#silent benefactors

[skybristle]

rbs > likes

ancients amirite. so awesome. I love ancients. [wipes out and dies] hes a bitch fuck him. at least i got to draw a more mammallian / flatfaced ancient yayyyyyyyyyyyyyy

[silentworldarchives]

City of Hunger monster concepts

[shentheauthor]

ROSW: Are you done?

Storms: Yeah. I’ll send the pic to you later.

ROSW: My communications channels are closed.

Storms: That hasn’t stopped me in the past, it won’t stop me now.

ROSW: …Get out of my chamber.

[rk-x-yz]

huh that was weird my laptop died :////

anyway idk what we want to call it?? bc "early mornin legality issues" is probably not a name that fits this one

"Two Chances, and You Lost Both." < - thats something I can see him saying. Cool thats the name now, nicknamed "early mornin legality issues"

[alg3a]

auspicious (pt. 1)

jayce x f!reader x viktor / jayvik x f!reader

4k, sfw for now, no use of y/n

description: Viktor and Jayce’s new lab assistant is the hottest topic at a council gala. After defending herself all night, an accidental confession leads to tension in the workplace.

warnings: suggestive content, brief and light misogyny (don’t worry), manipulative reader, lab assistant dynamic, basically the last third is foreplay.

a/n: This is my first ever tumblr fic! If you guys would like, i will add an nsfw second part.

Update: second part added!

Say what you will about Councilor Salo, but his galas never disappointed. There must have been three hundred of the city’s most influential people scattered about the grand ballroom, which stretched further than you could see with your naked eye. It was the first you’d ever seen of these exquisite parties, and you silently hoped that it wouldn’t be the last.

You’d been the lab assistant of the two Hextech partners for around three months now. With the public eye being enthralled with the activities of the two intelligent scientists, it wasn’t long before the spectacle included you, their pretty new lab assistant. You were in your final year in the academy’s undergraduate program and had been a promising enough engineering student to be hired by Viktor and Jayce. Your name was a prevalent one in every inventor’s competition and innovator’s fair, so naturally they had heard of you before your interview. From what you heard, there were nearly fifty other applicants (mostly girls) and yet they hired you on the spot. Naturally, once this story aired, the press was obsessed with you. Piltover Gazette did an entire piece on you about a month into your employment.

With all the attention, Jayce thought it might be a good idea for you to tag along at galas and parties as the plus-one of both men. They never brought dates, so the position was always wide open. Although, Jayce did usually leave with a plus-one.

You wore a deep red sleek gown with a plunging neckline and an absent back. The men matched their ties to your dress, but the rest of their outfits were mostly black and ivory. It wasn’t long before you were whisked away to the dancefloor by influential older men, who talked your ear off about how lucky you must find yourself to be shadowing two promising young inventors. You cringed each time you heard it. You were certainly lucky to have landed the position, but the way they phrased it made it seem like you were some teenage girl who was asked to the school dance by the two cutest boys in school. It wasn’t as trivial as that. Each day, you worked tirelessly alongside their genius minds to find solutions to real world problems using Hextech. You and Viktor spent countless nights asleep on opposite ends of the worn lab couch so that you could continue working at any hour.

Eventually, you grew tired of the misogyny from older male benefactors. You’d done enough socializing for the night, now it was time to patronize the open bar.

You found a spot between a woman in a gold dress and a man in a white tuxedo and asked the bartender politely for a whiskey sour. Once you finished speaking, the man in the white tuxedo turned to you.

“I recognize you,” he said, the scent of his aftershave mixing with the alcohol on his breath. “You’re the Hextech girl, aren’t you? I read your article in the Gazette.”

You sighed as the bartender handed you your drink, pressing a polite smile to your lips with the exhale. “Yes, that’s me. It’s a pleasure.” You hold out your hand and he brings it to his lips with a kiss longer than you would have liked.

“The pleasure is all mine, dear,” he said, setting his glass down. “You know, it’s very uncommon for an undergraduate girl to land such an auspicious spot amongst lead researchers at the academy.”

Here we go again. In the time it takes for him to finish the same spiel you’d heard all night, you finish your drink in one continuous sip. You punctuate the end of his sentence by putting your glass down roughly on the counter.

“Yes, I’m incredibly lucky,” you say, your polite smile turning vaguely murderous. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Viktor approaching the bar.

“Enough prattle from me,” the man says and holds out his pasty hand once more. “I think it’s time for a dance.”

“Are we interrupting?” Jayce asks, his usual charming smile adorning his chiseled face.

“Not at all!” The man in white says, jovially. No doubt feeling blessed to speak to the men whose egos he spent the last five minutes stroking.

“In fact you came at the perfect time,” you say, smushing yourself between Jayce and Viktor, and wrapping your arms around their arms, emboldened by the alcohol and desperate for a way out of this conversation. “We were just discussing how positively fortunate I am to be working for two accomplished, ambitious, handsome young inventors.”

Viktor furrows his eyebrows at you, then looks back up at Jayce. “Is that so?” He asks, suspicion dancing in his eyes.

“Yes,” you nod emphatically, then bring your attention back to the man in white. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry I’ll have to decline your offer to dance. But I’m sure you understand. When a young woman like myself is called upon by men so far above my humble station, I simply must recognize how—what was the word you used earlier—how auspicious my position is.”

The man seems lost in your rambling, but you notice Jayce and Viktor smiling at one another and avoiding the man’s gaze.

“Ehem, well alright,” the man says, finally. “You three have a pleasant night.”

“Thank you,” Jayce says, his smile becoming a smirk. “We will.”

Jayce places his hand on your lower back and guides you away as Viktor follows, now placing his weight on his cane.

“Are we missing something?” Viktor asks.

“We came to check up on you,” Jayce said. “That guy at the bar was eyeing you like you were his next cocktail.”

“Gross,” you shudder at the thought. Jayce’s hand rubs the exposed skin of your lower back gently. Your eyes dart toward the ground at the sudden awareness of the intimacy of the touch. You shrug off the chill heading up your spine. “Please, never invite me to one of these again. I’ve heard enough old men insinuating that I’m the lab’s little piece of ass.”

“They’re saying that?” Viktor said sharply, stopping in his path as he turned to face you, his hand on your shoulder.

“Well, not exactly that, but practically every conversation is monopolized by my male counterpart lecturing me on what a privilege it is to spend my days ogling at you two.”

Jayce snickers a bit, but Viktor shoots him a stern look.

“That’s highly inappropriate. I’m terribly sorry you experienced such a blatant display of the antiquated beliefs these upper houses hold.” Viktor shakes his head as if he is shaking off the experience like a dog drying off.

“Vik and I were just talking about leaving, anyway,” Jayce says, his hand resuming its ministrations on your back. “We can call a car and go, just say the word.”

You look around the room and remember the reason you’re here in the first place. Galas are the primary way for the two inventors at either side of you to network and receive funding for their projects. Jayce abhorred the politics and the whole reason exhausted, introverted Viktor even bears the social tedium of these parties when he’d rather be slaving away in the lab is because he knows none of their ventures can be broadened without doing the dance. In a singular moment you realize that if they can stomach the routine dreariness of the social game that these parties provide, so can you. You are their prized assistant after all.

“It's okay,” you shake your head. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks, his head tilting.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nod. “I just have to get used to the manner at which these sorts of events go on. But I can do it. If you’ll recall, adaptability was a strength on my resume.”

This earns a laugh from both of the men. Jayce removes his hand from your lower back to rub your shoulder softly. “I think we glossed over that part.”

Viktor stops laughing suddenly, which elicits a raised eyebrow from you.

“What?” You ask, your eyes darting between Viktor and Jayce. Jayce’s lips press together in a tight seal as if he caught himself letting something slip. “What do you mean?”

Just in time to save them from the obviously impending awkward situation, a man in an all black suit approaches.

“Gentlemen, if I may borrow your lovely assistant for a dance–”

You felt your cheeks growing hot with every word he spoke. You were so incredibly tired of old men here thinking they could just ask politely and receive your body to use in whatever stupid waltz they wanted to try their hand at. “Gods, I don’t–”

“My apologies,” Jayce said, interrupting what he was sure would be an outburst on your part. “I’m afraid our lovely assistant is spoken for, for the rest of the night.”

Viktor punctuated his sentence with a nod and a gentle squeeze of your upper arm.

“I see,” the man said, his face betraying his civility. “Well, find me if that changes.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Viktor released your arm. “Call that car, Jayce.”

“On it,” he said, already beginning to make his way to the front of the ballroom.

“I’ve been where you are,” Viktor said, his nimble fingers trailing downward from where he had been squeezing your arm. He lifts your hand and places it on his wrist so that you cling to him as the two of you walk toward the exit together. “When I was Heimerdinger’s assistant, I was often undermined. Although, I had the distinct privilege of not being a beautiful young woman. While I can relate to your frustration, the misogyny and objectification you’re experiencing aren’t exactly things Jayce and I have experienced. But we’re going to do our best to quell it for you.”

You look up at him and find his hardened expression fixed on the door. “Thank you.” Those two words will suffice for now, but Viktor’s promise warms your heart in ways that a simple thank you cannot express.

Jayce finds the two of you as you exit into the grand hallway. “Car’s waiting outside.” He takes his coat off and drapes it over your shoulders, not paying much attention to your hand on Viktor’s arm.

The three of you pile in the back of the limousine. You sit sandwiched between the two men, relishing in the warmth radiating from their bodies after the few steps outside in the cold night. Viktor stretches his leg outward in the spacious backseat while Jayce leans back and groans. Clearly you aren’t the only one exhausted from the antics of the night.

“Where will I be taking you three?” The driver asks, his eyes visible in the rearview mirror.

“Two stops, if possible,” Jayce speaks up, leaning forward once more to be heard better. “The laboratory block of the academy and the East Dormitories.”

“You guys are going to the lab? It’s almost midnight.” You ask, turning to Jayce before realizing how the proximity of the backseat brings your face so close to his.

“Always work to be done,” Jayce says, glancing over your face before giving you a little more space. “But don’t worry, you’ve had a long night. You don’t need to do any assisting again until tomorrow morning.”

You look over at Viktor momentarily, to see him staring out the window as the car begins to move.

“If it’s alright, I think I’d like to go to the lab, too,” you say, softly. You can’t help but feel as though you’re inviting yourself to some clandestine meeting, as if you don’t have as much of a reason to be at the lab as they do.

Jayce looks over at Viktor, not for confirmation but for something else. Humor, maybe?

“Of course,” Jayce smiles softly. He shifts his attention to the driver again. “On second thought, just take us to the labs, please.”

The driver nods as he picks up speed and peels out of the driveway. For some reason, your heart pounds. It isn’t abnormal for you and the two men to stay ridiculously late at the lab. In fact, it’s more common than leaving before midnight.

You become suddenly aware of the long slit that opens your deep red dress, and you cross your legs.

“Jayce I wanted to ask you something,” you say, mustering up the courage to recall the slip-up from earlier. “What did you mean when you said you glossed over my resume?”

“Well…” Jayce looks over at Viktor, which makes you do the same. Now he’s definitely paying attention, his eyebrows two firm lines scrunched above his angular nose.

Viktor finally decides to chime in, and you know exactly why: Jayce isn’t a good liar.

“We had lots of applications,” Viktor said. “You know that.”

“Yeah, but…then why did you hire me?”

“You had a very promising interview,” Viktor says, now avoiding eye contact.

“You’re lying to me,” you say, more accusatory than you meant it to be.

“We should just tell her, Vik,” Jayce mutters, almost under his breath. In response, Viktor’s hard expression softens. Perhaps out of relief?

“Tell me what?”

“Fine,” Viktor says, finally, with an exhausted sigh. “I’m too tired to persuade you against it.”

Jayce puts a hand so low on your thigh that it’s almost on your knee. “First, it’s important that you know that we would have hired you regardless. You’re so incredibly talented and you’ve been such a good assistant; we have no doubt in our minds that you’re the perfect person for this job.”

“Regardless of what, Jayce?”

“A little help, Vik?” Jayce asks after a sigh of helpless frustration.

“We sent everyone else home after your interview,” Viktor said, still looking out of the window, his arm resting on the ledge of the door, fidgeting with the handle. “When we saw you for the first time, we decided we wanted to see you more often.”

“What?” You feel your face growing hot. Anger? Something else entirely?

“The first note I wrote during your interview just said ‘beautiful,’ and I don’t think I wrote anything down after that,” Jayce admitted.

“You can’t be serious,” you say at a volume so low it might be a whisper. Anger. Definitely anger. “All night…all night I was swatting away guys who were objectifying me…accusing me of just being your pretty little assistant. I thought it was just misogyny. I thought they just couldn’t believe a girl was capable of keeping up with you two…but apparently they were right.”

“That’s not the case, at all,” Viktor said, louder than you’d ever heard him. “It couldn’t be further from the truth. We weren’t objectifying you. You deserve respect for your accomplishments, and those accomplishments are numerous.”

“He’s right, it’s not like we just hired you to look at,” Jayce said, trying to reconcile the situation. “And it’s not like I didn’t write notes during your interview because there wasn’t anything to write. I stopped writing because I was captivated by you.”

Suddenly the weight of the situation falls onto you, all at once. These men, your bosses, your best friends, the two smartest, most accomplished scientists in Piltover…they were attracted to you.

“For three months?” You ask, softly, more to yourself than to them.

“Yes,” Viktor answered. “We understand if you’re upset with us.”

The car slowed to a stop against the curb of the laboratory building of the academy.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go into the lab anymore,” Jayce said, beginning to lean forward and opening his mouth to address the driver. “Hey, sorry, could you–”

“No,” you say, your words final. “I’m going into the lab with you.”

Your lips are a deep red firm line. Your eyes are unreadable, and neither of the boys can tell what you’re thinking. Even you hardly know, but one thing is certain: you find yourself in an auspicious position. You didn’t need the two boys to validate you for everything listed on your resume. They knew you were intelligent, and more importantly, you knew. What you didn’t know is that they found you beautiful. So much so that they hired you just to see you more often.

You’d spent the whole night trying to defend your own honor, being shaken by men with accusatory, wandering hands. More than that, you’d spent the night wandering awkwardly for the benefit of your bosses. Now, it was time to return the favor.

“If you’re sure,” Jayce said, pushing open the car door and stepping out onto the curb, holding it open for you as Viktor exited through the other door. As you brushed past Jayce, you let his coat fall delicately down your shoulders, revealing the deep backline of the dress.

You turn over your right shoulder, just enough for your face to be past profile, and narrow your eyes at him. “I’m sure.”

Once Viktor is out of the car, the three of you walk toward the large glass doors that lead to the lobby of the laboratory building. You stop in front of the keycard sensor and watch as Viktor pats down his pant pockets in search of his key card.

“Sorry, one second,” he says.

You approach him, with no sound but the clicking of your heels on the cold pavement below, and slide your hand into his coat pocket. You watch his jaw clench, never taking your eyes off his face as you pinch the plastic card between your pointer and middle finger. You pull it out like a cigarette before waving it in front the boys’ faces and tapping it against the small metal sensor. It beeps with a green flash and you hand the card back to Viktor. Neither of them says a word.

You enter through the glass doors, but at the lack of footsteps behind you, you turn around. The men still stand, staring at you, mouths slightly agape.

“What?” You ask. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jayce coughs, as if fighting something in his throat, then takes a few steps forward and follows you.

You press the call button on the elevator and wait as the boys stand on either side of you.

“If you’re upset with us, please say so,” Viktor said, his voice bordering pleading.

“Upset?” You tilt your head to look up at the man beside you. Even in heels they were both taller than you. “Do I look upset?”

“I–uh well, I am not sure. You look…focused.”

You were definitely focused. Yes, you were playing with them. Wasn’t it only fair that you return a bit of the awkwardness provided by their sudden confession in the car? This was you getting even for that embarrassment, and you’d soon be getting even for the long-kept secret, as well.

“Strange,” you say as the elevator door opens before you. You step in and turn to face the door. “Jayce, press four.”

He does as you say.

“And how do you think I look, Jayce?” You ask, your eyes shifting toward him in the confined space of the elevator. He repeats that same little choked cough from before, except now it sounds closer to him clearing his throat.

“I think you look very good.”

You smile at him. Not a kind one, but the sort of condescending smile one gives a child who gave the wrong answer. A cute answer, though.

“Thanks,” you say, your eyes returning back to the door. “But I was asking if you thought I looked angry.”

The door beeps open and you are the first to leave. As you walk down the long hallway, you hear the boys walking a yard behind you. They’re nervous, that much you can sense on the cold bare skin of your back.

You stop at the lab door at the end of the hall and wait for the boys to catch up. It’s the biggest lab on the fourth floor.

Viktor now has his keys at the ready and unlocks the large wooden door, then holds it open for you to enter before the two boys. How spoiled you are.

You saunter into the lab, letting Jayce’s coat fall all the way down your shoulders before draping it on a stool next to the counter. They attempt to ignore you, bee-lining toward their desks in the lab but you catch each time their eye wanders to you on the opposite side of the room. Often they alternate, glancing over while the other is talking about the equations they're working through or the tools they need to assemble something. Every so often, they look over at you at the exact same time, following whispers you can’t quite make out, and when they do it is absolutely silent.

Meanwhile, you’re pouring the wine that you’ve been stashing in the cabinet meant for volatile chemical solutions. You’ve laid out three glasses, but you only fill the one in the middle. You sip from it slowly, your eyes peeking out from above the glass rim so you can catch them every time they look over at you.

“What are you doing?” Jayce asks, exasperatedly, finally.

“What do you mean?” You ask, and continue to sip your wine.

“We said we were sorry–”

“No, actually you didn’t.” You finish your glass and set it back down between the two empty glasses. “You said you understood if I was mad. And you tried to explain yourselves.”

“We are sorry,” Viktor said. “Terribly sorry. For lying, and for…objectifying you.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t objectification?” You said, still bitter despite the joy you extracted from teasing these poor boys.

“It doesn’t matter what we think we did or did not do,” Viktor said, the thickness of his accent swallowing his nervous words. “What matters is that you are hurt, and that we are terribly sorry.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Eh…you’re not?” It wasn’t often that Viktor sounded confused, so you relished the question.

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Jayce asked.

You poured wine into the two glasses on either side of your own and smiled as you looked down at the liquid filling them. You pushed the glasses toward them and raised your eyebrows expectantly. As if well trained, they walked over to you at the counter and picked up their glasses, taking small sips each.

“You could call it disbelief,” you said. “Or plain shock.”

“I understand that we sprung a lot on you all at once–” Viktor started to say, but you raised your hand.

“I’m not in disbelief because you’re attracted to me, Viktor, I’m far too self-assured for that.”

Jayce stifles a laugh.

“I’m in disbelief because I’ve wasted three months pretending not to be attracted to either of you,” you say, coming out from behind the counter and going to sit on the couch in the center of the room. You’d done an excellent job decorating their lab and had managed to make it feel like a home rather than a detention room.

“What are you saying?” Jayce asks, setting his glass down and stepping toward you. Viktor follows his example.

“I’m saying that if you had just told me ages ago that you two felt that way, I’d be laughing at the men who asked to dance with me tonight instead of clenching my fists. I’ve spent three months pushing aside any thought of you two outside of professional settings because I didn’t want to be the naive little lab assistant fawning over her bosses.”

A strap of your dress slips off of your left shoulder, and you let it.

“What a waste,” you scoff as you lean back into the cushions of the couch. You pick your hair up so that it falls over the cushions and cascades like a waterfall.

“So…” you watch as the gears in Jayce’s genius brain turn, “if we had told you sooner then–”

“Then you could have had me sooner.”

NSFW PART TWO????

[incognit0slut]

Devil’s advocate

Softcore Spencer doesn't feel any remorse when it comes to this strange arrangement involving sex. Neither do you.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 3.6k Content: fem!reader, dom!spencer, bratty reader if you will, implied age gap, unprotected p in v, spit kink, overstimulation, squirting, and kinda fwb or (more precisely) not-exactly-friends with benefits a/n: it took me more than 3 months to post again and it will probably take me another for the next post (kidding) (maybe not). try to imagine this spencer for a better experience

-

Spencer isn’t a good man.

A quiet verdict, a fault line.

A truth etched into the grain of his being that is unmoved no matter how many times people say otherwise.

He’s made a habit of the dissection — words, meanings, intent. A lexical autopsy, combing through every definition in the dictionary if it meant finding just one that could give weight to the well intentioned affirmations spoken by those who’ve shared his life through fourteen years of cases. From friends to mentors. From people he considers family. Even his mother has taken part in the exercise in her own way, quietly revising the definition of goodness to fit the shape of her son.

His love for her isn’t enough to convince him.

And he loves her, deeply, enough to bear the fragmented reality she clings to without complaint. Still, her confidence sounds like a desperate attempt to defend a virtue that, as far as he can tell, simply doesn't exist. Her faith in him is stubbornly rooted in wishes rather than proof. Pretty, fragile things wilting from reality. She doesn’t see the cracks hidden behind the glassy surface of his supposedly endearing charm.

Like most people never do. The brilliance of his brain blinds them. They think his mastery of facts or ability to weave information into careful answers is a reflection of some deeper moral foundation. Assuming that the man who can recite obscure case law from memory and deconstruct a lie with nothing but tone and syntax must also be someone incapable of harm. That someone who thinks in algorithms surely knows the difference between right and wrong and essentially follows it. Articulate, therefore righteous.

What lazy math that they run.

The truth, however, is far less romantic.

If there’s anything genuinely good left in him, he likes to believe it’s the act of waiting. Patience still sounds noble enough. It casts him as a silent benefactor, gifting others the space to sketch their own truths while he quietly collects their misconceptions and spends them like counterfeit bills.

He’s getting good at it, too.

Exchange his intelligence for wisdom.

Detachment for strength.

Emptiness for depth.

Little trades, so small and constant they almost feel natural now. As long as he keeps showing them the version they’ve come to accept, no one pauses to wonder if those long months locked inside his own head have carved him down to something less than whole. Selfish, perhaps, letting them cling to these illusions. But it’s a comfortable deception. They get the man they want, he keeps the truth to himself, paying nothing but time and silence for whatever reward comes from that carefully preserved silence.

After all, waiting is nothing more than delayed gratification, isn't it?

And this right here is what he’s waited for, to have you like this — warm and wet and dangling precariously off his bed.

A decadent reward for every second of restraint.

Purely carnal. Blasphemous in its perfection.

Your body curves at an angle that looks uncomfortable, a leg hooked over his shoulder, another barely hanging onto the edge of the mattress with the cool air licking your calf. Common sense tells him a complaint is warranted, yet not a murmur of discomfort escapes your pretty lips. You seem perfectly content to let him mold you into whatever shape he wants. Harmless, he insists, just a mutual indulgence between two consenting adults.

But morality has a way of souring sweet things — and maybe he should be ashamed.

Should be embarrassed at the way he finds satisfaction in this.

Should feel something other than pride watching your brows pinch together in pleasure.

Should care that he’s reduced to fucking you with all the desperation of a man who likes being selfish. It’s statistically uncommon for someone with his level of empathy, yet he stitches hunger into the tender curve of your body, scoring endless sensation with needles that prick and sting but never draw enough blood to slow him. Only if he distanced himself from you could he see the cruelty he’s gouging into the very seams of your skin.

He does no such thing.

He can’t. Not when he’s buried inside you like this, when your breath splits apart into fragile little pieces with weak fingers clawing at his back. Not when his selfishness feels bottomless, a craving so raw and wide and insatiable he's never dared give it a name — but somehow you seem to understand.

Understand what, though?

That he can’t help himself? That despite all the logic, all the reasons why he shouldn’t let himself have you, he does?

That he doesn’t regret it, not even a little?

No.

Good men don’t do this.

But you’re no saint either.

Innocence wears your face, but never fit so poorly. You’re trouble in its finest form — beautifully packaged, masterfully delivered with a smokey laugh that glides over the fine shiver pebbling across his skin as you offer a sly, “You’re getting sloppy.”

The smug little curl of your lips has his heart leaping in his throat, and he would have joined in your laughter if it weren’t for the way your breathless tone slithered into his ears. His brows draw together, sweat dripping down nose as he shakes his head to free the damp strands of hair clinging to his skin.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” You tip your head back against the bed, exposing the lovely curve of your neck. "Your age is starting to show.”

He finally huffs a laugh, lowers the leg hooked over his shoulder and trails up the inside of your thigh. “That’s not very nice.”

Your teeth briefly catch your lower lip.

“Neither is slowing down right when it’s getting good.”

“You think I’m slowing down?”

You faintly nod. “It’s actually cute how you’re pacing yourself. Should I be worried about your knees?”

That earns a sharp, almost affronted look before his palms grip both your inner thighs, followed by a sudden thrust that sends you back against the mattress. He thinks he’s regained some semblance of power over himself, until you let out a breathless little moan and continue to taunt him, arching your back with full insolence but only half the mockery. Docile in appearance alone when you’re flaunting your nipples in blatant invitation.

“That the best you can do?”

A hand flies to your breast, curling around the supple meat as he catches the stiff bud between his knuckles. “You’re acting brave tonight.”

“Sexually frustrated,” you admit with an exasperated sigh, rolling your hips. Urging him to move again. “Spent the whole day picturing you fucking me stupid and got exactly nothing.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Nothing feels almost insulting considering how easily he coaxed you through his apartment.

He tries to bend lower, and sure enough, there’s something that feels suspiciously like age nipping at his lower back. A dull throb he quickly swallows as his mouth find your nipple. And toys with it, rolling the taut peak between wet tongue and wetter teeth, each slow suck a deliberate rebuttal that the way he’s been driving his cock into you for the past twenty minutes is anything but nothing.

Your fingers slip into the softest surface of hair.

“Fuck me harder.”

He turns his attention to your other nipple. “That still wasn’t enough for you?”

“If you have to ask, then clearly not.”

His mouth closes around you again, laps slow, teasing circles, all the while you grind your hips, shamelessly trying to fuck yourself with every delicious tug of his lips.

Instinctively, he starts rutting his hips in response. Little thrusts of his cock easing inside you inch by inch. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I have every intention of finding out,” you counter, pulling him by his curls. “I know you can do better.”

His gaze touches yours.

You smile lazily.

“Go on. Show me.”

His eyelids dip in a slow, dangerous blink, and lets his nose brush the soft swell of your breast. Lingers. Smells the powdery scent of jasmine and honey consuming his senses.

What part of himself can he exchange this time? What currency of half-truths still has any value left?

The answer, adamantly, is etched in the narrow space of his mouth and your skin, a hush too charged to disguise. He doesn't think he owes you anything in counterfeit tonight. No borrowed patience. No repurposed kindness polished thin by repetition. The second you ask for more when he’s been giving you nothing less is the moment every polished veneer he’s spent years perfecting shatters like chipped glass.

So he gives you the one thing he’s never bartered — himself, stripped of caution.

Because no matter how many labels others slap on his name, you’ve never bought into a single one.

Not entirely. You catch the edges that don’t quite align, the rougher layers hidden beneath his careful composure. You see past the softness everyone assumes is the entirety of him, the reputation they’ve stitched together from fragments pieced carefully since he was an innocent young boy with oversized glasses and a penchant for knowledge.

Rationally, he is soft. He’s spent a lifetime wrapped in the belief that his gentleness is his sole trait. That it’s all he can embody.

But not with you.

With you, he's whatever he needs to be.

He's whatever he wants to be.

He pulls back just enough to watch your body seize around him, and drags his tongue over his chapped lips, tastes the salt of effort and the musky smell of sex before channeling what’s left of his energy into his core. Then fucks you harder. Shoving every inch back with a strangled noise of his own, savoring the tight pull of your dripping cunt. Relishing the slight roll of your eyes as he pushes deeper, harder, with a savagery that rips breathless whimpers from the back of your throat with each jarring thrust. 

Your moans ride every groaning hinge of the mattress, too, then linger, fogging the dark walls of his room as the wet slap of skin bounces off every surface. Stepping three beats out of time with reason, maybe more, for the way his eyes chase that music down the slope of your belly, following the trail of his thumbs over your mound, over your stretched folds, and pulls the soft skin apart.

His throat rises and falls in time with the motion of his cock — in, out, in, out. For someone so famously averse to germs, the streaks of your slick smearing across his skin outweigh every compulsion, so much so he pries you open even wider and lets a hot ribbon of saliva pool in his mouth. Watches it dribble over your clit. He’s nowhere near coherent enough to care about cleanliness when he can tell how much the slow trickle of his spit sliding down your swollen flesh — a foamy mess now resting heavily on his cock — only seem to intensify your thirst.

You squirm when he moves closer, fingers clawing around his wrist like you’re on the verge of asking for more but can’t bring yourself to say.

Stubborn, he's not surprised.

But he knows you well enough to understand the subtle shifts in your expression. He takes that slightly jutting lower lip of yours as a plea for him to give you what you need, so he smears the extra coat of lube over your clit and rubs frantically. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it too, not when he’s seen how much you like it under rough hands. He’s proven right when he notices your muscles tensing up.

Your breath stutters. Your body jerks.

He rubs your clit with more pressure. “Good enough for you?”

You swallow thickly, blinking up at him through heavy lids. “Still—fuck—”

“What was that?”

“Still—think you can—do better,” you retort, hiccupping through your words. 

It’s beyond him that you’re still functioning. Your hair clings messily to your forehead, damp strands caught in a tangled halo around your face. Your cheeks are blotchy from where his stubble scraped across your skin, lips kiss-bruised and swollen and somehow still trying to get the last word.

You should be done by now. Boneless, reduced to little more than trembling limbs, yet you still have bits of reason floating around that mush he’s turned your brain into. There’s a spark of energy left to bait him. Foolish, he decides, but if there’s even a sliver of you left untouched, he’ll gladly take every fragment that dares to surface.

He wrenches off your body just long enough to fist his cock, dragging his bulbous tip through the sticky fluids down to the puckered hole beneath, then slaps himself through the mess. If it weren’t for your hips bucking shamelessly, he’d think he was wrong for indulging such filthy impulses he’s never dared to overstep. You can’t seem to discern whether the sharp throb is pain or pleasure, but your cunt flutters around emptiness and aches like it's grieving the loss of him.

One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s right back where you need him, hammering into that devastating spot that sends your pupils scattering upward, leaving nothing but the whites of your eyes. He pulls out and does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again, until he’s certain all your senses have braided into one indistinguishable pulse.

“Oh God,” you moan, trying to press your thighs together out of reflex, but his grip tightens as he pries them open once more.

You feel lightheaded. Your belly rolls, your cheeks burn, drool slips from the corner of your mouth. You’re so far gone you don’t even notice. Too wrapped up in the desperate drag of breath through your parted lips, too busy chasing the dizzy spark bursting behind your eyes. You’re nothing short of raw nerves, lost in the punishing rhythm that keeps tearing you open and stitching you together in the same brutal stroke.

It doesn’t take long for a high, agonizing squeal to wrench free from your throat as your orgasm barrels through you without warning. Steals your breath away, leaving behind only a splintered string of gasps and trembling cries that fall recklessly from your lips as his pelvis hammers into the curve of your hip bone.

And he catches every fractured syllable and synchronizes his thrusts to the quiver of your voice, or maybe he’s simply addicted to the jagged rise and fall of your moans — like a direct stroke to his ego, trophies he hoards greedily.

He ponders how many more of those rewards he can coax from you tonight, how many more heights your body can scale before it finally gives way. He assumes it’s too much to ask, yet the greedy pulse in his veins insists there’s always more shiver to claim, another breathless note to add to his growing collection.

It turns out to be unnervingly easy.

Your second climax arrives in the span of a single heartbeat.

The third steals in like an electric stab, splintering along your spine as he pins you down and pounds hard into you.

By the fourth, your cunt swells and clenches around him in frantic pulses, yet he’s still fucking you relentlessly as if one more keepsake will finally satiate his greed.

Your hand shake when you lift one to trace his bicep, though it ends up as more of a twitchy pawing than anything resembling grace before you blindly scramble up his shoulder, finding his damp mess of curls again. Its wild, humid knot of heat tangles between your fingers as the most wrecked little whine trembles in your throat.

“P-Pee.”

He blinks, straining to pluck your voice over the rush in his ears. The words barely register at first, but when they do, his own pulse comes apart in a hot scatter mess.

“Need to pee,” you fluster again.

And if that doesn’t unravel him to his bones, he doesn’t know what will.

He tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs. “‘S not pee.”

“What?”

The confusion in your voice is almost cute for someone who usually acts like they know everything. Adorable how you’ve been nothing but provocative all night, only to falter gradually.

“You don’t need to pee,” he rasps. The grip behind your knees tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh as he drives deeper with all the focus he can muster. He’s holding back by sheer will alone now, even when the familiar feeling of his balls growing taut creeps up, but that ache is a small price to pay when he’s painfully aware of what your body is capable of giving.

His cock strikes a deep, delicious spot inside you.

Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him.

“Fuck,” you croak. “I’m gonna piss your bed.”

“It’s not pee.”

His words barely register when your whole body winds so tightly that your face doesn’t even look like yours anymore. Eyes unfocused, spine bowing, throat bared. The muscles in your neck tighten like cords that it’s clear you’re still trying to fight whatever pressure you’re under.

“You need to relax,” he urges, finding your clit once again. Wide eyes flutter over intense brown orbs.

“Wait wait wait—gonna pee—”

“You’re gonna come again,” he corrects. He sees you puff out a long breath, which is nothing less strained than his own. “Female ejaculation, different glands. Less than—”

His words catch in a groan as your cunt flutters around his thickness.

“…less than ten percent of the fluid is even related to—to urine.”

Annoyed, you tug on his curls and whine, “This isn’t the time.”

“No better time than now.” His hips continue to buck into you with a sharp, hungry rhythm. “You’ll understand if you stop fighting it.”

“I can’t!”

“You can.” Thwack-thwack-thwack. “You will.”

The sound of his balls slapping against the wet cradle of your ass is making you delirious. Even more so when a warm, buzzing sensation sparks in your core and rushes outward, blooming into this intense prick that spreads across your lower belly with startling speed.

“Oh—shitshitshit—”

“That’s it, just breathe through your nose.”

His words falls on deaf ears. “I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

“You’re not supposed to hold it in.”

"I—wa—wait—Spencer!”

“Let it out,” he frets, and closes the last inch of space between you. Foreheads nearly touching, brows pulling together in quiet frustration. “Need you to trust me for once.”

“I don’t—fuck! I am NOT pissing on you—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“C’mon,” he prods. “Give it to me.”

You sniff a strangled sob.

“Do it.”

You claw at his hair once more, and any semblance of control that you clung to shatters immensely.

You try to follow his words and suck in a sharp breath. Lungs expanding, ribs flaring, and the rush of oxygen pouring into your blood sharpens every sensation to something blinding. A passage of whines pitches upward as his thumb swipes side to side over your tight nub while he slams into you. Once, twice, over and over — until a concentrated surge of pressure around his cock urges him to pull out.

Warm bursts of liquid splashes onto him. Streaks down his damp thighs, the flushed skin of his skin. Seeps deep into the cotton fabric of his sheets with muffled sounds as your heart thunders wildly in your chest. He doesn’t even try to fight the smile that pulls at his mouth the second your eyes flicker with disbelief, or the lazy circle his thumb traces around your sensitive, overstimulated clit. He’s too focused on the way your release continues to mark the bed he intends to sleep in.

"There it is,” he hums proudly, "knew you could do it."

He did. He knew this would happen the moment your breath stuttered into helpless little gasps, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality. His lust blooms unchecked, a fever behind molten eyes, something his vision can’t seem to outrun. Even as his gaze blurs over your dripping hole puckering around nothing, over the tiny bead of precum trickling down your cleft, he’s stunned into silence.

You’re a ravishing mess, and he’s never seen anything so pretty.

You’re on another level of divine that it makes something in his head tick just from the sight. His cock twitches helplessly as he unconsciously inserts himself back through the warm puddle of your flesh, and swears he can still feel you fluttering. Feels the tremor in your sweet, sopping cunt. Hears the faint splatter of droplets beating the sheets with every deliberate stroke of his hips.

He’s long since fallen behind in being a good man, but you certainly deserve something in return for listening to him. So he reaches out, cradles your face between palms that have never claimed to be gentle, and drinks deeply. Tries to steal back the breath you robbed from him.

Kiss, taste, repeat.

Touch, grab, repeat.

But it’s not enough.

He doesn’t think it ever will be.

The dopamine surge won’t last, a notion as clear as the haze of your sweat gluing to his skin. He’s even sure he could rattle off half a dozen papers about reward circuits and compulsive behavior, recite the exact millisecond window in which the pleasure centers will spike and fall. None of it matters when your mouth parts for him and your breath warms his cheeks.

He tries to catalog the way your pulse thumps beneath his thumb, the microscopic tremor in your lashes, the sweetness of carbon dioxide exhaled against his tongue. It becomes another unsolved equation, a tangle of variables his doctorate never prepared him to parse. There’s only the thunderous beat of his own heart and the simple, staggering fact that you’re here, giving when he has taken so much.

But there is no safe dosage of you that will let him step back unscathed. One hit becomes two, two becomes habit, soon habit feels indistinguishable from necessity. An addiction he can’t refuse when it would only mean denying himself the only thing that makes him feel alive.

And if that makes him weak, he might as well be weak for you — again and again until there’s nothing left of him that doesn’t carry the imprint of your name. To ruin or to worship, it makes no difference to him.

He’ll fall to his knees just the same.

Your pulse begins to settle into a calmer rhythm in the hush that follows, and he scatters small kisses along the corner of your jaw, up the sweep of your cheekbone, pausing at the hinge of your lips. The gentle weight of his mouth has you shifting along wet sheets, every muscle tensing at the unexpected softness threaded through his touch.

Tenderness, in your world, feels foreign. Unfamiliar. Ill-fitting. And truthfully, he isn’t much better when it comes to you. Sharper tongues seem to be the better fit for two people who know how to fight more than they know how to surrender.

His lips skate beneath your chin instead, slides along the sweat slick column of your throat and hums, “Think you can do that again?”

Avoidance. It’s the language you both speak fluently.

The stiffness in your body bleeds out with your next exhale.

“…depends on your skill, old man.”

That's it. He can take another one of your barbed little comments. Another sly jab delivered with that pretty pout of your mouth. In fact, he finds himself almost craving it. Your taunts fuel the heat beneath his skin as much as they test his patience, and patience is something he's mastered after all. So he continues to grind his hips. Rubs the tip of your clit with the fine coarse of hair dusting his belly before you’re writhing again.

Peculiar, how easily his selfishness devours reason. Logic. Decorum. How quickly a man who’s built his life on discipline can find himself unraveling for something as simple and devastating as the way you gasp his name.

A good man would’ve stopped at the soft mist pooling in your eyes.

Spencer keeps going.

"If a God is a dog and a man is a fraud then I'm a lost cause." Devil’s Advocate—The Neighbourhood

[boykisser4]

Dom Top Toji x Male Reader who's acts as a Sugar daddy to Toji! But compared to most sugar daddies, male reader is younger than Toji. Male reader often taking him out to get expensive food, even makes sure he can afford to care for Megumi and such! But behind closed doors, to thank Male reader for all his kind doings for him, Toji fucks him into another universe whenever they're spending the night together 🥴

Sugar daddy

pairing: toji fushiguro x Sugar daddy male reader, nsfw so minors begone

warnings: AGE GAP (tojis in he's mid 30s & m/n in he's early 20s) male reader, smut, Bondage, Blindfold Sex, Anal sex, Barebacking, Rough sex

"You're too good to me," Toji murmured, his eyes twinkling with a mix of gratitude and mischief as he took a sip of the exquisite whiskey. The low light of the luxurious lounge danced across the amber liquid in his glass, casting a warm glow on the lines of his handsome face.

M/n chuckled, his own gaze filled with a hint of something more than just friendship. "It's nothing, really," he said casually, running a finger along the rim of his own drink. "I just enjoy seeing you happy."

The air between them was charged with an undeniable tension, one that neither of them talked about, but both felt acutely. It had been building for weeks, ever since their chance encounter at the university's alumni gala. M/n, a young and successful entrepreneur, had taken Toji, a slightly older but no less ambitious professor, under his wing. Toji, who was usually stoic and in control, found himself drawn to the youthful charm and surprising generosity of his newfound benefactor.

As the evening grew later, the conversation turned to more personal matters. Toji spoke of Megumi, his son who he had been taking care of alone since he's wives.' untimely passing. M/n listened intently, his heart swelling with compassion for the burden Toji carried. He knew all too well the challenges of single parenthood, having raised his own daughter after his ex-wife's desertion.

"You know, I can help with Megumi too," the male offered, his voice a gentle caress in the quiet of the night. "Whatever you need, I'm here for you."

Toji's eyes searched his, looking for a hint of what lay beneath the surface of his words. "Why are you so kind to me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

M/n leaned in closer, his breath warm against Toji's ear. "Because I want you to know how much I appreciate you, in every way," he murmured, his meaning clear. Toji's pulse quickened at the implication, and he felt a sudden rush of arousal pool in his stomach.

The tension grew palpable as M/n stood, offering his hand to help Toji to his feet. "Let's go back to your place," Toji suggested, his eyes dark with desire. "I have something special planned for you tonight."

M/ns heart raced as they stepped into the cool night air, the anticipation of what was to come making him lightheaded. He knew what the Toji had in mind, and he couldn't help but crave the feeling of being dominated by him, used for his pleasure. It was a thrill that went beyond their unconventional arrangement, a secret bond that only strengthened their connection.

Once they were in the private elevator of the m/n's penthouse, the air grew thick with desire. Toji pinned m/n against the wall, his hands roaming over the soft fabric of m/n's shirt, feeling the taut muscles beneath. M/n's eyes were wide with excitement, his pupils dilated with lust as he looked up at Toji, a silent plea for more. Toji smirked, his grip tightening as he leaned in to claim m/n's lips in a fiery kiss. Their tongues danced together, tasting whiskey and the promise of what was to come.

The elevator chimed softly as it reached the top floor, and Toji broke the kiss, his gaze never leaving m/n's. He led the way into the penthouse, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty hallway. As they entered the master bedroom, Toji turned to m/n and whispered, "Tonight, you're all mine."

M/n nodded eagerly, his knees trembling slightly as Toji approached the closet and pulled out a set of black silk ropes. The sight sent a thrill through him, his mind racing with the possibilities of what lay ahead. Toji was a master at this game, and m/n knew he was in for a night of unbridled passion and submission.

With practiced ease, Toji bound m/n's wrists and ankles to the four poster bed, spreading him out like an offering to the gods of lust. He took his time, savoring every moment, making sure each knot was tight but not painful. The feeling of being at Toji's mercy was intoxicating, and m/n's cock grew hard as he watched the other man's strong hands work.

Once m/n was secured, Toji stepped back to admire his handiwork. He grabbed a blindfold from the bedside drawer and gently placed it over m/n's eyes, plunging him into darkness. The sudden loss of sight heightened m/n's other senses, making his skin feel more sensitive, his heart beat louder in his chest.

"Remember," Toji whispered, his voice a low growl, "you can say 'red' if it's too much."

M/n nodded, his breath hitching in anticipation. Toji chuckled, the sound sending shivers down m/n's spine. He felt a gentle kiss on his forehead, and then Toji's strong hands began to explore his body, setting his nerve endings alight with pleasure.

The touch grew firmer, more insistent, as Toji's hands roamed over m/n's chest, down his stomach, and finally cupped his swollen cock. He began to stroke it with a slow, deliberate rhythm that had m/n moaning into the darkness. The anticipation was unbearable, his body begging for more, for release.

But Toji was in no hurry. He enjoyed the sound of m/n's breathless whimpers, the way his body arched into the touch. He moved his hand away, leaving m/n trembling and needy. Instead, he kissed along m/n's neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, making m/n's toes curl.

M/n's body was a symphony of sensation, and Toji was the maestro. He knew exactly which strings to pull to elicit the most exquisite responses. He kissed his way down m/n's chest, pausing to bite at his nipples, making m/n gasp and squirm. The sound was music to his ears, and he felt his own arousal growing with every passing moment.

Finally, Toji reached the juncture of m/n's thighs, his breath hot against the sensitive skin. He could feel m/n's anticipation, the tremors of need that rocked his body. With a wicked smile, he parted m/n's legs and began to kiss along the inside of his thigh, his tongue teasing the sensitive skin.

M/n's hips bucked involuntarily, desperate for the touch he knew was coming. But Toji was a master of delay, of building the tension until it was almost unbearable. He kissed and nibbled, moving closer and closer to m/n's aching cock, but never quite touching it.

The sound of fabric rustling filled the room, and m/n knew Toji was undressing. The anticipation was killing him, his body tight as a bowstring.

"Ready for me?" Toji's voice was thick with desire, and m/n could hear the smugness in his tone. He nodded, unable to form coherent words.

Toji's warm hand wrapped around m/n's cock again, stroking it gently before moving away. He felt the bed dip as Toji positioned himself between his legs, the mattress shifting with the weight of the older man's body. The anticipation was unbearable, his entire being focused on the feeling of Toji's touch.

The first press of Toji's cock against his entrance was a shock, a sudden and intense pressure that made m/n's breath catch in his throat. Toji didn't wait for him to adjust, didn't give him a moment to prepare. He pushed in, the head of his cock breaching m/n's body with a pop that made m/n gasp. The pain was fleeting, replaced almost immediately by a deep, all-consuming pleasure that had him arching off the bed.

Toji's movements were rough, his hips slamming into m/n with a ferocity that left him breathless. The blindfolded man could do nothing but feel, the darkness heightening the sensations until they were all that existed in the world. He could feel every inch of Toji's cock, the way it stretched him open, filled him up, and claimed him completely.

M/n's moans grew louder with each thrust, his body moving in time with Toji's. He could feel the older man's breath hot against his skin, his muscles tensing and releasing as he fucked him into oblivion. The silk ropes around his wrists and ankles held him in place, a delicious reminder of his submission, of the power dynamics that played out between them in the privacy of this room.

The scent of sex filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of their expensive cologne and the musky scent of desire. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the quiet, punctuated by the occasional squeak of the bedframe and the wet sounds of their union.

M/n's body was a maelstrom of sensation, each thrust of Toji's cock sending waves of pleasure crashing through him. He could feel his orgasm building, a pressure at the base of his spine that grew more insistent with every passing moment.

Toji leaned down, his teeth grazing m/n's ear. "You're going to come for me," he growled, his voice low and commanding. "And when you do, I want you to scream my name."

M/n nodded, his voice a breathless whisper. "Yes, Toji," he said, his voice shaking with need. He knew he couldn't hold out much longer, his body was wound too tight, the pleasure too intense.

With a final, powerful thrust, Toji hit m/n's prostate, sending him over the edge. M/n screamed out his name, his body convulsing with the force of his climax. The world around him shattered into a million pieces, leaving only the feeling of Toji's cock pumping deep inside him, the sound of their harsh breathing, and the knowledge that he was completely and utterly owned by this man.

And as the waves of pleasure receded, leaving m/n trembling and sated, he knew that he would never get enough of this, never tire of the feeling of Toji's dominance, of being used and claimed by the man he had come to crave more than anything else in the world.

[moonlight-joy]

A Mystery Benefactor

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: The BAU team begins to notice Spencer Reid’s sudden upgrade in accessories—an expensive watch, a designer satchel—sparking curiosity. When Garcia delivers a package containing a luxury tie and a note signed Love, Y/N, the truth unravels: Spencer has a mystery benefactor��his wealthy girlfriend. The team demands answers, and the next day, you arrive at the office, effortlessly charming everyone. Over dinner, they interrogate you about your wealth, teasing Spencer mercilessly. Despite his embarrassment, it’s clear—he’s completely smitten, and you have every intention of spoiling him for a long time.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

The first time the team noticed something was different about Spencer, it was subtle. A new watch—sleek, expensive-looking, but nothing too flashy. Derek Morgan had squinted at it during a briefing, noting how it gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“New watch, pretty boy?” Morgan teased, nudging Spencer’s arm.

Spencer, who had been flipping through a case file, blinked and quickly tucked his wrist under the table. “Uh, yeah. Just something I—uh—picked up.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Picked up? Since when do you shop for anything that isn’t books?”

Spencer hesitated. He wasn’t exactly great at lying, so he just hummed noncommittally and went back to his papers. The team shared a look but let it go.

Then came the new leather satchel, replacing the beat-up messenger bag he had used since his first year at the BAU.

Emily eyed it curiously. “Is that… designer?”

Spencer looked down at the smooth, high-quality leather and gulped. “I… I don’t know.”

Morgan let out a low whistle. “Kid, that bag costs at least a thousand bucks.”

“That’s… that’s a lot, huh?” Spencer winced.

“Reid, where the hell are you getting all this stuff?” Rossi asked, giving him a knowing look. “Did you finally take my advice and start playing poker again?”

Hotch, though focused on his paperwork, raised an eyebrow at that. Spencer shook his head rapidly. “No! No gambling.”

More murmurs from the team. The mystery of Spencer’s sudden upgrade in accessories continued.

But it wasn’t until Garcia waltzed in holding a package that things got even more suspicious.

“Ooooh, my genius bean, something arrived for you!” she sang, setting a box on the table in front of him. It was wrapped elegantly, the brand logo discreet but expensive.

The team practically hovered as Spencer hesitated before peeling the wrapping away. Inside was a stunning silk tie in deep purple, along with a handwritten note.

Wear this tonight. Miss you. - Love, Y/N

Spencer’s ears went red.

Morgan snatched the note before Spencer could react. His eyebrows shot up. “Who the hell is Y/N?”

Emily leaned in. “Are we missing something? A girlfriend, maybe?”

The room went silent.

Spencer, realizing he was very much caught, fidgeted. “Uh…”

The team exploded.

“YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?!”

“How did we not know this?!”

“Wait, wait, wait. She’s the one buying you all this fancy stuff?!”

Spencer cleared his throat. “She… she enjoys treating me, yeah.”

Morgan shook his head, amused. “Damn, pretty boy. You’ve been holding out on us. Who is this mysterious sugar mama?”

Spencer groaned, hiding his face behind his hands. “She’s not a sugar mama. She’s just… well-off.”

“How well-off?” Rossi asked, smirking.

Spencer hesitated before mumbling, “Very.”

“Ohhh, we need to meet her,” Garcia grinned.

Spencer sighed, already regretting everything.

***

The BAU team didn’t have to wait long. The very next day, as they wrapped up their morning meeting, an unexpected visitor strolled into the bullpen.

You walked in confidently, dressed sharply, carrying a small bag in your hand. The team barely had time to react before Spencer spotted you, his eyes going wide.

“Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath.

Morgan, Emily, and JJ all turned at once.

“Is that…?” JJ started.

“Ohhh, she’s gorgeous,” Garcia whispered, fanning herself dramatically.

You smiled as you reached Spencer’s desk. “Hey, handsome,” you greeted, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “No. Way.”

Spencer coughed, his entire face heating up. “Um. Guys. This is… uh, this is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

“Girlfriend?” Rossi repeated with amusement. “More like mystery benefactor.”

You chuckled, holding up the bag. “Actually, I just came to drop off his lunch. He left it at home.”

Hotch, who had been observing with a rare smirk, finally spoke. “So, Y/N, should we be expecting more luxury deliveries for Dr. Reid?”

You grinned. “I do like spoiling him.”

Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “I gotta ask—how did you two even meet?”

Spencer sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. “We met at a lecture I was giving a year ago. She—”

“I thought he was adorable,” you finished for him, smiling. “So I asked him out.”

JJ looked between the two of you, impressed. “And let me guess—he said no at first?”

You laughed. “Oh, absolutely. But I was persistent.”

Rossi raised an eyebrow. “Persistent and wealthy. Kid, you hit the jackpot.”

Spencer groaned, covering his face again.

Emily leaned back in her chair. “Alright, Y/N, I think it’s time for the real question. Just how well-off are we talking?”

You glanced at Spencer, who gave you a pleading look. Smiling mischievously, you reached into your bag and pulled out a set of keys, tossing them to Morgan.

He caught them and stared. “Wait. This is…” His eyes flicked to you in shock. “You drive an Aston Martin?”

You winked. “One of them.”

The team erupted into laughter and disbelief, while Spencer simply sighed in surrender.

***

That evening, the team insisted on taking you out for dinner to “interrogate” you properly. They chose a fancy restaurant, much to Spencer’s dismay.

Garcia, grinning, leaned in the moment you sat down. “So, Y/N, I have to know—what is it about our dear Spencer that caught your attention?”

You smiled at your boyfriend, who was already looking like he wanted to disappear into his seat. “Oh, that’s easy. He’s brilliant, kind, and the most fascinating man I’ve ever met.”

Spencer coughed. “I—uh, well—”

Morgan smirked. “And the fact that he looks like a model in a lab coat?”

You laughed. “That doesn’t hurt.”

Hotch, ever the observer, finally spoke up. “Spencer mentioned you were… very well-off.”

You sipped your drink before nodding. “That’s true.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Like ‘comfortable�� well-off, or ‘private jet’ well-off?”

You gave Spencer a knowing look before shrugging. “Somewhere in between.”

Morgan whistled. “Damn, pretty boy, you really did win the lottery.”

Spencer groaned again as the team laughed.

As the night went on, you fit right in with the BAU family. They teased Spencer mercilessly, but you could tell they adored him just as much as you did. And despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t stop sneaking little glances at you, his expression soft with affection.

By the end of the evening, Garcia threw her arms around you. “You’re officially one of us now, sugar mama.”

Spencer groaned. “She’s not a sugar mama!”

Morgan grinned. “Right, right. Just a very generous, very wealthy girlfriend who buys our boy luxury gifts.”

You squeezed Spencer’s hand under the table, smiling. “And I plan to keep spoiling him for a long time.”

The team cheered, Spencer turned bright red, and you knew this wouldn’t be the last time they teased him about you.

Please support my work with like and comment

[lotus-slumbers]

Introduction to Platonic Yandere! Superman...? [New Character for Request Unlocked: Yandere! Superman]

There's such a thing as hypocrisy, in the way that police officers will turn a blind eye to their peers' brutality and the way political officials will see the money being handed off underneath tables and turn a blind eye. Protector's turned abusers and servants turned benefactors. The world's corruption runs deep and even those who hold themselves to the highest regard are not exempt from the poison of it. It's just too intoxicating.

— Yandere! Batfam is NOT exempt from this cruel law of nature, no matter how hard they try not to stray from the path of the good and righteous. They crack underneath the pressure of their obsession with you, feed off of each other's own delusions, and unanimously agree that this is true and right, even if society sees it as wrong.

— Yandere! Batfam is good at evading an audience. If they don't want to be seen, they won't be. It's as simple as that. Their power and fame are to be used by them, for their goals, not the prying eye and gossiping tongues of the media.

— Yandere! Batfam doesn't lose a wink of sleep at night about your safety within the manor or how the world may view the situation at hand— how closely it could be misunderstood as a kidnapping, ruining their lives and risking Gotham's safety.

— Yandere! Batfam is secure, just as safe as the massive manor they keep you locked up in. It would take something, someone truly unstoppable to break through their defenses.

— Superman makes quick work of it on an odd Sunday afternoon when he finds you trying to shimmy the lock to the Batcave. He stands behind you for a second, watching the thin hairclip do a sorry job, bending and twisting, while he's trying to recount all of the kids Bruce had taken in over the years.

— Superman even puts a hand up, counting out on his hands. Since when was there another? Was there another? He'd never seen you out on patrol with the Bat and he seemed to love endangering orphans.

— Superman, too caught up in his own thoughts, forgets to even lower himself to the ground like a human would. Instead, he hovers there, a massive form even more imposing when you turn and see him. Would it have been worse for Bruce to find you or Superman?!

— "Couldn't bother to Youtube this beforehand?" There is a small grin on his face. He wouldn't be threatened by such a little thing, especially when you look so scared yourself.

— Superman believes you when you scramble to explain your situation, clinging desperately to him like he was a lifeline. Your hero— he likes the sound of that. Except Superman doesn't believe you completely. At first, he thinks there might be something wrong with you.

— Superman leads you to sit, nodding and patting your shoulder as his eyes rove over you. He's searching, ruling out as much as he can. You don't seem intoxicated, you don't seem like you've sustained a head injury...

— Superman isn't a spy. Or, at least he isn't most of the time. He broke into the Wayne Manor in search of Batman and had made no effort to be subtle about it. The alarms had been set off; his great accomplishment was getting inside in the first place.

— Yandere! Batfam was alerted the moment it happened, each one getting the highest-graded emergency alert for the otherwise silent alarm in the manor. They nearly lose themselves in a panic.

— Superman can only start to make sense of the situation when he's looking down the barrel of a shotgun. Alfred Pennyworth, armed and ready, gives him the kindest and most cordial of smiles as he lowers the gun and makes a quip about using the front door. Alfred is as lethal as a neurotoxin, inducing fatal type paralysis. So few can escape his charm, being lulled into a sense of security and trust.

— Yandere! Batfam nearly breaks the door down when they get there, Bruce and one of his heathens, armed and pointing a katana, followed by another and then two more. It's a mess, really. Once one puts their guard down, realizing who it is, another one comes in ready to kick some ass. Eventually, it all settles but the small one with a katana never lowers his blade >:))

— It doesn't take Superman long to figure out just how pissed off Yandere! Batfam is, especially Yandere! Bruce Wayne. Even with his weapons put back away, he looks like he would half the mind to jump him. But, behind that normal annoyance and passive-aggressive remarks Clark is used to getting from Batman, there's something else. For the first time in his life, Superman thinks he sees Batman anxious. 

—  Superman is scolded. Dick Grayson pulls you from underneath his grasp and his wing instead. This is your only chance, though, God be damned the repercussions you'll suffer later if it doesn't work. You struggle, you cry. "They've kidnapped me!" An awkward tension fills the room. Tim avoided eye contact, Jason stone-faced and glaring alongside Damian, just daring him to try something. Dick joins Alfred in a smile, loudly laughing like the whole thing is a joke. 

— Superman makes perfect sense of the situation when Bruce tells him with a genuinely heartbroken look that you're "not well" and "can't understand what's going on." Clark and Bruce may have their differences and fallingouts from time to time, but there's hardly anyone else he knows he can trust and count on. Hardly anyone else he can say is, genuinely, a good man. 

— Seeing you cry like that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, lowering himself down a little and softening his voice to apologize to you. When you don't answer him, now defeated and grieving your failed attempt in the safety of Dick's embrace, it feels worst than a gut punch for Superman. He caused this, he thinks. Bruce only reinforces this guilt when he tells him that they should head somewhere else and talk, ordering the rest of Yandere! Batfam to take care of you and bring you back upstairs to get some rest. 

— So, Superman finds himself in the Batcave, relaying important information and threats back to Batman, distracted by the thought of you. He's no good at hiding it, either. Your tears had gotten to him.

— Good, Yandere! Bruce Wayne thinks. Superman has been convinced. 

— But... doubt and anxiety still lay underneath his stoic expression. When the topic comes back around to you, right in the middle of Yandere! Bruce Wayne trying to usher him back out the door again, he has to humor him and lay it on him thick because if there's anyone in the world who stood a chance at taking his precious child away from him, it would be the man of steel. 

— So, when the Man of Steel insists that he should come back in a week to check on you, to ease his mind (and doubts), Yandere! Bruce Wayne has no choice but to agree and to thank him for wanting to help. It would just be all the more suspicious if he denied him. 

— Yandere! Superman does just that exactly a week later to the day and hour, having not stopped thinking about you the whole time he was away...

[art-by-ady]

The Portrait of an Unknown Person

Another collaboration with my friend @zthea 💝

✨Read the short story after the cut ✨

Astarion’s eyes roamed over the swathes of people discussing the newest additions added to the art galla. Some anonymous donor that came into pieces from the Baldurian era were quickly donated and naturally critics were enamoured. Why wouldn’t they? Not many pieces survived that era due to an event that left Baldurs Gate in ruins for decades.

Murmurs of praise and speculation swirled through the air like smoke—who was this mysterious benefactor? Why had they chosen now to part with such treasures? How did they acquire such a trove from that bygone era?

He knew, of course. He already knew.

It was easier this way. Let them dissect brushstrokes and composition, let them spin their grand theories. None of them would ever understand the weight of it—the ache in his ribs when he looked at a certain portrait, the way his throat closed up when he imagined hands wrapping around his waist, wishing him a good morning after Astarion stayed up to finish a specific piece.

He lingered at the edges of the room, a specter in the shadows. The champagne in his glass had long since lost its chill, but he didn’t drink it anyway. He simply watched.

The painting was beautiful—of course it was. He’d never doubted his own talent, nor his ability to capture something raw and aching in his subjects. And this one… it was no different.

But gods, it hurt.

Astarion turned on his heel and left before the whispers turned into something unbearable.

The gallery was silent by the time he returned.

Dim light from the sconces casted shadows along the floor, the once-bustling room now eerily still. The absence of voices left only the faint hum of the city beyond, muffled through the thick walls of the gallery

He walked slowly, steps measured and quiet, until he reached the painting.

Astarion painted Gale in a way only someone in love could—with an unbearable softness. It wasn’t just the careful rendering of the man’s face, the delicate detailing of his crows feet , the precise gray that was threaded into strands of hair. It was in the little things—the way his expression wasn’t guarded, how there was something tender in the slight parting of his lips. A version that made Astarion’s undead heart ache in his chest.

He let out a breath and traced the edge of the frame with the tips of his fingers.

“We had a good run, didn’t we, darling?” Astarion choked out, trying to hold back a sob that was threatening to spill.

He should leave. He knew that. The longer he stayed, the harder it would be to say goodbye like he did with the real Gale a millenia ago.

The weight of memories pressed down on him.He had thought this would be enough—donating his collection, distancing himself, letting it all slip into the past like a dream half-remembered.

And yet here he was.

Fingers lingering, just for a moment longer, before he finally turned away.

He did not look back.

[satorusugurugurl]

Hiii i just saw your accidentally hurting during yk what fic 😭😭 I was wondering if you’d maybe be up to writing a sequel? Like what happens after that?

NO PRESSURE OFCCC

you have great writing

Aftermath of JJK Men TQ Accidentally Hurting You During Smexy Time!

Part One

Character: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Choso Kamo

Warnings: Mentions of injuries? Suggestive, Gojo getting picked on, fluffy sweetness!!

Word count: 2,695

A/N: This was so much fun! It practically wrote itself! Thank you Nonnie!!

Gojo Satoru:

“My head hurts!” Gojo complained as he walked back into your room. He tossed you an ice pack before collapsing onto the bed with you. “Maybe we should have stopped what we were doing because I think I have a concussion.”

“You're such a big baby.” You giggled, still naked under the sheets. “It was just forehead bonk.”

“One that could have resulted in a concussion from your thick-ass skull.”

You tossed one of the pillows at him with a smirk. “You're the one at fault, Toru.” He just lay there, sighing dramatically.

“Right, I’m at fault all because I thrust into you.”

“There you go, the keyword ‘you’ all you.”

He stuck his tongue out at you before pulling you into his arms. “I would like to think it was a two-person incident.” You hummed nuzzling his neck.

“Besides, it's not like these things will draw any attention! In the morning, it'll be like this never happened.”

That was the farthest thing from the truth. The following day, both your goose eggs were still there on full display. You were okay with the fate you had been dealt. Satoru was fine, too, until he walked into the first-year's classroom.

“Mornin! I hope you three are ready for a fun-filled day of training!!” The three students glanced at each other before staring at Gojo. When none of them said anything, Satoru stole a glance at you. You had just stopped in to say good morning, and then you were off to the second-year's class.

You were flushed, hands covering your mouth as tears flooded your eyes. Why the hell were you laughing? Was there something on his face? Was his blindfold upside down? Your beautiful laughter was so contagious, spreading to his students. They were trying so hard to keep it together. While Megumi just silently judged his benefactor.

Not being in the loop had Satoru turning to everyone. “What? What's so funny?” The utter confusion in his voice finally had you losing the very little control you had.

“Oh My god!! Oh god!” You laughed out loud, sinking to the ground, tears flowing freely down your cheeks.

“What?!”

“What's with the lump under your blindfold?!” itadori cried out as Nobara slapped her desk repeatedly. “Some Charlie the Unicorn cosplay you're testing out?!”

“N-No, it's his third eye-opening!” Nobara added, causing you to wheeze.

“He already has Six-Eyes! That wasn't enough!!”

Megumi slowly pulled His phone out, snapping several pictures of the very confused Gojo. “Wait until the second year to see this.”

Having had enough, Gojo bolted for the bathroom, staring at his reflection. Without his blindfold on, the goose egg wasn't that noticeable. However, due to the tight fabric concealing his eyes, his goose egg was front and center in the middle of his forehead. He robbed at it, slowly smiling when he saw you step inside, face flushed. You were trying so hard not to laugh, but he could see the mischievous gleam In your eye.

He knew you oh so well. “Go on, say what you want to say.” He shook his head as he crossed his arms over his chest. “But Charlie the Unicorn and my third—no seventh eye-opening were golden.”

“I-Is that a goose egg under your blindfold, or are you just happy to see me?!” Laughter echoed off the walls.

Gojo just grinned his signature wide smile. He said nothing as he grabbed you by the collar of your uniform, dragging you back to the classroom. “That was weak! I expected better from my girlfriend.” You laughed even harder, making Gojo turn to smile down at you. He didn't think it was possible, but he fell even more in love with you at that moment.

Geto Suguru:

“Don’t ask Google Home, you freak!” Suguru just eyed you for a long moment. “Sugu—I’m serious!”

“Hey Google!” He shouted out with a smug smirk.

The next thing he knew, you were on top of him. Your hands covered his mouth as you straddled his hips. “You little freak! You seriously think I want PSIA or CIRO to know about how you bit my clit.” You were easily rolled off, Suguru laying on top of you, his hands prying yours away from his mouth.

“Oh, Y/N, I love it when you talk acronyms to me.” He gently kissed your palms. “So sexy, really get my cock throbbing.” You sputtered and looked off as a warm breeze flowed through the room. Suguru grinned against your hand. You were so cute when you pouted like this. “So Google Home is a no-go, what about Reddit?” Sighing in defeat, you nodded, watching your boyfriend type on his phone. “I, twenty-seven male, bit my girlfriend's clit. What should I do to treat it?”

God, you could already hear the cringy TikTok videos using your horror story for views. Luckily, Suguru got the answer: antibacterial soap, warm water, and aspirin.

Suguru left and returned, finding you sitting on the couch, your hand pressing against yourself through your shorts. The sight made him cringe in sympathetic pain. He bit you hard, and he knew it hurt from your scream. If he could take the pain from you, he would. Alas, there was nothing he could do to change it, but he could help ease the pain.

“I got the goods.” He announced, holding up a plastic bag. “Let’s go get ya’ in the shower.”

You stripped out of your clothes, standing naked in the bathroom as Suguru started running the water. Seeing him so attentive like this made you swoon. You truly were lucky to have found someone as kind as him. Suguru made you feel special, like royalty, aside from the whole biting of your clit.

“Alright, there's the soap, unscented per Reddit.” He placed the white bar of soap in your hand. “The fluffiest wash cloth the store had for your perfect pussy.” a fluffy pink cloth was placed in your other hand. “And open your mouth.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” You did as he said, and he held up a bottle of allergy medication. “To ease the sinus’.” He dropped the pill in your mouth before handing you some water. “Because the next time I come home and find you looking delicious in the living room, I don't want you sneezing when I'm going down on you.”

After swallowing the pill, you laughed. “Looked delicious, huh?” Suguru nodded, his hand reaching into his pockets as you entered the shower.

“Delicious, gorgeous, absolutely radiant.” His Words were as warm and comforting as the water running down your body. “It got me thinking about coming home like that every day, to you, with a couple of kids running around.”

Pulling the shower curtain back, you glowered at him. “Geto Suguru, don't you even think about proposing to me after you bit my clit!” Something flickered in his eyes, amusement as he cocked a dark brown in your direction.

“Okay, no impromptu post clit biting proposals.”

“Thank you!” You breathed out a huff through your nostrils. “Now hurry up and come get in with me.”

“Right, let me just put the ice cream away.”

Your head poked out from behind the curtain, eyes glittering joyfully. “Ice cream?!” Suguru walked backward as he headed into your room.

“Of course! I needed to get my girl a treat after I hurt her.” You watched him turn the corner. “Be right back.”

While you did a little happy dance in the shower, Suguru walked into the living room. Getting down on his knees, he wiggled the loose floorboard by the backdoor and pulled the small wood plank up. With a heavy sigh, Suguru reached into his pocket, pulling out the blue velvet box he had slid inside before he had hurt you. He opened it to examine the ring he picked out for you six months ago.

“Oh well, there's always next time.” The disappointment was thick in his voice as he put the box back in its hiding place. With the floorboard secure, Suguru slowly stripped out of his clothes as he headed back to you.

Nanami Kento:

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You cried out as Nanami gave you a worried look.

“Hang in there. Ijichi is pulling up.”

The sleek black car pulled up, almost making your dislocated shoulder feel better. It held the promise of relief to come. Ijichi got out, rushing towards the two of you as Nanami ushered you forward.

“I'm sorry it took so long. The traffic was terrible. But as soon as you called, I stopped What I was doing to head straight over.”

Nanami shook his head, grabbing the handle of the backseat. “No, don't apologize, Ijichi. We should be thanking you for taking us to the hospital.” You modded as Nanami slowly opened the door.

“Yeah, Ijichi, I hope you weren't doing anything important. Thank you.”

“Oh, well, I was actually taking Gojo home.”

Nanami promptly slammed the door shut. Staring at the dark void of the window. In the reflection of the tinted glass, Nanami could see the look of horror that washed over your face. This wasn't happening. No way, no way. Having Gojo here was both of your worst nightmares.

You stepped back, nervously laughing. “Ya’ know what! L- Let’s walk to the emergency room!” Seeing the opportunity you made, Nanami followed your lead.

“Yes! It's a beautiful evening for a stroll.” Nanami bends down, leaning into your ear. “Walk.”

“Wait! I-I don't think that's wise! Y/N, you're injured!”

You waved your uninjured hand at Ijichi. “Eh, injured, not injured! Who cares!!” The nervousness was as thick as honey in your voice.

The black window slowly rolled down, leaving you and Nanami frozen. Gojo Satoru poked his head out the window, eyeing the both of you with a wide grin. A grin you knew had a vein in Nanami’s head twitching. Gojo hummed, twirling his finger in your direction.

“Let’s see, wet hair, dislocated shoulder, bite marks galore.”

“It's not what it looks like!” Gojo was unfazed by your interjection, his head tilting to look up at your irritated boyfriend.

“Wet hair, hickies, the pure frustration unfinished ‘business’!” A bark of laughter sounded from the back of his throat. “I don't even need to use Six-Eyes to figure this out. Shower sex gone wrong, Nanamin~?” Nanami looked like he was about to throw a black-flash at Gojo while you blushed a darker shade. “No shame! I could give you some pointers if you want!”

Your mind tried to think of some sarcastic retort, but your thoughts were on hold as you heard the car door open. Slowly blinking, you watched a furious Nanami reaching for Gojo. “K-Kento!” You scrambled forward, grabbing his arm with your noninjured arm. “Don’t kill him!” Gojo was snickering, giving Nanami a shit-eating grin. “Let’s just go! Get in the car!”

Ijichi drove the two (three including Gojo) to the emergency room, where your arm was popped back into place and put into a sling. While Nanami stopped to pick up your prescription at the hospital's pharmacy, he glared at Gojo as he showed you his phone screen. He didn’t know why he insisted on coming with the two of you. The man was persistent, not listening, even when Nanami snapped at him to go away. With your prescription in hand, Nanami quietly headed back. He was trying to listen to your conversation.

“See, this one would probably work for you guys,” Gojo said, tapping his screen. “This way, you won’t slip or dislocate your shoulder, ya’ know?”

“Oooh!” The way your eyes glittered with awe had Nanami’s heart skipping a beat. “Oh my god! That’s awesome!”

“What’s so awesome?” You perked up, glancing up at Nanami.

“Babe! Did you know they make shower sex steps?! It suctions to the wall, and I can prop my foot up!”

Nanami trailed his gaze slowly to his blindfolded colleague, who whistled innocently. “Trying to corrupt my girlfriend?” He asked as he gently helped you stand.

“I’m just a friend looking out for my other friends' relationship! Just one slip doesn’t mean shower sex should be a no-go!”

Nanami shook his head, wrapping his arm tentatively around your waist. “Kento, can we get one? Please! I wanna try it out!” You were bouncing with excitement.

“Let's wait six weeks before that; give you some time to heal.” While you were disappointed, you nodded in agreement. This was time to heal, not to get freaky.

But imagine your surprise six weeks later when Gojo dropped a package on your desk. “Have fun!!” Was all he got out before you were shoving past him, rushing to find Nanami. Things were expected to be wet and wild all night.

Choso Kamo:

You stared at the mirror, evening your nose. Choso had accidentally sucker-punched you two hours ago. Having broken your nose. But what sort of sorcerer would you be if you couldn’t fix that? You easily grabbed it and popped it back into place with a sickening crunch. One that had your boyfriend turning three shades paler than he already was.

Your nose was swollen and a little discolored. You’d be bruised for sure, but you didn’t mind. It was like an unpleasurable hickey—a reminder of the fun you and Choso had.

The broken nose didn’t bother you, but despite countless attempts to ensure Choso it was okay, he still sulked. It was too long after that he said he was leaving for a bit. You figured he just needed some time to get over what had happened.

He had been gone for an hour so far, enough time for you to shower and crawl into the clean sheets you both put on. You had anticipated him to be gone longer, so you whirled towards the bedroom door as he creaked open further.

“Welcome home!” Choso’s heart felt like it was beating a million miles a minute. Your cute smile, the warmth of your voice, everything about you made his stomach flutter; no, butterflies, Yuuji said. You gave him the butterflies. “Where did you run off to?”

“I stopped at the store.” He offered you his hand. “Come with me?”

Choso led you back out to the living room. He motioned to various items: a nose splint, medical tape, and an ice pack. Then, there were all different kinds of snacks and candy, all of which were your favorites.

Your boyfriend never went out to clear his head. No, he went out to get you things to make you feel better. The compassionate gesture made your heart crawl up your throat as lights shimmered over your eyes as they filled with tears. None of your exes had ever done anything remotely sweet. His gesture proved to you how much Choso cared, how sweet he was.

“Oh no, why are you crying?!”

“Cho—”

“I-I’m so sorry! Does your nose hurt? Let’s see!” His warm, frantic eyes grazed over the table. Hands were picking up bottles. “Aspirin, aspirin!”

Your slender fingers gently wrapped around his trembling hand, holding it. “N-No Cho—“ you were too stunned to speak, “baby, this is so thoughtful and sweet. Thank you, no one’s ever done something like this for me before.” The worry on his cute face faded into a more relaxed expression.

“Oh?” You hummed, interlocking your fingers with him. “So I did a good job?” If the man had a tail, you were sure he’d be wagging it.

Choso watched as you stood on your tip toes before petting him on the head. “You did a good job, baby; seriously, you’re the best boyfriend ever.” The wide grin on his face warmed your heart as he excitedly showered you all the things he bought.

He truly was the best boyfriend in the world. You must have done something right in your past life to deserve him. God, he was so precious! You just wanted to chew on his cheeks. But that would have to wait until your nose was healed. For now, you were perfectly content with him putting the nose splint on your face before he snuggled you on the couch.

[jeankluv]

You are my dad - Gojo Satoru & Fushiguro Megumi

summary: Megumi finally gets the courage to tell Gojo how he really views him

words: 0,6k

tags: manga spoilers for chapter 268, dad-son dynamic, Megumi’s pov and centric, canon fixed, a bit angst (?), happy ending

Jujutsu Kaisen materialist

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Megumi hesitated on whether to go to him or not, it hadn't been more than five minutes since Gojo had returned to his body and of course everyone had wanted to welcome him, but he was still standing there, while he looked at him from a distance and felt a shiver run through his body as he remembered the last time he had seen his benefactor, but was he really?

Being in the abyss, alone, he had thought about everything, about his sister and about that eccentric man who 10 years ago, had appeared at his house and welcomed him and Tsumiki under his cloak.

For years he thought he only did it because he was interested, but as the years started to go by he felt like Gojo Satoru was truly fond of him and his sister. He would take them to the park, he would help him with his technique and encourage him with it.

Gojo never pressured him into anything and he always made sure they were okay, happy, healthy, etc..

Maybe Gojo Satoru never realized it, but there was a point where he stopped being the young twenty-something who paid their bills and became an important part of Megumi and Tsumiki's lives. Megumi didn't want to acknowledge it and only realized it when he saw Gojo's lifeless body on the ground. Megumi felt like many things had been left unsaid, his personality hadn't let him express himself properly.

But now Gojo Satoru was there, smiling as if nothing happened.

“Oh! Megumi!” His soft tone called him. “I’m so happy to see you are okay…” Gojo started to walk towards Megumi. “That Sukuna…”

Megumi couldn't take it anymore and hugged Gojo as if he were a little child again, a child seeking refuge in his parents' arms. He heard his friends in the room being surprised and Gojo standing still for a moment, but that didn't last long because Gojo quickly hugged him back.

“Wow, who would have thought that Megumi would react like that when he saw me again.” Gojo joked.

“That letter…” Megumi began, he didn’t know exactly how to say what he wanted to express correctly, but he could feel his sister's courage hand on his shoulder, telling him to keep going.

Gojo looked at him with a question mark drawn on his face. “Huh?” And then something turned on in him. “Oh that, yeah your dad, he…”

Megumi took a deep breath and shook his head. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Pretty sure I did.” Gojo said. “I’m pretty sure I used purple…”

“No, you didn’t… because you are my dad. And you are still here.” Megumi finally said it.

The room fell completely silent and Megumi completely separated himself from Gojo, looking at his face that was in a trance-like state.

Gojo carefully turned to Ieiri. “Shoko could you slap me? I think I’m still dead.”

“Sure…” Ieiri put her cigarette aside and slapped Gojo in the face.

“Ouch!” Gojo cried out. “That was hard!”

“You asked for it.”

“It seemed like you were just ready to do it.” Gojo said, and Ieiri simply smiled.

“You deserved it, for putting all of us through so much stress.”

Gojo rolled his eyes. “Whatever…” And turned back to Megumi. “Megumi… you… really see me like your father?”

Megumi felt embarrassed talking about that in front of everyone. “I guess…” He shrugged.

“Oh…”

“Wait! Gojo-sensei is crying?!” Kugisaki screamed.

“Oh it’s true!” Itadori said this time. “Gojo-sensei made Fushiguro laughed and Fushiguro made Gojo-sensei cry. Amazing.”

“I made you laugh?!” Gojo wiped his tears away. “When?!”

“With that silly letter, well it wasn’t even a letter but yeah you did.”

“Oh my.” Gojo gasped. “And you see me as your dad, ah! I’m so glad to be back.” Gojo hugged Megumi once again. “Are you going to start calling me dad?”

“No way!”

“Why not? How about calling me dad Satoru?”

“No!”

“Okay, okay, dad Gojo?”

“No!”

Megumi separated from him and started to run away while he smiled and Gojo followed him still giving names.

“Alright, how about dad Gojo Satoru, nah that sounds terrible.”

“No.”

“Dadjo!”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Note: I really needed to write this, I really need them to reunite and be happy as the father son duo they are 😭

[shentheauthor]

Rain world creature time :)

Sentinel Wolves

Contrary to what one might think, they aren’t here to keep threats out

They’re here to keep citizens in.

Ripples on Silent Water is the last remaining city that is still populated by the ancients, due to the complete removal of all taboos

He forcefully kept his citizens on his back

Sentinel wolves were part of that

They’re very aggressive, but extremely dumb. Swirling Storms in Darkened Skies, my ancient oc, wears a mask that mimics sentinel wolves to get past them

[hana-no-seiiki]

ALL YOURS.

tw/cw: yandere (more on the soft side tbh, barely appears), mentions of slavery. Power dynamics are whack. AFAB! Reader but GN! Pronouns. Some Aventio sprinkled in there.

HAPPY AVENTURINE DAY!!! ( thank you @rninies / @teabutmakeitazure / @harmonysanreads for informing me cause I wouldn’t have known otherwise)

“Who is this?” His eyes ran through the sight of your body, a nice and controlled pace yet swift nonetheless. You looked like a dead leaf if he was to be completely honest. Covered in soot, malnourished, fragile. Like you’d disappear with the slightest breeze. Then, his eyes paused, a mark — a branding on the right side of your neck.

But still, he was confused. What was the point of showing yet another slave to him? Was it a thinly concealed, sadistic way of reminding him that he was still shackled? That his freedom was nothing more than a mirage? An illusion?

His benefactor — owner — slowly lifted the veil that covered your face. Beautiful. He’d seen many faces by now, his own among others. But strangely yours reminded him of his past. A wave of euphoric nostalgia almost overwhelmed him.

“Open your eyes, little one.” Jade said with a wicked smile on her face. “I told you I had quite the gift. I was actually hoping to keep them as a . . . collectible. But then I found quite an interesting fact.”

You looked at him with eyes far too similar to his own. Cold, dead, empty. He could think of many other terms to use for yours. One of them including home.

“It seems that the Avgin’s blood will not be running dry all too soon. They’re all yours.”

“Quit staring at them like that.” Veritas tapped on his book. His face morphing from disturbed to mild annoyance every few seconds.

“Like what?”

“Like they’re an oasis deep within the desert. And you, a man starved for eons, waiting to drink them up until they’ve ran dry. Stop it. It’s disgusting.” Dr. Ratio gestured at you. You were practically a walking ‘owned by Aventurine’ signal at this point. From head to toe, covered in expensive objects. It was a statement to say the least, a warning to those that looked closer.

“You exaggerate. I am simply . . . deliberating.”

“Is it really this one?”

“Hm?”

“This reality.” Dr. Ratio placed the corner of his book on the blond’s forehead, “The reality where someone like you actually had the mental capacity to deliberate.”

“Oh don’t be too mean at this hour, Doctor.”

“Or what? You’d force me to find and get you from whatever hole you got yourself drunk in? Unfortunately that is something you’ve already burdened me with far too long ago.”

“I can take care of Mr. Aventurine, Doctor.” You appeared from behind the two. Your signature monotonous voice in tow.

Plaster immediately covered the man in question’s head. “Did anyone teach you manners? You don’t just silently approach someone—“

“I’m sorry.” You replied. Your face empty as a canvas an artist was yet to touch. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

For once, Kakavasha took his time, let his eyes wander and behold your form. One feature at a time.

“All mine.”

a/n: this was rushed and written in one sitting, but i wanted to release something at least for our boi ! will be back to hsr fics once penacony’s entire story/lore is out. i miss aeon of dreams! reader so much…

[getaapologist]

Meddle in the Mold

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Sculptor!Reader

Warnings: none

[ First sculptor!reader entry can be found here ]

A/N: nothing really to say. I hope you like this.

“You’re staring,” you commented, fingers smoothing down from the jaw, pressing firmly to form the shape of the muscle at the side of Geta’s neck.

His eyes followed your hands, your fingers, jealous of the clay version of himself. There was no measuring today. Only the careful rake of your eyes along his neck and shoulders. 

It could be felt even with his eyes closed.

“I’m not,” he insisted, his face hot.

You didn’t argue, just let the corner of your lips twist up into a half-smile, eyes following the muscle down to where it met his shoulder.

He looked away.

The breeze chilled Geta’s shoulders where he sat, robe pulled down off them, held shut at his waist. He felt exposed, but he hadn’t yet seen your eyes stray any lower than his collarbones. 

He was still hopeful. But as he eyed the sculpture, he knew time was running out. 

It was almost finished. 

“When it is done, what will you do with it?”

“The marble?” you asked, eyes darting between your work and his skin.

“No. That.” He gestured to the clay copy of himself.

Oh. That. 

“Well, it will be with the sculptor for quite a while. I suppose they will destroy it when it is finished–”

“No,” he insisted, sitting up a bit straighter. The vessel near the base of his neck bulged, emotion plain in his face. “I will allow no such thing.”

“Forgive me, I suppose that wouldn’t happen in this case, with you being… you.” He still seemed concerned, so you attempted to placate him further. “I will tell the sculptor you wish it preserved.”

That seemed to satisfy him.

Another dip in the basin, fingers pressing in to form the line of his throat. 

He swallowed.

“So you spend days on these, and they are ruined after?”

“Well, surely the sculptor wants no comparison,” you explained. “It’s an important step in the whole process, but I cannot expect them to allow me to preserve their stencil.”

“And why do you not sculpt the marble as well? Surely there would be no one better than you, after all this time studying my face?”

And what a face.

“To be an artist, a true, full-time artist, you must first have a patron, Emperor. And I have no such thing, nor will I. I’ve never sculpted marble, it’s too expensive to fool around with. Clay is… easier.”

He made a small sound of understanding, eyes focused on your hands that rested on the clay neck, work finished. The grey streaks along and between your fingers, various shades of watered down clay dried at the back of your hands. Dark grey clay embedded beneath your nails, pressed into your cuticles, dried. 

“What if I…” The words had sprung out of his mouth before he could think better of them. Too late to take it all back now. “I could be your… patronus.”

That triggered a bashful reaction in you.

“Emperor, I appreciate your endorsement, but I could be terrible at it. I lack the formal training.”

“I will have someone teach you.”

As if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Geta watched you flounder for once. You sat there spiraling, brushing hair back out of your face, clay left behind unnoticed by you. 

His eyes traced over the grey smear, imagining pressing his own fingers to it. Would it still be cool? Or would your skin heat it up that quickly?

“That won’t be necessary. Because I cannot. I have to help my family–”

“Is that not the job of a patron? To allow you your lifestyle?”

His amber eyes met yours. He was serious.

“And you are offering this, why? Just out of the goodness of your heart, Emperor?”

He caught the jab. But with the way his heart was beating, he was too far gone to pretend otherwise.

“Of course not. Patrocinium.” 

So he was familiar. 

“Sponsor, benefactor, and… protector.” His gaze was direct, imparting extra emphasis on his last word.

Heat filled your face. “And in return?”

He stayed silent, his gaze no less intense. 

It was clear what he wanted. What you wanted to give him. He seemed to have trouble admitting it. 

How best to prove your value to your Patronus than to read his mind?

Watching his eyes widen the closer your hands got to the water basin, you held off. 

He wanted the mess.

“Leave us,” he ordered, his eyes locked on yours. 

Anyone waiting on the fringes of the room made their way briskly for the exit, not willing to be told twice. 

Shuffling. The click of a latch. Then silence. 

As you moved in closer, he reached down, quick like lightning, to grab the robe and keep it shut at his waist. 

“Oh,” you realized.

He watched your eyebrows raise, feeling a bit foolish at his desperate wardrobe choice. But then your clay-covered fingers were on his skin and he no longer knew the word shame. 

His eyes fluttered shut, a big sigh leaving him.

Soft, tentative touches along his brow, down over his cheekbone, then lower, under his jaw. He felt tingling there as your fingers slid along it, to just under his chin. 

He clenched his jaw beneath your fingers, brows knitting together in mild distress. 

“Are you alright, Emperor? Is this… too much?” 

Teasing.

He frowned. “It’s fine.”

“You seem tense.”

“Of course I do,” he muttered, grimacing as if in pain as your fingers slowly traveled down the pronounced muscle in his neck.

Up. Back down, trailing over a collarbone. Over and up, ghosting over his throat–

“May I ask you something, Emperor?”

He swallowed, keeping his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“I… I have enjoyed this time spent with you. Have you… also enjoyed yourself?”

He scoffed. “No.”

“No?” He could hear the indignation in your voice, could imagine your expression without even looking. 

His throat. Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your touch. As your fingers trailed along the expanse of it, you felt him swallow. 

“I have been driven to the brink of insanity in these small hours. It has felt at once like only a few minutes, and also a lifetime. Like I am walking to my death.”

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” You accused, eyes drifting over his flushed neck.

“No, I don’t,” he spoke, cutting the tension off at the knee. “You have watched me flounder here under your hands, and you say nothing of it. It is… maddening. I have never known such weakness in all my life, not since my–” He stopped short, turning away altogether. 

He stared at the back of the finished clay bust, then over to the pile of un-sculpted clay. He imagined sinking his own fingers into it, leaving streaks on your skin. It was frustrating how his own mind betrayed him so easily. Was he truly so weak?

Eventually he turned his head back, eyes cast down to where your hands waited between the pair of you, as if asking for more. You continued your gentle touches silently, letting him stew in his emotions, his desires, his needs.

Before long his entire neck bore streaks no wider than your fingertips, tracing all along his features, outlining his muscle, lines of grey spreading out, running along the top of his shoulders, highlighting his collarbone. 

He was a work of art. But this was something you would keep to yourself. 

“I suppose I better clean you up.”

He hummed in the affirmative, his eyes falling shut as you dipped a cloth in the basin.

The water dripped down over his chest as you worked, cleaning the thin layer of clay from his skin one small area at a time. 

It didn’t take long. You stood from your chair, wiping the last bit away from his forehead. As you turned to rinse the cloth in the basin, his ringed fingers closed around your wrist, pulling you away from it.

“Enough,” he spoke, sighing.

“Emperor?”

He released you, his hands instead sliding up the back of your thighs, over the material of your dress, resting just beneath the swell of your ass. 

“You vex me.”

Even as he said the words, he knew they weren’t true, not in the way he said them. No, you vexed him in delicious ways. Ways that he hoped bore fruit.

His eyes fluttered as your fingers traced down either side of his face. 

“You are fun to vex, Emperor.”

“Fun?”

You nodded. 

“As your Patronus, I would ask you to be more polite, my little sculptor.”

“You pretend you are not at my mercy.”

A wicked smile. 

“I must keep up appearances.”

_______

Taglist: @prettycalla @europixie @Hiko_hyuuga @thorins-queen-of-erebor @bib200 @cheesesandwichsanto

[loveanddeephistory]

Trowels and Feathers: Sylus x Archaeologist! Reader

On Ao3

About: A heist at your latest excavation has you taking matters into your own hands. You're no Indiana Jones, you can't go in guns blazing. But a little birdy told you that the most notable artifact from the site might end up being auctioned off at The Nest. So you pull some strings, show up, and land yourself in a web much larger you had ever anticipated. Lucky you, a little birdy was watching your back.

Spoilers for: Sylus's anecdote

Content warnings/heads up: Reader is implied to be female or feminine due references to misogyny within the field of archaeology that the reader has faced, Sylus is a bit intimidating at first (as per usual), mentions of being drugged (not by Sylus), swearing

Word Count: 12k

A/N: Happy birthday to our favorite repatriating space pirate! I told my younger sibling about Sylus's anecdote and they just asked me "what the fuck kind of otome is this". We love him, though <3. I'll be updating Trowels and Scales with the tag "Trowels Series" since all the guys will have at the very least a one shot!

Divider credit: @thecutestgrotto

Never waste a Friday night on a first date. Never waste a night off on a place you don't want to be in. Don't do anything stupid. And if you do have to do something stupid, don't get caught. And if you do get caught, aim for the groin.

All sound advice your many mentors had given you. Through undergrad, grad school, field experiences, and even as a seasoned professional. From dating advice, to life advice, to street smarts. These people had taught you everything. And yet here you are, throwing all of their words out the damn window. Here you are, dolled up in clothes you'd never wear, shoes you'd never wear, in a place you shouldn't be in, glistening with sweat as low music bumps through the club. The main event would begin soon. You lean your back against the bar, eyes trained on the room before you. You had already been approached for protocore sales. For smuggling, for illegal weapons. You turn them all down with an impassive, slow once over and a slow eyebrow raise.

You were lucky. Most public information about you featured a picture of you all gunked up, covered in dirt, sweat, and bug bites. Your professional photos reserved for resumes and CVs that would never come across the desk of any of these kinds of people. You were unrecognizable. What a blessing to be in disguise.

You slowly drink on your mocktail, eyes scanning the room once again as the music slowly came to an end. Being inebriated would not be in your best interests, you figured you'd be safer with something that looked like alcohol but wasn't. You spotted an odd man with purple hair side eyeing you before silently slipping out a side door. A blond man was hunched over a table in the corner, speaking in hushed tones with someone else. Until finally, finally, the real show began.

A large man came to the stage. Six foot something or other, heavy set, with a wide grin missing a few teeth. The lights brightened on the stage so everyone around could see him. He was handed a microphone, and two armored guards came to the stage with a box. 

"Ladies and gentleman, so wonderful to see you all at The Nest once again. I hope everyone had a good hunt last time." He chuckled, raising a glass to the patrons in the room. You silently raise yours in turn along with those present. "Tonight we have the fortune of hosting an auction. I and some other generous benefactors found this pretty little trinket off in the jungle somewhere." The box was opened. An ancient, beautiful necklace was revealed. Glittering with gemstones ten times the age of everyone in this room combines. You run your tongue over your teeth, desperately suppressing a scowl.

Thieves. Disgusting thieves.

Others in the room chuckled at the unspoken joke in the man's words. Found. Hardly. You found it. You were the one excavating the ancient trash site. What was thought to be a place where broken things would come to rest. But hidden, squirreled away, was a cache of the most beautiful local work you had ever seen. You remember it like it was yesterday.

You gently scrape with the edge of your trowel over a layer of mud after the most recent rain. While you had secured the site as best you could the downpour was stronger than anticipated. The locals warned you, all of you. But your higher ups insisted that the normal way to cover the site would be just fine. Of course, he was wrong. Like he usually was. You roll your eyes to yourself, working quietly with your partner on this unit of the trench while others worked on other one by one meter units to your right and left. 

Usually, you all would be chattering away. Taking notes, discussing soil, or sharing personal stories of friends, family, and other excavations. But this dig was different. You couldn't remember the last time you worked for someone so chauvinistic. The entire team was quiet. Too quiet. The women on the team would speak up for themselves and each other, but were too often silenced. The men on the team would step in and speak up, only to be threatened anyway. No one was safe with this guy. So you made a silent vow with the whole crew. As soon as you were all safely away from him, every single one of you would report him to his superiors. And if that didn't work, taking things public would be necessary.

You dump a trowel full of mud into your bucket, sighing. "My turn to screen." But before you could get up your partner does, flashing you a smile.

"You pitched in with clean up after dinner last night, I think I can spare the time to screen for you." She stands up, grabbing both your bucket and her own. You watch as she carries them to the three metal poles holding up a mesh screen situated in a square wooden frame. The wires inside of the wooden frame created a fine mesh grid. She pours the sediment on top and grabs the handles, beginning to vigorously shake the sediment through while any notable artifacts remained on top. You flash her an appreciative but weary smile, bending back down. You continue to gently scrape along with your trowel. Until something shiny catches your eye. 

A few specks of metal dated to be a few centuries old had been found here. That was why this excavation was opened. Shattered pottery, household goods, and animals bones indicated this was a trash site for the local village n some centuries ago. You and a few colleagues immediately reached out. Luckily, quite a few of them had some information from elders dating centuries back. It wasn't much, but it did give you some context to the area. You squint, focusing on the shiny thing you found, switching to a brush as you gently swiped away mud and debris. But in the back of your mind, an older woman's words rang in your mind.

An old legend, passed down by elders for years. A young woman from a noble family had been married in this town. But robbers came in the night, and tried to take her wedding jewels. She managed to escape, and buried her wedding jewelry in a trash heap. She settled in the village with her husband and forgot the jewels, her husband and growing family more important. The old woman asked you to find the wedding jewels, that they would be inscribed with the family name. The woman had pleaded, clinging to your sleeve.

You had been taught to be wary of stories. But oral traditions had its place. You didn't want to make assumptions. But you gently wiped away millimeter after millimeter. Keeping the unit level. Clipping roots, shooing away bugs. And slowly, that tiny glimmer got bigger. And bigger. And bigger. You sat in slack jawed shock. Silent. With steady but weary hands, you gently lifted the artifact from the ground. You pull out a handkerchief and gingerly wipe away the packed on mud. There, clear as day, was the family name of the elderly woman. You feel the gaze of your fellow archaeologists, to your left and right. There were no gasps. No fanfare. But the excitement was tangible. You gently tilt the necklace, and it caught in the light in the most hypnotizing way. 

You don't say a word. No one else does. No one needs to. A young man to your right stands up, fetching an artifact bag. He labels it with your unit and the date, and what level the necklace was in. He opens it and you gingerly slide it in. Even covered in mud and muck, you all knew it was the most beautiful thing you had ever laid eyes on. An ancient necklace buried deep in the ground, revealed due to the multiple monsoons of the past few years.

You take the moment to smile wearily. You wipe your forehead with the clean(ish) side of your handkerchief, the low glow of pride washing over you once more. It had been dampened by your horrific supervisor, but he could never take the joy of a discovery away from you. Especially one tied to local lore. You could only imagine the glee that woman and her family will feel. The village, with all of its history, had a local museum. This piece would be perfect there, right where it belongs. Away from the robbers of old, it was finally safe to be seen by the world once more.

The following night proved you horrifically wrong.

There had been a safe location allocated by the company that had been contracted for this excavation. Somewhere to store equipment and any notable finds. But you woke up the following morning to a horrifying scene. Equipment broken. Some missing. The safe housing the more significant finds, like the necklace, with a hole in it and all of the contents gone. Soil samples? Thrown on the ground and mixed together. Documentation? Ripped to shreds. This wasn't meant to be some high profile theft.

This was an outright massacre.

You and your team called an emergency meeting with the officials and elders of the village. The chaos that ensued broke your heart. The very elderly woman who had held your sleeve, begging you to believe her, was openly weeping when told the necklace had been stolen. The village was traditional- the only place with cameras was the museum itself, and even they were long overdue for upgraded equipment. No one was awake. No one saw or heard anything.

The artifacts were gone. Just... gone. 

The excavation ended the very next day. The site had been too far compromised. The excavation site itself had not been discovered by the thieves, yet, so local law enforcement set up a watch. You and the others immediately replaced the sediment, and come next rainfall all evidence of your presence will be erased from this place.

It gnawed at you. The image of the village elders weeping, or yelling. Begging, asking who did this, who could have done this. And none of you knew.

You returned to Linkon. But sleepless nights stared at you. You had other jobs. You were paid in full for the last one given that this kind of thing was entirely out of your control. There was a museum that was wanting to hire you for some consulting. And a science journal was looking at one of your proposals, and you felt pretty confident about it. Not to mention you and a few buddies had applied for a grant in your preferred field of study. But that necklace. It ate away at you, and with each passing day you felt like less of a person not knowing what had happened. 

Feeling like you had failed them.

One of those sleepless nights you lay there, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Trying to will yourself to sleep. But your phone vibrated before you could. You grumpily snatch your phone, about to put it on do not disturb. But it was an old friend in the field, a fellow archaeologists' mentor. Hannah Capek, or Dr. C as she was affectionately referred to.

It was an article about the prolific illegal antiquities trade in the N109 zone. You skim the article, feeling your blood boil even more with every word you read. The article claimed that a solid 87% of stolen or missing artifacts ended up in the N109 zone for this very trade. Auctions would be held at various auction houses or underground bars, sometimes in broad daylight. It was a lawless wasteland. Trying to follow up to retrieve the stolen good was a suicide mission. As soon as the artifact crossed that border, you're likely never going to see it again. Before you can stew in your own anger for too long Hannah sends a follow up text.

Dr. Hannah Capek: Don't beat yourself up, kiddo. You did the best you could. These statistics aren't great, but it shows it had nothing to do with you. You did everything right. Please don't lose any more sleep than you already have. This isn't your fault.

You stare at her message, tears stinging in your eyes. The weight of your own perceived failure crushing you in your bed. You open the article again, eyes skimming over some of the finer details. One hyperlink caught your eye. A wiki link. About Abyssal Chaos.

Abyssal Chaos. One of the most infamous portions of the dark web. People would pay others for any number of things, tasks, information... And it was one of the best sources of information for all things illegal. Of course, getting your foot in the door was nearly impossible. It was encrypted to high hell, and those who do manage to get in are subject to all kinds of cyber attacks, people finding their home address, stalking, doxxing... It was the wild west out there. The wiki had multiple stories of the horrific fates of a few users. But the more you skimmed through it, the more you felt intrigued.

You take a screenshot and send it to an old friend from high school. He was bullied pretty bad, but you stuck up for him. He always promised you that if you needed anything, call him. He's a techy guy now, makes some good money. 

But he got you exactly what you needed.

You sit up a little straighter. They had cleaned up the necklace beautifully. The detail work on the cleaning had the marks of a professional. The metal shone in the light as bright as it did on the day of its owner's wedding. As the man held up the necklace, you could see the back. The engraving of the family's name was still there.

"This one of a kind beauty was found out in the jungle in a trash heap. Local legend says a pretty little bride almost got mugged and hid them away." The man snickered, and a few other patrons laughed. "So some scientists dug them up again, and all these years later they got taken anyway. Oh well, beats them going to some foreign museum where they get written off as some exotic beauty, impossibly forged by the natives." Your grip around your glass tightens. You want to shout. No, that wasn't what was going to happen, you'd never allow it. They aren't exotic. It wasn't impossible for the local village all those years ago to know how to do such beautiful work. You're clenching your jaw so hard you can feel a muscle twitch.

Out of the corner of your eye you notice motion in your drink. You wait a few seconds before putting it down. You won't be taking another sip of it for the rest of the night. Instead you give the stage your full attention again. You tune out your anger and tune in to the man finally getting to the point. The auction. Everyone participating had a paddle. Like a professional, the man on stage began to call out numbers. Starting low, in the thousands. If you had to put a number on an artifact like this it would be somewhere in the millions due to its age, but in reality the history was what made it utterly priceless. You can't stop this from happening. You knew ahead of time calling in a tip on The Nest would get you on a hit list. So instead, you opted to come and get a good description of the thieves and potentially the buyer. If they had property or assets in Linkon or anywhere else outside of the N109 zone, then you could submit a real tip. And even if the necklace vanished, you could still achieve justice.

"Twenty-five hundred, I got twenty-five hundred can I get thirty, can I get thirty," The rapid fire words attempted to rile the crowd up. In spite of his best efforts, the crowd didn't seem all that impressed. Conversations struck back up among powerhouse couples. Lower crime lords went back to attempting to haggle a protocore smuggler for his wares. The man on stage kept looking to two others in the audience. They were close enough to the stage for the light to fall on their faces. They looked nervous.

Ah ha. 

You lift your hand to your mouth to hide a hint of a smirk. Bingo. Three thieves. The three must be in on it together one way or another. You drink in their appearances, every scar, every mole. Every easily notable body mark that would identify them. Steadily, the room returned to the murmur it had been in when you first arrived. No one was giving the man on stage the time of day. And it was beginning to make him sweat.

Good. You lean back, an impassive audience to his humiliation as a low voice rang out.

"Five million." 

Your shoulders tense. Your eyes widen. You look around, hoping you didn't just blow your cover. But lucky you, everyone in the room had the same reaction as you. Eyes and bodies slowly turned towards the newcomer, emerging from the shadows with slow, unhurried footsteps. He was tall, taller than the man on the stage. Broad shoulders. Strong, a fighter's build. You focus back towards the stage and the thieves in the front row. They were grinning but trying to hide them, smacking each other's arms in disbelief.

You've seen enough. You swivel back around in your seat, paying for your drink in a generous wad of cash. The bartender nods and takes the sizable offer, pocketing whatever wasn't needed for the drink. You stand up, weaving your way through the growing crowd who was staring at the intimidating figure now on stage. His silver hair caught in the light, but you couldn't make out anything more since his back was to you. But you don't need to. You have enough. Even if the necklace vanishes, you have enough to turn in the thieves themselves. It won't return the necklace to its rightful home but it'll be one less group to cause these kinds of problems.

You slip into an alleyway, finally taking a deep breath as you escaped the suffocating atmosphere of The Nest. The low lights, the lingering haze, the scent of smoke and sin lingered in that place. It clung to your clothes and your hair. You'd need a shower after this. You pull out your phone texting your old friend on an encrypted service.

You: Done. Thanks for the assist.

Anonymous: Ur welcome. Be careful, don't go straight home, just in case.

You turn off your phone and pocket it. You slowly begin to walk, heading towards the back of the building before deciding to go to Azure Square. But as you quieted your footfalls, moving quickly but quietly, a slow, gnawing sense of dread crawled up. From the heels of your feet. To the back of your knees. Slithering up to your thighs. Hips. Waist.

Slowly, this sense of dread coiled up your spine. Goosebumps erupted all over your skin, and you turn your head. Your eyes widen and a scream bubbles up in your throat as a black mist coiled around your mouth. Your scream is muffled. You lose control over your body as you're knocked over, dragged back into the alleyway as you struggle violently. But with each twitch, kick, and squirm the intangible shackles around you only tightened. You're pulled into the darkness of the alley once more when that deep, rich voice from earlier called out.

"I've never seen you at The Nest before." His voice was low. He spoke slowly, languidly. Like he could do this all day. Like you were in a game of cat and mouse, and he had already caught his prey. ”Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing these new jewels, sweetie.” That same low, baritone voice from the auction caught your attention. The black mist around your mouth vanished as the man slowly walked towards you. In a flash of light you can barely make out red eyes that had an otherworldly glow. But he remained in the shadows, not letting you see his full face. "What are you?" He cocked his head. 

You know better. You do. You recall the advice of all your mentors. Don't do anything stupid. If you must, don't get caught. You've already failed both. And with your legs still bound you couldn't enact the last of their advice. You lick your lips, eyeing the man as you lay on the ground. You scoffed, looking away from him. “Just the person who found those jewels.”

“This isn’t finders, keepers, sweetie. I paid for these fair and square.” He approaches, still just barely out of view from the shadows. He tilted your chin up to face him again with the toe of his shoe. His right eye began to glow a deeper red. You suck in a breath, your head suddenly pounding in pain. It felt like someone had dug their fingers into your brain directly through your eyes. The probing was unwelcome and made your stomach churn.

“And those thieves that pawned them off to you stole them from an archaeological site! Those belong to their proper community.” You spat back. “I don’t want them. I want them to go back to where they do belong.” You say it without a second's hesitation. But it wasn't because of this probing. The sensation stopped for a second. The glow dimmed, before surging back. The prodding became less intense, but it still felt like someone was actively in your head. The mist around your wrists vanished, allowing you to slowly hoist yourself into a sitting position on the ground. He didn't speak. Neither did you. You swallow. Your legs were still bound in a black and red mist, but it didn't hurt. It was just a bizarre pressure. You slowly rub your wrists, waiting.

”I didn’t realize your kind were so… altruistic nowadays.” You scoffed at his response, looking away. He must've put two and two together. Your heart rate picked up. You just blew your cover to someone very powerful. So much for don't do anything stupid.

"Times have changed." You respond. "That doesn't belong to you, or me, or those thieves. You're right. This isn't finders keepers. We're not children." You look back down at your legs. The mist was slowly abating, retreating back to the man still standing in the shadows. He looks down at the necklace in his hands, and your gaze follows. His eye glowed for just a moment more, but with a soft hum you felt his presence leave your mind. You had never heard of anyone with an evol who could do such a thing. A shudder rips through you, from head to toe, and finally he turns on his heel.

"Times have changed, yes." He confirms, the steady footfalls from his dress shoes slowly fading into the distance as he returns to The Nest. You watch. You wait. And as soon as you knew he was gone, you scramble to your feet. Without another word, without another glance, you turn and run as fast as your legs will allow. Every single one of your old professors, mentors, colleagues... all of them would smack you upside the head for doing something so ballsy and stupid.

But favor and fortune shone down on you that night. You survived. You escaped. And now you can file an anonymous police report. For the sake of preserving your own life you decide on a whim to omit the presence of the man with silver hair. At this point, it wasn't fully about the necklace. It was about the principle, it was about the thieves. About justice.

That necklace didn't belong to you. Or him. Or the thieves, or the archaeologists.

It belonged to its home village. One you hoped it would survive to return home to.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

Bzzt.

BZZT.

You slowly open your eyes, the constant vibrating from your phone drawing you out of slumber. It was five in the morning, and only the first few rays of light from the sun were breaching your window. You were tempted to put your phone on do not disturb and go back to sleep. You snatch it off your nightstand, ready to do exactly that when the messenger's name caught your eye. A friend you had made in the village you had just been working in. You sit up a little straighter, opening her messages.

The first thing that came up on your phone was a picture of the necklace. All cleaned up and glittering like it had just last night in that odd man's hands. It was in the museum, already in a safe case, with multiple signs in different languages. You exit the picture, hurriedly reading all of her messages. Someone in the middle of the night last night broke in to the museum. But they left the necklace. No note, no identification, nothing. As you were reading through her texts another text appeared on your screen. Hannah Capek.

You switch to her text. It was a news article. 

Breaking News: Artifact Smugglers Apprehended in the Night

Dr. Hannah Capek: Justice has been served! Sleep a little easier, okay? Some good samaritan ratted them out. 

You tap on the link. Unable to believe your eyes. But Hannah's words rung true. The article had been released only an hour ago from a journalist who worked at night. Three artifact smugglers had been turned in at the Evol Police's doorstep in the middle of the night, all three confessing to their many crimes in near tears. It was clear someone had scared them, but the confessions matched multiple recent robberies and smuggling operations documented all over the region. These guys were professionals. The police took them into custody and would be launching an investigation to verify what they said.

You sit up, your covers sliding off your body as you reread the article once. Twice. Thrice. No. No way.

You run your fingers through your hair, absolutely bamboozled by this change in events. You forward the pictures and context from your friend to Dr. Hannah, and then forward the link from Dr. Hannah to your friend. She immediately texts back. Gleeful, thanking you. You sit up straighter and rapidly text her not to. This wasn't your doing. You had nothing to do with those thieves showing up at the police department. You had nothing to do with the necklace reappearing. You wouldn't be able to even get there in a night!

Who could have done this? The man who bought it? He seemed the most likely suspect. But he paid five million for it, why would he turn around and give it back to the village? He said it himself, this isn't finder's keepers. You swing your legs over the side of your bed, standing up. You walk over to the curtains, peeking out beyond them. The sun was just rising. Whoever did this did it in the night, likely only a few hours ago. All of this was breaking news. Brand new. Something you hadn't seen in your career, or your lifetime.

Just who was that man?

It started with a blur just outside your peripheral vision. 

You were sure you were just paranoid after visiting The Nest. Exposing yourself on Abyssal Chaos and showing up in person at a well known information hub wasn't the brightest idea in hindsight. And yet, somehow, it got you the exact end results you were hoping for. You found yourself constantly looking over your shoulder for the next few weeks as you went about everyday life. And every once in a while, you would catch a black blur just out of line of sight. It was fast.

And finally, one day, you catch the bird in action.

You had left the window open just a crack to get some fresh air. It was a beautiful day, so you might as well give your home a refresh. You come out of your bedroom, trash bag in hand, and catch the culprit red handed. A red and black crow was sitting on your balcony, pecking at the window, as if trying to open it. You drop the bag. The crow stops. It's a stare off.

Neither of you move. You stare at the bird. The bird stares at you. An uncomfortable silence falls before you slowly reach for your phone. The bird cocks its head. Was- was its eyes glowing? You take a single step towards it, and it doesn't fly off. You open your phone and do a quick search. Or three.

Crow meaning omen

Crow safe foods

What do crows like to eat

You keep looking up an at the crow, who was still staring you down. Cocking its head. You find a list of crow safe foods and move to your kitchen. You fetch a small bowl and fill it with an assortment of small bits of food approved by bird professionals. You turn back around and find the crow still staring at you. The closer you got the more you saw of its robotic nature. 

"Poor thing." You murmur. You lift the window with one hand, reaching out onto your balcony before resting the bowl against a chair. "Here. It's not much, but it's something. You scared me, I thought someone was following me around all this time." Every time you saw something, it was up high, and quickly moved out of sight. It made perfect sense for it to be a bird. Nothing nefarious at all. "Did someone fix you up after a car hit you, or something?" You sit in your window sill, eyes trained on the bird. It cocks its head from side to side. Before slowly crooning at you. It hops over to the bowl provided and began to pick through the assortment. 

"I'll take that as a thank you. You're welcome." You nod, leaning back against the window frame. You scootch yourself in, pretzeling yourself into the window frame separating your apartment from your balcony. The crow seemed used to people and didn't bat an eye at your antics. You take the moment to admire the bird. The sheen of his feathers in the light revealed so many more colors than what was originally visible. "Pretty bird" You hum. The crow pops its head up, squawking in surprise. It was almost like it was flustered by the compliment. You can't help it, you cover your mouth as you laugh at him. The crow only grew more indignant. It cawed at you, sharp and raspy. 

"Hey! It's a compliment, take it!" You try to encourage it through your laughter, but the bird only seems more irritated. If a bird could scowl it certainly would. It grew tired of your antics and took off, diving off your balcony and flying away. You don't have a moment more to protest. Your eyes trail after the crow as it vanishes into the city, flying off and away. You reach out to the bowl, which only had a few things missing, and bring it back inside. "Oh well. There goes my dreams of being a Disney princess." You laugh to yourself, shutting the window behind you.

You figured that would be your first and last interaction with it. But you were pleasantly surprised.

Once a week, every week, the crow would return.

It became a routine. A habit. It would knock on your window with its beak, and you would join it on the balcony or in the window with a bowl of food. You eventually got good at recognizing its patterns and you would leave a little dish of water and food out before joining it. The first three weeks you sat in comfortable silence.

But the fourth, a month in to this strange situation, the crow brought you something.

Its caw was muffled. It held two items in its beak. You extend your hand slowly and the bird dropped the items in your hand before diving into the food. It had brought you a shiny twist tie, likely just some piece of trash, and a piece of paper. You had read that crows might bring gifts if befriended, so you immediately tie the twist tie around a finger like a ring. The bird lifted its head as you did so, and you extended your hand to show off the twist tie. 

"You have a good eye." You compliment, smiling cheekily. "I accept this proposal of friendship. Thank you for your generous gift." The crow cawed in affirmation, or you were interpreting it like that at the very least, and went back to eating. You turn your attention to the piece of paper. You unfold it. Mephisto. You look at the crow.

"Mephisto?" It immediately looked up again, mid nibble on a nut, and crooned. "Oh. That's your name, is it? Mephisto?" Mephisto bobbed his head. You laugh, looking down at the paper in awe. "Mephisto... Short for Mephistopheles. Whoever named you knows their Faustian mythology. And has nice handwriting." You pocket the paper, the crow bobbing his head again. "Well, Mephisto. It's nice to finally have your name. Guess I owe you mine." You lean in, whispering your name to the crow as if it was a precious secret only for the two of you to know. You pull back, grinning at the bird. Perhaps you shouldn't have discounted your disney princess dreams yet. "I've been enjoying seeing you every week, Mephie, but I'll be out of town starting next week." Mephisto squawked.

In a flurry of feathers he flew right at you. You hold up a hand and he settles on your fingers, chattering at you in protest. "Caw! Caw caw caw-"

"Mephisto- Mephie! I'm sorry, I have an excavation to go on. I can't just skip it." You try to assure the bird. "I'll be back. I promise, I'll come back." While crows were smart as could be, you weren't sure how much he could understand. You lift your free hand, not moving too fast, slowly approaching his head. The bird shut his eyes and headbutt your hand. You chuckle, stroking his feathers gently and carefully. "I promise, Mephie, I will come back. I'll be in the mountains for an excavation, that's all. It's for a month, I'll be back after that. I trust you can look after yourself, along with whoever else is caring for you." The crow crooned again, still protesting your incoming absence.

"Hey." You coo. "I'll bring your ring you gave me. That way I'll have something to look at and think about you while I'm gone, okay?" You murmur, showing him the twist tie he had just given you. Mephisto slowly opened his eyes, crooning mournfully once more. "Yeah, I'll be back. I'll be here next week for our weekly meet up. I just didn't want to spring this on you." You add, and he just looked at you. He clacked his beak, still balancing on your fingers. He flapped his wings a few times, and you extend your hand to give him space to spread them out. He cawed and released your fingers. As he flapped his wings, he made his way to the banister of your balcony. He tilts his head at you. You smile. He always does this. "Goodbye, Mephisto. I'll see you next week." You nod to him. With a caw, he turns and takes to the skies. 

Mephisto didn't appear the next week. You waited in the windowsill for hours, but he never appeared. You couldn't deny your disappointment, but you figured it was for the best. You focused on packing, and the next day you were gone.

This excavation was situated in the mountains. Though, luckily, your excavation was in a convenient clearing. After conducting a brief walking survey you and your crew got to work. You were lucky enough to have one of your colleagues from the last excavation on your team, so the two of you partnered up. You worked on your one meter by one meter unit together, worked with the total station, and he helped with bagging and tagging artifacts. He was always one of the guys who was quiet when your last supervisor was being a misogynistic piece of shit, but he was much more vocal at this one. Talkative, always wanting your attention. This excavation was much older than even your last one, and from context clues you and your team were thinking of it as a frequent place people stopped crossing the mountains for trade. Beads of various precious stones were found, and a few pieces of jewelry were still in tact.

The rest of the team was pausing for lunch, heading to a separate part of the clearing to overturn buckets and sit down to eat. You volunteered to stay behind and finish up some field notes, so they left you be to do so. You turn over an empty bucket and sit down, scribbling some notes about the recorded depth of trench one, unit six, which had a jade bead and a bracelet with similar beads at a depth of 40 centimeters. You describe your findings, the quality of jade, and the variety of soil present when you heard a rustling. You lift your eyes, expecting to find one of your colleagues coming to ask you something. But no one was there. Your eyebrows furrow, and you lift your eyes a little higher. 

In the tree branches a familiar pair of red eyes were watching you. Your pencil and field notes slip out of your hands, hitting the dirt with a dull thud. 

"Mephisto?" You call, slowly standing up. He cocks his head, not coming any closer. "What are you doing here? You're far from home." You put your hands on your hips, slowly beginning to tap your foot. "You ghost me the day before I leave but have the ability to come and find me in the mountains." You finally squat to pick up your field notes, tucking your pencil behind your ear. Mephisto doesn't respond. He just cocks his head at you again. He looks down at the baggy at your feet. You follow his gaze and put your foot in front of it. "Nooooo, Mephie, this is one shiny I absolutely cannot allow you to take." You spoke slowly. "Mephisto. No." The crow looks back up at you.

"CAW!" He cawed rather emphatically. Was it a 'no, I'd never!' or a 'come on, please!' kind of caw? You couldn't decide. You put your fingers to your temple, sighing. 

"Sorry, Mephisto. I'm gonna have lunch soon. Don't have any food to spare you this time. I'm sure whoever is caring for you is worried, shoo, go home. I'm okay." You reach your hands up and gently shoo the bird away. He caws at you again, crooning once, before giving up. In a flurry of feathers he flies off, one feathers actually drifting towards the ground. You watch him as long as you can, approaching the feather. You pick it up, holding it up to the light to admire it. The sheen was otherworldly, absolutely beautiful. You glance around. No one was around. So you make your way to your bag, carefully tucking the feather in amongst your personal journal's pages.

You hear more rustling, so you look over your shoulder. Your teammate from the last excavation was standing in the treeline, cocking his head.

"Hey, we were getting worried. Didn't think it would take you more than a few minutes to finish up." He tilted his head, leaning on a nearby tree. You grab your lunch bag out of your work bag, nodding your head with a smile.

"Nah, I was just finishing a few things up." You walk back over, picking up the artifacts and carefully adding them to the artifact bucket. "Just was double checking the munsells for the soil. Is the earth slightly more yellow or red, you know?" You chuckle, approaching him with your lunchbox and water bottle. He laughed, walking with you. 

"Oh, don't I know it. Debating over the tiniest shift in shade, only for a cloud to move and make it look totally different." 

"And you can't put the dirt right beside the reference pictures in the munsell book or you'll ruin it. I'm still trying to find the money to buy a personal copy, but those things are expensive." You shake your head at the thought. Usually a company would ensure your crew had one, but you wanted one for yourself. Living the way you were, however, you couldn't afford to shell out that kind of money. Anwir laughed in agreement

"Oh don't get me started. You wouldn't believe the things I did in undergrad to be able to afford my degree. And even now I'm scraping by. Shit pay, shit benefits, shit coworkers..." He winked at you. "Present company excluded. But hey, we do it for the love of the discipline."

You shake your head at him, but know he had a point. Your own first thought was the awful supervisor from your last excavation. Misogynistic, chauvinistic, all the phobias and istics to make him a nightmare to work with. The field was changing, sure, but you'd still find people like him stubbornly clinging to the good old days of the discipline. "Anwir, remember how our last supervisor kept double guessing me every time I said something about munsell or depth or times? Or... anything?" You laugh again. "Listen, I double guess myself enough, I didn't need him in my ear doing the same." Anwir laughed again.

"Oh, he was the worst, wasn't he? Sorry the excavation ended the way it did, but damn, glad to be away from him." He looked away, off towards where the rest of the crew were already eating and laughing. "He wasn't all bad, but he was still a dick."

"Not all bad? Maybe cause you didn't have to face his wrath." You scoff in return, but stop talking about it as another one of your colleagues offers you a bucket.

You'd enjoy your break while you could.

As soon as everyone was done eating, it was back to work. The rest of the day flew by, and the others found a couple more notable discoveries in the same level. Other items of some value, primarily jewelry. An interesting find, one with some notable implications for the region and the ancient trade route. You pack up and head back to the base provided, before unpacking and handling more paperwork related issues. You shower, change, then work on paperwork and a narrative for the day for your field notes. You find Anwir stepping outside to make a call, but comes straight back since it was his night to cook.

He made a rich, comforting meal that immediately made everyone feel a bit more comfortable and relaxed. Aching muscles and joints calmed down, and everyone got a bit more comfortable. 

In theory, it should have been a great night.

But you look at the twist tie you had tied to the pencil sitting on your field notes. The very same Mephisto gave you almost a month ago. The excavation is already drawing to a close, with only one week left to wrap up. Something feels off. Something in your body is twisting and groaning. Not like a stomach ache- but just some soul deep churning, insisting something is wrong.

Your mind is buzzing, but in spite of it all you're exhausted. You and everyone else decide to call it a night early. 

During an excavation, you could sleep heavy, or sleep light. It depended on levels of exhaustion, pain, and any lingering thoughts that might leave you tossing and turning. But that night, you slept like a log. You slept like the dead. You slept harder than you ever had on an excavation, and when you did finally wake up with a low groan, it took you a moment for your colleagues' screams to register in your mind.

But as soon as they did, the exhaustion left your bones. You grab the nearest item, lucky you a sharp trowel, and run barefoot to where all the others were. The storage room. There were signs of a struggle- paperwork everywhere, indents in the wood, and a splatter of blood on the floor. The artifact bucket had been noticeably moved, and as you make your way further inside it was clear it had been rifled through. You turn back to your colleagues, doing a headcount.

"Anwir- where's Anwir?" One of the women call out, before dashing down the hall.

"He wasn't here when I woke up!" His roommate called back, quickly following her.

You turn back into the room. It reminded you of the massacre you had found at your last excavation. You slowly walk further in. You shouldn't touch anything. You should call the local authorities and the company sponsoring you, then wait. But one thing stood out among all the mess. The rest of your colleagues ran off, calling for Anwir, asking if the blood on the floor was actually his. But on the desk in the back right beside the artifact bucket, there was a piece of paper. 

You look over your shoulder before picking it up, unfolding it.

”Keep your sparkly things under lock and key, I could suggest a few supplies. If you're worried about the other archaeologist, call the local authorities and ask for him yourself.  -S"

There, in the same handwriting as the note with Mephisto's name, lay a note clearly left for you. S. S must be Mephisto's owner. You look over your shoulder again, folding the note and tucking it into your pocket before anyone else could come in. You immediately leave, hearing the chaos unfolding among the others. Anwir's roommate called his phone, only to reveal it was still in his room. You instead step forward.

"Let's go ahead and report this to the local authorities, and the company that hired all of us. Excavation should be postponed until we know his whereabouts and safety."

"It's too early to submit a missing person's report." His roommate protested, but he was already dialing the phone number. "Don't know what they can do for him just yet, but yeah, let's get them to look at the artifact room."

When the non-emergency line picked up, your colleague explained the situation to the person on the other end. Whoever was on the phone began to laugh.

"You said his name was Anwir? We had an Anwir dropped off just this morning. He was shaken up pretty bad, he claimed he was a part of an artifact smuggling ring and had attempted to steal some of what you all found yesterday."

The silence that fell over the room was deafening. No one moved and inch. 

"Anwir? Anwir was going to steal...?" You murmur, eyes slowly narrowing. The bastard. 

"Yes, we're waiting to hear back from our contacts in the big city. He already gave us a few other names, including the names of three others from his ring that had been captured a little over a month ago. He keeps mentioning black mist...?"

Black mist. S. Mephisto.

Your lips set in a thin line, your eyebrows drawing together. 

It's all connected.

The chaos unfolding all around you faded to background noise as you retreated inward, trying to piece together the events of the past few months. The excavation with the creepy supervisor, and Anwir. The night at The Nest. This excavation. Mephisto's appearance. The black mist. The man at The Nest, he's probably S himself, if not someone associated with him. Mephisto is likely his bird, you wouldn't be surprised if he was surveillance on you. Surveillance you befriended and gave food to, no less. But he was likely how S knew where you were. 

S left you a note. And he dragged off Anwir. And, as icing on the cake, hurt Anwir or got hurt by Anwir? Your eyes slowly drifted to the patch of dried blood on the floor. Whoever this S was, he had a vested interest in keeping these artifacts from the smuggling ring.

"Hey-" You snap out of your thoughts as one of the others gently grabs your shoulder. You inhale sharply but register her presence and calm down. She slowly lets go. "I went ahead and called the higher ups. They want everything on hold until we figure out what happened with Anwir. They're sending someone to take the artifacts to the lab, and they're debating putting the whole thing on hold. Since the last time this happened the thieves destroyed the equipment as well..." She grimaced. "They don't want to end up with stolen stuff and broken gear." You slowly nod.

"Fair enough." You hum. "Good chance to update logs and stuff. Gods, this is the second time..." 

The other archaeologist laughed dryly, her amusement not reaching her eyes. "Yeah. Anwir, huh? Wonder if that was why he stepped out to make a phone call last night..." You think back on the dinner and feel your heart drop.

"We all felt really tired after he made dinner last night." You spoke slowly, looking back in the artifact room. "And there was a struggle. That should've woken any one of us up. Did he-?" You look up, meeting her gaze. She understands what you're saying before the words can fully fall out of your mouth. She scowled. 

"Bastard." She snarled, whirling around on her heel and pulling out her phone again. "I'm reporting that. We should get hazard pay- and a drug test."  As she marched off, calling supervisors and the police, you find yourself once more. Everyone was rushing around, verifying nothing else was touched or taken. You slide your fingers to the pockets of your pajama pants, tentatively tracing the outline of the note.

S.

You push yourself off the doorframe, returning to your room. Alright, S. It's time to show your hand.

You were unsurprised that the company and local authorities agreed and called off the excavation. Clearly there was a break in at the house you were staying at, since Anwir insisted none of the team attacked him. That coupled with his involvement in a smuggling ring and the drugs he laced the food with gave them all ample reason to call it early. It was always disappointing to have to leave early for any reason. For you even more so, having such rotten luck twice in a row. But perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

The very same day you arrived home to your apartment, you had a familiar guest waiting for you on your balcony. 

Mephisto looked quite proud of himself. He perched on the chair, puffed up with his head held high. You can't help but shake your head. You couldn't be mad at him, he was just doing what he was programmed to do. You ignore him, bringing your suitcase to your room. You begin to unpack, tucking your field supplies away in the same corner you always do. You load your hamper with dirty clothes to wash, put away your work boots and everyday shoes, and put a clean pillowcase on your pillow. During all of these mundane 'first day back home' tasks , the caws and pecks on your balcony window grew in frequency and volume.

Mephisto was throwing a tantrum.

You try to ignore it. You were a little irritated with him, after all. Just a little. He was basically surveillance, from what you understood. And you shouldn't be giving this S figure any more information on yourself than you already have. Who knows his true intentions? Maybe he's trying to get you in his debt, to call in some big favor. Or maybe he's a creep. You don't have enough information yet. More research necessary. Typically a comforting phrase, since it kept you in a job. But clearly you signed yourself up for something much bigger than yourself. All you wanted was for that necklace to stay in its cultural context. So many artifacts around the world were not where they belonged- colonialism was the major contributing factor. 

But you were determined to be a part of the change. Of the path forward. 

You snap out of your thoughts at a particularly loud squawk. You turn on your heel and approach the window to the balcony, sighing.

"Okay, okay, I hear you. I just had to take care of some things." You open the window, and he hops back and forth on the back of the chair cawing at you emphatically.

"CAW! Caw, caw, c a w!"

You weren't sure what he was saying. But you knew he was mad at you for making him wait. You leave the window open, excusing yourself to your kitchen. You pull the same crow mix you had made out, and since everything in it was dried it should still be good. You put some in the bowl and bring it back, offering it to him. He swings his head away.

"Oh you're really mad at me for ignoring you for a few minutes?" You curl into the same spot in the windowsill, crossing your arms over your chest. "I should be the one mad at you, you know. You're working for S, aren't you?" You fish the paper with his note out of your pocket, holding it in front of the bird. He squawked indignantly. But- was that guilt on his face?? "I knew it." You sit up a little straighter. "Okay. You're a cyborg. You've been following me around and keeping tabs on me at home. You're surveillance, aren't you?!" You point at him accusingly. His wings and head slowly drooped. Looking away. He crooned, low and slow. An admission of guilt- you think. 

You tuck the paper away again. "Hey, listen." You speak slower, in a softer tone of voice. "I'm not- I'm not mad at you, Mephisto. I'm just worried." Mephisto kept his head lowered. Was this bird guilt tripping you? Honestly, fuck it, stranger things have happened. The world turned topsy turvy ever since the Chronorift Catastrophe. "Ever since I went to The Nest, weird things have been happening. Feeling followed, feeling watched... All I wanted was to ensure more artifacts aren't stolen." You put your chin in your palm, watching the bird. "I mean... look at the British Museum. And other museums like it. I love what I do, honest, but I can't change history. Archaeology is rooted in colonialism, but my generation can be the change. You know? Repatriate the stolen goods, make sure everything goes home as safely as it can." You settle yourself in the window still further, getting as comfortable as you can. Mephisto lifted his head, his red eyes trained on you. Cocking his head back and forth. He crooned. Slowly. 

"I'm going to interpret that as you agreeing with me." You smile, reaching out to pat him on his head. He didn't shy away. "Well. Whoever this 'S' figure is, he seems to think the same way. I'm assuming he's the guy at The Nest. Tall, white hair, broad shoulders, ominous glowing right eye?" You describe him, watching as Mephisto began to rummage through the nuts. "Returning the necklace he bought. And even stopping another theft from happening in the first place. I'm honestly impressed, he could've made some money off of all of that, but he didn't." Mephisto looked at you again, crooning low and slow. He paused, lifting his head up in a sudden jerk. He cocked his head one way. Then the other. His eyes grew wider as he stared off into the distance, before sharply returning to the present. He flapped his wings, getting closer to you. You extend two fingers and he perches on them, lifting his wing. He rummages around in his feathers before pulling something shiny out. 

A red and black crow pin. He dropped it against your chest. You were taken aback, but figure this must be another gift as a thank you for feeding him. You use your free hand to pick up the brooch, admiring it in the fading evening light. "Wow..." You flip it to look on the back. It had the backing to be converted into a necklace. "Thank you, Mephie..." You look back at the crow, your smile slowly growing wider. He cawed one more time, flapping his wings. "Oh! Do me a favor before you go." You unhook the back of the brooch, pinning it to your top. "I'd like you to pass along a message to S." You lean in, the bird waiting for you.

"Thank you." You whisper. before leaning back. "Maybe one day I can thank him for his assistance in person. But until then, I'll just let you keep playing messenger." Mephisto waited, cocking his head one more time. He crooned, then took off. Carrying your thanks with him as he returned to his master.

There was radio silence for a week. No Mephisto. No excavations. No nothing. It gave you time to edit your field notes, to check how much a new munsell book would cost, and do some basic upkeep on your supplies. But you still needed work, and you needed your next job. 

That being said? It’s late. You’re tired. And you’ve been staring at the computer screen far too long.

With a heavy sigh you push yourself away from your desk, standing up while popping your back. You grab your keys and slip on your shoes at the door, hopping down the stairs as you make your way to the building’s entrance. You pull out your earbuds, about to put them in for your walk to the convenience store when a glint in the light caught your attention.

A man sat on a motorcycle in front of your building. His helmet sat in front of him on the seat, one of his hands rested atop it and flexed back and forth. He was dressed in leather protective gear typical of those who ride motorcycles. This was customized, however, with red and white stripes of a lightning-esque design on the arms and chest. He wasn't facing you at first, so you were content to walk by, when a familiar caw caught your attention. Mephisto was contentedly perched on the man's fingers, but his eyes were locked on you. He cawed emphatically a few more times. You opened your mouth to greet the bird when the man finally turned to face you.

He had a smug, almost lazy smile on his face. An aura of danger but an expression of contentment. Like this was always supposed to happen. Like he had been waiting for this. 

Your mouth runs dry. 

"Hello. sweetie." The man, undoubtedly S, finally spoke. He lifted his two fingers and Mephisto flew towards you, circling you before landing by your feet. He hopped towards you, puffed up with pride. "Mephisto here told me you wanted to speak with me?" He tilted his head. His very aura was threatening, but he remained seated on his motorcycle. Not making any sudden moves towards you. 

"I- no, that isn't exactly what I said." You look away, rubbing the back of your neck. As you shifted the street lights caught in the crow brooch you still wore. S's eyes immediately snapped to it, his smug smile widening ever so slightly.

"I see Mephisto delivered my gift." He nodded to it. Finally, he stepped off his bike, leaving his helmet on the seat. He looked massive enough at The Nest, but finally standing toe to toe with him made him look even bigger. The man is built like a brick house. You swallow, standing your ground as he approached, His long fingers lifted, almost as if to graze the brooch. You take half a step back, eyeing him warily.

He paused. His red eyes flickered up to you, and the smile slid off of his face. His eyes bore into yours. Searching for something. His right eye began to glow for just a moment, but when he heard your hitched gasp the glow vanished. S's eyes remained still. Searching your gaze, but not prying into your mind. He was searching for something, anything. But he didn't appear to like what he saw.

"Anwir." His voice dropped. "Anwir was the one involved with the smuggling ring for artifacts. He began when he was in university to make ends meet, but even in his professional career he has continued. He's gone by multiple different names. He and your old supervisor were working together." He stood up to his full height, his eyes finally leaving yours as he looked to the side. "You were right. Believe it or not, I've... had experience in repatriation, I guess you could say." 

You watched him in shock. You wanted to protest, ask how he could know that. But it made perfect sense. Anwir himself said he had to do some odd things to make ends meet, and that might explain his dismissive attitude towards the last supervisor. "How would you have experience in repatriation?" You ask him slowly. Mephisto caws, flying up and perching himself on your shoulder. His steady weight felt like a reassurance. In spite of the odd situation, you weren't in any trouble. Not in any danger. 

"Let's just say I have my own vendetta against the rich assholes who think they can steal and smuggle precious relics as they please." S leaned down again, a smile reappearing on his face. Well, more like a smirk. "We have similar goals. I'd like to cut a deal."

"Tell me your name first." The words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them. You stand up a little straighter. "I know you've been watching me, so you already know my name. But I need yours if I'm going to trust you." S remained bent down. His eyes trained on yours.

"You don't know it already?"

"No. All I know is 'S'. So tell me your name, S." You watch him closely. There was a flicker of something in his gaze. A hint of hurt. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. 

He leaned in, breath ghosting over your ears as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Sylus." You stood your ground, not shying away from him. You let him whisper his name into your ear like its a secret he ought to protect. He leaned back to meet your gaze again, before glancing at the crow still perched on your shoulder. "Mephisto, come." his voice dropped, a firm command forcing the bird to comply. He hopped from your shoulder to Sylus's, perching there. But the bird turned back to you, crooning low and slow. In spite of yourself you exhale a soft laugh.

"Good to see you too, buddy." You murmur, extending your hand. Mephisto leaned into your hand, allowing you to pet his head. Sylus shot his bird a side eye before turning his attention back to you. "So. What is this deal you want?"

"I have an interest in some of the other members of your field. Some of them are beginning to work with an enemy of mine, and I need someone in the discipline to help me keep an eye on them. Anwir was one of them." Sylus adjusted how he was standing, crossing his arms over his chest. "Help me keep tabs on these individuals, and in return I will help you in stopping the broader artifact smuggling trade in the N109 zone." 

"The N109-" You cut yourself off, eyes wide. "Are you sure? There's no other catches to this, right?" You should be wary of anyone trying to persuade you with connections to the N109 zone. But in spite of it all, even with his intimidating presence, you didn't feel unsafe with him. Something about him felt distantly familiar. "I'm not sure I can get myself involved in something like this. I know I shouldn't have been at The Nest that night. I just-"

"You just didn't want to see history fall into the wrong hands." Sylus finished the thought for you. He sighed, looking away while pinching the bridge of his nose. "Neither do I. But there is something much larger than history going on here. Anwir was a part of a much larger syndicate. You went on two excavations with him, which makes you a potential target for his group, especially since you were at The Nest. You need someone to look after you. This deal is hardly just for my sake. It's for yours."

"Generosity always comes with strings attached." You shoot back. Not angrily, not like that at all. Appraisingly. Testing him, seeing how he'll take resistance. "You wouldn't offer protection without expecting more from me."

"Oh, so you're savvy in business deals now, are you?"

You mimic the way he's standing, head high and with your arms crossed over your chest. "Grants, funding, working with companies... there are always strings attached. Expectations. I need to know the fine print before I agree to anything. Last thing I want is to agree to a deal only for all my hard work to end up tied to the wrong group." Sylus chuckled, low and slow.

"A fair assessment." He shrugged, making Mephisto squawk as he tried to maintain his balance. "Alright, then. Here is what I will expect from you, sweetie. You will go about your normal life in the field, nothing different there. But Mephisto will tail you to act as surveillance on your companions. If I find someone suspicious I will alert you. Or, if you find something or someone suspicious, you will alert me in turn." His lips curled into a smirk. "In return for information and allowing Mephisto to tail you I will ensure your safety and continue to look into the artifact smuggling rings." His eyes lowered to the brooch on your shirt. He lifts his hand again, but doesn't touch it yet. He points at it. "This will act as your connection to me. If you ever need anything and cannot contact me, find Elysium, and ask for the Sweet Evil Trap from the Connoisseur's Menu." He does eventually allow his finger ot graze the brooch, and you do not shy from his touch this time. "The people who matter will know what you mean."

You cock your head, but don't question it. N109 zone folks were odd. You nod your head in confirmation. "I can do that." You agree. In the back of your mind you were taking note of all these things, wondering if you should reach out to your old friend against to see if you could find any information on this Sylus figure from the N109 zone. You wanted to know who you're dealing with and what you just signed yourself up for. "I just hope I'm not making a deal with the devil here."

"The devil?" Sylus laughed. A true, deep laugh. A slight hint of surprise in his voice. "What do you take me for? We were just discussing our mutual, noble ideals of repatriation."

"I'll remind you that the first time we met you dragged me down an alley with black mist and pried into my mind so deep my soul hurt." You shoot back. "That doesn't necessarily instill the most faith in a person."

"Fair." He shrugged, Mephisto again squawking. "Then allow me to demonstrate my willingness to aid you. Consider me... a patron for your discipline." 

"... I don't need an academic sugar daddy." 

"I didn't say that." Sylus laughed again. "No, no. Simply a patron of the discipline. We have the same end goals. No 'sugar' needed. Unless you're offering, of course." In spite of everything, his tone revealed he truly was joking. You manage to laugh in return, even in the odd circumstances you were presented with. 

Stalked, followed, dealing with colleagues going against everything the discipline should stand for and believe in. Here you stand with a criminal, someone you should stay far away from. And yet, right now, it feels like he is the one you can trust most out of all of them. 

"Alright." You finally acquiesce. "Fine, we can do this. But I reserve the right to call things off. I'm not stupid, I know I can't report this to the police or anything."

"I won't ask you to. This is your choice." Sylus finally looked to Mephisto. With one look the bird took off, already heading towards the N109 zone. "And I will not hold it against you if you must call it off." He sauntered back to his motorcycle, lifting his helmet. "You will know when you hear from me." He flipped his visor shut, and got onto the motorcycle. You don't know why. But you stay to see him off. As the engine revved to laugh you lifted a hand, waving him off. Before he took off down the dark streets, he glanced at you. Even through the visor of his helmet, you catch a single wink before he took off. 

The flirt took you off guard. Your breath hitched again, and watching the bike vanish down the road only left your heart beating a little faster. You couldn't even remember why you really left your apartment. In a slight daze, you turn on your heel, and go back inside.

A few days later, while you were finishing up digitizing some other notes, you received notification that you had a package. You don't think much of it, pausing to stretch and go downstairs. A friend could have sent you something, or it could be some letter from an organization or group you worked for. Or it could be junk. As you hop down the stairs two at a time, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You don't glance at it until you show up to the mailroom. You fetch the package, and only then glance down.

Unknown number: Enjoy, sweetie. 

You narrow your eyes. Wrong number? You don't respond at first, returning to your room. You open the text, looking at the number to see if it might be someone you know. You open the package with the sharp edge of your trowel you really know you shouldn't but you had it out so you might as well. You place your tool down, removing the brown paper. 

You freeze. You slowly pick the book up, holding it up in the light. You had never see a munsell book so... clean. You open it, looking through the colors of soils. You flip through each page, fingers caressing the page with a care most equipment didn't receive. Your phone buzzes again, and you quickly look down.

Unknown: You could be greedier, you know.

Unknown: A book is nothing. Whatever you need, tell me. I may not be your "academic sugar daddy", but I am your partner.

You put the book down, hurriedly picking up your phone.

You: Sylus????

You: Thank you, I've been wanting to have my own for years

You: This wasn't necessary

Sylus: Don't worry about it, sweetie

Sylus: A book is nothing. You could be greedier. Whatever you need, whatever your heart desires

Sylus: All you need to do is tell me. We have the same goal, don't we? If this will help achieve it, then it is more than worth it

You stand, slack jawed. You look between your phone and the book sitting on the table. Beside it, your trowel. And beside that, your field journal bookmarked with one of Mephisto's feathers. "Partners." You murmur aloud. You gently remove the feather from your field notes, instead tucking it into the munsell book. Your trowel remains beside it. You take your phone, pressing the 'call' button beside your newly added contact for Sylus. You move further into your apartment, putting your phone closer to your ear.

"Hey, partner. I think I'd like to be greedier." A low, tired chuckle came from the other end of the line. It was mid morning, was the man nocturnal?

"Whatever your heart desires."