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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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In what ways would you change Yuu (or would you get rid of them entirely)? The writing feels inconsistent on their place/importance. If they were just a conduit for the player to watch the events unfold that's one thing but in another story they are an active player.

I'd personally play into the beastamer aspect more. They are supposedly the reason why Ace, Deuce, and Grim were able to work together thus I'd want them to have more agency in making plans, giving orders, etc. Rook calls them Trickster but in what way (lol). The vagueness of being a self insert pains me. I'd also want to give them some magically infused weapon (or has a magestone embedded) just so they aren't fodder or sideline material.

Mmm… As much as I dislike the blank slate self-insertiness of Yuu (I’d prefer to read about an actually realized character), I wouldn’t want to get rid of them altogether. I think they’re important for the role they serve in the narrative even if in execution is inconsistent and not done well.

The problem with “changing” Yuu is that there has to be a certain level of ambiguity due to the design of the game. You cannot give them too much personality or you risk alienating the audience that likes to project or self-insert. There’s also a limit to how much uniqueness a mobile game can lend its players characters; the format isn’t exactly known for having super in-depth player arcs, it’s known for their colorful casts of rollable characters. The devs have to toe that line carefully, not to mention juggle Yuu’s participation with letting the other characters shine. It is for this reason that I won’t be doing a total overhaul of Yuu or just deciding “give them a personality!” as what I’d change about them. Rather, I’ll be proposing alterations while thinking like a dev (ie preserving the current story and as much of the self-insertiness as I can while also trying to give Yuu more to do/say).

Now Yuu, being the outsider to this world, is perfectly poised to have others dump exposition on them. This serves the dual purpose of being able to diegetically explain things to the player. (We wouldn’t get this advantage if the player character was changed to be like… a Twisted Wonderland resident; you could explain some magic things to a layman, but a resident wouldn’t need more common knowledge like country names exposited to them. Were this the case, we’d need an additional excuse for Crowley to take in a native.) It’s also convenient to have them be the “eyes” for the player to experience the world through, since Yuu is able to conveniently be present for most major main story events. It essentially makes them a human-shaped video camera.

I’ve often heard people suggest that if we need a POV character, why not go with Grim since he basically serves the same purpose now anyway. My answer to that is: Grim is also an arrogant asshole who picks fights, just the same as any other NRC student. If Grim were the player character, he wouldn’t be contributing much or helping to guide the other students learn to get along. We need Yuu here to be that driving force for change because Grim simply isn’t capable of it when he’s instigating himself half of the time.

A smaller thing about Yuu that I love is the idea of them being the school photographer! (This is something that is shown in the second anniversary animated video too!) It gives us context for the cards we roll and it implies that Yuu is the one documenting these precious memories. I want Yuu to stay if only for this reason.

Personally, I wouldn’t make Yuu a combatant. This is antithetical to their role and I feel would instead work against them (or at least create a scenario where Yuu has to have some level of battle prowess; this impedes on the self-insert nature of them). Sticking a magic item in their hand makes little difference since they most likely wouldn’t know how to handle it in the moment. (Nor would a magicless human even be able to use some of them; for example, a magestone is completely useless to them.) A magicless human with no combat experience is just another liability to account for, not to mention it actively puts them in harm’s way. It might be cool in theory, but I think in practice it goes against the very concept of Yuu. They’re meant to be here to show that there is “another way” to the NRC students—that violence doesn’t solve all your problems, proof that you don’t need to be a powerful being to “change” others or the world around them. They’re supposed to be underestimated and not seen as much of a “real” fighter, and they’re supposed to prove those notions wrong by demonstrating their worth via other avenues. In this “the weak obey the strong” school, Yuu has to be the one to show them that strength comes in forms that are NOT magic power or battle prowess.

I feel that Yuu works best on the sidelines as a supporter and strategist. Strategy is, after all, half of the battle, and it’s a part that people tend to overlook in favor of the flashier fighters. But strategy is crucial and it can turn the tide against a formidable foe (as we see in the prologue)!! I think this is something the NRC students need to be made more aware of too, so Yuu should stay as the strategist; they just have to be given more opportunities to show off those skills!

With all of that being said, here is what I would change about Yuu:

Drop the beast tamer thing. It gets mentioned prominently like once in the prologue and then never becomes truly relevant. Maybe it’ll become important when it comes to taking down OB Grim, but that will be SO late in the main story that the payoff doesn’t seem worth it. There are no examples of Yuu’s beast taming skills ever being used in the main story, so the whole “oh you have the makings of a beast tamer” thing is so useless. If you really want to keep it, then let Yuu’s innate talent/skills for beast taming help them out at least once per main story book. This means I’d want to see instances of Yuu getting other creatures (ie not just Grim) to help them out.

Allow Yuu the agency to act on their own when it comes to finding a way back to their own world. Going home is so often relegated to a single line or a few sentences and then not addressed again until next book. Have Yuu take initiative instead of waiting around for updates from Crowley. They should go out and ask questions, investigate on their own, etc. Maybe have them get involved in each book’s conflict because they happen to get mixed up in it while conducting research instead of being TOLD to go and fix a problem. Book 6 marks the only real time I can think of Yuu making a drastic decision against Crowley’s advice. It puts them at great risk, and that’s something they’re willing to take for the sake of saving their friends. We need more moments like this throughout the rest of the story. However, Yuu won’t be allowed to do whatever they want unrestricted because 1) it falls out of the scope of a mobile game title and 2) we want to largely retain the capacity to self-insert. So when I say give Yuu more agency to act, I mean it ONLY in the sense of being more proactive in their efforts to get home.

Add a short comment or two from other characters depending on which dialogue options are picked for Yuu. It would be too ambitious to incorporate a full-on branching storyline or strong “choose your own adventure” elements, but at least have the other characters consistently comment on whatever brief dialogue option Yuu has rather than ignoring them 90% of the time. This wouldn’t alter the story in any way but it sure would be nice to have a little more flavor text and more of Yuu actually being acknowledged as present.

Yuu should fully commit to being a planner and strategist. We get to see this aspect of Yuu like once or twice in the prologue (when they tell Grim where to spit fire at the ghosts/planning how to beat the Phantom in the mines) and then are left to extrapolate this to the rest of the game. Maybe you can argue they figured out Azul’s scheme in book 3 too, but this isn’t good enough. If you’re going to set up the idea, then have consistent segments in each book that reinforces that idea. Have Yuu brainstorm ways to jailbreak in book 4, have Yuu be perceptive enough to notice that Malleus isn’t feeling great in book 7 (only for Malleus to brush them off/insist he has a solution), etc.

Have a short story segment that explains how or why Yuu earns their nickname “Trickster” from Rook. We got this with Floyd, so the other known nicknamer should reveal this, especially since the name “Trickster” implies intelligence and cunning. Yuu should have an opportunity to demonstrate this (in book 5 maybe?), which earns them Rook’s respect and the new title. This should also be informed by other parts where Yuu shows how smart they can be.

More time bonding with Grim. I say Grim specifically because I commonly see him as a hated character in part because of how he “steals lines/time” away from Yuu. (Adeuce and Malleus are fine as they are because the former already stick up for/help Yuu out and the latter is meant to stay mysterious until late in the main story.) This means that if you don’t already like Grim, the whole “Yuu chases them to Styx HQ to save Grim” plot point in book 6 rings hollow. To truly build a bond with Grim, please give us moments prior to book 6 that show how much they care for one another and are linked to each other as partners. Times when Grim causes inconveniences for Yuu don’t count. Give me instances of them cuddling at night or talking to each other about their hopes and dreams or whatever. This would establish the value that Grim sees in Yuu, as well as the value that Yuu sees in Grim. It makes it more believable that Grim would cry when he’s alone or realizes he hurt his partner, and that Yuu would defy the headmaster’s advice and put themselves at risk to save Grim.

Better incorporate the ghost camera and its usage in the main story. The ghost camera provides an in-universe explanation for gaming meta (ie the card illustrations); in the main story, it’s hardly ever mentioned save for its introduction in the prologue and when Yuu takes a picture of Mickey with it. What should happen instead is Yuu will take a picture of the characters involved in that chapter. This way, it’s a physical reminder of the time everyone spent together and the bonds they’ve developed. It further strengthens the idea of the students learning to get along and Yuu being there to facilitate that while also keeping the ghost camera relevant.

More time where Yuu actually bonds with/“changes” the other characters. One huge gripe I have with the main story is that we’re TOLD that Yuu’s presence changes and improves the boys for the better, that they teach them how to get along. Very little of the actual main story supports this (outside of the prologue). At best, Yuu has a very short chat with some of the OB boys at the end of their respective book. Yuu should have a little more time in this regard. I don’t know, maybe Idia is still struggling to socialize when he comes over to play video games at Ramshackle so Yuu has to gently encourage him to give it a try or says something to help include him in the conversation. Little things like that! Keep the strong interactions the other characters have in changing the OB boys (like Trey being the one to rush to Riddle’s side, the twins teasing Azul, etc.), but have Yuu help facilitate them opening up emotionally and being vulnerable with one another.

This last point is debatable (I keep changing my mind about it), but possibly make a point of showing how Yuu is adjusting to this new world. This honestly might mess with the self-insert aspect (which is why I debated to leave this out), but I also feel like it might be interesting to reinforce Yuu’s desire to go home h demonstrating homesickness or issues with settling into Twisted Wonderland.

To summarize, the changes I’d make largely involve making TWST commit to briefly mentioned details (that they largely don’t follow through on) and making Yuu actually do a little more to warrant crediting them with resolving issues + fostering friendships. A lot of the problems that exist now are due to promising a lot but then poorly executing on what was promised.

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purplealmonds · 2 years ago

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Continuing to fire on all cylinders to make this Sky 🤝Mononoke collab a reality! 🐲⚖️🌊

Process GIFs and artist commentary below the cut. ⬇️

Left: Process GIF Middle: Just the background, cos I really like how it looks! Right: Illustration without the collab logo

And here are my notes on my inspirations and references. There's a lot of 'em, so instead of embedding relevant images one by one I put them in a callout sheet! For accessibility, I also included transcript (with bonus ramblings) below each sheet.

Ofuda circle modeled in Google Sketchup 2017, then lightly transformed in Photoshop to flare out. I tried my best to hand-draw these, but it the results came out really clunky and stiff. I figured if Mononoke shamelessly utilizes 3D in their show, I can too!

Krill and sky kid composition roughly inspired by the Ayakashi DVD cover illustration. On the surface level, the krill's black-and-red color scheme mirrored that of the bake-neko. Not to mention, in the world of Sky, the krill would be the best fit of a mononoke-like entity. The red background is also a nod to the red skies seen during a shard eruption in Sky.

Sky kid gesture based on the Festival Spin Dancer's Tier 3 poses and the Medicine Seller's iconic pose in the Zakishiwarahi episode as inspiration. This was the idea which springboarded this illustration into existence. I wanted to do my take of the Medicine Seller's pose, but in a more dynamic manner: rotate the pose to a profile position and set the ofuda in a diagonal, flared out arrangement.

Cape inspired by tenbin design featured in the 2024 Mononoke movie. This one's an interesting one - I wanted the cape to be a stiff material that doesn't "flap" when in flight - similar to the Aurora wing capes. It ended up looking like a kite of sorts, which I'm not entirely opposed to! I haven't had the opportunity to showcase the back view of this cape design, but I envision it having some mechanical aspects to it - the "wing" which are flared out in this illustration fold in like moth wings, and a little bell is attached to the "tail" part and it jingles a little whenever the sky kid flaps!

Bandana is based on the Scaredy Cadet's hairstyle from the Season of Assembly. Mask design utilizes the 2023 Days of Style mask and the Nintendo Pack mask as bases. Pretty self-explanatory. I basically went onto the Sky wiki and found the cosmetics that most closely matched what I was looking for. Then if necessary, I went to the Office space to do photoshoots to get the appropriate camera angles for them all.

Seasonal pendant inspired by the classic Medicine Seller's necklace and the eye motif featured in the 2024 Mononoke movie. Possibly the only one-to-one homage to the classic Medicine Seller design here, but his garnet necklace was too good of a match to the seasonal pendant. A side tangent: does the new Medicine Seller possess a necklace, let alone a mirror? So far all the shots of him don't feature it. Fascinating.

Dark dragon krill anatomy references a custom figurine crafted by @/escaflowne_n07 on Twitter. Until I found this, I was honestly at a loss finding reference for this - be it on the internet or during in-game photoshoots. The lighting on the krill in-game focused on its menacing silhouette rather than its structure. And not to mention, getting a close-up shot almost always set off the dark creature's aggro. I have no idea how this guy found the references to put this model together - well done!

Mantas, elder constellations, and sun dog references murals in the Cave of Prophecy. Krill aside, the overall illustration was leaning a little too much towards Mononoke so I tried finding opportunities to insert more Sky into it. Added bonus is that now there's storytelling in the background: during a shard eruption, a giant krill rises from the frothing waves of dark water to hunt down a flock of mantas.

Clouds behind the sun dog reference the ones featuring heavily in the Umibozu episode. This illustration has a lot of ocean theming, so I figured this would be appropriate.

Rendering style of the background is lightly inspired by the 2007 Mononoke illustration. Mainly having a 2D inked style to contrast with the more polished render of the sky kid. Funnily enough, this was a tertiary inspiration, which lead to the discovery in the next point!

Dark water waves and sun dog composition heavily references Hokusai's "The Great Wave". The waves were modified to be bottle-green of the Golden Wasteland's dark waters. The sun dog is in the spot where Mt. Fuji is in the original composition. these were all hand-drawn by the way! I merely emulated the style of the source material. As a side note, I also borrowed the spotted sea spray rendering for the krill's red spotlight.

Background pattern taken from the ofuda design featured in the 2024 Mononoke movie poster. Mainly to add some gritty texture to the sky. I worked pretty hard to replicate this ofuda design as a high-res asset so I wanted to use it more!

#モノノ怪 #mononoke 2024 #mononoke 2007 #kusuriuri #medicine seller #thatskygame #sky cotl #sky children of the light #thatgamecompany #thatskygame fanart #sky cotl fanart #crossover #purplealmonds #2023 #🔕

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crypticscarecrow · 4 months ago

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🔥BI-WEEKLY STUDY CHALLENGE: THUMBNAILING🔥

Starting the challenge off with one of my personal favorites and go-to's: Thumbnailing!

There are many ways to thumbnail, though the one version we will be tackling is the one my teachers thought me off, which is the VERY minimal sketching done in less than even 30 seconds.

This process helps you try to place objects around a scene with little to no detail other than the rough idea. Preferably, you want to aim for 10 thumbnails, pushing every perspective possible and thinking outside the box; where can you push focus? Can you trade out items but keep the same camera position? How can you approach it? It's important to note that your first thumbnail won't always be your best one.

A problem a lot of artists face is perfectionism. It doesn't matter which art style you go with, we all feel a need to 'get it right' the first time, and you can accidentally limit yourself greatly that way! Try to make small squares on your page or canvas, and keep the distance far enough that you can't tell details such as wrinkle of clothes unless its the focus. Stick figures, cubes, circles, go abstract! Force yourself out of having to undo a brushstroke. Commit to it and work fast.

Thumbnailing helps with exploration. Most times, if not always, you'll need to study (ex:) wood or a stone. How other artists perceive these or how YOU yourself perceive it, is an important step in learning about it. What is easier in conveying a rock is all up to you and the message you want to give the viewer! I like to sketch on a separate page or next to my preferred thumbnail stones and other assets I intend to use in the main drawing down the line. There's no need to focus on 'oh I need it this way for the drawing' it's simply studying and understanding How this object appears- a rock can be small like a pebble, so it can look light, or a big mossy stone can be embedded into the earth, and you'd need machinery to take it out-

You can tell JUST by looking at something, how it feels, sounds, and tastes. If you want to approach it in a simpler style: What is the core essence of the object you are studying?

CHALLENGE

End results don't have to be colored or crispy clean! Just showing you understand your study better is enough! Any medium of art is encouraged! Paper, digital, 3d design and pixel alike! Any fandom is also welcomed!

Create at least 4-10 thumbnails

Have an exploration page of natural objects or anything relating to your final illustration (You can add to the page as you thumbnail, or start with this step before thumbnailing)

Create an illustration using one of your thumbnails and what you learned from your studies

Tag me or #Bi-Weekly Study Challenge when you showcase your work!

Deadline: 19th April, 2025

SOURCES: Caution Tape Divider

#Bi-Weekly Study Challenge #Art Challenge #Studies #Crow talks #Long Post #also dropping the tag for anyone who wishes to block these posts in the future!

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13uswntimagines · 2 years ago

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I'll Take Care of You (Alessia Russo x MMA!fighter R)

Request: Could we maybe see some slightly more stern dom alessia dealing with r (doesn’t have to be smut) in front of the team because reader starts acting bratty with them?

Part of the same universe as the come down.

Warning: Slight touching but not actual smut. Also D/S fic

Author's note: Hey Y'all, i really hope you enjoy this. I want to point out that D/S dynamics are based on trust and communication, so that's what I chose to focus on. Alessia is a soft dom, and chooses a punishment that she knows will be effective. If you want to chat or have any ideas or comments, feel free to hit me up.

Gearing up for a fight was the equivalent of stretching out a rubber band to its limit. It was 8 weeks of nonstop training, 4 weeks of conditioning your body to shed water so you could make weight, 2 weeks of cameras following you around for UFC embedded, and 1 week of media bombardment where you had to listen to grown men act like 5-year-olds talking about who was going to beat who.

It was utterly exhausting.

The only upside was that at the end of it, you got to step into the octagon and do what you did best.

You got to put the plan your coaches drilled over and over into your brain into place. You got to release all of the built-up anxiety and frustration from camp.

You got to fight.

It was like coming up for oxygen after being trapped underwater. Sometimes the cage felt like the only place you could really breathe on your own.

It had been your safe haven for almost as long as you could remember, which was kinda strange considering your health was put at immediate risk every time you stepped inside. It had been your escape from your family, and your only coping mechanism for as long as you could remember.

To go through training camp, and fight week and the weight cut, only to have your fight pulled at the last minute was fucking devastating.

It was like when Alessia brought you all the way to the precipice of an orgasm and then pulled away just before you could tumble over it, except far far far worse.

It made your blood boil. It made the monster in your chest roar that your opponent couldn’t do his end of the job to make the fight go on after all of the shit he was talking. And there was nothing anyone could say or do to make it better.

Dana promised that the fight would be rescheduled. He even threw in that if you won, you would be next in line for a title shot.

But it didn’t help.

The fight was set to be at the O2 arena, meaning your girlfriend and all of her teammates had been set to see you, and now they couldn’t. You couldn’t get your 10 training weeks back and you would have to do the weight cut all over again.

It was a shit sandwich, and it made you feel completely out of control. It made you crave for someone else to put you right again. For Alessia to remind you that she had control always.

Maybe that’s why you chose your satin button-down shirt to go to dinner with your girlfriend and her teammates and paired it with tight black skinny jeans.

It wasn’t often that you liked to push Alessia’s control. That you toed the boundaries that she set, but tonight it felt like the prize comparable to stepping into the cage.

With the little black dress she had worn, you really couldn’t blame yourself either. You could never resist when she showed off her legs. You were obsessed and she knew it. It was probably why she had chosen the outfit, to begin with.

It was probably designed as a reward of sorts for after your fight, except you weren’t having a fight. So you supposed it was kind of like a consolation prize.

Except you felt wound too tightly to really enjoy it.

“So that’s it, they just call the whole thing off?” Ella asked leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand.

“Yep,” You popped the p, your finger running a gentle circle on Alessia’s exposed knee. “I can’t even sign a paper that says I’m fine fighting him despite the failed drug test, and it’s too late to find a replacement even if we allow a catchweight,”

She let the movement continue, the hand wrapped around your shoulder gently squeezing the arm furthest away from her.

While she was relieved that the rules prevented you from fighting a man on steroids, she knew how gutted you were about the cancellation.

“Probably for the best mate,” Leah said, sipping her wine.

You shrugged, letting your finger trail a little higher on Alessia’s leg.

It was slightly too… forward for the steakhouse her teammates had chosen, but with the dimmed lights you figured no one could see your hand under the white tablecloth anyway. Not with how close you were sitting to your girlfriend.

“I already made weight, so it’s kind of a waste,” You muttered, dragging your nails up the inside of her thigh to just below the hem of her dress. “I’ll have to start camp all over again unless I take something short notice,”

“Can you do that?” Mary asked, from your other side.

You shrugged again. “I told Dana I was game if he needed someone to fill in, so we’ll have to see,”

Alessia’s eyebrows pulled tighter together “You didn’t tell me that, love,”

“Didn’t I?” You asked, feigning dumb, as your fingers finally made it past the hem of her dress. “Must have forgotten. I’m excited to see you all play on Tuesday though,”

You ran your nail across the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh, dangerously close to her center. But before you could make it any further, her free hand caught your wrist, and repositioned you so your hand was resting very innocently near her knee again.

“Ireland is always fun to face,” Ella smiled at you. “Should be a bit chippy,”

“I’ll definitely be rocking my MacCabe jersey,” You matched her expression, your thumb again beginning to rub circles into Alessia’s skin.

Leah frowned, dropping her menu. “You will?”

“Absolutely,” You smirked, wiggling your eyebrows and slyly trailing your thumb back up Alessia’s thigh. “Gotta support my favorite foul-mouthed Gooner,”

Leah’s eyes went wide, and Alessia squeezed your shoulder.

“And what about me?” Your girlfriend asked, a pout pulling at her lips.

You wiggled your eyebrows, a witty remark at the tip of your tongue, knowing it would piss her off, but the tension in your chest made you unable to stop yourself.

You wanted to push her. To force a reaction, even when you knew all you had to do was ask for what you wanted.

“Are you ladies ready to order?” A waiter asked, appearing behind Leah before you could let it fly.

You let your smirk widen, closing your menu with a thud and making eye contact with the waiter.

“Since she’s not on the menu,” You started, leaning closer to your girlfriend for just a second, edging your hand even further up her thigh until it was again past the hem of her dress. “I think I’ll have the tomahawk, medium rare with a Yorkie and the roasted carrots please,”

You winked at the waiter for good measure as the table giggled and Alessia’s cheeks turned bright red.

The waiter cleared his throat, turning his attention to your girlfriend. “And for you ma’am?”

Alessia opened her mouth, probably to order, but you cut her off instead.

“She’ll take the sirloin, medium with the Orzo and kale salad,” You said, reciting her normal order with perfect precision. “And she’ll be having me for dessert later,”

More giggles erupted from your friends, and you dragged your hand impossibly higher, extending your pinky so it brushed against her underwear.

She inhaled sharply next to you, sending you a warning side eye as the rest of the table continued to order, but she didn’t immediately remove your hand.

You ignored her warning, letting your pinky slide over the satiny fabric of her underwear.

It wasn’t what she normally wore, and you couldn’t help the wolfish grin that took over your features.

She had worn lingerie for you.

Maybe that should have stopped you. Made you consider that you wouldn’t get anything if you kept pushing, but again you couldn’t seem to help yourself.

“Will you be in the Ireland friends and family section then?” Leah asked, wiggling her eyebrows at your girlfriend. “Cause I don’t think my family or Less’ will enjoy you wearing the opposing team’s jersey,”

You made a noise like you were considering it as you finally slid your hand up and cupped your girlfriend’s heat. “I don’t think I’d feel at home though. Surely your family can deal with it right Less?”

Alessia nodded once, very stiffly. “My family loves you no matter what you’re wearing,”

You smiled impishly at her, adding just a little more pressure to her core.

She shifted in her seat, leaning very close to your ear, as Ella started talking about some movie she and Joe had watched, taking the attention of the rest of Alessia’s teammates.

“They’d even love you if you had to wear your collar at the game,” She chuckled darkly in your ear, her voice soft enough to get lost in the noise of the restaurant as her free hand yet again caught your wrist and pulled your hand back to a much more innocent position. “Now behave, or I promise you’ll regret it,”

You pulled away, your devilish smirk only getting broader. “No,”

Her eyebrows furrowed her expression something between anger and concern and warning, like she was trying to figure out why you were pushing the boundaries when you never did before.

You wiggled yours in return, offering her nothing else before joining the conversation of her teammates.

You weren’t ready to talk yet.

You were too content digging yourself deeper and deeper.

*****

You continue to push Alessia all throughout dinner, taking every opportunity to make her blush or to creep your hand further up her thigh. At one point you had even wiggled a finger beneath her underwear before she could stop you.

And your behavior hadn’t stopped once you left the restaurant.

You definitely placed your hand far too low on her waist as you and your friends walked back to the hotel the UFC had rented for you, and winked cheekily at the fans as you entered the building, spending far too long signing things and flirting just to annoy your girlfriend.

You knew from the “come on darling,” and the way she wrapped her arm around you, her fingers closing gently around the back of your neck that you were in serious trouble as she led you into the hotel and to the elevator.

“Good luck mate,” Leah nodded towards you as she stepped into her hotel room after Mary and Ella. “Think you’re gonna need it after that show,”

She tilted her head toward your girlfriend glaring a hole in Leah’s doorframe.

“Good night Leah,” Your girlfriend bit out, pressing her thumb into the space at the very center of the back of your neck.

Leah rolled her eyes at the movement, well aware of the dynamic between you and your girlfriend. More aware than most of her teammates for both club and country because of how long you had known her. “Right you two, do have too much fun,”

You stared at the door for a long moment after it closed, the tension in your chest bleeding down to your stomach.

You knew your time was up. That you would have to pay the piper so to speak, and it had guilt swirling along with the unpleasantness.

You knew that all you had to do was utter a word and it would all be over.

You knew that Alessia would stick to your limits, no matter how hard you pushed her, but you couldn’t help the… lingering anxiety that came from your past relationships.

The ones that took advantage of your submissiveness, and the unhealthy way you had always chosen to deal with stress. The ones that ignored your pain for their own pleasure.

“Come on then,” Alessia said, very gently running the nail of her thumb down the length of the back of your neck, and squeezing your shoulder.

You hummed, allowing her to lead you down the hallway to your own hotel room door, but she paused before she opened it. You looked up at her, realizing suddenly that you were trapped between her and the door.

She stepped closer so your noses were nearly touching. She dragged her hand from your neck to your chin, using her thumb to tilt your head to where she wanted it.

“I love you,” She said, her voice soft and sincere. “No matter what,”

She leaned in the last centimeter separating you, connecting your lips in a very sweet kiss.

You leaned into it, opening your mouth when her tongue poked out, welcoming it and meeting it with your own so they spun in a slow dance.

It was the reminder that you desperately needed.

The promise that she would take care of you, even when you acted like a brat.

She pulled away just enough to disconnect your lips, and your mouths separated with a low pop.

“Remind me of your colors,” Alessia said, her thumb running across your cheek.

“Green for good, yellow for slow down, and red for stop,” You recited, your voice breathless.

“Good girl,” She hummed. “Open the door, and take off your shirt and pants once we get inside,”

You swallowed hard at the change of tone.

“Yes Miss,” You said, already pulling the key card from the back pocket of your jeans. You didn’t look away from her as you fumbled until you heard the lock on the door beep, and clumsily pushed it open.

You stumbled backward, unwilling to break eye contact with your girlfriend because you knew you would probably get very little of it tonight.

She turned away from you as soon as the door slammed shut, busying herself with something you didn’t know.

“I believe I told you to do something,” She said, not even sparing a look over her shoulder at you, and you realized you had been staring for too long.

You cleared your throat, your fingers trembling as they unbuttoned your straining shirt.

You carefully pulled the satin materials from your shoulders, folding it neatly and laying it on the bed before you started on your pants.

It took you three tries to undo the button, the zipper getting caught in the stretchy material of your boxers. You peeled your tight jeans down your legs, folding them and placing them next to your shirt.

You felt Alessia’s presence behind you as you pulled off your shoes and socks.

As soon as they had been placed in their rightful place, her hand found its way to your bare back.

The touch was soothing and grounding and exactly what you needed to combat the slightly floaty feeling in your brain.

The hand slid up your back, all the way to your neck.

“Kneel,”

The soft squeeze on the back of your neck was like magic, as was the soft, but stern order.

You sank to your knees without question, your butt resting on your heels, your hands facing palm up on your thighs, your back straight and your head bowed, as the tension in your chest slowly ebbed away.

“I think we need to have a chat,” She continued, the hand on your neck sliding up to run through the hair at the base of your skull. Her nails scratched soothingly at your scalp. “Because your behavior in the restaurant is not the behavior of the good girl I trained,”

You grunted, glaring at a spot in the carpet.

You didn’t want to talk.

You already had to talk to Dana, to your coaches, and to the media. You had nothing left to say.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about at dinner?” She asked you, the fingers on your scalp wrapping through your curls. She gave it a sharp tug, forcing you to look up at her. “Because I’d really like to know what the fuck you were playing at,”

Her blue eyes burned into you, concerned and… something else lingering below the surface.

“I wasn’t playing at anything,” You grit out.

She raised a perfect eyebrow at you, as she searched your face.

“Is this because your fight was canceled?”

You didn’t answer her, unwilling to admit how… off balanced it made you feel.

But that was enough of an answer for her.

Her eyes softened minutely. “Baby,”

You shook your head.

You didn’t want her sympathy or her pity.

You wanted her to crush you.

“Alright,” She signed, tilting your head back so far it was painful. “I’m going to give you 2 options. We can call Clarke and Lexa and they can run you through a workout,”

You shivered at the mention of your respective striking and jujitsu coaches, knowing already that whatever the alternative was, you would be choosing it.

“Or you can take a punishment of my choosing,” She finished. “It won’t be an easy one,”

“I’ll take a punishment,” You muttered after a beat.

You didn't need easy right now.

She hummed, holding you close for a long second, and you relished in the attention.

That had been why you acted out at all anyway.

She dropped her hold on your hair suddenly, and you crashed back on your knees.

“On the wall,” She said, completely cutting contact with you, and walking towards the little kitchen area of the suite.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing yourself to your feet, and shuffled over to the wall next to the television across from the couch.

You turned to face the couch, wincing when Alessia pulled a wine glass out of the cabinet and a jug of water from the counter and returned to you.

She carefully filled the glass to the halfway mark, before her attention turned to you.

You knew immediately what punishment she had chosen.

The rules were simple, you would balance the glass in one of the designated calisthenic positions. If the water spilled, or the glass fell then you would move to the next position. The punishment would be over when you made it through all 15 positions to Alessia’s satisfaction, or if you safeworded.

It sounded easy, or like it wouldn’t be effective, but that was entirely wrong. It was the punishment that you hated the most.

Your stomach never failed to drop when Alessia approached you with the wine glass and water. Just the sight of her with it was enough to have your muscles quivering at the impending fatigue.

“Ready darling?”

You made a low sound, leaning back against the wall, bending your knees, and getting into the first position.

A wall sits with your knees pressed together to focus the pressure on your quads.

She used a hand on your shoulder to push you further down the wall until your thighs sat parallel to the floor, and then very carefully balanced the stem of the wine glass between your knees so the base just barely brushed your hamstring.

You frowned. She usually balanced it on top of your legs further up your thighs so all you had to do was stay level. But where it was now meant that you would have to stay level and squeeze with your adductors so it didn’t slip and spill the water.

“Tell me your color,” She said, her thumb sweeping under your chin, drawing your eyes away from the glass to meet her blue.

“Green,” you murmured, leaning into the gentle touch.

“Good,” She hummed, cupping your cheek for another long second before she pulled away. “I’ll be right there, reading my book,”

Your gaze trailed after her as she settled herself on the couch directly across from you, picking up the 7 Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. She easily found her page and began to read.

You glanced back to the balancing glass between your knees. It was already shaking slightly, the liquid vibrating around the bowl of the glass with the effort of your muscles to keep it in place.

It irritated you that you could already feel your quads and adductors quivering. It was pathetic that they were already fatigued after only 30 seconds.

You grit your teeth, letting your hips slip down further so you could squeeze with your glutes to take a little bit of the pressure off of your adductors. The glass shifted minutely, and the water inside sloshed dangerously before it settled.

Your eyes flickered back up to Alessia, wondering if she saw it too, but her eyes stayed planted in her book.

That irritated you too.

The only upside to your fight being canceled was that you got to spend more time with her. You wouldn’t have to split your attention between her and not getting your face caved in.

Now you didn’t even have that.

You thought of safewording and forcing an early end to your punishment. It would be a violation of the rules though.

But when she found out that you broke her trust (the most severe infraction you could ever commit) she might choose a more… harsh punishment. One of the ones that was listed in the soft limits the two of you had agreed upon. One that would separate you from reality, and leave you feeling floaty and thoroughly controlled. Thoroughly owned.

A part of you wanted her to forcibly put you in your place. To disregard how bad it would feel tomorrow and the bad memories it would bring up for you, and just demolish you. To crush your will and grind you into dust. To beat you into oblivion.

It was what your opponent would have done anyway.

You knew Alessia would never agree to it while you were this upset. She didn’t like to give in to your self-destructive tendencies.

The glass between your knees shook again, drawing your attention back to the warm fire setting deeply into your quads. They would ache tomorrow you were sure, but then again wasn’t that part of the point?

It would be a reminder that even when she wasn’t with you, you belonged to Alessia. It was an invisible mark that claimed you. That reminded you she would always take control when you felt dangerously unstable.

And then it clicked.

This punishment was Alessia’s favorite because it was based on your choice to obey her. Your choice to push your body to its limits to please her. Your choice to give her control over you.

She didn’t need to use a belt or a paddle to bend you to her will.

She just had to ask.

You just had to relax and trust that she would take care of you.

You let out a long breath, counting down from 3 in your head. You let it fall back into the wall with a low thump and your shoulders sagged, as the remaining tension in your chest drained out of you.

“Good girl,” Alessia said softly, and the page of her book turned. Your eyes darted back to her, hoping that they would be on you, but they weren’t.

She looked so composed, both legs tucked under her, reading her book. It was diametrically opposed to how you felt, completely out of control. A quivering mess fighting to stay in a simple wall sit.

It further reminded you of your place, and the weight of it was enough to have your eyes sliding closed.

You focused on your breathing, 3 seconds and 3 seconds out. Deep and slow.

You lasted for more breaths before the glass slid from between your legs, landing on the carpeted floor with a light thud.

Your eyes snapped open, and again you expected to meet Alessia’s eyes, but they remained trained on her book.

“Next please,” She said softly, flipping another page in her book.

You slid down the wall to the floor, sucking in another long breath as you nodded, wishing that she would just look at you, but you knew that was part of the punishment too.

You took another breath as you rolled over to your stomach and sat yourself up on your elbows, squeezing your core. It was a slightly modified plank designed to show off the muscles in your back and arms for the benefit of your girlfriend and to give your legs a break for a bit.

She waited until you were in a position to stand, slowly padding over to you and grabbing the wine glass off of the floor.

She paused next to you, and you felt the way her eyes dragged across the muscles on your back.

“Always so pretty for me,” She hummed and you heard the water as she refilled the glass. “Too bad you can’t have the reward I had planned,”

Her touch lingered as she carefully balanced it between your shoulder blades, and stepped away.

“Let’s see if you can beat your best time on this one,” She said, talking more at you than to you. “Your record is 22 minutes, which isn’t quite championship timing. I think you need to make it at least 25,”

You groaned.

Her competitive streak was legendary and often a part of your punishment when you had been particularly ornery. You switched positions at her pleasure, so you knew you would be planking all night if you couldn’t break 25 minutes.

It was like when she decided you needed to break your edging record.

There would be no mercy unless you safeworded.

You focused on your breathing as she sauntered back to the couch, fighting to keep your core and back muscles locked to prevent the glass from tipping.

Your abs clenched, and you so badly wanted to roll your shoulders to relieve the tension building in the space between them. The space holding the glass.

You focused on the sound of Alessia’s breathing. Each rhythmic inhale and exhale like the clicking of a metronome, broken only by the occasional fluttering of a page.

You wished she had put the timer in front of you so you could see how long you had left.

But then again that would probably be worse.

You always found it harder to go the distance in a fight when you could see the clock ticking down. It always made you feel more exhausted at the end of the round, and made standing up off of your stool at the start of the next round that much harder.

You sucked in another breath, refocusing on the sounds of Alessia’s inhales and exhales. You counted each one, letting them wash over you and lul the fog slowly seeping through the crevices in your brain.

It let you forget the trembling in your core muscles and the sting between your shoulders. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was each of Alessia’s breaths, and your ability to please her.

To be honest, you forgot about the water balancing on your back.

You shifted, lifting your head so you could watch Alessia, and that sent the glass tumbling to the floor with a low thud.

She looked up at the noise, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing the glass.

“Good job darling. You made time.” She rewarded you by meeting her eyes for a long second and flashing you a winning smile. “Position 3,”

You took another deep breath as she filled the glass.

You pushed yourself up into a pushup position, slowly lifting your right arm and left leg so they extended.

Your arms shook immediately, and it was then that you recognized just how exhausted you were already. Your core ached in a way that was edging on unpleasant, and your back felt like you had run 5 rounds with your jujitsu coach.

It was strange that you felt so drained and you had only made it through 2 positions.

Alessia waited until you were stable before she balanced the glass in the very same area between your shoulder blades.

The spot that felt so tight.

You knew you weren’t going to last long before she even stepped away. But you tried to breathe through it. You tried to ignore the little beads of sweat collecting at the small of your back, and the cramp setting in just below the glass, radiating up to your neck.

You deserved the pain. You had done your damndest to make sure Alessia gave it to you.

“Tell me your color,” Alessia said, her voice dripping dominance, sending a shiver down your spine and causing the glass to tumble off your back.

You collapsed to the floor.

You hadn’t even made it a minute.

“‘M ok,” You murmured into the carpet, each breath rattling as it left your lips.

You hadn’t even lasted long enough for Alessia to make it back to her seat.

It was pathetic.

“That’s not what I asked you,” She said, crouching next to you, her hand resting on the throbbing space between your shoulders. “Tell me what your color is,”

Your brain ran into overdrive, taking stock of the burn in your thighs, and the way the muscles in your back were locked up tight, and before you could even think through all the reasons why you shouldn’t safe word, “red,” was falling from your lips.

You had been red before you even started position 3, you realized.

“Good girl,” She said, settling fully down beside you, her hand running soothingly up and down your sweat-soaked back. “You did so well for me, and I’m so proud of you for knowing your limits,”

You groaned into the carpet as warmth spread through your chest, chasing away the last of the tightness that had been there since Dana caught you after the weigh-ins.

“‘M sorry for pushing you,” You mumbled, your words nearly getting lost in the floor. “Didn’t know how to…”

You trailed off, losing your train of thought. You weren’t even sure what you didn’t know how to do, only that antagonizing your girlfriend. Your miss. Had been the only way that seemed to make sense to achieve it.

“I know darling,” She hummed, gripping under your arms and shifting so your head was resting in her lap and your upper body was between her legs. “Take some deep breaths for me, and then we’ll get you cleaned up and we can cuddle,”

You made a low sound of agreement. You felt content with her completely around you, her scent enveloping you, and her hands running gently through your tangled hair.

She was the stability to your rocky seas, and you trusted that she would take care of you, just like she had already tonight.

A cuddle sounded perfect because it was perfect.

It was everything you needed. She was everything you needed.

#woso x reader #woso imagines #alessia russo x reader #alessia russo imagine #the come down universe

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lexicorp · 27 days ago

Text

Transformers Earthspark: Another Place, Another Prison

Primus did everything about this chapter take a long time- I swear I am not kidding when I say I have been writing this scrap for /months/, bit by bit

School and school adjacent scrap has been kicking my aft, but finally, it has arrived. And lemme say, these two are silly, and I love them very much XD I've been looking forward to this chapter for /so long/ and I def think that was part of what made me be so particular about tryna write it with all these dang tiny notes and phrasing and shite like oml nwviblvlwvr

Previous Chapter: Helm In The Cloud

First Chapter: The Need For Read

Next Chapter: Just A Routine Check-Up

Chapter 18: Scientific Method

Starscream found himself pacing, with his servos tied neatly under his wings. A particular line of wear on the path he trailed was becoming apparent, but that wasn’t the focus of his thoughts. Once he halted in front of that cartoonish poster–displaying Megatron’s hilariously humiliating state being tossed across that ravine–Starscream pulled a servo to rest thoughtfully beneath his chin. What were that Nightshade Terran's genuine thoughts of him?

They had arranged this room, been the first to seem enthusiastic at the start of all this, and listened to Starscream’s combat teachings with earnest; but that did nothing to give him a clear concept of their true thoughts. They said they wanted this redemption scheme to go well. They played nice quite skillfully. But was that only for some sake of their peers? Do they have a vision of their own for what will become of this ordeal? Nightshade is a scientist in their own right, and that can be a dangerous intuition.

Perhaps they’d agreed for Starscream to be in such close proximity in their own pursuit of research regarding the Emberstone, and was interested in his powers that had resulted. Sure, the kid had been oddly distanced for the majority of his stay. Nightshade seldom instigated interactions apart from that initial need for feedback. Although that did not mean this room organized by their design was not rigged top to bottom with sensors and cameras so expertly hidden that even Starscream could not expose them. They could have even conspired with Wheeljack with something embedded in the cursed device upon Starscream’s ped at this very moment.

The other Maltos appeared extraordinarily transparent with their opinions towards him. They were all quite ridiculously easy to read, even if it still didn’t always make it easier to predict how they wished Starscream to behave on certain matters; which was frustrating. Yet Nightshade was suspiciously passive about it all. They’d only nod along with their siblings, and merely stare on occasion. Any comments were relatively brief, which Starscream was starting to find…unfortunate. He was curious about that odd Terran and their potential. Now that he and Hashtag seemed to be on acceptable terms again, perhaps it would be pertinent to branch out with other connections. Especially with the arguably second most likely Decepticon amongst them.

Starscream chuckled a byte to himself as he broke away from the poster towards the room’s exit. They all thought this redemption slag was to get him on THEIR side? Ridiculous. He was slowly recruiting them to rebuild HIS armada, right under their foolish gaze. Starscream would have them eating out of his servos in no time.

Yes, he was quite confident now. Meridian’s mocking tone held no relevance. Starscream was most certainly on track to convincing them of how impressive, inspirational, and indisposable he was! It was not as if Bumblebee held any useful knowledge to pass upon the fliers of their group. They needed him, really. Those other ungrateful slaggers that left him behind would regret it when he replaced them just as easily.

Starscream exited his quarters and surveyed his surroundings. In surprising convenience, Nightshade seemed to be the only one remaining after the others had sent to the surface on their exploratory exploits. The only other Malto present was their femme mentor, Dorothy; who was sitting at one of those miniscule balcony tables on a tiny computer, typing away. Her schedule he’d logged in his files stated it was most likely business in line with her duty as a Park Ranger. Although, she typically ventured elsewhere for her station, so this behavior was more indicative of her inclination to remain at base as a supervisor. This was proven accurate as the moment Starscream’s precise ped steps tapped a light echo across the cavern walls, she looked his way. He ignored her presence. Instead, Starscream continued on his path with the intent of inspecting the project Nightshade was working on, to obtain whatever data he could on the kid, and ideally come to a satisfactory conclusion regarding his pestering curiosities.

Starscream set his servos professionally under his wings again, as he lightly leaned around Nightshade’s shoulder to peer at the split spherical device sitting partially disassembled on their workspace. “What is it you are tinkering with, Nightshade?”

“Oh!” They seemed to be startled from their train of thought by his sudden presence. “Why hello there, Starscream! This, is my Smart Trainer soon-to-be 5012! It has gone through many stages in its functioning, and although perhaps it would be more efficient to start from scratch, I am admittedly quite attached to my first design here. It is…nostalgic, I suppose. A physical little remnant of my beginnings.” They pet a scrap of the thing fondly as if it were an old cyber-dog they were too sentimental to part ways with near its end.

Starscream raised an optical ridge. “That so? What exactly do you intend this thing to accomplish?”

By the looks of the parts strewn about, it harbored potentially algorithmic software with 360 degree firing capacity. But condensed into one little sphere in the way they had it now, would only fry its processor the more weaponry it deployed. The past attempts no doubt went haywire with its logistics corrupted not long after training began if its shots weren’t limited. It was a decent design in theory, and it seemed they had mitigated that flaw by small increments through their improvements, but stubbornly restricting it to this base format was no doubt hindering their progress.

“Well,” Nightshade didn’t even flinch at the judgment in Starscream’s tone, “It is meant to be a drone that can predict patterns of combat so that it may provide a steady increase of difficulty in a training exercise. As well as give encouragement through the words of our beloved mentor Bumblebee! He…wasn’t exactly thrilled at first about my borrowing of his voice–but I am confident that I have now convinced him of the flattery! I am certain it only bothered him when the Smart Trainer 5008 malfunctioned. BUT! I have ensured the S.T 5011 to be far more conversational, accurate, and currently, I am performing some improvements regarding its weaponry! It isn’t meant to be all that powerful–as to not be dangerous–so if I can reduce the power projected into the lenses, it could also reduce the risk of overheating.” They paused a moment from their ramblings and fiddling of parts to halt and actually turn to face Starscream. “Would you… like to join me? I know Tarantulas and Shockwave as Decepticon scientists. Do you perhaps have experience with such things as well? You did work with them, yes?”

Primus. Nightshade really got to talking once properly prompted, didn’t they?

A scoff escaped Starscream’s intake. “Yes, although Shockwave more so than this Tarantulas. Disregarding them I have plenty of my own scientific prowess to speak of! I was the only seeker to get into the Iacon Science Academy after all, I’ll have you know!” He boasted proudly with a servo to his chassis. “Although mechs do not care for xenobiology or astrophysics over a good blaster, the Space Bridges certainly grew in popularity as Cybertron’s energon reserves depleted. Of which I was quite involved with! Yet a strategist and artillery construction was highest in demand entering war time of course. Which I am excellent at! So I am more than qualified to take a look at your amateurish drone. I’m sure it could be far more than a soft-sparked air blower if you were more adventurous.”

Nightshade clapped their servos together and cooed like one of those odd Earth avians their alt-mode resembled. “Ooooh, fascinating! What–” They looked just about ready to begin a flurry of questions before apparently remembering who they were speaking with–“Ah, but, I do want to reiterate that I am content with the Smart Trainer in a matter of it lending to a softer style, since it’s gone wild in the past. So perhaps-”

Starscream plucked the hemisphere from the table to get a better look at it. “Yes, of course. Now, how attached really are you to this silly thing? It would be exceedingly more efficient to remove all these ridiculous lenses dotting its surface for your weak willed lasers in favor of constructing a more complex central processor within this primary drone. Then, pair it with a set of magnetized miniature artillery that can be called back to its artificial gravitational mechanism. That would greatly extend its range in the matter of delegating defensive and offensive sub-drones to perform its duty as a formidable training opponent. Your sentimentality surrounding this impractical prototype is below you. I mean, what was your plan for when it is shot to end the exercise? Build another? We will of course need to add an energy field to the operator core and–”

Nightshade snatched back the husk from Starscream’s servos before he could further disassemble it. “No no, now wait a moment! While I admit those ideas are intriguing, I do not wish to deviate to such a degree from my current system. As I asserted previously, this one…means a lot to me. So I would appreciate it if you listened to me on the matter.”

Their expression was far more firm, despite their volume hardly raising by a decibel or two. Were they angry with him or not?? And why should they be anyway?! Starscream was only giving them solid marks of improvement on a clearly flawed design! Avoiding progress merely on the basis of one’s nostalgia was stupid. It wasn’t as if he was going to rig the drone to turn against them.

Starscream’s faceplate scrunched as he tossed out a servo in exasperation, a small crimson spark leaving its tip to electrify a nearby motor. “Do you want my help or not!? Hindering yourself with such attachments–with a broken tool no less–is only going to hold you back.”

Dorothy stood. Looking just about ready to stick her grimy hands in on the argument with more ridiculous dribble. But Nightshade barely flinched.

“That is fine.” They placed the hemisphere near its fragmented half on the other side of the table. “I do value your experience, and potentially your company in the lab–as my siblings do not share this same passion…but I insist that you heed my parameters on certain matters. Now,” Nightshade’s silly, disarming smile returned as they reached down to rummage within the cabinets, “speaking of siblings, perhaps you could create one for my Smart Trainer 5012 with your vision! We can give notes on each other's progress as we go along, and perhaps have a bit of friendly competition. Oh, we could even test them against each other in the end like one of those robo-fighter video games! I might just have to add a force field of some sort as you suggest if you intend to make yours as excessively aggressive as it sounds.”

So they do have a bit of sass in them. Interesting.

Starscream straightened himself with a sideways glance at Dorothy as she sat back down. “A competition you say? You’d better be prepared to lose.”

“Do not discredit the resilience of the S.T 5012 so quickly! We will just have to see, won’t we?” A spark of determination grew in their optics as Nightshade’s posture straightened as well at the declaration.

“I suppose we will…”

Starscream kept a careful optic on them before beginning to assess the materials at his disposal. It all was an abhorrent amalgamation of cybertronian and human technology. He didn’t care to even touch that pathetic human scrap. The thought disgusted him–although…as his servo reached for it regardless…it surely wouldn’t hurt to experiment. He even got the sense he knew just how to work it into the growing blueprints forming in his processor.

A cloud of silence fell over them that Starscream hardly noticed as his focus was far too locked upon his task. He could prove to Nightshade how much better his design was–of just how skilled he was in this common ground–and they would have no choice but to be utterly and completely impressed and enthralled by his glory! He would get this strange beastformer on his side in no time at all. This was clearly what they cared about most. Perhaps this could even be simpler than he first thought. Starscream was sure they’d value a blatant display of skill, as proven in past reception during training, after all.

They worked alongside each other for quite some time, with the only notes of conversation being those of light criticism from either side on the other’s progress. Or, simply questions of curiosity on contrasting strategies. Although Starscream intended to keep an intriguing air of surprise to up the suspense of the grand reveal of course.

It would have missiles, deflection barriers, null rays, cont–...OH! He should add a confetti cannon! Hashtag would love that. Perhaps even a separate disco drone to be deployed that’d signify the end of the exercise! That would surely put him above that bug on the, very real, mentor scoreboard. When he was done, the Auxiliary Revolator was going to have a whole fleet of secondary drones under its command! And what better voice to give it than his own? Now, filling it with meaningless words of encouragement as Nightshade insisted on for their design would be ridiculous. If they earned praise from the session, Starscream would give it himself with far more substance. The Auxiliary Revolator would be programmed to instead deal out different levels of taunting remarks. This would better serve to remind them of the need to ignore distractions in combat, or even practice their ability to conjure quick retorts!

Then, as he was searching for a suitable power cell for the reflection field to finalize the central core processor, needed before he could move to painting the casing: Nightshade’s vocalizer cut through his train of thought.

“You are surprisingly comfortable with merging human and cybertronian tech. Tarantulas and I encountered many difficulties during our partnership regarding such things to perfect his initial invention.” They were further inspecting his work, as well as the array of parts he had accumulated. “It is quite impressive!” Another irksome, unreadable grin laid flat upon their faceplate.

Starscream wasn’t certain why their statement stirred such an odd mix of bothersome emotions through him. A response failed to come to his processor for a lingering klik as he rummaged through the Autobot crate. Why did the mergence of the two make so much sense to him? It was obviously because he was an intuitive genius! Nightshade truly should be impressed. All according to plan.

“But of course it is!” Starscream’s wings fluttered gracefully as he stood with a showboated twirl to his gait as he returned to the workstation with the A.R’s new power core. “I did tell you I am quite skilled in this sort of thing! I certainly outrank Tarantulas. He was so insignificant in fact, I didn’t even remember him until you reminded me of that ridiculous old beast. It is of no surprise to me that he couldn’t figure it out without the aid of a sparkling.”

Nightshade arched an optical ridge, and this time, it was quite clear how bothered they were at his comments regarding their apparent acquaintance. “Tarantulas is not ridiculous, or insignificant! He’s my friend!” They waved their servos about animatedly as if they were mimicking a superhero from one of those absurd comics. “You do not need to tear others down in order to raise yourself upon some–higher pedestal. Is it not sufficient to be proud, and appreciate our accomplishments as they are, without comparisons?”

Starscream rolled his optics. “I wasn’t the one who brought that predacon into this conversation to begin with…” There was a pause as they continued to stare at him with those wide optics, as if he had personally defiled their designation instead. Even that Dorothy human was glaring his way in disapproval. Scrap. Now there was that other ridiculous feeling in his tank.

It had always been crucial to ones standing in the ranks to prove their superiority over others. He didn’t need Nightshade thinking this previous partner of theirs was better than him! Starscream couldn’t lose to some inferior lackey! That’d be an insult! Especially when Tarantulas was clearly a deserter since he did not reassemble under Starscream’s rule before. Perhaps he could escape Nightshade’s query with his own if they wanted to speak of that arachnid so desperately.

Starscream folded his arms across his cockpit. “Although…What do you see in Tarantulas anyway? It is not as if I’ve seen him scuttling around amongst your little group here.”

“Well yes, he does not live here. We all helped him get an apartment on the outskirts of Philly so that he could utilize our holoprojector, and follow through with his wish to blend in alongside humans!”

“Why in the worlds would he want to do that?” Starscream cut in with undisguisable disgust.

“He was…tired of war. He said the only choice he had in joining the Decepticons was choosing to survive…” Nightshade had lifted their servo in a clenched fist to their chest plate as if in reverence. “So, he wanted to disappear into the shadows. Do something else with his life that was his own. We actually still talk quite often! We started a book club! It is just us–but he has even gotten into crafting interesting little sculptures! I enjoy the fascinating, in-depth conversations we share, and he is very kind at heart, even if he can appear rather aloof.”

Sacrifice for the sake of his illusion of freedom. Living amidst humans. Delving into hobbies, devoid of conflict. Forsaking his faction in favor of his own gratification. And they all call Starscream selfish.

Nightshade seemed to notice Starscream’s expression had hardened, and tilted an extended servo in his direction as the spines on their forearms flicked flat, then flared as if bobbing their hidden wings in acknowledgement. “Do you not wish for more beyond seeking victory from an old war? You mentioned your studies in xenobiology and astrophysics? I would love to learn more! Even if I am far more focused on solid constructive means in a matter of machines or structures. I’m sure such topics could only widen the horizons for what we could do for the team! You seem to have knowledge far more valuable than how much destruction you can bring. There must be a number of passions you could rekindle! Surely, there is more to you than merely being a Decepticon as well.”

Starscream wasn’t so sure of that. A Decepticon is what he’d been for so long, it was difficult to imagine anything beyond its suffocating ambition. Was this honestly what Nightshade was interested in? Suggesting…Believing in the possibility of a stupid, passive, recreational life? Indulging in scientific study alongside those of like minds. Furthering the worlds of knowledge with exploration and academia. Living in the moments of quiet, or exuberant celebrations with comrades.

Those dreams had died with Skyfire. Those ideals had died with Thundercracker.

These kids were too, only temporary. Whatever pleasantries he could have with Bumblebee, were temporary. Any effort Starscream had made for the sake of others, had only blown up in his face. Any loyalty, twisted. Any partnership, defiled. The meaning of “good” in intentions was always in such a state of debate.

One’s own survival truly was the only thing that mattered. He couldn’t get attached.

Starscream flatly turned his attention back onto tinkering with the Auxiliary Revolator. His wings tipping back out to their poised, militant stature with a momentary downwards lilt of dismissal to Nightshade. This time, the stiff atmosphere of silence–the only sound emitted from the tapping of keys and the clinking of metal–only compounded his irritation at the thoughts spiralling in his helm.

As his stupid mystical glitch became faintly active, that feeling of ghostly strangulation only gradually increased in its intensity. A feeling which aided serrated claws in the effort of ripping wretched memories and long capped emotions from his intake. Those servos and that emblem, all too familiarly clasped around his throat. There was nothing more he could be than the same coward he’d been, clinging to the false pride and grand aspirations branded upon his wings.

Suddenly, Dorothy’s voice was the one to cut through the thick air as her incessant typing came to a halt. “How about we start small. Instead of all this worryin’ about who or what you are in the whole complicated scheme of things. Start with something manageable. Like, you two are over here talkin’ in so much science jargon, I have no idea what you’re sayin’ half the time!” She laughed casually, “So there’s obviously something you have in common there, right? It doesn’t have to be a competition, with each other or anyone else. If you’re having fun, it doesn’t have to be so serious, right?”

“Well–” Starscream and Nightshade both started before she cut them off.

“Okay fine, it can be both, but still!” Now Dorothy’s focus was aimed directly at Starscream. “Factions or status don’t matter. I know it can be hard to get yourself out of the battlefield, especially when it keeps comin’ to find you. That’s why it’s important we appreciate, and remind ourselves of the time we have like this. No ruminating about what could happen, or preparing for the worst. And you don’t have to try and prove your usefulness to stay here.”

Starscream rolled his optics at the final pathetic lie she used to punctuate her sentiment. Her words began to fade out like static. Too much old noise filling his audials.

“You don’t have to put on some bravado either. Ya ain’t impressin’ anyone with that. The only thing we need you to show us is that you’re actually on our side, as a team, and want to get better.”

“Right!” Nightshade put their digit up with a sparkle in their optics. “I’ve been a touch apprehensive about how to approach you, Starscream, I admit. You are quite intimidating. Especially after…well, everything that happened when we were on opposing sides. It is a bit difficult to know how to approach you without something comfortable to bridge the gap, so to say. Like science! Or your room! The offer for further remodeling is still there, by the way.” They leaned in briefly with a knowing sly smile and a wink like those more absurd items that had been placed in there had been some sort of baiting tactic.

What else was it they’d said? Nightshade thought of him as intimidating, yet had the gall to concoct such a ridiculous scheme as that? So, there was no true fear, then. They didn’t actually believe Starscream would retaliate in a violent manner towards them at silly, petty insults as those posters. Was that confidence in his chains or his character?

Starscream remembered when he had such foolish confidence in a mech’s character.

He shook his helm of those memories, and brought his attention back to the two in the room with him. Starscream raised an optical ridge at the looks they wore on their faceplates, and in-vented slowly. Then leaned a servo on the table with a casual grin.

“I just might take you up on that offer, Neutron.” Starscream winked at them in return. “Another time. We are quite busy with our current, decidedly not competitive, drone race.” He flicked his wings with a glance Dorothy’s way; she rolled her eyes and shook her helm, despite surprisingly not displaying any real annoyance.

Nightshade gasped softly as if in awe, “I have a nickname too? Hashtag told me you two were having such a conversation the other day! Oh, I must know: why is mine not a gem like hers?”

“Hm? Ah–” Starscream’s wing twitched back as his digit tapped the table–”well. It simply felt more fitting. Science and all, hah.”

Nightshade looked through him with those knowing optics. “Come now, that can’t be all it is! Tag said you gave quite the explanation into hers. I know neutrons are the subatomic particles of which lack a charge within the nucleus of an atom. Perhaps it is that you perceive me as a…stable, neutral force? Because they balance the atom? Um…because they play key roles in nuclear reactions and you spoke of my explosive potential…?”

“You aren’t going to let it go, will you?”

“Nope!”

“Would it be sufficient if I just gave you a gemstone designation to match? You certainly look like an emerald.”

Nightshade crossed their arms and arched an optical ridge. Clearly unsatisfied with such a proposition. Even with how equally fitting it was.

Starscream ex-vented exaggeratedly. “Fine, fine. You did make some astute observations. Although more specifically, I had a Neutron Star in mind.” As he began to absentmindedly ramble, he picked back up his tools to finish sealing the Auxiliary Revolator’s central drone. Selecting the perfect paints to detail its finish. “Now do not assume I am calling you exponentially dense by the intellectually offensive meaning of the word. More so in the way that you are…difficult to see through. Challenges are often encountered when attempting to observe neutron stars directly. As are they equally small and unassuming. They are formed when a star considerably larger than the one present in your solar system loses the battle against gravity and collapses in on itself. The stellar core itself is saved from further collapse by the quantum phenomenon known as the neutron degeneracy pressure. Which is when the neutrons within reach a point of density they can no longer exceed. These stellar constructs are occasionally referred to as a “star corpse”, due to of course–in all their creative genius–the fact that they were born from a star’s death. A grand, illustrious cosmic entity crushed by its own might…” Starscream laid out a stroke of red paint marking a sinister smirk, akin to ones he often doodled on his missiles, upon the core. A grin came back to his own faceplate as he twirled his servo. “Ah but that is a byte off topic, hm? I suppose the name simply came to mind as you remind me of myself in the old days before the war. Particularly if you were to allow yourself more spunk now and again, Neutron. Adamantly standing up for your convictions and focus with such poise is commendable.”

Nightshade blinked a moment before realizing the conversational baton was passed their way. “Ah, I see! My goodness is that fascinating–” they tapped the tip of their chin thoughtfully– “It is difficult for me to discern how these neutron stars exactly link to my reminding you of yourself… But I believe I appreciate the compliment nevertheless! And I do quite like it.”

Dorothy hummed from her perch. “Even without all that, I think it suits you baby.” She tilted her helm at Nightshade with a soft expression only these Maltos seemed capable of with one another. Then she looked to Starscream with a stare far more contemplative that he could do without. “You know Starscream. Maybe if you let go of that obsession of yours to be the best at any expense, you wouldn’t have to put who you were in the grave like that. I’m sure we’d appreciate whoever that mech was over what he became. I believe we’ve seen quite a few glimpses of him these past weeks, in fact.”

“Have you now?”

Nightshade looked between them as the gears turned in their helm. “Oh! Yes I get it now, I do believe we have as well! The moments when you were not concerned with usurping Tarantulas as my tinkering partner, were indeed particularly pleasant.”

Starscream glared at the two a moment before he scoffed and rolled his optics. Setting aside the A.R.’s central core to pick up the half constructed casing of the first secondary firing drone. “That’s ridiculous.” He glanced over at Nightshade’s partially constructed ring they had begun to design, meant to gyrate around their Smart Trainer as a deflection device. Starscream smirked and tipped his wings up in amusement. “Perhaps if you weren’t so distracted with how immensely fascinating I am, you’d have that blockage you’ve run into figured out by now. Hm?”

“Wh-I’ll have you know that I am by no means distracted!” Nightshade straightened proudly with a servo on their chestplate before lifting their device in demonstration. “And I have hardly run into a block. In fact, I have been contemplating a fix as we spoke! You see, the problem is whether the magnetism will be stable, and consistent enough to not lose control of the ring when it breaks off to become a long range block and grapple mechanism. So, I have been thinking, if I were to remove one of the Smart Trainer’s lenses, to instead act as a lock for one end of the ring extender, when it flings out to its full length it will retain ample control to not fling haphazardly to the abyss!”

Starscream nodded. “A sensible solution. One that might even allow you to build potential energy between the two as they spin to both engage and disengage quickly. As you know that such a flinging movement from the whip while attached to the core would bring it in that direction as well. If you are crafty about it, that grappling capacity could be used as a maneuverment device utilizing its surroundings. As well as dizzy your opponents by taking hold of their servo or weapon.”

“Exactly!” Nightshade beamed as they pulled back up their holoscreen to display their blueprints and simulations. “See, while I wasn’t too keen on making drastic changes, I did find your idea of exterior assistance intriguing! This addition will allow pin pointed projections of deflection shields at its sides, which can be used to keep track of how many hits it would have taken, while not actually allowing it to take sufficient damage in the exercises. Then, I got a fantastic wave of inspiration from an anime Tag had shown me recently of the potential whip-like devices can be capable of! And thus, the Smart Trainer 5012 is truly coming into view!”

“I admit it is quite impressive. Although one of my own drones has a projectile grappling hook method of its own. One that is not limited from one direction or ring, as it will have a collection of wires capable of electrifying a target from any direction. You still limit yourself through a passive lens, Neutron.”

“I am in fact simply retaining my focus on who the Smart Trainer will be used against. Electrocuting my own team doesn’t sound necessary in the slightest.”

“Oh come on. The voltage can be regulated. They are not quite that fragile that they couldn’t handle a shock as minute as a blaster set to stun.”

“Hm. Yes, I do suppose not. And if we were to use them for alternative purposes like when I lent the S.T. to Bee, a means of pacifying an opponent could be quite useful! As well as the multitude of little tentacles as you describe which could be used to input a code! From the feedback I got from Bee then, he ran into a bit of trouble with that.”

Starscream chuckled. “Oh I can only imagine the highjinx that bug could have gotten himself into without thought.”

Such casual conversation persisted as before as they both continued to work side by side on their little projects. It was refreshing to work with someone who didn’t gatekeep every circuit within their invention without considerable prying. And though it took some effort, Starscream relented to some of the sparkling’s suggestions on his own design as well. Perhaps not every piece of the drones had to lend to such destructive purposes. The Disco drone didn’t have to double as a mass laser projector. It could simply act as the deflector…with a speaker to blast victory music instead of plasma.

Dorothy had now long since entirely ceased her tapping. Having replaced it by entertaining herself with conversation with the rest of the human Malto’s who had returned from their outing. She seemed to be in a particularly in depth conversation with her conjunx, occasionally glancing back his way. But Starscream had more important things to consider as he noted Bumblebee lingering at the bunker’s entrance speaking with Jawbreaker. Nightshade’s Smart Trainer 5012 was just about complete, as well as his own Auxiliary Revolator and its trifecta armada! Now, all they needed was a test subject.

As they screwed in the sealing panels to their creations, Starscream whispered his plan to Nightshade, who snickered with delight at the idea. First, Nightshade took hold of their own creation in their servos to get the bug’s attention. Showing off the glorious new addition they had crafted. Then, Starscream readied his own fleet for deployment, with a steady digit on the switch.

“Sensors up Neutron!” Starscream tactfully interrupted the Terran’s explanation to toss his activated drones their way. A display which would no doubt get Bumblebee to spring into action, despite Nightshade themself knowing their Smart Trainer was more than capable of deflecting any blaster fire their way.

Predictably, the bug reflexively pushed them out of the way, servo blasters at the ready with an immediate shot at the Auxiliary Revolator. As the blast was easily deflected, the A.R.’s speaker rang out with mimicked laughter of Starscream’s own vocalizer, of which he couldn’t help but echo. Especially when the Taser Core shot repeated little bullets at his peds to make him dance.

“Augh Starscream!! SHUT THAT OFF!”

“Worry not dear teacher!” Came Nightshade’s triumphant line as they dutifully deployed their S.T. 5012 to retaliate against Starscream’s drone in their long awaited battle. “For we have prepared for a situation precisely like this one!”

“We??!”

Bumblebee was left baffled as Nightshade’s drone tactfully defended against the Auxiliary Revelator Armada's every attempt at getting another shot at the Autobot. Starscream would be infuriated if he wasn’t so proud. They were perfect rivals. Every shot they would get on the other would inevitably be matched, to the end that they’d go on for eternity if left to their devices. So, with a glance and a nod Neutron’s way, he had the perfect solution as he looked out at their newly arrived subjects.

“Well, as it seems our fabulous creations are far too equally matched against each other: what do you all say about a thrilling training exercise with Starscream and Nightshade’s amazing S.T.A.R.mada 5012!?” Starscream announced grandly with outstretched servos.

The S.T. gasped, “A teamup? Now that will be a great learning experience!”

The A.R. scoffed, “If you’re looking for a lesson in humility maybe! Haha!”

Jawbreaker transformed and flicked his tail with anticipation, the rest of the Malto unit converging on his location. With all of them eagerly coming to an agreement in unison, “Oh you’re on!!”

Bumblebee looked on as the struggle began with disbelief in his optics before a sigh left his intake with a laugh. “Of course this is what you two would be up to.”

Nightshade clapped their servos excitedly as they kept tabs of the drone’s condition through their holoscreen. “Aren’t they fantastic!? I would join in on the test as well but we must make certain that if there are any malfunctions they will be swiftly dealt with!”

Starscream slipped alongside them to pull up his own screen, adjusting a minor problematic variable. “Yes, I am sure the famous scout could handle a surprise simulation.” He flicked his wings tauntingly at the bug with a smirk.

Bee rolled his eyes with a grin as he began hopping side to side. “You know it Screamer, you can never catch me off guard!” He gave a ridiculous wink before dashing off to pull Thrash out of the way of a tentacle from the Skatter Whip drone.

Such a silly scene to behold. Something not unlike what shenanigans Starscream and his trine had gotten into in the past. Too many things here have been reminding him of those days. Yet he wasn’t so sure whether he hated it or not.

As his attention was pulled to the fight, he began a new petty competition for who could give the best advice to the sparklings. It was always extremely amusing to witness the bug squirm anytime Starscream interrupted his attempt at a pointer with his own, far better, interjection. Twitch began calling them out on it, but it was futile to get either to admit they were doing anything to trample the other’s peds. Besides, Hashtag seemed to find it entertaining enough.

A crimson spark flickered though his optics as his monitor closed behind him while he leaned unbothered on the rim of the table. He didn’t need any more glitches or paranoia corrupting his view at the moment. He was finally starting to gain some concept of this strange situation.

Nightshade needed a lab partner. Hashtag needed a mentor. Twitch reminded him of Spitfire if she took a dose of high justice moral fuel. Thrash was just about as ridiculous as that Moe human, yet oddly endearing from a distance. That Robby one seemed satisfied as long as Starscream played sufficiently nice with his siblings. Jawbreaker however, was an enigma he truly would never care to crack.

Regardless. They could figure it out tomorrow. Perhaps, there wasn’t such a need for rushing back into a scheme for victory or revenge. Meridian even finally ceased his incessant whining.

#transformers #earthspark starscream #tfe fanart #tfe fanfic #dorothy malto #earthspark bumblebee #nightshade malto #science duo #the sillies with a bit of sus

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poutysprouty · 24 days ago

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THIRST TRAPS FROM THE UNDERWORLD

masterlist

TRACK: STYX

Stage Name: Styx Birth Name: Toji Fushiguro Position(s): Main Vocalist, Sub-Rapper, Choreographer Height: 189 cm (6'3") Nationality: Japanese Representative Emoji: 🗡 Fun Facts: - Said to be closest with Sukuna. - Has the most intense live vocals. - Doesn’t post selfies, but fans obsess over blurry gym mirror leaks. - Allegedly trained in five martial arts for an MV. He refuses to confirm or deny. - Has never answered a fan letter but once returned one with his ring inside. No one knows why.

Demon Idol!Toji who doesn’t rehearse with the others unless he has to. He doesn’t harmonize. Doesn’t take choreography notes. He stands in the corner during practice with a towel over his neck, sweat clinging to his abs, eyes half-lidded like he’s bored out of his mind. But the moment the music starts, it’s hard to believe that he’s not the hardest worker in the group.

Demon Idol!Toji who has never once actually slept in a hotel bed. He sleeps on the floor of someone else’s room, back to the wall, weapon within reach, whether it’s a boot knife, a charm-wrapped chain, or his own claws. He doesn’t trust unfamiliar places. Doesn’t trust anyone, really. Except for maybe Nanami. And occasionally Sukuna or Suguru, though he’ll never admit it.

Demon Idol!Toji who doesn’t wear designer. He tears up his stage costumes and sneers at every stylist who tries to make him look “relatable.” He wears black tank tops, tactical boots, and rings with real teeth embedded in the metal. His only consistent accessory is the heavy rosary around his neck, the one that is charred from the last time a holy priest tried to exorcise him.

Demon Idol!Toji who doesn’t smile. Not unless it’s accompanied by a warning. Not unless he’s about to hurt something. The press calls him the “quiet one,” the “mysterious one,” the “ex-con lookalike.” They have no idea how close they are. He was imprisoned once, sealed in iron and stone under a temple after he started asking questions, because the Demon King feared what he’d become without a leash.

Demon Idol!Toji who didn’t join V4NTABLCK out of loyalty or redemption. He joined because he owed Nanami a favor. Nanami was the one who unsealed him, pulled him out of the dark, gave him a second chance, and never once asked him to change. So now Toji fights for the group. Stays in it. Not because he believes in their cause. But because Nanami asked him to.

Demon Idol!Toji who doesn’t speak during interviews. And when he does? The interviewer gets one-word answers and blank stares. Maybe a sarcastic comment if someone gets too close.

Demon Idol!Toji who tracks demons the way wolves track prey. When the others sleep, he patrols rooftops, slipping between shadows, feet silent against cement. The demon world is stirring. He can smell it. The veil is cracking again. The King is restless. And Toji? Toji’s hand itches every time he senses something approaching.

Demon Idol!Toji who is the only one who didn’t flinch the night they made their pact to turn against the King. While the others hesitated, he simply said, “Better to kill him now than grovel later.” His voice was calm. Almost bored. But behind his eyes? Fire and fury. He had been forged for slaughter and buried for his disobedience. He had nothing to fear anymore.

Demon Idol!Toji who ignores the announcement about the survival show. He shrugs. “Don’t need fans to fight.” He thinks the whole thing is a waste of time. Co-ed dorms, drama, cameras. But when Satoru laughs and says, “Come on, you’re our sexy mysterious ace,” Toji just snorts and flips him off.

Demon Idol!Toji who doesn’t look at the contestant list until the night before they’re supposed to start filming. He scrolls once, catches a glimpse of pastel outfits, glittering names. Scoffs. “Typical idol shit.” He’s about to close the file when a thumbnail catches his eye.

Demon Idol!Toji who watches Luna perform and is immediately hooked. Something about the way she moves, the way she sings, makes him pause. There’s strength behind that shyness, and it unsettles him.

Demon Idol!Toji who scoffs at himself when the clip ends. “Getting soft,” he mutters, rubbing his jaw. But that night, while sharpening his blade beside the window, he finds himself watching it again.

Demon Idol!Toji who doesn’t believe in fate. Fate tried to kill him once and failed. But when he hears her name and feels the strange pressure in his chest, the hair on his arms rises. It unsettles him more than any monster ever has.

Demon Idol!Toji who tells Nanami nothing. He doesn’t need a lecture. Doesn’t want to explain the sudden urge to protect something. But he does slip a blade into his boot the next morning, enchanted and coated in protective runes. Not for himself. For her. Just in case.

#toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x reader

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nanamineedstherapy · 8 months ago

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Velvet Sin & Clandestine Vows - Getting *ahem ahemed* by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party!

Nanami X F!Reader Porn with plot if you squint Summary: Nanami at a bougie party? Weird. Nanami getting dragged into a bathroom with a woman who isn't his wife? Even weirder. What’s hotter than luxury, mystery, and terrible decision-making? Spoiler: nothing. Let the chaos (and a closet with better taste than Gojo) ensue. Or Getting Railed by Nanami in a bathroom at a billionaire's party! This fic started as a joke & spiraled into a mix of billionaire aesthetics, deadpan sass, & unhinged party vibes. Buckle up—it’s classy, messy, & totally Nanami-approved. 💅 #Rewritten since I hated the first draft. Minors DNI/Implied Cheating but not really/Shameless Smut/My First Smut TW: Maybe Cheating A/N: This is my first time writing smut of any kind so let me know if it hits the spot ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖) Y’all, I swear, Nanami is loyal as hell, but who doesn’t love a little tension and mystery? If you’re living for the luxury or just here for the smut, drop a comment or a kudos—your chaos feeds mine. Cheers, besties! 🍸

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The road twisted like a serpent through a dense forest, the towering pines stretching skyward, their shadows merging into a dark canvas under the fading sun. As Nanami’s Aston Martin DBS Superleggera glided past the last cluster of trees, the view opened into a scene pulled from the pages of an expensive dream.

The estate stood by a tranquil lake , its surface a sheet of liquid sapphire, mirroring the golden hues of the evening. The mansion, impossibly grand, didn’t merely rise—it commanded the horizon, almost otherworldly.

Towering walls of smooth stone enclosed the property, their minimalist design interrupted by intricate wrought-iron gates that whispered exclusivity rather than screamed it. AI-quipped security cameras, seamlessly embedded into the structure, blinking like mechanical sentinels, their presence a silent testament to caution wrapped in discretion. Guards in impeccably tailored suits patrolled the perimeter, some with guns, some with drones, some with androids, some with canines, their demeanor more akin to that of secret service agents than traditional staff.

The driveway stretched before him, a sleek ribbon of obsidian stone that gleamed like polished onyx under strategically placed lighting. The circular courtyard at the end was a gallery of excess : a Koenigsegg Jesko , a Bugatti Chiron , a Maserati Folgore , a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class , a Cadillac Celestiq , and a Rolls-Royce Phantom sat gleaming among other cars, their black, forest green or electric blue flawless exteriors reflecting the golden glow of vintage lampposts.

The lawns rolled outward like an emerald sea, interrupted by marble fountains with sculptures so detailed they seemed to breathe. At the edge of the estate, a private dock cradled a yacht —a floating palace that promised indulgence on the water. Above, the faint hum of helicopter rotors signaled rooftop landings, where multiple sleek, futuristic aircrafts waited in perfect formation.

The mansion itself was a contradiction brought to life. Its towering facade bore sharp lines and elegant curves, an architectural ballet where glass and steel met aged stone and brushed brass, each material woven into a seamless tapestry of power and refinement. High ceilings soared above, the kind that made you feel small without making you feel insignificant. The structure breathed genius—an intellect so vast it had turned ambition into reality.

As Nanami pulled up, the double doors opened before he even stepped out, as though the house had been expecting him. Inside, the ambiance shifted into a warm, inviting opulence. The grand hall shimmered under crystal chandeliers that fractured light into golden rain. Polished marble floors reflected the glow, amplifying the sense of space, while floor-to-ceiling windows turned the lake into a living painting framed by midnight silk drapes.

Walking in, he adjusted his Tateossian 18K gold cufflinks out of habit, the gold gleaming briefly in the chandelier light. The fabric of his Tom Ford silk Charmeuse shirt cooled against his skin as he rolled up his sleeves neatly, a testament to effort without indulgence. His tailored Mohair trousers—his entire outfit, his wife’s suggestion—fit him perfectly, a fact he acknowledged with a silent nod to her exquisite taste.

He knew she had spent more time selecting them than he ever would. She had an eye for these things, a maddening precision that made him trust her implicitly. He'd let her spend a good amount on tonight's party outfit to blend in with his office crowd, even though price tags were the least of his concerns. His wife, however, was a different story. Her taste was so particular that she rarely found anything worth buying at a store. But once she did, if it was casual, it would likely be inexpensive. However, if it was anything work- or party-related, it would undoubtedly carry a hefty price tag

The party coursed through the mansion like a heartbeat. In one ballroom , laughter mingled with the clinking of glasses as soft jazz played from hidden speakers. A smaller, more intimate space pulsed with energy, decked out like a private nightclub , where a few couples swayed to Spanish music under the prismatic glow of lights. Staff moved seamlessly among the crowd; their movements choreographed perfection, while their uniforms—a balance of practicality and haute couture—highlighted the wealth that surrounded them.

Each corner of the estate exuded thought and precision. From the soft, ambient lighting casting shadows on minimalistic art pieces to the way every surface seemed untouched yet lived in, the house wasn’t just a home; it was a living entity—one that whispered of brilliance, extravagance, and untold secrets.

Soon, before he knew it, corporate small talk had already grated on him; he’d barely resisted the urge to check his watch. Conversations about ‘exciting’ fiscal projections felt like sandpaper on his nerves, but years of navigating boardrooms had honed his stoic armor to perfection. He tilted his head just enough to feign interest in a junior analyst’s enthusiastic recounting of how they saved 0.5% on operational costs last quarter.

“Impressive,” he muttered, his voice so flat it was unclear whether he meant it or not. The analyst beamed anyway, oblivious.

His whiskey remained mostly untouched, a mere prop for these tedious rituals. He glanced down at the gold trim of the glass and thought fleetingly about hurling it through one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows—not out of anger, but for something more stimulating than listening to Steve from Compliance recount his golf trip.

“Nanami-san!” Steve called out, loud enough to turn heads. “What’s your handicap? Bet you’re deadly on the green.”

Nanami turned slowly, blinking once as if the words needed extra time to register. “I don’t play golf, Steve,” he replied, deadpan. “I have a job.”

Steve’s laugh was loud and awkward, his ego crumpling in on itself. Nanami allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction before turning back to the entrance, silently daring someone interesting to walk in and save him.

A marketing executive drifted over, a glass of champagne precariously balanced in one hand, their other already extended for a handshake. “Nanami, old sport!” the exec crowed, as though they’d survived war trenches together instead of working in adjacent departments.

“Hardly,” Nanami said, shaking their hand briefly before folding his arms, an unmistakable signal that the conversation was over before it began.

Then the intern appeared like a fly buzzing near a fresh wound, her enthusiasm bordering on suffocation. “Nanami-san, you look great tonight,” she gushed. “Is that Tom Ford? I could tell from a mile away!”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes the moment he saw her making her way towards him from the other corner of the room. Her extremely short gold dress barely covered anything, highly inappropriate for co-worker parties. Where was HR when you needed them?

He regarded her with the kind of cool detachment that made people second-guess speaking to him in the first place. His response was little more than a nod, a gesture so dismissive it might as well have been punctuation. “Yes,” he replied curtly, sipping his whiskey for the first time just to end the interaction. The burn of alcohol was preferable to enduring another comment.

“I’ve never seen you in anything so... relaxed ,” she added, eyes wide as though he’d arrived in a Hawaiian shirt instead of a $25,000 ensemble.

Nanami considered a sarcastic remark— yes, I’m positively unhinged tonight with my gold cufflinks and tailored trousers —but decided against it. “Enjoy the party,” he said instead, his tone as warm as a January morning.

Her persistence, however, was unwavering, her enthusiasm grating on his last nerve. She was the type who delivered coffee he never asked for, lunches he didn’t need, flushed cheeks, and doe-eyed stares he couldn’t unsee. What he had initially dismissed as professional eagerness was now so obviously a crush that even the office ficus had likely noticed. He didn’t mind admirers so long as they kept their distance, but this one was suffocating. Tonight, he had a plan: feed her to his wife .

He let her ramble, tuning her out while his colleagues began their usual background drone: glowing self-praise about the last quarter’s financial performance. Occasionally, Nanami nodded, just enough to seem engaged while maintaining an expression that screamed, I’d rather be anywhere else .

Then a peer from Finance leaned in, his smirk as oily as his hair gel. “You’re quite the magnet tonight, Nanami. What’s your secret?”

“Competence,” Nanami replied, without missing a beat.

The peer’s laugh faltered into a cough as he quickly excused himself. Events like this always managed to sap what little energy he had left after work. First, they stole every waking moment with deadlines and deliverables, then they expected polite socializing in his so-called free time. It was, in his opinion, borderline sadistic. He took another sip of his whiskey, wishing—not for the first time—that he hadn’t shown up. He didn’t much care to mingle, despite appearances. These events were breeding grounds for insincerity, where pleasantries masked ulterior motives. His colleagues jumped him, juniors seeking advice on everything from office politics to investment strategies, while his peers probed for weaknesses under the guise of camaraderie.

Then, previously flanked by armed bodyguards, she walked in.

He felt it before he saw it—the slight shift in the room’s energy, the way conversations seemed to falter for half a second. When his eyes finally found her, it was like everything else dimmed in comparison.

Time didn’t stop—not in some romanticized way, but it slowed just enough to emphasize her entrance. Classy, confident, and untouchable. The sound of her heels on marble cut through the hum of conversation, subtle but commanding. The red rubies on her dress flowed like molten lava, catching the chandeliers’ light with every step. The slit revealed long, toned legs that seemed almost deliberately designed to catch the attention of every person in the room. Her movements were languid but purposeful, as though she were fully aware that the entire party had turned their focus toward her and didn’t mind in the slightest. The siren-like glint in her eyes warned anyone brave enough to approach.

Nanami’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the whiskey glass, his chest rising and falling in a controlled breath. His gaze locked on her instantly, though he couldn’t pinpoint what drew him first—the way her dress hugged her or the quiet authority in her stride. One moment, he was half-listening to his coworkers drone about quotas; the next, he was captivated .

“Who is she?” The intern whispered, her tone laced with poorly concealed jelousy.

Nanami didn’t look away, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

She didn’t need to seek attention—it sought her. Women flocked to her, showering her with warm greetings and effusive compliments. She reciprocated their affection with gracious smiles and her charm disarming even the iciest socialites. The men weren’t as brave, unsure whether to admire her or cower under her gaze—her siren-like aura daring any man to try their luck.

Except for one idiot.

Fucking Gojo.

Nanami’s jaw tightened as his white-haired colleague made a spectacle of himself, wrapping his arms around her from behind like an old friend reunited. Her face scrunched in irritation, a flash of disdain that Nanami couldn’t help but savor. But then she turned, her expression softening as she saw who it was. To his dismay, she hugged him back.

Nanami’s fingers curled harder around the glass of whiskey, the gold trim biting into his palm. Jealousy wasn’t his style— not like he wasn’t already married . But Gojo was a different story. The man had a knack for testing limits, his arrogance as boundless as his charm.

She, on the other hand, was the embodiment of contradictions: sharp yet soft, fun yet untouchable, her elegant demeanor veiling something far more dangerous. As if on cue, her eyes scanned the room lazily, not in search of anyone but allowing people to search for her.

And then their gazes locked. Her lips quirked into a knowing smirk, a silent dare.

Nanami’s breath hitched. Her smile—a challenge, a tease, a warning. His pulse quickened, a subtle betrayal against his otherwise calm exterior.

The intern beside him shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of the unspoken connection between the two. Nanami almost pitied her. Almost. Definitely not.

His focus remained on the woman; she approached the bar with the kind of confidence that made the world rearrange itself around her. Even the bartender seemed to straighten his posture, offering her a champagne flute without so much as a question. Her long fingers, adorned with a curious glove-like jewelry piece , brushed the glass as she murmured her thanks, her tone effortlessly polite but laced with disinterest.

He didn’t notice the minutes slipping by; time blurred under the soft hum of chandeliers and the muted conversations he was no longer part of. Her every movement consumed his attention, the sway of her hips in that red silk dress a calculated provocation.

When she slipped through the gilded archway leading toward the bathrooms, his decision was already made.

Keeping his drink down, Nanami barely registered the figure stepping into his path until he heard the familiar sing-song voice that grated worse than nails on glass. “Nanami! Where’s your wife? Haven’t seen her yet tonight,” his rival cooed, wearing his trademark smug grin that Nanami fantasized about erasing.

“Still at work,” Nanami replied smoothly, his tone devoid of emotion but cutting enough to silence further prying. He didn’t slow, leaving behind muttered speculations about his sudden interest in someone other than his wife .

The hallways had the richness of the place amplified. The further he moved from the party, the quieter it became, the noise receding into a distant hum. The mansion’s grandeur became starker in the silence. High ceilings arched above, their ornate crown moldings gilded with gold that caught the soft light of sconces. The black marble floors shimmered under his polished shoes, stretching endlessly toward the private quarters. Staff passed like shadows flitting through the ethereal glow of this labyrinthine estate.

He paused in front of the bathroom door, glossy black with intricate gold fixtures, left slightly ajar as though inviting him in. The faintest sliver of light spilled out against the marble.

Knock. Knock. Two taps. Firm. Purposeful.

The response was immediate. The door cracked open, and before he could utter a word, her hand shot out, grabbing his shirt and yanking him inside with a force that surprised him.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud as he was shoved against it, followed by the decisive click of the lock. Her scent lingered in the air, both grounding and intoxicating, cutting through the bathroom . Then her mouth was on his, hot and demanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

“Not even a hello?” He murmured against her lips, his tone low, strained, yet laced with wry humor.

“Hello,” she whispered mockingly, her voice syrupy sweet, before pulling him back down. Her nails grazed the nape of his neck, sending an electric jolt through him.

Oh, she was definitely a siren. He thought as she drew him in with effortless ease, leaving him half-convinced she could drag him into the ocean and he’d thank her for it.

Her fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt, deft yet impatient. When one refused to cooperate, she let out a soft growl, yanking hard enough to send buttons scattering across the tiled floor.

“They’re custom,” Nanami deadpanned, his voice thick with effort. “My wife chose them.”

“No wonder they’re ugly,” she shot back, her smirk as sharp as a blade. “Send me the bill.”

Her sass drew a low chuckle from him, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. She was cutting through his composure so easily, leaving him disarmed in a way he hadn’t thought possible.

In a swift motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her against the full-length mirror. Her front hit the glass with a muted thud, the chill drawing a sharp gasp from her lips. For a moment, he held her there, his gaze sweeping over her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, pupils blown wide with a mix of defiance and desire.

His reflection caught his eye in the mirror—a man undone, his hair disheveled, his usually sharp expression softened by raw hunger. He barely recognized himself, and for some reason, that didn’t bother him.

“Temptress. You’ve already got me obsessed,” his voice dark as he leaned down to press his lips to the curve of her ear.

“Stop talking,” she countered, her tone dripping with impatience. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan softly.

He obliged.

The kiss turned feral, finesse abandoned in favor of raw, unfiltered need. His hands roamed, the fabric slipping against her skin like water.

Once she turned in his arms, more of his buttons clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space as she ran her fingers on his chest then abs. The room filled with their gasps and whispered curses, the sterile luxury of the bathroom a backdrop to the pandemonium unfolding. She took off her handpiece, chucking it on the counter just to feel his skin against her fingertips unhindered.

Her scent was everywhere now, filling his lungs, embedding itself in his memory. It was familiar in a way, like déjà vu dancing on the edge of recognition. Unsettling, magnetic, and impossible to ignore.

“Careful,” she murmured against his lips, her voice teasing. “You might just fall for me.”

Nanami pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Highly unlikely,” he replied, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest smirk.

“Your loss,” she quipped, her voice light, but her hands circled around his shoulders, pulling him back toward her.

Whatever this was—whatever dangerous game they were playing—Nanami knew one thing: he didn’t want it to end.

The bathroom’s air carried a subtle mix of sandalwood, bergamot and cedarwood, understated yet lingering—a scent that seemed designed to make every breath feel curated, the kind of understated opulence that whispered money rather than screamed it

Yet for all its grandeur, it wasn't the decor that took center stage. It was the mess unfolding next to the countertop, where passion replaced polish.

Nanami now had her pressed against the large, mirror-backed counter, its polished surface now marred with the aftermath of their urgency—smudged fingerprints, scattered toiletries, and the faint condensation of their mingled heat. The cool marble against her back seemed to amplify the fire between them.

His grip was firm yet restrained, one hand steadying her thigh while the other trailed upward, tracing the daring slit of her dress with deliberate slowness. His fingers paused at the neckline, the silk sliding under his touch like water. His hold spoke of possession, but his eyes, half-lidded and burning, betrayed something deeper—curiosity, defiance, and a hunger he rarely let surface.

She kissed him again, her lips a demand he had no intention of denying. Teeth scraped against his lower lip, the sting pulling a soft groan from him that melted into a low chuckle. His hands roamed with precision, finding her waist, her hips, her breasts—each touch firm, unapologetic, and met with a sharp inhale or muffled moan. Every touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and disarray.

He lifted her with ease onto the countertop in one fluid motion. The chilled mirror behind her elicited a gasp as her dress slid higher at her thighs. Her legs tightened instinctively around him, pulling him closer.

“Not bad,” she teased breathlessly, her voice a mix of amusement and provocation.

Nanami’s lips quirked into a rare smirk as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. “I aim to impress.”

Her laugh was soft, intoxicating, and far too knowing. “You’re getting there.”

Her scent enveloped him now—a crisp, briny ocean breeze tinged with something wild and woody, a sharp contrast to the muted, earthy warmth of the bathroom. It was a siren’s scent, designed to disarm, to enthrall, and it worked far too well.

The sounds of their frenzy filled the room, chaotic yet rhythmic. Her nails dragged along his back, leaving faint crescent imprints as if marking her territory.

Then, with a devilish smirk, he dropped to his knees, his large hands splaying across the backs of her thighs.

“On your knees already?” She started, her voice faltering as he pushed the fabric of her dress higher. His lips ghosted over her inner thigh, his breath warm and teasing.

“You talk too much,” he murmured, his tone flat but edged with mischief.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he tore through the delicate lace of her underwear with his teeth, the sound of ripping fabric punctuated by her sharp intake of breath.

His mouth found her core, hot and demanding; his tongue moved with deliberate precision, drawing broken whispers from her lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, long nails digging into his scalp as she arched into him, every nerve alight with sensation.

Each touch was a battle for dominance, each moment teetering on the edge of control and chaos. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her steady as she raised her head, her eyes wide at the sight of him.

When his fingers joined the fray—one, then two, then three—she let out a muffled cry, her hands trembling as they gripped his hair tighter. The rhythm turned torturous, each stroke a ploy to keep her teetering on the edge.

“Quiet,” he murmured against her, though the command was half-hearted at best.

Her laugh, shaky and breathless, cut through the haze. “Make me.”

He obliged, taking off his shirt & shoving it into her mouth to muffle her moans.

The room, a masterpiece of design and decadence, bore silent witness to their undoing. The perfection of its lines, the care in its curation—all of it had melted away, leaving only raw, unbridled chaos in its place.

Her body trembled, hips bucking against his mouth. His tongue and fingers were moving in perfect harmony. Her mewles grew higher in pitch, her body arching further as the tension began to pool in her belly.

Nanami’s grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her steady as her body trembled beneath him. Her moans, muffled by his discarded shirt, vibrated against his chest as he felt the waves of her release pulse through her. She clawed his scalp, a claim he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t enjoy.

When she finally collapsed against the mirror, her breath came in uneven bursts, fogging the glass behind her. Her flushed face, her dress still bunched at her waist, chest rising and falling as aftershocks wracked her frame left her looking like Mayhem personified. Still, he didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up every drop of her release like she was the finest wine.

Few moments passed, & Nanami stood, brushing the back of his hand against his lips, catching the faint taste of her. He was the picture of disheveled restraint—his hair tousled, his chest bare, and his trousers hanging low on his hips. The hunger in his eyes, however, was anything but restrained.

His gaze lingered on her as he reached for the straps of her dress. Tugging them down, he exposed her bare chest, the fabric sliding away like water until it pooled uselessly at her waist. Her breasts bounced with the movement, drawing a low growl from him that rumbled deep in his chest.

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he leaned down. His lips closed over one breast, flicking her nipple with his toung, while his hand found the other, his touch alternating between firm and teasing. She gasped, her back arching off the mirror as he bit gently before soothing with his tongue, leaving her gasping & mumbling incoherently, her voice ragged but threaded with laughter—the kind that would have thrown a lesser man off balance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” She spoke against the fabric in her mouth.

He paused, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “You started it.”

She smirked, sharper than the edge of the counter, biting into her legs. “And I’ll finish it.” She gestured.

Her hands fumbled with his waistband, still trembling but determined. The flicker of impatience in her eyes was oddly endearing, though he’d never admit it. Nanami stepped back slightly, watching as she struggled with his belt, her fingers clumsy but relentless, then the same belt clattered to the floor, the sound echoing in the small space.

When she finally freed his cock, her hand paused holding it, her eyes widening as her lips parted slightly.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teased, his voice dropping into that smooth, sardonic tone.

“Shut up,” she muttered, voice muffled by the shirt.

He bit down lightly on her neck, one hand busy kneading her breast, while the other left faint crescent moons in the flesh of her ass.

Despite her reservations, her hand moved, slow at first, tentative strokes exploring him with a curiosity that bordered on reverence. The low "fuck" that escaped his lips emboldened her, and her fingers became bolder—squeezing at the tip, letting her thumb tease the slit, earning sharp hisses from him.

His control, usually ironclad, wavered, catching himself before her touch unraveled him entirely.

“Enough,” he growled, his hand wrapping around hers as he guided his cock to her.

She braced herself, her legs parted further instinctively as Nanami growled, guiding his cock toward her slick entrance. She mewled softly as he deliberately didn’t push in, instead teasing her, the thick head of his cock gliding against her swollen folds. The wet slide was maddening, the tension building as he refused to give her what she wanted. Her breath coming in shallow bursts as the tension coiled between them like a spring wound too tightly. Her eyes flashed with impatience, and the look of anger made him smirk through his own restraint. Then she hissed something, muffled, her voice low and threaded with irritation.

Nanami’s smirk was infuriating. “Patience.”

That patience didn’t last long. With a sharp thrust, he pushed inside her, his jaw clenching as she clenched around him, her walls tight and pulling him deeper. He moved slowly at first, letting her adjust; the intensity of the moment mirrored in their matched gasps and muffled curses.

Once he was fully sheathed, the restraint snapped. He withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, forcing a loud, uncontrollable moan from her.

His pace turned brutal, his hips slamming against hers with a force that made the marble countertop tremble beneath them. Her cries morphed into curses, each one sharp and biting, and directed at him with a venom that only fueled his hunger.

“You—oh my God—” she let out a muffled gasp, head falling back against the mirror as he drove her higher.

Nanami leaned down, yanking the shirt from her mouth as he captured her lips in a messy, heated kiss. Her teeth immediately bite his lower lip, drawing blood, but he didn’t care. Their tongues clashed, the kiss more battle than affection, each one pushing and pulling, neither willing to yield.

Breaking away to catch his breath, Nanami's thrusts didn’t falter.

“Still talking?” he muttered against her lips.

“Shut up,” she replied, biting him again, the taste of him & herself lingering on her tongue.

His hips slammed against hers, forcing cries from her throat. Her nails raked down his back, desperate, as though she needed them to fuse on a molecular level.

Despite his relentless pace, his lips softened, trailing kisses along her jawline, down her neck, and finally to her breasts. He nipped and sucked at the delicate skin; his attention split between breaking her apart with his cock and worshipping the parts of her he loved most.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—a brutal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heartbeat. His hands roamed over her body, his nails leaving faint crescent moons in her thighs, her back, wherever he could reach.

Her body arched into him, trembling & walls tightening as another wave of pleasure threatened to overtake her. He knew she was close; his hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and circling it with a precision that left her gasping.

Her reaction was instant as she came with a sharp, keening cry, muffled when he cupped a hand over her mouth, entire body clenching around him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

“She’s sucking me in... so tight,” he murmured, voice hoarse, as his control finally broke. Movements turning erratic as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against her neck. His eyes fluttered shut as his own climax surged through him, leaving him breathless and trembling. He barely managed to catch himself before collapsing onto her as the aftershocks rolled through him.

Two forces of chaos colliding. Neither of them moved, just staying for a bit; she rubbed his back as they caught their breaths, the occasional tremor running through her as she adjusted to the lingering sensitivity.

The bathroom was a battlefield of indulgence and chaos. Perfume bottles lay toppled on the black marble counter, the delicate crystal shimmering under the ambient lighting. A faint mist lingered in the air, clouding the oversized mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling, capturing distorted reflections of disheveled hair, flushed skin, and heat that had yet to fully dissipate. The mingling scents of bergamot, cedar, and salt—the sharp tang of the ocean—clung to the air, layered with the undeniable intimacy of their aftermath. Despite the mess around them, the silence between them felt clean, untouched by the outside world.

Soon her fingers were idly tracing patterns on his back, grazing over faint red marks she’d left moments before. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was teasing but warm, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Your technique hasn’t changed.”

Nanami froze, the words cutting through the lingering haze like a cold blade. He pulled back just enough to study her face, his brows furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me,” she replied, her tone deliberate and light as she brushed her fingers along his jaw. Her touch was deceptively soft, almost disarming.

Before he could spiral into overthinking, she laughed—a sound both melodic and cutting, slicing through his composure with surgical precision. “Relax, Mr. Nanami,” she teased, her lips curling into a smirk. “I’m just grateful for the first million you invested in my company when no one else would even hear me out.”

The tension in his shoulders eased as realization dawned, corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “Mrs. L/N,” he said dryly, his voice laced with equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Should I prepare my chequebook again?”

“Always,” she quipped, her smirk softening as she leaned up to kiss him. Her lips brushed against his with a familiarity that belied the game they’d been playing all evening.

“You’re still mine, Kento,” she murmured against his ear—almost biting them, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

Straightening himself, hand lingering at her waist, he pulled her closer to hold as the reality of her presence grounded him. When they finally pulled apart, her tone shifted. “Nice house, by the way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. L/N,” he replied, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The simple gesture felt intimate, grounding, a contrast to the disarray they’d left in their wake. He arched a brow, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Though I do have to ask—what was the dress for?”

Her smirk deepened, her silence deliberate.

“Y/N,” he pressed, his voice carrying a mix of affection and exasperation. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“I was informed that you looked miserable out there,” she said simply, shrugging with nonchalance that only made her look more self-assured. “Your coworkers are vultures. I couldn’t just stand by and watch you suffer.”

His exhale was slow, measured, but his forehead dropped against hers, his voice softening. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me plenty,” she countered, her hands sliding over his chest with a teasing confidence. “But I’m not done yet. My company just hit a billion-dollar valuation, which means—"she smirked, her tone mock-serious—"you can finally quit working for those corporate overlords. Effective immediately.”

Nanami blinked, her words settling in slowly. Just as he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with a single raised finger.

“And don’t start with the ‘backup plan’ speech,” she added, rolling her eyes in dramatic exasperation. “I’ve secured enough for the next fifteen generations to sit around and squander. You’re free, Ken. ”

He let out a long exhale, relief washing over him like a tide pulling him out to calmer seas. His hands tightened gently at her waist as he pulled her closer, his forehead brushing hers again.

“I can finally retire,” he mused, a rare chuckle breaking the steady timbre of his voice. “What a dream.”

Her grin was wicked and teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll deck you out with butlers, drivers, private pilots—the works.”

He shook his head, laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” she said, her voice lighter now, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before stepping down. She fixed her dress, the fabric shimmering under the soft lighting as if it had never been touched. After quickly rinsing & drying her hands, she shuffled for something in the drawer below the sink counter, then gestured Nanami to turn around, who obliged and then winced as she sprayed antiseptic healing spray on her nail scratches on his back. Then, putting it back with one hand while she rubbed his shoulder with the other, soon she adorned her handpiece again.

“Now, pack your bags. We’re going on a month-long vacation. We’ve barely seen each other this quarter.” Her tone practical, though the playful glint in her eyes was still sparkling while Nanami, who knelt on one knee to zip up her askew heels with a gentle touch. This was a stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor; he radiated a quiet eagerness to serve her, even if she had never asked for it—or even forbade him from kneeling—for anyone, including herself. His care for her was unwavering, as he found joy in these small devotions.

Raising up to his full height, Nanami tilted his head, arching a brow. “When do we leave?”

“An hour.” Her smirk was maddeningly smug, the kind that always made him want to both kiss her and roll his eyes. “Don’t worry about clothes—we’ll buy what we need when we get there.”

His frown deepened slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door. “The house is still full of people.”

She waved a hand dismissively, her confidence unshakable. “The white-haired menace can handle it.”

As if summoned, a sharp knock echoed against the ornate black and gold bathroom door.

“Nanami,” Gojo’s unmistakable voice called out, muffled yet infuriatingly cheerful. “I know you told me not to disturb you, but if you want to leave on time, you should probably come out now.”

Nanami groaned audibly, burying his face in her hair. “I hate that he knows us so well. Or worse, that he was probably hovering outside.”

Her laugh bubbled up, light and unrestrained, as she turned to press a soft kiss to his nose. “Good thing no one will know,” she teased, her tone laced with mischief as she nodded toward the party still raging beyond the door.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. His hand reached down, scooping up her ripped panties. He shoved them into his pocket—a gesture equal parts practical and ridiculous. Housekeeping didn’t need to discover that.

He reached for his ruined shirt & still-ok belt while his cufflinks were probably lost to the similarly colored lines in the bathroom floor’s marble. Sighing, he shrugged the shirt on. With most of the buttons broken, the fabric barely clung to him, but he managed enough to appear vaguely presentable, then did his belt & washed his hands. Before stepping out, he winked at her, his rare smirk making her laugh again as she leaned on the counter, ogling him.

Walking out of the bathroom, Nanami was immediately engulfed by the sheer scale of the mansion. The vaulted ceilings soared above him, an intricate lattice of brass and black lines reminiscent of sharp geometry. Recessed lighting cast a warm, almost ethereal glow over the polished marble floors, their obsidian surface streaked with veins of gold that seemed to shimmer with every step.

Security was seamlessly integrated into the decor—discreet cameras nestled within decorative sconces, motion sensors hidden within the intricate carvings of doorframes, and biometric panels that blended effortlessly with the black lacquered walls.

Gojo leaned casually against the wall near the bathroom door, his smirk as sharp as the lapels on his bespoke electric blue suit. “Well, well,” he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Looks like someone had a productive break.”

Nanami cast him a withering glare, brushing past him without a word.

“Don’t worry,” Gojo called after him, clearly undeterred. “Your secret’s safe with me. Well Mostly .”

Nanami strode into his bedroom, its absurd luxury understated yet undeniable once he unlocked it’s door with his thumb. Warm recessed lighting bathed the space in a golden hue, highlighting the polished marble floors and the California king bed draped in silk sheets that whispered decadence with every subtle fold. The walls were a study in contrasts—one side a sweeping expanse of black glass overlooking the estate, the other adorned with minimalist art deco patterns in gold and dark maroon.

A walk-in closet occupied one corner of the room, its glossy black doors sliding open with a faint hum. Rows of designer suits, pressed shirts, and tailored trousers moved along tracks, neatly organized by color, fabric, and season. It wasn’t just a closet—it was an AI-driven sartorial fortress.

Gojo trailed behind Nanami, Martini glass in hand, his ever-present grin practically glowing under the warm light of the bedroom.

Nanami shrugged off his ruined shirt, revealing faint nail marks trailing down his back.

Gojo’s exaggerated gasp was immediate. “Knew you were freaks,” he declared, grinning like a cat who’d just discovered a fresh bowl of cream.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nanami replied, his tone dry as he waited for the first shirt the AI closet presented.

The automated system whirred softly, its sleek black panels sliding open to reveal a neatly arranged selection of tailored clothing. The closet’s AI chimed in, its voice smooth and masculine: “Good evening, Mr. Nanami. May I suggest the Maurizio Miri blue Sam Arold , double-breasted blazer for optimal sophistication?”

“No, a white shirt will be enough for now. Thank you.” Nanami replied smoothly as the closet handed him the shirt.

Gojo’s eyes lit up. “Hold up, your closet talks?”

Nanami buttoned up the crisp white shirt, the fabric molding to him like it had been made yesterday, which it probably had been. A subtle reminder of how far he—and this house—stood from anything resembling average. “Of course it talks. Everything here does. Wife is particular about it,” he muttered, casually pulling out a certain incriminating piece of fabric from his pocket & tossing it into the hidden incinerator bin while Gojo eyed the AI.

Then Gojo leaned closer to the closet; his curiosity piqued. “Hey, Mr. Closet—do you take orders? I need something that makes me look like a billionaire without actually trying. Extra points if it comes with a holographic logo of the Gojo Clan.” Gojo didn’t have such bad likes; he just enjoyed being a menace.

The AI responded without missing a beat. “My name is Winston, & I’m sorry, sir. My services are exclusive to Mr. Nanami. While I assure you, no attire could enhance perfection.”

Nanami’s lips twitched as he fought back a smirk. “Even the closet knows you’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I like this guy!” Gojo shot back, pointing at the sleek black panel like it was a long-lost friend. “At least he has taste.”

The AI, apparently more than willing to engage, added, “Taste, sir, is precisely what you lack.”

Nanami turned away, struggling to suppress his laughter, as Gojo gawked. “Traitor! I’m officially boycotting this brand,” Gojo declared, though his curiosity kept him glued to the closet. “Btw what brand are you.”

Nanami smacked his arm. “Do you forget my wife invents AIs for a living, among other things?”

Gojo shrugged, “I didn’t know it was one of hers.”

As Nanami folded his sleeves up again, Gojo shot one last look at the closet. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man, Mr. Closet-Winston. Once I babysit this house, bet you’ll miss me when I leave.”

“I highly doubt that,” the AI replied, its tone impossibly smooth.

Gojo huffed, muttering something about finding an AI closet with better taste, while Nanami finally allowed a small smirk to surface.

Once out of the closet, Gojo chirped, “Aren’t you going to thank me for organizing this amazing party?”

Nanami took the whisky glass Gojo handed him, savoring a slow sip. “Thank you, Gojo, for organizing this party,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not like we paid for it or anything.”

“Fair,” Gojo replied, recovering quickly with a shrug. “But I still expect to cash in the favor someday.”

Nanami nodded, flooding his sleeves with practiced precision before striding back toward the party.

Gojo followed on his heels like an overenthusiastic puppy, Martini in hand. Then looking back at the sentinel closet, he mused. “I need one of these. Think the wife will help me place an order?”

“She’s not your wife,” Nanami deadpanned, savouring the whisky burn as he sipped.

Once they had stepped into the grand ballroom, Nanami’s gaze swept over the room. Gojo, meanwhile, leaned in conspiratorially.

“So,” he began, his grin as infuriating as ever, “how was she?”

His gaze immediately found her. She stood along the far wall; an expansive bar carved from obsidian and gold stood like a centerpiece, its surface laden with bottles of rare vintages.

He didn’t falter in his reply, expression flat. “She’s a woman, Gojo. Not a secret.”

Gojo smirked as Nanami ignored the conspiratorial knowing smirks and whispers that seemed to surround him.

His gaze lingered as she laughed warmly, her head tilted slightly, the sound unguarded and genuine. She was speaking to two women he vaguely recognized as the CTO and CFO of her company, their expressions a mix of respect and admiration. For a moment, he simply watched. Despite himself, Nanami felt a rare sense of pride.

Just as he was about to make his way to her, a voice sliced through the moment.

“Nanami-san! There you are!”

The same intern with an unfortunate crush on him had caught sight of him again, waving over one of her equally annoying cohorts, a smug backstabbing bitch of a coworker Nanami didn’t even bother to remember the name of. They approached like vultures, the intern’s over-the-top enthusiasm clashing painfully with the coworker’s grimey smirk.

“Nanami-san!” she chirped, clasping her hands together. “This house is incredible! You must feel so inspired here.”

“I feel inspired to have another drink,” Nanami deadpanned, raising his glass slightly before taking a sip.

The coworker, clearly fishing for gossip, leaned in. “Yeah, no kidding. So, where’s your wife we’ve all heard so much about?” He practically sang the last part, his tone dripping with mockery. “Must be so busy to miss an event like this.”

Listening to this, Gojo moved closer to Nanami’s side like chaos incarnate, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” he asked, his grin practically weaponized. “Tsk, tsk, Nanami, keeping secrets from your best friends .”

The coworker scowled at the jab.

The intern blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. Nanami bit back a smirk, swirling his whisky lazily in his glass.

When the intern finally recovered, her tone turned defensive. “Well, he’s never mentioned her to me!”

Nanami’s expression darkened, his patience stretching to its breaking point. One thing he wasn’t—had never been—was unfaithful. And this implication, no matter how cluelessly delivered, crossed a line.

Yet Gojo wasn’t finished. He turned his full attention to the intern, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. “You know, he does talk about her all the time. But I guess you two must not hang out much, huh? Just acquaintances, then.”

“Excuse me?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, each syllable cutting.

The intern, oblivious to the shift in tone, pressed on. “You never mentioned you were married—”

“Please,” arching a brow, he interrupted, his expression one of detached amusement. “Do not imply that I’ve hidden my marriage. I’ve been married for years and have never avoided speaking about my wife when asked. If you’re unaware, perhaps that says more about you than it does about me.” Each word measured and sharp. It’s not like he cared to keep his job anymore anyway.

The intern blinked, stunned into silence.

Gojo erupted into laughter, clapping him on the back. “Kento, you’re killing it tonight. Who’s next on the chopping block?”

Without waiting for a response, Nanami brushed past them, his focus already shifting back to her. Gojo, naturally, wasn’t done yet. Turning back with a smirk, he delivered one final dig.

“He talks about her all the time with his friends. Trust me, I’d know since I’m his best friend. I know all his secrets ,” he said lightly. “Guess you’re just colleagues.” Nanami could hear the mockery directed at his coworkers, with a hint of possessiveness over their friendship in Gojo’s voice, along with the intern’s sputtering, behind him.

Once he approached, his hand slid around her waist, the gesture subtle yet unmistakable. It wasn’t a public claim so much as a quiet reassurance, a tether grounding him in the chaos of the room.

She turned to him, her smirk softening into something more intimate as she acknowledged the unspoken exchange.

“Hello,” he murmured, inclining his head with a faint smile toward the women she’d been speaking with. They were better than his coworkers; hence they were hired.

As Gojo approached them behind Nanami, she introduced him smoothly, her tone warm yet commanding. “Ladies, my closest friend, Gojo Satoru.”

Gojo’s professional smirk slipped into place with practiced ease. “A pleasure,” he said simply, his arm resting on Nanami’s shoulder again.

The conversation progressed for a bit before the sound of glass clinking drew their attention.

“Everyone!” Gojo’s voice rang out, cheerful and uncontainable. He was sitting atop the bar, manspreading, grin wide enough to rival the chandelier’s glow. “A toast to the lovely couple!”

Heads turned toward them, though many had already been stealing glances at her all evening while others were glaring daggers at Nanami.

Nanami cleared his throat, voice steady, effortlessly commanding the room. “Thank you all for coming to our housewarming party,” he began, his tone formal but with a warmth that felt uncharacteristic. His hand rested securely on her waist. “For those of you who don’t know, this is Y/N L/N. She’s my wife. She’s the one who bought us this house.”

A ripple of polite claps followed, though Nanami wasn’t finished.

“She hasn’t visited my office because she’s been working tirelessly on her company, Curse Cop, which, as of today, has officially reached a billion-dollar valuation.” He paused, his voice softening as he glanced at her, unguarded admiration flickering across his face. “Please, drink to your heart’s content, because starting tomorrow, I’ll be on vacation with her—and I’ll also be stepping down as Finance Director to spend more time with my wife, as I promised her.”

The room erupted in applause and a few ‘awws’ from mostly female guests, though Nanami barely noticed. His focus remained on her as she looked up at him, her expression a blend of amusement and affection.

From somewhere behind them, he heard whispers, envy poorly concealed.

“How’d he even get with her?” one muttered.

“It makes sense,” another replied begrudgingly. “He’s the kind of man every woman wants.”

But none of it mattered. Nanami leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her lips, as if the room around them didn’t exist.

For him, in that moment, it didn’t.

Soon the evening had progressed—Nanami was comfortably leaning against the bar, whisky in hand, Gojo, still on top of the bar, flanking him as usual, when the intern caught sight of Y/N between them.

She stumbled her way toward her, clearly drunk, with newfound boldness, her barely-there dress doing little to enhance her sense of professionalism. Nanami’s lips twitched as he watched the scene unfold, hiding his amusement behind his glass. He wasn’t much for unnecessary public fights, but he was waiting for this one since she had really become a nuisance for him over the months, hence the reason she was invited today.

“Y/N,” Gojo whispered, sidling closer to her as she inquired about the launch of their latest multiplayer game with the COO of her company. “See that girl over there?”

Pausing, she glanced over, her brow arching slightly as she clocked the intern making a beeline toward her.

“That one’s been after Kento for months,” Gojo murmured, his grin wicked. “Unrequited coffee deliveries, surprise lunches... the works. You’re about to have front-row seats to her grand finale.” He had noticed it all while visiting Nanami’s office, along with Nanami’s look of frustration when she wouldn’t take the hint and leave him alone.

Y/N didn’t miss a beat, her expression remaining poised as she turned fully to face the intern. The air around her seemed to shift, her unapproachable aura sharpening to something razor-edged.

The intern, blissfully unaware, extended a hand, her confidence teetering on arrogance. “Hi! I’m Nat. I work closely with Nanami-san in finance. It’s so great to finally meet you.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked briefly to the outstretched hand before returning to the intern’s face, her expression neutral but distinctly unimpressed. “Oh?” she said coolly. “And what are you to him?”

The intern faltered, her hand dropping slightly. “I... like I said, I work with Nanami-san! He’s been so helpful to me in the office. Such a great mentor.”

Turning his head from his vantage point, Nanami’s smirk widened as he took another slow sip of whisky. He had actively avoided helping her since he discovered her hidden agenda.

“Is that so?” Y/N replied, tilting her head slightly. “And what exactly have you learned from him?”

The intern brightened, eager to elaborate. “Oh, just... everything, really! He’s so dedicated and focused. I can see why you married him.”

There was a pause—a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Y/N smiled, and it wasn’t kind.

“I see,” she said, her tone dripping with polite venom. “And yet, here you are, at a party in our house, introducing yourself to me like you’re a stranger. How odd for someone who claims to work so ‘closely’ with my husband.”

The intern’s expression wavered, a flicker of panic breaking through her confident facade. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Y/N interrupted smoothly, her smile widening. “To sound presumptuous? To overstep? Or to assume familiarity where there is none?”

Gojo, now openly laughing, gestured to Nanami, “Remind me never to piss your wife off.”

The intern stammered something unintelligible before finally scoffing & retreating, her confidence crumbling as she melted back into the crowd.

Y/N turned back to the COO, now flanked by CTO and CFO without so much as a backward glance as they dragged her off to introduce a potential investor, the conversation resuming as if nothing had happened.

Turning straight, Nanami finally let his smirk show, raising his glass toward Y/N in a silent toast.

She caught his eye, the faintest curve of her lips betraying her amusement, before she returned her attention to her companions.

“Worth every penny,” Gojo muttered under his breath, clinking his glass against Nanami’s.

“Agreed,” Nanami replied, his tone calm but his eyes glinting with mirth.

---

A/N: You thought Kento would cheat huh ☜(ˆ▿ˆc) Thanks for diving into this tangled mess of lust & love. If you caught the twist & liked it (or even hated it), drop a comment. I live for your chaos & crave your feedback like Nanami craves his wife. 🖤

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unteriors · 8 months ago

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Why is France in particular so much worse off than many of the other Western countries on this blog? It looks like some of these places haven't been updated in 100+ years to be safe or liveable, and somehow have evidence people still occupy them. I know poverty is the main answer, but it surprised me. I know their buildings are old but some of these people are still using oil lamps.

I'm not completely sure, there are definitely a lot of centuries-old buildings for sale on French listings that look as though they haven't been updated in about as long. Part of it may be cultural and specific to France - it has a huge number of small settlements, most of which date back hundreds of years, with their original housing stock intact. But it probably has something to do with the confluence of a few different factors that affect the kind of listings you find for each country. One factor is how regulated and (relatively) free of corruption the real estate sector is in each country. In the US, for instance, it's regulated enough to make it possible for aggregate websites like Realtor and Zillow (and Redfin, etc.) to exist. I'm not totally clear on the specifics, but I think it has to do with having centralised agencies that track and provide data for sales prices, dates of sale and other property details that ensure a certain level of quality control. This means that listings tend to be more standardised and easier to navigate (for people like me interested in the imagery for reasons outside of the boring, instrumental original function from which they emerged). One thing I've noticed looking through sites from developing countries is that there tend to be a lot of obviously-fake listings, which re-use the same images and which make it a lot harder to find genuine ones. I'd guess having a substantial proportion of real estate transactions taking place in the grey market probably contributes to this (putting less pressure on these sites to be transparent and functional). If it seems like most of the imagery of this blog comes from western (or western-ish) countries that's one of the reasons why.

Cultural and regionally-specific factors are also important. France has a well-regulated housing sector, but so does Australia, which has a totally different feel in terms of the real estate imagery it generates - generally much more polished and artificial. If I had to guess, this probably has to do with how well-oiled the propaganda arm of the real estate industry in my country is; the idea of buying and renovating and speculating on housing as an investment is deeply embedded in the culture here, you see it all over the place on TV, in books, the kinds of things people talk about. Doubtless it has a lot to do with how structurally deep the housing crisis runs and how intractable it seems. I'd guess that it's also directly related to the kind of aesthetic you find: bright, evenly-lit photography using expensive cameras that make shitty overpriced houses look like offices, standardised camera angles (there must be some kind of style guide that like half the realtors here follow), etc. I've spoken to people who criticise real estate listings - which they have no personal stake in - that don't follow these conventions, as though following and reproducing these corporate aesthetic values is somehow virtuous. I'm not familiar with the cultural context in France, maybe it isn't as bad as ours. Some countries just seem to produce more real estate imagery independently of these factors though. I haven't found much in Germany, for instance, which you would think would have a similar housing stock to France. I've found a ton from Georgia and Hungary. Japan, which has a well-regulated housing sector (and presumably an enormous amount of housing being bought and sold), is much harder to find imagery from, partly due to the language barrier, but also to the way in which its main aggregate websites are designed. And maybe cultural reasons come into it as well. Italy has a lot of imagery, though a lot of it is covered in watermarks and other branding, so you have to hunt around. Spain is similar. When I do find imagery from continental Europe it seems like, outside of Germany, most countries have a lot of rough, older housing stock that people still seem to somehow live in, like you described. I haven't found much like this from the UK; I have from Ireland though.

I'm open to the idea that there's much of this sort of imagery from lots of different countries and I just haven't been proactive enough to find it; if anyone has any suggestions on where to look for any country please send them to me. I'm not just interested primarily in decrepit older housing stock, I think it's more of a project of looking for imagery that has aesthetic or artistic or cultural or whatever value and liberating it from the constraints of its work-institutional-instrumental context, and recontextualising it in a setting where those qualities can be drawn out and appreciated. There's a history of artists doing similar things (probably playing on the relationship between art and work), from Gustave Courbet to Andy Warhol to Tracey Emin. If anyone's interested send me an anon and I'll write more about the rationale here.

#anon feedback #France #written feedback #writing

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felassan · 10 months ago

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Dragon Age™: The Veilguard - Accessibility Resources - (Accessibility Portal information)

"In Dragon Age: The Veilguard, players are encouraged to be who they want to be and play how they want to play. This manifests in all sorts of ways, from our character classes to the dialogue choices. But delivering on this promise requires more than providing a variety of gameplay options; it also requires us to break down any barriers our players may be experiencing. For that reason, we incorporated accessibility considerations into our design documentation from very early in the game’s development, making the thoughtful and deliberate implementation of accessibility a foundational component of The Veilguard’s design. On first launch, players are provided a curated list of settings for UI text size options, subtitle options, controller options, and various display options. Upon starting a new game, players can use our Customizable Difficulty system to choose the level of challenge they want to experience. By selecting from a list of modular combat presets, they’ll be able to individually adjust a number of granular factors, including enemy aggression, enemy resistances, and combat timing. Similarly, our exploration presets allow players to modify on-screen guidance, such as markings that assist with way-finding and the distance at which interactable objects become highlighted. While we’re particularly proud of and excited about Customizable Difficulty, we encourage players to browse through all the settings and review the accessible design considerations outlined in this guide. And as always, accessibility is a continuous journey and we are actively listening to feedback from the community. Thank you."

"Noteworthy Features - Visual - Audio - Controls - Gameplay"

(The rest of this post is under a cut due to length.)

"VISUAL Subtitles - Subtitles can be set to Never, Conversations Only (excludes ambient NPC dialogue), or Always (all audible dialogue). By design, captions are embedded into subtitles to convey non-verbal sounds that progress the story or add additional context to some story beats and spoken words. - Advanced Subtitles Options are available, where size can be adjusted between three options, speaker names can be turned On/Off, background opacity can be scaled from 0% to 100%, and name colors can be adjusted for Rook and NPCs."

"User Interface - UI Text has two size options and uses a simple font. - Full-screen Colorblind filters are available for Protanopia, Deuteranopia, and Tritanopia. - Persistent Dot is available to display a small dot at the center of the screen. - Hiding HUD Elements is available for the Objective Tracker, Mini Map, Combat Text, Advanced Combat Text, Player Health, and Abilities."

"Visual Design & Assists - Melee Threat Indicator provides a halo around the player character’s head to warn of incoming melee attacks. - Ranged Threat Indicator provides a visual line to show the direction of incoming ranged attacks. - Visual cues are present during combat and exploration, where no game-critical information needed to progress is conveyed through sound alone. See Customizable Exploration Presets for more."

"Visual Effects - Motion Blur can be turned On/Off. - Camera Shake can be set between 0 (Off) and 100 (Max). Does not extend to cinematics. - Depth of Field can be set to On for cinematics only, On for gameplay only, On for both, or Off. Being On causes some elements of the scene to be in focus, and others to be out of focus. - Vignette can be turned On/Off. Being On creates a subtle darkening of the image towards the edge of the screen during cinematic and gameplay to enhance the atmosphere of scenes. - Low Health Screen Effect can be turned On/Off. Being On creates a blurry, desaturated effect across the screen during gameplay to emphasize low health."

"AUDIO Audio Settings - Volume sliders for Global, Music, Speech, Sound Effects, Ambient, and Menu. - Speaker type for Wide Dynamic, Narrow Dynamic, Night Mode, and Headphones. - 3D Audio is available. Requires compatible hardware. - Mono Audio is available alongside a mono audio planning option between left and right outputs."

"Sound Design & Assists - Accessibility SFX is available and has a volume slider. Audio cues provide additional feedback for some visual mechanics. Includes an incoming attack indicator, target lock-on, and conversation wheels. - Glint Ping SFX is available where spatialized SFX will play at object locations when UP on the d-pad is pressed. Note: Depending on the Exploration Preset selected, players may need to adjust the Object Glint Visibility, and Object Marker Visibility settings to Pulse (Short), for this functionality to work."

"CONTROLS Input Settings - Input Remapping for basic gameplay controls. Movement actions can only be remapped between analog sticks. - Invert Axis of X and Y can be individually adjusted for both controller and mouse. - Vertical and Horizontal Sensitivity sliders for both Cameras and Aiming. - Swap between Left and Right Sticks for Movement (left) and Look (right). - Stick Deadzones sliders for the Look and Movement sticks. - Trigger Deadzone slider for triggers on controllers. - Vibration Intensity slider for Global, Gameplay, Environment, and Cinematic."

"Button Holds - Disable UI Hold Inputs can be set to Hold or Tap. When Tap is selected, various UI interactions that require an input be held for a set period of time can be activated with a single tap instead. Does not apply to gameplay actions. - Ability Wheel Controller Activation Type can be set to Hold or Tap. When set to Tap, the ability wheel will remain on screen without requiring any persistent input. - Blocking and Aiming require sustained holds. Aiming without holds is possible if the persistent dot is enabled, which can be used as an alternative to the aim-down-sights reticle."

"Combat & Gameplay Controls - No QTES (quick time events) are present by design. - Rapid input sequences are present for certain attack combos during melee combat, if used. - Simultaneous inputs are present for ultimate ability, or if using the ability shortcut menu. - Quick and precise timing is not required for progression. Finisher moves, which are optional and hasten the end of combat, may require faster reactions. - Combat Assists are available in the Combat Presets to further simplify inputs during combat. Includes Aim Assist, Aim Snap, Combat Timing, and more."

"GAMEPLAY Combat Customization Choose between presets of Storyteller, Keeper, Adventure, Underdog, Nightmare, or Custom: - Aim Assist can be set to Off, Low, Medium, and High. - Aim Snap can be turned On/Off to snap to targets. - Prevent Death can be turned On/Off. Available only in the Storyteller preset. - Enemy Damage has five options to adjust the strength of incoming attacks. - Enemy Health has five options to adjust the amount for enemy health. - Enemy Aggression has five options to adjust how aggressive enemies are during combat by changing how often they attack and how difficult they are to stagger. - Enemy Resistances has three options to adjust how much enemies can resist incoming damage. This will not affect the natural resistances some enemies have based on their faction though. - Enemy Vulnerability has three options to adjust how weak enemies are to incoming damage. This will not affect the natural weaknesses some enemies have based on their faction though. - Combat Timing has three options to adjust the timing windows for executing Dodge, Parry, and Perfect Defend actions."

"Exploration Customization Choose between presets of No Assists, Pulse Only, Standard, Directed, or Custom: - Object Glint Visibility can be set to Off, Pulse (Short), Pulse (Long), Always to change the visibility of the glint highlight on interactable objects. - Object Glint Distance can be set to Close, Standard, and Far to change the distance of where glint highlights on interactive objects will appear. - Objective Marker Visibility can be set to Off, Pulse (Short), Pulse (Long), and Always to change the visibility of objective markers. - Waypoint Visibility can be turned On/Off to toggle the visibility of navigation waypoints leading to your quest objective."

"Guidance & Progression - A Library is available for players to access at any point to help recall information. Here, players can browse the Codex to review stories and information discovered during progression, re-read letters from companions and others within the Missives, and reference the Glossary for explanations of terminology specific to Dragon Age Lore. - Tutorials teach gameplay mechanics as new inputs, skills, or actions surface. - World and Local Maps are available for wayfinding and can be referenced at any point. - Waypoint Visibility can be turned On/Off to help with progression. - Objective Marker Visibility can be adjusted between Off, Pulse (Short), Pulse (Long), and Always. - Pausable gameplay is available by design. - Saving is robust, where auto–save is frequent and players can manually save any time outside of combat, cinematics, and dialogue cutscenes."

"Additional Information For more information about the game, patch notes, and news, visit the official website. Please note that this information is based on the US, English version for PC and consoles."

[source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #long post #longpost #solas

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everwhovian · 2 months ago

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what remains. | Hwang brothers

(warnings: squid game typical violence, character death)

Part 1 | next part | masterlist

Part 38: Sabangchigi

They were herded through a narrow corridor – white walls, white ceiling, white light that buzzed faintly overhead. Clinical. Unforgiving. The kind of place designed to erase sound and thought alike.

The corridor opened suddenly.

And the game room waited.

It was vast. Cavernous. The ceiling stretched higher than the dormitory, too high to see where it ended. Spotlights hung like suspended stars, casting long, dramatic beams across the space. The floor was matte gray, clean and seamless, stretching out like a stage before them.

But what caught In-ho’s eye was the center of the room.

A platform.

Raised. Square. Suspended slightly above the ground on mechanical arms that looked far too delicate for what they held. Four flat quadrants divided the square each marked by a subtle symbol carved into the surface. The edges were slightly elevated, forming low ridges. Nothing dramatic. Nothing flashy.

But it wasn’t there by accident.

In-ho slowed.

Beside him, Young-il craned his neck, staring at the structure with open curiosity. “Looks like some kind of playground,” he muttered. “Weird-ass jungle gym.”

In-ho didn’t answer.

He was already studying the layout. The spacing. The railings above. The cameras embedded in the far walls. The control booth behind tinted glass.

Too deliberate. Too clean.

The guards ushered them to the perimeter of the platform, splitting them up in quiet rows by pairs. In-ho and Young-il stood near the north edge. Others followed suit, moving into lines without knowing why, just obeying the unspoken choreography of survival.

No one fought it.

Not yet.

Because so far, nothing had told them they were meant to turn on each other.

Not yet.

Young-il glanced sideways. “You ever see a game like this before?”

In-ho didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on the corners of the platform. On the slight give beneath the surface as weight shifted. On the subtle tilt that came when one of the guards stepped onto it and stepped off again.

A balance test.

He felt his stomach twist.

“No,” he said quietly. “But I don’t like it.”

The voice hadn’t spoken again. The rules hadn’t been read. But every part of In-ho’s body buzzed with warning. His instincts, long-honed, were already pulling threads together.

They’d been told to pair up.

They’d been led here.

And something about the stillness in the air felt too sharp. Too expectant.

Like the room was waiting for someone to fall.

The guards moved again. Silent as ever, but the meaning was clear.

Sit.

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

One by one, players obeyed.

In-ho lowered himself to the ground slowly, knees folding with the ease of instinct – not comfort. His hands rested loose over his thighs, every muscle coiled, watching. Young-il dropped down beside him with a soft exhale, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, eyes on the pale platform ahead like it might answer the questions no one had asked yet.

The room was quieter now. Not peaceful – just waiting.

Then the lights changed.

A mechanical hum rolled through the ceiling – low, electric – and four beams flicked on, one by one, casting angled spotlights across the platform. Harsh circles of light, too clean to be warm. The room dimmed around them, shadows bleeding out toward the walls, and everything else – the bodies, the breath, the tension – seemed to tighten in response.

In-ho didn’t shift. But his eyes narrowed slightly.

He had a bad feeling.

It had been building since the moment they’d stepped into this room – maybe since the night before. A feeling he knew too well. One that clung to the back of his neck and settled behind his ribs.

He’d felt it before undercover raids. Before charges were filed that couldn’t be walked back. Before orders came down that tasted like regret.

The calm before cruelty.

The voice returned.

“Welcome to your next game.”

No fanfare. No chime. No pretense of kindness this time.

Just those words.

That voice.

Still smooth. Still calm.

Still the same one that had told them to find a partner five minutes ago.

“The next game is Sabangchigi. The game will proceed shortly.”

A murmur rippled through the room – confusion, mostly. Heads tilted. Bodies tensed. A few players looked around as if that might clarify something. It didn’t.

In-ho’s mind reached back automatically. Childhood. Concrete yards. Scuffed shoes. A game of quadrants – kicking, dodging, defending space. It came back in fragments. Blurry rules, the echo of laughter, someone shouting “Chigi!” across school pavement. But that wasn’t what this was.

Not here.

Not now.

He knew it even before the voice said the next words.

“You have entered the quadrants. Four teams have been selected to play simultaneously.”

In-ho’s stomach twisted – just slightly.

He didn’t move.

Each word landed like a footstep in snow.

“Each team is composed of two players.”

Partnered. The word wasn’t said, but it echoed anyway.

“When the round begins, each pair will enter their assigned quadrant. The objective is to eliminate your opponent by any means necessary.”

The word opponent hit harder than the rest.

Because it meant that the person you’d chosen to stand beside – the one you’d sat beside, made promises to – was the enemy now.

Beside him, In-ho felt Young-il go very still.

There it was.

The trap.

In-ho closed his eyes for just a moment.

Not long. Just long enough to breathe.

He’d known. Somewhere deep down, he’d felt it the moment the voice said partner. But the cruelty of it – the elegance of the manipulation – still found a way to twist in his chest.

The room around them fractured fast. Voices rose. One player shoved away from their partner. Another grabbed someone else’s shirt and screamed “You lied!”

Young-il flinched hard beside him. In-ho didn’t.

He was used to this part. The aftermath of truth. The breaking.

He kept his eyes forward. On the quadrants. On the lights. On the way each pair would be funneled forward – not just to fight, but to betray.

Because that’s what this was.

Not a test of strength.

Not a game.

A betrayal made mechanical. Expected. Required.

He glanced sideways.

Young-il was still breathing shallow, fingers twisted in the fabric of his track pants. His lips were pressed into a tight line. His eyes were wide, locked on the body now being dragged away.

In-ho reached out – not visibly. Just enough for his fingers to brush against the younger man’s sleeve.

“If neither player is eliminated within five minutes, both will be terminated.”

Silence.

Not the stunned kind that fell like a blanket.

This silence landed like a noose.

In-ho felt it in his spine – a sharp pull, like the floor had dropped out from under him and only memory was keeping him upright.

A two-player game. One winner.

In-ho barely registered the rules. Didn’t hear the full explanation. Because the moment the announcement was made, the moment Young-il turned to him – hope flickering in his eyes, trust still clinging to the edges –

“We’re…” Young-il’s voice barely cracked the space between them. “We have to play against each other?”

He didn’t say it like a question. Not really. It was softer than that. A whisper wrapped in doubt, fraying at the edges like an old thread coming undone.

And his eyes – God, his eyes – they were still full of something that shouldn’t have been there. Not anymore.

Trust.

Still searching In-ho’s face like maybe he’d shake his head. Like maybe he’d say, No. We’re different. They wouldn’t make us do that.

And for a second, In-ho wished he could lie.

Just once.

Tell the kid something easy. Something stupid. Something soft.

But the words never came.

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

He just looked at him.

Really looked – and saw the exact moment that trust cracked.

Not shattered. Not yet.

But fractured.

Hairline.

Silent.

Spreading.

Young-il looked away first. Just for a second. Eyes down. Shoulders too still.

Like he already knew what the answer was.

And In-ho – he looked straight ahead. At nothing. At the too-white walls. The unmarked tiles. The corner of the room where blood would probably end up.

For days, they’d fought side by side. Shared food. Shared silence. Slept under the same piggy bank ceiling and kept each other alive without ever speaking the word friend.

And now?

Now they weren’t partners.

They were opponents.

By design.

And the worst part?

Young-il had never picked anyone else. Never hesitated to choose him. Even now, even when it was obvious, even when the truth was pressing down on both of them like a weight they couldn’t escape –

He’d looked at In-ho and thought: Safe.

And now?

Now In-ho had to figure out how to become the thing he’d promised he’d never be again.

They watched in silence as the first players took the platform.

One threw the marker, hopped twice, landed – and then the tile crumbled beneath his weight. The sound was clean and cruel. The fall was fast. No second chance.

Another pair didn’t even play. One turned the moment the rules were done, grabbed his partner by the collar, and shoved. The body hit the edge, tipped, vanished. A scream that never had time to finish.

In-ho didn’t look away.

Beside him, Young-il stiffened.

His fists were curled white-knuckled against his knees. His chest rose too fast. Too shallow. Every breath a stutter, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep breathing at all.

‘He’s scared,’ In-ho realized.

Of course he is.

And that’s what broke something inside him.

Because he already knew. Knew how this would end. Knew what the rules demanded. Knew what it meant for two people to enter a game designed for one.

And still – he shifted closer. His shoulder pressed lightly into Young-il’s. Not hard. Just enough.

Reassurance.

False. Pointless. But instinctive.

His hand came up and hovered just a moment – not touching, but there – before dropping again.

He wanted to tell him it would be okay. That he had a plan. That they’d get out.

But he didn’t speak. Wouldn’t.

Because they both knew.

Still – In-ho stayed close.

Still – he offered the illusion.

Because some lies were easier than the truth. And sometimes, even when it wouldn’t matter, you reassured the scared kid beside you.

Because that’s what you did when someone looked at you and believed you could keep them safe.

Even if they were wrong.

And then the voice echoed again.

“Quadrant One. Players 132 and 062, step forward.”

The voice rang sharp across the chamber – not loud, but cutting. Final.

In-ho didn’t move right away. He felt the weight of it land first. Not just the words. Not just the numbers. The truth inside them.

His number. 132.

The kid’s. 062.

Young-il turned his head at the same time. His eyes found In-ho without effort. They always did. Even now. Even when they shouldn’t.

Their names hadn’t been said. But the numbers were worse. Numbers turned people into objects. Easier to erase.

And now it was their turn.

In-ho stood.

Every part of him followed like it had been trained to. Shoulders tight. Spine straight. His face gave nothing away. But inside, the current was rising.

Young-il rose beside him, silent, and together they moved – one step at a time, past the others, through the parting crowd.

In-ho saw the blood too late to avoid it – a dark smear across the floor where the previous players had fallen. Pushed. Collapsed mid-struggle. It hadn’t been cleaned.

It wasn’t meant to be.

The smear led toward the platform. It disappeared just before the steel edge began.

He didn’t look at it again.

He didn’t let himself linger.

He couldn’t afford to feel it now.

The platform was raised slightly from the floor, supported by metal arms and gears that hissed quietly beneath the weight of the game. It wasn’t unstable – not yet – but it was alive. The tension in the frame buzzed like a breath held too long.

They ascended.

The board stretched out before them – long, symmetrical, and wrong in all the ways that mattered.

It was Sabangchigi. Almost.

Just enough to twist something deep in In-ho’s gut – the shape of a memory bent into something colder, crueler. Childhood sanded down to its sharpest edges.

Two mirrored boards, one on either side of a raised central tile. Each side flared out from the middle like wings – tiles 1 through 8, laid in staggered rectangles and crossing diagonals. A grid of numbered promises, none of them kind.

And at the center: tile 0. The home square.

In-ho’s eyes tracked the layout automatically. A starting tile directly beneath his feet – 1 and 2. Then the run of it. The marker would be thrown ahead, landing on a tile somewhere in the spread. The player would hop to that tile, one foot only, retrieve the marker, and then continue – landing finally on tile 0.

If they made it, that tile where the marker had landed was theirs. Claimed. Locked.

And then came the real test.

Because after the home tile, they’d switch.

The next round would send them into enemy territory. Onto their partner’s board – a mirrored set of steps now rigged with death. One misstep. One forgotten path. One claimed tile beneath your foot… and it was over.

And that was the best-case scenario.

Because some hadn’t even waited for the pattern to play out.

Tile 0 wasn’t just the shared midpoint. It wasn’t a pause.

It was a choice.

One place. One moment. Both players landing there before the next round began.

Some had used it to catch their breath.

Others had shoved.

And the worst part?

That option was baked into the rules. Expected. Allowed.

In-ho exhaled slowly. The light above buzzed faintly. The platform vibrated beneath his sneakers with the hum of gears that hadn’t started moving yet.

It looked like a game.

But it wasn’t.

It was a narrowing path with a countdown baked into every tile. And sooner or later, that path would end – with one of them standing.

And one of them gone.

The gears beneath them groaned.

A low, mechanical sound rolled beneath In-ho’s sneakers – not loud, but heavy. Like something old shifting beneath weight it had carried too many times.

Then the platform lifted.

It rose slowly, the pistons engaging with a soft hiss, elevating the platform many meters above the floor. Not high enough to seem deadly. But high enough to be.

In-ho’s muscles tensed instinctively. He didn’t move his feet, but he could feel the faint tremble beneath the surface as it settled – the slight tilt of the platform that made balance harder than it should have been. Just enough to throw you off if you weren’t paying attention. Or even if you were.

He shifted his weight experimentally. The tile beneath him gave – a whisper-soft dip, then steadied.

Beside him, Young-il stood tall on his end of the board. He didn’t fidget. But he didn’t hide the way his eyes moved either – taking in the tiles, the angles, the edges. Searching. Thinking.

In-ho exhaled through his nose. Short. Measured.

The voice returned.

“Player 062 will begin.”

The marker sat at Young-il’s feet – a smooth black disc, shaped like river stone. It looked harmless in the sterile light, but it wasn’t. It was weight. It was choice.

Young-il crouched to pick it up. His fingers closed around it slowly, like he was bracing for something heavier than it was.

Their eyes met.

Young-il didn’t speak.

He just gave a tiny shrug – barely a movement – like he was saying ‘here goes nothing’ without trying to pretend it was fine.

Then he threw.

The marker arced clean through the air – no wobble, no hesitation – and landed two tiles forward, just off-center on his side of the mirrored board

The sound it made was soft. A dull click on the smooth tile surface.

The tile didn’t shift. Didn’t sink. Just… waited.

Young-il took a breath. Rolled his shoulders once. Then he raised one foot.

In-ho’s chest tightened.

Young-il hopped forward – first to the center tile, then onward. His form wasn’t perfect. His balance wavered slightly, but he corrected it fast.

He landed on the marked tile.

And for a second, the whole platform seemed to hold its breath.

But it held.

There was no click. No shift. No sign of weakness.

Young-il’s weight landed, pressed, rebounded. He picked up the marker and continued forward. He landed solidly on the home tile, chest rising with a quiet puff of air – maybe a laugh, maybe a curse. It didn’t matter.

He was safe.

A breath punched out of In-ho’s chest before he could catch it. He didn’t let it show. But it had been there. That sharp, sour knot that only loosened once the worst hadn’t happened.

Young-il turned, breath quick from the landing – but steady.

And then he grinned.

That same crooked grin he always gave In-ho when he pulled something off. The kind that said ‘see, I’m not just a reckless idiot.’ The one he’d flashed after beating the timer in Round Two. After every half-lucky, half-stupid survival stunt he pulled that somehow worked.

It was bright. Boyish. Almost smug.

And for a second, In-ho felt it tug at the corners of his own mouth. Reflex, almost. Familiarity.

But then –

It faded.

Not all at once. Not like a light switch. Just a slow, uneven drop from the edges. A twitch of the lip. A shift in his eyes.

Because they both remembered.

This wasn’t just a game of skill.

It wasn’t just a matter of who landed where.

It was a countdown. A sentence. A choice neither of them had agreed to make – but one that had already been made for them.

One of them would walk away from this board.

The other wouldn’t.

Young-il’s grin faded completely now. His shoulders lowered just slightly, and his gaze didn’t flick away this time.

He met In-ho’s eyes and didn’t blink.

And In-ho saw it – the understanding. The apology. The fight already beginning behind the quiet.

He didn’t return the grin.

He just nodded once.

In-ho crouched slowly, joints bending with the weight of everything that couldn’t be said – and when his hand closed around the marker, it felt wrong somehow. Too light for what it carried. Too smooth. Like it should’ve burned or bled or cracked in his palm with the truth of what it meant. But it didn’t. It just lay there, quiet and harmless, waiting to be used.

He rose to his feet with practiced calm, with movements that gave nothing away. The noise of the room receded until all he could hear was the faint shift of his own breath and the solid echo of his boots on the platform.

He didn’t throw high. Didn’t aim for a distant tile. Just tile 3 – forward, direct, safe enough to seem reasonable, far enough to be a challenge.

The marker cut through the air, a clean arc that spun once before tapping against the designated square. It made no sound of danger. No crack. No shift.

The silence held.

And In-ho moved.

One foot lifted. He pressed forward – not in a rush, not with fear, but with the cautious precision of a man who knew that certainty was a lie and gravity could be cruel. He hit the center tile first, and then launched again toward the marked tile. His balance wavered only slightly, a flicker of adjustment in his shoulders – then solid ground beneath him. The tile didn’t buckle. Didn’t whisper. It held.

He crouched, retrieved the marker, turned.

The same hop back – one-footed, precise, sharp. Tile 0. Then home.

His landing was soft, silent. The game accepted it with no fanfare.

Only then did he look up – and saw Young-il waiting at the center, already stepping forward.

Back to tile 0. Back to the place where the two boards met.

Back to each other.

That was the pattern now.

Round by round.

They circled the center like a shared heartbeat – always returning, always facing one another again, like gravity itself kept pulling them back toward the one place they shouldn’t linger.

In-ho’s jaw locked as he stepped onto the home tile once more, eyes flicking across to the opposite side of the mirrored board. The surface stretched out ahead of him like a challenge, every tile now more dangerous than the last. Each square they hadn’t touched yet pulsed with possibility – not of victory, but of endings.

Young-il passed by him again, brushing his sleeve just faintly, and began the next round. This time on In-ho’s board.

Not a word between them. Not a gesture. But the rhythm of the game continued. A throw. A hop. Another tile claimed.

And again, they met at center.

Round after round. Step after step. Neither faltered. Neither forced a move. Neither betrayed the fragile line of trust still stretched between them like an old rope – fraying now, strained by time and design, but somehow not yet severed.

Other players hadn’t lasted this long. Not as pairs. Not as people.

Some had struck before the first tile was claimed – desperate, teeth bared, willing to kill before the game could even ask it of them.

Some had waited until the switch – a single shove on the home tile as their partner turned their back.

And some – the worst of all – had played beautifully, perfectly, all the way until the final tile, and then hesitated. Cracked. Broken by the weight of having to choose.

But not them.

Not In-ho. Not Young-il.

Each tile that disappeared beneath their steps was another delay, another breath, another refusal to become what the game wanted.

But it couldn’t last.

The board was nearly full now. Only a few tiles remained. Every path had been taken, every hop measured, every risk accounted for – and the platform beneath them began to hum with new energy, as if the machine itself was becoming impatient.

Then it happened again.

They landed on tile 0 at the same time.

Opposite ends of the mirrored cross.

Both of them standing on the home tile.

Again.

Face to face.

But this time, the air between them was different.

In-ho stood still, eyes fixed on the kid in front of him – not just watching, but memorizing. The way his chest rose and fell. The way sweat clung to his hairline. The way his shoulders tilted slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to brace for pain or for mercy.

And Young-il hesitated.

His breath caught in his throat, shallow and uneven. His fingers flexed once at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His stance widened instinctively, not in preparation to attack, but as if trying to ground himself – like the floor might vanish beneath his feet if he didn’t plant himself fast enough.

He looked at In-ho.

Not as an opponent. Not as a rival.

As him. The man who’d stood between him and danger. The one he’d sat beside at dinner, shoulder to shoulder. The one who’d promised to look after his brother. The one he had chosen.

And in his eyes – wide, uncertain – there was still trust.

Still belief.

Still hope.

In-ho felt it like a punch to the ribs.

For the first time in the game, he didn’t know what to do.

Every instinct screamed at him to act – to finish this, to survive – but his body stayed still. Tense. Locked.

Because he saw it again.

The resemblance had always been there. He had noticed it from the beginning.

Too young. Too familiar.

Jun-ho’s age. His height. His build. The way his mouth twitched up in a grin, even when he was scared. The way he threw himself into things, trusting that someone would be there to catch him.

Jun-ho had looked at him like that too.

When he was a kid. When he was a teenager. When he had needed someone to believe in.

For one second, a trick of the light, a trick of the mind – it wasn’t Young-il standing there.

It was Jun-ho.

His baby brother, staring at him with wide eyes, confused, betrayed.

In-ho forced himself to blink. His hands clenched into fists at his side.

In that moment, Young-il wasn’t Young-il.

He was a memory.

A flicker.

A younger brother staring at him from across a tile.

Not the man Jun-ho had become – not the detective, not the officer, not the voice behind a badge – but the boy he had once been.

Nine years old. All scraped knees and tangled hair, trailing behind In-ho like a second shadow. Always asking questions. Always needing to be near. Always believing his big brother could fix anything.

And In-ho felt his chest seize, his breath shallow, the platform beneath him suddenly too narrow, too sharp, too cruel.

Young-il swallowed hard. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. And for a terrifying moment, In-ho thought he would call him hyung.

Instead, Young-il stepped forward.

Not fast. Not with violence. Just one slow, almost apologetic movement – like he was hoping In-ho would stop him. Like he was still waiting for permission. Still waiting for this not to be real.

His hands stayed loose. Open. No fists. No fight.

Still trusting him.

Still believing.

Like Jun-ho had.

In-ho’s throat tightened. Something cracked in his chest.

This was a kid. A kid with a baby brother and a photo folded up in his pocket. A kid who grinned crookedly when he survived, who whispered ‘there you are, finally’ like it meant something, who sat beside In-ho on the dormitory floor like they weren’t strangers.

A kid who had looked at him like he was safe.

And still, he stood there.

Waiting.

Trusting.

God, he looked so much like Jun-ho.

And that was the moment In-ho forced the thought to break.

No.

Not a kid.

Not a brother.

Not someone’s family.

Not someone who’d laughed beside him. Not someone who’d begged him to look after a child. Not someone who reminded him of home.

Just a number.

Just 062.

He had to believe that.

He had to strip everything else away – the name, the voice, the memory of a crooked grin – until all that was left was a number printed on a uniform.

That was how you survived.

Not by remembering. Not by caring. Not by seeing them.

But by erasing them.

062. That’s all he was now.

In-ho took a step forward.

The board tilted beneath the shift in weight. The lights above burned white against his skin. He didn’t blink.

062 stepped forward too.

And in the silence between them, something fragile tore itself open.

A gasp – barely a breath – slipped from Young-il’s mouth. His hands twitched once. Then again.

And then, like something inside him snapped, he lunged.

Fast. Not graceful. Not trained. Just raw panic and instinct and the animal will to live.

A fist collided with In-ho’s ribs, too fast to block. He staggered back, balance faltering.

Another hit. The edge of a hand. A shove.

Fingers gripped his collar. Pulled.

The platform rocked. Beneath their feet, one of the tiles gave a warning groan – metal stressed under pressure, waiting to punish one wrong move.

062’s hand shot toward him – gripping the fabric of his shirt, trying to shove him off-balance.

In-ho stumbled. His heart thundered.

This is it.

This is where it ends.

For one terrifying moment, In-ho thought he would fall.

His blood ran cold.

No.

Not here.

Not like this.

Yuna. The baby. Jun-ho. His stepmother.

Their apartment. The small, cluttered living room where Jun-ho would throw his feet up on the couch until their mother smacked him with a newspaper. The tiny balcony where Yuna had stood one evening, the fading sunlight catching on the bracelet circling her wrist. The light scattered across her skin as she turned toward him, her laughter soft, her smile warm – like the last golden rays of the setting sun.

Not like this.

In-ho’s hands moved before his mind could catch up, fingers curling into 062’s collar. Reflex. Training. Muscle memory honed by years of survival and violence.

He grabbed 062’s shirt. Twisted.

The kid slipped.

For half a heartbeat, his hand latched onto In-ho’s sleeve.

Not to strike.

But to hold on.

Like Jun-ho had.

Every single time he’d needed him.

Every time the world had gotten too loud or too sharp. Every time he’d reached for his brother in the dark, whispering his name. Every time he’d said don’t let go and believed it meant something.

And In-ho – for just a second – almost reached back.

Almost grabbed him.

Almost saved him.

But mercy didn’t survive here.

And neither did brothers.

He let go.

062’s eyes widened. Not in fear.

In recognition.

He knew.

He knew it was coming.

He didn’t scream a name. Didn’t plead. Just fell.

Quiet.

Then a flash of motion.

A scream. High. Sharp. Cut short by impact.

Gone.

Just like that.

The platform steadied beneath him.

He refused to look down. He refused to look at the boy’s face. He refused to acknowledge the scream in the back of his mind, the voice telling him he had just killed someone who could have been Jun-ho.

He had hesitated.

Just for a second. A breath. A flicker of something human in the machine.

And it had almost killed him.

That single pause – that heartbeat of guilt, of recognition – had cracked the armor he’d spent years building. Had let in the face of a boy who trusted too easily, who smiled too brightly, who reached for him like a brother. Like family.

It had nearly cost him everything.

In-ho’s jaw clenched tight as he forced his fingers into fists, curling them until the tremble stopped. Nails bit into skin. Good. Pain meant control. Pain meant something real.

He dragged in a breath – slow, measured – and let it out through his nose.

Then he did what he’d always done.

He buried it.

Packed it down into the part of him that didn’t flinch anymore. Sealed it behind orders, behind duty, behind survival.

One more player gone.

That’s all.

One more body added to the ever-growing silence. One more name unspoken. One more weight he wasn’t allowed to carry.

One more step toward the end.

He didn’t think about the grin. Or the photo in Young-il’s pocket. Or the promise he’d made to check on a little brother who would now grow up never knowing what happened.

He didn’t think about the way Young-il had looked at him just before falling – not with hate, not with fear, but with something far worse.

Understanding.

He didn’t think about the fact that he’d seen Jun-ho’s face reflected there.

And if – when – he closed his eyes that night, and that face stared back at him in the dark…

If he heard Young-il’s voice again, laughing low beside him during a quiet dinner, or whispering “Hyung…” into a room where no one else listened…

If the sound of it caught in his throat like a splinter he couldn’t remove…

No one would know.

Not the guards. Not the cameras or the cruel people who watched or the shattered quiet left in the boy’s place.

Not even Jun-ho.

Because In-ho had survived.

He had won this round.

That was what mattered.

That was the only thing that could be allowed to matter.

And if it wasn’t?

Then he would lie to himself until it was.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

(A/N: I'm so sorry 😭😭 this chapter is the reason why it took so long for me to update... I didn't want it to happen...💔)

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#what remains hwang brothers #hwang brothers #hwang inho #hwang in ho #hwang bros #squid game fanfic #squid game #squid game 2015 #28th squid games #28th squid game #hwang inho's games #player 132 #player 062 #oh young il

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