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ipc-shareholder · 1 day ago

Text

Echos

Pairing: Aventurine x fem!reader

Tags: Fluff, mentions of past abuse, typical canon Aventurine angst

Summary: “I’ve forgotten most of the words,” he said, quieter now. “They're stuck in my throat when I try to say them. Some days, I can’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice. That terrifies me more than anything.”

You reached out, cupping his face. His skin was warm, steady beneath your fingers. “Don't let yourself forget, please. Teach them to me,” you whispered. “Teach me what you remember.”

The hour was too late for anything but truth. Calyx City shimmered distantly beyond the penthouse windows—its spires drowned in artificial starlight, clouds drifting low like ghosts. A gentle hum of power ran through the bones of the building, too faint to name but always there, like the breath of a great beast asleep beneath your feet. But in the bedroom, the silence reigned. Velvet-drenched. Heavy. Sacred.

You lay tangled in Aventurine’s bed, wrapped in cool sheets and slow breaths and the kind of hush that asks to be broken. He was on his back beside you, his mesmerising eyes half-lidded, reflecting the soft light above like molten glass. One arm curled under his head. The other rested loosely between you, fingers brushing your wrist in absent-minded rhythm.

You shifted closer, cheek against his shoulder, the press of his skin anchoring you in a world that too often felt like a dream. “Tell me about them,” you said quietly, almost reverently. “Your family.”

He didn’t answer at first. Only stared up at the ceiling, where shadows bled into each other and the quiet pulsed like a heartbeat. Then: “You don’t want that story,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft, unwavering. “I want to know.”

He sighed. The kind that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his ribs. His fingers curled briefly around yours. There was an unreadable shadow in his expression. The kind that came from memory, not pain. Or perhaps both. “Back on Sigonia we had this saying: The desert remembers everything,” he said. “Even if you don’t.”

He paused, the past pulling him under. “I was born under the rain— a blessed child my people called it.” A derisive scoff. "My mother used to believe I was a blessing, sent to free the tribe from their suffering and lead them to freedom." You listened without interrupting, your palm pressed to his chest, feeling the slow swell of breath beneath your hand.

“She had a voice like riverglass,” he continued. “Soft, but sharp enough to cut through storms. Even when her throat was dry, she sang. It was always music first. She said songs were the only thing that couldn’t be locked away or stolen.”

Your fingers stilled against his chest.

"My sister was wilder. Older than me, and always braver. She’d climb the dunes barefoot to chase the sun. Said the wind knew her name. Said it whispered it back in our tongue. She used to braid flowers into the hem of her sleeves. Believed they’d keep her gentle, even when we had nothing. She...” He hesitated. “She was the one who saved me... back then.”

As if against your will, your hand found his, seeking to comfort. To offer company when your words couldn't. “What was it like, the tribe?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Loud. Laughter always carried. We shared everything. Words. Water. Stories. Even grief.” The smile faded almost as soon as it appeared. “But that doesn't matter now that it's all gone.”

Your breath caught, the weight in his voice striking like a quiet drumbeat in your chest. You reached for him instinctively, drawing him in, but he remained very still, eyes distant, like he was staring across decades of sand and fire.

“You know the rest. I was taken,” he said, after a long pause, a sardonic smile on his face. “Put in chains. Sold like grain. Same old boring story.”

Your heart twisted at the mocking tone. How like him to make a joke out of it. “You were a child.”

“I was property.” His voice was flat. Unapologetic. “They beat our language out of me. Gutted it. Made me speak their common tongue. Taught me to kneel, to count credits, to serve. I learned quick. Quicker than they liked. Learned how to speak like them. Smile like them. Lie like them. I survived.”

He turned to look at you fully now. And you almost couldn’t bear the way he was looking—like someone who expected to be looked away from. But you didn’t. You never would.

“I’ve forgotten most of the words,” he said, quieter now. “They're stuck in my throat when I try to say them. Some days, I can’t remember the sound of my mother’s voice. That terrifies me more than anything.”

You reached out, cupping his face. His skin was warm, steady beneath your fingers. “Don't let yourself forget, please. Teach them to me,” you whispered. “Teach me what you remember.”

He blinked. Slowly. As if trying to decide if you meant it. As if terrified of what it meant. “I don’t need the right pronunciation,” you added, softer. “I just need you. I want to know.”

His breath caught—just barely. Then, after a moment, he spoke a word you’d never heard before. Ancient. Syllables shaped like wind across stone.He closed his eyes. “That means home. Not a place. A… resonance. The feeling of knowing you’re safe where someone speaks your name right.”

The syllables curled out of his mouth, soft and strange, yet musical. Alive.You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his brow, your heart caught in the fragile ache of the moment. “Say it again.”

He did. You repeated it, clumsy but careful. And again. Until he hummed his approval and reached up to stroke your cheek. Then came another word. Then another. Until your head rested over his heart and the two of you whispered secrets into the dark like children with life cupped between their palms. The past was a wound, yes—but tonight, in this quiet room where nothing artificial dared intrude, it bled into something else.

Something like healing.

Something like language.

And in the quiet hum of late night, lying between a past he thought he’d lost and the future you offered him freely, Aventurine spoke his mother’s words into your skin—carving them where no one could ever take them away again.

...............................................................................

It started the morning after. Not with ceremony, not with a lesson plan—just a word, half-whispered into the quiet while he kissed you awake. You had expected distance. That cool, practiced detachment he so often slipped into like silk gloves. But instead he asked you softly: “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

“Every word.”

“Then say it.”

And so you did. Your tongue stumbled over the syllables, your voice shy but sincere. You repeated the word he had whispered into your shoulder in the dark. “Del.”

“Heart,” he said, nodding. “Good. Again.”

“Del.”

Later, as you stood in the shower, steam rising around you, you whispered the words he taught you aloud.The words fogged the mirror. Bloomed on your lips.

He never told you what it meant to him. Not then. But you began to notice—these fragments of a broken tongue he scattered into the world like breadcrumbs. A word in the curve of a goodnight. A phrase muttered when he thought you were asleep. The faintest hum of a lullaby when he pressed a kiss to your temple before leaving the suite for a morning meeting.

They came without context. Without warning. As if remembering them aloud made them real again.

And you?

You collected every one. Cradled them like artifacts, like promises. Repeated them under your breath until they were yours too.

Sometimes, he would pause mid-conversation, eyes flicking distant, and say—“Vasha. That was what my sister used to call me. From a holiday I barely remember.”

Other times, in the quiet between kisses, his voice would slip into that old cadence, soft and rhythm-heavy. Your hand would slide beneath the sheets, find his. Hold on. “Tell me another word,” you would whisper.

He would close his eyes. Whisper a new word. You whispered it back.

The Avgin language became your rhythm. A private script passed between mouths, hearts, breaths.In the middle of the night, if you stirred and found his hand resting over your stomach, tight around you as if you might disappear, you’d whisper dear and he’d kiss your shoulder, murmuring it again like a blessing.

At breakfast, you’d grin at him across the table and say morning, and he’d glance up from the morning report, eyes warming like embers. It would take him three tries to finish reading it after that.

You wrote the pieces of sentences on scraps of napkin, on the corner of datapads, in the margins of IPC memos you weren’t supposed to touch. One time, you guessed a word you thought meant something like “beloved” and he dropped the glass he was holding, just staring at you. “That’s…” he said, blinking hard. "That’s what my mother called me"

“I guessed,” you whispered, not quite smiling. “You looked like you needed to hear it again.”

There was no written record. No alphabet. “I never learned to write it,” he told you once, voice hollow with something unspeakable. “I was too young when I was taken.”

You didn’t ask again.

He taught you words for fire, for wind, for anger that doesn’t pass, for grief that carves a person into someone sharper.

He didn’t always give you translations. Sometimes, he just spoke, and let the sound settle into you. One night, you said his name in the language—not the name he used here. Not Aventurine, the gleaming, sculpted mask. But the name you’d coaxed out of him in the dark.

He stilled. “You said it right,” he murmured, stunned. “I didn’t think anyone would ever say it again.”

You cupped his face, heart full. “Then I’ll be the one who does.”

And in the hush of those nights, between the empire he’d built and the boy who once sang to the dunes, you knew this wasn’t just memory.It was resurrection.

And you would carry it with him—every word, every note, every name lost to fire—etched into the living language of your love.

...............................................................................

The room was drenched in gold and pretense. Crystal chandeliers clung to the vaulted ceiling like teeth, and champagne glimmered like liquid light in every flute. The IPC’s latest negotiation gala was an extravagant theatre of false civility, full of laughter that didn’t reach the eyes and deals sealed with poison-slick smiles. You lingered near the terrace doors, half-shadowed by gauze curtains, your gown trailing like spilled ink across the marble. From here, you watched the way Aventurine’s jaw twitched behind the rim of his glass.

Immaculate in charcoal silk and violet-glass cufflinks, flanked by the predators of the corporate world. Executives, venture parasites, silver-spoon tech heirs who mistook arrogance for invention. He wore his charm like he wore his wealth: to precision. But beneath the surface—beneath the glinting glass of that too-bright smile—you saw it.

The flick of his jaw.

The minute tension in his shoulders.

The clench in his left hand, subtle, but not to you.

He was… barely tolerating the company.

“He’s back again,” you murmured, voice low.

Topaz, lingering nearby with a glass of glistening crystal, didn’t look up, just arched her brow. “Which one?”

“The bald one with the bad breath and the patent scam.”

She gave a low, amused sound that might have been a sigh. “He’s in hell, then.”

You sipped your drink, watching as the man launched into his third attempt at explaining an “emotionally intuitive wine-sorting AI.” “We’re all in hell,” you replied dryly. “But at least I have a view.”

Your gaze flicked back to Aventurine just in time to see the precise moment his composure cracked. He was nodding along absently while the executive in question—a jowly man with too many rings and not enough self-awareness—rambled on, oblivious to the barely restrained boredom in front of him. It was the faintest shift—a blink too slow, a drag of his gaze across the crowd like he was searching for the nearest exit—or a reason to endure it all.

Your heart twisted, unexpectedly. And then—He found you. A flicker. A heartbeat. His gaze found yours through the crowd like it always did, as if tethered. And there it was—that unspoken reach. The look of a man sinking in velvet quicksand, reaching toward the only thing that felt like breath.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the floor like the room didn’t matter, like the music and politics and smoke-laced perfume were miles away. You slid in beside him, feigning polite interest in the executive’s pitch. The executive barely registered you, still droning on about “sentient grape varietals.”

You leaned in, smile soft. Innocuous. And, beneath the sound of a thousand forged conversations, you whispered into Aventurine’s ear in the language only you and he remembered:

"The boy is a big idiot."

The words were simple, bits of phrases you heard him say strung together into a sentence. Petty. Childish. But then again, he was but a child when he started to forget.

There was a beat of stunned stillness—and then a sound burst out of him. Real and sudden and uncontainable.

Aventurine laughed.

Not the polished chuckle he used at board meetings. Not the silken amusement of the poker table. This laugh came from somewhere deeper—punched from his ribs, cracked loose from memory. His head dropped forward slightly, hand rising to cover his mouth as if to trap it. But it was too late.

The executive fell silent, blinking at him in confusion. Aventurine straightened slowly, eyes bright, smile dangerous now—too smooth to argue with. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said to the man, voice glittering like broken glass. “We’ll have to revisit this conversation. Later.”

His hand slid to your back, warm through silk, and with a practiced elegance, he led you out of earshot. "Sweetheart—” he murmured, voice thick with something that wasn’t quite amusement or gratitude. “Where did you learn to say it like that?”

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Had a very persistent teacher.”

He turned to face you fully now, eyes brighter, sharper, alive in a way they hadn’t been all night. There was something reverent in the way he looked at you—like you’d cracked the sky open and handed him back a sun he thought lost. “That’s exactly how I used to say it when I was little,” he said, laughing again—softer, nostalgic. “When my sister stole my things, I’d scream it through the tents like a curse.”

“I take it she didn’t give them back?”

“Of course not. She’d just laugh and call me something worse.”

“Unlucky?”

“Annoying.”

The laughter softened into something gentler, a hush that lived only between the two of you. He looked at you, and it wasn’t with amusement or flirtation. It was reverence. “You remembered,” he said after a pause. “Not just the words. The rhythm. The tone. The breath.”

You lowered your voice, suddenly shy. “I didn’t want you to forget.”

He gazed at you as if you were the only real thing in the room. Not as a partner. Not even as a lover. But as a witness—the only one who’d ever seen him unmasked, unnamed, and still wanted him more for it. He looked at you not as Aventurine the IPC executive, the man with a million faces and a diamond tongue—but as the boy beneath them. The boy who once sang under desert stars and called the rain his sister. “Thank you,” he said. "For giving me this."

You felt the breath catch in your throat. He hadn’t said it lightly. None of his mother tongue came easily. Every word he gave you was carved from bone, pulled from a grave he’d long thought sealed. “Then I’ll speak even more,” you said, your voice trembling. “So it never disappears again.”

He reached for your hand then. Not subtly. Not with his usual sleight-of-charm. Just… earnestly. A warm, grounding press of palm to palm.

Around you, the party roared on. Deals were struck. Contracts whispered over cocktails. But none of it mattered. Not in this sliver of space where the two of you existed outside time. He tugged you closer, just enough to tilt his lips toward your ear. “Let's go” he murmured.

You blinked. “Aventurine—”

He didn’t give you time to argue. “They’ve already bored me to death. I’d rather listen to you say the word idiot again. Maybe ten more times.”

You laughed, soft and incredulous, as he pulled you gently toward the terrace doors, away from the gold-drenched lies and into the evening air that still held the scent of memory.

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jungkoode · 2 days ago

Text

CODE : EPITAPH | 02

"valis core"

"The blade finds his throat before he finds your weakness. His fingers find one of your triplet markers before you can process the threat. And somewhere along the city walk, you confirm all Consortium pricks are, indeed, pricks."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5.5k

content: immediate violence as foreplay, combat assessment that becomes something else, forced proximity in public spaces, linguistic warfare via altsprek, namjoon's pov is cold calculation with cracks showing, biological profiling discussions, & the specific humiliation of being systematically excluded from your own mission briefing

|| veyrah sectors || consortium territories || the verge wastes ||

— author's note

SOOOOO welcome to my alien world monster, or as I like to call it: Code : Epitaph. Chapter 2, by the way. In case you didn’t notice. In case you stumbled in here by accident. In case you somehow read Chapter 1 and thought, “oh wow I bet this gets less intense now” — no it does not. It gets worse. I am so sorry. I’m also lying. I’m not sorry at all ( ◡‿◡✿ )

First of all—the POV shift. Did you catch that? We start in Namjoon's head. Cold. Clinical. Calculating escape routes and threat assessments like he's running some kind of biological Excel spreadsheet. I wanted you to feel what it's like inside the mind of someone who has systematically murdered their own emotional responses in favor of "optimization." The way he catalogs Y/N's every micro-movement, the way he processes her defiance as a puzzle to solve rather than a person to understand. It's chilling, right? It should be. Because here's the thing about Namjoon—he's not evil in the traditional sense. He's something worse. He's someone who has convinced himself that viewing people as data points is actually the moral high ground.

Now. This chapter… okay the first scene, sue me, it’s hot. I’m allowed one little war-crime-y sexual tension beatdown per chapter. It’s called balance. I really wanted to lean into actual antagonism and not that watered down “oh no we’re enemies but he’s soooo handsome” trope. No. These two look at each other and it’s like: ‘the moment I see an opening I will slit your fucking throat and smile doing it’ energy. And yes, it’s giving. I love writing fights where the tension is physical and psychological and primal and terrifyingly competent. Sue me (again).

And the fact that he wins? That he pins her against the wall with her own knife? That's not about his superiority—it's about the system that created him. He's been trained since childhood to be a weapon. She's had to teach herself in the margins, in the spaces between survival and rebellion. The power imbalance isn't just physical; it's institutional. It's generational trauma made manifest in the way he can so easily turn her own weapon against her.

Then we get the Boulevard scene, and this is where I'm really proud of the world-building weaving through character development. Y/N experiencing Valis Core's casual wealth for the first time, but through the lens of being stared at, being othered. And Namjoon just... not getting it. Not understanding why she's bothered by curiosity that he classifies as biological interest. The man really stood there and explained her own genetic heritage to her like he's giving a TED talk, completely missing the violent dehumanization inherent in that level of cataloging.

Which brings me to the offspring conversation. *nervous laughter* Yeah. I went there. Because here's what's so deeply fucked about Namjoon's worldview—he can discuss their hypothetical children with the same detached interest as analyzing crop yields, while she's standing there having a visceral trauma response to the idea of forced reproduction. The fact that he's genuinely confused by her reaction? That he has to clarify that the Consortium doesn't practice forced breeding? It tells you everything about how different their worlds are. He lives in a place where bodily autonomy is assumed (for certain things). She lives in a reality where every system is designed to use her body against her will.

This section was crucial because I needed them to finally… you know… talk. Actual talking. Not knife-to-the-throat foreplay, but proper verbal sparring. And since both Namjoon and the reader are from this world, I didn’t want to do the “hello and welcome to my alien TED talk on how Authority Levels work!!” info-dump garbage. Ew. No. We’re grown. We’re nuanced. We build the world through perspective and action, not exposition. So yes, there’s worldbuilding here — but you earn it through dialogue, through friction, through character perception. This is how we do it in this house.

Also. I’d like to formally say: Namjoon being Authority Level 7 is absolutely intentional. I’m so bored of main characters being max-level ultra-bosses with unlimited power and godlike status. That’s not compelling. That’s not tense. That’s a power fantasy. My stories are psychological realism in a bottle of sci-fi, and that means no leader-of-the-mafia/king-of-the-world/god-of-sex as the male lead. Jungkook in Kkangpae isn’t the boss, and here, Namjoon is not top of the food chain either. He has absolute control over Epitaph, yes — but not over everything. And I wanted to show how that creates interesting tension. Especially when someone mocks him for not being higher and he’s like “I am not bothered 😐” when clearly? Clearly he is. We love a composed man with ego microfractures. Yessss sir. Suffer sexily for us.

Also. His threatening non-threats?? Am I okay?? Why is it so hot when he says things like “perhaps you require further conditioning” without blinking?? WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT. Anyway. I’m opening my legs respectfully (metaphorically). Let’s move on.

The consent/rut cycle convo was something I’ve been meaning to include for a while—I actually got an ask weeks ago about how consent works during heats/ruts in this world, and I took it to heart. ABO tropes often lean into “no rational thought, must fuck,” but personally that never sat right with me. So I made my own rules. In Veyrah, enhanced biological states amplify want, they don’t invent it. Which means consent gets tricky—not impossible, not erased—just more complicated. You still have agency. You still have to choose. And I like that nuance. I like the tension of “I hate you, but right now I want you, and I hate that I want you.” Because I’m a hate-fucking apologist. Sorry not sorry.

But the masterstroke—if I can call my own writing that without sounding like a complete asshole—is the Altsprek scene. I’ve been WAITING to drop this linguistic little freak of nature into the story. Is it German? Kind of. Is it not? Absolutely. I don’t speak fluent German so I just butchered structure and phonetics until it sounded cool and scary and mildly fascist and now we have a made-up language that exists for science, for precision, and for exclusion (so if grammar is not consistent... well, suck it up; I'm a writer, not a linguist.) That’s the point. It’s the language of the Consortium. It’s how power speaks. And I loved showing how it’s used deliberately to shut the reader out. The way the higher-ups deliberately switch to a language she can't understand, discussing her like she's not even there. It's such a perfect microcosm of systemic oppression. They need her knowledge, her skills, her regional expertise—but they won't give her the dignity of understanding what she's being asked to do. She's simultaneously essential and expendable, necessary and excluded.

And Namjoon. My problematic son. He KNOWS what they're doing. He sees her frustration, understands the power play happening, and does... the bare minimum. Advocates for "basic operational parameters" like he's doing her a favor. Because in his world, that IS generous. He cannot conceive of a reality where she should have full access to information about a mission that could kill her. The paternalism is so deeply embedded in his worldview that he probably thinks he's being kind.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk about my own character choices. I'm very normal about this story. Clearly. (NOT).

— read on

read on ao3

read on wattpad

tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

Namjoon arrives at Sub-Level Seven at 0800 hours, punctual as he ever is.

You're awake. Standing. Waiting.

He catalogs this.

Most subjects require forty-eight hours minimum to adapt to containment rhythms.

Proximity sensors logged seven hours of movement—pacing patterns, tactical assessment sweeps, stress sequences.

But you're not cowering. Not pleading. Not broken.

You're measuring kill zones.

The stance is familiar. Weight distributed, hands loose but ready. You're calculating distance between his position and the exit. Mapping strike angles. Finding escape routes that don't exist.

He recognizes the assessment protocol because it mirrors his own.

Interesting.

The Algorithm chose efficiently.

"Good morning," he says, voice calibrated to establish dominance without triggering immediate violence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate."

Your eyes narrow. Displeased, then.

"Adequate." You test the word like poison. "Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I slept well in my fucking cage?"

Crude emotional outlet. Designed to provoke reaction.

He, of course, doesn't provide one.

"Sleep quality affects operational performance. The monitoring period requires optimal efficiency from both participants."

Both participants. Partnership terminology. Deliberately deployed.

You tilt your head. Mimicking his own assessment gesture. Learning his patterns while displaying your own.

Clever.

"Optimal performance." Your mockery is accurate. "For what, exactly? Planning to lecture me to death?"

"Joint field operations commence immediately. Your infiltration capabilities require practical evaluation under controlled parameters."

He watches the information process. Surprise flickers across your features—quickly suppressed, but visible. You weren't expecting active deployment.

Good. Predictability breeds complacency.

"Field operations," you repeat. "Leaving this place."

"Temporarily. Under supervision."

Your posture shifts. Subtle. Professional.

Left foot angling slightly outward. Weight redistributing. Hands dropping to a more natural position that conceals preparation.

You're not just angry anymore. You're hunting. Most likely searching for an opportunity of escape.

How terribly mundane of you.

"What kind of operations?"

Your voice carries false curiosity. Buying time. Setting distance.

He should recognize the setup. Should anticipate—

The attack comes from nowhere.

No telegraph. No warning.

One moment you're standing three meters away, the next you're inside his guard with a blade materialized from absolute nothing.

Fast.

Faster than his file suggested.

The knife slices air where his throat was a split second before. He twists back, feeling steel part the air millimeters from his carotid. Close. Too close.

You don't pause. Don't recover. You flow into the next strike like water, blade spinning in your grip to reverse the angle, coming up toward his ribs in a motion that speaks of training far beyond rebel desperation.

Professional. Military grade.

Where did you learn this?

He blocks with his forearm, deflecting the strike but not stopping your momentum. You use the contact to pivot, already spinning into a leg sweep that would take him down if he hadn't—

Jumped. Minimal elevation. Just enough to let your leg pass underneath.

You're good. Better than good.

But not better than him.

You recover from the failed sweep by converting the spin into momentum for another knife strike. This one aimed at his kidney.

Lethal intent. No hesitation.

He catches your wrist mid-swing.

Your eyes widen. Not in surprise at being stopped—surprise at the speed of his counter.

Now he moves.

Still holding your knife hand, he uses your forward momentum against you. One step to the side, pulling you past your balance point.

You try to compensate with that twisting leg kick—beautiful technique, would have taken his knee out—

He blocks with his shin. Absorbs the impact. Redirects your energy.

Your other hand comes up, clawing for his eyes. He catches that wrist too.

For a moment you're locked together. Face to face. Close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes. Close enough to smell the combat pheromones starting to flood the air between you.

Sharp. Electric. Dangerous.

Your pupils dilate. Not fear. Not fury.

Something else.

"Impressive," he says, voice steady despite the proximity, despite the scent spike. "But slow. The aurora cycles must be affecting your movements."

His expression doesn't change. Blank. Clinical.

But your eyes widen, and that tells him you caught the condescension.

"Fuck you," you snarl, trying to knee him in the groin.

He turns his hip, deflecting the strike. Uses the motion to redirect your momentum completely.

Forward.

Hard.

"Skaisse," the curse escapes him—rough, guttural—as he drives you into the wall with enough force to rattle your teeth.

The impact is immediate. Brutal.

Your chest slams against stone, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp exhale. Before you can recover, before you can even process the collision, steel presses against your throat.

The knife. Your knife. Now his.

Cold metal bites into heated skin.

His body brackets yours completely—legs on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to your back, one arm braced against the wall beside your head.

Trapped. Dominated.

His free hand hooks your jaw. Fingers spread along your cheek and neck, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes scan your face. Your pupils. Still dilated. Breathing pattern—rapid, shallow. Pulse visible at your throat, hammering against skin.

Fascinating physiological responses.

His thumb shifts slightly along your jawline. Just a millimeter. Nothing significant.

Except you react.

A sharp intake of breath. Involuntary. Your pulse spikes visibly where his fingers rest near your ear.

Interesting.

His gaze drops to where his hand cradles your jaw. The pressure point behind your right ear—completely exposed, practically throbbing under his fingertips.

The way you flinched when he moved. The immediate tension that followed.

Recognition flickers in his mind.

A triplet marker.

One of three neurological weak points every trained operative learns to identify and protect.

You've left at least one completely unguarded.

"For such an excellent fighter," he murmurs, voice low and measured, "you seem remarkably careless with your defensive positioning."

Your breath catches.

Understanding flashes across your features.

He doesn't know your full configuration. But he knows enough.

Amateur.

You jerk your head away from his grip, trying to break the contact. But his fingers tighten immediately. Not painful. Just inescapable, as intended. Steel wrapped in flesh.

"Impressive technique," he continues, pressing the blade more firmly against your throat. "But exploitable vulnerabilities. Any competent operative would have noticed by now."

You struggle against his hold. Test the restraint. Search for weakness.

There isn't any.

"Lesson one," he says, bringing the blade up to rest more firmly against your throat. "I've been trained in combat since before you were even alive."

The knife doesn't waver. Neither does his grip.

"Let me go," you breathe, but there's no plea in it.

Just calculation. You're still looking for an angle.

"No."

His chest presses against your back. He can feel your heart hammering. Can smell the spike in your scent—that sharp, electric combination of adrenaline and—

Combat pheromones. Standard stress response.

"You fight well," he observes. "Better than your file indicated. Where did you receive training?"

You don't answer. Just breathe hard against the wall, muscles tense but not panicked.

Interesting. Most people would be breaking down by now.

"No response?" He adjusts his grip on your jaw. "Perhaps you need time to consider cooperation."

"Perhaps you need to get fucked."

The profanity vibrates against the blade. Defiant to the end.

He finds this… stimulating.

Your refusal to submit creates an optimization problem. A puzzle requiring solution.

How peculiar.

"Cooperation would be more efficient," he says. "Resistance only prolongs inevitable outcomes."

"Inevitable." You test the word. "Like you getting shanked in your sleep?"

"Unlikely. You'll be monitored continuously."

"Continuously?"

Something in your voice shifts. Not fear. Recognition, perhaps finally understanding the scope of your situation. The complete loss of privacy. The knowledge that every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of weakness will be documented.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program," he says. "Sixty days of comprehensive observation. Cooperation ensures… comfort levels remain tolerable."

The threat hangs between you. Implicit but clear.

He releases your jaw but keeps the knife steady. Tests your reaction.

You don't move. Don't try to escape.

Smart.

"Are you prepared to proceed with mission briefing," he asks, "or do you require additional conditioning?"

Silence. Then:

"Mission briefing."

Good. Progress.

He steps back, lowering the blade but maintaining defensive positioning.

You turn around slowly, back against the wall, watching him with new wariness.

The air still carries that charge. That scent. Combat pheromones that haven't dissipated despite the conclusion of violence.

Curious.

Most stress responses fade quickly once threat neutralization occurs. But yours seems to be… intensifying.

As does his own.

Purely physiological. Adrenaline requires time to metabolize. Nothing more complex than biochemistry.

"Follow me," he says, returning your knife to his belt.

A confiscation that doubles as a reminder of capability differential.

You push off from the wall, rolling your shoulders. Testing for damage. Finding none.

Then you follow him toward the briefing room. Maintaining careful distance. Close enough for communication. Far enough to avoid sudden contact.

But the strange entry remains, humming low like the beasts on the Verge Wastes. That resonance pattern his sensors can't classify.

Further investigation required. Document the phenomenon. Understand tactical implications.

For the Algorithm's analysis, naturally.

Nothing personal.

The transport to the Central Efficiency Boulevard takes twelve minutes through the Citadel's internal transit system.

Sealed corridors, regulated atmosphere, no external views.

You sit across from him in the passenger compartment, cataloging everything. Emergency releases. Ventilation systems. Structural weak points.

Still planning escape routes even while compliance appears complete.

Predictable. But admirable in its consistency.

The transport halts smoothly, and the passenger door slides open to reveal Valis Core's beating commercial heart.

The sight hits you immediately.

Sound first—thousands of voices creating a low hum of regulated conversation; the rhythmic pulse of scanning stations and allocation terminals processing endless queues of citizens.

Then the scale.

The Central Efficiency Boulevard stretches ahead like a canyon of black stone and gleaming metal, rising in terraced levels that disappear into aurora-filtered light. Suspended walkways create layers of foot traffic moving in perfectly regulated streams.

He watches your reaction. Measures the way your eyes widen despite obvious attempts at control.

"Welcome to functional society," he says, stepping onto the Boulevard.

In here, citizens move in predictable patterns—efficient foot traffic, minimal congestion.

Absolute standard procedure.

What isn't standard is the way conversations pause when you pass.

Namjoon catalogs the disruption. Valis Core citizens glancing sideways. Merchants hesitating mid-transaction. Children stopping to stare before their parents pull them along.

Curiosity. Or threat assessment. Both, perhaps.

You notice too. Shoulders tensing incrementally. Defensive posture activating despite the absence of immediate danger.

"They're staring," you mutter, voice low but audible.

He processes your discomfort. Files it.

"They are observing," he corrects. "Curiosity regarding your presence here."

Your laugh carries no humor. "Curiosity. Right. Nice way of saying they're side-eyeing me like I'm contaminated."

Side-eyeing. Another colloquialism absent from his linguistic databases.

Your phrasing patterns continue demonstrating gaps in his understanding of rebel vernacular.

Problematic. Communication efficiency requires comprehensive language mapping.

He turns slightly, studying your expression. "Clarification required."

"What?"

"The term. Side-eyeing."

You stop walking. Actually stop. Citizens flow around you both like water around stones, maintaining distance from his authority radius.

"Are you serious right now?"

He waits. Blinks slowly. Explanation pending.

"Side-eye means…" You gesture vaguely. "Looking at someone with suspicion. Judgment. Like they're doing something wrong just by existing."

Interesting. Facial expression terminology with embedded social context. He files the definition for future reference.

"The great Commander doesn't know basic slang," you continue, something sharp creeping into your voice. "Does that bother you?"

Bother. Emotional terminology suggesting personal investment in knowledge gaps.

"I require comprehensive communication protocols," he says. "Unknown variables reduce operational efficiency."

"So yes, it bothers you."

"Incorrect. I am identifying areas requiring data acquisition."

"Which means it bothers you."

"It means I am optimizing communication parameters."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

You tilt your head, mimicking his own assessment gesture. "You're getting defensive about being bothered by not knowing something. So, essentially, you're bothered."

"I am not defensive nor bothered."

"You just corrected me twice in thirty seconds."

He processes this. Reviews the conversation log. Identifies the pattern.

"Precision in communication serves tactical purposes."

"Tactical purposes." Your voice carries mockery now. "Right. Because God forbid the great Commander admits something annoys him."

Annoys. Another emotional designation he doesn't—

"It doesn't annoy me."

The words emerge too quickly. Too sharp.

You smile.

"There it is."

"There is nothing."

"You're bothered that you don't know rebel slang. You're bothered that I know something you don't."

"Your linguistic knowledge represents data I require for operational efficiency. Nothing more."

"Which bothers you."

Circular logic. Deliberately deployed to elicit emotional response.

He will not provide one.

"Irrelevant," he states. "Continue walking."

But you don't move. Just stand there with that sharp smile, cataloging his reaction patterns.

Learning his weaknesses.

A merchant nearby—Valis Core, purple hair indicating metallurgy specialist—drops a tool when Namjoon's gaze passes over their stall. The clatter echoes.

Your attention follows his. "See? Side-eye."

He observes the merchant more carefully. Elevated heartrate visible in neck pulse. Hands trembling slightly. Eyes avoiding direct contact.

"They are not expressing suspicion," he says. "They are demonstrating deference to authority. Standard protocol when Authority Level 7 personnel are present."

"Level 7?" Your voice shifts. Interest replacing mockery. "I thought you'd be higher."

The observation lands precisely where it was aimed.

Level 7 isn't low. It represents significant achievement within Consortium hierarchy.

"Level 7 is quite high," he states, voice flattening.

"Quite low for someone with your reputation."

Your tone carries calculated dismissal. Designed to provoke.

"I am Level 7 with supreme authority over the Epitaph System," he corrects, something sharp threading through his tone. "My clearance supersedes standard hierarchical limitations regarding species survival protocols."

"If you say so."

The casual dismissal triggers something deeper. Irritation crystallizing into something colder.

"Level 10 Council members cannot override my decisions regarding Transference procedures," he continues, voice dropping. "The Epitaph Program operates under my exclusive jurisdiction."

"Sure. Very impressive."

Your mockery remains unchanged. As if his specialized authority means nothing. As if the power structure he's carved out through years of strategic positioning is irrelevant.

Which, clearly, means you simply don't understand the implications of what you're dismissing.

So he will educate you.

"My authority regarding the Algorithm is absolute," he states. "Council oversight is limited to resource allocation. Operational control belongs to me."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Now he processes the tactical objective differently.

You're testing his authority. Measuring the extent of his control.

Smart. You need to understand the parameters of your situation.

"I am clarifying the scope of authority you will be operating under for the next sixty days."

Your posture shifts. Subtle recognition of threat.

"Perhaps proximity will improve your attitude regarding appropriate deference protocols."

The words emerge as a statement of fact rather than threat.

But your reaction suggests you understand the implication.

Sixty days of his direct oversight. His rules. His authority.

Your choices: cooperation or consequences.

You stay silent after that. Walk behind him as he moves through the Boulevard, and he is most certain you are still attempting to find ways to turn this to your advantage.

Foolish, but admirable.

The primary Distribution Hub processes a constant stream of individuals receiving their assigned goods—scanning biometric chips, dispensing ration cubes, efficiency tools, and personal items based on productivity metrics.

Children move in supervised groups between educational facilities. Authority Level 4 supervisors guide them past the Productivity Reward Stations where higher-performing citizens access luxury items—actual flavored foods, personal decoration allowances, recreational materials.

The Equipment Dispensaries have workers receiving tool updates and uniform modifications. Allocation Supervisors stand behind scanning stations, their enhanced eyes analyzing each citizen's productivity metrics before dispensing goods.

It does not escape him, how your trained eye identifies the underground commerce.

Information traders lingering near public terminals. Favor brokers—mid-level officials discreetly arranging better allocations in exchange for services. Memory merchants operating from building alcoves, offering illegal identity modifications.

"Authority fear isn't the same as curiosity," you observe after several minutes of movement through the crowds.

He glances back at you. Notes you are circling back to the conversation about the so-called 'side-eyes' you were receiving.

Valid point. He recalculates.

The stares aren't uniform. Younger citizens show genuine fascination. Older ones display wariness. Children exhibit undisguised interest before parental intervention.

"Multiple response patterns," he replies after a few seconds. "But the primary driver is genetic variance recognition."

"Meaning?"

"Citadel populations are predominantly Valis Core. Interspecies contact remains limited despite policy allowances."

A pause. Processing.

"You're saying they're staring because I'm different."

"Because you represent genetic diversity they rarely encounter in this sector."

Your stride shortens. Subtle defensive behavior.

"Valis Core citizens aren't accustomed to observing mixed heritage individuals," he says. "Your parameters differ from sector norms."

You stop again. Completely.

Citizens adjust their paths, creating a small clearance zone.

"What do you mean by 'mixed heritage'?"

He blinks, a tad startled at your direct questioning. Odd questioning.

Is it not obvious?

"Your genetic markers indicate partial Valis Core ancestry. Approximately fifty percent. The remaining heritage appears Hollow Crest based on dermal characteristics and bone density indicators."

Your face changes. Guarded becomes hostile.

"How would you know that?"

"Standard biological assessment protocols. Skin reflectivity patterns, facial structure analysis, movement efficiency calculations. The hybrid characteristics are evident to trained observation."

"Trained observation." Your voice flattens dangerously. "You mean profiling."

"I mean accurate genetic classification."

A child—perhaps eight years old—breaks away from their parent to approach. Valis Core features but with curiosity overriding social conditioning.

"Are you from the outer sectors?" they ask you directly.

Before you can respond, the parent appears. Face flushed, clearly horrified by the breach of protocol.

"Commander, forgive the interruption—"

Namjoon raises a hand. Minimal gesture. Maximum authority.

"No breach of protocol occurred."

The parent relaxes incrementally. The child continues staring at you with open fascination.

"Your skin changes colors," the child observes. "Are those markings functional?"

You glance down at your forearms where subtle chromatophore patterns shift under stress. Barely visible, but the child's observation skills are acute.

"They're adaptive," you say carefully.

"Environmental adaptation," Namjoon clarifies for the child's benefit. "Beneficial genetic trait from Hollow Crest heritage."

The parent's eyes widen. Not disapproval—interest.

"How fascinating. Hybrid genetics are quite rare in the Core. The adaptive capabilities must be remarkable."

"We have appointments to maintain," Namjoon interrupts.

Social interaction efficiency has limits.

The parent nods, collecting their child. But the expression remains intrigued rather than dismissive.

After they leave, you stare at him.

"They weren't horrified."

"As I said."

The stares seem to make more sense to you now. Not suspicion. Genuine curiosity about biological variance they rarely encounter.

"But if they knew I was rebel—"

"They would respond differently," he acknowledges. "Rebellion represents ideological contamination. Genetic diversity represents biological advancement."

He observes how you process this distinction. The way hybrid status grants curiosity while political status would generate hostility.

"Convenient that they don't know."

"Indeed."

"And what exactly does my 'genetic classification' matter to anyone?"

The question contains multiple layers.

Surface inquiry about social relevance. Deeper concern about discrimination protocols. Underlying anger about genetic monitoring systems.

He addresses the practical component.

"Valis Core social structures don't discriminate against interspecies heritage. Hybrid genetics are considered beneficial for population stability."

"Beneficial how?"

"Genetic diversity reduces mutation accumulation. Cross-species reproduction produces offspring with enhanced adaptive capabilities. Improved disease resistance. Broader environmental tolerance ranges."

Your expression shifts. Surprise replacing hostility.

"You're saying mixing species is good."

"Scientifically optimal, yes. The Consortium actively encourages genetic diversification through managed reproduction programs."

"Then why don't more Valis Core people marry outside their species?"

Valid observation. He considers the behavioral patterns.

"Cultural preference for familiar social frameworks. Valis Core social structures emphasize systematic approaches to relationship formation. Most find comfort in predictable partner compatibility."

"Rigid thinking."

"Efficient compatibility assessment."

You snort. "Same thing."

It isn't.

But the distinction appears irrelevant to your worldview.

"The fact remains unchanged. Hybridness is viewed as positive amongst Valis. Our offspring would represent particularly advantageous genetic combinations. Enhanced cognitive function from Valis Core heritage combined with environmental resilience from Hollow Crest adaptation. The theoretical capabilities would be—"

"Our what?"

Your voice cuts through his analysis. Sharp. Dangerous.

He processes your tone. Elevated stress markers. Aggressive posture shift.

"Our hypothetical offspring," he clarifies. "Based on genetic compatibility analysis."

"Our offspring." You repeat the words like they taste poisonous. "You're talking about us. Having children. Together."

"I am explaining theoretical genetic optimization outcomes based on—"

"I would rather slit your throat and then throw myself off the Citadel than have your children."

The vehemence surprises him. Most citizens express enthusiasm about contributing to genetic optimization programs.

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant," he states. "The genetic benefits to society would be considerable regardless of individual opinion."

Something shifts in your posture. Coiling. Dangerous.

"Individual opinion."

"Optimal reproductive outcomes serve collective survival priorities."

Your hand drops toward where your knife was. Still reaching for confiscated weapons.

"Is that the plan?" Your voice drops to something lethal. "Sixty days of observation and then they strap me down and—"

"No."

The word is immediate.

He sees you freeze. Hand still positioned for a weapon draw that won't succeed.

He processes your reaction pattern. The immediate jump to coercion. The assumption of bodily violation.

What experiences shaped such expectations?

"Reproductive autonomy remains absolute under Consortium law," he clarifies. "No individual is required to participate in biological reproduction against their will."

You stare at him. "What?"

"The Consortium maintains advanced reproductive technologies. Genetic material can be combined through laboratory processes without requiring physical reproduction."

Your shoulders drop slightly. Combat readiness decreasing.

"Body autonomy remains inviolate," he continues. "Valis Core social development prioritizes consent in all intimate contexts."

Relief flickers across your features. Then hardens again.

"Except where the Epitaph Algorithm is concerned."

Accurate assessment.

The Algorithm does override individual choice regarding Transference participation.

"That serves species survival. Different parameters."

"How convenient." Your voice carries acid. "And what about the aurora bands? The heat cycles?"

He processes the shift. Unexpected tactical pivot.

"Clarification required."

"Don't play stupid with me, Commander. You know exactly what happens when the violet bands hit and biology takes over—where's the consent then?"

Aurora-induced heat cycles. Reproductive imperative overrides.

Hm.

A valid concern regarding Consortium control mechanisms.

"Heat cycles represent biological intensification, not autonomy elimination."

"Bullshit." You step closer, aggressive posture returning. "Rut cycles. Heat cycles. When biology kicks in and rational thought gets complicated."

"Biological intensification does not equate to consent elimination," he states. "Enhanced drive does not remove choice."

"Enhanced drive." Your laugh cuts sharp. "That what you call it when people fuck strangers because they can't think past the need?"

"I call it temporary prioritization of reproductive impulses while maintaining agency over partner selection and participation parameters."

You stare at him. "You're really going to stand there and tell me people consent during heat cycles?"

"I am stating that biological imperative amplifies existing desire without removing the capacity for decision-making. Individuals retain choice regarding participation, partners, and boundaries."

He processes his own experiences.

The elevated aggression. The singular focus on breeding compatibility. The way rational analysis shifted to accommodate reproductive priorities.

But never absent. Never eliminated.

"The neurochemical changes intensify specific responses," he continues. "They do not override cognitive function. Enhanced want does not constitute absence of will."

"Even when they're desperate enough to make choices they'd normally never consider?"

"Especially then. Desperation requires conscious acknowledgment of need and deliberate action to address it."

"You sound like you've given this considerable thought."

He has. Clinical analysis of his own rutting behaviors. Documentation of decision-making processes during biological peak periods.

"Personal experience provides relevant data."

"Personal experience." Something shifts in your expression. "Right. How many people have you fucked during rut cycles, Commander?"

The question contains tactical probing. Seeking vulnerability data through intimate details.

"Partner quantity is irrelevant to the consent framework discussion."

"But you have. Had partners during cycles."

"Yes."

"And you maintained perfect rational decision-making the entire time?"

"Rational frameworks adapt to biological priorities. Decision-making remains functional within modified parameters."

"Modified parameters." You test the phrase. "Meaning you wanted to fuck so badly you'd have taken anyone available."

"Negative. Biological enhancement cannot create attraction where none exists. It can only amplify existing compatibility markers."

You cross your arms again. "And if someone's compatibility markers are… inconvenient?"

"Then enhanced biological states create discomfort, not compulsion. The science is clear."

"How convenient that your science supports your moral boundaries."

"Accurate science reflects observable reality. Biological drives amplify potential. They do not manufacture it."

He sees you are about to respond when a priority communication activates through his neural interface.

Command-level authorization. Immediate briefing required.

"Change of plans," he says, altering course toward the administrative transit station. "Priority briefing requires immediate attention."

"What kind of priority?"

"The kind that determines our first joint operation parameters."

Your expression shifts. Recognition that the abstract concept of shared missions is about to become concrete reality.

As you move through the crowds toward the transport station, citizens continue their subtle observations. Curiosity about genetic diversity mixed with deference to his authority.

But you're no longer paying attention to their stares. Your focus has shifted to tactical assessment—processing the environment, cataloging resources, identifying potential advantages.

The transition from civilian observation to operational preparation.

Smart.

Because whatever briefing awaits will likely determine whether your first mission together becomes cooperation or warfare.

He suspects the latter.

The briefing chamber operates under Level 8 security protocols. Reinforced walls. Signal dampening. Personnel restricted to essential command staff only.

You enter behind him, positioning yourself near the exit.

Strategic placement.

He catalogs this behavior—always mapping escape routes, even in seemingly secure environments.

The intelligence officer approaches. Valis Core, specialized reconnaissance division. Stress markers visible in posture, elevated respiratory rate.

Bad news, then.

"Commander," the officer begins, then hesitates, glancing toward you.

"Proceed," Namjoon states. "She has clearance for this briefing."

Not entirely accurate. But operational parameters require your presence for proximity monitoring. Security concerns secondary to Algorithm requirements.

"Sir, Priority Target J-7 has vanished."

Namjoon processes this. Reviews available data. Priority Target designation suggests high-value asset.

Classification level: restricted.

"Clarification required. Vanished how?"

"Subject was being transported from containment to advanced research facility. Armored convoy, triple security protocols. When the transport arrived at destination, the containment unit was empty."

You shift behind him. Subtle positioning change. Intelligence gathering through observation.

"Sealed?" Namjoon inquires.

"Completely sealed, sir. Undamaged. Biometric locks intact. Life-sign monitoring showed no anomalies during transit. But when the unit opened…" The officer spreads empty hands. "Nothing."

Impossible. Transport containers operate under continuous surveillance. Molecular-level breach detection. Emergency beacon activation for any system compromise.

"Describe the containment specifications."

"Triple-hull construction. Quantum lock mechanisms. Atmospheric control independent of external systems. Subject would require specialized tools and external assistance to achieve breach."

The officer pauses. Glances toward you again.

Security concern. Your presence during classified briefing creates operational complications.

The chamber door slides open. Two figures enter—Authority insignia indicating higher command presence.

Namjoon straightens. Recognition protocols activate.

Director Kang Yura. Level 8 Authority. Research Division oversight. Sharp features, silver-streaked black hair, cybernetic enhancement visible along her left temple.

Behind her: Marshal Choi Daesung. Level 9 Authority. Strategic Operations Command. Massive frame, scarred hands, patched eye.

The intelligence officer steps back. Deference to superior authority.

"Commander Kim," Director Kang states. "Your presence is required for Priority Classification briefing."

Marshal Choi's gaze settles on you.

Assessment. Threat evaluation.

"The proximity asset," he observes, then switches immediately. "Interessanter Tzeitpunkt" (Interesting timing.)

Proximity asset.

Clinical designation that reduces you to operational utility.

You don't react visibly to the language shift. But Namjoon catches the subtle tension—you understand you're being discussed in a language deliberately excluding you.

"Sirs," Namjoon acknowledges. "Briefing in progress regarding Priority Target J-7 containment failure."

"Nikt Aindemmungswersagen," Director Kang corrects sharply. "Evolutionere Veiterentviklung iber ervartete Parameter hinaus." (Not containment failure. Evolutionary advancement beyond anticipated parameters.)

Altsprek it is, then.

"Prätzisirung erforderlik." (Clarification required.)

Marshal Choi steps forward. "Subjekt J-7 nahm vor seks Monaten an freivilligem Werbesserungsprogramm teil. Mournwell Basin Herkunft. Agrarvissenskaftler Betzeikhnung wor Modifikation." (Subject J-7 participated in voluntary enhancement program six months ago. Mournwell Basin origins. Agricultural scientist designation before modification.)

You shift. Mournwell Basin mentioned. But the rest remains incomprehensible.

"Werbesserungsspetzifikationen?" (Enhancement specifications?)

"Klassifitzirt Level 9," Marshal Choi states. "Aber relewante Details umfassen: tzellulare Anpassungsfehikkeiten, Umveltresistenz-Optimirung, werbesserte Iberlebensparameter." (Classified Level 9. But relevant details include: cellular adaptation capabilities, environmental resistance optimization, enhanced survival parameters.)

He glances at you deliberately. "Subjekt demonstrirt Fehikkeiten, di bestimte… Rebellenfraktionen interessiren kennten." (Subject demonstrates capabilities that may interest certain… rebel factions.)

Your posture tightens.

Understanding the tone if not the words.

Perceptive.

"Di Modifikationen varen erfolglaiker als prognostitzirt," Director Kang continues. "Subjekts Biologi begann sik auf Vaisen antzupassen, di nikt in urspringliken Werbesserungsprotokollen enthalten varen." (The modifications succeeded beyond projected parameters. Subject's biology began adapting in ways not included in original enhancement protocols.)

"Anpassung vi?" (Adapting how?)

"Strukturelle Werenederungen. Sensoriske Werbesserung. Stoffvekseleffitzienz-Werbesserungen." (Structural alterations. Sensory enhancement. Metabolic efficiency improvements.)

The intelligence officer clears his throat. "Sirs, di tzelluleren Scans des Subjekts aus der letzten Aindemmung tzaikten Anomalien. Gevebeproben enthillten molekulare Strukturen ausserhalb bekannter biologisker Rahmen." (Sirs, subject's cellular scans from final containment showed anomalies. Tissue samples revealed molecular structures outside known biological frameworks.)

"Ausserhalb vi?" (Outside how?)

"Kvantenebene Organisationsmuster. Tzellulare Netzverke kommunitziren durk Mekanismen, di bekannte Physik werletzen." (Quantum-level organizational patterns. Cellular networks communicating through mechanisms that violate known physics.)

Namjoon processes this.

Enhancement programs typically improve existing capabilities. They don't create impossible biological functions.

"Vas var das Werbesserungsziel?" (What was the enhancement objective?)

Marshal Choi exchanges a glance with Director Kang. "Adaptive Iberlebensoptimirung fir faindselige Umgebungen. Spetzifisk: Verge-Territorium-Navigationsfehikkeiten." (Adaptive survival optimization for hostile environments. Specifically: Verge territory navigation capabilities.)

"Varum?" (Why?)

"Klassifitzirt." (Classified.)

"Aktuelle Fehikkaiten des Subjekts?" (Subject's current capabilities?)

"Unbekannt. Abskliessende Bewertung doitete auf Potenzial fir Materi-Phasen-Manipulation hin. Molekulare Diktewerenederung. Meglikervaise Raum-Tzeit-Interaktionsmodifikationen." (Unknown. Final assessment indicated potential for matter-phase manipulation. Molecular density alteration. Possibly space-time interaction modifications.)

Director Kang activates a holographic display. Security footage appears—transport container interior.

The recording shows a figure. Humanoid. Standard proportions. Sitting calmly in the containment unit.

Then the figure begins… shifting.

Edges becoming less defined. Molecular coherence appearing to fluctuate.

The image distorts. Static interference.

When clarity returns, the container is empty.

"Skaisse," Namjoon breathes.

You catch that.

Curse words have a tendency to transcend language barriers.

"Tatseklik," Marshal Choi states. "ubjekt skainet in der Lage tzu sain, fundamentale molekulare Kohesion tzu werendern." (Indeed. Subject appears capable of altering fundamental molecular cohesion.)

"Vo ist er jetzt?" (Where is he now?)

"Unbekannt. Aber Aufklerung doitet auf Bevegung in Riktung Hollow Crest Territorien hin." (Unknown. But intelligence suggests movement toward Hollow Crest territories.)

Director Kang deactivates the holographic display, then turns to address you directly in Consensus.

"Your familiarity with regional territories may prove tactically relevant."

The sudden shift back to your language feels jarring.

Intentional exclusion followed by intentional inclusion.

"Relevant how?"

Marshal Choi studies you. "Enhanced assets seeking sanctuary typically utilize known safe passage routes."

"You think someone escaped."

"We know someone escaped. Question is whether certain factions provided assistance."

Your expression hardens. "And you want me to help track them down."

"We want you to provide regional intelligence," Director Kang corrects.

"Mission parameters," she continues to Namjoon. "Gemainsame Aufklerungsoperation. Si biten strategiske Aufsikt. Nehe-Asset bitet regionale Aufklerung." (Joint reconnaissance operation. You provide strategic oversight. Proximity asset provides regional intelligence.)

Back to Altsprek. Excluding you again.

"Tzeitplan?" (Timeline?)

"Sofortiger Ainsatz. Di Fehikkeiten von Subjekt J-7 maken ervaiterte Fraiheit unadvisable." (Immediate deployment. Subject J-7's capabilities make extended freedom inadvisable.)

"Bedrohungsainsketzung?" (Threat assessment?)

"Unbekannte Wariablen," Marshal Choi admits. "Werbesserungsprogramme skaffen unworsagbare Ergebnisse, venn Subjekte projitzirte Parameter iberskreiten." (Unknown variables. Enhancement programs create unpredictable outcomes when subjects exceed projected parameters.)

"Vas var sain urspringliker Name?" (What was his original name?)

You step forward suddenly. "What are you discussing?"

The question cuts through their Altsprek conversation.

Direct challenge to the exclusion.

Marshal Choi switches back to Consensus. "Operational parameters."

"I'm part of this operation. I should understand what I'm walking into."

Director Kang's cybernetic implant flickers. Processing. "You will receive necessary tactical information during deployment preparation."

"Necessary according to who?"

"According to authority classification."

Your jaw tightens. Understanding the power dynamic.

Information as control mechanism.

Namjoon observes this exchange. Your frustration at exclusion. Their deliberate information restriction.

"She requires basic operational parameters," he states carefully.

Marshal Choi nods. "Recovery mission. High-value target. Regional reconnaissance required."

Minimal information. Sufficient for cooperation without revealing classified details.

"And if the target doesn't want to be recovered?"

"Target cooperation is not required."

Cold, brutal statement. Standard Consortium approach.

"Follow me," Namjoon states, reading the room.

Time to extract you before additional complications develop.

You don't move immediately, however.

"When do I get full briefing details?"

"Si verden si nikt," Marshal Choi states quietly. (You won't.)

The Altsprek comment wasn't meant for you to understand.

But he knows you recognize the tone, the exclusion, the dismissal.

"What exactly am I walking into?" you ask again.

"Recovery operation," Namjoon repeats. "Subject escaped transport. Regional knowledge required for location assessment."

Minimal truth.

"Follow," he states more urgently.

This time you comply. But tension radiates from your posture.

As you exit the briefing chamber, Marshal Choi's voice follows in Altsprek.

"Kommandant. Wersagen ist nikt aktzeptabel. Werbesserte Assets kennen nikt unibervakt blaiben." (Commander. Failure is not acceptable. Enhanced assets cannot remain unsupervised.)

Understanding. Success required. Or consequences would extend beyond mission parameters.

Field deployment begins in one hour.

Time to discover what happens when your knowledge becomes essential to Consortium operations. While being systematically excluded from understanding why.

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yanderepuck · 3 days ago

Text

"It's such a beautiful night."

You look up at the night sky. The almost full moon lights up everything around you. Your eyes glaze over the stars trying to spot any constellations. The sound of the water lapping against the boat, making it gently rock, has to calm enough to put you to sleep. Not to mention the faint sound of Drake's heartbeat in your ear.

He rowed the two of you out here since it is such a clear night. Normally you would be asleep at this hour and he would come out here by himself, but you insisted on staying up to spend time with him.

You are both leaning back, relaxing. Your head on his chest blooming up at the beautiful site. Drake's fingers run through your hair as his coxing you to sleep.

"It's weird to think that you saw this every night."

Drake chuckled. "It wasn't always this calm. Some nights were harder than the day time. The night time is when you have to be even more alert."

His fingers twirl at the ends of your hair.

"You probably got to know the stars fairly well then," you look nearly straight up to look for the North Star that so many tales talk about. If you can find that then you can find anything. Or so you hear.

You hear Drake try to hold back a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"The North Star isn't straight up, silly fawn."

How did he know what you were looking for?

"It isn't? Then how do you find it?"

"The closer north you go the closer the star is to the center of the sky. But since we are in Paris," he grabs you and pulls you up closer to his face so that you two are on the same eye level. He points at where the water and sky meet and slowly raises his arm to the half way point of the horizon and the top of the sky.

"The star is actually more at 45°. From there you find Ursa Minor. Which leads into Draco and Usra Major. On the other side is Cepheus and Cassiopeia."

Your eyes follow his finger as he talks, trying to see each group of stars that he points at.

"Whoa that's is- wait," you turn your head to look at him. "Don't tell me you know all of this from Galileo," you pout, really hope you aren't being lied to.

From what you are aware Galileo knows the most about the night sky and where everything is. He would be the one you would go to if you had any questions. He probably is even more knowledgeable than Isaac on the subject.

Drake pouts back at you. "He didn't teach me a thing. You needed to know these things if you spent your life at sea. Even if you weren't the navigator for the ship, you still knew where to find the North Star. What kind of captain would I be if I couldn't do that?"

"Okay okay, I'm sorry," you kiss him softly. The moonlight shining on his silver hair was breathtaking. It almost seemed as if his hair was glowing.

He kisses you back, keeping you close to him. "I know I'm stunning, but remember to breathe, little fawn."

He laughed as you huffed and turned your face. Only his hand caught your jaw and had you look at him again so he can give you another kiss.

"I'm glad to know you think I'm prettier than the stars themselves," he teases.

Now you are wishing the moon wasn't so bright out so it could hide your blushed cheeks.

"Be quiet," you kiss him again and then move to lay back down against him, but he keeps you there to kiss you again, only his kiss gets rougher.

Not expecting it you moan into it before realizing he isn't pulling away. You straighten yourself out and start kissing him back.

Drake carefully pulls you into his lap, making sure not to move too fast since you are in a small paddle boat.

Your arms wrap over his shoulders, while his hands rest on your waist. The sounds of you kissing seeming louder than the water hitting the boat. Not sure if it is by your own instincts or if you are following the motion of the boat, but you start to rock your hips against him, already feeling a bulge hardening under you.

He moans as you rub against him. His hands lower to your hips, gripping harder to move your hips the way he wants it. You whine a little bit don't protest.

The kissing gets rougher. Nipping at the others lip. Pushing your tongue into the others mouth. Your hands fall from his shoulders to feel his chest. Your hands go further and further down until reaching the waist band of his belt, where you start undoing his belt.

You aren't even thinking about how safe this is on a boat. Drake has always been good at warning you before if things are getting to be too much. But right now it seems all the blood in him has flowed somewhere else.

As you get him freed from his pants, he is pulling your skirt up. Before he has a chance to touch your underwear, your hand is wrapped around his cock, rubbing him.

His head tilts back as he moans. After a few strokes he is able to catch his breath enough to continue what he's doing.

Holding your skirt up with one hand he reaches to his own hip. You barely see it happen before it's already over. Drake grabbed his knife and slipped it under your underwear and cut it off you. You only felt the cold blade against your skin for a second before it was ripped from you.

That action alone got you to freeze up and stop stroking him. He's taking that opportunity to move you over him, and pulling you down into him. The knife still in his hand as he grips your hip.

The two of you moaned as he stretched you.

"Good, little fawn," he praises you while you start rocking your hips again.

Out of the corner of your eye you get a glint of the knife going past your head. His fingers are in your hair again, but not as gently. Drake grabs a wad of your hair, close to your scalp to bring your face closer to his.

"Get me to cum and I'll take you back home and fuck you."

As much as you want to nod your head and go along, knowing that knife is in his hand makes you want to be a brat.

"And what if I don't?"

"Then we'll see how long you can last with being teased," he pushes your head even closer to his to kiss you again

Your hips keep moving, trying to stop yourself from bouncing on him. You may be desperate but you still need to keep in mind that you are on the water.

As you kiss him back his fingers leave your hair and start unbuttoning your shirt. He pulls your shirt to the side to grope you. Your moan gets him to break the kiss so he can kiss your neck.

Without the obstacle of his mouth your moans are much louder now.

"I don't think you're fully sitting on my cock. You can go lower," he kisses the spot between the shoulder and the neck, trying to coax you.

"It-it doesn't fit," you whine. You already have him fully filling your insides. Any further and you think he would be in your stomach.

"Oh I can fit," he smirks and with a hand on your shoulder he pushes you down all the way.

You let out a small shriek. Your toes curl in your shoes. You try leaning your head down to hide your face but Drake is right there leaving marks on the top of your chest.

"Don't act like you haven't taken all of me before," he pulls your boob out of your bra, flicking your nipple with the tip of his tongue. "I love seeing you wobbling around the next day."

He takes your nipple into his mouth and starts sucking. Your fingers are now gripping his hair. Trying to keep up and catch your breath. How are you supposed to get him to cum when he is doing all of this to you?

You adjust your hips and rock them again. Holding onto him to try to pick up the pace. It feels like you are desperately jumping him for any sort of relief, as if his cock is going to change positions inside you.

Him throbbing against your walls keeps distracting you, and making your movements jerky, not to mention the nibbling on your nipple.

"D-Drake," you moan his name.

"We're, all alone, you can be louder than that."

He starts to thrust his hips up as best he can, as if he's trying to get even deeper.

"Ahh-hh!" your moans get louder and you hold on tighter.

Drake moans with his mouth filled. His other hand pinches your other hardened nipple.

"S-so close... So close," you pant, feeling your mind start to get fuzzy. The moment you cum you know you won't be able to keep going to get him to finish.

"Already? I was thinking we were just getting started."

You whine and push his face back into your chest so you don't have to hear him mocking you.

You guess that you're going to have to deal with a week or so of being teased, there is no way you can get him to finish.

"I-I can't," you rock your hips harder just trying to get yourself to cum. You adjust your hips again and his cock seems to rub the right spot.

Gripping his hair even tighter, you coat his cock in your own cum. Your movements coming to a halt.

Drake forces his head out of your grip while you are trying to catch your breath. He fixes your bra and leans back, looking up at you and how the moonlight hits your body. Seeing all the shadows and highlights of your curves.

You look so perfect that he could almost forget you are on water and take you for himself right there.

"Just so you know," he grabs your jaw to look at him again. "I am still taking you back to fuck you. I need to get my fill too," he smirks and tries to sit up more normally as you try to fix yourself. "But your punishment starts tomorrow."

@kissmetwicekissmedeadly @fang-and-feather @xalxtusxiao @namine-somebodies-nobody @ana-thedaydreamer @evil-quartett @ameyoruakiikemenseries @yrenesposts @tele86 @damekathearasi @lokis-laugh @candied-boys @breadmercury @aquagirl1978 @xenokiryu @nightghoul381 @vampiricpancake @lulu-the-smol-floof @tako-cafe @floydsteeth

I BROKE THE FUCKING CURSE AND WE HAVE SMUT

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp drake #smut smut smut

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atwhughesversion · 22 hours ago

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summary of recent adam foote podcast appearance — 100% canucks

john shannon and landon ferraro (!!) have started a new channel, and adam foote gave an interview in today’s episode! i’ve summarized it below. landon also talked a bit about the abby canucks playoff run at the beginning, so make sure to check it out!!

how he wants to coach/set his players up to succeed in games:

one of the draws to coaching for him was his experience playing under ken hitchcock and the strategies that hitchcock would create

when asked to describe his coaching style, he says that he wants to strategize based on who their opponent is/what their strengths are, and to be aware of how the opponent will try to beat them so that they have a plan to counter it

wants to have a plan that allows his players to have confidence that they’ll be able to succeed against the top players they’re going up against

“if we do our job, we’re gonna have success against any type of offence or any type of defence”

if the full 5/6-man unit (6 includes the goalie) is on the same page and they all stick with the process and believe in it, they’ll be able to stay in control “when things get harder”

going from assistant to head coach w the same team:

he thinks his relationships with the players is an advantage

he already knows the strengths/weaknesses of players, what makes them “go,” their personalities, etc. as well as things to continue working on with players

asked if it’s tough to go from working so closely with the defencemen to now “let go” of the defence (as kevin dean is taking over that role) so that he can oversee the team as a whole

acknowledges it’ll be difficult but he really likes who he’s hired as the new assistant coach (references the way he does the PK, as well as his calm demeanour)

building out his coaching staff/preparing for the role:

asked how he decided on his assistant coaches/if he knew all of them well — says he didn’t know dean as well as the others (had never met him), but loved the teams he’s been around/what he said.

says he already knew brett mclean and scott young (had played with young).

scott young is the “glue guy”

common advice he was given was to use his instinct, and utilize his relationships with players

on quinn hughes:

asked how he manages his relationship with quinn/the growing pressure on what the next two years will mean for quinn’s future — says his job is coaching the team, and quinn knows that.

they had a great conversation and the way foote looks at it, he’s going to keep teaching quinn everything he knows.

he and quinn are aware that foote is going to be coaching game by game rather than thinking of what happens in 2 years.

also mentions that if you’re going to win, it’s not just about one guy — though quinn is a big piece, as the captain.

quinn knows that foote will continue to be who he is (jokes if quinn extends a shift he shouldn’t have and foote snarls at him, it’s not for any reason other than that foote wants him to win).

he and quinn have a good relationship and likes that it’s open-book, and that quinn will come to him

“does [quinn] have a ceiling?” — says that he’d never think that players like him would have a ceiling.

what his message to the team is:

asked what his word/message to the team would be — wants to become a real close team that puts the work in together, hold each other accountable, and will feel like they’ll be unified as a team in a way that lets them adjust as a group if a game goes awry.

wants them, especially the leadership group, to be able to handle the inevitable hard moments without panic.

on elias pettersson (the forward):

asked “how concerned” he is about petey — mentions petey’s trip to michigan; says that petey is driven to put everything behind him and move forward. they had a great couple days together

they have been in communication, and foote is excited to see where he’s at in september.

what’s next?

asked what the next 2 months will look like for him: continue working with coaching staff as they nail down how they want to play, continue connecting/communicating with players

#canucks #hockey #vancouver canucks #nhl #elias pettersson #quinn hughes #adam foote

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starconstruction · 1 day ago

Text

Simulacra

Yandere Chaewon x Reader (SFW)

if you can tell what game I based this off please teach me what arrow is the best.

This place was always so beautiful.

Serene, flawless, thoughtless.

There was no struggling.

Food was abundant, fresh, always at the peak of ripeness. The cyan water flowed down the rocks, never faltering, countless waterfalls for the eyes to see.

And then there was the sky.

Baby pink, orange, purple, a perpetual sunset but all the more vivid. The leaves were also the same shade of pink, blossoming eternally.

Then there was her.

Sat on the stone next to the hot-spring, her presence was a constant but her position in this place was not.

Her name was Chaewon and she was the only person here.

She never told you exactly where you two were or why nobody visited.

But her presence was always comforting, everything was.

You sat next to her in the hot spring, the two of you holding a glass of grape juice. Her gaze was affixed to you, the water was warm around your muscles, providing relaxation, but what were you relaxing from? Nothing negative happens here.

It's perfect.

"Chae? Are you ever going to tell me more about this place?" You asked.

"No dear, it is irrelevant, you know this. Now drink a bit, its a particularly good batch." Chaewon took a sip, to which you followed. It tasted the same as always, sweet like nectar, or perhaps what she described ambrosia as.

"I don't get you, so nice but so secretive..."

"Some things are simpler in life when you don't think so much about it, we are here in the now." She smiled, lifting her arm towards the sky, pointing towards a small dragonfly which whizzed across the air. "A dragonfly, there was so many of them when we first got here. I think they hide away from human activity, from us."

"Yeah, they've disappeared a bit, I miss them." You pressed your head against the rock, draped in soft fabric.

"You've always been so caring of your environment, its touching. You truly care about our home." Home. Your heart warmed at her words, you've always wanted to impress her somewhat, even though you don't know much about this place.

"It's a nice place Chae, but I think I would like to explore more you know? See whats outside of this small little region, meet some other people, witness some new wildlife, try new food we can't get here, maybe you could come with me?"

Chaewon stiffened slightly, a face of shock flashing her features but only for a second before falling back to her usual calm demeanor. "Explore? Why would you want to leave this place? its so... calm. Sweet, there's pain outside this place. Monsters, both literally and figuratively Y/N."

"There has to be so many cool places out there! Monsters don't scare me Chae." You reassured her, she moved closer, pulling you into her warm embrace. Wet hands perching on your chest gently, you both stared towards the sun.

"But monsters scare me, what if you get attacked by ravenous beasts and I never see you again? Here we are safe, warm, comfy, just us, no ill intentions hm?" Her words poured into your ears like sugar, sweet and delightful.

"Maybe you are right Chae, I still want to think about it though."

"Think all you want dear, you'll see sense eventually. Come, lets get out of this water, we can cuddle somewhere more cozy."

The two of you got out the pleasant water, wrapping a towel around your bodies as the two of you headed to your little abode, a small shack that housed what it needed to. Cooking supplies, a singular bed (a second would be a waste of space given how you two sleep in each other's arms anyway) and a few keepsakes that were mostly hers, save for a singular owl plush that you've had for longer that you've been alive.

The two of you put some shorts on but that was it, clambering into your shared bed as you embraced each other again. Bare skin touching each other, hearts beating in sync, arms wrapped tightly around each other as you two drifted to sleep.

---

The next morning you couldn't shake the feeling to explore, like a forbidden fruit being tempted in front of you with prospects of new sights to see, something to break away from this cheery monotony.

Chaewon was already out, probably picking berries like usual, but you were going to break away from routine today. Go off the beaten path and see what joys awaited you, there had to be something you haven't seen here.

There just had to be.

You threw on the rest of your outfit, neatly making the bed as that was one of Chaewon's biggest pet peeves. She always valued order and structure above all else, dependable. You had to appreciate that.

You always turned right at this point, but today you turn left. Sights so familiar in their essence yet so unknown. Running towards the ledge, the ground in front of you elevated and opportunities to climb were scarce to say the best. Flinging yourself up onto the new elevated ground.

"Y/N! Where are you going!?" Chaewon looked at you, face frightened as if she had watched you nearly fall to your death.

"Going to go look around, see if i see some cool stuff!" You yelled back.

"No, come back. It's not safe up there! What if you trip!?" You felt a twinge of sadness at her worry, you could avoid all of this if you turn back. She could be happier.

But the wilderness called your name and its presence was far too fascinating to ignore.

"You worry too much Chae! I'll be back soon! Don't worry!"

"NO!" She screamed, making you tilt your head back, what was up with her?

"What's wrong? Do you know something I don't?"

"Yes! Why do you think I don't want you to go?! Come down, we can cuddle more! I know how much you like that." Her arms were outstretched, her words played on your mind, what could be that dangerous out here? You sat there for a moment, contemplating her words and your options.

You'd be quick.

"I'll be back later, then we can cuddle..." You said, turning away and leaving before her words could sway your influence further.

Every step bought you to higher and new ground, the magnitude of this venture only really hitting you know. The air felt tighter up here, less forgiving. Trees hung on the side of rock unnaturally, creating strange bridges. You took them without caution, reckless abandon being your motto.

You walked for what felt like hours, not that you could ever tell time here. The sky didn't shift, you didn't have a clock like you did back before.

Before.

It all crossed your mind suddenly, for the first time in as long as you could remember.

Before all this? Where were you? Who looked after you? Why can't you remember?

Your memory was failing you, maybe it'd come back or maybe Chaewon knew, you could ask her when you get back. She always likes to answer your questions.

Overwhelmed.

That's how you felt.

Falling onto the floor.

This is the most you've exerted yourself in as long as you can remember.

Eh, it wouldn't hurt to rest for a little while.

Cold.

Liar.

Fake.

Don't Listen.

ɎØɄ. Need. Leave.

We – ł₦₮ɆⱤⱤɄ₱₮ɆĐ

Psy₵Ⱨotic.

R̶̺͙̝̩̣͖̝̜̰̥͇̾͐͑͐̎u͕͗̅̕��̰͇̼̰̼ͨͬ͒̎́͟͝_̴̻̞̖̘͙̱ͥ̇̈́ͣ͊̇͟͟ņ̛̺͙̹̿͒͜

You shot awake, skin slick with sweat, burning hot. That's the first time you've felt heat like that in so long, ever? It couldn't be, but the time you would have could not be recalled, what is up with these mountains? Your heart stabbed against your ribs, making every second hurt a twinge.

It's. Just. A. Nightmare.

A petrifying one. But it can't hurt you.

You took deep irregular breaths. Fingers shaking, all these sensations. They punctured your body, the nightmare quickly left your brain, what was it about? Only faint words lingered in your mind. Maybe you shouldn't tell Chaewon about all of this, save yourself a lecture or two.

You began to head home, body slowly regaining its normalcy, what just happened to you?

You eventually returned, Chaewon looking at you with a mix of anger, sadness and relief. Placing the dinner she had prepared on the small wooden table she had made a while back, had you really been out that long?

"You are back! Oh my god you are back! I was so scared, why couldn't you just listen?!" Chaewon jumped you, forcing you to the ground, all air dissipating from your lungs. She's never normally this rough, different to her routine, but her affection felt as syrupy as usual.

"I– was, just curious..." You stuttered.

"Okay, so what did you see then? Enlighten me." Her face was inches from yours.

"N–othing. Just the same old stuff I saw here."

"Why are you stuttering baby? Are you nervous? I've never seen you like this." She interrogated.

Shit, shit, shit.

"You are closer than usual.." You lied, but she smiled and backed up slightly, sitting on your legs.

"Oh do you get flustered when I'm on top of you like this? Baby, we could go so much further than this." Her fingers ran firmly up your shirt, rubbing your clothed chest.

Your breath hitched.

"But that's a discussion for later, I made us food to share." She didn't move off your legs, the sensation slowly numbing over time. "Can I, feed you?" She asked, bringing the spoon closer to your mouth.

You cocked a brow. Not wanting to hurt her feelings twice in one day, nodding slowly.

"Thanks... " She said meekly, your mouth opening under her gaze. Clink, the spoon slammed into your teeth "Sorry." The semi-hot liquid poured down your tongue, falling down your throat. Her cooking was always really good and this was no exception.

She prepared another spoonful, alternating between feeding herself and feeding you. "Are you sure you didn't find anything?" She pried.

"No, just more trees, a lot of rock." You lied.

"Okay... If you are scared to tell me I won't be mad." She insisted. Did she already know? She knew something was wrong, was that what she knew? That its less calm? Did she also get a nightmare?

You let your brain calm down for a moment, Chaewon's watchful gaze observing your features, scanning for any clue into your brain that could give you away. She continued to feed you, the amount slowly disappearing.

"I haven't seen you much today baby, you owe me cuddles as a reprieve."

"I already promised didn't I?"

"Good."

Chaewon was asleep next to you.

This was your time to move, to explore more, get more answers.

You were scared. You've never seen her that insistent, unsettled.

You took the pillow to the left of you, gently placing it between her sleeping arms. Tip toeing into the wilderness, so careful not to wake her.

You retraced your steps back up, your heart was still. Pacified.

Keep walking, you muttered.

As the distance developed between you and home those nerves returned, those thoughts.

This couldn't be a coincidence.

You got further today, a swarm of purple dragonflies flew around a particular Sakura tree. It was punctured, bleeding its sap on the ground, solidifying just before reaching the ground.

A dragonfly buzzed towards you, specifically you. Not the direction you were facing, it perched on your hand. Still.

Like it did the first time you were here.

You looked up.

Your jaw dropped.

The tree was replaced by hanging bodies, strung up by brown rope holding their legs.

You turned away.

It followed.

Their eyes gone, replaced with everflowing sanguine blood. Dripping onto the floor, pools of it all around your feet.

You are stepping in it.

Their skin is pale and lifeless, on the verge of rotting.

The smell.

Bile rose in your throat like toxin, expelling onto the pile of blood on the ground.

One of the corpses began to talk.

"she... did... this..." The words were monotone, slow, it spoke with a lacerated mouth. Like it'd be sliced with a knife.

"Who?" You asked, already knowing the answer deep down.

"The... one... who... imprisoned... ɎØɄ..."

"Why?"

"We... tried... save.. ɎØɄ..."

The sky was starting to rip at the seams, the pitch blackness that coated your eyes broke away to reveal that all familiar sky.

"Wait!" You shouted at the corpse, "What do I do?"

"Find... to.... leave..." It called, disappearing right in front of your eyes.

The tree was there but it had healed, the dragonflies had disappeared.

So had the vomit.

Every trace of this event had disappeared.

You were swarmed by emotions, none positive, all extreme. Anger, fear, terror and guilt crawled up your shivering spine.

You were shaking, overwhelmed, but you couldn't stay here. If you weren't back when Chaewon woke up she'd question you again.

So you began your trek back, taking any possible faster route you could find, forgoing your own safety. Fighting against a clock you couldn't even sense.

You kept thinking about the events, Chaewon, who you'd grow so close to. did all of this.

Were those people your family? Your friends?

She took everyone from you.

She took you.

You kept rushing back, clambering over rocks, descending down as you could sense you were close.

You got home.

Chaewon was sat there, waiting for you.

"So you finally found out huh?" She asked, throwing a stick up and down in her hand.

"F–ound out what–?" You stammered.

"Don't lie to me Y/N, don't play stupid. I know you were up there, I know what you would have saw."

"I–"

"Don't fucking lie!" Chaewon shoved you into the hut, climbing over you. "You saw it. I know you saw it!"

"I did– You monster." Her gaze was psychotic, distraught, your heart pumped harsh for the first time in this hut.

"I'm, not a monster! They wouldn't let us be together! They– They didn't listen to me when I said we were soul mates!" She spoke erratically.

"You, killed people!"

"Yes! But, I h–had to! I did, come on! We had to be together!"

Chaewon reached for the knife to your right, putting it just inches from your neck.

You whimpered.

"Shut up! I'll explain, they got between me and you because I did some stuff to you I wasn't proud of, b–but! I couldn't lose the love of my life! So, I got rid of them! But, you didn't wanna come with me still!" She took a breath, her hand was shaky, the sensation of the blade pressed into your neck, threatening to slice you.

"But, my old job, it had blue–blueprints! Of an old technology, it let me create a world like this, So, I did! And, I synced you to it, and it was going so well. But you just had to explore! Ruin everything!"

Her breath was getting more erratic, more feverish. Her face was turning red, tears of frustration seeping out of her eyes. She looked deranged.

"I, we can fix this. We can ignore you know that, and we can go– back!" She tried to reason.

You whined against the knife's edge, "We can't– just let me go."

"I'm not letting you GO! Not now, not ever. Even if you managed to get out of here, where would you go? I locked the two of us in my basement, sealed it! You'll just die without the machines support... I won't let it happen!"

"I– can't look at you the same! You are a fucking monster!" You yelled back, she pressed the knife in, it started to cut.

"I'm not! I swear! It just had to be done!"

"Drop the knife then..."

She did instantly.

"Okay– okay! We can, we can, calm down... Please, just hug me." She pleaded.

"No."

Chaewon started to shake harder, "Please... I can't do this! I can't have you hate me! This was all for you to love me!"

You attempted to dart, to get away. But Chaewon was faster, impossibly fast. Pushing you back right where you were.

"Don't leave... I can't let you leave." Her breath was laboured, heavy, exhausting herself.

"I– don't know what to do." You said, turning away from her.

"Stay... Everything's been perfect, we can work past this. We have all of eternity."

"I can't forget this."

"You may think that, but I know better. And I know what I must do." She threw her shaking body onto yours, trapping you against the bed. "I can't handle anymore of this tonight Y/N." Chaewon whispered against your ear.

You couldn't either, that's why you didn't fight her murderous embrace, it took you forever to pass out. But eventually you did.

The next morning Chaewon was there, overlooking your sleeping figure. Her eyes softer than last night, like a predator and you were the prey.

"Morning sweetheart."

You tried to get up, but your arms were tethered, where did she get this rope from? You thrashed against it, desperate to flee, but it just tightened more and more, threatening to cut off circulation if you didn't calm down.

"Chae– untie me!" You yelled, her calmness didn't slip, not in the little, letting you shout at her.

"I'm afraid I can't. I've realised healing this will take time, time I can't have you running away. So you are going to have to stay put for a bit baby..." She said softly.

"You are deranged."

"If i have to be deranged to keep you with me, I will do it a million times over babe."

You wanted to freak out, fight back, but you just couldn't. Like you weren't being given a chance, something fighting against your very will.

"I hate you."

"It's okay, you hated me once before... Now, i'm going to make food again and I guess I'll just have to feed you again! It was preparation really, because–"

She leaned closer, "I knew from the first time you defied me It was inevitable."

#kpop x reader #kpop fanfic #kpop x male reader #kpop fanfiction #kpop fic #yandere kpop #kpop yandere #female yandere #yandere le sserafim #chaewon yandere

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kanaria-a · 1 day ago

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YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD i was 100 percent giggling and kicking my feet as I read your text. Could i be called 🛸 anon if you’ll allow it i have so many ideas for twisted wonderland x reader (you’ll notice how they’re all yandere based but if you’re not comfortable with them then I could offer some that aren’t yandere based)

If you don’t mind could you do a yandere jester ace trapolla x royal reader? I had that idea for a while and tried writing it but scrapped it. So imagine we see Ace descending into madness as he’s soon going to see reader getting married to someone else. It would be so cool if they’ve known each other since childhood and we get to see how his feelings progressed into obsession like imagine their life used to be so much more simpler where they could just depend on each other and he wished it was just like that where in their world, it was just them too.

❝Love me, loving you. Even the thorns and hurting leave me touching you.❞

in which….Yeah, i’m sure yall get it.

The bells on his cap jingled softly as Ace pressed his ear against the heavy oak door, straining to hear the conversation within the royal chambers. Through the thick wood, your father's voice carried the weight of finality as he discussed the arrangements for your upcoming wedding—a political alliance that would strengthen the kingdom's borders and secure trade routes for generations to come. Three weeks, Ace thought, his gloved hands clenching into fists. Three weeks until they take you away forever. He remembered when such barriers didn't exist between you, when the difference between royalty and commoner was nothing more than the clothes you wore. In those golden afternoons of childhood, you had been simply two children playing in the castle gardens, your laughter echoing off ancient stone walls as you chased each other through hedge mazes and splashed in ornamental fountains. "Ace!" you had called to him that first day, seven years old and gap-toothed, your crown sitting askew on your head as you escaped from your tutors. "Want to see the secret passage I found?" He had been the groundskeeper's son then, small and wiry with dirt under his fingernails and grass stains on his knees. The other children whispered that he was too bold, too quick with his tongue, too willing to speak truths that made adults uncomfortable. But you had seen something different in his mischievous grin and clever eyes. "Your Highness shouldn't be talking to someone like me," he had said, even then understanding the invisible lines that divided your worlds. "That's stupid," you had declared with all the fierce certainty of childhood. "I like you. You're funny and you don't treat me like I'm made of glass." And so began the most important relationship of his life—a friendship that bloomed in secret corners and stolen moments, away from the watchful eyes of courtiers and the expectations of royal protocol. You taught him to read using books smuggled from the royal library. He showed you how to climb trees and catch fireflies, how to laugh until your sides ached and forget about the weight of a crown.

Those were the days when your world consisted only of each other, when nothing else mattered beyond the next adventure, the next shared secret. Ace treasured every memory: teaching you card tricks behind the stables, listening to your dreams of traveling beyond the kingdom's borders, holding your hand when thunder scared you during summer storms. As you both grew older, the differences between your stations became harder to ignore. Your lessons grew more demanding, your free time more carefully monitored. Ace found himself relegated to brief encounters—a smile shared across a crowded room, a hastily passed note during formal dinners, stolen conversations in the moments between your royal obligations. It was your fourteenth birthday when everything changed. The king had summoned Ace to the throne room, and for one terrifying moment, he thought he had been discovered, that your secret friendship would be his downfall. "You have a gift," the king had said instead, studying Ace with calculating eyes. "My daughter speaks highly of your… entertainment value. The court has been dull lately. Perhaps it's time we had a proper jester." The offer came with a proposition that was impossible to refuse: a place at court, regular meals, fine clothes, and—most importantly—the right to remain near you. All he had to do was transform his natural wit into performance, his cleverness into comedy. "Say yes," you had whispered later that night, finding him in the gardens where he sat contemplating this twist of fate. "Please, Ace. It's the only way we can stay together." The desperation in your voice sealed his decision. He would become anything, play any role, if it meant preserving the connection between you. The transition from friend to entertainer proved more difficult than either of you anticipated. As the court jester, Ace gained access to royal functions and the right to speak freely—within limits. His jokes could carry barbs, his observations could highlight uncomfortable truths, but always wrapped in enough humor to maintain plausible deniability. But the role came with its own prison. He could no longer simply be your friend; every interaction was now performance, every private moment potentially observed and judged by the court. The easy intimacy of childhood became something he had to steal, to carefully orchestrate when no one was watching. "I miss how things used to be," you confessed one evening when you were sixteen, finding him practicing new routines in the empty great hall. "When we could just… be ourselves." "We still can," Ace insisted, though even he could hear the lie in his voice. The bells on his costume jingled as he moved to sit beside you on the steps leading to the throne. "Nothing's really changed between us." But everything had changed. Your world had expanded to include suitors and state dinners, diplomatic negotiations and marriage prospects. His world had narrowed to focus entirely on you—your schedule, your moods, your fleeting moments of happiness in an increasingly constrained life.

The obsession grew slowly, imperceptibly at first. What began as devoted friendship evolved into something more intense, more desperate. Ace memorized your expressions, catalogued your preferences, arranged his entire existence around the moments when he could make you smile. Your laughter became his addiction, your attention his greatest reward. He began to notice things others missed—how your smile never quite reached your eyes during formal portraits, how your hands trembled slightly when discussing your future marriage prospects, how you searched the crowd for his face during particularly tedious ceremonies. The knowledge that he alone truly understood you felt like both privilege and torment. "The Duke of Rosevale will be visiting next month," you mentioned one afternoon as Ace performed card tricks to distract you from wedding preparations. "Father says he's… interested in forming an alliance." The cards scattered from Ace's suddenly nerveless fingers. "An alliance," he repeated, his voice carefully neutral despite the way his heart clenched. "A marriage alliance," you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm eighteen now. Old enough to fulfill my duties to the kingdom." That night, Ace stared at the ceiling of his small chamber, mind racing with possibilities. He could make the Duke look foolish during his visit, engineer embarrassing situations, use his position to sabotage the negotiations. But you would simply be promised to someone else—another duke, another prince, another stranger who would take you away from everything you'd ever known. The Duke of Rosevale proved to be everything Ace despised: handsome in a conventional way, politically astute, wealthy beyond measure. Worse, he was kind to you, treating you with the sort of respectful affection that made Ace's jealousy feel petty and misdirected. "He's not terrible," you admitted to Ace during one of your rare private conversations. "He listens when I speak, asks about my interests. Father says I'm fortunate to have such a considerate match." Ace's painted smile felt like a mask that might crack at any moment. "Sounds like a fairytale," he managed, juggling pins with mechanical precision while his mind screamed in protest. "But I don't love him," you continued, your voice so quiet he almost missed it. "I don't know if I ever could. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to marry someone I actually care about, someone who truly knows me…" The longing in your voice nearly broke his resolve. For one desperate moment, Ace considered dropping his juggling pins, tearing off his jester's cap, and confessing everything—how he had loved you since childhood, how every performance was just an excuse to remain near you, how the thought of losing you to another man was slowly driving him mad. Instead, he caught the pins with a flourish and bowed deeply. "Your Highness deserves nothing less than a love story worthy of the songs," he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. The engagement announcement came three months later, proclaimed with great fanfare and celebration throughout the kingdom. Ace performed at the announcement feast, his jokes sharper than usual, his smile more brittle. He watched you accept congratulations with gracious smiles while your eyes remained distant, almost vacant. That night, he found you on the castle battlements, staring out at the kingdom spread below like a tapestry of lights.

"Quite a party," he said, settling beside you without invitation. In the moonlight, without his bells and painted face, he almost looked like the boy you'd befriended all those years ago. "I keep thinking about when we were children," you said suddenly. "Do you remember that game we used to play? Where we'd pretend we were the only two people in the world?" Ace's breath caught. "The world was simpler then." "I used to wish it could stay that way forever," you continued, your voice breaking slightly. "Just us, in our own little world where nothing else mattered." The confession hung between you like a bridge that neither dared cross. Ace felt the weight of everything he'd never said, every feeling he'd buried beneath layers of performance and pretense. "Maybe it still can be," he whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them. You turned to look at him then, and in your eyes he saw an echo of his own desperate longing. "Ace…" "Run away with me." The words left his lips before he could consider their implications. "Run away with me," he repeated, reaching for your hands. "We could leave tonight. I know roads the Duke's men would never think to search. We could find somewhere they'd never find us, somewhere we could just be—" "You know I can't." Your voice was gentle but firm, and it cut through his heart like a blade. "The kingdom needs this alliance. My people need—" "What about what you need?" Ace demanded, his careful composure finally cracking. "What about what I need? Do you know what it's been like, watching you slip away piece by piece? Performing for crowds while the only person who matters sits just out of reach?" You stared at him, seeming to see him clearly for the first time in years. "Ace, I had no idea you felt—" "Of course you didn't." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm just the jester. I'm here to entertain, to make you smile, to fade into the background when real life calls. But I've been in love with you since we were children, and I've spent every day since then trying to be worthy of something I can never have." The silence stretched between you, filled with years of unspoken truths and impossible wishes. When you finally spoke, your voice was thick with unshed tears. "If things were different… if I weren't who I am…" "But you are," Ace said, his voice hollow with acceptance. "And I am what I am. The boy who learned to dance and sing and tell jokes because it was the only way to stay close to you." Three weeks passed in a blur of final preparations. Ace performed his duties mechanically, his jokes growing darker, his smiles more strained. The other servants began to avoid him, unnerved by the manic gleam in his eyes and the way he muttered to himself between performances. The night before the wedding, Ace made his choice.

He found the Duke in the castle's wine cellar, sampling vintages for the ceremony. The man stood alone among the ancient barrels, completely unaware of the danger that lurked in the shadows. "Your Grace," Ace called softly, stepping into the flickering candlelight. His jester's costume seemed sinister in the dim space, the colorful fabric and jingling bells transformed into something from a nightmare. The Duke turned, wine goblet in hand, and smiled with the easy confidence of a man who had never known real threat. "Ah, the jester. Come to taste the wine? Though I suppose you're more accustomed to ale." "Something like that," Ace murmured, his hand finding the handle of a heavy wine bottle behind his back. "Tell me, Your Grace, do you love her?" "Love?" The Duke seemed amused by the question. "She's a lovely girl, certainly. Intelligent, well-bred. She'll make an excellent duchess." "That's not what I asked." Ace stepped closer, his movements predatory despite the cheerful jingling of his bells. "Do you love her the way she deserves to be loved? Would you die for her? Would you kill for her?" The Duke's expression shifted, wariness creeping into his eyes. "I'm not sure what you're—" The wine bottle connected with his skull with a dull thud. The Duke crumpled to the stone floor, his goblet shattering beside him, red wine spreading like blood across the ancient stones. Ace stared down at the unconscious man, his chest heaving with exhilaration and terror. "I would," he whispered to the still form. "I would do anything for her." Working quickly, Ace bound the Duke with rope from the wine cellar, stuffing his mouth with cloth torn from his own jester's costume. He dragged the unconscious man to a forgotten chamber deep in the castle's foundations—a place he had discovered during childhood explorations with you, a place no one else knew existed. When the Duke awoke hours later, he found himself chained to the wall of a dank stone cell, lit only by a single flickering candle. Ace sat across from him, no longer wearing his jester's bells, his painted smile replaced by an expression of terrifying intensity. "Good morning, Your Grace," Ace said pleasantly, as if they were meeting for tea rather than in a dungeon. "I do hope you slept well. Today was supposed to be your wedding day." The Duke struggled against his bonds, eyes wide with panic above the gag. "Oh, don't worry," Ace continued, his voice taking on the sing-song cadence he used during performances. "No one will find you here. This room has been forgotten for centuries. Perfect for… private conversations." He stood and began to pace, his movements sharp and erratic. "You see, Your Grace, I've been thinking. About love, about duty, about the games people play with other people's lives. And I've come to a rather startling conclusion." The Duke made muffled sounds of protest, straining against the chains. "The conclusion," Ace said, suddenly stopping to stare directly at his captive, "is that sometimes the only way to save someone is to destroy everything that threatens them. Even if that means becoming the monster in their story." Meanwhile, chaos erupted in the castle above. The Duke's absence was discovered at dawn when he failed to appear for the pre-wedding ceremonies. Search parties scoured the grounds while you stood in your wedding gown, pale and trembling, as your father raged about dishonor and broken alliances.

"Where could he have gone?" the King demanded of his guards. "Men don't simply vanish on their wedding day!" Ace appeared at your side during the commotion, his jester's costume perfectly in place, his painted smile sympathetic and concerned. "Your Highness," he said softly, "perhaps this is fate's way of giving you what you truly want." You turned to him, tears streaming down your face. "What I want? Ace, this is a disaster. The alliance, the kingdom's future—" "What about your future?" he interrupted gently. "What about your happiness?" Before you could respond, a guard rushed in with news. "Your Majesty! We found signs of struggle in the wine cellar. Blood on the stones, a broken goblet. There are rumors of bandits in the eastern woods—perhaps they took him for ransom?" Ace's performance was flawless. He gasped in horror with the rest of the court, suggested search parties, even volunteered to help in any way he could. No one suspected the loyal jester who had served the castle faithfully for years. Days passed with no sign of the Duke. Ace maintained his routine, visiting his prisoner twice daily with food and water, always maintaining that cheerful, unhinged demeanor that made the Duke's blood run cold. "She's been asking about you," Ace mentioned during one visit, sitting cross-legged in front of the chained man like a child sharing gossip. "Well, she's been asking where you are. It's not quite the same thing, is it?" The Duke had grown thin and haggard, his fine clothes torn and stained. He no longer struggled against his bonds, having learned that Ace's mood could turn violent without warning. "I've been thinking we should send a ransom note," Ace continued conversationally. "Something about impossible demands, maybe requesting that she be delivered in exchange for your safe return. Of course, no one would agree to such terms, but it would certainly make this look more… authentic." Above ground, you had begun to change. The shock of the Duke's disappearance had given way to something that looked almost like relief. You spent your days in the gardens where you and Ace had played as children, often staring at nothing with an expression of deep contemplation. "You seem… different," Ace observed during one of his performances for the subdued court. "Less burdened, perhaps?" "Is it wrong," you asked quietly when you were alone together later, "to feel grateful that fate intervened? I know I should be worried about him, should be devastated, but instead I feel…" "Free?" Ace suggested, his heart racing with hope and guilt in equal measure. "Free," you agreed, then looked at him with sudden intensity. "Do you think that makes me a terrible person?" Ace wanted to confess everything then—how he had orchestrated your freedom, how his love had driven him to acts he never thought himself capable of. Instead, he took your hand gently. "I think it makes you human," he said. "And I think someone who has spent their whole life putting duty before happiness deserves to feel free, even if the circumstances are… unfortunate."

Weeks turned into months. The Duke was declared dead, the victim of bandits who had apparently killed him when no ransom was forthcoming. The alliance was quietly dissolved, your father too embarrassed by the scandal to pursue another match immediately. In his hidden cell, the Duke had grown wild-eyed and broken, fed just enough to survive but never enough to hope. Ace's visits had become less frequent, his attention focused entirely on the new possibilities opening up in his real life. "She laughed today," he told his prisoner during one visit. "Really laughed, for the first time since you disappeared. It was the most beautiful sound in the world." The Duke could only stare at him with the glazed eyes of a man who had long since accepted his fate. "I've been thinking," Ace continued, "about what to do with you. The original plan was to keep you here until everyone forgot about you, then… well, deal with the problem permanently. But I'm feeling generous today." He produced a key from his pocket, holding it up so the candlelight caught its surface. "I'm going to give you a choice, Your Grace. I can unlock these chains and let you walk out of here. You can return to your lands, tell everyone you escaped your captors, live whatever life you choose." Hope flickered in the Duke's eyes for the first time in months. "But," Ace continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "if you ever come near her again, if you ever so much as send a letter, if you even think about trying to claim what was once promised to you… I will find you. And next time, there won't be any choices. There won't be any mercy." He leaned closer, his painted smile grotesque in the flickering light. "Do we have an understanding?" The Duke nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face. Ace unlocked the chains and stepped back, watching as the broken man stumbled toward the door. "Oh, and Your Grace? If anyone asks what happened, you were held by bandits. Common thieves. Nothing more interesting than that." The Duke fled without looking back, disappearing into the night like a ghost returning to its grave. A year later, you stood in the same garden where you had first met Ace as a child. The seasons had changed, and so had you both. The weight of duty had lifted from your shoulders, replaced by something lighter, more genuine. "Do you ever wonder what happened to him?" you asked as Ace practiced a new juggling routine beside you. "The Duke, I mean." Ace's hands never faltered in their rhythm. "Sometimes," he lied smoothly. "But some mysteries are better left unsolved, don't you think?" You smiled, watching the way sunlight caught in his red hair. "You know, I've been thinking about what you said that night on the battlements. About running away together." His juggling balls hit the ground with soft thuds. "The idea doesn't seem as impossible as it once did," you continued. "Father's been different since the scandal. More… protective. Less eager to marry me off. And I've realized something important." "What's that?" Ace asked, his voice barely audible. "I've realized that the person I want to spend my life with has been right here all along. The person who truly knows me, who makes me laugh, who's been my constant companion through everything." Ace stared at you, hardly daring to breathe. "I know it's unconventional," you said, reaching for his hands. "A princess and a jester. But stranger things have happened in fairytales, haven't they?" As Ace pulled you into his arms, spinning you around the garden while you laughed with pure joy, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps some stories could have happy endings after all. Even if those endings required a little… creative editing. The bells on his discarded cap jingled softly in the breeze, the only witness to the moment when the jester finally claimed his princess, and their childhood dream of a world containing only the two of them finally came true. After all, he had always been willing to do anything to make you smile. Anything at all.

SUDHDBD IM SOOO EMBARRASSED. I didn’t really know if it should’ve ended in, like…A more extreme way or not, so my bad if it’s awkward or anything

｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡!! But just know, when i find you 🛸 anon, i'm kissing you STRAIGHT on the lips

Uhm..i JUST now realized i kept on saying “she” and i just rolled with i’d already written everything im ENDING IT

#mx kanaria-vespa #disney twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst #twst wonderland #twst ace #ace trappola #ace trapolla x reader #royal au #jester au #royal twst au #jester!ace trappola #do i look like a real boy papa #i love you anon #🛸 anon

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jessaerys · 1 day ago

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watching jack saint's video he just posted about the last of us and he's probably one of like three video essayist i would trust with that hornet's nest of a videogame/tv adaptation to be empathetic and have an understanding of what makes a good, compelling narrative while also critiquing the political influences in the work itself without condemning anyone who finds the work of art meaningful and ANYHOW for the most part i am very pleased with his takes. very comforting, very refreshing, very nuanced, i love you jack saint

BUT there's this section around the 27 min. mark where he says "when ellie tortures one of abby's friends for information (...) she is emulating joel in the first game, so much of the second game revolves around ellie's resentment towards joel as explored by the pain she goes through when she tries to do for joel what she knows he would've done for her. and in fairness i thought the show also flobs(?) this pretty hard with this weird obsession craig mazin has with ellie being some secret sadist who craves torture and murder (...)" and here he overlaps footage of ellie from the show (violence enjoyer) and ellie from the videogame (haunted at what she has done), says, "watch this scene, and tell me ellie is, in any way, enjoying what she's doing."

and his point is pretty well explained, right, and not even incorrect as far as my understanding about the ellie-joel relationship in the game goes: it's all about both of them learning from each other; about joel being both a loving life-changing figure towards ellie and also a bad role model, and emulating what she learned from him is what leads to the tragedy of the second game - later jack saint goes on to talk about how ellie teaches joel to open up to people and how thawing that empathy within him is also what leads to his death when he decides to save abby's life not knowing she would later come back and kill him, right, the mortifying and even deadly ordeal of human vulnerability. he says, "this is part of what complicates ellie's relationship with joel, his behaviors didn't come from some cliche sadistic dark passenger, they came from his desire to protect people. this is the point. the things we often value most in people (love and empathy and loyalty) can often lead us to doing truly depraved things out of those feelings of obligation." he goes on to say, "she loves joel, but also there are things inside of him that terrify her and make her feel like everything else is just another constructed fantasy, and it is her who pays the consequences for those parts of him he was scared to show, because through that love those parts of him become parts of her."

ANDDD it's like. well to be 100% clear he is not wrong. that is a lovely and extremely compelling storyline and character relationship, y'know i get it. BUT as someone who was first introduced to the characters via the show it drives me absolutely bonkers bananas that this is one of the most common critiques i hear of the hbo adaptation, that joel is too soft and ellie is too sadistic, that this dilutes and undermines the above ^ meeting of opposites that is at the center of the game's emotional storyline, ellie's light and joel's darkness and how they affect and stain and change each other and what it says about love and attachment and the epic highs and lows of human connection.

but i don't think changing their characters does that!! adaptations are not a zero sum game!!

like i don't know how why it's SO difficult to find compelling a version of the last of us where ellie is like joel, where she has a penchant for violence inside of her too, where their connection is born out of that recognition of the self through the other and where joel both sees himself in ellie and wants to protect her from this dark passenger (which jake saint uses derogatorily but you know what, it's actually a really helpful shorthand to explain this inherent innate viciousness some people do have! like it is a thing that happens, in real life!) while also accidentally nurturing it in her, while also accidentally triggering the tragedy of ellie abandoning herself to this bloodthirst in part 2, repeating his steps just the way he taught her, because that is how the so-often-mentioned-it's-like-a-broken-record ~cycles of violence~ that tlou revolves around happen within the structure of the nuclear family. how is that not another layer! to the Themes!

like it's such a subtle but crucial difference, right, ellie pursuing revenge because joel has tainted her with his violent ways in the game (which assumes that, had ellie and joel not crossed paths, violence would never be a choice a young ellie would make as she serves this narrative purpose of apotheosis of the innocence of youth born to a cruel world); and ellie pursuing revenge because joel has in his pursuit to protect her from the dark passenger that he is too far gone to excise from himself, ironically enabled the violence within her in this greek tragedy fashion; joel has been dead from the beginning, in trying to change his own fate via the daughter-mirror he has instead condemned her.

and i think that subtle internal difference in both of those emotional truelines is pleasure. what if instead of being afraid of the horrible things joel has done ellie sees herself validated in it? attracted to the precipice of it? doesn't that make her even more of a participatory agent in her own unraveling? doesn't that give her character much more agency and substance when it comes to the ugly thing she twists herself into?

i don't know man it drives me crazy i guess because it reminds me of the whole perfect victim approach people have to similar father-daughter dynamics wherein the dark passenger is instead sexual abuse; how people cannot possibly fathom that the victim can too be an agent in their own desecration, that the disciple-daughter can even enjoy it and ask for it, and it doesn't make them any less of a victim.

show!ellie and joel are wuthering heights, they are a vampire and a fledgling. and it's not that i don't understand the symbolism of game!ellie and it's not that i don't find it compelling i just think making her a little feral is a billion times more interesting for girls who are just like their father! because here's the thing i just SHRIMPLY don't think this would be nearly such a big fucking deal if ellie was a boy!!! if this was a story about a father-son relationship!!! i think if ellie had been an innocent bright eyed boy in the game that is later given this dark passenger in the show, people would be like ooohh so much more nuance!! so it's really hard not to see this critique as gendered!

as if this subtle twist of the knife in ellie's characterization detracts from the marrow of the story rather than simply shape ellie differently around it which is, you know, what happens with adaptations. in jack saint's defense he is busy fighting much bigger demons: male videogame players with the emotional intelligence of roughly a three year old

#the last of us #tlou #ellie and joel

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deathlakes · 1 day ago

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This week i've had so many interruptions that i haven't been able to sit down and write, but here we go… !!!

The curious thing about Cupid's situation is that this GIRL KNOWS EVERYTHING. As if she were once a MH student, transferred to EAH, perhaps she has heard things about the PJO world, and who knows what other universes haha. But hey, love is everywhere in different ways, right?

The idea of having a crossover sounds great…. One more mission to the list for these demigods, In some ways it is one of the quietest missions. They are surprised, because even coming from a world where gods exist. It's so confusing for them the system of how magic works here so to speak, because for them they are just printed pages, stories they heard, movies among other things. It is similar to what happens with mythology for mortals, but now fairy tales are real too? As if Cinderella is a true story? REAL Grimm Brothers? That students in this school must follow a destiny? What?

They are impressed by the fact that. Then there's Cupid, who teaches them a little about the world at first, although it is the counterpart of Eros, Nico is equally VERY UNCOMFORTABLE, feels repulsion. “Like, your father traumatized me. I'll keep my distance just in case.” Lol. Later on, they may have a slightly closer relationship, but it will not become a deeper friendship.

At first they would be in the center of attention. EAH students know about Cupid, but they didn't expect there to be more of the same kind, like more guys from mythology. (Only in this case they are demigods.) It would be funny because many would interact with them, and the demigod guys would be like: ‘What do you mean we should follow our parents' destiny? No, thank you, really no.’ They make faces at each other; ‘What the hell is he telling us?’. But don't say anything to the EAH guys. They're really trying to see why Aphrodite would send them here and Cupid: ‘Please stop disappearing like that out of nowhere. We understand your desire for solve love problems, and you breathe for that, BUT GIVE US SOLUTIONS.’

The demigods obviously become rebels. Of course they don't agree with this shit, it's the stupidest thing. Most of the fairy tales here have macabre stories… (and the demigod guys are not spared either, but they are secret agents so they don't worry about that. In no way will they be forced to seal their fate. Thanks to Gods)

They begin to notice that, as you said, the rebels do nothing and it's something that has bothered me a lot since I was little. How if you don't like something, why not talk about it? Every time a student decided to be on a side, it was just like: Ooooh. She's a rebel. He's a Royal. And it stays there, they have their discussions on both sides, but that's all. And of course the rebels are proud of their decision, but… the Headmaster Grimm presses harder and harder. Raven lived frustrated (her way of rebelling was not to be evil like her mother), Cerise lived in fear for who her parents, Hunter&Ashley were really afraid of their relationship. Why doesn't anyone rebel and end this? They call themselves rebels, but they don't rebel at all.

The boys begin to work on putting an end to that propaganda, and proving that their story will not disappear (Believing what is the purpose of Aphrodite sending them to this world) And explaining that those same stories exist in their world. The thing about them sharing traumas works for me. Imagine the faces of the EAH students when Percy tells his storytime, or any of them. But hey, this isn't a competition for the most traumatized. Then this revolution begins to take more shape, Giles also helps with this, because he is also tired of his brother being the one doing this propaganda.

And with fate changed for Apple & Daring with Darling being the real charmer for Apple. Apple enters into crisis because, what is it supposed to do with its story now? Nothing is going as she expected, her supposed villain does not want to be a villain and who she grew up with, believing he was her prince charming, was a farce. She really enters into an identity crisis. Annabeth is the one who helps her, and makes her understand that she should not follow her destiny if she does not want to, her mother can't force her to be something and that should not be up to her mother's expectations nor anyone's. So she later supports the rebel movement. Briar who no longer wanted her destiny, but became a silent rebel, now she could leave anonymity. And more guys are joining this movement. They win their revolution, love triumphs and those who have been hiding come to light…

The friendships that demigods make. Cupid, O'Hair girls & Piper become so close that when Piper is sent back to her world, they keep in touch. She even sometimes comes to visit the school and spend time together. Also the girls have things in common, Piper being the daughter of Aphrodite, she has those areas. Love & Fashion. Briar & Ashley could also join, they liked this girl’s club, and shared thoughts. Jason helps Daring (as he is no longer as selfish as he was) try to be a better person and gives him advice. Even when he starts a relationship with Rosabella, there are some small crises, because it is still all new to him. The fact that Triton is basically Meesheel's grandfather and Percy's half-brother. So they have a lot to talk about. Meesheel's is like, ‘are you my uncle then?’. And Percy is so confused, because ‘she is somehow his niece?’ But he lets his confusion pass, because he won't have a headache thinking about it, no, thanks.

Of course it works that Leo and Sparrow are a troublemaking duo. Sparrow is the one who gives the ideas, and Leo is the one who makes them reality.

Melody and Will get along very well, due to their knowledge of music. As a son of Apollo, that is in him. Only now he can explore more of his musical side, rather than his healing side, thanks to the friendship he has with Melody. They even try to make mixes and of course they try a lot of things. So by the time Will arrives at camp, he introduces his brothers to his enhanced abilities. Kitty is fascinated with Nico due to the fact that he is able to travel in the shadows and similar to her power. Then they have a skills competition, under Will's watch (of course). But also with Hazel, because she mines gemstones and she likes shiny things. Lizzy sees them as her equals as heirs to a throne, and perhaps, talks about politics. Teatime is never missing, it becomes customary to be invited to Maddie's tea time and then Hazel and Nico in their world sometimes they say: let's have teatime and out of nowhere, a table is already set.

Darling shows great interest in Reyna being an Artemis Hunter, so she always has questions. Raven finds it innovative. So maybe Reyna will teach them something about her job as a hunter, and show them combat tricks. Frank, Hunter & Dexter, a great trio, Dexter, with Frank's help, becomes more skilled in his theme of heroism. How he has lived under his brother's shadow, giving him more self-confidence, even recounting his experience. Cerise and Thalia, I agree that they would be very competitive since their personality is like that.

I hope you like my vision haha. Maybe it's too little. But worse is nothing :D

Since I already talked about a possible EAH AU for PJO a month ago,what about a crossover? Greek mythology is real in Ever After High,after all Cupid was transferred there and there are a lot of reference to it. The main gang get sent there by Aphrodite (or Eros) because Cupid needs help (girl is probably sick about all the social barrier since she went to MH half of her life and can't stand their mentality anymore) and instead of them mixing with the students to go unnotice,trying to follow their destiny like the ever after kids,they just....sit down because what the hell is going on in this school?

Like,their parents had this other strange pocket world they never knew about,they just met one of their immortal relative which is directly related to Piper and is Eros (so the counterpart of Cupid for Nico's joy) adoptive daughter,and she is just filling them all in with how things works there.

The thing is,the demigods don't really understand where they fit in this whole "rebel vs royal" conflict,and Cupid can't really help because she isn't around much and she is a rebel,because she wants to help people find the love they want and not what they are told. They all know how most of their story ends,those are fairytales they heard since they were children after all,so they decide to stay neutral at the start and try to understand the situation better.

And then they started noticing all the weird things going on. Why are those kids aiming so hard to finish their story? Don't they know that most of them will have a sad/horrible life because of it? That some of them will die in gruesome ways? Also,why are most of the rebels not doing anything? If they want to really go against the system and stop their story,they needs to do more than just protesting or yelling their frustration and unfairness to the world. Where is the real plan at? Oh and look–most of their parents sucks too,they can bond on trauma sharing now. Something in common finally.

In the end they start a revolution,helping the students realize that 50% of them had been groomed ever since they were children to believe in something that was not set in stone,and that they can make and change; while the other 50% got feared for their entire life for just existing,and was also insolated because they wanted to not die/suffer in eternity.

Fuck propaganda.

Anyway,the revolution is a success and this actually help Cupid's job–making it more easy for her. Piper and her gets the occasion to bond over the sharing informations about their relationships,and Cupid give her some advice. The others bond with the other character too of course: Piper and Poppy are in tune with each other and they often spent time together,Holly most of the time is with them. Nico and Hazel are particularly fond of the Wonderland gang and their situarion (Kitty is their favorite but don't tell the others). Annabeth tried to help Apple realize that her mother's behavior was never ok,and that her story can change without her fearing for the worst. Similar to her,Jason does the same with Daring and he and Rosabelle become close friends. Percy and Marshall find themselves talking a lot about the difference in their underwater world/their parents palace and differences. Leo and Sparrow? They are best friends,the "always up to something not good" duo that cause chaos. Will and Melody bond over their intrest in music,and Melody even tried to teach Will how to play the clarinet. Reyna,Darling and Raven have strong personalities but they still find a middle ground and they understand each other,sometimes they spar with each other. Frank and Hunter more often than not share their opinions on their own archery skills and animals,sometimes Dexter join them and they all hung out together. Thalia actully enjoy herself with Cerise's company since they have a couple of things in common,they often challenge each other to the weirdest thing ever.

Little by little they help the students to understand that they can choose what and who they want to be,untill the social barriers are throw into the air and the headmaster is replaced. And all of this was possible only because a bunch of teenagers said "fuck it. Let's save them from their own fate with a revolution" and actually went through it.

@deathlakes you see my vision for this?

#i see absolutely see ur vision

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