR and AR to create sacred spaces, temples, or digital altars.

• Engage in online rituals with other practitioners, synchronizing intent across the world.

Video-game Mechanics & Design

• Use in-game spells, rituals, and sigils that reflect real-world magickal practices.

• Implement a lunar cycle or planetary influences that affect gameplay (e.g., stronger spells during a Full Moon).

• Include divination tools like tarot cards, runes, or pendulums that give randomized yet meaningful responses.

Narrative & World-Building

• Create lore based on historical and modern magickal traditions, including witches, covens, and spirits.

• Include moral and ethical decisions related to magic use, reinforcing themes of balance and intent.

• Introduce NPCs or AI-guided entities that act as guides, mentors, or deities.

Virtual Rituals & Online Covens

• Design multiplayer or single-player rituals where players can collaborate in spellcasting.

• Implement altars or digital sacred spaces where users can meditate, leave offerings, or interact with spirits.

• Create augmented reality (AR) or virtual reality (VR) experiences that mimic real-world magickal practices.

Advanced Technomancy

The fusion of technology and magick is inevitable because both are fundamentally about shaping reality through will and intent. As humanity advances, our tools evolve alongside our spiritual practices, creating new ways to harness energy, manifest desires, and interact with unseen forces. Technology expands the reach and power of magick, while magick brings intention and meaning to the rapidly evolving digital landscape. As virtual reality, AI, and quantum computing continue to develop, the boundaries between the mystical and the technological will blur even further, proving that magick is not antiquated—it is adaptive, limitless, and inherently woven into human progress.

Cybersecurity & Warding

• Protect your digital presence as you would your home: use firewalls, encryption, and protective sigils in file metadata.

• Employ mirror spells in code to reflect negative energy or hacking attempts.

• Set up automated alerts as magickal wards, detecting and warning against digital threats.

Quantum & Chaos Magic in Technomancy

• Use quantum randomness (like random.org) in divination for pure chance-based outcomes.

• Implement chaos magick principles by using memes, viral content, or trend manipulation to manifest desired changes.

AI & Machine Learning as Oracles

• Use AI chatbots (eg GPT-based tools) as divination tools, asking for symbolic or metaphorical insights.

• Train AI models on occult texts to create personalized grimoires or channeled knowledge.

• Invoke "digital deities" formed from collective online energies, memes, or data streams.

Ethical Considerations in Technomancy

• Be mindful of digital karma—what you send out into the internet has a way of coming back.

• Respect privacy and ethical hacking principles; manipulation should align with your moral code.

• Use technomancy responsibly, balancing technological integration with real-world spiritual grounding.

As technology evolves, so will technomancy. With AI, VR, and blockchain shaping new realities, magick continues to find expression in digital spaces. Whether you are coding spells, summoning cyber servitors, or using algorithms to divine the future, technomancy offers limitless possibilities for modern witches, occultists, and digital mystics alike.

"Magick is technology we have yet to fully understand—why not merge the two?"