#join the conglomerate

[i-write-vague-notes]

terror, pure terror, is finding our bodies out of the closet, which I know you understand

[homoeroticgrappling]

Takeshita I am begging

Let Okada lure you away to join the EVPs

[didnt-hear-cold-as-you-live]

“Alison Thirteen” 😭

x[.]com/TheSwiftSociety/status/1790545801745191101

This is such a cash grab.

Hmmm I don’t think there’s anything wrong with fans compiling this inherently, but there is something about fans needing songs (and music videos and “Easter eggs” etc) “explained” to them that makes this a sensible thing to do which irritates me to no end that I can’t quite put my finger on

[landoffreaksandfrogs]

That, actually makes the "wanna be tangle buddies" thing more horrifying in such context, because, what if they had another prototyping slot open still?

SQUIDDLES FOR YOU

AND SQUIDDLES FOR ME

[the-kipsabian]

not me fantasy booking oc to pull double duty on sunday so orangekip can still win at wembley

[trashshouldnt]

really wanna join/make a pack but idk if the peeps at my school would wanna

[deathjitsus]

LIVE KYLE REACTION ??? ERMMM

[tinderbox210]

NoMae Week 2024 // Day 4: Starcrossed

Throughout the history of Earth, another world existed in a parallel universe where evolution took a different turn and sentient primates evolved into the dominant species instead of humans. When these two worlds mysteriously collided, they merged into a new world, a strange conglomerate of Earth as we know it and the more archaic so-called Planet of the Apes.

When the convergence happened, a fierce battle erupted as humans and apes distrusted another and fought for control over their new rivals. In the midst of the conflict, a young girl named Mae befriended the young ape Noa and they forged a deep bond in their brief time together until they were separated.

Years later, a small group of ape teens is allowed to enroll in a human high school in this new "post-apocalyptic" world with the goal of testing the feasibility of human/ape integration and if peaceful coexistence between the two species is possible, an endeavor fraught with suspicion and fear on both sides. Unforseen Mae and Noa meet again when Noa joins the same astronomy class as Mae.

After initial animosity, the pair slowly rekindles their childhood bond and even fall in love against the odds, while hostilities continue to grow between humans and apes, and their relationship gets put to the test by the small-mindedness of their respective species and the political agendas of people and apes in power alike.

Mae and Noa's bond becomes increasingly strong and increasingly dangerous, but while the world around them rages with anger, fear and prejudice on the brim of another war, their love may be the only hope for peace...

(Idea based on the tv show Star-crossed and the virtual tv show Convergence)

[rbbrbikerthorp]

A Tribute To Helmets

I grew up during the Apollo space missions, and whilst I didn't show a particular interest in NASA's exploits, I received a kid's space suit and helmet as a present. I vividly recall how different things sounded when I put the helmet over my head. I think that was the point when my kinky fascination for helmets began.

From my childhood, I remember watching an episode of the early Flash Gordon series (in monochrome) where Ming places a helmet on the head of one of his dissenting subordinates. Once the helmet was strapped on, the man became compliant, passive and drone-like.

At that moment I realised that something designed for safety and protection could also have very nefarious uses. Combined with visual and audio stimulation, the helmet could also contain electronic circuitry that can disrupt the natural processes in the brain. Helmets could also contain syringes, which can deliver chemicals and other substances directly into the head to suppress and indivual's throughts.

So here is my AI tribute to the Helmet, and how, when placed on the head it can strip away emotion, knowledge, purpose and individuality.

This man in his early twenties was just starting out in life. He had dreams of being successful, having the perfect suburban life - wife, kids and the kind of home people dream of. He had just agreed to join a multinational conglomerate, and as part of his induction he was required to take a medical. So on the appropriate day at the specifed time he turns up for what he thought would be a routine appointment.

On arrival, he was taken into a private room. He was asked to disrobe and was given a set of leathers and boots to wear, which, despite all his reservations he put on.

Once the leathers were zipped up and boots were on his feet, he was escorted to a room where a lab assistant placed a full-face helmet onto his head. He was then taken into a room filled with tech and video screens. The technician typed some commands into a computer and the helmet activated.

Isolated wearing the helmet, he was subjected to audio and visual stimulation; stripping away his own throughts and identity. Replacing it with a predetermined 'template', which the company would deploy as necessary. Thoughts of family, kids and friends replaced with absolute loyalty to the company.

'Physical' completed, the company has deployed him 'into the field'. Now a biker, his primary objective is to ride around and recruit candidates to join the company.

Meanwhile...

Some scientists are about to record the disruptive effects of their advanced helmets on three 'volunteers'. Once the helmets are fitted the volunteers will follow instructions and head to drone processing.

Elsewhere, two cyclists have been given new 'aerodynamic' helmets for a week to try.

Affixed to their heads, they will have no desire to ever remove their helmets - ever.

Sticking with a sport theme, the new coach has provided the team with revolutionary and technologically advanced helmets. These not only offer superior protection to the head, but also allow the coach a direct interface into the players' minds. It's going to be a successful season for this team.

There are worried faced amongst this army platoon - and they should be worried.

They will follow the General's orders to place the helmet on their heads. When they do their individual thoughts will become suppressed as they turn into droned soldiers. No more briefings, no reliance on old technology like radio transmissions, which can be hacked into by the enemy. The helmet will ensure all orders issued by the commanders are transmitted directly into their brains.

There are changes afoot in civilian life too. A new force for law and order is being created. One by one members of the police force are invited to undergo a routine medical.

Soon they will all be fitted with helmets; permanently connecting them directly to the company network, with orders transmitted directly into their brains.

There is to be a zero tolerance of crime - even minor misdemeanors. So they begin to 'clean up the streets'.

Chavs and scallies are rounded up and each one is fitted with a helmet...

Once the work of the helmet is done, a new 'drone' is sent out onto the streets as a 'recruiter' for the company.

They're also recruiting in colleges and universities...

And back in the boardroom, the executives are monitoring progress of the company's plan.

Each member of the so-called 'C-suite' has been given a helmet to allow speedier decision making and negate the need for laptops, smartphones and video screens. Directly connected to the company's network through their helmet, they follow the instructions fed directly into their brains - following them to the letter. After all each helmet ensures they are exemplary servants of the company.

Hope you enjoyed my AI tribute to the helmet. Depending on the feedback I might do a second helmet blog.

Oh, in case you were wondering which is my favourite helmet, it's my Arai Corser, pictured below.

[gh0st-patr0l]

What fucks me up is that Orange was FINALLY in a good place again. It took so long, he spent Months depressed and closed off even after he joined the conglomeration. But he Finally got his groove back. He was being silly again, he came up with a special high five with Kyle and would do it with enthusiasm, he was having fun matches and doing bits. He was FINALLY in a good spot again.

He was floating around the midcard for most of it, but looking back Im certain that was intentional. Orange didn't Want to be at the top of the card anymore, because that was what lead to all his problems. The foundational basis of his Entire character is that he doesn't have any super intense ambition. He's Content to not be a key player or a champion. He's fine with being the pre-show guy, to just hang out and have multi-man matches with his goofy friends. That's all he's ever really wanted.

And then as soon as he got that back, as soon as he was finally happy again, everybody starts telling him he's gotta step back up. That he's gotta jeporadize this fragile stability he's found and everything he worked so hard to get back. So of course he says no, but then it doesn't matter. Because you don't get to choose how people see you, and everyone else decided he was The Man, and now he has to pay for that.

Idk man. Shit's fucked

[bangtangalicious]

nexus (m) part 6

pairing: jungkook x reader, taehyung x reader ft. hobi x reader, namjoon x reader, yoongi x reader

smut: taehyung x reader, jungkook x reader, some hobi x reader

premise: a notorious casino conglomerate took you in when you were young. you grew up alongside their sons; inseparable from the oldest, infatuated with the middle, and engaged to the youngest. after a shocking murder, a detective with a vendetta drags you into unraveling a web of dangerous lies that cause you to question who you trust, and who you love

genre: 18+ slow burn romance mafia elite arranged marriage murder mystery thriller

characters: detective jungkook, heir taehyung, ceo namjoon, arms dealer hoseok, bartender yoongi, doctor jimin, best friend/heir seokjin

wordcount: 6.2k

warnings: 18+ multiple smut scenes, oral (f and m), fingering, sexual tension, like a lot of sexual tension, a lot of subtle touching, grinding, kisses, possessive behavior, tsundere!taehyung, implied bipolar disorder, angstttt, betrayal, light yandere undertones, taehyung gets his first kiss...and some other things too ;) breast play, hella teasing, did i mention sexual tension idk taehyung is hot ok but hes also scary do with that what you will, declarations of love, jungkook tryna be sweet we been knew ig, as you might imagine this sets the foreplay for loads of smut in the next part LOL, its a lot of slow burn build up and evident thirsting over this taehyung okay im not sorry

series navi | join taglist | masterlist

“I can’t lose you”

Taehyung’s words haunted you as you stared aimlessly at the tiled ceiling. The hospital room chilly, the smell of alcohol—the sanitizing kind, unfortunately—overwhelming your senses. There were other things you could be thinking about. Namjoon in jail. Jimin dead. Hobi betraying your trust.

But no. It had been Taehyung’s eyes that were on your mind—was it concern? Worry? Taehyung with emotions was a rare sighting. You were practically cherishing the moment.   

“It’s late”

The devil in question sat by the windowsill of your private hospital room, minding his own. Reading. Fingers bending the corners of a paperback novel as his eyes trailed over the pages with interest.

Even in the dark hue of the night, the faded moon seemed to hit his face just right.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Go to sleep” His answer was frank, “None of that matters until you get better”

“How can I not think about it?” You snapped. “Namjoon went to jail for me. Because I was an idiot and trusted Hobi. Bet my ass he killed Dr. Park too. I’m probably next. And if he murders me—you won’t get to, Tae”

The corners of Taehyung’s lips curled ever so slightly.

His uninterested eyes steady on the pages of his novel. Not bothering to glance your way.

“Have you ever considered just keeping yourself out of dangerous situations? Whatever it is you’re trying to prove…that you’re powerful, like your mother…that my family wronged you—all it does is show that you’re still their puppet.”

He exhaled sharply, a dismissive scoff that tore your confidence thread by thread, finally meeting your eyes.

“It’s pathetic”

You’d had just about enough of him. Fingernails digging into your palms.

“You’re an asshole Taehyung” You informed him. He shrugged.

“I’m honest” He countered. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to being babied.” Finally setting his book aside, he walked up to your bedside, kneeling down until he was at your eye level.

“Now will you please sleep?”

The look in his eyes perplexed you. You couldn’t quite tell if he was annoyed, or if he genuinely cared about your health.

Deep down, you knew he was right. Everything you’d done had been to prove a point.

Taehyung rested his head on the armrest. Watching you intently, his eyes tired, dropping unconsciously.

“You’re the one who needs sleep, idiot” You muttered under your breath, letting your fingers run through his soft, wispy black hair. “Taehyung” You nudged him. He barely opened his eyes. 

“Get in here” You shifted over, giving him space. He didn’t question it in the moment, he was probably too tired. He didn’t face you. Kept a decent distance between you both.

You were paralyzed. Aware of his every breath. Aware of the way he shifted himself to get comfortable—you could sense the intention in his avoidance of touching your skin even slightly. His scent was more prominent.

“Do you miss your mother?”

His question was so quiet, you weren’t even sure it was real.

And it occurred to you then, that you’d never thought about it. That you’d never even been asked. In the chaos of your mother’s death, your move to the Kim’s and Taehyung being sent away—you barely even processed anything. All you remembered was Jin being so patronizingly worried about you—convincing you that he was all you needed. That you moving in with him would fix everything.

You blinked wildly. Trying to piece together a coherent answer.

“I liked her” A smile creeped onto his face. Or so you thought, as you turned to see the side of his face—his eyes steady on the ceiling fan. “She’d always get me hotteok”

You watched him. Inspected the mole on his neck. The curve of his cheek. The way his long lashes merged when he’d blink. The way the night sparkled in his eyes. The same eyes that would bend your will so easily.

Young Taehyung would give you one look and you’d give him the world. And he’d known it too.

It was so quiet. But your chest was beating loud in your ears.

You must have fallen asleep despite yourself. Dreaming of Jungkook had become a standard practice. This time, he was drowning. You were him, and he couldn’t breathe. You reached out to him as he screamed for you. He was terrified. Falling. Dying.

Breathe.

You tried to tell him. Swim to the surface. Breathe. Something chained him down.

Your eyes shot open.

It was dark.

You. You couldn’t breathe.

Suffocating you, the cotton tasted bitter on your toungue. You squirmed. Thrashing, trying to grab for someone—anyone. You screamed out, for what it was worth. Scratching at the strong hands that held the pillow down over your face.

Adrenaline surged. It occurred to you to kick your legs. You did.

Suddenly the grip loosened.

Taehyung was on the floor.

Panting.

Hyperventilating.

The pillow inches from his palm.

He was quivering. Eyes shot—looking down as if he himself couldn’t believe what he was doing.

You stared at him. Trying to comprehend. Trying to rationalize.

“Taehyung” His name left your mouth in a more accusatory manner than you meant it to. Was it a question or a plea—you were unsure. He met your eyes, and you saw fear. As if he’d been pulled out of a trance.

“I—” He couldn’t form the words. He receded into himself, moving back until he was as far from your hospital bed as he could be. Back pressed against the wall as he hugged his knees to his chest. His voice was shaking, “I don’t—”

“Were you trying to kill me?” You yelped, looking around suddenly for your phone. Grabbing it you held it to your chest, ready to call for help if he tried anything. You almost wanted to laugh—thinking for a moment that you were safe around Kim fucking Taehyung.

You should’ve known better.

Taehyung’s eyes were overcome with horror. Disgust, at himself. He looked at his hands as if they weren’t a part of his own body. Then back at you.

“Princess” He was breathless, “—I swear, I didn’t mean to. I was d-dreaming, I didn’t know”

You gulped. Your fingers curling around your phone as you tried to think.

Maybe he was telling you the truth. Taehyung didn’t know to lie to you. He was honest if nothing else.

“Come back” You let your voice soften, but your body remained tense. “Go back to sleep Tae”

Taehyung gave you an uncertain look.

You rose from the bed, the hospital gown falling loosely around your curves. Kneeling down, you met his eyes at his level. Taking the pillow from the ground, you reached your other hand out to him.

“Maybe,” You sighed, “Maybe being in a hospital is triggering for you” It was a stretch, but you needed to believe there was something. Something that wasn’t that Taehyung hated your guts. Resented you, and would go as far as to kill you in your sleep because of it.

“It is”

He confessed quietly, still not meeting your gaze.

The pout on his lips, evident.

“You didn’t have to stay”

He looked at you.

He said nothing.

“Why don’t I call Yoongi, hm?” You reasoned, “He can take you home” And then you can call Jungkook and get the fuck away from him.

The phone rang.

Jungkook groaned, shoving his face into his pillow.

It kept fucking ringing.

Knowing deep down it might be the precinct, reluctantly, he put the phone to his ear.

“Hey”

Your voice was an aphrodisiac.

He felt it straight in his chest. Awake, now. Worried, seconds later.

He rubbed his eyes, checking his phone to see how late it was.

“Y/n? Baby, is everything okay? Are you still at the hospital?”

“I’m fine.” You weren’t. He could hear the tremble in your voice, “I just sent Taehyung home. Can I come to your place?”

Jungkook sighed. “Sure. I’ll be there soon”

Perks of having a police vehicle. Traffic was never an issue for him.

Entering the hospital, he noticed Yoongi and Taehyung in the lobby, heading towards the back exit. Yoongi had his hand on Taehyung’s shoulder. Seemed to be reassuring him.

Jungkook wondered what happened. You called Yoongi to the hospital so late to take Taehyung home.

He got in the elevator. He knew what room you were in. He’d been the one to bring you to the hospital, before the staff kindly reminded him he was not family—or rather, he wasn’t a Kim, and therefore couldn’t go into your room.

Then Jimin’s body was found. Duty called.

Three gunshots. He didn’t see him, but the autopsy report was eerily similar to that of his own fathers.

You were waiting at the front desk of the inpatient ward. Signing what he assumed were your discharge papers. You noticed him, eyes lighting up immediately.

Jungkook placed his calloused palm against your cheek. Your eyes were so fucking beautiful it stung him just to look at you.

“You’re okay” He breathed, reassuring himself more than anything. His voice trembled softly into a chuckle as you nodded, covering his palm with your own.

“Yeah, I’m okay” His lips neared yours, not touching, but enough for you to feel his breath scrape against your nerves.

He took your hand in his, and led you out of the hospital to his car. It was a short drive to his apartment. It occurred to him that you’d likely never stepped foot on this side of the city. The streets were narrow. Crippling houses dotted his peripheral—a faint scent of smoke through his windows.

He parked on the edge of the street, in front of an average-sized apartment complex.

“The Jeon Manor” He joked lightly.

You pouted, grabbing his hand. Fingers lacing with his.

“You know I don’t care that you’re not rich”

Jungkook wanted to scoff. But he held it back. If only you knew. If only you realized what could have been his, if it hadn’t been for—

“I don’t care where we are, I just want to be with you”

You brought his hand to your lips.

“Stop” He exhaled.

“W-what?”

“Stop saying shit like that when you won’t fucking commit”

You gulped. His stare was intense as he pulled his hand away from you, running in through his dark curls.

“Jungkook” You reached for his shirt, tugging the fabric towards you but Jungkook’s jaw hardened. He turned away. “Jungkook I’m serious”

“You won’t leave Nexus for me, you told me that. You won’t fight for me”

You tugged harder. He grabbed your wrist, harsher than he meant to. Glaring at you.

You didn’t understand. Jungkook should have known. Why would you? This was personal for you. Running Nexus was a point you had to prove, he understood that. But it was the very thing he needed you to give up. If not, then you’d never forgive him for what was coming.

“I love you”

Jungkook’s eyes clenched shut, almost out of regret. He felt tears but pushed them down.

“No.” He shook his head. Shit. He had let this go too far.

For as much as he’d wanted to hear it, it was a wake up call. The two of you couldn’t be together.

“You can’t”

Then he kissed you. His heart was erratic, breathing too. A desperate kiss, fierce with need. Your body fell limp, melting into his touch. Falling into him because he was everything and all you needed.

-

Somehow, he brought you to his apartment. Kicking the door closed.

He lifted you onto the counter, not letting you breathe—not letting you think, but fighting a sweet war with your lips. You were spinning. Losing yourself every passing second—seconds which passed so slowly as the moment consumed you.

His hands which rested on the sides of your hips, crawled beneath the hem of your shirt. Delicately they explored your skin, rising to the curves of your chest. Caressing your breast, he deepened the kiss, tongue pushing past yours, tangling together.

“Jungkook” You whimpered. His mouth slanting down your jaw, to your neck. Where he tasted your sweet skin and you arched into him. His fingers drawing across your nipples with intention, causing fire to pulse through you.

You could feel him pressed against you, hips locked. Rocking ever so slightly.

Your phone began to vibrate. Jungkook hissed in irritation, backing away as you answered the call.

“Y/n”

Your blood ran cold.

That voice.

“Run”

You could see Jungkook’s eyes narrow at you. The line went dead. You were too stunned to speak.

“Who was it?” Jungkook inquired, looking at your phone. Gulping, you shook your head.

“I-um—just remembered that I need to take care of something”

His fingers hovered over your waist. “Okay, I can drive you” You stiffened as he kissed your neck again. “Or we could go after 20 minutes” His voice was husky.

Run.

Jungkook’s lips dipped to your chest, pushing the hem of your t-shirt up. Leaving pronounced kisses on every inch of skin he could find.

Run. Run. Run. Run.

You squinted behind him. There was an old family photograph hanging on the wall.

Two young boys. A father.

Their suits. Well-tailored. Designer.

Your breath hitched, Jungkook’s fingers slid across your slit.

“I love you baby” He mumbled as his lips returned to yours. “So fucking much, I almost hate you for it”

Two boys. A father.

Two.

“You’re an only child, right?”

Jungkook’s actions halted.

“Yeah,” He wiped his lips, “My mom died when I was young.”

“Any, other relatives…?” You slid off the counter carefully, pieces in your mind beginning to fit together.

Jungkook’s face hardened. Jaw stiff.

“Did Jimin say some bullshit to you?”

Oh God. Jimin had been hinting at some connection between Jin and Jungkook all along. You thought it had been a joke. A way to toy with Jungkook’s head.

That day. After you fucked Jungkook for the first time. Jin saw him. Jin knew him.

What if Jimin had been right? What if he had been the only one who was truly looking out for you all along?

“Did you kill Jimin?” The question had no sound. The air was still. The two of you, frozen in time.

“Come on, Y/n.” Jungkook sighed, “Jimin got what he deserved, but no I did not. He hurt you. He’s insane”

You flinched when he reached for your wrist.

He knew you figured it out.

You stepped outside the apartment. Running down the steps until you were back on the street. Outside Yoongi stood, leaning against the stone wall across the street as though he were expecting you.

“You knew” Was all you said.

Yoongi sighed, “I knew about Jungkook, but I needed to make sure if my hunch about Jin was true.”

You laughed bitterly. “That’s why my mother hated Jin. Because,” You couldn’t even say it. It made you want to vomit.

“Jin is a Jeon”

You blinked back tears. “But, why would he kill his own father?”

“Unless, he didn’t”

“Oh my God. You think…” You exhaled, feeling weak again. Yoongi held you upright. “Taehyung?”

He shrugged lightly, “It’s possible. More believable that a mother sends away the son who killed her lover than a son who simply witnessed something”

You were silent.

“You need to be careful” He made his voice as soft and kind as he possibly could. “I know about Hobi, but I’m honestly more suspicious of Jungkook.”

You nodded. The sun seemed to peak out from the horizon. A new day. A new betrayal.

Then the sound of the voice on the phone hit you. Run. So familiar. Like a ghost.

“Yoongi?”

“Yeah love?”

“Did you call my phone earlier?”

He shook his head. “No…why?”

“You’re back early” Taehyung answered the door, “Figured you’d spend the whole night with the Detective” His bland tone seemed to have been revived. You were too bewildered to care. You pushed past him, Yoongi following behind. Taehyung greeted him nicely. “Hyung”

You slumped into the couch immediately. Hand on your forehead as if it would ease the pounding.

Yoongi watched you, concerned. Taehyung looked to him for an explanation.

“So listen,” Yoongi cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear right now, but we still need to stay focused on pushing Hoseok out. The shareholders will be at the casino this evening for the anniversary gala”

“Yoongi” You laughed bitterly, “I don’t want to—”

“Y/n,” He responded, adamant, “This is what it’s like. You can’t hide just because shit’s hard. You’re not Jin’s princess anymore, you have responsibilities if you want back what’s yours. Taehyung isn’t ready to handle society on his own. He needs you”

A tear rolled down your cheek.

“Get some sleep” Yoongi rested his hand on your shoulder, caressing it gently. “It’s 7 AM, you’ve got plenty of time to get yourself together” His gaze diverted to Taehyung. “Black tie formal. I’ll send a suit for you. Make sure this one starts getting dressed at least 3 hours before we leave—she takes forever”

You let out a sad laugh, knowing Yoongi was trying to cheer you up but failing epically when all you had was a broken heart and impending doom.

Yoongi left, but Taehyung remained standing in front of you. A safe distance away, he simply observed you.

“You can sit you know” You grumbled.

He didn’t react. Didn’t move an inch.

“What’s wrong?” He inquired after a moment.

“Nothing,” You chuckled, “Just another missed opportunity for you to be the cause of my misery.”

“Was it,” Taehyung took a deep breath. Pausing, considering his next words carefully, “Was it him? Did the Detective hurt you?”

His eyes seemed to flash with something you couldn’t quite read.

“No” You stood up finally, “No the Detective is just another lying, manipulative asshole like the rest of you”

You walked past him, heading towards the foyer.

“I thought you loved him”

You whirled around. How he had managed to pick that up, you had no idea.

“I’ve decided I’m done with love” You stated confidently, “I end up falling for liars anyway”

You proceeded to storm up the stairs.

You were woken up by the sound of soft footsteps. Squinting, the evening sun blaring into your room, you noticed Taehyung pacing nervously outside of your room.

He was dressed.

Yoongi must have come by with the suit. It fit him perfectly. His dark hair was styled, tousled but neater than usual. His shoulders were prominent. The tailoring was perfect for his lean figure, and long legs. A gold watch on his wrist. It looked natural. He wore it so well.

Just like his brother.

Run.

“You’re awake” Finally, Taehyung stepped inside your room.

“Get dressed” He motioned towards a dry-cleaning bag that lay on your desk.

“Taehyung,” You sat upright, wiping the drool from your lips, “You look very handsome”

He blinked at you. Then walked away.

If you had any lingering doubt in your mind that the man by your side was in fact, Kim Taehyung—they were utterly dismissed. His Kim colors were shining. Despite his typical cold nature to you, Taehyung was the embodiment of charm.

Stepping into the casino, he had been initially overwhelmed by the stimulus: the lights, the slot machining whirring with bright colors, the crowd. You could feel him visibly tense even though he remained an appropriate distance away from you at all times. Close enough that folks knew you’d come together. Far enough to show you that he hadn’t forgotten about what happened.

The first few people who’d approached you had been friends of his mothers. You knew everyone well, everyone knew you. Taehyung would be quiet, shy at first, but it was that very aspect of his personality that made him alluring. He knew exactly what to say. His observant nature allowed him to navigate the different dynamics, pick up on cues expertly.

The elders respected his aura. The young were entranced by his mystery.

Every person he talked to was ready to trust him with their life. And if that wasn’t a Kim trait, you weren’t sure what was.

The only hiccups would arise when folks would bring up the past.

“Aren’t you two getting engaged?” Mr. Lee, one of Kim Enterprises’ stakeholders, asked politely, “So tragic what happened to dear Seokjin. But have you rescheduled?”

With speedy hesitation, Taehyung slid a hand onto the small of your back, looking into your eyes. There was a genuine passing of emotion, ever so subtle. He spoke, to Mr. Lee, but really—to you.

“In time” He smiled slightly. Looking back to Mr. Lee, “We are still mourning, in our own way”

“I’m sure Jin would be so proud of you”

You felt Taehyung tense at the implication. He maintained his composure, nevertheless, but you could see the turmoil stirring within him. Mr. Lee excused himself, and you turned to Taehyung, searching his eyes.

The mere mention of Jin had been pushing him closer and closer to the edge all night.

“Tae” You sighed, caressing his arm. “Want to take a break?”

“Please” His response was curt, but you could see his other hand balled up in a fist. Jin’s name had such a radial effect on him—one that reminded you that despite his ability to play the social field, he was dangerous.

Taehyung followed you to the backrooms where a younger crowd was immersed in pool, poker, and other debauchery.

“They loved you”

Taehyung merely shrugged. “Play the man, not the game” His eyes ghosted over you, “You taught me that”

You snorted lightly, as you found a quieter spot away from the buzz, Taehyung leaned against a wall, looking at ease.

“Taehyung, do remember how to play pool?” You asked suddenly as the billiard table came into your vision.

Taehyung thought for a moment. “Not really. But I’ll learn”

“Winner makes a wish, loser fulfills it” You challenged him. You really couldn’t help yourself. Being in the casino made you crave risk. But Taehyung wasn’t ready for high stakes, you knew that.

“Fine”

You start off expertly. Taehyung handed you the pool cue, the smooth wood cool against your fingertips.

"Alright, let me show you the basics," you said, positioning yourself near the table with a practiced ease.

He watched intently, his eyes following the calculated movements of your hands as you lined up a shot.

You demonstrated the proper stance, the controlled grip, and the delicate finesse required to send a ball into the pocket. With each shot, you explained the strategy, the physics of the angles, and the importance of precision.

You hit the shot expertly. With a smirk, you put down the pool cue and motioned for Taehyung to take your place.

"Your turn, Tae."

He eyed you skeptically but took the cue, positioning himself for the shot. You stepped behind him, your hand gently guiding his.

You’d never been so close to him. Not since the day you reunited, and he hugged you. And asked: are you scared of me, Princess?

Ever since then, there were oceans between you that you could only dream of crossing. He smelled good, you couldn’t help breathing in his fresh aura. The dimly lit room seemed to fade away just for a moment, and you wondered if he was effected like you were.

"Now, focus," you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear, though you maintained a level of indifference in your tone.

Taehyung's breath hitched imperceptibly, but he composed himself, focusing on the game. With your guidance, he took the shot, sinking the ball into the pocket expertly.

"Perfect," you praised, the ghost of a smile on your lips. "See, you’re a natural yet again. A true Kim”

Taehyung turned to face you, his gaze intense. "Anything I am is because of you”

You stiffened. His words were both a compliment and an accusation. God, seeing this side of him made him even more terrifying, because you didn’t trust yourself not to buy into the fact that he was some pure, innocent version of his older brother. He wasn’t. Kim Taehyung was unhinged. Any second he could snap, and you were on eggshells.

“Your turn” He handed back the cue. A few shots later, the two of you were neck and neck. The ocean between you two drying up slowly with every exchange of banter.

“Done with love, huh?”

You circled him as he lined up his next shot.

“What exactly did the Detective do to make you say something like that?”

You pursed your lips. “Why, gonna go beat him up?”

With a flick of his shoulder, the ball went in. Taehyung stood straight. “Maybe. What’d he do?”

He leaned against the table, handing you the cue as you positioned yourself. “He lied. He betrayed me. And I’m tired of loving liars”

“Didn’t you also lie to him?” He challenged. You shot him a glare. “Why haven’t you told him everything?”

You hit your mark. You missed. Taehyung’s blatant honesty was always unnerving. He wasn’t one to play games. “It’s complicated. I didn’t trust him. I still don’t trust him”

“And you expected him to trust you” Taehyung shrugged blandly. He stole the cue from your hand and before you could blink, he snapped the final shot. “Seems fair”

Taehyung’s last ball went in.

He beat you.

“Well” Taehyung huffed, trying to hide his gleaming pleasure. You almost wanted to roll your eyes. “I suppose that’s that” He looked at you expectantly.

“Okay Kim Taehyung, what wish can I grant you?” Cue in hand, you pretended to curtsy. Taehyung grabbed the end of the stick, using it to tug you towards him.

The space between you vanished. Only the cue between you, until Taehyung pulled it from your grip and set it aside.

There was something unrecognizable in his eyes. He licked his lips unconsciously.

“Well?” You looked up at him, suddenly aware of his height.

His fingers held your chin, tilting your face upward. Except his touch wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t painful.

Taehyung inhaled.

Your eyes widened as he closed his mouth over yours. His eyes shut—kissing you with a depraved delicateness. As if he was drinking your soul like he was the devil himself.

A touch so tender, and yet it seemed to steal away every last bit of purity within you, leaving behind a raging storm. Activating something so sinful—so wicked. All due to the decadent taste of his delicate lips.

He pushed your mouth open, deepening the kiss. And you—you were lost. Still utterly shocked that—Kim Taehyung was kissing you. The Kim Taehyung that wanted you dead. The Kim Taehyung who blamed you for everything—was actually kissing you.

It wasn’t like you’d never thought about it. The two of you no longer had to get engaged, but you lived with the man. And he was gorgeous. His quiet, mesmerizing charm. Enigmatic, smoldering and yet so calm. Who knew beneath that cold demeanor there was a tsunami waiting to be unleashed? 

He didn’t give you an opportunity to question him. His lips felt too good on yours for you to care. The casino around you seemed to vortex—everything spinning: the colorful lights—until you were airborne.

Floating. Dizzy. Afraid to fall but so fucking glad you were in the sky.

His mouth coaxed out your fierceness until you began to feel impatient. You placed your hand on his pounding chest, a light push until he sat down on the bench. You slid into his lap, no longer thinking—no longer caring that you were in public. That there was a room full of people in the casino who could be staring. Taking pictures. Gossiping.

They were all dead for all you cared.

You gasped audibly, a soft moan as he pulled you impossibly closer. You were losing your breath. On the verge of fainting—overwhelmed with sensations. Everything was heightened—everything felt alive.

His hand was behind your neck, the other one on the small of your back. Both yours in his wavy black—cloud like hair.

He pulled away, finally—barely. Catching his breath. His chest rising as fast as yours, offset by his erratic heartbeat. He was nervous.

Was that his first kiss?

He swallowed, uncomfortably on edge. His eyes were dark with desire. An angry kind of lust.

You searched your mind for words. Something to tell him that he did so good. That you loved it—and you wanted more. He was searching your gaze for something, but you were speechless.

So you kissed him again. Because how the hell else are you supposed to communicate.

“Taehyung” Your hands moved to cup his cheeks. You shifted, letting your body roll against his. Grinding against him slow and sensual, letting your movements mimic those of your lips. He was hard—painstakingly so. And he felt so good tucked between your legs. Throbbing for you. Both his hands lowered to your hips, then back up your back as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you—or maybe he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hold was strong—not rough. Touch intentional but not desperate. He took his time with you as if he had all the time in the world, but was still somehow starved. Drinking from you was his only salvation. You—you were his salvation. And he was your ruin.

He pushed you away, suddenly. You blinked, dizzy from the loss of touch. Sensitive and damp, heart throbbing fast. He didn’t meet your gaze.

“Fuck”

You could see the judgmental stares all around. Rolling your jaw you smirked at the crowd.

“We own this place. I’d mind your business”

The chatter dissipated. You redirected your attention back onto Taehyung.

“Taehyung?” Your voice was soft. “You okay?”

You noticed how tightly he was gripping the table. His head down, looking anywhere but up at you. Eyes wide, spiraling in thought.

“I—” He exhaled, closing his eyes again.

Was he--?

You couldn’t help yourself. You knew he’d despise you for it—but Kim Taehyung already despised you. You weren’t going to pass up a chance to feel him cum.

You shifted his chair so he was facing away from prying eyes. Carefully you snuck under the pool table, clawing at his pants.

His fingers pulled your hand away. A warning glare.

You yanked your hand away, unzipping his pants and letting his pretty cock spring free.

You clicked your tongue. Poor thing was ready to burst.

Licking your lips, you let your tongue glide from his base all the way up his length where you left a soft, sweet kiss on his tip. You slid his tip into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked.

Flattening your tongue, you let his cock rest there. Like a dog, you waited for him to cum all over you.

Then you looked up at him.

His eyes locked onto yours—and they were wild.

He hissed, shooting into your mouth. You drank up everything he had to give—and it was quite a bit. He bucked over, knuckles turning white. The bite into his lip released blood with how hard he was trying to stay quiet. You let him push his cock into the hollow of your cheek and spurts continued to flow out of him. You rested your hand on his knee, and his hand covered yours. Holding it tenderly—as if he were thanking you.

You cleaned him up quickly, before returning to your seat, adjusting your dress inconspicuously.

You grinned at him, but he was not amused at all. Still panting.

“Was that your wish?” You beamed at him. He chuckled softly.

“I just wanted to know what it felt like”

It was an innocent intention. Almost heartwarming.

“And, what do you think?” You leaned into him, “Did I rock your world, Kim Taehyung?”

“You are my world. There was never a doubt”

His eyes glossed over. You wanted to melt in his gaze. Unravel. Instead, you were plunged into cold water.

“Fancy seeing you two here”

The hairs on your body straightened. Chills seeping over you at the familiar voice, laced with betrayal.

“Jung Hoseok” He extended a hand to Taehyung, “Pleasure’s all mine baby boy” Taehyung skeptically shook it.

-

Hobi was extremely amused at what he had walked in on. Of course, a whore like you would take a matter of days to wrap the young Kim boy around your finger.

“Nice job leashing the puppy” He muttered, cigarette at the edge of his lips. The smoke wisping past your unamused expression.

“I should kill you” Hobi grinned at your response.

“No need,” He tapped the cigarette ash on the edge of the ash tray. He had brough you to his private booth. Leaving Taehyung for the wolves.

“What do you want, Hobi? I don’t want to leave Taehyung alone too long”

“Why?” He leaned closer to you. His hand resting on your bare thigh. Your dress was so fucking slutty, he loved it. He always loved the way you’d dress to gamble. As if your body gave you an edge—it did. He knew you crumbled rich playboy’s resolve with one bat of your pretty eyes. “Are you so desperate for dick you’d take your lover’s little brother’s virginity?”

You rolled your eyes. “I asked you a fucking question,”

“A birdy told me that you found out about Jin’s daddy”

You squinted at him. “What about it?”

“Don’t you want to know the whole story?” Hobi’s fingers hooked under the straps of your dress, playing with them. “Of the infamous Jeon family? And your mother—the woman who tore down a legacy”

His hand slid between your legs.

“Long long ago, the entire arms distribution business lay in the hands of one famous Korean gangster. Jeon Junghyun.”

He brushed against your clit. Gentle circles while he gazed into your eyes. A wicked grin. Like he could kiss you or stab you in the back.

You latched onto his arm as he lured you towards an orgasm. His face burying against your neck, breathing you in as he continued to touch you. Nothing except your soft whimpers in the air.

The heat from his body infected your every nerve. His breath scalding over your cheek.

“Then there was this clever little bitch” You inhaled sharply, edging forward towards your high. He could tell—because he pressed a little harder.

“Who manipulated her way to the top. Gained favor of everyone under him and took him out with a stab to the back” His hands roamed your body, sliding up your dress. He pushed the fabric up until it bunched up above your breasts which he grabbed at eagerly.

Thumbs rolling over your nipples, he continued “She took everything from him, leaving him and his two sons to rot. But she wasn’t cruel. She let him stay as her right-hand”

Hobi left a soft kiss against your left breast. Then another. And another. His thumb back onto your clit, he licked and suckled you. You gasped—looking at him with big, pleading eyes. Curving into his touch.

“She grew the business. An arms distribution pipeline can be used for a lot of things. She went legit. Bought out other companies with the blood money. Began distributing just about everything.”

He licked your lips. The sensation like that of slowly sinking into absolute, soft bliss. Licking down your jaw, fluttering desperate hisses across your neck.

Then, he slipped one finger in—your face heating at the sound. You clenched around the protrusion and he reached deep inside. Working you slowly, carefully—before adding in another.

His kisses trailed back up to your mouth. His breaths were heavy, swallowing your moans. It was hauntingly intimate.

“Hobi” You pleaded, gripping onto him as you shook. Orgasm sweeping over you like an earthquake. Tremors from your heart to every finger and toe in your body. He was so wildly aroused that he couldn’t look away. His fingers were steady nevertheless, pumping you through it. “Fuck, Hobi please”

“Jeon Jungkook wants you dead sweetheart” The pain from his words pushed you over the edge. You soaked over his fingers, twitching wildly. “And so did his hyung. Kim Seokjin.”

-

The brisk night air bit at your skin as you seized Taehyung's wrist, pulling him outside. People were chattering, smoking cigars, the lights from the casinos madness still polluting the air. Limousines, sleek and imposing, formed a line ready to usher the remaining guests to their destinations.

Waving down a driver, you led Taehyung inside one. The plush leather seats cool against your exposed legs. The interior lit so you could see him in front of you, clear as day.

The light shut. Instead there were light sparkles on the ceiling of the limo as it began to move. The champagne swirled in your mind as you leaned back, looking out the window. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. Like a rush, you wanted to lose yourself.

Your eyes shut for a moment. Remembering the way the light danced on your fac when you were with Jungkook that night at the club. Yearning for his touch, the look in his eyes when he told you how he felt.

You swallowed thickly, heart in too much pain to go down that road. You looked at Taehyung next to you, instinctively reaching out to touch his face. Gently, you took hold of his chin, coaxing his gaze to meet yours.

Your thumb traced over his cheek. Fingers dancing over his soft, delicate skin. His eyes fluttered close as you did. Teasing the edge of his lips ever so lightly. He really was a beautiful man. His lips looked soft. Devastating, with the way his shaken breath made them tremble.

He leaned into your touch, your fingers sliding up over his ear, pushing his hair out of his face. It felt like you were getting kicked in the chest repeatedly. Every part of you feeling numb but simultaneously sensitive to even the slightest movement of air.

He exhaled. The flow of his breath wavering. Or was it a moan, you weren’t sure.

You were about to pull your hand away, until Taehyung’s over fingers gripped your wrist. He stared at you, pupils wide. It was these moments where you felt like you could see him. His soft, vulnerable side, behind those concrete walls.

To your surprise, he brought your hand up to his face, kissing the inside of your wrist.

His lips softly melted into the sensitive area. Your breath hitched.

It was furiously intimate.

Holding your hand still, his eyes blinked back up at you. Almost as though he were asking permission.

Your throat was dry. The alcohol loosening the knots on your sense of logic.  

His eyes traced over you, dipping down your entire body. The way he sat, leaning so his knees almost touched yours. The leather suddenly felt so hot against your skin. Under his flaming stare.

He inhaled, steady, before leaning into you. Tracing his nose behind your ear. You shivered. His touch making you dizzy. Needy. Quivering.

“You looked beautiful tonight”

They were plain words.

When he said them, they meant the world. Something bloomed inside you. You were spinning and breathless, mouth parting in shock. His lips barely grazing under your jaw.

He backed away, putting distance between you yet again.

-

Namjoon stood in the foyer, waiting for you to come home. The moment the door swung open, you darted into his embrace. It felt like a familiar haven, and he effortlessly hoisted you up, cradling you in a desperate hug, afraid you might vanish if he let go.

"I missed you," Namjoon murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek before reluctantly releasing you. His gaze then shifted to Taehyung, pride in his voice. "You too. You look great, Taehyung. I heard you went to the casino."

Taehyung's response was measured. "Are you out on bail?"

"No," Namjoon replied with a hint of bitterness, "Yoongi blackmailed Jungkook into letting me go."

Your heart tightened at his name.

"Where is he? I want to see him”

“Absolutely not” Namjoon was firm. “We don’t know how dangerous he is. I have some of my guys looking into it with Yoongi. He sure as hell had been in contact with Jin in the weeks leading up to his murder”

Namjoon cupped your face. “But other than that, it’s over. He won’t contact you. You’re free. I don’t want you worrying about this anymore”

You wanted to laugh at the term. Free. Especially since Namjoon was already back to telling you what you could and couldn’t do.

“What about Nexus?”

Namjoon smiled, taking your hand in his. “Come with me,”

You followed him. Taehyung a few paces behind. Namjoon brought you into the garden. There were a million fireflies. Out of the corner of your eye, you glanced at Taehyung, wondering if he remembered your tender moment in this same spot.

Namjoon lowered onto one knee.

Fuck. It was one of those moments where everything was so still. So quiet yet extremely loud in your chest. He smiled. Eyes meeting yours. Brimming.

“Marry me”

Your mouth was dry. The moisture building in your eyes instead. It hurt, deep inside because your mind took you to a certain tattooed, mean and yet tender man who you had left behind.

“Let me give you everything, Y/n” Namjoon continued, “The papers. The stocks. The business. You deserve it all and I will give it to you. I’ve done you wrong, and I know you aren’t where I am. I know you loved someone else”

His proposal hung in the luminous space. His words echoed in your ears. His gaze held both sincerity and vulnerability. He waited for your response, standing up so his fingers could brush against the side of your face. The fireflies flickered like stars behind him.

“I hope someday, it can be more than an arrangement. Someday you might love me the way I love you. But for now, I wanted you to have the option. I will give you everything, I promise”

Tears blurred your vision, and you took a steadying breath. "Namjoon," you whispered, your voice fragile yet resolute. Suddenly, with the prize standing in front of you, waiting for your claim, you realized how serious your answer was. If you married Namjoon, you were signing a deal with the devil. There would be no going back.

"I need time."

His eyes reflected understanding, and he stood, pulling you into a tender embrace. "Take all the time you need," he murmured against your hair.

You could still feel Taehyung watching the scene unfold. His expression unreadable, he retreated into the shadows.

Namjoon walked you to your bedroom, and you kissed him goodnight. He urged you not to stress. To take all the time and he’d be there, waiting when you were ready. No rush. This is what you’d wanted.

So why was it so hard to say yes?

Jungkook’s face engraved into your mind. Your gut flipping. You needed to find him. Needed to talk to him without Namjoon finding out. Your phone began to buzz. Hope coursed through you. Maybe it was him.

You answered quickly, excited.

“Don’t marry him”

There was no way.

“You’re mine”

series navi | join taglist | masterlist | scream in my asks

a/n: its been a fucking MINUTE. idek how to do thia anymore, please enjoy and let me know what you think !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TAEHYUNG omfg come scream with me pls thanks

and thank you for reading you hawtie <3

[yeyinde]

LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty. 

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass. 

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him—something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making. 

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour. 

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do. 

Work. Yes, work. 

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill. 

You see it, and you flinch. 

Good, is the sudden thought. Good. 

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon. 

Fright, dread. It looks good on you. 

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose. 

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest. 

But—

Not for long, maybe. 

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting. 

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not. 

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end. 

But BROTHER was always chimerical. 

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose. 

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe. 

You're too good for their eyes. For this place. 

He'll kill them all, and come for you. 

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup. 

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through. 

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt. 

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest. 

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door. 

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion. 

She looks just like you. 

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple. 

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers. 

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives. 

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling. 

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name. 

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable. 

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing. 

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious. 

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable. 

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar. 

Ah, he thinks. Ah. 

She isn't you. 

He gets to work. 

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign. 

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar. 

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all. 

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake. 

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you. 

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway. 

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens. 

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach. 

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual. 

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be. 

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences.  He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs. 

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come. 

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone. 

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins. 

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls. 

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end. 

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow. 

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door. 

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room. 

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath. 

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart. 

But it's not enough to keep him out. 

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you. 

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in. 

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing. 

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow. 

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter. 

They were in the way. 

All of them. 

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.) 

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you. 

How terrified you must have been. 

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit. 

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat. 

“Does it matter?” 

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet. 

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't. 

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged. 

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name. 

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?” 

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman. 

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home. 

But there is a difference. 

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of. 

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged. 

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy. 

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his. 

He found you first. 

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you. 

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him. 

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in. 

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants. 

Whenever he wants. 

And then he moves. 

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him. 

His hands, too, dwarf you. 

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body. 

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it. 

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should. 

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in. 

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits. 

It doesn't take long. 

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry. 

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles. 

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest. 

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in. 

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart. 

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain. 

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back. 

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder. 

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex. 

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter. 

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace. 

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow. 

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to. 

Puppy's puppy has fangs. 

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal. 

You don't flinch. 

“Why?” 

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe. 

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet. 

Kept. Chained. 

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his. 

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head. 

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap. 

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble. 

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose. 

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole. 

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily. 

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned. 

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat. 

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones. 

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him. 

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership. 

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good. 

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars. 

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much. 

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you. 

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face. 

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin. 

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin. 

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish. 

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already. 

And so, he follows through. 

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare. 

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly. 

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!” You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare. 

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright. 

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible. 

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later. 

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest. 

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising. 

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining. 

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too. 

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine. 

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you. 

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once. 

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him. 

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours. 

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high. 

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns. 

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can. 

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish. 

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck. 

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear. 

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop. 

My

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut. 

You're so pretty when you beg. 

But that's not what he wants. 

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger. 

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver. 

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape. 

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate. 

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air. 

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin. 

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him. 

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half. 

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage. 

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs. 

He wants you. 

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust. 

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy. 

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head. 

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream. 

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach. 

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him. 

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy. 

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal. 

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him. 

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you. 

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem. 

It's good. Too good. 

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again. 

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him. 

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in. 

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn. 

You're stiff in his arms. Silent. 

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his. 

Just like you wanted. 

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you. 

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away. 

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage. 

Poor thing. 

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers. 

His cock. 

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away. 

He purrs. 

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine. 

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly. 

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm. 

You smell good. Like home. 

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms. 

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft. 

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible. 

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction. 

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make. 

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else. 

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough. 

He's sure one day you'll feel the same. 

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you. 

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his. 

And no one else's. 

There's no escape. 

[reiniesainyo]

IN BETWEEN. charlie bushnell x reader – 01

01 | SPARKS FLY previous | next | masterfile

SYNPOSIS. when a girl's co-star is good to her and now she wants it more than everything in between. (smau)

A/N. this chapter is more like world building (it's where i explain what the fuck i'm doing with the YN okay)

The "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" series at Disney+ has added an unexpected pick to its growing cast.

The new live-action series is based on the hugely successful novels from author Rick Riordan of the same title. We will be seeing YN LN join the series as Rina Velasco, one of the supporting characters of the show.

LN's Rina Velasco is referred to as "the offspring of The Muses, goddesses of the sciences and the arts." Unlike most other demigods, she is born out of the artistic and scientific output of the muses. When the moral ingenuity of humans meets the divine musings of The Muses. Her character is described as a unique allrounder who becomes a mentor figure to our main cast as they embark on their journey.

This will be LN's first on-screen role of her career. LN's experience mostly lies in Broadway, she is known for playing Kim in the Miss Saigon revival on Broadway. LN was nominated for a Tony in 2022 for the same role. She is repped by Salonga/Chien Entertainment and B817 Agency.

Riordan posted on the Meta app, Threads, about this update to the casting saying: "YN was one of the actors we didn't expect to see a tape of but when we saw it, we couldn't help but fall in love with her. She embodies the spirit of Rina so well and is such a kind spirit, we can't wait for you to fall in love with her too! Welcome to the cast, YN!"

The live-action show is based on Rick Riordan's Percy Jackson book series. It tells the fantastical tale of the titular 12-year-old modern demigod (Scobell), who's just coming to terms with his newfound supernatural powers when the sky god Zeus accuses him of stealing his master lightning bolt. With help from his friends Grover (Simhadri) and Annabeth (Jeffries), Percy must embark on an adventure of a lifetime to find it and restore order to Olympus.

Production on the show is now underway in Vancouver. Riordan and Jon Steinberg are writing the pilot with James Bobin directing. Steinberg and his producing partner Dan Shotz are overseeing the series and serve as executive producers alongside Bobin, Rick Riordan, Rebecca Riordan, Bert Salke, Monica Owusu-Breen, Jim Rowe, Anders Engström, Jet Wilkinson, and Gotham Group's Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Jeremy Bell, and D.J. Goldberg. 20th Television is the studio. Salke was formerly the president of Touchstone Television and originally put the show into development.

liked by percyseries, iamcharliebushnell, and 37,789 others thelnarchive the child of the muses @percyseries

percyseries OUR MUSE!

user1 this is literally perfect casting who cried i did ↳ user2 she's so rina coded! thank the gods for the casting directors

iamcharliebushnell only muse in my life ↳ thlnarchive only traveler in my life ↳ user3 the way filming hasn't started and they're already like this ↳ user4 their chemistry is chemistry-ing

user5 roman empire. she is my roman empire.

dior.n.goodjohn i LOVE LOVE LOVE women ↳ thelnarchive HELP i love you

user6 this is so fcking random but i NEED her in a taylor swift music video

A/N i truly hope you guys can forgive the horrible editing in the pictures. the article portion is based on (and has some parts that are directly pulled from) this article from variety ! here's some succint information about rina velasco, the PJO character YN LN plays (and is my childhood OC!) - rina velasco, filipino, 18 years old (year younger than luke) - she's an offspring of the muses, not directly a child or daughter, though she may be referred as such - by her being an offspring of the muses, i mean that she was born in the same way athena's children are born. - but in rina's case she's more like a weird conglomeration of each muse. her birth is a rare event, but her mothers are honored as minor goddesses so she stayed in the apollo cabin (connection to music) - rina operates as a guidance figure for the main trio, especially annabeth - she's also luke's love interest, there's a lot of tragicness and doomed romance stuff with those two - and for the sake of everyone, we pretend like the weird i love you from the books didn't happen !

[romanceyourdemons]

imagine being classmates with the characters in akira (1988). you’re 16, you keep on hearing about the student protests and you feel vaguely bad about not joining your more radical friends in participating, but in light of recent events teachers have been penalizing absences even more harshly, and your mom is really picky about your grades, and heaven knows you’re already on thin ice with your bio grade (even though that’s all because your stupid macho lab partner hasn’t showed up to class for the past month). and then you turn on the tv and your lab partner has turned into a massive writhing conglomeration of flesh and raw psychic energy and blown up the olympic stadium

[fbfh]

older!logan x reader hcs

wc: 1.6k

genre: age gap, sort of sugar daddy logan

warnings: big (but legal) age gap, logan is early 40s reader is like early 20s, brief odette mention, logan is a killer lawyer, rory kinda traumatized Logan lol, I haven't finished gilmore girls or ayitl yet so don't come for me lol, logan is obsessedddddddd with reader, mildly smutty, mentions of marriage and proposals, your relationship progresses really quickly

summary: you were reading in a coffee shop when a charming gorgeous much older guy decided to strike up a conversation. little do you know that within a very short time that same charming stranger will know your dress size, your shoe size, and your ring size.

song rec: off to the races - lana del rey

a/n: the choke hold older logan has on me..... euthanize me at this point lmao

tags @yesv01 @magcon7280

As with all nsfw works, all characters are aged up to 18+ (like way over 18 in logan’s case lol)

That being said jesus christ let’s dive right into the brain rot

First things first, a little more about Logan

He’s in his early 40’s and aging like a fine goddamn wine

MEGA MEGA dilf vibes

After the whole millions of dollars sunken into a bad investment in his family’s massive media conglomerate mishap, he still faced a lot of pressure to join the family business

But with Rory rejecting his proposal, he felt so fucking down and beaten up by life

He just had two massive blows to his ego back to back

And he needed a win

Then the strangest thing happened 

He just got back from another late night of partying with his friends and switched on the tv so he wouldn’t have to fall asleep with his thoughts, and some random movie was playing

The girl in the movie is at dinner with her boyfriend and thinks he’s going to propose, but he breaks up with her instead

It hits a little too close to home and Logan’s about to switch it off

Then she decides to go to law school to prove herself

He finds himself getting more and more invested in this movie, relating more to Elle with every scene, and by the morning he confronts the idea he’s been shoving away for too long so he doesn’t rock the boat

He talks to his dad and they decide Logan will go to law school, but remain a prominent board member and shareholder of the family company

Mitchum is surprised by how responsible and well thought out Logan’s plan is

He’s forging a path to a very lucrative field - one Mitchum can tell he’s going to be very successful in - while still staying involved enough in the family business 

So Logan goes off to law school, and 20 years later he’s a total shark 

He’s a prestigious, expensive lawyer with a reputation for never losing and a long streak of killing it with really high profile cases

Now the Huntzberger name carries all the weight and power of his father’s media reach, and Logan’s success in the courtroom 

He’s excelling 

And he’s excelling enough to keep his family out of his personal life for a while 

He’s living the bachelor life until he hits 40

That’s when his parents decide it’s really unacceptable that he’s still not married 

So they tell him if he doesn’t get married soon they’ll arrange something

Some french heiress or something 

And Logan finds himself right back where he didn’t want to be

And then, like a gift from god, he sees you

Like I said in my initial drabble, Logan first saw you in a cafe reading some dusty novel no one actually reads like war and peace or crime and punishment or something

He's seen people your age do that before, reading complicated stuffy literature to seem smart and make some pretentious English class commentary that barely makes sense 

So he calls you on it

"War and Peace, huh?"

He’s expecting you to say something fake and pretentious

Some bullshit fake deep pseudo intellectual shit

But you look up at him, only pausing for a moment before you speak

You’re surprised to see such a gorgeous guy in a little cafe like this

Especially one that seems interested in talking to you

And god, the way you talk about it

The way your eyes light up

It takes him by surprise

He's not just interested

He's invested 

You start talking and realize that you've been talking for way longer than you expected to

And he wants more

He wants to know more about you, wants to see you sweet smile and hear your cute little laugh when he says something charming or compliments you

So he takes you out to dinner, his treat 

He guides you out the door and into his Porsche with his hand on your back 

It's a subtle gesture but it makes your stomach flip 

Then he buckles your seat belt for you

If you weren't sold before you sure are by now 

So he takes you to this nice fancy restaurant, wines and dines you, and he is laying on the charm thick

"Oh, come on. A pretty young thing like you must have a boyfriend."

"Really, you have excellent taste.”

You don’t miss the way he’s been eyeing you all night

And he doesn’t miss the way you squeeze your thighs together when he touches your face or plays with your fingers

One thing leads to another and after he pays the bill and leaves a generous tip, you find him ushering you back into his porsche

And yet again he closes your door for you and gets you all buckled in

This time when he drives his hand rests on your knee

He thinks he can handle this

He’s the biggest whore on the east coast /affectionate 

Then you grab his hand and move it up your thigh

There’s no going back now

He’s in just as deep as you are

Before you know it you’re tearing off each other’s clothes

His lips are all over you and motherfucker does he know what he’s doing

He worried for a moment he might have lost his edge

But as he lays you down into his big soft bed, your skin touching his silky sheets for the first time

But definitely not the last

As he finally touches you and feels how wet you are for him

He knows he didn’t peak in college

“Shh, listen,” he says between kisses that make you feel dizzy, “you’re gonna tell me if it’s too much for you, can you do that?”

You nod while he holds your face in his big hands

“You gotta say it,” he chuckles at how sweet you are, how well you respond to him, “use your words, baby…” 

You manage to choke out a desperate yes between kisses that makes his stomach twist

And that is the very beginning to your intense affair with Logan Huntzberger 

He’s desperate to see you again

He sends flowers and a dress and a gorgeous necklace to your apartment

And not the normal amount of flowers

The Logan amount of flowers

So a lot

And you can’t believe your luck finding a hot rich older guy that’s so into you 

You really like this attention

Your daddy issues are SCREAMING

And Logan likes having someone as gorgeous and intelligent and into him as you are

And he wants to do this right

But he’s rapidly approaching the deadline his family set

He doesn’t want to scare you off

GOD that’s the last thing he wants

But he is terrified of proposing and having it end up like it did the last time

Eventually he works up the nerve to talk to you about it 

He’s explaining everything to you while you pay your bills 

But it says they’re already paid

And your credit cards are paid off

And your debt has just disappeared

Even your student loans are gone

And there’s a fat deposit in your checking account 

He paid off all your debt and didn’t tell you

By the time he’s done explaining that you basically either need to get married asap or you can’t see each other anymore he still hasn’t brought it up

And you realize he’s not going to

He didn’t pay your bills to guilt you into anything

He’s not holding it over your head

He’s taking care of you

And all you’ve ever wanted is someone who will take care of you

Logan is surprised when you agree

But he’s even more surprised at how fast you agree

You sit in his lap and end up rambling about how much you love him, how you don’t think you’ll ever find anyone you like as much as him or anyone that treats you as well as he does

To no one’s surprise the conversation ends with him taking you on every surface of your apartment

Hours later you’re cuddling naked on your couch, resting your head on his muscular chest and listening to his heartbeat

“So like… are we engaged now?” you ask looking up at him

He laughs sweetly

“No, not yet. I have to actually propose first.”

You think back to your conversation earlier when you first said you’d want to marry him

“So that didn’t count before?”

His heart breaks at how little you ask for

“No, that didn’t count.” He kisses your head, “I’m going to take you out somewhere nice, give you a proper proposal, with a nice ring.”

You get butterflies thinking about it

You can’t believe how much he does for you

How much he wants to do for you 

You’re quiet for a moment, and he can feel you smiling into his chest

“...Okay.” 

Your voice is so small and bashful, and he can hear you suppressing a flustered giggle

Fuck he can’t get enough of you 

He laughs and pulls you closer, grabbing your chin and makes you look up at him so he can kiss you 

You fall asleep in his arms

And you think that you won’t mind being married so young if it’s Logan you’re marrying

Logan is looking at you with so much love and adoration

And right before he falls asleep 

He thinks that maybe it’s not too late for him to find love after all

[totallyboatless]

I didn’t start watching AEW until this year, and so I’ve only experienced the Kyle O’Reilly who came back and told the Undisputed Kingdom that he wanted to make it on his own.

And for a while I didn’t know how to connect with him, beyond making jokes that he has the biggest, saddest, wettest eyes I’ve ever seen outside of a cartoon or my cat Gravy when she thinks it’s been 5 days since the autofeeder went off.

It’s not that I didn’t like him, I just didn’t *get* him.

Until he became Mark Briscoe’s biggest fanboy. Until he joined the Conglomeration. Until I started to realize that Kyle is a hype man, the enabler friend (for good and bad), the guy that sees an outrageous person and says “i would follow that man anywhere” (for good and bad). A little bit of a himbo, but in a way that he leans into to make himself laugh. He gives me the impression that he’s the kind of guy who, after a couple drinks, would become the biggest, loudest fan for every single person who gets on stage to sing karaoke, even if he’s never met them.

What I’m saying is, for me, Kyle O’Reilly has become the most relatable man on television.