#deadly architecture

[x-heesy]

Feng Shui Nightmare

No wonder that there in the first world are so many mental illness, lovers

Together but alooooone

Evil buildings

Sickness

#photoart #photoartist #photoartwork #photoartistic #photoarts #blissfulphotoart #photoartistique #photoarte #photoartistry #contemporaryphotoart #photoartists #photoarty #photoartgallery #photoartmag #nyphotoart #photoartcrew #photoartspirit #photoartgram #urbanphotoart #photooftheday #photographylovers #aesthetic #photographylover #ilovephotography #photographyart #artoftheday #creative #artgallery #artdaily #artpost #Travelingwithoutmoving #architecture #architecturephotography #architecturelovers #architectureporn #architecturedesign #architecturelover #architecturephoto #architecturedaily #architecture_hunter #architecturedetail #architecturephotos #architecturedose #architectureanddesign #architecturelife #architecturegram #architecturelove #architecturephotograpy #architectures #architectureinspiration #architecture_view #architektur #architekturfotografie #architekturfotograf #architektur_erleben #architekturliebe #architekturporn #architekturelovers

Moons Out, Goons Out by Warlord Colossus 🎵

[the-face-in-the-mirror]

So remember how I said the Boar Hat would only have minimal changes? Yeah, so apparently that was a fucking lie.

Also, apparently I do architecture and interior design now. Who would've thought?

As you can see, the Boar Hat is now much bigger than it originally was. Architecturally unstable? Perhaps. But this is anime, and we don't care about that kind of logic; the important thing is that everyone now has their own rooms! I also wanted to keep it similar to the original design, because I just think it has a certain charm and hominess to it that the second design (from later in the series) just doesn't.

I'll admit I'm not the best at interiors, but I hope I managed to convey where almost everything is in a way that makes sense. Designing the rooms was a real treat, especially the duality of King and Ban's rooms. I might add some vents here and there later on, since I have this funny image of the Sins all yelling at each other through the vents to different floors, but we'll see.

Anyway, I hope you like it! And if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask!

[yantao-enthusiast]

yeah

[blumoonfiction-blog]

IRL:(In Real Life) The Clock Arena and Real-Life Labyrinths

In Catching Fire, Suzanne Collins introduces us to a sinister new arena—a giant clock divided into twelve deadly sections, each designed to confuse and ensnare the tributes in a calculated game of life and death. The concept of using time and structure as weapons is both chilling and fascinating, evoking ancient stories and real-world places where people have been trapped, hunted, or manipulated…

[cece693]

Not Going to Change, Honey

pairing: carlisle cullen x male reader tags: evil reader, he doesn't really have morals tbh, Carlisle is your mate, rocky relationship, unresolved conflict, part 2 if people want it

For all the centuries Carlisle Cullen had roamed the earth, he had never encountered anyone quite like you. He had seen grandeur in architecture, brilliance in art, and compassion in the tender eyes of mortals. But when he first laid eyes on you—one of the Volturi’s most lethal guards—he was utterly unprepared for the impact you would have on him.

Carlisle’s initial impression was one of quiet awe. You stood poised in the grand reception hall of the Volturi fortress, clad in the distinctive blood-red cloak that symbolized your allegiance to Aro. Long, elegant lines formed your silhouette—every inch of you exuded a kind of potent, dangerous allure that was hard to ignore. Perhaps it was the severe cut of your jaw or the dark gleam in your eyes that made Carlisle’s breath catch. But despite the warning prickle of tension in the air, there was something undeniably captivating in your presence.

“I presume you are the esteemed Dr. Cullen,” you said smoothly, voice as cold and refined as the marble walls around you.

Carlisle inclined his head, forcing himself to maintain calm even though his chest felt inexplicably tight. “Yes. Carlisle Cullen,” he replied politely. “I recently arrived at Aro’s invitation.”

You surveyed him with an intensity that made him feel as though every thought he had was laid bare. Carlisle found his gaze lingering on the sharp contour of your cheeks and the elegant line of your mouth. There was a deadly grace about you, but more than that, a magnetic pull he couldn’t explain.

“Word of your…unique lifestyle precedes you,” you remarked, a slight edge of amusement curling your lips. “I suppose you’ll find Volterra quite different from your usual endeavors.”

Carlisle almost smiled in return. “I suspect I will,” he said quietly. Then he glanced around, torn between fascination and a subtle dread of the Volturi’s rigorous methods. “Though I’m eager to see what the Volturi’s world is truly like.”

You nodded curtly, turning on your heel to guide him deeper into the fortress. The moment you moved, Carlisle found himself transfixed by the fluidity of your steps, by the swish of your cloak. He wondered if you realized how captivating you were, or if cruelty and power were all you cared to claim as your own.

As time slipped by in Volterra, Carlisle discovered the Volturi’s customs and tactics were indeed difficult to reconcile with his beliefs. Yet, even amid that discord, he found himself drawn to you. You were everything Carlisle was not: ruthless, unwavering in your loyalty to Aro, and wholly accepting of a vampire’s predator nature. And yet, it was your contradictions that made you all the more alluring.

Carlisle had never believed in the concept of “opposites attract” until he crossed paths with you in the fortress library. He had been reading an antique medical text by the pale light of an ornate lamp, trying to distract himself from the day’s unsettling events, when he heard the soft echo of footsteps.

“Does Cullen also dabble in the history of human medicine?” you teased as you approached, a crimson sash draped diagonally across your chest. Your posture was perfect, your head held high.

Carlisle looked up, the faintest warmth creeping into his golden eyes. “I’ve devoted my life to saving humans. It’s…a passion.” He paused, watching as you took a seat across from him, uninvited and unbothered. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t realize you had an interest in medicine.”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I don’t. But I was curious to see what keeps you tucked away in this dusty library night after night.”

Something about your directness made Carlisle’s throat tighten. He shut the old tome carefully, inhaling the scent of aged paper. “And now that you’ve seen me, what do you think?”

Leaning forward, you regarded him thoughtfully, your crimson eyes lingering on the gentle lines of his face. Your gaze was unsettling, piercing, but Carlisle found it shockingly intimate. “I think you’re a man out of place—yet you keep striving to adapt. There’s something admirable about that.” Then your smile vanished. “But I also think you’re naive to believe you can find any goodness here.”

Carlisle’s lips parted slightly. “There must be some measure of order, of morality, if the Volturi have kept the vampire world hidden so efficiently for so long. It can’t be all cruelty.”

“Morality?” You laughed under your breath, a low and dangerous sound. “Is that what you think you’ll find among us?” You shook your head, your eyes glinting. “Aro is cunning; Caius is cruel. Marcus is…numb. Morality is a tool, wielded only when convenient.”

And yet, as you spoke, Carlisle couldn’t help but notice how the lamplight highlighted the sculpted angle of your cheekbone, the richness of your voice, the slender cords of muscle in your neck as you half-turned away. He felt drawn to you, as though in another life, you might have fit in the place he dreamed of—somewhere far gentler.

As the weeks passed, Carlisle had more and more reason to question the Volturi’s practices. He witnessed the methodical punishments, the harsh interrogations, and the unwavering loyalty demanded of each guard. And yet, in quiet moments, he also witnessed small kindnesses from you—fleeting but unmistakably real.

Once, in a secluded corridor, he caught you covertly offering a sympathetic word to a newly turned vampire, shaken and afraid. You hid it behind a stern command, but Carlisle recognized the concern flickering in your eyes. Another time, you saved a mortal servant from the wrath of another guard who had lost control. Though you claimed it was only for efficiency’s sake, Carlisle saw the truth. You possessed a depth of compassion you refused to acknowledge.

You confronted Carlisle one evening by the window of the fortress’s grand hall, where silvery moonlight reflected on the polished floor. He was staring out into the silent streets of Volterra, hands clasped behind his back.

“What are you really looking for, Carlisle?” you asked, voice hushed yet insistent.

“I’m not sure,” He answered honestly. “Perhaps reassurance that I made the right choice coming here—or proof that I should leave.”

You lifted your chin, a scoff escaping your lips. “If you despise our methods so much, why stay?”

Carlisle’s gaze drifted to your face, gentling as he took in the faint lines of tension on your brow. “Because I’d hoped to find something good here—someone I could help redeem. And I…” He swallowed, voice trembling with emotion. “I’d hoped you might join me in that.”

You stared at him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, you raised a pale hand to brush an errant lock of hair back from his temple. The touch was achingly gentle, contradictory to your reputation for merciless skill in battle.

“Why waste your compassion on me?” you whispered, red eyes flickering.

Carlisle felt his throat tighten at the quiet vulnerability in your question. “It isn’t a waste,” he murmured, turning his head just enough to press into your hand. “I see your strength, your elegance, and beneath it all, a heart that still cares.”

Your lips parted slightly in a faint expression of surprise, but you hardened your gaze, retracting your hand as though burned. “Don’t romanticize me, Carlisle. You’ll only be disappointed.”

Yet, despite your dismissive words, Carlisle could see the faint quiver of your jaw—proof that not everything in you was made of stone.

Carlisle wanted to stay with you—see the connection between you blossom into that of mates—but as time went on, his resolve to leave the Volturi grew stronger. He couldn’t reconcile his moral code with the violence he saw. The tipping point came when he witnessed an unjust execution—one Aro insisted was necessary to maintain secrecy. Carlisle found himself unable to stand by as a life, no matter how tainted, was extinguished without mercy.

He sought you out in the ancient corridor lit by flickering torches. Stone arches framed you like an immortal sculpture, and for a moment, Carlisle’s heart clenched at how beautiful you appeared—like a painting come to life.

“I’m leaving,” he said softly but firmly, stepping closer than he ever had before. “I can’t stay here and watch this cruelty. It goes against everything I believe.”

Your expression hardened, but your eyes betrayed a flash of pain. “So, that’s it?” you asked, voice low. “You leave because reality offends your delicate conscience?”

Carlisle exhaled shakily. “It’s not about being offended. It’s about upholding the sanctity of life. You know that’s my creed.”

You swallowed, the torchlight catching in your hair, illuminating your features in deep shadow and warm highlights. Carlisle’s gaze flickered over your face, taking in every detail—every elegant line, every subtle contour he had come to find so enthralling.

“I already asked you before,” Carlisle continued, breath trembling. “but please come with me. Whatever bond is between us—whatever this is—I can’t bear the thought of leaving it behind.”

He reached out, gently brushing his fingertips along your jaw. The featherlight contact sent a tremor through both of you. For a moment, you closed your eyes as if steeling yourself against an onslaught of emotion.

“Carlisle,” you murmured, the single syllable loaded with longing and heartbreak. Then your eyes opened, scarlet irises locking onto his golden ones. “I cannot follow you. Aro trusts me. I have earned my place here through centuries of service.”

Carlisle’s lips parted, and his chest constricted painfully. “But what about your happiness? Don’t you see there’s more to life than this endless cycle of violence?”

Your jaw tightened. “This is my world. My choice. I’m not like you. I can’t pretend that moral codes and hopeful ideals will keep me safe.” You lowered your gaze. “You have to go. If you stay, you’ll be broken—one way or another.”

Something inside Carlisle cracked, the pain resonating through every fiber of his immortal body. “So that’s it?” he asked, voice faltering. “You choose them over—”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, your voice trembling at the edges. “But you have to leave. Now.”

In a final desperate moment, Carlisle pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to feel the slight chill of your skin. You stood perfectly still, your eyes sliding shut in silent torment. Then he stepped back, letting the cold air slip between you as though forming an invisible wall.

You remained where he left you, the slow hush of your unneeded breath the only movement. It took several minutes before you opened your eyes, composure already brittle. You touched the spot on your forehead where his lips had lingered, an ache you couldn’t name thudding in your chest. You had chosen your duty over love—and it stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

Carlisle eventually found a new life far from Volterra, building a family and fostering the ideals he cherished. Yet in the quiet hours of predawn, when his coven was at rest and the world was still, he thought of you. He recalled the elegantly carved lines of your face, your unwavering stare, and the fleeting softness you revealed only to him.

No matter the distance, no matter how many centuries stretched between him and that fortress of stone, you lingered in Carlisle’s thoughts—an unhealed wound and a cherished secret. He imagined a time you might leave the Volturi’s shadows behind, stepping into the light he so desperately wanted to share with you. Until that day, he carried the memory of your touch and the haunting depth of your eyes. For in the darkest corners of his heart, he still believed you were worthy of love—and that one day, you might finally believe it too.

[youngsadlesbian]

THREADS OF FATE | chapter 02

chapter summary: during the battle against loki, you unexpectedly heals natasha romanoff, catching the attention of the avengers and shield. despite their repeated attempts to recruit you, you resist, uncertain of your place in their world.

a/n: hope you like it!

word count: 2,3k

warnings: none.

New York City had always been loud.

Ever since you moved here for college, you'd grown used to the constant hum of life—taxi horns blaring, people shouting into their phones, the rhythmic clatter of subway cars below your feet. The city never stopped.

It had a heartbeat, a rhythm that pulsed through the streets, something chaotic yet comforting.

And today had been no different.

You had spent the morning working your shift at a coffee shop near Grand Central, serving overpriced lattes to businessmen in expensive suits and tourists who marveled at the station’s architecture. Then, after finishing a long afternoon lecture at Columbia, you took the subway back downtown, planning to grab some food before heading to your apartment.

You never got that far.

The first explosion hit just as you stepped out of the station.

The ground shook beneath your feet, car alarms wailed, and suddenly, the world around you erupted into screams.

You turned toward the source of the sound—just in time to see the sky rip open.

You stood frozen, staring upward as the air itself seemed to split apart, like someone had taken a knife to the fabric of reality. And from that gaping wound in the sky, creatures began to spill out.

Metallic, grotesque things with gleaming eyes and snarling faces, their long limbs ending in weapons. They swarmed the buildings, diving down into the streets, opening fire without hesitation.

People ran.

People screamed.

And still, you stood there, paralyzed, your breath caught in your throat.

Your mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. Was this a terrorist attack? An invasion? Some kind of apocalyptic nightmare?

Then, the building next to you exploded.

Glass and concrete rained down like deadly hail, snapping you out of your daze.

Move. You need to move.

Your feet obeyed before your brain did, sprinting down the street as debris crashed behind you. Everywhere you looked, chaos reigned. Cars flipped over, storefronts shattered, smoke billowed into the air.

And above it all, the creatures—aliens, you realized with growing horror—descended upon the city like a swarm of locusts.

Then, a streak of red and gold flashed past you.

You turned just in time to see Iron Man soaring through the sky, repulsors blazing as he took down several of the creatures in quick succession.

You barely had time to process the fact that Iron Man was real before a massive, hammer-wielding figure landed in the street a few yards away, the very ground shaking beneath him.

Thor.

Another explosion rocked the street, and suddenly, there was a man in a star-spangled suit, ushering civilians to safety with a commanding presence that left no room for hesitation.

Captain America.

This was no terrorist attack.

This was a full-blown war.

You weren’t a fighter.

You had no weapons, no combat training. The only thing you had was an ability you barely understood, one that had always felt more like an inconvenience than a gift.

But as the battle raged on, as people screamed and bled and died around you, you knew you couldn’t just stand there.

You had to help.

Ducking into the ruins of a crumbling café, you pressed yourself against the wall, trying to steady your breathing. You spotted a group of civilians huddled behind an overturned car, trapped as one of the metal creatures advanced on them.

Without thinking, you grabbed a loose brick and hurled it at the creature’s head.

It didn’t do much—barely even made a sound against its armor—but it was enough to get its attention.

The thing turned toward you, eyes glowing.

Shit.

You braced yourself for death, but before it could strike, a gunshot rang out.

The alien jerked back, a hole blasted through its skull.

Then, out of nowhere, a woman in black came barreling into view, flipping onto the creature’s back and twisting its head with a sickening snap.

It crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

And that’s when you saw her.

Natasha Romanoff.

Even with blood streaked across her face, hair tangled and wild from battle, she looked impossibly in control.

"Get out of here!" she barked at you, already turning toward her next target.

But you didn’t run.

Because as she moved, you saw it—the deep gash along her side, crimson staining her suit.

She was hurt.

And before you could think better of it, you were moving.

"Wait!" you called out.

She barely spared you a glance. "Go, now!"

"You’re injured!"

"I’m fine."

She wasn’t.

You could feel it—the pain radiating off her in waves, the sluggish way she was moving, the way she favored one side. She was bleeding out.

You didn’t think.

You simply acted.

Closing the distance between you, you reached out—placing your hands over the wound before she could shove you away.

And then, it happened.

The warmth, the golden glow, the pulse of life pouring from you into her.

You barely registered Natasha’s sharp inhale, the way her muscles tensed beneath your touch. You just focused, willing the torn flesh to mend, the wound to seal.

It took only seconds.

But when you pulled away, Natasha’s eyes were wide.

Her breathing was steady.

And her wound was gone.

"What the hell," she whispered.

You swallowed hard. "I—"

Before you could explain, before she could even process what had just happened, a voice crackled in her earpiece.

"Romanoff? You still alive?"

Natasha exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to where the wound had been just moments ago. Then, in a perfectly even voice, she responded:

"Yeah. I’m here."

Her gaze flickered back to you, something unreadable in her expression.

"Stay here," she ordered.

And then she was gone.

You didn’t stay put.

How could you?

The battle raged on around you, the city falling apart piece by piece, and the Avengers were the only ones standing between humanity and complete annihilation.

So you kept moving, dodging debris, helping whoever you could. You didn’t use your powers again—not until a man was crushed beneath a fallen beam, his breaths ragged. You healed him in a heartbeat.

And in doing so, you sealed your fate.

Because the moment he stumbled to his feet, still dazed from what had just happened, another figure landed near you.

A man in blue and red.

Steve Rogers.

Captain America.

His sharp, assessing eyes locked onto yours, then drifted down to the man you had just healed. Understanding dawned in them almost instantly.

You swallowed.

"…Hi?"

He didn’t respond.

Instead, he pressed two fingers to his comm.

"Stark, I need you to see something."

And just like that, you were no longer just a civilian caught in the crossfire.

You were something else.

Something they weren’t going to let walk away.

The moment Captain America took notice of you, everything changed.

One minute, you were just a bystander trying to survive an alien invasion, and the next, you were in the midst of the most elite force the world had ever seen.

You barely had time to process what was happening as Captain America placed a firm hand on your shoulder. "You need to come with us." His voice was calm, but his gaze was intense, assessing every inch of you.

There was no room for argument.

Before you could say anything, another figure appeared beside him—Black Widow. Natasha’s expression was still unreadable, but you could see the curiosity in her eyes as she took in the strange, golden glow still lingering faintly around your hands.

"We’ve got things covered here," Natasha said, glancing over her shoulder at the battle raging in the distance. "Get her to Stark."

"Understood," Steve replied, motioning for you to follow him.

You barely had time to question what was happening as they led you through the chaotic streets of New York, pushing through crowds of survivors, emergency responders, and Avengers.

Your mind raced.

What had you just done? You had healed Natasha—one of the most skilled agents the world had ever known—and now, you were being whisked away by two of the most powerful people on Earth.

For a moment, you considered running. It was instinct, something deep inside you urging you to escape before things escalated. But you knew that wasn’t an option. There was no going back.

The streets seemed to stretch endlessly as you followed them through the destruction. Finally, they led you to a narrow alley, where a sleek, high-tech van awaited. The SHIELD insignia was emblazoned on its side.

SHIELD.

The name had always been more of a myth to you, a whispered legend you had heard about in passing. Now, it was a reality—a reality that was about to swallow you whole.

You were ushered inside, and the doors shut behind you with an ominous hiss. The van took off at a speed that made your stomach flip.

"Keep your head down," Steve said, sitting across from you with Natasha beside him. "You’re coming with us to a secure location. We have questions."

You nodded, but your mind was still spinning.

As you sped through the streets of New York, the chaos of the battle felt like a distant memory. The city’s skyline blurred as you were taken farther and farther away from the carnage. The air inside the van felt thick, and the quiet was almost unbearable after everything you had witnessed.

Finally, the van came to a stop. The doors opened, revealing a sleek, underground facility with white walls, sleek metallic surfaces, and the hum of advanced technology. The air smelled sterile.

"Welcome to SHIELD," Natasha said, her tone still unreadable. "This is where we work."

It was the most intimidating place you had ever seen, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were about to step into something much bigger than yourself.

The moment you stepped out of the van, a team of SHIELD agents rushed forward to escort you inside, and you were taken into a small, sterile room with only a table and a few chairs. Natasha and Steve flanked you on either side.

"Do you know why you’re here?" Steve asked, his voice firm yet measured.

You swallowed hard. "No."

"We’ve seen your abilities," Natasha spoke, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You healed me in the middle of the battle. That’s not something you can just do."

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. "I—I don’t really know how it works. It just… happens."

"And that’s what we need to understand." Steve leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "You’ve been trained, haven’t you? You have to be. A power like that doesn’t manifest without purpose."

"No, I’ve never been trained. I just… I’ve always had this ability. I can heal. I don’t know how, but I can."

"How long have you had it?" Natasha pressed.

You hesitated, a brief flash of your childhood crossing your mind—how your parents had always told you that your gifts were part of a greater plan, that everything you did was in the hands of destiny. But you knew now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. "Since I was a little girl," you said quietly. "I just thought it was normal."

Steve and Natasha exchanged a glance. The tension between them was palpable, but neither of them spoke right away.

After a long pause, Steve leaned back in his chair. "You’ve been living in New York for a while now. You’re a civilian—no training, no connections. Yet you just healed one of our best agents in the middle of a battlefield. That’s no small feat."

Natasha continued, "We need people like you, people who have abilities that could turn the tide of a fight. People who could make a difference."

You stiffened. You understood the implication, but it didn’t sit well with you. "I’m not a soldier. I’m not a fighter. I just… I just want to help people."

"Which is why you’re exactly what we need," Natasha said. "You have no idea the kinds of threats we’re facing, threats that require… people like you."

Steve’s tone shifted, becoming more insistent. "We want you to join us. To be part of SHIELD."

You blinked, stunned. The words hung in the air like a heavy weight, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

Finally, you found your voice. "I’m not a soldier," you repeated, this time more firmly. "I don’t think I can help in that way. I don’t want to be part of your… war."

Steve’s expression softened slightly, but Natasha’s didn’t. "We’re not asking you to be a soldier," she said, her voice almost coaxing now. "We’re asking you to help us protect people—innocent people, the ones who can’t defend themselves."

You shook your head. "I can’t. I won’t."

There was a long silence. You could feel the weight of their disappointment, but you stood firm in your decision. You weren’t ready to give up your life and be thrust into a world of espionage, violence, and endless conflict.

And no matter how much they wanted you, you weren’t going to be the hero they hoped you would be.

After a long moment of quiet, Steve finally stood. "We understand," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But we’re not going to stop trying to convince you. You have a gift, and the world is full of people who need it."

Natasha stood as well, her eyes never leaving you. "We’ll be in touch," she said, her tone colder now.

You didn’t say anything else as they left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, you exhaled in relief.

You weren’t ready for this world. You weren’t ready for the responsibility that came with it. And no matter how much the SHIELD agents tried to convince you, you knew deep down that you weren’t meant to be a part of their mission.

At least, not yet.

comment below if you want to be added to my taglist!

@mythixmagic @imnotasuperhero @ctrlaltedits @jessycatatiana @naominanuq @natashasmuse @poisonlittlebutterfly

[cirrus-grey]

A theory:

Category: What caused this incident?

Category 1: Direct interference from the OIAR or one of its affiliates. (Bonzo, Needles, the person who reanimated Arthur Winstead)

Category 2: The location where it happened was marked. (Guy who turned into a tree, the charity shop, the liminal architecture)

Category 3: The victim walked into it on their own. (Violinist, dice guy, finance app guy)

Rank: What was the result of this incident?

Rank A: Net positive. There will be a price to pay. (RedCanary is the only A)

Rank B: Net negative. There is a benefit to reap. (Bonzo, Needles, dice guy, finance app guy, horror movie guy...)

Rank C: Net neutral. This incident balanced itself. (Guy that turned into a tree, violinist, charity shop)

Combined categories have more than one cause. RedCanary (23) went to a marked location, and chose to investigate the symbols they found. Gordon (23) chose to investigate the corpse, but was also affected by the cliffside location.

Combined ranks balance differently depending on whose perspective you take. Harriet (BC) was terrified of her reanimated husband, but Arthur had a balanced experience between being reanimated and losing parts of himself. Daria (BC) had a negative experience with Ink5oul, but balanced their own cost/benefit relationship with the tattoo. RedCanary (AB) had nothing but negatives after going to the Institute... but something else benefited from it.

-

Two notes:

1) Both dice guy and finance app guy successfully balanced their experiences as long as they rode the catastrophe curve between loss and profit. It was only when they tried to break the cycle that the final (deadly) negative blow came. This contrasts with the violinist, who reaped the benefits and paid the price willingly into old age.

2) The trailer with Sam's job interview was marked as Category 1, Rank B.

[youaintnothinbuta]

Could you possibly do something where Feyd and y/n are Wed and while he tends to his duties as Na-Baron y/n decides to look around and runs into Rabban and attempts to make and ally and while Feyd is looking for y/n he sees this and f*cks you in his brothers chambers and continues even when his brother walks and threatens him into watching. Love you (not in a creepy way) 😌😌

Love u too (not in a creepy way)!! I hope you don’t mind but the voices took over and told me to make Rabban sort of the opposite of an ally 😋

“You'll watch, and you'll learn that you will never win.” — feyd rautha x reader

Summary: see request^^

Pairing: feyd rautha x fem!reader

Word count: 1.5K

Warnings: SMUT, 18+, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, graphic violence (not towards reader), fighting, blood, injury, (all not aimed at reader) probably typos :/

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You wandered through the labyrinthine corridors of the Harkonnen residence, your footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. As Feyd-Rautha's wife, you were no stranger to the opulent decorations and intricate architecture of the for lack of a better word, palace, that you called home, but you still found yourself getting lost in its winding passages every once in a while.

Feyd was often busy, caught up in his Na-Baron duties, leaving you to your own devices. You didn't mind, really. It gave you the freedom to explore, to discover hidden nooks and secret gardens that even the most seasoned residents might not know about.

As you turned a corner, you came face to face with Rabban Harkonnen, Feyd's older brother, who was just stepping out of his chambers. His thick, brutish features twisted into a scowl, and you could sense the weight of his gaze upon you.

“Ah, Feyd’s little wife,” he rumbled, his voice like thunder in the confined space. “The little Na-Baroness, all alone and unattended.”

“Drop the act, Rabban. I’m just talking a walk.”

Rabban snorted, his eyes roving over your body. “What is it exactly that he sees in you?” He spoke quietly, attempting to insult you.

You felt a shiver run down your spine as Rabban's eyes roved over your body, his gaze lingering on your curves. You tried to step back, but Rabban was too quick, his massive hand closing around your wrist like a vice.

“Let go of me,” you fought.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Rabban purred, his hot breath washing over your face. “I've been wanting to get my hands on you for a long time, and now that Feyd's not around to protect you... well, I think it's time we got to know each other a little better.”

As always, Feyd-Rautha appeared from behind you with perfect timing, his eyes blazing with fury as he watched you struggle in his brother’s grip.

“Rabban, you bastard,” Feyd snarled, his voice low and deadly. “Let her go.”

Rabban didn't even flinch, his grip on you tightening. “Oh, come now, Feyd,” he sneered. “You know I've always wanted her.“

Feyd took a step forward, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “I'll kill you, Rabban,” he warned.

Rabban just laughed, his eyes never leaving yours. “You'll do no such thing, little brother,” he sneered.

Rabban liked to play this tough guy game. That was the difference between him and Feyd. Rabban liked to appear angry and threatening to everyone, even his family. That’s not to say he never truly was angry though. He was, always at Feyd, who was a smarter, stronger and more respected, despite being younger than him. Feyd however, actually was threatening to everyone, except you, of course.

You smiled at Feyd, feeling complete protection despite being in the arms of his brother.

With a swift, deadly motion, he drew a blade from his belt and plunged it into Rabban's shoulder, just above the collarbone, instantly, his grip on you was released. Rabban's eyes widened in shock as he realized he couldn't reach the blade to pull it out.

Feyd's voice was low and menacing. “You should have kept your hands to yourself, Rabban. Now, you have a choice to make. You can watch us, or... the blade goes deeper.”

Rabban's face twisted in rage and pain, but he knew he was trapped. Feyd's grip on the blade remained unyielding, his free arm welcoming you into his embrace. With a cruel smile, Feyd dragged you towards Rabban's bed, the velvet drapes billowing around you like a dark cloud. Rabban's was dragged along by the blade, his gaze burning with hatred and humiliation.

Feyd's voice was a cold, calculated whisper. “You'll watch, Rabban. You'll watch, and you'll learn that you will never win.”

The blade remained lodged in Rabban's shoulder, a constant reminder of Feyd's power and control. You knew that if Rabban tried to move, the blade would be shoved deeper, a cruel and merciless punishment.

“My darling girl,” Feyd growled, his hands roaming your body. He wasted no time bringing a couple fingers between your thighs, rubbing softly as he kissed you. You felt a rush of excitement, as Feyd pulled you closer. You reached your hand out to his body, pressing against his growing erection, eliciting a growl from him.

Feyd encouraged your touch, pressing you onto his brother’s bed. Rabban's presence seemed to egg him on, his brother's gaze a twisted, voyeuristic thrill. That’s another thing Feyd had that Rabban didn’t — a sex life. Feyd continued to ravage you, stripping himself and you of all clothing. Rabban's eyes locked onto yours, a cruel glint in their depths. Rabban's face twisted into a snarl, but he didn't move, didn't intervene, as Feyd continued to take you, right there in his brother's chambers.

“Nice and wet for me, princess,” Feyd breathed, testing your waters with his fingertips before lining the tip of his cock up to your sex.

You let out a gasp as his length filled you up, you felt your muscles being stretched out around him. You would never get used to his size. The burn was welcome, a familiar feeling you hated to love. A cry escaped your lips, Feyd kissing you, mumbling encouragement as he let you adjust.

“That’s it, there you go,” Feyd mumbled, feeling you relax around him. He began to thrust, slowly. Feyd was draconian, and sadistic, evident in the way he made eye contact with his brother as he fucked you. His cock repeatedly brushed over your g spot, making you whimper in pleasure. He licked his thumb, coating it in his saliva before pressing it to your clit, drawing over it just the way you liked. For Feyd, sex was always about you. Never him. Even when he just needed to rough you, or punish you, it was never about depriving you of pleasure, but rather, overwhelming you with it.

“There's my good girl,” he praised, your hips beginning to match his rhythm.

“Oh my god, don't stop.” You moaned, trying to get your legs even further apart, wanting Feyd as deep inside of you as he could be. It wasn't long before your orgasm started to build, Feyd squeezing your nipple between his teeth as he held your head down to the bed, fucking you like an animal.

Feyd felt your walls began to clench and release around him, he knew that feeling well, he knew you were about to come. He sped up his thrusts, trying to bring himself to the edge of release too, wanting to cum with you.

“Come,” he growled in your ear. His words sent you over the edge, and you came hard. Your inner muscles gripped him tight, he groaned as he bit down on your shoulder, filling you up with his seed. He continued to work your clit, stroking the tiny bud until you cried out again in pleasure, your orgasm peaking yet again as his cum continued to spurt inside of you.

He continued you stroke you through your release, until slowly pulling out of you. He stood, panting as he made eye contact with his brother. He walked over to him, his cock still twitching as his blood flow gradually calmed. Without a word, Feyd buried the blade hilt deep into Rabban’s shoulder, the sound of metal scraping against bone echoing through the room. Rabban's eyes widened in agony as he screamed, his body arching backward in a futile attempt to escape the pain.

Feyd's face was a mask of cold, calculated cruelty, his eyes glinting with a malevolent intensity. He leaned in close to Rabban's ear, his voice a low, menacing whisper.

“Thinking you had a choice. Laughable. You should have kept your mouth shut, brother. You will never have what’s mine.”

Rabban's screams grew louder, his body thrashing against the cold ground as Feyd twisted the blade, ensuring it was lodged deep within his shoulder. You watched in horror, and yet, sadistically, enjoyed the way Feyd would quite literally stop at nothing to protect and show his love for you.

Feyd finally withdrew the blade, his movements slow and deliberate. With a flick of his wrist, Feyd sent the blade spinning across the floor, its tip clattering against the cold stone on the far side of the room, leaving tiny blood spots in its wake.

As Rabban's cries of outrage and humiliation continued to echo through the chamber, Feyd turned his attention to you, his movements calm and deliberate as he helped you to dress. His fingers brushed against your skin delicately, as he fastened the intricate clasps and ties of your gown. His touch was gentle, tender, a stark contrast to the brutal intensity of his passion just moments before.

Once you were fully clothed, Feyd turned his attention to himself. He adjusted his attire to his body, his eyes never leaving yours as he worked. When he was finished, he offered you his arm.

“Shall we, my darling?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, as if the scene that had just played out had never occurred.

You took his arm, a small smile gracing your face as you realised just how much you were enjoying something you really shouldn’t be. Feyd led you out of Rabban's chambers, the sound of his brother's angry cries and threats fading into the distance as you left the room behind.

[gnohomotho]

Just a game 𓂃۶ৎ

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Pairing: Hwang In-ho / Front Man x fem!reader

Summary: Just you, your wannabe boyfriend, and the start of an encounter that will change your life. With one phone buzz. Slow burn, but we get there. You are being very cared for. In his own sweet way.

Warnings: Mainly a beginning of something more, mentions of stalking and spying, some rude language, mentions of doctors and blatant violation of the ethical codex. Please have fun! Responsibly.

Link to next chapter: Part 2

"I'd like that very much."

The voice of your companion echoes through the room, flaps against the wall and hits you in the face. It jumps on empty hospital chairs, the doctor's desk, all white and plastic, as dull as whatever the words are dancing on your eardrums with.

You brush your hair behind your ear. All too aware of how mannquine-like and empty the face in front of you looks. Your own head is reverberating. Your lips purse.

"I wouldn't."

The chair under you doesn't move. You wish it would. Carry you away on its little legs. You wonder how chairs could graze freely on some kind of chair-free plane, free from the shackles of architecture---you hear the doctor's words again, and you hear yourself thank them, apologize, plan to take the errant papers and leave the door open behind you. Always planning. Always going away.

"What? Y/N, I...what? Let's talk abou this. Please, stop acting like this! Don't do this to me."

The voice is broken, and you truly do try to care beyond wondering about a chair's natural habitat. Truth be told, all you manage instead of a grand exit is silence. You stand up - silently. You thank the doctor - silently. And you walk out of the door, muttering some native curse words under your breath and pondering whether vending machines truly are as deadly as the statistics say. He made it about himself, again, you think to yourself.

"I can't believe you...no, wait, I fucking can."

You're tired. You feel violated. You would like to crawl into a bed, had you had a safe one to do in. Hug a cat, if you had one. Hug a crow, if you could. Anything.

You mumble to yourself in hushes as you finger the coffee machine, knowing whatever it serves up will just make you feel sick. Your companion is catching up. A tall, imposing kind of boy. Not that it mattered. You never did find pretty boys pretty.

"Boy," you think to yourself. A boy. A boy who can't get his toy to work, and now he's wasted all those friendship tokens and used up all his faces on you, you ungrateful little...

"Y/N, look, what the hell---I really tried, I went all this way, I took you here, I'm just trying to help!"

He really did sound like a little boy tearing at his mother's skirt. His dark black hair fell into his forehead, his neat sweater leaning a bit to the left. You notice his lips and wonder, whatever possessed you to even begin to think of a future with them?

"Help. You wanted to help yourself. Fix your little broken toy and have something to fuck. Did it get tiring? Pretending to care?"

The coffee machine whirred in what you hoped was something of an agreement. You turn around and face the man, boy, whatnot, and try to look put together. Some old couples begin to notice the commotion. An old lady with a dog in her purse is not doing a very good job of looking disinterested in what, ironically, resembles a lover's quarrel.

"Wow, that's low. Y/N. I was there every time. I did so much for you, you didn't have to ask."

"You insisted. You didn't listen to any 'no thank you'. You dragged me here. Every time. Promising you..."

Your lips twist a little in disgust, but mostly, you don't feel anything anymore.

"Promising you love me, with that big "but" of yours. Well, good thing we have it on paper now - I can't love and I can't fuck, I suppose you've bet on the wrong horse - losing in game and losing in love. Fancy that."

God damn it, not the tears, not the tears, you feel your eyes glisten and your stomach tighten. Hair falls from behind your ear, shielding your face. A tear rolls down.

"There's nothing wrong with me, nothing that you could fix by blunt forcing it. I was so stupid, it's my fault. Really truly my fault. I thought...I thought for a moment it could be something it obviously never could...It was never your responsibility to try or to fix anything, and I was so incredibly naive to think you'd adjust pace to something you obviously have no interest in if you can't violate it in a matter of minutes."

Slug and salt. Fire and gasoline. Lungs and carbon monoxide. That's what you are, you think. You don't realise nor would you know, that the whole time, someone was watching you. Someone noticed the way you held your stomach the entire time you spoke, as if shielding and soothing something vulnerable and tender. The way your eyes shone when you stood your ground. The way your pupils seemed to beckon a new visitor with glimpses of a world beyond this one with its unimaginative hospital corridors and dull white waiting rooms. He watched your legs as you held yourself up, seeing the coffee machine did half the work. He watched them buckle a little bit and you adjust. Your tights reflected the light, just as you did. His eyes trailed up to your skirt, your hands, your waist. Your hands, he found those most beautiful. They spoke with you. They had the fingers of a piano player and the fervour of a boxer losing a match.

Now they rested on your stomach again, shielding. Your body closed off once more. Your voice became more monotone. He could gather from the hushed whispers that this wasn't your boyfriend nor husband, but in a place like this - perhaps an ex? Or soon to be, he smiled the most innocent of hidden smiles before resuming a neutral, dignified expression. A baby's father? You did rest your hand on your stomach quite a bit...but the conversation you had in front of him wasn't enough. Now he was intrigued.

The way your lips pursed and remained a tad open when you thought of what to say, the way your eyes narrowed and your mouth made a perfect tiny shape when you found your words. Things you'd never think about yourself, oh, he was intrigued.

Intrigued by the girl with the long fingers and the gentle touch. The girl with fire in her eyes that draws you into the depths of a frozen river in the middle of the night and never makes you wish to leave.

How convenient was it that some people have the power to pull a few strings and Waltz into the very same doctor's office you walked out of and Waltz straight out again with your full medical records.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You were walking home when your phone buzzed. You thought you blocked your ex-companion, you checked the messages and yes - his communication, circular and either blaming you or himself were still safely stored in the same blocked folder. No, this was an uknown number that you couldn't even see.

"Seriously?"

You sigh into the cold evening air and adjust your stance for a better look at the phone screen. An odd, jittery, almost chilly feeling envelops you and you shiver - that sensation of being watched washes around you and touches your skin. Going up and down your arms and calves. Stopping at your chest. You look around, but there is only dusk, cold, melted snow. A few lights from other houses. A streetlamp here and there. Nobody. You lean your head into the phone again, stepping away from the road you were walking on.

"How are you feeling, Y/N?"

The chill shot through your calves straight into your stomach and through your ribs to your head. It's him again, just a different number, of course. Oldest trick in the book. You wonder if you should reply, but think better of giving him further attention. Just as you put your phone away, it buzzes again.

"You seem cold."

You turn your head and scan every single shape around you, chills shaking your body as you do. This wasn't funny. This was so far from funny you are actively wondering where you left your pepperspray and whether or not setting a match to your deodorant would do the trick, should it come to it.

"I'm fine, leave me alone, stop texting me from other numbers, I know it's you." You quickly type trying to watch the surroundings more than the screen. It buzzes almost immediately back at you.

"I'm not him. And you seem cold. Tights and a skirt in your condition, walking alone in the dark and the snow. It isn't very wise, is it?"

Although text messages don't convey tone, you can feel the patronising air and boundary tear emanating from your screen. You hurry your legs to get out and back home as fast as you can.

"Please don't run in your condition. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Fuck off." You whisper and break into a sprint. You don't hear steps or running behind you, you don't hear cars or anything but the sounds of the night. But a calm shrill sound does break the silence the moment you stop to catch your breath - that familiar buzz. Almost at home, almost--

"And please, if you may be so kind, don't dissobey me."

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In-ho wasn't omnipotent nor could he predict your movements, listen in on your thoughts, or stalk you without issue.

He knew he'd lose you if he gave himself away. He knew he'd scare you if he revealed all he knew and he was enough of a gentleman to understand the basics of what constitutes harrassment and stalking.

In-ho was also in control. Always in control. Of people, of power, of his surroundings, of the entire games. And of course. Of himself. And if he wasn't, if he started to slip, he would relinquish that control by any means neccessary.

As he told himself now, it's nothing. Just a game. Just a bit of back-and-forth and fun. He's not enamoured, he's simply interested.

It's not attraction, it's a need to study.

It's not need, want, feeling - no, it is cold, simple fascination and control.

Cat and mouse. Nothing more.

And he's comfortable in this role, of course. Watching a player from up top, sipping his drink of choice. This is exactly the same. But why does it feel...odd?

His heart. Racing. His hands. Typing. Erasing. Typing. Oh, he wants to show you he knows everything. He wants to show you the plans he is hatching for you. He wants to take you from the cold street and grab you - so tight your breath and heart belong to him, even as you struggle.

He wants to make you yearn for his gloved touch more than the cold air outside yearns for your warmth, and he wants to hear you beg for a brush of his skin.

For his caress.

Perhaps he's indulged in his drink of choice too fervently, as of late. Perhaps the way the last games are going is pushing him to erratic decisions.

He sinks back into his chair and the confine of his mind.

His own body against yours, leaving you nowhere to run. For you to instinctively shield yourself again, as you did in front of the coffee machine, just so he can catch your wrist and hold it down, exposing you to him, defenseless and his.

He wants you to yearn for it. Shiver. Fear. Need. Beg.

He wants those beautiful, deep eyes to gaze up into his and drown.

[jetii]

Light in the Dark

Pairing: Hound x fem!Reader

Words: 13,250

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, hurt/comfort, coworkers/friends to lovers, black cat/golden retriever dynamic, reader is a medical examiner so there's some gore/corpse talk, anxious/insecure reader, we love men who respect boundaries, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), biting/marking

Summary: On a bustling planet like Coruscant, you enjoy the comfort and solitude of your profession, even though it can be lonely. The only one who can't seem to let you be alone is Hound.

A/N: First fic back after my little break from one-shots! I've been kind of trapped in a rut with life stuff and struggling to adopt the "write for yourself and not for others" mindset, and this is the first fic in a while I wrote truly just bc I wanted to and it felt good. Hope you enjoy!

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

Coruscant has never been your favorite place. It's not the people, though they are numerous and can be rather rude, or the architecture, though it is both imposing and suffocating. No, you’ve decided, the reason that you hate Coruscant is the fact that it is so damn bright all the time.

A hundred sunrises are reflected by a hundred different buildings, a hundred sunsets by a hundred more, and even when the clouds are thick enough to obscure the sky, the city still glows with an unnatural, garish light that’s almost impossible to adjust to.

It's why you prefer to spend your time in the lower levels of the planet-wide metropolis, where the shadows are as thick and comforting as the air is stale and the smells are unpleasant. You don't care. The neon signs, the advertisements, and the glow of the holonet broadcasts keep the streets and walkways lit well enough for you to see what's in front of you. The dimness suits your mood better than the glaring brightness of the upper levels.

It's also why you found yourself in perhaps the most undesirable profession on the entire planet, despite the fact that your talents could have seen you gain a much better one. When the only place you're comfortable is in the quiet dark, why not work there, too?

Being a medical examiner might not seem like a glamorous job, but there are days when it's better than having to deal with living patients or, Force forbid, their family members. In the end, the dead don't judge. They also can't complain. It's a win-win situation.

It's nice. On a planet where you have no space, no quiet, no solitude, you're grateful for the morgue and its constant stream of silence and stillness. You don't need to be around others when they're alive, anyway. They just make things complicated.

Most of the time, you're left alone to your own devices. No one's eager to hang out with the corpse doctor in the basement of Coruscant Guard precinct. That's fine. You like your solitude, your peace and quiet, your personal space. 

And the only problem, the only disruption, is Hound, who also happens to enjoy your personal space.

The clone is... odd. He's tall and broad, his skin a rich, earthy brown and his hair a dark, curly mass that always looks unruly. It's hard to believe that he's a member of the Republic's military, what with his lopsided smile and easygoing manner, but you've seen him in action. He's fast and deadly, with a calm, steady gaze that is belied by the manic gleam in his eyes.

And he likes you.

You aren't sure why. It's not as if you're particularly friendly, or that you've gone out of your way to befriend him. In fact, you're pretty sure that your attitude toward him has been less than warm. You aren't sure how it happened, but you're fairly certain it started the first time he'd visited the morgue.

There's a door at the top of the stairs that leads directly into the lab, a metal slab that swings open with the slightest touch, and he'd stepped inside, glanced around, and flashed a crooked smile that made your stomach flip-flop. It had taken him less than a minute to locate you, and the next thing you knew, he was standing beside you, watching you work.

At the time, you'd barely spared him a glance. He was a new face, and not one you were interested in looking at. There were things that needed doing. Reports that needed writing. A body on the table that needed cutting open and dissecting. All of those were more important than a stranger, and so you'd ignored him until he spoke.

"What are you doing?"

You'd answered without looking at him, your hands deep in the cadaver's abdominal cavity, your fingers wrapped around a lung. "My job."

"You're the new M.E.?"

"No, I'm a serial killer who's pretending to be a medical examiner so that I can have access to the morgue."

He’d laughed. You didn't. It had been a long day, and you weren't in the mood to deal with some joker who didn't have the sense not to interrupt a forensic pathologist while she's in the middle of an autopsy. 

Your answer had apparently been the right one, though, because he'd nodded and said, "Good. The last one was an idiot."

You'd blinked at that, your head slowly turning to look at him. It wasn't a joke. He was serious. You'd had to swallow the smile that threatened to surface, and instead gave him a cool, polite nod. 

"That's good to know."

You'd returned to the autopsy then, but not before seeing the way his eyes had lit up. Not before seeing the spark of interest, the challenge. It wasn't the kind of attention you wanted, and it certainly wasn't the kind of attention you expected to keep. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, he kept coming back, and somehow, you'd found yourself looking forward to his visits.

That had been a year ago. A year, and every few days, he was back.

You're in the middle of the autopsy of a man who was found dead in an alley when you hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind you. You don't have to look up to know that it's Hound, because his gait is unique to him. He walks heavy and fast, not because he's in a hurry, but because he's too large and too solid to do anything else.

Biting back a sigh, you look up. 

"I thought I told you I'm busy today."

"Hello to you too," Hound laughs. He's still peeking around the doorway, watching you, his head tilted to the side. He looks like an excited puppy. Fitting for his namesake, and, unfortunately, quite endearing. "Can I come down?"

You set your scalpel down and give him an exasperated look. "Since when have you ever asked?"

"Since you told me to," he replies as he pulls off his helmet and fixes you with a grin so blinding, you nearly flinch. Against your will, a flutter of butterflies rises up in a wave in your stomach, and you look away from him to try and hide your blush.

"I did?" you ask. You think back to your conversations with him. Had you asked him not to barge into your workplace and distract you with his... Hound-ness? You honestly can't remember. "Huh."

"So can I come down or not?" 

He's still grinning, and he's still standing half-in, half-out of the doorway. His dark eyes are fixed on you, and there's no denying the excitement in them.

You pause, both to gather your thoughts and to make it seem like you're deliberating. You don't need another distraction right now. You really, really don't. But the longer you hold out, the more his eyes light up and the wider his smile gets, and, damn it, you can't help it.

"Where is she?" you ask instead, pulling off your gloves and crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Hound gives a dramatic sigh and steps aside, and Grizzer comes bounding down the stairs straight for you. Her nails scrape and clack against the floor as she skids to a stop at your feet, and before you can even kneel down, she's on her side with her legs kicking in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth full of dagger-sharp teeth. She's begging you for belly rubs, and how are you supposed to deny that?

"What am I, chopped liver?" Hound asks, sounding put out.

You look up at him, one hand scratching the spot under Grizzer's chin that makes her leg twitch, and raise a brow. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his helmet dangling from his fingertips, and his hair is wild and curling from being confined for so long.

"You aren't here for a belly rub," you reply, and a flush rises up on his cheeks. You bite back a smile. "Or are you?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind one."

His grin is back, and you roll your eyes.

"Get out of my lab," you order, pushing Grizzer's shoulder gently until she rolls over onto her feet and stands, panting happily. 

"But I brought you lunch!" Hound protests.

"You did?" 

Your eyebrows raise in surprise as you glance up at him, then at the paper bag in his hand. You hadn't expected that, and it throws you off a bit. You'd assumed he'd come down here because he was bored. And you weren't entirely sure how he'd managed to afford food for the two of you on the Guard's budget, either.

Your confusion must show on your face, because he laughs. 

"Grizzer and I saved a tooka from a high-rise balcony today," he explains. "The guy owned a restaurant and gave us lunch in thanks. I thought you'd be hungry, so..."

His sentence trails off, and he looks suddenly unsure of himself, as if he's made a mistake. Your heart flutters and then does a double-take, and the warmth in your cheeks spreads down your neck. He'd bought lunch for you? How is this the same man who had been so obnoxious and annoying the first time you'd met him? How is it possible that he's still here, still trying, when you're convinced you haven't given him an inch of encouragement?

You quickly stand and reach out to take the bag from him. You don't miss the way his eyes widen slightly at the gesture, and his fingers brush against yours as you take the food.

"Thanks, Hound," you mutter. You muster a small smile for him, and you're rewarded by the sight of a blush creeping down his neck and the tips of his ears. "That was really thoughtful of you."

He shrugs and looks away, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "Yeah, well, it's not a big deal or anything."

It is a big deal, though, and the realization settles over the two of you like a blanket. It's not often that someone goes out of their way to do something nice for you. You can count on one hand the number of people who've done so since you moved to Coruscant, and Hound is at the top of that list.

"Anyway, we've got the afternoon off, so I thought I'd swing by and see what you're doing," he continues. He's clearly eager to change the subject, and you can't blame him. This whole situation has suddenly become awkward.

"Well, right now, I'm in the middle of an autopsy," you say, gesturing vaguely at the dead man lying on the table between you. Hound leans over and takes a long look at him, then wrinkles his nose.

"He smells bad."

You roll your eyes.

"Dead people tend to," you point out, and he laughs.

"I noticed." He gives the cadaver a long, hard stare, and after a moment, says, "Stabbed in the back."

"I haven't started yet," you protest, and he shakes his head.

"Didn't need to," he replies. He points at the body. "Knife went in here, hit the kidneys. It's messy, and whoever did it was either in a hurry or didn't know what they were doing. My guess is the latter."

"What makes you say that?"

"No defensive wounds." He's pointing at the hands now, the fingers still curled as if they were grasping for something. "He was caught by surprise."

"You're right," you say, impressed. "Maybe I should get you to do this instead."

He grins at you, all cocky confidence and charm.

"If you wanted to spend more time with me, you could have just asked."

"Don't flatter yourself," you retort. You're fighting back a smile, though, and it's a losing battle. "Go sit over there and leave me alone."

"Fine, fine."

He raises his hands in surrender and goes to sit at the table in the small kitchenette, Grizzer at his heels. While you clean your hands and put away the equipment you'd been using, he pulls off his gloves, sets his helmet on the table, and pulls the food out of the bag.

"There's a lot of food here," you remark, and Hound nods.

"Yeah, the owner insisted. I think he felt guilty that his tooka almost fell."

"How did that happen, anyway?" you ask. Hound looks down at Grizzer, then back up at you, and smiles sheepishly.

"Grizzer may have chased it up the side of the building," he admits. You snort. Of course she did.

"Well, it's good to know the Guard is keeping the people safe," you tease, and he grins.

"We do our best."

"Mm."

You settle across the table from him and begin to unpack the food. You pull out the cartons and containers and spread them out on the table between you, and you can feel Hound's eyes on you the entire time.

"So, how's it going?" he asks, and you give him a flat look.

"What do you mean, how's it going?" You pick up a dumpling and bite into it, pointing at the other boxes of food with the remains. "Eat."

He picks up the container of noodles and fishes around for a piece of meat with his chopsticks, then shrugs.

"I dunno, you've just seemed kinda down lately."

"Down?" you echo. You raise an eyebrow at him. "I'm a forensic pathologist, Hound. How exactly am I supposed to be 'up'?"

"You know what I mean."

He's giving you a look, and you sigh. Yes, you know what he means. You know that he knows when you're upset or anxious, and you know that he can see right through the mask of cool indifference you wear when you're trying to hide it.

"It's just a little crowded up here," you say. You're not going to talk about this, not with him, not now. Maybe not ever. But you can tell him a little, just enough to ease his worry.

He nods. "It's loud."

"Loud," you agree, and take a sip of your water. It's loud, yes, and there are far too many people. Sometimes, you want to scream. The sheer amount of life pressing down on you can be overwhelming, and the silence and stillness of the morgue is a balm on the ragged edges of your psyche. "And bright."

"Too much light," he agrees, and you give him a wan smile.

"Right."

He's quiet for a few minutes while you eat, and you're grateful. It's nice, sometimes, to have someone to share the silence with. Nice, too, to not have to fill it with unnecessary words. Sometimes, just the presence of another person is enough.

After a while, though, the quiet becomes too much for him, and he speaks.

"Are you not happy here?"

The question catches you off guard, and you nearly drop the dumpling you're holding. "Happy?"

"Yeah." His brow furrows, and his frown deepens. "Do you not want to be here?"

"Of course not," you say automatically, and he winces. The look on his face sends a jolt through you, and you realize your mistake. I mean, I do! But..." You pause, thinking. How can you explain this? How can you put it into words? "I don't fit here, Hound."

"You fit fine."

His response is quick, almost desperate. You can see the worry in his eyes, the uncertainty, the fear. Does he think you're leaving? Do you want to leave?

That's a question you've been asking yourself for months now. You'd left Eadu, and the only place you'd known as home, in order to start a new life. You'd chosen a career, a city, a place to live, and a path that would make your parents proud. And you're here, but you're not. You're just floating through life, going through the motions and keeping yourself busy, but it doesn't mean anything. Nothing has purpose, and nothing is permanent. You don't even have any friends.

Except...

You look across the table at Hound, who is still frowning. He's worried about you. The realization makes your stomach flip-flop again, and the dumpling you'd just eaten suddenly feels like a stone.

He's actually, genuinely, truly worried about you. He's the first person to actually care about your wellbeing in a long time, and it's not just him. He brought you food. He's always trying to make you laugh. He brings Grizzer down every chance he gets. He wants you to be happy.

"I don't know," you finally say, and your voice is soft and uncertain. "I just... feel like something's missing."

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" he asks, his voice soft.

You don't have an answer. You've been here for a year now, and yet, you feel as if it's only been a few weeks. As if it's still the beginning. Maybe you've gotten a little further, but not enough. 

You haven't settled in, but the thought of leaving Coruscant is a terrifying one. There's nothing left for you back home. Your family doesn't want you there. The planet is too cold, and it's too wet, and the skies are too dark. You prefer the artificial sunlight and the artificial warmth and the bright lights that never turn off. 

The only problem is the people. They're everywhere, all the time. In your apartment building. In the precinct. In the cantinas. On the speeders. And you hate the crowds. You hate the noise. You hate the way everyone is always talking, and the way they walk with no regard for anyone else, and the way they never seem to shut up, and...

Hound is still watching you, his expression worried. You shake your head and manage a smile.

"No," you say, taking another bite of the dumpling. "I think I'll stick around a little longer."

"Good."

His relief is palpable, and a wave of guilt washes over you. How did he manage to wriggle his way into your life? Why does he care about what happens to you? How does he even know what's wrong?

You don't have any answers, and the more you try to figure it out, the more confused you become. It's just Hound. He's just a clone. He's a good guy, a kind man, a decent human being, but why is he different from the others?

You've met other clones. You've met other guards. They're all polite and courteous, but none of them have gone out of their way to befriend you. None of them have spent the time and energy Hound has, and none of them have ever given you a reason to trust them. Not like Hound has. Not like he continues to.

He's always around, always ready to lend a hand. He's a constant presence in your life, a constant source of comfort and support. You didn't ask for him, and yet, there he is, a bright light in the darkness that surrounds you.

"I mean, I don't have a reason to go anywhere," you say. You're trying to sound casual, but you're failing. His eyes are focused on your face, and he's not blinking. You're not sure what's happening, or why, but it's making you uncomfortable. "But if I did, it'd be too much trouble to uproot everything and move, right?"

"Right."

"Besides, I have a job. And an apartment. And my boss isn't a complete dick, which is more than most people can say." You smile at him, but his expression doesn't change. He's still looking at you, his dark eyes intense, and the feeling of unease grows. "And I like my work. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes it's boring."

"I understand," he says, nodding. He doesn't smile. You swallow hard, then look down at your plate.

"And... I don't know, there are perks." You give a small shrug, trying to seem nonchalant, and hope that the sudden heat in your cheeks isn't noticeable.

"Perks?" he asks. His eyebrows rise, and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Like what?"

"You know," you say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Things."

"What things?"

He's teasing you, now, and you're blushing.

"Just things." You shove the rest of the dumpling into your mouth and chew slowly, trying to buy yourself some time. "Grizzer. And, um..."

"And?" 

Hound is smiling at you now, and it's hard not to return it. It's just so damn contagious. It's like looking at the sun, or standing next to a star. It's hard to look away.

"Don't make me say it."

"I wanna hear you say it."

"Hound..."

"Please?"

"Ugh, fine," you sigh. You roll your eyes and set the empty dumpling container aside, then lean back in your chair. "You, okay? Happy now?"

His smile widens, lighting up his entire face. It's impossible not to smile back. You can feel it spreading across your face, and there's nothing you can do about it.

"Yeah, actually. I'm pretty happy," he says, his voice soft. "Thanks."

"Good. Now shut up and eat."

You look down at the remaining food, but suddenly, you're no longer hungry. Instead, you find yourself glancing at him from beneath your lashes. He's digging back into the noodles, and Grizzer is sprawled out at his feet, chewing on a bone.

Maybe it's not so bad.

It becomes a routine after that.

Hound comes down almost every day after his shift to hang out and have lunch with you. Sometimes he brings Grizzer, sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes he has food, sometimes he doesn't. It's not much, but it's something. It's a bit of comfort, a bit of normality, a bit of light in the otherwise dull, colorless life you're living.

And once, when you're knee-deep in a complicated case and you forget to eat, he brings food down for you anyway. He doesn't stay. He just leaves it on the table and goes back upstairs, but not before making sure you know it's there. It's a simple gesture, and it's sweet, and it makes your heart flutter.

You aren't used to that. You aren't used to people going out of their way to make sure that you're taken care of. It's not something you've ever really experienced. But now that you've seen it, felt it, you aren't sure if you'll be able to live without it.

The next time he comes down, you're not surprised. You're expecting him. Hound still waits for permission to enter your space, and you're secretly pleased by that. You're grateful that he respects the boundaries you've set, especially since most people don't. They think they can intrude, can walk right into the lab, because they have clearance. Hound, however, does not, and so he always knocks. Always waits. Always gives you a moment to prepare.

You've also gotten used to his presence, and it's easy enough to keep working while he chats away.

Today, though, the conversation has died, and you've gone back to your paperwork. He's quiet, and there's an odd tension in the air that you can't quite pinpoint. You can feel it, and you're fairly certain that he can, too. You want to ask, but you don't. You know him well enough by now to know that he'll tell you if something's bothering him.

"Hey," he finally says, and you look up from your work. He's sitting across the room, still eating his food, but he's not looking at you. His attention is fixed on the table, his jaw clenched.

"What's up?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Trying not to show your concern. He's fidgeting with the lid of the empty food container, his hands moving faster than usual.

"Are you busy later tonight?"

"Probably," you say. "Why?"

"Just curious," he says with a shrug, and he turns his attention back to his meal.

He's lying. He's a terrible liar, and the fact that he's refusing to make eye contact only proves that something's wrong. You put down the stylus you'd been using and turn your chair to face him, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Why?"

He shrugs again and shoves a large bite of noodles into his mouth.

"Hound."

He chews and swallows, and the frown deepens. He doesn't answer.

"Hound," you repeat, a bit more forcefully. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're obviously upset about something," you point out. You lean forward in your chair and rest your elbows on your knees, watching him. "Did I do something? Did I piss off someone in the Guard again? I swear, they can't handle constructive criticism."

He shakes his head, a small smile playing across his lips. "No. It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head again. His dark curls bounce around his face, and you're distracted for a moment. Then, before you can ask again, he stands. He gathers the garbage from the table and puts it into the recycler, then heads for the stairs.

"Hound."

He freezes in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He looks like he's debating whether or not to leave. Finally, he turns and gives you a sheepish smile, his face turning red. 

"There's an officer's gala tonight," he says, and your brow furrows. What's so bad about that?

"Okay," you say slowly.

Hound stares at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, as if he's waiting for a response. You have no idea what he wants you to say, or how you're supposed to respond, and so you wait. You sit and stare, and his discomfort grows.

"I'm invited," he says. He's starting to fidget again, and his voice is quieter. "They're supposed to have good food and decent booze. It'll be a nice night out."

"Sounds like fun," you hum, nodding. Not for you, but that's not the point. He's a social person, and you're not. It makes sense. "I'm glad you're going."

"So, are you coming with me?"

Your jaw drops, and you nearly fall out of your chair. It takes a second for the question to sink in, and even longer for it to register. Is he serious? Does he really expect you to go with him? To an event where there will be dozens, if not hundreds, of people? You're not sure if he's joking or not. If this is a trick, it's a cruel one.

"Wait, what?"

Hound looks like he wants to disappear, and the flush on his cheeks has darkened.

"I mean, you don't have to," he says, shaking his head. "It's fine. I know it's not really your scene, but I thought maybe—"

"You're serious?" you ask. Your heart is pounding. You can feel it in your throat, and in your chest, and in your ears.

"Well, I figured, y'know, since I have to go, I might as well make the most of it. So I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble. He's practically mumbling, and you have to strain your ears to hear him. "As, y'know, a date. Maybe."

"Me?" you ask, barely able to find your voice.

"Yes, you," he laughs. It's a bit forced, and the nervousness in his voice is obvious. "No one else is down here. No one alive, anyway.”

"Right, but..."

"Look, if you don't want to, it's fine," he says. "I know this isn't your thing. I just thought, y'know, we could spend some time together, outside of this place."

You stare at him, unsure of what to say or do. He wants to take you out on a date? He wants you to be his date to the gala? He wants to spend time with you outside of the morgue, when there are other things that could easily catch his attention? He actually wants to spend time with you, of all people?

"Hound, I... I don't think..." Your voice trails off, and you clear your throat, trying to find the words. How do you tell him that it's not a good idea without hurting his feelings?

"Oh." His face falls, and he looks so disappointed that you immediately feel guilty.

"No, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, I get it," he interrupts, waving his hand. He forces a smile. It's fake, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "You're right, it's a dumb idea."

"That's not what I meant," you insist.

"It's cool, don't worry about it."

"Hound, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's fine. It's my fault for bringing it up."

"I don't—"

"It was a stupid idea. Just forget about it. We can—"

"I want to!”

You blurt the words before you can stop yourself, and the moment they're out of your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Your face is hot, and your hands are trembling, and the butterflies are beating their wings against your stomach, but the damage is done. You've already said it, and the shock on Hound's face only confirms it.

"You want to?" he asks, his brows raised.

"Yeah." You duck your head, staring intently at the floor. It's easier than looking at him. "I want to. I'm just... Not good with social stuff."

"You're better than you think," Hound says, his tone soft and warm.

You give a small shrug, and a heavy silence falls over the room. After a few seconds, he speaks again.

"Look, the gala is gonna be boring as hell," he says, and you peek up at him through your lashes. He's grinning, and the warmth in his gaze makes your heart skip a beat. "Everyone there is just gonna be kissing each other's asses, and it'll be the same people as always. The same stupid conversations, the same stupid stories, the same stupid shit. And it's not gonna be fun."

"Wow, sounds like a great date," you say sarcastically.

"But if you're there, then it'll be bearable," he finishes. "You'll make it fun. You're always funny, and interesting, and... And..."

His voice trails off, and his face is beet-red. You bite back a smile. He's never this flustered. It's adorable, and it's also a boost to your ego.

"Are you sure?" you ask. "I mean, I don't exactly have a pretty dress, or anything like that. I'm not exactly high-society material."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Wear whatever's comfortable."

"You're sure I'm not gonna be in the way?"

"I'm positive."

"And if I get bored or overwhelmed?"

"Then we can leave and do something else."

"Really?"

"Really."

You pause, thinking, then nod. "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'll come."

"You will?" He looks excited, and his smile widens. "You really will?"

"Yeah," you say, laughing.

"Alright!"

Hound pumps his fist in the air and gives a whoop of victory, then bounds over and wraps his arms around you. Before you can protest, he picks you up and swings you around.

"Hound, put me down!"

After one more swing, he does, and you nearly collapse into his chest. You're dizzy, but his grin is infectious, and soon, you're smiling back. 

"Sorry," he laughs.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're amazing."

The compliment is given so easily, and it's so earnest, that your face heats up. You look away from him, not wanting him to see how much the words mean.

"Anyway," you mutter, pushing him away. "Go do something useful, and let me get back to work."

"Yes sir," he says.

He snaps a salute, his expression still bright, and then turns and runs up the stairs. Grizzer chuffs once, then follows him. He looks so excited that you can't help but smile, and the butterflies finally settle.

It's going to be fine.

It's not fine.

As soon as your shift ends, you race back to your hole-in-the-wall apartment and tear through your closet, looking for something, anything, that doesn't scream 'I'm socially awkward and I have no idea what I'm doing.'

But the clothes that you brought from Eadu are simple and functional. You hadn't been planning on attending any galas or balls or fancy parties. There's nothing here that screams classy or elegant or sophisticated. It's all cheap, practical, and serviceable, and you're quickly losing hope.

You're about to call the whole thing off when you see a dress tucked into the corner, hidden beneath a stack of towels. You frown, unsure how it got there, then snatch it up and hold it up in front of you.

It's a nice dress, one that your mother had forced you into for a cousin's wedding several years ago. It's a dark, deep blue that fades to black, and the sleeves are long and sheer. The fabric is soft, and it's still in good shape, which means you probably shouldn't have left it buried in the closet for so long.

Sighing, you carry the dress to the bathroom and change. The dress is a little loose, but it's not too bad, and you're able to tighten it enough so it fits. It's not as bad as you remember, and the longer you look at it, the better you feel. This is fine. You can pull this off. It'll be a lot better than the shapeless smock you wear every day, and at least Hound will appreciate the effort.

Your hair is a different story.

It's a mess, and your fingers aren't much help. You're tempted to cut it all off, but you'd promised yourself that you'd never go that route again, no matter how frustrating it is. You need help, and you've got half a mind to comm the office and ask the receptionist for some advice, but she's not much better off than you are. You're just going to have to improvise.

An hour later, you're ready. Or as ready as you're going to be.

The dress fits nicely, and the makeup is the same dark shade as the dress, so at least it goes well together. Your hair is still a bit messy, but you've managed to get it into a bun and pin it down so that most of it is out of your face. You've even found a pair of heels in the back of the closet, and though they pinch a little, they're not unbearable.

When you step outside, the first thing you notice is that the sun is setting. That's not a good sign, because it means that you've already wasted an hour and a half doing nothing.

The second thing you notice is that Hound is leaning against the wall opposite your door, wearing his formal uniform.

He looks gorgeous.

You've never seen him dressed up like this, and it takes a few moments for you to register the sight. The uniform is crisp and clean, with gold buttons and a high collar. There's a single stripe across his chest, signifying his rank, and he's got a medal pinned to his lapel. His hair is slicked back and tidy, and he's even taken the time to polish the mud and dirt from his boots. He looks professional and commanding and sexy.

"Wow."

The word slips out before you can stop it, and Hound's head snaps up. He blinks at you in surprise, then slowly smiles, his eyes roaming over you with blatant appreciation.

"Wow," he echoes, his voice a low rumble.

A flush rises up your neck, and you swallow hard. "Is this okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Hound laughs and crosses the distance between you in a few long strides. He towers over you, but he doesn't feel threatening. In fact, the closer he gets, the safer and more secure you feel. "You look amazing."

"I look like a mess," you say, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"You look great." He reaches out and tucks the hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin, and the blush spreads further. His touch is surprisingly gentle, and his fingertips are calloused and rough. "You always do."

"Thanks," you mutter.

He tilts his head to the side, and his smile widens. "You're beautiful."

"Stop,” you whine, ducking your head. You're used to Hound's teasing, but not this kind. Not the kind that makes your pulse quicken, or makes your heart stutter.

"No, really, you are."

"Hound..."

"So beautiful."

"I mean it. Stop."

"Gorgeous."

"Hound!"

He laughs and holds his hands up. "Sorry. Couldn't help myself."

"Uh huh." You give him a dubious look, then roll your eyes. "Let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," he says. He offers his arm, and you hesitate for a moment before taking it.

It's an odd sensation, touching him. Not bad, necessarily, just odd. You're used to his casual manner, the way he always brushes his shoulder against yours, or the way he nudges you when he wants your attention. But this is different. It's intentional. Intimate.

You're not sure how to feel.

"Shall we?" he asks.

"Yeah," you reply, and your voice comes out soft and breathless.

He leads you out of the building and down the street towards the main avenue. He's tall and solid and sturdy, and his stride is long and confident. The two of you look like an odd pair, and you feel a bit self-conscious. He, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed. Hound keeps up a steady stream of conversation, and you're grateful. It distracts you from the fact that his arm is pressed firmly against yours, and it's difficult not to lean against him.

By the time the two of you reach the venue, the sun has set and the city is lit up with artificial light. You can see the gala from blocks away, and Hound is quick to point out the various dignitaries and important officials who are milling about. He's not particularly interested in politics, and you suspect that the only reason he knows so many names is because it's required of his job. He does, however, enjoy making fun of them behind their backs, and his comments have you in stitches by the time the two of you are in line to enter the hall.

"Ready?" he asks, glancing down at you.

"No," you admit, but there's no point in stalling. It's not like you can turn back now. You'd agreed to come, and the least you can do is stick to it.

"Good," Hound laughs. "I'm not, either."

"Somehow, that's not reassuring," you mutter.

"C'mon, let's go."

He pulls his arm away from yours, and your skin immediately grows cold. Before you can protest, he places a hand on the small of your back and leads you inside. The warmth and security are immediate, and you lean into his touch without thinking. He stiffens for a moment, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he leans closer, and his thumb brushes against the fabric of your dress, stroking in slow circles.

As soon as the two of you step inside, the noise levels increase tenfold. People are shouting, talking, laughing, and dancing, and the band is playing a loud, boisterous song. Everything is bright and loud and colorful, and the smells and sounds and sights are overwhelming. The panic returns, and you freeze. Hound must notice, because he squeezes your waist.

"Breathe," he whispers.

You do as he says, and the tension eases. The noise fades to background static, and the colors stop spinning. Hound doesn't remove his hand, and it's a welcome weight, keeping you anchored to reality.

"I don't know about this," you say, your voice so small and so quiet that it's a wonder he hears you at all. But he does, and he gives you a reassuring smile.

"We don't have to stay," he promises. "If you get uncomfortable, we'll leave. It's not a big deal. We can do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"I mean it." He gives a small shrug, and a slight flush colors his cheeks. "If you wanna ditch, we can ditch. It's no big deal."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, and wonder how you'd ever gotten lucky enough to meet someone like him. Someone who is patient and understanding, who never judges or pries. Someone who just wants you to be happy.

"Thanks," you say.

"Don't mention it," he replies, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Wanna grab a drink?"

"Sure."

He guides you over to the bar, and the two of you order your drinks. He chooses something strong, while you opt for a glass of wine. As soon as the bartender sets the glass in front of you, Hound snatches it up and takes a sip.

"Hound!" you yelp, smacking him lightly on the arm. "What the hell?"

"Sorry, force of habit," he laughs.

"Why the hell are you so used to stealing other people's drinks?"

"Because my brothers are assholes," he says. He puts the glass down and raises his hands in surrender. "I promise, I'll let you drink the rest."

"Damn right, you will," you grumble. You pick up the glass and take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. "I'm watching you."

"I'd expect nothing less," he says, grinning. He reaches over and grabs his own drink, and the two of you clink glasses. "To... I dunno. To whatever the fuck this is."

"To us," you reply, and he laughs.

"Yeah. To us."

He downs the entire glass, then turns and watches the crowd. Couples are pairing off, and the band has started a slow waltz. You spot Commander Thorn with the Senator of Atrisia in the middle of the dance floor, looking rather pleased with himself, and your stomach does a nervous flip. How the hell is she able to wear those heels without tripping and falling? It looks exhausting. And painful.

"Do you wanna dance?"

The question startles you, and you whip your head around. Hound is looking down at you, his brows furrowed, and he seems hesitant.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you want to dance?"

"Dance?"

"Yeah." He nods towards the floor, and the couples swaying back and forth. You let out a breath, shaking your head, and you take a long sip of your drink.

“Not really, no," you admit.

You watch his shoulders slump, but the look on his face is more relief than disappointment.

"Okay, good," he says, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Oh, thank the Force," you mutter, and he grins.

"Didn't think you'd say yes, honestly."

"And what if I had?" you ask. You arch an eyebrow at him, and the grin widens.

"Then I'd have made an ass of myself trying to impress you," he says. His dark eyes shine with amusement, and the corner of his mouth twitches. "Not that I don't normally do that, anyway."

"Mm," you hum. "You do alright."

"Yeah?" he asks. He cocks his head, and the smile disappears. "Really?"

"I mean, yeah." You take a sip of your wine and try not to think about how warm and safe and secure he makes you feel. Or how handsome and charming he is. Or how much he actually cares. "You're not too bad."

"High praise," he laughs, his tone dry. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"I can't tell if you're serious or not," he says, giving you a wry smile.

"I'm very serious," you retort. You're smiling, though, and it's a struggle to keep a straight face. "Dead serious."

"You're awful," he snorts, shaking his head. "Absolutely awful."

"That's why you like me," you tease.

"Well, not the only reason," he murmurs. There's a faint blush on his cheeks, and the expression on his face is far too sweet for someone who is usually so gruff and unruly. "There's plenty of others."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. He looks away, his eyes darting around the room, and a heavy silence settles over the two of you. He clears his throat, and his hand finds yours. "C'mon, let's go see what they've got for food."

"Sounds good," you reply. You let him lead the way, his fingers laced through yours, and his grip is strong and firm.

It's going to be a long night.

You end up staying for a couple hours.

The food is excellent, and the booze is decent, and Hound keeps his promise. You stay glued to his side, letting him lead the way and navigate the crowd. He introduces you to some of his friends, and it's not as awful as you'd feared.

You make polite small talk, and laugh at their terrible jokes, and they seem impressed. Thorn even goes as far as to say that you're good for him, and when Hound shoots him a warning look, he only grins.

It's not as awkward as you'd feared, but it's not exactly relaxing. Thankfully, Hound is good at picking up on your cues. When the chatter starts to die down, he knows to make an excuse and move on. When the crowd gets too thick, he pulls you away. When your anxiety starts to mount, he finds a place where the two of you can be alone.

At some point, the two of you find a quiet spot in the corner. He leans against the wall, and you lean against him. The two of you watch the people milling around, and the band strikes up another lively tune. He's still got an arm wrapped around your waist, and his hand is resting on your hip, his fingers tracing slow circles on the fabric of your dress.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a low rumble.

"I'm fine," you say, and this time, it's the truth. "Thank you for this. I know I'm being difficult, and I'm sorry."

"You're not being difficult." He's smiling, and his fingers move from your hip to the curve of your spine, sliding down your back in a soothing motion. "You're perfect."

You snort, and the butterflies are fluttering madly, beating their wings against your stomach, rising higher and higher. You ignore them and roll your eyes. "Whatever you say, Hound."

"I mean it." He turns his attention away from the crowd and looks down at you, and the intensity in his eyes takes you by surprise. "You're incredible."

"Oh, come on."

"Seriously, you are."

"Hound, I've been a nervous wreck all night. If that's incredible, I hate to hear what you think of the other people here."

"Other people don't matter,” he says. His tone is soft and warm, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart skip a beat.

"Of course they do."

"Why?"

"Because... Well, because..." Your words trail off, and you frown.

That's a good question.

Why does it matter?

Who cares if someone else has a nicer dress or better manners or more friends or a more prestigious title? Why is it important? What does it matter, in the grand scheme of things? You're not even sure anymore, and you find yourself searching for an answer. A good, solid, valid reason that will make sense, but there's nothing. Nothing that isn't completely superficial or trivial.

"They don't," he says. His eyes are fixed on your face, and the intensity of his gaze is unsettling. He's so serious, and his expression is so tender, and it's so unlike him. But before you can respond, he smiles and shrugs. "I'm just sayin'. No one else matters."

"Maybe," you murmur, and your head falls to his shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.

You know he's right. He's never lied to you before. He's never been dishonest, or cruel, or uncaring. He's always been considerate and thoughtful and kind, and he's the first person who's cared about you since you left home. He's always there, waiting at the bottom of the stairs, with a smile and a joke and a friendly hello.

He's always there, and that's a good thing.

You take a deep breath and turn your attention away from the crowd and back towards him. He's still watching you, and his expression is soft and open and vulnerable. He's not trying to hide anything, and it makes your heart flutter.

"Good," you whisper, and he smiles.

And then his hand is on your cheek, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice rough. "You know that, right?"

You swallow hard and nod, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. Your noses bump together, your lips inches apart, and your breath catches.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He's still watching you, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much. There's a flush on his cheeks, his breath coming out in short, quick puffs. You can tell that he's hesitating. Waiting. Giving you time to react.

You can't speak. You can barely breathe. But your fingers curl around the lapel of his jacket, and you pull him closer. That's all the encouragement he needs, and his lips brush against yours in a featherlight kiss.

The kiss is slow, and soft, and sweet, and the butterflies explode in a whirlwind of emotion and sensation and excitement. Your skin is on fire, the heat spreading from your face down your neck and chest and lower, lower, lower. He's not pushing or demanding. He's gentle and patient and caring, and it's perfect.

When the kiss ends, Hound pulls back, but not far. He's still close enough to press his forehead against yours, and his hand is still on the nape of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair.

"Okay?" he whispers.

You nod, and his smile widens. He leans down and kisses you again, and this time, the butterflies aren't fluttering. They're flying.

It's perfect.

The rest of the evening is a blur.

Hound is by your side the entire time, keeping you grounded and safe and secure. His hand is on the small of your back, his fingertips gently stroking the fabric of your dress. He keeps his pace slow, matching your steps, and his voice is a low, steady rumble in your ear, whispering little bits of information and gossip and stories. It's easy to tune out the other people, to ignore the music, to focus only on him.

By the time the two of you leave the gala, the moon is high and the streets are mostly empty. Hound walks you home, his hand never leaving your waist. You're both a bit tipsy, and the walk seems much shorter than usual. It's not long before the two of you are outside your door, and he's reluctant to let you go.

"Tonight was nice," you say. You're leaning against him, your face pressed into his chest. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his fingers splayed across your back. His hands are warm, and the heat from his touch is spreading across your skin, sending tingles down your spine.

"It was," he agrees, and his lips brush against the top of your head.

You sigh and relax further, resting your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart is a comforting rhythm, and the scent of his cologne is a pleasant mixture of spice and leather. He smells amazing, and you can't resist pressing a quick kiss to the base of his neck. He shivers, his hands tightening on your waist.

"We should do this again," you murmur. "But maybe next time, without so many people."

"Yeah," he chuckles, the sound low and husky. His lips trail along the shell of your ear, and the butterflies are awake again, fluttering lazily. "I'd love to take you out again."

"I'd like that," you whisper.

You want to tell him that you had a great time, that he was a perfect date, that you don't want the night to end. You want to tell him that he's amazing and sweet and kind and generous. You want to tell him that he's the only person who's cared about you in a long time. You want to tell him how much it means to you, and that you'd be happy to do it again.

But the words are stuck in your throat, and the butterflies are blocking the way, so instead, you tilt your head back and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and hooded, and his face is flushed, but his smile is warm and soft. He's looking at you like you're the only person in the world, like he's happy just to be near you.

"Do you want to come inside?" you ask.

It's a risky move, and a bold one. You're not usually so forward, and the alcohol is giving you courage. But you can't deny the desire coursing through your veins, and the thought of him leaving makes you feel empty.

Hound blinks, his eyes shifting from your door and back, and he swallows hard.

"If you want me to," he says. His voice is soft, but there's an edge of desire to it, and it's a struggle to keep your hands from trembling.

"I do," you whisper.

He stares at you for a moment longer, then nods.

"Alright," he murmurs, his voice rough. He presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose, and a flush rises up your neck and into your cheeks. "Then I'll come inside.”

His hands are still on your waist, and you reach up and grab his shirt, pulling him closer. His breath hitches as his body comes flush against yours, and his grip tightens. The kiss is more passionate this time, less hesitant and timid, and it sets your nerves alight. The butterflies are in full force now, and they're flying so fast and hard that you're sure they're going to escape.

The two of you stumble into the apartment, barely managing to shut the door behind you. Your hands are buried in his hair, and his are wandering up and down your sides, tracing the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts. You pull away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, and Hound immediately starts pressing a series of quick, sloppy kisses along the length of your jaw.

"I've wanted to do this for a while," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"Me too," you admit, a bit breathless.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad."

He captures your lips in another kiss, and his tongue slips into your mouth. The kiss is rough and wet and hot, and you moan into his mouth, gripping his shirt tighter.

Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and you fall backwards onto the cushions, dragging him down with you. He lands on top of you, and the sudden weight causes you to yelp in surprise. He catches himself at the last second, bracing himself with his arms, and he breaks the kiss.

"You okay?" he pants, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah, sorry," you mutter.

He grins and ducks his head, resuming his trail of kisses along your jawline and down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, and you moan, tugging at the hem of his shirt. His lips are searing, and the heat is spreading across your skin, setting every inch of you aflame.

He's intoxicating, and you want more.

You push him off, and the two of you scramble to your feet. He grabs the back of his shirt and tugs it over his head, tossing it to the side. You're not sure where it lands, and you don't care. Your attention is focused on him and him alone. You're staring, shamelessly drinking in the sight, and your mouth goes dry.

He's built like a mountain, broad and thick, and his skin is covered in a patchwork of scars and tattoos. You can't stop yourself from reaching out and running your hands along the smooth planes of his chest and the ridges of his abs. The muscles flex under your fingertips, and his eyes drift shut.

He's practically vibrating with anticipation, and when your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers, he grabs your waist and pulls you close. He doesn't have to say anything, because his eyes are screaming. They're full of want, desire, need. You can feel it in the air between the two of you, heavy with anticipation, with promise.

You reach up and cup his cheek, running your thumb along his lower lip. He parts his lips, and his tongue flicks out, teasing the pad of your thumb. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

The two of you move together, and your lips crash against his in a bruising kiss. You're a tangle of limbs, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. His hands are wandering, sliding over the curve of your ass and up the length of your back. He grabs the zipper at the top of your dress and slowly pulls it down, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin.

The dress pools around your feet, and he lets out a low whistle.

"Goddamn," he breathes as his gaze roams over your body.

You bite your lip and look away, suddenly embarrassed. Your face is burning, and you wish the butterflies would go away. But they're relentless, and they're not going anywhere.

"Hey, look at me," he says, his voice low and soft.

He places a finger beneath your chin and gently tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression is tender, and the smile he gives you is full of affection. He leans down and presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hands sliding over your shoulders and down your arms.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs.

"You're not so bad yourself," you reply.

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You have no idea, do you?"

"What?"

"How gorgeous you are." He cups your cheek and traces the curve of your jaw, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You're incredible."

"So are you."

"No, I'm not," he laughs, his hand sliding up your neck to tug gently at a loose strand of hair. "I'm just a guy who somehow managed to convince the most amazing woman in the galaxy to go on a date with him."

"Shut up," you scoff.

"It's true," he says, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "I'm lucky to have met you."

"Hound..."

"So, so lucky," he repeats. He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It's a quick, fleeting kiss, but it's enough to make your heart stutter. "You're incredible."

"Hound, shut up," you groan.

He laughs, the sound rich and deep, and he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

"Make me."

You reach up and grab the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his hair, and you press your mouth against his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, demanding, your lips parting, tongues clashing, teeth biting, noses bumping. He growls, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating against your body.

When the kiss ends, he's still holding you, and his forehead is pressed against yours.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Yes," you breathe.

"I don't want to rush—"

"Hound, if you stop now, I'll kick your ass."

He laughs and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you easily. Your legs automatically wrap around his hips, and he carries you into the bedroom, his lips trailing along the column of your throat. The mattress hits the back of his legs, and he sits down, settling you in his lap. You straddle his thighs, your knees digging into the soft fabric of the bedspread, and you bury your hands in his hair.

He slides his palms over the curve of your ass, squeezing and massaging the supple flesh. His mouth finds yours, and his tongue slips past your lips, exploring and teasing. The taste of alcohol is still heavy on his breath, but beneath it is something else. Something stronger. Something darker.

You're vaguely aware of him reaching for the clasp of your bra, and it loosens, falling away. You break the kiss and pull back, and the expression on his face nearly undoes you. The raw, naked hunger in his eyes is enough to make the butterflies beat their wings wildly, and you can't help but grin.

"See something you like?" you tease, and he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Fuck, yes," he growls.

He cups your breasts, his fingers teasing and pinching, and your breath catches in your throat. Your hips shift as his thumbs rub against your nipples, grinding down against him. The first brush of your clothed pussy against his erection is electric, and the noise he makes sends a fresh wave of heat washing over you.

He's hard and thick, his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers. You roll your hips again, and his hands tighten on your breasts, his nails digging into the sensitive skin. The pain is delicious, and you moan, rocking against him again. He groans, his hips jerking, and his lips find yours. The kiss is rough and demanding, and his tongue is practically fucking your mouth, licking and stroking in time with the movements of your hips.

He pulls away, his eyes wild, and his hands leave your breasts, sliding down your sides to settle on your waist. He holds you still as he thrusts up, grinding his cock against your pussy. You gasp and moan, your head falling back, and his mouth finds the exposed flesh of your throat. He latches onto the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sucking and biting. He's leaving a mark, and the thought excites you more than you'd like to admit.

His hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and he lifts you up, rolling the two of you over. He looms over you, his body a solid wall of muscle, and he kisses you, slow and deep. Hound shifts, and his knee spreads your legs wide, pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. You whimper into his mouth, bucking your hips, trying to find some relief from the building pressure against the hard muscle of his thigh.

Hound pulls away, and you groan, reaching for him, trying to drag him back. He's too far away, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your skin.

"Last chance," he whispers. The husky tone of his voice, coupled with the sight of his eyes, dark and hungry, sends a jolt of pleasure through your body, straight to your core. "Are you sure?"

You nod, unable to find the words.

"Tell me," he says, and his thumb slides under the thin strap of your panties. He teases the edge of the fabric, tracing lazy circles over the curve of your hip. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you breathe, the words coming out as a needy whine.

His eyes widen, and a grin spreads across his face. It's not the playful, easy smile that you're used to seeing. It's wolfish and predatory, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

He hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, tossing the ruined fabric aside. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, both of you breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync, before he descends with a low growl. He licks a slow, teasing line up the inside of your thigh, stopping just shy of your aching pussy. His lips ghost over your mound, the lightest of touches, before moving to the other thigh, repeating the torturous action.

The first swipe of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls. He laps at the sensitive bud, swirling around it, then presses the flat of his tongue against the folds of your pussy, lapping at the wetness leaking from your core. You buck your hips, desperately grinding against his face, but he holds you still, keeping his movements steady.

"Fuck," you gasp, your hips jerking involuntarily.

His tongue plunges inside you, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open. His eyes are closed, and his expression is one of pure bliss. He's moaning, his tongue darting in and out, tasting every inch of you. You bury a hand in his hair, tugging at the short strands, urging him on.

He's relentless, devouring you, his tongue thrusting in and out of your cunt. His thumb brushes against your clit, sending shockwaves through your body, and you gasp, arching off the bed. You're close, the pressure building and building, and his tongue moves faster, curling and twisting inside you.

You're not going to last.

You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or his enthusiasm, or the sheer fact that it's Hound who's between your legs, but you're already close to the edge. The pleasure is overwhelming, flooding your body, washing over you like a wave.

"Please, Hound, I need to come," you plead. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..."

His grip on your thighs tightens, his tongue thrusting faster, deeper, harder. He moans, the sound muffled by your cunt, his lips sucking at the sensitive bud of nerves. Your hips jerk, grinding against his face, the pressure building and building until it's almost too much. You can feel it, the orgasm just out of reach. It's just a matter of seconds. A matter of moments.

And then you're flying, your entire body trembling, shaking, pulsing. You're vaguely aware of the loud, ragged moan that escapes you, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care. The orgasm rips through you, crashing over you like a tidal wave, drowning out everything except the feeling of his tongue fucking your cunt.

You're panting, gasping, writhing on the sheets, every nerve ending on fire. Your body is shaking, your muscles twitching, and it takes several moments before the aftershocks finally subside. When the last one passes, you're left breathless and boneless, sprawled on the bed, struggling to catch your breath.

You feel a rush of cool air as Hound pulls away, the sound of his belt being unbuckled barely registering. Your head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering open. He's standing next to the bed, his pants hanging loose around his hips, his cock standing proud, flushed and achingly hard. He's looking down at you, his gaze hooded, his pupils blown wide.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?" he murmurs. His voice is low, husky, full of desire.

"Probably as long as I've wanted it," you say. You reach up, fingers wrapping around his wrist, pulling him towards you. He hurriedly kicks off his pants, nearly tripping over the fabric in his haste, then settles over you, his hands planted on either side of your head.

"How's that possible?" he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Because we're idiots," you laugh. You reach up and grab his neck, tugging him down, and he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, and you moan at the taste of yourself.

"Maybe," he agrees, the word a soft sigh against your mouth. "But I don't care."

"Me neither," you whisper, a slight smile curling the corners of your lips.

You shift, spreading your legs, welcoming him into the cradle of your thighs. His cock brushes against your folds, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, and the two of you groan. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, his heart pounding against your chest, the scent of his cologne filling the air. He's everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, drowning you in his warmth.

Hound shifts, his hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Precum is leaking from the tip, and the head is flushed red, almost purple with need. He lines himself up, the head teasing your entrance, but he doesn't push inside. Instead, he slowly circles the swollen bundle of nerves, coating his cock with your slick as he leans forward and braces himself on his forearm. 

His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep, his tongue plunging into your mouth, mimicking the slow, lazy movements of his hips. The kiss is intense, possessive, claiming. He's branding you with his touch, his taste, his scent. He's marking you as his, and it's perfect.

The head of his cock slips inside you, and he moans, his body shuddering.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, his voice rough.

"I want you," you whimper.

He thrusts, sinking in another inch, and you cry out. He's stretching you open, and the feeling is incredible. Your walls flutter, your hips bucking, but he's holding you in place, pinning you to the mattress.

"Say it again," he growls, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

"I want you," you moan, the words coming out in a breathy, needy rush.

He pulls back, the head of his cock just barely stretching your entrance. The sudden loss of his warmth makes you whimper, but before you can protest, he surges forward, filling you completely.

Every inch of you is burning, every nerve ending screaming. You're full, stretched to the limit, molded perfectly to the shape of his cock. His body is flush against yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hips rock, grinding his pelvis against your clit, setting off another round of sparks.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans. "So fucking good."

His words send a thrill through you, your cunt tightening around his cock. He curses, his hips jerking, and his hand finds your stomach, pressing down.

"Easy," he murmurs. "Don't want to hurt you."

"You're not," you gasp, and your walls ripple around him again. He moans, his head dropping to your shoulder.

"Fuck," he hisses. "Don't do that. Not yet."

You can't help but laugh, breathless and lightheaded. He's being so sweet and careful, and you can't resist the urge to push him a little further. You contract again, squeezing and releasing, feeling every inch of him buried deep inside you.

Hound's head snaps up, his eyes wild, his nostrils flaring. There's a moment where the two of you stare at each other, neither one of you moving. And then, in one smooth, powerful thrust, he drives his cock all the way inside you.

Your back arches, and his mouth latches onto the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, biting and sucking. His teeth graze the bruised flesh, and his hips snap, his cock slamming into you.

You cry out, nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulders. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate. He's not holding back anymore, and neither are you. His hands are on your waist, and he's slamming his cock into you, each thrust punctuated by a sharp slap of skin on skin. You're moaning and gasping, and his name falls from your lips, over and over.

You can feel another orgasm building as he picks up the pace, and the heat is spreading, coiling and twisting. His cock is hitting all the right spots, and you're so close, the edge just out of reach.

He leans back, his hands moving to your thighs, spreading you open. The new angle is deeper, and his cock is rubbing against the spongy patch of nerves. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and his eyes are dark and hungry.

"Come for me," he rasps. "I want to see you come on my cock."

You cry out, and your fingers twist in the sheets, gripping the fabric tightly. He's pounding into you, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving you higher and higher. The heat is spreading, and the colors are blurring, and the only thing you can focus on is him, and the feel of him, and the taste of him, and the smell of him.

He's everywhere, and it's too much.

The coil snaps, and the orgasm rips through you, tearing a scream from your lips. Your back arches, and your cunt convulses, tightening around his cock like a vise. His breath hitches, and his hands grip your thighs tightly.

"Fuck," he grunts, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing. "Where?"

It takes a moment for the question to register, but when it does, you manage to find your voice.

"Inside," you gasp. "Please, Hound—“

That's all the encouragement he needs. His cock pulses, and he moans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The heat spreads into your core, his cum filling you, and the aftershocks wash over you, the waves crashing and rolling, leaving you boneless and spent.

His arms wrap around you, and he rolls the two of you over. He's still buried deep inside you, and the feeling of his cock pulsing and twitching is almost enough to make you come again. You're both shaking, and he's muttering something, his words jumbled and unintelligible.

You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, his cock buried inside you, your bodies tangled together. But eventually, the pleasure subsides, and you can breathe again. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then his shoulder, and his grip tightens around you.

"I'm not sure if I'm dreaming," he says, and the admission is so earnest, so vulnerable, that it nearly breaks your heart. "You're real, right?"

"As real as it gets," you reply. You rest your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "Promise."

He lets out a sigh, and his grip relaxes, his hands sliding over your sides, down your back, along the curve of your ass. You run a hand through his hair, smoothing the messy strands. He shifts to lean into your touch, and his softened cock slips free, leaving a trail of his seed across your thigh.

"You okay?" he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

"Mhm," you hum as you kiss his neck.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" His tone is soft, and there's a note of concern in his voice.

"No," you whisper.

He lets out a sigh, and his lips press against your cheek, featherlight.

"Good," he murmurs.

The two of you lay there, your bodies entwined until eventually Hound moves, rolling you onto your side before sitting up and stretching. He runs a hand through his hair, and the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple. 

You watch, enjoying the view, but you can't help the way your heart sinks as he gets up. You know that he's going to leave, and the realization is a sharp stab of disappointment. You try not to let it show, and you do your best to keep your expression neutral.

But he must sense it, because he pauses and looks at you, his brow furrowed.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," you reply, not wanting to admit the truth. You don't want him to think that you're clingy or needy or dependent. That's not who you are. At least, it's not who you want to be.

"You sure?" He studies you, and the look in his eyes is thoughtful. "You seem a bit...tense."

"I'm fine," you say, giving him a smile. "Just tired."

He snorts and shakes his head. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He moves to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water running. He returns a moment later with a wet cloth, and he sits down beside you, cleaning up the mess that he left. He's gentle, careful, and you can't help but notice the way his fingers tremble slightly as they move over your skin.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he says, his tone apologetic. "I wasn't planning on taking things this far."

"I wasn't either," you admit.

"Well, shit." He tosses the cloth to the side, and the grin that spreads across his face is lopsided and endearing. "Now what?"

"We can pretend this didn't happen," you suggest, even though the idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Hound’s brow furrows, and his smile fades.

"Why would we do that?" he asks, his tone incredulous.

"Because..." Your words trail off, and your heart races.

Because you don't want him to think you're desperate. Because you don't want to scare him off. Because you don't want to ruin the friendship that the two of you have built. Because you don't want him to regret it.

He sighs and reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your cheek, and the gesture is tender and gentle.

"Hey," he says, his voice low. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

"But—"

"Listen." He takes a deep breath, and his hand falls to the bed, his fingers tangling with yours. "I like you. I really, really like you. And if you want to pretend this didn't happen, we can. But if you want to see where things go, I'd like that, too."

"Really?" 

"Really," he says.

You swallow hard, trying to find the words. He's giving you an out, a way to save face, a chance to take a step back. But you don't want to do that. You don't want to lose him. You don't want to pretend that this didn't happen. You don't want to go back to the way things were.

You take a deep breath, and his fingers squeeze yours.

"Hound," you begin, then pause, collecting your thoughts.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "I get it."

"I like you," you finally manage, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And I'm sorry. I know I'm bad at this. But I like you. And I want to see where things go."

"Oh, thank fuck," he breathes, and the relief in his voice is palpable.

"What?"

"I was worried you were going to say you regretted it." He grins, and the tension drains from his shoulders. "I was worried you were going to tell me to leave."

"Never," you reply, your heart leaping. "I'll never regret this."

"Good."

He leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It's different from the others. There's no urgency, no desperation. It's sweet, and tender, and full of promise.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers when the kiss ends. Then his mouth twists, and he looks away, his voice turning sheepish. “Well, I can leave if you want. If you need some time alone, or some space, or—"

"Stay," you interrupt.

His smile widens, and he squeezes your hand.

"Okay," he says.

He pulls the covers over the two of you and lies down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He pulls you close, and you nestle against his chest, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Thank you," you murmur, your voice thick with sleep.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For everything."

"Of course."

You're tired, and it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open. You can feel yourself starting to drift off, and the last thing you remember before sleep claims you is the feeling of his lips pressed against the top of your head, and the soft, steady rhythm of his heart.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face, the warmth of his body chasing away the last vestiges of loneliness.

And when you wake, he's still there, holding you tight.

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[the-face-in-the-mirror]

So the Boar Hat redesign is going great

[fatehbaz]

Some updates from the past twelve-ish months:

-- Late 2022: Portland and its mayor (Wheeler) started a major push to ban "street camping". Headlines in major media outlets also described "Portland's first sanctioned mass homeless camp" and how "Portland moves forward with $27 million plan to build mass shelters". In December 2022, Portland-area authorities used the so-called "aggressive landscaping" tactic, installing hundreds of hostile architecture boulders to prevent sitting/sleeping. Also in December, homeless advocates and Disability Rights Washington advocates attempted to halt Spokane's (Washington) clearing of a major camp for hundreds of people, and a federal judge sided with advocates to put a temporary restraining order on the sweep.

-- January 2023: Even in the immediate aftermath of historic cold as far south as Miami and Monterrey, sub-freezing temperatures across the Deep South, and sub-zero-Fahrenheit blizzards sweeping North America for a week or longer around Solstice/Christmas 2022, convenience stores "in Texas, California, New York use classical music to shoo homeless".

-- By March 2023: "Portland Mayor Wheeler unveils first location for city-run homeless camp".

-- April 2023: San Francisco and Mayor Breed announce a major "five-year plan" costing over 600 million dollars "to cut the number of unsheltered homeless in half". (Not a plan to put people in homes or find stable housing, but just to technically put them under the roof of shelter, keeping them out of sight, therefore qualifying them for the strange designation of "the sheltered homeless".) At the same time, San Francisco opened a "long-term homeless shelter on Treasure Island", pushing homeless people onto an isolated island mostly composed of concrete and asphalt.

-- Summer 2023: In May, the city of Phoenix (Arizona) began its project to clear and eliminate its largest homeless camp, known as the Zone, a refuge for hundreds of people. During the record-breaking heat of the summer of 2023, Phoenix cleared the camp systematically, block by block. At the beginning of September 2023, as "Phoenix breaks heat record as city hits 110F [110 degrees Fahrenheit] for the 54th consecutive day", the city cleared the block of the camp where most seniors and the elderly lived.

-- January 2024: About one week ahead of winter holidays (Solstice/Christmas), the City of Edmonton pursued plans to sweep 130 homeless encampments as part of what has been described as a "shocking" eviction plan. In January, the city was clearing camps amidst sustained deadly severe weather, during a polar vortex event with temperatures of negative 50 degrees Fahrenheit and daytime highs of negative 25F. When a court case presented by Coalition for Justice and Human Rights tried to slow the sweeps, a judge sided with them and shut down the evictions.

-- March 2024: Florida's governor signs a new law. NPR describes: "law that seeks to move unhoused people off public property altogether and into government-run encampments".

-- April 2024: The U.S. Supreme Court begins hearing a case from Grants Pass (Oregon) with major implications and potential to incite nationwide "banishment race" and "homelessness crackdown". Lower courts have previously said that city policies (like Grants Pass, Boise, and others) were "cruel and unusual" for fining and/or jailing people for sleeping on public land if no adequate accessible shelter is available. But now?

[cosmic-conqueror-diabelos]

An adventurer’s guide to the galaxy

In their relentless pursuit of peak physical perfection, Jihyo, Momo, Sana, and Mina had pushed themselves through nearly every fitness trend—from intense Pilates sessions to disciplined weight-lifting regiments. But when they hit a frustrating plateau, their competitive spirits refused to settle. Searching for the next challenge, they found themselves drawn to a quiet yet well-respected dojo nestled just on the outskirts of the city.

It was there, under the strict yet graceful tutelage of Sensei Umezewa—a stoic Japanese immigrant and the daughter of a so-called "exiled samurai"—that they began spending nearly every weekend honing their skills. What started as a personal training sanctuary soon turned into something else entirely. As word spread among their peers, the dojo quickly became a magnet for other idols chasing their own version of physical and mental mastery.

Before long, familiar faces began appearing at the dojo: Sakura Miyawaki, always composed and deadly with a shinai, and Kazuha Nakamura, graceful as a dancer but deceptively strong. Their presence added a new layer of intensity to the sessions, and it wasn’t long before their training schedules naturally aligned. They often sparred together, sweat and adrenaline bonding them through every strike and counter, their movements crisp and purposeful beneath layers of traditional gear.

Today’s session had been no different—rigorous, disciplined, and exhausting. Sensei Umezewa had calmly observed from the sidelines, her eyes as sharp as a blade, offering the occasional correction or nod of approval. The training had concluded with the quiet arrival of three new recruits: Giselle and Karina of Aespa, and Itzy’s Yeji—all drawn to the dojo for the same reason as the others: the hunger to evolve, to transcend.

After bowing to their Sensei and one another, the group made their way out of the dojo, laughter, and conversation punctuating the quiet of the late afternoon. But as they stepped into the gravel path outside, something strange happened.

One, two, three… eight steps.

Then nothing.

They kept walking—but the scenery didn’t change. Their feet moved, and the gravel crunched beneath them, but they weren’t getting anywhere.

It took a moment before anyone noticed. One by one, they paused, puzzled, glancing around. The air felt heavier, charged with a strange, humming tension. Confused murmurs gave way to silence as they all tilted their heads upward.

That’s when they saw it: a colossal beam of pale blue light pouring down from the sky, shimmering like liquid glass. It enveloped them completely, holding them in place with an invisible grip.

A split second later, everything went white.

And then—nothing.

Darkness.

They came to—roughly four Earth hours later—disoriented and sprawled across the cold, metallic floor of an alien chamber. The room hummed softly with energy, its walls a lattice of strange, glowing symbols and seamless, shifting panels. The very structure they were in felt alive, its design so far beyond human comprehension that even trying to make sense of it gave them a dull headache. No edges, no visible doors—just smooth, flowing architecture that pulsed like a heartbeat.

And sitting at the far end of the chamber, upon what looked like a throne grown out of the floor itself, was a towering figure that resembled a man crossed with a white tiger—broad-shouldered, draped in dark, ornamental armor, and radiating a quiet, effortless menace.

“Oh good, y’all are awake,” the feline giant said in heavily modulated English, his voice deep and oddly melodic, like metal scraping velvet.

The idols instinctively recoiled, hearts pounding, pressing themselves against the walls as far from the creature as possible. Panic danced in their eyes—this was no stage, no dream, no fantasy.

The creature raised a massive paw in what seemed like a gesture of calm.

“Now, now—no need to be afraid,” he said, his tone rehearsed but not unkind. “I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Rylor. I come from the planet Jenji, in the Solaris system. I am what you might call… a recruiter.”

“A what?” Sana whispered, still breathless.

“I seek out exceptional talent and bring them to their new… hmm. Not ‘masters,’ no—that’s not the word. Employers. Yes. That’s what you humans call it,” Rylor corrected himself, his tail lazily flicking behind him. “You’ve been chosen. I hope to make your transition from your… previous lives to this one a bit easier.”

As their eyes adjusted, the girls noticed the details of him more clearly: he was less like a cartoonish feline and more like a white tiger standing on two legs—hulking, rippling with muscle, with intelligent amber eyes that gleamed beneath his metallic circlet. He was beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful. Dangerous. Unstoppable.

Jihyo stepped forward, fists clenched.

“You didn’t recruit us,” she said firmly, her voice low and even. “You abducted us. You stole us from our home.”

Rylor let out a low, rumbling laugh. “You’re from Earth. It’s practically the same thing.”

He paused, scanning each of them with what looked like genuine curiosity—and maybe even a little admiration.

“Liroc,” he called, not looking away from the idols, “get them chipped and resonant.”

From a nearby shadowed corridor emerged something even less comforting—an insectoid creature, tall and skeletal, with glistening carapace armor and multi-jointed limbs. Its face was a twisted mandible of clicking parts, closer to a nightmare than anything terrestrial. Think Predator, if it grew up in a hive instead of a jungle.

The idols froze, eyes wide.

“Move,” Rylor said gently, as if herding kittens. “He won’t bite. Unless you try to run.”

The creature—Liroc—made a rapid series of harsh clicks and guttural sounds that echoed off the walls like static-fed radio transmissions. The girls tried speaking to him, asking questions, but all they got in response were more unsettling chittering noises and unreadable gestures.

He led them down a narrow, curving corridor. The floor beneath their feet shimmered with every step, adjusting somehow to their pace. At the end of the hallway, a chamber opened—a sterile white room illuminated by ambient light from no visible source.

Standing in the center was a humanoid robot—sleek, silver, and humanoid in shape, with glowing red eyes. Despite the intimidating appearance, its voice was eerily calm, a soft, automated baritone that sounded like an old friend reading bedtime instructions.

“Welcome,” it said. “I am HAL-2000. You have been selected for linguistic synchronization and cosmic resonance attunement. Please proceed to the tubes.”

Six cylindrical pods stood against the wall, faintly humming, mist swirling at their bases.

The idols hesitated.

“It is painless,” HAL added, sensing their fear. “And necessary. You will understand everything soon.”

With no other choice—and Rylor’s words still ringing in their ears—they stepped forward, one by one, into the strange machines.

As the lids closed over them, a soft pulse filled their ears.

Then—

Darkness again.

Light slowly bled into their consciousness.

This time, when they opened their eyes, the sterile chamber was gone. The soft walls here were the color of aged parchment, gently pulsing with an inner glow. The air was warmer, breathable—but laced with an unfamiliar metallic tang. Each of them lay in their own cot, covered by strange yet comfortable woven sheets that shimmered like liquid thread.

They were no longer in the pods.

At first, they stirred quietly, groggily, unsure if they were dreaming again. But then a sound reached them—soft at first, like fingers tapping on crystal. Then it formed words.

Actual words.

Words they understood.

“In your language now?” came a voice—clicking, layered, but unmistakably intelligible.

They sat up. Liroc stood at the entrance to the chamber, his towering insectoid frame half-hidden in the shifting glow of the doorway. No longer just a horror movie silhouette, he now looked more… real. His mandibles twitched with each word, but his voice carried directly into their minds, perfectly fluent—not in English, but in each of their native tongues.

“I know this is unsettling,” Liroc continued, his multifaceted eyes scanning their faces one by one. “And I know it’s scary.”

There was no trace of mockery or malice in his voice—just a tired honesty, like someone who had delivered this speech many times before.

“But if you do your four years,” he said slowly, “you’ll be free. And you can go home.”

Silence fell over the room like a thick curtain.

Sana was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “Four years of… what?”

Liroc didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped into the room, claws clicking gently on the floor. He didn’t loom or threaten—he sat. Or rather, crouched in a way that seemed both alien and oddly respectful.

“Work. Missions. Tasks that require… exceptional beings. You were chosen because your abilities—discipline, adaptability, group cohesion, physical prowess—are rare. Even among humans.”

“Chosen,” Mina repeated flatly.

“Recruited,” Jihyo added bitterly.

Liroc inclined his head slightly. “I won’t lie. Most of you would not have volunteered. But many before you have served. And survived. Some even thrived.”

Karina spoke up, voice trembling. “And if we refuse?”

There was a pause. Not ominous—just… somber.

“Then you’ll be reassigned,” Liroc said. “To less cooperative handlers. I can’t protect you from them.”

That landed with force. The room went cold again.

“Why are you helping us?” Yeji asked.

Liroc’s mandibles twitched, and he made a low, rattling sound—it might’ve been a sigh.

“Because I remember what it was like,” he said quietly. “To wake up in a place that wasn’t mine. To be told I belonged to someone else. I earned my freedom. I serve now by choice. And I would rather guide you gently… than see you broken.”

The silence that followed wasn’t fear.

It was decision.

As the days turned into weeks—four Earth weeks, to be exact—the idols slowly began to settle into an uneasy rhythm aboard the alien vessel. The initial terror faded into something more mechanical: they cleaned, they ate strange but nourishing food, and they trained.

Under the ever-watchful eye of Rylor.

Training was rigorous. Physical drills, weapons handling, even simulations that pulled on both their instinct and discipline. They were pushed hard, but not broken. The crew—diverse, strange, and mostly indifferent—treated them with a cold professionalism. No cruelty, but no affection either. They were assets. Temporary, expendable.

But Rylor was different.

Though none of the others were singled out, Jihyo somehow drew his constant attention. She noticed the way he lingered during sparring sessions, the way he observed her with a mix of curiosity and something else—something more possessive. It wasn’t romantic, exactly. It was… fixated. Fascinated.

Jihyo didn’t trust him. Not even a little. But she kept her guard up and her tone neutral, even when he hovered just a bit too close or watched her with those amber, unreadable eyes.

Despite the circumstances, the group adapted. They grew stronger. More cohesive. They began communicating with each other and the ship more easily thanks to the resonance chips. They weren’t free—but they weren’t helpless either.

As their vessel neared the coordinates of their so-called employers, a quiet anxiety settled over them.

Then came the night before they were to be handed over.

Rylor summoned Jihyo to his private chambers.

It was a rare invitation. No one refused. She went—cautiously.

The chamber was dimly lit, filled with artifacts and relics from across the galaxy: weapons mounted like trophies, silk banners embroidered with alien script, and the faint scent of incense that made her slightly dizzy. Rylor lounged on an elevated couch, a decanter of shimmering blue liquid in one paw, two crystalline cups set before him.

“Sit,” he said, voice low but heavy with expectation.

Jihyo did, stiffly. She didn’t touch her drink.

Rylor, on the other hand, was already a few glasses in. As the evening wore on, the stoic pirate grew looser, more talkative—his speech slurred, his posture relaxed.

“You know,” he said, tail flicking lazily behind him, “you humans don’t usually do it for me. Too soft. Too loud. But you… you're different.”

Jihyo said nothing. Just listened.

“You remind me of the Panthera Regiment back on Jenji,” he went on, eyes glazing over with memory. “An all-female platoon. Vicious. Lethal. Beautiful. They didn’t fear anything—except failure.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering.

“You could’ve led them. You should stay with me. Be my consort. My wife.”

Jihyo’s face remained unreadable, but her heart pounded. She kept her tone polite, measured.

“I appreciate the… compliment. But I can’t accept.”

Rylor froze, just for a moment. Then something shifted.

“How dare you?” he growled, rising slowly to his full, imposing height.

“I take care of you. I train you silly apes. I give you purpose, and you—"

A sudden buzz sliced through the tension.

The intercom crackled to life, interrupting him mid-rant with a calm but commanding female voice:

“Pirate Rylor, this is Commander Samira of the Galactic Federation. You are in direct violation of the Nephilim Treaty of Year 17 Billion—Earth year 2012—regarding the acquisition of Terran civilians. Prepare to be boarded and arrested.”

For a moment, the chamber was still.

Then Rylor’s expression twisted into something primal. He slammed the decanter to the ground, blue liquid splattering across the floor like blood.

“Federation scum…” he hissed, eyes glowing with fury.

He turned toward the sealed door, muscles tensing, ready to fight.

Behind him, Jihyo remained silent—calculating.

Her moment might’ve just arrived.

As the last syllables of her warning faded from the comms, Commander Samira turned smoothly from the console to face the three of us—her elite strike unit, her so-called little wolves.

There was a gleam in her eyes—equal parts mischief and menace.

“My little wolves,” she purred, brushing a lock of silver hair behind her ear, “would you be darlings and tear that cat’s ship apart?”

I gave a sharp nod, feeling the familiar pulse of power building in my chest.

“As you wish, Commander,” I said.

With a slash of my hand, a portal tore itself open before us—vibrating with crackling energy. Through it, the innards of Rylor’s ship were revealed, dim and pulsing like the belly of some dormant beast.

Combat Captain Dinozen Sisko, ever silent and grim, stepped through first—his hammer already crackling with kinetic charge. Artillery Specialist Magnara Unika followed close behind, her twin shoulder-cannons humming softly, calibrated for close-quarters suppression. I entered last, sealing the rift behind us with a flick of my wrist.

We materialized in what looked like the prisoner holding bay—cold, metallic, sterile. The idols were there, huddled but alert. All of them except one.

Magnara gasped softly. “Oh my stars… it’s really them.” Her voice was unusually high-pitched with excitement. “Is that Kazuha? And Sana?!”

She was fangirling—actually fangirling in the middle of an extraction op.

“Focus, Unika,” Dinozen muttered, though his mouth twitched in what might’ve been a grin.

Magnara gathered herself quickly, motioning for the idols to follow. “Come on, ladies. You’re safe now. Let’s get you out of here before things get… explode-y.”

They obeyed, moving fast but wide-eyed, still processing their rescue. Just before they reached the portal, one of them—Sana, I believed—turned back and looked up at me with urgent eyes.

“Um, sir?” she asked, voice trembling with both hope and fear. “Can you save our leader? Her name’s Jihyo. She’s about this tall—” she held up her hand, “—big brown eyes, tan skin. She’s probably still with that… tiger freak.”

I gave a short nod. “I’ll find her.”

Dinozen and Magnara led the group through the portal, the shimmering light swallowing them as they vanished back to the safety of Samira’s warship. As they disappeared, I caught a glimpse of one of the paler idols—Mina, maybe—casting a lingering glance back at Dinozen. Her gaze wasn’t fear, though. It was curiosity. Interest.

I chuckled softly to myself. Well now… that could get interesting.

Then I turned, armor humming as I moved deeper into the belly of the ship, toward the captain’s quarters. Toward the one they called Jihyo.

The moment the intercom cut out and Rylor stormed toward the chamber doors, Jihyo made her decision.

No more waiting. No more being watched. No more being handled.

She had seen the shift in Rylor’s eyes—how rejection twisted his fascination into something darker, something that boiled beneath his pride. The look of a predator who wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

As he stomped toward the control panel beside the door, growling curses under his breath, Jihyo moved. Not wildly. Not recklessly. Precisely.

She snatched the shard of the shattered decanter from the floor—glass in this part of space wasn’t like Earth glass. It didn’t break into fine sand; it fractured into jagged, durable splinters. She wrapped part of her sleeve around one end, creating a makeshift grip, and crept toward the brute’s back.

“How dare she,” Rylor snarled under his breath, punching in override codes. “I offer her legacy, power… and she—”

He never finished the sentence.

Jihyo struck.

The shard sliced across the back of his knee, deep enough to draw a roar of pain but not enough to sever anything. The beast fell forward, surprised more than wounded. She leapt back as he twisted toward her.

“You dare?” he bellowed, voice echoing through the chamber like thunder. “You little animal—”

“I’m not yours,” Jihyo snapped. Her voice didn’t tremble. “You don’t get to ‘keep’ people. We’re not prizes. We’re not pets.”

Rylor charged.

She dodged—barely—tucking and rolling across the chamber as his claws scraped the floor where she’d stood. He turned, slower now, dragging his wounded leg.

“I was going to make you a queen,” he hissed.

“I’m already a leader,” she replied, tightening her grip on the glass shard. “And I don’t need a crown from you.”

Just as he lunged again—

-The wall behind Rylor ruptured in a violent blast of energy.

A portal flared open, clean and circular, its edges sparking as if reality itself had been neatly sliced. I stepped through—calm, composed—my gaze immediately locking onto the bleeding, seething tiger-like pirate.

Jihyo blinked in surprise. “Who—?”

“Reinforcements,” I replied coolly, tone level, but edged with authority. “Now, is there any chance you’ll surrender peacefully? Or are you intent on making this even more difficult?”

Rylor didn’t answer. He just growled—and lunged.

Wrong move.

A charged pulse shot from the coil around my wrist, striking him square in the chest. The blast sent him flying backward, crashing into the bulkhead with a sharp metallic crunch. He slumped, dazed but alive, smoke curling from the scorch mark on his armor.

I stepped into the room fully, scanning quickly—and then I saw her.

Jihyo.

Her light bronze skin glowed faintly under the flickering emergency lights. She stood tall despite the chaos, chin lifted, shard of alien glass still clenched in her hand like a dagger. Her eyes—wide, warm, but unyielding—held both the gentleness of a leader and the fire of someone who refused to break.

I understood in that instant why Rylor had fixated on her. But what struck me most wasn’t her beauty, or her resilience.

It was her presence.

“I believe your friends are waiting for you, Leader Jihyo,” I said, lowering my hand and offering a respectful nod. “Care to come home?”

She looked from the scorched wall… to Rylor, groaning but beaten… then finally up at me. Judging me. Measuring me. And then, she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said, slipping the shard into her belt. “Let’s go.”

I opened a second portal behind me, and together we vanished into the light.

⸻

We emerged into the safety of the Federation warship’s transport bay. The idols were already gathered there, recovering under the soft blue glow of medical filters. As soon as Jihyo stepped through, the others rushed to her.

“Oh thank God you’re safe!” Sana cried, flinging her arms around her.

The others followed quickly—Momo, Mina, Sakura, Giselle—all wrapping her in relief and laughter. The tension eased. Their leader was back. The circle was whole again.

I made my way across the deck toward Commander Samira. She stood with her arms behind her back, cool and commanding, letting the idols have their moment before speaking.

“Welcome, Terrans,” she said with a practiced warmth. “I am Commander Samira of the Rune Terra system, native to the planet Noxus, and an agent of the Galactic Federation. I’m here to take you home.”

The room filled with cheers and emotional gasps.

But I noticed something quieter amid the noise.

Three of the Terran girls were looking at us—at me, Dinozen, and Magnara—with something different than relief. Something more… curious. Jihyo’s eyes lingered on me. Sakura seemed drawn to Dinozen, her gaze soft but focused. And Giselle? She was practically orbiting Magnara, clearly fascinated by the towering artillery specialist.

I’m cheating as I write this, I know—I didn’t get their names right away. But I’ll learn them. I always do.

Samira turned and clapped her hands once.

“My wolves will escort you to your guest quarters,” she said, addressing the idols. “There you’ll find fresh approximations of Terran cuisine, warm baths, clean clothing, and real beds. Rest well, knowing you are safe now.”

Magnara and Dinozen led the group down the corridor. The girls followed, quieter now, some still glancing back. But Jihyo lingered.

Samira noticed and gave me a sideways glance. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jihyo was already walking toward me—measured, deliberate. She stopped so close our chests nearly touched.

“You saved me,” she said softly. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

Her voice was warm but unwavering. Her face was close—far too close. I could hear the skip in my own pulse. She was distracting. Dangerous.

I smiled slightly. “Anytime.”

She gave a tiny nod, then turned quickly and jogged back to her friends.

Samira was smirking before I even turned around.

“Could you be any less subtle?” she teased. “I thought you were going to throw her down and kiss her on the deck.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Where did you learn that phrase?”

“Oh, Magnara taught me. Apparently it’s something people yell on ‘reality TV’.” She waved a hand. “Not important.”

She leaned in with that knowing grin. “So. My little wolf has a crush on a Terran.”

I composed myself quickly. Straightened my shoulders.

“She’s… stunning. Yes. But I wouldn’t call it a crush,” I said, voice even. “I have no desire to engage her.”

Samira laughed softly. “Of course not,” she said. “That’s exactly what a man with a deep, dangerous crush would say.”

I didn’t answer.

But I did glance down the corridor—just once—to catch one final glimpse of Jihyo.

She hadn’t looked back.

Yet somehow, it still felt like she knew I was watching.

Samira chuckled behind me, her tone knowing and amused. “So what’s up, Witch-Wolf? Don’t tell me the mighty Giordano’s been undone by a Terran girl with pretty eyes.”

Her words snapped me out of my trance, and I exhaled, shaking off the lingering warmth in my chest.

“Commander,” I said, shifting back into mission mode, “what’s our plan for Rylor? I saw the scorch trail—he escaped the moment the power grid failed. We both know he’s not going to stay quiet.”

Samira’s smile thinned, and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“No need to chase him,” she said with a shrug, voice far more serious now. “He’ll be back—he always is. Especially now that he knows we’re heading toward Earth. He’s the vengeful type.”

She stepped forward, lowering her voice as if the ship itself might be listening. “But you—my little Witch-Wolf—don’t get to go full arcane wrath just yet. Not here. Not while we’re traveling through Federation trade lanes. You know the treaties.”

I nodded slowly. The Arcades Accord had grandfathered me in—barely. One of the last recognized war mages allowed to exist within Federation space, let alone operate freely.

“I don’t want to test the bureaucracy’s patience,” Samira continued. “Not until we’re out of their jurisdiction. You may be Chulane’s last pupil, but even that only buys so much tolerance. We wait. Once we hit the outer reach of the Sol system—past the Beacon Lines—then you can rampage splendidly.”

There was a glint of wicked amusement in her tone at that last part, but also trust. Faith.

I bowed my head slightly. “Understood, Commander.”

“Dismissed.”

I turned and began the walk toward my quarters. The halls were quiet now, shadows stretching long under the pulse-lights. My boots echoed softly.

The corridors of the Aurelius were quiet at this hour. Most of the ship’s human guests were finally resting after the chaos of their abduction and recovery. The faint hum of power cells and stabilizer coils echoed through the metal halls, familiar and comforting to someone like me.

I was heading back to my quarters after a debrief with Samira, boots barely making a sound against the polished alloy floor. My mind wandered—mostly to her. To Jihyo. I had heard her music thanks to Maggy who was a massive fan and had grown to like them but

I told Samira I didn’t have a crush.

Maybe I was a liar.

Just as I turned the corner by the guest wing, someone stepped into the hallway from one of the side rooms. I stopped short as she nearly collided with me.

It was her.

Jihyo.

Fresh from a bath, she wore soft Federation-issue loungewear—loose, comfortable, and cut in a way that made her seem even more disarmingly human. Her long hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends, and her skin had that freshly-cleansed glow. She smelled faintly of citrus and something floral.

“Oh! Sorry,” she said, stepping back. Her tone wasn’t flustered, just… surprised. Then her eyes lit up in recognition. “You again.”

I swallowed before speaking. “You have a habit of bumping into your rescuers?”

She smirked. “Maybe just the handsome ones.”

That was… new.

“I’m kidding,” she added quickly, her grin widening. “Kind of.”

I chuckled and tried to keep walking. My heart was pounding like I’d just come from combat training. She turned and fell into step beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re not like the others on the ship,” she said, glancing sideways at me. “You speak our language too well. And your accent… It’s familiar.”

“I studied Terran linguistics,” I offered.

She narrowed her eyes, not buying it. “No. You are Terran, aren’t you?”

I hesitated—then nodded.

“Yeah same as Dinozen and Magnara I was born in California. Earthside. For taken off-world when I was young.”

Her eyes lit up even more. “I knew it! I could tell the way you moved, the way you looked at us. You’re not just some Federation soldier—they recruited you.”

I let a small smile crack through. “Something like that.”

“Well, Giordano,” she said, testing my name in her mouth like a lyric.

I raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

“It’s on your badge,” she replied, smug.

I laughed—a real one this time. First one in days.

“Giordano,” she repeated, drawing it out in a teasing tone. “Too many syllables. I’m gonna call you Gio.”

“Gio, huh?”

She shrugged. “It suits you.”

I slowed my pace, half-expecting her to head back to her quarters.

She didn’t.

She kept walking beside me, arms folded casually, bare feet padding softly over the floor.

“You’re heading back to your room?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll walk with you,”

Absolutely — here’s a refined and expanded version of the scene, keeping the emotional vulnerability and growing connection between the narrator and Jihyo while improving flow, emotional beats, and sensory detail:

⸻

And she stayed beside me—step for step—as if this was something we’d always done. Like we were walking through memory instead of metal corridors, our rhythm already synced.

As we neared my quarters, she leaned gently into my shoulder. Not clingy, not fragile. Just… present. Like she wanted to feel I was real.

When we reached the door, she turned to me with a small smile. “After you.”

I chuckled, brow raised. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?”

She looked up at me, steady. No hesitation. “I feel safe with you.”

Then—before I could say something dumb to ruin it—she placed a hand on my chest and gave a soft push, guiding me through the door.

The lights flickered on as we entered, revealing the stark simplicity of my quarters: neatly stacked weapons on the rack, no decorations, no comforts. Just order and shadows.

Jihyo stepped inside and looked around. “Huh. Very… military monk.”

“Spartan elegance,” I said, dropping my gear onto the shelf.

She watched me as I moved—quietly assessing, but not judging. I took a seat on the couch, and without a word, she joined me, leaning into my side like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Her body was warm against mine. The scent of whatever soap they stocked in the guest quarters clung faintly to her—floral, unfamiliar, but nice.

Then I spoke, my voice softer than usual. “Can I ask you something personal?”

She tilted her head, eyes curious. “Um… sure.”

I hesitated, then looked at her, really looked at her. “Did Rylor… hurt you? Or touch you in a way he shouldn’t have?”

Jihyo’s expression shifted. Not angry—just surprised. Thoughtful. She stared at me, her gaze unreadable for a moment that felt like a minute.

Then, she laughed.

Not a forced one. Not bitter. A warm, genuine laugh that cracked the tension like glass underfoot.

“No,” she said, smiling. “My knight in—well, slightly scorched—armor showed up just in time.”

I exhaled in relief and chuckled. “I’m not really a knight. Definitely no shining armor.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she murmured.

We sat there for a while longer, the air warm with something unspoken. Eventually, her laughter faded into a yawn, and her body grew heavier against mine. Her head nestled into the crook of my neck, fitting there like it belonged.

Her breathing slowed. Peaceful. Safe.

I held still, not wanting to disturb her. Just listening to the silence, letting her weight anchor me.

After a moment, she whispered something.

“Why?”

I turned slightly. “Why what?”

“Why do you care so much?” she asked, eyes still closed.

I didn’t answer right away. Just let my hand rest lightly on her shoulder and stared at the dim ceiling above us.

“Why not?” I finally said.

She didn’t respond. She was already asleep.

But I sat there a little longer, smiling to myself like an idiot with a secret.

And outside the viewport, the stars kept moving—slow and steady—like time itself had decided to let us rest.

Absolutely — here’s a refined and expanded version of the scene, keeping the emotional vulnerability and growing connection between the narrator and Jihyo while improving flow, emotional beats, and sensory detail:

⸻

And she stayed beside me—step for step—as if this was something we’d always done. Like we were walking through memory instead of metal corridors, our rhythm already synced.

As we neared my quarters, she leaned gently into my shoulder. Not clingy, not fragile. Just… present. Like she wanted to feel I was real.

When we reached the door, she turned to me with a small smile. “After you.”

I chuckled, brow raised. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?”

She looked up at me, steady. No hesitation. “I feel safe with you.”

Then—before I could say something dumb to ruin it—she placed a hand on my chest and gave a soft push, guiding me through the door.

The lights flickered on as we entered, revealing the stark simplicity of my quarters: neatly stacked weapons on the rack, no decorations, no comforts. Just order and shadows.

Jihyo stepped inside and looked around. “Huh. Very… military monk.”

“My old mentor used to say. A clear mind is a clean mind and a clean mind is a sharp mind,” I said, dropping my gear onto the shelf.

She watched me as I moved—quietly assessing, but not judging. I took a seat on the couch, and without a word, she joined me, leaning into my side like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy.

We sat in silence for a few moments. Her body was warm against mine. The scent of whatever soap they stocked in the guest quarters clung faintly to her—floral, unfamiliar, but nice.

Then I spoke, my voice softer than usual. “Can I ask you something personal?”

She tilted her head, eyes curious. “Um… sure.”

I hesitated, then looked at her, really looked at her. “Did Rylor… hurt you? Or touch you in a way he shouldn’t have?”

Jihyo’s expression shifted. Not angry—just surprised. Thoughtful. She stared at me, her gaze unreadable for a moment that felt like a minute.

Then, she laughed.

Not a forced one. Not bitter. A warm, genuine laugh that cracked the tension like glass underfoot.

“No,” she said, smiling. “My knight in—well, slightly scorched—armor showed up just in time.”

I exhaled in relief and chuckled. “I’m not really a knight. Definitely no shining armor.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she murmured.

We sat there for a while longer, the air warm with something unspoken. Eventually, her laughter faded into a yawn, and her body grew heavier against mine. Her head nestled into the crook of my neck, fitting there like it belonged.

Her breathing slowed. Peaceful. Safe.

I held still, not wanting to disturb her. Just listening to the silence, letting her weight anchor me.

After a moment, she whispered something.

“Why?”

I turned slightly. “Why what?”

“Why do you care so much?” she asked, eyes still closed.

I didn’t answer right away. Just let my hand rest lightly on her shoulder and stared at the dim ceiling above us.

“It was how I was trained.” I finally said.

She didn’t respond. She was already asleep.

But I sat there a little longer, smiling to myself like an idiot with a secret.

And outside the viewport, the stars kept moving—slow and steady—like time itself had decided to let us rest.

Hours passed, but sleep never came.

I laid there on the couch, stiff as a statue, my arms still gently curled around Jihyo. She was sound asleep, her breaths deep and slow, her head still tucked into the hollow of my neck like she’d just decided I was her pillow for the night.

I didn’t dare move.

Not because I was uncomfortable—hell, I’d held positions in combat armor for longer—but because some irrational part of me thought if I shifted too much, she’d disappear. That this moment would prove too good for reality to hold.

Her warmth seeped into me. Her hair smelled faintly of space lavender and steam, and the steady rise and fall of her chest was more calming than any meditation routine I’d ever attempted.

But my mind was a storm.

What the hell was I doing? She was a Terran idol—graceful, talented, famous. I was a war mage who burned through half a battalion the last time someone pushed me too far. I’d survived things that had turned braver men into husks.

And here she was… curled against me like I was a shelter.

My heart had no business racing like this. And yet—

A soft murmur broke my thoughts.

“…Gio?” she whispered, voice heavy with sleep.

“I’m here,” I said quietly.

She didn’t lift her head. Just shifted a little closer.

“You’re really warm.”

“You’re really asleep,” I chuckled.

She gave a tired hum. “Mmm. I like it here…”

My throat tightened at that. “In my quarters?”

She shook her head gently, rubbing her cheek against my chest. “No… here. With you.”

I swallowed hard. This woman was going to kill me without even trying.

“I’m not good at this,” I admitted.

She blinked sleepily. “Good at what?”

“This,” I said. “Soft things. Letting someone close. Feeling like—like maybe I’m not the weapon they trained me to be.”

She was quiet for a long moment. I thought she’d drifted off again, but then she whispered:

“Then maybe I can help you remember who you were before that.”

That hit deeper than I expected.

She yawned, then tucked herself even tighter into my side like she’d decided the matter was settled.

“…Gio?”

“Yeah?”

“I still think you’re my knight.”

I smiled, even as my chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with injury.

“Then sleep well, Princess,” I murmured.

And this time, when I closed my eyes… I did too.

Meanwhile Dinozen and Magnara were getting closer to some of the other visitors.

The stars beyond the glass moved slowly, like shimmering dust caught in the current of space. The Aurelius’s observation lounge was quiet at this hour—just ambient hums, soft light, and one very focused Combat Captain trying to figure out how to hold a game controller designed for 8-fingered aliens.

Dinozen grunted as the screen flashed GAME OVER for the fifth time.

“You’re playing it wrong,” a voice said behind him, teasing and unmistakably amused.

He turned to see Sakura walking into the lounge, still in her Federation-supplied clothes, hair slightly tousled like she’d been laying down but couldn’t sleep.

Dinozen grinned. “I’m playing it exactly as intended. The game’s just clearly rigged.” As he spoke he showed her the bizarre controller

Sakura slid into the seat beside him, legs crossed, eyes on the holoscreen. “You’re trying to fight a boss with a plasma baton and no shield. Did you even check your loadout?”

“I’m a melee main in game not irl,” he said proudly.

“You’re a melee moron,” she corrected, reaching over and tapping buttons like she’d played this game a dozen times.

“…Okay, that was pretty good,” he admitted, watching her effortlessly reorganize his equipment into something actually survivable. “Wait—you know Outbreak Prime 7?”

Sakura shrugged with a soft smile. “Played it on my home pc with my brother. Before, you know… all this.”

Dinozen leaned back, brow raised. “You have a brother?”

“Yes I have a brother,” she said quietly. “He stayed on Earth.”

A moment passed. Not heavy, just… human.

“Same,” Dinozen said eventually. “You miss him?”

“Every day,” Sakura replied. Then, trying to lighten the mood, she grabbed the controller and started a new match. “You’re from Earth too, aren’t you?”

“New Mexico,” he nodded. “Loud, weird, broken—my kind of place.”

“I’m from Kagoshima. Quiet, sunny. Not a lot of plasma weapons lying around.”

“Shame,” Dinozen said with a grin. “Maybe you would’ve kicked my ass earlier in life.”

“Oh, I still can,” Sakura replied. “Here—co-op mode. I’ll carry you through this boss.”

He handed her the other controller, a small spark of electricity dancing between their fingers as they touched. He pretended not to notice, but the look on his face betrayed him.

As the level loaded in, she glanced at him.

“You ever think about going back?”

“To Earth?” he asked.

“To normal.”

He paused. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I was built for normal.”

Sakura smiled, looking back to the screen. “Good. Neither was I.”

They dove into the game together—shoulder to shoulder, Earth-born in exile, laughing as they took down alien monsters one pixel at a time.

Across the longe The stars stretched endlessly outside the viewport—threads of light pulled across black velvet. Giselle leaned on the railing, sipping from a steaming mug of something warm and mildly fruity. She wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was alien and somehow soothing.

Beside her, Magnara Unika stood with arms folded, armored shoulders rising and falling as she exhaled slowly.

“So,” Giselle said, side-eyeing her. “You always this quiet after saving a bunch of kidnapped Earth girls?”

Magnara smirked, the edges of her fanged grin catching the low starlight. “Only when I’m next to someone prettier than the galaxy.”

Giselle raised a brow. “Are you flirting with me, Commander Unika?”

“Depends,” Magnara said, shifting to face her fully. “Are you flirting back, Earth girl?”

“Giselle,” she corrected, smiling into her mug. “And yeah. I might be.”

Magnara chuckled, the sound more like a soft purr than a laugh. She leaned back against the railing beside her. “Fair warning: I’m better with a plasma cannon than poetry.”

“Good. I’ve had enough smooth talkers for one lifetime. I like the ones who mean what they say.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Then Giselle tilted her head.

“So… Samira called you three her wolves. How’d that start?”

Magnara exhaled, eyes flicking to the stars again. “That’s a story with a few scars.”

“I’m listening.”

Magnara nodded slowly. “Alright. You’ve met Dinozen—tall, armored, broody? Yeah. He used to be a federation bounty enforcer, tracking rogue elementals in the outer planets. One mission went sideways—he chose to save a family of refugees instead of taking the contract. Got branded a deserter. Samira found him bleeding out in a crater and gave him a choice: die alone, or live with purpose.”

Giselle blinked. “He chose the wolf pack.”

“Smart guy, even if he looks like a walking tank.” Magnara gave a wistful grin.

“And you?” Giselle asked.

“Oh, I was a war orphan, my whole family was taken by space pirates and my parents and siblings were killed” Magnara said casually. “Grew up scavenging in the asteroid belts near the Cradle worlds. Samira raided the slaver ship that had me and thirty others on it. I was the only one who bit a guard’s ear off before she got there. She liked that.” Magnara grinned wider. “Told me I had spirit. Said she could shape it.”

Giselle shook her head in amazement. “You all sound like… antiheroes out of a movie.”

“We are well except Giordano he’s a villain. Only bloodier.” Magnara tilted her head, studying her. “But Samira—she’s more than a leader. She’s what we call the ‘mom in the storm.’ Cold, steady, always watching. But she gives broken things purpose. Gives us teeth, and a reason to bite.”

Giselle set her mug down and leaned a little closer. “So what happens if a certain idol wants to join the wolf pack?”

Magnara raised a brow. “You planning to enlist, or just hoping for more time with me?”

Giselle gave her a look that practically smirked on its own. “Can’t it be both?”

Magnara stepped closer now, just a breath apart, close enough that her voice dropped to a low rumble.

“If you’re gonna run with wolves, Giselle… better be sure you’re ready to howl.”

“I’ve been singing on stages since I was sixteen,” Giselle replied, unwavering. “Trust me—I’ve got lungs.”

Magnara grinned, sharp and gleaming.

“Then let’s see how loud you get.”

The idols quickly became enmeshed with the lives of the space wayfarers. They trained and ate to keep sharp as they continued barreling home.

The humming of the training deck was constant—low, ever-present, almost meditative. It pulsed beneath the idols’ feet like a heartbeat as they moved in formation, under the watchful gaze of one of Samira’s senior instructors.

Sana was the first to feel it.

She stood perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Her skin prickled—not with fear or sweat—but with energy. With… awareness. She could hear the faint clinking of a crewmate adjusting their gear two decks above. She could feel the vibrations of the ship’s stabilizers kicking in.

And when the instructor snapped his fingers and threw a weighted baton at her head—something she should never have seen coming—

Sana caught it.

Eyes still closed.

The room went silent.

When she opened her eyes, there was a spark in them that hadn’t been there before. “Did… anyone else feel that?”

Kazuha was the next.

Her movements had always been fluid, dancer-trained and sharp. But now—her jumps had weightless grace. Her reflexes blurred into something nearly preternatural. She moved faster than the drones tracking her, cutting through them like wind through silk.

“She’s tracking trajectories,” one of the wolves muttered, watching from the side. “Her mind’s adapting faster than projected.”

Within days, the others began to notice similar changes. Endurance spiked. Hunger and fatigue decreased. Sight, sound, even balance—sharpened like knives honed on cosmic whetstones.

The attunement to cosmic resonance wasn’t just passive—it was rebuilding them.

Not in the way augmentation did—not like the other crew members, whose arms bore faint seams of titanium or whose eyes glowed with artificial overlays.

No. This was different. Organic. Internal. Molecular. Like the universe itself was being rewritten inside their bodies.

And they began to see it more clearly now.

In the halls, nearly every wolf—save for Samira and one or two others—bore some kind of modification. Gleaming implants beneath the skin. Synaptic coils at the base of the skull. Spinal ports. Integrated HUDs. Even Magnara, fierce and wild, had a cybernetic arm of polished obsidian metal, braided with memory-wire muscle.

But Gio…

Gio had none.

Not even the telltale microport behind the ear. His body was whole. Human. Yet he moved like a specter—stronger, faster, stiller than any augmented soldier they’d seen.

Mina whispered it aloud one night, curled on a cot in the guest quarters.

“He’s not modified, right? But he’s still… stronger than them.”

Sakura nodded. “He scares even the wolves.”

And Karina, now stretching her fingers—testing their speed, the precision of a movement that now felt too perfect—replied softly, “That’s because Gio doesn’t need enhancements.”

Jihyo said nothing.

She just looked at her hands. Then to the stars beyond the window. And quietly wondered… how far this would go.

Later that day the girls split up to get some answers after training. The armory bay pulsed with mechanical rhythm—servo racks humming, tool arms moving in smooth, efficient arcs. Magnara sat on a reinforced bench, one leg propped up, her left cybernetic arm detached at the shoulder joint and clamped into a diagnostic station. Fine wires, glowing conduits, and subdermal plating shimmered in the soft light.

Momo and Kazuha lingered nearby, sweat still clinging to their skin after drills. They watched as Magnara adjusted the settings on the rig, realigning servos with practiced ease.

Kazuha tilted her head. “So… all of that—it’s not just metal, right?”

Magnara glanced over her shoulder and gave a half-smile. “Nope. It’s more like a second nervous system with armor plating.”

She reconnected the arm with a precise hiss and twist of the magnetic socket. The surface of it gleamed like liquid steel, flowing with glowing lines of circuitry—subdermal interfaces lighting up as it re-synced with her biosignature.

Momo stepped closer. “That’s… incredible. What is it exactly?”

“Federation-grade cybernetic augmentation,” Magnara said, flexing the fingers with a satisfying click-click-click. “Military-spec. Carbon-titanium weave, linked to a quantum neural core. I’ve got full sensory feedback, adaptive pressure resistance, temperature control, and micro-actuators that respond faster than muscle.”

She tapped one of the glowing lines. “This pattern here? Not decoration—these are quantum-threaded neural channels. They relay input faster than synapses. I can lift three tons with this arm and feel a butterfly land on it.”

Kazuha blinked. “That’s insane.”

“Insanely useful,” Magnara replied. “I’ve also got a spinal reinforcement mesh, a sub-dermal microshock grid, and a dual-core brain interface to run targeting data and strategic overlays in real-time.”

Momo blinked. “So… your brain is augmented too?”

Magnara chuckled. “Heavily. Most field agents are. Our decision-making and combat processing are boosted with a neuro-intelligence lattice. It helps me predict movement, adjust to environmental variables, and keep up with enemies that move faster than the eye.”

She glanced back at them, now fully reclined on the bench. “I wasn’t always like this, though. I volunteered after my first near-death mission with Samira. She gave me a second chance. And the tools to survive.”

Kazuha folded her arms. “Could we be… augmented like that?”

“You’re already adapting through resonance,” Magnara said. “Your DNA’s rewriting itself to increase metabolic efficiency, reaction time, physical durability. You’re becoming post-human without needing implants.”

She paused, looking them over with a smirk.

“But if you want tech enhancements, it’s possible. Bio-integrated cybernetics. Limb reinforcement. Ocular upgrades. Even predictive targeting lenses. We’ve got top-grade nanoforges onboard. It’s not easy, and you don’t get to go back—but yeah, you can do it.”

Momo exchanged a glance with Kazuha. “What about… risks?”

“Always,” Magnara said. “Physical, psychological, identity drift. Some people get lost in the tech. Forget who they were. But Samira screens hard. She won’t let you take on anything you’re not mentally ready for.”

Kazuha looked at her own hand thoughtfully. “If it makes us stronger… we’ll consider it.”

Magnara stood, rotating her shoulder until it clicked with a final clack. “Good. Because this galaxy doesn’t care that you’re from Earth. You either upgrade… or get left behind.”

She looked back once, voice lighter.

“But between us? You two are catching on faster than most. I’d say you’re already halfway there.”

Meanwhile halfway across the ship in the tech bridge. The ship’s reactor core pulsed beneath their feet in a soft thrum, its sound more felt than heard. Dinozen was recalibrating a dampener array when Sakura, Yeji, Karina, and Mina arrived—curious, energized, and, as usual, full of questions.

“You know,” Yeji began, tilting her head, “it’s still weird how fast we’ve started keeping up with you guys.”

“You mean physically?” Dinozen asked without looking up.

“No, I mean everything. The strength. Reflexes. The ability to read combat intent before it happens. Kazuha dodged a turret training burst this morning like it was nothing. And Sana? She’s halfway to flipping a dropship on her own.”

Karina leaned back against the wall. “Is that all just the… what do you call it? Cosmic Resonance?”

“Yes,” Dinozen said, nodding. “It’s the resonance. It’s not power in the flashy sense—it’s equalization. Your DNA has been attuned to meet the baseline of the Intergalactic Federation’s average sentient species. Strength, speed, memory capacity, oxygen efficiency, everything. It doesn’t make you superhuman. It makes you galactically standard.”

“Right, but that’s the thing,” Mina said. “Everyone else still has cybernetics. You’ve got arm panels. I saw someone with ocular HUDs installed. Samira has subdermal holoflesh. Why didn’t we get those?”

Dinozen finally looked up. “Because you don’t need them. Most species do. Cosmic Resonance pushes you to your natural evolutionary ceiling. You’ve just never hit it before because Earth tech capped your biology.”

Sakura narrowed her eyes. “Then what about Gio?”

That got Dinozen’s attention.

“He doesn’t have translator chips. No cybernetic inputs. No cranial implants. But we can all understand him perfectly. How?”

Dinozen hesitated.

Then, quietly: “…Arcane study.”

“Magic?” Karina asked, incredulous.

“No. Not magic as you know it,” Dinozen said. “It’s… an old field. Pre-digital. Pre-scientific. You might call it para-physics. Or psionics. Gio calls it listening. And it’s rare. Dangerous. Not because it’s violent, but because it’s unpredictable.”

Yeji crossed her arms. “You mean it’s banned?”

Dinozen gave a tired nod.

“Ever since the War of Sundering. Not because of what it is, but because of what it does to people. Arcane practice amplifies traits. Good and bad. Compassion can become obsession. Justice becomes zealotry. Logic becomes cold detachment. When wielded carelessly, it breaks people.”

Mina spoke softly. “But Gio doesn’t seem broken.”

“He’s not. But he’s also one of the last trained in it under the old codes. He’s stable because he chooses to stay small. Quiet. Hidden. What you’re hearing when he speaks isn’t translation—it’s resonance of thought. He’s syncing you to him.”

Karina looked unsettled. “Can anyone learn that?”

Dinozen frowned. “In theory? Yes. But in practice? It’s not taught anymore. Arcane education was outlawed by most major star systems. And frankly… most people aren’t suited for it.”

“But we’re already changing,” Mina said. “Sana and Kazuha especially. We’re starting to feel things—intuition, reaction times, that sixth sense before danger.”

“That’s the resonance,” Dinozen confirmed. “Your instincts are finally in sync with the broader energy field that the rest of the galaxy operates on. But don’t confuse that with what Gio does. You’re evolving through science. He walks through something… older.”

A silence settled over the group. The stars outside shimmered like distant watchers.

Finally, Sakura asked, “So what’s he really capable of?”

Dinozen chuckled under his breath.

“I’ve seen him stop a ship mid-warp. With a word.”

They all stared at him.

“Yeah,” Dinozen added, turning back to his console. “And he’s holding back.”

As the days passed, the girls grew more at ease with their newfound abilities. They trained harder, moved faster, and started understanding the crew—and each other—with a newfound depth. And gradually, they talked to me more often. All of them… except Jihyo.

Her case was different. She enmeshed herself in my life. She sat next to me during progress reports, waited outside during officer meetings

I couldn’t escape her presence—and strangely, I didn’t want to. She had a quiet gravity, always lingering nearby without saying much, like she was just waiting for a reason to sit beside me, or spar, or share a quiet joke. Her rambunctious side came out during meals—especially when the food was good—or in the middle of training drills, when she would grin like a mischievous fox after landing a hit. She was… intoxicating. Grounding. And yes—she was insanely hot, but that was almost secondary to the force of who she was.

We were approaching a Federation report-and-refuel station, this one anchored on the outer crescent of Jenji—a mostly reclusive planet known for its sharp-eyed traders and fierce independence. The native Jenjians rarely interacted with off-worlders, save for the occasional exception.

As I stepped off the ship into the customs platform, I scanned the crowd, already mentally going over our next mission report.

That’s when a furry hand gripped my shoulder.

“Is my favorite mage really trying to leave,” came a voice like velvet dipped in fire, “without saying hello—or goodbye?”

I turned, tensing.

There she was.

Pulchra.

A tall, sensual Jenjian woman, fur sleek and silver-striped, with curves like gravity wells and a smile that promised both pleasure and ruin. Her golden feline eyes glinted with something predatory, and when she leaned down toward me, her tone dropped into something lower… darker.

“You know I’ve missed you, Witch-Wolf,” she purred. “It’s been too long since I had your scent close to me.”

I felt my body react to her. I hated that it still did. She smiled as she inhaled again, close enough for her breath to tickle my neck.

“Oh, I see… you’ve missed me too.” Her eyes flicked downward knowingly. “Why don’t we go somewhere private? Let me remind you why you survived that last mission with a smile on your face.”

I swallowed hard. For a split second, I considered it. The old version of me—the colder one, the one who didn’t answer to anyone—might’ve taken her up on it without a second thought.

But then… I remembered Jihyo.

Her laugh, light and sincere. Her eyes, wide and brown and warm. The way she had fallen asleep against me like I was something safe.

I stepped back.

Pulchra’s expression twisted slightly. Not hurt, but disappointed. She sighed and crossed her arms, tail flicking behind her like a whip.

“I know that look,” she said bitterly. “That’s the hero look. Gods, I hate that look.”

I raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She walked in a slow circle around me, her voice low and pointed. “It means you’ve traded your crown for chains. That damn righteous gleam in your eye… it’s the same one you had when you walked away from me the first time. You always do the right thing. It’s so boring.”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m not asking for your soul, Diabelos,” she said, using my name like a taunt. “Just one night. One night where you stop pretending to be noble and give in. Be bad for me. Just this once.”

Her words were liquid heat, wrapping around my mind like smoke.

Pulchra moved closer again, gently brushing her muzzle along my collarbone, her voice whispering directly into my skin. I felt the pull. The lullaby of malice that played in my head when the world needed “adjustment”

“There he is… the real you. Diabelos, the world-purger. Not this… neutered Federation lapdog. You used to be fire. A legend. You’d die and claw your way back from the grave just to win. That man took. That man devoured.”

She leaned into me again, lips grazing the edge of my neck.

“And I loved that man.”

My hands clenched at my sides. The fire inside me stirred—anger, desire, pride, the old hunger for chaos and dominance. It coiled like a serpent in my gut. She knew how to call it forward. She always had.

But then I saw Jihyo’s face in my mind.

The way she had smiled at me. The way she trusted me without fear. The way she made me want to be someone worth that trust.

My fire cooled.

“Pulchra,” I said softly, “I’m not him anymore.”

She drew back, visibly annoyed. “No. You’re not,” she said. “You’re less. A shadow.”

I stepped away.

“Maybe,” I said. “But she sees the light in that shadow.”

I didn’t wait for her reply. I turned and walked back toward the ship—toward Jihyo, and the girls, and the path I was choosing, one step at a time.

Behind me, Pulchra’s voice followed, low and mocking.

“She’s not enough to save you, Diabelos. Nothing ever will be.”

Maybe she was right.

But I was still walking away.

And that had to count for something.

As I stepped back onto the ship, the metal floor beneath my boots felt colder than usual. A sharp chill sliced through the atmosphere—not physical, but something deeper, something old. It clung to my skin, slithered into my spine, and with it came the familiar pull.

The Malice.

I gritted my teeth as the air around me grew heavier, darker. My shadow wavered unnaturally under the ship’s artificial lighting, stretching and curling like smoke. One of the beasts—small, malformed, eyes like pinpricks of molten white—crawled out from beneath my heels. Another followed. They stalked me like loyal, cursed dogs.

The darker part of me—the part with her name on it—was stirring again.

Diabelos.

I closed my eyes and clenched a fist, trying to breathe through it. This was always the cost. To feel the thrill of combat again, even in brief thought, was to open a door I’d spent years trying to keep locked. A vile grin spread upon my face as I pondered going back and taking Pulchra. My shadow-beasts were waking. They always did when I was emotionally compromised. Rage, guilt, lust, shame—they fed off that.

“You’re slipping,” came a familiar voice behind me.

I turned my head slightly to find Samira standing in the corridor. Her arms were crossed, her expression unreadable—but her eyes, dark and knowing, studied me like I was both weapon and a welp.

“I saw Pulchra with her arms around your shoulders earlier.”

I nodded once. No use hiding it.

Samira stepped closer, her voice lowering into something gentler. “And did she… mention her?”

I looked away, jaw tightening. “Not directly. But she didn’t need to.”

Samira’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Diabelstar still haunts you, doesn’t she?”

I didn’t answer immediately. The name itself held weight. Diabelstar—the butcher of Mustaria, the woman who turned an entire peaceful world into a crucible of war and dragged me into the forge with her. She hadn’t just taught me how to fight. She’d taught me how to win. How to dominate. How to destroy with purpose and without guilt. The worst part?

Part of me still respected her. No that’s too weak of a statement. Part of me still loved her like a second mother. She saw my weakness and gave me agency, the power to take my life into my own hands and eradicate those who’d dare take it from you.

“She gave me the tools,” I said finally, voice like steel scraping stone. “But not the restraint. That came later. From you. From Chulane.”

Samira studied me for a long moment, then sighed and rested a hand on my shoulder. “If you need time, Gio, take it. We don’t arrive at Earth for another cycle and I’d rather you centered than unchained.”

I nodded slowly. “I won’t let that part of me root again. Not fully. I just—need to remind myself who I am.”

Samira smiled faintly, the edge of sadness behind her eyes. “You’re still fighting her, that’s enough for now.”

She turned to leave, but paused after a few steps. “And Gio?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever feel her voice growing louder than your own… come find me. Or Jihyo. We’re not afraid of Diabelstar. And we sure as hell won’t lose you to her.”

I gave a small, grateful nod, even as the beasts beneath my feet faded back into shadow.

For now, I was still winning.

The hum of the ship’s core was steady, a rhythmic pulse of fusion energy deep beneath the floor. Dinozen Sisko crouched beside a panel near the auxiliary control node, tightening a loose coupling. Magnara Unika stood nearby, typing rapidly into a diagnostics pad, her pale cybernetic eye flickering.

“Pressure stabilizers in section twelve are balanced now,” Dinozen said, standing up and wiping his hands. “Shouldn’t get another coolant spike.”

“Good,” Magnara murmured distractedly, then froze. Her nostrils flared.

Dinozen caught it too—sharp, warm, and deeply unnatural aboard a sterile Federation-class cruiser.

“Cinnamon,” they said in unison.

Dinozen’s expression turned grave. “He’s slipping.”

Magnara tucked the pad under one arm. “It’s faint, but it’s him. The scent always shows up when Diabelos starts stirring.” Her voice dropped. “And we know Pulchra’s been nearby…”

“He’s unbalanced,” Dinozen muttered. “Again.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the tension unspoken but clear. Giordano’s power wasn’t something they feared—but the version of him that reveled in “eating stars” was another matter entirely.

“We should go—” Magnara began, but a soft sound from around the corner made both of them pause.

Footsteps. Light, but purposeful. Then a figure emerged from the corridor intersection, casually tossing a towel over her shoulder, hair still damp from a recent shower.

Jihyo.

She blinked, surprised to see the two of them just standing there. “Oh—hey. You guys okay?”

Magnara and Dinozen exchanged a glance. Dinozen stepped forward, his usually stoic demeanor giving way to something warmer.

“Hey, Jihyo. Quick question—how are you with… grounding volatile people?”

Jihyo tilted her head, bemused. “Um. I was an idol group leader for 10 years. I’ve kept tempers cool, broken up fights, and kept people from having breakdowns on national TV. Why?”

Magnara smiled. “Perfect.”

Dinozen gestured down the hall. “Giordano. He’s… not doing great. Emotionally. You’ve probably noticed.”

Jihyo nodded slowly. “I thought he was just quiet. A little sad, maybe.”

“He’s a lot of things,” Dinozen said. “But right now, he’s on the edge of being someone else. Someone we fought a war beside. Someone dangerous.”

“And you think I can help?” she asked, not out of doubt—but out of a sincere desire to understand what they were asking of her.

Magnara’s voice softened. “ maybe, He doesn’t respond to orders when he’s in this state. Doesn’t trust logic or protocol. But he might respond to you.”

Jihyo looked down the corridor, a flicker of concern crossing her features.

“What should I do?”

“Just talk to him,” Dinozen said. “Be near him. You don’t need to fix him. Just remind him that he’s Gio.”

Jihyo gave a slow nod, her lips pressing into a firm line. “Okay. I can do that.”

She turned to go, but paused. “If he says anything weird…”

“Just slap him,” Magnara said. “Or kiss him. Your call.”

Jihyo rolled her eyes but smiled—then disappeared down the hall toward where the cinnamon scent grew stronger, thicker, like a warning or a memory trying to take shape.

Dinozen exhaled. “She’s gonna be important to him.”

Magnara smirked. “She already is.”

I stepped into my quarters and shut the door quietly behind me, letting the hum of the ship fade into the background. Alone again.

I exhaled slowly and let my head fall back against the metal wall. The lights were dim—just the way I liked it when I needed to think. Or stop thinking.

“A clean mind is a clear mind. A clear mind is a sharp mind.”

I repeated it softly under my breath, like a mantra. The words felt hollow tonight, but I clung to them anyway. Anything to stop the noise in my head.

Earth.

That damn memory crawled back in. The first time I returned after years away—it still felt like a wound that hadn’t closed. Familiar streets, unfamiliar stares. Everything the same, but twisted. Glossy lies on every screen, and the people smiling through them, swallowing them whole.

I remembered standing in the city square, thinking: I could fix this. If I ruled it—if I reshaped it—there’d be peace. Clarity. No chaos. No deception.

Less freedom. But more order.

And that… thought terrified me.

A knock broke the spiral.

“Gio? Are you in there?” Jihyo’s voice came through gently—hesitant, but warm.

I blinked out of the storm in my mind, shaking off the haze. I opened the door, and there she was—damp hair tousled from a recent shower, her features softened by concern.

Without saying another word, she stepped in and hugged me tightly. Not hesitant. Not awkward. Just present.

“Dinozen and Magnara told me to find you… and give you a hug,” she murmured against my chest.

I let out a quiet breath and allowed myself to relax into her arms. She was warm—steady. Not overwhelming, just enough. I hadn’t realized how much tension I was carrying until that moment.

We drifted to the couch. She curled into my side like it was natural—like she belonged there. It felt weirdly right.

“You okay?” she asked, voice muffled against my shoulder.

I hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. “Yeah. Better now. Earlier, it was… dicey.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Good. I can’t have my knight in charred armor crumbling on me.”

I looked at her—really looked at her—and smiled despite myself. “It’s singed, not charred. I like to think I still shine a little on the inside.”

That got a laugh from her. The sound was bright and real. We sat like that for a while, the silence comfortable, until my eyes began to grow heavy.

I didn’t remember falling asleep. But I woke to the sound of fabric shifting and soft rustling.

Groggy, I blinked and turned my head.

Jihyo was across the room, halfway through changing. She turned just as I opened my eyes, a shirt in her hands, and froze—eyes wide, cheeks going a little pink.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said quickly.

I sat up slowly, rubbing my face with one hand, and waved her off with the other. “You didn’t. I’m just… a light sleeper.”

She smiled sheepishly, clutching her shirt a little tighter to her chest. “I thought you were out cold.”

I chuckled and turned my face away politely, covering my eyes with my arm. “I mean, I was. Until I wasn’t. You’re not in trouble or anything. Unless you count being dangerously adorable.”

There was a pause.

And then, a giggle. Light, but full of mischief. “Okay, smooth talker. I’ll let you go back to pretending you weren’t just watching.”

“I was not—!” I began, but she was already pulling on the shirt, laughing softly to herself.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, the heaviness in my chest lightened.

I didn’t know what this was between us. Not yet.

But I knew I liked the way she made the darkness quiet down.

The dining hall aboard the Rook was humming with warm chatter and clinking utensils as I walked in, Jihyo by my side. Her hand brushed mine a few times on the way there—whether by accident or not, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t ask. But I didn’t move away either.

I scanned the room as we entered. The rest of the idols were already seated, laughing and catching up over steaming trays of food. The scent was surprisingly good tonight—Dinozen had apparently programmed the replicators to simulate real Terran spices. Actual effort. He never did anything halfway.

Speaking of—there he was, seated with Sakura beside him.

Well—technically beside him. In practice, Sakura was practically in his lap, not that anyone dared say anything. She’d looped her arm through his and was whispering something that made him turn bright red. He mumbled something about “input lag” and “false positives,” but he was smiling the whole time.

Across the table, Giselle and Magnara were in their own little world. Maggy’s tech tablet had been pushed aside in favor of a doodled napkin map, explaining ship systems to Giselle who hung on her every word. Her laughter rang like wind chimes every time Magnara made a joke—and Maggy, usually sharp-tongued and direct, kept slipping up on her words.

Infatuated. Completely.

Jihyo and I slid into two empty spots at the far end of the table. She gave me a sidelong glance as I picked up a fork and tried not to look too interested in her hair (which still smelled faintly of citrus).

“You’ve got a little hero complex, you know that?” she said softly, elbowing me playfully.

I coughed. “I—what?”

She leaned on the table with both elbows, smiling at me like she already had the upper hand. “You play all stoic and brooding but the second someone’s in trouble, you’re the first one charging into fire.”

“I mean… someone’s gotta do it,” I muttered. “You want the villain to save the day?”

“I don’t know,” she teased, cocking her head. “The villain might’ve been more fun to flirt with.”

I choked on a sip of water.

She laughed, a bright and unapologetic sound that made a few heads turn—Sana shot us both a suspicious look before smirking and whispering something to Momo, who promptly burst into a fit of giggles.

“I’m kidding,” Jihyo added, gently tapping her foot against mine under the table. “Kind of.”

“I’m awkward,” I said with a shrug, as if that somehow explained anything.

She tilted her head, eyes crinkling. “You’re not awkward. You’re just… real. It’s nice.”

The room continued to buzz around us, the comfortable din of shared space and good food. Yeji and Karina were in a heated debate over whether augmented reflexes counted as cheating in card games. Mina had already fallen asleep against the window seat, half a rice ball in her hand.

“I’m serious though,” Jihyo said, her voice lowering just enough that only I could hear. “You’ve been through a lot. You carry things most people can’t even imagine. But you still sit here with us and try to smile.”

I looked at her, unsure what to say. She reached out and placed her hand on mine—confidently, no hesitation.

“You’re not Diabelos. Not to me. You’re just Gio. The guy who risked everything to bring us home.”

“…Thanks,” I said, awkward again, but meaning it with my whole chest.

She squeezed my hand. “Come on. Eat your food before I steal it.”

“You already stole my peace of mind,” I muttered, cheeks pink.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Jihyo smiled—smug and satisfied—and finally let go. We dug into our meals, the table warm with light and laughter. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I could keep being this version of me.

Not the war hero. Not the monster.

Just Gio. After Dinner Jihyo Momo and Sana Carried Mina back to the guest quarters meanwhile Sakura Dinozen were busy geeking out in his room while Magnara and Giselle “practiced” in the holo gym

The lights were dim, ambient blue hues glowing softly from various consoles and holo-screens still active around the room. Dinozen sat cross-legged on a padded floor mat, calibrating a gauntlet interface while muttering to himself in technobabble.

Sakura was sprawled on his bed, legs swinging, chewing on a candy stick as she watched him with amused affection.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, smirking. “You voluntarily coded an adaptive sensory algorithm just to fine-tune how your gloves feel when you cast energy?”

Dinozen looked up, flustered. “Yes? No. I mean—it’s more complicated than that. The gloves need to replicate natural tactile resistance otherwise my aim feels… mushy.”

“Mushy,” she echoed, grinning. “You’re adorable.”

He blinked. “That’s not… I mean… it’s not a standard scientific descriptor, obviously.”

Sakura laughed, setting the candy stick aside and sliding off the bed to kneel beside him. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, mock defensive.

“Oh no,” she whispered, leaning closer. “It’s so hot.”

Dinozen turned red so fast it almost seemed like an emergency.

Giselle stood with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in mock concentration as she tried to mimic Magnara’s wide-footed stance. The jockish warrior towered beside her, arms crossed, smirking.

“You’re overthinking it again,” Magnara teased. “Don’t lock your knees. Loosen up.”

“I am loose,” Giselle said through gritted teeth, wobbling slightly. “I’m like… aggressively flexible.”

Magnara chuckled, stepping up behind her and gently adjusting her posture with broad, sure hands.

“You’re like a storm in a cocktail dress,” she murmured. “Beautiful but about to knock someone out.”

Giselle shivered slightly but didn’t lose balance. “That… might be the nicest and most chaotic compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Good,” Magnara said. “You deserve both.”

They locked eyes in the mirror across from them. Giselle bit her lip.

“So,” she said slowly, “is this flirting, or do you always train recruits like this?”

Magnara smirked, tilting her head. “You think you’re a recruit?”

“Well, you’re the one touching my hips like we’re in a zero-G dance class,” Giselle shot back.

Magnara didn’t step away. “You don’t seem to mind.”

“I really don’t,” Giselle replied, softening.

Sakura had snatched one of his older prototype visors and was wearing it backwards while trying to program something on his holo-tablet.

“That’s not how the interface—” Dinozen began, reaching for it.

“Nope, too late. I’m modding your HUD to show sparkles every time you smile.”

“I don’t smile in combat!”

“Then sparkle-less sadness it is,” she said with dramatic flair.

Dinozen couldn’t help it—he laughed. A full, honest laugh. She looked at him with stars in her eyes.

“There it is,” Sakura said softly. “I’m keeping that one.”

He looked down at her, heartbeat skipping. “…Okay.”

Magnara and Giselle had abandoned stances altogether. Now the two sat on the gym mats, drinking water and leaning lazily against each other.

“So what happens after Earth?” Giselle asked, breath still a little heavy from training.

Magnara shrugged. “Whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Giselle smiled, running a hand over the tech woven into the seam of Maggy’s armored sleeve. “Careful, that almost sounded romantic.”

Magnara raised a brow. “That was romantic.”

“Oh,” Giselle said, flushed. “Cool. Just… double-checking.”

In Dinozen’s room, Sakura laid her head on his shoulder as the screen above them played an old Terran cartoon. He smiled softly, programming long forgotten.

In the gym bay, Magnara slowly rested her forehead against Giselle’s, a rare moment of softness between two fighters who had started as wary allies and become something more.

As the days past and earth neared Jihyo found herself in a weird headspace she was watching me get closer to Mina and Momo but she felt a pang in her heart.

The rhythmic sound of fists hitting padded drones echoed through the Federation cruiser’s lower training deck. Giordano stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as Momo ducked low under a sweeping strike from a combat simulator, then delivered a clean uppercut that rocked the unit back on its servos.

He whistled, impressed.

“You’re getting faster,” Gio said.

Momo turned, a bit breathless but grinning. “Been practicing when everyone’s asleep.”

Gio nodded, walking forward and adjusting the sensitivity settings on the drone. “You’ve always been more physical, huh?”

Momo nodded, rolling her shoulder. “I don’t like sitting still. Makes me feel like I’m rusting from the inside out.”

Giordano chuckled. “Yeah. I get that. I used to be like that on Mustaria… before everything changed. Still get twitchy if I sit too long.”

Momo grinned, amused. “You? I thought you were all broody and brooding. The ‘sits in the dark’ type.”

“I am the ‘sits in the dark’ type,” he said, smirking. “But I do push-ups in the dark. It’s very dramatic.”

That got a laugh from her—genuine and bright. For a moment, they looked at each other with shared understanding. Two people who burned energy to stay grounded. Who didn’t know what to do when their bodies got too still.

Jihyo stood near the far wall, a towel around her neck and a bottle of water half-forgotten in her hand. She was watching them—watching him—eyes narrowing just slightly.

She had always been the one at his side. The one who teased him and bantered and made him laugh in quiet moments. But now…

Momo and Gio were laughing again. Gio even gently corrected her stance, guiding her elbow with a touch that was clinical, professional, but still intimate in a way that made Jihyo’s stomach knot.

Why do I care so much? she thought bitterly, then flinched at her own inner voice.

It wasn’t jealousy exactly. Not of Momo. She liked Momo—trusted her, even. It was more the realization that Gio connected to people in ways she didn’t always understand. That maybe the connection she thought was special… wasn’t just between the two of them.

And that scared her.

Giordano stepped back as Momo reset for another round. He saw Jihyo watching and gave her a smile—a soft, familiar smile.

She didn’t smile back.

He paused. “Everything okay?”

Jihyo walked over, tone clipped but casual. “Fine. Just wondering if you two are planning to spar all day.”

Momo arched a brow, picking up the undercurrent. “We can stop. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Jihyo interrupted, waving it off. “It’s good. You’re good. Just… didn’t expect it.”

Giordano tilted his head. “Expect what?”

Jihyo hesitated. “To see you open up like that. With someone else.”

The words landed heavier than she meant them to.

Gio blinked, then stepped closer to her—gently, cautiously. “You’re not… replaceable, Jihyo. That’s not what this is.”

Jihyo sighed, finally sitting down on the bench near the mat. “I know. It’s stupid. I’m being dumb.”

Momo, sensing this was private, offered them both a small wave. “I’ll go hit the simulator in the other bay. You two… talk.”

She was gone before either of them could stop her.

Giordano sat beside Jihyo, the air quiet between them for a long moment.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he said. “Momo just… reminds me of who I was. Before all of this.”

Jihyo nodded slowly. “And I don’t?”

He turned toward her. “You remind me of who I want to be.”

She glanced at him—shocked by the honesty in his voice.

“You’re thoughtful. Brave. You fight for others even when it hurts. I see that. You don’t need to be like me to matter to me.”

Jihyo bit her lip, the weight of her own insecurities softening in her chest. “I guess I just… I like being close to you. And maybe I got scared that someone else could take that.”

“You’re already close,” he said. “So close it’s dangerous, honestly.”

That earned a soft laugh. “You’re the danger, Gio.”

He smiled. “Only when I’m alone.”

And she took his hand—not possessively, but gently, like someone grounding a live wire.

“Then I guess you’re not alone anymore.”

Later that evening Momo and Jihyo had made up and were hitting the showers. Steam curled through the air, thick and warm, as Jihyo leaned back against the tiled wall, eyes half-lidded, letting the hot water run down her face and shoulders. Across the way, Momo was humming to herself as she scrubbed shampoo into her hair, making little bubble towers on top of her head.

“Check it out,” Momo said, grinning through the steam. “I’m Bubblezilla.”

Jihyo cracked an eye open and tried not to laugh. “You’re such a dork.”

“Yeah, well, I contain multitudes,” Momo replied, striking a dramatic pose with soap suds sliding off her elbow. “Warrior, dancer, snack devourer, and apparently, living shampoo sculpture.”

Jihyo laughed, and for a moment, the tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying in her chest released.

Momo turned toward her, still rinsing her hair. “Hey, thanks for training with me today. You didn’t have to. I know you usually go solo or with Gio.”

“Yeah, well… I needed the workout,” Jihyo said, a little too fast. She cleared her throat. “And besides, you’re fun to spar with.”

Momo grinned. “You mean you like beating me up.”

“No,” Jihyo said, smiling despite herself. “You actually almost caught me with that counter-punch. I was impressed.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, water hissing all around them. Then—

“Hey, Jihyo,” Momo asked, “do you ever get, like… weird feelings when you’re sparring? Like, not adrenaline, but—other stuff?”

Jihyo blinked. “Other stuff?”

“Like… butterflies. In your stomach. But also your brain. And you think, ‘wow, this person is really cool,’ and then you trip over your own feet like a loser.”

Jihyo stared.

And then, to her horror, she felt it. That little flutter in her chest. The same one that happened when Gio said something awkwardly sweet or looked at her with that lopsided smile like she was the only person in the room. She glanced at Momo—goofy, bubbly Momo—and her heart skipped.

Wait, what?

Her brain scrambled for answers. Was she… catching feelings for Momo too?

But as Momo started trying to juggle bottles of conditioner and dropped one with a loud clack, then scrambled to catch it with a noise that could only be described as a panicked duck, Jihyo suddenly got it.

It wasn’t attraction. It was recognition.

They were both chaos. Endearing, well-meaning, awkward chaos gremlins. Two sides of the same coin.

And her heart wasn’t racing because she was in love with Momo—it was because Momo reminded her of Gio. Not just in how she moved, but in how she was. Earnest. Dorky. Surprisingly intense when she cared about something. The kind of person who makes you feel warm just by being nearby.

Jihyo started giggling.

“What?” Momo asked, holding the conditioner bottle in triumph.

“You and Gio… you’re kind of the same person.”

Momo squinted. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s terrifying, honestly,” Jihyo said, still laughing.

Momo struck a pose. “Gio wishes he had my shoulders.”

Jihyo rolled her eyes. “You’re both disasters. Sweet, lovable disasters.”

They shared a laugh, one that echoed off the shower tiles and settled something deep in Jihyo’s chest.

Later, as they were toweling off and heading back to their quarters, Jihyo thought quietly to herself:

No wonder I like being around both of them so much.

A cozy hum filled the air as the ship cruised through interstellar space. The lounge lights were dimmed to a soft gold, casting a warm glow on the table where Gio, Momo, Sana, Mina, and Jihyo sat together, gathered around a half-finished snack spread and a scattered deck of intergalactic poker cards no one had actually agreed to play.

Momo was in the middle of explaining something with wild hand gestures.

“—and then I tried to kick him, but I forgot I was wearing the magnetic boots, so I sort of just… suctioned myself to the wall instead.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

“Classic,” Gio said, grinning with his usual uneven charm. “You really are gravity’s favorite victim.”

“Bold of you to say, Gio,” Sana smirked, pointing at him with a chip. “You tripped over your own coat yesterday before getting into the gravity room.”

“That coat is long!” Gio defended. “It has… heroic flair. There’s an art to managing the swoosh.”

Mina nodded with mock solemnity. “He and Momo are just two flavors of the same clumsy milkshake.”

Sana gasped, nudging Momo. “You’re like… twins from different Terran timelines.”

Momo perked up. “Hey, we do both like ice cream!”

“And trip over things.”

“And like warm carbs more than we should,” Gio added.

“And can’t flirt to save your lives,” Sana said with a pointed look that made Gio’s ears turn pink.

Momo giggled. “Wait, speak for yourself.”

Everyone laughed again—except Jihyo.

She was quiet, a small smile on her lips as she watched them.

They were similar, yeah. But Jihyo noticed the differences.

Gio didn’t just fumble—he second-guessed himself in moments of vulnerability, pulling back ever so slightly before choosing to lean in. He wasn’t just awkward—he was careful. He measured his words, even when he tripped over them. His eyes scanned a room like a soldier, but he laughed like someone still trying to figure out how to just be.

Momo was chaos in motion. Joyful, loud, unafraid. But Gio… Gio was quiet thunder. Constantly aware of the storm inside him, trying not to let it rumble too loud.

That’s what made her heart flutter. Not just the goofiness, but the gravity beneath it.

Jihyo looked down at the table, hiding a small smile behind her cup.

Momo leaned on Gio’s shoulder. “Hey, want to try building that alien Lego set tomorrow?”

“Only if you promise not to glue the pieces again,” Gio said.

“It was one time!”

As everyone giggled again, Jihyo let herself watch Gio just a moment longer.

He didn’t notice. He was busy laughing, eyes warm and posture relaxed.

But her heart did.

And this time, there was no confusion about it.

The blue-green marble of Earth shimmered in the distance, floating like a memory on the edge of the stars. Through the panoramic glass, the surface details of continents and oceans came slowly into view.

Jihyo stood in silence, hands loosely clasped behind her back, her posture straight but her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Samira entered without announcing herself, her tall, regal form framed by the light of the starfield behind her. She stood beside Jihyo, not speaking at first.

Jihyo finally broke the silence. “It feels smaller than I remember.”

Samira smiled faintly. “Most things do when you’ve seen the galaxy.”

Jihyo let out a slow breath, then glanced sideways at the commander. “Can I ask you something… personal?”

“Of course.” Samira said without hesitation.

“Do you think I should stay in contact with Giordano?” Jihyo asked, eyes still fixed on Earth. “He’s… complicated. Kind, but guarded. Sometimes so gentle I forget he’s a war mage. Then I remember he used to be called Diabelos and it’s like I can feel the weight of that name behind his smile.”

Samira didn’t answer immediately. Her golden eyes flicked to Jihyo, assessing, thoughtful.

“He’s one of the best people I’ve ever known,” Samira said finally. “But also one of the most dangerous. And he knows it.”

Jihyo looked down. “So I should stay away?”

Samira shook her head. “No. That’s not what I’m saying.” She turned fully to Jihyo now. “Giordano walks a narrow line every day. The man he wants to be and the monster he could become are always in conversation with each other. But I’ve seen what steadies him.”

“And?”

“You.” Samira said gently. “You make him laugh. You pull him out of himself. He lets his guard down around you, and that’s rare for him. He has friends. He has loyalty. But you? You reach the part of him that still believes he can have a future without blood on his hands.”

Jihyo’s breath caught slightly, but Samira wasn’t finished.

“But the bigger question is this, Jihyo: What do you want?” She stepped closer, voice softening. “You’re not just a pop idol anymore. You’ve shown strength, leadership, compassion. You adapted to cosmic resonance like you were born for it. You have the makings of a commander—not because of powers, but because people trust you. Because I trust you.”

Jihyo blinked, caught off guard. “I… I didn’t realize you thought that of me.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” Samira replied, warm but firm. “If you want to go back to Earth, you can. You’ll be celebrated. You’ll be safe. But if you want to stay in Giordano’s orbit… just know it won’t be easy. But it might matter more than either of you realizes.”

A long pause. Then Jihyo nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Samira.” Her voice was quiet but sure. “I just needed to hear it out loud.”

Samira gave a knowing smile, the kind that only a seasoned commander could wear. “Then make your choice, Leader Jihyo. Whatever you choose, make it yours.”

They stood in silence again, two powerful women at the edge of a world that once defined them. Now, they were something more.

And Earth kept turning.

Flashbulbs popped. Reporters shouted questions. Holographic banners displayed: “IDOL PHOENIXES RETURN FROM HAITUS!” Jihyo stood center stage with her group, radiant under the lights, their popularity only intensified by their cosmic journey. She smiled for the cameras—but her eyes kept drifting toward the stars.

Later, in a quiet moment backstage, she stepped away from the crowd, standing on a balcony as the night breeze kissed her face.

Giordano stood in the shadow of a nearby support column, waiting quietly.

“I thought you might vanish again,” Jihyo said without turning.

“Didn’t want to steal the spotlight,” Gio replied awkwardly.

She turned to him, smiling warmly. “I want both. The stage and you. I know it’s going to be hard sometimes—but that’s never scared me.”

Gio’s breath caught. There was a boyish disbelief in his eyes, followed quickly by something more grounded. “You’re really choosing me?”

“I’m choosing us,” she said. “And I’m choosing myself too. I want to sing. I want to lead. But I also want to be with the idiot who talks to his weapons when he thinks no one’s listening.”

Giordano chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not good at this.”

“You don’t have to be. Just… come home when you can.”

He nodded, stepping closer, and their hands found each other naturally—like two puzzle pieces that had been shaped by stars and war and laughter.

EPILOGUE: THE BATHHOUSE ON MUSTARIA

A wide, elegant bath carved from pale-blue stone steamed softly in a grand room adorned with floral silks and floating lanterns. Outside the window, a crescent moon hung over the gardens.

Jihyo reclined lazily in the warm water, her arms draped along the edge, eyes half-lidded from comfort. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and a soft hum left her lips as the warmth eased her post-tour exhaustion.

Her legs kicked gently under the water, and one foot—playfully—peeked up over the edge, wiggling.

CLACK. The door slid open.

Giordano stepped in, cloak damp with rain from the Mustarian woods. His shoulders looked heavier than usual, dusted with starlight and exhaustion—but the second he saw her, something in his posture softened.

“You’re back early,” Jihyo murmured with a small smile, not opening her eyes fully. “Or am I just that good at manifesting you when I’m bored?”

He grinned, a little sheepish. “I didn’t want to stay away too long.”

Her eyes opened now, locking with his. “Then don’t.” She sat up slightly, droplets trailing down her arms. Her voice dipped into playful mischief. “Care to join me, Witch Wolf?”

Her toes wiggled invitingly, just above the water’s surface.

Giordano blinked once—processing both the question and his heart’s sudden acceleration.

He laughed softly, shrugging off his outer cloak. “You’re dangerous when you’re this cute, you know that?”

“I’ve heard,” Jihyo said, smirking as she made room for him. “Now hurry before I have to pull you in myself.”

As he stepped toward her, shedding the weight of war and past regrets with every footfall, Giordano knew he hadn’t just found peace.

He’d earned it.

[mya-valentine]

Frozen Shadows, Burning Desires

Synopsis: Harbinger Innamorati, ranked second among the Fatui, is tasked with a deadly mission alongside Il Capitano. As they prepare for battle under the Tsaritsa's orders, Innamorati's dangerous attraction to Capitano ignites. Despite his stoic demeanor and her playful provocations, their partnership teeters between discipline and desire. With her power to create illusions and his unmatched combat prowess, the battlefield will test not just their skills, but the simmering tension between them.

The icy halls of the Zapolyarny Palace were eerily silent as Innamorati strode through them, her black cloak billowing behind her like a shadow in the dim torchlight. The ornate architecture reflected the cold, unforgiving nature of the nation it represented. The Fatui headquarters was a place of intrigue, power, and dread, but none of that intimidated Innamorati. She thrived here, among killers and manipulators, soldiers and assassins. After all, she was one of them—a Harbinger.

As she made her way through the palace, her mind was abuzz with the news she had received. The Tsaritsa herself had summoned her and Il Capitano for a joint mission. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of being sent into battle alongside Capitano once more. It was rare for them to be paired, despite their titles as Harbingers, but when they were… it was exhilarating. Capitano commanded with a silent, deadly authority that never failed to stir something deep within her—a hunger, a desire to serve him, fight for him, please him.

A wicked smile spread across her lips as she approached her subordinates, who were assembled and awaiting orders. They stood stiffly in the grand corridor, soldiers loyal to her and her alone, all wearing the signature masks and dark uniforms of the Fatui. But none of them mattered—not right now.

“Captain,” one of her lieutenants addressed her, standing at attention. “Are we moving out?”

“Indeed, we are,” she replied smoothly, her voice dripping with anticipation. “The Tsaritsa has requested my presence on a mission alongside Il Capitano.” She let the name roll off her tongue, savoring the power it carried. “We are to rendezvous with him and his forces. Prepare yourselves.”

Her subordinates saluted, but Innamorati barely paid them any attention. Her thoughts were already racing ahead, imagining the moment she would see Capitano again. The way he would take charge, his powerful frame towering over the others, that unyielding presence of his that drew her in like a moth to a flame.

Without waiting for further questions, Innamorati led her group through the labyrinthine halls, her pace quick and eager. The excitement thrummed through her veins as they marched toward the meeting point where Capitano and his forces were stationed. Her heart raced, not from anxiety but from the thrill of what was to come. Missions with Capitano always left her breathless—not just from the intensity of the battles, but from the intensity of him.

When they finally reached the grand courtyard, her eyes were immediately drawn to him. Capitano stood at the center, a silent pillar of authority amidst a gathering of his soldiers. His imposing figure was clad in his heavy armor, and the black, expressionless mask covered his face as always. His greatsword, as tall as he was, rested against his back, a testament to the strength he possessed. Around him, his soldiers stood in disciplined rows, awaiting orders.

Innamorati’s lips curved into a smirk as she and her forces approached. She took her place beside Capitano, her eyes never leaving him. He didn’t turn to acknowledge her immediately, but that was fine. He didn’t need to. Just being near him was enough to send a thrill down her spine.

“Innamorati,” Capitano finally said, his voice deep and authoritative. “You’re punctual.”

“Always, Capitano,” she purred, her eyes gleaming with amusement. Her tone was playful, almost teasing, but there was no question that she took the mission seriously. She always did when it came to him.

He nodded curtly, turning his attention to the soldiers gathered before them. The weight of his presence commanded respect, and the courtyard fell silent as he began to speak.

“The Tsaritsa has tasked us with an assault on a target of significant importance,” he began, his voice steady and unrelenting. “A fortified enemy stronghold to the west has been interfering with our operations. Our mission is to eradicate the opposition, retrieve vital intelligence, and leave no survivors. There will be no retreat. We strike hard, and we strike swiftly.”

As he spoke, Innamorati’s eyes roamed over him, taking in every detail of his form. She loved how he commanded a room, how his mere presence demanded obedience without so much as a raised voice. He was the epitome of strength, and she could barely contain the smirk that tugged at her lips as she thought about how much she adored watching him take the lead. There was something so attractive about it—the way he embodied control, the way he never wavered or hesitated. Her mind wandered as she imagined him outside of battle, taking charge in other… situations.

“Your forces will flank the eastern gate, Innamorati,” Capitano said, pulling her from her thoughts. “You will create a diversion to draw their forces away while my soldiers storm the front.”

“Understood,” she replied, her voice velvet-smooth. But as she looked at him, her smirk deepened. “I’ll make sure to put on a good show for you, Capitano.” She couldn’t resist the flirtation that slipped into her tone, the way her words dripped with double meaning. She leaned in slightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how much you enjoy watching me work.”

Capitano paused, his faceless mask turning toward her. For a moment, there was silence between them, thick with unspoken tension. The soldiers around them remained oblivious, too focused on their preparations to notice the subtle exchange.

“Innamorati,” Capitano said, his voice carrying a hint of warning. “Focus. This is not the time for games.”

Her smile only grew wider, and she cocked her head to the side, unfazed by his stern tone. “Who said I was playing?” Her voice was a soft purr, the words laced with suggestive undertones. She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm as she leaned in ever so slightly. “I’m always focused when it comes to you.”

The touch was brief, barely more than a graze, but it was enough to make her pulse quicken. She loved pushing him, testing his boundaries, seeing how far she could go before he would react. And though Capitano was always composed, always the stoic leader, she could sense the tension in him—just a flicker, but it was there.

“Innamorati.” His voice was firmer this time, and he straightened, pulling back just enough to remind her of her place. “Do not let your distractions interfere with the mission.”

She chuckled softly, unfazed by his reprimand. “I could never be distracted when you’re around, my Captain.” She winked at him, her smirk playful, as though daring him to scold her further.

Capitano said nothing in return, his mask concealing whatever expression might have crossed his face—if there was one at all. After a moment, he turned away from her, addressing the soldiers once more. The briefing continued, but Innamorati’s attention never wavered from him.

Even when scolding her, he was captivating. He didn’t need to shout or threaten—his authority was absolute, and that only made her want him more. The way he commanded respect, the way his voice alone could silence a room, the way he looked so damn strong, even in stillness—it was intoxicating.

As the debriefing came to an end, Capitano gave one final order to his troops. “We move at dawn. Prepare yourselves.”

The soldiers saluted and dispersed, leaving the two Harbingers alone for a brief moment. Innamorati’s gaze lingered on him as she watched the soldiers file out of the courtyard. Once they were alone, she took a step closer to Capitano, her voice low and teasing.

“Are you upset with me, Capitano?” she asked, her tone laced with mock innocence. “I thought you’d be used to my antics by now.”

He turned his head slightly, his mask obscuring his expression. “You are insubordinate at times, Innamorati,” he said, though there was no real heat in his voice. “One day, it will cost you.”

She smiled wickedly, unbothered by his words. “Oh, I doubt that. I know how to get what I want.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “And you like it when I misbehave, don’t you?”

For a moment, there was only silence between them, and she could feel the weight of his gaze behind the mask. Then, without a word, Capitano turned and began to walk away, his cloak billowing behind him as he headed toward the exit.

Innamorati’s smirk widened as she watched him go. “Until tomorrow, Capitano,” she called after him, her voice dripping with amusement.

She knew that she had pushed him, perhaps more than she should have, but that was the game they played. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. As she turned to prepare her own troops for the mission ahead, her thoughts were already racing with anticipation. The battle tomorrow would be glorious—and so would being at his side, watching him lead, watching him command.

Her heart raced at the thought, and she couldn’t wait for the sun to rise.

---

The battlefield was a symphony of chaos. The harsh clashing of metal, the grunts of struggling soldiers, and the distinct cries of the injured filled the air. Blood soaked into the cracked earth beneath the boots of the Fatui army as they surged forward in a relentless assault. At the center of it all was Il Capitano, the faceless colossus of sheer brute strength, cutting down any who dared stand in his path.

Beside him, like a shadow of elegance and cruelty, was Innamorati. She moved through the fray with a sadistic grace, her eyes never leaving Capitano as he fought, his sheer presence making her pulse quicken. Innamorati thrived in the chaos, a deadly predator who craved nothing more than to please her Captain. She was the twisted embodiment of love, and her loyalty to him was unwavering.

Her illusions flickered around her, barely visible at first, before solidifying into facsimiles of herself. One by one, they scattered across the battlefield, perfect doubles that fought in unison with her real form. In the blink of an eye, a nearby enemy lunged at one of the illusions, only to pass right through it and stagger, disoriented. With a smirk, the real Innamorati slipped behind him, and with a swift flick of her wrist, her dagger found its home in his back. The illusion shattered around him like glass, fragments of false reality dissolving into the air. She barely gave the fallen soldier a second glance, her attention fixed on Capitano.

He was magnificent. Towering over friend and foe alike, Capitano wielded his greatsword like it weighed nothing. The sheer force of his strikes left shockwaves in their wake, sending enemies reeling. There was something primal about the way he fought—every movement efficient, deliberate, and devastating. He was a walking force of destruction, and it made her heart race.

Innamorati licked her lips, her smile growing wider as she saw another group of enemies make the foolish decision to charge toward him. She could have warned them, but what was the fun in that? Watching them break against Capitano's might was entertainment in itself.

She twirled her dagger playfully, the gleaming blade catching the blood-red light of the setting sun. Then, in a fluid movement, she created another illusion—this time of a massive stone wall blocking the path of the soldiers rushing toward Capitano. Confused, they skidded to a halt, eyes wide as they tried to understand how such a wall could appear out of nowhere. Capitano didn’t even glance at the illusion. He knew her tricks well.

In a heartbeat, she dispelled the illusion, and the soldiers were exposed once more, stunned by the sudden disappearance of the obstacle. That was all Capitano needed. He cut through them with one swing, and their bodies fell to the ground in broken heaps.

Innamorati couldn’t help the small shudder of pleasure that rippled through her. Archons, he's incredible.

“You’re making it too easy for me,” came Capitano’s deep, unyielding voice, slightly muffled by his mask but still powerful enough to make her knees weak. There was no playfulness in his tone, no flirtation—it was the voice of a warrior, focused solely on the battle ahead.

“Oh, Capitano,” she drawled, her voice dripping with amusement and seduction. She wiped a speck of blood from her lips with a languid swipe of her thumb. “I could never let anyone lay a hand on you. It would break my heart.”

She darted closer to him, ducking under an enemy spear and slicing the man’s throat in one graceful motion. Another illusion took her place, momentarily drawing fire from the archers on the ridge as she slipped through the chaos toward Capitano's side.

“You look so… commanding today.” Her voice was a low, suggestive purr as she pressed closer, almost intimate, despite the battlefield raging around them. She blocked another strike aimed at his side with her blade, twisting the weapon out of the attacker’s hands and driving her dagger into his chest. As the man gasped and crumpled, her smile grew. “It’s very attractive.”

Capitano didn’t falter, though she could sense the faintest tension in the way his hand tightened around his sword hilt. “Focus, Innamorati. We are not done here.”

Her laughter rang out, clear and melodic amidst the battle. “Oh, I am focused. Focused on you.” Her voice dropped, the playful tease in her words unmistakable. “You’re the only thing I see, Capitano.”

He said nothing in return, but she didn’t need him to. His silence was its own form of approval, and she thrived on it. The louder the battlefield became, the closer she danced to the edge of danger, knowing that no matter what happened, her Captain was there—watching, commanding, untouchable.

A spear came toward her, and in a flash, she raised her hand, summoning an illusionary double to take the hit. The soldier thrust the spear through what he thought was her chest, only to realize too late that it was a mirage. As he blinked in confusion, the illusion shattered into a cascade of glass-like shards, and she slipped behind him, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “You really thought you could touch me?”

The dagger slid between his ribs with lethal precision, and she smiled as she pulled it free.

Her heart raced, not from the fight, but from the sheer thrill of being by Capitano’s side. She relished the feeling, the surge of adrenaline that came from protecting him, from serving him. She would kill anyone who dared to come near him—without hesitation, without mercy.

Capitano cut down another wave of enemies, and for a moment, there was a brief lull in the battle. He turned his masked face toward her, his dark presence towering over her, cold and commanding. Even through the mask, she could feel the weight of his gaze.

“You’re enjoying yourself too much,” he said, his voice steady, but there was a hint of something deeper beneath the surface—something only she could recognize after years at his side.

Innamorati smirked, taking a step closer to him. “Can you blame me? Watching you fight, Capitano… it does something to me.” Her hand lightly grazed his arm, fingers teasing the fabric of his cloak as her eyes glittered with mischief. “The way you take charge, the way you command the battlefield—it’s almost too much for me to handle.”

Capitano was silent for a moment, the air between them thick with tension. Then, with a swift motion, he swung his sword downward, cleaving through a fallen enemy that had been trying to crawl away. “You will handle it,” he replied, his voice as unyielding as ever.

Innamorati’s lips curled into a wicked grin. “As you command, my Captain.” She spun on her heel, illusions swirling around her like a dance of death, her movements graceful and precise. The glass-like shards of her illusions glittered in the air as she moved, dispatching enemies with lethal efficiency.

But no matter how much blood she spilled, no matter how many illusions she shattered, her thoughts always circled back to him. Capitano. The man she adored, the man she would do anything for.

As the last of the enemy forces began to retreat, Innamorati stood amidst the bodies, breathing heavily from the exertion. She wiped the blood from her blade and turned to Capitano, her eyes gleaming with unrestrained admiration.

“I’m all yours now,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper. “Shall we finish this together?”

Capitano stepped toward her, his imposing figure casting a long shadow over her. He didn’t respond verbally, but he didn’t need to. In that brief moment of silence, she knew. She belonged to him—heart, body, and soul.

With one final glance at the retreating enemy forces, Capitano nodded, his hand resting briefly on her lower back before he turned and began walking toward the next battle.

And with a sly, knowing smile, Innamorati followed her Captain into the fray, her heart full of love, devotion, and an insatiable desire to please him.

After all, she was The Lover—and for Capitano, there was nothing she wouldn’t do.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[call-me-mother-darling]

Honey Never Spoils

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Authors note: Hey chicas, I tried my best with this. As fucked up as it sounds I'm not used to writing cute fics so hopefully this is up to your standards. Just as a warning this isn’t like a super fluffy fic. To make the fluff more impactful there will be action and fighting before it. I tried to make the fighting as short as possible without leaving out info.

Feedback is always encouraged!!

Plot: Natasha asks you for a huge favor

Warnings: men... men having the intention of treating a women like an opject, shooting, punching, violence, Red Room (if you watched the movie you understand), death, fake flirting, drinking, being drunk (let me know if I missed anything)

Word Count: 2445

I am currently at a bar getting trampled by what seemed like actual children. They must’ve gotten kicked out of the bar close to campus so this was their next best shot. The place was grubby and smells of body odor and bad decisions. What in my right mind am I doing here? I had just finished a mission so I came to Budapest to lie low and enjoy the architecture. Plus the safe house is here. 

Just when I thought my night wasn’t going to get any worse my body is being forced to the side. I can’t help but glare at the bitch that pushed me. I’m met with beautiful green eyes.

“Hello?!” I yell over the blaring music but she is just staring into my soul.

“What the fuck did you push me for?” I yell again waving my hand in front of her face. Just trying to get any reaction from her.

“You speak english?” She questions.

I look at her with an annoyed look. That's all she has to say after she slammed into me. 

“Yes of course I do. Do I look fucking hungarian to you?” I question rolling my eyes.

I begin to walk away when a hand covers my mouth and I'm being dragged away.

“Shh be quiet pretty girl” A sweet russian accent plays in my ear.

Out of my own shock I freeze. 

I do not have time for this.

Realization quickly washes over my body. I think quickly of all possible scenarios. She could be planning on killing me, maybe I owe her boss money? If it’s the boss I’m thinking of, he definitely knows what kind of girls to send my way. I struggle against her grip before I throw my head back and force my elbow into her side. Her grip loosens slightly but she insists on digging her nails into my skin. If she draws blood I'm gonna kill her. Fighting against her nails I twist toward her. It wasn’t by much but it was enough to grab her jacket and slam her into a wall. By the look in her eyes she was shocked but a small smirk played on her lips as soon as I noticed the red hourglass tattoo on her collarbone.

Shit

“What do you want from me?” I growl at her.

“Your love.” She confesses. 

“Are you insane?” I glance at the tattoo, instantly regretting my words.

“Don’t answer that” I say slowly, stepping away from her.

I watch her every move. She's trained to move like a cat, quiet and deadly. If she were to move I wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

 A smirk slowly pulls at her lips. “Who are you?" 

“Given your smirk you already know who I am Natasha.” I have known Natasha since she blew up the Red Room. I was one of the widows that was saved. I couldn’t be more thankful but why did she feel the need to attack to get my attention.

“It is good to see you too, Widow.” She pushes herself off the wall and circles around me. Like a panther hunting her prey.

“Don’t call me that! What do you want?” I question.

“I need your help finding this man. He is part of the few that got away before the Red Room got destroyed. Given you’ve been lying low for over a year now I think it’s time you get back in the action.” She nudges my arm. 

“What do you say, honey bun?” I roll my eyes at that.

“Okay fine, what do you need me to do?” I ask.

“You see that man at the bar with the gray hat? That's him. I need you to flirt with him and get in his head. Bring him to this address.” She hands me a small slip of paper with an address written in red ink. Classic.

In the Red Room we would color code our writing blue means easy target, red means dangerous to widows, green means dangerous to all, black means orders came from Dreykov directly.

“I will be waiting in the bedroom. Get him drunk, knock him out, do whatever you need to do to get him to this address.” I nod in understanding.

“Got it.” I confirm, eyeing this man. He’s huge. Around six foot five and at least three hundred pounds. I take a deep breath stepping in his direction. A strong hand grips my arm. I look back at Natasha staring at me. Her eyes scanning my face like this is the last time she’ll see me. 

“Please pretend like you’re gonna see me Natalia. I got this. You know I've handled worse” I put my hand over hers, running my thumb over her knuckles. You can see her face soften when I say her real name. 

“I know, любовь. I just worry. But go get him. I will be waiting for you.” Natasha says her accent is thick. Her accent always gets worse when she’s scared. 

I nod and sway towards him. I have to make it seem like it’s his idea. Taking a drunk girl home and taking advantage is his specialty. I pretend to drunkenly fall into the seat next to him. Asking the bartender for a strong drink purposefully slurring my words. 

“Hey sweetie” A masculine voice whispers in my ear and I fight the urge to lean away from him. His breath smells of whiskey. His hand cements itself to my hip in almost a bruising restraint. 

I giggle and lean against him. “What are you doing?” I eye his arms pretending to be impressed by the muscle showing through his shirt.

“You're so strong!” I grip his bicep, puffing out my chest. His eyes practically burn holes into my breasts. 

“I’ll show you how strong I am, sweetie. Let's get you home.” He says paying his tab and apologizing to the bartender. “Sorry bro my wife doesn’t know her limits sometimes.” The bartender chuckles.

“No problem man, mine is the same way.” God they talk like they own the women in their lives. Like we are objects. Disgusting. 

He leads me out of the bar, me stumbling over my own feet. 

“Can we go to my house, it’s thirty five- uhhh wait I don't remember.” He chuckles.

“I wrote it down, hold on.” I pause swaying slightly and I scramble to get the piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to him. He doesn’t question why I don’t have my own address memorized as he takes the paper from my hand.

“Ah yes, I know where this is. Don’t worry sweetie we can go to your house.” he says, leading me in the direction of the house. The cold breeze leaves goose bumps along my skin. It has to be at least one in the morning.

The front of the house is one of an old vintage home. It is absolutely breathtaking. He stops at the end of the driveway.

“Do you have keys?” He asks and I shake my head in response.

“I’ve always had an open door policy.” Given Natalia never gave me a key I can only assume the door is unlocked. My stomach drops as we walk closer to the door. So many what if’s circle my mind. What if Natasha isn’t here? I didn’t see her leave the bar. What if he doesn’t want to go to the bedroom? What if Natasha doesn’t make it to me in time? I haven't done a mission like this in a really long time so my nerves are acting up. I beg them to be calm and keep a level head. 

“Let's have some fun. My room is upstairs.” I giggle, pushing aside my worry. 

He just chuckles at my drunkenness and leads me to the bedroom. When we step into the bedroom he roughly drops me on the bed and goes to lock the door. The door to the connected bathroom opens slowly, a pair of green eyes peeking out. Relief settles over me. He turns back around and eyes Nat. Looking her up and down like she is a piece of meat.

“The more the merrier.” he smirks.

There's no way this bitch just said that.

Anger washes over Natasha's face and she runs at him. Her fist collides with his throat and he is sent back gagging and trying to catch his breath. As he kneels down her knee slams into his nose. A loud crack rings through my ears. She was so quick you could see him struggle to catch up.She pulled her infamous gun from the back of her jeans and shoots him execution style. 

She kicks him over and looks my way. “Are you okay honey bun?” 

“Yes, I'm okay. Everything just happened so fast and honestly I didn't expect him to go down that fast.” She chuckles at me.

“They always second guess a woman's ability to fight. It helps in these situations especially when a man thinks he’s an ‘alpha’.” She rolls her eyes at her own statement and I can’t help but laugh. 

“Come on, let's get you home.” She motions for me to follow her after she kicks the man out of the way.

“I’m gonna pretend you found where I live in a responsible and very legal way.” I say and glance at him on the way out. 

“What will happen to him?” I ask

“A cleaning team will be here in about twenty minutes. Trust me this place will look spotless by the time they are done with it.” I nod trusting her every last word.

We walk outside into the chilly area and make our way to her black nineteen ninety Cadillac. I chuckled at the car and she glanced my way. Giving me a look of questioning.

“Nothing, I would just think you’d have a BMW or some type of fast car.” She almost looks offended at my words.

“First of all I love classics. Second of all get your ass in the car. It's cold out here.” I smile and listen to her command. I hate admitting this but I trust her with my life so I can just shut my brain off.

The drive back to my place was quiet. Her free hand rested on my thigh and my left hand rested on hers rubbing my thumb over her knuckles. Before I knew it she was pulling into my complex. After being in Budapest for so long I requested a bigger apartment. This one comes with bigger parking spaces so when Natasha parks we aren’t fighting to get in and out of the car. After she parked we made our way to the elevator and to my door. As much as this is an old building I find beauty in it. Think of how many people have lived here. How many lives have lived in the same space but experienced it so differently. It’s beautiful to be a part of those many people.

As the door creaks open Natasha holds the door open for me and locks it when both of us are inside. Nastahsa’s gaze falls on the fireplace. More specifically the photos above it. It’s pictures of us and our families when we were younger. Well our assigned families. My favorite picture is of Nat, Yelena, and me. We looked so happy playing with the fireflies. 

“How were you able to keep all of these?” She asked.

“Melina kept them for me. She said that it would help you remember if they ever took your memory.” I say.

You can see the sadness in her eyes. 

“I could never forget you. I spent too much time trying to win you over to forget your beautiful face.” She flashes a smile. 

“You were always such a flirt.” I chuckle.

I grab her hand and lead her to the kitchen. Maybe some tea will help.

“Do you still like peppermint?” I ask pulling the box out of the cabinet.

“You already know the answer to that.” She sasses, blowing me a kiss.

I smile and grab the kettle, filling it with water. I put it on the stove and make my way to the bathroom. Before she even gets the chance to get up I say.

“Stay there, I'm getting a bandage for your hand.” I can hear her huff at that. I can’t help but giggle. I came back with the wrap and a damp washcloth. I lift her up and sit her on one of the kitchen stools, a small gasp coming from her.

“Let me see your hand.” I say and she hesitantly gives me her left hand. It doesn’t look as bad as some of her injuries in the past but it still looks painful. I run the cool wash cloth over her knuckles, a small hiss escapes her mouth. 

“I know my love, I'm almost done.” I say wrapping the bandage over her knuckles and around her hand securing it at the wrist. 

“There we go all done. See not too bad.” I smile looking up at her. Her eyes hold so much love and adoration. I can’t help but blush lightly at the sudden attention. Her eyes search my face, like she is looking for a clue. My eyes glance down to her lips. We both start leaning in. The tension getting thicker.

The tea kettle goes off and I step away, coming back to reality. 

“I’ll get that.” I say shakily. I make my way to the stove turning the burner off. I grab two cups and two bags of tea. I put the bags in the cup and pour the boiling water into each cup.

“Would you like some honey, honey?” She asks, standing beside me with the jar of honey. I giggle and nod. I watch her pour the exact amount I like into mine and a little bit into hers.

“How do you know how much honey I like?” I question furrowing my eyebrows.

“You liked it like this when we were younger.” She answers with a wide smile.

I can’t help but hug her. I can hear the honey fall to the counter and her arms wrap around me tightly. My eyes well up with tears and I hold her as tightly as possible only to loosen it to put our foreheads together.

“I have always loved you.” I confess.

“I love you more.” She says and a wide grin appears on my face.

I lean in and connect our lips. The teas long forgotten

Yes, this is right. Is all I can think to myself

[boytumms]

Hey guys! This is a little collab I did with @let-me-fill-you, they've sent me many wonderful prompts in the past and I liked one so much I asked them to expand one so I could draw something for it!

Although it is a fine summer's day, you are cold, beneath the earth. For several minutes, you have followed the abbot into the bowels of the monastery, far deeper than you believed, deeper even than the catacombs. Thankfully, it hasn't been a single spiralling staircase all the way down, or else your head might've twisted off from sheer dizziness. But there is a growing pit of unease in your stomach. Where is the abbot leading you? And why now, immediately after you took your vows? Every time you think to ask, the words catch in your throat or the abbot speaks first, "This way." You are grateful for his guidance, at least. It's a maze down here - and the architecture has taken a turn for the unfamiliar, making the darkness all the more unnerving. Could it be that the monastery was built atop an older structure? The order is old, dating back centuries. You haven't the slightest notion of what might've come before. But you have a growing suspicion you're about to find out.

Soon, you see light ahead, stronger than the lantern borne by the abbot. You see a barred door, flanked by two members of your order... but they're not dressed in the monastic habit. Instead, they are clad in fine armor, made of what appears to be... silver? It gleams in the fire-light, lustrous and covered in filigree. No, not filigree, you realize as you draw closer. Runes. Protective spells. Your eyes drift from one's cuirass to his belt, and what you see isn't a cudgel - as expected of simple monks - but a blade, slender and deadly. Your blood chills, on the verge of becoming ice. You look to the abbot in trepidation.

The abbot's expression is grave. "Now that you are one of us, bound by oath, it is time you learned the truth of our order - our shame, and our obligation." He beckons you closer to the door - a great, heavy door, barred not once but twice. You hesitate to move from your spot, but the abbot is patient (and insistent). As you step forth, you console yourself with the knowledge that a door like this is not easily opened, and you are not alone. You should be safe. Should be...

Once you're close enough, the abbot slides open a slot for you to peer through, into darkness - but you hear it before you see it, whatever it is. You hear... moaning? It's dull and low, but clearly in pain. It's enough to raise your hairs; you feel the urge to pull away before something lunges out of the darkness, but you also feel the abbot's gaze boring into your skull, locking you in place. So you continue to stare into the darkness, until your eyes adjust.

And what you see is... a boy? Pale and thin as bone, his face veiled by a head of unkempt hair. You cannot tell if he's conscious, but his lips are open, from which the moaning emanates. He is chained to a rock, jutting out of the ground like a crooked tooth, kept halfway between standing and laying. His wrists, locked tightly within manacles bolted into the stone itself, are starkly red and raw from chafing. You imagine his ankles are similarly bound, but you cannot see them because, well... his stomach is in the way. You cannot believe your eyes. This isn't a gut swollen in hunger, but a sack of flesh, bloated like a fat mosquito, hanging from his skeletal frame all the way down to the rough stone floor, obscuring the entire lower half of his body. His belly, though it feels inappropriate to call it that (it doesn't look like an extension of himself, more like he is attached to it) is huge and ugly - shaped like a droplet from some great weight inside it, and wider than his shoulders, stretched perilously thin and marred with unflattering stretch marks and spider veins. Chains crisscross the gravid expanse, again not made of iron but hallowed silver - and wherever these hold tight, there seem to be burn marks.

Your stomach curdles. What could possibly necessitate this barbaric treatment? Then, as if in direct response to your thought, you see it - something huge and powerful, squirming and shifting within the boy's belly, pushing this way and that, recoiling from the silver, protruding in between the gaps. This isn't a silent affair - you hear the boy's skin creaking as it is stretched to its utmost, you hear sloshing (of amniotic fluid?), you hear sizzling as the tortured skin makes contact with the silver, and worst of all you hear a muffled growling of something vicious and hateful, and you hear the boy's moaning increase...

But it's cut off by the rasp of metal, as the slot is shut in front of your face, startling you. Refocusing on the abbot, you blink a few times, readjusting to the lantern light on this side of the door.

The abbot's expression has not changed, but did he always look so tired? Perhaps it is you who has changed, from the person you were just a minute ago, before you saw that. You look deep into his eyes for answers, a justification of any kind.

He tells you, with solemn cadence, "You must bury whatever sympathy you have for that boy. He contains Armageddon - a monster so terrible that, had it been allowed to enter our world, would have doomed us all. It is trapped in there, but we must remain vigilant. So long as he carries that monster, it will not allow him to age. And he must not die, or else that thing will be free to find another host, another womb to bear it. It may seem cruel to keep him like this, but remember your vows. You have a duty to your brothers and sisters, and the world beyond these walls. You must close your heart to his suffering. In the days to come - not today, or tomorrow, but soon - you'll be expected to feed him, to give him water. It's a heavy burden we share between us, so the onus does not break any one of us. And when that time comes, he will speak to you. He will cry, he will beg, he will howl and scream for the slightest of accommodations, a loosening of his shackles, anything to alleviate his pain, and you will know in your heart that his pleas are genuine. You must not listen to him. The devil does not speak through him - it has nothing to say to us - but it will use our better angels against us." The abbot places a heavy hand on your shoulder. "No one is deserving of that boy's fate. But he must suffer it all the same."

After that, the abbot leads you back to the surface, back into the warm light of day. But you remain cold.