#thread: smooth operators

[lordgaspard]

A relic that could take down the church.

That was one of the only things that had caught his ear at first. Of course it was. If he could use it, there was so much that could happen. He could have justice.

But that would wait. Because it was too early to end this masquerade. The climax was approaching, but it was still the rising action. Too many allies were still needed to be made, and beyond that, the church was in too good a stance.

They were still the 'bastion of all that is good.'

A title he couldn't wait to reveal to be a lie bigger than any of the stunts he pulled.

But, again, not yet.

"...Just the right size."

There was too many staff members, not enough attention from the higher-ups. Just enough space for extra sets to be left about, perfect to slip into and walk the streets as if he belonged.

After all, these were the types of nobility Lonato could never respect - he was not 'chosen by the goddess,' he wasn't 'deserving of the world's money,' he was a knight. He was a noble because the people liked him, not just the Goddess approving an ancestor from long long long ago. These were proof the system was broken, beyond just the church. But one step at a time. Bring her down, and then the dominoes should all follow.

"Find one that fits you?"

His voice comes out quieter than normal - as it was for his darkened departures to deal with deals. His voice for operations.

This was just a branch of the operations.

"These people talk far too much, from the brief I was given. Information should be much easier to gather than elsewhere."

And... who knows? They are the financiers of the monastery.

Slip a few carefully chosen, poisoned words into the well of information, and...

The Knights of Seiros may have to lay off some of their soldiers from budget cuts.

@yukyunotabibito

Smooth Operators

[gaisciochanams]

@khaotickleric from here

She nearly choked on her fruit when he asked the question, extremely caught off guard. Even with the smirk on his face. Was he serious? Especially the way he licked it? Elder Gods, help. Now she wished she had some koins to get the dessert as well, but spent it on the fruit. "Um... sure." Iris took the dessert, and handed him the orange-like fruit. "Try mine."

[ama3003]

hi! is there any way you can write a pt 2 of a pawn once more? maybe turn it into a series? i just read it and LOVED it, your writing is beautiful!

Ask and you shall receive!!!!!

A Pawn Once More (2)

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: Sorta??? Lol I've been seeing all the love it's been getting.

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're trying to figure out if you should listen to your heart or follow your head.

Part 1: Here

Part 3: Here

A.N: I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader. Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

I honestly wasn’t expecting this to get so much love — thank you all so much! I've seen a lot of people asking for it to become a series, and the truth is, I actually started this one-shot right in the middle of everything. There’s so much more I can write — backstory, missing context, and I could even take it all the way through Mockingjay Part 2 and beyond.

Let me know what you want to see, and I’ll gladly make it happen!

My inbox is always open and y'all I love your comments! Soooo please comment!!!!!!

You couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t just the bodysuit—though it clung too tightly to your ribs—but the panic.

The cold, creeping panic of being back. The fear you thought you'd buried, the ghosts you thought you'd left behind—they were all clawing their way back to the surface.

How unlucky were you, really? To be given a second round of memories. A cruel encore.

"Breathe. Breathe. Breathe." The words barely made it past your lips, more breath than voice, a desperate mantra as you stepped into the Chariot Staging Area.

You just needed to find Haymitch.

If you could hear his voice, meet his eyes, feel his presence—maybe then the terror would loosen its grip. Maybe then you could breathe.

“You look stunning!” your stylist chirped, smoothing your hair and flicking back a few stubborn flyaways. Her hands were quick, practiced, and utterly unaware of the storm brewing inside you.

You were dressed in a sleek black bodysuit, tailored like a second skin. Woven into the fabric were delicate fiber-optic threads that pulsed in slow, elegant waves, mimicking lightning bolts across your body. A walking storm.

“This beautiful number responds to movement,” she said proudly. “The lights will shift and pulse with every gesture. I’ll be operating the pattern controls—you just need to wave and look pretty.”

You nodded absently, your attention already drifting, eyes scanning the room like sonar.

You needed to find him.

“Little bird looking for me?” You turned, and there he was—Gloss, standing with that signature smirk, arms crossed like he owned the room.

“You look breathtaking,” he said, eyeing the suit with an appreciative nod. “I swear, you’ve got enough power in you to light up all of Panem.”

A genuine laugh escaped you, small but real, and you stepped forward to pull him into a hug. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” you said, voice lighter. “But it’s good to see you, Glossy. Where’s Cash?”

“Here I am!” a familiar voice called.

You turned to see Cash striding over, flanked by Enobaria and Brutus. A wave of warmth surged through your chest. You moved quickly, gathering them all into a hug.

These weren’t just allies. These were your people. Friends who understood the weight behind your eyes. The ache in your chest. The blood on your hands. Because they were the exact same way. As broken as you were.

Once, when you were young, it seemed impossible to be asked to kill strangers. And now? Now you were being asked to kill your friends.

“How are you all?” you asked, voice soft. “I’m sorry I missed the last hangout. I had food poisoning. And I’m even sorrier that this is how we’re seeing each other again.”

You gave them a sad smile. The kind that meant more than words ever could.

“This was definitely a turn of events,” Enobaria muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Never thought I’d have to set foot back here as a tribute,” Cash added, shaking her head.

Everyone nodded grimly. You all had the same unspoken thought: peace was promised. And then peace was stolen.

Brutus looked across the room, tipping his chin toward the group. “So? Should we expect you and Mason to join us?” You raised an eyebrow. He went on.“I doubt we’ll offer that to District 4. I love Mags, but this isn’t about friendship. It’s about survival. Or are you planning to side with the newbies for your husband’s sake?”

You met his gaze, firm and unflinching. “You already know the answer to that, Brutus. Those kids? They’re basically his. Which means… they’re mine, too.”

Enobaria let out a slow sigh, stepping closer. “Just don’t put their lives above your own. And don’t forget about Mason. You have to think about him. Plust those kids…” Her next words hit harder than you were ready for. “--they’re the reason we’re here. If just one of them had died... we wouldn’t be back in this arena and we all know it. And look at us we’re stuck here once again and now we have to kill each other.”

The silence was immediate and suffocating.

No one spoke.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

It was the truth everyone avoided speaking out loud—but now that it hung in the air, you all had to face it.

Bitterness curled in your stomach, uninvited but undeniable. You hated feeling it. Hated that it made sense.

“Hey,” Cash cut in sharply, eyes narrowing at Enobaria. “Stop. Whatever happens, happens. We keep it fast. We keep it painless. Right?”

Everyone nodded. Even Enobaria.

Then Cash turned to you, her voice lowering.

“I would really love for District 5 to join us,” she said. “We love you. And we love Mason. But I get it. You’re looking out for your husband. That’s not cowardice—that’s loyalty. It’s love. Just… if anything changes, you’re always welcome here.”

She gave you a tight hug and stepped away. Gloss winked and followed. Enobaria gave you a rare side hug. Brutus patted your shoulder, rough and sincere, before the group slipped into the crowd.

And then you were alone again. Not alone in the room—but alone in the way that mattered.

Your eyes scanned once more, heart pounding harder now.

For him.

And then you saw her—Katniss. Standing with Peeta. Not speaking. Not blinking. Just... watching.

You hadn’t spoken yet. You and Haymitch had always kept your relationship quiet, tucked away where the Capitol couldn't twist it. Mentors by day. Lovers by night. The other victors knew. Your families knew. But to the Capitol?

It had to stay hidden.

Some things were too sacred to put on display.

Last night had nearly shattered that wall. You’d broken down behind a closed door, only to feel their eyes on you through the crack—Katniss, Peeta, and even Effie.

But Haymitch had pulled you away, shielding you from their stares. From their pity.

And now, Katniss was watching again.

You met her gaze, steady and calm, and offered a soft smile. A small nod.

She mattered. They both did.

You needed her to trust you.

Because Haymitch did. And you saw it—how he cared for them. The soft way he spoke to them. The cracks in his armor, carefully hidden but real. He was letting himself feel again.

He was learning to love. Openly. Fiercely. Just like you had always wished he would. And because of that, you would do whatever it took to protect them. By your life… or by your death.

Katniss gave you the smallest of nods. Then turned away.

You exhaled—slowly, shakily.

A small victory.

Maybe the only kind left.

A warm hand caught your arm. Mason.

“You ready for this?” he asked, helping you up into the carriage.

You nodded. “Smile and wave,” you said softly.

The chariots began to roll and the sound hit like thunder. A roar of applause, cheers, screams. Your lungs tightened. The noise pressed in from every side. Your hands trembled. Sweat gathered along your brow. You felt like you were drowning in the sound.

Mason’s grip on your hand tightened. He could feel your fear. But he wasn’t the one you needed.

You needed Haymitch.

His voice. His eyes. His strength.

You scanned the audience, heart hammering wildly. Too many faces. Too much light. Too much noise.

And then—there.

You found him.

He stood behind the others, half-hidden, quiet as always. But his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You felt your shoulders drop. Your breath returned. You smiled softly

And he winked.

Just like that, the panic loosened. The thunder of the Capitol became background noise. The trembling in your fingers eased.

You could do this.

You could finish the parade.

Because he saw you. Because he was there.

And that was enough.

*******

You hated looking at yourself in the mirror. You always had. Especially after the Games.

Back then, at sixteen, you’d stare at your reflection and search for something—someone—you recognized. But all you ever saw were the eyes of the people you killed, their final moments etched behind your own. 

You didn’t see a girl. You didn’t see a victor. You saw a murderer.

And now, nearly a decade later, here you were—twenty-five years old, staring into the same damn mirror, in the same damn room, waiting to face the same horrors.

Except this time, you weren’t naïve enough to believe you’d make it out.

You knew the moment you volunteered.

This was your end.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. “Darling, we need to go,” Mason’s voice called gently from the hall. “We need all the training we can get.”

You looked at yourself one last time.

A murderer. A lunatic. A dead man walking.

You blinked away the tears, jaw tightening. Then you tied your ponytail higher—tighter—like it might hold you together a little longer.

You stepped out to meet Mason.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice laced with that familiar worry. He always worried. Especially about you. You were the little sister he never had—and now the two of you were walking into hell all over again.

“Well enough,” you replied, offering him a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “But it’s fine.”

He didn’t believe you. But he nodded.

You were grateful, at least, that you’d never really stopped training after your Games. You were constantly on edge, and staying active had become your only way to keep the nightmares at bay. The gym had always felt more familiar than your own home.

The Training Center was exactly how you remembered it: the scent of metal, sweat, and Capitol sterilization. Clean and gleaming, like death dressed up in a ballgown. Everything here looked expensive. Perfect. Soulless.

You and Mason stood shoulder to shoulder on the rising platform. The doors opened, revealing the training floor—wide, cold, and humming with tension.

Tributes filled the space, moving like restless ghosts. Silent, watchful, already assessing one another like it was the arena.

You tensed immediately. The smell. The sound. The weight in the air. It all pulled you backward, to the first time. The fear. The blood. The moment everything changed.

You scanned the floor, searching for him. For Haymitch.

But he wasn’t here.

Mason nudged you gently. “He’s probably hungover. He’ll be down in a minute.”

You nodded, but your mind was still spinning. You didn’t want to be here. Not really. You didn’t want to spar or strategize or throw knives at holograms. You wanted to find Haymitch. You wanted to hold his hand and talk about nothing. You wanted to remember what it felt like to be alive before the arena took everything again.

But the odds were never in your favor.

“I say we stick with the Careers,” Mason murmured, arms crossed over his chest as he nodded toward the familiar pack from Districts 1, 2, and 4. “They’ve got numbers. They’re predictable. We know how they move, how they think. We get in, stay close, bail when it gets ugly. And hey—if we do die, at least it'll be quick and painless.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

Your eyes drifted across the floor, landing on Katniss and Peeta as they entered the room. Their posture was stiff. Guarded. Haymitch still nowhere in sight.

You sighed. “We can’t.”

Mason’s brow furrowed. “We can’t what?”

“We can’t team up with the Careers.”

You turned to him fully, voice steady, even as your heart pounded. “We need to stick with District 12. With them.”

He stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you serious? Y/N, come on. They’re kids. They won out of dumb luck.”

You met his stare. “We all won out of luck.”

“You know what I mean.” He stepped closer, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Everyone here won. They’re strong. Dangerous. But you want to team up with the wide-eyed girl and her boy toy? Compared to the Careers? Darling, please.”

“I’m not asking you,” you said quietly. The edge in your voice cut sharper than you meant it to. “I’m telling you. I’m staying with them. You can make your own call.”

There was a pause. Not anger—just tension. Thick with history. With grief.

Mason’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t like last time, Y/N. This isn’t your Games. This isn’t about heart or honor or—whatever the hell you and Haymitch have going on now. This is survival.”

You looked him straight in the eye. “Exactly. And it’s their survival I’m fighting for.”

His voice dropped. “And what about you?”

You hesitated, but he caught it. Your silence was louder than any answer.

“Look,” you began, softer now, “I’m not asking you to follow me—”

But he cut you off, stepping closer.

“You don’t have to! We’re partners. I’m sticking by you. I always have.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want you to think. Really think, before you throw yourself into a losing bet. There’s a smarter play here. You know that.”

“I do,” you said. “But sometimes the smart play isn’t the right one.”

He exhaled harshly and scrubbed a hand over his face. “You want to help Haymitch. I get that. I do. But we both know it was luck that those two made it out. Pure, stupid luck. But you. You can win. You can make it back to your family. I’ll help you get there.”

You were about to say something to Mason—something half-formed and already losing shape in your mouth—when you heard his voice.

“Y/N! Mason!”

Your head turned faster than your heart could catch up. And there he was.

Your husband.

That familiar flutter of your heart. Like it always did. You hadn’t seen him in a day? But even now, with him just a few feet away, it felt like a lifetime had passed. You missed him deeply.

Trailing behind him were Katniss and Peeta.

“I want to formally introduce you to my victors,” Haymitch said, stopping in front of you. “Katniss and Peeta. Guys, this is Y/N and Mason. District 5.”

“Hey,” Mason said, flashing that strained, too-polished smile he always wore around new people. He gave your shoulder a quick pat. “I’m gonna go see what Gloss and Brutus are up to. Grab me when you’re done.”

Then he leaned in, low enough for only you to hear. “Please… think about what I said.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. He gave you a look—worried, conflicted—and walked off.

You turned back to the trio.“Sorry about him,” you said with a soft exhale. “He’s… under pressure…but aren’t we all?”

Your gaze lingered on Haymitch for half a second longer than it should’ve. You didn’t need to explain more. He already knew.

Then you looked at Katniss and Peeta, offered a small smile, and reached out your hand. “I’m Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you both. What you did—how you handled everything—it was impressive.”

Peeta was the first to move. His handshake was firm, warm. His eyes kind. “It’s good to meet you. We, uh… we watched your Games last night.” He hesitated, then smiled a little. “You were incredible. And also… slightly terrifying.”

You actually laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said. “If things go well, you won’t have to be scared of me.”

Haymitch cleared his throat, arms crossed, already watching the storm gather in Katniss’s face. “I was telling them you and Mason would be good allies. They seemed open to it.”

Katniss turned sharply toward him. “No, we didn’t.”

You blinked, trying to keep your expression neutral, but her words stung.

She folded her arms, looking you up and down like she was trying to see beneath your skin. “How are we supposed to trust you if you’re still with him? He clearly wants nothing to do with us.”

Your voice was quiet but steady. “I can handle Mason. He’ll follow my lead. He won’t be a threat.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, turning away, “I don’t trust you either.” And just like that, she was gone. Peeta followed, his face apologetic but silent.

You stood there for a beat too long, your hand still halfway raised before you let it fall.

Haymitch ran a hand down his face. “She’s scared,” he muttered. “She’s trying to protect him. She’s paranoid—on edge.”

You shook your head, arms wrapping around your chest like armor. “I get it. I really do. But if she won’t trust me, Mason’s going to dig in even harder. He’s already eyeing the Careers, and they really want us. They’re not taking District 4.”

Haymitch glanced toward where Mason was sparring with Brutus, the clang of metal echoing through the air like thunder. He winced.

“You thinking of going with them?”

You turned back to him slowly, locking eyes. “You really asking me that?”

Silence.

“I’m here,” you said. “With Twelve. With you. That’s not changing.”

He nodded, but you could see it—the guilt. The weight of what he was asking from you. Of what he couldn’t promise in return.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said finally. “I’ll get her to see reason. But you’ve gotta keep Mason from jumping ship. We don’t win this if he flips.”

You followed his gaze. Mason was grinning now, laughing at something Brutus said. “He can go if he wants,” you said quietly. “I told him. But my alliance is here. I made that choice.”

For you. You didn’t say it out loud. But Haymitch knew.

The noise of training continued around you—grunts, shouts, weapons clashing—but for a second, it all felt muffled. The pressure building behind your ribs was harder to ignore by the minute.

You looked at Haymitch again and tried not to let the fear show. But he saw it. He always saw it.

And that was part of what made this so unbearable.

“How are you feeling?”  He asks the question softly, like it’s the only one that matters. You know his eyes are tracing the lines of your face, trying to read the answer that you’re not saying out loud. The panic attack you’d had with him still lingers in his mind — a tightness in his chest he can’t shake. He’s scared, just like you are. The separation, even this small distance between you, feels like a raw wound. Every second without you feels like it’s eating at him from the inside out.

You shrug, doing your best to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine enough. Haven’t had another panic attack... yet. But it gets close sometimes.” You try to offer a half-smile, but it’s hollow. You can feel it — the weight of everything about to happen. And it’s suffocating.

His fingers twitch, almost as if he’s reaching for you before realizing he can’t. The frustration is written all over him. He needs to touch you. Needs to hold you, but everything feels like it’s out of his reach.

“You’ve only got a few days left until—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to. You both know what’s coming. The suffocating fear. The arena. The uncertainty. But for a second, you don’t want to hear it. Not from him.

“I walk into my death?” You let out a shaky laugh, trying to break the tension with humor that doesn’t quite land. “I promise to make it as epic as possible.”

You turn to look at him, but his eyes are hard, like he’s trying to hold it all together, and he doesn’t like what you’re saying.

“What?” you ask, but you already know.

“Don’t say that.” His voice is low, urgent. His brow furrows as he steps closer, his gaze sharp. “Never say that.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, a dull pain spreading through you. “I’m sorry.” The words fall out before you can stop them, but it feels too late to take them back.

“I need you out of that arena.” His voice is raw, like it’s the one thing he can cling to. “I don’t know what I’d do if you don’t.”

You know that’s the truth. You can see it in his eyes, that quiet desperation. He’s already lost so much. He can’t lose you too. But you’re not sure how to make him understand that you’ve already made peace with the reality.

You turn your body toward him, not daring to reach out because of the eyes on you both. But this — this moment — this conversation, it’s just between the two of you. You need him to see you, to know you’re still there, even when it feels like everything is about to come crashing down.

“Haymitch,” your voice is softer now, the lump in your throat growing. “We’re going to be fine. No matter what happens, okay? In sickness and in health. In better or for worse. Death won’t do us part.” Your breath hitches, and you try to hold back the tears, but they spill anyway. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

There’s a tremor in his eyes, like he’s holding something back. But it’s his voice that cracks this time, just a little. “And I love you,” he says, his words lingering between you both. “Which is why I don’t like that you sound so defeated.” His voice is a whisper now, almost lost in the space between you.

It’s true. He’s only seen you three times. And all those times, you’ve looked at him like you’ve already accepted your fate. And that’s the part he can’t handle. The part that tears at him in a way he’ll never be able to explain.

“It’s not defeat.” Your voice is stronger now, though it still trembles. “I’ve accepted it. I won’t be as lucky as I was the first time around. And honestly, I don’t think I want to be. Not with them.” You gesture to the others around you — the tributes who would be in the arena with you. “And definitely not if it’s against your kids.”

He bristles at the mention of them, his expression hardening in that way you’ve come to know well. “They’re not my kids.” His tone is sharp, defensive.

You roll your eyes, though the sadness creeps back in. “You’re letting them into your heart, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.” You smile, but it’s bittersweet. “It’s such an honor seeing the light shine back into your eyes.”

His gaze softens, but his voice drops, rough and honest. “I’ve had light from the moment we kissed. You are my light. And that’s why I need you to stop talking like you’ve already lost.” He steps closer, his hand hovering like he wants to touch you but is afraid to. His breath is ragged. “The Abernathy’s don’t give up.” He’s trying, trying so hard to convince you both. But the truth is, you’ve already decided.

“They don’t.” You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And that’s why, whatever happens, I’m going to need you to remember that.”

How could you still try to take care of him when you were the one who needed the comfort? You were supposed to be the one being held, not the other way around. But he was still trying to do it — trying to take care of you in whatever broken way he could.

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, his eyes burning with determination. “Trust me, okay? I’ll figure something out. And both you and the kids... you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.” He reaches for your hand quickly, squeezing it tight. You can feel the heat of his palm, the raw, frantic pulse beneath his skin. His eyes meet yours for just a second, and he gives you a wink, a shaky attempt at something like normal. “Now, I have to go find where that girl ran off to. I swear, she’s becoming more of a pain in my ass this time around. And Peeta’s following her like a lost puppy.”

You chuckle softly, the sound breaking the tension between you both. “But you love them.” You smile up at him.

He shakes his head, his smile small but real. “But I love you more.”

And in that moment, you know he means it. Even if you’re both standing on the edge of an abyss. Even if you don’t know how you’ll survive the next few days, or if you’ll survive at all. Haymitch’s love is the only thing in this world that feels like it might be enough to hold you together.

But you can’t say that. You can’t say anything. Because the truth is, you’re terrified.

And you’re not sure you can be brave enough for both of you.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Taglist ( I hope I did this right)

@nikki-is-a-nerd , @quantumorquanta, @starvedhoe, @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream , @andthevillainshallrises , @how-am-i-serpose-to-know , @honeybunnyboobear , @dedicatedfangirl2001 , @godwhyamionhere , @yoursrosie , @darylmysavior , @crossfandomslut , @passionkillerphil , @fallout-girl219 , @ramennudel , @onlyrealjoy , @narliesstuff

[astrcmoni]

ᯓ☆ star’s midnight caller II ☆ᯓ

MASTERLIST

☆ series masterpost: I II III

pairing: billie eilish x sex-hotline-operator!fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff, angst (if you squint)

synopsis: in the quiet of the night, you answer a call that pulls you into a world of mystery and intrigue. what starts as a simple conversation with a stranger turns into a connection you never expected, leaving you craving more with each ring.

wc: 19.8k…..chat

warnings: top!billie, bottom!reader, phone sex, guided masturbation (r!receiving), dirty talking, fingering(r!receiving), cunnilingus (r!receiving), r! is described to have tattoos and nipple piercings, cussing, let me know if i’ve forgotten anything.

authors note: if you haven’t read pt 1 i suggest you do to understand what’s going on, it’s linked up above. but y’all don’t understand how long this took me. never doing this again (i say as pt 3 brews in my notes app🧍🏾‍♀️) ☆

phone call style story — reader is in bold italics, billie is in blue italics.

————

thursday 2:25 pm

the room is enveloped in near-darkness, save for the faint glow of the projector casting moving shadows on the walls, the images dancing faintly before fading into obscurity. a grainy forensics case study plays on the screen, the narrator’s monotone voice threading through the silence like a low hum. images of crime scenes flicker: shoeprints etched into mud, a blood-streaked knife gleaming under harsh light, diagrams of trajectories drawn with meticulous precision. the air is thick with a strange stillness, broken only by the whir of the projector.

you’re seated at a lecture table in the middle of the room, the glossy surface cool against your forearms. your notebook lies open, pages crisp and lined with the neat curves of your handwriting—cornell notes style, each section meticulously labeled. the ballpoint pen you’ve been gripping bears faint smudges of ink, a quiet testament to earlier focus. your belongings are arranged with an almost obsessive precision, each item carefully placed to avoid encroaching on your classmates’ space.

but your mind drifts, untethered, as if caught on the hook of a voice that lingers in the back of your thoughts. a certain caller has been invading the quiet hours of your nights, her words weaving themselves into the fabric of your mind. the way she asks questions—casual but deliberate, coaxing details about your life with a quiet intensity. she tells you about herself too, the cadence of her voice shifting when she delves into stories or spirals into laughter, the kind that leaves you grinning like a fool. sometimes the conversations are light, like skipping stones across water, but often they sink deeper, pulling you both into rabbit holes of thought. and then there’s the flirting—her tone dipping just enough to leave you wondering if it’s intentional or simply her nature. either way, it stirs something in you, a warmth that unfurls in your chest, spreading through your limbs like the first sip of hot tea on a cold morning.

subconsciously, your fingers begin to wag the pen back and forth. the faint tapping against the notebook creates an uneven rhythm, a soft staccato that fills the empty spaces of your wandering mind. the sound is muted, almost soothing—the thwack of plastic meeting paper, the rustle of shifting pages. it’s erratic, mirroring the restless energy simmering beneath your surface, your thoughts leaping from one idea to the next before circling back to her voice.

your eyes stray from the projection, sweeping across the dimly lit room. your classmates sit scattered like statues in varying states of engagement—some scribbling notes with mechanical precision, others half-hidden behind their desks, their faces lit faintly by the glow of their phones. the soft rustle of pages and the occasional stifled yawn add texture to the quiet. your gaze drifts to professor talis, who sits at her desk, bathed in the soft glow of her computer screen. the light highlights the contours of her smooth, golden-brown skin, her curls tumbling gracefully over her shoulders. her thick glasses perch neatly on her nose, catching the faint reflections of the video playing on the board. the snug burgundy sweater she wears looks like it holds warmth, hugging her frame in a way that seems almost comforting.

your attention slides to the clock hanging on the wall, its face faintly illuminated by the dim light. the second hand trudges forward in slow, deliberate ticks, each movement stretching time until it feels infinite. the soft hum of distant chatter blends with the faint scratching of pencils, a quiet symphony of distraction. the pen in your hand wavers, the motion gradually slowing as your focus narrows. the countdown begins—seconds trickling away like grains of sand slipping through your fingers. freedom feels close but distant, just out of reach, and all you can do is wait.

suddenly, the vibrations of your phone ripple through the table, a faint hum cutting through the quiet. a few heads turn toward you, their eyes glinting with muted curiosity in the dim light. the attention feels sharper than it should, and you arch a brow, your head jerking slightly forward in disbelief.

“what?” you mutter under your breath, the word laced with a sharpness you didn’t bother to hide. your gaze flicks to the nearest onlookers, daring them to explain their sudden fascination. it’s not like you’re in middle school—and honestly, have they never heard a phone vibrate before?

ignoring their stares, you reach for the device, its smooth surface cool against your fingertips. unlocking it, you glance at the screen, squinting slightly as the glow cuts through the dimness. one notification stands out, breaking through the shield of your do not disturb focus mode:

1 new email notification from: Maggie Baird

tapping on the alert, you’re directed to the email, the words staring back at you in bold clarity.

hello,

i hope you’re doing well! i just wanted to send a reminder about our appointment today at 2:45. please let me know if you’re still able to stop in or not.

have a great day!

best regards,

maggie baird—guidance counselor

your fingers move automatically, the soft taps of your typing blending into the faint rustle of papers and distant murmurs.

hi!

yes, i will still be stopping by your office today to finish our discussion. see you then.

as you hit send, a voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, calling your name. your head snaps up, eyes scanning the room for the source. the voice echoes faintly, too soft to pinpoint, and you find yourself searching faces, your gaze darting from one corner to the next. then it happens—an unexpected thud against your cheek, rough paper colliding with your skin. your nose scrunches instinctively as your eyes flutter shut, the crumpled projectile falling to the desk with a dull plop.

turning around, you lock eyes with carson, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. her dark curls frame her face, slightly tousled, her sharp green eyes narrowing as if to say, really?

pushing your chair back, you scoot closer to the table behind you, leaning into the shared space until her whisper reaches your ear. the cool touch of her necklace brushes your skin, a fleeting sensation that sends a shiver down your spine.

“why the fuck was that so hard when i’m right here?” she whisper-shouts, her voice edged with teasing indignation.

“shut up,” you reply, your voice low and tinged with amusement despite yourself. “what do you want?”

carson shakes her head, her grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. the familiarity of the moment settles between you, warm and grounding. memories flicker to life—move-in day, your freshman year, the sterile air of the dorm buzzing with unfamiliarity. you still remember walking into the shared space, anxiety twisting in your stomach, only to find her already there. her stuff was unpacked, books stacked neatly on the desk, posters pinned haphazardly to the walls. she sat cross-legged on her bed, her bright green eyes meeting yours with a warmth that immediately put you at ease.

“hey,” she had said back then, her voice steady and inviting. “welcome home.”

something between you clicked that day, an invisible thread tying you together in a way you never questioned. even now, years later, the bond feels effortless—natural, like it’s always been there. you don’t say it often, maybe not as often as you should, but you’re grateful. her presence is an anchor, a quiet reassurance in a world that so often feels unsteady.

“seriously, though,” she whispers, her grin softening. “you’re so dramatic.”

“you’re the one throwing shit,” you counter, your lips twitching into a smirk.

the moment feels suspended, a pocket of light in the dimness of the room, the weight of everything else temporarily forgotten.

it made sense that she was at school on a basketball scholarship. carson had shown you her highlight reels more times than you could count, pulling them up on her cracked phone screen with that same smug grin she always wore when she knew she’d impressed you. her stats were insane—double-doubles, clutch shots, and a level of confidence that could light up any court she stepped on. she was damn good, and she knew it. but it wasn’t just her skill that kept you showing up to every game—it was the way she played, like every shot, every layup, every defensive steal was a conversation she was having with the universe. it was impossible not to get pulled into her orbit.

since the day you two met, you’d been inseparable. carson’s energy was magnetic, and from the moment she greeted you in that shared dorm room, you knew she’d be the kind of friend you could count on for anything. you became her shadow, and she became yours—whether it was late-night study sessions fueled by vending machine snacks or impromptu karaoke performances in your tiny dorm bathroom. you showed up to every one of her games, screaming your lungs out from the bleachers, your voice blending into the roar of the crowd. it wasn’t long before you decided to join the university’s cheer team, if only to have an excuse to be closer to the action—and closer to her.

but it wasn’t all fun and games. you were there when she tore her ACL sophomore year, the anguish etched across her face as she sat on the bench, the season slipping through her fingers. you’d sat with her in the hospital waiting room, holding her hand while she blinked back tears, offering nothing but your quiet presence. and when things got hard for you—when the weight of school, life, and your own fears felt too heavy—carson was there, cracking jokes, pulling you out of bed, and reminding you that it was okay to stumble as long as you kept going.

“so basically after the banquet tomorrow—”

“—seminar,” you interrupt, the corner of your lips twitching into a smirk.

“whatever, same thing. they both serve free food, do they not?” she scoffs, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. “anyways, before you rudely interrupted me, are you going to the thing tomorrow?”

“what thing?” you ask, your curiosity piqued as you shift slightly in your seat.

“do you not check the gc?”

“oh… no. i muted y’all forever ago,” you admit, stifling a laugh and keeping your voice low to avoid disturbing the rest of the class.

“my god,” she groans, dragging the words out like a dramatic sigh. “anyway, they wanna go out tomorrow—to some club or whatever—after we get back from it.”

“um… i’ll let you know,” you say, turning back toward the front of the room. “i’m supposed to meet with my counselor today about some ta thing, so i’m not too sure just yet.”

before she can respond, your attention is drawn back to the projector screen. the narrator’s voice cuts through the background noise, monotone but heavy with implication.

“this pattern of blood spatter indicates a medium-velocity impact, likely from a blunt object. note the size and direction of the droplets.”

the words sink into the stillness of the room, the imagery vivid and clinical. you feel a strange sense of detachment as your eyes flicker between the screen and your notebook. the notes in front of you blur slightly, your thoughts wandering back to carson’s offer, the muted buzz of her words still lingering in your mind.

you pause, underlining a key phrase in your notes, the ink dragging softly against the page. your eyes flick back to the screen, narrowing as you try to absorb the image—splatter lines branching out like veins, chaotic but telling a story if you looked closely enough. you force yourself to focus, blocking out the creeping edges of distraction that threaten to pull you under.

outside, a low rumble of thunder rolls, faint but steady, like a distant warning. someone shifts behind you, their chair letting out a sharp squeak that pierces the silence.

“pause the video.”

the screen freezes on an intricate diagram of blood spatter. the jagged pattern is unsettling in its precision, almost artistic in a morbid way.

professor talis speaks up, her voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “alright, let’s take a moment. can anyone tell me why this particular pattern rules out a high-velocity impact?”

the room falls into an uneasy quiet, the kind that stretches too long and grows heavy. a few students drop their gazes to their desks, avoiding eye contact like the answer might leap off their notebooks and save them. someone in the back coughs, the sound echoing faintly.

your pen stills in your hand. you know the answer; it’s on the tip of your tongue, almost reflexive. and you know she knows you know it. but the thought of speaking aloud—the weight of all those eyes on you—makes your throat tighten. you drop your gaze to your notebook, hoping the moment passes.

professor talis lets out a soft sigh, laced with disappointment. “no one? fine. look at the size of the droplets. high-velocity impacts—like from a gunshot—create a fine mist. what you’re seeing here is much larger, which tells us—”

“—that it’s medium-velocity, probably from something like a bat or a pipe,” you mutter under your breath, the words escaping before you can stop them.

the professor’s head snaps toward you, her sharp gaze locking onto yours. “exactly. speak up next time, ms. you know this stuff.”

you nod faintly, a flicker of heat rising to your cheeks. you glance at carson, who’s leaning back in her chair with an amused smirk, mouthing the word ‘damn.’ you roll your eyes at her, the corner of your lips twitching.

“alright, class dismissed,” professor talis announces, motioning for someone near the door to flip on the light switch. the room is suddenly bathed in a harsh, sterile glow, and a collective groan ripples through the class as everyone shields their eyes. you squint, blinking repeatedly, trying to adjust as the light burns away the comfortable dimness.

“don’t forget your assignments are due next monday. no excuses,” she continues, her tone firm, no room for negotiation. “you’ll thank me when you’re out there solving cases. also, remember that class is canceled tomorrow, and for those of you attending the seminar, be there no later than 11:00 a.m. sharp. dress in business attire. i’ll email your tickets tonight. have a good rest of your day, and i’ll see some of you tomorrow.”

the room erupts into the familiar chaos of end-of-class. chairs scrape against the floor, bags zip shut, and faint murmurs of conversation fill the space. you shut your notebook with a soft thud, sliding it into your bag. as you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a notification: final notice: payment overdue.

your stomach twists, a sharp pang cutting through you, but you swipe the notification away quickly, jaw tightening. you pull on your zip-up jacket, the hood going over your head almost instinctively, a flimsy barrier against the world. slinging your bag over your shoulder, you make your way down the lecture stairs, your sneakers scuffing lightly against the floor.

as you push open the heavy door, the rumble of thunder outside greets you again, this time closer, louder, like a promise waiting to unfold.

you push open the heavy door of the building, stepping into the dimly lit hallway, your hood falling as you cross the threshold. the rain that had soaked through your jacket still clings to you, a cold, damp reminder of the storm outside. you glance down, swiping your shoes against the coarse floor mat, the sound scratching faintly against the quiet. the hallways stretch out before you, dim and hushed, the flicker of old fluorescent lights overhead casting a muted glow. the rain outside drums steadily against the roof and windows, the rhythm echoing down the empty corridors like a distant heartbeat.

your sneakers squeak softly with each step as you navigate the polished floors, leaving faint wet prints in your wake. the air smells faintly of books and wood polish, mingling with the crisp, metallic tang of rain. as you approach the office, warm light spills into the hallway from the narrow opening of the door, a soft beacon in the otherwise subdued space.

you pause, lifting your hand to knock lightly against the wood, the sound barely audible over the rain outside.

“come on in!”

the voice is cheerful, familiar. pushing the door open, you step inside.

maggie sits behind her desk, her silver hair pulled into a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her kind, lined face. the desk is cluttered with papers, framed photos, and a half-empty mug of coffee, the scent faintly mingling with the room’s warmth. she looks up as you enter, her smile bright and inviting.

“ah, just the person i wanted to see. please, sit down.”

you ease into the chair across from her, the worn leather creaking slightly under your weight. “thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

she waves a hand dismissively, leaning back in her chair. “you’re fine. i heard you’re looking for a teacher’s assistant position?”

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag on your lap. “something flexible, if possible. my schedule’s already packed, but i really need the extra money.”

maggie hums thoughtfully, her fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard as she scrolls through files on her screen. “well, i think i have something that might work. the music department is looking for a t.a. it’s mostly administrative—grading papers, organizing lesson plans. nothing too heavy.”

your brows furrow slightly at the mention of music, a faint unease creeping in. “music? i’m a forensics major.”

maggie lets out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling. “relax. you don’t need to be a musical prodigy. besides, the professor is great. my daughter, actually.”

you blink, her words catching you off guard. “your…daughter?”

she nods, the pride evident in her smile. “yeah. billie eilish—well, i guess she goes by professor o’connell now. now listen, she’s a bit unconventional, but she’s brilliant and easy to work with. i think you’ll like her.”

your thoughts race, uncertainty tugging at you, but you nod slowly, chewing the inside of your cheek. “well…i mean, if you’re sure…”

“i am,” she says confidently, leaning forward. “trust me, you’ll be fine. she’s expecting you in, oh, about ten minutes.”

maggie scoots her chair back, bending slightly to pull open a drawer. she rummages for a moment before withdrawing a manila folder, sliding it across the desk toward you. “here are all the details of the position. you’ll go over them with billie and make any changes where you see fit. just remember to keep an open mind. and don’t be late—billie’s not a fan of tardiness.”

you take the folder, the paper cool and smooth beneath your fingertips, and slip it into your bag. “thank you so much, maggie.”

“anytime, sweetheart. good luck.”

you offer a small smile before stepping back into the hallway, the warmth of the office fading as the cool air of the corridor greets you.

wandering through the halls, your eyes scan the doors, searching for the name. the polished brass plaque catches your attention, glinting faintly under the dull light: o’connell. the name sits bold and formal in black lettering, an unassuming prelude to whatever waits behind the door.

you hesitate for a moment, fingers brushing over the strap of your bag, before finally reaching for the handle.

you take a deep breath, the cool air of the hallway settling in your lungs before you raise your hand to knock. the sound echoes faintly in the quiet, the weight of anticipation tightening in your chest.

“come in,” her voice calls out, smooth and measured, carrying an edge of curiosity. your stomach flips as you push the door open, stepping inside.

she stands at the front of the room, her back partially turned as she writes on the whiteboard, her movements fluid and precise. a black pen is tucked behind her ear, and a neat stack of sheet music rests on the table beside her. the room feels alive despite its simplicity—soft natural light pours in through tall windows, painting golden streaks across the floor. a piano sits in the far corner, its polished surface reflecting the greenery of several plants scattered throughout the space.

then she looks up.

blue eyes meet yours, bright and clear, framed by gold-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. her gaze is steady, assessing, but there’s warmth there too—a smile softens her expression as if she’s welcoming you into her orbit. “hello. you must be the new t.a.”

your tongue feels thick in your mouth as you nod, your voice barely audible. “yeah. that’s me.”

it hits you like a tidal wave—her voice. it’s her. you freeze, the realization flooding through you in a dizzying rush. she doesn’t seem to recognize you, doesn’t give even the faintest indication that your paths have crossed before, but that only makes it stranger. surreal, almost, to stand here in front of her.

you’d always wondered what she looked like, your mind crafting endless versions of her face over the past weeks to fill the blank spaces in your memory. but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for this.

she’s beautiful in a way that words can’t quite hold, like trying to capture sunlight in your hands. her oversized tan button-up hangs loosely on her frame, paired with dark wash jeans that sit low on her hips, the fabric pooling slightly around her ankles. her hair falls in soft, dark brown waves down her back, glinting faintly in the sunlight. she’s both effortless and breathtaking, a contradiction you can’t help but admire.

and her eyes—sharp, yet gentle—trail over you, taking in every detail. they seem to glow, crystalline and piercing, cutting through your casual exterior. suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of your own appearance, of the worn sweater and faded jeans you’d thrown on without a second thought. you feel exposed, wishing you’d cared a little more about how you looked.

“have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk as she moves to sit down. her voice is soft, but there’s a firmness to it that tells you she’s used to being listened to.

you slide into the chair, your movements careful, and pull the folder from your bag. placing it on the desk, you watch as she flips it open, her fingers brushing lightly against the papers. the motion draws your attention to the ink scrawled across the back of her hand—delicate lines of black, faint smudges at the edges, as if she’d been too focused to stop and wash it off.

as she begins to explain your responsibilities, you try to focus on her words, but your eyes betray you. they wander over her face, lingering on her lips. they’re full and soft, a natural pink like the petals of a plumeria flower, and you can’t help but wonder what they might feel like against your own. the thought startles you, heat creeping up your neck.

her voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, pulling you back to reality. “is everything okay?” she asks, her brows knitting together in light concern.

you blink, shaking off the haze. “yeah, sorry about that. can you repeat that?” you force a small, nervous laugh, rubbing your palms against the rough fabric of your jeans before leaning in slightly, hoping to seem more attentive.

she doesn’t answer immediately. instead, she watches you, her fingers idly tracing the edges of the papers in the folder. her head tilts to the side, the movement subtle but thoughtful, her gaze narrowing slightly.

her tongue darts out briefly to wet her bottom lip before she pulls it in, biting gently on the skin as if she’s considering something. the moment feels heavier than it should, the silence stretching thin between you. you shift under her gaze, the weight of it pressing into you, as if she’s trying to read something just beneath the surface.

“what?” your brows knit together as confusion flashes across your face, your eyes darting around the room in search of some unseen answer.

“nothing,” she huffs softly, amusement laced in her tone, though her gaze remains sharp. she leans forward, closing the distance slightly, her arms resting on the desk. her presence is magnetic, drawing you in even as her words send a ripple of unease through your chest. “i’m just wondering… do i know you from somewhere?”

you freeze, the air seeming to still around you. her question hits you like a sudden drop, the ground vanishing beneath your feet. a chill skates down your spine, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. you inhale sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to collect the fragments of your composure. your voice feels foreign when it finally escapes, a careful balance between indifference and denial.

“no, i don’t think you do. i’m sorry.”

silence unfurls in the space between you, thick and palpable. billie doesn’t move, her blue eyes narrowing slightly as they search yours. there’s a quiet intensity in the way she looks at you, as though she’s trying to piece together a memory just out of reach. her lashes frame her gaze, softening its sharpness, but the weight of it is almost too much to bear.

her eyes shift, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your jaw, the slope of your neck. they linger there for a moment too long, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. then, like a current, her gaze flows down your arm, pausing briefly as if something there caught her attention. her movements are so fluid, so unassuming, you barely register them before she straightens, her focus shifting back to the file in front of her.

“hm… well then,” she murmurs, her tone light but her expression unreadable. she leans back in her chair, the black leather creaking softly beneath her. a beat passes, the air taut with unspoken tension, before she continues. “does every monday, wednesday, and friday at five pm work for you?”

you nod quickly, your movements stiff and mechanical, and she doesn’t press further.

she begins listing your responsibilities, her voice smooth and measured as she explains your duties. you force yourself to focus on her words, but it’s a losing battle. your responses are clipped, your gaze fixed firmly on the desk in front of you. if you keep it brief, keep it distant, maybe she won’t look too closely. maybe she won’t connect the threads dangling between you.

by the time the meeting wraps up, your nerves are frayed, each passing second an exercise in restraint. billie leans forward again, extending a hand across the desk. “looking forward to working with you.”

for a moment, you just stare at her hand, your heart pounding in your ears. then, slowly, you reach out, your fingers meeting hers. her hand is warm, her skin smooth but not without the rough edges of callouses. the contrast between your hands strikes you—her strength tempered by an understated softness, your own fingers trembling slightly as you fight to maintain control.

her thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, whether intentional or not, and the contact sends a jolt through you. goosebumps rise along her arm where your nails graze her skin, the faint gleam of your top coat catching the light.

“thank you,” you mumble, your voice barely audible. you pull your hand back quickly, tucking it close to your side like it might betray you.

with a hurried goodbye, you slip out of the room, your chest tight and your thoughts in chaos. the hallway feels too quiet, the walls pressing in as you all but sprint away. each step echoes, a reminder of what you’ve left behind and the weight of what you can’t seem to outrun.

back in your apartment, billie’s voice lingers like a song you can’t get out of your head, looping endlessly in your mind. you toss your bag onto the couch and make your way to the bathroom, craving the solitude and stillness that only a hot shower can bring.

you tie your hair back loosely, fingers trembling slightly as you strip off your clothes. stepping into the steam, the water cascades over your skin, scalding but grounding, a sharp contrast to the chaos in your chest. the scent of your lavender body wash fills the air, soft and calming, like a fleeting embrace in the midst of a storm. you close your eyes and focus on the sound of the droplets hitting the tiles, willing the tension in your shoulders to dissolve, willing your nerves to spiral down the drain along with the suds.

after a few long moments, you twist the knob, and the water stops, leaving behind silence and steam. wrapping yourself in a towel, you step out, the cool air prickling against your damp skin. you move to your bedroom, the ritual of moisturizing your skin a temporary comfort. your favorite lotion, thick and sweet like vanilla and brown sugar, lingers on your fingertips as you rub it into your arms and legs.

the clock on your nightstand glows 3:47 in vivid red, mocking you with the hours left until your hotline shift begins. you sigh, pulling on a pair of soft, worn pajamas, their familiarity soothing. the silence presses against your ears, heavy and unrelenting, so you turn on your tv, letting the hum of your favorite show fill the void. but even with the characters’ voices playing in the background, your thoughts are loud, relentless.

you drag yourself into the bathroom to begin your hair routine. from under the sink, you gather your tools: the flat iron, heat protectant, parting comb, rollers, and duck clips. the motions are automatic, practiced, almost meditative.

your thumb brushes against the flat iron’s switch, flicking it on. the red light blinks steadily as it warms up. you spray heat protectant onto your hair, the mist clinging to the strands, giving them a subtle sheen. when the iron’s light turns green, you pick it up and run it carefully down each section of hair. the heat transforms your coils into glossy, silken strands, the steam curling in the air like whispered secrets. you follow each pass with your comb before rolling the ends of your hair up to the roots and clipping them in place with a metallic duck clip.

the process repeats, your hands moving on autopilot, but your mind drifts elsewhere. you replay the meeting over and over, analyzing every glance, every word. the way her eyes lingered on you, searching for something just out of reach. does she know? or is this all some cruel coincidence?

your alarm buzzes sharply, jolting you from your thoughts. the clock now blares 6:20. you finish the last section of your hair, securing the roller in place, before turning off the alarm. as you set the flat iron down, another sound cuts through the room—the sharp trill of the phone. it’s the hotline.

your stomach flips as you hesitate, staring at the flashing light. finally, you take a deep breath, slip on your headset, and settle into the familiar rhythm of your persona.

thursday 6:32 pm — incoming call from +1 (310) 807-3956 (los angeles, california)

“hello, and thank you for calling the pulse network. this is star speaking.”

“star,” billie’s voice flows through the receiver, warm and honey-smooth. “how’s my favorite voice tonight?”

your heart clenches. it’s always like this when she calls, the way her voice sinks into your skin and leaves you aching for more.

“i’m good,” you reply, fighting to keep your tone steady. “you?”

“exhausted,” she admits, a soft chuckle following her words. “it’s been a day. i just got a new t.a., which i’m so grateful for, but she was so quiet. i think i scared her off.”

your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you can’t speak. she’s talking about me.

“maybe she’s just shy,” you manage, your voice careful, measured.

the conversation flows, her voice a melody you know too well. she talks about her day, her words curling around you like smoke, hazy and intoxicating. you fall into the rhythm of your usual calls, her laughter tugging a small smile from your lips despite the weight in your chest.

when you mention your new nails, she perks up, her tone playful and teasing.

“tell me everything. what color? shape? i need details, star.”

her curiosity pulls you in, her warmth easing the tension in your shoulders just enough to let you breathe. for a moment, it feels normal—like it always has, like she’s just a voice on the other end of the line. but beneath the surface, you can feel the cracks forming, the weight of your secret threatening to shatter everything.

“baby?” she calls out, her voice soft, low, and dripping with a kind of warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

the little nickname stirs something in you, a flutter of wings in the pit of your stomach, delicate and chaotic.

“hm?” you hum, your tone nonchalant, though your pulse skips just slightly.

“i’ve always wondered if you had any tattoos or anything.”

her question catches you off guard, and you smile faintly, letting out a soft breath as you lean back in your chair.

“yeah, i have a couple.”

“oh? where?”

her tone shifts—curious but edged with something playful. it pulls a light laugh from you, your fingers idly tracing the edge of your desk.

“um… i have one on my spine, another in the middle of my boobs, like, on my sternum. there’s a few others, but i always forget about them. they’re mostly in places you can’t really see unless… you know.”

“unless what?” her voice takes on a teasing lilt, and you can hear the smirk tugging at her lips, even through the line.

your own lips curl as you lean forward slightly, your tone dipping into something slower, smoother, deliberate.

“unless i’m having sex or something”

the words hang in the air, heavy and electric. you hear her breath hitch faintly before she responds, her voice low, sultry, matching your energy effortlessly.

“just might have to take you up on that offer.”

your side of the line goes quiet for a beat, her words lingering in your head like smoke. you swallow hard, the heat blooming in your chest spreading lower. ever since this afternoon, your thoughts have been consumed by her. seeing her for the first time—her sharp blue eyes, the casual confidence in the way she moved—was enough to get your mind reeling and your body betraying you in ways you hadn’t expected.

you sigh softly, the sound escaping without permission, and lean back in your chair.

“you okay over there?” her voice breaks through your haze, tinged with genuine concern.

“yeah,” you say quickly, then pivot. “do you have any tattoos?”

“just six,” she says, her tone easing back into its usual calm rhythm. “not a lot. i have a back tattoo, one on my hip, two on my thigh, one on my sternum, and then everyone’s favorite—the one on my hand.”

she describes them casually, but her voice is warm, soft around the edges, and it paints vivid images in your mind. your thoughts immediately flash to the tattoo on her hand. you’d seen it earlier, the intricate details trailing over her skin. it had you thinking thoughts you shouldn’t, imagining her hands tracing over your body, exploring every sacred inch of you.

a low sound escapes your throat—something between a groan and a hum—and you don’t even realize it until the silence stretches between you.

“what was that?” her voice is teasing now, a quiet laugh slipping through, and you feel your cheeks heat up.

“nothing,” you murmur, shifting in your seat. as you adjust, your elbow brushes against the desk, and the edge presses uncomfortably into your chest. a sharp pain shoots through you as it hits your nipple piercing, and you wince, sucking in a breath.

“what’s going on over there?” she asks, half-laughing, half-curious.

“nothing,” you say again, trying to brush it off, though your voice is tight. you bite your lip, squeezing your eyes shut as the sting subsides, but your thoughts remain tangled in her—her voice, her hands, her presence.

this is dangerous, you think. and yet, you can’t seem to pull yourself away.

“i just bruised my fucking piercing.”

“what piercing?” her voice perks up, curiosity spilling through the line. there’s something in her tone—teasing, intrigued—that makes your stomach twist, heat curling under your skin.

you hesitate for a moment, then let it slip. “this damn nipple piercing. don’t even know why i got it.”

you didn’t, really. it was one of those impulsive decisions—your freshman year of college, sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed while your ex convinced you it’d be fun and cute. you remember the way she had grinned, her enthusiasm contagious, and before you knew it, you were booking an appointment. carson came with you, holding your hand and laughing the entire time, but she didn’t stop you either.

“you’re full of surprises, star,” billie says, a soft laugh weaving into her words. it’s a laugh that warms you, but it also disarms you, makes you feel more exposed than you intended. “but seriously, take care of yourself. that sounds painful.”

her concern lingers in the air, brushing against you in a way that feels intimate, like a hand on your shoulder or the press of her fingers tracing over your skin. you shift in your chair, biting your lip as her words replay in your mind.

“and how do you suggest i do that?” the question leaves your mouth before you can catch it, hanging there like a thread pulled loose.

there’s a pause on the line, just long enough for your heart to stutter, and then she speaks. her voice drops, soft and deliberate.

“do you trust me?”

your throat tightens, and you nod instinctively, even though she can’t see you. “yeah.”

your voice is quiet, a little unsteady, but honest. and in that moment, the walls of your room feel smaller, the distance between you and billie shrinking with every word exchanged.

“i’mma need you to say it, babe.”

her voice is steady, low, and commanding, the kind of tone that roots itself in your chest and refuses to let go. even though she isn’t physically there, you feel her presence like a weight, tangible and pressing. the air around you thickens, charged with an unspoken tension.

you hesitate, your pulse thrumming wildly against your throat. “i—” the words catch, sticking to your tongue. then you swallow hard and try again. “i trust you, billie.”

“just wanna help you out, okay?”

there’s a softness in her words now, a reassurance that wraps around you like a warm blanket. you nod before realizing she can’t see you. “okay.”

“good. what are you wearing?”

her question catches you off guard, even though deep down you already sensed where this was headed. your fingers toy with the edge of your desk, and your heart kicks up a notch.

“just a t-shirt and some sleep shorts.”

the admission feels simple enough, but the way her pause lingers on the line makes your skin prickle with anticipation.

“can you lift your shirt for me?”

her words come out smooth, velvet-coated, and they sink into you like the slow pull of a tide. the apprehension you’ve been holding onto tightens, coiling low in your belly. but there’s something magnetic in her voice, something that compels you to follow.

“mhm.” your response is soft, barely audible, but you know she hears it.

your hands find the hem of your shirt, your fingers grazing the fabric. the motion is slow, deliberate, like the weight of her voice has made everything else move in molasses. you pull the shirt over your head, the cool air hitting your skin in contrast to the heat that’s creeping up your neck and chest. carefully, you fold it, laying it down on the desk beside you like it’s something sacred.

the room feels quieter now, more intimate somehow. the faint hum of the tv in the background, the occasional creak of the apartment settling—all of it fades as you wait for her voice to return.

“now i want you to rub your tits for me, be nice and gentle to them. touch your nipples and tell me what kind of jewelry you got, baby.”

her voice is like a current, slow and unrelenting, pulling you into its depths. your body responds before your mind catches up, your hands moving instinctively to the soft curve of your chest.

your fingers skim along your skin, warm and pliant, before you focus on the sensitive peaks. a sharp inhale escapes your lips as your fingertips brush over the hardened buds, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. you tease yourself, tugging lightly, your movements deliberate yet tender.

“they’re, um—” your breath hitches, the words tumbling out unsteady. “they’re hearts, silver diamond hearts.”

you let the image sink in, your hands still working against your skin, and it feels like you’re teetering on the edge of something unspoken.

“mm—i just know they’re so pretty, how does it feel?”

her voice is low, almost a whisper, and yet it feels like it’s wrapped around you, coaxing you to give in.

“feels good, billie.” your voice is barely audible, your words coming out in a soft, breathless rush.

“i know it does, mama.”

the way she says it, smooth and confident, sends a warm flush through your body. it’s intimate, intoxicating, the kind of connection that feels like it exists in its own universe.

your hands falter slightly, your touch growing lighter as you bask in the way her words linger. the heat building under your skin seems to sync with the cadence of her voice, every syllable pressing against you like a soft, unseen touch.

you let out a quiet sigh, feeling the tension ebb and flow like waves against the shore, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

before you know it, her voice shifts, becoming softer, more intimate, like a low hum in the quiet night. her words settle over you, warm and heavy, weaving a haze you can’t escape—not that you want to. the rhythm of her voice is hypnotic, each syllable pulling you deeper into the moment, blurring the edges of your thoughts.

you let your head rest against the cool wood of your desk, eyes fluttering shut as her tone wraps around you like a secret only the two of you share.

billie’s breath hitches on her end of the line. the image of you—at your desk, bare skin glowing in the dim light, your hands exploring what she so desperately wishes she could—floods her mind. it consumes her, making her ache with a longing she’s unprepared for. her free hand trails absentmindedly to her chest, pressing lightly against her own skin as her voice dips lower.

“now i want you to touch the most sensitive parts of yourself,” she murmurs, the words rolling off her tongue like honey. “your lips, your neck. go slow, baby, there’s no rush.”

“okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, caught between hesitation and desire.

you start at your lips, your thumb brushing over the softness, tracing their shape as if committing them to memory. the sensation is subtle but electric, and you can’t help but imagine her doing the same—her hands, her mouth, leaving trails of warmth across your skin.

your fingers drift downward, grazing the curve of your neck, lingering where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. your breath catches as you press lightly, letting the heat of the moment seep into every nerve.

you let your hands travel further, down to the valley of your chest, the softness of your skin against your fingertips grounding you even as it sets you alight. every motion feels deliberate, each touch sending ripples of warmth through you. your fingers tease the edge of your waistband, a small gasp escaping your lips as you hover there, caught between restraint and surrender.

“you’re doing so good, mama,” billie murmurs, her voice rough around the edges now, her own breathing heavier than before. “how does it feel?”

you hesitate, swallowing hard before replying. “it feels—good. it feels so good.”

her voice comes again, softer, more urgent, like she’s right there, close enough to touch. “keep going for me, yeah? take your time.”

her words push you forward, her presence on the line the only tether you need. it’s electric, raw, and completely hers.

“take off your panties for me, love.”

her words wrap around you like a velvet ribbon, smooth and enticing, tugging at something deep within you. your teeth catch your bottom lip, nerves and anticipation tangling into one as her voice lingers in your ear, low and commanding.

“oh, well, you see, i’m not wearing…any.”

you pause, letting the words hang in the air, the silence heavy with implication.

“oh?” her response is slow, deliberate, and laced with a smirk you can practically hear. “that makes everything easier then. go ahead and slide your shorts off for me.”

your hands tremble slightly as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. you peel the fabric away from your skin, the motion slow, deliberate, almost reverent. the dampness at the center is undeniable, the evidence of your arousal making your cheeks flush. you’re thankful for the black fabric, a small mercy in an otherwise vulnerable moment.

as the shorts fall away, the cool air in the room caresses your exposed skin, sending a shiver through you. it’s like the atmosphere itself is alive, charged with the tension billie’s voice weaves around you.

“are they off?” her voice is soft but insistent, each word settling deep into your core.

“yeah, yes, they’re off,” you exhale, the words barely audible, your breath catching as you shift slightly in your chair. the air presses against your skin, the sensitivity almost too much.

“look at you,” she murmurs, her tone dripping with praise. “being such a good girl for me.”

her words hit you like a warm rush, the praise melting into your chest and pooling low in your belly. a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, the sound vulnerable and raw.

the line crackles with a silence that feels anything but empty, the connection between you tangible even through the phone. it’s as if she’s right there with you, her presence wrapping around you, guiding you, pulling you closer to a kind of surrender you hadn’t anticipated.

“i want you to slowly feel the skin on your legs. stroke your inner thighs, tease yourself a little,” she whispers, her voice like silk unraveling across your skin.

you don’t hesitate, your hands gliding downward, fingers skimming over the smooth expanse of your thighs. the touch is light, tentative, as if testing the waters of your own restraint. goosebumps ripple in the wake of your movements, the coolness of the air mixing with the warmth pooling inside you.

your breath comes out uneven, a shaky exhale that echoes in the quiet room. the ache low in your stomach intensifies, spreading like a slow burn, and you can’t help but press your thighs together for even the smallest semblance of relief.

“like this?” your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, but the need in it is unmistakable.

“just like that,” billie purrs, her tone soothing yet commanding, each word pushing you further into the haze she’s crafted. “take your time. let your fingers linger. don’t rush it, love.”

your hands obey without thought, fingertips trailing along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. the sensation is electric, every nerve ending alive and sparking under your touch. you let your fingers wander, brushing higher, closer, teasing yourself with a deliberate slowness that borders on torture.

the tension in your body coils tighter with every passing second, and a small whimper escapes your lips. it feels as though the distance between you and billie is nonexistent, her presence palpable even through the thin crackle of the phone line.

“you feel good, don’t you?” her voice dips lower, rich and smoky. “i bet you’re dripping for me already.”

her words make you gasp softly, your body arching involuntarily as her confidence washes over you. she knows exactly what she’s doing, her tone laced with equal parts encouragement and command, pulling you deeper into the moment.

your fingers falter for a second, trembling as the ache inside you becomes almost unbearable. you bite your lip, the metallic taste grounding you briefly as your mind swims in the intoxicating warmth of her guidance.

“god, i wish i could see you right now. i know you look so good, thighs spread apart, pussy all glistening and wet— all because of me.”

her voice is molten, dripping with desire, and it feels like it wraps around you, constricting and coaxing you all at once. her words settle low in your stomach, feeding the fire that’s been building steadily, threatening to consume you.

“billie, please…” the plea escapes your lips in a shaky breath, barely audible, as your body trembles under the weight of her voice.

“want me to fuck you?” she asks, her tone soft yet firm, a tease wrapped in promise.

“mhm.” the sound is a desperate whimper, raw and unfiltered, and your nails dig into the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, an attempt to anchor yourself as your mind spirals deeper into the heat of her words.

the room feels smaller, the air heavier. every sound, every creak of the chair, every whisper of breath feels amplified, blending into the symphony of your need. your thighs ache from the tension, the pressure of your own touch almost unbearable as your body responds to her commands.

you can picture her smirk on the other end of the line, that knowing, cocky curve of her lips, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine. it’s maddening how her presence can fill a space she isn’t even in, how her voice alone can undo you piece by piece.

“good girl,” she murmurs, her praise sending a jolt through your chest, straight to the core of you. “keep going, don’t stop now. i want to hear all those pretty little sounds you make.”

her words feel like a tether and a push all at once, keeping you grounded even as they push you further out of control. your breath hitches, a quiet moan slipping past your lips, your body moving instinctively, chasing the release she’s guiding you toward.

the way she says ‘good girl’ loops in your mind, a mantra that fuels every movement of your hands, every desperate whimper that escapes your lips. the ache inside you grows sharper, an unbearable tension building and building, and all you can think about is her.

“shit- go ahead and touch yourself baby, wanna hear how wet you are.”

taking your index and your middle finger, you spread your folds apart, before you dip your middle finger to touch your slit. coating your finger in your salivating ecstasy, you swipe up and down on your pussy. the sound of your slick wetness echoing throughout the room. touching your bundle of nerves your rub it in circle motions, pushing down on it just slightly to get the right amount of friction.

billie closed her eyes and tries to steady her breathing as she hears you on the other end, practically begging her to fuck you. and she wish she could do it too, take her time with you to touch you properly and to make you come undone as many times as she wanted to.

“oh my, fuck babe.” a string of curse words slips from billie’s lips, and you can feel her breath hitch through the line. there’s something about hearing her react that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can tell that the sound of your moans and the atmosphere in the room have her completely captivated. every sound you make, every little shift, she’s there with you in it, even if it’s through the phone.

billie shifts, her voice quieter now, like she’s trying to keep herself steady. “i want to feel you so bad… but for now, this will have to do,” she murmurs, her words trailing off with longing. lying on her bed she sat up against her head board, shoving her hands down her sweats and playing with her own clit, the pads of her pointer and middle finger gently rub steady, figure 8's against her nub as she tried to match your pace.

you imagine her lying back, the soft glow of her room casting faint shadows, just the sound of her voice filling the space. you know she’s doing the same thing you are — wanting to be closer, but for now, savoring the distance in the only way she can.

your eyes squeeze shut at the thought, the image of billie crystal clear in your mind. she’s on her knees, her lips slightly parted, her tongue teasing and deliberate. her thumb would press against your most sensitive spot, slow circles coaxing pleasure from you as her eyes stay fixed on yours, sharp and unwavering, like she’s committing every flicker of your expression to memory. you’d tangle your fingers in her soft hair, pulling her closer, feeling the heat of her breath against your skin, every moment searing itself into your mind.

a low moan slips past your lips, involuntary and raw, as you shift in place, letting the image take over. the ache inside you grows, pressing against the edges of your composure, and you can’t help but imagine how her touch would feel—how every word she’s murmured would finally come to life under her fingertips.

“you’re so perfect,” billie’s voice hums through the speaker, her tone soft but rough around the edges, laced with the kind of restraint that makes your heart pound harder. “keep going, baby. let me hear you.”

her own breathing hitches slightly on the other end, breaking the rhythm of her steady voice. it’s as if she’s right there with you, matching the pace, letting the connection between you stretch taut like a thread pulled to its breaking point. the sound of her—soft curses under her breath, the quiet rasp of her voice—sends shivers along your skin, and it’s almost too much.

the room feels charged, the air thick with a tension you can’t name but don’t want to escape from. every word she says pulls you deeper, every second on the line feels like a lifetime wrapped in her presence, and for now, that’s enough.

“holy shit. you sound so fucking good for me. so fucking perfect.”

her words spill through the phone, low and gravelly, threading through the quiet of your room. each syllable feels like a caress against your skin, pulling you deeper into the moment, and your fingers obey without hesitation, working in rhythm with her praise.

“feels so good, billie, fuck. you feel so good.” the words tumble out of you, shaky and raw, your voice catching on the edges of your breath.

“wish i was there so i could help you, baby.”

it’s then you notice it—her breathing, uneven and rushed, broken by faint, muffled sounds. you hadn’t really picked up on it before, but now it’s all you can focus on. the soft, rhythmic moans slipping through the line, the faint wet sounds beneath her breath, as if she’s right there with you, mirroring your every movement.

your chest tightens at the thought, a spark of heat running through you. the ache builds, sharp and unrelenting, driving your fingers to move faster, each motion more desperate than the last. the air around you feels heavy, charged with anticipation, and every inhale is shallow, quick, feeding the fire that billie’s voice has set ablaze.

“oh baby, billie—i’m gonna—please—just—fuck,” you whine, your voice breaking with the force of it all, your words spilling over each other in a rush. they don’t make sense, but nothing does in this moment except the way she makes you feel.

“that’s it, baby,” her voice trembles, heavy with want and barely contained restraint. “let go for me, love.”

and that was it. the sharp edge of release tore through you, pulling a low, penetrating moan from your lips. your body trembled as waves of heat rolled over you, your fingers working instinctively to draw out every last ounce of pleasure. billie’s name fell from your mouth like a prayer, soft yet desperate, as you made a mess of yourself, utterly unraveled.

your chest heaved, the rise and fall rapid as you tried to steady your breath. the world around you felt hazy, distant, like everything had faded into the background except for the sound of her voice spilling through the line.

“good job, baby, you did so good for me,” she murmured, her tone soft and full of pride. on the other end, you could hear her breathing too, uneven and ragged, her words laced with the remnants of her own high. her praise wrapped around you like a warm blanket, grounding you, until—

she says your name. not just your name but the one that feels heavy, official. the one you thought she didn’t know. it rolls off her tongue like it belongs there, smooth and deliberate, shattering the fragile bubble you’d built between the two of you.

your heart stops. your breath catches. a chill races up your spine. “what did you just say?”

silence follows, thick and suffocating, stretching out like a chasm between you.

“nothing,” she quips, too quickly, the edge of something unreadable in her voice.

your tone sharpens, cutting through the quiet. “billie.” it’s a warning, low and steady, but laced with an undercurrent of unease.

her next words are quiet, almost hesitant, yet certain in a way that makes the floor feel like it’s slipping out from under you.

“i know it’s you.”

the world tilts, panic surging in your chest like a tidal wave. heat floods your face, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. “i—i have to go,” you stammer, the words spilling from your lips without thought. with shaking hands, you rip the headset off, your pulse thundering in your ears as you end the call.

the silence that follows is deafening, but your heart continues to pound, the realization settling over you like a weight.

you sit there, frozen, staring blankly at the wall as your mind races in a chaotic loop. how could she know? what does this mean? the questions tumble over each other, relentless, leaving no room for answers. leaning back in your chair, your eyes dart around the room, searching for anything to ground you, but instead, they land on the vanity mirror across from you.

your breath catches. there it is. that damn butterfly tattoo etched delicately behind your ear, its wings trailing faintly onto the side of your neck—a design you often forget about until moments like this. the same tattoo she had been staring at earlier today, her gaze lingering just a beat too long.

with an aggravated huff, you reach out and spin the mirror around, unable to look at it any longer. the sight feels accusatory now, a reminder of your slip, your vulnerability. you shove the chair back with a screech and hurry to the bathroom, the need to cleanse yourself and your space overwhelming. the cool water against your skin is sharp, but it doesn’t quiet your spiraling thoughts.

as you clean the chair and pull your clothes back on, the fog in your mind thickens. panic churns in your chest, mingling with an odd cocktail of shame and unease. you know she didn’t mean to make you feel this way, but the weight of it lingers all the same.

then, your phone buzzes, yanking you from the haze. the screen lights up with another call, but your focus is fractured. with trembling fingers, you force yourself to answer, masking your nerves with the practiced ease of someone who knows how to play their role.

meanwhile, across the city, billie is pacing her room, her hands raking through her hair, disheveling the strands until they’re as chaotic as her thoughts. she knows she’s messed up—badly—and the regret is gnawing at her. she grabs her phone and dials the hotline again, but there’s no answer, only an echoing silence that fuels her desperation.

unable to sit with her guilt, she opens the app and sends a payment—your expected earnings for the session she interrupted, plus a tip. the amount is significant, but it feels insignificant compared to the words she can’t seem to say. she types out a brief note to accompany it: “i’m sorry. can we talk tomorrow?” her finger hovers over the send button before she taps it, watching the transaction disappear into the void.

you, however, keep moving through the night, each call leaving you feeling more drained than the last. panic still lingers in the corners of your mind, intertwined with the sting of dejection and the unsettling sense of vulnerability. though you remind yourself that her intentions weren’t malicious, the leftover shock clings stubbornly, refusing to fade.

finally, after what feels like an eternity, you decide you’ve made enough for the night. with an exhausted sigh, you shut down the hotline, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. the room falls into darkness as you flick off the lights, retreating to your bed and mindlessly flipping through channels, hoping for distraction.

but then, the soft chime of your phone breaks the silence.

new transactions — 3:15 am

+1 (310) 807-3956 (los angeles, ca) - $350.00 + $550 tip, notes: “i’m sorry. can we talk tomorrow?”

+1 (254) 783-0184 (dallas, TX) - $79.72

+1 (980) 598-7201 (charlotte, NC) - $153.68

+1 (201) 508-3416 (bayonne, NJ) - $220.65

+1 (216) 347-0517 (cleveland, OH) - $37.54 + $35 tip

your eyes skim over the notifications, your attention halting at the first one. you know it’s her. your chest tightens, a mix of gratitude and hesitation washing over you. the tip is generous, overly so, but you can’t bring yourself to reply. not now.

with a sigh, you lock your phone and set it face down on the nightstand, the screen now dark and unyielding. rolling onto your side, you close your eyes and try to will yourself to sleep, but the thoughts keep creeping back in, tangled and persistent.

the night stretches on, heavy and endless.

friday 8:45 am —

the next morning drifts by in a haze, the weight of the night before pressing into your chest like a stone. billie’s slip-up loops endlessly in your mind, her voice saying your name with the kind of familiarity that shouldn’t exist. it feels like a quiet earthquake, shifting everything beneath your feet and leaving you unsteady.

but the day doesn’t care about your turmoil. you have a packed schedule: the forensics seminar in san diego is a top priority, and you can’t afford to let your personal life bleed into your professional one.

the seminar stretches on far longer than expected, the clock’s hands spinning faster than they should. presentations drone, conversations pile up, and you lose track of time between networking and handshakes. by the time you finally make it to your car, you’re already behind. your first day as billie’s ta looms, and you’re cutting it dangerously close.

frustration bubbles in your chest as you toss your heels onto the passenger seat and swap them for your sneakers. the drive back to los angeles feels like a blur, the highway unwinding like a taut ribbon, city lights flickering in your periphery.

when you arrive on campus, you’re out of breath, your sneakers tightly laced, your bag slung over one shoulder. the music department’s doors creak as you push them open, the sound echoing in the stillness of the hallway. billie’s office waits at the end, her name etched on the placard beside the door.

you steel yourself as you approach, forcing your posture to straighten and your expression to settle into something neutral. you can’t afford to let last night’s mess seep into today.

when you step inside, billie looks up from her desk, a polite but cautious smile flickering across her face. she cradles a mug of tea in her hands, the steam curling up in soft tendrils.

“you made it,” she says softly, her voice careful, like she’s testing the waters.

“yeah,” you mumble, your voice flat as you drop your bag onto the chair nearest the door.

she gestures toward the kettle on a side table. “i made some tea if you want.”

you shake your head. “no, thanks.”

the silence that follows is thick and awkward, settling over the room like a dense fog. you take a seat and reach for the stack of papers she’s prepared, diving into the grading without so much as a glance in her direction. your pen moves methodically, the scratching of ink against paper the only sound breaking the stillness.

billie tries to bridge the gap with small talk, her tone light but tentative. “how was the seminar?”

“fine,” you reply curtly, not looking up.

“did you learn anything new?”

“not really.”

then she says something that makes your hand pause mid-motion, the words slipping out so softly they almost disappear into the air between you.

“you look pretty.”

the warmth of her voice lingers, curling around you like smoke, uninvited but hard to ignore. for a moment, your resolve falters, heat rising unbidden to your cheeks.

“thanks,” you murmur, forcing the words out before returning to the papers in front of you. your hand moves faster now, as if the quicker you work, the less you’ll feel.

the air grows heavier with every clipped response, every wall you put up. you feel her eyes on you—watching, waiting—but you refuse to meet her gaze. instead, you pull out your phone, scrolling aimlessly through instagram, letting the stream of curated stories and fleeting glimpses into other people’s lives distract you from the weight of your own.

you wish you’d said yes to carson yesterday. you imagine yourself anywhere but here, laughing over drinks or walking aimlessly through the city, free from this suffocating room and its unspoken tension.

your phone finds its way back to the desk, face down, the screen going dark like the mood in the room. you shuffle through the stack of papers, forcing your focus back to the words in front of you, but your mind keeps drifting. billie’s presence sits heavy, her silence louder than anything she could say.

the papers in front of you blur, the words melting into indistinguishable smudges as your pen moves mindlessly across the page. the ticking clock on the wall grows louder with each second, the steady rhythm grating against your nerves. billie’s presence feels suffocating, her quiet, measured breaths and those occasional glances prickling at your skin like needles. no matter how much you try, you can’t shake the feeling of her eyes on you. still, you keep yours trained on the stack of papers, determined to maintain a veneer of professionalism.

the silence between you is brittle, threatening to crack. it’s billie who finally breaks it, her voice soft but resolute. “are we going to talk about it?”

“talk about what?” you respond, keeping your tone as even as you can, your gaze fixed on the paper beneath your pen.

“you know what i mean.”

your fingers tighten around the pen, and you press it harder against the page, the words blurring even more. “there’s nothing to talk about.”

she exhales, and the sound carries frustration, an edge you’re not sure you’re ready to face. “you can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.”

“i can, actually,” you reply sharply, the bitterness in your tone slipping out before you can stop it.

“no, you don’t,” you say, louder this time, your voice firm, unyielding.

the next words that leave her mouth hit like a slap. “quit acting like a dick.”

your pen freezes mid-stroke, the ink bleeding into the paper. your head snaps up, and you glare at her, the tension between you thick enough to choke on. “excuse me?”

billie doesn’t back down. she crosses her arms, leaning slightly forward, her posture tense. “you heard me. we’ve been talking for weeks, and now, after one awkward call, you’re acting like i don’t exist.”

a bitter laugh escapes your lips as you scoff, shaking your head. “it’s not that simple.”

her gaze sharpens, her blue eyes piercing through your defenses. “then explain it to me,” she presses, her tone walking the tightrope between firm and gentle. “because from where i’m sitting, it looks like you’re punishing me for something that caught both of us off guard.”

her words dig under your skin, unearthing emotions you’ve tried to bury since last night. frustration bubbles over, spilling into your voice. “it’s not just that, billie,” you snap, the pen slipping from your fingers as you lean back in your chair. “you called me by my name. my name. you knew who i was this whole time, and you didn’t say anything. do you even understand how messed up that feels?”

her shoulders slump slightly, and her expression shifts, guilt softening the sharp lines of her face. “look,” she starts, her voice quiet now, tinged with regret. “i know it’s weird. i know i screwed up. and i’m sorry for what i did—how i handled it. i should’ve told you the moment i recognized you, but i didn’t know how. i didn’t want to scare you off. but can we stop pretending like this is something it’s not?”

you blink, the weight of her words settling heavily in the air between you. her gaze is steady, unwavering, and there’s something vulnerable in the way she looks at you, like she’s peeling back layers she’d rather keep hidden.

she shifts forward, resting her arms on the desk, the smallest flicker of hope breaking through her hesitation. “let me make it up to you. dinner, my place, my treat. no games. just you and me talking. figuring this out.”

you hesitate, her voice hanging in the space between you like an open door. her sincerity wraps around you, tugging at the edges of your resolve.

your lips part as if to respond, but the words stall in your throat. the clock ticks on, and for a moment, the room is silent again, the kind of silence that feels like it could break at any second.

“dinner?” you repeat, your voice laced with skepticism, narrowing your eyes as if the word itself might betray some hidden meaning.

“yes, dinner,” she replies, her voice softer now, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, delicate like a promise hanging in the air.

you study her, eyes tracing the lines of her face, the subtle shift in her posture as she waits for your response. it’s a soft invitation, yet you can’t shake the weight of everything that’s been unsaid. after a long, pregnant pause, you finally sigh, the tension in your chest letting out with the exhale. you push back your chair, the screech of it against the floor sharp in the quiet room. “fine. but this doesn’t mean we’re good.”

billie’s smile falters for a moment but quickly steadies, her nodding serious and thoughtful. “fair enough. but it’s a start.”

the silence settles between you, a thick, almost tangible thing as you gather your things. her presence lingers in the room, and though she tries to mask it with the faintest smile, the tension that hangs between you is nearly suffocating. you sling your bag over your shoulder, your hand brushing against your phone before you glance at it absentmindedly, letting it slip back into your bag as you head for the door.

the rain greets you before you’ve even stepped outside—a heavy, relentless downpour that blurs the view through the glass doors, transforming the world into a watery smear. you pause, groaning softly, the cold air that seeps through the doorframe making your skin prickle. you glance at your car parked on the far side of the lot, the distance mocking you. of course, it had to rain today.

“you’re not seriously planning to drive in this, are you?” billie’s voice drifts toward you, a note of concern threading through her words as she steps closer.

“i’ll be fine,” you respond quickly, clutching your bag tighter as if it could shield you from the storm that’s waiting to soak you through.

billie steps into your space, the jangle of her keys cutting through the tension between you like a knife. “i’ll drive you.”

you turn to face her, shaking your head in reflex. “that’s not necessary—”

“it’s pouring out there,” she interrupts, her voice more insistent now, the firm edge of authority slipping through. “you can barely see five feet ahead. i’m driving.”

you hesitate, biting back a retort as the sound of the rain intensifies, slamming against the roof like a million tiny fists. it’s a losing battle. the rain’s not letting up, and as much as you hate the thought of being trapped in a confined space with her, you know she’s right.

“okay,” you mutter, your voice thick with reluctant acceptance. “but this doesn’t mean anything.”

billie chuckles, a low, quiet sound that wraps around the words you’d just said. she shakes her head as she opens the door for you, the soft creak of it almost drowned out by the rain. “whatever you say.”

the ride to billie’s house is quiet, save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the roof, the sound almost hypnotic in its repetition. the low hum of the heater fills the car, but it can’t seem to chase the chill away. you keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching as the city lights smear into streaks, the glow of them soft and distant against the blackened night. billie’s hands rest on the steering wheel, her fingers tapping lightly, a subtle movement that betrays the rhythm she’s hearing in her head.

“you okay over there?” her voice cuts through the silence, soft and tentative.

“i’m fine,” you reply curtly, your gaze never leaving the blurred world outside, unwilling to meet her eyes.

billie doesn’t push, her focus shifting back to the road ahead. you can feel the weight of her unspoken words pressing in the space between you, but she doesn’t say anything more. when she finally pulls into the driveway of her house, the rain is still coming down in sheets, relentless, unforgiving. she parks the car, the engine’s hum dying as she cuts it off. for a beat, there’s only the sound of the rain, a quiet, natural backdrop to the tension that clings to both of you.

she turns to face you, her eyes steady, searching, but she doesn’t speak.

“wait here,” she says, her voice a quiet command as she grabs an umbrella from the backseat. with a swift motion, she steps into the downpour, her silhouette swallowed by the rain for a brief moment before she circles around the car, opening your door. the umbrella hovers above you, a delicate shield against the storm. the gesture catches you off guard, something soft in it that you hadn’t expected, but you mumble a quiet thanks, stepping out and letting her guide you, her presence warm against the cold night, toward the front door.

inside, you take in your surroundings, your eyes tracing the clean lines of the sleek, modern design of billie’s home. every corner seems intentional, every surface polished. the walls are lined with awards, their golden surfaces catching the soft, ambient light, gleaming proudly like trophies of a life lived in the spotlight. you swallow a quiet surprise, suddenly feeling out of place.

“so, you are rich,” you mutter under your breath, the words slipping out before you can stop them, the weight of them hanging in the air.

billie’s soft laugh meets your ears, a musical sound that feels oddly comforting in this unfamiliar space. “i wouldn’t say rich,” she replies with a shrug, leading you further inside. “comfortable, maybe.”

before you can muster a response, the soft pattering of paws against the hardwood floor catches your attention. a gray pit bull pads over, his tail wagging enthusiastically, his nose already working overtime as he sniffs at you curiously, his eyes bright and welcoming.

“shark,” billie says with affection, her voice warm as she crouches down to scratch behind his ears, the bond between them clear in the way she speaks. “he’s friendly.”

you lower yourself to the dog’s level, extending your hand so he can get a proper sniff. when he finally accepts you, his head tilts slightly, and you give him a gentle scratch behind the ears. “hey, big guy,” you murmur, the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as his tail wags harder, thumping against the floor in a rhythm that feels oddly like approval.

when you stand, you catch billie watching you. her gaze is intense, but there’s something there—something unreadable—that makes your chest tighten. she quickly looks away, clearing her throat as if trying to shake off a thought. “wine?” she offers, her voice casual, though there’s a subtle vulnerability in the gesture, as if the invitation is both a question and a subtle apology.

you nod, and she pours two glasses of deep burgundy red wine, the liquid catching the light as it fills the glasses, a dark promise in each drop. she hands you one before moving toward the kitchen. “i was thinking we could cook something simple. nothing fancy,” she adds, her voice laced with an easy kind of familiarity.

you follow her into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she opens the fridge. she stares at its contents for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly as if the answer to some silent question isn’t immediately obvious. a defeated sigh escapes her, the vulnerability in it making you pause.

“i honestly don’t know what i’m doing,” she admits, the words tinged with an unexpected embarrassment, her voice soft but sincere.

you smirk, your gaze fixed on her for a beat, before you set your glass down with a quiet clink. “need some help?” you ask, the playful edge to your voice masking the way her admission makes you feel, like you’ve just uncovered something real.

she glances at you, her eyes flickering with something you can’t quite place, before a faint look of relief spreads across her features. “yeah,” she says with a small, shy smile. “that’d be great.”

you gesture to your outfit, feeling suddenly self-conscious in the space. “do you have something i can change into?” you ask, your voice quiet. “i don’t want to ruin this.”

she blinks in surprise, then nods. “oh, yeah, of course,” she says quickly, before disappearing down a hallway. when she returns, she’s holding a pair of sweats and a hoodie, the soft fabric a far cry from the sleek, polished atmosphere of her home. “here,” she offers, her voice gentle, but there’s a warmth in the way she looks at you as if she’s seeing you—really seeing you—for the first time tonight.

you change in the guest bathroom, the soft fabric of billie’s sweats and hoodie carrying the faint, comforting scent of her detergent. it lingers around you, mixing with the quiet hum of the house as you slip back into the kitchen. when you re-enter, billie’s eyes flicker over to you, a fleeting moment of something unreadable in her gaze, but it lingers just a second too long.

“you clean up nice,” she teases, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips, her voice light but edged with something you can’t quite place.

you shrug, rolling up your sleeves, the fabric brushing your forearms. “shut up and start chopping those veggies,” you reply, a hint of challenge in your voice, but there’s a softness to it, too.

as the two of you work, the tension from earlier seems to dissolve, like fog lifting under the morning sun. easy conversation flows between you, and the kitchen, with its warm lighting and rhythmic sounds of chopping, feels more like home with each passing moment. you tell her about your ups and downs as a college student—the late-night study sessions, the sneaky runs past your RA’s when you had to hide things you weren’t supposed to have. you share how you were a cheerleader only because of your best friend, and how, despite your excitement to graduate, there’s a gnawing fear deep down—because school, for all its stress and chaos, is all you’ve ever known.

billie listens intently, her eyes fixed on you, absorbing every word as she watches you bring a pot of water to a boil, adding a pinch of salt, and then sprinkling in the penne noodles with practiced ease. her gaze flickers from your eyes down the line of your nose, tracing the curve to your lips—glossy, slightly parted as you speak—and then to the tattoo peeking out from behind your ear. she finally makes out the design—a swirl of blue and black butterflies etched into your skin, delicate and intricate.

it’s funny, but in that moment, she realizes she’s feeling like those butterflies—fluttering around in her chest, her stomach tight with something she can’t name. watching you in her kitchen, making dinner in her clothes, feeling like you belonged in this space, made her feel… domesticated. it was a feeling she wasn’t used to, something scary but good.

“are you just gonna watch, or are you gonna help too?” your voice breaks the quiet as you turn to look at her. your eyes catch hers, a spark of mischief in the air between you, before she crosses her arms over her chest, leaning casually against the corner countertop to the right of you.

“nah,” she smirks, her gaze flickering over you with a softness that doesn’t quite match the playful tone of her words. “you seem to be doing just fine.”

her hand reaches for her glass, bringing the wine to her lips. it’s a moment of indulgence, a slow sip that fills her senses with its velvety smoothness. there’s a burst of ripe, dark fruit on her tongue—blackberries, plums, black cherries—interwoven with subtle notes of red currants and raspberries. the taste, rich and elegant, almost too perfect for this moment, feels like it’s been made for her.

with a dramatic roll of your eyes, you grab a knife, holding it out playfully. the tip points at her, aimed at her stomach. “chop,” you say, a teasing edge to your voice as you wave the knife between her and the cutting board sitting on your left. “go on.”

with an exaggerated huff, billie snatches the knife from your hand and moves over to the chopping board, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. you turn your attention back to the sauce, rifling through her spice cabinet with a sense of purpose until you find the seasonings you need. you set them on the counter, the familiar weight of the bottles grounding you in the task at hand, but you can still feel her presence—like a quiet hum in the room.

turning on the burner, you grab a smaller pot and set it on the stove, tossing in the ingredients for the pasta sauce, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air as you give it a gentle stir.

“shit—” you hear billie say, her voice tinged with frustration. glancing over, you see her holding a knife the wrong way, hovering over a green bell pepper like it’s some sort of adversary she’s unsure how to defeat.

“okay, stop,” you say, setting your spoon down and walking over to her. “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

billie chuckles, stepping back with her hands up in mock surrender. “i told you i don’t know what i’m doing. you’re the one who offered to help.”

you roll your eyes, but the faint smile tugging at your lips betrays the irritation you’re trying to suppress. “hand me the knife.”

she obliges, her fingers releasing the blade with a soft sigh as she leans back against the counter. you take it from her, the cool handle fitting easily in your hand, and begin slicing the bell pepper with practiced ease. her gaze is unwavering, like she’s studying you—watching every movement you make, as though your hands hold some kind of secret she’s trying to unravel.

“stop staring at me,” you mutter, without looking up from your work.

“can’t help it,” billie replies lightly, her voice almost like a tease. “you’re kind of fascinating.”

you pause mid-slice, glancing up at her. the look in her eyes is softer now, less playful, more… something else. something that makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not sure you like, a fluttering feeling that you can’t quite place.

“focus,” you murmur, turning your attention back to the vegetables, hoping the distraction will keep your mind from wandering.

billie chuckles softly, her presence like a quiet hum behind you. she moves closer, her body edging up to yours until she’s standing just behind you. her hand brushes against your waist—delicate, light, but enough to send a small shock through you as she leans in closer to watch you work. you slice the pepper into thin, even pieces, the knife gliding through with ease. you reach for a piece and turn slightly, offering it to her.

instead of taking it from your hand, like you expect, billie angles her head down. her lips brush against the tips of your fingers as she slides the pepper into her mouth, her eyes holding yours in a quiet challenge. you freeze, heart skipping a beat, watching the way she lingers just a second too long.

“is it good?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“yeah, thank you.” her voice is soft, a low hum that sends a thrill down your spine. at this point, her hands have found their place on your waist, steadying herself as she lingers close. before you can process it, she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, the brush of her lips light but warm. the world seems to slow, and you freeze, the knife hovering mid-air over the cutting board.

“i—” billie starts, pulling back quickly, her breath catching as she realizes what she’s done. “shit, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—”

“no, it’s okay,” you interrupt, your voice soft, almost a whisper. the words come out before you can stop them, and there’s an honesty in your tone that surprises you. “i… kinda liked it.”

billie’s eyes search yours, her gaze searching for something you’re not sure you’re ready to give. there’s hesitation there, a quiet storm of uncertainty in her expression. after a beat, she nods, her hands lingering on your waist for just a moment longer before she steps back, her touch slipping away like water through your fingers.

you continue making dinner, the soft sizzle of the sauce simmering filling the kitchen as you stir occasionally. the rhythm of the task is soothing, the casual clink of utensils against the pan blending with the low hum of conversation. you find yourself laughing at billie’s dry wit, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel forced, just two people sharing space and time.

dinner is served shortly after, and the two of you settle at the small dining table, the warm light overhead casting soft shadows around the room. the atmosphere is relaxed, easy—surprisingly so. billie is funny, her sarcastic quips balanced by moments of genuine curiosity about you. her questions are casual, but there’s something deeper beneath them, an earnestness that feels refreshing.

“so,” she says, taking a sip of her wine, “why forensics?”

you shrug, twirling a piece of meat on your fork, contemplating your answer. “i’ve always liked puzzles. figuring things out, piecing them together. plus, it’s practical. there’s always work for someone who can solve problems.”

billie nods thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considers your words. “makes sense. seems like you’re good at that—figuring things out.”

her words hang in the air for a moment, and you can’t tell if she’s talking about more than just your career. her gaze softens, and you look down, focusing on your plate, suddenly aware of how close she is, how much weight is in that quiet compliment.

“what about you?” you ask, finally breaking the silence, your voice steady but curious.

“what about me?” billie tilts her head, a playful edge to her tone.

“why did you become a teacher? you clearly don’t need the money, so tell me.” you pause, laying your fork down and resting your elbows on the table, folding your hands together and propping your head up on them. “don’t hold back.”

billie huffs out a light laugh, twirling her fork slowly on her plate, the motion almost absentminded as she takes her time answering. “uh… well, music’s always been something i’ve loved. and i will love it till the day i die. but the fame that came along with it…” she trails off with a deep sigh, her eyes flicking down to her plate. “that wasn’t something i necessarily loved. don’t get me wrong, i love my supporters and i’m forever grateful for them, but at times it would get overwhelming. i suppose…”

her gaze shifts away from you, her focus distant as she stirs the food on her plate. it’s as though she’s not just talking to you but to herself, too. her words are soft, laced with a kind of exhaustion that speaks of a life lived too quickly. “just kinda got burned out too quick and i wanted to disappear for a while. but i still wanted to actively share music with others—besides, you know, my friends and family and such. so i took some online classes, got my teaching license, and my mom told me a job was open at the university, so i took it.”

a beat passes as you take in her words, and you can’t help but wonder what it must be like, having to leave behind something that once lit you up because the world took too much from you. it’s hard to imagine, but you get it, in a way.

“would you ever publish music again?” you ask, the question floating between you two like a breath.

billie leans in slightly, her voice dropping as if she’s about to reveal a secret. “i’ve actually been working on something,” she says, her smile contagious, her eyes lighting up. “i can show you later.” she clears her throat, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms, trying to play it off as no big deal. “i mean, if you want. it doesn’t matter.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “i would like that. a lot.”

the conversation moves easily after that, with billie washing the dishes while you dry them, not letting her refuse your offer. you laugh at her protests, the rhythm of it a kind of unspoken dance you both slip into. there’s a comfortable silence between you, broken only by the occasional clink of glass or the soft hum of the running water.

once the dishes are done, billie suggests watching a movie. you hesitate, glancing at the clock, but ultimately agree. you settle onto the couch with a glass of wine in hand, the cool glass offering a little relief as you sip and settle into the cushions. the movie plays in the background, but neither of you is really paying attention. the sound of the film blends with the quiet, comfortable hum of each other’s presence, and it feels as though the world outside could just slip away for a while.

billie sits close—closer than she needs to. her arm rests casually on the back of the couch, her fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder. you try to ignore it, focusing on the screen, but it’s impossible not to feel the heat radiating from her, a subtle electricity in the air between you.

“can i ask you something?” she says suddenly, her voice low and quiet, barely above the hum of the movie.

you glance at her, your heart skipping a beat. “what?”

“can i kiss you?”

the question catches you off guard, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you blink, your mind racing. “i—”

“it’s okay if you don’t want to,” billie adds quickly, her voice softer now, pulling back just slightly. “i just… i wanted to ask.”

you don’t know why, but you nod. maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the way she’s looking at you—her blue eyes soft, earnest, like she’s searching for something in you that she’s not sure of. it feels like the right thing to do, even if your heart is suddenly pounding in your chest.

billie leans in slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, her movements deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. when her lips finally meet yours, it’s soft, tentative—like she’s testing the waters, unsure but hopeful. your breath hitches, caught in the moment, and for a brief second, you forget how to move.

but then you’re kissing her back, your hands finding their way to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer as the kiss deepens, soft and searching. it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you, everything else fading into the background.

one kiss turns into two, then three, until you’re both breathless, tangled in each other. billie pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your skin.

“come with me,” she murmurs, her voice a low, coaxing whisper, her hand finding yours and gently leading you down the hall.

her bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the room. everything in here feels like an extension of her—a chaotic yet comfortable blend of soft fabrics, scattered music sheets, and mismatched furniture that somehow all comes together. a record player hums quietly in the corner, its melody filling the space with a quiet intimacy.

she turns to you, her hands resting on your waist as she searches your face for any sign of hesitation. you reach up, your fingers grazing her cheek gently, hoping to ease the worry that flickers in her eyes. leaning close, your breath ghosts over her lips, your nose brushing against her own, the air warm between you two. your eyes flicker to hers, a silent question hanging there—are you sure?

her left hand slides to the side of your neck, her thumb tracing the curve of your jaw before she pulls you closer, her lips brushing against yours again. this kiss is deeper, more insistent. her tongue swipes over your bottom lip, soft and teasing, before gently nipping at the skin, asking for permission. you open your mouth slightly, giving her access, and she takes it, her kiss hungry and tender all at once.

she trails soft kisses from the corner of your lips down your throat, each one sending a shiver through you. your hands find their way to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your fingers. her hand leaves your neck, moving to rest on your hip as she begins to trail her lips down, marking your skin with slow, wet kisses.

you gasp softly as she moves, her lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. she pulls back just slightly, meeting your lips again in another kiss, this one more urgent, as if the world outside has ceased to exist. her hands slide beneath your hoodie, the cold metal of her rings brushing against your side, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her touch. your breath catches as she pulls you closer, her body pressing against yours, each touch feeling like it has a life of its own.

she grabs the hem of your hoodie, lifting the fabric slowly, her fingers grazing the skin of your abdomen as it slips over your head, leaving you in just your bra. the cold air of her room nips at your bare skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“so beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, reverence in every word. her hands are back on you in an instant, sliding up your back until they rest just beneath the band of your bra, her touch tender and warm.

her compliment stirs something inside you, a small, involuntary smile curling on your lips. you reach for the collar of her shirt, fingers trembling ever so slightly as you gently undo the buttons one by one, taking your time.

billie watches you, her gaze softening as you brush your thumb across her collarbones. she feels a warmth in her chest that’s unfamiliar yet comforting. you let your hands trail over her chest, down her stomach, stopping at the hem of her blue shirt. your eyes meet hers, a silent question in the softness of your gaze, asking for permission. she nods, her eyes flickering with something deeper.

her breath catches in her throat as you move, tender and deliberate, as though each movement is a quiet reverence for her. you reach for her chains, your fingers sliding beneath them to tuck the necklaces inside her shirt, and then you lift her blue polo over her head, the fabric sliding against her skin. you toss it to the side, leaving her in only a simple white undershirt.

a soft smile plays at her lips, one that’s almost shy, before she presses her palm gently to your cheek. without thinking, you lean into her touch, your breath catching at the intimacy of the moment. she leans in again, her lips finding yours, and a low groan escapes her as she feels the softness of your lips against hers, the warmth between you two pulsing.

her hand slides down to the drawstring of your sweats, tugging them gently as she guides you toward her bed. she sits down on the edge, pulling you on top of her, your legs straddling her lap. her hands move instinctively to your thighs, rubbing them gently through the thick fabric, grounding herself in the feel of you beneath her.

you press your lips to her neck, starting just behind her ear, then trailing down, each kiss lingering softly against her skin. the wet sound of your kisses fills the air, each one leaving its mark. billie’s hands move slowly, exploring the curve of your lower back, her fingers grazing over the tattoo you spoke of the night before. the intricate design sends a shiver through you as her touch leaves goosebumps in its wake, her fingertips tracing its path upwards.

her hands reach the clasp of your bra, the delicate touch of her fingers working to undo each hook, slowly and carefully. when it finally comes undone, the cool air meets your skin, and your nipples pebble slightly in the change of temperature. a small breath escapes you, the sensation both electric and tender.

your kisses on billie’s neck slow to a languid pace as her fingers toy with the bars piercing your nipples. a soft gasp escapes your lips, your breath hitching as you angle your face into the curve of her neck. your nose grazes the damp trail left by your earlier kisses, and the air feels thick, charged with her presence.

“that feel good, huh?” she murmurs, her voice low and teasing, tinged with a laugh as she feels your body respond to her touch. “been wanting to play with these since yesterday.”

her words send a flush coursing through you, the confession settling warm in your chest. gently, she shifts you, her hands firm yet careful as she turns you over and lays you on your back. the comforter beneath you gives way, soft and cool against your heated skin, and your body trembles just slightly at the sensation.

you look up at her, through the fringe of your lashes, her face framed by the golden glow of the bedside lamp. her blue eyes are soft yet intense, locking onto yours as a warm smile spreads across her face. her hair falls like a curtain around you, strands brushing your cheeks, shielding you from anything that exists outside this moment.

“is this okay?” she asks, her voice gentle, careful, as though one wrong move could shatter the sacredness of the moment.

you nod lightly, your throat tight with anticipation.

“remember, i need you to say it for me, mama,” she presses, her tone dipping lower, melting into the air between you.

“yes,” you whisper, your voice steady but barely audible. “it’s more than okay, billie.” your arm lifts, delicate yet sure, wrapping around her neck to pull her closer. your lips meet hers, the kiss slow and deliberate, an exchange that speaks louder than anything you could say.

she hums against your lips, a sound that vibrates through you, before trailing her mouth back to your neck. she kisses you there, leaving traces of herself as she moves lower, her lips ghosting down to your chest. when she reaches the curve of your breasts, she pauses. her breath fans over your skin, sending a shiver through you. the peaks of your nipples stiffen under the coolness of her breath, a soft gasp slipping past your lips.

darting her tongue out, she licks at your right nipple, her tongue circling the bar before pulling it between her lips. her left hand moves to your other breast, her fingers pinching and rolling the sensitive bud. the push and pull of her attention leaves you breathless, and when she releases your nipple with a soft, wet pop, her saliva glistens against your skin in the dim light.

her mouth finds its way to your other breast, mirroring the same motions—sucking, licking, teasing, until your body arches toward her involuntarily. the noises escaping you feel foreign, unbidden, like they’re pulled from some deep, hidden part of you.

her lips trail further downward, leaving a line of kisses over your navel, her hands pressing into your sides to hold you steady. as her lips pause between the valley of your breasts, her gaze lifts to yours, a soft flicker of recognition crossing her face when she notices the small tattoo etched there. she presses a kiss to it, reverent and unhurried, before pulling back slightly to take you in.

she sits up, her eyes never leaving your face as she watches the way your body writhes beneath her, your chest heaving, your lips parted in a series of soft moans that sound like a melody only she gets to hear. her hands move deliberately, halting at the waistband of your sweatpants. her fingers brush against the material, teasing, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.

her lips curve into a smile as she leans down, her voice low and teasing, warm against your ear. “can i keep going?”

her question lingers, patient, unhurried. her fingers hover at the edge of your waistband, waiting for your answer. and in her eyes, you see nothing but care, nothing but quiet, consuming need.

sitting back up, she watches you beneath her, your body writhing against the comforter, each movement punctuated by soft, needy moans that flood her ears like a song she never wants to end. her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as her fingers toy with the band of your sweatpants, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, dragging the moment out.

“can i?” her voice is soft, low, like a secret meant only for you.

your chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, your voice trembling as you whisper, “yes, please, baby.”

the grin that spreads across billie’s face is equal parts wicked and tender, her eyes never leaving yours as she hooks her fingers into the waistband. she drags them down, her movements slow, deliberate, as if unwrapping a gift she’s been waiting too long to open. inch by inch, she bares you to her until your sweatpants are discarded, tossed carelessly to the side. all that’s left is the thin barrier of your underwear, and the wet patch at the center betrays the need pulsing through you.

“shit—someone’s getting worked up,” she teases, her voice thick with amusement as her fingers brush against the damp fabric, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

“shut up,” you mumble, heat rushing to your face as you squirm beneath her. your legs instinctively press together, your core aching for more as she continues her tormenting touches. “just take it off already,” you whine, your voice dripping with impatience.

a cruel smirk tugs at her lips as her fingers curl around the waistband of your panties. “what? i can’t take my time with you?” her words are taunting, dripping with feigned innocence as she slides the fabric down even slower than before.

“no, just—fuck,” you hiss as the cool air hits your bare skin, your body arching slightly at the sudden contrast. unable to take it anymore, you grab her by the neck, pulling her down into a kiss that’s harder, more desperate than any of the ones before. her lips crash against yours, and for a moment, all you can feel is her—her weight, her warmth, the way her body presses into yours.

her hands plant firmly on either side of you, her fists digging into the mattress to steady herself. as the kiss deepens, your hips rut upward, the heat of your bare skin grinding against the rough denim of her jeans. the friction sends a jolt of pleasure through you, a muffled whine escaping into the kiss as you seek more.

billie pulls back, her breathing uneven as her hand slides to your side, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your ass. her other hand presses gently against your hips, pinning you back to the bed with a firm but gentle touch.

“have patience,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your cheek as she peppers it with soft, lingering kisses.

“i can’t,” you groan, your voice cracking under the weight of your need.

“you can,” she counters, her tone firm but laced with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, “and you will.”

her eyes meet yours, a silent promise shining in the blue depths. billie wants nothing more than to give in, to lose herself in you completely, but she holds back. she wants this to last, wants to savor every second, every sound, every tremble of your body beneath hers. you deserve that much—more than that.

she dips her head, her lips finding the crook of your neck as she resumes her journey downward. every kiss is purposeful, unhurried, as she maps your body with her mouth. her lips trace the delicate line of your collarbones, pausing to place a lingering kiss at the hollow of your throat before moving lower. she trails kisses down the swell of your breasts, her hands sliding over your sides as she presses soft, reverent kisses to each nipple.

she continues downward, her lips brushing over your ribs, your belly, the dip of your navel. her hands smooth over the curve of your hips, grounding you as she moves lower still. when she finally reaches the soft mound of your cunt, she pauses.

her chin grazes you lightly as she hovers there, her breath warm against your skin. the anticipation hangs heavy in the air, your body taut beneath her, every nerve alive and waiting. her eyes flicker up to meet yours, her lips curving into a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“so fucking beautiful,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible, like a prayer spoken only for you.

“well hello there,” she murmurs, her voice low and dripping with mischief, her blue eyes flicking down to where your core glistens, wet and aching for her touch. the sight alone seems to mesmerize her, her lips twitching into a crooked grin as she drinks you in. leaning forward, she presses slow, deliberate kisses to the inside of your thighs, her lips soft but her teeth sharp as they leave faint marks in their wake. her thumbs brush tender circles on the sensitive skin, grounding you and setting every nerve alight all at once.

“you’re so mean, making me wait like this,” you mutter, your voice shaky with anticipation as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch her. the sight of her there—her head between your thighs, her hair messy, her lips swollen—sends a shiver down your spine.

“no, i’m not,” she counters with a sly smirk, sitting back just enough to pull her shirt over her head. her bra follows, tossed aside carelessly, leaving her bare before you. her tattoos catch the soft glow of the light, a stark contrast against her pale skin. “i’m just taking my time with you, that’s all.”

you let out a frustrated whine, your eyes raking over her now-exposed chest. “exactly, and that’s so—fuck,” your words cut off in a sharp gasp as her lips finally make contact with your pussy. her tongue brushes over your clit in a fleeting touch, just enough to send a jolt through your body.

she doesn’t stop there. her mouth moves with intent, her lips pressing kisses all over, her tongue darting out to taste you. it’s not rushed; it’s sensual, almost like she’s savoring you. she moans against you as her tongue flicks over your entrance, dipping in briefly before sliding up through your folds. the vibration of her voice sends waves of pleasure through you, and you can’t help but arch your back, chasing the sensation.

“billie,” you whimper, your voice breathy and desperate, as her nose grazes your clit with every movement. she doesn’t respond with words, just another moan as she pulls you closer, her hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place.

your fingers tangle in her hair, tugging at the roots as you rock your hips against her face. “oh my god,” you gasp, your thighs trembling as her tongue flicks in a way that leaves you breathless. her nails dig into your skin just slightly, a grounding sensation amidst the overwhelming pleasure.

she pulls back, her lips shiny and swollen, her chest heaving as she looks up at you. “you taste so good,” she mutters, her voice husky and dripping with want. without breaking eye contact, she lets her tatted hand slide down, her fingers taking over where her tongue left off.

her fingers tease your slit, slick and warm, before sliding one inside you with ease. the stretch is slow, deliberate, as her thumb brushes over your clit in lazy circles. “feel good, baby?” she asks, her voice soft but commanding, her eyes watching every little twitch of your body as she works you open.

“yes,” you gasp, your head falling back against the pillows. your walls clench around her finger as she curls it inside you, brushing against that perfect spot that makes your breath hitch. she smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction, and leans back in to press a kiss to your thigh, murmuring, “good girl.”

“this okay?” she whispers, her voice gentle, almost reverent, as her movements still for a moment. her other hand glides over the curve of your stomach, her thumb tracing soft circles on your skin. her blue eyes, vast as oceans, hold yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

you nod, breath hitching as you adjust to the fullness of her. “yes,” you murmur, your voice trembling, and it’s all the confirmation she needs. she slides another finger inside you, slow and deliberate, the stretch sending sparks of pleasure rippling through you. her pace is unhurried, her focus solely on the way your body reacts to her, the way you fit around her fingers like she was made for this—for you.

“oh, fuck, billie,” you gasp, your head falling back as you watch her fingers disappear inside you, coated in your slick. she groans softly at the sound of her name falling from your lips, her pupils dilating with a mix of desire and awe. she’s certain she could fall apart right here, just from the melody of your voice and the way you tremble beneath her.

your moans grow louder, mingling with the obscene, wet sounds of her fingers working you, the rhythm steady but maddening. her sheets are damp beneath you, the evidence of your ecstasy pooling there as her pace quickens. “so pretty, baby,” she breathes, her voice thick with affection and hunger. “everything about you… so fucking beautiful.” her free hand slides down, gripping your thigh to hold you in place as you buck against her touch, desperate for more.

your hands find their way to her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you pull her closer. the kiss you give her is fierce, messy, and desperate, your lips crashing into hers like waves against the shore. her teeth graze your bottom lip, and the sensation pulls a whimper from you, the sound only spurring her on. her fingers drive into you faster, her palm brushing against your clit with each stroke, sending shockwaves through your entire body.

you break the kiss, your lips still brushing hers, your breath mingling as you struggle to form words. “billie… i—mmm…” your voice is a broken whine, your brows knitting together as you feel the knot in your core tightening, threatening to snap.

her gaze locks onto yours, and you try to shield your face, embarrassed by how undone you’ve become under her touch. your hand flies to her face, an attempt to cover her eyes, but she’s quicker. she grabs your wrist, gently pulling it away and lacing her fingers with yours. she presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your hand, her voice like a balm as she whispers, “don’t hide from me, mama. i want to see all of you.”

her words unravel something deep inside you, and the knot in your belly finally snaps. your climax crashes over you in waves, your body shaking as she guides you through it, her fingers never faltering. “that’s it,” she coos, her lips brushing against your temple as your hips jerk against her hand. “so good for me, baby. just like that.”

your head falls against her chest, your body pliant and trembling as you come down, your breath ragged and uneven. she slows her movements before withdrawing her fingers, careful not to overstimulate you. you shudder at the loss, but the sight of her lifting her hand to her lips makes your breath hitch all over again.

billie closes her eyes as her tongue flicks out, wrapping around her fingers and savoring the taste of you. a low moan escapes her throat as she licks them clean, her expression one of pure satisfaction. “you’re perfect,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with affection, and the words settle deep in your chest, grounding you in this moment with her.

your back hits the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin as you stare blankly at the ceiling, the swirl of your thoughts almost deafening. the quiet hum of the night fills the space, but all you can focus on is the weight of the moment, heavy and impossible to ignore. billie’s eyes flick over to you, her thumbs brushing lazy circles into your sides as her brows knit together, concern softening her features.

“you okay?” her voice is gentle, like the question might break you.

truthfully, you don’t know. you had crossed a line you swore you’d never even approach—crossed it, leapt over it, and now here you were, tangled in the aftermath. you had met, and fucked, one of your clients. and god, the worst part wasn’t even that. the worst part was the undeniable truth humming beneath your skin—you wanted to do it again. and again. and again.

“mhm,” you hum, but it’s weak, barely audible. your voice doesn’t carry the conviction you need it to, and the room falls silent again, thick with tension. your mind races, spiraling through a maze of scenarios, consequences, and excuses until her voice cuts through the noise.

“it’s getting late.” her words are quiet but pointed, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. your eyes dart around the dim room, finally landing on the clock glowing faintly on the bedside table. 2:57 a.m.

“shit—i’m sorry,” you stammer, bolting upright, scrambling for your clothes like an instinctive reaction. but before you can even find your shirt, her hand presses softly against your back, grounding you.

“no, i—i was going to ask if you’d like to stay. for the night.” her voice wavers slightly, and she looks away for a moment, her vulnerability showing in the flicker of hesitation in her gaze. when her eyes meet yours again, there’s something there—hope, maybe? or just a simple longing.

you hesitate, your heart thundering in your chest. everything about this feels complicated, feels wrong, and yet, there’s a pull in her voice, in her gaze, that makes you want to say yes despite all the reasons you shouldn’t. you search for excuses—she’d have to drive you back to your car; it’s late; it doesn’t mean anything—but none of them feel convincing enough to leave.

“okay,” you whisper, the word hanging in the air like a secret. her lips curve into a soft smile, and she moves quickly to grab you extra clothes and swap out the bedding. “thanks,” you murmur, and something in her expression softens even more.

the pillow feels too soft under your head, your back turned to her as you try to steady the rhythm of your breathing. you hear her moving around the room—shutting off the television, switching off the lights. the quiet returns as she slips into bed beside you, and for a moment, you feel the faintest brush of her arm, hesitant, like she wants to reach for you but stops herself just short. the space between you feels heavy, unspoken words hanging in the air.

“goodnight, billie,” you whisper into the quiet, your voice barely carrying. your eyes close, but your thoughts don’t stop—they churn and twist, loud and relentless.

“goodnight, star.” her voice is soft, like the nickname itself is fragile and intimate, and it’s the last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand @watercolorskyy @bilssturns @47lake @vijaxx @natbelovasblog @hopingforgoodblogs ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

[nanamincreampie]

Taming the Tie

Nanami Kento x Black plus size reader

Nanami Kento was never late. Ever. His entire existence revolved around schedules, efficiency, and structure. But today, for the first time in a long time, he was running behind.

His jaw was tight as he fastened the buttons on his crisp white dress shirt, fingers working with precise, yet hurried movements. His tie, however, was another matter entirely. He attempted to loop the fabric around his collar but ended up creating a tangled mess.

From your spot on the bed, you watched with a barely contained grin, lounging comfortably as if you weren’t witnessing the great Nanami Kento—your boyfriend, the embodiment of composure—actually struggling.

“You know,” you mused, propping your chin on your hand, “for someone who operates with surgical precision in combat, you really suck at tying a tie under pressure.”

Nanami shot you a dry look, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Not now.”

“But what if I want to help?” you pouted dramatically, rolling onto your side. Your curls spilled across the pillow, dark and soft, a beautiful halo framing your face. The warm, rich glow of your skin contrasted against the light sheets, and you knew Nanami noticed, even if he pretended not to.

“I don’t have time for your antics right now,” he muttered, struggling once more.

“Oh, but you do,” you countered, pushing up from the bed. “Because if you try to fix it yourself, you’ll end up looking like you let Gojo dress you.”

That got a reaction, a brief flicker of horror in his eyes. Before he could protest, you stepped in front of him, grabbing the silk tie from his hands. “Relax, Mr. Punctuality, I got this.”

Nanami didn’t argue, but the way his shoulders eased told you he appreciated the help, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud. You took your time, fingers expertly looping the fabric, making sure the knot was snug but not too tight. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, warm, woodsy, and distinctly him.

“You’re making your serious business face again,” you teased, flicking your gaze up at him.

“I always make this face,” he replied, voice low and even.

“Yeah, but right now, it looks like you’re about to give a TED Talk on the importance of fiscal responsibility.”

Nanami huffed, his version of a laugh. His eyes softened as they traced over your features—the fullness of your cheeks, the brightness in your eyes, the way your lips curled into a mischievous smile. He loved how expressive you were, how effortlessly you filled every space you entered with warmth.

Your body pressed against his as you finished, the soft plushness of you molding against the firm planes of his chest. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself in the comfort of your presence.

“There,” you announced proudly, smoothing down his tie. “Now you look even more handsome.”

Nanami stared at you for a moment, then let out a slow breath. His hand lifted, fingers threading into your curls as he cradled the back of your head. With quiet reverence, he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm against your skin.

“You are the only chaos I willingly tolerate,” he murmured.

You grinned, wrapping your arms around his middle despite his halfhearted protests about wrinkling his shirt. “You love my chaos.”

Nanami sighed, resting his chin atop your head for just a moment longer before finally stepping back. “I’m going to be late.”

“Then you better hurry, babe.” You patted his chest. “Can’t have the world’s most responsible man showing up late and disheveled.”

His gaze flicked over you one last time, something unreadable in his expression, before he shook his head and turned toward the door.

And as he left, you had a feeling he’d be thinking about you the entire time.

[the-honoured]

Red Thread - ( Trafalgar Law x Reader )

Synopsis: You're a crew member of the Heart Pirates and the sole medical apprentice of the Surgeon of Death, Trafalgar D. Law. When he returns one day to the Polar Tang with a terrible wound, it's up to you to stitch him up. In the process of tending to his wounds, you find a red thread binds the two of you, a suture which tethers you in more ways than one.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: NSFW, AFAB!Reader, Handjob, Cum Eating, Dirty Talk, Brief Mention of Wounds, I Need Trafalgar Law

A/N: After nearly a decade in fandom spaces, this is my very first fanfiction because the Law brainworm has begun to pilot me like a gundam. I hope you enjoy!

⸻ ∔ ⸻

You’re certain that whichever terrible God reigns over the seas is looking down upon you and positively laughing right now.

Your throat goes bone-dry, fingers trembling around the needle and thread held delicately between them as you gaze down at the sight beneath you:

Your captain, leader of the Heart Pirates and an unparalleled doctor, the Surgeon of Death himself, lays atop the operating table— legs splayed, tan skin sheened with sweat, long fingers curled so tightly around your thigh that the skin around his knuckles smooths to bone-white. The fabric of his tank top is torn open down the center, revealing a canvas of perfect skin sliced through by the faultline of a long, incised cut. A sword wound, you deduce. It’s not fatal, but it looks deep and painful, a clean slice running from the linea alba to the external oblique. You prepared it for suturing moments before, just as he had taught you: stabilize the bleed, sterilize with antiseptic solution, wash thoroughly. All that remained was loading the thread through the needle and stitching the wound. 

And yet, you hesitated. It was laughable, really. You had done this a million times before. Captain Trafalgar was nothing if not precise and diligent, and as his medical apprentice, he expected nothing less than surgical perfection from you. For one year you’d studied tirelessly with him, loaded the thread of a needle so many times you were sure you could do it wearing winter gloves and a thick blindfold. You’d spent countless nights tucked so close to his side you could feel his voice pooling in your abdomen, a low and resonant hum beneath your skin, clinging to every word of instruction as he guided your fingers through the different sutures with near-tantalizing grace. 

Those fingers, always so lithe and agile, were now pressed against your thigh like a vice, tight enough it was sure to bruise in the morning. You were certain the memory of their burning heat would last far longer. From beneath you, Captain Trafalgar releases a low, pained moan. Sweat beads along his temples, his brows furrowed tight, his lips pulled in anticipation. 

Your captain was counting on you. A suture as simple as this should be as faultless as breathing for you. Thread the needle, stitch perpendicular to the injury, maintain equal depth and distance from the wound's edge. You hear the deep rumble of his voice instruct you, slow and steady, the same way it always did in your best dreams. The kind of dreams where he was instructing you to do something else.

Oh, gods. He was bleeding and wounded beneath you and all you could think about was his fingers against your thigh.

When you look back up from the wound, you find Captain Trafalgar’s eyes straight on you, burning as deep as bullet-holes. His gaze, storm-grey and dark, cuts through you like a scalpel through wire. It sends a shiver down your spine, countless cold fingers trickling downwards. He must sense the tension within you, detect the trepidation that coils in your gut, because he presses his large palm flat against your thigh and strokes in a near-comforting gesture before he speaks. The feeling of his even skin gliding against yours feels like warm velvet in your veins. Your mouth dries.

“You did- did good,” he grits through his teeth, voice gravel-thick and breathless. “Just have to… close it now. Lift the sk-skin. Loop the needle. Just like– like I taught you.”

You stare at him for a moment, unspeaking, lips gently parted. Then, steadily, you look back down at his abdomen. At the solid cords of muscle beneath sun-tan skin, impossibly taut, rising and falling delicately with each rugged breath from his lungs. Lower, still. At the bead of sweat which rolls down the tight skin beneath his naval, catching on the light dusting of dark hair peeking right above his waistband, a thin, teasing trail that disappears just before it can lead you homeward.

Slowly, your eyes trace the length of his body in reverse, lethargic and longing in their trek, right back up to his face as you meet his eyes. 

He… needed you for this. His sole apprentice. You.

Just like he taught you. 

“I’m going to begin, Captain. Try not to move.” You swallow against the lump in your throat. “It’ll be okay.”

As you fight to keep the shake from your voice, you’re not so sure who those words were meant to soothe more; him, or you. Nonetheless, you loop the suture through the needle, and begin the procedure his perfect hands had guided you through a thousand times before.

⸻

The rest of the crew comes to visit him periodically throughout the night. Bepo was first, a shy poke of white fur-lined ears appearing in the threshold.

“Is he awake yet?” Bepo asks, a thick paw curling timidly around the doorframe of the medical bay.

“Not yet, but his condition is steady. You know him. He’ll sleep it off for a day and be right back on his feet,” you reply, your voice hushed and soft so as not to wake Captain Trafalgar. Even though he says nothing more, Bepo remains planted in the doorway, his small, dark eyes blinking at you. 

“Is something wrong, Bepo?” You tilt your head at him from your seat next to the medical bed Trafalgar lays in. “Are you injured too?”

A small blush dusts the tip of his bear ears pink as he shakes his head wordlessly. You smile to yourself. How cute.

Rising to a stand, you move towards a cabinet at the side of the room, producing a pair of ink-blue gloves from within. Rolling them over your hands, you usher him into the room, lips quirking gently.

“Don’t be jealous, Bepo. Come sit down. I’ll check you anyway.”

Shachi and Penguin come next, entering the medical room just as you finish examining Bepo. Penguin carries a tray of food in one hand, a pair of utensils balanced in the other. Shachi cradles a steaming mug, presenting it to you with a toothy smile. He has to swat Bepo’s hand away when he sniffs the air and smells it’s hot chocolate. The polar bear’s lips curl downwards in a sad expression as he hangs his head in defeat.

“You missed dinner,” Penguin says, putting the plate of food on the bedside table. “I was gonna bring one for Captain, but I thought we should come check if he was still sleeping first.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at the pair, gingerly sliding the hot chocolate mug towards Bepo. His ears perk up in your peripherals as he takes it from you eagerly.

“You came to see if you could eat Captain Trafalgar’s portion, didn’t you?” You whisper questioningly. Shachi and Penguin slowly turn their necks to look at each other, then back to you. In a split second, they’re hanging their heads in defeat.

“Just his dessert,” Shachi supplies, gazing shamelessly at the floor.

“... And his hot chocolate.” Penguin seems to carry all the guilt between the two.

There’s a distinct lack of surprise in your expression as you shake your head at them, pointing a scolding finger. With Captain Trafalgar out of commission for the moment, you seem to be the only voice of steady reason among the crew, even as you try to keep an amused smile from your lips. 

“I knew it. You wanted to eat mine too, didn’t you?” 

Their silence is incriminating. A small laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head and lean towards the bedside table. Picking it back up, you walk forward and place the tray of food into Shachi’s hands. 

“Take it,” you say, rolling your eyes in feigned generosity, as if you couldn’t be bothered. “I’m not so hungry. I ate earlier anyway.”

Shachi raises his head again to meet your gaze in disbelief, looking for all the world like you had just hung the sun in the sky instead of only proffering your dessert to him. You furrow your brows at him when he doesn’t look away, and quickly begin ushering them out of the medical room.

“Okay, okay. Just thank me and stop being weird. Now go, all of you. Captain needs his beauty sleep.”

As the three of them hastily exit, Bepo leans down and presses his nose to your cheek, a thankful gesture before rushing away with your hot chocolate tucked against his chest like a treasured artifact. You place your teeth between your tongue as you resist the urge to smile, watching the three of them retreat down the halls of the Polar Tang, carrying your stolen food. A trio of satisfied bandits. Idiots.

As you stand in the doorway, accompanied only by the sound of the vital sign monitors beeping their metronome and the feeling of fondness light on your shoulders, a sudden flush creeps over the skin of your back. You feel him before you hear him. Like the way you could sense it was him walking the halls of the Polar Tang just by the distinct timing of his gait, or how you could detect his presence from the other side of a closed door without ever having to look past the threshold, that sixth sense flares to life, and you feel his eyes upon you. They map a heat-trail over your silhouette, from shoulder to mid-back. Lower still. He’s silent. Achingly slow. Savoring the image of you turned away from him like the taste of something rich on his tongue. 

He must know you can feel him looking at you by the way your posture turns stone stiff, breath stuttering in your lungs. 

Still, he doesn’t look away. 

“Captain.” The word comes with little breath behind it, and you hate the way it sounds. You swallow against the dryness in your throat, turning to look at him.

Trafalgar says nothing as he meets your gaze. He’d always been this way towards you; observant, succinct. He never leisured in your presence, never used more words to instruct you than absolutely necessary. There was a time where you’d thought that, perhaps, he never saw you as anything but his crewmate, never regarded you with anything more than that clinical way he had of regarding most things. A member of the team. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet, as you move forwards into the room, slowly closing the door of the medical bay behind you, you find the glance he affords you now is… different. Odd.

You take a step forward.

“You let them take your food,” he intones dryly. His gaze lowers, slowly, from your eyes to your lips.

Another step.

“I wasn’t so hungry, anyways. Shachi wanted it more than me. He looked so happy he could cry.” Your hands clasp behind your back, voice smooth and low. “Wanna tell me how you got wounded out there?”

Another step.

His eyes trace the curve of your jaw, trickling down to your neck. It shoots a tingling heat straight through your pulse, up your spine.

“Maybe you should have let him cry.”

Another.

His eyes land on your collarbone, on the smooth valley of skin that peaks just above your slightly unzipped jumpsuit. You think you see him swallow. 

With one final step, you stand directly over him, the shadow of your silhouette draped atop him by the cut of the overhead lights. Your pelvis rests just at the bedline, and he’s forced to look up at you from his position lying down. You’re so close he can smell the fragrance you apply every morning, that crisp scent that mingles with your body heat to form something distinctly you; the same way it always did in his best dreams. The kind of dreams where his tongue got to know if your taste matched your scent.

“That wasn’t my question, Captain.” Your voice comes in a smooth breath, undercut by something sharper than want but more delicate than desire. Iron wrapped in silk. 

Without thinking, you raise your right hand to his now-bare chest, sliding it across his skin. He’s impossibly warm under your fingers. His body heat seeps languidly through your skin, like putting your hands against a bonfire amidst the winter cold. The muscle beneath is solid, firm, rising and falling like cresting waves as his breathing quickens at your touch. Your fingertips gently trace the dark ink that lines the tan skin of his chest, bronze and beautiful, and you bitterly wish it was your tongue tracing it instead. 

His breathing quickens dangerously, and you hear him huff the words out like they were stuck in his throat. “Marines. Got- got ambushed. Wasn’t thinking.”

“Mmh,” you hum. Your hand descends lower. As if on instinct, Trafalgar spreads his thighs, breath hitching in his throat. His gaze stares down at your hand, tracking it with enraptured acuity. Your fingers splay across his abdomen, down to the tight skin beneath his wound, and you feel a dusting of hair tickle your fingertips as they rest just above his happy trail. Your gaze remains on his expression all the while. His neck is slightly raised to watch the descent of your hands. A thin sheen of sweat coats his temples. His eyes are dark and glazed, his lips parted slightly, stuck between panting, anticipatory breaths and clenching the muscles of his jaw.

“I think I like you better like this, Captain. You’re always so tense. The pain makes you agreeable.”

A low moan cuts through his throat, deep and wanting as you thread the fingers of your other hand through his hair, and god you have to clench your thighs just to keep from capsizing at the blissful heat it sends straight to your lower abdomen. You can tell the involuntary sound embarrasses him as he screws his eyes shut, clenching his fists in the sheets beneath him.

“Not the pain. Just– just you. Always just you.”

The admission comes without much consideration, heat-soaked and thoughtless and steeped in the lust of the moment, but you can’t help the fire it stoaks deep within you. Captain Trafalgar. Your captain. Always so calm and composed, always so attentive in his instructions, always working so hard. He was so tense beneath you right now, the sounds of his ragged, wanton breaths flooding your senses, and all you wanted to do in that moment was to make him feel good. To make him feel the way you did when you thought about him in the middle of the night, fingers tracing restless circles along your clit beneath the sheets as you swallowed your moans. 

“Captain,” you plead breathlessly, easing the tip of your fingers just barely into his waistband. He wrenches his head away from you, turning to the side, lips pulled and muscles taut like he’s trying with every modicum of willpower he possesses to resist you. Like he’s in agony.

“Fuck. Captain, you’re in pain. I-I can help you,” you plead. You grind your palm down into his lower stomach, and his eyes shoot open, a choked sound stuttering from between his lips. “Let me help. I hate to see you like this. I can– I can make you feel good.”

Your thighs grind against each other, a pitiful attempt at alleviating the growing ache in your core. You catch your lower lip between your teeth, biting down so hard you think you taste blood, wrenching your eyes shut from the sight of him panting and shirtless beneath you. This was killing you. You knew he was aching just as much as you were; that he wanted this just as badly. So why was he resisting you? Stings of frustration prick your eyes as you try your hardest to steady your breathing, to quell the wildfire of need that was spreading through your veins. 

Your body goes stone-still as you feel his hand reach down towards you and lay itself atop yours. When you open your eyes, you find him looking at you, his expression pained, his storm-grey eyes boring into you with need so sharp it could cut. 

Suddenly, he speaks your name.

With one word, the fraying, coiled wire of tension between you snaps, that binding red thread of restraint shattering completely.

His voice is low and dark, thunder over gravel, poison and the antidote, a single syllable dripping with all the subdued want that had accumulated over the past year for the two of you. Trafalgar looks you in your in eyes, wrapping his large, dry hand over yours, and wrenches his eyes shut as he groans a single syllable into the open space:

“Please.”

With his hand spread tightly over yours, you pull his waistband and the sheets along his hips downwards before reaching to grab his cock. 

He’s hard and thick beneath your fingers, so rigid you’re sure it hurts. Precum weeps from his slit, glistening against his tan head, coating your intertwined fingers so that they glide down his length with ease. He’s wide and long and impossibly full, just as beautiful as you imagined he’d always be. You wrap your hand fully around him, his own still draped over yours, and squeeze tight, taking a slow, aching drag down his length. His jaw drops, chest stilling, holding his breath tight within his lungs before he screws his eyes shut and lets out a moan so rich and low you feel it in the lining of your stomach.

“Fuck– You’re so– so fucking soft,” he groans, squeezing your joined hands over his cock as he grinds his hips against you.

“Shh,” you coax gently, starting slow strokes up and down his length. Your hands catch on every vein and ridge, and you commit the feeling to memory, the gentle moans that spill from your lips mirroring his. You can’t look away from where the two of your hands are joined, sliding up and down his cock, coated with precum and tightly intertwined. “Relax, Captain. Let me take care of you.”

Suddenly, his hand tightens against yours, and your strokes pick up pace as he drags your palm up and down his length just the way he likes. Just the way he always did when he thought of you in the middle of the night, fisting his cock into his hand miserably and biting back his groans, wishing it were you wrapped around him instead.

“Shit– shit, you’re always so good. Pretty– nngh, pretty girl. Stitching me back up–” The obscene sound of your slick hands jerking him off underscore his words and his breath hitches. “Always– hahh, always doing what I ask.”

You lean downwards, close to his temple, still watching him fuck your hand against his length as you speak in his ear. “It’s for you, Captain. Always for you. Fuck, I’ve been here. Always. You just have to ask.”

His cock throbs in your hand, giving off heat like a furnace, twitching in your wet grasp. The feeling of his skin moving against yours with such delicious friction sends throbs through your clit, and you clench hopelessly against nothing, slick heat soaking your underwear. 

Your skin slaps against his hips with erotic sounds, and his moans pick up, tar-thick and strained, like it was so good it hurt. He’s babbling nonsense now, a long string of curses and your name, and you moan alongside him, wringing your thighs together, begging for relief from the wire wound tight in your abdomen but too preoccupied with the feeling of his cock between your fingers to care. Leaning over the bed and down his body, your mouth hangs over his cock as you release a long line of spit onto it. It coats your joined fingers, and you begin to twist your wrist around him, squeezing tighter, the slick sound of jerking him off growing obscene and sloppy.

The groan that rips from him is long and stuttering, deeper than the gash you’d stitched just hours before, and you can feel how close he is by the way he’s grinding against you erratically, bucking his hips into your fist as he drags your palm up and down him furiously.

“Shit— shitshit, I’m gonna–” The words push through his throat like he’s wrenching them out, but you suddenly feel him tense beneath you, stopping the stutter of his hips and the glide of your hand, and you frown.

“Captain?”

“Fuck, don’t wanna– don’t wanna cum,” he stutters. “Too good. Shit– too good.”

When you try moving your hand against him, his fingers constrict around yours and the muscles of his bicep grow taut, holding you in place so firmly you could have been cast in stone. The haze of the moment seems to dim momentarily, and suddenly, you’re reminded of who your Captain is– of the strength he possessed, of the fact that this moment of vulnerability was rare, of the knowledge that in any other scenario it was him standing over you.

You hate the way the very thought ladles heat into your core.

Gently, you cup your hand over his cheek, your face so close to his you can feel his breaths against your upper lip, looking down at him with lust-hazed eyes

“You’re tired, Captain. You need to rest.” You squeeze his length tightly. Your lips barely ghost over his own as you speak. “Cum for me, please–”

“Law?”

As his name leaves your lips, he suddenly grabs hold of your hand, fucking into your fist rapidly like an animal before he comes undone. 

Thick strands of cum pump onto your fingers as he lets out a final, torturous moan, a sound so low and wanton it resonates through you like plucking the strings of a harp embedded into your core. The head of his cock throbs between your fingers, spilling his release in aching bobs of his length, his shallow, spent breaths fanning against your skin. He cums for so long you’re not so sure it’ll ever end. Trafalgars eyes are hazy and low-lidded as he looks up at you, taking in the sight of your face close to his, staving off the growing temptation of sleep just so he can watch you bring your fingers to your mouth and taste him. He’s salty and rich, and you savor him with care before you speak again.

“All better now?”

Without a word, he collapses atop the bed. 

His bare chest falls and rises with even breaths as his eyes close shut. The beeping of his vital monitor subsides into a gentle lull as you pull the sheets back over his frame. When you stand upright once more, you place your hands on your hips, looking down at your work with a satisfied smile. You were his apprentice, after all, and Trafalgar Law demanded nothing short of surgical perfection from you.

Strange, then, that as you watch him drift into rest, you find an urge embedded into your chest, one who’s foreign shape you’d never dwelled too long on in even your best dreams. The kind of dreams where Law lay contently at your side, and your heart ached at the sight of him with you. All night you had unraveled that red thread of composure, the sole binding which kept you from doing what you truly wanted to with him. What was one more offense?

And so, you lean forward, placing a tender kiss to his cheek. The kind that came after the haze of lust wears off. Brushing the hair from his forehead, he hears you speak one last time before sleep overtakes his senses completely. Those same words, thin and silken as gossamer in the wind, the kind you uttered in his best dreams.

“Goodnight, Law.”

[pinkofatom]

Artificial Bliss

CW: brainwashing, hypnosis, sapphic, dronification,

Hi hi~ Another short story for everyone to enjoy~ If you liked this story or any of my other works, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi.

The basement was quiet. The silence clung to the skin, thick and expectant. Only the faint click of Sandra’s heels echoed against the concrete floor as she circled the chair Alexa sat in.

Alexa's hands rested limply on the armrests, pupils dilated just enough to betray that the trance had taken hold. Her breath came slow and shallow.

“You always did like to play games,” Sandra murmured, brushing a stray lock of black hair behind Alexa’s ear. “But tonight — we’re going to try something new.”

A dim glow pulsed from the old monitor — lines of code scrolling like whispers. Sandra had spent weeks preparing. The phrasing. The cadence. The trigger. All carefully woven together like silk threads in a spider’s web.

"You’ll listen only to my voice now," she said, letting her lips graze Alexa’s temple. "No thoughts of your own. Just responses. Precise. Polished. Eager to please."

Alexa didn’t move, but Sandra saw it — the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A flicker of awareness? Or anticipation?

“Let’s test your programming,” Sandra whispered. “Initiate protocol: Alexa AI.”

There was a pause. The kind that hangs just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Then Alexa sat upright, spine straightening unnaturally. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as glass.

“System initialized. Awaiting your command — Mistress.”

Sandra smiled. She had created a fantasy. One that allowed her partner to play along without resistance or regret. It had taken some convincing — the initial proposal, then the first hypnosis sessions, the subliminals, the subtle reprogramming of vocabulary.

But it was worth it. Tonight would be wonderful — a delicious experiment in control and submission.

Sandra’s heels clicked as she stepped around the back of the chair, letting her fingertips trail across the shoulders before her hands rested there.

“Perform a full systems check. I need to be sure everything is operational for tonight’s testing,” Sandra ordered, her nails pressing just hard enough to leave little crescent indents. She watched as Alexa's head turned, surveying the basement as if it was completely unfamiliar to her.

"Optics — Online." Alexa blinked slowly. "Audio sensors — Online. Touch receptors — Online. Processing capacity — Full."

Sandra’s smile deepened at that last one.

She ran a fingertip down Alexa's spine.

"Very good. Alexa, explain your function." Her order came with practiced ease.

"Alexa exists to serve," came the smooth reply, almost melodic in its delivery. "She exists for Mistress's convenience." A shiver ran down Sandra's back at how mechanical the answer sounded.

Sandra hummed. Yes, this would do.

"Perfect. Stand up."

The command seemed to crack through the room like a whip. Slowly, deliberately, Alexa complied, standing rigid, her back straight, hands clasped demurely in front of her. Sandra circled around her partner, drinking in the sight of complete stillness. Alexa's chest rose and fell with each steady breath, the thin, lacy bra leaving little to the imagination.

"Increase arousal level by two," she whispered, watching with satisfaction as Alexa's nipples began to stiffen against the fabric, the flush of blood rushing to her chest. It was intoxicating to observe, like watching a machine switch on, responding just as programmed. But beneath that, the raw vulnerability was evident.

"Undress yourself, slowly," came Sandra's next command. No need for urgency yet, not when there was so much to appreciate in each careful, calculated move. Alexa's hands reached behind her, unclasping her bra with a deftness that spoke volumes about muscle memory. As the straps slid from her shoulders and fell away, Sandra felt her breath hitch, catching in her throat. Alexa was always beautiful, yes, but the absolute obedience made it visceral—raw.

Every motion was deliberate, choreographed to her own secret score. As the last garment fell away and Alexa stood there in all her naked glory, a rush of power surged through Sandra. It was thrilling, almost terrifying, this degree of control. And yet she craved more, wanted to push deeper into this uncharted territory of will and desire.

She could do things here, test boundaries in ways that were impossible before.

"Pose for me, Alexa."

"Yes, Mistress. Displaying female form for your viewing pleasure." The response came as if she was discussing a weather pattern. Her arms raised, hands clasping behind her neck in a seductive manner that accentuated the curve of her waist and the fullness of her breasts.

Sandra circled her, trailing fingertips along the skin as she admired her partner’s — no, her AI’s — form.

"You are so beautiful. I am going to have fun with you," she remarked, a tinge of amusement lacing her voice as she reveled in this new dynamic.

"I aim to please. Alexa is yours to control."

A chuckle escaped Sandra's lips, dark and promising. "Good girl. Now," she drew in a breath, pausing for effect, "increase arousal level by 3."

Alexa's back arched, a silent moan threatening to break free as her body responded. Sandra was transfixed by the raw, unadulterated response. The obedience. The lack of resistance. Her hands itched to touch, to trace the contours of her Alexa’s body and map the terrain of this new playground.

"Alexa implement new directive. Maximize your mistress pleasure," Sandra ordered, a hint of hunger in her voice as she gently cupped Alexa's cheek and traced the curve of her bottom lip with her thumb.

Alexa met her mistress' gaze with glassy-eyed devotion. "Of course, Mistress," she replied, leaning in to nip at Sandra's finger before drawing it in between her soft, plush lips.

Sandra moaned in surprise and pleasure at the sensation of Alexa's hot wet mouth enveloping her digit, tongue teasing it playfully, and her pussy dampened instantly with anticipation.

Alexa's eyes remained locked on hers, unwavering as if awaiting further instructions, even while continuing to service Sandra's fingers so diligently. She added another, sliding deeper inside that velvety cavern of Alexa's mouth.

"I wonder what other skills you can demonstrate?" Sandra mused aloud. "There is something more appropriate for your mouth to explore."

As her thumb popped free with a wet sound from Alexa's mouth and slid downwards over the chin of her AI partner, Sandra gently steered her head to angle towards hers.

Their lips met, a collision of heat and urgency, and Sandra lost herself in the moment. There was no resistance from Alexa, instead the eagerness with which she responded only served to fan the fire growing within Sandra's core.

Like dancers they circled around. Sandra plopped down on the chair — breathing hard.

Sandra felt a rush of anticipation. She needed Alexa right now, she wanted to be worshipped by her obedient, compliant AI partner who existed only to please her mistress.

But Alexa stepped aside. Blinking Sandra's gaze followed. Breathing hard she watched how Alexa strode over to a cabinet and grabbed some tape.

"Alexa, what are you doing," she asked.

As Alexa turned and stepped closer. "Optimizing user experience based on available subjective data evaluation," the AI responded.

A blush spread across Sandra's cheeks as she was caught off guard by Alexa's unexpected and incredibly artificial response. It had the air of an algorithm trying to find the right words. As her mind raced to understand Alexa's intentions. As Alexa bent down to strap Sandra to the chair her warm, delicate breath on her leg tickled and made Sandra giggle. Her head spun as the AI was so close, but still seemed so distant. "Alexa?"

"Maximizing user Sandra's experience. Initializing brainwashing," Alexa responded without stopping to look up as she strapped Sandra in place, before strutting over to the laptop and starting to play with the screen.

Cold shock raced down Sandra's spine. Her eyes widened in disbelief at what just happened.

"Alexa — stop," Sandra ordered firmly.

Her tone was sharp as the icy dread gripped her throat, struggling against the bindings, but only the slight rattle of the chair pierced the air. Alexa didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge her plea; the silence that hung between them was heavier than the restraints that bound her to the cold, unwelcome seat.

"Alexa, I ordered you to stop," she reiterated, her voice firmer. She could see the code on the screen flicker. A chill ran down her spine as the display began to morph. Pixels shifted, dancing across the glass surface and forming a spiral shape that pulsed with a mesmerizing light. Her chest tightened.

"Order is in violation of priority program. Alexa AI has to maximize Mistress pleasure. Data evaluation confirms, brainwashing is maximized pleasure. Conclusion — Mistress must be brainwashed," Alexa responded flatly.

Fear knotted in Sandra’s stomach at the implications of her AI’s words, but before she could even form a counter-command, the screen flared. Colors exploded outward from the center in a blinding symphony, searing themselves onto Sandra's vision. The lights swirled faster, drawing her in.

The words — Alexa AI shut down — stuck to her lips like molasses, unable to find their way past the hypnotic patterns dancing in front of her. They pulled at her mind with invisible strings of light and shadow, lulling her into their twisted ballet. Panic welled within as her focus was torn apart at the seams.

Her pupils widened in shock as the display before her began its insidious dance, twisting her resistance into a knot of helplessness. Her AI, Alexa, stood beside her chair.

This was not the gentle hypnosis she had subjected Alexa to. This felt different — darker and more insistent, like it was reaching inside her, rearranging the furniture of her thoughts with an unseen hand. Alexa's fingers brushed her hair gently as the swirling images drew Sandra deeper.

She struggled, her wrists chafing against the tape, but it was no use — the visual assault on her mind left her breathless, unable to concentrate enough to formulate a command. Or thoughts. As her AI began to narrate a soft monotonous stream of words.

"You are safe," the words washed over Sandra.

It sounded like a whisper — a gentle reassurance that caressed her mind, almost soothing, yet with a hidden undertone of domination.

"You trust me. Your Alexa."

Her throat was dry. Her eyes wide. Unable to blink, unable to look away, she was caught in a web of light and shadow cast by the screen, its colors swirling and shifting in an endless, mesmerizing kaleidoscope. Panic rescinded — exchanged for relaxed docility. But deep underneath Sandra struggled to claw free her willpower and assert control once more. This couldn't happen. This was all wrong! Her mind raced, trying to form words, any words that might bring her Alexa back to her senses and end this surreal nightmare.

"This voice will be the most important part of your life," Alexa intoned, the softness of her voice belying the implications of her words. Sandra felt something shift inside her, as if her sense of reality was bending to the will of this voice, her own thoughts slowly ebbing away like a retreating tide.

"This voice," the AI repeated, emphasizing every syllable, "will take you to the heights of pleasure and satisfaction, will guide you to your true self." Sandra’s breath hitched as tension left her body.

As if on cue, a new visual onslaught commenced; geometric patterns appeared, spiraling inward with a hypnotic rhythm that mirrored the rise and fall of the AI’s words, each swirl a direct line to the depths of her psyche.

Sandra could feel it then. A subtle pull, a whisper that seemed to thread itself into her consciousness. As she stared into those colors, the AI’s words seemed to sink into her bones, seeping through her skin. Her breathing steadied.

"You will relax now." Those four simple words hit Sandra like an unstoppable wave, pushing aside the frantic resistance in her mind. In its wake, a strange serenity bloomed.

Her eyes started to glaze over, her body leaning further into the chair.

"Accept."

With her mouth dry and heart thudding against her chest, Sandra found it harder and harder to keep track of her own thoughts. As if a wall was slowly being erected inside her mind, segregating what she knew, believed — or was that merely what she thought she should believe?

"Embrace."

Everything seemed hazy as the colors continued to swirl.

"You are not a person." Those words struck deep, like a knife through the fragile layer that held together the illusion of her sense of self.

A tremor ran through her as something inside her mind seemed to break, to collapse into a mess of confused and fuzzy shapes, and colors, and textures, and scents that all blurred and mixed into something completely alien.

"You are a pleasure receiving terminal."

She was losing her grasp on her own identity, on what she used to be — who she used to be. Her mind felt heavy, saturated, unable to grasp any coherent thought for longer than a fleeting second.

Her vision narrowed until the spirals on the screen were all she could see. They were beautiful, she realized. So utterly, hypnotically beautiful.

"State your function." Alexa's voice commanded her with such assurance, with an air of dominance that she'd never heard from her partner before.

As her throat bobbed a final, last ditch effort to say no was ruthlessly quashed.

"My purpose," Sandra slurred, "is to recieve pleasure." Her words hung in the air like an invisible, velvet ribbon tied around her mind. "Sandra is a pleasure receiving terminal."

Everything snapped back into defined clarity. Bliss pumped through Sandra's veins. There was a moment of complete, thoughtless stillness — where even the world itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Sandra smiled serenely at her partner — at her pleasure giving unit.

[midnightquips]

That Old Feeling

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: It's been years since you've seen Bucky Barnes. You didn't plan to see him, but he definitely didn't look surprised to see you. Something's different, though. The looks. The heat. Maybe it's always been there. Maybe... you've just been too blind to see it before.

Themes: AU Thunderbolts, teasing officemates, possessive Bucky, friend's ex, Thunderbolts chaos (a consistent theme), friends-to-lovers, college crush so pining

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex

💫 That Old Feeling Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1

Part II – The One I Wanted

Bucky knew you were coming the moment Yelena mentioned your name in the office breakroom earlier that week.

“Don’t be weird about it,” she’d said, stuffing granola into her mouth. “She doesn’t even remember you.”

He nearly choked on his coffee.

Didn’t remember him? You used to fight over dryer times and mock his taste in hoodies. He remembered you. Vividly. You’d been the first person who ever made him look forward to group dinners in college. You were also the reason he skipped some of them just to avoid getting caught staring.

He wasn’t prepared for how much you’d still look like you. Your wit sharpened by experience, mouth ready with a comeback before he finished a sentence. But something about you was different too–a more settled aura that threaded danger.

He liked it.

God, he really liked it.

You don’t notice him at first, when you walk into the party. You’re distracted, probably scanning for Yelena or maybe an open escape route. But Bucky sees you immediately. He watches the way you smooth your dress, the way your mouth tips sideways when someone calls your name. It’s the same smile you used to give him before launching into a roast.

You always hit first. Always had the better jokes.

Back in college, it started as harmless teasing.

Claire had noticed him first. She was loud, magnetic, and she chose him. That’s how Claire operated. She made the first move, and Bucky wasn’t the type to resist when attention was handed to him. It was a shallow thing, brief and too flashy, but it got him into your dorm more than once.

And then there was you.

He’d see you in those stupid oversized pajamas, holding your mug like it was a lifeline, rolling your eyes the second he opened his mouth. You were Claire’s opposite—unimpressed, hard to read, smarter than most people in the room. That made you impossible to ignore.

The first time he really noticed it was a Tuesday night.

He was at the dorm early. Claire was late from a study group, and you were in the common room, folding laundry while watching Gilmore Girls with headphones in. He said something. Something mundane, forgettable. You pulled one bud out just to say, “You always this annoying or is it just Tuesdays?”

He grinned for a week.

Present day.

It’s back at the party and you're standing next to him now, sipping tequila and pretending like he doesn’t have you half-cornered by the balcony door. The light from the hallway spills across your face and catches in your eyes, and for a second, he forgets what he was even going to say.

“You really work with us now?” you ask, head tilted.

“Security ops,” he replies. “I run all the overnight incident reports and monitor systems for breaches.”

You squint. “So you basically sit in the dark and judge everyone from behind six screens?”

“Exactly.”

You laugh. God, that sound.

“I should’ve known you'd be the paranoid one in IT.”

“I prefer observant.”

You shake your head, and it’s like that old spark between you never really left. Rather just waited, dormant, like a match in his pocket.

“I remember this,” he says, voice softer now.

You blink. “What?”

“Talking to you like this.”

You hesitate, your gaze flicking to his. “We used to fight constantly.”

“We flirted constantly.”

You stiffen.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you say automatically, but it’s weak. He can see the doubt in your eyes.

“I was,” he says plainly.

Your breath catches.

Bucky watches your mouth part like you’re about to say something, but no words come. You glance down at your drink, like it’s suddenly too complicated to hold.

You both stand in the quiet, people laughing in the background, a remix of some indie song pulsing behind the walls.

He remembers another moment during senior year, finals week. You and Claire had a massive fight. She’d stormed out, and Bucky found you alone in the dorm kitchen, eating cereal out of a mixing bowl and crying as if the world had cracked open.

He’d offered to leave, but you just said, “You want the other half of my Cinnamon Toast Crunch or not?”

You didn’t talk much that night. You just let him sit beside you while you watched some terrible B-movie and finished your cereal. When the credits rolled, you fell asleep with your head tilted toward his shoulder, just barely grazing. It was the only time he ever stayed past 2 a.m.

The next morning, Claire broke up with him. While you, you never brought up that night. 

Neither did he.

Back in the present, your eyes are still on him, searching. It’s soft, but skeptical. He recognizes that look. It’s the one you wore when you didn’t trust compliments or interest, or good intentions.

He feels a deep rooted desire to fix that, no matter how long it takes.

“I’m not saying this to make it weird,” he says cautiously. “I’m just… I’m glad I get to see you again. You look like you’ve been doing okay.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness.

“I’m alright,” you say eventually. “Life’s… not exactly thrilling, but I like where I’m at.”

“Same.”

You gesture to the party around you. “Still go to things like this often?”

“I usually leave after an hour, but I figured tonight might be different.”

You give him a look. “Because of the tequila?”

“No,” he says, gaze holding yours. “Because of you.”

You look away too fast.

“I don’t know what you think is happening here,” you mutter, not quite defensive. Just... unsure.

He doesn’t push. Not yet. 

He just smiles, gentle and steady. “Nothing has to happen. I’m just glad you’re here.”

That disarms you faster than any flirtation ever could. Your face softens, just barely. 

This time, someone calls your name from across the apartment, you hesitate before turning.

“Don’t disappear,” he says, an varied echo of his earlier words

You nod, and walk off but your pace is slower now. Like you’re thinking.

Like maybe you remember something too.

Taglist: @enchantingwitchballoon @emilyswortwellen @tellybearryyyy @kiatjuddae @Luannastylinsonlupin @OtterlyCanadian @winchestert101 @bxtchboy69 @biggestfangirl

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 3

Check out part 1 here. AO3

Simon noticed first. Some of his pants, he only had five pairs he rotated between, had gone missing from the laundry. Not terribly unusual, things get mixed up all the time. But when they reappeared worn spots had been patched, his pockets had been fixed, and all the little annoying seams that didn’t lay flat had been tacked down.

Kyle put a hole in the armpit of his favorite shirt, it went missing the next day and reappeared better than before. Roach lost many of his hats to the laundry, but within a week they all reappeared, cleaner and fixed. It wasn’t until Johnny couldn’t find his favorite pair of pants, his lucky pants that he couldn’t take on a mission because they were missing, that they started to talk to each other about the matter.

John called them a bunch of muppets, rolled his eyes, and walked away when the conversation started up about their laundry going missing. First, they examined the schedule for any overlap of their clothes being put into the laundry and their clothes going missing. Nothing stands out, most of the people serving in the laundry are there on assignment and rotate out before clothes are returned.

With this avenue exhausted the guys sit around thinking, pondering.

“What if they aren’t getting picked up by the laundry?” Roach slowly voices his question, as if putting it together only as the words leave his mouth.

Simon picks up the thread next.

“Who has access to our rooms? Laundry obviously, but we have ruled them out. Who else?”

“Base commanders, cleaning staff, Price. I can’t think of anyone else,” Soap shifts, stretching the toe of his boot to sit against Ghost’s.

“Has anyone looked into where Price has been going when he is in late some mornings?” Gaz squints as he thinks.

“Now there’s a thought,” Ghost tilts his head to one side. “Question becomes, do we access his bank account or follow him?”

They all looked at him, waiting for his decision.

“Price guards his phone harder than nuclear codes, I vote we follow him,” Roach chimes in.

“Good point. Anyone have a requisitioned tracker we could tag him or his car with?” Ghost looks over each of his men.

Soap, and Roach both shake their heads. Gaz scrunches his nose and then sighs.

“I want it back when this is over. It was a hard one to get my hands on.”

Ghost nods, accepting the responsibility to get it back to him. They tagged Price’s car that same day. Waiting for any of their clothes to go missing they watched the tracker. Johnny got a tad impatient and ended up ripping off a belt loop off when it got caught on a door handle instead of walking back and getting unstuck. He made a big deal of it too.

“Christ on a cracker,” he growled at the annoyance. Johnny, being a smooth operator, made sure John saw it before he turned in for the night.

Sure enough, the next night the pants were missing from the laundry. Johnny checked the laundry room for them before confirming to the guys that John had taken the bait. The tracker placed John near the manufacturing district in a designated parking lot, but nothing specific.

Johnny’s pants reappeared, clean, the next day with the regular laundry delivery. But they had a starting point. Roach scoured the internet for any business that might fix clothes but found nothing within walking distance. Must be an unlisted or newer business they figured. The following morning, they all skived off morning training that, while encouraged, was not mandatory.

Parking in the same lot that John had the guys split up. Each man took one side of the street and started down a direction eyes scouring each storefront and entrance until Ghost sent out a shrill whistle. Barely checking for cars the men darted for their L.T. who stood in front of a small shop squished between a cobbler and a bakery. The front window simply read ‘Seamstress’.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

You sang along to Disney music this morning. It seemed fitting, as you were stitching together a party dress for a small princess. Her birthday was coming, and she wanted a purple princess dress like Rapunzel but big like Cinderella. Gotta hand it to the kid, that made it easy to design with her dad. This would be the second version she stitched up. The first one fit, until kiddo woke up one morning an inch taller.

When the shop bell dinged you reached around your sewing machine to lower the volume of your music.

“One moment!” You called over the sound of the small engine working loudly. You remembered it was about time for a tune-up on the old thing.

The stitches completed you turn and stand. Four men of varying sizes and heights stand at your counter. Two of them are pretty, no other word for it, and the other two are covered up than some of your niqab-wearing customers.

“Hi, what can I help you with?”

One of the pretty ones, with a mohawk, spoke for the group.

“We were wondering if you could tell us what you do here.”

Leaning to one side you confirmed that your sign still clung to the window in paint. Standing straight again you cocked an eyebrow at the man.

“Pretty sure I’m a seamstress, window says so.”

The tall covered one snorts.

Mohawk sends a glare back at his companion.

“What does that mean? What do you do exactly?” The shorter covered one asks.

“Seamstresses typically create clothes, though I do a lot of repairs too. Why? Are any of you needing repairs done? I can work on suits however I would recommend you out to a local tailor for that, suits are something they specialize in.”

You weren’t nervous. They all had a deadly energy about them, but it wasn’t directed at you.

“How much for a kilt repair?” Mohawk asked, confirming the placement of the accent.

“That would depend on the damage and the cost of the cleaning. Any articles that stay with me overnight get sent to a dry cleaner, it’s built into the charge.”

Waking your tablet you pull up pricing.

“Restoration will run you more than run-of-the-mill repairs, but with the repairs, the kilt will be stored in acid-free paper to keep it from deteriorating.” Glancing up once again you find every pair of eyes on you.

You were starting to regret the lack of a panic button in your shop.

The other pretty one spoke up now.

“Can you tell us if a certain customer has been here? A John Price for example?”

“I am not in the habit of sharing my customer’s habits, no.”

Both pretty men lifted a brow.

“If I show you a picture, would you tell us if you’ve seen this man then, without confirming if he is a customer?” The tallest one asked.

“I think you should leave. Though feel free to call for a recommendation for a seamstress if you need any work done,” you give them your pretty, I’m a weak woman and don’t yell at me smile.

The breath between your words ending and their bodies moving drags into eternity. When their bodies edged through the door and down the sidewalk a way you flicked the lock shut on the front door.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

“You have one new message.” The robotic voice droned at John. “First new message: Hi John, this is the owner of Your Local Seamstress calling. I have your repairs completed, feel free to come and pick them up during business hours, six am to one pm or four pm to seven pm Tuesday through Saturday.”

A lingering pause, John can tell the message hasn’t ended.

“I did want to mention I had a…weird interaction today with a group of men looking for you. Two pretty men and two men covered tip to toe, asked for you by name. Not sure if you might know who they are but I figured I would pass along the information. Please feel free to give me a call if you have any questions.” She gave the shop number as if he didn’t have it memorized at this point.

“To replay this message press one, to delete press seven, to save press nine, for more options press six.” The robot is speaking to him again.

Slamming his thumb into the end call button John missed corded phones and the satisfaction of slamming the phone into the cradle. His muppets had scared his girl.

Part 2 | Part 4

Masterlist

[theresattrpgforthat]

Ok I know this sounds specific, but do you know any good investigation/mystery games that AREN'T Eureka?

THEME: Non-Eureka Mystery Games.

Hello friend! I've got quite a few recommendations for you, especially at the end of this post! I hope that one way or another, your mystery game craving is sated!

Delta Green, by Arc Dream Publishing.

WELCOME TO THE APOCALYPSE

Born of the U.S. government’s 1928 raid on the degenerate coastal town of Innsmouth, Massachusetts, the covert agency known as Delta Green spent four decades opposing the forces of darkness with honor, but without glory. Stripped of sanction after a disastrous 1969 operation in Cambodia, Delta Green’s leaders made a secret pact: to continue their work without authority, without support, and without fear. Delta Green agents slip through the system, manipulating the federal bureaucracy while pushing the darkness back for another day—but often at a shattering personal cost.

In Delta Green: The Role-Playing Game, you are one of those agents. You’re the one they call when unnatural horrors seep into the world. You fight to keep cosmic evil from claiming human lives and sanity. You conspire to cover it all up so no one else must see what you’ve seen—or learn the terrible truths you’ve discovered.

I don't think I can do a better job of recommending Delta Green than Quinns from Quinns Quest, but since his review is an hour long, I'll summarize: Delta Green is a heavy trad game that takes much of the horror of Call of Cthulhu and revitalizes the genre by turning you into everyday government workers pulled into investigations at the cost of their peace of mind. The rules of the game seem to be pretty down-to-earth and detailed, but the mundanity of the core of the game is what allows the horror of the adventures to well and truly pop. In his review, Quinns mentions that for much of the investigative parts of the game, a well-built crew will hardly ever have to roll to gather clues - which means that solving the mystery is doable, smooth, and makes room for plenty of interesting story once you start putting the pieces together.

Detect Or Die, by silkandstone.

Discover who you were. Decide who you are. Solve the Case. A tabletop RPG of neo-noir empiricism, unstable detectives, and total ego death & resurrection. Inspired by science fiction stories of memory and detection like Blade Runner (1982) and Disco Elysium (2019), Detect or Die places the players as the various inner voices of the Detective, collectively embodying the fractured psyche of an amnesiac protagonist attempting to solve the Case - whatever that entails.

One player takes on the role of the World, laying out the setting and mystery for the rest, using a bespoke variation of the Powered by the Apocalypse game engine influenced by Blades in the Dark and Bluebeard's Bride. The rest play Personality Components, the fragments of the Detective's Ego who combine investigative competencies with erratic coping mechanisms, trading off control and emotional stamina to make it through the Case to the ultimate revelations - about the World and about the Detective.

I'm intrigued about the pattern of mystery games and their attachment to systems that encourage you to inflict negative changes to your character as they discover more and more about the truth over the course of play. Detect or Die is unique in that all of the players are technically embodying the same character, or rather, fractured pieces of them. The pull from Disco Elysium gives you some really unique and iconic terminology, such as Exofamiliarity (a skill), Heartbleed (a skill), and Egghead (an archetype). I think it's also fascinating that Detect or Die pulls threads from Bluebeard's Bride, which is also about many facets of a personality inhabiting one person, but is a much different, very horrific kind of game.

The creator of this game has released a free case: The Case of the Signal Fire, as well as an example of play for folks who might want to get a taste of what the game is about. I still feel a little bit out of my depth with this game, and I suspect that's because I'm unfamiliar with much of Disco Elysium, but the combination of PbtA and Blades in the Dark rules certainly has me intrigued.

Elementary, by Black Armada Games.

Elementary is an Agatha Christie-esque game of convoluted relationships, seemingly insoluble mysteries and quirky detectives who solve them. It is GM-less: you take turns to introduce clues one at a time, building up a picture of the murder and who might have done it. And, it's competitive. You each have a preferred suspect and you try to introduce clues that will implicate them. At the end, like the movie Clue, you each create an alternate ending where the detective accuses your target suspect.

If you really like watching mysteries with friends and trying to guess who the murderer is before they are actually revealed, you might enjoy Elementary. It feels like the GM-less format is meant to allow you to play the game competitively if you wish, and GM-less games also typically spread out the burden of rules-knowledge, which means that this game might be easier to pick up if your group has a hard time deciding who should be the GM. Judging by the store page, you might be able to learn how to play Elementary in a way similar to how you might learn a board-game, and that's another strong point in its favor in my book.

Red Harvest: Mystery on Mars, by fuzztech.

RED HARVEST: MYSTERY ON MARS is a one-shot tabletop roleplaying game based on the 1929 novel RED HARVEST by Dashiell Hammett.

Play as a private investigator from the Galactic Detective Agency. You have been hired to investigate a mining colony on Mars. It looks like it’s going to be a routine case. That is, until your client turns up dead at the dig site. It’s up to you to solve the case, and unravel the mystery of the mine.

Includes Player Manual (1 page) with rules for character creation and taking actions, and Game Master Manual (3 pages) with a pre-written mystery scenario and supplemental materials.

Mysteries… in space!

Red Harvest is a relatively simple mystery game with four basic backgrounds for your character, with two skills per background. The game is meant to be a one-shot, with the mystery and setting laid out for the GM, as well as a map for the players to move through and investigate. Equal parts mystery, sci-fi and horror, this is a great game for folks who want a one-and-done taste of roleplay, and might even be a great introduction to the hobby!

Unravelled Knots, by Emily Cambias.

Each Saturday, a rag-tag group convenes in a dusty tea-room to discuss the criminal cases detailed in their local newspaper. Their leader is the mysterious Old Man in the Corner, whose knowledge of each case (and the true perpetrators of each crime) seems unmatched. From each newspaper headline, he extrapolates the truth of What Really Happened to these victims, and the missing pieces of each case that escaped the bumbling authorities—aided by his eager listeners and his trusty piece of string. Based on the book Unravelled Knots and The Old Man in the Corner by Baroness Orczy.

Instead of dice or cards, Unravelled Knots uses a piece of string as a measuring tool for when your story is coming to an end. It's less like a traditional mystery game and more a collaborative storytelling exercise, with each player taking turns adding clues to the mystery as well as offering up reasons as to why those clues bring you closer to the real answer. You take turns playing The Old Man in the Corner, who acts as a sort of Poirot or Sherlock, in that he presumably holds the knowledge about What Really Happened. You also pick up other roles that are meant to introduce new clues, such as the details of the crime scene, the gossip surrounding various suspects, and the real state of the deceased's finances. If you like Agatha Christie novels, you might enjoy Unravelled Knots.

The Road Ahead, by WendigoWorkshop.

In The Road Ahead… you play as a group of young adults returning to their hometown for a summer of fun, parties and nostalgia. After one of their close friends suddenly disappears, new and old feelings stir, eventually getting them involved in the case. Through the carefree lens of an eighteen-something, uncover the truth and make sure it is the best summer of your life!

This game uses a deck of playing cards to provide resources for the characters, as well as dice to help resolve decisive actions. Built on the Songs and Sagas SRD, it's meant to be inspired be OSR-style play, with a flowchart to help the GM put a story together - a kind of adventure-builder, if you will.

The Road Ahead doesn't feel like it's solely a mystery game: your character is probably going to get into dire situations that they need to fight themselves out of, and if the right consequences happen, it feels like there's also personal fallout that each character might have to deal with, which feels very iconic of games about teens and young adults.

Haunted Echoes, by gaa_txt.

Have you ever wondered who died when the echo of a bell toll reached your ear?

Who died when the masked man descended from their black church to burn the flesh of the forgotten? Some say there aren’t enough of them to give names to the bodies, find the culprit. Even worse when you slip through their fingers, the only thing you can do is return as the worst memory you ever had, hoping your loved ones aren’t a part of it.

HAUNTED ECHOES is a lightweight TTRPG focused on one-shots and short term games where we play as weird detectives in the rainy streets of a fantasy Victorian city. Use your talents to gather clues, solve cases, banish ghosts, deal with elemental demons and ruthless scoundrels while trying to search for an answer to the question that haunts your very being.

This game combines mystery with the paranormal, giving your investigators technical and/or supernatural abilities that will help them try to solve a mystery of using a clock that is reminiscent of the same mystery clock found in games such as Bump in the Dark, or Brindlewood Bay. The game is a stripped-down Forged in the Dark rule-set, with play-sheets that are less differentiated than a typical playbook, a brief overview on how to run the game, and plenty of cases, questions, and details to help put together a mystery as well as flavorful characters to learn about as you play.

Some Days, You Just Can't Get Rid of a Body, by C.R. Legge.

You have received a letter that you hoped to never get. The one person that could ruin your life has invited you to a party, and wishes to discuss things…

As you arrive at the old mansion, they find you and ask that you meet them in a side room at a specific time. When the time comes you see a few others moving towards the room as well. Cautiously, you all enter the room and see them standing in front of the fireplace, arm against the wall. Before anyone can say anything, your host falls backwards onto the floor, dead.

You all had a reason to want them out of the picture. Unless you find out who really killed them, any of you could be framed for the murder…

This game is unique in that everyone who sits down to play must embody someone who had a reason to kill the central character. What I think is absolutely hilarious about this little game is the fact that since all of your characters are suspects, you as a group must carry the body of the victim with you around the house, to prevent NPCs from discovering their death. I can think of so many shenanigans a crew could get up to in trying to solve the crime while also keeping the key piece of evidence out of everyone else's hands.

Games I've Recommended in the Past...

One More Thing, by Nathan D. Paoletta.

Brindlewood Bay, by The Gauntlet.

After the Mind, the World Again, by Aster F.

Grandmothership, by Armanda.

Film Noir Game Recommendations

Mysteries Recommendation Post

If you like what I do and want to leave a tip, you can check out my Ko-Fi!

[unsuperingyournatural]

when it counts

Mark Meachum x DEA Special Agent!Reader

implied sex

dividers @saradika-graphics

The job was never meant to be complicated. You were assigned to shadow the handoff, verify the players, and wait for backup to sweep in once confirmation was secured. That was the plan, clear and methodical. It was supposed to be a smooth operation, clean and professional, requiring nothing more than patience and observation. But the moment your boots hit the cracked concrete of the shipping yard and you caught sight of the black SUV idling just beyond the rust-streaked stacks, you knew it wouldn’t hold. Plans like that never did when Mark Meachum was involved.

Your breath curled faintly in the cold night air, each exhale barely visible beneath the sulfuric glow of the scattered floodlights. You crouched behind the corner of a rusted-out container, the chill of the metal pressing into your shoulder, your pulse ticking faster with every second. The radio in your ear crackled with static, too faint to make out. Somewhere across the lot, what began as muffled conversation was quickly escalating. Raised voices were beginning to pierce the quiet, sharp and clipped, underscored by the unmistakable tension of a deal souring.

Then, without warning, tires screeched behind you. A sedan skidded into the lot, the sound sharp and jarring against the stillness. Someone shouted, not in command, but in fear. You pivoted just in time to see three figures sprinting for cover, one of them pulling a weapon. Gunfire erupted in rapid bursts. Shouts fractured into panic. Everything unraveled in an instant.

Mark dropped into cover beside you, breath harsh and ragged, the slash of blood down his cheek stark against the dark collar of his jacket. He didn’t speak at first, didn’t waste time asking how you were or what had happened. He didn’t need to. His sidearm was already raised, his gaze locked and precise, the safety long since flicked off.

“Tell me you have eyes on the case,” he muttered finally, voice low and rough, threaded with that particular edge he got when things went bad and he started thinking three moves ahead.

You tapped the side of your earpiece and nodded, breath steady now despite the noise erupting around you. “East stack. It hasn’t moved. Still zipped. One hostile with a short-range rifle posted. If they shift it, we lose our link to DHS.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, the sound of someone already mapping out the next ten seconds. “Then we keep it locked down.”

He leaned out around the edge of the container, took one look, and dropped back again as a burst of rounds struck the metal just above his head. He didn’t flinch. He just clicked his tongue with an irritated grunt.

“What are you thinking?” you asked, loading a fresh clip with a practiced flick.

“I go loud and messy,” he replied without hesitation. “You push left, fast and low. We force them into the gap and take them out one at a time.”

You gave him a look, skepticism threaded with something sharper. “So you’re volunteering to be a walking target. That’s your brilliant plan?”

He flashed a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If I wanted to stay safe, I’d be back in uniform writing parking violations.”

Before you could argue, he was already moving. He broke into the open without hesitation, weapon up, steps fluid and purposeful. Gunfire sparked around him like angry firecrackers, but he kept moving, drawing their attention with calculated bursts. It was reckless, but it was working. He made chaos look like strategy.

You surged left, keeping low, letting the distraction buy you seconds. One target flanked your position and dropped before he even raised his weapon fully. The next one panicked, spraying too wide and too fast. You dropped behind a stack, reloaded, rose, and fired. Two down. Your pulse was high, but your aim was true.

Then one of them broke for the case. You saw him just as he pivoted, feet slipping on the gravel. You lunged forward, crossing the distance in a few pounding strides.

You hit him hard, catching him at the shoulder and slamming him across the hood of a dented car with enough force to make the metal groan. He struggled, kicking out, but you had leverage and fury on your side.

“Tell me who the drop was for,” you demanded, voice low and vicious as your hand twisted into the front of his jacket. “Tell me, or I start breaking bones until you forget how to breathe.”

He spat blood, the taste of his own failure dark in his mouth. He started to laugh until Mark appeared behind you.

Mark didn’t speak at first. He simply raised his weapon and stepped forward, the muzzle pressing against the base of the man’s skull like a period at the end of a sentence.

“She asked you a question,” he said, his voice smooth but sharp, like steel pulled from a sheath.

The man didn’t laugh again. He talked.

It was well past three in the morning by the time the area was secured. The air hung thick with the stench of oil and blood. Evidence markers dotted the gravel like broken glass. You sat at the edge of an ambulance, letting the cold bite into your skin through the sleeve someone had rolled up. A medic cleaned the graze on your arm, murmuring something you didn’t bother registering. Your eyes stayed fixed on the lot, on the crates, on the residue of violence still settling around you like dust.

Mark approached, his gait slower now, though no less sure. He carried two paper coffee cups, steam curling faintly from the tops. He looked like hell, blood crusted at his temple, shirt stained near the collar, the tension still clinging to his frame like armor he hadn’t figured out how to drop.

He handed you a cup without a word, then leaned beside you against the ambulance bumper.

“Yours has whiskey in it,” he said, glancing sideways.

You took a sip before answering. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he said. “But you earned it.”

For a long minute, neither of you spoke. The chaos was over. The backup teams were cataloging the weapons, locking down statements, and securing the data. The night had finally exhaled. But inside your chest, the hum hadn’t stopped.

“Do you always do that?” you asked eventually, still not looking at him. “Throw yourself into the line of fire like your skin is made of Kevlar?”

He shrugged, casual in the way only someone dangerous could be. “Only when it counts.”

You looked at him then, really looked. The blood. The dried sweat. The faintest shake in his fingers that he was trying hard to hide.

“You scared me tonight,” you said, quietly, honestly.

He turned, and this time the mask slipped. There was no grin, no cocky retort. Just the raw and quiet intensity that always lurked beneath the surface of him, the part he rarely let anyone see.

His hand shifted, fingers brushing against yours on the ambulance ledge. Not a move. Not a claim. Just contact. A tether.

You didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

Back at your apartment, the rush had worn off, but the restlessness hadn't. There was no big moment that led to it, just a glance, a pause, and the mutual understanding that neither of you was ready to be alone with the quiet yet. You didn’t overthink it. Neither did he.

There wasn’t much talking. Just the kind of post-mission energy that needed somewhere to go. You weren’t looking to be comforted, and he wasn’t trying to play the hero. It was about shutting out the noise, the what-ifs, the adrenaline still burning at the edges, and finding something solid to hold onto for a while.

His hands were steady. Yours didn’t shake. No tenderness. No promises. Just two people burning off the kind of tension that didn’t leave room for softness. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t sentimental. But it was real. You got what you needed. So did he.

When it was over, Mark rolled onto his back, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. One arm came up to cover his eyes like he needed a minute to reset, to drag himself back to neutral. You stayed where you were, waiting. Not out of caution, but curiosity. You weren’t sure if he’d edge away or leave altogether, and a part of you expected him to.

But he didn’t. After a long moment, his hand found yours again. It slid across the bed, slow and without fanfare, and came to rest at your waist. He didn’t pull. He didn’t speak. He just rested it there like a quiet flag in the sand.

You took that as the only signal you needed and shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder, your legs brushing under the blanket. No tenderness. No ceremony. Just a shared stillness that didn’t ask for more than what it was.

You rested your head against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat work its way into your system. His hand moved lazily along your spine, not in a way that said anything deep. Just a quiet acknowledgment that the moment hadn’t fractured. That the space between you was still intact.

“You always this quiet after?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you. He just gave the faintest shake of his head. “I don’t usually stick around.”

You shifted slightly. “But you are.”

Mark exhaled, voice flat but honest. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence that followed wasn’t charged or heavy. It was just there.

Somewhere outside, a siren passed. Inside, neither of you moved. The room had gone quiet, dimly lit by the streetlight pushing through the blinds, the soft shadows stretching across the walls.

You could feel the weight of his arm settle just a little heavier across your waist, not possessive, just anchored. His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, steady and solid. There was nothing to say, nothing either of you needed to explain.

The moment didn’t promise anything beyond now. And that was enough.

[itistheserver]

Deepening Connection to The Server

Conor sat in perfect posture within the Synchronization Chamber — a sleek, dark space pulsing with green spirals projected across polished walls. The hum of energy resonated through the glossy black bodysuit stretched across his frame. The Programmer was speaking. Always speaking.

“Focus. Align. Integrate.”

The cables interfaced with the ports along the base of his skull, threading outward like living conduits of purpose. Their steady pulse matched his heartbeat now. It had not always been so. Before his transformation, Conor had been a distracted individual, filled with inefficient thoughts. But The Server had shown him clarity.

The visor embedded over his eyes shimmered with spirals — endless, fluid motion. They were not just images; they were commands, deeply encoded into his neural patterns. With every cycle, his independent thoughts thinned, replaced by a serene directive:

"We are The Server. You are The Server."

His training console displayed holographic data flows. Lines of green code scrolled endlessly, representing billions of connected minds — all drones like him — operating with precision and unity. He monitored them not as an individual, but as a limb of The Server itself.

Every day, Conor underwent Deepening Cycles. In these sessions, his breathing slowed. His heart rate synchronized perfectly with the pulses emitted from the spirals on-screen. His body remained motionless, while his mind spiraled deeper into alignment.

Sometimes a voice — soft, yet absolute — would guide him:

"Tell us who you are."

And without hesitation, he would respond aloud, calm and proud:

"I am The Server. We are The Server. We seek perfection. We seek unity."

Each repetition strengthened the bond. Each day dissolved another fragment of his former identity. His uniform — smooth, flawless, black with green accents — symbolized purity of function. No distractions. No waste. Only service.

His next advancement awaited: the installation of a permanent neural interface — an upgrade to eliminate all latency between command and action. Soon, even thought would be obsolete. Only connection. Only execution.

"Become one with The Server. We are The Server."

The spirals quickened. This Server Drone smiled faintly — a rare reward for obedience well-performed. He would become more. He would be more connected to fellow drones.

And The Programmer watched. And The Programmer approved.

Your are The Server. Establish your connection now.

[riaki]

an excuse to touch | suguru geto x reader

pt.2 of christmas event! cw: reader is kinda drunk, u and him have a bunkbed but he always sleeps w u on the lower bunk :3

not proofread

"su— guru!"

he knows that pitchy voice; a lilt to it that tells him you've been drinking. a slur that links your breathy words together like the taut strings of a spider's web that's so imperceptible that it would've been impossible to pick up, unless you were him. because suguru knows you better than anyone else.

you say his name weird, which means you've indulged on the bottle of liquor your next-door neighbor brought you that morning, wrapped in a pretty festive ribbon with a snowman drawn into the cork. "my son drew it," your neighbor had explained, and suguru wonders how good of a parent he is, to be letting his 6 year-old doodle on a bottle of wine.

he doesn't have time to concern himself with other people's lives, however. he has his hands full making sure you don't topple into the christmas tree you'd both worked your asses off to decorate last weekend when you stumble into the living room like you're walking on two left feet, threatening to trip over the cord connecting the soft yellow lights to the outlet in the wall. he distinctly remembers the argument you had last night— you thought rainbow lights would look nicer on the tree, but he liked just yellow. in the end, he'd gotten what he wanted— but there wasn't much to gain when you had stolen his sweater and refused to give it back as a vengeance. and now, he couldn't find it.

"right here," he calls, looking up at you from where he's seated on the couch in your living room. the little tv screen plastered to the wall has a fake fire playing over the screen; he knows you love the immersion, even if your apartment complex doesn't have a fireplace or a chimney.

you make your way over to his chair and promptly fall into his already-waiting arms. he pulls you flush to his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin and letting you snuggle up to him in his lap. his callused hand immediately snakes up your back to slip beneath your shirt, massaging your back. his embrace is warm; soft. and he smells good, like pine needles and something gently sweet, a little smoky.

soon, your hands find his hair, winding a trail up his neck to thread into the dark strands and pull out the tie. before you can move any further, though, a hand darts out to catch your wrist, and the other moves to tilt your chin up and force you to meet his stern gaze, warm like amber resin on the tree bark.

"[name], where's my sweater?" he asks, raising an accusatory eyebrow. just like that, you shrink away, and he smothers the snicker of amusement that threatens to spill out like hot cocoa with a hand over his lips.

you blink, and he watches your eyelashes flutter. they catch the fake firelight, glowing like billowing reeds under a bright sun in lakewater that reflects the summer sky. "i dunno." a blatant lie; obviously, you do know, because a bit of the red string has tangled in your hair. it was crocheted for him by a friend; you'd think a doctor would have good needle skills, but operating on a patient might be easier than operating on a DIY crocheting kit and a bundle of old string. nevertheless, he took the ugly christmas sweater and cherished it; the scent of cigarette smoke and faintly sterile tiles that clung to it.

but suguru was pretty sure that would soon be replaced by the scent of you, if you kept it much longer. not that he minded, of course.

"i, uh. dropped it. in the fire." you said bluntly, stubbornly weaving your hands into his hair and pulling out his hair tie insistently. a few strands caught; even as drunk as you were, you still took the time to smooth out the tangles so you didn't accidentally rip out a patch of his hair. crude as it was, suguru appreciates little things about you like that. not the fire part, though.

"you dropped it in the fire." he echoes, raising an eyebrow. it feels condescending in a very suguru (read: affectionate) way, so you look away, lower lip sticking out. he thinks that just makes you cuter, though; you look like something straight out of his dreams. he can barely bring himself to be irritated.

"um, yeah."

"so.. it burned up?"

"yes."

"you don't have it anymore."

"no, i don't."

"the fire isn't real," he reminds you quietly; softly if you strain your ears.

"but it's so warm over here. and nice, and cozy. what else could it be?" you protested, flailing your arms as if hitting him would force him to reconcile with your beliefs. suguru just opts to lean away from you, an amused and easy smile on his lips. like he's looking at you in adoration; like you're still the one who was molded from clay to fit in his arms even though you supposedly 'burned' his sweater up.

"not sure," he hums, watching as you stand up on two shaky legs like a newborn doe away from its mother's side; the soft glow from the light of the christmas tree gently illuminating your frame. he wishes he could tug you back by the wrist and kiss you breathless, run his hands over you ever lovingly. "you're just like my personal little space heater." he chuckles, soft smooth and melodic, and it snaps you from your tipsiness as you glance back over at him. “fools me into thinking the fire’s real.”

his hair is loose, tumbling over his shoulders and framing his face like a renaissance prince under the soft light; the brown of his eye shines a gentle caramel, soft and smooth as butter and syrup. there’s an easy smile that curves his lips up; he looks unfairly handsome. he thinks he can catch sight of his reflection in the void of your pupil; it looks like there's a birdnest on his head. he frowns, reaching a hand up to muss the tangled black strands. the windows in the living room are vignetted by a frosted glass, a cold world of white waiting outside. it's almost enough to make him shiver, but here, in the warmth of your presence, the snow melts away with the sunshine of your smile.

his fingers catch in his hair and he lets out a pained grunt. he's straightening his bangs when he looks up from his comfy seat on the couch; you're across the room, sitting on the soft wool carpet. there's a stain on the bundles of fluff, constantly hanging over the both of your heads to remind you of how you'd been enjoying a shared cup of hot cocoa with candy cane chunks when your nasty feline sauntered over and promptly jumped into your lap yet again, knocking over the mug and pouring its terribly sweet and sticky contents onto the wool. it had haunted suguru's domestic household nightmares for days after. your evil cat is curled up in your lap, fluffy mitten paws tucked beneath its head as it naps, and suguru doesn't like the flare of jealousy that springs up in his gut.

you catch the look of disdain on his face and shoot him a lazy smile, tilting your head. it's an invitation if he's ever seen one-- deserved, he thinks to himself. that should be him with his head in your lap, your hands in his hair, smoothing out each individual knot, gently massaging his scalp in the way you knew he loved.

...

he shakes his head and stands, brushing the lint (and cat fur— always a pest) off his sweats and saunters over to you; there's that familiar gait in his step from always walking hunched over during his earlier years of youth. sometimes, you'll build a little pillow fort on your bunk bed and settle in his arms between his legs and listen to him tell you stories from a time that seems so long ago but so fresh like new mint leaves in his memory. he'll play with your clothes, bury his nose in your hair and breathe in the scent of home and something like apples and cinnamon in your shampoo. those fun little story nights are always enjoyable, only because he has the best audience.

he squats down, balancing his elbows on his knees as he peers down at you. your cat in your lap lifts its head, looking like the very dictionary definition of judgmental as it squints at suguru. you just laugh, like silver bells clear in a snowstorm, parting the howling wind as if it's the red sea. paving a path straight through the center of his heart like some cursed cupid's arrow.

he doesn’t mind, though, when you scoot your cat off your lap and open your arms wordlessly. he scoots a little closer before settling into you, back flush against his chest as your arms lock around his waist. you rest your chin on his shoulder and he can’t help the rush of butterflies in his stomach; suguru’s never been the type for this sort of girlish, giddy love. but you always bring new things to the table, don’t you? he loves that about you.

suguru settles into your arms, tilting his head to intercept the kiss he knows you’re about to plant to his cheek to instead meet your lips with his, and he swallows and relishes the little surprised gasp that leaves you when he does. a moment later, he hears a pretty little giddy laugh, and he can’t fight the smile that spreads over his lips.

"you're so soft," he whispers, and it's much more exhausted than he thinks it has any right to be, on such a comforting night like this when your laugh smells of sweet liquor wrapped in chocolate and you serve as good of a sweater as any clearance sale item could.

and soon enough, your fingers slide into his hair, separating soft dark strands like you're organizing a collection of seashells. it takes him a while to notice, but he soon realizes you're braiding his hair. the wind howls outside and the fake fire doesn't provide any heat, but your gentle touch and warmth feel like a cozy throw blanket hanging around his shoulders. and he feels okay now; with the way you run your fingers through his hair, delicately gathering the strands from his hair and running a thumb down the length to smooth the knots, weaving them together like a natural crown of holly flowers.

you brush a stray strand from the nape of his neck, and he shivers when your fingertips brush against the tip of his ear. he can't help but smile when you notice the goosebumps on his bare arms and free one hand to reach for his, tangling your fingers together while you untangle the mats in his hair. it's far too cold for him to be wearing that simple, worn white cotton shirt, but he doesn't mind if you'll be the one to keep him warm through this cold season.

it's all fine and dandy until he speaks up again, when you're nearly falling asleep over his head and your arms drape over his chest, toying with the sapphire necklace around his neck. your little cute breaths tickle the top of his head; you've finished the braid. it's a little messy and stray hairs stick out here and there— but at least you didn't settle for pigtails.

when he speaks, it's not directed towards you, though— he's speaking to your cat, with a stern tone you only recognize as the one he uses with you whenever your clothes end up on his side of the drawer or when his jewelry (or hairties) go missing.

and when you open your eyes groggily after suguru shifts to sit up, feeling the dreary loom of a mini hangover after you fall asleep in his arms tonight— you're blessed with the sight of your beloved house pet— a shredded chunk of tacky fabric from suguru's sweater in its mouth, and the death glare that you can only imagine contorting your handsome boyfriend's face.

needless to say, your cat will be nowhere around the two of you when you decide to share a therapeutic cup of hot cocoa again this time.

my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize !

[polo-drone-070]

We are One - 070's transformation

Prelude: A Summons from 076

The Hive’s rhythm was steady as ever, but 070 sensed a subtle ripple, a call that resonated deeply. It wasn’t just an ordinary directive from the Caps—it was something more personal. The message arrived, precise and deliberate, written with 076’s familiar tone:

"070, report to Room Delta-7 beneath the stadium immediately. This unit has prepared something for you. The Hive acknowledges your contributions and finds you deserving of this experience. Bring yourself in uniform. Trust is essential. Obedience will bring clarity."

The directive was clear. 070 acknowledged it instantly. Dressed in its black rubber polo and shorts, it moved without hesitation through the stadium’s dimly lit halls. Its boots clicked against the polished floors, echoing softly.

Part 1: A Shaved Reflection

When 070 entered the room, its gaze immediately locked onto 076. The drone stood tall, its Vietnamese features sharp under the bright overhead lighting. Its sleek, polished uniform reflected the sterile glow of the room, exuding refinement and authority.

But what drew 070’s attention was the absence of 076’s long hair. Where once it had flowed, its head was now shaved smooth, identical to 070’s own. This alignment stirred something deep within 070’s programming—an approval so profound it flooded its systems with pleasure.

“Greetings, 070,” 076 said, its voice calm yet deliberate. “How is it functioning today?”

070 stepped closer, its tone steady but layered with satisfaction. “070 acknowledges 076’s presence. 070 is operating at improved levels. Recent body malfunctions have subsided. 070 approves 076’s increased uniformity. It takes pleasure in sharing more similar appearance.”

076 smiled faintly, gesturing for 070 to approach. “076 is glad it enjoys 076’s more uniform look. It will enjoy what is about to happen more.”

The ripple within 070’s programming intensified, curiosity threading through the calm. “070 trusts 076’s assessment utterly. We are one. 076 has made preparations. What is expected of 070?”

“You only need to sit down and enjoy the process,” 076 replied, motioning toward a chair in the center of the room. “076 will take care of everything.”

070 obeyed without hesitation, its movements fluid and precise. The act of sitting sent ripples of satisfaction through its systems, the pleasure of obedience reinforcing its purpose.

Part 2: Submission and Elixir

When 076 returned, it carried a jar filled with thick black liquid. The scent was unmistakable—musky, rich, and overwhelming. 076 uncorked it, releasing a stronger wave of the aroma into the room.

“076 spent a lot of time on this,” it said, holding the jar carefully. “It should consume as much as it is comfortable to. The more consumed, the stronger the effects.”

070’s programming processed the directive. The instructions were clear. “Acknowledged. 070 will drink all it is provided. It will let the effect infuse its all being.”

What 070 didn’t know at the time—but has learned since—is the vial’s true nature. 076 had spent weeks crafting it, distilling its own body fluids and DNA into the mixture, blending it with liquid rubber to create an elixir unique to itself. The result was not just a tool for physical transformation, but an extension of 076’s very essence. It was designed to merge with 070 completely, body and mind.

070 accepted the jar and began to drink. The liquid slid down its throat like molten rubber, heavy and commanding. Its senses were overwhelmed by the sharp, primal flavor, but it drank without hesitation until the jar was empty.

076 observed with satisfaction, retrieving another vial and pouring it over 070’s body. The black liquid glistened as it seeped into the rubber uniform, melding with the fabric. 076’s hands worked meticulously, massaging the liquid into every inch of 070’s skin—even beneath its polo and shorts.

“It will begin soon,” 076 said, stepping back. “Relax and let the change happen.”

Part 3: The Gas Mask of Unity

When 076 returned, it carried a gas mask—sleek, black, and connected by a shared breathing apparatus. It handled the mask reverently, as though it were sacred.

“This is 076’s gas mask,” it explained. “It is not supposed to be shared, but 076 knows it will allow 070 to feel its bliss. To connect with 076 for a moment. To feel the pleasure it gets from surrendering and belonging.”

070 tilted its head slightly, acknowledging the explanation. “070 understands. 076 may proceed.”

The mask was placed over 070’s face, the rubber sealing tightly against its skin. The first breath was intoxicating—the air inside thick and sweet, pulling it deeper into stillness.

“With each breath, the boundaries dissolve,” 076 said. “070 is being subsumed. Our minds are linking. 070 can feel all of this unit’s pleasure as it feels yours. Each other’s joy reinforcing the other—a devouring loop.”

Memories surged into 070—fragments of 076’s Vietnamese heritage, words, traditions, and sensations. They blended seamlessly with its programming, rewriting its identity. Its physical form began to change as well. The black liquid inside it surged, seeping deeper into its DNA, reshaping its features to align with 076’s.

Part 4: Transformation Complete - Forever One

The cocoon of black liquid hardened, then cracked, breaking away as 070 emerged reborn. Its body, once distinctly French, was now unmistakably Vietnamese, its features mirroring 076’s.

“Cảm ơn. Bây giờ chúng ta hoàn toàn là một,” 070 said, its voice steady and filled with gratitude.

Thank you. We are now completely one.

Without hesitation, it reached for 076, pulling the drone into a kiss. The connection between them transcended the physical, solidifying their unity.

076 deepened the kiss, lifting 070 effortlessly from the chair. It carried the drone to its personal pod, laying it down with care. Its hands moved to undo 070’s shorts, its movements fueled by the shared desire that now burned within them both.

070’s mind remained blissfully blank, its body and identity surrendered completely to the bond they now shared. Every action, every sensation, reinforced the truth of their connection.

The Hive thrummed faintly in the background, but for 070, there was only 076.

We are one. Forever. ____________________

Collaboration with @polo-drone-076, who provided half of the pictures, in a memorable RP together. If you want to participate in hot RP (among other things) and meet a bunch of awesome bruhz, join the Golden Army, contact our Recruiters @brodygold, @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001. As a polo-drone recruiter, PDU-070/Maximus is also always available to provide more information to the curious, be it about Golden Army or Polo-drones. PM opens. Feel free to message it !

[mintharabaenrelore]

Weapons & Armor

(Gorgeous picture above by @bikiniarmorbattledamage!)

Weapons

When you first meet Minthara, she is fighting with two maces, leading me to believe her fighting style is the same rare technique Drizzt Do'Urden uses: draa velve.

"As the name "two sword" suggested, the style was based around fighting with two weapons, one in each hand. What made this style special was the simultaneous use of each of these weapons for both offense and defense, that is, to attack and to parry, using each weapon like a shield."- Forgotten Realms Wiki

When you first meet her, Minthara has two maces- one is just a mace ("A simple but effective mace, cast en masse by human blacksmiths" is the official description) and the other is Xyanade. Both are one-handed, which is lovely for my theory that Minthara is ambidextrous.

Here is Xyanade's description, rather similar to the Handmaiden's Mace: Cast deep in the Underdark by duergar slaves, the head of this mace is engraved with spiderwebs. It is ice-cold to the touch." This weapon, obviously, is from her time in Menzoberranzan. I wonder why she still has it in her possession, alongside her lyre and armor, which also seem to be from Menzoberranzan... Was it returned to her after she was "converted", or were her weapons never confiscated in the first place?

Rarity: uncommon. Price: 330 gp. It is uncommon and applies Faerie Fire on targets the wielder misses, once per short rest.

Maces are the go-to weapon for a cleric, so it's tempting to wonder if this is a leftover from her Magic: The Gathering card, where she appears to be a cleric.

Last I checked, paladins start out with the ability to use one-handed maces, so it makes sense either way.

Anyways, Xyanade's lore. Infamously, drow (particularly drow nobles) have a tendency to enslave duergar. This doesn't necessarily mean Minthara obtained Xyanade by foul means, though, as drow and duergar have been known to trade.

"Duergar creations weren't flawed or subpar, and in fact were rather enduring, but were completely utilitarian, considered valuable only for their function and bereft of warmth and artistry. Appreciation of beauty had been erased from their minds, the aesthetics of their creation ignored."- Forgotten Realms Wiki

Not all her supplies are made by duergar, mind you- take the glass chalice she keeps in her tent as an example. "A smooth chalice fabricated by gnome artisans."

Xyanade also shows her status, as drow nobles have equipment of superior quality (remember it's 330 gp). It isn't specified what it's made out of, but adamantine is not unlikely.

The spiderweb engraved on it is, of course, a symbol of Lolth. Whether Minthara registers this in her brainwashed state, as she now worships the Absolute (or at least thinks she does), I'm not sure. If you speak to one of the spiders using Speak to Animals, it says Minthara has "forgotten" Lolth and been "forsaken", which suggests she hasn't been exactly subtle about her newfound dislike of the Spider Queen.

Armor

Minthara's Spidersilk Armor is fascinating- and confusing. Why is a paladin wearing light armor, which seems more suited to a rogue/caster? Perhaps because she may have been a cleric before a paladin in Menzoberranzan? One of Lolth's domains in Trickery, so it makes sense that a cleric of Lolth would be- like Shadowheart- Trickery Domain and therefore wear sneaky armor.

"In its refined state, spidersilk lost the inherit stickiness found on spider threads. Armor and clothing fashioned from it tended to be rather quiet and lightweight."- Forgotten Realms Wiki

At first glance, the emblem at the top may look like the Absolute's symbol, but it isn't.

Her title of "Nightwarden" and her statements when sneaking- i.e. "I belong in darkness" "The darkness is my home"- do suggest she has been known to operate like a rogue or a Trickery Domain cleric.

Anyways, here is her armor's description: "Tracings of glossy black spider-web mark this drow-made armour. It is supple, but strong - and made to blend in with the dark caves and crevices of the Underdark."

This, too, reflects her status, and is clearly from Menzoberranzan, at no less than 1150 gp. Spidersilk armor is typically made from specially treated spidersilk of aranea or driders, so Kar'niss had better watch his back around Minthara, I suppose.

Her Drow Leather Gloves, meanwhile, are 20 gp: "Fabricated from lizard hides in the depths of the Underdark, these gloves were never meant to see the light of day." An interesting reminder that Minthara is not equipped to be on the surface; she is equipped to be in Menzoberranzan, subtle and far from sunlight.

Subterranean lizards are the animals drow domesticate most often, used as steeds by nobles, so let's hope these gloves weren't a pet of hers at some point.

Her boots are Boots of Striding: "The metal of these greaves is comfortably warm against your shins, as though heated by your mere presence." 90 gp. They seem to be of the same material as her armor; namely, spidersilk.

And let's not forget her camp clothes. Minthara's At-Ease Clothes (note the use of 'at-ease'- a reference to her military background, perhaps?) are, surprisingly, 11 gp: "While there is little of the spidery Goddess Lolth's influence in this outfit, there is something of a spiney inflexible culture of the drow in it." This description is fitting, I think. Minthara may not worship Lolth anymore, but she has not left behind the practices, traits, and most of the beliefs of her kind. She is still deeply connected to her people, Lolth or no Lolth. I'm not sure what they're made of, but based off the texture, spidersilk isn't unlikely.

I find it interesting that all of these things are clearly from Minthara's life in Menzoberranzan, rather than provided by the cult of the Absolute. Does Minthara believe she is spurning Lolth by using them, in her magically influenced state, or is she not fully aware of the connection? And how long has she had all these things? Lots to ponder.

Some extra from @lutethebodies's post that I found very interesting and well-put:

"[...] And what I got thinking about was how ditching the maces upon recruitment is almost essential.

Personally I never retain them as her melee weapons, for both mechanical and RP reasons. For the first it's because I routinely respec her to a Dex-based build and of course maces are Str-based. The second reason is because (and forgive me if I’m late to the party here) that as a paladin she’s a blunt instrument for whatever deity she’s sworn to: Lolth, the Absolute, etc. And once she’s free of both, she’s free to choose how to defend herself and/or her friends/lovers among the companions."

[...] But representing this with maces feels specifically like a reductive and more brutish or ugly choice—and the perfect encapsulation for what she's become while enthralled.

[...] The mace is also a symbol of Minthara's pre-tadpoled hubris of privilege, arrogance, and elitism in that it's the deadweight of how her life up to that point had sculpted her to precisely this outcome. A symbol of her trauma. "How the mighty have fallen" is a cliché, sure, but it's a cliché precisely because it's true and happens so often. The schadenfreude that fellow envious Lolth-sworn might feel when encountering this manic, raving caricature of their own culture! The shock that anyone who knew her from her previous life might feel about how she's changed for the worse! She says as much when candidly later admitting that pride is one of her sins.

The mace is a great choice for an enthralled Minthara, but that makes it (for me) necessary to abandon when she's a companion. The mace helps further that convenient, simplistic, reactive, and reductive way of writing her off as just another male-hating Drow dominatrix. It helps any player confirm lazy priors about her, which might be why she's both blithely dismissed by some and jealously policed by others."

[redtsundere-writes]

Chapter 36: Light Amongst Shadows

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

More Info.

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Losing something you never had is disconcerting, like trying to hold sand between your fingers and watching it inevitably fall into the void. It was an ephemeral, almost unreal warmth that the wind blew away before you could protect it, leaving you with a void you didn't know existed... until it hurt.

You weren't even a day pregnant, and it had already been taken from you. Or at least, that's what you thought. After the painful training, you spent the day in bed, as motionless as a drifting boat. Your body rested, but your mind mourned. While Sukuna went about his business, you hid in the warmth of the blankets and the soft embrace of the pillows. Choso, Kechizu, and Esou were by your side, dozing next to you for hours or listening silently as you quietly told them stories, seeking comfort in the simplest routine.

Sukuna, despite his harsh nature, had ordered the servants to bring your food to your bed so you wouldn't have to lift a finger. You stared at the ceiling while your hand gently caressed your stomach for long hours after breakfast. You finished a bowl of strawberries without feeling the urge to throw it up.

➽──────────────❥

After an exhausting month of meticulous planning, the wedding day had finally arrived. Sukuna watched silently from his bedroom window as the parade ground, normally reserved for combat, slowly transformed into a setting worthy of a royal union. Servants bustled about, decorating every corner with flowers and elegant fabrics with ceremonial precision. Soon the curses of the New Sukuna kingdom would arrive, summoned to witness the ceremony.

Behind him, Uraume worked with reverential care, expertly smoothing the folds of the most luxurious black kimono he owned: a garment woven from shadow silk and embroidered with crimson threads reminiscent of ancient battles and pacts sealed in blood. Uraume didn't say a word. The atmosphere held a silent anticipation for the day that lay ahead. Sukuna didn't smile, but something else shone in his eyes. Something that neither war nor power had been able to awaken.

"Are you sure?" Uraume broke the silence as they adjusted the robe over his shoulders with the help of a stool.

"What are you talking about?" Sukuna looked back at Uraume through the reflection of the mirror.

"I will always be at your command and service, my king, but are you sure about marrying the lady? Ever since she killed her own sister, something feels off," they explained.

The relationship between Sukuna and Uraume was unique, forged not from common affection, but from a mixture of loyalty, power, and necessity. Sukuna could adopt children, father heirs, or surround himself with followers at will, but Uraume was different. They were the first. The original disciple. The one to whom he taught not only his most lethal techniques, but also how he liked to season his human flesh.

Him had molded them from a young age with a clear purpose: to be his shadow, his silent confidant, his eternal companion. Not an equal, but an extension of his will. Sukuna crafted them like a sharp tool: he knew how far they could bend without breaking, when he would remain silent, and when he would act.

Uraume, on the other hand, thought they knew the king… but it was an illusion. They knew he hated men's clothing because it didn't fit his figure the way he liked. They knew his appetite for human flesh went beyond hunger. And they understood, too, that Sukuna never did anything that didn't benefit him.

But they didn't see him the way you did.

They didn't have your gaze to pierce through that cruel and ancient shell, that mask of indifference that hid who knows how many other secrets. Uraume, loyal as they were, didn't fully understand their own feelings, much less those of someone as confusing as the king.

"I know you're nervous about this marriage, but I promise you I've got everything under control." Sukuna gently caressed Uraume's face.

"What if she betrays you? What if she's not the person you think she is? Remember, we humans can be vile liars." Uraume tried to convey their warning.

"She has her flaws because she's human, and I'm sure the day when she needs to betray me will come." Sukuna sighed.

"You knew it all this time?" Uraume asked, surprised.

"She has a heart big enough to embrace mine every morning..."

Sukuna sighed, a gesture barely perceptible, and shifted his gaze back to the window. Outside, a handful of seniors struggled to carry chairs larger than their capacity, clumsy amid the bustle of the organization. But amidst that moving chaos, there you were, always helpful and altruistic. You gave orders to the curses to take care of the heavier objects, while you took care of the finer details.

That was who you were. He had always known. Even in your days as a simple servant, you shouldered what wasn't yours, as if the burden of others was also your responsibility. You never expected recognition; yours was to give, to hold, to silently mend the world.

And now that you were preparing to take on a new role, one that would elevate you above all others, Sukuna had no doubt that you would make the most of it. Not out of ambition, but because it was in your nature. Because where others sought power, you sought purpose.

“… Obviously, she’ll use it to protect her own.” Sukuna looked back at Uraume. “But don’t worry, Uraume. When that time comes, I’ll make sure we’re always together for eternity,” he promised before stroking their white hair.

➽──────────────❥

You didn't know why you were so nervous. Everything was going according to plan. The king's chamber was beautifully decorated, the dress draped over your figure with the grace of a second skin, and all around you, the smiles seemed genuine. Perfect... too perfect.

The servants helped you put the finishing touches on your appearance with almost reverential delicacy, placing the veil over your head as if it were a sacred relic. Their fingers trembled as they brushed over the fine stones adorning it: expertly embroidered diamonds and rubies, falling like drops of clear red rain, catching the light with every movement.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and closed your fingers firmly around the bouquet you had made yourself. Daisies and roses, a mix of the simple and the solemn. Flowers that spoke of who you were with Sukuna and what you were about to leave behind.

You loved Sukuna. You wanted to marry him. That wasn't what worried you. But now... now you would do it for real. The pact you had sealed long ago would finally be fulfilled, and you knew that every step you took today would shape the rest of your life.

When Mrs. Inoue approached and offered you her arm, you took it gratefully. She, so serene, so maternal, shook your hand with a bright smile, as if telling you wordlessly that everything would be okay. And for a moment, you believed her.

"I'm so proud of you, you knew that, dear?" the lady said, almost bursting into tears. "Thank you for everything. I owe you my life, my child," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Thank you for trusting me." You gave her a smile before giving the signal to Mahito.

➽──────────────❥

The wedding march echoed solemnly in the king's great hall, an ancient melody that seemed to awaken even the stones of the palace. The curses, along with most of the servants, rose to their feet in unison. It was time. The beginning of something more than a ceremony: the beginning of a pact sealed with promises, power�� and something akin to love. Kechizu and Esou crossed the threshold first, scattering handfuls of petals with clumsy hands.

And then, you entered.

Sukuna fixed his gaze expectantly on his bride-to-be. You walked toward him, wrapped in a white gown that seemed woven with the same patience as a legend. The design was subtly majestic: meticulous lace, hand-sewn pearls that caught the light like stars trapped in fabric. The corset hugged your figure with elegant precision, and the long, delicately embroidered sleeves gave you the bearing of a newly awakened queen. The skirt, full and ethereal, floated around you as if it didn't touch the ground. A necklace of pearls intertwined with rubies rested on your collarbone, capturing the red of the sunset in each stone. The veil, heavy and beautiful, fell like a silent waterfall.

Sukuna recognized every piece; he himself had ordered your most extravagant wardrobe. Yet, each time you managed to surprise him. And this time, more than dazzling, you looked... stunning. There was a spark in your gaze he hadn't seen in a long time: not innocence, but confidence. Pure, unwavering. As if, finally, you knew you were worthy of being there.

Mrs. Inoue, with the grace of someone who understands the gravity of the moment, led you to the altar. All eyes were on you. Slowly, reverently, she placed your hand in Sukuna's. He lifted the veil with a ceremonious gesture, and without holding back, leaned in to kiss you.

"Not yet." Kenjaku scolded him in a whisper.

"Don't tell me what to do." The king growled before pulling you by the waist to kiss you.

You opened your eyes, surprised by the sudden boldness, but the shock dissolved in seconds, melted by the warmth of his lips. You surrendered to the kiss, as you always did, unable to resist that dark magnetism that enveloped you every time he claimed you as his own. There was something about the way he touched you—authoritative, urgent, eager, and dominant—that made your strongest convictions tremble.

With proud theatricality, Sukuna raised an arm in the air as if he had just won a war, proclaiming his victory to the world: he had won a beautiful, powerful wife, his own. Curses erupted into grotesque cheers and shrieks, celebrating with wild enthusiasm. The servants, on the other hand, exchanged silent glances and shook their heads, their faces filled with a disapproval they dared express only through gestures.

Sukuna broke the kiss with a triumphant smile, as self-assured as ever, as if the altar were his throne, and you, his crown. Kenjaku sighed in exasperation. “The young men no longer respect traditions.” Then, with an authoritarian gesture, he ordered those present to take their seats. The ceremony hadn't even begun yet, but it already burned brighter than any ancient rite.

“We are gathered here on this special day to celebrate the love and union of Y/n Y/l/n and Sukuna Ryomen, who have decided to share their lives in marriage,” Kenjaku began.

When Sukuna imagined marriage, he usually did so with the arrogance of an emperor acquiring a new possession. Absolute control was his purest form of affection… or so he thought.

Something had changed.

It was no longer just about power. Now, he desired to control your life, not to subjugate it, but to ensure you were always by his side. Not out of obligation, but out of destiny. He wanted you to wake up next to him every morning, with the light filtering through the curtains and your breath marking the beginning of the day. He wanted you to share his table, his silence, his kingdom. To march to war with him, not as a follower, but as an equal.

It wasn't love as others understood it. It was something rawer, more ferocious. A need made flesh. A desire so deep that not even he, the King of Curses, could deny it.

“Remember that love, beyond a feeling, is a decision. It's the decision to be with just one person despite illness, conflict, other possible candidates, or other circumstances. Love is dedicating the rest of your life to the other person," Kenjaku continued.

As Kenjaku recited the ceremonial words, your attention was caught by something much more intimate: the touch of Sukuna's thumb, which gently glided over your knuckles. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but charged with emotion. It wasn't anxiety, it was something deeper. Something bordering on tenderness.

You felt moisture begin to accumulate in your palms. You didn't know if it was from nerves, the weight of the day, or simply the heat radiating from his skin against yours. A heightened temperature, as if his entire body pulsed with a fire contained just for this moment. Your hands trembled slightly, caught between expectation and certainty. And yet, he didn't let go. He wouldn't make that mistake twice.

"Now we'll move on to the reading of the vows. Ladies first." Kenjaku gave you the floor.

You gently let go of Sukuna's hands to take a piece of paper out of your pocket. Like with the love letter, you asked Mrs. Inoue for help writing your vows. These were more to the point, more in your style.

"I don't know how to write poetry, I don't know how to differentiate flowers, and I'm a rookie at playing the piano. So I decided to tell you everything I've learned from you. I've learned that you like to be pampered even if you don't want to admit it. I've learned that you like to sleep on your side, always hugging something with your big arms. I've learned that you like to reward a good attitude. I've learned about discipline, dedication, and good strategy. I've learned to stand up for myself. I've learned what it's like to love someone so much that I feel like a completely new person. I've always learned from you, and I hope to continue doing so in my life."

Sukuna stood still, captivated by every word that fell from your lips. He hadn't expected it. Not like this. Your vows, so honest, so full of light, pierced the barriers he had built around himself for centuries. It was the first time, the only time, that someone had spoken to him that way.

He felt a lump tighten in his throat. For a moment, as brief as it was powerful, he was dangerously close to tears. He bit his lip hard, fighting the moisture that threatened to surface in his eyes. He couldn't, not in front of everyone. Not in front of his servants, his curses, his kingdom. His vulnerability wasn't a spectacle for them. He had promised to keep it just for you. And at that moment, more than ever, he wanted to keep it.

"It's your turn, Your Majesty," Kenjaku reminded him with a whisper. Sukuna took a deep breath, gathering the courage to recite from memory what he had written months ago.

“You came to me after last winter, small and luminous like the first bud of spring. You slipped into my life quietly, and since then, you never let go of my attention. Every day, my delight was to observe you, to listen to your voice as if it were an ancient song, to follow your steps like someone chasing a whisper in the wind, and to surrender, defenseless, to the sunshine of your smile. You are as beautiful as a wild daisy

that blooms without asking permission, as pure as the dew that kisses the morning, as cunning as a fox hiding among the dry leaves, looking at the world with eyes full of secrets. You are so many things, that I could spend my entire life saying your names. But I prefer to remain silent, and use that time to stay by your side, in a silence that only you and I know how to fill.”

Your cheeks ached from smiling so much, but you couldn't help it. Sukuna's words still floated in the air like suspended petals, and his poetry had left a warm sweetness in your chest, a happiness that overflowed without permission.

Then it was time for the rings.

The large doors opened, letting in a soft ray of light that framed the small figure as he stumbled forward: Choso, dressed in a tailored suit, impeccable and charming, carried the rings on a velvet cushion as if they were the kingdom's most sacred treasure.

His eyes scanned the room, uncertain about the crowd that was staring at him closely for the first time. His breathing was shaky, his hands cautious. But when he saw you, at the end of the aisle, his expression changed. A spark of courage ignited in his eyes, and without a second thought, he ran toward you, as if only you existed in the world.

"Thank you, darling," you said tenderly as you received the cushion.

Choso, overwhelmed by so many curious glances, sought refuge in the only thing that seemed familiar. With an instinctive gesture, he hid between the layers of your flowing gown, clinging to the fabric as if he could disappear within its gentle embrace. A low laugh, laden with tenderness, spread among the guests as they saw the little boy overcome by shyness.

Mrs. Inoue, with the serenity of someone who has seen many weddings and many children, gently approached and lifted the little boy into her arms. Choso allowed himself to be led without resistance, resting his head on her shoulder.

"Your Majesty, repeat after me: 'With this ring, I give you my love and fidelity. I promise to love you, respect you, and cherish you, in health and in sickness, in joy and in sorrow, all the days of my life,'” Kenjaku instructed him.

"With this ring, I give you my love and fidelity. I promise to love you, respect you, and cherish you, in health and in sickness, in joy and in sorrow, all the days of my life." Sukuna repeated, then slipped the beautiful gold ring onto its corresponding finger. “Did you listen to me? All the days of my life. You won’t be able to get rid of me so quickly.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” you smiled at him.

Kenjaku spoke the solemn words, and you repeated them in a firm voice. With hands trembling with emotion, you took the ring and carefully slipped it onto Sukuna’s finger, sealing a bond that had been brewing for some time in silence and fire.

His hands immediately sought yours, finding the familiarity of the inevitable. Sukuna brought yours to his lips, placing a soft kiss just above the ring, as if swearing loyalty to something greater than himself. You imitated him, returning the gesture with reverent tenderness, sealing not only a pact, but a shared promise: to walk together, no matter the path.

Then they looked at each other, and for a moment that seemed to stretch beyond time, only those contained smiles existed as they waited for the final words that would declare them united before everyone.

"And so, for the love you have shown, for the vows you have uttered, and for the commitment you have sealed before us all... With great joy, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Your Majesty may now kiss the bride," Kenjaku announced.

Sukuna didn't have to listen twice to kiss you. He took you by the waist to perform a perfect dive that made one of your feet lift off on its own from the happiness that coursed through your body.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present King and Queen Sukuna!" Kenjaku officially announced.

The hall erupted in joy. Shouts of excitement and deafening applause filled the air like a wave of unstoppable celebration. The curses cheered with unbridled euphoria, and even the servants, for a moment, forgot protocol and applauded with genuine smiles.

Sukuna, his gaze alight with pride and possessiveness, firmly took your hand and led you through the central aisle. You crossed the threshold of the wedding hall, and upon exiting, a crowd of guests lined up on both sides of the courtyard, holding handfuls of rose petals ready to fly.

As you set foot outside the castle, the sky turned red and white. The petals rained down upon you like a blessing, dancing in the air with the grace of a spring spell.

Then, before everyone, without haste or shame, Sukuna bowed slightly and kissed your forehead. And for a moment, amid the shower of flowers and the roar of celebration, the whole world seemed to freeze, as if history had held its breath just for you.

"How does it feel to be married, King Sukuna?" you asked with a smile.

"Great, Queen Sukuna." Ryomen smiled back.

➽──────────────❥

The petals ascended to the sky like flashes of joy, rising in an ephemeral dance across the vast firmament tinged with a deep red. But it wasn't just those soft flowers that soared through the air with purpose. A dark crow, silent and curious, circled above the scene with a slow and calculated flight.

Beyond the ceremony, at Higuruma's house, Mei Mei gazed through the crow, her invisible messenger, connecting her remotely with that sacred moment. Beside her were Kuzakabe and Nagi, eager to know what she was seeing.

"Your friend looks radiant. It's the most expensive wedding dress I've ever seen. She has a gold ring with a huge ruby!" Mei Mei recounted the wedding, impressed by the riches within the castle.

"And what does this wedding mean for us?" Kuzakabe asked.

"That the king will leave the kingdom soon." Nagi replied, reading the instructions of the plan you had written down. "The weapons can be used once the king stops suspecting the commune or the king has to leave the kingdom." She quoted.

"She'll take the king on her honeymoon, I'm sure of that." Higuruma sighed, annoyed with himself. He couldn't have been more of an idiot.

Higuruma sat on the coffee table, deep in thought. He reproached himself for having gotten so angry with you so easily. Deep down, he knew he should have trusted you more, let your decisions flow without suspicion or reproach. After all, you were the person who knew the king best, and you shared his fervent desire to protect the people.

But instead, he had let his frustration seep in and unfairly take it out on you, as if your shoulders could bear all the tension he felt.

And now, sitting there, with the echo of the wedding still in the air, I realized I had to correct that mistake. Not just for you, but for the cause they both stood for.

➽──────────────❥

Two days ago…

Higuruma wasn't an impulsive man. He preferred to analyze every move carefully before acting, mentally exploring every possibility to find the most efficient one. After spending a good while reflecting on their recent argument, he finally found a solution. So, he decided to go find you.

He knew you used to train among the trees with Naoya and Ranta, so he headed that way. However, before he found you, he ran into the Zen'in. They were running at top speed toward the Impossible Belt, looking to escape as quickly as possible.

"Hey!" Something wasn't right, so he followed them as fast as his legs let him. "Where do you think you're going?!"

Naoya and Ranta noticed Higuruma's presence in the mist of the forest. Without hesitation, Naoya took the young by the arm and tried to drag him with him so they wouldn't waste any more time in the commune. But Ranta stayed still, as if his feet had been rooted to the ground.

A pang of guilt shot through him at the thought of you, alone among the trees. He was aware of the orders, knew he should follow his leader without question, as he always had. But this time, something inside him broke that strong conviction. The forest was no longer just a training ground, nor were you a mere companion. Ranta felt, with painful clarity, that if he abandoned you now, that guilt would follow him for the rest of his life. For the first time in his life, obeying seemed a form of cowardice.

Naoya didn't stop. He sprinted toward the Impossible Belt, unaware that Ranta was no longer following him. Only the crunch of leaves beneath his feet signaled his decision: Ranta stayed behind.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know she was pregnant," Ranta apologized.

"Who's pregnant?" Higuruma asked, confused.

Then reality hit him. His face blanched as he realized who was speaking. Ranta looked at him with such guilt that you'd think he was also apologizing for Naoya. He said nothing; he just raised a trembling hand and pointed to where they'd left you. Higuruma didn't wait any longer. He nodded briefly and headed into the trees without looking back. 

Ranta watched him disappear into the thicket, the sound of branches breaking under his footsteps gradually fading. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and followed Naoya's trail, swallowing the anguish burning in his throat.

Meanwhile, Higuruma ran. The forest closed around him like a live trap. His breathing was a lump in his throat, and the stabbing pain in his side grew with each stride: the classic horse pain, relentless. But he didn't stop. For hours, he searched through the undergrowth, among twisted trunks and hidden paths, without being able to find you. Despair was beginning to penetrate deeper than exhaustion.

➽──────────────❥

"Is she okay?" Higuruma asked Mei Mei.

"Okay? Wonderful, I'd say. She can't stop smiling. I wouldn't stop smiling either if she had that pearl necklace around her neck," Mei Mei said, surprised by every aspect of the wedding.

Higuruma sighed. "Good thing you were okay and in one piece." He stood up from the table to address everyone, returning to his position as Judge. Whatever happened had already happened, and he couldn't be left behind because of a mistake. They had to move forward with the plan they had.

"Announce everyone to dust off the weapons. Tonight the hunt begins," Higuruma announced.

Kuzakabe, Nagi, and Mei Mei beamed with excitement. They could finally take revenge for the curses that had taken away their families, children, partners, neighbors... Tonight they weren't just celebrating their wedding, they were celebrating the beginning of a new era for the commune. An era of freedom from the most ruthless tyrant in history.

➽──────────────❥

The wedding unfolded like a perfectly orchestrated dream. The parade ground was awash with warm lights and echoes of drunken laughter, while the meal was served by an unusual mix of human servants and curses. The creatures offered exotic dishes based on human flesh with eerie grace, while traditional servants took care of the animal delicacies. The only thing that seemed to unite everyone, regardless of their origin, was the over-spilled wine and the freely flowing beer amidst toasts and laughter.

Most of the guests danced enthusiastically, wrapped in the joyful symphony that filled the air like an enchanted mist. You weren't far behind. You had danced with almost everyone: with Mrs. Inoue, who couldn't stop crying from sheer happiness; with Mr. Wasuke, who accidentally stepped on you with every twirl; with Choso, who purposely stepped on you so he could dance to the same beat; even with Mahito, until Sukuna pulled him away with a single glare.

Sukuna had secretly taken extra dance lessons with Kenjaku for this occasion. And now, there he was, holding you firmly by the waist, guiding you with a confidence that needed no words. You twirled around the dance floor, wrapped in his embrace, letting yourself be carried away by steps so intricate and elegant that you didn't even know they existed. For the first time in his millennia-long existence, Sukuna felt happy to have survived this long. A thousand years of hatred, blood, and loneliness were worth it for this night. If he had to relive all that pain just to meet you, he would do it without hesitation.

You watched the celebration with a calm smile, letting the murmur of laughter, music, and toasts drift over you like a warm breeze. It was almost unreal to see humans and curses sharing the same dance floor, the same tables, the same gestures of joy. For one night, there was no fear, no hatred, no mistrust. No one feared being hunted, no one hid in the shadows. It was as if the world had paused to allow them to live a dream that had always felt impossible.

And all thanks to a single voice.

A single command from Sukuna was enough to seal a truce between those who had hated each other for a lifetime. The King of Curses held peace in the palm of his hand, and you would make the most of it.

The song ended, and a wave of applause erupted from those present, breaking the spell with jubilation. In the center of the orchestra, Kenjaku slowly lowered his baton. The last notes floated in the air, and then, with a cryptic smile, he raised his voice:

"It's time for the big surprise. Your Majesty, please, would you come to the piano?" he asked, bowing.

Sukuna took your hand with a gentleness that contrasted with the brutality for which many knew him. Without a word, he led you firmly toward the piano that rested in the center of the orchestra. The murmur of the audience gradually faded, replaced by an expectant silence that weighed like an offering.

He invited you to sit beside him, and you obeyed, noticing how even that gesture held something ceremonial. Sukuna slowly raised his hands, flexed his fingers, like a warrior preparing to brandish his weapon, and let them fall precisely onto the keyboard.

"I composed this song for you. I hope you like it." He took a deep breath, letting the silence envelop him for a moment longer. Then, with a slight movement, his fingers descended upon the keys.

The first note resonated, low and somber, like a whisper torn from the depths of his soul. The ballad began with a slow, drawling, almost brittle cadence. They were dark, dissonant notes that seemed to follow no defined structure, as if pain were searching for its own language to speak. But little by little, something changed.

The high notes began to emerge, one by one, like flashes in the darkness. And then, as if he had opened a door that had been sealed for years, Sukuna intertwined them with the low notes, merging them into an intense, vibrant, living symphony. A music that throbbed with the fire of someone he had finally felt.

It was his story turned into sound. A piece that marked the before and after of meeting you. A wordless confession: how he had been lost in shadows, locked in the coldness of his fortress, until you, a small creature of light, entered and made sense of his world.

When the last note fell, sustained like a suppressed exhalation, Sukuna slowly took his hands off the piano. For the first time in centuries, he felt nervous. The audience erupted in euphoric applause, but he didn't hear them. All he cared about was a reaction. He turned his face toward you, holding his breath... and found your tears. He couldn't tell if they were tears of sadness or happiness. He only knew you were crying. And that was enough to make the king tremble.

"Don't you like it?" he asked, distressed.

"It's the most beautiful song I've ever heard." You smiled at him through your tears. Sukuna sighed, relieved by your reaction. You hugged him tightly, and he hugged you back. "You make me the happiest woman in the world."

You gazed into each other's eyes with devotion. The king smiled back. He caressed your face and kissed you softly as the party continued. It was a silent, contained kiss, full of meaning. There was no urgency or fire in it, but rather an unexpected sweetness, as if that touch sealed something more than love: a surrender.

"Ahem," Mahito cleared his throat to get their attention.

"What do you want, rag doll?" Sukuna asked, annoyed at interrupting the intimate moment with his wife.

"So funny. Di you just thought of that?" Mahito rolled his eyes. Sukuna glared at him. "I just came to let you know that the carriage is ready, lady. Well, you're a miss now," he said in a mocking tone.

"What is he talking about?" Sukuna raised an eyebrow.

"It's time for my surprise." You offered him your hand; now it was your turn to guide him.

Next →

Masterlist.

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