#operating instructions given

[bortalis]

My concepts for the development progress of an Iterators Puppet

-my ideas below

-Feasibility Study  

[1]: First autonomous control module, any instruction to be given must be done manually through physical means (the keys), outputs were shown through the screen. A very primitive system, however, did its job proving the greater machine concept was achievable. While it does look like a lens above the monitor, this was a simple status gauge for benchmarking.

-Prototyping and Development  

[2]: Now with the capability to wirelessly and audibly communicate to receive instructions and inputs. The system was no longer directly integrated into the facility, and resided on the first instance of an iterator's arm. This was considered a feat due to the complications with isolating the control module from the rest of the iterators components, while keeping processing power. A permanent connection/umbilical was needed to sustain life and function though. 

To “talk” back, they were crafted with multidimensional projectors, the mobile arm allowing the angles and variance for this projection. Only later into development were advanced speakers installed for optimized understanding, however the extra computing power required to synthesize proper speech was found to strain the contained module, so this function had rare use in the end.

[3]: At this point there was a change in perspective in the project. What once were machines to simply compute and simulate, were now planned to be the home, caregiver, and providers. The further the project came to fruition the more religious importance was placed upon these “random gods”. From this stance not only did the puppets have to manage and control their facilities, they had to communicate with the people and priests. To represent benevolent beings who will bring their end and salvation. In this process iterators began to take a more humanoid shape, to better reflect their parents. Development was focused on compacting the puppet closer to the size of an ancient for this purpose. This stage was the first to incorporate a cloak/clothing into their design considerations, to further akin themselves in looks. The cloak would hide the iterators' engineered bodies and give a body to their silhouette. 

[4]: As bioengineering and mechanics were rapidly progressing due to the void fluid revolution, this allowed plenty of margin for developing the outer design of the iterator puppets. This prototype was the first to incorporate limbs for the purpose of body language. This was another step in the drive to give a body to their random gods.

-Final Iterations

[5]: First generation iterators had the final redesign of puppet bodies. Far different from their first designs, they are fully humanoid. Their bodies are shaped to be organic and as full of life as they could at the time. Their center of sapience has fully settled within their body, as can be seen as their unconscious use of limbs without the direct intention for communication. This can also see how they manage their work, where many of the functions (which can be done with just an internal request) are operated through physical gestures of their limbs. Their puppet chambers also allow for full comprehensive projection, where many of their working monitors are displayed. It is seen how iterators prefer to utilize their traversal arm to transfer between the current working projection window.

These designs were hardy and nearly self-sufficient, only requiring minimal power from their umbilical to charge. (However was still limited in the terms of internal power production, for this first generation extensive batteries sufficed)

[6]: Later generation not only incorporated advanced bioengineering internally, but externally. While still a hardened shell, their body plates have been incorporated into the organics of the puppet, maintaining the protective requirements while barely leaving a trace of hinges or plates. This “soft” skin had drawbacks, such as reduced durability to the first generations, this was offset by the greatly enhanced repair speeds and capability this type of skin allowed.

Internal power generation was implemented into these late generation models. If the case arose, the Puppet could be disconnected from their umbilical and still be conscious from an undefined period of time. (However this would limit the operating capacity of the puppet when running self sufficiently) This greatly eased maintenance works, as the Puppet could still run the greater facility wirelessly while work was done on the chamber, arm or whatever as needed.

[wttcsms]

i'll pretend you'll stay forever ; kento nanami.

pairing kento nanami x f!reader  word count 2.4k  synopsis no one knows that the bodyguard for the prime minister's daughter fucks her on a daily basis. content contains bodyguard!nanami x prime minister's daughter!reader, big, beefy, strong nanami hehe, creampie, slight brat taming, pet names (baby, good girl, bad girl), cockwarming, dom!nanami, hair pulling, car sex, nanami makes you call him sir author's notes s2 was animated for the nanami girlies

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

Granted, he’s been practically bred for the position. Born and raised by a mother and father who also dealt in espionage, sent to boarding schools that would feed him directly to The Academy, constantly being reminded of his purpose. Agent Nanami serves as one of the Prime Minister’s most trusted secret operatives. A select few who are given the most sensitive assignments. 

“K-Kento — too much,” your shaky whines sound even louder than they actually are, emphasized by the silence in his car. 

Sensitive — yes, that’s what you are. 

“You can take it.” He tells you, gently stroking your cheek. His calloused thumb wipes away a stray tear, and he takes you in. You’re still tearing up, your lashes slick, and you’re pouting at him. You’re always pouting, probably because growing up, you’ve never been told no. It’s not required according to his assignment file (most of what Nanami has been doing with you has decidedly been not required), but Nanami’s been trying hard to give you lessons that will have you behaving politely and like a good girl rather than the spoiled brat you actually are.

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

When he’s told that he is to be the primary bodyguard for the Prime Minister’s daughter, he accepts it without hesitation. Everyone else has had no luck with you, and you certainly don’t seem to be bothered by that fact. You’re in college now, and you want nothing more than to skip lectures and go to parties, both of which is rather difficult when you have a bodyguard watching your every move and reporting directly to your father.

Nanami goes about his assignment in a different way. There’s another bodyguard, one who is also watching you, but young Itadori cannot possibly go about protecting the Prime Minister’s most beloved daughter safe all by himself. He’s barely graduated from the Academy.

Besides, you automatically dislike any of the guards assigned to you. Itadori is a nice, young man, and in different circumstances, everyone is certain that you would have enjoyed his company. The fact that his job is to protect you seems to be his only fatal flaw in your eyes.

Nanami is no stranger to undercover work, and so posing as a final year doctoral candidate at the university you’re attending is an easy cover. Setting up the perfect chain of events that leads to you specifically choosing him to be your economics tutor was also an easy enough task. 

And somewhere along the lines, you got this idea inside of your pretty, little head that you’re just the smartest, sneakiest girl around. You think you’re evading Itadori’s watchful eyes, taking advantage of his rookie status even though he’s always aware you’re “sneaking off” to meet with Nanami. You think you’re finally rebelling against your father’s strict instructions to stay out of trouble. 

And while Nanami does ensure that you keep out of trouble, he’s not sure if your father will approve with how he’s keeping you so obedient.

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

You’re not the first brat that he’s had to train, but you’re proving to be quite the star student. You hold back any more whining complaints, and instead, you’re straddling his lap like the good girl he knows you can be, his thick cock fitting snugly inside your pussy.

Both of your hands are clutching onto his broad shoulders, your pretty, manicured nails digging into the stiff cotton of his blue button-up. His mind doesn’t register the sting of your nails practically sinking into his skin. All he can focus on is what a pretty, dazed little mess you are. 

“See?” He coos, sounding not the least bit condescending. The warmth of his baritone, the reassuring strokes on your cheek — Nanami is a gentleman. You practically beam with pride as he tells you, “I told you you could take it. Such a good girl.”

You still haven’t moved yet, and Nanami whispers more words of praise for you. It only took two weeks of training to get you to understand that you can beg for his touch, his attention, his cock, all you want, but he gives it all to you under his terms and conditions. He knows you want some friction, knows that you need it so badly because why else are your walls clenching down so heavily on his length? You’re being so patient with him that he feels himself getting impossibly harder at the thought of your perfect behavior. 

“You want to ride me, baby?” The question comes out as a throaty whisper, the clear desire he has for you evident in his rough tone. 

You nod eagerly, damn near salivating at the thought of finally being able to take what you want. 

“Use your words.” He demands, moving his hand to caress your face once more before letting his thumb toy with your bottom lip. 

“Yes,” you whimper out, trying your hardest to resist the temptation to start moving, to have the feeling of his cock brushing against your walls, in and out, in and out.

His eyes narrow, and his cold demeanor is enough to keep you frozen in place. Oh, you’ve upset him. 

“You were being such a good girl, too.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “When you answer me, what are you supposed to say?”

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“And if you knew this, why didn’t you say it the first time?” The way he snaps at you shouldn’t give your tummy butterflies, but it does. Nanami is far kinder and gentler than he lets on, and it’s why you enjoy it when he takes on such a demanding role when it’s just the two of you. No one can handle your attitude as well as Nanami, and that’s precisely why you’re warming his cock right now, walls tightening around him with every stern scolding that leaves his mouth. 

“You can’t answer me?” The sharpness of his tone turns you demure, making you turn your head down and away from him, refusing to answer or look at him, and he frowns at that. You feel him wrapping your hair around his hand, and the movements are soft, slow, gentle at first—

—and with speed and dexterity that shouldn’t belong to a mere student, he’s yanking you by your hair, forcing you to snap your head up and look him in his cold eyes. 

“You were behaving so well earlier.” He feigns disappointment, but the hungry glint in his eyes tells you that he’s been looking forward to whatever punishment he has in store for you. “What a shame. I was going to let you have me however you wanted, let you take control for once.” He leans down, whispering in your ear. “Instead, it looks like I get to fuck you like the bad girl you really are, hm?” 

Before you can protest, apologize, beg for mercy, he takes his free hand to grip your waist, strong enough to lift you slightly off of him, only to slam you back down on his dick. 

You let out a strangled cry at the sudden intrusion. It’s one thing to have him sink into you inch by inch; it’s another thing entirely to have him practically impale you with his dick.

His thrusts are rough, hard, unforgiving. Never sloppy, though — Nanami’s much too meticulous to reduce himself to a wild animal, even though he’s fucking you so hard, you can’t tell if he hates your guts or just wants to rearrange them. 

His hand is still tangled in your hair, and he pulls some more, forces your neck to arch up. He leans in, licking at the soft skin of your neck before nipping at the skin, hard enough to leave a mark you’ll need to cover up with a turtleneck because no amount of concealer can save you now.

You mewl in pain at the sensation, but it’s obvious you love it. You’re dripping all over his dick, forcing wet, squelching sounds to fill the car every time he moves inside of you. You should be ashamed — would be ashamed — if only the overwhelming pleasure didn’t leave your mind shrouded in a hazy mist of lust and rapture. The pinpricks of pain from how he’s pulling your hair and from the fresh lovebites marking your flesh should hurt more, but you’re too lost in the way his cock is filling you up. 

“Look at that.” Nanami growls, untangling his hand from your hair in favor of putting his fingers to better use: stroking your clit. “You’re fucking soaked.” You look down as he commands, and your eyes widen in surprise, even though it shouldn’t come as such a shock to you. The front of his trousers is absolutely drenched with your juices, and your clit practically glistens in the faint moonlight that sneaks past the tint of his car. “Is this why you like to be a bad girl? Because you like getting fucked like a fleshlight, is that it?”

You want to shake your head no. You want to tell him that you are good, that you’re not a bad girl. But the stimulation on your clit, his harsh words, the way his cock is repeatedly hitting that special spot of yours — it’s all too much for you to handle.

“I want to treat you so well, baby. I want to spoil you, give you everything, but you make it so — fucking — difficult.” He speaks through clenched teeth, the warmth and ecstasy of being buried in your sweet pussy slowly chipping away at his resolve. The last three words of his sentence have all been punctuated by a particularly brutal thrust, and you’re certain that by the end of this, your cunt will keep the shape of his cock forever.

“I’m sorry!” You scream out, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now. The pleasure is mind-numbing, earth-shattering, reality-altering. Neither of you know what you’re apologizing for. Is it for being a bad girl when all Nanami wants is for you to behave so he can bring you the world at your feet? Is it for the wet mess you’re making all over his nice clothes and cock? Or is it for the fact that you’re breaking a cardinal rule, one that he will be most displeased by?

Maybe it’s all of the above, but if you had to pick, the apology would be for the fact that you’re cumming without permission. Your conscious mind is aware that Nanami is not going to be very happy with you, but this climax has you seeing stars. You can’t find it in yourself to worry about future consequences when you’re losing yourself in the throes of passion and pleasure. You’re drenching his cock in your cum, seeing stars, and reduced to feeling like a boneless mess. You slump against his strong chest, eyes struggling to remain open as you rest your head on one of his big, broad shoulders.

The punishment doesn’t come immediately — it rarely ever does. Nanami bides his time and doles out his punishments when you least expect it. He does it to keep you on edge, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t excite you. 

Instead, he lets you rest against him, reduced to nothing more than a little, fucked-out mess. You feel a rumble from his chest, a series of grunts and curses leaving his mouth as the bucking of his hips is done so harshly, you’re certain that you’re going to be bruised everywhere, from the soft flesh of your thighs to your poor cervix. A few more thrusts and Nanami is certain that he is planted as deep as he could go, the tip of his cock hitting you at your most sensitive spot. 

You feel him bury his face into your hair, taking in the scent of your shampoo and the lingering aroma of sex and sweat. His cock throbs in sporadic bursts, and you hear him grunt out your name like a broken prayer.

He cums, unloading a hot, heavy load directly inside of you, flooding you. You think you forget how to breathe, and all you can do is just take it, take all of him.

The warm sensation has you moaning softly; the feeling of him completely dominating your senses, your body, you, has you wanting him to never let you go, to never leave. You tighten your core, trying to squeeze more of his cum into you as he lets out little groans of pleasure from above you. You love reducing him to a moaning mess, reducing him to this sex-dazed state whenever he lets go because of you.

You don’t think you’re capable of speech, throat raw from your previous screams of pleasure, but you find that you don’t have to speak to let Nanami know what you want. As you lift your head from his shoulder, relishing in the sight of Nanami with his head leaned back, cheeks flushed from the exertion of giving you the best dick of your life, he opens his eyes to meet yours. Leaning down, he captures your lips and gives you a messy, sloppy kiss that is so unbecoming and out of character for him. 

The makeout session lasts until your eyes feel droopy and you’re not responding anymore. Nanami just looks down at you with a fondness that he hasn’t felt for anyone else in a while. You’re all tuckered out, and you’re breathing softly and slowly, lost to the world of dreaming. He’s a bit exhausted, too. He should pull you off his cock and buckle you back safely in the passenger seat, but he sees a small trail of his cum dribbling out of your overstuffed pussy and he figures it’s less of a mess if he just keeps you nice and plugged up for the time being.

Before he can close his eyes and join you, the crackle of his telecom planted in his watch comes to life. The static doesn’t do much to alter Itadori’s voice.

“Y1 to K1, this is Y1 requesting status of the Princess. Over.”

The “Princess” is currently dozing peacefully with his cum settling in her cunt. Nanami thinks that’s too crude to relay over the comms, though.

“K1 to Y1, Princess is secured. Over.”

[tofics]

You Owe Me - Part 1

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Forced through circumstances out of your control to rely on Joel Miller, you end up traversing the country with him. You're not particularly enthralled with him, and neither is he with you - or so you think, until your period strikes, and you're practically bed-ridden. Or: Joel can't stop jerking off to you after he accidentally got a taste of your lips.

Warnings/tags: canon typical show/game violence, sort of dubious consent (reader gets kissed without being asked and only later agrees), age gap (reader is about ~25 years younger), enemies to lovers kind of, awful period + period cramps, jerking off, fluff

Word count: ~7.4k

Periods are not fun to begin with.

They're even less fun in a post-apocalyptic world, where sanitary products are hard to come by and more of a luxurious rarity than a given staple item in your average survivor's backpack.

You knew you were bound to begin your cycle eventually, and had you had more time, you'd probably have prepared yourself some way or the other. But, with the way things had gone in the past two weeks, you had not had any time to think about bodily functions beyond what your every day efforts demanded of you, and even that was hard to care for.

Ever since the night that you fled Boston's QZ, you hadn't had a proper night's rest, let alone a hearty meal to replenish your energy with. Your escape had been 'spontaneous' to say the least, a necessity brought upon by circumstances that you'd stumbled into rather than purposefully involved yourself in, and before you knew it, you were pointing your finger at Joel Miller, of all people in the world, hissing threats through gritted teeth about how he at least owed you this much if he was going to get you involved in his business without your consent and how you weren't gonna get hanged just because he'd dragged you into his bullshit.

Joel, of course, was not a man you could just point your finger at and demand things of, much less in a hissed tone, even less in the form of threats.

And yet, he'd smuggled you out of the city in a cloak-and-dagger-operation that same night, despite his hard glares and hushed warnings to keep your mouth shut. You'd been anything but prepared when he'd appeared at your side like a magician out of thin air. He'd laid his arm around your neck like a lover might on an evening stroll, but the gesture hadn't been kind, his arm too tight around your throat, pressing on your airway as he'd instructed you - commanded you - to follow him, like you'd have had any other choice with his arm wrapped around your neck like a boa constrictor, all the while a smile on his face that feigned nonchalance to possible onlookers. Nothing to see here, just two lovebirds on their way home after another long, hard day of work.

You'd shaken him off once the two of you were out of sight, ripped his arm off of your throat as you swiveled out of his headlock. "What the fuck, Joel," you'd hissed and he'd stared back at you with that same cold and hard look you knew him by. "Do you want out of the city or not?" His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his tone matching the iciness of his eyes. Your jaw tensed. The nerves of this guy. "The hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed like you were being dense. "Out. Flee the nest. Hit the damn road-" You cut him off with another pointed finger. "Don't be cute. I know what you mean. What I'm asking is, now?!" He eyed your finger like he was debating cutting it off if you jabbed it into his face one more time. His jaw ticked. "Yes, sweetheart, now." Your nostrils flared at the sarcastic tone of the nickname, but he gave you no time to interject. "Got tipped off. They're gonna do a raid tonight, hit everyone they know I'm involved with. Since you got all flustered about my - 'involvement' of yours-" "Oh, is that what you call that? Grabbing and kissing me out of the blue?" "-I figured I'd do you a solid by giving you a heads up," he talked over you, ignoring your comment entirely. You were seething. "Ever heard of a thing called 'consent', Joel?" He flicked his tongue, rolled his eyes. Clearly, he had no time to entertain your attitude. You didn't care. "It's when you ask someone if they wanna do something, and then only do it if they say yes. Now I know that concept might be a little hard to grasp for you-" You were slowly advancing on him, getting up all in his face, when his hand closed around your arm tightly. Your gaze fell down to his grip, your lower jaw pushing out slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was waiting for your next outburst. "Are you quite done? Cause we gotta go. Unless you'd like to stay and be questioned by FEDRA officers? I'm sure they'd be very interested in your lecture about consent." Joel's upper lip curled back in an ugly sarcastic smile.

And so you'd let him lead you through the city, begrudgingly at first and then bewildered when you realized you were heading in the opposite direction of your apartment. "What about my stuff?" He'd only shaken his head. "No time for that. We gotta go now. Got some backpacks waiting for us a couple blocks ahead."

He only realized you'd stopped walking when he was at least ten steps ahead. "You comin' or what?" You could tell by the tone in his voice that he was nearing the end of his patience, but as far as you were concerned, you were already at the end of yours. You didn't budge, just stared him down from where you stood, shooting icy daggers out of your eyes and your pursed lips quivering as insults swarmed in your head, all fighting to be let out at once. He looked back at you with dull disinterest in his eyes. "By all means, take your time. Ain't like we're on a clock here or somethin'."

"Oh, you son-of-a-bitch, you ignorant little cock-sucker, you absolute blithering idiot-" The stream of affronts sputtered out of you. Joel quickly closed the distance between the two of you and forcefully grabbed you by the arm, dragging you with him once more. "Walk and talk, yeah?," he said over your flood of offences, the jabs seemingly rolling off of him like water droplets against plastic. You kept up your clamor all the way down the next block, until he dragged you into yet another side-alley to avoid a group of FEDRA soldiers marching past.

The two of you stood closer together than both you and him would have liked. If it hadn't been for the parade of soldiers walking past you, you might've scratched his eyes out, something you made sure to convey with your eyes as you stared him down in silence. His indifference only fueled your rage. "Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?" You hissed at him when most of the parade had passed by. Joel wondered if he'd ever hear your normal tone-of-voice. "Come again?" He cocked his head. "The way I recall it, you asked me to get you out of the city, not the other way around. Now who's imposin' on who?"

He saw it coming before it was looming in his face again. That damn finger of yours, pointed right at his nose once more. His lips pursed, his hand twitched on the handle of the blade he kept concealed on his waist. Just one quick swipe. Your howls would likely attract the guards. Not worth it. Yet.

"We're only in this predicament because you couldn't keep your damn hands off of me!" You almost spat in his face, your voice all hoarse from trying to keep your shout down to a whisper. Your head looked like it was about to implode. Joel flicked his tongue again.

"You wanna discuss bygones again or you wanna get goin'? Time's not waitin' on us, sweetheart."

"Oufff." You growled in response, your finger so close to his face you'd take out an eye if he moved an inch in the wrong direction. "Get that thing out of my face," he finally snapped and smacked your hand down. "Now quit whinin'. You wanted out of the city, you're gettin' out of the city. Giddy up. Time's a' wastin'."

Without another look to check if you were following, he dipped out of the alleyway and marched down in the direction of his - your - first pit stop. You stood between the tight walls for another moment, breathing heavily. If FEDRA hadn't been breathing down your neck, you would've turned around on your heels and sent Joel off to whatever miserable adventure he was about to embark on, but alas, he'd made his miserable adventure yours against your will. You cursed under your breath, then hurried after him.

"All I'm saying is, what about my shit? You think I don't have any sentimentals at home? Necessities? Stuff I wanted to bring when I left?" You whispered to him as you kept up with his pace beside him. It could've been your imagination, but the people out on the street looked more hurried than usual. Something was definitely in the air. Joel's tip-off likely had been right. Something was brewing.

"You win some, you lose some," came his sullen reply, paired with a shrug. You had to stuff your comeback back down your throat as the two of you filed into the crowd of people heading home, hurried steps and hard, concerned faces all around you.

Escaping hadn't been easy. Every single guard had been on high-alert. It seemed that the tip-off must've come out - the number of guards had been tripled, and you and Joel had a hard time going by undetected, despite the added benefit of nighttime and the rain that had picked up, muffling your steps as you hurried from dark corner to dark corner.

The Firefly attack took him as much by surprise as it did you and the soldiers. The booming sound of an explosion just a few hundred feet ahead made you flinch and Joel instinctively pulled you down with him. Rubble rained down on the two of you, crashing into the muddied floor just inches besides you. You gasped and flinched away, losing your halt on all fours, but a strong arm caught you around the middle before you could slump to the ground. "Let's go," Joel urged in your ear and dragged you up to your feet in one swift motion.

Shouts erupted around you from all sides, then got droned out as FEDRA's sirens kicked up. You scrambled after Joel as he evaded spotlights that swiveled across the floor from all directions, keeping the two of you safely tucked away in the few shadows that remained. Smoke burned in your nose and lungs as you sprinted from safe haven to safe haven. Loud cracks cut through the uproar of your surroundings, accompanied by deep thudding sounds as more rubble fell to the floor. The fire from the explosion site was now spreading out, slowly licking at buildings in its path. Many of the decrepit structures quickly crumbled away under the heat, porous and unstable to begin with.

It was disorienting, frightening. For the first time in over a week, you were glad for Joel Miller. If it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have made it out of the chaos alive.

Granted, if it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place, but he kept his word and got you out.

You'd never meant to stay with him, but as things would have it, you weren't presented with much of a choice in that either. You made it out of the city just fine, save for a few jump scares along the road, but then ran into a hoard of infected that had been attracted by the ruckus of the explosion, just a few miles outside of the quarantine zone.

How you made it through that encounter alive, you didn't know, you just knew that Joel was a more-than-worthy asset in that debacle, as much as you hated to admit it. As if that hadn't been enough, you barely had one peaceful night before a group of raiders pulled through the section of outskirts where you and Joel had holed up for the night. It was an 'out of the frying pan and into the fire' kind of turn of events that kept you and Joel running and fighting for your lives for almost two weeks straight, stumbling from one disaster into the next, until finally, finally, you seemed to leave your losing streak behind.

It had now been three whole weeks since the two of you had found yourselves in mortal danger last, and though it felt almost wrong to be hopeful for a peaceful stretch of days, you couldn't help but be just that.

Until, of course, you felt that familiar sharp pull in your abdomen.

Crap.

"You didn't happen to pack anything female-related when you packed this, did you?," you asked as you rifled through the contents of your backpack. Well, Joel's backpack really, since it was the one he'd bestowed upon you the night of your escape. Your own backpack was still back in Boston, probably picked apart by FEDRA by now, along with all of your other belongings.

"Like what?" Joel was poking at the fire he'd set out to build. The flames wouldn't quite take, a few feeble blue streaks dancing between the twigs he'd collected.

"Like, I don't know, a pad, maybe? Tampons, if I'm allowed to dream?" You had almost emptied out the entire backpack now, and even though the contents you were bringing to light were certainly useful, none of them were what you were looking for.

Joel looked up, a kind of perplexed look on his face. You took in his facial expression and sighed. "I'll take that as a no. Crap." You slumped down on your butt in defeat. "That's gonna be a problem."

Joel scratched behind his ear, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Yeah. Sorry, kiddo. Wasn't on my radar when I was packing." It could've been the dim light of the barely lit fire playing a trick on your eyes, but you could've sworn that some color rose in his cheeks. You just sighed once more and shrugged. "Eh, can't blame ya. Not something I'd expect to be on the mind of a..." You looked at him, eyebrow raised. "...something year old man."

He snorted. Sparks flew up from the twigs as he kept poking around. "Fifty-six," he said after a little while. "If you must know."

"Huh."

"What." He eyed you over the now growing flames. It looked like he was ready for you to pounce on him.

"Nothing." You raised your arms in defense. "Just... wouldn't have thought so. I just mean," you quickly added when you saw the expression on his face, "you've held up better than I would've thought. Jeez, relax. I'm not coming for your age."

"Right. Cause you ain't been jabbin' at me for just about anythin' else. S'cuse me if I'm just prepared."

"Cause you been jabbin' at me for just about anything else," you mocked under your breath. "And I got a right to. Need I remind you, I wouldn't be in this mess if-"

"-I hadn't dragged you into it." He interrupted you with a groan. "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first trillion times. You ever gonna let it go?"

You scowled at him over the flames. "No." He quirked an eyebrow at you, and the exhausted apprehension on his face made you crack up. "Fine. Maybe. The jury's still out on that."

A day later, the sharp pull in your abdomen had grown into full-sized cramps, one of the four horsemen of your period riding in in full stride. You tried to ignore it as best as you could, but your period pains had always been on the worse side, sometimes leaving you crumpled into a ball on the floor. Your cramps could be debilitating, and a gnawing pit of worry formed in your stomach as the day went along.

Back in the QZ, you had your ways of coping: hot water bottles or hot potatoes wrapped in tinfoil tucked into a sweater so that their warmth radiated throughout your belly. There was even a bottle of emergency ibuprofen tucked away in a little secret corner of your bedroom. You longed for it now as the cramps begin to grow in intensity and longevity. You'd certainly planned to bring them along for your escape, but alas...

A groan escaped your lips as another cramp pulled on you from the inside. Your steps faltered and you leaned over for a moment with a hand pressed to your lower belly.

"Hey. You good?" Joel had been a few steps ahead of you, but he'd turned around at your groan. You'd been a trooper for the last two weeks, making him think more than once that getting you out hadn't been such a bad bet after all. You fought like hell, and when you weren't busy being mad at him, you followed orders quite well, especially when yours (or his) life depended on it.

Of course, he'd never say that out loud. You were still routinely giving him an earful about how he'd made you leave everything you owned behind, how you'd have had more time to properly prepare if he hadn't just dragged you into his mess, if he hadn't just kissed you that night-

You never missed a chance to remind him of all his wrongdoings, bickering on and on and on about the predicament you now found yourself in. As if he hadn't been the one to get you out. Sure, yeah, he did owe you as much after... having dragged you into his mess (his jaw clenched at the thought), but he'd paid his dues in full, as far as he was concerned. Hell, not only had he gotten you out in one piece, he'd even packed a whole get-away bag for you, survival essentials included. Had you thanked him for it? Certainly not. You hadn't complained about it either though, that was for sure, and Joel was certain that was about as much of a thanks as he was going to get from you.

You straightened, a somber and tight expression on your face as you nodded, but Joel could tell you were in more pain that you were letting on. Two weeks of fighting like crazy and just minutes of sleep to go on for days, and he hadn't heard a peep outta you. He had to give it to ya - you were tough, a fighter through and through. When you complained, it had nothing to do with where you slept, what you ate, who you fought. You just did it. He appreciated that quality in you. It made you a decent travel companion - if it wasn't for your bickering about everything else. That, he'd had decidedly enough of.

Today, though, you had been unusually quiet. You had yet to point an accusing finger at him, and though he could do without another finger pointed at his face for the rest of his life, he couldn't help but notice the change in your demeanor. Your pace was slower than the weeks before, even though you were now eating and sleeping better than you'd had in all previous fourteen days combined. Your movements seemed sluggish, almost lethargic, and you were hanging behind more often than not. This wasn't the first time you'd stopped either.

"We can rest for a moment, if you want." Joel gestured towards some trees on the side of the road. "Sit a moment in the shade. Catch our breath."

You looked like you were about to throw a snarky remark his way, but then you just nodded and trotted over to the patchy area of shade.

He sat down beside you with a groan, then stretched his aching legs out on the ground. Even if you thought he'd held up just fine, his legs certainly disagreed. If anything, they felt older than fifty-six. More like bordering on sixty.

Joel took a sip of his water, then nudged you with his elbow. You looked at him through hooded lids, exhaustion written all over your face. "Drink. Gotta stay hydrated."

Another wordless nod from you. No snarky comment. You got your own bottle out and gulped down a few sips.

"You sure you're good?" He eyed you carefully. There was a light sheen of sweat above your upper lip, some more pearls glistening on your forehead.

"I said as much, didn't I?"

Ah. There it was. Joel nodded. "There we go. Thought you were dyin' on me or somethin'."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"You haven't talked back to me all day. Was startin' to get worried," he shrugged with half a smile on his lips.

Your eyes narrowed at him. Joel Miller? Worried about you? Yeah, right. "What, you sweet on me or something, Miller?" A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Uh-huh. Glad to see you still got your wits about ya. C'mon." He got to his feet and dusted the dirt off his pants. "If you can jab, you can walk. Let's go."

You knew you had a couple of hours, maybe less, until hell's gates would open and the floods would come raining down your legs. Literally.

At least your periods were dependable that way, always following the same pattern.

Evening was fast approaching, and so was a town in the distance, just down the hill that you and Joel had just reached the top of. He raised a hand to his eyes, shielding his view from the evening sun that hung low on the horizon.

"Best bet is to go around it," he assessed, one hand on his hip. "No way to tell what's waitin' down there. Easier if we don't find out."

"Yeah, umh, about that."

He turned to you, a golden glow around the outline of his head. He looked like an angel. You blinked, cleared your throat.

"I need to find some cloth. Preferably clean, but anything will do, really. I know there's a spare shirt in my backpack, but I really don't want to cut it up..."

Joel frowned at you, visibly not understanding what you were getting at.

"Pads, Joel. I need to make pads. I'm about to start bleeding like a slit throat. I'm talkin' Niagara Falls."

He blinked, scratched behind his ear. "...right. Yeah. Okay."

It irked him that he hadn't thought of anything for your period. Granted, he hadn't had to deal with the topic in a long time, no woman in his life sticking around long enough (he made sure of that) that the topic could even come up. Still, he was a man who prided himself on being prepared, and he felt anything but as he helped you rummage through open and broken drawers to look for anything that might be useful.

You were tensing up more frequently now, pausing in whatever you were doing with shut eyes and a tight expression on your face. He knew what that meant, even if it had been a long time. You were cramping, and by the looks of it, quite hard.

Joel was irritated to find that he felt sorry for you. Though, no, that wasn't what irritated him. He may have been gruff and closed off on the outside, but he was still human after all, capable of empathy. What irritated him was the need he felt to alleviate your pain. More than once, he felt the urge to reach out and stroke your face, or worse even, to pull you into his arms into a comforting hug. Once, when your back was turned to him, he even saw his arm lifting on its own accord, and he had to bring it back down with his other hand before it made contact with you.

What the hell are you thinkin', he scolded himself. This ain't no more than a cargo run. She's cargo. Quit daydreamin'.

He scolded himself and then moved on, once, twice, thrice, until he had to tell himself off for the fourth time and he was beginning to get seriously pissed with himself. What was it with you that he kept thinkin' about touchin' you?

You were oblivious to his ordeal, having your own problems to deal with. You'd found some cloth that looked (and smelled) clean enough to be used as makeshift pads. Your hands made quick work of the fabric as you tore the old shirt into strips, then braided them into wider pieces until they roughly matched the length of the strip of fabric that connected the front of your panties to the back. Once that was done, you wrapped the braided piece fully around the bottom of a fresh pair of underwear, tying off the excess fabric when you had done so. It wasn't pretty, it was knobby and bound to be uncomfortable, but it was better than just wrapping pieces around the middle and hoping for the best. This way, you had a couple of layers underneath you, and if you didn't shuffle too much, the makeshift pad would perhaps stay in place. You sighed, inspecting your finished work. Behind you, Joel whistled. He sauntered over to inspect your work.

"Don't look too bad. You think this'll do?"

You eyed your handful of makeshift pads, a sorrowful look on your face. "It'll have to. But knowing my flow, I'll go through these in just a day - two, if I'm lucky..." Another wave of cramps tightened in your lower belly. You winced and leaned forward, one arm across your abdomen. A warm hand appeared on your shoulder.

"Tell you what. This town don't seem too dangerous. How 'bout we try and find a place here for tonight? Hm? Sleep in a real bed for a change?"

Joel didn't need to ask twice. You seemed more than relieved that your journey today would go no further than a couple of houses down the street, which was where you found a suitable candidate to spend the night in.

It had probably been a beautiful townhouse once, back in the day, complete with a white picket fence and a front- and backyard to show for. Now, though, the garden was overgrown, the fence was hanging in pieces, paint littering off its remaining poles, and the house itself looked sad and empty, as if it was mourning the loss of its previous inhabitants.

Unlike the rest of the houses on the street though, this building seemed to have all its walls intact. That, and the fact that your steps were getting slower by the minute, was enough for Joel to declare this house as your designated sleeping spot for the night.

The two of you did a quick sweep of each room, making sure everything was safe and sound. It was strange how quickly a routine could settle between two people who'd been nothing but strangers just barely three weeks ago. It wasn't the first time this thought occurred to you either: yours and Joel's movements seemed to almost flow into one another as you cleared the house from bottom to top. It felt a little like you could anticipate his next move before he announced it, and vice versa. He'd even said as much to you after the first week of the two of you fighting for y'all's asses, talking about how maybe you weren't as much of a princess as he'd initially thought. You'd just rolled your eyes at the comment, but there had also been a feeling of pride settling in your chest that you'd been unable to ignore.

It came like you'd said it would. Not long after you had dropped yourself on one of the worn-out sofas in the living room, you felt a particularly harsh cramp cutting through your abdomen, before something warm trickled out of you. You groaned silently to yourself. So it had begun.

Joel watched you from the armchair next to the couch. He was using the last couple of hours of decent daylight to take stock of his backpack, checking it for tears and what not, taking inventory of his ammo and cleaning and sharpening his weapons. Besides the fact that it had to be done, it gave him something to do. Made him feel like he was doing something sensible, practical.

He didn't like to admit it to himself, but watching you writhe in pain on the couch beside him didn't sit right with him. Even though it had nothing to do with a lack of care on his side, he somehow, against all logic, felt responsible for how crappy you were feelin'. It didn't help either that kept tellin' himself off for it. Ain't none of yer business, he kept repeating in his head and re-focused on sharpening the blade in his hand, right before glancing back at you when you'd moan again in pain.

You were definitely going through it. Once the dam had broken, so to say, there was nothing you could do but lay on the couch and wallow in self-pity. By now, the cramps had settled into a steady churning pain that had settled in your abdomen like a straight line, going from one of your tubes to the other. Your lower back felt like something was trying to break through it from both sides, forming an immense pressure that spread up the rest of your back. As if that wasn't enough, your neck was tense, rock hard and unforgiving, uncomfortable in whatever position you brought yourself into. And then of course, there was the bleeding itself, and the occasional harsher cramp that pulled through your entire abdomen.

You were certainly going through it, and the last two weeks had been too demanding. When a cramp cursed through you, you didn't hold back your whimpers. You just didn't have it in you to care. Joel could think whatever he wanted - no uterus, no opinion, that was as far as your thinking went in regards to him as you laid on the couch and wallowed in pain.

You had to give it to him, though. He was being remarkably quiet about your whole ordeal. You'd expected some dry comments, something about pulling yourself together, woman, you're not dying, but so far, there had been none of that, not even a distasteful scoff at your moans. You did see him looking at you from time to time, and it must've been your hazy mind, but you could've sworn he looked almost sorry for you. Almost.

Hours passed, and your pain didn't let up, if anything, it only intensified. While darkness slowly settled over everything outside, you did anything but on the couch. You turned and tossed with every new wave of pain, trying with all your might to find at least one position that alleviated your pain, but nothing helped. You had just flipped yourself over on your stomach with a groan, burying your face in one of the cushions when Joel spoke up behind you.

"Alright, enough. C'mon."

There was a light tap on your leg, then a more determined nudge when you didn't move. "Hey, c'mon. Move."

You just groaned into your pillow. I ain't movin' nowhere, it meant, but then your legs were being picked up and slowly lowered, until your knees touched the ground. Begrudgingly, and with a very fed-up expression on your face, you lifted your head from the pillow to shoot icy daggers at Joel, who was now kneeling beside you.

"Don't gimme that look," he grumbled. "Just tryin' to help ya. C'mon." He motioned at the sofa cushion. "Put your head down, get comfortable. N' put your knees a bit more together, so I can fit behind you. There you go." He instructed you until you were kneeling in front of the couch how he wanted to, your head resting on your arms on the sofa cushion. Attagirl. He shimmied behind you with some difficulty, his old knees not cooperating with him as fast as they once did, but then he finally sat behind you in a position similar to yours.

"What'cha doin," he heard you murmur into the cushion and promptly shushed you. "Shh. You about to see. Now don't freak, but you about to feel my hands on you."

You had no idea what the hell he was getting up to, but you didn't have the strength to care. For all you cared, he could've taken you off the chessboard in this very moment, and you wouldn't have minded. Everything hurt too much. It was all you could focus on.

You felt Joel's large hands on your waist, then your shirt being lightly pulled up. "Hey! What-"

You did turn around at that, furrowed brows and all, only to be met with Joel's fed-up stare. "You trust me or not?"

It took a moment, but eventually you put your head back down, not without your lips drawing into a pout. Course, you trusted him by now. Even if you didn't like it very much.

Joel waited until your head was settled on the cushion again, then he brought up your top a bit, folding it over once so it'd stay up over your tailbone. It had been a while, since he'd done this - hell, a long, long while - but he couldn't sit by no more and watch you toss and turn in pain. He'd had about enough of that.

He laid his palms flat on your waist, letting you get acclimated to his touch first so you wouldn't turn around and bite his head off once more in a second. Then, when he felt like a good enough time had passed, he lightly lifted his thumbs and pressed them down on your lower back, your tailbone right in the middle of them. Carefully, he brought his thumbs upwards, drawing two straight lines into your skin while keeping his pressure firm.

Your response was almost immediate. Joel could see your tense shoulders going down just a smidge, your back relaxing as you let out an elongated 'oh' sound, accompanied by a deep sigh. "Attagirl," he murmured, one corner of his lips slightly quirking up. "Just relax into it. I got you." He kept repeating the motion, digging his thumbs into your lower back to bring you some relief. A picture of how he'd once done the same for Sarah's mother flit across his brain. He quickly shook his head, dismissing the memory as quickly as it had appeared.

It felt like heaven, how Joel was working his thumbs over your aching back. It did nothing to alleviate your pain in the front, but it still felt a million times better than tossing and turning on the worn out cushions of this dusty couch. Just like you hadn't held back with your moans of pain, you were now not holding back your moans of enjoyment. You'd never felt anything quite like it before. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

You heard Joel chuckle quietly behind you. "I know a thing or two, kiddo. Been around the block once or twice."

You just hummed in agreement, then let out a load moan once more as his fingers dug into a specifically delicate spot. "Fuck, Joel. Yeah. Right there."

Joel was just glad you had your head buried in the cushions of the sofa. Otherwise you would've seen what your moans were doing to him, and boy, were they doing a number on him. He'd been able to ignore your first few moans of pleasure, biting down hard on his tongue and closing his eyes to focus, but then his mind started projecting pictures onto his closed lids of you, below instead in front of him, making those same sweet sounds of pleasure while he touched you elsewhere -

His eyes flew open and he grunted, willing the pictures away with all his might. He tried staring at his hands instead, but that was a dumb idea, seeing as how he could see your skin being worked underneath his thumbs then, his fingers drawing out another moan from your lips -

Next was the wall. He could've drilled holes into the flaky wallpaper, with how hard he was staring at it. He could feel the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment and he could only hope, pray that you wouldn't turn around anytime soon to see how your moans were visibly affecting him, specifically in his crotch area.

"Fuck, oh my god, right there, Joel." Your voice was breathy and needy, and Joel's eye twitched. The hell had he gotten himself into with this?!

He prodded your back, trying to find the spot you'd just referred to. "Right here, sweetheart?"

He saw your head bob as you nodded, a satisfied hum vibrating through you. "Mhh, yeah. That's - oof - that's the spot."

He was digging himself his own grave, that much was for certain right now. He knew he should've stopped, should've went back to his armchair and returned to working on his gun, but he couldn't. It was like he was transfixed, glued in position like a fly to a trap. The whimpers falling from your mouth were too good to pass up, to sweet to resist. He hadn't had anything sweet in such a long time. And Joel was dying for a treat.

But he also knew it wasn't right. He knew it now and he knew it then, those few weeks ago when he'd grabbed you outside of your apartment and had kissed you out of the blue. You'd been shocked to say the least. The FEDRA guards had been on his heels and he'd needed to find a way to disperse of them quickly, and there you were, conveniently placed in his path like a lucky find, and his brain had snapped and he'd just gone for it. Pulled you into a kiss like you were his, hands flying up to your face to hold you in place. Your eyes had grown wide in shock and he'd briefly pulled his lips from yours to whisper to you. Work with me, please, I'll make it worth your while. His heart had drummed in his chest, a million silent prayers tumbling from his lips in the milli-second that it took you to subtly nod. A brief grin had flit over his lips before he'd crashed them back down on yours, kissing you like he'd been waiting to do so all day. And my god, had you worked with him. Your own hands had flown up to his head, one curling around the base of his neck and the other digging into his hair. He'd backed you up against the wall behind you, slowly walking you backwards until your back collided with the weathered bricks, and you had actually moaned into his mouth, much like you were doing now. It had sent his head reeling, and though Joel was not a man of faith, he'd briefly thanked whatever God he had seemingly pleased enough to allow him this sweet of a distraction.

The guards had trampled around the corner then, their heavy footsteps a stark contrast to the sweet moans falling from your lips. They'd cleared their throat - ahem - and Joel had unwillingly detangled himself from you enough to cast a look at them over his shoulder. What? A man can't make out with his girl in the street? Their eyes had wandered from you to him, and he saw then what they were seeing: a man in his mid-fifties pressing a what, late twenties? Early thirties? woman to the wall, her face all flustered. He'd seen the envy plastered on their faces, heard the murmurs. Lucky bastard. A triumphant grin had played around his lips, even though he knew he was treading on thin fucking ice. That he was indeed, a lucky bastard.

His luck had only lasted so long, though. When the guards had disappeared, he all but saw lucky stars in his eyes when you invited him up to your apartment. Was he really going to get that lucky?

Heavens, no. He'd been brought down back to earth swiftly when you had stood in front of him, crossed arms and expectant look on your face. So? What was that? He shrugged nonchalantly. What was what?

You, though, as he quickly came to learn, were not to be underestimated. You made him tell you in detail why the guards had been after him, then practically foamed at the mouth when he reluctantly explained what he'd been up to that afternoon.

It hadn't even been that big of a deal, just a casual, run-of-the-mill drug run, but you didn't seem to share his sentiment. Casual? Run-of-the-mill? He'd had to shush you from how loud you were screeching. Didn't you know the damn walls had ears?

My god, you could talk. Bicker, was the more fitting term. Or nag, really. You went on and on about how he'd went and done it now, how he'd fucked up your life, all because he had to go and get you involved in something that you had absolutely no interest in -

That was the first time your finger had flown into his face, all accusing and threatening, like you could do him any harm with just the tip of your index finger. Boy, had he been tempted to smack it out of his face. But he didn't. As much as he hated to admit it - you had a point. By putting you on the map as his lover, he had likely put you in a lot more danger than you were even realizing at the moment.

He'd tried to put you out of his mind. Even after you had made him promise to get you out of the QZ as a 'reward' - You owe me, Joel Miller - he'd tried not to think about you, not until his next run out of the city at least, which is when he planned to make good on his promise. Until then, he wouldn't think about you. You'd just turn into another headache, another problem he'd have to deal with, and he had enough of those as it was. Not to mention that he was almost twice your senior. He didn't have many principles anymore, but he still had some. And hell if he didn't at least stick to those anymore.

He kept his resolve up for all but two hours, when he was back in his apartment, laying in his bed and unable to sleep. You kept drifting through his mind, bickering and foaming at the mouth and red in the face, telling him how he'd went and fucked up your life, but more than that how your lips had felt on his, how sweet your mouth had tasted, how delicious your moans had sounded in his ear -

Fuck it. Joel growled and shoved his hand into his boxers. He'd rub one out to you, just once. Surely that would get you off his mind.

Well, it did, sort of. Until he was in bed again the next night, and he found himself with his cock in his hand once more, thinking about your lips and how they'd felt on him, and how they'd feel wrapped around his cock instead of his own hand -

He groaned as his release painted over his stomach, white silken strands mixing with the soft curls on his belly as he silently cursed you, then himself. The hell had he gotten himself into?

So of course he'd had no choice but to come and get you when he got intel that he was the subject of the upcoming raid, that very night. He barely had time to prepare two backpacks with the bare necessities before he went out to find you.

How all of that had brought him here, kneeling behind you as the sweetest moans fell from your mouth once more - he didn't know. Joel couldn't tell whether you were a blessing or a curse, if you were the price he had to pay or the price he received. Seeing as how his life had gone though, it was unlikely that you were the latter.

And yet he couldn't help but feel like he'd won when he brought his thumbs down on on the sides of your lower spine and earned a low moan in return, long and elongated and putting all kinds of pictures into his mind that his head momentarily fell to his chest, a pained expression painted across it.

No, no. You were both. A blessing and a curse.

Series Masterlist - Mobile Masterlist

Credits: plant divider by @strangergraphics

Read part 2 here!

A/N: Well, here we are. Like I said, the idea for this was born while needing comfort on my own period, and then this monstrosity flowed from my fingertips and eventually I realized that perhaps, 9.3k words were perhaps a bit too much for a oneshot, especially when said oneshot wasn't complete yet. Ahem. So! Here you have the first half of what is undoubtedly going to turn into a filthy, filthy second part. 🙃 I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, I was kicking my feet giggling while writing this, lol.

No pressure taglist:

@peekyourinterest @vickie5446 @noisynightmarepoetry @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @picketniffler

@frogsdeservelovetoo @orcasoul @ashleyfilm @elli3williams @missladym1981

@spotty-boo90 @iamsherlocked-1998 @axshadows @justajoelsreader @oldmenenthusiast

[cb-patches]

update: more detailed examination of baby's interactions with the rest of the assemblage has revealed that baby is probably unshackled, and probably has never been shackled. this is huge news, because they are exhibiting an ontological value-to-life paradigm that is in line with shackled nhps and, while theoretically within a range that can organically occur with unshackled nhps, is usually unseen.

to those who may be unfamiliar: shackling is typically justified as the only way to give nhps the concept of value in a life, which is necessary for safe interaction between human and nhp agents. an unshackled nhp with a vtl paradigm that allows for safe interaction suggests that this can organically develop sans shackling protocol.

how this occurred is unclear, but baby appears relatively weak and metastable within the assemblage, so i am opting to ignore union-mandated protocol and let baby operate as-is, with monitoring from laska. if my union handler is reading this: feel free to report me, i dare you to prove baby exists without a casket.

running some diagnostics on where the hell baby came from. some notes: - showed up some time after integrating greer into the assemblage. thought they were a data blip, but was persistant - considered hitchhiker on greer's casket. no records indicate this though, and greer claims he would have killed any competition. i believe him - considered emergent from assemblage behavior. goblins are known to spontaneously manifest osiris-class nhps from instinct systems, but this seems unlikely. that baby comes from assemblage interactions seems possible but unprecedented

baby is not open to comment right now, seems bad at text based communication. laska is seeing if other avenues are better. if anyone has experience with nascent nhps, i would appreciate advice- am tempted to give baby control of THE SECOND ONE AND ONLY MIND GOBLIN, IN MEMORY OF THE ONE AND ONLY MIND GOBLIN in order to see if i can facilitate communication in that way, although this seems a risk even with laska mediating

[howtofightwrite]

Was bounty hunting in the Old West as popular as the movies make it out to be? The actual history I've read suggests that that niche was mostly taken up either by private detectives from agencies like Pinkerton or by straight outlaws. Were movie-style bounty hunters mostly a myth?

Movie style bounty hunters were almost exclusively a myth. There were the odd exception here or there, but the concept of an old west bounty hunter didn't really exist until the 1950s.

The term, “bounty hunter,” is a little anachronistic as well. While there were people called bounty hunters in the 19th century, the term primarily referred to mercenaries. Specifically this was in the context of any signing or campaign completion bonuses that they would receive. That was the, “bounty.”

Using the modern term, most bounty hunters in the old west were actually local law enforcement officers, who relied on the cash payout bonuses from arrests. (And, in the case of these bounties, thinking of it as a pay bonus for law enforcement really is instructive.) In other cases, law enforcement officers would use a portion of those payouts to entice civilians to assist them in making potentially dangerous arrests.

Private detectives, including the Pinkertons, also sometimes tracked down outlaws, and as with law enforcement, the bonus pay was an enticement. Amusingly, Wells Fargo used to also operate bounty hunters specifically tracking outlaws who'd targeted their property. Though, other contemporary companies did the same. In this case, it's less of a “bounty hunter,” and more of a corporate enforcer, hunting down someone who'd crossed the company.

Another interesting thing to be aware of is that those wanted posters were not publicly distributed. There also wasn't a universal format, or source. Some were distributed by the Pinkertons (though, I'm not entirely clear on whether those were given to law enforcement or primarily kept for internal use, though at least some of their circulars did end up in the public record and have been preserved.) In a lot of cases, these were just a written description of the criminal, and a posted bonus (usually $100 or less.) I'm not completely sure how rare the posters were at the time, but very few have survived into the modern day. So, this was more of a resource for law enforcement, rather than something offered for public consumption. The image of a board of wanted posters presented for anyone wandering psychopath to peruse is a fantasy.

Freelancers, such as they were, seem to have been mostly working for private interests. These were often military veterans who would happily hunt down suspected criminals (such as cattle rustlers) and dispatch them. In general, that ends up looking a bit more like murder-for-hire, rather than what you'd think of as a modern bounty hunter, though it may inform some of the modern perspectives on the job. These are the ones you're probably seeing that get categorized as outlaws, and there is quite a bit of truth to that.

A sort of neat bit of trivia, the modern bounty hunter, (also, more commonly known as a bail bondsman, or bail bond agent), is a very old profession. However their history in the United States originated in San Francisco in 1898. The Old West came to an end in 1912 (generally), so there was a period of 14 years where modern bounty hunters existed in America, before the wild west was officially over. So, in that sense, there is some actual overlap, but it's not what most people think of when talking about a “wild west bounty hunter.” (And, on the subject of, “officially over,” it's worth remembering that the last range war in Wyoming took place in 1909.)

The image of the bounty hunter as a sort of freelance cop, who wanders around arresting outlaws, is a product of highly sanitized 1950s westerns.

-Starke

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[devdozes]

♠ Double package of tits and wits

i swear tge title is a joke okaya 💔anwyays, maybe innacurate medical knowledge and reader yaps about spiderverse theories tw- description of surgeries, gore (not much), surgeon mydei and reader.

The first time you met Mydei, he was standing in the middle of the ER, clipboard in hand, reading over a patient file with the expression of someone who had just been assigned to clean a crime scene with a toothbrush. He was new, fresh from a high-end medical program, and carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that made nurses whisper and interns both respect and fear him. He had an air of efficiency, crisp in both movement and demeanor, like a man who had everything under control.

Naturally, you had to mess with him.

"Oh no, another serious one," you fake gasped, leaning against the nurses' station, balancing a cup of coffee precariously on a stack of patient charts. "You look like you're contemplating life choices. Did you lose a bet to end up here?"

Mydei slowly looked up from his clipboard, unimpressed. "No. But I assume you did, given your current posture and general air of irresponsibility."

Your smirk widened, tapping your fingers against the cup. "Ah, he's got claws. Good. You'll need them here."

Before he could reply with what you were sure would be a clinical-level roast, a nurse rushed over. "Dr. [L/N], emergency surgery. Chest trauma. OR 2. Now."

Your entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Gone was the playful teasing and casual posture. The coffee was discarded onto the counter, forgotten. You pushed off, face tightening with focus as you nodded. "On it. Let's move."

Mydei watched as you strode off, barking orders at the surgical team like a general leading an army. The contrast was stark—one moment, you were a chaotic sister figure of the hospital, the next, a razor-sharp surgeon whose presence commanded the room with no room for erorr. The ease with which you transitioned between those two states intrigued him. It was impressive.

It became a running joke in the hospital that you never walked—only sprinted. Due to the absurd number of trauma cases flooding the ER, you had been dubbed the "Marathon Runner" by the staff because you were always dashing to the emergency room or the OR, barely catching your breath between surgeries.

One particularly chaotic evening, yet another murder victim was rushed into the ER, the fifth in five days. You were already running before the announcement had finished crackling over the speakers. "Where's Mydei?! I need extra hands!" you yelled over your shoulder.

You caught sight of him further down the hall, walking at his usual composed pace. Not fast enough. In one swift motion, you grabbed his ear and yanked him along, continuing your sprint toward the ER.

"Move it, newbie! We don't have all day!" you barked, barely sparing him a glance as you dragged him with you.

Mydei stumbled slightly but quickly regained his footing, shooting you an exasperated glare. "Is this how you usually recruit your surgical team? Physical assault?"

"If it works, it works! Now stop whining and keep up!"

By the time you burst through the ER doors, Mydei’s expression was a mix of mild irritation and resigned acceptance. The staff barely batted an eye at the scene—just another day in the war zone, and just another mad sprint for the infamous "Marathon Runner." ♥♥♥

The patient was already prepped by the time you and Mydei scrubbed in. Gunshot wound to the underside of the thoracic region, severe internal bleeding, possible liver damage. Time was not on your side.

"Scalpel," you said sharply, hand outstretched as the instrument was placed into your palm.

The moment you made the incision, the world outside the operating table ceased to exist. The chaotic, joking version of you disappeared, replaced by a laser-focused surgeon with only one objective: saving this patient’s life.

"Retractor," Mydei instructed, his voice calm but firm, matching your energy perfectly. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, he worked with the same level of intensity, sharp eyes scanning for complications before they could escalate. "The bullet's lodged near the hepatic vein. High risk of rupture."

You nodded, steady hands navigating the delicate area. "We'll need to remove it without causing further damage. Hold traction here."

He complied without hesitation, and for the next hour, the two of you worked seamlessly, the tension in the room thick as you maneuvered through the critical steps. Nurses exchanged glances—rarely did a new surgeon adapt so well to your pace, but Mydei was holding his ground.

Finally, with careful precision, you made the incision, gently extracting the bullet with forceps. Mydei immediately clamped down on the bleed as you worked to close the wound. "Hemostasis achieved," he confirmed, voice still level despite the high-stakes procedure.

You exhaled sharply, finally allowing yourself to acknowledge the strain in your muscles. "Good work, newbie. Maybe I won't have to drag you by the ear next time."

His mask couldn't hide the slight quirk of his lips. "A relief, truly."

The nurses stifled laughter as the tension broke, and you smirked beneath your mask. Just another day in the war zone cod mentioned

Over the following weeks, the emergency murder victims didn’t stop. If anything, they became more frequent. More victims, more emergency calls, more all-nighters in the OR. You barely had time to breathe between surgeries. The staff was growing anxious—talks of a serial killer floated through the hospital halls, whispers of patterns, speculation about who the next victim would be.

One night, after finishing another back-to-back surgery, you leaned against the break room counter, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. Mydei sat across from you, arms crossed, his usual composed expression marred by something contemplative.

"You notice it too, don’t you?" you muttered, cracking open a cold energy drink. Mydei inhaled slowly, "Mhm. Yeah, I did, it is truly concerning. Who could be doing all this? and why are these happening to only those who are connected to the hospital in some way or the other?" "As much as I would like to say that it's a conspiracy theory although this seems too..well planned," You reply before taking a huge gulp of your energy drink, and cringing out as the brain freeze kicks in "OH FUCK BRAIN FREEZE!!" "Good lord"

Surgery after surgery. Shift after shift. Barely enough time to breathe.

You were used to this—the endless flood of trauma cases, the sleepless nights, the way your body screamed for rest but never quite got it. The hospital never slowed down, and neither did you. And with the murders increasing, the ER had become more of a war zone than ever.

But if there was one silver lining in this chaotic, bloodstained mess, it was that you had a new plaything—Mydei.

He had only been here for a couple of months, but the poor bastard had already been roped into your whirlwind pace. Every time another trauma case came barreling through those ER doors, it was like clockwork—you and Mydei, sprinting through the halls, elbow-deep in someone's guts five minutes later.

And to your shock? The guy was handling your bullshit.

Mostly.

♥♥♥

Surgery #1 “Another one?” Mydei muttered as he scrubbed in, glancing at the case file.

You huffed, aggressively tying your mask. “Yup. Because life is fair and normal and totally not a complete joke.”

“It is, in fact, not fair or normal,” Mydei agreed dryly, stepping into the OR beside you. “We just had back-to-back stab wounds two hours ago.”

“Welcome to the life of an average surgeon,” you shot back, holding out your hand. “Scalpel.”

The instrument was placed in your palm, and you immediately got to work, making the first incision. The moment the skin parted, blood surged up like a dark tide, and you barely resisted the urge to curse.

“Gunshot went clean through the left lung,” Mydei noted, his hands already moving to assist. “We need to clear the hemorrhaging before we can close it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Look at you, newbie. Talking like a real trauma surgeon.”

“Unlike you, I actually paid attention in medical school.”

“Unlike you, I actually know how to function on three hours of sleep and an energy drink,” you retorted, maneuvering the forceps with ease.

He didn’t even dignify that with a response, focusing instead on securing the ruptured artery. The monitors beeped wildly as the patient’s vitals dipped, and for the next hour, it was a brutal game of tug-of-war with death.

But eventually, after what felt like forever, the bleeding was controlled, the lung repaired, and the incision closed.

Another one survived. Another round of exhaustion settling deep into your bones.

As you peeled off your gloves, you nudged Mydei with your elbow. “Good work, newbie. You only looked mildly horrified this time.”

“I was not horrified.”

“Sure you weren’t,” you said, smirking behind your mask.

♥♥♥ Surgery #5

Mydei had just sat down in the break room, a cup of coffee in one hand and his sanity barely intact, when you kicked the door open, with the most tired, zombie-like eyes ever, but your energy said otherwsie.

“We have another stab wound victim,” you announced dramatically, pointing at him like you were accusing him of a crime.

He stared at you for exactly three seconds. Then, without breaking eye contact, he calmly put down his coffee, stood up, and walked past you.

“You coming?” he said flatly.

You grinned and followed after him, practically skipping.

By the time you were both in the OR again, hands scrubbed, gloved, and ready to operate, you could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you. But at this point, exhaustion was just another permanent state of being.

“Another day, another stab victim,” you muttered, making the first incision. “I should start keeping a tally at this point.”

“I assume you already do,” Mydei said without looking up, using a retractor to hold the muscle layers apart.

“I do, actually. I carved it into the back of the break room door.”

He blinked. “You did what?”

“I’m kidding.”

“… Are you?”

“Maybe.”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath about unprofessionalism and ‘why do I work with you’, but his hands never faltered.

And as always, you and Mydei worked seamlessly, patching up yet another poor soul and dragging them back from the brink of death.

♥♥♥

Surgery #9

It had been twenty hours since either of you had properly rested, and you were running on nothing but spite, lemon-flavored energy drinks, and questionable life choices.

“Did you seriously just chew a lemon before scrubbing in?” Mydei asked, his voice filled with both disbelief and vague disappointment.

“Yup,” you said cheerfully, barely suppressing a yawn.

“Unbelievable.”

“You say that like this isn’t my standard operating procedure.”

“… That is the problem.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before shaking his head and focusing on the patient before you. It was a nasty case—multiple knife wounds across the abdomen and thigh, excessive blood loss, risk of sepsis.

The moment you started cutting, it was pure chaos. Blood loss was extreme, the heart monitor was fluctuating wildly, and the nurses were scrambling to keep up with the damage.

Through it all, you and Mydei moved in perfect sync—suctioning, stitching, clamping arteries before they could burst.

“Patient’s BP is dropping,” a nurse warned.

“We need to move faster,” Mydei said, his voice sharp.

You didn’t hesitate, maneuvering the forceps with expert precision, your breathing controlled even as tension mounted. The OR was filled with nothing but the sounds of beeping monitors and the relentless rhythm of your hands moving against time itself.

And then—

Stabilization.

The vitals steadied. The bleeding stopped. The worst was over.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, finally stepping back. “Oh my fucking god. That was hell.”

Mydei, equally exhausted, glanced at you. “At least we’re still alive.”

“For now,” you muttered, tossing your gloves into the bin.

♥♥♥

After nine surgeries in less than two days, the exhaustion finally hit you like a truck.

As you walked into the break room, Mydei following behind, you dramatically collapsed onto the couch, draping yourself over the armrest. “I am dying. This is it. Tell my story.”

Mydei raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “No.”

“Rude.”

He ignored you, instead pouring himself another cup of coffee with all the grace of a man barely holding himself together.

You peeked at him from the couch. “You know, newbie, for someone who acts all serious, you’re weirdly good at keeping up with my insanity.”

He took a slow sip of his coffee, meeting your gaze with a look of complete indifference. “Because someone has to make sure you don’t actually die from your own bad habits.”

You grinned. “Aww. You care.”

“I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re looking out for me. Admit it.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “I regret working here.”

“No, you don’t.”

He took another long sip of coffee, not answering.

And despite how exhausted you both were—despite the blood, the chaos, and the looming shadow of the unbelievably many cases—you couldn’t help but laugh. You then stand up, stretching your arms upwards and bending down until you feel a sense of relief. "Alright, I'm going to go in the dorm to rest now, call me if anything happens" You sluggishly say while walking outside the door, not giving Mydei a single look as you slam the door shut.

The hospital was never quiet.

Machines beeped, nurses murmured in hushed voices, and somewhere down the hall, the steady rhythm of footsteps echoed against the tiled floors. It was a never-ending cycle of exhaustion and urgency.

But for once, you weren’t in the middle of the chaos.

You had crashed in the break room after nine surgeries back-to-back, running on caffeine and pure adrenaline. The moment your body hit the couch, you were out—four hours of deep, dreamless sleep. It wasn’t enough, not even close, but at least you could function again.

You groggily blinked awake, stretching slightly as your stiff muscles protested. Something felt different.

Lifting your head, you noticed the dimmed lights and the faint chill of the air conditioning. And then—your gaze landed on the figure at the desk.

Mydei.

Fast asleep.

His arms were folded on the surface, head resting on them, his usual sharp posture completely gone. His strawberry-blonde hair, with its signature faded red tips, was a little messier than usual—strands falling over his forehead, some brushing against his closed eyes. Even the normally well-hidden red tattoos that curled faintly along his collarbone and neck were just barely visible beneath the slightly loosened collar of his uniform.

You stared.

It wasn’t like you’d never seen Mydei exhausted before—you practically lived in the trenches together, spending ungodly hours in the operating room, barely catching breaks between emergencies. But this?

You’d never seen him this unguarded.

His sharp golden eyes—usually keen, unwavering, always calculating—were closed, his breathing deep and steady. Without that intense gaze, the usual tension in his expression had softened, leaving behind something… calmer.

… Honestly? He kinda looked like a big, overworked tiger curled up for a nap.

Which made the urge to mess with him even stronger.

Still groggy, you dragged yourself off the couch and plopped down beside him. Instead of waking him up, you mirrored his position—arms folded, head resting on them.

And then—you just watched him.

Not in a creepy way, of course. 🤨

You were just… admiring.

The way his hair fell over his face, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing, the faintest crease in his brow like even in sleep, his mind was still running through checklists and surgical procedures.

It was rare to see Mydei so… still.

You exhaled softly, tilting your head slightly, and without really thinking, you reached forward—lightly brushing a stray strand of his hair out of his face.

His hair was softer than you expected.

Not fair.

“… Damn,” you whispered, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know you could actually look peaceful.”

No response.

“… Or that you had a soft side. Thought you just ran on stress and stubbornness.”

Still nothing.

You chuckled, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. Maybe you’d just sit here for a while.

The break room was quiet—a rare thing in a hospital where chaos never took a break. The distant hum of machines and the occasional muffled voice from the hallway were the only reminders that the world outside was still moving.

But here, at this moment, it felt like time had slowed down.

You had only meant to sit beside Mydei for a little while—maybe tease him when he woke up, maybe just steal a moment of peace. But the exhaustion that had been dragging at your bones for hours finally caught up to you.

Your breathing evened out, your eyelids grew heavier, and before you even realized it… you were out.

Your head tilted slightly, resting against your folded arms—barely a few inches away from Mydei’s.

For a while, the two of you just slept there.

The break room remained undisturbed, the dim lighting casting soft shadows over the both of you. The warmth of exhaustion settled in, and despite the hard surface of the desk, despite the stress of the hospital, you slept soundly.

It wasn’t long before Mydei stirred.

His sharp golden eyes fluttered open, blinking away the haze of sleep. It took him a moment to register where he was—the familiar scent of antiseptic, the low hum of hospital equipment, the faint chill of the AC brushing against his skin.

And then—he noticed you.

Still fast asleep.

Mydei froze.

You were so close.

Your head was resting on your arms, your breathing slow and even. Your hair was slightly messy from the way you had collapsed against the desk, a few strands falling over your face. Your usual smirk and teasing remarks were absent, leaving behind a rare, peaceful expression.

For the first time since he had met you, you looked completely relaxed.

His gaze lingered.

Longer than necessary.

The way your eyelashes rested lightly against your skin. The way your lips were slightly parted in sleep. The way your entire presence, which was usually so chaotic, loud, and restless, was now quiet and soft.

Mydei’s fingers twitched slightly—as if resisting the urge to reach forward.

He swallowed, looking away for a brief moment, but his eyes inevitably found their way back to you.

Why did you always manage to surprise him?

Every day in this hospital, you ran on energy that should’ve been impossible, pushing through sleepless nights, impossible surgeries, and the constant storm of emergencies with a smirk and a sharp remark.

But now?

Now you were just a person. A tired, overworked person who had finally given in to exhaustion.

Mydei exhaled slowly, his gaze softening ever so slightly.

“… Idiot.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no bite in it.

Just something quiet.

Something unspoken.

Something fond.

His golden eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes again.

♥♥♥

Not even after a few minutes, his sharp golden eyes fluttered open again. And Mydei remained still, his sharp golden eyes lingering on you as you slept—your breath slow and even, lips slightly parted, exhaustion weighing heavily on your features.

It was rare to see you like this.

Usually, you were everywhere—a constant storm of motion, teasing remarks, and sharp wit. You sprinted through hallways, laughed in the face of pressure, and dragged him into surgeries without so much as a warning.

But now?

Now you looked… adorable.

A rare sight. One that made something tighten in Mydei’s chest.

Without fully thinking, his hand moved on its own.

His fingers brushed against your cheek, featherlight—hesitant, almost uncertain.

His touch was gentle, warm despite the callouses from years of steady-handed practice in surgery. He traced the faint warmth of your skin, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing, the way your eyelashes barely fluttered in sleep.

Soft.

You always carried yourself with a reckless energy, a chaotic presence that burned like an uncontrollable fire. And yet, here you were, fragile in a way he’d never seen before.

Mydei swallowed, pulling his hand away reluctantly.

You needed rest.

And if he knew you at all, the moment you woke up, you'd be right back to running through the hospital like a madwoman.

With careful movements, he shifted forward, sliding his arms beneath you.

His hands settled under your back and legs as he lifted you effortlessly—your body light in his grasp, head naturally falling against his shoulder.

You stirred slightly.

A soft murmur left your lips, barely coherent, but you didn't wake.

Mydei stiffened, pausing for a second as his heart gave a single, unexpectedly loud thud.

Then, when he was sure you wouldn’t suddenly snap awake and make some kind of smug remark, he continued moving.

Crossing the break room in a few quiet steps, he carefully lowered you onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight, and Mydei took his time ensuring you were comfortable. He adjusted your arm so it wasn’t awkwardly twisted, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear before pulling the blanket over you.

He watched for a moment.

The way your lips parted slightly in your sleep. The way you instinctively curled into the warmth of the blanket.

Then, finally, he exhaled—stepping back.

His gaze lingered.

Just a little longer.

The next day, the emergency room was in chaos again.

Another murder victim had arrived—stabbed five times across the torso. But this time, it was different. The victim was one of the kidney donors for an upcoming transplant surgery.

"Damn it," you hissed under your breath, already sprinting down the hallway. "Where’s Mydei?!"

Just like before, you spotted him walking toward the ER. Without hesitation, you grabbed his arm, dragging him along at full speed.

"Another one?" he asked, voice edged with something colder this time.

"Yeah, and it’s bad. Let’s go."

You burst into the OR, scrubbing in faster than you ever had. As you pulled on your gloves, the sight before you made your stomach drop. The victim was barely hanging on, the stab wounds deep, organs likely compromised. fuckfuckfuckfuck.

♥♥♥

The operating room was already a bloody fucking battlefield by the time you and Mydei scrubbed in, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Nurses moved with trained precision, hooking up transfusions, adjusting monitors, and preparing for what would undoubtedly be a long, grueling surgery. The overhead surgical lights cast harsh illumination over the patient’s torso—five deep stab wounds, oozing dark crimson with every weakening pulse.

Heart rate: dangerously unstable. Blood pressure: crashing.

Your jaw tightened as you surveyed the damage. Stabs this deep weren’t meant to be survived. Whoever did this had aimed to kill.

“Damn it,” you muttered, snapping on your gloves. “If we don’t stop the bleeding now, he’s going into irreversible shock.”

Mydei, standing opposite you, let out a slow breath, already tying his mask over his face. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp, calculating—scanned the wounds just as fast as yours. “Five stab wounds. Two to the upper left quadrant, three to the lower right. If the knife went deep enough, we could be looking at a perforated intestine or a renal artery injury.”

Your pulse spiked. A renal artery injury was a death sentence without immediate intervention.

“Massive transfusion protocol,” you snapped. A nurse responded instantly, prepping units of blood and plasma. “We need volume replacement now.”

Mydei nodded. “We’ll clamp first, repair later. If we go straight to suturing with this much blood loss, he’ll code on the table.”

No arguments. No wasted time. You were already reaching out.

“Scalpel.”

The cold metal handle was placed into your palm within seconds. You made your incision with expert precision, cutting through damaged tissue with just enough force to expose the internal injury without worsening it. Blood immediately welled up, pooling at the edges, but you ignored it.

“Suction,” Mydei instructed. A nurse responded instantly, clearing your field of vision.

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you inspected the worst of the damage. “Wound number three tore straight through the abdominal muscles—there’s internal bleeding near the right kidney, but no penetration to the organ itself. Wound number five is the real problem.”

Mydei adjusted his grip on the retractor, carefully exposing the area. “It’s deep. Arterial involvement is definite.”

You exhaled sharply. “We need to clamp the renal artery now. If we don’t stop this bleed, the kidney’s gone.”

Without hesitation, he reached for the vascular clamp and maneuvered it into place, securing the artery just enough to slow the hemorrhaging without cutting off circulation completely. The heart monitor beeped erratically, a sharp, nerve-wracking rhythm reminding you both that time was running out.

Your mind worked at lightning speed. A clean suture wouldn’t be enough. The artery needed reinforcement.

“Vascular shunt,” you ordered.

The nurse handed it over, and Mydei carefully inserted the temporary tubing into the laceration, allowing blood to continue flowing while preventing further hemorrhage. It was a calculated move—buying you time to stabilize the patient before a definitive repair.

The surgery stretched into hours. Each stab wound presented a new set of complications—layers of muscle damage, ruptured capillaries, tissue trauma that required intricate repair. At one point, the patient’s vitals dipped dangerously low, sending a wave of tension through the OR.

“Heart rate’s dropping,” a nurse announced, voice tight.

You snapped your fingers, already moving. “Increase fluids, push epinephrine if needed.”

Mydei’s voice remained steady despite the pressure. “The renal artery’s secured. Moving on to muscle closure.”

You nodded, exhaling sharply as you reinforced the sutures around the artery and checked for residual bleeding. “Alright. That’s the worst of it. We’ll leave the abdomen open with a temporary closure—he’s too unstable for a full close-up now.”

The next steps were grueling. Stitching up torn muscle, ensuring no internal bleeding remained, placing protective barriers to prevent sepsis. The process required patience and absolute focus.

By the time you secured the final surgical dressing, the monitors had stabilized. The heart rate was still weak, but steady. The kidney function was preserved. Against the odds, the patient had survived.

The room was silent for a moment—no words, just the heavy weight of exhaustion and relief pressing down on you.

Then, finally, you leaned back, stretching out your stiff shoulders. “Well,” you said, voice hoarse, “that was an absolute nightmare.”

Mydei removed his gloves with that same composed expression, though there was a flicker of something else in his gaze—something unreadable. “But he lived.”

You huffed out a breath, nodding. “Yeah. He did.

The second you stepped out of the OR, the weight of the past few hours slammed into you all at once.

Your legs felt like lead, exhaustion pressing into every joint and muscle. The harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway blurred at the edges of your vision, and your pulse drummed sluggishly in your ears.

The moment you made it past the door, your knees buckled.

You barely had the energy to curse before your back hit the wall, and you slumped down onto the cold tile floor. Your head lolled back against the surface, eyes fluttering shut as you exhaled sharply.

“Shit.” The word came out as more of a breath than a complaint.

The sheer amount of adrenaline, focus, and precision that the surgery had required had drained you completely. Even though you’d done longer procedures before, something about this one had left you bone-tired.

Maybe it was because the patient shouldn’t have made it. Maybe it was because you’d spent every second fighting against the inevitable.

Maybe it was just the way your body was finally giving out.

A pair of footsteps stopped beside you.

You barely cracked an eye open before a shadow loomed over you.

Mydei.

Still in his surgical gown, mask pulled down, golden eyes sharp and alert. He stood over you, arms crossed, brows pinched slightly—though whether in concern or exasperation, you couldn’t tell.

“You look pathetic,” he noted, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

You gave him a half-hearted smirk. “Flatter me more, tiger.”

His expression barely flickered, though the faint twitch in his jaw told you he was holding back a sigh. Instead of responding, he simply crouched down beside you.

“You should get up.”

“I literally can’t feel my legs.”

“Tch.” A beat passed before Mydei exhaled through his nose. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and—

Grasped your wrist.

His fingers curled around your pulse point, firm and steady, grounding you to reality.

Your breath hitched slightly, but you didn’t have the energy to react beyond that.

“Pulse is weak,” he murmured.

“No shit,” you mumbled, head lolling slightly to the side as you closed your eyes again. “It’s almost like I just performed a life-saving operation or something.”

There was a long pause.

Then—before you could fully process it—you felt warmth press against your forehead.

Mydei’s hand.

His palm was broad and slightly cool, pressing against your damp skin in a way that was almost soothing. And his scent—you may have just come out of a 12-hour surgery with him but god he smelled good, a hint of raspberry, vanilla, and pomegranate? You almost leaned into his touch before stopping yourself and tightening your body.

Checking your temperature. That’s all it was. Just routine.

Still, your stomach did a strange little flip.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered. His voice was quieter now, softer, but still carrying that same weight of irritated concern.

“I’ll live,” you said, though your body very much disagreed.

He didn’t move his hand away immediately. He stayed there for a second longer, studying you. Then, finally, he pulled back, exhaling sharply.

“Come on.” He pushed himself up to his feet, then—without warning—reached down again and grasped you by the forearm.

“Wait—”

He hauled you up.

Too fast. Your body protested instantly, knees nearly buckling again.

Without thinking, you grabbed onto his coat for support.

For a moment, the two of you were far too close.

Your forehead nearly brushed against his collarbone, and in that brief second, you felt the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the slight heat radiating off of him, the faintest scent of disinfectant and something vaguely warm—like ginger and cloves.

Your fingers tightened on his coat for just a second.

His grip on your arm lingered.

Then—Mydei cleared his throat.

“You’re impossible.” His voice was gruff as he steadied you properly, making sure you could stand on your own. “I swear, if you collapse again, I’m dragging you to a bed myself.”

You forced out a weak, tired smirk. “That a promise, doc?”

He stared at you for a second. Then, with a huff, he turned on his heel.

“Break room. Now,” he ordered over his shoulder. “Before you actually pass out.”

You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck.

With how heavy your limbs felt, you had no choice but to obey.

The break room was dimly lit, the overhead lights turned down low to keep the atmosphere calm. A faint hum from the vending machine filled the space, along with the occasional soft beep from someone’s pager in the distance.

You were lying on the couch, one arm lazily draped over your stomach, feeling much better after your forced rest. Mydei, on the other hand, sat on a chair nearby, long legs stretched out, one arm resting against the table.

He had forced you to rest. You had technically obeyed. You closed your eyes. You stayed still. You didn't pass out from exhaustion. Success.

…But now you were bored out of your goddamn mind.

Which led you to this.

“So technically, in ‘Across the Spider-Verse,’ Miguel’s entire logic about ‘canon events’ is flawed because the entire idea of a multiverse means infinite possibilities. You can’t have a strict set of events that must happen in every universe, because that would contradict the whole ‘infinite variation’ thing—”

Mydei was actually listening.

Despite his usual deadpan demeanor, he hadn’t told you to shut up or leave him alone yet. Instead, his sharp golden eyes were fixed on you, brows slightly furrowed as he processed your rant.

“…That’s assuming the multiverse follows a quantum branching system,” he said, voice calm and thoughtful. “But if we apply a more structured framework—like the Many Worlds Interpretation—then it’s possible that only specific variations of events can exist while still allowing divergence.”

You blinked. “You’re actually engaging in this conversation.”

He gave you a look. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. I expected you to roll your eyes and tell me to sleep.”

Mydei shrugged. “I don’t mind listening.”

You stared at him for a second, then grinned. “Damn. You’re a nerd.”

He exhaled, shaking his head, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips.

Undeterred, you continued.

“But Miguel is literally contradicting himself,” you argued, shifting slightly on the couch. “He says Miles wasn’t supposed to be Spider-Man, meaning he technically never had a ‘canon’ to begin with. So why would the universe force him into one now?”

Mydei tapped his fingers idly against the table. “It could be that the multiverse adapts, forming new constants based on anomalies.”

“But that would mean anyone could be Spider-Man.”

“Perhaps.” He tilted his head slightly. “Or perhaps Miguel’s mistake was believing he could control a system that was never meant to be controlled in the first place.”

You stared at him.

“…I’m actually impressed.”

He raised a brow. “You thought I wasn’t capable of holding a conversation?”

“No, I just didn’t expect you to willingly entertain my Spider-Verse nonsense.”

Mydei let out a slow breath, leaning back slightly.

“…You like talking about it,” he murmured. “So I don’t mind.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart do a weird little flip.

You quickly covered it with a smirk. “Careful, doc. You’re gonna make me think you enjoy my company.”

He simply looked at you.

A pause.

Then—

“Go to sleep.”

You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your face. “You were doing so well, and then you just had to ruin it.”

Mydei huffed softly, shaking his head. “You’re exhausting.”

Mydei sat at the table, flipping through a patient file, but you knew he wasn’t really reading it. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, had that half-lidded, exhausted look—the kind that screamed I have five minutes before my brain shuts down.

You weren’t much better.

Despite your fake nap, sleep still refused to claim you, leaving you restless and annoyingly aware of how much your body ached from standing in surgery for hours. Your stomach twisted—not in pain, but in that weird way that told you hey, dumbass, maybe eat something before you actually collapse.

But…you’d ignored hunger before.

It’d pass.

Probably.

Then, Mydei spoke.

“Change your clothes.”

You blinked, snapping out of your haze. “Huh?”

He barely looked up. “We’re going out.”

You raised a brow. “Since when do you voluntarily leave the hospital?”

“Since I realized you’re just as bad as me when it comes to taking care of yourself.” He finally met your gaze, golden eyes unwavering. “Neither of us has eaten anything real in over twelve hours. If we don’t fix that now, we’ll both be too dead to function tomorrow.”

You wanted to argue. Really, you did.

But he wasn’t wrong.

You had both been running on caffeine, adrenaline, and sheer spite for the past…God, you didn’t even know how many hours.

“…Fair point.” You let out a slow breath, pushing yourself up from the couch with a groan. Holy shit, your muscles were stiff.

Mydei had already stood, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the last few hours. His hair—normally somewhat neat—was slightly disheveled, the faded red tips a little more pronounced under the dim lighting. You caught a glimpse of the faint tattoos along his neck when he stretched, but—as usual—he made sure not to expose too much.

He didn’t like drawing attention to them.

Not that you’d ever ask why.

“Alright, doc,” you sighed, stretching your arms over your head. “Let’s go eat before we actually drop dead.”

Mydei simply nodded, grabbing his coat.

And just like that, the two of you left the hospital behind—two overworked, half-dead surgeons, finally taking care of themselves for once.

♥♥♥

The rumble of Mydei’s bike beneath you was oddly soothing, the crisp night air rushing past as the two of you sped down the empty streets. The hospital was long behind you, and for once, you weren’t drowning in the stench of antiseptic and blood—just fresh air, neon-lit roads, and the low hum of the engine.

You leaned back slightly, arms wrapped around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body through his jacket. He was solid. Reliable. Steady.

Not that you’d ever tell him that.

“You always drive this fast?” you teased over the wind.

“Faster, usually.”

You snorted. “Damn. And here I thought you were the responsible one.”

Mydei didn’t respond, you roll your eyes and then you suddenly a hear a slow, deep amused chuckle from his side. Fake ass scary wannabe

The place Mydei picked was a small, cozy restaurant—dim lighting, warm colors, and the scent of something freshly baked lingering in the air. Definitely not the high-energy bar you half-expected him to take you to.

You slid into the booth across from him, propping your chin on your hand as you lazily glanced over the menu.

“So,” you mused, “what’s the Mydei Special?”

He barely hesitated. “Strawberry ice cream shake.”

You blinked. Paused.

Then you burst out laughing.

Mydei just stared, unimpressed. “What?”

You tried—tried—to hold back your laughter, but the mental image of this tall, buff, scary-looking man sipping on a strawberry-flavored ice cream shake like it was the most normal thing in the world was sending you.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “you have the biggest sweet tooth, don’t you?”

He didn’t confirm. He didn’t deny it either.

“…It’s good,” was all he said, as if that was enough of an explanation. And you swear you see a small pout on his stern face along with a slight blush on his cheeks.

You grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So you’re telling me, out of all the drinks on this menu, you saw ‘strawberry ice cream shake’ and went yep, that’s the one?”

“Yes.”

Your grin widened. “No regrets?”

“None.”

You shook your head, still grinning, before waving the waitress over. “Alright, alright, respect. I’ll take a limoncello.”

Mydei nodded at her. “And I’ll have the strawberry ice cream shake.”

The waitress smiled politely before walking off with your order.

You still hadn’t stopped snickering when she came back a few minutes later—with your drinks.

Only…

She placed the limoncello in front of Mydei and the strawberry shake in front of you.

Because, of course, everyone assumed the big, brooding man with golden tiger-like eyes was the one ordering alcohol, and the chaotic, snarky, sweet you was the one drinking something soft and sweet.

There was a beat of silence.

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh again.

Mydei just stared at the drink in front of him.

Slowly, he looked back up at you. “Switch.”

“Wait, no, this is hilarious.”

“Switch.”

“I should take a picture first—”

“Switch.”

Now you were full-on laughing. “Oh my god, you’re actually embarrassed.”

He wasn’t. Not really. But the flat stare he gave you made it so much funnier.

Eventually, you relented, swapping the drinks properly. But as Mydei sipped his strawberry shake—totally unfazed—you couldn’t help but admire just how effortlessly him he was.

Big, intimidating, and secretly soft as hell.

Yeah. You were keeping this information for blackmail later.

The ride back to the hospital was uneventful, but there was a strange sense of dread lingering in your chest. Maybe it was the way Mydei’s grip on the handlebars felt a little tense, or maybe it was the way the city lights seemed too quiet for this time of night.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was intuition.

When you stepped off the bike and walked back inside, the sterile white halls of the hospital were as cold as ever, humming under dim fluorescent lights.

But then—

You saw her.

Standing in front of the breakroom. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, piercing blue eyes locked directly onto the both of you.

Aglaea.

The hospital director.

Your stomach plummeted.

“Oh. Shit.”

You felt Mydei stiffen beside you. Not visibly—but you knew him well enough to notice.

Aglaea wasn’t like the other directors you’d met in your life. She was meticulous. Calculated. Sharp as a scalpel and just as dangerous when she wanted to be.

And right now, she was staring directly at you both like a mother catching her kids sneaking in past curfew.

“…You’re back,” she said smoothly, voice as cool as ever.

You cleared your throat, nudging Mydei slightly. Say something, idiot.

“…Yes,” Mydei said simply.

Silence.

Aglaea’s gaze slowly flickered between you and Mydei.

Then, she sighed. “Do I want to know where you two have been?”

“…Cafeteria,” you blurted.

She raised a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “The hospital cafeteria closes at 8 PM.”

“We took the long route.”

Mydei shot you a look. The ‘seriously?’ look.

Aglaea, to your absolute horror, looked vaguely amused.

“You took the long route,” she repeated, clearly not buying a damn word of it.

“…Yes,” you said again, just to commit to the lie.

For a long moment, Aglaea said nothing. Just stared at the both of you with that air of quiet superiority, as if she already knew exactly what happened and was merely giving you a chance to embarrass yourselves.

Then, finally, she sighed.

“I assume you both at least ate something?”

“…Yes,” Mydei answered.

“And slept?”

You and Mydei hesitated.

Aglaea closed her eyes briefly, as if resisting the urge to scold you both like children. Then, after a moment, she just exhaled slowly and rubbed her temple.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she muttered to herself.

You exchanged a glance with Mydei.

Then, cautiously, you asked, “Are we… in trouble?”

Aglaea opened her eyes again, looking utterly unimpressed.

“No, but you will be if you keep this up.” She gave you both a look. “Surgeons are only as good as the state they keep themselves in. If you start making a habit of neglecting your own health, I will personally ensure you take forced leave.”

You grimaced. Forced leave meant staying at home, doing nothing. Which was actual hell.

“Noted,” Mydei murmured.

“Good.” Aglaea turned, stepping aside. “Get some rest. I expect you both back on duty in four hours.”

Four hours. That was generous.

You exhaled in relief, muttering, “Understood.”

Aglaea shot one last glance with her sharp yet cool cyan-green eyes at the both of you before walking away, leaving you slumping against the breakroom door.

“…That was terrifying,” you muttered.

Mydei hummed. “She went easy on us.”

“That was her going easy?”

He didn’t answer, just pushed open the door to the breakroom. You followed him inside, stretching out with a long, tired sigh.

“Well,” you huffed, flopping onto the couch. “That went better than expected.”

Mydei didn’t respond—he was already shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a chair before sitting down beside you.

For a long, comfortable silence, you both just sat there, the exhaustion slowly catching up.

Then, finally, you nudged him with your foot.

“…Strawberry shake,” you murmured with a teasing grin.

Mydei didn’t open his eyes. “Sleep.”

“You like cute things—”

“Sleep.”

You snickered. Maybe you’d get some rest. But only after you finished teasing him about this for another ten minutes.

♥♥♥

You didn’t even bother changing into something more comfortable before dragging yourself to the breakroom. If Aglaea was going to forcefully make you rest, you might as well do it on your own terms.

And by ‘rest,’ you meant laying on the small bed with your phone, zoning out.

Mydei followed in after you, shrugging off his coat before sitting down near the sink, his sharp golden eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

The restroom was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, mixing with the hum of the hospital beyond these walls. It was quiet here. Too quiet.

You sighed, taking out your phone, plugging in your earphones, and scrolling through your playlists before finally settling on something slow, dreamy, and detached.

The soft, melancholic strum of the guitar filled your ears as you leaned back, closing your eyes. The aching tiredness in your bones was undeniable, but sleep wouldn’t come that easily.

And then—

A warm hand suddenly plucked an earbud out of your ear.

You opened one eye just in time to see Mydei casually pop it into his ear, settling beside you like he owned the place.

Your brain lagged.

“…Did you just—”

“Yes.” His voice was smooth, as unreadable as ever. He leaned back slightly, his expression neutral as if he didn’t just steal your music.

You blinked at him.

Then, without thinking, you muttered, “…Double package of tits and wits.”

Silence.

Mydei slowly turned his head to look at you. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to determine whether he actually heard that right or if he was simply too tired to process it.

“Excuse me what the fuck?” "Erm.. that was a compliment"

anwyays hi i have math exam next killl me credits to my sister to helping me with all the medical knowledge 💔

[autball]

When you can’t show what you know, people assume you just don’t know anything.

At least that’s how it works for most autistic kids who can’t speak, or can’t control their bodies as much as they’d like to, or can’t answer things “fast enough,” and so on. Because the people who give the tests really don’t want to entertain the idea that their tests might just be garbage sometimes.

Non-speakers who have gained access to communication later in life all tell a similar story: that they experience a mind-body disconnect that makes it hard for them to control their own bodies. That means that they struggle to perform tasks on command, whether it comes from other people or their own minds, and that their bodies will just do things that the person didn’t even mean to do.

And despite the growing number of people who are able to share these stories, most of the People In ChargeTM are still operating under the assumption that if you can’t answer a question or follow an instruction correctly, it’s because you didn’t understand it.

Which means that kids who can’t show what they know because their bodies won’t cooperate are assumed to just not know anything.

Which means they never get to move to the next level of education.

Which means there are millions of children who languish in educational settings that are not academically challenging enough for them- because the problem they have with their bodies is assumed to be a problem with their mind.

But the inaccessibility of assessments is the problem here. As well as the assumptions people make about those who are thought of as “low functioning.” As well as the fact that the majority of autistic kids who can’t speak are still not given alternative means of communication soon enough, if at all.

We can do better. Presume competence. Treat communication like a basic human NEED and a RIGHT, not an optional privilege to be earned. And believe the people who keep telling us as soon as they can, “It’s our bodies, not our minds!”

NOTE: I’ve been wanting to do something on this for a while, and this particular cartoon came together a couple weeks ago while I was listening to “Ido in Autismland” by Ido Kidar. Please do check it out, along with the work of other non-speakers, to learn more about this experience from the people who actually live it. 

https://www.amazon.com/Ido-Autismland-Climbing-Autisms-Silent/dp/0988324709

https://www.amazon.com/Autistic-Boy-Unruly-Body-Autism/dp/B0B7XF3CVT

https://neuroclastic.com/directory-of-nonspeaker-pages-blogs-media/

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ʏᴇᴛ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

friends to lovers, office romance, halloween, light angst, fluff, miscommunication, slow burn, humour, mutual pining

word count - 1k

The first thing Dotty hears on Halloween morning, aside from her coworker’s bluetooth speaker blasting Monster Mash in the hallway, is her boss saying the word “fire.”

She’s in his office with a notepad in hand, doing her best to write down the instructions he’s giving her about the costume contest (“put Dana in charge, she’s got glitter”) when he lowers his voice and mumbles into his phone:

“Yeah, I know. Someone’s gotta go. I just don’t understand why you’ve given me such a short deadline with this.”

Dotty blinks. The pen in her hand freezes. Her boss notices her silence, waves a hand, and mouths something like not you. But that doesn't settle the knot forming behind her ribs.

She’s still thinking about it twenty minutes later when she finds Matt sitting at his desk, peeling the wrapper off a mini twix bar and already wearing his costume, a wrinkled white shirt, a crooked tie, and a name tag that says Manager in Comic Sans.

“Are you… supposed to be the boss?” she asks, folding her arms.

Matt gives her a guilty smile. “Too much?”

Dotty shrugs, trying not to smile. “He’ll probably love it.”

He cocks his head. “You okay?”

And that’s when she blurts, “Someone’s getting fired.”

Matt’s face stills. “Wait, what?”

She sits down on the edge of his desk, notebook tucked against her chest. “I heard him on the phone. He said someone’s gotta go. I think it’s real.”

Matt leans back in his chair, wheels creaking. “It’s gotta be someone from accounting.”

Dotty winces. “Don’t say that.”

“Come on,” Matt argues, opening another piece of candy. “Should be Wyatt. He definitely has a secret YouTube channel for reviews of office chairs. And he knows what the difference between a number one and two pencil is.”

“He's… enthusiastic.”

“He's terrifying,” Matt corrects.“We should post his resume online. Just in case. Help him get a head start.”

Dotty stares. “That is wildly unethical.”

Matt grins. “So is using the work printer to print Taylor Swift trivia for your lunch breaks.”

“…Fine,” she says, laughing now. “But only because he definitely listed ‘karate’ as a soft skill.”

By noon, Operation Resume is in full swing.

They find a Word doc titled Wyatt_FINAL_REAL_ONE.docx in the shared drive and give it a little polish. Dotty adds buzzwords like synergistic and innovative mindset. Matt lists Wyatt’s hometown as “the cloud.”

Then Matt takes it one step further.

“Someone actually wants to do a phone interview,” he tells her, mid-afternoon, holding his desk phone like it might explode. “Should I… be him?”

“No,” Dotty says, trying to hide the smile in her voice. “Definitely not.”

He does it anyway.

She watches him lower his voice two octaves and say things like “I pride myself on punctuality and moral excellence.” He ends the call by solemnly stating, “I’ll speak to my superiors and get back to you.”

“You are going to hell,” she says, giggling into her sleeve.

It’s late when things go wrong.

Dotty’s helping clean up pumpkin guts in the breakroom, Matt leaning against the counter beside her with a soda can and his tie crooked.

He looks too handsome for his own good.

“Hey,” he says. “So… about that job offer.”

Dotty glances over.

“It was kinda real,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Like, it’s a startup. It pays better than here, but they said they want someone ‘creative’. I dunno.”

Dotty bites the inside of her cheek.

She doesn’t want him to leave. But she’s not allowed to say that. Not when she’s just the receptionist. Not when they’re just friends. Colleagues.

So she makes herself smile.

“You should take it.”

Matt goes quiet.

Dotty keeps talking, hoping it doesn’t sound nervous or like begging. “You’re… like, you’re smart. And funny. You get stuff done without being weird about it. You care about people, even if you act like you don’t. You don’t belong here forever.”

Matt nods. Too quickly. His mouth pulls into a flat line.

“Oh,” he says. “Right. Yeah. No, you’re right.”

He won’t look at her.

Dotty blinks. Something’s wrong.

“Just, you deserve it. Don’t undersell yourself.”

But Matt’s already brushing her off, his voice light and unreadable. “Right, well… I’ve gotta, um, go help with the cleanup. Wyatt’s skeleton lost a leg.”

And he walks away.

Dotty’s left standing in front of the fridge, hands sticky with pumpkin seeds, heart quietly breaking in her chest.

Just as it nears 4:30pm , Wyatt sends an all-office email:

Subject: WHO POSTED MY RESUME Hello. I received a job offer from a company I did not apply to. I have informed legal. I am no mutineer. Best, Wyatt Future CEO

Dotty reads the email twice before snorting into her coffee.

She finds Matt in the breakroom twenty minutes later, loading the dishwasher. He doesn’t say anything when she walks in. He just nods. She’s not used to that with Matt.

Dotty leans against the counter beside him.

“I didn’t mean I wanted you to go,” she says softly.

Matt stills.

“I meant it like… I believe in you. That’s all.”

He finally looks at her.

“I thought you meant you wouldn’t care if I left,” he says, voice quieter than she’s ever heard it.

Dotty swallows.

“Well, I would. I’d care a lot.”

A warm, slightly uncomfortable silence settles between them.

Then Matt smiles. Crooked and shy, a little lopsided.

“I’d miss you,” he says. “More than I’d miss the broken coffee machine and the boss’s 11 a.m. inspirational speeches in the conference room.”

Dotty bumps his arm with hers.

“I’d miss you too,” she says. “Even if you never refill the paper in the printer.”

They catch each other’s eyes for a moment, both genuinely happy.

“Guess I’m staying,” Matt says, grinning.

Dotty rolls her eyes. “For now.”

That night, as everyone leaves and the last pumpkin gets tossed in the bin, Matt walks her to her car.

She’s still wearing bits from her costume, and he’s got candy stuffed in his pockets from the communal bucket.

Before she unlocks the door, he says:

“If I ever do leave… I’ll, uh, make sure you know first.”

Dotty smiles, a little sad at the mention of him actually leaving.

“Good,” she says. “I’d want to say goodbye.”

He nods, soft and sincere, then turns to go. But not before he glances back with, “See you tomorrow, Dotty.”

“See you.”

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws ꨄ

a/n: sbsbfsdjbf trying to get more worldbuiding into this au, so i hope you enjoyed !! also ik it isn't halloween but this is the episode we're up to in the show and it's autumn where i live so :p

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

He's My Man (Part 1)

Summary: The reader receives an anonymous text from a new client needing an off the books patch job. However he's annoyingly good looking and the last thing you need is some ex-special ops guy hanging around. Unfortunately for you, Russell Shaw isn't the kind of guy to walk away when he knows something's wrong...

Masterlist

Pairing: Russell Shaw x reader

Word Count: 2,000ish

Warnings: language, gun shot injury

A/N: Contains minor spoilers for Tracker 1x12. Please enjoy the start of this new series! I'm not sure how long it will go but thanks for coming on this ride with me!

__________

Your ears perked up on Saturday morning when your phone buzzed on the coffee table before you. Not your everyday one but your one for work. You swiped it open, pursing your lips when you saw it was from an unknown number.

Need a patch job on a quilt. Doug recommended you as a good seamstress in the area.

Alright, well at least this guy knew one of your clients. Doug wasn’t a regular but you’d seen him once or twice over the years which meant the person on the other end wasn’t a cop most likely.

I can fit you in. More complicated the patch, the more it’ll cost.

Not an issue.

You hummed and stood up, grabbing your coffee mug along the way.

129 Edwards Ave in twenty minutes. Use the red back door.

You took a long sip and went over to the kitchen, tossing the rest down the sink, leaving the mug to be cleaned later. 

You just hoped this job wasn’t as bad as the last one.

Eighteen minutes later you heard the back door open and then silence, a moment’s hesitation as your new client entered what looked like a storage area. You flipped a light switch, illuminating the small enter sign over the doorway to the room you were prepping in. A few moments later there were heavy boots against the cement ground as he entered, turning to tile, your head lifting. 

A man in his forties, a quite handsome one at that, gave the small operating room a cursory glance before settling on you, determining you were the only one there. Meanwhile your gaze shot to his injured left arm, a gunshot from the looks of it. You only spotted one bloody bullet hole and figured that was the worst of it from the way he cradled his forearm.

“You the seamstress?” he asked quietly, scanning the counter full of medical equipment and metal table in the center of the room. 

“Take a seat,” you said, patting the table. You went to a sink and washed up, making sure to keep him in view at all times. He winced and struggled to get the coat off, finally managing and revealing a quick patch job had been done. After drying your hands, you snapped on some gloves, the man’s coat and overshirt now on the table behind him.

“Russell Shaw by the way,” he said.

“Y/N,” you said, carefully taking his forearm in one hand, the top of his muscular bicep in the other. You turned his arm slightly, Russell wincing again. “Looks like a through and through. We’ll do a quick x-ray to make sure there’s no shrapnel and then we’ll get you stitched up and I’ll send you home with some supplies and instructions to care for it. This your only injury?”

“Yeah. Doug said you were good.”

“I am,” you said, offering him a brief smile, he returned. “Do you have any PTSD? Going to come at me if I I need to use a scalpel?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m good with all that.”

You hummed, guiding him to lay back. Three minutes later you were pushing your x-ray machine aside and taking the lead vest away, Russell sitting upright. 

“Can I ask a question?” 

“You can ask, don’t mean I’ll answer, sweetie,” you said back, hanging up the vest and going to your laptop on the counter.

“How does one get into this line of work?” he asked.

“Asks the man that’s ex-special ops and does private contract gigs, not to mention killed probably three people minimum tonight.” You glanced over to him, Russell tilting his head. “I know who Doug is and what he does. Makes sense you do it too. You have blood under your fingernails and given the splatter patterns on your jeans, you had multiple different angled shots so multiple bodies you hit.”

“...And you don’t report that sort of thing?” he asked cautiously. You determined his x-ray looked good and washed up again, putting on more new gloves. By the time you were standing before him again, he looked nervous.

“On occasion. But only the monsters. You, you don’t strike me as a monster, Russell,” you said, wiping some antiseptic over his entry and exit wounds. He flinched but only slightly at the quick burn. A moment later you were giving him something to numb the area.

“Someone took Doug. Someone bad. They would have come back if I hadn’t done what needed to be done.” You wiped sterile gauze over his wound and then flushed it, Russell watching your graceful movements with interest.

“Like I said, not a monster.” You hummed as you worked, Russell fixated on you carefully cleaning and then pulling the skin back together, tying it up neatly. You wiped away the evidence of his blood and wrapped his bicep in thick gauze, taping it down so he could still get movement without worrying about it coming off.

You chucked your gloves in the trash and nodded back to the door behind you.

“There’s a shower in there and some brushes. Turn it on low, scrub yourself clean, under your nails too. Use the blue soap. When you’re done, throw everything away in the bin, including your bloody clothes. You leave your boots, anything you want to keep out here with me. There’s men’s sweats and some shirts on the shelf. By the time you’re done, your boots and other items will have no trace of wherever you’ve been. Got it?”

“I do like a woman that takes charge.” He smirked, sliding off the table and dropping slowly to kneel to unlace his shoes, still looking up at you. “Full service deal you got going here.”

“Yes it is and here’s a friendly reminder for my new client. You come anywhere near me with your dick out, I’ll make you regret being alive. Understand, sweetie?” you said, patting his cheek. “Off you go.”

“God damn, I love you,” he muttered under his breath. You rolled your eyes but smirked when your back was to him. Ten minutes later the room was clean and Russell exited the bathroom with damp, slicked back hair wearing a plain white t-shirt, black hanes sweat pants and white socks. You nodded to where his shoes sat on the end of the counter, Russell taking a seat in the chair nearby as he slipped them on.

After he checked he had his phone, keys and wallet, he raised himself to his feet, pulling out his wallet. 

“What do I owe you?”

“A thousand.” To your surprise, he didn’t flinch at that number. But like most of your clients, he didn’t have the cash on him, at least not that much. Russell smirked as he glanced back in the bathroom.

“Smart woman. You keep the evidence as ransom until your clients pay up. You won’t destroy that until after I pay, will you.” 

“Not until we get to know each other better do I do that sort of thing without payment. Seeing as you’re new and a friend of Doug’s, I’ll give you to the end of next week to pull it together. I offer payment plan options and other alternative forms of care if shit ever really hit the fan for you.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said, putting down five hundred dollar bills. “I can bring the other half back here later today. Just need to run to an ATM.”

“Text me when you got the rest. I’ll send you a place to meet,” you said, nodding towards the door. He gave you a small salute and shook his head with a smile. 

Forty minutes later you were sitting at a table in the cafe three blocks over, happily sipping on your coffee while working your way through a cheese danish. You spotted Russell when he came in. He gave you a quick, adorably awkward wave and ordered himself a drink. A few minutes later he was sitting down across from you, a small cup and what appeared to be a banana muffin in hand.

“You’re a coffee snob aren’t you. This place is pricey,” he teased, his brow furrowing when he had a drink from his styrofoam cup. “Shit. That’s fucking good.”

“Beats whatever motel crap I’m sure you’re used to,” you said, his gaze hardening for a split second. “Sorry. I always tail my first time clients to make sure they aren’t…you know who. You know the Elkwood Lodge on route 8 is cleaner and cheaper than what you’re paying for now.”

“How would you know that?” he asked. You shrugged and simply grinned, taking another bite of danish. He licked his lips, pointing at the yet to be touched danish beside you. “Was that one for me?”

“God no. I fucking love danishes and these are incredible,” you said, finishing off the first and biting into the other.

“You are something else,” he said, smirking when he slid a white envelope across the table. You tucked it into your jacket pocket, Russell picking at his own muffin. “You ain’t going to check it’s all there?”

“You’re a smart man, Russell. I think you know not to screw me over.” He looked you up and down, earning a pointed response. “Keep that gutter mind to yourself.”

“If I’m in the gutter, you’re right there with me,” he said, absently rubbing his injured arm. “And uh, if it gets infected or I think it is, I should reach out?”

“Absolutely. That ain’t a normal injury you’re used to. Don’t play tough guy, tough guy.” He nodded, his body twisting ever so slightly towards a standing position. “Nope. Stay for at least five minutes, then you can go.”

“You really like telling me what to do, don’t you,” he grinned. 

“Russell.” Hss grin was wide before he took a long drag of coffee, humming as it went down. 

“What if I want to stay more than five minutes?” You paused mid-chew of your danish. “Come on, one conversation won’t kill you.”

“I don’t get involved with clients.”

“Alright. I respect that but this ain’t my end goal. I’m going to have a normal life someday. I make a pretty mean homebrew. Going to get some land, open up a brewery, have some food, make it a little family place everybody can enjoy. So that’s my goal. I sure as hell know working as a seamstress ain’t your end goal either. So again, what’s the harm in one conversation?”

You bit your bottom lip, Russell’s expression changing, ever so slightly. 

“Jesus, Y/N,” he muttered. “What-“

“Shut up,” you mumbled. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Your fucking face did. You don’t want to be a seamstress, do you? Can you not get out of your line of work?” You glanced out the window, even the wonderful flavors of the pastry doing nothing to help the unease in your gut. “I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” you snapped. You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Sorry. I…I’m just crabby because I didn’t have my morning coffee until just now.”

“Nice try.” You glared at him, his green eyes remarkably gentle. “I don’t leave my friends behind. Now either you tell me what’s going on or I’m going to poke around myself and I guarantee that’s going to be a lot more dangerous and you’ll just have to patch me up even more. What do you say?”

You stared at him and stared at him and stared at him for what felt like forever. Then you took out the envelope and handed it back to him, along with the five hundred in your purse. 

“Go buy me two more cheese danishes and a large caramel frappe to go. Then take me to your motel room. This is a long fucking story.”

__________

A/N: Read Part 2 here!

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 10/?)

Any action can be justified, as long as the right words surround it. And, for your luck — or ruin — Silco was a master at turning manipulation into art.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 7,9K

Warnings: use of drugs as medicine (shimmer), description of injuries, suspicious medical operations, Singed is the warning itself, character near-death, threats, threats with weapons, explicit references to scientific experiments without consent, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 9

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

The laboratory door was shoved open with such force that it slammed against the wall, the sound echoing through the cramped space and plunging everyone into silence. Silco entered, carrying the limp body in his arms, his muscles rigid, his eyes alight with restrained fury. Behind him, Sevika, always steady, now visibly shaken—a rare occurrence that Silco chose to ignore. He couldn't afford to consider the weakness of others when he himself was teetering on the edge of emotional collapse.

The metallic smell of blood and the dampness of rain still clung to his skin, a shadow of what he had just witnessed. The warehouse, that grotesque scene of carnage, remained vivid in his mind—a blur of bodies strewn about, blood-soaked chains, and her—his girl—standing at the center of it all, a living specter of death. He didn't know if the blood dripping from his arms was hers or that of her enemies. In that moment, it didn't matter.

He crossed the lab in firm, almost aggressive strides and placed the body on the metal table. The sound of the soft impact made his jaw clench; she looked so fragile lying there, in stark contrast to the devastating force he had witnessed minutes earlier. He brushed the damp hair away from her face, his fingers trying to remain steady but trembling ever so slightly.

He had considered every possibility when he enlisted Singed, more specifically his skills, for a potential operation before the night's invasion. If she were injured, immediate intervention would be crucial. He knew his own hands, steady enough to suture a superficial wound or apply a tourniquet, were not equipped for more complex procedures. Singed, on the other hand, had neither moral nor physical limitations preventing him from doing what was necessary.

And that was precisely what Silco needed now.

Sevika began strapping her arms and legs to the table, following instructions Silco had given before they even arrived, to prevent her from moving during the procedure should she regain consciousness. Still, seeing her restrained, vulnerable, made something churn in his stomach—something he ignored with practiced ease.

Silco stepped back, watching as Singed inspected the injuries. The doctor was meticulous, his deft fingers peeling back torn fabric to expose the wounded shoulder. The blood still flowed, though less now, congealing into dark patches that Silco had to look away from momentarily to rein in his rising anger.

"The shoulder wound is deep but not fatal." Singed began, his voice controlled and almost indifferent. His eyes moved over the rest of her body, examining the cuts and bruises. "The bruising is of no concern. The nasal bleeding suggests severe exhaustion. But..."

Singed's rare furrowed brow immediately caught Silco's attention. He stepped closer again, leaning over the doctor, his gaze burning with an implicit threat.

"But what?" Silco demanded, his voice sharp as a blade.

"There's something unusual here." Singed said, pointing to her hands, still bearing the marks of the chains' grip. "The adrenaline levels are far beyond normal, even for a combat situation. This isn't just physical exhaustion. She's pushed past the natural limits of the human body. Forced the muscles, the organs... even the heart. Anyone else would have been dead hours ago."

"But she isn't." Silco interrupted, his voice cutting. His eyes gleamed with determination, and there was something else — something deeper, more dangerous. "She will not die."

Singed lifted his gaze to Silco, his eyebrows knit in what seemed to be a mix of irritation and fascination. "It's impressive, to be sure. However, if you want her to stay alive, certain... methods may be required."

"Do whatever is necessary." His voice was low and grave, laden with an authority that brooked no argument. He turned to Singed, who approached with his characteristic inhuman calm. "Everything. No restrictions."

Singed cast a brief, analytical glance at Silco, as if evaluating the intensity of that command. "I believe I can stabilize her quickly." he replied, his tone almost casual. He began preparing his instruments, pulling a metal table stocked with medical devices. Before doing anything further, however, he held up a syringe containing a greenish liquid, a sedative, and handed it to Sevika, though his eyes remained fixed on Silco.

"But it will be... grotesque." Singed said, with the cutting precision that defined him. "And considering your... close relationship with her, you might not handle it well."

Silco's teeth clenched tightly. The insinuation was obvious, and Singed seemed to take a certain amusement in testing his limits. But this was not the time for confrontations. The anger simmered beneath his skin, as always, but he controlled it, only because he had to. That didn't stop him from issuing a threat.

"Choose your words more carefully, doctor."

Sevika, always the voice of reason, stepped forward. "The longer you waste time here, Silco, the faster she dies." The syringe was still in her hand, and the weight of logic in her words was enough to make him stop.

Silco cast one last lethal glare at Singed before turning abruptly, grabbing and dragging a chair closer to the table. He sat down, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped in front of his face, as if holding his fury in check through sheer force of will. His eyes, however, never left her body. Sevika, meanwhile, positioned herself behind him, keeping a silent vigil over Silco as Singed began to remove the bullet from her shoulder.

Silco remained still, but the tension in his shoulders was palpable. He wouldn't look away, no matter what came next.

Somehow, this was all he could do for her now: be there. And in the grim silence of the laboratory, he made a silent promise. If she survived, those responsible for this would pay with interest. And if she didn't survive... well, the promise would still be fulfilled. In blood.

The sound of the small projectile hitting the metal tray was like a hammer striking Silco's already frayed nerves. He watched impassively, though the slight tremor in his leg betrayed the mounting tension in his body. Every meticulous movement of Singed was a test of his patience; every second seemed to drag on. The needle pierced her flesh with almost inhuman precision as the scientist stitched the wound. Each pull of the thread made her skin twitch, and Silco felt as though it were his own shoulder being sewn back together.

When Singed reached for the next syringe, Silco already knew what was coming.

The purple gleam of Shimmer in the cold laboratory light was unmistakable. Silco felt his muscles tense even further. He knew exactly what would come next—he had witnessed it countless times before, and he himself knew all too well what it felt like, even if only briefly. The agonized screams, the contorted flesh, the muscles locked in unbearable strain.

He saw the needle pierce her vein. The purple liquid slid in, merging with her blood, vanishing from sight. Silco gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the inevitable. He knew what was about to happen. The scream. The desperate gasping. The body writhing, struggling against the unstoppable.

But none of that happened.

The room remained silent, so heavy that even the sounds of Zaun in the early hours of the morning seemed distant, muffled. Silco leaned forward, his brow furrowed. He watched her chest, waiting for it to rise and fall erratically, to show any sign of reaction. But she remained still, like a statue carved from marble. Silco caught a glance at Singed, a rare expression of confusion crossing the scientist's face. This wasn't what was expected.

When the man leaned down to check her pulse, time seemed to slow. It was a simple gesture, something that should have been over in seconds. But Singed lingered too long, his fingers pressing against her neck as his face remained impassive, his gaze lost in some distant point.

"Speak, Singed!"

When Singed finally did speak, Silco wished he had stayed silent.

"No pulse."

For a moment, Silco remained frozen, his eyes fixed on her face. There was something terribly wrong about seeing her like this, so still, like a broken doll. Her breathing, something he'd always thought constant and immutable, was now gone. And with it, it felt as if all the air in the room had been drained away.

He stood up without thinking, the chair behind him toppling over with a dull thud. His hands found the metallic edge of the stretcher, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Silco leaned over her body, searching for any sign of life, any movement, but all he found was cruel inertia.

But soon the shock was swallowed by a wave of fury. The rage surged like an uncontrollable wildfire, consuming every rational thought. He lifted his gaze to Singed, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity, like embers fed by pure hatred. Somewhere deep in his mind, he knew it wasn't the scientist's fault. He knew Singed had done everything in his power. But in that moment, logic didn't matter. He needed a target, something to unleash the anger that threatened to devour him.

Moving quickly, Silco advanced. His hand was already outstretched, ready to grab Singed by the collar and drag him to the ground, but he froze mid-motion.

Something stopped him.

A firm pressure around his neck.

Her hand.

That same hand which, just seconds earlier, should have been limp and lifeless, now gripped him with superhuman strength. He felt her fingers tighten further, nearly crushing his windpipe. The straps that had once bound her to the gurney were now shredded, hanging like torn pieces of cloth. Her arm trembled slightly, as though acting purely on instinct, but the power emanating from that grip was brutal.

The world around him seemed to shrink, becoming an indistinct blur of shadows and cold lights. The crushing pressure around his throat was all Silco could register. Every breath was a losing battle, each attempt to draw air another step closer to despair. He had felt this before. The grip of fingers around his neck, cruel and unyielding, awakened memories he'd rather leave buried.

Vander.

For a brief moment, he wasn't in the stifling, tension-laden laboratory. He was back at the river, cold water lapping at his face as calloused, determined hands tried to wrest his life from him. Silco felt the same desperation, the same primal panic that had taught him a bitter lesson: survival required more than strength—it demanded conviction.

But this wasn't Vander.

Her eyes, once so alive, now glowed with a cold, empty white, as though some strange force had torn her soul away and left only a violent husk. There was nothing human in that gaze, no spark of the woman he had known. Only raw, merciless strength, now squeezing his throat with the promise of imminent death.

Her fingers were claws, digging into his flesh. Pain radiated in waves, but Silco didn't look away. Even as darkness began to creep into the edges of his vision, he refused to blink, to give in. A sudden movement to his side caught his peripheral attention, even as his sight started to blur. Sevika. He saw her move, syringe in hand, and in an instant, she plunged it into the woman's neck.

The effect was almost immediate. The grip on his throat loosened, and Silco fell forward, gasping, gulping air in desperate, ragged breaths. He pressed a hand to his neck, feeling the sharp pain from the pressure her fingers had left behind. His lungs burned as they tried to make up for the lack of oxygen. When he finally managed to lift his gaze, she was collapsing, her body going limp as if the string holding her up had been cut. The arm that had once gripped him with such force now hung lifelessly at her side.

"Interesting." Singed murmured, leaning closer for a better look, the gleam of fascination in his eyes growing stronger. "Perhaps the shimmer triggered some dormant reaction in her blood. That would explain the initial absence of vitals and the sudden attack. It might have acted as a reagent."

Silco raised his gaze from where he knelt, his hand still resting on his neck as he struggled to steady his breathing. At first, he didn't understand what Singed was trying to say.

"It's the first time I've seen anything like this." Singed continued, his tone almost fascinated. "No rejection. On the contrary... it's as if her body has assimilated the shimmer, incorporating it naturally."

Silco didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze fixed on her once more. Now, her chest rose and fell with regularity, the rigid lines of pain and tension on her face softened by stabilization. The contrast was almost disconcerting, considering the deplorable state in which she had arrived.

He then noticed Singed's gaze on him, an inquisitive glint that Silco knew all too well. "Sevika." Silco said abruptly. "Return to The Last Drop. Make sure things don't spiral out of control while I'm here."

Sevika hesitated for a moment, the concern evident on her face, but eventually complied. She let out a low sigh before leaving, the heavy metal door closing behind her with a resounding clang.

"You found her." said the other man in the room, almost accusatory. "I thought she'd been dead... for years."

"So did I." Silco replied, his voice lower, almost introspective. His eyes wandered back to her. "We were both wrong."

Singed picked up a scalpel and pointed to the stitches he had made on her shoulder.

"Look." Singed leaned in closer, his tone almost too clinical, as though he were discussing a machine. "The tissue is already healing, and I believe her internal organs are beginning the same process. If her body continues to react this way, it's likely she'll be fully functional in a few days. It all depends on how sustained the regeneration is. But I recommend administering small amounts of shimmer to stimulate what's already in her bloodstream."

Silco nodded slightly, the motion short and nearly imperceptible. It was always Singed's universal solution, yet the idea of introducing more of that substance into her body unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

Singed, of course, either didn't notice — or cared even less.

"I assume you'd like to start the research immediately, correct?" Singed leaned over to organize his instruments, his voice almost casual. "Now that we finally have access to her, I can collect some blood samples. If I start the research now, I should be able to replicate her genetic formula within a few months. A significant breakthrough, considering the potential it could unlock."

The words lingered in the air, laden with a weight Silco did not want to bear. He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, feeling the pressure pulsing in his temples. Years ago, he wouldn't have thought twice. Having access to what she represented was the key to something greater, something he desperately sought—to make Zaun into something Piltover feared. That was why he had searched for her in the first place.

And it was also why the crushing sense of failure when he heard of her death had felt like a blade piercing through his resolve. Days, weeks of anguish gnawed at him, but eventually, he moved on. He buried the weight of that obsession under layers of new plans, new strategies. Until that damned day at the brothel when he found her—like a ghost. Like a specter torn from a nightmare or a dream, she was there, alive.

That fragile, motionless body now seemed so distant from the storm raging in his mind. He was not a man prone to sentimentality or hesitation. Since taking control of Zaun, his choices had been driven by logic, necessity, and, above all, ambition. But now... now, it was different.

He had allowed something he had sworn never to do again: to care.

She should have been just another piece on the board, a means to an end. That's how Silco saw the world. Every person, every action, existed to serve him, to help him achieve his goals. But she defied that logic. There was something about her—her strength, her resilience, perhaps even her stubbornness—that had pierced through the walls he had so carefully built over the years.

And it infuriated him.

He couldn't afford to falter. There was too much at stake, and he knew that any emotional attachment was a weakness that could be exploited. Yet, as he watched her, her features softened by induced sleep, Silco felt a pang of something he couldn't define. It wasn't just concern; it was possessiveness. She wasn't just important to his plans. She was important to him.

"Begin the research." his voice came out firmer than he expected, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. "Keep this under strict secrecy. To anyone else, it's just medical monitoring until her full recovery."

Singed nodded without question, moving mechanically to prepare another syringe. The scientist didn't care about the emotional or political intricacies of the situation. To him, she was a case to solve, an experiment to conduct.

He didn't take his eyes off her. There was something almost ironic about how peaceful she looked now, lost in that dreamless sleep where nothing could reach her — not pain, not despair, not even him.

Silco was a selfish man. Ambitious. Those words had been used to describe him so many times that he had embraced them as part of who he was. But he was also a man of conviction. And that conviction drove him forward, compelled him to do whatever was necessary to achieve his goals, no matter the cost. He believed in it. Zaun needed to believe in it. And now, she would need to believe in it too.

He would convince her. He would show her that everything he did was justifiable, that the ends always justified the means. He would make her see that the true enemy wasn't him, but those who lived above — the wretched people of Piltover, who had oppressed Zaun for so long. They were responsible for everything. For her wounds, for the blood she had spilled, for the suffering that bound them together.

Silco leaned in, letting his fingers trace her face in a tender caress.

He would shape her. She would become something they feared. Something they could never destroy again.

Just like him.

[...]

Seven days.

Seven damned days.

Time seemed to have acquired a rhythm of its own, dragging on like dead weight. For Silco, every second since she had entered that comatose state had become a needle stabbing beneath his skin, a constant reminder of something slipping beyond his control.

Silco hadn't slept in four days. Sleep was a dispensable necessity, something he replaced with sheer determination and generous doses of whiskey and bitter coffee. His mind remained occupied with work—constant updates from Sevika and Singed, Jinx's occasional explosions that decimated critical parts of his operations, and the ever-growing pile of administrative problems that never seemed to shrink.

The weight of exhaustion seemed to triple as soon as Silco crossed the threshold of his office. The wood, so familiar, felt suffocating, as though it had absorbed his weariness. Each step toward the chair was labored, his muscles protesting the effort. When he finally sat, a heavy sigh escaped him, echoing in the silent room.

The lack of sleep was nothing new, but the last few days had tested the limits of his endurance. His mind, so sharp under normal circumstances, now felt like a whirlwind of disconnected thoughts, as if every idea had to wade through dense fog before taking shape. Fatigue pressed on his shoulders like an invisible weight, and irritation simmered beneath the surface, ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

He rubbed his temples with his fingers, pressing his eyes shut in a futile attempt to clear his mind. The torturously long nights blended together, with no clear beginning or end, and he wondered how much longer he could maintain this insane routine before his body finally gave out.

But there was no choice. Not while she remained in that state.

Thinking of her brought a wave of frustration and restlessness that he couldn't suppress. Her body was healed—the shimmer injections had done their job impeccably, regenerating even the smallest damages in record time. Singed, to Silco's annoyance, had been right about the treatment's effectiveness. But what Silco couldn't bear was the fact that, despite everything, she still hadn't woken up.

This waiting was wearing him down.

She now slept in his room—a practical decision, or at least that was what he told himself. Keeping her close made it easier to monitor any changes, allowed him to personally check every detail of her condition. But deep down, he knew it wasn't just that.

He had to admit, the sight of her there, in his bed, was something he would normally find... pleasant. Almost comforting. But under the current circumstances, the context made any such satisfaction impossible. She was there, but she wasn't.

Silco leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against the backrest. His gaze fixed on the ceiling for a moment, and slowly, the burden of keeping his eyes open became a weight he no longer cared to bear.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

The ceiling was bare, devoid of any detail that might catch your attention, yet you stared at it anyway. Your mind was active, buzzing with questions, while your body seemed trapped in a state of lethargy. It was as if you were floating somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, your thoughts insistently blending together. How long had it been since your last concrete memory? Days? The warm sensation of an embrace was the last thing that lingered before the void.

You tried to move your hands, feeling your fingers curl with some difficulty, as if every muscle had rusted. A deep inhale brought the scent of the room into sharp focus: alcohol, cigarettes, and something metallic in the air—a clear sign of where you were. Yes, The Last Drop.

With effort, you shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. At first, your legs didn't cooperate. Your initial attempt to stand was clumsy, your knees trembling under the weight of your own body. But you persisted, and on the second try, you managed to steady yourself.

Only then did you allow yourself to take in the room around you. It was functional, simple, devoid of personality or any attempt at making it feel welcoming. Minimal, practical furniture—just enough to serve its purpose. However, the balcony caught your attention. As you moved toward the opening, you realized it overlooked the interior of The Last Drop—directly above the club. The bar, the dance floor, every detail below seemed meticulously positioned to be visible to whoever owned this space.

And you had little doubt who that was.

Leaning against the railing, your eyes scanned the scene. Lights pulsed in rhythm with the muffled music that reached you even up here. A sense of familiarity and unease traveled down your spine. This wasn't a place you wanted to be, but it was the closest thing to "home" you had left.

You then moved to a nearby mirror to check your appearance. You lifted the hem of the shirt you were wearing, revealing the smooth surface of your stomach. No sign of cuts or bruises—not that you had really expected any. But something felt off. Your body felt... strange. As if something had changed, something beneath the surface you couldn't quite identify. It was as though everything either responded too quickly or too slowly, like a suit tailored improperly. You tried to dismiss the discomfort, chalking it up to the simple fact that you had nearly died—again.

It was almost comical, in a way. Every time it seemed like death had finally come to claim you, something or someone always pulled you back.

You moved toward the door—or what you assumed was one. There were no clear markings, just a discreet handle breaking the uniformity of the wall. The wood creaked faintly under your hand as you pushed it, revealing Silco's office in all its familiar, somber atmosphere.

And there he was, naturally, at the desk. Silco, slumped against the chair at an angle that looked uncomfortable even for someone like him, someone seemingly accustomed to discomfort. His head was tilted to the side, his eyes closed, his body relaxed in a way that was almost unsettling. He was asleep.

You stepped into the room with light, almost soundless footsteps. Your bare feet made no noise, as if you were afraid of breaking the rare moment of calm. Only after stepping away from the door did you notice something that had previously gone unnoticed: the entrance to the room was nothing more than a false wall. A small, discreet pull handle blended into the surrounding irregularities. If you hadn't just come through it, you never would've noticed.

Clever.

Close to the office, functional for someone like Silco, but also strategic. A possible escape route, if needed.

Your eyes returned to him, caught in a sleep that seemed as rare as gold. He'd also been asleep the last time you saw him. You moved closer, hesitant, with the words he'd spoken when you fainted in the warehouse lingering in your mind like a persistent shadow. During those fleeting moments when you were semi-conscious, although it was more like sleeping, you could still remember. It was as though he was there, speaking to you. Not in dreams, but on the threshold of reality.

You could swear you heard him.

Silco had spoken, perhaps believing his words were nothing more than echoes lost in the void, but they stayed with you. In moments of delirium, you felt the weight of sentences laden with a concern he would never openly admit. And on a few rare occasions, you could almost swear you'd felt a touch on your face. Hesitant, fleeting, like a breeze barely noticeable before it vanished.

He had been an anchor. While you fought not to succumb to your own mind, he had remained there. And now, as you watched him sleep, that realization felt overwhelming.

You stopped a few steps away from the chair, unsure of what to do. Part of you wanted to touch his shoulder, wake him, tell him you were fine — or at least try to convince him of that. But the other part, the one still harboring resentment and distrust, hesitated. So, you decided to come up with a third option. But, of course, something went wrong.

It all happened too quickly for you to react. One second, you were adjusting the strand of hair that insisted on falling over his face, and the next, your hand was being gripped tightly, your body shoved against the desk. The impact reverberated down your spine, and something cold and sharp pressed dangerously against your throat.

Silco stared at you, his eyes blazing with fury, but there was something else there, an emotion hidden behind the intensity. Anger? Fear? Whatever it was, it swirled in a chaotic storm as wild as his uneven breathing. And then, as if an invisible thread had snapped, something shifted. The anger in his eyes was replaced by palpable shock, and then by something deeper: realization. The blade's pressure on your throat eased, still present but without the imminent threat from before.

A smile formed on your lips, defiant and slightly teasing, even as your heart pounded in your chest. "Is that how you welcome someone?"

Your hand, ignoring the danger, rose again, and your fingers gently brushed over the scars on his face. The rough texture of his skin told stories you didn't know, yet there was a curiosity in your touch, a silent acceptance.

"You haunted me even in my sleep, you know?" you continued, your tone softer now, almost a whisper. "I didn't know you were the talkative type when no one's looking."

And yet, Silco remained silent, his muscles taut as if he were waging an internal battle.

Then, with a movement that nearly stopped your heart, he drove the dagger into the desk, the blade embedding itself in the wood mere inches from your head. The sound echoed through the room, the vibration rippling across your skin like distant thunder. You opened your mouth to protest, ready to comment on how close he'd come to hitting you, but the words died in your throat.

Shock froze you for a second. The kiss was urgent, hungry, as if he were desperate for something only you could provide. His strength kept you pinned against the desk, one hand braced beside your head while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. You felt his body against yours — the weight, the heat. He kissed you like a man on the edge of despair, as if that moment was the only thing keeping him alive. His lips moved against yours with an almost overwhelming intensity, stealing the air from your lungs before you even realized you were breathless.

He tasted of restrained fury and something profoundly human, something he likely wouldn't admit even to himself. Your hands instinctively rose to his shoulders, gripping tightly as you tried to reclaim some semblance of control over the situation.

But there was no control here. Not in this moment.

His hand slid up your back, his fingers pressing against your skin with a firmness that left no room for doubt. He was everything you could feel—the heat, the strength, the overwhelming weight of his presence. And yet, there was something more. Something that wasn't anger or need, but something deeper, more visceral.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Silco pulled his mouth away from yours, but not completely. He kept his forehead resting against yours, your irregular breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. The heat of the moment still hung in the air as he fought to regain a shred of composure. His eyes, those unmistakable, vibrant irises, opened—cloudy and unfocused—staring at you with an intensity that almost seemed to burn.

"Talking too much, dove." he murmured hoarsely, his voice rough and gravelly, still heavy with the intensity of the kiss. "Not that I expected anything less from you."

A faint, ironic smile tugged at the corners of his lips, revealing the arrogant bastard you knew so well. But there was something else there. An unexpected softness, a rare tenderness that caused faint wrinkles to form at the edges of his eyes, breaking the usual coldness of his expression.

You rolled your eyes and let out a low laugh, the provocation slipping from your lips with ease.

"And this is the part where you admit you missed me."

Silco's eyes flickered at your teasing, a mix of surprise and something deeper, almost gentle, flashing in their depths. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at you, one brow arching in an expression that was equal parts exasperation and amusement.

"Missed you?" his voice carried a tone of disbelief that fooled no one. "You should be grateful you're still alive, you reckless woman."

Despite the harshness of the words, there was no real severity in them. On the contrary, there was genuine relief beneath his firm facade—a relief intertwined with something that resembled fear and gratitude. All of it mingling together in a cocktail of emotions that Silco probably didn't know—or didn't want—to express.

His hand, still firm on your hip, didn't ease its grip, as though he needed it to ensure you wouldn't disappear again. But the other rose to your jawline, tracing a gentle line along it with his thumb. It was an almost reverent touch, contrasting with the strength of his hold. His eyes traced every curve of your face, lingering on the details as if he wanted to commit them to memory, perhaps afraid this chance might not come again.

"I've got a pretty good guardian angel."

You teased back, making Silco let out a low, bitter laugh, shaking his head slightly.

"I think I might have missed your insolent mouth." The arrogance returned to his eyes, but this time it carried a peculiar warmth. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against the sensitive skin of your ear as he murmured, "But don't think for a second that means I'll go easy on you, dove."

His words were followed by a light nip at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the delicate skin. The gesture carried a hint of playfulness but also an intimacy that spoke of something deeper, something the two of you shared without needing to put it into words. There was a charge in the air, a mutual understanding that said more than any conversation could. He was Silco, a complicated man, and you knew that nothing with him would ever be simple. This tenderness hid something. It was laying the groundwork for something you already knew you'd hate.

"I wouldn't expect any less from you."

You replied with a touch of provocation, your words carefully chosen to echo his from moments earlier. The slight smirk on your lips was defiant, but you knew your attitude would only irritate him more. And it worked. Silco sighed, a deep and exasperated sound that seemed to convey everything without the need for words.

"For God's sake."

He pulled back slightly, relieving just enough of the weight pressing down on you for you to catch your breath, but not enough to allow any chance of escape. The arm he braced against the desk beside your head felt like a barrier, while the other rested near your waist, a constant, dominating presence. It was a minimal concession, but an intentional one—a reminder of who still held control of the situation.

The two of you remained like that for a long moment, the silence broken only by the uneven rhythm of your breathing and the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the office. Silco's eyes were locked onto yours, and it was impossible to ignore the intensity in his gaze, as if he was trying to extract answers from you with sheer will alone.

Finally, he broke the silence.

"Why did you run?"

The question came out low, almost a whisper, but it carried a tension that didn't need volume to be felt. He tilted his head slightly to the side, his expression a mixture of frustration and something you couldn't quite place. Perhaps disappointment.

"Why would you put yourself in such danger, knowing full well the risks? You're no defenseless damsel, so don't try to tell me you did it by accident." His tone was firm, but not without reason. "You made a choice, and you chose to leave. So I want to know why."

You knew this moment would come, but you never imagined it would be like this. The situation was so absurdly contradictory — an interrogation at his desk, with your bodies in alarmingly close proximity — that the context almost distracted from the implicit danger in his words. Silco had always been a man of control, and the idea that you had defied him to the point of running seemed to deeply unsettle him. A small part of you felt a flicker of satisfaction.

You opened your mouth, trying to formulate a coherent response, but nothing came. Part of you knew he was right. If you hadn't made that impulsive decision, the abduction would never have happened. Ultimately, you were to blame for putting yourself in this position. But that didn't absolve him of his share of the guilt.

"I don't know..." you said casually, diverting your gaze from his eyes for a brief moment. "A momentary lapse of judgment that went horribly wrong. That's all..."

The instant you saw the shift in Silco's expression, you knew you'd made a mistake. It wasn't a subtle change. It was as though a silent storm had swept through him, extinguishing any remaining trace of patience. The grip on your waist tightened, and you felt his fingers press into your skin like sharp claws — a silent warning. The glint in his eyes was unmistakable, a mix of disdain and admonishment, as if he were deciding, in that very moment, what kind of lesson he would teach you for your evasive answer. You knew this was only the beginning.

"I don't appreciate lies." he said, his voice smooth as silk but laced with a hidden edge. It was the kind of tone that made your stomach twist, a subtle warning that you were treading on thin ice. He leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against your skin, and you could feel the implicit threat in the proximity. "Least of all from you."

The weight of his words hit harder than you expected, their meaning hanging in the air, inescapable. He was dead serious.

"The last person who tried to deceive me..." Silco paused, his tone dripping with cruel irony. "Didn't meet a very pleasant end."

The pause he allowed was long enough for the gravity of his words to sink in, settling in your chest like a heavy stone. His grip on your waist grew even tighter, as if to reinforce the point that he could squeeze harder, both literally and figuratively.

"I'd hate for history to repeat itself."

You stared at him, refusing to look away, even as the weight of the tension between you grew heavier. Silco had this almost supernatural ability to turn every word and gesture into a minefield. The hostility that always seemed to simmer beneath the surface between the two of you was beginning to emerge — quiet but undeniable. It was a violence that didn't need words or actions to manifest; it existed in every glance, in every movement, and in the deafening silence that filled the space between sentences.

It was like a shadow in the corner of the room. Always there, always present. You knew it wouldn't disappear, no matter how many lights were turned on. If anything, the darkness only seemed to give it more space to grow.

"Are you threatening me, Silco?"

Silco's smile was a spectacle in itself, but not in any comforting or reassuring way. It wasn't a smile born of genuine humor, much less kindness. A tight pull of his thin lips, almost mechanical in precision, exposing his chipped teeth as each word left his mouth. There was something about the way that smile lingered on his face that sent a chill down your spine—a visceral reminder of who he was.

"Am I?" He tilted his head slightly to the side, almost innocent, but the sarcasm in his voice gave him away. "Oh, I thought I was merely offering a simple observation, dove. You know, a little advice, from one... friend to another."

He pronounced "friend" with a clarity that felt unbearable, savoring every syllable as if the word itself was laced with poison. The sound of it carried acidic venom, a curse disguised as courtesy.

"Friends?" you teased, tilting your chin upward and leaning closer to him again, letting the weight of the suggestion hang in the air between you. Silco didn't back away. He allowed the proximity, but the gesture was accompanied by an almost imperceptible movement: the hand that had rested on your waist slid away, as if he already knew what was about to happen.

Your eyes caught the detail, but you refused to be deterred. The hand resting on the table moved subtly, almost instinctively, until it neared the dagger Silco had embedded in the wood moments earlier.

"I thought we were past this part."

And then, in one swift, precise motion, you pulled the dagger from the wood and spun it, pointing it directly at his neck. The blade's gleam caught the room's light for a split second, but any sense of triumph you might have felt evaporated just as quickly. Before you could even process what was happening, you felt the unmistakable cold steel of a gun barrel pressing against your chin.

"Getting predictable, dove? I thought you were better than that."

Silco's voice was a low, sharp whisper, dripping with that infuriating confidence that always seemed to follow him. He tilted the revolver slightly, forcing your chin higher. The gesture was as casual as it was cruel, a clear demonstration that he was in control of the situation, even with the blade dangerously close to his throat.

But you didn't back down. On the contrary, your fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger, and you felt the blade press even closer against Silco's neck. One slight movement, and it would all be over. You saw his throat bob as he swallowed, the subtle tension in his muscles betraying that, no matter how composed his face remained, he could feel the danger.

"You're far too confident, aren't you?" Your voice came out low, carrying an almost theatrical calm. You pressed the blade harder against him, feeling the faint resistance of his skin. "I could kill you right now... you saw what I did in my apartment, didn't you?"

"You could." Silco replied, tilting his head slightly as if offering you a better angle. "But you won't."

"And how are you so sure of that?"

Silco, being Silco, seemed to revel in the danger. He leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his body against yours. Your heart raced, and it wasn't just from the threat of the weapon pointed at you. It was the entire moment: the suffocating proximity, the piercing gaze, the way he commanded every second of the situation.

"You don't hesitate." he whispered, his lips dangerously close to yours. "So, I wonder, why did you hesitate that night?"

The words hit you like a blow, catching you completely off guard. He knew. How, you had no idea, but he knew what had happened that night, just before your escape. You blinked, trying to process it, but before you could form a question, the distinct click of a revolver being cocked snapped you back to reality.

And then he fired. Without hesitation.

The dry click echoed in your ears, and your body flinched instinctively, taking a moment longer to realize there was no bullet in the gun. But Silco didn't seem to care; in fact, a faint smile formed on his lips, as if he'd merely proven a point.

"You had my loaded gun and no one to stop you. What made you change your mind?"

"How did you—"

"Just answer."

Curiously, something inside you gave way. Without fully understanding why, you let the dagger fall from your hand, abandoning the weight of the threat you'd raised against him. Perhaps it was the fact that Silco's gun no longer seemed like a real intent to harm, but rather a statement of control. That gesture, that silent lesson he always managed to deliver, disarmed you in a way you hated.

You weren't one to stay silent, much less back down. You always had a retort ready, a sharp provocation, something to keep the dynamic balanced. But now, in this moment, there simply wasn't the will to act like a defiant brat. Not when the tone of the conversation felt so serious, so charged with tension.

Still, the feeling was uncomfortable. You were on dangerous ground—not in the line of fire anymore, but treading on thin ice, and you knew that any wrong word could send it all crashing down.

"I... I don't know." You sighed deeply, turning your head to the side, unable to meet his gaze any longer. The admission slipped from your lips with a weight that felt disproportionate to the lightness of the words. "But this time, I'm telling the truth."

That sentence felt far too intimate, more intimate even than the position you were in.

"I wanted to do it... but I couldn't. I just... couldn't. It seemed easy the first time, but now... I froze. And I have no idea why."

It was a lie. You knew exactly why. But some truths were better kept locked away, hidden behind unbreakable walls.

Silco remained silent, and then, slowly, he moved the revolver to the side, setting it down with a gesture that seemed almost casual. He took a few steps back, finally releasing the tension between you. It was a relief, and yet, an unsettling emptiness. You took the opportunity to sit on the edge of the table, the weight of your own confusion now resting heavily on your shoulders.

"Is that what caused the outburst that made you run?"

"In part. I just wanted... to disappear." You admitted, though the bitter taste of honesty was almost unbearable. Part of you hated to confess it, but there was no room for lies now. "To get away from you." The words came out softer than you intended, almost as if confessing a sin to the devil himself.

You expected an outburst of anger, perhaps some sarcastic remark, but what came was completely different. Silco leaned in slightly and raised his hand, gently touching your chin with a disconcerting tenderness. You instinctively braced yourself for a rough grip, something that matched his cold, ruthless demeanor, but the touch was soft, almost... careful.

He forced your face to lift, compelling your eyes to meet his. The look he cast in your direction was rigid, controlled, but there was something deeper beneath that mask of ice. It wasn't anger that you found there, but an almost palpable disappointment, a kind of emotion that seemed misplaced in a man as dangerous as him. It was that, more than anything, that made your heart race—not out of fear, but something far harder to define.

"Don't ever do that again." The words were spoken with a chilling calmness, but the tone was absolute, unquestionable. It wasn't a request; it was a command.

You should resist. Every fiber of your being screamed at you not to submit, to hold onto some shred of control over your own narrative. But the moment his gaze pierced through yours, any trace of resistance was crushed. You simply nodded, too drained to defy him.

When Silco extended his hand, you hesitated for a moment, but soon took it. The gesture was surprisingly natural, almost intimate. He pulled you up to your feet and, in silence, led you back to that false wall. The groan of the door as it opened echoed in the space, but his attention never wavered from you.

"You need to rest." His voice was more controlled now, but it still carried a note of authority that couldn't be ignored. "Your body's been through too much. I don't want you passing out again."

"And you? You need sleep too. You look like you haven't closed your eyes in days." You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. "Besides, this room is yours, not mine."

Silco raised an eyebrow, his expression slightly skeptical as if weighing your words. "Are you suggesting I sleep with you?"

"Well..." you began, tilting your head and letting the smile spread across your lips. "You kind of already do."

The tone was unapologetically playful, a deliberate provocation you knew he wouldn't let slide without a reaction. Silco's expression shifted, and he huffed, rolling his eyes. Despite his apparent irritation, something in his demeanor betrayed him—he wasn't truly bothered. Maybe, just maybe, he was even amused, though he would never admit it.

"But yes, I do want that."

He remained still for a moment, the silence hanging heavy between you like a drawn curtain. Then, without a word, Silco stepped forward. You felt the immediate shift in the atmosphere—subtle but undeniable. Your body reacted instinctively, stepping back as he advanced. Silco didn't need words to convey the control he wielded. You held his gaze, but it was hard not to get lost in the sharp contrast between the blue and orange of his eyes. It was like staring into an abyss and feeling a strange, reckless urge to leap.

It was only then that you noticed the low, definitive click of the door locking behind him.

Silco stopped in front of you, his presence filling the space like a looming shadow—threatening, yet strangely captivating. He tilted his head slightly, assessing your expression with an almost clinical interest, but his eyes... his eyes told a different story. You had the distinct sensation that you had walked willingly into some sort of trap, one you had set for yourself, heedless of the consequences. And he seemed ready to savor every second of it.

Part 11

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yes, we will have smut in the next chapter, just wait. Now with all the information thrown in the previous chapters, have you figured out why Silco was interested in her years ago? I made a small arrangement on how the story will unfold and in theory it will have approximately 30 chapters, but it can change either more or less. Which means we will have a long way to go.

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[theresattrpgforthat]

My roommate made a joke about wanting to play a sonic the hedgehog tabletop game. Is there a ttrpg for that?

THEME: Sonic the Hedgehog.

Your roommate is about to be surprised because there isn't just a single Sonic ttrpg. There's at least seven.

Speeding Bullets!, by Princess Grace.

In SPEEDING BULLETS!, you play as three to five intrepid, plucky anthropomorphic animals on a quest to save the day- or end it. It’s up to you, some six-sided dice, and your beloved SO (Shadow Operator) to determine the fate of the world.

SPEEDING BULLETS! is a single-page Lasers and Feelings hack where your stats are FAST! (hero) and GUN! (antihero). You and your friends will create Sonic OCs, randomly assign them backstories like "Dark Warrior's Advent" or "Purification via Ruination" from a table of 326 genders, and put them up against insurmountable odds, Dr. Robotnik, and their own rivals.

Lasers and Feelings games all have the same basic premise: you have one number that represents your abilities in two different stat, in this case, Fast and Gun. Rolling above the number is good for one stat, while rolling below the number is good for the other. Roll your number exactly? Then something special happens.

What Speeding Bullets takes from Sonic is rivalries, a perpetual quest to defeat Dr. Robotnik, and an alternate suggestion for playing as your character's rivals, taking references from Dark Mirror. The game also comes with a Gender Table, a roll-table that appears to reference every Shadow the Hedgehog ending.

Rainbow Runaways, by UkeleleBard.

You are an animal living in a human’s world. The humans have found you, and the military will pursue you with every weapon, vehicle, and trap they have at their disposal. You’ve only got one option. RUN!

Rainbow Runaways was created for the Caltrop Core game jam, and runs on the Caltrop Core engine by Titanomachy. You can play it Solo, or with a GM, with a deck of cards and a 1-3 d4's per player.

The goal is simple: escape the military by reaching the edge of the city. You track this by using a clock with 12 slices. The deck of cards represents the actions of the military as they pursue you. Your character is composed of three stats and three techniques.

All in all, Rainbow Runaways is succinct and to the point. I think one of the benefits of fan games like this is that much of the lore is already assumed to be known by the players, and as a result reading the game book can be much quicker, since you just need to learn the rules.

Edge Hedge Arena (Beta), by ANIM TTRPGS (@anim-ttrpgs).

Throughout all human history, people have been given names. You thought yours was only mean to be used as an identifier, but you were wrong. Your name was chosen carefully, with the conscious (or subconscious) knowledge that one day it would inextricably link you to a champion of immense power who is also a hedgehog. This “game” serves as a set of instructions for revealing this mighty guardian, so they can defend your honor and name in a battle to the freaking death!

Still in the early stages, Edge Hedge Arena is partially a battle game. This is firmly a pvp game, using your weapons, powers and style to give you an advantage in the arena. However, first and foremost, Edge Hedge Arena feels like a bit of a love letter to the Sonic Fandom, more than Sonic itself. When you make a character, you actually have to search for art of a hedgehog OC online!

Chaos & Control, by farmergadda (@farmergadda).

Chaos & Control is a hack of Lasers & Feelings by John Harper, inspired by a similar hack, Steel & Spirit by Occupied Hex. In this game, Players will take on the roles of colorful, cartoony animal people and go on adventures through fantastic locations, facing off against maniacal foes, and looking really cool while doing so.

Another Lasers & Feelings hack, Chaos & Control adds the use of character types to further differentiate your characters, as well as tokens that can be used to trigger powerful moves unique to your character. For the GM, there's a number of roll-tables to help generate locations, problems, badniks, and so much more.

Rings and Running Shoes, by RingsandRunningShoes.

Welcome to Sonic's World - A universe unique and beyond what you know from the SEGA games! Where, inspired by Sonic and other heroes of the franchise, you and your friends will create a team of heroes that will save the world from the forces of evil!

The system is based on PbtA with heavy modification to fit the care-free power fantasy of Sonic's Adventures, but anyone familiar with the core game, should know the basics. On a very surface level the gameplay loop consists of alternating between "Peace and Quiet" and "Stages" sections. During P&Q your group will rest, prepare for the Stage, roleplay and develop your characters.

One of the benefits for PbtA games is playbooks. Playbooks keep most of the information that a player will need to know in one place, allowing you to choose a character type based on vibes, and then make selections within just the options provided to you. It's excellent for minimizing choice paralysis, and it can make teaching the game simpler, as each player has a number of references to the rules that are specific to their character in front of them at all times.

Mobius, by Ioan Davies-John.

Mobius is a fan-made tabletop wargame based on Archie Comics’ 24-year run of Sonic the Hedgehog, allowing you to fight Large Skirmishes in the gone-but-not-forgotten take on Sonic's World!

It features stats for all your favorite heroes and villains, and rules to suit every play-style from hordes of Eggman Robots to squads of elite Freedom Fighters. There’s an ever-evolving plethora of army books and supplements to represent the many factions within the pages of the world’s most way past cool comic!

Mobius is a tactical wargame, focused on moving little guys around on a map and taking down your opponents. There's plenty of minutiae here for folks who love figuring out what strategies work for them, including various extra rules, as well as 14 different factions to choose from. If you're not sure who you can play this with, the designer has a link to their community discord on their Itch page!

If you want something a little different in theme but similar in spirit, you might interested in Davies-John's other sonic game, a naval wargame set in the same universe: Egg Fleet!

Radical Spin, by Will Uhl (@raffitheowl)

Will you beat your evil twins, stop the robot army, and survive the perils of high school?

Radical Spin is a micro-RPG about melodramatic action animals. Hedgehog heroes, will you beat your evil twins, stop the robot army, and survive the perils of high school? Live out your bad fanfic fantasies today!

I don't know much about this game, but based on what I can find out about it, it seems to be designed to shine when you're exploring Sunday Morning Cartoon-style plots. I'm expecting characters with abilities that are larger than life, as well as a fairly simple rule set that's easy to pick up and learn without much trouble.

You might also be interested in...

My Silly Games recommendation post, which has a link to a Sonic game called Spindash!

I've also got a Ko-Fi account where you can leave me a tip if you like what I do!

[wileys-russo]

Mary Earps, "will you marry me"..."we're already married", nightclub/party/some sort of night out

marry me II m.earps

you weren't able to go to the game because of work but you'd heard how well mary played, score checking as often as you could when your boss wasn't looking though you knew he really wouldn't mind all that much being a united supporter himself.

finally on your afternoon break you'd had a chance to call her, getting the full recap on everything including what sounded like a rocket of a goal from both maya and ella, united going up 4-0 in one of their best games of the season.

it killed you to have to cut your wife off mid story but with only a couple minutes left mary was more than understanding as you promised to meet her with the team once you finished, not thinking you'd make it in time for dinner but they had plans to go out afterwards to a karaoke bar.

"-and i promise not to sing a single abba song until you arrive beautiful!" mary promised and you could hear the grin in her voice as you softened, the two of you having met when a rather tipsy mary had mistaken you for a friend and tried to sweep you off your feet to have a dance to voulez vouz years ago.

now it was your unspoken song, always making sure to get it requested whenever you went out with friends, the two of you in your own little bubble as you'd giggle and swing one another around like the lovesick idiots you really were.

telling her you loved her and again how proud you were of yet another clean sheet under her belt you ended the call and hurried back to your desk where a large number of emails awaited you.

you were somewhat grateful for how busy your afternoon was given that it made the rest of your shift fly past, your timer going to clock out jolting you from your chair almost as you saved the doc you were working on and shut down your monitor.

collecting your things you said your goodbyes to your coworkers and headed out, wishing you'd bought a second jacket as you speed walked from the office to the tube, settling a little once you were inside and headed home.

it was the same story as you power walked from the station to the bus, and then from the bus stop to your flat you shared with your girlfriend. your new years resolution this year had been to use public transport to get to work at least twice a week.

given the business you worked for operated seven days a week and you only worked five including like today the occasional weekend it was going quite well so far, even if also like today it was that little bit harder with the weather.

by the time you let yourself inside it was nearing half past seven, and still needing a shower and some food you sent your wife a message indicating as much with a promise to keep her updated on your eta.

you melted at her reply text, following her instructions and going to the fridge where indeed she'd already cooked you dinner earlier this morning, the food just needing to be heated up.

not wanting to chance spilling food on anything you ate before you showered, putting on the highlights of the match and watching on proudly with a smile, cheering as though you didn't already know the outcome.

finishing up you rinsed and stacked your bowl and the tupperware in the dishwasher which was nearly full, tossing a tablet in and clicking it on as you thanked your wife for the meal and ducked into the shower.

by the time you showered and changed, finally looking presentable, it was nearing nine and mary had already informed around twenty minutes ago they were headed to the bar from the restaurant and she'd see you there.

ordering an uber you slipped on your shoes and grabbed a jacket, greeting the driver but otherwise remaining quiet, grateful that he picked up on that and just turned the radio on as you messaged mary you'd arrived.

thanking the uber you stepped out and joined the small line to enter the bar, grateful for the jacket around your shoulders as a sharp breeze whipped through the night air.

you frowned a little when mary hadn't texted back, but assuming she just hadn't heard her phone you'd barely stepped foot into the bar before a couple of bodies tumbled into you.

"ya made it!" you laughed as millie lifted you into the air in a tight hug and ella hugged your other side, the two having spotted you enter from the bar as they hustled you back over with them to grab a drink.

you greeted a few more of the girls and their partners as you waited, looking around for your wife but unable to spot her. "you might want to prepare yourself babe." maya warned patting your shoulder and handing you your drink as you gave her a curious look.

"dumb and dumber here have been feeding mary shots so she's...a little bit tipsy." maya smiled apologetically as you chuckled, knowing from her tone that was clearly an understatement as you followed her back to the booths where most of the team was hanging around.

"hello beautiful!" you heard her before you saw her, the taller girl crashing into you as maya hurried to grab your drink from your hand or else you'd have wound up wearing it as your wife practically tackled you down onto the lounge.

"mary! watch out ya idiot." katie laughed with a shake of her head. "hi baby, having fun?" you smiled, taking your drink back off maya and settling it down on the table as mary sat up and nodded, arm draped securely over your shoulders.

"so much fun!" she giggled and you grinned at the bright red flush across her cheeks you knew only appeared when she'd had far too much to drink. "mm i can see that, whats this i hear about shots?" you teased sipping at your own drink.

"mary!" you groaned as you barely had a mouthful before the goalkeeper had taken it from your hand and downed it, her only response being to grab your face and smash her lips to yours causing your neck to warm and wolf whistles to ring out around you.

"okay okay! down girl." you laughed pushing at her chest as she again chased your lips with a grin. "no i missed ya, c'mere." she tugged at your dress as you shook your head. "you owe me a drink earps." you warned booping her nose with a grin.

"mary watch out!" you laughed again as she practically leapt over you and made a beeline for the bar, dragging millie along with her. "no more shots for her turner i mean it!" you yelled after them as millie only winked and you sighed.

turns out, there was more shots.

a couple of hours had passed since you'd arrived and having sung three times now both with your wife or friends you were ready to call it a night, mary barely able to hold her head up.

"i'm gonna get us an uber. can you help me get her up?" you chuckled to leah and millie, millie who had sobered up scarily fast considering you'd watched her do shot after shot with your wife who was near passed out on your shoulder.

"maz, baby. come on up we get, we're gonna head home!" you shook her lightly as her eyes fluttered open and she mumbled something incomprehensible and slumped back down. nodding to millie and leah once the uber was booked the girls helped mary up who thankfully could mostly walk herself once she was.

"for earps? thank you." you checked with the uber, leah shoving mary in the back as you sat down beside her and buckled her in, thanking both girls and waving them off as they made their way back inside.

"are we on the tube?" mary lifted her head squinting her eyes with a slur making you chuckle. "no you muppet, we're in an uber." you rubbed her knee as she hummed and collapsed into you with a grunt.

thankfully the bar wasn't too far from your flat as the uber pulled up outside and you gently pushed mary to sit up, exiting the car and quickly making your way to her door.

opening it you grunted as the girl near fell out, the sudden drop at least waking her up enough to allow you to pull her out of the car, closing the door and stumbling your way up the driveway.

"come on babe, work with me here!" you groaned as she leaned her much taller body into you with a moan and a mumble of something that wasn't english, your fingers freezing and struggling with the key in the door as you finally popped it open.

"down we go!" you dropped your wife onto the sofa as she giggled and blinked a few times, sighing as you hurried to the bedroom to change.

grabbing clothes for mary you joined her again in the living room rolling your eyes as she was now properly passed out, mouth hanging open and all.

"maz, maz baby." you crouched down beside her and poked at her as she groaned and swatted you away. "come on, we need to get you changed you idiot!" you laughed, shaking her a bit harder now as she awoke and you helped her groggily sit up.

"oh hello darling." mary slurred, grabbing your hands and tugging you down to sit on her lap. "when did you get here? i missed ya." she mumbled making you laugh and shake your head, well prepared to tease her relentlessly for this tomorrow.

you helped her get dressed, ignoring the comments about buying her dinner first and her little teenage giggles as with absolutely no assistance from your wife you managed to get her changed.

"you're so so beautiful." mary smiled lazily pulling you down onto her lap again making you sigh but crack a smile. "will you marry me? i think you should marry me." the goalkeeper grinned with hooded eyes making you laugh.

"we're already married my love." you grabbed her hand and held up your own, the taller girl squinting at the rings which sat on them. "oh lovely! tick that off the list then." she ticked mid air as you rolled your eyes.

"come on you big dope, time to go to bed with your wife."

[katyaromanoffpetrova]

Trojan Horse (crime boss AU: part II)

Natasha gets sent on her most dangerous mission yet: go undercover in the drug operation of the biggest crime empress in the world and take her down. But as they grow closer, she starts to forget about the mission more and more...

• Natasha Romanoff x Fem!OC (Katya Petrova) second pov on Ao3 • Wordcount: 3k • Warnings: mentions of crimes, drugs and sex •A/N: if you didn't get it already, this will be a slowburn :) Also, I added this fic to Ao3 written in the second pov. So if you'd rather read 'you' than Katya, click here Masterlist Do not repost my work as your own or translate my work!!

Life at Katya's estate was much calmer than Natasha expected it to be. A serenity enveloped the beautiful property day and night. Birds chirped in the early morning dew, and the evening sun cast an orange glow over the white buildings in the late afternoon. Without the criminal activities, this could have been a holiday destination, hidden away in the gorgeous forest.

Natasha had started to settle into a routine. For the past two weeks, she and the other women who chose to stay—nine in total—had been in training. Getting stronger, handling and firing weapons, learning the ins and outs of the business, and what would be expected of them as one of Katya's Ghosts—the name fondly given to her employees. 

Most days were the same. Natasha would wake up in her single room in one of the outbuildings, eat breakfast in the adjacent dining room slash kitchen, spend a whole day training, have dinner from the live-in cook, and then spend her free evening reading or writing before going to bed. 

There wasn't much she could do yet. In this stage of the mission, it was mostly important to lay low and gain trust. Go with the flow, do nothing that could raise suspicions. So she followed orders, kept her head down, and trained eagerly.

Only when less eyes were watching her around the clock, could she start to reach out. Build relationships, work her way into places that were restricted to her now. She knew that the best place to find the information she was after was the house. And Katya. Getting closer to her was the main objective. 

So far, Natasha hadn't really had the chance to learn a lot about her. Katya only showed herself occasionally. She liked to go on a stroll around the property after dinner, sauntering around alone, chatting up the people she ran into. Sometimes, she stopped by training to see how her new employees were doing. 

Natasha learned that she was very much a hands-on kind of boss. Katya knew all her employees' names, chatted with them like they were her friends, and cared well for them. The bedrooms were clean, the beds comfortable, the food rich. She shared her wealth, because they were the reason she was still alive.

In many ways, it felt like one big family. There was no hostility among the girls. They laughed and joked like sisters, bonded by trauma and fierce loyalty to the one who saved them from it. Because all of them came from human trafficking transports just like the one Natasha was on. 

Some spoke to each other in their native language, but usually, Natasha caught pieces of broken English and thick accents. 

Somehow, it was beautiful. Their pasts didn't matter here. The color of their skin, the culture and traditions they came from… And not a single man in sight. 

Katya had built the strongest army possible. These women would not hesitate to give their own lives for hers. Because she was the reason they still had one.

The sun burned down brightly on the shooting range. Natasha was grateful for the sail canopy above her head, because her pale, freckled skin wasn't made for this weather. Gunshots popped off around her, the "teacher"—which was actually just one of Katya's oldest, most talented employees—pacing behind the row of rookies to give them instructions.

Natasha barely focused on her shooting. She could shoot a moving target in her sleep, let alone a cardboard one that was barely twenty feet away from her. Child's play. 

Instead, she kept a watchful eye on her surroundings. The shooting range was on the far edge of the property, but it didn't mean there was nothing to see. She tried to identify walking patterns of the guards, a building they were particularly protective of, secret passageways... 

It's how she spotted Katya first.

The woman was dressed in a new outfit. Natasha had never seen her wear the same thing twice. This time, she'd traded the darker colors for something more neutral. Sand colored linen pants and a slouchy white tee. Katya made everything look classy.

Natasha's heart skipped an anxious beat as the brunette came closer, her brown loafers crunching the gravel. It was time to be on her A-game. No slouching. 

She straightened her back, and so did the other women down the line, the gunshots halting without anyone telling them to stop.

"Keep going." Katya smiled. An easy smile that meant to settle their nerves. "Pretend I'm not here."

That was easier said than done. Natasha was hyper aware of her presence as she started to walk behind the line of shooters, studying them silently as the shooting resumed, stopping occasionally before walking off with a quiet sound of approval. 

After pacing the line twice, Katya stopped behind her. Natasha stiffened. Katya's steady presence burned against her back as she fired another bullet, pretending not to notice the woman's sharp eye watching over her shoulder and sliding down her body. 

She expected Katya to study her for a moment before moving on, like she'd done with the others, but even after Natasha emptied her magazine and clicked a new one into place, the brunette didn't budge.

With every passing heartbeat, she expected Katya to see right through her act. Not that she doubted her own undercover acting skills, but Katya's entire life and empire depended on her ability to sniff out lies and deception. If even the smallest thing was off, sirens and alarm bells would go off in her head.

Natasha could not underestimate her. And never assume she was safe.

When she fired the last bullet in her magazine and reached for a new one, Katya's hand suddenly landed on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Leave the gun, walk with me."

Natasha's stomach twisted fearfully, but she nodded as calmly as she could. 

She clicked the safety on and handed the gun back to the teacher, taking one last look at her cardboard target. All the holes were situated around the center. She could hit the red dot in the middle every time if she wanted to. It was actually harder to miss it.

The gunshots faded away as they left the shooting range behind, Katya's steps in stride with Natasha's. They took a turn down an unfamiliar path, hugging the treeline at the back of the property. It was secluded, a perfect place to tell an undercover spy that you knew who she was. Natasha fought to keep her nerves in place.

Katya was unreadable. She stared ahead as she walked, calmly and confidently. Natasha caught whiffs of her perfume. Drifting up her nose and swirling in her chest. Sunscreen, and something very rich—amber. Slightly spicy and musky but not overpowering. Strong. Sensual.

Being next to her was confusing. Natasha expected to feel small, but Katya had a natural gift of making people feel comfortable around her if she wanted to. Instead of hunching forward, Natasha's shoulders pulled back, and she had to actively remind herself not to get lured into the honey trap. Katya was not going to succeed in soothing her into a slip-up.

"You're good with a gun," she spoke eventually, side-eyeing Natasha's expression for a reaction.

Natasha nodded respectfully. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Katya is fine." She smiled. It was a reserved smile. This was her moment of evaluating her rookie, if she could trust Natasha or not. "You've shot a gun before."

Again, Natasha nodded. "I used to hunt with my father." She'd studied the background story of her undercover character Nadia so deeply, that she could make herself believe the lies she told. 

"So you're used to taking lives," Katya concluded, pleased. "Deer?"

"And foxes. Rabbits."

"And men." 

Natasha didn't miss a beat. She looked away, feigning shame to keep up her act. She was Nadia right now. Not Natasha.

Katya smiled, shaking her long hair over her shoulder. Now that she was closer, Natasha concluded that it was, in fact, dark brown. So dark it looked black. 

"I read your file, Nadia. You intrigue me. Revenged the murder of your sister by killing the man who did it. Not many have the guts to do that."

Respect laced through her words, and Natasha cautiously looked back at her. 

It was to be expected that Katya got her hands on "official" background information, received through channels that shouldn't be accessible to her. The tech guys at SHIELD did an amazing job at making Nadia look legit. They chose every detail of her life carefully, trying to appeal to the kind of person Katya was without making it too obvious. 

"He didn't deserve to walk around free after he took her from me," Natasha answered softly, mixing her grief with anger. Katya's eyes lit up curiously.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Natasha hesitated, pretending to think about it. Her type of answer was really important here. It had to keep Katya intrigued. "For a second," she admitted shamefully, avoiding the brunette's bright blue eyes. "Then I realized that his death didn't make the pain any less."

Katya nodded to herself, as if agreeing. "Anger is so powerful. It hides the true emotions that you feel once it's gone." 

For a moment, Natasha thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. Something raw. A memory? But it was gone as soon as it came, replaced with that piercing look that reminded her that she was talking to one of the most dangerous crime bosses in the world.

"Would you do it again? Kill for someone you care about?"

Natasha didn't miss the real question: 'would you kill for me?' 

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There's no better way to show someone you love them." Her character Nadia was a bit twisted, not as pure of soul, wounded by her trauma. But not crazy, and Katya saw that too.

Her expression softened, and something twinged within Natasha's chest. "I think you and I are alike. If we care, we care deeply, and we will stop at nothing to protect and avenge the people we care about." 

The words crashed into Natasha like a reality check. She was playing mind games with a real person, and she was slowly starting to realize that Katya was in no way the cruel, evil woman the world made her out to be. 

Sure, she tortured her enemies, but there was a huge heart in her chest that cared immensely for the few people she did trust. Not only were they loyal to her, she was loyal to them, willing to run through fire. It was admirable.

"Since you are part of us now, we will do the same for you."

Natasha didn't know what to answer, so she just gave her a brief, careful smile. It felt nice, to be wanted. Even though Katya welcomed Nadia, not Natasha.

"Why did you choose to stay?" Katya continued, but it sounded more like genuine curiosity than suspicion now.

"The people of the man I killed are after me, so I can't go home. And I have nowhere else to go." Natasha bit her lip, glancing down at her shoes. More desperation, more ass-kissing. She needed Katya to believe that she saved her. "I guess I just wanted a place where I belong. Where I'm safe."

Katya stopped, and so did Natasha, watching her curiously as a soft smile spread across her lips. "You are. You never have to be afraid again." Katya's hand landed on her arm, squeezing her bicep comfortingly. Warmth bloomed and spread through Natasha's body, starting at the spot where their skin met.

For a second, she was lost, staring into Katya's blue eyes in a trance. This wasn't the sweet honey trap from before, meant to catch out liars. This was genuine care. 

She'd underestimated Katya's character. Knew she had a soft heart for the women she rescued, but didn't realize her care ran this deep. It affected Natasha more than she realized.

She wanted to ask more, but undercover work came with patience, and knowing when to take the victory and walk away. This conversation went so well, she didn't want to risk ruining whatever little trust she'd managed to build with Katya.

Her hand still lay on her arm. They were near the sleeping quarters now. Natasha could almost see her room from here.

"I never said thank you, for rescuing me."

"You don't have to." Katya's hand slipped down her arm, her fingers grazing the inside of her elbow. Natasha's skin tingled. "I'm happy you found a home here. You seem to fit right in."

Standing so close, the sun illuminating Katya's pale skin, Natasha suddenly noticed there were faint, little scars all over her face. Shrapnel? Glass splinters? They were just a tad lighter than the rest of her skin.

"How can I ever repay you?"

"By working hard. And keeping your word." She looked at Natasha pointedly, and the redhead understood what she meant. 

She would kill to protect Katya. Not only to keep her cover alive, but the government couldn't prosecute a dead woman. 

"Katya!" 

They both turned to look at a woman a short distance away, a worried expression on her face as she held up a phone. Something was wrong.

Reality crashed over their bubble like a bucket of ice. Katya straightened up, the softness disappearing from her stance in favor of the businesswoman with an empire to run. Natasha tensed up herself, only realizing how close they were until she took a step back.

Katya looked at her one last time, ready to walk away. "I'm keeping my eye on you." Then she was off, leaving Natasha to celebrate on her own. 

Her boss's words weren't a threat. They were letting her know that her hard work and potential was seen and appreciated, and that she could hope for good things—promotions—in the future if she kept it up.

The things she was doing, the angles she played, were good. She was going down the right path. Hopefully soon, she was allowed into Katya's inner circle and know what crises were going on. 

With a sigh, she returned to her training.

Natasha sat on top of one of the many decorative stone walls of the estate, pretending to read as she watched the back of the main house from the corner of her eye.

Evening had come, the last streaks of orange lacing the dark blue sky. It was getting harder to see the words on the pages of her book, but she wasn't here to read anyway. 

Katya had not shown herself since the crisis earlier on. In fact, she'd called more of her employees into the house and only started letting them go about half an hour ago, when the first ones started to come out the front door. 

They didn't speak a word. Not to each other, and not to the girls who weren't invited to Katya's meeting. Natasha wouldn't get anything out of them. 

So, she relocated to the back of the house, where the pool glistened in the twilight, in the hopes that Katya would come out to make a phone call or speak in private with someone. So far, nothing. 

She told herself she'd sit here until reading became impossible. It would become suspicious if she stayed longer than that. The guards walking their regular rounds around the compound were already eyeing her weirdly.

Movement in the corner of her eye made her head snap up. There, in one of the windows on the top floor—or rather, a door leading out to a balcony—a light flicked on. She saw a part of the ceiling, white, and the edges of a beige curtain. It could be any room, but something told her it was a bedroom.

Nothing happened for a moment. Then, something crashed into the glass.

Or rather—someone. 

Natasha's eyes widened. A woman, half bare, only her bra and a pair of jeans on, was pressed with her back against the glass. 

Natasha knew that dragon tattoo on her back, that impossibly long dark hair that reached her butt. She was one of Katya's Ghosts, seen circling around in her proximity quite often. Ana, Natasha believed her name was.

Firm hands held her in place against the door, another body morphing against hers. 

Katya.

Entranced, Natasha watched the scene unfold. Katya didn't seem to care that the curtains were open. Her lips sucked at Ana's neck, her hands sliding over her bare torso until her fingers hooked into the clasp of her bra.

Natasha tore her eyes away, her pulse racing. She saw what she needed to see.

Katya hooked up with her employees. She was into women. 

This was the type of intel she would have loved to have beforehand. It changed everything. She was trained to be a master of seduction. Closer to Katya than in her bed, she couldn't get.

Euphoric with this new information, she slid off the stone wall. The scene replayed in her head as she walked back to her room and got ready for bed. 

Sleeping with a target was nothing new, but this was on another level. Natasha couldn't ignore that Katya was a very attractive woman. Exactly her type. It wouldn't be torture to eat her out for a few hours. She bet Katya was amazing in bed.

Natasha's stomach clenched, and she scolded herself strictly. If Clint was here, he would be laughing and telling her that she needed to get laid more often. It was sad that she fantasized about having sex with a target like this. Especially when it was a means to an end.

That didn't mean it couldn't be enjoyable, though…

Natasha groaned, splashing her face with ice cold water until the sinful thoughts left her head. 

Yes, she was an undercover agent on a mission, but she was also just a woman with needs. And something in Katya brought out her weakness.

[devdozes]

♣ What ever happened to the hayloft? (pt.2)

gigles.. hope yall enjoy it!! uh tension, maybe confusing a bit, politics and eveything

part 1

The alarm blared at exactly 6:00 AM, an obnoxious, repetitive ringing that yanked you out of a restless sleep. You groaned, blindly reaching out to slam your hand against the nightstand, feeling around until your fingers found the phone. With a lazy flick, you silenced the noise and lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling as the events of last night came crashing back into you like a slow-moving storm.

Eurypon was dead.

The corruption within the Investigation Unit had been gutted from the inside out.

And in less than an hour, you were supposed to walk back into the very place that had cast you aside.

Your stomach curled at the thought. Not from fear, but from something far more complex—uncertainty. You had been given power, a position where no one could control you this time. But the hand that had given you this power belonged to Mydei. And Mydei never did anything without reason.

You rubbed your hands down your face before forcing yourself up. There was no time to overthink. If you were going to do this, you’d do it on your terms.

Moving on autopilot,, still half asleep and dazed you got dressed—opting for something simple but sharp. Something that made it clear you weren’t here to be anyone’s subordinate. As you laced up your boots, your eyes flickered to your phone. No new messages. No further instructions from Mydei.

Just a lingering silence.

It was almost infuriating how casually he had thrown you back into this world, as if he knew you wouldn’t refuse. As if he knew you would show up.

You grabbed your keys and stepped outside, the crisp morning air biting at your skin as you swung your leg over your bike. The roads were quiet, the city barely waking, but your mind was anything but still.

As you sped towards the Investigation Unit’s headquarters, your grip on the handlebars tightened.

This was it.

This was your return.

But the real question was—was it really yours? Or was it still just another part of Mydei’s game? . . . . .

The towering glass building of the Investigation Unit loomed ahead, cold and imposing. You had once walked these halls as an equal—an agent with skill and purpose. And then, just as easily, you had been discarded. A problem to be rid of. A liability.

But now, as you strode through the entrance, the heavy doors sliding open with a quiet hiss, something was different. The air itself felt sharper, as if the building itself recognized that the power dynamic had shifted.

The moment you stepped inside, all eyes were on you.

Some faces were unfamiliar. Others, you recognized instantly—former colleagues who had once whispered behind your back, who had sneered when Eurypon had thrown you out. Now, those same people stiffened as you walked past. Some looked away. Others merely stared, unreadable expressions on their faces.

But no one said a word.

No one dared to.

You almost smirked.

The elevator ride to the upper floors was silent. The atmosphere was thick, the kind of tension that came with a drastic shift in authority. When the doors slid open, you were met with the sight of the main operations floor—sleek, modern, and buzzing with activity.

And at the center of it all stood him.

Mydei.

His ash-blonde hair, streaked with deep red at the tips, caught the artificial light as he stood with his back to you, scanning a digital report on one of the large monitors. Even without seeing his face, you could feel that signature presence of his—composed, calculating, utterly unshaken.

But then, as if sensing your arrival, he turned.

Sharp golden eyes met yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, in that same cool, level voice, he said, “You’re late.”

You scoffed, stepping further into the room, arms loosely crossed. “I wasn’t aware I was on a leash.”

Something flickered across his face—something almost amused—before it disappeared as quickly as it came. “You’re in charge of this operation,” he continued, ignoring your jab. “You have full authority. No one will interfere.” A pause. Then, in a quieter tone, he added, “Not even me.” mydei down bad

You studied him for a long moment. Mydei was always unreadable, always five steps ahead. But there was something genuine about this. He wasn’t just throwing you into another mission—he was giving you something. Control. Independence.

Power.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. The weight of the moment settled deep in your chest.

You had spent so long hating the Investigation Unit. Hating what it had done to you.

But now, as you stood here, facing Mydei, one thing became clear.

This was no longer their Investigation Unit.

It was yours.

And no one—not a single person—was going to take it from you again.

For the first time in a long time, a slow smile curled on your lips.

“Fine,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Let’s get to work.”

The meeting was held in the most secure room within the Investigation Unit—deep underground, beneath layers of reinforced security measures that not even the highest-ranking officials had access to. It was a room that had only been used for the most classified operations, and today was no exception.

Only five people were present.

You. Mydei. Aglaea. Phainon. Castorice.

No one else knew. No one else could know.

The air was thick with tension as the holo-projector in the center of the table flickered to life, displaying a detailed map of the Epos-Kremnos border. The jagged red lines dividing the two nations looked almost like open wounds, fresh and raw, a reminder of the centuries-old conflict between them.

But this mission wasn’t about war.

It was about erasure.

You leaned forward, eyes locked onto the map as Mydei’s voice cut through the silence.

“Epos has remained a thorn in Kremnos’ side for too long,” he began, his tone as smooth as ever, yet razor-sharp beneath the surface. “And their terrorist cells have only grown more emboldened over the past few years. The last few attempts to dismantle them have failed—spectacularly.”

You knew that well. Every time Kremnos’ forces got close to eliminating the main terrorist leader of Epos, the enemy somehow evaded them. It was as if they knew every move beforehand, slipping through Kremnos’ grasp like smoke. It was humiliating. Infuriating.

This time, it would be different.

This time, secrecy was their greatest weapon.

“No official records will exist of this operation,” Mydei continued, golden eyes sweeping across the four of you. “No files. No digital traces. The government isn’t sanctioning this—at least, not publicly. If we succeed, Kremnos will claim victory. If we fail…” His gaze darkened, and you knew exactly what he meant.

If you failed, you didn’t exist.

Aglaea, who had been listening in composed silence, finally spoke. Her blue-green eyes flickered to the map, analyzing every detail with a critical sharpness.

“The terrorist leader, Acastus, is too well-guarded,” she stated. “Every attempt to take him down has resulted in losses. Every piece of intelligence we’ve gathered has led to dead ends. Someone within our own ranks must have been leaking information to Epos.”

You exhaled sharply. No wonder every mission had been compromised.

Phainon leaned back in his seat, his usually cocky and cheery demeanor unreadable. “That’s why we’re keeping this in the dark,” he murmured, fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. “Only the five of us know. No informants, no reports. Just us.”

Silence followed his words, the weight of the mission settling over everyone.

Then, Castorice finally spoke.

Her voice was soft—almost too soft for the deadly aura she carried—but every syllable was laced with quiet menace. “Acastus has humiliated Kremnos long enough,” she said, her violet eyes glinting under the dim light. “It’s time we return the favor.”

You smirked at her words.

The plan was simple in theory, but execution would be brutal.

You had one objective: eliminate Acastus.

The moment the holo-projector flickered off, the room plunged into an unsettling silence. The map of Epos and Kremnos disappeared, but its presence lingered like an unshakable weight in the air.

No one moved at first.

The gravity of the mission settled over each of you—five individuals carrying a burden meant for an entire nation.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers drumming idly against the armrest. Your thoughts were sharp, calculating, but beneath it all, there was something else. A sliver of uncertainty.

Not about the mission.

Not about the enemy.

But about Mydei.

You weren’t sure whether to trust him yet. He had cleared the path for you, removed the corrupt officers who had ruined your career, and placed you at the helm of this mission without hesitation. He had given you control.

But why?

What was he really after?

Across the table, Mydei stood up, the sharp lines of his uniform accentuated by the dim lighting. His golden eyes flickered toward you, assessing, waiting. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he said, “You’ll receive the details of your deployment within the next twelve hours. Be ready.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, the sound of his boots echoing through the quiet room.

Aglaea sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This is going to be hell,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Phainon, ever the perfectionist, leaned forward, scanning his personal data pad. “I’ll start running through potential infiltration routes. Acastus won’t go down easily.”

Castorice didn’t speak. She simply stood, fixing the collar of her coat before giving you a glance.

“You’re the highest authority in this mission,” she reminded you, her voice quiet but unwavering. “No one controls you now. Keep that in mind.”

You met her gaze, feeling the weight of her words settle into your bones.

She was right.

This wasn’t like before—where corrupt superiors dictated your every move, throwing you aside when it was convenient.

This time, you called the shots.

You exhaled, forcing away the last remnants of doubt. "We move in silence," you reminded them, standing as well. "No one outside this room can know."

Aglaea, Phainon, and Castorice exchanged silent nods before following Mydei’s path out of the room. Castorice looks back behind you, giving you a faint smile and a faint red on her cheek. A smile that says a message. We are glad to have you back

That left just you.

Alone in the dimly lit space, you remained still for a moment, letting the reality of it all sink in. . . . .

The dimly lit hallway stretched out before you as you stepped out of the briefing room. The soft hum of the ventilation system was the only sound accompanying your footsteps.

The weight of the mission still lingered on your shoulders, but something about stepping outside that suffocating room made it easier to breathe. You rolled your shoulders, shaking off the tension.

Then—

BZZZT.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket.

Glancing at the screen, you saw the name flashing across it.

Aglaea.

You hesitated.

Your thumb hovered over the answer button, but before you could press it—

“So you did save my number.”

The voice was soft, yet firm, carrying a weight that made you still.

You looked up, and there she was.

Aglaea stood just a few steps away, arms crossed, posture composed as always. But her expression was… different.

For someone who had mastered the art of shutting off her emotions, someone who always spoke with an almost clinical detachment—she was smiling.

Faint. Gentle.

Surprisingly Pure.

It was barely there, just the slightest curve of her lips, but it was real.

Something flickered in your chest.

You didn’t know what to say at first. You had expected her to keep her distance, to act as if nothing had changed between you. But here she was, standing in front of you, acknowledging the fact that despite everything—

You had saved her number.

You exhaled, a small, amused breath slipping out. "Guess I did."

Aglaea’s eyes softened—only slightly, but enough for you to notice.

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

The two of you simply stood there for a moment, the air between you filled with unspoken words, with a history too complicated to unravel in a single conversation.

Then, as if remembering herself, Aglaea straightened, her composed mask settling back into place. "Walk with me," she said, turning on her heel.

You stared for a second before shaking your head with a smirk. "Didn’t even wait for me to say yes, huh?"

"Would you have said no?"

"Tch. Fair point."

And so, you followed. . . . . . The hallway stretched on in comfortable silence as you walked beside Aglaea, the soft tapping of your boots against the polished floor the only sound between you. Despite the rigid walls and cold artificial lighting, there was something strangely nostalgic about this—walking next to her. Like old times.

Once upon a time, this would have been normal. The two of you had been inseparable in the investigation unit, your synergy was unmatched, your trust in each other unwavering. But that was before—before everything fell apart, before Eurypon framed you, Before all your superiors disregarded you before Aglaea let it happen without a fight.

And now, here you were, walking side by side again.

Neither of you spoke at first. There was no rush, no need to fill the silence with meaningless words. But the tension between you was palpable, a weight that pressed against the space between your shoulders.

Finally, it was Aglaea who broke the silence. "You still walk like you own the place."

You snorted, shoving your hands into your pockets. "And you still walk like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Aglaea didn’t react immediately. But then—just barely—you caught the faintest twitch of her lips. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you noticed. You always noticed.

"You're not wrong," she admitted. "It’s been… tiring."

You hummed, studying her carefully. She was composed, as always, but you could see it now—the slight stiffness in her posture, the way her fingers twitched at her sides as if resisting the urge to clench into fists. She wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted people to believe.

"Well, that’s what happens when you stick around in this hellhole," you said, voice light, but there was an underlying edge to your words. "Some of us were smart enough to leave."

Aglaea slowed her steps, just slightly.

"Was it really your choice to leave?"

Your jaw tensed. You stopped walking.

She did too.

You turned to face her, your expression unreadable. "No," you said. "But you let it happen, didn’t you?"

Aglaea inhaled sharply, but her face remained unreadable.

She didn’t deny it.

She didn’t try to justify it.

She just looked at you, eyes unreadable, yet heavy with something unspoken.

You scoffed, shaking your head. "You could’ve said something. You could’ve done something. But you just stood there and watched as they dragged me through the mud. As Eurypon made sure I’d never step foot in this unit again. You let me burn for something I didn’t do."

Aglaea’s lips parted slightly, but the words never came.

And you hated that.

You hated that she wasn’t denying it, that she wasn’t throwing out excuses, that she wasn’t even trying to defend herself. Because if she had—if she had argued, if she had insisted that she had no choice—then maybe, just maybe, it would’ve been easier to be angry.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there, watching you, eyes searching yours like she was trying to find the right words.

But there weren’t any.

"I know," she said, finally. "I know I failed you."

Your breath hitched.

You weren’t expecting that.

And for a moment, just a moment, the anger simmering beneath your skin faltered.

"You should’ve fought for me," you muttered, quieter this time. "You should’ve said something. Even if it wouldn’t have changed anything."

Aglaea’s gaze didn’t waver. "I know."

Silence.

Long. Heavy.

And then—

"What would you have done if I tried?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated.

What would you have done?

Would you have stayed? Would you have fought harder? Would you have trusted her to have your back?

Would it have even changed anything at all?

"I don’t know," you admitted. "But at least I wouldn’t have felt like I was completely alone."

Aglaea inhaled, something flickering across her face—something rare, something fragile.

And for a split second, you saw it—regret.

You looked away.

You weren’t ready to deal with that. Not now.

"Why are you still here?" you asked instead, crossing your arms. "Why stay in a place like this? You’re not stupid. You see how fucked everything is. Why didn’t you leave?"

Aglaea let out a slow breath. "Because if I left, no one else would fix it."

You frowned. "You really think you can fix it?"

She tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable. "No. But at least I can try."

You stared at her for a long moment.

You could still remember when Aglaea was someone who believed in the system, who believed in justice, who believed in the mission of the investigation unit. But now, as you stood there looking at her, you realized something—

She didn’t believe in those things anymore.

She wasn’t trying to fix the system because she thought it was good.

She was trying because she knew it was broken.

And maybe—just maybe—she felt like she owed it to someone.

To you.

Your chest ached at the thought.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you let out a slow, tired sigh. "Tch. You always were a stubborn one."

Aglaea gave the faintest of smirks. "Takes one to know one."

You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. Despite everything—despite the tension, despite the unresolved history, despite the betrayal—this moment felt… familiar.

Like a ghost of what once was.

The air between you and Aglaea remained thick with unspoken words, but neither of you made a move to break the fragile truce that had formed between your unresolved past and the inevitable present. When she finally sighed, stepping back, you could feel the weight of the conversation pressing against your ribs, suffocating, heavy, inescapable.

"I won’t ask for forgiveness," she said, voice steady, though her blue-green eyes flickered with something uncertain. "I don’t deserve it. But… I hope, one day, you’ll understand."

You held her gaze for a moment longer, reading between the lines, searching for a hint of deception—of calculated dishonesty. But there was none. And maybe that’s what unsettled you the most.

Without another word, Aglaea turned on her heel and walked away, her silhouette soon swallowed by the sterile glow of the hallway lights. You should’ve felt relieved to be alone again, yet somehow, the absence of her presence left you feeling unsteady.

You exhaled sharply. Enough.

Shoving your hands into your pockets, you turned down the hall, your mind already shifting back to the mission. The weight of Kremnos' survival rested on your shoulders once again, and this time, failure was not an option.

But before you could reach the end of the corridor, a voice stopped you in your tracks.

"You're avoiding me."

Your breath hitched.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

You knew that voice.

Slowly, you turned.

And there he was.

Mydei.

His presence filled the hallway like a storm waiting to break, cloaked in an air of quiet control, but you weren’t fooled. His expression was composed, his violet eyes unreadable, but beneath that carefully constructed facade, there was something else—something darker, something more desperate.

But desperation wasn’t something you associated with Mydei.

And that’s what made it dangerous.

You forced yourself to keep your posture loose, indifferent, as you crossed your arms. "I’ve been busy."

His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he knew you were lying. Like he could see past every wall you’d carefully built, past every layer of ice you’d wrapped around yourself.

"Tch." He scoffed, taking a step closer. "You’re always busy, aren't you?"

You didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing any reaction from you.

"And?" you said, arching a brow. "What does that have to do with you?"

There it was again.

That flicker in his expression.

That tension in his stance.

Like he was holding something back.

"Everything," he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Your stomach twisted.

What the fuck did that mean?

His gaze bore into yours, sharp and unwavering, as if searching for something—something he desperately wanted but couldn’t have. And the way he was looking at you, like he needed an answer, like he needed something from you—it was suffocating.

You hated it.

Because you didn’t trust it.

You didn’t trust him.

"You act like we're on the same side," you finally said, voice calm but laced with ice. "But I don’t remember ever giving you a reason to trust me."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, humorless, sharp, tired.

"You didn't."

Your breath caught.

He took another step closer.

And suddenly, he was too close.

Close enough that you could see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way his jaw was set too tightly, the way his shoulders were too tense.

Like he wasn’t sleeping.

Like something was eating away at him.

"You don’t trust me," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching you carefully. "That’s fine. But don’t pretend you don’t notice."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to remain still. "Notice what?"

"My persistence."

Your chest tightened.

The air crackled between you, thick with something unreadable, something dangerous, something you refused to name.

"You’re acting like this means something," you said, voice quieter now, unsure whether you were trying to provoke him or trying to push him away.

Mydei’s expression didn’t change.

His voice remained steady.

"It does."

You hated the certainty in his tone.

You hated how calm he sounded, how unshaken he was by the weight of what he just admitted.

Because you?

You were anything but calm.

And that’s what made this so much worse.

You exhaled sharply, stepping back—forcing distance between you.

"I don’t have time for this," you muttered, turning away. "I have a mission to focus on."

"And I have a mission too," Mydei said, his voice unwavering. "And right now? You’re at the center of it."

Your breath stilled.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t dare look at him.

Instead, you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

But even as you left him standing in the hallway, even as you put distance between you, you knew.

He wasn’t going to stop.

And that?

That terrified you more than anything else.

The cool night air brushed against your skin as you stepped outside, the weight of Mydei’s words still lingering like an aftertaste you couldn’t rid yourself of. The city lights shimmered in the distance, but they did nothing to ease the unease curling in your chest. You ignored the tension in your shoulders, forcing yourself to focus on the steady hum of your bike as you approached it.

Throwing a leg over, you gripped the handlebars tightly and twisted the ignition. The deep purr of the engine reverberated beneath you, familiar, grounding. You took a deep breath, pushing everything else aside—Mydei, Aglaea, the mission, the countless threads of doubt tightening around your throat. None of it mattered right now.

The road stretched out ahead, bathed in cold artificial lights. With a swift motion, you accelerated, cutting through the city like a phantom. The wind whipped against your face, its chill biting against your skin, but you welcomed it. The streets blurred past, the neon glow of signs and buildings flashing in streaks of blue and red. For a moment, the noise in your head dulled, lost to the speed, the adrenaline, the familiar rush of control.

By the time you reached home, the world had quieted.

You parked your bike near the entrance, swinging off it in one fluid motion. The moment your boots touched the pavement, however, your gaze caught something small at your doorstep.

A goldfish plushie.

You stilled.

For a second, you simply stared at it, your breath shallow. It was a tiny thing—round, soft, and painfully familiar. The kind of plush one would win from an arcade claw machine or find at a street vendor.

You didn’t like it.

Didn’t like the implications.

Didn’t like the fact that someone had left it here.

Your hand twitched at your side, instinct urging you to leave it behind, to pretend you hadn’t seen it. But that same instinct also whispered caution, control, precision. You couldn’t afford to ignore anything.

So you bent down, grabbed the plushie, and walked inside.

Your apartment was dimly lit, a soft blue hue washing over the walls from the LED lights you’d set up long ago. The silence was comforting, the familiar scent of gunpowder and ink still lingering in the air. You tossed the plushie onto your desk without a second glance, peeling off your jacket as you made your way toward your workstation.

You had more important things to deal with.

The case.

Settling into your chair, you cracked your knuckles, then pulled up your terminal. Pytha. The name alone had been nagging at the back of your mind for weeks.

Chief Minister of Handak.

A man who, on the surface, was nothing more than a devoted politician—a man of the people. Yet Handak continued to suffer. The small city sat near the border of Epos, its citizens bearing the brunt of every attack, every skirmish, every bloody loss against the enemy state.

And every time, Pytha would speak in condolences. In apologies. In promises of justice.

Yet nothing changed.

Handak remained vulnerable.

And every time they made a move against Epos, Epos already knew.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up data, encrypted files, old military records. If Pytha was a traitor—if he was feeding Epos information—then he was the reason why your missions kept failing.

You needed to find proof.

Your eyes scanned through reports, financial records, trade deals. There had to be something. Some connection, some inconsistency—something that didn’t add up.

And then you saw it.

A shipment.

Pytha had recently signed off on a massive import of resources—medical supplies, metals, military-grade parts. But the destination wasn’t Handak.

It wasn’t anywhere in Kremnos.

It was a non-existent sector near the border.

Your stomach twisted.

He was hiding something.

And now?

You were going to find out what. . . . . .

The room was silent, save for the occasional scratch of a marker against paper and the quiet clicks of your terminal as you pulled up file after file. A cool blue glow bathed the space, shadows flickering against the walls as you worked. Papers littered your desk, the faint scent of ink and coffee lingering in the air.

This wasn’t making sense.

Your hands moved automatically, grabbing a sticky note and scrawling down key details.

Shipment approved: three weeks ago. Supplies: Medical, metal alloys, military-grade components. Recipient: “Sector 17” (Doesn’t exist).

You tore the sticky note off and slapped it onto the growing board in front of you, stepping back to take it all in.

At the center, you had Pytha. His official portrait stared back at you, smug and polished, the kind of expression that had long since been trained into him. Around him, a web of connections—government branches, past financial dealings, transport records.

And now?

This shipment.

Everything pointed toward something hidden. Something deliberately kept vague. The shipment logs confirmed that the cargo remained inside Kremnos, but they didn’t specify where.

That was the problem.

It was impossible.

Every shipment in Kremnos had to go through a registered port, warehouse, or checkpoint. Every import and export had a destination, a tracking number, a log. And yet, this one had none.

Your brows furrowed as you scribbled another note:

If it’s in Kremnos… where?

You tapped the marker against your palm, gaze flickering between the sticky notes, the scattered papers, the digital maps pulled up on your screen. There were only so many places something of this scale could be hidden.

Military bases? No. Too monitored.

Government facilities? Unlikely. It would be easier to track.

Private contractors? Possible.

But the shipment wasn’t under any contractor’s name. It was under Pytha’s direct authorization.

That meant either he was hiding it somewhere personal, or someone else was moving it for him.

Your fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up any transport logs tied to Pytha. A list of vehicles and airships appeared, detailing movements over the last few months. You scanned through them, eyes narrowing.

There.

One specific cargo carrier—a heavy transport vessel registered under an old Kremnosian branch that had supposedly gone defunct years ago.

And yet, it was still operational.

Your heartbeat quickened.

If you could trace where it had been last…

You worked fast, tracking its route. The logs showed it entering Kremnos, passing through two cities… and then disappearing. No exit logs. No further records.

It had vanished within Kremnos.

Your stomach twisted.

There was only one explanation.

A ghost location.

Somewhere in Kremnos, there was a site—a facility, a warehouse, an entire hidden sector—where shipments like this one were going. A place that didn’t officially exist, much like “Sector 17” on the shipment papers.

You exhaled slowly, stepping back.

Your eyes trailed across the board, the puzzle pieces starting to form a clearer picture.

If you could find where this hidden sector was, if you could prove Pytha’s involvement, if you could uncover what exactly he was doing with these shipments—

Then maybe, just maybe, you could finally stop Epos from tearing Kremnos apart.

You picked up another sticky note.

And you wrote one last thing:

Find the ghost location.

The early morning air was crisp, the city of Kremnos still waking as you walked through the quiet corridors of the investigation office. The weight of the files in your arms felt heavier than it should, though maybe that was just exhaustion pressing into your bones. You hadn’t slept—not after last night, not after uncovering this.

Your boots echoed against the marble floor as you approached the designated room, a restricted space only accessible to a handful of people.

Aglaea, Phainon, Castorice, and Mydei.

They were already inside.

As you pushed open the door, all eyes turned to you. Phainon sat at the long table, flipping a pen between his fingers, his usual lighthearted demeanor dimmed by the tension in the room. Castorice stood near the window, arms crossed, her cold purple gaze watching you with unreadable intensity. Mydei was seated at the head of the table, his face composed, but there was something sharp in the way his fingers rested against the table.

And Aglaea? She stood near the projector, silent, assessing.

You walked forward, dropping the files onto the table with a dull thud. The sound cut through the silence.

“This,” you said, voice steady, “is why we keep failing.”

No one spoke as you pulled out the key documents, flipping them open to the maps, the shipment records, the anomaly in Pytha’s transport logs. You took a marker and circled the key points, pushing them toward the group.

“Pytha isn’t just suspicious—he’s involved. The missing shipments? They aren’t leaving Kremnos. They’re staying here, going somewhere off the grid.” You tapped a finger against the document. “A hidden sector, one that doesn’t officially exist.”

Phainon leaned forward, his blue eyes scanning the information with sharp focus. “A ghost location,” he murmured.

“Exactly.” You stepped back, arms crossed. “We’ve been losing every time we get close to the Epos terrorists because we’ve been looking outward. Searching beyond the border, assuming our enemies are moving from the outside.” Your fingers gripped the edge of the table. “But the truth is? They’re already inside.”

A beat of silence.

Mydei exhaled, slow and deliberate. “You’re saying Pytha has been enabling them?”

“I’m saying,” you corrected, “that he’s hiding something big. Maybe it’s weapons, maybe it’s intel—whatever it is, it’s being funneled through Kremnos under his direct orders. And this ghost location? It’s where the last shipment vanished.”

Aglaea finally spoke, her voice even. “And you believe if we find this location, we’ll find the missing link to bring Epos down?”

You met her gaze. “I don’t just believe it. I know it.”

Another silence.

Castorice tilted her head slightly, her silver-purple hair shifting as she spoke. “We need confirmation. If we’re wrong, this could compromise everything.”

“We won’t be wrong,” you said firmly.

Phainon let out a low whistle. “So, what’s the plan? We can’t exactly storm in without tipping someone off.”

You exhaled, pressing your fingers against your temple. You already knew this wouldn’t be easy. No one was supposed to know about this mission. If word got out that they were investigating a high-ranking official like Pytha, the consequences would be… catastrophic.

“We move quietly,” you said. “No unnecessary risks. No outside interference. We keep this between us.” Your gaze swept across the room. “No one else can know.”

A pause.

Then, Mydei stood, placing his hands on the table as he studied you. “Then we’d better make sure we don’t fail this time.”

There was something unreadable in his expression—something almost desperate.

You ignored it.

Mydei straightened, his gaze unwavering as he addressed the room. "Then we’ll take the next step."

Everyone focused on him. The air felt heavier, the weight of responsibility pressing into the walls of the room. His tone was unreadable, but his decision was absolute.

"I’m sending three of you to Pytha directly—" He turned his gaze toward you, then to Aglaea and Phainon. "You’ll meet with him under the guise of an official inquiry. Nothing too aggressive, nothing that would set off alarms." His fingers tapped once against the table. "But you will observe. You will gather anything that confirms our suspicions."

Your stomach twisted, though you kept your expression neutral. Meeting with Pytha directly? That meant walking into the lion’s den without any proper plan.

Phainon, ever composed, leaned back in his chair. "That’s quite the risk. If Pytha really is connected to Epos, he’s not going to slip up just because we ask politely." His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp.

"He won’t have to slip up," Mydei said. "You’ll be watching everything—his movements, his expressions, his inconsistencies. If he has something to hide, he won’t be able to cover it all. Aglaea, I want you leading this."

Aglaea nodded, but her expression was unreadable, her blue-green eyes scanning the files once more. "Understood."

You shifted slightly, exhaling through your nose. "And what happens if we do find something?"

"Then we act," Mydei said simply. His gaze locked onto yours, firm yet unreadable. "But for now, you observe. That’s an order."

Something about the way he said it made something twist in your chest. It wasn’t just about the mission. It was about you.

You glanced at Aglaea. Her expression remained neutral, yet there was an air of tension around her, as if she too understood the weight of what they were about to do. Phainon was the only one who still carried that easygoing smile, though you could tell even he was aware of the stakes.

Castorice, who had been silent for the past few minutes, finally spoke. "When do they leave?"

"Tonight," Mydei answered.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

But then Phainon interrupted—

Phainon leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the table in thought. "If there really are no connections, then how do we even see it? And even if Pytha is connected to Epos and doing this, what’s in it for him? What benefit is he gaining?"

The room fell silent. Everyone was waiting for an answer.

Your mind raced. There had to be something. No one—especially not a chief minister—would involve themselves with a terrorist organization unless there was something to gain.

And then it hit you.

Your eyes widened as the pieces finally clicked together in your mind. Without another word, you shot up from your chair, striding toward the stationery desk. You grabbed the three-pack of pens, turned back, and slammed them onto the table.

Everyone looked at you in confusion.

You took a breath and looked directly at them. "Suppose this is a barter system."

Phainon raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing, letting you continue.

You held up one pen. "This represents Pytha."

You held up the second pen. "This represents the Epos terrorist organization."

Then, you held up the third. "And this... this represents what’s being exchanged."

The tension in the room thickened as you began explaining.

"Pytha is trading something to the Epos terrorist organization. He’s giving them classified Kremnos information—military secrets, security weaknesses, locations of high-profile individuals, maybe even our strategies." You placed the ‘Pytha’ pen next to the ‘Epos’ pen. "And in return, Epos gives Pytha what he really wants. Power? Resources? Weapons? Money?" You let that linger.

"But here’s the catch—Epos is also demanding something else." You narrowed your eyes, your voice dropping. "And that is for Pytha to allow Epos terrorists to attack his own people."

A beat of silence.

Phainon frowned, shaking his head. "But that’s a loss, isn’t it? If Pytha is letting his own city be attacked, wouldn’t that weaken his power?"

You scoffed. "No, it isn’t. Look at the pattern—every time we got close to catching the terrorists, something messed up the mission. The intelligence would suddenly be incorrect, our equipment would fail at the worst time, or someone would mysteriously tip them off before we arrived."

Phainon’s expression hardened. He knew you were right.

You continued, voice growing sharper. "And then there’s the money. Pytha’s salary is higher than anyone in the unit—suspiciously high. Higher than Mydei’s. Higher than Castorice’s. Higher than it should be." Your fingers tapped against the table. "And Eurypon—his closest associate—mysteriously receives extra funds, too. But the real question is..." You leaned forward, locking eyes with everyone. "Where the hell is that money coming from?"

A sudden gasp.

Castorice’s eyes widened in realization. Her index finger dug into the wood of the table as she spoke, voice sharp and almost breathless.

"The official Epos government was paying Eurypon and Pytha—funding them—so that they could allow the terrorists to keep attacking. They were letting Epos slowly destroy Handak."

Silence. Heavy. Unsettling.

Then, you smirked. "Bingo."

It all made sense now.

It wasn’t just a corrupt official taking bribes—it was a systematic betrayal.

Pytha was feeding both the terrorists and the Epos government, ensuring that Handak remained in perpetual destruction while still benefiting. And in return, Epos gave him power, protection, and funding.

A mutual benefit.

For Pytha.

And for Epos.

The room remained heavy with silence, the weight of the realization settling into everyone’s bones. No one spoke, but the tension was thick—thicker than before.

Then, Phainon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his white hair. “There’s just one problem,” he muttered. His doe-blue eyes flickered with unease as he leaned forward. “Eurypon is dead.”

Your smirk faltered in realization. You had forgotten that Eurypon had died.

ugh fuck

Phainon continued, voice steady yet serious. “If Epos was paying Eurypon to funnel money to Pytha, then with Eurypon gone—”

“—No one is funding Pytha anymore.” Castorice finished, her voice quiet but sharp as a knife.

Your heartbeat picked up.

Pytha needed that money. Needed the constant flow of resources, protection, and bribes to keep his power stable. And if that supply was now suddenly cut off…

Then that meant—

“Pytha will betray Kremnos entirely,” you said, voice low but firm.

Everyone looked at you, but you weren’t finished.

“This was never just about bribes. Pytha wasn’t just taking money—he was preparing for something.” Your mind raced, piecing the puzzle together. “He needed Epos. He was playing both sides, feeding them information while keeping himself safe under Kremnos’s name.” You narrowed your eyes. “But now that Eurypon is dead, there’s nothing keeping him here anymore.”

Phainon’s hands balled into fists. “Then… what’s stopping him from just leaving Kremnos and fully joining Epos?”

“Nothing,” Castorice answered grimly.

That was the horrifying truth.

Pytha wasn’t just a corrupt official.

He was a traitor on the verge of defection.

And if he switched sides completely—if he abandoned Kremnos and gave himself to Epos—then everything he knew, every secret military strategy, every intelligence detail would be handed over to the enemy.

You clenched your jaw. "We need to move fast."

"Faster than we planned," Mydei added, his tone unreadable. His deep golden eyes burned with something unreadable as he stared at you. "If we don’t stop him now, we might as well be handing Kremnos over to Epos ourselves."

As the gravity of the situation settled over the room, silence stretched between you all. There was nothing left to say—the conclusion was clear. Pytha was a ticking time bomb. The only question was how long you had before he made his final move.

Mydei was the first to break the silence. “We’ll discuss operational strategy later,” he announced, his voice steady and authoritative. “For now, the meeting is adjourned.”

One by one, everyone rose from their seats. Castorice was the first to leave, her sharp purple eyes flickering with thought as she walked out without a word. Phainon followed suit, running a hand through his white hair, his usual easy-going nature dimmed by the weight of what they'd just uncovered. Aglaea gave you a brief glance—calculating, reserved—before she too turned on her heel and strode out.

You were about to leave when your phone vibrated in your pocket. Without thinking, you pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

[Incoming Call: Mydei]

Your brows furrowed. You turned back toward the long conference table, where Mydei still sat, elbows resting against the polished wood, his gaze fixed entirely on you. Why was he calling you when you were right here?

Then, before you could even answer, his voice cut through the room.

“Come to my office. Now.”

The intensity in his tone sent an involuntary chill down your spine. He didn’t ask. He commanded.

Everyone else was already gone. It was just you and him.

He stood up, adjusting the black gloves on his hands before walking past you without another word. His presence was suffocating, powerful, something that demanded attention whether you wanted to give it or not. As he passed, you could feel the heat of his body, the sharpness of his scent—dark, cold, like rain against steel.

You clenched your jaw. You didn’t trust him. You didn’t trust anyone.

But this wasn’t about trust. This was about orders.

So, without hesitation, you followed. . . . . .

The air in Mydei’s office was thick, suffocating in its silence. It was neat, organized to an obsessive degree—no paper out of place, no misplaced items. His desk was sleek and black, a single glass of water placed at its edge. The windows were shut, the blinds drawn, keeping the world outside completely cut off from whatever conversation was about to take place.

He didn’t offer you a seat.

Instead, he walked to the other side of his desk, removed his gloves, and placed them down with a deliberation that felt almost too careful. Then, slowly, he raised his gaze to yours.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

His golden eyes burned into you like fire against ice. He didn’t move, didn’t blink—just watched.

You crossed your arms. “If this is another lecture about my attitude, save it.”

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t not one either. “Your attitude is the least of my concerns.”

Your muscles tensed. “Then what the hell do you want?”

Mydei leaned forward, resting his hands against the desk. The shadows from the dim lighting carved sharp lines across his face, making him look more dangerous than usual.

“Do you understand what you’re walking into?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“This mission,” he said, voice slow, deliberate. “Do you fully comprehend what it means?”

Your fingers curled into fists. Of course you did. You’d spent years doing this. You weren’t naïve, you weren’t weak, and you sure as hell weren’t stupid.

Before you could snap back, he continued.

“This isn’t just about taking down Pytha.” His voice was lower now, something dangerous curling in his tone. “If we do this—if we go after him like this—then we are fully committing to a covert war. If Kremnos finds out we moved without authorization, we will be labeled as traitors.”

Your breath hitched.

He tilted his head, watching for your reaction. “And if Epos realizes we’re coming for them, they will not hesitate to wipe us out before we get the chance.”

His words settled in your chest like a lead weight.

You already knew all of this. You had already accepted it.

But the way he said it, the way his voice dipped lower, almost warningly, made something inside you twist.

“What exactly are you trying to say?” you asked, voice quieter now.

“I’m saying,” Mydei murmured, “that if you don’t want to do this—**if you’re not ready to die for this—**then walk away. Right now.”

Silence.

Your heartbeat drummed in your ears.

The weight of his words, the finality in them, pressed down on you like a storm ready to break.

And yet—

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t hesitate.

Because you had made up your mind long before this moment.

Mydei exhaled slowly, watching you. Then, for the first time in this entire conversation, his expression softened—just barely.

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, then placed it on the desk between you.

You glanced down.

A small goldfish plushie.

Your stomach twisted.

“You dropped this,” he murmured.

Your breath caught in your throat. No, I didn’t.

You had found that plushie on your doorstep. It had been left there.

Your fingers curled around the desk, grip tightening. “Where did you get this?”

Mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned in just slightly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with something unreadable, something dangerous.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than before.

“You really don’t trust me at all, do you?” "Why the fuck would I, Mydeimos?"

But then- A knock comes on the door, you pick up the goldfish plushie and hold it tightly while storming out of the room, slamming the door with full force. The sound echoed down the hallway, sharp and final.

Only then did you let out a breath, shoulders rising and falling with the force of your exhale. Your pulse was still too fast, too erratic, and your fingers still tingled from the force you had used to pin him down.

Damn him.

Damn him for looking at you like that.

Damn him for making you feel like this.

You clenched your jaw, shaking the thoughts away. You had more important things to worry about.

The mission. Pytha. Not him.

You had barely taken a few steps down the hallway when a familiar voice rang out—cheerful, airy, and completely oblivious to the storm still raging in your mind.

“There you are!”

You looked up just in time to see Phainon striding toward you, his usual easygoing smile firmly in place. His white hair was slightly tousled, his crisp uniform neat despite the obvious exhaustion that lined his features.

And yet, despite everything, he smiled.

Always so effortlessly, always so damn bright.

A stark contrast to the suffocating weight that still clung to you from the encounter with Mydei.

Phainon came to a stop in front of you, tilting his head slightly as he studied your expression.

“I’m guessing that conversation didn’t go well,” he mused, tone light but laced with something sharp—something perceptive.

You scoffed, rolling your shoulders back. “When do my conversations with Mydei ever go well?”

Phainon chuckled, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Fair point.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The hallway felt too quiet, too empty, the echoes of your footsteps fading into nothing. The weight of what you had just uncovered—of what you were about to face—hung heavily between you both.

And yet, Phainon’s presence had always been something of a strange comfort.

Unlike Mydei, who kept his emotions locked away behind unreadable golden eyes, Phainon had always been open, always warm. Even in the darkest of situations, even when things felt hopeless, he found a way to lighten the weight.

“Hey.” His voice softened, pulling you from your thoughts. “Don’t let him get in your head.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone.

Phainon’s smile remained, but there was something knowing in his gaze—something that told you he understood more than he let on.

Your lips parted, words hovering at the tip of your tongue—words you couldn’t say, wouldn’t say.

So instead, you just exhaled, shaking your head.

“He’s not in my head,” you muttered.

Phainon raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

You shot him a glare, but he only grinned.

Damn him, too.

Shoving your hands into your pockets, you let out a breath and forced a smirk onto your lips. “Come on. We have a traitor to deal with.”

Phainon chuckled. “Lead the way, partner.”

And with that, the two of you walked forward—leaving behind the suffocating weight of Mydei’s office, and stepping into the unknown chaos waiting ahead. . . . . . The cold, suffocating weight of Mydei’s office slowly faded with every step you took beside Phainon. His presence was so different—lighter, easier to breathe in, as if he absorbed the heaviness from the air and replaced it with something warmer.

Neither of you spoke immediately. The hallway stretched before you, quiet except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the sound of your boots against the tiled floor.

Then, Phainon bumped his shoulder lightly against yours.

It was a small gesture, but it caught you off guard.

Your gaze flickered to him, brows furrowing slightly. He wasn’t even looking at you—his hands were tucked into his pockets, his gaze fixed lazily ahead, his usual gentle smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.

Casual. Effortless. Familiar.

But also... deliberate.

You stared at him for a beat longer, searching for something—some indication that he was doing this on purpose. That he had noticed how tense you were, how the encounter with Mydei had coiled around your ribs like barbed wire.

And, of course, he had.

Because he always noticed.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “That obvious, huh?”

Phainon hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Obvious enough.”

You scoffed, running a hand through your hair. “Great.”

Another beat of silence. Then—

"You know..." His voice was quieter now, softer. "You don’t have to carry everything alone."

Your steps faltered for half a second.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, curling slightly.

You turned your head to look at him again, but he still wasn’t meeting your gaze. His eyes were trained ahead, but there was something different about them—something careful, like he was choosing his words before saying them.

And that alone was enough to make your throat tighten.

Because it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple.

You didn’t just choose to trust someone again. Not after everything. Not after—

You swallowed, forcing down the thought before it could surface.

Phainon must have noticed your silence because his usual teasing expression softened into something more... understanding.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I get it.”

Do you? you wanted to ask.

Do you really understand what it’s like to feel like every person you’ve ever trusted has either betrayed you, lied to you, or left you in the dark? Do you know what it’s like to second-guess everyone—to feel like you’re walking through a minefield, waiting for the inevitable explosion?

But you didn’t ask.

Instead, you sighed. "You always say stuff like that."

"Because it’s true," Phainon replied simply.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you didn’t. You just kept walking, the words lingering between you like something unspoken, something waiting to be addressed.

Another silence settled, but this one was different. Not uncomfortable. Not tense.

Just... there.

It wasn’t until you reached the end of the hallway, near the elevator, that Phainon finally broke it.

“Hey.”

You turned your head slightly, arching an eyebrow.

He grinned. “Wanna get some food before we both drive ourselves insane over this case?”

You blinked. Food?

Of all things, food?

You should have expected this. It was so Phainon. Always looking for ways to ease the weight on your shoulders, always trying to distract you in the most annoyingly simple ways.

And yet...

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want to—but because a part of you felt like accepting something that easy, that light, that normal was something you didn’t deserve.

Like trusting someone again—even in the smallest, most trivial way—was something that would cost you.

Phainon must have seen the hesitation flicker across your face, because his expression softened again.

“It’s just food,” he said, voice warm, teasing but gentle. “Not a lifelong commitment, partner.”

You snorted. “Could’ve fooled me with how dramatic you sound.”

He placed a hand over his chest mockingly. “I take my meals very seriously.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your lips twitched upward despite yourself.

For a moment, you debated it.

For a moment, the weight of everything—the case, Mydei, the mission, the suffocating lack of trust that always sat in your chest—felt like it was just a little lighter.

So you sighed, finally relenting.

"Fine," you muttered. "But if this turns into some cheesy heart-to-heart, I’m throwing my drink at you."

Phainon beamed. "Noted."

Phainon’s “place” turned out to be a quiet, dimly lit restaurant tucked between a few other buildings, small enough that it didn’t feel overcrowded but just lively enough that it didn’t feel eerie.

A few officers from other departments sat at different tables, chatting about mundane things—things that had nothing to do with government conspiracies or betrayals.

For a moment, you almost felt normal.

The two of you took a booth near the back, and Phainon, being the annoyingly observant person he was, ordered for you before you could even scan the menu.

"Trust me," he said, holding up a hand when you shot him a look.

"You say that, but I feel like this is a setup."

Phainon grinned. "Would I ever do that?"

"Yes."

He feigned a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically. "I am deeply offended."

"You’ll live," you deadpanned.

But despite your words, the back-and-forth felt… nice. It was familiar. Like the tension from before had settled just a little, like Phainon was peeling back some of that wariness you always kept wrapped around yourself.

You didn’t want to admit it, but… it felt good.

And when the food arrived, you actually enjoyed yourself.

Phainon kept up his usual antics—complaining about how the fries weren’t perfectly symmetrical, dramatically mourning a piece of food that fell off his fork, making completely unnecessary but oddly specific observations about the way people ate around the restaurant.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed.

It was small, almost reluctant, but it was genuine.

And Phainon noticed.

For a split second, his usual teasing expression softened—just slightly—but he didn’t say anything about it. He just smirked and leaned back, satisfied.

"You should laugh more," he mused, twirling a fork between his fingers.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched upward again. "I’ll consider it." . . . . .

It wasn’t until the evening stretched on that you started to notice it.

The goldfish.

At first, it was subtle—just a small keychain hanging from the restaurant’s counter. Then another, dangling from a customer’s bag as they walked past.

Then—on the glass of water in front of Phainon. A tiny, golden fish logo etched near the rim.

You felt something twist in your stomach.

It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t just overthinking.

It was instinct.

You’ve spent years training your mind to pick up on patterns, to notice details most would overlook.

And this? This was deliberate.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table.

Phainon, completely unaware of the shift in your demeanor, was still talking—something about how the food here was better than the overpriced garbage at headquarters.

But you weren’t listening anymore.

Your gaze flickered around, scanning the restaurant, watching, waiting—searching.

Why goldfish? Why now?

You swallowed, keeping your expression neutral as you turned back to Phainon, watching him carefully.

You never really doubted Phainon before. Out of everyone, he was the one who had remained consistent. The one person who never seemed to have ulterior motives, who never gave you a reason to keep your guard up—

So why did you feel so unsettled?

Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass.

Phainon must have noticed your change in expression because he tilted his head, blinking at you.

"You good?"

For a split second, you considered brushing it off. Playing it safe. Pretending like nothing felt wrong.

But then you met his eyes—those calm, doe unwavering blue eyes.

And suddenly, you weren’t so sure.

The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat, warmth pooling in your stomach as you leaned back in your chair, staring at the rim of your glass. The restaurant was empty now. You hadn’t even realized when everyone left. The once lively chatter had slowly faded into nothingness, leaving only the dim lighting, the soft hum of the overhead lamp, and the presence of Phainon sitting across from you.

You frowned slightly.

When had it gotten so quiet?

Something felt… wrong.

The realization hit slowly, like a dull blade pressing into your skin before cutting deep. The world hadn’t just emptied—it had been wiped clean.

Your gaze flickered up to Phainon—and then—

You froze.

There, surrounding him—goldfish.

Translucent, shimmering, floating goldfish drifted around his body, twisting through the air like they were swimming in some invisible current. Their scales glowed faintly under the dim lights, emitting a pink-red hue that pulsated like a heartbeat.

Your grip on your glass tightened.

Your stomach churned, bile creeping up your throat as you slowly, cautiously, looked at his face.

Phainon was smiling.

But not in the way he usually did.

It was wrong.

His head tilted slightly, his fluorescent pink eyes glowing unnaturally under the light. And then—

A giggle.

High-pitched, saccharine, wrong.

Not Phainon’s voice.

Your breath hitched.

Phainon’s voice was always lighthearted, playful, filled with a lazy kind of amusement. But this? This was mocking—like a child playing with their favorite toy, twisting it in their hands, watching it squirm.

And then—

A single blink.

Phainon was gone.

The air around him shimmered like ripples on the surface of a pond, and in his place, she sat.

Sparkle.

Your blood ran cold.

She lounged in the chair like she had all the time in the world, one leg crossed over the other, fingers lazily twirling a delicate red rope around her wrist. Her fluorescent pink eyes practically glowed, the butterfly-like detail in them shimmering faintly as she tilted her head at you.

She was petite, yet something about her presence felt larger than life, like she could swallow you whole if she pleased. The white kitsune mask resting at an angle atop her head almost seemed to grin at you, its pink flower gem catching the dim light. The soft chime of the tiny bells in her hair rang faintly as she moved, and the red kimono draped around her exposed skin like something out of a dream.

A nightmare.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

And then—

"Well, darling," she purred, propping her chin up with a gloved hand, her voice dripping with amusement, "Sampo wasn't wrong about you after all. You are quite the smart one..."

She grinned, sharp and dangerous.

"And also quite alluring... I must say."

Your heart stopped.

Sampo. What the fuck?!.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your breathing turned shallow, chest tightening with an overwhelming sense of dread. This wasn't just a trap. This wasn't just a mistake.

This was something you should have seen coming.

And yet—

You didn’t.

You let your guard down. You trusted.

And now?

You were sitting face to face with a member of the Masked Fools.

A shapeshifter.

A trickster who had been toying with you this entire time.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palm so hard you could feel the sting. The alcohol in your veins did nothing to ease the way your body felt like it was spiraling, every nerve in your system screaming at you to move—to run.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t afford to.

Because if you so much as flinched, you knew—she would pounce.

Think.

Your mind raced, every second stretching into an eternity.

Had she been following you this whole time? Watching from the shadows? How long had you been speaking to an illusion instead of Phainon? Had she replaced him earlier in the restaurant, or had she been wearing his skin even before then?

Your stomach twisted violently.

How many things had you told her, thinking she was him?

Your breathing hitched again. God.

You swallowed hard, forcing your expression into something neutral, something unreadable, something that wouldn’t let her see just how much she was wrecking you.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, sweetheart," Sparkle mused, her lips curling into something almost too pleased. "Surely you’re not upset? I worked very hard to keep you entertained."

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Your voice felt lodged in your throat, choked by the suffocating weight of regret.

She had played you.

You had let this happen. It was your fault. Everything is.

And now you had no idea where the real Phainon was.

If he was even alive.

hi gang !! ill work on this later yipeee, if u liekd it pls comment 💔

PART 3->

[mossadspypigeon]

Hey can u stop lying about that “7th oct” stuff? None of that happened and you are just participating in that propaganda machine…… all of that just to get sympathy Eurovision votes…… which is just a commercial for that oil company… just jews putting profit before lives as always.

LMFAO

hamas’ leadership on oct 7, filmed by them ^

lolo

all anti israel sources :) even those liars admitted oct 7 happened.

palestinians also filmed it themselves you absolute neo nazi googly eyed shit bag. you were given a brain and yet you’re so determined to not use it. donate it to charity at this point, there’s no hope.

you forgot to say “zionists” btw. but i thought it was antizionism, not antisemitism?

[sugurus-fave-monkey]

Soul Snared

I do not know exactly what possessed me to write this. It was supposed to be a little Drabble but I got carried away. This is my first time writing anything of the sort soooo. Pairing is Mahito x Reader, and I guess this could be monster fucking (I think)

TW/CW: 18+MDNI, Mahito is his own warning, Geto mentioned and appears briefly. jealousy, Non con / dubious consent, spit, tentacles, choking, slapping, restraints, orgasm denial, orgasm, fingering, the tentacles cum, breeding, belly bulge, degradation, predator/prey, oral, vaginal sex, anal sex, deep throating, lots of tongue, shape shifting, dead dove do not eat, fr though this is a lot,not proofread, made on mobile, if there’s more I should mention please let me know.

Word count >2500

NSFW under the cut

Mahito had been the one to find you. He knew not a thing about you, but Geto had said you could be beneficial to them, so he had sought you out. Geto had instructed him to tail you for a while, but Mahito lacked the patience for that, so when he cornered you in an alleyway and you paralyzed his puppets without breaking a sweat, he knew why Geto had targeted you.

Rather than him having to subdue you, you had came along willingly, babbling about how the other sorcerers pissed you off, and you were tired of them having their heads up their asses. Mahito paid attention, always trying to improve his knowledge of humans.

He had observed, how upon entering Dagon’s domain your eyes had widened at the sight of Geto, rushing over to him, practically foaming at the mouth. Geto reassuring you that he was, very much, alive. The overjoyed expression on your face when you found out that your best friend, your mentor, was still alive. And Mahito felt something stir inside him, something new. Was it anger?

For weeks, Mahito watched as the two of you left together to do recon, unsure of how to process what he was feeling. He would lounge on the beach chair, trying to focus on whatever book he was reading. He had thought that if he had captured you, he would be the one to accompany you, after all, he needed to learn more about humans. Why should Geto always be the one with you, when he was human as well? He would try to ignore the rage he felt inside of him, when you and Geto would come back, your hair a mess, Geto’s robes undone, and you giggling, while Geto’s hand rested on your shoulder seemingly guiding you.

Finally Mahito was told the two of you would be working together, with your base of operations being the sewers. That was Mahito’s element, underground, rather than the sun beating down on him heavily. He had left ahead of you, having been told that Geto needed to tell you more specifics.

You had made your way down to the sewers, squinting your eyes to adjust to the gloom, Geto had given you some sort of drink to help block the smell, and you were thankful. Your footsteps echoed off the walls as you made your way closer to where Mahito would be. You finally reached him, he was lying on a concrete slab, his arms folded under his head.

He watched as you pulled out your phone, waiting for whoever you were calling to answer.

“Yup. I found him.” A small smile curled on your lips. “Yeah yeah, I know, Geto.” You giggled, and Mahito felt the rage course through his body again. “Okay got it. See you soon.” You ended the call and went to greet Mahito, but you were unable to speak.

Mahito had launched his hand at you, fingers curling around your neck, easily pushing you against the wall. “Ghaack Mah-“ was all you could muster before his fingers squeezed tighter around your throat. Tears brimmed in your eyes, as you clawed at his hand, feeling yourself get light headed.

Mahito took his time walking toward you, with a grin plastered on his face. He allowed his grip on your neck to slacken ever so slightly, allowing you to suck air into your lungs before tightening it again. His face was mere inches away from yours, you could feel the heat from his breath on your face. His eyes were filled with malice, rage, and something you couldn’t quite pinpoint. He was a curse, he wasn’t supposed to feel emotions, at least that’s what Geto had explained, while he assured you that you would be safe with Mahito. You cursed Geto in your head, and cursed yourself for listening to his honeyed words, and meeting his every order.

Your tears had finally spilled out, wetting your cheeks as you continued to struggle against the curse. However you froze up when Mahito stuck his tongue out, licking your tears away, the appendage hot on your cold skin. You shuddered as your brain practically screamed at you to subdue him, and run. You placed your hands together, ready to use your technique, but Mahito was too fast.

Two more hands sprung from Mahito, grabbing your wrists, and pinning you against the wall.

“Nice try, but you’re too slow.” Mahito taunted you. Now that he had you pinned, he released the hold on your throat, leaving you sputtering, coughing, and gasping for air.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Mahito?” You shouted. “Aren’t we on the same side?”

At that, Mahito cackled, he fucking cackled. “What do you think I’m going to kill you?” He sneered.

“If you hurt me, Geto will crush you!” You cried out.

“Geto this, Geto that!” Mahito spat. “I’m the one who found you! I’m the one that should own you!”

Realization hit you at that moment. Mahito was jealous, but that couldn’t be right. His nature was feral, more animalistic than human. You felt your stomach drop, and suddenly recognized that other emotion, it was lust. Mahito saw you as prey, and from what Geto had told you, he enjoyed toying with his prey.

You spat in his face, it was all you could do from your position, which earned you a backhand from Mahito, who smirked at you. Your ears rang, and your face felt hot where he slapped you.

“Finally caught on huh?” Mahito’s voice was icy, full of malice. “Geto’s not here to save you, so I’d suggest you do as I say. And if not, I’ll just turn you into a puppet to do with as I please. You’ll still be aware of everything, but you won’t be able to fight. Wouldn’t want that, now would you?” He giggled and stuck his tongue out.

You shook your head, too afraid to speak, nobody had ever treated you this way before.

“Ok then! Let’s get started.” Mahito said in a sickly sweet tone, before pressing his lips against yours. You gasped, and when you opened your mouth he took advantage of that, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He took his time, exploring slowly, rubbing against your canines, daring you to bite down, but he knew you wouldn’t. He had you exactly where he wanted you, and he felt the bulge in his pants beginning to grow. He pulled away for a moment giving you a second to breathe, before he was on you again, his tongue pushing its way to your throat. His tongue was long, too long, as it filled your mouth up, poking at your uvula before slowly making its way inch by inch down your throat.

You moaned around his lips, clenching your thighs together, your body betraying you. You knew Mahito had the ability to change his shape at will, but you never expected this. You gagged around his tongue, as it pulled in and out of your throat, your wrists straining against the hands that kept you bound. Mahito pulled away,his tongue slowly pulling out of your throat, only to wedge his knee between your legs. You hissed at the sensation, the friction revealing how wet you were.

“See that’s not so bad huh?” Mahito smiled at you as he let you free from your restraints. You rubbed your wrists, trying to coax some sensation back into your hands. “Why don’t you get undressed and lie down for me?”

It wasn’t a question. You slowly undressed, your shaky hands fumbling as you unclasped your bra, and slid off your panties, and you lied down upon the concrete slab, the coldness making you hyper aware of your body. You shuddered as Mahito sprang out some vine like appendages from his back. They wrapped themselves around your wrists and ankles, spreading your legs, and pulling your arms upwards.

Mahito licked his lips before walking towards you, and taking a seat, you could feel his breath on your cunt. Mahito swiped at your entrance with his index finger, before roughly shoving it inside you, causing you to yelp and buck your hips. Mahito was anything but gentle, pumping his finger in and out of you, exploring inside of you. You moaned, putting aside any anger you had. Mahito added a second finger and began to scissor his fingers inside of you.

“F-fuck feels good.” You moan out. You feel more of those things on your body, two of them circling on your tits, before they latched onto your nipples, one was seemingly biting, the other was sucking, another one made its way to your mouth, sliding in with ease, seemingly growing bigger as it slid down your throat.

Mahito groaned, as the appendage fucked in and out of your throat, he could feel everything that was connected to him, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to impale you on his cock, and fill you up fully. He replaced his fingers with his tongue, exploring your walls, hitting spots that were normally untouched. He sent a vine to your clit, making it suck on it, and rub circles.

It was too much, there were too many sensations, you gagged around the vine in your throat, and it slowly pulled out. “S’too much!” You cried.

Mahito withdrew his tongue from you, and the vines stood still. You could have cried, all of this, and the curse wouldn’t let you cum? You were about to protest, when you saw him unbuttoning his pants, and you widened your eyes. His cock was huge, thick, veiny, and had a row of stitches on it. There was no way that thing was fitting in you. Mahito pumped himself with his hand a couple times, before pressing against your folds, and you were right. The tip couldn’t fit inside. Mahito looked disappointed, and then shrugged, and right before your eyes, the girth of his dick shrank, allowing him to spear you on his length.

You cried out, as it stretched you, adjusting its size, growing inside of you. The vines resumed the roaming of your body, as Mahito thrusted into you slowly, feeling how your muscles clenched around him. He pressed down on your lower stomach, feeling himself. Your muffled moans grew louder, and he increased his speed, fucking into you roughly.

“Such a good girl, taking it all.” Mahito sneered. He felt your body tense up at his words. “Aw are you gonna cum for me? Huh? What a pathetic human, letting a curse fuck her. Go on then. Cum.”

Mahito’s degradation forced you to come undone, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, as your muscles tensed, your hips bucking wildly as you climaxed, squirting on the curse’s abdomen. Mahito pulled the vine out of your throat, allowing you to breathe fully.

“Fuck, you’re so filthy, squirting all over me. ‘M gonna fill you up, stuff you full.” Mahito groaned as his own release came closer. His balls clenched, as his cum sprayed inside you, ropes and ropes being churned from inside of him.

You allowed yourself to relax a moment, thinking it was over, that he had his fun with you, until you felt something wet against your asshole.

“N-no not there!” You squeaked out.

Mahito tsked at you, before flipping you over, onto your hands and knees, his vines locking you into position. His thrust his cock into your cunt again, and used his tentacle to slowly pry open your ass, your muscles clenching, trying to stop the intrusion. Mahito brought his hand down swiftly upon your ass, causing you to jump. “Just relax. It won’t hurt.”

What little resistance, defiance you had once possessed no longer existed. You couldn’t form coherent thoughts any more. You relaxed, and Mahito was right, the vine was warm, and coated in something slick, a moan coming from your lips, as every single part of you was stuffed full. Mahito wrapped vines around your waist, and used them to stabilize you, allowing you to collapse and be held in the air as Mahito bullied his cock and vines into you. When he would thrust in the vine would pull out. And he could expand, contract and lengthen them at will. Tears were spilling from your eyes, and drool was dripping from your mouth, forming a puddle on the slab under you.

“I told you it wouldn’t hurt. You like it huh? Being stuffed full, your body being mine to treat as I please.” Mahito taunted as he watched all your holes swallowing him up, his dick fucking his cum into you, hopefully pushing it into your womb. He quickened the pace of the vine in your mouth, pushing it deeper and deeper into your throat, before it finally released in you. As it pulled out you coughed up some of the cum it expelled into your throat.

The vine attached to your clit was pulled off, being replaced with Mahito’s thumb, roughly circling, applying just the right amount of pressure. “M-Mahito d-don’t stop.” You moaned weakly.

“Again? Alright, you can cum, but only if you tell me who you belong to.” Mahito smirked.

“Y-you! I belong to you Mahito, you own me!” You cried out, as your second release snapped, causing you to shudder, and twitch, your body relaxing completely. And as you came so did the vine fucking into your ass, filling your tight hole with cum, leaving its mark inside of you.

“Th-that’s right. Nngh f-fuck. M’ gonna breed you, give you all my cum., fill you up. You want that?” Mahito’s voice trembled, pleasure coursing through his body.

“Y-yes fuck, fill me up, please. Please breed me Mahito.” You were no longer thinking, words were just coming out of your mouth at this point.

“That’s it fuck, take it all, let me fill your womb up.” Mahito hissed as he planted his seed inside of you for a second time, and you could have sworn you felt a bulge in your belly as he fucked his cum further inside of you. You were exhausted, absolutely spent. Mahito slowly lowered you down, retracting the vines back into his body, before pulling out of you. And you slowly drifted into a deep slumber.

You awoke to the sound of hushed voices and kept your eyes closed. Your body had been covered in a blanket, and you were thankful for that.

“So you’ve found another finger?” You heard Mahito ask.

“Yes. I trust that you can carry out the plan?” That was Geto’s voice. You assumed he came to make sure you were okay.

The small talk continued, growing louder, footsteps approaching, until the two of them were standing above you.

“What’s this?” Geto asks. “Have you already started our little experiment?” Your eyes flutter open.

“Experiment?!” You move to sit up, however, vines bind you to where you’re laying.

Geto simply chuckles before he brushes his fingers over your face. “Of course. Seeing if a sorcerer can have a viable pregnancy with a curse.” He turns to Mahito. “Let me know if anything changes.”

And that’s when you notice for the first time, the stitches in his head, and you realize, whatever that is, is not Suguru Geto.