#Paper Coating Machine

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

"4 year extended warranty" buddy where I'm from the dishwasher is a family heirloom and the washing machine helped raise us

"smart appliances" fuck u i want them dumb as a brick and incidentally as sturdy and enduring

[mohindra777]

Bopp / Paper Tape Coating Machine

Mohindra is recognized as one of the top manufacturers of Doctoring Slitting Machines in India. Although we are located in Delhi, we supply our wide range of products across the country. We use premium quality raw materials in the production of all our machines. As you may know, the demand for Doctoring Slitting Machines is increasing daily, driven by the rising consumption of paper bags in India. Mohindra Machine stands out as a leading manufacturer of Doctoring Slitting Machines. We are dedicated to producing and supplying these machines to potential customers in the market. The Doctoring Slitting Machine is designed to cut and convert large sheets of paper, foil, and film materials into narrower rolls. These machines consist of three main components: the slitter, unwind, and rewind.

[bilimachinery]

rotary bar non scratch hot melt adhesive double side foam tape tissue pa...

[ideasengineering]

Discover coated paper printing machine, uncoated paper, flexible films, and polyethylene printing machines. Explore precision-engineered systems designed to meet diverse printing needs efficiently.

[yakshxiao]

FIVE MINUTES AT A TIME ; JACK ABBOT

wc; 9.3k synopsis; You and Jack only ever see each other for five minutes at a time — the tail end of day shift and the start of night shift. But those five minutes? They’ve become the best part of both of your days. Everyone else in the ER has noticed it. The way you both lean in just a little too close during handoff. The way both of you leave a drink and a protein bar next to the chart rack. The way neither of you ever miss a single shift — until one day, one of you doesn’t show up. And everything shifts.

contents; Jack Abbot/nurse!reader, gn!reader, medical inaccuracies, hospital setting, mentions of injury and death, slow burn, found family, mutual pinning, mild jealousy, age gap (like 10-15 years, reader is aged around late 20s/early 30s but you can do any age), can you tell this man is consuming my every thought? tempted to write a follow-up fic lemme know what u guys think.

You only see him at 7 p.m. — well, 6:55 p.m., if you’re being exact.

You’re already at the nurse’s station, chart pulled up, pen poised, pretending you’re more focused than you are — just waiting for that familiar figure to walk in. The ER is barely holding itself together, seams straining under the weight of another long, unsparing shift. 

You’ve witnessed Mckay go through two scrub changes — both stained, both discarded like paper towels. Dana’s been shouted at by too many angry patients to count, each new confrontation carving deeper lines into her already exhausted face. And if you see Gloria trailing behind Robby one more time, arms crossed, mouth already mid-complaint, you’re sure you’ll have front-row seats to the implosion of Robby’s self-restraint.

The end-of-shift exhaustion hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. It seeps into the walls, the floor, your bones. The scent of bleach, sweat, and cold coffee hangs over everything, a cocktail that clings to your skin long after you clock out. The vending machine’s been emptied of anything worth eating. Your stomach gave up asking hours ago. 

The sun is still trying to claw its way down, its last rays pressing uselessly against frosted windows, too far removed to touch. The ER isn’t made for soft light. It lives under fluorescents, bright and unfeeling, leeching color and kindness from the world, one hour at a time.

It’s then, right on time, he arrives.

Jack Abbot.

Always the same. Dark scrubs, military backpack slung over his shoulder, the strap worn and fraying. His stethoscope loops around his neck like it belongs there and his hair is a little unkempt, like the day’s already dragged its hands through him before the night even starts.

He walks the same unhurried pace every time — not slow, not fast — like a man who’s learned the ER’s tempo can’t be outrun or outpaced. It’ll still be here, bleeding and burning, whether he sprints or crawls. And every day, like clockwork, he arrives at your station at 6:55 p.m., eyes just sharp enough to remind you he hasn’t completely handed himself over to exhaustion.

The handoff always starts the same. Clean. Professional. Efficient. Vitals. Labs. Status updates on the regulars and the barely-holding-ons. Names are exchanged like currency, chart numbers folded into the cadence of clipped sentences, shorthand that both of you learned the hard way. The rhythm of it is steady, like the low, constant beep of monitors in the background.

But tonight, the silence stretches just a little longer before either of you speaks. His eyes skim the board, lingering for half a second too long on South 2. You catch it. You always do.

“She’s still here,” you say, tapping your pen against the chart. “Outlived the odds and half the staff’s patience.”

Jack huffs a quiet sound that’s almost — almost — a laugh. The sound is low and dry, like it hasn’t been used much lately, “Figures.”

His attention shifts, following the slow, inevitable exit of Gloria, her unmistakable white coat vanishing around the corner, Robby sagging against the wall in her wake like a man aging in real-time, “I leave for twelve hours and Gloria’s still haunting the halls. She got squatters’ rights yet?”

You smirk, shaking your head and turning to look in the same direction, “I think Robby’s about five minutes away from filing for witness protection.”

That earns you a real smile — small, fleeting, but it’s there. The kind that only shows up in this place during the quiet moments between shift changes, the ones too short to hold onto and too rare to take for granted. The kind that makes you wonder how often he uses it when he’s not here.

Jack glances at the clock, then back at you, his voice low and dry. “Guess I better go save what’s left of his sanity, huh?”

You shrug, sliding the last of your notes toward him, the pages worn thin at the corners from too many hands, too many days like this. “Too late for that. You’re just here to do damage control.”

His smile lingers a little longer, but his eyes settle on you, the weight of the shift pressing into the space between you both — familiar, constant, unspoken. The clock ticks forward, the moment folding neatly back into the rush of the ER, the five-minute bubble of quiet already closing like it always does.

And then — 7 p.m. — the night begins.

The next few weeks worth of handoffs play out the same way.

The same rhythm. The same quiet trade of names, numbers, and near-misses. The same half-conversations, broken by pagers, interrupted by overhead calls. The same looks, the same five minutes stretched thin between shifts, like the ER itself holds its breath for you both.

But today is different. 

This time, Jack arrives at 6:50 p.m. 

Five minutes earlier than usual — early even for him. 

You glance up from the nurse’s station when you catch the sound of his footsteps long before the clock gives you permission to expect him. Still the same dark scrubs, the military backpack and stethoscope around his neck. 

But it’s not just the arrival time that’s different.

It’s the tea. Balanced carefully in one hand, lid still steaming, sleeve creased from the walk in. Tea — not coffee. Jack Abbot doesn’t do tea. At least, not in all the months you’ve been on this rotation. He’s a coffee-or-nothing type. Strong, bitter, the kind of brew that tastes like the end of the world.

He sets it down in front of you without fanfare, as if it’s just another piece of the shift — like vitals, like the board, like the handoff that always waits for both of you. But the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches the confused tilt of your head.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” you say, “or you’re early and bringing offerings.”

“You sounded like hell on the scanner today,” he says, voice dry but easy. “Figured you’d be better off with tea when you leave.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Your fingers curl around the warmth. The smell hits you before the sip does — honey, ginger, something gentler than the day you’ve had.

“Consider it hazard pay,” Jack’s mouth quirks, eyes flicking toward the whiteboard behind you. “The board looks worse than usual.”

You huff a dry laugh, glancing at the mess of names and numbers — half of them marked awaiting test results and the rest marked with waiting.

“Yeah,” you say. “One of those days.”

You huff a laugh, the sound pulling the sting from your throat even before the tea does. The day’s been a long one. Endless patient turnover, backlogged labs, and the kind of non-stop tension that winds itself into your muscles and stays there, even when you clock out.

Jack leans his hip against the edge of the counter, and lets the quiet settle there for a moment. No handoff yet. No rush. The world is still turning, but for a brief second it feels like the clock’s hands have stalled, stuck in that thin stretch of stillness before the next wave breaks.

“You trying to throw off the universe?” you ask, half teasing, lifting the cup in mock salute. “Next thing I know, Gloria will come in here smiling.”

Jack huffs, “Let’s not be that ambitious.”

The moment hangs between you, the conversation drifting comfortably into the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand filling. Just the weight of the day, and the knowledge that the night will be heavier.

But then, as always, duty calls. A sharp crackle from his pager splits the stillness like a stone through glass. He straightens, his expression shifting back to business without missing a beat.

You slide the last chart across the desk toward him, your hand brushing the edge of his as you let go. The handoff starts, the ritual resumes. Vitals. Labs. Critical patients flagged in red ink. Familiar, steady, practiced. A dance you both know too well.

But even as the conversation folds back into clinical shorthand, the tea sits between you, cooling slowly, marking the space where the ritual has quietly shifted into something else entirely.

And when the handoff’s done — when the last name leaves your mouth — the clock ticks past 7:05 p.m.

You linger. Just long enough for Jack to glance back your way.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks. The question light, but not casual.

You nod once, the answer already written.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

After that, the handoff’s change. Tea was only the beginning.

It’s always there first — sometimes waiting on the desk before you’ve even finished logging out. The cup’s always right, too. No questions asked, no orders repeated. Jack learns the little details: how you like it, when it's too hot or too cold. When the shift’s been particularly cruel and the hours stretch too thin, he starts adding the occasional muffin or protein bar to the offering, wordlessly placed on the desk beside your notes.

In return, you start doing the same. Only you give him coffee. Black, bitter — too bitter for you — but it's how he likes it and you’ve never had the heart to tell him there’s better tasting coffee out there. Sometimes you give him tea on the calmer nights. A granola bar and an apple join soon after so you know he has something to eat when the food he brings in becomes a ghost of a meal at the back of the staff fridge. A post-it with a doodle and the words “I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes” gets stuck to his coffee after an especially tough day shift, knowing it’ll bleed into the night.

It’s quiet, easy. Half-finished conversations that start at one handoff and end in the next.

You talk about everything but yourselves.

About the regulars — which patient is faking, which one’s hanging on by more than sheer luck. About the shows you both pretend you don’t have time for but always end up watching, somehow. About staff gossip, bets on how long the new hire will last, debates over whose turn it is to replace the break room coffee filter (spoiler: no one ever volunteers).

But never about what you two have. Never about what any of it means.

You pretend the lines are clear. That it’s all part of the handoff. That it’s just routine.

But the team notices.

Mckay starts hanging around the station longer than necessary at 6:55 p.m., her eyes flicking between the clock and the doorway like she’s waiting for a cue. Dana starts asking loaded questions in passing — light, but pointed. “So, Jack’s shift starting soon?” she’ll say with a knowing tilt of her head.

The worst offenders, though, are Princess and Perlah.

They start a betting pool. Subtle at first — a folded scrap of paper passed around, tucked in their pockets like an afterthought. Before long, half the ER staff’s names are scribbled under columns like ‘Next week’, ‘Next Month’ or ‘Never happening’.

And then one day, you open your locker after a twelve-hour shift, hands still shaking slightly from too much caffeine and too little sleep, and there it is:

A post-it, bright yellow and impossible to miss.

“JUST KISS ALREADY.”

No name. No signature. Just the collective voice of the entire ER condensed into three impatient words.

You stand there longer than you should, staring at it, your chest tightening in that quiet, unfamiliar way that’s got nothing to do with the shift and everything to do with him.

When you finally peel the note off and stuff it deep into your pocket, you find Jack already waiting at the nurse’s station. 6:55 p.m. Early, as always. Tea in hand. Same dark scrubs. Same unhurried stride. Same steady presence.

And when you settle in beside him, brushing just close enough for your shoulder to graze his sleeve, he doesn’t say anything about the flush still warm in your cheeks.

You don’t say anything either.

The handoff begins like it always does. The names. The numbers. The rhythm. The world still spinning the same broken way it always has.

But the note is still in your pocket. And the weight of it lingers longer than it should.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe next month. Maybe never.

The handoff tonight starts like any other.

The same exchange of vitals, the same clipped sentences folding neatly into the rhythm both of you know by heart. The ER hums and flickers around you, always on the edge of chaos but never quite tipping over. Jack’s there, 6:55 p.m., tea in one hand, muffin in the other — that small tired look in place like a badge he never bothers to take off.

But tonight, the air feels heavier. The space between you, thinner.

There’s no reason for it — at least, none you could name. Just a quiet shift in gravity, subtle enough to pretend away, sharp enough to notice. A conversation that drifts lazily off course, no talk of patients, no staff gossip, no television shows. Just silence. Comfortable, but expectant.

And then his hand — reaching past you to grab a chart — brushes yours.

Not the accidental kind. Not the casual, workplace kind. The kind that lingers. Warm, steady, the weight of his palm light against the back of your fingers like the pause before a sentence you’re too scared to finish.

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world outside the nurse’s station slows. The monitors still beep, the overhead paging system still hums, the hallway still bustles — but you don’t hear any of it.

There’s just his hand. Your hand. The breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And then the trauma alert hits.

“MVA — multiple injuries. Incoming ETA two minutes.”

The spell shatters. The moment folds back in on itself like it was never there at all. Jack pulls away first, but not fast. His hand brushes yours one last time as if reluctant, as if the shift might grant you one more second before it demands him back.

But the ER has no patience for almosts.

You both move — the way you always do when the alarms go off, efficient and wordless, sliding back into your roles like armor. He’s already at the doors, gloves snapped on, voice low and level as the gurneys rush in. You’re right behind him, notes ready, vitals called out before the paramedics finish their sentences.

The night swallows the moment whole. The weight of the job fills the space where it had lived.

And when the trauma bay finally quiets, when the adrenaline starts to bleed out of your system and the hallways return to their usual background hum, Jack passes by you at the station, slowing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

Nothing said. Nothing needed.

Almost.

Weeks after the same routine, over and over, the change starts like most things do in your world — quietly, without fanfare.

A new name slips into conversation one morning over burnt coffee and half-finished charting. Someone you met outside the ER walls, outside the endless loop of vitals and crash carts and lives balanced on the edge. A friend of a friend, the kind of person who looks good on paper: steady job, easy smile, around your age, the kind of life that doesn’t smell like antiseptic or ring with the static of trauma alerts.

You don’t even mean to mention them. The words just tumble out between patients, light and careless. Jack barely reacts — just a flicker of his eyes, the barest pause in the way his pen scratches across the chart. He hums, noncommittal, and says, “Good for you.”

But after that, the air between you shifts.

The ritual stays the same — the teas and coffees still show up, the handoffs still slide smooth and clean — but the conversations dull. They're shallower. You talk about patients, the weather. But the inside jokes dry up, and the silences stretch longer, thicker, like neither of you can find the right words to fix the growing space between you.

The new person tries. Dinners that never quite feel right. Movies that blur together. Conversations that stall out halfway through, where you find yourself thinking about Jack’s voice instead of the one across the table. It’s not their fault — they do everything right. They ask about your day, they remember how you take your tea, they show up when they say they will.

But they aren’t him. They never will be.

And the truth of that sits heavy in your chest long before you let it go.

When the end finally comes, it’s as quiet as the beginning. No fight. No grand scene. Just a conversation that runs out of steam and a mutual, tired understanding: this was never going to be enough.

You don’t tell Jack. Not directly. But he knows.

Maybe it’s the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes that night, or the way your usual jokes come slower, dull around the edges. Or maybe it’s just that he knows you too well by now, the way you know him — a kind of understanding that doesn’t need translation.

He doesn’t push. He’s not the kind of man who asks questions he isn’t ready to hear the answers to, and you’ve never been the type to offer up more than what the job requires. But when you pass him the last of the handoff notes that night, his fingers brush yours, and for once, they linger. Just a second longer than they should. Long enough to say everything neither of you will.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. Neutral. Studied, “You get any sleep lately?”

It’s not the question he wants to ask. Not even close. But it’s the one he can ask, the one that fits inside the safe little script you’ve both written for yourselves.

You lie — both of you know it — but he doesn’t call you on it. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, and when he stands, he leaves his coffee behind on the counter. Still hot. Barely touched.

And that’s how you know.

Because Jack never leaves coffee unfinished.

The next handoff, he’s already at the nurse’s station when you arrive — ten minutes early, a tea waiting for you, exactly how you like it. There’s no note, no smile, no pointed comment. Just the small, familiar weight of the cup in your hand and the warmth that spreads through your chest, sharper than it should be.

You settle into the routine, pulling the chart toward you, the silence stretching long and comfortable for the first time in weeks. Jack doesn’t ask, and you don’t offer. But when your fingers brush his as you pass him the logbook, you don’t pull away as quickly as you used to.

And for a moment, that’s enough.

The world around you moves the same way it always does — busy, breathless, unrelenting. But somewhere in the quiet, something unspoken hums between you both. Something that’s been waiting.

They weren’t him. And you weren’t surprised.

Neither was he.

It’s the handoff on a cold Wednesday evening that brings a quiet kind of news — the kind that doesn’t explode, just settles. Like dust.

Jack mentions it in passing, the way people mention the weather or the fact that the coffee machine’s finally given up the ghost. Mid-handoff, eyes on the chart, voice level. 

“Admin gave me an offer.”

Your pen stills, barely a beat, then keeps moving. “Oh yeah?” you ask, as if you hadn’t heard the shift in his tone. As if your chest didn’t tighten the moment the words left his mouth.

The department’s newer, quieter. Fewer traumas. More order. Less of the endless night shift churn that has worn him down to the bone these last few years. It would suit him. You know it. Everyone knows it.

And so you do what you’re supposed to do. What any friend — any coworker — would do. You offer the words, gift-wrapped in all the right tones.

“You’d be great at it.”

The smile you give him is steady, practiced. It reaches your lips. But not your eyes. Never your eyes.

Fortunately, Jack knows you like the back of his hand.

He just nods, the kind of slow, quiet nod that feels more like a goodbye than anything else. The conversation moves on. The night moves on.

You go home, and for him, the patients come and go, machines beep, the usual rhythm swallows the moment whole. But the shift feels different. Like the floor’s shifted under his feet and the walls don’t sit right in his peripherals anymore.

The offer lingers in the air for days. No one mentions it. But he notices things — the way you're quieter, the way you seem almost distant during handoffs. Like the weight of the outcome of the decision’s sitting on your shoulders, heavy and personal.

And then, just as quietly, the tension shifts. No announcement. No conversation. The offer just evaporates. You hear it from Robby two days later, his voice offhand as he scrolls through the department’s scheduling board.

“Abbot passed on the job.”

That’s all he says. That’s all you need.

When your shift ends that day, you linger a little longer than usual. Five minutes past the clock, then ten. Just enough time to catch him walking in. Same dark scrubs, same tired eyes. But this time, no talk of transfers. No talk of moving on.

You slide the handoff notes toward him, and when his fingers brush yours, neither of you let go right away.

“Long night ahead.” you say, your eyes lock onto his.

“Same as always,” he answers, soft but sure.

And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything.

But he stayed.

And so did you.

The holiday shift is a quiet one for once.

Not the kind of chaotic disaster you usually brace for — no code blues, no trauma alerts, no frantic scrambling. The ER hums at a lower frequency tonight, as if the whole department is holding its breath, waiting for the chaos to pass and the clock to turn over.

You’ve been working on autopilot for the last few hours. The patient load is manageable, the team is mostly intact, and the usual undercurrent of stress is more like a murmur than a shout. But there's something about the quiet, the softness of it, that makes you more aware of everything, every moment stretching a little longer than it should. It makes the weight of the day feel more pressing, more noticeable.

As the last patient leaves — nothing serious, just another sprain — you settle into your chair by the nurse’s station, the kind of exhausted calm that only comes when the worst is over. The clock inches toward the end of your shift — 6:50 p.m. — but you’re not in any hurry to leave, not yet.

As always, Jack walks in.

You look up just as he passes by the station. His usual tired look is softened tonight, the edges of his exhaustion blunted by something quieter, something a little more worn into his features. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, but there’s a kind of peace in him tonight — a rare thing for the man who’s always running on the edge of burnout.

He stops in front of you, and you can see the small, crumpled bag in his hand. It’s not much, just a bit of wrapping paper that’s a little too wrinkled, but something about it makes your heart give a funny, lopsided beat.

"Here," he says, low, voice a little rougher than usual.

You blink, surprised. “What’s this?”

He hesitates for half a second, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything at all. “For you.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-laughing. "We don’t usually exchange gifts, Jack."

His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. "Thought we might make an exception today."

You take the gift from him, feeling the weight of it, simple but somehow significant. You glance down at it, and for a moment, the world feels like it falls away. He doesn't ask you to open it right then, and for a second, you think maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll leave it unopened, just like so many things left unsaid between you two.

But the curiosity wins out.

You peel back the paper slowly. It’s a leather-bound notebook, simple and unassuming. The kind of thing that makes you wonder how he knew.

“I... didn’t know what to get you," Jack says, his voice soft, almost sheepish. "But I figured you'd use it."

The gesture is simple — almost too simple. But it’s not. It’s too personal for just coworkers. Too thoughtful, too quiet. The weight of it sits between the two of you, unspoken, thick in the air.

You look up at him, your chest tight in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. "Thank you," you manage, and you can’t quite shake the feeling that this — this little notebook — means more than just a gift. It’s something that says everything neither of you has been able to put into words.

Jack nods, his smile barely there but real. He takes a step back, as if pulling himself away from something he doesn’t know how to navigate. The silence stretches. But it’s different this time. It’s not awkward. It’s soft. It feels like a bridge between the two of you, built in the quiet spaces you’ve shared and the ones you haven’t.

“I got you something too,” you say before you can stop yourself. When you reach into your pocket, your fingers brush against the small, folded package you had tucked away. 

His brow furrows slightly in surprise, but he takes it from you, and when he unwraps it, it’s just a small, hand-carved keychain you had spotted at a market — simple, not much, but it reminded you of Jack.

He laughs, a short, quiet sound that vibrates in the space between you, and the tension between you two feels almost manageable. “Thank you,” he says, his fingers brushing over the little keychain.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The noise of the ER seems distant, muffled, as if it’s happening in another world altogether. The clock ticks, the final minutes of your shift inching by. But in that small, quiet space, it’s as if time has paused, holding its breath alongside the two of you.

“I guess it’s just... us then, huh?” he says finally, voice softer than before, quieter in a way that feels like more than just the end of a shift.

You nod, and for the first time in ages, the silence between you feels easy. Comfortable.

Just a few more minutes, and the shift will be over. But right now, this — this small, quiet exchange, these moments that don’t need words — is all that matters.

The day shift is winding down when Jack walks in, just before 7 p.m.

The usual rhythm of the ER is fading, the intensity of the day finally trailing off as the night shift prepares to take over. He arrives just as the last few nurses finish their rounds, their faces tired but steady as they begin to pass the baton.

But something feels off. The station is quieter than usual, the hum of conversation quieter, the buzz of the monitors almost unnaturally sharp in the sudden stillness. Jack glances around, noting the lack of a familiar face, the way the department feels a little emptier, more distant. He spots Dana and Robby at the nurse’s station, exchanging murmurs, and immediately knows something’s not right.

You’re not there.

He doesn’t immediately ask. Instead, he strides toward the counter, his mind racing to calculate the cause. A sick day? A last-minute emergency? Something’s happened, but he can’t quite place it. The thought that it’s anything serious doesn’t sit well in his chest, and yet, it presses down harder with every minute that passes.

It’s 6:55 p.m. now, and the clock keeps ticking forward.

By 7:00, Jack is halfway through his handoff, scanning the patient charts and mentally preparing for the usual chaos, but his focus keeps drifting.

Where are you?

He finally asks. Not loudly, not with urgency, but quietly enough that only Robby and Dana catch the edge in his voice. “Have they called in tonight?”

Before he even has a chance to follow up with your name, Dana looks up at him, a tired smirk on her face. “No. No word.”

Robby shakes his head, looking between Dana and Jack. “We haven’t heard anything. Thought you’d know.”

He nods, swallowing the sudden tightness in his throat. He tries not to show it — not to let it show in the way his shoulders stiffen or the slight furrow between his brows. He finishes up the handoff as usual, but his mind keeps returning to you, to the way the shift feels off without your presence, the absence weighing heavy on him.

By the time the rest of the night staff rolls in, Jack's focus is split. He’s still mentally running through the patient roster, but he’s half-waiting, half-hoping to see you come walking to the nurses station, just like always.

It doesn't happen.

And then, as if on cue, a message comes through — a notification from HR. You’d left for the day in a rush. Your parent had been hospitalised out of town, and you’d rushed off without a word. No call. No notice.

Jack stops in his tracks. The room feels suddenly too small, the quiet too loud. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he puts his phone back into his pocket, his eyes flicking over it again, like it will make more sense the second time.

His mind moves quickly, fast enough to keep up with the frantic pace of the ER around him, but his body is still, frozen for a heartbeat longer than it should be. He doesn’t know what to do with this — this sudden, heavy weight of worry and concern.

The team, in their usual way, rallies. They pull a care package together like clockwork — snacks, tissues, a soft blanket someone swears helps during long waits in hospital chairs. A card circulates, scrawled with signatures and the usual messages: thinking of you, hang in there, we’ve got you. It’s routine, something they’ve done for each other countless times in the past, a small gesture in the face of someone’s crisis.

But Jack doesn’t sign the card.

He sits quietly in the break room for a while, the weight of his concern simmering beneath the surface of his usual calm. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel — concern for you, for the situation, for how the ER feels without you there. The package is ready, and with it, so is a quiet, unsaid piece of himself.

When the others step away, he tucks something else inside, sliding it between the blanket and the box of cheap chocolates the team threw in at the last minute — an envelope, plain, unmarked, the handwriting inside careful but unsteady, like the words cost more than he expected.

Take care of them. The place isn’t the same without you.

Short. Simple. Honest in a way he rarely lets himself be. It isn’t signed. It doesn’t need to be. You’d know.

The team doesn’t notice. Or if they do, they make no comment on it. The ER continues to move, steady in its rhythm, even as Jack’s world feels like it’s been thrown off balance. The package is sent. The shift carries on. And Jack waits. He waits, in the quiet space between you and him, in the absence of your presence, in the weight of things he can’t say.

The clock ticks on. And with it, Jack misses you a little more that night.

Two weeks.

That’s how long the space at the nurse’s station stayed empty. That’s how long the chair at the nurse’s station sat empty — the one you always claimed without thinking. Nobody touched it. Nobody had to say why. It just sat there — a quiet, hollow thing that marked your absence more clearly than any words could’ve.

Two weeks of missing the familiar scrape of your pen against the chart. Two weeks of shift changes stripped down to bare-bones handoffs, clipped and clinical, no space for the soft edges of inside jokes or the quiet pauses where your voice used to fit. Two weeks of coffee going cold, of tasting far more bitter than it did before. Two weeks of the ER feeling off-kilter, like the clock’s gears had ground themselves down and no one could quite put the pieces back.

When you walk back through the automatic doors, it’s like the air catches on itself — that split-second stall before everything moves forward again. You don’t announce yourself. No one really does. The place just swallows you back up, the way it does to anyone who leaves and dares to return.

You clock in that morning. The shift goes on as normal, as normal as the ER can be. The others greet you like they’ve been told to act normal. Quick nods, small smiles. Robby pats your shoulder, light and brief. Dana leaves an extra coffee by the monitors without a word.

When the clock hands swing toward 6:50 p.m., you’re already at the nurses station. Sitting at the desk like you’d never left. Like nothing’s changed, like no time has passed at all. Like the last two weeks were some other life. Scrubs pressed, badge clipped at the same off-center tilt it always is. But your hands hover just slightly, resting on the chart without writing, pen poised like your mind hasn’t quite caught up to your body being back.

The air feels different — not heavy, not light, just suspended. Stalled.

And then you hear them. Footsteps.

Steady. Familiar. The cadence you’ve known for months. 

Jack.

He stops a few feet from you, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, the faintest crease between his brow like he hasn’t quite convinced himself this isn’t some kind of trick.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

No patient names. No vitals. No shorthand. The handoff script that’s lived on your tongues for months goes untouched. Instead, you stand there, surrounded by the soft beep of monitors and the shuffle of overworked staff, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything words can’t.

It’s a strange sort of silence. Not awkward. Just full.

For a long moment, the chaos of the ER fades to the edges, the overhead pages and the low mechanical hums turning to static. You look at him, and it’s like seeing him for the first time all over again. The small lines around his eyes seem deeper. The tension at his shoulders, usually buried beneath practiced calm, sits plainly in view.

You wonder if it’s been there the whole time. You wonder if he noticed the same about you.

His eyes meet yours, steady, unguarded. The first thing that breaks the quiet isn’t a handoff or a patient update.

“I missed this.”

The corner of his mouth twitches into something that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. When he replies, it’s not rushed. It’s not easy. But it’s the truth.

“I missed you.”

Simple. Honest. No side steps. No softening the edges with humor. Just the truth. The words sit there between you, bare and uncomplicated. For a second, the world feels smaller — just the two of you, the hum of machines, and the weight of two weeks' worth of things unsaid.

His gaze shifts, softer now, searching your face for something, or maybe just memorizing it all over again.

“How are they?” he asks, voice low, careful. Not clinical, not casual — the way people ask when they mean it.

You swallow, the answer lingering behind your teeth. You hadn’t said much to anyone, not even now. But his question doesn’t pry, it just waits.

“They’re stable,” you say after a moment, the words simple but heavy. “Scared. Tired. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore.”

Jack nods once, slow and sure, as if that answer was all he needed. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like there’s more he wants to do, more he wants to say — but this is still the space between shifts, still the same ER where everything gets held back for later.

But his voice is steady when he replies.

“I’m glad you were with them.”

A pause. One of those long, silent stretches that says everything the words don’t.

“And I’m glad you came back.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t have to.

And then, the clock ticks forward. The night shift begins. The world presses on, the monitors start beeping their endless song, and the next patient is already waiting. But the weight of those words lingers, tucked just beneath the surface.

And this time — neither of you pretend it didn’t happen.

But it’s still not quite the right time.

Jack’s walls aren’t the obvious kind. They don’t come with sharp edges or cold shoulders. His are quieter, built from small hesitations — the steady, practiced way he keeps his distance, the careful deflection tucked behind dry humor and midnight coffee refills. And at the center of it, two stubborn truths: he’s older, and he’s widowed.

Being widowed is a quiet shadow that doesn’t lift, not really. It taught him how easily a future can disappear, how love doesn’t stop the world from taking what it wants. He doesn’t talk about her, not much — not unless the shift runs long and the coffee’s gone cold — but the space she left is always there, shaping the way he looks at you, at himself, at the idea of starting over. Jack tells himself it wouldn’t be fair. Not to you. Not when you’ve still got years ahead to figure out what you want. Not when he’s already stood graveside, watching the world shrink down to a headstone and a handful of fading memories. 

You’re younger. Less worn down. Less jaded. He tells himself — on the long drives home, when sleep refuses to come — that you deserve more time than he can offer. More time to figure out your world without him quietly shaping the edges of it. It’s the sort of difference people pretend doesn’t matter, until it does. Until he’s standing beside you, catching himself in the reflection of the trauma room glass, wondering how the years settled heavier on him than on you. Until he’s half a sentence deep into asking what you’re doing after shift, and pulling back before the words can leave his mouth.

Because no matter how much space he tries to give, the part of him that’s still grieving would always leave its mark. And you deserve more than the half-mended heart of a man who’s already learned how to live without the things he loves.

And you?

You’ve got your own reasons.

Not the ones anyone could spot at a glance, not the kind that leave scars or stories behind. Just a quiet, low-grade fear. The kind that hums beneath your skin, born from years of learning that getting too comfortable with people — letting yourself want too much — always ends the same way: doors closing, phones going silent, people walking away before you even notice they’ve started.

So you anchor yourself to the things that don’t shift. Your routine. Your steadiness. The hours that stretch long and hard but never ask you to be anything more than reliable. Because when you’re needed, you can’t be left behind. When you’re useful, it hurts less when people don’t stay.

Jack’s careful, and you’re cautious, and the space between you both stays exactly where it’s always been: not quite close enough.

So you both settle for the in-between. The ritual. The routine. Shared drinks at handoff. Inside jokes sharp enough to leave bruises. Half-finished conversations, always interrupted by codes and pages and the sharp ring of phones.

The ER runs like clockwork, except the clock’s always broken, and in the background the rest of the team watches the same loop play out — two people orbiting closer, always just out of reach.

The bets from Princess and Perlah are at the heaviest they’ve ever been, and so are their pockets. There are no more ‘Never happening’ — everyone’s now in the ‘Next week’ or ‘Next Month’. The others have stopped pretending they don’t see what’s happening. In fact, they’re practically counting the days, biding their time like a clock ticking in reverse, waiting for that moment when everything finally clicks into place.

At first, it’s subtle. 

One less handoff cut short by timing. One more overlapping hour “by accident.”

You and Jack work together more and more now, whether it's trauma cases, code blue alerts, or the quieter moments between chaotic shifts when the floor clears enough to breathe. The careful choreography of your daily dance is starting to wear thin around the edges, like a well-loved sweater that’s a little too threadbare to keep pretending it’s still holding together.

The soft exchanges in the middle of emergency rooms — the handoffs that are always clean and professional — have started to bleed into something else. You don’t mean for it to happen. Neither of you do.

But you find yourselves walking the same hallways just a bit more often. You swap shifts with an ease you hadn’t before. Jack’s voice lingers a little longer when he says, “Good night, see you tomorrow,” and the weight of that goodbye has started to feel a little like an unspoken promise.

But it’s still not enough to break the silence.

The team watches, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but neither of you says a word about it. You can’t, because the truth is, it’s easier to let things stay where they are. Safer, maybe. To just let the rhythm of the shifts carry you through without the sudden plunge of vulnerability that might shatter it all.

Still, they see it.

Dana, ever the romantic, gives you that knowing, almost conspiratorial look when she catches you making eye contact with Jack across the floor. “You two need a room,” she’ll joke, but it’s always followed by that soft exhale, like she’s waiting for the punchline you won’t give her.

Princess’ and Perlah’s bets are always louder, and always in a language neither of you understand. Every shift, they pass by the nurse’s station with sly grins, casting their predictions with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re talking about.

“Next month, I’m telling you. It’s happening in the next month. Mark my words.”

Neither you or Jack respond to the teasing. But it’s not because you don’t hear it. It’s because, in the quietest corners of your mind, the thoughts are too sharp, too close, and there’s something terrifying about acknowledging them.

The room holds its breath for you both, watching the space between you become thinner with every passing minute. You can’t feel the ticking of time, but the team certainly can.

And so it goes. Days blend into each other. Hours pass in a blur of frantic beeps and calls, hands working together with that comfortable rhythm, but always keeping just a little distance — just a little bit too much space.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the truth of what everyone else already knows. You’re both circling something, something that neither of you is brave enough to catch yet. 

Almost.

Almost always. But never quite.

The shift is brutal.

The ER’s pulse is erratic, like a heart struggling to maintain rhythm. The trauma bays are full, the waiting room is overflowing, and the chaos — the relentless, grinding chaos — is a constant roar in your ears. Alarms bleed into each other. The phone rings off the hook. Machines chirp, beds squeak, someone shouts for help, and the scent of antiseptic is powerless against the metallic undertone of blood lingering in the air.

It’s the kind of shift that makes even seasoned hands tremble. The kind that swallows hours whole, leaves your back sore and your mind frayed, and still, the board never clears.

At some point, you’re not sure when, maybe after the fifth code blue or the eighth set of vitals skimming the edge of disaster, Robby mutters something sharp and low under his breath, peels his phone out of his pocket, and steps away from the desk.

“Calling Abbot,” he says, voice tight. “We’re underwater.”

Jack isn’t due for another two hours, but the call doesn’t surprise you. The ER doesn’t care about schedules. And Jack — he shows up twenty minutes later.

His eyes meet yours across the station, and there’s no need for words. Just a nod. Just the quiet understanding that this isn’t going to be easy, if such a thing even exists.

The clock ticks and skips, seconds folding into one another, meaningless, until finally, the worst of it comes.

Trauma alert.

A car accident. The usual chaos.

Rollover on the interstate, the kind that dispatch voices always sound too steady while reporting. The kind where the EMTs work in grim silence. Two patients this time. A married couple.

The usual chaos unfolds the second the gurneys crash through the double doors — shouting, gloves snapping on, IV lines threading, vitals barking out like a list of crimes.

But this time, it’s different.

You notice it before anyone says it aloud: the husband’s hand is tangled in his wife’s, their fingers blood-slick but still locked together, knuckles white with the sheer force of holding on. Their wedding rings glinted under the harsh fluorescents, a tiny, defiant flash of gold against the chaos.

Neither of them will let go. Even unconscious, the connection stays.

You’re already in motion. Jack too. The usual rhythm, muscle memory sharp as ever. But something in the air feels different. He glances once at the woman, blood matted in her hair, her left hand still clutching the man’s. The rings. The way their bodies lean toward each other even in a state of injury, as if muscle memory alone could keep them tethered

And for just a second, he falters.

You almost miss it, but you don’t.

Jack works the wife’s side, but her injuries speak for themselves. Her chart is a litany of injuries: internal bleeding, tension pneumothorax, skull fracture.

You watch Jack work the case like his hands are moving on instinct, but his face gives him away. It’s too quiet. Too closed off. You see it all in real-time — the silent war behind his eyes, the years catching up to him in the span of a heartbeat. The lines around his mouth tightening, the weight of something too personal rising behind the clinical routine.

You know who he’s thinking about. 

It’s her — it’s her face he sees.

Jack’s gloves are stained, jaw tight, voice steady but clipped as the monitor flatlines for the third time. You watch. You press hands to bleeding wounds that won’t stop. You call out numbers you barely register. But the inevitable creeps in anyway.

At 6:41 p.m., time of death is called.

No one speaks, not right away. The monitors fall silent, the room too. The husband, still unconscious, is wheeled away. His hand finally slips from hers, left empty on the gurney.

It’s Jack that calls it. He stands over the woman’s bed for a beat too long, the silence of it all thickening in the air. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, the weight of it settling in — the anger, the grief, the helplessness. There’s no denying it, the hours and hours of labor, of lives teetering between life and death, have begun to take their toll.

You watch him and know the exact moment it breaks him.

He doesn’t even need to say it. You can see it in the way he moves — stiff, distant, a bit lost. His hand hovers by his stethoscope, his fingers curling slightly before dropping. The tension in his face is the kind you’ve seen only when someone is holding themselves together by a thread.

He catches your eye briefly, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared grief between the two of you that’s settled like an old wound, reopened. He turns away before you can even ask, stepping out of the trauma bay and heading toward the on-call room, his pace a little slower than usual, weighed down by more than just the fatigue.

The shift drags on, but the tension, the heaviness, only grows. Finally, when it seems like it might never end, you make the decision. You leave your post, quietly slipping away from the chaos, and find your way to the on-call room where Jack is already sitting.

It’s dark in there but you don’t need to see him to know what’s there. His chest rises and falls with a weary sigh. There’s nothing to say at first. Nothing that would make this any easier, and you both know it.

You sit beside him in silence, the space between you both filled with the weight of the night, of the patient lost, of the things neither of you can change. You don’t push. You don’t ask. You simply exist in the same room, the same quiet, like two people who are too exhausted, too worn, to speak but too connected to stay apart.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

It’s Jack who breaks the silence, his voice a little rough, like it’s been buried too long.

“I kept thinking we’d have more time,” he says. It’s not addressed to you, not really — more confession than conversation, the kind of truth that’s spent too long locked behind his ribs.

You don’t answer right away, because you know the ache that lives under those words. You’ve felt it too. So you sit there, listening, the silence making room for him to say the rest.

And then, softer, barely above a breath —

“She looked like her. For a second — I thought it was her.”

The words hang in the dark, heavier than any silence.

You reach over, placing a hand gently on his. Your fingers brush his skin, warm, steady. You just sit there, the two of you, in the dark — the only light seeping in from under the door, pale and distant, like the world outside is somewhere neither of you belong right now.

Minutes pass, slow and shapeless, the kind of time that doesn’t measure in hours or shifts or chart updates. Just quiet. Just presence. Just the shared, unspoken ache of people who’ve both lost too much to say the words out loud.

When he finally exhales — long, steady, but still weighted — you feel the faintest shift in the air. Not fixed. Not fine. But breathing. Alive. Here.

When his gaze lifts, meeting yours — searching, fragile, waiting for something he can’t name — you finally offer it, soft but certain.

“We don’t get forever,” you whisper. “But we’ve still got now.”

And it’s enough. Maybe not to fix anything. Maybe not to make the night any less heavy. But enough to pull Jack through to the other side.

He exhales, slow and quiet, the tension in his chest loosening like it’s finally allowed to. The moment is small — no grand revelations, no dramatic declarations.

Just two people, breathing in the same quiet, carrying the same scars.

When the next shift change arrives, the rhythm of the ER doesn’t quite return to normal.

The pulse of the place still beats steady — monitors chiming, phones ringing, stretchers wheeling in and out — but the handoff feels different. Like the pattern has shifted beneath your feet.

The familiar routine plays out — the smooth exchange of patient reports, the clipped shorthand you both know by heart, the easy banter that’s always filled the spaces between — but now it lingers. The words sit heavier. The pauses stretch longer. The politeness that once held everything in place has softened, frayed at the edges by the weight of what’s left unsaid.

You stay five minutes later. Then ten.

Neither of you points it out. Neither of you needs to.

The silence isn’t awkward — it’s intentional. It hangs easy between you, unhurried and unforced. The kind of silence built on understanding rather than distance. Like the quiet knows something you both haven’t said out loud yet.

The rest of the team doesn’t call you on it. But they see it. And you catch the glances. 

You catch Dana’s raised eyebrow as she clocks out, her expression all knowing, no judgment — just quiet observation, like she’s been waiting for this to finally click into place. Robby doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk behind his coffee cup this time, his glance flicking from you to Jack and back again, as if he’s already tallying another win in the betting pool.

And still, no one says a word.

The ER lights flicker, humming softly against the early morning haze as the next shift trickles in, tired and rumpled, faces scrubbed clean and coffee cups refilled. The world moves on — patients, pages, paperwork — but Jack doesn’t.

His glance finds you, steady and certain, like an anchor after too many months of pretending there wasn’t a current pulling you both closer all along. There’s no question in it. No hesitation. Just quiet agreement.

And this time, neither of you heads for the door alone.

You fall into step beside him, the silence still stretched soft between you, your shoulder brushing his just slightly as you cross through the automatic doors and into the cool, early light. The air is crisp against your scrubs, the hum of the hospital fading behind you, replaced by the quiet sprawl of the parking lot and the slow stretch of a sky trying to shake off the dark.

The weight you’ve both carried for so long — all the almosts, the what-ifs, the walls and the fear — feels lighter now. Still there, but not crushing. Not anymore.

It isn’t just a handoff anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it’s undeniable.

You glance toward him as the quiet settles between you one last time before the day fully wakes up, and he meets your look with that same soft steadiness — the kind that doesn’t demand, doesn’t rush, just holds. Like the space between you has finally exhaled, like the moment has finally caught up to the both of you after all this time skirting around it.

His hand finds yours, slow and certain, like it was always supposed to be there. No grand gesture, no sharp intake of breath, just the gentle slide of skin against skin — warm, grounding, steady. His thumb brushes the back of your hand once, absentminded and careful, like he’s memorizing the feel of this — of you — as if to make sure it’s real.

The world beyond hums back to life, ready for another day beginning. But here, in this sliver of space, between what you’ve always been and whatever comes next — everything stays still.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You don’t need to.

It’s in the way his fingers curl just slightly tighter around yours, in the way the last of the shift’s exhaustion softens at the edges of his expression. In the way the air feels different now — less heavy, less waiting. Like the question that’s lived between you for months has finally answered itself.

The first thin blush of sunrise creeps over the parking lot, painting long soft shadows across the cracked pavement, and neither of you move. There’s no rush now, no clock chasing you forward, no unspoken rule pushing you apart. Just this. Just you and him, side by side, hand in hand, standing still while the world stumbles back into motion.

It’s the start of something else.

And you both know it. Without needing to say a thing.

©yakshxiao 2025.

[bi-writes]

Ex husband!Ghost that just shows back up in your house (no matter how many times you've moved without saying a word) anytime he's on leave.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" (18+)

he's standing outside your new flat. he's still wearing his gear and that god-awful mask that you hate so much. if his eyes could change color, they would be red—they're dark with something foul, something that is your fault, but you have no obligation to this man anymore.

that doesn't seem to register with him.

this is the fourth new flat you've moved into within the last year. you keep signing very short leases, picking up and leaving again, but he finds you—every time. he must have sewn a tracker into one of your things; maybe a beloved purse of yours or inside some valued heirloom that he knows you'd never part with. he's such a sick bastard, you don't know what you ever saw in him, you don't know what ever made you feel like you could stand in front of him and God and make factitious vows about a future that never would be.

he's disgusting. he smells like the desert, and his boots are caked with mud. his clothes smell like they've been worn for days, coated with dried sweat and grime, and he reeks like the cigarettes you see peeking out from his jacket pocket. he walks into your flat anyways, not bothering to take anything off, and he sits himself down on your couch and spreads his legs like he's been here before, numerous times, like this is where he lives.

you threw away all his things. you burned the papers that remained. you tossed the rest of his shit that didn't fit in trash bags out the window of the last place you lived, so why the fuck is he in your flat, and why does he seem so fine with it?

"get your dirty ass off my couch, and get out."

ghost is like a fixture there. he picks his head up from where it was laying against the cushions, and he glares at you as he lays his palms against his thighs. he clicks his tongue, sucking on his teeth, and he just stares at you.

the audacity.

but you can't help it. when he thinks you're not looking, he looks at that photo in his wallet—the one with people who aren't here anymore, the worn, scratchy picture that's fading with age and use, and you get that pit in your stomach all over again, the same one you got when you served him the papers for the first time.

ghost is all alone.

he's all alone.

that's why he's at your table. eating your food. that's why he's in your bathroom, having a hot shower, that's why his clothes are in your washing machine (the only ones he owns anymore), and that's why he's laying in your bed, on his side, masked face against a silk pillow as he pumps his cock lazily.

he has no shame. he groans audibly, he says your name, and he hums with delight when you shriek with anger at his cum on your fresh cotton sheets.

but he's all alone.

it feels like way when you hike your sleep shirt up and sit down on him. it feels that way when he pushes you to sit up on his lap, chin against his chest so he can watch your hips shift and your tits bounce as you hold it up with your teeth and whine. it feels like he's lonely when he thumbs at your clit and comes too fast, making a mess between your thighs as his thick cum coats his unkempt hair.

when you try to pull off, he digs his thick fingers into your ass and holds you there.

he's lonely. so he's not done yet.

it's a nasty sight. ghost keeps you there, fixed on his cock, and even when you whimper from overstimulation, he holds you down and tugs at your pebbled nipples as he mumbles about how warm it is here. ghost can't waste another minute, especially not with his name attached to you anymore—he needs to make every orgasm count, so he doesn't have time to hear you whine, he needs to keep you there, and he needs to keep you fat and pleasured and sticky.

he likes missionary the most. he likes feeling your thighs tense up around his hips, and he likes being able to pin you down and keep you underneath him. but most of all, he likes pressing against your tummy, and he likes closing his eyes and grunting, feeling the tip of his cock just underneath his palm. it gives him a sick sense of satisfaction knowing he's so deep inside of you, branding you like he knows only he can. there's a shape inside of your cunt that he fills better than anyone else, and your wobbly legs and curled toes and open-mouth moans only encourage his disgusting sense of ownership.

you can sign whatever fucking papers you want to sign, he's carved his name in your pussy, and that's for life.

[kabr0ztrousers]

hey could you write about a pussy portal? with whatever monster you feel like! also could it be semi-public (public but hidden)? also knotting is appreciated!

Kabr0z Writes episode 53: Hornyposting

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: portal sex; knotting; public sex; cum in vagina; unknown male; freeuse; recieving cunnilingus; age gap; implied impregnation; interspecies; portal fucking

A/N: I do love writing portal fucking, though I'm not sure I understood the prompt properly on this one, so enjoy reading about fem!reader being fucked by a knotted cock while falling to avoid notice

Also, any requests etc, please drop an ask!

#######################################

When you bought something called a "telepresence glory hole" you weren't honestly expecting what you got. It arrived OK, and came with a phonebook of a disclaimer which you didn't bother reading. What was really interesting was, it actually seemed legit. In the box you got a pair of panties, and a handheld device that looked kinda like a fleshlight. Both had strange disks integrated to them made of some kind of metal. You spent the next hour going through the manual, registering them to a phone app and generating a friend code.

Testing went without a hitch, you plugged the friend code into the app, and the link established with a faint buzz. Next came the fun part. You broke the link, before taking to the internet. Would you believe there's a whole community centred around these things?

You got changed, a nice sundress to go out in, those panties underneath. A quick picture later and you posted your selfie and your code, out in the aether. You set off, walking to the cafe, locking the app as you left. For the next 4 hours, you're open for business.

The bell on the café door jingled as it opened. The local corporate chain, you weren't going to risk getting chucked out of a café you actually liked, but even if the coffee sucked here the wifi's free and there's plenty of people around. You joined the back of the line and inched towards the counter.

You felt a draft down below. A breath across your cunt. There were still a few people ahead of you. A shiver ran up your spine, it's starting already.

A wide tongue grazed your outer lips, starting slowly. You tensed your cunt a little to egg whoever this was on. You'd said in your post that you were up for any guy to give you a fuck, though maybe you hadn't mentioned what you'd be up to in the meantime... But that's very much what things like this were designed for, nobody's wearing these for a quiet night in.

The tongue came again, holding back a little less this time, coating the outside of your pussy in drool as it licked up and down your-

"Hi! What can I get for you?" The rictus grin of the cashier snapped you out of your thoughts

"C-cappuchino please. Large" you stammered out, speaking fast to try and avoid your voice giving you away.

You paid noiselessly, tapping your card on the machine which beeped compliantly before stepping over to the other counter with your receipt and the order number printed on it.

The tongue got more aggressive. Your knee buckled as it circled your clit. You squeezed your eyes shut a moment as it threatened to slip into your eager hole. You leaned on a low wall behind you, trying to look nonchalant as you checked your forum post.

WolfDaddy1969 had replied to you "Don't need to tell me twice" was this the person so diligently licking you out? He didn't have a profile picture. God, but whoever this was, they're good with their tongue. You rolled your head backwards in ecstasy, trying to disguise it by rubbing the back of your neck, but the quiet whimper you gave drew the eye of the suited woman beside you as she stepped forward to grab a tray of paper cups.

"Order 42, large cappuccino, regular milk"

Your legs threatened to betray you as you as you stepped up and took the almost litre cup of coffee with your order number stuck to it. You turned to try and find a table, almost stumbling as you did. The movement was shifting your pussy lips, moving them subtly against one another as the tongue pushed between them. You fell into a seat, legs spread. You could feel moisture leaking around the edges of the portal, the combination of drool and your pussy juice starting to slick your crotch.

The tongue had barely let up before you felt something else pressing against you. Hard and drooling, there was no mistaking it. You'd been with a lupine before, you knew how they start squirting precum almost as soon as you get them hard. You imagined it, if this wolf really was born in the late 60's then he'd have been in his thirties before you were even conceived... It turned you on knowing this cock was old enough to be your father.

He pushed in, or maybe down? Your pussy making up the business end of the toy he was fucking himself with. He slid in easily. Your toes curled in your shoes as you gripped the table in front of you, clenching your teeth as he started fucking you properly. He angled his toy, only slightly but enough that you could feel him thrust up into your g-spot before continuing into you. Despite your efforts, you could feel yourself making small, choked sounds with every thrust. His thumb hit your clit. You groaned as your legs started to shake, failing to hide your release as people started to take notice. A mix of worried and disgusted looks fixed upon you, some people clearly having an idea of what was happening.

The cock filled you up. The clenching of your aching cunt getting to the cock inside you. You felt the knit start to inflate. It was pulsing so deliciously, your mouth sagged open in a silent wail of delight and release.

The cashier from before was next to you "I think you should leave" his smile was gone, he just looked tired.

You nodded and got up, The movement of your legs rolling the swollen knot inside you, forcing you to walle away, your drink forgotten as you tried to ignore the mix of arousal and cum dripping down your legs.

The outside air was cold on your skin, the wetness covering your thighs stinging as it cooled in the brisk February air. At least you're within walking distance of home, though it's anyone's guess if you'd get back before the wolf was done with you.

He was still using you to jerk off, the knot thrusting up and down as you tried to walk, dictating the rhythm of your steps. You weren't hiding your noises any more either, there were fewer people on the suburban streets, but every one of them knew you had something going on down there. Some hurried on, some threw dirty looks, one or two gave wolf whistles and catcalls, only making you wetter.

You were halfway home when the knot started twisting in you, this way and that. You grabbed a lamppost as you moaned out, trying desperately to keep from falling as your knees gave way and your cunt gave another squirt of girlcum. He turned his cock again and again, feeling how you clenched and milked his knot, wringing every morsel of cum from him, before withdrawing with a pop.

That tongue came back. You slid down the pole, landing on your knees as the wolf licked deep inside you, tasting his cum as it mixed with your essence. You could swear it hit your cervix as you groaned and whined for all to see.

The tongue withdrew. The portal shut off and you were alone again, leaking onto the floor underneath you. You staggered to your feet, still clinging to the street furniture as you got your breath back. Legs still shaking, pussy still twitching, you got home.

The portal buzzed to life again. You checked your post. You'd been pinned to the front page, it looks like WolfDaddy left you a glowing review "10/10, tight pussy, would impregnate again"

You were going to have a lot of fun with this

#################################

There's a little narrative dissonance between where it started and where it went here, but I thought it shook out pretty well, and you're not here for tight editing.

As always, any requests, ideas, thoughts, questions or fanmail is appreciated! My DMs and asks remain open for use!

Also, see below for a surprise poll!

[octagonsolution]

Rotogravure Printing Doctor Blades Steel

The doctor blades are a critical component in printing presses, flexographic printing, gravure printing, and other applications where a thin, precise layer of ink or coating needs to be applied to a substrate. The Doctor blade Steel is responsible for removing excess ink or coating from the surface of the printing cylinder or roller, leaving behind a clean and consistent layer.

[smutmind]

Dream Cum True

The fan meet buzzed like a soft machine—ring lights, laughter, and camera shutters folding over each other.

Mina signed her fiftieth poster, still smiling, though her cheeks ached. She glanced up at the next in line.

He didn’t look like the rest.

No merch. No headband. Just a dark hoodie, sunken eyes, and something in the way he stood—like he didn’t believe he belonged here.

She softened. “Hi,” she said, tilting her head. “Name?”

He hesitated. Then, “Jaemin.”

Her pen paused. “Is this your first time meeting me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. First time I’ve left my apartment in weeks.”

She blinked, gaze flicking to his. There was no pitch in his tone, no fan energy—just honesty.

“I’ve been… not good,” he admitted. “Didn’t come here to ask for anything. Just wanted to see you in real life.”

Mina’s voice dropped. “You don’t have to ask. I remember you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“From Twitter. The thread. You said your dream was to… you know.”

Jaemin turned red instantly. “Fuck. That was—I wasn’t trying to be a creep.”

“You weren’t.” She tore a scrap of paper from her pad and slid it into his photo. “Come see me later. Address is in there.”

His place smelled like dust, instant noodles, and something faintly metallic. The floor creaked. The air was still.

She stepped in without flinching.

Jaemin fumbled with his words. “I didn’t think you’d actually come. This place is…”

“Yours,” she said. “That’s all I care about.”

She dropped her coat. Beneath it: tiny crop top, tight jeans, high ponytail.

“You want fanservice?” she asked, stepping into the yellow-tinted light. “I can do fanservice.”

He froze. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

She kicked off her shoes. “Tell me something, Jaemin. What’s my second name—the one they make all those sexy memes about?”

He blinked. “Sharon.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped lower. She walked to the futon like it was a stage. “Then you’ll understand what happens next.”

She reached behind her back, unzipped the top, and peeled it off slow—shoulders first, then chest, her breasts spilling free without a bra. Her eyes locked on him the whole time.

“Sharon doesn’t ask permission,” she whispered. “She gives permission.”

He swallowed hard. “Are you really doing this?”

“You said your dream was to cum inside me.” She slid her jeans down her thighs, standing in just her lace panties. “Tonight, that dream comes true.”

He was on the futon before he realized he’d moved. Mina straddled him slowly, palms on his chest, grinding down as her lips hovered over his.

“I want you to say it,” she breathed. “What do you want?”

“I want to cum in you,” he choked.

She smiled like sin. “That’s a good boy.”

She peeled her panties off and tossed them aside. Reached down, wrapped her fingers around his cock—already hard, twitching.

“You feel that?” she whispered, pressing the head against her folds. “That’s real.”

He groaned, gripping her hips. “You’re wet.”

“For you.” She lowered herself, taking him inch by inch until he bottomed out.

“Oh—fuck—Mina—”

“Not Mina,” she hissed into his ear. “Sharon.”

She rolled her hips with control, grinding her clit down against his pelvis. Her hands slid up his chest, nails dragging lightly.

“Don’t just lie there,” she said. “Worship me.”

He kissed her throat, her collarbone, then dipped lower—lips brushing over one nipple, then the other, sucking them slowly until they stiffened against his tongue. He mouthed her breasts, her ribs, her stomach—worshipping every inch like he was starving for her taste.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moaned.

“Show me,” she demanded. “Fill me up. Come inside.”

He slammed into her harder, deeper, cock slick with her arousal as her pussy clenched tight around him. She was soaked, the wet slap of their bodies echoing off the walls. Each thrust hit deeper, rougher—his balls smacking her ass, her nails digging into his back as she gasped his name, voice breaking with every ragged moan.

“Right there—don’t stop—fucking give it to me—”

He gasped, hips bucking wildly as he buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing hard. Thick, hot streams of cum shot deep inside her, filling her up in messy, pulsing waves. She clenched tight around him, her cunt fluttering, milking every drop as her orgasm tore through her—back arched, mouth open in a broken cry, thighs shaking as slick heat spilled out around him.

They stayed locked like that, trembling, panting, flushed.

He looked up at her like she might disappear.

She leaned down and kissed him, slow and warm.

“Dreams don’t have to stay dreams,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his. “Tonight, Sharon belonged to you.”

She lingered a moment longer—then slid down his body with slow, deliberate grace.

His cock, still glistening with their combined mess, twitched as she wrapped her fingers around the base.

“You gave me everything,” she murmured. “Now I’m going to taste it.”

She licked a slow stripe from the base up to the swollen tip, savoring the bitter-sweet mix. He groaned, hips flinching, already half-hard again.

“Still warm,” she whispered, before parting her lips and taking him into her mouth.

Her tongue swirled around the swollen head, slow and teasing, before tracing the underside where he was most sensitive. She let a long line of spit trail down the shaft, then wrapped her lips around him and took him deep—warm, wet, and tight.

Each bob of her head was deliberate, the glide of her mouth slick and noisy. Her cheeks hollowed with every suck, the obscene sound of it echoing in the cramped room. She moaned low in her throat, sending vibrations through his cock as she pushed deeper, swallowing inch after inch until the head bumped the back of her throat.

One hand massaged his balls, rolling them gently, while the other gripped the base, twisting slightly as she sucked harder, sloppier.

He grunted, thighs tense, his hands tangling in her hair. Not to guide her—just to keep himself grounded while her mouth wrecked him.

She pulled back slowly, letting him slip from her lips with a wet pop, spit and precum clinging to her chin as she licked up every drop.

“That’s what Sharon does,” she said, voice low and filthy, stroking his spit-slick cock. “She swallows gratitude.”

[lay-z]

Simon Riley signs his death sentence.

cw: cheating/infidelity; angst/hurt; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

Simon glances up when he hears the shrill doorbell, frowning a bit. He knows he’s not expecting anyone, never is. It’s a Monday evening, and he’s spent the day working on the broken bike in his garage, trying to drown his thoughts and feelings with working on machines.

His eyes travel to the clock on the wall, noting the late hour, and he sighs. It better not be some bloody salesman trying to sell some shite to him. He makes his way to the front door, pulling it open unceremoniously. What he sees makes his blood run cold.

“What are you doing here?” he asks brusquely, his gaze hard, expression closed off.

“I need to talk to you,” you answer curtly, yet there’s a hint of mystery to your words. “It’s important.”

You’re dead to me. To Tommy. Your words from months ago ring in his ears again.

He eyes you suspiciously for a moment, and then steps aside to make space, gesturing you inside with a wordless invitation. “Olright. Come in,” he mutters, closing the door behind you.

Clutching the black folder to your chest, you give a small nod of thanks as you walk past him, further inside his small flat—surroundings that used to be so warm and familiar to you.

Simon glances at you in passing, noting the tight grip you have on the folder in your arms. He motions to the sofa in the middle of the living room, gesturing for you to take a seat while he drops into the armchair across from you with a rough exhale.

He drums his calloused fingers restlessly on the armrest, tawny eyes drinking you in vigilantly as he waits for you to speak.

Taking a seat on the couch reluctantly, you force yourself not to let your eyes roam around his flat nor let it linger on him for too long. It took everything in you to find the courage to come here in the first place; to bottle up your emotions enough to keep a level head. Clearing your throat, you take out a pen from the inside pocket of your coat and open the folder before sliding the documents over to him on the coffee table.

“I’m getting married,” you announce eventually, right when the light catches on the delicate diamond ring on your finger.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

There’s a ringing sound in his ears, and the room seems to spin for a second, like he’s been thrown off an edge and is falling fast. He almost can’t breathe, and his knuckles go white as he clenches his grip on the armchair, trying to keep control of his body as he glares at the expensive looking engagement ring on your finger, the reality slowly sinking in. It’s mocking him.

“You’re gettin’ married,” he repeats hoarsely, his voice betraying the pain that’s churning inside him. He snorts humourlessly. “Congratulations.”

“Yes,” you answer slowly, ignoring the biting sarcasm in his words as you avoid his gaze; keeping your focus on the documents, on my future—rather than your painful past with him.

The room feels tense all of a sudden, and you force yourself to stay calm, to stay seated.

“So... these are–” You clear your throat again. “These are adoption papers for Tommy, but I need approval from his biological father before my–my future husband can adopt him officially.”

Simon looks at you for a long time, his expression hidden behind a stone-cold façade. He’s trying to hold it together, but every word you speak feels like a jab, hitting his gut and stabbing deep into his heart.

“You’re–” he repeats again, his voice almost a whisper, “you’re getting married.” His mind is racing, trying to wrap his head around the idea of you marrying another man, of another man being a father to his son.

You inhale a slow breath when he repeats it for a second time, and you can read the shock and desperation in his eyes despite him trying to hide it behind his cold façade. “Yes, Simon,” you repeat once more, feeling like you’re explaining something to your toddler son, who happens to be the spitting image of his father at nearly two years old.

“I’m getting married.”

His jaw clenches like he’s preventing himself from saying something—anything—and his body goes tense. He looks at the documents spread across the old coffee table, his eyes scanning the information on the pages. He understands what and why you’re asking, and he knows he has no right to refuse. He’s lost that right months ago, and now he's facing the cost of his own actions. Choices have consequences—his own bloody words that he foolishly refused to live by.

“And... and the bloke, the bloke you’re marrying. He’s... He wants to adopt Tommy?” he asks through gritted teeth.

You nod slowly but firmly, blinking slowly as you hold his gaze bravely.

“He’s been a great step dad to him for –” You stop yourself, kissing your teeth as if you almost spilled a secret before speaking up again: “He wants to marry me and he wants to adopt Tommy officially.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. The thought of another man, a bloody stranger, being a father to his son, taking his place in his family, is like a sledgehammer to his already shattered heart.

It feels like he can’t breathe as the reality of the situation fully sinks in, and the weight of it threatens to swallow him whole. His knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands, the effort of holding back the words—these feelings—almost physically hurts. He can feel the familiar anger rising up in his chest, blending effortlessly with all the pain and desperation and regret.

His eyes are glued to the diamond ring on your finger, the symbol glaring back at him, adding insult to injury. His emotions are like a storm raging inside him, tearing him apart, but he grits his crooked teeth and forces himself to look away, tearing his gaze from your hand.

“And... he’s a good lad, aye? Treats you right?” The words taste like acid on his tongue.

“He is a good man, Simon,” you answer truthfully, heaving a sigh as you bite back the harsher words on the tip of your tongue; telling him that it’s none of his business anymore.

“He’s good, and kind, and generous, and above all... he’s loyal.”

Simon goes quiet at that, the stinging comment hitting him hard. He knows he has no right to feel hurt, to feel betrayed. He has no right to feel anything at all. He was the one who screwed up, the one who caused this entire mess. He cheated on you, destroyed your trust, ripped your relationship apart, broke your heart, and left you alone when you’d sent him away instead of fighting to pick up the pieces. He messed up.

But knowing that you found someone better now, someone who’s going to take his place—it feels like someone is tearing his wretched heart out.

When he goes silent again, you push the documents towards him with more urgency.

“Please... don’t make this harder than it already is,” you whisper eventually, feeling your chest tighten as the bottled up emotions threaten to break free. “I just want Tommy to have a chance at a normal life... to have a father and for me to finally have some safety.”

He can sense the suppressed emotions radiating from you, and it breaks his heart even more. Simon picks up the documents slowly, his hands betraying the turmoil inside, the tremors he can’t control no matter how much he tries. His voice is barely a rough whisper when he speaks again, thick with emotion: “I... I know I don’t have a right to even say this, but–

Can I ask a favour?” he presses out, trying to keep up the mask of numbness but failing miserably. He’s crumbling.

“No, you can’t,” you reply gently yet firmly. It hurts. God, it hurts so much, but he did this. It’s his fault. He’s a bloody cheater.

The sharp, flat answer hits him like a bucket of ice water. It doesn’t surprise him though, but it still stings. He clenches his jaw, forces himself to keep his expression under control, knows he has no right to expect anything from you after what he did.

He stares at the documents in his hands for a moment longer, before nodding slowly. “Olright,” he says eventually, his voice rough and strained. “I’ll... I’ll sign the bloody papers.”

You expected him to rip the papers to shreds, but now you’re watching with bated breath as he puts his signature right above the necessary line with an uncharacteristic unsteady hand and your heart clenches suddenly, your vision going blurry.

He’s signing away his son’s life, and it’s tearing him apart on the spot while his face betrays nothing. He’s signing away the right to be Tommy’s father, the right to be in his life, to hold him, to watch him grow up, to be there for him. He’s signing away the future he’d secretly dreamed of, of a family with you, the only thing that ever really mattered to him.

It feels like he’s signing his own bloody death sentence.

He feels like he’s drowning in guilt and shame. All the while, his eyes stay trained on you, taking in every small movement, every blink, and every shaky breath.

“So... uhm... How’s–” You swallow thickly, bile rising in your throat as you wipe at your glossy eyes frantically to try and keep your composure. “How’s Emma?” you manage to ask, trying to change the subject, to remind yourself why this happened in the first place.

Just when he thought the knife couldn’t dig any deeper, you ask about her, and he’s hit with an even more intense wave of shame.

The memory of her—the way she looked, the way she felt, the way she tasted—flashes through his mind, and he has to swallow to keep himself from gagging.

He looks away, avoiding eye contact as he shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Fine.” He croaks, his voice betraying his discomfort.

“Oh.”  You nod slowly, processing his curt answer as you kiss your teeth again. “Good... that’s... good.” He's lying. You can tell that he’s lying, and yet you can’t stop. You’re too bitter.

“I’m glad to know that you–you found happiness with her. That you’re–” You exhale through your nose. “That you can–” You feel another wave of nauseous overcome you, and you’re forced to take another deep breath. “That you’re faithful to her.”

Your words hit him like a kick to the gut, and he’s left gasping as his heart constricts painfully. He can hear the pain in your voice, the bitterness in your tone, the pain that still runs deep.

The truth.

The truth is, he’s not happy. He’s not faithful.

If there’s one person he belongs with, it’s you—you, with your quiet bravery, your stubborn determination, your endless loyalty.

You, with the eyes he could lose himself in.

“I’m not,” he finally rasps, voice hoarse with emotion as he finally finds the courage to look you in the eye again. “I’m not happy.”

He takes a shaky breath, his voice cracking with raw honesty. “I’m not happy, and I’m not faithful. Not to her, because I–I think about you and I think about Tommy... every fuckin' day for the past seven months.”

His words are like a confession, a desperate plea for your understanding.

“I made a mistake,” he continues, “I made the wrong choice, and every day... every god damn day I’ve regretted it, baby.” He’s tearing up again, the guilt and shame and pain overcoming him, and his vision swims before he pushes his palms against his eyes harshly, exhaling a ragged breath.

“Simon,” you say firmly, hoping he truly listens this time. Your spine goes rigid with tension and restraint. You want to yell, to lash out, to curse him, but you won’t. Not again.

“You cheated on me twice... and I was stupid enough to give you another chance after the first time. We have a son together, but that didn’t stop you from fucking Emma. This is your own goddamn fault, so–”

“I know it’s my own goddamn fault!” he snaps, his emotions getting the better of him. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see that every day?” His eyes are burning with unshed tears, his chest heaving with barely controlled fury.

“I know I screwed up, I know I... I destroyed us! I destroyed our family! I destroyed you! But–But you have no fuckin’ idea what I’d give to take it back, you have no bloody idea!”

“That may be, but there is no taking back,” you reply coolly, not even flinching at his outburst as you keep a level head.

Finally, you take the signed adoption papers from him and put them back into the black folder; snapping it shut with finality. “Just know that–” You let out another deep, shaky sigh, fighting tears. “Know that Tommy will be fine. He’ll be happy and very loved, and he’ll be a decent man someday–” Your voice cracks at the end, and you stand up from the couch at once, still trying your best not to fall apart in front of him.

His heart breaks all over again, and it’s like a combat knife twisting in his chest as he watches you put the documents back into the folder.

Simon stands up too; his body tense as he fights the urge to reach for you, to pull you close and hold you tightly. He doesn’t deserve to hold you. He doesn’t deserve to touch you. He should’ve never touched you in the first place.

He takes a step towards you, a last attempt, his gravelly voice barely a whisper: “I don’t know how to live without you.” The words spill out of him, raw and unfiltered, his voice shaking with emotion.

And he takes another slow, heavy step closer. “I tried, fuckin’ hell, I tried to forget you, but I can’t. I can’t move on. I can’t let go. You’re under my skin, you’re in my bloody head, you’re in my heart, you’re in every goddamn dream I have. And the idea of losing you, of not having you and Tommy in my life... it’s killing me–”

“Then why did you cheat on me?”

The question comes out involuntarily, spilling over your lips for the first time in nearly three years since it happened the first time.

“If you love me and Tommy so bloody much, then why the fuck did you cheat on me, Simon?” you ask, voice rising in volume and pitch, taking on an edge of desperation as you glare at him with the protective strength and fury only a mother can muster.

“Why?!”

He’s reeling, the memories of his betrayal slapping him with brutal force. His broad shoulders sag, defeated, as the weight of his actions crashes down on him. He can’t look at you, tawny eyes filled with shame like a little boy who’s been scolded, his gaze fixated on the floor as he tries to put his thoughts into words.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds hollow, devoid of any emotion: “I can’t explain it,” he whispers, the words barely leaving his lips. “I wish I could, but I don’t even know my damn self.”

You allow yourself to look at him for another moment; deep down expecting more, expecting a better explanation, but nothing comes and your face twists into a pained grimace as you glance down at the folder in your hands. At a brighter future for you and your son.

“That’s not good enough, Simon,” you rasp out before forcing yourself to gather the last shred of strength you have left, straightening your shoulders.

“Take care.”

“You too.” He feels hollow, empty.

All the fight and anger drain out of him in a split second, leaving him feeling cold and lifeless.

He should grab you, hold you, and plead for forgiveness, but he stands rooted to the spot in his living room, unable to move, too damn scared to reach out for you.

As the door of his flat falls shut behind you, you clutch the folder to your chest with one hand as you rush down the staircase, slowly falling apart at the seams as you stumble forward.

Outside the apartment building, you swiftly seek out your fiancées sleek black Mercedes car in the parking lot, swallowing down a sob as you pull open the passenger seat before slipping inside and closing the door—mindful of your toddler son still napping in his car seat in the back.

“Everything okay, darling?” John glances over at you from the driver's seat as you clench your teeth, trying to keep it together. He can tell that it’s not okay, that something went wrong. The look on your face telling him all he needs to know.

“Are you... alright?” He asks as gently as his gruff voice allows, looking at you once again, concern filling his steel blue eyes.

“I–I think so,” you answer shakily, clutching the folder to your chest like a lifeline as you tremble in the leather seat. Then, you feel the heavy, warm weight of his hand come to rest on your thigh.

John Price.

Simon's captain and superior, who has been there for you even through your pregnancy after your first breakup with Simon.

John Price, who's swept you off your feet with ease, when you’d sent Simon away for cheating again barely seven months ago.

Glancing over at him, you cup your own icy hand over his on your thigh while your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage.

“Can you–Can you please take me home?”

Hiii and sorry about this :) Anyway—

[kirlicues]

Maxis Lost & Found and Default Replacement List | Resources: Sims 2 | Improving the Look of the Game

Here is a resource list of the Default Replacements I use to improve the look of my game, as well as "Maxis Lost & Found items" to add a little more variety.

I play a mostly CC-free game but I've also included a list of the tiny amount of "Maxis match" CC that I use, so if you download my lots and you have these things installed the houses should look like they do in the previews.

Can you believe the Sims 2 is over 20 years old!? It will look like it's hardly aged a day after you put these defaults in. 🤭 I also recommend Reshade for a truly up-to-date experience.

** This post might get updated from time to time. 💗 **

Build Mode Defaults:

Bay Tree texture default by @tvickiesims

Greener Gardens bush defaults by @peppermint-ginger

Greener Gardens Part 2 by @peppermint-ginger

Phlox by @tvickiesims

Plant Texture Defaults from this pack by @pforestsims

Default Garden Plot by @fwaysims

Less Square Waterlilies by @lvstndhrt

Brighter leaves, less square scattered leaves by @shastakiss and TheNinthWave Sims

White Roof Trim Defaults by Phaenoh at ModtheSims

Wall top texture defaults by Maranatah at ModtheSims

Window Fixes by Honeywell at ModtheSims

Mesh replacements for "Border of Helier" fences and the "Near the Floor" half wall by @crispsandkerosene

Buy Mode Defaults:

Custom Computer Screens Default Replacement by @eddysims

Custom Computer Screen - Term paper default add-on

Smaller Cash Register by @pforestsims

Better BBQ by @pforestsims

Useable TSS Coat Hangers (Outerwear, requires Seasons) by Richi3frog at ModtheSims

Keister Kompanion by @pforestsims

White Euro Stairs and Rail OFB (no more aqua line!), open underneath by Rosie. See a picture of it in use here.

Holy Smoke stairs clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @tvickiesims

Upwardly Mobile, Sweeping Success, Stair to Remember Fixes by @simblrnova

Black and White Bare Bath by @tvickiesims

Loft Shower clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @honeywellsdownloads

Clear glass on most objects by Corax at ModtheSims

Clear glass for windows and doors by Slig

Clothing Racks by @withlovefromsimtown

Mission Redux by Leefish

Teak Double Bed by HugeLunatic

Neighborhood Defaults:

Terrain Defaults - @curiousb

No more Blurriness - Beach, Cliff, and Snow defaults - Voeille

Criquettes Linden Trees as Default Replacements

Neighborhood Tree Default Replacements (specifically Ginko,

Redbud, and Walnut) by Honeywell at ModtheSims

Beautified Birch Trees by SixFootSims

CS Seasonal Pines as BG Pine Default by @lowedeus

Snow enabled Seasonal Pines by @lowedeus

Maxis BG Clouds made Global by @lazyduchess and @lowedeus

Effects Defaults:

Prettier Plumbobs by Ambular

Better Thought/Conversation Bubbles by @eddysims

Prettier Bubble Bath by @pforestsims

Sink and Basin Water Revised by @pforestsims

Fountain Water (clear and foamy) by @pforestsims

Clean Skill Meters Default by @pforestsims

Clean OFB Buy Bar Default by @pforestsims

Eye-friendly Countertops by @pforestsims

No Sheen On Ivy by @tvickiesims

Maxis Match Custom Content I use:

Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims

Creeping Ivy 3t2 Conversion by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

3t2 Functional Washer/dryer by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

LG Dryer & Washer Machine by Fresh-Prince at ModtheSims

Maxis Match Chimney Recolors by Kimsie at ModtheSims

I also use some skyboxes and skylines to add interest to preview pictures but those are not included in any of the lot files I offer.

"Maxis Lost & Found" objects converted into usable items by various modders:

Floral Modern Sofa recolor

The Stainless Barbecue - Grey Recolor

Five Studio Lamps

Numica 2x2 card table

Dielectric Electrobreeze Windmill

Broken Snow Globe

18th Century Portrait

Will Wright painting and grouped photos from CAS

"Vacation" recolor for Maxis painting

Ball Obelisk and Monolith Decorative Topiaries

Seven new trees

Modern Print

Souvenir Cabinet

International Sectional Booth

Cricket Bat

Floral Centerpiece

Race Car Bedroom

Lit Clothing Shop Sign

Ikea Pictures

Stockholm Bowl

BASKIS Ceiling Light

Ikea Lights ORGEL, ORGEL VRETEN, DUNO, LYRA

SKIMRA Lamp

Billy Wall Shelf

BENNO Coffee Table (Ikea Stuff)

Washboard (BV)

Plumbob Arch

Loft CAS Window, 2-story Timber column

Loft CAS Window - Fixed

Pinegultcher and Longhorn Balustrade Fences

Nouvelle Fences - "Brass" and "White" recolors

Art Nouveau gate - "White" recolor

Zecutine's "Step Away With Me" Stairs - "Olive" recolor

ValueWood Lumber's "Justa Door" - "Grey" recolor

Yellow Community Phone Recolor

Brick Wall (plus non-Maxis add-on textures)

Nightlife Tile Wall covering

Worn "Bamboo Fever" Wallpaper

Eat At Tiles - Red and White Tile walls

Misc floors

Jungle Rocks Neighborhood Décor (BV)

Bohemian Moldings Diagonal Mesh + Default

How to find more lost and found walls and floors and fences (There are quite a few duplicates that are already in your game if you unlock all of these, so just beware.)

Maxis Pre-Order Bonuses and Old TS2 Site Downloads

Additional useful links:

Must-have mods list for TS2. Compiled especially for Sims 2 Legacy Edition players, but useful for anyone no matter what version of TS2 you play.

Sims 2 Object Default Database Spreadsheet - this includes a whole bunch of defaults that I do not use.

A huge thank you to all the talented creators and modders who keep this game looking fresh after 20 years!

[ideasengineering]

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[inseobts]

Ghost Knife

strawhat crew x fem ! winter soldier ! reader (platonic)

inspired by bucky barnes (marvel) - after getting separated from the other strawhats you return as the world government’s masked assassin with orders to kill them all. but then memories begin to resurface and so does the person you used to be.

a/n: omg I had a huge crush on bucky at some point so thank you anon for this request lmao

words count: 4.3k

tags: platonic, sabaody archipelago arc spoilers, kidnapping, brainwashing, torture, angst, hurt/comfort, cybernetic arm

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

“Robin!”

Your voice cracks as you watch her vanish into thin air. One second she’s there, eyes wide, body tense, and the next, she’s gone. Swallowed by that giant’s palm. Sent flying through nothingness by Kuma’s strange power.

You run to where she stood, hand outstretched “Robin!”

The man, the machine, turns toward you.

Your breath catche “Don’t you dare.”

He says nothing. Just moves.

“Y/N!” Luffy yells from behind, voice full of panic “Run!”

You try to run. Kuma’s too fast. In a blink, his hand slams down.

You land hard. Cold floor. White lights. The air smells like metal and bleach.

You groan, pushing yourself up “Where…?”

Then pain shoots through your side. You curl up, coughing.

“Subject is awake, she forgot again.” a voice says above you. Mechanical. No kindness.

You blink through the blur. A face leans close with goggles, gloves, clipboard.

“Where am I?” you whisper.

He ignores your question “Sedate her again.”

“No!” You try to stand, but hands grab your arms. Straps hold your legs. A needle pricks your neck.

Your world fades to black.

The days bleed together.

They don’t call you by name. They call you Asset. Like a tool. Like a thing.

You scream the first time they put you in that chair. Metal clamps, flashing lights. They press buttons. You forget how many days pass. You forget the sound of Luffy’s laugh. Nami’s voice. Zoro’s snoring.

You try to run.

One day, you make it to a hallway before someone shoots your leg. You fall. They drag you back.

They don’t punish you with words. They punish you with fire.

“You’re stubborn,” the woman says. She has short black hair and cold eyes “Most subjects break after three weeks. You’ve lasted five.”

You spit at her.

She slaps you “Fine. We’ll go further.”

The next time you try to run away you then wake up with your left arm gone.

You scream until your throat bleeds.

“You don’t have to be in pain,” they say “Just obey.”

You don’t speak.

They give you a new arm. It’s metal. Heavy. Cold. It hums when you move it.

They teach you how to fight like a machine.

They wipe memories. Try to bury your name.

But in your dreams, Luffy still grins “You’re our nakama!”

Zoro still says “Tch. Don’t get soft.”

Usopp still brags “I’ll protect you!”

Robin still reads with you under the sun.

They can’t take that from you.

At least not yet.

Later on, the voice returns, steady and cold, always the same, “Who are you?”

You answer like they trained you to “I am Weapon Unit 27.”

“What is your mission?”

“Obey. Eliminate targets. No emotion. No hesitation.”

Your voice doesn’t shake anymore. Not like the first time. Or the fiftieth. But when you sleep, if they let you, shadows curl at the edge of your mind. Laughter. A rubbery arm slinging around your shoulders. Someone yelling about meat. Orange hair in the sunlight.

You reach for it but always end waking up screaming.

The woman with the cold eyes, Commander Drayke, watches as you fight in the simulation room. You’re faster now. Your metal arm crushes steel like paper. You don’t flinch when blades touch skin.

“She’s nearly ready,” Drayke says “Complete memory collapse in progress.”

The man beside her, white coat, tired face, glances at his screen “Her brain patterns still show flickers.”

“She’ll forget,” she says “Sooner or later.”

You now sit in your cell. Metal walls. One bed. One sink. One screen.

A small bird taps on the bars, black feathers, a bag tied to its leg.

News Coo.

The guard grabs it, rips the newspaper free, tosses it into your room.

“Read. Stay updated. Don’t fall behind.”

You almost ignore it.

Then your eyes catch two names.

PORTGAS D. ACE AND MONKEY D. LUFFY

The paper crinkles in your hands.

Luffy.

Ace.

The names itch in your chest.

You stare at their faces. Luffy’s wild smile. The straw hat on his back. Ace, strong and scarred, fire dancing in his hands.

You tilt your head.

“Why do they look… familiar?” you whisper.

You flip the page. There’s a bounty poster. A crew. Pirates.

The words Strawhat Pirates ring in your ears. It makes something in you tighten. Like a string pulled too hard.

Your hand trembles. You clutch your head.

Something hurts. Deep.

Like static in your skull.

“No. I don’t know them” you mutter.

But a voice inside you says: Liar.

Year 1, Month 8

Location: Secret Government Base – North Blue

The Winter Soldier... you stand motionless in the training room. Your breath is slow. Controlled. Your mask hides the lines of your face, but not the stillness of your new soul.

You don’t remember the ocean, the Going Merry, your family.

Only orders. Only targets. Only missions.

“Tell me what you are” the voice echoes from the intercom.

She answers with no hesitation.

“I am the blade of justice.”

“And who do you serve?”

“The World Government.”

“And your purpose?”

“To eliminate threats.”

“Good girl,” says Drayke “Deploy her.”

Same time - Weatheria, Sky Island

Nami lounges under a cloud tree, weather scrolls beside her. She flips open the latest News Coo with a sigh.

“Huh,” she mumbles “Another article about that assassin again…”

She reads aloud “The Winter Soldier has completed 35 high-level government missions. No survivors left at any site. Her origin is unknown. World Nobles call her their ‘Ghost Knife.’”

She frowns, “Creepy.”

She turns the page, trying to ignore the chill down her spine.

Kuraigana Island – Wasteland Castle

Zoro slices through a falling boulder like it’s paper. Perona floats nearby, holding up a newspaper.

“Hey, Moss-For-Brains, have you seen this? New assassin. Woman. Metal arm. Wears a mask. Total psycho.”

“Not interested.”

“She’s got a bounty on her head even without being a pirate. That’s rare.”

Zoro grabs the paper, scans it.

The image is blurry, during nighttime, shadows, but she’s unmistakable. That mask. That arm. That stance. The way her fist dents solid rock.

Zoro stares a little longer than he needs to.

“Huh,” he mutters “Feels… familiar.”

Boin Archipelago

Luffy stares at the newspaper like a child with candy.

“She looks SO COOL!” he yells, eyes shining “Usopp would freak out if he saw this!”

He points to the tiny, grainy picture of the Winter Soldier mid-kick, her metal arm glowing, mask hiding her face.

“Do you think she can stretch like me?!”

Rayleigh laughs from across the fire “She’s not like you, Luffy. She's basically a war machine now.”

Luffy tilts his head “That’s sad.”

Impel Down – Level 6, Hidden Room

You stand over a rebel leader, blood pooling on the floor.

“Good,” Drayke says through her comm “Leave no trace. Return for recalibration.”

You turn to leave, but something on the prisoner’s jacket catches your eye.

A small pin. A broken symbol. An old pirate jolly roger. It’s familiar.

You don’t know why but you kneel down, fingers brushing the worn cloth, as something in your chest twists.

A campfire. A boy with a slingshot. A reindeer with wide, teary eyes. Laughter.

You jerk back, eyes wide behind the mask “What was that?”

Two Years Later - Sabaody Archipelago

The sea smells like salt and blood.

You stand stiffly on the deck of the government ship, black mask fixed over your face, mechanical arm humming quietly. Behind the mask, your heart feels cold. Heavy.

The voice buzzes in your ear “Mission: Eliminate the Strawhat Pirates. Neutralize any other threats.”

You nod once, sharp “Understood.”

The ship docks silently and you jump off without a word, disappearing into the crowd.

Nami and Usopp walk quickly through the thick crowds, keeping their heads low.

“You sure it’s this way?” Usopp whispers nervously.

“Yeah,” Nami mutters “Shakky’s bar should be close—”

She stops dead.

Ahead, a group of pirates blocks the path. Rough-looking men. One of them is dressed ridiculously like Nami, down to the orange wig.

“Hey, hey, look at these cuties,” one of the fakes sneers “Where ya rushing off to?”

Nami grits her teeth “Move.”

The fake Nami shoves her hard “Make me, sweetheart.”

Before Usopp can react, a shadow drops between them. Heavy boots slam into the ground. A figure, all black armor and shining metal, stands there.

You.

The Winter Soldier.

The thugs laugh, until you move.

A brutal punch knocks the fake Nami out cold.

The other pirates don’t even have time to scream before you take them down with smooth, efficient blows. No wasted motion. No mercy.

Nami and Usopp stare, wide-eyed. The street falls dead silent.

You turn your masked face toward them.

No words.

No threat.

Just silence as the two Strawhats freeze.

Usopp’s voice trembles “T-thank you…?”

You say nothing.

Nami grabs Usopp’s sleeve “RUN!” she hisses.

They sprint away.

You stand there, unmoving, just watching them disappear into the trees.

You could have chased, but you don’t. Something in your chest aches, and you don’t know why.

Shakky’s Bar

The Strawhats start gathering inside the bar.

Zoro leans against a wall. Franky orders drinks. Robin smiles softly. Brook hums a tune. But the air feels… wrong.

“They should be here by now” Nami says, pacing.

Usopp wipes sweat off his forehead “You guys. We saw someone scary out there. I think… it was her. That assassin the whole world’s been talking about.”

Nami shudders “Yeah. She saved us. But she was terrifying.”

Chopper clutches his bag “Isn’t she working for the government…?”

Nobody has real answers. Only dread. Only waiting.

Meanwhile — Grove 34

Marine soldiers scatter like bowling pins as Luffy punches through them easily, grinning wide.

“Man, you guys are weak!” he laughs.

He turns the corner and freezes.

You stand there, waiting. Black mask. Cold metal arm. Heavy silence.

You don’t speak. You rush him.

Luffy grins, slipping into Gear Second, pink steam curling off him. But his smile fades when he sees your eyes through the slits of your mask. Empty. Hollow.

You clash. Fist against fist. Rubber against steel.

The street cracks under the force of your hits.

“You’re strong!” Luffy yells, blocking another strike.

But then he ducks under your punch and with a sudden roar, he slams his fist straight into your mask.

The metal splits and the mask breaks off, clatters to the ground.

You stand there, gasping softly, face bare under the sunlight.

Your face.

Scarred. Pale. Tired.

The other Strawhats arrive, running after the noise and they all skid to a stop when they see you.

Dead silence.

Luffy stares at you, his mouth hanging open. His fists lower. His heartbeat screams in his ears.

“Y…Y/N…?”

Nami covers her mouth “No…”

Chopper’s eyes fill with tears “It’s her! It’s really her!!”

Sanji falls to his knees, sobbing heart-shaped tears “A goddess! And it’s OUR Y/N!!”

Robin’s eyes go wide in quiet shock. Franky clutches his huge hands over his mouth. Brook stares, frozen.

You blink at them confused.

You step back, raising your weapon again “Who’s y/n? I don’t know you.”

The words feel wrong on your tongue.

Luffy steps forward slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“You’re my friend,” he says, voice rough and low “You’re my nakama. You’re part of our family.”

You hesitate.

Some random images flash in your mind.

Your grip tightens. Your orders scream in your mind: Eliminate them.

You attack.

The fight is brutal.

You move like a ghost, precise and devastating. But your strikes aren’t as strong anymore. Your hand shakes once when you aim at Nami. You freeze when Chopper cries your name.

Luffy blocks, dodges, and refuses to hit you hard. His voice breaks every time he calls your name.

“Come back...” he pleads.

“Wake up!” he begs.

Your body moves automatically, but inside, you are screaming.

In a desperate move, you throw a smoke bomb to the ground to blind them.

You retreat. Not because you were ordered to but because something inside you felt like breaking.

You stumble onto the ship, heart pounding.

Memories hit you like waves.

You fall to your knees in the empty hall, breathing hard.

“Luffy…” you whisper.

You don’t hear the footsteps behind you.

The scientists grab you and drag you to the white room. Cold metal cuffs slam around your wrists.

One scientist squints at you.

“What did you say?” he demands.

You clench your jaw. But it’s too late. They heard.

The lead scientist sighs coldly “She’s remembering. Begin full brainwash protocol.”

You struggle. You fight against the straps “Please! I don’t want to forget—!” you scream, thrashing.

The machine hums louder.

“You don’t need memories,” the doctor says flatly “You need orders.”

Tears prick your eyes as the sedation hits you.

The last thought in your mind before the darkness swallows you whole... I have to find them. I have to remember. I have to go bac home.

As the smoke clears. The mask lies broken in the dust. The air still hums with tension, but you’re gone.

The Straw Hat crew stands frozen in the middle of the wrecked street, staring at the empty space where you once stood.

No one says anything.

Chopper’s small voice finally breaks the silence.

“…She ran away.”

Robin steps forward slowly, picking up the shattered piece of your mask. The black metal is cracked, still warm.

She studies it with sad eyes.

“It was her,” she murmurs “All along.”

Usopp gulps “The Winter Soldier… that assassin everyone’s been talking about… that was Y/N?”

Franky clenches his fists “No wonder she was so strong.”

Sanji exhales a puff of smoke shakily, eyes low “Two years. That’s how long she’s been… gone.”

They walk slowly back to Shakky’s bar, the mood heavy like storm clouds. Inside, silence falls again.

Then Nami speaks.

“I should’ve known it was her.”

She sits down hard, shaking her head.

“When she saved us earlier, I didn’t… I didn’t recognize her. But the way she stood. The way she moved. It felt familiar. And I ignored it.”

Usopp adds, guilt in his voice, “Her eyes… They looked empty. She didn’t even blink. Like she wasn’t even… human anymore.”

“She was scared,” Chopper whispers, tears sliding down his cheeks “Even though she didn’t show it. I could feel it.”

Zoro leans against the wall, jaw tight “They must’ve brainwashed her. Tortured her. Trained her like a weapon.”

Luffy doesn’t say a word.

He’s sitting at the bar, hunched over, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles have gone white.

Robin turns to him gently “Luffy…”

He doesn’t look up.

“For a second I thought she was dead.”

His voice is low. Quiet. Broken.

“After I broke that mask her eyes felt nothing like our y/n.”

He slowly lifts his head. His eyes are red, jaw tight with emotion.

“But she’s still y/n. They turned her into that but she hesitated.”

“They stole her from us,” Luffy growls “They made her forget us.”

Nami looks up, blinking back tears “What do we do now?”

Luffy stands “We go get her.”

Everyone looks up.

Robin nods “They won’t let her go easily.”

“I don’t care,” Luffy says, voice firm now “She’s our nakama.”

“She probably doesn’t even remember us fully...” Usopp mutters.

“She doesn’t have to,” Luffy replies “I remember her.”

The room goes quiet.

Zoro smirks “Then we break in. We take her back.”

Sanji flicks his lighter “Hell yeah we do.”

Brook plays a low note on his violin “Let’s bring our friend home.”

Meanwhile, your body lies strapped down in the cold lab room.

Machines buzz around you. Wires in your head. Drugs in your veins. But somewhere deep inside your mind, something fights.

You stand in a white, empty space.

Alone.

Then “Oi! Don’t eat all the meat!”

Laughter.

“I’ll patch you up, just stop moving!”

“You’re one of us now, dummy!”

Voices. Memories. Echoes of who you were.

You stumble forward. The ground starts shaking. The white fades.

A hand reaches for you through the dark.

It’s Luffy’s.

“Come back” he says softly.

Some days later, the alarms blare. Explosions rock the outside of the base.

Marines run through the halls in panic “We’re under attack!!”

Outside Luffy crashes down through a wall, fist first.

“Y/N!!!”

The Strawhats have come.

Your eyes snap open.

Lights above. Cold metal around your wrists and ankles. Straps tighten across your body.

The head scientist leans over you, calm as ever.

“They’ve come for you.”

Your breath hitches.

You don’t ask who. You already know.

“Kill them all” he says.

A command.

Your programming obeys. A new steel mask is replaced. The black suit sealed. Your left arm whirs to life.

You stand up, empty inside.

The Straw Hats move like fire through the base.

Zoro cuts through waves of marines, swords flashing. Robin breaks them apart with giant phantom arms. Sanji kicks his way through steel walls and floors, growling, “Where is she!?”

Luffy punches another door down “She’s somewhere here. I can feel it.”

They find you in the inner chamber, standing alone, blocking the hallway.

Winter Soldier mode on. Silent. Masked. Deadly.

You raise your weapon, red light glowing on your metal arm.

Luffy stops.

So does the rest of the crew.

You stare at them and they stare back.

You speak first.

“Leave. Or die.”

Zoro doesn’t even flinch “Not happening.”

Your eye twitches behind the mask.

“I said leave.”

You dash forward. Fast.

Your punch aims straight for Sanji’s chest but he doesn’t move. You slam into him and he staggers back, coughing blood, but doesn’t strike back.

You hesitate.

Why didn’t he fight back?

You spin, launching kicks and strikes at Nami, Robin, Usopp... They dodge or take the hit but they don’t attack.

Nami yells, voice shaking, “We’re not gonna hurt you, Y/N!”

You freeze mid-swing.

Luffy steps forward, fists unclenched.

“You can try to kill us,” he says “But we’re not gonna stop until you remember who you are.”

“I know who I am... I’m the Winter Soldier” you reply coldly.

“No” Luffy says.

“You’re Y/N. Our nakama.”

You punch again and again, he takes it. Blood drips from his mouth. Still, he grins.

“Come on,” he says “I know you’re still in there.”

Your vision shakes. A memory flashes. You stumble backward, clutching your head.

“Stop! Stop!!”

Luffy doesn’t stop. He steps closer.

Robin gently calls, “You saved us so many times, Y/N. Let us save you now.”

“Don’t you remember?” Usopp says “You made me that slingshot charm, back on Water 7. You said it’d keep me safe.”

Sanji places a gentle hand on your shoulder “You called us family.”

The words hit like thunder.

You scream.

You drop to your knees.

The pain behind your eyes explodes and the memories rush in.

Every laugh. Every fight. Every hug. Every scar. Every sunset on the Sunny. Every meal Sanji made. Every time Chopper patched you up. Every stupid, perfect moment.

The mask suddenly feels wrong. Tight. Heavy. You rip it off.

Tears streak down your cheeks.

“I remember.”

Luffy holds out a hand to you, grinning through a split lip.

“Welcome back.”

You take his hand and stand up. The mask lies shattered at your feet. Tears drying on your cheeks. The Straw Hats stand beside you.

You don’t feel like the Winter Soldier anymore.

Now, you feel like you.

But the moment is short-lived. Behind you, the reinforced blast doors hiss open.

White coats. Scientists. Dozens of them. Their voices are calm. Clinical.

“She’s unstable.”

“Reactivate the protocol.”

“Sedate her before she infects the others with sentiment.”

You freeze. The crew tenses.

You feel the shift in the air. The pure, boiling rage that radiates from behind you.

Zoro steps forward first. One hand on his sword.

Sanji lights a cigarette. Hands shaking with fury.

Luffy cracks his knuckles “You’re the ones who did this.”

The scientists don’t even flinch.

“She was never yours to begin with.”

Wrong answer.

Zoro unsheathes his sword.

“Zoro—wait—” you try, but it’s too late.

He’s gone. Charging forward with the fury of a storm.

Luffy launches after him.

Sanji’s right behind, kicking straight through the steel wall just to get a shortcut to them.

Franky roars, cannon arm charged.

Brook draws his sword with an eerie silence “You hurt our friend.”

Even Nami gets ready to attack them saying “How dare you doing that to our y/n!”

Usopp, Robin, and Chopper stay behind you, but even they look mad and protective.

You turn to them, breath fast “We can’t let them go too far.”

“They tortured you!” Chopper yells, ears flat, teeth clenched “They hurt you for two years!”

“I know...” you say softly.

Robin’s eyes are hard, but she’s not moving “People like them… they don’t stop unless you make them.”

“They already broke laws” Usopp says “They broke you.”

You step between them and the path ahead.

“I’m not asking you to forgive them. I’m asking you not to become like them.”

Screams echo through the halls.

Zoro’s blade slices through security bots. Sanji kicks a scientist across the room. Luffy punches straight through a wall of machines.

They’re not holding back.

“YOU SHOCKED HER—FOR WHAT?!” Sanji bellows, grabbing a doctor by the collar.

“She was scared, and you punished her?”

Luffy blasts a ceiling open.

Zoro cuts through an entire server bank, sparks flying “You brainwashed her.”

“She’s a person” Franky says, as Nami stands beside him and continue the sentence “She’s not your weapon.”

You land hard in the center of the chaos, skidding between your friends and the scientists. The room is smoke and ruin. Bodies groaning. Fire crackling.

You raise your hands “STOP!!”

They do. Barely.

Luffy stands over a lead scientist, fist drawn back. Shaking with rage.

You step between them.

“Luffy,” you whisper “That’s enough.”

“She crushed your arm, Y/N,” he growls “She erased your name.”

“I know,” you say “And I’m still standing.”

His fist trembles in the air.

“Please,” you whisper “Let me go forward now.”

His arm drops.

Slowly, the others follow. Zoro sheaths his swords with a hard glare. Sanji turns away, biting down on his cigarette so hard it snaps. Franky’s fists stop sparking. And Nami look at you apologetically.

You stand there, panting, eyes wide.

No one speaks.

The scientists back away, terrified now. Not of the fists. But of the silence.

Robin walks over to you slowly. She places a hand on your arm.

“You brought them back” she says.

“Now I remembered who I am,” you whisper “And who I fight for.”

Hours later, the ship is quiet.

You sit on the deck, wrapped in a warm blanket. Chopper’s checked your wounds three times. Sanji made you soup and hasn’t stopped calling you “my dear lost goddess”. Nami prepared you a good warm bath and brushed your hair.

After you get out all clean and dressed as your real usual, Luffy joins you, plopping beside you with his usual grin.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just sits.

Then he says “You’re really back now.”

You nod.

“I missed you, Y/N.”

Your chest tightens.

“I missed you too.”

For the first time in years, you feel still. Safe.

Your new arm clicks softly as you lift your drink. It’s light. Comfortable. Yours. Matte black metal with gold lines running through it like veins, designed by Usopp and Franky, who proudly call it “The Strong Arm Mk. I”.

“Mk. II has a built-in slingshot compartment,” Usopp boasts, puffing up “Just in case.”

Franky flips his sunglasses up “And the third one comes with a grappling hook! So you can be SUPER mid-air!”

You laugh “I love it.”

They both beam like kids on Christmas.

Chopper bounds over next, stethoscope in paw “Arm okay? Nerves stable? Circulation’s good?”

You nod, smiling “You’ve checked it twice already.”

He pouts “I just wanna make sure! What if the bone memory causes—”

You hug him before he finishes the sentence.

He squeaks, face turning red “O-okay! You’re fine, you’re fine!”

Later, in the kitchen Sanji won’t stop cooking.

Plates stack up faster than you can eat them: your favorite stew, that spicy rice from Drum Island, a cake that’s somehow in the shape of your arm, and a hot drink with cinnamon swirls on top.

He hovers proudly nearby, heart eyes practically glued to you.

“I’ll make it every day if it makes you smile, mon étoile!”

You snort “You’re gonna spoil me.”

He spins dramatically “Then let me!! You’ve been through hell, now all you get is heaven!”

Brook strums his violin, a slow, sweet tune.

It’s the lullaby you used to hum when you couldn’t sleep.

He doesn’t say anything. Just plays for you.

Robin sits beside you, passing you a book she picked from her personal collection. It’s about strong women who survived and changed the world.

She doesn’t say much either. She doesn’t have to.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Nami and Zoro hang back at first.

You find them leaning against the mast, watching the crew buzz around you.

“You okay?” Nami asks quietly.

You nod “I am now.”

Zoro doesn’t look at you, but his voice is low and honest “You scared the hell outta us.”

“I know” you say softly.

“I’m sorry.”

He glances over at last “You don’t have to be. Just don’t vanish again.”

You smile, holding back tears “I won’t.”

Nami smiles back at you “I’m so happy to see you smile again!”

Later that night, Luffy slams his mug down “Alright!! Now that everyone’s back, let’s celebrate!”

The crew cheers.

Meat piles up. Lights string along the mast. Music plays. Laughter fills the air.

You’re laughing too, tears in your eyes, surrounded by your family.

They don’t treat you like you’re broken. They don’t treat you like a weapon.

They treat you like Y/N.

The next morning the sails are up. The wind is perfect. The Log Pose spins confidently.

Nami grins “Let's start, next stop: Fishman Island!”

Luffy points ahead “Full speed!!”

You stand beside him, wind in your hair, new arm gleaming in the sun.

“Let’s go.”

Because this time, you’re not just coming along.

You’re finally home, with them. And the world better be ready.

[kxsagi]

“𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧”

a/n: okay so… i have dante brainrot

(fanart found here)

you don’t know when it started – well, technically, you do. it was a saturday morning, the kind where the sky is grey and the coffee machine starts sputtering at the worst possible moment. you’d just slapped on your apron and were trying to wrestle a ketchup bottle back to life when he walked in. 

all tall, dark, and devastating. like he was in the wrong movie. like he was supposed to be fighting demons in hell or racing luxury cars across italian rooftops, not standing in your small local diner, blinking up at the specials board like he was decoding a program. 

“uh…hi,” you said, a little breathless. “just one?”

he smiled, and the air shifted like a song started playing just for you. 

“yeah,” he nodded, and then… then he really looked at you. “unless you’re off in twenty minutes. then two.” 

you’d laughed. it was polite. professional. you’d been hit on before. you were gorgeous, after all (and humble). but this guy, he looked like he meant it. like he’d follow you out of there and help you change a flat tire and write poetry about it. 

“booth or bar?” you asked, already leading the way. 

he took a booth. he took every booth after that. because that was the first time dante walked into the diner. and somehow, it was never the last. 

“let me guess,” you say now, pen hovering over your notepad. you were standing in the same spot, just three months later. “you’re going to order the other side of the menu today.” 

dante grins, the kind that could make your knees weak if you weren’t too busy leaning on the table like a girl in a romcom who still has three tables left to take care of. 

“how’d you know?” 

“because you circled the first half last week like you were doing SAT prep.” 

“that obvious, huh?” 

enzo, who is already sitting across from dante with the dead eyes of a man who has been dragged here nearly every wednesday and saturday for the last month, doesn’t even look up from the menu. “you’re pathetic.” 

“i’m learning about local culture,” dante retorts smoothly. “and it’s not pathetic if i’m in love.” 

enzo groans so loud it startles the old man in the corner booth. “again with the love.” 

you raise an eyebrow, flipping your pen between your fingers. “oh?” 

“don’t indulge him,” enzo mutters. 

but you do. because it’s funny. because it’s dante. because he’s got this way of talking like everything he says is a compliment in disguise. especially when it is. 

“so…what’s the order today, romeo?” 

dante’s eyes flicker down to the menu like it’s the first time he’s seeing it and not like he’s been aggressively trying every variation of breakfast sausage on god’s green earth just to talk to you. 

“i’ll take… the pancakes.” 

“the banana ones?” 

“surprise me.” 

enzo makes a strangled noise. “he’s trying to make that sound sexy. do you hear that? i’m not hallucinating.” 

you stifle a snort and turn away with a little smile. “you want bacon with that?” 

“only if you eat one with me.” 

enzo slams his head onto the table. 

but despite the old man’s warnings, you can’t help it – dante’s charming. 

not just flirty. charming. he says thank you like he means it. he helps old people with their coats at the door. he offers to fix the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom with his bare hands like he was born to. he even pulled a stray cat out from under your car last week and tried to name it after you (“look at her, she's got your attitude”). 

it would be easier if he was annoying. or weird. or just some guy with a terrible pickup line and an ego problem. but instead he’s funny. he’s sweet. and yeah, he’s tall. 

you just hadn’t expected his height to be his opening line today. 

“so,” he said casually, elbow on the table like he belonged in a cologne ad. “did i mention i’m six foot three?” 

you blinked. “… is that your order?” 

enzo dropped his head into his hands. “kill me.” 

“i just thought you should know,” dante went on, sipping his coffee like it was wine and he was at a gala. “for science.” 

“science?” 

“yeah. for… height-based compatibility purposes.” 

“wow,” you said dryly, scribbling on your notepad. “and here i was, trying to decide if you were a blueberry or a chocolate chip pancake kinda guy.” 

“i’m flexible,” dante said, all smooth as enzo was actively searching for exits at this point. “but i lean sweet.” 

the weeks go by. dante keeps showing up. he’s tried everything from the chili cheese fries to the tuna melt (“a bold move,” you told him, he looked proud). he tips generously (even though you can tell he has no extra pennies for himself). flirts even more generously. sometimes he brings enzo. sometimes he comes alone. and when he does, he sits at the bar and spins the little napkin dispenser like he’s trying to impress it. 

“you ever think about getting a job here?” you joke one afternoon while pouring him another soda. “you’re basically an unpaid intern at this point.” 

“only if i get to wear the same uniform,” he says, eyes dragging up your apron with a smirk. 

you roll your eyes. but you’re smiling. you always are when he’s around. 

enzo walks in late that day, takes one look at dante smiling like an idiot and you laughing like you’ve known him for years, and sighs the sigh of a man who has already drafted his best man speech out of spite. 

“don’t even,” dante warns before enzo can sit. “we’re having a moment.” 

“you’re having a delusion,” enzo corrects. “this is a restaurant, not a dating sim.” 

you just shake your head, grabbing their plates. “pancakes and existential dread, coming up.” 

enzo salutes you. dante grins proudly. 

and you? 

you’re starting to like the regulars. especially the tall one. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[heliosunny]

Hola!

If your doing genshin lucky eggs, could I get a Wriothesley please?

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Wriothesley x Reader

The Lucky Egg Dispenser was meant to be just that—lucky. A silly little machine promising fortune or surprise. At night, you swore you heard something shifting inside. A faint scratching, a soft tap-tap-tap against the shell. The idea of something alive in there unsettled you, yet a strange attachment formed.

Then, on the third day, it happened.

You weren’t even there to witness it fully. You had stepped away, just for a moment. Trouble had found you, as it always did. A group of men, rough and mean, had cornered you in an alley, their intentions unclear but certainly not good. You fought, struggled, but they were stronger.

crack

A rush of cold air surrounded you.

The men barely had time to scream.

When you turned back, the egg was gone. And in its place, standing over the mangled bodies, was a man.

Dark hair damp with the remnants of his birth, eyes gleaming like frostbitten steel. His hands, coated in fresh crimson. His chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

The words hovered just above him, as if the universe itself was assigning him to you. He wasn’t just some random creature that had hatched—he belonged to you.

[Name: Wriothesley] [Species: ???] [Abilities: ????]

The alley reeked of blood. The bodies lay crumpled at Wriothesley’s feet, their faces frozen in terror, throats torn open like paper.

And Wriothesley… He stood there, fresh from his hatching, the remnants of his cracked shell still at his feet, shards slick with whatever strange ichor had birthed him.

"You left me." His voice was deep, smooth like ice cracking over a frozen lake. "They tried to hurt you."

"Are you....Wriothesley? you—"

"I fixed it."

You should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done something. But you didn’t.

Fate wasn’t about to let either of you walk away so easily.

The commotion had drawn attention. Footsteps thundered down the street, voices shouting orders. The air filled with the sharp clang of weapons being drawn. Guards.

You barely had time to react before they surrounded you, their eyes darting between you and Wriothesley, to the carnage at his feet.

"Drop your weapon!" one barked.

You didn't have one. Wriothesley did. Himself.

He didn’t move, his cold stare sweeping over the guards like they were insects. For a moment, you feared he would kill them too.

But then his fingers curled around your wrist,

"I won’t let them take you."

"We can’t fight them all."

He didn’t want to let go. But the odds were stacked against you, and even he knew it. Slowly, he lifted his hands, though his grip on you never loosened.

The guards seized you both, shackling your wrists with cold, heavy iron. Wriothesley let them—for now. But as they dragged you toward the looming silhouette of the Fortress of Meropide, his voice brushed against your ear.

"This isn’t the end" he whispered. "You’re mine. No matter where they take us."

You shivered—not from the cold, not from fear, but from the certainty in his words.

This prison wasn’t your punishment.

It was his territory.

They dumped you both in like criminals, though only one of you had actually killed someone. You should have been terrified. The prison was deep beneath the ocean, its towering iron gates swallowing you whole as you were processed, stripped of anything valuable, and shoved into the main halls where prisoners loitered, eyes watching like hungry wolves.

The first few days were tense.

The prison had its own hierarchy—dangerous men who prowled like predators, others who merely tried to survive. You could feel the weight of their stares, assessing, testing. A few got too close, murmuring crude comments, trying to see if you’d flinch.

But you had him.

Wriothesley never left your side. Despite the loose prison uniform draped over his body, he carried himself like he belonged here—like he owned the place. His presence alone was enough to make most prisoners hesitate.

Well… Wriothesley had no qualms about breaking a few bones.

The first man to try and corner you learned that the hard way. A single glance from Wriothesley sent him to his knees, gasping, clutching his wrist at an unnatural angle.

After that, people kept their distance.

At night, when the dim lanterns flickered, you lay in your assigned cell, Wriothesley’s back pressed against the cold wall beside you. He watched you in silence.

"You don’t have to protect me all the time"

"Yes, I do."

You woke to the scent of iron. It clung to the damp prison air, sharp enough to make your stomach turn.

Blinking against the dim light, your vision adjusted to the sight before you— Wriothesley sat at the edge of the cell, his broad back turned toward you. His loose prison shirt was drenched in crimson, sticking to his skin. Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling onto the cold stone floor. It wasn’t his.

“Wriothesley…?”

At the sound of your voice, he turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see his face. His sharp features were calm, as if he had simply gone for a midnight stroll instead of painting the floor red. His knuckles were bruised, his sleeves rolled up, and there was a fresh cut along his collarbone.

He had stayed up all night.

Your gut twisted. This prison was dangerous, but how many threats had he already erased before they could even reach you?

“Did someone try something?” you asked cautiously, sitting up.

His lips curled slightly. “They were considering it.”

Your fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath you. You should have felt uneasy, but you didn’t. He had done this for you. And you weren’t the type to just ignore that.

“Stay still” you murmured, shifting closer.

His eyes followed you with quiet amusement as you reached for the cloth tucked near the water basin in the corner. Dipping it into the cold water, you wrung it out before gently pressing it against the bloodstains on his arm. The warmth of his skin contrasted against the sticky, drying blood, but Wriothesley didn’t flinch. He simply watched, silent and accepting, as you cleaned him up.

“You don’t have to do this” he said after a moment.

“I know”

But it felt like the right thing to do.

“You take care of me, and I take care of you. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer right away. The truth was, you didn’t know if fairness had anything to do with it anymore. You weren’t sure when—if—you’d ever get out of here. But Wriothesley? He didn’t seem concerned.

To him, it didn’t matter where you were, as long as he was with you.

If this place unsettled you, he’d fix it.

And the first step?

Establishing dominance.

“We need people” Wriothesley mused, stretching his fingers, the remnants of blood cracking along his knuckles. “Loyal ones. If you’re uncomfortable here, I’ll change that. But I need men under me first.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“By showing them what happens when they don’t follow me.”

Wriothesley was patient, like a wolf stalking prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The first step was simple: make a statement.

The bodies from last night had already sent a message, but words faded fast in a place like this. Strength had to be reinforced. And so, the next morning, Wriothesley found his first target—Orin.

Orin was a brute. Thick-necked, cruel-eyed, and one of the self-proclaimed big names in the prison. He controlled a handful of men, ruled over the food lines, and made sure the weak stayed weak. The type who thought himself untouchable.

Until Wriothesley put him on his knees.

It happened in the middle of the mess hall. A calculated move—right where everyone could see. Orin had swaggered up to you, muttering something under his breath, but he never got to finish the sentence.

One second, Orin was standing tall, smirking. The next, he was choking on his own breath, Wriothesley’s fingers clamped tight around his throat, forcing him down onto the grimy floor. The entire hall froze.

“Didn’t quite hear you”

Orin’s face darkened as he struggled, but Wriothesley held firm. The power imbalance was clear. He wasn’t just showing off strength—he was proving a point.

Silence stretched before Wriothesley leaned in and whispered something in Orin’s ear. You didn’t hear the words, but whatever he said made the man’s face drain of all color.

When Wriothesley finally let go, Orin stumbled back, gasping, his hands trembling. He didn’t fight back. Didn’t even speak. Just left.

After that, the whispers started.

No one wanted to challenge the man who took down Orin like he was nothing. Some men even approached Wriothesley afterward, subtly seeking protection, offering favors.

By the end of the day, he had a small following.

By the end of the week, he had control over the food lines.

And by the end of the month, Wriothesley wasn’t just another prisoner—he was someone in here.

Someone feared.

Someone who owned this place.

And through it all, he stayed by your side.

“You don’t need to worry anymore” he murmured one night, “No one will touch you. Not while I’m here.”

Even with Wriothesley’s presence looming like an unshakable shadow, you couldn’t ignore the way prison life slowly wore you down. The cold air, the damp walls, the constant tension—it was exhausting. Every step felt like treading carefully over thin ice, never knowing when it might crack beneath you.

Wriothesley made things easier, sure. But he wasn’t always by your side.

Lately, he had been busy. Busy building something. You knew what he was doing—gathering men, establishing his power, shaping the prison to fit his rules. He had a vision for this place, one where you wouldn’t have to worry.

But you did.

Because even if you were under his protection, you were still here. And the weight of that fact sat heavy in your chest.

So you took some time for yourself.

You wandered through the prison halls, avoiding trouble where you could, dodging the curious glances. You tried to focus on adjusting, getting used to the food, the routine, the idea that this place might be your life for a long time.

And when exhaustion took over, you finally decided to do something you should have done days ago.

You checked the status board.

Bringing up the system wasn’t hard—it flickered to life the moment you willed it to appear. And just like before, Wriothesley’s name was displayed at the top.

[Name: Wriothesley] [Species: ???]

But there were new things listed now.

[Abilities Unlocked: - Dominance (Passive): Influence over others grows stronger through intimidation and power. - Territorial Instinct (Active): Establishes a ‘domain’ where physical abilities are enhanced. - Tracking (Active): Can sense and locate wanted individual at all times.]

That last one

“Found you.”

His hair was slightly damp, as if he had been moving fast. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing bruised knuckles and the faint traces of a fresh fight. But more than that, there was something intense in the way he looked at you.

Like a hunter who had just found what he was chasing.

“Where were you?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I just needed some space.”

"You should've told me."

"I don't have to tell you everything."

He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep his patience. “Maybe not everything. But when you disappear, I will find you.”

“...You were looking for me?”

“I’ll always look for you.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. The weight of everything—the tension, the exhaustion, the sheer stress of surviving in this place—pressed down on you all at once. And now, on top of it all, Wriothesley was here, standing too close, acting like you had done something wrong just by stepping away for a moment.

"You need to stop" you said flatly, eyes meeting his.

"Stop what?"

"This. Acting like I need to be under your watch every second."

"I was looking for you."

"And I didn’t need you to." Your voice came out sharper than intended, irritation creeping in. "I just wanted some space, and instead, I find out you've been hunting me down like I went missing. Do you even hear yourself?"

His lips parted slightly, but you didn’t give him the chance to respond.

"You’re so damn focused on controlling everything around you, making sure nothing touches me, but have you even considered how suffocating that is?" You took a step closer, eyes burning into his. "I’m already dealing with enough as it is—being stuck in this place, trying to figure out how to keep myself together. The last thing I need is you breathing down my neck."

Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "...Fine."

That was it. No excuses, no justification. Just a single word.

You studied his face, looking for any trace of mockery, but there was none.

You should have felt victorious. Instead, all that anger left you drained.

"I'm going back."

"To where?"

"Our cell." You rubbed your temple, fatigue settling deep in your bones. "I need sleep."

By the time you collapsed onto the hard prison bed, your body ached for rest. You barely reacted when Wriothesley sat down on the other end, leaning against the wall.

"You’re not going anywhere, are you?" you muttered, voice heavy with exhaustion.

"Not unless you tell me to."

You didn’t have the energy to reply. Within seconds, the world faded into darkness.

When you woke up, the exhaustion that had weighed you down for days finally loosened its grip. Your mind felt clearer, body lighter. For the first time since being thrown into this place, you didn’t feel like you were running on the edge of collapse.

You sat up, stretching out the stiffness from your limbs. Across the cell, Wriothesley sat exactly where you left him, leaning against the wall with his eyes half-lidded.

Standing up, you ran a hand through your hair. "I'm going to eat"

Wriothesley immediately shifted, ready to stand.

"Alone" you added firmly, shooting him a look before he could even open his mouth.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared, searching your expression for any room to argue.

You held firm. "Stay here."

"...Alright."

You half-expected him to follow anyway, but to your mild surprise, he didn’t.

With that, you left.

The meal was nothing special. Just the same stale food, the same dull murmurs of prisoners eyeing each other across the hall, the same tension that never fully faded. But at least you got a moment to yourself.

By the time you returned to the cell, your body felt settled. But the moment you stepped in, you stopped short.

Wriothesley was still there.

Still kneeling.

On both knees.

Right where you left him.

His head was slightly bowed, hands resting on his thighs, his entire form eerily still. Like a loyal dog waiting for its owner to come home. The sight would have been unsettling if not for the way his shoulders were slightly tense, the way his fingers curled subtly as if restraining himself.

You took a slow step forward. "You—”

His head snapped up the moment he heard your voice, eyes locking onto you like a desperate, guilty puppy that had been caught after making a mess.

"You're still kneeling?" you asked, your voice softer than before.

"You told me to stay"

"I didn’t tell you to kneel like this the whole time."

"You didn’t tell me not to" he countered, but his voice lacked any bite. If anything, there was a strange mix of guilt and uncertainty in it.

You stared at him for a long moment. Despite everything—despite his strength, his violence, his cold control over the prison—right now, he looked like nothing more than a scolded dog.

Your resolve wavered.

"...I didn’t mean to be so harsh earlier" you admitted, shifting awkwardly. "I was just—tired. Angry."

"Get up already."

For the first time since you returned, something in his shoulders relaxed. He rose smoothly to his feet, still watching you carefully, as if unsure of where you stood with him.

You shook your head, crossing your arms. "Next time, just sit like a normal person."

"...If that's what you want"

You looked away, feeling something uneasy settle in your chest. This man—this person who had torn through the prison hierarchy with his bare hands—had been sitting there, waiting for you like this the entire time.

You weren't sure how to feel about that.

But for now, you let it go.

"Come on" you muttered, finally stepping further inside. "Let's just rest."

----

It happened fast.

One moment, you were just moving through the prison halls, minding your own business. The next, a rough hand clamped over your mouth, and your body was dragged into the shadows before you could react.

A fist slammed into your stomach. Pain shot through you like fire, knocking the air from your lungs. Before you could even recover, another hit followed—a sharp blow to your ribs, sending you to your knees.

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to lift your head.

Three men. No—four.

They stood over you, sneering. You recognized them—part of another faction in the prison, one that had been growing restless ever since Wriothesley started taking control. They hadn’t dared to act before.

But now, they had you.

"Bet he’ll come running" one of them chuckled, crouching down to grab your chin roughly. "Let’s see how tough he is when his little pet gets put through hell, huh?"

You glared up at him, refusing to show fear. But inside, a cold weight settled in your chest.

They were right about one thing.

He would come.

Wriothesley had been busy.

Establishing order in a place like this took effort. Negotiations, displays of power, making sure his growing influence didn’t slip the moment he turned his back.

But then, the whispers started.

"They got Y/N." "Ain’t looking good—think they’re gonna rough ‘em up bad." "Wriothesley’s gonna lose it."

The moment he heard your name, everything else ceased to matter.

He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand details.

He went alone.

The gang barely had time to react before Wriothesley stepped into view, his presence swallowing the space like a storm.

His knuckles were already cracking.

"You."

The leader of the group barely had time to smirk before Wriothesley moved.

The first punch landed so hard it sent a man crashing into the wall with a sickening crack. Before he could even hit the ground, Wriothesley was already onto the next, driving his fist straight into his gut, lifting him off the floor before slamming him down.

The others scrambled back, but it was too late.

One by one, he tore through them. Bone crunched under his fists. Blood splattered against the cold stone. Their screams echoed through the halls, but no one came to help.

By the time the last man fell—gasping, barely conscious—Wriothesley stood among the wreckage, his breathing slow, controlled. His knuckles dripped red.

And then—his eyes found you.

Without hesitation, he crouched down, hands hovering near you, hesitant for the first time that night.

"...Did they break anything?"

You winced slightly, shaking your head. "Nothing serious."

"You’re hurt."

You sighed, giving him a tired look. "And you just crushed a bunch of guys with your bare hands."

Wriothesley didn't respond right away. Instead, he reached out, carefully wiping away a trace of blood from your lip with his thumb.

"...They won’t touch you again."

And judging by the bodies around you, you believed him.

The next day, the entire atmosphere in the prison shifted.

Word of what Wriothesley had done spread fast—how he had taken down four men alone without breaking a sweat. But what came next was what truly cemented his rule.

He made them clean. Bruised, broken, and still limping, those same men who had laid their hands on you were now scrubbing the floors, wiping down the filthy walls, and polishing every rusted bar until they gleamed.

The mess hall, the corridors, even the corners everyone ignored—he had them working like dogs under his watchful eye.

When you saw it happening, disbelief flickered through you. The place had been a decaying wreck for as long as you'd been here—dirt-streaked walls, the constant stink of sweat and grime. Now, the floors were shining, the air clearer. It was almost surreal.

You leaned against the wall, watching as one of the men wiped down a row of benches with shaky hands. Wriothesley stood nearby, arms crossed, his eyes locked onto them with cold detachment.

"Didn’t think you’d care about something like this"

His head turned slightly, gaze flicking to you.

"You like things clean."

"You… did all this just because of that?"

"If we're going to be stuck here... it might as well feel like home."

Even after everything. Even after clawing his way to the top of this place, breaking bones and spilling blood—he was still the same creature that had hatched from that egg, bound to you by something neither of you fully understood.

You looked away, pretending the warmth rising to your face wasn’t there.

"...It’s not bad."

"You’ll like it better when it’s done."

You hated how easily he could disarm you with simple gestures like this. How he could make you feel safe even in a place like this.

But maybe that was just what he was meant to be.

A protector.

Later that night, when the whole prison finally settled into uneasy silence, you caught Wriothesley watching the clean walls with a small, almost satisfied smirk—like he had carved out something just for you in this pit.

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you curled up in the makeshift bed, feeling the faint scent of soap lingering in the air, and let yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe this hellhole could become something close to home.

If he kept his promise.

The air in the cell was quieter than usual. The faint scent of soap still lingered from the forced cleaning earlier, and for once, the place actually looked livable. You wouldn't call it comfortable, but compared to what it had been before, it was a damn improvement.

You exhaled, stretching your sore limbs before sitting on the edge of the bed. The events of the day weighed on you—your body still ached from the earlier fight, but at least you could breathe without feeling the grime of the prison clinging to your skin.

"Wriothesley....You’re staring"

"I worked hard today" he said plainly.

You glanced up at him. "And?"

"I deserve a prize."

"A prize?"

Wriothesley stepped closer, his movements slow but deliberate. The space between you shrank until he was right in front of you.

"You like it, don’t you?" he murmured, "The clean floors. The fresh air. I did that for you."

"You made a bunch of guys do it for me" you corrected.

"Same thing."

"What do you want, Wriothesley?"

"Something from you."

His hand reached out, fingers grazing the underside of your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

The heat radiating from him felt suffocating, his presence swallowing all the space around you. But what unsettled you most was the look in his eyes, as if he was waiting for you to understand something he hadn’t said out loud.

"You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me" he murmured, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "And I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you."

"Doesn’t that mean I deserve a little something?"

"...What are you asking for?"

"You’ll figure it out."

His hand lingered for a moment longer, before he finally pulled away, as if giving you the chance to decide.

Days passed, but Wriothesley’s words still lingered in your mind.

"I deserve a prize."

You hated how it stuck with you—how every time he looked at you, there was that quiet, expectant patience. Like he was waiting.

You had tried ignoring it. Acting like it never happened. But Wriothesley wasn’t the type to forget. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, but that made it even worse. Because the longer you didn’t acknowledge it, the more it felt like he was winning without even trying.

So instead of giving in, you distracted yourself.

The status board had been something you hadn’t checked much since ending up in this place, but with no other way to escape your thoughts, you finally pulled it up.

The glowing screen hovered before you, listing various stats—yours, Wriothesley’s, and even a shop tab you hadn’t noticed before.

Curious, you scrolled through it.

There were items—strange ones, some practical, some completely useless. But what stood out the most was that there was no listed currency. No gold, credits, or anything that made sense.

"Then how the hell do you buy things…?"

Your eyes flicked over the options, barely reading before your finger accidentally tapped on one.

—[Collar + Chain] Purchased.—

The moment the message popped up, a sudden weight jerked in your hand.

Cold metal. A chain.

And at the other end—

Wriothesley stood in the doorway. The black collar wrapped snugly around his throat, a sleek silver chain extending from it—straight into your grip. You both stared at each other.

"...Well," he finally murmured, voice lower than usual. "You should’ve just told me."

Your mind screeched to a halt. "What—"

"You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?" He took a slow step forward, the chain shifting slightly, the tension between you tightening.

"I—this isn’t—"

He didn’t look upset. Not at all.

"You picked this" he reminded.

"You think I picked it—"

"You did pick it" he corrected, and this time, there was a slight curve to his lips—something satisfied.

Like you had just unknowingly handed him his prize.

And worst of all?

You still hadn’t let go of the chain.

The situation was getting worse.

Wriothesley’s fingers lazily traced the collar around his neck, his expression unreadable but undeniably smug. The chain still dangled from your grip, the cold metal far heavier than it had any right to be.

You needed to get it off. Now.

Your fingers fumbled, desperately trying to find a way to remove it through the status board, but nothing was working. Worse, from the outside, it must’ve looked like you were adjusting the collar on his throat—your hands moving over his skin, the chain shifting as you struggled.

The cell door creaked open.

A man stepped in, looking utterly confused at the sight before him.

You—practically pressed against Wriothesley, hands on his throat. Wriothesley—staring at you with an expression that could only be described as possessive satisfaction.

To anyone else, it was exactly what it looked like.

Wriothesley narrowed his eyes. The temperature in the room plummeted. The way he turned his head, the slow, deliberate shift of his jaw—everything about Wriothesley in that moment reeked of murder. Like he had just been rudely interrupted in the middle of something sacred and was now considering bloodshed.

Before Wriothesley could so much as move, you frantically signaled the man to get out. Your wide eyes and sharp hand gestures practically screamed— "You saw nothing. LEAVE. NOW."

The man bolted. Smart choice.

You let out a breath before finally managing to erase the damn collar, the chain disappearing from your grip like it had never been there.

Relief flooded through you—only to be ripped away when Wriothesley suddenly leaned in, his lips pressed against yours.

It wasn’t a slow, teasing kiss—it was punishment. Payback for making him look like that. For removing what he had already accepted as his.

"That," he murmured, smirking, "was for taking my prize away."

Wriothesley just looked at you, utterly pleased.

You had no idea if you had won this round—or if he had just claimed something even worse.