#( THREAD FORTY SIX )

[smileysuh]

after the seminar

🌙 staring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. In truth, Wonwoo has been tired. You haven’t fucked since the first night of the seminar, and although that was only two days ago, you’re definitely feeling the loss. On top of that, being wined and dined and looked after always makes you hornier than usual, and Wonwoo has been extra ‘husband’ today. He’s just so perfect. Well-mannered, kind, educated- God, you want him so bad.

tw/cw. sugar daddy Wonwoo, gentleman in the streets/softdom in the sheets, reader doesn't want to make choices, daddy/control kink, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral, blow job, deep throating, dirty talk, praise, masturbation, unprotected sex, holding hands while fucking, implied breeding/fullness kink, etc… I pet names: (hers) honey. (his) daddy.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.3k

🍭 aus. sugar daddy au, established relationship, fiance!Wonwoo, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. I know not everyone is into this level of sugar daddy control, but I think there's something to be said about the trust that reader has for Wonwoo. Sometimes I just wanna shut up and let a man do all the work, and today, that man is Wonwoo

Wonwoo’s had few loves in his life. During university, he’d had a love for law, a need to do what was right. In his thirties, he’d found a new soulmate in legislative procedures related to the sustainability and efficiency of whole cities. Finance had been another long-winded lover, and now, on the cusp of forty, Wonwoo’s found the one thing in the world he loves most, you.

Holding your hand while he drives through the city, Wonwoo can’t help but keep some of his attention on you. 

Dressed in a tight-fitting red dress he’d bought you for your six-month anniversary in Paris, with your hair and makeup done, you look as stunning as ever. There’s a fat rock on your wedding finger, an engagement ring signifying his loyalty to you, and Wonwoo can’t help himself but play with it a little anytime your hands are linked.

As he makes a turn onto a busy street, the sun practically blinds him, and Wonwoo immediately lets go of you to adjust his visor. You make no movement, so he pulls yours down too, enjoying the way you flash him a small smile and whisper a ‘thank you.’

“You look lost in thought,” he muses, having noted your gaze fixed on the sidewalk trees passing by outside your window. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about seminar topics,” you admit. 

Over the past three days, you’ve accompanied him to multiple talks focused on accessibility, affordability, and green solutions within cities like yours. Tonight marks the last evening of the event, and the two of you are headed to a meet-up with some of Wonwoo’s closest lawyer friends. 

Wonwoo loves how diligently you’ve thrown yourself into his work-focused world. Not only do you attend the seminars with him, but you truly make an effort to learn, and that’s never more obvious than when conversing with his colleagues.

Wonwoo’s best friend, Kim Mingyu, has entertained a string of sugar baby relationships, and despite inviting three or four of those women to events like the one you’ve just accompanied Wonwoo to, none of Mingyu’s girls ever took to it the way you do.

You’re one of a kind, and Wonwoo knows how lucky he is to have you.

“I’m sure Seungcheol will have a few things to say about the housing crisis talk,” Wonwoo notes. Choi Seungheol, who had started in law and made the leap to real estate. He now owns half of the new developments being built downtown, and Wonwoo knows this will spur a contentious discussion later.

“He can’t argue with the stats,” you sigh, turning to look at Wonwoo, who threads his fingers with yours again. 

“He can try,” Wonwoo smiles softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. 

You return the smile, turning your attention out the window again. 

You’re not voicing anything, but Wonwoo can read you like a book. It used to be his job to pay attention to body language, and while he tries to stay humble, people have called him something of a mind reader.

“It’s been an exhausting three days,” he notes. “We don’t have to be out for long tonight, I’m sure we both need our rest.”

“Hansol flies to New York tomorrow morning,” you remind him. “I want you to have as much time with him as you need before he’s gone.”

Your relationship is always something like this, the two of you caring for each other so deeply that you constantly make small concessions. As always, though, the ball is in Wonwoo’s court. He appreciates the way you can feel to him like an intellectual equal while still being submissive in other senses, although he never abuses this power over you.

He’ll keep an eye on you tonight, and when he notices you getting tired, or your energy depleting, he’ll excuse the both of you from drinks and take you back to his place. Then, he’ll take care of you in the ways only he knows how. 

You love Wonwoo. You love him for the big things, his character, his good heart- but you love him for the little things too, the way nothing slips past his line of focus. He’s always a hundred percent on and present with you, holding open every door, guiding you by the small of your back, and pulling out your chair first when you join his friends on the top floor restaurant in the most expensive hotel in the city.

“You look amazing,” Mingyu compliments you, flashing you a toothy grin before standing to greet Wonwoo with a hug. “You definitely know how to pick them,” he praises his friend.

“And look at that ring,” Seungcheol has zeroed in on the diamond on your finger, and he reaches across the table to take your hand and get a better look at it. Wonwoo’s eldest friend has always had an eye for luxury, and he studies the oval rock and silver-colored band. “I’d ask if this is sterling,” he muses, “but if I were a betting man, which I am, I’d say it’s white gold.” 

Seungcheol lifts his eyes to meet yours, waiting for an affirmative, which you give with a nod. “You know your metals, Mister Choi.”

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingers, “It’s Seungcheol.” 

“Stop flirting with Wonwoo’s girl,” Hansol tuts, pushing at Seungcheol’s shoulder.

The elder man makes a face, brushing off his expensive suit. “Not flirting,” he clarifies. “Although,” his gaze shifts to you again, “if you have any hot friends-”

“Aish,” Wonwoo has rejoined the conversation after greeting Mingyu, and he takes the seat next to you, his arm casually coming around the back of your chair to pull you closer. “What have I told you about asking her for favors?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Sungcheol sighs, sitting back and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “She’s one in a million, aren’t ya, little miss future Jeon to be?”

“Try one in a billion,” Wonwoo corrects, hand finding your thigh now that he’s pulled you close enough. “Have you three ordered drinks yet?”

“We were waiting on you,” Mingyu says, handing Wonwoo a cocktail menu, which he settles between you both so you can also read it. “Their margaritas are pretty good.”

You quickly find a drink you’d like to try, and you wordlessly reach out a manicured nail to tap on it. Wonwoo follows your motion, giving a curt nod, then he leans in to press his lips to your cheek. He waves down the waiter a moment later, and orders you your drink, sparing you the socialization.

This is yet another one of those little things Wonwoo does for you that you find incredibly sexy, and you tuck closer to him, placing your hand over his own on your thigh. 

“We should talk about the elephant in the room,” Mingyu sighs, drawing all eyes. You have no idea what he’s about to say, and then he hits the four of you with, “Cheol, you have to admit your new high rises aren’t sustainable or affordable.”

“They’re called luxury suits for a reason,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m not in the business of affordable housing.” 

Wonwoo grins next to you, looking down and squeezing your hand gently. It’s funny how amusing he finds this whole thing. 

“Don’t smirk like that, Woo,” Seungcheol tuts. “As if you didn’t do a walk-through of a penthouse suite in my new highrise last week.” 

This is news to you, and you turn to look at your boyfriend. You’re generally not one to question him, and luckily you don’t have to, because Kim Mingyu is just as nosey as you’d sometimes like to be. “You checked out a penthouse? I thought you loved your apartment?”

“I’ve had it for years,” Wonwoo says, and you can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “However, I can admit that the amenities at Cheol’s new builds are quite impressive.”

“Amenities,” Seungcheol scoffs. “As if that’s what you were actually interested in.”

The two powerful men share a look, and it’s a battle of wills that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. 

What was Wonwoo interested in?

He’s never talked to you about moving, and you’ve been living with him for nearly a year. Besides, Mingyu’s right, Wonwoo adores his apartment. He’s had it forever and it’s decorated exactly the way he likes it. Your bedroom is a lovely corner location with views of the whole city, and his home office is a sanctuary you’ve loved to desecrate. 

“We’ll talk about this more another time,” Wonwoo says finally, looking up as your waiter appears with a tray of drinks. 

Your cocktail is set in front of Wonwoo, and he gently pushes it toward you before reaching down to give your thigh a squeeze under the table. He picks up his Old Fashioned with his free hand, and Seungcheol raises his own glass in a toast. “To friends and new engagements!”

Seungcheol nods to you before taking a sip of his scotch, and it fills your body with heat to know his friends truly respect and like you. They’re happy to have you joining as a permanent member of their social sphere. 

You place your hand on top of Wonwoo’s as you bring your cocktail to your lips. 

The discussion moves to details about sustainability, and the men at the table trade opinions on the seminars. Mingyu is fast in his manner of speaking, always intent to prove his point. Cheol is loud and boisterous, scoffing at opinions that don’t align with his own. Hansol is often quiet, but he makes good notes ever so often, and they make the whole table sit and think. And your Wonwoo is as calm and judicial as always, listening to his friends with a contemplative expression even while his thumb draws small circles on your thigh. 

You give your own two cents a few times, and your musings are always the most well-received. None of the men at the table are about to pick a fight with you, and they’re attentive whenever you open your mouth, nodding and making one or two comments before getting heated with each other again. 

The waiter comes and Seungcheol orders a few appetizers while Wonwoo opens the menu for you. When Wonwoo begins to list three of his own items, you tap your finger on the one you’d like most and he voices that as well.

God, how you love the fact that you only have to lift one little finger with Wonwoo while he does the rest. You really aren’t in a super talkative mood, especially when it comes to mundane tasks like ordering food and drinks. You save your voice to join in on the intellectual conversation taking place, and you prefer things this way.

Seungcheol and Wonwoo begin to argue over rezoning laws, and Hansol turns toward you, leaning closer. “Congratulations on your engagement,” he smiles. 

“Thank you,” you grin back. 

“Have you guys talked about wedding plans yet?”

Out of all the people in the world, you didn’t think Chwe Hansol would be one of the first to ask you about wedding details. 

“We’re thinking destination,” you admit.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Hansol laughs. “And an expensive honeymoon too I bet.” 

“Of course,” you grin, playing with the stem of your cocktail glass. “Although, if I’m being honest…” you lean closer to Hansol, lowering your voice while Wonwoo and Seungcheol continue to argue, “as much as I like the lifestyle I have with Wonwoo, you know I’m happy just to be with him.”

“But the expensive trips are a bonus I bet,” Hansol grins. 

“I mean… would you say no to a trip to the Maldives?” 

Wonwoo’s friend shakes his head, still smiling. “Never.”

“When are you going to find someone?” you ask. Out of all of Wonwoo’s close friends, Hansol is the most level-headed. He’s stable, and kind, and if you weren’t so into Wonwoo, you’d even admit Hansol is quite handsome in his own way. 

“Someday,” Hansol sighs. “Maybe you’ll have cute bridesmaids at your wedding.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” you assure him. 

Hansol laughs. “I’d appreciate that.”

Food begins to arrive at the table, and you sit up straight again, tucking close to Wonwoo. He’s done this thing, ever since your first date, where he helps plate food for you, and for some reason, it’s always been a huge turn-on.

You like getting baby girl treatment, and you watch Wonwoo with a grin while he cuts through some carpaccio and sets up a piece for you. He makes sure to get a little bit of everything on your plate before putting anything on his own, and his friends are already digging in by the time he’s gotten the both of you settled.

“Do you want anything else?” he asks, always the type to be certain he’s pleased you.

“This looks perfect,” you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, lingering by his ear so he’s the only one who can hear you when you say, “Thank you, Daddy.”

Wonwoo reaches down and squeezes your thigh, the only sign you have that your words have done something to him. He’s not the type to be big on PDA, and it’s the little things like a constant touch, or acts of service, that remind you he loves you as much as you love him.

You wait for Wonwoo to lift a carpaccio bread spread to his lips before you reach for your own, mirroring his motions so you can experience the food together. 

You hadn’t been a carpaccio fan before meeting Wonwoo, but he’s expanded your pallet in the time you’ve known him, and you’re extremely thankful for this opportunity - as well as others - that he’s provided for you.

“Look at you two loved-up foodies,” Seungcheol sighs from across the table, watching you with eyes trained to assess. 

Wonwoo only grins, reaching for his drink to take a sip. You follow that motion too, smirking over the rim of your glass before downcasting your eyes. 

There’s no need to respond to Seuncheol’s comment because it’s an apt description of the pair of you.

“Stop being jealous,” Mingyu grins, reaching out to push at Seungcheol’s shoulder. 

“Never going to happen,” Seungcheol retorts. 

You know he’s in the market for a sugar baby, and Wonwoo’s told you how often Seungcheol brings you up when you’re not around. Apparently, his eldest friend is adamant that you’re one of the most perfect sugar babies he’s ever seen, and you wonder if maybe you should try to hook him up with one of your friends at the wedding. Give Cheol the Hansol treatment. However, in contrast to Hansol’s laid-back expectations, you’d have to give your Cheol-intended friend a cheat sheet booklet on how to please a rich man.

“Just watch,” Seungcheol continues, “these two are going to sneak off early and go to the bathroom or something. They’re sitting much too close together, and we’ve all noticed Wonwoo’s hand under the table.”

To show his innocence, Wonwoo lifts the hand in question. “We’re not doing anything,” he assures his friends calmly. “Although… unfortunately, we will have to leave early after appetizers.”

This is news to you, and you look at Wonwoo for further clarification, which he gives when pressed by Seungcheol.

“It’s been a long seminar,” Wonwoo explains, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. “I’d say Honey needs her beauty rest, but I think we all know I’m not so nice when I’ve been sleep deprived.”

You love it when he calls you Honey, in fact, he uses that name for you more than your legal one. 

Seungcheol lets out a groan, but he doesn’t push further, because Wonwoo’s excuse is true. He’s never been rude to you when tired, but he definitely has a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. 

“We’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning,” Mingyu agrees. “Maybe I should get another drink and call it a night too.”

“Come on Gyu,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’ll let these two ditch, but this is Hansol’s last night in the city, I thought we could go to a roof on one of my new waterfront builds and hit some golf balls at the sea.”

“Right, because that’s very environmentally friendly,” Wonwoo tuts.

“Jesus, you are tired, aren’t you?” Seungcheol laughs. 

It’s a rhetorical question, and Wonwoo simply lifts another appetizer to his mouth, chewing with a tight-lipped grin. 

In truth, Wonwoo has been tired. You haven’t fucked since the first night of the seminar, and although that was only two days ago, you’re definitely feeling the loss. On top of that, being wined and dined and looked after always makes you hornier than usual, and Wonwoo has been extra ‘husband’ today.

He’s just so perfect. Well-mannered, kind, educated- 

God, you want him so bad.

You take a sip of your cocktail again before resting your hand on Wonwoo’s thigh, and he stops what he’s doing to look down at your fingers toying with his pants. Then his gaze rises to you, and he cocks his head slightly, obviously a little stunned by how forward you’re being tonight.

It’s such a small motion, but it speaks volumes, and when paired with a small flutter of your lashes, Wonwoo reads you like he reads the books in his impressive office library. 

Part of you wants to toy with him, wants to tease your touch up to his crotch just to see if you can get him hard at dinner with his friends, but you know that would lead to something akin to consequence. 

As easy as it is for Wonwoo to read you, he’s not such an open book and his reactions vary drastically. You don’t want to push your luck today, not after you’ve been such a good girl for him for three seminars straight.

You remove your hand before playing with fire gets you burned, and the two of you continue to finish your appetizers. Each bite is one step closer to leaving with Wonwoo, but you try to take your time, try not to be too glutenous to make way for lust. 

Wonwoo finished eating and he lifts his drink with his left hand, his right palm finding your thigh again. His touch is soothing, gentle, but it still stirs a fire within you.

You shift your knee, letting it rest against his, and you sip your cocktail trying to pay attention to what Mingyu’s saying about the stock market. 

Wonwoo is generally quite the stocks man. He pays attention to Mingyu, but you can tell his focus is still partially on you, and you reach down to play with his fingers, enjoying how pretty his hands are. 

You need him so badly. 

That’s when you realize Wonwoo has almost finished his drink, and you quickly grab at yours too, wanting to reach the bottom of your own cup. 

You’ve not been drinking since the seminar started, and the booze in your cocktail definitely heightens your senses. An electric tingle consumes your form, and it’s getting harder to ignore the panties sticking to your core. 

The conversation reaches a lull,  and Wonwoo lets out a sigh, squeezing your legs. “Well, it’s been fun,” he says, “but Honey and I should get going.”

“One more drink,” Seungcheol practically begs, already lifting a hand to call over a waiter.

“Not tonight,” Wonwoo says, soft but firm. 

He stands up first, grabbing your hand to help you out of your own seat. “Good luck with your flight tomorrow, Hansol,” he nods to the man on your right. 

“Good luck with wedding planning,” Hansol retorts, rising from his chair to pull you and Wonwoo into a hug. 

Hansol’s not usually a touchy guy, and the hug means something. It’s a true acceptance that you’re permanently a part of Wonwoo’s life, and it means the world to you. 

“Now I want a hug,” Mingyu also stands, holding out his arms for you and Wonwoo.

With a laugh, your fiance’s hand finds the small of your back and he guides you into Mingyu’s warm embrace, trapping you between their large bodies. 

Now you’re really turned on. 

Seungcheol doesn’t stand, he simply watches, lips all pouty. “Let me know about that penthouse,” he muses. “I’ve got some foreign buyers already wanting a walk through and I won’t hold it forever.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Wonwoo promises, giving one last nod to Seungcheol before he begins to guide you out of the restaurant.

As you make it to the front desk, Wonwoo stops and addresses the staff member there. “I’m going to take care of my table’s bill tonight.”

“I’ll put it on your tab, Mr. Jeon.” She nods, typing something into the ipad infront of her.

“That was kind of you,” you muse as Wonwoo escorts you into the elevator that will lead to the underground where his expensive Mercedes is parked.

“We’re leaving early, it’s the least I could do.”

“You know… I hope we didn’t leave on my account,” you say, thinking about the conversation you’d had in the car earlier.

Wonwoo leans down close to you, grinning. “I can safely say we left due to my own personal needs, although they’re not sleep-related.” 

“You really like this dress, don’t you, Daddy?” you smile, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck while his hands settle on your hips.

“I like what’s under it,” he retorts, which is a cheeky response by Wonwoo’s standards.

“Been missing my body, haven’t you?”

“More than you realize.”

Wonwoo had kept his composure on the drive home. He’d even kept his hands mostly to himself on the way up to your apartment, but your stoic lover is on you the moment the door to your home is closed behind you both.

He presses you up against the wall, grabbing your waist and tugging you close while simultaneously blocking you up against the hard surface at your back. His lips are hot against your own, his tongue invading your mouth and making you giggle as you grab the front of his shirt, already popping buttons open.

You release a moan when he reaches down and cups your core, pushing up your dress to access your lacey panties. “Where do you want it, honey?” he asks, biting at your lip.

“I don’t want to think tonight,” you admit, tired from days of brain power.

You love that Wonwoo likes to check in with you. He’s not the type to simply throw you over a kitchen counter and rail you when you might prefer the bed or even the shower- but at the same time, as soon as you give him full control, Wonwoo’s very good at taking charge.

“I’ll take care of you,” Wonwoo promises, pushing your panties to the side so he can slide two fingers against your heated core. You can feel how wet you are, and the contact against your clit has you whining, grabbing his face to bring his mouth to yours again while he pushes two digits knuckle deep into your aching core.

You’re sensitive from a few days without being touched, and it feels like heaven to have Wonwoo worshipping you like this again. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he draws his mouth down to your jaw then your throat, peppering your skin in kisses that have you shivering with pleasure.

“Daddy-” you whimper, your hips thrusting toward his hand as he works you open, palming your clit with delicious pressure. 

“I know, Honey, I know,” he soothes, and between gasped breaths and moans, you can hear your pussy squelching already. 

It’s getting harder and harder to stand on your shaky legs, your heels not meant for standing sex or heavy petting like this. But it’s also clear to you that Wonwoo has no intention of stopping his motions until you’ve cum on his fingers, so you do your best to grab his shoulders, steadying yourself while that wonderful feeling builds in the pit of your stomach. 

“I’ve missed this pussy,” Wonwoo tells you, voice low. It’s not often that he uses vulgarity, even in the bedroom, and his words betray how much he truly needs you. Your skin tingles with excitement, pussy throbbing, heart thundering in your chest-

It’s crazy how one sentence can nearly shortcircuit your brain when paired with Wonwoo using his hands like this- stroking the parts of you that he knows better than anyone else in the world.

Your fiance has taken his sweet time getting to know your body, and it shows in moments like these. 

“I’m so close-” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. You should care about his expensive suit jacket, but you don’t- all that matters is the orgasm you’re desperately chasing, hips moving to ride Wonwoo’s hand while his unrelenting fingers get you closer and closer to the edge-

“Come on, honey,” Wonwoo grins, mouth returning to the spot on your neck that always makes you go feral, “cum for me.” 

One more rough thrust with his fingers has you moaning, tumbling past the edge as your orgasm overtakes you. 

If you’d nearly been falling over before this, you almost crumple to the floor with all the pleasure coursing through you now. Wonwoo’s free arm loops around your waist, and he presses you closer to the wall, keeping you propped up while his hand continues between your shaking thighs.

He releases a low groan, and you can feel his cock pressing through his pants by your hip. You feel delirious already, body pulsing, skin tingling. Wonwoo’s broad shoulders are your lifeline, and you grip them desperately, taking everything he has to give you like the good girl you are.

“Wonwoo-” you whimper, seeking out his lips, cupping his face to draw him closer. His tongue glides against your own, and you’re enough of a distraction that his fingers begin to slow inside of you.

Finally, he pulls his hand away from between your thighs, dragging his lips from yours so he can sink his digits into his mouth. You watch him lick them clean, listening to the groan of satisfaction that escapes him while you do your best to catch your breath.

“You’re always so good for me,” Wonwoo tells you, lifting his gaze to yours again. 

You swallow thickly, mind swimming, searching for a response. “You deserve it,” you assure him finally.

“And I know what you deserve tonight,” he retorts. 

In one quick motion, he lifts you up bridal style. One of your stilettos crashes to the floor from the sudden way your body has just been swung like a rag doll, but neither of you care as Wonwoo carries you through the apartment toward the bedroom.

You can’t help the giggle that escapes you. Wonwoo always makes you feel like a princess, and he looks like a classic prince while doing it. His side profile is so regal- all sharp bones and pretty lips. God- how did you ever get this lucky?

When you get to your destination, Wonwoo is gentle when he sets you onto the mattress. He straightens and looks down at your form, letting out a deep breath.

“Can you take that pretty dress off for me, honey?” he asks, already shrugging off his suit jacket and setting it over a chair nearby. 

“Of course, daddy,” you grin, reaching down to grab at the hem of the silky outfit, dragging it up your thigh.

His eyes are glued to you even as he works on his cuff links, and you take your sweet time as he makes it to the buttons of his shirt. The dress has a corset style back, and you tug on the ribbon before slowly working it open.

Wonwoo doesn’t say anything, but you can see his breathing pick up as the fabric gets less tight on your chest, revealing more and more of your bralessness. 

When he makes it to his pants, you remove the dress, leaving you in nothing but your thong, which is soaked through. 

Your fiance swallows thickly. “Panties too, honey. I don’t think I have the patience to wait any longer tonight.”

His lack of patience is clear in the way his cock slaps up against his abdomen, released by the pants now pooled by his feet.

Wonwoo looks like a fucking God, especially while naked. He’s lean but muscled, and you’ve spent hours tracing each ridge and bone. His cock is an impressive length of around seven inches, it’s pale like the rest of him, but when he’s really turned on, it flushes in colour.

Right now, his cock is a pinkish red, and you can see the angry tip already leaking desperately. 

You stand up, sneaking a kiss to his lips while hooking your fingers in your panties. Pushing them down, you get onto your knees.

“Honey, you don’t have to-”

“Maybe I’m impatient too, have you ever thought of that, daddy?” you ask, grabbing the base of his length and leaning forward to kitten lick the tip.

Wonwoo releases a low groan, reaching down to thread his fingers through your hair.

“I’ve missed you,” you murmur, enjoying the way he reacts when you kiss his cock gently. “Missed the weight of you in my mouth.”

“Fuck-”

It’s not often that Wonwoo curses, and the word goes straight to your core.

“Can I touch myself while I suck you off, daddy?” 

“I’d be upset if you didn’t,” he admits. “I want you dripping when I finally pull you off my cock and fuck you the way you like it.”

You whimper, your whole body alight with energy as you take him into your mouth. You’re already practically drooling from his fingers earlier and the dirty talk now, which makes it easy to coat him in spit. 

You’ve never been able to take all of Wonwoo in your mouth, but you do your best, gripping the base and bobbing your head while you begin to toy with your clit.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Wonwoo groans, taking a deep breath as his hand guides you on his cock. “Always so good for me.”

The praise only makes you suck on him harder. You sink so far down onto him that his tip hits the back of your throat. You feel yourself constrict around him and Wonwoo lets out a loud moan, fingers flexing in your hair. 

“Careful, honey, I don’t want you to choke,” he tells you, but his voice has lost it’s usual commanding tone. He’ll let you do anything you want to him, even if it means gagging on cock- but he’ll do his best to be gentle with you verbally at least.

You get lost in the feeling of pleasuring him, closing your eyes and letting your mouth show him how much you’ve missed him… however, not in so many words. 

Actions speak volumes, especially in this case.

You continue working on your pussy too, eventually slipping two fingers into your wet core, which makes you moan around Wonwoo’s cock.

“Honey-” he groans.

You can tell that he’s on the verge of breaking, so you pull off his length, looking up at him while catching your breath. “Ready to fuck me now, daddy?”

“I’ve been ready all night,” he grins, reaching down to grab your hand and help you to your feet. 

He kisses you then, cupping your face and leaning forward, taking your breath away all over again. His palm flatens against the small of your back and he dips you backward- then you’re falling, a small squeal escaping you-

The fall is only an inch or two, and you hit the mattress, Wonwoo bearing down on your form almost immediately. You grab at his shoulders as his lips find yours, your legs wrapping around his lean hips to tug him closer.

His cock is still wet with your spit, and it rubs deliciously through your soaked folds, bumping your clit and making you moan into the kiss.

As impatient as Wonwoo seemed to be, he’s not quick to adjust himself against you- or at least, not quick enough for your liking, so you reach between your bodies and grab his cock, lining him up with your wet hole. 

Wonwoo grins against your lips, and in one motion, he sinks into your core.

You moan loudly, digging your nails into his strong shoulders and throwing your head back as he fills you perfectly, stretching out your walls.

Your fiance takes the opportunity to kiss your neck, finding your sweet spot.

He feels like heaven- you’re really not sure how long you’ll be able to last tonight, but that’s never mattered with Wonwoo. You have forever with this man, which means you can be as fast or slow as you’d like to be.

He begins to thrust in and out of your core, and it makes you cry out again, walls contracting around his cock. You can feel him so deeply, especially as he adjusts your legs, pushing your thighs closer to your chest.

“Wonwoo-” you whimper, not a care in the world for using a ‘correct’ title. Your fiance might enjoy the daddy kink, but he’s never been the type to punish you for slipping up and calling him something different.

It’s clear to both of you how far gone you are, and Wonwoo only grins against your throat, picking up his pace.

“How about you rub your clit for me, honey?” he asks. 

You’re not one to question him, and your hand slips between your bodies to seak out the sensitive nub. More sounds of pleasure escape you as you begin to rub yourself, and your moans only push Wonwoo to fuck you harder.

Each thrust has his cock hitting a spot deep inside of you, and it’s making you delirious. 

Wonwoo finds your free hand, threading your fingers and using you as leverage as he presses you against the mattress. His breath is hot on your throat, but soon he’s seaking out your lips again, and you eagerly kiss him as if your life depends on it.

There’s an orgasm building in the pit of your stomach, spurred on by your fingers on your clit and the cock filling you up with each rough thrust.

Wonwoo doesn’t need to check in on you, and you don’t need to tell him you’re close, you’re certain he can tell. He tightens his grip on your hand, a silent invitation to let go whenever you want.

Each drag of his cock against your inner walls draws you closer and closer to the edge, and when he breaks the kiss to lick your throat, it allows you to focus entirely on the pleasure between your legs.

“Fuck, daddy-” you whimper, back arching as you shift below him.

“I know, honey,” he groans. “Me too.”

“Yeah?” Your body jitters with near orgasmic bliss. “Can you cum with me?”

“Of course, just tell me when.”

“Please-” you moan, writhing against the sheets as he fucks you even harder. “Please, daddy- I want you to fill me up-”

Wonwoo groans, teeth dragging by the sensitive skin of your throat. 

“Please, please- fuck, I’m almost there-” you rub your clit harder, body tensing on the precipice of your orgasm-

“Shit,” Wonwoo tightens his grip on your hand to the point where it almost hurts- and even though he doesn’t say it, it’s clear to you that he’s reached his own high.

The thought that Wonwoo is so turned on he’s just cum before you - something that never happens - is enough to drag you over the edge, your core clamping down on his cock, eager to milk him for everything he’s worth while you cry out in ecstasy. 

He’s gasping against your throat, thrusts even deeper now- slow, steady little ruts as he coats your insides with him cum, filling you up perfectly. 

You get lost in the feeling of him, squeezing his hand back as a silent encouragement while your pussy continues to squeeze his cock, eager to get every last drop.

When he finally comes to a stop, he simply lays on top of you for a moment, the both of you breathing heavily.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yes, honey?”

“I’ve just remembered-” you pull your hand away from your clit, instead moving to stroke his hair, “What did Seungcheol mean about the penthouse you were looking at?”

Wonwoo lets out a small chuckle. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?”

“Yes, please.”

Your fiance pulls away from your throat, looking down at you. “I’ve been thinking we might need a bigger place… one that could accommodate a few extra rooms.”

“Extra rooms?” you cock a brow.

“For any kids we might have, you know, after we’re married.” 

Your entire body tingles with excitement. 

While the two of you have talked about children in a general manner before, nothing has ever been set in stone. But you suppose now that you’re engaged, it’s natural this sort of thing would be on Wonwoo’s mind.

“How do you feel about that?” Wonwoo asks.

“I feel like…” you swallow thickly, “I want you to fill me up again, and also that I should book a doctor's appointment to discuss going off birth control.”

“I can definitely help you with that first one,” Wonwoo grins, pressing chaste kisses all across your face while you giggle and hold him tighter.

“We’re really doing this,” you whisper.

Wonwoo’s thumb brushes by the ring on your wedding finger. “Honey, I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else.”

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🔮 preview. You pull away just as his lips are about to meet yours. “You know how appreciative I am whenever daddy gets me a present,” you say, acting innocent. This only makes him laugh, and he grabs the back of your head, pulling you into a passionate kiss. You know buying things for you does the same thing to Wonwoo that it does to you. He loves seeing the excitement in your eyes, the way you light up at gifts. He truly lives to provide for you. 

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, mentions of breeding kink/wanting to get reader pregnant, sugar daddy Wonwoo, daddy kink, soft dom!Wonwoo, oral, pussy eating, fingering, breif edging, squirting, groping, sickly sweet loved up sex, crying during sex cuz reader is so in love, mentions of pain kink, hair pulling, teasing, dirty talk, fucking on a kitchen counter, Wonwoo talks about reader getting ‘plump’ with pregnancy, he adores the ‘soft bits’, etc.  I petnames. (hers) honey (his) daddy.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 4k I teaser wc. 300

🌙 staring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader

bonus

“Can I take this off yet?” you ask, wobbling in your heels as you grab at the silk blindfold blocking your vision.

“Be patient, honey,” Wonwoo breathes in your ear, his hands firm on your hips as he guides you to whatever surprise destination he has in store for you tonight. 

Christmas is a week away, and the last time he blindfolded you like this was for your birthday. He’d taken you to a Mercedes dealership to let you choose any car you wanted. You have no clue what he has in store for you now, and you’re practically shaking with excitement. 

You know he’s driven you somewhere, and you’ve been in an elevator, so it must not be another car- your list of gift possibilities is somewhat thin. You have a hunch, but you don’t want to get ahead of yourself just in case you’re wrong about where your fiance is leading you. 

Wonwoo’s lips find your throat, and his hands stop you in your tracks. His breath is hot by your ear a moment later, and he lets out something like a contented sigh. “Okay. Let me help you take this off.” 

His deft fingers work at the loose knot behind your head; soon the blindfold slips away.

Your eyes adjust to the light, and you blink while taking in the space in front of you. You’re in a large open-concept kitchen, a living room sprawled in front of you with views of the whole city. The decor is lavish luxury, and you recognize the design concept as a Choi Seungcheol special when you notice a specific lighting fixture that Cheol puts in all his expensive builds. 

“Wonwoo-” you breathe, mind spinning.

The man behind you flattens his chest against your back, wrapping his arms around your frame while he rests his head on your shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Is this…”

“It’s ours,” your fiance confirms. “I wanted to show it to you on Christmas day, but I couldn’t help myself.”

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[writing-mlm]

Will you love me again?

Summary: Simon’s returned home after 20 years but the suitors have finally grown restless of waiting for you to pick a new King of Ithaca. Pairing: King!Simon Riley x King!Ftm!reader Wc: 6.1k Tags/Warning: Canon-level violence, talks/planning of S/A, Epic the Musical Ithaca Saga spoilers! Most of the words are literally lyrics so ig song fic, oral (r!receiving), fingering, stomach bulge, reader has a vagina, no protection, creampie

His skin remembers the touch of your lips, the way they’d press against his tense muscles, the way they’d kiss his scars and carry soft whispers and songs. How your hands would touch him, run up his arms, cradle his face, and remove his helmet. He remembers the sound of your voice, how you’d talk to him while weaving against the window, your kingdom standing below your castle. 

The castle he’d built all those years ago as a declaration of his love for you. A castle that grew colder as the years stretched on since he’s been there; taken away for a war. 

A war, born from a greedy man kidnapping your cousin. A war Simon hadn’t wanted to participate in because, despite his oath to your cousin's husband, the Trojans have never helped Ithaca in their times of need. And even more so, he had you, his husband, and your newborn to watch over. To protect. He’d only agreed to help after he’d been tricked. 

A war that was supposed to be no more than five years had turned into a twenty-year journey. He’d left a twenty-year-old, rising to power in Ithaca with a newborn son. Now he’s forty, his home just out of sight, and his son would be twenty. He imagines how you must look now. How your hair must’ve greyed, how you picked the hyacinths and bluebells from the garden. 

He wonders how his son is doing, what he likes, and what he’s accomplished. How he’s missed his whole life. 

Simon strains as he pushes the raft from the island, the goddess he left on the sandy shores crying for him. Begging him to stay; she loves him. He loathes her. He loathes the years he’s stayed trapped on that island, how she’d been persistent on loving him. Gods, provided she wasn’t a goddess, he would’ve killed her the first time she even hinted at such. 

His head hurts when he remembers his fallen friends; Gaz, Price— and Johnny. He’d gotten his brother killed, he let all of them, all six hundred men die under his watch. The cyclops, Scylla, Circe— Zeus, Poseidon. He recognizes the pain turning into red-hot anger as he pushes past Charybdis. These past years cannot have been in vain. The souls that haunt his dreams won’t have died in vain. 

He’ll make it home, he’s sure of that. 

—

You stare at the suitors gathered at the palace gates, angry men eager to become the next king one way or another. All the while your son, Johnny, stands in front of them with a spear and your old armor. You know that look in his eyes, that Athena's determination he has because Simon had it, too. 

You sigh, undoing the threads you’d made the day before. For the funeral shroud you’ve been making for ten years with the promise that once it’s done, you’ll pick from the suitors and give Ithaca a new king. You almost laugh when you remember how many years ago that had been now. How foolish the suitors had been to agree to your demand. How you fear you’ll have to finish it one of these days. 

You look at your sword hung in the corner of the room. You remember your newly made armor, tucked in your closet, the new bow and arrow next to it. You remember the feeling of warm blood on your hands. 

Even if you must finish the shroud they’ll never get their wishes. No one will rule alongside you and if you must, you’ll take a queen. Perhaps some common woman with nothing better to do; drown her with all the things a queen would desire all the while you continue your duties as king. 

Standing, you close the curtains to the window and grab your sword. It feels like home in your hands, reminders of your time as a warrior of Sparta and then Ithaca. You’ve never forgotten your lessons, the teachings so ingrained in your very being they feel like second nature when you swipe the air. 

It’ll need to be sharpened before tomorrow. 

That night a storm rages on the coast of Ithaca. You watch from the balcony, the wind blowing your hair and clothes as you try to see inside of the storm. Poseidon fights, you can tell that much, and gods, you know in your bones. You know it’s time to set your plan in motion. 

You call a maid to send the news; the Challenge you’d set up after five years of Simon being gone was happening. You rush to gather Simon’s old bow, carefully undoing the string while the servants gather twelve axes from the armory. 

—

“I’ll be back soon,” Johnny promises the next morning. You stand at the pier, watching as he loads onto a boat; about to head off for a mission for the kingdom. 

“I know you will,” You smile, giving him a dagger that he places on his thigh strap. You don’t pretend to notice the group of angry suitors hiding behind ships, watching as you watch your son leave. Leaving you alone for who knows how long, the mission shouldn’t take longer than a day, though. 

As the ship leaves, you look at where the storm had raged, sure that you see a small object floating towards Ithaca shores. You smile, hanging your head before thanking whatever God had allowed him home and return to the castle. The suitors follow, ready for the challenge you’d sent messengers to talk about that morning. You ride your horse back, letting them climb the mountain to the castle as you prepare for what’s to come. 

Their footsteps are heavy, echoing in the halls as a maid guides them to the throne room. You sit at your throne, the half-finished shroud draped over Simon’s throne. His crown sits under it, shining like the first day it was made. A reminder to them and yourself that your husband is out there, that they’ll never sit on that throne as long as you’re alive.

As you look around, you inhale and look over the crowd of men. There are dozens of them, some bigger, some smaller. All of them hungry for power, all of them greedy in a way that makes your stomach turn. 

You stand, shoulders back and head held high as hold back a deep, etching frown. 

“The Challenge,” You start as the murmurs die into a silence that had overtaken the castle all those years ago. You grip the bow, raising it in the air for everyone to see.  “Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through twelve axes cleanly,” Your gaze travels to the axes, lined up in a straight line, the hole only just big enough to allow an arrow to slide through. “Will be the new king and rule with me.” Cheers echo through the halls and you hand the bow to the first suitor before you take your seat. Your throne.

You hope Simon knows that you’re buying him time; that you’ve bought him twenty years of time to return. That he’ll climb the mountain from the shores to the castle before they grow behind restless. Bloodthirsty with one goal on their mind. You hope your son doesn’t come back to see you in such a state if Simon doesn’t make it on time. 

They grow more frustrated as the hours tick by and they find that no one can string the bow. Eventually, the sun sets and you tell them they can try again tomorrow. They all agree, with some grumbles and you take the bow back from a suitor who bares his teeth at you. He resembles a beast, a beast that you don’t dignify with a reaction. 

—

“Screw this competition,” A man that Simon knows all too well, Graves, snarls as he tosses his old bow to the ground. “We’ve been here for hours. None of us can string this; we don’t have the power. Screw this damn challenge!” He rakes his hands through his hair, the stress clear in his actions that make Simon proud. Of course, you’d set up something only he could do, of course, you’d waited all these years for him to return.

“No more delay. Don’t you see that we’ve been played?” Grave’s eyes travel amongst the men crowded around him. Men that are so easily swayed by simple words that it makes Simon seethe. “This is how he holds us down as the throne gets colder. Hold us down as we slowly age. Hold us down while the boy gets bolder.” Grave continues, daring to even hint about Simon and your son. “Where the hell is our pride and our rage?” A couple of the men agree, egged on by each other's stupidity. 

“Here and now,” Another man says as Grave smirks; clearly his plan is working. Like a moth to a flame, they take his bait. “There’s a chance for action; we can take control. Here and now we can burn it to ashes.” Too big for his pants, Simon assumes. 

He leaves for a moment, gathering their weapons and hiding them in the armory, making sure to leave it unlocked before he returns to their conversation. By that point more men had gathered; you’d long since left the throne room so Simon didn’t worry about you hearing their voices any longer. 

“Haven’t you noticed who’s missing? Don’t you notice the prince is not around? I heard he’s on a diplomatic mission and I heard today he's coming back to town.” Grave continues, and crosses his arms over his chest. Simon’s eyes dart down from his place in the room, overlooking the shores of Ithaca as a boat slowly approaches. 

“So…?” A different man speaks from somewhere in the crowd. 

“I say we gather near the beaches. We wait till he arrives, then when he docks his ship I say we breach it. Let us leave now, today we can strike!” Grave doesn’t feel the sharp glare that hits his head as he speaks. Unaware that his words have just set his fate into motion; a fate that Simon has become oh so familiar with these past twenty years. 

“Hold him down, till the boy stops shaking.”

He counts the men; seventy in total. 

“Hold him down, while I slit his throat.”

He’s taken down worse. More. 

“Hold him down, while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones!”

He can’t wait to watch them bleed. The feeling of their blood on his hands; something he hadn’t realized could feel so good until now. He wanted to chase it like they plan on chasing you and your son.

“Cut him down into tiny pieces. Throw him down in the great below that way when the crown wonders where the prince is only the ocean and I will know.” 

Watch their light leave their eyes; hear their screams. Beg him to spare them. The gurgling sound as they choke on their own blood.

“And when it’s done,” Grace smirks. “The king will have no one to stop us from breaking his bedroom door. Stop us from taking his love and more. And then we’ll…”

He’ll savor Graves the most, he quickly decides. He won’t dignify him with a fast death. He’ll hurt him, hold him down, and break his bones. He’ll drag him by his legs into town, parading him around to not only show he’s home to his throne, to his husband and his son but to show that anyone who had thought any different will face the same consequences. 

“Hold him down.”

“While the gate is open.”

“Hold him down.”

“While I get a taste and we share his spoils. I will not let any part go to waste.” 

He rises from his spot, his hand a deathly grip on his knife as the men try to leave the halls, one of them pointedly staggering behind. Drunk on wine. The perfect way to announce himself. 

He doesn’t waste a second, stabbing the man in the throat and he watches as he gurgles on his own blood as he returns to his perfectly hidden spot. He watches with glee as the light leaves his eyes, staring down at him as his body goes limp. 

The men stop at the door, having heard the noise. When they turn they only see a dead man and then nothing around him. Quicker than they can react, the torches around them snuff out one by one, and then the door behind them locks. Like rats they scramble, searching frantically on the ground for anything they can use to defend themselves. 

“Twenty years,” Simon growls. “I suffered from the wrath of Gods and monsters to the screams of my comrades. Watched my men die like cattle. I come back to my palace, desecrated and sacked like Troy. Worst of all,” He reaches into the darkness, grabbing a random man who shouts, tugging at Simon’s wrist to be let go. 

“I hear you dare to touch my husband and hurt my boy! I… have had… enough.” He snaps the man’s neck in three motions before stepping over his now limp body as he watches the men scramble in the dark. He supposes he should thank Calypso for living on such a dark island, now he can watch them as they scramble for torches. Lighting them with the nearby lighters. 

He grabs his bow, stringing it with ease while the others run in the castle. The darkness that shrouds them is emphasized by the setting sun. Simon struts after them, listening to their footsteps and breathing like a predator. 

“We have the advantage; we’ve the numbers and the might.” A man says, clearly not knowing who he’s up against.

“No!” Shouts a man who does, he wonders if they fought together before. Somehow that makes him all the more angry as he grabs an arrow from his quiver. “You don’t understand! This man plans for every fight.” An arrow flies through the air, stabbing him through the neck and the others shout, watching as he drops and the torch rolls away from his limp hand. Everyone scrambles away, fleeing down the hall. 

“Where is he? Where is he?” Someone shouts, his eyes as wide as they can go and he looks into the darkness. 

“Keep your heads down, he's aiming for the torches!” Someone else hisses and they all duck, holding the torches as high as they can manage without dropping it. 

“Our weapons! They’re missing!” Simon grins at the fear in the man’s tone, stringing another arrow. 

“We’re empty-handed,” Someone says, the realization that they’re fucked dawning on him. “Up against an archer.” He mutters, looking around the dark room. 

“Our only chance is to strike him in the darkness. We know these halls our odds can be titled.” Someone tries to comfort him before flinching at the sound of Simon’s snicker. 

“You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!” Another arrow flies, hitting a man in the head. He walks after them as they run away. 

“It’s the old king!”

“No! Our leader is dead!” 

“Old king forgive us!”

“Let’s have open arms instead!” He stops walking, notching yet another arrow as he’s reminded of Gaz. His chest tightens when he remembers his friend, his brother. 

“No,” The arrow flies, he doesn’t care to see who it lands inside of. He knows Graves isn’t with this group and heads the other way; towards where he’d hidden their weapons. He’ll deal with the others later, for now only one person has a giant target on their back.

“Dammit,” Grave hisses as he opens the door to the armory. “He’s more cunning than I thought. While we were plotting he hid our weapons in here.” He waves the torch through the room, each weapon highlighted by the burning flame. 

“I find it hard to believe that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked,” A man mutters, his frantic eyes looking outside of the room because he knows what’s out there, waiting for him. 

“So what?” Grave scoffs as he grabs his sword. “Let’s make the bastard rot.”

“Behind you!” He spins, watching as Simon stabs a man through the chest with a sword, his piercing eyes glaring at Graves over the man’s shoulder. The man collapses to the floor while Simon takes the sword out, flicking the blood onto the walls. 

“Put the weapons down and I’ll spare you,” He tells the men and immediately they do but Graves doesn’t. Simon tilts his head, eyes flickering to the ten men around Graves. 

“How do you dare? Haven’t you seen what he’ll do to us?” Someone asks him, his hands held up in fear.

“The prince!” Someone shouts and Simon makes the mistake of looking behind him. The men in the armory jump on his back without hesitation, shouting to attack the prince that way he’ll have to stand down. Simon struggles against them, his sword clattering to the ground when he sees the torches illuminating his son. 

He chokes as he sees his son falling to the ground, scrambling to his dagger that had gotten thrown in the fight. 

“Stop struggling and we’ll show you mercy,” Grave whispers in Simon’s ear, holding his hair in an iron-tight grip. 

“Mercy?” A voice cuts and Simon feels blood running down his cloak. He hears the sound of someone being impaled and then another in quick succession. The weight on his back lessens and he charges forward. 

“Mercy?” Simon bellows, taking harsh steps toward the now-fallen Graves. Unable to find his footing again as more men die around him. “My mercy long since drowned. It died to bring me home. And as long as you're around my family's fate is left unknown. You plotted to kill my son.” In one motion he scoops Graves up, bringing him to his feet and then against the wall. The tip of his blade presses against the man’s neck as his eyes squeeze shut, feet trying to find purchase aside from the tips of his toes on the cold marble floors. 

“You planned to rape my husband! All of you are going to die!” He stabs Graves six times, huffing as the body slumps against him and then against the wall when Simon shoves him away. 

He stands tall, listening to the shouts of the scared, trapped men as their fates quickly find them. He knows who is fighting at his side; he knows so well but he doesn’t register it until everyone is dead. Until the torches line the walls and he sees his foes splayed on the floors. 

“Father?” The sword in his hand clatters to the ground as he spins around. Johnny stands where he was once pinned down, blood dusting his tunic and his face. None of which is his own, Simon thanks the gods for that fact.

“Son,” His voice cracks as he takes a step forward. His chest heaves as he looks at his boy, and how he’s grown into a man. Johnny rushes forward, pulling him into a hug. 

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. Twenty years,” He cries into Simon’s chest, his sobs growing as he feels his father's tight embrace. 

“Oh my son, look how much you’ve grown,” He whispers, fighting back his own tears. “Oh, my boy. My sweetest joy. I captured the wind and sky for you.”

“My son, I'm finally home.” He finally cries, looking at his son's face for the first time in twenty years. He sees you in him, he sees himself. Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s, holding the back of his neck as he cries. He cries and he weeps, relief, something he hasn’t felt in years, floods his body as all of the suffering he’s endured has been worth it. 

“My love?” He hates to look away but he does, his chest tight when he sees you removing your helmet. Your sword stuck in some man’s chest as your feet carried you across the hall and into his arms. 

He calls you, your name falling from his lips and you cry into his neck. You’d nearly forgotten the sound of it on his tongue. 

“Is it you?” You ask, pushing away from him after the initial shock. He’d warned you all those years ago, not to trust anyone who looked like him. He knew the Gods and their tricks; you knew them, too. “Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming again?” 

“I am no’ the man you fell in love with,” He admits as your eyes scan over him. You pick apart everything about him that’s changed over the years as doubt creeps in the back of your mind. “I am not the man you once adored; I am not your kind and gentle husband and I am not the love you knew before.” You frown as he takes your hands, falling to his knees before looking up at you. With a gaze, you tell Johnny to leave the two of you for now. 

“Would you fall in love with me again if you knew all I’ve done? The things I cannot change. Would you love me all the same? I know that you’ve been waiting for love.” He begs, his bleary eyes unable to look at anything but you.

You nod, holding his face before guiding him up to his feet. “What kind of things did you do?” His head dips down in shame as the two of you move to stand outside in your garden. Free of blood and bodies as you sit under the olive tree he’d planted for you all those years ago. 

“Left a trail of blood on every island. I traded friends as though they were objects. Hurt more lives than I can count. But all so I could come back to you.” He cries, holding your face, his cries growing as you lean into the touch. “Tell me, please. Would you fall in love with me again?” 

“If that’s true,” You start, moving his hand from your face and he falters, eyes darting between yours as if they’ll reveal your choice before your voice does. “Could you do me a favor?” 

“Anything,” He nods. 

“Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace. See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far from here?” You ask, your eyes darting between his own as you wait. Wait as you’ve done for twenty long years. 

“How could you say this?” He asks, his hand moving from your face. “I built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat. Carved it into the olive tree where we first met. A symbol of our love everlasting! Do you realize what you have asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots!” He shouts, almost standing due to the anger bubbling in him. 

“Only my husband knew that!” You sob, holding his hands again. “You’re real! My Gods, you’re real!” He calls your name as you shudder. You shake your head, pulling him close as your hands search his body, holding him impossibly close. 

“I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been. You’re mine. Don’t tell me you’re not the same person, you’re always my husband and I’ve been waiting for you!” He blinks, brushing your tears from your face before he kisses you. 

You crumble under his touch, your hands shaking as you cradle his face. He holds you tightly, pressing your armored chest flush against himself. You pull away first, tucking his now long blonde hair behind his ears to see his face properly. 

—

You don’t get a chance to admire the new Simon, not between the kissing and his insisting that you share the bed with Johnny for the night. You agree, of course, the two of you squishing Simon while he happily holds the two of you in his arms as the night draws on. 

Simon wakes up first, he’s gotten so used to being forced to share a bed with Calypso that he’d made his body wake up early to escape her. He looks at you and Johnny for a while, softly crying as he knows he’s home. Eventually, he gets up, hating the way the two of you whimper at the lost feeling between the two of you. 

He doesn’t venture far, just far enough to grab a bowl of water and a blade. Settling in front of a mirror, he shaves his face for the first time since he set out to Troy and then cuts his hair. He’s never seen his grey hairs before. Despite knowing that he was aging while he was out there he hadn’t realized he was aging. He wasn’t twenty anymore, he certainly didn’t look it either. 

He has scars on his face, he has grey hairs, he has the starts of wrinkles, eye bags— he could list them for hours. 

He looks back at you as you sleep. At your grey hairs, at your wrinkles and he smiles. You’re just as beautiful as the day he met you. 

Stepping towards the window he sees the castle workers dragging the bodies out of the castle and into a carriage. Tossing them unceremoniously and he makes his way down. 

“Load them and wait. Do not touch them any further,” He tells one of the maids without looking at her, his gaze locked on the men who had dared to try and defile his family. “Send word to the people of Ithaca. Meet at the pier by noon.” She nods, waiting to be dismissed by the king but he turns on his heel and returns to your room. 

You’re awake, rubbing your eyes as your sleepwear slips from your shoulder. 

“Did I wake you?” He asks, crawling into the bed and kissing the exposed skin. You roll your head at the feeling, holding the back of his head to keep him in place. 

“No,” You murmur, head against his. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” He pulls you onto his lap and you let him, too tired to fight back as he lays down again. “Trust me, ‘m not leaving ever again.”

“I like the sound of that,” You yawn, rubbing Johnny’s hair as he reaches out for the two of you. “We need to get up, though. Clean the halls,” 

“Already taken care of, love.” You hum, head resting on his bare chest, fingers tracing against his skin.

“You cut your hair,” You point out. 

“Mhmm, like it?” 

“Ask me later; ‘m too tired.” He chuckles and pets your cheek with his knuckles. 

“Rest my love, I’m not going anywhere.” 

The next time you wake up, he’s engrossed in a conversation with Johnny. He’s still holding you, but now it’s sitting up on the bed while Johnny all but bounces around the room. He talks about his own adventures with Athena, how he’d almost beat up Graves this one time, how you always kept a place for him. He talks about the stories he grew up hearing about the great King Simon of Ithaca. 

Simon listens, committing his son's voice to memory while he inhales the smell of your hair. 

A knock at the door stops their conversation and Simon calls for whoever it is to come in as he pulls the blanket over your body. 

“It is nearly noon, King Simon.” 

“Thank you,” He nods, watching the door close before he looks down at you. “How long have you been awake?” He chides upon seeing your very much awake eyes on him. 

“Long enough,” You respond but make no action to move. “What’s at noon?”

“You’ll see.” He lifts you with ease, picking himself up in the process and you laugh, holding onto his shoulders while Johnny gags and rushes out of the room. 

In the tub, Simon sits first, letting you slowly sit with him before he kisses you. His lips and teeth pull and suck at the skin of your neck while you coo, squeezing his shoulders. The cold water wakes you up more than the kisses do, but when his hand dives between your legs you swear you’re more than awake. 

“Mmm-mm,” You shake your head as you reluctantly push his hands away, he pouts but doesn’t fight it. “I want it to be in bed. To reclaim it,” His pupils dilate at the idea, you feel his pulse against his wrist and you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“I can do that,” He nods, instead moving his hands to start washing the two of you. 

The two of you dress together in your finest tunics, adorning yourselves in the royal jewelry and colors before getting Johnny from his room. Again, Simon finds himself between the two of you as you head down to your horses. Even more so when you’re all squished into a chariot. 

The wagon of dead bodies follows behind you, the smell of death present as the townspeople watch. People gasp at the sight of Simon, and whispers of the long-since departed king's return echo throughout Ithaca. 

Simon steps onto the platform, bringing you up with him and you stand next to him while Johnny stands in front of the two of you. 

He starts a speech, making a point about the dead men. He talks of the disrespect to his house– to his family. He dares someone else to try to ruin his family, to hurt his son, his husband. He declares himself back, the two kings of Ithaca ruling again. Merciful, he calls the act of bloodshed the two of you had committed the night before. He calls the men’s mothers, their fathers, their wives, their children. He tells them they can weave their funeral shroud for them. Or else he’ll burn them to keep your room warm. 

He watches as they collect their sons, their husbands, and their fathers. He holds you close, fingers a bruising grip against your waist. 

The two of you head back; Johnny stays behind to venture around the kingdom. You think it’s so the two of you can be alone for a little while. 

—

“I’ve missed you, husband,” Simon says, his head between your legs. He’s thrown them over his shoulders, his hands kneading the flesh of your stomach. He’s dreamt of this sight for two decades and yearned to dive his head between your legs again. Savoring the taste, feeling the way you’d clench around him. 

“I’ve missed you, husband,” You parrot, reaching down to hold his chin. He leans into the warm touch, eyes closing as he savors it. You trail your hand up, holding his hair as he dives down. You gasp when he presses his tongue flat against you, slowly dragging up and down while watching you. 

“I’m yours,” He murmurs, pressing sloppy kisses against your warmth while you twitch under his hold. “Only yours.” You pant, holding the cotton sheets for a reprise as his tongue makes figure eights around you, how he sucks and nips at your sensitive bud. He moves, sliding a finger into you; his eyes stuck on your face as your back arches. It’s an adjustment, just as it had been the first time you’d done this. 

Your body had almost forgotten the feeling of his fingers inside of you, how skillful they’d been during your marriage. How he knew your body inside and out, what points to press on, and how fast to go. He maintains a rhythm that makes you cry, your arm across your eyes as you try to compose yourself. Not let yourself come undone so fast. 

“Simon,” You breathe, trying to get to your elbows but he starts moving his finger. He's pushing and pulling, curling inside of you and it makes you fall back on the bed. He shudders, that tone in your voice, that feeling on his finger, the taste on his tongue. It’s all he’s ever wanted; it’s what kept him going all these years. “I need you,” You cry, eyes closed as your stomach tightens. He adds another finger, the added pressure makes your jaw drop. 

“You have me,” He swears. “Look at me, please,” You try, honestly you do, but the tightness reaches a high and your eyes screw shut. Your fingers tighten around his hair, your voice echoes in the room and Simon feels you clench around him. He almost laughs, not because it hadn’t taken much to push you to the edge but because he’d already come. It hadn’t taken anything, all it took was you saying his name and he spilled into the bedsheets. 

“You okay, moon?” He asks while crawling on top of you, his lips leaving scattered kisses across your body. You nod, face blissed out and eyes watery. “Can you take another?” 

“I can take a million more,” You breathe and he laughs, head dropping between your neck. You laugh along, legs raising as he bites your skin. He moves so he’s holding himself up with one hand, his other grabs his dick as it hardens again. 

“You sure?” He asks and you nod, kissing his shoulder. 

“I can take it,” You moan, feeling the tip move across your folds. It slips and prods before he eventually pushes inside in one fluid motion. Your back arches, pushing your chest against his as he fills you. 

“Full, ‘m so full,” You pant against him and he nods, moving your hair from your face. 

“Full ‘n’ tight f’ me, yeah?” He teases, slowly rolling his hips against yours. He relishes in watching your expressions, how your mouth drops open and you’re unable to control the sounds you make. “Waited so long f’ me, didn’t you?” As he’s speaking, he raises up from you, his right hand holding your stomach down while the left starts rubbing soft circles on your clit. “So patient, my love. Thank you.” 

His eyes dip down, looking at the bulge in your stomach as he slowly enters and exits you. He moans at the sight, eyes closing for a brief moment as he begins to pick up pace. You struggle to look at him, one hand holding the wooden headboard behind you while the other loosely holds the wrist that’s circling you. 

“Missed you s’much,” He moans. “Missed all of you.” He slurs, leaning down to kiss you. He bites your bottom lip before his lips capture yours, his hips pressing against your own with each thrust. “Gods, you’re so tight.” He grunts as he pulls away, moving your left leg to be over his shoulder while the right leg sits at his hip. He speeds up, twitching as your moans only grow louder. Your nails drag against his chest and circle to his back. 

He feels his scars under your nails, the sensitive skin prickling hot as you open his flesh. He hisses, the pain far easier to manage than anything he’s faced while away but so different. So loving. 

“Inside me,” You moan, finally able to look at him as you bite your bottom lip. It’s throbbing from the pain of him biting it but you don’t care. “Inside me, Si, please.”

“Who am I to deny you, my king?” He grins and then drops his head down to your neck, feeling your walls tighten around him. You hear him whimper and moan against you and it only eggs you on. He’d chased that feeling for years, spilling inside of you as your high starts approaching. He continues for you, continuing his bruising pace until your body stops moving, your mouth falls open and your breathing goes ragged. Tenderly, as he always used to do, Simon holds you close to him. Your head rests against his chest so you can listen and feel his heart beating against your ear. 

His hand stops circling your clit as he slowly pulls out from inside you. The sounds that come from him and you spur him on more but he contains himself. Instead, he watches as his cum leaks from you. On instinct, he pushes it back inside, loving the way your legs twitch when he does. 

“Do you need a break?” He asks, eyeing the sweat on your brow. You inhale, thinking about it before shaking your head. 

“I can take more,” You swear and he raises his eyebrow. “Please, Simon.” 

“Your wish is my command.”

[kkami-writes]

waiting for us — masterlist pt 2: electric boogaloo

pairing. OT8 x fem!reader synopsis. At age 16 you either get your soul mark (in the form of your soulmates name somewhere on your body) or you become a blank, someone who doesn't have a soulmate. You've long lost any semblance of hope or comfort in the magic of soulmates, despite the fact that you have 8 of them. genre. soulmate!au, college!au, social media!au + written parts, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, smut cw. swearing, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, skz should be in horny jail, eventual smut (MDNI), domestic abuse, sexual assault/harassment, implied/referenced self-harm, suicidal tendencies/thoughts, implied/referenced past suicide attempt, male x male relationships (skz are soulmates), polyamory, kms/kys jokes, mentions of homophobia + transphobia, lots of written parts, reader is really bad at feelings, ulzzang pics (this is more so to focus on the fashion), appearance of junhao, yeji and hyunjin are siblings, more to be added wanna support my work? consider buying me a coffee.

go back to masterlist part one. Chapter forty one. sunset Chapter forty two. ferret coded Chapter fourty three. more rumours Chapter forty three point five. a talk w/ hyune Chapter forty four. to nationals Chapter forty five. andong Chapter forty six. moonlight (s) Chapter forty seven. congrats on the sex Chapter forty eight. concern Chapter forty nine. afterparty Chapter fifty. +8 Chapter fifty one. the wedding (s) Chapter fifty two. jypapi Chapter fifty three. the thread Chapter fifty four. waiting for us Chapter fifty four point five. threats Chapter fifty five. time skip Chapter fifty six. silence bottom Chapter fifty seven. showcase prep Chapter fifty eight. the winter showcase Chapter fifty nine. found Chapter sixty. lost

bonus chapters: everyone's sexual preferences. thirst tweets. handsome boys. size boyfriend day! memes part one | part two alignment charts the bet of who's gonna kick mio's brothers ass.

[kinardsevan]

i gotta ask, how much do you love me?

say what, another mini!? i'm in a mood tonight 😂😂😂 also, i've always kinda lived with this idea of these two having a shared playlist where they would send each other music back and forth, so that birthed this idea.

It’s weeks of silence. Both of them looking at their phones eight, ten, twelve times a day—on a good day—to see if the other has said anything. Seeing bubbles form, only to disappear. Staring at each other’s contact information, just waiting for the other break the ice. 

Except, Tommy can’t, because he was the one to break them, and he knows it was the right move. He knows he doesn’t deserve Evan, and he knows that even if he gave in and went back, he’d be setting himself up for failure. So he types and deletes. Types and deletes. Types. Deletes. Struggles to maintain his own strength in his resolve each time he sees Evan’s name on his phone.

For Evan, it’s the abandonment. What’s the point in trying when the answer will remain the same? Which just leads to staring, staring, and more staring. Waiting for a call or text that doesn’t come. Waiting on answers he’s sure he’ll never get. 

. . . 

Six weeks after the break-up, he’s staring at his phone in the middle of a cafe, still staring at the text thread with Tommy. He’s been on three dates in the past week, each more miserable than the last. Both of the guys he’d been out with had been decent enough, but at the end of the night… he felt nothing. And sure, he could argue that maybe it just wasn’t the right person, except for the part where he was pretty sure he’d already found the right person…but he’s not supposed to think that. 

And it’s in that cafe that he hears it. The song coming through the speakers that resonates with what he’s been trying to make the point of for weeks. It sends him down a rabbit hole scroll through the text thread until he finds the Spotify link. 

It was a playlist they’d started barely two weeks into their relationship. Initially, it was a way to connect on songs that they both liked that they wanted to share with the other. There was everything from eighties rock to seventies country, nineties pop/rock and current top forty. But the longer they’d been together, the more the songs on the playlist had turned into something one of them had heard that brought the other to mind, or said something they couldn’t necessarily piece into words. 

Evan scrolls through the playlist. The last one added had been a joke from Tommy—Purple People Eater. He’d sent it as a pick-me-up while Evan was still waiting on the boils on his face to finally go away, and while he’d been mildly offended at the joke, he’d taken it in stride. 

After googling the lyrics, he adds the song playing in the coffee house to the playlist before copying the link. Briefly, a wave of panic surges through him, wondering if Tommy even still has the link to it, let alone bothers to listen to it. He forces a breath out, swapping screens back to the text thread as he waits at the counter for his coffee order. However, as he picks up his cup and glances back down at the screen, he sees the bubble and those three grey dots. But just as always, they’re there, and then they’re gone. 

He huffs as he walks to the door, shoves it open and steps outside. It can’t be a coincidence, right? 

In a fit of confidence, he pastes the link to the playlist into the textbox and hits the blue arrow, sending it through. He slides his phone into his pocket before heading back to the jeep. 

E: Ain’t About You - Huntergirl

Three minutes later, as he’s plugging his phone into the carplay, the bubbles reappear. 

T: ?

Evan stares at the screen for a moment and then huffs, shaking his head. Did Tommy even bother to listen? Does he really need it spelled out for him? Has it really been that easy for him to move on? 

E: The first verse and chorus.  E: Well fuck, the second chorus too. 

The bubbles appear again, and then a blue message.

It’s the link back. When Evan clicks on it, the playlist refreshes with a new song at the bottom. 

T: If I Told You - Darius Rucker T: The first verse and chorus. 

Evan shakes his head, but he taps on the song anyway, and the beat starts coming through his speakers after a moment. He forces himself to sit and listen to the words—that’s the entire point to the reason this game started in the first place—but he’s barely into the chorus before he’s clicking out of the song and scrolling back into the library. He finds the next one—a song Maddie had sent him ages ago, and adds it to the list before shooting the link back in the message. 

E: Lovesick Fool - The Cab E: Second verse, second chorus

. . .

The chat stays quiet enough that he’s able to make the short drive back home, but as he’s riding the elevator back up to the loft, his phone buzzes in his hand again. He’s not sure if Tommy has actually been contemplating an answer or if he’s just been busy doing other things. Their calendars are still linked in the cloud, so he knows the other man is off, and with the rate at which he was responding, he doubts he’s flying at the moment. 

Once he’s in the loft, he links his phone to the bluetooth speaker before opening the playlist and clicking the newest addition. There’s no extra message along with the link, which generally means to listen to the entire song. 

He’s getting to the end of the song when messages start coming in. 

T: It’ll kill me when you don’t T: stop seeing me like I’m a lifetime T: and I’ll just be a goodbye T: when you get so tired of me 

Evan gulps, reading the words as they play through the speakers. His heart is knotting. Somehow the words they’re sending back and forth feel like they’re saying more than whatever they managed to say to each other in the final weeks of their relationship. There’s still so much he wants to say. 

He clicks back into Spotify, clicks on the artist, and picks the next song down, already having the answer. 

E: Trial Run - Jenny Baker E: I mean the whole damn song. But.  E: why does it feel like somebody died     were you moving on this whole time     while I’ve been stuck on the same side      why does it feel like somebody died      Were you moving on this whole time     I may not be the one, but you’re mine E: You’re still mine

He waits for a response, watching for bubbles for a few minutes, and then groans when one doesn’t come through. He’s so frustrated that he wants to scream, or throw his phone, or… something. And so he ends up digging out his mixing bowls and flipping through the current baking book until he finds a recipe he hasn’t made before. 

. . . 

Half an hour later, he’s in the midst of spooning peanut butter chocolate chip cookies onto a baking sheet when there’s a knock at his door. 

“Door’s open,” he calls out, too distracted by the need to stay focused on his task at hand. He’s still so frustrated that if he stops scooping, he’ll end up picking his phone up. 

Another knock sounds, and he huffs. 

“Just let yourself in,” he calls out. “Door’s open!” 

There’s no movement for another few seconds longer, and he’s about to wipe his hands off and go to the door, irritated, but the door finally opens, slowly at first, and then more, and when Evan finally looks up, his eyes fall on Tommy. 

He gulps at the sight of the other man standing across from him, the expression on his own face somber. His eyes are red-rimmed, and Evan opens his mouth to say something, but Tommy lifts his hand and he spots the other man’s phone in his hand. A few seconds later, the bluetooth speaker makes a noise that indicates it’s been connected to. Evan sets down his spoon and wipes his hands down the front of the apron he’s wearing as a song starts to play. It’s not one on the playlist, but he can’t help standing there and listening as Tommy skips to the point he wants to make with the song. 

“you lean in vulnerable  when you’d rather walk away

but when the rubber meets the road and life goes how it goes and we’re not new no more what am I in for? 

if the meteor hit, babe would you get in your car and drive to me to cry with me if I went insane, and didn’t know my name would you stay this side of me, reminding me if I gambled away my money, would you back away? if my jokes weren’t funny, would you laugh? how much do you love me? I gotta ask how much do you love me?”

By the time the chorus ends, Tommy’s hands are trembling at his sides and there are silent tears coming down his face as Evan rounds the counter. He takes Tommy’s phone out of his hand and pulls the apron off over his own head before grabbing the other man’s hands and squeezing them. 

“More than air, baby,” he rasps, lifting a hand to Tommy’s face and brushing away the tears with his thumb. “I’m not- there’s not an end in this for me. You’re not a stop on the way. You are the destination.” 

“Losing you-..” 

Evan lifts his other hand to Tommy’s face and presses his forehead against the other man’s. “You’re not going to. I’m right here with you.” 

Tommy gulps and nods, leaning into him. Evan tilts his head up and kisses his forehead, and then pulls him tightly into a hug, and for the first time in weeks, he feels like he can breathe again as he buries his own face into Tommy’s neck. 

“I meant what I sent,” Tommy murmurs when they finally separate. “I’m broken, Evan, and there’s no easy fix. People leave, and I’ve made peace with that, but I coudn’t-…losing you, I don’t think-..” 

“I’m not asking you to,” Evan counters. “Can you trust me that much? To love you enough to stay?” 

“I don’t know,” Tommy admits softly, even as he leans into Evan’s hands still on his face. “But I’m trying. I’m trying to communicate, and meet you in the middle. And maybe I can get there.” 

Evan nods, finally catching Tommy’s gaze again. 

“Then we talk,” he replies. “A lot, and about everything. Okay?” 

Tommy nods, and Evan leans into him, kissing him soft and quick before pulling him back in. The song starts to play through the speaker again, and Evan lets out a small, quiet laugh as it does, his hands rubbing up and down Tommy’s back as they stand in the middle of his kitchen. 

“That damn playlist,” he murmurs softly. “Think it just got oudone by this song.” 

Tommy smiles against his neck, kissing it softly, but not making any move to part. Evan turns into him after a moment, whispering into his ear. 

“How much do you love me? I gotta ask, how much do you love me?” 

Tommy lifts his head, just enough to brush his nose up against Evan’s. 

“The world over,” he whispers. He leans back, not much more than an inch, just enough room to completely catch eachother’s gaze before Evan leans back in and kisses him, and this time it’s everything they’ve missed in the intervening weeks. Tommy pulls him in tight as Evan’s hand finds its way to his chest, fisting the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, keeping him close until they’re breathless as the song keeps playing in the background. 

[harmonictechnicality]

*no rest for the wicked*

my teensy contribution to @thefreakandthehair's spicy six summer collection 💖 | word count: 3k | rating: T | ao3 link | also, this wouldn't exist if @chocoarts didn't send me a sketch that immediately set off sparklers in my brain so bless youuu ✨

Twenty-six hours. That’s how long Eddie has been up. Twenty-six hours and twelve minutes. The heaviness hanging in his eyes is medieval-level torturous, and the cramp in his left calf is probably permanent by now. 

A sane person who enjoys sleeping might be asking, ‘Why? Why put yourself through this when there’s a perfectly decent bed down the hall?’ And Eddie would be forced to reply back with two, simple words:

Concert. Tickets.

That’s right, Eddie is actively murdering his own brain cells to win two vip tickets on the radio. Twenty-seven hours ago, it seemed like a grand idea. Genius, even. It’s free and minimal effort - he just has to call the station every hour on the dot. No biggie, right?

Ha, sure. Tell that to the muscles in his eyelids.

“How much longer do you have?” Chrissy asks, snagging a magazine from the stack on the couch.

Eddie checks his watch. Huffs out a laugh. “Let’s just say, I could watch the entire Star Wars trilogy including the credits for each one.”

“Translating to...?”

“Seven-ish hours.” Robin quickly chimes. She pops out of her bedroom and joins Chrissy’s side, instantly threading their hands together. They share a look, one that makes Eddie believe in nice things, even in his state of misery. It’s their superpower, injecting their optimistic outlook into the atmosphere. Infectious in the best way. 

“I always forget that you speak fluent nerd.” Chrissy snorts.

“Ouch.” Robin gasps and pulls away, stomping off to their room. Too dramatic to be believable. “Get back to bed before I actually feel offended by that.”

Normally, Eddie is charmed by how hopelessly in love his roommates are with each other. But right now, they are his mortal enemies (well, tied with The Clock), because they get to sleep and he gets to stare at the lightbulb in the ceiling fan. Every now and then, it flickers, which never fails to startle him. 

Good. He desperately needs the extra alertness. 

Another forty-five minutes go by before anything noteworthy happens. Eddie’s other roommate gets off his night shift around one in the morning. The front door squeals as it opens, crackling all the adrenaline leftover in Eddie’s body. 

“Scared the shit out of me, man.” Which could’ve been a literal statement if Eddie hadn’t just taken a bathroom break.

“Gotta get this door fixed.” Steve says. That’s what he always says when it creaks. The reaction never changes, always skating his fingers over the door hinges, mouth twisting to the side. Hands on his hips in disapproval. Eddie has to look away before Steve breaks out his insufferably cute ‘foot tap’ routine. “Hey - why are you still up?”

Ah, yes. Just what Eddie needed. A reminder that it’s fucking late. He finds the energy (or common decency, who knows) to point at the phone. Then to the radio.

“You’re still doing that, huh?”

Eddie nods twice.

“Damn, I’ve never heard you this quiet.” Steve sounds genuinely surprised. A little too smug for Eddie’s liking. “Didn’t know your mouth could stay in a straight line for this long.”

There it is. The rich boy smartassery that will never die. Always lurking in the depths of his genetic makeup.

Eddie claps, total deadpan.

The conversation lulls while Steve messes around in the kitchen for a bit. He’s noisily opening cabinets and clanking dishes around in the sink. Eventually, he walks back into the living room with two beers. 

Both for him apparently. “Well, listen,” he starts out. Kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m pretty wired after work, so if you need some company-”

“Six… hours… left.” Eddie musters out.

“Okay well, I doubt I’ll last that long. But I can give it a shot.”

Eddie smirks, raises both eyebrows. “There’s a dirty joke somewhere in there. Too tired to find it though.”

“Good to know the horny part of your mind is still awake.” Steve gives Eddie a small pat on the head. 

“Oh? That’s a good thing?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.” It’s too direct, Eddie hears it. And now it’s just Out There - his inability to flirt in a subtle way. And yeah, he could blame it on sleep deprivation, but he’s never been known for his mastery of ambiguity so…

The pause goes on long enough for the light to flicker again, the room growing darker with it. Steve takes a swig of his drink and smiles. “It’s good to know, Ed.”

The light flickers even darker.

Eddie is fully awake after that. Which could’ve been part of Steve’s plan - stimulate his brain with flirty comments and keep him up with those melty smiles. It’s no secret that Eddie turns into a hair-twirling loser around this guy. 

Even after living together for a year and seeing one another’s most disgusting habits, he still feels this way. Tight throat, stomach flips. Purely smitten in a way that would nauseate deadbeat poets.

In this moment, however, it’s a wonderful remedy to staying awake throughout the rest of the night. Much more effective than energy drinks and Tootsie Rolls.

Steve ends up on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. He sips another beer, recounting some bullshit that happened during his shift at the hotel. Eddie does his best impression of Listening to Steve’s stories, but the words are just buzzing around the glow of Steve’s hair and the shine on his lips. Nodding at seemingly appropriate times is all Eddie currently can offer.

“Sleeping with your eyes open, Munson?”

Eddie blinks hard. “Huh?”

“Creepy, but impressive.” Steve laughs, tapping his hand against Eddie’s leg. “You should add that to the Special Skills column on your resumé.”

“Bold of you to assume I have a resumé.”

They spend the next hour doing just that - adding useless skills to Eddie’s nonexistent resumé. It keeps them busy. Content. Steve smacks Eddie’s knee anytime he laughs, leaves his hand longer every time. Maybe that’s all in Eddie’s semi-dormant mind, especially since Steve shows casual affection to all of his friends. But the warmth of his palm is real enough to have Eddie fully committed to making Steve laugh as much as possible.

“What about… Expert Paper Clip Chain-Maker?” Steve suggests. 

Eddie stares at the chain in his hand, the one he was oblivious to creating. He whips it around like a lasso and then shrugs. “A bit wordy.”

“So you’re saying length matters?”

“Christ on toast, Harrington. You’re awfully quick to jump to that conclusion, aren’t you?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just starts laughing again. Eddie didn’t even need to tell a shitty joke this time. 

And when Steve’s hand hits his knee, sliding slightly up his thigh, Eddie laughs along with him. It’s the only way to cover up the heat rushing to his face.

Eddie enters the realm of delirium with three hours left in his challenge. He slumps onto the floor next to Steve, nudging his shoulder, staring into his sleep-heavy eyes. It’s four in the morning, inhibitions be damned.

“Do you think if you ever visit Europe, they’d call you Harring-metric-ton?” Eddie picks a piece of lint off Steve’s sleeve. Perfect excuse to reach out, move in closer.

Steve groans. “Yikes. But yes, that question keeps me up at night.”

“So that’s why you’re still awake. See, I knew it wasn’t because of my silly little concert tickets.” 

As soon as the words leave his lips, Eddie convinces himself that it’s the truth. Which is so dumb, so stupid. But this seed of insecurity keeps him going, fully projecting his assumptions onto Steve’s harmless comment. Somewhere deep down, buried underneath his exhaustion, Eddie knows it was a joke. But he can’t seem to shut up anymore.

“The riddle has been solved, folks! We finally know why Stevie here is still awake.” Eddie exclaims, flinging his arms out to the side. “Alert Scooby and the gang at once! Mystery Incorporated can finally pack up their magnifying glasses and pursue careers with better health insurance. Ones that covers vision costs this time. It’s what dear, ol' Velma deser-”

“Eddie.” Steve places a hand on Eddie’s arm, holding him still. Was he moving? Oh god, was he shaking? 

Fucking mortifying.

Steve’s thumb swipes across Eddie’s skin, tracing diagonal lines back and forth. “You’re rambling.”

“And you’re…” Eddie loses focus. He looks down at the hypnotic patterns that Steve is making. “There. Doing that.”

Steve stops briefly to flip Eddie’s hand over, starts tracing the lines in his palm instead. The pressure makes Eddie’s heart lurch up into his throat. He can feel it thumping in his neck, faster with every stroke of Steve’s fingers. All he wants to do is close his hand around them, keep Steve there for the rest of the night. Longer if he’d let him.

“I can stop if it’s weird.” Steve’s voice is so much quieter than it was earlier. 

Don’t stop. Eddie thinks. Can’t say it like that because gross. Humiliating and gross. “It’s not weird.”

Steve keeps his focus on the motion, Eddie does the same. They stay like this for a while, just watching. Intently staring over the invisible lines like pages in a novel. Eddie is pretty sure he’s breathing too loud, can hear it above the whistle in the air conditioner. Wonders if Steve can hear it too. 

Probably.

“That’s not why I’m staying awake.” Steve says, never breaking the pattern.

“No?”

“It’s who I’m staying awake for.”

Steve finally stops, right in the center of Eddie’s hand. The air in the room goes dense, weighted with acknowledgment. Something has changed and Eddie can feel it everywhere. 

He tilts forward, pulling his gaze away from his hand and up at Steve’s lips. If he weren’t stuck between half-awake and total-delirium, Eddie would just do it. Kiss Steve the way he’s always wanted to. Syrupy slow and deep. Savoring every second.

He could do it right now, right this second. But his focus starts drifting as he closes his eyes. “Did Chrissy tell you?” Eddie grumbles, almost unintelligible. 

“Tell me what?”

Eddie’s head falls, landing somewhere on Steve’s chest. He inhales the scent of laundry detergent (because Steve and Chrissy are the only avid laundry-doers in the apartment). It’s so soothing, drawing him further into a dreamlike place.

“Tell me what, Ed?”

“That I…” Eddie is nearly asleep before he can finish the thought. The confession:

‘That I’m crazy about you.’

Sunlight hits Eddie first, startles him so much that he jolts upward. Fully awake. It takes a few seconds of furiously rubbing his eyes before the dread kicks in. 

Morning.

It’s morning.

“Shit.”

Eddie fell asleep.

Steve fell asleep.

“Shitshitshit. So many shits!” He fumbles through the labyrinth of blankets and pillows around him, snatching his watch from the coffee table:

10:24 a.m.

“Goddamnit!”

Eddie sinks back down to the floor, clutching the phone that serves him no purpose anymore. All of those hours of waiting and calling for nothing. Even if general admission wasn’t already sold out, it’s not like Eddie could afford tickets on his own. He can barely keep up with his share of the rent. Chrissy had to cover for his grocery run last week and he still hasn’t paid her back.

It’s just so expected too - for him to fuck up like this. Always letting opportunities slip through the cracks, making careless mistakes. No one will be surprised that he failed at such a simple task like calling a fucking radio station.

Eddie sets the phone back on the table and cleans up the living room in a daze. Every now and then, he mutters under his breath about being a total moron. He stays relatively quiet for the most part though. No use in throwing a bitchfest while Steve is blissfully conked out three feet away.

Of course he looks good sleeping too, even in the midst of Eddie’s breakdown. Unfair.

Just before heading back to his room, Eddie hears that familiar door creak. Same one that always sets off Steve’s inner handyman tendencies. 

He looks back to see Chrissy padding towards him with a blanket wrapped around her. For someone who hasn’t had their mood-altering cup of coffee yet, she looks extremely pleased to see him. Maybe she knows about the fate of the concert tickets. Maybe this is an early-risers pity party.

Fucking yay.

“Chris, please don’t try to-”

His words are muffled by Chrissy throwing her arms (and blanket cape) around him. She’s so bouncy, the way she always gets with Robin whenever their favorite song comes on at the karaoke bar. He pats her on the back and clears his throat, still trying to piece together what this exchange could be about. However, Eddie is functioning on a few hours of sleep, so his cognitive skills are groggy at best.

She gives him one more squeeze and then looks up, positively gleaming. “I knew it! I knew it would finally happen!”

“That I’d screw up for the umpteenth time in my life? Gee thanks, Chris.” Eddie says.

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and Steve!” She whisper-yells back.

Was she snooping on them last night? He wouldn’t put it past her, snoopiness is the foundation of their friendship. Well, whatever Chrissy thought she saw, she’s wrong. Sure, Steve and Eddie flirted, both letting some potentially mutual feelings slip out.

But it was all cut short by Eddie passing out mid-flirt. God knows how Steve took that reaction. Probably assumed Eddie was so bored that he would rather sleep than makeout with him. Or worse, that Eddie was pretending to sleep to let him down easy.

Christ, he doesn’t wanna think about that right now. Not while he’s still mourning the loss of his precious tickets.

“Hate to break it to you, honeyjam, but nothing happened.” Eddie shakes his head, gesturing to Steve who hasn’t budged from the recliner. “It’s just me over here and Steve over there. No conjunction connecting us together in that way.”

He can already tell Chrissy isn’t buying it. She’s getting that little forehead wrinkle right above her eyebrows, just like an angry cartoon character. Her best attempt at intimidation. “You didn’t see what I saw.” 

“Gay desperation?”

“No, you jackass. Come here!”

Chrissy yanks Eddie into his bedroom, demanding for him to lock the door. He listens, mainly because the intimidation is starting to work a little. They sit at the edge of the bed and she begins to explain everything she saw:

Steve constructing a wall of blankets and pillows around Eddie to ensure he slept comfortably. Steve waiting by the phone, tapping his foot in that insufferably cute way that Eddie loves so much. Steve scoring the tickets, celebrating quietly to himself.

“How long were you standing at the door, weirdo?” Eddie teases her to avoid the way his stomach is twisting around her words. 

Chrissy shushes him and squeals. “And he kissed your cheek!”

“Liar.”

“He did, I swear! He kissed you on the cheek or the chin or the nose. I don't know which one for sure because my view was obstructed by all of your hair.”

Eddie instinctively combs his fingers through a few strands, undoing the knotted pieces. Not all of them, but enough to keep his hands busy while he thinks through this. Processing. “And you’re sure it wasn’t a dream?”

“Positive.”

“What about a hallucination? Didn’t Byers make a batch of those infamous brownies again?”

Chrissy gives a deep sigh. “Whatever. You’re hopeless.” She shrugs the blanket back over her arms and heads toward the door. More than a fair assessment, Eddie can’t argue even if he wanted to (he always does). 

He stares at the line of posters along his wall, letting Chrissy’s words replay over and over. Imagining what it might have felt like. If Steve’s breath was warm or if his lips were soft. Eddie wonders how it looked to have Steve dipping down to his level. Staying so quiet, so careful not to disturb him. The visuals swarm his head until there’s nothing left but Steve. 

Him and Steve. Connecting them together in that way after all.

So, Eddie gets up and walks back into the living room. He takes in the view of Steve curled up in the recliner, mouth slightly parted open. Chest falling with every sniffle, not quite a snore.

There’s so many emotions while looking at him. Eddie can’t just pin one down to fully comprehend what's going on. All he can do is repeat the scene that’s occupying his mind, settling in his bones.

“Here,” he whispers, placing another blanket across Steve’s lap. It’s feathery gentle, more than he intends for it to be. So gentle that Steve doesn’t shift or stir. 

Eddie takes a deep breath and bends down, close enough to notice all the little details. The ones he’s been too sheepish to indulge in before last night. 

The tiny hairs on Steve’s forearm. The creases in his t-shirt. The bit of dried toothpaste on his chin. None of it should make his cheeks feel this flushed, but they do.

He lets the rush of bravery wash through him as he kisses Steve on the tip of his nose. Just the way Steve must’ve done to him. It’s swift, lighter than he means for it to be. Barely touching. But it’s enough to switch his heart rate up a few notches, pulsing jumping in his wrist.

Eddie steps away, waiting to see if Steve wakes up. Not entirely sure if he wants that or if he’d rather keep this memory to himself. 

“Thanks… by the way.” Eddie adds, brushing the tips of his fingers over Steve’s hand. Wishing he could trace the lines in his palm. Rewind back to last night and pause it there indefinitely. “I’ll tell you again when you’re up, but yeah.”

“Thank you, Steve Harrington.”

[the-californicationist]

A Thief in the Night

a Guile & Guilt story…

It had been the longest night. He had started his journey in the dark, and forty hours later, he was still cloaked in darkness. As he climbed off of the train and into his old Jeep, he tossed his bags in the back, staring hard at the velcro label that had MacTavish stitched across it, the white threads steadfast despite the wear and tear that had befallen them over the past six months. Those bags contained his whole life. Everything from his toothbrush to his diary lived inside those canvas casings, and they’d been burned, stolen, stabbed, soaked, and sand-covered as much as he had. He wished, for a moment, that he were made of canvas. He wished he were interwoven, thick and impenetrable, unfeeling, unsensing… just a container. He wouldn’t need to breathe, to fight, to sweat, or to bleed. He would just need to hold and be held. But, he was not canvas. He was made of soft skin and bruised bone. Johnny MacTavish was but a man. The only salve he had to soothe that wound was that he was coming home.

Home meant rest, which was much-needed, but it also meant Pigeon, his fiery sister. He needed a bit of that warmth right now, even if she annoyed the fuck out of him most days. She was always running her mouth about what he should be doing with his life, but he knew she only did it because she cared. So, he took his lashings with a smile.

Her fiance had been the one to call him back. It must be an engagement. Nothing less would be deemed worthy of pulling him from the field. They knew how important his work was with the SAS, but life didn’t stop back home just because he was away. It was good timing, after all. Their recent tour had yielded decent intel, and he was free to take a few days to ruminate on their findings.

The Jeep’s engine cranked over with some complaint. Hamish, the fiance, had been driving it around for him, but he’d parked it about a week ago in anticipation of Johnny’s arrival, and it had definitely gone cold. He pumped the gas, praying that it didn’t flood, and sent up a prayer when it finally roared to life.

Leaving the lights of Glasgow behind was a comfort. He wanted his little cottage and his soft bed. Johnny wondered, fleetingly, if Pidge had been having the girls over lately. Sometimes, when he came home, there’d be a shirt missing from his collection, and his sheets would smell like lavender. That’s how he knew that she had been there.

He’d ruled out the usual suspects. Bekah was never one to sleep over, and Anjali smelled of rum cakes and soap. He thought it might be Cherise, but she’d never be caught dead in one of his shirts. So, it had to be the American. Pidge was over-protective of that one. She wouldn’t even tell him her name, but he knew she liked his old football tees, so she must have good taste. He’d never even seen a picture of the shirt thief, but he slept like a rock when his sheets smelled of lavender, and he needed that tonight.

Johnny took all the corners too fast, rushing to his destination, and when he finally got into the drive, the house was dark. He’d missed supper, so he aimed for the kitchen to steal Pidge’s leftovers. When he rounded the corner, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

There she was: that thief! She was in his blue Rangers’ tee, the one with McCoist’s name on the shoulders, his favorite one. It hung off of her body like a short dress, but as she went to reach for a mug from the top shelf, teetering on those bare toes, it rode up her body, revealing her thick thighs like a peep show. He could see the heart-shaped divot of her arse cheeks, but only barely. If she reached much further, he’d see it all.

So, he had to stop her. He didn’t want her to be ashamed. Letting out a low whistle, he conveyed his approval.

She was startled, and he watched the fear flood into her eyes like tears. It made them gleam in the low light of the kitchen, but she didn’t scream. The American was pretty, but that was to be expected. She was exactly his type as well, which was a damn shame. Pidge would be furious, but he didn’t care. He’d row with Pidge for the rest of his life to have a girl like that looking at him with those big eyes, framed with those wet lashes.

He wanted to get closer to her, so he did. He took a step into the kitchen, walking slowly, careful not to spook her like a wounded deer.

Johnny knew he must have looked like a goddamn terror. He’d brought in all of his personal gear, preferring to make one big trip from the car. He probably still had eye-black on his face. More than anything, he’d wished he’d had a shower.

He glared at her, trying to snap himself out of his daze, and he confronted her about his shirt,

“You’re a pretty little thief, you are. Better gimme back my favorite shirt, hen, if you know what’s good for you.”

A little bit of a threat would make her laugh, he thought. But, he realized quickly that she really didn’t know who he was, so he softened his features and smiled a bit, trying to retrace his steps.

“Johnny?” She said it like she was making a wish, and her voice made his blood run hot.

It was good to hear his name again. He was exhausted being Soap all the time. He’d earned the nickname, and it was fine when he had a gun strapped to him in the field; it reminded him that he was tough enough to be there. But here, in his own kitchen, from a bonnie lass wearing his own shirt? It was nice to be Johnny again.

“Yeah… who are you, lass?” He asked her, hearing her name and tucking it away for later.

“Ah, Pidge won’t shut up about you,” he explained, letting her know that he’d heard of her at least, “What’re you doin’ here a’ this hour? I just got in from my tour. Got a note from Hammie that it was urgent.”

Johnny dropped his bags and ventured a little closer to join her in the kitchen. The soft light from the stove cast delicate shadows over her body, highlighting her curves where the shirt swayed over her gorgeous breasts. She looked like a dream.

All he wanted to do was touch her. She couldn’t be real. She was too perfect. It was as if he was Adam and God had stolen his rib and made her stand in his kitchen.

That kettle behind her was about to scream, so Johnny reached toward her to take it off the heat, but she flinched as if he were going to touch her. He let a low, sarcastic chuckle rumble around in his chest,

“Easy. Just keepin’ the kettle from keenin’.”

He studied her reaction like he studied the schematics of a bomb, and he was desperate to know what made her tick. As he moved the kettle, Johnny was treated to a smile, which was as sweet as could be, and a quip.

“Good to finally meet you, Johnny. I’ve heard… so much about you.”

He grimaced a bit when he heard her comment. Of course they’d been spewing all sorts of shite about him while he was away. Pidge was terrible about spreading his reputation around, and almost none of it was true. If only she knew.

But, despite all the lies about his character, she stuck her hand out for him to shake. He took it in his and shook it once, dropping it and grabbing his own tea bag from the cabinet, plopping hers and his in their respective cups. She was watching him like a hawk, and he could almost hear her thoughts she was thinking them so loudly. He’d have to do some damage control, so he grinned and said,

“It’s all lies. So, what’s the craic? What was so urgent?”

“Hamish proposed,” she said, and even though he’d figured as much, it still shocked him to hear.

“You’re takin’ the piss.”

“No, it’s true. Look,” she pulled out her phone and showed him the video.

With a bubbling, roiling joy in his chest Johnny watched his sister agree to Hamish’s proposal, and he’d never felt happier.

Johnny leaned in closer to see his sister’s reactions, and although he didn’t realize it, he was now standing right over his tee shirt thief’s shoulder. He could smell her. It was lavender, to be sure, but there was something else.

If sunlight was a smell, she had it. It was like every spring day he’d ever had as a boy, rolling around in the heather, being wild, loving the earth and all of its mischief. She smelled just like that. Like something wholly natural. It made him want to put her back there, in the tall flowers, right where she belonged… in the heather… with him.

His mind went back to his sister, and he asked about her,

“Tha’s fuckin’ brilliant. She’s asleep?”

He didn’t wait for her answer. Johnny needed to back off of the wee thief before he stole her away. Treading off down the hall, he knocked on his sister’s door. As she opened it, the wood creaked and popped from age and weight. He made a mental note to oil it tomorrow morning.

Then, there she was. Bridgette had always been pretty, but she looked like she had a glow tonight. He basked in her joy.

“Johnny-boy? Is that you, you fuckin’ numpty!? Brother,” he grabbed her as quick as he could, and as she was crushed to his wide chest, she confessed, “I’m getting married.”

“Let’s see it, then, Pidge.”

She showed him the ring, and he admired it. But, he wasn’t one for diamonds, not when there was something more valuable to be had. He cocked an eyebrow at Pidge and asked,

“You put a fit lassie in my shirt as a part of the occasion, or… what?”

She slapped him across the chest, hard, and then gave him a dark warning,

“You. Will. Not -“

“I dinnae ken what you’re abusin’ me for, Pigeon! I’m a saint!”

He loved giving her a hard time. She rolled her eyes, and fastened them into her signature glare,

“Johnathan Fergus Euan MacTavish, she’s off-limits! You’ll not lay a hand on that girl’s pretty wee head, or I swear on Mother Mary and all the actual fuckin’ saints…”

He couldn’t have that. She was already his in his mind. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life, and his sister was overreacting again. Johnny pointed a finger at her, threatening,

“No promises, Pidge. If she wasn’t such a smoke show, you might have had a dog in the fight, but a gorgeous wee hen making tea in my kitchen wearing my fuckin’ shirt; it’s enough to make a lad start sinnin’.”

“Start! Tell me when you stopped. Is she out there? Oh, fuckin’ hell, you arsehole.”

Pidge pushed around him and stalked off to the kitchen. The thief was still making tea, and he watched his sister try to run interference, but she was too late.

There’d been enough war for him to last him three lifetimes. Johnny was pretty sure there was still terrorist blood stuck under his nails. Enough was enough. He was good at his job, but he had to admit, he was lonely.

Every tour brought the same darkness to his doorstep. He’d leave Pidge with Hamish, and they’d have each other. They didn’t miss him, not in any real sense. No one did. No one kept him in their mind, missing him and his scent and his voice and his touch. There was no one longing for him to return.

But the thief might.

There was something in her eyes that told him she might. And now, he had to know if he was right. Besides, no one would ever look that good in his shirts. She was his new mission, and he was damn good at running missions.

“Babe! You met Johnny?” Pidge looked red in the face, and Johnny sighed, embarrassed about his sister’s meddling.

“Yeah, just came home. Showed him the video,” you shrugged.

Good. She was covering for him already. She didn’t complain about his bullying, nor did she mention his fearsome choice of dress. She was brushing Pidge off, keeping it casual. Johnny didn’t get lucky often, but he felt like it tonight.

“Great, this is just great,” Pidge forced a smile onto her face, but Johnny didn’t care. This was great, and he wasn’t going to let this chance pass him by.

xxxxxxx

@sadsackssss @lovelythingsinternal @kariggi @cherryofdeath @madstronaut @glitterypirateduck @vampirekilmerfic @sofseee @gemmahale @ofdivinity01

[youryurigoddess]

Good Omens Christmas jumpers, because of course they are a thing now

Glad to see that I’m not the only one clowning about the Good Omens Christmas jumper designs! You know what it means — putting together everything in one thread to make the further speculations more streamlined and, obviously, fun.

On November 20th, Rob Wilkins was present at the “Designing Terry Pratchett’s Discworld” event at Brendon Books. Probably not much to talk about from most of the Good Omens fans perspective, if not for the journalist Kat Brown posting on Bluesky the next morning:

But wait, something’s wrong. Or maybe not wrong, just… different. Why is Crowley the one shielding Aziraphale with his wing in his demonic, black-clothed, black-winged form? That’s a clear deviation from the pattern established in Eden and Before the Beginning.

There was barely enough time to discuss this phenomenon properly though. In the afternoon of November 21st, Rob made a previously unannounced appearance at the Paul Kidby’s “Designing Terry Pratchett’s Discworld” event at Waterstones Piccadilly, where he presented the Aziraphalean version of the jumper. On it — one Forty Years of Discworld pin and a second one in preparation for 2025 as The Year of the Luminous Lemur. Thanks to the phenomenal @basement-jax (I’m not exaggerating, I’ve seen her perform live on stage with Michael Sheen last month) present on site, we got the next photos in real time:

Let’s compare both designs, starting with the most noticeable difference — their color schemes. Both consist of six different swatches, three of which (white, black, and skin tone) repeat. The remaining three are two shades of the fourth color (brown for Aziraphale and red for Crowley) and a fifth, contrasting color (blue and yellow, respectively).

Six is obviously a very important number in terms of the Good Omens lore. Six episodes per season, 666 as the number of the Beast (Antichrist/Adam), 668 as the original title of the unpublished sequel — the ending of this story that will be finally adapted and revealed very soon. Not accidental.

Which brings us to the question of the left angel’s hair. Changing two brown shades to two golden ones, one already used in the other color scheme, not only shouldn’t be a problem for the designer, but would be a cheaper option and ensure consistency with the right angel’s design.

Some netizens have suggested that this discrepancy is caused by the left design representing the book iterations of the Ineffable Husbands. Book Crowley’s hair is dark — could be black, brown, red, even dark blond — and book Aziraphale’s hair is blond, which logically could be depicted as white or light brown.

Their graphic novel iterations created by Colleen Doran use black for Crowley’s hair (much longer than that of the left jumper demon) and blond for Aziraphale, close enough to the yellow yarn already used in this project and not quite the same shape as the jumper angels’ hairstyles.

Since neither seem to be an exact match for the design, could it be reverse Omens? The answer is not as simple. The characters aren’t just swapped; both of their hairstyles have been redrawn, at least partially. Unlikely a technical issue, when wings and clothes stayed exactly the same.

That would be the facts. Now onto the silliness!

My clowning theory is that we’re dealing with two alternative timelines or retellings here.

For Christmas, Crowley wishes for things to stay exactly the same as they are — but with him as Aziraphale’s protector, the romantic hero his angel needs and deserves.

Aziraphale wishes for a past where he doesn’t exist, or at least never meets Crowley. That’s how the latter would stay an angel and his role of the Serpent of Eden would be taken over by someone else — someone like Beelzebub, perhaps, with their small frame and short black hair?

@bardraelyn kindly suggested yet another option, purely out of amusement: “What if the “Aziraphale’ sweater depicts Lucifer and God?”.

What about you? What are your theories?

This clowning is now officially approved by Rob:

[softsan]

NCT WEREWOLF AU (AESTHETIC)

A remake of this: X

Taeyong

alpha

seven hundred and one years old

suspicious and dubious of humans

puts his pack above all

can be rash and unforgiving

encounters his mate on a non-routine hunt

mate: councilman's daughter

Taeil

elder

eight hundred and fifty-six years old

oldest member of the pack

works as an adviser to the alpha and the betas

breaks up and resolves pack conflicts

stumbles onto his mate who's wearing a disguise

mate: physician

Johnny

hunter

four hundred and eighty-nine years old

has the best sense of smell in the pack

the pack's number-one tracker.

exceptional at mauling his enemies.

left heartbroken by his mate's rejection

mate: rival pack member

Yuta

hunter

four hundred and sixty-seven years old

incredibly quick and stealthy

is labeled the 'ambusher' for his cut-throat hunting tactics

despises the prospect of a mate

believes fate is cruel and callous

mate: city guardian

Kun

beta

six hundred and eighteen years old

second in command

rules in taeyong's absence

known to be morally strict and stern

goes against his beliefs by stealing his mate away

mate: stolen bride

Doyoung

delta

five hundred and thirty-two years old  

is the support unit of the pack

on standby to fulfill the duties of ill or injured packmates

finds himself in a hopeless situation

accidentally marks his mate in a poisoned haze

mate: north's princess

Ten

head scout

five hundred and sixteen years old

has an unparalleled control of his inner wolf

works as the pack's eyes and ears in the city

warns the pack of dangers outside their territory

overcomes his heartbreak by meeting a nifty pickpocket

mate: thief

Jaehyun

delta

four hundred and forty-nine years old

strongest member of the pack

formidable opponent in battle

responsible for guarding the pack's territory

comes across his mate in the scorching sands

mate: she-wolf

Winwin

sentinel

four hundred and three years old

routinely patrols the pack's territory

greats new visitors and learns their intentions

will harshly punish aggressive and disrespectful intruders

accidentally kidnaps his mate instead of his actual target

mate: royal governess

Jungwoo

scout

three hundred and twenty-one years old

has great command of his inner wolf

can avoid shifting on a full moon

gathers and shares information for the pack

blown away by his sweet mate

mate: royal maidservant

Mark

delta

three hundred and twelve years old

known to be sunny but stubborn

incredibly fast learner

teaches hunting skills to younger pack members

saved by his mysterious and magical mate

mate: thread coven witch

Renjun

salutary

two hundred and sixty-three years old

is the pack's herbalist

makes tonics and concoctions for his fellow wolves

plagued by dreams of the past

gives the cold shoulder to his mate

mate: old soul

Jeno

hunter

two hundred forty-eight years old

a distinguished pack fighter

often organizes hunts

is the first to volunteer to go on nightly patrols

captured by his formidable mate

mate: general's daughter

Haechan

omega

two hundred and twenty-four years old

rash and impulsive

has poor control over his inner wolf

frustrated by his low status within the pack

taken in by his beloved mate

mate: baker

Jaemin

hunter

two hundred and twenty-two years old

very talented tracker

is the most versed with their territory's terrain

lovestruck by the idea of love and fate

has his memory wiped by his elusive mate

mate: siren

Xiaojun

scout

one hundred and eleven years old

has mastered controlling his inner beast

recently elevated to the position of scout

is eager to prove himself within the pack

rescues his mate from the cruelty of humans

mate: seer

Hendery

hunter

eighty-three years old

loves running under the moon's light

known for his great speed and stealth

recently elevated to the position of hunter

taken down by his fearless mate

mate: assassin

YangYang

omega

twenty-three years old

only recently had his first transformation

is the pack's forager

searches for plants and provisions to help feed the pack

is reunited with his childhood friend and mate

mate: greenskeeper

Chenle

pup

twenty-two years old

is eager for his first transformation

spent his early years on the run with his aunt

thankful to be accepted into a pack

ambushed by his wicked mate

mate: star coven witch

Jisung

pup

twenty-one years old

is nervous about his first transformation

last to join the pack

spent years hiding underground from humans

shyly taken by his doting mate

mate: seamstress

[thebrickinbrick]

The Flag: Act First

AS yet, nothing had come. Ten o'clock had sounded from Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they listened, seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching.

Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, rose and began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of "By the Light of the Moon," this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:

Mon nez est en larmes, Mon ami Bugeaud, Prête moi tes gendarmes Pour leur dire un mot.“En capote bleue, La poule au shako, Voici la banlieue! Co-cocorico! (1)

They pressed each other's hands.

"That is Gavroche," said Enjolras. ”

"He is warning us," said Combeferre.

A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying: "My gun! Here they are!"

An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the

sound of hands seeking their guns became audible.

"Would you like my carbine?" said Enjolras to the lad.

"I want a big gun," replied Gavroche.

And he seized Javert's gun.

Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost at the same moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end of the street, and the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the Lane des Prêcheurs had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction of the bridges and Halles.

The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely opened into a smoke.

Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.

Forty-three insurgents, among whom were Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling inside the large barricade, with their heads on a level with the crest of the barrier, the barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed, themselves, with their guns levelled at their shoulders, at the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.

Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible continuity. Nothing was to be heard but this. It was that combined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander, but this stony step had something undescribably enormous and multiple about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and, at the same time, the idea of a spectre. One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion marching onward. This tread drew near; it drew still nearer, and stopped. It seemed as though the breathing of many men could be heard at the end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles and almost imperceptible, which moved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one sees beneath one's closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch.

A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all the more sinister, since no one was visible, and which appeared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted:

"Who goes there?"

“At the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered into position, was heard.

Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone:

"The French Revolution!"

"Fire!" shouted the voice.

A flash empurpled all the façades in the street as though the door of a furnace had been flung open, and hastily closed again.

A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut the staff, that is to say, the very tip of the omnibus pole.

Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses penetrated the barricade and wounded several men.

The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing. The attack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire reflection in the boldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire regiment at the very least.

"Comrades!" shouted Courfeyrac, "let us not waste our powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before replying."

"And, above all," said Enjolras, "let us raise the flag again." He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his feet. Outside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard; the troops were re-loading their arms.

Enjolras went on: "Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag on the barricade again?"

Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very moment when, without any doubt, it was again the object of their aim, was simply death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce his own condemnation. Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated:

"Does no one volunteer?”

(1) “My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy gendarmes that may say a word to them. With a blue capote and a chicken in his shako, here's the banlieue, co-cocorico.”

[master-of-the-mystic-arts-inc]

[ NOTE: This Blog Contains Spoilers For Multiverse Of Madness ]

`` ARE YOU HAPPY, STEPHEN? ``

Testing.. Testing...

Alright, greetings interweb. As you all probably already know, my name is Stephen Strange. (Dr. Strange to all of you, Stephen's just for buds.) I've saved the world countless times, traveled the Multiverse, and have neutralized the all-powerful Scarlet Witch .. not to say I'm bragging, but those are braggable feats. You'd think I'd be free to do as I pleased, however, winning is such a fickle and complicated bag of worms, one that doesn't come without consequences. The Scarlet Witch destroyed the Darkhold across every dimension, but the essence is.. sticky. I did what I had to to defeat someone who threatened the Multiverse, should I have not used the wretched book to do so? Probably. Am I willing to admit that to the ones I'm closest to? ..Not so much. The power of Darkhold is safe, believe me. There would be no one better to keep this gif-curse with.

With that out of the way, I'll be using this odd forum as a journal of sorts, hard to keep track of my thoughts these days. If you stumble upon this blog, use my words as newfound knowledge, but tread lightly.

[ Mod, RP Info, & Character Bio Below Cut !! ]

Mod Notes

Sup! Welcome to yet another pathetic man's blog. I'm Randy, I use he/him pronouns, I'm twenty, and I'm So Normal about Marvel. So So Normal.

RP Info

I've been hooked on the idea of Strange slowly turning evil for quite some time now, but now seems like a great time to bring out the ol' warlock. Completely open to plots, character dynamics, random asks, and rp memes! Crossovers as well as (over 18) ocs may interact, of course :3c. As the man told y'all, Steven has been 'infected' by the Darkhold, since he was the last to technically use it before it was destroyed. You'll see his morals start to spiral downwards, and a villain begin to appear.. I'm so excited guys.

DNI

This blog will contain alcohol, substances, unbased opinions, and nsfw material*, so minors begone! Bigots, proshippers, and other such weirdos are not welcome either, hate will be taunted and giggled at! Drama-makers can look elsewhere, I want none of that!

*NSFW will be put underneath a cut with the tag #[ nsfwrp ]

Tags

#[ the holder's ramblings ] - Stephen's textposts

#[ watchful eyes & chattering voices ] - Strange answering asks

#[ a shattering dimension] - Roleplays, open ones as well as threads

#[ a potential follower ] - Stephen interacting with other blogs

Universes

Untagged - Main Universe; His descent is slow but adamant, journeying to acquaintances to tame his rotting being. He's pleasant to be around, for the most part- as time goes on, this might not be the case.

[ vrs; the time anomaly ] - Made with @/starredshield; Stephen accidentally transported Steve Rogers out of the 40's a year before the events of Infinity War, staring out at eachother's throats, but growing softer as Strange realizes he has deeper feelings. Having to let him go, he goes back to normal life- going through the Darkhold events before finally reconnecting with Rogers in a much worse headspace. [ !! DARKER THEMES WARNING !! ]

A Holder Of Ancient Magic

Name: Stephen Strange

Age: Currently Forty-Six

Gender & Pronouns: Cisman, He/Him

Sexuality: Strange is far too busy with the possible incursion he caused to be worried about labels. (Evil Bisexual </3)

Home Universe: 616 Adjacent (If your character died during End Game, no they didn't /hj)

Relationships: Stephen has a couple of close friendships, one being Wong, the Sorcerer Supreme. He hadn't been the most open about his new-found powers after the events with the Scarlet Witch. He's cut contact with Christine entirely, far too upset about how their relationship ended, how happy she seems with someone else. Him and the Avengers are on good terms, though he tends to keep quiet about the Darkhold.

Current Appearance: Strange looks a bit more disheveled than he did in Multiverse Of Madness, eyes sunken as if he'd been spending far too much time in the Sanctum's library. Occasionally, there seems to be an odd slit in the center of the Doctor's forehead- mentioning will make the line disappear. He looks more akin to Sinister Strange at this point.

[kawaoneechan]

The Curious Case of Ken

or

Ken and the Rabbit Hole

I don't mean Barbie's Ken, but Ken Williams. And I don't mean the actual guy either, but some of his appearances in the old Sierra adventure games.

There's something pretty silly going on, y'see?

Okay so here's the thing.

Part the First - Larry

Chronologically, we start at Leisure Suit Larry 1. The guy in the white shirt telling jokes in Lefty's bar is supposed to be Ken Williams. Looking at the original source code for the AGI version, he's just "the bore", but the SCI version explicitly calls him "Ken". He also visually matches the Ken who walks up to congratulate you at the end, save for the outfit.

In the sequel, we meet Chief Kenniwauwau. The code again confirms what the art suggests: this is a riff on Ken Williams. So far no foul, it's not like there's a law against two big men named Ken coexisting.

Leisure Suit Larry 3 has the Chief renamed to Chairman Kenneth, but he uses the same sprites as in the previous game so you know it's still him. So far so good. But then in the end Larry and Patti travel to the "real" world and Larry gets hired by Sierra to make the very trilogy you just played. Okay, that's fun.

And then in the sixth game you find the guy from the bar floating around in La Costa Lotta's pool, up to his old thing. He is explicitly identified in the text as the same guy.

Did Larry travel back to his home world at some time? Was it a side effect of whatever happened in Leisure Suit Larry 4 - The Missing Floppies?

Part the Second - Roger

Relatively straightforward, really. In Space Quest 3, Roger rescues the Two Guys from Andromeda, flies into a black hole, and ends up near Earth. He lands in Coarsegold, near the Sierra office, and the Two Guys are hired... by Ken Williams.

But there's also a Ken, white shirt and all, who works as a slave driver for ScumSoft™. Again, the code confirms it's him. Again, there's no law that says you can't have two of them.

The fact that Roger can just take the slightly longer way back and take a pit stop on Magmetheus implies to me that Roger's world is the "real" world that Larry ended up in. But at the same time, there's a set for Space Quest 2 at the end of LSL3...

Part the Third - The Rest of It

Also at the end of LSL3 are sets for King's Quest 4 and Police Quest 1. We even see (an actress depicting) Rosella try to climb the (fake) whale's tongue in that scene.

But if you press the forbidden button in Space Quest 1, you end up in King's Quest 1, meaning King's Quest isn't "just" an act. And as the Twitter thread formerly linked above showed, King's Quest appears to share a world, to some degree, with Quest for Glory.

And if Space Quest 3 is set in the mid to late 1980s (local Coarsegold time) since that's when Larry and the Two Guys are supposedly hired, and is mostly set in the same universe as the "real" world if not several star systems away, how can there be a starship Enterprise docked at Monolith Burger?

On top of that, the backstory for Space Quest 4 states that everything involving Vohaul's return is because of an infected copy of LSL4, which was considered lost since forever, and the bargain bin all but spells out that the SQ10 - Latex Babes segment is set in the very far future, considering it has King's Quest 48.

So if Roger traveled to 1980s Earth, specifically 1984 Earth since Mark Crowe has to be there to help with King's Quest 1... well, six more Space Quest sequels isn't nearly enough time for King's Quest to get up to forty eight.

So yeah, very messed up.

[sunflowerharrington]

Wip Weekend!

thank you @oiveyzmir and @medusapelagia for tagging me! love ya!

i have two wips…

✨RULES✨

• In a reblog of this post or new thread, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs.

• Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We're posting progress here. If you haven't made any, go make some and come back to play!

• After you've posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file.

If the filename is one you can't share from, write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

• That's it! You can invite others to join in, or just post.

without further ado

🛁 The Act (Steddie BB) - Saltburn AU

🖤 Unhealthy (unable to share snippets from)

Snippet for “The Act (Steddie BB)” under the cut. Warning for ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION

“I’ll need some identification, please,” she demands, leaning over the counter, lowering her voice. “Give me any kind of card or literally anything, just as long as the CCTV sees you’re handing me something that resembles a card. I don’t care enough to actually look for legal shit.”

Eddie hands her his credit card with no cash on it, since he spent the last of it on an e-cig yesterday. She pretends to study it and hands it back to him. “Perfect, you’re sixty-nine years old, I can serve you,” she laughs, winking at him. “Kidding, of course. Now, what can I get you?”

“Six pickle shots, please,” Eddie says with a smile, standing up straight to appear more confident. She doesn’t need to know he’s not of-age, yet. To be honest, she looks like she’s eighteen herself. Nineteen at a push. She looks like she should be hanging out with Steve and his friends instead of being stuck behind that sticky bar all night. “I’ll take a lemon drop shot, thanks.”

“Pickle shots, huh? You know Hagan’s allergic to pickles, right? I’ll get you five pickle shots and two lemon drops, hon,” she pauses. “Tomothy!” She yells. “What shot?”

“Lemon drop!” Tommy shouts back. “Thanks, M! And stop calling me that!”

The girl smiles at Tommy, before turning back to Eddie. “Knew he would,” she says, and Eddie can barely hear it over the music blasting over the speakers. And he can’t help but stare directly into her sparkling green eyes as she smiles at him. But the moment is cut short as she turns around to gather everything she needs to make the shots.

She sets each plastic glass down on a tray on the countertop, making the shots with ease and such speed. Eddie’s mouth waters as he looks down at them. “$3.75 each so… I don’t have my calculator.” Where is Barbara Holland when you need her?

“You don’t know your times tables?” Eddie teases, and she playfully rolls her eyes.

“Nah, I was too busy reading magazines in the back of class to care about math. It should be around forty five dollars for seven shots.” Is she… Is she okay? She can’t be serious right now.

“The shots are $3.75, right? That shouldn’t add up to forty five dollars.”

“Okay, whatever, let’s just say twenty five dollars and be done here. I’m so sick of this shit. I just wanna lay in my bed and go to sleep, man.”

Eddie looks down at his wallet. Shit. Fifteen dollars. That’s not enough. “I only have fifteen, can I pay the rest back tomorrow? Please,” he almost begs. Get on your knees and kiss the tops of her shoes while you’re at it. Jesus. What’s gotten into me?

She flicks a strand of her short, white hair out of her face and pins him with a stern look. “I’m here to do my job and not to listen to your excuses. I don’t do “oh, Maddy, can I pay you tomorrow, pretty please, with a lemon drop on top?” Pay me now, or no shots. Choice is yours.”

Eddie “tough guy” Munson begins to shrink under her glare.

“Go easy on him, Mads,” Steve says as he approaches the bar. “Also, I saw you dropping this and didn’t want anyone stealing it,” he continues, handing Eddie a twenty dollar bill with a discreet wink.

“I—” Eddie starts, but Steve shushes him. Steve lifts the tray of shots and brings them over to the table before coming back over. “Go on, man. I’ll meet you over there. Just gonna talk to Maddy for a little while and I’ll pay with your cash.” It doesn’t even take a split second for Steve to start playing with her hair, twisting a strand around his finger to tuck it behind her ear.

She giggles, completely melting under his gaze like she’s a popsicle and he’s the sun. Who could ever melt under Steve Harrington’s gaze like that? Eddie. Eddie could.

Steve leans over the bar, closer to her, and she leans in just as much so their lips can touch. And they kiss. In front of Eddie. How dare they?

Jealousy bubbles inside him and he throws back his shot before anyone else can pick theirs up. He rolls his eyes, wanting to turn away from the scene, but his body freezes up. A murmur of annoyance circles the round table, but Eddie doesn’t care. This wouldn’t have happened if Steve didn’t kiss her.

“Okay, wait,” India pipes up, bringing Eddie’s attention away from the . “We should play a game!”

“What are we? Five years old?” Tommy says with an eye roll of his own. “Fine. Only ‘cause I’m bored.”

tagging @sourw0lfs @ghostdeb @shares-a-vest @momotonescreaming @penny00dreadful @hornedqueenofhell @medusapelagia but only if you guys want to! 🥰🩷

[therumpus]

The Mini Interview with Porochista Khakpour

By Yasmin Roshanian

I first encountered the works of Porochista Khakpour in 2014. As an MFA candidate at Columbia, I was eager for Iranian-American voices in fiction. To read Khakpour is to carefully parse through works of fiction and nonfiction that unfurl family, identity, and Persian myth—I can remember devouring Khakpour’s second novel, The Last Illusion, feeling unburdened. She is a rare writer, and to see life and the Iranian-American experience through her astute and caring pages feels something akin to landing.

In Tehrangeles (Pantheon Books, 2024), Khakpour’s latest novel, the world she satirizes makes for a delightful romp. We meet the Milani’s, a filthy rich family living the (Iranian)-American dream. Al, the immigrant father, is a bombastic junk food tycoon. His wife, Homa, is reeling. As they raise their four daughters (Violet, Roxanna, Mina, and Haylee) in the terrain known as “Tehrangeles,” the splashy landscape of Los Angeles where Iranian-Americans reside (and thrive), the opportunity for their very own reality show slowly snaps the scaffolding of a home, unraveling everything inside.

It was a joy to speak with Khakpour over a Zoom call in May. We discussed the whirlwind of Tik Tok, identity erasure, and more. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

***

The Rumpus: I want to unpack the absurdity of celebrity culture, and in particular, the terrain that has become influencer culture. Did you always want to write a novel about this world? What was appealing to you about exploring celebrity and social media?

Porochista Khakpour: I’ve always been very obsessed with pop culture. Anyone who follows my social media knows. Even if it's not about my writing, or my literary interests, I’m always commenting, or tuned into pop culture. I’m forty-six, and I think I’m pretty up on things that Gen Z knows about. That’s just always been my interest. Most of my books do have some pop cultural angle in them, but Tehrangeles is the most absorbing. I think I had to get to a place, and maybe it took my fifth book, where I wasn’t so concerned about sounding smart. I’ve already written the smart books; the deep and heartbreaking books. I don’t feel like I have to prove myself as much anymore. If I had done Tehrangeles as my fist book, I think I would have been too worried about it being called a beach read or being labeled as women’s fiction. I would have had all of these other insecurities. Tehrangeles allowed me to not only investigate the Iranian-Americans of that demographic, but it also let me get deep into this world of bubbly, frothy trash. I guess some people might call it guilty pleasures, but it sounds absurd to say that—it's such a big part of American culture.

The book is kind of a period piece, too. It takes place in the first half of 2020, and I had to dive deeply into the world of TikTok. I was already on TikTok for a while before that, and I’ve only started posting publicly there recently, but I've been lurking for ages. It’s an amazing place to go when you’re interested in pop culture and celebrity and all that, and it introduced me to the world of content creators and influencers. This aspect of contemporary pop culture allowed me to paint the characters in a deeper way. These girls are just children, really; they’re Gen Z, but they all have jobs that they take really seriously. They’re making money, even though they have money.

Rumpus: I appreciated the versatility on the page. The humor is electric and sharp, and the dialogue is so astute. At the same time, the novel is deeply poignant. You also include a section written entirely in Farsi, allowing us to further access the characters despite the boundaries of language. In terms of craft, what does it mean to use different threads to tell a story?

Khakpour: Iran is really important when I’ve been grappling with Iranian-American life. I haven’t been able to return to Iran since I was a young child. I was born there, and I lived there for several years, but I don’t ever really feel comfortable writing a work set in Iran. I only have limited knowledge of that. Obviously, I can imagine it, but it’s not enough for me. There are many writers who do that a lot better than me; who write very directly from that experience. Iran, in almost all my books, becomes a symbol of an impossibility. It’s always tied to yearning, and longing, and characters wanting to go back to a homeland that they’re separated from. I wanted there to be a real distance between Iran and Iranian-America. In the novel, there are moments where I have relatives and friends in Iran calling the family, and telling them that they’ve heard about certain events in the US, and their show, and I wanted the Iranians to be different from the family. I wanted there to be this really big cultural divide. That was important to me. 

I didn’t think that I would get away with the section written in Farsi, either, but my publishers didn’t touch that at all. In fact, we just had this funny situation where we have a wonderful, well-known actress who’s Iranian-American doing the audiobook. She only speaks some Persian, and she felt that her Persian wasn’t good enough to read that whole section out loud. So, as we speak, my mother is in a recording studio in LA, reading the mother’s (Homa) part that was all written in Farsi. My dad, too, helped me write that part, because I didn’t want it to sound like my Persian. I could have written it in my Persian, but I wanted it to sound like someone of a different generation writing a little section on Iran, and nature, and things like that. I had my dad do a lot of it, and now my mom is reading it. It’s kind of a weird and unique thing for an author of books. 

Rumpus: The last two books you published, Sick and Brown Album, were incredible works of nonfiction. How did it feel to revisit fiction? Was it muscle memory?

Khakpour: I love fiction. Fiction has always been my true love, and I would have never been a writer if it weren’t for fiction. It was writing nonfiction that felt a little bit like tourism. I was working on Tehrangeles the whole time through all of these books, and I thought that Tehrangeles was going to be my second novel. It's funny, though—my nonfiction is more popular than my fiction. It’s always been like this. The amount of readers my memoir Sick had is more than all of my books combined. The success of that book was slightly frustrating for me, because it kind of proved what I was worried about—ultimately, my greatest function for people was as a nonfiction writer. It’s nice to go back to fiction, though, to remind people that this is what came first and foremost, and what I will always think of most as writing. As art, really. Nonfiction as art feels a little bit secondary for me, even though the greatest nonfiction, of course, incorporates all of those craft elements that create great art. I compartmentalize pretty heavily, and it’s just a totally different mode to be writing in nonfiction. I just try to handle that in a much more straightforward way.

Rumpus: This is also one of the first novels I’ve read that incorporated the pandemic. It plays a large role in the story, forcing the characters to confront various aspects of themselves, and each other. I’m curious about what it meant to revisit those early months of lockdown, and how it functioned in this setting.

Khakpour: I’m someone who is interested in things right after they happen, and I want to read about life as it happens. There was a challenge, though, in writing a funny book about the pandemic. I wanted the book to obviously be satire, and to be fun, but my real life experience of the pandemic was purely horrific. I lost seven friends. I lived in Queens, New York, which was very hard hit. As I was working on this book, the soundtrack was just nonstop ambulances 24/7. I felt like I did with 9/11; I was in the center of the hard hit area, and it was very disturbing. 

Ultimately, I was a character that doesn’t really exist in the book. Maybe Mina, to some degree. Mina is longing for a communal experience, and she’s trying to educate her family. And then you have someone like Roxanna, who does my worst nightmare, which is throwing a super-spreader party. That was also a fun climax for me. A book that has a super-spreader party as its climax seemed thrilling, because the odds of me ever being in that situation were zero. Then there’s someone like Haylee, of course, who is so young, and so impressionable. She basically loses her mind during the pandemic. She goes down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theory, and ultimately becomes MAGA. In looking at Iran and some of the responses with Gaza, people are seeing the conservative Iranians very visibly right now. Right in UCLA—the heart of Tehrangeles—the aggressors tearing apart encampments are conservative Iranians. There’s an assumption that the proper position as an Iranian is to be anti-Palestinian, which is insane. Their own internalized Islamophobia is such that it has to take any position that’s very anti-Iran. There’s a feeling that the family is kind of Republican, or Republican-adjacent, but Haylee is very blatantly conservative. It’s to the point where she keeps arguing with her sisters that she’s white, and Haylee wants to identify as white. Ultimately, she was one of my favorite characters to write, because she was just so different. I could write horrible things. That experience of writing things that you’re just so opposed to; that are so insulting to your total soul—in a sense, it was kind of thrilling. Writing her, and then trying to find a way to save her—it was a difficult tightrope act.

Rumpus: I want to explore identity erasure. With Roxanna in particular, we see what it means to reject her Iranian-ness completely. 

Khakpour: I think the whole thing about Roxanna pretending to be an ethnicity that she’s not, which is the dramatic tension in her arc, is pretty real. People may think I made that up. It’s very surreal, and how could that really happen? But there are a lot of Iranian youth, I think, who pretend to be an ethnicity that they’re not, because Iranians often do have the luxury of passing for lots of things. 

In all of our lifetimes, whether you're Gen Z, Gen X, or even a boomer—you know that there’s been a lot of anti-Iranian sentiment. This is especially true in the West, but it occurs everywhere. Even throughout the Middle East there is so much anti-Iranian sentiment. It’s very tempting for young people that are already very concerned about issues of identity to then just take that leap over there. I wanted Roxanna to be in this pickle where she’s built this other identity for herself, and it works perfectly that her last name works with it; her dad’s occupation, the fact that the sisters are spaced out in school… everything works out until the idea of reality hits. And that’s kind of a funny thing. We’re talking about reality TV, but we’re also just talking about reality. Suddenly, you have to be really real. Reality TV, of course, wants to exaggerate and embellish the real elements. How can they not talk about ethnicity? Now she’s just in a state of absolute terror about what she can do to make that work, and in the end, it kind of becomes a non-issue. Nobody cares that much, but to her, it’s the end of the world. There’s this whole reckoning with her boyfriend, who is Italian, and then it’s his forgiveness of her in the end, and what that all means… I think that it was a good conceit for a piece of fiction. And I think it’s also a very real thing. I think almost every Iranian I’ve ever known—whether for issues of protection, or whatever it could be—has pretended to be someone they’re not. I’ve done it before; certainly around the 9/11 era. There were times where I felt unsafe. I would say that I was Italian. I think it’s pretty understandable, even though it's extremely comical.

*** 

Yasmin Roshanian is a writer and editor. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, BOMB, Catapult, and elsewhere. She is at work revising a novel surrounding Iranian-Americans as they navigate college during the onset of the Obama Administration.

[isaut]

𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍’𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒏 — chrollo x f!reader

a wee kuroro x reader drabble that i elaborated on from my old blog, @/saintchrollo. he is my first love… minors and blank blogs dni

On a casual weeknight, Kuroro sips the rest of his beer from dinner while you are half asleep against his chest, scrolling through Pinterest on your phone. Your cat is … somewhere. Squirreled away batting one of your makeup brushes around, probably. Or plotting his next assassination attempt on your fiancé. Perhaps both. 

“I think I could win this.” Kuroro breaks the silence, his pointer finger leave the grip around the condensation-lined bottle, drawing your attention to the show currently playing on the  television 

“Hm?” You lift your head lazily from your phone to fix your gaze upon the subject in question: a Hell’s Kitchen rerun. “Yeah. You cook really well. I don't think you could handle the yelling.” 

“I can handle the yelling. I used to work in sales. And on the stock market. I can handle a little yelling and a few mean words.” 

You hum, looking back to your phone. “Gordon would make fun of your tattoo.” 

“You make fun of my tattoo.” 

Touché. “Jean Philippe is going to say you’re stealing his hairstyle.” 

“I’m older than he is.” 

“Are you?” 

“Look it up.” 

Kuroro looks over your shoulder as you open up your browser for the information. You find the wikipedia and show it to your beloved fiancé, tapping it with your acrylic nail loudly. “Nope. he’s forty-six. Are you not telling me something, baby?” 

Kuroro frowns and finishes his beer, setting it on the coffee table. Your body moves with him, his arm keeping you secure next to his chest. “Okay, I just won’t wear my hair like that then.” 

You can’t help the little giggle that escapes you. “All the girls would think you’re pretty and flirt with you.” 

Kuroro lets out a groan of dissatisfaction, looking down towards you. He presses a kiss against your cheek and speaks into your temple, “Cara mia, I could never have eyes for anyone else but you.” 

Smiling, you make a little kissy sound to Kuroro, who happily indulges you in your wish. He uses a finger to tilt your chin back, capturing your lips with his. 

You let your phone fall against your chest, then against Kuroro’s stomach as you turn in his arms to deepen the kiss. He cups your jaw, then slides his hand back to thread his fingers through your hair. His thumb swipes along your cheekbone, just as your tongue swipes along his bottom lip. 

His tongue slides against yours, eager but lethargic; tasting of beer and the chocolate covered pomegranates you had for dessert. 

With his hands on your hips, Kuroro guides you in a more comfortable position. Your knees on either side of his raised thigh, chest pressed against his. His hands slide down your back, stopping at the dimples on your spine before tracing their way back up. 

You pull away, just centimeters to gaze down at Kuroro through your lashes. He’s gorgeous, and you can’t help but admire him. His lashes flutter open, and a lazy smile drawls across his face. 

“Hello gorgeous,” Kuroro hums, rubbing circles into your hips, encouraging you to sit back against his thigh. 

“Coucou, handsome,” You return, resting your hands on his chest. 

His eyes trail down your figure before back up to your lips, then snaps over towards the television as a rowdy round of shouting picks up. Leaning down, you press a kiss to his cheek, still able to smell the remnants of his aftershave. 

“Let’s go to bed,” You encourage, smiling as you’re pulled against his chest by a strong arm.

[ryehouses]

Did the other Skiratas ever talk to Boba?

just for you, hell yeah they did!

set post-ast in some nebulous time after the sarlacc pit! cw for the usual re: clones and also re: boba and also re: clones and boba.

in which there are feelings that are discussed instead of stabbed, which is an improvement over most fett family reunions. 

Alright, thought Ordo Skirata, halfway up the side of a tower, clinging to a smooth sandstone wall and hoping that Prudii’s distraction out in the sands had drawn most of the palace guards and the other Mandalorians and hopefully the mand’alor himself off to investigate, I might be too old for this. 

That wasn’t the sort of thing that Ordo would ever admit out loud, of course, because the thought of handing over leadership of the clan to any one of a dozen or so Skirata children made Ordo itch beneath his armor, but he could admit it to himself inside the quiet of his own buc’ye. 

Damn the kaminiise anyway, he thought. Forty-six years in the galaxy looked and felt like sixty or seventy, to Ordo. Seventy was too old to be climbing up towards in the dead of night and organizing raids against sovereign – or sort of sovereign, because Ordo, Mereel and Jaing hadn’t actually stuck around after that business with the sarlacc to figure out what the new ruling structure of Mandalore was going to be – territories. 

Ah, well. Regrets were for the dead and Ordo wasn’t dead yet, no matter what his protesting knees or his aching shoulder said, and he was here to do a job. Only the job mattered right now. 

Why Ordo’s chosen to assign himself the task of climbing up a heavily-guarded tower in the middle of nowhere on karking Tatooine, of all places, was still somewhat of a mystery to Ordo, but he’d already gone to the trouble of starting. The only thing to do was see it through. 

Boba Fett had kitted his palace out like a real morut. Ordo hadn’t even been able to approach from the air; Fett had some kind of finely-tuned motion sensor at the crown of his palace, and even a bird flying past would trigger the palace’s security sensors. 

Ordo hoped that coming from the ground would at least gain him entry into the palace. Fett could hardly expect anyone to climb up two or three hundred feet of wind-worn desert sandstorm and so far no one’d picked Ordo off f the wall, but he still had a good sixty feet of climbing left. 

Far out in the desert, there was another distant boom. Night reigned over Tatooine. The moons were dark. Ordo’d swapped his usual beskar’gam for Vau’s old blacks, counting on the darkness to further hide him. 

Prudii better not overdo it, he thought. I needed the mand’alor out of the palace, not a declaration of war.

After the Mandalorian summit – after the little dust-up with the Hutts here on Tatooine, too, which had admittedly been a bit of fun for Ordo and his brothers – Clan Skirata had retreated carefully back to their own territory. Mereel’d wanted to come to the summit just to see what the others were doing, but Ordo had no intention of wading back into Mandalorian politics. He’d watched Mandalore tear itself to pieces once already. 

But as the days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months, something about the whole experience – the summit, the battle, Boba karking Fett of all people allying himself with Mandalorians, when he was infamous among the clones for rejecting any and all attempts at burcyan – had stayed with Ordo like an itch beneath his armor or a loose thread on his kama, and the itch had become curiosity and the curiosity had become, well. 

This, thought Ordo. 

There was no reason to try to talk with Boba Fett. Ordo honestly couldn’t say if he’d ever exchanged more than a word or two with him, back in the days of Kamino. Fett didn’t care about the tatug’ad. He never had. 

Ordo had never cared much for any clone outside of his close circle of brothers himself, and ten years ago if Ordo’d been invited to a Mandalorian summit and found himself looking at the Prime’s chosen son, Ordo would have turned around and slipped away, content to keep his clan and their business out of Fett’s. 

But something Mereel had said to Ordo, before they’d gone to Krownest, stuck with him. 

“The last time you saw him, he was ten,” Mereel had said. “Remember how awful your kids were at ten?” 

Boba Fett had been an unpleasant boy, on Kamino. A perfect copy of Jango Fett, complete with the Prime’s sour temper. But he had been ten. 

And we left him behind, thought Ordo, craning his neck up to look at his destination. He was nearly there; Fett’s rooms were open on all sides to the wind and the sky, protected when he needed them protected by blast doors and motion sensors. Fett, however, clearly hadn’t been expecting someone to be jare’la enough to try climbing up the spire. 

ARC training was good for something. 

The itch that Ordo felt under his armor – that he’d felt for the first time on Krownest, watching Fett stride across the ice, surrounded on all sides by enemies – was guilt, Ordo thought. Kal’buir had taught his boys to look out for their own. Ordo had always done his best to look out for his brothers, for Jaing and Kom’rk and Mereel and A’den, for Prudii and Fi and the other clones who’d left the GAR, made their way to Mandalore, to freedom. But he hadn’t looked after Fett. 

He’s a man now, Ordo thought. Has been as long as we have. He doesn’t need us to look after him. Has never needed us to look after him. 

Fett hadn’t liked admitting that he was literally one of millions, on Kamino. He’d thought the fact that the Prime had chosen him meant that he’d been better than all of the other clones.  

But he was alone. No clone – not even an exact clone of Jango Fett himself – had been made to be alone. 

That guilt had grown and grown. Now Ordo was here, hooking his fingers around the edge of the ledge that circled Fett’s rooms at the top of the tower, and his brothers were off drawing Mandalorians away so that Ordo could talk with Fett. 

It is my duty to offer him aid, if he needs it, thought Ordo. Only a few on Krownest stood for him. 

Several members of Death Watch had attended the summit on Krownest. Many kyr’tsad survivors had done their best to stamp out any trace of the True Mandalorians Fett was no True Mandalorian, but he’d had his share of enemies there on the lake. 

Mereel and I went over this, he thought. One conversation. One offer of aid. Then I’m gone, and I can set any guilt I have aside. 

Ordo got a decent grip on the ledge and hauled himself upright, his shoulders complaining. He came up off of the wall in a crouch and scanned the room. Fett’s rooms were wide and spacious, cooled by night air. He had only a little furniture. A long table strewn with datapads, a few chairs, a bed. Ordo straightened and took a step into the room. He was pleased that the motion sensors hadn’t been triggered. He pulled his helmet off and tucked it under an arm, scanning the shadows for Fett. 

He didn’t have to look very hard. Ordo took another step into the room and Boba Fett himself stepped out of the shadows, kitted in full armor but for his helmet, and leveled a weapon at Ordo. 

“Don't move. Who are – ah,” growled Fett, pausing when he caught sight of Ordo’s face. Fett had aged naturally. He was Ordo’s age, maybe a few years younger, but he hadn’t grown twenty years in the space of ten, thirty years in the space of fifteen.. Ordo’s hair had gone grey since they had all been children on Kamino, his face creased with age. Most looked at him now and didn’t see a clone. 

Fett did. His eyes widened. Ordo watched him with interest. 

He doesn’t see me as an enemy, then, he thought. That was – a surprise. Ordo’d watched Fett, at that summit. Fett was hostile on a good day. 

But he didn’t rush in for an attack. Fett was armored, everything but his helmet snapped into place, and he held a dark, dangerous-looking staff in one hand. His face could have been carved from stone. But he didn’t lunge. 

Maybe time has mellowed him as it has the rest of us, Ordo thought. I can work with that.

He raised his hands to show Fett that they were empty and said, “Boba Fett. I’m not here to start a war.”

“You’re a Skirata,” Fett said, studying Ordo. The hostility in his eyes hadn't lessened. “I thought you’d died off, by now.” He didn’t lower his weapon. 

Ordo inclined his head, ignoring the insult. “I am,” he said. “I'm Ordo." He didn't bother with his clan name, since Fett knew it already.

Fett’s lip curled. “A Null.” 

Ordo waved a hand. The motion made Fett twitch, his fingers curling more tightly around his staff. One end of the staff was shaped like a club and the other ended in a fearsome spike. 

“None of that matters any more,” Ordo said. Null, ARC, commando, pilot; the war was over. The war had been over. 

Fett snorted. “It always matters,” he said. “What do you want, Skirata? The noise in the desert is your doing, I assume.” 

“It is,” Ordo said. When Fett’s jaw tightened, Ordo added, in a tone he’d perfected around the dinner table in the karyai of Kyrmorut instead of on the battlefield. “No one’s going to get hurt. It’s a distraction, nothing more. You have my word.” He'd made Prudii and Jaing swear not to kill anyone. Somehow Mandalore had begun to revive itself without any blood feuds. Clan Skirata didn't need to start the first one.  

“A distraction,” Fett rumbled. He was shorter than Ordo’d expected him to be. All of Ordo’s brothers were precisely six feet tall, grown by Kaminoan hands and Kaminoan nutrient bars, but Fett was several inches smaller.

Not enough food to go around as a boy, Ordo thought. Like Kal’buir. 

Another sensation itched underneath Ordo’s armor, prickling like the first, like the sensation that had driven Ordo out of his comfortable home, away from his family. Ordo knew that it was guilt. 

Fett looked strong, though. He was solid and his stance was rooted, feet spread apart like the base of a mountain. 

“If you’re here to speak with the mand’alor, he’s not here,” Fett growled. “He’s out dealing with your distraction. He takes Mandalorians at the High House. No Mandalorians come here."

That was a blatant lie. Ordo chose to ignore it.

“I know where he is,” Ordo said. That had been the point. Ordo had no business with Din Djarin, the Mandalore; his business was with Fett alone. “I’m not here for him.” 

Fett narrowed his eyes. Ordo kept ten or twelve feet between them, ready to move if Fett moved first. “You have no business with me either,” he said. 

“I do,” Ordo disagreed. Fett’s face was set into a hard plane of dislike. Distrust. 

“You don’t,” Fett said, his voice a furious rumble. “We’ve never had business between us.”

Ordo heard the unspoken accusation. You never wanted anything to do with me, Fett was saying. And I want kark-all to do with you. 

Ordo hadn’t climbed three hundred feet of tower to be dismissed so easily, though. He shrugged. “We’re kin,” he said. 

“We are not.” 

“Allies, the,” Ordo said. That drew another snort from Fett. “You are the mand’alor’s ally, aren’t you?” Ordo said. “My clan has no fight to pick with him.”

“Just me, then,” Fett said. 

Ordo fell silent again, studying Fett intently. Fett was ready for a fight. His face was perfectly still, smooth as granite. 

“Just you,” Ordo finally agreed. “Though I didn’t come here to fight.” 

“What did you come here for, then?” Fett demanded, every bit as impatient as the Prime. As the Nulls, who’d had too much of him. “Think quickly, Skirata, before I decide to put this – ” he broke off to lift his staff higher, so that Ordo could see its wicked spike “ – to good use.” 

Ordo sighed. To the point, then. 

“Clan Skirata has – concerns,” he said. “We thought we’d offer our aid to a brother, if he needed it. Standing in the middle of joha’kaan’s a dangerous place for any Mandalorian. For a Mandalorian alone.” 

“You’re – concerned,” Fett said flatly. He raised his staff like he was thinking about lobbing it at Ordo’s head. 

Mereel should be the one doing this, Ordo thought. He’s better at diplomacy than me. 

Wary, Ordo nodded. 

“About me,” Fett clarified. When he said it, it did sound absurd. Fett had never been treated as a clone, not on Kamino. He’d grown up naturally. Hadn’t been flash-trained or poked and prodded by the Kaminoans. Hadn’t spilled blood in the Clone Wars. Fett was no more Ordo’s brother than the mand’alor was. 

But he was alone, said a voice in Ordo’s head that sounded like his father. You were safe on Mandalore, surrounded by your clan, and Boba Fett was alone for thirty years.  

Guilt sharpened. 

“...Yeah,” Ordo said. He didn’t know how to explain it to Fett, not properly. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Discomfort was a novel feeling. Ordo didn’t much care for it.  

“Why,” said Fett, in a tone that suggested to Ordo that Ordo ought to have either a satisfactory answer or an exit plan to get away from that staff. 

Ordo looked at the man who could have been his brother and said nothing for a moment. Boba Fett and Ordo Skirata weren’t much alike. They shared a genetic code and little else. Not a life, not a war, not even a face, really, beyond the shape of Fett’s nose, the line of Ordo’s jaw. If Ordo spoke, he wasn’t sure that he’d be understood. 

So Ordo did what Kal’buir would have done, and told the truth. 

“None of us were made to be alone,” Ordo said. “Not even you.” 

Fett’s expression didn’t change. “That didn’t seem to concern you thirty years ago,” he observed, still in that same flat, disinterested voice. “And it shouldn’t concern you now.” 

“Maybe not,” Ordo agreed. Fett was hardly a lost little clone these days, barely more than a tubie, cheeks round with baby fat. He’d survived, same as the rest of them. Thrived, even; none of Ordo’s brothers could call themselves kings. “But still. We thought we’d check, when we heard that Death Watch was involved.” There were plenty among the mando’ade who would happily kill Fett to avenge kin slain by Jaster Mereel or Jango Fett. And now that the mand’alor was living here on Tatooine, those old kyr’stad warriors might be tempted to seize the opportunity and kill Fett while the mand’alor’s back was turned. 

While the mand’alor is elsewhere, Ordo thought. Drawn away by another enemy. 

“There is no Death Watch,” said Fett, and for the first time since Ordo’d heaved himself up over the lip of Fett’s window, Fett’s hard stone expression eased. It didn’t soften, because bedrock, choruk be te vheh, couldn’t soften, had no softness in its nature, but now instead of looking at a sheer cliff Ordo was looking at enough of a slope to stand on. 

Or I’m the one who’s getting soft, he thought wryly. Boba Fett might be the stone of the earth, but Ordo had always been something else.

“Not here, anyway,” Fett said. 

“No?” Ordo said. He hadn’t apologized. Fett wouldn’t want him to, Ordo didn’t think. Fett hadn’t been Ordo’s responsibility, and even if Ordo – or, more likely, Kal’buir, who had never managed to walk away from a child who had needed his help or his care – had thought to find Fett in those first chaotic days of the war, Fett wouldn’t have stayed with the Nulls. He had too much of the Prime in him, and not enough of Kal’buir. “Must’ve got some bad intel, then, ‘cause I could’ve sworn that that mand’alor of yours was Death Watch.” 

“He quit,” said Fett, his tone going flat and dangerous again. 

Ordo raised his hands, palms up and empty, in a sign of peace. “Alright,” he said. “And the others? Bo-Katan Kryze and her verde, the Owls, the Saxons?” 

Fett shrugged. “I don’t have much to do with them,” he said. “I’m in the business of making credits, Skirata, not ruling Mandalore.” 

Ordo’s intelligence came from Jaing, who’d gotten it from his youngest girl, who had an in with one of the Saxon boys and another with an annoyingly cheerful and persistent shabuir who worked underneath old Fenn Rau. Ordo trusted Jaing’s daughter more than he trusted Boba Fett. If the new mand’alor had once been Death Watch – 

Well. None of that was Ordo’s business. He’d followed the old ghost of Kal’buir and come to check on his wayward brother, because Kal would have wanted to care about what happened to Boba Fett and in his advancing age Ordo found it hard to shut that old ghost out. 

Weakness, Ordo thought, in a voice that sounded cold and clipped and Kaminoan. 

All men are weak, Ord’ika, said a different voice. Just don’t let it kill you. 

So. Fett was fine. He was living with – married to, if the jor’ika around the more Mandalorian parts of the galaxy was right – this new mand’alor, and apparently had let go of his grudges enough that he could tolerate former Death Watch assassins hanging around. 

Maybe he doesn’t have too much of the Prime after all, thought Ordo. He made an interested noise. “Not in the business of ruling Mandalore?” Ordo said. He hesitated for only a bare second, aware that what he said next could get him punched in the nose by a Fett clone, who was genetically predisposed to punch rather hard, but decided that he’d rather take the risk and confirm Jaing’s intel, since it seemed that Mandalore was rising again, and it paid to keep an eye on growing power. “But here I thought that Mandalore the True spent most of his nights here in your bed,” said Ordo. 

His gut instinct had been right. Fett did punch him, hard and fast, square in Ordo’s nose. 

Ordo rolled with the blow and only staggered a little. The bright metal taste of blood filled his mouth. 

“Don’t call him that,” said Fett. His hand was still curled into a fist but he didn’t press his advantage and swing on Ordo again. 

He is one of the brothers, Ordo thought, a kernel of something that might have been affection – and what Ordo was going to pretend was just grudging respect – taking root beneath his armor. 

“He’s hoping it doesn’t stick,” said Fett. He finally set his staff aside, propping it up on the work table. Fett was still wary, was still watching Ordo with a fierce expression on his face, but he had put down his weapon. For a Mandalorian, that was a sign that a verd was open to negotiation. That a verd mmight listen.

Ordo hadn't been a soldier in a very long time but he remembered how to talk like one. How to talk to one.

Fett was angry. Fett wanted to fight. Ordo wasn't angry.

“What’s he like, then?” Ordo said, standing back up straight. He set his nose with a practiced twist and ignored the blood in his mouth. Spitting on Tatooine was impolite, he’d heard. “We’ve heard ‘Mandalore the Just’ and ‘Mandalore the Fair,’ too, though we couldn’t tell if that was referring to his politics or to his face.” 

Ordo had seen this new mand’alor on Krownest. Everyone had. Ordo was forty-six years old, physically closer to seventy, and he was a father and a grandfather and a happily married man. 

But, he thought, amused, as Fett’s hand curled into a fist and a very Prime light glittered in his face, I do have eyes. 

Fortunately, Fett managed to restrain the impulse to hit Ordo again, which was probably for the best. Ordo could let him have the one hit, but allowing two offended Ordo’s pride. If he and Fett were to be allies – and Ordo suspected that they were allies, or that they would be allies soon, because Ordo had enough of Kal Skirata in him to know that once he claimed a clone a kin, Ordo would not – could not – change his mind.

Daro's a good place for a morut, he thought. But the clan's big enough now that it might be time for the young to set off on their own. To build a new morut.

Tatooine was a large planet. There were plenty of places for a resourceful band of warriors to scratch out a good living.

“Ordo,” Fett said, after thinking for a moment. “Get out of my house.” 

[011374]

@nonpareil [david]: can you stay on the line?

silence stretches from lee's end of the phone call. the ruby-colored blackberry cellphone remains pressed to her ear, hickory gaze drifting over the scattered files across the carpet. two six-year-old girls abducted over thanksgiving > the only suspect, a man with an i.q. score of a whopping ten. he was, by all definitions, incapable of orchestrating such a crime. no one else had surfaced on the list of suspects either. not even the fathers of the missing girls. and everyone knows, like primetime nancy grace on the television, the fathers are always the first suspects in cases like this. but not here. this time, both men had airtight sealed alibis: themselves. they had been in the same room, under the same roof, in the shared company of their living wives, when the girls vanished from their small quaint neighborhood.

there had been a parked rv that'd lured the children over to investigate, but when david had spoken to alex jones, it led nowhere. another dead end leading straight back to square one.

the brunette's lips part, but no sound follows. her eyes flicker between the documents, trying to piece the puzzle together. any small piece she, or david, may have missed over the past forty-eight hours. there's a nagging feeling in her gut, a tension pulling tight on the threads inside her stomach. something's slipped past them. a someone, lee surmises from the feeling in her gut. they're right on the verge of a discovery, but nobody can see it yet.

looks can be deceiving, but if you stare long enough, even the most unlikely truths can come into view.

"yes," she finally answers. her free hand sliding to her neck, massaging the knot formed beneath the skin. leaning back, lee stares up at the popcorn ceiling. "have you found something?"