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inkedtae · 3 months ago

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the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART I

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

PART II ➡︎

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

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

⌁ word count; 14.4k

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

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

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Name?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Vik.”

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

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

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

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

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

Exit compromised.

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

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

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

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

“Name?”

“Vinny sent me.”

The three men sitting around him exchange glances.

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

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

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

“Never lie,” Vinny warned.

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

“Figure it out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you handling the cash too, princess?”

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

He hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, standing back to your full height.

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

Shit.

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

You turn to face Viktor.

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

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

“Yes.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

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

You nod.

“You packing?”

“You know I’m not,” you snap.

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

“On the move,” he warns.

“Give me your gun.”

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

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

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

Viktor stiffens.

Shit, are they close?

“Last room down the hall,” Viktor mumbles.

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

The door trembles from the pounding of their fists.

“Come on out!” Vince shouts.

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

You find yourself warped in a memory—

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

Her open palm landed on your cheek.

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

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

You blink out of your thoughts, dropping the mattress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jumping the final steps, you run.

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

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

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

“Just some drunken slut.”

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

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

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

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

The dirty cop curses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not my pr—”

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

Mickey’s face drains of colour.

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

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

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

“You know what I mean!” He shouts.

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

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

Andy smiles.

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

You watch Andy nod.

“What did you do?”

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

Vinny glares back at you.

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t me,” you lie.

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

You avert your gaze.

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you that it wasn’t me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

You nod and hug your coat tighter against your body.

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

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

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

You shrug your reply.

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

Your knees almost buckle.

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

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

“You’re drooling,” Vinny teases.

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

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

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

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

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

“Authorised personnel only,” he gruffly informs.

“I-um—”

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

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

He raises a brow. “Who commissioned you?”

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

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

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

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

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

DING!

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

Vinny: where r u?

You: be there soon

“Lost?”

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

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

“Can I help you find something, darling?”

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

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

He smirks.

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

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

You lean into his touch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

You shift your weight.

“No!” you shout, starling the room.

All eyes snap to you.

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

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

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

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

A trembling breath slips.

He holds back a chuckle.

Say something, your mind shouts.

“Fuck me.”

Not that!

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

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

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

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

And then he’s torn away.

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

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

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

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

“Let her in,” Bahng orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

The lining flaps open.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi—

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

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

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

Of all the fucking gangs.

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

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

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

Arousal dampens your shorts.

“Take a seat, darling,” he purrs.

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

Step.

Mickey is a rat.

Step.

This is Stray Kids territory.

Step.

Bahng knows you are not a sex worker.

Step.

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

Step.

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw sets at the gesture.

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

But then he catches your eye.

“Who—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to win, don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

“Did I tell you to stop?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

You nudge his nose with a shake of your head.

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

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

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

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

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

He allows you, leaning back and watching.

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

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

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

“I think he’s a cop.”

“You think?”

“He never said it.”

“So how do you know?”

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

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

Chris hums.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow thickly. “I could be.”

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

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

How dangerous could the truth really be?

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

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

“Interesting,” he muses. “Do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two — Chk chk boom.

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

“Match starts in five,” Mickey announces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you go a little faster for me?”

You enthusiastically oblige.

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

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

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

Twisting and turning, your arousal gathers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You like the way his name rolls off your tongue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’r—”

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

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

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

Mickey stiffens, all previous irritation dissolving into fear.

The door shuts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s complicated.”

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

“Who did you bet on?”

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

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

“Change it.”

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

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The clerk soiled himself, hands up in surrender.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cheers surge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s get ready to rumble!”

Mouth guards in, both fighters stand.

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

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

The bell rings.

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

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

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

Aiden narrows his eyes.

“Ooo,” Jackson hisses. “So close!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd clamours with laughter in agreement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp with the crowd.

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

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

The bell rings before Chris can issue another attack.

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

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

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

Aiden shifts in place.

You can’t help but do the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You furrow your brows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aiden’s guard falters.

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

Aiden gasps for air, the force buckling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.”

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

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

Aiden collapses against the ropes.

Chris steps back, watching, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was looking for yo—”

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

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

Vinny shoots you a nervous look.

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

His face falls into disappointment. “You lied.”

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

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

“Well—”

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

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

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

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

Vinny offers you a vulgar gesture.

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

“You fucked him,” Vinny concludes.

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

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

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

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

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

Vinny cocks his gun.

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

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

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

Vinny glares. “You think?”

“Walk away,” a deep voice orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How can you be sure?” Vinny shouts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vinny shouts your name.

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

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

A bullet sounds.

No, no, no—

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

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

And how do you repay him?

With a bullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please forgive me, you want to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You embrace the darkness.

PART II ➡︎

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

#chantober 2024 #bang chan #bang chan smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan fanfic #stray kids smut

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sluttywonwoo · 1 year ago

Text

instead of you [part twenty-two] || l.mh

pairing: [best friend’s brother] lee minho x college!reader ft. han jisung

summary: you didn’t expect to spend your summer pretending to be your best friend’s girlfriend- then again, you didn’t expect to fall for your best friend’s brother, either.

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex (mdni)

word count: 3.8k

a/n: revamped my tom holland series from my main blog ( @wazzupmrstark ) to try and motivate myself to finish it!!

series masterlist | early access to the next chapter on ko-fi

Shanghai was only an hour behind Tokyo so you were able to hit the ground running as soon as you landed. Unlike Japan, the itinerary didn’t allow for a day to rest and reset. Check-in at the new hotel wasn’t until later in the afternoon, but they let you drop off your luggage with them so you wouldn’t have to lug it around the city with you.

You passed your bags off to a woman who promised you they’d be safe in the closet behind the desk- not that you were too worried about your collection of t-shirts and Vera Bradley duffle bag that was nearly two decades old- before joining the Hans by the seating area a few paces away. The lobby was dressed with dark woods and jade tiles, accented with plush white furniture and expensive-looking plants. It was easily the most sophisticated place you’d ever been, and that was saying something considering you’d been on a fucking yacht a few weeks ago.

You felt extremely out of place in your travel sweats and beat-up sneakers. Even looking at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling made you feel like you didn’t belong. You knew the Hans had a reservation under their names, you knew that you were being paid for, but you still felt like you could get kicked out for loitering at any minute.

“First things first we need to find a currency exchange place and then we can grab a bite to eat,” Dom explained. You tried not to wince as his voice echoed around the room. You were still getting used to these ‘family meetings’. “Are you guys hungry?”

There was a collective nod and then you all followed Mr. Han out of the hotel onto the bustling street. He used his phone’s GPS to navigate through the twists and turns of the city. Jisung grabbed your hand instinctively, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles like he always did.

Guilt bubbled up in your chest as soon as the warmth from his palm spread to yours. You hated the way you couldn’t even enjoy a simple gesture, something that was so commonplace for your friendship, without feeling like your stomach was turning itself inside out.

Jisung noticed, of course he did, your hand tensed as soon as he took it and even if it was barely perceptible he was too observant, too in tune with you to miss it.

“You okay?” he asked, eyebrows creasing together in worry.

“Just feeling a little sick is all,” you replied. It wasn’t a lie, you did feel nauseous. You just hoped Jisung couldn’t tell there was something else you were holding back.

“Do you need to sit? We can stop for a bit and meet the others later.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” you assured him. “I don’t want to get lost.”

“We have our phones, we won’t lose them,” he pressed.

“I probably just need something to eat, and we’re stopping for lunch soon. I’m ok, I promise.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you, but dropped it anyway.

You waited in line behind the rest of Jisung’s family at the currency exchange place where you traded your yen for yuan. You didn’t have much on you, since most travel sites warned against carrying a lot of cash on your person when in a new place. The Hans always insisted on paying for you too so it wasn’t like you needed it either.

After everyone had gone through the queue, you stopped for lunch in a square with about a dozen street vendors peddling different kinds of food. They were all swamped with customers, businessmen and women dressed in suits waiting to get their meals before inevitably having to return to the office. There were families wandering around too. Mothers struggled to wrangle their small children in strollers or their arms as they stood in line at the various stalls, calling for the older kids who were playing in the fountain.

You and Jisung chose a kabob cart to try while the other members of his family split off to get their own thing. You let your best friend order for the both of you as always while you scouted a spot to sit. The square was full of tables and benches scattered about. Some were shaded by trees, others offered unobstructed views of the skyline across the water. You opted for one that was surrounded by a couple of other close tables so everyone could sit somewhat together.

“Thanks for finding a place to sit, y/n!” Dom exclaimed as he approached you with Minho right on his heels. “Perfect amount of shade and sun.”

“I had to fight off some pigeons for it,” you joked, earning a laugh from the older man.

“I commend you for your bravery, pigeons can be quite brutal.”

“Especially city pigeons,” Minho added, coughing awkwardly when you made eye contact with him.

“Minho was attacked by pigeons once,” Dom said suddenly. You didn’t have time to ask any further questions before Jisung was returning with your food, giving you an apologetic look.

“You weren’t boring her, were you?” He shot an accusatory glance at his father.

“No more than you usually do,” Minho answered smugly.

“Minho, please don’t start. We just got here, and since we’ll all be staying together I’d rather not have to listen to the three of you bickering all week.”

“What do you mean we’ll be staying together?” your best friend asked worriedly, voicing exactly what you were thinking. “Did you mess up the reservations again?”

Minho’s smile had also fallen and he was wearing an expression of concern similar to his brother’s. Dom sighed, running a hand across his forehead.

“I was going to wait until your mother returned with Felix to explain, but no. We’re all staying together in the penthouse of the hotel for the week. You all will get your own rooms and such, but we figured that since we’re on a family vacation we should spend time together as a family. We can have meals together, we can cook- or rather, Jisung can cook for us, and we’ll all be sleeping under the same roof.”

The two boys nodded in understanding, though neither looked thrilled. You knew that if Felix were around he’d have some smart comment to make, but since he wasn’t, there was just silence.

“Don’t look so thrilled,” Dom chided. “Minho, you’ll get your own room and so will Felix. That should be exciting to you at the very least.”

“Wait, really?” he asked, eyes much brighter than they had been a moment earlier.

His father nodded with a hum, just as Felix walked back up to your group with Nikki trailing a few paces behind him. Both of them had their hands full of food that they dumped on one of the empty tables and started dividing between each other.

Felix looked up when he noticed the silence and tilted his head in confusion. “What’d I miss?”

After lunch, you traveled together to the Oriental Pearl Tower. The number of fucking landmark towers in the world was… too goddamn many in your opinion. There seemed to be one in every city you’d been to, and you thought it was a little excessive.

You debated going to the top of this one just so you wouldn’t be a downer, but both Jisung and Minho were quick to shut it down.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Minho grumbled under his breath, still loud enough for everyone to hear.

“He’s right,” Jisung agreed. “It’s not worth it to make yourself miserable. I’ll stay down here with you, baby.”

You pouted, but didn’t put up much of a fight. You knew Jisung didn’t give a fuck about the tower so you let him keep you company at the bottom.

“We should stay in tonight,” he suggested, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger. “Since you’re not feeling well and everything. I can cook you dinner back at the apartment and we can watch a movie or something.”

“Do we not have plans tonight?”

“Do you ever look at the itinerary?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

Jisung just chuckled. “Brat. But no, we don’t really have plans. They’re kind of up in the air. Everyone can do their own thing if they want to. I think I heard Felix and Minho talk about going out, but I don’t think we should.”

“If you want to, you should!” you urged. “Don’t stay in because of me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I’d much rather spend time with you than those idiots?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Ji...”

“I’m just being honest! We can go out with them tomorrow night, or the night after that! I just don’t want you to overdo it. Especially since we’re going to be out all day tomorrow.”

“Fine, you win,” you gave in. “Promise you’re not just staying in because you feel like you have to?”

“I promise.” He held out his pinky as if to seal it. You looped your own pinky with his despite the gesture being a dramatic formality and grinned. “I don’t really feel like being a wingman anyway.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, they’re trying to pick up girls tonight?”

“Emphasis on the word ‘trying’,” Jisung scoffed.

“Come on, they’re handsome guys,” you said, though you didn’t quite know why you were defending them.

“Sure, but it’s their personalities that are their downfalls.”

“You’re so mean!”

“You’ve met them!”

You opened your mouth to respond but came up short. Jisung smirked knowingly and you both burst into laughter.

“Well, what are your parents doing tonight?” you asked once you caught your breath. “Are they also going out on the town?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I can cook dinner for the four of us if they decide to stay in.”

“That sounds nice,” you mused, leaning to rest your head on his shoulder.

“It could be… my mom would love the opportunity to get us alone. I’m sure she has loads of questions for you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing!”

“It is a bad thing! It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not. My mom would do the same thing if the roles were switched.”

“Okay, but that’d be easy. Your mum already knows me and she loves me.”

“She wouldn’t if we were dating.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because she knows you’re a whore.”

“What the fuck? No, I’m not.” You gave him a look. “Okay, well does she know her own daughter is a whore too? Arguably a bigger one than me.”

“Weird way to say I get more bitches than you, but alright.” Jisung rolled his eyes at you and gave you the finger, but you just laughed. “I don’t think she knows that I’m a little slutty-”

“A little!?”

You ignored him. “But even if she did, she still wouldn’t like me dating you. She’s very protective of me.”

Your best friend stuck his bottom lip out in a pout. “I feel kind of betrayed. I thought your mom and I were pals.”

“You are. As long as you keep it in your pants around me.”

The penthouse at the hotel you were staying at was even bigger than you imagined it would be. There were four bedrooms, the primary and three guest rooms on the other side of the apartment. Your luggage was already waiting for you in the foyer along with some toiletries and towels.

“Y/n and Jisung should have to stay in the middle room,” Felix had exclaimed as he claimed the room at the very end of the hallway.

“What, why?” Jisung demanded.

“Because it wouldn’t be fair if only one of us had to share a wall with the two of you, that’s why.”

Jisung clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. His parents were right across the living room and they could probably hear every word. Not for the first time, you were mortified by Felix’s inability to keep his mouth shut.

“What the fuck, bro,” Jisung muttered.

“You asked.”

You and Jisung did end up taking the middle room. It turned out to be the biggest of the three so you lucked out. You’d still have to share a bathroom between the four of you, but it was nice to have your own space to get away. It wouldn’t be like Tokyo where you could never let your guard down.

Jisung took you with him to the market to shop for ingredients for dinner. The market was overwhelming but beautiful. It was full of life and vibrant color. The stalls were pushed so closely together under an array of tents that it was difficult to tell who was selling what, but somehow Jisung figured it out. He led you by the hand through the crowd, being sure not to lose you. Watching him speak to the vendors, asking questions about the cuts of the meats and getting advice on what was in season… watching his fingers linger over the different fruits and vegetables, trying to gauge which was the ripest and best for the dish he was planning in his head. It was refreshing to see your best friend in his element. He hadn’t had the chance to cook in forever, and you could tell he was excited to.

It was a chance to show off in front of his parents too, you realized. You could tell he wanted to impress them. He’d cooked for you at least a hundred times, but this was an opportunity to show his parents everything he’d learned in school and prove to them that the degree they were paying for was worth it.

By the time you got back to the hotel, Minho and Felix had already gone out for the night. You had no idea when they’d be back, but that was the least of your worries right now. You were much more concerned about the questions from Nikki that Jisung had warned you about.

Should you study? You still had the stack of flashcards in your backpack. You might be able to squeeze in some last-minute cramming before dinner.

“She’s not going to quiz you,” Jisung said in the elevator on the way up to the room as if he could read your mind.

“How’d you-”

“You’re biting your lip like you do when you get nervous.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

You shrugged. “I just don’t want you to be worrying about me when you’re trying to focus on dinner.”

“I always worry about you,” he said casually. “But I know how to multitask.”

You helped Jisung carry the groceries inside and put them away. He’d gotten a lot of food for the rest of the week in addition to what he needed for the night.

“Do you need help cooking?” you asked, suppressing a smile.

Jisung whipped his head in your direction, panic in his eyes, before realizing you were joking. “Hilarious.”

“Who said I wasn’t serious? I could be your sous chef!”

Aware of his parents in the next room over, Jisung smiled weakly and shook his head at you. “You’re very cute, but we both know you’d set this kitchen on fire.”

“Whatever, I’ll just sit over here and watch.”

You seated yourself at one of the barstools tucked underneath the island and rested your head in your palms, watching Jisung do his thing.

He finished sorting the groceries and then washed his hands before searching the kitchen for a cutting board and various cooking utensils that he’d need. Back at home, your best friend had a collection of ridiculous aprons that he’d don as he cooked. Your favorite was one that you’d gotten him for his birthday one year. It had your face on it and said “she loves my meat”. One of his roommates had spit his drink all over their rug when Jisung opened it at his party, and you considered that a job well done. It was the apron Jisung wore the most, and you knew it was secretly his favorite, even though he’d never admit it.

He hadn’t packed any aprons for this trip, though, so he was stuck with the t-shirt he was wearing with nothing to protect it- not that he’d need one. He wasn’t very messy in the kitchen. The aprons were more for show than anything else.

Jisung filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil while he chopped vegetables. He was so fast that you could barely see the blade moving.

He’d whipped up a meal in under an hour and served it to you and his parents like you were in a restaurant. He circled the table with a bottle of wine, offering it to each of you as if he were your server.

“How about a nice red for you, miss,” he suggested, holding the bottle out to you so that you could read the label.

You giggled. “Do you recommend it?”

“I’ve never had it,” he admitted, not breaking character. “But the chef says that it pairs perfectly with beef.”

“The chef that looks just like you?”

Jisung winked. “That’s the one.”

“Well, in that case, I trust his judgment. I’ll take a glass.”

“Excellent choice.”

“I’ll have what she’s having,” Nikki said once he’d poured you a glass. She was smiling warmly at her son, completely enamored with you and Jisung’s little display. Your heart swelled with pride at the realization. Maybe you weren’t so bad at acting.

“Excellent choice,” Jisung repeated as he filled his mother’s glass. “And for you, sir?” he asked, addressing his father.

“Do you have whiskey?”

“I believe I do,” he answered thoughtfully. “Let me go check.”

You already knew he did. He’d stopped in a liquor store on the way back to pick some bourbons that he thought his dad and brother would like.

You watched him disappear back into the kitchen and went back to your meal, smiling to yourself in satisfaction.

“I know I’ve mentioned this before,” Nikki whispered quietly, “but I’m so glad you were able to join us on this trip. It’s been so lovely to get to know you, and I’ve never seen Jisung so happy.”

Your cheeks grew warm at her comment. The feeling of pride in your chest threatened to be replaced with guilt as it bubbled up in your stomach, but you pushed it down.

“Thank you for inviting me,” was all you could muster.

“We’re happy to have you,” she assured you, grabbing your hand firmly.

“What are we talking about?” Jisung asked loudly as he reentered the room, handing his father a glass of whiskey, neat.

He shot you a look that asked if you were ok and you nodded minutely.

“We were just talking about your wonderful girlfriend,” Nikki explained, “and how happy we are to have her with us on vacation!”

“Mom,” Jisung groaned.

“She didn’t embarrass you entirely,” Dom interjected, coming to the defense of his wife. “She didn’t even mention airplane stickers!”

“Wha- airplane stickers?” You looked to your best friend for an explanation, but he had his head in his hands.

“I cook you all a nice dinner and this is how you repay me!” he cried.

“I’m sorry, I’m confused. What are airplane stickers?”

“They’re what Jisung thought menstrual pads were when he was little.” Dom clapped his son on the back affectionately as Jisung groaned even louder.

You brought your hand to your mouth. “You didn’t.”

“I’d never seen one before!”

“We came home and there were ‘airplane stickers’ all over our windows,” his father continued.

“Aw, babe,” you rubbed his thigh comfortingly, but you knew he didn’t miss the devilish glint in your eye that told him you’d never be letting this go. “That’s kind of cute.”

“It’s kind of humiliating,” he corrected you.

“That too, but you didn’t know any better. I’m sure lots of kids do that.”

Jisung ignored you and stood from the table, collecting your plate along with his. “Anyway, I’m going to start the dishes. Does anyone have any for me to take?”

Jisung’s parents invited you to watch a movie with them after dinner, but you politely declined, retiring to your bedroom instead. Jisung flopped on the bed as soon as the door was shut behind you and screamed into a pillow.

You chuckled as you unclipped your bra and pulled it off from beneath your shirt, joining him on the bed moments later.

“And they wonder why I never bring anyone home!” he hissed.

You rubbed his back soothingly. “It could’ve been worse.”

“How?”

You paused. “I don’t know.”

“Oh my god.”

“Come on, it’s not so bad. I could’ve told one of my stories about you.”

“Half of those are illegal.”

“Exactly.”

You managed to coax your fake boyfriend out of sulking and took turns getting ready for bed and showering in the bathroom before settling in your room together for the night. You flipped through channels on the tv together, but nothing good was on, so you decided to spend time reading your books instead.

You didn’t even realize how late it had gotten until you heard the front door open, signaling Minho and Felix’s return. You traded looks with Jisung who then checked the time on his phone and showed you that it was past one a.m.

His parents had likely gone to bed hours ago, but you could still hear them talking like everyone wasn’t trying to sleep.

They’re drunk, you and Jisung mouthed at each other at the same time. He rolled his eyes but you just smirked.

“That’s gonna bite them in the ass come morning.”

“Yeah, and we’re going to have to be the ones to deal with it,” he muttered.

He had a point. You hadn’t thought about that. And you didn’t think a hungover Minho or Felix would be pleasant to deal with.

You tried going back to the page you were on in your book, but were distracted again when you heard their voices approaching. They were in the hallway now, saying goodnight to each other.

Then, you finally thought it had gone quiet when you heard a third voice. A female voice. You couldn’t make out what she was saying but you could tell immediately who responded.

“Yeah, this is my room.”

It was Minho. He’d brought a girl home with him.

“No fucking way,” Jisung whispered, verbalizing what you both had to be thinking. “He actually did it.”

lmk what you think i always appreciate feedback!!

iou tags: @gimmeurtmi @phobia0325 @fwess @hipsdofafangirl @galaxleeknow @urmomma0324 @bangmechanpls @102598s @farfromsugafanfic @ritzy-roo @dimpledsatan @bvslines @wonderfulshinee @imwithurmother @smollquokka @rosexjimin @skizzel @endzii23 @lady-lena @kwanisms @ch4nniebang @lilramennoodle @babyphotos0325 @dearalice @sojohns @mistlitmoonlight @yoontaethings @babebatter @mal-lunar-28 @shy-kisu @zerefdragn33l @downbadreading @sana-within-you @sasquso @bunnispaces @reianagarcia @hyunehans @imtooyoungforthishit @i8rsie @honeslykindahorny @214racha @hgema @chillllli @vixensss @smhlino @feiyaa @borahae-reads @bigbearenergy @hoodiesandicedcoffee @darkacademic2512 @y00nzin0 @i8yul @shinypieceofgarbage @woozarts @just-a-little-delulu @djeniryuu @hbzzzbork000 @mimzibee @sofiaslayed @kangyounghyunhands @lexxxs-things @baejinswrld @gaysontheprince @emogril @ngengngeng @tenshimara @stopeatread @seungminiesgf @lydatataylorsversion

add yourself to my taglist here!

#instead of you stray kids #instead of you skz #iou stray kids #iou skz #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #lee know x reader #lino x reader #lee minho x reader #stray kids x female reader #lee know x female reader #lee know x bi!reader #lee know series #stray kids series

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elsewhereuniversity · 1 year ago

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Hi! How close is the current crazed sewing kit to completion? I’m a textile major- wait sorry, introductions- call me Rivet (not like the frog, like the metal thingy that holds things together) she/her. Anyways. I’m a textile major and I want to create the worlds most fucked up non-euclidian quilt. Its my capstone project. If the kit’s already claimed or not ready for usage/consumption/harvest, that’s alright, i have some favors and a variety of the currency the goblin market uses, but i’ve really got my eye on the weaving tablets and myriad pins of this iteration. I promise i’ll use it all though! Or, at least, i’ll keep the odds and ends tucked away for future projects. I’m willing to trade a ship in a bottle that sails on an ocean affected by tomorrow’s weather, a cursed bonefolder that actually, yknow, folds bones instead of paper, and a bolt of fabric i spun and wove myself. Nothing overtly magical about it, but it is a nice shade of red.

The fourth crazed sewing kit is ready and it is yours.

A swatch of bloodstained blue velvet

Swatches of stiff fabric that shift chameleon-like to match any other

A walnut shell containing yards of fabric woven from starshine

A bloodstained pincushion in the approximate form of a person, filled with human hair and fingernail clippings, among other things

A seam ripper that only cuts the threads you intend it to

A pair of iron shears, decorated with gilt filigree, which only cut things that have been measured twice

A needle of steel, which is efficient but bites

A needle used to stitch a wound, which now only pierces flesh

A needle of silver, used as a sword by a very small hand. Any thread spun through the eye is unbreakable while it's being sewn.

Thread of human hair, cut and regrown

Thread of human hair, golden

Thread of horsehair, one strand jet black and one snow-white

Thread of gold and of silver, the first of which sooths and the second of which energizes

Thread of variable length, glowing as though white hot

Fabric-pencils which trace possibilities, leaning theatrical

A mannequin which wants nothing more than to swap places with you, and will do so at the first opportunity

A spool of oakwood plated with gold, which ensures you will have just enough thread to finish any project you use it with.

A drop spindle of oakwood which turns hay to gold

Two buttons of silver which shine in the dark, from a coat made of night-sky

A squatcho from a beret, seemingly made of lead inside the fabric casing.

Pliers plated with sterling silver, to remove recalcitrant needles

#charms #the crazed sewing kit iv

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artbusiness5 · 5 months ago

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Forex Trading

Forex trading, or foreign exchange trading, involves buying and selling currencies to profit from changes in exchange rates. Here’s a detailed guide to get you started:

1. Understanding Forex Trading

Currency Pairs: Forex trading always involves trading one currency for another. Currencies are quoted in pairs (e.g., EUR/USD, GBP/JPY). The first currency is the base currency, and the second is the quote currency.

Pips: The smallest unit of movement in a currency pair’s exchange rate. For most pairs, a pip is 0.0001.

Leverage: Allows you to control a large position with a relatively small amount of money. While leverage can amplify profits, it also increases risk.

2. Setting Up Your Forex Trading

Choose a Reliable Broker: Select a forex broker that offers a user-friendly trading platform, competitive spreads, and good customer service. Look for brokers with a solid reputation and proper regulatory oversight (e.g., regulated by the Financial Conduct Authority (FCA) or the Commodity Futures Trading Commission (CFTC)).

Open a Trading Account: After selecting a broker, open a trading account. Many brokers offer demo accounts where you can practice trading without real money.

Deposit Funds: Fund your trading account with an amount you’re comfortable with. Remember, forex trading can be risky, so only invest money you can afford to lose.

3. Develop a Trading Strategy

Technical Analysis: Uses historical price data and charts to forecast future price movements. Key tools include indicators (like Moving Averages, RSI, MACD) and chart patterns (like head and shoulders, flags).

Fundamental Analysis: Involves analyzing economic indicators, news events, and other factors that might impact currency values. Key indicators include GDP, interest rates, inflation, and employment data.

Risk Management: Set stop-loss and take-profit orders to manage risk and protect your capital. Determine how much you’re willing to risk on each trade.

4. Executing Trades

Place Orders: Use your broker’s trading platform to place trades. You can choose from various order types, such as market orders, limit orders, and stop orders.

Monitor and Adjust: Keep track of your trades and the market conditions. Adjust your strategies and positions as needed based on market movements and your trading plan.

5. Continuous Learning and Improvement

Stay Informed: Follow financial news, economic reports, and market analyses to stay up-to-date with factors affecting currency markets.

Review and Reflect: Regularly review your trades to understand what worked and what didn’t. Learning from past trades helps improve your strategy.

Adapt: Forex markets are dynamic and can change quickly. Be ready to adapt your strategies to new market conditions.

6. Avoiding Common Pitfalls

Overleveraging: Using high leverage can lead to significant losses. Start with lower leverage until you gain more experience.

Emotional Trading: Avoid making decisions based on emotions. Stick to your trading plan and strategy.

Lack of Research: Ensure you conduct thorough research and analysis before making trading decisions.

Resources for Learning Forex Trading

Books: “Trading in the Zone” by Mark Douglas, “Currency Trading for Dummies” by Brian Dolan and Kathleen Brooks.

Online Courses: Platforms like Coursera, Udemy, and Babypips offer courses on forex trading.

Websites: Follow financial news on websites like Bloomberg, CNBC, and Reuters.

business, forex, art, usbiz, usa art, fine art, trading, forex trading

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inkirasity · 2 years ago

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𝔅𝔢𝔶𝔬𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔯𝔞𝔰𝔰 ℌ𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔷𝔬𝔫𝔰

Chapter 1: A Troubled Pilot the Anarchist Tinkerer and the Cold Inventor

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

synopsis: in which you, a skilled pilot, met the brilliant but arrogant/snarky/cold inventor/ explorer—Miguel O’Hara

steampunk au, pilot! reader, inventor and explorer! miguel, no superpowers but miguel's inventions resembles his spidey powers. words: 3.9k c.w. misogyny (reader can't get a proper piloting job)

this is cross posted in AO3 you can find it here

hi, after i am free from academics got some juices out of my head. Just gotta make this a series cause it seems ya'll want more after The Other Variant of Her LMAO (also do ya'll want a taglist for my miguel fics? just wondering!) anyways enjoy!!

“A little moreee…”

Click.

Then silence.

“And there you have it, it won’t be noisy when you take your book reading sessions anymore.” you smiled. Wiping the beads of sweat accumulating on your forehead. You wiped your oil-covered hands on your dirty apron as you stood up from crouching for at least two hours.

“Thank you very much dear, here.”

The old lady reaches you out a small pouch, you assume inside are bolts, nuts, or if you’re lucky there might be cogs. Though you did not set your expectations too high, afterall you are working in the lower classes in Nueva York right now.

You gladly accepted the pouch and placed it in your pocket, leaving the small gloomy apartment. You carefully stepped on the creaking wooden floors of the tenement. The building itself feels like it would collapse soon enough because of the moldy walls and broken floorings.

“Jeez, how can people live in a place like this?”

In a swift, you left the tenement. A gust of smoke greeting your face.

“Urk—” you coughed, fanning the lingering dark smoke on your face, “what a way to greet.”

Sighing, you placed both of your hands inside the pockets of your jumper and walked at the side road. It was dark, but somehow the sky looks murky despite the darkness enveloping, indicating that it is night time. You looked at the side, dark red brick walls met your gaze— and a familiar vandal etched on them. A smile on your face formed, this guy will be dead when his boss finds out.

When you arrived at the shop you saw Hobie lounging, his feet on the counter not caring. When the bell rang, Hobie looked up and saw you, you gave him a knowing smile in exchange for his smirk.

“Saw a vandal across the road,” you took the pouch and placed it on the counter beside Hobie’s legs, “do you know who did it?”

“We know who dun it, mate.”

He took the pouch and poured them out, only a few bolts fell—maybe three or seven. You shrugged.

“Fixed the noisy clock of an old lady, that’s generous enough.”

“Trade?” Hobie asked, you knew that he despises things that needed payment, how ironic he is in a shop right now.

“Most likely, never asked for a payment.”

You found yourself a place to sit while Hobie took the currency back to its pouch and walked out of the counter and entered another room.

You take a look at the shop, the air is thick with the smell of oil and metal, mingling with the faint scent of burnt wires. Everywhere you look, failed inventions and half-completed projects are strewn. Workbenches are cluttered with tools of all shapes and sizes, gears and gadgets scattered in a haphazard symphony. The shelves are a maze of salvaged parts, organized chaos that Hobie alone can navigate with no troubles.

It seems that this shop alone is Hobie’s and not his boss’.

“Oi, 'ave ya found any agency where y'can work as a pilot, mate?” Hobie called you out, he threw you a larger pouch at your way. You looked inside and saw food that can last for a week.

“Huh—oh, yeah no. They said they ain’t accepting women.” you rolled your eyes, “I don’t get it, I get the same education from piloting school and I get the treatment of this? Gosh what a world to live in.”

“Fancy givin' 'em agency a bit o' bombin', do ya? Need a test subject for me new invention, I reckon.”

Casting a concerned glance his way, you couldn't help but entertain the idea of wreaking havoc on agencies that rejected you, because fuck them. However, with the dire circumstances you both found yourselves in, residing in the impoverished corners of the lower class, you knew all too well that his boss wouldn't take kindly to such reckless actions.

“I'm guessin' ya wanna, but worried 'bout me safety,” Hobie said, his eyes arched in amusement. “Ya shouldn't, mate. I do this for a livin’.”

“As much as your idea seems cool, I’m not risking it, it might just ruin my profile even more.” you groaned, “Anyways, I’ll go now. A middle class man needed some of his machinery fixed. I need to be there tomorrow.”

You stood from your sitting position, the pouch that Hobie gave you now hung on the belt of your jumper. You gave him a nod, “Thanks for the food.”

“No problem, mate,” Hobie nodded back, his arms crossed on his chest. “Oh yeah, since you're gonna be up at the topside tomorrow, 'eard there's an event goin' on, all about inventions and such. Might spark an idea to build ya own airship and pilot it someday.”

You playfully scoffed, you were never the creative type, only a pilot and fixer, “Never did that stuff.”

“I can lend ya a 'and, mate.” he gave you a charming smile, “And bomb everything.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you exchanged a wave of goodbye with Hobie. Stepping out into the cool night, you found yourself surrounded by the familiar symphony of clanking machinery and the acrid scent of scattered smoke that permeated the air. The dimly lit pebble streets were alive with the steady flow of people, their shadows dancing in the flickering lamplight.

As you made your way through the bustling streets, an idea began to take shape in your mind. Hobie's mention of the upcoming event piqued your curiosity. It promised a gathering centered around inventions and technological marvels, an opportunity to witness the latest innovations firsthand.

But before indulging in the allure of the event, you needed to fix a mechanical issue for a man. The event might not be bad, you think.

As the early morning sun graced the horizon, you made the decision to take the scenic route on your way to the topside. After bidding farewell to Hobie, you ventured back to his place to freshen up. Your own humble abode lacked any sense of style, its contents consisting of plain brown jumpers and simple white dress shirts. Fortunately, Hobie possessed a keen eye for fashion, offering you the opportunity to spruce up your appearance.

But of course your style won’t disappear from you. You wore the goggles that held a sentimental value for you, it hung on your neck like a necklace. The trinkets you have from your old clothes were hung around your waist and leather belts on your corset that wrapped around your waist. You wanted to remove the corset but it was made by Hobie himself, frills designed at the seams of the belts.

“Gotta say, even though these things are proper stylish, I ain't gonna lie, they ain't worth wastin' your freedom on, tryna fit into those rubbish fashion standards. Regret havin' to unload 'em on ya, but I need this bloody shite outta my place.”

“Why is it here in the first place?”

“Dunno, mate. Just nicked it.”

“What?”

“Need a new one soon,” you slightly sucked your stomach in, “‘cause this isn’t my size at all.”

You gazed up from the midst of the tenement, feeling the gentle touch of the sun's rays on your face. If it weren't for the congested houses stacked atop one another and the crisscrossing lines of laundry hanging in the air, the people of the slums might have been able to truly appreciate the beauty of the sky above.

You found yourself climbing each stacked house, trying to reach your destination in a longer way. Gripping onto rusted iron bars and worn-out ledges, you pulled yourself up, the rough texture of the walls scraping against your palms. The sounds of the slums grew distant as you climbed higher, the air becoming crisp.

Finally, after what felt like an interminable journey, you reached the zenith of your climb. Standing atop the highest stacked house, you surveyed the topside with awe, the essence of steampunk permeating the landscape. Majestic buildings, adorned with ornate facades and intricate brass embellishments, reached towards the heavens, displaying the opulence of the higher class. The airships, resplendent in their polished metallic sheen, gracefully cut through the clouds, propelled by the power of steam and gears.

As you took in the scene, factories with towering smokestacks filled the air with billowing plumes of smoke, their relentless activity a testament to the industrious nature of this world. It was a sight that mesmerized, a stark contrast to the gritty reality you had left behind in the slums.

Breathing in deeply, you took a moment to savor the accomplishment before stepping off the last stacked house and onto the solid ground of the topside, making your way to the address the man gave you.

The streets of the middle-class district buzzed with activity as people moved about freely, unburdened by the struggles of the lower class. Cars traversed the well-maintained, cemented roads, their engines purring with a sense of efficiency. The residents donned clothing that exuded an air of cleanliness and modesty, their attire distinct from the worn and patched garments you were accustomed to. Your eyes wandered, taking in the sight of buildings occupied by tenants who enjoyed a more comfortable existence. Laughter filled the air as children played and ran with carefree abandon.

You were familiar with the streets since you lived here, once.

As you arrived at the block, you rapped on the door, the echoes of your knocks resonating through the hallway. It took a few moments, three to five rhythmic knocks, before the door swung open, revealing a middle-aged man on the other side. His face bore the marks of a life well-lived, etched with the wisdom of age, and his beard and hair had turned a distinguished shade of white. A monocle adorned his left eye, adding an air of eccentricity to his appearance. Initially, annoyance flickered across his features upon opening the door, but as his gaze fell upon you, a spark ignited in his eyes, transforming his expression into one of intrigue and curiosity.

“Ah! Yes, yes you. Come in come in.”

You thanked him after stepping aside to give you passage inside his house.

In stark contrast to Hobie's cluttered and chaotic abode, the man's living space was meticulously organized and tidy. As you stepped into the room, you couldn't help but notice the cleanliness that pervaded the air. The living room appeared recently cleaned, with everything in its rightful place, giving off an aura of order and precision.

The furniture was arranged with care, and not a single item seemed out of place. Moving towards the kitchen, you found it to be equally immaculate, with gleaming countertops and neatly arranged utensils. It was evident that the man valued a sense of cleanliness and efficiency in his living environment, reflecting his disciplined and focused nature.

"Please follow me," the man said, his tone firm and direct. The exchange of names seemed unnecessary at this moment, and you silently agreed. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you, a shared purpose that transcended formalities.

As you followed him, he led you into a room that could easily be mistaken for a sunroom, bathed in natural light streaming through the windows. The space was adorned with an abundance of plants, their vibrant foliage filling every corner, while delicate vines cascaded gracefully from the window frames. Shelves lined the walls, filled with an array of work-in-progress inventions, each one a testament to his creative pursuits.

On his cluttered work desk, amidst the scattered tools and gears, you caught sight of a meticulously crafted golden fairy figurine. Beside it lay the blueprint, a detailed depiction of the fairy with intricate sketches and precise measurements. It was evident that this was more than just a hobby for him; it was a labor of passion and dedication.

The man noticed your curiosity directed towards the golden fairy figurine and a warm smile graced his face. "Ah, that," he said, his voice filled with affection. “It's for my daughter. She has a fondness for the enchanting creatures she reads about in fairy tale books.”

You shot your head, removing your gaze from the figurine and its blueprint, “Sorry, can’t help it.”

“No no! It’s alright.” he laughed, the tone in his voice seemed that he was glad a person liked it.

Looking back at the work desk, you said, “It’s beautiful.”

After swiftly resolving a minor issue with his engine, you took off your gloves and tucked them into your pockets. "The problem was simply a malfunctioning steam pressure valve," you explained. "It became clogged due to the buildup of debris from the steam, which can potentially cause damage to the entire steam system if left unattended."

As you untied your hair, the man stood beside you, his eyes fixed on you, eager to hear your advice. "To prevent similar issues in the future," you continued, "I highly recommend implementing a regular maintenance and cleaning routine specifically for the steam pressure valve. This will help keep it clear of any debris and ensure its proper functioning. Regular inspections and proactive cleaning will go a long way in maintaining the efficiency and longevity of your steam-powered equipment."

With your recommendation delivered, the man nodded appreciatively, understanding the importance of proactive maintenance in avoiding future complications.

“Do you work for anyone? Like an agency or something?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

You were taken aback by his sudden question, momentarily caught off guard. “Um, no,” you replied, slightly flustered. “I'm just seeking people who need assistance. That's about it.”

The man's eyes sparkled with a glimmer of interest. “I've been searching for an apprentice to help with my work, particularly in the field of machinery,” he revealed.

You nervously chuckled, not expecting such an offer. “Oh, thank you for considering me,” you responded, a hint of uncertainty in your voice. “But I'm not actively looking for an apprenticeship or anything like that.”

Curiosity tinged his voice as he questioned your decision, “Why not? You clearly possess a talent for working with machinery.”

Your laughter fades into a soft sigh. “I appreciate your kind words, but the truth is, I just do this thing for my survival, nothing else—not my passion no.”

The man's expression softened, a hit of disappointment but still understanding the pragmatism in your response. He nodded thoughtfully, respecting your honesty. “I see,” he replied, his tone sympathetic. “Well, if circumstances ever change or you find yourself inclined towards pursuing your passion, keep in mind that there might be opportunities waiting for you.”

You offered a grateful smile, appreciating his understanding. "Thank you," you said sincerely.

With a swift stride, you left the block behind. Thoughts swirled in your mind as you navigated the bustling streets. Fixing clocks and tinkering with inventions was not your true calling. You were meant to be a pilot, soaring through the skies, witnessing the beauty of the world from above, not getting your hands dirty with someone else's worn-out contraptions.

The distant hum of airships passing overhead only served as a painful reminder of the path you yearned to tread. You had dreamed of the freedom of flight, the thrill of navigating the vast expanse of the sky, not the mundane tasks of a makeshift mechanic. But circumstances had led you to this point, and survival had become your priority.

Then you remembered what Hobie said;

“Oh yeah, since you're gonna be up at the topside tomorrow, 'eard there's an event goin' on, all about inventions and such.”

“Might spark an idea to build ya own airship and pilot it someday.”

Fuck. You don’t know what the event’s name is, Hobie never told you. A gust of wind flew past you—and a flyer smacked onto your face. You took a better look of the flyer;

Clockwork Convergence

This might be the event Hobie’s telling you, maybe.

It says in the flyer that the event is where various clockwork mechanisms and devices come together, symbolizing the convergence of intricate gears, cogs, and other mechanical components. Itrepresentsacelebrationoftheartistryand— you don’t care about those, seeing an airship close up is enough for you.

You looked at the flyer where the event will happen and coincidentally the time is today and the city center was just a few blocks away from where you are. While you were going your way to the city center, children ran past you seemingly going to where you are headed. You looked up, the city center just in front of you.

As you strolled through the event, you marveled at the diverse array of stalls showcasing the inventive creations of talented individuals. Each stall presented a unique collection of steampunk-inspired gadgets, contraptions, and marvels. You admired the intricately designed clockwork mechanisms, the mesmerizing displays of steam-powered engines, and the elegant fusion of brass, gears, and glass.

However, what truly captivated your attention were the majestic airships moored at the building docks above. Their sleek hulls and billowing sails stood as testaments to the ingenuity and ambition of their creators. The floating marvels were the epitome of steampunk engineering, combining the power of steam, the grace of aerodynamics, and the spirit of adventure. You couldn't help but imagine yourself piloting one of those magnificent vessels, gliding through the clouds with the wind in your hair.

“Excuse me.”

Apologies filled the air as you were jostled and pushed aside by the bustling workers, their attention solely focused on their tasks of carrying crates and setting up the stalls for the inventors. Amidst the chaos, you felt like a mere speck, insignificant and easily overlooked. The workers moved with a sense of urgency as they navigated through the crowd, their sights fixed on their objectives.

You found yourself weaving through the sea of workers, attempting to find a path amidst the commotion. The constant movement and hurried footsteps created a symphony of clatters and shuffles, drowning out any attempt at conversation or personal connection.

Although you felt momentarily invisible amidst the whirlwind of activity, you pressed on. Despite the occasional bumps and brushes with the workers, you remained undeterred, eager to explore the stalls, interact with inventors, and immerse yourself in the captivating world of steampunk creations.

You were focused on one goal, see the airships up close. And you need to get into the city hall to get in one of the docks.

Sneaky, you were not to be seen by the people who do rounds in the city hall. It was easy to get into the building for some reason—they should tighten the security. It took a while to find the door where the docks were, right turn left turn go straight ahead. Until your stupid ass did not notice that there was a label on top of the door saying “DOCKS”, for crying out loud, you walked past that door at least four times.

Slowly, you opened the door. Your face is now mesmerized by the beauty behold in front of you.

The airship resembles a mechanical arachnid suspended in mid-air. Its sleek, elongated body boasted a framework of intricate metalwork, reminiscent of a spider's delicate yet resilient exoskeleton. The gleaming brass exterior glimmered under the sunlight, accentuating the meticulously crafted details that adorned its surface.

The airship's enormous gas-filled compartments formed the main body, resembling the rounded abdomen of a spider, while multiple slender, articulated legs extended from its underside, providing stability and maneuverability in the air. Each leg was a marvel of engineering, a symphony of gears, pistons, and joints working in harmony to mimic the fluid movement of a spider's limbs.

At the forefront of the airship, a bridge emerged, resembling the cephalothorax of a spider, housing the captain's quarters and navigational control room. A panoramic glass dome provided an unobstructed view of the surroundings, allowing the pilot to observe the ever-changing landscape as they steered the vessel through the skies.

The airship's propulsion system consisted of powerful steam-driven engines hidden within the body, propelling it forward with controlled bursts of steam and gears. Large propellers, designed to resemble the spinning motion of spider's spinnerets, were strategically positioned at the rear, providing both forward propulsion and agile maneuvering capabilities.

“Holy mother of—”

“Excuse me?” a voice called out, just behind you. You turned around to see an old man, dressed in blue and white robes, no in particular people would wear those unless they are a keeper. And he is the keeper here in the city hall.

His eyes narrowed at you, suspicious of your appearance without a chaperone—especially what atrocity you are wearing right now that stings his eyes.

“What are you doing here? This is a private place, young lady.”

Before you could make an excuse, you felt a looming presence at your back. You turned your head to see a man in his mid-twenties, slick brown hair swept to his back, he is definitely tall—taller than you and the keeper combined.

Clad in a tailored coat of rich brown leather, embellished with brass buttons and accents, he cuts a striking figure. His stature is accentuated by the impeccable fit of his ensemble, from the finely patterned waistcoat featuring gears and cogs, to the crisp white shirt peeking out beneath. His broad shoulders proudly bear the weight of a unique projector, its brass frame intricately adorned with gears and filigree. The projector casts a soft, ethereal glow, adding an element of mystique to his presence.

Completing his look is a polished silver cane, adorned with elaborate metalwork, serving both as a stylish accessory and a hidden arsenal of miniature tools. Together, his attire and accessories speak volumes about his ingenuity, while his commanding presence leaves a lasting impression on all who encounter him.

His sharp yet cold gaze pierced through you.

“Ah! Mr. O’Hara, do not fret this woman—”

Miguel O’Hara, or O’Hara or whatever the keeper called him, raised his hand, silencing the talking man, his gaze never left you.

“What's your business here?” His voice resonated with a deep, velvety tone, each word carrying a weight that demanded attention. There was a distinct authority in his voice, a commanding presence that made it clear he was used to being listened to.

“I pilot.”

Silence.

Well that response was stupid.

Miguel's gaze intensified, his dark eyes locking onto you with a mix of confusion and amusement. His eyebrows shot up in a display of surprise, creating a distinctive arch that accentuated his intrigue. It was as if he had stumbled upon an unexpected discovery, finding amusement in the peculiar situation before him. The keeper lets out a loud gasp.

“What?! Don’t lie to the inventor, women don—”

“I never remembered telling you to speak.”

The keeper's mouth snapped shut, his initial gasp quickly stifled by a wave of apprehension. It was evident that he was wary of provoking the inventor's anger, choosing silence as the safer option. Meanwhile, Miguel's presence remained towering and commanding, his gaze fixed upon you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

His dark eyes bore into yours, seemingly delving into the depths of your being. There was a flicker of amusement in his gaze, fleeting yet unmistakable. The corners of his lips hinted at a subtle upward curve, as if on the verge of a smile. But just as quickly, the expression vanished, replaced by a stoic line that etched across his face, masking his true emotions.

“You pilot?”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #spiderverse #ATSV #miguel o'hara x you

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misssakurapetal28 · 1 year ago

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Hello! I’m Currently Open For Commissions!

Due to recent irl events, I am now for the time being accepting commissions! Here are the examples:

Lineart - $10

Colored (no shading nor background) - $20

Colored with Shading (no background) - $25

Colored, with Shading and background - $30

$5 each to add extra characters

$3 extra for full body

Please read the Rules & Conditions first!

I will not start your commission(s) until I receive your full payment!

I need a description AND references of what you want me to draw. Just send it to me at my main account @misssakurapetal27!

If you're requesting an OC, please give me a reference of them.

I MIGHT do NSFW art, but it's ENTIRELY based on what it is. With that said, PLEASE DO NOT commission me NSFW art if you are a minor or under 18+! If you do this and I find out that you're a minor, I will decline your commission and I WILL block you!

The max number of commissions that I'll receive from each customer is 3 (three).

Please, DO NOT pay me until I confirm your order! After I do so, I will note you, message you or DM you privately through my email or account.

Me finishing your commission(s) is highly dependent on my schedule. So it will take me at least 1 month to get it finished. If I don't meet this deadline and you don’t wish to wait any longer, then you are owed your right to a complete refund.

Please keep in mind that I have a schedule and real-life matters to deal with, so sometimes things are going to come up that might slow the progress of your commission. You are entitled to a refund after a month, but please give me time.

At this point in time, I will accept payments through Paypal and ONLY through Paypal. I also prefer USD (US currency).

If ANY rules are broken, I have the right to decline your offer. If you come at me aggressively, I will block you on the spot.

I WILL do:

Fanart of any game, show, movie etc., even if I haven't heard of it! However, I do prefer media that I HAVE at least heard of. It increases the chances of your commission being done early.

Any character, that includes OCs.

SFW most definitely.

Ships/Pairings/Couples, even if it’s one’s that I don’t like.

Any LGBTQIA+ art of any kind. That includes Male x Female, Male x Male and Female x Female pairs. Poly is also included.

I MIGHT do (we'll discuss privately):

Animals & monsters. I'm still getting use to drawing them.

NSFW. It depends on what it is and how explicit it is. At best, it will be VERY mild.

Furries & Anthros.

I WON'T do:

Pedophilia or child porn of any kind.

Zoophilia/Zoosadism or Bestiality of any kind.

Hate art, bigotry or discrimination of any kind.

Misogny, incels, toxic masculinity, toxic femminity, or alpha/beta males of any kind.

Fetishes

Political or Religious Propaganda

Finale Note:

Due to Tumblr's guidelines, some (if not) all of my possible NSFW commissions will just be sent directly to you. SFW Art I will post and send to you.

I will not take any free request nor art trades. Prices are also NON-NEGOTIABLE. Ask me for those things once and you’ll get a warning! Ask for those things again and you will be blocked!

If you have any more questions or concerns, DM me at or note me @misssakurapetal27 for more!

Media that I know of:

Miraculous Ladybug

My Little Pony Friendship is Magic

Equestria Girls

She-Ra

Pretty Cure

Sailor Moon

Hellva Boss

Hazbin Hotel

Rise of the TMNT

Like I said however, I will do any series 😄

#commission #digital commisions #commisions open #commision info #taking commisions #art commisions #drawing commisions #commissions #misssakurapetal27 #miraculous ladybug #ml #miraculous #equestria girls #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #tmnt #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #ladybug

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marciiarts · 1 year ago

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Since Lorwolf has been out for a couple months now have a Lorwolf Guide/Review as a seasoned Flight Rising player

Breeding mechanics:

- Seems to be very similar to FR. Wolves have different genes like accents and under coats that can be passed down to offspring via a rarity system.

- You can preview possible offspring when choosing which wolves to pair.

- There are 6 different breeds with different rarities including a Kickstarter breed. They look like various types of canines plus a bat-wolf hybrid breed called Volmyr that I am personally a big fan of.

- Eye color is another color value just like fur color. You can breed for specific eye colors and if you don't like an eye color you can buy an eye color scatter for just scattering eye color!

- Scrying dream wolves is possible using the Demo feature and fantastic.net also has a Lorwolf color predictor.

- Wolves have a breeding period of 3 days then you send the pregnant wolf to your nest to give birth in another 24 hours. Meaning you don't have to check in everyday to nest your pair. Breeding cool down varies by species.

- An interesting feature that Lorwolf has is studding out male wolves. It uses the same mechanics of selling wolves on the flea market to other users, but instead purchased wolves are used for breeding and are always in the possession of the wolf's owner. So you can breed with other users and still keep your wolf, though the offspring will belong to whomever purchased the wolf stud service.

Exploring

- This is like FR coliseum. But the battles are auto-fought. No way to manually fight. Also levels your wolf.

- Only way, other than player trading, to get Wild Wolves (WW) which are similar to FR eggs, except they are fully grown and you can see their colors right away.

- Even if you come across a WW encounter, it is very unlikely they will want to join your pack. But even if they don't they will drop a token. 50 tokens can be used to make one WW.

- Trading 50 tokens is similar to trading eggs in that the colors have yet to be generated.

- Also includes a story mode!

Activities

- I don't find any of the activities to be the most enjoyable but they aren't annoying to do daily either and can be completed in a minute or less. All unlock more features as you gain experience for doing the activity. And most require an assigned wolf and an energy cost from that wolf.

- As of now, there are 6 different ones but the devs plan on adding more. They are:

- Fishing: a tap/click game with a minute timer. Rewards fish, and occasionally other materials.

- Crafting: sole method of getting apparel currently, aside from buying from other players.

- Mining: my current favorite. Involves clicking on a place to mine, waiting for your wolf to mine, then clicking your furnace to melt the ores and getting back a bar for every 5 one kind of ore you found.

- Cooking: you learn recipes by trying things to see if they are cook-able. Some items can only be cooked in combo with others. There are guides on what items can be cooked in what combos.

- Farming: you buy seeds, collect water and compost, then wait the time it takes for those crops to grow, then harvest. You don't need to do anything once they have started growing but adding more water and compost when the bar starts to get empty will yield more crops based on the amount you were able to add.

- Hunting: this is basically sending your wolf out on a hunt that will complete in a set time and then getting a mix of material and other rewards when the timer completes. There are more requirements then just energy cost the higher the hunt level is, but also better rewards.

- Also while not an "Activity" there is also a weekly pageant that lets you enter one wolf per week then the day after you enter a wolf, you can vote on a wolf once per day. Winners get currency and a medal apparel based on what rank you won, 1st, 2nd or 3rd.

Companions

- Similar to FR familiars. One companion per wolf and they can be leveled up.

- Different in that if you have multiple of one companion, you can have multiple wolves with the same companion.

- They can also be leveled faster since you can bond with them on a timer basis depending on their rarity with the lowest being every hour. And they can be leveled by exploring with them like a wolf would gain levels.

Tabs and slots

- Start off with 1 tab and 20 slots then you can purchase more tabs, each tab starting at 20 slots, using the premium currency similar to FR gems.

- On each tab, you can purchase more slots for an increasing amount of regular currency.

Apparel

- Official apparel is limited and mainly gained by crafting and trading with other players.

- But there is a lot of customization in player made custom apparel. Unlike FR, this is not limited by the line work, meaning custom apparel can be a hat or a dog or a background that is not part of the wolf itself.

Final thoughts

- Wolves do not go hungry over time! Hunger bar is really an energy bar that is replenished with time or instantly with food, and used when performing actions like exploring and activities.

- Naming does not cost anything no matter how many times you rename. Happy no stress naming!

- Studding your wolves out is a very interesting feature that allows you to breed with other players while keeping your wolves.

- Nice to not have to check in everyday to progress getting offspring from a pair.

- Biggest issue is that content a bit limited since it is so new. Not many breeds, genes, apparel, or activities. And forums are not as active as FR forums.

- Devs are pretty good about communicating updates and plans for the future. They also have occasional polls to vote on the next thing they'll work on adding to Lorwolf.

- Also, my Lorwolf user is Vamp, friend me! Plus a referral link to get 100 x moonwater (a type of food) and a dog companion (once your total companion level hits 50) if you are interested in joining Lorwolf: https://www.lorwolf.com/Refer/6048

#lorwolf #flight rising #lorwolf referral

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rcguish · 2 months ago

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battling ; terastallization vs mega evolution. - feat. thoughts on silver's savings.

i've been thinking about silver and currency lately, and it has been leading me into the conversation of how he uses battling as a main source of dopamine + income + mental exercise + exercise for his team.

* roughly has 500k pokedollars saved up, almost purely from travels and special / rare items he’d come across and sell. all of his income is reliant on that and earnings from match wins. he does occasionally give an amulet coin to weavile, most usually when he's under the impression that he will not be needing to utilize full strategy. if it's easy competition, then amulet coin. if he's feeling the need to strategize rather than rely on brute strength and team synergy, focus sash. weavile will most likely be in every single battle as a regular rotator, precisely why he'd be the default amulet holder.

battling.

battling, and in his specialization with trading as well, had been first introduced to silver as a means of control. as soon as he'd been snatched from right out of his own yard, he'd been trained and raised to fight. sneasel had been a gifted young pokemon, creature given and held over his head for obedience until he'd learned to stop fighting back ; the two had grown close instantly, learning to rely on each other to live and survive outside of combat. that would thus translate well into proper teamwork in combat, an irreplaceable bond that they both still feel to this day.

and rather than turning to detest it and all battling stood for, silver found it was a way of achieving power and a way of language, something that only select few people could properly understand. it's evolved a lot over the years with him and with his maturity levels / moral shifts. he may not be known as the fighter, and silver's more than fine with that ( that's red's field, not his ), but it's become a way of life for him all the same.

and silver had been once 'too weak' to be worthy enough in his mind, to be anything other than a delinquent who had no real guidance or path - and battling ( as well as art later on ) had been the thing to humanize him. he'd been once too little to stop the masked man by himself, he'd been once insufficient enough with his raging anger in the face of steven stone, and he'd let his team down for years. silver's lost many battles as a teenager, and turned them all into fuel for his self-hatred.

it was during the PWT days in his travels abroad after HGSS arc ( age: seventeen ) that he'd finally started to find that spark of elation and adrenaline for battling. amongst all the brambles of turmoil, nestled away in the most buried parts of himself, he began to peel away the layers of bad to bring out the more ... positive feelings, at the time. sometimes this did slightly err on the side of manic, as silver had no real and true run-in with the positives and didn't know how to regulate it all. ( he was an unguided teenager at best, a ticking time bomb at worst. )

he'd gone off a few deep ends to keep away any and all negative emotion regarding matches and the concept of winning and losing, even if it didn't always tend to work ( re: bottling up and exploding, and / or extremely poor self-care to the point of self-detriment and sabotage ). threw himself completely into every single match, constantly refined and changed up strategy, kept trying to build bridges with his team no matter how shaky they may have been.

it took time, and a lot of give on his end, but he got there with them eventually.

now, silver is constantly enrolling in ace academy tournaments, and most usually he's sweeping through his rounds with ease ( depending on who's paired against him, he really has no problem defeating the staff ). it's a form of thrill-seeking, maybe a bit of *"establishing dominance," and a way to continue learning about something he loves and has continued to try to perfect for as long as he can remember ( alongside trading, but trading is more passive while battling is more active ).

* he has gotten quite a bit of note during his years at the academy, and at first had been talk of the halls for being from johto. though there weren't a lot of kids that had heard about him or events that happened years ago in a completely different part of the world, there were the few that have, and he tended to avoid the shit out of them. it isn't really that much of a buzz now, and hasn't been since the novelty wore off a month or so into his attendance - instead, now, he's earned a reputation that he's built up for himself in front of staff / public and student witnesses over the years. still, that knowledge alone is enough for silver to feel the need to prove himself time and time again with every single battle. this is establishing dominance sure, but it's also to prove himself worthy both to himself and to whoever may be watching him. even moreso added on with the fact that he's there with a dual specialization in art and battling for his studies, purely on the notion of getting even better at battling. it's an art form, it's a language, it's a special interest, it's a way of life. ... he also gained major public traction during his PWT days, which is another source of ire for public recognition.

in all of his hard-earned and proven prowess, silver finds himself being sometimes suggested or volunteered to be some peer mentor to younger or perhaps more inexperienced trainers / students, sometimes much to his chagrin.

but, there are still a lot of strategies that silver has trained and perfected with his team that he does not dare show to the general public. he doesn't even let ursaluna be seen in public spaces, nor does he take him out during battles unless absolutely necessary, and atleast 90% sure opponent is not going to have a heartattack.

ursaluna ( re: bloodmoon, though not the one to be caught in kitakami ; separate post as a part of the team set incoming ) is another one of silver's aces in special attack and intimidation factor.

mega evolution.

there had been a point in the PWT rounds that silver had been paired against steven, the first battle against his mentor since the first one years ago ( re: at age eleven ) that had tore silver in two. at the time, he'd used a completely different team than the one silver had been able to briefly mentally prepared for / gone up against before, and though it was a surprise in the moment he had been able to parry and keep up. that is, until steven mega evolves his mawile, leaving silver completely speechless + caught off guard + somewhat shaken in the middle of the battlefield.

needless to say, that was another match that had been lost - but it wasn't a loss he had taken too hard, as steven didn't give him the chance to sink into those depths. they met after the match, and he handed silver a key stone and the direction to kalos to pursue further studies and proficiency. a way to put his bond and new way of living / thinking to the test.

silver ended up reaching out to blue not too long afterwards, and the two decided to travel together to kalos in order to properly learn how to use and master mega evolution. they both ended up running into hyu and rosa, and from there a kinship / rivalry / friendship had formed, some special thing to last longer than the time they spent sparring there.

silver had his key stone fastened into a small leather palm glove, something he could slide on over his always-worn black gloves rather quickly should the time call for it. ( it's not entirely dissimilar to jack sparrow's glove : rings that go around the middle and ring finger connect the strip of leather that goes down to his wrist, where he can adjust the tightness around via string. )

silver will always carry his glove addition on his person, no matter the situation / nonusage. it usually stays within an inner jacket pocket, secure yet readily available for him to slip out and adorn.

at first, he experimented quite a bit with the pose and words to utter - feeling quite silly in the face of it all, cringing at himself in the beginning. but it's gotten easier, it's gotten to feel natural as he's learned to focus on the bond between him and his gyarados rather than what he looks / feels like to no one that mattered in the process.

as he's achieved mastery over mega evolution, silver will never use it in a match with anyone that he doesn't deem a worthy enough challenge ( additional note: private match only ). it is a strict ace that he wants to keep secret on the idea that anyone could learn about it, and that 'anyone' could be giovanni. hell, it could be the rocket admins. it could be the entirety of team rocket, and so why give such a valuable trump card away?

especially when everything that silver had done up until that point ( re: constant battling + the absolute need to have mega evolution under such control and harmony ) had been fueled by his desire + vow to abolish all of team rocket. and by extension, bring his father towards the light - now better suited to silver, as an adult, to simply find giovanni and see if he can bring him towards some semblance of redemption. ( nothing was ever easy, and he'd come to accept that better than anyone. but even then ... ! )

see, even with ulterior motives, silver is very much so a man who deals his information in calculations and trigonometry that goes beyond just a simple whim. it had been a concept that was, in every sense, beaten into him from every angle since early childhood to keep his emotions held in and secret. ( both by an outside force, and eventually something he carried into himself. )

it's no wonder he's become a bit of a habitual liar + recluse in every regard as he's grown into adulthood, and this naturally extends into battling and his abilities / prowess.

the only people that know to date that silver can not only mega evolve, but has mastered it in a way unique to him and gyarados, are steven, blue, hyu, rosa, and grusha.

grusha is the only person in present day that had been allowed to learn of it during their all-out battle, somewhere nestled in a remote part of glaseado. it had been a certainty provided by them in the face of silver's request, and reassurance as well, that no one would be around to witness such a match.

gyarados and altaria had gone head to head in a complete show and release of their power on both ends, and had been the first time silver had utilized mega evolution outside of training that had brought him joy and had been fun. completely, and utterly exhilarating and fun.

and that's not to say that silver has not been enjoying himself with the year(s) of training, both under steven and when sparring against his little group, but there had always been a clear goal in mind in doing so : adapt, achieve, overcome the limits of what he and his pokemon had ever dreamed possible.

grusha had shown him a battle where there had been no stakes, and in that had strengthened something even further in silver and gyarados's sync.

truly, mega evolution is the area in which silver's ambition shines radiant and true.

terastallization.

as for terastallization, silver acquired his tera ball when he first enrolled in the academy, and has thus taken the time and mastered it since then. it was an easy feat, and while it may not be his most preferred ( or liked ) battle gimmick, he will use it should the time call for it. it's not often he finds himself pushed into a corner, and so it's even less often he makes that decision to terastallize.

though, that’s not to say that he doesn’t understand some of the appeal. silver’s honestly quite enraptured in the aesthetic of it all, how absolutely beautiful such an effect makes a pokemon — but there is also a give and take for how downright distracting it is. magnificent to stare at for the first few moments, but the longer a match goes on between terastallized pokemon, the more irritable and overwhelmed silver gets in the heat of battle.

it’s easier for him to lose his cool.

though he has yet to get to that level and actually lose composure in the middle of battle ( during his time in paldea + partaking in ace tournaments ), he’s been keenly aware of himself approaching that line in his mental capacity.

silver does not frequent medali enough, much less the treasure eatery, to do much with his pokemon's tera types - even though that exact concept is a major appeal of terstallization, and by extension some societal expectations in paldea. he usually tries to aim for STAB + tera type damage, rather than changing his pokemon's typing and thus moveset for a match entirely.

the only pokemon he actively changed tera type from expected to an abnormal type is gyarados ; on the notion that its chosen moveset for a battle usually entails two dark-type moves ( mega evolution secret ). a way to turn the tides without fully giving his ace away.

silver does actually very much so enjoy participating in tera raids. most notably doesn't tend to work well with others if there may be a few trainers who hop in, and that in of itself proves to be a point of a problem in many different settings and ways - though, he gets the job done regardless.

he won't lie and say that the crystalline structures and aesthetic is anything short of magnificent and beautiful, and actually has done quite a few color and abstract studies on such an effect.

it also reminds him of the night sky he loves so much.

tera types :

weavile : ice honchkrow : flying feraligatr : water gyarados : dark kingdra : dragon ursaluna : ground

#headcanon.#in my head all of these ideas coincided so they're all in one post #this will likely make it to the gdoc and be expanded on whenever i go back in and add #listen if feraligatr gets a mega evolution in ZA i WILL promise you all that me and silver will be losing our shit completely

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capitalxtendsmartinvestment · 2 years ago

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How to Trade Forex Online

If you haven’t tried trading Forex online, you’re missing out on a very lucrative business. Getting started can be easy and there are lots of advantages to choosing this type of investment. Some of the most important ones are flexibility and diversity.

Limit orders

If you’re thinking about trading forex online, you may want to take a look at limit orders. They are a useful tool that can help you set the right price for your transfers. This means you can make sure that your money is not wasted on a transfer that fails to meet your expectations.

Limit orders come in several varieties, including buy and sell, stop loss and stop-executed. Using these types of orders can allow you to control the price of your transactions while giving you more time to focus on other aspects of your investment portfolio.

The most basic of all is the market order. The order tells your broker to buy or sell your assets at the best available rate. However, it doesn’t guarantee that the trade will actually occur.

When it comes to trading in the forex markets, leverage is a great way to get a handle on a larger volume of most traded currency pairs. A small investment can generate a big profit, but it can also wipe out your initial investment.

Market orders

Market orders are one of the most important order types used by traders in the Forex market. These orders instruct the trading platform to buy or sell an asset at the best available price. However, there are different types of market orders, so it is essential that you understand the differences between them.

There are two basic types of market orders: Buy and Sell orders. Buy orders are executed immediately. If the trader expects the market to move up, he or she will place a Buy order. If the trader believes the market is going to move down, he or she will place a Sell order. The difference in the buy and sell prices is the profit.

The other type of order is the stop loss order. It is triggered when the market hits a specified price. The trader can also set a stop loss level.

Stop loss limits

Stop loss limits are important strategies for forex traders. They can help mitigate losses when bad news strikes and can also allow traders to re-examine their positions once a limit price is missed.

There are two main types of stop and limit orders. The first is a static stop, and the second is a trailing stop. The difference is that a static stop is set before the trade is entered, while a trailing stop is adjusted as the trade progresses.

A trailing stop is useful when the trader is unable to watch the market 24 hours a day. The strategy aims to reduce the downside risk of a trade by taking into account multiple triggering prices.

The best stop loss level will depend on the investor’s risk tolerance. Short-term investors will generally use a stop order above the current price, while long-term investors may set one below the market price.

Develop a financial plan

If you want to invest in the forex market, you should consider developing a financial plan before trading. A financial plan will help you determine your goals and how to get there. If you have a plan, you will be more likely to save money and pay your bills on time. The first step in developing a financial plan is to make a list of all your assets and debts. Then, you need to calculate your net worth. Using this information, you can then work with a financial planner or develop your own financial plan.

The next step in developing a financial plan is to decide on a time frame and how much you can afford to risk per trade. You should also make a list of exit points. For example, you might choose to use trailing stops or you might use chart patterns or indicators to detect reversals.

Originally Published in MarketMillion

Source:https://marketmillion.com/how-to-trade-forex-online/

#online forex trading #CapitalXtend #trade forex online #most traded currency pairs

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samueldays · 11 months ago

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Sam Reviews: H. Beam Piper

I bought a fat collection of short stories and novels by H. Beam Piper, a sci-fi writer of the 50s and 60s. It holds up quite well, I think, as I reread the whole collection recently. There's a variety of content, from alien first contact to space-pirates and time travel, and a "thick" setting base for much of it with elements like carniculture or the veridicator that pop up in several stories without being the basis of one. Piper uses a pair of shared universes for many of his stories where you can see connections without needing to have read the previous. I think there's also less showing off wiseass references than in a lot of contemporary sci-fi, though I might simply have missed some.

The odd pair out is Graveyard of Dreams and its quasi-rewrite The Cosmic Computer, which belong to the first shared universe. Both books have the same start: Boy comes home to frontier colony planet after having studied at prestigious university in the core worlds, receives welcome as hometown hero, is now expected to solve planet's problems of being a run-down backwater after the space war, also find the allegedly war-winning supercomputer that's rumored to be located somewhere nearby and could be dug up like it's pirate treasure. Boy has learned at university the computer is probably imaginary, but it would break the community's hearts to tell them.

Graveyard takes the view that the population has been thinking too much in terms of blaming the war and hoping for the plot-device computer instead of doing anything, so the boy tells his dad the computer isn't real, and they start a conspiracy to reform the planet as part of the computer hunt: The computer might be on the moon, or another planet in the same solar system, so we'll need a spaceship. We can't search the whole planet in one go, so we'll need regular refueling and resupply and a spaceport here. We'll need radars and scanners and drones and other things bought from Earth, so we'll have to invite trade ships to our spaceport, and produce things to sell for Earth currency. Implementing the computer's economic plan once we find it will no doubt require infrastructure, which we should build up in advance. And so the colony gets better, ostensibly as part of looking for the computer.

Through all this, I never felt like Piper was dunking on people who put all their hopes and dreams in a problem-solving magic supercomputer, or on fellow sci-fi writers with their plot device computers. There's very little vitriol. Characters had simply built up their hopes too high. (If he had written it sixty years later, though, I might have thought it was a dunk on people going "crypto fixes this! put vegetables on the blockchain!")

The story is in one sense hard sci-fi, because it limits itself to realistic known capacities of computers, and in another sense, not sci-fi at all, because the computer is a pure McGuffin and the moral of the story is that people should work on solving their problems and improving their community instead of hoping for a McGuffin to fix everything.

The Cosmic Computer starts the same way with much the same plan, and a "salvage company" double-bluff that's supposedly supposedly for picking up other things while hiding the secret supercomputer, but supposedly actually for getting the computer, but actually just for looting abandoned military bases from the war as a way of revitalizing the economy.

Then they find the computer for real, and things get odd.

---

Uller Uprising is one of his earliest stories and the first I read that hinted at the specific timeline mentioned above, branching off from the era when he wrote, that did not come to pass but is an interesting speculation to read. The dating system is AE (Atomic Era), counting from 1942, when mankind first harnessed nuclear power. Most of the Northern Hemisphere nuked itself (or each other) in great power conflict in later world wars that timeline; the rebuilding of Earth and colonization of the stars was mostly done by Southern Hemisphere states such as South Africa and Argentina. The story features a pair of ships named Paul Kruger and Jan Smuts.

Oh for the South Africa that was! Piper saw a country that would reach for the stars once the US and SU had ground each other down. South Africa once had a nuclear power program. Now it can't keep the lights on. But I digress.

The scene for the Uprising is a Terran trading colony, in the 'colonialism' sense like the British India Company, on a world populated by aliens. Piper's aliens are polylithic*: among them is joy in prosperity, and resentment at colonists, and desire to learn, and factional infighting, variety "I want those fancy gadgets the Terrans have so I can crush my rival", and variety "I want to manipulate the Terrans into crushing my rival for me". They have personality of their own, rather then being mere foils or subjects of history. One can say that such infighting is the often the downfall of colonized people, but that begs the question of calling them "a people" in the first place, rather than two peoples who fought until they both lost to a third.

*I would have said "diverse" but that has other connotations these days.

There's an angry mob of Ullerians that's been inflamed into simply going out and murdering Terrans, and there's cunning Ullerians who have signed on for a term of work on Terran ships going to the uranium mines, to learn the secrets of nuclear power. There's also awful smut that's relevant in-universe. Quite good stuff.

---

Little Fuzzy is also set in the Atomic Era timeline. The Terran Federation is spreading across the stars, and on the planet Zarathustra, the prospector Jack Holloway stumbles across an odd creature:

He turned quickly to see two wide eyes staring up at him out of a ball of golden fur. Whatever it was, it had a round head and big ears and a vaguely humanoid face with a little snub nose. It was sitting on its haunches, and in that position it was about a foot high. It had two tiny hands with opposing thumbs.

He thinks it's cute, and adopts it to live in his house, and the critter brings its family, and he sees they're smart enough to use tools when eating some of the other local wildlife.

This raises a question of whether they're smart enough to count as native sapients and should have rights to the planet. We hear about the "talk and build a fire rule" which is the precedent of a future court case deciding that those two activities are sufficient proof of sapience, but not necessary for it, as shown in another court case when a woman murdered her infant baby and tried to plead that the baby couldn't talk nor build a fire, and was convicted of murder anyway.

Jack Holloway, of course, is all in favor of getting his cute adopted fuzzball recognized as sapient. The antagonist of the story is the Zarathustra Company which holds a Class-III legal charter for the settlement of an uninhabited planet; recognition of the Fuzzies would make it an inhabited Class-IV planet and void the corporate charter and make a lot of rich people lose a lot of money.

Again, there's a lack of dunking. The ZC is wrong, and commits crimes in an attempt to maintain its position, kidnapping the Fuzzies, fabricating evidence, and so forth. But I don't hear commie sneering from Piper as the ZC loses in court and one of its corrupt cops is put to a veridicator.

It's a very sci-fi piece of technology: an advanced mind-reading (brain-reading?) lie-detector helmet with the finesse to identify technically true but misleading statements.

There was a bright conical helmet on his head, and electrodes had been clamped to various portions of his anatomy. On the wall behind him was a circular screen which ought to have been a calm turquoise blue, but which was flickering from dark blue through violet to mauve. That was simple nervous tension and guilt and anger at the humiliation of being subjected to veridicated interrogation. Now and then there would be a stabbing flicker of bright red as he toyed mentally with some deliberate misstatement of fact.

---

The veridicator pops up again in Space Viking, farther in the future. The Terran Federation is disintegrating.

"Nifflheim, no! There aren't a dozen and a half planets in the Old Federation that still have hyperdrive, and they're all civilized. That's if 'civilized' is what Gilgamesh is," he added. "These are homemade barbarians. Workers and peasants who revolted to seize and divide the wealth and then found they'd smashed the means of production and killed off all the technical brains. Survivors on planets hit during the Interstellar Wars, from the Eleventh to the Thirteenth Centuries, who lost the machinery of civilization. Followers of political leaders on local-dictatorship planets. Companies of mercenaries thrown out of employment and living by pillage. Religious fanatics following self-appointed prophets."

The viking-esque privateers of the Sword Worlds are raiding the Federation worlds for loot and machinery and personnel to build anew on their own planets; this situation is already so far advanced that one character bemoans the Sword Worlds themselves sliding into decadence and barbarism as their best and brightest leave to outright conquer Federation worlds and live there. All this is the backdrop to a hunt for vengeance and a grudge to be settled between one Space Viking and another, which in the process results in taking over a world and becoming King, and watching another world collapse.

---

Some of the minor stories:

Naudsonce is about first contact with an alien species and the attempts to establish communication when the odd aliens make sounds, but do not seem to have language. They can gesture enough for trade, though, and sell off some of their spare livestock. The brass provisionally file it as Domesticated Type C. The enlisted men, wanting to discuss the barbecue, cut this down to "domsee" and the name sticks.

Lone Star Planet is rather comic: there's a planet settled by exaggerated Texans, the most Texan ones who wanted to live in Space Texas specifically, and they brought the Alamo with them on a spaceship. They breed dinosaur-like "supercows" on their ranches, their cowboys need tanks for herding the supercows and implicitly constitute small armies, and it's legal to kill politicians for the crime of attempted taxation. Our protagonist is a nervous new ambassador sent to this planet after his predecessor was killed, suspecting that his government wants him also killed as casus belli. (Partly inspired by H.L. Mencken's The Malevolent Jobholder.)

A Slave is a Slave concerns the imperialistic abolition of slavery on a planet where slavery has been the order of the day for so long that it's becoming an in-name-only matter: the "slaves" are the ones who operate everything important, while the "masters" spend their days in petty feuds with each other. The imperial potentate sent to oversee abolition is a first-timer, learning on the job how to administrate foreign planets. This does not go entirely smoothly.

Hunter Patrol is a time loop. A present-day soldier is drawn to the future to help overthrow a tyrant that has conquered the world and conditioned people into servile pacifism. Returning to his own time with a bit of loot and papers from the tyrant's office but without future memories of what they are or why, he uses the future knowledge to become rich and powerful, aims to establish world peace, and ironically becomes the tyrant murdered by his past self.

Null-ABC depicts a future where "Literate" has become a profession; most people aren't literate and look down on the concept. Instructions are usually pictographic, or you hire a Literate to read it for you. Data storage and messaging is commonly audio. TVs and videos are still around, naturally. This because Literacy is associated with propaganda pamphlets and hell-tomes like Mein Kampf and Das Kapital, and the four world wars they caused. This is the one story where I recall Piper does get in some cheap jokes, in the world news report of items such as,

"The Central Diplomatic Council of the Reunited Nations has just announced, for the hundred and seventy-eighth time, that the Arab-Israel dispute has been finally, definitely and satisfactorily settled."

unrelated to the plot of the story, which involves political strife about the status of Literates and literacy.

That joke has aged very well, I must say.

---

Piper's second shared universe set of stories is the Paratime collection. In a future without interstellar travel, as Earth's resources run dry, mankind has instead developed the technology of visiting alternate timelines and parallell universe Earths. On the uninhabited ones, futuremen mine resources directly; on the inhabited ones, futuremen buy from the local miners.

This gives the protagonists reason to get involved pretty much anywhere in history or alt-history as they have to cover up the Paratime Secret, or stop a time crime, or catch the Venusian Nighthound that some dumbass let loose in a 1950s America before the cops ask too many questions about the unusually mutilated cattle. It is a really great Excuse Plot for whatever time period, technological level, and/or cultural group the author feels like writing about today.

It could easily have stopped there, and become a series of disconnected anecdotes and shiny distractions, but Piper executes it well and gives it context. Home Timeline has people and places and customs and strife, although some of the bits feel clunky to me.

Tortha Karf fingered them and nodded. Then he became as visibly angry as a man of his civilization and culture-level ever permitted himself. "What does that fool think we have a Paratime Code for?" he demanded. "It's entirely illegal to transport any extraterrestrial animal or object to any time-line on which space-travel is unknown. I don't care if he is a green-seal thavrad; he'll face charges, when he gets back, for this!"

It's very hard to make future ranks sound appropriately important while staying foreign, and "green-seal thavrad" falls short, IMO. (Also clunky: "We'll blow them to Em-See-Square!" elsewhere in Piper's writing.)

Most of the Paratime protagonists are time cops of some sort, though with a major exception: Calvin Morrison, a man from our time's America, gets sucked up in the wake of a paratime travel vehicle. Falling into a timeline where America was colonized by an eastward Indo-Aryan migration and the technology level is late medieval, he becomes Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen, protagonist of his own novel by the same name and several sequels by Piper's peers.

(A time cop stops by to check whether the Paratime secret has been leaked, and is very satisfied that Calvin has told everyone "a wizard did it" and is helping to keep the secret.)

In this alternate timeline, America is divided into kingdoms worshipping the Wolf-God and the Sky-Father and the Earth-Mother and other interpretations of ancient Aryan deities as filtered through 1950s historiography and then cultural drift as imagined by Piper, which makes it an interesting sort of foreign place. But the supreme god of the time is Styphon, whose priesthood alone holds the secret of making fireseed (gunpowder). This monopoly is the main source of their power, and Calvin is about to break it.

The plot outline "Contemporary man falls into the past/fantasy world and introduces gunpowder" has been recycled a thousand times by worse writers, and I wonder how many of them would trace their literary ancestry back to Piper if we could see who they'd copied. I know it's more than zero: like with Journey to the West but less famous, reading Lord Kalvan made several things click into place as I recognized elements other authors had been copy-pasting that made sense in the original but were weirdly out-of-place in the flimsy knockoffs. Literary cargo cult.

---

In closing, Piper was an original writer, and I recommend his stories.

No man is entirely original, one can locate him easily in the late golden age of American scifi with peers and influences, but he stands out to me as the sort of person that others were copying a great deal. Lord Kalvan I mentioned above, the Sword-Worlds of Space Viking went right into the Traveller RPG, Little Fuzzy was rebooted by John Scalzi as Fuzzy Nation, Star Trek's "tribbles" were originally "fuzzies" before Legal got involved, the Paratime series was an inspiration for Charles Stross's Merchant Princes, the list goes on.

And it looks to me, as with several other of my favorite and respected authors, that this is partly because he could draw on a wide set of life experiences outside of the incestuous 'literary class'. (Vague, I know.) He worked on the railroad, he studied engineering, he collected firearms and helped compile a collection of archaic ones. His short story Omnilingual turns on the fact that science has a shared true referent: the Periodic Table of the Martians must refer to the same elements as on Earth, and so the long-dead Martians' language is deciphered.

I might say: he was a shape rotator. :-)

#all #literature #sam reviews #longpost #h. beam piper

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bohemian-nights · 1 year ago

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Chapter 5 Lady Danbury

Word count: ~6,599

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Lord Ledger x Lady Danbury

Description: The new Lady Agatha Danbury was decidedly not happy. Neither was Lord Ledger. Perhaps they might find a bit of happiness in each other.

AN: This is a Lord Ledger x Lady Danbury AU fic. Some plot lines from Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story have been axed 🪓

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4,

“You know my dear, you ought to try to find a husband among our side of the Ton.” That is how Lady Allen began when her maid had placed a tea tray in front of them. Dismissing herself with a bow. Causing Agatha to burn her tongue on the hot liquid as well as the roof of her mouth as she forced herself to down the remaining burning liquid. Nearly choking trying to compose herself. Feeling a wave of nausea that was all too common these days. Barely managing to swallow it in her haste.

The older woman before had taken to calling upon the Danbury estate for tea. Calling herself a friend which one can never have too many of. Especially one who was her senior and fashioned herself into a motherly figure which she lacked. “You can not say I have not provided you with wisdom in your time of need Agatha.” Her wisdom though in this case, why she would even deign to say such a thing, was worrying.

People talk. People always talk. Gossip was currency. Especially among the Ton. One would always take note of their surroundings. I saw Lord Calthorpe disappear halfway through the hunt with her footman. They were gone for hours. Lady Flinching said she saw them come back from the wood practically naked.

Lady Byron did not take ill. I heard she fled to France with Lord Bellings' eldest son. Not before the boy and her husband partook in a dual, as was his right. That is the reason for Lord Byron’s limp. The wrong word, the wrong rumor, true or not, could ruin one’s reputation beyond repair. It was so easy to fall. To falter.

The Ton were no better than bloodhounds. Ready to pounce at the first whiff. A friend today was a foe tomorrow. If one felt slighted, a long-held grudge from past grievances, a debt owed, or even felt that they could gain something from it, those secrets would be traded around the Ton like the sweetest chocolates from Belgium and Turkish delights to children. Feasting upon the overripe fruit that had fallen off the tree of other's lives with glee.

But no one could know of her own indiscretions. It was impossible for Lady Allen to know. Agatha was just being paranoid. They had been careful. Her father did not even know and he lived under her roof nor their servants, With the exception of Coral, who only had a vague sense of just what her mistress got up to on her exceedingly long evening walks which sometimes lasted until the morning.

She’d of course take her secrets to the grave, but no other soul had any idea. Lady Allen could not know so Agatha proceeded with caution. It was the best course of action. Give nothing away and nothing can be gained or used and dangled over her head like a carrot on a stick just out of reach as she tried to work for it doing whatever she bid and even then that carrot might be given to another and she tossed to the judgment of the hounds.

“I do not believe anyone on your side of the Ton would have me for a wife.” She took another sip of her tea. This time she blew upon the drink, cooling it to avoid imparting further damage. Though it, unlike her tongue, would heal, a burn from a scorched name however would be fatal. A permanent stain that no amount of scrubbing from even the most experienced of Buckingham House maids would let out.

“Nonsense, why Lord Allen would marry young in a heartbeat if I were to drop dead now he'd take you to wife on the morrow.” To that, Agatha did not contain her emotion. Levity returned to her. She let out the breath she held in with her laughter that had nearly caused her to burn her tongue once more. An entirely unbecoming moment for a lady, but she was relieved. Lady Allen did not join her in said laughter, but her green eyes told of her amusement. She did not know just how much that smirk meant to her younger host.

Agatha did not doubt that Lord Allen would not mind her for a wife, but he was not a very picky man. Provided that the lady in question was at least twenty years, preferably, thirty years his junior with a handsome face. He would most certainly not complain.

None of the men who were like him would not mind. Those who had a gaggle of children. They had their heirs. There was no worry that her bloodline would inherit their estates even if she did manage to pop out a babe or two. A wife for pleasure would be what they wanted.

“Laugh if you like Agatha, but do not doubt your own desirability.” She took a sip of her drink as her amusement grew. “You my dear have the pick of the lot.” The corners of her painted mouth curled. Like a cat that had gotten into the cream. “That is of course if Prince Adolphus has not proposed by the end of the season.” Agatha's smile faded just the slightest while Lady Allen’s smirk shined on. Feeling her nausea once more returning. She meant well for all her gossiping she meant well, but the reminder unnerved her rather than ease her from her worries.

What should be a happy reminder, that there was more to Agatha’s life than the management and upkeep of her most intimate and precious secret.

Where his sister, after her most recent bid at escape, seeking refuge at the Danbury residence before she was reclaimed and reminded of her position, had grown distant, Prince Adolphus was more than friendly. The queen's brother was a kind man. He did not speak over her nor talk down to her as if a child. He did not stare at her breast or hips as if he were imagining what they looked like free from the confines of the intricate layers that made up her dress and stays. As naked as the day she was born.

Prince Adolphus was polite. Easy going. Easy to talk to. He had a zeal for life. He was ever attentive. He enjoyed having actual conversations. He enjoyed listening to her opinions, took note of them, and asked for them regularly.

He was well. groomed. Pleasing to look at with his tawny skin that spoke of his Moorish background and frequent exercise. Complimented by his dark eyes that held a million smiles. Not a hair was out of place upon his person. Neither age nor drink had touched his physique. Instead, he was toned from riding as well as fencing activities which he took up at his leisure.

He was tall. Taller than her even with the height of her heels and several of her sun hats. Though Agatha was not a very tall woman herself it was nice to look up to a friendly face.

There was but a mere three and half years between them. He had his own lands, title, and estate that could not be taken out from under him on the whims of a fickle crown.

He was a good man. A great man. Not at all like the late Lord Danbury, but he was not at all like another Lord either, and while she knew he would make an excellent husband she did not know if she could picture herself as his wife and all that it entailed. Nonetheless, he had his uses.

Perhaps cruel to some degree to use him primarily for her own regard, but Agatha did find his company exceedingly pleasant. She did not have to force herself to endure his presence and in the words of Coral who had given her a pointed look as she had said it, “It is a good idea to keep your options open my lady.”

She could not be too choosy. Not when her very future hung in the balance. Not when securing her nephew's title from a reluctant crown seemed as if it was a fool's errand and her own prospects even dimmer. So what of it if her mind drifted to another for a moment or two while she was in the duke's company?

His courtship was certainly preferable to others her father dug up and perhaps in another life she would embrace it to the fullest extent. He kept the lions at bay who saw her as nothing more than a vessel for their ambition so she welcomed his attention as any woman in her position would.

She was thankful for it, but by all accounts, she should worship him. Meet his courtship with unencumbered glee. He was the answer to prayers. Her salvation and yet there was something, something in his person, that stopped her from getting upon her knees to give her thanks like a feverish catholic to the very image of the Madonna. Something which she could not name nor would she waste her breath doing such at that moment.

Agatha put everything out of her mind when Lady Allen finally took her leave. Once she had emptied the contents of her stomach into her chamberpot. Coral held her raven curls back with a slight frown, but she did not chastise for it. Merely asking as she rubbed soothing circles into her back in a maternal fashion, “Would you like for me to order the cook to make you some ginger tea my lady?”

They had come to an agreement, after a spat a week past that had ended in a whispered match so as not to be overheard, “This is like the last time. Perhaps we should send for the doctor,” that it was a matter to be dealt with later. Although that later was steadily catching up for now it was how she dealt with the delicate balance that had become the amalgamation of her life.

Agatha felt herself breathe easier once she had made it into the fields beyond her house. Taking her steps two at a time. Practically sprinting down the narrow lane. It was later than when she usually headed out. The moon's light barely illuminated the path ahead of her. If she had not known it well she would have surely stumbled over her boots.

It startled her to see the lights had not been lit in that little cottage that had become their sanctuary when she reached the clearing. Well, less of a shock and more of a disappointment, but she ventured on with bated breath. Hoping that the lord had not left in her prolonged absence or he had been kept from her. She dreaded that thought. Pushing images of a certain tight-lipped grimace and a set of ice-blue eyes that seemed to follow her at during their teas with the queen out from her mind.

In her haste, Agatha had thrown open the newly replaced wooden door to see a single lit candle placed on the end table by the bed. She felt her disappointment reach its climax gazing around the ill-lit one-room cottage when a warm masculine hand was thrown over her face.

Backing her into his hold as he shut the door. Reigning open-mouthed kisses from her neck down to her ample bosom. Heaving with fright and heat that radiated out from her core. A heat which the cautious part of her mind, the one prone to worrying, told her not to give in, though it was hard to do so with the wandering arm that snaked itself around her middle drew her closer.

She began to struggle in his strong grip until her nameless pushed her head back, exposing more of her heated skin to gaze up at him. A familiar set of darkened near onyx chestnut eyes greeted her. Catching her shock with his lips he pulled her further into him with a kiss that took what was left of her breath away. Not stopping until the need for air forced them to part. Even then he took to renewing his attention, lavishing it onto the sensitive skin behind her ear.

“What kept you away from me sweet one?” He had asked between kisses. His voice was thick with arousal and a hint of relief.

Agatha had swallowed a moan that desperately wanted to be let out in an effort to answer his query. It was ultimately a fool's errand for the lord before she enveloped her full lips against his once more. She lost all train of thought at his tongue licking at the roof of her mouth. Causing her knees to buckle as she felt that wanting ache in the pit of her belly grew. She gripped his forearm firmly wrapped around her middle though she knew that he would never let her fall.

The lord who had dispensed of his waistcoat and cravat, made quick work to strip her out of the layers of fabric that made up her satin violet dress. A gracious and most welcome allowance due to her now that she was officially out of mourning. Her stays, stockings, and garter were thrown at odd ends of the room.

At some point, she must have clawed at his shirt as half the buttons on his tunic had been opened. However, they were still left in an unequal state of undress as Agatha was as naked as a babe. A fact which she wished to remedy but the man who was working her into a frenzy would not allow her to.

Instead, her lover wasted no time in gathering her up in his arms in a way one might a bride, though she did not try to dwell too much on that little detail, and focused instead on the delightfully overwhelming presence of his person.

He deposited her gently, which contrasted with the intensity in which he petted and caressed her, on the bed that sat at the room's center. Despite his age and build he was surprisingly robust, but Agatha supposed he was a rather active man and he was more solid than truly out of shape.

It did not seem possible, but his eyes only darkened when he gazed upon her bare heated figure spread out before him. Not taking his eyes off her as his hands went to undo his breeches, throwing them along with his tunic to join her garments in the far corner of the room. His erect member sprung free, greeting her as he moved closer.

“Touch yourself for me my sweet.” She let out a whine that sounded like a mad woman to her own ears at his command. Her lover did not seem to mind it. There was no shame in it. Proprietary had long since abandoned them for the bliss that they gave one another.

Agatha of course had felt some embarrassment when she had first touched herself in that intimate place. Had nearly collapsed into herself at his first suggestion. No matter if she was a widow nearing thirty, her governess’s lessons, a Christian need for modesty or the appearance of it, the fear of the sinful nature of lust could not be undone in an hour or two spent in each other's company.

That place was meant to bring her husband pleasure. To birth his children. It was not meant for her own joy. She had thought so until he had sat her down on his lap at the edge of the bed and he pried open her thighs in front of a mirror he brought in and whispered encouragement into her ear as she brought herself to completion. “That's my beauty.”

In her haze, she barely registered that her lord had come to her. It was not until he had pulled her drenched fingers from within her warmth and licked a strip down her soaked folds that she realized he had joined her on their bed. “I wish to have my dessert.” He did not wait for her to grace him with a reply. Her protest for him not to tease and to take her as she was, for she was more than ready to receive him, turned into a moan.

How could it not when his warm muscle so reverently lapped at her folds. Like a man dying from thirst. As if the damp meeting place between her chestnut thighs held an overflowing fountain laced with honey wine that he had been the cause of. Each lap sent a tiny shockwave radiating through her. Building up until they became a rapturous tsunami of pulsing ecstasy.

By the time he entered her Agatha had become a miasma of molten ecstasy. She would have curled herself into a ball from his lappings at her soaked cunny if it had not been for the fact that Anthony had taken hold of her hands. Bringing one to rest in his graying waves and pinning the other at the side of her head as he rendered her incapable of speech with his tongue and fingers.

She had nothing to compare him to. No one apart from the late Lord Danbury and that was not a fair comparison. Their couplings had never been half as pleasant and often bordered upon painful. Counting the minutes until her lord husband finished and she could be away from him. Watch off that odious stench he left her with, but the man inside her was different.

Agatha had never been left with such a wondrous ache before him. A want to feel his bare skin upon her own. A need to be filled. To be torn apart and put back together over and over. To be left boneless yet yearning for more. Never wanting to part from him. To be apart from him, it thrilled and frightened her all the same. For she knew the dangers of that want.

She had tried picturing Prince Adolphus once in his place. While she was alone in her bed. Restless at the hour of the devil. It had made her feel queasy. So very odd. Her thoughts soon enough turned back to him and all felt right.

She had come with his name whispered upon her lips. She knew she was gone. Had fallen into a hole which she could not or did not want to climb out from, but at that moment she did not care.

It was his weight upon her that calmed Agatha in the most serene way that she had not known possible. She felt safe under him. In his arms. Surrounding her in him. His smell. His taste. His touch. He stretched her in ways she did not think she could be. Taught her things that she had not known existed. Which she now could not live.

He was close. She could tell now by how he deepened his thrusts. Chasing their high. How his thumb upon her pearl increased the intensity of the circles he drew into the erect little bundle of nerves. How his kisses had grown sloppy as his lips and tongue would not part from her mouth.

She could tell by that deep grumble that he meant to pull away and empty his spend on her stomach but she drew her closer. Wrapping her legs around his middle and pulling his heated skin flush against her so that no space separated them. There could be no harm in it if her condition was as she suspected.

“Let go Anthony.” Agatha managed to moan into his ear as she began to pulse around him just as her body gave in to the pleasure it received. He was powerless to stop. To leave her warmth. He could not leave. Not when she fluttered against him. Her soaked cunny tightened around his rigid member. No, he was too far gone to leave her. He spilled into her with a groan of her name.

She had thought he would be cross with her for it now that they lay in the afterglow. He had done so once before. Chastising her in his quiet way. Peppering a dozen kisses into her skin as he did so. “We must be careful, sweet one.” He had failed to heed his own warnings in their rendezvous that followed and now they were here where it no longer mattered.

Agatha was the first to break the quiet. “Lady Allen.” She began still catching her breath. Wincing silently at the feel of the emptiness and the steady leak of his spent making its way upon her thighs and the sheets below. She nuzzled herself deeper into the heated slightly tanned skin at his neck wishing to remain in his hold. Resting her lips there as she made a silent prayer that the sun would never come out. “She is what kept me from you.”

Agatha did not know entirely what possessed her to answer his question when there was no longer a need to. Perhaps it was the fact that she was still reeling from her conversation with Lady Allen and Coral's silent disapproval and worry over her.

Or it was her general malaise these days of late or the million and one things upon her mind that swam back to the foreground. Or perhaps it was the fact the sun would make its appearance in a few hours and she must rise with it and she dreaded that most of all. Away from the vividness she had here with him and back to the muted shades of her life. Back to worrying over her precarious position and trying to secure her nephews.

“She came over for tea and she could not stop babbling about how I will be married by the end of the season.” Agatha held her breath. Lifting her head off of the love-soaked skin slightly to scan his face. Waiting for his reply.

Time slowed. It seemed an age before he let out a sigh into her hair. Placing a kiss into her frizzled coils as he gently stroked her forearm with the back of his calloused hand. He did not miss a beat. They knew one another too well for him not to catch onto her unspoken meaning. The unspoken party. “Perhaps you should not be so cavalier about the Prince's affections towards you.”

At his words, instead of the rush of air that Agatha had hoped would revive her, she felt only a dark ever-growing pit. A dark pit which her heart sank into. Her lover seemed to realize his mistake, for he began to make amends by brushing more kisses into her dark mane.

“I only wish to see you happy Agatha.” Agatha. A small intimacy that they had allowed one another. She was Agatha and he was Anthony. Their titles shed if not for but a moment of respite. Shielded away from the world by the other's embrace.

At this moment, however, it did not feel so very intimate. Only yet another reminder of their respective places. Of what they actually were. They had no title for one another. Not one that denoted anything. Any real connection. Any connection that would be recognized for those titles belonged to others. They could not call each other by any other names apart from their own and even then those names which had become so very dear to them were only uttered in secret.

“And well looked after.” He could provide her with neither. Not fully. He could give her some few hours of heaven upon this earthly plane. Of unrestrained joy, but that was the extent of it. That was the reality of it all.

It is quite cruel how our perspective can shift in the course of a few words. In a mere sentence or two. His words were pure-hearted no matter their sting. They came from a place of affection. Of great care and tenderness. She knew that by the way in which his eyes became doleful when he spoke of the prince and her safety with him, but they were not the words of a lover. Or at least not the words Agatha wanted to hear coming from her lover's lips.

They were not words of love or passion. They spoke only of duty. Of comfort. Of quiet contentment instead of a burning desire that made one never want that paradisiacal feeling of belonging to end. They were words of truth. A bitter reminder of what they were to each other and what they could never be to one another.

It did not matter what she gave to him or he to her, what pleasure they took, what pleasure they freely gave to each other, or what they made the other feel, it could not exist outside of the four walls of the cottage which they occupied. The tides of the Ton may have changed, but the circumstances that kept them apart from loving one another freely were more than just the division of the old Ton versus the new one.

Lord Anthony Ledger was a married man. He had a living wife. A healthy wife who unlike her late husband was in no danger of departing from this earth anytime soon. He was a baron. He was a respected member of the Ton. A title that his family had held since the Middle Ages. Agatha herself, though she may be in dire straits, had not one speck upon her name.

Of course, there were ways around the issue of his marriage. Divorce was allowed. As they had no children the church would more than like grant it. It was what it was founded upon. A quick tour out of the country, to Paris maybe, or Venice, somewhere where no one knew of them. They could come back in a year or two after the scandal had run its course and the dust had settled, but Anthony had never expressed a wish to be with her in that way. For her to be his outside of their time together. For her to be his everything? Did he want to be with her in that way? Truly?

He had not meant to hurt her. She knew that, but he had and as cruel and childish as it was she wanted to return the sting. So she leaned into his touch and began again. Remembering with great detail the last time she had been in the company of his beloved wife. His supercilious wife seemed to take glee in seeing her discomfort. My husband is so very thoughtful. He knows me as I know him. The ice overtook her irises as she reached a pale hand out to brush Agatha’s curl off her shoulder.

If he could talk about her suitor then she could talk about his lady wife.

“Lady Ledger had on a bracelet when I saw her last.” It was his turn to stiffen at her change in subject. Having the good sense to flit his gaze to the wall opposite of where they sat at the mention of his dear wife’s name. “A pretty string of pearls with a figurine at its center. She said that you gave it to her.” She lorded it over her.

“A wedding gift.” His reply was stiff. As stiff as the air had become in the room. Air Agatha could no longer breathe. She needed out of it. Out before she said something she would regret. Before words poured out from her mouth that she did not mean. That he could not know. That was utterly pointless. “It was a wedding gift.” He reached out a hand to her, but she sprang up from the bed, in search of her clothes. Letting the silence build.

“Perhaps I shall ask the prince to gift me one for ours.” Agatha had not wanted to, but she had only managed to put her underthings on. She turned back to the forlorn man. Wordlessly commanding him to lace her stays. He did not complain. He never did. He was so very patient. Always so patient and understanding. He never took more than what was offered. Never reached for her beyond their time even though she wanted him to. Hopelessly so. He knew the rules well and he never crossed the line. It drove her mad.

“Perhaps.” He replied quietly. She could feel his eyes on more than just her laces. They followed her every move. She could feel him exhaling a hand moving from the hooks on the back of her dress to her arm. The bed creaked as he began to lift his weight off of it. She wanted no part in that. “Agatha—”

“I fear I must take my leave now.” She rushed out in a single breath pulling away from him towards the cottage door. “I have to meet with the dowager Princess about Dominic’s title.” It was the truth, but they both knew she had no reason not to stay. The man was ever polite even in his displeasure; he would not stop her after she made her discomfort known.

Agatha pinned her hat back to her hair as best as she could with no assistance. Not giving too much of a worry about it. She threw open the door to the cottage. Coral would be the only one waiting up for her and she'd shoot off the rest of the servants if they came looking. The sound of the bang of the door shutting carried her home.

This time it was she who did not wait for his reply. She did not dare to. She did not wish him to stop her on the off chance that he realized the danger of letting her depart in such a state. With so much unsaid, but she did not wish to hear his apology.

She knew it would not amount to anything real. Anything which they could loudly proclaim without worry or judgment. Anything outside of secrecy and nights of passion and days of woe. That they should never have if not for a miracle and Agatha had never been one to believe in such things.

Agatha slept fitfully that night a total of. She awoke to a buzzing in her head that bordered on a headache that caused her to put her hand to her temples trying to soothe the splitting pain, A feeling of lightheadedness, and nausea.

The first two were what she had grown used to, but the last was a new symptom to add to her fatigue. She had thought she would feel better after a breakfast of buttered toast, a bowl of strawberries she only ate a handful of, which was about all she could stomach, and some tea. Surely the cause of it was a lack of proper nourishment, but the buzzing continued.

Agatha had to strain herself to listen to her fathers, chidings against the onslaught. Though the effort may have been spent better elsewhere seeing how his topic of conversation remained the same as the day last. The concern always lay with her forthcoming nuptials to the prince.

Critics on her lack of a proposal and her focus remaining too much on her young charge. With suggestions on how to get the prince to propose to her. On how it was her duty to flatter him so that he may see how amenable she was. How she had no choice, but to become his duchess.

He of course made pauses between his little chastens for her replies. Yes father. No father. I will father. I am father. A few simple chirpings in acknowledgment sufficed. It was all that she could get out between his ramblings which only served to add to her headache this morning, but she had borne them as she was made to. As best as she could. Quite successfully for she was nearly out of the wood.

Agatha had made it through breakfast. Through the terror of her father's prattling. She had reached the dining room's doorway. She was almost there. Almost out, on with her day to the business of Dominic's title, when the buzzing increased by a margin.

The blinding pain greeted her like a knock on her head. She had fallen to the ground clutching at her temples. Coral was by her side before anyone else could reach her.

“My lady, I must insist that we call the doctor to check on you.” For the second time. She had to give credit for her maid's boldness. It was a well-played move. Calculated to be sure, but it was born from a place of concern and not underhandedness. Perhaps it had even just slipped out in her urgency to make her see reason. Having been left with no other alternative. “I’m sure I can find Dr. Simmons's card among Lord Danbury's things. He examined you the last time. He would be happy to do so again.”

“The last time?” Agatha winced at her father's question. His umber face turned to ash. Mr. Robinson was not senile. The man may be old, but he was quick of wit. Those dark eyes that narrowed saw everything. He had a wife. He had a daughter grown. He was not naive. It would be hard to convince him what he heard was nothing, but try she must.

“I am fine Coral.” She took deep breaths regaining her strength as she kept her eyes upon her maid. In. She closed her eyes for a moment hoping it would help. “We need not call anyone.” Out. She opened her eyes. “It is nothing to concern yourself with Papa.” Let him be a fool just this once she silently begged whoever was up there to answer her. To hear her prayers. To give her this peace. Let him let it go.

“It is my concern if you have brought shame upon this house.” He sneered at her. Baring his white teeth. No longer controlling his volume. “Upon your name Agatha.” The name he had forced her into. The name she had helped make.

“I have done nothing, but try to preserve this name.” She would not be chastised for her decisions. Not when she had done so much for them all. Not how she had done what was her duty without complaint for years. For most of her life, she had only done what was asked. Chirping whatever song sounded prettiest. Not caring how much it wore upon her to hum it over and over with a smile as long as they benefited from it.

“It is the reason why we stand here.” The reason why they were seeing the progress that they had. Why they could go where they wished. Why they could do business where they wished. Why they mingled with each other. She had done that. Lady Agatha Danbury had done that. Agatha had done that. She would not let him forget it and for that moment it seemed as if he was to acknowledge her contributions.

“The doctor will examine you when you get back Agatha.” His grip loosened, but his eyes remained cool. There would be no argument. A thought that chilled her to the white of her bones.

She had tried to put it in the far corner of her mind. She would worry about it when it came to it, but she could not because she knew what would await her later. It was one thing to suspect something, but it is entirely another to have confirmed. A confirmation that would seal her fate.

She brought that chill with her when arrived at the palace. The buzzing reached its peak. She could feel the web she had carefully strung together all these months breaking one string at a time. Her fate closing in on her. Every door shut. Every demand was made tenfold. Setting her adrift.

The prince and his kindness. Lord Ledger’s patience and passion. His everything. His nothing.

Her father and his expectations. Corals worry. Lady Ledger’s ice smiles. A queen who was too preoccupied with keeping her husband in line with whatever ailed him to truly care for her people. The princess demands for more. Her need for information on a queen who shut them all out. On a naif of a girl who did not know her own power.

How her fate depended upon betraying the confidence of a girl who had been thrust into this savage court. She could not go to the queen. She could not go to the. She could not even return home without being bombarded by more demands and scowls. She could not even control her own life. She was alone at sea. Lost. Utterly lost to even herself.

At some point, Princess Augusta’s speech faded into the background. That buzzing would not let her make out anything apart from a word or two here and there. Her nausea returned with a vengeance. Rising like a storm at sea. Agatha tried to focus, to regain herself, but the current only pushed her further out into the depths of the ocean.

“Would it not be a shame for you to lose the very fine estate in which you reside.” Her face was drawn tight. Like she had sucked. She cracked. The storm overtook her as she burst into tears upon the settee.

Princess Augusta tried to hush her. Dismissed her manservant. Offered her pear brandy from Germany which Agatha had almost reached for it. Told her of how her own father-in-law, the old king, treated her and her son like they were his personal playthings. Little better than animals. When even that had not worked she Had hesitantly reached out a hand to pat her forearm, but her tears would not stop. The bile in her throat burned. Her head was a swarm. The room spun. Over and over. Nothing would stop. Everything unraveled with great speed.

Agatha’s own body betrayed her when she was made to jump from the couch. Retching her breakfast into one of the painted vases that decorated the room.

“Dear lord, what is wrong with you now girl.” Princess Augustus stood up. Her mouth still held onto that thin line of irritation, but her eyes widened the slightest with something akin to panic. Increasing the creases upon her regal face.

“I am not well, your highness.” She had never felt so unwell. Not even when she had last been

in this position. She did not need a doctor to tell her what her body already knew. That buzzing in her head would not stop. Her nausea would not stop.

Agatha glared up at the princess. At that moment she hated that look on her face most of all. The concern was only there for her benefit. She did not truly care. It was only a mask. They all wore a mask of falsities to cover up their own selfishness.

She wished to rip it off her. She wished for Princess Augusta to hear. For someone to hear her. For someone to see her. For someone to not treat her as an afterthought to their own wants or the demands of society. To see what she needed. To see what it had done to her. How a lifetime of chirpings had ruined her.

Her mask was gone, but she could no longer care. She gave in to that buzzing. Shouted over it. “I’m with child.” The buzzing in her ear stopped as did the nausea. The look upon the king’s mother's pale face, pinched and drained of all life, filled her with nothing.

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