#foul weather suit

[hockeydogwoof]

Ready to go, helmeted and fully suited up in heavy duty ProS rain gear.

[ahundredtimesover]

I Want You to Stay (06) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; eventual explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 14.6k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: We're slowly heading somewhere! Still slow but it's something hehe thank you again for appreciating this piece! 🥰 Also... JK in that Vogue outfit with a corsage. YEP.

And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight  🥰

PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!

The silence that engulfs Jungkook’s apartment once you enter the following Monday is quite unnerving, as it brings back memories of the last time this happened and a half-naked woman came out of the bedroom and questioned who you were. The gym is empty. There’s no other sound of someone typing away or talking on the phone like the few times that you found Jungkook working before you even arrived.

You take a deep breath and decide to just face whoever comes out of these doors until one of them opens and out comes the man himself - alone - dressed in an oversized jumper and sweatpants. He looks like he just got out of bed with his semi-mussed hair - with a little sprout bouncing along as he moves - and groggy eyes, which widen once it registers that you’re here.

“Mr. Jeon,” you bow in greeting. “Are you feeling better?”

“A little,” he replies, his deep and gruff voice startling you a little. “What do you have there?”

He gestures towards the paper bag you’re holding, and you remember what you decided to bring over.

“Uh, chicken noodle soup,” you mutter, somehow suddenly shy. “Just an option for this morning. I wasn’t sure if you were still feeling under the weather.”

“I think I’m just fatigued,” he says. “But uh, I can have that.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod, putting it in a pot to eventually heat. 

You prepare his suits for the week then prepare his breakfast, pouring yourself a small serving as well. He takes his seat and starts eating, and you glance at him to see his reaction.

“Where did you get the one from last Saturday?” He asks, his face expressionless.

“From a store nearby,” you answer. “I was heading somewhere and your building was on the way.”

“This tastes better. Where did you get this from?” 

“I, uh, I made it,” you say softly, feeling a bit of pride that it’s something he complimented. 

There’s prolonged silence that you’re suddenly nervous about. His eyes remain focused straight ahead while yours constantly flit towards him, partly to gauge if he’ll start talking about last week’s meeting and partly to see his reaction about your dish.

“You don’t have to send or make me food, Ms. Cho,” he finally says, wishing he’d said it with a bit more warmth. 

But he’s not used to speaking that way, so it comes off as displeasure, as if he doesn’t appreciate what you’d done even if that’s exactly how he feels. He’s grateful; he just doesn’t want another reason to think that you actually care about him. 

“My health is my responsibility, not yours,” he adds.

“I, uh… I suppose that’s true,” you say even more softly. “I just thought it would be nice to be given something like this when you’re sick.”

And it’s the truth. During the times you were unwell, Hoseok would remind you to rest or take your medicines; he even bought you vitamins and it’s why taking them became a habit of yours. You barely had the energy to make soup. But after that one time when you braved through an event and Yoongi noticed you feeling under the weather, he took you to a noodle house and ordered extra chicken noodle soup for you to take home. You had it all through the weekend, and though it wasn’t like your mom’s, it was still something familiar, and it was comfort that you badly needed.

You thought it was something you could extend to Jungkook. You weren’t sure if he was spending the weekend at home by himself, but in case he was, you thought that something warm would help. You were on your way to watch a local film and happened to pass by his area, the image of him sick and probably alone prompting you to just buy that dish and leave it at the reception. You suddenly craved it and made one for yourself last night, thinking it wouldn’t hurt if you brought some over for him as well. Even if he thinks it isn’t your responsibility, you think it’s still within your role to make sure that your boss - the Vice President - conducts his functions properly, and he can only do so if he’s healthy. 

As you finish the small portion that you prepared for yourself, Jungkook wonders who’d taken care of you during the times you were sick. With your friends and family miles away, perhaps there wasn’t anyone. Maybe it was a boyfriend. Or maybe like what he’s come to see, you did things on your own. Maybe you think there’s no one doing that for him, too. 

And you wouldn’t be wrong. He was never good with company, after all, whether it was offering or keeping it. So when someone offers something as simple as a bowl of soup for when he’s feeling unwell, it cuts through the walls he’s built around himself because he’s become used to no one even knocking to check how he’s doing. 

But in an effort to remain unmoved and insistent on keeping his distance, he sets boundaries once more. 

“You don’t need to do this for me, Mr. Cho,” he states. “I appreciate it, but I’d prefer if you don’t do it again.”

He sees your face fall from his periphery, and much as he wants to take it back, he knows he has to hold back. It was hard enough to resist feeling cared for. 

He’d really spent the weekend by himself, turning down his friends’ invitation to go to a resort and Hoseok’s offer of dinner at this newly opened steak house. Jungkook was buried under the covers when the phone rang informing him that you’d left something for him, unwilling to move and get off the bed because he was too tired but also too hungry, so when he opened the bag and it registered to him what you've given him, he felt less alone and less sad for himself. The image of your shy expression flashed through his mind and he couldn’t help the smile he let out, giving himself only a minute to bask in your kindness before reminding himself that it means nothing more than making sure he’s well. It’s harder for you if he’s sick, he convinced himself. Still, he’d rather not think about it; he’d rather not torture himself by his brain wanting you to mean one thing, but his heart hoping it was another.

“I understand, Mr. Jeon,” you say, your voice a little too firm for his liking. “I apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

“It—” didn’t, he wants to say. It made him feel nice and comfortable and that’s what he can’t let himself feel around you. 

“I treat this as part of my job,” you reason, a half lie because you really did want to extend some kindness even if he may not exactly be deserving of it. “But it may not be so for you. I’ll take note of this moving forward.”

Jungkook concedes. Any objection will counter what he’s been saying, even if he didn’t mean all of it. And like how you always do, you get over it quickly, flashing him a measured smile and taking out your iPad to go through this week’s schedule. 

You both head to the car after and discuss his previous meetings. You’re detailed and engaged, taking down notes and asking him questions like the professional that you are. He tells you about his meeting with artist Lee Jaemin and that he agreed with 80% of the pieces that you and Yoongi chose. You talk about the Board members’ reactions during his presentation and he shares what they talked to him about during the dinner. 

“Socializing with them was tiring,” he admits. “I couldn’t keep up with all the things that they wanted to talk about.”

You give him an assuring smile. “You looked like you did well,” you assure him. “They seemed engaged, although as Mr. Jung would say, part of that is for show, to get on your good side. It would be smarter to think that not all of it was genuine.”

“True. But I enjoyed speaking with Mr. Saito. He’s an architect, too, and we had a really good talk about incorporating traditional elements in a modern design.”

“Yes, he’s always been kind,” you say. “But it’s good that you’re able to forge these relationships. Perhaps it’s also new to them, seeing you in that light. I suppose they don’t know you all that much. It’s a nice change being able to engage with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, well, it’s just during the company events that you attended, it wasn’t exactly hard to spot you,” you chuckle, seemingly comfortable now.

“And why is that so?” 

He turns to you, legitimately curious because he’d never really noticed you before, even if he knew you as Hoseok’s assistant. If he’s being honest, you didn’t even look familiar when you first met, and that just reinforces the fact that Jungkook didn’t really care for the other people around him, especially during those events he was required to fly to Seoul to attend. If he’d paid a bit more attention, maybe he wouldn’t have been caught off guard when he did finally meet you. Maybe he wouldn’t have been as rude, too.

“If I may, sir, it was quite easy to spot one of the Jeon sons always at the bar,” you chuckle. “Your father and cousin would often look for you and you were always in the same spot.”

You’d noticed him, Jungkook thinks to himself. He wonders what you’d thought about him then, but given how he hated those events, it probably wouldn’t be something good. He just always couldn’t wait to leave. 

“Ah. As you can tell, I’m not one who likes to socialize,” he says. “I don’t really know what to talk to people about. And I’m not that good with names nor faces. It was easier to keep to myself.”

“That’s understandable. But you already know that’ll have to change,” you remind him. “Half of what Mr. Jung did was attend events.”

“I know. He’s been preparing me for that. I need your help in that aspect, too, from remembering names to getting my energy up. Those are oddly what I’m most nervous about, if I’m being honest.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Jeon,” you assure him. “I hope I can make things easy for you.”

You’ll never know the irony of your words, and perhaps the push and pull it brings about - as you try to make things easy for him, the harder it actually becomes on his end. 

You find yourself back at the tailor shop the next Thursday for Jungkook’s suit fitting, and if it wasn’t for Taehyung telling you that your gowns are ready, you would have totally forgotten that you had some dresses made as well. 

While Jungkook tries on his outfits, you’re instructed to choose several dress shirts that he’d be adding to his wardrobe, given the various functions he’d be attending from now on. You didn’t anticipate for this to be part of your role, but you don’t mind, as it’s a welcome change to what you normally do, which is attend meetings, bury yourself in paperwork, and everything else in between. At least you’ll be visiting the venue for the Arts Center event tomorrow, but today, you focus on the task at hand, which turns out to be harder than expected.

The options are endless. It doesn’t help that you have to envision Jungkook in each piece of clothing and that he looks good in every one of them, and that you have to imagine him at all. You see him everyday - and have seen him in as little as in just his gym shorts - and you don’t really want to have him in your mind as well. But how he presents himself is a big part of his new role, as Hoseok had told you. As the Vice President, Jungkook needs to look sophisticated and respectable, someone worthy to represent the company and the Jeon family name. 

You go for different hues of grays and blacks and other colors, too. There’s an olive green that looks really nice, and a few maroons and pinks that would add variety to his everyday look. You’re focused on making your choices, but your focus shifts to Jungkook when he comes out of the dressing room donned in a patterned  black suit. The fit is perfect and even with the distance between you two, you could spot impeccable details that make the outfit look elegant yet fresh. 

“This is for the gala,” Taehyung states. “What do you think, Ms. Cho?”

“It looks nice” is all you manage to say. 

It’s the only word you feel is neutral enough to describe him. Even if you could accept that Jungkook is handsome, you don’t exactly want to say so in front of him.

“I was going for something better than nice, but that should be fine, I guess. What do you think, Kook?”

“I like it. But don’t you think the sleeves are a bit too fit on my arms?” Jungkook asks his friend.

“Well, it’s not like you were flexing them when I was measuring you,” Taehyung playfully rolls his eyes. “But I can adjust it, since I doubt you’d take a pause on lifting weights anyway. It’s probably the material though so don’t worry, I’ll fix this. Okay, on to the next one.”

You return to your task at hand, choosing some patterned tops that are appropriate for less formal events, and you inform Taehyung who then says that he’ll have those made in Jungkook’s measurements. With your task finished, Taehyung instructs you to head downstairs so you could fit your gowns as well, and you follow in anticipation because these might just be the first and only custom-made pieces of clothing you’ll ever have the luxury of wearing.

A female staff assists you, making sure that the length and neckline are to your liking. The first outfit, the one for the Arts Center event, is an old rose sleeveless lace midi dress that looks even more gorgeous when worn. The gown for the Appointment Dinner is a black short-sleeved pleated piece that is both functional and fashionable, but it’s the last one - the one for the gala - that has your jaw dropping to the ground.

“Ms. Cho,” you hear Taehyung call out from outside the fitting room. “Is everything okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, unable to stop looking at yourself in the mirror and turning around to try to see every angle of the stunning dress. “It’s just, uh…”

“It’s what?” He asks worriedly. “Can you come outside so I can see?” 

You take a breath before pulling the heavy curtains open and find Taehyung and Jungkook standing not far away.

“It’s too pretty, Mr. Kim,” you say shyly. “I don’t think I can wear this.”

“Well, you will. Because it’s custom-made,” he points out. “And it looks gorgeous on you. It fits perfectly. I assume the others do as well?”

“Yes,” you smile, feeling like a fairytale princess who gets to wear a gown that her fairy godmother had made for her. “They’re just…”

“Exactly what you need as this guy’s right hand woman,” Taehyung finishes for you.

He gestures towards his best friend who seems expressionless and probably unimpressed by how you look. It’s not like you mind but it at least wouldn’t be humiliating if he just stood there looking uninterested.

“What do you think, Kook?”

“It looks nice,” Jungkook shrugs, repeating the words you’d used on him earlier. Shifting his gaze from you to Taehyung, he excuses himself. “I’ll head to the car, I have calls to make.”

“I’ll finish up here,” you say, turning around to go back to the fitting room.

Jungkook exits the shop and finally breathes, feeling like he’d suffocated inside because of how you looked. He’d wondered how the dresses turned out, curious about the designs because Taehyung didn’t want to show him; it’s a surprise, the man had said. And now Jungkook knows why. 

Stunning would be an inadequate word to use. The burgundy color of the gown made it look sophisticated on you, even more with the off-shoulder that showed off some of your features that he’d rather not think about. The flow was elegant, and he half wishes that he hadn’t thought of having these made only so he could avoid the moment earlier when he felt his throat dry up because of how beautiful you looked. 

He’s gonna have to get used to being rendered speechless every time, he thinks, but it’s not like it doesn’t happen everyday, anyway. Every morning that he finds you standing in his kitchen, donning the pencil skirt and blouse ensemble that assistants are recommended to wear, his mind short circuits. There’s something especially fresh and electrifying about you at the start of the day, and he always has to pull himself together and act normal around you without giving himself away. 

He can’t nurture the attraction, after all, even if he’s reminded of it during times like earlier, even more so when he gazes at you and you hold it, letting the tension build unconsciously. Because that’s what happened, as you pulled open the curtains and looked up. He wishes you were too shy to notice how long he had his eyes on you. But it’s why he had to get away. You’re too much for him sometimes, and he doesn’t know if you have any idea of how you affect him.

Jungkook stares at his phone, half hoping that an actual call would come to distract him. But nothing does, and he leans his head back and groans in frustration. What is it about you that makes him absolutely weak in the knees and stupid in the head? 

Back inside, you give Taehyung your address so he can have the gowns delivered to your apartment for your convenience. 

“Thank you again, Mr. Kim,” you say. “I wish I could do your creations justice.”

“You will. It’s in the confidence, so exude it, okay?”

“I’ll try,” you giggle. “Especially since those pieces will pretty much blow the Office of the VP’s budget.”

“Is that what Kook said? That these are budgeted under him?” Taehyung arches an eyebrow.

“Uh, yes, sort of. I just assumed because he’d pointed out that they were being made as part of my functions,” you explain. 

“Hmm. I know his office has a lot of money but these gowns would definitely blow up any contingency fund you have,” he chuckles. “So no, your assumption is wrong. Kook’s paying for all this.”

“What?” You exclaim. “But that’s— why?”

“Well, you do need these as part of your job, and he wanted to save you the inconvenience of spending for them. I mean, he did buy Lucas some suits, too. But between you and me, I think this is his way of apologizing to you, just in a very gallant way.”

“You mean unnecessary and undeserving,” you correct, still in shock that Jungkook is paying for all those, even if yes, he can easily afford them. 

“Nope, not at all. I know he’s been difficult to deal with and I’d like to apologize on his behalf, seeing that he’s terrible at doing it. I know it doesn’t make things better but at least it’s something you don’t have to worry about anymore.”

“Well, that does help a bit,” you smile, following him as he heads out the door. “But thank you again, Mr. Kim.”

“Off with the formalities,” he laughs. “It’s Taehyung. And you’re welcome. It’s the least I could do to somehow make up for my ass of a best friend.” 

“He’s not too bad. Not anymore, at least,” you counter. “I’ll go ahead. Have a good day, Taehyung!”

Jungkook manages to look down on his phone in time for you not to see him watch you talk freely and casually with his friend. That’s another person close to him who gets to experience how you’re like - joyful and warm, perhaps a little shy sometimes, but comfortable just the same. It’s something he’ll only see from afar; your positions necessitate some distance, but perhaps that’s better than not having you around at all. 

You enter the car and you’re back to being quiet and reserved, your eyes focused on the road while Jungkook, in an effort not to keep glancing at you, turns to his leather notebook and doodles some designs that pop in his head. It’s his way of calming himself down most days, helping him focus given that his mind is often filled with too many thoughts that he can’t express. He hopes that in drawing them, he can somehow rid himself of the feelings he’s locked in and it helps, as he’s somehow able to get over the tension from earlier and the tiniest bit of jealousy over your casual engagement with Taehyung.

You both return to the office, with Jungkook proceeding to his room to prepare for a lunch meeting and you follow, taking some signed documents that he’d left earlier.

“Mr. Jeon,” you say as he settles in his seat. “Thank you for the dresses. I… I’ve never had anything as beautiful as those and undeserving as I may feel, I’m just really appreciative.”

Jungkook isn’t prepared for the softness in your voice as you say the words, and like the consistent jerk that he is, he brushes it off.

“Taehyung made them; you should thank him. I just paid for them,” he utters, his tone stern and uncaring.

His eyes flit to you when there’s silence on your end, and he wishes they hadn’t. There’s resignation in yours, as if he’s shattering another moment you’re creating where you’re just being sincere and he’s being dismissive. It’s his default, he reasons, not just towards you but towards everyone. Normally he wouldn’t mind how the other would take it, but with you right now, he wishes he was so much better than this. 

You hold his gaze, as if trying to tell him things you don’t want to express. He’s not one to apologize, but he also won’t accept gratitude. You’re starting to think that what Jungkook can’t handle is any form of human connection. It’s something you struggle with at times, but you’re at least open to it, willing to accept kindness and appreciating people for what they have to offer. Jungkook deflects; he turns away. It seemed like it took so much for him to even verbalize needing your help and perhaps he was desperate; his reputation was on the line after all. But even then, he doesn’t give nor does he accept, and you wonder what made him that way. 

“Is there anything else?” He finally asks after a long beat of silence. 

“Nothing more,” you shake your head and excuse yourself. 

Returning to your desk, you look at Jungkook from your seat. There’s a hint of emptiness in his eyes that you often mistake for apathy. Perhaps there’s more and perhaps the help he really needs isn’t just about dealing with his father or remembering names or navigating relationships required for his role. Maybe it’s about opening himself up a little, or smiling when the situation calls for it, or not questioning other people’s kindness towards him. Maybe it’s about realizing he’s more than just this heir to the company or the playboy he’s known as. Maybe it’s about seeing that he’s capable of sincerity and gentleness as well.

You sigh to yourself. It’s probably a long shot but you only feel strongly about it because you know what it’s like to turn people away. If it hadn’t been for your family and friends, you probably would’ve continued to do so. Jungkook may be your boss but he’s human, too, and he may just be waiting around to see who’d be patient enough to extend a hand and let him know that he’s not alone, that someone understands, and maybe that someone is you.

The days fly by too quickly for your liking and you haven't been able to take a breath. You had a meeting with the organizing committee of the Appointment Dinner most of last Friday and you spent your weekend coordinating with the designers for the Arts Center launch. It’s been last minute preparations these past two days and before you know it, Wednesday has come. You stayed late the night before and were gladly checked in at the hotel with the other assistants, so you at least got a bit of sleep even if your body felt like it continued to stay awake. 

But tonight is important, as the newly appointed executives will be formally introduced to the corporation’s directors, shareholders, and subsidiary companies. You’ve been organizing this with the planning committee since the appointments were announced, and given that coordinating events like this is one of your primary tasks, you’re exhausted and excited and nervous all at once. But it’s the second time you’re doing this and you’ve learned so much since you did this for Hoseok. There’s more knowledge, sure, but there’s also more confidence. You also know enough to eat before the guests arrive and at 3PM, it’s exactly what you do, knowing you won’t have much else until the event ends.

The other employees compliment your dress, and you’re too shy to say who had designed it but you eventually do, knowing it’s good for Taehyung’s brand. But you don’t say much else, choosing instead to focus on the guest list as you’re tasked to do, and you go around the events hall to make sure that the VIP name cards are placed on their proper tables. You’re able to sneak bites of the canapes as you go, allowing yourself a flute of champagne for that kick you need to socialize with the guests tonight. 

You engage with the early birds when they arrive, guiding them to their seats and putting on your most welcoming smile. You get Mr. Ri’s message that they’re nearby, so you head outside and stand by the entrance and wait for them, knowing Jungkook would want to know how things are going.

He exits the car in a black suit and white top, a statement brooch adorning his classic coat. The strands of his long hair are tucked behind his ears and he looks even more polished than usual, a look that catches attention; it definitely catches yours. 

“Mr. Jeon,” you bow in greeting. “Some of your invited guests have arrived.” 

“Have you spoken to them?” He asks, as you walk slightly behind him towards the venue. 

“I have, and they’re looking forward to seeing you.” 

He nods, and just as he’s about to enter the hall, he stops and turns towards you. 

“You’re busy tonight, aren’t you?”

“Somewhat, sir,” you reply. “We all have our tasks but I’m free to move around. Do you need help with anything?”

“Just, uh, names.”

“I’ll always be nearby,” you assure him. 

Your smile gives him the comfort he needs. He’s been without it since yesterday afternoon, given that you had to prepare as part of the organizing committee. And while the support team and Yoongi have been encouraging, only you really know why every event such as this is important for him. 

Jungkook has already made gains with some of the Board members last week; this time, it’s about engaging everyone else - the staff, the partners, and key personalities in the industry. Hoseok and Ji-woo have done this before but it’s Jungkook’s first time. He’s no longer just an executive in the Southeast Asian office; he’s now the Vice President of the entire company. There’s a lot of pressure that comes from carrying the Jeon family name, and even more being the only one of the two sons who’s taking on such an important role. 

The event hall is grand. It’s pretty special, too. It’s one of the projects he worked on as part of the design department years ago before he left for Singapore, and the thought makes him stop. Perhaps this is the reason why his father chose this venue for tonight; if anything, it’s a reminder of what Jungkook is capable of. He takes a breath and looks around to soak everything in before approaching his invited guests - partners and consultants he worked with in his previous role. 

But that ends quickly, as many more people approach him for a greeting. 

Jungkook is a bit overwhelmed. He tries to hold eye contact when he speaks to them but he can only do so for so long. Some faces are familiar but the names escape him, and he starts to regret all the times that he flew here for events like this and never engaged with the other guests. If he had, perhaps this wouldn’t be so hard. 

There are those who introduce themselves, while there are those who don’t, perhaps assuming that he’d know who they are. Just like the couple who’s speaking to him excitedly, and he wants to return the energy by at least calling them by their names. His mind is blank, and just as he’s about to give up, he looks up and sees you, your eyes catching his as if you’re just waiting for his cry for help. 

There’s pleading in his eyes and you get it immediately, as you walk towards his direction then greet the pair next to him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Yamada,” you say. “It’s lovely to see both of you again. I saw in the news that you’re launching a new project with our partners from Dubai. That’s quite exciting.”

“Ah, Ms. Cho,” they greet you back. “Yes, all thanks to Mr. Jung who helped us with that partnership. We’re excited for it as well.”

“Oh, I’m sure. We’re looking forward to it,” you smile.

“Thank you. I’m pleased to know that you remain as the Vice President’s assistant,” Mrs. Yamada says. “Perhaps we can invite Mr. Jeon to one of our hotels in Japan? Or even in London?”

You turn to Jungkook who looks less tense than he did a few minutes ago.

“Ah, yes, that would be great, Mr. and Mrs. Yamada,” he responds. “I’m sure I’ll find time during one of my trips and I’ll definitely give you a call. Perhaps we can talk about projects we can work on as well.”

The excitement in the couple’s faces is a joy to see and for their sake, you really do wish that Jungkook makes good on his promise. You ask him about it after they leave, and he says that the names were familiar. Ji-woo’s talked about working with them before and that they’re long-time friends of the family, so he should maintain that relationship. 

A call of his name prompts both of you to look to the side, and he turns to you with a questioning face. 

“Mr. Adam’s an investor. Behind him is Professor Zhang from SNU. They’re friends of your father,” you tell him. Seeing Bitna signal for you, you say, “I have to check on something, Mr. Jeon. I’ll be back.”

You turn around to head to one of the tables, but you look back to watch Jungkook greet those who approach him, his smile becoming more natural as the moments pass by. You briefly meet with some staff about the musical guest and some other last minute adjustments. You greet Taehyung and Seokjin who show up to support their best friend, with both men complimenting how you look.

Knowing that Jungkook will be needing you again after, you call over Do-hyun and Yohan and delegate some of your monitoring tasks to them, and then stand by one of the tables as you watch the socialization take place as more guests come in.

Your eyes find Jungkook again as he’s engaged in a conversation with some Board members and other partners, and you smile a little at how he’s able to maintain eye contact and look like he’s actually interested, especially after he looks up and gives you a look as if to say that he’s trying his best. 

“Why are you watching him like some child who’s trying to make friends at the playground?” Chin-sun asks, the teasing tone of her voice making you chuckle. “He’s a grown man, you know? He can hold his own.”

“I know,” you reply, turning to her. “But it’s one of the many things that’s new about his role. And probably one of the more important ones. I just wanna let him know that he’s doing a good job.”

“Well, there’s no wife or girlfriend to do that. I guess that makes it your responsibility then.”

You disregard her comment’s implication and point out that Hoseok does that for Jungkook, too, but he’s just as busy and perhaps just as nervous as well. 

“It matters a lot to hear it. Plus, social events can be overwhelming and isolating at the same time. He’s still getting used to it,” you add.

The prolonged silence prompts you to turn to her.

“You know, I admire you for a lot of things,” she says. “Your ability to remain kind after everything is one of them. I mean, after how he treated you those first few weeks? That was tough.”

Your resigned face pushes her to continue. “Do-hyun could’ve gone on without telling me about seeing you cry and I still would’ve known. You tried to hide it but your smile always fell too fast and your eyes were just always sad. Must’ve been hard, trying to get the team on his side when you couldn’t do that for yourself.”

“I honestly don’t know how I survived that first month,” you laugh to mask the sadness from that experience. “But that’s in the past. He still has his moments but at least there are good ones now. I’m here to do my job. Being kind after everything is part of it.”

“I wish you didn’t have to keep it to yourself though,” she laments. “If we couldn’t help, we could’ve at least cheered you up.”

“I didn’t want to bring you guys into it,” you say. “The team was incredibly busy with so many things and I managed. That’s what matters.”

“Oh, ___,” she sighs. “You put so much of yourself in your job. I think that’s why the bosses trust you. But that takes so much out of you, too. Do you have anything left for yourself?”

“What’s left is right here, Chin-sun. I don’t think I know what I am outside of all this.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? I mean, I’ve worked with you for three years and I can’t say I really know you outside of this, too. And if you can’t… well, that’s something to think about.”

“And I have. It’s something I’ve asked myself, but trying to find the answer isn’t as easy as asking the question. So I just put all my energy into my work because where else would I? It at least pays the bills and lets me enjoy little luxuries every once in a while,” you reason. 

“Well, I know what learning who you are outside of this job would entail, and I’m a little selfish because I need you around,” she smiles. “No one does things the way you do, and that’s also why I figured that at some point, Mr. Jeon was gonna get himself together because he can’t afford to lose you. You’re so good at this, ___. He’s lucky you didn’t quit.”

“Apparently, it takes a lot to get me to quit,” you reply. 

Or I was just never brave enough to do it, you want to say. Asking the question is indeed always easier than finding the answer. 

“Let’s hope you find a way to find yourself without resigning. We can’t afford to lose you, too,” she winks. 

“I appreciate that, Chin-sun. Thank you.”

“Well, I think it matters that you know that you’re doing amazing. I hope he treats you as you deserve.”

He tries, you think to yourself. At least that’s what you hope. 

The call of your names from a familiar voice excites you, as A-yeong approaches you and Chin-sun. You engage in your usual hushed conversations until you see Jungkook in another sea of people and you decide to approach him, the relief on his face telling you that he’s indeed been needing you. 

It’s not your preferred crowd. Something you’ve learned in your years of attending these events is that you would smile and entertain them and men would think it’s an invitation to invade your personal space. A lingering touch on the elbow, a hand on your waist, standing a millimeter too close… and they disregard your uncomfortable look or attempts at stepping away. 

The man you’re introduced to is new but his ways aren’t, and you scan the hall to find Bitna who turns to you in time, the look you give her signaling another person to look out for. It’s a system they developed that they’ve filled you in on, and you immediately excuse yourself and check on the food served at the back even if you know they’re still well stocked. It at least allows you a breather. You’re not even a main actor but you’re tired as hell from socializing with people. 

It’s not long after when the event starts. Speeches and a performance take place while dishes are being put out, and it’s after the main course is served when Jungkook steps away from his seat. 

Choosing to stand towards the back before he’s called on stage to be introduced, he scans the hall and thinks about the work that the committee put in, including you, who had to deal with him while dealing with all this. He catches sight of you speaking with the other assistants, and he already knows there’s some planning going on. But like the last time, he felt you around even if you were busy; you held his gaze during the times he felt a little overwhelmed. 

“You ready?”

Yoongi’s voice is deep but calming, and Jungkook takes it as his friend’s way of encouraging him. 

“Not really, but I’ll manage.” 

“Good. You’ve got people on your side,” Yoongi assures him. “Like me. And especially her.”

He gestures towards the left where Jungkook sees you approaching them. Since you started working for him, he didn’t expect how easily he could find comfort in your presence. He went from wishing you were someone else, to wanting to distance himself from you, to constantly hoping you were around. Those last two could actually coexist, and they do. There’s still detachment as his means to combat the attraction - he tries not to care about you, to not get to know you, to remind himself of who you are in his life, but he still depends on you for support, for comfort, for stability. You make his life easier; you also make it feel less lonely. And every time you’re there is a moment where he feels like he could breathe, like the noise in his mind stills because he’s forced to focus on you; somehow, you captivate him that way. 

“Are you ready, Mr. Jeon?”

The contrasting tenderness of your voice gives him that boost and he nods despite the lingering nervousness.

“I guess so,” he huffs. “Let’s get this over with.”

He walks towards his seat up front while you stay behind with Yoongi who leads you to one of the free tables at the back. You both don’t say much to each other, focusing instead on the short speeches that Ji-woo and Hoseok give, both of them expressing their gratitude and giving previews of upcoming projects to look forward to. They’re masters at commanding a crowd, as evidenced by their engagement and loud applause at the end of it. You can already imagine Jungkook feeling even more nervous, knowing that’s not really his style, but you hope that your earlier encouragement lingers, as he walks towards the stage.

He delivers his speech flawlessly. Knowing him the way you do, you could tell he let his vulnerability shine through, even if it may not seem much to everyone else. The teaser about the Arts Center gets people excited, which he builds up on. He even slides in a few jokes that surprisingly get the audience entertained. 

A small smile paints your face and from next to you, Yoongi chuckles in almost disbelief. 

“Is it safe to say you’re proud of him?” He asks, as Jungkook walks down the stage and CEO Jeon takes the mic. 

“You could say that,” you turn to him. “It’s silly, considering how things started. I… I didn’t think I’d be genuinely rooting for him, you know? But I am. I really want him to do well.”

“That’s good to hear, ___. I guess it means that things really are changing and he’s treating you better.”

“I think they are,” you hum. “I mean, not the best, but I also don’t know what that’s supposed to look like. I guess I’m just understanding who he is a little bit better now. And I think that makes the difference.”

“Like I said, he’s not a terrible person. He just needs… someone to be patient with him, someone to show him kindness,” Yoongi says. “I think that’s what he lost along the way. He stopped being that way to himself and so did people. They just didn’t want to upset him, but they also didn’t give or show anything more.”

“You think so?”

“Why do you think it’s so hard for him to forge even the simplest and most basic connections?” Yoongi questions. “They lack meaning for him. I think he’s forgotten what that’s like. Without sincerity or kindness, without intensity or honesty, there’s just… emptiness. Everything is fleeting for him.”

“And you’re telling me this, why?” You eye him curiously. 

“Because I think your kindness did something to him.”

“And that is?”

“He’s showing a bit of that to himself, too. And I guess to others as well,” Yoongi explains. 

“I’m a mere assistant doing her job, Yoongi,” you shake your head. “It’s a little selfish but I do what I can to appease him and to make our relationship good enough to make this job bearable for me. If it makes him a better person, good for him and better for me. I’ll just keep doing it then.”

Your friend’s silence prompts you to turn towards him. He seems to be in deep thought, perhaps analyzing what you’d just said, which he tends to do. 

There’s no lie in your statement. You’d done your part of standing up to Jungkook at the start; you at least got to show you were capable of fighting for yourself in that sense. But after that, you learned that keeping things in and letting him see how his actions affect you works as well. You show kindness because it’s natural for you, but also because it keeps the peace, it keeps both of you stable. 

But you can also admit that you do all that because wanting him to know that he’s got you on his side is a way to tell yourself that you’ve got people rooting for you, too, even if you’re not the best at keeping relationships nor keeping people close. You show Jungkook what you want to experience from people; you make him feel what you want to feel. Maybe that makes you selfish. You think it also makes you human.

It’s not something you tell Yoongi, though. But maybe with the way he looks at you assuringly, you suppose he knows it, too.

The event finally ends and the guests start exiting the venue. You bid them goodbye while instructing some in-house staff about cleaning up. Mr. and Mrs. Jeon greet you on their way out, commending you for your work along with the others, and it’s their encouraging smiles that remind you of one of the reasons why you stick to this job. They’re people you don’t want to disappoint as well, and seeing them satisfied is always a good thing. 

“Hey, you’re officially off the clock,” Bitna reminds you. “A couple of us are staying for closing, remember?”

“Right,” you smile. 

They have a day off tomorrow because of tonight but it’s not something you can afford, given that you’ve got the Arts Center event one a week from now. It’s almost midnight and you’d have to be up in 5 hours.

“I’ll get going then. I’ll just say goodbye to— oh, Mr. Jeon,” you say, finding him just as you were about to look for him. “Is there anything I can help you with before I leave?”

“Oh, there’s nothing. Just, uh, how are you getting home?”

“A cab,” you answer. 

Yoongi nudges your arm from next to you with a pout on his face. “Yah! I’ll take you home. It’s not safe to take a cab this late.”

“Yes, that’s preferable, Ms. Cho,” Jungkook says. “It’s been a long night.”

“Okay, sir,” you nod. “And it has. You also did really well. I didn’t expect the jokes but they were obviously a hit. Yoongi laughed, that’s how I know.”

“You laughed, too,” Yoongi points out.

“I’m glad it worked, then,” Jungkook says. “You can get going. You can also report to my place at 8AM to give you more time to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jungkook heads out and rushes to the car where Mr. Ri drives him home. His mind is still buzzing from what transpired but he’s glad he managed like he said he would, like you believed he would. 

And amidst the relief that he did well and the nervousness from having to do something similar again next week, there’s you, a vision that he quickly shakes off and one he finds himself seeing after every big and small thing that he does. 

Your warm shower and your bed have never felt this good, only because you’re as tired as you are and you want nothing more than the weekend to come. But you’ve got a few more stressful days ahead of you and you try to push through them one at a time.

You go to Jungkook later than usual that Thursday then spend much of the entire day meeting with him and the team about next week’s event. You conduct a visit to the venue the next day and then spend the weekend answering guests’ queries and helping Chin-sun coordinate with suppliers. Monday and Tuesday have you going from one place to another and hopping from one meeting to the next, all while balancing your executive assistant and events manager responsibilities. 

It’s incredibly tiring, but you also won’t deny the exhilaration you feel. There’s something so satisfying about seeing everything come together, especially as you look around the venue - an industrial commercial space that Jungkook and Yoongi jointly designed specifically for tonight. The high ceilings allow for the large panels that project the Arts Center design, with bright lights Illuminating the curated sculptures and art pieces placed around. The space elicits a feeling of newness and familiarity, of hollowness and clarity. There’s integration of traditional and modern elements and essentially, of history and emergence. 

It leaves you quite breathless as you look around. It’s not even the Arts Center itself but you know that this is the emotion that Jungkook wants the guests to feel. He wants them to be in awe, to look on in excitement. 

“It’s pretty great, huh?” Yoongi asks next to you. “Worth all the hard work.”

“It is. Design and logistics did amazing in putting this together,” you say, given that you’ve spent the entire day working with both teams to set this up.

“Well, Jungkook’s vision is captivating to begin with. It really makes a difference when you’re led by a creative mind. Selling the idea won’t be so hard in a place like this.”

“I really hope so. We’re banking on the artists for exposure. There are gonna be articles about it, too. The whole process is being documented and that makes the final product much more exciting,” you explain. “I… I actually feel really good being a part of this. I’m glad I didn’t quit after that first week.”

Yoongi laughs along with you, knowing now that that experience no longer bothers you the way it used to. But he’s glad about it, too, not only because he selfishly wants you around but even more, he knew that you needed this, that you needed to feel redeemed in Jungkook’s eyes and in yours. Yoongi hopes that as the project goes on, you’ll learn more about yourself and what you want, what you’re good at, what you can give, and what makes you happy. 

“That makes both of us. I’m sure Jungkook thinks so, too,” Yoongi replies.

“Well, we’ll never know because he’ll probably never admit it but it’s a good thought,” you smile. “As long as we maintain this unproblematic dynamic, I’m good.”

“Speaking of which, where is he?”

“On the way,” you say. “He had a meeting to attend and he said he’ll be fixing up here. He should be here in a few minutes.”

Do-hyun approaches you about the photographer and you excuse yourself, instructing Yohan next to her to lead Jungkook to the waiting room when he arrives. 

Jungkook steps into the venue and like he’d hoped, he feels the energy as he takes it all in. There’s a lot of possibility as he looks around, and that’s what he wants the guests to see. He wants the artists to envision their own pieces displayed; he wants the creatives to imagine fashion shows and photo shoots and videos that come to life; he wants people to see the potential of an Arts Center beyond just looking at art pieces.

But underneath the pride is nervousness. There will be important personalities coming today and it’s his opportunity to engage with them, to make them want to be a part of this. Talking about the details of the project would be easy; it’s connecting with them that’s a challenge. He had last week’s Appointment Dinner as a trial and like you said, he did well. It’s tonight that matters so much more to him. He supposes that what happens will set the trajectory for how the promotion of the Center will go, so making a good first impression is crucial. 

Yohan approaches him and leads him towards the waiting room where his outfit, which Taehyung had pressed and sent over here, hangs on a rack. There are two magazine publications that will feature this event and both include an interview with him and some photos. 

Jungkook starts dressing up, knowing he’ll be called for those not long from now. He looks at himself in the mirror and the uncertainty fills him again. It’s not the look he would’ve gone for but his best friend was adamant that an event like this calls for something new. With his trousers and fitted shirt on, Jungkook breathes in and out, and it’s at the same time when there’s a knock on the door and your call of his name suddenly makes him nervous. 

You enter, stopping as you shut the door, your eyes a little wide, and look at him. You’re a sight to behold in your floral-laced dress and if he was anxious seconds ago, he’s even more now.

“I knew I should’ve stuck to the classic,” Jungkook sighs at your unmoving form. 

“What—what do you mean, Mr. Jeon?” You ask, finally finding your voice. 

“You’re not saying anything,” he frowns. “Tonight probably wasn’t the best time to show up in an outfit like this.”

“And why is that?” You wonder, walking closer to him now. You try to calm your racing heart because Jungkook looking this good in a checkered flared trouser and white v-neck shirt was not something you expected. “You look…”

“Pretentious?” He chuckles, shaking his head and bending towards the mirror, his angled body making you feel even hotter.

You’ve long accepted that Jungkook is a very handsome man. It’s probably why it was more frustrating despising him and, like Soomin said, also satisfying. He’s got a perfect mix of boyish and manly features with his doe eyes and chiseled jaw; the aura of confidence and nonchalance perhaps add to that as well. It also doesn’t help that he has a really good physique, something you’d seen on his first day on the job and one you’d denied affected you. You’d gotten used to it somehow. Hard as it was to suppress those thoughts every time you fixed his tie or watched him walk about his penthouse in his gym clothes, you managed. You’ve always been professional, and you’ve always reminded yourself to not let it affect you.

But tonight, it’s just hard not to, especially with the way his biceps are popping out of those short sleeves; and if the shirt were an inch tighter, you’d probably be able to trace his toned chest and abs as well. He’s cut his hair, too, slick and pushed back as if he's starring in some western rockstar film. 

“Good…” you manage to say after what seemed like minutes. “The outfit looks good on you, sir. It’s new and fresh, not like the usual formal attire that screams ‘businessman who only wants profits.’ This is posh and stylish. It makes you look more approachable.”

“This is what would make me look approachable?” He asks incredulously.

“Actually, a smile would,” you say too quickly, earning you a laugh. “But this works, too. It fits with the theme.”

“That’s what Tae said, too,” Jungkook sighs. “He insisted that at least for these Arts Center-related events, I should dress a little more boldly and more interesting, things I definitely am not but, well, I couldn’t counter him when he said that my usual prints and styles make me look like I’m just going to a meeting or some business conference.”

“And he’s not wrong,” you point out, walking closer to him. “You don’t need anything eccentric, just something exciting. This is simple yet sophisticated.”

“Have you seen the coat?” He asks, gesturing to the rack when you say no.

“Oh. There’s a corsage,” you say, admiring the matching brown checkered piece.

“An oversized one,” he rolls his eyes. 

“It looks pretty.”

“That’s what he said, too.”

“If you don’t like it, why didn’t you tell him during the fitting?”

“I did like it but it’s Tae - he’s good at convincing people that they look good. And I probably thought that, too. But he’s not yet here and he’s gonna be late so right now, all I can think about is that I’ll look ridiculous.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” you say, surprising him. “If what I think matters, then you’d have to take my word for it. The outfit looks good. It captures people’s attention and that’s what you need. You’re just gonna have to follow this up with similar styles but that wouldn’t be a problem. Just carry yourself with confidence. It’s what Mr. Kim would say.”

“I know. He texted that same line to me five times today.”

“He’s your best friend, Mr. Jeon. I’m sure he’s looking out for your best interest.”

“True, but then again, we were forced to become friends when we were young so who knows?”

You laugh at his words. “Is that so?”

“Our fathers are best friends so we spent a lot of time together,” Jungkook shares. “We were all so different and we got on each other’s nerves but I guess that made us closer. I… I wasn’t close to my brother so I just stuck with those who stuck around. It’s a good thing they turned out to be decent people.”

“They’re very kind, I should say.”

“Yeah. It sucks that their kindness didn’t rub off on me,” he says as he holds your gaze.

The tension rises as you look back at him. It’s hard not to fall into his eyes, and you’re thankful for the knock on the door and Yohan’s voice on the other side saying that the interviewer is ready for Jungkook now. 

“Five minutes,” you call out, breaking the moment and retrieving his last piece of clothing. 

You assist him in wearing his coat and just like reflex, you immediately fix the sleeves and adjust the corsage that isn’t actually that big. You look at him from head to toe and see Taehyung’s vision. There’s something captivating about Jungkook in this fit; it makes him intriguing and someone to look out for. You suppose that was the intention.

“Respectable enough?” He asks worriedly once you meet his eyes.

“Respectable enough,” you affirm, hoping your smile can give him the encouragement he needs. 

You open the door and let the first set of crew in. You watch on as they interview and take snapshots while your own team from the marketing department capture what’s happening as well. 

Jungkook sits cross-legged on the sofa, his eyes looking out into the distance as he absorbs the questions and thinks of his answers. He gesticulates as he responds, something you noticed him only ever do about topics that seem very important to him. He’s done it during meetings with the team and with Yoongi, and you suppose there’s that level of honesty that he shows then. His responses are thoughtful and profound, as the questions revolve around the type of art pieces to be displayed, how culture can be celebrated and respected, and what the public can look forward to once the Center is open to everyone. 

The next interviewer starts off with the practical questions before moving to the technicalities of the design and structure such as the materials used, the techniques utilized in renovating such a massive complex, and how the Center itself represents art and culture. This is when Jungkook fully relaxes. You see it in his body language, in the softness of his expressions, and in the mellow tone of his voice as he discusses in terms you don’t fully understand but somehow still make you feel like you know exactly what he’s talking about.

It’s different seeing him in this way. Your team vetted these interviewers and publications and they seem sincere about their articles and so you know they aren’t there to judge; Jungkook knows they aren’t there to scrutinize him. He’s not there to impress them or even to sell the idea; he just wants to share it, to make it known, to narrate the process of this project that may still be in its very early stages but which has lived in his mind for years.

He may not always be good with words but you can tell that he finds them when the ideas are clear to him. He’s able to articulate what he sees in his mind and there’s something captivating about that. There’s a lot you can learn from him, you think, and if what you develop after having stayed this long is even just a fraction of his creativity, then you’d feel accomplished. 

You can tell even more now how important this is to him, especially when he emphasizes the individual’s need and desire for connection and how he wants the Center to be a hub for that, or perhaps its creator. You wonder if he knows so much about it, or if, like you, it’s something he also constantly seeks. 

You’re so focused on taking him all in that you don’t notice that you’ve been staring. Your eyes fall on his fingers, waving about as he draws imaginary pictures; they land on his lips, pink and dry as they utter words that are perhaps the most he’s said, and suddenly, his voice is the most comforting it’s ever sounded to you. You look upwards and that’s when you notice it - his eyes are on you just as yours are on him yet he continues talking, and you hold onto it for a few seconds before you feel the heat reach your cheeks. It feels like a burn and you snap out of the spell-like feeling you were caught in as you turn away now and try to catch your breath.

You hadn’t meant to stare but you were drawn to him at that moment, and as he talked about how the designs reflect the tangibility yet elusiveness of human connection, you found yourself drowning in his words and in the way he said them. He’d caught you before you could look away, and you decide that the only way to go about it is to pretend it didn’t happen.

And that’s what you do, as you remain on your spot with your eyes scanning the room, no longer focused on him.

The interview ends right as Chin-sun enters to say that some guests have arrived. You instruct her to entertain them first with Manager Lee as you wrap up in here and it’s not long after when you’re left with Jungkook once again.

“Was that good?” He asks, his gaze on you as you look elsewhere.

“It was. You seemed more relaxed,” you state, unnecessarily fixing the couch to distract yourself. “That’s a good way to start the evening, Mr. Jeon. I’m sure the guests would enjoy speaking with you tonight.”

“That’s what I hope,” he replies. “I’ll need you close to me to keep track of scheduled meetings or any invitations. I’d also like them to be familiar with you as my assistant so they know who to reach out to in case I’m not available.”

“Of course, sir,” you say, turning around to face him again, suddenly feeling nervous about the intensity of his look. “I’ll take note of all those.” 

He nods then exits the room and you follow. You trail him as he starts to greet the guests one by one.

There are heads of private foundations and curators. There are creative directors from entertainment agencies and some art enthusiasts. There are artists and authors and poets, all of whom are intrigued and seemingly excited about what’s in store. 

Jungkook heads to the front after being introduced by Manager Lee and takes his time to introduce the project, utilizing the panels and all of the interiors’ walls to showcase the design virtually. He presents his plans and the role of artists, creatives, creators, and consumers. It’s a half hour speech that ends, followed by a light sit-down dinner that Jungkook takes advantage of to engage with the guests. 

He first greets the deputy minister of the arts and culture ministry and then Mr. Saito, who’d likewise brought some of his artist friends from Japan. 

You then follow Jungkook around as instructed, taking notes on your phone in between to list all the upcoming meetings and other activities scheduled on the spot. You’ve somehow developed this skill with Hoseok but it still doesn’t get any easier. The fact that so many of them want to touch base with Jungkook after his pitch says a lot about how well he did and how much it resonated with the people he wanted to connect with. 

Based on your notes, you can already tell it’s gonna be incredibly busy moving forward, and the thought suddenly makes your head hurt. But you push through, knowing there are more people to meet with, even with Chin-sun and Manager Lee entertaining half of them. 

Jungkook takes the stage again to introduce some of the artists whose works will be displayed in the Arts Center, and he gives them time to talk about their pieces and what drew them into the project. The company head who’s been contracted to create the products for the souvenir shop also speaks, and as they share, you feel the excitement heighten. The opening is still a long time from now but things seem so clear and so certain, and you know that was because of Jungkook - because he demands the same level of excellence he practices from others, because he’s committed to his vision and he makes sure to see it through. 

More engagement takes place, and your only breather is when Jungkook decides to talk to his father and then Hoseok but after that, you’re back to following him around and running out of calling cards for people to keep and call you in the future. 

The last of the remaining guests finally leave at 10PM. You look around and the art pieces are being carefully wrapped for transport. The panels remain but Do-hyun and Yohan will be returning in the morning to pack everything up. Slowly, you start to feel the soreness creep in and the headache intensify but you shake all the pain off. There are two more days left for the week and you just have to power through them to survive. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” Chin-sun asks as she readies to leave.

“I live on the other side of the city from you. From all of you,” you remind them. It’s really the only reason why you don’t hitch a ride with them, especially considering that they have families and pets they go home to. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“What about Yoongi?” Jungkook asks, surprising you because you thought he’d been on the phone. “Can’t he drive you?”

“He left an hour ago, Mr. Jeon,” you reply. “He has that early morning flight to Jeju tomorrow.”

“Mr. Ri can drive you home after he drops me off,” Jungkook says. “It’s too late in the night and it might be hard for you to get a cab.”

“Okay, sir. Thank you,” you mumble, waving everybody goodbye as you follow him towards the car. 

You get inside and find him sitting in the backseat, his coat removed and his head rolled back. You can tell all the socializing drained his energy again, and you’d hate to remind him that there’s a Property Expo next week that his father assigned him to attend, as well as a Partners’ Fellowship Dinner where he has to deliver another speech. You decide to do so in the morning instead and let the soft sounds of the radio soothe your mind.

“I think tonight was a success,” he mutters, prompting you to turn towards him. “Everyone I spoke to seemed excited.”

“They were,” you affirm. “They wouldn’t be scheduling meetings with you if they weren’t.”

“That’s true,” he hums. “That’s one major event down and several more to go.”

“I hope the team was able to show you how well we work together, Mr. Jeon. And that like me, they’re all on your side.”

Jungkook lets your words settle. He agrees. The team was like a well-oiled machine. Each member knew their roles and performed their tasks excellently. And there was you, of course, handling every one of his instructions and requests with grace. You looked really beautiful doing it, too, and he doesn’t know if he wants to thank or curse Taehyung for designing another dress that makes you stand out from the crowd because that’s what happened tonight - everywhere Jungkook looked, it seemed like all he could see was you.

He shakes away the thought, knowing that constantly acknowledging his attraction towards you would just make things harder for him the way that denying it would, and while he doesn’t have a solution for that either, he supposes that not acknowledging it at all would be the best option. 

So he focuses on the team instead, and he feels comforted to know that they worked hard because they knew how much tonight mattered to him, as Do-hyun expressed earlier. 

“I’m glad they are,” he finally replies. “I… I still don’t think I’m their favorite person but as long as they don’t despise me anymore, then I’m satisfied with that.”

“They don’t,” you counter, although even you’d know that’s a half-lie.

“They do. Or did, at least,” he laughs dryly. “It’s easy to stay unnoticed outside of the team’s office, you know?”

The tinge of sadness in his eyes confirms what you’re thinking - he’s heard some of the team conversations about him. And while you’d argue that they’re not vile or anything close to that, you also know that talking about him not smiling or not expressing his gratitude are things you shouldn’t be saying behind his back. Even if they’re true.

“I”m so, so sorry, Mr. Jeon. We–”

“It’s okay, it’s not a big deal,” he interjects. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t given you reasons to feel that way. You all did go from Hoseok to me and that’s quite the downgrade in terms of camaraderie and stuff.”

“We still didn’t have the right to say those things. And no, I’m not agreeing that you’re a downgrade,” you clarify. “Like you said, you and your cousin are very different.”

“I did. And that’s why I’m not surprised, is all I’m saying. But despite all that, the team did amazing tonight. Not like I’d expect they wouldn’t because they prefer someone more joyful or expressive, but it… it was also nice to see them enjoying themselves. I hope you did, too.”

“It was a memorable experience, Mr. Jeon,” you say. “It’s something new. The previous projects and events we handled were either residential or commercial in nature and our creativity wasn’t pushed as far as the Arts Center is doing. And we all appreciate that, even if we may not show it.”

“That’s good. At least there’s still something that you’re all getting out of this.”

There’s a sadness in his voice that you’re hearing for the first time. You don’t know what about tonight that’s making him vulnerable and honest with you. Perhaps it’s all the talk about human connection that he seems to struggle with, and maybe he’s realizing now that even with the team performing as well as they are, there’s still something lacking in soul and emotion that he thinks is because of him. 

Whatever it is, you hope that he doesn’t let it bring him down too much. Working closely with him, you’ve come to see more of him despite his efforts to keep those layers unpeeled and you’ve come to understand him a little more. You’ve forgiven him in the process, too. The team is still adjusting and you know it’s your job to bridge that gap. You’ll just have to figure out how. 

You let the silence end the conversation, not knowing what else you can say to comfort him at this moment. But you try though, as the car stops in front of his building and you call his name right before he closes the door.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking curiously at you. 

You almost forget what you’re about to say as he’s bent forward, his arm propped on the car roof, the surrounding lights highlighting the features of his face. 

“You did great tonight, too. And I learned a lot from you. Thank you for guiding us, sir.”

He’s left speechless, as he holds your gaze for a moment before nodding and closing the door. Mr. Ri drives away and you look back to see Jungkook walk slowly towards the building entrance, briefly looking your way before disappearing inside. 

You arrive at the office the next morning at 9AM with a splitting headache, your body dragging itself towards your chair as you try to maintain balance and get yourself together. Jungkook had messaged late last night that he was going to have a breakfast meeting with his father so you could go straight to work, and given last night’s late finish, you could come at a later time as well.

That gave you another two hours of sleep, which you were thankful for considering the terrible state you were in when you woke up. Your body felt sore and the dryness of your throat signaled that you’re about to get sick - it was just a matter of when it was going to fully kick in. It’s how your body reacts to stress, a pattern you noticed since you started working in the company. It’s usually after succeeding weeks of late nights and big events when you give in - the headaches start then the sore throat; not long after, the fever hits and you’d have to spend days just doing nothing until you’ve expelled the exhaustion away. 

On rare occasions, your mother or friends come, knowing you’d be too sick to make yourself some food. But they don’t always have that luxury. They have their own lives, too, lives that they just happen to have far away from you. But it’s why it mattered that you gave Jungkook that noodle soup when he was unwell. You know what it’s like to be sick and hungry and completely helpless, and you had a feeling that just like yourself, he’d deal with it on his own. You’ll probably have to stock up on food tonight to get you through the next few days; you just hope you haven’t completely fallen apart by then.

You take your medicines and try to focus on your tasks for this morning, scheduling meetings and screening photos from last night to be used for marketing purposes. Needing some tea, you head to the pantry and briefly check in with the team before heading back. You see that Jungkook has just arrived, as he accompanied his father to one of their project sites after their meeting. He calls you over and asks if Do-hyun and Yohan have come back from fixing things at last night’s venue.

“Yes, sir, they just got here,” you reply. “Everything’s been stored properly and Chin-sun’s working on the payments already.”

“Good,” Jungkook responds. “It’s lunchtime though, so you should all grab a meal. There’s a French restaurant that just opened a block from here. I heard it’s got great reviews, so take the team there and have them order anything they want. You can just use your card to pay but it’s under the office’s budget.”

“Okay, sir. Uhm, that sounds great,” you manage to say, excitement filling you because you spent the other night watching review videos of that restaurant on YouTube and immediately told Jimin and Soomin that you’ll be eating there when they visit you the next time. “What about you though? Aren’t you joining us?”

“I… Well…”

“You don’t have any other scheduled meeting other than the one we’ll have as a team at 2:30.”

“I don’t have to go,” he answers. “You all worked hard and deserve to enjoy yourselves and I don’t think that’ll happen if I’m around. We can all debrief during the meeting but lunch is your time to get together and bond as a group.”

“You’re part of that group, too, Mr. Jeon. You are our boss,” you counter.

“Exactly.”

“But Mr. Ju–” you stop, not wanting to draw another comparison, which you said you’ll stop doing.

“I know. Hoseok would join you for lunch or dinner and the team enjoyed his presence,” Jungkook states. “I don’t think that’s the case with me. This isn’t me putting myself down but… you know that I don’t really… do things like that. I’m still learning that part of the role and I don’t want to spoil their fun.”

“You can’t really speak for the team though,” you point out.

“Well, you represent them to me. Am I wrong to assume all that?”

“No, but I think it would be a good opportunity to prove to them otherwise,” you advise.

Jungkook sighs, knowing you’ve got a point. But he insists, claiming that he’s still figuring out the team and how to relate with them. 

“I understand, Mr. Jeon,” you concede. “How about your lunch?”

“I’ll manage. You can all go ahead so you can get back on time.”

“We will. Thank you. I already know they’re going to enjoy it.”

The team is ecstatic when you tell them about lunch plans. They also only wonder about Jungkook’s presence once they’ve ordered and perhaps they’re still figuring him out, too. Much of their engagement with Jungkook is through meetings, as none of them, save for Manager Lee, feel comfortable or even free enough to just approach him. They also don’t know much about his interests or his quirks, and that puts you in the same boat as them. 

You said once that you’re not sure if you’ve gotten used to him already. Maybe slowly you are, as you look around and wish that he was here to experience this, too. Somehow you just think he’d love the duck confit dish that you eventually order for yourself. Maybe you can let him know, and he can order it on his own time. 

Lunch ends with everyone on a high from the delicious meal. Even you forget how terrible you’re actually feeling and let the laughs and scrumptious food compensate for the fatigue. 

You get back to the office and head to Jungkook as the rest of the team prepares the conference room for the meeting. You see a half-eaten sandwich on his desk and hate to think that it’s all he had while you enjoyed a fancy lunch that he ordered you all to have. He seems to pick up your thoughts as your eyes flit from him to his food and he affirms you that he’s not that hungry, given the heavy breakfast he had this morning.

“How was lunch?” He asks. 

“It was great. The food was really good. I had the duck confit that I think you’ll like and… uh, they were asking where you were.”

“They were?” 

“Yeah,” you respond. “They were wondering why you didn’t join us.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were on a conference call,” you say. You didn’t like that you had to lie to them about it, but you also didn’t want to use that time to talk about Jungkook behind his back again. “Yohan said that it’s understandable; you’re always busy and he doubts you get a break while you’re here.”

“Oh. Well, he’s not wrong.”

“We had a good time though, and I’m sure they’ll tell you later but thank you. It’s nice seeing the team enjoy themselves. I wish you could see it, too.”

“Maybe one day,” he says sullenly, standing up right after to head to the meeting with you.

The room quiets down when you both arrive and Jungkook feels once more the shift in their disposition once he joins them. He can’t fault them for it knowing that’s because of him, but as time passes and the more he talks about the value of human connections - which the Arts Center aims to foster - the more he starts to think of exactly what he’s missing by keeping himself too far a distance from everyone else around him. 

His father tries, he can tell. Most of their breakfast or lunch or dinner meetings aren’t actually meetings, and he supposes it’s just his old man’s way of spending time with him by disguising it as something work-related, knowing that Jungkook wouldn’t be into it if it wasn’t. His mother asks him over to their house on some weekends for lunch, her own way of reconnecting with him after years of being apart, but even with that, Jungkook just gives the bare minimum. 

He doesn’t not like them; he just stopped being close to them at some point and he didn’t really care to mend it as he grew older. The women he sleeps with don’t count since he doesn’t even really talk to them, and other than Taehyung and Seokjin, and occasionally Yoongi, who keep up with his attitude, there really isn’t anyone else whom he thinks enjoys his presence enough to want to have him around. 

He doesn’t know about you though, but he makes an educated guess and thinks there’s not much of him you’d miss just like anyone, and while the thought stings a bit, it’s one he tries to live with.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeon,” Manager Lee greets and implores the others to do the same. “Thank you again for lunch. It was really delicious and pretty fancy. I wish I’d worn a prettier tie than the one I have right now.”

“Your tie looks fine, Manager Lee,” Jungkook replies.

“Ms. Cho said you were busy, that's why you weren’t there,” Do-hyun boldly says. “Hopefully next time you can join us. I mean, not to assume you’ll treat us again, although that would be nice, but–” 

“Do-hyun just wanted to say thank you,” Chin-sun butts in. “And that we understand you have so many things going on, Mr. Jeon, so hopefully, when you have time in the future, you can join us for a meal, too.”

“That, uh, that would be fine, yes,” he mumbles, taking his seat and avoiding looking at everyone except you. “Let’s start the meeting.”

You’re there for over two hours, rehashing the entire process, given that it’s the first event out of many that the team organized. Jungkook is generous in complimenting everyone, including you, and he gives updates on the interest generated and all the artists he’ll be meeting in their respective studios as a result. 

The Ministry of Culture minister likewise pledged support, promising a linkage with the international media festival organizers like Jungkook had hoped. You’ve all accomplished so much in so little time, but the rest of the timeline shows that there’s still so much ground to cover. You plan the next steps and then spend half an hour talking about the other small projects that the VP’s office is managing before Jungkook adjourns the meeting and orders you all to head home to get some rest while he stays behind to work some more.

You follow him this time, trying your best to be stable as you take the bus home. You manage to buy some beef bone soup on the way for dinner, and once that’s all finished and you take a long hot shower to hopefully get rid of the stress in your body, you plop down on your bed and fall asleep with no warning at all. 

You wake up in the middle of the night, your clogged nose keeping you from breathing. With puffy eyes, you search for your eucalyptus inhaler and take your medicine before going back to bed and hoping that when you wake up, you’ll feel less terrible than you do right now. 

But you don’t, as you wake up to your alarm not long after and feel even worse. Your body is sore, your head feels heavy, and it’s a struggle to even turn to your side to try to pull yourself off the bed. Knowing there’s no way you’ll manage today, you call Mr. Ri and inform him that you’re unwell and can’t make it to work. 

“I can’t even type nor talk properly right now,” you tell him. “Can you–”

“I’ll tell Jungkook, don’t worry,” he assures you. “And just to remind you, you’re sick, okay? So stay in bed, don’t do chores or anything, and don’t think about work for even a second. You hear me? And update me on how you are.”

“Yes,” you cough out. “Thank you.”

You lie underneath the covers and hope to the heavens that more sleep would make you feel a bit of relief and it does, given that when your phone rings five hours later, you don’t feel like your head is splitting apart. 

“Good, you’re awake,” Mr. Ri says on the other end after you greet him. “Can you open your door?”

“Okay, just give me a few minutes. I’m exceptionally slow this morning.”

Mr. Ri laughs but tells you to take your time. You put on a hoodie over your gray sweatpants and briefly wash your face before opening the door. 

“Work’s got to you, huh?” He asks worriedly as he stands in front of you. “Is it bad enough to warrant a visit to the hospital? I can drive you there.”

“I’ll manage,” you mumble. “But what are you doing here, Mr. Ri? Mr. Jeon has a meeting in an hour.”

“I know. But he wanted me to give you this.”

The older man initially hands you a large paper bag but decides to just place it on your table given your weak state. He removes the containers of chicken noodle soup, rice porridge, and soybean sprout soup, boxes of soft bread, and a small jar of yuja marmalade for tea. 

“What–”

“Your meals for the next few days so you don’t have to worry about preparing them,” Mr. Ri says. “Jungkook wants you to focus on resting. He wants you to take Monday off, too.”

You look at him and suddenly feel like crying. You knew that waking up, you’d be worrying about what to eat, given that you barely have ingredients to work with. You also don’t have the energy to make anything, especially something that’d help with your health. Jungkook just relieved you of that, and at a time like today, you feel what it’s like to be cared for. And though you can argue with him using his own words - your health isn’t his responsibility - you won’t pretend that it doesn’t give you comfort knowing that he’d made the effort to buy all this and have them brought to you. 

You talk a little bit more before he heads out, and you lead him to the door where you look across the street where the car is parked. Your eyes may be puffy but you don’t miss the silhouette behind that backseat window. 

“How is she?” Jungkook asks as Mr. Ri enters the car and slowly drives away.

“She looks like someone who’s been working hard these past months and in need of rest. She says it’s normal but this is probably the worst. These few days off will be good for her.”

“I hope so, too.”

“She’s thankful for the food, Jungkook,” the older man says. “I know she’d probably say you didn’t have to but I could tell it meant a lot to her. She doesn’t always ask for help, you know? It’s good you’re somehow letting her know that she can count on you when she needs you. If this is you making it up to her, you’re on the right path.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement, although unsure what it means for him. Is it to compensate? To apologize again? To return the favor because you’d done it first? Is it to let you know that he has your back, too, the way you’ve been showing him that you have his? 

He’s alerted by a message, your name on his screen somehow making his heart jump. It’s a text message and not one from the usual messaging app you both use for work purposes because, well, that’s really the only thing you talk about.

[From: EA Cho] Thank you, Jungkook. I really appreciate it.

It’s the use of his name. It’s the sincerity in your simple words. 

He smiles to himself. 

Whatever it means to you, he knows it means another thing to him. He doesn’t want you to feel alone. And that in the coldest nooks of his uncaring heart, he actually does care for you. For this moment, he’ll acknowledge it. For this moment, he’ll let himself feel it. He can only hope you feel it, too.

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[emeritusemeritus]

No Good Deeds [George Weasley x Reader]

Part 5

Part 1 2 3 4 5

Pairing: {George Weasley x Reader} mentions of previous Fred Weasley x Reader.

Timeline: Set a few years after DH, loosely following Canon.

Summary: A few years after Fred’s death, the investors of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes demand changes to the name. All it would take is two years of a fake marriage to fix the issues, but no good deed goes unpunished.

Warnings: Fake marriage trope because we love the cliché. Mentions of death (Fred). Friends to lovers. Slow burn but mentions of kissing and eventual smut. Swearing. George calls us Angel. Drinking. SMUT. The smut has arrived! P in V, oral (both). Angst, sadness, grief. Tags will be updated with each chapter. Not Beta-read or spell checked.

Honeymoon time 💕

Your wedding to George was a jubilant celebration with your family and friends, a chance to bask in the love you were so thankful to receive from everyone around you. You'd honoured Fred in many ways that day, including photos of him, an empty chair with his name on and many other little ways to make it seem like he was there. You'd noticed George had worn his chain under his suit shirt and the sight of it made butterflies flutter inside you.

It was a small and quaint wedding that had admittedly been rushed in planning, only two weeks after you'd announced your engagement, but it was perfect. No one had doubted your intentions and the day had gone completely to plan, except for the regular hiccups that seem to occur when a group of people are brought together. Muriel had been characteristically foul as usual and had clashed with your great aunt Ariadne though she'd avoided the more triggering topics which was one consolation.

You danced with your friends and your now blended family late into the night, with George eventually stealing you back from dancing with Bill for one final dance.

"Have you had a good day Mrs Weasley?" He asks, holding you close as you sway with surprising grace even with the healthy amount of alcohol you'd both consumed.

"The best, Mr Weasley," you beam up at him, his handsomeness once again hitting you as you look upon his smiling face.

"Couldn't have asked for better. I don't think you've ever looked more beautiful."

The night you'd spent together had not been repeated since, nor had you really spoken about it. There was a lingering tension between you, growing increasingly stronger throughout the day as you thought of your wedding night and honeymoon, the anticipation almost consuming you.

Ginny and Fleur had whisked you away from George not long after your final dance to get you ready to leave for your honeymoon, which you'd be departing for very soon. It was tradition in the Weasley family to immediately begin your honeymoon the night of the wedding and you had readily accepted the chance to exit out of the wedding a little earlier into the night, giving you and George some time alone.

You'd chosen to honeymoon in the U.K. to keep costs down, after all this whole situation was based upon George reclaiming the shop as sole owner and any unnecessary spending would only increase the amount of time you'd be married. Bill and Fleur had graciously offered for you to stay in Shell Cottage with them but George had instead chosen to surprise you with your destination. He'd tactfully evaded every single one of your questions, relishing in his power of knowledge but had thankfully given you a few clues as to what you should pack. Clothes for all weather, from hot to bitter cold, a couple of 'nice' outfits and a bathing suit. So, nothing to really go off.

Percy had arranged a ministry car for you to borrow for the week, his gift for you both and you'd decided to travel like muggles for the week, taking your time and only using magic when necessary. George was driving to your destination, the luggage and travel necessities having been packed up earlier that day by the Weasley boys and Harry.

The crowd cheered as you both walked towards the car that was waiting for you, your family and friends gathered around with jubilant faces as you walked hand in hand towards the car. You both paused to thank and embrace Mr and Mrs Weasley before climbing into the car, George opening the door for you before getting in on his side. You waved at the gathering of people in front of you as George pulled away and as you pulled away from the Burrow, you peered through the back window, squirming around the freshly painted 'just married' sign to see your loved ones fading further away as they carried on the party.

"Are you okay?" George asks gently as he drives out of Ottery St Catchpole, the rolling Devonshire fields passing you by as the sun begins to set.

"I'm... incredible, I don't think there are words for how I'm feeling," you say with a wide smile, giggling a little at your inability to get your words out. He chuckles and reaches for your hand, pulling it onto the gear stick to join his.

"I know what you mean, I feel like I'm floating," he says, flashing you a smile before turning his attention back to the road. You take the opportunity of his attention being elsewhere to really look at him,  the plains of his face looking unbelievably handsome to you. He looked stunning in his suit, the colour and cut of the material only serving as a compliment to his gorgeous red hair and sharp features.

"Checking me out Mrs Weasley?" He says with a smirk, eyes still fixed on the road. You fight to hide the creeping blush that appears on your cheeks, realising that he'd caught you staring. You bite your lip and turn away, choosing to look out of the window at the rolling hills instead. "You can you know, I'm yours now."

You turn to look at him and the smile he has plastered on his face fills you with warmth and nervous excitement.

"You look so handsome, I feel like I can't take my eyes off you," you admit, a little bashfully.

He gives a deep chuckle and squeezes your hand that is still held by his own.

"You have no idea how hard it is to drive right now, all I want to do is stare at you," he admits, though he sounds completely unashamed of his words. You blush and look away again, this time out of pure bliss, wanting to remember everything about this moment.

"Get some sleep Angel, it's quite a drive," he says softly a few minutes later, turning down the radio that was playing music in the background.

"I'm okay," you lightly protest, despite feeling relaxed by the drive. "I wish I'd taken this dress off though, not the best travelling outfit."

"And take that joy away from me? How dare you," he jokes, sounding a little outraged. Your stomach instantly fills with nerves and butterflies at his words; he intended to take your dress off.

You fell asleep a short while later, just as the last slither of sunlight had disappeared into the horizon, the long stretch of road ahead now only lit by car lights and the faint cats eyes on the ground. The mixture of the low humming from the radio, the gentle rocking of the car and the presence of George was enough to lull you into a much needed sleep as you cuddled into a pillow you'd thought to pack, wishing that you were wearing something much less restrictive but that couldn't be helped.

When you woke again, it was still pitch black and George was still driving, the car lights ahead of you the only clue to where you were.

"Hi Angel," George says, noticing you staring as he briefly looks over at you with a smile.

"Mmm, hi Georgie," you mumble back, still fighting off the last embers of sleep. "Where are we?"

"Nice try," he says, not falling at the last hurdle and you give a little huff, hoping that one would have worked. "About an hour away."

"Is there time to stop for a coffee somewhere?" You ask, sitting straighten in your seat as you abandon the pillow into your lap.

"I don't know anywhere that would be open," he says, flicking his eyes to the dashboard clock, prompting you to do so and realising that it was now past midnight, much to your surprise.

"McDonald's will be," you say with a little shrug, trying to see any hints from signposts as to where you were of where the next services would be.

"McDonald's?" He asks, completely oblivious and you can't help but laugh, never having thought about how the notion of 24 hour fast food had not yet entered the wizarding world, making George completely oblivious.

"It's a 24 hour restaurant, usually around road services, it's fast food," you explain. He immediately gets it and let's out a little 'ahhh' of understanding, telling you that there was a services coming up and you could check if there was one there. There was.

Introducing George Weasley to drive-through ordering was nothing short of hilarious and you'd briefly lamented the fact that his first McDonald's experience wouldn't be inside an actual McDonald's building but you were not about to enter a fast food joint at a service station in a wedding dress. You'd both ordered a coffee, yourself a medium coke and then you had excitedly introduced him to not only a Big Mac but also chicken nuggets, both of which were a complete revelation to him and you had to hold back serious giggles at his reactions. Half an hour later and you were on your way, coffees in hand and belly's a little fuller as you prepared for the last part of your journey.

"Are you sure you don't want me to take over? I don't mind driving to give you a break," you offered as you watch him put on his seatbelt.

"You don't know where we're going," he says with a devilish smirk but you feign innocence.

"Then just tell me and I'll get us there," you say innocently, batting your eyelashes at him.

"Nice try baby," he says with an even more sinister smirk, his eyes roaming your face briefly before he turns on the car and begins to pull away after one last sip of coffee.

You were transfixed as George turned right up a long winding path entirely shielded by trees, the long road leading you deeper under the canopy of trees until you were completely surrounded by woodland. You could make out a small, warm light at the end of the long road and became transfixed on the approaching light, trying to focus your eyes hard on that point, trying to make sense of it. The car swerved a little to avoid a large twig in the road which brought your destination into clear view.

You gasped at the beauty of the scene in front of you, looking excitedly at George who looked more than pleased at your reaction.

"George," you say breathlessly as he parks up in the little clearing beside the place you'd be staying.

It was a rustic log cabin, completely shielded away from everything by a large canopy of trees, a beautiful escape completely hidden away from the outside world. The cabin was almost entirely made of wood with wooden shutters and a wrap around deck.

"George it's beautiful," you say, completely gobsmacked as you look at the gorgeous lodge in front of you, seeing it illuminated by the multiple lanterns that offered a stark contrast against the pitch black night.

"Only the best for my bride," he teases, opening up his car door, prompting you to do the same.

"Want to explore whilst I unload the car?" He asks with a grin, holding the keys to the cabin out in front of you, the little wooden keyring clinking against the two old fashioned keys. You nod enthusiastically and reach out to grab them, pulling George in and without much thought, you leaned up to press a kiss to his lips. Instantly, you realised what you'd done and took a step back, blushing a little as you avoided his gaze. His hand had instinctively wrapped around your back and he gave your back a little rub as you parted, showing no ill will as you turned and walked excitedly towards the cabin.

Opening the door, you were immediately met with an illuminated room thanks to the warm lighting from multiple lamps and light fixtures. The cabin was warm, as if there was a log fire already burning and the smell was heavenly, clean and fresh but with an indisputable scent of wood and pine, a natural consequence of it's idyllic surroundings. You walked through a little entrance hall that houses a utility room before stepping into an open living room, dining room and kitchen, all of which were warm and inviting with natural wood features throughout and neutral colours, highlighting the windows which you knew would almost certainly have beautiful views in the morning. There were two brown leather sofas that looked absolutely lush and a single armchair underneath a window that looked perfect for reading, a tall lamp beside it and a little table for drinks. There was a television and a cabinet in the corner and beside that was a beautiful log burner that was indeed lit, radiating heat throughout the home. You couldn't see much through the side door that was half glass but the outside light did illuminate the decking a little, highlighting a rather impressive sunken hot tub that was covered, eliciting a little excited squeal from you.

You walked down a small corridor that led off from the main atrium through a beautifully carved wooden door with an old metal latch which led you to the bathroom on the left and two bedrooms. You crept into the bathroom to take a peak and saw a big bathtub to the left and a built in shower to the right, as if every need was catered for. One bedroom has two single beds partitioned with a beautiful shelving unit and the other bedroom was almost certainly the master.

There was a huge four poster bed against the back wall bookended by two beside tables with lamps that looked entirely too inviting. The bedding was sheer white and completely crease free, only adding to its appeal. There was a smaller television in here too, along with a dressing table and a large, ornate wardrobe that looked older than the cabin itself.

"What do you think Mrs Weasley?" George asks from behind you as you pause to run your hand over the ornately carved bed frame. You turn to see him leaning against the doorframe with a smirk, still wearing his wedding suit but now with his tie removed and a few buttons open near his collar.

"I think it's absolutely beautiful Mr Weasley," you reply, turning to him with a look of pure elation.

"Just like my wife then," he says with a look in his eyes that makes your pulse race. He steps towards you with clear conviction and it's all you can do not to melt into a puddle, the look in his eye so dangerously arousing that you're almost frozen to the spot. It was the first time he'd called you his wife and the reaction that it pulled from your body was almost unbelievable, the sound of it almost heavenly in your mind.

As soon as he reaches you, there's a brief pause as if he's searching your face for any hint of resistance, not that he'd find any. When he sees the look in your eye, knowing that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you, he steps even closer and wraps his hand around the back of your neck before leaning down and kissing you with a burning passion.

Your hands slip up to his chest, feeling the material of his lapels under your fingers and pull slightly, needing to feel him as close to you as possible as you pull his jacket off. His fingers tangle in your hair as the kiss deepens, tongues working together to fuel the burning desire between you both.

With his right hand cradling your head and his left clutching as your waist, he begins leading you to the side of the bed, silently asking if it was okay to go further.

"Make love to me George," you say against his lips, hardly wanting to pull away for even a second. You hear him groan against your lips before his hand slips from your hair and down to your butt, cradling you and taking your weight. In a move that would otherwise impress you if you'd seen it in person, he sweeps you off your feet whilst climbing onto the bed and lays you down softly before climbing over you, kicking off his shoes in the process.

"I've waited all day to rip this dress off of you," he mumbles against your skin as he begins kissing down your neck, onto your bare shoulders where your dress straps began, the soft layers of the gown suddenly feeling much too restrictive as your skin burnt up with desire. He kisses down your chest as your hands tangle in his slightly grown out hair. There's a single moment where your eyes meet, just as he hovers over your panting cleavage and it takes your breath away how absolutely sexy he looks, the desire and admiration in his eyes mirroring your own. His long fingers drag against your rib cage as they dance over to your covered breasts before he reaches in to pull down the cup of dress, exposing your right breast to him, your dusky pink nipple already hard and waiting for him. He groans, watching your breast spring free and immediately bends down to run his tongue over the pebbled nipple, eliciting a deep, breathy moan from you before his lips wrap about the little bud and begin sucking. You moan out again, throwing your head back into the pillows at the overwhelming sensation and suddenly you feel the whole atmosphere change. There's no trepidation anymore, no resistance or questioning but rather just a primal urge between both of you.

You can tell that George is feeling for the opening your dress so you divert his fingers to the small, concealed zipper on the side and help him drag it down, much too slowly for your liking. He pulls away the dress after you slip your arms out and you watch carefully as his mouth slips open to a little 'o' shape as he pulls the dress from your body, exposing you completely to his gaze. You couldn't wear a bra with your dress thanks to the unique straps but you had thought you buy a tiny white lace thong that you'd had embroidered with a little 'W' on the left side of the crotch, knowing it would either make him laugh or make him growl. Luckily for you, it was most certainly the latter as he groaned as he spotted it, momentarily fixated on your naked breasts that were exposed completely for his view, his eyes travelling down your body with acute precision before he eventually noticed your little customisation. He groans and leans down to press a kiss directly to where the 'W' was situated, just above your mound and you can't help but squirm as the sensation of having him so close to where you needed him. He notices, of course he does, and his eyes flick up to yours with a look of pure mischief as he begins kissing the inside of your thigh and across your bikini line, teasing you. You groan and can't help but roll your hips as he flutters kisses everywhere apart from where you need them.

"My beautiful wife needs something?" He teases, acting completely oblivious when you knew he was very aware.

"Please George," you beg, "need you."

Like a switch had been flicked in George's mind, his long fingers begin tracing your pussy through the very thin and nearly transparent lace, groaning once again when he feels the wetness seeping through the lace. You feel his fingers hook into the side of your thong, catching your labia with a little stroke before he pulls them away from your burning pussy, exposing you completely to his view. He wastes no time and leans down, licking a long stripe across your pussy, catching your swollen clit with the til of his tongue in the most perfect way that has you gasping and moaning.

"Fuck you taste good, so sweet," he whines into your pussy, resting his forehead against your mound for a moment before he slips down again, this time licking you with vigour. "So wet baby."

His tongue is everywhere, delicately stroking and teasing whilst also hitting every spot you need him in perfectly. It's a perfect juxtaposition between his igniting a fire inside of you, making you burn with desire and pure torment whilst also extinguishing the flames with his tongue. As soon as his finger traces your inner lips as it moves down, gently pressing into your waiting hole before he slips one of his long, deft fingers inside of you, you're gone. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, hips rising of their own accord as you grope your breasts, completely consumed by your pleasure. He slips a second finger into you as you cry out, fucking yourself on his fingers as he circles your clit with his tongue, putting pressure on the left side just as he's discovered drives you crazy.

"George, George!" You chant as you feel the beginning of your orgasm rising in you very quickly, consuming you and burning you from the inside out. Your pussy is drenched and you can feel more arousal gushing from you as your climax crests, George's own moans ringing out in your mind as he pushes you over the edge. It's like you're falling, the crescendo of light and burning arousal overtaking your whole body and mind, the only capable thought in your mind is of George. He licks you slowly as you come down, careful to avoid your sensitive clit as he laps up your cum, fingers still slowly fucking you bath and forth with gentle strokes, extending your pleasure.

You gasp to catch your breath, chest rising and falling rapidly as your heart pounds, the effects of your orgasm still lingering as you feel a tingle across your whole body. It takes all of ten seconds for you to focus your attention back to George who has pulled his fingers out of you and began kissing your inner thigh again, soothing you as you return to him.

You sit up and reach for him, pulling him on top of you as you kiss him feverishly, moaning as you taste yourself on his lips. He notices and groans deeply against your lips, almost growling as you lick at his lips, desperate for a taste. You claw at his shirt, desperate to even out your nudity and feel his skin against yours and as if he can sense the sheer desperation, reaches down and completely rips the front of his shirt, the flying and falling buttons only an afterthought as you fight to get the shredded shirt away from his body. Your hands slip to his smooth shoulders and down his back as you kiss him desperately, pulling his tongue into your mouth so you can suck on it, relishing in his deep groans and little whines. Your hands rest on his collarbones as you slowly pull away from him, pushing him slightly until he realises was you want. You overpower him with just enough force that he rolls onto his back as you immediately latch to his chest, kissing and biting as you make your way down to your destination.

His suit trousers are completely tented, the sheer size an excitement of him almost intimidating to you as you fight to open the fastenings of his trousers. You don't wait even a moment after they are open to slide them down his hips, along with his black boxer briefs until he was completely bare, except from his sentimental chain and your wedding rings. You crawl back up the bed after throwing aside his bottoms and flick your eyes up to see his own desperate look as you come face to face with his rather impressive member. His lips are parted and he looks completely desperate as he watches you carefully, silently pleading for you to take his aching length in your mouth. You grant him reprieve almost instantly, licking straight from the crest of his balls to the engorged tip of his cock, tracing the throbbing vein on the underside of his cock, following the gentle curve. He cries out at the contact and it makes you want to do everything in your power to hear it over and over again.

You gave into him completely, taking his tip in your mouth and licking all around, earning another heavenly noise from him before you sucked in your cheeks and bobbed up and down his length, taking him deeper and deeper with each fall; never stopping your tongue from running along the length of him. You were addicted to him, the taste, the weight of his length against your tongue, the feel of his smooth skin against your lips. You fought to go further with each bob, sucking him down like the most delicious treat from Honeydukes, giving everything you could.

George was moaning mess before you, desperately searching for any part of your body he could reach as he fought to stop his hips from rising each time you'd pull off, like he never wanted to leave your hot, wet mouth. Sweet names, curses and a load more expletives fell from his mouth as you pleasured him until he reached out, leaning forward to pull you closer to him.

You were dripping, more aroused than ever and so desperate for him to fill you that it was all you could think about. He pauses, looking at the little strip of lace that was still misplaced, concealing nothing of yourself and ripped the thin strings on the sides, tearing it away from your body, both of you complete bare to the other's gaze.

It was so intimate and intense that it stole the breath from your lungs, just how adoringly he was gazing at you. His hand grabbed around your neck, holding your face and threading into your hair as he kissed you completely without abandon, your chests pressed together as your leg slipped between his, desperately seeking friction.

"Ride me baby," he mumbles against your lips and as if acting directly on command, you comply. You lift your hips and straddle him, his narrow hips allowing your thighs to rest against his comfortably as your centres align, the heat and sensitivity joining together to make you both gasp.

He reaches down and holds his perfect cock at the bottom, ready for you to climb onto and you can hardly contain your cries as you slowly sink down, feeling him stretching you out. He pulls his hand away, moaning at the sensation as his hand rests on your bum, the large hand and long fingers wrapping around your bum and thigh.

It's sinful how well he stretches you out, filling you completely without any pain or discomfort, like you'd been moulded perfectly for his cock alone.

When your hips rise again and you sink back down, this time much more confidently, your head flips back at the sensation. George grunts and tightens his grip on you as you slowly begin to ride him, hips undulating and breasts bouncing as you fall into a perfect rhythm. Your hair fans out across your back and you've never felt sexier in that moment, feeling adored under his gaze and praised by not only his words but also his moans and growls.

You're both so worked up, so perfectly in sync that you can hardly contain yourself, not even caring to try and hold off the impending climax that threatens you, creeping up slowly until it's impossible to resist. You can feel your walls clenching around him, your arousal peaking as it leaks out around his cock and you're rewarded with the most incredible moans that spill from his lips at the sensation.

"George, Georgie I'm gonna," you stagger, completely breathless as you keep riding him, finding the perfect spot and movement so that he hits every single pleasure point inside you.

"Cum Angel, fuck, cum around my cock," he pants, groaning and tightening his grip on your hips as he fucks up into you. "Godric you're tight, perfect little pussy squeezing my cock so good. Cum for me Angel."

You chant his name as the heat of your second orgasm consumes you, never once stopping as you bounce on his cock. He takes over fucking up into you as you ride out your climax, filling you completely as he shoves his entire length into you before pulling almost completely out and repeating the motion. You're in complete bliss, overwhelmingly so, and can hardly stop tears of overstimulation brimming at your eyes, blurring your vision only slightly. George lets out a roar as he cums, fucking up into you with a brutal pace that is sinful at best. His hands pull you close to him, bruises forming under his grip but it's perfect.

His thrust stop slowly as he comes down from his high, riding out the last of his pleasure as he pulls you down to rest on him, softening cock slipping out at the angle. You breathe deeply as you feel the evidence of his pleasure slipping out of you slowly, trickling down until it dripped onto your inner thighs.

He cranes his neck to reach out to kiss you again, though this time it's like a warm down, gentle and sensitive.

"Welcome to the family," he wheezes after a few moments of comfortable silence and you let out a loud belly laugh at the absurdity of his words, tapping his chest as you slink down to rest beside him, his arm still keeping you pressed to him. He's covered you both with the duvet and you can't resist slipping into a very comfortable sleep, too comfortable and worn out from the day to fight it.

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[sadtonight]

"Welp, I'm a kitty magnet I guess"

Summary: you were always fond of felines and they were always fond of you! You never strolled alone outside without a fluffy tail following suit or causing trouble along the way. Now at Night Raven, people are yet to discover this fascinating fact;

Characters: Diasomnia dorm;

Warnings: none, reader is gender neutral, reader is Ramshackle perfect but without Grim, could be viewed platonic or romantic;

Side notes: perfect without Grim?? Yeah he could play some role in scenarios but I didn't intend on adding him initially so he didn't make it here. Dw I will write Grim some day, when inspiration strikes me that is!

Sebek

— the first encounter with your colorful full-blown cat herd took place on Ramshackle dorm grounds. On his way to you, Sebek couldn't help but wonder why in Twisted Wonderland did his master choose to spend his precious time in such dilapidated building. It just reeked with high likelihood of foul play taking place!

— then all of the sudden, the sound of something wooden crushing rung across relatively vacant dormitory making Sebek jump into a fight stance and scan the building with his focused, dialed, green eyes;

— the observation proved fruitful when he caught the sight of brown and black flashes darting back and forth before at last jumping through the opened window into your home;

— wasting no time Sebek dashed to your house and flung open the front doors. He knew something was up!!

— although, tall male's demeanor changed when he saw ahead...two stray cats fight and hiss at each other until finally they retreated to separate corners. And those were not the only felines there: some were resting on the stairs, other were grooming themselves and one white cat in particular was dormant prior to Sebek's intrusion;

— when the white cat decided to greet the guest by making circles around male's legs, Sebek shifted his body screaming "CAT! STOP RUBBING YOUR BODY AGAINST MY PANT LEG! YOUR FUR IS DIRTYING MY FRESHLY IRONED UNIFORM!!" and took the animal in question by it's scruff, gently settings it far away from himself;

— you were not far behind the scene, sitting in the living room and combing through the ashy grey cat's fur with a special brush. The first year came up to you and began asking multiple questions regarding cats that you housed. The answers came, albeit after you convinced the male to help you groom your little furry pets first to which he begrudgingly agreed;

— it's hard to say if Sebek came over more often since then, but one thing for sure, you were grateful that he helped you with tending the felines, however not without making excuses as to why he was smiling so damn hard when the cats purred under his hands while he patted and scratched all the right spots;

Silver

— Silver, being the victim of strong narcolepsy, has fallen asleep multiple times per day in every place and position possible;

— he usually would try to break free from his unusual fate yet today wasn't the luckiest of days. The sun was shining softly and temperature was mild and warm enough not to stress any person from overheating or freezing. A perfect weather to fall asleep under the tree shade on the young crisp grass that is;

— sleeping lad was as always found not by fellow schoolmates but by variety of creatures that lived around. Today though, the visitors were none other than felines;

— spotted cat was making itself comfortable near Silver's exposed neck, curling into warm flesh. Orange cat, on the other hand, was more interested in paper bag that the male was still clutching even in his slumberous state, filled with foods that were requested by Diasomnia's residents;

— all the fur tickling along with finger licking and biting caused second year to finally stir awake. To his surprise he saw two cats, which appeared to be domesticated rather than wild. He got up from his resting spot only to catch a glimpse of your figure through the tall bushes;

— Silver called up two troublemakers and as he was approaching the sidewalk he saw that your arms were full with a gigantic, heavy looking cat food bag that obscured your view. The knight greeted you and you responded likewise although not without a few grunting;

— he couldn't stand just watching you struggle so he carefully exchanged his light paper bag with yours and carried it without any visible discomforts;

— that was the moment when orange cat came into view and soon the spotted one, watching with anticipation. You called out their names with annoyance, since you were actually looking for them the whole morning, and they followed you gingerly, making Silver smile ever so slightly;

— when you got home, it took a bit less than a few sniffing to get all the cats to befriend Silver. You thought that knowing cat language was vital when conveying your human words to you pets, but Silver was speaking human with them, asking them not to hunt down any of his bird friends. Huh, surprisingly enough, it looked like they were listening to him...;

Lilia

— continuous 'tiks' from the clock were seemingly endless when the history paper was already inked in all corresponding places. Apparently, you don't even need to learn heavy textbooks by heart when you happen to live for several centuries and watch most of innocuous and not so innocuous events unfold right before your eyes;

— Lilia was oh so bored right at this moment. He was eyeing professor Trein to catch his gaze and make a signal that he was, indeed, already finished with the history test;

— third year was almost successful in his endeavour when unexpectedly his pointed ears caught the some familiar sounding noise. Oho, now Lilia was so curious he couldn't hold back from levitating from his seat;

— Trein had no plans to stop his mischievous student, thus allowing young looking male to excuse himself;

— fae had wandered a bit, taking pleasure in listening to barely audible school life from the closed doors. He was beginning to think his mind was playing tricks on him back in his class, until he heard faint hissing right below his feet. A black kitten was arching it's back, fierce eyes piercing a floating oversized jacket;

— Lilia let out a light chuckle and picked the feline up, cooing and patting the fragile animal while it continued to meow. That's when the sound of hurrying footsteps echoed through the empty halfway. If the fae recalls correctly, those footsteps belong to....

— if previously you were feeling worried now it was pure anxiety. Head frantically flying from left to right, palms getting damp and ears perked up to any sound that resembled a cat voice or activity. You swore you lost a bit of your sanity when you heard the meowing from the ceiling, not daring to rise your head up, which was an unwise decision on your part;

— "Are you perhaps looking for something?~" wondered Lilia out loud, bare distance between his mouth and your ear. Naturally, you recoiled from sudden jumpscare only to let a sigh of relief upon seeing the third year who was grinning from ear to ear;

— you quickly explained to Lilia your problem, to which he pulled out the missing cat from the jacket with a small 'ta-da!'. You were elated to see the black kitten reaching out to you, both sound and well. The happiness was short lived though due to bat fae comparing the skittish kitten to you, which you did not appreciate in the slightest.

Malleus

— the gargoyle appreciation club activities heavily involved sightseeing — activity which brought young dragon fae great deal of pleasure. To admire the work and thought that went into the creation along with it's practical and aesthetic functions were essential to club's founder;

— however Malleus never considered animals such as house cats to also find the appeal of rock or marble constructions that adorn the roofs. As fae got closer, his gaze has fallen on one of his beloved gargoyle and afterwards — his equally beloved companion from Ramshackle, sitting near the statue;

— he decided to watch what was happening before stepping in and got to behold your futile attempts of getting down with a scared looking tabby feline trashing in your hands, preventing you from descending on the windowsill;

— you were the one who spoke first, calling out Malleus to search for help. He himself wasn't satisfied with your request, believing that he was more than capable of aiding you than the others, thus third year proposed to get you down by his own means: with magic;

— in contrast you absolutely refused because you knew well that the cat you were holding expressed immense terror when faced with magic. Although with all that said, you failed to convince the male, who already made up a plan on how to get you down;

— without warning, the black marble gargoyle beside you came to life: it's limbs beginning to move and roars breaking out of it's mouth. The frightening display rendered you and cat motionless, forcing you to slip and fall down;

— you were a goner, you thought to yourself, yet the impact with the ground was suspiciously way too soft. Former distress gradually dispelled and the gravity of the situation, instead of the planet, sinked in: Malleus was holding you in his arms bridal style, checking if you or the animal in your hands were unharmed;

— now officially the was a ban that prevented the fae prince of ever doing so again, which so far he has to grasp. However there was positive outcomes resulting from the incident that occurred;

— Malleus was acquainted with a family of cats that you hung out with regularly. He was astonished by their warm welcomes and bewildered by the sudden fits of biting, scratching and attacking that you described as playfulness. Dragon fae was untimely glad that you provided a chance for him to familiarise himself with such interesting animal as cats, creatures he could not get to know better without you given his circumstances.

[just-a-sleepy-idiot]

NBC Father figure!Hannibal Imagine: Giving you his umbrella in the rain

Content/Warning: Female!Reader, Younger Reader, Kinda innocent Reader, Platonic

The rain came out of nowhere for most of the people as the day had mostly been hot and sunny before. If you didn’t profusely look into the weather reports like he did you would surely be caught off guard by the sudden storm.

Hannibal had of course prepared for the instance that it might indeed rain and had caught a few surprised glances at the sight of his umbrella before- now the looks were rather envious than confused as the people hid from the downpour under the little shelter they could find.

He was on his way home when it started, and he didn’t really expect to see any more people around this part of Baltimore. It was like the rain cleansed the streets of the foul people that usually polluted it.

So he was surprised to find a young Lady calmly walking through the rain, so soaked by now that her clothing was darkened from its wetness.

He paused for no longer than a second before swiftly approaching your smaller frame.

„Excuse me Miss.“ He announced himself politely, and you looked up in surprise to find that the rain pouring down on you had stopped. There was an umbrella hovering over you instead, and a man made himself known behind you.

He had put the umbrella over you but stepped out of it to grant you enough distance to not be startled by his presence. You eyed him in surprise- he was wearing an expensive looking suit and despite the weather his grey hair was sitting perfectly in place as well.

„Please take my umbrella, you may keep it.“

You instinctively took the handle from him and paused for a moment, quite too surprised to say something else than a small „Thank you!“

He smiled pleasantly and nodded, before walking past you with an elegant composure despite the rain.

But..

„Wait! Sir!“ You hurried after him, your steps making quick splashing sounds on the curb. You quickly caught up to him and lifted your arm to its full length to get the umbrella to cover him again.

„I can’t just take this, your pretty suit will get soaked!“ You contemplated for a moment before speaking again, „How about you accompany me a few streets instead so I can give it back to you? If you‘re not in a hurry that is..“

You felt stupid for suggesting it, maybe it was a bother to him that you didn’t just take it.

But a small smile played around his lips and his eyes slightly widened in surprise over your concern.

„If you insist..“ He mused and took the umbrella from you so you didn’t have to stretch out your arm. „I will gladly accompany you then.“

You smiled shyly and gestured to the side, so you both walked right into the next street. The rain was pleasantly drumming on the umbrella, and you inhaled quietly.

„The summer rain always smells so nicely.“ He said what you were visibly thinking, to which you looked up and nodded with a smile. „No perfume could compare to it.“

A car was suddenly approaching the curb, and he saw that it would surely splash you with a sidewalk puddle- so he quickly put a hand on your back and spun you around with him. His back facing the street with you shielded by his body in front of him.

You gasped and looked up in shock, feeling his warm hand on your back. You looked up to him to meet his eyes and felt as if the warmth of his hand was now creeping up your cheeks.

You caught sight of the car passing by behind him and realized what he did, he protected you from getting splashed just like that!

„Oh!“ You made a surprised sound and instinctively put a hand on his arm. „I‘m so sorry! Now you‘re wet too!“ You lightly squeezed him and smiled, „But.. thank you! That was pretty cool.“

He chuckled at the last sentence, you were actually saying what you were thinking. It was a quite sweet trait of you- people his age mostly kept impressions like that to themselves. He wasn’t used to such language anymore.

„It is quite alright. Don’t worry.“ He assured you, and offered his arm for you to hold so you were close enough under the umbrella so neither of you would be caught by the water dripping down from its edges.

You blushed and took his arm, not being able to contain your curious gaze. You had never encountered a man that could grace this word so perfectly- a Gentleman.

He caught your gaze with a glance out of the corner of his eye, but to buffer your embarrassment he asked a question instead.

„May I ask whats your name? My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter.“

„You do look like a Doctor!“ You responded with wide eyes, „You have something about you that makes me think you are a surgeon.“

His smile widened, how attentive of you to see that. „Very good. I used to be a surgeon indeed. Now I am a Psychiatrist.“

You couldn’t help but feel a bit proud at his confirmation. He voiced himself in a manner that had something calming to it, something secure and prudent.

You stopped when you reached your door. Somehow this encounter had felt too short, and you didn’t want to let this nice man go just yet.

„Um so.. I work at the Café around the corner.“ You said, getting out your keys. „You should visit. I‘ll get you a Coffee for free as a thank you.“ You offered, to which he nodded a thank you.

„That is very kind of you..“ he paused, you had forgotten to mention your name. „Ah! I’m Y/n!“ He repeated your name slowly, as if he was tasting its sound on the tongue.

„I will take you up on that offer soon. It was nice talking to you.“

With that he departed, and left you looking after him for a moment before getting into the house.

He liked your polite and docile nature, and it was brief but surprisingly pleasant to meet you despite your differences in age.

He would be sure to visit the Café in a few days to pay you a visit.

I hope you guys liked it! It’s been a while since I’ve written for him

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

Let's settle down for the night.

Quick summary: You’ve been each other’s for a long time. You trust him with your life, your body, you time, and he trusts you with his. Sometimes, though, you find yourself craving a quieter kind of intimacy. Without the helmet.

Word count: 6.3K

Warnings: A lot of fluff 😩😩; may be inaccurate ‘cause, I gotta say, I’m a Star Wars fan but I did not proper hyperfixate on it like with some of the other stuff I’ve written about (buffs, please help me out here); kind of angsty??? like, reader’s an orphan etc; allusions to smut (under the shirt stuff amiright amiright); explicit mentions of smut.

A/N: What a fittie, guys. Bound to happen. This one goes out to @manicdream for giving me a lil’ prompt where you and Din are in looove aaaand—I guess you’ll have to keep reading for the fluuuff and feels! I really had fun with this one! Love this stoic, brooding, dramatic lad, and I enjoyed exploring love languages, their communication, etc, etc. i have no idea when this would take place, so just try to follow along, I guess??? I hope you enjoy this short, little story! I think this is gonna be just one part by the way. For all you Pedro Pascal sluts out there 😌😌😌, I do think I’m gonna write a smut thing for Joel Miller TLOU. NO PROMISES, THOUGH. Just finished the latest episode and what the fuck 😀😀😀 it just gets more and more traumatising huh. Anyway, please enjoy this happy fic!

ੈ✩‧₊˚

We’ve been walking for a while, now. Muscles aching, legs straining. The low, sloping sands of the Tatooine desert are pink in the setting suns, stretching on for years and years. 

The light flames up brilliant red and orange and bright white in his beskar, and I have to squint my eyes when I look over at him. From this angle, he looks like he’s all armour. When the suns finally go down, he’ll be a silhouette. That time of day always suits him best. You know how people you meet just seem like things sometimes. Din’s like rich soil, the kind that you can sink your fingers deep into with one single push. Or like a rock – with how little he talks, I used to think he was a rock. He’s also dusk. Dusk happens to be my favourite time of day. 

My feet are dragging again. If I were with anyone else, I’d never let my guard down—but it’s just us, and we’re in the middle of nowhere, and we’ve got a whole bunch of credits in my pack that’s almost enough to finally buy us our own ship. Won’t have to put up with sceptical glances on commercial flights anymore, or getting bashed about by produce on cargo ships we’ve had to sneak onto. Maker, I miss the comfort of the Razor Crest. But, y’know, it’s—it’s what it is. Lucky for us, transportation is the worst of our problems – it’s been a relatively quiet trip over the planet; no trouble—yet. Quietly trading with sketchy contractors in isolated taverns. We never ask questions about the high-paying ones, whether we’re implicitly tipping the scales of some political bantha shit, but I’m always curious.

A dry gust of wind cools my stifling skin, a break from the still weather.

“You alright back there?”

Din has his head angled slightly back towards me. His grainy, modulated voice curves my mouth up into a smile, and I stare fondly over at him as he slows his pace a little to fall into step with me. I urge him not to slack with the jerk of my head.

“Yeah, ‘f’course,” I assure him, tongue buzzing with foul saliva. Can’t drink just yet, though, ‘cause I already chugged about half of my waterskin way back at sun-up. He’s offered me the rest of his, but I refused to take it. Though, right now, grimacing at the bile in my mouth, I am thinking hard about changing my mind. “We’re safe,” I say confidently. We’ve been careful.

“I know.” Yeah, I know he knows. “I was just wonderin’ cause, y’know, you’ve been a little quiet.”

Playfully, I nudge into him (damn that beskar) and laugh as he shoves me back. “What, so you’re saying you want my ‘mindless chit-chatting’ back now, huh?”

I’m talking out of my ass, of course. We’ve had a thing going for a while, now – it’s been just us for a while. I know he doesn’t mean any harm when he teases me like that. It takes a lot for him to hurt my feelings, and he never does. Maybe at first, when neither of us would admit that we were happier being together than apart. I don’t know why I didn’t just tag along with him sooner. If I had known that those gruff, little grunts he’d make during conversation when we’d cross paths during jobs meant that he was enjoying himself?—well, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time in asking him to be my partner. In all senses.

But still, he feels the need to explain: “Ah, you know I was just—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

I suppose that, after so long needing to be strong and tough and brave and coarse to get on with life and work, he likes being soft. This is soft for him: letting me walk ahead just slightly, his shoulder behind mine, so that he’s always got my six; teasing me about things he’s told me are his favourite qualities of mine; secretly watching me from behind the security of his visor. I don’t tell him I love it, and I don’t tell him I notice, but he knows, I think.

He turns away to complete a quick scan of the horizon on his blind side, and I do the same for mine, before we turn back to each other. He’s tired – I can tell by the way he’s leaning in towards me, like he wants to be held. The privacy of this big, wide desert must be a comfort to him. I know it is to me.

“How’s your day been?” he asks me lowly.

I laugh. “You mean the day we’re currently spending together?”

He nods. “Tell me about it.”

Stars, I’m glad it’s getting dark, because my cheeks start to glow with warmth. Not necessarily just his voice or even the words. Consistently, he always asks about my day. Yesterday, it was in a dingy tavern, after avoiding a bar fight (some prick tried to trick me out of a drink the contractor bought me fair ‘n’ square). The day before, it was in the dead of night, looking up at the stars, with the bounty, unconscious, lying between us.

“I liked it.” He scoffs. “I did. There’s been no trouble, and, y’know, I grew up on a desert planet like this.”

“Bantha farmers, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

He grunts.

I laugh again. “You bastard! You’re so judgemental. Honestly worse than those Coruscanti pricks we worked for ages back. Remember how they looked at us when we traded? Tried to underpay us? Bet they’ve never risked even chipping a nail.” Bounty hunting is a little more difficult these days without the assurance of carbonite freezing, without the security of the Guild – we’ve had to complete ten times as many jobs for five times lesser rates just to get where we are now. Reminds me of when I first started out: bounties fighting back, trying to make a run for it. But what else are we supposed to do?—take up a job where?

The suns slip below the horizon, and everything is washed a low, gentle violet—and Din is that silhouette, now, and everything seems peaceful, like it all fits together just right. Even though, of course, it might not fit together just right when I try to haggle the price of that gunship down a few credits or so and the vendor absolutely obliterates me with the most personal, cutting insults in the entire galaxy. Din’s no help in the communication sector there – the stoic type – but, if anything, he’ll be able to stand behind me with that armour and steel glare and weapons of his to try and intimidate that damn stubborn seller all the way to fuckin’ Bargain Town. Because, damn, we’re relying on it. Peli, bless her soul, doesn’t have anything large or powerful enough to support the three of us on our run from the Empire.

Speaking of the three of us, the kid’s absence, I hate to say it, is kind of nice. Of course, I worry about him, but I trust that he’s being well-looked-after at the garage. Safer than he would be with us. But I haven’t had Din to myself in what seems like years. Last time he touched me was—was—a long time ago. Too much stress. Not enough time to savour it. And he’s all about savouring those kind of things, those moments, dragging them out as long as possible.

I can feel his stare on the side of my face. My sweaty, greasy, clogged face – stars, I can’t wait until we reach a water supply.

“Are you looking at me right now?” I ask, amused.

He does another strategically-timed scan of the area, turning away from me even though I can’t see his face. I wonder if he blushes under that helmet, if it’s really obvious. “You’re looking at me.”

I roll my eyes and smile softly, lowering the scarf around my nose and mouth and tucking the fabric beneath my chin. “How was your day?”

“Good.”

“Good why?”

“‘Cause I’ve got your mindless chit-chattin’ to keep me company.”

Forcing a laugh, I glare at him again. “Ha-ha, you’re so funny, Din. Real knee-slapper right there.”

It goes quiet again – he becomes like that, sometimes, after I use his name. The first time I spoke it was in the dark hull of the Razor Crest, in hyperspace. He sat and stared straight ahead at the streaking silver, motionless, wordless. Here, the desert air is still and calm. His shoulder is still brushing up against mine.

“Are you tired?”

Yes. My legs feel like they’re about to fuckin’ fall off. Here, walking along the plain, is good, but earlier, climbing over dunes and rocks and boulders, was hell. But we need to be getting back to the kid as soon as possible. As much as I trust Peli, I need to see him and make sure he’s okay. So, I shake my head and say, “It’s only a little ways up till the next settlement.”

“It’s a lot further.”

My heart drops. “Oh.” Wishful thinking’s just got me forging fake memories at this point. My knees threaten to buckle beneath me.

“D’you think we should stop?”

“No, we can—”

“I’m tired—” he abruptly comes to a halt, apparently deciding that this little patch of sand will be a nice bed, “—let’s stop for the night.” He beckons me to him, coming in close and retrieving the lamp from inside the sling-bag, setting it down.

Well, if he insists.

You know, it’s moments like these where I just let myself be fond of him. I let myself stare freely at him, admire the shape of his body, the sleek, smart make of his helmet, let myself wonder if his face is any bit as handsome as he sounds. Everything about him is rough. The way he fights, the way he bargains, the way he pilots. His hands. I think about the texture of his hands as I sit down. I remove my gloves and stuff them away, gliding my skin across my skin to just try and simulate that touch.

“You’re not cold?”

I untwine the bag from my shoulders, setting it down and retrieving our remaining food for this day. “I’m not cold. I have, like, five layers on.”

He eyes me doubtfully. “Okay.” And he sits down on the opposite side of the lamp, facing me, one leg propped up as a rest for his arm. The pulse rifle lays by his side, ready.

I offer him a hardening clump of bread and a few stout, odd-looking, white-and-purple vegetables (generously given to us by a farmer we passed a while back)—but Din shakes his head and urges me to eat as much as I can. I bite back a remark about that helmet of his – he must be starving.

“We’ll get something better to eat when we get to the city.”

I snort. “It’s hardly a city.”

“You know what I mean.”

Stupid Din always making stupid decisions and rationalising them because he thinks it’s for me. He knows I can take care of myself, that I’m good at it, but that doesn’t stop him from dropping everything to try. It’s nice for someone to have my back, for that someone to be as wonderful as him, but, holy kriff, he’s so stupid sometimes.

I tell him flat-out, “We don’t have enough credits,” because we don’t. We have barely enough to cover a scrappy, little ship. We definitely don’t have enough to purchase any food. We’ve relied on favours and luck for long enough, and we can go for longer until we’re off-planet. Peli’s got—edible food—probably. I don’t trust it won’t make me shit my brains out as soon as we’re in hyperspace, though.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, though. “We’ll get a worse ship.”

“Din.” Stupid. I toss him a chunk of bread, swivelling around to give him privacy.

He protests, “I’m not hungry,” and reaches over and taps it against my shoulder – I shrug him away.

“I’m already stuffed, so what’re you gonna do about it?”

He sighs in exasperation. “Thought you might say that.”

“‘Cause I’m just so predictable?”

“You’re stubborn.”

Snapping my head over my shoulder, I scoff and give him an incredulous look. “I’m stubborn?”

He tilts his head to the side as if to goad me further. “Yes.” The warm light of the lamp glows along the strong planes and clean lines of his armour. His hand leisurely dangling from his knee, he rubs his gloved fingers together, and I’m suddenly jealous of a clothing item. I know he must notice the slight catch in my breath.

I turn back around to face him, the sand moulding easily beneath my smooth movements. “And there’s not a brooding Mandalorian sitting across from me now, refusing to eat.”

The first few years of working with Din, I never once saw him eat or drink a thing. It was like he was a droid (don’t tell him I said that): always working, working hard, but fuelled by seemingly—nothing? Obviously, I figured he had to eat some time. When I became his partner, sharing the Razor Crest, he’d retreat to his bunk to eat. And when I asked him his favourite food, he said he didn’t really hate or love anything – as long as he could consume it and it wouldn’t kill him, he’d tolerate it. Over the years, though, I’ve learned he tries to steer clear from any kind of berries. Doesn’t trust ‘em. And he’s not a fan of fish, but the kid is, and I am, so we have it more often, now.

Din jerks his head and allows me to toss him one of those weird vegetables. Having already finished my chunk of bread (on the brink of mould—so yummy!), I take a large, eager bite right out of the vegetable. My mouth is flooded with its bitter juice, and I squint my face up a little at the greenish tang.

“How’s that taste?” he asks.

“Like dirt.” I chew the mouthful slowly, careful not to judge too quickly, and eventually hum in contentment. “But—” I retract, “—sorta sweet underneath. You ever tasted a beet?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s sorta like that.”

He watches me for a few heartbeats, calm in the steady, amber light. I smile at him.

“Turn around,” he tells me brusquely.

I wink at him and do as I’m told, shuffling around again and turning to back the blue and purple horizon, the lamp and his gaze warm on my back.

I’m silent as he unseals his helmet with a quiet click and hiss. I try to imagine him again. Every single time, I feel guilty over it, because I know how dedicated he is to his religion—but, oh, I can’t help myself. I run my tongue over my teeth, enjoying the remains of that bite, before taking another, crunching down into the flesh. As I do, I hear Din do the same. My heart stops a little in my chest, and I let out a slow breath.

“It’s nice.”

Stars. Stars, that voice. His voice, unfiltered by the modulator. Slightly hoarse from lack of water, scraping a little in his throat, but smooth in its low, rich tone. Like dirt you can sink your fingers right down into.

I set my hand flat on the sand my by side before pushing them vertically down, down, down, past the cooling surface and to where the glowing spirit of the day lingers.

Calm yourself down. It’s just a voice.

“You should have the rest of it,” he continues, and there’s the tap of the vegetable against my shoulder again.

Oh, stars. He hasn’t got his helmet on. He hasn’t got his helmet on. If I turned, he could be right there. Just him. I think about clamping my eyes shut to avoid the temptation of looking at him, but I can’t really co-ordinate myself at the moment. He taps again, encouraging me to take it back. My fingers hook up inside the sand, and it slips around me to my satisfaction.

“If you like it,” I say dryly, “you should eat it.”

The vegetable disappears from my peripheral. Another crunch, and another, and another. We sit in silence as he finishes it. The horizon is finally flat and unwavering in the cool of the night.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze when he’s done, hiking up the scarf around my head so it doesn’t slip too far over my hair. When I turn around, the helmet’s back on.

I wonder if he saw the colours of the sunset earlier. I had my head turned up for hours, watching every single shift in pink and orange and blue with wonderstruck eyes—but Din was striding on ahead, uninterested. I’m no engineer, alright? I don’t exactly know what he’s seeing in that helmet of his, or why. Infrared sensors for tracking, like in a rifle I once had that – that was one of the best damn weapons I ever owned, guaranteed to locate and hit your target, and I loved it to bits—until it got fuckin’ stolen by a bunch of fuckin’ Jawas. Point is, isn’t it just black and white in there? Sort of a purple-y black and white, and you can see changes in tone and depth and all, but black and white nonetheless. Red for footprints, though. Is that what he saw when I told him to look at the sky at sundown? Black and white? What is he seeing as he’s looking at me now? Me, I’m admiring the regal gleam of his beskar again. But he won’t be able to interpret the warmth of the lamp’s light on my face the same way as I did for him. I’m not the prettiest in the galaxy by a long shot, I know, but isn’t he missing out? On the beauty of the natural world? I think I’m prettiest at sundown – something in my undertone, I dunno – but he’s only seen me in that greyscale. Imagine if he just thinks I’m—okay-looking.

Overthinking it again. Din doesn’t waste time with things he doesn’t think add to his life. He doesn’t think I’m just okay-looking.

“You’ve got a good voice,” I tell him, grinning widely.

“You’ve heard my voice before.” The raw clarity of his words are lost once again behind the modulator. I shift my position, wriggling away from my disappointment.

“I know.”

A chill passes brightly through the air, and I tug my cloak tighter around myself, bringing my knees in close. Din doesn’t move a muscle, though, and he sits there and observes me a little longer.

We’ve been each other’s for a long, long time. We’ve been through a lot of shit together. And I’m not exactly thinking critically, and I’m not sure where I’m going with it, but I find myself asking, “When Mandalorians get married, they can take their helmets off around their partner, right?”

The mortification immediately sets in.

Holy kriff.

Din looks at me carefully. Then, he nods the slightest of nods.

Holy kriff.

“I’m not—” I stutter out, eyes darting away, over there, over here, anywhere but his constant, steady, shameless attention, “—‘m not asking you to marry me, Din. I was—I was just wondering ‘cause, y’know, I think you mentioned it to me once, ages back, and—and I was just thinkin’ that maybe—” you pause, glancing up at him; he doesn’t move a muscle, and there’s nothing that gives away any kind of anything he might be feeling, “—maybe I’d like to see—what—you—look—like.”

Wow. Wow, I’m almost amazed at how slick I am with these things. God, Imperial spies could learn a thing or two from the master.

I clear my throat, deciding to embrace the grave I’ve dug for myself. “But I’m not asking you to marry me, so you can stop looking at me like that, now, alright?.”

He says nothing, does nothing.

I situate myself with untying my waterskin from beneath my cloak, hiding my face in my shoulder and cursing, “Damn voice. Gets me too damn stupid-excited,” under my breath, like it’s a secret, like he can’t hear every fuckin’ word I’m saying on a planet seemingly stripped from all other noise.

Seething at myself, I crunch back into my vegetable, then tearing off a piece of bread to stuff in alongside it, taking a careless swig from my waterskin to wash it all down. Honestly, at this point, I’d rather die from dehydration than address the awful, awful statement I just made. Stars. Probably scared him right off. We’re as close to married as the real thing anyway. Din’s more of an actions-over-words kind of guy – I don’t need to call him my husband. It’s not like—well, marriage is companionship, and we have that already. Marriage is trust, and we have that already. I don’t need to call him my husband. He’s just—my guy. My person. Would be nice to have it on paper, I guess. Proof that he’s my person, that he wants to be my person. Bless him, but for every single thing he does for me, every action, I still crave him saying those words. Not shit to do with marriage, exactly. Just: “You’re my person. I’m yours.” Words aren’t his forte.

“I’d marry you.”

I swallow the hard lump of bread with difficulty, scrunching my face up into a grimace. “Hmm?” I ask, drifting back to the present.

“I’d marry you,” he repeats, and my eyes go wide. Oh. “Right here. If you want me.”

Huh. Huh. I dunno what the appropriate reaction is here, so I just continue staring unblinkingly at him. My stomach is erupting in flutters, and I just stare at Din.

Then, I look around us, at the barren desert. And look, yeah, I grew up on a planet very similar to Tatooine, and, yeah, sure, I have fond memories of my childhood. And then they get not-so fond. I scrunch my nose up in disapproval. “Not here.”

“Where?”

I shrug, brows knitted together in deep consideration. “I dunno.” And I really don’t, because—because I didn’t think we were the marrying type. Just the together type. Growing old and pissy together, living together, fighting together, figuring it out together—type. Mandalorians value community and strength and The Way over everything else – not necessarily love. Didn’t take him for the marrying type.

I screw my mouth together and exhale deeply. “Just somewhere prettier, I guess,” I decide on. “Not this quiet, but still pretty quiet. Y’know, somewhere with trees. Proper, green trees. But not the kind where there’s stuff in there waiting to kill you.” I want there to be as many colours as possible, in the sky, in the flowers, so he can see me and see all that beauty all together at once.

He tilts his head. “Like, with mountains?” he asks.

I smile. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind mountains.”

He glances down at the sand, tracing some kind of pattern into it with his forefinger. “We could go to Takodana?”

Stars. My smile widens. Stars, is this a proposal? Did I just propose to him? Did he just propose right back? That’s actually quite funny, that is. In the middle of nowhere, running out of water, running low on food. Romantic.

“Have you ever kissed anyone, Din?” I ask, more confident.

He grunts and shakes his head. “Not really.”

“‘Not really’,” you mock him, deepening your voice and attempting to widen your shoulders. I laugh at my own impression, leaning back on my hands and huffing a strand of hair out of my face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shifts, clearing his throat and adjusting to a more comfortable position. “I mean, I’ve kissed you—between your legs,” he tells me, nervous, like I’ve managed to forget how well he treats me, how eager he is to kneel down in the pitch-black and take care of me like that.

Heat blooms in my stomach. “Great work down there, by the way,” I tell him through a sly grin.

“Thank you, mesh’la.” Is he blushing? Does he blush? I find myself wondering over that again.

I smile and stare at him.

“Could I kiss you?” The suggestion just slips out without a second thought. I just think that, after some food and water and rest, I don’t really have to filter anything out anymore. I don’t have any complaints – just some recommendations for fun we could be having.

Din doesn’t reply.

Ah, shit. Shit, what the fuck is wrong with me? Mandalorian, remember? Stupid, stupid. If there’s anything anyone knows about Din, it’s that he’s a Mandalorian first. He’s a Mandalorian before he’s mine – he’d never say it out loud, but we both know it’s true. I’d never ask him to choose because that’s cruel. Am I being cruel?

Either way, I can’t seem to stop, and I don’t seem to care: “I’d keep my eyes shut,” I blurt out, trying to keep my breathing from becoming heavy with lust, and failing a little more than a little bit. Stars, I’m turning myself on at this point; he just has to sit there and look pretty. “You know I’d keep ‘em shut. I wouldn’t look. I just—wanna—” you sigh, “—I just wanna kiss you. It’s nice, I swear. Nice feeling. I’d keep my eyes closed. Or—or you could tie something around ‘em?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Stars,” I curse. “I’m sorry.” I wipe my eyes from dust and dirt and blink hard. “I think I’m just tired.”

“You’re tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Is ‘tired’ why you’re pressing onto yourself down there?”

He flicks his fingers over to where I’ve got my hand stuffed between my legs, rocking softly against the heel of my palm. I swallow hard. Fuck, I didn’t even notice I was doing that. I convinced myself I was—ha!—I was just warming up my hands.

I shift my eyes sheepishly back up to meet Din’s, guilty as charged.

He sighs deep from within the chest. “You keep ‘em closed and we tie something around ‘em.”

Silent, I nod in agreement. My thighs squeeze together.

He jerks his head to beckon me over, and I go shuffling on over to him on my knees, probably looking like a right idiot, but, then again, I don’t really give a fuck because I’m about to kiss Din Djarin. I’m about to kiss my Mandalorian. I’m about to kiss my companion of almost a decade, more if you count all those shady bounties we used to end up competing for. My Mandalorian, my Din Djarin, mine, mine, mine. I’m not possessive, I don’t think, but, gods, I—I—I can’t believe it sometimes. That I get to know him like this. That I get to know such an incredible person. That he won’t say more than two words at a time to anyone, not even those we’re close with, like Peli—but, with me, he’ll talk for hours. He jokes that he’s just humouring me, but I know he loves it. He tells me so.

Din makes a motion with his hand to turn around, so I do, and I let him tie an old, folded food cloth around my head – unsanitary, sure, but, again, I don’t care, and my head’s reeling, and my heart’s racing so hard, thrumming in my ears, and he’s so close, and his fingers are tangling through my hair as he lowers my scarf, and they’re brushing against the nape of my neck now, and—

“Can you take your gloves off, Din?” I ask, and, unfortunately, the neediness seeps right through my voice. “Please?” Stars, I’m pathetic.

Behind me, there’s the shuffle and quiet groan of leather as he tugs them off, and then a quiet pat! as he tosses them to the side.

And then his hands are back. Rough, calloused fingertips ghosting over my ears, my hair, as he knots the cloth, then knots it again for good measure. Darkness is closed over my eyes, tinged the rich green of the fabric. My breath seems nearer this way, short, shallow, hot. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, still, as he cups the back of my neck, his touch cool.

I reach over my shoulder, taking a deep inhale as I run my fingers over the dips and hills of his knuckles. I fold my hands over his and squeeze, bringing them forward and kissing his fingertips gently. I feel the texture and thickness of his fingers, trace the lines of his palm. Din comes in close behind me, the solidity of his chestplate (cuirass? I dunno, once, he got all pissy ‘cause I didn’t call by it’s actual name) pressing up against my shoulder blades.

I smooth my thumbs along the deepest crease in his palm. “Y’know, once, before I met you, I met someone who told me he could foretell my whole life, and my child’s life, and their child’s life, just from the lines on my hands.”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is right in my ear, low and intimate. Maker. “What do mine say?”

“All good things,” you reply shakily.

“Anything about Takodana?”

He twists his hand over, enveloping my right and rubbing circles into the back of it.

Then, he’s letting me go, leaning away—and there’s that hiss and click of him removing his helmet. I blink against the green cloth, my eyelashes dragging up slowly. If I hold my breath, I can hear him breathing.

“Turn around,” he tells me, and I do.

It’s too dark for silhouettes anymore. If we were in daylight again, maybe I could’ve seen the vaguest outline of him. But we’re not in daylight. I blink again against the cloth, hard.

His hands reach out and grasp my hips, and they’re warm and large and I never get used to it. The breath is still knocked out of my chest. He angles and adjusts me to face him, and I place my hands on his shoulders, fumbling around his armour before settling them instead on his neck.

His neck. Bare skin. I smooth my hand up the column of his pretty, perfect neck, feeling every inch of him. I already know the texture of his hair. When he’s between my legs and kissing me there, I like to thread my fingers through it. It’s thick and wavy and slightly too long. But otherwise, I keep my hands to myself. Even though I’m not technically seeing him in the dark when he takes his helmet off to taste me, I don’t reach out and touch his face—because it’s his. It’s his, and he’s taken an oath to keep it that way. He’s never initiated a kiss, so I’ve never asked. I’ve been content. I’ve been patient.

But I guess my patience has reached a limit. Slowly, tentatively, I drift my touch up, up, and feel along his jawline, coarse with longer scruff. His breath hitches, and I smile and continue. I smooth my fingers right along his cheekbone – Din gently circles his hand around my wrist, pressing his nose into my palm, then kissing it, soft, careful, dragging the tip of his nose along the line of the vein that trails over my arm.

Stars.

I blink hard again behind the green cloth, clenching my jaw down till my teeth grit together.

I feel along the jagged bridge of his nose, take note of how it’s slightly crooked to the right, like he’s broken it before (wouldn’t surprise me). I learn the shape of his brow, the broadness of his forehead. I feel the feather-light brush of his eyelashes against my wrist. I’m silent—and I’m grinning like an idiot, because what else can I do? It’s like I’m seeing his face. I’m not, but it’s sure as hell the closest thing. The weight of his head in my hands, the cautious squeeze of his hands on my arms. I whisper some kind of babbling, incoherent request, and he relaxes his eyes – I can feel the muscles in his face release tension – for me to trace my middle finger over the shape of his eye. I’m not crying, but, fuck, it’s getting a little moist up in this blindfold.

His eyes droop down slightly at the ends. I like eyes like that – kind eyes. My mother used to say these types of eyes only belonged to the kindest of people. Stars. Don’t cry.

“You look insane, mesh’la,” he whispers, close to me, lifting his hands to tenderly hold my face, like I might break.

“Ah, bantha shit, baby,” I retort. “You’re loving this.”

And I can feel him smile. I can feel it crinkle up the sides of his eyes, and I can feel the squint of them, and the way his cheeks lift. He smiles a little lop-sidedly, actually, the left corner of his mouth just a touch higher than the right. I try to memorise every single bit of information I discover, as urgent and as desperate as if my life depended upon it.

Quivering with want, I press my lips to the inner corner of his eye, firm and sure and needy, my hands grasping around his face. Din grabs fistfuls of my cloak, bringing me nearer to him.

He smells like dust and tastes like sweat and salt, but, Maker, this is good. Satisfies some deep, hellacious ache that would have otherwise consumed me.

I kiss the ridge of his cheekbone with the same fervour, and then I kiss the corner of his mouth, the left side, the side that quirks up when he smiles.

Only, he’s not really smiling right now. He’s breathing heavily, almost panting, and stroking my hair away from my face and neck before mumbling out, “So pretty.” I press my nose against his, breathless with anticipation, heady at the warmth of his body. “S’good. You look so good—like this. Y’look good all the time—”

But I’m kissing him already, frantic, fingers pressing into the back of his neck, into his shoulders, bringing him as near to me as humanly possible. I sob dryly as he reciprocates, nudging his nose flat against my cheek. He opens his mouth to suck in a breath, and I lick into him, taste him deeply, practically having climbed into his lap during my whirlwind pursuit. His cold hands slip under my cloak, arms wrapping around me in a second.

The kiss is dry and rough, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It seems befitting of him somehow.

And when he makes a pathetic sound, a whimper or something, at the back of his throat, I almost melt right into the ground.

Closer, closer, closer – that’s all I can really comprehend at the moment. Even with our bodies slotted together, even though I can feel each shaky breath he takes as his stomach flexes over my own, I feel hungry for more. It’s Din. My Din, kissing me, his hands on me, his eyes on me. My Din, grunting into me as I shift in his lap and squeeze my legs around him. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine—

He grabs my face gently by the chin, urging me away from him for a few moments. I sit there, blind, his open mouth still hovering over mine. Oh, stars, I think of the softness of his tongue, and I kiss the corner of his mouth, wanting, asking.

Din angles my face to the side, coming in slow, warm, and languidly slides his tongue into my hot mouth, breath fanning out across my glowing face. Maker. I can’t control myself – a helpless noise passes through me as I take it good and kiss him back, eager, wide open.

I guide his hand down the the base of my throat, just to feel his touch somewhere else. He squeezes there lightly.

His other hand manages to snake under my shirt, pressing flat across the small of my back, sliding up my spine and sending shivers all the way right through me.

It’s—good. Really good. Can’t-open-my-eyes-for-a-good-few-heartbeats type of good.

“Maker,” he curses hoarsely under his breath as I pull away, still leaning forward for me, chasing my touch.

“Good?” I ask him.

He presses a kiss to my cheek, smiling. “We can do this—more often—‘f you want.”

“If I want, huh?”

He kisses me deeply again, his thumb slotted beneath the cloth over my eyes. He pulls it taut to the side over so slightly, and I can make out that beautiful, warm glow over the sand and his armour again. I shut my eyes as he tilts my head up, though, as kisses down to the hollow of my throat and back up again.

I slide my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close. “You’re beautiful, aren’t you?” I just know it. Everything about him is just beautiful. It’s just lovely, and I love it.

“Marry me and you can find out for sure,” he mumbles into my neck.

I can hardly hear him, of course – blood is pounding so hard in my ears that all I can understand from his words are that they rumble deep right through his chest, warm under the cool beskar.

I lift his head and press my nose into his cheek. “I can tell,” I continue, words brushing his lips. Again, I smooth my fingers over his face. “You’re so pretty, Din.”

“Marry me,” he urges, whispering against the fabric over my eye, warm.

I grin. “Later.”

He curses, something in Mando’a. “We’re going to Takodana as soon as we get that damn ship, you hear me?”

[sallysavestheday]

Five sentence prompt!

In the evening of the world, as the red sun waxed huge and blazing against the ancient sky, Maedhros took to going to the theatre.

OK, well, this one got away from me. You caught me in a melancholy mood and Maedhros and I had some thoughts about plays and players and playing. Several more than 5 sentences worth. Thank you!

In the evening of the world, as the red sun waxed huge and blazing against the ancient sky, Maedhros took to going to the theatre. There was something comforting about the ancient arena on the side of the great hill of Túna. Bitten out rather than built up, it had an enduring stability that appealed in the weary years, when all the towers of the city seemed poised to fall. The cypresses and myrtles exhaled into the turning air as the audience gathered; bats dipped and darted over the crowd while the sun sank and the night gave way around the pale lights of the stage. A crispness crept in as the dark settled – the day’s dusty sweetness eased and softened even further by the quiet breeze. The hush before the actors took the stage always felt like something sacred: those who watched waited, poised on attention’s edge, eager and almost afraid. And then: a voice, or many, Speaking. It was what made them who they were, after all, that gift of tongues – the telling of tales that bound and wounded and cleansed, the shaping of the air with meaning. Even then; especially then, at the end. The great spectacles of the elder days had long been given up. With the slowing of the world a spare and simple staging seemed more suited. In the circle of the glimmering lights, the words owned the air. The actors’ mouths were holy vessels, spilling truth on truth on truth. Maedhros stretched his long legs on the warm stones, soaking up the remembered heat of the day. He leaned his ear to the speaking, watching the small shapes of the actors in their paper armor and their tinsel crowns as they told of great deeds and Doom, of small miracles, of friendship’s ties and lovers' griefs and the rounding and fading of the world.   In those late times, all plays were mythologues. The strange passages of his own lives unfolded and unwound before him, sublime and cataclysmic. Such a marvel, such a misery, such a mystery! Their sparks remained, even as the world wound its way to sleep, its edges softening, growing ever more frail. Maedhros tasted the peppery air and cast a weather eye to the sky as the voices wove on. A pale night, a clear night, but even in heavy weather there would be plays. Come fair or foul, the Eldar would tell their stories, until the breaking.  

I'm still taking sentence prompts! Most will be five sentences in response -- here, I just got carried away.

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Winter with Foul Legacy HCs

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Genre: Fluff, a tiny bit of Comfort at the end Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Warnings: Snow, ice, insecurity, mentions of needles (knitting)

~ * ~ -Happy winter!!! The time of year where it’s cold and gray outside, but luckily home offers refuge and toasty warmth! -Honestly, Liyue winters are kinda boring weather-wise. The temperature drops and clouds cover the sky, but rarely do you get snow or ice- it’s good for commerce, at least -But this year via sheer luck it did end up snowing!! A once-in-a-lifetime experience for the Harbor!!-It also means that no one in Liyue really knows how to deal with snow or freezing temperatures, so you get time off from work- at least until the ice melts a little -It’s quite a nice feeling, being able to sleep in and wake up slowly, rolling over in bed to gently ruffle Foul Legacy’s hair as he clings to you. He knows you’re not going in today due to the awful weather, and chirps and trills drowsily with delight, bumping his head into your hands because he gets to spend the entire day with you!! -For a while you both just stay in bed in each other’s embrace, under several layers of blankets. Occasionally Foul Legacy’s claws prick your skin and he whines apologetically, snuggling into the crook of your neck as you hug and reassure him that you’re fine -Eventually you yawn, stretching your arms and rising to your feet to make breakfast. Childe grumbles when you get up but quickly follows suit, talons gently wrapped around your waist as he stands behind you and rests his chin on your head. Whenever you cook, you always give Childe a few morsels to snack on- the sweet clicks he makes always bring a smile to your face -Once you’re done eating, you throw on some warm clothes to go walk around outside!! You very rarely get to see real winter weather, so you want to experience it as much as possible -To replace his regular scarf, you give Childe a thick knitted scarf instead- one you may or may not have made yourself, it’s a secret!! Foul Legacy doesn’t get cold nearly as easily as you do, but he still chirps and happily wraps it around his neck, crystalline blue eye shining with joy -Childe prefers to hold your hand the entire time you’re outside. With your small hand encased in his much-larger claws, he can be sure that you don’t slip on the ice! He used to live in Snezhnaya- he knows how much it can hurt -Even so, he can’t resist the banks of snow that have accumulated in places, and will often leap into them!! It’s a lovely sight to see Foul Legacy rolling around in the snow, trilling for you to join him, which of course you do. You get colder much quicker though, so the moment you begin to shiver he lifts you into his arms!! -If it starts actively snowing you’re treated to the sight of Childe sticking out his tongue to catch snowflakes. He blushes and looks away when he notices you staring, but you simply laugh kindly and smooch between his fangs- if Childe wasn’t flustered before he certainly is now :)  -Eventually the chill catches up to you, making you curl and huddle against Childe’s chest as he makes his way home, feet barely skirting over the top of the ice. The warmth of your house hits your fingers and the tip of your nose, the skin numb yet burning from the change in temperature -He wants to bundle you on the couch for snuggles but you insist on making a hot drink first!!! Childe pouts until you mention hot cocoa at which his eye lights up, happy chitters falling from his mouth, claws gripping the edge of your countertop -One of the sweetest things you’ve seen this year is Foul Legacy delicately holding one of your mugs, talons dwarfing the small cup as he gingerly sips hot chocolate. He’s a bit overeager and accidentally burns his tongue, sticking it out with a little yelp of pain which you quickly cure with a forehead kiss <33 -Once you’re finished with your drinks, Childe tugs on the edge of your shirt towards the fireplace, wrapping himself around you when you sit down. His fluff is especially soft because it’s cold outside, and the minute you sink your fingers into it he starts purring, tilting his head so you scritch the best spots!! -Speaking of which, his hair and fur fluff up a LOT in the winter even if he doesn’t get cold easily- you often wake up with your face buried in it!! It’s like a floofy cloud that warms your chilled skin :) -You knitting Foul Legacy a big sweater, end of story. He plays with the yarn as you knit, not knowing who you’re knitting for- you like giving him little surprises!! -He ends up tangled in the yarn, blinking like a cat. It’s wound around his claws, hooking on his armor- somehow he even got some wrapped between his horns!! You can’t help chuckling as you help set him free from the yarn’s villainous clutches, the apologetic little grumbles making you laugh even harder -The warmth and coziness from the fireplace and the snow outside makes Childe extra cuddly, and eventually he nudges your knitting supplies away and rests his head on your lap, taking your hand in his claws and setting it on his head for more pats -Sometimes, late at night when the only light is the fire dancing in the hearth, he feels guilty by the fact that you’re spending your time off with him. Surely you must have family and friends to visit, right? And with how little time you get away from work he knows it’s difficult to visit them and care for him at the same time. He never says anything, but you can pick up the signs from how his grip tightens around you, head pressing into your stomach -Really, he doesn’t know how you do it- how you’re so good at knowing when his mood drops, but somehow you always know the right time to squeeze him back, hand running through his ginger hair as you reassure him that there’s nowhere you’d rather be than here -And he knows you’re telling the truth, when he looks into your eyes and sees the soft gleam of gentle affection shining back at him, and in that moment Childe’s never felt so loved before -Your quiet humming is what calms his tumultuous thoughts, sending him off to sleep with the gentleness of clouds and starlight. It’s dark outside, but he knows snow is falling again, and drowsily he croons. Perhaps tomorrow you can explore more; find some ice to walk across, admire the snow-capped trees and mountains so similar to his homeland, and with those dreamy plans in mind Foul Legacy drifts off on your legs, a blissful smile spread across his mask-like face -Childe lets out small snores as you pet his fluffy hair, arms wrapped around you carefully so as not to poke you with his armor, and the edges of your lips quirk upwards. Quietly you pick up your needles and resume your knitting- if you’re lucky, it’ll be ready by tomorrow, and you’ll get to see that wonderful expression of delight on your beloved Abyssal moth’s face again <33

[terrence-silver]

why does 'baby it's cold outside' give terry silver and beloved vibes

It gives you Terry Silver vibes because he's adamant.

Man doesn't like losing.

He knows how to be sweet, but in a way a slow, quiet water current is, seemingly mellow, initially unassuming, yet capable of eroding a rock with his perfidiousness; his tenacious politeness and consistent insistence on (performative?) courtesy being so tactically aggressive on the downlow when he wants it to be, he'd downright talk beloved into staying the night even when they initially weren't certain if they should or if it's appropriate, perhaps, not wanting to give off the wrong message. But, by the end of the evening, they will stay, because in Terry's own words, to quote him, he's been making you do things you didn't wanna do right from the very start. Ever since you met him. And of course he thinks of everything. Things most people wouldn't even think of thinking. He covers all grounds gleefully and has the greatest fun doing so Slowly squashes all boundaries and defenses over a candlelit, classical arrangement and several wonderful, Michelin star courses. Inviting beloved over, having them driven to him, or picking them up himself (depending of what statement he is out to make) even when he knows the disposition outdoors will be foul later on, at the right moment, almost as if though the sky itself is suiting his strategic needs --- hey, if people can utilize weather conditions in warfare, then why not in love? What's the difference between a Monsoon Season in Vietnam and a rain downpour accompanied by thunder over LA? Or maybe, an unexpected bit of snowing along the West Coast he uses to his advantage by setting this rendezvous, deliberately, during the most miserable days in the year, on purpose, to have a justifiable excuse to keep you?

Control you?

What's the difference between a Monsoon deep in enemy territory and this?

None, if you ask Terry.

All's fair in love and war.

Distracting beloved and winning time until the date extends to the point it's pitch black outside and staying --- well, staying only seems reasonable, practical and courteous under these circumstances. He is no monster; sending someone home at the dead of night? With all this rain? Lightning? Inconceivable! He won't bear that on his conscience. He cannot allow it! He's a very precise and dedicated host and oh, look, his staff is already dancing circles around you before you can even really protest, offering to escort you to your, erhm, quarters. Don't you feel guilty at how hard everyone's trying to make you comfortable? At home? Has he been bad? He's wined, dined and romanced beloved and he's been the most splendid company, like a real gentleman should be. Why wouldn't they stay? With him? Beloved has no reason, it is just their mind playing tricks on them, boggled down by social conventions. They want to stay, deep down, they really do? Don't they? Terry knows they don't, not really, but by the time he's done with them, they'll believe whatever he wants them to believe. Where could they possibly go anyway? Head down the highway? In a storm? On foot? Down a lane of neighboring manors? They've been trapped the minute they entered his premises and they never even realized it. In current times, an older Terry might just have a smart house and fingerprint activated state of the art security systems in place. Nobody can leave even if they wanted to. Even if they tried. There you are, stuck as he passionately shows off his collection of rare antique swords as a subtle threat.

Albeit, his Mayan brutalist concrete behemoth of a palace is no different back in the 80's. The sheer size of that place alone is a logistical hindrance to anyone who tried to leave and escape. And oh, his mansion has so many spare rooms. Doesn't beloved want a grand tour after dessert?

Do they think he's given them hours and hours of his best self for free?

It isn't for free. No. Nothing ever is.

He'll want something in return, and that something is in his bed.

After all...it's so cold outside.

[forgottenvice]

Feathers in a storm

Finally my Fic for the Moshang Events Big Bang 2023 Take a read if you're so inclined

Ao3 Art

The sharp cry startled Shang Qinghua, warning him of the oncoming onslaught. He'd been trying to look inconspicuous but it didn't matter, the white crows descended upon him. He tried to ignore the incessant squawking by staying perfectly still but as more of the foul beasts joined the flock he was forced to flee.

Whoever decided that a group of crows was to be dubbed a murder must have been well acquainted with their enmity. Having to endure the amassing harassment forced Shang Qinghua to give up his perch, taking to the air with just enough of a headstart to avoid a chase.

He chose a path letting out his own screech of discontent, since the beginning of his short tenure in the north the native snow crows had taken quite personal offence to his presence.

Apparently crows didn't like ravens all that much, not that Shang Qinghua was actually a raven. He was, but he also wasn't. Sure he had the feathers, the talons, the beak, but he hadn't been born with them, nor had he particularly wanted them, but he had a mission. When that mission was complete he could shed his fowl features and move on with his life.

Though ‘complete’ was feeling farther and farther away. After three days it had become clearer that his mission would not be quite as simple as he'd been led to believe.

Go to the north, spy on the crown prince.

An easy task for any talented spy, especially one in the form of a raven. Who would notice another bird flying around the palace? He'd figured he'd be practically invisible as he watched over the man. His arrival at the palace had not been quite so easy.

Shang Qinghua was used to breezy buildings with open air walkways and large paper windows. The perfect environment for spying. The Northern palace however was not so easily infiltrated.

Instead of winding walkways there was tightly packed stone, instead of paper screens, thick glass, instead of clear views there were dozens of chimneys filling the air with smoke and steam. It was as if the place was tailor made to obscure his vision and get in his way. Something made even more difficult with his lack of thumbs and his newfound inability to open doors on his own.

And then, there was the rookery.

The castle kept the ivory coloured crows to deliver their mail. They were hardier birds more suited to the northern climate than the common pigeon. Of course that made them more aggressive than the common pigeon, and by himself Shang Qinghua was a prime target. He couldn't blame them, not completely, they were just animals, and he wasn't particularly enamoured with his current state either. But it wasn't his fault and the constant shrieking and air bombardment was rather rude.

He had spent so much time dodging crows that in the three days he'd been there he'd yet to even catch a glimpse of his target. The elusive crown prince was nowhere to be found, not even on the lips of the common gossips at the river; far from the palace rookery. The dying king was all they seemed to talk about, that and his brother. A loyal man who never seemed to leave his side as his health deteriorated. The only mention of the kingdom's heir was to remark on his conspicuous absence.

The whispers stopped there, the king's illness seemed suspicious and the ruthless prince was suspect but suspecting him without proof was treason. There were rumours the man had a secret guard and had killed servants for less in the past. To the washerwomen speculation was hardly worth dying for.

A smart stance for servants to take, but it was useless for a spy like Shang Qinghua. He'd tried to follow the kitchen staff back in an attempt to gain entry after that, but had barely dodged the cook's broom.

He circled the palace for the hundredth time, finally used to letting the wind lift and guide him around the structure. He had hoped to find an advantageous location to spend his nights, the weather was worsening day by day, so there were no windows left open for him to eavesdrop on. Plus there was his own comfort to consider.

While the chimneys and smoke stacks were warm, the constant steam irritated his lungs and eyes. He'd spent the first night in a tree beyond the palace walls, but it made him feel too removed, like he was going to miss something.

He'd eventually found a rather isolated courtyard; far from the tower of crows, with a  gnarled old tree protected from the chilled wind with a comfortable perch just outside one of the palace's many windows. It wasn't a particularly useful window, but having a sightline into the darkened antechamber eased his nerves even if it was empty, as if the wing of the palace had been abandoned.

It was honestly a relief, with no one to see him he wasn't forced to pretend that he was a normal bird. What sort of things did ravens normally do? He'd never studied birds or their habits. Resting free of an audience was truly his best option. His chosen branch was even long enough for him to waddle back and forth in a manner similar to how he used to pace.

The movement helped him think, that and speaking aloud to empty air. While as a bird he couldn't exactly talk, but the chirps and chitters he let out served a similar purpose while he familiarized himself with the north and its political climate.

The prince wasn't very well liked, a tyrant in the making if the washerwoman were to be believed. He didn't seem to care for his father's illness the way his uncle did. Nobody had said it out loud but it seemed in public opinion the uncle was favoured over the actual heir to succeed the throne. While that sounded good on paper, the compassionate uncle taking the throne would cause more problems for Shang Qinghua.

He didn't want to get involved, but he didn't have nearly enough information that he could successfully report back. He'd not even caught a glimpse of the prince, if he returned with so little information he could kiss his humanity goodbye.

He'd slept fitfully, curled into a ball of feathers dreaming of a time when he had none.

The horn called loud enough to startle him from his perch, he tried to reach out and grab the branch but only had feathers where fingers should have been. He barely managed to spread both wings and break his fall. Thankfully it wasn't a particularly tall tree.

A second call sounded louder than the first and the harsh caws of the rookery greeted it.

Shang Qinghua sat in the grass, shoulders hunched wondering if he really had to check out the commotion or if he could just sleep where he'd fallen. He was still mad about waking up as a raven and didn't have any desire to get any closer to the crows.

Eventually he let out an angry caw of his own, he'd dreamt of human things, walking, writing, opening doors; truly a lovely dream, spoiled by noisy fucking crows. What were they even worked up about anyway? They had a nice warm tower to sleep in, why did they have to disturb the little comfort he'd managed to find?

Busy grumbling, the third horn blast startled him, almost as much as the first. He took to the air instinctively, eventually gaining just enough height to see the parade of hunters entering the far gate. It was a rather large retinue carrying with them all sorts of game.

He flew a bit higher before coasting downwards for a closer look, he wasn't familiar with the wildlife of the northern forests and was curious. A new group of people entering the palace meant new opportunities for him, this may have been what he was waiting for.

He pulled right as quick as he could, barely dodging the arrow as it whistled past, nicking his pinfeathers as it flew. An unflattering squawk left him as he pulled up only to see a man holding a bow and staring him down.

The man was tall, taller than most of his compatriots, holding himself with the practised ease of a hunter. Shang Qinghua would have stared longer except with the way the man slowly reached for another arrow he knew the next shot would likely not miss. It was a tactical retreat.

His wings pumped trying to get out of range as fast as possible until his thoughts caught up with his wingbeats. The hunter had been tall, well dressed with an expensive looking cloaked trimmed with fur. He had sharp features and cold eyes.

It had to be the crown prince, Mobei Jun.

He altered his trajectory, circling back behind the incoming retinue. He stayed low, landing on the far side of the stable and crept slowly up until he could peek at the incoming hunters, and most specifically, their leader.

The prince had lowered his bow once Shang Qinghua had left his line of sight, speaking to a retainer at his side. A curly haired youth, who seemed to be the only person who'd dare approach him. Most of the other hunters gave him a wide berth, even the servants who attended the caravan did so warrily, deference tempered with something else.

Fear.

"Nephew, it seems your hunt was successful." A charming voice called out and the crowd parted immediately as someone new entered the courtyard, Shang Qinghua crept closer.

The prince towered over the newcomer but his height did nothing to  overwhelm the other man's presence. He walked with impunity, dressed in embroidered velvet covered in jewels only a royal could afford. Despite the difference in height and the older man's greying locks the resemblance was unmistakable.

After days of drought Shang Qinghua was caught in a downpour. He was now witness to two thirds of the royal family, Linguang Jun, brother to the king, had left his vigil at the king's side to greet his nephew.

"Our larders will be well stocked this winter." deep lines pulled his smile tight, distaste crossing his expression as he looked at the spoils that followed the prince into the palace. This greeting was his duty, nothing more. Even from a distance Shang Qinghua could see that there was no familial love between nephew and uncle, and only the latter was willing to put up the pretence.

Mobei Jun didn't even try to hide his animosity, his brows dropped and his chin tilted up as teh other man drew closer, clearly on the defensive.

"Uncle." he stepped to the side, intent to walk past, but the other man followed his movement blocking his path. The crown prince pulled back his shoulders, emphasizing his greater stature.

"I must greet my fathe--"

"The King is dead." The sharpness of the words silenced the courtyard, only the cawing of the crows filled the silence. Everyone stopped mid motion at the news.

"He died this morning, in his bed," Linguang Jun sighed dramatically before turning his sharp eyes on Mobei Jun, "Calling out for his son." The prince flinched but the words weren't for him, not really. Several sharp gasps sounded through the crowd, the message hitting its marks.

Easily manipulated fools. Shang Qinghua could see the quirk of Linguang Jun's lips, and the way he made a very public spectacle of a very private matter, drinking in the attention. At first Mobei Jun appeared stoic, but there were signs of his deteriorating composure. The way his hands curled into fists, the bunched tension in his broad shoulders. Qinghua had no doubt that there was fury coursing under the man's skin, like a raging river below a thin layer of ice.

But to anyone not paying such close attention, they would just see cold hearted stoicism.

The courtyard had become a battlefield and it was clear that Linguang Jun was winning.

The prince took a measured breath before speaking.

"I will see the body."

"The royal embalmer has already been called, there is nothing left for you to do." Shang Qinghua's eyes narrowed. Such quick action was suspicious.

"That was not your place."

"You were not here, and with no knowledge of your return I was simply doing what needed to be done,"

There was a vein throbbing on Mobei Jun's forehead, his uncle was masterfully playing the situation to his advantage. The cautious stares and fearful whispers suddenly made sense. The uncle was far from magnanimous, he was a skilled manipulator working his way towards the throne. Laying all the groundwork to destroy his nephew's reputation.

And it seemed Mobei Jun knew it too, if his clenched jaw and obvious frustration were anything to go by.

"Thank you uncle," he didn't mean the words, they were clearly nothing but a formality. The bitter dance of politics that he'd already lost. "I will make preparations for the funeral."

Without waiting for a response he simply nodded to the servant at his side and swept off into the palace alone.

From a drought to a flood, Shang Qinghua had spent three days scrounging for information about the prince and the state of the kingdom, and in a fleeting moment he'd learned more than he knew what to do with.

He still wasn't sure if it would be of any use to him, so he returned to his tree to try and organize his thoughts. Only it appeared that his lonely courtyard was no longer as empty as it had been previously.

The darkened window was now lit, the glass opened wide to let in the morning's chill. A giant figure stalked back and forth within, moving with the repressed violence of a caged animal.

It was Mobei Jun.

Shang Qinghua watched him cross the room, then turn and cross it again, finally the figure stopped pulling something out from his pocket.

Shang Qinghua couldn't quite identify the object, but the prince stared at it intently, his knuckles paling as his grip tightened. The hand enveloping the object began to shake before the tension finally snapped and the strange object went flying out the window.  

Breath came to the prince in heavy pants, his anger slowly dissipating until he dropped into the chair at his writing desk. He looked small, and weary. But it only lasted a moment.

Within the span of a breath the slump left the man's shoulders and he composed himself, sedately grabbing a sheave of parchment and a writing quill.

Curious Shang Qinghua followed the trajectory of the object until he found it lying in the grass a short distance away.

Tilting his head back and forth he tried to figure out what it could possibly be, it looked like some sort of ivory, a horn? Perhaps a trophy from a recent hunt?

The colour was mesmerizing, shifting with the light between a dull tan and a brilliant blue. Whatever the object was it seemed valuable, and the prince had thrown it away in a fit of anger.

If he was being honest with himself he wanted to keep it, it was shiny and drew his eye. The way the colours changed appealed in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable, like an impulse more than a choice. A distinctly avian one, making him feel like he'd lose a part of himself if he gave in to the idea. So instead he acted.  

The horn wasn't too heavy, he managed to grip it in his beak and awkwardly fly back to the window. He landed on the sill, peering into the window wondering how he could return the horn.

The room was large but sparsely furnished. There was a four post bed displayed grandly against the wall, and a writing desk sitting in front of an empty hearth.

Shang Qinghua had intended to place the object on a random surface and leave, instead he was forced to drop it with a squawk as he dodged a flying inkwell.

"Leave!" dark eyes bored into him, weighing his soul for judgement. It seemed Mobei Jun's calm demeanour hadn't quashed his fury and he'd found a new object for his ire, and that object was Shang Qinghua.

He took to the air, manoeuvring back to his perch outside the window, trilling indignantly at the treatment.

The prince approached the window and glared at him.

"Noisy." He slammed the window closed with enough force to make Shang Qinghua jump.

Rude, Shang Qinghua puffed up his feathers squawking loudly. So the prince was having a bad day, that didn't justify bullying a poor bird like him.

Noisy? Shang Qinghua shifted his weight from talon to talon. I'll show him noisy!

He began pacing along the branch, too angry to appreciate the irony of his actions. Every so often he'd glare at the closed window catching a glimpse of the prince through the glass.

It was time to build a nest. Ao3

[spideystevie]

Hii!! Could u write prompt no. 18 hectic mornings when you need to be somewhere and you’re rushing around each other?

Maybe they had a fight the night before and while rushing around each other getting ready they have awkward eye contact and blocking each others way unintentionally.

hi sweets! didn’t really go the fight way but i hope this suffices <3 (0.8k) 

19. hectic mornings when you need to be somewhere and you’re rushing around each other

The sky was in a foul mood last night. A complete downpour, fat raindrops beating hard against the windows of your shared place. Flashes of light illuminated the rooms every few minutes, the sky rolling and cracking. Wind whipped by making the trees outside bend with the force. 

You had double checked twice last night that the alarm was set. You both had an early shift the next morning, something that didn’t happen all that often. With the storm and weather the way it was, you were surprised you’d even managed to fall asleep last night. 

The sun rises in the morning painting the world in warm oranges and golden yellows. Birds are chirping and early morning dew clings to the grass outside. Were it not for the damp asphalt and earthy smell in the air, there’d be no hint of the storm the night before.

A beam of sunlight hits you in the face, effectively waking you. You stir, legs stretching as best they can mixed with Steve’s. His arms tense around you, his nose and hair tickling the back of your neck. 

Your face scrunches up and when you hear the birds singing outside the bedroom window your eyes shoot open. An urgency shoots down your spine intermingling with a deep panic that sinks in your chest. The clock on the bedside table flashes at you, 12:00 blaring at you almost mockingly. 

“Shit,” you push at Steve’s arms around your waist, detangling yourself from him. The sheets are thrown off you in a haste and you twist to look for the watch around Steve’s wrist. 8:23. “Shit. Fuck. Steve.”

He grumbles, head pushed into the pillow. You drop his arm, shaking his shoulder to rouse him out of bed. 

“Steve, c’mon you need to get up.”

“No,” he groans. “Steve, I'm serious, we’re going to be late.”

“Wha’ time’s it?” he lifts his head, pillow creases on his cheeks and hair mussed. His voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges. He looks so endearing, sleepy and soft and you wish you could spare an extra five minutes in bed with him. 

“After 8, now c’mon get up.”

He shoots up in bed, scrambling to get out of bed and almost tripping over himself in the process. “Jesus Christ, how’d we miss the alarm?”

“The power must’ve gone out last night,” you fling an arm towards the blinking reset alarm clock on the table, hurrying into the en-suite bathroom. You don’t even wait for the water to warm up before you’re hopping into the shower, certain you’re breaking a record for fastest shower ever. Especially one that Steve joins minutes before you’re getting out. 

You don’t have time to make faces at him while you brush your teeth together, towels still wrapped around your body. Water is dripping onto the tile floor from your hair and legs. 

You’re dropping your towel to get dressed by the dresser and Steve’s too focused on not being late to really notice. He tosses you a pair of jeans from the closet and you throw him a pair of underwear from the top drawer. 

He’s still tugging a shirt over his head, vision obscured momentarily and yours getting distracted by his bare torso. Distractions you don’t have time for when you bump into each other trying to get into the bathroom at the same time. 

It’s the fastest you’ve ever seen Steve do his hair in the morning before work. In full confidentiality, he just ran a comb through it and mussed it with his fingers but the thought of seeing him stock tapes with your favorite style of his hair makes you smile. 

“Do we have time for coffee?” you say, a swipe of strawberry chapstick on your lips while Steve brushes your hair for you. He purses his lips. 

“I’ll start it right now,” he says. He presses the chastest of kisses against your lips, more so hitting the corner of your mouth than anything. A hint of strawberry from your chapstick lingers on his lips. “We’re already late, what’s a few minutes more!”

His voice carries down the hall and into the kitchen. You laugh, praying to anyone out there that this doesn’t get you fired. 

Steve waits by the door with his shoes on, two travel mugs in his hands. You shove your foot into one shoe, holding the other in your hand and succumbing to just putting them on properly in the car. 

You open the front door, grabbing Steve’s keys and wallet by the door on the way out. You don’t breathe properly until you’re in the car going a little bit over the limit on the way to work and the first taste of coffee made just the way you like from Steve hits your tongue.

-

allie's writing celebration!

[omnitheist27]

The 40 - The World of 2138 (1/3)

----

@the-ravenclaw-werewolf, @purplemochi20055, @hulkchloron99, and @maximum18

----

As The 40 explores the original world that Satoru/Momonga/Ainz mysteriously left behind and is currently thriving in the New World, they can see what the World of 2138 is all about.

And safe to say, it terrifies them. Especially when they're taking part in a challenge from an unnamed character:

[Spent 20 years living in the World of 2138]

However, for their benefit, all of them will be living in their own thriving environment that's 20 acres in width and length, completely breathable, having their own individual tiny homes for each member of The 40 to sleep in, a large dome to cultivate crops, a gym to recreational and training purposes, and a laboratory with futuristic tech for creation and research.

Yet, it still does little to comfort their minds when being surrounded by complete pollution with the environment being uninhabitable for any life to thrive. The sky was always hidden behind black smog, while the sun made only brief appearances every now and then. Thick, toxic fog frequently covered the cities, so almost no one went out without wearing a gas mask beforehand. During wet weather, the rain is acidic and foul-smelling and the storms are completely chaotic.

At certain points in time, Levi and Spike would venture into the polluted wasteland in hazmat suits to collect "material" for the other members of The 40 to study. To their distress, they would always find bodies of children and adults littering the area, as they're likely the unlucky poor who were cast out for various reasons and died from the polluted environment.

Despite the bad weather and polluted infertile land, it pales in comparison to how the civilizations are currently functioning.

That will happen in the next update!

[riaarivic]

HATE 3: ...Ready for it? (M) I MYG x F!reader

🌙 Pairings YoongixReader

🌙 Genres Mafia!AU, Smut, Angst, Action, Thriller, Enemies to lovers

🌙 Rating 18+ minors DNI

🌙 Summary  You were an INTERPOL Agent assigned to infiltrate the depths of the most powerful Gang in South Korea: The Seven Moons. Your objective: to impersonate the daughter of one of their leaders and destroy the operation from within. That is, if they don't discover you first.

And Traitors won’t have the mercy of a quick death

🌙 Warnings For this chapter: mentions of death, drugs and vioence, foul language, drug use, yoongi is a tease and I'm putting it as a warning

🌙 Chapter wordcount 5.3k (yikes)

🌙 Series Index

1  2 3 4  5 6 7 8 9 10 11

🌙 HATE 3: ...Ready for it? 🌙

"Knew he was a killer first time that i saw him"

Confidential file Department of Organized and Emerging Crime Case N-7902-E Codename: Black Swan

Agent Name: Y/N Park

Assigned name for Mission: Lee Nari

Nari? as in Lilly in Korean?

You couldn't help but find it odd that the boss chose your own Korean name for this mission. You rarely used it, and only your grandmother ever called you that.

But, odd was about to become your middle name.

You skimmed through the files scattered on the desk, noticing some of them were thinner than a toothpick.

That was a bad sign.

Thin files meant limited information, and that meant you were being sent into a foreign country with minimal knowledge. You didn't like the idea of walking into the unknown, especially considering that the only thing you had from Korea was your father's last name and the last time you saw him alive you were a six-year-old.

You definitely needed to talk to her grandmother more often.

You were an expert in infiltration and counterintelligence, but to be honest Your personality was not what you would expect from a young high class korean lady. 

For that, you would need a lot of practice before leaving.

A Chaebol daughter wouldn't know the difference between an AK-47 and a FAMAS, much less how to take it apart and put it together in a few seconds. Right?

Or how to disarm a man with one hand, a bullet in the shoulder in the middle of a…

Focus Y/N

You close your eyes for a second and open the first file and the picture of a man with a scar on his left eye greeted you, and you sighed.

It was going to be a long night and you didn’t have enough information to start this case.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Incheon Airport, South Korea.

October 10, 9:19 AM

The brisk autumn air nipped at your skin as you made your way into the international departure hall. You weren't sure if it was the weather or the adrenaline of embarking on a new mission that sent shivers down your spine. After all, you'd spent the past few days prepping to slip into the role of a pampered, elegant heiress, something that felt as unnatural as stilettos in a gunfight.

You also spent the last few days trying not to poison your partner Emmet, for every time he made fun of how much you hated this new undercover identity.

And don't even get you started on those fake nails; they were more of a hindrance than a help when it came to handling firearms or knocking some sense into people.

But it was not impossible to do.

Scanning the crowd, you looked for the person meant to meet you in the parking lot. In the middle of a crowd, a burly middle-aged man stood out in his ill-fitting suit. He had the demeanor of a gangster but the face of a teddy bear. Your eyes scanning him, looking for the Clan's tattoo – a crescent moon veiled by clouds.

Any member of the Seven Moons had to wear it in a visible place, a sort of gangster business card. This man had it inked at the base of his neck.

The man approached you with large steps smiling all the time, who knew a gangster could pass as a Golden Retriever Boyfriend  “Welcome Miss Lee, your father is waiting for you in the car” he bowed and took your luggage to take you towards the Mercedes that was parked right outside the door.

As you slid into the car, you were greeted by the smiling face of Lee Kikyung, the man who'd sold out his boss to save his own skin. And now, you had to call him "Dad."

Ugh.

"How was your trip, dear Nari? I hope you were comfortable on the flight," he asked, wearing a fake smile. You cringed at the sound of your childhood nickname, but you had to start getting used to it.

"It was good, um... Dad," you replied with a slight accent. "I hope you work on that pronunciation, precious. We wouldn't want them catching on so soon," he replied, a mischievous grin exposing a gold tooth. He was so close you could see the clan's mark on his neck, peeking out from under his expensive shirt.

What a piece of work.

"We need to head straight to the Kim Building. I don't know if your informants filled you in."

No, they didn't, you thought, but you let him continue.

"Last night, there was a lot of commotion among the Sons. All seven were down at the docks, and that's a rare sight. Looks like a big fish has entered the river. Two birds with one stone, huh? I bet you're up for a promotion after this, sweetheart." You had to resist the urge to throat-punch him, the way he was looking at you.

This guy didn't shut up the entire drive to the Kim Building. He barely took a breath between his rapid words, as if he wanted to unload everything at once and be done with you.

Classic snitch. From his body language, it was clear that beneath the old asshole’s facade, his trembling hand betrayed his nervousness. Old Lee, dressing like a character straight out of "The Godfather," might fool others, but to you, he was a washed-up criminal trying to hang on to his last vestiges of glory. How he'd climbed the ranks to lead one of the world's largest Criminal Clans was a mystery to you.

But something he said piqued your interest. The Seven Moons rarely gathered in one place, primarily for security reasons. "It's likely that all the children will be there at the meeting today," he revealed.

That really caught your attention and you turned to look at him "The Devil has summoned us all to his office. So, if I were you, I'd touch up that makeup a bit. It seems you're in luck today, sweetheart. You'll be meeting The Seven Moons."

For you, luck had nothing to do with it. Your plan had been to discreetly gather information before exposing yourself in such a way.

It was a change of plans, but not an entirely bleak one. In fact, things might not be as bad as they first seemed.

But now you'd have to improvise. The sooner you could get one of them in your pocket for the information you needed, the sooner you'd be headed home, and all these criminals would be where they belonged—

Jail.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

BH Group Headquarters, Gangnam, Seoul, South Korea.

'The Office' Lee Kikyung mentioned you were going was a towering 77-story office complex that served as a front for the legal businesses funding the clan's extravagant lifestyle.

As you entered, the luxurious reception area greeted you with its tall glass windows and elegant chandeliers, making you shudder to think about the costs of building all of this. The floor, adorned with expensive black marble featuring gold veins was framed with the clan's symbol, unmistakably declaring this territory as belonging to Kim DoHan.

It felt like stepping into the gates of hell.

Accompanied by a team of about 15 suited bodyguards with menacing tattoos, you and your 'father' took the elevator to the top floor; It seemed to you that it was too much security for a friendly board meeting.

This meant that Lee's two hour TED Talk on "how to get away with snitching" was true: something was moving on the streets of Seoul.

As the doors opened to the conference room, you were struck by the absence of concrete walls, replaced entirely by windows offering a breathaking view of the city. In the center of the room stood an opulent table crafted from Japanese cherry wood. Several people were already sitting around it, in an order that did not seem improvised at all.

You sat down right next to Mr. Lee taking your time to examine everyone there. Most of the presents seemed to be different executives from the Kim companies, for the first time today you did not feel completely surrounded by gangsters.

However, the feeling did not last long.

The elevator doors slid open, and six tall figures strode into the meeting room. Instantly, everyone seated at the table rose to bow and pay their respects.

These were the young leaders of the clan, dressed in dark suits and moving with an eerie synchrony, as if they hailed from another world. In person, their presence was even more striking. Even the act of walking into a meeting room seemed to be precisely choreographed, every step filled with purpose.

You recognized their faces from the files, matching names to positions within the clan:

Kim Namjoon, the biological son and right-hand man, also the CEO of BH Group.

Kim Seokjin, the Clan's negotiator and financial administrator.

Jung Hoseok, the Clan's Support, essentially the go-to guy for various criminal needs.

Kim Taehyung, the Clan's Collector, responsible for ensuring debts were paid in either money or blood.

Park Jimin, the Clan's intelligence expert and overseer of the clan's nightlife businesses.

Jeon Jungkook, the youngest of the clan with no formal role, but per Mr. Lee's extensive criminal monologue, he was responsible for training new recruits in combat and held a special place in Kim DoHan's heart.

Yet, you noticed there was one missing, only six were present.

Where was the seventh?

Your question found an answer when the doors opened once more.

"Welcome, Sir!" The entire room chorused in unison. You managed to mimic the bow, though somewhat awkwardly. There was an amused snort from the Young leaders's side of the table, but it was hard to pinpoint the source.

When you looked up, you locked eyes with the Clan's second in command. His gaze held a mocking curiosity, almost taunting.

Kim Namjoon looked at you as if you weren't a trained agent but a bumbling, spoiled child, just another chaebol. You rolled your eyes right back at him. There was something in his expression that seemed vaguely familiar, but you couldn't quite place it.

"My Sons, my family. Good afternoon, and thank you for gathering at such short notice," the Clan leader's deep voice resonated through the room. "Lee, I'm delighted to see that you've brought a special guest today."

Chills coursed down your spine. No matter how experienced you were with criminals, there was an undeniable air of menace surrounding that man. An instinctual warning to put as much distance between yourself and him as humanly possible, as quickly as possible.

“Of course, my leader. I couldn't be more pleased by the return of my daughter” Mr. Lee replied with a wicked smile “After all, it was time to introduce my heiress” upon hearing that word, Kim's children looked at her, some with curiosity and others with complete indifference.

The Clan's head let out a light chuckle in agreement with the second-in-command before gesturing for everyone to take their seats.

And that's when you noticed him.

The man with the distinctive scar over his eye.

His real name was conspicuously absent from INTERPOL's classified files. In fact, there was nothing substantial about him—just a blurry image of his face.

And oh God. It didn’t do him justice.

Everything about him screamed danger.

He was the Clan's Strenght Leader, handling all the not-so-legal affairs.

Kim Namjoon ran the legitimate businesses, handled the money, and rubbed shoulders with CEOs and politicians.

The Shadow, as he was known, was Seoul's underworld Prince.

Standing silently behind the Clan's Head, he was like a deadly predator, waiting for the order to strike. Unlike the rest who sported expensive executive suits, his casual and nonchalant style made him stand out in the room. You know how, in nature, the most vibrant and beautiful colors often serve as a warning for poison? That analogy perfectly described him. The seventh moon's striking appearance nearly made you forget that he was the underworld lord of his clan, a cold-blooded assassin at the Devil's command.

Hi was Kim DoHan's dark general.

And probably the most dangerous man in that room.

Suga wore a black mask covering most of his face, but you could still glimpse the beginning of a scar that traveled from his left eyebrow down to his eye.

And those eyes.

He kept his gaze locked onto you, scrutinizing you, just as you had observed his brothers earlier. He watched your every move, as if he had already found a reason to be wary.

You couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under his gaze and for the first time in a long time, you looked away from someone. It felt like if you kept staring at him, all your secrets would unravel.

That was a level of danger you couldn't afford.

"You must be wondering why I summoned you from your busy schedules for this meeting," the Clan leader's voice broke the silence. "It is no secret that I'm preparing one of my sons to ascend as the clan's leader. And soon, by tradition, we must continue our family's legacy by uniting bloodlines. The prevalence of the clan above all else is the only thing that matters. Nothing else. "

Not a single person in the room dared to so much as breathing too loud. The palpable respect – or rather, terror – held everyone's tongue.

He took a solemn pause before continuing, "That's why I've decided my heir will marry the Lee family heiress. The Lees were one of our greatest allies, joining our clan twenty years ago. I had promised my dear brother Kikyung that one day, one of his own would wed one of mine. Kikyung, my brother-in-arms, you've been my right hand all these years before Namjoon came of age. This is my reward for your loyalty."

What the fuck did this man just say? 

Marriage?

You couldn't hide your complete shock. There was no way that your so-called "father" and informant didn't deliberately omit this crucial detail from his UN General Assembly-worthy speech on organized crime as you were driving to the Headquarters.

The director had to know as well.

Which led to the unsettling thought: what else were they not telling you?

You weren't the only one caught off guard. The other children of the clan's leader couldn't contain their own bewilderment. Some squirmed in their seats, while others exchanged uneasy glances.

This had to be some twisted joke.

Even the seventh moon, for a microsecond, showed a speck of curiosity in his cold eyes.

"Since the hand of the Lee heiress has been promised, I have formally decided that she will reside in our private estate until my successor's name is confirmed," the clan leader declared. "I want all my children under my roof, without exception. And let me make it perfectly clear: none of you shall dare disrespect young-lady Nari. In the name of the code, Am I understood?"

"Yes, Leader," the Seven Moons responded in unison.

Wait, the name of his heir hadn't been decided yet?

You temporarily set aside Kim DoHan's implications about his children. None of those fools would dare touch you – unless they fancied losing a limb – all in the name of your code.

But given the intelligence you'd gathered about these individuals, Kim Namjoon was on a one-way ticket to becoming the Clan's leader. The overseas studies, the visits to criminal acquaintances in Russia, Japan and China, vacations with corrupt government officials and their entourage...

What did that say about Kim DoHan's faith in his own bloodline?

The Hallmark movie plot of giving all his adopted sons a chance at leadership was, without a doubt, suspicious.

However, some pieces were starting to click into place. Lee was betraying them to save his true daughter. If she married the clan's heir, there'd be no escaping the consequences when everything came crashing down.

Yet, your supposed father-dearest had delivered you on a silver platter to the Seven Moons.

It was a complete game-changer.

Old Mr. Lee wasn't scared of jail.

He was frightened for his own flesh and blood to be embroiled in a sinking ship. How he had managed to keep his daughter's true identity hidden for so long was a mystery. Did the all-powerful Kim DoHan truly not know his right-hand heiress's name until now?

There were too many loose ends, something was truly wrong.

Both men rose to shake hands, their exchange echoing with, "My clan is my family. My own flesh and blood."

"It will be an honor to welcome you into my family, young Nari," the old leader continued, his eyes locking onto yours. For some reason, your real father's affectionate nickname sounded downright chilling coming from the clan leader's lips.

It wasn't jail that terrified him, old Mr. Lee. It was  dooming his own blood to get involved with a ship that was about to sink. But how had he managed to hide his daughter's identity for all this time? Did the powerful Kim DoHan really not know the name of his right hand heiress until today?

Too many loose ends, and something was definitelly wrong.

Both men rose to shake hands “Family is my blood. My clan is my family” they told each other

“It will be an honor to welcome you into my family, young Nari” continued the old leader, drawing your attention and looking into your eyes. For some reason, the cute nickname your father had given you sounded terrifying in that person's mouth.

You offered a small bow in response, and when you straightened, the Seventh Moon was gazing directly at you.

There was something in his stare you couldn't quite define, but it was clear you didn't like how it made you feel.

You had never been intimidated by anyone before, yet you now teetered on the edge of a panic attack because of a pretty boy watching you.

A pretty boy who was a killer.

He couldn't possibly suspect anything about you, right? you wondered.

"Now, Mr. Choi," the clan leader signaled the man who had brought you there, "why don't you take this little flower to our residence, while the adults discuss other important matters?"

What the hell did this old man just call you?

Before leaving, you caught a reflection of his eyes in the glass door.

Ever vigilant.

Fine, Suga, I'll give you a reason to keep an eye on me. you thought

Perhaps this marriage scheme could work to your advantage.

Your mission was to infiltrate, and what better way than living within the Seven Moons' den.

Meanwhile, at the back of your mind, the myriad of loose ends left you with a lingering sense of unease.

Too many missing pieces...

And something was about to go so.

fucking.

wrong. 

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Kim Dohan’s manssion, Outskirts of Seoul

hours later

Sleep was out of the question tonight...

You had spent the entire afternoon and well into the night scouring for any scrap of information about the Seven Moons headquarters. Leaving your room, you crept through the dark corridors, making no sound.

Counting each step from your room to the next door leading to the exit was mentally logged. You noted the bulletproof glass in the windows and assumed that they had around 30 armed men guarding the house at any given moment. The Clan's den was an opulent display of excess; these criminals thrived on ostentation.

But that was a priviledge you could have when you controlled an entire nation, you could do as you pleased.

Who the hell thought of putting a lake in the middle of a house? You continued moving through the mansion crossing the internal gardens.

One thing remained undeniably true: the mansion of the most powerful criminal clan in Asia was an impenetrable fortress, nestled atop a hill, far from the bustling city of Seoul.

It had only one entrance and one exit, and its labyrinthine architecture made it all too easy to get lost within its confines. It was guarded around the clock by clansmen, armed to the teeth, with an arsenal hidden within its walls. It seemed like hey had their very own army.

Surviving an escape was highly unlikely...

at least not without help from someone on the inside.

As you made your way to the kitchen, your mind raced like an overloaded computer, with music playing from unknown open tabs.

Old Kim couldn't possibly not know his right-hand daughter's name...

Why had he offered you as a marriage reward? What was your -The daughter of Lee Kikyun- value to the clan?

How come Kim DoHan hadn't chosen his successor?

After minutes of aimless wandering, you finally found the tall double doors leading to the kitchen. Inside, luxurious countertops and shelves held utensils fit for a Michelin-star restaurant.

If this house wasn't so ridiculously big it would be easier to drink water. Where are the glasses? in Busan?

If you had to run away from this house it would probably be better to hide in the kitchen, no one would find you.

Have you left the safety on the Glock?

Who the hell is smoking weed?

The pungent smell momentarily distracted you. You'd been so focused on finding a glass that you hadn't noticed someone else was in the room. A slim figure lingered in the shadows of the window, barely revealed by the moonlight.

But you didn't need to see the full face to recognize him...

The Seventh Moon.

"Do you smoke?" the black-haired man asked from across the room, his voice so deep it was almost a growl, sending shivers down your spine.

"I don't do drugs, thanks," you replied with a flat, disinterested tone, or at least you tried to. "But could you point me to where the glasses are... please?"

The man chuckled and moved closer, rounding the kitchen island until he stood just inches from you. He gazed at you for a moment, then reached behind your head for a glass. His face inches from yours

You felt trapped, exposed.

For a moment, you forgot you were also a trained soldier on a mission. This man had you feeling like a blushing schoolgirl from a corny drama, much like the ones your grandmother watched.

You're not going to be intimidated, are you?

For the first time, you got a good look at his face, the scar running down his eye, his round nose, the way his jaw moved as he frowned, and his almost pouty lips.

That man was beautiful.

You could even smell him, beyond the scent of what he was smoking, you could pick up the musk of his cologne. The open collar of his shirt revealed tattoos peeking out and the muscles in his neck...

"You like what you see, little flower?" he teased, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips, before handing you the glass and taking a drag of his joint. "But I must inform you, anyone who sees my face without being a full clan member... ends up dead." He exhaled a plume of smoke in your direction.

Chills coursed through your body. You weren't entirely sure whether you were more aroused or irritated.

"Technically. I'm now part of your clan. You heard your father, I'm going to marry one of you," you replied, shaking your head, trying to maintain your cool.

Suga found your bratty attitude funny. "Wouldn't you like that, huh?" He got a little closer to your face to look directly into your eyes “Technically, yes you are part of the Clan. But until you take the oath and mark your pretty skin with our mark. You are not one of us, little flower” he replied, putting away a lock of hair that had fallen into your eyes.

"I think SUGA, our Leader's orders were quite explicit. Stop toying with our guest, and if you're going to smoke that shit, do it outside my house." Namjoon's authoritative voice cut through, catching both of you off guard. You seized the opportunity to slip away from Suga's grip.

Suga raised his hands in a mock surrender and looked at his second in command. "I was just offering our new friend a glass of water, Joonie. It'd be rude not to show a bit of our clan's hospitality, wouldn't it, little flower?" He winked at you.

"Nothing was happening. I couldn't find the glasses, and I was thirsty," you replied, failing to hide the compromising position you'd been in with the Clan's Shadow. "And don't call me that, that's not my name."

"Nari, lily, little flower. They're all the same," he responded, making a playful smile and leaving you momentarily flustered.

Perfect, let them think you're a complete idiot. Amazing job.

“Leave her alone, now. Suga” Namjoon spoke again with a voice of authority “Excuse him, he is not used to behaving like a human, much less having manners with a lady” He referred as his own brother like he was not a human being standing next to them 

Does this Namjoon guy have a prince charming complex or what?

"Oh, please, your majesty! I'll go finish my joint in peace elsewhere. Oh, and Namjoon, you should respect your elders. I'm still your hyung, and this isn't your house... yet," the black-haired man stated with a note of warning, bowing to you before leaving and flipping off the other man.

Namjoon sighed. "I'm sorry, really. He has no control. Did you want a glass of water?" He took the glass from your hands, opened the fridge, and began to pour you some. “I know it will be difficult for you to adapt to the rules of this house, but if you need something you can ask one of the employees. They are always here to serve you” 

"I didn't want to bother anyone, it's late," your reply was short a tittle more sour than you intended it to be.

"And you shouldn't worry. You now belong to this house, and it's the staff's job to take care of you. But, I'm glad we ran into eachother tonight. I wanted to speak with you before tomorrow's meeting..." Namjoon paused and scratched his neck, as if deciding the best way to approach the subject.

"Tomorrow, you'll be formally introduced to the clan. From that day on, you'll need to make the rounds with each one of us," he explained. "My father wants you to be thoroughly acquainted with every aspect of our operations. Even if I disagree with certain aspects, my father trusts yours. And I trust my Leader."

Namjoon's kind expression shifted to a stern one, his gaze intensifying. "Miss Lee, I don't know you well, and neither do any of my brothers. However, in this clan, we take loyalty very seriously. As of tomorrow, you may witness or hear things that must remain within these walls. It might be overwhelming at first, but you have no other options. And things might be unconfortable until you take the oath. But until then, you must still act in accordance with the code, or face the consequences. Is that clear?"

With his eloquent speech and steady tone, the Second in Command had just issued a subtle threat.

Well, not so subtle...

"First, Mr. Kim, there's no need to be so formal when talking to me. After all, in a few months, I'll be marrying the heir of this clan. That makes me your future sister-in-law... or wife," you stated, raising your chin with a haughty air. Namjoon remained silent, allowing you to continue.

"Second, I understand that we have to take our parents' word for the success of this alliance," feeling your blood rise to your ears, you knew you were playing a dangerous game "But I want to remind you that I am also a daughter of this clan. Blood and weapons don't intimidate me. In any case, both of us should show respect to our elders. After all, our fates rest in their hands." Taking a small step closer, he didn't budge.

But you could never guess how you were making the young leader feel. As much as he hated that you tried to hurt his pride like that, the Second in command saw for the first time in someone, an equal, a true opponent at that.

He was also undeniably intrigued by you.

"I may not know you yet, but I'm living in your house, I mean, your father's house. And I expect a modicum of consideration."  You pretended to be offended because that was the role you had to play, a spoiled, conceited heiress to the mafia.

“I have offended you. Excuse me if my words sounded like something else... “

“Okay, I understand you Namjoon, can I call you by your name? We have the same age” you interrupted him in the middle of his sentence.

“Yes, of course, can I call you Nari?” Namjoon loved the sound of his name on your lips. Of course, you could call him whatever you wanted.

“Great, thank you very much for the water and for helping me before. Good night”  With a bow, You shot out of the kitchen.

“Good Night. And Nari?” he waited for you to look at him “It is really nice to see you again. You look different now, prettier. I hope you rest well, you're going to need it tomorrow” he winked at you and your blood froze in your veins. 

Kim Namjoon had met Mr. Lee's daughter before? Why hadn't Mr. Lee mentioned anything about it?

Your heart pounded in your ears.

It had been too much.

The gaps on this mission were becoming too much.

You needed to get your act together, no more games. You were already deep within the lion's den, and time was running out.

You had never failed a mission before, and this wouldn't be the first time...

No matter how appealing the Clan's Shadow was or what he made you feel.

As much as the threat of the Second in command had actually terrified you.

Without mentioning the fact that he knew Lee’s daughter.

You had to keep going; there was no turning back now.

And you would bring this clan to its knees... that was a promise.

"Baby let the games begin... are you ready for it?"

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Hi! Hello?? 👻

How are you??? I've been supper busy with work and responsible adult duties and all that. So, it took more than I wanted to upload. BUT! this chapter is actually the longest yet, as a treat for my lack of updates. If you want to be on this fics Tag list, leave a comment below or send me an ask!!

Thank you SO SO MUCH for reading this series 🥹, there's so much to come and I am exited to show you all. Anyway it's 3AM where I Am so I guess I'll go to sleep.

Hope you guys have a great weekend

Love Ria 💗

[aeoki]

White Brim - Battle Royal: Chapter 7

Location: Forest (night) Characters: Touri, Tsukasa & Hiyori

Touri: ………!?

Tsukasa: Oh, you dodged that. You have quick reflexes, I’ll give you that. How cocky of you, Touri-kun.

Touri: O–O–O–Of course I’d dodge~! I’ll die if I get sliced with a sword!

Tsukasa: Only in terms of the Game, of course.

As Tenshouin Onii-sama explained, the weapons we’re given do not have the capacity to inflict injury – they’re just toys.

I’m skilled in using the sword, but this one is far too light so it’s throwing me off. There are also many trees here, so using a sword here is most difficult.

But nonetheless, it’s as heavy as the props we use in our performances and I hail from a Japanese military family – I have no issues using such tools.

You were thrown off balance after dodging that shot, but I shan’t miss the next.

Touri Himemiya – my sworn enemy – you are dead.

Touri: ………!

Tsukasa: (Oh? He jumped in front of Onee-sama in an instant to protect her! I see you’re not rotten down to your core, my lifelong rival, Touri-kun ♪)

(But! This is my win! I shall put an end to our long feud…!)

Hiyori: Get down, everyone! Don’t look up!

Tsukasa: ………!?

Hiyori: Well, sorry for the interruption! Ahaha, sounds like a line straight from a historical play, doesn’t it? ♪

Tsukasa: ……!? ……!?

Tomoe Onii-sama? Why!? You were supposed to be a “prey (fish)”!

Why did you shoot at me…!? “Prey (fish)” shouldn’t have weapons.

Tomoe: Ahaha! You’re brilliant and earnest – a very good child, but that’s precisely why you were too tied up by the rules!

Tsukasa: ……! So you’re saying I’m outwitted by those who break the Rules? Just like those “Crazy:B” outlaws!

And that’s exactly why we lost to them at “SS”. Is that what you’re trying to say…!?

Hiyori: Naturally, one should praise your way of life – it’s one that even the sun would be proud of! It’s not a matter of winning or losing. It’s about the good or bad!

But right now, we’re in the middle of a fun game where we destroy one another! And during such games, it’s not about good or bad – it’s about winning…!

Tsukasa: (Ugh…! Tomoe Onii-sama is quite the smooth-talker but he’s also aiming at me quite accurately!)

(What happens when a “hunter (fisherman)” gets shot?)

(Will they still be disqualified from the game? Does that mean I will be disqualified before Touri-kun…?)

(I had thought that wouldn’t be possible but I did not properly confirm the Rules regarding that!)

(Defeat once more! No, perhaps that is exactly what I’m currently lacking.)

I have learnt my lesson! Tomoe Onii-sama! I shall admit defeat here!

Hiyori: Very well! Your decisions are swift and appropriate – you’re far more suited for a nobleman than a common foot soldier ♪

Tsukasa: I was raised that way! Then, I shall excuse myself!

Hiyori: …Aha! He’s still courteous even when he’s running away ♪

Touri: H–H–Hiyori-samaaaa ☆

Thank you so much! I love you to pieces…! You came to save me, right?

Hiyori: Hehe. Not exactly.

But it’s only because Eichi-kun is doing nothing to help you.

Touri: Hey, don’t badmouth Eichi-sama like that! You’ve treated me very well, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with that, Hiyori-sama…

Hiyori: Hehe. If you truly and completely see Eichi-kun in a positive light, then you should be able to remain calm even if others badmouth him.

If you’re anxious and talking back at me, then that must mean you feel the same as I do somewhere in your heart, right? Feeling discomposed is a sign that I’ve hit the nail on the head!

Touri: ………!

Hiyori: I’m just kidding – that would be mean and not very honourable. What foul weather.

You don’t particularly take after Eichi-kun yet I can’t help but tease you. Sorry.

Touri: Ehehe… Maybe that’s why Eichi-sama can be oddly cold to Tsukasa sometimes. He must be seeing a small Hiyori-sama within Tsukasa.

Hiyori: What? Are you trying to say me and Eichi-kun are alike? I’ve said this numerous times already, but that’s the worst insult I could ever hear!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ← Previous Chapter ᠂ ⚘ ˚⊹˚ ⚘ ᠂  Next Chapter →

[unbrydledfury]

                             - UNCUT -

( Hey everyone. For better readability, here's the entirety of Sons of Theseus in a single post. Please note this is enormous, clocking in at over 7300 words, so brace for a mountain of text under the Read More. If you'd like a TL;DR version, click here, though it contains spoilers, naturally.

The icons indicate separate posts. Snakes = Bryan's POV, owls = Dragunov's.

As far as content warnings go, please be aware this contains, in no particular order: canon-typical violence, brief gory depictions, lots of foul language, war, pain, and death.

Likes and comments are very appreciated! Thank you for reading! )

                                   - 𓆚 -

    The world's largest celebration of an ex-corpse turned Hollywood Boulevard into a teeming sea of cheering crowds. Countless arms pumped and snatched at the rainbow of confetti snowing from the flawless blue sky. Excited screams punctuated the trumpets blaring from mariachi musicians stationed on rooftops like heralding angels. The day was seventy-five degrees with forty percent humidity.

    The doors of the Chinese Theatre burst open and Bryan Fury stepped out into Southern Californian paradise. His audience roared with praise as he tugged the lapels of his suit jacket, his grin gleaming like the sun off his designer shades. Flanked by a cadre of slim supermodels in slim dresses, the cyborg descended amongst his adoring fans.

    Arms spread wide, hands brushing and being brushed by jittering, shrieking devotees, he approached the blank concrete square in the sidewalk. Kneeling before it, he thought about what to inscribe. Simple was best. With a finger he drew his name, all caps, bigger and bolder than life with underlines like missile trails.

    The crowd exploded, bodies bobbing in seismic waves as the music swelled to a crescendo. Bryan rose to his feet and thrust his fist skyward, a triumphant cry tearing from him that hundreds echoed back. Cameras flashed like starbursts while cannons cascaded streamers and silver glitter and a glowing warmth he hadn't felt in ages filled his mind. He was seen. He was known.

    A pair of arms curled under his own, hands resting on his sternum. Bryan could recognize their scars anywhere. A face pressed briefly, affectionately, into the back of his shoulder, and lips softly brushed his ear.

    "Well done, darling," Dragunov murmured.

    Despite the postcard weather and rock concert crowd, the pit of Bryan's stomach turned to frost. Never once had he heard Sergei speak. That was not the soldier's voice. That was his own.

    Pale fingers trailed over his throat.

    Fury swung a punch behind him, and the vague shape there broke apart into streams of navy mist. The sounds and smells of the Walk of Fame felt as distant as his plummeting mood. What the fuck was that? He tried for steadying breaths, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

    A heartbeat he did not have.

    He looked to his entourage. They were nothing but smears of peach and tan, brushstrokes emulating hourglass figures and beehive wigs. Whirling back around, he saw his audience was a wall of faceless blotches and stains, an endless LSD trip projected on suffocating wildfire smoke. The music stuttered and skipped. Impossible. Wasn't it playing live?

    Trying to blink the insane mirage from his eyes -- no use, it was still there, its cheers warped long and low into funerary wailing -- Bryan reached to remove his shades. Something larger than lenses stopped his fingers. Bulkier. Pulling on it, he felt it press against the back of his head. He grabbed the crown of his head, arms straining to rip his skull apart.

    CRUN--

                    -

                        --nch.

    Still breathing hard, it took Fury a moment to gather himself. He was in a small white room, standing on some sort of small round treadmill. Mechanical arms attached to the machine and hanging from tracks on the ceiling lashed cuffs around his ankles and wrists. In his hands were two pieces of some sort of helmet, cracked down the middle with technicolor wiring exposed.

    Two men and a woman in white coats stared from an observation window, eyes wide and mouths agape with fear. A fourth researcher stood in the room with him, frozen in place, laptop clutched to her breast.

    Bryan looked himself over. Left arm and right leg devoid of synthetic skin, check. Camo pants, check. Ocular HUD reporting normalizing respiration rate, adrenaline levels, and latency between brain and limbs, check, check, check.

    He couldn't help but chuckle.

    It had been a whirlwind, even by his standards. Receiving word from a Hollywood studio that wanted to tell his story was unexpected but interesting. He remembered walking into their office and shaking hands with the director -- yeah, that was him in the observation room, wearing a nametag from a private military company. They wanted to try a new technique, he said, a type of VR AI that captured and generated visuals from memories. Always willing to play my greatest hits, Bryan recalls saying. They'd strapped him in and turned it on. The next week had been a tour de force, carnage reimagined: gunning down insurgents in Middle Eastern deserts, plowing through waves of Zaibatsu even as his flesh tore like fishnets, a second extinction of the Manji clan.

    Grinning, he loosed a nostalgic sigh. The little black box between his lungs was worth its weight in diamonds. He sent it a kind, simple query: where would I be without you?

    He interpreted its response as followed: here, where you've been for the past one year, four months, and eleven days.

    The researcher inched toward a door in the corner.

    Still smiling, Bryan craned his head toward her. "Oh, you clever bastards," he muttered, and threw the broken helmet through the window, impacting the director's face with a spray of blood.

    As he slumped to the ground, the others bolted. Seconds later the room was shrouded in red as an alarm blared. The woman with the laptop had her hand on the doorknob.

    Pain exploded down her side as Bryan grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her close. She could feel his breath, hot and humid, on her neck. "No you don't," he snarled, "You have some explaining to do. Looks like I've been out of the loop for a while."

    Guards are coming, she thought, trying to contain her panic and her bladder, It's okay, it'll be okay. The guards had guns. They'd take him out.

    Yet he held her in front of him, his grip like iron. She had seen for herself Bryan's opinion on collateral damage.

    Jackboots thundered closer.

    His words were beetles in her ear: "Start talking."

                                   - 𓅓 -

    The Tattered Blackbird was one of many pubs in Kensington, yet as it came into view, Polya Dragunova's heart wedged itself in her throat. She cut across a gap in traffic and maneuvered past the businesspeople finished with work and waiting out rush hour milling on the sidewalk outside. The interior was worse, a veritable sardine can of twentysomething professionals reluctant to return to flats they shared with half a dozen of their peers. White collar gaggles blocked the typical pub decor from sight and a chorus of weekly gripes drowned the news on the TV over the bar. Polya didn't care about any of it. All that mattered to her was the man taking an entire booth to himself in the corner, sipping a pint like nothing was wrong.

    Her brother.

    Polya bowled her purse into the seat across from him hard enough to hit the wall with a heavy thud, and threw herself down right after. "Make it quick."

    Sergei Dragunov steeled himself in the bottom of his glass. This was never going to be painless, but she needn't start swinging right off the bat. Fine. Very well. He could do quick. He tossed a yellow envelope onto the table, trying to ignore how his sister flinched.

    She stared at it for a moment, then tore it open. The card inside was black, bordered in gold stars, YOU DID IT! printed under a paper mortarboard. Within were four salmon pink notes -- two hundred British pounds. She picked them up, watched their watermarks appear and hide in the light.

    "What the fuck is this," she said.

    Here we go, Sergei thought.

    "No, really, what the fuck is this." Polya's features darkened to an apocalyptic scowl. "Is this a bribe? Are you fucking bribing me to talk to you? You could rob a fucking bank for me and I still wouldn't give you the time of day, you fucking fascist!"

    Her volume was steadily rising. Dragunov could feel perplexed looks pointed toward their table.

    She kept going. "I don't want your blood money. I don't want you in my life. I feel fucking stupid for even looking at your text. My graduation was really nice, you know? Going out with normal people, people who aren't war criminals. But then you drop out of the blue and my whole fucking week is ruined."

    Sergei rubbed his brow, eyes squeezed shut, his other hand clutching his elbow. He had hoped otherwise, but couldn't deny the truth: this was a terrible mistake.

    She was on her feet now, face livid, tossing the pounds at him. "No contact means no contact. How fucking dumb do you have to be to not get that?" Her voice was a bitter screech, every word a needle. "You're a drone. An ant. Disgusting. All you do is destroy -- innocent lives, my peace of mind, Mom's heart--"

    "ENOUGH!"

    The shout ripped from Dragunov's soul like a malfunctioning rocket, propelling him onto his feet and his fists onto the table. His throat immediately protested, nicotine-scented phlegm knotting in his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. What little air he could reach was spent on muddy, racking coughs until he was bent double, hacking black mucus into his palm.

    A few pub patrons inched toward him, unsure about the situation but unwilling to watch him suffer. Sergei waved them off. Through blurred vision and blood pounding in his ears, he saw all eyes on him and Polya, stunned yet still trembling with rage.

    It didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was protecting his home -- protecting her -- the only way he knew how, skimming money he could have easily spent on anything else for months to wish her the best. For someone who had spent four years mastering artistic expression, she refused to see an olive branch.

    A long, loud tone blared from the TV. Breaking news. The general gaze turned toward the screen. Murmurs went up, hands clasped over mouths, cheeks drained of color.

    Across an ocean, a city burned, and a demon proclaimed the end of the world.

    Polya glanced between the broadcast and her brother. A curious paradox: he was right there, and so was the rest of the pub, yet seemed separated by lightyears. The thing on the television, the warning crawl about falling satellite debris, on the other hand, was as close as a dangling guillotine blade. And as her worldview sat on the chopping block, more than anything else, she felt very, very alone.

    She looked for Sergei. The front door slammed, and he was gone.

                                   - 𓆚 -

    The Colosseum was an apt place to hold the Tournament. No amount of time could cleanse it from a history of bloodshed. Built to commemorate imperial power, a new emperor now sat at its head, eking judgements on nations from the fists and feet of their finest gladiators.

    Not like Bryan cared. What the Colosseum needed, in his humble opinion, was some extra defacing.

    Any wall would do, really. The one he was walking past now? Perfect. Ocular lenses flaring to compensate for the low light in the hypogeum tunnels, a smirk turned his lip as he pressed his finger against the stone. Simple was best. His name, a permanent mark on the world wonder, all caps, bigger and bolder than...

    --shit.

    The cyborg dropped his hand, his amusement extinguished like a match. He'd just done that. The memory of Hollywood was still fresh in his mind, even though it'd been a dream. Right? He'd felt the sun on his face. Smelled the perfume of his entourage. Reaching out, he stroked the wall. The rock was rough under his touch. He heard the spectators in the stands above calling for the next fight. This -- this was real. This was the King of Iron Fist Tournament! This was as real as it got! Combat against the best of the best for the highest stakes imaginable!

    --which meant this very well could be an illusion too. If he could think it, there was a real possibility it was not real.

    Bryan groaned, leaving the wall to its own devices. Life was better when I just killed people, he thought, I am never dealing with those fucks at Netflix again.

    Turning a corner, he saw a group of men in military fatigues ahead. He heard the language they spoke, saw the flag patch on their shoulders. In their midst, leaning on his knees in a folding chair, uniform blue as an arctic sea, was Dragunov.

    Fury froze. If this was all scripted, Sergei was the exact person who would make an entrance at this time. What was the next play? Approaching him fell right in line with whatever virtual plot was unfolding, if there even was one, but Bryan couldn't ignore him either. Breaking this chain of events would only cause new ones to form...

    --if he was still being force-fed lies. Or was life simply chugging on?

    --shit.

    This was ridiculous. Why did it disturb him so much? Ultimately, there was no correct choice.

    But there was a fun one.

    Swaggering up to the convoy, Bryan grinned as chitchat died and hands flew to holstered guns. "Hey there, sunshine," he said, "Hah. You look like hell."

    With the weight and chill of icebergs, Dragunov levelled a narrow stare at him. Bryan didn't remember him being so pale. Perhaps it was the contrast with the dirt on his clothes, the bruises on his face.

    "Bet Shaheen looks worse," Fury continued, "Beat him half to death, didn't you. I'm sure he'll be fine. His country, though? You opened it up to the Zaibatsu's nasty little claws. A lot of people are going to die, Drag."

    Expression unchanging, the Russian picked up a canteen, took a swig of water. The justification for his indifference was obvious: better them than us.

    "Psch. Don't tell me you get your rocks off saving lives now. Wasn't that long ago you had the time of your life completely thrashing some of the very meat-bags in this ugly, old ruin. I know. I was there. Or did the thing in Vegas change your tune?"

    The canteen paused halfway to the floor. Looking back, Sergei's gaze turned to a glare aflame with acrid cold.

    That's it, Bryan thought, teeth bared in an ear-to-ear smile, There he is. "Y'know, between you and me, we could nip this whole fuckin' thing in the bud. C'mon. Kazuya is a purple people-eater, but you're an expert in that sorta shit and I'm me." He slowly shook his head. "There's gonna be no better time, Drag. We stopped a disaster before. Let's do it again."

    Deliberately, as if facing down a prehistoric python coiled to strike, Dragunov rose to his feet.

    The explosion tore down the tunnel in a shockwave of dust and pressure, knocking them all to the ground. Under the echoing roar of the blast and the rumble of ancient stone breaking came panicked screams from the crowd above.

    Sprawled on his back, covered in grit, Bryan barely acknowledged the diagnostics crawling in his eyes. His body was fine. His grip on reality, however, felt as unstable as the fissures in the ceiling.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    Dragunov, meanwhile, scrambling to his feet, had other things in mind. Survival, first and foremost, and the well-being of his men. They had taken up positions with guns out and ready, but they were clearly scared out of their wits. These were not hardened operatives. These were boys fresh from basic, a scant few the Russian Army could spare, assigned simply to escort him to Italy to represent and defend the lives of his people. A relatively easy mission, until someone or something decided they could not leave well enough alone.

    Creaking noises from above. It wasn't safe here. Grabbing his own sidearm, Sergei pointed into the tunnel in the direction of the blast and ran to take lead.

    Behind them, moaning, Bryan began to rise.

    Sounds of a stampede grew louder as they drew closer to the surface. They raced the cracks in the walls up a flight of stairs into an aboveground passageway. Despite the evacuation broadcast directing where to escape, a handful of panicked, bleeding spectators stumbled past them. Dragunov caught one, a man in a bright red Hawaiian shirt, by the shoulder, shoved him aside, and paid no heed as he plunged out of sight. For treating the fate of millions of innocents as primetime viewing, there was no salvation.

    Another shockwave rocked the Colosseum. The floor rippled under his feet and fresh dust stung his face.

    New voices ahead, shouting over the din. Sergei lifted a fist beside his face, calling his men to halt. An armed squadron corralled escaping civilians toward refuge. He could recognize their baby blue berets anywhere. They were UN.

    Ravens.

    Outrage smothered self-preservation. This went miles beyond meddling. This was escalation. The state of affairs was far from ideal, but in ruining the Saudi champion, Dragunov secured a measure of safety for Russia. Now these scavengers, these carcass eaters, jeopardized it all.

    He raised his gun. His men aimed their rifles.

    The next trickle of seconds lasted years.

    A thunderclap from on high slammed them all to the ground once more. Dropped weapons scattered in every direction.

    Horror speared his insides as the world went dark, but he was not blinded -- hellish clouds blotted out the sun and turned the air frigid.

    Footfalls and terrified cries hammered around him as peacekeepers and his own soldiers fled.

    Hauling himself to one knee, Dragunov caught glimpse of two glowing eyes. Bryan, standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him with uncertainty.

    Outside, Azazel roared its rebirth--

    --and the Colosseum finally gave up its ghost. The ceiling buckled, pouring an avalanche of stone, concrete, and steel.

    Sergei had time for one, last thought: his family.

    And he was overrun.

                                   - 𓆚 -

    "DRAG!"

    Bryan ran towards the collapse before the dust had time to settle. A nova of light made him flinch, eyes overwhelmed by brilliance and turning the world even darker. His ears clocked the accompanying snarls as louder than jet engines. Whatever was happening in the arena, he didn't care. It didn't matter. A desperate mantra dominated his mind.

    No. No. No.

    Throwing pieces of rubble was too slow. His fists smashed stone and steel asunder.

    No. No. No.

    The knuckles of his right hand frayed, revealing black alloy underneath. He kept going.

    No. No. NO.

    His tether to normalcy couldn't leave him. He couldn't.

    "DRAG!"

    There. A line of a blue sleeve amidst heaps of gray. All of Bryan's CPUs cycled faster as he tore through the last pile of rock. They would laugh about this later over drinks in a dive bar, how Fury dug him up like buried treasure--

    --sudden realization turned Bryan motionless.

    He freed Dragunov, all right, but those insides were not supposed to be outsides.

    The cyborg sank to his knees. It did not compute. It was unthinkable.

    And because it was, it was real. This was not a dream--     --this was nightmare.

    Time became unmoored this far north. The sky, full of chrome clouds, concealed the position of the sun. It could be noon, it could be half past midnight. The harbor jutting into the Barents Sea was bathed in a nondescript un-light, the snow tinged gray with the various drippings of loitering military vehicles. Two men, bundled head-to-toe against the numbing cold and carrying automatic rifles, stood at attention on either side of an enormous, circular blast door embedded in the rocky cliffside. When Bryan Fury crested the other side of the harbor, their thick snow goggles hid any reaction.

    The cyborg, for his part, felt nothing. Had felt nothing since the Colosseum. A hurricane inhabited his head. There were no thoughts, no foresight -- just a Category 5 maelstrom of barbed wire, sheared metal, and whipping winds. A complex of commands kicked on from somewhere in the bowels of his machinery and roared in animal defiance for the past twenty-four hundred miles and forty hours. He had paused only to hijack another car or truck when his latest ride fell apart, overworked and riddled with ammunition.

    His trek crossed seven countries, and all mobilized against him. It was a blur of battlefields, the stink of burning explosive clinging to what remained of his skin. His black and red endoskeleton was littered in chips and tears and coated in layers of dust, ash, and dried blood. Some part of him dripped inky fluid, forming a dark trail as he approached the door.

    Behind him dragged a rope tied to a wood crate.

    The guards remained still as he drew within twenty paces. It was possible they were robots. Bryan had faced enough of those crossing most of Eastern Europe, both Zaibatsu and G Corp made. Not even a glance as Fury wrenched the rope around, flinging the crate forward in a dizzying spin across the slush until it slid to a halt.

    His voice, with ballistic volume: "FIX HIM."

    Utter silence. Finally, in unison, the guards stepped away from the door. Locks disengaged with bangs and groans like breaking sea ice, and it sluggishly swung open.

    Bryan grabbed the rope and entered the Gold Raptors base.

    The ramp was a steady decline illuminated by florescent lamps, their bumblebee hum the only sound aside the rumble of circulated air and the scrrrrp of wood on concrete, leading to a massive hangar. All that moved were motes of dust. A single light over an elevator gleamed in the otherwise cavernous shadows.

    Had Fury still the capacity for nuance, he would have been offended at the blatant instruction, but that was long discarded back in Italy. The prime directive came closer with every step. Nothing else mattered.

    The elevator opened on its own. Bryan stepped in, crate in tow, and descended one thousand feet into the earth.

    It delivered him to a hallway. The layout was familiar -- he'd been in a containment wing before. As he walked down the empty corridor, he spared the briefest glances through the viewports on various doors. This was where they housed the horrors. A rust red boar the size of an elephant -- a ballerina in arabesque, perpetually aflame -- clumpy smoke with yellow eyes orbiting an antique stove--

    One door unlocked with an electronic buzz and click. He went in.

    Tubes and cables, some as wide as Bryan's torso, ran like entrails across the floor, snaked up the walls, and hung from the ceiling. Monitoring equipment sat in powerless consoles. Something on the other end of the cell glowed a sunset halo. Fury approached.

    At first, he couldn't tell what it was. It resembled a giant steel fennel seed, seven feet long and cherry red. It sat embedded in a nest of metal spines that seemed to grow out of the wall itself, a lattice of iron urchins dark as interstellar space. Its upper half was transparent, revealing a hollow interior full of raw chicken pink fluid.

    Suspended within was Dragunov.

    For the first time in hours, miles, and devastated countries, the storm in Bryan's mind dissipated, and clarity returned to him. The journey, his wounds, all were forgotten.

    A gentle crack, and the cradle unhinged open. Looking in, Fury noted the soldier was nude, hair floating around his face, eyes closed, breathing. Fast asleep, not a trace of tension in his body. Covered in scars.

    Beautiful, Bryan thought.

    Distant rumbling came closer, building into an electric roar. Arcs of lightning tore through the cell, bounding off the tubes and cables. Bryan barely had time to brace himself, but the surge danced around him and drove directly into the cradle itself with a deafening bellow.

    Sergei opened his eyes.

    An instant later, he wrenched himself upright, shouting in pain, pink fluid sloshing onto the floor. He clung to the side of the cradle, knuckles white, wheezing as his lungs filled with air.

    Bryan knelt so they were face-to-face. Dragunov, wet, naked, and trembling, was exquisite. More importantly: he was alive. The nightmare was over, and the world was finally, undeniably real.

    Eyes and smile glowing, Fury cocked his head playfully, chin resting on his hand. "First time?"

    Dragunov punched him in the jaw.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    Chaos. Utter disarray. There was no other way to describe it. Dragunov felt his mind had melted and he was scrambling for handholds in a titanic whirlpool of impossibilities. The Colosseum. He remembered that -- remembered an instant of crushing pressure, the familiar sound of bones cracking deafening in his ears. What happened? Why was he drenched? Why the fuck was Bryan here?

    "Welcome back."

    A single screen on an otherwise dark console burst on. The grainy picture displayed the silhouette of a man, his details obscured by the brilliant spotlights behind him. He sat in a chair, one leg across the other, hands folded in his lap.

    Sergei knew him by his voice and, despite his tremors, saluted. The man was the Major, the head of the Gold Raptors.

    "At ease," he said.

    Dragunov dropped his hand. Better to keep hold of the cradle. It was more grounded than he felt himself.

    Moaning, rubbing the pain from his face, Fury hauled himself to a seat on a wooden crate. Why was that there?

    "You have many questions," the Major continued, "I shall answer the most pertinent, as time is of the essence. At 13:44 hours CET, forty-one hours and three minutes ago, you were killed by traumatic asphyxia. Through anomalous methods at our disposal, you have been resurrected, your self duplicated from a remote biotic snapshot taken at the moment of your death. We have made some minor adjustments to your overall physical condition, including removal of the stage three tumors in your lungs and trachea."

    Oh. That explained the perfluorocarbon bath. Sweeping loose hair out of his eyes, Sergei peered over the edge of the cradle. Yes, he recognized the spines now. They'd been extracted from the bottom of the sea not far from here, come to think of it. There had been some chatter about potential cross-testing with other specimens in the past.

    -- wait, what was that last par--

    "You will be deployed immediately to Yakushima in Japan to represent Gold Raptors' interests in the area," the Major said. He leaned closer, voice graveyard cold. "Your reconstruction goes against the core tenets of our organization. That you are our best option, even in death, for combatting this threat to global security is the only reason we did so. Do not squander the gifts we have given you, Admiral Dragunov." He settled back. "You are dismissed."

    The screen blinked to black.

    Sergei's throat was tight -- with emotion. The plug was pulled on the vortex, flushing it down the proverbial drain and leaving an unfamiliar residue: fear. He palmed his heart, its two-step steady. My God, he thought. They scrubbed him out like an old iron pot.

    God, my God.

    Two men in white coats entered the room. One carried a blanket.

    What choice did he have? His mission, and he had to accept it, was abundantly clear. Once spetsnaz, always spetsnaz. Death would have him when he was no longer needed.

    Resolving himself, Dragunov climbed out of the cradle. He had a job to do.

    He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and departed the room, white-coats in tow. He wished he had a hair tie.

    With little option himself, Bryan followed, scowling as he processed what just happened. This reality was weird.

    The twinkle of moon blue grit in the cradle water went unnoticed.

                                   - 𓆚 -

    International borders again, this time on fast forward. Bryan had last been on a military aircraft that had willingly carried him two lifetimes ago. Looking out a window at the approaching island made his pistons clench in excitement.

    Dragunov, not so much. He looked fantastic in tactical armor, that was a given. Kevlar suited him, and the red beret a no-brainer. It was the scowl, heavier than usual, that soured the atmosphere of the entire cargo hold. Didn't he care about the morale of his men?

    Crossing the belly of the beast towards him, Bryan patted a pallet bristling with weaponry, gun barrels poking out at random. "Couldn't decide what to get from your boys, so I ordered one of everything."

    Nothing. Not so much as a wayward glance.

    Dragunov had no one but himself to blame for his terrible mood. Back at base, while being patched up with new synthetic skin, Fury caught him investigating the wood crate. "I wouldn't look in there if I were you," Bryan had hollered.

    Sergei gave two seconds consideration. A pointed finger dropped with sledgehammer finality. A crowbar made quick work of the lid.

    The green stench of decay bloomed over the entire medical bay. To the Raptors' credit, there had been less revulsion than Bryan expected, their doctors and nurses hardened by routine treatment of anomalous illness and injury, but heads still turned away, lunches still fought down.

    Sergei stared into the contents of the crate for a long time. The pulped tangle inside stared back.

    He waved his hand once. The lid was replaced, the crate taken away.

    There was the gurgle of a flamethrower. Barbeque scents.

    Fury looked around the hold. Somber faces on every soldier. Being a complete sad-sack had to be a prerequisite for joining the Gold Raptors. At least they all perked up when he kicked the pallet closer to the cargo hatch. "C'mon, boys and girls," he cried, "Who hasn't wanted to visit Japan? I hear there's a chance of hail. Bullet hail, courtesy of yours truly. Hey, everyone strapped in?"

    Yanking a lever on the wall bathed the hold in red warning light and drilling klaxons as the hatch bowed open. Howling wind threatened to suction out anything not battened down. The pallet spilled over the edge and out of sight.

    Bryan turned back to Dragunov. Sergei still sneered, but there was a new glint in his eye -- a let's get this done hardened resolve. Fury knew it well. He'd seen it before every fight they'd had, with or against each other. It meant someone or something was in for a world of pain. It meant Dragunov was feeling better. Feeling himself.

    He'd be fine.

    Grinning, Bryan bowed like a Hollywood actor, and jumped from the plane.

    An instant of freezing freefall, synthetic muscles bracing, then impact -- jarring, dirt and debris flying, barely tickled. Brushing off his pants -- the leather scuffed, but oh well, plenty of alligators in the sea -- he approached the pallet. It hadn't survived the drop, guns strewn like a popped pimple. No problem, it just meant he could fine tune his selection. He thought he wouldn't be thinking again soon. The storm was already blowing.

    Zaibatsu forces already took up position in a valley. G Corp had the high ground. Oh, this was going to be good. A real two-for-one deal, with Tournament morons sprinkled on top.

    Bryan lifted the Gatling gun. It was time to make new memories.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    Back in the saddle again. Dragunov could do this in his sleep. He could do this dead.

    No. No, don't think about that. Don't think about being alive for just over twelve hours. That doesn't help anyone. That doesn't keep his people safe. Focus.

    It's hard when it's this easy though. The Raptors had hardly been deployed yet. Sergei and his squad watched the battle unfold from their vantage point halfway up a mountainside. This was not their fight. At the first sign of anomalous behavior, it would be.

    He let one or two of his soldiers pick off a target every so often. Someone who looked important. Someone who would make the course of events more entertaining if they died. Dragunov spotted them through binoculars, relayed positions through gesture. These were veteran Raptors. They understood.

    A sniper rifle blasted. In the valley, a head popped. Business as usual.

    It was almost boring.

    A flash of yellow in Sergei's sights caught him off-guard. Frowning, he looked again. It was King, complete with full feathered regalia. King. Really? Was G Corp that strapped for combatants, they had to send in a Mexican wrestler? This wasn't a battlefield, this was a goddamn three-ring circus.

    It would be mildly interesting to see what kind of skull lay under that stupid mask. Dragunov pointed into the valley. It wasn't hard to determine who he wanted killed. Shifting her stance, the Raptor sniper took aim. Crosshairs centered on golden fur and black rosettes. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

    The Doppler effect broke open overhead, crashing waves of sound down upon them. A plane, black as night, Zaibatsu emblem on its sides, crested the mountaintop then dipped downward. A bombing run. Its payload hung one-handed underneath, over seven feet tall with veins of electric red.

    Sergei's pulse quickened. They had no intel on a new Jack model. Despite superior numbers, Zaibatsu forces were losing ground. That they chose to utilize it now made his hair stand on end. If this was their ace in the hole, what made it so?

    The possibility of anomalous enhancement could not be ignored. Dragunov swung his arm ahead. The Raptors moved.

    The terrain was steep and rocky, a combination that required careful planning of every footfall. By the time they had descended, the war had advanced to meet them. Blood, dirt, and gunpowder hung heavy in the air. Dragunov didn't remember combat smelling this way, itchy on his skin.

    The difference a new windpipe makes, he thought, and before that train could start rolling, something slammed hard into his side. He lost balance, fell end-over-end down the slope.

    His brain kept going after his body rolled to a stop. Until now, all he had experience had been discomfort compared to this. This hurt, and his factory settings flesh had no idea how to deal with it. Groaning, he crawled to all fours, looked up.

    Who wore a white suit to a combat zone?

                                   - 𓆚 -

    Wholesale slaughter -- now that was living. Biopics? Overrated. Celebrity? Not when you had infamy. The movie studio thing had been a novelty, sure, but the killing fields was where Bryan shone.

    He'd long lost track of his body count.

    It was incredible, really. From his perspective behind the Gat, deep amidst the torrents of bullets and bodies, the Zaibatsu and G Corp forces were schools of minnows, and he a shark. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The gun mowed them down like grass, blood spraying, severed limbs flying, their death screams music to his ears.

    He might have been laughing. He could not hear himself over the storm's hellish shrieking in his mind.

    A flash of lightning blue caught the corner of his eye. A pink-haired pixie, darting between volleys of shots.

    Fury grinned, his targeting reticules locked onto her every movement. Could this day get any better? Boots on the ground, tank shells in the air, destruction and agony and he in the thick of it, pushing the world order into a whirling blender of meat hooks and razor winds, and now this, the chance to forever exterminate a challenge to his throne of Doctor Bosconovitch's Greatest Contribution to Mankind. Forget seedy Chinese alleyways, downing fighter jets in flight with just a girder -- fuck, forget Yoshimitsu. This was going to top the charts.

    He swung the Gat around, aimed slightly ahead of her. The barrel spun up with an eager squeal.

    --then there, below her, an un-color that did not belong to nature, distracting him. Radioactive bubblegum. In the sheath of a sword. That was slashing Dragunov in two.

    No.

    Bryan froze. A beam of light burst through his tempest, rooting him to the ground. He could only watch as the old stranger's blade left a deep, steaming gouge in Sergei's chest armor. Dragunov raised his arms to block the next two cleaves only to catch the handle on the backswing with his face. He collapsed to his knees.

    Bryan dropped the Gat.

    No. No.

    Sergei craned his head up. Wiping his knuckles across his cheek left a comet tail of blood. Resurrection had placed him right back in meat. Fallible meat, as Fury knew too well.

    Dragunov tried to stand. His face twisted in agony as a leg failed to respond, stiff as a board. As rigor mortis.

    He was not fine.

    No. No. NO.

    Bryan grabbed the reins of his mental storm, willed it to his feet to fly him the twenty paces between himself and the injured Russian. Each step echoed like a hammer. A heartbeat. The sea of bodies around him dissolved their details into bruised, sickly smog. Reality was soup, and he fought time's quagmire with every carbon fiber of his being.

    The stranger lifted his sword for the killing blow.

    NO NO NO NO--

    Impact. A millisecond's awareness to brace Sergei's neck as momentum raced them onward and gravity tore them down. A dozen jolts and blows as the ground got its licks in. One last tumble before the world came to a halt.

    He'd ended up on top of Sergei. Grabbing him by the bulletproof vest, Bryan yanked him close, eyes burning with crazed desperation.

    "You fucking moron," Fury cried, shaking him, "I can't lose you again!"

    Under him, Dragunov's mouth was slack with shock, then confusion. Bryan gave him a once-over, hunting for wounds. They put him in meat, how cruel was--

    --there was a combat knife in his fist.

    Oh. OH.

    Sergei was a spetsnaz super-agent with enough CQC tactics to massacre an army, and playing possum was well within his repertoire. Just because it was the oldest trick in the book did not make it inviable. Hell, Bryan had seen him do it before. There was that time in Barcelona against father and son Laws. He'd laid on the floor of the -- bar? restaurant? dance club? Fury didn't remember -- feigning unconsciousness, and when Law the Younger went to investigate, he'd surged forward and toppled him, kind of like what'd just happened, and the look on Dragunov's face turned volcanic with rage, and then Bryan had eleven inches of sharpened steel embedded in his thigh.

    Fury howled as white-hot pain lanced up his side. Sergei shoved him off, scrambled to his feet. Bryan winced as he yanked the knife free.

    The emotions bristling on Dragunov's face were fascinating. Anger, volatile, ready to explode at any moment, lined with disbelief. He had the man in the white suit right where he wanted, doing exactly what he wanted. Now he still lived. A Raven, if the anomalous weapon proved anything, one of Sergei's killers, still lived. 

    "Oh, ex-fucking-scuse me," Fury bellowed, tossing the knife away, "If you didn't look like such a bitch--"

    Dragunov ran at the cyborg, throwing his entire body behind his fist.

    To an observer, the fight was initially any other slugfest. But as it progressed, something changed. A cadence emerged -- punches and kicks dealt with surgical finesse, energy conserved or spent with atomic accuracy, bodies moving with dancer's grace. Sergei and Bryan had done this before, helpless to resist the primordial hatred burning in their veins and cables. Neither man wanted to. It felt right. All of spacetime could crunch down to their bubble of violence; they wouldn't care. In their grimaces, their spilled blood, they were singing.

    I hate you, I loathe you, I could do this forever.

    But good things had to come to an end.

    Bryan saw it first -- a purple thorn hanging in the sky. "The hell is tha--"

    Flames rained from above, dousing everything in eldritch plasma.

                                   - 𓅓 -

    It was eerily quiet. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and soon the air would prickle with the moans of the pained and dying, but Dragunov, armor smoldering, took the opportunity to lie on the dirt. Just for a moment. There was peace amongst the pebbles.

    Behind him, Bryan coughed a cloud of dust. Time to get up.

    He wrenched himself onto an elbow, giving himself enough of a vantage point to see the aftermath. Huge, steaming fissures stretched from one side of the valley to the other. Half-melted tanks sat in piles of useless slag. Smoke billowed like parades of pallbearers into the ashen expanse. Beneath, those who remained clung to their last ounces of strength.

    A thought occurred to him: who was he kidding?

    In less than an instant, hundreds had been vaporized. How was he meant not only to compete with that, but triumph? An ant would have a better chance leveling a mountain. Once upon a time, there had been a man who could do that, his faith his shield against the devil. That man was dead. The thing that bore his name, ordered his soldiers, and defended the fate of his nation was a pale imitation in comparison. A cracked, oozing egg, rotting from the inside out.

    Sergei sank back to the earth.

    Blessed silence.

    Behind him, again: thop-shff, thop-shff. Bryan, pulling himself over by one arm. Judging himself close enough, the cyborg rolled onto his back, loosed a harsh breath. "Hey, Drag?"

    Muffled against the soil: "Nnm?"

    "That fuckin' hurt."

    Yes. It did.

    More quiet, infiltrated by a breeze. Sergei raised his face to catch its freshness.

    "Like...how did you do that? I've been in a lot of knife fights, but that's a first."

    --what?

    Strangling the protests of his aching flesh, Dragunov heaved himself to his knees. Bryan himself sat up, pulling apart the gash in his pants to stare at the deep puncture in his leg. "You stabbed me between the muscles," he said, "Muscles that can stop bullets. If I had a femoral, I'd be bleeding like a stuck pig." He looked at the Russian, face slack with sincere awe. "You weren't even trying. You just did it. I mean, you have past experience with my thighs, but...whole armies have wanted me dead for years. You killed me two minutes ago with no effort."

    Yes. Yes, he did that. Sergei alone had accomplished something no one else on the planet could, not even the man he used to be. And as realization sank in, heat like molten iron blossomed from his chest, spreading to his fingertips and pooling in his toes. He was not damaged, he was hatching, even if he did not know what form the wings within him would take.

    It didn't matter. He was seen. He was known.

    It must have shown on his face because Bryan's expression lit up, a grin crawling from ear to ear. Just like old times, baby, that grin said, The world lies at our feet.

    A tremor tore through the ground. In the distance, a stadium-sized chunk of rock blasted into the sky, shrouded in a veil of supersonic flight. It tore past the clouds for a destination in the upper atmosphere.

    "Oh, get over yourselves," Bryan yelled. Grunting with pain, he threw a stone after it. It clattered far short of its mark.

    Dragunov, meanwhile, watched as his Raptors emerged from cover. They seemed no worse for wear, shedding their combat gear for hazmat suits. Using modified Geiger counters, they fanned out across the battlefield, searching for anomalous particles left in the wake of the purple flames, pausing only to execute anyone dying in their paths. By the number of samples they took, the results were promising.

    "So...now what?"

    Sergei didn't bother glancing at Fury as the cyborg scooted next to him. He was not actually asking for advice. He was testing the waters. Once he knew where Dragunov's mood lay--

    "Got it!" Bryan leveled a finger between Sergei's eyes. "You need a vacation. That's what I did last time I cheated death. It's good for you, y'know. Do some soul searching. Figure out what's real to you." A beat. "Uh, I'm going with you, of course. If you want."

    Dragunov let his lip curl in a small smile. Yes. He did want.

    Somewhere on the steaming wastes, welcoming the dawn of a new age, someone was whistling.

                               - FIN -

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of One Direction fics with a trans character as requested in this ask. You can find my other fic recs here. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! Happy reading!

Larry

🏳️‍⚧️ You Make Lovin' Fun by @homosociallyyours

(E, 109k, trans Zayn, non-binary OC) Harry is a 28 year old travel writer at a gay magazine who gets the assignment to go a lesbian cruise. 

🏳️‍⚧️ as the winter to foul weather by benzos / @churchrat

(M, 45k, trans Louis) An unplanned pregnancy throws a spanner into Harry and Louis' relationship. It wasn't supposed to go like this.

🏳️‍⚧️ oh we're in love aren't we by delsicle / @eeveelou

(M, 20k, trans Harry) a soft 19/19 university AU in which Harry is getting a fresh start, Louis isn’t subtle, no one does their homework and 3 AM is an excellent time to fall in love.

🏳️‍⚧️ I Wanna Be Alright With My Baby Tonight by graceling_in_a_suit / @graceling-in-a-suit

(M, 18k, trans Harry, trans Louis) Harry Styles' university football team (Go Queers!) is on a losing streak, and so is his love life. Louis Tomlinson—a fellow trans man and the team's new co-captain—might just be able to help with both.

🏳️‍⚧️ We're Not Who We Used To Be by @jaerie

(E, 7k, trans Harry) Louis comes back to his childhood home and sees an old friend who has changed quite a lot since the last time they saw each other.

🏳️‍⚧️ Her by @jaerie

(E, 7k, trans Harry) When Harry gets home, she can finally be who she wants to be. Letting someone else in always feels like a distant daydream to her... until it suddently isn't.

🏳️‍⚧️ Fit For A King by @homosociallyyours

(G, 5k, trans Louis, trans Harry) the euphoric feeling of a trans person, outside of their parents’ transphobic household, finally being able to buy clothes that fit them just right, without having to worry about needing to be gender-conforming at home anymore

🏳️‍⚧️ venus as a boy by docklands / @hershelsue

(E, 4k, trans Harry) When Harry goes to a friend's movie night, the last thing she expects is to meet an enigmatic and handsome stranger who sweeps her off her feet. 

🏳️‍⚧️ We Put Our Love First by MoreThanTonight

(E, 4k, trans Harry) Harry is a trans woman. Louis is asexual. They are happily in love. A story about discovering yourself in the safety of the arms of your loved one.

🏳️‍⚧️ He Will Be Loved by @sunflowerstyles

(G, 3k, trans Louis) The confession nagging in Louis’ head surely wasn’t something Harry was ready to hear, but Louis felt utterly consumed with the heavy weight of guilt from hiding such a huge part of himself from Harry. 

🏳️‍⚧️ lay me by your side by @stylesthebrave

(T, 2k, trans Harry) Early into his transition, Harry struggles with gender dysphoria. Louis is always by his side.

🏳️‍⚧️ the pinker, the bluer by docklands / @hershelsue

(M, 1k, trans Harry) Harry comes out as a trans guy during the pandemic.

🏳️‍⚧️ hold on to me (i'm a little unsteady) by @28finelines

(G, 1k, trans Harry) harry has a migraine; louis takes care of her

Rare Pairs

🏳️‍⚧️ i simply want to be sure by reachthetree

(T, 15k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) AU where Louis is a trans and ace tattoo artist who gives Nick his first tattoo. Featuring lots of emojis and a happy ending.

🏳️‍⚧️ Tommo's Guide To Blagging by Blackmustache

(T, 3k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) Louis is famous on The Internet; he's a YouTuber, to be more specific. When he films a video that both makes his life complete AND goes viral, Nick gets obsessed and Louis gets invited onto the Radio One Breakfast Show.

🏳️‍⚧️ nothing but dreams inside by 1000_directions 

(M, 2k, Niall/Louis) Louis Tomlinson doesn’t become the Spider-Lad until he’s fifteen, but he’s always been a boy.