#it's such a good word. rankle.

[so-called-quail]

'Are we riding far tonight, Gandalf?' asked Merry after a while. 'I don't know how you feel with small rag-tag dangling behind you; but the rag-tag is tired and will be glad to stop dangling and lie down.' 'So you heard that?' said Gandalf. 'Don't let it rankle! Be thankful no longer words were aimed at you.

Sorry, Gandalf...

Merry felt more like unneeded baggage than ever, and he wondered, if there was a fight, what he should do.

Merry got up and yawned. His few hours' sleep had not been nearly enough; he was tired and rather dismal. He missed Pippin, and felt that he was only a burden, while everybody was making plans for speed in a business that he did not fully understand.

'I am afraid I am only in everybody's way,' he stammered; 'but I should like to do anything I could, you know.'

...Merry absolutely let it rankle.

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 4; ghoap x reader) part 1, part 2, part 3 tags: dubcon/noncon, nsfw

-

Much of Ghost’s behaviour is reactive. Oddly passive for the assumptions people often make of him. He doesn’t run from trouble, but certainly he doesn’t seek it out. Aside from a few rare deviations from the norm (running his father out of the city at eighteen, not breaking enough bones to count as restitution, and finally leaving home to enlist), that remains the rule. 

The way Johnny mopes for days after parading his bird around base has Ghost nearly rolling his eyes, already exasperated. He should’ve known his puppy wouldn’t share well. 

It’s worse than he expected though. Johnny mopes for a week straight after the fact, hardly able to meet Ghost’s eyes in briefings. He stares straight down at the floor pathetically, dragging his feet behind him when he’s dismissed. Price notices it right away, raising an eyebrow at Ghost after Johnny leaves the room. 

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach.

“In the dog house, I reckon. His girl’s pissed at him.”

“Your doing?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Ghost replies smoothly, face giving away nothing.

Price is hardly convinced. “I’m sure. Nothing to do with you.”

Ghost doesn’t answer that. He waits until he’s dismissed and then takes off down the same hall Johnny just left, curious about wherever his boy’s slunk off to. 

He can’t help the latent sadistic streak in him that curls up in pleasure at the sight of Johnny pouting and squirming whenever he walks into the room. Still, his attitude will need to be rectified soon enough—there’s only so much Ghost will tolerate, only so much disrespect he’ll turn a blind eye to. One day Johnny will look back and reflect on this, and appreciate the extent of Ghost’s magnanimity. 

Still, he doesn’t enjoy being ignored. One week bleeds into the beating heart of the next and Ghost realizes that he’s had enough of the silent treatment. He’s given Johnny more than enough time to come to terms with their new situation. 

He tracks him down to the armoury on a Monday evening after most of the other soldiers have already left for the day, back home or eating supper in the mess hall. It’s empty apart from the two of them, and when Johnny finally notices his presence in the room, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t flinch at least. Good boy. He’s gotten better at being less reactive, less shaky about being caught off guard. 

“Done for the day, sergeant?” He keeps it light to start, taking a step closer. 

Johnny tenses at the approach. “Yes, sir.” The title would usually satisfy on its own, but it comes strained, polite but removed. 

“Where’d you come from?”

“Layouts and gunners training, sir.”

On any other day, Johnny’s deference might come as a lovely note to end the day on, but not today. It rankles now, the edge of his voice sweetened by a kind of silent dismissal, not giving any more information than what’s required of him. Nothing like the boy who used to open his mouth and sing the world back to him. Ghost has earned his every thought. 

“We have a problem, Soap?”

“No, sir,” Johnny grumbles, still not meeting his eyes. His mouth barely moves when he says the words, teeth all but grit. 

No dealing with this temper tantrum like adults then. For all Johnny must carp and bitch to himself about the hardships that Ghost has put him through, he seems to have no desire to actually deal with the problem. That’s too bad. It would’ve been easy enough to talk it out like grown men.

They’ll have to come to terms some other way.

“Come. We’re fixing this attitude of yours now,” Ghost grunts, turning before Johnny has the opportunity to complain and marching down the hall towards the gym. 

He hears Johnny make a sound like an angry bull before following him down the hall. The loud footfalls against the tile floor betray his simmering anger; it reveals to Ghost what he already knew intuitively. His boy still needs to learn to play well with others. 

In time, this anger will fade into the ether, replaced by Johnny’s old doggish need to please Ghost, but it’s causing too many problems now to be tolerated. He hasn’t gotten to see the bird since the week before. Doesn’t even have a photo of his own to look at when he rubs one out. It would be less aggravating if Johnny were willing to spread his legs and let Ghost rut between his thighs, but they aren’t there yet.

The gym is empty as it usually is around early evening when Ghost opens the door, the lights off from whoever last used it. Johnny follows him sullenly, dragging his feet about it. Ghost’s eye ticks at the show of attitude persisting into this space.

“Lock it behind you,” Ghost says without looking back at him, crossing to where the mats are on the other side of the gym. 

Neither of them are dressed to spar, still clad in their fatigues, but his blood cranks up to boiling when he turns around to watch as Johnny crosses the room angrily, picking up steam now as well. He comes in hot, not even bothering to suss out Ghost’s first move before launching himself at him. 

Ghost staggers back a step at the hit, but he takes it in stride, shifting his weight and using Johnny’s momentum to throw him off, sending him sprawling. He’s quick to get back to his feet, but that moment of carelessness gives Ghost everything he needs. The next time Johnny throws himself at him, Ghost lets him get an arm around his leg and nearly grins to himself when he feels Johnny put all his weight into trying to flip him. 

He knows strength isn’t everything, but there’s something to be said about the several inches and even more kilos he has on Johnny. That plus a decade’s worth of experience. Sparring devolves into a sweat-slicked grapple, Johnny’s shirt coming untucked and rucked up, his hair mussed. He tries to go for the mask, eyes gleaming with a wet, savage glint—forgetting decorum or tact, and just going for the most underhanded maneuver. 

He pays for it when Ghost takes him hard to the floor, catching him with a leg sweep that he might’ve been able to avoid if he were fighting with a clear mind. Anger makes him sloppy though. 

“Fuckin’ bastard—” Johnny grunts when he hits the floor, narrowly avoiding clipping his chin against the mat. 

“Folks never married, so guess you’re right,” Ghost remarks, unbothered. Hardly winded even, only the lightest sheen of sweat on his brow, obscured by the mask. 

His sudden divulgence makes Johnny falter. So rarely does Ghost open even a crack that the momentary honesty catches him off guard, giving Ghost the opportunity to wrangle him into a tight hold. 

Pinning Johnny isn’t an easy task because the kid fights dirty when he feels cornered. Lashes out wildly with his fists when Ghost gets an arm around his neck and holds him in place, less precise than when he’s coolheaded, but still brutal, all raw strength packed behind his punches. He twists Johnny over onto his stomach when the boy tries to buck him off, slamming him down hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

“Gonna tell me what’s got you all riled up now?” Ghost asks, twisting Johnny’s arms behind his back to pin him in place. 

He struggles in Ghost’s hold, trying to find a weak point. The search is fruitless. Ghost’s body weighs him down like a boulder pinning him flush to a dirt-streaked mountainside, forcing the air out of his lungs when he presses down harder. 

“Ye cannae just take her from me—” he spits out, face flushed. He kicks out a foot, trying to free himself, but all Ghost does is shift slightly to press his shin to Johnny’s calf, holding it down. “I told ye she was different and ye had to—and now she willnae even fuckin’ talk to me. Barely texts me, willnae answer my calls. I cannae—I can’…” 

His voice trails off on a hitch. Not quite a sob, but a frustrated, wretched sound. 

“Held that in for a while, didn’t ya?” Ghost murmurs, holding Johnny down with ease when he struggles again, trying to wrench his arms out of Ghost’s hold. 

“I almost fuckin’—almost just fuckin’ gave her to ye,” Johnny says, shame thick in his voice. “Thought maybe it wouldnae be worth…jus’ dinnae want a girl coming between us. But she’s—I told ye, Lt, she’s special, I cannae jus’—I cannae jus’ let her go. And now she doesnae want anythin’ to do with me.”

Ghost doesn’t bother pointing out the absurdity of that statement. As if Johnny could give him something that’s already his. 

“Not trying to steal your bird, Johnny.” He taps Johnny’s cheek, a little reprimand. It makes him blink and scrunch up his nose. “What’d be the point of that?”

He forgets how young Johnny is sometimes, just now nearing the end of his twenties. Still wet behind the ears, all blood flushed and pink cheeked. Green still to the realities of the world and Ghost’s presence in his life (permanent, fixed; unchanging). 

There isn’t a version of him that wants someone who doesn’t also want Johnny. Inconceivable. After everything that they’ve been through together, the root of him and what he wants is inextricably tied with what Johnny wants—at times, Ghost almost wishes he could live inside his head, just a constant stream of Johnny’s thoughts into his. 

Johnny twists his head enough to glare over his shoulder at Ghost. “The fuck are ye on about? Ye grabbed her ass in front of God ‘n everyone, for Christ’s sake. Said your intentions loud ‘n clear.”

“‘Course I did. She’s got a nice arse, doesn’t she?”

“You’re really startin’ to fuck with my head, Ghost, I dinnae understand what ye—”

“You keep running your mouth off about trying to take the girl from you—I don’t need to take anything.” He stresses the word to be clear, forcing Johnny back down when he tries to buck Ghost off again. This time he stays in place, both calves pinned down to the mat, cheek pressed into the fabric when Ghost slots a hand into the scruff of his mohawk, forcing his head down. “Quit struggling—you’re not getting back up. We’re sorting this shit out now so you quit moping around base and giving me a fuckin’ headache.”

“Stop exaggerating—I havenae even opened my mouth around ye in days. I’m no’ doing anything to your head—”

“How the fuck am I supposed to think when you keep running away?”

The air hangs heavy in the wake of his words, the oxygen all but sucked out of the room. 

“The two of you are mine,” Ghost says in a low, harsh voice, the sound making Johnny flinch against the mat. “I’m not asking for just one of you. You’re out of your fuckin’ mind if you think I’d leave you out of this, mutt.”

He’d sooner lose them both, but that’s another scenario that he’d never tolerate. 

With some effort, Ghost tips Johnny over onto his back, holding him down before he can start to struggle again. He keeps his wrists trapped behind his back, forcing Johnny to arch his back off the floor, presenting himself. From his vantage point, it’s easy for Ghost to flick his gaze down and find Johnny’s dick pressed hard against the zipper of his pants, all plumped up from being pinned to the ground. 

“Good, you’re already hard,” Ghost grunts approvingly, rolling his hips down to alleviate some of the pressure building up in his groin. “Haven’t come since she left the other week, I bet.”

Panic flares red hot in Johnny’s eyes, widening when Ghost settles deeper between his legs, his own hard cock unmistakable. “Wait—wait, Ghost—I’m no’—I’m no’—”

It would be a stretch to say that anything softens in him, but a part of Ghost does feel for the boy. He’s been around Johnny long enough to know his persuasion—strictly women with the occasional appreciative glances towards some men. An appreciation he relegates to furtive, guilty glances, holding it inside of him like a nasty secret that he’ll never part with. Too riddled with Catholic guilt and the ease of just playing it straight. 

Ghost has no intention of making it easy on him though. 

He tries to imagine what it might be like if he were on the other end, but for him it’s only ever been cunts and Johnny and the bird. Now just the latter two hold any weight. 

His protests only last as long as it takes Ghost to unfasten their belts and zippers, fishing Johnny’s cock out first. The second his rough hand wraps around Johnny’s length, the words die on the boy’s lips, replaced by a choked off grunt. His balls are full enough to corroborate Ghost’s words—he probably hasn’t come since seeing his girl off the other day, too frustrated and upset to jack off, the ducts shut, working himself up into a frothy mess only for it to slip right out of his hands at the last second. 

Johnny’s eyes roll back when Ghost grips both their cocks in his fist, slicking his hand up with Johnny’s precome. Sweat sluices down the sides of his neck. He looks good with his tongue tied up in knots, thoughts emptying out through his ears in rivulets. 

Even with Ghost’s hand as big as it is, he can’t wrap it all the way around the two of them. Johnny’s come provides a nice glide though, lubricating the underside of his shaft when Ghost grinds up into his fist. 

It spurs him into a kind of ​​protolithic fervour, desperate only to come. The iron rich scent of blood and sweat makes Ghost salivate, eyes drawn to the tender skin of his neck, the flush now riding high, up and over his cheekbones. Lips bitten red, also swollen with blood. In a better mood, Ghost might indulge him, might roll up his mask and lick into the wet mouth hanging open deliciously, teasing him, but there’ll be time for that later. 

He slurs out Ghost’s name when he comes, Simon ripped from his lips like it was dug clean out of his soul. His come splatters across his belly and shirt in thin, watery spurts, the wind knocked out of him again. 

Johnny squirms when Ghost doesn’t let go of their cocks, hand still dragging up and down, mumbling that he’s too sensitive, fuck, lemme go, I cannae—

“I’ll stroke your cock and grab the bird’s ass whenever I feel like it,” Ghost growls down at him, at the end of his patience now. He pants out a ragged breath when his cock throbs at a particularly whorish moan dropping broken from Johnny’s mouth. “I’ll nut in her cunt and make you lick it out if I want. And you’ll fuckin’ thank me for giving you a taste.”

Johnny almost goes nonverbal at that, a leg trying to kick out weakly even though it’s still pinned down under Ghost’s heavy thigh. His dick twitches against Ghost’s, a valiant effort. 

When Ghost comes, it settles in a thick, viscous mess across Johnny’s stomach, pooling around his belly button. It radiates hot down his back, the ache in his lower spine abating momentarily. Can only imagine how much better it would feel balls deep in Johnny’s ass or the bird’s pussy, a wet warmth clutching him tight, legs wrapped around his waist to drag him closer. 

He’ll have that soon enough.

A ragged wheeze is pulled from Johnny’s chest when Ghost drags his cock through it, spreading it over his stomach. It’s worse when Ghost dips his fingers into the mess, a sticky blend of both their come, before bringing his fingers up to Johnny’s mouth, forcing them past his lips and over his teeth and gums. Johnny sputters at the taste, going cross-eyed to look down at Ghost’s hand. 

There’s no time for pillowtalk or soft words though. Even if there were, niceties come out of Ghost’s mouth like a ring of smoke. Still, the thought of the bird not returning Johnny’s calls or texts makes him bristle, his annoyance renewed. His own disinclination to communicate aside—a waste of words as far as Ghost’s concerned, he says more with his actions anyway—none of this works if the girl won’t talk it out. 

Probably pent up, the stubborn thing. He’ll have to sort that out too. It keeps him young at least. 

“C’mon, Johnny,” Ghost says, rising to his feet. He dusts his hands off on his fatigues as if nothing happened, then holds out a hand for Johnny to grab. “Let’s go see our bird.”

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons - Part 10

WC: 817, Masterpost

Jason sighed as the tablet in his hands flashed with alerts. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“How did the meeting with Black Bat go?” Bruce asked instead of responding, because of course he did.

“You know it went fine,” Jason said, trying not to snap. “Besides, everyone likes her, there was a good chance it was always going to go fine.”

“We both know trauma isn’t always that easy,” Bruce said, his tone carefully modulated to be gentle. It rankled Jason, like it always did.

Jason took a breath and let his chin drop to his chest for a moment. Bruce didn’t mean it like that. He knew that now. This was Bruce trying as best as he was able— it wasn’t just another mask. Bruce just had to put effort into emotions that made it seem forced. Jason pushed away his flair of temper; it was harder to do than he’d like after too much worry and too little sleep.

“Ja—”

“I’m fine. It’s just like you said, trauma isn’t always that easy. I’m fine,” Jason said as he waved the concern away. “And names. You know we’re sticking to code names still.”

Bruce tilted his head, observing Jason through the white lenses. (That used to rankle too.)

“You thinking there’s a chance he’ll run.”

Jason sighed. He gave an exaggerated shrug to cover the worry that ran through him at the question. “Not run, exactly. I think he doesn’t believe that he can stay— that it’s even on the table. I think that we’re his last hope and he doesn’t believe in hope anymore.”

Bruce didn’t move. Jason gave him time to think that over.

“That’s why he doesn’t want to see… Wayne,” Bruce said, slowly, like he was feeling the idea out. “He doesn’t expect to get anything from him so it’s better to be healed up first.”

Jason shrugged again.

“Figure so. But also once that meeting happens, whatever happens, then all of this,” Jason motioned to the safe house, “is over as far as he knows. If he puts off the meeting, he puts off the risk of losing the first safety that I think he’s hand in a long, long time.”

Bruce’s shoulders hunched and he almost blended back into the shadows by the window. “If he’s already posed for it to go badly…”

“B, that’s not your fault,” Jason said— had to say. “The kid’s been through hell, maybe by his own family, of course he’s going to expect the worst.”

It was a long moment and then Bruce nodded, just once. “What’s the plan?”

If Jason really had his way, the plan would be to deal with all these ill feelings, but that’s not what anyone in the family was good at, him included. It would be what it would be.

“We’ll have BB over again for a meal tomorrow. I’m sure it will keep going well and she can help be on watch that night. We think it’s best to give that a few days before we introduce O or anyone else new, so you have to keep the rest of the horde reigned in,” Jason said pointedly. Then a though occurred to him. “Where is the little spawn anyways?”

“He’s on the roof across the block.”

“Yeah, is he? Because that was a lot of alerts—”

“Hood!”

Jason didn’t think before he was striding across the room towards Danny’s room. The kid was standing in the door. White hair stark in the low light. Green eyes bright.

Glowing.

Wide with fear.

“Danny?”

“Someone else is here,” Danny said. His voice was almost too quiet to hear, but Jason could half swear he felt it in his very bones. Danny reached out and clung onto the sleeve of Jason’s hoodie. A cold settled into Jason’s bones along with the vibration of the soft words. “Someone touched by death. Can you feel them too? They’re not not like us. They haven’t died. They haven’t died, but they reek of death. Hood, what are they?”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe here, remember?” Jason assured Danny automatically. The words rolled out of his mouth without Jason having to even think about them, which was good, because Jason’s mind was still caught on Danny’s words: They’re not like us. They haven’t died. “Some Bats just stopped by to check on us.”

Was it Bruce? Did all of Gotham’s death cling to his shoulders like his cape?

Was it Damian? Was it the stench of the Pits?

Or did Jason miss something else slipping in with all of the other alarms.

“We’ll go check on Nightwing together, alright? I bet he has a little red and black guest who slipped in,” Jason said. He twisted his hand to hold Danny’s. The cold bit at his skin. He didn’t let go.

He hoped he was right.

He had a hard time believing in hope too.

---

AN: A myyyyyyyystery *wiggly fingers*. Gods I'm so tired.

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!

[alexiethymia]

Ka Zuigetsu

(spoilers for the manga, LN, WN you name it)

Jinshi or rather Zuigetsu is such an interesting character for me because of the dichotomy. We're initially introduced to him as someone with a lot of pride in his looks, confident, mature beyond his years. Later on, we find that his true self is quite self-depreciating and childish.

He doesn't have an attachment to power, nor his looks. He's actually not the arrogant lord Maomao initially thinks he is because he's open to learning and taking the advice of those who know more than him. And while this feeds into his complex that he's surrounded by eccentrics who are extraordinarily good and excel at one thing (the entire Ra Clan, Maomao included, Basen etc.) he's no slouch himself!

I mean Jinshi doesn't think much of himself considering himself a jack of all trades, but what a wide variety of trades it is - he can beat Basen using skill instead of force, he beat the Emperor at Go at the tender age of fourteen and this is with the Emperor having been taught by the Sage who is one of the only two people known to have beat Rakan, he dances with such grace that foreign envoys can only think of him as a goddess, he's enough of a quick study with medicine according to Maomao, not to mention his prowess at both the military arts and diplomacy.

As if to make up for all that he perceives he lacks, he knows talent when he sees it and will use people accordingly. Ironically (and though they would both hate to hear it) Jinshi and Rakan are more than a lot alike. Despite his complex, these qualities actually make him quite a good leader and you could see why the Emperor really wants to make him the Crown Prince even if this isn't Jinshi's wish.

But unlike Rakan, he is still soft-hearted at his core (see the case with Fuyou for example). And though Maomao is rankled at how he attempts to be both pragmatic and kind, at his inability to wholly abandon his heart for the things he knows must be done, at her core, I think that trait of Jinshi's is the main reason why Maomao finds herself unexpectedly loyal to him.

Much has been said for Maomao's charisma, but Jinshi also attracts loyalty from unexpected places. Like Gyokuyou, he surrounds himself with capable people. While part of me is cheering him on to get his wish of being an ordinary person, I feel like everything has been building up to his eventual ascension to the throne. Because while Jinshi may complain and grumble about his work, ultimately he will still do it. At present, he could only implement his plan because he still thinks he's just the Imperial Brother. But the moment the truth gets revealed, he won't easily be able to shake off his burden.

A part of me thinks that he will eventually take the throne in some form or the other, but only until Gyokuyou's son comes of age and he can finally pass on the crown and become an ordinary person once and for all. This scenario would actually be the perfect pretext for him to justify having only Maomao for his sole consort since he can reason out that he doesn't want to further complicate the lines of succession by having more children with more consorts. In other words, a win-win possibly for both Jinshi and the current Emperor (except Maomao haha).

[specialgradefckr]

Heatwave: Day 2

tw: explicit content. 5k+ words. yuta/reader. female!alpha!reader, alpha!yuta, reader has a knot but also a vag. very barely dubcon, masturbation, fingering. mostly lots of pining. also light curse!rika/reader, but no monsterfucking (yet. curse!rika would 1000% hit it tho)

listen... it's not very smutty but read the fic. just read the fic. you're a tsundere and yuta and his curse girlfriend are smitten with you. it's really cute i promise.

Prompt: An Alpha finds themselves exhibiting omega traits in front of a stronger alpha.

Female alphas were less common than male ones, but they were common enough for there to be stereotypes about them.

Scary girls. Big girls. Strong independent women who didn’t need no men, ate pretty omega boys for breakfast.

There was a certain type of alpha – exclusively male, sometimes beta men were like this too – that saw a kind of challenge to it.

These sorts of dudes were obsessed with ‘alpha pussy’, swore it was tighter and hotter than any omega hole ever could be.

Never mind that there were some omegas who couldn’t take large knots without training, and anyone who wasn’t an omega needed a lot of practice before trying to take any knot at all.

It wasn’t about realism with these assholes. It was some weird, self-fellating bullshit about having made another alpha their bitch, being the alpha to another alpha.

Asshole alphas, that’s a good way to put it. A bunch of fuckwads who thought only with their knots and their egos.

Each and every one of them thought they were god’s gift to creation because they were alphas, born special and better than everyone else, all that garbage.

Yuta isn’t an asshole, but he is, shockingly enough, an alpha.

He’s a nice boy – maybe the nicest alpha you’ve ever met.

Makes it all the funnier that you get paired up with him on missions so often; the scary alpha girl and the gentle alpha boy.

You’d doubt his identity, too, if you didn’t know better. But you can smell it on him all the same. Unmistakable. Alpha.

And he’s strong, really strong, probably stronger than you, though the thought rankles.

Special grade, you’d heard – mostly because of the cursed spirit that hangs out with him.

But it’s not the spirit you smell when you sneak a discreet whiff of the scarf he’d left on the bench this one time. It’s an alpha, through and through.

It’s not the spirit that darts into the field on missions before you can, places himself between you and danger without even thinking about it.

Carves destruction with a graceful, brutal blade and then turns back to you with a sheepish smile asking if you’re all right.

He’s so… gentle. Careful. You’re not even sure he can get angry.

The closest you’d ever seen him to it was when a curse popped up behind you on a mission, while he was occupied with a special grade of his own on the other side of the room.

You’d seen a barrier appear in an instant, which must have been his domain expansion, and only a few seconds later the curse he’d been fighting was gone and the curse that ambushed you was impaled on his blade.

Even with blood on his face, he’d smiled at you.

Eyes shut, voice warm with sincerity, but the air was filled with a tense note of danger, barely constrained threat… just not towards you.

Somehow, you want to see more.

-

Prodding at Yuta Okkotsu is no easy task.

He’s about the most mild-mannered person you’ve ever met, and half-terrified that someone mistreating him would get on the bad side of the cursed spirit who hangs around him.

But you’re determined, and there’s not a lot that can stop you when you put your mind to it.

Alphas had a personal bubble – just like everyone else – and when another alpha gets into it, it usually sets them off.

You start to invade Yuta’s space; first, in small ways.

Leaning in when you hand him a soda, sitting a touch too close on a bench, lingering whenever one of you pins the other during sparring.

There’s a flush on his darling face, a tightening of his features as you see him catch your scent and react to your proximity before he represses the reaction completely.

But soon enough, that doesn’t phase him at all.

You've gotta hand it to him. That's some real control.

Soon he’s touching your hand when you pass him things, you can lean against him while you sit next to each other and he doesn’t bat an eye.

Neither does that supposedly scary curse of his, for that matter.

You see her, once, on a mission. A curse sneaking up behind you (it wouldn’t have been able to hurt you anyways) and you catch her, the curse Yuta normally keeps so carefully hidden.

Massive. Magnificent.

It’s not something you’d normally say about a curse but Rika comes with a scent all her own, fresh and woodsy pine, pricking at your senses while a gaping maw of sharp teeth closes around some pitiful lesser creature.

The blood splatters, on the floor, on her ‘face’. She has no eyes you can see, but you feel her gaze on you anyways. Heavy in the midst of the silence, until Yuta’s panicked voice rings out, and she disappears completely.

Pine lingers in your senses.

That’s not what Yuta smells like, though.

He smells so little, actually, so heavily repressed that you’re not surprised most people think he’s a beta. But your senses are better than most, and you can detect it.

Faint. Warm. Almost… oily? Like olive oil, maybe, something humble and smooth, but unexpectedly decadent.

Like the scent of a lone burning candle in an old shrine, not quite dusty, but with a book-like scent that came with ink and paper.

It’s hard to detect. You need to get closer to really pin it down.

Yuta’s physical abilities are weak, after all, so it’s easy to make up excuses to spar with him. More and more, since you can tell he’s no longer uncomfortable with you in his space.

One fine winter morning, you catch the opportunity you want.

A tumble on the ground (he was always so afraid of Rika coming out, but she never did when he fought you), a little scuffle that leaves the adorable gentleman alpha flushed and flustered, and you manage to snag his scarf off of him.

In the pocket of his jacket you leave him something in return; a band not quite large enough to be a scarf that you’d used to tie your hair.

It should have plenty of your scent on it, enough to make him sniff the air once or twice before he figured out it was there.

The thought pleases you. Like you can tease him a little bit at some random moment throughout the day, without even being there.

It’s five whole days before Yuta returns it to you.

His face a touch bashful, even though he must have known full well that you’d slipped it into his coat yourself. Eyes downcast, as if afraid to meet yours; Yuta Okkotsu, the special-grade terror.

He doesn’t ever ask for the scarf back.

Not that you remember it. It’s just sitting on your desk. You barely think about it.

It just happens that it still has his scent on it, but that makes sense.

It would have been in contact with his scent glands every day, wrapped around his neck like a collar. Like a warm embrace.

You don’t touch it, so it still smells like him. Warm and welcoming.

He’s really not much of an alpha.

After you spar, he always compliments you, careful to note any potential weaknesses between bits of lavish praise. His shadowed, dark eyes sparkle a touch when he tells you, a warm smile on his lips.

Yuta’s always doing that, complimenting people. You’ve never known him to disparage anyone. Never a bad word for a single person you’d met.

So kind. What kind of alpha is this sweet?

Somewhere deep down, though, you know. A real leader, someone people trust and rely on, a friend who would cross oceans for you, move mountains, if it would help you out even a little.

Sweet boy, like cotton candy. Comforting like a warm candle on a cold winter night.

So bright even thought Yuta looks like the gloomiest boy alive. Sometimes when you think of him your tongue runs over your lips, like you’re hungry for more.

You push him further.

You don’t avoid him when you’re close to your rut. In fact you make a point to be near him, get into his space.

Sure, you’d invaded it plenty now, but with your scent oozing out of you, pheromones heavy in the air screaming breed, breed, breed, and you figure something in Yuta will crack.

You never stop to think about whether or not you want it to.

-

It’s on a nice, sunny day that it happens. The most embarrassing moment of your entire existence.

Pre-rut is a bit brutal but you’re down to tough it out. Sparring with Yuta always helps, anyways.

You’re especially snarky, too, like you get during your rut, eager to taunt, to get more out of him.

“C’mon Yuta, that’s not all you’ve got, right? Ask your curse girlfriend for help, I’ll bet she knows how to lay it out.” Adrenaline fuels your heated banter as you watch Yuta pointedly avert his gaze, “You’re flinching and I’m barely hitting you.”

“I can do it,” He almost grumbles, but you think you see a shadow behind him, or maybe you just imagine it, lurking and eager to jump out, “And she woul- Rika is strong.”

The hormones are bad, though. Getting your body heavy with sweat and panting, moving around, lashing out at him, striking, grappling…

“That’s more like it!”

“You can take this much? Then - I’ll do even more!”

Who the fuck are you kidding. It’s the most fun you’ve had in weeks.

Yuta’s strong, stronger than almost anyone you know, he’s right in front of you, so close you can smell you can touch you get your hands on him and he on you and you’re rolling, rolling through the grass –

Yuta pins you, heavy breaths breezing over you, carrying the warm rich smell of him in your senses.

Sweat dripping down his forehead, mouth wide open, you can almost taste it (taste what?).

His eyes are dark and deep and beautiful and they look down at you like –

He’s looking at you like –

His lips curl upwards into the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen, your heart skips ten beats and you – you just feel so warm –

underneath him – the comforting weight of his body against yours – that delectable smell dripping over you – his arms around you, holding you –

You cough out a noise you think is a laugh. Yuta tilts his head to the side with fondness written all over his face.

“That was a pretty heavy bout – good job!” He beams down at you, voice is full of praise pouring over you like liquid gold, “Are you alright?”

You open your mouth to tell him you are, and to your horror, you realize the noise you make. You’re purring.

Instantly your face is set on fire.

“I.” oh god. What. What the fuck, “I’m…” Your voice breaks in a rumble.

Oh god this is so weird, alphas don’t purr at other alphas, what’s wrong with you – “Yeah! Fine!”

You say it too loudly and it shows. Yuta’s so close to you there’s no way he can’t tell what’s happening.

Even otherwise, your voice is cracking like some kind of hormonal teenage boy and you just.

Evacuate. Evacuate immediately.

Your hands fly up to Yuta’s chest and you try desperately not to notice how surprisingly well-built he is as you shove him up and off you.

He offers no resistance, stepping up and offering you a hand which you ignore in favor of sprinting off, like a guilty person would do.

Seriously? Seriously? This would go down in history as the day your dignity died.  

Where was your pride as an alpha? Where was your – your anything, to be honest.

Why the fuck had you just?? Gone so completely gooey and melty underneath him when he smiled at you like that?

Even thinking back on it heats your face. Then again, the whole thing was super embarrassing, so your face was hot anyways.

It occurs to you, walking back to your room in great shame, that you weren’t actually worried about anyone finding out about this, just that it had happened.

Alphas don’t usually purr unless they’ve just knotted someone and they want them to feel good.

And omegas would typically only purr at close family members or intended mates; a lazy sign of comfort and peace, and very occasionally, a come-hither-I’m-feeling-frisky signal to their alpha.

Whatever conclusion could be made about you purring at Yuta from underneath him… there was no option that wasn’t utterly humiliating.

But you only had to worry about what Yuta would think.

You knew Yuta wouldn’t breathe a word about this. Probably not even if someone held a knife to his throat (not that they could… special grade and all).

…you start to feel kinda bad now, actually.

No matter how you’d poked or prodded, Yuta Okkotsu hadn’t snapped at you.

Unflinching in his kindness. Eager to help always, with a hand or some friendly advice. Protective and powerful, never hesitating to put himself between you and danger.

You’d been inching into his space. Stealing his things. Taunting him during practice.

Honestly, if someone else acted like this to you, you’d call them a pest. You wouldn’t smile at them. Not like that.

Yuta must’ve been some kind of saint in a past life, if nothing you’ve done bothers him at all.

It’s weird. It’s all weird. Alphas aren’t like this, neither of you should be like this.

-

It gets worse. It all gets worse, so much worse.

Your rut is in full swing now, burning through you, searing holes in every ounce of sanity you ever thought you had. Nothing is sacred anymore, nothing is off-limits. There’s no shame left and no restraint.

The most heinous ideas flit through your mind, little flashes, lewd imagery of holes to fuck into and knots to squeeze, the tight press of flesh on flesh and dark eyes and lips that curve so gently upwards.

A scent that flutters just at the edge of your senses like the well-worn pages of familiar book.

The best you can do is stop yourself from crying out. The images get clearer, until there’s no denying what they are.

Yuta, on his hands and knees.

All spread apart.

Above you.

Below.

Smiling gently. Whispering words into your ear.

His lean form, the sleek musculature you know from so many fits of sparring, finally bared for you to feast your eyes. “Do you like it, alpha?”

Yes. Yes yes yes yes. Every fiber of your being cries out. The throbbing between your legs is unbearable.

“Do you want it?”

Never wanted anything more.

“You’re such a good alpha. I’m glad.”

Just the thought of the words, in his voice, draws a moan from your lips.

You want him. Want want want want WANT you NEED him where is he where can you find him? You’re going to hunt him down and –

The last remaining threads of your sanity grant you a burst of intuition.

A detail you’d never really forgotten:

The scarf on your desk. The one you hadn’t touched, hadn’t made smell like you. It should still smell like him.

Wait. Wait. What are you, some omega jerking off to the scent of your fucking crush –

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Crush. Okkotsu.

But you can’t get yourself to think about how that’s wrong, can’t convince yourself to deny anything when a pulsing, throbbing sensation between your legs screams mate mate my mate all mine –

Stumbling, staggering, all the way to the desk. Arm reaching out while you’re bent over and panting and nearly whining in your need.

Fuck. Pathetic, so pathetic.

And then you hold the scarf to your face, clutched in your hand like a lifeline. The scent of it is faint and inexplicably cozy, pure relief flooding through you.

It brings you to your knees. The ache between your legs demands attention and your other hand rushes to meet it, jerking and rubbing against your sexes while you sniffle and tear up.

Ruts suck when you spend them alone but this is better and worse than anything you’d ever experienced.

Bucking up into your hands, breathing in his scent like you can fill him in your lungs, inhale him like a cigarette and finally get rid of the pounding demand in your brain.

Every breath feels shallow, every grind against your hand only seems to make you hotter and hotter.

The ache in your core feels like being tugged around, demanding jerks of painful pleasure that don’t get you there, don’t get you what you need.

It’s all you can do to whimper and nuzzle into his scarf.

The primitive side of you urges you to pull it between your legs leg him take care of you, good mate, good alpha, let him feel you there, but your arm locks in place so you can keep breathing the scent like a lifeline.

When you finally do cum, you’re more exhausted than anything, spurting pitifully out over your hands and knees, knot bulging uselessly against your lower belly.

It leaks, slowly, painfully, as if to give you time to think about what you’ve done.

You decide you’d really rather not. Sliding a drawer open to pull out a toy, another toy, three of them, even – enough to overstimulate yourself to high hell, to keep every thought of Yuta and his scent out of your brain.

A vibrator in any hole you could fit it in, against anything that throbbed or ached. A fleshlight to fuck into, one a size too small just to make it hurt more.

Way less lubricant than you could have used, but somehow, your cunt leaks more than enough for all of it.

All to just barely stop the fantasies of a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy with a smile and a scent like the sun.

Without a doubt it’s the most miserable rut you’ve ever had.

You’re raw, red, and sore by the end of it and all you can feel is barely concealed rage at your own self for putting you through this shit.

You don’t even know if you’re mad that you fucked up, or that you’re crushing this fucking hard on a really nice dude you’ve been antagonizing for weeks.  

As soon as your rut ends, you steal another one of Yuta’s scarves.

You don’t give him anything in return this time.

-

Yuta likes women; this is something he’s known for a while.

It’s not until recently that he’s come to terms with the fact that he exclusively likes alpha women. He has you and Maki to thank for that.

In retrospect, considering his first love was a strong-willed young girl who proposed to him, it should probably have been more obvious.

Lucky for him, Rika also has a taste for alpha women, and she likes you much better than she liked Maki.

To be perfectly honest, it was Rika who liked you first.

The Rika he knew had passed on. The Rika beside him now is a curse that grew alongside him; in the image of his loved one, distorted and massive in all its malevolent glory.

She listened to him, for the most part, but perhaps because of some baser instincts of his – or perhaps some left-over preferences from Rika herself – she treats you with a particular affection.

You offer him a drink, moving just a touch too close to hand it over, and he feels Rika hum in approval.

His eyes glance over you unwillingly, your scent faint in his nose. It’s not as harsh as another alpha’s scent normally would be, either, which should have been his first warning.

Whenever you get close – too close, so much that it has to be on purpose – it’s almost overwhelming, so many emotions fluttering through him that he swears he can hear Rika giggling.

She likes it, too. You’re like fresh soil, like morning dew, the rainfall on a summer’s day.

He can tell, after one day he catches you right before your rut, wrestling with him, pinned underneath him and purring; you like him, too.

And then, he fucks it all up.

“Hey,” He calls you out by name and you turn back, meeting his eyes and walking back up to him.

The immediate response causes something dark and warm to burst in his chest; Rika purrs invisibly in his mind.

You try not to show it but you’re pleased when he calls out to you. He can smell it on you, happy pheromones that let him know you’re pleased he’s asked for you.

Not unlike an omega, and that thought really sets him going.

All this time you spent playing coy. Teasing him then running away, even from your own feelings.

You want him so bad but you’re so nervous, and seeing someone so strong and beautiful be so anxious about your want for him drives him completely and utterly insane.

It’s not like you’re cowardly, like he could be, sometimes.

You’re strong, you always give him a fight when you spar, you take the losses like a champ –

You would take his knot so so well RIKA PLEASE STOP THAT RIGHT NOW.

Now you’re staring at him, blushing like a schoolgirl, waiting for him to speak to you. So cute. So cute.

He’d caught you stealing his scarf again, you never gave any of it back. Are you building a nest? Do you like his scent like he likes yours?

Licking his lips, Yuta asks, “You’re – you’re an alpha, right?”

Oh. Oh, he should not have said that.

The surprise that flits across your face, and then the outrage, they tell him the same thing –

But his body receives a very different message, cock jumping in his pants at the scent.

All those times you’d sparred with him had trained him to get hard when you got in his space like this. Your scent wasn’t a threat, but a delicacy, and in his chest a rumble stuttered along with Rika.

“What the fuck are you trying to say, Okkotsu?”

Oh. Family name. You were really mad.

He could tell his face had already fallen by how you looked torn between pity and anger.

An apology lurched to stutter out through his lips, but instead –

Instead –

On the tip of his tongue, the edge of his senses –

“Are you… wet?” It sounds like a question, but that’s sheer politeness on his part.

He can smell it on betas as well as omegas, so it made sense that he could smell it on a female alpha, too.

Your face is hot, bright red, and so, so darling.

He can tell Rika is as thrilled to see it as he is, that she longs to reach out with one of her massive claws and clutch around your shapely waist, hold you in place for him to –

“What the fuck? Okkotsu?!”

Oh no. No no no no no no no. No! “Rika! Rika, don’t hurt her!”

She’s not hurting you. She would never hurt you.

This is probably worse.

“Hurt me? Fucking – ff – hng,” Yuta can’t stop the lurch in his gut, the wave of pure arousal that washes over him at the sound you make, “Get her off me, Okkotsu, you – ”

Your face is so red. Your scent. Your scent. It’s perfuse, a strong, tangy thing, delicious, he’d grown addicted to it and wasn’t that your fault?

Didn’t you do this to him, on purpose? Don’t you want him like this?

Slipping him little tastes here and there, shoving it in his face all the time.

Passing him a sample while you sneakily stole his scarf, hoarding his scent like a needy little omega?

Teasing him, getting in his face while you were in rut?

Purring at him when he pinned you underneath him?

Flushing when he called out to you, looking back, running up to him eagerly like an obedient, darling thing?

Yuta thought he liked alpha women, and he does.

But it looks like he especially likes alpha women who go all soft and squishy for him without saying as much, squirming and blustering and making faces like they’d like to eat him as soon as they thought he wasn’t looking.

“Don’t be upset.” His hands roam down to your sides. He doesn’t miss how you jerk at the contact. “I asked so I could help. Are you wet?” He says your name, a dark fire in his eyes.

You watch his tongue dark between his lips. Bite back a whimper. “Help me how? What’s – what’s she doing?”

“Helping me help you.” If you don’t want to tell, he’ll just check for himself.

His hands are cold, though, and you can’t stop the high gasp that escapes you when his hands dig under your waistband.

He murmurs a soft apology and the curse behind you chitters, chilled claws carefully wrapped around your torso.

Yuta drags your shorts and panties down in one motion, cooing softly at you when you shriek, one hand caressing your shoulder while Rika purrs, pressing herself up against your back.

Filling your senses with pine and Yuta’s oil, a scent like fire that burns to behold.

Warms you like sunlight.

“Yuta-” Even you weren’t sure what you were going to say, but his fingers between your legs send your brain for a complete loop. “I – what are you – we’re in – ”

“I put up a veil,” Yuta says, like (he knows) that was your only real objection.

Or maybe he’s lying. Yuta could tell you he was wearing Ryomen Sukuna’s underwear and you’d believe him, as long as he looked at you like that.

The smile you love so much is hungry, now, with those eyes dark with desire, with a curse clawing at you tenderly, like she just can’t let you go for even a second. Churning pleased little noises with every press and flex of her massive fingers around you.

Fingers darting to spread open your folds, even as you squirm. Bared in broad daylight with Yuta right in front of you.

Circling your hole while he looks you in the eyes, pressed close enough to hear you whine.

“I knew you were wet,” He murmurs, in a soft voice that sends liquid heat dripping down your legs, “Could smell it.”

Yuta leans in. He’s so pretty, so handsome, such a dark and darling thing with those heavy, soulful eyes.

He’s so close that when he whispers your name, you feel it on your lips. “You smell so good.”

He didn’t sound this hot even in your daydreams. He’s so close. So close. His breath ghosts over you like a curse hanging on your shoulder.

Your mouth falls open. Watering, like your cunt. Desperate for a taste.

And maybe you’re still an alpha after all, because finally, finally, you dive in and take what you want.

He tastes as rich on your lips as he’s smelled, soft and oiled and coating your senses. Blotting out everything until all you know is him.

Him, teasing over your clit with careful strokes. Growling into the kiss like he’s warning you not to pull back, Rika pressing you forward like you’re two dolls she can’t wait to smash together.

Arms dart out to his shoulders to steady yourself as he dips his fingertips into your entrance. Generous, broad strokes over your folds he spreads your arousal all over, returning to rub at your clit as he pulls away.

It’s good. So good. The oncoming pleasure builds and builds slowly with his ministrations, pooling heavily in your lower half. The urge to buck into it overtakes you, writhing for more friction as sparks begin to fly against your clit, closer, closer –

And then it’s you who can’t look away, locked in place under his gaze. “You’re going to cum for me? Do you want to?”

God it’s so fucking close, tears blot your eyes as you jerk into his fingers, and Yuta doesn’t even try to deny you.

He smiles at you, carefree. He already has his prey in front of him, unable to escape, uninterested in even trying.

You give him a feverish nod. “Will you tell me so? I want to hear you.”

Just a little faster, just a little more, more, “More please, please, make me cum –”

An exhale of a breath you hadn’t known he was holding, diving in towards your neck, nuzzling against your scent. Burying your face in his shoulder where his own was strongest.

It’s that breath that puts you over the edge, fast strokes of his fingers finally igniting the heavy pleasure pent up in your lower belly, the scent of him pouring over you.

You cum with a cry, mouthing at his neck just to soothe yourself, to taste him.

You feel the wetness of his tongue on your own scent glands. Hot. Drooling. He suckles at your taste, soft lips pressed to bare, vulnerable skin, and you let your head roll to the side to give him more.

All you can feel now is warmth. Warmth and Yuta’s familiar scent that makes your insides twist, the aftershocks still shuddering through you, twitching in his hold like some pitiful creature.

Every muscle in your body relaxes, and it’s only Rika’s grasp on you keeping you up. Fortunately, she’s strong. So strong.

Her head nestles into your shoulder, scenting you. Sweet, chilling pine on your sweaty skin. She purrs you through the bliss, cool against your body caught against Yuta’s own.

There’s a hilariously awkward moment where the two of you start catching your breath. Yuta looks flushed, handsome, as lovely as ever.

Still, his eyes find yours. He smiles. He’s always smiling at you, you’ve started to realize.

The thought makes you happy.

You like it. You like it a lot. Like him.

He’s even better than the fantasies.

“I’m going into rut,” Yuta says. “Because of… this.”

You swallow. “Oh. Okay.”

It’s hard to think too much about it, when the heat in your core is still dissipating, face burning up while you have yet to regain control of your limps

And between the two of you, Yuta must be the real alpha, because he’s the one who goes and just says it already.

“Will you spend it with me?”

“Your… your rut?”

“Yes. I want you to spend it with me.” He’s so close. You can feel the heat of his breath between you. "If you want."

A pause. You try, oh lord, do you try, to gather your thoughts for just one moment. “Are you going to try and mark me?”

“Can I?” His eyes are too light, too eager, the words too quick to fall from his lips.

Alphas don’t ask for permission like puppies begging for treats. But Yuta, your Yuta, he’s already pleading with his eyes.

“Maybe you should be more worried about me marking you.”

“Would you?” Barely contained excitement oozes from him, from his pheromones to his bright expression.

You think you hear Rika giggle behind you. Pleased. Razor teeth ghosting over your ear in a little kiss, as if to urge you forth.

It’s working. If you fuck this boy, you’re gonna bite him.

You’re going to sink your teeth into him the first chance you get, make him yours yours all yours forever and have him every way he can bend, mark him up until he fucks you back into submission.

You’ll fuck him and fuck his curse girlfriend, too.

But it would be weird to just say it, right?

“Maybe.”

He laughs at that.

Oh. Yuta’s always been pretty good at reading between the lines, hasn’t he?

Or, you think as he leans in for a kiss, forehead pressed to yours – maybe he was just good at reading you.

[nunalastor]

Thoughts on Alastor’s affiliations/associations with social class? Particularly domestic work? (And I guess by extension customer service) But more importantly the “old fashioned” (air quotes because sadly it’s not extinct) upstairs-downstairs separation/segregation of working class and employer class? Just things I noticed:

- niffty is very domestic-housewife, and is stationed by alastor as a cleaner,

- husk (despite being an ex overlord) is stationed as a bartender and concierge,

- Rosie, despite being an overlord, positions herself as providing a service- customer service in the emporium, and Dolly Levi-esque services like matchmaking, advice (personal, financial etc), and general Arranger Of Things, a networker.

- alastor doesn’t give any grief to Angel about his profession, possibly because he sees him as also working to provide a service

- I think he even treats the egg bois with more respect when he’s working with them than he does sir pentious

- Vox essentially provides the public a disservice with all his ads etc greatly outweighing his news broadcast service, (which is less news, more diss tracks) so there’s obviously loss of respect for him

- in contrast to Alastor’s radio station, which he might view more as a public service provided to all regardless of whether they have money to spend. People often listen to radio while working, it lessens the tediousness. And provides music, which would otherwise be financially inaccessible- eg live orchestra, live performances, or buying records and a record player. Radio provides those for free! (Providing you have access to a radio, but most working class do, whether it’s their own or their workplace’s)

- mimzy is implied as working class, and says that alastor spent time at what is also implied to be a working-class establishment, and “drinking like a sailor” is definitely not “polite society” behaviour, which suggests the establishment commonly saw that type of behaviour from its patrons. Mimzy also makes a point of chastising alastor for not informing her that they were in “mixed company”, to which he looks irritated. Probably because she’s outed him as lower class, in front of Lucifer and Charlie, which leads onto

- Lucifer is The Big Boss, the boss of the bosses. Alastor’s reactions to Lucifer pigeonholing him as working class; busboy, waiter, etc. He was pretty rankled! Instead reasserting himself as the hotelier- the manager/owner, and not beholden to anyone. Which leads into

- his notable upset at husks reminder that he is in fact very beholden to someone

- my hc is that Alastor’s mother worked as a domestic servant for upper class, so he was exposed to both classes and could “pass” as a higher class than his mom. Perhaps having access to different establishments to procure or purchase music and broadcast equipment, or access to potential victims targets. On radio he’d be perceived by voice only, so perfecting a transatlantic accent would obscure his societal class also, see “this face was made for radio”

- saying that his face was made for radio suggests to me that there was some secrecy? anonymity? to his radio station in life. (I don’t know if there’s any supplemental word-of-god about his radio career, I’m new 😅) If he was also privy to local gossip and issues from mixed classes, then I could see this being a possible appeal for listeners to tune in.

- do you think there are influences from “The Help” in his backstory?

i honestly don't have anything to add and don't know enough on the subject to really delve into it but this is all SO FUCKING GOOD!! these observations anon 🤌🤌🤌

[magnoliasandarson]

Alfred's favorite.

Alfred Pennyworth had served Bruce Wayne for decades. He cleaned up his messes, shooed out the occasional overnight guest, and tried to keep his young master alive. He loved his Master Bruce; he was sure of it deep in his bones. He practically raised the boy, watched him become a man. While he found his nightly activities bordering on ludicrous, he was more than able and willing to offer his assistance when and where he could.

Dick Grayson aged him more than those decades of just him and Bruce. The mess grows exponentially, as does the number of gray hairs brought on by his Masters' folly. When his Master Dick joins his Master Bruce's crusade in the night, he nearly keels over. The boy might be chaos bound by bones, but he is a son of Wayne Manor, and Alfred finds himself almost smiling often in his presence. A bit of his heart chips off when young Richard leaves the Manor for good.

Jason Todd was a change of pace that was not unwelcome in the least. He, too, joined the crusade, which rankled on the butler's soul, but he was much more than the suit. Jason cleaned up after himself and Bruce. He joined him in the kitchen, doing his homework at the counter and watching him cook. They played chess together and discussed classic novels. The boy spoke of his hopes for his future, for college and after. Alfred tells him he can be anything he wants, but is pleased when Jason mentions majoring in literature. Then he died, and some of Alfred was buried with him.

He tried to speak on the matter with Bruce and wanted to comfort him, but Bruce could not remember Jason fondly. He instead buried his grief behind anger, anger aimed at Gotham's villains and Jason himself. Alfred listens to his Master Bruce call Jason foolish once before leaving. He continues to serve and do his duty, but he can’t find it in himself to cook anything besides Jason’s favorites. 

He visits the grave daily to discuss his recent reads and new recipes with the marble headstone, replacing the flowers with every new week. He never said it to him, too restricted by protocol, but he finds the words leaving him one cold afternoon. Tears fogging his vision, dirt on the toes of his usually pristine shoes, he whispers, "I love you, dear boy." The stone says nothing back.

[dilatorywriting]

Heroes vs. Villains : The Staff [Part 4]

Platonic GN!Reader x NRC Staff vs. RSA Staff Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: Woe to the Ramshackle Prefect, being caught up in the drama between the Disney Villains and their respective heroes. NRC Staff Version (Part 4)

ie. So the saying goes, 'nothing gold can stay.' Or, the Prefect is facing yet another Overblot and it drags some unpleasant dilemmas to the surface.

A/N: I have been fighting this for a solid hour now, and Tumblr is just being an absolute nightmare and not letting me add any more tags without crashing/refusing to save the post, so if you got kicked off the list, my sincerest apologies

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4]

There was a curt knock on Mozus Trein’s door.

The aging professor fought the inelegant urge to drop his head into his hands. After taking a moment to silently curse every other damned member of faculty at this college, he schooled his expression into a vague attempt at neutrality and cleared his throat.

“Enter.”

Divus Crewel and his ridiculous ensemble strutted into Trein’s office, and the historian barely bit back a sneer. He and the other professor had never gotten on at the best of times. Perhaps they would tolerate one another for the occasional game of chess, but the other man’s opinions on more or less everything (especially dogs. Ugh.) rankled something unpleasant in Trein’s chest. Call him old fashioned, but intentionally sharpening oneself into something miserable, and cold, and alone all in the name of maintaining an appearance of sophistication was something he would never respect.

Lucius growled from his place by the windowsill, and Crewel very noticeably fought to keep himself from raising his hackles in return. The black-and-white monstrosity leant forward and placed a bottle of red whine on Trein’s desk with a clack.

“What is it now?” Mozus frowned.

Divus didn’t bother to sit in the chair opposite him. He never did. He paced along one of the bookcases for a moment, trailing his crimson gloves along the leather spines.

“More of the same, I suspect,” he finally huffed.

Trein sighed and rifled around in his desk drawers to unearth his chest set. Not the good one—the one with hand-carved, stone, pieces that his daughters had given him for his birthday two years ago. This set wasn’t terribly ugly, and it did the job well enough. Plus, the worn colors lining the board always made something in Crewel’s jaw tick.

“Well,” he grumbled, setting the pieces into place and reaching for the wine. Divus Crewel was entirely unpleasant, but at the end of the day, Mozus had never been one to deny a willing student. And oh if there wasn’t so much that this egomaniacal alchemist still needed to learn. “Get on with it then.”

.

.

A part of you was sort of expecting to see one of those ‘WELCOME HOME, CHEATER’ banners nailed to the Rogersons’ front porch.

Which, firstly, come on. It’s not like you maybe vaguely starting to not loathe your time spent with Crewel with every fiber of your being was a crime. And you were still miserable and mad. Stupid, no good, stuck up, no-dad-being, emotionally unavailable—ahem. Excuse you. But you had eaten a few of those fancy cookies. And you were certain that Poe and Perdy would smell Jasper and Badun’s cuddles a mile away. And as much as you rationalized it forwards and backwards that you weren’t wrong, a part of you still felt… traitorous.

Secondly, the Rogersons were genuinely nice people. And you should have known at this point that they of all the adults in your life would hardly judge your for accepting any scraps of kindness being offered to you. (Unlike a certain Old Crow with whom you were well acquainted.)

All that being said, you were still a bit hesitant when you knocked on their front door that evening. Nevertheless, you were met you with a wave of enthusiastic greetings (plus a knitted set of gloves and a hat), as they ushered you back out the door with the promise of new and interesting things.

“We thought it’d be a nice change of pace,” Mister Rogerson explained. He and Annie were holding hands as you all walked down their quaint street, tucked up neatly in one of the roomy pockets of his overcoat. “And you didn’t get to come with us over the Holidays either.”

“There isn’t much else to do on Sage Island for most of year,” Annie said. “But the Winter Festival is always really lovely.”

The Winter Festival was like something out of a story book—all toned in watercolors and lit with a golden warmth that didn’t really seem feasible when the weather was otherwise so frigid. Magic, probably. Everything wonderous here was always magic. The air smelled honey-sweet, and you could feel the rising heat from dozens of outdoor ovens warming your cheeks.

“It’s busiest over the holiday period,” Annie explained merrily, reaching out to adjust the new hat on your head. “But most of the stalls stay open a few weeks later.”

“You missed all the rides unfortunately,” Mister Rogerson continued, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “But if you’re still around next year, we’ll make sure to bring you when everything’s in full swing.”

There was a decent sized crowd filtering sluggishly through the faire, happy to meander about with their Styrofoam mugs of cocoa and browse the displays. There were more people your age milling about than you would have expected (as nice as this all was, it definitely seemed more like an ideal outing for a retirement home than anyone young enough to still have their original hip bones). Mostly you recognized the clean, crisp, white jackets of the RSA uniform, but occasionally there was a splotch of a more familiar black ensemble darting about amongst them.

“Have you ever had a fritter before?” Mister Rogerson called from his place by a stall that smelled like Heaven compressed into a cubic-meter.

“Not since I’ve been here,” you practically drooled, feeling very much like one of those cartoon characters who could merrily float through the air after the tantalizing scent of baked sweets.

“Do you want the sugar sprinkled? The caramel drizzle?” A laugh then, quick and bright, as he caught sight of the lovestruck (and ravenous) look on your face. “Both?” he offered indulgently.  

There was another laugh then—raucous and loud. And a familiar face darted by with a mouth stuffed full of way too many festively frosted donuts.

“Hey! You get back here!” someone shouted, enraged and shaking their fist. “Free samples’ doesn’t mean a free for all! Did you hear me?! I said get back here!”

But Ruggie Bucchi just kept on running, his fluffy ears perked atop his head and his steel-grey eyes thinned with obvious amusement. He rushed past, and you met gazes just quickly enough to catch a smirk and a wink before he was off and around a corner—surely vanished into areas unknown to enjoy his haul.

You laughed into your gloves and turned back to your escorts for the evening with a beam, ready to suggest maybe just buying out the rest of the stall. Ruggie would love it. He’d probably even help you manage Leona’s tantrums without grumbling for at least, like, a week.

But they weren’t smiling.

The grin on your own lips slowly slipped back down into a flat line, and you fought the urge to fidget. Like somehow you’d done something wrong. Annie just sighed and shook her head. Mister Rogerson pinched at the bridge of his nose with a huff—the picture of a properly disappointed teacher.

“Well, can’t say anyone would expect Night Raven students to not be a handful.”

Something curdled a little in your tummy, and you tamped down the urge to immediately and aggressively rise to Ruggie’s defense. They were only free samples! And he loved donuts! And he never really had much money for anything of his own anyways! And they were free! And!—And…

“Ruggie doesn’t have anybody to buy him donuts,” you said at last, when the vendor handed you your own little paper bag overflowing with fritters.

Annie and Mister Rogerson looked at you curiously, clearly a bit lost, and you huffed.

“Ruggie,” you repeated. “The guy from earlier. With—with the samples.”

You could feel your shoulders hunch, defensive. And you didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like—they weren’t going to be mad at you or anything. And Ruggie was your friend. It didn’t seem right to let them just assume the worst of him.

“Oh,” Annie hummed, face softening. “Of course, sweetheart. But maybe he could ask first next time, okay? We’d be happy to treat any of your friends.”

You nodded and nibbled at your fritter. It was warm and crispy, perfectly fried and with a sugar crust that melted on your tongue like the sweetest kiss. It was delicious, really it was. But still somehow not quite as good as you’d thought it’d be.

.

.

When you arrived back to Ramshackle that evening, there was wallpaper on the walls.

You squinted at it suspiciously and tapped one of the glued-down edges with your finger. It didn’t vanish or eat you, so maybe it wasn’t an illusion. But why on Earth would anyone bother to try and give this place a facelift—

The front door burst open and Crowley blew in like a hurricane.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” he boomed. “There’s no one else I trust at this school quite like I trust you, oh wonderful and best of all Prefects! So I’m making you the lead producer for our VDC performance!”

You gaped, too familiarized with this nonsense to be as horrified as you probably ought to be.

“What’s a VDC?” you asked.

“That’s a great question!” Crowley beamed. “But first, let me introduce you to your new roommates!”

When the House Warden of Pomefiore and his entourage walked through your rickety front door, you felt something familiar, and awful, and inky swoop in your stomach.

“This building should be condemned,” Vil Schoenheit sniffed with all the grace of someone who definitely probably had a lot of underlying issues that were about to become your very real problem.

Crowley scuttled forward cheerfully to pin a tag labeled ‘MANAGER’ to your uniform jacket.

“Look how far you’ve come!” he sniffled, wiping dramatically at his gaping, soulless, eyes. “I’M SO PROUD!”

“…You can just put your bags over there,” you mumbled, so far past functioning on autopilot you may as well just ask Idia to turn your brain into an AI and get it over with it.

Epel dropped his suitcase near the living room’s rug and immediately the ancient floorboards opened up like the maw of some ravenous beast to swallow them whole. The group of you watched with varying degrees of distaste as his luggage plummeted to the basement, or… whatever existed below the crumbling wood. You’d never checked.

“I have the upmost faith in you!” Crowley chirped before jetting back out the door as quickly as he’d come.

.

“You did what?!” Crewel snapped.

“What!” Crowley whined. “Isn’t giving your child more responsibilities a sign of trust?! An act of faith between parent and spawn?! DOES THIS NOT SHOW HOW MUCH I VALUE THEIR COMPETENCE?!”

“No,” Trein groaned, burying his head in his hands.

.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Vil said, with all the cheer of someone undergoing a root canal. “I have nothing but well-wishes for Neige Leblanche and his many, worthy, successes.”

Buzz buzz went Ace’s phone as another of Neige’s advertisements lit the screen.

Drip drip went the heavy, black, magic curling around Vil Schoenheit’s soul.  

You fought the urge to put your head through the wall.

.

.

The next evening came, as did another bottle of too-expensive wine.

Trein swirled the crimson liquid miserably in his glass.

“Do you know that I chastised the Prefect once? For calling Crowley incompetent?”

Divus sounded worn in a way that he most likely had no right to be, but progress was progress Trein supposed. The alchemist snorted sardonically into his own glass. Normally the wine was a bribe for the elder professor alone, but tonight it was a truce to be shared in bleak solidarity.

“Time makes fools of us all,” Trein hummed.

“What is he even thinking?” Crewel seethed. “As if the Prefect isn’t under enough stress as it is. What exactly does he think these stunts will accomplish?”

“I don’t think he’s thinking very much at all, to be perfectly honest with you,” Trein grumbled. “But then again, making impulsive decisions in the name of parental affection is far from a novel concept.”

Divus scoffed. “Ah, yes. Because that’s what the runt needs. A mockup of fatherhood bearing down their neck at every turn. It’s like he’s not even bothering to actually try.”

“Someone ought to be,” Mozus said, pointed. (And it certainly wasn’t going to be him. He had two, lovely, wonderful daughters to fill his heart. There wasn’t much room left for anything else.)

Crewel glowered at him miserably and sighed in a drawn-out sort of way that was not dissimilar to someone taking a too-long drag from a cigarette.

“It’s not something that fits with…” he hesitated, as if trying to chew over the words into something palatable. “I have no desire to give up everything that I’ve ever wanted to see in myself, to give up everything I’ve worked for, just to mold myself into some—some glorified babysitter.”  Something stuck unpleasantly in his throat and he had to clear it twice before continuing. “Especially for someone who may very well be leaving this world forever in a few months as it is.”

The clock on the wall ticked obnoxiously through the silence. Each little second fell in a heavy clunk. clunk. clunk. that echoed around the room with all the gentility of a gong. After a long moment, Trein sighed into his glass.

“Being a parent is not about sacrificing your own sense of self in order to cater to your child,” he huffed. “It is about being there to nurture the development of their own.”

Crewel pointedly averted his gaze to one of the ugly, cat-centric, paintings on the wall.

“And perhaps for you a handful of months may not be sufficient,” the older man continued, swirling his wine. “But I’m sure for the Prefect, it would make all the difference in the world.”

.

.

Detention continued, despite your stacking ‘managerial responsibilities.’

Thankfully, it had mostly turned into you sitting in Crewel’s office while you sorted through whatever paperwork you were expected to file and complete. Sometimes a good chunk of the pages would disappear from your ‘in progress’ pile and reappear—perfectly completely and in order—at the end of the evening. You were dead set on never addressing it ever, because if you did he might stop. And he was probably the only reason you were managing to get any of it done on time at all.

Even with Professor Crewel’s help, you were still slow today. And as the night crawled to a close, you found yourself staring at a stack of blank pages without a thought to go with them. The only thing swimming in your head was murky tar and the cloying taste of black magic that came with it.  

“Is there something you want to discuss?” Crewel called from his desk across the room. “You seem distracted.”

“I can’t,” you grumbled, something wobbling in your jaw. “Not to the people I want to talk about it with at least.”

Something shuttered slipped across his expression, and he nodded and went back to his own work. You stared at him for another moment, debating.

“What do you if—” you froze and hurriedly looked back down to the pen in your hands.

“If…?” Crewel pressed.

You sighed. “You know, sometimes you care about people, yeah? And maybe they’re not always perfect, but you still care. But then…” You chewed at your lip. “I don’t know. Can people still be good if they do bad things sometimes? Like, if you’d disagree with them completely, but they see it as right anyways?”

‘They’d be taken away?’

‘I know it sounds scary, kiddo. But that’s what we have to do to keep everyone as safe as we can. Does that make sense?’

You thought of Riddle, and Leona, and Azul, and Jamil. And now Vil. You grit your teeth so hard they started to ache.

Professor Crewel looked a bit startled, and you couldn’t really blame him. It was the most you’d spoken to him in weeks.

“I suppose that would depend on you,” he said after a moment. “And if that ‘disagreement’ was big enough to change how you viewed them entirely.”

“I don’t know…” you frowned. It certainly felt like something big. But...

“Well, what have you done about it?”

You blinked. “What?”

He waved his hand at you, and that pointer of his snapped across his palm. “Have you told this person that what they’ve said bothered you?”

“…well, no,” you mumbled.

“Then that’s what you need to do first,” he said, firm. “You won’t have an answer to anything you’re fretting about until you can face that at least.”

“And then what?”

Professor Crewel hesitated then, his mouth working as if he couldn’t really decide what he wanted to say. Or maybe like he was thinking over his words very, very, carefully.

“Do they know that they’ve done wrong by you?” he asked at last, not quite as sharp as before. “And—more importantly—if they know they’ve upset you, are they trying to make it right?”

You had a sudden feeling that he wasn’t really talking about your question anymore. The words settled heavily in your gut, but not in a way that was entirely unpleasant. More like the comfort after eating a full meal rather than the all-encompassing dread that so often took residence there instead. You thought of fancy cookies, and dogs, and cozy coats that were warmer and softer than the best blankets you’d ever used.

“Right,” you said after a moment, and glanced away with a secretive sort of smile. “I guess that would be the most important bit.”

.

.

TAG LIST [CLOSED]

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[ao3commentoftheday]

This is my reluctant fandom rivalry story. It’s long. Please bear with me. 

A couple years ago I got into a major (read: very active) fandom. I wrote a few fics, then began what would become my longest WIP to date. That WIP generated a lot of interest, and as the smut escalated, I started getting more engagement with a fic than ever before – especially after posting a scene in which the characters finally hook up, in a very kinky and unexpected way. While working on this story I was following the work of other writers, and at one point a certain author who is pretty prolific and well-established in the fandom posted a finale to a work that they hadn’t updated in a long time. 

Seeing as how this work featured an uncommon ship dynamic for the pairing I write for – which my WIP also featured – I was interested to read this particular work. Then, when I got to their newly-added finale, I was astonished: it featured a scene that very closely paralleled the hook-up smut scene that I had just posted about a week or so prior, to a startling degree of similarity. So here were two characters in a very specific relationship dynamic—ages differing from canon—who were hooking up in the exact same way as my characters (also of this age/dynamic), down to the very same environment and scene context – the same uncommon blocking; same uncommon smut scenario – in a way that I’d thought was highly original when I wrote it (I haven’t seen anything like it before or since), and posted very close behind when mine was posted! The author even went out of their way to say that they’d actually written that scene “months ago,” and were only just getting around to finally posting it… /: *suspicious eyes*

You can see where I’m going with this. 

While not exactly plagiarism per se, that author received a tremendous amount of positive feedback from their many followers, while my chapter received a comparably modest response (though still very positive by my own standards, being so new to the fandom). I also worry that a good number of shared readers had encountered the other [popular] story, first, then caught up with mine after, only to wonder if I had copied the other author (unless they bothered to go into “chapter index” -> “full page index” to confirm publication dates, it would’ve looked like mine came after once I posted the next chapter). 

I decided not to confront them about it, though. There was no way I could prove that it wasn’t “parallel thinking,” even if it would make for a very odd coincidence. The wording was not the same, but it was structured very closely to what I’d written, including certain spicy details. I didn’t want to stir up drama in a new fandom, especially with such a popular author, lest I inadvertently alienate myself. 

But here’s the thing: I decided to just be flattered that my work had "inspired" theirs, and I tried to get past any lingering resentment by befriending them. Left kudos and the occasional nice comment on their work. Followed them on tumblr. Liked/RB’d their posts. But they steadfastly ignored me completely, for reasons I can only guess at. We have many common mutuals and they never like/reblog even my most popular posts (though these must cross their dash), though they will promote similar posts by anyone else. 

Over a year later, I’ve continued to follow this author’s work, keeping an eye out for other “coincidences” (though it’d be very ballsy of them to "borrow" from me again, since my work is more widely read now). Meanwhile, I have risen in popularity, myself, and while still not as popular as that author, I’m very proud of my own contributions to the fandom, and feel that my writing is a lot stronger than theirs. So I really shouldn’t let it get to me, but seeing them around all the time, being praised for their mid-level works and interacting with so many of my mutuals (while giving me the cold shoulder) still rankles me. Recently they even posted something about showing common courtesy by not stealing others' work in fandom, etc. that really rubbed me the wrong way. I stewed over it for way longer than is healthy. 

Any advice on how to navigate this one?

I want to enjoy my time in this fandom, but their ubiquitous, icy presence and my own lingering paranoia casts a pall over my experience.

This is one of those situations where you either need to confront them directly and let the chips fall where they may or you need to block them on every platform you share and pretend they don't exist.

You can't seem to get past what happened in the past, but you're also not talking it out with them. That means that you're stuck where you are until something changes. That thing is either messaging them directly or removing them from view.

Do not write a callout post. From what you've outlined here, you have a suspicion with no solid facts one way or the other. Writing a public post will just create fandom drama and having been tangentially involved in that before, do. not. recommend.

Personally, I think you need to evict them from your mind because they've been living there rent free for too long. But that's just my opinion. What do the rest of you think?

You can also find this ask mirrored over on Dreamwidth.

[shadowqueenjude]

Azriel stood there silently, staring at Rhysand as he gave him instructions.

“So, are you ok with it? Dealing with Eris?”

Now, Azriel was no political expert, but he didn’t see how this could possibly work. “You do remember the High Lord meeting, right?”

Rhysans shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his chair. “So?”

Azriel’s shadows swirled agitatedly around him. “Where I, you know, tried to strangle him?”

Rhysand snorted. “Helion was into it, you know.”

Azriel bared his teeth at Rhysand. “Is there anything that man isn’t into? The point is, I hate him and I’m sure Eris feels the same way about me. It’ll be a disaster. Besides, I am no courtier.”

Rhysand slammed his hand on the table, leaning forward. His violet eyes were filled with rage. “You will do as I say, Azriel. Mor is in Vallahan, and after the Nesta incident, we cannot use Cassian anymore. After Solstice, one would think you’d have stopped trusting yourself to make intelligent decisions.”

Azriel blushed, but he sent all his raging back at Rhysand. “Fine,” he grumbled under his breath. “I’ll do it.” Not like he would’ve dared disobeying Rhysand anyway.

“Good. I accept a full report by midweek.”

Azriel spent the next few days researching the Autumn Court with the help of his good friend Gwyn. She was very helpful and clearly very clever, but no one could cram this much knowledge into a few days. Whatever. Perhaps he’d just kill Eris for good this time. What did they even need him for anyway? The image of Mor nailed to the border of Autumn caused his hands to clench into fists.

Prick. Cunt. Asshole.

It didn’t matter how many names Azriel called Eris; it didn’t change the deadline fast approaching. Fuck. What would Azriel even say? He was no good at this shit. He scribbled down a few opening lines on a piece of paper that he shoved into his pocket, trying to soothe his anxiety. He felt naked without his usual Illyrian leathers, dressed in a black and gold doublet which was so far out of the realm of something he would wear. This seemed ostentatious even for Rhysand, but something that Eris would approve of. Yuck.

Azriel’s shadows tried to send him soothing thoughts and words, one of them going so far as to caress his cheek. Azriel slapped it away.

It’ll be ok, Azriel. Just stick to the script.

Azriel melted into shadow and reappeared at the meeting location. All words emptied out of his head, filled with only a pounding rage that saw a vulnerable target that ought to be taken out. Azriel walked towards him silently, blending into the shadows. On the last few steps, Azriel leapt at Eris, who whipped his head around so fast that Azriel didn’t see it coming.

Eris blasted him back with fire, pinning him to the ground in orange-red manacles. Azriel’s shadows swirled around him maniacally as Eris smirked at his supine form. His body glowed with an aura of flame, a sound like crackling embers emanating from his form. Such a contrast to his dark, silent form made to blend in.

“They didn’t send the general this time?” Eris crooned. Cassian. Azriel gave away nothing. Eris pulled out a dagger- Nesta’s Made dagger- and began cleaning his nails. “Well, thank the Mother for that. Perhaps you, at least, will speak like someone who has had an education.”

Azriel scowled. “You know just as well as I that I possess no political acumen.”

Eris shrugged, that smirk not leaving his face. “Worry not, shadowsinger. The bar is…exceptionally low.”

Eris had the ability to turn a compliment into an insult with the slightest turn of phrase. It rankled Azriel, who struggled against his chains of flame, trying to sneak his way out.

Eris tsked. “Already sick of me, Illyrian brute? My my, you lot have no stamina,” he drawled. He conjured a chair and sat on it, facing his prisoner. “Any news from Night, Azriel?”

Azriel kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t about to reveal precious information without Eris giving something as well.

Eris chuckled. “See?” he crooned. “Already better than Cassian. He would’ve been spilling everything to me before I even had the chance to ask.”

A mocking compliment, but Azriel couldn’t deny that some part of him relished being better than Cassian. Cassian, who’d slept with his love Mor out of jealousy. Cassian, who Feyre, Rhysand, and Mor all preferred to him. Cassian, who had an Archeron mate while he did not.

“What is happening with your father,” Azriel asked flatly. Eris’s smile faded. “Lucien and I exchanged some information while I visited Spring. You’ve stationed him there for the time being, yes?”

Azriel clenched his teeth and nodded. Eris continued, “He told me that Tamlin and Tarquin intended to start relocating Spring Court refugees in Summer back to Spring, and well…it seems that somehow my father has gotten word of it.” He fixed his piercing amber eyes on Azriel. “My father intends to infiltrate the refugee train. Spark violence there. I’m sure his goal is to take down Spring and Summer in one swoop.”

Cold trickled down Azriel’s spine. The Hybern war had left them all vulnerable, and it seemed that Beron would stop at nothing to obtain all of Prythian for himself.

“Then you must know,” Azriel said quietly. “We had an intergalactic visitor recently.”

Eris’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, the only sign of his surprise. “What?”

“It seems that there are some who have the ability to travel through worlds,” Azriel continued. “The girl who came…she has revived the Dusk court. Beron may be coming after that abandoned land too, and he may be seeking allies outside of this world. Allies far more formidable than even Koschei.”

Eris scrubbed his face, true emotion shining in there for once: worry. “This is crucial information. Thank you for telling me, shadowsinger. I must return home straight away.”

Taken aback by the abrupt announcement of his departure, Azriel whispered, “How are we going to stop him?”

Eris smiled, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Trust me, shadowsinger. I’ve been dealing with him for centuries.” Then, to Azriel’s eternal shock, Eris knelt before him, his eyes searching and open, his face soft. He pressed his hand to Azriel’s cheek, bending his face over so that their lips were centimeters apart.

“I look forward to working with you more often, shadowsinger,” Eris murmured, and Azriel felt his breath against him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe until Eris stood up and winnowed away.

The manacles disappeared with Eris. Azriel got up, brushing the dirt off of his clothing. He cursed himself for letting him get so close, for letting him affect him so, for not being more vicious.

He hated that he liked Eris Vanserra more than his own found family.

For Day 1 of @azrisweek contrasts

also tagging @hieragalbatorixdottir

[inoreuct]

What if, in some circumstances which I cannot even think of, Sanji cannot cook himself and has to tell Zoro what to do.

And Zoro's sword skills are NOT equal to his knife skills 😭

Sanji also would use fancy chef vocabulary to give commands like "now sauté those onions until they're godlen-brown" or something and Zoro's like da fuck's a co-lander. why would you need like 5 different pans.

BADABING BADABOOM HERE YOU GO REG MY DEAR technically pre-rs but they act like they’ve been married decades. ANYWAYS enjoy 🤭🤭

Zoro swore as the knife slipped again, skidding flat against the chopping board with a dull scrape that made him wince. 

In hindsight, this was all the stupid cook’s fault. Bastard just had to go and break his arm; Sanji had tried to do things one-handed for a while before he’d evidently gotten fed up and stuck his head out the galley door to scream for Zoro to help with lunch at top volume, apparently under the assumption that since Zoro was a master swordsman he’d be able to handle knives.

And by all rights, he should. He was the demon pirate hunter. He carried his best friend’s dream like a talisman in his pocket. He wasn’t going to let himself be bested by a fucking vegetables and a knife.

But Zoro was quite certain that barring his sense of direction, he had never been quite this bad at anything in his entire existence. 

The garlic had been miniscule, the celery had been too fucking slippery, the onions had made his eyes burn, and now this stupid carrot kept trying to run away from him. He could handle rough chops, sure; but when Sanji was being all picky about— 

“I said medium dice, marimo, not mutilate.”

“I don’t know what that fucking means, shithead,” Zoro gritted, not even bothering to turn around where Sanji was sitting at the dining table. He re-aligned the knife and felt inexplicably betrayed when it slipped again, slicing diagonally into the carrot. It was a miracle he hadn’t taken off a finger yet. 

He felt stupid. Awkward and useless and out of his element, it was just cooking, for fuck’s sake—

“Marimo.” 

“What,” he snapped, fingers tightening around a wooden handle. Sanji’s tone had gone soft around the edges and it rankled him, made him feel irrationally angry like a tiger pacing around in its cage, trapped and seething—

“This one’s on me,” Sanji murmured, coming around to hover by his side, something Zoro couldn’t identify in the set of his face. “Shouldn’t have assumed that you’d be good with knives just because you’re good with swords.”

The words sent a wave of panic through Zoro, stomach dropping fast enough that he ran his mouth. A need to please he hadn’t felt since he was a child. Desperation not to disappoint. “Shut the fuck up, I am, I just—” He snapped his jaw shut, pressing his teeth together hard. “Just… Give me a minute to figure it out.”

“You’re already doing better than I was, when I started,” Sanji said lightly, hair falling across his face as he tipped his head. 

“You were a child,” he ground out. The knife clattered as he put it down to shake out his hands. “S’not saying much.” 

The cook hummed, strangely gentle. “Still. It’s alright—”

“I don’t want your pity.”

And, oh. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Pity. Zoro felt like a dumb kid again, and it was so much worse because it was Sanji. And he didn’t want to think about the implications of that, so he sneered, “Don’t look down on me, shitty cook. You and your fancy-ass cooking terms and your hundred and one pans and—”

Sanji cut him off with a bark of a laugh, tossing his head back. His left arm was immobilised in a sling, tucked close to his body as he moved behind Zoro and reached around him to pick the knife up again. “Your brains must really be full of moss if you think I’m looking down on you. Come on.” He offered Zoro the handle, and the swordsman didn’t need to look to know that Sanji was smiling over his shoulder. “One last try.”

He worked his jaw for a second, and huffed through his nose. “I fucking swear, curly, if I get cut—”

“You won’t,” Sanji replied, resolute as he watched Zoro take the knife. 

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re not stupid and I’m not careless, especially not with you.” 

The last part had been a little quieter, riding on a rushed breath, and Zoro eyed the cook pensively as slender fingers wrapped around his hand.

“Here. Like this.” 

With Sanji’s help, he cut the carrot into lengthwise sticks and then neat cubes, chopping up a few more before dumping the whole lot into a bowl with most of what he’d already cut. Sanji shifted away, poking a chopstick into the oil he’d left to heat.

“See the bubbles?” he murmured, peering down into the pot. “That’s how you check if it’s hot enough.” He twisted one of the knobs down before grabbing the vegetables and dumping them in, shifting the pieces around with a wooden spatula as they sizzled gently. “This is a mirepoix,” he said, pronouncing it meer-pwah. “It forms the flavour base of a lot of dishes. The aim is to use low heat, cook it down really slow— so that it doesn’t burn and you bring out the sweetness.” 

He was speaking softly enough that it could have been to himself, but the commentary was obviously for Zoro’s benefit, and Zoro. Did not like how that was making him feel at all. 

They were quiet for a while as Sanji did his thing, and the swordsman crossed his arms as he leaned his hip against the counter. The sun filtering in through the window was lighting Sanji’s hair up gold, washing his features in a subtle glow that emphasised the softness of his expression, relaxed and so entirely in his element that it made Zoro’s chest ache. Made something press up beneath his lungs, made it hard to breathe, and it ached.

Impervious to his inner turmoil, Sanji continued, stirring frequently as the galley started to smell really good. “When the onion turns translucent, that’s the sweet spot—” The chopped (more mushed, if Zoro was inclined to be honest) garlic from earlier went in with a vicious sizzle, then a few dashes of different sauces and a good pour of chicken stock. “Could you get the black pepper?” 

Zoro grunted, grabbing the grinder from the corner and putting a few good cracks into the pot as Sanji added salt, stirred one last time, and propped the lid on partway. “That’s it?” 

“That’s it,” Sanji confirmed, smirking, but not unkindly. “Once that simmers down it’ll be our soup, and I’ll just have to cook some noodles. I was planning for mussels in a garlic butter white wine reduction and seared scallops with this delicious spiced pomegranate and herb glaze, but— I think that might have killed you.” Something must have shown on Zoro’s face, because the cook laughed, bright and easy. “You did good, marimo, all things considered. I’d probably be horrid at sword fighting. We’re even.”

Zoro scowled, fighting back against the spark that flared in the depths of his chest at that thought. Sparring with Sanji, in his element, giving the cook shit for it but also helping. Teaching. “Hurry up and get better, and we’ll see.” 

Sanji groaned, rolling his eyes even as he chuckled. “You’re gonna kick my ass, aren’t you.”

Maybe. But even more than that… He thought about how Sanji had held his hand over the knife, patient but not condescending even though he could have been, the skin of his wrist cool against Zoro’s forearm. The look on his he face as he did what he loved and the way it had made something warm bloom behind Zoro’s sternum. The swordsman let his teeth peek in a lazy grin as his chin tipped up; an entire challenge. Half of the bite. “We’ll see.”

fin.

[bellygunnr]

Broken Out of Time

A commission piece for @bloodgulchblog -- a Pilot/Chief fluff piece. This was really fun to write.

----

"Joy."

John sinks down into a crouch, hunkering further down behind the worn boulders they'd been using for cover. The elements of his HUD jitter as Joyeuse shifts attention, which he also feels in the connection between his NI and armor, which some part of him translates into fingers trying to tickle his neck. It's uncomfortable.

"Joyeuse," he says, firm. "Where'd Esparza go?"

She makes a humming sound. John takes stock of their surroundings while she plays nice with components of his armor, cycling through the various scanning functions to locate their wayward civilian.

"I thought you were watching him," she replies-- with enough grace to sound slightly abashed and guilty.

He grunts and detaches his pistol from the magclamps on his thigh.

"And I thought we were watching the birds," he returns evenly.

They were watching the birds, to be fair. Zeta Halo differed from his previous experiences on Forerunner structures in that it had a functioning… ecosystem… of sorts. With the remaining UNSC forces securing a tight foothold, he'd felt he could start relaxing his stranglehold on procedure and start-- something. Appreciating things. As it turns out, false suns feel just as warm as real ones.

"It's a little disconcerting to see birds use brass shells for mating displays," Joyeuse says. "Fernando doesn't have any proper IFF markers. I don't know…"

And he'd-- what? Relaxed enough to let a civilian sneak off into unknown territory and get himself lost? He twists around, staring intensely at his surroundings, waiting for details to seep out of the long grass and compacted dirt, like remnants of Esparza would suddenly make themselves known.

And they did-- eventually. Boot prints. Impressions of knees in the dirt. Headed further away. John carefully follows the tracks and picks his way down the rocks, closer to the thin bubbling creek that coalesces into a river in the distance. Joyeuse casts out another round of scans.

Ah.

John forgoes scaling the remainder of the terrain in favor of dropping down right behind his charge. Or, he would have, if Joyeuse didn't throw out the mental equivalent of an arm across his chest.

He freezes in place. Esparza lays prone in the grass. She highlights a handful of silhouettes. Ah.

Esparza must have snuck off to obtain a closer look at a different set of wildlife. Zeta Halo also possessed a number of rodent-like creatures (that the marines and personnel made quick work of eating). He sees them now, dipping their naked heads into the water for a drink.

Briefly, he wonders if the rings are capable of seasons. Then he shunts that thought aside and hunkers down beside Esparza.

"Hello," John intones.

Esparza jumps in his skin and bites his tongue on a yell. John stifles a surge of mixed emotions -- guilt and pride, mostly, with a tinge of amusement.

"Wear a bell," Esparza says, shaking his head.

"You snuck off first."

He blinks at John, expression scrunching up, radiating surprise.

"Guess I did."

John shifts his position in tiny increments. He doesn't want to disturb Esparza, nor does he want to disturb the animals they're watching. But this particular area has even fewer sightlines than the outcropping and it's-- rankling him, might be the word. Yeah, the sergeant uses that word a lot. Now it's in his vocabulary.

Joyeuse's good humor at the phenomena is a burst of sunlight down his spine.

"My house was on a prairie," Esparza says suddenly. "Country home. You know. So we got a lot of critters like that in the evening."

One of the rodents stands upright.

John casts back for a memory, maybe something to relate to Esparza (as he can learn to converse, Cortana would be--), and makes a listening grunt.

"My kid learned pretty quick about the circle of life though," he finishes. "Or…"

He trails off, stymied by the ground shaking seconds before the vibrations sink into the Mjolnir. Two of the rodents bolt off into the grass. The third lunges into the water and paddles determinedly to the other bank. This puts it within throwing distance of them for all of a second before it vanishes into the ground.

Joyeuse had been correct about the burrows, then.

Esparza opens his mouth and snaps it shut as the air around them rapidly shifts. A crimson Banshee roars overhead, followed by an UNSC aircraft.

"Let's move," John says.

He instinctively reaches over to Esparza, but his charge is already on his feet and retreating. More guilt and pride assaults him but he stuffs it down in favor of hurrying back to the Warthog on which they came. Joyeuse automatically switches over to friendly radio chatter and yeah-- that's contact.

Banished making a move on the local FOB.

"Can never catch a break, can we, big guy?" Esparza laughs.

John waits excruciating seconds for Esparza to buckle in before flooring it.

No, they can't. But the lulls are nice while they last. He thinks Esparza understands when their hands overlap on the shifter.

[jackactuallywrites]

Drunk and Disorderly

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x you

Rating: Mild violence, you break your nose and it gets bloody. Also Matt is a dick!

Warnings: Blood, broken nose, male chauvinism, mc gets pinned down and can’t move

Summary: It’s training day! And you’ll never guess who’s there to supervise.

Notes: We love making Ghost a simp

Word Count: 1,695

ao3 link

“What kind of freak actually likes training?”

Elle was never one to keep her opinions to herself, outwardly questioning your excitement, and you rolled your eyes at her, “Someone who’s interested in becoming an officer someday.” She bumped you with her hip as you walked to the open grass field where training was taking place, “Or someone who wants to get a little government-sanctioned one-on-one action with this country’s best and brightest.” Naturally, being a romantically conniving woman, Elle had taken your newfound friendship with Ghost to new dastardly levels, always quietly scheming in the background, coming up with all sorts of scenarios that would put you in close contact with him. Of course, you’d considered that very situation; physical training was always a good excuse to get up close and personal, but being in different military branches, it was entirely unlikely that Ghost would be part of the army’s training.

Unlikely, but apparently not impossible.

Ghost was standing at the head of the group of soldiers that were now splitting into smaller units, his eyes cast in shadow by his mask, a white bone skull secured into place over his typical black balaclava, though his thick jumper had been replaced with a plain long-sleeved tee. He looked more intimidating than usual, even in the bright sunshine, a great behemoth towering over the regular-sized folk. Elle paid him little attention, already dashing off to fit herself in a small unit, no doubt fancying someone in it, leaving you alone, though not without giving you an exaggerated wink, nodding her head towards Ghost and making a vulgar gesture with her fingers before abandoning you entirely.

Of course, you’d joined the military to gain confidence, so you had little problem standing alone, slipping your way through the milling soldiers to the front, where you came face to face with the man himself. If he took notice of you, there was no indication of it, his eyes slipping straight over you to look elsewhere. Ghost wasn’t looking at you, but the man to his side was. Soap. The memory of you mistaking him for Ghost’s paramour still rankled in the back of your mind, but you tried to keep the visceral cringe off your face, staring straight back at the slightly shorter man, wondering why he was looking at you so inquisitively. He pointed at you, then at a small group of soldiers to your left, a silent command, and you obeyed without question, even if you were still silently curious of his intentions.

With the groups sorted, Ghost spoke up, his voice a far cry from the softness of that night, entirely back to his usual brusque tone. As he spoke of technique and stance, you noticed the way he kept his arms folded over his chest, his biceps flexing, and you wondered whether he was doing it purposefully. His orders were brief, and he allowed everyone to begin their sparring, resting his hands behind his back as he prowled between groups, occasionally correcting posture and grip. You would have liked to have continued watching him, yet it was your turn to step into the ring, so to speak, facing your opponent, a man whom you were sure you’d seen Elle getting off with at some point or another.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, you were flat on your back; the wind knocked out of you, your opponent pinning you down, twisting your arm until you tapped out. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so distracted by the loud sound of Elle’s fake giggle, you would have been able to hold your own for longer than a few seconds, but as luck had it, you’d bit the dirt in record time. Your opponent, who you’d finally recalled as ‘Matt with the tongue’, took an irritating amount of pleasure in your easy defeat, releasing your arm but remaining sitting on your back. “How did they allow a bird like you into the forces? You’d be absolutely wrecked in the frontlines.” You huffed, wriggling slightly underneath him, “They need some intelligence behind the lines to direct daft cunts like you in the right direction.” “Intelligence didn’t stop you from getting battered, though, did it?” He shifted on top of you, crushing your lungs underneath his weight, and you tapped out again, “Fuck off!” “Not until you say please.” Yet again, stubbornness might be the death of you, but you would not give in. Not to a man like that.

“Break it up. Now.”

Perhaps Ghost was some sort of divine creature sent only to visit you in your most humiliating moments. He was here now, watching you struggle to breathe under the other soldier, your hair sticking out like pins from a pincushion, your face redder than a tomato. At least Matt finally got off you, allowing you space to breathe, and you glared daggers at him, rubbing your ribs as you remained on the floor. From your position on the ground, Ghost looked even more gigantesque than usual; his eyes narrowed as he looked down at you, a look of quiet irritation on his face, his arms folded over his chest. You sat up, smoothing down your hair and adjusting your beret so it sat properly once again, though there was little you could do for your dignity.

“Your form was sloppy.” You went to protest, but Ghost silenced you with a single gloved finger, pointing his hand at Matt accusingly, “If she were armed, you’d have a knife in your ribs if you were lucky. You only got away with it this time because your opponent was smaller. Allow me to demonstrate.” With one hand, Ghost reached out and wrapped his fingers around Matt’s arm, tossing him to the ground in a single fluid motion. He wasted no time in putting his knee in the small of the man’s back, pushing him against the muddy grass and twisting his arm behind his back. Matt gasped and tapped out almost immediately, but Ghost remained still, looking over at the small group around him, “With this leg positioning,” he used his leg to lock Matt’s in place, “and the firm grip on the arm, your opponent will be totally immobilised.” The last twist he gave Matt’s arm was entirely unnecessary, but you weren’t about to protest. “Try to get up.” It was impossible not to enjoy the sight of Matt struggling, with Ghost using seemingly no effort to keep him firmly in place. It was barely even a second until Matt huffed, “I can’t.” Ghost stood up, allowing Matt to regain at least a little of his shattered ego, and he turned to the rest of your group, “I expect better from the rest of you. Each of you will demonstrate the correct position on him.”

There was no denying that it was fun to watch all the other soldiers grapple with Matt, pushing his face into the mud each time, but when it finally came to your turn, you baulked. Every other soldier had been fairly beefy, and though you weren’t a dainty little creature by any means, Matt was still far more powerful than you, and you could tell by the glint in his eye that he was holding you accountable for all the humiliation he’d been through today. You knew what was coming for you before it even happened, Matt shifting at the last second before you’d even got into position, slamming you down into the ground. Pain shot through your nose instantaneously, accompanied by a sickening crunch and the disgusting feeling of blood dripping down your skin.

What happened next was something of a blur; you heard Matt get knocked off of you and the shouts of the soldiers watching, as well as what felt like all the weight of a freight train go sailing overhead. The other soldiers were at your side, sitting you upright and tilting your head forward so the blood wouldn’t drain down your throat, one of them offering you a tissue from his pocket so you could stem the flow. The bellow from beside you was ear-deafening, the words clear even in the rage, “Get him out of here, Soap, now.“ You were more concerned with stemming the blood from your nose, as well as the kind words from the soldier attending you, letting him reset your broken nose. Elle was by your side; you could hear the seldom-heard fury in her voice, mouthing off to Ghost himself as she demanded nothing less than Matt’s head.

As expected, Ghost refused, citing that there would be proper disciplinary proceedings and not a gung-ho beatdown by a superior officer.

The dramatics were over almost as soon as they’d begun; Matt marched off by Soap’s side as Elle watched reproachfully, sitting by your side, having taken over the other soldier's job of fussing over your face. Ghost watched Matt walk away and then rounded on you. You expected a lecture about being more careful, but instead, he reached out for your face, his fingers gently holding onto your chin as he turned it this way and that. You could see his brows furrowing under the black paint, and his thumb brushed over your cheek in a blink-and-you’d-miss-it gesture. He leant back on his heels, looking at Elle, “Get her to the medics.” Elle needed no convincing, wrapping her arm around your waist and lifting you as though you’d been seriously injured. You shrugged her off, “Babe. It’s a broken nose. Not a chest wound.” Elle huffed, but she begrudgingly let go of your waist, replacing it with your hand as she led you towards the main base. When you’d finally gotten out of earshot of the rest of them, she gently squeezed your hand, “So are we going to talk about Ghost going all caveman on Matt?” “Matt was out of line, and he deserved it.” “Are you hearing me argue against that? I’m just saying you were totally the damsel in distress.” “Can we have this conversation after they dope me up?” Elle hesitated but gave in, “Fine. But we’re not letting this go. Man has a thing for you.”

[colormepurplex2]

Did It Hurt? | Sweet Kiss of Hellfire

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

⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to series masterlist

Taehyung

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Most likely?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

🤍🤍🤍

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Extraterrestrial. I knew it.”

That makes Taehyung laugh. “More like celestial.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re being serious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, did I call at a bad time?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you then.”

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

It’s a relatively short walk, considering the amount of foot traffic crowding the sidewalk near the hub of downtown. Once there, though, time seems to drag to a standstill, minutes ticking by feeling like hours.

Taehyung rolls his shoulders as he lounges against the brick wall outside of the state building where the gala is being held. The burning itch seems to grow more persistent with every step he takes toward redemption. Thankfully, a beautiful distraction dripping in red comes along to take his mind off of it.

“Hello,” Taehyung greets you brightly as soon as you come into view from around the corner at promptly fifteen minutes until three.

You’re like a breath of fresh air in your crimson slip dress. The slit comes nearly to your hip on the right, the black pumps on your feet making it so the dress is just an inch from brushing the sidewalk. Your makeup is light, with a subtle smokiness around your eyes and a smear of gloss on your lips. Taehyung wonders if it’s flavored.

“Hi.”

“You look beautiful.” Taehyung watches as your eyes dip down and a faint smile traces your lips.

“Shall we?” you ask, flicking a hand toward where there are various bubbles of people gathered outside the doors to the building, all waiting for entrance.

Taehyung offers you his arm and delights at the feel of your hand settling into the curve of his elbow. It feels good to have you touching him, even in such an innocent manner. Almost too good, which is alarming, and Taehyung has a moment of weakness where he considers shaking your hand free and pretending he didn’t offer you his arm to begin with.

Pressing beyond the swell of confusing and contradicting thoughts, he turns his attention toward making it inside the gallery hall. The sooner he gets things rolling, the sooner he can put all this behind him and finally be whole again.

There is a small procession leading inside, photographers capturing snapshots of guests in front of a giant Bianchi Holdings backdrop just inside the atrium entrance. It rubs Taehyung the wrong way how there is so much money being flaunted here when just a few city blocks away there are homeless encampments. The rich really are a different breed of monster, all sharp fangs and poison.

“Did Ryan tell you any more about that surprise he has planned?” Taehyung asks, eyeing roving over the crowd for familiar faces.

Your hand flexes against his elbow. “I wish,” you murmur.

That’s concerning. Taehyung doesn’t like surprises. He’s still thinking about fitting his hands around Ryan’s neck and teaching him a lesson as the photographer snags a few photos, and you lead him inside.

The hall where the gala is being held is decorated in flashy opulence. Everything is gold. Shimmering fabrics cover the tables, and golden statues sit as center pieces along the drink bar. The chandelier hanging in the center of the banquet hall reflects the warm, yellow sunlight coming in from the large glass skylights overhead.

Just as Taehyung is steering you toward the drink table, he catches sight of Lorren Bianchi standing on the far side of the room, talking to none other than Roy Simmons. “Do you want to meet him?” Taehyung asks in a low whisper.

You stiffen by Taehyung’s side, your fingers digging into his arm, and he’s almost certain he can hear your molars grinding together. A few moments of silence pass, and Taehyung is about to say to forget it when you respond, “A drink first.”

With a whiskey in his hand and a flute of champagne in yours, Taehyung slowly ushers you across the room. He stops periodically, introducing you to other attendees, nameless cogs that are part of the big machine. Finally, Taehyung catches Bianchi’s eye, and with one flick of his Rolex-encircled wrist, he beckons you both over.

It’s no surprise that as soon as Bianchi’s attention is diverted from him, Roy Simmons slinks away into the shadows, eyes wide like he has seen a ghost when you come into view. It makes Taehyung want to laugh, but he bites his tongue instead.

Taehyung keeps half his focus on you, making sure you’re okay as you come face to face with the man who altered your entire world a few years ago, the man who has been your number one enemy since he stole the light from your life and the smile from your face.

“Ah, Mr. Kim, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t sure you were coming after I heard you canceled on Ms. Torshen.”

It takes tremendous effort for Taehyung not to grimace. It’s not such a bad thing, having canceled on his prospective business venture plus one. If things go according to plan, then Taehyung won’t even be needing that business prospect anyway.

Giving you a fond smile, Taehyung says, “Yes, well, as you can see, I’ve discovered something far more…alluring.”

He can see it, the irritation in your eyes at being referred to in such a manner, but it was discussed heavily on Saturday night that Taehyung might have to act a certain way at the gala if he was to make it believable that he’s as a typical guest.

Bianchi’s eyes sweep over you, devouring the plunging neckline and high slit of your dress. Taehyung has the sudden urge to gauge them out. Lorren Bianchi is a snake, complete with green-grey soulless eyes and too-red lips that part around a slick tongue as he licks them.

“Lorren Bianchi,” he introduces himself, offering you a be-ringed hand.

There is a mild tremble to your free hand as you slip it into his. He brings your hand up and brushes his lips over your knuckles. “Ginger. Ginger Weller.” It was agreed that tonight you would continue to be Ginger, one last performance.

“Weller? As in the old Weller Conglomerate?”

As insisted by Ryan, you nod. “Yes.”

You’d never taken on a last name for your persona, but Ryan has enough big ties to his name that it would be impressive in a place like this while not drawing too much attention. Ryan’s adoptive father retired and sold off the business for a hefty sum before filling Ryan’s bank account and running off with his mistress to Bali.

“Father?”

“Step,” you offer quickly. Taehyung can tell you’re panicking about it with this line of questioning, and now he wants all the more to throttle Ryan for this stupid idea.

“If you’ll excuse us, I need to get my donation in before I forget,” Taehyung says, interjecting into the conversation to try and steer it away from you. You’re only supposed to be his proverbial arm candy tonight, close enough to get the job done but far enough that you won’t get caught in the crossfire when things go south.

Bianchi, his gelled-back black hair glinting like a knife in the overhead light, claps Taehyung on the back. “See to it that you do. Ms. Weller, a pleasure.” He gives you an oily smile before turning and stalking away.

Taehyung sighs, steering you toward the other side of the room. “I’m going to strangle your only friend,” he mutters. “What a ridiculous idea. His surprise better be a good one, or I might just…” he trails off, shaking his head and not finishing his line of thinking. If Taehyung were to voice such dark thoughts aloud, he might just think the heat he felt along his neck was the kiss of Hellfire instead of annoyance.

“Give him a break. He was just trying to be helpful since you weren’t able to get him a pass in,” you grump beside Taehyung, but he can tell you’re not putting much effort into the chastisement, your thoughts clearly elsewhere.

It would seem suspicious if Taehyung didn’t actually stop by the donations table and at least put on the front that he’s donating. So he tugs you toward where the familiar face of Bianchi’s assistant is sitting at a table covered in a gold-crushed velvet tablecloth with a laptop in the center.

There have only been a few occasions where Taehyung has interacted with the young woman, but she doesn’t even look up from where she’s tapping away at the keys on the laptop when she says, “Mr. Kim, how much are you donating tonight? Will you be using the same method as last time?”

Taehyung clears his throat, garnering him a quick glance over the rim of her glasses. Giavona Bonetti is just as much of a snake as Bianchi is. She’s complicit in all of his devious ventures, her hands just as much covered in blood as his, except hers also gloat a tinge of green. Taehyung knows she’s tremendously jealous but also extremely greedy. Bianchi pays her for her discrepancy and infallible loyalty. When he goes down, her ship will sink, too.

“Fifty large, same method,” Taehyung says, earning a bewildered look from you. He shrugs, not sure what you expect from him in this situation, he’s trying to make it all look believable.

Giavona clicks a few things on the laptop, her eyes flicking to him once more before she gives him a saccharine smile that turns into a viper’s sneer when her eyes slide to you and says, “Done.”

“Thanks,” Taehyung murmurs, eager to get you away from the woman before she says something that would actually make him voice some very dark, choice words aloud.

“Friend of yours?” you ask, clearly amused now. Which, to Taehyung, is better than the anxiety he felt rolling off of you moments earlier.

Taehyung just gives you a pointed look that makes you laugh softly, mischief twinkling in your eyes. Taehyung decides he likes that look on you. Almost as much as he loves the dress you’re wearing, even if it is a bit distracting right now with how the fabric pulls tight every time your chest rises with your inhales.

“Come on, we should be able to make it out the back without drawing too much attention now.” Taehyung watches as the light slowly dims from your eyes, and your lips press into a thin line, bringing you back to why you’re here in the first place.

It’s easy to find a way out the back entrance. The hallways and rooms outside the banquet hall are mostly empty, with just a few service workers diligently running trays of drinks and refills on napkins. Their heads are down and ears closed, as is expected of them during events like this.

A blacked-out utility van is parked in the service alley near the dumpsters as Taehyung leads you outside. Ryan’s stoic face is barely visible through the driver's side window. He pops open the door and jumps out, complete in a full black outfit, as if he’s about to crawl through some air vents in a spy film. Taehyung rolls his eyes.

“Ready to set the world on fire?” Ryan asks you, digging in his pants pocket, his easy boy smirk rubbing Taehyung the wrong way.

You finally let go of Taehyung for the first time since you took hold of him out front. He feels bereft and suddenly far too cold for the mild weather outside. Taehyung watches as you step toward Ryan and accept the thumb drive he holds up.

“It’s all here?”

“Everything.” Ryan nods, confirming.

Taehyung steps up beside you, eyes focusing on the small stick of plastic pinched between your thumb and forefinger. “What’s the surprise you have?” he asks Ryan without taking his eyes off the flash drive.

Ryan claps his hands, rubbing them together. “I was worried that the local PD might not make it here on time to arrest Bianchi before he could slip away into the shadows, so I let on with my FBI contact that something big would be going down tonight. I sent him a copy of everything on the flash drive, and he’s ready for the show to go down before he makes a move.”

Taehyung begrudgingly has to admit that’s a good idea, a pleasant surprise. Yet, he doesn’t want to give Ryan the satisfaction of saying so, so he just grunts in response. But you, you throw your arms around Ryan and give him a hug like one Taehyung wishes you would afford him.

It’s as endearing as it is irritating, watching you have a moment of vulnerability and tenderness with Ryan. Taehyung might not care for how close Ryan is to you, but he’s glad you’ll have someone to lean on and move on with once he’s gone. It’s not that long now. Taehyung can feel it; his redemption draws closer with every step he steers you away from the path of vengeance and toward one of justice instead.

The fact that he’ll get to one day watch over you, guard you through the rest of your life, is what keeps him moving forward. It’s what helps take the sting away from realizing he’ll have to let you, this goddess that brought him so much vigor and light in such a short amount of time after a hundred years of bleak desolation, go.

“Thanks, Ry,” you say, finally pulling away from the embrace. “Are you ready?” you ask, turning your big, bright eyes on Taehyung. You’re full of life once more, ready to take on the world—or, more so, take on Lorren Bianchi. Taehyung wonders what you must be thinking, knowing everything you worked so hard for the last two years is about to pay off. He can taste the adrenaline pumping just beneath your skin. The excitement twinged with mild dollops of trepidation like lemons and cream on the back of Taehyung’s tongue.

“Ready,” Taehyung affirms, offering you his arm once more.

🤍🤍🤍

You hope Taehyung can’t tell how nervous you are. The rush of blood in your ears and the pounding of your heart have become just background noise to you at this point. You can feel the electric tingle of adrenaline under your skin. It’s what’s keeping you going.

The flash drive is cupped under your fingers, resting in the crook of Taehyung’s elbow as he leads you back inside. Ryan has the back door of the van open, waiting to take you and Taehyung away once you’ve delivered the crushing blow, toppling Bianchi’s empire.

It wasn’t easy, agreeing to follow the path Taehyung offered you instead of pursuing your original desire just to murder the bastard. You want him to suffer, just as you’re certain Danika did. Yet, you were always struggling with the fact that death was less than he deserved. You just weren’t sure how else to go about giving him an eternity of misery.

All you have to do is fit this little piece of technology into the projector that’s set up in the media room and let it play out. Roy Simmons provided everything you asked him to. Which, if you’re being honest, surprised you.

You spent the entire day yesterday pouring over everything you’ve collected over the last two years, the stuff Simmons gave you included. It was horrific, digging through all the memories and the disgusting piles of evidence. But, in the end, you know it’s going to be worth it. The evidence is irrefutable. Ryan said with all the additional information he’s been feeding the FBI over the last two years, Bianchi is dead to rights.

The added bonus that Ryan’s FBI friend is hanging out somewhere in the crowd is comforting. That was something you weren’t sure about with Taehyung’s plan. There was no guarantee that releasing all this evidence and proof of Bianchi’s foul deeds would see him suffer the way Taehyung promised he would. Now, though, you can see it all playing out perfectly.

“The speeches will be starting soon,” Taehyung says, nodding toward the stage where you can see Bianchi’s assistant setting up. There is one of those giant fake checks sitting on a rack behind her, the amount box blank for now.

“Did you really give up fifty large tonight?”

Taehyung flashes you a smile as he leads you back through the main entrance of the banquet hall. The media room is accessed from the staircase in the central lobby of the state building.

“Worth it.” He shrugs. “As dangerous and depraved as Bianchi is, most of the money is actually going to be donated to The Children’s Fund. There are mediators here that will see to that as long as the FBI doesn’t put a freeze on the accounts…which, well, is possible. I guess I’ll just have to make another donation myself.”

A thoughtful yet dark expression crosses Taehyung’s face for a moment, but it’s gone before you can think more about it. He’s still, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to you, yet he feels like a lifelong friend already. There is just something enigmatic about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on but find yourself hungering for.

When you started your journey for revenge, you never thought you’d get a life beyond the final act. You were ready to go down swinging against Bianchi, ready to take that fall, knowing you did right by Danika for the mistake you made all those years ago. Yet now, you can almost taste the freedom that will come after—the life you hadn’t thought was possible.

You’re about to make a remark, something about the FBI tying up the donations, but it dies on the tip of your tongue as Taehyung stops in front of a closed door. The placard above the door reads ‘Media Station Ballroom 1 & 2’.

Trying the handle, it rattles in place. “Locked,” you state, suddenly feeling very stupid for not thinking ahead about this potential.

“Not to worry,” Taehyung assures you. He steps away from you, letting your other hand drop to your side, where you clutch your fingers around the flash drive. The sudden urge to wrap your hand back around Taehyung, to touch him in some way, overwhelms you and nearly takes you to your knees. But, you force the feeling down, steeling your shoulders and holding your place,

Pulling his wallet from his back pocket, Taehyung produces a small set of tools from inside the folds of leather. “A lock pick?” you ask. He’s just full of surprises.

“It comes in handy sometimes,” Taehyung says, giving you another one of those winning smiles. “Here we are.” There is a soft popping sound and then the door swings open, revealing the darkened interior. Whoever set up the audio for the event is long gone.

Taehyung reaches for your hand and you let him take it. The feel of his slender fingers cupping around yours is even better than holding onto his elbow. It feels right, like his hand was created to fit around yours perfectly. What you wouldn’t give to step into this room with him, close and lock the door behind you, and stay there forever. No more blackmailing, no more Bianchi, nothing else would matter.

Your brow pinches together as you snap out of the fleeting fantasy. It’s not possible to just close the curtains and fade into the background. You’re not even sure where these thoughts are coming from. Focusing back on the task at hand, you point out the large panel display on the far side of the small space.

“Do you want to stay and watch the show for a bit before we disappear?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. You’re scared to speak too loud, not for being overheard and caught, but because it feels like if you talk too loud, you’ll break the spell of what is about to happen.

Warm brown eyes, made to look more greenish with the blue glow from the electrical panel, meet yours, and the warmth you find there is comforting. For once, everything doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, like this is the true path you’re supposed to be on instead of the one from before Taehyung walked into your life.

“Maybe for just a little bit,” Taehyung says just before he helps guide your hand toward one of the USB ports on the control panel.

The flash drive slides in, clicking into place. There is a view window that spans the width of the room over the panel. It’s one-way glass that looks out over the banquet hall. From this far up, Lorren Bianchi looks like a gangster figurine from a kid’s toy set; almost harmless, but you know better. He’s accepting a mic from Giavona.

Audio filters in through a small monitoring display showing volume levels and mixer channels. The column for microphone one lights up green, the bars jumping as Bianchi’s voice reaches your ears.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us at this year’s annual Bianchi Holdings Charity Gala. We are honored for each and every one of your donations. They will be going to a wonderful cause.” Applause fills the silence following his greeting. As it tapers off, Bianchi gestures with a hand to the blank projector screen behind him. “We have prepared a short presentation to highlight the goals we are setting this year, and so you can get a glimpse into what you may look forward to from your generous donations.”

Giavona points a slender remote at the small hub beneath the screen, and the whole thing illuminates with the beginnings of the presentation the marketing team under Bianchi put together. There is a murmur of appreciation as information scrolls across the screen, introducing the list of city-wide planned projects.

Little do these people know that Ryan spliced the presentation, one of the many things Simmons provided, so it initially appears to be just as it should be. Slowly, there are subtle changes: images that were once smiling and laughing children playing in the new Bianchi Park, to ones of emaciated children locked in cages.

You watch—poised beside Taehyung, his hand still firmly around yours—as realization bubbles through the gathered masses. You can’t hear the words he’s saying, but you can see Bianchi yelling at Giavona, his face red and his hands flying through the air as he gestures wildly at the screen.

Giavona holds up the remote, and you can see her thumb jamming away at the keys, to no avail. The program Ryan encrypted on the flash drive is designed to take over full control. The only way someone can shut down the now very incriminating presentation is with the passcode Ryan set himself, which even you and Taehyung don’t know.

The screen flashes, changing from the slide-show style to a shaky phone recording. This is the moment you were dreading the most, what you weren’t sure you could stomach seeing. Yet, you hesitate to turn away, feeling like you owe it to Danika to witness this.

Her face fills the screen, with dark bruises under her eyes and her hair hanging in greasy blond clumps around her face. Bianchi moves into the frame, shrugging out of his suit jacket and letting it fall to the floor beside where Danika kneels. Her hands are in her lap, her chin angled down, a slight tremor rattling her shoulders.

You refused to watch this when Ryan was putting together the flash drive on Saturday as you worked together, compiling all the information you needed to take Bianchi down. He offered to let you watch it at your own pace to prepare yourself for eventually seeing it. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Maybe you were trying to punish yourself, but you wanted to watch it at the same time as Taehyung, at the same time as everyone else in the gathering below. You wanted to feel that searing heat and pain of devastation, a reminder that even after everything, you’re still human inside.

Taehyung’s hand tightens around yours as you both watch on, bile slowly trying to work its way up your throat. Bianchi is trying to rip down the screen now, but even as the sheet ripples, you can plainly see him walk up behind her and strip his belt off. He’s talking to the person recording, but the audio isn’t clear, just the scratching sound of fabric.

You know Roy Simmons is the man behind the camera, his phone tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket. When you caught wind that there was a video out there somewhere, being passed around the inner circle as a laugh, you knew that was your ticket. That was what you needed to put the last nail in Bianchi’s coffin. Roy Simmons was a fool looking for his own source of blackmail and just so happened to end up on your list because of it.

By this time, Bianchi has abandoned the screen, trying to make his way through the crowd towards an exit, but a group of men in black suits block his path. It plays out just how you imagined it in your head, Bianchi meeting his downfall as Danika struggles for breath on the screen, belt firmly wrapped around her throat.

You gasp, jerking around, unable to watch any longer. Taehyung gathers you into his arms, pressing your face into his chest. “It’s over now,” he coos. “Shh, it’s okay.” You don’t realize you’re crying until now, heavy full-body sobs. “Come on.”

It doesn’t bother you, being swept up into Taehyung’s arms. If anything, you burrow further into his chest and cling to him as he carries you, bridal style, down the stairs and through a service hallway to one of the back entrances.

Lorren Bianchi isn’t the only one getting what’s coming to him today. The list you’ve been checking off for the last two years was sent to Ryan’s FBI friend, along with everything else you collected. There are easily two dozen people inside that will be leaving the building in restraints.

Police sirens are blaring in the distance, angry yells echoing from inside. But all you can seem to focus on is the warm body supporting yours. Everything is a blur. You don’t remember getting in the van or the drive to your apartment. You’re only vaguely aware of the semi-argument that Ryan and Taehyung have about who should take you up to your place, but it seems Taehyung wins out because minutes later, he’s settling you on your bed.

“Please don’t go,” you rasp when he steps towards the door.

Taehyung stops and slowly turns back to face you. “You should get some rest.”

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you say. You’ve spent the last few years seeking solitude, worried that if you let someone get too close, you’d hurt them when you ultimately found yourself paying for your revenge—a price you’ve never thought twice about paying. Only now, that price tag is a bit different, things are different, thanks to the man standing there with his hands in his pockets and an unreadable expression on his angelic face.

He gives you a slow nod before moving back over to the bed and giving you a gentle nudge. “For a little bit.” Taehyung smiles, helping you move over so he can sit with his back against the headboard. He guides you back down and seems surprised when you rest your head in his lap, but he doesn’t insist you move.

It could be minutes or hours later, but there is no longer sunlight peeking around the heavy drapes covering your windows, and you feel thoroughly wrung out. Your emotions sit heavy on your chest, a constant pulse that waxes between numb and aching.

Taehyung has been silent. You’d think he had fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the way his thumb periodically traces soothing circles over your shoulder. Even though his presence is definitely what’s keeping you from falling apart right now, you need a distraction...a way to feel something other than that pulse sitting in the middle of your chest.

Maybe you’ll look back on this moment and chalk it up to a moment of weakness, but right now, you don’t care. You just need…something, anything. Taehyung startles as you move, pushing up onto your knees. “Taehyung,” you whisper his name like an evocation of prayer.

“What is it?” he asks, eyes searching your face.

“I need,” you begin, wringing your hands to try and keep them to yourself. It doesn’t work, your fingers capture in the lapels on his jacket. You use them as leverage to fit yourself into his lap, the slit of your dress parting over your right thigh to let you press your knees to either side of his hips. “Please.” You’re so close you can feel his accelerating breath puffing against your parted lips.

You watch as Taehyung’s throat works. His entire body is tense under yours, like he’s fighting against the urge to toss you aside and run away. Which, maybe, he is. Your thoughts flicker to how he reacted when you were touching him on the couch two nights ago, how quick he was to get away from you.

“I–I don’t…you haven’t even told me your real name,” he says, a line forming between his brows as he fists his hands into the duvet to either side of your knees.

A light laugh escapes you, and it feels good. “That’s easy,” you say, pressing yourself closer until your mouth is right beside his ear. You whisper your name before capturing his earlobe between your teeth and eliciting a moan from deep in his chest.

“Fitting for a goddess,” he murmurs. “But, I…there’s something…this isn’t—”

You lean back, smoothing your hands over his crumpled jacket, luxuriating in the feel of his lean chest under your palms as you do so. “Please, Taehyung. Make me feel something else, remind me that it was all worth it.”

Taehyung mutters something under his breath, sounding strangely prayerlike. He wraps his arms around you and anchors you against him. Conflicting emotions are dancing in his eyes, and he’s shaking his head, but his mouth meets yours in permission and acquiescence.

Opening to him comes easy, unbidden desires flaring to the surface to take over your lips and tongue. The dress slides smoothly over your head, leaving you completely bare to his gaze. Whether removed by your hands or his, clothes begin to disappear. You both pull and tear, fighting to remove all the barriers between your bodies.

You settle back on his lap, shuddering at the feel of his hard cock pressing along the slit of your pussy. Warmth kisses your skin wherever Taehyung touches. Deft fingers skate over every revealed inch, lingering to knead and savor. Heat envelopes your nipples, one after the other, as he wraps his lips around them and sucks.

“You’re so beautiful.” Taehyung emphasizes his words with vigorous sweeps of his hands over your ass and nipping bites down the valley between your breasts. “Heaven is Hell compared to you.”

You moan, enthralled by his words. Shifting your hips, you begin to rock against him, the head of his cock catching on your clit with every fervent motion. “I need you,” you gasp as he flexes his hips under you as you continue to move.

“I’ve, uh, it’s just that I haven’t—” Taehyung chokes out when you stick a hand between your thighs and grip the base of his cock, intent on sinking down onto his length.

It all makes sense now. Though, how Taehyung has managed to go his entire life remaining a virgin is a wild thought you’ll have to think on later. “Do you want to?” you ask, poised over him. You won’t do anything he doesn’t want to, no matter how much you might want it.

Taehyung pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, a storm brewing in his eyes. You’re certain he’s about to turn you down—gently, of course—but when he opens his mouth, it’s a pleasant surprise, “Yes.” His mouth hangs open, tongue poking out over his bottom teeth as he works a hand down alongside yours, helping you fit him against your entrance. “I do,” he grunts as he slides into your tight confines.

The swell of him inside you is the perfect mix of pain and pleasure. He’s almost too big, stretching you full, but as you begin to rise and fall over him, it turns into nothing but a swirl of hedonistic euphoria.

His exhale becomes your inhale, the breath shared between you tastes of lust and desire in ways you’ve never felt before. You’ve heard good sex described as a godly experience, but you thought it was simply an exaggeration. But the way Taehyung makes you feel, the way his body moves with yours in perfect sync, seems to transcend all your previous experiences, a level worthy of epic stories and star-bound fantasies.

You move over him, undulating your hips in a way that has you both letting out soft moans. His cock is stroking so deep you’re certain he’s connecting with your soul, washing away all of your misgivings and sins with each stroke.

“I’m going to cum,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around him in an effort to pull him in even deeper. Your fingers graze over the sharp ridges and bumps on his back, and his entire form shudders against you. The puckered skin is blazing, emanating a heat you’ve never felt before. Taehyung buries his face in your neck and groans, his fingers dimpling the flesh of your ass as he drags you up and down his cock even faster.

It feels like reaching the pinnacle of your existence, a frozen moment in time full of stilted breaths laced with ether as you both shatter in shared rapture. Taehyung cries out, the pulse of his cock accompanying a flood of warmth between your thighs. It builds, starting at your fingertips and toes and rippling inward, feeling like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your body contracts, clamping down around him as if it’s been starved of his essence, and the only way to satiate it is to take as much of him in as possible.

With every quiver of your body, you feel Taehyung’s cock throb in tandem. It’s overwhelming, the rush of adrenaline and dopamine makes your head fuzzy. Suddenly, you feel like you’re floating, arms and legs numb but weightless.

“My beautiful goddess,” Taehyung’s voice is faint like he’s talking to you from underwater or at the end of a long tunnel. You try desperately to hang on to that rough baritone whispering sweet words, but your consciousness narrows to a point before winking out, and darkness sweeps in.

🤍🤍🤍

Taehyung

Staying isn’t a good idea. As much as it pains him to move, Taehyung knows he has to get out of here before he does something stupid like fuck you again. Squeezing his eyes shut to dispel the erotic images of you writhing in the throws of ecstasy above him, he gently untangles your body from his and retreats with his clothes into your living room.

He’s messed up. Again. Taehyung can feel the burn of gluttony and lust coating his skin. Skin that is still sticky from your sweat and cum. There is a distinct knot in his chest, a thrumming point of awareness that tells him despite his fuck up, he’s still succeeded in his mission. You’re on the right path. He’s brought you to absolution. Perhaps, if he could leave quickly enough, none of his brothers would have noticed his latest transgression.

Dressing quickly, Taehyung takes stock of everything else he feels. There is a very prominent burning ache where his wings once were, your touch still lingering on the scarred flesh. He hates to leave you like this, especially after what the both of you just shared, but it’s for the best. At least you’ll still retain your memories of him, and you have a bright future ahead of you, or else all this was for nothing.

Taehyung shoves his feet into the shoes he left by the door and then pulls it open. The hallway is empty, the elevator beckoning him on. The first step into the hallway is easy, but the second feels like he’s trudging through mud. He can’t even take a third.

“You just can’t seem to quit, can you?”

Fear lances through Taehyung as that voice registers to him. It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in one hundred years. A flash of fiery light at the end of the hall reveals Gabriel in all his Divine and Angelic glory, a face like lightning and eyes that blaze with flaming power.

“Brother Gabriel,” Taehyung chokes on his brother’s name, shame thickening his tongue.

“I knew we were far too lax in your punishment, Taehyung. One hundred years and yet you still couldn’t keep it in your pants. You’re a disgrace,” Gabriel spits, eyes flashing with rage.

“Brother, please—” Taehyung tries.

“You are no brother of ours!” Gabriel cuts in, lashing a hand through the air.

With a sad look in his eyes, Raquel steps out from around Gabriel. Taehyung catches a glimpse of the Divine Chamber of Justice behind them. “You are no longer welcomed within our Sacred Groves or Holy Lands, Taehyung. Heaven casts you out. We, the Council of Grace and Purity, cast you out. May your soul rot for all eternity in the Fiery Pits of Hell for your sins and folly.”

In the next instant, Taehyung is falling, cartwheeling through a cloud of brimstone and smoke. He hits hard, the impact cratering the dry, pocked dirt beneath him. The air is so hot it sears his lungs with his first ragged breath. Something twitches under him. Agony blares through his body as he realizes his wings, once again where they should be, broke his fall.

Only now, they are not the snow white of before but a black so deep it seems to suck up the feeble light around him. They are splattered with red, crumpled feathers and shattered tips. They droop pitifully down his back and over the dusty ground as he sits up, fighting back the urge to scream from the pain.

Taehyung is whole once again, yet more broken than ever before. Despair rages through him, but not at his own loss but for the thought that maybe his brothers are now punishing you, too. It’s torture to think of them removing the memory of him from your mind. Taehyung lets out a heart-wrenching scream, the sound echoing far and wide in the emptiness around him.

“Peace, Brother.” The voice infiltrates his mind, cutting off his ragged scream.

“Who’s there?” Taehyung asks, voice raw with emotion.

The most beautiful creature materializes a few feet away. Lithe body, hair the color of bottled ink, and eyes darker than any pit. Dark wings flare out, casting dappled starlight over Taehyung that kisses his pain away.

“Your salvation.”

“Samael?” Taehyung whispers in awe as his once brother steps closer.

There is a coy smile on Samael’s face. “I’m surprised you recognize me, Brother. It’s been quite some time since I last saw your handsome face.”

“What are you doing here?”

Samael throws his head back in a full-body laugh. “Oh, dear sweet Taehyung, you get cast down into my realm and need to ask me why I’m here?”

Taehyung looks around, but there is nothing else here, just an endless stretch of the same gritty, ashy dirt. He slowly climbs to his feet, swaying only slightly as his body adjusts to the weight of his wings on his back once more.

“This is the 9th Circle?” he asks hesitantly.

“Holy Hells, no,” Samael chuckles, much more subdued this time. “This is Limbo, Purgatory, whatever you may want to call it. It’s an in-between place. A place where new souls come before I decide where they go. Those pompous white-fuzzed peacocks in Heaven think they get to choose where in Hell beings go, but they are sorely mistaken. No one makes that decision but those of us who rule this Hellspace.”

Taehyung swallows thickly, ready to accept his fate. “I’m ready. Send me to my fate, then, Brother.” It feels right, to bequeath Samael his proper title of Brother. He may not have seen Samael in that light for a long while, but Taehyung is part of this faction now…he’s as fallen as Samael and the others.

Samael claps his hands together, the stone-colored robes he’s wearing swish as he strides closer to Taehyung. “So eager to burn in Hell? All for some pussy. I always knew you were one of us, Brother. A breaker of the rules, someone crafted to go against the grain.”

“It’s not—it wasn’t,” Taehyung wants to protest what Samael is saying, but even he knows the truth and can’t bring himself to lie anymore. “It was worth it.” That truth sits better on his tongue. Because, even though he’s now facing an eternity of torment for it, seeing you smile and get lost in him will be the memory that sees him through to his end.

“Given the chance, would you do it all over again, just the same?” Samael asks, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Taehyung doesn’t have to think too hard about that. Sure, there are a few things he’d do differently, like sock Ryan in his perfect mouth for insisting you use his last name at the Gala for one, but everything with you? The only thing Taehyung would do is introduce himself to you sooner.

“More or less,” he finally says.

“Just what I wanted to hear.” Samael points a slender finger at Taehyung’s chest. “Your potential would be wasted in Hell. So, I have something else to offer you.”

Taehyung listens to Samael with rapt attention, his eyes growing wider and the hunger in his heart increasing with every word. It’s simple to accept the offer, Taehyung doesn’t hesitate. Moments later, deal signed, he finds himself standing back in front of your apartment door.

Creeping back into your place, Taehyung leaves a trail of his clothes as he makes his way back into your bedroom. He’s not sure how much actual time has passed, but you’re still soundly asleep, the sun nowhere to be seen outside your curtains.

It feels good to slide beneath the sheets. Even asleep, you reach for him, cuddling close with a contented sigh. Your memories haven’t been tampered with, Samael assured him of as much.

The phantom feel of his wings tickles along his spine. It’ll take some getting used to, having them back but shrouded the way they are. It’s part of Samael’s deal, keeping his wings. He’s now one of the Fallen, a guardian of the outcasts, the beloved beings that don’t always fit into the mold set forth by Heaven.

And the best part? He gets to keep you, too. Which, in the end, makes falling not hurt all that much. No, it doesn’t hurt at all.

⇽Previous Chapter ◅ Back to series masterlist

◅ Back to Master List ©️    2024-01-30    ColorMePurplex2  

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Arranged! Verse, when Bruce (or Alfred, either works) find out how abusive her parents are, or sum along those lines?

"You're lucky you're beautiful because if you weren't there's not much else you're good for."

"I know father, I'm sorr-"

"Don't interrupt me, goddamn it!"

The sound of a fist hitting wood makes Bruce tense where he's waiting- ostensibly to talk details. And he isn't sure what occasioned this little meeting with your father but it's disgusting.

The rest of the conversation is drowned out by a conveniently timed leaf blower. Leaving Bruce to cool his heels in the sitting room off of your father's study. Anyone looking would think you'd been doted on. Positively spoiled. Horses, tutors, expensive boarding schools... the works. Photos of you smiling for the camera. Your parents looking suitably smug... It didn't jive with what he just heard and it rankled.

It wasn't until you walked out the doors, back resolutely straight, startled for a second at seeing him there that he takes a moment to look at you.

It seems he'd only hit the desk. Or perhaps a shelf. Perhaps he'd learned to keep his hands to himself. Or your mother was the one who got physical- not as adept at intimidating with words so she resorted to other means.

Last night you'd been crying. Worried sick about today. You'd told Batman about being summoned. Unloaded months of hoarded anxieties. Things you were too afraid to even put in a diary for fear the little bit of freedom you did have would be stripped away if you complained.

"Alfred will see you home," he said simply. "I'll take your car back"

"I- I wanted to-"

"Alfred will see you home," he repeated, "Or anywhere else you would like to go."

"I-"

"Don't argue," your father snapped. "Do as your told."

And as you retrieve your keys from your purse and hand them over, careful not to touch him, Bruce tries not to notice how hard your hands are trembling. Whatever had been said to you had evidently warranted the worry from last night. But he'd have to wait to find out what was said. Tonight Bruce Wayne had to see and be seen. But tomorrow was another story.

[sky-kiss]

Hi! I have a slightly strange proposal. Maybe this will interest you. Breaking the fourth wall. I saw a video of Karlach talking to a player. She said she learned this trick from the devils. Raphael probably does this too. He talks to us using Tav. Good day! Thank you in advance if you take it up and if you don’t. Love your writing~

A/N: Ok, I apologize. Wasn’t entirely sure what you were looking for here. So just. Have a quick little address from Raphael. Because I do like the idea that he knows he's in a game and all his schemes are for nothing.

___

Raphael: If God has ever been mad at anything I've said, he hasn't done shit about it. So he either doesn't care or he's a coward.

___

The most significant frustration in the universe, more than his fractious bloodline, more than his sire, is that he lacks control. Raphael scrubs at his wrist, nose scrunching. The crown, his meticulous scheming, and centuries of work will all potentially come to naught. 

Because he is not in control, is he? He never was, and the thought rankles. He is a bit player in a more extraordinary story, the punchline to a joke he's never heard. Raphael is, for lack of a better word, extraneous. 

He's nothing at all. 

A player in your game. 

He purses his lips, eyes screwed shut, thinking. If you decide to end him, it will end. If you choose to aid him, he will succeed. Victory or defeat, all outside his control. Raphael strokes his chin. There are ways, of course, to sway you to his cause. You are not divine, not truly. He's watched your avatar's progress long enough to know that much. But you are powerful. And your champion is beyond what the Dead Three hope to rally. 

Tav is the answer. Tav is his conduit to you. 

He will trade you, ply you, make himself useful. There are items in his repertoire that might make your avatar's journey simpler. Secrets he could sell. If only you would see reason and help him. And it must be soon. The devil can feel the narrative shifting, turning against him. 

He'll turn it back. He'll bring you onside. 

He will turn the wheels of fate in his favor once more. He will not be a footnote. 

The next time he crosses paths with Tav, he begins promptly. He feels your eyes upon him and your interest. There's a note of something in your stare that he's entirely familiar with: desire, curiosity. He bows to you. 

"A moment of your time, my dear. If you might pause this delightful little…foray into the Shadows, I would treat with you," Raphael smiles, dipping into a low bow- the picture of charm and courtly grace. He feels your curiosity and preens. "I believe we might come to a...mutually satisfactory agreement."