#echelon Forever

[rotzaprachim]

realisation that lenú and lila l’amica geniale are the equal and opposite reaction to tenoch and Julio y tu mamá también

[angelplummie]

TAKING WHAT’S NOT YOURS!

ART X TASHI X PATRICK X F!READER

part 1 part 2

this one is exposition and build up for the smut eventually! enjoy my princesses

tashi duncan stole from you.

in many ways, many times. the first was when she thrashed you in your very first college tennis tournament. you would always remember the sound she made, that war cry. it was like she had decapitated you or something. she stole victory from you that day.

then she did it again, and again, and again. every single time she played you, she beat you. you could annihilate everyone but her, crushed them all to dust. but she was the one person that would not be decimated. you didn’t speak off the court, didn’t look at each other twice in the halls of stanford. but she had this look on her face. this smug, knowing look. here to lose again? it said. and you weren’t some average joe shmoe tennis girl. you were really good. people that had no reason to bolster your ego had told you that, so you knew it to be true. you were fucking brilliant, and she had no right to look at you like you were dirt. you gave her a tough match, but still she looked at you like she knew she was going to win.

when asked about her, all you could say was “i hate that smug bitch.”

what she said about you you didn’t know, and not for lack of trying. you didn’t know if she even spoke of you at all. the thought made you angrier than when she beat you. once, when at the same party, she waved at you.“hi,” she said, and gave you that same i-just-beat-you look. she was taller than you, and craned her neck unnecessarily far to look at you. where did that stupid bitch get off?

she was this towering roadblock, the one thing stopping you from entering the upper echelons of tennis royalty. you had the fucking talent, you had put in the fucking time, you were so fucking good. but you weren’t stanfords sweetheart. you just weren’t. everyone knew you were good, but you weren’t the best.

from the matches you had watched, which was nearly all of them, you were the only person she played that gave her a run for her money. she didn’t sweat the way she did when she played you, the points were never so neck and neck. she should be threatened by you, and yet she looked at you like any other silly college floozy that was the best in her high school. tennis was your life, as much as it was hers. she stole your dignity in that way.

the next time she stole from you was patrick zweig. a sort of boyfriend, an in-between, getting there boyfriend. he could’ve been yours. you could’ve been happy together. but tashi duncan couldn’t have that.

you heard whispers about a night in a hotel room, a threesome, a twosome with a watcher, two guys jacking off on tashi duncan. they could deny, deny, deny, but whatever did or didn’t happen meant patrick zweig never returned your calls anymore. you could still recount the exact tonality and pacing of his answering machine message.

it was fine. it’s whatever. he wasn’t a forever boyfriend anyway.

but once a girl has sex with someone, she expects some degree of loyalty, some sort of goodbye. it wasn’t about him, he was cute, a good-not-great fuck, and never claimed to be serious about you. he didn’t matter. it was the fact she had him. together or not, she had him. he belonged to her. even after they broke up, everyone knew he never liked any of his other many girlfriends like he loved her. they used to walk around hand in hand, kiss, and it made you brim with jealousy. not because you gave any kind of fuck about him as a person, but because she got him instead of you. it was her. all her. she had stolen one more thing.

as time passed, your hatred burned just as bright. you practiced day in day out, hoping that somehow she could see you now, somehow she would know you were her equal.

then you met a boy. art donaldson.

you had known he was involved with her. the hotel threesome stories spared no details of the parties involved, despite factual discrepancies in other areas. but you figured, while she was dating his best friend, you were safe from the curse of tashi duncan. you allowed yourself to fall in love, softly, timidly. having met in american literature, you fostered a little spark. a love, barely the size of a candles flame, flickered in your chest. maybe, you had prayed. maybe him. maybe he was yours. you kissed at new years for the first time, and days later he met your parents. it was new, fresh, but it was love. you loved him.

and then she stole from you for the final time. in one foul swoop, she took everything from you.

it was the final of the college tournament. the two stanford angels playing each other for the victory. the court was red and packed, newly redone. you both wore white. whoever won this was guaranteed a shot at the open in the summer, and that was all you needed. you were so fucking ready. no one was better than you. no one. you had trained so hard, art could attest to it, hell, the entire school could attest to it. ask anyone who saw you around that time, they would’ve seen a scowl on your face and a racket on your back. those who had the pleasure of watching you play would’ve say it: you were fucking good.

that’s why it crushed you. across from her, at match point, advantage duncan, you watched as her knee moved independent from her leg. in between grunting and pelting, there was a crack, and tashi duncan was no more. a hush fell over the crowd as she cried, fell to the ground clutching her knee. you heard that. but you didn’t hear the ear splitting scream that came from your own mouth, couldn’t feel your body sprint, jump the net to crouch by her side. beads of perspiration rolled down her face, scrunched in agony. she bared her teeth like a cornered animal, and looked up at you through her squeezed eyes. her knee looked awful, so you stared at the rest of her. without thought you placed a hand on the top of her head. to comfort her you think.

it was so quiet. the only sound was her crying, her laboured breath stilling your heart to a lifeless thud.

“it’s ok,” you said,”you’re going to be ok, tashi.”

you remembered feeling an inexplicable sadness, a grief that you had never known before. you wanted to get rid of her pain, any and all of it. none of it came from you, you didn’t want her to have it. but that was so quickly forgotten. because as you moved to touch her shoulder with your shaking hand, it was eclipsed by another. a larger hand, the hand of a man. a pale hand. a hand you had touched before, even kissed. the hand of your man.

your eyes met, each with equal fear, horror and sadness. it was then that you knew that the curse of tashi duncan wouldn’t rest until you died. she would steal and steal and steal, even beyond the grave. he looked caught, because he was. he was caught. once you loved tashi you never stopped. he had raced into the court because she had fallen at a game he attended to watch you play, had touched her shoulder with the hand that had held you. he was not yours, as much as you needed him to be. his eyes twinkled with regret, but told you everything you needed to know.

your hand drew away with a flick, like it had given you an electric shock. you rose from tashis tortured body. his hand slipped to where yours had rested. this was all somehow not her fault, while being her fault entirely. you hated her so much it made your heart bleed. you didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. no whisper of her name, no nothing. from this moment on she was dead to you.

you didn’t bother looking over your shoulder to see if art was watching you leave. he wasn’t. the umpire boomed something through a mega phone, something like wait. but you were going home.

in the hall you bumped shoulders with patrick zweig. he was rushing to find her. he looked at you once to apologise hurriedly, twice to utter your name in recognition, and a third time to look at your back and wonder why you were so down. tashi was out. you won by default.

[w1w2]

A Contract of Silence

Part 1 | Next part

Giselle x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 6k

Synopsis: A young mute woman is drawn into the world of a powerful CEO through an unexpected proposition that could change her life and her family’s future forever.

Notes: I've been obsessed with When the Phone Rings lately, and it has been inspiring a little.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Y/N’s heart pounded as the elevator doors glided open to the executive floor of Uchinaga Couture. A soft chime signaled her arrival, and she stepped out hesitantly, her worn flats making barely a sound against the pristine marble floors. The space around her was intimidatingly sleek, high ceilings, gold-accented furniture, and white walls so spotless they practically glowed under the recessed lighting. Every inch of the space radiated power and exclusivity.

The air was cool and quiet, the only sounds were the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant clicking of keyboards from the rows of assistants stationed in glass-walled offices. It was the kind of silence that felt heavy, like it demanded perfection from anyone who dared to linger too long.

Y/N clutched her bag tightly against her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Her mind raced, replaying the cryptic message she’d received from Giselle Uchinaga’s assistant earlier that morning.

“Miss Uchinaga would like to see you in her office. Immediately.”

Why would Giselle Uchinaga, the CEO of one of the world’s most renowned fashion houses, a woman so influential she rarely made public appearances, want to meet with her? Y/N wasn’t even an intern yet.

Her fingers instinctively reached for her phone in her bag. She’d been rehearsing a polite introduction during the entire elevator ride, but now, standing here surrounded by the grandeur of Uchinaga Couture’s upper echelon, her words felt hollow. Would she even be able to speak at all in the presence of someone like Giselle?

The receptionist sitting behind a minimalist gold and glass desk barely glanced up from her screen. “Miss Uchinaga is waiting for you,” she said, her tone clipped and professional, as though this sort of summoning happened every day.

Y/N nodded. She smoothed the front of her blouse, realizing with dismay that it was slightly wrinkled from her hurried commute.

The receptionist gestured toward a pair of imposing glass doors at the far end of the hallway. They stood like gates to another world, one Y/N wasn’t sure she was ready to enter.

She hesitated, but the receptionist’s pointed look left no room for second guessing. Forcing her feet to move, Y/N approached the doors, each step feeling heavier than the last.

The office beyond the doors was even more magnificent than the hallway. Vast and bathed in natural light, it was dominated by floor to ceiling windows that offered an uninterrupted view of the city skyline. The desk at the center of the room was a masterpiece of sleek mahogany, polished to a mirror finish. Behind it sat Giselle Uchinaga herself.

Y/N had seen Giselle in magazines and online, always poised, with an untouchable elegance that made her seem more like a mythical figure than a real person. In person, that aura of control was even more pronounced.

Giselle didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence. She sat with her back straight, her silky black hair falling like a curtain over one shoulder as she studied the glowing screen of her tablet. A fountain pen rested delicately between her fingers, tapping soundlessly against the desk. Her tailored navy suit accentuated her sharp features, and even seated, her posture exuded authority.

“Miss Y/N,” Giselle said finally, without looking up. Her voice was smooth and controlled, with a faint edge of disinterest. “Have a seat.”

Y/N obeyed quickly, lowering herself onto the leather chair in front of the desk. It was so soft and luxurious she worried for a moment that she might sink into it entirely. She folded her hands in her lap, trying not to fidget as she waited.

Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes. Giselle remained focused on her tablet, her fingers scrolling through unseen files with practiced precision.

Y/N used the opportunity to glance around the room. The walls were lined with black shelves holding a curated collection of awards, framed magazine covers, and bound portfolios. Every object seemed to scream success, as if Giselle’s achievements had been distilled into physical form.

When Giselle finally looked up, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The CEO’s almond-shaped eyes were sharp and assessing, like she was dissecting Y/N with a single glance.

For a moment, Y/N felt like an open book under that gaze, every secret and insecurity laid bare. The weight of it was suffocating, but she forced herself to meet Giselle’s eyes, refusing to shrink under the scrutiny.

“I assume you’re wondering why I called you here,” Giselle said, leaning back in her chair. Her tone was calm but carried the faintest hint of impatience.

Y/N nodded quickly.

Giselle’s perfectly manicured hand gestured toward a sleek black folder resting on the desk, though she didn’t open it yet. “I’ve reviewed your file, Miss Y/N. You have an impressive work ethic. Resourceful. Determined. Someone who doesn’t back down when faced with challenges.”

Y/N blinked, unsure whether Giselle was complimenting her or simply stating facts. Her file? She’d almost forgotten she’d even applied for a position as an assistant in the accounting department months ago, an opportunity that had seemed impossible even then.

“I have an opportunity for you,” Giselle said, her voice deliberate, as though testing Y/N’s reaction. “But before I explain further, I need to know one thing. How far are you willing to go to help your family?”

The question hit like a thunderclap. Y/N’s lips parted instinctively, but no sound followed. Her breath caught in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears as her thoughts spiraled.

Why was Giselle asking something so personal? How much did she know about Y/N’s situation?

Giselle’s gaze didn’t waver, her expression unrelenting. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension.

Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as they curled into her lap. She wanted to ask what Giselle meant, to demand clarification, but the words never came. They never could. Instead, she lifted her head, her eyes locking onto Giselle’s with a quiet intensity.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she inhaled slowly, trying to project steadiness. Her gaze was resolute, though her chest tightened with fear, she refused to look away. If Giselle wanted to test her resolve, she would show it, even if only through the unwavering determination in her expression.

For a fleeting moment, something flickered in Giselle’s eyes, curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of approval, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Giselle didn’t wait for a response. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the edges of the black folder on her desk.

“Your father left you and your family in an unfortunate position,” she said, her tone clinical, devoid of any trace of empathy. “The debts he accrued are substantial, and your current situation offers little opportunity to escape them. Correct?”

Y/N flinched at the bluntness, her chest tightening as though someone had reached in and exposed every hidden part of her life. She hesitated, her fingers twitching toward the phone in her lap. Finally, she picked it up, her movements deliberate, and began typing.

“Yes.”

She held up the screen for Giselle to see. The stark simplicity of the word felt both shameful and raw.

Giselle’s gaze flicked to the phone, her expression remaining unreadable. She gave the faintest nod of acknowledgment before continuing.

“I’m offering you a way out,” Giselle said, folding her hands neatly on the desk. “But it requires your cooperation and your discretion.”

Y/N blinked, her curiosity piqued despite the knot of unease tightening in her stomach. She typed quickly, her fingers trembling slightly.

“What kind of cooperation?”

The corner of Giselle’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “I need a fiancée.”

Y/N froze, her eyes widening. For a moment, she was sure she’d misread the words that had just left Giselle’s mouth. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, uncertain what to say. Finally, she typed.

“A fiancée?”

“Yes,” Giselle said, her tone as even and detached as if she were discussing a routine business transaction. She leaned back in her chair, exuding an air of unshakable confidence. “My reputation has... complications. Certain people perceive me as cold, unapproachable. The board at Lueur, with whom I am negotiating a highly lucrative partnership, values the appearance of stability and warmth in their collaborators. I need to project that image.”

Y/N stared at her, stunned. Her fingers moved instinctively, typing out the only question that made sense.

“Why me?”

“You,” Giselle said, her sharp gaze locking onto Y/N’s, “are the perfect candidate. Young, vibrant, and unknown to the media.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted as she read Giselle’s words. Her mind raced, struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. She typed slowly this time, her hands shaking.

“I don’t understand. I’m just an applicant. Why would you choose me?”

Giselle’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, she appeared to weigh her response, then answered with calm certainty. “I’ve done my research. Your background is compelling, your work history suggests you’re resourceful and adaptable and most importantly, you’re desperate.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening at the final word. She lowered her phone slightly, breaking eye contact for the first time.

“You have no other options, Miss Y/N,” Giselle said, her voice firm but not unkind. “This arrangement would benefit both of us. You’ll help me secure the partnership with Lueur, and in return, I will pay you enough to clear your family’s debts entirely and provide a stable future for yourself and your family.”

Y/N hesitated, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Humiliation, anger, and a flicker of reluctant hope. She stared at her phone, her vision blurring slightly. With trembling fingers, she typed.

“And if I say no?”

Giselle’s expression didn’t waver. “Then you walk out of this office, and we go our separate ways. But consider this carefully, opportunities like this are rare, and for someone in your position, it could mean the difference between struggling for decades or starting over.”

Y/N stared at the words on her screen, her heart pounding. Giselle’s words weren’t a threat, they were a calculated statement of fact.

This wasn’t a choice. Not really.

Giselle leaned back in her chair, her sharp gaze never leaving Y/N, and slid the black folder across the desk with a single, precise motion. The faint sound of the leather cover gliding against the polished wood echoed in the otherwise silent room.

Y/N hesitated, her fingers hovering over the edge of the folder. Slowly, she reached out and pulled it closer, her heart pounding as she flipped it open.

Inside, the contract was laid out in meticulous detail. The dense paragraphs of legal jargon were daunting, and Y/N’s eyes flitted over the page, struggling to focus. Certain phrases stood out like beacons, each one hitting her like a punch to the chest.

“Exclusive agreement.”“Media appearances required.”“Strict confidentiality.”

Her throat tightened as the magnitude of the arrangement settled over her like a heavy fog. This wasn’t just a deal, it was a meticulously crafted performance, with no room for mistakes.

“This isn’t a charity, Miss Y/N,” Giselle’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. Her tone was firm, but there was a hint of expectation, as if she were testing how Y/N would respond.

Y/N glanced up, her fingers still clutching the edges of the folder. Her mind swirled with questions, fears, and doubts, but she forced herself to focus. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and typed quickly before turning the screen toward Giselle.

“What exactly do you expect from me?”

Giselle’s gaze flicked to the screen, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curved her lips. “Professionalism,” she said. “You will follow my instructions, attend events as required, and present yourself as a devoted partner. In public, we will be inseparable. In private, however, we will remain strictly separate.”

Y/N’s fingers flew across the screen again, her anxiety spilling into her typed words.

“And if I mess up?”

The question hung in the air, and Y/N watched as Giselle’s expression hardened slightly. The CEO leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, her fingers steepled in front of her.

“Then the deal is off,” Giselle said, her voice cold and unwavering. “And you’re on your own.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted at the bluntness of the ultimatum. She tightened her grip on her phone, her chest tightening as the enormity of the situation loomed over her. She quickly typed another message, her hands trembling slightly as she showed the screen to Giselle.

“You mean... everything ends? No payment?”

Giselle nodded once, her expression unchanging. “Exactly. This is a transaction, Miss Y/N, not a handout. If you fail to meet the expectations outlined in that contract, there will be no second chances.”

The weight of those words settled over Y/N like a lead blanket, heavy and suffocating. Her eyes dropped to the folder again, scanning the tightly packed lines of text that seemed to stretch endlessly.

She hesitated before typing another question, her fingers pressing against the screen more forcefully now.

“What happens if someone finds out this is fake?”

Giselle’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time, her calm exterior seemed to harden further. “They won’t,” she said simply, the steel in her voice leaving no room for doubt. “As long as you adhere to the terms of the agreement, no one will suspect a thing. I’ve accounted for every possible variable. Any leaks or suspicions will only arise from carelessness, yours, specifically.”

The words sent a chill through Y/N, but she refused to look away. Her fingers hovered over her phone as she considered her next move. Every logical part of her told her to walk away, that this was far too risky, far too overwhelming. But the memory of her family’s desperate situation, the crushing weight of her father’s debts, made her stay rooted in place.

She swallowed hard, then typed a final message.

“What happens if I succeed?”

Giselle’s expression softened, just slightly. “If you succeed, your debts are gone. You’ll have enough money to start over, far away from whatever struggles brought you here. And,” she added, her tone shifting to something almost imperceptibly lighter, “you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you helped secure one of the most important deals in this company’s history.”

Y/N read and reread the words on her screen, her chest tightening. The stakes were high, terrifyingly so, but so was the reward. She could picture her family, free from the weight of her father’s mistakes, finally able to move forward.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N stared down at the open folder before her. The dense, unyielding text seemed to blur as the enormity of what she was about to do settled over her. Her hand hovered over the pen resting neatly beside the folder, trembling with hesitation.

Her thoughts raced. Signing this contract would bind her to a life she couldn’t fully comprehend, a world she wasn’t prepared for. But walking away wasn’t an option, not with her family depending on her.

Y/N picked up her phone and typed a message, her fingers moving slower than usual as doubt gnawed at her resolve. She turned the screen toward Giselle, who watched her with patient intensity.

“What if I change my mind later?”

Giselle’s sharp eyes flicked to the screen. For a moment, her expression softened, not with kindness, but with something close to understanding. “Then I suggest you don’t sign,” she said, her voice calm but resolute. “Once you commit, there’s no room for second guessing.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the answer hitting her like a stone. Giselle’s unyielding certainty was both intimidating and strangely reassuring. This was a woman who never faltered, who didn’t allow for failure.

Her hand tightened around the pen. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling as she steadied herself. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the pen to the page and began to sign her name.

Each stroke of ink felt heavier than the last, like an invisible weight pressing against her hand. Her name, once complete, seemed foreign and final. This was it, the moment that changed everything.

When she finished, Y/N set the pen down carefully, the faint click of metal against wood echoing louder than it should have. She slid the folder back across the desk, taking one copy of the contract for herself and tucking it neatly into her bag, her eyes darting up to meet Giselle’s.

Giselle picked it up without a word, her fingers flipping through the pages with practiced efficiency. Her sharp gaze scanned the document, ensuring every detail was in place. Finally, she closed the folder and set it aside.

“Welcome to your new life, Miss Y/N,” Giselle said, extending her hand.

Y/N hesitated, staring at the outstretched hand. She’d expected this moment to feel more... transactional, but now that it was here, the reality of what she’d agreed to seemed overwhelming. Slowly, she reached out, her hand meeting Giselle’s.

Giselle’s grip was firm, her palm cool and steady. There was no warmth, no reassurance, just the unspoken promise of professionalism.

Releasing her hand, Giselle leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. As Y/N stood, clutching her phone tightly, Giselle’s voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

“Remember,” she said, her tone low but resolute, “this is business. Nothing more.”

Y/N froze for a heartbeat, then nodded.

The glass doors closed behind her with a soft click, sealing her into a world she wasn’t sure she could navigate. The quiet hum of the floor seemed louder now, the weight of her decision pressing down on her chest.

As she stepped into the elevator, her reflection stared back at her in the polished steel walls, unsure, but resolute.

This was her choice. There was no turning back now.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and after the short walk Y/N stepped out into the bustling street. The late afternoon sunlight stretched across the buildings, painting the city in hues of amber and gold. Pedestrians moved around her in a blur, business people rushing to catch cabs, couples strolling hand in hand, and tourists snapping pictures of the skyline.

But Y/N barely noticed any of it. Her thoughts weighed her down, each step feeling heavier than the last as she weaved through the crowd.

The weight of the signed contract in her bag felt almost tangible, like an anchor tethered to her future. Her grip tightened around the leather strap of her bag, so firm that her knuckles turned white. She had done it. She had agreed to step into a world she barely understood, tethering herself to a woman who felt as untouchable as the city’s towering skyscrapers.

Giselle’s words echoed in her mind, cool and precise, as if they had been carved into stone.

"Welcome to your new life."

Her new life. Was it really hers?

She felt a pang of uncertainty, the same pang that had risen in her chest as she’d signed her name on the dotted line. It hadn’t felt like liberation, it had felt like a pact with something she couldn’t quite define.

Y/N slowed her pace as she passed the entrance to a quiet park, the bustling noise of the city receding like a distant hum. The shade of a row of oak trees stretched across the grass, offering a temporary reprieve from the chaos of the world outside.

Her feet carried her to an empty bench near a fountain, its soft trickling water providing a soothing contrast to the relentless rhythm of her thoughts. She sank down slowly, her shoulders sagging under the invisible weight she carried. The smell of freshly cut grass filled the air, but it did nothing to lift the heaviness settling in her chest.

Y/N pulled her phone from her bag and stared at the blank screen. Her fingers hovered over the device, poised to type something into the notes app, but no words came. She didn’t know what to say, to herself, to the universe, to anyone.

The screen dimmed, and Y/N let the phone drop into her lap with a soft thud. She leaned back against the bench, her head tilting toward the sky. The golden light filtered through the leaves above, dappling her face with shadows and warmth, but it couldn’t reach the chill that gripped her heart.

Her breathing slowed, and with the stillness came the memories, unbidden and relentless, rising to the surface like ghosts she could no longer keep buried.

She was ten years old the last time she heard her father’s voice. It was a warm evening, much like this one, when she’d sat cross legged on the thick carpet of his study, her fingers trailing absently over the edges of a well worn storybook. The smell of his cologne, cedarwood and something faintly spicy, lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of the leather bound books that lined the shelves.

His desk, usually an organized chaos of papers and trinkets, was unusually cluttered that night. Contracts, ledgers, and letters spilled across the dark oak surface, the symbols of a crumbling empire he had worked so tirelessly to build.

Her father had always been her hero. His laughter had a way of filling every corner of the house, and his warmth made even the darkest days feel like they carried a glimmer of hope. But that night, something was different.

His usual smile was absent, replaced by a furrowed brow and a tightness in his jaw that Y/N didn’t fully understand but instinctively feared. His movements were hurried, his hands shaking slightly as he shuffled through the papers in front of him.

“Papa?” she had asked softly, her voice breaking the heavy silence.

He stilled for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath before he turned to her. His eyes, so often kind and full of life were clouded with something she couldn’t name. He crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt in front of her, his large hands gently gripping her small shoulders.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “I need you to listen carefully, okay?”

The seriousness in his tone made her heart race. She nodded, her gaze locked on his face.

“No matter what happens, no matter what you see, you have to stay quiet. Do you understand? Don’t make a sound.”

His words wrapped around her like a cage, cold and unyielding. She opened her mouth to ask why, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was no time for questions, no room for explanations. He pulled her to her feet and led her to the far wall of the study, where a towering bookshelf stood filled with thick tomes and small mementos.

Before she could ask what he was doing, he pressed his hand against the side of the shelf, triggering a soft click. The bookshelf shifted slightly, revealing a narrow doorway. Beyond it was a small, dark room she had never known existed.

Her father knelt again, placing both hands on her shoulders this time. “Stay here, sweetheart,” he whispered. His voice wavered, just for a moment, before he steadied it. “Don’t come out until I tell you. And remember, no sound.”

The fear in his eyes mirrored the growing terror in her chest. She wanted to cling to him, to beg him to stay with her, but he gently pushed her into the hidden space before she could.

“Be brave, Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Then he closed the door, sealing her in darkness.

Y/N pressed her hands against the cool walls of the hidden room, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it would give her away. Through a thin crack in the door, she could see her father return to his desk, his movements quick and tense. He sat down, his back straight as if bracing himself for something.

Minutes later, the front door burst open with a thunderous crash.

Y/N flinched, her hands flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Harsh voices filled the air, angry and unfamiliar. Men in dark suits stormed into the study, their faces obscured by the dim light.

She watched as her father rose to meet them, his posture firm despite the chaos that followed. The men surrounded him, their movements calculated and menacing.

“You know why we’re here,” one of them said, his voice cold and cutting.

Her father’s voice was calm but resolute, though Y/N couldn’t make out every word. She caught fragments “not fair,” “family,” “too far” but the argument was heated, the tension in the room palpable.

One of the men slammed his hand against the desk, making Y/N jump. Her father stood his ground, his expression unreadable.

The man’s voice rose, sharp and angry. “You should have kept your mouth shut.”

There was a flash of movement, something metallic glinting in the dim light.

Then came the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat as her father’s body crumpled to the floor. Time seemed to stop. The dark pool spreading beneath him was all she could see, staining the polished wood of the study.

Her heart felt like it would burst as she clamped her hands over her mouth, her small frame trembling violently. Tears streamed down her face, hot and endless, but she didn’t dare make a sound. Her father’s warning echoed in her mind like a mantra. Don’t make a sound. Don’t make a sound.

The men stood over his lifeless body for a moment before one of them spat something cruel under his breath. Then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone, their heavy footsteps retreating into silence.

When the house finally fell quiet, Y/N stayed frozen in the hidden room, too terrified to move. It felt like hours before she found the courage to push the door open.

The study was eerily still, the papers on her father’s desk fluttering softly in the breeze from an open window. She stumbled toward his body, her legs shaking so badly she nearly fell.

“Papa?” she whispered, her voice cracking. Her small hands reached out to him, shaking as they pressed against his arm. “Papa, wake up.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. The warmth she had always associated with him was gone, replaced by a cold, lifeless shell.

The weight of her grief was unbearable, suffocating her as she knelt beside him, sobbing silently. At that moment, something inside her broke.

From that day on, Y/N never spoke again.

The official story was that her father had taken his own life after his company went bankrupt. The newspapers were ruthless, painting him as a failure who had crumbled under the weight of his mistakes. The debts, they said, had been too much for him to bear.

The truth, however, was far darker. Y/N had tried to tell someone, anyone. In the days that followed the horrific night in the study, she had opened her mouth countless times, desperate to describe the men who had invaded their home, to explain how they had taken her father’s life.

But every time, the words got stuck.

Her throat would tighten painfully, and the memory of her father’s lifeless body would crash over her like a wave, pulling her under. The gunshot, the men’s cold voices, the dark pool of blood, it all came back too vividly, paralyzing her. No matter how much she wanted to scream the truth, her voice refused to cooperate.

At first, her mother didn’t seem to notice. She was too consumed by her own grief and the weight of what had been left behind. Lawyers had come and gone, each one bearing bad news. The company her father had built was gone, swallowed up by his debts, leaving nothing but bills they couldn’t pay and creditors demanding what was owed.

Y/N had tried to help, using the scraps of courage she had left to write down the truth in shaky handwriting. But when she’d handed the paper to her mother, her hands trembling, her mother had barely glanced at it.

“Not now, Y/N,” her mother had said softly, her voice heavy with exhaustion. She’d set the note aside and never brought it up again.

Y/N had crumpled the paper in her hands, the rejection stinging more than she expected.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N stopped trying to speak altogether. What was the point? Every attempt ended the same way, with her throat closing up, her heart pounding, and tears burning her eyes. The trauma sat in her chest like a stone, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

At school, teachers and classmates would ask her questions, their faces twisting with confusion when she wouldn’t respond.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” “Why won’t you talk?”

The questions only made it worse. She wanted to answer, wanted to explain, but her voice was gone. Instead, she would shake her head and look away, her cheeks burning with shame.

Her teachers contacted her mother, concerned about her silence. But her mother, overwhelmed with grief and the mounting debt, had little energy to address the issue. “She’s going through a lot right now,” her mother had said. “She’ll speak when she’s ready.”

But Y/N wasn’t sure she ever would.

Their once beautiful home, with its sprawling garden and cozy rooms, was sold within months of her father’s death. The furniture went next, piece by piece, until their lives were stripped down to the bare essentials.

They moved into a cramped apartment in a part of town Y/N had never visited before. The walls were thin, the pipes rattled when the water ran, and the single window in the living room overlooked an alleyway filled with dumpsters. It was a far cry from the life they’d known, but her mother said it was all they could afford.

Y/N had watched as the stress wore her mother down, the vibrant woman reduced to a shadow of herself. Lines of worry etched themselves into her face, and her shoulders seemed permanently hunched from the weight she carried.

Y/N hated seeing her mother like that. Hated the hopelessness that seemed to hang over their tiny apartment like a storm cloud.

It was then, at the age of ten, that Y/N made a promise to herself. She would do whatever it took to help her family.

For months, Y/N relied on gestures and written notes to communicate. She would scribble messages on scraps of paper or point to things when she needed something. It was clumsy and frustrating, and more often than not, people misunderstood her.

One day, during a particularly frustrating moment at school, her teacher handed her a flyer.

“Have you thought about learning sign language?” the teacher had asked gently, her voice free of judgment.

Y/N had stared at the flyer for a long moment before taking it. She wasn’t sure if it would work, but it was worth a try.

The next weekend, her mother took her to her first sign language class at a community center downtown. Y/N felt out of place at first, surrounded by people of all ages, each with their own reasons for learning. But as the instructor demonstrated simple signs and encouraged them to practice, something shifted.

First time in months, Y/N felt like she had a voice again.

She practiced obsessively, her fingers fumbling at first but growing more confident with time. She learned to sign her name, simple phrases, and eventually, full sentences. The fluid motions of her hands became second nature, and with every new sign she mastered, she felt a little piece of herself returning.

Sign language became her lifeline, a way to express herself without the fear that had stolen her voice. It wasn’t perfect, many people didn’t understand it, and she still relied on her phone or written notes in those cases, but it was hers.

As she grew older, Y/N poured herself into her studies. She took on part time jobs after school, working long hours at diners, grocery stores, and anywhere else that would hire her. Every penny she earned went toward the family’s expenses or into a savings jar she kept hidden under her bed.

But no matter how hard she worked, the debt loomed over them, a constant reminder of her father’s death and the men who had taken everything from them.

Y/N refused to let it break her. She had resolved, then and there, that she would claw her way out of the darkness, no matter what it took. For her mother, for her siblings, and for herself.

She just needed an opportunity.

Y/N stared down at her phone, the sleek black screen reflecting her tired eyes and the faint streaks of sunlight filtering through the trees. Her thumb brushed against the edge of the device, but she didn’t unlock it yet. For a moment, the world around her blurred, the muted chatter of children playing in the park, the distant hum of traffic, the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze. None of it registered.

Her thoughts were louder than any of it.

She had signed the contract.

The realization settled over her. She had sealed her fate, tethering herself to a woman whose world was as cold as the steel skyscrapers that loomed over the city. She had done it not for herself, but for them, for her family.

Her mother’s face floated to the forefront of her mind, etched with exhaustion from years of carrying a burden she was never meant to bear alone. Y/N remembered the way her mother used to smile, bright and unrestrained, a beacon of warmth in their home. But over the years, that smile had become rare, a faint shadow of what it once was. Y/N wanted to bring it back.

Then there were her younger siblings, still so full of life, so full of hope. She thought of her sister sketching dresses at the kitchen table with crayons, dreaming of becoming a designer. She thought of her brother, meticulously building castles out of old shoeboxes, telling anyone who would listen that one day he’d be an architect.

They deserved to dream.

Sliding her thumb across the screen, Y/N opened her notes app and stared at the blank space. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for a fraction of a second before she began to type.

“I’ll make this work.”

She stared at the sentence, her lips pressing into a thin line. The words weren’t just a promise, they were a lifeline, a tether to something stronger than her fear or doubt. They were a reminder of why she couldn’t fail.

Y/N’s chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate breath. Her fingers brushed across the screen again, and for a fleeting moment, she thought about typing something more. Something about the uncertainty she felt, or the weight of the decision she had made.

But no. This was enough.

Sliding the phone back into her bag, Y/N stood. Her legs felt unsteady at first, like a newborn fawn’s, but she squared her shoulders and steadied herself. She couldn’t afford to falter now.

She cast one last glance at the park around her. A couple laughed as they walked hand in hand, their carefree joy like a far off memory. A boy chased after a kite, his delighted shouts rising above the rustle of the breeze. For a moment, she let herself imagine a life where she didn’t have to bear the weight of the world on her shoulders.

But that wasn’t her reality.

Giselle’s world was cold and unyielding, a place where people were assets and trust was a rare commodity. Y/N knew that stepping into that world meant losing pieces of herself, her warmth, her softness, maybe even her hope.

But it was also her chance to escape the shadow of her past.

For her family, she would endure anything.

With that thought anchoring her, she turned on her heel and walked away, the echoes of her determination carrying her forward.

[chuunai]

husband chuuya ! who loves to flaunt you off. he’s never truly had anything—or anyone—to himself, and he wants the whole world to know. you’re entirely out of his league, and resemble the epitome of perfection. his aphrodite, someone that men look at and wish they were graced with for even a mere moment. he may harbor a god inside his body, but he is nothing compared to you.

husband chuuya ! who showers you in gifts. the prettiest dresses, heels and jewelry available in Yokohama is all bestowed upon you. as an executive of the mafia, his wallet is gorged with cash and expensive cards that only the upper echelon of wealth have access to. and he’s more than willing to spend every last cent on you and red wine.

husband chuuya ! who always sleeps on the side of the bed that’s closer to the door. if an assassin from a rival group were ever to break in, he wants to make sure he’s the first one they’ll encounter. in his unreal and terrifying world of death, blood and criminals, you’re the only innocent factor. as his wife, so many hits are placed on you in order to get at him. he’d never let that happen though. without you, he’d turn back into the monster the world knew he was.

husband chuuya ! who yearns for a family. he knows he has his own biological one, albeit they aren’t aware he’s alive, yet his heart aches for one he could start with you. the thought of being a dad infects his mind and dreams, had swallowed his future and left only one option. when that becomes reality, he knows his life will be complete.

husband chuuya ! who thanks this godforsaken universe for at least granting him one good thing amongst all the bad things. in a world of so much loss and suffering, he has you to hope about and live for. he’s not much of a sentimental man, however every night before he succumbs to the embrace of slumber, he can’t help kissing your wedding ring as a silent promise to be there forever.

Tags: @little-miss-chaoss, @starrs20, @sinfulthoughtsposts, @twst-om-lover.

also guys PLEASE send in more short headcannons or requests I’ve got nearly 550 followers but like 15 things in my inbox TvT

[hughesmybaby]

His Chosen Bride (Senator!Coriolanus Snow x Capitol Reader).

Chapter 1

masterlist

series masterlist

excerpt

summary: senator coriolanus snow seems on top of the world with everything in his life ahead of him except for one thing. the perfect bride. in his pursuit, your life changes forever.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: thank you everyone for your patience as I prepared this!! i hope you all love it and show your support through likes, reblogs and especially comments of what you thought! i love hearing what my readers and other people in the fandom think about my work, so any of your thoughts would be appreciated.

requests OPEN

Upon his return to the Capitol, his reputation restored, wealth acquired from the Plinths who so generously named him the heir to their grand fortune, his path to power was paved for him and he knew he just had to take the strides to get to the prize. The Presidency.

Coriolanus Snow, scion of one of the oldest and most elite of bloodlines of the great Panem families was home, his shameful exile to District 12 remembered by no one and purged from the registry.

Enrolled in university and an apprentice gamemaker, he was eventually promoted to become Senior Gamemaker upon Dr. Gaul’s semi-retirement and her preparation to hand off the reins to her protégé. Her brain child whom she molded from the vestiges of his sorrow and pain, of his loss in the districts and what hardened him into the man he was now.

When he graduated with honours from the political science department, it was only a few months before he was elected in a landslide to become the youngest Senator in Panem’s history, relying on his contributions to the recent games, memories of his late parents to those of a certain age to secure his win.

He would have considered re-election for another term before advisors of his and other cabinet members of the old, sickly President Ravinstill were close to swearing their support but all echoed the same thing that he lacked, they said. It was not his youth, he was wise for his age they said, but he was not married. If he had a wife, they said - they would be on board for his presidential election. And it seemed that election would be sooner than later, even before his first term finished.

Coriolanus needed to find a wife, not just of good breeding, but of the most impeccable lineage, from among the most illustrious hundred or so families of Capitol society. It was a given it would be purely political and strategic, someone whom he could not love and open his heart to after his previous tragedy pursuing such.

The perfect bride. The search for the perfect companion, the woman whom he would call his wife, his future first lady, and mother of his heirs. The ideal woman who would bridge the gap between his dreams to make them a reality.

He could not just choose the first possible candidate recommended to him or that caught his eye, Coriolanus had to devise a thorough, multi-step testing process to find his perfect wife, his bride.

A rigorous procedure would be curated in finding her. Interviews, tests, exams, genealogical inquiries, fitness tests, and practice scenarios will be prompted from eligible candidates, already filtering through those only from the old, grand families upon application.

Digging through his family library into the latest edition handbook of noble and elite families of the Capitol’s upper class, the creme de la creme, ignoring recently disgraced clans, ones full of scandal and controversy, with plenty of illegitimate children, and extinct ones rotting in poverty nearly like his own had he not reversed their fortune.

He scheduled a meeting with his advisors and closest allies on creating the program, the selection process, examinations and interrogation, and how to make the announcement for the families of these eligible girls to put their names in, with their consent or not.

Coriolanus Snow was born from the upper echelon of society, and only deserved the best woman with whom he would continue his lineage with and hail his presidency with. No one had dared, rather self-important he could argue if he cared, to make as many girls clamour for his attention rather than to propose to a woman of his choice.

Just as he was about to put the book down and shut it closed, a name caught his attention. Yours. Your lineage, accomplishments, your etiquette were second to none, and he had to have you. At all costs. He would burn heaven and hell, but the question remains - would he win you over? Or will he have to force your hand no matter what?

Besides, he requires others to choose from, even if you are the most qualified. It would not do well for your ego to have the satisfaction you were chosen for. He wants you to want it, to beg for it, claim it and aspire to be one worthy to be by his side, motivated by the competition who would slit your throat and ruin your reputation for it.

And yet a lingering thought crept up his mind. He had brought life back into the Hunger Games, that was on its dying breath before his arrival, why not another? Everything is a game if you try hard enough.

…

A brightly lit room surrounded you as you grabbed a few more pieces of dandelions and baby’s breath bunches for your bouquet, in your floral arrangement lessons for the week. Under the watchful eye of your teacher, a premiere florist who is hired by the Capitol’s elite for the most fashionable and well-sought events every season.

Hailing from one of the oldest families among the Capitol’s blue bloods, your family may not be the wealthiest but definitely prosperous to be among them, yet your lineage is prominent even before Panem’s founding, the most ancient of them all.

In your family home’s perfectly manicured garden, you immerse yourself in the arrangement, something that would impress your teacher yet also something you would find pleasant in a vase by your study. No way would someone of your heritage be found associating with anything subpar.

After your studies at the Academy, your lessons and tutoring would never end, usually something different for each day. Piano, ballet, etiquette, floristry, household management, painting and so on.

As you gathered a crimson bow around the branches of your bouquet, you could hear murmurs among the uniformly dressed maids and servants around the stately home, as your mother jaunted towards you in her glossy designer heels.

“Yes, mother?” You greeted politely, observing the unreadable expression on your mother’s face.

She approached you carefully, gently taking your hands in her own, soft and having never experienced hardship.

“A great honour has been bestowed on you, daughter. A promising Senator has taken a liking to you, and wants you to be considered for his future bride.” Your mother smiles in celebration and pride, and your brows furrow in consternation.

“A Senator as old as father? A man old enough to be my grandfather-”

“Hush, darling. He is young, from a proper family of the elite family unlike those Plinths, new money scum. Senator Coriolanus Snow, the son of late General Crassus Snow and his wife Victoria Snow. He is only twenty four, I think you would like him.” She brushes your hair behind your ears, but you turn away from her, pushing her hands away.

“Twenty four, when I am eighteen?”

Your mother shrugs. “It is the way of the world I suppose. I was your age when I met your father. Eighteen and he was twenty one, a match fit for the sort like us.”

“You mentioned I was being considered but no outright proposal or courting has begun. What do you mean?”

She unveiled a large envelope she was holding behind her back, taking it out for you before a gold hued canvas invitation was unveiled.

Dear Y/N L/N and family, I hope this letter finds you well. As I have progressed through my career as a gamemaker and politician, it has been too long since I have navigated through life without a lifelong companion and wife.

You are a woman of unblemished character, accomplished in many ways, intelligent, well-bred and would fit the bill of what a man like me seeks in a future partner.

There is no guarantee that you must receive this invitation and accept, but rather that your name will be included in a pool of candidates to be considered. I hope that you and your family would view this as a position of honour, and even if you shall not be chosen, you will be compensated for your time and this shall only raise your standing in our society.

Please reply to the number and address attached below with your response, and I would be beholden and pleased to hear if you would put your name forward to possibly become my future First Lady.

Sincerely, Senator Coriolanus Snow

You could not believe it, the humiliation of not being asked directly for one’s hand in marriage but having to compete with other ladies of society and grovel for his attention.

“Are you and papa seriously making me do this? The Hunger Games to be someone’s wife and heir maker?!”

Your mother sighs, shaking her head as she crosses her arms. “You do not understand, child. I have heard of other elite families whose daughters, sisters, nieces such as the Heavensbees, the Cardews, Dovecotes, among a few have been invited and all have accepted. No one would even think to refuse a Snow!”

“But it is not guaranteed. How would I not be offended if he did not make a guaranteed offer but wants me to participate like I am in a beauty pageant. I have to close off even entertaining other suitors and I am not even assured that I will not be left dry and humiliated if I was not chosen.”

“Your grandmother was Miss Panem many years ago before the war and those rebels ruined everything, I am sure he will choose you. Even if he did not, any other unmarried peer of yours would scoop you up in no time, that if Snow perceived you as someone potential, they are from the cream of the crop.”

You sighed, putting down your shearing tools and your bunches of daisies and baby’s breath. You never liked roses.

“You have always aimed for the stars, daughter. Would you pass on an opportunity like this or be forgotten to the tombs of time?” Your mother suggests, walking over to you with a guiding hand on your shoulder. “Choose wisely if you want to make something of yourself, to not pass on opportunities like this.

Golden letter in hand, you stared intensely at the dark line above your name, signifying whether you would submit your name or not. With a bold stroke of your ink pen, you sign your fate and future away. I agree to participate.

Let the games begin.

His Chosen Bride Taglist:

(if your name is bolded, I put in your user but it didn't show up when prompted so I'm not sure if you got notified!) Please let me know if you'd like to be added and reminded every time I update.

@xsunaxrinx @bialuvss @emma0320 @callieyanderechan @crimsonred13 @starcrosslove @castellandiangelo @sylmthadmnglla13 @tragicmiserybone @o12lk22gr @anna-stasia @paumartinezsstuff @coriosbunni @nora4us @jupiterstearx @corvinaweeb @batman1asf @imperfectophelia @madmaxsalltoowell @vicky2408 @folklorelogy @bradpittwh0re @linaa20 @abcde601375 @kickmybark @emynunez21 @princessofthereach @maeve-a24 @ellie-bellie-29 @ashfromurfire @dante-pearl @yuuuumii @kxksksjjd @everythingjp @frill0 @aslalali @addriaenne @joyfulyouthlover @rbrsvb @motomami111 @imamybubbles @x-gabrielle-x @crystalstars88 @cc13723things @izzy02soph @shycandykitty @thtweirdointhecornr1917 @drpeperrlover11 @starmaiden @itz-me-cherie @papi-chulo69000 @meetmeatyourworst @sombodynotimportant @hyunjinspdf @bellaramseysgirlfriend @mari-mari12 @kis9na @lvrdilfs @mizuki80mizuki80 @deago21 @hafisjfjsit @miniatureblazellama @livid-euphoria @sugaxmamii @kropka4321 @jamesyrobin @joana2934 @kotadislikesthissite @byisy @shinae28 @atlasedelgard @eimearj123 @urfavewh0r3 @sophs-sofa @dreammie-marrie @cos-ilsee @nikolaikirche0 @bigwmc66 @mandoskenobi @theswreties @soniusstuff @1lovesnowballs @bitvhese @craftycloudcollection @byraaaaan19 @mythic-moon-moth @reading-in-velaris @bestboymikey @marytargaryen @cleverpeachheropersona @adeline32sblog @snowdrops-png @lysonal @tiffdx @bingxuu @noothemoo

[victusinveritas]

From Joe Haldeman, author of The Forever War:

"I’m putting a flag out front for No Kings Day.

If I can find an Army Corps of Engineers flag at the VA store, maybe I’ll put that out, too. That was my outfit. I didn’t “join” it any more than I “joined” COVID; I was just infected by it.

The process went like this:

1. I turned 24 and was drafted.

(1.5 I tried to be a conscientious objector, but that required a letter from from my minister, priest, or rabbi – and atheists don’t have those authorities.)

2. Brilliantly, I asked the Army what I could do. They said “volunteer for the draft.” That was still two years’ service, and you’ll probably get a low-echelon science job, cleaning test tubes or something.

(2.5 They threw away all that paperwork and just sent me to Vietnam.)

3. In Vietnam, they gave me a rifle.

4. I told the sergeant that I couldn’t kill anybody.

5. Oddly enough, the sergeant said “A lot of people say that. But you have to carry the rifle anyhow. You can decide whether to shoot it or not.”

6. I was issued an M16 that had THIS MACHINE DOESN’T WORK! Scratched into the stock. It indeed didn’t work.

7. Then I was issued an M14 rifle, but never fired it. As a combat engineer, that really wasn’t in my job description. I just blew shit up and tried not to stop a bullet.

8. About four months in, I did stop a bullet, and more: seriously injured by a booby trap.

8.5 My paperwork in Pleiku got screwed up, and instead of going to relatively safe hospitals in Japan and stateside, I stayed in South Vietnam.

9. I wound up in a relatively safe spot in the 6th Convalescent Center in Cam Ranh Bay, a large well-defended base, where I finished out my year (weirdly!) working as a volunteer for the Red Cross. I didn’t even have a gun, though I’d be issued one if the enemy broke through. We had to run for cover during frequent rocket and mortar attacks, but injuries were minor, and fatalities rare.

10. I personally suffered nothing but a few decades of anxiety attacks.

I guess that’s my unexciting biography as a “citizen soldier,” or semi-voluntary prisoner of wartime. Any objective observer would have to point out that although my injuries were fairly serious, I’ve wound up only slightly handicapped, and in about a year, I did get material for a lifetime of books and stories.

I may have wound up a science-fiction writer anyhow. If I hadn’t been drafted, I was slated to take a job with the Naval Observatory, doing bachelor-level astrometrics down in South America. (My main qualification for that, other than a weak B.S. in astronomy, was that my wife spoke Spanish.)

Anyhow, it’s No Kings Day, and I have the right to wear a little Purple Heart medal in my lapel. Lost it years ago, though.

Instead, I shall try not to vote for people who would send other people’s children into the furnace. "

[fluffydeoxys]

Getting you started on Deimos and Rory, please talk about them I'm so curious

-💻🌌

Aw, you're always very nice and thoughtful to reach out like this HEHE, thank you!!! It always means a lot :)

So Rory and Deimos came from the same AAHW facility - real cream of the crop type, the upper echelon of training and quality in clones and sleepwalker programs and the like. One of the Auditor's real pride and joys, and a lot of good quality Soldats and Engineers came out of this particular compound. This made Rory a real outlier when it came to being "printed" wrong, but he was good enough of an Agent to not be slaughtered and remade. But he stood out, and not in a good way.

He never got on with his superiors. He hated the AAHW training and none of this die for the Auditor's cause chase down Hank Wimbleton stuff made any sense to him. He wanted something different, and he only doubled down on the notion when Rory began to discover and explore his heart's desire and little expressions of himself. The main thing that saved him was art. His fellow Agents looked down on him, Soldats and Engineers hated dealing with him, and no matter how hard or persistently they corrected his behaviour, he only seemed to get worse.

Deimos instead conformed to the AAHW's standards, not because he desired to, but because he's just a bit smarter than Rory. Better at masking himself and laying low. But he found himself drawn to the infamously wayward person he had been hearing of, and Deimos sought Rory out one day. They became very fast friends, which is a pretty big deal for both of them.

Rory was really quite nasty back in the day, and no one liked him and he didn't like anyone else. Real nervous violent little animal type. Deimos was more casual and never really had anyone hanging around for long, trying to coast by not thinking too deeply or feeling too much about things, cus Dei was already getting the sense that something is wrong. (A certain Doc in his AAHW era only reaffirmed this). So they really clicked - two misfits against the world who needed a little distraction from everything. But they both catch feelings and dive in a little too deeply with one another.

But the thing is, Rory was spiralling deeper into a hole of negative emotion from his perpetual ongoing abuse from various sources. And Deimos didn't know how to handle that, and when push came to shove... well, Deimos let Rory down. Rory died and... Deimos had to move on.

But when Rory and Deimos reunite years later... and after the events of Dedmos, yet again they have so much common ground to relate with. A loss of oneself, a death and revival, something given and something taken, something forever gone. Their faces are no longer recognisable, their fundamentals altered, but they know each other.

Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known

and now these two remain.

[xomakara]

When I Fall [Part 1]

SUMMARY | You're trapped in a loveless and childless marriage to Taeho, a divorced older man that is a friend of your father's. After fifteen years of marriage and no children of your own, Taeho starts to see other women since you're past your prime and can't give him heirs. One night, tired of your husband and his emotional abuse, you go out with some friends, get shit-faced drunk, and meet Jongho, a man fifteen years younger than you, that will change your life forever. PAIRINGS |  Jongho x Reader RATING |  Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+, Any Minors and Ageless Blogs will be blocked GENRE |  smut, angst, drama  CONTENT/WARNINGS | age-gap, step-cest, cheating, mentions of control and emotional abuse, mentions of drinking, profanity/strong language, kissing, unprotected sex (wrap it up ya’ll!), dirty talk, fingering, oral sex, vaginal penetration, fingering, creampie, multiple orgasms, pregnancy, scandals LENGTH |  11,110 words TAGLIST |  @desirehorizon @sweetinsaniiity NETWORKS |  @illusionnet @cromernet @k-vanity @othersideoutlawsnetwork @ksmutsociety @dove-net AUTHOR’S NOTE |  This was originally supposed to be a oneshot but thanks @kwanisms for beta-reading  and suggesting to make it a two shot instead. The ending was originally too rushed so having it be a 2-parter will let me be able to flesh the plot for the second half to be just as dramatic and scandalous as this part so I hope you come to read it! Also thank you @kpop---scenarios for beta-reading the original fic and also giving me some suggestions to add as well! Thank you @lovetaroandtaemin for the lovely banner! I really appreciate all you folks for helping me with the visual aspect and adding ideas~

Part 2 | Finale (coming soon)

ATEEZ Main Masterlist

The wine glass you held shook in your hand, your drink almost spilling into your lap. You couldn't count how many glasses you’d had tonight. Three? Maybe four? You let out a sigh. It didn't matter anyway. You just wanted to feel nothing. You didn't want to feel Taeho's disdain or the emptiness of a childless, laughterless house.

“Y/N, you okay?” Soojin asked, concerned.

You forced a smile and raised your glass. “Just having fun.” The lie tasted bitter, but you washed it down with more wine.

“You need this,” Jiwoo added. “You’ve been cooped up for ages.”

Ages. Fifteen long years.

Fifteen years of biting your tongue, of forced smiles, and enduring Taeho's cold indifference had chipped away at pieces of yourself you didn't know you could lose. It wasn't always like this at the beginning. Years ago, your family arranged a union between you and Taeho so he could enter the upper echelon of Seoul society. Taeho and his company helped fund your father's political campaign as the mayor. In turn, your father provided Taeho access into a more prestigious social circle. Taeho divorced his wife of nine years at the time, claiming that they fell out of love. But you knew he divorced her since she didn't come from a prominent family such as yours.

You never saw his ex-wife around much after the divorce. You knew he had a son but you only met him once when he was about nine or ten, months after your marriage to Taeho was official. You never saw him again since Taeho sent him abroad for boarding school.

When no children had appeared after five years of trying, Taeho blamed it on you. You tried, oh, you had tried for years. Doctors didn't know why it didn't work and neither did you. You took pills, ate a vegetarian diet, and all sorts of treatments, but Taeho berated you that nothing worked and blamed you for being "barren". He didn't want to divorce you, no you were far too valuable socially, and still could provide him with the perfect home. So while you remained, trapped, he'd fuck other women. You stopped caring, even though the emptiness threatened to consume you whole.

You were exhausted. So exhausted.

“Another round,” you called out, the waiter nodded and disappeared into the crowded bar. The dim lights, the scent of alcohol and perfume, and the sight of bodies pressed together on the dance floor filled you with envy. You longed for their freedom, their carelessness.

Laughter. Yours? Someone else’s? You couldn't care less as you lost yourself in the music, your body moving freely for the first time in years. And then you saw him, taller than you by a few inches, broad-shouldered, with a grin that made your heart skip. He exuded confidence, and his eyes met yours as if he'd been searching for you all night.

“Hey,” he said, his voice smooth and husky. He was close enough that you could smell the faint hint of cologne mingling with his sweat. Jongho, he introduced himself. All you could focus on was the way his gaze lingered, the way it made heat crawl up your neck.

“Careful,” Soojin whispered in your ear with a teasing tone. “He looks like trouble.”

Good, you thought, your fingers curling around Jongho’s as he pulled you closer. Trouble sounded better than the quiet despair waiting for you at home.

The rest of the night was a blur of touch and sound, of hands roaming and lips brushing against each others. You didn’t think about Taeho. Didn’t think about the consequences. There was only this moment, this man who made you feel wanted in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

When you woke the next morning, the sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar curtains. Your head throbbed, the taste of last night’s indulgences sour on your tongue. And then you felt it—the warmth of another body beside you, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Jongho.

You panicked and then everything seem to come back to you. Memories of his hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck, the way he’d whispered promises you knew he couldn’t keep. Memories of kissing him nonstop, bouncing on his thick, hardㅡ

You tried to get out of the bedsheets that you were tangled in but his arm tightened around you, pulling you back against his chest.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. His breath tickled your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“I should go,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The guilt was already settling in, heavy and suffocating. What have you done?

Jongho propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. His expression was soft, almost tender, but there was something in his eyes—something you couldn’t quite place.

“Stay,” he said, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Just a little longer.”

You shook your head, pulling away from his touch. “I can’t.” 

The weight of what you’d done pressed down on you, the guilt sharp and unrelenting. You needed to go home, to face whatever was waiting for you there.

Jongho’s hand lingered in the air for a moment before he let it drop, his expression shifting into something more neutral. 

“Alright,” he said simply, sitting up and running a hand through his tousled hair. He didn’t press, didn’t try to convince you to stay, and for that, you were grateful. "Can I at least get your number?"

You exchanged phone numbers without hesitation, a tiny voice inside whispering that it was wrong. Despite being married, you'd given your number to a stranger, pretending it was simply to stay in touch. But his smile as he thanked you and left his contact information was so handsome...  

Scrambling out of bed, you searched for your scattered clothes. Jongho's silent gaze followed you, heavy with unspoken words. Fully dressed, you hesitated at the door, your hand on the knob. This had been a mistake, a lapse in judgment, and you refused to let it define you.

“Take care of yourself,” Jongho said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, almost kind, but there was a distance in his tone that hadn’t been there last night.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and opened the door. The hallway outside was dimly lit, the early morning light filtering through the windows at the far end. You stepped out, closing the door behind you, and took a deep breath.

The walk home was a blur, your thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. What would Taeho say? Would he even notice you’d been gone? The questions gnawed at you, but there were no answers, only the cold reality of what lay ahead.

As you approached your house, the familiar facade loomed like a silent judge. You paused at the gate, your heart pounding in your chest. This was it. Time to face the consequences of your actions, whatever they might be.

With a shaky breath, you pushed open the gate and walked inside, steeling yourself for whatever awaited you.

The days after that night with Jongho passed in a haze. Your husband, Taeho, was, as usual, distant and dismissive, barely acknowledging your presence except to criticize or complain. The weight of your guilt pressed down on you, but so did something else—something darker, hungrier, more unsettling. You tried to push it away, bury it under the monotony of your daily routine, but it lingered like a shadow at the edges of your mind.

Then, one evening, your phone buzzed. You glanced at it casually, expecting another mundane notification. But what you saw made your breath catch in your throat. It was a photo from that handsome man.

Jongho and a photo of his hard cock.

Your eyes widened, and your heart began to race. The image was unmistakable: thick, veined, and erect, resting against a backdrop of plain white sheets. Below it, a message: “Can’t stop thinking about you. Want to meet again?”

You stared at the screen, your fingers trembling slightly. Part of you wanted to delete the message instantly, to pretend it never happened. But another part of you—a part that had been dormant for so long—stirred awake. The memory of that night flooded back: his hands on your skin, his lips against yours, the way he made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t in years.

Before you could stop yourself, you typed a reply: “Why are you doing this?”

The response came almost immediately: “Because I want you. And I think you want me too.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. He wasn’t wrong. The truth clawed at you, undeniable. You wanted him. Craved him. Even now, just the thought of him sent a flicker of heat through your core.

“This is dangerous,” you replied, your fingers moving almost of their own accord.

“So is staying in a marriage that makes you miserable,” he shot back.

His words hit you like a punch to the gut. He wasn’t saying anything you hadn’t already thought, but hearing it laid bare like that—it was jarring. You felt exposed, vulnerable. And yet, there was a strange relief in it, too. Someone else saw it. Someone else knew.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, your fingers hesitating over the keys.

“You. Just you,” he answered simply. “Meet me tonight. Let me show you how good it can be.”

Your mind raced. This was insane. Reckless. Dangerous. And yet, the idea of seeing him again—of feeling that fire once more—was intoxicating. You glanced toward the living room, where Taeho sat immersed in his work, oblivious to the turmoil roiling inside you.

“Where?” you typed before you could talk yourself out of it.

He sent an address, followed by: “Wear something sexy.”

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. You moved through the motions of dinner and conversation with Taeho, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Later, as you dressed in the dim light of your bedroom, your hands shook as you fastened the clasp of your bra. You chose a simple black dress, one that hugged your curves in all the right places—not too revealing, but enough to make you feel confident. When you added a touch of perfume, your reflection in the mirror looked almost like a stranger.

This is really happening, you thought, your stomach twisting with nerves and anticipation.

You slipped out of the house quietly, leaving Taeho engrossed in his nightly routine. The cool night air brushed against your skin as you walked to the address Jongho had given you. It was a sleek, modern building in a trendy part of town, far removed from the quiet streets you called home.

When you arrived, Jongho was waiting outside, leaning casually against the wall. His eyes lit up when he saw you, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “You came,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“I shouldn’t have,” you replied, though the way your body reacted to him—the way your pulse quickened, your skin tingled—said otherwise.

He stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over you. “But you did,” he murmured, his hand brushing against yours. “And I’m glad.”

You hesitated, torn between guilt and desire. But when his fingers interlaced with yours, pulling you gently toward the door, you didn’t resist. Inside, the apartment was stylish and minimalist, lit by soft, ambient lighting. He led you to the couch, his touch firm but tender.

“You look amazing,” he said, his eyes lingering on you as you sat down. “Better than I remembered.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, but before you could respond, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that stole your breath. It was deep, hungry, electric. Every nerve in your body came alive, and you found yourself kissing him back with equal fervor.

His hands wandered, exploring your body with a confidence that left you weak. He pulled away just long enough to murmur, “Let me see you,” before slowly unzipping your dress. The fabric slid off your shoulders, pooling at your waist. His eyes darkened as they roamed over your exposed skin, and his fingers traced the curve of your collarbone.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice raw with desire.

"Wait..." you pushed away from him slightly. "How old are you exactly?"

"Twenty-four. Why do you ask?" Jongho answered in a rasp, eyes wandering. "Does that... bother you? That I'm much younger?"

You pursed your lips. You hadn't expected him to be that young. It should've bothered you—after all, Taeho was twenty years older than you were—but there was something alluring about the youthful vigor Jongho possessed.

"It doesn't bother you that I'm fifteen years older than you? You don't want to be with someone more... your age?" you asked cautiously.

"I don't care about our age differences," Jongho shrugged, lifting his index finger and running it down the edge of your jaw.

"It's different though—"

"How? You told me that you're married to someone twenty years older than yourself and he sees other women besides. Tell me how is that any different," he cuts you off with a frown.

He's right. Your husband had affairs left and right while you were home alone, stuck raising yourself. And each time you tried to end things, Taeho would guilt-trip you and say how your father would be disappointed since his political and social ties benefited both yours and Taeho's families. And after so many years, married to your father's friend, you were resigned to living with your unfaithful spouse and being a trophy wife for his events and parties.

Tears fill your eyes at the realization and you suddenly want to feel something other than loneliness.

Jongho tilts his head and reaches out to run his fingertips along the creases of your jaw. He has a curious expression. "What if I can help you forget him for a few hours...?" Jongho husked. "Help take your mind off your troubles."

"Just for a few hours?" you echo, your gaze darkening as the question dances on the edge of your lips. "What if I wanted more...?"

"All you have to do is say the word," he promises.

His smile grows, and the way its slow curve travels across his face sends shivers down your spine. He trails a hand from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer. You feel the warmth radiating from his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, and it makes you dizzy.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours “Tell me what you want.”

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of your decisions pressing down on you. But then, the memory of Taeho’s cold indifference floods your mind, and something inside you snaps. The guilt, the shame, the years of loneliness—they all dissolve under Jongho’s gaze.

“I want more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with desire.

Jongho doesn’t need any further encouragement. In one swift motion, he lifts you off the ground, his arms strong and sure around you. You let out a startled laugh, but it quickly turns into a gasp as he carries you towards his bedroom. The world blurs around you, and all you can focus on is the way his muscles flex beneath his thin shirt and the warmth of his breath against your neck.

He kicks the door open with his foot and sets you down gently on the edge of his bed. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the walls. You glance around nervously, your heart pounding in your chest. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of intimacy, and the vulnerability is almost overwhelming.

But Jongho doesn’t give you time to dwell on your fears. He kneels before you, his hands sliding up your thighs and sending a jolt of electricity through your body. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, and you can see the hunger burning within them.

“Relax,” he says softly, his voice like velvet. “Let me take care of you.”

His hands move higher, pushing your dress up around your hips. You bite your lip, feeling exposed and yet incredibly alive. His touch is deliberate, every movement calculated to drive you wild. When his fingers finally brush against the lace of your panties, you can’t help but moan.

“So sensitive,” he teases, his breath hot against your skin. “I wonder how much more I can make you squirm.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh. The sensation is electric, and you involuntarily arch your back, craving more. He chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through your body as he continues to trail kisses along your legs.

When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Is this where you want me?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

You nod frantically, unable to form coherent words. The anticipation is driving you mad, and you can feel the heat pooling between your legs. Satisfied with your response, Jongho hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly pulls them down, tossing them aside without a second thought.

The cool air hits your core, making you shiver, but his mouth quickly replaces it, warm and insistent against your most sensitive area. You cry out, your hands gripping the sheets for dear life as his tongue flicks against your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

“Oh god,” you moan, your hips bucking against him. “Don’t stop…”

He doesn’t. Instead, he takes you deeper, his tongue exploring every inch of you with expert precision. You’re lost in the sensations, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. Your breaths come in short, ragged gasps, and you can feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter and tighter until it’s unbearable.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore, Jongho pulls away, leaving you whimpering in frustration. He stands up, towering over you, and begins to unbutton his shirt. His movements are slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. When the shirt falls to the floor, revealing his toned chest, you can’t help but reach out to trace the lines of his muscles with your fingertips.

He catches your hand, intertwining your fingers with his as he leans down to kiss you deeply. The taste of yourself on his lips is intoxicating, and you eagerly deepen the kiss, your tongues dancing together in a heated embrace.

When he breaks the kiss, you’re both panting, desperate for more. Jongho smirks, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “Lie back,” he commands, his voice firm but gentle.

You comply immediately, lying back against the pillows as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He takes a moment to admire the sight of you, spread out before him, completely vulnerable and utterly irresistible.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands running up your sides, tracing the curves of your body. “I could spend hours worshipping you.”

You blush at the compliment, feeling a surge of confidence despite your nervousness. Jongho notices your reaction and smiles, leaning down to capture your lips once more. This kiss is softer, more tender, and it makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

As the kiss deepens, his hands continue their exploration, mapping out every inch of your body with a reverence that leaves you breathless. His fingers glide over your breasts, teasing your nipples until they harden under his touch. You gasp into the kiss, your hips instinctively grinding against his.

“Please,” you beg, breaking the kiss to look him in the eye. “I need you… now.”

Jongho groans, his self-control slipping as he positions himself at your entrance. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice strained.

You nod, your nails digging into his shoulders as you pull him closer. “Yes. Please, Jongho… don’t make me wait any longer.”

With a final, lingering kiss, he pushes inside you, filling you completely. You cry out, your body instinctively wrapping around him, pulling him deeper. He starts to move, slow and steady at first, allowing you to adjust to his size. But soon, the pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder and more urgent. Each one drives you closer to the edge, your moans growing louder with every passing second.

“You feel incredible,” Jongho growls, his hands gripping your hips as he pounds into you. “So tight… so perfect.”

You can barely think straight, your entire being focused on the sensations coursing through your body. Every nerve feels alight, every movement bringing you closer to the brink. When his fingers find your clit again, rubbing small circles against the sensitive nub, it’s all too much.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure radiate out from your core. Jongho follows close behind, burying his face in your neck as he spills himself inside you, his moans muffled against your skin.

For a moment, everything is still, the only sound in the room is the heavy breathing of two people who have given themselves completely to each other. Then, slowly, Jongho pulls out, collapsing beside you on the bed.

You lie there, your bodies tangled together, basking in the afterglow of your passion. But even as you try to catch your breath, a thought lingers in the back of your mind: What happens next?

Jongho seems to sense your uncertainty. He turns to face you, propping himself up on one elbow as he studies your expression.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Talk to me. What are you thinking about?”

You hesitate, unsure if you should voice your concerns. But the warmth in his eyes encourages you to be honest.

“This… us. What does it mean?” you ask, your voice tinged with vulnerability.

Jongho’s gaze softens, and he pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “It means whatever you want it to,” he replies, his tone reassuring. “We can take this as slow or as fast as you need. All that matters is that you’re happy.”

You feel a lump form in your throat, overwhelmed by his kindness and understanding. For the first time in years, you feel truly seen and valued.

But before you can formulate a response, Jongho’s phone buzzes loudly on the nightstand. The sound startles you both, and he reluctantly lets go of you to check the message.

His expression changes as he reads it, his brows furrowing in concern. “I’m sorry,” he says apologetically, “but I need to take this. It’s important.”

You nod, though you can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles in the pit of your stomach. As Jongho steps out of the room to answer the call, you’re left alone with your thoughts, wondering if this newfound happiness is too good to last.

"We have that charity gala tonight and it is imperative that you and I are in attendance," Taeho barks at you as he stomps around the living room, pulling items off the end tables and collecting the empty glasses on the coffee table. "We made the commitment months ago and our attendance is required. This is not an optional event."

"I know Taeho," you sipped your coffee and leaned back against the sofa. "Your suit for the gala is hanging in your room and your shoes have been polished. All that's left for you to do is to style your hair and wear the watch and cufflinks that I got you."

"And did you purchase a dress?" Taeho peered at you, placing the empty glasses on the table by the large armchair in front of the fire. "An appropriate one for your status?"

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and nodded. "I have it all under control," you sighed, "like I always do."

"What a dutiful wife you are," Taeho scoffed sarcastically, giving a half-assed chuckle, before turning serious. "Your father is coming over today to discuss a campaign that has started up with the opposing party. Make sure lunch is at its usual time and the maid has set the dining room accordingly," he huffed, "I don't need your father to chastise me for having a messy home."

"Yes Taeho," you replied, finishing your mug and moving into the kitchen.

When the doorbell rang, you heard Taeho shout for you and you went to open the door for your father. "Hi, daddy," you smiled warmly and leaned in for a hug.

"My little girl," your father chuckled warmly. "You look tired," he whispered to you as the maid took his coat and hat. "A woman of your caliber should always take care of themselves. If you ever need some money for a spa day, let me know," your father sighed softly. "I can only imagine the burdens of maintaining this house."

"Thank you, but that is what I have the maids for," you muttered politely. "Besides, you're busy and need to be taken care of too, daddy."

"Your mother makes sure I have all my meals prepared for me at the right times," he grinned at you and looked past you as Taeho approached. "Ah, Taeho, you look... aged, no offence."

"You too, my friend," Taeho laughed and the men hugged, clapping each other on the back. "I do hope the mayor's job has treated you well over the years."

"It has! Very busy but fulfilling," your father chuckled.

"Good, that's good!" Taeho nodded and moved towards the door to the kitchen. "Well, why don't we discuss some things over lunch hm? Shall we?"

Your father looked at you with concern etched in his wrinkles and nodded slowly. "Will you be joining us, Y/N?" he inquired. "I would love to catch up with my daughter and see what she's been up to."

"Not today, daddy," you shook your head. "I have a lot to prepare for the gala. You two enjoy your meal and I will see you later, alright?"

"Fine," he muttered and kissed the top of your head before following Taeho towards the dining room. "I'll see you later this evening, sweetheart. We will chat more then."

Once Taeho and your father disappeared into the other room, you let out a loud sigh, massaged your temple and made your way towards your bedroom to get ready for the night's charity gala.

Hours later, you stood in front of the mirror adjusting the straps of your emerald green, sparkling evening dress. It clung to your body in all the right places and revealed just enough skin that would turn a man's gaze your way. Taeho hated when you drew too much attention, but tonight, you needed the escape.

"A little form fitting for my taste," Taeho grunted as he fumbled with the buttons of his cufflinks. "But it will do. Come and assist me with the cufflinks."

You stepped into the bedroom and strode over to him. You slipped the first cufflink in and stared at him. "Did you have a nice afternoon with daddy?" you inquired softly, turning his hand gently and securing the second cufflink in place.

"Yes, it was very informative," Taeho grunted. "Nothing to worry your pretty, little head over," Taeho muttered. "Now let us go, I don't want us to be late."

The venue was a sprawling ballroom filled with the city’s elite. Crystal glasses clinked, laughter echoed off the high ceilings, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume. You clung to Taeho’s arm as he schmoozed with donors, forcing yourself to smile and nod at the right moments. His grip on your elbow was firm, almost possessive, and you felt the familiar weight of suffocation pressing down on you.

And then you saw him.

Jongho.

He stood near the bar, dressed in a sleek black suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean frame. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt on its axis. His eyes met yours, and you could tell from the way his jaw tightened that he was just as shocked to see you as you were to see him.

Taeho didn’t seem to notice your reaction. He steered you towards the bar where Jongho was, his voice booming with false cheer. 

“Ah, there he is! My son,” he said, pulling you closer as if to emphasize the word my. “Jongho, come meet my wife.”

Son. 

The word echoed in your head like a cruel joke. Your legs threatened to give out beneath you, but somehow, you managed to stay upright. Jongho approached slowly, his expression unreadable. Up close, you could see the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand as he extended it to greet you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said smoothly, though his voice held a subtle edge. His fingers brushed against yours, and even that brief contact sent a jolt of electricity through you. You forced yourself to look away, afraid that one more second of eye contact would betray everything.

“Likewise,” you murmured, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. Taeho, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing between you and Jongho, clapped his son on the back.

“Jongho’s been living abroad for the past few years,” Taeho explained, his tone dripping with pride. “He’s finally decided to come home and take over the family business. Isn’t that right, son?”

Jongho nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “Yes, Father. It’s time I took on more responsibility.”

You felt like you were drowning. The man who had held you in his arms just days ago, the man who had whispered sweet nothings into your ear, was now standing in front of you as your stepson. The irony was almost too much to bear.

The rest of the introductions passed in a haze. You couldn’t focus on anything except the heat radiating from Jongho’s body, the way his gaze lingered on you whenever Taeho wasn’t looking. When Taeho excused himself to speak with another donor, you found yourself alone with Jongho.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you was heavy, charged with unspoken questions and desires. Finally, Jongho broke it, his voice low and urgent. “We need to talk.”

You glanced around nervously, making sure no one was watching. “Not here,” you whispered. “It’s too risky.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening again. “Then when? Where?”

You hesitated, torn between fear and longing. “I… I don’t know.”

Jongho stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Don’t shut me out,” he said softly, his eyes pleading. “Not after what we shared.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You wanted to reach out to him, to feel his arms around you once more, but the reality of your situation kept you rooted in place. “Jongho, this… this changes everything.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he insisted, his voice firm. “We can figure this out. Together.”

Before you could respond, Taeho reappeared, his loud voice cutting through the tension. “There you two are! Come, let’s get a photo for the press.”

You forced a smile, allowing Taeho to position you between him and Jongho. As the camera flashed, you felt Jongho’s hand brush against yours, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. The contact was fleeting, but it was enough to reignite the fire burning within you.

As the night wore on, you found yourself stealing glances at Jongho whenever you could. Each time, he seemed to be watching you too, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your heart race. The forbidden nature of your attraction only made it more irresistible, and you knew you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous.

Finally, as the guests began to leave, you spotted Jongho slipping out onto the balcony. Your pulse quickened. Without thinking, you followed him, the cool night air doing little to calm the heat rising in your chest.

He turned as you approached, his expression a mix of relief and frustration. “I was hoping you’d come,” he admitted, his voice rough.

You stepped closer, your hands trembling at your sides. “Jongho, we can’t… this isn’t…”

He cut you off, closing the distance between you in one swift movement. His hands cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. 

“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he demanded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me you don’t want me as much as I want you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat. How could you deny it when every fiber of your being was screaming for him? Without thinking, you reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling him closer.

His lips crashed against yours, hungry and desperate. The kiss was electric, sending sparks shooting through every nerve in your body. You melted into him, your hands roaming over his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you could reach. His grip on you tightened, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, you realized the gravity of what you’d just done. 

“This… this can’t happen,” you whispered, though your body betrayed your words, leaning into his touch.

Jongho’s eyes burned with determination. “It already has,” he replied, his voice fierce. “And it will again.”

The car ride home was stifling. The silence between you and Taeho was thick with unspoken tension, the weight of the evening pressing down on your chest. You stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, but your mind was elsewhere—on Jongho, on that kiss, on the way his hands had felt against your skin.

Taeho cleared his throat, breaking the silence. 

“Jongho will be moving in with us,” he said, his voice calm but firm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your stomach dropped. 

“What?” you managed to choke out, tearing your gaze from the window to look at him. His face was expressionless, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“He needs a place to stay while he gets settled,” Taeho continued, as if this were some mundane detail about groceries or bills. “And I think it’s time he reconnects with his family.”

The word "family" echoed cruelly in your mind. You wanted to scream, to object, to reveal the truth about that night with Jongho, the message, the balcony. But your throat tightened, silencing you, and you could only swallow hard and nod.

“He’ll start calling you mother,” Taeho added casually, as though he were discussing the weather. “It’s only proper, after all.”

Mother. 

You opened your mouth to argue, to say anything, but the words wouldn’t come. What could you even say? That you couldn’t bear to hear Jongho call you that? That it would remind you of what you’d done, of what you still wanted to do?

You looked away, gripping the edge of your seat so tightly your knuckles turned white. The rest of the ride passed in silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional honk of a passing car. When you finally pulled into the driveway, you felt numb, like you were floating outside your body.

Taeho got out first, not waiting for you. You followed slowly, dragging your feet as if delaying the inevitable might somehow change it. Inside, the house was quiet, but there was a new presence in the air—a tension that hadn’t been there before. You hesitated in the foyer, unsure of where to go or what to do.

“Jongho will be here tomorrow,” Taeho said, tossing his keys onto the table. “Make sure his room is ready.”

You nodded quietly, your mind racing. His room. The guest room, the one downstairs, far enough from yours to give the illusion of propriety but close enough to make your heart race. You wondered if Jongho would feel it too—the pull, the magnetism that seemed to draw you together no matter how hard you tried to resist.

That night, sleep was impossible. You tossed and turned, your thoughts consumed by Jongho—his smile, his touch, the way he’d kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. And now, he’d be living here, under the same roof, calling you mother. It was madness, a cruel twist of fate that you couldn’t escape.

The next morning, you woke up exhausted, your head pounding and your nerves frayed. You dressed quickly, avoiding your reflection in the mirror. You didn’t want to see the guilt etched into your face, the longing you couldn’t hide.

By mid-afternoon, the doorbell rang, and your heart leapt into your throat. You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands over your skirt before answering the door. There he was, standing on the doorstep with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking as effortlessly handsome as ever.

“Mother,” he said, the word slipping off his tongue like honey, sweet and dangerous. His lips curved into a smirk, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak.

“Jongho,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. He stepped inside, brushing past you, and the air between you crackled with electricity. You closed the door slowly, trying to steady your breathing, but it was no use. The moment you turned around, he was right there, closer than he should have been.

“This is going to be… interesting,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. You shivered, your pulse quickening as his hand brushed against yours.

“We can’t—” you started, but he cut you off with a look, his eyes dark with desire.

“Can’t we?” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. You glanced nervously toward the stairs, half-expecting Taeho to appear at any moment, but the house was silent.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out, your fingers grazing his. He responded instantly, his hand closing around yours, pulling you closer until your bodies were almost touching. His other hand cupped your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

Tell me you don’t want this, his eyes seemed to say, and you knew you couldn’t. Because you did. More than anything. But the rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to push him away, to remember who you were and what was at stake.

But then he kissed you, and all those thoughts evaporated. His lips were soft but insistent, demanding a response you couldn’t deny. You melted into him, your hands sliding up his chest, tangling in his hair. His grip tightened, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you.

When he broke the kiss, you were breathless, your heart pounding in your chest. 

“This is wrong,” you whispered, though your body betrayed your words, leaning into his touch.

“Is it?” he asked, his voice husky. He pressed another kiss to your lips, softer this time, more tender. “Or is it just… inevitable?”

The tension between you and Jongho hung thick in the air, unresolved yet undeniable. Every glance, every accidental brush of hands as you moved through the house felt like a spark waiting to ignite. Taeho’s announcement of a family dinner that evening only deepened the unease.

“Jongho,” Taeho called from the study, his voice carrying an authority that made your stomach knot. “You’ll join us for dinner. I want to discuss the future.”

Jongho glanced at you, his eyes dark with unspoken words. This is dangerous, your mind screamed, but your body betrayed you, heat pooling low in your belly as you remembered the way his lips had claimed yours just hours ago. He nodded, his expression carefully neutral. “Of course, Father.”

The day stretched on, each hour crawling by as you tried to keep yourself busy. You straightened the living room, polished the silverware, anything to distract yourself from the storm brewing inside you. And all the while, Jongho lingered, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

By the time dinner rolled around, the table was set immaculately, the aroma of the meal filling the air. Taeho took his place at the head of the table, authoritative as ever, while you sat across from Jongho. The distance felt insurmountable yet too close all at once.

As you passed the dishes, your fingers brushed against Jongho’s, sending a jolt through your system. His gaze flicked up to meet yours, his eyes burning with something primal, something forbidden. You quickly looked away, but the damage was done. 

Taeho cleared his throat, breaking the silence. 

“I’ve been thinking about our family,” he began, his tone serious. “It’s time we start planning for the future. Jongho will be taking on more responsibilities in the company, and you,” he turned to you, his gaze piercing, “will need to support him as his mother.”

You forced a smile, nodding obediently. “Of course, Taeho.”

Jongho’s jaw tightened, his fork clinking softly against his plate. He didn’t look at you, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable. 

“Father,” he said carefully, “I appreciate your confidence in me. But I’m still learning. There’s no need to rush things.”

Taeho waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. You’re more than capable. It’s time we solidify our legacy.”

Dinner dragged on, the conversation stilted and formal. You barely tasted the food, your senses hyper-aware of Jongho’s every move. When Taeho finally pushed his chair back and announced he was retiring to his study, relief flooded you, though it was short-lived.

“Don’t forget to clear the table,” he said as he left, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You mechanically gathered the dishes, the clattering of plates and the hum of the refrigerator the only sounds in the silent kitchen. 

Jongho rose beside you, his movements measured and slow. “Are you okay?”

You froze, the question hanging heavy between you. No, you wanted to say. None of this is okay. But instead, you nodded, keeping your eyes locked on the sink. “I’m fine.”

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your breath caught, your pulse quickening. “We can’t do this,” you whispered, though every fiber of your being screamed otherwise. “He’s your father.”

“And you’re not my mother,” he shot back, his voice firm. He reached out, his hand brushing against your arm, sending shivers down your spine. “You know what this is. What we are.”

You turned to face him, your resolve crumbling under the intensity of his gaze. This is wrong, your rational mind protested, but your body leaned into his touch, craving the connection you couldn’t deny.

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Both of you jumped apart, your hearts racing. Taeho appeared in the doorway, his brow furrowed.

“What’s taking so long?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing as he looked between the two of you.

Jongho straightened, his mask of composure slipping back into place. “Just finishing up, Father.”

Taeho grunted, clearly unconvinced, but he made no further comment. “Don’t dawdle. There’s work to be done.”

He disappeared again, leaving you both standing there, the weight of his suspicion hanging over you.

Once you were certain he was gone, you let out a shaky breath. “This is impossible,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Jongho’s hand found yours, squeezing gently. “Nothing worth having is easy.”

His words sent a thrill through you, but the fear of discovery lingered. “We’re playing with fire,” you warned, though you didn’t pull away.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Then let’s burn.”

Heat surged through you, your resolve wavering. This is madness, part of you knew, but the rest of you didn’t care. The pull between you was too strong to resist, the promise of passion too tempting to ignore.

But before either of you could act, the sound of Taeho’s voice calling for Jongho shattered the moment. You stepped back hastily, your chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing.

Jongho hesitated, his eyes locking with yours one last time. “Later,” he promised, his voice low and full of intent.

Then he was gone, leaving you alone in the kitchen with your thoughts spiraling. Later. The word echoed in your mind, a promise and a threat all at once. You didn’t know what would happen next, but one thing was certain: you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous, and there was no turning back now.

The days following Jongho’s arrival were a strange mix of tension and anticipation. Taeho’s announcement at dinner had only deepened the unease, but it also left you with a lingering sense of curiosity—and dread. Every glance exchanged with Jongho felt charged, every accidental brush of hands sending jolts of electricity through your body. You tried to remind yourself of the consequences, of the chaos this could unleash, but the reckless part of you didn’t care.

It was a quiet afternoon when Taeho dropped the news. He stood in the living room, his suitcase already packed, and announced he would be leaving for a business trip the next morning. 

“I’ll be gone for three days,” he said, his tone as matter-of-fact as ever. “Jongho will stay here. I expect you both to manage things while I’m away.”

You nodded, keeping your expression neutral, but inside, your heart raced. Three days alone with Jongho. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

Taeho’s departure the next morning was almost too easy. He gave you a curt nod and reminded Jongho to keep an eye on the household affairs before heading out the door. The moment it clicked shut behind him, the air in the house seemed to shift. It was just you and Jongho now.

For the first hour, you busied yourself with mundane tasks—tidying up, making tea, anything to avoid being alone with him. But fate, or perhaps something else, had other plans. Jongho found you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you stared blankly at the stove.

“Nervous?” he asked, his voice smooth and teasing.

You turned to face him, your cheeks flushing despite yourself. “Should I be?”

He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours. “That depends on you.”

There was a boldness in his eyes that made your breath catch. You knew what he was implying, and though every rational part of your brain screamed at you to walk away, you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that.

“Jongho…” you started, but your voice trailed off as he closed the distance between you.

His hands rested on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to yours. “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

You couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, you reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek. That was all the encouragement he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, fierce and demanding. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the way his chest pressed against yours, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. Not Taeho, not the consequences, not the guilt that lingered at the edges of your mind.

Jongho’s hands slid down your sides, his touch sending shivers through you. When he lifted you onto the counter, you barely had time to register what was happening before his lips were on your neck, trailing hot kisses along your skin. You arched into him, a soft moan escaping your lips as his hands explored further.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, his voice husky with desire.

His words sent a thrill through you. Beautiful. How long had it been since someone had said that to you? Since someone had looked at you the way Jongho was looking at you now?

You tugged at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He obliged, pulling it off in one swift motion, and then his hands were back on you, unbuttoning your blouse with practiced ease. When his fingers brushed against your bare skin, you gasped, the sensation almost too much to bear.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice low and intense.

You hesitated for just a moment, but then you nodded. “Yes.”

That single word seemed to unleash something in him. He kissed you again, harder this time, his hands roaming freely over your body. When he finally slipped your bra off, you felt a rush of vulnerability mixed with excitement. His mouth found your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, and you let out a whimper.

“Jongho…” you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He didn’t respond, too focused on exploring every inch of you. When his hand dipped lower, sliding beneath the waistband of your skirt, you tensed, your hips instinctively bucking against his touch.

“Relax,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, you believed him. As his fingers found their way between your thighs, you let go, surrendering to the pleasure he was giving you. Each stroke, each caress, built the tension inside you until you were teetering on the edge.

“Jongho, I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat as he added another finger, pushing you over the edge.

Your body shook with the force of your release, your vision blurring as waves of ecstasy washed over you. Jongho held you steady, his arms strong and reassuring, until the tremors subsided.

When you finally opened your eyes, you found him watching you with a mixture of pride and hunger. “Still nervous?” he asked, a sly smile playing on his lips.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Not anymore.”

He kissed you again, softer this time, before pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “Good. Because we’re just getting started.”

Before you could respond, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you towards his bedroom. “Jongho!” you squealed, half-laughing, half-protesting.

“Trust me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. And for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you did.

He carried you effortlessly and set you down on the bed with surprising gentleness. He undressed the rest of your clothes slowly, peppering your skin with light kisses as he exposed each new part of you. By the time you were fully naked, you were trembling with anticipation.

Jongho ran his hands over your body, worshipping every inch of you. A low hum rumbled deep in his chest, and a smile spread across his face. You shivered, suddenly feeling shy under his scrutiny.

Before you could speak, he kissed you, and any thoughts of embarrassment faded away. He explored every curve, every line, leaving no part of you untouched. You moaned, arching into his touch. Your nails dug into the sheets, grasping at anything to ground you, as his thumb brushed against the most intimate parts of you.

He pulled away only long enough to free himself of his remaining clothes, and your eyes raked down the planes of his toned, muscular body. As he knelt over you, your gaze locked onto his, and you saw the same hunger reflected back at you. You reached for him, and he lowered himself onto you, his chest pressed firmly against yours. His cock was hot and heavy between your thighs, and you instinctively shifted your hips towards him.

"Impatient, aren't you?" Jongho whispered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

"Jongho, I need..." your words trailed off into a gasp as he rocked his hips, rubbing himself against your clit. "Oh god, I need you."

"How much?" he asked, his eyes burning into yours.

"So much,” you grabbed his ass, trying to pull him closer.

He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. "Good, because I need you too."

"Really?" you asked, your heart pounding.

"Always," he whispered as he pushed inside you.

Your nails dug into his back as he filled you up. He waited a moment, letting you adjust to his size, before starting to move. Your head spun with the sensation of it, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through you.

"You feel amazing," he grunted, his lips pressing hot, urgent kisses to your skin. "So wet for me."

Your breath hitched as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. "Please, Jongho, don't stop."

You had no idea where this was going to go. Part of you, the rational part, screamed at you to end it here, to call a stop and walk away. This was dangerous, it knew, but it felt too good to be wrong.

Your toes curled as the pleasure built, a delicious tightness coiling in the pit of your stomach. Jongho's hand slipped down to rub slow, firm circles over your clit and the combination nearly made you come undone.

"Jongho, I—" you gasped. Your body began to shake as you came.

He gritted his teeth, trying not to cum himself as the feeling of you convulsing around his cock almost tipped him over the edge. As soon as you came down, he slipped out of you.

"Why'd you stop?" you asked.

"Don't want to cum just yet, we're just getting started," he said.

Jongho sat up, shifting so that he was sitting against the headboard and patted his legs. "Want you to ride me," he murmured before claiming your lips again.

You let him guide you, swinging a leg over to straddle him. His lips traveled to your neck as you lowered yourself, grinding your pussy on his thick, hard member, coating him in your slickness.

Jongho nipped at your skin, mumbling praises as he peppered light, gentle kisses. "Need you," he moaned into your neck, sucking on your pulse and letting you know you left your mark.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, picking up your movements and pulling him closer.

He was big, filling you up and stretching you in a way that you'd never experienced. It was hard to believe that he was Taeho's son; you never saw this kind of sexual expertise from your husband, not in a lifetime.

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze with an openness you weren't familiar with. For the first time, you took a moment to just look at him.

He looked back with a hungry gaze, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist while the other roamed up your sides, then cupped your face as he kissed you. You felt yourself melting into him, into this whole thing that had gotten entirely out of hand. You had always told yourself you weren't the cheating type, yet you were right there doing just that, riding your husband's son in ways you could hardly have imagined doing before tonight.

"You okay?" Jongho asked gently, studying your expression.

"More than okay," you hummed. "I feel perfect."

And it was the truth, no matter how insane it was. You leaned into him, gripping his shoulders as you rode his cock. "I can't remember the last time I felt this happy," you muttered.

It wasn't the sex. Sure, the sex was incredible, but there was something deeper that made you feel so whole. Like something had fallen into place, like something had made the clouds disappear to show the stars. It was dangerous, but you couldn't stop.

"This, us, it's insane but I can't stop," you panted. "I don't want it to end. Ever. I'm scared we'll have to hide once your father returns and—"

Jongho kissed you, tenderly and lovingly.  "Shh, it's okay. We'll figure it out together," he said soothingly. "Forget everything else tonight. Right now, it's just you and me. No one else."

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped from your lips. "No one else...just us."

"Just us. I'm yours, and you're mine," Jongho spoke between kisses, trailing his lips down to your collarbone where his teeth scraped your skin lightly, sending a shiver down your spine. "No one else."

"No one else..." you breathed, losing yourself in the feeling of him inside of you.

The conversation paused as he bounced you faster on his length, pulling another long moan from you. Then he took your face in his hand and stroked your cheek.

"God, you're perfect. The most gorgeous thing I've ever laid my eyes on," he mused, bringing your lips to his. He gave you a searing kiss and tugged at your bottom lip before pulling back. "What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me."

You pressed your forehead to his. "Keep fucking me," you begged. "Fuck me so hard and deep."

"I've got you." He flipped the both of you, never slipping out of you. "Gonna take care of you," he growled into your ear. "Going to keep your pussy so stuffed."

God, you weren't used to a younger, virile man treating you like a sex goddess. You were the wife of one of the richest men in the country, and your husband refused to fuck you for years now. And suddenly you were with his son, and god, he was fucking amazing.

With both of his palms holding down your shoulders to the bed, he pounded hard and deep into you. The sound of your skin slapping together sounded down the hallway, but neither of you cared.

"Oh, fuck, sweetheart," Jongho hissed. "Gonna keep your cunt stuffed with my cum. Make you so full, fuck a baby into you..."

"God yes, Jongho," you mewled. 

You couldn't get pregnant, you knew that already. But the idea of being completely ruined by this young man made your heart sing with delight. You wanted nothing more than to be a mother. You always dreamed about a home filled with kids and laughter. You were thirty-nine, far past the ideal time for starting a family, but the thought of having a child with Jongho didn't scare you as it would if Taeho were your baby's father. You'd be far happier having your firstborn with someone who actually gave a shit. Someone loving and attentive, even if he was years younger than you.

"Tell me you want it," Jongho groaned into the crook of your neck, pressing sweet and soft kisses along your heated skin. "Say yes."

You bucked against Jongho's hard thrusts, whimpering from the overstimulation. 

"Yes, fuck, I do. Want it, want you, all of it, all of you," you chanted, words slipping past your tongue, leaving a bittersweet trail of its remnants.

Your words only drove him to be faster, rougher, harder. His pace was maddening, but exactly what you craved. It wasn't long until the familiar buzz started to make itself known in the pit of your belly. Your toes curled and fingers clawed the sheets as the first shock of your release rippled through you, making your pussy clench hard around Jongho's thickness.

"F-fuck, oh god, Jongho," you gasped.

Jongho kept going, his hand cupping one of your bouncing breasts and the other grabbing you by your neck. "That's it, beautiful. Cum all over this fat cock of yours," he grunted, pushing deeper in you.

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck," you sputtered incoherently, eyes screwing shut as your orgasm wracked you.

As you came, you felt him thrust once, twice before finally bottoming out deep into your cervix and cumming in hot spurts. He stilled, allowing his seed to travel inside you, as deep as he could push. You could feel yourself spasm around him, your orgasm seemingly never ending.

His pace gradually slowed to a stop, both of you just trying to catch your breath. When Jongho lifted his head and glanced down at your limp, sweaty form, he pressed a sweet kiss to your temple, easing his weight off your smaller body to allow you room to breathe. You couldn't help but giggle weakly.

"God, you're amazing," you complimented. You winced, though, as he slowly slid himself out, the friction against your sensitive walls making you squirm a little. Jongho laid beside you and propped his head on one arm, the other running down your side, holding onto you. 

You hummed, eyes slipping shut, not quite hearing Jongho's soft confession. "I think I love you."

The nausea hit you like a wave, sudden and unrelenting. You’d been feeling off for weeks—fatigue that clung to your bones, a lingering queasiness that no amount of ginger tea could soothe. At first, you dismissed it as stress, the weight of your secret life with Jongho pressing down on your shoulders. But this… this was different.

You leaned against the cool tile wall of the bathroom, taking deep breaths to steady yourself. Taeho hadn’t noticed anything amiss, too preoccupied with his business dealings and late-night meetings. But Jongho… he’d caught the faint tremble in your hands, the way you’d pushed your food around your plate during dinner last night. 

“Are you okay?” he’d asked, his voice low with concern. You’d brushed him off, laughed it away, but now, alone in the quiet of the house, you couldn’t ignore it any longer.

You knew you couldn’t go to your usual doctor. The risk of Taeho finding out was too great. Instead, you made an appointment at your maternal family’s hospital, a place where your name still carried enough weight to ensure discretion. The drive there felt surreal, the city streets blurring past as your mind raced with possibilities. What if it’s just a virus? What if it’s something worse?

The waiting room was sterile and quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights adding to your anxiety. When your name was called, you followed the nurse with robotic steps, barely registering her polite chatter. The exam room was colder than you remembered, the paper gown scratchy against your skin. The doctor, a woman with kind eyes and a calm demeanor, ran through the standard questions. How long have you been feeling this way? Any other symptoms? When was your last period?

That last question made you pause. You couldn’t remember. It had been so long since you’d even thought about it. 

“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The doctor nodded, jotting something down on her clipboard before ordering a series of tests.

The wait for the results felt endless. You sat on the edge of the exam table, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, trying to steady your breathing. When the doctor returned, her expression was unreadable. She closed the door softly behind her before turning to face you. 

“Well,” she began, her tone measured, “the good news is, you’re perfectly healthy. The nausea and fatigue are likely due to—”

“Due to what?” you asked, your voice trembling.

The doctor smiled gently. “Due to your pregnancy.”

For a moment, the words didn’t register. They hung in the air between you, heavy and impossible. 

“P-pregnancy?” you stammered, your mind reeling. “But… that’s not possible. I was told I couldn’t conceive.”

“Sometimes,” the doctor explained, her tone soothing, “miracles happen. Based on your test results, you’re about eight weeks along. Congratulations.”

A baby. Jongho’s baby. 

The implications crashed over you like a tidal wave—Taeho’s reaction, your family’s expectations, society's judgment. And yet, beneath the panic, there was a flicker of something else. Something warm and hopeful. A tiny flame of joy that refused to be extinguished.

You left the hospital in a daze, the doctor’s instructions and prenatal vitamins tucked into your bag. The world outside seemed brighter somehow, the colors more vivid, the sounds sharper. You needed to talk to Jongho. He deserved to know. But how would he react? Would he see this as a blessing or a curse? And how the hell were you going to explain this to Taeho?

When you arrived home, the house was eerily quiet. Taeho was away on another business trip, and Jongho was… well, you weren’t sure where he was. You wandered aimlessly through the rooms, your mind racing with thoughts and fears. Finally, you found yourself in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you stared out the window at the garden.

“Hey,” Jongho’s voice startled you, and you turned to see him standing in the doorway, his brow furrowed with concern. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. How do you even begin to tell someone something like this? Sensing your hesitation, Jongho crossed the room in a few quick strides, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. 

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice soft but insistent.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. “I… I went to the doctor today.”

His frown deepened. “Is everything okay? Are you sick?”

You shook your head, your fingers twisting nervously in the hem of your shirt. “No. Not sick. I’m… I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—a smile so radiant it made your heart ache. 

“Are you serious?” he asked, his voice filled with wonder.

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Eight weeks.”

He let out a breathless laugh, pulling you into a tight embrace. “This is incredible,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re going to have a baby.”

His joy was contagious, and you felt yourself relaxing into his arms, the tension in your body melting away. But then, the reality of your situation came rushing back, and you pulled away slightly, looking up at him with worried eyes. “What are we going to do about Taeho? About… everything?”

Jongho cupped your face in his hands, his gaze steady and determined. “We’ll figure it out. Together. No matter what happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do you mean that?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Every word,” he replied, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss. “You’re mine. This baby is ours. And nothing,nothing, is going to take that away from us.”

You wanted to believe him, to let yourself get lost in the promise of his words. But the weight of your secret pressed heavily on your chest, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm was only just beginning.

[whateverisbeautiful]

Hi there 👋🏽👋🏽I've just spent all weekend reading your Rick and Michonne analyses and they're stunning👏🏾 if I may, can I ask you what you think will be the most challenging adjustment for Rick now that he's back with his family and for Michonne having also lost a chunk of time with her kids to find Rick?

Also, do you think Rick's parenting style will be different with RJ and Judith vs. Carl now that he has seen much bigger threats in the world and after what he learned during the Echelon briefing? I can see him being a bit more overprotective with them now.

Thanks in advance for your perspective!

Thank you!! This made me so happy to hear. 🥰 And these are great questions. I’d be curious to hear people’s thoughts. I wrote out my perspective below. Thanks for asking! ⬇️💗:

What will be the most challenging adjustment for Rick now that he's back with his family?

I think it’ll take some time for Rick to settle into knowing he really gets to be home for good now and doesn’t have to anxiously have his head on a swivel in constant worry about losing his family. But I think Michonne will be so good at reassuring him of that. He experienced a pain worse than death by having to suddenly live without the family he held dear for years & losing their image. I can envision Rick still dealing with some anxiety that all this good that has re-entered his life can be taken away again, & having some restless nights where his mind panics, thinking he’ll wake up and be back trapped in the CRM.

That’s part of why I’m so glad Rick got to go home freely rather than through escape. Because had he escaped home, he’d always have to be on edge about whether his escape would bring the CRM right to his family’s doorstep at some point down the line.

I also think being involved in the community after years of living so isolated from communal connection will be an adjustment. But Rick is familial by nature, so I think he’ll be good at building bonds again. It’ll just feel a bit foreign since he went nearly a decade, only making one good friend in Esteban. (I know Pearl said she and Rick were family, but they were more like coworker acquaintances imo). 

With Rick being back home, a scene I often picture for some reason is Rick being asleep alone in bed, and he gets restless thinking he hears the whirring of helicopters outside the bedroom, like he so often heard outside his CRM apartment. But when he stirs awake, his face softens as he realizes the whirring sound is actually a blender, and he can hear the kids and Michonne downstairs making breakfast to surprise him.

And for Michonne having also lost a chunk of time with her kids to find Rick?

I think the big adjustment for Michonne will be just how much her kids have grown in the time she’s been gone. They’re her babies, and I feel like while she’s a bit more accustom to Judith being more grown up, RJ especially is like forever her little one in her eyes so the kids not being so little anymore will be new territory to navigate, especially if they’ve outgrown any of the things she used to love to do with them before she went to bring Rick home.

On the other side, something I think will be a smooth adjustment for Richonne is going from Michonne being a solo parent to now sharing an equal role with Rick as a parent. Other couples could struggle with the adjustment of going from sole parent for years to shared parent, but Richonne are so one that I believe they’ll navigate that really well & Michonne will be happy to let Rick take on an equal role. 

Also, do you think Rick's parenting style will be different with RJ and Judith vs. Carl now that he has seen much bigger threats in the world and after what he learned during the Echelon briefing?

I do think that Richonne will try to have a healthy parenting style that’s not overbearing, but if they had to tip the scale more toward underprotective or overprotective, they definitely could dip more into overprotective.

I think there will be a couple of similarities and differences in Rick’s parenting style with RJ and Judith vs. Carl. The clear differences would derive from the fact that he’s having to get to know his kids as they’re older now, and so I think he’ll work up to maybe being disciplinary, since first he has to establish a trusted relationship with them. Whereas with Carl, Rick was able to be an authority with him from the jump, since their bond was established & maintained since birth.

I feel like, since this world has been riddled with danger and threats since the beginning of the apocalypse, I think the level of extra protectiveness he had with Carl will be similar to Judith & RJ. But it is true that being in the CRM, he felt the world is bigger and worse than he knew, so that could have an impact on how he prepares them for the world. I can see the fear of losing his family again showing up in his parenting style sometimes and making him extra cautious to ensure they’re always reachable and as safe as can be.

Another similarity in parenting style is that I think Rick will be a pretty transparent parent who’s honest with his kids and lets them see a human side of him. Which I think will be impactful for Judith and RJ to see because they’ll learn their dad’s not the Brave Man because nothing scares him, but because he’s willing to do the brave thing even when he’s afraid.

[grimitto]

Hello. I've never posted on tumblr before but I figured I would now.

I'm trying to get a full description of Messmer's backstory plotted out and after doing some research this is what I have so far (the briefest, simplest version.)

Messmer was born with a cursed ability, flame. Much like the frenzied flame that threatens to burn the Lands Between into pure chaos. Messmer was also born with an Abyssal Serpent (Base Serpent???) inside of him, although it can manifest on the outside. (???) The serpent consumes his flames and grows endlessly more powerful. Messmer's flame and the Abyssal Serpent were very powerful, drawing ire from his mother, Marika who despises any threat to her throne.

Messmer has always been family-oriented and enjoys the camaraderie between shared bonds. Brothers in arms or brothers in blood. Before his mother's crusade, Messmer spent his time with his younger siblings and friends, and likely trained alongside them from youth. Particularly Radahn is said to regard Messmer (and Gaius) as older brothers.

"Both were as elder brothers to the lion, and both were cursed from birth. In spite of, or perhaps because of this very reason, Gaius was both Messmer's friend and the leader of his men." - Remembrance of the Wild Boar Rider

The "lion" being Radahn.

Marika, fearing Messmer's powerful flame, wanted to test his loyalty by turning him into a symbol of her wrath. Marika has always hated those who embraced unnatural and grotesque traits, wings and horns specifically, so she embarked on a crusade to cleanse these people, the "hornsent," from the Lands Between. Messmer, eternally loyal to his mother, did so without qualms. The hornsent, and any who are considered enemies of Messmer's mother, Queen Marikia, will always be enemies of Messmer.

[Of the hornsent] "A vestige of the crucible of primordial life. Born partially of devolution, it was considered a signifier of the divine in ancient times, but is now increasingly disdained as an impurity as civilization has advanced." - The Crucible Scale Talisman

Although his armies knew this war would be far from honorable or heroic, Messmer's strong bonds with his men resulted in him having a large and loyal army for his crusade. They gave up riches, titles, and faced scorn for being loyal to Messmer.

"The warriors who fought in the crusade set aside both honor and mercy to wantonly impale and scorch those deemed impure." - The Crusade Insignia Talisman

"Each and every knight hailed from a renowned family of the Erdtree's upper echelons, but were shunned and chased from their homes after pledging allegiance to Messmer as their master." - Fire Knight helm

One warrior, who became known as Messmer's most loyal, was a princess of Carian, Rellana. She abandoned her nobility to follow Messmer. Her loyalty was influenced by romantic love that Messmer never returned.

The crusade was going well (as far as genocides go), but some of Messmer's men learned of his accursed flame and the Abyssal Serpent always growing stronger inside of him and—fearing Messmer was actually corrupt or would become so inevitably—rebelled and mutinied against Messmer in an attempt to kill him. Messmer dispelled them without any difficulty (they were banished to an underground tomb), but mourned the loss of his brothers-in-arms.

The surviving hornsent and many of the general population rightfully vilified Messmer for the crusade.

His mother, learning of this growing unrest, finally found a reason to get rid of Messmer, who was powerful enough to threaten her throne. She plucked out Messmer's eyes, and replaced only his right eye with a Seal of Grace, used to weaken the Abyssal Serpent and flames inside of Messmer. Marika then rescinded Messmer's Grace and banished him to a realm known as the "Shadow of the Erd Tree." Marika also banished any of those still loyal to Messmer, including Rellana.

Messmer, forever loyal to his mother, does not scorn her for abandoning him. Although he is bitter in exile, he blames himself and his flame, he hates the crimes he committed, resulting in a strong self-resentment. Messmer took all the blame of Marika's orders.

"On his mother's wishes, Messmer made himself a symbol of fear, undertaking the cleansing crusade she desired."

"Direct thy maledictions, thine ire, and thy grief towards me alone." - Messmer's armor

Also, I haven't seen the item descriptions to back this up, but apparently the Shadow of Erdtree realm is like the afterlife for the Lands Between and Marika has assigned Messmer to rule over it. That makes more sense than just banishing him, but I haven't seen the in-game sources.

Judging by his dialogue when Messmer meets the Tarnished, I believe the reason he attacks is solely out of loyalty to his mother. As he considers all Tarnished an enemy of Marika as they are "stripped of the grace of gold," AKA they are not guided by grace because Marika doesn't like them.

He also clearly harbors his own prejudice against Tarnished, as he then destroys the restraining eye his mother put in him saying, "I will not suffer a Lord devoid of light," which means he'll die to stop Tarnished becoming Elden Lord, even though Marika allegedly wants the Tarnished to become the Elden Lord, which is fairly common, but overall confusing...

---

Anyways, this is what I personally consider to be Messmer's backstory after looking around (Credits mainly to this reddit post) and trying to compile all the random bits into a story. If anyone knows other important details or thinks something here is wrong I'd love some feedback!

Grim out 💪

[two-white-butterflies]

no time to die | c16 | part two

Description: After a messy breakup with Charles Leclerc. You resort to feuding with him online. In where, he hates your guts.

Pairing: charles leclerc/actress!reader

part one | part three

(ONE YEAR LATER)

YNMakesItSparkle: New Years Day 🌙 announcing my first ever single. I know that it's been a while since ya'll heard my voice. I remember singing with Miley and Selena down in Disney. So glad to be back inside the studio! 💜

129 comments 1,292,180 likes

watchasay29: Is this about Charles?

taylorswift: I'm so excited for this 💙💙💙💙

selenagomez: Patiently seated.

charlesuniversewags: this is about charles 100% idk if she's gonna make him seem like the bad guy.

(IBIZA, SPAIN 2023)

"Charles, let's get married - let's settle down." you continued speaking, following him around the casita with a glass filled with Moscato. Ever since his incident in Formula One, you haven't stopped thinking about your future together. You couldn't sleep at night knowing that there was a possibility that everything you built would come crumbling down.

A small sigh escapes his mouth; marriage was the least of his concern. He still wanted to win a championship - he wanted to be something that you could boast around your upper-echelon friends. "I'm not ready, bebe." he sighed, taking another sip of his merlot.

You were stark contrasts of each other.

He liked everything that tasted bitter - and you adored sweet. He was darkness, rest in the middle of paradise and you were light. You complimented each other properly - but now you weren't sure.

"I-I know, but please - think about it." you stuttered. You always dreamed about marriage, not in a dreamy fairytale way but in a way that included living in happiness with the person that you adored. "I'm not sure if I want to get married, ever." he scoffed, placing his glass loudly on the countertop.

"Why?" your eyebrows merged into each other. "Why?" he repeated your statement - finding the question to be tone deaf.

"All everyone talks about is you and how wonderful your projects are. The articles, they don't even call me by name - I'm just 'your boyfriend' - and what will happen after we get married? Will I be Y/N L/N's husband? When I've got all of these accomplishments to myself." he responded in a bitter tone - telling you that there was something bothering him.

"What do you mean?" your frown deepened, seeing fire underneath his eyes. Did he hate you all these years?

"I'm tired of being your shadow, that's what I mean." his voice softened, seeing your eyes blurry with tears. "You aren't my shadow - when I came into this relationship with you, I wasn't even an actress." you said to yourself, the truth quickly settling into you.

"- and maybe that's the problem. I don't need another person who's competing with my success, I need someone to comfort me in my races." he expressed his opinion, unable to understand that he was stampeding upon your own.

"I've done all of that, Charles."

"It's not enough!" his voice raised again, a storm brewing in his mind. A small chuckle escaped your lips - and you tried to keep your composure. 'Grace under pressure' you thought.

"You know what the truth is, Charles?" you grinned, reaching for your handbag on the chair beside you. "You feel emasculated because I'm better than you." you gritted your teeth, straightening your dress until it didn't have any wrinkles.

"You know I feel really bad because I came to this conversation seeing a future with you. But now I'm glad that you had another thing in mind." your eyes narrowed, quickly walking away and slamming the door to his apartment loudly.

YNMakesItSparkle: me and my favorite driver 💜

312 comments 1,912,129 likes

maxverstappen1: 💪🏽

carlossainz55: Hungary GP? - YNMakesItSparkle: Totally 💜

reyna219: YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL

YNMakesItSparkle: Forever Ferrari 💜❤️

812 comments 1,231,100 likes

carlandouniverse2: this is enough confirmation 😭

wantingmeeee1: Are you back with Charles?

landonorris: Mclaren needs you here 😎 - YNMakesItSparkle: Really?

imsebastianstan: You didn't bring me? - YNMakesItSparkle: the airline had a no-hand-carry policy, really sorrrrryyy 😁

Charles could recognize you a mile away. His fingers could even feel the fabric that clung into your body - he missed you, and he knew that you deserved better. The pressure of not being a good enough driver was getting to him - forcing him to resort to look for something to blame. At first, it was his company - but when he saw your success - he chose to blame that.

But now after six-months of therapy, he could see properly. He could see that he was the problem. "I listened to your new song," he swiftly made his way towards you - a bottle of beer in his right hand. He missed you - but he couldn't entertain the thought of being with you again. He believed that he wasn't good enough for that.

"Did you like you like it?" you gazed up at him - staring deep into his eyes until he could feel himself leaning down to inhale more of your rosemary scent. "Amazing, and the chords were familiar." he raised an eyebrow - teasing you softly.

He'd be content with being friends.

"Sue me if you dare, Leclerc." you pouted, knowing that the chords to that song resembled something that he wrote for you a few years ago. "I won't - not when you made it sound better." he smiled, flicking a strand of your hair away from your face. "Really?" you began to ask.

Unable to deny the palpable chemistry between you.

"Why don't you play for us in the afterparty?" he offered, knowing that it would be held inside his home - and his piano needed a little dusting. "Sounds like a plan," you licked your lips, slowly moving away from him.

SELENA GOMEZ'S PRIVATE TWITTER

Don't get back with ur ex challenge, but you're fighting against @YNMakesItSparkle

YN'S PRIVATE TWITTER: STOPPPP

TAYLOR'S PRIVATE TWITTER: I'm going home because it's a losing game ;)

DANIEL RICCIARDO'S PRIVATE TWITTER: HELPP

@perihelioneclipse @hiraethrhapsody @omgsuperstarg @reidsworld @charles-eclair16 @ferraribabe @cl16gf @yourrrrrprefffffect @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @fdl305 @incoherenciass @sassyheroneckgiant @ietss @newlifeforus

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

It’s one in the morning let’s talk Six of Crows analysis - it feels like it’s been ages since I did any analysis, which is like the entire point of this account so sorry about that but here we go: We should talk more about Adem Bajan you guys okay because first of all he effectively comes to represent the vast majority of everyday people in a clear juxtaposition to both Inej and Van Eck, but he also is in a position of far less choice than I think we give him credit for.

As a reminder, Bajan is a young Suli boy (presumably somewhere around 19 but we have no confirmation of that) working in the Van Eck household teaching Alys music. He is highly implied to be having or to have interest in having as affair with Alys, and was Van Eck’s chosen jailer for Inej at the beginning of Crooked Kingdom. Van Eck claims he made this choice because he thought “a Suli boy would be most conspicuous” when he was attempting to lure Kaz into a trap to save Inej, but it was also an inarguably smart decision in that, as Inej even comments herself, Bajan was easy to talk to, made her feel nostalgic, homesick, and alone, and very nearly succeeded in drawing information out of her without having to restore to torture. If anything, resorting to torture was Van Eck’s major mistake at this point but that’s really a conversation for another time. Bajan is a really interesting character because he doesn’t want to hurt Inej and specifically encourages her to tell him things so Van Eck won’t escalate things further, but when Van Eck does escalate things Bajan is unable - or possibly unwilling - to stop him. For this Inej calls him a monster, and when he claims he did nothing replies “no, you’re the man who stands idly by congratulating himself whilst the monster eats its fill”. She draws a Suli phrase on him that effectively means he’ll be rejected by the community forever and his spirit/soul won’t be accepted, and she describes it as the worst fate or something along those lines sorry I can’t remember exactly. But what’s the most interesting thing is that even though he claims not to believe in any of it Bajan gets noticeably upset by this and says “that’s not fair”. Inej is surprised that he’s this soft, and there’s a very clear juxtaposition between the lives they have lived.

BUT - let’s look at this from Bajan’s perspective. And remember - this is important - Bajan is not described as an employee of Van Eck’s, but an indenture. An indenture. So Bajan is a young boy indentured in a foreign country to a man as high up in the country’s government as you can get and who has clearly been illustrated to the reader as a terrible person on several different levels that I won’t dissect in too much detail right now. He appears to have acclimatised himself to Kerch surroundings and acts with elevation above his status, because that’s what he has to do to survive in the upper echelon of a deeply classist society that actively diminishes and disapproves of his culture. (<<if anyone wants references for that let me know and also I’ve written about it quite a bit before so that’s kicking around on my page somewhere) He refuses to speak to Inej in Suli because “it makes me maudlin” and my question to you is: is he rejecting the language to further attempt to fit in and as a product of internalised prejudice, or because it’s so incredibly painful to be half-connected to a culture not only that he has forced himself to reject but also that he feels he can never safely return to? Probably both. He tells Inej he doesn’t believe in Suli superstition, religion, or culture, and yet is deeply upset when she uses it against him. Is this because he actually does believe, or wants to believe, in the Saints and the Suli interpretation of them but has rejected them for survival and the supposed betterment of himself? Possibly.

Bajan strikes me as very similar to Jesper in the way he presents himself as free, flirty, and casual, but had a considerable weight to almost everything he says and considerable pain hidden closer to the surface than he may have realised. I think there are parallels between him and Inej if we want to see them, but also a very stark difference in the way Kerch and Ketterdam have treated them. Bajan may not be privileged but even as an indenture he has - or at least as far as we know has had - a far safer and kinder experience than Inej has. This could be related to gender since the hyper-sexualisation of Suli culture is mostly centred on women - “the Menagerie always stocked a Suli girl” (I’ve intensely analysis this quote before so I won’t now but ugh there’s so much to say) - but we do know there are young boys captive at the pleasure houses as well although less commonly and it’s also possible that this difference is linked to Bajan’s decision to turn his back on Suli culture in order to appeal more to Kerch society whilst Inej continually embraced her culture and arguably became more religious in response to her experiences.

This is complicated because I’m not entirely sure how I feel about Bajan. I understand and support Inej’s perspective and everything she saw whilst in a far more dangerous position that he was, but is it possible that this was a lonely boy who saw someone he thought was like him and tried to communicate with her the only way he thought was safe? You are completely isolated in a foreign culture and hate yourself for having suppressed your own upbringing in order to survive, but now you meet someone else who yes, is in more danger than you, but who you might be able to help so that she can help you in return. You aren’t safe to speak freely and so you subtly tell her that you are an indenture, hoping she acknowledges that none of this is of your free will and because you know that she was indentured too (and remember from a societal pov there is very little understanding of what indentured girls at the pleasure houses actually go through and although that doesn’t excuse ignoring Inej’s trauma it may explain why he doesn’t fully acknowledge that their positions aren’t equal), you tell her that speaking your own shared language makes you feel maudlin, hoping she realises that you desperately miss your homeland and using your language makes you feel even further from your family than you already are because you can’t share it with them. She doesn’t seem to be taking any of it in, your employer has every intention of hurting her and you don’t know what else to do, so you make a last plea: you ask her about home. You think you’ve already made it clear that speaking about home is painful, so you ask her about it to invite that pain, to share it, so you both understand. But it fails, because she only sees your employer puppeteering you. You openly beg her to tell him the truth so that he won’t hurt her but she refuses to comply, and after all of your efforts and your desperate attempts to connect and beg her to help you both go home, her response is to turn your home against you and banish you from it for eternity. So when you see her the next morning, how could you possibly look her in the eye?

Bajan did not make all of the right choices in his brief time on the page. He didn’t. But maybe he was trying really hard, and he had no other options left.

Anyway I’m not saying this is definitive one way or the other it’s just an interpretation but I find him a very interesting and very sad character and I although I support all of Inej’s actions in these scenes from her point of view I do find myself wondering how she appeared to Bajan and how he felt in the aftermath.

[acrowamongsparrows]

Daily Writing Challenge: Day 1 - Hypnotic/Star

Hammer blow after hammer blow resounded throughout the smithy ringing in the new work day as the cock coaxed the sun from it's sleep. Night had yet to fully depart as the sky was quickly winking out the tapestry of stars from it's blanket of lightening purple. Yet even as the night had come to a close the forge had already been brought back to life despite what slow burning embers had been left to keep it from cooling, it's raging flames billowing and burning to heat the crucible. The acrid stench of coal and wood burning would mix with the ozone of melting iron followed by the heavy pounding of the blacksmith's weapon of choice for shaping his works. Was it swords for a king? A helmet for the local knight? Or was it just one of the many horseshoes for a cart horse to make it to market?

In the hamlet of Markhor, one could be so lucky as to even own a horse and that was how Eld liked it.

Eld of Kovir or as he was known these days Candell, was not one to be considered a powerful looking man. Most smiths looked barrel chested, bald, and with arms like tree trunks to match the shoulders that bore the metals of their trade. Candell was not of the usual type. Surely he had the strength in his shoulders and back, but despite his heavy work over the last 11 years in the hamlet he appeared to only have gotten leaner and more wiry. Tight of shoulder and hard of back, the man worked like the devil for his craft despite it's mundane purpose of shoeing beats, repairing tools, and occasionally the odd or end needed by one of the villagers. His hands though were another story.

Powerful, thick, and uncannily dexterous for a man who swung a hammer for most of the day and played in fire. Strong enough to bend metal with a natural way speed and skill in near always striking true as he bent iron as necessary. Bent was a lame way to describe it, Candell guided the metal to it's true forms. A horse shoe, A scythe blade. Once there had been call for a new gate that by the end looked fit for a manor more than a field guard. Markhor was lucky to have him as much as he would beg to differ.

He was lucky to have it.

There had been rumors of trouble following the middle aged blacksmith despite the mediocre life he appeared to lead. But people noticed. As simple as they lived, they were not stupid. The supposed higher echelon of folk or better as they liked to think of themselves always perceived those who lived small as dumb or backwards. Really they should remember them as practical, hardy, and stubborn. Who else would be brave enough to live int he frontier and raise a family or crop. One could easily find as much fortune among the social hierarchy as they could in lining their pockets with flax, tubers, or coal. Someone could start over in the northlands near the Targo.

Someone could disappear.

Disappear was what Eld of Kovir had planned for and had nearly succeeded in. But things never always went as planned or wanted. Trouble seemed to always follow those that want to be left alone and then they had to redouble their efforts to remain in plain sight. A blind eye and slumped shoulders could be as much a shield as it could be a mark of shame.

A heavy sigh would issue forth as the a finale of to the hypnotic blows rebounded against the walls of the humble workplace. Hammer tossed aside with a clank to the ground as Candell gingerly took a step back before collapsing down onto the stool he kept near the anvil. Matching breaths to his sigh would follow as he sat giving his body the well deserved rest it needed after the series of blows, his hands resting on his knees before reaching over to massage his aching leg. It wasn't a new pain but it was a constant that he'd lived with forever and half. He hated it as much as it reminded him of his mortality and the hubris of remembering he was human. Sort of.

The yellow pupils were a dead give away of his other-worldliness. It wasn't the wasn't from the Continent or this world, it was just that he wasn't mean to really be alive. Not after the rigors he had been subjected too. That child should have died in those days. Poetically though he had died a hundred times over during his time among the 'grasses'. Eld had been a man who created nightmares as much as he faced them in the dark, but some dark memories can never be shaken by time or trial. He would always hear those moans. They were as much his as they were his fellows, only he was still here.

Sitting back again on his stool, the blacksmith would lean his head back to breath gently through his nose to calm his heart and breath. Old techniques for ordinary tasks. 11 years of exile and it still did not feel like enough.

It might never be enough.

A heavy series of thumps to his door brought the smith back to reality. His eyes lifting to the door and noticeable lack of sunlight that should be breaking through the cracks of the old wooden door. Suspicion sobered him quickly as he grimaced and got to his feet with as least amount of grunting he could muster. Standing shakily a moment would remind him to reach over to his crude cane that he'd made a few years back. There were other options to help with his motion but the true mission was always to keep questions at a minimum.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Candell would grip his cane tight and call out to the door. "We're closed. Come back after the eight bell."

A repeat of the initial heavy thumps was his only reply, causing the grimace to grow deeper as the smith planned his next move. Clearing his throat again, Candell's voice would raise as he yelled at the door again. "I said I'm closed till later int he morning. You'll have to wait."

The door quaked and shook from it's hinges as the thumps came again. Suspicion had now fled int he face of peril which meant was the time of action as he checked the cane, noting the heavy iron ball that worked as it's handle. Multi-function for everyday tools was a must in being a skilled smith and seller. The smith began the march to the door, each step painful but pushed aside as previous lessons kicked in on instinct more than need.

"I'm coming," Candell called again as approached the portal to the outside of his shop. Eventually reaching within the cane's distance to the door, he would come to a halt and reach forward with the end of his cane to swipe up the heavy latch that held his door locked. It was all done as practiced as ever as he let the cane slide back through his loose palm before gripping it tightly by the shaft. Eyes locked to the door as his free hand began to gently twist the fingers into an odd position to the common man but well known to those of his past.

"It's open," the smith did not call out this time, his voice even and flat as he spoke the simple phrase. It was all that was needed as the door handle clinked and pulled to push in.

The free hand went limp as Candell both relaxed and grimaced at the same time. "The hour is early and Duncan Waycrest comes to my door."

Filling the door with broad shoulders and face thick with a well groomed beard stood the the least seen man in all of Kovir. Perhaps even all of the Continent. But how he was seen here was a very curious sight for the smith as Waycrest was not one to wear his emotions like a lovelorn farm-girl. There was fear. An unsettling drop in Candell's stomach happened seeing his friend's stricken face. Vampires should not be afraid.

"Duncan?"

The door was closed quickly behind Waycrest pulling he hook again to lock the door once more. With his back to Candell and Duncan leaned his head into the old planks of the door, knocking softly with his forehead. "Eld I'm sorry. Truly I am."

Duncan shift about to face his friend, his hazel eyes shifting to the cane and then back to Candell's yellow. "Were you going to hit me?"

Candell dropped the cane to his side as he leaned his weight on the stick, forgoing it's previous planned life as a weapon. "Duncan, what are you doing here? What is wrong?"

Teeth would pull back to chew on his upper lips softly as Duncan spoke again. "Maybe we should sit down."

"Maybe you should spit it out already. You've already broken your vow by coming here."

"I know," a wince clear on the man's face as he rubbed his hands together. "But I had to. I had to find you before."

"Before what?"

Duncan Waycrest sighed softly and reached into the folds of his robes, drawing out a parchment. "The boys brought it to me. They said they were going to go after and see what was going on."

Eld hobbled closer to the vampire, his dragging his right leg along with a soft wince each step that made the other do the same as he watched. Taking the parchment with a suspicion plastered to his face, Candell would look to the paper and find the original drop in his stomach going further.

"Eld it's back."

Eld of Kovir locked eyes with the vampire as Duncan spoke softly again. "And it's worse."

@daily-writing-challenge

[kmomof4]

The Arena A New Fic for CSSNS24

WE FINALLY MADE IT, Y'ALL!!!!! @cssns is here for the last time!!! And I am sooooo thrilled to be kicking off our final year!!! Before we get to the fic, I have to say a few words about the team of ladies that helped get this fic here for all of you to enjoy!!

First, to the other mods of the CSSNS - @winterbaby89 @stahlop @jrob64 and @ultraluckycatnd This event wouldn't be here without all of you and I cannot thank you enough for stepping up and helping me through this last round.

To @snowbellewells my magnificent beta for this fic - Marta, I cannot thank you enough for reading, rereading, and rereading AGAIN in order to make this fic the best it could be. Love you, my dear friend!!!

To @motherkatereloyshipper artist extraordinaire - Kit's artwork always leaves me with my jaw hanging open in AWE, and this one is no exception!! I could seriously stare at it for hours!!! Please give her all the love!!!! It's at the beginning of the fic under the cut.

And now to the fic! I so hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!!

Summary: The arena. 

A place of fear. Oppression. Blood. Death. 

A place of shattered hopes and dreams. 

A place, for a very lucky few, of hope. 

Words: Almost 3200

Rating: M for graphic violence

Tags: CSSNS24, Werewolves, True Love, Happy Ending

On ao3

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza

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@anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling

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Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

The arena. 

A place of fear. Oppression. Blood. Death. 

A place of shattered hopes and dreams. 

A place, for a very lucky few, of hope. 

Killian Jones stood along the wall of the arena with his fellow fighters, his eyes trained on the opposite side of the stadium where the grand prize of the wretched and despicable contest he’d willingly signed up for was being held. The wretched and despicable contest that the despot Arthur had created for the entertainment of himself and his court, promising to the victor everything they could ever dream of - more money than they could imagine, a place in the upper echelons of society, land, and a beautiful bride on his arm. A bride that, in Killian’s fondest dreams, didn’t care he was missing a hand. But all of that was for the victor alone. There was no prize for coming in second, unless you counted death as a prize. 

And Killian did. 

Either everything he’d ever hoped for - but which was so far out of reach for a street rat like him - or bringing his miserable existence to an end. That was why he’d eagerly volunteered for the contest. That last sliver of hope his mother - gone for many years now - had instilled in him that his life circumstances had to get better, because they certainly couldn’t get worse, or the sweet oblivion of forever sleep.

He cut his eyes to the left for a moment, taking in his fellow competitors. He didn’t know any of them. The mates he’d trained with for the last year were long gone - scattered to the other corners of the empire to try their own luck in the arena. There were four other men here with him. The one immediately to his left barely looked to be a man at all, but he held a cunning and evil look in his eye that warned not to underestimate him. The man next to him was the largest of all of them with long curly black hair, bulging muscles, deep set dark eyes, and a closely trimmed black beard and goatee. The other two men on the other side of the large one, he’d only seen briefly as they were released into the arena. One was tall and skinny with blonde hair and a scar on his face that gave him a dangerous look, and the other had a mop of brown hair that flopped over his almost simian-looking visage and he held himself with an air of pretension and imperiousness. He’d fit right in with Arthur’s court. He’d probably been an upper house slave looking to be a master instead. 

Now, Killian’s attention was drawn back to the other side of the arena where two slaves were needed to get the young woman into the center of the sunken pit in which they were all held. She truly was a beauty, Killian could already tell, and a hellcat to boot. She wore nothing more than a torn and ragged gown that barely covered her most private parts and was nearly the same color as her skin and a thick silver bracelet on her wrist. Her golden hair was a nest of tangles but still glinted under the midday sun as she screamed and thrashed in their hold. Her legs alternately stuck out in front of her - her heels vainly attempting to anchor themselves into the soft ground - or dragged behind her in an effort to become deadweight and too heavy for the men to carry. When that wasn’t working, she kicked at her captors, clawing and biting every inch of bare skin she could reach.

They finally reached the center of the arena where they dropped her unceremoniously in the dirt. It took her a moment to rise to her hands and knees, then she raised her head and Killian could see her face for the first time. He caught his breath at the exquisiteness of her face, made all the more evident by the dirt and tear tracks which marred her otherwise porcelain skin. The color was high on her cheeks, and her lips were full and red. She wasn’t particularly far away from him, fifteen to twenty feet at most, but he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from this distance and under the rays of the sun, although he could clearly see the glint of more unshed tears. 

Her gaze swept over the other men beside him before landing on him, and when their eyes met, something came over Killian that he hadn’t felt in over two decades- the wolf that he’d lost when he lost his hand as a lad. An utterly unfamiliar strength flooded him, and his ears rang with the internal howl of his other half as his heart and mind were filled with images of that fateful day.

Killian ran down the crowded streets of the marketplace, a dreadfully skinny boy, one hand holding up the too-large pants around his waist, lest they fall down around his ankles as he ran. His clothes were tattered and worn and hung off his scrawny frame. A boy on the cusp of manhood, his malnourishment was evident in his height, nearly as tall as a man, and the leanness of his face with the beginnings of scruff on his chin.

His eyes darted around the street, taking in the busy vendors with their customers and trying to determine who’d be least likely to notice a pilfered meat pie or a couple of pieces of fruit for himself and his mother. Spying a likely suspect, Killian never slowed as his hand shot out toward his prize. But the shopkeeper was much more aware than Killian had given him credit for, and before he knew it, his wrist was captured in an iron strong grip and he was being pulled behind the small booth.

Without a word, the hulking shopkeeper pulled out a cutlass and brought it down on Killian’s wrist. He was too shocked to even register the pain as he watched his blood gush from the end of his arm. Too mesmerized by the gruesome injury to do anything, he realized darkness was encroaching on the edges of his vision and the sound rushing in his ears was the agonized howl of his wolf - who had manifested only a scant six months ago - dying away to whimpers before everything went black.

It was nearly a week later that he’d woken, according to his mother. She hadn’t been far behind him as he ran through the market and had seen what the shopkeeper had done. She was too late to do anything about her son’s hand, but she’d made sure the shopkeeper would never be capable of such cruelty again. A small dagger coated with aconite from the Monkshood plant leaving a scratch across his wrist was all it took to sentence the man to death before the sun set that same day. She was the one who got him back to the hovel they called home, and nursed him around the clock until his fever broke and he finally awoke. He felt different - an emptiness he couldn’t define - but couldn’t put his finger on why until he looked down at his hands, now hand, and everything came rushing back. His shout of anguish brought his mother running, throwing aside the excuse of a room divider which consisted of a cord strung between two windows on either end of his straw pallet with clothes and rags hanging from it. She gathered him in her arms, whispering soothing words in his ear and rocking him back and forth like she did when he was a small child until his own cries quieted. 

Killian,” she breathed. He pulled back just enough to see her eyes and was shocked at the profound sadness he saw there. “I’m so sorry. Your wolf is gone.” She tried to gather him close again, but he pulled back in alarm instead.

“What?” he asked, confused. “Why!? Is that why I feel different? Not just my hand?”

“Losing a limb,” she imparted on a hitched breath, “kills the wolf inside of you. Until you find your True Love.”

“My True Love?” Killian’s confusion and grief were stronger than ever. “But what if I don’t have a True Love? What if…”

“You mustn’t give up hope, my son,” she said fervently. “You will find her someday, and your wolf will return.”

And today was apparently that day. Killian watched as her eyes widened slightly. He could only hope that she could somehow feel the connection between them. The hum of True Love that he didn’t have time to examine or revel in as Arthur rang the bell signaling the beginning of the contest - of which apparently his True Love was the prize. 

The other men along the wall moved toward her and then all turned to him, the depraved lust in their eyes as they looked at her turning into gleeful anticipation as their gazes settled on him. In that moment, Killian realized they’d somehow all agreed to band together to take him out first, obviously the weakest having only one hand with which to fight. Killian met each of their eyes in turn as they all drew their swords.

“It’s nothing personal, you know,” the tall, arrogant one said. “Can’t allow such an unsuitable, maimed cripple to claim my prize.”

The taunting words were all that was needed for Killian’s wolf to come to the fore. It had been twenty-two years since he’d transformed, but that didn’t mean he didn’t remember exactly what was happening. His own wicked but gleeful grin took over his face as the power of his wolf filled him and he fell to his hands and knees in front of them. The pain-filled howl taking over his mind ripped from his now open maw while the bones, muscles, and sinew in his arms and legs broke, tore, and mended again into their new form. The men before him were frozen in shock, and Killian became aware of an uproar above him among the spectators of the contest. Arthur rang the bell and screamed at the guards and slaves to kill the beast in the arena, but no one moved to do so.

Killian was fully focused on the men in front of him, but was also dimly aware of his True Love. She was still crouched on the ground, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. The transformation now complete, he let loose a full, ringing howl of victory as he leapt toward the largest of the men, still frozen in terror. His claws sank into the man’s chest, blood flowing like rivers down the expanse of bare skin. Killian clamped his jaws down on his head, his canines piercing bone, until with a powerful shake of his head, the skin of the man’s face and the bone underneath tore away from the skull, exposing the soft brain tissue contained within. The man’s screams were abruptly cut off when Killian swiped his claws from the gaping head wound to the top of his chest.

He then turned his attention to the two men on either side of his first victim. He quickly took care of the both of them - the first, ripping his head off with one swipe of his powerful paw, and the second, using all of his front claws to open his enemy’s chest cavity and gut, his intestines spilling to the ground in front of him - before he turned around looking for the one who’d taunted him in the first place.

The smugness was gone, but a look of grim determination had replaced it as the man, armed with only a sword, and wolf circled one another. The uproar among the audience had all but completely died away, the spectators watching in horrified fascination to see who would emerge the victor.

The man lunged and Killian backed up, well out of reach of the sword his opponent wielded. As they circled, Killian became fully aware of something that had only tickled the edge of his mind in the last several minutes as he faced off with the other men. He had both his front paws! Did that mean that his hand would also be restored when he returned to human form? He had no time to ponder the question as his adversary jabbed toward him again.

“Do you really think you can win?” he asked. His eyes gleamed, and the smugness that had disappeared after Killian killed the others was coloring his countenance once again. “You’re nothing but an animal. I’m going to kill you and skin you and hang your pelt on the wall where I can see it every single day for the rest of my life.”

Killian bared his teeth, a low and vicious growl coming from his throat before he surged forward briefly, snapping at the other man. Giving him a good look of exactly what he was up against. Fear flooded his adversary’s eyes, and the hand holding his sword in front of him began to shake uncontrollably. They continued to circle one another, but the man wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings and was nearing the bodies of two of their dead competitors. It was only a moment later when his foot came down squarely on the innards Killian had spilled earlier and flew out from under him, landing him flat on his back amid the blood and gore-covered ground.

Killian wasted no time. With a mighty leap, he landed on top of the man, his claws making ribbons of his enemy’s bare skin. He’d dropped his sword when he fell, and now reached for it as his screams filled Killian’s ears. Biting down on his upper arm, arterial blood sprayed his muzzle as he ripped it clean away from his shoulder. Killian slung the severed limb away before he turned back and tore the man’s throat out. The terror-filled and agonized screams turned to choking gurgles before they died away completely.

Killian looked up into the seats surrounding the arena. The masses were completely quiet and still, obviously not over the shock of what they’d just witnessed. When his gaze landed on Arthur’s, the despot’s eyes widened in panic, and he made haste to exit his elaborately decorated box. The rest of the audience followed the king’s lead, screaming and running for the exits. With another triumphant howl, Killian ran for the wall and cleared it with a single jump. He quickly caught up with the oppressive tyrant, leaping toward him and landing on his back, pushing him to the ground. He bit down on the exposed skin of his neck and was rewarded with another spray of blood signaling the end of the vile oppressor. 

The arena was now empty, save him and his True Love. He leapt back down to the ground and walked slowly towards her. She was crouched on the ground, her head hidden behind her arms, her golden hair shielding most of her body from view. He stopped, unwilling to terrify her even more than he already had, and changed back to his human form. He looked down and gasped when he saw his left hand completely restored.

He moved toward her again as she lifted her head and looked around at the empty arena.

“Where are your captors, milady?” he asked, gently.

“Gone, my lord,” she breathed. “Did you… what…?”

He unclasped the cloak he still wore from around his neck and spread it across her, covering her rags, though there was no one now to gawk or stare lustfully at her. She grabbed the edges and pulled it more fully around her as she rose to her feet, giving him a grateful nod.

“You’re him.” Her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper and was filled with an awe that Killian didn’t understand.

“I’m… who?” he asked, confused.

“You’re him,” she answered, a bit stronger that time. “My True Love.”

Killian couldn’t hope to hide his surprise at her words.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, excitement bubbling over into a beaming smile. “How did you know?”

“You were missing a hand before you transformed,” she explained, haltingly. She couldn’t hold his gaze for any length of time, her eyes bouncing between his and his restored hand that she gently took in her own, her other hand tracing the veins and bones there. “My parents told me before I was taken that if I ever lost a limb, I’d lose my wolf until I found my True Love.”

“You’re a wolf?” Killian almost fell to his knees in shock. He knew there had to be more out there like him, but he’d never met another. Not even his mother. Killian’s wolf came from his father, who’d died long before his own wolf manifested.

She nodded shyly and showed him her arm with the silver bracelet.

“That’s why they put this on me,” she explained. “To keep me from changing. Could you take it off? I can’t. But someone else can.”

“Of course.” He pulled the bracelet off and threw it to the other side of the arena. 

She frowned, and Killian thought he’d never seen anything more adorable in his life. “If they hadn’t forced me to wear it, I would’ve made short work of those two before they could get me two steps in here.” 

Killian smiled and gathered her in his arms, placing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “That’s my girl.” After holding her for a moment, relishing the feel of her arms around him and the True Love between them, he released her. “My name is Killian. Killian Jones.”

“My name is Emma. Emma Swan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma Swan.” 

She smiled softly and finally met his gaze. “You as well, Killian Jones.” 

She looked around before meeting his eyes once again. “So what now?” she asked. 

“I have no desire to stay here,” he muttered darkly. “Shall we run?”

Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “Yes, please. I haven’t been able to change for almost a year. Since they took me from my home.”

“I have no home,” he said, a note of melancholy in his words. He looked at his True Love again, his mate, and felt a bone deep contentment that he’d never known. “You’re my home now, Emma.”

“And you’re mine, Killian.” Her smile was full of joy as she got down on all fours before him. “Let’s run.”

He joined her on the ground and transformed. When he came back to himself, he saw a pure white wolf in front of him with eyes of green. She tilted her muzzle to the sky and released a long howl before running for the wall surrounding them. He joined her, his howl mixing with hers in a haunting melody that sent chills down his spine. He followed her over the wall and they ran, ran, and ran away from their past and into their future.

Together.

~*~*~

Thank you so much for reading and sharing!!! I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear what you thought!!! Please give Kit all the love as well for her gorgeous artwork!!! The Supernatural Summer will continue with more fics and art dropping about every other day through the end of August, and I so hope you enjoy this last round!!!

[slotumn]

Personal take on TWSITD is that aside from the writers not utilizing them better, there can actually be a very simple in-universe explanation for why they're so cartoonishly evil: self-selection.

These guys have been underground and vowing revenge and terrorizing Fódlan from the shadows for 1000+ years, those who are still there by the time of canon era are Not Normal. If there are "good Agarthans" they've either been killed by the others (or some other worse fate) or they ran away (maybe like Shez's mother, if she was Agarthan) and disassociated with them forever.

As for whether it's just the leaders or if all of them are like that, Kronya is the only named lower-ranking character we see, and she's not doing it because she's being forced to (like the Fell Dragon kids from Engage), she is literally in it for the love of the game. If she's meant to be representative of her echelon, I think there's a good chance these guys are all off their shits from top to bottom— and if not off their shit, still 100% complacent in everything the worse ones do.

As for the things that make them evil, from what little we get of them, they're... actually the same things that cause problems in Fódlan with "normal" humans, just taken to its logical extreme. Elitism, xenophobia, social Darwinism, etc.

For that reason, my personal interpretation when it comes to TWSITD and what they did Fódlan's history isn't them corrupting perfectly good uwu innocent people who would never do anything wrong and making them do things they otherwise wouldn't have— people were already going down that path, and TWSITD just push them along, assist in it, and (try to) hijack it for their own ends along the way.

I also think there are also perfectly plausible scenarios where TWSITD choose a different nation as proxy, and the corresponding lord allies with them (also for their own ends). Dimitri and his quest for revenge (especially when they already have Cleobulus in Faerghan court), even Claude and his initial thought that he needs some kind of decisive strong power (ex: Sword of Creator) to accomplish his goals. Again we don't really see it on-screen but I assume these guys are very good at convincing people, especially while disguised.

Tl;dr Fódlanis are extremely not immune being useful idiots for terrible people and the reason why they make such useful idiots for those terrible people is because they are, in fact, already pretty terrible on their own

[littledeadling]

hii congrats on your blondification ~ if you were to recommend one book, one album, and one video game that you think everyone should experience, what would they be?

OOOH fun question thank you...

Book:

easy. Annihilation by Jeff Vandermeer

(Actually do read the whole trilogy I beg)… It’s so vastly different from the movie. It changed my brain forever. It’s so relentlessly fascinating that I’ve read it in a single sitting twice. Please please please. There’s nothing like it

Album:

Okay this one is a harder sell, BUT it’s a load-bearing album of my soul:

Antimai by The Dear Hunter.

Each track of this album represents a different ‘ring’ of a fictional society called Antimai, from “Ring 8 - Poverty” all the way up to “Ring 1 - Tower”... the instrumentation varies to thematically represent the echelon of society of each given song. The lyrics and poignant and the vocals are impassioned and I get absolutely drunk on it. I’ve listened to this start to finish more times than any other album in my life and I only discovered it in 2022. It soothes my brain when I’m overstimulated. It’s definitely not for everyone, but I just think it’s a masterpiece. It’s magical to me. I think you should listen in order all the way through, but if you wanted a taste, Ring 7 - Industry is a jam, Ring 6 - LoTown reminds me of the haunting horns of Revachol, and my favs are probably Ring 5 - Middle Class or Ring 1 - Tower.

I could talk about it for hours. But I’ll stop now.

Game:

I don’t play many games tbh, I’m a Slay the Spire/Balatro type of guy (yes I’ve slayed the spire multiple times✌🏼). But I wouldn’t make anyone play those. I WOULD however make everyone play Disco Elysium.

The art. The music. The narrative. The gorgeous prose. The way it’s both the most haunting story that stays with you forever AND full of the most hilarious lines of dialogue ever created. And you can make Harry wear a mesh shirt and a faggot jacket. What more could you want