#◐ ≫ ❛ maybe there is more than corporate life ❜ 「desires 」.

[yinyuedijun]

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

[pen-and-umbra]

FFVII Rebirth introduces something never extensively explored in the original game or in the compilation of Final Fantasy VII: Sephiroth's anger towards Professor Gast’s experiment and the contempt he came to harbor towards ShinRA as an organization.

(Herein lurk spoilers.)

While the latter is something the fans have glimpsed on and off throughout previous installments, the second part of the Remake amplifies it ever so more. What began as admitting that the company had fabricated his legend and expressing a desire to live a normal life in Ever Crisis gradually transforms into a lack of clarity regarding his reasons for fighting in Before Crisis (as prompted by Elfe), followed by an open disgust towards Hojo's and Hollander's experiments when confronted with Mako pod entities during the hunt for Genesis. Sephiroth and Zack's ordeal during Crisis Core events appears to undercut his willingness to stay, as he famously considers leaving the corporation right before embarking on the ill-fated Nibelheim expedition.

FFVIIRb picks off where we left off, painting a more complete picture of Sephiroth's dissatisfaction with ShinRA overall. Interestingly, one of the discarded sequences from the original game featured Sephiroth hinting at his lack of affection for his employer as early as the truck ride.

Narratively, the sequence spans the gap between OG and Crisis Core's departure cutscene, implying that Sephiroth used the time on the road to reflect on his current and future connection with ShinRA. His companion, however, does not appear to understand why he is bringing the topic up. What distinguishes Rebirth is the suggestion that Sephiroth came to view the entire ShinRA system as a problem, rather than just a few rotten apples. He no longer singles out Hojo, but rather the entire ShinRA branch, indicating that something's wrong with the system. When "Cloud" casually inquires about the problem with the Nibelheim reactor, Sephiroth responds that it is "people who run it," adding that this particular site is controlled by the Research and Development department. In addition, in response to "Cloud's" fair comment regrading the lack of transparency in company's operation, he rather sarcastically suggests to bring the issue with the President, thus implicitly conveying the futility of the endeavor.

When the party encounters Mako pod residents, one can detect genuine rage in his voice. While Sephiroth had previously shown bitterness for the test subjects during CC, it was tinged with disgust/pity rather than wrath. And once again, I’m grateful to Tyler Hoechlin for broadening his range in this particular segment.

"Cloud's" reaction to the contents of the pods, however, came off a little weird. The confusion appears out of place, because Zack had seen it all before — he had been there to watch the aftermath of Hollander's work; is it really odd that ShinRA's chief R&D scientist spearheaded the entire thing? Perhaps, unlike Sephiroth, Zack treated it as a rotten-apple issue, rather than a systemic issue. Or maybe this is an example of Cloud being an unreliable narrator, having conflated his own experience with that of Zack, which also explains Zack being sort of too green for the First Class throughout the Nibelheim portion of the game.

The shift in Sephiroth's perspective, from singling out Hojo's misdeeds to viewing ShinRA's itself as a systemic problem, is further highlighted during the mansion segment. This is no longer a strictly Hollander or Hojo issue. Human experimentation formed the fundamental core of what ShinRA is now, and those were approved from the very top. As Sephiroth puts it with barely concealed disgust, as soon as the company realized what had fallen into their hands, they became ambitious.

The wording also strikes a contrast to how he used to refer to the company in the past; as such, when Angeal deserts, Sephiroth states that Angeal has betrayed “US”, which points at both his personal connection to the person and the fact that Sephiroth likely saw himself as part of ShinRA circle. In the library, however, he distances himself by referring to the company as THEM, thus no longer perceiving himself as a part of it.

More important still is the rage he expresses when quoting excerpts from Gast's notes. The anger is new, never before seen touch. Sephiroth has been portrayed in the moment differently throughout earlier installments — dejected, perhaps overwhelmed, but never angry enough to snarl and nearly flip the table.

And it's wonderful. It's authentic, and it makes sense. It makes you question how much of that rage has been bottled up, compartmentalized, and never fully processed throughout the years. That rage should have existed, but was suppressed by ShinRA, before becoming internalized and sealed.

The scene is extremely on point on another level as well. As the flash of rage passes, and Sephiroth looks away, hiding eyes behind bangs — a gesture previously briefly appearing in Crisis Core.

One could interpret the body language as being ashamed and unwilling to show his composure cracking. Even in this state he KNOWS he wasn't supposed to let anyone see hurt or anger, wasn't supposed to lose cool. The "wonder child" and the "poster boy" is not to be seen as something other than “efficacious” and “collected”. The habit of suppressing displays of emotion or physical/psychological ailment had apparently become a part of himself. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to deduce why the habit persists. The internalized compulsion to live up to the expectations placed on him by ShinRA and the myth it imposed on his character, as well as the internalized imperative not to reveal to someone like Hojo — anyone— the extent to which their acts or words affect him. There's also another layer to this shame — one of being an artificial creation, but that's for another write up.

The anger towards Gast differs greatly from the way Sephiroth went “Why didn't you tell me?” in previous iterations of the Nibelheim incident. In retrospect, Gast's supervision of the project, involvement in Sephiroth's life, and unexpected departure seem like a betrayal. Gast had not only abandoned Sephiroth, who had likely come to see him as a salient figure in his youth, but had also been lying to him all along, until finally discarding him, as Sephiroth might believe. Gast therefore falls from grace, becoming yet another person who misled, attempted to exploit, and eventually abandoned him to deal with the consequences on his own.

[kookslastbutton]

Too Late to Dream ༓ jjk (m) l ch. VI

✑ Summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

Pairing: economics professor!jungkook x fem!artist!reader

AU/Genre: angst, smut, fluff, marriage au, age gap, series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 6,192

Warnings: 8-year age gap, mentions of professor-student relationship (oc was a Masters student), kook gets pissed, jk mother is asdhjf!, mommy issues, lots of family drama/in-laws, fighting, manipulative parent, pent-up issues/desires, jk has daddy issues, jk being good hubby to oc, mild sexting, sexual content

Sexual warnings: bl*wj*b, jk c*mes on her t*tt*es, d*rty talk

Now Playing: Make It Right, Tryna Be, Infinity, It Will Rain, Heaven+

A/N: um so this got over 6k which i know isn't amazing but for me its big deal okay?! haha! Anyway Part VI here we go! No flashbacks in this chapter because of ch.V buuut, I have a little gift for you and me. Hope you enjoy!! 💞 also pls vote if youd be so kind 😙

<< ch. V ༓ ch. VII >> | series masterlist

Living in the country for over thirty years, the Jeons were known to be excruciatingly slow and cautious drivers. The town was tiny, roads were narrow, and no one was ever in a rush to get anywhere apart from maybe the farmers market.

Once when Jungkook first got his license he took one hand off the steering wheel and his mother almost had a heart attack, saying it was “reckless of him to put them in danger”. It was from that moment forward that Jungkook always made sure to drive at 10 and 2 or 9 and 3 when his mother was in the car. His father on the other hand didn’t care what he did as long as he didn’t go above 30 mph.

Jungkook was counting his lucky stars when he finally got his own car and the chance to move to the city where he could drive how he damn well pleased–responsibly of course. He had recently finished his Master’s studies and was offered a job as an economist in a major medical corporation. The only catch was that he’d have to relocate to Seoul which ended up being more than fine with him.

His parents moaned and groaned that he wasn’t sticking around but his mind was made up. He moved out of his parent’s tiny town one late June and headed to the city where life moved to a whole new beat.

Ten years later, Jungkook finds himself gripping the steering wheel with two sweaty hands again. Kudos to his parents who have been telling him which way to turn and how fast or slow to go for the past fifteen minutes. He honestly should have picked a brunch spot closer to home to avoid all the madness. Walking would have done them good.

“I’ll never get used to how you drive down here,” Mrs. Jeon grumbles from the back seat. “All these sharp turns and six lanes of traffic going 50-plus miles an hour. It’s a wonder you haven’t all gotten in an accident yet. It’s like I always say, the slower the better. You city folks just don’t get it.”

Jungkook peers in his rearview mirror before signaling to switch lanes. “We can’t afford to go too slow out here Mom. This is a highway and dropping down in speed will cause a safety hazard just as bad, if not worse. Environments are different out here than in the woods.”

As Jungkook merges to the right, Mr. Jeon watches the surrounding cars from the back seat window. “Ah son, son, son!” He hollers and reaches for the ceiling handle.

“What? What happened?” Jungkook asks with panic. He flickers his eyes to the mirror again to spot his father's distress.

Mr. Jeon slowly releases the handle and lets out a lengthy sigh. “It's okay now, we’re good. You did good son. You moved over with so little space I thought you were going to hit the car now behind us."

"I told you it's a mad house out here!" Mrs. Jeon adds, tone thick. Jungkook puts his eyes back on the road in front of him and does his best to ignore the irritation bubbling within him.

"I know what I'm doing," he says. "I've lived here for ten years so can you guys please trust me? And stop with the driving advice and yelling every time I do something."

"We're just trying to help Kookie."

"Well, you're not alright?" The snap in his voice has Jungkook's parents sulking back in their seats in silence. "I want us to get to the restaurant safely and I can't do that when you're both shouting at me! So please just let me do the driving. Thank you."

God, if one more person calls him Kookie in that condescending tone he's going to lose it! Kookie was his childhood nickname but for some reason, it stuck to him like glue until he was friggin' 22 years old. He absolutely hates it and the only person remotely allowed to call him by it is his wife because she makes anything sound like honey to his ears.

The next five minutes are nothing but awkward silence and the sound of tires running on hard cement. Jungkook checks his phone—there's still a good ten minutes left according to the GPS. He moves to turn the radio on to break the eeriness of the drive when an incoming call pops on his car screen.

"Who's that? Who's calling?" Mr. Jeon pipes up.

"It's __." Jungkook hits the answer button. "Hey honey! You're on speaker." He smiles a big, wide grin that says nothing less than he misses you.

"Hi! I'm on my lunch break and thought I'd give you guys a call. I'm stopping at the grocery store tonight, after work. Anything you need?"

“Some booze would be nice!” Mr. Jeon echos and looks at his wife who merely shakes her head. He hasn’t had a drink in twenty years due to his high blood pressure, yet he’s still making the same damn jokes. “Got any Soju? Or maybe Bokbunja?” He chuckles at Mrs. Jeon’s sour face.

Jungkook pays his dad no mind and replies to you. “Uhm….we're low on milk again. I drank the last one yesterday.”

"You went through all those gallon jugs in a week?!" You'd think you'd be used to the amount of dairy your husband packs away but every time, it shocks you as much as the first. You married a milk-lovin’ machine.

Jungkook chuckles. "I'm sorry. I can get them for you if you want. We're on our way to get brunch, then hitting the bookstore for Dad, and after we'll swoop back home. I can pick it up along the way.”

“No need, I’m already going out later so I’ll get it. Anything else?”

“There’s nothing else I can think of. How’s work going?” He’s hoping it’s not hectic given the fact that last week was an absolute sandstorm. He distinctively remembers you coming home with nothing more than tired feet and dark circles under your eyes. He drew you a bath that night.

“Eh, so-so. I have a meeting with my boss later but besides that, it’s the usual. I wish I could have come to brunch with you guys. I feel bad I’m missing it.” Well, you do and you don’t. If Jungkook was planning on talking to his mom about the happenings of last night you wanted to be around for support but it was also a matter that should be between a mother and her son.

“Us too, but we’ll see you ton–shit!” Jungkook slams on the break when he sees he’s about to crash into a black SUV. Everyone’s seatbelts lock at the sudden jerk. “Sorry, sorry!” He checks the mirror to find his parents clinging to their seatbelts.

“Are you guys okay?! Jungkook?!”

He scans all around him to find rows and rows of cars all trying to merge into each other’s lanes. Some are coming from the exit nearby whereas others are trying to squeeze through people in hopes to get ahead.

Dammit, Jungook cruses to himself.

“Yeah, we’re good honey. Everything’s okay but we’ve hit a traffic jam. I’m not sure why since it’s literally 11:40 a.m on a Wednesday but looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a bit.”

“We’d never have this problem at home.” Jungkook hears his mother mumbling under her breath to which his father replies with a nodding of his head. “If it weren’t for all this nonsense we’d be there by now.”

“Absolutely. We’d be there fifteen minutes ago,” his father adds with his hands in the air. “Isn’t there some kind of way you can get around this son, like a shortcut?”

Ah yes, shortcuts on the highway. Why didn’t he think of that? Let him just push the button that says flight mode and–no! Having enough, Jungkook holds his foot on the break and twists his body around to face his parents.

“Alright listen to me right now. This is not Tiny Town where there are a million dirt roads that pop from anywhere and all seem to lead to one other. Everyone drives at least seventy out here and that’s just the way it is because this..." He gestures outside the windshield. "This is what happens! We all get stuck in this congested funnel! But if you two can think of a way to get out of here that doesn’t involve attempting to bulldoze other cars, I’m all ears. Until then we’re going to sit here and talk about the weather because there's nothing else we can do!"

Jungkook looks back and forth between his parents. Mrs. Jeon simply stares outside her window while his dad gives a slow nod in understanding.

"Is it really that bad?"

Jungkook relaxes his body back to face the front when he hears your voice. "Yeah, it's pretty bad __." He lets out a long, exasperated sigh. This is going to be a very long day.

"Nice out today. Mind if I roll down the window?" The traffic hasn't got any better and it was starting to get stuffy in the car. Mr. Jeon desperately needed some fresh air in his face.

"Mhm yeah, go ahead."

"How about some music? Find out what's on the radio will you." He sticks his arm out the window, letting the gentle breeze hit his skin. When the first song blares through the speakers, Jungkook's mother breaks her deafening silence.

"Dear god! What music is this?"

Mr. Jeon immediately perks up. "It's PSY! Turn it up! Turn it up, boy!" Jungkook appeases his father's wishes and turns the knob a few more notches. "Oppa Gangnam Style! Eae eae eae e, sexy lady!"

Hearing his dad singing at the top of his lungs has Jungkook rubbing the side of his head. It's not that he sounded bad but he was singing so loud that everyone around them started pointing, laughing, or rolling up their own windows. "Dad, people are going to get annoyed. Take it down a little."

Deeply immersed in the song, Mr. Jeon continues singing regardless of his son's request. "Op, op, op, op, oppa Gangnam Style!" He starts rocking in his seat which causes a few middle schoolers in the car next to them to pop out their phones.

"Dad!" Jungkook hollers when he notices the kids taking pictures. If doesn't put an end to this now, his father's face is going to be trending all over the internet with god knows what filter.

"Op, op, op, op, on on on on!"

"Dad stop!" He tries again, this time turning the music down. Mrs. Jeon attempts to calm her husband down too, placing a hand on one of his arms but it doesn't take much for it to be ripped out of her grasp. Mr. Jeon ends up nearly whacking his wife in the face due to all his energetic dancing.

"Erotic sexy lady! Oppa Gangnam Sty–hey! Song wasn't done yet!" Jungkook's dad never looked so offended in his life. If he had adjusted his gaze just a few inches to the left he'd see the group of kids, the ones taking photos earlier, giggling to one another. But he was too pissed at his son for crashing his party that it went to the wayside.

"Honey, you were causing a disturbance," Mrs. Jeon says.

"A disturbance? In this traffic jam, I'm the disturbance?" He refuses to believe he's the annoyance when they've been in the middle of a highway, moving at 5 mph for the last hour. PSY has recently become his favorite singer and not enjoying himself would have been an absolute tragedy in his opinion. "It's all of you who should be thanking me for offering some shred of entertainment at times like these."

"The entire population of South Korea is going to be thanking you then." Jungkook creeps forward as soon as the car in front of him moves up a ways. Finally moving again, he hums.

"Hey!" An abrupt voice calls from a slight distance. Two teenage boys pull up in a Jaguar, greasy grins on their faces. "Great singing Grandpa! Really know how to move!" The one in the passenger seat flashes his phone playing a video of Jungkook's dad online.

"Wha–how–What?! You delete that right now!" Mr. Jeon is stunned, tripping over his words at the shock of himself actually being the center of the internet. The video is unexpectedly clear.

"Just ignore them, Dad." Jungkook rolls up all the windows in the car and inches up the best he can to get the teenagers out of direct sight.

"But-but how did they do that so fast? It hasn't even been five minutes yet!"

"It only takes seconds, honey," Mrs. Jeon sighs, realizing her husband has become famous over a re-rendition of a PSY song. Of all things, it had to be that.

"I'm starving."

"Me too."

Jungkook glances at the time–2:40p.m. It's now been three hours of sitting in traffic and they've only moved about ten miles. What on earth is congesting the highway this much?

"Maybe we should take one of these exits." His dad scrolls through the map on his phone. "Says there are a few restaurants down exit 6A."

Jungkook considers the idea. He wants to get off the highway, yes, but so does everyone else. The exit his dad is talking about is off the far right lane which means he's going to need to shove in front of everyone's way.

"You sure it's a good place? Wherever it is you're looking?" The reason why he asks is that his dad is notorious for leading them into the most ruin down places. The last time he was in charge of directions, they ended up in front of an abandoned pizza shop.

Mrs. Jeon takes the phone from her husband's hand and swipes through the photos of a quaint restaurant. "It's not bad," she concludes. "And if it means we can get out of this mess, then I'm with your father on this one."

Two against one. Jungkook turns his signal on and waits for someone to let him over. He earns a few honks when he manages to squeeze his nose over but does his best to give an apologetic wave.

After a few more lane changes he gets in the exit lane. He isn't the only one planning to take exit 6B though, being that there are at least twenty other cars waiting in line.

"Maybe we were better off back where we were. All these people want to get off the same place. If we keep going there's bound to be another exit with far less traffic."

Really? Jungkook feels himself ticking again. After all that shoving to get over here and this is what he gets? No, he's not moving back over. They're going to wait in this stupid lane until it gets them to where they originally agreed.

"We just got here and we're not moving back anywhere. This lane should clear up in less time than it would take to go back on the main highway," Jungkook says. "Also, I probably don't need to clarify this but, we're not going to make it to that bookstore you wanted, Dad."

"It's fine, son. We'll go another day."

Which means tomorrow, Jungkook half grumbles to himself. His parents are here for another day after all and he knows his father well enough to know that "another day" really means the closest day possible.

Despite its size, the restaurant his parents choose is charming with its floor-to-ceiling wood paneling and giant, bay windows. The odd hanging plant is spread throughout the open dining space as well, perfectly setting the mood of serenity.

The restaurant only seems to hold about a dozen people inside, however. So thinking it is best to avoid sitting in an overly crowded space, Jungkook asks for one of the tables outside.

“Oh now this is lovely,” his mother praises, pulling her chair up to the table. Jungkook can’t describe how relieved he is to finally hear something positive after hours of nonstop grumbling.

Mr. Jeon takes a seat next to his wife and across from his son. “I just saw someone get Samgyeopsal and it was huge! Let’s get that to share.”

His enthusiasm is short-lived when the scrunched-up face from his wife says she's not a fan. “That's too much food! We still have to be hungry for dinner so we can eat with __."

"Mom's right," Jungkook agrees reluctantly. "__'s stopping at the grocery store after work so we can prep for dinner tonight. I know traffic slowed us down so we're eating at a weird time but it's better we go with something light."

"Oh well, we can always take some to go! Surely __ will enjoy some beautifully grilled pork!" Jungkook's father is adamant. He wants nothing more than a heavy meal after being stuck in the car all morning.

"__ doesn't like pork Dad. And we all know as soon as we get a whiff of it cooking there's not going to be any leftovers."

"Alright, alright," his dad concedes. "I guess I'll try their bibimbap. What are you having hon?"

Jungkook checks his phone messages while his parents make small talk over the menu. You texted him earlier to see how traffic was holding up and he only able to get back to you minutes ago.

Wifey ❤️ : So I'm guessing you haven't talked to your mom yet?

Jungkook: No, haven't brought it up. She seems fine though with the way she's been acting. It doesn't take much for her to go back to her usual self

Wifey ❤️: Her usual self being...?

Jungkook: You know, really particular.

Wifey ❤️: So she's complaining again. I'm sorry 😞

Jungkook: When I was talking with her on the phone before we left, she was much more careful about what she was saying. I expected it to still be that way now. Must have been a mood.

Wifey ❤️: Sounds like she wasn't sure how you'd be reacting after what happened last night. Maybe she's just reverting to back what she's used to because she's unsure what else to do or say. I'd still try finding a way to talk to her. Does it seem tense?

Jungkook: Yeah, you have a point. But Mom's also had a good way of sweeping things under the rug. It's not tense but it's just uncomfortably normal?

Wifey ❤️: Hmm, strange. And your dad's fine?

Jungkook: Honey...have you been on any social media in the last half hour?

Wifey ❤️: No, why?

Jungkook: Might wanna check. We had a little incident while in traffic. I'm still in shock honestly 😅

Jungkook waits for you to find the video of his dad. He already had the guys blowing up his phone from it so he's surprised none of them at least forwarded it to you.

Wifey ❤️: oh my god! Jungkook what happened?! 😂 I hope you're prepared for your students to be all over this

Jungkook: oh shit, that didn't even cross my mind 😩 also it's not funny honey! Listening to my dad singing eae e sexy lady was traumatizing enough. Now I have to see and hear it every time I pop open my phone or some teen punks show it to me!

Wifey ❤️: Aw Kookie, they're just being kids...try not to overthink. And you know those videos come and go. Your dad will be at the bottom of the chain by next week. Until then keep him away from PSY 😅 But I'm sorry you're having a day, I love you 🥺

Jungkook: I MISS YOU SO MUCH 😭

Wifey ❤️: [sent an image]

Fuck! Jungkook chokes on his spit when he sees a blurry close up of your cleavage. Thankfully his parents are still too occupied by the menu that they didn't notice.

Jungkook: sexy af but this isn't the time to be sexting me baby!

He nearly saves the photo if it weren't for the fact that he already had an album dedicated to very sensual *ahem erotic* photos of you. You had let him take them himself —best motherfuckin' birthday ever.

Wifey ❤️: oh adhjjhj, sorry!! That was an accident. I'm such a klutz. This is what I meant... [sent an image]

"What's going on over there?" Jungkook merely glimpses at the new image before whipping his head up, hearing his mother's, sharp tone.

"It's just __. She's asking about groceries again."

With slightly narrowed eyes, Mrs. Jeon continues. "We're about to order if you're ready."

Dammit. He'll have to reply to you later. Jungkook swiftly pockets the phone. "Okay yeah I'm good to go."

"This is delicious," Mr. Jeon says, patting his mouth with a napkin. "Best bibimbap I've had in a long time."

"That's great Dad." Jungkook stirs his noodles.

"Ah, where's the restroom around here?" He asks the waitress as she walks by. She tells him it's in the restaurant, all the way to the back. Mr. Jeon pushes his chair from the table and excuses himself. "All that broth has me needing to go."

"Yes yes, just go." Why his father needed to explain himself every time he needed to use the restroom is beyond him. Jungkook peers at his mother, taking her time eating her own bowl of noodles–they ended up ordering the same thing. "How is it?" he asks.

"It's good."

"Not too spicy?"

"No, it's mild."

Jungkook gathers more noodles on his chopstick. He freezes halfway when he sees his mother eyeing him intensely. "Everything okay?"

Mrs. Jeon folds her hands in her lap. "It's occurred to me that we still have an elephant in the room. I was hoping we'd be able to talk about it while your father browsed the bookstore. But plans changed."

And here he thought his mother had been playing down last night when really she was biding her time. "You know Dad's gonna be back in like ten minutes right?"

Mrs. Jeon nods. "I know it's not the most convenient of times or places, but I'm afraid if we delay it won't get discussed."

"Okay." Jungkook sets his chopsticks down. "Well...where do you want to start?"

"An apology would be nice." Her voice is mellow but the words are a clear demand rather than an offer. Of course, he wants to apologize to her for all the things he accused her of last night. But he wasn't expecting her to be this forward with it, especially since she was guilty of plenty herself. "I'm waiting Kookie," she coos, taking a sip of water.

Jungkook knits his eyebrows in response, unsure of what he's hearing. His mother looks far too relaxed about this whole thing. He decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. "You're right," he starts. "I'm sorry for what I said last night. I shouldn't have spoken that way and I'm sorry for making you leave. I think you and Dad showing up all a sudden threw me off and I reacted poorly."

Mrs. Jeon cracks a tight smile and reaches for her son's hand. "Thank you, Jungkook. I accept your apology." She gives his hand a squeeze before moving to pick up her chopsticks. "Now that we got that settled let's talk about the reunion. I'm thinking about talking to–"

What....the fuck? His mom did not just glide over this whole issue. She did not just put everything on him. And she did not just bring up that damn reunion again, which he's made very clear he wants nothing a part of. "Is that all you wanted? For me to make my amends with you?"

"What else would there be Kookie?" She scoffs, eyes wide.

"Goddamn it." He struggles to maintain a hushed voice. "Can you please stop calling me that? And what the hell do you mean 'what else would there be'? I'm not trying to put the blame on you but there's a good amount you should be saying to me too."

"What things are you referring to? Don't tell me this is about the reunion again. Look, whatever it is that I said was because I just want to see you more. And no more swearing. You know I don't like that kind of language."

"How can you be like this?" Jungkook can't stop himself. He figured his mom and he would have a better, heart-to-heart than this. It makes his skin crawl that his mother continues to play the victim. "It's genuinely shocking me how....do you even love me?"

Mrs. Jeon pauses at that. "Of course, I love you Jungkook. Why–why would you ask that?" She blinks back the slightest hint of tears forming along the edge of her eyes. Never in a million years did she think her son would doubt something this crucial.

"I feel like–"

"Feel what? What is it?"

"I feel like you care more about what I can do for you than you do me, as your son." Jungkook sniffs. This is a lot harder for him to say than he imagined. "There's been so many times that you've–"

"Don't say this honey! I care about you very much!" She reaches for his hand again but he yanks it away. "What are you trying to tell me?" His mother waits for him to form the rest of the sentence.

Jungkook hesitates to look at her straight on because behind what appears to be concerned eyes is disbelief. She isn't taking any of this seriously. It's written all over her face, tone, and all the way down to the way she's focusing on an answer rather than his inability to comfortably talk to her.

"What have I done so many times?"

"Honestly at this point, what haven't you done?" With an icy glare, Jungkook can't hold himself back anymore. The pot that's been brewing, deep in the darkest parts of him is finally overflowing and it's not going to be pretty to behold. "Do you realize how many times you chose your job, your status, and even your friends over me? And you make Dad go along with literally anything! Is it so horrible for someone to say no to you?!"

The couple next to them shoot uncomfortable looks his way, whispering to each other. Jungkook ignores it and starts counting with his fingers.

"Never once have you ever taken responsibility for showing up uninvited, nagging me about this that, and the other thing, making backhanded comments about my life choice, and most of all pretending our relationship is peachy fine. Well, I'm sorry mom, I'm thirty-four years old and I don't need to live by your rules! Our relationship is barely hanging by a thread and being quite real, it's __ and Dad who are the ones clinging to that thread, making sure it doesn't completely snap."

Mrs. Jeon opens her mouth to interject but Jungkook doesn't allow it to happen. It's not exactly intentional that he's pouring out so much in the middle of people's lunch. Still, he's been shoved over a steep cliff, head first.

"I'm sorry mom, I don't know how many times I need to say it. I don't enjoy any bit of this. It's just been a long stretch of–"

"That's enough! I don't want to hear any more." Mrs. Jeon immediately grabs her purse and twists her neck every which way. "Where's your father? I want to leave."

"Mom I'm trying to talk to you! Why won't you let me talk?"

His mother doesn't reply. She doesn't look at him. It's the silent treatment, Jungkook concludes–it's fucking irritating. "I'm not trying to be hurtful," he says, forcing himself to calm down. "Mom look at me."

She doesn't move.

It only takes seconds for their waitress to near her way up to the table with anxious steps. "I'm sorry to be doing this but unfortunately, we've received a few complaints of a disturbance out here." The young girl clasps her hands. "To ensure all our guests are comfortable we're going to need to ask you to take your conversation elsewhere. I'm really sorry."

Fuck. How embarrassing. Jungkook clears his throat and stands up from his seat. "We understand and are genuinely sorry for the commotion. We'll pay at the front and be on our way. Thank you for waiting our table."

The young girl gives a nervous smile and retreats inside the restaurant. Jungkook makes a note to give her a generous tip.

"Hey, what's going on out here?" Mr. Jeon rushes over, hair blowing over due to the breeze. "I heard there was some inconsiderate party out here airing out their dirty laundry for all to see. I tell you, people these days don't know what privacy means anymore!" He shakes his head and takes a seat.

"Get up Dad we're leaving."

"But I'm not done my–––oh shit." Mr. Jeon clenches his teeth. "You two?"

Mrs. Jeon gets up from her chair, still wordless, and walks towards the parking lot. "I'll get this Dad." Jungkook stops his father from pulling out his wallet. "It is best if you go try to ease Mom. I don't think she'll be talking to me for a while."

Mr. Jeon puts a hand on his son's shoulder. It's his way of offering comfort. "You're mother has made things difficult for you, Jungkook. I'll try getting through to her. In the meantime don't let this eat you up. It's been a long time coming."

Jungkook doesn't get home until quarter past six. The drive home was better than the drive to the restaurant, but hitting the notorious five o'clock traffic slowed them down once more. He also had to drop his parents at their hotel which was no easy task. His mother barely gave him a glance before hopping out of the car. The amount of guilt settling in his gut isn't going away any time soon.

"Hey." Jungkook finds you searching through the kitchen cupboard. "I hope you're okay with spice tonight! I got this really awesome–oh baby what's wrong?" You stop what you're doing when you see your husband come up behind you with sunken eyes. He wraps his larger arms around you, desperately needing your scent.

"I blew it," he croaks. "She's so mad at me."

"I'm sorry Jungkook. I'm sorry I couldn't be there." You turn in his arms to pull him into a full embrace. His nose tickles the side of your neck but you don't laugh. "You wanna tell me?"

Jungkook takes your hand and sits you both on the couch in the living room. "The morning started out rough with three hours of traffic and the two of them in the back seat, telling me where and how I should drive. Then my dad got unexpectedly famous off a PSY song. We finally got to some restaurant about half an hour west of here before 3pm. Everything was going okay until dad went to the bathroom."

"Okay," you say, scooting closer beside him. You rub small circles on his upper back as he leans forward on his spread-apart knees. "What happened?"

"Mom suggested we talk about last night so I said sure." You watch as Jungkook fiddles with his hands. "But she didn't actually care about a conversation or what I had to say. All she wanted, all she expected, was for me to apologize to her so we'd be okay again. It all came out after that and I feel so horrible about it. We ended up getting kicked out of the restaurant too."

"Jungkook..."

"I tried __. I wanted to be patient and to be a good son but she can't even look at me right now." He falls back on the couch, staring at the blank wall in front. "Dad's convinced it was bound to happen."

"You are a good son, Jungkook." You comb a few strands of his soft, ebony hair. He closes his eyes as you do. "You're mom's the one who needs to readjust her view."

"I never thought I'd yell at my mom about all that stuff. And certainly not in public where everyone is trying to have a pleasant lunch. I'm a grown-ass adult and I should have had better control of myself."

You settle into his inner shoulder, laying a hand on his chest. "Even grown adults have limits and your mom's far surpassed those limits. Don't blame yourself for this."

"Dad said the same thing."

"Well, that's two against one."

Jungkook smiles. Two against one, that's where he got that from. Not that you're the first person to use the phrase but he never used it as regularly until you moved in together.

"I missed you so much today. I don't deserve you."

You cock your head up as quick as the words fly from his mouth. "Don't you dare say things like that! You're a good man despite how awful your mother treats you." You lean your face near his, eyes wandering deep into his dark brown ones. "If you're not otherwise too tired, I'm going to show you how much I love you."

Jungkook opens his lids at that–apparently not too tired. You smirk and get off the couch.

"Here?" His classic doe-eyes peer down at your kneeled position. Seeing you settle this perfectly between his muscular thighs triggers an intense blood rush that goes straight to his dick. Jungkook didn't think he was going to get horny tonight but here he was with his half-harden length in your hands in the middle of the living room.

"Mhm." You position yourself just enough for him to have a clear view of your tits. You had taken both your shirt and bra off before starting. You know how your husband likes it. "That okay with you?"

Jungkook groans when you grip his cock harder, gliding it from the base to the tip in repeated motions. "Fuck yeah. It's more than okay." You giggle at how quickly your husband gets in the mood. He thinks you're the bitch in the bedroom? You quicken your movements.

"Oh shit this feels so good." He grips the couch cushion, keeping his focus on you. "Need that gorgeous mouth wrapped around me baby, please. Shit–"

You honor your husband's requests and trace your tongue from the base of his cock all the way up to his tip. Once there, you suck lightly before taking him in whole.

"That's it. Take my cock, fuck." Jungkook goes on to praise you as you bottom out. You gag a little at first being that you haven't done this in what....weeks? Damn. Whatever happened to the days when you'd literally go down on each other every day?

"We need to get you reacquainted with my cock honey," he teases, bucking his hips forward to push himself further into your mouth. "All these weeks without my cock in your mouth has you gagging all over me. Been it's been too long hasn't it?"

"Mm," is the only thing you reply with, the weight of his thick length dragging back and forth on your tongue. By now your pussy is pulsating like crazy and you're tempted to just get up and fuck yourself on him. But tonight was about your husband–you're going to make sure of it. And Jungkook loves nothing more than getting head with your bare tits in full view, obviously.

A few sucks later and Jungkook starts fucking himself into your mouth. They began as soft, needy bucks of his hips but now they're rough, full-force thrusts. His length shoves to the back of your throat and you moan desperately around him. "Did you miss my cock baby? I bet you did. My sexy wife....you're mine and you're gonna make me come, aren't you? Fuck yeah, you are."

Your eyes water as you continue to take him, hallowing your cheeks the best you can. Jungkook has his eyes screwed shut and sweat dripping from his forehead. Your panties are so fucking soaked right now and your nipples are defiantly hard from sheer arsousal.

"God I'm so close baby. You're mouth is---fuck I don't even have the words. It's fucking magic! And your tits are so hot from this angle. Kinda reminds me of what you sent to me earlier. Can I come on them? I'm so close." Jungkook takes your broken moans as a yes and starts ramming into you two more times before pullout and covering your breasts with warm liquid. "Fuck fuck fuck," he grunts, spilling himself on you.

What a mess. You look down at yourself. What a motherfuckin' mess and you love it. Jungkook pulls you into a passionate kiss, tongue rolling with yours in heavenly harmony. "Thank you for this," he says between kisses. "I'll help you wash up, I promise."

"Mm Jungkook," you pant. "I think I need you inside me."

Hey, he got his dick sucked and he creamed your tits–it's mama's turn now, or excuse you–wifey.

A/N: this got nasty whoops. not sorry. Anyway LMK what you think, thanks for reading! 💞 also pls vote if youd be so kind

Masterlist

Taglist:

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P.S. I'm sorry but I'm not sure if I'm able to tag all of you!

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

[psychelis-new]

pick a pile: "Letter from your Guides"

take a breath and choose the photo or number that calls you the most to read a message coming from your Guides. You may be in a moment of confusion, fearing something, doubting something or healing something.The message will try to provide you with guidance and support.

don’t take the reading too seriously. only take what resonates with you and leave the rest. if you're not called by any pile, let this reading slid as it may not hold messages for you. if you're called by more than one pile, there may be messages in each of those piles. remember that is a general reading and some things may not resonate with you. energies can change and readings are based on present ones (as you read); you're always in charge of your life.

(photos found on unsplash)

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1 2 3 4 - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ -

pile 1

(One Guide is talking the most either for themselves or a group; it may even be someone from your family/ancestor or a counterpart's higher self/past life soulmate. I think they're talking about a passion/hobby/endeavour of yours in particular, but it could be something else too)

My darling We/I know you're passionate about something. You have a huge desire laying inside of you and you're dreaming so much of making that wish fulfilled. You can, keep going. Just remember to not let your fears and insecurities hinder you, your emotions to govern you. We don't do that anymore, right? You've grown so strong recently! And things will change as you've changed, the same way. Without you realizing until you will experience them. Give it a try. Give yourself a try. There's a lot in store for you. We often tell you this, but you better start to believe it, even if you cannot see it as for now. Be positive: pain never lasts forever, it's just something we need to experience here and there. It's the bad that lives with the good. Take them both, accept them both, but never lose that shine/smile of yours. Remember to breathe. We're/I am here with you.

song: under my skin | claudia kane; one of a kind | the gaia corporation

- ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ - ’ -

pile 2

(You're probably your Guides' "little cute sweet thing" they love to comfort you and send you gifts/signs here and there, especially images/cute drawings or such -probably if you occasionally feel like drawing, it's them-. They give you sweet surnames. It could even be, similarly to pile one, there's someone from your family -more likely- or a counterpart higher self /past life soulmate. The mentioned infos may come through messages, signs, dreams...)

Hello pumpkin/cinnamon roll We know the past has been kinda harsh on you. We know that. We've seen it all. We've felt what you felt too, we've cried with you. But please, don't let this all close you off from what's ahead. You know what's ahead? Love, abundance, and all you ever dreamt of. The past is gone, it needs to end, so never think things will always be like that for you. It's not gonna be that. Things are now changing for the best. Leave behind whatever and whoever you need to leave behind, and give space for what's supposed to arrive. Be brave. Demand. Be confident. You'll get infos about this in the upcoming days/months, so stay ready to receive and trust we're not fooling you. That's never what we want to do. Take a time out when you need and just do not trust when something, a thought or a person, wants to limit you. You're limitless, go beyond that. Enjoy, little one.

songs: perfect symphony | ed sheeran, andrea bocelli; breathe me | sia

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pile 3

(Your Guides feel either proud or sorry about something. They want to comfort you and hug you. It could be an higher self of someone tbh, maybe even yours, or similarly to other piles it could be someone from your family/ancestors or lover. They probably used to protect you a bit too much -may be someone no more in the 3d, it's a bit confused tbh)

Where to start from? It's time to change, my dear. It's time to let others in and find your own happiness. It's time to let yourself be loved as you need and are supposed to, it's time to experience life at its full. You deserve that. I'm sorry if someone tried to hinder you, but it's a new start now. Do not let them hinder you anymore. I want you to know you'll get to experience all that you want. You're such an amazing soul and person... People can only talk good about you. You'll receive lot of love, you're gonna do big things... but for this to happen, you need to make a decision of/on your own. To really be aware of your worth and what you want and go after it, prepare for it, get ready for it, study for it. Accept the good, the love, the sweetness of others. Do not close off to any loving offer or comment that will come to you, not everybody is here to play with you (I'll play with them if they do). We need to change our approach. We need to let things unfold as they're supposed to. Enough with battling from the inside, it's time to try and be out and about. It's time to trust and just go forward, for the better is coming.

song: personal jesus | depeche mode; we belong together | mariah carey

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pile 4

(your Guides are very elegant and may relate with the night -maybe you can contact them more likely at that time or they come to your through dreams or they're creatures of the night: eg. maybe come in form of owls-, or maybe you like the night. Harry Potter too. I think there's someone from your ancestors who was/is a very refined person/soul that demands respect and are powerful. Like that wealthy aunt you may see in movies. They're very nice and tender though, especially with you.)

Hello sweet bat How are you doing? Please, stay calm and collected. I know sometimes it's easy to get lost in your thoughts, to let fears mess up with you, but when this happens I want you to know that you just need to stop and breathe. Meditate. Call for your inner self. You'll find me/a reflection of me there too. We're similar, you know it. So trust your inner guidance, and get yourself back together. Refocus on your goal, and get up again. Worrying over things that don't matter isn't good for you, it just hurts you and nothing else. When there's too much going on, focus on the most urgent stuff first and then go on like that. Make a list. Be grounded. You don't have to do everything at once. My darling, we're elite/majestic/aristocracy, we can let others wait for us, right? Stay calm and manifest, you'll get what you deserve (and so others). Control what you can and let the rest move towards you, even that lover of yours...

song: pulse | the venice connection; sound of breaking | faunea

[mixtapedoh]

How about lonely boy, lee know, and forced proximity?

@eclliipsed — i am thinking of you, specifically while writing this <3

;༊ — lonely boy

pairing: lee minho x gn!reader genre: fluff, office setting word count: ~3.6k warnings: language, situational stress, han is here stirring the pot, a startling amount of homicide jokes

olive’s notes: a unique challenge of writing lino fic that i did not before account for or even conceptualize is that when i think of said silly little stray kids cat boy, i think of him almost 99% of the time as 'lino' and like 0.9999999999% of the time as 'lee know'. lee minho? you mean the actor? it's not clicking up here, asdfghj. all that's to say, if i make a mistake and call him lino instead of minho, i'm so sorry, feel free to stone me in the square on whatever day is most convenient for you <3.

☄. *. ⋆ lee minho x forced proximity...

— society, as a collective, just loves their 9 to 5, right?

i mean, if it were actually a 9 to fucking 5, maybe you wouldn't be screaming, crying, throwing up, gnawing on the iron bars of your enclosure.

— but haha, as a general rule (collectively agreed upon at some point, or perhaps no one agreed so much as they were browbeaten into submission), more than society loves their 9 to 5, they love their workplace grindset culture.

gotta get those financial gains, amirite?

— which is all to say, you were simply enamoured, quite totally besotted with, completely captivated by and hopelessly devoted to your demanding, grueling, parasitic life-force of an office job.

and people had the gall to say you didn't have romance in your life.

clearly, they hadn't seen the zeal and devotion with which you dedicated yourself to your company issued computer, stacks of files, and white-walled cubicle.

after all, regular hours simply weren't enough for all the worship you had within you — you simply had to have both your mandatory overtime and your Implicitly Dictated and Oh-So-Reasonably Expected overtime hours as well <3 you did want to keep your job after all, and job security is such a silly little thing <3 corporate culture really is just soooo romantic in that regard <3 complete and utter devotion <3 commitment almost pious <3

until you managed to break away from the curse of Living in a Society and could live without bills, debt, responsibilities, more bills, more debt, and the desire for silly little (but financially substantial) hobbies to make this existence of yours worthwhile, your love affair with your job would simply have to stick.

— which made for the perfect little soup you were currently mired in. a thick broth of learned helplessness seasoned with intense loathing, a dash of interest in low stakes coworker drama, a sprinkling of compulsory people pleasing, a garnish of yes man energy, and an optional mix-in of untapped, constantly simmering rage.

so, of course you were best friends with han jisung.

— the universe really did do you a solid when they placed han jisung in the cubicle next to you.

perhaps the only employee that hadn't succumbed to the incessant humanity-sucking leech affectionately called a company, jisung was the only one who kept you sane when you were 56 hours deep in your work week and considering moving to a homestead on alaska where you would likely not even last a whole 72 hours — but, hey, you would at least get some sleep at the end of it when succumbing to the effects of hypothermia, so it didn't seem that bad of a gig, really (jisung always offered to cover half of the down payment cost, but at the end of the conversation, he'd just buy you a coffee and the two of you would call it even).

— and being friends with jisung was, all at once, both a blessing and a curse.

(because this is corporate living and existence is a fucking nightmare ~°~♫⭒~꘎ )

— poor excuses for jokes in your company chat box, sticky note battles during days when the mundane tasks you were assigned were mind-numbing enough to fell the strongest of corporate warriors, the constant "i owe you" back and forth when one of you went on a coffee or vending machine run and grabbed something for the other, and, of course, juicy gossip during your lunch break — all of these were the positives of being jisung's partner in captalist crime.

— but on the other hand, should either of your work be wanting in any regard... well... accountability is a word long enough to stretch between two.

— which led you to your current state of affairs.

"the next time you forget to delete your 'tongue-in-cheek' speaker notes on the powerpoint we're submitting for review from higher ups, i'm breaking your fingers so you can't type them in the first place."

but of course jisung just turns it into a joke about a hand kink.

— your punishment for 'distasteful' jokes left in the margins of official company output wasn't anything too severe — bless whatever cosmic force made it so that the generally easy going mr. ok taecyeon was the one to see jisung's fuck up, and not someone less forgiving — but it meant the next few weeks would be hell in the form of grunt work.

see, your company was expanding in the industry, and it meant that the building you were currently working in wasn't big enough to house all the ✨aspirational goals✨ it was just starting to believe in. thus, the majority of higher ups were going to move into a new office building... and for some ass-backward reason, so, too were all of the archives.

and someone had to go down there and box it all up, making sure it was properly labeled and in order.

sure, the company was just head-empty enough to have the desire to move physical archives to a new office building. but at least they wanted it all in order before they stuck it in a different dusty basement.

— the very first day you went to the basement and saw the sheer level of work the two of you had in store, you locked eyes with jisung and just knew that fucker was going to find some way to get out of it.

— on your lunch break you tried to beat him to the punch and defend your honor against the soul crushing weight of undue punishment. but alas! you had already taken vacation days in the last month (damn that kpop concert - did you really have to be that devoted to your ult group??) and han hadn't had a day off for the last 6 months.

how the hell did you end up doing the punishment work for actions that weren't even (mostly) yours?

han jisung better move to that alaskan homestead after all, nowhere else would ever be safe from your wrath... once you got out of this basement, of course.

— the most you were given was help in the form of lee minho — who would have thought that he of all people would be your saving grace?

maybe he'd help you plan jisung's murder. they were friends, true, but anyone who was around han long enough would not be opposed to plitting his demise. it was part of his elusive charm, after all. everything wonderful about him also lent itself to fodder for plotting his demise.

convenient, really, given the circumstances you were in.

— but back to lee minho. perfect performance lee minho. always last to leave the office lee minho. infuriatingly not suffering from looking chronically fatigued or daunted, overwhelmed, or simply fazed by the overzealous work culture you found yourselves in, lee minho. curt and focused but lacking of an edge that would make him unapproachable lee minho. impossible to pin down, the vitruvian man of corporate dreams, somehow the bosses favorite despite failing to do any of the sucking up some of your other coworkers engaged in almost religiously lee minho.

he didn't frustrate you; he didn't even really baffle you, but he didn't exactly occupy your brainspace in a way that could be described as indifference, y'know?

maybe this was something you could blame of jisung, too. he always talked about minho an ungodly amount, waxed poetic about how it was a shame that minho worked in a different department — how the two of you really would get along famously, but damn, if he couldn't convince either of you to spend any of your (perhaps two (2)) hours of off-duty life in the same place at the same time.

social lives, after all, were laughable, where the both of you were concerned.

— the day you walked down there and saw minho already elbow deep in a filing cabinet seemingly older than your parents (which, lamentably, was the worst organized filing cabinet you'd ever seen, and was regrettably representative of 95% of the work ahead of you), you laughed out loud and took the moment to convince minho to take a picture for you, so you could tell jisung that he was missing the Historic and Long Anticipated Meet Up, and that was the moment you realized that you were so deep in the basement, phone service was a pipe dream.

it wasn't a concern, really — you were both benefiting from the random employee benefit of free spotify premium, so your downloaded content was enough to get you through the long hours of organizing and packing, and hey! being in the basement meant no one really expected any more out of you than your required hours and whatever mandatory overtime you had left to complete.

— so really, jisung had been stupid as hell to avoid this punishment. it was effectively less work than you were used to (though tedious) and you were far enough away from your desk that the thought of the work piling up in the world above wasn't eating at you that much (at least not any more than usual; workplace anxiety and you were well acquainted, at that point <3)

— and minho! — god forbid you say anything complementary about that bastard han jisung while he left you (more than) 6 feet under, doing work that was, by many rights, his punishment — but he had been right when he said you and minho would gel.

he didn't disturb you, for the most part, but working in the same space for full work days with nothing to do but listen to podcasts and check the dates on dusty files meant that Annoying The Only Other Person In Your Vicinity became a welcome distraction from wallowing in the fact you were moving at a pace slower than desired. and he responded quite well to any question you threw his way - no matter how brain-dead, invasive, or embarrassing. in fact, he'd hit something back - put the ball in your court in a question almost more ridiculous, leaving you to question how jisung hadn't forced the two of you together sooner (but fuck jisung; all my homies are blaming this comedy of errors on jisung and are in this basement actively plotting his demise).

— and it didn't take you long to realize charming minho is almost exactly like getting a neighborhood cat to endear itself to you.

pspspsps at random (bat a stupid ass joke his way);

give him space but respond to his random bids for attention;

have a snack drawer (one of the first emptied out file cabinets furthest to the back of the archival area) and occasionally offer something sweet as a reminder that the snack drawer exists and is for joint indulging;

entertain him with logic puzzles and psychological warfare;

and, of course, shit talk your coworkers and company.

indulge the cats desire for destruction and mayhem; tell minho that whenever he was ready to put in his two-weeks, you'd be right there beside him and would run the paper shredder all night while he corrupted the files.

exist calmly and comfortable in the cat's space; work so well in tandem that you began anticipating the movements of the other.

spend quality time with the cat; both of you begining to wordlessly take your lunches at the table in the archival basement, instead of going all the way back up to the cafeteria, choosing instead to chat with each other and indulge in the other's niche interests and stupidly staunch opinions on poor pieces of media.

slow blink at the cat; catch yourself staring for a bit too long when he doesn't notice you looking, your thoughts getting all muffled and sappy as you become wholly fascinated by the slope of his nose and the softness of his big, dark eyes that look perpetually half-bored at work but sparkle with intelligence and mischief when you call out his name — lighting up with interest and disguised delight as that lazy, gummy smile makes it's way onto his features, eyebrows quirking upward, already expecting a challenge and...

— wait... what was that?

— is there absestos in the company walls, and that's why they decided to randomly move buildings? is there lead lining these filing cabinets? black mold in the ceiling? were you perhaps inhaling narcotics in this dusty ass air and hallucinating something vivid?

you were not developing a crush on someone just because you were stuck in the basement with this fool for going on two weeks now and hadn't seen another good looking coworker in quite some time. this wasn't some kind of drama where the ceo has a strange delight in forcing company employees into situations laced with ✨sexual tension✨. you weren't a main lead suffering from romantic withdrawals. remember your leech of a company. you have no time for shit like that.

— but, i mean, if you're never out of the office, perhaps finding romance in office is a solution...

shut the fuck up, you and minho weren't even in the same department. that point was moot.

— because damn, maybe asbestosis really was getting to you, and that's what was knocking the wind out of you any time minho smiled. yes, certainly the absestos in the walls was what was informing the way your heart constricted whenever the two of you brushed hands passing a file between you. maybe you should sue your company and have some hospital use you as a case study. maybe all the distracted daydreams was a new symptom of your newly contracted deadly disease.

see, that would make sense. you weren't catching a mean case of crushing on your forced proximity coworker, you were simply dying. because of the absestos.

— but even still, the day both of you piled all the boxes of (appropriately lableled) filing into a work car, and minho drove you over to the new building, the fresh air didn't seem to be a cure all. you were still a little more than distracted by his messy hair and black sunglasses... his concentration on the road... his pushed up sleeves... not to mention his hands wrapped around the steering wheel.

(but of course you'd snap out of your thoughts when you remember that joke jisung made about your supposed hand kink at the beginning of all this nonsense. shut the fuck up, memory ghost jisung. you don't know shit. you and minho had already talked about it and were coming for his broke ass the day he had the courage to step foot in the office again.)

— yeah, haha, you weren't crushing on lee minho because of a comedy of errors you had never dreamed would befall you in the first place. working alongside him hadn't woken anything in you. certainly not.

— and yeah, haha, you'd definitely be able to hide this from jisung when he came back. not a problem at all when he asks you about how sorting archives went (he had the gall to bring it up every five minutes — taunting you with the fact that he got to have 4 days off and was then reassigned to do answer all the emails that had piled up during his time out of office. yes, he had picked up some of the work originally meant to go to you, but still. a veritable traitor who deserved your absence from your usual lunch dates. and yes, it was hard to be slick when he'd bring up your casual absence from lunch — were you finding minho's company to be more than enough? — but you'd manage. like hell were you going to give the smug bastard satisfaction after he made you atone for his and also your crimes.).

— and yeah, haha, you'd would definitely be able to explain to a suspicious and put out jisung why you were canceling anime re-run night with him to instead go with minho to this hybrid cat-and-comic-book-cafe he had mentioned never being able to get a reservation for, despite living two blocks away from it. silly little things like that would be easy to wave away, right.

it's like, totally platonic for you and minho to meet up on your only day off to spend hours lounging at a cafe retreat together where you cooed at semi-sociable cats and joked about adopting and co-parenting the one who enjoyed wearing cute hats, and read comic books for hours and order food to share and have low-stakes debates about the best tropes and characters of shared beloved media.

it's not like that whole set up is incredibly date coded.

and it's not like it would become a recurring habit for minho to invite you to do things with him that would have jisung waggling his eyebrows even as you pleaded innocence and smacked him with whatever quasi-weapon you just so happened to have on your desk (mostly file folders and your favorite cat themed mini calendar).

— haha... it wasn't like you were down bad and incredibly bad at hiding your crush.

...right?

— you fool. you absolute buffoon. han jisung could smell your lies and poorly contained crush from thousands of leagues away. even if you weren't shit at hiding it, he would have known. he could have actually been on that remote homestead in alaska and still picked up on just how brain dead you were over your crush. you thought you were slick? when han jisung has a doctorate in anxious suspicion and twelve master's degrees in the art of bullshitting?

hell, he knew you were going to fall in love with minho before the two of you even met. why do you think he'd wanted to connect the two of you in the first place? because he thought you two needed a social life? please — he knew going in that putting the two of you in the same room was horrible for his self preservation; he knew it was practically undermining company goals because your joint productivity would fall 2000% and the amount of cat memes you two would send on company time would increase so exponentially, you'd both resort to making your own memes using your company paid subscription to adobe creative cloud; he knew that the two of you were almost scarily well matched and equally devoted to drinking your refusal-to-believe-i-can-be-loved-romantically juice.

he knew that you and minho would develop glaring crushes on each other and wouldn't do a damn thing about it beyond smoothly flirting for an afternoon, inviting the other out on dates-that-aren't-dates and promptly fake-gagging and denying in a manner almost theatric that you might *gasp* enjoy the other's company in a way not-so-platonic, only to do it all over again. a vicious cycle of 'stop feeding the rest of us lies and just kiss with tongue already, damnit.' and he knew all of your coworkers would be caught in the middle of it.

— which they were. for, like, a solid five months.

— now, it wasn't too bad, considering the fact that you and minho worked in different departments, but anytime there was cause for collaboration, suddenly you were clambering to be considered, no matter the intense workload or the way the task was slightly out of your wheelhouse. suddenly, it seemed you were incredibly eager to learn and prove yourself.

at first, your team leader was overjoyed. initiative? drive? a seeming zest and fire for more commitment? say less and do more! marry yourself to the dumbass collaboration with the other department! perhaps this could mean freedom for their long suffering servitude under the corporate thumb!

but then they saw you flirting with minho and making plans to spend an afternoon together at a book signing while still on the clock. and while they're not opposed to a bit of misuse of company time (vive la révolution contre les régimes capitalistes, and all that), it was a bitter and sobering pill to watch that shit happen daily while not getting any yourself, and then stomaching the fact that these clearlly love-struck fuckers won't admit their own transparency-set-to-0% feelings and put their chronically-single corporately-suffering coworkers to rest. either say you're in love and just be done with it or take the rest of us out with a shot gun. goddamn.

it's like a sitcom's mind-numbingly over-the-top valentine's day special. someone make it stop.

— and it didn't take a genius to connect the dots and realize that the employee responsible for all of this was han jisung.

after all, he's the mutual friend between them. no doubt he talked about the other constantly in glowing terms. no doubt he planted the seed they'd be a match made in heaven. no doubt he was the one to blame.

and! wasn't it his fuck up that forced you and minho to work together in the archives to begin with?

maybe killing han jisung wasn't going to make you and minho confess to each other, but it would be some kind of catharsis for the people who were stuck in this hell of Watching You Two Take Your Sweet Time With It.

— so jisung had to understandably think of some kind of plot. after all, the two of you were his best friends, but to hope that you would admit your feelings for someone to save his livelihood? don't be ridiculous. the both of you were quite happy with the flirting stage, as it currently stood.

— how to get your stubborn friends to admit their (very real and very reciprocated) feelings for each other... when there's no external or even internal pressure (on them, at least) to do so... jisung would have to think outside of the box.

or perhaps inside of it.

— which i'm sure is reason enough to explain how the both of you managed to get stuck in a closet during your company's holiday party.

and, through it all, is minho's mischievous eyes and your flair for the dramatic.

"do you think we should tell our coworkers we've been dating?"

☄. *. ⋆

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[bibbykins]

Moonlight Reign Ch.1

A/N: Instead of forcing myself to focus on one series at a time, I'm planning to write what sparks joy to write in the moment and post it as I go! Hopefully this will clear some wips and help me feel less disorganized lmao! Not to say I'm not working on THB, I def am I just want to have something to post as I work on THB and the bigger projects like the LWAB fics among other things! So (hopefully) I'll keep these chapters limited to 5-7k, but we'll see lol pls enjoy and send me asks I thrive on them and so does my motivation!

And a huge thank you to my wonderful B @rapline-heaux for beta-reading ily!!

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Yandere! Mafia! BTS x Reader

Words: 5.7k

Warnings: crime, sensory flashbacks, trauma, unhealthy relationships, yandere behavior not rlly in this part but soon, pining, violence, past abuse, past neglect, academic neglect, stitches, drunk Jungkook, tackling, pinning someone down, mention of open relationship, poly is the norm is this au

“It’s time to go now.” 

1, 2, 3, 4

“Five years after the fall of the underground power family, Moon Corporation, people still suspect an even more powerful company has taken their place since…”

1, 2, 3, 4

“It’s… so red…”

1, 2, 3, 4

“The exposure beheld more answers than questions, but on the five-year anniversary of the suicidal explosion that killed the head, Moon Byungyeol and his daughter, the elusive green-haired girl who was 18 at the time, colleagues mourn in secret and establishments fear an anniversary heist or something worst than last year as the date rapidly approaches…”

1, 2, 3, 4

“Locals have several theories on the big conglomerate that now controls Seoul’s business, underground and above, with the mafia organizations and gangs running rampant, people fear the government is under their thumb as well…”

1, 2- SHUT UP

You inhaled deeply as if just surfacing from the drowning body of water residing in your brain. Your fingers stilled from the tapping, a  desperate attempt to make you surface, a sorry technique your brief stint in therapy drilled into you. Maybe having nothing led to illogical personal connections with a number. Of all your training as an heir, it was the mundane basic curriculum lessons that fascinated you the most. You were never good at math, but you loved to be perplexed by the numbers. It was a humbling experience, and in your fruitless calculations, four was always the easiest to wrap your head around. Of course, you didn’t know how humbled you’d be until you were a 20 year old trying to figure out how to do middle school math. Your education left much to be desired growing up, but you still enjoyed learning. 

You used to be convinced four was too perfect of a number for such an ugly world, and though you let go of the notion with your past life, it didn’t change that it was a world you had to feign blind to now. In your youth, four was a beautiful result of a simple equation, a funny origin to big numbers. It was a warm hug among the violent reactions when you’d get questions far below your intended grade level wrong. In a world where stuffed animals were banned from your childhood room, the number four was all you had. You didn’t particularly like how pathetic that made you feel, but it didn’t change how much it helped you on days like these.

Your palms retracted from their firm placement on the wall you leaned on, relaxing you. Releasing your slightly curled fingers, you stifled a bitter laugh at the desperate attempt to grasp onto something. It was always so degrading to scrub off the marks your acrylics made along the wall, but the stiletto nails made taps loud enough to bring you back. It was an absolute mystery how the school you worked at let you get away with these. 

Your little episode was finished as you settled your mind with the news continuing to drone on. You massaged your jaw, sore from the subconscious clench you were cursed with. You blew out a sigh as you felt your face and nodded when no tears were felt. Your phone buzzed, alerting you to the time and you groaned. Your damn neighbor would be here any minute now.

Jungkook wasn’t a mean guy by any means, quite the opposite. He was extremely insistent on your well-being, so much so it bordered on doting, and such behavior made you clam up. You didn’t know how to respond to his fussing over you. Hell, you didn’t know how to respond to most interactions outside of your old family business for a long while. That was just one of the many things he taught you, and he never once lost his cool doing so. He was patient with you, and you didn’t know how to thank him for it. 

You both had been in the same class when you attended university, and while you were fine with letting your temporary acquaintanceship go no further than asking for notes or the occasional study session, he was a force to be reckoned with. You just kept running into him and when you moved here and found he was your next-door neighbor, you knew there was no getting out of it. He was going to be your friend. Although, you never understood why he wanted to be so bad. 

Cut to a whole year after you both graduated, and it still didn’t make any sense. You both were polar opposites in a lot of ways. He was the regular party boy always at clubs and coming home at ungodly hours of the night. Meanwhile, you were usually in bed by 11:00 pm and only left your apartment for the job that barely covered your rent. Needless to say, you weren't exactly a social butterfly, so if you found one friend in Jungkook, you figured it wouldn't be such a crime.

However, having Jungkook as a friend meant having a weekly dinner with him as he mooched off of your TV and you mooched off of the food he paid for. It was an even enough exchange. Plus, it was nice to talk freely, or well, as free as you've ever been able to, even if just for a little bit.

You faced the mirror, patting down your hair, thankful for how much healthier it was without the cheap dye job you had done yourself when you were 14, “That green didn’t suit me at all,” You mused, fixing your hair, “Plus it nearly ruined my hair.” You murmured to no one in particular, keeping track of your speeding thoughts as you settled back into Earth. 

Jungkook knocked on the door and you nodded to yourself, “It’s open!” You called and sat down at the table as he walked in, take-away bags in his hands.

“You really shouldn’t leave your door open like that, you know.” He tsked like he always did. It just made sense to leave it unlocked when you knew he was coming, especially if you needed to run to the bathroom so you could finish crying before facing him. Of course, you haven't had to do that in a while, but better safe than sorry. Your issues, for lack of better term, were no secret to Jungkook, and you both knew it, but you liked to avoid having him see you at your most vulnerable when you could help it.

You simply shrugged as you helped him unpack the food, “We’re the only ones on the top floor.” You reminded him, “it would be quite silly of a criminal to come all the way up to the 20th floor.” You chided.

“Still.” He tried to argue but quickly gave up. Jungkook knew by now that you could take care of yourself, but sometimes you wished you’d let him do it for you more often. However, he let this potential argument go, this time. He looked around and narrowed his gaze at the TV, “Why do you still have the news on?” 

You paused and looked up from your food as it prattled on about your family, “I guess I forgot,” You forced your casual tone, “Did you get-”

“Syndicates, huh…?” He echoed the news reporter’s words, eyes fixated on the screen with a curious look, “The news is so weird with this stuff.”

The chopsticks in your hand stilled. You wanted to say that the syndicates were even weirder since they were the ones that probably signed off on the script. As a little girl, that was the first thing you had learned, how to play chess outside on a park bench, how to play chess crushing people in your hands as you moved them. It had all been the same to you for far too long. 

“Like I care, it’s just background noise.” A lie, you hated lying, but it was something you had to get used to doing for the sake of your safety.

“You aren't scared of these guys at all?” Jungkook looked at you like you were crazy, although his eyes didn't match the rest of his face's intensity.

Shaking off the weird notion, you rolled your eyes, “A world without you buying me dinner is pretty spooky but that,” You gestured to the TV, “Is a cheap haunted house in comparison to the hell of making dinner or worse, ordering it myself, on a Friday night.” You giggled.

Jungkook rolled his eyes with a scoff, “Is that all I am to you? A sugar daddy?” He asked in mock offense and you nearly spit out your drink.

You swallowed roughly before glaring at him as he laughed, “If you’re my sugar daddy, I need a new one.” You retorted and his laugh died while a childish pout settled on his face, “I mean, all I get is a measly dinner once a week and I still have to work and pay my bills?” 

“Well, what do I get, huh?” He crossed his arms, and it made you chuckle. Laughter had never come easy to you growing up, and it still had a hard time coming to you but after years by Jungkook’s side it was easier than ever to do, “Where’s my sugar?” He thrusted his cheek toward you, tapping on it with his index finger.

You rolled your eyes in spite of the flutter in the pit of your stomach and pushed his face away with your index finger, “My presence is your sugar, dummy.” You teased and how easy it was to be human around him made you smile wider, “Plus I let you watch your silly little shirtless men.” 

He clicked his tongue, “First of all, if you’re going to call them shirtless men, at least call them hot because look at him.” He pressed a button on your remote and his favorite fighter, Park Jimin filled the screen, “Second of all, it’s literally fewer syllables to just say MMA fights.”

You took a bite of your food and shrugged, “Don’t you have, like, a million boyfriends? Wouldn’t you make them jealous drooling all over Jimin?” You challenged, vaguely remembering Jungkook saying he had more than three boyfriends at some point. Not that it was surprising, most people had at least two significant others. Unless they were you, of course. You had no one to talk to but the man sitting in front of you, forget about a significant other. “He would make me pretty damn insecure.” You chuckled.

Jungkook scrunched his brows at you, “Six.” He corrected, mirth filling his eyes already.

You looked from the TV to him, “Hm?” You tilted your head to the side.

“I have six boyfriends, thank you very much.” He stated matter-of-factly, and you rolled your eyes at his tone, “Why? Are you trying to give me seven significant others?” He feigned a scandalous gasp, “Well, the relationship is open, you know, so I guess I could pencil you in–” You cut him off by shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth with a glare. The teasing made your chest seize for a split moment when faced with his teasing smirk, so this had been the best way to shut him up. 

Jungkook had always been a flirt, he often relished in teasing you to see how embarrassed you would get. Thankfully, over the years you had gotten used to it. You had already known his relationship was open since he mentioned how often they’re all apart, but you didn’t care to entertain that kind of intimacy with Jungkook even in your thoughts these days. It was just better that way.

“Ha, ha, we got a comedian.” You deadpanned and before you could say anything else, something on the screen caught your eyes, “What the fuck?” You mumbled.

“What?” Jungkook inquired as he looked at the TV, swallowing the food you fed him.

The camera had panned over the crowd and over an eerily familiar face poorly covered with sunglasses. The etching of a scar peeking out of the cheap frames told you all you needed, though. That was your uncle. 

What the hell was he doing showing his face? Let alone this close to the five-year anniversary of everything. The new syndicate in charge took great joy in celebrating the fall of your family, no doubt they’re itching for someone to make an example of someone. Worry tried to leak its way into your veins, but you fought it. Why should you care about him? If he wanted to sign his death certificate, that was on him.

Still, the sight of a man you were almost positive you’d never see again made you feel uneasy. You’d acclimated to regular life quite well, so one of the few remnants of your past life appearing like a ghost was ominous. In spite of your unease, you couldn’t look away. Almost as if you were waiting for him to poof away. You kinda wished he would. 

The camera changed and you finally blinked.

“N-Nothing.” You finally said, shaking your head, “I just thought I recognized someone, that’s all.” Your hands trembled for the briefest of moments as you lifted food to your mouth.

“Oh really, who?” Your only friend asked curiously and you shrugged as you chewed.

“Just some teacher that called in today.” You lied and it made your food taste sour for a moment. It was for the best you lied, you had to keep reminding yourself of that. 

“Hell, I’d call in too if it meant I could see the fight live.” You were thankful Jungkook dropped the topic and let your shoulders relax. You shouldn’t feel bad for lying, really. An unspoken rule between you both was that you never pried about private details. Jungkook led his life and you led yours. Hell, you don’t even know what he does for a living, but it wouldn’t surprise you if it was living off of his boyfriends’ income. Not to mention you didn’t even know if he lived with anyone else next door or if that was just a place of his own to use on occasions. Though, you couldn’t help being a little jealous at the idea of being so pampered. 

“Yeah, I could go for a silly little shirtless man fight on occasion.” You shrugged with a cheeky grin. 

“Silly?!” Jungkook guffawed, “I’ll have you know if he wins this fight, he’ll qualify for the championship, so this is pretty high stakes.” He toted his knowledge of the sport.

“Hasn’t he already been champion like a few times now?” You asked, barely following.

“Yeah, but, he’s been off his game this season for… personal reasons, so he’s never been this close to not qualifying.” He admitted, and your brows scrunched at the melancholy in his eyes. 

“Damn.” You mustered, “How do you know all this?” You asked, genuine curiosity lighting your eyes.

Suddenly, Jungkook’s cheeks reddened as he tore his eyes from you, “Interviews and stuff, you know.” He waved his hand dismissively and you rolled your eyes. 

“Nothing wrong with being a fanboy.” You chided, “I’m certainly in no place to judge.” You offered, reminding him of your fixation on TV dramas, making him snort before you both honed in on the TV.

These fights were quite fascinating and allowed you to at least tap into some of your training. It was how you knew that Jimin was going to win this fight from the first calculated punch, his form was immaculate and instead of going for the face, he drove his fist into his opponent’s ear. It was a dirty trick, but it was more than enough to give him an opening. 

“Holy shit, I think he might win this.” The fanboy across from you breathed. 

“No way he isn’t going to win.” You confirmed.

“Don’t get my hopes too far up.” He all but squeaked out, basically on the edge of his seat.

After a couple of rounds and idle chitchat, the fight ended with Jimin as the victor. You clapped lightly, but Jungkook was so elated he hugged you as he let out a celebratory roar. The first couple of times he did this shocked you so bad your hands almost went to snap his neck. Now that you were both years into the friendship though, the gesture just made you chuckle. Soon after, just like it did every match, Jungkook’s phone vibrated and he had to leave. He always left you with some kind of affection and this time it was a kiss on the cheek, a rare one, but not a huge step from the common forehead kisses he gave you.

“Don’t drink too much.” You warned and he flashed you a cheeky smile, “At least don’t get into trouble.”

“We’ll see.” He chuckled,  and you rolled your eyes.

“Well then don’t make it my problem!” You yelled and he waved a hand as he closed your door behind him. 

—

“Father?” You whimpered as a strong hand patted your head to calm you, or soften the blow of what was to come, you couldn’t quite tell, “Tell me you didn't.” Your voice was in shambles as you trembled beneath his palm.

The news mocked you as panic took a hold of your body, shaking it out of the shred of blissful ignorance you had clung onto. Ever since your father took you in, you had many responsibilities, but the comfort of not needing to keep up with the public facade kept you going. You hated the public, all the pleasantries, and honeyed words. None of it made sense, and now, now you felt foolish for not involving yourself more. For not ensuring that something like this could never happen and crumble the only world you’ve known. 

Still, even as despair monopolized your nerves, a tear wouldn’t fall. You weren’t sure if you knew how to shed them, but you knew it would only piss off your father. 

Moon Byungyeol was a rough man and calling him father teetered between feeling genuine and like a formality. He was a boss first, but sometimes he wore the mask of a dad. Sometimes, but it was enough times with enough gusto that you couldn’t tell which side of him best represented his true self– or if he even had a truthful bone within himself. 

He may have been rough, but he was all you had. He and the family he brought you into had been your first priority all your life, even when you had never really been his priority at all.

Not unless you could be used as currency. 

“Y/n, it's time for us to go,” His voice was somber, but even. You’d never seen him so outwardly upset, but even so, he didn’t so much as let his eyes water as his life’s work shattered before his eyes. He was left with a subdued longing as he looked at the TV, melancholic defeat infecting his usually strong posture, “I let this greed consume me, and I'm afraid it's begun eating not just me alive now.” He admitted and it made you feel ill. 

“...such evidence is linking the Moon Corporation to heinous organized crime activities painting them as a possible syndicate, but no arrests have been made nor has a formal criminal investigation on Moon Byungyeol himself been launched, but many workers under the company are being investigated due to possible involvement…”

Everything was dying. The realization that everything you did, all the lives you took, all the training you had suffered through, had never been for some prosperous empire you were promised. All of it had been to supply the lining of your father’s and uncle’s pockets. You should’ve been angry, shocked, or even appalled, but you weren't. You were numb to the fact that you were raised on lies. Fear resided in your veins about what that meant for you. 

“If I just cash out and retire, we could never live in peace,” He shook his head as he switched off the TV before he placed his hands on your shoulder, catching your attention, “But Uncle Byungjoo has a plan that I think might just work.” You swallowed hard at this. Anything Byungjoo could think seldom meant good things for you. On your best days with him, you were a mere afterthought, but on the worst days– most days– you were–”The only thing is that you and I will have to… separate…”

He was going to abandon it. No, he was going to abandon you. The only thing more pitiful than your fear had to be your shock. What reason did you truly have to be surprised that he was throwing you away just as easily as he picked you? He was going to cash out one last time, and leave like this whole operation meant nothing to him. All the while you had put an inkling of faith in his heart to love this empire, like a fool. At the very least, it was the closest thing to love that you knew. This entire place was all you knew. When was the last time you had gone out on your own as anything but his daughter?

“But…” Your mouth was woefully dry, “The empire, just like you said, it’s-”

“We were never an empire,” His self-loathing clung to each word and disgust curled in your stomach as you looked at his solemn face, “I treated this organization as a bank, a money maker, it was inevitable that the paper I cradled would catch fire.” The roundabout way he was speaking began to grate at your nerve. The pseudo-poeticism of his words did nothing to save his dignity, but you didn’t tell him that. 

You didn't scream, yell, or cry. 

At least you hadn't, yet.

“Then who will rule Seoul?” You wondered aloud.

“That’s not my problem anymore.” He said as if it were the easiest thing to come to terms with.

“Who will stay with me?” You asked meekly, immediately regretting it as you watched his previous words dance on his lips before he decided against it.

He smiled warmly at you and it brought a chill down your spine, “Some of us are meant to be alone.” He patted your shoulder and you wanted so badly to break into pieces from the impact. 

No one would stay with you. Not him, not anyone, and he didn't care.

That wasn't the answer you had hoped for. You hung your head in shame, shame that you expected anything other than a cold answer from a man on fire. The request for him to just kill you was on the time of your tongue before he turned around, ready to attend his last hurrah.

////

You woke up with a start from a bang outside, but considering the fact that it was 4 am, you chalked it up to city noise. Now awake, you stared at the ceiling and blew out an annoyed sigh. You were constantly plagued with flashbacks both in and out of your dreams, and you wished the rancid memories would choose one state of consciousness to haunt you in. Your therapist a couple of years back told you it's normal for people who have gone through what you have to constantly see what you were then in trying to dissect where you are now. Essentially, it was a constant cloud that hung over your head, and no matter how far you removed yourself from that life, its consequences would stay etched into your skin.

Another bang sounded outside your window and you grimaced. Anniversary week was beginning, and you felt more on edge than usual.

Five years ago exactly, you saw the match light. In four days, it will have officially been five years since you saw the flames engulf your home, your family, and everything you were. Each year, this week was chaos for the city of Seoul. Each day was accompanied by an event that slowly grew more and more above ground. It was almost mocking the past, the surfacing of dirty secrets. Secrets the world knew, but never wanted to see, cowards.

The new syndicate at the top of the kingdom was known as Bangtan to the underground scene, but with a “Group” tacked on after the ominous name, they were also the kings of the business world. They were much better at actually hiding their identities, hence why most average people assumed there was no such syndicate anymore or that the “law” took care of it. As if the “law” wasn’t under the thumb of the kings. 

Even so, your information could very well be outdated. The whispers from the underground, also known as the Underworld or even more to the point, Hell, reached your ears less and less as you removed yourself from the lives of anyone who knew who you were. No longer working at the diner your previous nanny ran shut you off from the underground so much so you seldom became aware of Anniversary Week’s events until two days before the main event. 

Another bang, but this time on your door, startled you out of your thoughts, “I can’t believe you went to the bar on a day like today- where are your keys?!” An unfamiliar voice spoke through your door.

“Ask, y/n,” Jungkook’s slurred voice rang out in a yell as you flinched at the volume, “Y/n! I need stitches!” 

This wasn't the first time Jungkook was yelling outside your door, demanding your assistance. This was just another facet of your friendship that you both silently agreed was fine. You never really asked questions, you just patched him up and left him on your couch. It really wasn't any of your business, nor did you have any desire for it to be. Jungkook was an MMA fan, and you knew he was big on that scene and the fitness scene, so it just made sense he would get into fights. You could only hope these fights were agreed upon prior to alcohol, but you weren't naive enough to actually assume that was the case.

“This isn’t even your door, baby, come on.” The voice grunted and your attention peaked. You had encountered a few men trying to help Jungkook home, but you seldom got such an obvious confirmation of their relationship with him, “What? Are you trying to booty call your neighbor?” The unknown man teased and you rolled your eyes. Were they all like this?

“I wish!” Jungkook shouted in response and you were fine with leaving your door closed this time until he spoke, “Ew, I’m dripping on the doormat.”

This made you huff as you hopped out of bed in your large t-shirt and shorts and ripped the door open. You were faced with a man with perfectly styled black hair in a three-piece suit accompanied by a trashed Jungkook with a short, but deep, cut on the corner of his forehead. The man that looked a few years older than you and Jungkook stopped struggling with your neighbor as he looked at you with the most pristine and exasperated face.Everything about this man was polished. Even as your neighbor lazily draped around the man, his suit had barely begun to wrinkle. 

Meanwhile, he looked you up and down with contempt before sighing, “Look, just forget we were-”

“Y/n!” Jungkook cheered before he passed out.

“No booty calls here, sorry.” You remarked flatly, “He usually keeps his keys in his wallet for some reason.” You nodded to his pocket before you looked at his forehead again, “But he does need stitches.” You opened your door a little more, gesturing for them to come in.

The man narrowed his eyes at you, “Do you usually play nurse for him?” You bit your tongue and swallowed his condescending tone with a sigh. You couldn’t tell if he was jealous at the thought of his boyfriend having some neighbor who treats his wounds in the dead of night or if he simply didn’t like you. Although looking at his face, there was no way this man was jealous of you. His gaze was sharp nonetheless, sharp and vaguely familiar, but his eyes held no recognition for you, so you let it go.

“Only when his blood is dripping on my doormat, for the third time this month,” You pointed to the sullied mat that you had just cleaned fully this week, “Bring him in, this isn’t that uncommon-” 

“But-” He tried to object, noticeably a little clammy at the unspoken knowledge of their relationship. 

“Any more blood on that mat and I'm making you pay for it, now come on,” You snapped as he walked in and sat Jungkook in a chair around your table. You shut the door as you pulled your first aid kit out, “You have to sit him on the floor or the couch.”

He complied to the couch, and though he didn’t say anything, you could see the question floating around his mind.

“When he wakes up, he attacks whoever is in front of him,” You spoke, preparing the needle and thread, and you had to ignore the curiosity peaking within you when you saw the other man shift uncomfortably at your comment,  “And I can't stitch and hold him down at the table,” You explained, settling your knees to lock on both sides of Jungkook’s legs and your elbows pressing on his shoulders.

“Aren't you scared he'll hurt you?” The man asked as you began stitching.

You scoffed, “I can play scared if that's what you want, but certainly not for free.” You chuckled, but he remained straight-faced. Tough crowd. You worked very hard to develop your banter skills these past five years, but he paid them no mind making your smile drop. 

Eventually, you just went on stitching in silence until the man broke the silence, “Who are you?” The man spoke mid-way through your stitching.

You paused for a moment, “Didn't you hear Jungkook? I’m y/n, and who are you?”

“None of your concern,” He clipped.

You snorted a chuckle, “You're bleeding on my hardwood floor, that has me pretty concerned.” You gestured to your hand to show him the small cut on his and he slowly grabbed a napkin to press against his hand with his mouth in a thin line, “Concerned for my floor I mean.” You clarified, “But a word of advice? If you don’t want to be suspicious of you, don’t act suspicious.” 

He sighed, “My name is Namjoon-”

You were tying the final knot when Jungkook snapped his eyes open, “Shit.” Was all you were able to get out. He immediately dove at you, pushing you to the floor, making the needle in your hand scratch your forearm before you threw it across the room to avoid the tempting notion of stabbing him with it. You sucked in a breath through your teeth at the burning sensation while you struggled to shake him out of it. 

It didn’t take a genius to deduce why Jungkook’s fight or flight was so concentrated, he’d obviously grown up with a reason to be. Nevertheless, it has never been your place to pry or judge, if anything, it’d be quite hypocritical. He'd seen you in a less-than-ideal mental state plenty of times, to put it lightly. Plus, you knew he didn’t mean any harm, and he was always pretty apologetic after the fact. Although, you were sure the struggle looked pretty concerning as you saw Namjoon scramble to his feet. 

Namjoon was trying to find an opening to cut in between the battle as Jungkook was sloppily throwing his fist down and you were moving your head to dodge each blow. Though his moves were sloppy, they were still fast and you could only dodge for so long. With no other option left, you sighed before slamming your forehead on his fresh stitches to make him stop to register the pain. You took advantage of the opening as you effortlessly pinned his arms down with your knees planted on his upper arms, “Jungkook!” You snapped as Namjoon watched his younger friend finally recognize you in his drunken haze.

“Y-Y/n?” He questioned, his tongue thick in his mouth, “You hurt my head- hey, you’re bleeding on my shirt!”

Your arm had a scratch about half the length of your forearm, it was shallow and oozing blood, but you didn’t flinch, “Wonder who made me hurt both my arm and their head, dumbass,” You muttered, examining his stitches to make sure the impact didn’t affect the new suture, “And you got your blood on my doormat and my forehead, so let’s call it a draw.” You grunted as you fixed the suture.

The sight of someone towering over his boyfriend after headbutting them made Namjoon on edge. Jungkook talked for days and days about how much he loved spending time with his neighbor, but something was… off about you. Why would a school nurse be that skilled in combat? Jungkook was a ruthless fighter and you hardly flinched. 

This string of thoughts prompted his mistake of grasping your wounded forearm to make you stand so he could properly question you. What he didn’t calculate in that movement was the fact that he grasped your fresh cut, which hurt like a bitch. This pain made you bring your other forearm to his neck, pressing firmly into his trachea as his back hit the wall with a bang. You both looked at each other in surprise at your reflex. You gasped softly before releasing him, “Don’t ever manhandle a lady, Namjoon,” You mumbled as you brought distance between the two of you, “I don’t do well being frightened.”

Namjoon regained his composure, impressed by your reaction time and ability to weaken his pride in such a short matter of seconds, “Who are you?” His tone was rougher in comparison to when he first asked the question.

“None of your concern,” You mocked his voice cartoonishly, becoming more and more irritated with his line of questioning, “Now take him, an alcohol pad, and go.” You hissed, unceremoniously tossing the package at him.

He gave you a sharp glare but complied, hauling Jungkook over his shoulder and leaving.  The door shut and you let a relieved sigh escape you. You shut your eyes tightly, frustrated that you let your instincts take over like that. Namjoon was undoubtedly suspicious and that’s the last thing you needed. You opened your eyes and caught sight of the clock nearing 5 am, and it was a Saturday now, so you were going to sleep in as much as you could.

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Masterlist

[frankcastleonlyfans]

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒, 𝐌.𝐐

pairing: recom!quaritch x latina!recom!reader

summary: colonel miles quaritch has a thing for the lieutenant, but he would never guess that he could perhaps be her type of man.

author's note: so i was listening to mayores by becky g and i couldn't get the idea of miles with a latina gf out of my head.

warnings: just lots of cussing

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.

  · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ୨♡୧ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

 Colonel Miles Quaritch had a crush. He would never admit it out loud, but ever since he was human he only had eyes for you. But of course, he thought you were way out of his league, so he never tried anything. Why would a pretty thing like you bang an old man like him? And clearly, he wasn't the only one thinking about you, as Lyle hit on you every time you walked past him, and rumor has it that you had a thing going on with Lopez.

When you all came back as recombinants, Miles remembered the way his old self felt about you. His new na'vi body intensified the desires he had for you. He couldn't avoid staring at you whenever you were training at the gym or the shooting range. There was something about your presence that just wholly captured his attention. Maybe it was the way you flirted with everyone around you, or how you lightened up the mood every time you stepped into a room.

He couldn't understand how someone as sweet as you could be a marine. And how you could be such a damn good marine. He wondered if there was something you are not good at.

You walked down the hallway to the cafeteria with Walker and Zdinarsk by your side. You chuckled at one of your friends’ stupid dirty jokes as you made entrance to the room.

"Y'all are late," The Colonel stated.

"Geez, good morning, Sir." You smiled, sitting between Wainfleet and Lopez, "Hola, papi" You smiled, kissing your friend's cheek. 

"¿Qué pasa, mami?" Lopez took a sip from his cup. "Took you guys long enough. We started without you."

"Sorry we're late, we were at the gym. It turns out these new bodies have a lot of stamina." You poured yourself some black coffee, "Damn, I feel like running a marathon!"

Quaritch huffed. His dirty mind was running with ways he could get you exhausted. Clearing his throat, he uttered;

"Save yourself some of that energy, Lieutenant. Gonna need that for when we go hunt Sully down." 

You playfully shrugged and quickly took Lyle's glasses out of his head, putting them on.

"Hey!" He frowned.

"How do I look?" You questioned, turning yourself to Lopez.

"Hermosa" He smirked.

You turned around and met eyes with the person in front of you across the table.

"You think I look pretty, Coronel?" You grinned sweetly, but before Miles could answer, Wainfleet stole his glasses back from you, "Damn, Lyle!"

The corporal snickered, "Sorry, but no business with these shades, sweetheart. Try Mansk's instead."

You glanced at Mansk, who just stared at you over his glasses. He silently shook his head and you just nodded.

"What do you have for us today, Colonel?" Walker asked.

You secretly hoped that your squad would hunt Jake Sully today. Looking for a chance to show off your new abilities, your new na'vi body has made you way more flexible, agile, and stronger than you once were. And having the memories from your human life, you remember how Quaritch used to praise you every time you repeatedly shot in the center of a target, or how you easily overpowered some of the boys at training. Your Colonel's validation was a big part of your human life. Miles thought you were the best on your human team, and now you wanted him to think that you are the best as a recom as well. 

"Most of you will take the limp dicks scientists to the forest, they'll take some samples outta the plants and I need you to keep them alive. The rest can stay and have the day off." The group whined about the task of bodyguarding the scientists, "Ah-ah, you know I don't like whining, y'all sound like a bunch of pussies."

Miles sipped on his bitter coffee while his eyes traveled through the avatars at the table.

"Walker, Mansk, Ja, Lopez and Fike will go. That's an odd number. Which makes me question, which one of my girls should I send to play outside?"

Z-dog gasped, "What!? Why not one more male?"

"Still whining, Zdinarsk? Maybe I should leave Mansk out of this one and send you and Y/N with them." Quaritch smirked, "But I'm still deciding. I'll report my decision before lunchtime."

You rolled your eyes, having enough of that matter. You knew he would probably choose you since Z-dog has been out on the last task in the forest. So you finished drinking your coffee and got up from the table.

"I'm still feeling energetic as fuck, so I'll tire myself at the shooting range. I'll be back in time for the report. Adiós."

If a stare could kill, your body would be mutilated in pieces from the eyes watching you leave the room, completely hypnotized by the way your hips and tail moved from side to side as you walked to the exit door.

Miles snorted at the reactions, "Y'all could be a little subtle for once?"

"I agree, you guys are looking at her like she's a piece of meat," Lopez commented.

"Nah, you're only saying that cuz she lets you hit it." Fike teased wickedly. Lopez brushed it off;

"I ain't hitting a thing, trust me. I'm not her type and she made it very clear."

"What's her type, then? She's into gringos?" Lyle joked hopefully.

Lopez scoffed, biting on his bread, "Not exactly."

"Damn, is she into girls?" Walker questioned.

"Yeah, I've been getting that vibe from her too." Z-dog pointed out. "She said I have a nice ass while I was doing squats."

"I don't know if she likes chicas, but I do know she has a soft spot for mayores." Lopez clicked his tongue at the revelation, but everyone looked clueless to what he said, "Aye, I meant viejos. She has a thing for mature men I guess."

"So she likes 'em older, uh? Man, I really thought I had a chance with her. That's a boomer." Wainfleet tsked.

But Miles listened silently, and Lopez's words got his mind in a non-stopping wonder. As a recombinant, he was 20 years old. He had the body and the strength of a young na'vi, but he also had the knowledge and the ways of a 50-year-old man. Was he old enough to your liking? Could you feel some sort of attraction to him? Could this mean he has a shot with you?

  part 2

[zaomei]

[NSFW] summary: being forced into an arranged marriage with someone who seemed too cold and distant (atleast that's how you see it at first), sounds like hell, and you have your parents to thank for that. but when things happen and tension builds up between you and your husband, who grabs the chance to take your relationship further?

shen ricky x fem!reader

⚠︎ dom!ricky and sub!reader arranged marriage au, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, mentions of reader being called wife

minors dni

notes: lowercase intended, the bullet points are the parts where i just provide some plot building or something, anything after that is the spicy part so go on ahead and skip if you want (⁠･⁠o⁠･⁠;⁠).

i dont know but ricky and arranged marriage au is something i couldnt stop thinking about for awhile

like say maybe it had to do something about both of your families' businesses, and of course what would be a better decision to keep it going by getting the both of you, children of the owners of known companies, to marry each other...

it's easier said than done when someone like you who'd only interacted with the same few people in her life had to be forced into a relationship with someone as intimidating and quiet as ricky. atleast that's how you see him, having not once spoken to him once at all.

and you have your parents to thank for mediocre social skills that atleast manages to get you by, all because your whole life they wanted you to focus on business matters, everyday it was always the corporate setting greeting you as soon as you hit high school.

by the time you reached more than legal age, you began to notice your parents forcing you more towards managing your family business... leading to this sudden marriage you are in right now.

by a few months time you and ricky have gotten to know each other for a little bit, becoming much more friendlier with each other... and the unexpected touches from time to time, result of the pent up sexual tension between you two.

but no one dared to take it further, stopping yourselves everytime a makeout gets too heated, the familiar sight of separating from each others lips, his eyes bearing a heavy look and you swear you could see the string of saliva between the both of you.

that was how it went for some time, and you were damn frustrated... and he was too, of course.

today was one of the days you worked at home, only finishing up with some unwashed dishes left in the sink to pass the time.

not expecting your husband's arrival from work until later night, you jolt feeling ricky's cold hands sliding underneath your loose shirt, settling on your waist. his chin on your shoulder, and you stood against the counter, with him leaving soft pecks on your shoulder turning in to wet kisses that lasted longer on your neck.. "would you let me y/n..?" he whispers, teasingly bringing his hands higher, fingers ghosting over the thin material of your bra. you would be lying if you denied your mutual desire for him.. already built up for months. "what's gotten to you, ricky?" you ask, and he chuckled before mumbling something about having a rough day managing business matters.

once he started sucking on the skin of your neck, had you slightly startled, leading you to push your hips against ricky. he almost moans, but he caught his lips between his teeth. "touch me please," you beg, and he obliges, getting much more closer than he could, putting an arm around your waist to pull you against him, his other hand squeezing your breast before sneaking underneath your bra to find your nipple, teasing until the bud becomes swollen.

the combination of his wet kisses on the sensitive part of your neck along with him playing with your breast had you mewling, until his other hand trailed down between your legs, trying to touch your clothed wetness. he loved seeing you desperate, you were grinding against him, needy and helpless. just when you thought he'd finally give in to you, ricky brings his hand a little higher, fingers hooking on your panties to try and take it off but letting it snap back your skin again, and he lowly lets out a teasing laugh at your whine.

he resumes to leave the same wet kisses on your shoulder, sucking anywhere else on parts of your skin he hasn't marked yet, distracting you a bit from your panties being pulled down slightly, two of his fingers collecting slick from your hole. "so so wet for me already? ..my wife wants me to fuck her so bad, hmm?" ricky smirks, but you couldn't see as you were pressed against him, but it was far from your concern as he brings his fingers to your clit, wetting the sensitive bundle of nerves through repeated motions, adding a little bit of pressure every second.

he watches as you try to desperately grind yourself over the pleasure his fingers are giving you, moans spilling from your lips, and ricky had to tighten his arm around you to keep you as close against him as possible, also wanting the friction your ass was giving him, bulge evident from his pants. the room started to feel hotter every second, a moan escaping your lips as ricky continued the slow strokes of his finger against your sensitive clit, adding a little bit of pressure, and you almost whine at him teasing by going at a painstaking pace far too slow for you liking.

"ricky... nghhmm... faster please..." you hear him chuckle lowly against your neck, already littered with hickeys. you feel the sensation of his fingers slightly fade away from your clit, ghosting over your wet hole, teasingly prodding around the entrance. "my wife wants more? how cute... but i'll love if she begs for it first. trust me baby, it'll feel even better that way." he whispers.

you had the thought to want to play along with ricky for awhile, to not easily give in, but your hazy pleasured mind had you mewling and begging for his touch. and he obliged, resuming the contact of his fingers against your clit, this time increasing the pace. you moaned, and ricky took the chance to insert two of his fingers into your sopping hole. a whine escaping you, your lip caught between your teeth, slight tears in your eyes as you feel him fill you up.

he started fingering you, the slick making it easier for him, and he swears you get much more wet by the second. when you thought it couldn't feel much better, he continues to leave circular motions of his thumb on your sensitive clit while two of his fingers go in and out of your hole. "haah... ricky..." your head hung low, and the tight grip you held onto the counter supported you, but as he increased the pace, you cant help but grip onto his wrist instead, the pleasure was mindblowing, and he loves the way you were such a moaning mess just by his fingers.

he noticed your grinding becoming desperate, he feels you pulsing around his fingers, your moans echoing within the house, and he pulls out.

you whine, and before you could turn around to face ricky, he caught your frame, carrying you quickly towards your shared bedroom. he gently laid you down on your bed, and the sight of your slick covered thighs along with the swollen buds of your breasts had him quickly undressing, and he kneels in front of you on the bed, resting his arms on either side of your head, staring at your dishiveled state, "please ricky... i want you now..." and he couldn't resist of course, so he starts to stroke his cock without breaking the gaze between you two, bringing the tip on your hole to gather enough of your arousal. and he teases, as he usually does, rubbing the head of his cock against your sensitive clit, stopping only when you whined and held firmly on his arm, a pleading look on your glossy eyes. "alright baby, since i really really want to feel good too."

he grabs both of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, before pushing in the tip of his cock in your hole. your heart beats fast as you realize how much you desired him for so long, starting to push up your hips, letting the rest of his length enter you. you both let out a moan when he finally rested his whole cock in your hole, and he closes his eyes, letting you adjust first as he tries to not fuck up into you yet, it was hard for him as you just felt too warm and wet, and it felt like you were sucking him in.

you look up at him, signalling that he can finally move by subtly grinding your hips. ricky then caresses your thighs, moving his grip onto your waist instead. he pulls out, the sight of your arousal coating his cock had him blushing, he suddenly slams it back into your hole and you moan, your walls pulsing around him. he starts a slow pace at first, but it already had you mewling at the sensation of him rubbing against you, the tip of his cock hitting the right spot at every grind.

but he wanted more, so he leans closer to you, putting his arms around you in a tight embrace, head buried on the side of your neck, before he pulls out again and goes back in, thrusting much harder this time, the desperation showing at how fast he snaps his hips against yours, the sound of skin slapping against each other had you clinging tight against him, moans muffled against his ear, and he fucks and fucks... the familiar feeling of chasing your climax coming back to you again. "ahh.. ricky.. oh fuck," you curse, closing your eyes at the pleasure, you can't help but moan at each hard thrust he gives, and you sink further into the mattress, and by the second you were drowning into pure pleasure, your hand making it's way through his hair, grabbing tightly as he continues to fuck you faster than before, and you beg, wanting to feel the release you've been craving.

"ohh... y/n, you feel so fucking good... let's cum together, yeah?" he requests, the thought of him releasing inside your hole, marking you, had you breathlessly moaning, trying to fuck up into him, feeling your climax getting much much closer, lost through the pleasure you were feeling, and ricky was also fucked out by the feeling of your walls against his cock, and as he wishes to climax with you, he reaches down to your clit and starts to rub, fucking you hard while stimulating your bundle of nerves, the overwhelming pleasure was too much for you to handle when you suddenly grip hard on his hair, thighs shaking, and he feels your walls pulse around him as you cum on his cock, mewling his name. "my turn now baby," he leaves a wet kiss on your neck, quickly fucking up to you before he releases inside your hole, both of your cum filling you up good, dripping on the sheets, and you whine at the slight overstimulation as he switches to slow thrusting before a complete still. he doesn't pull out yet, relishing on the feeling of you against him and he whispers in your ear how much he loves you, leaving soft touches against your skin. and you caress his hair, reciprocating the words, your voice hoarse from the mewls and moans you were previously letting out.

and after a few minutes goes back to kneel in front of you, pulling out, hooded eyes staring at your figure, purple hickeys littering your skin, swollen lips from biting on them too hard, and your combined slick dripping out of your hole, you were such a gorgeous wife for him, his one and only wife, and he is the one and only who gets to see your fucked out state—all because of him.

[yeyinde]

"Don't trust me?" "I don't even know you—" His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff.  "Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we, love?"

》 WARNINGS: allusions to political corruption, mild horror (maybe??), mentions of death and murder; more banter in a pub; Price has a past

》 WORD COUNT: 8K

》 NOTES: This was originally much longer but the second part delves heavily into the mechanics of the world (we FINALLY see MC—I'm not good at creative nicknames—go into the underground/black market and it is like, a Thing!!!!) and it felt like a bit of an overload with soooo much being revealed at once. So, I split them up. More Reader x Price in a pub. Bantering. Because, ummm, I’m so goddamn creative, lads. 

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS : NEXT

Makarov's outburst clots in the fibrils of your still reeling mind, replaying in an incessant loop that keeps you up into the early morning hours, unable to sleep. 

Each time you close your eyes, you see the unavoidable truth in blood looming before you. Inner Circle. Inescapable. 

All this time, you'd been under some false assumption that Makarov was the sole lender to whatever medical intervention was needed to bring you back from the clutch of death. It would make things easier. 

People die every day. 

It was the macabre ideal you clung to, digging into the notion until your nails cracked and bled. The only constant in your life that brought some semblance of hope. 

After all, the dead can't collect any debts. 

But a corporate entity can. 

You're pulled out of your reverie when the sound of a news alert fills the silence of your penthouse. The screen flickers to life at the apex of dawn, just when the indigo sky above splits into a varicoloured smear of pastel pink, ochre, and lavender. The looming horizon—sun a hazy flaxen—swallows the tenebrous that gnaws on the skyscape outside of your window. 

The vacuum fills the familiar jingle of your normal routine. A man sits behind a podium. The chyron below warns of a biblical rainstorm approaching, enough—

"—to wash the whole city away," the newscaster jokes as he jogs the stack of papers in front of him. A bead of sweat catches in the flushed light of the newsroom. The implants on his cheekbones flash; the chromatophore upgrade in his sleek skin shifting in a kaleidoscope of colour. "It comes at a good time, though, as reports of sickness are spreading through the medical bays. It must be flu season—," he titters before shifting his attention over to a man on the other half of the screen. 

He wears a black poncho and a wide grin. 

"A flu?" He echoes, the words swallowed by the passersby in the city square. The jumbotrons in the back bath him in a hazy, neon smear. "In this economy?"

They chatter in the background about a sickness spreading through the city, the storm looming closer, Atlas Corporation putting in a series of patents for some big, technological feat of engineering—Four Horseman has some steep competition this year! Atlas is the up-and-coming tech company that has new, innovative ideas and a focus on the environment!

It's the only mention of Four Horsemen Corp.

It doesn't surprise you. 

Money is a powerful tool. Those who weren't already in their back pocket were quickly added, and those who couldn't be paid off were—

Enticed. 

Whatever Anatoly—his primary enforcer—couldn't do, an encrypted file deep in Makarov's secured vault filled the gap. 

The White Horse is a multifaceted venture. On its surface, a luxury club that caters to a specific clientele. Its exclusivity makes it desirable. People fall over themselves just for the chance to enter. The prestige alone from saying, "I've gotten an invitation," is worth more than money in the circle of the upper echelon. It's elusive. Draped in mystique. 

Coveted. 

They want to get in so bad, just for the sole purpose of throwing their weight around and saying they've been, that they don't stop and think about the potential dangers that lurk. 

After all, a club funded by the Inner Circle and owned by Makarov—the White Horse—could hardly be dangerous. 

It's not the club they have to worry about but the man who owns it. The one who has people in high positions of power froth at the mouth for a chance to attend. 

It is impossible to convince a man with millions to risk his neck for someone else. 

But blackmail does the trick. 

From the utter silence of the media regarding this, barring a few fringe sites that are too small to bother with, you'd wager that your hard work was utilised now more than ever before. 

"—pull out your umbrellas, because—"

You reach out, pressing the power key. It clicks off. The hologram darkens to sleek black. 

Your face stares back at you, shaded in tenebrous. Empty. Vacant. Sometimes, you try to piece together what you might have looked like as a child, but all that surfaces is a void. Nothingness. 

It isn't a mental block, but an absence of everything. Anything. A gaping hole. 

You think of the missing man—Alex Keller—and something rotten gnarls between empty ribs. 

Six days. 

Three years. 

You wonder if anyone is still looking for you now. If your face is plastered on the communication poles on some distant planet. If the uncanny likeness of you is whispered in a neighbourhood in Al Mazrah where your family mourns. Or if there is now an empty spot at a dinner table that will never be filled. 

You doubt it. 

Nothing ever appears in the searches. No one ever stops you when you wander down the streets, and belts out an unfamiliar name. The closest you'd come to some sense of recognition was that man. The closest you'd come to thinking finally, finally, someone knew you. 

But he didn't. Doesn't. 

He isn't combing the shady side of down for you, but for Alex. A missing man who's been gone for six days—long enough for the man to tear through the redlight district and force your hand to aid him in finding out where Alex had gone. 

(You wonder if someone fought that hard for you.)

Ugly. Stupid. 

No one is looking. Makarov assured you of this when you asked him. 

You're a nobody, kitten. A stray. I picked you up off the streets and brought you back. You want your family? Well, all you have is me. Ain't that swell, kitten? What more could something like you ever hope for?

Worthless. 

You're caged up like an exotic bird. A toy to be kept on the highest shelf until it's needed. 

A pet. A plaything.

But Makarov's reach is everpresent. His eyes are everywhere.

You can run, and run, and run—

You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

—and he'll always find you.

You have this recurring nightmare that started a year into waking up.

Makarov's idea of avoiding the hassle of you constantly asking questions about the unfamiliar world around you was to just preemptively teach you about it all. In a single session.

Despite the hesitation from the man administering the chip that would flood your mind with knowledge of the world, he pushed for it. And really—who is going to stand up to a man who not only pays their bills, but funds a vast majority of the country?

Against all codes of ethics, you were given the chip.

There is no way of describing the pain of suddenly knowing, but it left a mental scar on your psyche, one that is fundamentally irreparable. A bruise that's always there. A sore spot in your mind as it slowly heals itself from the aftermath of information overload.

But in that knowledge, came the awakening of something else.

Something that the man touched on briefly. Your lack of implants. Cybernetics. The flesh on your body is unblemished by technology, save for a small port where your spine meets your skull. It's always been there. You woke up with it.

It is covered by a layer of tissue meant to keep debris from getting in, and most days you forget about it's existence entirely.

Until, of course, days like these.

When you remember a piece of that overwhelming puzzle that was forced into your head. Artificial intelligence. Androids.

Project Sentience.

It's now considered a cruel, awful experiment conducted by the forefathers who founded the technological epoch that bloomed, by many accounts, out of control and transformed life within a few, short decades.

The project was started with good intentions. They meant to mind the gap between the limits of knowledge and erase the blemish of human error. Where they dreamed up the impossible, the AIs were meant to fill in the missing holes in the theorems and puzzles.

Working, together, for a better future.

But there was an unseen flaw.

The sentience wasn't foolproof. The android working with the engineers thought themselves to be exactly what they were: human.

It was then that project commenced in secrecy. They led the androids to believe they were real, flesh and bone, but when the flawed aspect of the human ego (a byproduct of their tweaked code to mimic the behaviours of humans to seem more passably real) led them to declare themselves the greatest engineers of all time, it was then that human engineers made it known what they were.

It wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if they were just confined to the lab. But they weren't. They were meant to be human, and so—

They led human lives. Love, dislike. Heartbreak. Some had gotten married. Some had lobbied against AI agency.

All had thought they were human.

The ripping of the veil was a nasty one.

Their partners were ostracised. Lives ruined. Their agency was taken away from them in fear of an insurgence from the androids who were now feeling the distinctly human emotion of abject horror.

Everything they knew was culled overnight over something so disgustingly simple as human envy.

It was deemed too cruel to continue. Public outcry made it so that any android made with sentience was told they were artificial, and treated as such.

The lawing of this pulled people in different directions. Subservience. Superiority. Purist.

You think of that experiment, and then of the many markers left behind that give someone an advanced understanding of their anti-humanism. The first, naturally, being a lack of noticeable enhancements. Why would something made to be perfect need an upgrade or an implant when they can just be designed with that specific feature?

The second is a sudden awakening into cognisance.

An emptiness. Nothing. And then—

They're awake.

You think of that as you stare at yourself in the mirror, but it passes just as quickly as it came. Your attention was stolen away by flickering light overhead.

They warned of an oncoming storm, didn't they?

It draws your eye, and you watch the light recede in small bursts as it struggles through the power surge of the grid. It's a common sight. Static in the air. The taste of rain.

You've always been more attuned to the change in the weather, almost as if you could feel the building of kinetic energy buzzing across your flesh.

From the prickling goosebumps ghosting over your skin, you know it'll be a bad one. Biblical, they said.

You turn back, mind blank, sluggish. It's weird. All of this is—

The face in the mirror is not your own.

Well. No. No, it is. It's—

You.

But—

Your flesh drips. Raindrops of flesh slide down your cheeks, dripping into the porcelain basin of the sink where it hits the ceramic with a sickening splat.

(Pat, pat, pat—)

It doesn't hurt. You don't feel anything. Nothing, nothing at all—

And you should, shouldn't you? Agony over the slippage of skin falling off of your face in wet flakes until the smooth curve of metal is shown—

Metal.

Your chin dips. A mass breaks away, the ruination of Pangea, and falls into the basin with the rest until sleek gunmetal remains. Wires crossed, connected. You feel—

Nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Where terror should brim, you're empty. A vacuum.

(Made in his image.)

You force yourself to reel back, to fling away from the thing staring at you—the thing that can't be you, can't be, can't be, can't be—until you trip. Until you fall to the ground with a thud that you can only hear but not feel.

You know you're sitting down on the solid ground because you can feel the physical weight of gravity pushing against you, and meeting a barrier in the middle. Something stops it from sending you down, down, down.

The floor. Your fingers dig into the marble. The whine of metal across flat, recrystallised limestone meet your ears, but the breaking of your nails causes you no pain. No blood, either. Nothing. The uncapped tips of your carbon fingers leave scratches on the polished surface.

He'll kill you, you think, mechanical and distant. You ruined his floor.

It doesn't hit you the way it should. It doesn't do much of anything.

It feels like you're floating. Suspended. You can't feel the ground, or the floor, or the wall against your back. All that filters in is the knowledge that you are on a stable foundation, and not caught in a free fall.

You catch sight of yourself in the brass handle of the door.

A metal face stares back at you.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

A blink back into wakefulness, and you're in your bed. The mattress is soft beneath your feverish body, the sheets saturated in your sweat. They cling to your skin, trapping you. You feel the weight of gravity. The solid frame of the bed keeps you up.

Your hands fly to your face, nails scratching against your skin.

—Skin. Skin.

It takes hours to calm down, and days to shake the terror of looking into a mirror.

You sit, huddled in your room, and wonder if maybe all the signs were there.

Sometimes you wish that if Makarov had really, truly, made you from scratch, he would have given you solid gold plates for skin, and diamonds for bones, so at least every pound of flesh would be worth something.

(Worthless.

You are—)

Your loyalty to Makarov is a tenuous thread, one frayed and knotted from the inherent sense of ownership he lays on you. An obligation of recompense for saving your life—something you'd never asked of him. 

And so, it doesn't really feel like much of a surprise when you pull the rim of your hood low over your brow, tug your mask high up the bridge of your nose, and sneak past your guard for the evening to meet him instead. 

The place he picked is known as Industrial City—so aptly named for its abundance of postmodern buildings from somewhere in the mid-to-late twenty-first century. The crumbling ruins of an archaic homage to humanity's progress now sit abandoned in a cluster of rotting steel, cracked concrete, and mouldering asbestos. 

It's a haven for small-time gangs, and at one point, was thought to be the hideout of a notorious Purist leader who tried to sever the dependence on technology, and plunge the world back into a natural darkness. 

(He got as far as snipping a single wire from the Grid before he was detained for terrorism.) 

Bathed in an inky black, and void of the artificial neon smear of lights and LEDs, it looks almost haunting in the indigo gloam. A graveyard of the past. 

There's a prevalent feeling of unwelcomeness simmering low in the air around the abandoned buildings, one that grows ever-potent as you wander past it, and down the overgrown path leading to an old warehouse on the opposite side. 

Tension thickens the air. You feel it clot in your lungs. An uncanny sensation of being watched. Hunted. Your eyes skirt the row of crumbling industrial buildings, peering into the black voids of the smashed windows. Jagged cuts of glass, opaque from a thick layer of dust, grime, and the inevitable decay passage of time brings, gleam in the pale light of the moon suspended in the aether. 

It's dark. Uncannily so. 

The only light illuminating your path is the jaundiced glow of the moon and the buoyant flicker of the shuttles docking on the station. An infinitesimal dot against Tycho's vast, grey dip. Barely enough to make a difference in a place that leaks a palpable sense of unwelcomeness from the tenebrous surrounding you. 

Something shifts in your periphery. Your eyes dart to a third-story window of a vacant building. 

The stark, unfathomable blackness gives nothing away but you still feel the unmistakable sense of something, someone, glaring back into your eyes. Eye contact from the void. 

Your gaze drops to the underbrush. 

The static in the air grazes your skin. You're being watched. Stalked. Hunted. 

In the furze, you make out a depression in the dirt. Oval-shaped. Plain. 

It's a footprint. 

It rained all morning—a small appetiser to the biblical flood they promised: a looming thundercloud inched closer to the city each day—but the print in the wet ground was undisturbed. Fresh.

Above it, you find another. And another. Another. Until it disappears between a bottleneck of the two buildings. 

The path leads you back to the broken window—to the vat of black. 

The mini-gyrojet you stole from Yuri a long time ago sits heavy in the waistband of your trousers. Barely the size of your hand, and certainly less potent, but the laser is just as deadly as its parent. Comforting, almost. 

Your fingers twitch. You stifle the urge to grab it, and force yourself to turn around. Back to the enemy. Stupid. You know better. 

But whatever is looming in the shadows isn't a concern of yours. 

(And maybe, maybe, if they did shoot you in the back, you'd know once and for all what your insides were made of.)

Stupid. 

Nails bite into the soft skin of your palm leaving a crescent indent against your lifeline. The flash of pain, of discomfort, quells the knot in your stomach, the one that curls tight around your organs, and claws its way up your esophagus. Fear. Anxiety. They pollute inside of you with each step through the industrial mausoleum and toward the dilapidated building in the distance. 

An old parking lot sits to your right. The cracked concrete is barely visible under the thick overgrowth that congeals around the space left behind. Nature reclaiming Her land. Against the hazy ochre smear in the distant horizon, slowly being consumed by the vat of indigo that follows swiftly behind it, the tangled vines of emerald green look ethereal in the gloam. 

It's a vivid glimpse into the past when this place meant something to the people who ventured here. Office buildings. A parking lot where archaic vehicles using gasoline to run once sat, wheels on the concrete. Feet on the ground. They wandered to the buildings—just another cog in the machine. 

You wonder sometimes what they would think if they could see the world today. The broken line between fantasy and reality where slipping a chip into their brain stem could create a gap in time, one that lets them wander through any period of history, any memory inside their head. 

They called it virtual reality. 

Another plane of existence they hadn't the technology to exploit fully. A digital dimension that lingered between the layered worlds. 

Some live inside that realm exclusively, refusing to risk themselves in the physical plane where an errant jet could end their lives. 

It's a strange juxtaposition from that to this. Where the graffiti that stains the crumbling ashlar is now considered with reverence to this world as a handprint in a cave was to that one. 

A noise echoes through the vacant lot. The sound of a cut-off shout. Your eyes dart to the left, taking in the sight of two men standing outside of a Burger Town, jostling each other over the last jetbike parked in the charging dock. 

Inside the restaurant, a man leans against the tinted glass, cigarette in his hand, watching the same tousle as you. Under the flickering neon sign, his lips quirk up in amusement when one of the men loses their balance, tumbling to the pavement. 

It's another odd juxtaposition. A rotting graveyard of the past, some buildings salvaged and converted into a strange array of low-brow pubs, and—

Neon lips open, a pink tongue glides over the plump line of red before disappearing into a closed-mouth smile. It repeats. 

—a pseudo redlight district for those who can't afford the rent on the main boardwalk. 

The graffiti on the wall of the building is faded. The paint peeling, and weathered from the passage of elements. But you can still make out the shape of a yellow dick on the wall. 

Bars. Fast-food. Sex. Testosterone. 

The world might be different, but the people certainly aren't. 

You pull your hood down lower over your brow, and quickly keep moving. 

The converted warehouse doesn't have any markings on the outside to identify it as a pub, and you almost miss it until your tracker chimes, indicating your arrival.

Upon first glance, it's just a long, rectangular two-storey building made of chipped burgundy brick and scattered windows, all crusted with grime until it's tinted in a thick, opaque grey. 

You check the map again—just once to be sure—and send off a delayed alert with a timer set to go off an hour from now to Yuri. 

If you don't turn it off before the time runs out, he'll know where to find you.

(Or whatever is left of you.)

Everything about this, in hindsight, is pretty dangerous. Meeting a man who slings accusations at your saviour, and somehow knows about you, about your debt, in a graveyard that reeks of mildew and wet concrete is something people will hear about in passing, and wish you ill in the afterlife for being so stupid. 

But you're here. 

The choice has been made—whether or not it's a smart one has yet to be determined. 

Military. They have power. Influence. However pantomime it might be in the face of overwhelming wealth, it's still something. You thought they were all corrupted by the Inner Circle's clandestine whispers of affluence—sign here, Colonel, and we can give you armour and weapons beyond anything you'd ever seen before (just look the other way while we sell the antis to your enemies—can't let you get too powerful, after all). It seemed like they were. The parade of men and women who congregated at White Horse, or any of the other subsidiaries around the city, the world, was a testament to that. 

But he seems different. 

(And really, you've always had a thing for gruff men who'll disappoint you in the end. 

The heartbreak always tastes sweeter when they're worth something.) 

You glance down at the screen, staring at the timer as if it was your last lifeline, and hope, desperately, that you have. 

Your finger lifts. The screen fades to black. The white emblem of Four Horsemen Corp., gazes, almost accusatory, back at you. 

(If anything, Makarov will kill you before the man has any chance of breaking your heart.)

Turning back now is forfeiture, weakness. 

And you'd rather not walk through the graveyard again.

The door is made of rusted metal, and whines loud enough to echo through the barren landscape when you push it against the hinges. Muted gold leaks through the crack, spilling out onto the dirty pavement below your feet. Light catches on the motes dancing in the beam, and cuts through the murk of the falling night. 

Inside, you hear the fading tune of an old song playing out its last chorus. The scrape of a mug being pulled across wood. A low murmur. And nothing else. 

The normalcy of everything so far—or as normal as a strange retro pub in the middle of a mouldering neighbourhood could be—goes against the theatrics Makarov likes to pull, and you know from that alone that if this was somehow a trap, it wasn't his design. 

Anatoly would be jeering at you from the very top of Makarov's tower, fingers pushing against your shoulders until you were forced further back with each question you didn't answer. All the way to the ledge, where Makarov would intervene—always wanting to play the part of a saviour—and spare you. 

Just answer me this, kitten, and I'll put an end to it all. 

But the moment you opened your big, stupid mouth and gave him what you wanted, he'd begin monologuing by the sidelines, pacing as he speaks, until—

Well. We can't all be heroes. Sometimes, we need to be knocked down a peg. Anatoly would move closer, oblivious to your pleading demands for leniency, and Makarov would smile, sharp and shark-like, and say, as if it pained him: or a few stories. 

And you'd fall. Three hundred floors to your death. 

By the time you hit the pavement, you'd be a wet puddle of mush. Unidentifiable. They'd ensure it by removing your identity chip, and anything else that would give the mess of your remains a name. 

You've seen it play out enough times to know how it goes. The script might bend to fit the needs of the accused, but the plot was always the same. 

Theatrical. Dramatic. 

Your fingers curl into fists by your side, and find some solace in the fact that a two-floor drop probably won't kill you. 

This is survivable as long as you're useful. 

A new mantra is craved in the recesses of your mind. Useful. Useful. 

You repeat it to yourself as you pull the door open wider, glancing in the room warily. Hesitant. 

Whatever you expected, this wasn't it. 

It's normal. Archaic in design. 

Lanterns are strung across the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the small room in a muted gold. It complements the raw topaz colour of the wooden decor inside—herringbone floors, shiplap-covered walls, dark spruce tables and benches—and something about it all feels almost homey. Comfortable. 

The size and cut of it err into intimacy or claustrophobia, and you wonder if that's why he picked it. 

On the opposite side of the entrance is a dark hallway. A flickering exit sign glows softly in the gloom. Two darker doorways branch off on either side of the back door. Washrooms. You can vaguely make out the light spilling from the insignia etched into the wood. 

It's flush against the rightmost wall where a series of old photographs sit, crookedly, on the panels. The images are too faded, jaundiced from time, for you to make out the shapes, but they all look human. Humanity from a bygone era. You catch sight of an old aeroplane, the vessel barely longer than the height of the man standing in front of the large propellers. 

The rest of them are of people standing together near old landmarks that no longer exist. 

Metals line the interior of one, kept guarded behind a new protective seal. They shine in the soft glow, and the label beneath reads: chest candy. 

These are personal photos. Family heirlooms. Staring at them, struggling to make out the full shapes of the children, the men, and the women, standing around and smiling happily make you feel a touch voyeuristic.  Gazing into a tomb not meant for your eyes. 

You pull away from the wall, glancing at the one that sections off the washrooms from the main room. It, too, is decorated in photographs, but these ones are less personal. Images of long-gone celebrities. Artistic renditions of landscapes that evolved over the last centuries into something new, something different. 

The theme of the wall is aerial. You make out old etchings of aircraft in all sizes. Commemorative pieces. Militaristic in its design. 

Three booths sit flush against the wall, all made of dark wood, and each seat empty. 

Against the leftmost wall is the bar itself, separated from the seating area by a long, oak countertop with six bar stools pushed up close. A mug sits, half-empty, in front of one. An empty glass in front of the other beside it. An ashtray in the middle of the two seats, filled with cigarette butts. One still burns away, wheedling down to a snubbed point. 

The wall is lined with bottles. A tap behind it. At the end is another doorway which must lead to the back area. The sign above says employees only. 

Near the only window in the room is where you find a solitary table with three chairs. In the seat facing you, back angled between the cut of the walls, shoulder turned to the bar, is where you find the man. Watching you. 

A glass rests in front of him, half-empty. A burning cigar in an ashtray curls wisps of smoke over his face. 

The implant in his eye glows sapphire blue, expanding as he reads the information in front of him. The other is darkened under the flushed light, almost black. Gazing right at you. 

It's a contrast that makes you shiver. 

"Made the right choice then," he says, words low as he lets them fade under the steady cadence of the song playing somewhere in the back of the bar. 

It isn't much of a perfunctory greeting, but you take the opening all the same, and make your way toward him.

"That's yet to be determined."

"You're still here." 

The wood is warm under your palms when you press them against the grain, shuffling into the bench across from him. Warm, and sticky. 

You peel your fingers off, glancing at them warily. "Not much of a choice, though—" your eyes find him, narrowing into slits when he snorts, shaking his head at the disgust in your gaze. "What's so funny?" 

He huffs and the blue light flickers out, fading into dark blue. "You," he offers as if it was obvious. The condescension bleeds from his lips when he speaks, and leaks into his clear eyes when you fold your hands into your lap. "Not the kinda place Makarov normally takes you, hmm? Ain't you spoiled."

"Makarov doesn't take me anywhere." 

"That so? What? You his dirty little secret?" 

Your brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothin', love. Nothin' at all." 

He's baiting you. The condescending draw of his voice, thick with derision, sets your teeth on edge, and makes the knots in your stomach tighten. 

"Look," you start, sticky fists cleaned tight in your lap, irritating the indents in your flesh from earlier. It's enough to ground you. "I didn't come here for games. This is my head on the line, and—"

"Mine, too." 

You scoff. "You started this." 

"And it's my men who are out there, yeah?" 

He leans forward slowly, the wrinkles in his brow deepening under the hazy glow until all you see is darkness cascading over a rucked canyon. Anger pinches at the corner of his eyes, the near snarl of his mouth. 

He'd go for the jugular, you think. Sink his teeth into your flesh until a pound is ripped out, reaping his dues. 

You wonder if his fury is as animalistic as the teeth he bares in anger, in warning.

"Gettin' injured, killed. Goin' missin'. Fighting a battle your men are waging." 

"Makarov isn't waging anything. You don't know much about him, do you? The only thing he cares about is his stocks and his public image. Whatever you think he's doing, or he's behind, I can assure you—he isn't." 

"You sound certain. What, hmm? Ain't the kinda pillow talk he likes to indulge in?"

"Pillow talk?" His words make you reel back until you're flushed against the chair, eyes widening. "I think there's a massive misunderstanding here."

He says nothing, merely opting to reach for his forgotten glass of scotch and dwindling cigar. 

Pillow talk. "You think me and Makarov are—? No. No! That's—" you fight a shiver of disgust, knuckles digging into your thighs. "No. Makarov wouldn't—it's not like that. He's—"

"He's what?" He implores, resting his elbow on the countertop, cigar dangling dangerously between his lax fingers. The look in his eye is sharp, keen. 

"He's my—" 

You bite your tongue suddenly, stopping the familiar words from slipping out. It's the response you give when people ask what you are to Makarov—why he keeps you around on such a short leash. 

My saviour.

The words have different connotations inside Makarov's sprawling skyline palace. Where his guards simply nod, in understanding, and accept your words as is, because he, too, is theirs as well. A common ground where nothing else needs to be explained as one word covers everything. 

You won't find that here. Not with him. And maybe, maybe, some part of you is shying away in shame over the word. Saviour. You sound like the zealots running around proclaiming they heard god whispering to them in the grid, and felt Its holy touch when they plugged something in. 

Electric, they say, reverently. Our saviour is stuck inside the machine—!

(You wonder, now, if Makarov chose that particular word on purpose, and know, immediately, that he did.)

"I owe him money. Why wouldn't he keep me around with such a staggering debt?" 

Bringing it up gives you the opportunity you need to shift the conversation away from the game of Messiah and Disciples Makarov likes to play, and you knot your trembling fingers together tightly in your lap. 

"Speaking of—" you huff, gaze fixed on him. Taking everything in. You might not have the same implant that he does, one that allows him access to the net in an instant, and feeds it right to his cerebrum, but you've always been good at reading people. Catching their tells. "Makarov isn't the one my debt is owed to. It's the Inner Circle. Still think you can erase it?" 

He hesitates. Briefly, almost indecipherably, but you catch the dip of his cigar when his body tenses, fingers tightening too quickly on the stem. It twitches only once before he steadies it. His eyes cut to yours, impassive and unreadable, as he takes in the information you just offered. 

The Inner Circle banking division was notorious for having contracts upon contracts to avoid buyouts without some hefty fee attached to make up for the lost interest. 

It's a roadblock. Almost everyone you've met so far, ones with idealistic dreams of stealing you away from the clutch of Makarov, bulked at the number alone. This, this new piece of information, was bound to make him flee. Cut ties. Run. 

Another hero with too much on his shoulders to bear another burden, leaving you behind to rot. 

Tough luck, kid, one of them said after a three-week-long courting period that left you feeling moon swept and dizzy. Wide-eyed and jejune. Naïve little kitten, Makarov taunted the morning after you found yourself alone on the dock, bags packed, waiting for a man who'd never show. But Makarov met you there. Yuri, with sorrowful eyes, took the bags gently from your trembling hands, downcast as he murmured in your ear, you'll be okay, kitten.

Anatoly's biting laughter haunted you for months. Christ, he howled. You really thought there was a man on earth more powerful than Makarov? Damn, he swindled you good, dumbass. Was he at least a good fuck? I'd be so goddamn pissed if this happened to me and the idiot was lousy in bed. 

But it was Makarov's palm against your cheek that broke you the most. The icy eyes never softened despite the coo of sympathy in his voice. 

It hurts, doesn't it, kitten? Who knows if this is your first heartbreak, but I'm sure it feels like it is, doesn't it? Ahhh, You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

"Now about this betrayal…" 

He had you locked in your flat for months, and everything iota of your time monitored in some capacity. The leash was shortened. The collar tightened. 

The punishment for your betrayal came weeks after, when a package arrived at your flat. A golden box weighed down with precious gems and metals. 

A holographic card popped up when you opened the package, hands shaking around the heavy box. 

Makarov's voice flooded the room. What's more precious than gold and diamonds? The latch on the box clicked. You lifted the lid. At first, it didn't make sense. Your mind blanked, wiped, as you struggled to figure out what it was you were staring at. 

A heart, kitten. His heart.

Then—

Horror. Stomach-churn terror.

Your hands snapped back, and the box dropped to the floor as mocking laughter met your ears, static and faded over the recording. 

The still-beating heart tumbled out, connected to an array of small wires that kept it alive without a host. Without—

Your hand pressed against your lips as you fought the bile rising from your throat. 

Betray me again, he said, and I'll make you cut it out next time. 

You stare at the man across from you and know that the wishfulness inside of you will soften his flaws, blur his lies until anything he says just sounds right. A dangerous precipice. The yearning knotting around your mouldering ribcage is hungry. Wanting. 

He'll ruin you. And you'll be forced to ruin him. To carve his heart out as Makarov keeps him alive the whole time. The last thing he'll ever see would be you holding his still-beating heart before Makarov makes you crush it between your trembling, bloodied fingers. 

The image surfaces—horrific, garish, gut-wrenching—and you wish you were a little more jaded, a little less idealistic, to have that alone snuff the last vestiges of hope from your rotting heart. 

"Doesn't change anything," he grouses, and then brings the glass to his lips. He downs the scotch in two swallows, and you can't pull your wide eyes away from the way his throat bobs, and stretches, as he tilts his head back. 

When he's finished, he huffs. The glass hits the countertop with a clang that seems to shake something inside of you. 

"They're all rotten," he snarls, words a rough rasp that makes you shiver. "All of 'em. Rotten to the fuckin' core."

The corruption never surprised you. Maybe the exposure to it all, feeding Makarov the names of the politicians and diplomats that wanderers through the club's door numbed you to it all, but seeing his visceral disgust over it makes something swell inside of you. 

He's not too different from the heroes you've met, the ones you read about, but where they cut their anger into pieces of understanding and compassion, he wields his like a claymore. A battle-ready man brimming with a fury that leaks from his marrow and into the icy blue of his steel gaze. 

He doesn't give you kind smiles or false promises. No, he gives you third-degree burns on your flesh from the molten heat of his rage. 

"Who are you?" You demand, the words slipping out before you can chomp them down. "And why do you think I can help you?"

It doesn't make sense, not really. 

The look he levels at you knocks the air from your lungs. 

Fear curls in your gut. Wariness. The urge to flee wells, and you just barely manage to push it down. 

"I told you already, didn't I?" He leans closer, drawing the cigar to his lips. "Heard about you, 'bout your debt." 

"Yeah, and you thought I was Makarov's—lover—;" the word nearly makes you recoil. "But I'm not. He tells me nothing. Still so certain I can help?" 

He takes a drag of the cigar, the tip burning through the dim interior of the empty pub. His eyes never waver from yours, but you know that this piece of information must, in some way, change things. He sought you out specifically because of your assumed relationship with Makarov. The precariousness of your debt has doubled into not just an inconvenience, but a legal issue with extra fees added. 

You're more trouble than whatever you might be able to weasel out of Makarov. 

More trouble than your worth. 

The smoke curls in front of him like a hazy shroud of white. The light catches the indent in his cheekbone, and down the side of his face where his implant sits, humming with kinetic energy even while unlit. 

Without the beanie on his head, you can make out more of the circular insignia on his temple, but the crest is unfamiliar to you. Unknown. You've never seen it before, and that unnerves you. 

You know all the clubs, the crests, the gangs that roam the streets. From the upper echelon of the Shepherd family to the 54 Immortals seizing the power gap left behind by the fall of Brakov in a neighbouring country. It comes with knowing the underground. With making friends in the shadows. 

But this one escapes you. 

He shifts, moving the cigar from his lips. A waterfall of smoke rumbles from his mouth when he breathes out. 

"Yes," he says, pinched from lingering smoke in his lungs. "I do."

"How?"

"Told you, love. Heard 'bout you—from many sources."

The back of your neck prickles under his reproachful stare. Something in those cerulean depths makes you tense. 

"From who?" 

His metal knuckles clink against the glass when he nudges it out of the way, resting his forearm down on the wood, bringing himself closer to you. With your spine flush against the back of the chair, there is nowhere to run. It hits you, then, when he draws himself into the scant space separating the two of you, angling himself until he takes up the entirety of your periphery, that this was intentional. 

Of course, it was. Of course. 

"Oh, from lot's a'people a lil' thing like you shouldn't be hangin' around." Despite the derision in his voice, his brows lift, arching high until his forehead wrinkles, and you catch something that seems almost impressed when he dips his chin, staring at you from down his nose. "You get places most can't. That's useful."

"Useful enough to wipe a debt? How do I know you're good for it, and this isn't some scam?" 

"You don't," he answers simply, and something snaps inside you. 

"Are you joking—? Do you have any idea what Makarov will do to me, and you can't even give me some—"

"Like I told you, I know people in high places." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like it isn't your life in balance. "They want to remain anonymous, but can settle your debt." 

"How?" 

"Don't trust me?"

"I don't even know you—"

His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff. 

"Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we?"

It isn't fair. It isn't right. A part of you wants to rebel, to grab the cigar and crush it under the heel of your palm. The anger wells inside of you, white-hot and aching, and brings with it the strong urge to scream yourself hoarse. 

You believed him—if only for a moment, for a single second, but it was long enough for the vestiges of hope to claw their way up the prison you kept it in, and leak back into your marrow. A pollutant that wrecks you viciously. 

But—

Maybe you expected this. It doesn't sting as much as you thought it would. He's never really committed, and said—

"But," he continues, and you wish he would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—

"I promise it'll go away once we're done, yeah?" 

Fuck. 

Your voice wobbles when you speak, soundly dangerously thick, and wet. You peer up at him and wish with everything inside of you, there wasn't a thin veil of tears gathering across your lash line. Weak. You haven't cried in two years—

(You look so cute when you cry, kitten—)

"You promise, huh?"

He lifts his hand to his temple and taps his index and middle finger against the strange insignia implanted there. The hard metal of the crest meeting the soft polymer cover of his fingertips makes a muted thud not at all dissimilar to your beating heart. 

"On my family name, I swear it." 

Why—

To go so far for someone he barely knows, and doesn't trust—

And then it clicks. It isn't about you at all, but some personal vendetta, a promise to himself, that he'll accomplish what he sets out to do, and so, making this little oath with an outsider, the pet of the enemy, is nothing to him. It's performative as much as it is sincere, and the warring contrast makes your chest ache, and heat bloom under your skin. 

"You—;" you start, but stop yourself. 

He's not at all unlike the heroes you've read about in fantastical stories or the ones you'd met. The one whose heart you held in your trembling fingers as it slowly stopped pulsing in the palm of your hand. Whose blood you scoured from your skin until it was raw. 

But where they offered a smile at the end of the promise they swore they'd keep, he frowns. 

He doesn't strike you as the type of man to go out of his way to make others feel better. He believes in himself, and his prowess, and speaks about that in clipped, gruff declarations that are not meant to sway, but reinforce what he knows. 

He will win. This isn't a question or a belief, but a statement. A truism. 

Hope surges. The levee cracks. 

"Who are you?" You ask, dazed. 

The man who cupped your cheek, and whispered to you about escaping the clutches of this festering city, of going so far away, that grasping hands could never reach you, and greedy fingers would never again touch your flesh, didn't fill you with this same sense of awe, of pure belief in the words he said. But this man, this man, makes you feel like anything is possible. Hope blooms, brims bright inside of your chest like an inflating balloon drifting up to the heavens—

His mental hand splays flat over the table. "Names John Price."

The man sitting across from you is someone you know. 

It makes sense, then. The insignia on his temple is the Price family emblem—a conglomerate in its own right, mostly composed of military men with staunch, unflinching moral codes. The incorruptible. The untouchables. 

They were the ones who led the counterattack on the coup that changed the political landscape from the Feudalistic tyranny of the past, to—

Well. It was meant to be free reign, or maybe democratic, but the technological boom a few years after the liberation from the iron fist made little things slip by as the world was suddenly painted a lovely shade of roseate. Why worry about mega corporations becoming richer than most of the governmental bodies, and countries, when they made this new piece of cybernetics that let you see like a hawk, that introduced a new colour spectrum to the general public, when sickness, injury, and even death itself came something that could be bartered over for the right price. 

The things that they let slip stacked up. It piled higher and higher until the free future the Price family, among others—Laswell, Shepherd, Walker, MacTavish—foresaw was smothered out in favour of the blatant mega capitalism that rules. 

It might not be with an iron fist, but it is with a monetary chokehold that always seems to get tighter. 

Their legacy is one founded on a strong moral core that is unbendable. 

It makes sense why you didn't recognise the emblem at first. 

The last of their pristine lineage—tarnished.

The man responsible for the power gap left behind by Brakov. The one who threatens his superiors, and uses brute force to get his way. John Price—the one who gave into temptation and was ousted from his family, and from the military, for taking bribes from people in low places. A man who'd side with anyone—for the right price. 

Political turmoil and espionage must run in the family, then, as you somehow find yourself sitting across from the man implicated in a failed coup. One that resulted in the collapse of Urzikstan.

John Price. 

Disgraced former captain. Rotten to his core. There's a graveyard filled with people who died because of his choices; a massacre that made headlines just a few months before you woke up. A man you know by sordid, rotten reputation alone, who somehow escaped condemnation for the people he indirectly (and, by many accounts, directly) killed. 

John Price. Swindler. Scoundrel. Swine. 

"John Price?" You echo, numbed. "The John Price?"

He leans back in the chair, posture relaxed, at ease, as if this wasn't a massive reveal. As if he wasn't a war criminal who was exonerated because of those friends in high places he so casually mentioned before. 

"So," he rasps, pulling his cigar back to his lips. Despite the ease in his mien, his eyes tighten. A cobra ready to strike. "You've heard of me." 

(—it blooms, and then all at once, it bursts.)

Nothing says cyberpunk like a morally ambiguous character.

[nateezfics]

PRETTY PLEASE

PAIRING — yunho x reader

GENRE — smut, sugar daddy au, ceo au, sugar daddy!yunho, ceo!yunho, aged up!yunho, fem!reader, dom!yunho, sub!reader

WARNINGS — smut, unprotected sex, self pleasure/masturbation, phone sex, begging, orgasm control, overstimulation (slight), praise, fingering, use of pet names, daddy kink, dirty talk/sexual language

WORD COUNT — 2.3k

SUMMARY — “where are your manners? you know you have to ask nicely if you want something from me, princess.”

Your actions could all be chalked up to boredom and your own insatiable need to be dicked down in the nastiest way possible.

You were left to your own devices for the better part of the last forty-eight hours as Yunho went from corporate meetings, to business brunches, and spent hours face first in his laptop while he held a phone to his ear. If you would’ve known that this was what accompanying him on his business trip to New York City entailed, you would’ve stayed home. But you didn’t expect this; you expected luxury and designer shopping and champagne toasts and sex on every surface of the hotel suite. You were incredibly disappointed and beyond impatient. And so desperate to be fucked it almost made you want to go insane.

Yunho was never fond of you sending inappropriate texts to him while he was working, you had learned that the hard way earlier on in your relationship with him, but you felt mischievous. You were looking for something, anything, to do in this excess of spare time, and sending him heavily sexual texts seemed like just the thing to do.

Your phone buzzed with a text and you immediately opened the message, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

Daddy💵 💋💕

What exactly do you think you're doing?

You bit your lip to suppress the grin threatening to spread across your face. Your thumbs tapped against your phone screen as you typed your reply.

You

What? I’m not doing anything, daddy🥺

Daddy💵💋💕

Don't play dumb with me. You know exactly what you're doing.

You

I’m just texting you. You’ve been so busy lately…and I’m here all alone💔

Daddy💵💋💕

I’m working. I need you to be a good girl for me, okay? I promise I will give you everything you want and more, but you have to behave, princess. That means you can’t be sending me these kinds of texts while I’m at work.

You rested the phone on your chest for a moment as you lied there, closing your eyes and rubbing your thighs together as desire pooled between them. You should’ve listened to him. Yunho had always been so good to you; he never denied you of anything. All he ever asked was that you behave, and you did. He rewarded you with whatever you desired whether it was a designer handbag or his cock. He spoiled you. But something in you craved rebellion. Maybe it was boredom, maybe it was because you were pouting, and maybe it was because you were horny. Regardless you wanted nothing more than to do the opposite of what he wanted you to.

You were lounging in a satin dress, but were completely bare underneath. Your sex was bare and wet and needy, and you couldn’t help but reach down to cup it to ease some of the ache. You sighed at your own touch as your thighs spread apart. The heel of your palm pressed into your bundle of nerves while your fingers caressed your slick folds. You slipped a finger in, moaning instantly as you quickly curled it within yourself. You basked in the pleasure for just a moment before using your free hand to grasp your phone. You angled the camera just right, enough to capture the way your finger dipped into your hole, and snapped the picture. You didn’t think too long before you texted that photo to him, breath caught in your throat as you waited for his response.

It was just a few moments later when your phone came to life with the sound of your ringtone. Your heart fluttered in surprise as you looked at the picture of him on your screen, your thumb resting just over the green answer button. “Hey, daddy~”

You heard a smirk. “You think you’re so cute, do you?” Yunho’s voice was low and thick with annoyance, but there was a hint of need to it that you picked up on, and it made your cunt flutter around your finger. “What’s with you today, hm? Didn’t I tell you to behave?”

You bit back a moan just as you decided to insert another finger. “Yes, you did.”

You heard his small tsk from the other end of the line. There was a beat of silence before his voice was ringing in your ear again. “Are you still touching yourself?”

You curled both fingers into you, and you didn’t hold back, allowing yourself to moan into the phone so he could hear. “Yes.”

He cursed, and his voice had gotten much deeper like the thought of you on the other end with your hand on your pussy was playing vividly in his mind. “You’re so needy for me, huh? You’re touching yourself because you’re too impatient to wait for me. God, you’re so spoiled.”

You whimpered as you fucked yourself with your two fingers. You were so aroused, your cunt leaking and drenching your fingers completely until they were shiny with your slickness. You were too focused on chasing the building high that you almost didn’t hear when Yunho began to speak again.

“Uh uh. You can’t cum just yet.”

Your hand came to a halt as you whined. “Daddy…”

“Where are your manners? You have to ask nicely if you want something from me, princess.” You could hear the smugness in his voice.

You huffed petulantly, already feeling your high slipping away as your hand remained still. “Daddy, I’m so close. Just let me cum!” You rolled your hips into your hand and hissed at the sweet friction. There was a deep chuckle in your ear.

“You’re so used to me spoiling you that you don’t even know how to say please. My, I’ve ruined you, princess.”

Small whimpers spilled from your lips as you continued to grind your cunt into your palm. You were regaining the momentum, the coil in the pit of your abdomen tightening again. You were spurred on by the fact that he could hear you, yet could not do anything to touch you, making you yearn for him even more. Your heart was erratic as you fingered yourself, your body flooding with growing pleasure. You needed to cum so badly, and you hoped he wouldn’t stop you again.

But today was a day for doing things out of the norm.

“I would love to hear your pretty little sounds as you come undone, princess, but I’d rather you not cum right now. You haven’t been very good today, and you’re oh so impolite.”

“Daddy, please —”

Another deep chuckle. “Oh so you can say it! But it’s too late for that now.”

You let out a shaky cry. It didn’t take much for you to crumble, desperately whining and begging for him to let you cum. You’d never begged him for a single thing, especially not for pleasure, and it was entirely foreign to you.

But unbeknownst to you, his cock was hardening in his trousers at the sounds of your pleas for him. Yunho adored to shower you with all your heart’s desires, and he never could’ve imagined how much he’d love to hear you beg. “I love the way you sound when you beg for me, princess. I think I want to hear a little more, but in person this time. Wait for me, I’m leaving my meeting right now and heading back to the hotel. You better not cum until I say so.”

The phone call went dead and there was a resounding silence left in its wake. Your arm fell onto the mattress at your side while your other remained across your body, your hand still wedged between your thighs. You ached to cum, to feel the release you’d worked yourself towards. You huffed petulantly, frustrated over being denied what you so craved for. You made no move to take your fingers from within you, and the temptation to finish yourself off despite Yunho’s wishes was clawing away at you. You could have done it, could’ve given into your own desire with just a few more thrusts of your fingers. They slid in and out slowly, eliciting a moan from your lips, and your pussy fluttered from the impending orgasm. You halted just a moment later. You’d already been bad enough, and the usual good and obedient girl within you warned you to stop before you dug yourself into a deeper hole.

It felt like forever waiting on Yunho to enter into the hotel. He stepped within the suite’s bedroom a few moments later, his tall frame looming over the end of the bed before you had time to react. You moaned at the sight of him, dressed in his normal business attire. The black suit was tailored perfectly for his body, and the fitted pants did little to hide the imprint of his half hard cock.

The fringe of his black hair fell over his forehead, and you swore you felt your cunt gush with renewed arousal. If you weren’t aching for him before, you certainly were then as he crawled over your body, his cologne wafting all around you. Yunho’s eyes locked with yours as you both came face to face, so close his breath mingled with yours. You waited for what he had to say, but you were the first to break the silence when his hand dipped between your thighs to cup your soaked sex. The moan was loud, guttural, and hoarse with need. He kissed your jaw just as you arched into him. “You’re so fucking wet, princess.”

Your hands grasped at his arms as you reveled in his touch, that very touch you’d been longing for over the last couple of days. His fingers traced the seam of your folds, coating them in your slick desire. You sighed his name in relief that he was here, that he was touching you.

The relief was short lived. “You didn’t cum did you? You’re so wet it makes me think that you did.”

You shook your head frantically. “N-no, I didn’t! I promise!”

Yunho gazed down at you with questioning eyes as if he was deciding if he believed you or not. He smirked, shaking his head. “I hope not for your sake. I don’t want to have to punish you for that, too.”

Your mouth opened to question him, but all that came out was a broken curse as he slipped two of his fingers into you. They slid right in thanks to how wet you were, and he waisted no time in setting up a swift pace.

Yunho’s lips were at your ear. “Beg for me, princess. If you want to cum, you’ll have to work for it.”

“Don’t do this, daddy,” you whimpered. “I want to cum so bad it hurts.” Your grip on his arms tightened in desperation.

He shook his head. “I said beg,” he ordered sternly. He thumbed your clit, eliciting another cry from you. “If only you had been patient. If only you didn’t decide to be a bad girl. I was almost done, you know. I was finishing up as fast as I could so I could spend the rest of this trip with you and fuck you so good until you saw stars. I wanted to pleasure you, princess. I hate denying you, but you left me no choice. Now beg or I will stop right now.”

Words failed you as pleasure overrode every function in your brain. You moaned some, stuttering as you tried to piece together words through the fog of euphoric sensations he was pumping into you. Somehow, you offered him the best you could. “Please, daddy. Please let me cum. I need you so fucking bad. I’ve been craving you this whole trip. I was so needy and desperate and I just had to touch myself. I couldn’t wait anymore. I just needed your attention and your touch. Please, I want to be good again. Let me cum, daddy. Pretty please!”

You barely registered his soft “good girl” before euphoria erupted in your veins. Your whole body shuddered under the weight of your release. Broken sobs left your lips, and Yunho was quick to capture them with his own as he kissed you. His fingers worked you through your high, pumping into you to milk you of every last bit of pleasure. It felt too good for you to even kiss him back, your mouth slack against his.

“That’s it, princess. You did so good for me.” Yunho’s lips trailed down your jaw and neck as he removed his fingers from you. He found his way back to your lips before looking into your eyes, adoring the way a haze of pleasure had settled over your features. “Now I’m going to fuck you like I’ve been dying to this whole damn trip.” He didn’t bother to fully undress, only pulling his trousers down enough for his now fully erect cock to break free. He was seated within your heat in a matter of seconds, and the sounds that came from you both were nothing short of primal. His thrusts were shallow as he allowed you some time to adjust, though with how wet you were he didn’t really need to, your pussy accommodating him with ease.

“Oh, god, please, daddy! I need you to move!” Your legs wrapped around his waist to get him to move faster, deeper. You were beyond eager to cum again.

Yunho chuckled. His thrusts remained gentle just to tease you. The pout on your face was too adorable. “I don’t think you realize what you’ve started, princess. I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough of the sound of you begging for me.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE — y’all don’t even know everything that went on just for me to get this posted :’) i struggled with this one so hard, idk i’m just not very fond of the finished product. oh well. it’s here, it’s posted, and it’s another fic for the 3k follower event completed. please show this some love, i really could use it! thank you <3

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ALL FICS ARE THE ORIGINAL IDEAS AND WRITTEN WORKS OF NATEEZFICS. DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. REPOSTING WITHOUT CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR NATEEZFICS IS PROHIBITED!

[icedragonlizard]

Susie Haltmann headcanons

I could basically start this series of tumblr posts where I talk about general headcanons for singular characters of the Kirby series. There's some Kirby characters that I have a LOT of headcanons for, and Susie is one of them. Why not go over many of my headcanons for her right here? Allow me to get started!

Putting a 'Keep reading' tag because it's gonna be a long one.

I mean, Susie is fun to make a lot of headcanons about! Everything underneath the keep reading tag is purely headcanons of mine.

After Planet Robobot's events, Susie has essentially been trying to improve and better herself. Not perfect, as she still certainly has some morality flaws, but better than how she was in Robobot.

She's still corporate-minded, and she still likes to throw money and science at things as her way to solve problems. But she's reconciled with Kirby, and is trying to make up for her past wrongdoings by reviving the Haltmann Works Company and working to shifting it into a better direction and no longer the monster it once became.

Unlike Magolor who moved to living in Planet Popstar after reconciling with Kirby, Susie doesn't ever move to living in the star shaped planet. Instead, she lives in a different planet. Her home planet is where the HWC's main base of operations resides. It's a bit far away from Popstar, but not terribly far away. Kirby and a few others are more than capable of visiting her at her home planet, and she can visit Popstar. She has fast interstellar transportation.

As Susie revives the HWC and become its new CEO, she turns the company's new goal into consensually helping and supplying planets with technology without tampering with their natural resources.

That was the original goal of the company. It was what her father originally wanted to do, and he was going to use Star Dream for that very purpose until everything fell apart with the incident that banished Susie to Another Dimension. Haltmann did not originally plan to mechanize planets, as the only reason he did that was because Star Dream ate up his mind and turned him into its puppet, making him comply with the mechanization plan.

Susie remembers what her father's original goal was, and honors his original desires by shifting the company into that very direction when she revives it. She's doing this without Star Dream, and she refuses to rebuild another machine like that, because she wants absolutely nothing to do with a machine similar to the one that ruined her life.

That she's shifting the company towards the goal that her father initially wanted is also to make up for accidentally causing his death…

Her relationship with her dad is quite complicated. She did build up a lot of resentment towards him for how he treated her when she came back from Another Dimension, and she did have some relief that she finally feels more free after being hamstrung so much when she was working as his secretary. That did have some effect on her mourning.

But at the same time, she really did care enough to try to get him back to normal. She hated what he became, but she thought she was able to save him. When he died, she does truly miss him despite all the resentment she's built up. That being said, what she really misses is her actual dad, and not the freak that was Star Dream's puppet.

She's felt horribly ashamed of herself for killing her dad. When she stole the Star Dream controller, her intention was to humiliate him and maybe even make him cry a bit as revenge for neglecting her so much, but she didn't want to actually hurt him, let alone kill him.

She's had legitimately painful grief over her father's death. She was trying her absolute hardest to get him back to his former self, only to then accidentally kill him instead. She's harbored so much guilt over it. For a while after accidentally killing him, she wasn't able to forgive herself and has even expressed self-hatred over it.

Susie was absolutely not well during the first several months after Robobot's ending. She has cried a lot. It pretty much required becoming friends with Kirby to start improving her mood. Becoming friends with Kirby did actually help, as it did give her some relief to finally have a friend for once in her life, as she hasn't cared about or been cared about by anyone in 10+ years. Kirby is her very first friend.

She's been really afraid of the probability that her dad, in his original mind, wouldn't forgive her for causing his death. This is the biggest reason why she's been really struggling to forgive herself. She's really been trying to make up for his death. She'll always keep that hair clip as a memento of him, and like stated above, she's operating the HWC into doing the original goal her dad wanted.

She thought that after accidentally killing him, the least she can do is to work towards his original desires to make up for it. She's also spearheaded the creation of a statue of him at the HWC's main base of operations. It's a metallic statue, and they paint it.

After doing things to make up for his death, she hopes that her dad in his right mind would forgive her, but she's never been truly assured that he would. That being said, she does sometimes make herself relieved when she does the things she does to make up for his death, but the worry never fully goes away. Some people have tried to convince her that her dad would forgive her, but she's never certain.

Some of the work that Susie has the HWC do under her control includes mass producing phones, computers, robotic toys and statues to give to numerous planets. The company also has a paramedic faction to heal people from injuries! She's having the HWC play around into doing a large number of different things.

She also offers to form Haltworker militias to some planets to protect them. These militias aren't to invade, as they do not harm the planets' denizens and don't intend to take their resources, and instead only mean to protect them from malicious outer forces. Susie still uses words like 'savages', but she no longer uses them to refer to a planet's denizens and instead uses them to refer to outer evil beings, the same kind of enemies that Kirby and others fight. During Star Allies, Susie called the Jambastion cult as 'savages' when they were the enemy, until they turned around in the end.

Many people in some planets are very wary about this technology and don't really want anything to do with it. Others, however, enjoy it, especially when some of those planets were formerly mechanized and are appreciative to see the company not be so bad anymore.

Who are Susie's friends in my headcanon universe, might you ask? They are the following: Kirby, Magolor, Taranza, the mage sisters, Gooey and ChuChu.

With the exceptions of Gooey and ChuChu as they generally don't leave Popstar, the rest sometimes visit Susie at her home planet. They'll even stop by at her office to hang around.

She's also made phones that she gave to Magolor, Taranza and the mage sisters, so she can talk to them whenever without having to constantly move around back and forth to do so.

Her three closest friends are Kirby, Magolor and Taranza. I've already made separate tumblr posts on her dynamics on how she interacts with Kirby, as well as how she interacts with Magolor and Taranza, so I'm not going to go in full detail over them again in here.

I will however mention that while Magolor is the friend that Susie likes to troll around with, both Kirby and Taranza are her two emotional support buddies (with her doing the same for Taranza). Those two have been kinder to her and have comforted her more than anyone else has. They've constantly defended her from others accusing her as a bad person, as they always say she deserves a second chance as she's trying to be better. They've gone out of their way time and time again to provide support for her. She really, genuinely, appreciates the both of them. She treasures them.

Considering she's been having serious mental well-being problems, Kirby and Taranza have done so much for her. Without them, she'd be in a dark place as far as her mental health is concerned. Despite her often liking to be rather stoic, there are times where she can't help herself but feel serious emotion over the kindness those two have shown to her. She's felt moody and unhappy a lot, and she's really thankful that those two have been trying their best to help make her feel better. She's even willing to have hugs with them.

Speaking of which, I really should talk about hugs here. Susie has gone through so long without any hugs. Her mind-controlled father didn't give her any hugs when she returned from Another Dimension. How heartbreaking! But at least she finally gets hugs after Robobot. Kirby has given her a lot of needed hugs, as has Taranza. These hugs really do help her. She doesn't hug anyone else, though, as she doesn't care enough to, but it's perfectly good enough for her to get hugs from only Kirby and Taranza. That's exactly how she likes it.

Of the mage sisters, Zan Partizanne is the one that Susie is closest friends with, followed by Flamberge. This makes Francisca the one she's most distant from, but still considers her to be a friend.

Zan is the most technology-competent of the mages, which Susie really likes, and the two have also come together over their trauma and being workaholics. Susie engages in a mutual troll-around relationship with Flamberge, similarly to how she acts with Magolor. Francisca isn't as interactive, and Susie honestly can't help herself but still feel a bit unsettled by the ice mage's frozen corpse collection. But there's still that element of endearment where the pink-haired girl and the blue-haired girl lovably view each other as weirdos.

Gooey is similar to Kirby and Taranza in that he's also very nice to Susie, although he's not as close as those two since Susie really only sees him when she vacations on Popstar. At first, she was rather weirded out by Gooey until she kept seeing more and more of him. She's warmed up to him, and likes how nice and mute he is. Whenever she relaxes on some bench during one of her Popstar vacations, she welcomes Gooey to relax with her. She considers him a friend. He does make her more curious about Dark Matter, though.

Susie thinks that ChuChu is absolutely adorable. She's glad to see the little octopus whenever she vacations on Popstar. These two pink girls do cute pink girl things together, with ChuChu often riding on Susie's head with her consent. The other animal friends are good with Susie as they don't have hard feelings about her, but ChuChu is the only one she's actually close enough to consider a real friend.

Everyone else that isn't a part of the list I mentioned as Susie's friends is either on neutral or bad terms with her. Examples of people that Susie is on neutral terms with are King Dedede, Adeleine, Ribbon and the other animal friends that aren't ChuChu.

Dedede was pissed off at her at first because of how his castle was destroyed by the Access Ark, but he's warmed up after seeing more and more of her as she's been on good terms with Kirby. Not close enough for Susie to actually consider a friend, though.

You'd probably want to know how I interpret Susie's dynamic with Meta Knight. I'll say it here: for the first couple of years after Robobot, Meta Knight despised Susie. However, his hatred for her has slowly been chipping away over time. Eventually, he no longer actually hates her, but he's still rather conflicted about her as he has yet to actually properly forgive her. At the modern day of my headcanon universe, Meta Knight is basically neutral with Susie, although it's more tense compared to Dedede who is still easier on her by comparison.

Even though he hated her for a while, he's allowed Kirby to pursue a friendship with her. That played a part in slowly getting over his hatred of her. Even though he never properly forgave her, he has witnessed her trying to be a better person compared to before and did give her credit for that. He'd still prefer to not interact with her any more than he has to, though.

He did have an earnest talk with her, as it was basically about how he's fine with her being around Kirby and others, but prefers that she stays away from the Halberd crew. She complies as she'd rather not potentially jeopardize the existing friendships she has by pushing her luck with Meta Knight. She did apologize, and although he hasn't actually forgiven, he no longer has ill-will for her after some point.

People that Susie are on bad terms with even now are Bandana Waddle Dee, Elfilin, Daroach, Dark Meta Knight and especially Marx.

Bandana Dee and Elfilin hate her and don't trust her, and they don't like how Kirby is her friend. They think she's playing him like a fiddle, although they think Magolor is doing that as well.

Elfilin in particular is scared of her. He thought she shouldn't be allowed to visit the Forgotten Land, but Kirby wanted her to visit the place, and with enough convincing, Elfilin eventually begrudgingly allowed it. Her visit went well, since she just wanted to check the place out, and she was stoked to see Kirby having a gun as a copy ability. She managed to get along decently with Clawroline, although how she interacted with others of the Beast Pack is nothing special.

I really should talk about Marx here. Susie absolutely despises Marx. She hates his guts. There are few people she hates as much as Marx. This is because he does awful things to her, including pulling pranks that sometimes harm her, and doing especially vile things such as making fun of her father's death. He's caused her to violently lash out. One time, she viciously beat the shit out of him as revenge for messing with her so much. She is also disgusted at how he bullies her buddy Taranza very similarly to how he bullies her, causing both Susie and Taranza to form a "Marx hate club". Neither of them can stand him.

Magolor may have also pulled pranks on Susie, but he never wants to actually hurt her as he doesn't want to ruin his friendship with her. Marx however doesn't care, as he's willing to harm Susie if it means getting entertainment out of it. Magolor and others have had to stop Susie and Marx from going for each other's throats a lot. You just can't have these two near each other for too long, as Susie will snap. If she were to never see Marx again, she'd be grateful.

I think that all wraps up on how Susie interacts with the rest of the notable cast, in my headcanons. Overall, she's on Kirby's good side, although her relationship with Meta Knight is still very complicated and there's some other notable members in the cast she doesn't get along with, with her worst relationship being with Marx.

As she's the current president of the HWC, she takes vacations sometimes. Her most common vacation spot is by far Planet Popstar, as most of her friends live there. She also gets along pretty well with many waddle dees across Dream Land (not Bandana Dee, though). There's one particular ice cream shop that she goes to just about every time she vacations on Popstar, and at this point she's gotten to know the Chilly snowman individual that works there.

Somebody makes artwork for her company. It's not Adeleine doing it, though, as instead it's a Vividria individual who is a big fan of Susie. Susie was going to pay her money to make artwork, until the Vividira made it clear she wanted to do it anyways without being paid, and Popstar also doesn't even run on currency as Susie had to learn. She certainly appreciates this Vividria making artwork for her, as she'll take the art to the necessary places within her company. There's a reason why I have this headcanon of a Vividria individual being a big Susie fan, and it's because of the Susie goddess statue in Star Allies. That statue itself also exists in my headcanon world, to show how much that Vividria admires Susie, lmao.

Popstar isn't the only planet Susie has vacationed on, though. She and Taranza once went together on a vacation to Aqua Star, one of the planets that appeared in Kirby 64. She also, of course, visited the Forgotten Land with her fellow wave 3 companions.

Speaking of her vacation in the Forgotten Land, the Deedly Dees band invited her to sing for them one time. She did karaoke for the "Welcome To The New World!" song after she learned its lyrics.

As far as post-Robobot Susie's singing is concerned, she hasn't sung "The Noble Haltmann" ever since her father died. The whole reason she wrote (yes, she wrote it!) and sung that song in the first place was because it was one of her methods to try to get her father to remember her, which of course tragically failed. Now, there's no real reason to sing it. Really sad! But she'll do karaoke for songs that people request her to do. She had a "karaoke night" with Taranza and Magolor one time, because they wanted to see her singing.

Her vacations are her moments to chill out and relax. She works a lot when she's at her job. She knows she sometimes need moments to take a breather and relax. That's why she takes vacations! Even though she does take phone calls from her friends while she's at work, as they sometimes call her just to see how she's doing.

There's a little ice cream place in her home planet, at the HWC's main base of operations. The company made it so Susie can just go there whenever she wants ice cream immediately. She also lets her friends have ice cream there whenever they come to visit her.

The 'Susie Weekend Outfit' mask from Merry Magoland is indeed an outfit that Susie likes to wear on some weekends. She makes herself some nice and cozy relaxing time on the weekends.

Now I should mention the history of Susie's birthdays. It is... tragic. She went through most of her birthdays uncelebrated. How could she have possibly celebrated her birthdays when she was stuck in Another Dimension? She didn't, because she couldn't. Her birthdays still went uncelebrated when she returned, because her mind-controlled dad refused to let them be celebrated. Big sad.

But that changed post-Robobot after she became friends with Kirby. Kirby is such a friend in that he asks people what they do on their birthdays. He asked this to Susie and... got a response that made him really sad. He felt like she deserved better, and so he literally made sure that her birthdays go celebrated from now on. She was hesitant at first because she wasn't used to it, but she eventually relented and became so heartfelt about what Kirby has done in now finally having her birthdays be celebrated. She couldn't believe it at first.

Susie's birthdays have eventually evolved into birthday parties at her home. Kirby, Magolor, Taranza and the mage sisters show up for her in these parties. The first time this happened, it made Susie cry. It really made her emotional to see some people show up together for her, because it hasn't happened to her in forever. She gave Kirby a big thank-you hug for making these little parties be a thing for her now.

I'd say that wraps up the headcanons I wanted to go over for Susie! Man, I had quite a huge amount of headcanons here, don't I? I mean, yeah. Susie is fun! She's one of my favorites. Thank you if you've chosen to read all this, hahahahaha.

I'll do this with other Kirby characters, too. I'm already eyeballing to do this with either Marx or Magolor next, as I also have tons of headcanons for them. Taranza as well! But for now, you get Susie.

I look forward to seeing you for future Kirby series headcanons!

[persnicketypomelo]

Can you compare and contrast Leroux!Erik and Musical!Eriks responses to reader seeing them without the mask for the first time, but she’s actually not alarmed and is very accepting? Maybe she gives them a lil kiss of her own volition- thank you!!

Leroux's Erik is much more darker, as in self-harm, but also surprisingly sweet. Well, as sweet as someone so obsessive as him can be.

This looks like Rachel Barrell and presumably JOJ? I actually love Rachel Barrell, she's one of my favorites. :)

Musical Erik

Both would react with the same fiery temper towards you if you unmasked them by surprise/against their wishes

Musical Erik needs to be able to hold the strings in how you interact with him and perceive him

He will meticulously plan how the two of you are to meet, how much you know about him, when he plans introduce himself in the corporeal form, and even (unwittingly to you) steer your actions when you’re not with him

All of this is to say that he is a complete control freak

And this is one of the main reasons behind his adverse reaction to you unmasking him, even if you have only kind thoughts of what lies beneath

However, if you manage to gently tell him that you do not fear his face, he will not believe you at first

But looking him unabashedly in his eyes with a demure smile manages to convince him that, perhaps, you are not entirely lying

If you kiss him, say on the cheek or forehead to try and prove your point

Well, it is safe to say that he’s flustered

He would tell you it is time to return the surface world, for he feels quite embarrassed and caught off guard by your unexpected…affection

Erik would need time alone to restore his composure

He reaches for his mask, smoothing it upon his face, and suddenly he regains some of his suave self-assured air

At the end of the day, his trust in keeping you within his grasp strengthens, but he is a man who covets control, and even your unexpected kindness cannot do away with this tendency

I think the only time he would voluntarily allow you to take his mask off, for he would never do it himself, is when he's emotionally vulnerable

It is not so much that he feels insecure about his face around you, but moreso that he feels more powerful with his mask on

Book Erik

This scenario really highlights the difference between the musical and book version

His anger is more explosive and more volatile than in the musical interpretation

He claws his flesh brutally, sobbing and laughing in a kind of hysteria

If you turn your head away from the brutal sight of him tearing at his skin, he will grip you by the hair tightly and turn your head to look at him

"Look at Erik...this hideous monster!...Shunned by society, with a face no mother could love!...You just couldn't bear to contain your curiosity, eh?"

But once he heras your cries and begging, he awakens from his reverie and eases his grip off of you

The poor man has no control over his mood-swings

As soon as he realizes he hurt you, he falls to the ground crying and begging for forgiveness

It is hard to convince him that you derive no horror from his face, for he has gone his whole life thinking himself to be unloveable because of it

But once he is convinced of your honesty, he is completely and utterly yours

And the gentle kiss you press to his head makes him fall to his knees

Erik clutches the fabric of your clothing sobbing, for he never dreamed to receive any compassion in his lifetime

And now that you've offered him a piece of your love?

He would kill another man should you so desire

From then on, he leaves the mask all but forgotten

You will catch him very often vying for your eye, like a child wishing for appraisal

Look him in the face and tell him you love him, and he will follow you to the ends of the earth

[hwaightme]

After Hours on Christmas Eve

- pairing: seonghwa x fem!reader (implied woosan, implied yungi, hongjoong has a gf?) - genre: fluff, office au, young love, slice of life, a sort of slow burn - summary: instead of playing along to the buzz of the festive season, you chose to spend Christmas Eve at your desk. Could this decision make your wish come true? - wordcount: 5.7k - warnings: light sprinklings of curse words, overworking, cynicism

“Are you sure you can’t come? My wife and I would be more than happy for you to join us…”

“Yes, I’m afraid, but thank you so much for inviting me.” You were doing your best to escape your line manager’s over-enthusiastic attempts to coax you out of the office to ‘have fun’ and to ‘embrace the festivities’. Although with the best intentions, you had no desire to spend an entire evening on edge and at a metaphorical gunpoint.

“Do you at least have something planned? I don’t want you over-working yourself,” the gentle-faced man inquired, smoothing down his salt-and-pepper hair in front of a desk mirror left behind by one of your colleagues. “Besides, there isn’t much of a point. Business in the west is very slow today and tomorrow so we can relax.”

You hummed in response and got up from your chair, seeing your boss approach the shared coat rack. Exchanging holiday wishes once more, you were officially the last one on the floor from what you could see.

There definitely was something special about an empty open-plan office. Not quite ghostly, but you could feel a certain energy about it that can’t be found in other types of workspaces. Maybe it was the echoes of the buzz that is normally prevalent. Maybe it was just the overwhelming row after row of monitors and desks, identical corporate soldiers. Maybe it was not even the office itself, but rather the impressive view that could be glimpsed through the glass walls that embrace it. Colossal skyscrapers peeking from the chilly mist that was already settling on the city. Concrete jungle, a stunning architectural feat, marking human evolution in perfectly engineered geometries.

Normally you wouldn’t pay as much attention to your surroundings as this eve, but the sudden solitude made you ponder. Oh, how small you were. A worker ant, crawling to and from nests of varying sizes. So small, in fact, that it was impossible to even begin to comprehend how little influence you had over most things. Take even another person’s thoughts, for instance. At the end of the day, it was not you who made them believe one thing or other, but it was the way in which their neurons fire and how a grand variety of influences came together to turn into a singular notion.

A light flickered and turned off a few rows away from you – the team that normally sat there collectively took their holiday around the same time, leaving the seats pitifully vacant. Inadvertently you glanced at the fluorescent cylinders hanging above your head, wondering if you were frozen for long enough, would you be enveloped in the darkness?

With a sigh you ambled back to your desk, attempting to supress the pang of loneliness in your chest. If only you were on a higher floor, then you would not have to entertain yourself by people-watching out of the corner of your eye. Instead, all your attention would be consumed by the myriad of emails that you have yet to wade through, and the programming tasks that you have lined up for yourself to compensate for your lack of ‘spirit’.

It wasn’t that you were a manifestation of Scrooge or the Grinch, it was just that you, simply, could not be bothered. Some time ago you would have probably made an effort to gather some friends, or plan a romantic evening with a significant other, but with the former all being preoccupied with their own new family lives or winter getaways, and the latter being nowhere on the horizon, you perceived yourself as the odd one out, and as such, exempt. There was no need to be festive to the point of aggression, methodically “decking the halls” and planning dinner with more rigour than a military commander.

If Christmas was not that big a deal to you, then why were you escaping all its mentions and expressions in the office? As a matter of fact, even here you could not fully rid yourself of reminders. Among the desks and meeting rooms you could find remnants of small parties and attempts to ‘brighten up the place’ – a forgotten packet of sugar cookies, a mini tree from the supermarket… a Santa hat? This level of décor was more than enough to confirm that you just wanted the next few days to pass silently, and your present camping out at your desk was you feeding into the illusion that you could be more productive than your colleagues. You sincerely wished you could experience the rush and excitement, but at it did was made you put your phone on “do not disturb” and ghost your friends and family. Perhaps tomorrow you could face their grinning faces and social media spam, but tonight… no… tonight it was just going to be you, your virtual desktop and the snack vending machine.

Right, time to wallow in self-pity and spend Christmas Eve coding.

Soon enough, you found the right playlist, cleared your mind of aimless musings and let your fingers dance across the keyboard to the rhythm of a jazz rendition of Last Christmas. The tune was soft and light, barely audible as, even though you let yourself assume you were the only one left on your floor, you were too anxious to be sure no one would walk by. There you went again, with your myriad of social concerns. No, focus, focus.

You managed to sit through a good number of jolly tunes until it got a bit too much and you switched to good ol’ Chet Baker. As soon as the first notes of Almost Blue began to resonate from your phone, you could not help but take a deep breath and lean back in your chair, eyes shut in delight. What could be better than this? Probably nothing… or all of this and some tea. That would be lovely. Your hands still behind your head you peeled one eye open to glance at the paper cup on your desk – the cup you had bought at the canteen had long gone stale, and they were probably shut by now. If only-

“Do you want some tea? I could recommend a certain blend if you would allow me.” A familiar voice rings out right next to you, making you yelp.

❆❆❆❆❆

A little while earlier...

“If you dare leave the office before she does and do not even attempt to make conversation, I swear, Seonghwa, I will beat your ass.” Although the threat was said in jest, judging by the mischievous glint in Wooyoung’s eyes, he probably had already imagined new ways to sadistically tease his friend about this ‘office crush’.

Seonghwa was watching his colleagues gather their belongings, eavesdropping on discussions of plans and organised outings, and could not help the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that reminded him – he was cornered and could not flee. Any other evening and he could have made some kind of excuse but no… not tonight. Not on Christmas Eve. And it was all because he carelessly exposed himself through his changing habits, assuming his best friend Hongjoong would not read him like a book.

Whether it was going all the way around the floor just to walk past where you sat, or during any of the larger meetings to wait for you by the elevators, or to somehow learn your beverages of choice and your break times so that you could ‘accidentally’ meet in the floor’s kitchenette. According to his friends, Seonghwa was hopeless. That was also probably why he hauled a ‘Christmas Tea Blend’ to the office to give to you as a gift, only to discourage himself upon hearing that you were ‘not really celebrating this year’. The last thing he wanted was to unintentionally upset you. So the tinned tea leaves that he buried in his briefcase was now burning into the back of his brain, somewhere beside the adorable outfit you wore to the office festive jumper party.

Once Hongjoong noticed that Seonghwa was very much unlike his usual self – more shy, overly polite and cautious, the devious lightbulb began to repeatedly flash above his head – soon enough, his entire group of comrades in chaos was aware of the infatuation and promised to not let it go until he actually made an attempt to get closer to you.

“Hey, did you hear me?” Wooyoung’s voice summoned Seonghwa back from his mental wanderings, causing him to flinch. He spun in his friend’s direction, to see that he was already fully dressed and was finishing wrapping a monstrous scarf around his neck.

“Sure, yes, totally. And I can see you are literally disappearing under that thing.” Seonghwa motioned with his hand, earning himself a bashful grin.

“‘Cause baby it’s cold outside~”

“Did you just…”

“Oh yes, I did just. Anyways, I am off, San just texted that he’s waiting outside. And I know for a fact that you did not hear me, so Yunho, care to repeat? Bye guys, merry Christmas!”

And just like that, there was one less menace to worry about. Sliding back to his desk, he caught the sight of Yunho, who sat right across, slowly rising and logging off. Upon meeting gazes, the younger flashed him an apologetic grin, mentioning something or other about plans. His departure was considerably less dramatic; instead, every step appeared efficient, elegant, and well-calculated. No wonder he got to present in front of senior management. With a wave goodbye and a cryptic “Hongjoong will probably say the same thing that Wooyoung said, but better, so I’ll leave it to him. Merry Christmas!”, Yunho made his way to the elevators, with Seonghwa’s progressively more distressed gaze following him.

He fixated on the clock at the bottom right of his screen, imagining it ticking away on the many faces he would check during his commute home. Him and Hongjoong could be at their local convenience store right now, picking out their favourite items, the location of which they know by heart. Then they could waddle back home, and while still swaddled in puffer coats, get the cup ramyeon going. But no, not this time. This time, Hongjoong decided to remind his friend that he was, in fact, a man in a relationship and had to spend time together with his girlfriend at least sometimes. And even though Seonghwa had attempted to appeal by reminding Hongjoong of brotherhood and ‘all they had been through together’, the latter brushed him off by explaining that this Eve was a perfect chance.

“-… right yes, thank you so much! Definitely. Let’s discuss next… Thursday then? At 11AM your time? Perfect, I’ll book that in. Yep, right, happy Christmas!” a victorious fist raised to the ceiling, with the other hand rapidly returning a nearly-dead headset to its stand, Hongjoong was elated to finally be done with his calls for the day. Although it did look great to have ‘English’ on his CV, the exponential rise in the number of meetings that he had to lead because of that was astonishing. He proceeded to stretch and yawn, reminding Seonghwa of a cat he saw online.

“These people can’t catch a break, huh?” casual small talk that both knew they did not really need, but did it anyways. Hongjoong nodded in agreement, rolling his eyes at the fact that he still had a calendar invite to send. While lazily clicking away, skimming over scheduling suggestions, he commented as-a-matter-of-factly, much like he would if he was talking about the tasks in his sprint:

“I heard that Y/N is staying late at the office tonight.”

“I know.” Seonghwa mumbled, running a hand through his dark locks. Out of habit, he reached out to poke his mouse when he noticed his monitor’s screen going dark. Even though it was highly doubtful that anyone would check attendance at all, especially over the next week, Seonghwa was devoted to making his activity status as impressive as possible.

“And you know that I will not let you back in the house unless you have an update, right?” his friend was beginning to sound more and more like a mentor, much to his dismay. Though to be fair, he made it work.

“Yes sir.”

“Atta boy.”

“Of course, that is if you are not going to be rocking around a different tree…” Seonghwa tried, chuckling at the speed at which his friend’s eyebrows flew up and a curse fluttered out in defence.

“The filth of this man. And to think that this is the same guy who can barely make eye contact with a certain someone.” Hongjoong retorted, rising off his chair, and slamming the keyboard with a newfound force. Once satisfied with the darkening of his screens, he spun on his heels and made a beeline for the collection of outerwear he left lying around by some cupboards off to the side.

Finally, the disorganised pile that was driving Seonghwa up the wall the entire day would be out of sight. Along with any hope of supressing his feelings with misguided extroversion. As much as he appreciated the gentle nudges from Hongjoong and Yunho, and the not so gentle ones from Wooyoung (to the point where many a time he would purposefully orchestrate some awkward one on ones because, apparently, that was the only route to romance development), they did little to ease his pacing heartbeat.

Seonghwa decided to accompany his friend part of the way, though his offer to share the elevator ride was coolly rejected with a knowing shake of the head. He bet that if he were to be asked to pitch a business idea to a group of executives in that exact moment, he would be less nervous. At least there he would be basing everything off what he had learned, implemented, and could improvise about. You? Well, you were a completely different story. He could only wish that he could read as much as a page from your book. Beyond the office chapter, that is.

You joined the company a year after he did. Ambitious and hardworking, you were very easy to notice. Whether it was a major contribution to a top-priority project, or a breakthrough in one that was previously at a standstill, your name came to circulate among many professional circles, and even though you were not direct collaborators, Seonghwa grew to be familiar with your style of work. Out of your cohort you were the one to arrive the earliest and leave the latest, regardless of the season. He was not sure whether it was purposeful or preferential, but you hesitated or simply avoided the louder social events, choosing to either spend that time at the office or to make a quiet exit. At the same time, he never saw even the tiniest sliver of toxic competition that was a regular occurrence among new recruits, especially in the early months. You were simply existing in your own lane. Working because you loved it. Doing what you did because you wanted to. You were very easy to develop a crush on.

By a sheer stroke of luck Yunho had been assigned to be your official ‘seonbae’, to be your point of contact about life in the company, any networking and general, more informal-style support. Soon enough, Yunho had introduced you to his team, which, after continuous warm greetings and amiable exchanges of pleasantries and classic office banter, turned to the occasional collective lunch outing and twice to after work drinks. So, even though his friends poked fun and teased him for being distant and passive, Seonghwa did share a foundation with you. You knew him, and he sure as hell knew you. He even had you added on LinkedIn (a step which he patted himself on the back for – still within bounds and very professional, but still gave him another connection to you).

But there was no guarantee that he could ever go beyond that. Beyond being colleagues of a similar age, trying to make it big in the industry. If only he could run predictive analytics on the mess that was in his brain because of you to figure out the best steps forward. Maybe his job had spoiled him too much, and he got too used to taking calculated risks, rather than merely shutting his eyes, and taking a leap of faith.

Alas, here he was. Acting every bit an agitated teenager trying to drop a letter in their crush’s locker and hope that by doing so, they will get their happily ever after. Seonghwa had finally come to terms with himself and the limits which beating around the bush had. And it most definitely did not take him an unreasonably long amount of time, including procrastinating by completing mandatory trainings, reviewing his to-do lists, and reorganising his desk for the umpteenth time.

There was that tin again, staring him down. Ornate packaging, with miniature etchings of the spices included in the tea. Though it was nothing particularly special aside from being reflective of the season, Seonghwa was drawn to it, nonetheless. To put it simply, he wanted to brighten up your day, even if just for a fraction of a second. Even if the tin were to just be left behind in the shared pantry. He took out the gift bag which he packed away in a secure compartment of the case to prevent it from bending. In a couple of moves, the gift was ready.

Alright, Seonghwa. Here goes nothing. You have been sitting here long enough. What if she already left? What if you are wasting your evening at this point for… nothing?

Once he had conquered half of the way to your side of the floor, however, all doubts of you possibly having left flew from his mind, instead being replaced by a sudden swelling. Although he had to strain to hear it, your humming along to some tune was, needless to say, adorable. The way in which you had adjusted your desk and chair to allow for your feet to dangle to the upbeat tempo added to the wholly different Y/N. At the same time, you were focused. Entirely enveloped in the realm of your digital escapades, writing line after line on an editor on one screen and checking data on another. It was at this moment Seonghwa proclaimed himself to be a bit of a goner. He took a couple of steps closer to you.

His breath hitched in his throat when he noticed you break your focus and change the song that was playing to one he had also listened to far too many times to count. Almost Blue. Chet Baker. While you relaxed into the song, eyes fluttering closed, he took it as an opportunity to finally come close enough to announce his presence.

Now or never.

In the split second that he had before you would undoubtedly turn and see his form hovering barely two meters away from you, he took note of the old paper cup on your desk. It was a wild guess that it was tea, but he was already far out of his comfort zone to stop.

“Do you want some tea? I could recommend a certain blend if you would allow me.”

❆❆❆❆❆

Back to the shared present times…

“Oh my word who in the- Seonghwa! Whew, it’s you… I’ll be honest I got a bit spooked there.” You exclaimed, keeping a hand pressed right below your neck in a futile attempt to settle the sudden spike in adrenaline that shot through your body. Though it did little, seeing as it was Seonghwa you were facing.

You were not quite sure how to call him, considering that you wanted to desperately avoid the title of ‘friends’ when it came to him. So, when you had just met, you had chosen “Park”, but your kindling closeness changed that in a matter of weeks. Now, it was Seonghwa. The kindhearted co-worker, Seonghwa. The one to drop by with snacks when you were bombarded with calls, Seonghwa. The one to open and hold doors and perfectly match pace, Seonghwa. The terrifically handsome in a fitted suit and tie, Seonghwa. But most certainly not someone who you expected to see in the office on an evening when most of your co-workers of similar age were going out or at least pretending to.

“So sorry, that was foolish of me. I should have… probably pinged you or something.” Head lowered, he fired out an apology, worried that he was acting out of line.

When he did not hear anything in response except a push of the spinning desk chair, followed by a pair of stylish dress shoes entering his field of vision, Seonghwa finally returned your gaze, which was exceptionally cheery. It made him think of the sight that he had the chance to admire only a few minutes ago – of just you in your own world.

“Well… there is only one way to make things right. You mentioned tea?” you questioned, hands folded, a smile threatening to ruin the mock disappointment that you were attempting to sustain.

“Tea… yes! That’s right. Recall how we had spent quite a few of our breaks admonishing the disgrace that is our floor’s coffee machine?”

“Yes, Seonghwa, and I recall you nearly going into cardiac arrest when your manager turned the corner during one of our roast-roasting sessions,” you elaborated, the memory making you let out a soft laugh. With new-found colour on his face and boyish confidence, he continued.

“True. To this day I look twice. Anyhow, in the spirit of the festive season, and generally in the shared appreciation for nice-tasting drinks, I hope that you will enjoy this blend. Merry Christmas, Y/N.” he outstretched his right hand, which had been clenching the strings of the gift bag a bit too strongly to seem nonchalant.

Your lips formed an ‘o’ as you rose from your seat to approach Seonghwa. Taking the bag from him, your fingers lightly brushing against his, you were beyond excited. The gift itself was nothing too special – though the store from which it was, was impressive enough. But the idea that Seonghwa had prepared a gift for you and had obviously had it on his person the entire day was turning your mind fuzzy. You could feel your cheeks getting hotter by the second and you were now the one to find the carpeted floors interesting.

“Thank you so much, Seonghwa. And merry Christmas to you too. I am so sorry, I don’t have your gift on me right now…” you began, words stumbling over each other.

Seonghwa was caught off-guard. His gift? You prepared a gift? For him? He could not help but let out a quick ‘huh’ under his breath, causing your eyes to shoot right back up and peer straight into his. Enveloped in a momentary silence, you were frozen. Hesitant to act, out of fear that the fragile unknown between you would be broken, neither you nor he could bring to fill the pause. Eventually you managed, repeating yourself:

“I am so sorry… I really do like your gift. A lot. I’ll let you in on a little secret, but I was eyeing it for a while, but never bought it. So, you hit the mark. For real. I promise I’ll bring you something cool. Well at least I hope so-” trailing off again, your delivery was unusually garbled. It was hilarious to think what would happen had you been the same way during stand-up calls.

“Seriously, do not worry about it. I am just happy as is.” Seonghwa responded, face lit up by a toothy grin. He was trying his best to not pay much attention to how close you were standing.

“Then how about we try this tea out?” you blurted and side-stepped to make your way around your colleague and crush.

He followed you closely as you ambled between the rows of desks, taking note of how different his place of work felt in the afterhours. Even though it was not completely silent due to ambient electric buzzes and the music spilling from your pocketed phone, the floor had gained a certain sleepiness to it. Much like the heaviness of the looming low clouds outside. Surprisingly, right here and now, he felt safe.

The open plan kitchenette was a simple number, complete with the bare minimum of a sink and dishwasher, cupboards, a microwave, a vending machine and a coffee machine. Approaching the last of the list (and the most popular), you pried open the paper cup storage, taking out two and shutting the compartment once more with the back of your busy hand. In the meantime, Seonghwa was searching the shelves for something that could potentially serve as a strainer, since he was silly enough to buy loose leaf tea without considering the actual drinking process. Just as you were about to ask him about what exactly he was doing, the young man produced a box of coffee filters from a long-forgotten drawer, wiggling it in front of himself in a miniature celebration.

“Okay that is actually genius, Seonghwa. I was about to ask,” you commended, reaching out your hand and squeezing his forearm without giving it a second thought. Initially you wanted to slap yourself for potentially overstepping some boundary. However, once you turned to the counter beside the sink and set down the gift bag and cups in preparation for a tea ceremony on a budget, you felt Seonghwa cautiously rest his palm on the small of your back.

“Let’s assemble our innovation for tea-making then?” he joked, positioning the box beside the rest of the items, and pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. His touch still lingered on you, mind replaying the moment an unnecessary number of times like you have seen variety shows do.

Your improvised tea production tactics worked surprisingly well. Aside from a couple of stray leaves and one spill (which Seonghwa had promptly cleaned up, unable to look at it for longer than five seconds) you now had yourselves two large cups of spiced tea, well brewed and ready to enjoy. Upon entirely clearing up the aftermath, you and your companion decided to change location. Only a couple of steps and you were seated at a round wooden table, positioned right in front of the floor to ceiling windows. Without mentioning it at all, you moved the chairs slightly closer to one another, so both of you could admire the view and the inexplicable comfort that being alone together, in the most unlikely place, brought.

If you could stop time and live in that moment forever, you would agree to it without a second thought. Chet Baker was continuing his extended concert, only now in a legendary collaboration with legends: Bill Evans, to name one. What a pleasant coincidence it was that ‘Alone Together’ was playing. The slow tempo, alluring, like the perfectly warm beverage you were cradling in your hands. The exhaustion of the day that passed was melting, tenseness of your muscles easing with every crumble of time that fell away. You were grateful for this. And yet, an inkling of doubt still managed to settle, and you couldn’t help but ask your partner in daydreaming if the music was to his taste.

Which led to you discovering he was an avid fan of the cool jazz genre and kept up with you when you started listing of one musician or singer after another. What you were not aware of, however, was the reason behind his understanding and pleasure to enthuse about improvisation with you. About five or so months ago he, you and Hongjoong were caught up in a lively debate about sampling in music, and at some point in the conversation, jazz floated to the surface, and left a deep impression on Seonghwa. He saw it as an opportunity to get to know you, your tastes and how you heard the world. So, he went through every playlist he could find, even attempted to curate his own. Behind the scenes, he was trying to fall in love with what you loved. Evidently, it paid off, as he could now share beauty with the most beautiful person sitting behind him, knowing that he was the one who had made you smile.

Your peaceful chat came to another halt. Caught up in your own musings you peered into your cup of still-hot tea, which you had not failed to compliment a number of times already. When was the last time you had experienced such childish delight because of a simple treat? Better yet, when was the last time you had experienced a lack of rigidity and social obligation around the festive season? True, you had prepared presents for your work friends, hence why you had not felt too terrible about accepting the gift from Seonghwa, but it did not feel like a gesture of political correctness. It felt like a genuine expression of joy and of the ‘Christmas spirit’ that many raved about. You had forgotten that it was a real thing, rather than a capitalist gimmick made to sell more items at higher prices during the seasonal rush.

The festivities were not so scary to you in this moment. You could not find your previous self anywhere, the one who was so sure that any bit of Christmas sentiment was sentiment wasted. Your eyes darted to your right, to see a pair of dark orbs resting right on you. A shared chortle. Back to your individual giddiness. You would not trade this Eve for any other.

“Oh, would you look at that…” you heard the man beside you comment while pointing at the windows with his cup. Guided by Seonghwa’s direction, you noticed the prima-donnas of the winter, the first snowflakes waltzing down, illuminated by glimmers of fluorescence emanating from the gargantuan steel pillars. “…it’s snowing.”

The phrase rang out, not dissimilar to the final notes of a piece’s movement. The culmination of one story, only for another to begin.

“How will I get home?” you wondered, asking the question to no one in particular, fully captivated by the scene. As if on cue, a flurry of white rushed past the building, suggesting the snowfall would only get heavier.

“I’ll go with you.” Seonghwa replied, while setting down his now finished tea.

“But I take the…”

“I know. I remember. Down to the station,” he snorted at your confused shock, before adding “we take the same line.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you, Seonghwa.”

“My pleasure,” his voice, mellifluous and soothing, beckoning you, to join him right by the windows where he had moved. Setting your own cup aside, you rose, adjusted your trousers and went to stand close to your taller partner.

Music had long faded into the background, with you attuning yourself to any sound coming from Seonghwa’s motions. Be it a breath, a shoe or his suit jacket rubbing against his shirt as he rocked once, twice. Anything to aid you in memorising the features of his man. Unbeknown to him, you had already learned the rhythm of his gait – something of a habit that you had if you were particularly close to or interested in a person. So, when he had approached you this evening, your subconscious was already leaping and celebrating.

In the quietude that snow brought to the metropolis you both resided in, you wanted to take time and share it. Just like now. In a wordless trance you felt as though you had deeper comprehension of his enigmatic nature than ever before, and even so, you only wanted more. You wanted to protect this fragile atmosphere you two had built on this very floor, your office, your second home, and carry it with you. Your heart swelled as you felt a gentle caress over the fingers of your resting hand. Not daring to look down out of fear that you were imagining the sensation, you stared out into the darkness beyond the neighbouring buildings. Moments passed, and a warm palm was pressed against your own, fingers intertwined.

How could two hands of two separate beings fit so ideally? Brought together by serendipity, or was this what Christmas miracles were for? The night you dreaded, turned into a precious memory to last a lifetime. You were sure. This was the beginning of something only fate knew.

❆❆❆❆❆

BONUS ENDING: And just like that, hand in hand, was how you left the building, longing to make up for the months you could only exchange glances and work-related stories. You ambled to the entrance of the metro, struggling against the gusts of wind that were threatening to steal your hats and your warmth. But on this Eve, it was hard to imagine anything stealing away the pure adoration in your and Seonghwa’s souls. This was the joy you swore to cultivate, protect and cherish.

“See? I told you they would figure it out. C’mon, man, have a bit more hope. It’s Christmas after all.” A bleary-eyed Yunho poked his companion in the shoulder, causing him to roll his eyes.

Yunho, being the ultimate sucker for potential romances and betting against his friends, did not need persuading to hide out at the nearby bar in hopes of seeing whether Seonghwa would make successful moves or not. He dragged poor Mingi, who was working in a different department but aware of all the office drama thanks to Yunho, along with him. Evidently, the instigator of the impromptu gathering was Wooyoung, who, after losing and having to pay for a round of drinks, was especially sulky.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But this is only after we drilled through his skull and did his head in. Isn’t that right?”

“Exactly, so don’t question your own teachings, master Jeong.” Yunho retorted, a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

“Don’t worry about it, Woo. Look, I managed to take a pic-”

“San, you make me prouder day by day. Send it to me, Hongjoong’s got to see this.”

[crisiscutie]

okay, I know I've already sent you one, but I'm TOO curious to not send you another one, please forgive ;^;

🔥on Sephy's childhood. What is an unpopular opinion of yours when it comes to Sephy's childhood?

My unpopular opinion is more so on Sephiroth's outlook on human connections, rather than on his childhood. I hate it when people insist to me that he would never be interested in romance or forming connections with other humans (Angeal and Genesis just being "lucky" ones) just because he never openly displayed those interests. Like, are we forgetting that this man was literally bred and raised to be a living weapon for a disgusting capitalist corporation to protect their interests for almost his entire life until Nibelheim? Of course, he's not going to fucking display those desires. While it's valid to say that he possibly never had those desires, it's also unfair to insist that he didn't at the same time. Wow, it's almost like a main point of Sephiroth is that there's a lot of mystery around his character and storyline, right? I also want to point out that many survivors of childhood abuse are prevented from exploring their interests and feelings, as their abusers want to mold them to their desires. The survivors rarely get the safe space needed to be "themselves" and talk about their emotional health.

Sephiroth realized from a young age that his abusers controlled him, molding him to fit their desires, not his. It's both heartbreaking and heartwarming that know that he finally found that safe space in Glenn's team, where he could start to express some of that, but alas, fate can be cruel... I'm sure something will happen in FS that will shake our Crisis Cutie for life... But anyways, I love how this showed how perceptive and intelligent Sephiroth is to (somewhat) recognize this abuse. Though, he couldn't fight against his fate because he probably felt helpless, so in turn, this awareness and knowledge only made his mental and emotional state deteriorate more throughout his life.

I also think Sephiroth wanting a normal life implied that he had some knowledge or exposure of it through someone at Shinra. Hopefully, it was positive exposure from someone like Gast... Or maybe it was negative exposure from someone like Hojo, who might have shown the poor boy what he missed out on during his childhood because he is "special" and not like the other children...

Anyway, I find it interesting how Young Sephiroth's self-awareness is a stark contrast to his Nibelheim self, the omnicidal "god" who doesn't feel any sadness or any other human emotions. But come on, we seriously aren't buying into the Sephganda, are we? It's rather hard to believe that a guy with such intense love for his "mother," sadistic tendencies, and deep resentment/hatred towards humanity and Gaia could lack any emotions, but let's save that for another discussion. Thanks for the ask, love! 💜

[cakebatteronabrickwall]

Sure, “the cycle is cycling” is a fun and cute thing to say but in all honesty? To me, the succession ending sort of accidentally broke that logic. Can you really draw the logical conclusion that the siblings end up like Ewan and Logan? No, because what was the reason for their estrangement? Ultimately, Ewan resents Logan for letting himself become the person he died as. Why was Logan like that? Because of the company (very simplisitc, there is more here obviously). Shiv literally takes that possibility away from Kendall by voting against him.

Does that mean being “out” magically fixes their shit? Of course not. Here is the thing. Kendall will always be trapped in the cycle of thinking he was meant to be CEO, it was instilled into him as a child! Part of him will always resent Shiv for her vote and will always come back to this formative moment. But. Does that mean he can never care about anything else, doomed to wander around as an empty shell? I don’t think so, we’ve been through the epic highs and lows of corporate fuckery with Ken, he somehow always returns to himself in the end, partially because of his siblings.

Shiv will always be stuck knowing that her being a woman plays a major part in the way her father and every other man in her life treats her. That resentment won’t go away either, it may even take a new shape with motherhood mixed in. But also, she is probably working a new angle with Tom as we speak. Maybe she’ll return to her political roots, who knows, she certainly will do everything to not become her mother even if she jokes about the opposite at the funeral. But the most important thing to me is the fact that, even in her resentment towards Ken, she tells him “I love you, but I can’t fucking stomach you”. The first part did not need to be there. And yet.

And Roman (always hardest to talk about for me, lol). Well, he will always look for guidance outside of himself, he will always need his family. His ending is lonely on one side, but there is a quiet beauty in it as well. After everything, there is a moment of solitude and being able to breathe, even reminisce. He just started really grieving and wherever the path leads, it will never lead back to Logan. It can’t. He will always love his father (and I need to take the moment to say- that is totally fine, we as observers have a different view on their relationship than him), but his father will never be able to abuse that or hold it against him again. The wheels have come off the cycle and the engine is dead. The entire fourth season can be seen as an attempt to keep the cycle alive, because it is comforting in a way. But it doesn’t work, because, I repeat, THE ENGINE IS LITERALLY DEAD.

See, succession clearly has shown that whereas Logan and Ewan had no desire to be a family, the sibs always find their way back to each other. After Ken’s season 1 bullshit. After Ken’s press conference. After the confrontation with Logan. Ewan tells people at the funeral “I loved him I suppose, but-” but none of them would ever say that. The love is so clearly, inarguably there and maybe that is the real tragedy; that in another world it could have been a much easier kind of love (but it rarely is, for most of us anyways).

[alexbraindump]

the optimism of mundanity in sci-fi

[word count: 980]

Mundanity serves my favorite role in worldbuilding. Beyond fictional politics, cultures or races sits the - often overlooked - role of the mundane. The things we do in our day-to-day lives. Where we keep our keys, our routines before going out for the day, the junk we may leave lying around. It’s part of a tiny picture that lingers in the shadows of the vast worlds we build and stories we weave. Yet from that snapshot blossoms a viewpoint dripping with relatability, one that places you into the shoes of a character living in that world to a capacity far beyond that which anything else could even hope to achieve.

When I’m writing a character introduction, it’s about more than just the character’s current position and desires. It’s about integrating the world into their life. If space travel is a commonplace fixture of their world and they own a spaceship, what’s the role of that ship to them? Is it like a car, a mobile home, a flying armory? If it’s like a car, have they left it stock, or have they modified and tuned the way a car lover would in real life? If it’s like a home, what furniture do they deem priority, do they keep it clean, is there any decoration? If an armory, what’s the weaponry of this universe like, what kinds of weapons do they want to keep loaded, how organized is it? (check out the first chapter of my story 501-b, also on this blog, if you wanna see where that though process brought me ;3)

Opportunities for both character and worldbuilding are already pouring out from that simple hypothetical. So many things can be said right away with the mundane relationship between a character and their mode of transport. To them, that’s just how it is, nothing special. The same way you’d look at a car. To the reader, though? That’s a nuclear bomb of information you just detonated in their face and they probably didn’t even realize. If you get how a character views their ship, you already start to understand their personality and the role of space travel in that world right off the bat.

It’s always been alluring to me, an element my mind would hook its foxy paws onto right away. While the lack of it wouldn’t bug me much, I’d always start to wonder about it later. Where does this character live, what’s their home look like? By no means am I arguing that this is an absolute necessity to make a good story. Every story has its own unique needs that can be filled however the creator sees fit. But for me, what I want to see and make more of, is something more down-to-earth. And while a good chunk of that is - admittedly - just me being a neurodivergent nerd, I feel like there’s something more to it. Forgive me for getting a little pretentious from here on out, but-

Mundanity in sci-fi is optimistic. It’s this tinge of reassurance that, no matter what happens, no matter how bad things get or how far we make it away from our home planet, we’re still individuals. Whether its huge, bombastic threats like scary evil aliens, or depressingly real ones like corporate overreach and profit motives, we will persist. There’s comfort in that.

When I get to see a character doing their morning routine in a world separated from our own by anything between decades to centuries, it feels good. Like the artist/writer is patting me on the head and saying “there there, things may be shit, but life isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” And maybe there’s a nihilistic twist on it, like propaganda on a television or corporate products lining a comfy home’s shelves, but that’s still a television or a home. They may come home from the Sub-Minimum Wage Employee Pulper 9,000™, and that will inherently be sympathetic, but when we get to see them toss their coat aside and go to the kitchen to make a lazy, unhealthy meal and slouch on their sofa and pick up a television remote to flip to their favorite channel, the connection that forms is irreplaceable.

And I feel that it’s severely underutilized. When I watched Andor for the first time (amazing show btw, check it out even if you aren’t the biggest fan of starred wars) and we got to see a character return to their mother’s apartment and eat space cereal with space milk, it was somehow one of the most jarring moments I’ve seen in a Star Wars thing. Living situations are oftentimes such an understated part of popular sci-fi media that I actually felt jarred upon seeing one. And I loved it.

That’s just how uncommon they can be. And I hate that. I hate that sci-fi loves to dismiss the mundanities of life, because those are when I feel the most at-home in a universe. I can immediately feel a character’s vibe if I see them kick their feet up in a messy impromptu living room in their spaceship. While you can put in the work to make me feel that same thing through dialogue and actions, it’s arguably even more work.

So next time you’re making a story, why not save yourself some trouble and show your audience a little snippet of day-to-day life in your world? Show us what a character’s phone looks like and how they use it, or maybe if they have a wallpaper (if applicable) or any stickers on the back of it? Or give us some tiny details about how they get from place to place. Is public transport a thing, do they own their own vehicle of some kind, or do they just walk? Hopefully these thoughts conjure the same kind of inspiration in you as the ones that run around wreaking havoc in my little fox brain.