#indigo music au

[smilingberryy]

Been a hot minute, but I still have been on a creative high since the end of October and got a few characters designs jotted down for both my AU's!!

I plan to color them digitally when I can but I really love how these came out :]

[glitchedfoxx]

I may or may not be going a little bit insane.... anyways have more glue content

[girlinthetardis04]

Hera joins the roster!

I had a lot of fun designing her, to be honest. I tried looking up what Greek royalty wore but have up halfway and just took some liberties. Purple is for royalty, obviously, and also for the peacocks. Streaking of which, the feather earrings and golden pin (yes, it's supposed to be a peacock). The teal was also a reference to the colour of peacock feathers, plus it works nicely with the purple. I tried to make her features slightly birdlike, hence the nose, and the dots under her eyes just looked pretty to me, but you can interpret them as another reference to the peacock's pattern. No real reason for the red hair, I just feel it suits her character. I wanted her to look as royal as possible, and I think I got it pretty well. She looks so beautiful.

[occasionally-traintrio]

Occasionally TrainTrio #8: least gay twimbly pose

inspiration:

[inkedtae]

the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART I

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

PART II ➡︎

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.4k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ and happy birthday to my channie! here's to another year of unhinged love letters. 🐺🖤

❥ okay so i'm moving this fully to tumblr as well as it being available on ao3 HOWEVER the entire fic is over the character limit for tumblr post so this one-shot has been divided into two parts. both parts are uploaded.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Dusk is a medley of tangerine and indigo. Peachy rays of the sun shine between drifting clouds. A quartered shadow of the moon makes a premature appearance. You breathe in the early October air, eyes fluttering shut with the exhale. Clutching onto the balcony’s rickety railing, the rusted metal so cold on your bare hands, you fill your lungs again, taking deep, slow breaths.

The world stops spinning. The muffled music, once pounding against your temples, fades away. Body steady, you sip on the fresh air and swallow away your nausea.

I can do this, you tell yourself. Just one last drop off. I hand it over and leave.

They probably won’t even recognise you. You let your hair grow past your shoulders and dyed it strawberry blonde. You changed your style, trading your baby pink and blue matching sets for muted mixtures of red and black. Fishnets, little gym shorts, a graphic KISS babydoll tee and an oversized, knock-off fur coat you nicked from a local bodega weeks ago, you transformed yourself into someone new.

You turn back to the glass doors now. Catching your reflection, you cringe at the smudged eyeliner and runny nose. You wipe your hands under your eyes and above your lip, sniffling your worries away. You fix your jacket, reapply your dark red lipstick, and frame your hair around your face.

“I can do this,” you mutter as you slide open the door and step back into the party.

You spot Vince by the DJ, Danni and Andrea lingering nearby. Your heart drops to your stomach. They once told you they hated Day-1 parties, yet here they are, taking shots of gin and robbing the entertainment of their equipment. They once told you they loved you too, that they would never leave you behind. All at once, the three of them turned their backs on you, forever haunting your every waking moment.

You push between bodies. Tonight is not about ghosts. You have a debt to settle.

“Name?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Vik.”

Viktor crosses his arms over his chest. “Think this a joke?”

You fight off a smirk. “Nah, that’s not what I think a joke looks like.”

He grits his teeth, tossing you a vulgar gesture before moving aside. “Bitch,” he hisses in your ear as you walk into the master bedroom.

Red lights, smoke, needles. Two topless women dance to the muffled music, bottles in hand. Three Day-1s watch, one with his hand on his crotch. The bed shakes by them, two junkies bouncing on it like children as another Day-1 makes out with their friend.

By the window, two more members stare out to the street.

Exit compromised.

Gagging erupts from the en-suite, coaxing your curiosity. Another topless woman hunches over the toilet. Horny Day-1 members crowd around the entrance, trousers around their ankles as they watch.

You redirect your attention to the table on the far right. Reggie, point-man of tonight’s drop off, sits facing the door. He flashes a toothy grin, racking his gaze over your curves.

Hands remaining by your side, you fight against the instinct to wrap your coat tighter around yourself.

Reggie calls you over with the curl of two fingers, puffing his cigarette smoke out through his nostrils. 

“Name?”

“Vinny sent me.”

The three men sitting around him exchange glances.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Reggie, dressed in a blood speckled undershirt and baggy cargos, sits up in his seat. “Is that what I asked?” He looks around his fellow members, drily chuckling with them before repeating, “Name!”

The rules for runners are very simple; there’s only one— Never state your name. It creates a trail and binds you to an affliction. Rival gangs won’t work with a spy, and your name will be the first they spill if caught. You’re simply a messenger, no different than the guy that delivers the same-day Amazon order, distributing grams of coke and meth instead of a Roomba.

Honour gangs, like Day-1, are tricky, however. They have a second rule:

“Never lie,” Vinny warned.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

“Figure it out.”

You shift your weight. His insistence on your name, knowing you will risk your safety, is simply a test of will and grit. You purse your lips, flirting your eyes over his all too arrogant, lanky frame, and reply, “Bitch.”

Reggie raises a brow. He stands, reaching a hand behind him.

“That’s what everyone calls me,” you quickly add, then you shoot him a wink. “Fat bitch, if you’re nasty.”

The room stiffens. Even the gags from the bathroom cease. You keep your attention tunnelled on Reggie. You watch as he fixes his shirt over his gun, holding your breath when he rounds the table.

Nearly an arms length away, a smile finally settles on his old face. “Where the hell did Vinny find you?”

You force yourself to return that same easy grin and peel back the lining of your coat. “Be sure to ask him that the next time you see him. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Reggie gestures for his members. You pull out the wrapped bags of crystal and pass them out, ignoring the way his eyes devour your frame.

“Are you handling the cash too, princess?”

You try not to cringe at the pet name. Licking your lips, you keep your features soft and peer at him from your lashes. “Not tonight. Vinny said you know where the drop point is.”

He hums. 

You pull your coat back around your body, resisting the urge to recoil under his glutinous gaze. He looks no younger than forty-five, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes not doing him any favours. Vinny warned you Reggie might get handsy. Under any other circumstance, you would have kicked him in the balls and spat on his face by now. But you’re in Day-1 territory and don’t have a gang of your own for support.

Reggie reaches his hand out. You take a step back.

Before the thrill of your resistance can poison his stare, you flash him a coy smile and playfully whine, “I’m working tonight.”

He nods towards the door, laughing to himself. “Go on then, princess.”

You turn your back to him, unable to force down a gag. Though you’re eager to escape, you keep your steps steady and even. You stride towards the door, knock thrice and shift your weight to make a show of your boredom while waiting for Viktor to respond.

A relieved breath topples out of you once the door shuts. You lean on your knees, shakily trying to catch your breath.

Viktor carefully scans your hunched frame. “You good?” He whispers, voice is strained, carefully void of emotion.

You nod, standing back to your full height.

Hazel eyes lock on you from the bottom of the stairs. Vince furrows his brows. Danni follows his gaze, Andrea already staring, lips moving.

Shit.

They can’t know it’s you, right? From the way Vince merely narrows his eyes, he must simply suspect something.

You turn to face Viktor.

He tosses you a cautious look, muttering, “I can’t help you.”

You know this, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Just tell me if they’re still looking.”

“Yes.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Viktor keeps his features neutral, posture stiff with his hands clasped before him. “They still got a hit on you, yeah?”

You nod.

“You packing?”

“You know I’m not,” you snap.

Non-members are not permitted entrance if carrying a firearm. You left yours with Vinny before running. Shoving your hands in your pockets, all you feel is your phone, lipstick, and switchblade.

“On the move,” he warns.

“Give me your gun.”

Viktor casts you a sidelong glare. “I can’t.”

You sneak a peek over your shoulder to find Vince halfway up the stairs. You see Danni reaching into her pocket, catching the glare of the lights against a blade. They’re in no rush, but if they make it to the landing before you can secure a proper weapon, you’ll be out of options.

“Do you have a knife?” you ask, taking a step back.

Viktor stiffens.

Shit, are they close?

“Last room down the hall,” Viktor mumbles.

You know you shouldn’t have, but fear triggers adrenaline and soon overwhelms your nerves. Panic binds to your bones, snapping tense muscles into action. You bolt— alone, alarmed. Pushing between drunks, jumping over junkies, you hurry to the farthest room and slam the door. It doesn’t have a lock so you tuck a chair under the handle. Rummaging through drawers, digging through the closet, lifting the mattress, you look for a knife, a gun, anything other than a three-inch switchblade to defend yourself.

The door trembles from the pounding of their fists.

“Come on out!” Vince shouts.

“It must be her! She’s always fucking hiding!” Andrea adds. “Get the fuck out here! Have the balls to face what you did, bitch!”

You find yourself warped in a memory—

“No one wants your boyfriend, Danni,” you shouted. “He came onto me.”

Her open palm landed on your cheek.

Tears gathered in your eyes, face stinging. You stumbled back.

“You’re a lying bitch,” she spat. “At least have the decency to face what you did.”

You blink out of your thoughts, dropping the mattress.

Dresser, closet , bed— Where else could a weapon be? You scan the room, heart hammering with every forceful knock of the door.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Reggie asks, voice muffled.

Your attention settles on the window in front of you. You hurry towards it to find the fire escape.

“Viktor, you sneaky fuck,” you whisper through a relieved chuckle. He wasn’t directing you to a weapon but rather an exit.

You quickly push it up, catching rumblings of orders to blow the door open. Up and out, you jump, sparing a second to shut the window behind you. It might be counter-productive to waste precious time on a window but you know that concealing your exits always gives you a head start.

Rushing down the stairs, you don’t look back upon hearing the loud blast of metal on wood. You just catch their commotion over the heavy bass of the music.

Jumping the final steps, you run.

The Underground sits on the corner of Bank and Third Avenue, tucked under a row of red-bricked townhouses. You lean against the wall, stowing yourself away in the alley to catch your breath. Sirens whirl down the street, casting red and blue lights over your sweaty face. A man of very little wealth stumbles by, clothes torn and stained, waving a sign that reads, JESUS LOVES YOU.

You roll your eyes, wondering where the fuck Jesus was when your parents failed you, when the bank repossessed all you had and when the system passed you from house to house.

The thick stench of sewage and rotten trash suddenly sets in, blighting your next inhale. Leaning over, you succumb to a gagging fit. Thankfully, only bile and saliva gather. You cough and spit it out, then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. An annoyed sigh escapes you at the realisation that you fucked up your lipstick yet again.

“Just some drunken slut.”

You carefully redirect your attention to the far end of the alley. Two men stand a couple of inches apart. One of them wears a grey tracksuit, glaring at you under the light of the backdoor. He has a towel resting around his neck, just over a thin gold chain. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, his relatively handsome twists with contempt. The other one wears an oversized jersey and low-riding jeans. Though dressed like a boxing fan, you can tell by his rigid posture he’s anything but. No one who gambles their mortgage away on Underground matches stands that straight.

And then you catch it, in the glimpse of the light, the flash of his badge nearly slipping out of his pocket. You wish you were surprised, but you know all too well that it’s dirty cops like this legitimising gang activity.

He pulls his pants up, and continues to pace. “Is he gonna throw it or not?”

“He won’t,” Tracksuit replies, looking over his shoulder.

The dirty cop curses.

“You know how Bahng is,” Tracksuit explains. “He’s too prideful. He won’t ruin an undefeated streak for a few thousand.”

“It’s five hundred thousand, Mickey. Did you tell him that? Does he know?”

Mickey nods, readjusting the towel behind his neck. “And I’m telling you he doesn’t think it’s worth it.”

A shiver dances along your spine at the way the cop’s face hardens. Sinister desperation gleams in his gaze and he pulls out a long knife. In a single motion, he shoves Mickey against the wall and presses the blade against his throat.

Mickey chokes back a scream, throwing his hands up in surrender. “W-whoa, Andy! C-Come on, man.”

Andy bears his teeth, quietly laughing to himself. “Do you think this is a fucking joke? Do you know how fucked I am if he wins this match? Day-1s, Ravens, Siphons— they’re all after me, Mick. I have a family— a fucking career.”

“That’s not my pr—”

“Problem?” Andy finishes, his laughter becoming more manic. “You think it’s not your problem? What do you think I told them when I promised that Bahng would lose?”

Mickey’s face drains of colour.

“I told’em Mick with the little dick can fix it for us.”

Tears gather in Mickey’s eyes. He swallows thickly before shakily asking, “Wh-Why would you s-s-say th-at?”

“Come on, everyone knows you have a small—”

“You know what I mean!” He shouts.

Andy applies pressure with his knife. You catch a trail of blood running down Mickey’s throat.

“L-Look,” Mickey starts, screwing his eyes shut, lips quivering. “He’s hard-headed. The only way he’s not w-winning this ma-tch is if s-someone gets to h-him bef-ore he makes it to the r-ring.”

Andy smiles.

“He takes the long way ‘round. He likes the attention, c-can’t resist it, you know?” Mickey continues. “He goes thr-ough the back h-hall to circle the a-arena and enters the c-crowd from the fr-ont.” He takes a second to swallow before continuing, “It-It would be a real sh-shame if someone g-g-got to him before he can m-make it.”

You watch Andy nod.

“What did you do?”

You jump, hand already grappling for your switchblade as you turn to face your assailant.

Vinny glares back at you.

Giving him a shove, you clench your jaw and hiss, “Don’t do that!”

He corrects his stance, hands in his pockets, then spares a look over his shoulder. “Day-1s are blowing my phone up about some blonde bitch. Did you lock yourself in Tatiana’s room?”

You look back to the other end of the alley. Only flies circle under the backdoor’s light.

“Hey!” Vinny hisses, forcing your attention back to him. “Are you listening?”

“It wasn’t me,” you lie.

He deadpans. “You’re the only bitch I know who has a score to settle with Vince.”

You avert your gaze.

“What happened?” He repeats. This time his voice is less accusatory.

You’ve known Alvin “Vinny” Tucker since you were sixteen. He lived in the apartment above yours and later became your foster brother. You dropped out of high school together a couple months later to sell bootleg Marvel movies on Sixth Street. He really wanted to see Madonna in concert and promised you a front row seat with him if you helped. He was recruited by the Sixers around the time your foster mom came to collect you off the street and force you back to school. He told her where you were, you later found out, to spare you the violence the Sixers had in store for you. He never said it was a debt, though you did feel like you owed him something.

Things changed when Vince set a hit on you. Your description and name were on the radar of every gang, the reward being the acquisition of new territory. The left port is the most sought after piece of land, currently managed by Vince’s father, Vincent Jones Senior. Anyone able to deliver you back to your ex-friends alive suddenly has access to the docks and a monopoly on shipments.

With nowhere else to go, you turned to Vinny. He called Viktor, cashing in a favour, and got to work. The dyed hair, new wardrobe, change of address, it was all done in a matter of hours. And all you had to do was run, hand over the rocks and not attract attention— the goal was simple.

“So how the fuck did you manage to screw that up too?”

“I told you that it wasn’t me!”

“Say that again and I will lose my shit.”

“They can’t prove it was me, okay? Tell Day-1 Vince is paranoid. Run them my old description. Tell them he’s desperate. Let him clean that mess up himself,” you reply, rubbing your temples. “It’s not that fucking hard, Vin.”

You could use a hot bath right now. All you want to do is scrub off the stench of the alley and chaos of the night. For someone who swears he doesn’t want you, Vince took one look in your eyes and knew it was you. He always acted strange but you just thought he was being friendly. It wasn’t until he was rubbing your thigh between shots and rounds of cards that you realised he wanted more than friendship.

You cringe at the memory, pulling your coat tighter around your body, and push past Vinny.

He grabs your arm, yanking you back to face him. “Not that hard? Jesus, you’d think there isn’t a bounty on your head,” he hisses. “You need to be more careful, alright? This is my life too!”

Guilt gathers bile at the base of your throat. You let out a shaky breath, redirecting your gaze to the floor. “I-I know,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, okay? I just—”

Vinny grasps onto your biceps, lowering himself to meet your remorseful gaze. “You can’t panic like that,” he reminds, cutting you off. “The guilty don’t run. You know this.”

“I’m sorry.”

You hate the shakiness of your voice, the admittance of guilt. It’s fucking Vince and Danni and Andrea, the same fucking people that swore they were there for you. It’s their fault everything is falling apart. You’ve known Danni for five years, Andrea for three and both of them just believed Vince when he told them that you were hitting on him, even going as far as kissing him. Had they always suspected you to be a conniving whore, the type of malicious bitch that would risk five years of friendship, of real connection over some guy?

And you were too nice to him— a mistake that now could cost your life.

Vinny releases you with a defeated sigh, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Let me walk you home,” he offers, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

You nod and hug your coat tighter against your body.

He nods towards the entrance of The Underground. “After the match,” he promises. “Sixers have a bet to place.”

Bracing yourself, you follow him down the steps. “Against Bahng?”

“Boxing fan?” he half-jokingly asks, tossing you a confused look over his shoulder.

You shrug your reply.

The main hall smells of sweat and beer. One side holds five queues for refreshments and ticketing, while the other fosters chaos. Men clutching cash and shouting names crowd around the betting stands. Security struggles to keep them in line. Loud rap music plays over the looped announcement of tonight’s opponents — AIDEN MATTHEWS VERSUS CHRISTOPHER BAHNG. You watch their names flash over the screens, pictures of both boxers on either side of the doors. While Aiden is actively fit, muscles and abs on display, Christopher is the embodiment of perfect physique. Muscles defined, shoulders broad, chest puffed out, abs tight and chiselled, he stands with the grace of Adonis himself. Tall, confident, he leers over spectators through the screen with a cold-cutting glare.

Your knees almost buckle.

“It is the clash of titans! Reigning champion, Aiden Matthews, against the undefeated, the unstoppable, the undeniable, Christopher Bahng,” the announcer enthuses over the intercom before urging the audience to lock in their bets.

The only titan you see is Christopher, trailing your gaze up and down his televised body.

“You’re drooling,” Vinny teases.

You turn to cast him a sidelong glare to find he’s no longer by your side. His red beanie bobs in the crowd, through the doors and further into the arena.

“Vinny!” you call, trying to push your way through.

The crowd pushes back, almost throwing you against the wall. You curse under your breath, realising you might have to wait until the match starts to navigate through the arena.

Isn’t there a back hall that circles around, though? You recall Mickey’s words, scanning the crowd for that red beanie again. It still sits atop Vinny’s head by the ring on the other side of the arena. You look for a nearby door or access-point, finding a guarded door to his far left. If you can find the entrance on your end, you can skip through the large crowd and get to him easily.

You survey your surroundings. Another security guard stands before a door to your right. Pushing through the gamblers again and again, you force your way towards him.

“Authorised personnel only,” he gruffly informs.

“I-um—”

“You need to move, miss.” he cuts you off with a pointed look.

“I’m here to see Bahng,” you lie, letting your jacket drop off one of your shoulders.

He raises a brow. “Who commissioned you?”

“Mickey,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

There is much honour among gangs, this Vinny always makes sure you know. He always warns you against dishonesty, especially to certain gang members, since you have no affiliation of your own. But it’s just so easy when you have the right information and you like the way lies just happen to roll off your tongue, effortless and oh-so convincing.

The guard nods, much to your concealed surprise. “Just his type,” you swear you hear him grumble as he opens the door for you.

Hiding a smile, you make your way in without another word.

The back hall is dimly lit. The click of the door echos. Medleys of muffled bass and roaring fans only just seep through and bounce off the brick walls. You adjust your jacket on your shoulders and follow the turns of the hall.

DING!

You jolt, cinching a yelp at the base of your throat. Hastily, you dig into your pocket for your phone.

Vinny: where r u?

You: be there soon

“Lost?”

You look up at the sound of an Australian accent. To your left is an open door of a dressing room, casting a bright spotlight on you amidst the dark hallway. You put your phone away and take quick note of the bodies around the room. Mickey stands by some weights in the corner, eyes narrowing. A handful of medical professionals assess their equipment, rummaging through their kits and looking over clipboards just across from him. By the punching bag, right in front of a wall of mirrors, a couple of men, one with long, icy blonde hair and the other a short midnight black, evaluate your presence.

And there, in the centre of it all, stands Christopher Bahng. Jawline sharp, nose large and lips plush, those big brown eyes soften. You recall the way they were once glaring at his opponent on the screen, wondering what the hell it is about you that makes him opt for a gentler approach. Wrapping boxing tape around his hand, he approaches you.

“Can I help you find something, darling?”

The pet name sounds so casual, so natural, you wouldn’t have guessed that you just met. Your posture relaxes, coat falling off your frame, held up only by your arms. There is a softness in his deep voice that nurtures something forgotten deep within your soul. You feel it- whatever it is- sprout roots in your gut.

Searching his eyes, the cursed word escapes within a breath— “You.”

He smirks.

Does this happen often? Does everyone simply fawn over him?

He smells of leather and vanilla, towering over you. His minty breath fans your face. He rubs his thumb under your lip, cleaning up the smudged lipstick from your chin.

You lean into his touch.

“You’re early!” Mickey shouts from his place in the back. “Sister Maria knows you’re needed after the match.”

Sister Maria can fuck herself, you think. She has tried and failed to recruit you one too many times. Though, if you had known that her clientele was anything like Bahng, you might have reconsidered.

Looking at him now, you can confirm that those screens barely did him any justice. He’s big. It’s no wonder he’s undefeated, the sheer size of him dominating enough. He barely even has a scratch on him, just a couple of cuts on his perfect cheekbones and a bruise that is well on its way to being fully healed, along his jaw. You resist the urge to trace the length of his shoulders, or the ridges of his abs all while leaning in to kiss his wounds away.

Instead, you swallow thickly and nod, “Yes, I-I just got confused.”

Bahng curls a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s okay, darling,” he smiles.

You bite back a moan. God, when did you get this pathetic? So what if he’s hot, and sweet, and beautiful, and huge, and—

“You can wait in here for me,” he nods back into his dressing room. “I won’t be too long.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. He flashes a cocky grin, knowingly gazing down at you. He really is prideful, a bit arrogant too, but you’re not quite sure it’s misplaced. Undefeated in the ring, the only chance anyone has at beating him is by planning an ambush before a match .

Shit.

Your eyes flicker to Mickey. He’s going to kill him. In a matter of minutes, Bahng and his team will circle the arena to enter the ring and get intercepted. And for what? A fucking paycheque?

You shift your weight.

“No!” you shout, starling the room.

All eyes snap to you.

What? You mentally scold. I can’t just shout ‘No’ and expect the entire fucking shit-show to be called off.

Bahng raises his brows. A smile plays on his lips and he lets a chuckle slip. “That needy?” he teases.

Fuck, he’s insufferable… You need to ride him.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you force yourself to concede, “Mhm.” You grasp the waistband of his crimson silk shorts and tug him closer. He lets you, pressing himself against your stomach.

A trembling breath slips.

He holds back a chuckle.

Say something, your mind shouts.

“Fuck me.”

Not that!

He cups your face. The way you instantly melt into his hands is truly pitiful, your chest raging with humiliation. But then his lips meet yours and those roots that grew deep in your gut begin to blossom up through your rib cage and around your lungs. Absolute serenity blinds whatever contempt took purchase in your chest. You try to grapple onto that anger, that disdain, finding this sudden light feeling much too foreign.

But just as his lips cradle yours, this incomparable feeling of pure contentment soothes your panicked instincts. And it’s as though those roots, those branches that sprouted around your lungs, bloom petals of… Acceptance? Approval?

The feeling of his hands trailing down your spine ground you back to him. You wrap your arms around his neck. Cheek by cheek, he cups your rear and squeezes, pushing your hips up into his.

You moan, the muffled sound so frail. His tongue slips through and, for a boxer, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. He lets you take the lead, following your tongue round and round until you release another fraught groan.

And then he’s torn away.

Mickey stands between the two of you. He shoots you a nasty look before pushing Bahng back into the room. You can tell Bahng allows the meek force of his coach to overtake him, lazily stepping back.

The ease of his movements is not what arrests your thoughts, however. It’s the mess of red lipstick around his mouth, of which he makes no effort to remove.

“… and I’ll say it again!” Mickey shouts, his voice finally registering. “No sex before a match!”

You blink your attention off Bahng as Mickey moves to shut the door in your face.

“Let her in,” Bahng orders.

Mickey turns to give him a look. “She’s a distraction.”

You catch Bahng walking towards the weights along the back brick-exposed wall, effectively ignoring Mickey’s protests. “Don’t make me come over there, Mick,” he playfully warns, taking a seat on an inclined workout bench, “Let my girl in.”

You’re in the midst of wondering whether he’s merely his coach, a friend, or both when his final words set in. You hold onto the door frame to keep from falling over. His girl? You’d turn yourself in, confronting Vince, just to hear those words in that Australian accent again.

“You commissioned her for me, didn’t you?”

Right, you think to yourself as you will strength back to your legs. You’re his sex worker. This is nothing personal.

You roll your shoulders back and adjust your stance, channelling bored seduction, as Mickey begrudgingly opens the door.

Bahng calls you over with a nod. He has heavy weights in each hand, curling slow reps.

You lick your lips and force one foot before the other. But his biceps are flushed, flexing with every lift. You can’t help gawking, bouncing your attention from arm to arm, and almost run into one of his men.

“Jacket,” Midnight-hair says, positioning himself between you and Bahng with an outstretched hand.

While there isn’t anything of value left in your jacket, you know that if they find the lining is removable, your cover will be blown. You cannot deny them it either, especially if you want to get close enough to warn Bahng.

So you slowly peel the jacket off, sticking out your chest in hopes of distracting Midnight-hair. He keeps his eyes trained on you, gaze hardening as if he is struggling to commit to his choice. From the corner of your eye, you see Icy-hair push himself off the wall to carefully watch. If they refuse to get lost in your show, you’ll have to switch gears. In one swift motion, you whip the jacket off and roll it to a ball.

Midnight-hair glares. He unfolds the jacket as soon as he takes it– a detail you should have anticipated. Rummaging through your pockets, he announces, “Switchblade, lipstick, phon—”

You freeze.

Though it is quick, occurring in a blink of an eye, you know he sees it, cutting himself off at the realisation.

The lining flaps open.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi—

“Hang it by the door, Seungmin,” Bahng orders.

You meet his gaze. That easy playfulness that once danced within it, now dims into calculated intrigue. You spare a quick glance at Mickey. A relieved breath escapes at the sight of him muttering into his phone, alone in the corner.

Looking back at Bahng, you finally see it. There, sprayed on the back wall in black and silver paint, is a three pointed crown. In the middle, drawn with jagged, lazy lines, are three letters— SKZ.

Of all the fucking gangs.

Stray Kids, speculated to have immigrated from Australia or Korea, have slashed their way to the top of the city’s food chain. The chambering of a round— chk chk boom — shoot first and ask questions later. It’s how they’re known. Notorious for money laundering, drug trafficking, vandalism, extortion, arson, street racing, they’ve swept the city up from the coast to the police department. You’ve witnessed gangs fall silent at their mention, caught the way they would take hold of their weapon.

While there have been whispers about the members, the leader remains faceless. Vinny once informed you that no organisation can become this connected without someone calling the shots. At the time, you wondered if that was the most terrifying thing about them— how unknown they really are.

Staring at Bahng now, white canines on display behind a wicked grin, you realise that his leader’s anonymity is futile compared to the intimidation of their members. It’s their silent power, the ease in which they can rattle bones with a single look, perhaps even crack them with a single blow. You are not sure who Christopher Bahng is to Stray Kids— the muscle, the brains, some money pawn as they infiltrate the underground boxing scene, but you know he is dangerous.

Arousal dampens your shorts.

“Take a seat, darling,” he purrs.

He’s lethal, and your lies are unravelling. If you are going to make it out of here alive, you must reassess your information. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with wavering courage, and move towards Bahng.

Step.

Mickey is a rat.

Step.

This is Stray Kids territory.

Step.

Bahng knows you are not a sex worker.

Step.

Exits are compromised, Icy-hair now standing at the door.

Step.

Your life is now in the hands of an unrivalled boxer.

Bahng nods down to his lap. You carefully straddle it when it dawns on you— His life is in your hands too.

Half-hard, his cock pokes at the clothed apex of your thighs. Your lips quiver as you try to fight back a pathetic whine.

“My pecs tend to ache after working out,” Bahng sighs, continuing his reps. “Won’t you be a doll and massage them for me?”

You don’t need to be told twice, shifting yourself closer.

His jaw sets at the gesture.

Pecs of pure muscle, big and tight, you take a moment to gawk. They extend beyond the span of your palms, pale skin flushed under your touch. He’s sweaty but cold, nipples hard. You hold his gaze and kneed the heel of your hands into his chest. Again and again, you apply gentle pressure, watching as his brows furrow, large nose scrunches and full lips curl into a pleased sneer.

He hisses between breathless gasps. You resist the urge to catch another kiss at the sound.

“How does that feel?” you ask in a whisper.

Bahng sets his weights down. You notice Seungmin straightening his stance in the corner of your eye. Though your hands start to tremble, you continue massaging, knowing sudden movements might trigger a bullet.

Hands on your waist, he pulls you closer into him. “Have you done this before?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do much massaging in your… line of work?”

You mentally curse. He knows you’re a runner.

“This is not the body part most people want massaged.” You try but cannot keep your lip from slightly curving, the thought of servicing him on your knees all too captivating.

He presses his fingers into your skin and parts his lips. You can tell from the force of his grip and shape of his mouth what he’s about to ask.

Sparing a quick glance at Mickey, you find he is still tied to his phone, muttering quietly into the receiver.

But then he catches your eye.

“Who—”

You throw your body over Bahng’s, exaggerating the force with a whip of your hair and a loud, erotic yelp to cut him off. You wrap your arms around his neck, press your lips to his ears and whisper, “Mickey is a traitor.”

While he originally hugged your waist to keep you from falling, Bahng now stiffens.

“Alright, whore,” Mickey shouts. “Get the fuck out!”

You spot him stomping towards you through the mirror. The collided image of your body intertwined with Bahng’s then overwhelms your attention. You have never felt small a single moment in your life, yet in his arms, you are minuscule. Your body relaxes into his, despite the chaos that ensues around you.

“…a fucking distraction, Chris,” Mickey argues. “You can fuck her after the fight.”

Chris. You like the sound of that, can see yourself moaning it as you bounce on his cock. You clench at the thought.

“Go back to your little corner, Mick,” Chris nods. “Don’t interrupt us again.”

“You want to win, don’t you?”

You can’t hold back your scoff. You can see the room stiffen at the sound through the mirrors. Peeling yourself from Chris’s strong frame, you fake a string staggered cough. The physicians ignore you, Mickey dismisses you, but Chris and his other friends remain observing, analysing.

“I’ve fucked plenty o’bitches before a match,” Chris confesses, flashing a smile so dazzling you almost abandon the jealousy that plagues your chest. “I always win.”

Mickey looks between your tangled bodies. His jaw sets, throat bobs. He wipes his face with the towel around his neck and forces a smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes, but it’s the thin scab on his neck that leaves you queasy.

Chris’s legs bounce beneath you, beckoning your attention. You grip onto his shoulder to maintain your balance as you meet his gaze. Wetness pools at the sight of his mischievous eyes. He peers at you under his brows, quirking one at your enamoured silence.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

What if you just kissed him again? How would he let it go? Knowing you lied and now leveraging information, would he be outraged if you closed the distance between you and played with his tongue? You know he enjoyed himself from the grip he had on your ass alone, not to mention the bulge pressing against your stomach.

You lean forward, leaving one of your hands rested on his shoulder, and brush your nose against his. He remains still, letting his gaze fall to watch your lips. While oh-so tempting, you don’t press them to his. Instead, you knead into his pectoral muscles deeper with your other hand, pushing into his skin with the heel of your palm. You’ve made sure to angle your head towards the mirror to gauge the distance of the other bodies in the room— particularly Mickey’s. Back in his “little corner,” he resumes his phone call.

Chris’s soft groan redirects your gaze to his features, contorted in relieved pleasure. Is he really tense or is it simply your touch?

Seungmin clears his throat from his place in front of the mirrors.

Chris shoots him a warning stare before offering you a softer version of one too. “Tell me what you know, runner,” he orders, voice quiet but full of command.

“I know he came to you with an offer to fix the fight,” you reply, keeping an eye on Mickey’s pacing frame. “I know you declined.”

His hands find a comfortable place on your thighs, and begin to glide up and down, soft and slow. Calloused, bandaged in boxer’s tape, they somehow provide tender care. You relax into him once again, resting your forehead against his.

“I know Mickey sold you out. I know he cut a deal to save himself and they’re coming for you.”

“Who?”

You nudge his nose with a shake of your head.

A ghost of a smile hovers over his plump lips at the gesture. He breathes half a chuckle and presses his fingers into the fat of your thighs, between the diamonds of your fishnets.

“You don’t know?” he practically coos. “Did you happen to catch a name, little one?”

Your attempts at pressing your legs together are pathetic. Instead of subtly easing your clenching desire, you squeeze his sides with your knees. Blood rushes to your face, heating your cheeks.

Chris lets that smug smile settle on his lips, tonguing his cheek. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “You like it when I call you that?”

“I like it when you talk to me like that,” you stupidly confess. You switch sides before he can reply, turning away from the mirrors to face Mickey’s corner, and kneed his other pec with just as much pressure, perhaps adding a bit more to combat your embarrassment.

He allows you, leaning back and watching.

He’s so patient, you fondly think, avoiding his gaze. Won’t he let you suck him before his fight? Even allowing you a little taste would suffice. Swallowing, you cannot stop thinking how empty your throat is, how wonderfully agonising it would be to try to accommodate him.

You spare a sidelong glance at Mickey, snapping yourself out your lustful yearning long enough to ensure you aren’t being overheard. When you find he is tapping away on his phone, you press your lips to Chris’s ear and whisper, “Andy.”

Chris continues rubbing your legs, asking, “What do you know about him?”

“I think he’s a cop.”

“You think?”

“He never said it.”

“So how do you know?”

You force your hips to remain still even as goosebumps rise in the wake of his risky touch, inching closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

“His posture, he said something about his career being on the line, and I think I saw a badge. I just–” you pause to swallow the excess saliva gathering in your mouth. He’s barely even touched you and you’re already drooling. “I just connected the dots.”

Chris hums.

You lean back to get a better look at his face. His features are compressed in thought, brows knitted and eyes uncertain. Your hand has a mind of its own, abandoning its task on his chest to comb your fingers through his dark hair. Leisurely, he meets your gaze, even leans into your touch. You graze his scalp with your long nails, soft and slow.

You have had sexual partners. You have allowed your lust to cloud your judgement, tossed back drinks and spread your legs quite a few times between parties and side-jobs. But you have never been able to hold someone down, however. You have never been able to consistently see the same person over and over or even call them yours.

Here is Christopher Bahng— undefeated boxing champion, the best The Underground has seen. Sitting beneath you, erection pushing against your clothed crotch, he contently sighs. His hands move up to your hips, rubbing, soothing, adoring the shape of your curves and rolls. And his gaze gleams with admiration, bouncing around your features as if looking for a flaw.

You allow yourself to forget the world, the distant chants of fans and gamblers alike eager for the show to start. You forget the bounty on your head, your ex-friends, Vinny, Viktor, Seungmin lingering around the door with Icy-hair, Mickey texting in his sad little corner. You forget who’s territory this is and the title of the man sitting under you. You allow yourself to isolate this tender moment and pretend that Christopher Bahng is yours.

Your man, your protector, your love. He’d crush skulls between his fist and snap spines over his knee. He’d make sure you’d never have to run again. He’d make sure you’d never have to fear for your life. He’d hold you when you’re tired, and carry you to bed when you’re too lazy to make the trip yourself.

You wonder what that’s like— Love. You remember your mother once said something about it when you asked about your father.

“Love is a lie men created to seduce women,” she said while heating the bottom of her spoon. “Any man telling you otherwise is just desperate to fuck you.”

You mentally roll your eyes. You also remember instantly regretting your mention of it. You were about eight years old when she shared that nugget of knowledge. She then wrapped the conversation up by telling you the heroin she was preparing was her “special medicine” and you shouldn’t, under any circumstance, touch it when she passes out.

If that’s not motherly instincts, you’re not sure what is.

“How can I trust you?” Chris asks, lulling you out of your thoughts.

You make sure Mickey is still preoccupied with his phone before joking, “The word of a whore isn’t worth much anymore, is it?”

He cracks half a smile before leaning his head away from your touch. You take the hint, retracting your hand from his hair.

“You’re not a whore,” he states, voice gruff but quiet.

You swallow thickly. “I could be.”

“Yeah?” He quirks a brow. “Tell me what you’d do right now if you could.”

You wonder how honest you should be. Vinny always said that lying would get you killed, but you have an audience. Looking over your shoulder, you find Seungmin alone by the door. Icy-hair must have left when you let your delusions engulf you earlier. The physicians are desperately trying to look busy, sneaking glances at your proximity with their client. Everyone, save for Mickey who seems the most peeved by your presence, is already uncomfortable by your position on his lap.

How dangerous could the truth really be?

Meeting Chris’s playful stare again, you rest your hands on his tight abs and let a shy smile tug on your lips. “I would ride your thigh,” you confess. When he raises his brows, a surprised smirk gracing his lips, you explain, “They’re just so big and strong. I’m just curious to know what it would feel like on my clit.”

The transparent vulgarity of your confession dries your throat. Your chest heats, humiliation trembling your fingers. You part your lips, wishing you can take it back. But your voice fails you, as if standing firm with your statements.

“Interesting,” he muses. “Do it.”

You clear your throat, furrowing your brows. “What?”

“You want me to trust your word?” he asks.

He lets his hands fall to his sides. Your legs suddenly feel so cold.

“In—” you cut yourself off, taking another quick look around the room. “In front of everyone?”

He shrugs. “You told me you would do it.”

You projected two outcomes the moment they discovered you’re a runner and you decided to exchange information for your life.

One — You get laughed at and kicked out of the establishment.

Two — Chk chk boom.

You might have hoped that Chris considered fucking you before discarding you to the streets, wishful for a good orgasm or two. But you did not expect him to order you to grind on his leg in front of his team.

“Match starts in five,” Mickey announces.

While you turn to acknowledge the warning, Chris keeps his attention on you.

“It starts when I say so,” he replies.

Mickey grumbles profanities under his breath before turning back to his phone. You start to wonder what the fuck has held his focus all night when Chris cups your chin, forcing your gaze back on him.

“I’m beginning to lose my patience, darling,” he warns. “You’re either telling the truth or you’re not.”

You lick your lips. Of all the things you thought your life would depend on, you did not think it would be an orgasm.

Inhaling deeply, you adjust your stance and straddle his thigh. Your lips tremble at the sheer strength of his leg, so tense and taut under your wet shorts. You couldn’t have been more thankful for laundry day and the lack of clean panties available. With nothing but your tiny gym shorts between your crotch and his leg, you can feel every mighty muscle.

You notice movement in the mirror from the corner of your eye. One glance and you find Seungmin has turned to face the door. How often has Chris played with a whore in front of his friends? You clench your jaw as envy pesters your heart. What the fuck did those other girls have that you don’t? Why did he pick them? Why—

“Look at me.”

You obey, meeting his pacifying gaze. He curls your hair behind your ears, the gesture gentle and genuine.

You suck in your bottom lip, eyes wide as jealousy transforms into wonder. He may have picked others before you, but he chose to let you in now. He had a chance to turn you away and he fought to have you in this specific position, all to himself. And maybe he wants others to know that. Or maybe he really does have a fucked up way of verifying his sources. What matters is this time, it is you. And you’ll be damned if you don’t take advantage of that.

Hands on his stomach, fingers sliding between the ridges of his abs, you thrust. The first jut of friction is tentative. Hiccups of pleasure spark from your bundle of nerves and you wobble over his leg. Chris grabs your waist simply to steady you, and retracts once you regain your balance.

You continue, jaw dropping at the constant surge of satisfaction. Wetness gathers and stains your shorts, making the glide of your hips all the more effortless. One look in his eyes, and you know Chris feels it too. However, that wicked smile of his does not overwhelm his features until you moan.

Strained, frail, the sound cuts over the ruckus of the physicians. The room falls silent as you ground yourself hard against his thigh and release another fraught moan of pure enjoyment. Your hands travel higher on his chest, and you lean forward into him, keen to gain more leverage to arch your back.

Chris catches onto your intentions, his attention all too consumed by the curves of your rear. He grabs your waistband and pulls on it, tightening the fabric to sharpen the friction of the thrusts.

“Fuck!” Your voice breaks from bliss, orgasm already festering in the base of your gut.

It’s all too hot. Face, arms, legs, your skin burns, blood racing, nerves jittering. You need everything off. You need his skin on yours, his body engulfing you with more pleasure, more attention.

Lips quivering, breaths shaky, you sit back. You continue to chase your high while grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it off. Your hips don’t miss a beat as you reach back to unclasp your lace bra in a few simple manoeuvres and toss it aside as well.

Chris lowly groans. His eyes flicker between each bouncing breast, hands finally finding their rightful place on your backside. He digs his fingers into the fat of your cheeks and helps you with your final few thrusts.

“Can you go a little faster for me?”

You enthusiastically oblige.

A powerful smack, landing on your left cheek, triggers your most erotic moan, voice laden with submission. He issues another on your right and you whine this time, squeaky and breathless.

Chris leans forward so your breasts bounce against his face. He doesn’t bury his face between them however, eager to watch your face eventually contort in ecstasy.

“Good girl,” he praises. “That’s right, keep looking at me.”

Twisting and turning, your arousal gathers.

“You’re doing so well, riding my thigh just like you promised, yeah?”

His voice is condescending, almost making a mockery of your whimpering. He even momentarily mirrors your rounded eyes and slightly pouty lips, looking up at you tauntingly. So why does it fuel your desire, motivate your hips?

You nod, despite your humiliation, voice whiny as you confess, “I’d do it again too.”

A growl of approval resonates from his chest and into yours. He kneads your cheeks, letting a deep groan of his own escape and collide with yours.

“That’s my good girl,” he affirms. “Don’t stop, darling. You’re almost there.”

Your toes curl, tight in your platform boots. Your eyes roll back, twitching when you throw your head back. Your jaw drops, a loud, shattered moan escaping. You cum between sporadically clenching, pathetically gyrating on his firm thigh.

Chris holds you still, mumbling quiet affirmations between your breasts. He presses wet kisses on each one, pulling you back into him. Draping your arms around his shoulders, you fall limp against him. He moans from his smothered place in the valley of your breasts and rubs soothing circles around your backside.

Head foggy, chest heaving, you let your eyes flutter shut. You know you won’t be staying here for long, either meeting the barrel of his gun or the side of the street. There’s no harm in soaking in this moment then, is there? You pretend he is your boyfriend, issuing tender aftercare as you attempt to collect your sanity. You don’t have to try so hard to keep up the delusion with the way he delicately wraps you in a warm hug and comforts your hammering heart with his lips. He peppers kisses up your collarbone, neck, then jaw before meeting the shell of your ear.

“You know you’re really pretty when you’re cumming,” he teases. “Does your right eye always twitch like that? Or was that just for me?”

You open your eyes, squinting against the brightness of the room. Nuzzling the bridge of your nose under his jawline, you whisper, “Do you really need more convincing, Chris?”

You like the way his name rolls off your tongue.

The widening grin on his face tells you he likes it too. “I might,” he replies.

You tell yourself that it just slips, but you’re only lying again. You just want him to know. You want him to imagine you when he jerks off later, when he pounds that traitor to a bloody pulp, when he’s standing in the ring and winning his fight. You want him to be thankful for your presence tonight. You want him to repeat it over and over, to tell his friends about you.

So, shifting back enough to whisper in his ear, you offer your name.

Chris moves back to meet your gaze. He scans your features, his own a blanket of neutrality.

The weight of your action does not settle upon your shoulders until his eyes meet yours again, and you realise you cannot decipher them. Swallowing thickly, you blink back tears. How could you say that? Vinny just warned you against being this reckless. Your new image is tied to him too. You’ve been running around town, disturbing drugs on his behalf or Viktor’s. And you just offer your name, for what? A second of appreciation from a pretty face?

It’s my life too, Vinny’s voice quietly returns. He reminded you of that not even half an hour ago. Why the fuck would you tell some Stray Kids member your darkest secret? Why would you gamble the lives of your only remaining friends?

“I’m—”

Chris cuts you off with a shake of his head. So, you swallow your words.

He reaches for your shirt and helps you put it on. You don’t have the courage to tell him he forgot your bra. He then gestures for you to stand, and fixes your ruined shorts so they’re not riding up anymore. You watch as he studies the damp spot and clenches his jaw to force back a smile.

“Seungmin,” he calls, standing up and towering over you again.

You wonder how tall he is but know better than to ask now.

Seungmin reports to Chris’s side. Chris nods to your fur coat, “Grab it and escort her to the stands.”

“You’r—”

“Now,” he reaffirms, cutting you off again.

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you accept your coat and follow Seungmin out. You shouldn’t have, but you sneak a glance at the mirror eager to catch his reflection one last time.

Chris’s features harden as he faces Mickey. His fists clench.

Mickey stiffens, all previous irritation dissolving into fear.

The door shuts.

Waves of painted faces and torsos, endless banners, and flashing lights— the arena succumbs to insanity. Roars of chants echo upon the ring announcer’s behest. The thick stench of sweat and spilled beer is what overwhelms you, however. Scrunching your nose in disgust, you try to swallow your nausea.

You wonder how anyone here can stand it, turning back to take a final look at Seungmin. He stands at the doorway, arms crossed, gaze lingering around your rear. His ears flame a hot pink at the realisation he’d been caught.

A lazy smirk plays on your lips. He didn’t get a good enough look before?

Seungmin mutters something to the security guard stationed at the door then hurries back into the hall. You wonder if the guard is a Stray Kids member too. Is the ring announcer? What about the employees behind the stands? Or do they simply work for the gang?

“Runner!” Vinny’s voice cuts through the crowd. You turn at the call of your position, finding him standing on his seat and waving you over.

A relieved smile spreads across your lips. He meets you halfway as you push between rowdy spectators. He takes your hand firmly in his and leads you back to your seats.

“Where the hell were you?” He asks over the commotion.

“It’s complicated.”

Vinny’s face darkens with scepticism. “What the fuck did—”

“Who did you bet on?”

He clenches his jaw. “Matthews,” he practically screams.

So the Sixers are in on it too. You wonder if the gangs are onto Chris, knowing he might be affiliated with Stray Kids, and are working together to bring them down.

“Change it.”

“The bell rings in less than a minute,” Vinny shouts before looking over his shoulder to the front doors. He meets your gaze, uncertainty flooding those cerulean eyes, and mouths, It’s fixed.

You shake your head.

Vinny rolls his eyes shut, teeth grinding. He swallows his anger, knowing he cannot hurl insults right now with such an audience. Unlike you, he knows better than to call attention to himself. Exhaling sharply, he harshly holds your gaze and parts his lips.

Profanities? Threats? You expect both, bracing yourself with a clench of your fists.

But Vinny merely shakes his head in disappointment. He pulls out his phone and begins dialling. While waiting for someone to pick up, he yells, “If I die, I’m going to kill you!”

You suppress a smile and stifle the urge to respond with a joke. You fear you might have reached his limit. You’ve dragged him into your dark vortex of despair, endangering his life again and again. You should reach out to him now, pull him into a tight hug and offer endless apologies. You should have taken the chance he gave you when he called your foster mom, and stayed off the streets. You should have finished high school, applied for colleges outside of the wretched city of Crimson Heights, and never looked back. Instead, you continue to test his patience. 

Side-jobs were simply more lucrative. You have a talent for blending in too, a permanent look of indifference plastered on your face. No one ever suspects some girl, twirling a joint between her fingers, to be running or organising hits on corner stores and local diners.

The first time you held a gun, power ignited through your veins. You carried the weight of life within a bullet, finger teasing the trigger. The first time you pointed it at some store clerk, black ski mask over your face and tongue swirling around a pink lollipop, you felt that stone cold power of metal and powder snake along your spine and caress the nape of your neck.

You rolled your shoulders back, angled your head and smirked.

The clerk soiled himself, hands up in surrender.

You pressed the barrel to his head anyway, boring your wild eyes into his fearful ones.

“Well, this is awkward for you, isn’t it?” you giggled before cocking your gun.

The memory lures a smile. While you didn’t shoot him, provided he was very cooperative, it was fun toying with him.

The lights begin to whirl around the arena, snapping you out of your thoughts. Vinny hangs up the phone, and though the crowd is deafening, you can still hear his heavy, nervous breaths beside you.

All lights converge in the centre of the boxing ring. The cheers increase, crowd buzzing with anticipation. A tall, slender man dressed in a clean, glittering suit enters and takes his place in the middle of the ring. He holds a hand up and waves, encouraging excitement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to The Underground!” He shouts into the microphone. Cameras capture his perfect white smile, projecting the image on the large screens hanging over the ring.

“My name is Jackson Wylder and I will be your ring master this evening. Now, I have an important question for you tonight.” He scans the audience, displays a look of curiosity and asks, “Are you ready to rumble?”

The cheers surge.

“I said,” he starts before darting around the ring, “ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE?”

You clap your hands over your ears at the thundering roars of the fans. A group of manic men jump behind you, almost pushing you off your seat and onto the spectators in front of you.

Vinny links his arm with yours and pulls you into his side. You turn to give him a thankful look, but he avoids your gaze.

“Tonight, we have a clash of titans!” Jackson continues, turning to point to his left. “In this corner, weighing in at 210 pounds and hailing from our very own, Crimson Heights, give it up for the man who’s always up for a fight— the skilled and tenacious, Aiden Matthews!”

Aiden emerges from a dark hall closest to his corner. He wears a blue silk robe and white gloves, bouncing on his toes as he makes his way through the unruly crowd. They holler at him, either tossing praises or insults, and bump their hands against his fists. He waves his arms up to encourage their hectic energy then finally enters the ring. His coach unfolds a chair and then helps him out of his robe.

Jackson shakes Aiden’s hand. He mutters a few words before returning to the centre of the ring.

“And in the opposite corner, we have a fighter who needs no introduction—” Jackson starts again. A childish smile plays on his lips, like he’s a fan, himself. “A crowd favourite, a sensation, and the undefeated champion who makes every match feel like a blockbuster!” He’s giddy, practically giggling his words. “Standing tall at a staggering 6 feet 9 inches and weighing in at an impressive 215 pounds, please put your hands together for the man who’s taken the boxing world by storm, Christopher ‘The Phantom’ Bahng!”

The roars bellow deep from the crowd as they cheer and chant, “Bahng! Bahng! Bahng!”

Everyone, even Jackson, turns to the front door, waiting for Chris to emerge.

You swallow thickly.

The lights then shift to the other end of the arena.

Your heart already falters at his height. He’s still almost a foot taller than you in your thick platforms. You stand to see him, legs almost giving out when you spot his large figure appear through the back door. But it’s the mess of red lipstick still smeared on his lips, the blood speckled like freckles on his cheeks, and the dark patch on the leg of his shorts that wrings your soul. He didn’t even give you a chance to be grateful that he trusted you, slaughtering your sanity with such a dishevelled look.

Decorated in you, he enters the ring and shakes the hand of a bashful Jackson. No one seems fazed by his appearance. Jealousy pangs your chest at the thought of him being drenched in his past whores, the admittance of his pre-match rituals returning to you.

One look from Vinny might indicate otherwise. He glares at your smudged lipstick.

You roll your eyes and lean into him, too breathless and trembling to fight off his wrath.

“Tonight,” Jackson smiles, raising his hand to redirect the crowd’s attention. “Tonight, we’re in for a spectacular display of skill, heart, and,” he shoots the fans a little wink, “perhaps a bit of humour—because let’s face it, if you can’t have fun while throwing punches, what’s the point?!”

He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke.

You keep your eyes on Chris. Mickey does not unfold his chair and take his robe. Instead a shorter, just as muscled, man does. He gives Chris a weary look, of which Chris ignores, and squirts some water in his mouth.

You force yourself not to focus on the droplets that drip from his pouted, stained lips.

“This is not just a fight, folks,” Jackson informs with a raise of his brows. “No, no! This is a showdown!”

He lets the crowd go crazy before continuing, “Aiden Matthews is ready to prove that he’s a force to be reckoned with, but Christopher Bahng,” he turns to his favourite star and grins, “has captured the hearts of fans everywhere. Can Aiden dethrone the giant, or will Bahng continue his reign of dominance?”

You suck in a shaky breath and blow it out. You fill your lungs of tainted sweat-slick air, fighting the urge to gag, and release it once more. Looking around the arena, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. All these fans have come to watch Chris win, and have no idea that he almost died.

“So, buckle up, ladies and gents! Keep your drinks close, your snacks handy, and your eyes glued to the ring! It’s time to witness boxing history unfold right before our eyes!” Jackson’s eyes twinkle with astonishment and wonder. He holds his arms out and turns in a slow circle. “Are you ready for this showdown?” He asks as if truly probing for a personal answer.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!”

Mouth guards in, both fighters stand.

Aiden, while built and tall in his own right, looks like an ant compared to Chris. He pounds his fists together and grunts to assert his dominance. He bounces on his toes and shoots Chris his most menacing glare.

Chris flashes a lazy smile. He rolls his shoulders back and holds his fists up. He peers over his gloves at Aiden like a predator stalking its prey.

The bell rings.

“And here we go, folks! Round 1 is officially underway! Aiden Matthews is looking to prove himself against the undefeated giant, Christopher Bahng!” Jackson comments ringside.

Aiden cautiously circles the ring with Chris. He maintains a safe distance, the heat of his gaze wavering under Chris’s relaxed stance. Testing the waters, he tries his luck with a quick jab.

Chris has the height advantage, however, effortlessly leaning back to dodge. The punch barely grazes the air before him.

Aiden narrows his eyes.

“Ooo,” Jackson hisses. “So close!”

The crowd laughs, almost as one, before splitting between chants for each boxer.

Aiden, eager to recover, steps in quickly, unleashing a flurry of body shots aimed at Chris’s midsection.

You hold your breath and tighten your grip on Vinny’s arm.

But, Chris doesn't flinch. His arms, long and strong, keep Aiden at bay with precise blocks. The controlled ease of Chris’s movements highlight Aiden’s childish, tantrum-like fighting style. You can’t help wondering how the fuck Aiden made it this far. Perhaps other boxers can’t track the chaotic jabs as well as Chris does. Maybe they didn’t even try.

“Matthews is coming in hot, throwing quick combos, but Bahng is as cool as ice—deflecting every shot with ease!”

Chris, ever patient, waits for an opening. He keeps his elbows tucked in, movements minimal, letting Aiden expend energy. He evades each punch with swift swerves of his head, taking small steps back. Even hunched, crouched inwards, his frame still looms large over Aiden.

The majority of the crowd now chants Chris’s name, flooding the arena with jittery admiration.

Like a trigger, fast and smooth, Chris snaps forward with a sharp jab. The blow lands against Aiden’s guard, but the sheer strength of it forces him back.

“Bahng with the first real strike of the night!” Jackson shouts.

Aiden’s eyes widen. He finally feels the power, you realise, and his gaze floods with fear.

Jackson tosses the crowd a giddy look and gushes,“That jab was like a freight train!”

The crowd clamours with laughter in agreement.

You catch a ghost of a smile hovering over Chris’s lips. Is it insane that you find him even more attractive when he’s menacingly playful? An image of his face inches from yours, that same impression of a smile unable to settle on his lips, surfaces. Those feline eyes, teasing, daring, coaxing you to ride him.

You bite your lip and refocus your attention on the match.

Aiden resets and presses on. He bobs and weaves to avoid Chris’s long reach. Ducking low, he slips inside Chris’s defence to unleash a rapid combination of punches to the torso and a hook aimed at the chin.

Chris blocks the body blows then, all too calmly for someone being beat up, rolls with the hook, avoiding the brunt of it. That sinister smirk settles, oh so cunningly, curving the corners of his lips. Without delay, Chris counters with an uppercut from the right, the snap of his arms swift and steady.

Aiden only just manages to block it in time, but the impact leaves him rattled. He stumbles back with a loud grunt. Wheezing and regaining his footing, his eyes betray him, glowing with newfound respect for his towering opponent.

In awe, Jackson remarks, “Bahng is a mountain of patience—waiting for just the right moment to strike! Matthews is going to have to dig deep if he’s going to find a way in!”

You glance at the final seconds of the first round, glowing red above the ring. Less than thirty seconds remain.

Aiden, perhaps knowing he has to make a statement, launches a last-ditch effort. He levels a heavy left hook aimed at Chris’s side, almost mirroring the speed Chris recently displayed.

But Chris, as if seeing it in slow motion, smoothly side steps.

You gasp with the crowd.

He counters with a punishing fist aimed at Aiden’s temple. The punch connects cleanly, the crowd choking on their cheers. The thick sound echoes between the staggered shouts, twisting your stomach with unease.

Aiden stumbles towards the ropes, using their stability to keep himself standing.

The bell rings before Chris can issue another attack.

Jackson steps back into the ring. He eyes Aiden with wide eyes before sharing a look with the audience. “What a way to end the first round!” He laughs. “Bahng’s precision is something to behold, and Aiden Matthews has already felt the sting of that power! Can I get…”

The rest of his words fade as you fixate your attention on the boxers. Aiden returns to his corner with a shuffle of his feet. He’s drenched in sweat, face red and eyes tired. His coach wipes his face then squeezes some water into his mouth.

Chris leisurely walks to his seat. He wipes nose with his arm as he sits. Composed, unbothered, he stares his opponent down.

Aiden shifts in place.

You can’t help but do the same.

You’ve been wanting to leave since the fourth round.

You thought it was over when Chris landed an uppercut so sharp, you swear you heard Aiden’s jaw shatter. You watched as his eyes rolled back and he met the floor with a loud, echoing thump. Aiden’s team flinched, leering over the ropes only to be scolded by the referee.

Chris’s eyes gleamed with something ominous, standing over Aiden’s limp body. He tilted his head and tongued his cheek, lips heavy with the impression of a smirk. He doesn’t merely look proud, but gratified. You wondered at the time if he loves the splitting sound of a bone breaking just as much as you love the chambering click of a loaded gun.

But the crowd remained in the arena. Vinny gave you a reassuring look as if silently telling you it won’t be much longer, and the fifth round commenced.

Jackson returns ringside now, two more rounds later, announcing after the signal of the bell, “Round seven, folks, and this has been an all-out war! Aiden Matthews has been relentless, but Christopher Bahng’s defence is like a fortress!”

The crowd roars as Aiden and Chris step toward the centre of the ring again. Aiden, slick with sweat, jabs at the air, his face tense and determined. Chris, towering over him with his eyes ever so calm and calculating, bounces lightly on his feet.

As the audience resumes their chants for Chris, Aiden charges forward. He jabs with considerable speed and aggression. His punches are fast but painstakingly desperate. It’s almost embarrassing to witness, and you’re not even a fighter.

One glance at Chris and you catch his mask of cool flicker with hushed notions of pity, as if feeling sorry for his opponent. You scan his fighting stance, devouring his toned body with your eyes. His skin gleams with sweat and blotches of forming bruises. His left cheek holds a patch of purple; right brow split.

You swallow thickly, watching his muscles twist as he effortlessly weaves. He slips left, right, then ducks under an all too wide hook.

“Stay still, you fucker!” Aiden orders through gritted teeth, the microphones hovering over the ring catching every spit-splattered syllable.

Chris faintly smiles, eyes locking on Aiden's. He moves just enough to miss another jab by mere inches, dancing around the ring like he has all the time in the world. He then jumps high, resembling a kangaroo, once, twice, only to circle the ring again.

The buzzing energy of the crowd grows, their cheers building as if Chris’s little gesture is any indication of a shift in the round.

The screens cut to Jackson. He swallows thickly as his eyes track Chris’s movements then comments,“Matthews is giving it everything he’s got, but Bahng…” he takes a moment to let out a whistle, “Bahng is like a ghost out there! Just out of reach!”

Aiden presses harder, frustration creeping in as he tries to close the distance. He throws heavy hooks and uppercuts.

You almost scoff, wondering why he hasn’t learned yet. His efforts are useless against someone as skilled as Chris. Truly a phantom in the ring, Chris’s footwork is flawless, always just a step ahead, and he barely reacts.

He then ever so slightly adjusts his stance, leaving an opening wide for Aiden to pounce.

You furrow your brows.

Jackson voices his concern too, narrowing his eyes. “Is Bahng showing weakness?” He asks as if he cannot believe it himself. Then his eyes widen. “Matthews sees it—he’s going for it!”

Aiden lunges forward, hurling all his power into a swift right hook toward the exposed side.

However, as steady as his opponent commits to the punch, Chris sidesteps with speed that rivals lightning, and counters with a sharp left jab that snaps Aiden’s head back.

You stand again with Vinny, both gasping with the crowd. A hand flies to your mouth as you watch Aiden stagger back.

“OH!” Jackson beams, “Bahng saw that coming from a mile away!”

Chris is relentless. He moves in smoothly, landing a quick, precise combination—jab, cross, uppercut—that sends Aiden stumbling backward.

Aiden’s guard falters.

Chris steps forward. He drives a thunderous right hook straight into Aiden’s gut.

Aiden gasps for air, the force buckling.

Chris, collected and focused, steps back, allowing Aiden a moment to gather himself.

Your eyes widen at the pacifying gesture, wondering what he has to gain by giving his opponent a chance to strike again.

All thoughts cease within seconds as Chris feints an attack. It draws Aiden’s guard up high only for Chris to slip low and deliver a devastating body blow, placed perfectly under the ribs.

Aiden groans, dropping to a knee. The air is completely knocked out of him.

The referee stands over his kneeling frame, counting, “One!”

The crowd erupts with excitement, some jumping as they cheer for Chris, while others remain shackled in disbelief as Aiden tries to regain his strength.

“Two.”

Jackson is rocking in place, jittery with joy as he enthuses,“Bahng is not just beating Matthews—he’s outthinking him! Every move is a step ahead, like he’s reading Aiden’s mind!”

“Three.”

Aiden is wobbly, but pulls himself back to his feet. He shakes his head, attempting to refocus. You suppose that Jackson’s comment must have struck a cord because Aiden looks as though he is done thinking. He lunges again, impulsive and messy.

Chris is undeterred by the chaos Aiden becomes, this time feinting a right cross.

Aiden’s guard flies to the right. Then, Chris pivots and delivers a clean left hook to his temple.

“What a move!”Jackson praises. “Bahng’s precision is surgical!”

Aiden collapses against the ropes.

Chris steps back, watching, waiting.

The stillness of Aiden’s muscular frame worries the referee. He steps in, leaning by Aiden’s side to get a better look.

The camera pans over his swollen, bloody face. You cringe.

The referee stands back to his full height to wave his arms, calling, “It’s over! It’s over!”

The crowd explodes into catastrophic cheers upon the referee’s decree.

Chris raises his gloves in triumph and pride. While he is well within his right to gloat, and perhaps has done so before based on the fact that you know he likes to show off, he remains composed. The only emotion hinting towards elation is in the lightness of his gaze as he looks around the arena at his fans. He nods to them, lips finally curving into a smile.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was shy.

Jackson returns to the centre of the ring. He gestures his hands towards Chris, encouraging the howls of the crowd. “Christopher Bahng has done it again!” He says, smiling fondly at Chris. “Not just with power, not just with speed, but with pure brilliance in this ring. He’s shown everyone why he’s the undefeated champion!”

You don’t get a chance to revel at the sight of Chris stiffening as Jackson holds his arms out wide for a hug. Vinny tugs on your arm instead, nodding his head towards the exit. You keep your arms linked and stay close as he pushes between the manic crowd for you.

“Explain yourself,” Vinny orders the moment you’re back on the street.

You look over your shoulder at the entrance of the arena, then whisper, “Not here.”

Vinny rolls his eyes but starts walking towards your apartment. After three blocks of silence, he says, “Talk.”

“I was looking for yo—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he seethes, cutting you off. “How the fuck did you know Matthews would lose? It’s been fixed for the last week.”

“Just listen to me,” you plead, raising your voice. “When I was waiting for you in the alley, I heard some things.”

Vinny shoots you a nervous look.

You continue, “One of those things was that there were back halls that go around the entire arena. I really was looking for you in there, Vinny. You left me to fend for myself and those people were hard to squeeze through. So, I found one of the doors. And— listen, I know you’re gonna be mad at me, but I really thought it would be easier this way.”

His face falls into disappointment. “You lied.”

“I lied,” you confess, avoiding his gaze as you continue down the street. “I told the guy at the door that Chris—”

“You call him Chris?” Vinny interrupts, voice heavy with astonishment.

“Well—”

Vinny cuts you off with your name and a shake of his head. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he humorlessly chuckles. “No one but his inner circle calls him Chris. What the fuck did you do?”

“I told the guy at the door that I was his prostitute. It was only supposed to get me in so I could find you.”

“You didn’t,” Vinny says. Upon the guilty look in your eyes, he closes his own and sighs, “You fucked him?”

“Not exactly,” you hesitantly correct. “He’s really hot, okay? And he was really nice to me, and I don’t know if you know this,” you sarcastically start. “But not many people have been lately.”

Vinny offers you a vulgar gesture.

You roll your eyes. “I just told him what I heard and he needed convincing.”

“You fucked him,” Vinny concludes.

“Do you think I would be able to walk right now if I did?”

You try not to laugh as Vinny’s features coil in disgust. Parting your lips, you’re about to tell him that it doesn’t matter now. Chris is fine, the Sixers didn’t lose a dime and you can finally get that bath you have been craving earlier this evening.

However, the shriek of tires pierce through the silent night instead.

Vinny reaches for his gun, pushing you behind him. You go to grab your own only to remember you don’t have one. The switchblade will have to do if running is not an option.

A black van speeds down the street, darting past you to swerve onto the sidewalk and block your path. Seungmin jumps out of the passenger seat. Icy-hair and another tall, dark haired man, whose features remarkably resemble that of a fox, emerge from the back.

Vinny cocks his gun.

“Wait,” you shout, stepping between them. You hold your hands up, giving Vinny your most reassuring look. “I know them,” you explain.

Looking amongst the intruders, Vinny furrows his brows and asks, “How?”

“They’re Chris’s friends,” you reply, quietly adding, “I think.”

Vinny glares. “You think?”

“Walk away,” a deep voice orders.

Icy-hair steps forward with a gun of his own. However, he is not aiming it at Vinny.

You deadpan. “Did he tell you to do this? God, is he always this dramatic?”

“Tell me about it,” Seungmin mutters, then nods towards the van. “Get in.”

Turning to Vinny, you offer him a small, assuring smile. “I’m fine, Vin. Just go.”

Vinny scoffs, narrowing his eyes in disbelief at you. “He has a gun to your head.”

“Chris is an egoistic, attention-seeker,” you dismiss. “If they wanted to shoot me, they would have done so already.”

“How can you be sure?” Vinny shouts.

Chk chk boom, you think. Your brains would have already been splattered on the sidewalk.

Nodding behind him, you repeat, “Go. I’ll call you later.”

Vinny shakes his head, clenching his jaw and directing his frustrated gaze to the ground. As if wrestling his intuition, he resentfully lowers and uncocks his gun. He takes another look around at the men, swallowing thickly.

You wonder if they know he’s trying to memorise their faces. You wonder if they care.

“If you die,” Vinny says, voice wavering. “I will kill you.”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips. “Good.”

He breaths a baffled chuckle, gives you one final look, then forces himself to walk away

You turn to face the others, or at least you’re in the process of turning.

A black bag slips over your head. Arms pulled back, hands bound, you attempt to struggle against their grip. Too slow, your squirming does not distract them. Someone hooks their arms under your shoulders, another scoops up your legs. Heart pounding, you release a searing scream, attempting to wrangle your way out of their grasp. You kick and try to flail your arms, grunting as you fight against their hold. The three men look strong, but they are nothing compared to Chris. You doubt only two of them can maintain their grip this well when you feel another set of hands, then another.

Vinny shouts your name.

Your body is tossed into the back. You land with a loud groan, cursing at the impact of the pain.

He shouts your name again, the hard stomp of his feet echoing in the street.

A bullet sounds.

No, no, no—

“No!” You desperately scream. “Vinny!”

Tears gather in your eyes. This is all your fault. It goes beyond sticking your nose in business you had no right knowing. Since that day he found you back on the streets, hustling scammers out of their well-stolen money, you have dragged Vinny into your hole of reckless misfortune. You asked him to bail you out of one too many fuck-ups, forcing him to further implicate himself in your thoughtless schemes, often against the advice and support of his gang. He has risked his reputation, relationships, money, his good fucking sense, all in the name of childhood friendship.

And how do you repay him?

With a bullet.

Lip quivering, you ask between sobs, “Did you shoot him?”

You never deserved kindness. You never deserved freedom. You never even deserved compassion.

You are a tornado of vile anguish, a chaotic force of impulse and betrayal. You are a waste of space, your very existence is a curse set upon your parents. You should have known as much when the universe tore them away. You are not worthy of connections— all your friends withering in the wake of your misfortune.

What compelled you to believe that Chris would be any different? He might have been devastatingly beautiful and the look in his eyes might have continuously hinted at something tragically scarred. His kisses might have breathed new life into your soul, hands might have cradled every nightmare to rest. But he is still a victim of your calamity. You should have known a good feeling never lasts.

The back door slides shut. The engine revs, jolting the van into motion.

“Did you fucking shoot him?” You cry, voice breaking as a sob overwhelms you. “Vinny!”

Please forgive me, you want to scream.

“Shut up!” Someone shouts over you. You move to kick the speaker only for someone to grab hold of your ankles and bind them together too.

“He shot at us.” The same speaker clarifies. “And he has terrible aim for a self-appointed hero.”

Relief washes over you, ice-cold upon your trembling bones. You lean back, embracing the pain of the awkward position of your hands under you.

“He told us to knock her out,” Seungmin says, voice slightly distant. He must have returned to his place in the front seat.

“He did?” Icy-hair’s deep voice replies.

“I don’t think so,” someone else adds.

You lay limp amongst the shuffling of movements, ignoring their argument, too lost in thought to care. Though Vinny is alive, it does not alter the epiphany that has just dawned upon you— You inevitably ruin anyone foolish enough to come too close.

The edge of the bag lifts and a damp cloth presses against your mouth.

You embrace the darkness.

PART II ➡︎

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[shalomniscient]

MASTERLIST - 🖋️ indicates my personal favorites !

[FICS]

HONKAI: STAR RAIL

my home, for all seasons [serval x reader] 🖋️

bad romance [DARK CONTENT: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT] [acheron x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

any way you want me, baby [ruan mei x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

sleepless nights [himeko x reader] [kafka x reader] 🖋️

first time [himeko x reader] [yukong x reader] [natasha x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

good god, let me give you my life [ruan mei x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI] 🖋️

real deal [ruan mei x reader] [NSFT][MDNI]

GENSHIN IMPACT

lazy morning loving [arlecchino x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

love me like you do [arlecchino x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

bring me the sun [arlecchino x reader] 🖋️

PATH TO NOWHERE

breaking point [zoya x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

what is this feeling? [zoya x reader]

act three: resolution [deren x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

back to you [deren x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

video star [deren x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

cloudgazer [deren x reader]

experience [rahu x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI] 🖋️

all i see is red lights [rahu x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

worship (like a dog) [rahu x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI] 🖋️

(sun)dress [shalom x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

equestrian au (part 1) [cinnabar]

equestrian au (part 2) [shalom] [rahu]

like music [multiple] [NSFT] [MDNI]

de-stress [nightingale x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

ZENLESS ZONE ZERO

cat & mouse [jane doe x reader] [NSFT] [MDNI]

machinist! [grace howard x reader] [NSFT][MDNI]

MULTIPLE

on top (part 1) [NSFT][MDNI]

on top (part 2) [NSFT][MDNI]

voracity [NSFT][MDNI]

as the world caves in 🖋️

[SCRIBBLES & THIRSTS]

GENSHIN IMPACT

ARLECCHINO -> thinking about mornings with arle... -> love is most felt when it is leaving... -> nicknames... -> slow burn... -> f1!arle and motogp!reader... -> boss form arle... [NSFT][MDNI] -> a new sibling... [NSFT][MDNI] -> soft domming... [NSFT][MDNI] -> flirty with a twist... [NSFT][MDNI] -> on your knees... [NSFT][MDNI]

KUJOU SARA -> arranged marriage... -> give you the world... -> anatomy of a poisoning... 🖋️

NAVIA & CLORINDE -> starting a family... [NSFT][MDNI] -> clorivia and cafe owner!reader... 🖋️

NINGGUANG -> barefoot, on the beach of yaoguang shoal... 🖋️

HONKAI: STAR RAIL

FEIXIAO -> early hours with feixiao... -> scratches & marks... -> mooncakes... -> in the night... -> at first sight... -> laundry... -> feixiao and a regular s/o... -> terms of endearment... -> an arrow... 🖋️ -> modern!au... -> giving feixiao head... [NSFT][MDNI] -> taking feixiao's knot for the first time... [NSFT][MDNI] -> feixiao in rut... [NSFT][MDNI] -> tease... [NSFT][MDNI] -> knotted... [NSFT][MDNI] -> modern!au car sex [NSFT][MDNI]

YUKONG -> retainer... -> tag teaming with feixiao... [NSFT][MDNI]

ACHERON -> 'so take my tags, and i'll take yours'...

HIMEKO -> albireo, rising from indigo...

JINGLIU -> the person who knew jingliu the longest... 🖋️ -> legacies and dreams... -> fool's errand... [NSFT][MDNI]

KAFKA -> baby you and me are a twisted fantasy... [NSFT][MDNI] -> kafhime sharing... [NSFT][MDNI] -> shalom & kafka tag teaming... [NSFT][MDNI]

NATASHA -> tending your wounds... 🖋️

JADE -> bodyguard... [NSFT][MDNI]

PATH TO NOWHERE

ZOYA -> reunions... [NSFT][MDNI]

NOX -> nox headcanons... [NSFT][MDNI]

RAHU -> afab rahu... [NSFT][MDNI] -> shalom & rahu tag teaming... [NSFT][MDNI]

SHALOM -> 'you came?' 'you called'... 🖋️ -> post canon thoughts... [NSFT][MDNI] -> shalom & kafka tag teaming... [NSFT][MDNI] -> shalom & rahu tag teaming... [NSFT][MDNI]

ZENLESS ZONE ZERO

JANE DOE -> brief reunions... -> interrogation... [NSFT][MDNI]

[foolisheval]

Anemo Piercing Studio AU! a drabble

Your first visit leaves an indelible mark. The memory lingers, charged and vivid;

The first time you step into the sleek piercing studio, it feels like walking into another world. It’s sharp and modern—dark walls offset by gleaming jewelry displays, the quiet hum of music vibrating through the air. You feel out of place at first, nerves tangled in the pit of your stomach, but the moment you spot him—Xiao—you’re frozen in place.

Xiao stands behind the counter, dark hair brushing his jaw, amber eyes sharp and unwavering. The best piercer in town, everyone says. His reputation precedes him, but it’s not just his skill that leaves you breathless; it’s the way he carries himself, calm and controlled, like nothing could ever shake him. He calls you in and you fall silent.

The chair is cold under you as you sit, and the air between you thickens the moment Xiao steps closer. His hands are gloved, precise as he prepares the piercing, and the faint brush of his fingers against your skin burns hotter than it should. He says little, but when he speaks, it’s direct, his eyes never leaving yours as he murmurs instructions. You barely hear him over the sound of your erratic heartbeat and the music playing over the speakers as his steady hands tilt your head to the side. The pain of the piercing is quick but the heat that blooms beneath your skin lingers long even after he steps back. When he finishes, he hands you aftercare instructions, his voice smooth but distant.

As you head for the door, still dizzy from the quiet tension in the small room, the air shifts again. A figure leans casually against the front desk, the sharp indigo of his eyes locking onto you the moment you pass. He doesn’t speak but his smirk is enough to leave you breathless, like he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. His gloved hands flex as he removes them, revealing tattooed fingers that brush against his jawline in lazy confidence. He doesn’t even need to introduce himself, someone else does—Aether, one of the staff, calls out, “Scara, take a break already, will you?” and the name feels like it burns into your memory. His gaze lingers on you as you leave, like a promise you don’t yet understand.

When you return for your check-up you’re surprised to find Kazuha waiting for you. His smile is warm, disarming, and the moment he speaks, his voice lilting and soft, your nerves disappear. His red eyes gleam with something you can’t quite place, a quiet intensity that draws you in even as his gentle touch puts you at ease. He handles your jewelry with care, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he works. There’s no need for the extra lingering but he doesn’t rush, his voice dipping into something intimate as he gives you advice. You catch his gaze once and the faint curl of his lips makes you feel as if he’s unraveling you. Thread by thread. Without even trying.

When Kazuha leans in close to inspect his work, the heat of his breath fans against your cheek, you’re caught between wanting to stay frozen in place and wanting to turn toward him, to close the gap. “Perfect,” he says. The word hangs between you like it means more than just your piercing.

You think you’ve prepared yourself by the time you return to the studio again, exams finally being over and adrenaline buzzing through your veins. You’re ready to treat yourself with something nice. However, when you’re greeted by Scaramouche, all your composure dissolves. He doesn’t just take up space—he owns it, leaning against the counter with that same smirk you remember, his sharp eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels like a challenge.

“You’re back,” Scaramouche says, his voice mocking and smooth, like he’s been waiting. When he suggests a conch piercing, the way he tilts his head and looks at you makes it impossible to say no. His touch is firm but teasing. His hands linger a little too long against your skin as he works. He clicks his tongue in faux disappointment every time you shift around. “You’re not scared, are you?” he taunts.

Scaramouche knows just how to turn you into a stuttering mess.

The tension coils tighter with every teasing remark, every brush of his fingers, until you’re dizzy with it. When he’s done, he steps back, but the way his eyes rake over you makes you feel bare. Is he admiring more than just the piercing? “Looks good on you,” Scaramouche says with a confident smirk, but there’s an underlying weight in his tone that stirs something deep within you. Thankfully, he and his colleagues have a knack for delivering exactly what you need.

not proofread!

I'm considering developing this into a story and would love your thoughts on it. I envision it as a casual and light read, possibly incorporating smut along with a touch of angst. What do you think?

[yellowrabbitfurry]

Sup losers! /silly

This is my blog! Pretty neat, huh?

My name is Oliver, but I also go by Ollie, Killer, Kills, or Scout. My pronouns are He/him and it/its

Error has a side blog now!!!! -> @bow-little-puppets

(please please please ask me about my fantasy AU for the Vees or my OCs, I wanna talk about them so bad and if I ramble about it I might write something or draw their designs but I NEED someone to want me to pleaseeee)

Fandoms I’m in:

UTMV, FNaF, VotV, Subnautica, Dredge, Hermitcraft, Hazbin Hotel, Indigo Park, Poppy Playtime, Gravity Falls, Steven Universe, Digital Circus, Pokemon, Epic the Musical, SCP, Welcome to Nightvale, (more things to be added)

I’m a furry, obviously lol

Theriotypes:

Wolf, Golden Retriever, Fox, Brown British Longhair Cat (that also has Luna moth wings now btw. Very complicated I know 👀)

Fictionkin types:

Killer Sans!

The thing from Carrion

Swap Sans!!! Aka Scout :3

an angel? A star? A god? Idk some divine ass crechur with way too many wings lmao

Freaky deer beast lmao (similar to one of the w*ndigo depictions, but not actually one, obviously)

Horror sans

Error Sans!!

Fresh Sans 😎 (specifically the parasite lol)

I’m also plural!! I don’t exactly know much about the terms and such when it comes to it but I’m learning!!! I have exactly ONE!!! Head mate and it’s Error!!! He also goes by Puppeteer (or Pup!)

Things I do:

*I write fanfiction!! Mostly for UTMV, and I’m kinda slow, but apparently I’m really good! Anything I’ve written eventually be linked below, somewhere (as soon as I figure it out lmao) I don’t TECHNICALLY take requests, but give me them anyway! If I get inspired, I might write something (no nsfw)

*I make Therian masks! Only for me, but I will definitely be posting whatever I get finished with.

*I make things out of cardboard! So far I’ve made Sundrop, Glam Freddy, and Vox!

*I’m also teaching myself to draw! I’m not very good, so don’t expect anything- buuut if I make something I’m proud of you’ll definitely see it.

Fanfic Masterpost:

Nest (Bad Sans Poly)

Meetings (Utmv OC stuffs)

In pursuit of Freedom (Utmv OC stuffs)

Alive (VotV)

You can chat to me about anything you want, as long as you don’t make it weird (you know the kind of weird) I’m kinda bad at keeping conversation at first, but I’m a really good listener if you wanna ramble or vent! You can chat to me about anything you want, as long as you don’t make it weird (you know the kind of weird) I’m kinda bad at keeping conversation at first, but I’m a really good listener if you wanna ramble or vent!

And please, don’t get upset if I never answer your asks or reblog something I’ve been tagged in. I get nervous sometimes and put it off (or sometimes Tumblr breaks and won’t let me) and then I get even more nervous after a while cause I feel like it’s too late ;-;

That should be all for now! Thank you for taking the time to read this! (I hope I did it right lol)

(Credits for the divider used in this post goes to @/Killerssideblog, go check them out if you want! Credits for the autism banner goes to @/melmeldotpng with the art on said banner by @/angelsemotes)

[faetima]

𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐬. .

. . you’re cursed with hanahaki and shyness, while scaramouche is fated to forever hide his feelings behind a mask of indifference.

// tws ; blood ! ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au 

a/n: i love safety scissors by tiffi

there were many things you didn’t know about scaramouche. his family life, his favorite type of flowers, what his favorite kind of dessert was.

what his personal feelings about you were.

but, one thing you did know about him was that he liked cherry cola.

much, much more than the regular kind.

that was too bad though, since you hated cherry cola.

but you couldn’t fault him, your tastes just didn’t match up.

—

there were many things you didn’t know about scaramouche. his favorite sport, if his love language was physical touch like yours, if he didn’t like shy people.

if he was romantically interested in someone.

but, one thing you did know about him was that he wasn’t rightfully yours.

and that he would never be.

—

your life was slipping away like delicate grains of sands falling through your hands.

you gagged, pale pink and pristine white candytufts slipping out of your mouth and flopping onto the floor, the ungraceful motion contradicting to how elegant the flowers actually looked.

the flowers were dotted with dull, red spots of blood, standing out on the otherwise light colored blossoms.

you clenched your hands into tight fists, suddenly feeling how cold and clammy they had gotten.

you hunched down, heaving and coughing up more of the damned flowers. they were clumped together and were glistening from being coated in mucus and blood.

the cabbage-like scent of the candytufts combined with the metallic, iron scent of blood was starting to make you dizzy, your stomach turning. you gagged on nothing, queasy from the miasma.

maybe you had no chance with scaramouche.

—

you sat in class, shoulders slumped forward and lips turning downwards just the slightest bit. you rubbed one of your eyes, tired.

you let out a shaky sigh, not noticing your right leg bouncing up and down unconsciously.

“can you stop that?” a sharp voice cut through the silent haze that had been set over the classroom. you glanced up, finding indigo eyes narrowed in annoyance. scaramouche’s hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was clenched. he scowled at you, pretty face contorting into one filled with exasperation.

”sorry,” you mumbled, immediately dropping your gaze down to the desk, swallowing hard. nervousness crept up your spine, and you took in a shaky breath.

”whatever,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. his ears had the lightest tint of pink to them, of which you didn’t notice, too caught up in your own embarrassment.

—

you had bought new clothes because you thought you were going to see him that day.

you had cut your hair in your bedroom with safety scissors.

it was so embarrassing. especially because that was the only way he would even notice you, taking the fact that you were too scared to talk to him because of being so goddamn shy.

—

there was some distant memory you had of scaramouche and you back in seventh grade.

you had both been working on a project, and somehow you had wound up sharing your earbuds with him.

his nose had scrunched up in what had seemed to be disgust.

”you listen to this fucking stuff?” he asked you, staring at you with a scrutinizing gaze, a hint of curiosity in it which you hadn’t noticed.

you had stayed silent, not exactly sure what to say.

it wasn’t his fault that your music tastes hadn’t quite aligned.

— 

you had texted your friends.

they had said not to do it.

but you, being stupid, didn’t want to listen to them.

so you had cut your hair on impulse, all because you wanted to look nice for scaramouche.

now your hair looked so, so damn stupid.

and the worst part? 

you had cut it with safety scissors.

you should’ve listened to your friends.

—

coughs wracked your feeble body, draining all the energy it had left with the motions.

candytufts fell out of your mouth, piling up on the ground.

sharp pains in your lungs came in intervals, making you wish death would just come and take you already.

but no, it just had to be cruel. it was taunting you, making you feel like you were going to die, make you wish that you were going to die, only to never actually take you.

instead it put you through this suffering.

you felt like you were coughing your lungs out, wanting to rip your throat out from the pain.

you sobbed, wishing to just die, wishing for the world to just end your pain and suffering.

but, alas, death would never come for you.

all because scaramouche hid his feelings for you under a mask of indifference, hidden from anyone’s knowledge.

[fallingrealms16]

CAITVI FIC REC LIST PART 5 (???) <3333

THEYRE JUST GIRLFRIENDS YOUR HONOUR— *gunshots*

The mental anguish this ship has caused me…aye aye aye…PART 5!! All the long fics I promised in part ??2?? Idk but TAKE ITTT

‼️Lately I have been seeing a lot of targeted hate towards some authors. I wanna be straightforward and just say any hate is not tolerated on my page. If you do not like an author just don’t read their work. Simple as that‼️

I know a place by endlessmurmurs

71K Words // 14 Chapters // COMPLETED endlessmurmurs on X

//EXPLICIT//

‘But…I’m so…tired…’

‘I know. I know you are, cupcake,’ Vi soothes. Cait feels herself tilt suddenly and tenses at the feeling of falling, but it’s just Vi, moving closer as the mattress shifts under her weight. ‘But you have to stay awake, because I have things I need to tell you.’

What happens in the days and weeks (and months) following the events of Season One.

The Monsters that Haunt Us by Valkyriethehopeless

74K Words // 21 Chapters // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT// a part 2 coming in Feb

It's been over a year since Caitlyn and Vi last saw each other, over a year since the explosion that killed Caitlyn's Mother and changed everything. Vi vowed to herself she would leave Caitlyn alone, that she wouldn't bring any more hurt into her life. But when Caitlyn strolls back into the lanes and asks for her help, can Vi maintain her resolve to stay out of Piltover's politics? Or will she crumble at the first sight of an old friend?

Reflections of Indigo and Violet by JetBlackSynapse

84K Words // 13 Chapters //COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

A retelling of Vi and Caitlyn's story events from the show, beginning from the events of Episode 4: Progress Day. The story will be told from both their perspectives, and switches POV each chapter (odds are Caitlyn, evens are Vi), so there will be overlapping parts.

Just to know you’re alive by pigeonmom

127K Words // 17 Chapters //COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT// 🔐 account needed

A year and a half after the accident that changed both their lives, Caitlyn and her wife face the fact that things might never go back to the way they used to be.

Unhinged by loveshazel

127K Words // 18 Chapters //COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT// loveshazel on X

A college AU where everyone's favourite lesbians pine for each other once more when they decide to just be friends after a one night stand. If only it were that fucking simple.

Soap by LevitatingMountainYak @levitatingmountainyak <33

155K Words // 19 Chapters //COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT//

Jinx actions have created two power vacuums, and there are factions on both sides of the river eager to seize the reins for their own reasons. The Chembarons each eye Silco's empty throne and, ignorant of the deal he struck with Jayce, see no need to play by the rules. Meanwhile powerful outsiders in Piltover find themselves in control of one of the few effective fighting forces in the city, and see a path to creating a new council more willing to grant their requests.

With forces from above and below eager to trample them the common folk of the Lanes, as well as Piltover, need someone in their corner. With the prospect of peace and equal representation slipping away our champions are going to need to band together to avert another catastrophe. But as anyone can tell you- oil and water don't mix...

Call It What You Want (Separate Ways) by IllusiveWritings, shipsnthenight @shipsnthenight <33

177K Words // ?/? Chapters //INCOMPLETED

//EXPLICIT// shipsnthenight on X

Caitlyn has it all. She's one of the most influential pop musicians in the world, critics acclaim her music, albums fly off shelves and her fans adore her.

At twenty six, she has conquered pretty much everything there was to in the music business. Now off duty and with some time for herself after a six months long overseas tour, back at home in Piltover, she decides to do something for herself.

Enter Vi, a young and skilled tattoo artist, armed with an extensive portfolio, enough charm to bewitch a brick and just enough cluelessness that takes on the job to ink Caitlyn's skin.

What could possibly go wrong?

^^^^Some art on X for this fic <33

Broken Ring by Daxtious

187K Words // ?/24 Chapters //UNCOMPLETED

//EXPLICIT// Daxtious on X

Freshly graduated from the police academy, Caitlyn Kiramman is determined to prove to her fellow officers that she is more than just a rich girl with a pretty face. After overhearing her commanding officers talking about an illegal fighting ring in the Undercity, she goes to investigate for herself with the hopes of gathering evidence to prove her worth.

What she finds is the equivalent of a nightmare, people being put inside the ring to fight each other to the death like dogs. It’s inhumane torture at the price of earning a profit and providing entertainment for a crowd. It gets even worse when she finds out one of the top fighters is someone no older than her, a pink haired girl with metal-clad fists and a sharp tongue to match, who’s fighting spirit reminds her far too much of her own.

It’s quickly discovered that something far more dangerous is brewing beyond the walls of Piltover, something that is far worse than anyone could have prepared for.

Hotshot by SarcastCity

242K Words // 50 Chapters // COMPLETED

//EXPLICIT// SarcastCity on X

Caitlyn's route to work as a detective at the 51st Precinct takes her right by Fire Station #516, and Vi's been pining after the gorgeous Mystery Woman for six months...what will happen when she finds out that Caitlyn's a cop (AKA: The Enemy)?

Sadly no short fic bonuses this time as the only short ones I’ve read are still incomplete! Well we’ll see next list <33

I’m going to go through and update some of the info on my other caitvi lists as some fics were not completed. If they aren’t completed I’m going to put chapter number as ?/? as they are being updated. I will put full chapter count instead of / in the future if it’s a completed story. I just don’t like how I formatted it <3 I have also removed the “hits” amount too as this fandom is ever growing and I cannot keep up with the change in hits for each individual fic rec ILYILY

[protagaster]

Hello, all! My hyper-fixation and maladaptive daydreaming scenarios are currently centering around the fantastic EPIC! the Musical, created by the amazing Jorge Rivera-Herrans!

However, because I have a female main character bias, I tend to imagine the songs as if they were sung by my current best girl: Penelope.

Thankfully, two artists went ahead and drew this into reality: @vioofc and @too-much-flynnolium. Inspired by their works of perfection, I have gone and wrote the first of many vignettes based around this Warrior Penelope AU!

There is also a version on Ao3, if you prefer that platform over Tumblr!

EDIT (10/7):

Hello all! I'm in the process of heavily editing this AU in order to have it:

A) Make more sense

B) Fit the timeline better

You'll notice some changes here and there in the story! Some of the content was cut, but don't worry! I'm gonna add it into a fic of its own in the future, so look out for that! ;)

(Credit to @w3ndytheraccoon for an excellent idea of theirs I included in this AU! You'll see it towards the end!)

A King with no Queen (EPIC! Swap AU)

Odysseus is trying to cope with many things. 

His failure forced his beloved Penelope to fight the Trojan war in his stead, leaving behind all she ever knew and what she thought herself to be. In turn, the King was left to run his kingdom and raise their daughter all by himself. 

This is how things have been for the past 12 years. And now, to make things even harder, the first of his suitors have made themselves at home in his palace…

~

Odysseus is a rare kind of man. 

In fact, it was not uncommon for the King of Ithaca to be compared to a single drachma coin. There seemed to be two completely opposing sides driving him:

On one end, Odysseus was the alluring, cunning, quick-witted man that achieved many impressive feats throughout his life. 

He was deemed ready and crowned King of Ithaca at the young age of 13, despite his father being very much alive. He passed her challenge and was gifted the guidance of the Goddess of Wisdom herself, something he very much boasted to all who would listen.

He even fell in love with a Princess of Sparta!

And, despite the warnings of those closest to him, she too fell in love and accepted his hand, regardless of how small and lacking his humble Ithaca was compared to the grandiose and luxurious Spartan kingdom. 

Yes, despite being relatively smaller and having considerably less strength when compared to his fellow Greek man, Odysseus was a warrior with an arguably more valuable and sought after prowess: a warrior of the mind. 

So why, even with these innate talents and gifts of intellect, was it not enough to keep him from harm during that first year of war? 

Why was it not enough to keep her, the only person whose life he desired more than his own, to have to pay for his hubris? 

That was where the other side of Odysseus’ drachma came into view, a side of despair. A side of longing. A side that waited… 

~

“Your Majesty…”

Eurylochus waited for a moment, staring at the king from the double-doors of his bedchamber balcony. 

… 

Nothing. 

“Odysseus…” Eurylochus tried again, if not for a response then hoping for at least some form of acknowledgment.

… 

Still nothing. 

Eurylochus was unsure of what to do. 

It was far too early for his liking; the sun was still in the oceans’ embrace, the sky a dark indigo with only a few streams of orange light penetrating its serenity. 

The day was only just beginning. Any other morning Eurylochus would most likely still be asleep, albeit prepared to wake once the early light illuminated his dark and lonely bedroom. 

However, this day was not like any other. 

And so, with great reluctance for more than one reason, Eurylochus woke early to fetch his king. One of his best friends. His brother. 

And this made him nervous. 

Not to wake the other, mind, as Odysseus always woke within the first instances of Helios’ light. 

No, Eurylochus was nervous because of what the day represented. 

And so, in an act that could have been either futile avoidance, petty rebellion, or a sad mix of both, Eurylochus allowed his brother to have this one moment of disassociation. 

Meanwhile, on the other end of the balcony, Odysseus continued to sit peacefully in his kline. He had chosen not to respond to the call of his name, despite knowing the urgency behind Eurylochus’ visit. 

Instead, Odysseus chose to stay true to his personal morning ritual: sitting in silence with morning’s first light.

He had honored this custom for more than a decade; he did not want today to be the one time he disturbed his routine, nor did he want to leave the comfort the balcony’s kline brought him. 

Every morning he sat in silence, waiting. Every morning he sat in his designated seat, the left side of the kline, soothed by what it represented. 

After all, it was Penelope’s very first contribution when brought to her new home. 

Odysseus remembered when the young couple had picked out the kline upon their first week of engagement, with Penelope first to declare that the right side belonged to her. Odysseus remembered laughing, saying that it made sense "considering she is always right". 

The kline was placed on the left side, on the farthest corner of their bedroom balcony. In this place the loveseat had a perfect view, with Ithaca’s beaches on one side and the villages of the common folk on the other. Penelope always loved this spot, for if she wanted she could see the sky kiss the ocean and embrace the beaches from above, or the hustle and bustle of her people, satisfied and content with their lives, down below. 

At first Odysseus did not understand why Penelope would subject herself to wake so early in the morning simply to gaze upon the rising sun. Now, only after she had been forcefully sent away, did he understand how something as simple as the day’s first light could bring an instance of happiness to an otherwise age of despair. 

And thus led to his daily ritual, one he has promised never interrupted no matter what.  

Every sunrise for the past 12 years, starting from the moment he woke, the King of Ithaca would spend a few minutes staring at the various views outside his bedroom balcony; it was never too long, but the minutes always lingered with a heavy sense of despair and longing.

...

How long has it been, Odysseus couldn’t help but wonder, since he last saw his wife lounging in their kline. When was the last time she beckoned him to join her with a wave of her delicate hand, appreciating the open air whilst the kingdom was in a state of silent calm and peace. 

Too long, Odysseus concluded to himself. 

“Ody…” 

Odysseus flinched, knowing the other only called him by that name when all other options failed. 

Finally turning to acknowledge his visitor, Odysseus saw Eurylochus leaning against the door frame. His best friend, his brother, was watching him with a sad look in his eyes. 

“It’s been 3 years,” Eurylochus' voice was sad, betraying the attempt of stoicism in his eyes. “They aren’t coming back-”

“You don’t know that.” Odysseus yelled out sternly. Unfortunately, he immediately regretted it when he saw Eurylochus let out a heavy sigh with his shoulders slumping in unison.  

“Eury… I-I’m sorry-” 

“It’s okay, Ody,” Eurylochus said with a smile that was not at all genuine. “I know.” 

Odysseus wanted to kick himself. After all, he and Eurylochus were stuck in the same horrible situation. 

Both men waited, longing for someone that was no longer by their side. Both men woke alone inside their isolated, dark, empty bedchambers, at one point naively unaware of how large a bed could be until that fateful day 12 years ago. 

Both men waited, longing for the return of their wives: Queen Penelope of Ithaca and her best friend and second in command, Princess Ctimene.  

It had been 13 years since the Trojan war officially began, a petty debate between the Gods leading to Helen’s abduction. Menelaus and Agamemnon drafted Helen’s suitors to help in her rescue, using Odysseus’ proposed oath to defend her husband against those who would dare to challenge him. 

Odysseus had tried to avoid this draft through various means, but each attempt ended unsuccessfully. He was required to fight in this war, forced to take with him only the best of his Ithacan warriors. He remembered his tearful goodbyes to Penelope and Telemachas, filled to the brim with sorrow at having to leave his beautiful wife and newly-born daughter. 

From then on, since he first set foot on Trojan soil and every subsequent battle thereafter, Odysseus would pray to the Gods to find a way to end his term in the war. Anything to return back to Ithaca as quickly as possible. 

The Gods were quick to grant his wish. 

That first year of war no one could have expected things to turn out as they did. 

The men had secretly infiltrated the Palace of Troy using various spies, successfully sneaking Helen out and tucking her aboard the first ship back to Greece. Unfortunately, the Trojans were quick to discover her disappearance. 

The Trojans took their revenge the next night. The Greek army, beyond ecstatic that their primary goal had been achieved, went to sleep that night with their bellies filled with meat and cups poured with more wine than water. 

None of them noticed the dead quiet of the nature surrounding them. 

The Trojans, with their own spies implanted in the Greek army, had found their hidden camps. Before the men of Greece realized it, they were too late. They were struck without mercy, the etiquettes of war no longer a priority.  

The Greeks, despite their night of festivities, put up one hell of a fight. The battle took hours, lasting from the darkness of night up until the early crack of dawn. 

The Trojans quickly retreated once early light hit. However, the damage was done.

In the struggle Menelaus and his closest brothers-in-arms were taken prisoner, held as a form of ransom. Odysseus was the only one in Menelaus' circle to avoid this capture, for Eurylochus and the rest of his Ithacan crew refused to allow the Trojans the glory of kidnapping their king whilst under their watch.

Though there were few deaths, the Greek men were maimed and damaged beyond repair. 

The lucky ones had escaped the confrontation with more scars and wounds littering their bodies, though they were the ones likely to return to combat after a short time of recovery. The unlucky ones, the majority of the men, had been struck deep in the flesh. Their injuries sustained left no meager scars or wounds, but permanent physical hindrances to their limbs and muscles. 

Odysseus was speared in his left shoulder. Though the gash had closed and relatively faded 12 years later, he could no longer maneuver his arm as easily as before. Without his weekly massages and leather brace, which he wore only when surrounded by those he trusted, he couldn’t even wield his bow as effortlessly as he once did. 

Eurylochus was sliced in his left eye, leaving him permanently blind from that view. He had also been struck in his leg, though it was not as severe as his previous injury and had already come to a full recovery.

Regardless, the state of the current Greek army was too grave to ignore. 

A few handfuls of the men, those deemed fit and well enough to continue combat, were left behind to hold down the front lines. The rest, consisting of practically their entire army, were sent back home to recover and sustain what little dignity they still had. 

Though he had been permanently damaged, Odysseus couldn’t help but see a small silver lining. Even if it wasn’t how he expected, the Gods had granted his wish. Now, he was able to stay by Penelope’s side and raise their daughter together. 

If only he had known then what he knew now. 

Even though the men could no longer partake in battle, Greece still needed an army. And of course, for the sake of their own petty interests, this is when the Gods intervened. 

Almost immediately after he had returned home, the God of War himself stood before them with his signature spear in hand. However, he was not there to speak with the King. 

He was there to make a demand of the Queen. 

Ares ordered his student, Penelope, and her unofficial sisters-in-arms, women trained in combat with the blessings of the God of War and Goddess of the Hunt, to fight in the war against Troy on his behalf. All of this was to “make up” with Hera, after first siding with the Trojans on Aphrodite’s request. 

Odysseus remembered how he pleaded, begging to return to the battlefield in his wife’s place. Pride and flesh be damned! 

Odysseus knew what Penelope’s life would look like in Troy, having experienced it himself for the past year. Even if she had sufficient knowledge in the art of combat, trained by her life as a Spartan and student of Ares, she was still a traditional woman who enjoyed traditional womanly activities. Fighting and killing in the name of the Gods as a woman had never been heard of before that point! 

And then there was Telemachas, their beautiful baby girl who was only a single year old. What would her life look like, growing up without her mother to guide her through the trials of womanhood? 

Unfortunately no amount of begging and pleading, nor the King’s friendship with Athena, could spare his wife of her mentor’s decree; neither could it spare the many other women trained in the art of defense. 

Within the next two month a portion of Ithaca’s women, those of age and combat experience, boarded the ships to war. 

The next 12 years consisted of a mixed flurry of emotions. 

Of those 12 years it took 9 before the war came to an end. Helen, once nothing more than a damsel in distress, proved her strength to everyone with her contribution to the war. After rescuing Menelaus and the other captive men, the royalty of Troy were killed off to the last drop of blood. Rumors circulated within the Greek world that Penelope had a great hand to play in their victory, but the specificities were never clarified. 

Eurylochus, along with the people of Ithaca, recalled the look of pure joy in their King’s eyes when the messenger gave them the news. Many thought their King’s happiness was due to his wife’s battle prowess being praised by all who could speak, but those closest to Odysseus knew the truth.

Odysseus was ecstatic that his wife was finally coming home. 

Penelope would once again be inside his arms! Her warmth, her voice, her scent, they all would no longer be reduced to a distant memory. The people of Ithaca would once again have their Queen, and Telemachas could finally meet and learn from the mother she had heard so many wonderful stories about. 

That’s how things should have been by now. And yet, 3 years after the war’s end, the wives and daughters of Ithaca had still not returned. 

Many held out hope in the beginning, thinking that the womens’ delay was only a momentary setback. They believed it would not be much longer, that the women would return any day now. 

However, days turned into months. And those months quickly became years. 

With their hope dying alongside their wives and now presumed to now be widowers, the husbands and fathers of Ithaca reacted in very different ways. Many remarried, desperate to once again have their homes filled with the comfort of a wife and care of a mother. The rest could not bear the thought of remarriage, taking up vows of celibacy in honor of their fallen wives and praying to the Gods that their love alone would be good enough for their children. 

The one thing they all had in common: they had lost hope of their wives ever returning to Ithaca. 

This was where Odysseus differed from them all. 

His people, Eurylochus, and now even Polites had tried telling him how likely it was that Penelope perished at sea. They reminded him that as the King of Ithaca it was his duty to find a new Queen. The kingdom needed a female role model alongside the male, to help him rule and lead their kingdom to prosperity. This was the standard procedure for royalty in Greece.

But Odysseus was never one to follow the standard procedure. 

“Some of our… visitors… are making themselves at home in the throne room.” Eurylochus finally broke the silence once again, reminding Odysseus of the very thing he was trying to disassociate from. “They’re asking when you’ll go to see them.” 

Odysseus couldn’t mask his frustration. 

3 years. That’s all those selfish dogs had given him to “mourn” for the love of his life, for the mother Telemachas never had the chance to know. 

And now that the 3 years were up, they expected him to move on just like that. 

“Already?” Odysseus commented as he rose from his left seat, almost feeling impressed with the desperation of his so-called guests. “Helios hasn’t even finished placing the sun in its morning spot.”

“C’mon, you and I know human nature better than anyone.” Eurylochus scoffed, having to turn his head to get a proper view of the palace yards beginning to pack with various women and their guards. “Who would ever resist the chance to obtain more power?” 

Odysseus let out a scoff of his own as he walked back inside his bedchamber, practically identical to Eurylochus’. Though his expression was quick to change into one of concern. 

“What of Telemachas!? Is she-” 

“She’s still sleeping. I went to check on her before coming to get you.” Eurylochus answered calmly to Odysseus’ growing anxiety. “I knew you’d ask, so I figured I’d get it out of the way.”

Odysseus let out a sigh of relief. Eurylochus was one of the very few people he trusted with the keys to his palace, which meant he was one of the only few with the ability to open the doors of the royal bedchambers. 

If Telemachas was still asleep, then that meant she would be spared of the wrath and judgments of the “guests” below. For now. 

He would have to check in on her later, for both their sakes. 

Meanwhile, for the sake of maintaining peace, Odysseus had a duty to greet his guests and show them hospitality. Even if he didn't want to. 

And he really, really didn't want to. 

~

Odysseus, now wearing his royal chiton and elegant gold crown, walked down the halls of his palace with his head held high. Eurylochus walked by his side, hand strategically placed near the handle of his broadsword, ready to protect his King from strangers with ill intent. 

It did not take long to make their way to the palace throne room. Given how small Ithaca was as a kingdom, it made sense for the royal palace to look smaller in comparison to neighboring palaces. 

However, even with the relatively small structure, both men shouldn’t have been able to hear commotion within the throne room from 4 halls ahead. This was an immediate indication to Odysseus of how many women were already vying for his kingdom. 

Once the two men stood close enough to the throne room’s closed doors they were able to hear the muffled voices from before much more clearly. 

“What’s the hold up!?”

“We’ve been waiting for hours!” 

“Why can’t we find the King ourselves?!” 

They all sounded feminine. And very annoyed. 

“Ladies, please!” A man's voice, Polites’, called out from the other side of the doors. “The King will arrive in just a moment! So, in the meantime, why don’t we all conduct ourselves in a polite, orderly fashion?” 

A chorus of exasperated groans; if there were any words spoken then they were undecipherable due to the sheer loudness of the crowd. 

Odysseus saw Eurylochus toss him a look, one that had “I told you so” written all over it. 

Nevertheless Odysseus let out a deep breath, praying to the Gods above that he looked much more confident than he felt. With a nod to the other, Eurylochus made his way to the double doors of the throne room. 

He threw the doors open, attracting the attention of every guest within the throne room. Welcome or otherwise.

Eurylochus’ booming voice could be heard from every corner of the large room:

“Presenting His Majesty, Odysseus, King of Ithaca!” 

Everyone within the throne room, friend, suitor, or guard, either kneeled or bowed at the sight of the luminous King of Ithaca. 

Odysseus paid them no mind. He opted to stare straight ahead, looking at nothing in particular. He sat on the left throne, despite royal customs declaring he sit on the right. The right seat belonged to Penelope and Penelope only. 

He would make sure every suitor in his palace remembered this. 

Meanwhile on the opposite side of the room, while Odysseus prepared to address the crowd, Polites was slowly inching his way to Eurylochus’ side. Eurylochus did not notice the younger approaching him, only realizing when Polites had placed a hand on his shoulder. 

Polites gestured to the third member of their friend group, mouthing a silent “Is he okay?”. 

Eurylochus blanked, unsure of how he should answer, before opting to shrug his shoulders; Not necessarily disagreeing but not entirely agreeing either. 

Polites understood. Odysseus was somehow both managing and not. 

Polites couldn’t help but grow somber. He could sympathize, but never fully understand. He will never fully understand the pain his best friends shared when it came to the misfortune caused to them by the Trojan war. 

Polites was one of the lucky few spared of permanent injury on that fateful battle 13 years ago. Any wounds and scars he attained had long since faded, their only proof of existence reduced to mere memory. Meanwhile, Odysseus and Eurylochus had sustained injuries that would affect them for the rest of their lives. 

Odysseus and Eurylochus were also victims to the whims of the Gods, for the divine ordered their wives to war in their stead. How must it feel, to know the love of your life was forced to act as your replacement simply because you allowed yourself to be moved by premature pride? 

Even though it was painful to Eurylochus, Polities knew it was pure agony to Odysseus. He had lost both his younger sister and wife due to a rash victory party… 

Odysseus suddenly shot his best friends a look, silently indicating to them that he was ready for his speech. 

Polites and Euylochus stood straight and gave him their undivided attention. They were ready to lend him their support, regardless of the difficult decision he made. 

“Greetings, my friends.”  

Odysseus took mental note of the amount of women littering his throne room. 32 in total, so far.

“I am delighted to see so many new, cordial faces in our humble kingdom on this day,” 

The suitors weren’t stupid. They all knew Odysseus did not mean a word of what he was saying. He was just spouting flowery nonsense for the sake of appearances. 

However, it mattered not what he felt. All that mattered was his submission to the expectations of Greek royalty.  

That included his remarriage. 

“Now, let’s not beat around the bush.” Odysseus gave everyone an easy, nonchalant smile. “You all want to know who I will take as my new Queen.” 

That threw everyone for a loop. 

Those who knew Odysseus, his guards, servants, and slaves, were surprised at how readily he addressed the issue he tried so desperately to avoid. 

The suitors, along with their guards, were also shocked that he was willing to address the issue without hesitation. Were the rumors about him and his loyalty to his wife all false? 

Polites and Eurylochus, who had known Odysseus for practically their entire lives, couldn’t help but feel a semblance of worry with his words. Odysseus was not one to just give up so easily, especially in matters concerning his heart. 

Just what was he planning? 

Odysseus, for his part, did not betray a single one of his thoughts with that easy smile of his. He stood still, waiting for the commotion to cease, before once again speaking to the crowd. 

Polites and Eurylochus, along with one mysterious suitor, were the only ones to notice the mischievous glint in the King’s eyes. 

“However, in respect of honoring the deceased, I regret to inform you all that I can no longer discuss the matter anytime soon.” 

“WHAT!?” 

A chorus of angry voices were quick to make themselves known at the end of his declaration. Two or four voices quickly became 31, each one demanding to know why he couldn’t choose a new wife right then and there. 

Again only one of them was silent, leaning against the side of the wall with her arms crossed. She watched the King with an intense stare. 

Odysseus raised a single hand, prompting the angry voices to silence themselves. 

“As I was saying…” The King’s smile dropped, replaced with an expression of stoicism. “I plan to honor and respect my wife in death as I did in life. And so, in her memory, I will carve a wooden statue in the form of the late Queen. This will be done carefully and with precision, achieved by my hands and my hands only.” 

Another chorus of annoyed and angered groans sounded from the women. They all knew it was bound to take a long time before the statue was even close to completed. 

Eurylochus and Polities were a mixed bag of reactions, one impressed with the cunning of his friend and the other filled to the brim with worry. They both knew Odysseus was talented in the art of carving; As a symbol of his long-standing love to Penelope, he had made her a bridal bed from the inside of a long-lasting tree. However, that was before his injury to his arm. How long would it take, to carve out a wooden statue that could rightfully honor the beauty and grace of Penelope of Ithaca, all with a bad shoulder, a kingdom to run, and a child to raise? 

It was the perfect plan. 

Odysseus had been scheming ever since he heard talk of his “inevitable” remarriage. The king knew he had to delay choosing a new wife, if not for his fidelity and loyalty to Penelope then for the sake of his daughter. 

Who knows what would happen to her if he remarries, for what Queen would allow the daughter of her predecessor to take the throne? 

No, he needed to be smart and tactical about this. He needed to use the gifts of quick-thinking and feeling calm under pressure bestowed to him by Athena. Telemachas was already 13, well on her way to 14. All he had to do was keep his suitors at bay for a few more years, until the Princess was deemed ready to be Queen. Then Telemachas would be allowed to ascend to the throne without any complaints from his adversaries. 

This statue was the perfect excuse. He will spend as much time as he needed carving it, forever if he had to. 

He could do this. He will find a way. For himself. For Telemachas. For Penelope. 

~

Odysseus was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice how one of his suitors was looking at him. She stared at him quietly, intensely, glaring at him from the moment he walked into the throne room. 

She couldn’t look away from his body. His tanned, toned, delicious body. She noticed the way Odysseus’ chiton stuck to his waist, showing off his firm, fit figure. 

When he lifted his hand to silence the crowd, the fabric of his clothing was forced to rise up; his naked body, only briefly displayed, was shown to anyone standing at a certain angle. She was the one lucky enough to stand at this angle. 

She could see his torso from where she stood. She saw his v-line fade into his abdomen, some single stray beads of sweat drip down in that path. She saw a set of prominent abs, mild but still very much there, that shuddered with each breath he took. And finally, before he lowered his arm and his torso was covered once more, she was able to see his pectorals in full view. They were flat, but still round; oh, what must it feel like to take a bite of that flesh, to watch as the man underneath was fully marked and claimed?

There was no doubt about it. He was beautiful. He was perfect. 

He was hers. 

Based on what he just declared, accompanied by rumors circulating the palace, it appeared that he planned to make his remarriage a difficult process for his suitors. 

That was fine.

She can be patient. 

No matter how long it took she’d find a way to force him to accept her, even if she had to hold him down and take him by force.

After all, she was blessed by Zeus himself. Though not his child, and by definition having no divine blood, one would be forgiven for assuming differently based on her ability to look forever young despite her age. The King of Gods gave her this gift, saying he knew her to be a kindred spirit. 

The point was anything and everything she ever wanted would belong to her.  

Ithaca. 

The Right Throne. 

Odysseus.

No matter what it took, no matter what she had to do, one day all of it will bear her name. 

Calypso.

[iyney]

— THE HEART TO MY ALBUM ♡

a social media au | scaramouche x f!reader

༉‧₊˚ SUMMARY: y/n was never passionate about her talent of being a violinist, mainly why she never spoke about it with grace in her words nor a shine in her eyes. But one evening, when she thought she would be alone in the music room, playing her violin. An indigo-headed boy accidentally finds his way into the humming room, following the beautiful tune that caught his ear, which turns out to be the second top student in his class, who ranks one rank lower than him and that's y/n. His presence, unfortunately, seems to go unnoticed by y/n as she’s merely focused on the strings of her violin as her fingers slowly prick the string down lightly — casting a soothing tune. Hearing this melody Scaramouche can't help but be intrigued by her aptitude and appearance that she seems to hold up very well. It was almost as if he wanted to know more about her, he had heard some interesting segments about her, and not just that but she had the second-highest score in their class. What else is there for this girl?

↳ started: 00/00/00 | ended: 00/00/00

↳ status: not started | taglist: open

༉‧₊˚ GENRE: social media au, modern au, highschool au, classmates 2 lovers, slow-burn

༉‧₊˚ WARNING: crack, the cast is 17-18 in their senior year, the reader plays the violin, the reader is a female + will be using she/her pronouns, slight angst, parent issues (reader side and her mother), fluff, slow-burn, and profanity will be used, might switch between using y/n and [name], specific chapters will be having a warning at the beginning.

— written chapters will have ‘୨୧’ next to it

THE SILENT ROOM (prologue)

0.1 — beginning of a melody [୨୧]

➳ profiles : y/n’s friends | scara’s friends

➳ episodes - tune #1

1 - undecided. 2 - tba.

3 - tba. 4 - tba.

5 - tba. 6 - tba.

7 - tba. 8 - tba.

9 - tba. 10 - tba.

more will be added or updated further on.

— the taglist is open! if you’d like to be added feel free to reply or send in an ask! – if your blog isn’t highlighted it means i can’t tag you. >o<

[bsydelver]

Can u do a Fluff story of Tamaki amajiki crushing on a goth/alternative reader

Part 1 depending on how well this actually does.

———>part 2

@wolvwa helped with this because I can’t write fluff for the life of me.

Note: YESSS, I have never wrote fluff; I only have written aus/general story. THIS IS REALLY EXCITING SO HERE WE GO— THIS WILL BE A CHAPTER OF TAMAKI JUST ADMIRING THE READER.

warnings: English isn’t my first language, writer has never written fluff 🙏, Reader has piercings, Nejire wingman (not really, she just tries to help Tamaki get out of his bubble when it comes to talking to you)

Summary: just read because this is left on a cliffhanger.

SEMI-PROLOGUE

You have been friends with the big three for how long now? All you could remember from the start of your friendship that, surprisingly, Tamaki was the one who even got you into their group in the first place- you were closer to Nejire at first for the most part though due to your shared interests and her fascination with your quirk and unique appearance. People could tell you were ‘different’ in terms of appearance, music taste and lots of other things but in your opinion: you never felt out of place with the group and they always find a way to include you into anything.

Whilst you were in your train of thoughts, you got cut off by Nejire calling for you, with Tamaki as her company, a smile came across your face and you noticed Tamaki doing a half smile as well, “It’s a day off today, do you wanna hang out at my dorm? Mirio said he’d be coming later,” Nejire’s personality could never make you decline her requests but with Tamaki accompanying her: there wasn’t a universe where you’d be refusing to hang out with them. Nejire didn’t let a second pass by after you had agreed and she practically pulled you to her dorm.

Silence filled the room as Nejire scrambled through her stuff looking for anything that could entertain you guys. You couldn’t help but notice the indigo haired-boy staring at you from the corner of your age, you couldn’t say you weren’t enjoying it but you thought that maybe he wanted to talk so you turned your head out of the blue which made Tamaki look down visibly flustered. The sound of a person rummaging through years worth of stuff stopped as Nejire approached you, “I couldn’t really find anything,” that was a strange occurance if you were being fully honest: Nejire always had something for you guys to do, wether it was repetitive or random, there was always something; you thought maybe Nejire just needed an excuse to do something but as you examined her face in an attempt to predict what she was trying to do, you noticed her and the Indigo-colored pair of eyes exchanging stairs that contrasted in expressions but still hinted towards something which you just shrugged off.

Nejire started to slowly get closer to you which wasn’t new, she always did that when she was about to analyse someone’s whole face so you didn’t back away, “Me and Tamaki always thought your piercings were really cool,” hearing Nejire say that made you flattered and you looked to Tamaki to confirm only to see his face buried in his hands which made you slightly smirk, “Did this one hurt?” Nejire pointed at the spider bites piercing you had, “well it d-” before you could answer you were interrupted by another one of her questions, “In fact, did all of them hurt?”

“Well it depends on your pain tolerance and the loca-” you were once again interrupted but this time not by Nejire but by a curious Tamaki, “How did you know which one you would look good with?..” Tamaki wasn’t holding eye contact with you as he asked, he was actually looking down at the floor more than anything, you couldn’t tell what the question exactly implied as it could’ve been many things but you didn’t want to make the environment awkward, “I would try filters or have my friends’ insights on them!” Tamaki looked amazed and it was a cute sight if you were being honest, his eyes had a shine in them that glowed when he opened them more and this moment was one of the times he was opening his eyes more, “Wait you have friends as cool as you?!” Nejire said in a tone filled with excitement, “You think I’m cool?” you raised your eyebrows and you weren’t asking this as a normal question, it was more friendly-teasing; “Actually, it isn’t only me— Tamaki was just tell-” Nejire’s quote-on-quote exposé was fortunately, for Tamaki , cut off by the creak of the door opening, “MIRIO!”

[kusanagihaku]

indigo orioles

⭢ gen edward, 2.2k

i is for indigo. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3 supernatural bar owner au, anyone?

It is half past midnight when you first see it. 

There is nothing between the flower shop and the second-hand bookstore one moment, and the next moment, there is. Shards of light spill out onto the pavement from cracks in its deep velvet curtains,  but you don’t need the light to read the gold, tarnished lettering painted onto the glass storefront – The Obscuary Bar. 

You stumble to a stop, drunken feet unwillingly obeying your commands, and tug on Lucas’ jacket, “Do you see that?"

Lucas pauses too, and squints past the pale yellow streetlight at where you’re pointing. “The flower shop?” 

You shake your head. “The bar. ‘S new.” 

Lucas frowns. “What bar?” 

“Between the… the flower place and the… the book place.” You jab your finger somewhat insistently at the bar. Its wooden door is ajar, strains of piano and jazz drifting out from its curtained entrance. Can’t he hear it? 

Kaito leans around Luca to peer at the shops, face flushed and eyes bright, and Lucas has to adjust his grip around both your waists to account for the change in weight. “‘S nothing there. You’re– hic– you’re drunk.” 

“No, no, it’s right there, the– the door is open, right there–“ 

As the words leave your mouth, however, a slender hand, pale as moonlight, reaches out from between the heavy curtains blocking its entrance. It finds the handle of the door easily, and with a firm tug it yanks the door closed. 

You blink, and there is once again nothing between the flower shop and the bookstore, cement walls melding together like nothing was ever there in the first place. 

You open your mouth again to protest, but Lucas just sighs. 

“You’re both drunk,” he informs the both of you, solemnly. “Let’s go home.” 

-

“I,” Kaito says, carefully, “am never drinking again.” 

You want to nod in agreement, but you’re not sure if you can move your head without pissing off whoever has installed a high-power drill on the inside of your skull. “Mmng,” you say, instead.

There are two thumps as Lucas sets something down into the table in front of you. “Coffee. Drink up.” 

You crack open a heavy eyelid and immediately groan when sunlight assaults your vision. “Fuck.” 

Lucas takes a seat, drawing his chair out noisily and scraping it back in. The sound drags nails down the chalkboard of your mind, and Kaito whimpers from where his pose mirrors yours across the table - head buried in hands buried in regret. 

“Told you not to take those shots,” Lucas says, grinning into his coffee. His hair is standing up in the back, testament to the night spent on the floor of Kaito’s studio apartment, and he is slightly haloed by the warm light of the kitchen island. 

Fitting for an angel, you think, tugging a mug closer to you. How the hell Lucas managed to wake up to make coffee for you all when he also took those shots of tequila is a mystery, but a mystery quickly forgotten the moment the coffee hits your tongue. 

“Thought it’d be fun,” Kaito mutters. He takes a sip of his coffee, and groans in satisfaction. “Thanks, man.” 

The conversation wanders around your plans for the day, a vague reminiscence for weekends past and some griping about the current job market before Lucas sets his cup down. “You said something last night about seeing a bar?” 

You shake your head. “Yeah, it was really weird. It was between the bookstore and the flower shop, and it had lights on and a door and everything, and I could hear the music playing. But then the door shut and it disappeared.” 

Kaito looks at you skeptically. “You sure it wasn’t, like, a drunk hallucination?” 

You frown. It looked real enough that you can remember exactly where the gold of its ornate painted lettering had started to rub off the glass, and the exact shade of wine-red the velvet of its curtains were. 

Lucas shakes his head, then gathers up your empty mugs. “You were probably confusing it with the bar we just left. Come on, get your laptops out. Don’t you both have job applications to submit?” 

“Ah, shit–“

-

It is a quarter past five the second time you see it. 

It is still bright out – the grey pavements are painted shades of orange by a nearly setting sun, and you have to shade your eyes against the glare of sunlight against glass windows as you make your way home. 

You pass by the grocery store and the bakery, then the flower shop and the– 

You stop. 

Ornate, gold letters wink at you from against velvet curtains. The Obscuary Bar. 

You blink. It is still there. 

You lift a hand to rub your eyes in slight disbelief, but the sting of knuckle against your eyelids reminds you that it is, in fact, real and not a figment of your drunken imagination. When you reach out to press your fingers against the smooth glass window it feels cold to the touch. 

Huh. 

The wooden door right by the storefront is set ajar. There is no music coming from inside the bar, this time, but the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains are still there like you remembered, obscuring the interior of the bar from your view. 

You stand for a moment, stuck between the flower shop and the bookstore, between going in and going home. 

It’s a new bar, you reason with yourself – it’d be nice to bring Kaito and Lucas somewhere new, if the vibes in there are good. You take a step towards the open door. 

On the other hand, if someone closed the door while you were in there and you winked out of existence along with it… You pause. And yet there is something still so strangely compelling about the open door, like it is calling out to your blood and your blood is singing back, that you find yourself taking another step towards the entrance anyway. 

Curiosity gets the better of you in the end, and you find yourself pushing aside the maroon curtains and stepping inside. 

The interior of the bar is more dimly lit than you expected. There are low-hanging lamps suspended from the ceiling that illuminate the large wooden-top bar, each lighting up a place for tall iron barstools padded with velvet cushions the same colour as the entrance curtain. There are booths as well, tucked into the back wall, and their wooden panelling extends to the front of the house, lending an overall warmth to the place. Any evening light that has followed you in from the entrance has quickly been swallowed up by the black of the floor, clean and matte under your feet. 

There are shelves upon shelves of bottles behind the bar, backlit so they diffuse light across the room. You don’t recognise any of the labels on the bottles – they seem to be more home-made than from commercial brands. Foxglove, reads one. Wolfsbane + Mint, reads another. 

Your brow furrows. Aren’t those poisonous? 

“Hello,” a voice says. You jump; in taking all this in you nearly fail to notice the bartender lounging behind the bar before he straightens up. 

His hair is a dark, indistinguishable colour in the dim light, but it falls over eyes as bright as the moon. They are an unnerving sort of red, the kind you’d think pools of blood might be the shade of, and fixed on you they glint almost unnaturally in interest. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” the bartender drawls, smile widening. “Or the dog, rather. He never remembers to shut the door.”

It is most likely a trick of the light, you think, but his teeth look… sharp. 

“Um,” you say. “What dog?” 

The man laughs this time, a lazy sound that hangs in the air between the both of you. Instead of answering your question, however, he leans forward on the counter. A silver cross dangles from his ear, catching the light. “I suppose you’re here for the job opening.”

“Um,” you say, but the man’s eyes narrow, and you stumble quickly on a, “yes, yes, I am.” 

You’re technically not lying – you are on the hunt for a job, after all. If an interview happens to fall into your lap after days of sending out resume after resume… you won’t complain. You clear your throat. “Yes, I am.” 

The man stays quiet for a while. His gaze sweeps you up and down, and its piercing quality sends a sort of chill down your spine that you don’t quite like. He crooks a finger. “Come here, my dear.” 

You feel as though you should be more unwilling, more wary, but your feet carry you to the bar without much hesitance. You find yourself moving towards one of the high barstools right across from the bartender, plush velvet cushion soft under your weight as you seat yourself. 

Your grandmother had always warned you against stepping foot into strange places. You never know to whom it might belong. 

You swallow. You’re finding out too quickly too late that she might be right. 

“Give me your hand,” the man says. You wonder briefly if he’s going to read your palm or something odd and mystical and overall fitting with this strange bar, but when you search his face his eyes glint ruby red under the lamp above you, unreadable. 

You reluctantly set your right hand on the table, palm-side up. He takes it between his own, one hand cupping the back of yours and the other tilting your fingertips upwards, as if for closer inspection. 

“Don’t move.” 

It happens so quickly you barely have time to react. A gold dagger appears in one hand while the other pinches your fingertips tightly. There is a low whistle as the blade slices through the air and sings through your skin, neatly splitting the tip of your middle finger open to reveal a small pearl of blood. 

You gasp. You try to jerk your hand away, nerves firing at the slight sting that envelopes your fingertip, but the man is stronger than he looks – the cold alabaster of his grip tightens around you, a jail of marble. 

You struggle for a second, eyes wild with panic, before the man tsks at you. 

“I told you not to move,” he murmurs, disdainfully, then presses the tip of the dagger to your fingertip once more. The red pearl tips slightly, rolling onto the smooth surface of the dagger before the man lifts it to eye-level. 

In the process he lets go of your hand; you quickly snatch it back. Miraculously, there is no trace of a cut, skin at the tip of your middle finger smooth like it hadn’t just been bleeding a moment before. 

What the fuck. 

You wonder how long it might take you to dash to the door. 

The bartender hums, interrupting the sweaty train of calculations you have running in your mind. His eyes are still on where he has collected your blood on the dagger’s surface. “Good list of references. Worked a waitressing job during your last two years of college – you’d do good here. Your previous manager liked you a lot.” 

You pause. How the fuck–

“Pity he was stealing from the register,” the man continues, frowning slightly. He tilts the dagger, watches the pearl of blood smudge itself down the gold. “Good thing you quit when you did. He wanted to pin it on you.” 

Your jaw drops. You’ve never told anyone about the time you saw your manager slipping cash into his pocket during closing – you don’t think he’s even been caught yet, that conniving bastard, much less have news about himself spread around the neighbourhood. Come to think of it, you haven’t even told this bartender your name, how does he even know– 

The man smiles, close-lipped. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but there is a degree of cool approval all the same. “Looks like you’re good at keeping secrets too, I’d say.” 

He leans back, gold dagger disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “What’s that around your throat?”

Your hand goes instantly to the silver locket your grandmother gave you when you were younger that you keep hidden under the collar of your shirt. “Um.” 

The man’s eyes narrow. He cocks his head to one side, fingers playing with a small shot glass on the counter. “No matter. Protection or not, if you could see this bar in the first place, you’ve got supernatural in you, anyway.” 

You always heard from family whispers that your grandmother was part-something, but you’ve never outright, like, confirmed it or anything. Things like this weren’t simply talked about, in your family. Now, you wonder… 

The man sets the shot glass upright, then reaches under the bar to pull out an unlabelled bottle. “Anyway, now that you’re no longer thinking about running out the door, you’re hired.”

“Wh-“

“I don’t have the contract or documents or whatever it is you humans need – Rui handles those – but you start on Monday.” He sets a full shot of something transparent and sickly-sweet smelling on the bar between you, then gestures for you to take a drink. 

He leans forward again, eyes gleaming blood-red as your fingers close around the glass. He grins, widely this time, with all his teeth and then some, and you realise with a dawning sense of frightening fascination how sharp they indeed are.

“By the way, I’m Ed. What’s your name?” 

-

some background this time! title from 《颂古四首》, a classical chinese poem about how hidden some truths are, and how fleetingly close people come to understanding the. when i first read it the imagery reminded me of obscuary, so... roughly translated:

The thorny forest carries a curious meaning,  The vine-filled garden emits a faint glow.  Nobody understands its multitude of messages,  But the indigo oriole flies over the wall. 

[sugolara]

♫ Silly boys you run away too far

Ft. Shota, Katsuki, Hitoshi, Izuku, Shoto, Eri & gn! reader

Synopsis: Born by dysfunctional parents, Shota Aizawa takes it upon himself to adopt a litter of kids to give them the best chance life could offer them. Or... [A family with different parents try to beat any obstacle that come their way, though they couldn't have done this without the help of their adopted father; Shota.] Cw: language, drinking, smoking, substance abuse, death mention, a bit of angst, quirkless! au, humor, slight sexual themes nothing to graphic, gender neutral reader!, updates once a month or so Honorable Supporting Cast: Denki Kaminari [The best friend], Kyoka Jiro [The friend], Eijiro Kirishima [The love interest], Ochaco Uraraka [The friend], Tenya Iida [The love interest/Ex], Mina Ashido [The friend/Ex], Momo Yaoyorozu [The love Interest], Hanta Sero [The love interst] & other extras that aren't important Music of the chapter: Silly boy - The Blue Van

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Booming music mixed with sounds of a character shooting their gun resonated through the home. If you were to walk by the home, you'd most certainly feel the vibrations and while cats liked to mingle, their bodies purring at the feeling, other people liked to stay away. A part of it had to do with the music they always blast when their father wasn't home-despite the many complaints they get-but the main reason why people stayed away was due to the notorious reputation they set on themselves.

While the neighborhood knows that kids are just kids, some beg to differ and just wish that their father could maintain a better control of them. But they kept their opinions to themselves as the last time someone had complained to the father, their home was almost set on fire and sure, it was probably because they had forgotten to turn the oven off, but they were sure they hadn't even baked at the time.

A curse is what people liked to say, but for the family of the said home, they'd say it was just a coincidence. A happy coincidence.

"Stop hitting me!" The second middle child, Izuku, yelled out as he focused on the TV screen where his character was shooting everywhere, but his target, "You're making me loose! Do you realize that if I lose I'll have to clean the bathroom!?"

"Duh!" The oldest child, Katsuki, manically laughed as he lifted his foot to block the freckle male's face. Though he winced when his braces got caught to the insides of cheeks, "That's the whole point! Besides, you suck ass."

"Because you keep blocking me, Kacchan!" He cried out, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes from frustration.

In the same living room, near the other couch that was placed by the window and next to it sat the youngest child, Shoto, playing music on the home computer. He scrolled through redtube, his eyes looking at a playlist as he muttered to himself, "What about metal? Are we a fan of metal?"

He hummed as he looked up to the window, his finger tapping his chin as he watched the stars blink at him, "Yes, I think we are."

A soft clink of the mouse was heard before sounds of guitar ripping vibrated through the home. Entering the kitchen, the middle child, Hitoshi, and second oldest, F/n, watched as their frozen burrito cooked in the microwave, both counting down the time before the timer hit zero.

"You think dad will get mad at us for eating the whole bag of burritos?" Hitoshi asked, his indigo eyes watching as the burrito spinned slowly in a paper plate, "There were twelve in there."

"Well, he did leave nothing for us to eat and the babysitter ditched us." F/n answered, their ears listening to the soft hum the microwave released, "And dad knows we don't know how to cook, so really it's his fault."

"Such wise words." Hitoshi mumbled, his eyes still on the burrito. F/n nodded, "Wisdom..."

Outside in the driveway pulled in a black car. Getting off the driver's seat, the head and father of the children, Shota, released a tired sigh as he looked at the window where the caramel color sheets of curtains radiated a soft glow of the living room light. He could also hear the loud music and the vibrations, "Looks like there goes another complaint to the mayor."

Hearing a quick shuffling pace, Shota turned to the side walk where he could see a couple quickly walk by, avoiding making eye contact with him. Despite the avoidance, Shota waved at them like any friendly neighbor.

When the couple passed by, he could hear them let out a sigh of relief and a conversation that was hushed. Ignoring their behavior, Shota headed for the back doors of his small car. He opened it and crouched down to undo the seatbelt around the youngest and final child, Eri. With the click and the belt going back to its original place, he wrapped his arms around the girl's frame, gently picking her up so as to not wake her from her slumber.

He repositioned his arms before closing the door and heading towards the home. With his key in his other hand he jammed into the keyhole and turned, allowing the door to be unlocked. He pushed the door open, staring at the scene in front of him. Thankfully, with having to grow up in a chaotic household, Eri did not once stir in her sleep.

"Oh, shit!" Katsuki turned towards the door as he was the closest to it. Seeing Shota, he yelled alerting his siblings, "Dad's home!"

They all turned to him, smiles on their faces, "Hey, dad!"

A smile reached to his lips as he closed the door with his foot, "Yeah, I'm home, turn down the music and the TV."

The audio was lowered down, though seeing only the kids, Shota looked around, his brows furrowing, "Where's the babysitter?"

"Oh, she left an hour after you did." Shoto said, his eyes on the computer, "Katsuki and F/n scared her off."

"Of course they did." Shota muttered as he moved further into the home, "Did she at least make you guys anything to eat?"

Katsuki scoffed as he hit the side of Izuku's face with his foot, "As if. We're fucking starving. F/n and Hitoshi ate the rest of the burritos. Fatasses."

"She literally left us nothing to eat all day!" F/n turned to the living room, "She left before we could even steal her credit card and order from The Pizza Kingdom."

"Oh, actually I was able to get that." From behind them, Hitoshi fished out a black card from his pocket, "I called earlier, but they couldn't place an order because it had no money."

"Seriously?" Shota shook his head as he grabbed the card, "What did I say about stealing their stuff? This is why babysitters never stay the full day."

Izuku paused the game, his hand shoving Katsuki's foot as he looked to his father, "Do we really need a babysitter anyway? We're 16, we know how to take care of ourselves."

Shota gave him a stare, one that had Izuku nervously recoil back on the couch, "Really? You really believe that, Izuku?"

"...No..." He mumbled.

Feeling Eri move, Shota nudged his head to the door, before entering Eri and F/n's shared room, "Go grab the groceries so I can make dinner."

When Shota entered the bedroom, the blonde let out an annoyed groan as he set the control on the coffee table. He then kicked Izuku, "Go get the bags."

"Why me? He told you to." He said, but regretted it when the blonde kicked him off the couch, "Fine...bitch."

"Whaddya call me!?" The freckle male scattered away. Kindly enough, Shoto and F/n helped him as they opened the trunk, each grabbing bags that hung off their forearm.

"Did you guys find out who your homeroom teacher is?" F/n asked as tomorrow would be the first day back to school.

"Nope." Izuku let out a sigh, grabbing as much groceries as he could hold, "But, I hope I'm not in the same class as you again."

"Hey!" F/n glared at him, "What's wrong with being in the class as me? I'm totally fun."

"I don't know, you almost got expelled when you tried pranking Mr. Kan." Shoto thought back to last school year, "Remember? Mr. Nezu had you clean the entire school, including the locker room as punishment."

"But it was funny." They said, though they glared at Izuku once more when he spoke in a high pitched tone, meant to be sarcastic, "Was it?"

"I'll show you something funny." They muttered and shared a glance with Shoto who understood as he nodded. Before Izuku could close the trunk, both F/n and Shoto quickly lifted their arms that hung off heavy bags and slammed it on Izuku's back, causing the male to fall in the trunk.

They snickered as they ran towards the home with Izuku struggling to exit, "Seriously!? You guys are so rude!"

When they entered, Shota was in the kitchen boiling a pot of water as he grabbed vegetables from the fridge. Nothing other than their fathers cooked meals tasted good and after a day of eating little food, Shota felt like his kids deserved a full course meal-even though they did nothing to deserve it.

Setting the bags on the table, Hitoshi aimed for one of them, smiling as he pulled out yogurt, "Where's Izuku?"

"Fuck if I know." F/n shrugged, sitting at the kitchen table as they grabbed a bag of chips. Though the bags of chips were removed from their hands as Katsuki began munching on them. He ignored the look F/n sent his way, "You going to be our teacher tomorrow?"

"That depends. Are you guys going to behave?" He said as he went to retrieve a pack of meat from the store bags, but hearing the blonde crunching, he gave his kid a look, "You're going to damage your braces."

The blonde shrugged, still eating F/n's chips, "So what?"

"How are you going to fix that gap between your teeth?" Shoto innocently asked, eating his bag of chips. He knew he set the blonde off as he heard chips being crumbled and F/n muttering. "Aw, man."

Hitoshi almost choked on his yogurt, though he was able to get it down, "Where's Izuku?"

"Kidnapped." Said Izuku as he entered the home glaring at F/n and Shoto, "Thank you for the help, by the way."

"You're welcome." Shoto smiled, eating to his heart's content until the freckle male stole his chips.

"Don't eat too much." The pan hissed when Shota turned the food, "It's your guys first day of school tomorrow and I don't want a call saying you either threw up or you harassed another kid."

The siblings all turned to look at Katsuki who sputtered, "He deserved it!"

"He said he was sorry." Shoto pointed out, "You were just overreacting."

"True." The rest said, relieving the memory, but the blonde rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

Shota let out a sigh as he grabbed dishes, beginning to pour food into them, "Go grab Eri and tell her dinners ready. If she's still asleep, leave her."

"Where is she?" Izuku asked as he stood up when Shota nudged his head to the living room, hands occupied by food. "She should be in the living room."

F/n turned her head towards the room and smiled when she saw Eri coloring, "She's awake. Hi, Eri!"

"Hi, Eri!" The rest said and hearing her name being called the girl smiled as she stood to go to them. "Hello! Is dinner ready?"

Seeing a nod, they all placed the bags away before sitting at their designated chair. When they were all children, they had decided to mark their names in their favorite color. Katsuki's being red, F/n's f/c, Hitoshi's purple, Izuku's green, Shoto's red and blue, and Eri's red. Along with the names, they added stickers of grenades, knives, cats, bunnies, noodles and apples. For Shota's chair, they added all their stickers.

"Alright." Shota placed a bowl of delicious food in front of Eri, before the others. Everyone knew that Eri got her plate first, courtesy of young privileges, "After you're done, get ready for school tomorrow. And sleep early Hitoshi, you don't want to be late for the first day."

"Yeah, yeah."

As soon as their bowls and fresh juice was placed in front of them, everyone began to eat. With Shota at the head of the table, he watched as his family ate with smiles and talked among them. Despite how different their personalities are, they seemed to get along well to which Shota felt satisfied. His own smile appeared on his face.

"Can you pass the salt?" Eri's small voice asked Shota.

Shota handed it to her, "Here you go."

"I can't wait for school." Izuku mumbled as he chewed his food, his mind going to a certain girl.

"Quit stealing my food, Icyhot!"

"But I'm hungry."

"Let him have some, fatass!"

"Fatass."

"That is not nice, F/n and Hitoshi."

[makeitmingi]

Cause Baby You’re My Muse [Chapter 1]

Genre: Romance, Idol!AU, Music, Slight angst

Pairing: Mingi x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Producer!Reader, IdolLyricist!Mingi, IdolProducer!Hongjoong, Idol!Seonghwa, Idol!Yunho, Idol!Wooyoung, Idol!San, Idol!Yeosang, Idol!Jongho, cameo(s) by other celebrities

Summary: You always preferred producing underground, having an unknown face and governed by your own rules. But when you start freelancing for idol groups, you say goodbye to your lone wolf lifestyle as you learn to work with idol producers and lyricists.

Word count: 3.2K

Your phone vibrating against your desk was what caught your attention. Otherwise, with your headphones on, you wouldn’t have heard it. You reached over to turn it off, eyes widening when you saw the time.

“Shoot! I’m gonna be late!” You shot out of your chair and went to the bathroom. Honestly, you did not plan on pulling an all-nighter. But after you were finally able to get some beats to work, you wanted to ride that high and continue working. 

“What to wear? What to wear?” You knew you should have planned your outfit last night. In the end, you wore a hoodie, some wide jeans and a beanie, plain and simple.

“Ah... What do I need?” You stood in front of your desk, mind blanking out due to the unexpected rush to leave the house.

“Laptop, keyboard, iPad, headphones... Notebook, pen...” You swiped off whatever you could carry and dumped them into your duffel bag. There was no time to neatly arrange everything. 

“Which bus was it again?” Scratching your head, you tried to find the instructions on your phone. Thankfully, when you finally found out the route, the bus came rather quickly. You sat down and pulled a mask on.

‘Eden! Sorry, I might be a bit late. Got a little lost and was working all night... - Indigo’

‘No worries. We’ll be in studio 1. - Eden’

You sighed as you read the message. This was not the image you wanted to give on your first day at work. You wanted to maintain a professional image, not one that is tardy and not put together. 

KQ Entertainment

Looking up at the sign, you gulped and adjusted your mask before going in. The security guy at the counter looked at you. He raised an eyebrow, taking in your appearance. You wouldn’t blame him for being suspicious. You looked ordinary, not like someone who would work at an entertainment company. Slowly, you slid your pass over to him. 

“Go ahead.” He nodded to the lifts after approving of your comapny pass. Luckily you had all the access things you needed, collected the day you signed the contract two weeks ago. 

“Studio... 1!” You found the door you were looking for. Before entering, you took a deep breath, gulping as you raised a hand to knock. 

“Indigo?” 

“Eden. Hey.” You smiled behind your mask and wrapped your arms around him. Eden chuckled, reciprocating the hug and even lifting you up slightly. He pulled away and patted your head, leading you into the studio 

“Sorry, I’m late. I didn’t even know the sun had risen while I was working.” You rubbed the back of your neck. 

“Don’t worry about it. It happens to the best of us.” Eden laughed. 

As you stood there, Eden introduced you to the 6 others in the room, also known as members of ‘Edenary’. All producers of different calibre brought in by Eden himself. 

“Nice to meet you, you can call me Indigo.” You bowed and introduced yourself to them after they told you their names. Eden had briefed everyone prior, about your want for personal privacy. So you go by your producer name ‘Indigo’ and you wear a mask to hide the lower half of your face.

“We all know who you are. The famous ghost producer.” Maddox reaches out to shake your hand. 

“Yeah, honestly when Eden said he invited you to join us, we thought he was joking...” Jangmoon scoffed, making Eden roll his eyes. 

“Please, I still have a lot to learn. I look forward to working with all of you and learning new things to improve.” You shyly bowed to them. You’ve only ever exclusively worked underground.

“I heard you only recently started working with idols though. Are you leaving the underground scene?” Oliv asked.

“No, not leaving. I just wanted more exposure. My recent works with idols is all through a ghost network so no one really know me.” You explained. 

“But your name is famous, Indigo. We’re happy to have you onboard.” 

“Like I said, Indigo isn’t going to join Edenary. She is here as a freelancer, to add some new creativity and difference to our music sound. But we’re still a team that works and collaborates together, okay? I’ve already told Hongjoong to come later to meet her after his schedule.” Eden said.

“Yes, boss.” The 6 saluted jokingly and you followed suit with a small giggle. Eden scoffed, already used to the antics of the 6. You waved to them and bowed again as you followed Eden out of the big studio. 

“So studio 1 is where all the big recordings and main meetings happen. I’ll take you to your private studio.” He informed.

“Oh, right. Thank you.” You followed him down the hallway, past a lot of doors.

“So this is the producers’ floor. After you settle in, I’ll give you a tour of the rest of the building.” Eden smiled. 

“This is yours. It has the basic equipment from the brand you told me you use. I got what I could get within the budget. Feel free to add your own stuff to the set up and customise the studio to your liking.” He opened the door.

“Wow.” You were in awe. You were grateful there was some equipment so you wouldn’t have to ferry equipment back and forth.

“So the couch is a pullout like you’ve requested for. The other furniture like table, chairs, cabinets will be paid for by the company. Just put together a list and send it over to me.” 

“Thank you so much, Eden.” You bowed. 

“No need to keep thanking me. I think you have a lot of talent to offer, Indigo. One of the members of the idol group we mainly produce for, Ateez, will come introduce himself to you later. He is the leader or captain actually, name is Hongjoong. He works with us during production a lot so it’s good to meet him and get a feel for his style.” Eden said. 

“Captain?” You tilted your head in confusion. 

“It’s their concept. Pirate ship plus not wanting to follow other groups and have a leader. So they call him captain.” Eden explained with a laugh.

“Got it. Captain, not leader. I’ll be here until then.” You said. 

“If you need anything, I am in Studio 2. Oh and don’t forget to password lock your door.” He informed and left you to give you some time to settle down and set up. 

“Can’t believe I’m actually here.” You shook your head in disbelief. Never would you have expected yourself to be here, working with other people. 

Unzipping your duffel bag, you placed all the equipment you brought on the desk, in a set up that was similar to the one you had at home. It was how you worked the best and comfortably. 

“Monitors, here and here. Speakers will have to be pushed back.” You roughly sketched how you would want you full set up to look like.

“I’ll bring my equiliser... Sound mixer...” Also, you made a list on what extra equipment you would want to bring in. 

“Let’s see... What was I working on?” Putting your headphones on, you started working. Since it was getting a bit hard to breathe and you were alone, you pulled your mask down to your chin as you worked. 

Indigo, the alias name you had chosen for yourself from the time you started working. You worked with rappers and singers that mainly operated underground. Only recently you’ve been giving your works to idol groups but no one has actually met you before. You were known as the ‘ghost producer’.

But Eden reached out, giving you a shot at producing “above ground” for idol groups, where you can learn and earn a lot more. All while maintaining your privacy. So you accepted. 

*DING DONG*

“Huh? Coming!” You pulled your mask up and went to the door. Eden stood there with a very good looking male. 

Besides his handsome face, it was like looking in a mirror. He had blue hair, the colour matching your peekaboo dyed hair. He also had multiple piercings on his ears like yours.

“Indigo, this is Hongjoong. He is the captain of Ateez. Hongjoong, this is Indigo. Our new producer.” Eden introduced.

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Hongjoong. I am a big fan and look forward to working with you.” He seemed to hesitate reaching out to shake your hand so he opted to bow politely instead. 

“Hi, Hongjoong. Likewise. You can call me Indigo.” You held your hand out to him and he smiled before slipping his hand into yours to shake it.

“Please, come in. I only have a couch so I apologise.” You invited them in. 

“I need to go meet the big boss. Hongjoong, you stay and get to know our new producer, okay? Take care of her. Actually, you guys kind of look alike now that I look at it.” Eden noted. You scoffed playfully and rolled your eyes as Eden left. Hongjoong’s eyes widened as he cleared his throat. You still invited him in, closing the door behind him. 

“Your blue is like mine.” You said, lifting the upper layer of your hair up to reveal the bright blue underneath that matched Hongjoong. He nodded his head with a smile, fingers going to touch the ends of his blue hair. 

“So, Eden says you produce too?” You asked.

“Yes. I’m usually part of the producing team for my group but I still have much to learn.” He explained, taking a seat on the couch while you wheeled your chair over to sit. 

“Does your entire group produce? Sorry if I’m asking a lot. I just want to know what to expect.” You rubbed the back of your neck.

“No worries at all. Hmm, they don’t really produce. But they do partake in lyric writing. I’ll introduce you to them the next time we have group practice.” 

“Alright. And you can ask me questions too, by the way...” You chuckled.

“Do you always wear a mask?” He outrightly asked. You had expected it, a lot of people ask why you wear a mask and why you want to keep your identity a secret when you could gain fame. 

“Yes, it’s more a security thing. I appreciate the privacy, helps to separate my private and personal life. Maybe one day you’ll know what I look like.” You joked.

“Why did you want to work with Eden hyung or an entertainment company? The underground would be perfect for privacy.” 

“Exposure and experience. I’ve never really worked with a team, I’ve never worked outside of my underground studio. It’s usually me sending my works to others to use; whether it is lyrics or beats or melodies. And working with idols is different compared to the underground scene.” You explained.

“That makes sense. I noticed your name in the credits for a lot of recent songs. I would say expectations are also different. There is a lot more... creative freedom and liberty underground.” He stated.

“You’ve worked underground before?”

“A little... When I was still in school. It was how I met most of Edenary. But it was mainly to learn before I signed to KQ.” He said.

“That’s cool. It would be interesting to work with a team. I can’t be a lone wolf forever, right?” There was some bitterness to the part of your statement. Hongjoong nodded his head with a comforting smile. 

As you and Hongjoong talked, you surprisingly grew comfortable around him quickly, letting your guard down a little. He reminded you of a protective older brother, kind and patient.

“Well, I hope I am able to creatively add to the process, rather than burden the team.” You chuckled.

“Nonsense, I think you’re very talented.” He smiled kindly. 

“I’m looking forward to meet the other members of your team. So I can get to know all your individual styles, as well as the cohesive style of Ateez.” You smiled, wheeling yourself back to your desk to grab your phone.

“Am I not enough for you? That you need to meet my other members.” He feigned hurt, putting a hand over his heart. You shook your hands in quick denial to the point where you actually dropped your device. But Hongjoong was quick, bending down to pick it up for you. He brushed the screen to inspect it for any damage. 

“I was kidding.” He laughed as he held out the device.

“Thank you.” You received it with a small bow of your head. Hongjoong couldn’t help but reach out to pat your head, eyes full of adoration. Only when he realised what he was doing then he pulled away.

“I am so sorry. That was way out of line. I just... never had a sister before and... I don’t even know what I’m saying.” He stuttered.

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t have any brothers but it’s weird that I kind of feel like you are one.” You blushed. 

“It’s instinctive for me. Once you get to know my group, you will understand why I have to play to role of older brother, mother and father.” He joked.  

“Are they that chaotic?” 

“I always tell people that when you look at them as 5 year olds, you won’t feel so overwhelmed...” He rubbed the back of his neck, his ears turning slightly red at the tips. You laughed along with him. 

Speaking to Hongjoong was like speaking to a friend, not a celebrity. He was humble, down to earth and relaxed. There wasn’t a point where he made you feel awkward or uncomfortable. Even when talking about producing, he never showed off his knowledge or experience. 

“Once I get more equipment here, it’ll be an easier space for me to work in. But I ran a little later this morning when coming here so I grabbed what I could.” You told him.

“You work at night?” 

“I find it more productive to work at night. Lesser distractions and night is when underground performances usually happen.” You explained.

“What genre do you usually work on?” Hongjoong asked. You thought about it for a while before wheeling yourself over to your desk. You waved him over and he stood up, walking to stand beside you.

“This is what I was working on last night. The reason I was late.” You told him, playing the recording for him. 

“I’m trying different genres now, try to cater to the style of the artist I’m working with. So this is a softer R&B melody.” You explained to him, hiding your nerves.

“I like it. The flow is really nice.” Hongjoong bopped his head to the beat, fingers lightly drumming against the desk. You let out a mental sigh of relief, glad that he liked it considering he was one of the main people you would be working with from now on. But you kept all your emotions and reactions internal, maintaining a stoic face.

“Our style so far has been mainly EDM trap with dark hip hop... with dance-style anthemic songs from time to time. We try to dabble in multiple genres to show our range.” Hongjoong said.

“I’m looking forward to seeing that.” You nodded.

“Here, I’ll give you my number.” Hongjoong said. You handed him your phone and he typed your number, dropping himself a missed call to have your number.

“I have to go now but I’ll see you around.” He waved. You walked him to the door, waving to him as he left. 

You checked your phone and realised that you had been talking to Hongjoong for close to 4 hours. You went to use the washroom and when you came back, you saw a paper bag right at the doorstep.

‘Eden hyung said you hadn’t eaten since you were speaking with me. Make sure to eat. And welcome to KQ! - Captain Hongjoong’

Inside the bag, there was street food like tteokbokki, two kinds of kimbap and some fried snacks. You sent him a thank you text before breaking your chopsticks to begin eating. You ate at your desk since it was the only table you had at the moment. 

“Let’s see... Ateez music video.” You searched for something to watch while eating. You were probably the most unprepared newbie ever, not even doing research on the group that you’re going to work with. 

“Hyung, where are yo- OH MY GOSH!” You were startled by someone just opening the door, turning around in shock. Seeing someone there, you scrambled for your mask but it had dropped to the ground.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know anyone was in here!” The male was flustered, bowing repeatedly.

“It’s fine. Please close the door.” You waved him off behind you. You heard the door close and you bent down to pick up your mask, putting it on. After that, you stood up and poked your head out to see if the guy was still there.

“Hello?” You called out but he must have ran off after the shock. 

“Everything alright, Indigo? I heard a shout.” Maddox also emerged from his studio, a concerned look on his face.

“Oh, yes. Sorry for disturbing. Someone just entered my studio, we scared each other and he must have ran off. I think he wasn’t expecting someone to be in the studio.” You smiled.

“Ah, we thought everyone already knew that you were going to be working in studio 8. Sorry about that.” He apologised. You shook your head.

“I guess this just means I should be introducing myself to everyone.” You giggled. He laughed and nodded his head. Since he made sure you were fine and safe, he went back to his studio. You did the same, making sure to lock the door now as you returned to your food. Now at least people would have to ring the doorbell before coming in. 

You huffed, chewing on the tip of your chopstick. Maybe it was one of Hongjoong’s group members, you didn’t really see his face clearly. You hoped that at the same time, he didn’t see your face. 

"Well, it can’t be helped.” You sighed and finished up your food, wanting to get back to work right away. 

As you continued to work on the same melody, you couldn’t help but hear Hongjoong’s fingers drumming against your desk. 

“Maybe...” You opened up the composition page and tested out adding a light drum to the background, similar to the rhythm that Hongjoong had when he tapped on your table. 

“No, this wasn’t it. What was it?” You clicked your tongue in annoyance, trying different variations of it. After some experimentation, you played it back. 

“Finally!” You threw your head back with a big, victorious smile. It sounded like a nice remix version. Maybe this was a sign that things were going to work out well for you here. 

~

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