#on the nondescript green plain

[thegaydepressedone]

Silly little drawing I made with @dimitrikissov of my favourite guys!!!!

[ivorivet]

Fellowship Cloak Weaving Draft

Hi all! I've been kind of quiet on this blog, but I have something really exciting to share today: after six years, I FINALLY figured out the weaving draft for the Fellowship cloaks from Lord of the Rings.

This is a problem I've been trying to figure out since shortly after I made my Legolas cosplay in 2018. The cloaks that the nine members of the Fellowship receive in Lothlórien look like a nondescript gray fabric from far away, but zoom in and you'll see a very complex pattern of horizontal and vertical bars of dark gray and white.

(First image from Alleycatscratch, second is a photo of the scarf of the same fabric I bought from Stansborough where I was attempting to trace the pattern repeat with orange thread)

This is going to be a long post, so I'm just going to lead with the completed draft:

Imagine me Will Smith wife posing at this for the last 24 hours.

It's got the correct size of pattern repeat! It's got the five individual ripples! It's got that dumb little pattern break in the middle that breaks up the center of the leaf motif! I am OVER THE MOON about figuring this out, especially starting out with very little knowledge about weaving drafts in general. More ramblings about this type of draft and my thought process below:

This particular pattern is known as "shadow weave," a subset of color-and-weave where the pattern is created from the interplay of different warp and weft colors plus the weaving draft itself. To get an idea of how that works, let's start by looking at plain weave in one color:

The solid purple bar at the top indicates the color of the warp threads, and the solid purple bar at the right indicates the color of the weft threads. So far we've got our basic under-over-under-over pattern in a single, solid color (purple). But what if we add an additional color (green) to the warp, and alternate those colors? Then we'd get a speckled fabric like this:

The visual effect looks pretty much identical regardless of if you start with green or purple. However, if you also alternate purple and green in the weft, it produces a very different effect depending on if you start with purple or green (note the differences in the bar on the right):

So cool, now we can make either vertical or horizontal stripes! If you double up on the colored threads in some areas, you can even flip between the two and start dividing the fabric into "blocks," like so:

Note that with all these changes, the only thing we've been doing is changing the order of the colors in the warp and weft. The actual weave structure itself is still just regular ol' plain weave. The pattern that we've created in the pictures above is called "log cabin," which you can read about here. But similar effects can be created by skipping shafts/picks in the weaving draft as well. So how do we get from log cabin into the more complicated and general category of shadow weave?

It's weird to describe how to convert a given pattern into shadow weave. There are multiple very good books with chapters on shadow weave as well as books entirely dedicated to it. Despite my best efforts, all these explanations still got so technical so fast it feels like, to me at least, asking a 6 year old to recite an entire Shakespeare play verbatim immediately after confirming that they can, in fact, sing the alphabet song. So I'm going to give my best shot at explaining it, and if it doesn't make sense, just blame it on me and check out some of the linked books above if you're really curious.

Think of shadow weave as a beauty filter for a black and white drawing. If you create a pattern out of black and white blocks/pixels/whatever, the shadow weave "filter" can be applied to it to create a similar pattern that preserves the shapes in the original, but makes them out of vertical/horizontal lines instead of solid color blocks. So in some of these books you'll find mention of converting a twill or an overshot pattern into shadow weave - that's what this is referencing. The original pattern (usually designated with light yarn) gets a secondary shadow pattern (in dark yarn) inserted into in between every other thread (also called an "end" when referencing warp yarns).

I got stuck at this point for literal years. I could find examples of weaving drafts using shadow weave, but couldn't figure out how to generate ones of my own. I imported some of the drafts I found in books into weaving software and poked around to see if I could push the patterns in the direction I wanted by changing individual elements. My experiments in changing individual warp ends and weft picks always ended up looking like stretched or compressed versions of the original pattern (when I was being careful), or incomprehensible garbage (when I was being daring). I even bought a sample of the fabric from Stansborough in the form of a scarf, thinking I could brute force it by using a magnifying glass to figure out the interlacements. I was able to figure out how large the pattern repeat was (approximately 160 x 80 ends), but otherwise I got nothing but eye strain. I ended up tabling the project and coming back to it every couple years, banging my head against it until I gave up.

Until one day last week when I was flipping through the Strickler book and saw this page:

And I was like

HOLD UP

IT'S HER

...or at least a close cousin of her. BUT IT WAS A START.

So the first step was to identify what about this pattern needed to change in order to make this look like the Fellowship cloak. Overall, the main differences were:

Pattern repeat on Strickler 304 was too small - it was 42 x 42 ends and I needed it to be somewhere in the ballpark of 80 x 80 before altering the repeat.

The Fellowship pattern has a weird vertical dividing line that runs down the middle of the leaf motif, effectively doubling the width of the repeat by creating two similar looking but different leaves. This was the change I was least concerned about, as flipping between vertical and horizontal lines is pretty a straightforward process as shown above with the log cabin draft.

Strickler 304 also has a different number of waves (peaks and valleys, or whatever you want to call them) compared to the Fellowship pattern. There are 3 waves in Strickler and 5 in Fellowship. Figuring out how to add these extra waves was the biggest obstacle for me to address.

And finally, a couple of things I didn't need to care about for the weaving draft: 1) the Fellowship pattern is elongated in the warp direction, but this has more to do with a little extra spacing between weft picks as compared to the warp threads. When weaving this you'd just need to make sure you don't beat it very hard and you'll get that tall rectangle shape instead of a square repeat. 2) Both patterns have mirrored symmetry around a diagonal line drawn through the center, meaning that for treadling I could "tromp as writ" or basically just mirror the threading diagram to get the treadling instructions. For reasons I can't figure out, the Strickler pattern isn't exactly tromp as writ but looks close enough to it that the effect is still there. But I don't really care enough to figure out why - the important thing is that it gives us a threading diagram to start with!

So to start with, here's what Strickler 304 looks like in my weaving software:

(By the way, this is Fiberworks PCW Bronze. The trial version is free, and the only difference between that and the paid version is that the save/print options are disabled. I'm not sure they know about screenshots, bless their hearts.)

This is a design for 8 shafts and 8 treadles, thus the 8x8 square in the upper right corner. And you can see in the threading diagram (upper horizontal bar) and treadling diagram (right bar) that the curvature of the waves takes a similar shape to the curves of the final pattern. We just have to figure out why. And since I had already tried changing individual warp ends and treadling patterns without much success, I needed to approach in a different way.

What ended up helping me see the forest for the trees was de-shadowifying the pattern. It's relatively easy to get the black-and-white version of the pattern from the threading draft - you just need to delete the shadow, which means removing every other warp end. This is what deleting all the dark ends from the warp and light ends from the weft looks like:

We can also see with a little more detail how the threading diagram is similar to the curve in the pattern. The pattern is 21 pixels tall, but it's been chopped up to repeat over 8 shafts, like so:

OKAY COOL COOL COOL. EVERYTHING'S COMIN' UP MILHOUSE IVORIVET. From this green squiggly line we know two things:

The final number of warp ends in the shadow weave pattern is double whatever the height of the squiggle is. In the case of the Strickler pattern, we're going from 21 to 42. Since we know that we need our final height for the Fellowship pattern needs to be 80, the squiggle for that pattern needs to be around 40 pixels tall.

We needed to stitch three repeats of the Strickler threading diagram together in order to see the full squiggle. How many waves does the Strickler pattern have? Three. How many waves does the Fellowship pattern need? Five. How many shafts do we have to work on? Eight. What is 5 x 8? 40!!!

So how about we make a NEW squiggle, only 40 pixels high instead of 21? (We're gonna drop the pixels in blue, since threading diagrams won't work if you put a single end through two shafts.)

Next, we're going to chop up that squiggle and use it to create a new threading diagram in Fiberworks. I'm also using "tromp as writ" here to create the treadling pattern.

LOOK AT THAT. IT'S GOT MORE WAVES!! FIVE OF THEM!

And then we add back in the shadow by creating a space for a new end between each existing end:

And then add in the shadow. I'm using 4 as my number for the shadow offset since we're using 8 shafts. So shaft 1 shadows to shaft 5, shaft 2 shadows to shaft 6, etc.

And we're going to apply tromp as writ again to get:

AYYYYYY WE'RE GETTING CLOSE! I'm fairly certain that the reason why the Strickler treadling wasn't exactly tromp as writ had something to do with centering the pattern repeat a little more than this, but I don't really care about that so I'm going to leave this treadling the way that it is.

From here out, we need at add that weird vertical dividing line that chops up the center of the leaves. So we double the pattern repeat along the horizontal axis, and offset a 40 pixel section in the middle of the threading diagram by 1 pixel. I've also colored in the differences between the dark and light ends to help differentiate the original and shadowed curves a little bit more. (I also tried offsetting the colors of the warp ends by 1 as well like what we did in the log cabin example, but I ended up liking the way that this looked more.)

THERE SHE IS!!! MY PRECIOUS!!

From here on out, there is still a ton of work I need to do if I actually want to weave this cloak from scratch. I did buy roving in quantities that could be used to spin both the dark and light yarn (dark gray Gotland for the dark yarn, and dove gray merino + white alpaca for the light yarn), but there's still the matter of, like, handspinning a cloak's quantity of extremely fine yarn. I did start spinning the Gotland several years ago as fine as I could possibly manage, and got through maybe 20 ounces of it. However, I'm a much better spinner now and I'm not sure if the my skeins from several years ago would be suitable for weaving, or if it would be worth replicating what I did back then vs. just starting over with a new standard. There's also the possibility of just... buying weaving yarn if I want to skip that step, which would definitely save me a significant amount of time.

Anyway, thanks for reading this far and I hope it helped break down why this was so exciting for me!

[alohajix]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐚𝐩𝐞

Description: she said she wasn’t nervous. She said she'd never done this before. But then he walked in—and made her forget every lie she told herself. The Casting Tape — you only need to watch it once to come back for more.

Warnings: this one-shot includes explicit sexual content, including fingering, oral sex (M/F), face-fucking, rough grinding, dirty talk, praise kink, light choking, spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), and graphic language. Readers +18.

Words count: ~ 7K.

I understand you guys really enjoyed “First Time for Everything”. So here’s a new one-shot I've been working on for a while, featuring pornstar!harry once again.

please enjoyyy💕

*****

I almost didn’t walk through the door. It looked too normal from the outside—just a nondescript black building sandwiched between a vape shop and a custom auto wrap place. No sign. No logo. Just a metal door and a tiny keypad. I stood there for a full minute, staring at my reflection in the door’s narrow glass panel, wondering what the hell I was doing. My fingers fidgeted with the zipper on my hoodie as I debated bailing. But then I remembered rent. And how many hours I’d spent reading that post.

“Paid casting opportunity. Professional, safe, filmed. No pressure to continue. Just be yourself.”

So I buzzed in. A soft click, and I stepped inside. The air was cool, sterile, quiet. A short hallway led to a room that looked more like a YouTube set than anything porn-related—white walls, gray backdrop, soft box lights aimed at a plain black leather couch. A camera was already set up on a tripod, its little red light blinking lazily like it was waiting. There was no one else in the room, just a low table with a water bottle and a clipboard. I approached it like it might bite.

“Hey there,” a voice called from behind me—low, male, casual. “You can grab a seat. We’ll start in a second.”

I turned to find a guy with a headset leaning against the doorframe, sipping coffee. He looked more like someone who worked in tech support than adult film, and he barely glanced at me. That helped a little. I gave him a tight smile and sat down on the couch, tucking one leg under the other. The camera stared back at me. I wiped my sweaty palms on my denim skirt.

“You go by your real name or a stage name?” the voice asked.

I hesitated. “Stage name.”

He chuckled. “Smart. What should we call you?”

“…Lola.” I don’t know where it came from. I didn’t even know anyone named Lola.

“Cute,” he said. “Alright, Lola. We’re just gonna ask you a few questions. Keep your eyes on the camera, speak clearly, be yourself.”

I nodded once. The camera light turned solid red.

“Tell us how old you are and why you’re here.”

My voice came out a little too fast. “Twenty-two. I—uh—I heard about this through a friend of a friend. Thought it might be… interesting.”

“And have you done anything like this before?”

I forced a smile. “Not professionally.”

He chuckled again, friendly but disinterested. “Good answer. So—this is a soft casting. No pressure to do anything you’re not comfortable with. We just want to see how you come across on camera. If it feels natural, maybe we’ll try a short chemistry test.”

My stomach flipped. “Chemistry test?”

“With a partner,” he clarified. “Clothed or not. Touching or not. Totally up to you.”

I swallowed hard. “And who’s the partner?”

“Hey, man,” the guy said suddenly, glancing over my shoulder. “You mind stepping in for a quick test?”

I didn’t hear footsteps. I felt them. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. And then I heard his voice.

“Yeah. I’ve got time.” I turned. And immediately forgot how to breathe.

He walked in wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair tucked under a gray beanie, tattooed arms on full display. Calm. Comfortable. Like he belonged here. And when his eyes met mine—green, curious, knowing—I had to look away before I gave something away.

I knew who he was. Everyone who’s ever dipped into amateur porn knew who he was. He wasn’t just a pornstar—he was the pornstar. The one known for making people cry in the best way possible. The one who ruined girls for normal guys. The one I may or may not have watched the night I sent my application in.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice like silk. “I’m Harry.” Of course he was.

I tried to remember how to smile. “Hi.”

He looked me over—slowly, respectfully, but definitely. His gaze dragged from my hoodie to my bare thighs, then up to my lips before meeting my eyes again.

“You okay to keep going?” he asked. “Or just here to talk?” His tone was soft. Patient.

I bit my lip. I should’ve said no. I should’ve kept it simple. But the way he was looking at me… “Let’s try,” I said quietly.

His mouth curled into a half-smile. “We’ll go slow.”

He sat beside me on the couch, leaving just enough space between us that it felt intentional. His thigh brushed mine every time I shifted, and I wasn’t sure if it was on purpose—but I hoped it was.

The camera was still rolling. “You nervous?” he asked, his voice low and almost amused.

“A little,” I admitted. “You’re not exactly a nobody.”

He smiled at that—soft, slow, like he was letting the compliment soak into his skin.

“Well, I’ve done a few of these,” he said, tilting his body slightly toward me. “So if you want to stop at any point, you say the word. We good on that?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Safe word or something?”

“We can use red. If you want to pause, say yellow. But honestly? Just talk to me. I listen.”

God, that shouldn’t have made my stomach twist—but it did. His hand landed gently on my knee. Just a touch. Nothing dirty. But the weight of it made my heart skip.

“Can I touch you a little more?” he asked.

I swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

He slid his hand up my thigh, slow and deliberate, until his fingers curled around the bare skin just beneath the hem of my skirt. His pinky brushed the side of my underwear. He didn’t move further. He just… held me.

“See? You’re already shaking a little,” he said, voice soft like a secret.

“I’m not,” I lied.

His thumb moved lazily across my thigh. “You are. That’s okay, though. Nervous is normal. But you look good nervous.”

I smirked despite myself. “Is that your line?”

“No,” he said, leaning in just a little. “That’s the truth.”

His other hand reached up, fingers playing with the zipper of my hoodie. He didn’t pull it down right away—he just watched my face.

“Can I?”

I nodded again. “Yeah.”

He tugged the zipper down, slow as hell. I didn’t wear a bra on purpose—I’d told myself it was about being comfortable, but I’d also known what kind of job this was. I’d wanted to feel like I was ready for it, even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. He pushed the hoodie off my shoulders, revealing my thin tank top underneath—white, ribbed, tight. My nipples were already hard beneath the fabric.

His eyes dropped for half a second. “Fuck.”

“What?” I teased.

“You’re hot.” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Didn’t expect that.”

I grinned. “You didn’t look me up before this?”

He leaned closer, lips near my ear. “Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Fuck. That got to me. I shifted in my seat, squeezing my thighs together, and his hand didn’t miss it.

“You get turned on easily, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Only when someone says shit like that.”

He chuckled, and it vibrated straight through me. “Alright then. Let’s see how much you can take before we even get your clothes off.”

He turned to face me fully, his hand now resting between my thighs, thumb pressing lightly at the crease where leg met hip. I was still covered, but it felt dangerously intimate.

“Look at me,” he said. I did.

His hand moved to my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt. His palm was warm on my bare skin, fingertips grazing my ribcage, tracing just under the curve of my breast. His thumb brushed upward, catching the edge of my nipple through the fabric—and I gasped, barely holding still.

“Sensitive?” he asked, eyes still locked on mine. I nodded, biting my lip.

He pinched lightly—just enough to make me jerk—and then soothed the spot with his palm.

“You’re already breathing like you’ve been at this for an hour.”

“Maybe I just like the way you touch,” I whispered.

He grinned again. “Yeah?”

His other hand cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair as he leaned in. “I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?”

I nodded. “Please.” And then he kissed me. Slow. Firm. One hand holding my jaw just right while the other teased under my shirt. His lips moved against mine like he had all the time in the world. He tasted like mint and something just a little bit sweet—god, it was unfair how good he was at this.

My mouth opened for him on instinct, tongue brushing his as he deepened the kiss. I whimpered before I meant to, and he smiled against my lips.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He pulled me onto his lap. I didn’t even realize I’d moved until I felt his thighs beneath mine, the stretch of my skirt riding up, the thick press of him already hard beneath me.

“You wanna keep going?” he asked, hand splayed on my lower back.

“Yes.”

“You wanna keep your clothes on for now?”

I nodded again. “Let me stay like this.”

He gave a slow, approving nod. “Smart girl.”

I started to grind—tentatively, testing—and he held me tighter.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Just like that.”

His hands stayed on my waist, guiding me. My panties were soaked through already, and he hadn’t even touched me properly. His cock pressed up against my center through both layers, and the friction was delicious.

“Feel what you’re doing to me?” he whispered. I nodded. “Good. Don’t stop.” I didn’t.

I rocked against him slowly, rhythmically, trying to match the pace of his hands, trying not to let my moans get too loud. But the fabric was slick, and I was clenching around nothing, desperate for more. He leaned up to kiss me again, slower this time, while grinding back into me with little thrusts of his hips.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered. “Using me to get yourself off. All clothed. So dirty, baby.”

God, baby—the way it rolled off his tongue nearly made me come.

“I wanna see you fall apart,” he said against my lips. “But not yet. Gotta take my time with you.”

I whimpered, hands clutching his shoulders. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it to be unforgettable.”

I didn’t mean to drop to my knees. It just happened. One second, I was straddling him, moaning into his mouth, and the next, I was slipping down between his legs, hands trailing over his thighs like they belonged there. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t say a word—just leaned back on the couch and watched me with that slow-burning smirk, his chest rising and falling like he already knew what I was going to do next.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice husky.

I nodded as I settled between his thighs, reaching for the waistband of his sweats. “You’ve been hard since I got here.”

His brow ticked up. “And you think that means you get to do something about it?”

I looked up at him, tilted my head innocently. “I know I do.”

He grinned. “Cocky.”

“I learned from the best,” I said, tugging his sweats down just enough to free him. And fuck.

I’d seen it before—on screens, in videos—but nothing prepared me for the way it looked up close. Thick, long, already leaking at the tip. Veins along the shaft. His entire body was unfair, but this? This was just cruel.

I wrapped my hand around him slowly.

“You gonna stare at it all day, or you gonna do something?” he teased.

I licked a long stripe from the base to the tip, just to shut him up. His breath caught.

“Mouth open,” he murmured. I obeyed, letting my tongue hang out as I stroked him slowly. He was heavy in my hand, warm and twitching, and when I finally took him into my mouth, I moaned like it was for me, not him.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, his head tipping back. “You’re better than half the girls I’ve filmed with.”

I pulled back just enough to say, “That supposed to make me feel special?”

He looked down at me with a grin. “It should.” Then he shifted his hips forward a little, his hand slipping into my hair. “Hold still,” he said. “Let me fuck your mouth a little.”

I whimpered, nodding as he gathered my hair in his fist and guided me back down. His thrusts were slow at first, controlled, testing. He pushed past my lips and onto my tongue, letting me feel every inch. I hollowed my cheeks around him, drool already sliding down my chin. The angle made my throat ache—but I didn’t care. He watched every second.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Look at me. Eyes up. Fuck—just like that.” I moaned around him, and he groaned in return, gripping my hair tighter. “You like this?” he asked. “Being used a little?”

I blinked up at him, spit trailing from my lip to the base of his cock. “Yes.”

“How filthy are you, baby?”

I swallowed him deeper before answering. “Wanna choke on it.”

He smirked, that filthy edge sharpening in his eyes. “Greedy girl.”

He held my jaw and started to fuck into my mouth harder, sloppier. My mascara was running—I could feel it—and my knees were going numb, but I didn’t care. Not when he was groaning and panting above me, thumb wiping spit from the corner of my mouth.

“Open wider,” he growled. “Let me all the way in.”

I did. He pushed in until the tip hit the back of my throat, and I gagged—but he didn’t stop. He stayed there for a second, watching the tears spill down my cheeks before pulling back with a wet, obscene pop.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “Fuck, you’re perfect.” I blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, lips puffy and slick. “You want me to come in your mouth?” he asked.

“No.” He raised a brow. “I want more than that.” He stared at me for a beat. Then he reached down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me gently to my feet.

“Take your clothes off.”

I hesitated, chest heaving. “All of them?”

“All of them,” he said softly. “Want to see what kind of mess I’ve made.”

I peeled off my hoodie first, even though it had already been unzipped. My tank top followed, sticky with sweat. Then my skirt. Then my panties—soaked, clinging to my thighs. His eyes drank me in.

“You’re soaked.”

“You made me like this.”

He stood up—slow, deliberate—and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my neck, then lower, until he was kneeling in front of me.

“You ever squirt before?” he asked, voice low.

I swallowed hard. “No.”

He smirked. “Might today.” Then he leaned in and dragged his tongue across my inner thigh.

He didn’t go for my pussy right away. Instead, he kissed every inch around it—my thighs, the crease of my hip, the patch of skin just above my mound. His hands wrapped around my legs, holding me steady as he took his time. The anticipation had my stomach fluttering, my cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to be touched.

“Please,” I whispered, shifting.

He looked up at me from between my legs, his lips shiny with spit. “Yeah?”

I nodded, breath shaky. “I—I need—”

He slid one finger up my slit, slow as hell. “You need this?” he asked, teasing my clit with the lightest touch. “Or my mouth?”

“Both.”

He grinned. “Good answer.” Then he dove in.

His mouth latched around my clit like he’d missed it, like he owned it. His tongue flicked and sucked, alternating between slow pressure and fast strokes that made my legs tremble. I cried out, one hand gripping the back of the couch, the other tangled in his hair. He moaned against me when I tugged, and I felt it vibrate through my whole body.

“F-fuck,” I gasped. “Harry—”

“You taste so sweet,” he muttered between licks. “Could stay here all day.”

He pushed two fingers into me while his tongue kept working, curling them just right. My back arched off the couch, a moan ripping from my throat so loud I was sure the mic picked it up.

“That’s it,” he said. “Let them hear how good I’m making you feel.”

I was already on the edge, too fast, too intense—and he knew it.

“You close?” he asked, sliding his fingers faster, deeper, hitting every nerve ending I had.

I nodded, gasping. “Yes—yes—fuck, don’t stop—” He stopped. Pulled back. Fingers still inside me, but barely moving. I whimpered. “Why—”

“Cause I want you to come on my cock, not my tongue.”

“Fucking mean,” I whispered.

He smirked. “You like it.” I hated how right he was.

He stood and kicked off his sweats fully this time, leaving him completely naked—tall, lean, toned. Tattoos stretched across his chest, down his arms. His cock was heavy and thick, standing up proudly, still slick from my mouth. He grabbed a condom from the table behind him—but I stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“Don’t,” I said softly. His eyes locked on mine.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I’m clean. On the pill. I want to feel all of you.”

His jaw clenched. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.”

He climbed back onto the couch, pulling me into his lap again. This time, we were both naked. Skin against skin. He lined himself up with one hand, the other gripping my waist.

“Take it slow,” he murmured. I did. I sank down on him inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, the burn, the way he filled me up so deep I thought I might break.

He kept eye contact the whole time. “Look at you,” he said. “Taking it so well.”

I whimpered when I bottomed out, thighs shaking.

“So fucking tight,” he growled. “You weren’t made for this, were you?”

I moaned. “Maybe I was made for you.” That broke something in him.

His hands gripped my hips, and he started to move—slow thrusts upward that hit just right. I rocked against him, chasing friction, rolling my hips as he fucked up into me.

“Say my name,” he ordered.

“Harry.”

“Louder.”

“Harry.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“So fucking good,” I gasped. “You’re so deep—fuck—it’s so good.” His hand came up to my throat, not squeezing, just holding.

“You’re gonna come like this?” he asked. “Like a needy little slut in my lap?”

I nodded frantically. “Yes—please, I need it—I need to come—”

“Then come.”

I shattered. The orgasm hit like a wave, crashing through me in pulses that left me crying out his name, clinging to him, hips still rocking even as I trembled. He held me through it, whispered praise into my ear.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “So fucking good for me.” But he wasn’t done. He flipped me over onto the couch, face-down, ass up. “Not finished with you yet,” he growled.

He slid back into me easily, grabbing my hips and fucking into me hard now—rough, deep, animalistic. My cheek pressed against the cushion, mouth open as he pounded into me.

“You want it rough?” he panted. “You want to feel how hard you made me?”

“Y-yes—fuck—yes—”

He slapped my ass, hard. “Say you love it.”

“I fucking love it.”

“Say who’s fucking you.”

“Harry—Harry’s fucking me—please don’t stop—”

He leaned over me, one hand tangled in my hair, the other holding my throat as he fucked me from behind. Skin slapping, breath ragged, everything filthy and perfect.

“Gonna come on you,” he groaned. “Wanna see you dripping.”

“Yes,” I begged. “Do it—please—come on me—”

He pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast before spilling hot all over my lower back and ass, groaning through gritted teeth. I lay there, trembling, dripping, wrecked. Breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He exhaled a long breath, letting it hang in the quiet between us. The only sound now was the soft hum of the camera still rolling. The red light blinked steadily, like it had witnessed every filthy, raw second of what just happened. Harry sat back, eyes scanning over me like he wasn’t sure if he was done yet—or just trying to memorize how I looked. Wrecked. Flushed. My hair a mess. My thighs still trembling.

“Stay there a sec,” he said, voice a little rougher than before.

I blinked up at him, cheek still pressed to the couch cushion, and nodded. He disappeared for a moment and came back with a warm towel. He didn’t rush—just knelt beside me, gently wiping me clean, taking his time like he actually cared. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just good at playing the part. But something about the way his fingers grazed my skin, soft and unhurried, made my chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, gaze flicking up to mine.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… that was a lot.”

A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Good lot or bad lot?”

“Really good.”

He handed me the towel and stood up to grab water bottles. When he tossed one to me, I caught it with shaky hands.

“You looked like you’ve done that before,” he said, sitting down beside me again—close, but not touching.

“I haven’t,” I replied, twisting the cap off. “Not like that.”

He raised a brow. “You sure?”

I smiled. “Trust me. I’d remember if someone ever made me feel like that before.” He went quiet, watching me sip.

“You ever actually plan on watching the footage?” I looked at him. At the blinking red light still recording.

“I kind of want to,” I admitted.

He nodded slowly. “I’ll show you mine… if you come back and film another one.” I stared at him, half smiling, half stunned.

“You saying that to everyone who comes through here?”

“Nope.” He leaned in just slightly, voice lower. “Just the ones who moan my name like they mean it.”

I laughed, flushed, and shook my head. “You’re dangerous.”

He smirked. “Only on camera.” I didn’t believe that for a second. But I wanted to find out.

[petrichoravis]

Deep in a daydream. | s.r.

summary: Spencer has baby fever while watching you take care of a child victim.

word count: 2k

what to expect: spencer reid x cps!reader, implied fem reader otherwise nondescript, established relationship, angst and mention of case details (murder of parents in front of child), fluff so much fluff!!! English is not my first language.

a/n: picture credit to @reidgif !! if that gif didn’t exist this fic wouldn’t either, so thank u for your service. (fic that won in this poll)

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Spencer had the distinct thought that he had fallen in love with you with a slight bias.

He was very aware that, because of his job and lifestyle, having children of his own would be irresponsible to the child and other parent.

But watching as you crouched down to talk to the small girl the team had rescued on their recent case was like a wave crashing down over him and taking him with the current.

Spencer had always wanted kids of his own, but he fought with the thought that it was unfair to have a child in his current life state. Seeing you make her laugh after she went through the most traumatic thing a person could go through muted that fear.

He knew you could handle every situation that involved children with grace, it came with your job, but

All his head was screaming was ‘I want to have a child with you’.

There were days when he woke up in the middle of the night, with you sleeping next to him, and wondered what it would be like to be woken up by your daughter or son because they were having a nightmare or simply wanted to cuddle.

The way you would groggily reach out one arm and let them cuddle close, the way Spencer would wrap his arms around both of you and kiss the back of your child’s head.

It wasn’t something you spoke about lightly, always cautious and considerate of a person that didn’t even exist yet. It made him want to forget every rational thought you had just discussed.

Now, watching you ask the girl for the name of her puppet, watching the smile spread on your face as she told you that she didn’t have a name and you could name her, it was the knife and the balm at the same time.

He leaned against the doorframe of the interrogation room you had fought to make look less intimidating and more like a children’s playroom. After the officers reluctantly gave you the green light to do whatever you wanted, you went out to bring pillows and toys back to the station. With the team’s help, of course.

Now the room was all soft and colorful, the pillows had leaves on them and little Ruby had enough toys for a lifetime of fun. You had even covered the one-way mirror with a big, pink blanket that had unicorns on it after asking her what her favorite animal was.

If you treated a child that wasn’t yours like that, how would you treat one that was? Spencer let his imagination roam freely.

A mistake. Soon, he was deep in a daydream of spilled foods, stroller rides in the park, first days of school, laughter chasing through hallways. His mind created a world around the three of you.

A gasp made his gaze snap back to you and the agent in him flinched to the ready. But his worries were soothed by a louder giggle.

You and little Ruby were dancing. Or, well, something that could be interpreted as something akin to it, anyway. It was more of a wiggle.

“Whoa, where did you learn those moves?” You asked, laughing, spinning her around.

“My mommy and I always dance.” She replied, then stopped short.

Ruby’s parents were killed in front of her just a couple of hours ago and you had been able to bring a smile back onto her face with a lot of hard work. But it was inevitable that something would remind her of what happened and made it all come crashing down on her little shoulders again.

Your face betrayed no pity, just plain understanding and empathy. “You like dancing?”

She nodded weakly, clutching her puppet. Spencer couldn’t watch the way her lower lip quivered. “With mommy. I want my mommy.”

“I know, Rubs, but she’s not gone. She is watching over you and protecting you in her own way, still. As much as your little head is trying to tell you that she’s gone, she will always live on in the memories you have with her. Every time you dance or don’t want to eat your veggies, she is smiling and shaking her head fondly.”

Ruby sniffled, but her tears had stopped flowing. “I want her to come back.”

You crouched down, opening your arms to give her the choice, “I know, lovely.”

Waddling into your arms, she let you hug her while she kept hugging her doll. Spencer didn’t know if he was still allowed to watch this heartfelt moment.

It was after a minute that you pulled away to wipe her tears off her cheeks with gentle thumbs and tucked her black hair behind her ears. “Okay?”

A nod was all you got, but it was everything you needed. You stood up and turned to Spencer, which confirmed what he suspected; you knew he was there the whole time.

As Ruby saw Spencer, she shied away, hiding behind your legs immediately.

He crouched down to be less intimidating. “Hello, Ruby.” He said softly. “I’m Spencer.”

Despite his attempts to make himself smaller, the little girl said nothing to his introduction, her hands stayed glued to your leg.

You smile at Spencer and turned to face Ruby, crouching, too. “He’s one of the good guys, I swear, Rubs.”

Spencer could only just hear her response of a breathy, “yeah?” and almost melted.

Nodding, you reassured her with a hand on her back. “Do you wanna know a secret?”

The whites of her eyes became more and she nodded eagerly, seemingly having forgotten that Spencer stood just a few steps away or that she was ever scared of his presence. And what she was just crying about.

He couldn’t handle the way you adjusted your wording to sound less harsh, the way you were so tuned in to the little girl. It was giving him a really hard time to do the same.

“He’s my boyfriend,” you nodded, whispering the words like a four-year-old would tell the news to her friends.

Ruby gasped again and glanced at Spencer over your shoulder. “Really?” Her shock was obvious in every one of her features.

At your nod, she got even shyer, but also more curious. She stepped forward to inspect Spencer closely, who was still crouching in front of her.

“Hey, Ruby,” Spencer tried again, holding out a hand.

She just looked at the hand and then at him. “Hi, Spencer. I like your sweater.”

Laughing, but trying not to be too loud as not to intimidate her more, he pulled his hand back. “Thank you,” he looked down at his sweater, then at you with a smile, his voice changed just slightly, “Santa gave it to me on Christmas.”

“I like Santa.” She said excitedly, pulling his attention back to her. “He always brings me what I want.”

“Yeah, Santa is awesome, isn’t he?” He wasn’t really equipped to handle a four-year-old girl who had just lost her parents and was really hoping his awkwardness wasn’t something Ruby picked up on. But she was the age where children were highly attuned to every nonverbal social clue and internalized it, so his chances were slim.

You came to his rescue. “Ruby, do you want to play a game with us? Or draw something?”

She didn’t even answer as she excitedly ran towards the table that had crayons, colored pencils and paper on it. “I already know what I wanna draw!”

Standing up, you took a step to stand next to Spencer, leaning your head on his shoulder. His hand went to your back immediately.

“Hi,” you mumbled contentedly.

“Hey,” he said with his hand rubbing your back. “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”

You had a deep appreciation for the way Spencer was always able to see you so clearly. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You hoped it was enough for him to see that the exhaustion was there, but that it wasn’t pulling you down.

Ruby kept drawing and you kept watching her. It was easy to forget that you weren’t proud, loving parents watching your child draw a picture of your life.

When she was done, Ruby hopped off the chair with the drawing clutched in her tiny hands. “Look! I drew you a beach! And there’s a dolphin and a sea pony playing together.”

“It’s so pretty, Ruby.” You were grinning from ear to ear, just like she was. “Do you think I could put it on my desk? So I can see it every day and think of you?”

“Yeah!”

“Thank you so much.” She scrunched her nose at you as you ruffled her hair, but it was clear to everyone in the room that it was a fond, admiring look. “Would you draw Spence one, too?”

She glanced at Spencer, the shyness back like a push of a button. But she nodded weakly and scrambled back to her desk.

The social workers picked her up and she finished her picture just before they arrived. You followed them out of the room and crouched down to hug her tightly.

“Here,” she whispered in your ear and pulled back to hand you the paper. “I hope he loves it.”

You looked down at the picture and almost started crying. “He will.” You reassured her, trying to rein in your emotions.

The goodbye was a hard one, but it was safe to say that you would visit little Ruby even after she found her new home.

Behind you, Spencer had walked up to you and glanced over your shoulder to look at what Ruby drew for him.

What he saw made him speechless.

Ruby had drawn two stick figures that looked a lot like the two of you. Your hair and eye color, your work attire. Spencer’s messy brown hair was drawn with looped pencil strokes and she even tried to draw the complicated knitting pattern of his sweater.

Between the two of you was a heart that read your name plus Spence.

“Oh,” Spencer didn’t even realize that he had made the noise before you turned.

With a smile on your face you said, clearly joking, “How come that I get the beach and you get this on your desk?”

He laughed gently, taking the drawing from you, looking at it for a moment before looking at you. You were watching Ruby get escorted out.

“She’s a strong kid.” You said with a deep sigh. Spencer’s eyes were glued to the side of your face. “I just hope she finds the right family.”

He had to stop himself from blurting out the thought he was toying with. Maybe we could take care of her until she has another family to call her own?

Of course, you couldn’t. There were too many papers to fill out and, while both of you had the credentials that would inspire trust, Spencer doubted the authorities would make exceptions for you.

It would be unfair to Ruby, too. To give her a temporary family, just to have it ripped away from her again. Once was enough.

But you looked so good, conjuring the big smile onto her face, so in your element that Spencer forgot all the logical things.

He registered that you were still talking to him and snapped out of his reverie. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted to cook something at my place and watch a movie.” You repeated, laughing softly. “Where’s your genius brain wandering to now? Any statistics I should know about?”

Spencer didn’t know how to tell you that the only statistics in his head revolved around the benefits of creating a family. (With him. Now.) “N-nothing, I’m just tired. Movie sounds good.”

You squinted at him. “Right…” you dragged out. “Let’s go, then.”

A quiet breath left Spencer’s mouth as you took his hand into yours and dropped the topic. For now, eventually, he hoped to bring it up again as a fond memory when you had a little one of your own.

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[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

���Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[hypnobeauty]

a chance encounter - a cho hyun-ju x reader fic (part 12)

summary: a story about how you and hyun-ju met and the following years of your relationship. masterlist cw: no use of y/n, reader is afab, squid games, blood, violence, hints of transphobia and homophobia, author cannot do math. a/n: hello lovelies! this took forever and it is not as good as i hoped. writer's block has been kicking my ass for the past weeks--- haven't even replied to most comments on the last part. sorry for it! i'll catch up, i swear. as always, enjoy xx comments are always welcome, i giggle and kick my feet whenever i read them. silly pinterest board i've been curating over the weeks taglist: @strayteez3staner @dekiruxxx @jeongteen @sunnysurvives @3leni @etta-huracan @honeyhyunju @basoressia @antisocial-aina @googie-jeon @christinamadsen @deernat @vvlwvvy @psychobitchsthings @dikeu-yoiz

part 12. player 120 and player 133

the first thing you felt was disorientation.

the light was too bright, searing through your closed eyelids and pulling you from unconsciousness. the music was too loud, making your head throb, a dull, persistent ache that seemed to echo with every beat of your heart. you blinked against the brightness, your vision swimming as you tried to make sense of your surroundings.

the ceiling above you was unfamiliar—smooth white tiles with fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly. you turned your head slowly, your body sluggish, and realized you were lying on a bed. no, not just a bed—a top bunk bed.

panic began to creep in as your senses sharpened. the room was massive, far larger than any space you’d ever been in. rows upon rows of identical black metal bunk beds stretched out before you, stacked four high like a factory assembly line. the walls were tiled in white, adorned with strange decals of sports figures that gave the space an odd resemblance to a school gymnasium.

you sat up, your movements stiff, and looked down at yourself.

the green tracksuit caught you off guard. it was simple, plain, with the number 133 printed in bold white on the chest and back. beneath the jacket, a white shirt bore the same number. your feet were covered in white socks and plain white loafers.

a sinking feeling settled in your stomach as you realized your own clothes were gone.

you tugged at the waistband of the tracksuit pants, peeking underneath to find black, nondescript underwear. everything you’d been wearing—the cardigan, the jeans, the sneakers—was gone. your breath quickened and you quickly placed your hand on your neck, and sighed in relief to find hyun-ju’s locket still there. you ran your hands over your body as if searching for some other trace of familiarity. but there was nothing. no bag, no phone, no wallet.

the panic surged.

“where am i?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

your eyes darted around the room, taking in the sheer scale of it. hundreds of people were scattered among the beds, some sitting, some lying down, others pacing restlessly on the floor. they were all wearing the same green tracksuit, each with a unique number printed on it.

it felt like a nightmare, one of those dreams where nothing made sense, but the fear was real. you pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to steady your breathing, but the questions came faster than you could answer them.

how did i get here? what happened to my clothes? my phone? my life?

and then it hit you like a lightning bolt.

“hyun-ju,” you whispered, the word barely audible.

you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, climbing down the metal stairs with shaky limbs. your heart pounded as you scanned the sea of faces, your voice rising in desperation.

“hyun-ju?”

your voice echoed faintly in the cavernous space, but no one responded. your chest tightened, the panic threatening to consume you.

“hyun-ju!” you called again, louder this time.

and then, like a lifeline, you heard her voice.

“here!”

you turned sharply, your eyes locking onto her figure. she was standing a few feet away, her tracksuit identical to yours except for the number 120 printed on it. relief washed over you like a tidal wave, so overwhelming that your knees nearly buckled.

without thinking, you ran to her, throwing yourself into her arms.

hyun-ju caught you effortlessly, her strong arms wrapping around you as you clung to her like she was the only solid thing in this surreal, shifting world. her scent—warm, familiar, floral spicy, and comforting—filled your senses, grounding you in the chaos.

“hyun-ju,” you whispered against her shoulder, your voice trembling. “where are we?”

her arms tightened around you, her chin resting on your head. “i don’t know,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the uncertainty. “but we’re together in this.”

you pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, searching for reassurance. her dark gaze was calm, but you could see the flicker of unease beneath the surface.

“what happened to us?” you asked, your voice breaking. you knew she knew as much as you did, but still, it was impossible not to ask.

“i don’t know,” she repeated, her hand coming up to cup your cheek. her thumb brushed against your skin, a small, grounding gesture that sent a wave of warmth through you.

your gaze darted around the room again, taking in the countless people who looked just as confused as you felt. “they took everything,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “our clothes, our phones… everything.”

hyun-ju nodded, her jaw tightening. “i know. but we’ll figure it out. whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

her confidence was like a balm, soothing the edges of your frayed nerves. you leaned into her touch, drawing strength from her presence.

“promise me,” you said, your voice trembling. “promise me we’ll stay together.”

hyun-ju’s eyes softened, and she pressed her forehead to yours. “i promise,” she said, her voice steady and resolute. “we’ll stay together. no matter what.”

in that moment, the fear didn’t disappear, but it dulled, tempered by the warmth of her arms around you. whatever this place was, whatever lay ahead, you knew one thing for certain: you weren’t alone and that was enough to keep you standing. the fear didn’t disappear, but it dulled, tempered by the warmth of hyun-ju’s arms around you. whatever this place was, whatever lay ahead, you knew one thing for certain: you weren’t alone.

you two walked back toward hyun-ju’s bed, trying to process the chaos of the situation. before you could gather your thoughts, the main door of the massive room swung open, and figures in pink suits and black masks walked in, their expressions hidden behind the stark black symbols—circle, triangle, square—displayed on their masks. the atmosphere shifted immediately, a hush falling over the room, curiosity and apprehension thick in the air. a masked figure with a square stepped forward and addressed the crowd, their voice altered by a mechanical filter.

“i would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.”

murmurs broke out, people exchanging confused glances, some intrigued, others skeptical. hyun-ju was the first to speak, her voice sharp, clear. “excuse me.” heads turned in her direction. “you said we’d be playing games, but you practically kidnapped me. how can we trust anything you say?”

the square-masked figure remained unmoved. “i apologize. please understand that it was necessary to maintain the game’s security.”

another woman spoke up next, questioning the masks, asking if this was some kind of underground gambling house. the square simply replied, “we must maintain confidentiality.”

you didn’t like this at all. it felt too good to be true—who just hands out money for playing games? what kind of games? the vagueness set you on edge, your mind spinning with possible explanations. you voiced your concerns to hyun-ju in a hushed tone, but she simply squeezed your hand. “let’s listen, aein,” she murmured. you sighed, frustrated, but nodded.

around you, complaints rose. people demanded their belongings back—their phones, their wallets, their dignity. one man, player 333, grumbled about missing the crypto market.

“player 333, lee myunggi.”

a remote clicked, and a massive screen descended from the ceiling. a video flickered to life—a man getting slapped at a subway station.

“age 30, used to run a youtube channel called mg coin. after convincing subscribers to invest in a new crypto coin called dalmatian, causing losses of approximately 15.2 billion won, you shut down and disappeared. you’re wanted for fraud and for violating telecom and financial investment laws. current debt levels: 1.8 billion won.”

you gaped. “god, hyun-ju, 1.8 billion!” you whispered, grabbing her arm. suddenly your debt didn’t feel so grand now.

the videos continued. one after another, humiliating debts laid bare for all to see. then, suddenly— “player 133.”

your breath caught as your own face appeared on the screen. the moment you met the salesman at the bus stop played back for everyone to witness, the slap still stinging even through the recording. your name flashed beneath your image.

“125 million won in debt.”

a lump formed in your throat. before you could fully process it, another familiar face appeared on the screen.

“player 120, cho hyun-ju, 330 million won in debt.”

hyun-ju stiffened beside you. the video showed her outside her job, the sharp crack of the salesman’s slap echoing in the silent room. she shifted uncomfortably. without thinking, you reached for her hand and squeezed.

more videos played, and soon the shouting resumed. voices layered over one another, demands, confusion, panic growing by the second. the square-masked figure spoke again.

“all of you in this room have crippling debts and are now on a cliff edge. when we first came to you, you did not trust us either. but as you know, we played a game and gave you money as promised. and so, you trusted us and volunteered to participate according to your own free will.”

murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. you still felt uneasy, the uncertainty of what you’d have to do gnawed at your nerves. a sudden mechanical rumble vibrated through the room. the ceiling panels split apart, and a massive transparent piggy bank descended from above, illuminated by an eerie yellow glow.

“what you see now is the piggy bank where your valuable prize money will be stored,” the square continued. “after each of the six games you play, the prize money will accumulate in this piggy bank.”

“how much is the prize money?” someone called out.

“45.6 billion won.”

gasps. disbelief. the air vibrated with excitement, greed, desperation.

the square continued, detailing that players would have a chance to vote after each game—they could choose to continue or leave, taking home whatever money had been accumulated. you perked up at this. if you could, you’d leave now.

“are you saying we’ll still receive the money, even if we leave after the first game?” an older man asked.

“that’s correct.”

a brief surge of hope lifted in your chest. maybe it wasn’t all bad. maybe you could play one round and get out. the moment of reflection was interrupted when an old woman elbowed past you. “good heavens! excuse me, darling!”

she rushed forward and smacked a man in glasses over the head.

“you idiot!” she shouted.

“mom?! what… what are you doing here?”

they bickered, their voices rising over the crowd. you couldn’t help yourself—a laugh bubbled out of you.

“stop it,” hyun-ju murmured, nudging you, though her own lips twitched with amusement.

“sorry, it’s too ridiculous,” you giggled, leaning into her.

she rolled her eyes, but then, unexpectedly, leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips.

the warmth of her lips lingered as you pulled back, your hand instinctively reaching for the locket around her neck, fingers brushing over its surface. “you’re wearing it,” you murmured, tracing the cool metal.

“of course,” she said simply, catching your hand in hers. “it’s you. why wouldn’t i?”

a tight knot formed in your chest. you wanted to leave. now. every part of you screamed that this was too much, too dangerous. but you knew hyun-ju—she was already thinking things through, weighing possibilities, calculating risks. and more than anything, she was thinking about the money.

the square-masked figure interrupted your thoughts. “if you wish to participate in the games, please sign the player consent form. those who do not wish to participate, please speak up now.”

you hesitated. “you’ll really pay us even if we play just one game?”

“yes.”

hyun-ju’s hand tightened around yours.

“then let’s do this,” you whispered.

*

as soon as the masked figures announced that the first game would begin shortly, players were instructed to sign a contract. hyun-ju instinctively placed you in front of her, her presence like a shield at your back. even now, she was always protecting you. you quickly scanned the lines of the contract, but the words barely registered. your heart was pounding. with a deep breath, you signed your name.

a circle-masked guard ushered you through a side door. the moment you stepped through, you hesitated, turning to look for hyun-ju. you weren’t going anywhere without her. minutes felt like hours before she finally emerged from the other side, her eyes frantically searching the room. the instant she spotted you, relief washed over her features. you hurried to her, taking her hand in yours.

“i’m here. i waited for you.”

her grip tightened. “thank you,” she murmured, squeezing back.

you fell into line again, following the flow of people as they moved through a labyrinth of pastel-colored hallways. the bright, childlike hues felt at odds with the suffocating dread curling in your stomach. up and down stairs, through arched doorways, past seemingly endless twists and turns until you reached a large room lined with photo totems.

“smile,” an automated voice instructed as you stepped up to one of the machines and you obeyed, a big smile plastered on your face.

a camera flash blinded you for a second, and you blinked against the sudden burst of light. “after having your picture taken, follow the staff’s instructions and proceed to the game site.”

you moved to the side, waiting for hyun-ju. while you stood there, a conversation nearby caught your attention. the old woman from before, player 149, was watching hyun-ju with narrowed eyes.

“is that a man or a woman?” she muttered, nudging her son, player 007. you felt your stomach drop.

“there are people like that,” her son replied quickly. “they’re men who want to be women.”

your fists clenched. a sharp, biting anger curled in your chest.

“why would they want to be women?” the woman scoffed. “men are men, and women are women.” then, her gaze slid to you, “and that girl—is she with…her? why would a pretty girl like her want to be with… someone like that?”

the words felt like a slap. shame and anger warred inside you, tangled up in a storm of helplessness. you wanted to turn around, to say something, to defend hyun-ju, but the words lodged in your throat. you could only stare, frozen, as her son sighed in exasperation and tugged her away.

“you can’t say things like that, people can love whoever they want nowadays,” he muttered, casting you a quick, apologetic glance before guiding her through the line.

the moment they were gone, your breath left you in a shaky exhale. you hadn’t realized your hands were trembling until you saw them clenched at your sides. of all places, here—where every single person had been stripped of their dignity, humiliated, and reduced to nothing more than their debts—people still found ways to discriminate, to make others feel small.

tears burned at the back of your eyes, and despite your best efforts, a few slipped free before you could blink them away. you wiped them hastily, not wanting hyun-ju to see.

when she finally finished her turn at the photo booth, she approached you with a soft smile, completely unaware of what had just transpired. the moment she was close enough, you threw your arms around her, burying your face in her shoulder, inhaling the familiar warmth of her scent.

she chuckled, hugging you back. “what is it?” she murmured, pulling back to search your face.

you shook your head quickly, pushing down everything you felt, not wanting to ruin the moment. “nothing, i… i just love you so, so much.”

her expression softened instantly. “i love you too.” pressing her forehead against yours, she whispered, “let’s do this, yes?”

you nodded, managing a tight-lipped smile. she turned, leading the way this time, and you clung to the back of her jacket as you climbed yet another flight of stairs.

at last, you stepped through a massive green gate and onto a sandy field. it was enormous, stretching farther than your eyes could follow. tall walls surrounded you, painted to resemble a serene outdoor landscape. but it wasn’t real—none of this was real. at the far end of the field stood a gigantic doll, dressed in yellow, her unblinking eyes staring blankly ahead.

“all players, please wait a moment on the field.” a woman’s voice echoed over the pa system. “let me repeat. all players, please wait a moment on the field.”

more people filed in, filling the space until there was no more room left to move. the tension in the air was palpable. hyun-ju scanned the area, eyes sharp.

“do you see anything different?” you asked quietly.

she shook her head. “not yet.”

the pa system crackled again. “the first game is red light, green light.”

murmurs rippled through the crowd. you turned to hyun-ju, eyebrows furrowing. “red light, green light? the kids’ game?”

she nodded slowly. “it seems so.”

“this is weird, hyun-ju. i don’t like it.” you tugged at her hand, voice lowering to a whisper. “let’s leave after this, yes?”

before she could respond, the voice returned. “cross the finish line without getting caught in five minutes. if you do, you pass.” a giant stopwatch clicked on above the field. 05:00. a man—one of the players who had spoken earlier—suddenly stepped forward, waving his arms. “everyone! everyone, listen up! pay attention!”

somehow, his voice cut through the crowd. heads turned.

“listen carefully! this is not just a game!”

the unease you had felt since waking up in this place sharpened into something more tangible. the man took a deep breath and shouted, “if you lose the game, you die!”

you sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tightening around hyun-ju’s. your pulse pounded in your ears, your body stiffening in fear.

you looked up at hyun-ju, eyes wide, searching for some kind of reassurance, but she was staring ahead, jaw clenched, her own fear barely concealed beneath her steady expression. a cold dread settled over you, the unknown stretched ahead like a dark abyss and you weren’t sure if either of you would make it to the other side.

*

the murmurs of confusion and disbelief around you grew. someone in the crowd let out a nervous laugh, but it was swallowed by the sharp, mechanical voice over the pa system that announced, “let the game begin”. the air seemed to shift, a collective breath held in tense anticipation.

“green light.”

the sound of the doll’s mechanical chime rang through the space, and everyone hesitated for a beat before cautiously stepping forward. some laughed, moving with ease, treating it like an actual game.

“red light.”

a sharp, mechanical whir cut through the air and then bang.

a girl fell forward with a sickening thud, unmoving. you stiffened, your breath catching in your throat. someone let out a nervous chuckle—until the gunfire continued.

one, two, three more bodies hit the ground. screaming erupted, people turned, bolting for the doors.

bang. bang. bang.

the laughter and confusion from before turned into pure terror as the exit became a slaughterhouse. player 456’s voice broke through the chaos, urgent and desperate. “don’t move! stay still! if you run, you’ll die!”

your legs shook beneath you. hyun-ju’s grip on your hand was tight—so tight it hurt—but you barely noticed. she wasn’t moving, you weren’t moving. but your whole body screamed at you to run. 

someone next to you stumbled. bang. blood splattered against your cheek and your stomach lurched, bile rising in your throat.

when it was time to move hyun-ju turned to you, her voice low but firm. “aein, listen to me.” you forced yourself to look at her.

“we have to keep moving,” she said, her voice steadier than you thought possible. “but we have to do it right. step when it says. stop when it says.”

you could barely hear her over the pounding of your own heartbeat, but you nodded. time to stop, another crack of gunfire and another body.

456 was still shouting. “we just have to move and stop at the right time! we can all make it if we stay calm!”

people started forming lines, a methodical approach to survival. before you could react, hyun-ju grabbed your shoulders and maneuvered you behind her, shielding your smaller frame with her own.

“hold onto me,” she ordered, voice softer this time. you gripped the back of her jacket, holding onto the green fabric so tightly your knuckles turned white. your fingers trembled against the material, your entire body vibrating with fear. but she was tall, broader than you—blocking most of you from view and you pressed yourself against her back, willing yourself to become smaller.

"green light."

she stepped forward, and you followed, mirroring her movements exactly.

"red light."

you froze. the trembling in your legs threatened to give you away, but you clenched your jaw and forced yourself to remain still. it was agony, every second stretched unbearably long. the fear of moving, of making even the slightest twitch, felt suffocating.

"green light."

a step. another.

"red light."

stillness.

hyun-ju’s breaths were deep and controlled. you mimicked her.

"green light."

the finish line was close. so close. you passed. relief, you both made it safely. but then 456 turned, his voice ringing across the field. “there’s still time! we can save him!”

you barely had a second to register what was happening before you felt hyun-ju’s grip on you disappear. you only watched in horror as she sprinted past the other players, past you, towards 456 and the man struggling to crawl forward.

your mind blanked.

no. no, no, no.

“hyun-ju!”

you lunged forward, instinct taking over, but before you could get far, strong arms wrapped around you, yanking you back.

“let me go!” you shrieked, thrashing violently against the hold. “hyun-ju, no! let me go! let me fucking go!”

“stop moving!” the voice belonged to player 390, the man holding you back. he was shockingly strong, his grip ironclad as he forced you still. “you’ll get yourself killed!”

tears burned down your cheeks as you struggled, watching helplessly as hyun-ju and 456 lifted the wounded player between them. the doll’s head was already beginning to turn.

“hyun-ju, please!” you sobbed, your throat raw from screaming.

the last stretch. just a few more steps.

the timer was running out.

“green light.”

one step.

“red light.”

stillness.

seconds stretched into eternity.

then—

“green light.”

they stumbled across the line.

the second the countdown ended, the arms holding you back released you. you hit the ground hard, palms scraping against the rough surface, but you didn’t care. you scrambled forward, throwing yourself at hyun-ju before she even had time to react.

you sobbed against her, gripping her tightly, feeling the frantic rise and fall of her chest as she gasped for breath. “you idiot,” you choked out between sobs, fingers digging into her arms, her back, anywhere you could hold onto her. “you stupid, reckless idiot.”

her arms wrapped around you just as fiercely. “i’m sorry,” she breathed, over and over again. “i’m so sorry.”

and then a gunshot, a wet, sickening sound.

you flinched and then you saw him. the man hyun-ju and 456 had just risked their lives to save; his body lay motionless, a bullet through his skull.

blood splattered across your cheek, your hands, hyun-ju’s face. hyun-ju’s grip on you tightened as she trembled. “no…” it had all been for nothing.

a sob wrenched itself from your throat. you didn’t care who was watching, who was judging. you buried yourself against hyun-ju, fists clutching at her shirt, at her warmth. hyun-ju held you just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other locked around your waist. and neither of you moved or let go.

*

eventually, you had to go back.

you didn’t know how much time had passed, how long you had spent on the cold, sandy floor, curled into hyun-ju, sobbing against her as she held you just as desperately. everything outside of her warmth felt distant, blurred—like the muffled sounds of a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

but then, a hand landed softly on your shoulder. you flinched.

when you looked up, through the haze of tears, you saw player 456 standing there, expression heavy with exhaustion, grief, and something close to understanding. “you’re the last ones,” he said gently.

your stomach twisted as you glanced around, barely registering the bodies being cleared away in the distance, the blood that still stained the sand. there had been so many people on that field before. now, the space felt horrifyingly empty.

hyun-ju helped you stand, keeping you close as the two of you trudged back toward the sleeping quarters in the back of the line. every step felt weighted, your body sluggish, heavy with something worse than exhaustion. the sound of gunfire still echoed in your ears, like it had embedded itself into your skull. the scent of blood clung to your clothes, your skin—it was in your hair, beneath your fingernails. you wanted to scrub it off, to rip it off.

the moment you stepped inside the sleeping quarters, your legs gave out. you dropped to the floor, sitting close to one of the metal-framed beds, your back slumping against it.

hyun-ju was beside you in an instant, pulling you into her chest.

“i’m sorry,” she murmured, voice hoarse, lips brushing the crown of your head. “i love you.”

that was all she said. that was all she could say. her chin rested atop your head, arms wrapped tightly around you, grounding you in place as your body shook with silent sobs. the tears had slowed, but they kept returning in waves, stopping and starting, stopping and starting.

you couldn’t stop seeing it, that final gunshot, the way his body slumped forward, the blood—warm, wet—splattering onto you.

a presence approached. you barely registered it until a familiar voice cut through the numbness. “you gave me a fight back there,” player 390 said, amusement laced into his voice. “you’re stronger than you look, girl.”

you knew he meant well that he had held you back to save your life and he was trying to comfort you now, but you couldn’t bring yourself to react. you just stared at him with empty eyes, unable to summon even a flicker of response.

his grin faltered slightly, but he didn’t seem offended. instead, he shifted his gaze to hyun-ju, giving her a small nod. you felt her move against you, the gentle dip of her chin as she nodded back. silence stretched between the three of you, then, with one last glance, player 390 clapped a hand to his thigh and walked away, giving you space.

hyun-ju’s grip on you tightened and she pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. you closed your eyes and tried to breathe, but the air still felt thick with the metallic scent of blood, the echoes of gunfire still ringing in your ears.

*

an alarm buzzed, sharp and grating, making you flinch. the door at the front of the room slid open, and the masked figures in pink suits filed in, standing like statues as square stepped forward, his voice eerily neutral.

"congratulations on making it through the first game. here are the results."

a digital trill filled the silence before the screen behind him flickered to life.

“out of 456 players, 121 players have been eliminated. 335 players have completed the first game. congratulations again for making it through.”

the number hit you like a punch to the gut. 121 dead, just like that. simply. completely erased from existence, their bodies likely already being disposed of somewhere while the rest of you stood here, still shaking, still trying to process the horror you had just witnessed.

the silence was suffocating, only broken by a single, trembling voice.

"please…"

the older woman—player 149—fell to her knees, hands clasped together as she pleaded. "please forgive us, let us go. i don’t want to do this anymore! please!"

you wanted to laugh, to scream at her. woman, they just executed more than a hundred people in cold blood. you really think they’re going to listen to you?

then, a new voice cut through the room.

"clause three of the consent form. ‘the games may be terminated upon a majority vote.’ correct?"

you turned toward the speaker—player 456. his voice was steady, but his eyes were desperate. square nodded. "that is correct."

"then let us take a vote right now."

your heart pounded at those words. relief, a way out. square tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "of course. we respect your right to freedom of choice."

you let out a shaky breath, turning to hyun-ju beside you. "finally, we can leave," you whispered. "this nightmare is over."

she nodded, her grip tightening on your hand, and together you stood.

"but first," square’s voice interrupted, "let me announce the prize amount that’s been accumulated."

a low, mechanical rumble came from above. the ceiling panels shifted, and suddenly, the enormous transparent piggy bank descended, hanging ominously over your heads. “the number of players eliminated in the first game is 121. therefore, a total of 12.1 billion won has been accumulated. if you quit the games now, the 335 of you can equally divide the 12.1 billion won and leave with your share.”

murmurs rippled through the crowd. someone spoke up. "how much is that?"

square didn’t miss a beat. "each person’s share would be 35,820,895 million won."

discontent immediately spread through the room.

"fuck. we almost died, and they’re giving us 35 million? that’s fucking bullshit."

"thirty million? you said 45.6 billion!"

you couldn’t believe it. they almost died, and they’re complaining? you wanted to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, just take the fucking money and go.

square remained unbothered. "the rule is that a hundred million won will be accumulated for each eliminated player. if you choose to play the next game and more players get eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly."

no. no, no, no, no. no more games. you turned to hyun-ju, your heart hammering. pleading with your eyes. let’s leave, let’s get the fuck out. as if she could fix this, as if she could make it all go away.

but her expression wasn’t what you expected because she didn’t look scared, she didn’t even look phased. she looked… calm.

her grip on your hand had loosened, her gaze distant, lost in thought. it was the look she got when she was calculating, when her mind was whirring with possibilities, weighing outcomes, considering things too carefully.

"hyun-ju," you called her name, voice soft but urgent. she blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and finally met your eyes. the hold on your hand tightened again.

square continued. "now, let’s begin the vote. if you wish to continue the games, press the o button. if you wish to end them, press the x button. the vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers. once you finish voting, put the patch you are given on the right side of your chest and stand on the side you have chosen."

you turned back to hyun-ju, gripping her arm. "this is it. this is our chance. we’ll vote x and leave. i’m sure everyone else will do the same, right?"

she smiled at you. a small, unreadable smile. "of course." you wanted to believe her.

the first person to vote was player 456. he pressed x and hope blossomed in your chest, but then the next person pressed o. and then another. and another. your heart sank as the balance tipped, people choosing to stay.

then, your number was called. "player 133."

you turned to hyun-ju, giving her a quick peck before stepping forward. you didn’t hesitate. you pressed the red x with firm finality, placing the patch on your jacket. a few more people voted. then—

"player 120."

you watched as hyun-ju walked toward the stand. you were smiling, already anticipating her pressing x. but her hand hesitated, and then she pressed o, placing the blue patch onto her jacket.

she turned her head, her eyes meeting yours and the smile fell from your face. your body went rigid as ice shot through your veins.

disbelief.

betrayal.

your knees nearly buckled, but a hand caught your arm, keeping you upright. player 007. you barely registered his face as you swallowed thickly, watching as hyun-ju calmly walked to the right side of the room.

your hyun-ju.

the person who had held you through your worst moments. the person who had whispered promises into your skin, swearing you’d always have each other. and she had just chosen to stay.

your vision blurred, hot tears spilling over your cheeks. you didn’t even try to stop them—hyun-ju had made her choice. and now, you didn’t know what that meant for the both of you.

*

the moment the final vote was cast, the room fell into a suffocating silence. the glowing red and blue lights illuminated the numbers above, sealing your fate. o had won—by one vote.

a wave of nausea rolled through you. one vote. one person had tipped the scales in favor of staying in this nightmare. it could’ve been anyone, but the only one that mattered was hyun-ju.

your legs felt unsteady as you turned away from the screen, barely registering the murmurs rippling through the crowd. without a word, you started walking back toward your bunk, climbing the stairs with heavy, mechanical movements. you didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to look at her.

but hyun-ju caught up to you quickly. she called your name softly, reaching for you. "please, just—"

"not now," you snapped, your voice shaking with restraint. "i need to be alone."

she hesitated before asking, "can i at least sit with you?"

you scoffed, finally turning to face her. the hurt in her eyes almost made you falter, but your anger and fear kept you steady. "do whatever you want, hyun-ju. it’s clear you’re doing that already."

her head dropped slightly, and she followed behind you like a lost puppy as you climbed into your bed. you curled up, hugging your knees to your chest, trying to breathe through the storm in your chest. hyun-ju sat at the edge of the mattress, her hands wringing together, a nervous tic you knew all too well.

"talk to me," she murmured. she was nervous. 

good. she should be.

you turned your head, glaring at her. "talk to you? what is there to talk about, hyun-ju? we almost died. we will die if we stay. and you—" you let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. "you voted to stay."

“i know you’re mad—”

“mad?” you let out a hollow laugh, finally looking at her. “mad doesn’t even cover it, hyun-ju. i’m furious. i’m terrified. i’m—” you cut yourself off, squeezing your eyes shut for a second before opening them again. “how could you do this? how could you vote to stay? we almost died today—more than once! i thought we were leaving. i thought we agreed.”

she nodded, exhaling through her nose. “i know. i know it’s fucked up. but listen to me—”

“listen to you?” you laughed again, harsher this time. “hyun-ju, we were this close—” you held your fingers barely apart. “to getting out of here! to walking away with our lives! and you—” you inhaled sharply, gripping your knees tighter. “you threw that away.”

she inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “i didn’t vote to stay because i want to die. i voted to stay because this might be our only chance to finally be free.”

your brows furrowed. “what are you even saying?”

she ran a hand through her hair, exhaling in frustration. “the money. the debts. everything hanging over our heads.” her voice was lower now, strained. “i hate it. i hate watching you stress over every bill. i hate counting every won, living paycheck to paycheck, wondering if we’ll ever catch a break. this… this is a way out.”

you shook your head, incredulous. “at what cost? hyun-ju, people died. hundreds of people.”

she flinched. “i know.”

you swallowed, trying to steady your own breath. “this isn’t the answer.”

hyun-ju met your gaze then, her expression unreadable. “if we do the math,” she said slowly, carefully, “we’d only need to play one more game.”

your stomach twisted. “no,” you said immediately. she reached for your hand, but you pulled back.

“hyun-ju, no,” you repeated, voice firmer now. “this isn’t some calculated risk. this is life or death. and you—you’re talking like it’s just a numbers game.”

“i know it’s not.” her voice wavered. “i know, okay? but this money could change everything for us. just one more game. one.”

"oh, you’re sure it’ll be just one?" you scoffed. "hyun-ju, we don’t know what’s coming next! we barely made it past this one! you almost died going back for that guy! what if next time you don’t make it?"

she opened her mouth, then closed it. her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "i know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "i know it’s dangerous. and i hate that i put you through this. but if we make it through one more, we can leave with enough to never have to worry again. no loan sharks. no scraping by. just us, safe, with a future."

you let out a shaky breath, rubbing your temples. "i can’t do this, hyun-ju. i can’t sit here and pretend i’m okay with this."

she reached for your hand, hesitated, then pulled back. "i don’t expect you to be."

the pa system crackled. "lights will be turned off in five minutes."

hyun-ju exhaled and stood up, preparing to descend the stairs. but something in you lurched at the sight of her leaving. without thinking, you grabbed her jacket sleeve, your fingers trembling.

"don’t you think that just because i’m mad at you, you’re allowed to sleep away from me."

hyun-ju turned to you, surprised, then her expression softened. "i’ll grab my pillow."

the moment the lights went out, the two of you had settled into the small bunk. it was tight, even more so now that you weren’t curled up in opposite directions. hyun-ju faced you under the cover, her breath warm against your face.

for a while, neither of you spoke. the room buzzed with the soft murmurs of others, the occasional sniffle or stifled sob from a distant bunk. your hand twitched against the mattress, and then hyun-ju’s fingers brushed against yours. she whispered your name, almost tentatively.

you swallowed, feeling the anger still simmering inside you, but it was no match for the sheer exhaustion weighing down your body. "i don’t forgive you," you murmured.

"i know."

"but i love you."

a shaky breath. "i love you too."

she pressed her forehead to yours, her hand resting gently over your waist. "we’ll figure it out."

you sighed, letting your body melt into hers despite everything. "we have to."

in the darkness, with only the sound of her breathing keeping you grounded, you pressed a slow, tired kiss to her lips. it tasted like salt and regret, like a silent promise neither of you could yet fulfill.

but for now, it was enough.

[leth-writes]

yandere Tim Drake x meta reader part two

summary: we find out more about what life is like now for the reader.

Warnings: The usual for my blog!

Tim had luminous green eyes. They were the most sickly green, almost glowing, you’d ever seen, pale and round and sunken into his skin like you could see the skull beneath his skin. It was like he was secretly a corspe walking around, without a soul. Sometimes you did think he didn’t have a soul.

Tim had basically changed your life completely in the span of a week. He was still the only one in the general population who could really see you, but he introduced you to his family, the Waynes, who were all able to see you as well, though none as clearly as Tim could. It was like there was something in the water that transformed their reasoning and observational abilities; you couldn’t even sneak down to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat without Alfred, the tall, lean family butler, greeting you. Though, most didn’t look you in the eyes. You thought it was because they had noticed how uncomfortable you got at direct eye contact, though Tim continued to stare into your eyes like he was trying to yank your soul out through your face. It was stressful, but you didn’t have any choice; you owed him. He’d got his dad to practically adopt you, letting you stay in the manor and giving you a whole host of things you hadn’t seen since you were a child, including the softest blanket you’d ever felt, and Bruce had gotten you a private tutor named Jonn, who was also able to see you. Jonn’s presence was a soothing balm on your frayed nerves, though you were loathe to admit that Tim was the cause of your anxiety. There was just something about him, afterall.

You had a new family, and things you could leave in your room without worrying they’d get stolen, and cute clothes, and a tutor… it was a better life than you’d ever had before. Yet, you felt guilty. Weren’t you taking too much? So, you approached Jonn one day, asking him to create a bracelet that would limit your abilities and let you be seen. It was the only way to be able to get a normal life and pay back your generous benefactors, though they insisted they didn’t need the gesture of kindness.

Jonn had complied; afterall, it wasn’t too hard to create one off of pre-existing schematics that were commonly used for cases similar to yours. He had gifted it to you in front of the entire family, who clapped and congratulated you. All except Tim, who leant in the corner with his arms crossed, looking out the window with those distant green eyes.

It had only been a week since you got the bracelet when it first went missing. You searched everywhere, high and low, including getting the others in on the search, to no avail. You had only the family bedrooms left to search, though you’d have to be quick. In and out, quick as you could manage, you searched Jason, Dick, and Damian’s rooms. Then you crossed over and searched Bruce and Cass’s rooms. Finally, you knocked on Tim’s door. It was just a formality at this point, you couldn’t imagine him misplacing it. Faced with no response, you opened the door. And spotted the box.

You’d never seen this box before. It was plain, nondescript. A faded grey, it looked slightly aged and well-loved. Pulling off the lid, you found photos. dozens and dozens of photos. Most were of you, though a few were of Tim’s other family members. Dick, Jason, even Bruce all made appearances, clearly going back years before you’d ever met. Hell, some seemed to be from before Jason had even joined the family, and well before Tim had met the Waynes or lost his parents. How did he get these? There were pictures of you sleeping, walking, breaking into buildings and the school library, even changing… most were from before you’d ever met Tim. Underneath it all was your bracelet, pulled apart into small wires and bits.

“Oh, you’ve found the box,” Bruce’s voice rang out from behind you. You whirled around, watching as he shut and locked Tim’s door, staring at you with a clear, blank expression you’d never seen on his normally joyful face. “It’s Tim’s?” You replied, voice trembling.

He sighed, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. “Yes, it belongs to Tim. I know it seems creepy, but you have to understand… Tim isn’t like us. He doesn’t experience emotion in the same way we do, he never learned the normal boundaries of relationships, growing up the way he did. He uses his camera as a way to capture us, to keep us with him, it’s his way of keeping us safe when he can’t act.”

“They’re from before he met me.” You said, voice hard and cold.

“Yes. Tim tends to stake out anyone he finds particularly interesting. That’s why most of the photos are so old. Think of it as his way of doing research. He feels the need to build our family by snatching up people he thinks of as his, moving around the pieces of our lives until we can be safetly integrated. It’s not so bad, you get used to it.” He continued.

“My parents…” You began, almost too afraid to ask.

“Yes. He planted the idea of a surprise move, a new start. They were being haunted by the ghost of a child they’d never known, and Tim needed a way to get you into position. He’s got a very strategic mind.” Bruce supplied, once again adopting that soft smile you’d grown used to. “Don’t worry, he only does it because he cares. You should see what he does to his enemies…”.

Tim Drake saw you in a way no one else had before.

[ironskyfinder]

Taking Dictation

The ad was simple, running in such a nondescript fashion that she almost missed it, down at the bottom of the screen - plain black text on a gray background, so bland it was almost painful.

Help Wanted: Skilled Secretary. Seeking an experienced secretary proficient in dictation and transcription. Must adhere to a strict dress code based on long-term function; excellent communication skills required. Submit a resume online or text ‘SUBMIT’ to 67678.

She thought about it for a moment. 

Everyone at Hamilton & Greene was amazing - except, of course, for Ms Hamilton and Mr Greene - and she liked the fact that it was a short ten minute drive from her apartment. 

But….

The pay was terrible, the transition to the new ‘paperless’ system was a nightmare, and Eric still stunk so bad it was hard to go past his cubicle, even after Linda had a private conference with him. Everyone was overstressed and overworked, and with the lease coming due in two months there’d still been no word on whether they were moving offices, again.

Maybe it was time for a change, or at least time to scare everyone into thinking they’d have to go without her. She glanced back, but the ad and the link were gone - so, she picked up her phone, and texted 

“Submit”

to 67678, just like the ad said, and in seconds a reply popped up - a link, and she tapped it.

The page was similarly subdued, but it had all the information she wanted. The posting was as thorough and painstakingly specific as the job was straightforward - a freelance IT professional and technical writer needed a secretary that could help him run both his businesses. The only item that wasn’t extensively clarified was the dress code, but if it meant she’d be expected to be professional in front of clients, she wasn’t worried. 

She opened her resume, and skimmed it to make sure that it was current before she uploaded it; the next page simply read, “Thank you for your application”, and she stared at the phone for a moment in disbelief that it’d been that easy. 

By Tuesday, she'd forgotten about it, not least because of the fight that Mr Greene and Ms Hamilton were in over the Friemann case, and hearing that it meant bonuses were delayed had her trying not to cry in her car on her lunch break

The phone dinged - a text, from 67678, letting her know that her resume had been accepted.

And, seconds later, a text from a number she didn’t recognize. For an interview: 10AM or 11AM Thursday, or 10AM Friday?

She took a deep breath and steadied her hands. 10 on Friday would be perfect! she texted back, and got ready to head back into the office. 

The interview, and everything leading up to it, was a blur in her mind.

She had taken Friday off, calling in sick late the night before, and had spent a good hour longer than usual getting ready so that she looked sharp for her interview. 

It was at his residence, about a half hour’s drive away; she was on her way with plenty of time, and as much as she’d hate the commute, it was a nice upscale neighborhood, and on the map it looked like it was next to a park that she could walk to on breaks. 

When she arrived, though, all she could focus on was him. She didn’t remember walking in, taking off her jacket, or even what his name was - she was lost in those eyes, and in the sound of his voice. 

He was busy, he explained, too busy to keep up without assistance. He was employed and was about to be over-employed twice over, and there was just no time - his hands were too full. His previous assistant had gotten pregnant, and was looking for a change. She had all the right qualifications to replace her, and to perform even better in her role; she was an expert in taking dictation.

The pay he was offering was almost double what she was making - and, she would be free to use one of the bedroom suites downstairs, whenever she wanted - and she was so excited that she almost forgot to ask about the uniform requirement. 

Almost. 

She’d asked, and he’d chuckled, and she felt herself get wet. He’d said something - she couldn’t remember exactly what - and she’d flushed further. She’d followed him downstairs to one of the bedrooms - to her bedroom - and showed her the corset and stockings that were carefully laid out. 

The mix of arousal and astonishment and disbelief must’ve shown on her face. She didn’t have time to protest or ask questions before he was talking again, and she couldn’t help but melt into his voice. 

He wasn’t just a technical writer, he explained. He also wrote erotica, very successfully, and it was crucial to his process to have inspiration on hand, and reference material available. He was sure that she’d be a perfect fit for her role, all she needed to do was embrace it…

Six weeks in, and she was adapting extremely well to her role.

She rolled lazily out of bed - out of his bed - and quietly made her way downstairs to her room, where she stripped out of yesterday’s uniform and got ready for a quick shower. After last week’s shopping trip, she had everything here that she needed. 

That was another reason she hadn’t been to her apartment since last month. Drying her hair, she emerged from her on-suite bathroom in a cloud of steam and immediately set to getting ready.  

By the time he was coming downstairs to the office, she was dressed - in black today, the set she’d decided she liked the most - she was already there, their coffees in hand, ready to start the day. 

Today he had meetings all through the morning - so she sat at her desk and started working through the notes from the previous day. He was midway through a support call when he hit a button and his desk raised up so he could stand. As soon as he was comfortably standing, she knelt on the cushion in front of him and unzipped his fly, pulling out his cock.

She loved his cock. She got lost in his eyes, and his voice made her melt, but after the first time she saw his cock - on her fifth day, the first time he’d fingered her for reference, while dictating to her. She’d been dizzy, between the sensations of him ruthlessly stimulating her g-spot and  trying to keep up with the rapid pace of his words, and didn’t notice he was jacking off until he grunted softly.

She’d looked back, then - into his eyes, first, those hypnotic pools of gray, and only when he glanced down had her haze followed and - it was perfect, long, thick, throbbing, a drop of precum dripping from the tip as he gently stroked it. She’d begged him to fuck her, that later that afternoon, and that was the first night she’d spent at the office, working late. 

 And the best part - or the worst part, or the hardest part - was that he did expect her to work, despite it all. The uniform, she found, not only kept her on display and accessible, but she felt sexier in it, and even the heels were comfortable too, somehow - but it didn’t make it any easier to be bent over his desk, cockwarming him while he rattled off erotica to her to transcribe. She had to make sure his notes and files got organized, even if she was asked to bounce on a dildo for reference. She had to balance his schedules and make sure his emails were dealt with, even if she chose to spend the morning on her knees trying to distract him while he was on a call. 

Four months in, and she was starting to put a few things together. 

Sir kept assigning her more hypnosis to review, and no matter how good it felt to spend hours on his desk, fulfilling her role, she was only barely keeping up with the notes, and the scheduling, and taking his dick-tation - she giggled, now, whenever she thought of it like that - was even more intense now that he’d started writing a lot of breeding stories. 

She also barely ever slept in her own bed anymore. He liked having her close - for inspiration, he said - but he also liked picking a hole to use to satisfy himself in the middle of the night, and filling her up with another load.

She wasn’t complaining, of course - she would do it even if she wasn’t getting paid - but her birth control pills had vanished from the cabinet, and she couldn’t help but notice that over the next few months the scheduled titles were starting to shift from breeding into pregnancy stories.

A year into her employment and six months into her pregnancy, deskpet was starting to worry. 

She was falling behind now, everything was taking more and more time. The hypnos had made deskpet much, much happier, and now she barely had thoughts at all besides the ones that Sir put in her brain for her to use - but it meant that typing was harder, and now when she was cockwarming or taking dick-tation - she giggled - all she wanted to do was go blank and fulfill her role of serving his cock. 

But he worked so hard, and he deserved help - more help than she could give. 

She thought about it for a while, and set about posting an ad. 

‘Help Wanted: Skilled Secretary’ the ad began….

[novaursa]

Can I request a pre-rebellion Ned Stark x Targaryen!reader.

Reader is a skilled swordswoman and essentially sneaks into a tourney (by disguising herself in armour) and she duels against Ned and beats him. Then she reveals herself and he’s just real impressed and becomes smitten.

The duel is similar to this scene from GOT. - https://youtu.be/wE2XFEUXxjk?si=ai7YLWHfo5rFrT_0

Dragonsteel

- Summary: You enlist in the sword tournament under a disguise and steal Ned’s heart.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Eddard Stark

- Note: These events happen before Robert's Rebellion.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The tourney grounds were buzzing with excitement, a sea of colors and banners whipping in the brisk wind, but you were hidden away, slipping into your armor. It was a fine set—plain and nondescript, save for a small pendant around your neck, bearing the image of a three-headed dragon, its wings wrapped protectively around a tiny sword. It was something you’d carried since you were a child, but to everyone else, it was just a trinket. No one would suspect who was beneath the steel and mail.

This was your chance. You’d watched, eyes burning with envy, as knights from all over the realm tested their skill in the lists. Your father, King Aerys, had dismissed your requests to participate with a snarl, your mother with pleading eyes, and Rhaegar, ever the dutiful older brother, had only sighed and shook his head. But there was fire in your blood, a restlessness that couldn’t be quenched with needlework and courtly dances. So, you took matters into your own hands.

The sword felt like an extension of your arm as you stepped into the ring, the weight familiar, comforting. Your first opponent—a burly knight whose house crest you didn’t recognize—grinned down at you, clearly underestimating the slight, armored figure before him. His mistake. You disarmed him in three swift moves, his blade clattering to the ground as he blinked, stunned.

The crowd cheered, more in surprise than in recognition, and you took a deep breath, trying not to let the rush of victory get to your head. There were still more rounds to go.

One by one, you dispatched your opponents. Some were more skilled, some less, but none could match the ferocity of your strikes or the quickness of your feet. You moved like a dancer, weaving and striking with a grace few knights possessed. You caught glimpses of the royal box between bouts, the glint of Rhaegar’s silver hair and the white beard of your father. They were watching, as were countless others, but you doubted they knew it was you beneath the helm.

Finally, your last opponent stepped forward, and your heart did a peculiar flip in your chest. Eddard Stark—Ned, as you’d heard his friends call him—strode into the ring. He was tall and lean, his face serious and composed. You remembered him from the occasional visits to King’s Landing he made with his father, his quiet demeanor and the way he seemed slightly out of place amidst the opulence of the Red Keep. He was different from the other men who vied for your attention, and you found yourself strangely intrigued.

Ned inclined his head in a respectful nod, which you returned before settling into a defensive stance. His grey eyes narrowed, studying your form, and you wondered what he saw—a mysterious knight with no house sigil, or just another challenger to defeat.

The clash was swift and intense. He was cautious, methodical, his strikes precise, each one meant to test your defenses. You parried and dodged, feeling a thrill of excitement course through you. Here was a challenge, a true test of your skill.

But you were no green boy fresh from the training yard. You pressed forward, your sword a blur as you forced him back. His brow furrowed in concentration, but there was something else there too, a glint of admiration, perhaps? Or was it confusion?

You spun, your blade catching his in a perfect arc that sent his sword flying from his grasp. The crowd erupted in cheers, but you barely heard them, your gaze locked on his. Ned Stark, the quiet, solemn lordling of the North, stood disarmed before you, a look of disbelief on his face.

Slowly, you reached up and removed your helm, shaking out your hair as gasps rippled through the audience. The pendant around your neck caught the light, the tiny dragon glinting like fire.

“Seven hells,” Ned muttered, staring at you with wide eyes. You bit back a grin, enjoying his shock far too much.

The reaction from the royal box was immediate. Rhaegar shot to his feet, his expression a mix of horror and incredulity. “What in the name of the gods are you doing?” he shouted, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. “You could have been hurt!”

You shrugged, not bothering to hide the mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “But I wasn’t, dear brother.” You turned back to Ned, who was still gaping at you as if you’d sprouted wings. “Apologies, Lord Stark. I hope I didn’t bruise your pride too much.”

His lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile forming as he dipped his head. “I’ve never been bested by a… princess before.” There was something warm in his gaze now, something that made your stomach flutter. “You fight well.”

You felt a strange heat rise to your cheeks. “Thank you, my lord,” you said, surprised at the sudden shyness in your own voice. This wasn’t how you’d expected this encounter to go. Where was your usual confidence?

The murmurs from the crowd grew louder as people began to piece together what had happened. A princess—no, the king’s daughter—had fought in the lists, had bested some of the finest knights in the realm, and had unseated Eddard Stark. It was scandalous, outrageous, and thoroughly satisfying.

Rhaegar descended from the royal box, his long strides eating up the distance between you. “Father will have your head for this,” he murmured, but there was a glimmer of pride in his eyes, a secret smile that only you could see.

“Let him try,” you retorted, sheathing your sword with a flourish. “But perhaps he should consider that his daughter is not quite as helpless as he thinks.”

Rhaegar shook his head, exasperated, but he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re incorrigible,” he sighed, but his voice was soft, fond.

You turned back to Ned, who was still watching you with that same, curious expression. “Well, my lord,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Will you join me for a walk? Or are you too humiliated to be seen with the likes of me?”

His smile widened then, a rare, genuine smile that softened his features. “I think, Princess, that I’d be honored.” He offered his arm, and you took it, feeling the eyes of the entire court upon you as you walked away from the tourney grounds.

As you left, you caught Rhaegar’s bemused expression, the horrified looks of some of the other lords and ladies, and, from somewhere in the back, the sound of someone bursting into laughter. You couldn’t help but grin. Let them talk. You’d had your victory.

[colormepurplex2]

Did It Hurt? | Sweet Kiss of Hellfire

↳ FallenAngel!Taehyung x LostSoul!f.Reader ⤜ Fallen Angel AU, Strangers to Lovers ⤜ Rating: MA 🔞 ⤜ WC: 12,706 ⚠️ Struggle with faith and beliefs, on-screen violence, allusion to murder, references to death & dying, kissing, hesitant sexual exploration, guilt over sexual desires, v. sex, creampie, damnation

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Taehyung

To say Taehyung is nervous would be a gross understatement as he walks a few feet behind you. It’s not even the idea of being welcomed into your personal bubble that has his knees knocking with every other step. It’s more the idea that, for some reason, he feels like he wants, no, needs to impress you. As if you somehow find him lacking, you’ll slip between his fingers no matter how hard he tries to hang on—and it’s not even about putting you on a path for redemption, not wholly, at least.

This is what he’s been waiting a hundred years for—his moment of being pulled back into the good graces of his Heavenly Brothers. Yet that’s the furthest thing from his mind right now as he watches your hips sway with your every step. He’s nervous because he wants you to like him. He wants a reminder of what it feels like not to be alone…maybe even more than he wants his wings back.

The further you lead Taehyung from the park, the more he realizes you’re heading toward the same place you went this morning: Ryan’s apartment. If he were a lesser man—fallen angel, really—he’d probably try to coax you into taking him to your place instead. But he doesn’t want to send you running for the hills when it already seems like he’s walking a knife’s edge with whether or not you trust him.

“The place we’re going isn’t too much further. I hope you don’t mind me including my friend. He’s kind of been my tabkeeper on everything. Plus, I still don’t know if I trust you completely or not,” you inform him, confirming his suspicions.

“That’s okay. The more information, the better.” Taehyung has to remember this isn’t just about you, no matter his thoughts from just minutes ago, but that he has a stake in this being successful, too.

So if that means suffering through mister-perfect-body-and-face-Ryan, then, by Grace, he supposes he’ll endure. Though, perhaps he can find a way to get some more one-on-one time with you just to solidify that connection he knows he needs to secure for this to work out for him in the end.

The familiar highrise comes into view as Taehyung rounds the corner after you. He watches as you breeze your way through the entrance, waving at the porter with a smile, and move on autopilot in the elevator. In a matter of minutes, Taehyung finds himself standing outside Ryan's swanky apartment with you.

It’s a nondescript door painted a plain green color. There is no welcome mat or other decoration. The only indicator that someone might occupy the space within is the small brass-colored ‘Weller P.I.” placard sitting above the 12 of the apartment number.

You knock on the door, lacing and unlacing your fingers together in front of you in an inpatient manner.

“Ging, is that you? I wasn’t expecting—” The door swings open, revealing Ryan standing there in all his blond, mossy-eyed glory, grey sweats slung low on his hips and shirtless. Even to Taehyung, Ryan looks delectable, which couldn’t rankle him more. “Who’s your friend?” Ryan asks, his brows knitting together in confusion. He leans his body against the doorframe, muscles bulging as he crosses his arms over his lean chest.

“Don’t start with that alpha male posturing. We don’t have time for it. If you want to challenge Taehyung to a dick-measuring contest, do it when I’m not around,” you huff, pushing by Ryan and stomping into his apartment.

“Taehyung?” Ryan's eyes widen, and his arms drop. “As in The Taehyung? Kim?”

“Seems you know who I am, yet I have no clue as to who you might be,” Taehyung offers, not at all feeling contrite over being a bit big-headed or intentional with his words.

Taehyung catches your eye over Ryan’s shoulder, and you roll your eyes, biting your bottom lip in what Taehyung hopes is a way to stifle your laughter at his choice of words.

Ryan frowns. “You didn’t tell him about me?” he asks you over his shoulder. It’s kind of cute, the way he’s pouting. However, that only lasts for a moment before he turns back toward Taehyung and straightens his shoulders, standing to his full height as if he could try to tower over Taehyung somehow. Yet, he only comes eye to eye with him, making Taehyung smile smugly. “I’m Ryan. Ginger’s best friend.”

“Only friend,” you call out as if that’s an important distinction. Taehyung likes to think it’s your way of saying that if you had more than one friend, you wouldn’t consider Ryan your best one.

That makes Ryan a bit red in the face, but he doesn’t comment further; he just steps back and gestures for Taehyung to come in. “Well, Ryan, only friend to Ginger; hopefully, we can all work together to make her life a little better, yeah?”

“You’re going to help?” Ryan asks, all pretenses dropping in the light of that revelation.

“That’s the plan. I know Lorren Bianchi, and I’ve promised our friend here that I might have an easier, perhaps more fulfilling, way to take him down. One that most likely won’t have a jail-time potential at the end of it.”

“Most likely?”

Taehyung gives Ryan a withering look, one he never would have dreamed of giving someone before he came to this desolate place known as the mortal realm. One hundred years can really take a toll, Divine being or not. He straightens, chest subconsciously puffing out. “Not everything is foolproof, pretty boy. Surely even you know that.”

“That alpha posturing and dick-measuring thing I mentioned? You don’t get to do it either,” you snark, waggling a finger at Taehyung from where you’re pulling beers from the fridge on the other side of the kitchen. “Even if it were entertaining to see you both strut around naked.” Then under your breath, “It would be the highlight of the last few years, I’d bet, but still not the time.” You clearly don’t mean for Taehyung or Ryan to hear you, yet your words might as well be an intimate caress against Taehyung’s ears.

Shaking himself away from the intrusive thoughts that come with your little secret fantasy, Taehyung gives you his attention. “Right, of course. Shall we?”

Ryan sighs but nods in concession. “Let’s hear this plan of yours.” He moves to the table where you’re settling with beers in hand. “Thanks,” he says, accepting one of the proffered bottles.

Taehyung sits at the table across from you and Ryan. He takes the beer you grabbed for him between his hands and considers the amber-colored glass before taking a sip. The bitter notes of the brew spark on his tongue, fading to a caramel finish as he swallows.

“Well,” Taehyung begins, taking another sip before laying it all out there for them.

🤍🤍🤍

You and Ryan take turns asking questions, clarifying details, and offering alternatives to a few of Taehyung’s ideas. But, ultimately, in the end, you have to begrudgingly admit it’s a perfect plan. It is far better than your pitiful blackmail and con artistry could accomplish in years.

Though, all your hard work isn’t for nothing. It’s agreed that you’re going to use all the juicy evidence you’ve gathered over the last two years on Bianchi against him. He’s going to be his own downfall, his own fatal stroke. And all you have to do is dress up one last time, play the part, and let all the pieces fall into place.

That might be easier said than done, though. You’re on board with not outright killing Bianchi. But your desire for blood hasn’t lessened in the last two years, to say the least. You want him to bleed, even if it’s just a little. Ryan and Taehyung have both assured you that once Bianchi is taken into FBI custody, he’ll bleed plenty. That’s not to say the FBI is going to make him bleed, but being in federal lockup and in the prison system, he has plenty of enemies.

You’ve also pointed out that he might have a lot of friends, too. To which Ryan conceded that it was a valid concern but a risk that would need to be taken. There are some doubts, but you’re trying to have some faith in your friend and your new…partner? You’re still not sure what to make of Taehyung yet.

You add a fourth empty bottle to the others at the center of the table, making the number alarming high. Ryan’s beer stash is starting to look relatively meager after the four hours the three of you have spent drinking and planning.

“I think it’s about time I call it a night,” you announce, pushing back from the table. You stand on wobbly feet, the heels you’re wearing not helping at all.

Ryan shoots to his feet beside you. “I’ll go with you. You’re in no condition to walk by yourself this late at night.”

“Nonsense. You live here. There’s no reason for you to leave just to have to come right back,” Taehyung declares. “I can walk you home,” he tells you. “You don’t live far from me anyhow.”

That pout turns Ryan’s lips down again. “But I’m her best friend,” he argues.

“Only friend,” Taehyung corrects. “For now, at least.” He winks at you, giving you a charming smile.

“Taehyung can walk me home. It’s fine, Ry. You should get some sleep. It’s late.”

“Ging, really?” Ryan throws out a hand toward Taehyung. “You’re choosing him over me?” Ryan can be cute when he’s petulant, like a child. You’re surprised he’s not stamping his foot, too.

Blinking to clear your head a bit, you give Ryan a pat on the shoulder and what you hope is a warm smile. “It’s not about choosing him over you, Ry. It just makes more sense this way. Now, to bed, go. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Ryan reluctantly disappears into his bathroom to get ready for bed, but not before pulling you into a tight hug and glaring daggers at Taehyung’s back as he waits by the door. Perhaps you should have stopped the beers much sooner, though it does make you feel good to be fought over like this. It’s the first time you’ve let yourself enjoy some freedom in a really long time.

There’s something about Taehyung, despite being still somewhat of a stranger, that makes you lose your inhibitions. You feel a sense of ease around him, even though you know you shouldn’t. It’s odd, yet you find yourself longing for it all the more.

The air outside is thick with noise, typical of the city. Taehyung walks beside you in companionable silence that’s a balming contrast, his arm occasionally brushing yours. You feel lighter already, knowing that everything you’ve worked for over the last two years is about to come to a head.

There is one feeling, though, deep down inside that you weren’t expecting: worry. You’ve been focused on revenge and taking down Lorren Bianchi for so long that you’re unsure what happens next. Money isn’t an issue; you’d been saving for years before this, and Ryan supplements you as needed through his FBI contact. To say the least, you’ve been handsomely compensated for all of your work, legal or not.

So, you’re not sure what comes after. What will there be for you when no one is left to take down? You haven’t really given yourself the liberty to think about that…until now. It’s scary, so daunting that it makes your hands shake.

“Are you okay?” Taehyung’s voice breaks you out of your revere.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” The lie comes easy, a natural response to a question you’re asked far more than you’d like to be.

Taehyung clears his throat. You can hear the wet sound of his tongue swiping over his lips as he licks them. “You’re not being honest with me.”

The beer must be hindering your ability to be convincing. “I will be fine once we take Bianchi down.”

“Two more days. Monday night, everything will change.” There is an underlying hint of longing in the way Taehyung says those words. They’re clearly meant to comfort you, but you can tell he’s just as passionate about accomplishing it.

You’ve been trying to piece together that for several hours now. Sure, Taehyung has expressed the desire to see Bianchi ended, but he hasn’t honestly explained why or what his personal interest is in this whole plan.

“Why do you care so much about helping me?” you ask because, clearly, the beer has also removed your brain-to-mouth filter.

Taehyung slows to a stop, and that’s when you realize you’re standing outside your apartment. He must have directed you here because you don’t remember the walk at all. He fits his hands in his pockets and meets your eyes, the silence stretching long after your inquiry.

Finally, he says, “You could say that by helping you, I’m seeking my own sort of redemption. Delivering you from a path of destruction to one of absolution will allow me to remove some of my own personal shackles and make up for wrongs from my past.” You see his shoulders twitch, a slight grimace sliding over his face. It lasted only a moment, but it was there.

“Your back,” you whisper. “What you were punished for? You think helping me will make up for whatever you did to earn those scars, is that it?”

His eyes, once so full of fire and life, close over until he’s an unreadable mask. “Something like that,” he says. “Well, I’ll let you head up. Call me on Monday before noon. We can coordinate our arrival and plans then.”

Taehyung turns and only makes it a few feet down the sidewalk before you call out to him. “Wait, please. Umm, do you—do you want to come up, maybe?” Regret instantly burns down your throat, being so forward like that. It’s apparent he’s uncomfortable and is about to reject you.

You feel like such an id— "Okay.” His response takes you by surprise. Pleasantly, though. “Maybe for just a bit.”

The thought of sex is so far removed from why you asked. Though, now that the question has been put out there, you can only imagine that’s what he’s thinking you’re asking for.

“I just, uh, well—it’s not for sex or anything like that. I just don’t want to be alone right now.” There. Now you’ve made it clear and also made a bigger fool of yourself in the process. You’re not sure what’s going on with you. Fuck. You need to get inside before you say something else.

Taehyung follows you quietly, his eyes sparkling once again with that fire and life from before. Perhaps he finds your babbling amusing. Which, weirdly, makes you feel even giddier. This guy…is something else, like an alien or something, because no human being should have this kind of effect on someone else just by being near them.

For once, since moving in, you feel like your apartment could be better. You feel like Taehyung will undoubtedly think you’re some weirdo with no personality or love for life. Not that that isn’t far from the truth for the last two years, but there’s something about inviting someone into your space when it’s so utterly devoid of anything that’s genuinely you.

“Nice place,” Taehyung compliments as you let him in. He immediately toes off his shoes, something you don’t even do in your own space but now feel the need to.

Leaving your heels by the door, you flex your toes on the hardwood floor to encourage some feeling back into them. “Thanks, it’s nothing really special. Sorry it’s so boring.”

That charming smile is once again in place as Taehyung turns toward you. “Don’t discount yourself so much. You have a lot on your plate. I understand that this,” he gestures around your apartment, “is most likely not an accurate representation of who you are as a person.”

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to simply make me feel better about myself or actually flirt with me,” you mutter, half to yourself, half uncaring if he hears. “Um, would you like something to drink? A water, perhaps, to help cut off the buzz from all those beers? I know I sure could use some.”

You move into the kitchen, grab two glasses from the cabinet, and fill them with water from the filter pitcher in the fridge. Taehyung graciously accepts a glass, tips it up, and takes a sip.

“Funnily enough, I’m not all that buzzed. The water is still nice, though, thank you.”

There were at least seven empty bottles in the center of Ryan’s table that were put there by Taehyung. Either he actually is an alien, or he’s lying about being buzzed. Ryan’s beer preference isn’t known to have a low ABV.

“How is that even possible?” you ask, moving over to sit on the couch. The leather squeaks a bit, not used to being sat on. You bought it as a means to fill up some of the space, the same as the flat-screen TV that you haven’t turned on in…well, you can’t remember how long.

Taehyung swings around the end of the couch and settles at the other, turning with one knee bent onto the cushion beside him. “I told you, I’m not from here.”

“Extraterrestrial. I knew it.”

That makes Taehyung laugh. “More like celestial.”

“Celestial?” you question. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Taehyung looks down at his cup of water, fingers flexing on the glass. “Not celestial as in space, but celestial as in divine…holy.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh. “You’re trying to tell me you’re what, an angel?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Taehyung asks. You continue to chuckle, but it tapers off as you realize Taehyung isn’t laughing or smiling with you. In fact, the look on his face is quite severe.

“You’re being serious?”

A pregnant pause settles between you, feeling stifling and thick. The tension snaps when Taehyung smiles and shrugs his shoulders, somehow melting the awkwardness. “Let’s pretend for a moment that I am being serious. Is that so hard to believe?”

You lick your lips, intent on telling him that you don’t believe in that kind of stuff and that angels, demons, heaven, and hell are just words to you. Yet, when you open your mouth to do just that, the words get clogged, and you find yourself genuinely thinking about it. There is so much evil in the world, evil that you’ve witnessed firsthand, that you could believe the devil or demons exist.

But, the other side of the coin? If there was such a thing as god or angels, then why aren’t there more miracles or good in the world? Why do innocent children die? Why do harmless women become victims, just another drop in the bucket of endless souls lost? 

That’s a hard pill to swallow. Either there is no god, or god isn’t as all-loving as they make him seem. Maybe even god is actually the evil one. After all, what’s a more incredible deception and evil than making up some obtainable holy divinity if you just worship him when there’s only nothingness that awaits beyond life?

Before your thoughts can continue to spiral, you startle at realizing Taehyung’s sudden close proximity. He must have slid closer while you were mulling over your answer. His discarded water glass is set on the floor beside the couch, and he’s staring intently at you, his knee brushing your thigh.

“It’s not hard to believe, I don’t think.” Because it’s not, really. Maybe you wouldn’t call it the power of god or the malevolence of evil, but it’s not hard to think there might be something out there, even if you’re just humoring this odd man who makes you feel all fluttery and warm inside.

Taehyung drifts closer, and your body automatically angles toward him. You watch as his eyes flick from yours to your lips and back. “It feels good to be believed in,” he whispers, the ghost of his words puffing against your lips.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice breathless and airy.

He shakes his head slightly, a line forming between his brows. “I don’t know. It’s been so long since I allowed myself to be this close to another being, to have someone express belief in me…it’s—” he sucks in a deep breath before jerking back from you, putting several inches between your body and his. “Forgive me. I don’t know what—”

“Don’t,” you urge, pressing your index finger against his lips and cutting off his apology. You’re not sure you can bear it if he makes whatever is happening between the two of you into something terrible.

Your lips replace your finger, the action one of panic but quickly morphs into desire. Taehyung’s mouth is hesitant, his lips tight lines under yours, at first. But, with a few plucks of your lips against his, he melts into it. You coax his lips to part with the tip of your tongue, luxuriating in the heady taste of him when he opens for you.

It feels good to get lost in someone just because you want to because you choose to do it for your own pleasure and not to advance a plot or plan. The glass of water in your hand slips, clattering to the floor beside the couch, surely spreading water across the hardwood. But you couldn’t care less. Taehyung is pliable under your touch, allowing you to angle his head and slide your fingers into his hair for leverage.

You’re not sure the last time you kissed someone like this, giving it your all and accepting all in return. Taehyung makes soft mewling noises as you gently bite his bottom lip before plunging your tongue back into his mouth. His hands land on your hips, fingers kneading gently.

You slide a hand from his hair down to his shoulder and further until it rests over his rapidly beating heart. His chest is firm under your palm, warm and comforting. When your hand starts to drop lower, Taehyung breaks the kiss and begins to move along your jaw to your throat.

His mouth is greedy as it dances over your pulse point and clavicle. You can feel his hot breath over your already heated skin, setting a fire that drips down your spine and settles between your thighs.

Taehyung sucks in a sharp breath through his nose when your hand makes it to his lap, his entire body going so rigid it’s alarming. His cock is so hard you can feel how it’s straining the zipper on his slacks. It lasts only a moment, the pulse of fear and panic you feel emanating from him before he’s practically crawling over the back of the couch to get away from you.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Stumbling upright as he slides over the back of the couch, he stands there wide-eyed, staring at you. “I–I think it’s b-best for me to go. I’m sorry. You’re lovely, really. As cliche as it is, it really isn’t you. It’s me. I, uh,” he glances down at his crotch and the very evident bulge there, “this…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

It’s like his body is not his own as it moves with phantom actions he hasn’t done in decades. He folds his hands under his chin, his lips muttering a bit of the Lord’s Prayer before he brings a hand to his forehead, drops it to his sternum, and then crosses to his left shoulder before ending on his right.

He instantly feels disgusted with himself. Though, whether that’s for bending to the temptations of the flesh once more or with how much his past life is coming back to control him, he’s not sure.

The look on your face is like Michael’s sword all over again. He can feel the burn lancing across his back as he takes a few shaky steps backward toward the door. Slowly, you seem to pull yourself together and plaster a placating smile on your face.

“No, I should be the sorry one. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that, not without asking first. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I guess that’s what I get for drinking so much.”

Only Taehyung knows it wasn’t the alcohol, and he doesn’t want you to be sorry for what you did. He wants to beg you to keep going, to call him a fool and come after him, take him to the ground, and ravage him. And he has to get out of here before he asks you to do just that.

“I’ll see you Monday?” Taehyung offers from by the door. He feels like an idiot running away like this, but he can’t ruin this now. Not when he’s so close, and the idea of throwing away one hundred years should be enough to make him keep going out the door.

You stand up from the couch, adjusting your dress along your hips. “Yep. I’ll call you.” Thankfully, Taehyung had the forethought to give you his number much earlier in the evening.

“Goodnight. Sweet dreams,” Taehyung says quietly before opening the door and stepping out. He barely catches your ‘goodbye’ in reply as the door closes.

Taehyung groans, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands in frustration. “Fucking fool,” he mutters to himself. “Way to almost ruin everything.”

However, as Taehyung walks home, he can’t help but lament how conflicted he feels. Sure, he knows this is the exact kind of situation that put him here in the first place, the whole reason he’s even getting close to you. Yet, deep down, he knows he’s always been a far more carnal creature than most of his kind.

He can remember, many, many centuries ago, long before his own fall, how close he was to his Brother Yaqum. There was also Sariel and Armaros, as close to him as he once thought Michael and Raquel were. Yaqum, Sariel, and Armaros were all a part of the big fall, cast out for their salacious couplings with human women. The very crime Taehyung almost just committed for a second time.

Taehyung’s apartment is cold when he gets home, just as desolate as his soul feels currently. He reluctantly takes a shower, silently pained by washing away the lingering tingle of your touch. There are only a few more hours before the sun rises, and Taehyung wants nothing more than to lie in his useless bed and replay what transpired on your couch over and over again, regretting having washed you away so soon.

In all the years Taehyung has been in his exile, never before has a human so completely turned his existence upside down like this. Perhaps he should take it as a good sign, indicating that he’s chosen correctly for redemption. However, there is a sadness that won’t go away. It’s ebbing in around his edges, fraying them and coloring them in shadowed tones.

Rolling over to face the window beside his bed, he watches as the early morning pinks and oranges begin to bleed through the blues and indigos of twilight. If everything goes according to plan, in just forty-eight hours, he could be watching a completely different sunrise, one from a Heavenly vantage point, a sight he has longed for for so long.

Watching the sunrise was one of his favorite things to do. Heaven is a unique place, both physical and ethereal, a limbo of existence. But the sunrise was always something of the material plane, a sight that transcended the barrier between the mortal realm and the Holy one. It’s also where Taehyung met her.

Taehyung hasn’t let himself think about Hana since that day in the Divine Chamber of Justice. But he can still remember her smile, the light in her eyes, and the way they crinkled and her body shook with laughter. Little did Taehyung realize that one moment watching the sunrise together would lead to countless stolen moments and smiles.

There is nothing anywhere that expressly states Angels are not to fraternize with their flock. Though, Taehyung supposes, after what happened during the Great War of Heaven, there probably didn’t need to be something written down. There shouldn’t have to be some ‘How To Be An Angel’ guidebook.

It wasn’t enough that Taehyung was cast into exile for his actions. They had to punish Hana as well. Though, she won’t remember it. That was her punishment, her memories removed and being placed in another Angel’s flock for care. She’ll never remember the moments they shared together, never remember Taehyung. He sometimes wishes they would have taken his memories, too.

Not able to take the painful reminiscing any longer, Taehyung turns his back on the sunrise, burying his face in a pillow, hoping for more pleasing thoughts. He thinks of you, so hungry and aggressive in your pursuit of discovering what was behind his trousers. The satin pillowcase is smooth against his cheeks as they heat with that thought. He never considered the possibility that he’d find himself revisiting these kinds of sordid thoughts and experiences during his exile. Yet, here he is, willing his erection to go away once again.

Thinking about Hana didn’t help. He just can’t help himself, though, now that the image of you—his goddess—is firmly in his mind. Taehyung can picture Hana naked and begging… lying beside you on a giant bed. Both so desperate for him. Taehyung clears his throat and shakes his head, dispelling the sin-filled fantasy.

He stays like that until Monday morning, flipping between lush fantasies and chastisement. Taehyung throws back the blankets and drags himself from the bed in hopes he can take his mind off all his uncertain and worrying thoughts. There are plenty of other things that could use his attention, like preparing for the gala tonight.

Waiting for your phone call is torture. Around eleven, Taehyung starts to think maybe he permanently ruined things with you Saturday night. But, you put him out of his misery just before noon. He answers on the first ring.

“Hello?” you ask when he doesn’t say anything at first.

Relief floods through him. “Hey, hi, hello. Sorry, I’m here.”

“Oh, did I call at a bad time?”

“No, no. You’re fine. Now is great. Tell me about what you’re thinking of wearing.”

There is some shuffling on the other end, the sound of fabric swishing over the line. “Crimson silk, off the shoulder, floor length.”

Taehyung swallows around the thick knot forming in his throat. “Send me a picture? Just for color clarification purposes,” he’s quick to add.

You laugh softly, the sound growing faint as he assumes you pull the phone away from your face. A moment later, his phone buzzes. Putting it on speaker, Taehyung clicks through to his messages, and a moment later, an image of you pops onto the screen. It suddenly feels far too warm in his apartment, and his suit pants far too tight.

The silk hugs your curves, a plunging neckline accented by the dainty necklace around your neck. You’re smiling in the bathroom mirror, the shot cut off at your hips, but Taehyung doesn’t think he needs to see the whole thing to get the perfect picture of how utterly divine you look right now—every inch his goddess in truth.

“How’s that?” your voice breaks through his admiration.

“Great, perfect. I think I have just the tie to match. The gala starts at three. Shall we meet there at a quarter til?”

Your sigh whistles through the line. “Yeah, that works.”

“Hey, everything is going to be okay. I promise. We’ve got it all worked out, and we’re going to bring Lorren Bianchi to his knees.”

You hum in agreement. “Ryan says he has a surprise for us but won’t tell me any details. But, he is going to meet us around back at three-thirty to drop off what we need and give an escape once the shit hits the fan. Are you certain you can’t get him a pass in, too?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. This was an argument that was hashed out Saturday night. “A surprise? I don’t like surprises. He better not screw any of this up. And not this late in the game, sorry. I only had an extra ticket already because I had submitted for a plus one, thinking I’d be bringing a business venture partner.” In reality, Taehyung could probably swing it where Ryan also got in with some sort of media pass. But, it’s an added risk that Taehyung isn’t sure is worth the trouble. As well as, the farther Ryan stays away from you, the better Taehyung will feel.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll see you then. Quarter til.”

“See you then.”

Even though there are still a few hours to go, Taehyung leaves immediately after changing his tie to one that matches the color of your dress, thinking it’s better to wait for you there than to spend any more time hanging around his apartment twiddling his thumbs.

It’s a relatively short walk, considering the amount of foot traffic crowding the sidewalk near the hub of downtown. Once there, though, time seems to drag to a standstill, minutes ticking by feeling like hours.

Taehyung rolls his shoulders as he lounges against the brick wall outside of the state building where the gala is being held. The burning itch seems to grow more persistent with every step he takes toward redemption. Thankfully, a beautiful distraction dripping in red comes along to take his mind off of it.

“Hello,” Taehyung greets you brightly as soon as you come into view from around the corner at promptly fifteen minutes until three.

You’re like a breath of fresh air in your crimson slip dress. The slit comes nearly to your hip on the right, the black pumps on your feet making it so the dress is just an inch from brushing the sidewalk. Your makeup is light, with a subtle smokiness around your eyes and a smear of gloss on your lips. Taehyung wonders if it’s flavored.

“Hi.”

“You look beautiful.” Taehyung watches as your eyes dip down and a faint smile traces your lips.

“Shall we?” you ask, flicking a hand toward where there are various bubbles of people gathered outside the doors to the building, all waiting for entrance.

Taehyung offers you his arm and delights at the feel of your hand settling into the curve of his elbow. It feels good to have you touching him, even in such an innocent manner. Almost too good, which is alarming, and Taehyung has a moment of weakness where he considers shaking your hand free and pretending he didn’t offer you his arm to begin with.

Pressing beyond the swell of confusing and contradicting thoughts, he turns his attention toward making it inside the gallery hall. The sooner he gets things rolling, the sooner he can put all this behind him and finally be whole again.

There is a small procession leading inside, photographers capturing snapshots of guests in front of a giant Bianchi Holdings backdrop just inside the atrium entrance. It rubs Taehyung the wrong way how there is so much money being flaunted here when just a few city blocks away there are homeless encampments. The rich really are a different breed of monster, all sharp fangs and poison.

“Did Ryan tell you any more about that surprise he has planned?” Taehyung asks, eyeing roving over the crowd for familiar faces.

Your hand flexes against his elbow. “I wish,” you murmur.

That’s concerning. Taehyung doesn’t like surprises. He’s still thinking about fitting his hands around Ryan’s neck and teaching him a lesson as the photographer snags a few photos, and you lead him inside.

The hall where the gala is being held is decorated in flashy opulence. Everything is gold. Shimmering fabrics cover the tables, and golden statues sit as center pieces along the drink bar. The chandelier hanging in the center of the banquet hall reflects the warm, yellow sunlight coming in from the large glass skylights overhead.

Just as Taehyung is steering you toward the drink table, he catches sight of Lorren Bianchi standing on the far side of the room, talking to none other than Roy Simmons. “Do you want to meet him?” Taehyung asks in a low whisper.

You stiffen by Taehyung’s side, your fingers digging into his arm, and he’s almost certain he can hear your molars grinding together. A few moments of silence pass, and Taehyung is about to say to forget it when you respond, “A drink first.”

With a whiskey in his hand and a flute of champagne in yours, Taehyung slowly ushers you across the room. He stops periodically, introducing you to other attendees, nameless cogs that are part of the big machine. Finally, Taehyung catches Bianchi’s eye, and with one flick of his Rolex-encircled wrist, he beckons you both over.

It’s no surprise that as soon as Bianchi’s attention is diverted from him, Roy Simmons slinks away into the shadows, eyes wide like he has seen a ghost when you come into view. It makes Taehyung want to laugh, but he bites his tongue instead.

Taehyung keeps half his focus on you, making sure you’re okay as you come face to face with the man who altered your entire world a few years ago, the man who has been your number one enemy since he stole the light from your life and the smile from your face.

“Ah, Mr. Kim, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t sure you were coming after I heard you canceled on Ms. Torshen.”

It takes tremendous effort for Taehyung not to grimace. It’s not such a bad thing, having canceled on his prospective business venture plus one. If things go according to plan, then Taehyung won’t even be needing that business prospect anyway.

Giving you a fond smile, Taehyung says, “Yes, well, as you can see, I’ve discovered something far more…alluring.”

He can see it, the irritation in your eyes at being referred to in such a manner, but it was discussed heavily on Saturday night that Taehyung might have to act a certain way at the gala if he was to make it believable that he’s as a typical guest.

Bianchi’s eyes sweep over you, devouring the plunging neckline and high slit of your dress. Taehyung has the sudden urge to gauge them out. Lorren Bianchi is a snake, complete with green-grey soulless eyes and too-red lips that part around a slick tongue as he licks them.

“Lorren Bianchi,” he introduces himself, offering you a be-ringed hand.

There is a mild tremble to your free hand as you slip it into his. He brings your hand up and brushes his lips over your knuckles. “Ginger. Ginger Weller.” It was agreed that tonight you would continue to be Ginger, one last performance.

“Weller? As in the old Weller Conglomerate?”

As insisted by Ryan, you nod. “Yes.”

You’d never taken on a last name for your persona, but Ryan has enough big ties to his name that it would be impressive in a place like this while not drawing too much attention. Ryan’s adoptive father retired and sold off the business for a hefty sum before filling Ryan’s bank account and running off with his mistress to Bali.

“Father?”

“Step,” you offer quickly. Taehyung can tell you’re panicking about it with this line of questioning, and now he wants all the more to throttle Ryan for this stupid idea.

“If you’ll excuse us, I need to get my donation in before I forget,” Taehyung says, interjecting into the conversation to try and steer it away from you. You’re only supposed to be his proverbial arm candy tonight, close enough to get the job done but far enough that you won’t get caught in the crossfire when things go south.

Bianchi, his gelled-back black hair glinting like a knife in the overhead light, claps Taehyung on the back. “See to it that you do. Ms. Weller, a pleasure.” He gives you an oily smile before turning and stalking away.

Taehyung sighs, steering you toward the other side of the room. “I’m going to strangle your only friend,” he mutters. “What a ridiculous idea. His surprise better be a good one, or I might just…” he trails off, shaking his head and not finishing his line of thinking. If Taehyung were to voice such dark thoughts aloud, he might just think the heat he felt along his neck was the kiss of Hellfire instead of annoyance.

“Give him a break. He was just trying to be helpful since you weren’t able to get him a pass in,” you grump beside Taehyung, but he can tell you’re not putting much effort into the chastisement, your thoughts clearly elsewhere.

It would seem suspicious if Taehyung didn’t actually stop by the donations table and at least put on the front that he’s donating. So he tugs you toward where the familiar face of Bianchi’s assistant is sitting at a table covered in a gold-crushed velvet tablecloth with a laptop in the center.

There have only been a few occasions where Taehyung has interacted with the young woman, but she doesn’t even look up from where she’s tapping away at the keys on the laptop when she says, “Mr. Kim, how much are you donating tonight? Will you be using the same method as last time?”

Taehyung clears his throat, garnering him a quick glance over the rim of her glasses. Giavona Bonetti is just as much of a snake as Bianchi is. She’s complicit in all of his devious ventures, her hands just as much covered in blood as his, except hers also gloat a tinge of green. Taehyung knows she’s tremendously jealous but also extremely greedy. Bianchi pays her for her discrepancy and infallible loyalty. When he goes down, her ship will sink, too.

“Fifty large, same method,” Taehyung says, earning a bewildered look from you. He shrugs, not sure what you expect from him in this situation, he’s trying to make it all look believable.

Giavona clicks a few things on the laptop, her eyes flicking to him once more before she gives him a saccharine smile that turns into a viper’s sneer when her eyes slide to you and says, “Done.”

“Thanks,” Taehyung murmurs, eager to get you away from the woman before she says something that would actually make him voice some very dark, choice words aloud.

“Friend of yours?” you ask, clearly amused now. Which, to Taehyung, is better than the anxiety he felt rolling off of you moments earlier.

Taehyung just gives you a pointed look that makes you laugh softly, mischief twinkling in your eyes. Taehyung decides he likes that look on you. Almost as much as he loves the dress you’re wearing, even if it is a bit distracting right now with how the fabric pulls tight every time your chest rises with your inhales.

“Come on, we should be able to make it out the back without drawing too much attention now.” Taehyung watches as the light slowly dims from your eyes, and your lips press into a thin line, bringing you back to why you’re here in the first place.

It’s easy to find a way out the back entrance. The hallways and rooms outside the banquet hall are mostly empty, with just a few service workers diligently running trays of drinks and refills on napkins. Their heads are down and ears closed, as is expected of them during events like this.

A blacked-out utility van is parked in the service alley near the dumpsters as Taehyung leads you outside. Ryan’s stoic face is barely visible through the driver's side window. He pops open the door and jumps out, complete in a full black outfit, as if he’s about to crawl through some air vents in a spy film. Taehyung rolls his eyes.

“Ready to set the world on fire?” Ryan asks you, digging in his pants pocket, his easy boy smirk rubbing Taehyung the wrong way.

You finally let go of Taehyung for the first time since you took hold of him out front. He feels bereft and suddenly far too cold for the mild weather outside. Taehyung watches as you step toward Ryan and accept the thumb drive he holds up.

“It’s all here?”

“Everything.” Ryan nods, confirming.

Taehyung steps up beside you, eyes focusing on the small stick of plastic pinched between your thumb and forefinger. “What’s the surprise you have?” he asks Ryan without taking his eyes off the flash drive.

Ryan claps his hands, rubbing them together. “I was worried that the local PD might not make it here on time to arrest Bianchi before he could slip away into the shadows, so I let on with my FBI contact that something big would be going down tonight. I sent him a copy of everything on the flash drive, and he’s ready for the show to go down before he makes a move.”

Taehyung begrudgingly has to admit that’s a good idea, a pleasant surprise. Yet, he doesn’t want to give Ryan the satisfaction of saying so, so he just grunts in response. But you, you throw your arms around Ryan and give him a hug like one Taehyung wishes you would afford him.

It’s as endearing as it is irritating, watching you have a moment of vulnerability and tenderness with Ryan. Taehyung might not care for how close Ryan is to you, but he’s glad you’ll have someone to lean on and move on with once he’s gone. It’s not that long now. Taehyung can feel it; his redemption draws closer with every step he steers you away from the path of vengeance and toward one of justice instead.

The fact that he’ll get to one day watch over you, guard you through the rest of your life, is what keeps him moving forward. It’s what helps take the sting away from realizing he’ll have to let you, this goddess that brought him so much vigor and light in such a short amount of time after a hundred years of bleak desolation, go.

“Thanks, Ry,” you say, finally pulling away from the embrace. “Are you ready?” you ask, turning your big, bright eyes on Taehyung. You’re full of life once more, ready to take on the world—or, more so, take on Lorren Bianchi. Taehyung wonders what you must be thinking, knowing everything you worked so hard for the last two years is about to pay off. He can taste the adrenaline pumping just beneath your skin. The excitement twinged with mild dollops of trepidation like lemons and cream on the back of Taehyung’s tongue.

“Ready,” Taehyung affirms, offering you his arm once more.

🤍🤍🤍

You hope Taehyung can’t tell how nervous you are. The rush of blood in your ears and the pounding of your heart have become just background noise to you at this point. You can feel the electric tingle of adrenaline under your skin. It’s what’s keeping you going.

The flash drive is cupped under your fingers, resting in the crook of Taehyung’s elbow as he leads you back inside. Ryan has the back door of the van open, waiting to take you and Taehyung away once you’ve delivered the crushing blow, toppling Bianchi’s empire.

It wasn’t easy, agreeing to follow the path Taehyung offered you instead of pursuing your original desire just to murder the bastard. You want him to suffer, just as you’re certain Danika did. Yet, you were always struggling with the fact that death was less than he deserved. You just weren’t sure how else to go about giving him an eternity of misery.

All you have to do is fit this little piece of technology into the projector that’s set up in the media room and let it play out. Roy Simmons provided everything you asked him to. Which, if you’re being honest, surprised you.

You spent the entire day yesterday pouring over everything you’ve collected over the last two years, the stuff Simmons gave you included. It was horrific, digging through all the memories and the disgusting piles of evidence. But, in the end, you know it’s going to be worth it. The evidence is irrefutable. Ryan said with all the additional information he’s been feeding the FBI over the last two years, Bianchi is dead to rights.

The added bonus that Ryan’s FBI friend is hanging out somewhere in the crowd is comforting. That was something you weren’t sure about with Taehyung’s plan. There was no guarantee that releasing all this evidence and proof of Bianchi’s foul deeds would see him suffer the way Taehyung promised he would. Now, though, you can see it all playing out perfectly.

“The speeches will be starting soon,” Taehyung says, nodding toward the stage where you can see Bianchi’s assistant setting up. There is one of those giant fake checks sitting on a rack behind her, the amount box blank for now.

“Did you really give up fifty large tonight?”

Taehyung flashes you a smile as he leads you back through the main entrance of the banquet hall. The media room is accessed from the staircase in the central lobby of the state building.

“Worth it.” He shrugs. “As dangerous and depraved as Bianchi is, most of the money is actually going to be donated to The Children’s Fund. There are mediators here that will see to that as long as the FBI doesn’t put a freeze on the accounts…which, well, is possible. I guess I’ll just have to make another donation myself.”

A thoughtful yet dark expression crosses Taehyung’s face for a moment, but it’s gone before you can think more about it. He’s still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to you, yet he feels like a lifelong friend already. There is just something enigmatic about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on but find yourself hungering for.

When you started your journey for revenge, you never thought you’d get a life beyond the final act. You were ready to go down swinging against Bianchi, ready to take that fall, knowing you did right by Danika for the mistake you made all those years ago. Yet now, you can almost taste the freedom that will come after—the life you hadn’t thought was possible.

You’re about to make a remark, something about the FBI tying up the donations, but it dies on the tip of your tongue as Taehyung stops in front of a closed door. The placard above the door reads ‘Media Station Ballroom 1 & 2’.

Trying the handle, it rattles in place. “Locked,” you state, suddenly feeling very stupid for not thinking ahead about this potential.

“Not to worry,” Taehyung assures you. He steps away from you, letting your other hand drop to your side, where you clutch your fingers around the flash drive. The sudden urge to wrap your hand back around Taehyung, to touch him in some way, overwhelms you and nearly takes you to your knees. But, you force the feeling down, steeling your shoulders and holding your place,

Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, Taehyung produces a small set of tools from inside the folds of leather. “A lock pick?” you ask. He’s just full of surprises.

“It comes in handy sometimes,” Taehyung says, giving you another one of those winning smiles. “Here we are.” There is a soft popping sound and then the door swings open, revealing the darkened interior. Whoever set up the audio for the event is long gone.

Taehyung reaches for your hand and you let him take it. The feel of his slender fingers cupping around yours is even better than holding onto his elbow. It feels right, like his hand was created to fit around yours perfectly. What you wouldn’t give to step into this room with him, close and lock the door behind you, and stay there forever. No more blackmailing, no more Bianchi, nothing else would matter.

Your brow pinches together as you snap out of the fleeting fantasy. It’s not possible to just close the curtains and fade into the background. You’re not even sure where these thoughts are coming from. Focusing back on the task at hand, you point out the large panel display on the far side of the small space.

“Do you want to stay and watch the show for a bit before we disappear?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re scared to speak too loud, not for being overheard and caught, but because it feels like if you talk too loud, you’ll break the spell of what is about to happen.

Warm brown eyes, made to look more greenish with the blue glow from the electrical panel, meet yours, and the warmth you find there is comforting. For once, everything doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, like this is the true path you’re supposed to be on instead of the one from before Taehyung walked into your life.

“Maybe for just a little bit,” Taehyung says just before he helps guide your hand toward one of the USB ports on the control panel.

The flash drive slides in, clicking into place. There is a view window that spans the width of the room over the panel. It’s one-way glass that looks out over the banquet hall. From this far up, Lorren Bianchi looks like a gangster figurine from a kid’s toy set; almost harmless, but you know better. He’s accepting a mic from Giavona.

Audio filters in through a small monitoring display showing volume levels and mixer channels. The column for microphone one lights up green, the bars jumping as Bianchi’s voice reaches your ears.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us at this year’s annual Bianchi Holdings Charity Gala. We are honored for each and every one of your donations. They will be going to a wonderful cause.” Applause fills the silence following his greeting. As it tapers off, Bianchi gestures with a hand to the blank projector screen behind him. “We have prepared a short presentation to highlight the goals we are setting this year, and so you can get a glimpse into what you may look forward to from your generous donations.”

Giavona points a slender remote at the small hub beneath the screen, and the whole thing illuminates with the beginnings of the presentation the marketing team under Bianchi put together. There is a murmur of appreciation as information scrolls across the screen, introducing the list of city-wide planned projects.

Little do these people know that Ryan spliced the presentation, one of the many things Simmons provided, so it initially appears to be just as it should be. Slowly, there are subtle changes: images that were once smiling and laughing children playing in the new Bianchi Park, to ones of emaciated children locked in cages.

You watch—poised beside Taehyung, his hand still firmly around yours—as realization bubbles through the gathered masses. You can’t hear the words he’s saying, but you can see Bianchi yelling at Giavona, his face red and his hands flying through the air as he gestures wildly at the screen.

Giavona holds up the remote, and you can see her thumb jamming away at the keys, to no avail. The program Ryan encrypted on the flash drive is designed to take over full control. The only way someone can shut down the now very incriminating presentation is with the passcode Ryan set himself, which even you and Taehyung don’t know.

The screen flashes, changing from the slide-show style to a shaky phone recording. This is the moment you were dreading the most, what you weren’t sure you could stomach seeing. Yet, you hesitate to turn away, feeling like you owe it to Danika to witness this.

Her face fills the screen, with dark bruises under her eyes and her hair hanging in greasy blond clumps around her face. Bianchi moves into the frame, shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting it fall to the floor beside where Danika kneels. Her hands are in her lap, her chin angled down, a slight tremor rattling her shoulders.

You refused to watch this when Ryan was putting together the flash drive on Saturday as you worked together, compiling all the information you needed to take Bianchi down. He offered to let you watch it at your own pace to prepare yourself for eventually seeing it. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe you were trying to punish yourself, but you wanted to watch it at the same time as Taehyung, at the same time as everyone else in the gathering below. You wanted to feel that searing heat and pain of devastation, a reminder that even after everything, you’re still human inside.

Taehyung’s hand tightens around yours as you both watch on, bile slowly trying to work its way up your throat. Bianchi is trying to rip down the screen now, but even as the sheet ripples, you can plainly see him walk up behind her and strip his belt off. He’s talking to the person recording, but the audio isn’t clear, just the scratching sound of fabric.

You know Roy Simmons is the man behind the camera, his phone tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket. When you caught wind that there was a video out there somewhere, being passed around the inner circle as a laugh, you knew that was your ticket. That was what you needed to put the last nail in Bianchi’s coffin. Roy Simmons was a fool looking for his own source of blackmail and just so happened to end up on your list because of it.

By this time, Bianchi has abandoned the screen, trying to make his way through the crowd towards an exit, but a group of men in black suits block his path. It plays out just how you imagined it in your head, Bianchi meeting his downfall as Danika struggles for breath on the screen, belt firmly wrapped around her throat.

You gasp, jerking around, unable to watch any longer. Taehyung gathers you into his arms, pressing your face into his chest. “It’s over now,” he coos. “Shh, it’s okay.” You don’t realize you’re crying until now, heavy full-body sobs. “Come on.”

It doesn’t bother you, being swept up into Taehyung’s arms. If anything, you burrow further into his chest and cling to him as he carries you, bridal style, down the stairs and through a service hallway to one of the back entrances.

Lorren Bianchi isn’t the only one getting what’s coming to him today. The list you’ve been checking off for the last two years was sent to Ryan’s FBI friend, along with everything else you collected. There are easily two dozen people inside that will be leaving the building in restraints.

Police sirens are blaring in the distance, angry yells echoing from inside. But all you can seem to focus on is the warm body supporting yours. Everything is a blur. You don’t remember getting in the van or the drive to your apartment. You’re only vaguely aware of the semi-argument that Ryan and Taehyung have about who should take you up to your place, but it seems Taehyung wins out because minutes later, he’s settling you on your bed.

“Please don’t go,” you rasp when he steps towards the door.

Taehyung stops and slowly turns back to face you. “You should get some rest.”

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you say. You’ve spent the last few years seeking solitude, worried that if you let someone get too close, you’d hurt them when you ultimately found yourself paying for your revenge—a price you’ve never thought twice about paying. Only now, that price tag is a bit different, things are different, thanks to the man standing there with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his angelic face.

He gives you a slow nod before moving back over to the bed and giving you a gentle nudge. “For a little bit.” Taehyung smiles, helping you move over so he can sit with his back against the headboard. He guides you back down and seems surprised when you rest your head in his lap, but he doesn’t insist you move.

It could be minutes or hours later, but there is no longer sunlight peeking around the heavy drapes covering your windows, and you feel thoroughly wrung out. Your emotions sit heavy on your chest, a constant pulse that waxes between numb and aching.

Taehyung has been silent. You’d think he had fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the way his thumb periodically traces soothing circles over your shoulder. Even though his presence is definitely what’s keeping you from falling apart right now, you need a distraction...a way to feel something other than that pulse sitting in the middle of your chest.

Maybe you’ll look back on this moment and chalk it up to a moment of weakness, but right now, you don’t care. You just need…something, anything. Taehyung startles as you move, pushing up onto your knees. “Taehyung,” you whisper his name like an evocation of prayer.

“What is it?” he asks, eyes searching your face.

“I need,” you begin, wringing your hands to try and keep them to yourself. It doesn’t work, your fingers capture in the lapels on his jacket. You use them as leverage to fit yourself into his lap, the slit of your dress parting over your right thigh to let you press your knees to either side of his hips. “Please.” You’re so close you can feel his accelerating breath puffing against your parted lips.

You watch as Taehyung’s throat works. His entire body is tense under yours, like he’s fighting against the urge to toss you aside and run away. Which, maybe, he is. Your thoughts flicker to how he reacted when you were touching him on the couch two nights ago, how quick he was to get away from you.

“I–I don’t…you haven’t even told me your real name,” he says, a line forming between his brows as he fists his hands into the duvet to either side of your knees.

A light laugh escapes you, and it feels good. “That’s easy,” you say, pressing yourself closer until your mouth is right beside his ear. You whisper your name before capturing his earlobe between your teeth and eliciting a moan from deep in his chest.

“Fitting for a goddess,” he murmurs. “But, I…there’s something…this isn’t—”

You lean back, smoothing your hands over his crumpled jacket, luxuriating in the feel of his lean chest under your palms as you do so. “Please, Taehyung. Make me feel something else, remind me that it was all worth it.”

Taehyung mutters something under his breath, sounding strangely prayerlike. He wraps his arms around you and anchors you against him. Conflicting emotions are dancing in his eyes, and he’s shaking his head, but his mouth meets yours in permission and acquiescence.

Opening to him comes easy, unbidden desires flaring to the surface to take over your lips and tongue. The dress slides smoothly over your head, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. Whether removed by your hands or his, clothes begin to disappear. You both pull and tear, fighting to remove all the barriers between your bodies.

You settle back on his lap, shuddering at the feel of his hard cock pressing along the slit of your pussy. Warmth kisses your skin wherever Taehyung touches. Deft fingers skate over every revealed inch, lingering to knead and savor. Heat envelopes your nipples, one after the other, as he wraps his lips around them and sucks.

“You’re so beautiful.” Taehyung emphasizes his words with vigorous sweeps of his hands over your ass and nipping bites down the valley between your breasts. “Heaven is Hell compared to you.”

You moan, enthralled by his words. Shifting your hips, you begin to rock against him, the head of his cock catching on your clit with every fervent motion. “I need you,” you gasp as he flexes his hips under you as you continue to move.

“I’ve, uh, it’s just that I haven’t—” Taehyung chokes out when you stick a hand between your thighs and grip the base of his cock, intent on sinking down onto his length.

It all makes sense now. Though, how Taehyung has managed to go his entire life remaining a virgin is a wild thought you’ll have to think on later. “Do you want to?” you ask, poised over him. You won’t do anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how much you might want it.

Taehyung pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, a storm brewing in his eyes. You’re certain he’s about to turn you down—gently, of course—but when he opens his mouth, it’s a pleasant surprise, “Yes.” His mouth hangs open, tongue poking out over his bottom teeth as he works a hand down alongside yours, helping you fit him against your entrance. “I do,” he grunts as he slides into your tight confines.

The swell of him inside you is the perfect mix of pain and pleasure. He’s almost too big, stretching you full, but as you begin to rise and fall over him, it turns into nothing but a swirl of hedonistic euphoria.

His exhale becomes your inhale, the breath shared between you tastes of lust and desire in ways you’ve never felt before. You’ve heard good sex described as a godly experience, but you thought it was simply an exaggeration. But the way Taehyung makes you feel, the way his body moves with yours in perfect sync, seems to transcend all your previous experiences, a level worthy of epic stories and star-bound fantasies.

You move over him, undulating your hips in a way that has you both letting out soft moans. His cock is stroking so deep you’re certain he’s connecting with your soul, washing away all of your misgivings and sins with each stroke.

“I’m going to cum,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around him in an effort to pull him in even deeper. Your fingers graze over the sharp ridges and bumps on his back, and his entire form shudders against you. The puckered skin is blazing, emanating a heat you’ve never felt before. Taehyung buries his face in your neck and groans, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your ass as he drags you up and down his cock even faster.

It feels like reaching the pinnacle of your existence, a frozen moment in time full of stilted breaths laced with ether as you both shatter in shared rapture. Taehyung cries out, the pulse of his cock accompanying a flood of warmth between your thighs. It builds, starting at your fingertips and toes and rippling inward, feeling like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your body contracts, clamping down around him as if it’s been starved of his essence, and the only way to satiate it is to take as much of him in as possible.

With every quiver of your body, you feel Taehyung’s cock throb in tandem. It’s overwhelming, the rush of adrenaline and dopamine makes your head fuzzy. Suddenly, you feel like you’re floating, arms and legs numb but weightless.

“My beautiful goddess,” Taehyung’s voice is faint like he’s talking to you from underwater or at the end of a long tunnel. You try desperately to hang on to that rough baritone whispering sweet words, but your consciousness narrows to a point before winking out, and darkness sweeps in.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Staying isn’t a good idea. As much as it pains him to move, Taehyung knows he has to get out of here before he does something stupid like fuck you again. Squeezing his eyes shut to dispel the erotic images of you writhing in the throws of ecstasy above him, he gently untangles your body from his and retreats with his clothes into your living room.

He’s messed up. Again. Taehyung can feel the burn of gluttony and lust coating his skin. Skin that is still sticky from your sweat and cum. There is a distinct knot in his chest, a thrumming point of awareness that tells him despite his fuck up, he’s still succeeded in his mission. You’re on the right path. He’s brought you to absolution. Perhaps, if he could leave quickly enough, none of his brothers would have noticed his latest transgression.

Dressing quickly, Taehyung takes stock of everything else he feels. There is a very prominent burning ache where his wings once were, your touch still lingering on the scarred flesh. He hates to leave you like this, especially after what the both of you just shared, but it’s for the best. At least you’ll still retain your memories of him, and you have a bright future ahead of you, or else all this was for nothing.

Taehyung shoves his feet into the shoes he left by the door and then pulls it open. The hallway is empty, the elevator beckoning him on. The first step into the hallway is easy, but the second feels like he’s trudging through mud. He can’t even take a third.

“You just can’t seem to quit, can you?”

Fear lances through Taehyung as that voice registers to him. It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in one hundred years. A flash of fiery light at the end of the hall reveals Gabriel in all his Divine and Angelic glory, a face like lightning and eyes that blaze with flaming power.

“Brother Gabriel,” Taehyung chokes on his brother’s name, shame thickening his tongue.

“I knew we were far too lax in your punishment, Taehyung. One hundred years and yet you still couldn’t keep it in your pants. You’re a disgrace,” Gabriel spits, eyes flashing with rage.

“Brother, please—” Taehyung tries.

“You are no brother of ours!” Gabriel cuts in, lashing a hand through the air.

With a sad look in his eyes, Raquel steps out from around Gabriel. Taehyung catches a glimpse of the Divine Chamber of Justice behind them. “You are no longer welcomed within our Sacred Groves or Holy Lands, Taehyung. Heaven casts you out. We, the Council of Grace and Purity, cast you out. May your soul rot for all eternity in the Fiery Pits of Hell for your sins and folly.”

In the next instant, Taehyung is falling, cartwheeling through a cloud of brimstone and smoke. He hits hard, the impact cratering the dry, pocked dirt beneath him. The air is so hot it sears his lungs with his first ragged breath. Something twitches under him. Agony blares through his body as he realizes his wings, once again where they should be, broke his fall.

Only now, they are not the snow white of before but a black so deep it seems to suck up the feeble light around him. They are splattered with red, crumpled feathers and shattered tips. They droop pitifully down his back and over the dusty ground as he sits up, fighting back the urge to scream from the pain.

Taehyung is whole once again, yet more broken than ever before. Despair rages through him, but not at his own loss but for the thought that maybe his brothers are now punishing you, too. It’s torture to think of them removing the memory of him from your mind. Taehyung lets out a heart-wrenching scream, the sound echoing far and wide in the emptiness around him.

“Peace, Brother.” The voice infiltrates his mind, cutting off his ragged scream.

“Who’s there?” Taehyung asks, voice raw with emotion.

The most beautiful creature materializes a few feet away. Lithe body, hair the color of bottled ink, and eyes darker than any pit. Dark wings flare out, casting dappled starlight over Taehyung that kisses his pain away.

“Your salvation.”

“Samael?” Taehyung whispers in awe as his once brother steps closer.

There is a coy smile on Samael’s face. “I’m surprised you recognize me, Brother. It’s been quite some time since I last saw your handsome face.”

“What are you doing here?”

Samael throws his head back in a full-body laugh. “Oh, dear sweet Taehyung, you get cast down into my realm and need to ask me why I’m here?”

Taehyung looks around, but there is nothing else here, just an endless stretch of the same gritty, ashy dirt. He slowly climbs to his feet, swaying only slightly as his body adjusts to the weight of his wings on his back once more.

“This is the 9th Circle?” he asks hesitantly.

“Holy Hells, no,” Samael chuckles, much more subdued this time. “This is Limbo, Purgatory, whatever you may want to call it. It’s an in-between place. A place where new souls come before I decide where they go. Those pompous white-fuzzed peacocks in Heaven think they get to choose where in Hell beings go, but they are sorely mistaken. No one makes that decision but those of us who rule this Hellspace.”

Taehyung swallows thickly, ready to accept his fate. “I’m ready. Send me to my fate, then, Brother.” It feels right, to bequeath Samael his proper title of Brother. He may not have seen Samael in that light for a long while, but Taehyung is part of this faction now…he’s as fallen as Samael and the others.

Samael claps his hands together, the stone-colored robes he’s wearing swish as he strides closer to Taehyung. “So eager to burn in Hell? All for some pussy. I always knew you were one of us, Brother. A breaker of the rules, someone crafted to go against the grain.”

“It’s not—it wasn’t,” Taehyung wants to protest what Samael is saying, but even he knows the truth and can’t bring himself to lie anymore. “It was worth it.” That truth sits better on his tongue. Because, even though he’s now facing an eternity of torment for it, seeing you smile and get lost in him will be the memory that sees him through to his end.

“Given the chance, would you do it all over again, just the same?” Samael asks, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Taehyung doesn’t have to think too hard about that. Sure, there are a few things he’d do differently, like sock Ryan in his perfect mouth for insisting you use his last name at the Gala for one, but everything with you? The only thing Taehyung would do is introduce himself to you sooner.

“More or less,” he finally says.

“Just what I wanted to hear.” Samael points a slender finger at Taehyung’s chest. “Your potential would be wasted in Hell. So, I have something else to offer you.”

Taehyung listens to Samael with rapt attention, his eyes growing wider and the hunger in his heart increasing with every word. It’s simple to accept the offer, Taehyung doesn’t hesitate. Moments later, deal signed, he finds himself standing back in front of your apartment door.

Creeping back into your place, Taehyung leaves a trail of his clothes as he makes his way back into your bedroom. He’s not sure how much actual time has passed, but you’re still soundly asleep, the sun nowhere to be seen outside your curtains.

It feels good to slide beneath the sheets. Even asleep, you reach for him, cuddling close with a contented sigh. Your memories haven’t been tampered with, Samael assured him of as much.

The phantom feel of his wings tickles along his spine. It’ll take some getting used to, having them back but shrouded the way they are. It’s part of Samael’s deal, keeping his wings. He’s now one of the Fallen, a guardian of the outcasts, the beloved beings that don’t always fit into the mold set forth by Heaven.

And the best part? He gets to keep you, too. Which, in the end, makes falling not hurt all that much. No, it doesn’t hurt at all.

⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to series masterlist

◅ Back to Master List ©️    2024-01-30    ColorMePurplex2  

[all-the-things-2020]

Summary: When you land on a backwater planet for a routine job, your feelings for your bounty hunter boss are revealed, thanks to a local holiday tradition.

Rating: PG-13 (implied sexual activity but everything happens off screen)

Notes: This was written in 2020, before we knew Grogu’s name. I wrote it for the Pedros12DaysofChristmas gift exchange on tumblr as a gift for @djarinslover.

Word count: 3600+

Tags: @morallyinept Jett, please add to your Festive Fic Rec List 🎄❄️🎁

The wind whipped across the plain that lay outside the little town. You huddled into your coat, which was not thick enough for this weather. Din’s cape plastered itself to his back and the Child he carried whined at the cold. “It’s not far,” Din said. “I’ll keep you warm, kid.” The green child snuggled closer and made an inquiring noise. “And we’ll get something to eat. I promise.” The Child cooed and snuggled closer, his tiny clawed hand clutching at the smooth beskar of Din’s breastplate. You marveled at how well the two communicated, considering the Child couldn’t talk yet. Of course, you and Din were often able to communicate without words, even though his face was always hidden by his helmet.

The ramp rumbled closed behind you as the three of you made your way to the gate of the town. It was another nondescript settlement on a nondescript planet; somewhere that should have been a safe hiding place for a being on the run, but Din was a relentless hunter and very rarely failed to find his quarry. You were surprised that he hadn’t simply left you and the Child on board while he checked out this new lead, but you had learned not to question him when it came to bounty hunting. That was his area of expertise, not yours.

There was a gateway of sorts over the road into town, and it was bedecked with boughs of some evergreen plant that smelled spicy and stringent. Bunches of red and white berries were tied here and there with bright yellow ribbons.

You stepped a bit closer to Din as you entered the town. The houses looked empty, although some had colorful lights hanging in the windows, and most of them had boughs hanging over the door frame. “Where is everyone?” you asked, disconcerted by the lack of people and the empty echoes of your feet against the walls.

Din shifted the Child in his arms and grunted. “Must be in the center of town for the festival,” he said briefly.

“Festival?”

He nodded, but kept walking. “It’s the Midyear Festival. Winter solstice or something like that. I thought the kid might enjoy seeing it.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a small pouch of credits, which he handed to you. “There’s sure to be some food for sale. Maybe you can find him a toy or something, keep him from stealing the knob off my gearshift all the time.”

You hid your smile, knowing that Din would just get brusque and dismissive if he saw it. You took the pouch and slipped it into the inside pocket of your coat. “And it gives you a good excuse to be here, too,” you said. “Bringing the kid to see the festival. Who’d be suspicious of that?”

Din turned his helmeted head slightly and you just knew he was rolling his eyes at you; the man could convey a full range of emotions with just a tilt of the head or shift in body weight. You’d learned to read him well during your time aboard the Razor Crest. You just wondered what it would take to get him to express the emotions you were almost certain were lurking just underneath the surface of what he’d allow himself to feel.

The town square was packed with beings of all kinds, eating and drinking and shopping at the booths that had sprung up around the perimeter. They were all decked out with the same evergreen boughs and berries. Din handed the Child to you. “Here, find him something to eat and look around at the wares,” he said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. It shouldn’t take me long to get the information I need and then we can move on.”

You held the Child close as the two of you watched Din walk away, his cape swaying behind him as he strode across the square. He didn’t have to weave his way through the crowd; they parted in front of him. You felt a swell of … not exactly pride, since it was mixed with a healthy dose of lust ...Din looked good as always, and you had to remind yourself that so far he’d treated you as no more than a crewmate.

“Come on, kiddo,” you said once Din had been swallowed up by the crowd. “Let’s get you something yummy to eat.”

The Child made it clear that he wanted one of the large, sugar dusted cookies that several children were carrying around, and you quickly found the booth that was selling them. You purchased two and found a place to sit down. You and the Child nibbled at your treats, watching everyone in their festival finery. “They sure are dressed up, aren’t they?” you said. The Child continued to munch on his cookie, but he pricked his ears up, so you knew he was listening. “Think we’ll ever have money to waste on fancy clothes like that? Yeah, probably not. Your dad’s pretty tight with the purse strings. And fuel and ship repairs are expensive.” You sighed. Life was better now that you were traveling with the Mandalorian and his strange little foundling, but it was never easy in this part of the galaxy.

Once the cookies were gone (and part of yours might have mysteriously found its way into the kid’s hands), you picked the Child up and wandered around the square, looking at the sights. At one booth, you found an assortment of wooden toys which you found charming but which barely got a glance from the Child. What he did like were the shiny ornaments that hung from a large bough in the next booth over.

“Those look awfully fragile, kiddo,” you said doubtfully.

“But you would be wrong,” said the young woman behind the counter at the booth. “They are made of durasteel, hand painted and beautiful, but guaranteed to withstand the wildest gaggle of children and/or beasts.” She took down the one that had caught the Child’s eye, a silvery globe just big enough for both of his little hands to grasp, painted all over with geometric shapes in a brilliant azure blue. As the Child reached desperately for it, you knew you’d never hear the end of it if you didn’t get it for him.

“How much?” you asked, sure it was going to be outrageously priced and Din would be mad at you for spending so much on a useless bauble.

“Five credits,” the woman said. She tilted her head, taking in your patched trousers and the raggedy hem on the Child’s robe. “Let’s say four. Can’t let a kid go without a Midyear present, can we?”

You would have gladly paid five, but bit your tongue. A credit saved was a credit earned, after all. You handed over the money and the Child cooed as he examined the beautiful ball in his hands.

“And what about for you?” the young woman asked. “Do you have your sprig of laramin yet?”

“My sprig of what?” you asked.

She nodded. “Figured you for an offworlder,” she said, reaching up to pull a bundle of blue and white leaves down from a rack at the back of the stall. “Laramin,” she said, holding it out to you. “Almost sold out, so you’re just in time.” She held it up above her head. “It’s a tradition. At midnight on Midyear Day, you try to get your sweetheart under the laramin. Legend has it, if you kiss them under the laramin leaves at midnight, they’ll love you forever.” She gave you an appraising look. “I saw you come into the square with that tall fellow in the shiny armor. I’ll bet you’d like to get him under the laramin.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes, but still asked the price of the bundle of leaves. One credit, and she threw in some silver ribbon to hang it from. “Little guy might want to play with it, after. Since it matches his ornament and all,” she said. You thanked her and tucked the sprig of laramin in your pocket next to the credit pouch.

You took another turn around the square, but the Child only had eyes for his ball, and soon you settled back down on a bench to wait for Din. You’d bought a couple more of those cookies, but hidden them away from the Child. You wanted to save at least one for Din, although who knew when he’d have a chance to eat it. He always snatched a bite here or there when you and the kid were asleep or busy.

Finally, you saw his shiny helmet weaving its way through the crowd, swiveling back and forth as he scanned the crowd for you. You suppressed the urge to stand up and wave; Din was a skilled hunter and he’d find you and the Child easily enough. Besides, you didn’t want to seem desperate or anything. You thought guiltily of the sprig of leaves in your pocket and your face got hot. It was ridiculous and a waste of money, but at least you’d saved the credit you spent on it when the vendor cut the price on the Child’s bauble.

Din reached you. “Come on,” he said, motioning for you to stand. He picked up the Child, who held out his new treasure for inspection. “Hmm … very nice, buddy. You do like shiny things, don’t you?” The Child chirped his agreement and returned to admiring the blue and silver ornament. Din turned to you. “Did you get yourself anything?”

You were flustered. “Um, I bought the kid and me each a cookie earlier, and I got a few more to take with us. So you can have one later. They’re pretty good.” You were rambling, but you didn’t want to admit you’d bought the laramin sprig. You’d toss it in the trash compactor when you got back to the ship.

Din simply nodded and began to walk. “We can stay overnight and head after the quarry in the morning,” he said as you followed him through the crowd. “I don’t think he’ll be on the move for a while, according to the intel I got.”

The ship was quiet and cold when you arrived, but that was normal. It just seemed darker than usual because you’d come from the brightly lit festival. Din closed up the ramp and busied himself with a check of his arsenal. “Keep an eye on the kid,” he said. “He’ll probably be busy with his new toy, but still, I don’t want him getting near the weapons.”

You nodded and took the Child into the tiny bunk where he and Din slept. The Child had a hammock strung from the ceiling; the sleeping area took up the entire bottom of the bunk, which you secretly thought looked more like a storage closet than a bedroom, but it wasn’t your ship. Your own sleeping area was a pile of blankets on top of a foam pad tucked behind some crates between the main hold and the carbonite freezer. It wasn’t fancy, but at least you had more room than Din and the kid had.

You sat with your back to the bunk entrance, with the Child in front of you, so he was blocked from getting out. The little womp rat was stealthy and you’d learned that unless you could see him at all times, he was capable of slipping past you and getting into trouble. Right now, though, he was enthralled with his new shiny toy and happy to sit and burble at it. You slid the packet of cookies out of your pocket, worried they would get crushed. The Child perked up at the sight of them, but you said, “Not right now. Wait until your dad’s done, then we’ll all have one, okay?” His ears drooped a bit, but he returned to the toy with only a tiny sigh.

You also pulled out the credit pouch. You would return it to Din when you gave him his cookie. The sprig of laramin came with it, the silver ribbon tangled around the pouch.

“What’s that?”

Din was almost as sneaky as his little green kid. “Oh, just a decoration,” you said, hiding your face by looking down at the Child. “The girl who sold us the ornament insisted I take one. No charge.” You dropped the laramin on the bed and held out the pouch. “Here’s what’s left of your credits.”

Din held out his gloved hand and took the pouch gently. He didn’t open it, or even test its weight, even though you knew he was always careful with his money. “Don’t lie to me,” he said firmly.

“What?”

“I told you when you came aboard, I don’t tolerate lying,” he said, tucking the credit pouch back into a pocket. “I know what that is.” He pointed at the bedraggled bunch of laramin leaves. “It’s some sort of love charm or something, isn’t it?”

You took a deep breath before you spoke. “It’s a decoration,” you repeated. “You hang it up and if you can kiss your sweetheart under it at midnight on Midyear Day, then the legend says they’ll love you forever. It’s silly. I just took it because the girl insisted. We can throw it away.”

You reached for the leaves, ready to crumble them into a wad, but Din was faster. He picked up the bundle and dangled it over your head by the silver ribbon. “No, let’s hang it up,” he said. “We could use some decoration in this old bucket.” You turned around in the bunk, wondering what he was going to do.

He reached up and tied the ribbon over an exposed girder. “There,” he said. “Festive, don’t you think?” Then he turned abruptly and headed up the ladder to the cockpit.

“What was that all about?” you asked the Child, who had crept up beside you. He stared at you for a moment, then shrugged and went back to admiring his ball.

You could hear Din moving around up in the cockpit but he wasn’t planning to move the ship until morning. Had he gotten embarrassed by the laramin? Was he trying to pretend nothing had happened to spare your feelings? You’d tried your best to hide your attraction to him, but the man was a hunter; he noticed details. He was probably well aware of the way you watched him, the way your eyes lingered over certain parts of his anatomy as he moved. And you were sure he knew how you tensed up when he moved close to you, how hard you resisted leaning into his touch when he laid a hand on your shoulder. You looked up at the wilted sprig of laramin, just hanging there mocking you.

It was getting late, so you arranged your bed, which usually got messed up during the day, either from the movements of the ship as it flew, or the feet of the Child, who pattered around the hold when he got restless. The kid slowly followed you, his eyes starting to droop. When he yawned, you scooped him up and tucked him into his hammock. “Your dad will be down pretty soon,” you told him, even though you didn’t know what the hell Din was doing up there.

With the kid in bed, and Din busy, you pulled off your boots and got ready to crawl into your nest of blankets. You had just untied the string that held your hair back out of your face when you heard Din’s boots on the ladder. You looked up. He glanced briefly at you and then ducked into the bunk. Oh, well.

“Here,” Din said, suddenly looming over you. He was holding out a scrap of old blanket.

“What?” You took the piece of fabric, wondering what was going on.

“Put it on,” he said curtly, making a circling motion around his head. “Cover your eyes.”

“Um, okay,” you said, twisting the fabric and wrapping it around your face. You tied it behind your head. It was an effective blindfold; you couldn’t see a thing through it’s tight weave.

“Good,” Din said. He reached out and took your hand. “Stand up.” When you did, he moved his hand to your shoulder. “Over here.”

You shuffled after him in your stocking feet. The floor of the hold was cold and hard through your socks. Din carefully adjusted your position and then stood quietly. “What’s going on?” you asked, but he shushed you.

“Almost time,” he said. When the alarm on his chronometer beeped, you heard him take a deep breath, followed by the click and slight hiss of his helmet being detached. You held your breath. Was he … was he really …

A gloved hand stroked your cheek and slid behind your head, holding it steady. “I’m not sure how to do this,” Din said quietly. His voice wasn’t distorted by the vo-coder in the helmet and you heard a nervous quaver in it. “I’ve … I’ve never done this before,” he whispered.

Your heart was pounding. It was happening. “That’s okay,” you said softly. “Just do what feels right.” You lifted your hand to touch his face, the face you’d imagined so many times. You gently traced the curve of his cheek, the sharp ridge of his nose, the soft pillows of his lips. You felt his breath hitch as you slid your fingers back and forth against his lips. Then he brushed your hand out of the way and pressed those lips against yours.

It was everything you had imagined, and more. His lips were soft and clumsy as he kissed you, his fingers tightening in your hair as he held your head in place. You lifted your other hand to the back of his neck and ran your fingers through his hair, giving a gentle tug as he pulled back from the kiss. “How was that?” he asked breathlessly.

“Not bad,” you said. “But you definitely need practice.” You pulled him closer and kissed him harder, sliding your tongue along the seam between his lips, until he parted them and you were able to deepen the kiss. When your tongue darted into his mouth, he gasped and his free arm wrapped around your waist. You responded by pressing your body against his armored chest, wishing he’d shed more than his helmet.

After a few minutes, you came up for air. “Happy Midyear,” Din said, his voice raspy.

You laughed and pressed your head against his shoulder pauldron. “Was that my present?” you teased.

“The first of many, I hope,” Din said hesitantly. “I … I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way about me, but when I saw the laramin sprig, I thought, what the hell.” His arms tightened around you and pulled you closer to him, squishing you against his armored body.

“Is the kid asleep?” you asked.

“I think so,” he replied. “I closed the door to the bunk.”

You chuckled. “Good idea. He doesn’t need to see this.” You pulled Din’s head down for another kiss, and started backing toward where you thought your bed was. Din steered you by the shoulders until you felt the edge of your foam pad under your feet.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ve been dying to find out what’s under all that beskar.” He laughed and kissed you again.

**************************************

When you woke the next morning, you were alone. Your blindfold was gone. Your clothes were folded neatly on a crate next to your bed. You could hear Din talking softly to the Child in the cockpit.

You got up carefully, stiff and sore in places that hadn’t seen much activity recently. You got dressed and made your way to the ‘fresher. After you’d splashed a little water on your face, you climbed the ladder to the cockpit.

“Good morning,” Din said quietly. He was in the pilot’s seat, the Child perched on his lap, watching as he entered coordinates and ran through the pre-launch sequence. The new durasteel ball was clutched in the Child’s hand and the knob had been returned to the lever where it belonged.

“Good morning,” you replied. Din waved you closer and as you came alongside the chair, he slid his hand to the small of your back. You leaned down to greet the Child, who babbled to you about something.

Din sat back in the pilot’s seat. He gently placed the Child on the floor. “Get in your chair and buckle in,” he told the small creature. As the kid toddled toward his seat, Din tilted his helmet up to look at you. His hand returned to your waist. “Last night …,” he began.

You cut him off. “It’s okay if it was just the holiday,” you said. “It’s okay if it never happens again.”

He shook his head. “No, it … it wasn’t just the holiday. I’d like it to happen again. It’s just … I can’t let you see my face. It will have to be like that.” His hand slid gently up and down against your back.

You leaned over him and pressed a kiss against the cold beskar of his helmet. “It’s fine,” you said. “I know how important The Way is to you. I would never ask you to abandon it.”

Din was silent for a long moment, then nodded his head. He pulled away from you. “Okay, then. You’d better get buckled in. We’re taking off in two minutes.”

You took your seat next to the Child. Din finished the last few checks and pressed a button to ignite the engines. As the ship began to lift off the surface, you noticed something dangling above the control panel, jiggling with the vibrations of the ship. A bedraggled sprig of blue and white leaves, tied tightly with a silver ribbon.

[bvckbiter]

Night has fallen by the time they arrive at Keeseville. Percy is thankful that Al takes the initiative to quickly usher their travel-worn selves to a decent inn. For one, he knows the little village better, having camped there for a while some years back. For another, Percy’s too busy trying to pick Al’s plain John Doe disguise apart, searching for anything like glints of warm sienna underneath the nondescript blond or brief flashes of vibrant green when Al’s fake blue eyes dart around for any suspicious figures. Of course, there’s nothing; Al’s Mist work is flawless and airtight as usual.

“Hi,” Al greets the receptionist. “Got any vacancies for the night?”

“Yup! How long will you be staying, sir?”

At that point, Percy zones out. Wait, no, keeps an “eye on their surroundings.” Now that’s a totally valid excuse to tune out the pleasantries Al is dragging himself through with the receptionist. Except for Al’s voice—that, he didn’t bother changing with the Mist, and Percy quite likes the sound of his voice. Likes the way it thickens with power when Al yells his incantions, the melodious tenors he mindlessly hums while tending to his pocket magic herbs… the arid air it takes on when the two of them are verbally sparring. Likes it rambling about his theories and cracking from disuse and use and rasping and dropping with the intent of seduction and madly mumbling and gasping…

“… your price for two rooms?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“You’ve gotta be joking. You guys sure as hell aren’t any five-star Michelin hotel, and I’m not gonna be spending—”

“Whoa,” Percy says, tuning back in. He blinks and smiles at the receptionist. “We’ll take one room.”

“We? Who the fuck is we?”

“You guys have one with a double bed?”

“What?!”

The receptionist untenses and gives Percy a knowing smile. “Yes, we do! I can put you guys up in it right away. Just give me a second, and…”

“Oh hell no!” Al snaps, but the receptionist already has the key off the hook and the warpath to their room ready. He whirls around and jabs his index finger in Percy’s face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Percy shrugs. “Saving money.” He sidesteps past Al and moves to follow the receptionist. “Also just to be safe.”

“‘Just to be safe?’ That I won’t run away in the middle of the night?” Hurt bleeds into Al’s voice. “I’ll have you know, Jackson—”

“That neither of us get jumped by anything in the middle of the night,” Percy says lowly. Still sensing some ire, he tries to tease, “Aren’t you gonna protect me from the big bad monsters, Al?”

The receptionist finds their room and opens the door for them. “Here you go, sirs! Have a good night!” A wink and a jingle as the keys are tossed to Percy.

And they’re alone. Percy lets his bag drop to the ground with a heavy thud.

Al does the same with a clenched jaw. “I can take the floor,” he curtly says.

Percy sighs. Al and his hair-trigger temperament. Sometimes Percy can’t help but feel frustrated with him, constantly walking on the eggshells of their past. Al’s a victim of his circumstances, and whether Percy intended it or not, Percy happened to be one of those circumstances. But if Percy’s walking on eggshells, Al is trudging on with feet already scored and bloodied and infected, wounds that inevitably open at Percy’s presence.

It’s not so much for him to extend a little patience, in comparison.

“Okay,” Percy murmurs. Something trembles in Al’s hand, but Percy reaches out to quell it. “Before that, though, I wanna see your face again. It’s been odd, talking to another person that has your voice. That’s some Twilight Zone shit.”

“Why, haven’t seen it before?”

But Al strips his disguise, and Percy’s hands instinctively fly up to cup that narrow, freckled, sublime face. Runs his thumbs underneath spidery lashes, palms the familiar jump of the carotid artery, ghosts his fingers down the swell of Al’s mouth and the ridge of his clavicle. Eyes like toxic radium glint judgementally up at him in the unlit room, and Percy can’t help but press a kiss to each of Al’s eyelids.

“Still mad?” And he grins when Al doesn’t answer, save for a huff. It’s as good an admission as any.

[already posted this before but i put it under a read more like the dumbass i am KHJDFJKSDHJKDSH so reposting this yeye]

[gloryseized]

@facelessreflections is getting a plotted starter for Poni!

Link should have had many second thoughts before agreeing to go on this trip with Poni. Usually when he visited the Yiga, he was in Yiga garb and at least nearby a Yiga hideout. And even if he wasn't in a Yiga hideout, he was at least in the Depths, which wouldn't necessarily justify the Yiga garb, but it would at least be less noticeable than Blatchery Plain just outside of Hateno village.

The green expanse was still dotted with the remaining corpses of dozens of Guardians, although it was less than before, and fortunately none of them were operational any longer. Still, that didn't help the prickle at the back of his neck, the warning reminding of what had happened in that location, so if he wasn't already jittery about this less than advisable meeting, he would be now.

But there were horses there, he reminded himself, eyes drawn from the Guardians to a small herd of the animals, his spirits lifting at the very sight. And a faint smile even danced on his face, allowing himself a slow breath, tension unwinding in his gut. It would be alright.

He'd put on some of his climbing gear, red bandana covering his iconic hair and clothes not quite matching the Champion blue or the legendary green of the Hero. It would have to do. Link wasn't about to explain to Poni by the Hero of Legend was there to get horses with him. Spotting a lone figure in the distance, he clambered down the rock and offered a small wave. The person looked nondescript enough to be a Yiga in disguise, and Link waited for the man to approach.

[recitedemise]

𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘁𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀. Nestled along the coast of Waterdeep, it is both sunlight and the insistent cling of salt that Gale's grown to find exceedingly soothing. It is the bastion of his comforts, outfitted with a grand assortment of a thousand enchantments. Charmed, it is far larger on the inside than it appears on the outside, and nestled in its rooms wade about a million secrets. A wizard's tower, after all, should be as much an enigma as the mage themselves.

Entryway.

Upon entering Gale's home, one would be welcomed by a sectioned off room, the house separating its guests from the rest beyond this point. It is nondescript, all deep woods with the warmth of a far away fire, sure, but plainly put, is not what one expects from a wizard's home. There is a mirror by the door, and before it, a little end table with an aging candelabra. There is a thick, fine drape that rests snug at the arch walling off the tower's entryway, and there is a plush, old rug sat in front of the door. Framed, there hangs a painting of a garden by the right-most wall. The decor is dated, speaking of an aesthetic veering on 'dark academia' and here, there is an enhancement Gale placed to thwart those not explicitly welcomed--hold person, in the rug, can hold you still.

But at least the shy smattering of hanging plants can keep you company.

The first floor: Entry way, living room, kitchen, and washroom.

After exiting the entryway, one would at last enter a hall, short, that leads to a cozy and admittedly half-cluttered room. Here, there is a coffee table, some leather seats in a shade of hemlock-green, and a winding staircase--fit with a red stair runner-- that goes, up, up, up (again, enchanted, some time manipulation steeped in the runner to shorten walk-time). In fact, should one look up, one would think Gale has furnished twelve floors at least, the ceiling like a pinprick with rich deep-gold tiles. It's evident this floor's hardly used, however, beyond the kitchen that is sat snug and half-walled off from the adjoining living room. The seats seem seldom used, not a crack or wrinkle in their delicate upholstery, and the cups lines in Gale's kitchen never used beyond the one. There's several books splayed about, a knitted blanket Morena had made him some decades ago--purple, his favorite, shade, of course--thrown about the sofa, and a myriad of paintings lined on the walls. There's a hanging light in the fashion of some brassy armillary. In the built-in shelves in the paneled walls, there rests even more books with some decanters of whiskey. There rests a wide circular window fit with an alcove right at the center wall, too, with a darling view of the waters with some hanging candles.

Beside the living room, the kitchen--again, very frequently used--waits, charmed with a fire that seems always to burn (safely, of course). At all times, something fragrant lingers within it, be it darling, spice-fruit tartlet or a succulent rack of ribs or lamb. Here, the fashion is a touch more rustic in nature, more dark-red bricks and taupe woods. Over his oven--black iron, a simple cast wood stove--rests an overhang of herbs, dried and half-self grown with the pots by his open windowsill, and the other half purchased from the ladies at the markets. He's a sizable coldbox charmed with a suspended chromatic orb of frost (it pulses, giving perpetual cool to the contents inside), beside countertops filled with all manner of jars. Gale makes his own jams, his favorite being a delightful, tart raspberry, and it with its fruity sisters and brothers rests bottled up with delightful cloths. Gale spends much time in here, and it's plain to see he lavishes it with love. Always, there is something delightful set up by the island counter that looks off into the rest of the living room--like a cake stand piled generously with something exquisitely vanilla. With a door nearby, Gale would explain it leads to his little pantry of hundur sauce. There, one will find, too, his notable collection of both red and white wines. An evening with Gale Dekarios is an evening with a five course meal.

The washroom set off by the staircase is humble, a tap of flowing water charmed to flow and stop when you so wish it. There is an ornate mirror, some suspended flowers there for a spot of freshness, and lit candles for ambiance. The small of something earthy and not too overbearing hangs everywhere, steeped in the towels and the wood of the little medicine cabinet.

The second floor: Two bedrooms, with their own personal bathrooms.

Here, you will find Gale's bedroom, and beside it, a spare. To note, no one ever uses that guest room considering, well, one would need guests to start off with. All the same, no would-be over-night stay would find themselves wanting. The guest room, adequately sized, opens up to face a wide, stained glass window-modestly so, just to allow some shades of gold to lick along the floors. A thick curtain dresses it up, its color a burgundy wine that pairs well with the dark woods and surge of white in the bedding. The best itself is a four post one, no veils yet to hang off of them. The large dresser is empty save for some spare things Gale has put in for Tara (spare collars, for example) and a couple of blankets he's never once used. It has its own bathroom as well, its tub charmed to, again, spill water and stopper it whenever you so wish. It's everything you need should you ever stay here, but admittedly, stripped just a bit of any personality.

Gale's room, however, is ride with personality. Here, you will find all manner of trinkets and wide-eyed wonders. It's dark wood again, and lived in, is effectively cluttered. There are books strewn everywhere, laid out on the floors despite two of four whole walls filled completely with tomes. He's a window at the one wall, opening to the scene of the city clamoring just beyond, its windowsill decorated with cups of wine, tea tins, and some pots of terracotta for when he deigns to play gardener. He's a large armillary in a state of perpetual spin, aligned with the real-time turning of the stars. His bed is large, a bed tray usually atop of it with smattering of peeled fruit and his read for the morning, sheets a dark, rich brown with the bedposts taken in dark-green curtains. There's a bed for Tara, too, laid there by one of his growing stacks of ancient reads. His carpet is patterned, a sliver of white to help brighten the space, with some cat toys strewn here and there and an armoire that's charmed much larger on the inside. Beside his bed, there rests Gale's private bathroom. It's impressive, tiled beige with dark woods that border on chestnut black. He's a whole array of bath salts, lotions and creams and shampoos and conditioners, everything combining to capture ascent of sage and jasmine sweetened just a sliver with a persimmon hue. His tub is actually dipped into the floors, a standing shower merely an overhang spout in the space beside the tub. There is incense here, too, that wafts at times with the hot steam of his usual luxurious baths--Gale, let it be known, a sucker for a spot of finery.

The third floor: Dedicated solely to Gale's office and study--dressed up with a terrace. Inside the study, Gale keeps his inheritance and riches.

Going up the stairs this floor has no landing. In fact, it's only a passing door before one continues traveling up towards the rooftops. The door is unassuming, something old and ancient with brass knockers as handles. However, belying its normalcy is the swell of magic and light that glows from crystals within.

This room is what we are most familiar with: it is, as we have seen in game, Gale's study. And yes, it is by and large, Gale's most favored room--kitchen notwithstanding. Here, Gale's study is less a study and more a keep of ancient texts. His walls are littered with them, the copious amount of shelves not enough to cradle their wealth. Stacks of loose tomes can be found crawling up, up, up for the ceiling everywhere, and each one, he'll tell you, is one he's read once before--evidently not faking it like every other bookworm. He knows where each one seems to lay by heart, even the four hundredth manual in an uninspiring shade of brown. He's a crackling hearth, one he's charmed to run forever on and on, with a single chair and a sofa-too-many. He's a statue in a wait-high sizes dedicated to Mystra. He's spent more hours than he'd confess to kneeling before them, a memory he's no rush to indulge in again with any delight, both scrolls and flowers wreathing it like humble offerings. He's a piano he's manipulated to play when he desires, something of a tune that runs very soft and relaxed. At times, Gale himself will even pluck away the keys, the piano chair before it housing some rough compositions.

In this study, one will find a door, locked, to what houses whatever is of Gale's inheritance. Beside that door, one will also find the double doors to his brilliant terrace, outfitted with plants, a rug, and sun-warm sofa. Here, Gale likes to idle away his time, Tara in his lap and some wine on his tongue. In his year in solitude, he would rest here often, looking over the lullabied waters and its quiet ripples... Half mad, half yearning, and entirely wistful.

One can find some empty bottles of wine here with a heavy heart.

The fourth floor: A smaller room, something like an observatory.

Humble but absolutely dazzling, the top floor opens up to a darling observatory of sorts--not a proper room, no, but a mere floor with a railing that looks down to the lower, three-most levels. Here, the ceiling--again, those rich tiles of brown and gold--rest above your head, wide and unobscured of even a hanging light. Instead, there are candelabras set up about this book-littered room (with pillows, too, and a nice rug set up for casually laying) that flicker and whisper with its crackling song. Laid down on this floor, one would look up to that so-bare ceiling...and when Gale so whispers it, says those magical words, the ceiling seems to suddenly disappear, replaced with a ripple of the view of the stars. Here, Gale can trace the course of the twinkling cosmos. Immediately, the shine of the stars come to pale the combined wash of the candles, the atmosphere impossibly drusy and gauzy like silk. Gale likes it up here, relaxing in the majesty of the moon. Sometimes, he will find Tara flapping her wings here, a little trapdoor to the rightmost wall for her to come and go from when she desires. They will cuddle up together as she speaks about her nightly escapades of feline devilry. Gale, in a nest of pillows, will patiently listen.

[vajazzly]

ok while summer came early chapter five is (still, im sorry, i KNOW) in the works ive been messing around with some b-sides, so, have some 18-year-old wolfstar being..... them.

(for the full experience please queue up chicago by sufjan stevens and press play at the line "the opening notes start to play")

Remus nods off twice at the diner in Toledo despite the cocktail of adderall and caffeine he’s been mainlining for the past few days, so Sirius is at the wheel when they finally pass the sign welcoming them to Chicago, which is really kind of anticlimactic - Remus is sound asleep with his head pressed awkwardly against the window and the sign is nothing special, plain green with nothing to distinguish it from all the other nondescript signs that came before it. Sirius lets himself bask in the moment anyway. Traffic is backed up for god knows how many miles, their AC is halfway to broken and he sweat through his t-shirt two hours ago, the highway is, honestly, particularly ugly - but they’re here. Chicago.

He manages to prod Remus awake after a respectable ten minutes of grumbling, but once he’s awake he sits up, too fast and banging his head on the roof of the car, rubbing at it while he stares out the window, blinking, turning back to Sirius with an eyebrow raised and a shit-eating grin.

“Oh no, it’s hideous.”

“Shut up! It’s - grab the CD, fucker!”

“The CD?”

“Yes, the fucking CD!”

“What CD?

“The - the fucking CD! The CD!”

“Oh, the CD?”

It occurs to Sirius then that Remus is fucking with him, which he thinks is a sign he needs to get them to the new apartment as soon as possible so they can both get some sleep. Remus laughs and rifles through the glove compartment as he groans and complains and rolls down the window to flip off a minivan that tries to cut him off, shouting garbled nonsense as they speed off - traffic is inexplicably going faster as they approach downtown, and really that doesn’t make any sense and it means Sirius is shouting at Remus to hurry the fuck up, no, not that song, keep skipping, for God’s sake -

The opening notes start to play just as the skyscrapers of downtown come into view, and then Remus is cranking the stereo up as loud as it’ll go and craning his neck to stare out the window with his jaw hanging wide and Sirius is trying to do the same while also making sure they don’t crash and die on I-90, and it’s not really the best view and it’s still too fucking hot and Sirius hasn’t slept in two days, but all the same he opens his mouth as the opening lyrics start to play and something intangible clicks into place.

I fell in love again

All things go, all things go

Remus rolls down his window and the wind whips at their hair, blowing all the strays that have fallen out of Sirius’s ponytail directly into his eyes and he almost tells Remus to roll it back up, you fucking fuck - but then Remus is sticking his head out with that brilliant toothy smile of his, belting the lyrics -

Drove to Chicago,

All things know, all things know

Everything they own is stuffed into every nook and cranny of the Forester Remus bought five days ago off of some elderly woman in Jersey, and they made a thing of it, just the other day on their last night in Alphard’s apartment, deleting all the phone numbers of all their friends and teachers and social workers in New York until only three remained - each other, Marlene, and Dorcas, whoever they turn out to be, faceless names they’ll be sharing a kitchen, a TV, a brand new life with. It’s exhilarating. Untethered, unmoored except for each other, Sirius has never felt safer, more alive, more free - like New York was dead weight he’s been dragging around that’s suddenly been lifted off, and he imagines for a moment that the sweat on his back is the imprint it’s left, soon to fade into nothing. 

There’s a lot to worry about once they reach the new apartment. Bills, and jobs, and shaping themselves into something more - something that’ll last. There’s a ring on Remus’s finger, a cheap, tarnished thing he nicked from a thrift store when the clerk wasn’t looking. It’s not the real thing, not quite yet, but it is a promise, a future, a clear path forward into the unknown, together. All they need, really.

[hoperays-song]

I wonder, with the possibility of having a sing 3 sequel, I wonder if Ryan would even be in it. If he would be added , I'm curious if they would redesign him to be more unique, in Sing 2 he looked like any other tiger character in the movie, considering he has the same models as the tiger background, and considering that the main cast have unique models that differentiate them from the other background characters that are the same animals as them.

I wonder what would his redesign would look like to make him more unique that removes him from the background but also relates to him as a part of the cast.

What do you think his design would be if he was added?

Thanks so much for the ask! And I'm sorry for the rambling that's about to follow this, I just really love this topic. Hope you enjoy though! - <3 Gooseless

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Ryan does actually have a unique model! His stripe pattern and eye color is completely unique to him, as well as his build being slightly different. Which is why the tiger we see at the auditions is Ryan in my opinion, as legit every other tiger has the same stripes besides that one (who we actually never see audition so might just be there as a represenative).

We only see two other tigers in the movies (that I could find) and while their stripe patterns aren't the same, they are more similar to each other than Ryan. Ryan has a distinct flame shaped stripe on his left cheek. And while the other two's stripes are similar, that's because bengal tigers do have those type stripes on their cheeks.

See below the facial patterns on an actual bengal tiger:

And then the stripes of the two other tigers we see:

And finally, there's my boy Ryan:

They are distinct from the other stripe patterns we've seen, no longer sickle shaped but flame shaped on the left cheek.

And while it is compressed in the auditions photo. you can see the blobs that would likely look like the other flame branches if he had higher pixelation in this frame (he's tiny and in the background).

And the other two tigers we see, though not in the best pixelation or lighting, seem to have dark colored eyes, while Ryan's are very noticeably green, and likely a shade between olive and sage green judging by how it changes in the various lightings. Even in the auditions, that tiger has a lighter coloured iris.

And as for builds, we'll use a handy dandy chart!

As for the other two, we actually see two different builds for them too. While Ryan is an inverted triangle (mesomorph), which is also Johnny's too for reference, the other tigers do seem to be rectangular in build (to be fair they are in loose clothing and that is my perspective of it but this also would align more with actual tigers too). They also differ from endomorphs and ectomorphs as well.

*Sorry photos aren't the best and from weird angles, they literally are barely on screen lol*

------------------

Ok now on to the redesign. The reason Ryan looks more like a background character despite his unique model is his clothing imo. Whenever we see him, he's either in a uniform (the leotard and leggings), or very plain, nondescript clothing (the costume underclothes and the suit).

So, we can fix this by giving him a new outfit! Which is amazing because otherwise we would have to change the entire model and that would take forever lol.

Almost all the teen/younger characters wear jeans in the movies (the exceptions are the eldest two, Nooshy and Ash) and Ryan does seem to be at least close to Johnny's age so he joins the jean club. Now adding cuffed light wash jeans to his outfit.

Second, Ryan gives off strong perfectionist vibes. You don't become a principal (or at least high up) dancer at a company like the one we see him in as young as he likely is without an ambitious and perfectionist streak a mile wide. So we're gonna go with something that codes that to the audience (aka yes, somewhat stereotypical clothing for that cliche), a dark green sweatshirt over a white button up. This type of aesthetic is also not used by any of the main cast so far and the dark green accent will highlight his eye color, making it stand out more and further giving him a unique look.

And for accessories, which please let's give these kids jewelry, I typically describe Ryan as having two double lobe earrings, with one being a long simple gold one and another that is either a rainbow heart or a gold stud. I also give him a jade and gold necklace (which is tiger shaped in the continuation fic) and have him wear dark green sneakers for more green accents. You can also add in a brown or black belt if you want so he can tuck in the sweatshirt and shirt, but those don't necessarily have to be showing.

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So, yeah, that's how I would change Ryan's design to make him fit more in with the rest of the main cast! I really hope we do see more of Ryan, though I am not sold on the idea of a third movie, so I'm pretty sure I'd prefer to see him in shorts lol. But I hope you enjoyed all of this chaos of a character design analysis/comparison of sorts, thanks again for the ask!