#authentication division

[creativemedianews]

Bank of England currency printer De La Rue sold for £300m

Bank of England currency printer De La Rue sold for £300m #authenticationdivision #BankofEngland

[thefirstchoice]

~ John Meyer > BELLE EPOQUE to ART DECO. The First 40 years of 20th cent

How about . A Union of . *** "We the People" *** . For the PEOPLE? The United Country of . "We the People"

[felixwylde]

Hatred Runs

How deep-seated is this hatred? Or is it doing exactly what the title suggests…To me, a man with roots in East London, Ireland, and Norfolk, “the runs” implies having digestive issues.So perhaps it’s like that: hatred has diarrhea. That’s an interesting notion; maybe it will self-destruct.But that’s not what I intended. When did humans start despising each other? When did we decide that some…

[venussaidso]

Nodal Dominant Themes — 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (part 1) 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

Ardra, Swati, Shatabhisha embody Rahu qualities to the fullest. Breaking boundaries, whether they mean to or not, refining or rebuilding themselves by the way they absorb Maya (illusion), being thrown into foreign lands to create, explore and challenge existing paradigms. The ultimate mastery of Rahu nakshatras lies in recognizing that Maya is not the goal, but the process of refinement. This is shown in the natives' urge to learn, apply and cultivate something for themselves. This means that their initial stages have a lot of lack, and that's where that hunger to achieve and receive comes from. They'll take on challenges if it means there's an opportunity to fulfill themselves. In these following examples, the Rahuvian character is often given an opportunity to enter higher societies, usually through a job, a scholarship or from meeting the right person in the right time.

Swati Sun Julia Roberts, in Pretty Woman, plays a poor, sex worker who enters the high society through a billionaire and becomes 'refined'. Despite her glow up, her authenticity still contrasts with the pretentiousness of the high class social circle she finds herself in, challenging their perceptions of worth and class.

Much like Pretty Woman, in the film My Fair Lady, the Rahuvian meets a snobbish phonetics professor who wages that he can make her presentable in high society.

In the film Khoobsurat, Shatabhisha Moon Sonam Kapoor Ahuja plays a quirky physiotherapist who is ill-mannered and boundless. She is given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work for a royal family. There, she meets a handsome young Rajput prince who is her complete opposite (given that he is portrayed by a Mula Moon native, Fawad Khan, who adheres to the customs of his background, bound by his roots).

Despite their different social classes, the royal family learns a lot from her authenticity.

This theme of outer duality in which the native crosses over to a whole new world different from where they originally came from centers a lot around the 'poor vs rich' dynamic in these modern examples — exploring classism, elitism and other societal divisions which make outsiders.

As I briefly gave examples in this post, Shatabhisha can be linked to Cinderella. Which means that trine nakshatras can also inherit this theme of person from poor background falls in love with person from wealthy background. As shown in that post, the union is often with a Mula native. It was expected to find these Rahu-Ketu connections, as the nodes are always one with each other. Their themes can overlap, which I'll be going more into further down this post.

The Mula CEO also comes from old money.

Rahu thrives on venturing the unknown and embracing the unconventional, often shown in the trope of one falling in love with someone alien.

This otherworldly love is seen in Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, where a Rahuvian sailor falls in love with the mermaid, Syrena. Mermaids are captured and exploited by humans — immediately we see this theme of division. And unlike the other humans, he treats Syrena with respect and equality.

Syrena is portrayed by Mula Moon Astrid Berges-Frisbey, while the sailor is portrayed by Ardra Sun Sam Claflin. In the end, Philip becomes a merman and lives with Syrena underwater. This transformation that the Rahuvian goes through in order to unite with a lover of another species is also seen in the film Lisa Frankenstein, starring Shatabhisha Moon Kathryn Newton — although it's more in a Romeo-&-Juliet style.

The Rahuvian character, Lisa, falls in love with Creature, who is a living corpse portrayed by Magha ASC Cole Sprouse. Lisa kills herself in a tanning bed to join the Creature in death. Their union shows her alive, but mummified.

This theme of one overcoming the obstacle between them and the person they desire is seen yet again in the film Casper (1995). A girl, played by Magha ASC Christina Ricci, meets a ghost named Casper, who falls in love with her. Casper is voiced by Malachi Pearson who has potential Swati Moon. Casper's one wish is to be human again so that he can win her heart.

His wish is fulfilled but he can only be human up until midnight. His human form is portrayed by Swati Moon Devon Sawa.

In the Korean drama, Are You Human?, Shatabhisha Sun Gong Seung-yeon plays a bodyguard who is given an opportunity to protect an advanced humanoid whom she falls in love with. Another abnormal, interspecies relationship.

The humanoid is the clone of an heir of a rich conglomerate. The heir is portrayed by Magha Moon native Seo Kang-joon – him being born into wealth contrasts with her being brought up from a poorer background; we see this theme again of a cross over between two opposite worlds as she gets romantically entangled with him.

A lot of these pairings show Rahu's need to break taboos and seek authenticity over conformity, as these unions tend to be abnormal in a discriminatory society. As illusory as Rahu is by nature, it highlights the illusions within society and the challenges that come with it.

Rahu seeks to challenge conventions, forcing individuals to confront their biases, embrace diversity, and explore love in its most expansive ways; while Ketu can be detached from society in general, already transcending or dissociating from it altogether.

Now extending the old money archetype into this, we can see Rahuvians embodying this shabby, nonconforming, rough-around-the-edges, transformative archetype who'll be on the opposite end. As Ketu symbolizes the past, ancestral roots, tradition, the old way of doing things; Rahu symbolizes the future, foreignness, pursuit, a new way of doing things.

Old money often means adhering to strict family rituals, customs, and expectations. There's an expectation for the wealthy to marry their own, maintaining a cultural practice that has existed for centuries, a theme of Ketu as it means to preserve the past. But Rahu comes in as a disruptor, changing rules that seemed absolute, causing more confusion and tension. Rahu often seeks unity, even with our all differences.

Rahu and Ketu are always 180 degrees apart in a chart. This gives an understanding to how they're always on opposite sides of the same coin. So their union in these media examples often come with resistance and chaos.

The story of Romeo and Juliet is about a star-crossed love stuck in this push-&-pull between tradition and breaking free from tradition.

Rahu is symbolized as the head of a dragon, while Ketu is the tail. Together they remain in this endless chase, their nature defined by longing and separation. Maria and Tony from A West Side Story mirrors this nodal dynamic, as it's based on the classic Romeo and Juliet. Just as the nodes themselves are forever trapped in opposition and in an eternal chase, these lovers remain trapped by their differences. Their love and lives are destined to be cut short, signifying the impossible union between the opposing nodes in these forbidden love stories.

The tragic ending of Maria and Tony’s story reflects the inevitable nature of the nodes. In both Romeo and Juliet and A West Side Story, we see the power of love transcending societal barriers, yet this love is doomed by the very forces it seeks to overcome.

Ashwini nakshatra literally has the strongest ties in Romeo & Juliet (list).

Another pair of this nodal influence (Ketu-Ketu), with this exact theme, is Mavis and Johnny from the animation Hotel Transylvania. Mavis is voiced by Ashwini Moon Selena Gomez, and Johnny is voiced by Magha Sun Andy Samberg. Mavis is a vampire and Johnny is a human. Their worlds should never have had a crossover to begin with. But Johnny, being Magha, feels a sense of belonging with these monsters and Mavis instead of fearing them (a nod to the Mula archetype and Beauty-&-the-Beast trope, which, as I've stated before, can also manifest itself as Ketu-Ketu instead of Ketu-Jupiter... much like Belle and Rumpelstiltskin from Once Upon A Time, Belle being played by Mula Sun Emilie de Ravin and Rumpelstiltskin portrayed by Ashwini Sun Robert Carlyle — the show's own Beauty & the Beast).

Though light-hearted and comedic, their union was forbidden as monsters and humans should be kept apart to their own worlds due to past conflicts. Mavis' father, Dracula, goes to great lengths to separate the two, but then he realizes that their love is genuine and overcomes his prejudices.

The theme of letting go touches on Ketu's tendency to sever ties, signifying the lesson of how temporary things are, including love. The film Untamed Heart is a great example, perfectly encapsulating this theme between two Ketu natives.

And as Mars also rules Ashwini nakshatra, this can be a major focus.

Connecting Orpheus to Ashwini, so much of this nakshatra's themes are highlighted in this Greek myth. Ketu is associated with nature, animal caretaking, and taming wild beasts. This is seen in Orpheus's ability to charm animals, move trees and rocks, and even change the course of rivers, through his music. Music has been known as a form of comfort and healing, and Orpheus' music is so powerful that it hypnotizes wild beasts, even influencing Hades, the ruler of the underworld.

The mythological character loses the love of this life, Eurydice, and he is unable to accept her death. He becomes so desperate, filled with grief and fear, that he descends into the underworld to get Eurydice back. As Ashwini can be driven by selfishness, severance becomes a major lesson in their journey.

The musical film Black Orpheus (1959) is directed by Ashwini Sun, Magha ASC Marcel Camus, a black Brazilian retelling of the tale.

In Jason & the Argonauts (2000), Ashwini Moon Adrian Lester portrays Orpheus. In the animation Hell and Back, *Ashwini Moon Danny McBride voices Orpheus. In 1960s The Giants of Thessaly, Massimo Girotti portrays Orpheus and he has Moon in Magha (trine nakshatra to Ashwini). This obvious connection of Ashwini to Orpheus takes me back to the ruling deities, the Ashwini Kumaras. Ashwini can be related to partnership, soulmates, connected minds. Here, there's a theme of inseparability yet the nature of the nakshatra forces severance. Back to the tale — With just the charm of his music, Orpheus is able to convince Hades to bring Eurydice back to life, only under the condition that Orpheus never looks back at her when they leave the underworld. Overwhelmed with so much love, he's unable to help himself, as he fails and looks back at her as they neared the exit. This is how Orpheus loses Eurydice forever.

Similar to Orpheus, the Twelfth Doctor from Doctor Who spirals into madness and desperation after the death of his close companion, Clara Oswald. The Twelfth Doctor is played by Ashwini Sun native Peter Capaldi. His Aries relentlessness and selfishness has him breaking the laws of time to bring her back, just like Orpheus breaks the natural order of life to get Eurydice back.

Clara Oswald is interestingly nodal herself, being played by Ashwini native Jenna Coleman.

YouTube video link

His journey through grief and his refusal to let her go mirrors Orpheus's determination to challenge the natural order of life for love. In the end, Twelve's memories of Clara get wiped out when he is forced to sever ties with her. Clara remains dead and so does Eurydice. This makes these pairs star-crossed, as Ketu reminds us of the inevitability of loss and separation. With Mars there, it makes it an obvious theme with Ashwini nakshatra.

Orpheus tried to get Eurydice back after her death by seeking the realm of the dead as a mortal being. He finds the cave that led to Hades and slowly descended into the Underworld. He sang to Cerberus, a terrifying, three-headed monstrous watchdog, able to tame and charm the beast so that he enters. This theme of entering portals to other worlds and dimensions tends to be associated with Ketu, and I find it interesting that I am particularly seeing the magic within Ashwini nakshatra.

In the 2008 film Jumper, Ashwini Sun Hayden Christensen plays a young man who can teleport himself anywhere and everywhere due to a genetic anomaly. Regarding Doctor Who, the first female Doctor has indeed been played by an Ashwini native as well. And Ashwini Sun native Russell T Davies is the original showrunner & head writer of the 2005 revival of Doctor Who, starring Ashwini Sun David Tennant.

It is interesting that Ketu nakshatras also have this otherworldliness quality to them which is seen in having access to portals or dissociating into other realms. Although I have already explored this theme within the context of Anuradha nakshatra, there is still an undeniable nodal influence to it as I see these nakshatras frequently pop up in this genre of film.

Magha Sun Amy Adams' character in Enchanted falls into a well which is a portal to another world. In Alice in Wonderland (2010), Magha Moon and Swati Sun native Mia Wasikowska's character also falls into a portal to another world.

In the animation Caroline, Ashwini ASC and Shatabhisha Sun native Dakota Fanning voices a girl who finds a portal to another world. In 1953's Peter Pan, Ardra Sun Kathryn Beaumont voices Wendy who is taken to another magical world called Neverland by a boy named Peter Pan who's voiced by Shatabhisha Sun Bobby Driscoll. In 2003's Peter Pan live-action movie, Wendy is played by Ardra Moon Rachel Hurd-Wood, taken into this whole other reality of magic and wonder. In Hook (1991), adult Peter Pan is portrayed by Shatabhisha Moon and Swati ASC Robert Williams, the character a middle-aged lawyer from the modern world who returns to his magical origins. In the Korean drama Spice Up Our Love, Ashwini Moon Han Ji-hyun's character wakes up as the protagonist of the web novel she wrote. In the Korean drama W: Two Worlds Apart, Shatabhisha Sun Han Hyo-Joo gets sucked into a webtoon written by her father. There she falls in love with the protagonist who is played by Shatabhisha Moon Lee Jong-Suk, who gets gets sucked into her reality as well. In the Chinese drama Love Game in Eastern Fantasy, Mula Sun Esther Yu gets sucked into a video game novel as a supporting character. In The Wizard of Oz, Mula Moon and Ardra ASC Judy Garland plays a Kansas farm girl who is taken away in a tornado and ends up in the magical Land of Oz. In the series Emerald City, Ashwini Sun Adria Arjona is a Kansas nurse who is transported by a tornado to the Land of Oz. In the film Oz: The Great & Powerful, Ashwini Sun James Franco is a magician who is hurled away from Kansas into the wonderful land of Oz. In the 2013 animation Epic, Magha Moon Amanda Seyfried voices a young girl who finds herself transported into an alternate world and even falls in love with Ashwini Moon Josh Hutcherson's character (I highly recommend this film).

As Rahu is associated with illusions and exploring the foreign, we see this theme of escaping into simulations and dreamy worlds which one becomes absorbed in. This has been explored deeper within Swati nakshatra, which combines the arts and illusory tendencies of Rahu together.

The influence of the nodes often transcends the physical realm, embodying forces of spirituality, illusion and transformation together. But they both manifest differently in this theme. Rahu becomes absorbed in illusions (in form of the arts, simulations, imagination (ex. Peter Pan being the boy who is attached to Neverland because he never grows up — Neverland is an illusory place only found in the minds of children, this highlighting his attachment to illusions)); while Ketu tends to escape the material plane altogether, yearning transcendence and passing by realms to seek meaning and lessons.

In the film Meet Joe Black, Mula Sun Brad Pitt plays an otherworldly being who takes over the body of a man to experience Earth and be guided in the teachings & meaning of life. His very existence quite literally transcends time and space, which I relate to Ketu, as he is a mystery himself.

He is innately detached from human concerns like time, societal expectations, and permanence. But he falls in love with a human named Susan, who is also nodal-ruled, and his nature makes their connection doomed from the start. Susan is played by Mula Sun, Mula Moon native Claire Forlani. This making for another star-crossed pair because he can never fully participate in human life.

Going into the body-swapping trope, this calls to Rahu's desire to navigate a foreign perspective while Ketu seeks to transcend its rigid reality.

In the film Hot Chick (2002), Swati ASC Rachel McAdams plays a teenage girl who wakes up in the body of a 30-year-old male criminal played by Swati Sun and Ashwini Moon native Rob Schneider. In 1989's film Dream a Little Dream, an accident puts the consciousness of an elderly dream researcher played by Magha Moon Jason Robards into the body of a bratty teenager who is played by Mula Sun and Shatabhisha Moon native Corey Haim. Many more examples often include a Saturn nakshatra native as well, which I found very interesting. Hopefully I'll be circling back to that one day!

Rahu is thriving on the chaos of this trope since an entirely new identity is being explored (and lessons are learned as the social difference in one's gender, class, and even age tends to be highlighted for the ignorant one (Rahu essentially refining the native through this experience)).

The interaction of the nodes drive each other to a deeper understanding of life's illusions as it signifies letting go and refining oneself. In this little exploration, I got to understand that Ashwini is a romantic nakshatra which deals with loss and forced detachment due to Ketu. While Rahu nakshatras tend to be more romantic and igniting conflict in their pursuit of a love that's not right according to societal standards. This solidifies the image of the eternal chase of the dragon representing desire and detachment.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #19 死

† infiltration †

"When you ask about Sylvia, you are poking at wounds that run deeper than any knife Jeon's ever taken to the chest."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: the infiltration mission begins with motorcycle rides and pine-scented tension, jeon's impromptu marriage lie creates dangerous dynamics, seduction division training put to deadly use against fervio and kaleido, comm line conversations revealing painful histories, successful bug planting while y/n plays the most dangerous game of flirtation, and one name that changes everything

☠ author's note ☠

THE INFILTRATION MISSION IS FINALLY HERE!!! Can I just say how absolutely FERAL I am about this chapter?? Because holy SHIT did this turn out more intense than I planned. Originally this was going to be a straightforward "get in, plant bug, get out" situation but then my brain said "hey what if we make this psychologically devastating instead?" and here we are!

First off, let's talk about Jeon on that motorcycle because DEAR GOD. Writing him all leather-clad and dangerous while being simultaneously protective and calculating? *chef's kiss* The man really said "let me create the perfect storm of sexual tension and strategic brilliance" and then had the AUDACITY to pull that husband stunt. Like sir, who gave you permission to be that smooth under pressure? The way he reads Kaleido's predatory nature and immediately adapts the cover story? That's not just tactical genius, that's emotional intelligence wrapped in a bulletproof vest and it's SO fucking attractive.

But can we also discuss the absolute NIGHTMARE that is Fervio? Writing that character genuinely made my skin crawl. I spent SO much time researching the psychology of sadistic personalities to make him authentically terrifying without glorifying anything. The yellow contacts, the theatrical cruelty, the way he gets off on psychological manipulation—every detail was chosen to make readers feel the same visceral discomfort that Y/N experiences. And Y/N having to flirt with that monster while maintaining her cover? That girl deserves a medal for not throwing up or committing murder on the spot.

The comm line dynamics absolutely DESTROYED me to write. Having AD and Jeon's fractured relationship play out in real-time while Jeon's navigating enemy territory? The guilt, the anger, the way old wounds keep reopening? And then that slip about Sylvia—OOPS. Y/N hearing that name and filing it away for later? The way Jeon's walls SLAM back up the second she asks about it? I'm obsessed with how trauma shapes every interaction between these characters, how the past keeps bleeding into the present no matter how hard they try to compartmentalize.

Speaking of compartmentalizing—Y/N's performance in this chapter showcases exactly why she belongs in Seduction Division. The way she reads the room, adapts to Jeon's improvisation, keeps both psychopaths distracted while processing the horror of their situation? That's not just survival, that's mastery. She's not some damsel being protected; she's a professional doing her job under the worst possible circumstances. The balance between vulnerability and competence, between genuine fear and trained composure—that's what makes her such a compelling character.

The ending though? Jeon retreating back into his shell the moment Y/N shows curiosity about his past? PAIN. Pure, unadulterated emotional pain. He's so desperate to maintain distance, to keep his trauma locked away, but Y/N's already under his skin. She's asking the right questions and it terrifies him. Because letting someone see your wounds means risking them poking at them, and Jeon's been hurt enough for several lifetimes.

Next chapter is going to be... *evil laughter* ...let's just say the aftermath of this mission is going to hit DIFFERENT. Hope you're ready for some serious emotional excavation because these two aren't done processing what just happened. Not by a long shot.

Edit: Also, yeah. The coins was a post-editing addition because I’ve been watching the John Wick movies and I loved the coin system so I adapted it heheheheh. 🤭

— read on

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Pine is all you can smell right now.

It's annoying, really, how the air outside the night air hits different outside the castle. It's crisp—almost sharp against your skin.

And of course, because the universe loves to fuck with you, it's saturated with that distinct scent of pine and wood that follows Jeon everywhere.

You check your phone. 22:00. Perfect timing.

The moon's doing that thing where it makes everything look like a noir film, all dramatic shadows and silver light washing over the castle grounds. It's actually kind of pretty, in a moody sort of way.

Jeon's walking ahead of you, and god—even his walk is intimidating.

The air around him swirls slightly, tinged with static. Like a thunderstorm incoming.

You're starting to think his whole 'I must look badass 24/7' thing is just his default setting.

The gravel crunches under his boots as he approaches his bike. It's this sleek, black monster of a machine that somehow manages to look both elegant and menacing.

Just like its owner, you think, watching him move with that fluid grace that comes from years of... well, probably things you'd rather not think about.

He opens a compartment on the bike, pulling out leather gloves with an ease that makes it look like he's done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably has. The way he slides them on is almost hypnotic—not that you're staring or anything.

(d̶e̶f̶i̶n̶i̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ maybe staring.)

Then he's got two helmets in his hands, checking them over like he's inspecting weapons.

Everything's a tactical operation with this man, isn't it?

He puts his on first, and suddenly Chief Jeon of Tactical Assassinations is fully activated. The transformation would be impressive if it wasn't so intense.

The second helmet comes flying at you without warning.

Your hands scramble to catch it—which you do, thankfully, because dropping it would be mortifying. But then comes the real challenge: actually putting the damn thing on.

The straps are being particularly bitchy tonight. They keep slipping through your fingers like they're coated in butter or something. You're probably making this look way harder than it needs to be, but whatever.

You catch Jeon watching you, and there's this tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It's barely there, but you've learned to spot these micro-expressions of his. The fact that you can read him at all is probably something you should worry about later.

"You always manage to make the simplest tasks look like a battle," he says, voice slightly muffled by his helmet.

The words should sting, but there's this undercurrent of... something else. Something almost playful, if you didn't know better.

He steps closer, and fuck—the wind hits you full force.

It's like being caught in the eye of a storm, where everything's calm but you know there's chaos just inches away.

His gloved hands reach for the straps, and despite the leather barrier, his touch is weirdly gentle.

Clinical, sure, but gentle.

"There," he says, and it's just one word but it feels loaded.

You make the mistake of looking up at his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that make you feel like you're being dissected and devoured all at once.

"Thanks," you manage to say, keeping your voice steady because you refuse to let him see how much he affects you. "I guess I'm still not used to all this."

He takes a step back, and you can breathe again. His expression is back to that unreadable mask he wears so well.

"You're still fairly new, you've got time to learn. Everyone does, eventually."

Silence. Words hovering between you, carried by the night breeze.

If you were s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ optimistic enough, you might think his voice had softened just a bit. But you know better.

You've learned better.

"We should get going," he says, breaking whatever moment was building. "We have a long night ahead of us."

Yeah, you think. A long night of pretending this tension doesn't exist.

Jeon swings his leg over the bike with this fluid grace that's honestly unfair, engine purring beneath him like some mechanical beast waiting to be unleashed.

You climb on after him, trying (and probably failing) to look half as graceful. The leather seat is cool against your thighs, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you need to be.

Fuck it.

You wrap your arms around his torso, hands splaying across his abdomen. Even through his jacket, you can feel how solid he is—all muscle, all heat, like a human furnace.

The proximity makes your skin tingle where you're pressed against him.

He goes completely still for a moment. You feel his breath catch, just slightly. Then he relaxes, and you could swear the air shifts, becoming less stormy, more like a breeze.

The engine growls louder as he revs it.

"Hold on tight," he says, and you know that tone. That's his 'I'm-about-to-be-a-little-shit' voice. "Don't let go."

You barely have time to process the warning before he twists the throttle.

The bike lurches forward and—holy shit—you slam back against him, the sudden acceleration catching you completely off guard. A very u̶n̶d̶i̶g̶n̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ surprised yelp escapes you as he immediately cuts the speed, leaving you pressed firmly against his back.

The bastard chuckles. You can feel it rumble through his chest where you're plastered against him.

"Gotta hold on tighter than that, sunshine," he taunts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Don't want you flying off the back now."

You smack his shoulder, hard enough to mean business but not enough to actually hurt.

Not that you could probably hurt him anyway. He's like a fucking brick wall.

"You're such a dick," you mutter, but you're fighting back a smile he can't see.

You can practically feel his shit-eating grin and you're starting to think this whole helmet struggle earlier was just an excuse to mess with you.

"Maybe I should drive," you say, matching his teasing tone. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to act like a proper adult."

"In your dreams, sunshine." The pet name rolls off his tongue like honey-coated poison. "Now hold on properly, unless you want another demonstration."

You tighten your grip around him—maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary. Your chest presses flush against his back, and you swear you feel his breath hitch again.

"Just drive the damn bike, Jeon," you say, trying to sound annoyed but probably failing miserably.

"Yes ma'am," he drawls, and this time when he revs the engine, the acceleration is smooth as silk as you both glide into the darkness.

The bike thunders beneath you, eating up the empty backroads leading away from the castle.

You catch glimpses of city lights in the distance, little pinpricks of civilization breaking through the darkness.

Jeon handles the bike like it's an extension of himself, without exaggeration.

His back is solid against your chest, and you're definitely n̶o̶t̶ totally noticing how the leather jacket stretches across his shoulders with each turn. One gloved hand stays steady on the throttle while the other grips the handlebar confidently.

The road then straightens out, and Jeon takes full advantage.

The engine roars as he opens up the throttle, and you instinctively press closer. Your thighs tighten around the bike, and you swear you feel him tense for a split second before relaxing again.

After that, your world becomes a blur of shadows and occasional bursts of neon. Each mile brings you closer to the city, that concrete jungle where your target is hiding.

The buildings start growing taller, streets getting busier, and Jeon weaves through traffic with this contained impatience that you feel in your bones. Every block brings you deeper into enemy territory, and you can't help but think about what's waiting at the end of this ride.

God, you think, this is actually happening.

The bike slows as Jeon turns down an alley, the engine's growl echoing off brick walls before he kills it.

You've stopped beside this completely unremarkable door that somehow manages to look threatening anyway.

Because you know what's behind it.

Who's behind it.

Jeon pulls off his helmet, and those dark eyes find yours.

They're intense, focused—the kind of look that makes your stomach do this weird flip thing you're choosing to ignore.

"We're here," he says, voice low and serious.

You resist the urge to say 'no shit.'

Barely.

Jeon slides off the bike and you follow, yanking off the helmet and running fingers through your hair to fix whatever mess the wind made of it.

The alley you're in is sketchy as fuck—all grimy walls and creepy shadows.

And to add onto that—a siren wails somewhere in the distance before dying out, and you can't help but think how perfectly ominous that is.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together.

The mission brief keeps playing in your head like some twisted PowerPoint presentation: get in, play nice with the bad guys, wait for the lights to go out.

Easy peasy.

Right.

No pressure or anything—just the tiny matter of infiltrating a rival gang's hideout.

Then, Jeon is moving—towards the grimy door.

Wind cuts through the clothing that shields you from the force of nature he is.

You follow close behind, channeling every ounce of that Seduction Division training into looking like you absolutely belong here. Time to put on the mask, become whoever these assholes need you to be.

Jeon knocks on the door—two quick taps, one long, two quick. The sound bounces off the alley walls before getting swallowed by the night.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence and your heartbeat doing this annoying thing where it won't slow the fuck down.

Then comes the click of locks, and the door swings open to reveal this absolute unit of a guy. His face is mostly shadow, but his suspicion? That's crystal clear.

He gives you both this once-over that practically screams 'I don't trust you,' but steps aside anyway.

Jeon walks in first, and you follow his lead, channeling your inner bad bitch because that's what's gonna keep you alive tonight.

The inside is like every seedy underground bar in every crime movie ever, except the smell is worse. It's this nasty cocktail of booze and something sickeningly sweet that makes your nose want to revolt. You force yourself not to react, keeping your face neutral even though your lungs are screaming.

You weave through the crowd behind Jeon, feeling eyes tracking your movement. Some look curious, others suspicious, but most are too wasted or high to give a shit. You keep your head high, shoulders back, playing the role of someone who's seen it all and isn't impressed.

Jeon posts up at the bar like he's been coming here his whole life. When the bartender comes over, Jeon pulls this smile that's all teeth and zero warmth. It's kind of terrifying how good he is at this.

"We're here to see Kaleido," he says, smooth as silk. "Tell him the traders he's been expecting have arrived."

The bartender's got a sour face on. "I don't know any Kaleido," he says, flat and cold.

But Jeon? He doesn't even blink. Just does this thing where he bites the inside of his cheek—which is not distracting at all—and pulls out two golden coins, sliding them across the counter like he's dealing cards.

"We're the new faces in town," he says, casual as fuck. "Kaleido is expecting us."

You resist the urge to smirk. Because damn, he's good at this.

The bartender snatches up the coins like they personally offended him. His eyes flick between the metal and your faces, doing that thing where he's trying real hard to catch you in a lie. You keep your face neutral even though your stomach's doing gymnastics.

After what feels like fucking forever, he gives this tiny nod that probably killed him inside and slides the coins in his pocket.

"Wait here," he grunts, disappearing through a door that's seen better days.

You fight the urge to bounce your leg or fidget with your clothes or do any of the thousand nervous tells that would blow your cover right now.

The wait is excruciating. You're about to lose your mind when the bartender finally emerges with this dude looks like he bench presses cars for fun, with a face that's all hard angles and zero emotion. He doesn't say a word, just jerks his head toward the back like you're supposed to know what that means.

Jeon pushes off the bar, and the way he straightens up is somehow both lazy and intimidating. He tilts his head slightly—your cue to follow. Your heart's going absolutely feral in your chest, but you've got your game face locked down tight.

No backing out now.

You follow Jeon and Mr. Mountain through the crowd.

The place is exactly what you'd expect from a seedy underground bar—sketchy people having sketchy conversations over even sketchier drinks.

The hallway they lead you down is grimy as fuck, and you can hear music thumping through the walls from somewhere nearby.

Muscles McGee opens a door to what has to be the most depressing room you've ever seen—dim, small, and probably hasn't seen a cleaning crew since the 90s.

"Kaleido will be with you shortly," he rumbles, and his voice matches his appearance perfectly—like gravel in a blender.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with Jeon.

His eyes find yours in the low light, and there's this whole conversation happening without words.

You both know what's at stake here.

One wrong move and you're both d̶e̶a̶d̶ screwed.

The door swings open again, and in walks this guy who looks like he raided a rapper's closet. His suit probably costs more than your yearly salary, and he's wearing enough gold to fund a small country.

He gives you this dismissive once-over that makes your blood boil before turning to Jeon with barely concealed suspicion.

"Was told to expect the woman," he drawls, sounding bored out of his mind. "Didn't mention anything about a man crashing our little party."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Men.

Jeon's eyes narrow just a fraction, but you jump in before he can say something that'll probably piss everyone off.

"I'm the one you're here to meet," you say, keeping your voice smooth and professional. "My associate is—"

"Her husband," Jeon cuts in, voice like silk over steel.

The word rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it his whole life instead of pulling it out of his ass two seconds ago.

You shoot him a look that could curdle milk.

Husband? Really?

But Jeon's locked onto Kaleido like a sniper on his target, completely ignoring your death glare. His jaw is set in that way that means he's about to be a stubborn ass about something.

Kaleido's laugh is sharp and mocking, the kind that makes you want to punch teeth.

"Her husband?" He looks between you both like this is the funniest shit he's seen all week. "What, she needs a big scary guard dog to hold her hand during business deals?"

You watch Jeon's jaw clench, the muscle jumping under his skin. But his voice stays steady, dangerous in its calmness.

"More like insurance."

You clear your throat, loud enough to make a point.

"As I was saying"—and you put just enough emphasis on that word to let Jeon know you'll be having words about this later—"my associate and I have some opportunities that might interest you. The kind that makes serious money."

Kaleido finally tears his eyes away from Jeon to look at you, and something in his gaze makes your skin recoil.

"Well then," he drawls, dropping into his chair like a king on his throne, "let's talk business."

His eyes rake over you both, lingering a bit too long for comfort.

"Impress me."

You meet his stare head-on because fuck that—you're not some rookie who's gonna get intimidated by his wannabe mob boss act.

Time to put all that Seduction Division training to work.

You've got a whole script of lies ready to roll off your tongue, each one crafted to hook this smug bastard right where you want him.

Game fucking on.

You start laying out the deal, watching Kaleido's face shift from bored rich boy to actually interested businessman. But part of your brain is still stuck on Jeon's little improvisation. Because Jeon doesn't do random—every move is calculated, every word chosen for maximum effect.

He saw something in Kaleido that made him change the plan.

And whatever it was, it was bad enough to make him go full protective mode.

"So these new routes we've set up?" You tap the documents as you slide them across the table, keeping your voice casual but confident. "They'll keep the good shit flowing steady. Premium grade only—none of that watered-down crap."

Kaleido snatches up the papers like they're made of gold, those calculating eyes scanning every detail. His perfectly manicured finger stops at something, and his face does this thing where he's trying to look unimpressed but you can tell he's interested.

"End of next week? With customs breathing down everyone's neck lately?" He clicks his tongue. "That's a bold claim."

His eyes lock onto yours, and it feels like being dissected. You can feel the cold breeze intensify beside you, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

But you've got this. This is what you were trained for.

"Yeah, customs is a bitch lately," you say with a knowing smirk, leaning forward slightly. "Good thing we've got someone on the inside who's very invested in looking the other way."

You tap the timeline sheet with one perfectly manicured nail.

"See this? Already factored in their... cooperation. We might work outside the law, but we're not stupid about it."

Kaleido stares at the paper for what feels like forever, then his eyes snap back to you. His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and suddenly he's grinning like you just told him his favorite candy is back in store. He claps once, the sound sharp and jarring in the small room.

"Well, fuck me," he says, sounding genuinely impressed. "You actually know what you're talking about."

He stands up, straightening his ridiculous designer suit.

"There's someone else who needs to hear this. Come on."

He gestures toward a door at the back of the room like some fancy maître d' inviting you to the VIP section.

You catch Jeon's eye for a split second—just long enough to see the tension in his jaw.

Something's off about this whole thing, but you're in too deep to back out now.

You follow Kaleido down this sketchy-ass hallway.

The subvocal mic hidden in your collar is tiny but feels like it weighs a ton as you activate it.

"What the fuck was that husband shit about?" you whisper, making sure your lips barely move. "Because I know you didn't just pull that out of your ass for fun."

Jeon's voice comes through your earpiece, quiet but crystal clear.

"Guys like him?" There's a edge to his voice that makes your skin prickle. "They see single women as prey. Trust me on this one."

Oh. Well, shit.

You throw a glance over your shoulder, brows furrowed because what the actual fuck is going on in that tactical brain of his. But Jeon's already explaining through the subvocals, his voice low and steady in your ear.

"These types get off on finding weak spots they can dig their fingers into," he murmurs, and something in his tone makes your skin prickle. "A couple? That's like serving them weakness on a silver fucking platter."

You have to fight to keep your voice down. "So you just painted a giant fucking target on our backs for fun?"

"Think of it as controlled bait," he says, and you can practically hear that annoying smirk in his voice. "They see what looks like an obvious pressure point, but they also see two people who won't let the other out of their sight. Can't divide what won't separate."

Kaleido throws this look over his shoulder that's trying way too hard to be casual. You flash him your best trophy-wife smile before turning back to your hushed conversation.

"I don't like playing from behind," you breathe into the mic. "If this blows up in our faces—"

"It won't." The certainty in his voice would be irritating if you didn't know how that big brain of his works. "Guys like Kaleido? They're like snakes. They won't strike without knowing exactly where to sink their fangs. Marriage looks like an easy weak spot to exploit, but it also means they have to be real careful about how they play it. Nobody wants to poke a bear and its mate."

You chew on your bottom lip as you follow Kaleido through another door into what looks like some bougie conference room from hell.

"So what you're saying is," you whisper, working it out, "we look like an easy mark, but we're actually too much of a pain in the ass to fuck with directly?"

The tiny nod he gives is barely perceptible. "Bingo. It's all about the balance—make him think he's got leverage, but make him second-guess using it."

You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The pieces are starting to click into place.

"Okay, yeah. I get what you're doing here."

It's actually kind of brilliant, in a fucked-up way. Present a tempting target that's also too risky to take a shot at.

Classic Jeon strategy—making someone think they've got the upper hand while he's actually ten steps ahead.

You just hope his read on Kaleido is as accurate as he thinks it is.

The new room is bigger, fancier, trying way too hard to look impressive.

But what catches your attention isn't the tacky decor—it's the guy sprawled in this throne-like chair (what's with these people and thrones?). His hair's this violent shade of red, styled up in a mohawk that screams 'look at me, I'm dangerous.'

But it's his eyes that make your stomach drop.

Yellow contacts that make him look like some kind of Boomslang sizing up its next meal.

You feel Jeon go completely still beside you, every muscle in his body coiled tight. The air around him sharpens into something deadly, and you just know this situation just went from bad to absolutely fucked.

"Where the fuck are you going?" AD's voice cuts through your earpiece, sharp and irritated.

You tilt your head slightly, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. "Kaleido brought us to meet someone else. Apparently, they're very interested in our deal."

"Who?" The way AD snaps the word makes your skin prickle.

"Red mohawk. Yellow contacts. Looks like he raided some goth's closet," you murmur, trying to keep the tension out of your voice.

There's this pause that feels heavy enough to crush your lungs.

Then AD's voice comes back, cold as ice: "That's Fervio."

"Motherfucker," Jeon mutters under his breath, and the fact that he's breaking radio silence to curse tells you everything you need to know about how deeply shit you are.

You glance between Mohawk Guy—Fervio—and Jeon, trying to piece together why everyone's suddenly acting like you're standing in front of Death himself.

Your confusion must show somehow through the comms because AD starts talking again, his voice tight with barely contained urgency.

"Listen carefully. Fervio's not just another MDF thug. He's their fucking torture specialist." There's a rustling sound, like AD's leaning closer to his mic. "We're talking serious psychological damage. The kind of shit that keeps other psychopaths up at night. Makes V look like a boy scout."

"Hey!" V's voice cuts in, sounding actually offended. "I have standards, okay? And do you know how hard it is to get blood out of designer suits?"

"Both of you, shut up," RM's voice slices through the chatter, cold and commanding. "Get out. Now. Before he decides you look interesting."

You watch Fervio rise from his chair with this fluid grace that makes your skin crawl, yellow eyes locking onto you both like a snake spotting mice.

"We can't," you breathe into the comm, keeping your face neutral even though your heart's trying to punch through your ribs. "Backing out now would be suspicious as fuck."

Great, you think. Just great.

Of all the psychos in MDF, you had to run into their resident Hannibal Lecter.

Before AD can continue with his rant, J-Hope's voice cuts in, sharp and deadly serious.

"Listen here, you little shit," he hisses, and you've never heard him sound this intense before. "That psycho in front of you? I've had to put his victims back together. Multiple fucking times. And let me tell you something—there usually isn't enough left to work with. The things he does to people? That's not normal torture. That's not even human. He's a fucking monster wearing people skin for fun."

Your stomach does this violent flip thing, but you keep your face perfectly blank. Years of Flower's training kicking in as Fervio stalks toward you.

Those yellow contacts make him look like something that crawled out of a horror movie, and that smile—fuck, that smile is all kinds of wrong.

Next to you, Jeon's whole soul has turned deadly, like the kind of storm that levels entire cities. His body is coiled so tight you can practically hear his muscles screaming, ready to launch at Fervio's throat at the smallest wrong move.

"We need to find another way," you breathe into the comm, barely moving your lips. "But if we bolt now, this place turns into a fucking slaughterhouse. We stick to the plan."

AD starts cursing in your ear, and J-Hope's protests get even more colorful, but you tune them out.

Time to put on the performance of your life.

You stretch your lips into what you hope is a convincing smile and extend your hand to Fervio.

"Pleasure to meet you," you say, voice steady despite your heart trying to punch through your ribcage. "Kaleido mentioned you might be interested in what we're offering."

Your skin crawls when Fervio takes your hand. His grip is too tight, too deliberate, and he holds on way longer than necessary as he brings your knuckles to his lips in this theatrical gesture that makes you want to g̶a̶g̶ grimace. Those yellow eyes never leave yours, gleaming with something that looks too much like hunger.

"A pleasure indeed," he practically purrs, and the way he says it makes you feel like you need a shower.

You force yourself to stay still, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into keeping your expression pleasant and engaged.

"The pleasure's mine. Your reputation precedes you."

Please, you think, let us get through this without anyone getting skinned alive.

Those creepy yellow contacts slide over to Jeon, and you watch Fervio size him up. "And who's the strong, silent type?"

"Her husband," Kaleido cuts in before either of you can speak, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction. "Though he doesn't seem too keen on... friendly conversation."

Fervio's laugh is sharp and ugly, like broken glass scraping metal. "Oh, I get it. The big scary guard dog act, right? All growl, no real bite. What, they keep you on a leash, make sure no one gets too handsy with the missus?"

You feel Jeon's hurricane darken dangerously, but his voice stays deadly calm.

"Trust me, she doesn't need protection. She's perfectly capable of handling herself."

Your hand shoots out to grip his bicep—partly to stop him from doing something stupid, partly to ground yourself. When he glances at you, his tongue flicks out to play with his lip ring.

"I'm sure my husband"—and god, that word feels weird in your mouth—"would appreciate it if we skipped the implications and got down to business."

You can feel Jeon practically vibrating with tension under your grip, so you squeeze his arm just a bit harder.

Don't, you try to telegraph through the touch. He's testing us. Don't give him what he wants.

Fervio's eyes dart between you and Jeon, calculating and hungry, before settling back on you.

"Of course, my sincerest apologies," he says, in a tone that suggests he's about as sorry as a cat in a canary shop. "Let's discuss this fascinating deal of yours."

He sinks back into his chair with a loud thud, and you take the seat across from him whilst Jeon drops into the chair beside you. His presence is both comforting and terrifying—like having a loaded gun pressed against your back. Protection and danger all wrapped up in one p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ lethal package.

Fervio leans back, threading his fingers together like some b̶u̶l̶l̶s̶h̶i̶t̶ wannabe movie villain. The smile playing around his lips makes your skin crawl. It's the kind of smile that says he knows exactly how much power he holds in this room, and he can't wait to use it.

"So," Fervio drawls, and his voice makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "Partnership's a delicate thing, isn't it? All about that... give and take."

You nod, studying his face like you're trying to read a book written in blood.

"That's right. We're always looking for deals that work out for everyone involved."

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Everyone involved? Now that's interesting. I've always enjoyed... expanding my circle. Trying new things. Meeting new friends."

You force yourself to stay still. "Well, they do say variety keeps life interesting."

Jeon clears his throat, this tiny sound that somehow manages to carry a death threat.

Fervio's attention snaps to him like a rubber band, and fuck—those yellow eyes are practically glowing now.

"What about you, tough guy?" Fervio's words drip with mock sweetness. "You like getting your hands dirty, or do you just stand there looking pretty while the missus handles business?"

You feel Jeon's muscles coil under your touch. His jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding.

"I do whatever needs doing," he says, voice cold enough to freeze hell. "And I never just stand there."

"Ooh, feisty," Fervio actually fucking giggles, and it's the most unsettling sound you've ever heard. "I like that in a man."

Your brain is going a mile a minute, mapping every possible way this could go sideways.

The clock on the wall reads 22:45.

Fifteen minutes.

Just fifteen fucking minutes until the power goes out and you can stop playing nice with this psycho.

You lean in, like you're actually interested in whatever sick shit he's suggesting.

"So what exactly did you have in mind for this partnership?"

Fervio's mouth opens, probably to say something horrifying, but you cut him off with a perfectly timed cough.

"Of course," you add quickly, matching his suggestive tone, "we'd need to explore all the possibilities first. Make sure everyone's needs are met."

"Oh, I like you," he purrs, and his smile is all teeth and zero warmth. "I have so many... creative ideas we could try. I've gotten quite good at finding that sweet spot between pleasure and screaming."

You feel Jeon tense beside you, practically vibrating with the need to put a bullet between Fervio's eyes. Your fingers dig into his arm, silently begging him to keep it together.

"We're always eager to learn new methods," you say, keeping your voice light. "As long as they get results."

His laugh sounds like gravel in a blender. "Trust me, sweetheart. My methods always get results. I've turned it into an art form."

22:50.

You maintain your flirty smile even though you want nothing more than to dump bleach on your brain to wash away this entire conversation.

Ten more minutes, you think. Just ten more minutes of not punching this creep in his stupid face.

You force yourself to lean forward, all casual interest like you're not sitting across from a literal psychopath.

"Maybe we should talk specifics first. You know—terms, guarantees, all that boring but necessary shit."

"Of course, of course." Fervio's smile promises pain. "Always good to handle business before... other matters."

He starts laying out some proposal, but you're only half listening. Your eyes keep darting to the clock while trying to look like they're not. Jeon's still beside you, watching Fervio like he's mentally cataloging all the ways he could end him.

22:55. Five more minutes of this psychological torture session.

You can practically feel AD's planned blackout humming in the air—or maybe that's just your nerves making shit up.

You keep nodding, throwing out questions designed to keep Fervio talking. The more he talks, the more he reveals just how fucked in the head he is. But you're careful—dancing on the edge of interest without actually promising anything.

"That's an... interesting approach," you say, watching his yellow eyes light up at your apparent engagement. "Very creative."

Kaleido shifts in his seat, and you catch this tiny frown crossing his face. Someone's starting to smell something fishy.

But then it happens.

23:00 hits, and everything goes black.

The darkness feels like a goddamn blessing after staring at those creepy yellow contacts.

You let out this little laugh, playing it cool. "Well, this is getting atmospheric."

"Indeed it is," Fervio practically purrs, and fuck—his voice has dropped into something that makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "The darkness has a way of... bringing out our true natures."

You can feel Kaleido's tension from here. He's not buying this convenient timing, but Fervio's too caught up in his own twisted fantasy to notice.

"They do say the best deals happen in the dark," you drawl, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into your voice. "When you can't see the fine print."

Come on, you think. Just keep them distracted for a few more minutes.

The darkness is so thick you could probably drown in it, and somewhere in it, Fervio is getting way too excited about this whole situation. But you've got bigger problems than his murder boner—like making sure Kaleido doesn't put two and two together before you can complete the mission.

You feel Jeon slip away like a ghost, silent and deadly in the darkness.

Kaleido's head snaps toward the movement—fuck, he's sharp.

Time to do what you do best: be really fucking distracting.

Your hand finds Kaleido's arm, touch light enough to seem inviting rather than desperate.

"Hey now," you purr. "Don't get distracted. We were just getting to the fun part, weren't we? There's enough entertainment to keep everyone happy."

You hear Kaleido's breath hitch—gotcha. "Is that right?" His voice has that edge of interest that tells you he's taking the bait.

Hook, line, and s̶u̶c̶k̶e̶r̶ sinker.

But then Fervio's voice cuts through, a bit irritated. "Fun is an art form. It's not about how many players are in the game. It's about how thoroughly you can explore each possibility."

Something touches your hand—Fervio's fingers, cold and invasive. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, but you hold steady. Years of training kick in, and you force yourself to lean into the touch instead of breaking his fucking fingers.

"Couldn't agree more," you say, making your voice all honey and smoke. "Quality over quantity, right? Though sometimes..." You let the words hang there, suggestive. "A little variety can make things interesting."

Fervio's laugh makes your skin want to crawl right off your body and run for the hills.

"Let's keep our friend out of this particular equation," he says, and there's steel under that fake playfulness. "I prefer my entertainment more concentrated. Just us three."

You paint on a smile he can't see in the dark, grateful for small mercies.

"Whatever you say," you reply, like you're actually disappointed. "Your house, your rules."

The minutes drag by like years. Your heart's going so hard you're amazed they can't hear it, but you keep talking, keep flirting, keep Kaleido's suspicions buried under layers of innuendo and suggestion.

Every time Fervio opens his mouth, something more twisted comes out, but you dance around his sick fantasies like you're actually interested.

Come on, Jeon, you think. Hurry the fuck up.

You remind yourself that every creepy comment, every time Fervio's hand 'accidentally' brushes yours, every moment you have to pretend his psycho ass is fascinating—it's all getting you closer to bringing these bastards down.

This is what you trained for. This is what you're good at.

And when those lights come back on, you'll walk out of here without a scratch, leaving these fuckers none the wiser.

Because that's what you do. That's who you are.

You're not just some pretty distraction.

You're a goddamn professional.

This fucking hideout is a maze—that's all Jungkook can think as he tries to move through silently.

The mission weighs on his shoulders, made heavier by AD's voice crackling through his earpiece—sharp, cold, and deliberately sparse with information.

"Left. Next intersection."

His eyes scan the dim corridor, searching for any sign of the server room. Or worse—company.

The lack of proper directions makes his jaw clench. AD's being difficult on purpose, and they both know it.

A soft shuffle of footsteps echoes from around the corner. His body moves on instinct, melting into a shadowed alcove. The wall is cold against his back as some MDF grunt walks past, completely oblivious to the death that could have been waiting for them.

"Almost got made," he mutters into the comm, keeping his voice low. "Your directions are fucking useless."

The silence that follows is loaded.

"Oh no, what a tragedy that would be. What would we do without our perfect Captain America?"

The words hit exactly where AD means them to—right in that raw spot that never quite heals.

But Jungkook swallows it down, like he always does. Like he deserves to.

"Just focus on the fucking mission."

"Whatever you say." AD's voice drips acid. "Next right, straight down. Try not to die—the paperwork's a bitch, and I'd hate to waste my time processing your replacement."

His teeth grind together so hard his jaw aches. The guilt sits heavy in his chest, a constant companion these days. AD never lets him forget what happened with Sylvia, never misses a chance to twist the knife.

But that's fine. He deserves that too.

The mission is what matters. Everything else—the guilt, AD's hatred, the constant reminder of his failures—that's just background noise. He's gotten good at drowning it out.

Focus on the objective, he thinks. Nothing else matters.

(But god, some days the weight of it all feels like it might finally break him.)

"Thanks for the fucking concern," Jungkook mutters, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Not that he expects anything else from AD these days.

"Don't flatter yourself." AD's voice crackles with venom through the comm. "I'm here for the mission. You're just the unfortunate means to an end."

Each step feels heavier than the last, weighted down by years of AD's cultivated hatred.

But the mission is what matters.

That's what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

Has to keep telling himself.

The LED lights overhead cast these long, twisted shadows that remind him too much of things he'd rather forget.

Of Sylvia. Of choices he can't take back. Of the way everything went so spectacularly wrong.

"Left door," AD says, clipped and cold. "Try not to fuck this up too."

Jungkook's hand pauses over the doorknob, metal cool against his palm. He presses his ear to the door, listening for movement, for breath, for anything that might mean trouble. Nothing but silence answers back.

"You know," he breathes, slipping into the room like a ghost, "with how much you hate me, you'd think I killed her myself."

The laugh that comes through his earpiece is ugly. "Didn't you? Might as well have handed her the gun yourself."

He's right, of course. Jungkook deserves every bit of venom AD spits at him.

He simply exhales. Ignores the guilt that threatens to choke him.

"Moving on," he says quietly, both an update and a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Yeah, better hurry," AD sneers. "Clock's ticking, and we both know how good you are at getting people killed when you're running out of time."

"Crystal fucking clear," Jungkook grits out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But pain is familiar territory these days. Almost comforting, in a twisted way.

"Door on your left, five meters." AD's voice is clinical now, professional.

Sometimes that's worse than the open hostility.

At least hatred is honest.

"Could you at least pretend not to want me dead?" Jungkook mutters.

"Maybe if you hadn't gotten Sylvia killed, I would."

It hits him like a bullet between the ribs, the name.

Sylvia.

It always comes back to her, doesn't it?

That night haunts every interaction with AD, turning what used to be friendship into this twisted thing full of barbs and old wounds.

"I know."

It's all he can say. All he's allowed to say, really. Some apologies are just fucking pointless.

The server room is exactly what he expected—all blinking lights and humming machines. Perfect place to hide a bug.

His hands move on autopilot while his mind keeps circling back to AD's words like picking at a scab.

"Focus, Jeon." AD's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Get the job done and get out."

Jungkook crouches down, finding a spot that'll give them good coverage. The familiar motions of planting surveillance gear almost feel like penance. Almost. His fingers work quickly, efficiently, working with the kind of precision his father drilled into him.

The comm line goes quiet. AD's probably stewing in his anger, replaying old memories like a fucked-up highlight reel.

Jungkook knows because he does the same thing.

"Bug's planted," he whispers, straightening up. "Moving out."

There's this pause—longer than usual. Like AD's wrestling with something.

When he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "Watch your back."

It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's... something.

A tiny crack in the wall of hatred AD's built between them.

Maybe it's just muscle memory from their old friendship, or maybe AD's just too tired to maintain the rage.

Either way, it doesn't change anything.

Some mistakes can't be undone, some bridges stay burned.

And dead people always stay dead.

Jungkook heads back the way he came, knowing he needs to hurry. He can't afford any mistakes, not now—not ever again, really. Time's running out, and he can't afford to fuck this up too.

"Move your ass, Jeon. You got less than a minute."

AD's voice has faded to white noise in his ear, like a storm that's finally burned itself out.

But the urgency remains, thrumming under his skin like a fucking hornets' nest.

And his mind isn't helpful—keeps circling back to everything riding on this—the mission, the intel, the fact that you're still in that room with those psychos.

A drop of sweat slides down his temple, and he forces himself to focus.

No room for distractions. Not now.

He's almost at the final corner, freedom just fucking there, when he catches the low rumble of voices. His body reacts before his brain, pressing flat against the wall in a shadowed spot. His breath comes shallow and quiet as footsteps approach.

The seconds crawl by like years. Each heartbeat feels too loud, each breath a risk. The guards' voices drift closer, then past, then fade into nothing.

The moment the footsteps disappear, Jungkook moves.

Those last few meters might as well be a mile, but he covers them in seconds. The lights could come back any moment, and if he's not in that room when they do—

He slides into his seat beside you, forcing his breathing to stay steady even though his heart's trying to punch through his ribs.

The power surges back on immediately. The sudden brightness makes his eyes burn, but there's no time to adjust.

You turn toward him, probably to ask if he got it done, but the room's already buzzing with conversation again like nothing happened. Like he didn't just plant a bug that could bring this whole operation crashing down. Like there aren't two psychopaths sitting across from you both, one of them already suspicious.

His eyes meet yours for a split second. There's relief there, yeah, but also the weight of knowing this is just the beginning.

"Looking forward to our... partnership," Fervio then purrs, those creepy yellow contacts flicking between you and Jeon. "I'm veryinterested to see what you bring to the table."

You catch Jeon giving you this look from the corner of your eye—all confusion and barely concealed questions.

Of course he's lost, poor bastard missed the whole song and dance while he was playing spy. His dark eyes are practically screaming for some kind of explanation, any hint about what kind of mess he just walked back into.

You meet his gaze for a split second, trying to pack a whole conversation into one look.

Later, you try to telegraph. When we're not surrounded by psychos who want to wear our skin as party hats.

After a few more minutes, everyone starts getting up, chairs scraping against the floor.

Kaleido's already at the door, and you and Jeon fall in line behind him like good little lambs to the s̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶t̶e̶r̶ meeting.

The hallway feels weirdly normal after that pressure cooker of a room. Just the click of shoes on fancy floors and the distant mumble of voices that could almost make you forget you're in the heart of enemy territory.

Jeon slides into step beside you, and it's kind of impressive how he manages to look completely chill while also being wound tight enough to snap. His shoulders are relaxed but his eyes keep scanning everything, cataloging exits and threats like the walking weapon he is.

Your brain's working overtime, trying to figure out how to explain everything that went down while he was gone. How do you even begin to summarize that clusterfuck of a conversation?

'Hey, so while you were planting bugs, I had to flirt with two different flavors of psychopath to keep us alive. Fun times!'

He's counting on you to be his eyes and ears in there, to help him navigate whatever landmines you just agreed to. And fuck if you're going to let him down now.

God; you are in so far over your heads. But hey, at least you're drowning together.

The walk back through MDF's territory feels like it takes forever.

Kaleido leads you through this maze of hallways that all look the same—probably designed that way on purpose, the paranoid bastards.

You've got questions burning holes in your tongue, and you can tell from the way Jeon keeps glancing at you that he's got plenty of his own.

Finally, finally, you push through the exit doors and the night air hits your face like freedom.

Jeon practically deflates next to you, all that coiled tension leaving his body in one long exhale.

You get it. Being in there felt like having a knife pressed against your throat for hours.

It's weird how normal everything looks when you just spent the evening playing nice with actual monsters.

You reach up and pull out your earpiece, watching Jeon do the same.

No more voices in your head—just the ambient noise of Seoul at night and about a million questions that need answers.

The bike's waiting right where you left it, looking like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen because it means you can get the fuck out of here.

Jeon moves toward it, probably ready to bolt, but something's been nagging at you since those comms went live.

"Who's Sylvia?"

The words slip out before you can stop them.

It's probably not the best timing, but if Seduction has taught you anything is that information is power.

And right now you feel pretty fucking powerless.

You watch Jeon's shoulders lock up again, his whole body going still like you just pulled a gun on him instead of asking a simple question.

Fuck. He forgot about the comms.

In the rush to get back before the lights came on, Jungkook completely forgot the line was still open.

That you heard everything—including that name.

Sylvia.

The word sits like poison in his mind, dragging up memories he's spent years trying to bury.

His heart slams against his ribs, and it has nothing to do with almost getting caught back there.

Your question hangs in the air between you, and suddenly he can't breathe right. Can't think straight.

Because you weren't supposed to know about this. About her.

He turns to look at you, trying to read your expression in the dim light. Trying to figure out how much you heard, how much you understood.

But your face gives nothing away—you've gotten too good at that. The Seduction Division taught you well.

His features lock down on instinct, years of practice kicking in like muscle memory.

It's easier this way. Safer. Put up the walls, shut everything down, become the cold, untouchable Chief everyone expects him to be.

"Nobody you should be concerned about." His voice comes out flat, empty. The kind of tone that usually makes people back off real quick.

He watches something flicker across your face—curiosity maybe, or concern. But you don't push. Don't demand answers.

You just say "Alright" in this careful, neutral way that somehow makes everything worse.

Because you're giving him space he doesn't deserve.

Understanding he hasn't earned.

Jungkook turns back to the bike, jamming the key in with more force than necessary.

The engine roars to life, and he focuses on that sound instead of the chaos in his head. Instead of the weight of all these secrets pressing down on his chest.

You climb on behind him, and the warmth of your body against his back feels wrong.

Too close. Too real.

Too much like something he can't afford to want.

"Let's get out of here," he says, keeping his voice empty.

The city starts to blur as he accelerates, but his mind stays stuck on that name. On memories he can't outrun.

Distance, he reminds himself. Distance is survival.

goal: 550 notes !!

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[appocalipse]

Hi I would love to read what you would write based on my request: The girl is a strong woman who is stressed out by working a lot. She is the captain of a special division of the shield. Her personality is sarcastic and serious. She doesn't hide the fact that she has a crush on Bucky. At night everyone goes to Steve's birthday party, Tony organized a party with a "40s" theme, everyone dressed as they did back then. What would Bucky think when he saw YN dressed like he did in his time? Thanks!!

hi sweetheart, thank you SO MUCH for this request. this is really short but i had a lot of fun with it! ♥

Steve's birthday party is packed into the ballroom of a midtown hotel with vaulted ceilings, tall windows overlooking the nighttime cityscape, and an overhead banner proclaiming "Happy Birthday Cap!" in red, white, and blue letters. There are tables laden with food along the perimeter of the room, a dance floor in the center and probably much more than Steve was hoping for when he agreed to this, but Bucky is certain Tony has never met a special occasion he didn't want to over-celebrate.

"Hello, handsome." A silky voice caresses the back of Bucky's neck.

He's not taken off guard often. He's supersoldier trained, preternaturally aware of his surroundings at all times, so eternally vigilant that sometimes he barely sleeps.

But you...you're a menace in more ways than one.

He turns and sort of wishes he hadn't.

You're dressed to the nines in a (so help him God) red dress that leaves him scrambling for polite words, complete with ruby-red lips and shiny high heels that bring you closer to his eye level than should be allowed.

Bucky swallows around the sudden knot in his throat. He's a hard man to fluster. He's fought wars, seen things most people couldn't begin to comprehend and, modesty aside, used to get more than his fair share of attention from ladies back in the day. Yet, for whatever reason, you in your '40s version seems to have short-circuited something in his brain.

"You..." He clears his throat. "Uh...you clean up nice."

Nice? Is that the best he can do? You, in your victory curls and bold lipstick, looking like you belong on a silver screen, and he says nice?

"Why, thank you," you say.

"A real doll." Maybe that's better.

Your eyes widen at the compliment like you weren't expecting it, and now Bucky is feeling a little proud of himself.

"Where did you find this outfit?" He's glad he asked, because he gets to watch your eyes light up when you smile, all wide and excited in a way he'd never have associated with your much more professional Captain persona.

"It's amazing what you can find online nowadays," you spread your arms, twirl, and he's pretty sure that, if he hasn't made a fool of himself yet, he probably will soon. "What do you think? Am I authentic enough for this shindig?"

"Oh yeah. Authentic as they come." He gives you an exaggerated once over and then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "You look like a pin-up."

"Do I? Would you buy my picture?"

You tilt your head back to look up at him with the prettiest eyes Bucky has ever seen. He shrugs. "Doll, I'd buy a whole calendar."

You giggle at that, giggle. The sound of it wraps around Bucky's heart and squeezes. You're too much, more siren than woman, he's convinced, smiling up at him like you know exactly what's going through his head and are thrilled by it.

"Now, now, don't tease."

"Not teasing."

Your hand has crept onto his arm (his flesh-and-blood one, even). "Steve says you used to be quite the ladies' man back in the day."

"Yeah? What else did he say?"

"Just that you're actually very sweet under all this grump and that I shouldn't give up just yet."

Maybe he's not as good at this as he remembers. He doesn't recall ever having a woman making such blatant advances while he sputtered like a fish on land...but it is nice to feel wanted. He really hopes he's not blushing like a kid.

He flashes you his most charming smile. "And are you? Giving up, I mean?"

"Oh no, Sergeant." Your smile grows even wider, and Bucky is willing to bet he's not imagining the tiny gleam of triumph in your eyes. "Not even close."

He groans inwardly.

[pulsingvoid]

the difference between the terror and yj is that the terror knew that any story a westerner tells about survivalism is going to also have to be about colonialism... you just cannot tell a story like this and ignore colonialism because it is woven into the dna of this entire side of the world. the terror actively knew and explored this and the story felt authentic but the terror is based on a real life example of colonialism so more conceptual shows like yellowjackets or the 100 etc etc nervously ignore and refuse to investigate racism and colonialism as if they just don't exist in their otherwise very violent and divisive world and end up perpetuating them in the stupidest ways possible. and then they wonder why their worldbuilding is crumbling. bitch you forgot something

[33-108]

The 27 lunar mansions are divided into three primary types: Deva (divine), Manushya (human), and Rakshasa (demonic). This division isn’t meant to moralize, but to describe the nature of the energy each nakshatra embodies. Among them, the Rakshasa nakshatras carry the most volatile and boundary-pushing qualities. These are the nakshatras that stir, disturb, seduce, and transform. They are not concerned with order—they exist to test limits, reveal power, and often provoke the hidden forces in others.

Rakshasas in the Vedic and Puranic texts are powerful beings, often portrayed as enemies of the gods or disturbers of cosmic harmony. But the stories also reveal something deeper: they are embodiments of forces that cannot be easily controlled—especially sexual, magical, and destructive forces. They are not just brute beings but are frequently portrayed as intensely learned in occult knowledge, adept in shapeshifting, and capable of wielding energies that gods themselves must confront.

Nine nakshatras are typically classified under the Rakshasa type: Krittika, Ashlesha, Magha, Chitra, Vishakha, Jyeshtha, Mula, Dhanishta, and Shatabhisha. These nakshatras are often ruled by Mars, Ketu, and Rahu—planets associated with raw desire, instability, transformation, seduction, and karmic upheaval. The deities linked to these nakshatras—kartikeya, the Nagas, Indra-Agni, Nirriti—speak to this darker or more intense nature. The qualities these nakshatras represent are not evil, but they are uncomfortable. They confront stagnation and test authenticity.

A significant theme in the lore around Rakshasas is sexuality—not as romantic idealism, but as a force of power and confrontation. Rakshasas often use sex as a weapon, a snare, or a ritualized tool to destabilize the righteous or gain energetic control. Ravana was not just a lustful king—he was a being whose desire itself disrupted the balance of worlds. Rakshasi women like Shurpanakha openly expressed sexual desire, an act punished with mutilation. These stories highlight the taboo nature of sexuality when it’s stripped of societal control, and how Rakshasa energy challenges the repression and moralization of these forces.

Rakshasas are also shapeshifters, and this quality runs deep in their mythos. They can alter form, gender, age, and appearance. Their ability to transform is both literal and symbolic—it points to their mastery of illusion, maya, and astral manipulation. In this, they share a common thread with beings in other traditions, such as succubi and incubi—sexual entities known to engage in intense dream encounters or astral unions with humans. Such beings offer ecstasies and pleasures far beyond the scope of ordinary human experience. Rakshasa qualities carry a similar force—seductive, penetrating, and often obsessive. The pleasure they represent is not for comfort but for initiation.

To be born under multiple Rakshasa nakshatras is to carry these very qualities. In my own chart, Saturn—is placed in Shatabhisha, a nakshatra known for secrecy, healing, and the intense probing of hidden systems. It is a domain of veiled knowledge, ruled by Rahu and presided over by Varuna, the cosmic enforcer of truth and unseen law. This makes my karmic approach and endurance saturated with subversive insight, detachment, and confrontation with collective shadows. My Moon is in Magha, placing my emotional core in the realm of ancestral pride, power, and the hunger for status and remembrance. Mars, my lagnesha, is in Ashlesha, a nakshatra ruled by serpents, known for its hypnotic charm and instinctual manipulation. My Mercury is vargottama in Chitra, ruled by Mars and Vishvakarma, the celestial architect. Chitra is seductive, visually oriented, and carries the Rakshasa trait of dazzling, refined presentation masking a deeper drive to shape, manipulate, and beautify reality. My Jupiter Atmakaraka and Rahu are both in Vishakha, which burns with obsession and the drive toward union—whether divine, erotic, or destructive.

Taken together, these placements reflect a Rakshasa-dominant chart. Not because they make one evil or monstrous, but because they anchor me in the qualities these nakshatras express: uncompromising, untamed, and transformative. These energies demand responsibility. They can’t be repressed without consequence, nor indulged recklessly without risk. But when recognized, respected, and skillfully directed, they offer a power that is direct. Rakshasa energy isn’t a curse—it’s a call to embrace the real, the raw, and the revelatory.

Interestingly, Rakshasas have also been symbolically linked to the figure of the clown—a connection that speaks volumes. In certain folkloric and esoteric circles, clowns are said to descend from or reflect Rakshasa-like beings. With their exaggerated features, garish colors, unnatural laughter, and chaotic presence, clowns embody a paradox: they entertain and terrify. Like Rakshasas, they manipulate reality, they play with masks, and they provoke a visceral reaction from deep within the subconscious. Their role is to disturb normalcy while delighting the crowd, much like how Rakshasa nakshatras disturb ordinary karmic rhythms to catalyze transformation. This explains why clowns, though meant to bring joy, are often the focus of unease, nightmares, or even phobias. Beneath the paint and the spectacle lies a powerful, shape-shifting force—just like the Rakshasa: one who dances at the edge of pleasure, fear, and revelation.

While no direct historical evidence exists - Grimaldi, who is known as the creator of the modern conception of the European clown, it is alleged that his creation may have been partially inspired by a friend who visited India in the early days of British colonialism and/or that future variarions of the clown may had been evolved due to the influenceof rakshasa. The story goes that some became fascinated with the multi-colored and terrifying appearance of these trickster deities (Rakshasas) and that people modeled clown outfits and persona partially based off of them.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Police Procedural

Police Procedural - a subgenre of detective fiction that focuses on police work and investigations.

This form of crime fiction is popular across a variety of mediums, including mystery novels, TV series, and films.

In police procedurals, the lead characters seek to solve a crime—most commonly a murder mystery.

Stories in this subgenre typically follow law enforcement officers or private investigators as they track down criminal suspects.

Depending on the detective story, the plot may revolve around crimes of passion or serial killers.

How to Write a Police Procedural

Research police protocols. To learn about proper police procedures, interview police officers and, if possible, go on a ride-along with your local police department. To avoid becoming overwhelmed with research, define the length of time you want to devote to this phase. Setting a timeline of a few weeks or months can help relieve the pressure of needing to know everything before you start writing.

Develop your main character. Determine whether your protagonist is a seasoned homicide detective or an amateur detective. Depending on the scope of your story, your main character may work with a local police force or a government agency like the FBI. Establishing a backstory will also help you determine their worldview and how they approach their work.

Choose a familiar setting. Police procedurals are deeply influenced by their specific settings. Choose a setting that you’re familiar with—whether rural, urban, or suburban—and use your knowledge of this place to infuse the world of your story with authenticity.

Outline a crime plot. Police procedurals are often plot-driven. Devise a complex and surprising crime to center your story around.

Define the tone. Although many police procedurals take a realistic and gritty approach with their tone, you can decide for yourself whether your story is best suited for comedic elements, dramatic elements, or a combination of both.

Write your first draft. Once you’ve laid out a plan for your police procedural, dive into your first draft. Avoid putting pressure on yourself to make it perfect and instead focus on simply finishing a rough draft.

Step away from your first draft. Once you’ve completed your first draft, take some time away from the work—ideally a few weeks—so you can return to it with fresh eyes.

Revise your draft. Try different approaches to self-editing to find one that works for you. For example, try printing out your script or novel or reading the work aloud. Once you have a shareable draft, consider sending it to a reader with knowledge of police procedures for feedback.

Examples of Police Procedurals

To learn more about police procedurals, explore some of these examples in TV and fiction.

Dublin Murder Squad (2007–2020) by Tana French: This book series follows various Irish detectives as they investigate harrowing murders.

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (2000–2015): Over the course of 15 seasons, this iconic TV show followed a task force in Las Vegas dedicated to solving a wide variety of crimes. The series was so popular it prompted several spinoff shows including CSI: Miami and CSI: NY.

87th Precinct (1956–2005) by Evan Hunter: Influenced by the classic TV show Dragnet, Evan Hunter (who often wrote under the pen name Ed McBain) published this long-running book series that followed a group of detectives in New York City. The books were later adapted into a TV series.

Law & Order (1990–2010): Inspired by real-life crimes, each episode in this police procedural TV series follows both the police investigation and legal trial of a different case.

Bosch (2014–2021): Based on Michael Connelly’s bestsellers, this cop show follows a detective who works for the Hollywood Division of the LAPD.

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ Detective Story

[sgtgrunt0331-3]

Three members of the WWII Airborne Demonstration Team display the typical loadout of gear worn by US Paratroopers of the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions on D-Day.

The WWII ADT was one of several groups of airborne re-enactors that jumped in period-correct uniforms and gear, with authentic military canopy parachutes, from a fleet of C-47 ‘Dakotas’ onto original D-Day drop zones during the 75th anniversary of D-Day on June 6, 2019.

(Photo by: Gary Daniels)

[kawaiiwitchy]

I’m going to make this post because the Republicans have, and are going to continue to try to make Elvis some sort of symbol for their hatred masked as American pride. Yes, Elvis was patriotic. He served in the military, he wore patriotic symbols, he revered the police, and even wrote directly to Nixon and met with him to see how he could help make our country a better place.

But the Republicans of the past are not the Republicans of now. Hell, even the Bush era is completely different from the fascist cult we are witnessing. Elvis would NEVER support racism and fascism (just to name a few) both of which are embodied and encouraged by Trump and his administration. The man who loved gospel music, lived in one of most racially progressive cities, was constantly criticized and then drafted by our own government for pushing back against segregation, and was deeply inspired by and connected to the black artists around him. The man who was generous with his wealth and power, rather than hoarding and abusing it to stroke his own ego. The man who was humble to the very end.

Elvis was and continues to be a controversial figure and a feather of pride in the American cap, but don’t let the bastards try to tarnish his passion and patriotism. That’s what cults do, they take symbols and bastardize them for their own gain. Elvis will always be a symbol of love and authenticity during a time of immense division and violence, and now here we are, at another point of division and violence in our country. I hope we will all find comfort in his legacy and history as we continue to deal with whatever insanity and hardship is ahead.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk ❤️⚡️

[slowd1ving]

OUT ON A LIMB ･ﾟ DAN HENG NSFW

"Tender was the kiss when you held me captive In your sweet embrace, Lips begin to burn and my heart beats faster, Than the normal pace." The prestigious Astral Institute is no place for those who are too afraid of competition. Though the thralls of the Music Society may tear you asunder with their particularly fierce intra-club rivalries, those fears are brushed aside as the company of a certain bassist overshadows them. PREQUEL to roommate au rough designs for blade & dan heng here male guitarist reader warnings: amab m! reader, nsfw, porn with plot, blowjobs, alcohol consumption, overstimulation, friends with benefits but one's already got feelings lmao wc: 11.4k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Few universities on the globe offer the same prestige that the Astral Institute does. Talk to anyone on the streets with more awareness than a rock, and you’ll find that the common opinion is this: amidst its hallowed stone walls, a treasure trove of knowledge it hosts. Take a stroll beneath its grand marble friezes, and if the architecture isn’t enough to enthral you, perhaps the floating snippets of discourses and lectures echoing from the halls are. 

Naturally, aspiring scholars from across the planet find their way here—either on their own two legs, or from their vaunted perch on their parents’ coattails. Yet, contrary to popular belief, the sprawling grounds offer less competition to get in than one expects. 

Maybe that’s the reason the fierce streak of rivalry manifests in other ways. 

It’s not unusual—the sports teams for the Astral Institute dominate the field, and for the past n decades, the goal of every other college in the area is to get second place. Silver is most coveted, for the hapless scholars know they’ll never touch the gilded gold of the Institute. But even their aspirations for second cannot hope to reach the silver tongues of the more academic societies: such as the Debate Society, completely trouncing their opponents round after round with mercurial elegance.

Vying for heights grander than one can even imagine is encouraged—nay, it is the shackle placed about a scholar’s wrist. 

It is even worse, you’ve observed, when clubs that aren’t necessarily clubs germinate and flourish beneath the nourishment of the Institute. The most prevalent example would undoubtedly be the Music Society, but the Dance Society is another place where intra-club, cutthroat rivalry occurs. 

It’s an official society: has its own choral branch, orchestral branch, and even its own dedicated division of audio engineers and managers who aren’t necessarily involved with the music but the image cultivated for the club. 

Officially. On the spidery ink detailing the aged vellum, which resides outside the building the Society claims. 

Unofficially, it is also a stamp of authentication for the numerous bands that have sprung like weeds with the revival of pop culture. On school grounds and the buildings surrounding the university—which the Institute owns, whether it be the sensuous jazz bar downtown or the towering library next to the river—only groups with permits can perform at these locations. 

Though, with the spike in tensions between bands in recent years, it’s become a de facto requirement to blend in: anonymous, identified by only the mask that conceals your appearance during performances. Of course, with the roughly dozen or so factions, there's new speculation about a particular member’s identity every few days: only fueled by people practising in the music halls in the open, or those prone to gossip. 

For scholars with a meagre social life and even less free time, joining a club in the school roster is practically a given. It’s a distinguished mark to put on your school record—and if you want the full Institute experience, competition needs to be an accustomed flavour on your tongue. To those who successfully balance both studies and the rigorous requirements of the Institutional Societies, it is a distinction in of itself for any academic. 

Venture forth in spite of inexperience; only ignorance shall meet those who keep still. 

That’s the pretentious quote of today, faintly watermarked onto your post-it note as you carefully unpeeled it from the stack in the on-campus café just a few moments prior.

“How stupid.” You tap your pen on the list inked harshly on the paper: Engineering Society, Archery Club, Chess Society, Classics Society. Though they had initially piqued your interest as being mildly intriguing, it now seems more of a bother than anything: time-wasters dressed up in erudite clothing. 

“What is?” Kafka sits opposite you on the plush couch: steam wafting from her Earl Grey and against her maraschino lips as she observes you amusedly. 

You don’t even know how you became friends with her—the Literature buildings and the Physics laboratories are on opposite sides of the expansive campus, after all. Maybe it was your frequent trips to the bars last year, or maybe it was your exasperated comments plastered on the school gossip board—which she ran, believe it or not—but whatever it was, you’re now stuck with a fuschia shadow at your side. Though she’s as mysterious as they come, you don’t think she’s a bad person. Key word being think, not know; there’s just something shady about her, after all.  

“Ah,” she figures as you grimace. “The club deadline’s coming up, right?”

There’s an unspoken rule when it comes to joining clubs in a university as large and diverse as the Institute. Halfway through the second year is the cutoff point—it becomes exceedingly difficult to join any society past this point. You’ve still got four months, give-or-take, but the notion of not getting anywhere is unpleasant. Perhaps it’s the intrinsic striving this college has slowly ingrained in you over the past year—but part of you really can’t be bothered. 

“Unfortunately,” you sigh. Mindlessly, you swill bitter coffee down—savouring not the aromatic taste but the piercing heat entering your mouth. 

“And you can’t figure out which to join?” she prompts. You stare down at the list—neither the Chess nor the Classics society sound particularly inviting, the Engineering Society sounds dead, and the Archery Society seems too dangerous for the you who does calculations and paragraphs by hand almost daily. 

“Uh,” you reply intelligently. “No.”

“How about the Music Club?” 

You pause. And you swallow, temporarily debating the pros and cons of navigating a minefield such as the aforementioned club. 

And as the wise men of years yonder have sagely expressed to problems which require impulsive solutions: fuck it. 

“Sure.”

It’s too late for regrets. 

✦ . 　⁺ 

Though, against your nervous expectations, you’re not immediately dragged into the thick of the competition and bloodlust. It’s surprisingly underwhelming—a brief ‘that’s it?’ before you’re assigned a small pass granting you access to the numerous practice rooms and a basic certification to perform in the less-prestigious venues. 

Hmm. You stare at your electric guitar gathering dust in the corner of your friend’s garage, and just like the void, it stares back. 

No doubt the literature student expected you to pick up some managerial duties, but maybe it’s fate that led you back to collect your stuff—and not the nagging after your friend bought a new motorbike and needs more space for his baby. 

“No hard feelings, man,” he says, and perhaps it’s the forgotten discovery that allows you to break into a smile that is neither terse nor annoyed. 

No hard feelings, indeed. 

It’s a week after you’ve received the metal placard, and an hour after attending a lecture for vector fields. Maybe it’s the curiosity peeking through, but something prompts you to ditch the stack of thick sheets of homework on your desk and pick up your guitar. 

Your guide through the long-winded halls pauses, blood-red hair swaying to a cascading halt as she points to her right. “This is your practice room for today. Make sure to read the rules before you begin, alright?” 

She’s friendly, introducing herself as Himeko with a dazzling smile. She’s one of the managers in the music club—veering into engineering territory. Compared to her, you’re just some guy with his guitar; you look away from her cheerful expression, gazing at the rules emblazoned in a red less vibrant than her locks. 

No intercourse. No hot food. No unauthorised persons. Scrawled beneath in messy purple pen is a blinding neon post-it: get the fuck out if you’re not using the room properly, you bums. 

“Wow,” you cough out in surprise, breaking your laconic pattern of responses. “I assume those have some crazy stories behind them.”

That elicits a small laugh from her, and finally it feels like you’ve done something right. 

“You have no idea,” she bemoans exasperatedly, ushering you into the room. It’s nothing too large—small enough to feel cosy rather than make you self-conscious, but big enough so sound carries well. “Right, if you need help setting up, just let the admin at the end of the corridor know.”

She leaves in a whirl of crimson and gilt gold, and you’re left standing bemusedly in the doorway. 

It’s not like you do need the help: hands deftly unravelling and plugging in cords and tuning the pegs with the ease only muscle memory evokes. How long has it been? With your mountainous studies, it’s little wonder that your hobbies were pushed to the bottom of the priority list. 

Your breathing turns rhythmic as you warm-up: chord after chord gently brought into existence with the fretboard and a copper penny as an impromptu pick. Though it’s been a few years, your hands fly across the strings.

A little bit of Bauhaus. Improvisation for The Cure. A brief snippet of Fields of Nephilim.

“I was cold as I mouthed the words, and crawled across the mirror,” you sing along with the backing track, embellishing the sombre baseline—chords ringing out clean in the daylight. It’s been so long that your mouth tastes sweet: letting the tones sweep you away in its ebb. The melody and harmonies blur together—as do your eyes. They flutter shut, focused only on replicating the feeling. “I wait, await the next breath.”

The notes fall apart and distort in the empty room: jarring and incomplete, yet harrowingly beautiful. 

“Your name like ice, into my heart.”

Your voice is hoarse: fingers raw and voice scraped tender from just these meagre hours of practice. 

“Everything is as cold as life—can no one save you?”

It’s not enough, but as the sound of song dies out and is replaced by the buzz of alternating current and low whir of air conditioning, you realise there’s someone in the doorway. 

Fingers drum on the lacquered body of the guitar as you look at him, and he looks back at you. He’s roughly your age: wavy black hair cut messy round his head; silvery chains decorating his neck and pale wrists; red liner accentuating sharp, lucid eyes that bear directly into you. 

“Can I help you?” you frown, scanning his face and realising you’ve never seen him around before: be it at a lecture, the library or any of the small stores dotted around campus. At least, you hope you’ve never seen him around—it’s awkward enough knowing he heard you, let alone that you might’ve come across him and forgotten his name. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he murmurs. His voice is pleasant: slightly melodious and clear even with his lowered volume. “The other rooms are all full—I was wondering if we could share?”

Wow, you blink. He’s so damn polite.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug it off, ignoring the smile that he gives you. While it may do you good to get along better and make friends with your fellow club mates, you don’t particularly care about that. 

“Wait,” you call out to him as he walks past you towards the back, scratching your neck hesitantly. “I don’t have headphones to plug into my guitar.”

Sure, you may be cold, but you aren’t that much of a prick to disrupt his own practice like that. 

But contrary to whatever you expected him to do, it’s certainly not him rummaging around in his bag and extending his hand with a pair of headphones. “I’ve got spares.”

“Uh, thanks,” you reply, fairly dumbfounded as you walk forward. After all, the most prepared student in the physics class you’re in only carries around a half-eaten pencil and a crumpled sheet of A4 paper on a good day. Yet as you reach out for them, he holds on to the pair. Inevitably, his fingertips brush yours, and you swear his hand trembles minutely. 

“Dan Heng,” he introduces himself. “Data analysis major.”

“Bit too late for introductions, is it not?” you comment, and it’s the second time someone’s laughed today with you. No, it’s not really a laugh—more like an exhale of air that suggests a laugh. It suits him: restrained as he is. 

“It’s never too late.” He doesn’t budge: fingers firmly clasped around the headphones, tips still brushing past your skin. 

“I’ll give you a clue instead,” you compromise, wondering what exactly keeps driving the conversation. “Analyse that qualitative data instead.”

“So original,” he remarks dryly, but he does free you from his warm hands. His eyes linger upon you as you gift him a strand of red to investigate: one of the sciences. It’s vague enough to be frustrating, but he could easily view the roster for the Music Club. Or not, actually—since the club is so volatile, it can’t be easy to peruse just who’s in it. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave dismissively, plugging the plain black headphones into the instrument with practised grace. “Think of it as repayment for letting you stay here.”

“Hah,” he grins freely this time—as bright and messy as a finger painting—and you stare at him for a few seconds. “You’re really stingy, you know that?”

The mask of politeness has slipped minutely; you see it in the crescent shape of his eyes and the casual cant of his head. Even the long white coat he’s wearing is falling from his shoulders—he simply shrugs it off and tosses it on the couch behind him, as though he’s shedding an outer layer of his very being. It’s strangely personal; for a brief second, you’re privy to a stranger’s deeper feelings beyond meaningless platitudes. 

“Better than outright kicking you out,” you mutter, averting your eyes from his now-calm face. “How many doors did you knock on before you stumbled on my generous being?”

“Generous—” he coughs abruptly, and your head whips back up from your guitar. “—apologies, that was purely reflexive.”

You sit on the sofa by the window, letting the sunlight dapple over you as you watch him clear his throat. There’s no use sitting awkwardly when the tension has pretty much dissipated; you lean back until you’re comfortable, elbows resting neatly on top of the body. 

“So? Who slammed the door on you?” You adjust the jack in the insert until the static fades completely, gazing at him all the while. 

“I was hoping you’d imagine yours was the first door I knocked on,” he sighs. “How embarrassing.”

“I’m not an idiot.” You tap your penny against the lacquered wood of the guitar. Tap, tap. “This room’s on the very end of the corridor.”

A heartbeat passes. 

Tap, tap. 

“So how many people rejected you?” you snicker. Third time’s the charm. 

“Don’t phrase it like that,” he mutters. His eyes flick up to yours, and you stare at him with raised brows, evidently nonplussed. “...Twelve. Three rooms are out of commission currently.”

“Pff— wow,” you stifle the sound against the back of your palm, but you can’t hide the grin in your words. “Your charm sucks, man.”

He sighs in exasperation. “Then what does it say about you if you’re so easily swayed?”

Did he just call me easy?—you gape, then quickly deduce he’s pretty funny when he wants to be: all dry humour and quick wit. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you wave your hand in a gesture of conciliation. “I’m not surprised that they all rejected you, though.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, now?” 

“I don’t mean it like that.” You rub the penny—the familiar metallic scent coats your hands now, and you can almost taste it on your tongue. “I mean the students here are mostly competitive pricks.”

“Unlike you?” he deadpans, and you feel somewhat offended at the sarcastic undertones he’s emitting. So rude. 

“Uh, duh,” you grin, flipping the coin with a calloused thumb. “I let a stray cat like you in, didn’t I?”

“And here I was, about to compliment your playing,” he sighs out instead of acknowledging your words. “Guess you won’t want to hear it from a stray cat like me, huh?”

Woah, you blink, almost impressed at how quickly he’s mastered passive-aggressiveness. 

“No, I would,” you retort shamelessly. “I love cats, strays included.”

“Think about it,” you continue, missing how startled he looks—the tiny twitch of his brows as he looks on incredulously, the minute waver in his hands as he raises his finger hesitantly. “If a cat came up to you, started talking, that would be cool as shit, right?”

“I’d think I was on psychedelics,” he proclaims flatly. “And possibly insane.”

“Way to ruin a scenario.” You lean back your head until it hits the back of the couch: warm sunlight gently washes over your face and closed eyes, all red through your blood vessels in the delicate lids. “We’ve established I would absolutely not mind talk from a stray cat, so give me my compliment.”

“You always want the last word, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You’re a bit too quick with your reply. 

He sighs. Deeply this time. 

“Fine. I don’t think your rougher style of playing will ever get boring,” he considers thoughtfully, and you can feel his eyes rake over you and your guitar. Assessing—just some guy with his instrument, lazily basking in the sun. 

“And… your style is very emotive,” he adds, and there’s something about that emphasis that’s ever-so-slightly different. 

“Aeons—you’re only saying that because you heard me singing, right?” You peek one eye open in a glare. 

“I liked it.”

“Be serious,” you groan.

“I am,” he shrugs. “I’ve never heard someone sing ‘Cold’ so enthusiastically. There’s real hope for The Cure fans.”

“Damn, you’re definitely making fun of me,” you quiver in mild irritation. 

“You figure that out for yourself then.” And you’re left just like that—staring at him dumbly while he unlocks the tall cupboard in the back. This bastard… 

From its mahogany depths, he pulls out a hard black guitar case—and silently you wonder at the coincidence. It zips open with a strangled buzz: careful teeth sawing against careful teeth under his nimble fingers. You watch, entranced, as he pulls the guitar out by the neck.

It’s not six-stringed like you expected. Rather, the black fretboard and polished azure body boasts only four strings. He’s a bassist, you realise with a start; the notion enthrals you, just a little. 

“That’s yours, right?” You point, double-checking not just the way he took it from the cupboard, but to make sure you aren’t hallucinating it. 

“And to whom else could it belong?” he humours you. 

“Oh wow.” You sit up, setting the headphones around your neck while he sets up. “It must’ve been fate leading you here.”

“I would’ve come here to collect my guitar regardless of fate,” he answers.

“So fate assigned me this room in particular,” you shoot back, undeterred. 

“Coincidence.”

“Explain why no one else wanted you in their practice rooms then.” It’s a pointless back-and-forth, which is precisely what entertains you. 

“As you said—” and here he looks up, eyes catching yours in such a placid stare with lips poised in a nigh-triumphant grin that you can’t look away. “—they’re all competitive pricks.”

Seamless. You can’t even argue back; he’s agreed with you and gone against your words in the same breath. 

“Shame,” you sigh, twirling with the length of headphone cable streaming out from your guitar. “Here I was, about to use it as an excuse to get you to play with me.”

“You needed an excuse?” he comments. You look on as he fiddles with the amp: too preoccupied with the technical aspects of setting up to notice your stare honed onto the back of his curls. Or maybe he does notice—he’s observant, after all. 

“Who knows? Maybe you’d demand my name in return.” You pluck the D string lazily—it faintly echoes against your neck through the headphones. Jokes aside, there’s something itching against your flesh that urges you to take this opportunity for practice. 

“Great idea,” he replies laconically. Just like that, he’s standing with his own headphones still in his grasp—as clear as scales with just another push to tip the balance in your favour. “You’re quite stingy, after all.”

“Act broke to stay rich.” You pluck another string, then another. With the presence of your hand covering the fretboard, there’s only a jarring quality to each note. 

“So—” you look up this time, only to find he’s already staring your way. Got him. “—wanna play with me?”

“Depends. Can you keep up?”

“I mean, based on your spying, what do you think?” 

One stingy, the other arrogant. It’s a perfect joke—a meticulous comedy Kafka would no doubt write in a moment of drunkenness. 

Your hand wavers on the headphone jack, as though awaiting his answer. A stingy, hesitant fool.

Thump. That’s what you hear when he tosses his own headphones onto where his long coat rests on the couch. You received your answer after all. 

It’s safe to say that your first encounter with Dan Heng is neither bad nor good, just a mixture of both that titrates itself into mundane neutrality. 

His notes are mellowed against yours—smooth, buttery—and it’s like you read his mind and he yours. But it’s futile to ponder on the concept more; after all, it’s not like you’ll encounter him any more often.

✦ . 　⁺ 

You’re right, as you oft are. 

Truly, your studies of physics have left you with a talent for predicting trajectories—including human ones. You don’t see the bassist in the following days; the practice room you’re beginning to get rather fond of is blissfully devoid of chatter and teasing remarks strewn back and forth. 

It’s… quiet. 

Rather, the only conversations you have are rushed ones with Kafka throughout the week when you spot her on campus—she updates you on whatever gossip she’s heard recently, and the scandals she’s personally witnessed. 

Or, more accurately, Kafka isn’t the only one you talk to. Small tidbits of chatter between you and Himeko have also become tentative routine. It started off as polite exchanges, but ever-so-slowly, the two of you occasionally peruse different topics. 

(“Have you thought of joining one of the bands in the Music Society?”)

The question she left you with just yesterday plagues your mind as you wait in line in one of the tiny, cosy cafés dotted around campus. There’s the strong aroma of roasted beans, but you can’t focus on them—nor the quaint atmosphere, nor the menu items. 

No, you haven’t. Of all things, you’re not planning on entangling yourself with creating a persona to present to the rest of the student body—a mask slipping onto your features while you showcase your music to the world. 

But as you turn around with a steaming coffee in your takeaway cup, there Himeko is: sanguine dripping off her shoulders in glossy waves, a crimson smile playing on her lips, a jaunty flair to her movements as she waves you over to her tiny table in the corner. She’s better suited for the window seats—shining like the sun itself. It almost makes you squint as you look over. 

“Have you given it any more thought?” 

“Aha,” you stare at the scalding cup in your hands nervously. There’s something about seeing someone with their life perfectly put together that makes you instinctively on edge. “Honestly, I’m not too keen on the idea.”

“Hmm,” Himeko rests her chin on a manicured hand, drumming on the varnished oaken table with her other one. Tap–tap. “Is it the competition? Per my understanding, you’re a rather reserved scholar, aren’t you?”

She’s sharp, you acknowledge. 

“I just find it rather pointless,” you shake your head in half-agreement. “I may be reserved, but I can handle the pressure.”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have picked physics for my studies,” you comment as an afterthought. “Call me pessimistic, but I can’t find much merit in anonymous rivalries that only benefit the ego.”

“You were assigned the Nihility path at orientation, weren’t you?” Himeko remarks—a reference to the quiz each first-year takes to determine a ‘house’. You thought it was more arbitrary than anything; with a school as intra-competitive as the Institute, it’s only natural that it has its own factions to compete with each other even further. But clearly, there are some who value the path system as measures of personalities. 

You hadn’t given that much thought either. 

“I think so.” You play with the empty sugar packet, twisting it in your fingers. “Dostoyevsky isn’t my favourite author, before you ask.”

She exhales wryly, and just like that, the small tension in your shoulders dissipates somewhat. 

“Well, it’s not entirely ego-boosting. Of course, due to rumours and information of that ilk, the rivalries are what’s the main focus for those who aren’t in the Society.” Red stains her own cup as she takes a sip of her espresso. “It’s a good opportunity for scholarships, prizes, and extra credit. The rivalry’s a natural consequence, of course, but there’s only one or two groups with bad blood like that between them.”

“You’d need to be a bit more careful to keep your identity as a band member a secret,” she adds. “But since a portion of the club are part of bands themselves, they mind their own business out of a mutual ‘stay out of each other's' way’ policy.”

You think back to Dan Heng’s rejections from the practice halls, and suddenly it makes a lot more sense. 

“But you’ll know who’s in your band, right?” 

“That’s a given,” she nods, and you’re sweating slightly from the enthusiasm that shines bright in her eyes. “Group managers will be eager to snatch up a talented newbie like you, so I’ll extend my hand first.”

Your tongue is leaden in your mouth as you swallow. 

And just like that, you begrudgingly join the Trailblazers. 

✦ . 　⁺

“What the fuck?” you point at the man before you incredulously, though retrospectively, you should’ve expected this. 

Himeko had driven you to the more private practice rooms in the city: a space subsidised by the Institute for each band. Your expectations had been low, but the glossy building led you to rethink your entire philosophy (each practice room was twice the size of your dorm) and wholeheartedly accept your new reality. 

It was going too smoothly, perhaps. March 7th was the first proper band member you’d met—an enthusiastic Environmental Studies student in charge of the synthesiser. Her affable personality wholly reminded you of bubblegum. 

Next through the door were Caelus and Stelle—twins which you had met before. Kafka had taken them under her wing a while back, and they’d tottered after her (or at least, that’s how you remembered it) before they grew accustomed to the Institute on their own. Theatre and psychology majors respectively, if you recall correctly. Caelus on the drums, Stelle on vocals; two roles that fit them surprisingly well. 

“Ah, Welt won’t be joining us today,” Himeko informs you as you’re idly tuning the pegs for your guitar. You recognise the name of your blunt upperclassman; an animation major who looks like he’s on the verge of dying every time you see him. Condolences, you sympathise for the man who’s finally kicked his personal bucket. “But he’s good with the harp and cello.”

“So you guys are missing a guitarist?” you interject. As far as you knew, there was a bassist left on the roster. There’s also the ‘mascot’, Pom-Pom: Himeko’s small rabbit that you’ve unfortunately not had the pleasure of meeting but you have seen from March 7th’s phone as she gushes over the tiny, fluffy thing. 

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stelle sighs. “Our old one quit a while back.” 

No—she assures you, the reason was perfectly normal and not any unsavoury reasons that would’ve definitely given you cold feet. 

“He’s so late,” March 7th grumbles, but you don’t have time to ask just who exactly the mysterious bassist is—because speak of the devil, the wooden door swings open and suddenly you’re staring at a man whom you thought you wouldn’t see much of. 

Which brings you to your current predicament: spilling an expletive from your lips while pointing at a man just as dumbfounded as you. 

“Huh?” he stares back. “Himeko, what did you do?”

“You mentioned him, so I checked out his talent for myself,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “Even if you hadn’t said he was good, I would’ve seen it for myself anyway.”

He gapes for a moment longer, but your own astonished expression is a lot more difficult to stave off. 

“Oh, oh—he was talking about you, you know,” March 7th bounds up to you with her hands clasped behind her back in a picture of innocence. 

“What’d he say?” All too eager to play along, you lean so she can whisper it without the aforementioned man overhearing. She responds in kind, already cupping a hand around her mouth, but—

“March.” You’re pulled away by a glaring Dan Heng: hand firmly grasped around your wrist. Just as quickly, he lets go with a sheepish smile. 

“Sorry, she’ll probably embellish what I actually said,” he fumbles. 

He’s warm, you notice. And flustered, you note, this time with far greater amusement. 

“He said the two of you had great chemistry,” Stelle calls, and her tone of voice is so steady that you half-believe her. 

“Stelle, I did not—”

“—totally did—”

“—part of ‘we played well together’ could you have possibly misheard like that? I said four words—”

They’re bickering, March 7th and Caelus jumping in on their argument—and suddenly there’s a messy, bright burst of feeling tangling in your chest. 

They’re always like that, pay them no mind—Himeko tells you, but you don’t mind. Despite your initial reluctance, there’s something that draws you to this mismatched group. 

And perhaps your second encounter with Dan Heng isn’t the greatest either, but it certainly isn’t terrible. 

✦ . 　⁺

Though it doesn’t seem like it at first, Stelle’s offhand comment—chemistry—seems to be more prophetic than teasing. From a purely objective standpoint, his buttery-smooth playing wraps into your rougher style seamlessly: a steady, unwavering foundation. 

It’s never boring; you’re watching as his hands practically fly against the fretboard as he plays a post-punk piece, spellbound even as you churn out gritty chord after chord. There’s a small smile on your lips as you gaze at his concentrated face—which breaks just as the last rattles of the song die out. 

The two of you are back in the practice room like all those weeks ago. It was quickly made clear to you that other than the weekly meetups, individual practice is more efficient since there’s no other way to meet sooner without taking study time away. It’s either good luck—or fate, as you’d like to put it otherwise—that Dan Heng’s schedule is pretty similar to yours, since now you’ve essentially got a free partner to practise with in the afternoons. 

“What?” His head snaps up as a response to the scorching sensation of your eyes drilling holes in his face. 

“I think you’re my favourite bassist I know,” you answer seriously. In all honesty, he’s the only bassist you know—but you’re not about to say his chord progressions give you goosebumps. It’s become a running bit—one that you feel a strong obligation to commit to—which consists of offhand remarks that seem a bit too much like compliments. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m the only bassist you know,” he deadpans. “So that compliment doesn’t count.”

How’d he know that?—you blink in surprise. Drat. “I think you’re a mind reader.”

“That’s just fact.”

He leans back on the wall at the back; maybe it’s the gentle sunlight washing over his features, or maybe it’s the low hanging light fixtures in the practice room, but his eyes sparkle cerulean at this very moment. A lazy smile paints his face, and your brows raise in mild surprise. 

“Um,” you wrack your brains. “Your eyes are pretty.”

He coughs loudly—taken off-guard at how casually you admit it. Even now, you’re still tapping that damned penny against your keyboard as you keep looking at him: nonplussed, as though you’re simply saying the grass is green and two plus two equals four. No other intonation other than neutrality. Just like any other compliment you’ve given him nonchalantly.

His stomach tightens. Just a little. 

✦ . 　⁺

It becomes habitual: practising every other day turns into hanging out. From walking to that shiny room together (both of your dorms are surprisingly close together, after all), to greeting him whenever you see him pass by to his lecture hall, it feels like you’ve gotten closer to the not-so-stoic man. 

Twenty-one days it takes to form a habit. 

You’ve gotten far too used to his company: neither March nor the twins live nearby, Welt looks like he’s fighting off death each time you see his haggard face, and Himeko’s a lot busier than you initially thought. Past those three weeks, and it seems like you’re slowly extending and accepting tendrils of friendship from the bassist. 

Maybe that’s why you’re currently in this predicament.

Even with your new-found (and old-found) hobby, there’s an obvious need to keep studying—that physics degree won’t award itself, after all. In comes the expansive library on-campus: a marvel of classic academia and modern architecture that scholars never get used to. 

“Is anyone sitting here?” It’s just you and Dan Heng in this corner. You—sitting down at a four-by-four walnut hued table, stacks upon stacks of atomic structure reading piled neatly on your right. Him—standing before you with a meagre, slim laptop in his hands that cannot possibly contest with the fat stacks of paper by you. 

“Absolutely,” you lie through your teeth. “The whole table is reserved for my company.” 

That’s a prime example of falsehood. 

Dan Heng, the smartie-pants he is, sees through the fib quite easily. 

“You and what friends?” His brow piques. 

You make an obvious show of looking around him. If the space beholden to him was any emptier, there’d be a tumbleweed merrily sweeping past him. 

“And where’s your company?” 

He scowls. 

“Know the enemy and know yourself.” You place a palm on your chest sagely. “It appears you do not know yourself, nor your enemy.”

“There’s someone willing to spend time with you?” He sits down anyway, but it’s not like you were going to reject him in the first place. 

“Yes.” You turn back to your book mysteriously. Ignoring the very obvious contender who’s currently sat himself opposite you, willingly, there’s also a text on your phone refuting his words. 

< Living Poets Society <3 > 11:32 > I’ll be there in fifteen. Save me a place, won’t you?

There’s a smile playing on your lips while you tap out an ‘okay, see you soon’, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Dan Heng as he glances up at your sudden movement. He’s still looking over as you place your phone down and crack open the textbook once more: eyes so blatantly heavy you can’t help but speak while you skim over the information. 

“Need something?”

“I still haven’t gotten your number—” and this time he pointedly adds your name to the end of his statement, courtesy of a slip-up from March 7th a few weeks back. 

“Oh, yeah,” you turn your page, unlocking the phone without looking and passing him the device. “Just add yourself.”

He notes the anonymous sender in the back of his mind, the heart directly after, and the message itself. His teeth grit together as he adds himself to the list of contacts: why March and the twins are there before him, he doesn’t know. He’s known you longer and better, damn it. 

His thumb swipes a quick message to himself so he can save your number too—a simple ‘hi’ that makes his mouth dry, even with how lacklustre it is. 

Though, his mouth is dry due to deliberation over whether to put a heart next to your name, which he now knows thanks to March 7th. Just as quickly, he strikes the thought from his mind—it doesn’t matter. 

Why the hell would it matter in the first place?

He glances back up at you—you’re engrossed as ever in the text, which is all well and good because his hands wobble a bit as he slides your phone back. You still barely notice: a low ‘thanks’ slipping from your lips as you turn the page. 

Dan Heng appears to be working away silently from where you’re sitting, but what you can’t see is how he’s rereading the same few lines of data with furrowed brows. 

What you can’t see when Kafka arrives and kisses your cheek in greeting is how his hands clench around his pencil—but she does, purposefully lingering just a second longer to leave maraschino smeared on your face. 

What you can’t see when you make no moves to wipe the gloss off is the stony look on the bassist’s face—as well as the questions he has for himself. Why the hell is he so annoyed anyway? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t, but the way you’re unbothered by it increases his bothered levels as though it were inversely proportional. 

He doesn’t know her—though he thinks he’s seen her with Caelus and Stelle before—but he’s never been so irritated by a stranger before. 

She’s sitting next to you, a model scholar: typing away on her laptop with a concentrated look on her face. But she’s leaning into you, head canting in your direction at such a sluggish speed that had he not been glaring at her, he wouldn’t have noticed it. 

You’re none the wiser. Absent-mindedly, she’s tapping on your palm: kneading away at the flesh and you let her, too preoccupied with inking notes into the memo pad before you to really care what she’s doing. She’s always been slightly touchy with her friends—lingering hugs, grasping your hands and twining her fingers with yours, dotting her spiced perfume right against your wrists—so this isn’t particularly out of the blue.  

With a loud clatter, Dan Heng’s pen falls to the floor—you’re too busy looking his way to notice the coy smile brimming from her pout. 

Gosh—she coos internally, what an oblivious little student you are. This is what collecting organic material is all about; even if he doesn’t realise it himself, he’s practically brimming with jealousy. 

“Wanna get out of here?” she whispers after a half-hour of noting his reactions to various visual stimuli: outright holding your hand, resting her magenta head on your shoulder, letting you take a sip of her sweet coffee. It’s low enough to appear as though she’s making an effort to stay quiet, but she knows he can hear it; the now-familiar creak of the plastic biro graces her ears. 

“Sure,” you reply absently. Perfect. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Dan Heng.”

And as she saunters out of the library with you in tow, she makes sure to wrap her long coat around your shoulders. 

It’s rather cold outside, after all. 

Well, certainly outside. For poor Dan Heng, he’s likely stewing over in his irritation. 

✦ . 　⁺

If it weren’t often before, it is now—seeing Dan Heng has become a daily routine. Whether it be at the library or at the music practice halls, the familiar ping on your phone alerts you diurnally that he’s located somewhere in the vicinity. 

To be more accurate, it’s nocturnally now. He’s at your dorm door tonight—

< Dan Heng > 23:48 > Snack run?

—a motorcycle helmet held out to you in his steady hands. This development only came to life a few days ago; you had opened his mini-fridge to find no actual food, and thus came his offer to go on a late-night snack run. 

With his jacket wrapped snugly around your shoulders, and your hands tightly gripping the valley of his waist, his abdomen trembles somewhat. But not enough for you to notice, and certainly not enough to stop him from poking fun at you:

“What, you planning to fall off? Hold on properly.”

He shivers as your arms sling round his middle: fingers splayed then grasping his shirt, right at his shaking diaphragm. He can feel your chest press up right against his back—muscle shifting against muscle as you get comfortable against his quaking torso. 

It must just be the frigid wind nipping at his body. 

He doesn’t quite know why he’s offered these rides to you when he’s never done this with anyone else, but the smile you give him as you pick out food for the two of you to share is somewhat endearing. Dan Heng sighs in annoyance as you forget to get him a drink—yet he supposes he’ll just steal some of yours in return. 

“You got a lecture tomorrow too?” Sitting outside on a bench—cherry juice on your breath—is pleasantly eye-opening. With the city just waking up, it’s a profound experience to witness. 

“Yeah,” he hisses as you poke his cheek with your gelid fingers when he spaces out. 

“And you’ll wake up for it?” you remark sceptically, retracting your hand. He’s warm, you note—a mild flush on his cheeks from the boreal night. 

“‘Course.” His tone is somewhat insincere, especially right after he takes a swig of your drink. There’s a red trickle of the sticky juice that lingers on his mouth, and your eyes can’t help but be drawn to the motion of the liquid. 

“Okay…” It’s clear you don’t believe him. 

“What, you wanna skip?” Dan Heng doesn’t quite know what possesses him to ask. Maybe it’s the specific look in your eyes that makes him want you to acknowledge him—something childish and petulant, sure, but isn’t it natural to feel like this with your friend?

You weigh your options: Intro to Mechanics, or the slightly pleading look in his eyes?

“Um—” you swill down another gulp of the tart juice—there’s a prickle of redness on his cheeks as he realises he also took his sips from that particular spot. Sanguine coats your lips, and now it’s his turn to stare as your throat bobs and juice trickles from your warm mouth. “—sure.”

And perhaps watching B-rated horror movies isn’t the best way to keep grades up, but there’s something addictive about keeping his leg pressed against yours on his cramped couch—something he can’t quite put his finger on. 

When you tell Kafka about those forty-eight hours, she lets out a cackle that sounds like it’s been marinated for that long too—and she won’t tell you why. 

✦ . 　⁺

With the rigorous academia of college comes a universal, practically hallowed tradition that resides on the other side of its gleaming coin. Parties. Gatherings, events, soirées—whatever elegant name one wants to disguise it with, all meld into a party with enough booze and enough people. 

One lonesome Friday, there’s a ping that graces your phone—followed swiftly by another, then a final one that finally catches your attention. 

< Music Society: ANNOUNCEMENTS (do not reply) > 10:00 > For those in the Society, an opportunity to socialise and mingle with fellow club-goers is here for next SATURDAY. Hosted in the illustrious Avis Hall by the POP MUSIC division…. [108 members reacted to this message]

< Kafkalicious <3 > 10:05 > I’m picking you up.  10:06 > There’s no way you actually have good clothes to wear for this. 

Sheepishly, you type out an affirmative. The club can brand this however they want, but the specific division they’re referring to is often labelled the unhinged party of the year—sneaking in dozens of students who aren’t necessarily in the Music Club, serving enough liquor to comfortably drown in—yet still managing to keep it under wraps. Unfortunately, this also means the clothing you have in your dresser—casual ensembles and a few ones suitable for performing as a member of a band in the darkwave genre—won’t cut it. 

Which is precisely why you’re feeling the biting cold particularly clearly as soon as the next Saturday rolls around—Kafka’s lended jacket does little to warm you up when the mesh, spider webbing top she selected lets through all the frigid air. It ghosts white against your skin, while the pallored cargoes she picked out are likewise spectral and blend in against the snow dotted around campus. Even the jewellery she painstakingly selected is almost intransient: shifting like silvery mercury against skin with their delicate links and chains. To put it simply, the only skin that isn’t somewhat on display is the skin of your legs—the trousers are thankfully opaque. 

As you enter the building, the strong odour of spirits and alcohol hits you: just like any other college, its parties aren’t any more illustrious than the next. 

There’s the press of bodies against bodies in the small hall; dim lights make it hard to spot anyone clearly, let alone your friends. If it weren’t for the stumbling wake of drunken dancers in your path, it might’ve been easier to navigate—but this building is crowded, and you probably would’ve been swallowed in the horde already were it not for the sight of the stairs in the corner. 

With a solo cup unceremoniously taken, you inch past the thumping decibels of music that cannot be classified as pop—ironically, almost every genre save the division’s namesake plays before it—and the amorphous mess of people milling about on the ground floor. 

A text from March 7th saves you the trouble of meticulously searching the rooms to find your friends. 

< National Cereal Day <3 > 21:16 > first floor, room at the end of the corridor!! We’re playing seven minutes hurry up!!

It’s why you find yourself squished between Kafka and Himeko in the dim room; if you squint, you can make out Dan Heng, Caelus, March 7th and some other oddballs like Ruan Mei and a few you can’t place the name of. 

There’s no actual closet in the room, which brings in question the integrity of this game. A confused glance at Kafka later, and you get your answer—the janitor closet next door will suffice, won’t it? 

“You look simply divine,” she compliments directly into your ear, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who the glare she feels on her belongs to. 

“I bet my stylist would love hearing that,” you shoot back, and she twirls her hair coquettishly in response. She’s right—the outfit she picked out for you feels like you’re about to step into an angelic rave, minus the wings. 

Is it luck that spins your name first?

You swill down the bitter, slightly lukewarm alcohol down—setting the red plastic down as you select a piece of paper out of the hat. Kafka whistles as you take your time unfolding it; she’s got a knack for noticing things that people hide in the shadows, and currently she’s noticing how your little friend’s hands clench tight around his trousers in the dark. It almost makes her feel bad—almost. 

“Uh—” your brows raise in mild surprise. Dan Heng’s breath hitches, and now even March notices—the look she sends him is one half-disbelieving, half it just dawned on her. There’s approximately a nine-percent chance of being drawn—

“Dan Heng,” you read carefully. What a joke—to have someone you’re close to rather than not to accompany you to the space sequestered away in the hallway. When you look up at him, there’s a strange expression settled on his face: slightly agape, as though he’s uncomfortable with the thought of being in a closet with you. 

He stands abruptly, and you flounder after him: too busy ignoring the wolf whistles to notice the faint rosy hue that radiates from his ears. 

Maybe you would’ve asked him if he was okay with this, but the way he opens the janitor closet door and steps in leaves you at a loss for words instead. As it stands, you simply follow him in—the heavy thud that resounds from outside confirms that there’s no backing out. 

It’s smaller than you expected; only a foot or so separates the two of you, and the air is thick with the lingering odour of lemon-scented cleaning chemicals. You’re thankful for the faint tendrils of light that pierce through the small holes in the door—since at least now you can observe the look on his face as he glances at the floor, then the shelves. Anywhere but your face. 

“You… alright there?” you murmur. There’s a certain incandescence to his features as he looks back up, evidently startled by your question. If you focus on the heavy bass that you can somehow faintly hear from downstairs, the effect is almost dizzying. 

“Um,” he begins hesitantly—that in of itself strikes you as unusual. “I’ve never kissed anyone, so don’t expect too much—”

“Dan Heng,” you interrupt, and suppress a laugh as his head snaps up awkwardly. “This game doesn’t actually force people to kiss.”

“Oh,” he starts, and this time you don’t miss the hazy red painting his cheeks. “I… knew that.”

You snicker—he can’t bring himself to meet your eyes. “Yeah. We can pretty much just stand here until seven minutes are up. Talk. Gossip. Hang out in this tiny space.”

It’s easier said than done, though. You can smell his cologne, the scent of the liquor he drank earlier tainting his breath; you can feel the warmth radiating from his body as he shifts in place. This isn’t comfortable, but you don’t mind staying like this for those few minutes. 

“But,” and your eyebrows pique at that word. “I’d like the full game experience.”

Wow. That’s new, but then again, he’s always saying things you don’t expect. You mull over a reply quickly—he’s practically trembling after all, breathing shallow and face radiating the same rosy shade as his cheeks now. 

“Oh? Would you have asked this of whoever you ended up with?” It’s out of curiosity that you ask, but you’re hoping his answer will be a no. 

“No,” he breathes. “I’d rather have my friend be my first kiss.”

“So we’re doing this as friends?” you mutter. Your hand slips under his chin, and you can feel his breathing waver. You’re no stranger to friends with benefits-type situations, which is precisely why you miss the adoring look his eyes briefly hold—flushed, hazed, yours. 

“Exac—exactly,” he practically whines as you grip his face tighter. He’s scorching to the touch, much more than usual. “Don’t get the wrong idea—”

His hands loop around your neck as you lean down to match his height. Your eyes follow his throat bobbing when he swallows nervously. 

“Dan Heng.” He clams up immediately as you tilt his head upwards. “Shut up.”

“Mmph—” Whatever he’s about to reply with is cut off by your lips pressing against his suddenly—his movements come to a halt as his arms coil tighter around your neck. Almost reflexively, like some sort of snake. 

He tastes like venom too—the impression of liquor and a hint of whiskey clings avariciously to his lips. If you weren’t so pressed for time, you would’ve spent longer tasting his flesh. But judging by the desperate curl of his hands tangling in the chains around your neck, it appears he feels hounded by the sand grains in the hourglass as well. 

Your thumb and forefinger press into the sides of his face. Pliantly, obediently, his lips open with a gasp; you waste none of those precious sand grains in how you languorously probe into the warmth of his mouth. Just as you taste the profound tang of alcohol and salt on his tongue, so does he taste the familiar palette of sweets on your own. Sweets that you’ve shared with him on all those snack runs. 

The very thought of it makes him press urgently into you. He’s shivering as he melds the seams between your lips and his more: chest rising and falling heavily as he laces you tight against him. But that’s a mistake—your much-too-thin shirt lays bare all the divots and dips of your flesh against his, and his mind blanks out shamelessly as he whines low into your mouth. 

He flinches as he feels himself sink down onto your thigh—flinches as he hears himself. 

“You good?” you murmur as you pull back. Your thumb traces small circles in his side, and perhaps that’s his last straw; he’s tugging you back onto his mouth with a small groan. 

So, so good, his thoughts jumble out in a haze, and it’s not until you pause that he realises that he did, in fact, say that aloud. 

But it’s not like he cares: not when your scalding mouth targets his jaw. Rough fingers grasp at his hair and crane his neck backwards, and it takes everything within him to muffle the sounds he’s making. 

Fuck, fuck. 

Almost unconsciously, he’s grinding on your leg—blood rushing straight to his head with how numb his mind feels. Aeons above. As you trail your mouth beneath his collar, he can feel his abdomen tighten impossibly. 

“Ah—” he lets out as you nip at his collarbone, and those eyes go wide as saucers as he stutters to a halt against you. He’s practically dripping into his boxers: hips flush against your leg, so utterly done for as you shoot him a grin. 

“I hope that was satisfactory,” you deliberately speak with a polite cadence, as if he wasn’t just writhing against you. As if— as if you weren’t just drawing him to the brink of pleasure. “Did you enjoy the game?”

Perhaps he should be grateful when the scraping sound appears once more and light—though not much brighter—floods into the small space. Perhaps he should be thankful, but instead he buries his red face in his hands and desperately composes himself—bile entering his mouth at the interruption. 

He leaves early that night. 

✦ . 　⁺

A friend, as he buries his face in his pillow and ignores the painful tent in his pants. The air conditioning turned on full blast with the winter breeze streaming through the open window does nothing to cool him down—skin burning, teeth worrying away at his lips. 

A friend, as he recalls the skilled movements of your hands against both the fretboard and his skin—drawing out small noises that he can’t help but blush at. 

A friend,  as his own hands attempt to recreate the feeling of your body on his—practically towering over him in that small space. If he closes his eyes, he can picture it vividly: tasting even the liquor that lingered in your mouth just an hour or so prior, feeling the firm press of your arms as you caged him against those shelves. 

Did you… want to go further?

As a friend, surely it would be rude to not acquiesce, right?

“Dan Heng?” That’s your voice, right? He’s not… imagining things now, is he?

With a start, he realises he’s staring at his phone—black reflection coming to life with his sudden movement, revealing that he did in fact call you. 

“Yes,” he practically whines as he soaks in the rougher lilt of your voice; if he zones out, he can almost feel your breath ghosting across his neck and stirring the dark curls by his ear. 

“Did you need something?” Stoic image gone, he’s entranced by the cooler tone of voice—fuck, fuck. There’s a dark crimson flush on his face, and a sheen on his forehead as he smiles against the receiver. 

“Wanna come over?” Aeons he’s desperate—vocal cords twisting into something breathier, heavy with implication. 

“Oh—” and he can practically hear the purring grin stretching out your face—taunting him that he can’t see it at the minute. “—I get it now.”

“You— you do?” He feels himself twitch against his mattress, ever so slightly shifting until he’s rocking gently while you speak. 

“You want more from me, don’t you?” There’s a mocking tone laced under your words; common to when you make fun of him, but currently, it only serves to make him harder. 

“Yes,” he groans, half-muffled through his pillow. 

He’s so, so shameless. 

“You alone?”

Luck smiles upon him tonight. He’s never been particularly fortunate—serendipity for him is painfully average. The most he expects from his middling chance is for his boot to occasionally knock against a discarded penny: burnished copper never picked up by his clean hands regardless. 

But tonight? He’s lucky. 

“Yeah,” he slurs into the soft fabric. “Roommate’s gone home for the weekend—I’m all alone for you.”

No feelings involved, he thinks—too oblivious to notice the dopey grin on his face as he hears your next words: 

“Give me ten minutes.”

And when you disconnect with a sharp click, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the hazed look dilating his pupils is akin to a rather adoring one. 

✦ . 　⁺

Fuck—he should’ve never suggested this, he should’ve never come to that stupid party in the first place. 

It’s only one predicament after another; squirming on the edge of the bed was not what he had in mind when he practically begged you to come over. But now he’s in this mess because of only himself: rolling his fucking eyes back while you spread his pliant thighs even further with your shoulders. 

His teary gaze meets yours from where you’re kneeling before him, staring right at his face as you trail your mouth across his weeping cock. It’s torturous—and worst of all, he can’t feel himself softening anytime soon. Not even with the pearled globs of white that spilled just from grinding into your leg, and definitely not with his sore chest as you soothed it with your balmy mouth: bruising teeth marks upon bruising teeth marks left to bloom mauve come tomorrow. 

“Hurry—ah,” he whines as you suckle on the angry, flushed head; cold saliva and precum drip down the length, and he shivers at the sticky shick-shick that resounds in his small dorm as a result of your pistoning hand. 

But contrary to his plea, your pace slows until it’s deliciously agonising. He wants to buck his needy hips into your face—yet your hand firmly maroons him on the spot by his trembling waist. 

Aeons, his flesh feels scalding beneath his taut skin—the bloodiest of reds sprawls across his damp cheeks, to his shoulders, to even his very chest. 

Even like this—with just your warm, slick mouth barely grazing him—he can feel the now-familiar tightness in his abdomen building up within. But you don’t let him adjust to the new pace you’ve set; almost immediately after his mind stops reeling, you dip your head and take him down your throat. 

He’s arching into your touch reflexively as white spurts onto your tongue—messy, thick. It dribbles from the corners of your mouth as you swallow with him still in your mouth; tears streak from his placid eyes at the weird sensation in his stomach that leaves his hips writhing with how sensitive he feels. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he mewls as you finally draw back with a wet pop sound—lips slick with his release as you lick them clean. The view certainly doesn’t help him; you’re looking at him so ravenously that his flush won’t ever let up. 

“Happy?” You’re licking your fingers clean now, and he’s aching once more. 

“No—” he sobs as he twitches in your tight grasp. His head’s spinning, but he’s so fucking empty he wants to cry. 

“You want more?” Can you believe this guy?—your expression seems to state: a slight concern present in the pique of your brow. 

“Yes, yes,” he slurs, cupping your face in his scorching fingers. “Need you in me.”

Despite his words, he’s gasping as you slide a single finger in: roughly probing to only the second knuckle, but he’s already gripping onto your shoulders for dear life. 

“Mmph—feels weird,” he breathes before you kiss him sweetly. Your mouth swallows up his cries as he adjusts to the sensation that makes his stomach churn devastatingly. It’s uncomfortable, but he wants you to be buried in him—wants you to lose yourself in his tight walls and never want to let him go. 

When you probe a second finger in, he’s struggling to prop himself up: arms shaking far too much as you scissor and stretch him open. It hurts, but there’s something budding in his gut that keeps pulling whine after whine out of his kiss-bitten lips. 

That all changes when you crook your fingers slightly. Something shifts inside his walls—a specific spot of nerves is pressed, and he freezes in your arms. 

“Wait—ah—feels strange,” he gasps out. You rock him closer, but you don’t relent with the steady pistoning of your fingers: making sure to brush and hammer right into that spot. His eyes dart everywhere and nowhere—dizzy as a twirling teacup, beyond measure. He’s stuffed so full; each time he hears that squelch, he can’t help but moan out. 

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly in his ear. He shivers at the small gesture—so tender he’s getting whiplash, quite frankly. “You’re doing great.”

“Ngh—” he whimpers—he fucking whimpers—at the praise. Maybe it’s the proximity of your skin against his naked body, or maybe it’s your words—but he’s clenching around your goddamn fingers as he spills more white over himself and now you. The aftershocks hit him like a train; blinding incandescence flashes bright in his eyelids while his body writhes against you. 

“That’s a surprise,” you mutter. What’s a surprise?—is what he wants to ask, but a gasp is forced out of him as soon as your fingers leave him. 

“See that?” you ask in fascination as you lift them—clear tendrils coat the digits, sopping all over his sheets and staining his own face a dark red. “Must’ve liked it, huh.”

“Shut up,” he hisses. Although, it’s pointless to even begin to defend himself—not when his dripping hole still flutters like it was made for you. 

“Oh— oh fuck,” he eats his words as soon as you smear his fluids against his peaked nipples; cock bobbing stiffly against his tummy with each languid ministration. 

“So weak-willed,” you coo; he’s so cute like this. Knuckles white with how fastened they are to the sheets, it’s really no surprise that he looks like he’s losing his mind. Those blue irises are almost completely gone—dilated completely as he gazes up at you with a quivering bottom lip. 

With a shaking hand, he pulls you closer by your white belt loops—you’ll have to apologise to Kafka later, since you’ll never wear these ruined clothes again. 

He’s the one who unzips your pants. He’s the one who palms your front—it’s so heavy and warm he can’t help but feel a little flustered by the foreign feeling. He’s the one who ultimately slips past the underwear and handles it with something close to reverence. 

“Fuck,” you hiss as his hands wrap carefully around your sore cock—neglected, but so utterly worth it as he gazes all doe-eyed at you. “Dan Heng, baby—”

His fingers quaver to a halt, and he stares with eyes large as saucers. Ignoring the obvious stain on his cheeks, it’s evident his breathing’s picked up to shallow, rapid rise-and-falls. 

“Aeons, please put it in,” he all but begs. His syllables stumble over each other in a race to exit his mouth first, but they trip into incoherency as he feels the fat head of your dick press against his slick hole. 

“Ah.” He cants his hips upwards in delight—stars in his eyes and shimmering across his mind’s theatre as the very shaft burns into him with a slow squelch. Hurts so good, he wants to say, but all that comes out of his mouth is a drawn-out moan as you latch onto his fat tits with your mouth—suckling—until he feels the sensitive buds harden once more. 

He’s so embarrassingly close from just the tip alone—especially since your tongue is unrelenting, just the way he likes—

“Ngh— fuck, I’m cumming,” he wails, choking each word out just as your teeth graze his chest. But you’re unrelenting, even as you’re groaning into his ear from how he tightens around you—you simply rock him in your arms so he can ride out his orgasm. 

The waves of pleasure ebb and flow in his mind so poignantly he sees the most blinding of whites. Right after it fades, he’s greeted with the sight of your face and chest plastered with slightly thinner, paler ropes of liquid. 

“Aeons.” He barely knows what he’s doing anymore. Weakly, his tongue kitten licks and suckles the salty liquid off the areas he can access—namely, your jaw and neck—before he bites hard on the flesh, slinking his arms tightly around your nape so he can arch into your touch. 

He’s softened now, but he’ll be damned if you don’t stuff him full for the rest of the night. 

“So pretty like this,” you whisper. The words, paired with the slightest roll of your hips as you adjust your position, jolts him with a delicious pain. “You wanna keep going?”

“Yes, ah—” he sobs, legs wrapping tightly around your waist. It hurts—his dick feels spent and all too sensitive to the lightest of brushes of your soaked abdomen. But despite it all, he can still feel the stupid thing harden once more as he imagines you filling him to the brim. 

“Fuck,” you curse, long and drawn-out as his hole flutters around you once more. “So damn tight.”

Inch by inch, he takes you deeper; swearing he’ll be split in half by the time you’re done with him. Uncontrollable moans spill from him, mixed with incoherent babbling as he claws at your skin; he feels so damn full that his spent cock still dribbles precum from the slit. 

“Are you in fully?” he slurs after a few more minutes of this agony. It’s not until he glances down and sees a bulge in his lower stomach that his heart skips a beat—only to find you admiring the sight too. You lift your hand, and—

“Wait,” he begs, but it’s already too late.

—you press down on the mound in his tummy, and he wails. 

He arches into your touch fully; tears leaking out his eyes as drool escapes his lips. Like a mantra, he’s chanting your name in between his broken sobs—too cock-drunk to think about formulating any other word. There’s only thin cum streaming from his softened dick now—and it hurts so good. 

His mind’s so numb, but there’s still something missing from this giant puzzle. 

He’s so far gone with pleasure that he can’t think of anything else. 

“Do you want to stop?” Your voice comes fuzzy and disembodied, like he’s hearing you through a pool. But he musters up enough energy to shake his head in a vehement no. 

“Keep— keep going,” he whimpers. That’s all the encouragement you need as you start moving faster, thick cock splitting him right in two as you tightly grip his hips. With each collision of your pelvis against his plush ass, a devastated whine rips out his hoarse throat. He’s so spent, but somewhere in his subconscious he wants you to think how good he squeezes you, how tight and warm he is around you. 

“Aeons, you’re so beautiful like this,” you mutter between kissing him desperately. With each rough thrust, you drill into his prostate over and over—blood wells up on your back with how hard he digs his crescent nails in. 

“Fuck—” you swear as you finally spill into him—hot seed stuffing his hole so full that he sees stars one final time. It’s a dry orgasm—he thinks he hears you say, but he’s far too delirious to think of anything but the sopping mess between his legs. 

His eyes flutter shut, and the last thing he can feel is the warm, gentle touch of a wet cloth wiping him down—and the sweet press of a kiss against his forehead as he slips into the land of slumber. 

It may have been a bad decision. He may have a crisis over his terrible impulsivity. It may have felt so good he was positively wracked with pain. 

None of that stops him from coming back for more. And more. And more, until it’s more common to see Dan Heng with a bite mark just poking out the top of his turtleneck than not. 

When you tell Kafka about this hypothetical friends-with-benefits situation, she supports you—of course she does. But what she doesn’t tell you is how this man looks at you.

She’s a poet, so she could talk about how enamoured his gaze is. How devoted the brush of his knuckles against yours is. How he looks at you as if the stars strewn across the fabric of space were your doing. 

But she’s a sadist, so the adoring haze in your so-called ‘friend’s’ expression is one she lets you be oblivious to. 

If every other band-mate of yours can see how obsessed he is with your very existence, surely you’ll be able to tell eventually?

[santoschristos]

Orion's celestial vibrations are believed to carry frequencies that facilitate spiritual growth, awakening, and inner healing. By consciously attuning to this energy, individuals can tap into a wellspring of transformative power.

Harnessing Orion’s Energy: Healing and Transformation

Harnessing the potent energy of Orion opens pathways for profound healing and transformation.

Orion’s celestial vibrations are believed to carry frequencies that facilitate spiritual growth, awakening, and inner healing.

By consciously attuning to this energy, individuals can tap into a wellspring of transformative power.

Orion’s energy serves as a catalyst for releasing stagnant patterns, limiting beliefs, and emotional blockages that hinder personal evolution.

Through practices like energy healing, meditation, and sound therapy, individuals can align with Orion’s frequencies to restore balance, rejuvenate their spirits, and catalyze deep inner transformations.

The energy of Orion holds the potential to awaken dormant aspects of the self and ignite a profound metamorphosis of mind, body, and soul.

The healing aspect of Orion’s energy extends beyond the individual level and encompasses the collective consciousness.

The vibrational resonance of Orion is said to radiate a harmonizing influence that can help mend societal divisions and promote unity.

When individuals harness and embody the transformative energy of Orion, they become conduits for healing and positive change in their communities.

The expansive and inclusive nature of Orion’s energy inspires individuals to cultivate empathy, compassion, and understanding, fostering an environment conducive to collective healing and transformation.

By nurturing connections and facilitating open dialogue, those attuned to Orion’s energy contribute to the greater healing and awakening of humanity.

One of the transformative aspects of Orion’s energy lies in its ability to assist individuals in discovering and embracing their authentic selves.

This energy acts as a guiding force, encouraging individuals to explore their true essence and purpose.

By aligning with Orion’s energy, individuals gain clarity and insight into their unique gifts, talents, and life mission.

They are empowered to shed societal expectations and live in alignment with their highest potential.

Orion’s energy facilitates the dismantling of self-imposed limitations and encourages individuals to step into their power, allowing for personal growth, self-actualization, and the manifestation of their truest desires.

Through this process of self-discovery and alignment, individuals can experience profound transformation and live a life that resonates with their soul’s purpose.

Orion from Italy Image from: Space 8K @uhd2020

[interstellar-superdrive]

Due to our parasite in chief defunding PBS Kids, and causing Molly of Denali to get cancelled, I decided to draw her (and Jet, of course) defending public media.

I may not have posted about it much, but Molly of Denali was an excellent show, and groundbreaking. It's one of the few animated works that doesn't stereotype indigenous Americans and instead represents them authentically. It got four seasons, which is a lot for a kids' show and more than what cult classics like Ready Jet Go or Let's Go Luna got.

But no, Molly got canned because it was "woke" or "racially divisive" or whatever. Yeah, it's woke, because it is aware of the injustices that indigenous people have faced (they did an episode on the residential schools) and sets out to portray said people positively and authentically. If you have a problem with that, fuck off.

Go to https://protectmypublicmedia.org/ for more information on how you can help PBS

[brittanyearnestauthor]

Understanding and Effectively Writing About Character Beliefs

Human beliefs are deeply complex and shape the way we understand, interact with, and navigate the world. Beliefs form early in life—often during childhood—when we place full trust in those around us without the ability to distinguish what is objectively right or wrong. Over time, experiences, learning, and self-reflection refine or even completely alter those beliefs, making them a dynamic part of personal growth.

Beliefs influence relationships, careers, well-being, perceptions, decisions, values, and actions. They define how individuals view themselves and others, shaping social dynamics. Not only are beliefs intellectual, but they are also heavily impacted by emotions, making them an integral part of character development in storytelling.

How Beliefs Are Formed

Several aspects contribute to a person’s belief system:

- Cultural background: Traditions, societal norms, and family influence shape core beliefs.

- Religious upbringing: Faith can play a significant role in moral perspectives and life choices.

- Political ideologies: Government systems and social movements influence how individuals perceive fairness, justice, and societal order.

- Personal experiences: Life events—both positive and negative—shape unique perspectives and alter beliefs over time.

Since beliefs are rarely stagnant, they evolve as people grow, adapt, and respond to new circumstances. Some individuals modify or unlearn outdated beliefs as they gain new knowledge, while others double down on their convictions based on social influence or personal reasoning.

How Beliefs Influence Community Engagement

Beliefs guide the type of communities people choose to be part of—most people seek groups that align with their values, fostering stronger connections. Being part of a community that respects personal beliefs helps build trust, while conflict between opposing belief systems can lead to social tension and impact mental well-being.

In writing, these dynamics play an essential role in crafting realistic societies within stories. Whether your characters seek harmony within a group or struggle against societal norms, understanding how beliefs influence their sense of belonging can enhance depth and authenticity.

Types of Beliefs

Beliefs can take various forms depending on their source and level of influence:

- Core Beliefs: Deep-seated assumptions about oneself, others, and the world.

- Experiential Beliefs: Formed through personal experiences and observations.

- Influenced Beliefs: Shaped by social interactions, culture, and authority figures.

- Intuitive Beliefs: Developed from gut feelings or instincts.

- Preference-Based Beliefs: Reflecting personal values and individual choices.

- Religious Beliefs: Centered around faith, spirituality, or the supernatural.

- Political Beliefs: Opinions about governance, leadership, and societal structures.

- Scientific Beliefs: Based on empirical evidence and logical inquiry.

Belief Challenges

Beliefs can serve as a source of conflict, particularly when they clash with progress or differing perspectives. Some challenges include:

- Holding onto outdated beliefs that may hinder growth and development.

- Using beliefs to incite conflict, leading to mental distress, anxiety, or division.

To reduce negative effects, understanding and respecting differing beliefs can encourage coexistence, opening space for dialogue rather than confrontation.

Critical thinking also plays a significant role in evaluating personal and societal beliefs, allowing individuals—and characters in stories—to adapt and grow rather than being bound by rigid perspectives.

Applying Beliefs in Writing

When writing characters, belief systems should mimic real-world complexities to make them relatable, realistic, and engaging. Beliefs shape interactions, influence decision-making, and create tension or motivation within a narrative.

Showcasing a character’s evolving belief system, their struggles with moral dilemmas, or their efforts to reconcile conflicting views can help readers deeply connect with them. Stories that incorporate belief-driven conflicts allow readers to reflect on their own perspectives, making literature more impactful.

By following this guide, you’ll be equipped to weave compelling belief structures into your characters and stories, making them resonate more with audiences.

Conclusion

Developing a character requires attention to many details, and belief systems are among the most important factors that shape a well-rounded protagonist or antagonist. Whether faith-based, philosophical, or experiential, beliefs drive a character’s actions, emotions, and relationships, making them an essential element of storytelling.

As I continue covering different aspects of character development, I hope this post helps you create deep, realistic characters that keep your audience engaged and coming back for more!

Happy writing!