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katsukikitten · 2 years ago

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Warnings: Body horror, Violence, child abuse. This is a work of fiction intended to be consumed by those who are 18 or older. If you are not 18 or older dni.

Mafia Heir Bakugou Katsuki, Guard Izuku Midoriya x reader.

The sound of a metal bay door clangs to life, shoved open by two strong hands as the gears echo their groans to the warehouse.

His lip twitches, brows furrowed as he sneers at the contents of the space dimly lit from the flickering lamps on the dock outside.

Two large shipments sit side by side, covered in black tarp sitting atop wooden pallets so fresh that the smell of pine competes heavily with the stagnant bay.

"How did those idiots forget both?!" He hisses under his breath, white paper cigarette bouncing between his lips as he pats himself down for his phone to call the more volatile buyer but before he can hit the contact the harsh fluorescent lights buzz to life overhead.

"Who the fuck-" He draws his gun but his threat dies quickly on his tongue. Mouth agape as his lit cigarette falls into a puddle formed from the neglected roof.

"Those 'idiots' didn't forget either shipment." Your voice rings out and when the goon spies you he sees you sitting atop what was supposed to be your shipment. You're looking over your claws, paying him no mind as if you were bored and seemingly alone. Although the man would have to be a fool to think that you alone wasn't the worst option he had.

"I have some questions. About my shipment." You hop down from the pallet stacked with pristine products taller than yourself. Pulling down the tarp and the one next to it that was supposed to be delivered tonight, to him.

"Can you spot the difference, Tadashi?" You give the man your back, stepping backwards and your heels clack. Echoing around the silent warehouse, "See how mine is a little bit shorter?"

Your dark eyes flash to him, close enough he can smell your expensive perfume and tonight you're dressed to the nines.

Tonight was supposed to be the meeting of clan heads by the surrounding syndicates. Your shipment was to be delivered by morning and the other was rushed to tonight.

"I don't see that. No ma'am." He can't even see any difference from where you sat on top of the heavily Saran wrapped white bricks. You were by no means a small woman either, strong in stature and you were not called Madame Morte for nothing. Your laugh catches him off guard, it's pretty, the sound contagious and the only reason he doesn't laugh along with you is because he knows exactly who you are.

But that didn't stop him from his little fuck up did it?

He swallows thickly and you smile up at him.

"Hmm that's funny then isn't it? A half inch difference is clear as day. So something must be wrong right? Especially since you take good care to make every brick the exact same weight, size and dimension." You walk over to the two shipments and take one brick off of each, holding them up where he can see the miniscule difference that he tried to pad up with extra wrapping. What's concerning is that the obvious ones shouldn't have been on the outside, he was careful with everyone else, more careful with you. Sure to wait until comfort had sat in and that the head wouldn't bother with the shipments and goons never look past the outside layers, normally that was after five shipments and this was your sixth.

"Ya know I found this one in the middle, about three layers were like this," You cut the brick open with your sharp claws the white substance flutters down onto Tadashi's shoes, "But there weren't bricks like this in the Red Dragon's shipment. Not. One. Single. Brick."

You walk back to return the brick from the opposing stack, ass swaying in that body con black dress and Tadashi tries to look everywhere but. He's seen you gouge out the eyes of anyone who lingered over your body for too long, he was sure it's why you kept those nails so sharp.

"You're a chemist right? Specializing in Bliss, especially correct?" Swiping your middle finger over the substance rubbing it between your digit and thumb, "So you know the chemical structure of bliss right?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I have a chemist as well, she isn't as smart as you, at least not according to everyone else, but do you know what she found in over half of this brick? A different structure. Baking powder." You're still smiling, still cherry sweet with the hint of deadly poison in your eyes before it turns into pure acidic venom, "So which is it? Are you an idiot or are you fuckin lyin to me?"

"N-neither ma'am." You roll your eyes and your done up lashes flutter wildly from the action.

"Liar then." You snap your fingers and a large man with emerald green curls shoves a woman and her two children into the light. Tadashi's eyes widen with horror as he looks over the crying half family.

His family.

"I'm sure since you have no issue lying in front of me, you'll have no issue lying in front of your family." You hum, cradling the woman's jaw in your hand, tapping the tip of a sharp claw to her cheek. The kids cling to their mother with tears in their eyes, their quirks flaring in their time of stress.

"Guess you weren't the smartest chemist underground after all. Pay attention kids, this is what happens to liars." Patience thin, you pull out your gun from under the thigh high slit in your dress aiming the cool metal at the goon who thought he could undercut and insult you in the same breath. The guy was getting off lucky in your guard's opinion given the fact you were electing not to use your quirk.

"W-wait! Wait wait! I can prove my loyalty." He grovels, hands shaking as he holds his palms up to you. It makes you scoff and cock your gun.

"You already did with how you handled my treatment."

"Bu-but I have this- this new product." He fumbles in his pockets, a red dot appears on his chest causing him to freeze.

"'Ts fine Zuzu." You wave him off but all your guard does is move his finger from the trigger, when you glare his way he lowers his gun.

Tadashi produces a small red capsule bullet, needle at the end when he takes off the top and it makes you furrow your brow.

"And what's this?" Curiosity melting your angry features.

"Something In development for mass production. For Overhaul. His shipment is in the back." It's obvious confidence is starting to come back to his sinful face as he nods his head to a crate behind you.

"Oh Kai? Hmm. What does it do then?" By now your gun is returned to its holster and hidden away.

"Quirk deletion." Tadashi gives a nasty smile, like he's truly proud of his work, "Ya know like Allmight's guard Eraser head 'fore he died."

"Ah well let's see it then." You smooth down the fabric of your dress a final time before looking up at him when he makes no action to move.

"Wh-what?" He stammers and it grates your nerves.

"You wanna live? You want your family to live? Silence your quirk." He shrinks under the disgust evident in your sharp gaze and shapter tongue.

"I-I can't do that." His eyes dart around looking for any sign of an out but when you play these silly little games, you always go for the kill.

"That too hard? Well pick your least favorite, silence one of their quirks instead." You gesture between the two boys that whimper at the wave of your nails.

"B-but…"

"B-b-but." You mock rolling your eyes, "But it's insurance isn't it? Proof of your loyalty to me? Especially since you've already been lying. You know how I feel about liars, or at least bad ones."

He swallows, stepping closer to his family and it's obvious now he isn't going to choose himself. Looking between the two boys as their quirks flare, like he's deciding which one is worth more to him.

All while silently telling you he doesn't have an antidote.

"Make up your mind I'm already running late for an event." Quickly he grabs at the hair of his eldest son, pulling the seven year old up by his roots and pushing the needle into his throat. His yelp echos around the warehouse but the most malicious thing of it all is that even with his back to you, you can see Tadashi's smile pushing up his cheeks.

"There." He turns around, sniffling, fat tears brimming his eyes, who he's trying to fool you stents sure, you just know it sure as hell isn't you, "I'll have an antidote for you by next week."

He wipes at his face, coming closer to you, well within arm's reach. Red dot on his forehead but you've spared Tadashi once, he figures you'd spare him again.

Because what woman would let a seven year old go without their quirk not that it mattered to him either way. Good riddance if you asked him, his eldest couldn't control his quirk for shit and it was annoying anyway.

"So I've-" But his sentence is lodged in his throat, unable to get past your steely grip, your lip snarled up in disgust. Your eyes bored, dull and he's coming to realize why they call you Madame Morte from his own first hand experience.

There are legends around your quirk, rumors, that yours is similar to the Ashen King's, although yours was more painful.

Rot, slow and hungry. Greedy in the languid licks as it spread through his body starting from under your pretty hand wrapped around his thick throat. Claws digging into flesh that darkens with blight before pieces of it begin to fall away from his muscles and bones in thick chunks, scream scratching up his throat.

"M-mercyyyyyy." His voice comes out garbled before ending in incoherence as his tongue melts in his mouth, sliding down his throat and taking with it his scream. You lean forward, watching the life flicker in his eyes as he rots slowly, too slowly and only once it's been a moment or so that the flesh is separated from the body does it turn to dust at your designer clad feet.

"God has mercy. I don't." Holding his head as his neck separates from his torso before dropping him all together.

Your eyes flicker to the broken family, the children hiding in their mother's thread bare turtleneck. Tears tracking through her cheap foundation and further exposing the poorly hidden bruises on her throat. It was obvious they were malnourished and it makes you gather saliva into your mouth.

Producing a hissing spit before it lands onto a stray eyeball that turns to dust seconds later.

Izuku is already across the room, rifle slung over his broad shoulders, face stoic as he grabs onto your wrist gently. Taking out a towel to wipe off your manicured hand.

"Kaminari." You look into the shadows before he appears, golden eyes glowing like a cat.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Take care of this."

"Yes ma'am." Kaminari nods, helping the woman up to her feet as Izuku carefully slides elbow length lace gloves onto your arms, that thicken around your palms and fingers, concealing the skin. "Usual collateral payment?"

"250k this time." You spit in the direction of Tadashi or at least what's left of him, again. Just ash fluttering in the bay breeze. Denki nods, skull half mask hiding his smile as he ushers the family out.

"And get them a new apartment, would you? Their old one was a dump." You hiss before going on a small tangent as Izuku fixes your hair, "Can't believe I set foot in there, piece of shit stealing from me and couldn't even fucking provide. Another thing Denks, I need the name of the landlord of that apartment complex. I want it in my name by tomorrow. Tenants relocated."

"Whatever you wish ma'am, it is done." Denki calls back before he takes the family to the van he brought them in, now given orders to relocate.

"You should really stop using your gift when you're in designer dresses, ma'am." Izuku fusses, his emerald eyes flickering to your body as he scrutinized the fabric for any lingering he may has missed.

"Why do you think I always wear black Zuzu?" You give him that damn look, the one that makes his heart clench, the one he can't say no to. He's sure there isn't a person alive who could say no to you.

"Because you like to make every day a funeral." Izuku smooths over your dress, double checking the zipper. He's pulled his half mask down to settle around his throat the second he needed to attend to you. His eyes lingering over your jewelry to make sure it was still in tact until your claw settles under his chin. Tilting his gaze to even with yours even with him leaning closely to you.

"I'm fine. Really." You lean up on red bottomed heels to gently press your lips to his before you're settled back on your feet.

He gives you that pained look he always wears with the two of you get "unprofessional." Still it doesn't stop him from leaning over to kiss your cheek, lips grazing the corner of your mouth before he pulls away and draws the line in the sand by adjusting his half animal skull mask back over his face.

You always think the line is for you but really, it's for him. You live in blissful ignorance on what you do to him and what you allow him to do to you.

It's like you forget the lengths he's gone and still willing to go to protect you at all costs. Even if that means killing his idol. If you asked him he'd tell you he'd do it all over again.

"Aw Zuzu bear don't pout." You tease and his eyes crease in that fake smile he uses to make pretty girls swoon as he presses his broad hand to your back.

"I'll call the car Madame."

"No, no. I'll walk." He gives you a glare but doesn't fight it, talking over the coms to the two waiting outside.

Meanwhile Ochako stands outside in her suit, half mask tiger skull still secure around her pretty face, making her doe like brown eyes that much more deceiving. She flips her knife over and over in her hand. Playing with her quirk that she activates to send it higher before letting it fall back to her hand.

"She should be here by now." Ochako doesn't like waiting, makes her anxious and Sero sighs, more than used to his partner's mannerisms. Mask around his throat as he's hunched over to protect his cigarette he's trying to light from the wind.

"You know madam gets caught up sometimes. It's never anything to worry about." Sero says as he straightens himself out, watching pier bay 42 with the door open just half a block down. He watched the man go in, watched the lights come on but no red confetti yet.

He blows out smoke before his com crackles to life in his ear, Ochako's fingers twitch as the both wait for the command.

"She insists she comes to you." Izuku's voice rings in their ears.

"It's clear and we are on standby." Ochako answers as Sero tries to finish his cigarette while he can, otherwise he'd get fussed at by his pretty boss who chided him on how it would rot his lungs.

And how she would know best.

Once he sees you he flicks the butt, smothering the ember into the gravel under his designer shoe as you walk closer, your lap dog at your heels.

Izuku isn't the same kid that Sero and Ochako grew up on the streets with, no longer the shy, cautious boy he once was. Especially not after the three of them were forced to hop around for mercenary work before the clans popped up to take over the cities. Like a shadow government that the real one feared more than the masses.

The three of them were good at their jobs, Izuku the planner, Ochako the executioner and Sero the getaway driver. But being good, too good even, made them cocky. It wasn't until they went up against a syndicate they had no business trying to steal from did they learn their lesson.

Your father was ready to kill all three of them. They were just lucky enough you had forced your way into sitting in on this very important meeting moments earlier.

Bags torn from their faces and your eyes widened in delight when you saw they were all the same age as you at the time. The ripe age of fifteen.

"Oh Father, killing them would only be a waste of their potential." Sero remembers how you looked, how you still make that face to this day and often. Like a cat that's caught a mouse by its tail with nothing but delightful day dreams of batting it around.

"I want them to train to be my new guard. They're mine now."

"Absolutely not." Your father's voice boomed around the room, making the teens shake, helpless with their wrists bound behind their backs, "You took in that blonde stray two months ago I'm not going to allow-"

"And yet who's men did they slip past? How many layers of security did they slip through? The blonde more so than them but our shit is secure now isn't it? Besides." You hop down from your father's old mahogany desk, "Princess always gets what she wants. Isn't that right?"

Your father pinches the bridge of his nose, he made a monster of you, he truly did.

He'd be lying if he wasn't proud of it, especially after what happened to your mother.

"Fine. But no more strays. That's final."

"That's fine. I won't need anyone else."

That was ten years ago and in the past decade Sero had been treated better than he could ever imagine. He has a lot of freedom for a head of a department and you've made it clear that only the four of them had the option of getting out if they wanted. No strings attached as long as they stayed silent you wouldn't look for them.

But you haven't once given them a reason to leave.

Sero fingers the swirling ink on the inside of his thick forearm, the family crest sitting proudly on display when he's driving you around, hidden in the city so he can float throat the crowd like all the other faceless nobodies.

You're graceful, even in the uneven gravel of the parking lot, smiling genuinely as you approach two people you have and would kill again for.

"Sero, Ochako, thank you for waiting. Ochako love, I have a task for you dear. Inside is a crate that Zuzu has marked would you be a doll and make sure that it gets transferred to Momo's office immediately. I'd like for you to hand deliver it and call me once you're there." You talk as Izuku helps you into the car waiting for you to finish before he shuts the door, "And you'll have no problem keeping your girlfriend company will you?"

"No ma'am." Ochako blushes as you wear your knowing cat smile. Izuku shuts the door and rounds the car to sit on the other side. Sero turns over the engine. Ready to pull away on your command.

Ochako watches her reflection in the pitch black tint retreat as the window rolls down revealing just your eyes that sparkle with that dangerous glint.

"One more thing. If you could ask her to expedite this antidote please. I've got a seven year old waiting on it."

"As you wish ma'am." Ochako nods and watches her reflection grow this time while your eyes disappear before Sero throws the car in drive and tries to salvage some of the lost time hoping to make you no later than an hour late to the most important meeting of the year.

But you wouldn't be the Princess if you weren't always fashionably late now would you?

#katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou Katsuki x reader #izuku midoryia x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #mafia!Bakugou x reader #guard!izuku x reader #kitten writes 🖤🐈‍⬛🖋️

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euryalex · 2 months ago

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Favourite female characters

I was tagged by @elminsters and @timothylawrence to make a poll with my favourite female characters, thank you so much!!

Tried to keep it to one per franchise 😅

Tagging... (and sorry if you've done this before, I'm a bit late)

@mercymaker @vspin @florallychaotic @isobel-thorm @yennefer-of-vengerbergs

@rosenfey @captastra @imogenkol @nicolajpg @firstaidspray

@gallusneve @galedekarios @alexios and anyone else who wants to do this!!

#💖.em

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sailoryooons · 1 year ago

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Obsidian | Two | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Yoongi x f. reader

☾ Summary: You remember everything. The first time you radiated at garnet, feeling the power of the jewel rushing through you. Remember the energy pulsing at your command. And you certainly remember the face of the man who ruined your life. Then there’s Min Yoongi, the Chaotic who is the key to your revenge.

☾ Word Count: 10,945

☾ Genre: Urban fantasy, criminal/syndicate, strangers to lovers, angst, eventual smut

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

☾ Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, depictions of injuries after being beaten up (a named side character), explicit language, depictions of unhealthy/poor living conditions, mentions of murder, depictions of murder and broken bodies/dismemberment, violent action sequences, references to nightmare and hints at ptsd-adjacent memories/feelings, soci-economic commentary lmao, some confusing world building, mentions of weapons, scenes of a past betrayal/trauma.

☾ Published: June 13, 2023

☾ A/N: This took a little longer than expected to write, but I think I really like how this chapter turned out. It is a little bit heavier on the scene setting and laying the ground work for reader's position in this story and her past, as well as her function withing the Green Dragons. The third chapter is where things kick into high-gear and there's not really a moment with the foot off the gas once its starts, so buckle in besties.

Thank you to @theharrowing for being an amazing beta reader and assuring me that this isn't boring and that the pace is okay thus far, and for pointing out my accidental Dwight Establishing A Pee Corner in the Elevator reference.

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

A name is a useful thing. You learn a secret name whispered across a table in a smokey room.

You wonder what you can do with the name.

Jimin is not a fun person when he’s angry. He is plenty of fun when he’s drinking at the bar or spares you a night out on his tab as a motivator and reward, but those nights are few and far between. You would much rather be seeing spinning lights at one of the clubs in the Crimson District than standing behind Montana under the thundering gaze of Jimin Park.

He isn’t mad at you. Well, perhaps he is a little bit for your rude interruption when he was talking to Agust. But right now, he’s mad at Burro, who is being dragged toward the front of the building where you think they’re going to shove him into a car. He isn’t dead, but he certainly no longer looks human. Swells of purple and red distorted his face, blood smeared across his face and in his eyes, blinding him.

It’s the worst you’ve ever seen your manager punished. Jimin has shoved Burro around before, but never like this. Never until he was dripping blood and drool onto the floor, orbital bone cracking under Jimin’s radiated punch and so disfigured that he’s unrecognizable.

The satisfaction is fleeting, scurrying away when Jimin turns that lethal stare toward where you stand in the door of the alleyway, waiting for him to address you. There is blood on his hands, staining his undamaged knuckles. You see the glint of emerald rings and feel his power ebb and flow. He flicks his hand and the blood wicks off, spattering the ground.

Outside, the air is balmy, sticking to you like a second skin. The sounds of slamming doors and the city echo through the mostly empty alleyway. It’s narrow, only wide enough for a single waste truck to back into and haul trash then drive straight out again. It smells like the wet scum that leaks from the air conditioning units rattling in the walls of windows of apartments above and like cat piss.

There’s a dark, Burro-colored stain on the pavement near Jimin’s shoes. He sees you looking at it and sighs, waving a hand casually. “Ignore that. Just another skid mark among many.”

“You’ve never punished him like that before.”

“Well, I’ve also never had a manager let a fucking Circle member kill a man that belongs to the armory, either.” You hum but say nothing, keeping incredibly still. It does not appear that Jimin’s sharp anger is directed at you, but you’re in no mood to risk it. “You’ll be seeing more of the Black Lotus at the bar. And some more security temporarily.”

You think of Agust and his cat eyes. “Why the Black Lotus?”

Jimin reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a silver box. You watch, his small fingers nimble as he flips the lit and slides out a cigarette. You hear the click of the metal container before he slides it back into his pocket and puts the cigarette in his mouth. Carefully, he brings his fingers to the end of the cigarette and you feel the tiniest pulse of energy as he snaps, sparking the end to life while he breathes in the smoke.

The energy used to light it barely registered in the jewels that Jimin wears. The emerald on his ring finger barely lights up - though it could be a trick of the light - but his other jewels remain dull and untouched. You know what it’s like to have that much power at your beck and call and the pull toward Jimin’s emeralds makes your palms itchy.

“There’s some shit going on with the armory.” Jimin blows out smoke slowly. It wafts upward toward the night sky and smells faintly of menthol. He takes a burnt-orange drag, blows it out again and shakes his head. “It’s complicated right now. I am interested in what the Black Lotus can do for us, and this is not a terrible in.”

“The Salib’s will be pissed.”

“The Salib’s weren’t around to witness it, were they? As far as they’re concerned, that man came into the bar and beat my manager within an inch of his life, killed Rollins and only managed to be stopped by a member of the Black Lotus while my light caste bartenders called me for help. Right?”

Lying is so easy. Jimin’s admission that he’s killed one of his own men and beat another one bloody comes easily. He isn’t worried about what you’ll think of him. You know he’s a monster just like the rest of them, but he’s a monster that you trust and that protects you. That protects your secret.

So you nod your head, blowing out a long sigh, accepting this tale that Jimin has told. He smirks around the cigarette in his mouth. “Good girl.” He gestures toward the door behind you. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t interrupt me earlier.”

“I apologize. It was rude and inappropriate.”

“It was. However, seeing as you managed to stop the fight, I’ll let it slide.” He takes a drag. “How did you, by the way?”

“How did I what?”

“Stop the fight.”

Digging around your pocket, you reveal the shatterwave. Jimin holds out his hand, palm upward. You drop the device in his hand, watching as he brings it up to eye level, scrutinizing it. Rolling it between his fingers, he presses the top of the shatterwave, releasing the high-pitched frequency. You both wince and you immediately feel sick as your own frequency is scattered by the sound. He presses it again and turns it off, but the ringing echoes in your ears.

“Clever.” He deposits the shatterwave in your hand. “Why not just radiate like a normal Radiant, hmm?”

“I didn’t need to.”

Jimin tosses the cigarette on the ground and crushes it beneath the toe of his shoe. You hear the crunch of gravel and the hiss of the embers as it dies. “Right,” he laughs. “Still on your little secret weapon bit.” You scowl at him and he raises his hands innocently, eyes full of mirth. “Hey, no judgment here. It helps me too.”

Sometimes, you wonder if you’re making the same mistakes again with Jimin. A powerful man who knows how to use his charm and allure like a weapon, Jimin is the worst kind of dangerous, disarming others with his flirtatious smiles and bedroom eyes.

Jimin isn’t unlike Seokjin. They both use the power of beauty and charm to cut down the competition and to install themselves in positions of power. But Jimin doesn’t have the ability to imitate empathy the way that Seokjin does. Even now, you can never tell what was real and what was imitation with Seokjin, the line between real and mimed emotion too blurred for you to follow.

You never have to worry about that with Jimin. Unlike Seokjin, Jimin’s mask cracks on occasion, the real Jimin bleeding through in moments of anger and desperation.

Still, Jimin has collected you all the same, keeping you safe and cared for like a coveted weapon. He asks you to do favors for him on occasion, trusting you to keep the secrets he doesn’t want his mother to know and to be his garnet knife in the dark.

But at least you know Jimin is using you. It’s a transactional relationship, but for once, you’re in the know instead of being led like a whipped dog on a leash, looking at its owner with nothing but love and devotion.

You never want to be a dog again.

“Come on,” Jimin murmurs, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s close the bar and get you home for the evening.”

Jimin does exactly that. He stands near the front door, arms crossed as he watches his men clean up and lockdown the bar. You close out the register, scribbling the very small sum made for the evening before letting yourself into Burro’s office to lock the normal cash in a safe. When you come out, you offer Jimin the zipped bag of profit for the night and he surprises you by waving his hand.

“Split it with you and the kid. For the trouble.”

For the trouble is another way of Jimin saying as your reward. It also means for your silence and for your continued loyalty. It isn’t hard to understand the multiple meanings of Jimin’s words. Jungkook bows and thanks Jimin numerous times, still wide-eyed and nervous around the Primus of the Green Dragons.

As second in command, Jimin’s power isn’t just in the glittering gems on his fingers and ears. He has influence among the Crown Cities and is a prominent member of the ruling body of the Armory, second only to his mother. The thought of the Green Dragon’s Dominion sends a shiver down your spine. While her son has taken a liking to you, she has not.

Despite protests, Jimin sends one of his men to escort you home. The walk isn’t far and you do it alone for most nights. Sometimes Jungkook is heading in the same direction to meet unnamed friends of his, providing you safety in numbers. You always have the protection of your hidden emerald, though you rarely have to use it.

Living in Market Town has given you enough experience to know what streets to take home and what groups to avoid. The Nulls tend to be more courageous the closer you get to home and farther away from the pockets of stores where Nulls and Radiants alike shop. For the most part, though, you slip through the shadows until you make it home.

Home is a giant, living thing. The Breathing Wall isn’t the real name of the towering complex with thousands of windows and thousands of residents. It was named something official long ago when the building wasn’t sun-bleached concrete and dotted with balconies spilling with life. Towels over railings, clotheslines drifting in the breeze, plants poking through the railing, rainwater catchers. Every porch facing the north was bursting at the seams, the apartment begging to be relieved of the cramped, teeming life inside.

Having an apartment alone in the Breathing Wall is a rarity. Your neighbors hate you for it, whispering snidely as the family of seven packs inside tiny walls, hissing when they pass you on the stairs. You ignore them in favor of keeping your head down and keeping your senses alert.

Murder is no stranger in a place like this. It thrives in the overcrowded halls, neighbors killing each other over too much noise, residents going missing only for their neighbor to knock down their shared walls for more space. The community is the administration in the Breathing Wall, and you know that you’re on borrowed time before someone decides a girl living alone in a building so desperate for space is a worthy target.

Inside your unit, you stand in the darkness. Silver moonlight shines in patches through your grime-encrusted sliding glass door. You’ve welded it shut, not wanting anyone to be able to get through it. It’s a simple home with a single mattress on the floor, a table with uneven legs and a mismatched chair, a fridge that hums loudly, and a tiny bathroom where the water is as likely to come out brown as it is clear.

It isn’t much. In fact, it’s nothing compared to the life that you used to live. You try not to think of the differences, especially knowing that you’re better off on a thin mattress with a lice risk than in bed with the snake that haunts your dreams.

There is no evidence of that life now. None of the fine clothes, none of the crystal glasses. There isn’t even a mirror in the bathroom to look in when you flick the light on, though that had come later, when you couldn’t stomach looking at yourself after.

After.

In a way, it feels like your life is split into two parts: before Seokjin and after Seokjin.

The before is memories that you try to keep under lock and key, stored away only when the information is useful for Jimin’s errands. Thinking about before, when your sheets were softer than clouds and your bed kept warm by rough but gentle hands is too painful. It reminds you of your stupidity, of your willingness to be used.

The after is filled with its own misery. Shadowed by paranoia wherever you go, keeping your head down and trying not to cause too much of a fuss. Becoming the punching bag for people who think you’re a Null or light caste.

At least you’re in control. Or some crude imitation of it.

Dinner is hot and fresh courtesy of Jimin’s guard - Alec - walking home with you. He was more a symbolic presence than anything, his Green Dragon crest turning away anyone whose eyes lingered too long and the sapphires drilled into his knuckles letting others know where he was on the caste. Even with sapphires, you could have sent him through several buildings.

Freezing water douses you in your shower. It reminds you of the water crashing down in the market today after Agust’s sabotage. Eyes closed and letting the metallic-scented water rush over you, you think of Agust. The shape of his eyes, the doll-mouth. He’s still an enigma to you, and you can’t help but roll the words he said to you around and around again.

Call if you need.

Agust’s voice had been like velvet when he offered. Surprisingly, you believe that if you called him, he would answer. It feels a little silly to trust a stranger - and a Dominion of the Black Lotus of all things - but somehow you think that if you told Bolero to call his boss, Agust would show up in a floral shirt and a smirk pasted on his face.

As though you can scrub away the images of him in your mind, you furiously rub your skin with soap. It does nothing but lather poorly and leaves you feeling raw and sensitive when your scratchy sheets scrape over your skin after laying down in bed.

Around you, the world is loud. You can hear the family fighting on the other side of the wall that your bed is pushed against. Mira’s voice is shrill and high-pitched, overpowering her husband's soft, rich timbre. Their kids are silent, trained in the art of their parent’s battles.

Noise echoes out in the hall too. Slamming doors, heavy footsteps, voices rising and falling along with the occasional blare of music as a door opens and shuts. The entire world is awake and bursting at the seams as you lay alone in bed, looking at the cracked ceiling where a tiny spider has built her web.

Falling asleep in a building full of bodies that never stop moving and people that never stop living is hard. You live in the center of the noise, always consumed by the constant hum of the building. And yet tucked into the corner of your mattress with the faint smell of mold and clutching your emerald close to your chest, you manage to drift off, waiting for your alarm to wake you the next day.

A dogwood-scented breeze twists the curtains of the bedroom. You wake up to a loud crash from somewhere in the house, feeling dizzy and disoriented as you fumble out of bed, limbs heavy with sleep. Morning light shines gold through the window, painting the mostly white bedroom in a shower of warmth.

Shouts and thudding footsteps echo on the other side of your closed door. You ease your way toward it, trying to piece together the sounds of chaos and glass shattering. There were four additional people in the house beside you and Seokjin, and by the thudding feet, you know there’s more now.

Seokin is nowhere in the bedroom and you pulse lowly, reaching your energy outward with slow-reaching awareness to map out the house. You feel the shiver of power from the garnet on your ring, bracelet, and jewels encased on your incisors like bloody fangs.

Seokjin is in the living room surrounded by dark caste Radiants. You don’t know why he doesn’t rip them apart and obliterate them with his onyx that’s permanently fused to his ribs. He is a walking skeleton of power that cannot be stolen, and yet you feel no throb of inky, dark power from him.

Your home is full of sapphire, amethyst caste Radiants, and a single emerald caste that you know is Riya. Riya’s energy is flaring as she makes her way toward the silent onyx that is Seokin at the center of the fray. You cannot tell which energy belongs to Dol and Laurent but you taste the crackling vibration of amethyst jewels and you hope it's them.

In your sleep-addled brain, it takes a moment to realize you’re under attack. Your mind races as you bolt for the door, gathering power in your hands as you do. It seems someone has discovered your private home, tucked away in the farthest reach of the Kim territory in Millenia. Few people know about this place, meant to be a safe space for you and Seokjin to hide, to keep away from the violence of your world.

When you step into the hallway, you see the black kraken of the Achilleos family sigil and snarl. So they have made their move on you, seeking the thorn in the side of their family. It’ll mean war, of course. You belong to the Primus of the Kim family, the most powerful lineage of Radiants in the Crown Cities.

You are untouchable.

The woman in the hall runs at you, energy crackling at her fingertips like lightning. You don’t blink, dropping down into the thrumming power of your garnet jewels and pulsing. The throb is deep and you feel the shiver in the hall as your power explodes toward her, catching her hard and sending her backward. She hits the wall with a thick crunch and falls limp, limbs twisted the wrong way and eyes staring, but not seeing.

If you had the power of onyx, you would have blown her apart. The urge to caste drop is always there, the dark jewel nipping at your feet and begging to be used, taunting you: Try it. Try me. Reach for me. See if you can do it.

There are more important things than reaching for power just out of reach, though. Like speeding through the halls, skidding to a halt to peer at a pile of bleeding limbs and shattered bodies. You avert your eyes when you see that Dol has a head, neck, and middle section but nothing else. His blood is on the walls, death on canvas. You vaguely make out Laurent next to him, though there is no face to confirm it’s him. Just a feeling.

Emerald power shivers in the house. You run toward it, a moth to the flame. You cling to the feeling of Riya’s energy, begging her to keep fighting. There are dead men and women belonging to the Achilleos family as you clear the east wing of the house and launch over the railing, landing hard on the first floor.

Wood splinters beneath the weight of your energy. You radiate higher as you approach the living room, two amethysts swiveling to meet you. You barely think about it as you breathe in the weight of the grand foyer behind you, thrusting your hands forward and throwing the entire room at them. Unlike the woman in the hall, they’re ready for you, wood and glass and tile shattering against their shields.

Momentum is everything in a fight between Radiants. You keep your energy flowing like a river, manipulating the power from the garnets as you radiate and turn your energy into hard, red glass that’s sharp as daggers. It’s a trick rudimentary dark caste Radiants learn as children, shaping their energy into solid form.

The red shards rain down on their shields as you approach. You don’t stop your assault, the red daggers forming faster than they can follow. There isn’t much distance between a sapphire and amethyst on the Jewel Caste, but the skill difference between an elite garnet and a decent sapphire is worlds apart.

Radiating feels like nothing else in the world. It is power rushing through your veins, like an uncontrolled dam break, water drowning everything in its path. When you were a child, this breaking of the dam into your power would make you sick - many Radiants get sick from the after-effects until they learn to control it.

Now, you let the power of garnet explode outward. You shatter their shields, red splintering against blue. Panels of wall rip back and fly into the living room with the force of your explosion. This time, the garnet shards you form hit their targets with wet, meaty sounds.

What you find inside the living room makes you stop.

Seokjin stands in the middle, arms linked behind his back. The people surrounding him don’t have him captive. He is surrounded by a mix of the Achilleos Kraken’s and Kim Red Claws, standing in a semi-circle and facing you. He is unharmed and passive, watching you with glittering dark eyes.

Riya is on her knees, head facing the ceiling. Her nose is bleeding and there’s a gash on her forehead, and her lips are parted. Her breathing is ragged and from where you stand, you can hear that there is fluid in her lungs, the phlegmy gasps of air hinting at internal bleeding.

Terror squeezes your heart. Riya is only sixteen years old, face round with youth, shaking as her lungs squeeze out air. Filling with blood and fluid. Not healing. Dark hair sticks to where she bleeds on her forehead and her clothes are damaged and stained.

You look at Seokjin who does nothing to help the girl kneeling on the floor, frozen in place by the thrumming power of an amethyst radiant. Eyes darting back to Riya, you take a single step toward her and Seokjin hisses, making you come up short.

“There she is,” Seokjin announces. His eyes are dead set on you. “There is the woman who killed Chrisoula Achilleos.”

You pause, mouth falling open. “I- what?”

You did kill the Dominion of the Achiellos family, but under Seokjin’s orders. Under instruction from the Kim family and with their consent and love. You - you did it for him. Seokjin looks down his nose at you and suddenly, you feel very much like a roach beneath his shoe, recognizing that look before. It’s the look that the Primus of the Red Claw gives someone before he’s about to put them in their place.

Or send them to their graves.

“Admit your crimes and we’ll let her live,” Seokjin orders you, eyes flicking to Riya. There isn’t a single look of concern on his face for the girl, who is now coughing wetly. Blood-tainted spit comes out of her mouth, frothy. She has minutes. “Confess, traitor.”

“I…” you’re at a loss for words, looking back and forth between the girl you’ve taken under your wing and the man who you love. Who loves you. Who loves Riya like his own blood. “Jin, what are you talking about?”

There is no flicker of emotion there. Seokjin looks at the man standing closest to Riya, and you see the decision on his face before he says the words.

“Kill the girl.”

Your scream shatters a thousand worlds.

Most mornings, you wake up screaming long before your alarm goes off. On the bright side, there are so many people in the Breathing Wall that making a little extra noise isn’t so bad.

Gray light filters in through the glass door. You spent a few minutes laying on your sweat-soaked mattress, heart beating hard enough that you feel it in your stomach, making you sick. A shiver rushes through you, muscles clenching as you try to stop it. Sweat makes the back of your neck and the small of your back sticky, sleep shirt clinging to your skin as you slowly roll over.

Memories turned dreams plague you every time you shut your eyes. Sometimes the memories are out of order or distorted, like watching a holoscreen with a broken transmitter, splitting the image and playing warped images. Sometimes, like this one, they are in perfect order, so real that it feels like you're back there in that house, waking up to an empty bed.

Dreams don’t capture the real horror of it. The brightness of the blood and the sound of bones cracking doesn’t quite translate in dreams, but you remember it nonetheless. Can picture the exact shade of pink the foam in Riya’s mouth was. Can see the sickly pallor to her olive skin. Can recall the exact blank look on Seokjin’s face as her neck cracked, severing her spinal cord.

As long as you never let anyone that close, you know you will never have to scream like that again.

With sore limbs and popping joints, you pull yourself up from the floor. Opening a cabinet in the kitchen, you reveal a small, pitiful wardrobe. Though it isn’t much, you do utilize the laundry mat down the street that the Green Dragons own free of charge, meaning your clothes are nicer and softer than anyone else waiting in the line at the always-packed community laundry on the first, tenth, and twentieth floors.

At the center of the thousands of lives in the complex is a stairwell, hollowing out the middle with a dizzying circle of stair after stair. There are two elevators of course, but you’re as likely to get stuck inside of one for two days as you are to find one working. You remember the time you had to share the cramped space under flickering lights and a neighbor whose name you didn’t know who kept urinating in the corner.

Life in the Breathing Wall is constant. You press yourself to the wall of the staircase as you begin the descent down fifteen flights, rolling the stiffness from your shoulders. It’s a good way to get the blood pumping in the morning and now you’ve done the journey enough times to not get sore, but it’s still a task.

More than once you stop on the stairwell to press out of someone’s way. People carrying furniture, baskets, bags, and groups of kids move in a tangled flow up and down the stairs. When you get to the bottom, the lobby is filled with a line of people watching the arrows above the elevator go up and down, hoping that the car comes down soon.

Stepping over a woman selling crystal bracelets that she asserts will tap into one’s ability to radiate, you end up outside in the hot breeze. The city has not yet made the full turn to autumn, but the wind promises something cool in the future. For now, it kicks up dirt and sand from the dry landscape just outside of the city's edge.

Behind you, the complex is a wall of movement. You leave it behind, starting on the road and narrowly avoiding a rumbling vehicle towing a trailer of junk. Morning sun bakes the top of your head and the pavement as you navigate to the subway, flicking through the text Jimin sent you overnight.

Hoseok is stepping in as manager for Montana. Stop by these places to order replacement furniture for the bar.

Relief that Burro isn’t coming back relaxes your shoulders. You have no idea who Hoseok is, but you hope he is even a third better than Burro when it comes to competency. Still, you’re not overly thrilled to be waiting for the creaking of the subway as it wobbles on tracks, lighting flickering on and off above you.

The train car is only moderately busy today. You manage to find a seat next to an old woman who could be sleeping or dead - you’re not really sure and you don’t want to check. Leaning your head against the metal wall behind you, you let your eyes fall shut as the car rocks back and forth, gaining speed as it heads to its next stop.

Around you, everything fades to dull noise. You’re tired, frowning when you start thinking of your dream. Your memory. It was a particularly vivid one, etched in your mind permanently. You’re unsure if it’s better or worse to dream of things in such detail.

Memories will kill you one day, you think. You were haunted by memories of your early childhood before meeting Seokjin for years, and now you’re plagued with him. The man who takes up the space of most of your life, the face you see when you go to bed, the voice that whispers to you in your dreams.

Above you, the speakers on the train let out a loud chime and declare what station you’re at. Eyes fluttering and adjusting to the light, you squint and lean forward, elbows pressed to the top of your knees to support you as the car slows down.

This stop is cleaner than the last. There are transportation robots patrolling on the landing, stopping and ensuring that people know where they’re going. You see sanitation workers changing trash receptacles and here, there are train schedules and maps displayed across a dozen screens that are hung up over the escalators to the city above.

Aurora is a wealthy district, with cleaner air and better infrastructure. Here, the buildings are all in neat rows and decorated with shining sculptures and gardens with flower arches. Patrol robots roll down the wide sidewalks and cars hum by, moving slowly in traffic.

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel like you’re in another world when you visit the wealthy districts. Even the building style here is different, opting out of tall skyscrapers for white brick villas and single-story shopping malls. Here, people stroll on the streets walking their dogs. Here, there are no overwhelming holographs advertising body modification and simulated sex.

Clean. Curated. Calm.

There are so many worlds within the sprawling city of Diade. Each district looks so entirely different, like they’ve been pulled out of a simulation and dropped onto the map. If you look into the distance, you can see the great towers of Civ looming like knives. Adjacent to them on the other side of Market Town is Pulse.

You choose not to go to Pulse. Ever.

Citizens glance your way when you pass them on the street. Everything here is so pristine and built with neat lines. Even the clothes on those who walk by are geometric and linear, seams pressed, flat stitching in comparison to your pants that don’t fit quite right and have mysterious stains and the shirt that looks like the idea of red more so than the color.

Utopia. The word jumps out at you as you turn down a shopping district filled with clean-looking clothes and stoic art displayed behind glossy windows. It stands right on the edge of Green Dragon territory, rolling to the coast where the sea salt sprays against the cliffs.

Just a little south and you’d be in Viper territory. The thought makes you shiver and move a little faster, keeping your head down. The Manoban family hates you as much as the Kim family and it’s best to keep away from their sneaking eyes and vipers.

At the first shop, you’re nearly denied at the door. You flash the small Green Dragon charm shoved in your pocket and the woman relents and mutters an apology that doesn’t feel very just. Even as Jimin’s envoy, she watches you warily as you point out pieces of tables and stools to replace the old ones. She takes down the order and sends you on your way.

It’s much the same at each place Jimin sends you. A wary are you lost followed by forced tolerance. Jimin might be the refined prince of the Park family but any respect and niceties reserved for people who matter aren’t wasted on you. You don’t mind - you’re not here to rub elbows or ask for any favors, so winning the affections of the elite isn’t at the top of your to do list.

If you had to do it though… you try not to think about it as you skip back to the subway, checking your phone for the time. Your next shift starts soon, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re supposed to do with a bar with bare minimum furniture. Still, Jimin didn’t say that the bar was closed, so you know you’re expected to show up regardless.

A group of people dressed in tight fitted clothing, harnesses and LED accessories get on the train with you. Your eyes ghost over their tattoos and the hint of body modifications, lips twitching. They’re the kind of people that Seokjin liked the least, rich enough to spend their money clubbing and sweating out drugs in underground basements and raves. You always thought it was a bit hypocritical, given it was his clubs and drugs they indulged in.

Such hypocrisy used to be your life, though. The big names of the city, building the perfect little system to keep them at the top while frowning at the bottom for being at the bottom. Jimin is a part of the machine, of course, and so are you. But to try to escape the machine is to die, so you’ve tried to hide yourself in a small part, a useless cog that no one cares about.

When you get off the train to drop yourself back into Market Town, you can’t help but look over your shoulder at the group. They’re giggling at a glittering holo on someone’s phone. Looks like an entertainer of some sort, maybe someone that they’re going to see in Pulse.

The doors shut and cut your vision off. There’s a loud announcement that the subway is leaving as the car rolls back for a second before shooting forward, carrying the strangers away from you where you’ll never see them again.

Setting sun paints Market Town spilled-blood red. It warms your face as you stick your hands in your pocket, moving along the streets flush with people heading toward the shops and stalls and strips of businesses. Anxiety prickles your skin as you get closer to work, the weight of the night before weighing down on you. Surely the Salib family has already burned down the establishment in retaliation. Or perhaps they’re waiting and you’ll die a fiery death on your shift.

Montana is still standing when you turn the corner. The usual members of the Night Sphinxes lean on the cracked walls of their buildings and smoke clove cigarettes. You eye them more than usual as you head up the walk, waiting for one of them to ask you a question. Waiting for them to push off the wall and come across the street.

They don’t. You warily push the door open to Montana, a new sensation tickling the back of your neck. You know Agust is in the bar before you see him sitting on the only stool left in the building. Jungkook looks at you from where he’s leaning on the bar listening to whatever Agust is saying. He nods in greet as you stand at the threshold, staring at Agust’s back.

He’s broader than you remember from the night before. Today he’s in a white t-shirt that he fills out nicely. His shirt is tucked into jeans, showing off a narrow waist that looks dainty compared to a trace of muscle you can see through the shirt.

Slowly, you head toward the bar. You give Agust a wide berth, keeping your eyes trained to him as he speaks softly. You can just barely hear the low notes of his voice as you get closer, the tingling in the back of your neck increasing.

When you enter Agust’s vision, he grins in your direction. His eyes are glittering, his smirk crooked and deadly. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you want to shiver. Instead, you clench your muscles, fighting the rippling reaction of whatever his gaze inspires and head to Jungkook.

Ignoring Agust, you ask Jungkook, “So we’re just gonna work with half furniture and…” you look around. It’s just Agust sitting at the bar with his gaze pinned on you. “A single patron.”

“Jimin said the new manager would be in tonight.”

“Great.” You glance at Agust. “What’s he doing here?”

“He is holding up his end of the agreement. I said I would offer protection and damage control for what happened with my man last night.” Agust gestures to the bar. “Services rendered.”

“You’re going to single-handedly stop the Salib’s if they come bursting through that door?”

His lips twitch and he looks down at the amber liquid in his glass. “I’m equipped.”

There is little doubt in your mind that he is. Instead of answering, you throw him a dirty look before heading toward the back, giving some lame excuse about going over finances while you wait for the new manager to arrive. In truth, being near Agust with the static feeling on your skin makes you anxious.

If Jungkook has any qualms about entertaining your new guest, he doesn’t say anything. He goes back to saying something about sports, voice vanishing as you move into the store room and to the office tucked away near the emergency exit.

Water drips from the ceiling in the office, making it smell dank. The air is cloying and you slide a broken cement brick in front of the door to keep it from closing, letting out the stale air. It’s not a well-kept office and there are papers, inventory orders, and cups everywhere. A computer console sits in the corner, orange light blinking to indicate it's in sleep mode.

Instead of powering it on and going straight to trying to weed any of the mess Burro has left behind, you start cleaning up the office. If you’re going to get a new manager, it might do well to start with a clean office, especially if he’s anything like Burro leaving you to manage the bar most nights.

While you clean, you never lose the sense of Agust’s presence in the bar. He sits at the back of your mind and awareness like a candle, flickering and warm as you shove things into a trash bag. You still don’t understand why his existence presses down on you the way it does. Curiosity almost sways you to go out and talk to him. Learning where your curiosity gets you keeps you where he can’t watch you.

After an hour of picking it up, the office looks better. You haul the bag over your shoulder and toss it into the overflowing dumpster in the alleyway. You pause, staring into the night. City sounds echo down the alleyway, reminding you of just yesterday when you stood outside talking to Jimin. Burro’s beaten and bloody face flashes in your mind, a new reminder that as much as you like Jimin, he’s still deadly.

Inside, you sense the arrival of other people. You lock the door, focusing on the shape and feel of their energy for a moment. Two emeralds and something strong but a little scattered, power like a lightbulb. It’s not a common feeling, but you suspect you know the reason for the flickering energy, walking to the front of the bar and slipping through the door.

Jimin is leaning against the bar with a single elbow, grinning lazily as another man you don’t know speaks to Jungkook. Agust is still sitting where you left him, his hand on his glass of whiskey. At your arrival, his ochre eyes settle on you and don’t move. You want to squirm under his gaze. Instead, you wipe your hands on your pants and approach Jimin and this new man, eyes flicking between the two.

The stranger is handsome. That’s the first thing you notice about him. His dark hair is a little long, gelled back elegantly to reveal smooth skin, and a long, narrow face. His ochre eyes are focused on Jungkook, sparked with interest as he stands easily with a hand tucked into his suit pocket. His face is delicate and reminds you of the fresco paintings you’ve seen in Aurora.

When he speaks, his voice is playful and warm, rising and falling with a hypnotizing cadence as he says something to Jungkook that makes the younger tuck his chin to his chest and blush, shaking his head. It puts you on edge, this man who looks at Jungkook with glittering eyes and a hungry smirk.

Jimin turns to look at you and smiles. His eyes crinkle at the edges, his genuine happiness easing your alarm as you lean on the bar, palms pressed flat to the top of the sticky surface.

“Thank you for running all those errands,” Jimin says, reaching into the coat of his jacket. Today he’s in pink silk, a startling color that flushes his face full of color. He looks good, an emerald dragon brooch pinned neatly to the lapel. “Hoseok will be doing that shit from now on and you can return to your duties as expected.”

With nibble fingers, Jimin flicks a neatly folded band of bills at you. You don’t move at first, staring at the wad of money. Jimin sighs and rolls his eyes. “You earned it. Don’t think I don’t know you haven’t been running this fucking place.”

Bowing at the waist you take the offering from him. Your eyes flicker to Hoseok, who regards you with interest. There is something about him that puts you on edge, the flickering energy of a Chaotic crackling against your nerves like electricity.

Hoseok extends a tan hand to you, grinning. It’s a disarming grin but you still feel on edge, reaching over the counter to shake his hand. It’s warm, long fingers gripping firmly. You get the sense of a flickering flame, the feel of the color red. Like you, but broken. Stranger.

Carnelian, you think as he pulls his hand back. He’s a Chaotic who radiates with one of the stones that’s not on the Jewel Caste. You let go of his hand and stare. It’s so unusual to meet someone on the Chaotic Caste, whose energy radiates in unexpected and uncontrolled ways. You only know a single Chaotic and she’s as dangerous as she is helpful, her power uncontrolled.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Hoseok says. He seems honest, leaning on the bar. “I’m sorry you had to deal with poor management before me. You can understand Jimin’s predicament, though, having to please Burro’s father. You won’t find the same failures with me.”

“Good to hear.”

Carnelian is a dark color on the Chaotic Caste. It’s hard to decide whether he has the potential to be stronger than you or not, which is the problem with the Chaotics. While Chaotics are technically Radiant, their power is different and manifests in ways that don’t touch the same frequency level as the traditional Jewel Caste.

From your limited understanding of the Chaotic Caste, most Chaotics are relatively weak. It’s difficult to use stones like carnelian and tourmaline, the contents and frequency of them are not as easily accessible as the other gems. But there’s limited science suggesting that those who use the stone on the Chaotic Caste have great ability, manipulating energy and stones that are more unforgivable.

Your eyes drift to Agust who watches with muted interest. Perhaps that’s why he is so hard to read. He doesn’t feel like Hoseok, who sparks with energy. Agust feels like an oppressive buzz, like he is a dam holding back a wave of power unfamiliar and strange. It’s rare to meet one Chaotic, let alone two back-to-back.

Hoseok sits on the stool and peppers you and Jungkook with questions about the establishment and its patrons. They’re easy questions - good questions, even. Your wariness doesn’t quite leave, though Hoseok seems nice enough. It could all be a facade - most likely is a facade - so you remain diligent, answering his question neutrally and watching the way his eyes slide to Jungkook in a way that makes you bristle.

Agust is silent through the exchange, lifting his finger for a refill. Jungkook takes care of him. Agust’s eyes flicker to you again but you don’t meet his gaze, wishing he would stop. You’re unsure why he’s so fascinated with you but his gaze makes you nervous. Makes you pick at a splinter on the bar until Jimin tuts at you, muttering something about destroying his bar further.

Jimin dismisses himself when Hoseok asks Jungkook to give him a tour of the building and walk him through a day in Jungkook’s life as a bartender. It’s an obvious ploy to get Jungkook to himself, turning Jungkook blossom pink as he leads Hoseok toward the back, your eyes zeroed in on them and for any sign that Hoseok means him harm.

The door swings shut and you strain your hearing, listening to Jungkook’s soft voice as he takes Hoseok to the office you just cleaned up. Agust chuckles behind you, low and throaty. You ignore him, letting your energy expand to keep a pulse on the two men out of your line of sight.

“You’re protective over him,” Agust notes. “Cute.”

“Loyalty isn’t cute. It’s the bare minimum.”

“Most don’t know the true value of loyalty.”

You turn over your shoulder, throwing him a cursory glance. He’s leaning on his elbows, hands laced in front of him. It’s hard not to look at his fingers, long and rough, knobby at the knuckles like they’ve been broken a few times. “And you do?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Still unsure why.”

“My man destroyed the bar and put you all in danger. I’m here to ensure that doesn’t happen again.”

“Why you though?”

His lips twitch and he raises a brow. “Why not me? I told you I was equipped.”

“You’re the Dominion of the Black Lotus. Is this not beneath you?”

“A lot of things are beneath me.” You catch the innuendo in his words and look away. “This is not one of them. Consider it an act of good faith on my blossoming friendship with Jimin.”

“So you’re kissing his ass.” He shrugs a shoulder and sips his drink. “If you think he’ll buy it, you’re wrong. Jimin might seem like he’s swayed easily, but he won’t give you whatever it is that you want just because you flatter him a little.”

“You wound me. As charming as I can be, that isn’t what I’m here to do.” He chuckles and begins to trace the rim of his glass. Again, your gaze goes to his long fingers. “You can put the claws away. I can still work for what I want while being genuine.”

Again, you’re reminded of the similarities between this man and Seokjin. Charming, playful. A master with words, revealing truths and intentions only when it suits them. You know that’s how you fell for Seokjin’s machinations for so long, unable to realize that sugared half-truths are more dangerous than lies.

You grab a rag and rub at the sticky counter furiously, as if you could scrub away Seokjin’s grinning face from your memory. “I bet you’re getting used to what you want just like the rest of them, hmm?”

His eyes darken, finger tracing the rim of the glass coming to a stop. You can’t help but admire his hands. There’s something brutal and delicate about them at the same time, made to create art but hardened by the need to create violence.

“I’m not in the Armory,” Agust says darkly. “What I get, I work for.” He lifts his chin a little, eyes zeroed in on you. “Never mistake my motives and intentions for those who belong to the Armory.”

“Then what do you want?”

It takes him a minute to answer. He lifts the glass to his lips and drinks the rest, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. You stare at the smooth canvas of his neck, the urge to bite down on it suddenly taking over.

“I want what I’m owed,” Agust finally answers, setting the glass down on the bar. Again, his eyes are piercing. “You should too.”

Your heart skips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering, Agust gives you a meaningful look, a strand of dark hair falling in his face. “I’m heading out for a smoke and a walk. Call me if you need.”

“I don’t even know how I would do that.”

With a satisfied grin, he pulls his phone out and taps on the screen. You feel your pocket vibrate, your hand flying to it and pulling it out. The holograph flashes a message from an unknown number, but it’s obvious who it’s from.

Now you can call.

“Did Jimin give you my number? Why do you have my number?” Agust pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and shrugs, spinning on his heel and walking toward the door. You hear the snap of his fingers and the small pulse of energy as he lights it without a lighter or match. “Can’t you just deal with Hoseok? He’s the manager.”

“I mean it,” Agust says, voice soft. He gives you a final look. “Call me if you need me.”

Questions unanswered, you watch as Agust exits the bar, the door slamming behind him. Behind you, the TV drones about some accident in the Bluffs. You tune it out, mind racing with questions surrounding the one very confusing, dizzying Agust.

He has to be somewhere on the Radiant or Chaotic spectrum. You ponder it when Jungkook and Hoseok come back through the door, talking amicably about art. Jungkook seems enamored, eyes wide and hands moving as he describes something beyond your skill to understand with digital art, but Hoseok is tuned in, umber eyes bright.

Hoseok sits down at the bar, leaning on a hand. His attention turns back to you and you find yourself dodging the usual questions: Do you have family? What did you do before this? What are your hobbies? After his third attempt to get you to open up, Hoseok gives you a bit of a knowing smile tinted with something you think might be sadness before he stops his prying.

“Where’d the troublemaker go?” It takes you a second to realize that Hoseok is talking about Agust. “Out for a smoke?”

You nod. “Are you familiar with one another?”

“Vaguely. He and Jimin are working on some business ventures together but it’s best to keep my nose out of those sorts of things.” Hoseok gives a lop-sided shrug. “He’s dangerous, but I’d prefer him to be the kind of dangerous on my side, you know what I mean?”

You do know what Hoseok means. You were that very danger that the Kim’s liked to keep by their side like a trained hound until they needed a scapegoat. “I suppose,” you offer instead. Your eyes drop to the carnelian bracelet hidden under his jacket sleeves earlier. “Carnelian?”

He smiles. “Chaotic. Does that make you nervous?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “Just surprised. I only know one other Chaotic.”

“Ah, well I’m much better company than Agust, I assure you.”

A pause. Your eyes snap up and you tilt your head. “So he is Chaotic?”

“Is that not who you were talking about?” You shake your head. “Ah, well. Not like it’s a secret exactly. He is a Chaotic, but he keeps whatever he’s radiating at pretty close. I’ve only seen him go down to carnelian, so who is really to say. I saw him use an amethyst once, though.”

“Chaotics can’t use jewels. Can they?”

Hoseok shrugs. “I’ve never been able to grab a hold of a garnet or any of the like colors. But I can certainly feel jewels around me, sort of like a battery that is just out of my reach. Rumor has it that someone strong enough could, though.”

“And you don’t know how strong he is?”

“Strong enough to matter.”

You hum but say nothing else. Strong enough to matter is a good enough answer in this city. Especially among the Armory families and the Circles.

Hoseok is nice and eager to learn. You and Jungkook begin walking him through different drinks after he admits he’s never been a bartender before, but would like to know what to do in the event that either of you are unavailable. It’s different. Good, but different.

Agust returns but sits in the corner of the bar with a tablet, the blue glow on his face making him haunting. A group of young patrons eventually stumbles in, loud and slurring as they head to a booth. You see Agust look up at them, his dark eyes assessing them before catching the dragon tattoos and the green colors. He resumes whatever it is he’s doing, uninterested.

He looks at you occasionally, of course. You sense it when his eyes land on you, making you fidget. You studiously ignore him, refusing to give in to the urge to look up at him. You want to ask him questions, though, about him being a Chaotic and to see what he knows about you.

Over and over his words echo in your head: I want what I’m owed. You should too.

What does this man you’ve known for barely two days think you’re owed? It unsettles you. But tomorrow is an off day and you know just the person to visit for information, though you’re less than enthused to pay her a visit.

Purple smoke and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon cloy the air. The smell clings to the shag carpets and the tapestries hung over the walls, swaths of colors and patterns dizzying in the dim light. You take a seat in a purple crushed velvet chair, the springs creaking in protest under you. The air is thick with the dramatic smoke drifting from the small gap between the curtained hallway, making you dizzy.

Letting a little energy out, you radiate around you, clearing your air and keeping it perfume free. Azi has a flair for the dramatic, keeping the lounge to her little seer den dark, cold and full of incense that smells strong enough to give you a headache for the rest of the day.

A man sits across from you, looking around the room, fingers fiddling in his lap and teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He has no energy signature - a null - and he’s dressed in a wrinkled business suit, forehead slicked with sweat despite how cool it is in the room.

People from all over the city come here to the trenches of Market Town to find Azi’s hole-in-the-wall. It is a haven for fortunes not yet told, and questions that need answering. Thousands of souls cross the threshold to ask her their most coveted questions in exchange for a glimpse into the future, a comforting hand to guide them, a way through the uncertain.

It’s absolute bullshit, but you don’t go to Azi’s for fortunes whispered across jewel scattered tables. The jewels are fake, of course. Azi isn’t as stupid as to allow that much power on the table, but the nulls don’t need to know that, and most of the Radiants who visit the secret-collector of the Green Dragons can’t tell which jewels are real and which aren’t.

The velvet curtain opens, sweet vapor drifting out like fog. Azi sticks her head out, her silver hair braided over a shoulder. Her ice-gray eyes flicker to the man waiting on her and he stands, rubbing his hands against his wrinkled pants. Her attention flickers away from him and lands on you, her brows rising as she assesses you, crows feet intensifying as she squints.

“You wait,” she says to the man who begins to head toward the back. His mouth drops open, crestfallen as she looks at you with a frown. “Come on.”

The man sputters but Azi silences him with a sharp look and he sits down immediately. You don’t blame him, the older woman’s gaze can cut diamond. It’s hard to tell how old Azi really is. Lines by her eyes crinkle in the low light when she scrutinizes you in the hazy backroom where she does her readings, but her skin is otherwise flawless. Her cheekbones are angular, her face all shadows and edges in the low lighting of the room. Some of it is cosmetic, shadow applied to her brow bones to make her seem intimidating.

Azi doesn’t need the dim room, sharp features or fake jewels scattered across a linen-covered table to be intimidating. She fills the room with her energy, letting it radiate around her as she takes a seat and leans back, drinking you in as she taps a ringed finger on the table.

“Well?” she prompts. “I have clients, as you saw.”

Instead of answering her, you lean back in the seat and look around the room. It’s been a few months since you’ve visited Azi but the den looks mostly the same. Deep purples and reds, glittering beads hanging from the ceiling to cast refracted light on the walls, candles that provide very little light flickering atop every covered surface and shelf in the room except the table between you.

Behind her is a swath of crushed velvet curtains. They pull against a hidden, open hallway, the air current sucking them in. You wonder if she knows it gives away where two jeweled guards hide, but you’re unconcerned. Azi works for Jimin and though you’re not her favorite patron, it’s better for her to have the favor of someone Jimin’s fond of.

“You do know I can’t actually see the future, right?” she sighs. “You’ll have to tell me why you’re here if you want an answer.”

“Just taking it in, Azi. It’s been a while.”

“Nothing here changes. Spit it out.”

She’s cagey. Unusual for someone normally cool and unbothered. You file that away for later, intending to find out why your presence has visibly disturbed her.

“The leader of the Black Lotus,” you offer, gauging her reaction as you ask. “What is he?”

Silence. There is a flicker of confusion in her eyes and her mouth twitches before she schools her features and shakes her head, relaxing her shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve met him once or twice and I know he’s recently had an interest in some Green Dragon business.”

“What Green Dragon business?”

“Ask Jimin.”

“Perhaps I will.”

She smirks. “If you could, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe I just missed your presence,” you sigh. You lean your head to the side, cracking your neck, momentarily distracted by the satisfied pop in your left shoulder. You let your eyes drift shut for a moment, feeling the brief respite in your tight joints before you open them to see her staring at you intently. “I just want to know what kind of Chaotic he is.”

“Don’t know. Keeps it close, I hear. Some say he’s radiated at opal in front of them, others say tourmaline.”

“Chaotics don’t radiate at multiple colors like Radiants.” She lifts a shoulder, hand poking a jewel absently on her table. It’s one of the fakes, but you can feel the buzz of her sapphires on her rings and wrist. It slides under your skin like an itch you can’t get to. “What do you want for it?”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “I don’t have any information to trade.”

You think about seizing the sapphires on her hands. You could do it if you wanted. Could reach out mentally and seize control of her jewels and drag her over the threshold to hell. But Azi thinks you sit at emerald and thinks she holds the power in your Jewel Caste dynamic, so you let her think that, letting your frustration coil like a snake in the grass.

“You have a tell when I offer something you can use.” You reach into your pocket and pull out the wad of cash that Jimin gave you at Montana. It hurts to throw it on the table, thinking of all the things that you could use it for instead of this. “I don’t need change.”

She debates. Looks at the cash and then you before shaking her head. “I’ll give you the single thing I know in exchange for a single favor at my time, place and discretion.”

“No.”

“Then no deal.”

“I’m not pledging myself in service to you without knowing what the deal is or the risk. We aren’t friends, I don’t do you favors. We make even trades. A placement on the caste isn’t equal to any favor any time.”

“I’m not offering you the color of his caste. I don’t know it, but I know something that might lead you there.”

“Take the money.”

“No.”

Fighting the urge to drop into her sapphires and give them a tug is difficult. Your instinct to strong arm her and make it hurt for what you want is so strong that you almost do it. But patience and playing your cards close to your chest is a new, learned instinct. It’s pride that makes you want to show her force. But you know the moment you do it, your secret is hers to sell.

It’s an uneven trade. A piece of information that might help you with no indication before agreeing what it’s actually worth. Your favor at any time and any place is quantifiable as a limitless reward for what she knows. If you agree and she tells you something easily discoverable, you’ll be more the fool for it.

Azi has been nervous, though. Her energy vibrates high, ready to launch if she needs it, and the two men behind the curtain are shifting back and forth, listening. You can’t tell if she’s nervous to see you or nervous to ask you for the favor. It’s possible that it’s both, but the queen of secret selling asking you for an unnamed and undated favor is a desperate ask in her position.

She’s in trouble of some sort, you’re sure. Still, you pick the cash up off the table and shove it back into your pocket, relieved that you can keep a hand on it.

“Limitations,” you tell her and she glowers, opening her mouth to speak but you cut her off. “No murders and nothing that could directly harm Jimin.” You stretch your hand over the table. “Square?”

Azi hesitates, rolling the offer around as she works her jaw. She’s irritated, but she leans forward and grasps your hand. Hers are soft and strong against your callused fingers. “Square.”

Dropping her hand you sit back in the chair. “Spit it out.”

“The leader of the Black Lotus calls himself Agust-”

“Azi, I fucking swear-”

“But it isn’t his real name. His real name is Yoongi.”

Yoongi. A softer name than you expect, yet it somehow fits him. A man hard at the edges and maybe a little sofer on the inside. Pretty, but lethal. It certainly suits him better than Agust, but unless his name is his most prized possession, it doesn’t do you much good.

“How valuable is the name?”

“Jimin doesn’t know it.”

“Has Jimin asked you for it?” A nod. Huh. “And you didn’t ask him for a favor?” A shake of her head, which means Azi is under the assumption she needs a favor out of the regulation of the man who holds her leash in the future. “The person you came by the name from?”

“Died in your bar, I believe. Something about a member of the Black Lotus fucking his wife, which wasn’t true.” Azi smirks. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

Yes, you think. A man turning up dead after knowing Agust - Yoongi’s - name at Jimin’s bar where Yoongi’s bannerman had been drinking is unsettling, but you can’t imagine what the specific motive is. Yoongi made it clear he was keeping on Jimin’s good side for something business related and Azi’s confirmation of them working together reinforces that. But why kill a man who knows his name as his new partner’s bar?

Annoyed at Azi and unsettled by your new puzzle, you walk toward Montana for your shift, footsteps heavy. A dying sun chases you all the way to work and vanishes beyond the horizon as you open the door, entering to see Jungkook and Hoseok working in tandem behind the counter. There are a few patrons enjoying drinks, even. Sitting at the newly delivered furniture you ordered on Jimin’s behalf.

In the back corner of the bar in his newly claimed booth, Agust - Yoongi - looks up at you. He’s dressed in a black t-shirt and ripped jeans, boots kicked up on the bench across from him. He lounges against the back of the side, eyes shining as he grins at you like the two of you share a secret.

Yoongi. You think of the way the pretty name suits the very pretty man as you ignore him once more, heading to the bar to greet a smiling Hoseok and blushing Jungkook.

Yoongi doesn’t take his eyes off of you for the rest of the night.

THE JEWEL CASTE (from least to most powerful)

Light Caste

Diamond Citrine Aquamarine Jade Rose

Mid Caste

Peridot Topaz Turquoise Ruby Smokey

Dark Caste

Emerald Amethyst Sapphire Garnet Onyx

THE CHAOTIC CASTE (in general, from least to most powerful)

Opal Quartz Tourmaline Carnelian Obsidian

GLOSSARY

Circle - Lower gangs who are not in the Armory Chaotic - Those who vibrate at the frequency of stones outside The Jewel Caste. Some Chaotics vibrate at a higher frequency than Radiants. Dark Radiant - Those who vibrate at the low-colors and high frequencies Jewel Caste - The order of least to most powerful vibrational jewel frequencies Light Radiant - Those who vibrate at the lighter colors and lower frequencies Mid Radiant - Those who vibrate at the mid-colors and medium frequencies Null - Those who don’t vibrate at the same frequency as the jewels and cannot radiate Radiant - Those who vibrate at the same frequency as the jewels and thus can radiate Unjeweled - A radiant who doesn’t have any jewels on them to help radiate

#yoongi smut #suga smut #suga fanfic #yoongi fanfic #suga bts #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts fanfic #mafia yoongi #minors do not interact #minors dni

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inhurtandincomfort · 2 months ago

Text

Meet the cast! (aka my OCs!)

Finally time to introduce my OCs! I'm sure I'll be making more in the future and will keep this updated. You will notice I have a lot more to say about my fantasy OCs - this is because I've been working on their universe for some years now and though I'm very indecisive and there's a lot of changes, a lot of back-and-forth, it is much easier for me to develop these ones I'm familiar with. The Vampire OCs were created like a week ago - they're still very early in development! We will surely be learning about them together :) I hope you enjoy them regardless! Please feel free to ask questions, I love my OCs more than life itself

MY FANTASY WORLD

Eldwin Wishtmane (he/they)

(Neka)

Age: 22-24. An illegal sorcerer free from the governments grasp and a "warlock" - someone who has conspired with demons - Eldwin fled home at a young age and was captured and sold to the Black Syndicate, the most powerful criminal organization in the country. Naturally he has many enemies, from the court of law to the dregs of the underworld; an Unmarked mage is a rare and valuable thing, and a warlock is a sinner who threw away their humanity the moment they made a pact.

He is 5'4 with a slender build, a little underweight due to high stress and poor eating habits and a youthful face with soft features. He has pale silver eyes and short-to-mid length black hair that develops streaks of white. He has a tattoo-like sigil on the back of his right hand which is the mark of his demon pact with a scar running through it, a brand on the right side of his neck that is a mark of the Syndicates ownership, and a crudely carved scar below his left collarbone. He favours formal clothing in dark colours and hates showing much skin. He wears gloves to hide the sigil.

He is very stoic and reserved, unwilling to get close to people or show any vulnerability. He develops some very unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Destrian Advyre (any pronouns)

(picrew)

Age: 22-24. Half wood-elf, half Dragonkin, an ancient race descended from the Goddess of Dragons. Both elves and dragonkin possess keener senses than humans.. Destrian is the deputy leader of the Supernatural Detective Agency, or the SDA, a private mercenary agency that deals with anything from private investigations, fighting monsters and retrieving rare items from dungeons.

5'6 with a lithe build. Has brown hair with a russet undertone xe wears in a braid that falls almost to his knees, and golden brown eyes. He has gold-coloured horns and smattering of golden spots rather like scales across his arms, shoulders and neck. The gold on her face is facepaint worn for ceremonies. She typically wears sturdy but comfortable clothes in brown and purple tones, but loves dressing up for occasions in elegant clothes in rich colours, namely reds, golds and purples.

She is a kind and gentle soul, seemingly carefree but harbors growing feelings of guilt and inferiority inside. She always puts everyone else before herself, and buries her own feelings deep in order to not cause trouble for others.

Ancassius Lailicci (he/him)

(picrew)

Age: 24-26. He is part-selkie - his maternal grandmother was selkie and the children and grandchildren were blessed with exceptional swimming and diving ability, can hold their breath for about 30 minutes, and can tolerate cold better than most humans. Despite that his favourite countries to visit are warm ones, and he never spends a winter in Aenora if he can help it - he refuses to be seen without his tan. He doesn't like to spend too long in one place anyway; his heart longs for the sea and he's never happier than when he's on his own ship surrounded by a loyal crew and sailing the ocean making new discoveries and riches.

He is about 6'3 with a strong, board build with hazel eyes and dyed-red hair that he keeps long, either loose or in a low ponytail. (His natural hair colour is brown). Curiously, he also appears to have slightly webbed fingers. He is rather vain and takes great pride in his appearance. He tends to wear open shirts and grand jackets with equally grand hats and favours gold jewellery - lots of jewellery.

He is boisterous and passionate, and tends to make friends wherever he goes. He claims to be a pirate and while he does sometimes plunder some wealthy merchant ships, most of his time is spent travelling the world looking for treasure and smuggling illicit goods - maybe attack a slaver ship or two. But just because he's not overly violent doesn't mean he isn't to be respected - he went from a deckhand to the feared pirate queen Shao Yijun to a Captain in his own right. He can be just as ruthless as his mentor when necessary.

Seasaìdh [sheh-see] (She/her)

(neka)

[WIP]

Age: 30 by the time she meets Ancassius. A Selkie. An adventurous young woman, she met a human man on the shore and he stole her skin and made her to marry him. He was kind at first, but then he turned cruel and forced her into slavery. She longs for the sea, but without her skin, she cannot go home, and she has no idea if she'll ever find it.

She is 5'2, with green-grey eyes and long black hair that reaches her thighs. She will not let her past control her, and remains a cheerful and optimistic person. She is very gentle and nurturing, and also very strong-willed, refusing to let herself be taken advantage of again. After being freed by Ancassius' and his crew, she joins up with them, her thirst for adventure and desire to see the world never fading. But she still waits for the day she finds her skin, and can return home.

Alistair Farewell (he/him)

(picrew)

Age: 50s-60s. The patriarch of the Farewell family and Head of the Black Syndicate. He will do whatever it takes to protect his family and his city. He is well-respected by city residents for his fairness and charity, but he is calculating and is not above cruelty if he has reason. He's lonely after the premature death of his wife, spending most of his time out of public eye.

He is about 5'10" with a heavy set build, deep blue eyes and strong features with greying brown hair kept neatly combed back. He's never seen in casual wear, always opting for a full suit or tux everywhere, excluding the privacy of his own room.

Clyde Farewell (he/him)

(picrew)

Age: 35. The heir to the Farewell name and the Underboss of the Black Syndicate. A man used to getting what he wants. He alone made the decision to purchase Eldwin, and considers him his greatest prize. He is very possessive and dislikes when his father takes an interest in Eldwin, but cannot speak against the man who's word is law... and who controls his inheritance. He is a volatile and arrogant man, but knows how to turn on the charm when he needs to. He expects to take over the Black Syndicate someday, though Alistair believes he is unfit for the job.

He enjoys exerting his power over others and will find any excuse to punish Eldwin. It is his abject cruelty that leads Alistair to consider him unsuitable to take over.

He is 6'1 with a very similar appearance to his father, though slimmer with younger, softer features.

Nels Barbary aka The Handler (he/they)

(picrew)

Age: 41. Clyde's right-hand and most trusted confidant. The man in charge of training Eldwin, he is a firm believer in cruel punishment and is harsh in his teachings. He's not someone who tortures for pleasure, however; He only inflicts suffering in the name of training, punishment, or as part of the job. He doesn't delight in it, but he won't lament over it either. He does like the feeling of control that comes with it.

6'3 with a large, muscular build, brown eyes and rather unkempt blond hair. Being the muscle of the Syndicate, he can get away with looking a bit unkempt. He has a large scar on his face, and on his neck like someone once tried to slit his throat.

MODERN VAMPIRES

Liana Coleman (she/her)

(picrew)

Age: 27. A struggling freelance artist. It's a cold winter night when her car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. Faced with either freezing to death in her car or potentially freezing to death on the road trying to find someone who can help, she makes the trek and ends up at an old manor house...

She is 5'7 with a rather average build and black hair that falls to her shoulders in springy coils. She wears casual, comfortable clothing and favours a more neutral palette.

She has a curious nature and a habit of getting involved in business she shouldn't - but she does have everyones best interests at heart. She's friendly if a little awkward and clumsy, and keeps an active social life.

Adelia Morgan (she/her)

(picrew)

Age: 210. She lives in an old mansion with other vampires, lead by the Elder. When a shivering human woman arrives at her door one stormy night, Adelia has a decision to make. She was turned into a vampire in 1844 at the age of 30. She was an aspiring writer and had a husband and three children. When she was turned she murdered her family in uncontrollable bloodlust and facing persecution, fled to her vampire clan where she lives to this day.

5'9 and slim with dark hair in tight curls around shoulder length. Her brown skin holds a vaguely unhealthy complexion, her eyes are a deep red and she has dainty looking fangs. She typically wears glamorous floor-length gowns in deep colours, usually black or red, and is also fond of jewellery. Except silver.

A once loving woman, over the years her heart hardened, haunted by the guilt of what she did to her previous family and trapped under the thumb of her master, the Elder who turned her.

#I hope there's no mistakes I reread this so many times it doesn't seem real anymore #oc talk

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mids-stupid-shit · 2 months ago

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Mortal Kombat incorrect quotes 7: Earthrealm champions vs the DooDoo syndicate

SABBIA: I'm going to get us a ride if you two could manage not to kill eachother while I'm gone.

ROBIN: Oh please, we aren't children.

*Sabbia walks away, while Muchacha and Red Robin look at eachother*

MUCHACHA: Eat shit and die.

ROBIN: Yes, fuck you.

--------------------------------------------------

TREMOR: [reading a file he, Kobra and Kira stole from Kano's cabinet] Theory implies that those who were lost in the Bermuda triangle are now citizens of the lost empire of Atlantis.

*Kobra and Kira are barely keeping their shit together out of laughter*

KOBRA: N-no!

KIRA: Now, all my anger that I had from the last few fights I've been in is now equal to the anger I feel right now.

KOBRA: Are they breathing underwater??

--------------------------------------------------

*teen Kuai, Cyrax and Sektor fucking with a Ouija board*

KUAI: What happened to you, Enenra?

SEKTOR: How many pickles can you shove up your ass?

*9*

SEKTOR: 9?!-

*91*

CYRAX: 91?!?--

*910*

KUAI: NINE HUNDRED AND TEN!?!?!?!??!?!?!

*Cyrax and Sektor rolling on the floor while Kuai looks at the board with utter disbelief*

KUAI: 910 pickles??

--------------------------------------------------

CASSIE: [about her drone going offline] Shit... Remote control tracking is great until Mommy's little death machine decides to go off the rails...

*cut to Takeda, Jaqui and Kung Jin looking at her from like six feet away*

--------------------------------------------------

REPTILE: May I ask about your methods, emperor?

KOTAL: You may.

REPTILE: You let an Earthrealm refugee, a brute with a small child, and Shang Tsung's creation work for you...

KOTAL: Yes, and?

REPTILE: What in the Netherrealm do you have against Tarkatans?

KOTAL: ...

--------------------------------------------------

SEKTOR(mk1): Listen here you little shit. You will return the armor to us or I'll rip it off piece by piece!

CYRAX(mk1): Sektor, your mother is more threatening than you.

--------------------------------------------------

JOHNNY: I completely changed my mind. If I die I won't fold clothes or be nice or anything, I just Want to be a ghost cop.

KENSHI: I can already imagine that as your next movie.

JOHNNY: Coming this fall, Johnny Cage is... GHOST COP!

--------------------------------------------------

KUNG LAO: You next line is "Where there is Smoke, there is fire." ISN'T IT?

SMOKE: Where there is Smoke, there is fire. [Le gasp]

--------------------------------------------------

HANZO(old): Remember son, dying is gay...

HANZO(new): Yes, father.

--------------------------------------------------

KUAI: We need a plan to stop Havik.

JOHNNY: I got like five.

KUAI: It can't involve murder.

JOHNNY: ... Anyone else have any plans?

--------------------------------------------------

*several members of the Black Dragon got together at a restaurant*

KIRA: For the last time, Kobra, no one gives a shit.

KOBRA: I promise, this'll be good... Gentlemen, let me ask you a question. Do you think human flesh would taste horrible, or would it actually rock?

*Kira spits out and chokes on her soup*

TREMOR: Do you have to ruin all of our appetites?

KIRA: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! That's it, go sit at the dipshit table!

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thesilliestrovingalive · 1 month ago

Text

Updated: November 10, 2024

Reworked Character #12: General Morden

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to death, alcoholism, and torture.

Real name: Donald Humphrei Morden IV

Aliases: Devil Rebirth and Your Excellency

Occupation: General of the Rebel Army, Vice Admiral of the Marine Corps (formerly), Tactical Commander for the Intelligence Agency (formerly), Commander of the Middle Eastern Garrison (formerly), and Field Marshal of the European Garrison (formerly)

Retirement plans: Buy a secluded tropical island, build a cottage in the northern forests of New Brunswick, and raise more exotic pets

Special skills: Political science, wilderness survival, strategic negotiation, planning for ambushes and tactical assaults, and sniping with heavyweight firearms

Hobbies: Reading classical poetry and Shakespearean plays, playing complex piano compositions, studying geopolitical events, building wooden cabins, and hunting

Likes: Forested landscapes, his remaining family, the fearless devotion of his army, finishing things straight to the end, and smoking Cuban cigars before leading off to a battle

Dislikes: Ignorance, objectivity, people with no ambitions, governmental and military corruption, and a lack of proper etiquette and table manners

Favourite food: Creamed salmon spaghetti and maple walnut ice cream

Favourite drink: Scotch whisky

Sexuality: Heteroromantic sapiosexual

Gender: Male

Age: 49 (in 2022), 55 (in 2028), 57 (in 2030), 59 (in 2032), 61 (in 2034), 68 (in 2041), 70 (in 2043), 71 (in 2044), and 74 (in 2047)

Blood type: AB+

Weight: 249 lbs. (113 kg)

Design: He’s a 6’ 5” (195.58 cm) Canadian mesomorph with a chiselled musculature, an upside-down trapezoidal chest, and broad shoulders. He has limestone skin (it was once a rose beige), a cleft chin, a brownish mole on the left side of his nose bridge, sparkling sapphire blue eyes with flecks of blood red, and bushy eyebrows. He has wrinkles on his face, characterised by forehead lines, frown lines, crow’s feet, and nasolabial folds. He has neatly trimmed, chin-length caramel blonde hair with sideburns, a similar moustache that the impostor Morden Robot has in Metal Slug 4, and an encircling band of silver-grey in the centre. When Morden becomes a cyborg, he possesses a revolutionary self-resurrection mechanism. A rhombic dodecahedron microchip embedded in his spine springs into action whenever his vital systems fail. The chip emits a low humming frequency and flashes a cyclical pattern of blue, white, and red for precisely 50 seconds. After this brief interval, he awakens in a newly prepared cyborg body, fully restored and operational with all of his memories intact.

His right eye has been brutally gouged out, which is indicated by the heavy scarring from six stab wounds. This would be replaced by a cutting-edge, cybernetic implant, expertly crafted by the Amadeus Syndicate. The cybernetic orb's sclera has a dark, polished chrome finish, adorned with crimson micro-circuits that mimicked the appearance of veins. At its centre, a pupilless blue-grey iris radiates a soft, luminescent glow. When it transitions to a fiery amber, its intensified brilliance signals heightened alertness and strategic recalibration. Equipped with cutting-edge scanning and data-processing capabilities, this cybernetic implant enables visual recall of critical information, threat detection, and instant recognition of key objects and individuals for future reference.

General Morden wears a pair of rusty orange boxer briefs, a glossy black eyepatch over his cybernetic right eye, and a Persian indigo armband on his left arm, adorned with the insignia of the Rebel Army. He wears a feldgrau military beret, distinguished by a scarlet band with white piping and an embroidered emblem featuring a black dragon's head swallowing a winged gold sword. He wears a white dress shirt and gloves, a flame-coloured tie, a metal dog tag necklace with his name, and a brownish-black leather belt secured with a gilded snap-on buckle.

His shoulders are draped with a long brownish-black coat featuring cuffs edged with scarlet piping, golden maple leaf clasps linked by a chain, a Persian indigo, and a prominent fur collar dyed a pinkish-orange. He wears feldgrau army cargo pants, tucked into black combat boots with spike soles and lined with coyote fur. He wears a feldgrau military coat featuring a left-side white aiguillette, two breast pockets, and a scalloped rear vent with flap pockets. It also features scarlet cuffs and a turned collar with Persian indigo piping, gilt-brass buttons, and golden shoulder boards adorned with two vertical white stripes.

He wears five badges: a black bar with two vertical golden stripes and a horizontal white stripe above his left breast pocket; a gilded skull with draconic wings on the pocket flap; a silver circle with a scarlet X on a white-edged red-orange ribbon and a gilt-brass roaring dragon's head on an ultramarine ribbon, both on his left breast pocket; and a gilded six-pointed star with a scarlet-edged white circle hung on a jade ribbon, secured with a gold clip on his right breast pocket. Morden's belt supports a sheath for his combat knife and a secure strap for his military baton, featuring a white elephant ivory shaft, a scarlet velvet-wrapped grip, and flat-topped gilt-brass end caps, each set with 12 circular rubies.

He wears a drop leg holster for his Chiappa Rhino 40DS revolver and a black bandolier, slung over his left shoulder, holding .357 Magnum cartridges for the firearm. His military coat pockets contain a rose gold lighter, keys to his personal Space Tank, and a treasured photograph of his late family. The pockets of his army cargo pants carry around a pack of Cuban cigars, the Ajirabian Teardrop, a copper-hued flask of Scotch whisky, and a walkie-talkie. He wields an M20 rocket launcher, designed with a leather shoulder strap and featuring an olive green, tan, and dark grey camouflage pattern, which fires anti-tank missiles.

Morden owns the greyish-green Space Tank, a floating tank saucer emblazoned with the Rebel Army insignia on its front. Constructed as a birthday gift and token of allegiance by loyal Rebel Army members and the Pipovulaj Army, this vehicle incorporates advanced Martian and Tuatha Dé Danann technology. The Space Tank's upper body bears a striking resemblance to the Dai-Manji, while its dark grey chassis is reminiscent of the Nop-03 Sarubia's. The tank boasts extremely thick armour, a silver antenna protruding from its left side, and a gold-painted rim accented with a scarlet edge. Primarily serving as his personal transportation, the Space Tank can also be deployed on the battlefield when necessary.

It features a built-in metallic blue cannon that can only be activated by inserting the Ajirabian Teardrop into a designated slot within the tank. This action opens the front compartment, exposing a large cannon similar to the Denturion's. When deployed, the cannon extends, allowing Morden to tap into the laser power of the Ajirabian Teardrop

Character summary: Previously, General Morden was a compassionate, dependable, and reliable leader who deeply valued the lives of every soldier under his command. However, the tragic loss of his family, exacerbated by the government's and military's corruption and culpable inaction, ignited a desire for vengeance. He seeks to topple an unjust system, even if it requires dismantling all governmental powers. His vision for the New World involves unifying warring nations under a rigid, authoritarian regime, achieved by overthrowing the Earth Federation and eliminating its allies through forced assimilation and strategic neutralisation. Despite being a charismatic and adaptable leader with a strong sense of justice, he ultimately descended into ruthlessness and megalomania, becoming a bumbling madman. Upon encountering his enemies, he frequently erupts into mocking laughter, regarding them as feeble-minded and ignorant foes. Nonetheless, even in the face of humiliation and defeat, Morden’s dignity, charisma, and commanding skill always remains the same.

Despite being an atrocious person who comes across as mean and cold, he’s surprisingly sweet and kind, especially towards those who support his ambition, work alongside him or are part of his family lineage. He's a tough, efficient, and introspective individual who can be demanding of his soldiers, yet he feels genuine empathy and understanding for his troops. Although he's prone to frustration when missions don't go as planned, he never gives up. Despite the challenges, he consistently demonstrates resilience and determination, always pushing forward to achieve his objectives. General Morden is a man full of pride, often boasting about his greatest feats on the battlefield. Depending on the situation, he'll abandon his position behind the battle lines and fearlessly charge into combat. He lives by a personal code of honour that prioritises restraint, avoiding unnecessary violence whenever possible. He isn't afraid to make sacrifices when necessary and occasionally spares or even helps civilians, showing a glimmer of empathy beyond his military duties.

He's an exceptionally intelligent and cunning strategist, always thinking several steps ahead of his adversaries. A skilled manipulator, he expertly entices others to do his bidding through false promises and strategic persuasion. However, he's highly resistant to manipulation himself, and his sharp wit and worldly wisdom makes him immune to naivety. If he discovers someone attempting to deceive him, he'll confront them directly and give them a nasty glare that conveys a clear message: he sees through their ruse, and denial will only worsen their situation. When he's drunk, he becomes sorrowful, careless, and overly attached around Sagan and Logan, grows increasingly agitated, and frequently mumbles incoherently and gazes blankly upwards.

He's a melancholic, cautious, headstrong, sophisticated individual who's fairly merciful to his subordinates and skilled at evading capture. He indulges in the luxuries of life, surrounding himself with wealth, yet harbours a lesser-known artistic passion for playing the piano. Loyalty and camaraderie are paramount to him, but betrayal from within the Rebel Army is an unforgivable offence. Morden’s intolerance for failure is absolute; those who deliberately falter face severe punishment or elimination. His ego is easily bruised by ridicule or underestimation from his enemies, threatening his self-image as a fearless warrior and exceptional leader. He has no qualms about torturing and executing enemies and traitors, whether publicly or privately, and considers advancements in military technology to be essential to achieving his objectives.

He struggles with mild alcoholism as a coping mechanism for the loss of his family, borderline personality disorder, practognostic dyscalculia, trypophobia triggered by honeycombs and decaying flesh, and the fear of dying a dishonourable and gruesome death. He views domestic cats as a far cry from their majestic ancestors and larger wild relatives, often going so far as to forcefully shoo them away. Although capable of aggression and violence, he usually maintains a calculating, serious, and calm demeanour. However, beneath his surface lies a volatile temper that periodically ignites into explosive outbursts when overwhelmed by intense feelings of rage, shame, and self-loathing. Despite his resolute ambition, he secretly grapples with the moral implications of his actions. His doubts are ever-present, but he consistently prioritises his goals over his conscience. His courage falters only when faced with extremely bleak circumstances or painful reminders of his family's tragic loss.

He generally tolerates his troops' actions against external parties, but draws a firm line when it comes to harming their own comrades. He's a strict disciplinarian, swiftly addressing conflicts and misconduct amongst his ranks. When issues arise, he demands accountability, forcing the offending soldier or group to apologise, backing this demand with the threat of demotion or public embarrassment. He views the Rebel Army as a surrogate family and enjoys celebrating victories and spending downtime with them. He cherishes Allen's friendship, appreciating him as a trusted companion for casual nights out and lively conversations, but Allen's impulsivity and relentless drive for action often test his patience. He feels a pang of jealousy towards Allen, which he keeps secret, because Allen's family is still alive, whereas his own family is either deceased or estranged.

He gets along well with Doctor Amadeus, who demonstrates genuine interest in his cause and the technological advancement of the Rebel Army. Although he admires her genius-level intellect, finding it captivating and beautiful, he’s sometimes intimidated by her calculating and enigmatic nature. He secretly harbours a deep-seated fear of Rootmars, knowing she has the power to effortlessly crush him and his army if he incurs her wrath. Despite this, he holds Rootmars in high esteem, admiring her leadership skills and formidable reputation, even if their visions for the New World greatly differ. He regards Ptolemaios with skepticism, stemming from his disdain for cults and religious extremism, compounded by their past confrontation during the Arms Deal Barrage. Additionally, Ptolemaios' reluctance to engage directly on the battlefield raises concerns. Nevertheless, he acknowledges his exceptional wisdom and deeply respects his unwavering commitment to leading the Ptolemaic Army.

He’s fiercely devoted to his younger cousins, Sagan and Logan, the only family members he remains in contact with, and will stop at nothing to ensure their safety and happiness. He’s extremely protective of Sagan and Logan, treating them like his own children. He goes out of his way to safeguard them, swiftly and aggressively defending them against anyone who poses a threat, causes harm or violates their personal boundaries. However, when Sagan and Logan disagree or get physical with each other, General Morden calmly intervenes, resolving their conflicts with a gentle yet firm, understanding, and patient approach. He has zero tolerance for Sagan's habits of casually issuing death threats and making crude remarks about her comrades, whether jokingly or seriously. He also dislikes how Logan occasionally disregards Sagan's wishes, intentionally doing things she's explicitly forbidden, which often escalates into heated arguments or fights. Furthermore, Logan's tendency to engage in physical altercations with comrades and getting disoriented when exploring the wilderness consistently gets under his skin.

Morden and Tequila were once inseparable friends, sharing stories of their lives over drinks and exploring exotic destinations that Tequila had always wanted to visit. He deeply admired Tequila's worldly wisdom, courage, and profound insight into the human condition. However, their bond was severed when Morden's lust for global domination took hold, driving Tequila away and forcing him to turn against his former friend. The betrayal left a bitter taste in Morden's mouth, a painful reminder of the friendship he had lost. He has a deep-seated hatred for Marco and Tarma, as they foiled his nearly successful plan to achieve his vision of a New World during the Great Morden War. He especially despises Marco, who gouged out his eye at the end of the Great Morden War and played a role in getting the original Sagan killed during the Extraterrestrial Alliance Clash.

Backstory: Donald Oghma Morden IV was born on January 24, 1973 in New Brunswick, Canada. He hails from a long lineage of hunters, courageous soldiers, militant commanders, esteemed politicians, and wealthy businessmen. However, whispers abound that he's the direct descendant of a legendary Tuatha Dé Danann sovereign, fabled to have played a pivotal role in the downfall of Atlantis. The Morden name originates from a British family that served as royal advisors, food merchants, and nobles in the 19th century. Although they were of British origin, they resided in Germany, specifically within the Fortress of Königsdrache. From this strategic location, they exerted significant influence on the country's politics and military affairs. During the Napoleonic Wars, the Mordens distinguished themselves as exceptional leaders and skilled soldiers, renowned for their strategic intellect rather than brute force.

He was born into a large, middle-class Canadian family, being the sixth of eight children with three older brothers, an older sister, and a younger brother and sister. His siblings, from oldest to youngest, are Edmund, a successful woodcutting industry businessman; Quentin; Timothy, a Private in the Eurasian Garrison; Kourtney; Reynold; and Vanessa, a supervisor in food packaging manufacturing. His grandfather, Donald Humphrei Morden III, was a seasoned, worldly-wise veteran who retired after the birth of his fifth grandchild and subsequently pursued a career in hunting and sustainable meat production. His father, a Corporal in the North American Garrison, was known for his adventurous and carefree spirit. His mother, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps, balanced stern discipline with tender affection. Due to their demanding military careers, his parents had limited time with him and his six siblings, relying on his grandfather to provide regular care and support.

Although Morden keeps his childhood private, a few details have emerged. Remarkably, all of his siblings demonstrated exceptional intelligence, but Morden's rapid development surpassed them all. This stirred jealousy among his older siblings, who admired his swift intellectual growth, while his younger siblings looked up to him in awe. Despite this, he was incredibly close to his siblings, sharing countless hours exploring the nearby woods and enjoying board games together. Donald III taught Morden entrepreneurship basics, war history, and practical skills like hunting, wood-chopping, and shelter-building. Whenever his mother was home on leave, she would delight him with piano music, fostering a deep love for the instrument. At just 7 months, he spoke his first word: "papa”. Between ages 2 and 5, he demonstrated remarkable autodidactic abilities, exploring diverse subjects that he grasped with ease, including sociology and legal theory. By age 6, he had become a budding piano prodigy and began reading Shakespearean plays and sonnets.

At the age of 7, Quentin was diagnosed with sickle cell disease, a condition prevalent in the Morden family. Tragedy struck again a year later when Reynold went missing during a nature walk, and his father was fatally shot in combat. Six months later, he stumbled upon Reynold's mutilated, rotting corpse, infested with maggots and covered in fungal growth. The gruesome sight triggered his trypophobia, and ever since, the image of honeycombs infested with bees and decaying matter would evoke unsettling memories of that incident. Before Morden turned 10, Quentin died from health complications. Just a month later, his mother was tragically killed in an unexpected airstrike ambush. At age 12, Donald III mercy-killed Kourtney, who suffered from multiple sclerosis and debilitating complications following numerous surgeries that severely impacted her health and mobility.

As Donald III struggled with a terminal brain tumour, he made the difficult decision to place Morden and Vanessa into the Regular Army's orphan program to ensure their care. Meanwhile, Edmund relocated to Saskatchewan with Timothy, seeking a fresh start and a brighter future for the two. The series of tragic losses had left the family fractured, and Donald's remaining siblings lacked the emotional resilience to keep the family together. Morden felt deeply abandoned and betrayed as Edmund and Timothy departed, leaving their dying grandfather and younger siblings behind. Vanessa, overwhelmed by grief, deliberately distanced herself from Morden. In contrast, the Regular Army provided Morden and his younger sister with stability and support, covering their essential needs. He wondered if he had more relatives and set out to find additional family members while balancing his education, but eventually abandoned his search when he couldn't locate any direct blood relatives.

He met his future wife, Penelope, in grade 11 and began dating her, forming a strong romantic connection. After graduating at the top of his high school class with highest grades, Honour Roll distinction, and six prestigious awards (five scholarships and one bursary), he went on to study geopolitics, jurisprudence, and Marxist sociology at university. At 22, he married his high school sweetheart in a shotgun wedding after learning she was pregnant with their daughter, Dorothy. Three years later, they welcomed their son, Lawrence.

After graduating at the top of his class from university, he relocated to Riyadh and enlisted in the Regular Army Marine Corps. His exceptional leadership skills and tactical expertise propelled him to attain the rank of Vice Admiral. He then assumed roles as Tactical Commander for the Intelligence Agency and Commander of the Middle Eastern Garrison. Following his transfer to Cumbria in North West England, he was reassigned to the European Garrison, where he achieved the esteemed rank of Field Marshal. During his time in the military, he earned a reputation as being a tough, efficient, and caring officer of the Regular Army, and is held in high regard by his troops as he treated them with equal amounts of respect. He was also known for being a devoted and compassionate father to Dorothy and Lawrence, and a loving and supportive husband.

After Morden joined the Regular Army, Sagan and Logan became aware of his existence due to his impressive reputation and some family photographs their father had received from Edmund. Intrigued, they were surprised to learn they had an older cousin. Eager to connect, they decided to arrange a meeting with him. They sent Morden a letter inviting him to meet with them in Bavaria, where the Fortress of Königsdrache is located. When Morden travelled to the location, he met Sagan and Logan, and they had a warm and engaging conversation, getting to know each other and finally uniting as family. Alongside Sagan, Logan, and other key figures in the Arms Deal Barrage, he would learn about the Regular Army's deep-seated corruption, but he kept it a secret.

In 2023, during a trip to Ottawa, the Central Park bombing shook the city, claiming the lives of many innocent victims, including Penelope, Dorothy, and Lawrence. Having survived the devastating attack, Morden discovered that it was allegedly linked to an intelligence failure within the Regular Army and widespread corruption within the government and military at the time. After relying on alcohol to cope with his sadness and anger, he resigned from the Regular Army, retreated from public view, and began secretly planning a rebellion. Many loyal followers from his Regular Army days chose to stand by him, and with the support of Sagan, Logan, and his most trusted soldier, Allen O'Neil, he initiated plans for a coup aimed at rooting out corruption within the government and military.

He assumed the rank of General and formed the Rebel Army, drawing support from disillusioned Regular Army personnel and multiple radical organisations sympathetic to his ideology. During his time building up the Rebel Army, Sagan and Logan transferred ownership rights of the Fortress of Königsdrache to General Morden. As the last remaining Armitage family members, Sagan and Logan originally inherited the Fortress of Königsdrache, but chose to bestow it upon General Morden as a token of gratitude and respect. Morden was also gifted six exotic pets by his most loyal men: a serval named Othello, a Burmese python named Sycorax, a blotched blue-tongued skink named Troilus, an African grey parrot named Cymbeline, a Czechoslovakian Wolfdog named Banquo, and a capybara named Desdemona.

His mental state deteriorating, he amassed power and resources for a large-scale offensive. In 2026, Morden initiated his coup d'état, seeking to dismantle the Earth Federation and its alliances and establish global dominance. The Rebel Army, led by General Morden, swiftly defeated the Regular Army and seized control of all major cities worldwide within 170 hours. Upon receiving intel from Madoka that the Regular Army had begun mass-producing the SV-001, codenamed "Metal Slug”, following successful testing, Morden launched a strategic attack. His objective was to destroy the factories manufacturing the SV-001 and capture the units already built.

Upon learning of Morden's betrayal, his ruthlessness, and his remarkably swift coup d'état, as well as the destruction of the SV-001 factories, the US President declared him as the reincarnation of the devil. He would be responsible for brutally executing Tequila, Gimlet, and Red Eye in front of Marco and Tarma, shooting them in the head with his Chiappa Rhino 40DS revolver. Before the execution, he gruesomely gouged out Marco's left eye and then ordered Allen O'Neil to sever his left arm.

In the final showdown of the Great Morden War, Marco gruesomely gouged out General Morden's eye, avenging the torture he and Tarma endured and the execution of his comrades and friends. The Great Morden War served as a stark wake-up call for the Regular Army, prompting a significant shift in their approach to counterterrorism. In the aftermath of the war, the Regular Army began to take terrorist threats with utmost seriousness, reevaluating their strategies and protocols to prevent future attacks.

After escaping imprisonment with support from the Rebel Army and Pipovulaj Army, he secretly allied with Doctor Amadeus to exploit her knowledge of Tuatha Dé Danann technology and bioweapon development. This alliance would pave the way for the mass production of specialised cyborgs and lethal mechanical constructs for Rebel Army use, the enhancement of Königsdrache Fortress through the integration of mechanical and defensive upgrades, the creation of Wysteria, the revival of Tequila, Gimlet, and Red Eye, and the development of terrifying creations such as the Flying Killers and Mutated Soldiers. He planned to utilise Wysteria as the ultimate bioweapon to achieve global dominance, and deploy Tequila, Gimlet, and Red Eye as super soldiers to serve the interests of the Rebel Army and Amadeus Syndicate.

When he formed an alliance with Doctor Amadeus, she gifted him a canine experiment named Enobarbus, who could breathe fire, as a sign of respect. This is made possible by the dog's salivary glands, which produce enzymes that generate heat and flames when they react to oxygen. This canine experiment is a 8’ 1” (246.38 cm) burly wolf with razor-sharp silver-grey teeth, prominent fangs, glowing amber eyes, and a thick Prussian blue coat that gradually transitions to a watery blue and pure white at the ears, paws, and tail tip.

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jetspikepub · 1 year ago

Text

HISTORY OF COWBOY BEBOP

Attention! This chronology is a mix of fiction and reality.

1965 - Shinichiro Watanabe was born

1994 - Faye was born

1995 - Shinichiro Watanabe debuted as a director in Macross Plus. First acquaintance with Keiko Nobumoto, Yoko Kanno, and others *1

*1 Macross Plus is still very popular

Cowboy Bebop project was initiated secretly. At first, the title was supposed to be Shooting Star Bebop *2

*2 Kawamoto's ideas and sketches as a project proposal at the very early stage of development

1998 4 - First airing of the show on TV Tokyo

6 - The broadcast on TV Tokyo finished with only 12 episodes aired. The final compilation-like episode, Mish-Mash Blues, was controversial

10 - The beginning of complete 26 episode ariring on WOWOW

11 - Masahiko Minami left Sunrise and established Bones animation studio *3

*3 Bones business card (back side)

1999 4 - The complete show broadcast finished on W0WOW. The question of Spike's fate in the final episode attracted a lot of attention *4

*4 Invitation to the launch party held on the night when the last episode aired

6 - Watanabe, Toshihiro Kawamoto, Keiko Nobumoto and others visited Morocco to gather materials for the movie *5

*5 In Morocco

8 - The Seatbelts live "Diggin' my POTATO Puti ~The Irresponsible Night to Dance~" was held at ON AIR EAST, Shibuya, Tokyo *6 (picture in brochure is missing 🤷‍♀️)

9 - A press conference dedicated to the movie production, later known as the "Phantom Lie Press Conference," was held at Blue Note Tokyo (at that time the movie release date was year 2000) *7

*7 Materials distributed to interested parties

2000 5 - The completion of the script

Autumn - Movie storyboard was done *8

*8 A storyboard by Nabeshin (Watanabe)

11 - Yoko Kanno's held the first recording of The Seatbelts in N.Y.

2000 12 - 2001 1 - The title "Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heaven's Door" was chosen for the movie

4 - The launch of the official website

4-6 - The original novel СОЩВОЧ ВƐВОР Ц.Т. (Cowboy Bebop: U.T.) was published on the website; recording for the movie finished

7 - Ask DNA single release

8 - The completion of the movie, setting the preview at Kudan Kaikan, Tokyo *9

*9 Fans who came to the preview form lines

8 - The Seatbelts live "EARTH GIRLS ARE EASY Last Week End" at Shibuya AX, Tokyo

8 - Movie soundtrack "FUTURE BLUES" release

9 - Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heavens' Door release

10 - Seatbelts FUTURE BLUES videoclip release

2007 - Faye recorded a video message to future self that was supposed to be delivered ten years later *10

*10 Young Faye in the video message

2013 - U.T. (Ural Terpsichore) was born

2014 - Faye was put in a cryogenic sleep after a spaceship accident outside Earth's atmosphere

2022 - An accident occurred at Astral Gate located between the Moon and Earth. Earth suffered catastrophic damage, the period known as Turbulent 20's (Roaring Twenties) began

2035 12 - Jet was born

2044 6 - Spike was born

Vicious was born

U.T., a journalist responsible for entertainment section, became a bounty hunter. A chaotic period immediately followed after the enactment of the Cowboy Law *11

*11 Younger days of the legendary cowboy revealed for the first time in this illustration for the novel

2048 - Debut of The Seatbelts

2056 - The Seatbelts song"Tank!" became #1 in music charts of the Solar System

2058 1 - Ed was born (however, it is unclear)

2064 - Jet resigned from ISSP after losing his left arm *12

*12 Jet before he lost his right arm, about 29 years old

2066 - Ed suddenly appears in an orphanage on Earth

2068 - Spike left the Red Dragon syndicate *13

*13 Spike from the Red Dragon era… he looks angry

Jet and Spike teamed up

Faye woke up from cryogenic sleep *14

*14 Sleeping Beauty?

Ed disappeared from the orphanage *15

*15 Edward made up her name, the real one is Françoise, isn't it?

Julia went missing *16

*16 The woman Spike was thinking about

Rashid (Dr. Mendelo) appears on Moroccan Street on Mars in a new guise *17

*17 Mr. Mendelo, isn't it a little too much for a tanning salon?

2069 - Ein was born *18

*18 He must have been a genius dog from birth

A record of Vincent's death in Titan War *19

*19 He had short hair when he was in the army

2070 - Spike left a lobster in the fridge on the Bebop and forgot about it

2071 - The main story of Cowboy Bebop

#cowboy bebop #cb knockin' on heaven's door brochure #spike spiegel #jet black #faye valentine #ed #radical edward #edward wong hau pepelu tivrusky iv #ein #vicious #julia #minor characters

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changelingsandothernonsense · 6 months ago

Note

Trauma ask game for any OC of your choosing: 2, 6, and 17!

This one's going to be a long and detailed one due to the first question XD. I appologise. 2. Any interesting scars? This one's going to involve some art since Josh is covered in them. It'll make the post longer so just a warning. Also one of his scars requires a self harm warning. I've left that one until last. I've also just placed REDACTED for plot points I haven't published on Ao3 yet.

Starting with ya boi's face. There's a few iterations of face scars for him as time passes. Starting with pre-Corprus-

He has two, one that cuts through his left eyebrow (cuts from his eyelid to just below his hairline). He got this due to a skull fracture at age nineteen. Essentially REDACTED happened and he had an unexpected reaction, which led to REDACTED slamming his head into a mahogany desk because he ruined the REDACTED and that shit is worth more than him! He was eventually sold to REDACTED who ran a Camonna Tong affiliated syndicate in Cyrodiil. Or as he writes in his journals-

"Teldryn Ensirhaddon-Sero is worth precisely 700 drakes. A good price - for a kid, or so I am told."

The second one cuts across his upper nose bridge and ends around his left cheek. This is a result of a failed escape attempt whilst he was being moved from the Imperial City Prison to a carriage destined for the Gold Coast. He was hit in the face with the pommel of a sword and the impact broke his nose. It then got infected in the 8 weeks and repeated reopening of the wound from subsequent beatings whilst he was chained to the floor of a ship.

Next is face scars post-Corprus.

More or less the same, but we add a third scar to his left cheekbone the cuts into his hairline. This is the result of the successful excision of a small tumor.

Post Kogoruhn-

He's broken his nose for a second time and should have his second nose scar that runs in the opposite direction of the first. This is a new application of one that is already present in his Dragon Crisis design, I just hadn't figured out how he got it. Decided with this piece. Next is post Morrowind main quest.

He adds a series of mourning scars to his cheeks to commemorate his late husband. This also involves shaving his head as a part of the ritual, hence the shorter hair (this is circa Tribunal which is a good year after).

Here he is right before the Oblivion Crisis.

And after, where he re cuts the scaring. Dragon Crisis and post Red Year.

A few more added, mostly a diamond shaped mourning scar near the outer corner of his eye and a notch taken out of his ear from when he was thrown in Windhelm's dungeon. Though he's been pretty lucky with not getting more scars, that all ends with- Post Dragon-Crisis

Josh gets attacked by a REDACTED and gets his face ripped open. The scars actually stretch right across his torso, but face wise it effects his right side. The mauling lost him half of his right ear and part of his left. It also effects the muscles in his mouth, namely that half of it is paralysed. He's more self conscious of that than anything else. Alright, body scaring time! Pre Corprus

Mostly it's down to a few shiv slashes from his time in prison. He's got one along his right side that's from a REDACTED who tried to REDACTED, leaving him bleeding out behind a tobacco drying shed. He's got one on his upper thigh from trying to scale a fence.

Thems Corprus.

This is where most of his scarring comes from and I've added to the design since August.

The scaring covers most of his body, with the start point being his left forearm. The first tumor grew from the point where he was grabbed by Dagoth Gares. The scars are the result of the extensive and horrific attempts made by Divayth Fyr and his daughters to prevent the tumors from regrowing. This resulted in the repeated removal and cauterisation of the tumors as they grew back. Josh's Corprus scars stretch from his left arm, a warped and gnarled hand print. This scar isn't connected to the rest on his body but it is one of the worst. The main scar stretches over most of the right half of his body. Starting from his chest, it travels up, along his shoulder and up his neck before curving around his back and along his left shoulder. The large burn on his chest is the worst of it. The removal of a particularly large mass from his chest resulted in the almost complete removal of his right pectoral muscle and the birth of a lot of lame "one nipple" jokes on his behalf. He has a significant weakness on this side as a result of that muscle being removed.

That scar travels down his torso before spreading out along his thigh in another large scar, though this is mostly a surface burn. The scar reaches his toes and the deformity in his foot resulted in the removal of his first and second toes as well as part of the ball of his foot. He wears a prosthesis that he designed himself to help himself walk. Without it he can't balance and requires a crutch.

Like the scar on his cheek, he has a few smaller excision scars. One on his right hand, and another on his elbow.

The scar is technically dead tissue and oozes a strange substance (congealed blood) if cut. Part of the ordeal involved him lost in a dream sequence where he technically accepted Dagoth Ur's offer. He has two identical brandings on his palms as a result.

He has a few scars just from what he does for a living. Almost as soon as he got off the boat in Seyda Neen he found himself getting stabbed. He's got a slash through his left shoulder, two on his belly, and one large stab wound that saw him almost bleed out. There's an arrow puncture on his left flank from that time he got swindled.

Teldryn, when facing Dagoth Ur, managed to get crushed under the hand of Akulakhan as it fell into the lava beneath Red Mountain.

Corprus did something to his body. It was stronger, technically, but he didn't heal well. He left that battle with his pelvis broken in a few places as well as fractures in both femurs. When it became readily apparent that he wasn't going to die from the injury pretty much anyone on Vvardenfell who knew the healing arts tried their hand at mending the bones.

Some priests from Vivec City had an idea that involved physically realigning the bones before healing him with magic. He has two long scars on either hip as a result and one along his back. It took him a long time to learn to walk again and the injury still gives him grief. He can't swing his legs outwards and therefore can't ride a mount.

By the Dragon Crisis, he's added a crushed lower leg to the mix after he has a section of a ship fall on him. He's lucky the same priestess who pioneered his first surgery lived in the same town two hundred years later. Even if she wasn't his greatest fan. After the Dragon Crisis.

The guy's been mulled by a dragon. He's kinda upset about it since it affected his face so much. Those scars do reach across his torso, though.

The ring finger scars (Self Harm Warning)

Josh has two sets of circular scars that run around the finger that he wears Moon-and-Star on. This happened at a breaking point for him where he attempted to sever Indoril Nerevar's connection to him by removing the ring. Remove the ring, remove the problem.

Unfortunately it's not quite that simple, the ring is fused to his finger via some sort of magic that no one understands. He got the brilliant idea to amputate the finger. So he got drunk in an alley behind a tavern in Kvatch, took his dagger out and got to work. Turns out his bones don't just slice off like that and ends up passing out from drink before he makes any actual progress. There was a lot of blood.

He was found by a friend, who quickly became something more before he was taken in the Siege of Kvatch.

6. Whats their greatest fear?

Answered here. Short answer, that time will claim what he's built.

17. Do they have any pets?

Josh wants a Nix-Hound, but he's never had a pet before. He thinks a Nix-Hound will make him look badass in a "guy gets a doberman" way.

His girlfriend has rabbits...he tolerates it.

#asks #teldryn sero #danger!josh #dunmer #morrowind #skyrim #the elder scrolls #nerevarine #tesblr #long post #my art

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tirednamelessguy · 3 months ago

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Scarlet Sky

[A recollection of the events preceding Spike Spiegel's "death" by Theo V. Morgenstern in the Red Dragon crime syndicate.

Set in pre-canon period where Spike avails himself of some time to spend with a friend away from the crimes of every day in Tharsis, Mars.]

Chapter - 1. One Last Drink

Throughout Tharsis, the one business that profited the most was anything open after 8 in the evening. The Conan was one such business, a rustic bar nestled between other small diners, cafes and homes. It didn't have much of a presence, blending into the street that held it, yet at the same time, it looked significantly different from the rest.

Compared to other, more flashy and bustling dwellings, it looked like a place running for its money but they managed either way because there was no place that served alcohol in this part of Mars that could go out of business, even when it looked like it was snatched right out of a century-old movie.

In spite of its eccentricities, or rather, because of them, Theo found herself sitting at one of the stools with a glass of Pomegranate juice, listening to music on her headset. It had been an hour since she walked in, so she would come to know when she glanced at her watch for the nth time. As if on cue of her adjusting her sleeve over the watch again, the doorbell tingled, bringing a cold breeze in the warm haven.

The familiar tapping of a pair of large boots soon followed. She didn't need to look back to make sure they made their way to her.

"Hey." The usual greeting. He strode around the rounded corner of the counter to the stool adjacent to hers.

"Took you long enough."

He exhaled as he sat down. There were other seats available to her left, it was a tranquil evening after all. But they naturally gravitated to the corner, sitting on the edge of each side of the counter.

"I was busy."

She didn't push it, this was the routine after all. She was always the one to arrive first. Their seating was also a result of her choice to sit at a secluded side instead of the centre of the counter which was more popular. He would always be late enough for someone to come and occupy the seats beside her, leaving only the seats to the side where the bartender's attention only sometimes went. That side was always empty though, leaving the seat to her right always available and even on days like this, where her left was free, he still preferred to sit to her right. She didn't mind it either as it was easier to see each other's faces this way, easier to talk.

"Juice?" he asked, loosening his tie after unbuttoning his jacket. "Don't tell me you're planning to stay sober."

She set the glass down. "No, I ordered it 'cause I didn't know how long you'd be. I am trying to be mindful though. I have a pretty big job tomorrow, can't afford to get plastered."

"Hmm." He pulled a cigarette out of his pack and held it between his lips as he searched for his lighter. She watched it quite mindlessly, attention still half occupied by the song playing in her ears. "Where did I put my lighter…?" he mumbled as he patted all his pockets.

She clicked her tongue before taking her lighter case out— a small, textured black cuboid that clicked open a push at its opening. Encased in red velvet cushioning was a gold-plated lighter which she lit in front of him.

"You seem out of it. Had a rough job?"

"Cut me some slack, will ya?" he said as he leaned forward, holding the cigarette between two fingers to the flame.

His cheeks hollowed breathing in the smoke, the circular end raging a bright orange. It was a little mesmerising, the fire— or what remained of it on the tip of his cigarette when she turned the lighter off. Shame she missed the reflection of the flame in his part-lidded eyes before he moved away.

"Want one?" He extended the pack of tobacco, to which she merely shook her head and put the lighter back in its case.

"You never smoke but carry a lighter all the time," he huffed, earning a light shrug from her as she stuffed the case in her pocket.

"What would you do if I didn't?"

A dry chuckle left him. "Fair."

He was silent for a moment, eyeing her headset.

"What're you listening to?"

"Hm?" She looked at him. "Just an old song from Earth. Wanna listen?" She took one of the earbuds out and handed it to him.

He had to move closer again, owing to her persistent use of wired headsets instead of wireless ones like most people in this day and age. The song was already past its first chorus and halfway through the second one, slowly ascending to its finale.

Theo guessed it wasn't out of the ordinary that she felt a little more conscious of the song now that there was someone else who was listening to it too. Perhaps because it, in a way, represented her musical tastes to him, for the first time nonetheless. She wasn't one to do that with a lot of people.

Spike stayed mindful of the smoke emanating from his cigarette, making sure he wasn't blowing it right into her face. There was little need for words as the lyrics sufficed to fill the silence for now. He continued smoking and she continued drinking her juice and maybe just a little too early, the song ended. He handed back her earplug, leaning into the backrest of his seat.

"What do you wanna drink?"

The bartender had shifted towards them. She thought for a moment as she put away the headset, leaving her ears open to the ambience of the bar.

"How about a Whisky Mac?"

"Always sticking with the classics. Two Whisky Macs," he ordered.

"Coming right up," the bartender said with a knowing smile on his wrinkled face.

Theo pillared her arms on the counter and rested her chin on intertwined fingers, watching the seasoned hands of the bartender as they prepared two glasses of the cocktail while a plume of smoke hazed her sight.

"So, how's work been going for you?" Spike asked.

She inhaled, feeling a sudden exhaustion weighing down on her at the mention of work.

"Same old, same old. Collecting, coercing…" Her voice trailed, eyes losing their focus. It didn't matter. He wasn't too focused either as he put out his cigarette on the ashtray the bartender habitually put there each time he sensed they would stroll in.

"You said you had a big job tomorrow. What's that about?"

"We're closing a pretty big deal tomorrow. I'm representing our side." She leaned back as the bartender set their drinks in front of them.

He let out an impressed noise.

"Aren't you a whiz?"

Despite the nature of his words and the faint smile on his lips, there was a hint of something else in his demeanour that she couldn't quite ignore. He didn't seem uneasy. Maybe he was just tired. Either way, she brushed it off for now.

She tilted her head, acknowledging the compliment before he raised his glass.

"Toast to what?"

She mused for a moment. They didn't toast normally but sometimes, he just was in the mood for that sort of stuff.

"To whatever significance we think this moment holds three or four years in the future."

She said it quite simply as she raised her glass as well, no deeper meaning embellished into it, on her side at least.

He huffed yet again. "Ain't that poetic?"

With a light push forward, they clinked their glasses before taking their first sips at the same time. The faint thud from the glasses being set on the wood was lost in the beginnings of a song being played on the record player. That was late too. Usually, the music would start around the same time the bar opened but it had been long since then.

Theo jerked her arms in front of her to pull the jacket sleeves up a bit before resting her wrists on the counter, getting more comfortable as she picked up the ice-cold glass again.

"New watch?" His voice cut through the vague ghost of 'silence' they had amid the music-filled air.

He pointed to her wrist with a flick of his chin and she looked down at it.

"Oh, yeah," she lifted her hand and pulled the sleeve away a little more to see the dial fully.

"I got it a couple of weeks ago." She extended it towards him.

He pulled her hand closer to look at the watch better in the dim light. A low hum reverberated through his chest as his thumb brushed over the shiny, sleek glass; fingers feeling the black, full-grain leather strap.

"Neat." He let go and she retracted her hand.

"Cost me a pretty penny."

"M'yeah, looks like it."

They took their sips for a pause before there was more to say.

"So, how about you? I haven't heard from you in a while and you suddenly invite me for a drink."

"Yeah, I've been busy." He pulled out another cigarette. "But you know it has been a while since we met up, so."

He didn't thank her as she lit his cigarette again— he hardly ever did. He hardly ever needed to.

"That's strangely sentimental."

He laughed; a wry, throaty kind of laugh, the kind that suggested that he wasn't expecting to laugh, not now, not for the rest of the evening.

"Is it really that odd?"

She placed the lighter case on the counter and left it there, sure of the probability that he was going to need it again.

"Hm, I don't know, maybe."

There was a pause, Theo leaned all the way back in her seat, stretching her legs, dark eyes carrying thought.

"They say people who know they're about to die soon suddenly start acting all nice," she commented.

He laughed yet again, but nothing like before. He laughed, a genuine, light-hearted, out-loud laugh that left him with a wide, toothy grin plastered on his face.

"You're on a roll today, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "Aren't I always?"

He shook his head, taking a drag and sip.

"Well, spare me for wanting a drink with a friend."

"Alright." She swirled the liquid around before a sip. "I haven't been here since our last time either."

"Your partner doesn't take you out?"

She shook her head. "Roderick is too uptight for drinking." She paused. "Then again, he'd say the same about me."

Spike leaned forward, placing his elbow on the counter and resting his cheek in his hand. "Simply can't enjoy a drink without me, can you?"

Theo rolled her eyes. "You flatter yourself."

"It's a matter of admitting. I admit that a drink just doesn't taste the same without a good pal beside you." He made his appeal by moving his cigarette-holding hand around.

She couldn't help the tiny smile. "Okay. It doesn't taste the same without you. Happy?"

He nodded and leaned away again, giving his back a rest.

Another stretch of wordlessness settled between the two Red Dragon members. The alcohol drowned the light chatter around them, the clink and clatter of glasses and plates an ornament to the subdued jazz.

Theo's eyes watched; the golden reflections of the old-style lamps in the rocks glasses atop polished dark wood, the spherical ice bobbing up and down with each movement of the lemony, gingery cocktail, the long, slender fingers resting their tips on the wide rim, the wisps of smoke oozing out of the rolled paper held between said fingers. Quite commonplace for her. She always was focused on little things, things that most would say didn't matter.

What mattered, truly, was what she never looked at; the solemness in the eyes of her drinking buddy as they were lost somewhere ahead. He put the cigarette out in the ashtray, crushing it in a drawn-out, ruminative manner. His fingers, eager to stay occupied, opted to play with the slice of lemon wedged on the rim of his glass.

"You know, I wanted to get drunk tonight," he said without looking up.

She did raise her gaze to his face this time.

"Be my guest. Someone's gonna have to get you home. I'll do you the favour."

He stayed quiet.

Interrupting the slow symphony that the bar had established, a rumble was heard outside.

She glanced at the door. "Looks like it's going to rain."

"I hope it does."

She frowned ever so slightly before turning to him again. He hadn't looked up for a second, eyes glued to the glass. She would have to be stupid to not notice the dejection in his eyes now that she was seeing them. For a second, she didn't know what to say, however uncharacteristic that was. Although, that seemed to be a running theme whenever it came to Spike. But eventually, the intrinsic nature of analysing and formulating kicked in as was common in her more professional conversations.

"Is there something you want to say?"

Something told her his raising the glass to his mouth was an attempt to bail, even just for a second before putting it back down with a little smack of his lips. He gulped thickly before taking a deep breath and holding it in his chest like the weight he couldn't seem to let go of.

"I'm leaving." For a second, she couldn't tell if she even heard him, his voice nothing more than an exhale.

And for a second, time seemed to halt in its merciless stride, the music and prattle fading to absolute nothingness. Complete, stark, deafening absence of sound. She didn't know how long she sat there, still as a statue, staring at him agape. Despite the vagueness, she knew what he meant.

The slow ascension of the pattering of rain outside was what brought her back to reality. In an unwitting imitation, she inhaled deeply.

"That's what this was about…" she murmured, averting her gaze from him to glance at the ceiling to collect her thoughts.

And yet again, she was left scrambling for something to say. The difference this time was that there was so much to say, so many questions. Yet she couldn't bring herself to ask any of them. It didn't matter, after all— how? why? when?— he wouldn't answer. Even if he was willing to answer, there was no point in knowing. What mattered was that he was leaving the Syndicate.

Regardless, she shuffled in her seat, unsure what was the right thing to reply with. He was quiet too. He probably wasn't expecting anything from her. That was probably why he told her in the first place; because she rarely ever asked questions.

"Well…" she took another deep breath and opened her mouth just a second before speaking, "All the best for that."

Any other time, she would have slapped herself for something so generic but in the moment, there was nothing else she could think of. He nodded rather mindlessly, forcing a tiny whisper of a smile as he raised his eyes to meet her again.

"Another round?" he asked, making her realise both of their glasses were empty now.

She nodded and the bartender was at it again after an intimation. They didn't toast that round. Or any that followed for that matter. Not that things had soured or anything. It just didn't cross their minds. Perhaps it was better that way, sticking to the regular rather than trying to turn it into something special.

The night advanced, full of light discourse that got increasingly muddled with alcohol— more on Spike's side than Theo's. They talked for hours as the bar got emptier over time, the storm on the outside barely anything to consider. It served as another reason for Spike to keep drinking, and that, he did.

Before either of them knew it, it was already well past 3 AM. The closing hour was still a while away but Theo decided they had had enough to drink. She paid for both of them before dragging an absolutely hammered Spike out. She had him draped over her shoulders as they staggered out the doors and waited for a taxi.

He kept mumbling incoherent nothings as she held him up, the chill night air causing her hair to stand on end. Still, it was a scene she would likely never forget; a moment of calm and strange allure. The array of neon signs reflected on the damp concrete, the faint clouds that lingered in front of them with each breath, and the much-needed warmth that came without asking— all forever etched themselves into her memory. Perhaps because this could turn out to be their last drink together for a long, long time until someday, maybe, by chance, they'd stumble upon each other again.

Spike fell asleep in the backseat of the taxi, or so she thought until she instinctively turned to check on him, only to find him fighting his slumber, watching the flurry of lights whizzing past the window. Slumped as he was, he was awake, catching every glimpse of the familiar streets of Tharsis that he could, looking as if they would disappear if he didn't capture them in his eyes.

She was a little disappointed when the car stopped in front of his apartment. Too soon. But she knew no matter how long it took, it would always be too soon. She got him up to his flat where he fumbled for the key, muttering something the whole time.

She pushed past the door and stumbled into his bedroom, with remarkable ease in the dark, no less. She had been there before, though only a few times— times just like this when he'd get drunk to a stupor and she stayed just sober enough to get him home. Yet that was enough for her to know his home space like the back of her hand.

"Thanks a bunch," he slurred, "You're a real one."

He had the mind to shrug off his trench coat and jacket before dropping on the bed with a thud. He kicked his boots off afterwards. She pulled his blanket over him, making him melt into the mattress.

"Mmm… I'll miss you when I'm gone…"

She stilled for a moment, gazing at his drowsy face.

"…I'll miss you too." She paused, partly losing her focus behind the haze of thoughts and alcohol. "How will I ever enjoy a drink again?"

He wasn't listening, of course. The steady rise and fall of his chest and the peace that settled on his features alluded to it. She sighed before standing up straight. Each time she would witness this sight, each time she would be left surprised. Spike was a revered member of the Syndicate, the strongest perhaps but like this, stuffed in his bed with a light flush on his cheeks, sleeping like a baby, he was just another man.

Maybe this was what she had failed to see all along— the man he was deep down, the man Julia saw in him. He was lucky for that. If not her, he at least had Julia to see him for who he truly was, to love him. He deserved that, however hard it was for them to keep loving each other.

She walked across the room, holding the doorknob before she turned to take one last look at his sleeping form.

"Good night, old sport."

She closed the door, unaware of the subsequence that three days from then, she would receive the news of his death.

————————————————————————

Here it is!

#spike spiegel x reader #spike spiegel x oc #light angst #spike spiegel #cowboy bebop #anime #fanfiction #pre-canon #prologue #scarlet sky #writeblr #writing #creative writing

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orivaa-kun · 1 year ago

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BAD ATTITUDE | Chapter 7: Life's a Beach

ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 | ch. 5 | ch. 6

chapter word count: 7k warnings: mature (18+), violence, drinking, drug use, smut, fluff, angst, feels, rough s*x, emotional manipulation pairings: Gojo Satoru x Fem OC, Geto Suguru x Fem OC, Nanami Kento x Fem OC, Fushiguro Toji x Fem OC series summary: Jujutsu Kaisen Yakuza AU where Riku Ozaki (OC) is really good at getting herself into trouble. Though the Ozaki family is ranked #10 out of the 15 clans of the Tokyo Yakuza syndicate in terms of power & strength; and the Gojo, Geto, and Zenin families fall at #1, #2, and #3 respectively; that doesn't keep her from getting in the mix with these highly ranked, highly dangerous men. Her clan's bodyguard, Nanami, can hardly keep up with all the compromising positions she constantly finds herself in. Will she ever learn her lesson? Find out on the next episode of Dragon Ba-

fic playlist: Spotify YouTube

“God, I’m starving.” Gojo complains, throwing his head back a bit dramatically. Now at the beach, Gojo and Riku walk the long stretch of boardwalk by the ocean that’s lined with small shacks, beachwear shops, food stands, arcades, and even an outdoor theme park.

Other than the coffee shop they’d just left half an hour ago, Riku thinks the boardwalk is the most normal place she’s been to with Gojo. The walkway is crowded with locals and tourists navigating through all its attractions and the white haired man holds her close by her hand that’s clasped in his. Gojo hadn’t let her hand go since he’d asked to hold it when they were in the car, and Riku feels her cheeks tinge red at the mere thought, “Even after those donuts? The ones you didn’t even let me try?” She adds, undeniably a bit disappointed as the man had raved about them back at the shop.

Gojo sighs, “Sorry, babe,” he leans close to her ear, “I promise I’ll give you something sweeter.”

The lowly whispered words cause Riku to jolt upright a little more, and her cheeks redden even further. She feels a few eyes on the two of them as they pass through the crowded boardwalk, “Are you even capable of being sweet to me, you know…” she trails off, a bit embarrassed; she says the last part just above a whisper, “in bed? You don’t seem like the type at all.”

Gojo speaks just as low, eyes focused on navigating the boardwalk as he speaks but a smirk on his face, “Princess, if I fucked you nice and sweet like that, you’d lose your fucking mind. Trust me, Suguru ain’t got shit on me.”

Riku hums to herself in response to Gojo’s words, amused.

Gojo turns to look over at Riku, smirk growing into a grin, “What? You in the mood to get the sense fucked outta you or something?”

“No!” Riku protests, raising her voice from a whisper.

Gojo laughs, unbelieving, “If you say so…” he squeezes her hand, “come on, babe. We’re here.”

Riku looks up at the small shack of a restaurant that looks terribly run down, the sign ‘IWAI’S’ crookedly plastered above the door on a big wooden slab, “This is the place…?” She quirks a brow as Gojo pulls her closer.

“Mhm.” He raises Riku’s hand with his own to his lips, offering the back of it a quick peck before letting it go and opening the door for her, that chirps loudly with the numerous wind chimes attached to its front.

Riku steps in and is surprised by the dark, quaint, yet clean and izakaya-style ambiance of the small restaurant as it’s completely different from its exterior. The place seems to be completely empty, but a man suddenly appears from what looks to be the kitchen in a rugged black apron and a white bandana tied around the top of his head. He has a small goatee and is around the same height and build as Gojo – around 190cm or 6’3” – only seemingly a few years older and a bit leaner and thinner.

“Satoru! Hey, man!” He strides around the bar to greet his friend, but pauses when he sees Riku, eyes widening, “Shit, who the hell do we have here?” He smirks as he shamelessly looks Riku up and down in her beachwear.

Gojo possessively slips his thick arm around Riku, removes his sunglasses, and gestures between the two others with his free hand, “Iwai, Riku. Riku, meet Iwai.” He puts his spectacles in his pocket.

“Hi, Iwai.” Riku extends her hand, a faint smile on her lips.

Iwai lightly grasps and shakes it slowly, admiring Riku with alluring, half-lidded eyes, “Hi, Riku. You’re absolutely gorgeous… like a fucking painting.”

Riku’s smile brightens, “Thank you.”

He shakes his head to himself in disbelief, “Might just be the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“Alright, that’s enough, Iwai.” Gojo says, tone nonchalant but irritation more than evident in his eyes. His arm unconsciously tightens around Riku.

“What? She yours or something?” Iwai questions.

“Y—”

“Nope! I don’t belong to anybody.” Riku confidently interrupts before Gojo can finish.

Gojo clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth once to Riku’s words, irritation spreading to his brows, “A real fucking brat, this one…” He drops his arm from around her to cross both of them over his chest, “She’s Jin Ozaki’s niece.

Iwai guffaws to Gojo and Riku’s interaction, “She’s yakuza, and she has the guts to stand up to you?!” His eyes shift back down to Riku with adoration, “I think I’m in love.”

Gojo sighs, “Iwai, just let us taste the damn club’s new pairing menu. I got shit to do.”

“Alright, alright,” Iwai raises his arms in protest, “right this way,” he turns, gesturing towards and beginning to walk over to one of the small tables in the corner of the room. Gojo and Riku ease down onto the small stools, Riku removes her crossbody bag, and Iwai looks to Riku again but this time a lot more collected, “If you’re Ozaki, I’m assuming you have a more refined palate and appreciation for culinary artistry? Unlike this sugar-addicted asshole?”

“You’d be correct.” Riku giggles lightly.

“Fuck you, Iwai. Sweet stuff just tastes better and everybody knows it.”

“Sure, boss.” Iwai dismisses Gojo’s words with disbelief, “I’ll get you two some water and bring out the first course in a bit.” Iwai begins to walk back towards the bar.

Gojo huffs a frustrated laugh out, shaking his head at Riku, “What’s that now, strike two?”

“Strike two?” Riku asks curiously.

“First you’re smart with me back at the café, now this?” Gojo nudges Riku’s leg beneath the table with his knee, “You must like getting punished or something.” He murmurs the words deliciously low, eyes dark and a sick smirk on his lips.

“Whatever, Satoru. You’re not gonna do shit anyways.” Riku brushes Gojo’s words off, instead moving her gaze to look around at the small izakaya’s decor.

Gojo’s eyes widen and his mouth falls slightly agape with a short laugh, genuinely surprised by Riku’s backtalk, “Oh? You wanna test that theory? Try me, babe.”

“You wouldn’t do that in public, not in the middle of a restaurant like this. Even if it is empty.” Riku says in disbelief, still avoiding Gojo’s eyes.

“Ri, I’ll bend you over this table right now.”

“No you wo—” Riku starts when Gojo suddenly grabs her arm and yanks it forward, causing her chest to fall and completely press against the flat of the wooden table. Gojo even begins to stand, but Riku protests, her entire face burning bright red, “W-wait! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Satoru!”

“Yeah you are.” Gojo, face completely calm and satisfied with Riku’s reaction, releases her arm and sits back down, “That’s better.”

Riku quickly raises her chest up off the table and readjusts her coverup dress.

Iwai looks curiously between Riku and Gojo when he returns with their waters, especially to Riku who looks down at the table and toys with one of the curls at the back of her head, cheeks flushed and an embarrassed expression on her face, “Uh, here’s the water… First appetizer is in the works. You drinking today, Gojo?”

“Nah. This one’s the real sake connoisseur.” Gojo gestures to Riku.

“Really? Good; now I can get a real opinion on these bottles.” Iwai chuckles, already walking back towards the kitchen.

After seven courses of intricately crafted small plates and their seven uniquely paired servings of rare sake, though not drunk, Riku is far past buzzed and quite tipsy. She giggles to herself at nothing in particular, her cheeks and neck tinged pink with warmth.

“What’s so funny?” Gojo quirks a brow at Riku from across the table. As he hadn’t had anything to drink, he eyes Riku suspiciously.

“Nothing! Just feel nice.” Riku smiles warmly, closing her eyes for a bit to enjoy the weightless feeling in her body.

“Is that so?” Gojo studies Riku’s body with his eyes, slowly taking in each bit of her that’s visible him – the flushed cheeks, neck, chest… he huffs a chuckle at the woman who’s clearly enjoying herself, “Well, glad one of us is having fun.”

“Come on; hasn’t trying the food been fun, too?” Riku opens her eyes and challenges playfully.

“Yeah, but clearly not as much fun as you’re having.” He crosses his thick arms across his chest.

Riku blinks up at Gojo, simply getting lost in his cerulean eyes for a moment. He’s so handsome. She thinks to herself. Riku can’t help but appreciate the perfectly chiseled face, broad shoulders, and toned chest that’s even visible with his button up, short-sleeve beach shirt on. Riku shifts her leg under the table so that it gently nudges and hooks around one of Gojo’s. She slowly moves it up and down, rubbing his leg with her own, “You wanna feel good, too?” She boldly asks, batting her eyes at the white haired man flirtatiously.

Gojo’s brows lift with surprise at Riku’s boldness and opens his mouth to speak, but just then, Iwai returns to their table with a tray that holds two small dishes and a single serving of sake.

“Alright,” Iwai sets the dishes down on the table, “last one. We got anmitsu—an assortment of mochi, red bean, and chestnut flavored jelly cubes topped with matcha ice cream. And for you, Riku,” he sets down the small sake glass, “we have a sweet plum wine to go with. It’s a 3-year aged Asahi Shuzo Dassai umeshu.”

“This looks so good! Everything’s been so delicious, Iwai.”

“Thanks, beautiful,” Iwai smirks brightly, “glad you liked the pairings.”

Riku dramatically drops her chin into her hands, propped up by her elbows on the table, “I wish I could eat delicious food like this every day…” She sighs, pouting ever so slightly.

“Riku, gorgeous as you are—if you were mine, I’d get up at the ass-crack of dawn to make you whatever you want.” His smirk grows, gaze heavy with infatuation as he looks down at Riku.

Riku giggles, “Aw, that’s so sweet.”

Already digging into his dessert, Gojo loudly clears his throat, clearly irritated by Riku and Iwai’s exchange.

“Let me know if you need anything else; more water, some coffee, whatever. I make a damn good matcha caramel macchiato, you know.”

“Ooo… that sounds good!” Riku says excitedly.

“We’re good,” Gojo checks his watch, “we gotta get going to the gym soon, anyways.”

“Aw…” Riku complains, a small frown on her face.

“I can make it to-go.” Iwai suggests.

“Yay! Thanks, Iwai.” Riku’s excitement returns as quickly as it had left. She picks up the small spoon on her plate and scoops up some of the mochi and ice cream before taking a bite. She immediately hums to the perfect balance of light, sweet flavors, “Mm… this is absolutely perfect. So delicious!”

“Try it with a sip of the umeshu.” Iwai notes, already heading back towards the kitchen.

Riku takes a sip from the small sake glass, eyes lighting up as the sweet flavored notes of the liquid hits her tongue, “Oh, this is good… You might like this, actually.” Riku suggests, glancing over to Gojo.

“Let me try.”

Riku passes the small glass to Gojo, who takes a slow sip. He pauses after tasting the umeshu, and then his eyes widen similarly to Riku’s, “Wow, that is pretty good—for alcohol.”

Riku shakes her head to Gojo’s response, “It’s amazing.” She clarifies, “Just because there aren't 10 spoonfuls of sugar in it, doesn’t mean it isn’t good.” She continues to take tiny bites of her dessert.

Already nearly finished with his own dessert, Gojo watches Riku as she eats, shaking his head to himself, “Also, that’s strike three, babe.”

Riku gasps, jaw dropping in surprise as she placed her spoon back down on her plate, “But I didn’t even do anything!”

“Flirting with Iwai, right in front of me?” Gojo quirks a brow at Riku.

“Oh my god, I wasn’t even flirting.” Riku rolls her eyes, dramatically sighing the words.

“Ri, you look at any average guy with that puppy dog eyes and pout combination and he’s falling for you. Without a doubt.”

“Okay, but that’s not my fault, though.” Riku takes the sake glass back from Gojo, downing the rest of the liquid in the glass like a shot.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” Gojo says flatly, “You’re not as slick as you think you are, Ri.” His smirk grows into a grin when he’s suddenly struck with an idea. He stands to his feet, quickly grabbing Riku by her arm and pulling her up out of her seat and towards a narrow hall on the other side of the restaurant.

“Hey…! What are you doing?!” Riku protests head swimming a bit to the combination of the alcohol in her system and the sudden movement.

“Teaching you a lesson.” Gojo says sinfully low as they approach the door to the private bathroom in the back of the izakaya. He opens it and pushes Riku in so that she collies with the sink, then closes and locks the door behind them.

“Ow!” Riku complains, rubbing her hip that had hit the corner of the sink. Though it’s quaint and clean, the bathroom – made mostly of black stone and accented with polished wood – is just as narrow as the hallway and both Gojo and Riku hardly fit in it, “That hurt, asshole! Agh—”

Riku exclaims a short gasp when Gojo suddenly closes the space between them and simultaneously hoists her up on the edge of the sink while pushing up the netted fabric of her coverup dress. Gojo wastes no time in joining their lips, pulling Riku’s knees apart so he’s pressed flush against her body. He kisses her harsh and quickly forces his tongue in between her lips to dance with hers.

Riku moans into Gojo’s mouth when he rubs his hands up the sides of her hips and around her waist, thumbs massaging into the barely clothed skin there. Gojo moves his lips to Riku’s neck and his large, kneading hands to her breasts and she whimpers, heat already beginning to pool between her legs from Gojo’s touch. Riku’s skin already feels warm from all the sake she’d drank, and her pulse only beats hotter and more thickly in her neck when Gojo licks and sucks red marks into it. Gojo’s hands are rough with her, and Riku appreciates how the man doesn’t hold back. She giggles a bit, “This is punishment?”

Gojo releases his hold on one of Riku’s breasts to reach up and yank her head back with a quick, sharp tug of her hair—backing her up just enough so she can see his cold, hard gaze. It’s a look so emotionless that it honestly sends a shiver down Riku’s spine. It’s broken when Gojo suddenly chuckles, however, lips curving up into a grin at the sight of Riku beneath him, sitting on the edge of the sink with a flustered expression on her face, “Hm. So now you want to be touched? That’s funny…” He leans closer to Riku to suck her earlobe between his lips, gently tugging on it before lewdly licking inside the rim of her ear.

Riku twitches and moans to the feel of Gojo’s breath and tongue on her ear, legs shaking for a second as she feels herself grow wetter beneath her bikini.

Gojo abruptly releases her completely and steps back as much as he can in the small bathroom, which causes Riku to blink dazedly at him at the sudden lack of touch. He pushes his hands into his pockets, face and voice both completely calm and collected as he speaks his next words, “You’ve been pushing and pulling me all day, babe. So, tell me, what do you really want, Ricchan?”

“I…” Riku trails off, thinking to herself before replying with the only current thought in her head, “want you.”

Gojo folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head once, unimpressed, “Too vague. Try again.”

Riku's cheeks redden even more under his focused gaze, “I want you to fuck me…” She says low, just above a whisper and voice shaking with embarrassment.

“What was that?” Gojo turns his head to poke his ear in Riku’s direction, only pretending he can’t hear her, “I couldn’t catch it. Speak up.”

Riku grumbles impatiently and out of embarrassment, a fire behind her eyes, “I said I want your dick inside of me, okay?!” Her face is completely red now, and Gojo laughs at the sight.

“You look like a tomato!” He guffaws childishly, jabbing his index finger towards her.

“Shut up…!”

Gojo reaches in his back pocket, retrieving a condom from it, “But I guess it’s better. I’ll give you what you want, Ricchan, but I won’t be nice and hold back—even if you ask me to…” He unbuttons his shorts and tugs them and his boxers down just below his hips, causing his dick to spring up and to attention. He tears the foil package open.

Riku’s eyes widen at Gojo’s size, still in disbelief of how that had been inside of her last night.

“…can you take it?” Gojo asks, rolling the condom onto his dick.

Riku bites her lip to the sight of Gojo’s movements, nodding with a lewd gaze. She feels her breaths begin to deepen in heated anticipation and spreads her legs a little more, using one of her hands to pull her bikini to one side and tease herself with her fingers.

Gojo’s eyes dart down to between Riku’s legs, and he watches as she plays with herself, on display just for him. He glances back up to her eyes, and closes the gap between them, hand reaching up to harshly grab and squeeze the sides of her neck with his thumb and index. Gojo is at Riku’s ear again, muttering his wanton words into it between wet kisses and sucks to her earlobe, “You slut. You only want affection when it’s like this… don’t you?”

“Yes…” Riku strains out in a whine, practically aching between her legs for him to fill her up with his cock, “I need it so bad, Satoru.” She feels just the right amount of lightheaded with Gojo’s hand locked around her neck and is so turned on she doesn’t really care about how ridiculous she sounds at the moment.

Gojo presses his forehead against Riku’s with a wild grin, “Shit, babe, you might just be as fucking sick and twisted as me…” He teases the tip of his dick at her entrance and rubs it over her wet folds, “But you just had this last night, no? You already want me again, Ricchan?” He coos the question salaciously.

“Please!” She whimpers, rolling her hips forward and closer to Gojo’s so that his dick prods harder against her pussy.

“You asked for it.” And with the end of his words, Gojo savagely thrusts all the way into Riku’s cunt with a single, hard jut of his hips, his free hand grasping and holding hers down in place on the edge of the sink so she can’t get away from him… so she has to take every inch of his cock.

“S-Sator—” Riku nearly screams from the pain of Gojo entering her so harshly but is cut off when the hand on her throat swiftly moves to clasp over her mouth.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you horny slut.” Gojo spits coldly, his expression mildly irritated to all the noise Riku was making, but simultaneously more than visibly turned on from her moans. He doesn’t waste any time and thrusts into her over and over, hard and fast. The sink even bumps loudly against the wall at the force of his aggressive movements. Gojo looks Riku directly in her eyes as he muffles her moans with his hand pressed tightly over her mouth, fucking her hard and unceasingly, “You were just flirting with Iwai minutes ago; you really want him to hear you getting fucked in the back of his restaurant?”

Riku’s long nails dig into the skin of Gojo’s lower hips and she shudders to the intense sensations he gives her with each dastard pump of his dick, eyes rolling back into her head for a moment as a strong jolt of pleasure abruptly courses through her body without warning. All of a sudden, she’s squeezing and pulsing tight around Gojo’s cock, and a long, muffled moan is falling from her lips.

Gojo pauses in his thrusting at the feel of Riku tightly gripping his dick in rhythmic waves, “Did you just cum?” A smirk slowly takes over his previously icy expression.

Riku doesn’t realize it until after it’s already over and she’s coming down from her high. She’s never been fucked hard like this before and didn’t think it was possible for her to climax so quick. Gojo releases Riku’s lips and she simply blinks and pants heavily, half-dazed and half-tired from orgasming so intensely.

“Shit, Ri, you like pain that much?” Gojo laughs at her, “I mean, fuck, what was that? One minute?”

“Don’t laugh at me…!” Riku’s not sure if it’s the sheer embarrassment, the pain from Gojo’s thrusting, her vulnerability from just having orgasmed, or a mixture of all three, but tears well up at the corners of her eyes.

“I told you, that crying shit won’t work on me. And I’m not finished with you.” Gojo says before slamming back into Riku with a rough buck of his hips.

Riku bites her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying out.

“Why don’t you do some work for once?” Gojo grabs under Riku’s knees to pull her legs up and around his waist, “Put your arms around my neck. You can hold your weight can’t you?”

When Riku follows Gojo’s directions he stands upright and her body is lifted above the sink. She clings to Gojo to hold herself up, now more readily breathing in the citrus, musk, and vanilla notes of his scent at their proximity.

“The fuck are you waiting for?” Gojo harshly slaps the flat of his hand under the curve of Riku’s ass and she clenches on his dick in response, a quick moan spilling from her lips, “Move.” He commands.

Arms locked around Gojo’s neck for purchase, Riku moves her ass up and down at a steady rhythm. Though the position doesn’t allow for much movement, she continues like this for a few minutes and tries to please Gojo in her messy, dazed state, whispered moans and whimpers fleeing her mouth each time Gojo’s dick hits her spot just right.

“You can do better than that, Ri…” Gojo severely slaps both of his hands on Riku’s ass cheeks over and over, sure to leave marks on the now reddened skin there as she continues to throw her hips back and forth on his dick. Face now buried in his shoulder, Riku softly cries out into Gojo’s shirt as he batters her ass with hits, head beginning to melt at her own arousal from this situation.

Gojo’s touch throughout the day – his hands rubbing on her back, around her waist, even his fingers flirting with her breasts – had slowly affected Riku, little by little, and now she was so desperate for for the man that she was fucking him in the back of a restaurant. It was honestly embarrassing to think about the complete mess he’d made out of her body. On top of this, Riku had never been pushed so harshly during sex before, and neither had the line between her pain and pleasure. Gojo had been cruel in his treatment and fucking of Riku, and as she was the type of girl who was used to men treating her like a princess all the time, his brutish punishment of her like this only drove her crazier.

Riku moves her arms down so that her hands are on Gojo’s shoulders. She uses them like a pull up bar, pulling her weight up and down so that she moves more significantly on and off of his dick with each jerk of her hips. She throws her head back up to get a look at Gojo, her own cheeks reddened and eyes hazy with pleasure. Though she could hold her weight, even her arms were quickly growing sore and tired from holding moving herself up and down on Gojo in this way.

“That’s better. See, Ricchan? You can fuck yourself on my dick just fine.”

“Fuck…” Riku whispers the word, enjoying the feel of Gojo’s dick pushing into her over and over again at the command of her hips and her own set pace. It doesn’t take long for her to slow down from the tiredness and soreness in her arms, though, and she eventually comes to a still.

“Hm, well that was short-lived.” Gojo notes, almost too plainly.

“I’m sorry…! Please, Satoru… please fuck me!” Riku begs, arms shaking. Gojo can see that Riku is honest in her words from her timid body language—that’s much different from her usual dismissive yet playful and hot-headed attitude. It only takes a moment of looking into her eyes for him to tell that he’s pushed her a lot physically, and that she’s barely holding on (pun intended).

Gojo finally wraps his arms around Riku’s back with a sigh, breaking his mean streak and easily taking her weight into his hands, “You did well, babe. Way better than most could.” He praises, kissing her temple with a small peck before walking them over to and pinning her against the wooden door of the bathroom, “Let me take it from here.”

Gojo suddenly thrusts into Riku hard and fast, nailing her into the wood with one hand on her hip and the other on her mouth again. The door bangs loudly in its frame at Gojo’s brutish movements but he doesn’t let up, looking Riku in the eyes as she comes undone with pleasure. Her muffled moans gradually grow louder into choked groans, her breathing becoming more and more irregular with each strong buck of his hips. Riku grips Gojo’s broad shoulders tightly, legs gently shaking around his waist at the heavy pleasure that focuses in her abdomen and pushes its way up her spine. She looks at Gojo with wide eyes, and he immediately understands, “I know, babe; I’m close, too…” He softly grunts the words and rests his head in the slope of Riku’s neck.

Riku’s body jerks and twitches with the intensity of her climax and she lets loose a muffled cry into Gojo’s palm. His breath grows ragged when Riku clenches on him and his hips slam into hers one last time as he cums, “Ah, fuck, Riku…” Gojo curses, keeping her pinned against the door with one arm while the other moves from her mouth to cup her cheek. Gojo presses his lips to Riku’s passionately yet tiredly, offering her a few lewd, open-mouthed kisses before finally breaking away and pulling out of her.

Gojo slowly releases and eases Riku back down onto her feet, “You good?” He brushes a few stray curls from her face and rubs his thumbs over her flushed cheeks, “Was I too mean to you?” He smirks.

Riku winces a bit to the soreness between her legs, on her ass, and in her arms when she stands on her own, using Gojo’s arm to stable herself when she stumbles a bit. He instinctively catches her wrist in his hand when she does but she quickly regains her balance, “Yeah, you were, but I can take it… and I had fun.” Riku smiles soft yet honestly at Gojo, starting to readjust her bikini and smooth out her coverup dress.

“You did?” Gojo leans over and close to Riku’s face, pressing a light peck to her lips.

“Mhm.”

He pecks her lips again, “You gonna be a good girl f’me the rest of the day?”

Riku nods, smiling sweet and submissively up at Gojo, “Yes.”

“Good.” Gojo pecks her lips one last time before straightening back up and beginning to remove and discard his condom, “Another day of fucking the brat outta you, hm?” Gojo chuckles, “You need to use the bathroom, babe?” He pulls and buttons his shorts back up, then quickly washes his hands.

“Yeah, I should.” Riku pushes a curl behind her ear shyly, trading places with Gojo in the bathroom so she’s no longer at the door.

“Take your time. I’ll wait for you outside with your coffee, alright?” Gojo winks at her, unlocking the door and opening it slowly.

Riku nods quietly and Gojo makes his exit, closing the door behind him.

Of course, just then, Iwai turns the corner in the hallway and his eyes widen when he sees Gojo closing the door. His look of surprise suddenly turns into a knowing smirk and he laughs, “Seriously? And here I was thinking the dishwasher was acting up again…” He shakes his head and crosses his arms, “Riku still in there?”

“Yeah, she’s freshening up.” Gojo grins.

Iwai chuckles, “Jesus Christ. Well, I got her macchiato out front.” Iwai waves Gojo along already heading back towards the restaurant’s main space.

Gojo follows along until they reach the bar that has a small coffee cup with a lid and sleeve on it. He sits down on one of the stools with a small sigh.

Iwai moves behind the counter, wiping the surface of it down with a wet rag, “Now, where’d you find a girl like her?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Gojo looks up into space for a second, thinking before he meets Iwai’s eyes again, “She’d tell you that we met at the gala a few nights ago, but really, I met her years ago when we were kids. Don’t think she remembers that, though.”

“Interesting… So she got a sister or anything?” Iwai quirks a brow.

Gojo cackles, “A cousin, but that’s it. And if she’s anything like Riku, I wouldn’t touch her.” Gojo advises, folding his hands on the bar top with a small smirk on his lips.

“Why’s that? Tryna hog all the hotties for yourself?” Iwai retrieves a clean class from behind the bar and fills it with water using the soda tap.

“It’s not that. She’s just a little bit… troublesome. Maybe a lot bit.” Gojo admits, cocking his head to one side.

“You say that when you’re going out with her right now.” Iwai lifts his pointer from his cup, raising the glass as he speaks before taking a long sip from it.

“Yeah, but I can handle it. Can you?” Gojo asks, challengingly.

“What kind of trouble are we talkin’?” Iwai asks before taking another sip of water.

“Kicking Toji in the balls kind of trouble.”

Iwai spits his water out but off towards the floor of the bar, then coughs and clears his throat, eyes wide with surprise, “Shit…”

Gojo lets loose a loud laugh to Iwai’s reaction.

“Yeah, I don’t want Toji problems, even as pretty as she is. Really the only person who can handle Toji problems is… well, you. Maybe Suguru, too.”

“And there it is.” Gojo concludes, and both of their heads turn when they hear Riku approaching.

She secures her small crossbody bag over her shoulder as she walks towards them and stops at the edge of the bar to pick up the small coffee cup, clearly ignorant to their prior conversation, “This for me?”

“Sure is.” Iwai confirms with a nod.

Riku takes a sip, “Oh my god… What the hell?!” She takes another one, “This is insanely good!” Her expression looks frustrated, but she continues to take small sips of the matcha caramel macchiato.

Iwai laughs, “That's some review. Thanks, Riku. You mind if I send Gojo a survey for you to fill out about the pairings?”

Riku shakes her head, “Not at all. I’d be happy to fill it out.” She smiles, moving towards Gojo’s side, “Thanks for the good food and drinks!” Riku beams with a certain glow about her.

“Anytime. Seriously, if I’m not at the club, I’m here—if you ever want a bite.” Iwai offers, "And, we typically open around…” he checks his watch, “now, actually.”

“Well, I can’t pass up an offer like that.” Riku muses, smile turning into a playful smirk, “Maybe I’ll bring some friends, too. Thank you.”

Gojo rises from the stool and to his feet, slipping his hand down to grasp and interlock his fingers with Riku’s free one, “You ready, babe?” He looks at her in a way that’s telling to their physical and growing emotional connection: direct and unashamedly with a touch of infatuation.

“Mhm.” Riku mirrors Gojo’s gaze, not breaking from it until the other turns to say goodbye to Iwai.

“Alright. Thanks, Iwai. See you at the club later.” Gojo waves his hand at the other with the one that doesn’t hold Riku’s.

“See you, Satoru.”

“Bye, Iwai!” Riku raises her coffee towards the man as her and Gojo head towards the door, lifting a few of her fingers from the cup to wave goodbye.

“Bye Riku. Please bring your friends.”

Riku giggles, “Sure thing.”

Gojo holds the door for Riku and she slips through, the bright light of the early afternoon straining her eyes for a moment. When they adjust, she notices the long line that’s already started to wrap around Iwai’s restaurant.

Riku hums in realization, “I thought it was weird a spot with food as good as that wasn’t filled to the brim… No wonder, it wasn’t open yet.”

“Yep.” Gojo pops the ‘p,’ eyes scanning the boardwalk that’s now even more full with beach goers. He retrieves his sunglasses from his pocket and puts them back on. Riku immediately feels eyes on them when they exit the izakaya, but Gojo doesn’t seem phased by it. He looks used to it, if anything. Do they really stand out so much?

“This way.” Gojo begins to walk them towards the right, gently squeezing Riku’s hand before doing so, “You wanna take the boardwalk way, or walk by the ocean?”

Riku looks around at the unmistakable hundreds if not thousands of people that crowd the long stretch of boardwalk that at least stretches for half a mile, “Um… beach, please.”

“You got it, princess.” Gojo navigates through the crowd with Riku at his side until they reach a beach entrance.

Riku downs the rest of her coffee as they approach the sand and dumps the cup in a nearby trash can, beginning to dig in her bag for her sun shades. She finally finds and slips them on, “You need sunscreen?” She suggests, pulling out and brandishing a small spray bottle from her purse.

“Nah, I’m good babe. Put some on this morning. But thanks.” Gojo doesn’t look at Riku but continues to walk them through the groups of people set up on the beach sand, keeping his hand locked with hers as they navigate through the uneven, sliding slopes of sand in their flip flops.

“Okay, but you should reapply, you know.” Riku says, putting her sunscreen back into her back before zipping it up again, “I did back at the restaurant.”

“That how you keep your skin so soft?” Gojo asks, finally glancing at Riku once they reach the bit of hard sand just before the ocean waves. It’s far less crowded than the beach and boardwalk, and Riku is glad she chose this route. They begin to walk along the stretch of wet sand.

“That’s part of it,” Riku notes, “you have pretty nice skin, too, you know.”

Gojo laughs once, “Don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before. Not with all these scars.” He shrugs his shoulders and lifts his free hand, vaguely gesturing to the faint lines that litter his arms.

Riku glances down, using her hand that’s interlocked with Gojo’s to lift his hand closer to her face. She examines one of the more noticeable, long scars on Gojo’s forearm, running the pads of her fingers up the line of it and the thick veins just underneath until she reaches the bulky, toned muscle of his bicep. Even with the scars, his skin is taught and smooth to the touch, “They’ve healed really well, though.”

Gojo glances down, watching Riku inspect him with a faint smile on his lips, “Thanks, Ricchan.” He pauses, “You know, princess, you’d make a really good girl if you weren’t a crazy troublemaker raised by yakuza.”

Riku wants to be upset, but is too exhausted to have an angry bone in her body and can’t help but burst into laughter to Gojo’s words—they were kind of true, after all.

Gojo joins instantaneously, bending at the waist a bit from the good chuckle his own words had given him.

Riku pulls her hand out of Gojo’s hold, pushing his shoulder with as much strength as she can muster, “You’re an asshole.”

To Riku’s surprise, Gojo doesn’t move much from her push and simply laughs as if it was a light pat, “Uh-huh,” he grabs her arm, pulling her into his side and locking their hands once more. He bends close to her ear so only she can hear his next words, “but you like it when I’m mean to you.”

Riku lazily shoulder checks the man, but keeps her hand in his, “Shut up.” She blushes, looking off towards the water.

Gojo’s hums a small chuckle, “You don’t have to hide, babe… you can say that you like it.” His smirk turns into an alluring one and he speaks lowly, “You’re so fucking cute.” Gojo gently ruffles Riku’s hair then kisses her temple.

“People done say shit like that out loud!” Riku whisper-yells, cheeks still bright red.

“They should.” Gojo says simply, “I’d personally like to see the look on your face while saying how much you like what I do to you.” Aside from their combined presence alone, the end of Gojo’s words garner a few eyes from a few people passing by them on the beach.

“Shh!” Riku uses her hand in Gojo’s to yank his arm down.

The man only cackles in response.

“How long is it to the gym, anyways?” Riku changes the subject, frustratingly rubbing the side of her forehead. Why does he only ever want to talk about horny shit like this?

“Just fifteen minutes, give or take.” Gojo looks down the stretch of beach.

“The gym’s on the beach?”

“Basically. It’s on the other end of the boardwalk.” He clarifies.

“Oh.” Riku bites her lip when there’s a long pause in their conversation. She looks up at Gojo, who looks like he has his eyes focused on something in the distance, or is thinking about something. She decides to break the silence, “How long have you been doing martial arts?”

Gojo glances over to Riku, “Since I was 3.”

Riku’s eyes widen, “Wow, isn’t that a bit early?”

“Not for the Gojo clan, it isn’t. It’s pretty standard practice, and it’s part of the reason our family is ranked where it is.”

“Yeah, but that must’ve been rough…” Riku searches Gojo’s face for any telling emotions, but there aren’t any; he seems completely at ease about his upbringing. She brushes her hand over Gojo’s faintly scarred arm, “Are any of these from when you were a kid?”

“No,” Gojo cocks his chin upwards, and Riku immediately spots a small, white scar just beneath his jaw, “but this is.”

“Ouch,” Riku instinctively reaches up with her free hand to rub her fingers over it, “What happened?”

Gojo lowers his head back down, “I was 11, so a bit older, but there was this little girl in trouble, so I took down a bunch of muscle from a foreign syndicate that was attacking her family.”

“Aww, so you were a hero.”

Gojo shakes his head, then meets Riku’s gaze again, a curiously knowing look in his eyes, “Not quite. Both of us almost died in the process. There was a bad fire, too.”

Riku suddenly sees a flash of white, but it’s not the beach sand… It feels like she’s recalling something. It flashes again and a sharp pain tears through her head. This time the white of a flame? No, white hair…? Riku stops in her tracks, immediately pulling out of Gojo’s grasp to clasp her hands over the sides of her head. She winces, “Ah…!”

“Ri, are you okay?” Gojo turns and holds Riku’s shoulders, noticeably concerned.

Riku continues to wince with her eyes closed and holds her own face.

“Riku, are you alright?” Gojo squeezes Riku’s shoulders tighter.

Riku only hears Gojo this second time, when the flash of white fades from her vision, “Mm, yeah…” she sighs when the sharp pain in her head quickly fades into nothing, “I’m good. Sorry, that hasn’t happened in years… Like, since I was a teenager.” She drops her hands from her face, confused to why she’d had a headache now of all times.

“You sure you good?” Gojo bends close to Riku to cup and hold her head in his hands, “You need me to carry you to the gym, princess?” The concern on his face turns into a smirk.

“God, no. Please don’t do that.” Riku shakes her head furiously.

“Well, always here if you change your mind, babe.” Gojo rejoins his hand with Riku’s, giving it a small squeeze.

“Thanks, Satoru.” Riku says softly, mostly looking in the distance as they begin to walk again.

Gojo fake-gasps, “Did I just hear a thank you? From the brat herself?? I can’t believe it!”

Riku pokes Gojo’s bicep with the point of her nail, narrowing her eyes at him, “Hey, don’t push it. You’ll never hear one again if you act that way.”

Gojo quickly reaches back to slap Riku’s rear, and looks down at her in feigned confusion, pretending he hadn’t just heard her words, “What was that?”

Riku jumps with a yelp, mostly from the preexisting soreness on her ass, “Agh…! What the fu—” she cuts herself off when she notes the unmoving, stern look on Gojo’s face, just centimeters from hers. It’s the kind of look that says, ‘Didn’t you just say you’d be a good girl for the rest of the day?’ Riku sighs, not wanting to fight Gojo’s dominant inclinations over this, “Never mind…”

“That’s what I thought.”

Riku grumbles under her breath, sure that she would have blown a fuse if it weren't for the people on the beach around them—and if it wasn't Gojo. She couldn't deny the sick part of herself that liked the other being in control. Was this how things were always going to be between us? Laughing and kissing one moment, and pissed at each other the very next?

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