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g1rld1ary · 3 months

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come home with me ; anthony lockwood x reader

➻ hbd lockwood & co!! this was meant to be for the anniversary but as always I have greatly miscalculated the english timezone... (also totally feeling pre-valentine's excitement!!)

➻ word count: 3720

➻ synopsis: when your bus breaks down in the middle of the night, one Anthony Lockwood may just be your knight in shining armour

➻ warnings: slight mentions of drinking, clubbing & drugs, lucy making slight suggestive jokes if you squint, reader is shorter than lockwood, sharing a bed, fluff

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You sat in your bus seat, checking you still had all your cash and your fake I.D. Satisfied, your purse snapped shut, changing shape as you gripped it tightly. Although you took the bus fairly regularly, you felt much more alone tonight than you had in a while. You’d left your friends and their ‘galentines’ celebration early, not in the mood to go clubbing but not willing to ruin their vibe. Plus, you weren’t ready to celebrate a holiday all about love so soon after being dumped.

You fiddled with the bracelets on your wrist mindlessly, knowing you were still a long way from your family’s apartment. You quickly scoped out the rest of the bus. A few middle aged couples — you imagined they were returning from sweet Valentine’s Day dates and ready to be home and in bed before one. You thought it was sweet that their love was stronger than their fear of the Problem, though the iron lined buses probably helped quell their apprehensions. Your eye caught the only other young person on board, a boy around your age who was staring out the window, rapier hanging off the edge of the seat and into the aisle. An agent, clearly, though you wondered why he was alone when they usually travelled in teams.

You quickly averted your eyes, not wanting to be caught staring at anyone who could proficiently use a sword. You bounced along in the seat until the bus began to slow, jerking the passengers around aggressively. When it came to a proper halt you felt a spike of panic run through you. You were all alone in an area you didn’t know and still at least a half hour cab ride from home way past curfew. To top it all off you were in your heels and new slinky dress, prepared for the safety of a club and not the outdoor weather. You were going to die, you were sure of it.

Then the lights flickered and dimmed. Great. You were almost certain this was the end when the doors were locked too. You rolled your eyes as you watched one of the adults jiggle the door around until it could be forced open, then reluctantly followed the rest of the passengers out onto the street. Just your luck, you were in the middle of a random residential street with no overhead covers except a tiny iron bus stop fifty metres away, which you reluctantly let the older couples hide in. At least the ghost lamps were on, and your very average senses told you there weren’t many ghosts out tonight; were you the only person in London — dead or alive — who didn’t have a valentine?

You watched as the bus driver pulled open the hatch to expose the engine, tinkering around nervously to hurry and find the issue. You leant against a ghost lamp as a shaky protection and felt a few freezing rain droplets land on your bare arms. Fabulous, the night was just getting better and better. You watched the driver huff in frustration and glance around nervously, you doubted you’d be getting back on the bus anytime soon.

You slid down the ghost lamp until you were sitting on the damp ground, past trying to impress anyone at that point. You telepathically tried to send your friends a message that you were going to be found probably ghost touched or hypothermic in the morning. You breathed a sarcastic laugh to try and convince yourself it was a joke, but you could feel the panic rising in the back of your throat. At sixteen you were not equipped to be stuck on the side of the road well into the night, past curfew and pathetically unarmed. You could feel someone’s stare and couldn’t tell whether it was at your sad excuse of a dress or at your position on the ground, but you were past caring, not even trying to shield yourself.

“Sorry, everyone, but I can’t fix this. Your best bet now is getting a cab and getting inside as soon as you can,” The bus driver explained apologetically, and some of the couples groaned, eyeing out the street for a taxi. You were past the point of feeling phased, tilting your head up to face the sky and embracing the storm on your face, not even thinking about the mascara tracks being run. When you reopened your eyes there were only a few people left; the driver, one couple, the teenager and you. You stood reluctantly, trying to think of a way to get yourself home.

You cracked open your wallet sullenly, expecting exactly was in there. A few dollars; enough for a few drinks but not nearly enough for a taxi to where you were going. You sighed, feeling defeat creep upon you as you tried to come up with any other method of getting home. You could return to the club — if you survived the walk — but even then your friends would be either too drunk or too high to be of any assistance. A huge crack of thunder drew you from your thoughts, a lightning storm was definitely brewing. Amazing.

You sighed, stress manifesting as the hot tears beginning to stream down your face. You felt utterly hopeless. You had nowhere to go and no way of contacting anyone, you couldn’t even use a payphone to call your parents as you’d promised you’d stay in while they were away for the weekend.

“Why tonight?” You asked the sky, more to express your irritation than to search for an answer. You could hear the agent escorting the couple down the street to a cab, easily soothing their fears with overconfident assurances. You knew he’d returned only by the occasional drag of iron against cement accompanying his footprints, presumably his rapier. Unknown to you he watched you as he approached, taking in your dishevelled state. You were pretty, undeniably, but the mascara smudged from rain and tears and your hair stuck to your face and shoulders made you look like you might’ve seen better days. He sucked in a breath and approached you.

“Hi,” He said, “I’m Lockwood.”

“Y/n.” You turned to him, hoping he’d realise you had no interest in talking.

“I know this sounds really creepy, but will you please come home with me? Promise I’m not trying to murder you, but this storm’s not getting any better and I can’t leave you to the ghosts in good conscience. My house is only a few blocks away; I live with another boy and a girl, both my age so we wouldn’t be alone. You can take all the precautions you like — keys between the fingers, walk on the other side of the street if you want,” He rambled and you sized him up. A lanky boy with a sword or the ghosts? You figured you had a better chance against him if it came to it.

“Ok.” You nodded, trying to smoothly push yourself off the pavement and appear well put together in front of the strange boy.

Lockwood led the way, holding the umbrella over his head. You followed a few feet away, cautious to be out of reach, just in case he did want to hurt you. Though you were jealous of his prior planning for the rain.

“Here, take my coat. You must be freezing.” He held it out to you and you gladly accepted, spaghetti straps doing nothing to fend off the cold. The coat was warm and enveloped you entirely, sitting below the hem of your dress. “So, are you in school?” He tried to break the silence.

“Yeah, for history. You?” You cringed as you realised the redundancy of your statement — his being an agent of some sort was more than obvious and only emphasised by the rapier he held out in front of him. He answered kindly anyway.

“I never did much school, I’ve been an agent as soon as I was allowed.”

“That’s cool, you in a big agency?” You asked, and Lockwood beamed with pride.

“Not exactly — not yet. I run my own agency, soon to be the best in Britain. Lockwood and Co, you might have seen us in the papers?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Your own agency, huh? That’s big stuff. Wish I could say I’d heard of you, but I avoid the papers when I can, it just depresses me. You might have to be just Lockwood tonight if that’s alright,” You joked and Lockwood laughed out loud, giving you a glimpse of an illuminating smile.

“Just Lockwood is perfect,” He answered, and the conversation quickly moved on, the two of you quickly losing the awkward silences.

“I got caught up in my research — a first, believe me. If I’d known about the bus and the weather I would have just caught a cab, or bailed earlier which is far more likely.”

“Tell me about it. My friends are out clubbing and I’m here walking in the rain with a stranger — uh, no offence.”

“None taken,” He assured you, “Wait, how old are you?” He didn’t think you looked old enough to get into a club, although the smudged makeup may have had something to do with it.

“Sixteen…” You trailed off, suddenly afraid he would judge you for your bad habits.

“So you’ve got a fake ID?” He raised an eyebrow at your nod. “Lucky. I tried to get one once but my associate George yelled at me for forty minutes straight, I never tried again.” You giggled at his explanation, the image making Lockwood seem younger, less intimidating than he’d initially been.

You moved closer as you walked, eventually ending up under the umbrella and feeling much warmer without the violent rain. As you talked more you noticed Lockwood was quite attractive, in an odd sort of way. Despite his old fashioned attire (you didn’t think agents typically wore shirt and ties), he had the loveliest smile and soft looking hair, though some of it was plastered on his pale forehead, unable to escape the rain entirely. What stood out most though, were his cheekbones. They were impossibly defined and quite dreamy, if you were being honest.

You talked about all sorts of unexceptional things, and you had the impression that Lockwood was doing his best to entertain you and distract you from your previous mood. It was working though, so you had no complaints.

“I’ve got a bit of sensitivity — very average — but I’m not going to waste my adolescence being stuck in the nightwatch ‘cause I can’t make it to really being an agent,” You laughed softly, “So I figured if I studied history I could be of more use, learn more about the Problem and all that.”

“You’d get along famously with my friend George, he’s obsessed with trying to figure out the Problem. For me it’s about the action, knowing that I’m actually putting all these ghosts to rest and having a meaningful impact on people’s lives.” You watched him circle his sword in the air, keeping the few Type Ones around further than they’d been lurking.

“Is that why you started your own agency?”

The walk seemed much shorter once the two of you started talking, and soon you’d arrived at Lockwood’s house, 35 Portland Row. The outside was unassuming, but beautiful in the classic English way. You caught a glance of the Lockwood & Co sign and couldn’t help but smile; you could feel the love and passion Lockwood had for the company from the small discussion you’d had about it. As Lockwood pushed open the front door a woman was just heading up the staircase in the hall, but turned at the noise.

“Jesus, Lockwood, what time do you call this? I was getting worried! Who’s this?” She looked at you, and you couldn’t help but feel self conscious under the beautiful girl’s stare. You thought she looked a bit teasing, and realised what conclusions she’d drawn. Embarrassing, but understandable.

“Luce, this is y/n. Y/n, Lucy, my associate. She’s staying with us tonight; our bus broke down and getting her home at this time is practically impossible.” Lucy nodded, but the amused twinkle in her eye didn’t dull.

“It’s nice to meet you then. I’d offer for you to bunk in with me, but I’ve got a nasty flu coming on and I doubt you’d want me anywhere near you.” She gestured down to the thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders and the steaming tea in her hand. You smiled to absolve her of responsibility and she waddled back up the stairs and into the dark.

Lockwood, in turn, led you up to the first landing and into his bedroom. He rifled through a chest of drawers as you tried not to snoop, eyes instead catching on the alluring movement of his fingers. He eventually handed you a t-shirt and some tracksuit pants.

“They might be a bit big, but they’ll do for the night,” He sounded embarrassed and you smiled in thanks. “The shower’s just down the hall, second door. You can go clean up.” You thanked him again before heading for a much needed shower.

You stood under the hot water, more than mindful not to take too long. You were so caught up in being grateful to be alive and not ghost touched or stranded in the middle of London that the weirdness of the situation hadn’t fully caught up to you until now. Once dried you put on the clothes Lockwood had given you and laughed slightly at your reflection. Despite your figure the clothes still unexpectedly swallowed you. It made sense since Lockwood was so tall, but you found it funny nonetheless.

You returned to find Lockwood sitting on the edge of his bed and stood in front of him awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed.

“So, um, I’m not a great sleeper so I think I’ll go read in the library for a bit and probably stay there. You can take the bed.” His previous easy confidence was gone, and Lockwood suddenly looked his age again, innocent and awkward.

“Are you sure? I can take a couch or something, I don’t want to intrude.” Lockwood assured you that he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon anyway, and he was sure you needed the bed much more than he would. You bade him goodnight shyly, and thanked him for the millionth time before climbing into his bed, ashamed to admit how much you liked the pillow that smelt like him.

However, once it was just you in the dark, all your previous exhaustion had dissolved and you were wide awake, too on edge to sleep. You were in a strangers house on the other side of the city in the middle of the night, you very well may not live to see another day. Logically you knew you were being dramatic, Lockwood and Lucy both seemed lovely and genuine, but then again, so did Ted Bundy.

You felt like you’d been lying in bed for hours when the door creaked open and you inadvertently made eye contact with Lockwood creeping in, looking admittedly adorably soft in his worn pyjamas.

“Sorry,” He said, “I needed an extra blanket. Can’t sleep?” You used the light from the hall to glance at the clock, almost two o’clock. You shook your head softly, feeling almost guilty when he’d given up his bed for you. Lockwood stood in the doorway for a moment, seemingly hesitant about something. “Do you, um, do you want me to read to you for a bit? It always worked for me when I was younger.” He sounded sheepish but you thought he was the sweetest person on earth at that moment. You agreed quickly, and he slotted himself in on the other side of the bed.

You huddled in to face him and Lockwood cleared his throat softly. He had continued on from where he’d evidently left off in the library so the plot was a mystery to you, but his soothing voice worked wonders in calming your thoughts, weary eyes closing quickly to send you into a cozy sleep. Lockwood, unbeknownst to you, fell asleep uncharacteristically fast after you, novel left upside down on the nightstand. Despite his usual aversion to sleep, having a warm body and small snores next to him strangely made him want to start getting eight hours a night.

Lucy was assigned to wake Lockwood for breakfast the next morning upon George’s request, and silently sent a prayer before pushing open his door, wary of what she might find. To her surprise (and personal relief) you two were in bed together, but not in the way that she’d dreaded walking in on. You were both totally clothed, your head resting on Lockwood’s chest, his arm around your waist, effectively keeping you burritoed in the blanket. Lockwood’s eyes snapped open, a habit he’d never detested more, and groaned at Lucy’s good humoured snicker when they locked eyes. She shut the door behind her quickly, leaving Lockwood to deal with things on his own.

You woke not long after, feeling Lockwood stirring next to you and his breathing start to become irregular.

“Morning,” He slurred, still half asleep and wanting nothing more than to pay off his sleep debt with you keeping him safely in bed.

“Good morning.” You smiled sweetly, already in a good mood. You bent to collect your clothes off the floor, eyeing your dress with mild disgust — it would be quite the walk of shame home.

“Keep the clothes.” Lockwood gestures casually to your outfit and you shook your head vehemently.

“I can’t, they’re yours!” You protested but he seemed not to care at all.

“I don’t need them, just have them. They look good.” You flushed and dropped the fight, words lost in the vacuum of your brain. You busied yourself with rolling the cuffs a few times so it wasn’t quite as obvious they weren’t yours.

Lockwood led you down to the kitchen, asking you about your plans for the day. You were met with Lucy and one other boy in the kitchen, Lucy sitting at the table already tucking into her meal while the boy was standing by the stove.

“I mean, come on Lockwood, you couldn’t have given me any warning we had a fourth for breakfast? Bloody good thing we had enough eggs or it would’ve been you going hungry!” The boy muttered to himself, apparently unaware of your entry. You locked eyes with Lucy who was holding back her laugh and Lockwood coughed uncomfortably.

“Morning, Georgie,” He smiled an amused grin, practically blinding you in the early morning. George froze as he realised he’d been caught, then doubled down his mood with a glare in Lockwood’s direction but it simply bounced off the charm he oozed and you smiled. You introduced yourself quickly and explained the situation, not wanting to uphold the tension in the room. George wasn’t exactly as warm as Lucy, but then you got the impression that it wasn’t in his nature to be.

Lockwood and Lucy upheld forced small talk as you became nervous in the new environment and George simply had no desire to talk, at least, until Lockwood had the bright idea to get the ball rolling.

“So Georgie, y/n actually studies the Problem. Like, academically.” It was like a switch had flipped and suddenly George had so much to say you were overwhelmed with it all. You tried to explain your research area as best you could while trying to politely ask questions about his own knowledge and make a good impression. Lockwood must have sensed your anxiety as he put a hand on your thigh and gave it a reassuring squeeze under the table, chuckling softly into his eggs.

Your meal passed quickly after that, and you felt strangely at home in the cozy kitchen, amongst three people who were total strangers only hours before. Yet, it had to come to an end at some point, and it was soon time for you to go.

You collected your things, profusely thanking each of them for not only saving you (Lockwood), but also for the ridiculously delicious breakfast (George).

“You really saved my life,” You said, as Lockwood disregarded yet another thanks.

“It’s nothing, you would have done the same. You, uh, you should come around again sometime.” You beamed, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, I have about a thousand more questions for you — not an exaggeration,” George said, and you easily agreed to share more of your research with him.

“Plus, we like seeing Lockwood blush,” Lucy added cheekily, and then it was your turn to blush, forcing your eyes down to the floor as both George and Lucy laughed at the pair of you, mirror images in your embarrassment.

Although it may have looked like you were making a post-Valentine’s Day walk of shame, you were gleeful. You hadn’t at all imagined your night would turn out as it had, but you’d made new friends — and maybe the start of something more, and managed to avoid being ghost touched which you always counted as a win. You ignored the judgemental looks you received in slept in joggers and club ready heels, and delighted in getting home before your parents arrived back and noticed you were missing.

You locked the door to your apartment behind you and dialled the number Lucy had made you promise to call when you were safe and sound, hanging up with plans for dinner at Portland Row the following week.

You flopped back on your bed and grinned. You were sure you’d see more of Lockwood & Co in the future.

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teaboot · 10 days

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What are your favorite pieces of media?

hhhhng Uhhhh

growing up, probably The Pendragon Chronicles- from what I recall it's a series of books about a kid who has to correct cataclysmic events on a bunch of separate worlds caused by a being who intends to end life on all of them.

One world is Modern Earth, where he's the only one able to use the portal to travel to other worlds, one is 1920's Past Earth, one is Future Earth in a sort of cyberpunk setting, one is a desert planet in the midst of war, one is a jungle world in which the dominant species is a race of bipedal cats, one is a water world where all food is farmed on a series of island-sized boats.. and I think that's all of them, unless I'm forgetting?

And on each world there's one guardian, and they meet up and fight and shit, and they can't blow their cover on any world, and each world has a large, distinct world-ending event brewing- The water one may lose their source of food, for example, and in future-earth people are wasting away in a virtual reality game they become addicted to.

It's one of the rare long series of teen books that I feel had a pretty satisfying ending despite the huge buildup, and I'd really recommend it to anyone interested.

I also really like X-Men, and Trigun, and while I haven't seen the new Percy Jackson series it was UNCONTESTED my number one favourite- I still have it on my shelf, absolute A+.

Aaaaand.... I enjoy the Batman Fandom more than most of the comics themselves but I'm in there, too. Was a homestuck cosplayer back in the day, as well. Loved Gravity Falls, loved Steven Universe.

Six Underground ins my favourite "sick at home" comfort movie. Also the only two John Wick movies in existence, shame they never made more sequels. Lord of the Rings. The Princess Diaries. Stardust. Ella Enchanted.

Oh, and the Inkheart books were FABULOUS. Really, they read like nothing else, just such a fantastic and unique flavour in fantasy!

Uhhhhh. Hellboy, too. Hell's Paradise. Bleach. Darker Than Black I vaguely remember enjoying, but I have the DISTINCT MEMORY of despising season two, so fuck that shit, whatever it was.

And I remember... oh, maybe twelve years ago, now? Really liking the spy series Nikita, and the urban fantasy Lost Girl, though I don't think I finished either.

Oh, and Elementary is a must-watch!

Poirot, too, and Perry Mason, and Midsommer Murders.

Also Blown Away, glassmaking reality series, and Forged In Fire, a bladesmith reality series.

Kitchen Nightmares, Hotel Hell, Hell's Kitchen, all good.

Puppet History. Watcher. Game Changer.

And webcomics Dead End and Check Please.

................I may need to spend more time on this

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eoieopda · 5 months

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FORCE QUIT // EPISODE II: THE PROFESSOR

until now, hyunjin's never met a problem that subterfuge and violence couldn't solve.

pairing: hwang hyunjin x reader | series masterlist (2/4) | prev. episode | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — secret relationship, star-crossed lovers ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: angst + smut word count: 10.6k rating: 18+ — minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode: above + recon!hyunjin, corporate defector!reader, hyunjin’s pov, minor time skips, reader has had cybernetic modifications (similar to plastic surgery + prosthesis) to change her appearance, reader’s current and prior hair/eye colors are described but they’re artificial(!!), reader is a fugitive, reader is smaller than hyunjin and can be/is lifted by him, hyunjin is a Charmer™️, shower sex, brief nipple play + fingering, implied unprotected p in v penetration. a/n 1: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly! a/n 2: the smut isn’t long or particularly explicit because the plot is more important, sorry!

One of Hyunjin’s earliest memories is of his halmoni looking him dead in the face and calling him a phantom.

Cruel as it may have been, the superstition was justified. Even as a kid, Hyunjin existed in blind spots, floating through walls and picking up on all the whispers he was never supposed to hear. Never seen or spoken to, he was ever-present, nonetheless; and worse than that, he was seemingly omniscient, too.

Who the fuck wouldn’t be afraid of him?

Funnily enough, his halmoni is now the one haunting him. Careening into his late twenties, Hyunjin can still hear the slight rasp of her voice echoing in his ears, reminding him that he’s still stuck beyond some fucking veil. He may have the same beating heart and a pair of operable lungs he’s always had, but biology doesn’t change the facts.

For all intents and purposes, Hwang Hyunjin is a ghost.

As is usually the case, Hyunjin stands unnoticed in the doorway of the Hub with his expectant arms crossed. His gaze alternates between the face of his watch and that of Bang Chan, who sits completely unaware at his desk on the opposite side of the room. This game is one that Hyunjin’s been playing for years now, as sad as that is.

How long can he exist in plain sight without anybody plainly seeing him?

At least twelve minutes and seven seconds, according to his watch.

In all the time that his reconnaissance man’s been standing there, anticipating a reason for being summoned in the first place, Chan hasn’t looked up once. Whatever he’s preoccupied with involves furiously typing away at the screen in front of him and continuing to ignore the untouched coffee near his elbow. Like this meeting, that room-temperature Americano seems to be on the list of things Chan can’t find space for in his short-term memory.

It’s for the best, really.

Chan’s stress is baked into his hunched posture, and it’s so palpable that Hyunjin can feel it from the doorway. Adding caffeine to his system now may make him implode, setting off some cataclysm that can’t be stopped. That’s not a loss the Black Screen is capable of surviving, now or ever. And frankly, Hyunjin is maxed out on hauntings as it is.

Speaking of…

He glances down at his watch again, confirming that two more minutes have slipped by in silence. Though he’d love to see an organic end to his game, Hyunjin doesn’t have all night. With a forlorn sigh, he frowns and quips, “Maybe I should wear a bell.”

The Black Screen’s de facto leader all but jumps out of his skin, which is a reaction Hyunjin may never get tired of. There are a million practical benefits to his incomparable stealth, but this is far and away the best of them: scaring the piss out of people simply because he can.

To his credit, Chan doesn’t get angry the way most people do when they’re caught off-guard. His panic leaves him quickly, giving way to the patient smile he always manages to find. That expression is a wonder, as far as Hyunjin is concerned, given the massive burden Chan has undertaken at such a young age. It’s the sort of demeanor that Hyunjin’s only ever seen on overworked single fathers and, in a way, Chan is.

Except instead of adoring kids, he’s got a battalion of strays with a collective death wish, a severe caffeine dependency, and prematurely grey hairs popping up at his temples.

Pity.

“That’d kind of defeat the point, wouldn’t it?” Chan rubs his hand sheepishly over the nape of his neck to cover his embarrassment. As he does, he chuckles, “You’re an asset because you’re so fucking difficult to keep track of.”

Hyunjin appreciates the acknowledgment — he is an asset — but he’s never been good at accepting praise, so he merely shrugs and removes his frame from the door’s.

Crossing now to the disaster Chan calls a workspace, Hyunjin can’t help but marvel at the changes the room has undergone in just a few short years. It’s still hideous, having been a foreman’s office in a past life, but their low-rent war room is finally starting to live up to its name.

The Hub.

Mitochondria of their haphazard little cell.

Along the southernmost wall, the hastily boarded-up windows have since been formally blown out and built over by people actually qualified to handle the task — not by teenage anarchists wielding hammers, as was the case with the first attempt. In their place, various monitors take up the bulk of the surface area. Each one emits enough light to make the overhead fluorescents redundant, leaving them to go unused.

Hyunjin has to smother a laugh every time he glances between the two corners of that wall. One contains a station so immaculate that it feels illegal to glance at it with an unclear head. A fucking miracle, considering that it belongs to the most scatter-brained netrunner he’s ever met. Her various gadgets are meticulously stored and labeled, nary a wire out of place.

Maybe, he thinks, Spider is compensating for all that internal chaos with external organization.

The polar opposite occupies the other corner: Bang Chan’s stable mind and the goddamn mess of everything that feeds it. A fucking disaster belonging to the one person best equipped to prevent them.

If Hyunjin didn’t know to expect him there, he wouldn’t have seen Chan’s head peeking out from the certifiable mountain range of files. Schematics, dossiers, and maps clutter every surface to a suffocating degree, and yet there sits Chan, still breathing. Still typing away, as if the conversation they just had has already been deleted from his brain.

“You the only one keeping office hours these days?” Hyunjin wonders, gesturing vaguely to the quiet that threatens to swallow them.

Bang Chan’s scoff is the only indication Hyunjin gets that he was heard at all. It’s enough for him; the sound seems twice as loud without the others around to drown it out. To fill the void, he hums to himself, biding his time until he gets what he came for.

Wandering aimlessly around the room, his eyes trail over what little scenery he has left to take in — what would’ve constituted work stations, if the people they belonged to cared to use them.

Next to Spider’s vast assortment of equipment sits Minho’s desk, although the only thing on said desk are his knife-carved initials, an empty bottle of soju, and a broken pair of brass knuckles. Directly across from his anarchy, there used to be stations for the Black Screens’ weapon-smith, Seungmin, and mechanic, Jeongin — but both scrapped their respective shit for spare parts, to no one’s surprise. The only hint of their former presence there is carpeting that’s been ripped to shit and a few screws, too stripped to be of any use.

Hyunjin picks up one of them as he passes, firing it off with his non-dominant hand towards the trash can several meters away. It lands with a thunk against the existing garbage. He glances again at Chan, who has swapped out typing for massaging his temples. As usual, Hyunjin’s scores go unseen.

“Been at it long?” Hyunjin asks.

Chan actually looks up at him this time, blinking slowly while his brain catches up to the conversation.

“That eye strain doesn’t normally hit you until the six-hour mark.”

Chan nods. There’s a small smile on his lips that looks appreciative — like he’s grateful to be known so well. He gestures to the table at the center of the room and says, “Almost finished, man. You can sit if you want to.”

Table is a bit of a reach, Hyunjin thinks as he approaches it. That Formica monstrosity is held together by duct tape and sheer force of will. It’ll buckle if anyone around it blinks too forcefully.

Despite how truly heinous it is, he has a soft spot for everything that broken piece of furniture represents: all-nighters spent huddled over plans to un-fuck a state they had no part in destroying, long-forgotten family meals — at tables far nicer than this — sacrificed for a calling that beckoned them to leave home and never look back.

His own bed may be a stranger to him, but there’s a permanent imprint of his ass in his designated folding chair. It’s likely the closest thing to a home that he’ll ever know. When he lowers himself into it now, it groans under his weight despite him not weighing much at all. His arms cross nonchalantly and his legs do, too.

If he’s going to keep waiting, he’s going to be comfortable.

And he does wait.

And waits, and waits, and waits —

“Sorry about that,” Chan states abruptly, several minutes later.

Unlike Chan, Hyunjin isn’t easily surprised. He doesn’t flinch at the sudden sound of Chan’s voice. He waves dismissively instead, knowing full well that the leader wouldn’t waste his time on purpose. With a quick nod towards the chair at the head of the table, he invites Chan to join him; but Chan shakes his head, opting to stand nearby as he stretches his arms overhead.

Yawning through his words, he attempts to explain, “Been sitting all fucking day. My back is killing me.”

“Did you eat?” Hyunjin asks, catching the eldest off-guard once again.

The only response he gets is a grimace, so he reaches into the pocket of his jacket for the dalgona he managed to get his hands on. It only breaks his heart a little bit to toss it over to Chan, who lights up like a roman candle the second he sees it.

It’s always the little reminders of home that hit the hardest, isn’t it?

Chan rips open the packet the moment he catches it and freezes when the plastic wrapping no longer obstructs his view. There’s no humor to be found in his dry laugh, and Hyunjin understands why that is as soon as Chan holds up the snack. Dead center, there’s an outline of an umbrella pressed into the toffee.

“Speaking of Ulsan…” Chan sighs, all joy extinguished. Snapping it clean in half, he tosses a portion back to Hyunjin, who’s eager to sink his teeth into it for more reasons than one. Through his own mouthful, Chan mumbles, “Have you picked up any intel on this trial they’re running? I can’t even find a name —”

Hyunjin interrupts with a nod. “The Bliss Beta.”

His tone is casual because this shit is old news by now. More than that, he doesn’t want Chan to burn energy he doesn’t have on a spiral he doesn’t need to make. Someday, people will finally realize that Hyunjin is ten steps ahead of them.

Today, unfortunately, is not that day.

Chan simply gawks at him.

“I swung by Scraps’ apartment building last week to grab her shit, and I heard some drunks talking about it on the sidewalk outside,” Hyunjin states with a shrug. “I nicked a flier from one of their pockets on my way back here.”

“You know, you could’ve just talked to them,” Chan frowns disapprovingly. “You catch more flies with honey, or whatever.”

Leave it to Bang Chan to whine about prosocial behavior when he’s barely left the factory at any point in the ten years they’ve been holed up inside it.

Effectively a recluse, the only two people he’s spoken to outside of the Black Screen — Felix, a decade ago, and Changbin, most recently — were mere seconds away from joining up. And if that isn’t enough to disqualify his hot take, Hyunjin would like to note for the record that Chan founded — and actively leads — what’s been deemed a “terrorist organization” by the general public.

That has fuck all to do with honey — just subterfuge, violence, and a dream.

Hyunjin rolls his eyes but keeps the bulk of his exasperation to himself. After all, calling Chan a hypocrite won’t make him get to the point any faster.

“Eavesdropping got me nowhere. I’m not sure what I could’ve possibly gained from inhaling that liquor off their breath beyond a drunk and disorderly of my own.”

Before Chan can get a word in, Hyunjin continues his report.

“They’re marketing this beta exclusively in low-income neighborhoods, but there’s no indication of what these people are signing up for — only the amount of cash they’ll get if they consent to participate in the R&D.”

“So, we still don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Chan mutters dejectedly.

He stares off to the side as the gears in his brain turn; however, he doesn’t stay stuck for long. In a matter of moments, he begins to pace the length of the table, getting more worked up with every step. “Spider said their tech is a brick wall. It’s going to take a while for her to break through, if she even can.”

Hyunjin means it, so he says it with his whole chest: “She can.”

In the time he’s known her, Spider hasn’t met a code she can’t break. No person has ever been successful in keeping her out �� up to and including Lee Minho, who has a cement-lined sarcophagus where his heart should be. If she doesn’t find a crack to slip through, she’ll fucking make one. She always does.

Trust like this is hard to come by in the life they’ve all chosen, but she’s earned Hyunjin’s.

She deserves Chan’s, too.

Brow furrowed, Chan looks back at Hyunjin. There’s something in his expression that he’s attempting to keep to himself — something he’s not allowing himself to say. Whatever he’s withholding, the fact that he’s concealing anything makes the hair on the back of Hyunjin’s neck stand up. A long, tense pause fills the space between them.

Hyunjin knows it’s hypocritical, getting frustrated by someone else’s refusal to open up. Someone who plays everything close to the chest shouldn’t be allowed to hate it when others do the same around him; but he does, and he’s seconds away from demanding that Chan spit it out already.

Chan must see it coming, so he intervenes to keep the younger man’s annoyance from boiling over. Gently lowering the temperature, he asks, “Hyunjin, do you have any contacts on the inside?”

The fact that Chan’s asking at all tells Hyunjin that the answer is already known.

Still, the head of reconnaissance looks his leader dead in the eye and responds flatly, without hesitation.

“No.”

Hyunjin is only ever able to make his way to you in the dead of night.

Though the location frequently changes, the preparation never does. He lays awake until he knows for sure that the rest of the compound is down for the night. When all he hears is snoring, he drags himself out of the bed he can never seem to sleep in.

Once he’s on his feet, whatever he’s wearing is quickly replaced with something that won’t stick out: nondescript black clothing, shoes with the tread and size label worn down beyond recognition, hood up, mask on.

You once joked that he looked like a jewel thief, all shrouded in darkness, and you were sort of right. Unfortunately for Hyunjin, there’s a fatal flaw in that comparison. He has to leave his prize behind every single time, doomed to return home empty-handed.

Tonight won’t be any different.

The front door rattles too loudly for his liking, creates a risk of questions being asked that he doesn’t want to answer, so Hyunjin utilizes the fire escape that abuts the westernmost wall of the factory. The late October air has left the metal rungs of that ladder so cold that they circle back to burning, but it doesn’t slow him down. Nothing ever does when it comes to you.

If anything, the pain drives him to pick up the pace. Him and his stinging palms make short work of the obstacle. Just as quickly, he hits the ground running towards the freestanding garage that sits to the east of the factory. Once he reaches it, panting slightly, he sets to work, going through the same old motions.

It doesn’t take long for Hyunjin to swap out his motorcycle’s license plate. He’s done it so many times by now that the task no longer requires conscious thought; just muscle memory and the desperation he feels to move as quickly as possible in order to reach you faster. The old plate hits the floor with a clang that’s still ringing out when he finishes affixing the new series of numbers to the back of his bike.

All these precautions are tedious bullshit, but failing to go through the motions is a surefire way to get the attention of private police. Simply put, Hyunjin doesn’t have the spare energy it would take to kill and bury whichever poor fucker attempts to cite him; nor does he have the heart to keep you waiting even longer than you have been.

Fuck.

How long has it been?

Suddenly rushing, he slings one, lean leg over the side of his bike and grabs the handlebars.

Too long.

The terrain is a thousand times harder to navigate in the dark, all divots and ditches along the winding side roads. Still, the threat of losing control of his ride is far less severe than that of betraying the compound’s location; or worse, the Black Screen’s presence anywhere, at all.

So, like always, Hyunjin stomachs the barely-sufferable thrashing and keeps the headlamp off until he makes it to the main road. Even then, he flies a kilometer or so into pitch black before he feels comfortable enough to light the way.

He doesn’t know how many kilometers he’s driven in total just to keep you, but if he had to guess, he’s cracked quadruple digits.

Worth it.

You can’t stay in one place for long enough to put down roots. The time you do stay put varies, never following a pattern. Daegu for eight weeks, then to Anyang for three, Namyangju for five…

Busan, he thinks to himself as he reaches the expressway.

Busan was the last place he held you, a month or so ago. Some shitty little apartment near the docks, where the ceiling leaked over your bed and made a fucking mess of things. Nothing could be done to fix it without calling too much attention to you, but it didn’t matter; he fucked you on the living room floor, and you slept like a baby against his chest, bed be damned.

He hasn’t felt rested since.

The drive from Changwon to Busan takes thirty-five minutes, if Hyunjin recalls correctly — he always does — and it burns him up to know that the trip would take half that time if he could drive as fast as his heart races.

But he can’t.

He won’t, not when a traffic stop could ruin both your lives. It feels like crawling, abiding by limits.

And fuck, he’s sick to death of those.

As he drives, the rubble eventually gives way to a proper cityscape. The neon signs of Busan bleed out into the dark, so hazy in the smog that the words themselves are lost. It’s only color — sharp reds and blues — not substance that offsets the inky black. The massive buildings that those signs are affixed to stab upwards into the sky until their tops disappear, like they don’t ever stop at all.

Still, despite the seemingly endless interiors around him, Hyunjin sees houseless people everywhere he looks. It’d be more comfortable to look away as he winds down side streets to your last known location, but he doesn’t. Even though he has nothing else to give them, he can spare the courtesy of acknowledging that they exist.

Nobody else does.

Every time he raises a hand off the handlebars to wave at someone, they wave right back. Just for a second, he forgets that the city isn’t always unkind. It’s a feeling he’d bottle if he could, the little glimmer of hope.

When Hyunjin reaches the docks, he parks his bike behind a boat house and heads on foot from there. Up the sidewalk, around the block to the back entrance to your apartment. The rational half of his brain knows you won’t still be there; the lovesick half doesn’t care. It signals his heart to beat faster with every step, damn close to breaking through his chest when he picks the lock and pushes the door open.

The four flights of stairs between him and your place are taken two steps at a time, not only due to his eagerness but the shitty construction. Even the steps he deems safe enough to touch creak beneath his weight, like they’re screaming at him for the intrusion. He ignores it, and soon enough, he’s outside your door.

This time, Hyunjin doesn’t need to pick the lock. Your door is open. Everything that used to be behind it is gone.

He presses his palm against the center of his chest, glances down, and mutters, “Told you so.”

With you and your few earthly possessions absent, he’s left to a scavenger hunt — finding some hint of where you’ve gone next. You’re far more creative than he is, which makes this part even harder.

As bitter as the necessity makes him, he’s thankful for the amount of times he’s had to do it. Practice has made him the tiniest bit smarter. Now, he spots the empty bottle sitting on a windowsill, and he doesn’t immediately assume that it’s trash.

Hyunjin jogs over to it and picks it up, grinning instantly.

“Gyeongju beopju,” he murmurs as reads the label aloud. Then, knowing full fucking well that you can’t hear him, he says it anyway, “You beautiful genius.”

Only one question remains, and it’s the hardest one to solve: where in Gyeongju?

For good reason, you can’t leave an address floating around. That fact doesn’t appease the frustration creeping up from his stomach, transforming into a groan on its way out of his mouth. With an exasperated breath, he lets his hand drop, though he maintains his grip on the bottle. It’s damn near inaudible, but there’s a muffled sound within it as it jostles in his grip.

The fuck?

Seeing no other option, Hyunjin screws off the cap. On the inner part of that metal, he finds a strip of double-sided tape and nothing else; whatever you stuck to it must’ve been shaken loose.

Beautiful, perfect genius.

He tilts the bottle upside down with his free hand ready to catch what falls: a ripped-up piece of paper, rolled up like a scroll. There, written in your neat script, is a lead — 8793 & 2441, which he assumes designates the street address and apartment number. Directly below those, you’ve written “red”, which he doesn’t know what the fuck to make of.

One way or another, he’ll figure it out.

The race to Gyeongju swallowed another hour of his time. Midway through the second leg of his never-ending journey, the sky opened up. Rain came down in sheets so strong that he almost gave up, which isn’t a decision he would’ve made lightly. He didn’t — thank god — because the downpour started to peter out around the time he crossed the city limits.

Now, idling off to the side of the road in the city’s center, he’s soaked and thoroughly chilled to the bone, but at least he can see.

Capitalizing on his newly unobstructed vision, Hyunjin fishes his mobile out from the zippered pocket of his jacket. The leather glove adorning his right hand is shoved back into that empty space. He rapidly thumbs through applications, eyes scanning just as fast until he locates the navigation. To avoid any unwanted attention, he keeps the screen confined to the glass, rather than projecting it into the space in front of him.

A quick search through the city’s most recent map gives him three locations with “8793” as the street number. One possibility is ruled out immediately when he zooms in on the satellite image and finds a vacant lot. The two remaining results both appear to be high-rise apartment buildings, both of which could be this month’s pit stop. Notably, neither building is red, nor does the color feature in either of the street names.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself.

Once again, he swaps his mobile and glove, then hastily stuffs his fingers back into the latter. With a sigh, he sinks back down onto his bike and makes to leave for the nearest of the two possibilities. It’s not until he reaches the intersection that the realization hits him.

You live your life on the outskirts.

There’s simply no way that you’d pick a place so close to downtown.

Disregarding the blaring horns and shouted obscenities, he makes an illegal turn to reposition himself on the opposite side of the road. It’s for the best that no one he cut off can hear him laughing over the roar of his engine. All their rage is drowned out by the screech of his tires as he peels the fuck out of there.

Five more minutes slip away while he speeds off to the northeast side of town. Thankfully, when he locates what he presumes is your building, your final hint begins to make some fucking sense.

Around the block sits a bar with boarded up windows, tiny fragments of glass still littering the sidewalk where a break-in must’ve occurred at some point in the recent past. On a hunch, Hyunjin looks up at the street lights framing the exterior of The Red Door. His suspicion is confirmed immediately.

The CCTV cameras covering the area were smashed to shit, along with the bar’s windows.

You were giving him a safe place to park. Damn near throwing his bike down in the process, he stumbles off to your building, muttering as he goes, “Beautiful, perfect, considerate genius.”

Hyunjin ages forty years in the time it takes the elevator to drag him up to the twenty-fourth floor.

When he finally steps out and the doors close again behind him, force of habit checks for any people or cameras that may have eyes on him. Finding none, he whirls back around to face the closed, metal doors behind him. Frozen fingers tug at the black, cloth mask that sits over his mouth and nose until his face is fully visible.

It’s reckless and melodramatic — he’ll openly admit to being both of those things — but he needs to see it to believe that he still looks as young as he did when he entered the car in the first place. Oh, thank god. Drenched and windswept as he may be, he finds some amount of solace in the absence of wrinkles.

With the mask secured again over his features, he heads off in the direction of apartment 2441, praying to anyone listening that he didn’t fuck this all up along the way. His brain can’t hold a candle to yours; and this certainly wouldn’t be the first time that he got so caught up in thinking like you that he missed the mark completely.

After wandering down a hallway far fucking longer than it seems, he reaches the door he’s been seeking. Despite the anxious fluttering in his stomach, Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate; he immediately lifts his arm to grab hold of the knob. It pulls away before he can even wrap his hand around it, leaving him frozen on the doorstep with his pulse hammering in his ears.

Transfixed, he watches the splinter of light on the floor grow wider until his curiosity wins out. A quick glance upward reveals an occupant he’s never laid eyes on before, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to study them fully. Through the narrow gap, fingers far warmer than his own encircle his wrist and pull him through the opening. Behind him, the door closes again so quietly that his stumbling drowns out the sound.

Opting to ignore his surroundings for the time being, Hyunjin tilts his head curiously to the side and stares straight ahead. No matter how many times his gaze sweeps over the person in front of him, he finds absolutely nothing familiar.

Not the irises, not the hair, not even the bone structure.

He arches an eyebrow. “Impressive timing, opening the door before anyone even knocks.”

“Were you planning on knocking?” His expression is reflected right back at him. “Since when is that a thing you do?”

Grinning wolfishly, he turns his wrist to capture the hand still holding onto him. All it takes is a gentle tug to eliminate the distance. As if it’s a reflex, two hands reach up to the mask obscuring the lower half of his face, carefully ushering the fabric down until it pools around his neck.

“How’d you know it was me?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Nobody manages to notice him when he’s standing in the same room, let alone through a door with no peephole. His measured steps never make a sound, either, which makes it all the more insane that his presence was sensed before he intentionally gave himself away.

Arms loop around his neck and pull him closer as feet push up on tiptoe.

“I could ask you the same question.”

Hyunjin’s answer — that he would know you anywhere, that he could find you in the dark with touch alone — is eerily close to the one he receives.

“A sixth sense,” you chirp.

Though everything else about you has changed since he last saw you, that voice is the common denominator. It strikes a chord deep in his chest, plucking his heartstrings masterfully in a way only you can. The sound is so much better when it’s not looping hopelessly in his head; when it slips through lips finally close enough to kiss.

So, that’s exactly what he does.

There’s no word Hyunjin can think of to describe the desperation behind his movements — at least, not in any language he’s ever heard. He lifts and you jump, and your fingers are threading through his hair with an identical, insatiable need to be closer before your body even settles fully in his arms. Like your legs around his waist, your mouth opens up for him, sighing softly into his when your lips crash together.

He can hardly catch his breath, but he doesn’t give a shit. Air in his lungs isn’t worth half as much as your tongue licking into his mouth. Gripping the soft flesh of your thighs and letting your weight warm his palms is more than enough to keep him alive. Hyunjin clings to you, and it hits him then — so forceful and sudden that it almost knocks a tear loose:

He’s not a ghost when he’s with you.

Clinging to him as closely as you are, you notice the way he shivers. Every article of clothing on him is rain-drenched and chilled to the touch; his eagerness doesn’t make him tremble any less.

You break the kiss. A concerned frown takes his place on your lips. “Cold?”

He nods, bumping the tip of his nose against yours affectionately in the process, silently begging for you to kiss him again. You lean away and leave him no choice but to frown, too, albeit much less cutely than you.

You’re quick to soothe. You glance over your right shoulder towards a hallway he can’t see the end of. When you turn your head back around to him, a coy smile lights up the dark.

“A hot shower might help,” you suggest. You tilt your head to the side, as if there’s anything either of you really need to consider here. “What do you think?”

Hyunjin thinks carrying you off towards the bathroom answers your question well enough.

With how feverishly you kiss him, he’s effectively flying blind, moving as quickly as he can while trying not to stumble. He has to keep one arm off you, extended, to prevent a collision; but he eventually reaches his destination. A measured kick opens the half-closed door far enough to move your bodies through it.

The same arm that guided him to the bathroom swipes uselessly over the wall in an attempt to find the light switch without turning his head. You seem to sense his struggle, pulling away kiss-bitten to handle the task yourself.

It’s then that Hyunjin truly gets to drink in the sight of you, radiant despite the flickering fluorescent overhead.

It’s then that his heart truly starts hammering away in his chest, pumping so eagerly that he finds it hard to hear you say, “You need to let me go.”

He knows you’re referring to his hold on you now, which keeps you from reaching down to the shower handle. Those words sting, nonetheless.

“We’ve got a good thirty minutes’ worth of hot water.” You slip through his hands and immediately push up onto your toes to kiss him again, like you know exactly where his train of thought has gone. “Then, I’ve got a warm bed under a leak-free ceiling.”

For how long, though?

Hyunjin shakes his head to knock those thoughts out of the way. He refuses to spend another second thinking about anything else. For now, he’s here.

He’s with you — beautiful, considerate, genius you — and you’re glancing over your shoulder at him as you check the water’s temperature on the back of your hand, smiling with your eyes alone. With a built-in fondness that never changes, even if the eyes themselves do.

“Coming?” You chirp. You flick water at him to wake him from the trance he’d fallen into while watching you.

Hyunjin raises his eyebrows quickly then drops them, eyes sweeping over your body and making you shiver on instinct. “At least once.”

You want to roll your eyes — he knows you do — but you’re too flustered. You’re always so easy to play with. So shy that you pinch your bottom lip between your teeth when you reach out to help him shrug his jacket off his shoulders.

With a muffled thud, wet leather hits dry tile. Shirts, shoes, and all the rest of the tangible barriers between you fall by the wayside. The two of you resettle within the steam of the shower, and his hands revel in your softness the second they can.

He kisses an apology into your bare shoulder for the shock his cold fingers press into your waist. Yours, perfectly warm, thread through his already wet hair.

Somehow, it’s your touch that sparks a shiver.

“Missed you.” Your eyes flutter shut as his lips travel nearer to your neck. “I still do,” you amend, breathless by the time his mouth reaches your pulse point. How a heartbeat can feel like home, he’ll never know. “I’m never not missing you.”

Hyunjin’s palms follow the curves of your waist down to your hips, grip solid as he pulls you flush against his chest, kissing up the column of your neck until your head tips back. You’re in the perfect position to gaze up at him when your eyelids finally find the strength to stay open.

“Have I ever told you what I think about?” He murmurs. His hands dip further down to caress your perfect ass, massaging the flesh with both hands until he works a quiet whine out of you. “When I want you but can’t have you?”

Your pupils dilate so fast that it’s almost comical. Hyunjin lets a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He lets his eyes drift, too, so he can watch rivulets of warm water streak down your chest. Halfway to hypnotized, he speaks in a low, reverent tone:

“Think about holding you so close that I can feel your nipples start to peak.”

Experimentally, he raises his hand and flicks his thumb over one. It glides easily — slippery when wet — and you love the sensation, judging by the way you gasp.

When he moves towards you, you seem to anticipate where he’s headed next. You inch backwards until your spine rests against the shower wall, shivering slightly against the chill.

“I picture you writhing in my arms, pinned to a wall just like this one.” Left palm flat against the tile near your head, he cages you in, tilting his head down so that his forehead touches yours. “Your fingernails pressing crescents into my shoulders, your legs wrapped around me.”

You whimper, right on cue, when his right hand drops.

“Spilling all those sweet little sounds of yours right into my ear.”

The knuckle of his index finger traces a straight line down, down, down your stomach. Your breath catches in your throat because he keeps going, finds you with his fingertips, wet and wanting.

“Hyunjin,” you plead, voice barely loud enough to overpower the drum of water landing at your feet.

He ducks his head, lips now close enough to your ear that they touch while he whispers, “Will you let me?”

You gasp when Hyunjin’s middle finger begins to swirl over your clit.

“Can I show you?”

Though he’s better at hiding it than you, his ministrations have him fucked up, too. His cock hangs heavy in the minimal space between you; his whole body begs for yours and yet, when you nod, he limits himself to one digit. Your arousal coats that finger like gloss in the second before it slips inside of you.

You’re boneless, but you manage to wobble off from the bathroom towards your bedroom, nonetheless. As you do, you pull your half-damp hair up into a crooked knot at the top of your head, unintentionally leaving tendrils behind. They cling to the wetness of your shoulders, not budging a millimeter despite your movement.

Hyunjin pads along behind you, and he can’t help but smirk. You clung to his shoulders the exact same way, only letting go when the hot water and your shaking legs gave out simultaneously.

Like you can sense his smugness, you look back at him. You don’t call him out the way he expects. Instead, you smile sheepishly. “It’s bleeding, isn’t it?”

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “It’s what?” Frantically, his wide eyes dart across your exposed skin for some injury he must’ve missed. Something he must’ve caused. There are old scars, sure, but nothing fresh to tip him off. “Is what — ?”

“The dye!” You amend quickly, gesturing over your shoulder.

This clears up his panic but not his confusion.

Chuckling softly, you turn back around with a shake of your head and continue your steps towards the dresser at the far side of your room. Your explanation continues as you go.

There’s no condescension in your expression or tone — there never is — but Hyunjin thinks it’d be warranted. You know more than he could ever hope to about a million different things, all of which he’d willingly pay tuition costs to learn about.

It’s simple, it’s sweet, and it’s effective.

“Hot water opens up the cuticle of the strand and flushes the color out. Red molecules don’t penetrate as deeply — they’re the biggest — so they wash out super easily, unfortunately.”

You frown again and tug open the middle drawer, mumbling about your poor white towels while you root through your limited selection of clothing.

He’s so fond of you that he really might drop dead, so he jokes his way around it, doesn’t speak the quiet part out loud.

“Shit. You spoil me, Professor.” Hyunjin whistles, genuinely impressed and only slightly devilish. The unexpected noise prompts you to look up at him again with startled eyes. “First, the shower sex, now a chemistry lesson —”

He has to cut himself off to catch the sweatpants you hurl at him. The interruption doesn’t wipe the teasing look off his face, though; and it certainly doesn’t distract from the flustered look on yours. You try like hell to hide his effect on you, but it only gets worse when he swaps out the towel hanging low on his hips for the clothes you’ve given him.

After shooting you an impish grin, Hyunjin twirls around, if only for the split second it takes him to drop himself into your bed. And fuck, just like every other time, he wonders how either of you ever manage to leave it. Here in your sheets, it’s all weightless — your joint baggage, the world’s expectations, the thousand things neither one of you can say out loud.

“Must be sore from the drive,” you hum. “Tired, too.”

Hyunjin can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

The urge he feels to close his eyes and bury his face in pillows that smell like you is overwhelming. That familiar floral perfume of yours calms him so quickly and completely that he could fall asleep in an instant. Really, that’s exactly what he’d do if the clock wasn’t running, but it is, and he knows better than to waste the limited time he gets to spend staring up at you.

So, he just says, “I’ve never felt better,” because all of these things can be true at once.

You’re too focused to notice him watching you, but Hyunjin doesn’t mind. While you rummage around for the shorts that pair with your short-sleeved, button-up pajama top, he commits the current state of you to memory.

It feels like a moral duty, filling up his brain with as many mental snapshots as possible. After all, this version of you will be gone the next time he sees you. You and all your iterations deserve to be remembered, even if Hyunjin is the only one alive who can do it. Unfortunately, there’s a blank space in his scrapbook. A piece of your story he’ll never be able to speak to, and it comes right at the start of it.

One of fate’s cruelest twists is that he didn’t get to meet you — the original, anyways — before your survival became contingent on reinvention. By the time he stumbled into your life, you’d already done your best to destroy all the evidence of who you used to be; burned up your past with a box of matches until no trace was left.

And even if photos did still exist of who you used to be, it’d be too dangerous for you to possess them. For over a year now, you’ve been running from your past, hopping from city to city and modifying your appearance with every move.

As physically and mentally taxing as those procedures must be, they’re necessary. A single slip-up would cash in that price on your head. Considering the role you used to occupy, that would be a massive payout. It’s a safe assumption to make that the interest only compounds further with every day you evade them.

To Hyunjin’s knowledge, you’re the only Ulsan defector to last this long on the outside. It’s virtually impossible for ex-employees to escape at all with their memories still intact; even less likely that they’ll evade the bounty hunters that come next. After that, it’s only a matter of time — not if, but when they’re discovered — until Ulsan’s retention team comes calling. Their luck runs out then, if they ever had any to begin with.

Worse, their subsequent deaths aren’t even a blip on the general public’s radar.

Absolutely nobody bats a fucking eye at deaths by “natural causes”. And thanks to iron-clad non-disclosure agreements, nobody knows that the trail of corpses are connected in the first place. By design, the string that ties their bodies back to a common employer is invisible.

Knowing what life would be like otherwise, most don’t even attempt to flee. Understandably, they give in to the cleanse when their employment is terminated, one way or another. They live the rest of their lives without so much of an echo of their time at Ulsan.

You’ve been slipping him intel about the corporate experience since he met you, but Hyunjin has never asked about yours. Speaking any of it out loud feels like a summoning spell. Like saying that name in the mirror three times will invite your demons in.

“I miss the blue, I think.”

Hyunjin props himself up on his elbow, frowning. You finish buttoning that soft, silk top of yours and shuffle over to join him, melting into his side the second your body slips under the comforter.

He counters, “The red looks just as good,” and kisses the top of your head to emphasize his point.

You wiggle enough to look up at him with your nose scrunched thoughtfully. “I thought you liked the black best.”

This time, there’s a tiny bit of crookedness in the bridge of your nose like it’s been broken before and didn’t quite heal right. That attention to detail — creating lived-in features that haven’t actually been lived in — is probably why you’ve lasted this long. Anyone else that goes under the knife as often as you tends to seek perfection, not realism.

Funny how the choice that sets you apart is what lets you blend in.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, looks you dead in your newly hazel eyes, and he says nothing about the fact that they were most recently green. “I like them all best.”

This, like any compliment, immediately makes you shy. Before he can blink, your face is buried in the crook of his neck, warming him from the outside in. You mumble something against his skin that he can’t quite catch. You must know it, too, because you reposition yourself to free up your mouth.

“You’ve finally stopped shivering,” you note before leaving a solitary, soft kiss on the side of his throat.

He nods to the best of his ability. “Sufficiently thawed.”

You glance up at him at the same moment that he looks down at you. It’s written all over your face — don’t you dare — but Hyunjin always does, doesn’t he? And he always will, so long as your eyes keep going wide like this.

“Can’t say it was the steam that did it, though. I think you fucked the chill right out of me.”

The tiny groan you let go of gets lost under the playful smack of your hand against his chest. You put no pressure behind it whatsoever — he didn’t feel a thing — but he gasps, nonetheless. His head crashes back against the pillows; his eyes fall shut. And because he’s a little shit before he is anything else, he goes slack-jawed, tongue hanging limply from the corner of his mouth.

“You might be the most dramatic person that’s ever lived. You know that, right?”

His reply comes like a death rattle. It’s automatic, it’s ominous, and there’s no taking it back now:

“Truly unfortunate that you have to be loved by me, of all people.”

That admission has been a long time coming, but Hyunjin has tried to hold it back for the same reason you have. For the same reason you don’t say it back now, even though he feels it seep into every other word. Calling this what it is — love — is a promise neither one of you can keep.

It’s the worst thing he could’ve said to you because he can’t act on it; and it might be the worst thing you’ve ever heard, so you just return to your spot, nuzzled into his neck.

“Tell me what I’ve missed.” You deflect, lips tickling against the spot just below his ear. “What are you all up to?”

Hyunjin used to wonder why you wanted to know every mundane detail about his and his comrades’ daily lives — boredom with your own or genuine interest? Now, he doesn’t bother splitting hairs. It’s both, and he has no fucking business passing judgment. Without a community of your own, you deserve whatever pieces of his that he can give.

“Well,” Hyunjin sighs, fingertips drawing nonsense shapes on your back. With his prints burned off, they glide especially smoothly over the silky fabric of your pajama top. Yet another bonus. “Got some new blood right after I saw you last. One of them was a childhood friend of Felix’s, and she’s — uhh — a little rough around the edges.”

Your little chuckle makes him shiver.

“He loves her, though — like, truly, madly, deeply loves her — so, I think he’s uniquely capable of refining her enough to be useful.” He pauses for a moment to consider whether or not he wants to say it. In the end, he can’t stop himself. “It’s nice to see him happy. That shit’s so rare, living the way we do. He deserves it.”

“Hyunjin, so do you.”

This time, he doesn’t say what he wants to.

He doesn't ask you to run away with him, knowing damn well that it’s even more dangerous to try than to stay. Neither of you would willingly leave loose ends, anyway. There’s too much left to be done, and all of it comes before his own happiness. It always has.

He doesn’t ask you to come back with him, either. As much as he wants to offer up the Black Screen to keep you safe, there’s no guarantee that they could. You’d only turn him down if he tried, remind him that your proximity makes the target on their heads even bigger. Hyunjin suspects that this isn’t your only fear, however.

Trust is a luxury you can’t afford; and it’d cost a lot of it for an ex-corp to cross the line in the sand. If you did, you’d be walking into a collective hell-bent on destroying the entity you used to associate with — into a factory full of mercenary anarchists, not many of whom make the best listeners. Your story might fall on deaf ears; or worse, breed suspicion about your motives.

It’s all fucked, top to bottom.

After another pause, Hyunjin responds with a truth so unattainable that it feels like a lie. “Someday,” he murmurs. “When this is all over.”

If that time ever comes.

“Are you close?” Your question surprises him because you almost sound hopeful, which isn’t a word he’d ever previously thought to associate with either of you. You mistake his stunned silence for misunderstanding, so you clarify, “To a plan, I guess.”

Hyunjin doesn’t know what to say next, so he takes your hand from where it rests on his stomach and pulls it up to his lips. They brush over your knuckles slowly, a failed attempt to avoid the inevitable.

He’s never — not once — asked you about Ulsan. It’s the last thing he wants to do, tearing away from the limited time he gets to exist with you out of context, but he can’t think of any other way around it now.

What if this is the only way to someday?

When he stalls, you excavate yourself from his side and prop yourself up on one elbow to assess him. It’s more concern than anything else, the gentle way in which you look at him. If only it didn’t make him feel more guilty. If only it didn’t cause his question to stick in his throat on its way out, forcing him to clear it.

“Have you ever heard of the Bliss Beta?”

It must stun you to hear it because you freeze solid.

Fuck.

He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t have brought it up, should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut, but it only spills out faster:

“Ulsan is running some clandestine clinical trials for something called the Bliss Beta. It’s —”

“— I know what it is,” you interrupt quietly.

“You do?”

You pause. There’s something unreadable in your expression that he’d normally guess after; you don’t give him the opportunity. You state it slowly. Cautiously. “I made it.”

Hyunjin is the frozen one now.

If he could make himself move, he might leave and never look back. But some persistent part of him refuses to run, refuses to accept that you truly had anything to do with the horror show wreaking havoc in neighborhoods just like this one.

If you did — if Hyunjin can force himself to swallow that truth — then he may as well fall off the grid right here and now. There would be no coming back from that, not for him.

Please tell me you’re still the person I think you are.

“It’s also what made me leave,” you explain softly. “What they wanted to do with it, I mean.”

Hyunjin’s hand is still limp around yours, so you take yours back into your lap. For a moment, you say nothing, only fidgeting with the rings around your fingers. When you finally do speak, your voice is so quiet that he has to strain to hear it, even sitting as close to you as he is.

“Ulsan was putting all its resources into cyberware, but none into addressing the side-effects. I was naive enough to think that I could change that.” You shake your head, letting out a humorless laugh. “I applied in the first place because I wanted to find a way to treat cyberpsychosis. All of these people are replacing every single part of their biological bodies with extremely powerful, inorganic materials…”

Your voice trails off at the end as a grimace takes over. Even though your features are different now, that subdued look of utter hopelessness in your eyes is the same. He could pick it out of a lineup if he had to.

“It’s such a slippery slope, Hyunjin.” You exhale, voice tinged with a sadness he can’t fully understand. “When you fuck with a person’s reality to that extent, that recklessly, and add in the kind of omnipotence that comes with all of these modifications... They lose themselves in it.”

The sort of people you’re talking about feature heavily on the news due to the horrendous acts of violence they’re caught committing, but no network dares to show the kind of empathy for them that you currently are. They only show the squads of WraithCo. goons it takes to neutralize them — a sterile, media term for “shot like a dog in the street”. Try as he might, Hyunjin can’t recall a single one of these stories that doesn’t end in state-sanctioned murder.

He looks up from your hands in your lap to your face, seemingly catching you by surprise. To his surprise, your eyes are swimming.

In all the time he’s known you, you’ve never cried — not about the state of the world or the shitty cards you’ve been dealt, time and time again. Until now, Hyunjin wasn’t sure if you could cry. It always seemed safe to assume that you’d either given up or forgotten how. Modified your way around the process, maybe. Cut the flow to the faucet in the course of your renovations.

Reflexively, he takes your hand back in his and squeezes once to ground you. Maybe it’s stupid, but he prays that some part of you will light up the way it normally does when you have the opportunity to educate him about something new.

His favorite teacher, the best there is.

“What did you design, Professor?” Hyunjin asks.

Please work.

You crack the world’s tiniest smile at the nickname — one you’ve always rolled your eyes at — and it’s enough for him. There’s a sliver of excitement in your voice again, too.

Proof of life.

“So…” You suck in a breath, like you’ll miss more than a few as you ramble. “The problem is mechanical, even if it presents as psychiatric, right? You can’t rely on psychotropic medication to soothe a brain that’s gone haywire in a literal sense. The solution is hidden within the problem itself, you know?”

You pause and glance over at him for some confirmation that he’s following. He’s doing his fucking best, but this shit is so far outside of his wheelhouse. You take the borderline grimace he gives you and run with it, gesturing wildly with your free hand while you talk.

“I designed a chip to be inserted here —” You reach over and run your fingertip over the small, titanium datashard slot behind his right ear.

Most people use this port to store and share data in the same way its distant predecessor — the universal serial bus — was used, generations ago. Having started out as a military exclusive, this tech weaved its way into the corporate sectors following the war. From there, it trickled down to civilian populations, who primarily use it for media consumption.

Of course, the run-off always lands in the gutter. Edge runners and their neighbors in the underbelly swap maps, schematics, and the like, passing intel from person to person without leaving an easily discoverable paper trail. Money, too, that’ll never cross paths with a bank or an audit.

Their more tech-literate counterparts — net runners and back alley doctors, for example — pad their ill-gotten income by peddling programmed datashards. Ones that enhance hacking capabilities or bolster combat prowess, as if the recipient is main-lining skills; no practice necessary.

Hyunjin, to the contrary, doesn’t use his shard slot at all. He’s never been adept at this tech shit, and he can’t be fucking bothered to learn.

“— with the goal of de-stimulating the frontal lobe.” You move your hand to brush your fingertips gently across his forehead.

Your touch is gone too soon.

Pausing for a moment, your shoulders and the corners of your mouth droop downwards. Dejected, you sound almost apologetic when you eventually say, “Not a perfect fix, by any means. I just figured that if you can mute some of the noise that’s overriding these people’s true personalities, you can negate the impulse to —”

“— Peel people apart like perilla leaves,” Hyunjin mutters darkly. He’s nowhere near as tactful as you are, so he sees no use in trying. “And if they’re not not doing that, then it’s less likely that —”

Looking now at him, you chirp, “The last thing they see in this life is their own brain smeared on the sidewalk, yes.”

Hyunjin stares at you with his jaw hanging open, absolutely shaken to his core that something like that, something he would say, just came out of your mouth. Flabbergasted is too weak a word; his whole goddamn world has been upended. And he doesn’t know or care what it says about him as a person that he wants to kiss you more now than he ever has before.

Seemingly unaware of the way you just broke his brain, your gaze shifts back down to your joined hands. You go quiet again, smile slipping away as you fade in real time. He fucking hates it. Hates that reality always finds a way to creep back in, even though it’s never once been welcome here.

It’s heavy.

It hurts.

“It could’ve been great.”

Hyunjin knows you’re talking about your project, but that’s not all he hears.

You could’ve been great if this world wasn’t anything like it is. Instead, your genius is tucked away in one shithole apartment after another.

You could’ve been great together, but the time and place are all wrong.

It all could’ve been great, but it isn’t.

He’s at a loss for words now, so he simply nods.

“I don’t know what I expected, signing on to work for Nam Yeongsun,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know why I thought he’d be any different than the rest of them.”

Them, meaning the other fundamentalist, venture capitalists hiding democracy behind a paywall.

Your assessment is mostly correct. The only thing that sets Ulsan’s Chief Executive Officer apart is his mastery of dog-whistle politics. Charming demagogue that he is, he’s the best at what he does — subtly reinforcing prejudices that dwell below the surface.

“He took what I created and perverted it.”

Hyunjin’s no stranger to your fiercely passionate side, but he’s never seen a simmering rage quite like this one.

You spit it out like it’s poison: “Nam is trying to eradicate what he deems to be unproductive traits, as if you can bug fix poverty and addiction.”

A wave of nausea crashes over Hyunjin so forcefully that his palms start to sweat.

The targeted advertisements in low-income areas.

The promise of cash for participation without any explanation.

Oh, fuck.

“He’s hijacking people,” Hyunjin croaks, struggling to breathe. “That thing you said about the frontal lobe,” he mutters before swallowing hard. “They’re losing themselves, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t think it was possible.” The tears in your eyes threaten to spill over. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t make a difference; your voice still shakes, trembling alongside your hands. “But if they’ve made it all the way to human trials, that means they’ve actually figured out a way to do it.”

Hyunjin is torn between wanting to scream, faint, and vomit. None of them could adequately purge him of the gnawing sense of doom that swirls in his gut; there’s no quick fix, if a fix even exists at all.

But the boulder is already flying downhill at breakneck speed, and he can’t stop it. Throwing his body in front of it won’t make a difference. That feeling of abject helplessness only swells when you glance at him sideways and up the ante.

“Hyunjin, that’s not the worst of it.”

He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to ask and shoulder the burden of knowing, but refusing to bear witness to the truth is what made this state the way it is. Hyunjin doesn’t have a choice.

“What could possibly be worse than that?”

“Nam’s charge has always been to eradicate societal ills. He wants abstention, whether it’s drugs or antisocial behavior — forced, if it can’t be willful.” Your voice gets weaker, the more you say, but you don’t stop. “If he really found a way to dig his fingers into the brains of undesirable people, he’ll never stop at one form of abstinence.”

“You're talking about eugenics, right?” He struggles to swallow the bile rising in his throat.

“If this beta makes it out of the trial phase, I’m talking about classicide.”

The ride back to the compound breaks Hyunjin’s heart every time he has to make it. With how tight he grips the handlebars now, his fingers might break, too, but he doesn’t give a shit. All he can think about is the small, metal datashard in his pocket, and the look on your face when you’d handed it to him.

“You have to give this to Spider, Hyunjin. Nobody else. Do you understand?”

Every part of that exchange had been a plea. You’d pulled the tech out of a locked box in your nightstand and transferred it to his palm with a desperation in your eyes that he’d never seen before — from anyone. You’d closed his fingers around it and kept your hands over his, holding him tight, and he made the mistake of asking why.

In hindsight, Hyunjin wishes he hadn’t.

“The encryption. If someone doesn’t peel back the security correctly, layer by layer, it’ll flag your location.”

If he’d kept his mouth shut, he wouldn’t have to know why you clung to him the way that you did, looking at him like it was the last time you’d ever get to do it.

“Everything I know about the beta is on that shard — the program, the lab’s coordinates, its security, and its vulnerabilities.”

Your voice broke then.

“They’ll know the source of the information as soon as you access it, but they cannot find out where you are when you do.”

When he felt the weight of your words, Hyunjin refused to accept them for what they were: a sacrifice. Ulsan’s retention team, who currently has no idea you’re still in the peninsula — still alive — will tear the New Republic apart to find you, and when they do —

He kept repeating that there had to be another way to prevent this rollout, that he’d find one, he promised; but you touched his cheek, and he knew:

The only way to Ulsan is through you.

On his way out the door, you’d stopped him with one hand around his wrist. Kissed him hard, cheeks tear-stained, and tried your best to get the rest out through a tightening throat.

“Hyunjin,” you’d whispered, then your voice trailed off.

All the time you’d both spent swallowing it down made it too difficult to vocalize, but Hyunjin still heard it in all that quiet. He took the baton from you then, speaking just as softly, just as sure. “I know,” he promised. “I love you, too.”

And now, as he races back to the compound with your death sentence in his pocket, Hyunjin knows something else for certain:

When you’re gone, you’ll haunt him, too.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet @ldysmfrst @obeythemasters @moni-logues

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adrianasunderworld · 2 years

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Yet another round of Papa Crewel

If Yuu didn’t know how to sew already, they are going to learn now. Crewel cares a lot about clothes, how they're cared for and tailored. Man has known how to make clothes as long as he can remember. He insists that Yuu at least learn the basics as a valuable life skill. You never know when something needs to be fixed or tailored. If Yuu already knows, and even enjoys it, this is a great way to bond. A hobby they can share. Yuu has full access to Crewels sewing room. If there are two people messing around in there, it may finally widdle down his fabric stash. Maybe.

Another of Crewels interests is cars. his vintage red convertible is his pride and joy. He’s currently in the process of restoring another car. Whenever Yuu is over for the weekend, he’ll make them hold the flashlight for him while working on the car. And yes, Grim is not excused from this either. He’s small, he can bring the light under the car.

Crewel often has Yuu act as his assistant in class. Potion brewing and alchemy are more science than magic, but even so, sometimes there are things that do require it, and thus Yuu is unable to participate. So Crewel offered to have them help him as an assistant for class credits. Even before they got close.

Even so, spending all this time with Crewel, Yuu has found they've picked up all this information with ease. Labeling, collecting, and generally working with all the supplies made them commit it muscle memory without trying. Plus actually studying, it shouldn’t be surprising when Yuu broke the top 20 in the exam scores. Crewel was so proud of his pup.

Crewel would find it amusing if Yuu commented on a classmate. Puppy love was an adorable thing, even if Yuu tried to hide their small crushes from their father figure. But if one of the boys like Yuu instead? That is a different ballgame. These mutts think they're good enough for his pup? The audacity. Since taking in Yuu, Crewel has found he very much is the protective sort.

Crewels mother found out he had taken in a child, and immediately came to visit. Picture the most fabulous older woman you can, with furs even more luxurious than her sons, still smokes those fancy long cigarettes, and has divorced a few rich men. That’s Crewels mom. And she is fantastic. Finally, someone new for her to spoil!

Ms.Crewel is nothing if not doting. She loves to shop, and uses Yuu as an excuse to take them out. Presses them for all the gossip. Gives advice on crushes that mostly amounts to “Go for the rich ones”. She even includes Grim and gets him fresh tuna and sparkly collars. She’s going to insist on family travel next time winter break rolls around.

Crewel is usually who Yuu calls when something at Ramshackle needs to be fixed, and they don't have the ability or tools to fix it themselves. “I can’t figure out what's wrong with my dryer.” “I’ll take a look after class. If I can’t figure it out you can do laundry at the house.”

As much as Crewel has become Yuus family in this world, sometimes they'll remember the old one they left behind. Any family, friends, pets, places they liked to go. Sometimes the feeling of missing gets too much and Yuu gets emotional. Or sometimes they’ll have a nightmare about what they've experienced. Sometimes they'll dream of waking up in a coffin that never opens. Or facing an overblot all alone. Either way, usually they deal with it alone, or Grim is there to comfort if he’s awake.. But this time the little monster is dead to the world. The nightmare still fresh in their mind, Yuu wanted very badly to be comforted and not alone. They decided to try their luck, and with a blanket wrapped around them, went to Crewels room. Luckily he was still up, laying in bed reading.

“Pup, what's wrong?”

“I..I had a nightmare. Can I hang out in here?”

Crewel patted the empty side of his bed and Yuu laid down and got comfy. It reminded Crewel of when he was a child and would crawl into his mothers bed after a bad dream. Like she used to, he gently stroked Yuus head, and soon enough they were back to sleep. Eventually Crewel closed his book and turned off the light. Yuu unconsciously curling up into their new fathers side.

#twisted wonderland #divus crewel #professor crewel #twst crewel #twisted wonderland crewel #crewel x reader #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst imagines #to my fellow bitches with daddy issues #this ones for you

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clarcced · 10 months

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An Analysis of the Good Omens 2 Title Sequence and Trailer / S2 Theories

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(Edit: Almost all of these theories about S2 turned out to be wrong, but some deductions can pave the way to S3. I added edits so certain parts are clearer after watching S2. If you're still curious, let's jump right into it.)

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I have some theories I would like to share. This is going to be a long one, so buckle up.

The title sequence starts off simple: Crowley climbs his way up and Aziraphale flies down to earth, meeting each other.

On this shot two tombstones can be seen: "HERE LIES THE FORMER SHELL OF BEELZEBUB" and "Here lies... ADAM" ... so hold up. We know that there is going to be a timeskip between GO1 and GO2... But Adam died? The antichrist who singlehandedly beat the devil by shouting at him that he's not his dad, is dead already? Something's definitely up.

[Edit: I have been informed that Adam on the tombstone is not Adam Young, so, no.]

In this shot Aziraphale and Crowley are in what seems to be Hell by the pentagram on a cave wall on the top right side of the shot, with people (presumably dead, since this is hell) following them, also a desk with an old monitor by a chair on narrow rocks stacked on top of each other... Let's come back to this later.

While a reenactment of the Blitz plays out in the sequence, a big poster can be seen on the right side. The upper left side of the poster which includes one of the seeming love interests is... shot? Broken?The poster belongs to a 1946 movie by the title "Stairway To Heaven". Here's a part of the synopsis wirtten on the showtimes.com website: "A World War II RAF pilot who is forced to bail out of his crippled plane without a parachute. He wakes up to find he has landed on Earth utterly unharmed...which wasn't supposed to happen according to the rules of Heaven. A celestial court argues over whether or not to claim Carter's life or to let him survive to wed his American sweetheart." If I were to theorize "anything" based on the plot of the movie, I'd say after Crowley disguised as Aziraphale leaves heaven unharmed by the hellfire heaven is confused but keeps tabs on him, as we see Muriel visiting Aziraphale's shop in the trailer. Remember in the trailer when Aziraphale asks Gabriel why he's come to his shop and Gabriel answers "You know when it's like you don't know anything at all and that you're totally certain that everything would be better if you were near just one particular reason." well it is in my opinion %99 right before the beginning of the sneak peek and the sneak peek begins with "...So anyway, that's how I felt that so long as I came here, that something terrible might not happen to me." It was shown in the trailer as if while Gabriel was giving the before mentioned speech almost Aziraphale was thinking about Crowley - well Gabriel may somehow (coming back to this later) think of Aziraphale the same way by how he felt safe coming to his bookshop.

[Edit: Carter is Gabriel, the American sweetheart is Beelzebub.]

Crowley being Crowley possibly having watched this movie after whatever happens the Blitz between him and Aziraphale, he's gonna spiral to compare the American sweetheart in the Stairway To Heaven (1946) movie to Gabriel. Thus the lashing out.

Oh and Blitz in German means lightning, so this theory could make sense with Crowley producing lightning or Blitz. Not sure about this specific lashing out theory, but I thought I'd just throw it out there.

Moving on!

First screenshot is from the title sequence with two posters "The Fabulous Ladies Of Camelot" written on them. In the latter screenshot we can see the Ladies Of Camelot and one other person standing behind Aziraphale.

In this scene in the title sequence Crowley and Aziraphale on stage - Aziraphale being in his Ladies Of Camelot stage costume. The curtains unveil.

In the title sequence right after the curtains unveil Aziraphale and Crowley fly around each other - which is quite romantic, two hypothetical worlds with a bridge is seen - then the bridge breaks in half and the camera spirals sideways. In the background a type of space phenomenon is seen, which I interpreted with some doubt as a reconstruction by the Good Omens animators/graphic designers of the Hubble Space Telescope's photograph of The Pillars of Creation (Source: NASA). Or it could be a space photograph of something else entirely, but let's entertain this idea.

[Edit: Turns out this specific space phenomenon used in the title sequence is called "Elephant's Trunk Nebula". Pillars of Creation also consist of Elephant's Trunk nebulae, but alas, I was wrong. Thanks to @burbuur for the info!]

If we take this interpretation and make it into a theory, with the bridge between Crowley and Aziraphale's worlds torn, which are heaven and hell, and what bridges these two worlds is death - who can't be killed (or can they?) as we've seen in the first season - with the metaphorical pillars of creation also being present in the scene, death... dies? Or vanishes? And creation gets out of control? Let us examine this theory.

In the title sequence after the scene where Crowley and Aziraphale enter a cave, a delivery man with either grey or white wings can be seen carrying a box (0:10).

Next time we see this exact box is when Crowley and Aziraphale are leading everyone to an old movie theater - the box is reflected on the screen. The only remaining Horseman of the apocalypse - which these boxes were delivered to - is death, so why hasn't it been opened? We saw the winged person carrying the package (presumably after their death, again) but couldn't deliver it maybe? I say not possible, since The International Express Man can deliver anything anywhere anytime, so the reason the package hasn't been opened is because the recipient is either dead or doesn't want to be found.

Then the audience is transported from two dimensional third person perspective to a third dimentional first person perspective, the screen rips and we the audience walk the bridge through statues left and right - on the left side are winged statues with a warm yellow light barely shining on them, on the right side also stands a winged figure, but a colder white-ish/blue-ish light shining brightly on the statue. This imagery of warm and cold is represented in Good Omens as angels and demons. If we take the "everything is falling apart because one of the pillars of creation is gone" arc and apply it to this shot, it can be said that not even heaven and hell and heaven breaks, but the fourth wall breaks as well - which could be what Gabriel was meant to warn Aziraphale about.

Remember the computer and the chair in hell? Who would have a computer and a chair in hell? Well...

Also remember Death playing an arcade game in season one? By their style choices regarding clothing, motorbike and games it seems likely that Death is an old fashioned entity, which suggests that old monitor could also be his. In an unreachable spot, the stones stacked on top of each other barely hanging on the verge of falling apart, no one would bother them. A perfect spot, which is now empty.

Also have to point out something I hadn't realized before, but on the left arcade the player with the highest score is Sir Terry Pratchett and even Death couldn't beat his score. Rest in peace legend.

So Death goes missing. Heaven and hell don't care since they're immortal supernatural beings. To make them care, because he wants war, Gabriel goes to Earth to "warn" Aziraphale.

By his eyes changing color it is safe to assume that his amnesia is controlled by someone or some angels in heaven. Aziraphale and Crowley realize this eventually and lock him up in his own angelic grave.

Angels coming down in their elevators, demons being thrown off into the sky in the shoots, "It's a getting closer" being thrown out in the trailer a lot (newspaper held by Aziraphale and the song playing in the background)... What does all this mean? Well fellow reader, I'm glad you asked. See that tiny little poster?

It's Armageddon vol. 2 baby! (Though it can be argued that this poster is a reference to this being the second season.)

[Edit: I have been informed of what The Second Coming actually is. In the following paragraphs, the mention of "Armageddon vol. 2" should be taken as the Second Coming, as I didn't know what it was and used the nane Armageddon 2 in its place.]

Adam is dead, remember? So who is to stop another armageddon? We know that in the Good Omens universe one can be ressurected (Aziraphale after the birthday party reviving the dove in his pocket) so Satan could have been resurrected by Death themselves, which is why they have been missing. [Edit: Satan isn't dead. He was simply beaten in battle. My bad!]

Gabriel is a messenger angel in Christian theology - so his original purpose could be to warn Aziraphale of Satan's revival [Edit: return] but the amnesia factor plays in this case. How would an amnesiac angel warn them? Well he couldn't, so they keep Gabriel away. Heaven teams up with hell (who have no idea what Gabriel wanted to warn Aziraphale about) to find Gabriel. Which heaven knows exactly where he is, but keeps that knowledge to themselves as to stir up the war. Since Death is gone and no one ever dies anymore, Armageddon vol. 2 would be much more destructive.

Heaven could have much more up their sleeves, such as literally making love rain on humanity. With the world's population rapidly increasing making people fall in love with each other could lead to chaos, since there are too many people to love. Coming back to Gabriel "somehow" feeling safe by Aziraphale, when he arrives at the bookshop his eyes are humanly, which suggests that some angelic knowledge is present in his amnesiac mind, but his body is human. Heaven could have made his human body love and feel comfortable around Aziraphale, but not his mind.

To summarize this theory: Death is gone, population is increasing. Love, which is what makes humanity human, is going to destroy humanist values and bring about the downfall of heaven, hell and earth. A second Armageddon.

Thank you for reading this far, I hope you enjoyed reading!

[Edited August 2023]

#good omens #good omens theory #good omens season 2 #good omens trailer #good omens show #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #good omens aziraphale #good omens crowley #good omens death #ineffable husbands #good omens fandom #aziracrow #good omens 2 #good omens countdown #good omens gabriel

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blood-injections · 8 months

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The fabulous four were dusted years ago, but they still haunt the zones. Their names are spoken in reverence, like the Witch's, but sometimes in spite too, because nobody likes heroes anymore. To most zonedwellers, at this point martyrdom is nothing but suicide, an easy way out. You can say you died for your cause all you want but at the end of the day theres four less pawns on the board and if they were still here maybe they'd be overthrowing the king instead. It's different, running to Battery City instead of from it, many still think the faulous four were insane for it. Sure, they had a reason, but many argue it wasn't good enough. You don't just trade four lives for one like that, not in war. It's bad strategy.

Whatever. In reality, most zonedwellers just don't care anymore, those legends are legends now, all thats left of them are their names, heavier in some places than others.

Like here, at the crash track, everyone knows of the Kobra Kid. His name is traded like a dietys among the racers, as if hes some god that can grant you luck in a race if you leave the right offering by the starting banner or whisper the right words under your breath. More than the rest of the fabulous four, Kobra Kid carved out a place for himself here, a trench of a legacy through zone four that everyone that races or watches them knows, the fastest 'joy to ever grace the tracks, they say, and even dead, the Kobra Kid remains such, standing tall as reigning champ in what remains, the records that no racers yet to beat.

It seems that out of respect, no one even tries. It's become a superstition, that if you try to break one of Kobra's records, it's bad luck, like shattering a mirror or walking under a ladder, they say that on your next race you'll spin out or pop a tire or break a leg for real, that you'll be luckier than usual if you don't break your neck.

Hardly anyone that hangs around the crash track anymore actually knew him, but everyone still knows his story, its whispered in the stands like gossip, killjoys discussing the kid that came along and grew up fast, watching races first, then one day showing up with his own bike he had saved up carbons for, then he made a name for himself quick, because the kid was a damn natural. He could race the track like an ospery flies, cutting through the sand with a grace unlike any other. Eventually he didn't just master the track, he became it. Older joys say you had to see him racing to believe it, the jumps he could make, the turns he could spin, the times he could set. They say that after he was ghosted with the fab four, the crash track, a place so full of life all day and night, was empty for a week.

Barren. Nobody raced, crews didn't hang out, for a week there was no life, no music. It felt more like a graveyard. Some sat in the stands and watched the tumbleweeds blow across the track, waiting for a race that never started. It was a long moment of silence, and by the end of the week, apparently candles lined the track, the whole track, one big altar to the lost racer.

Then, everyone came back, as if they had all unspokenly agreed to, and people raced again, seeing that red motorbike in the corner of their eye, keeping speed with them, they say, until a bend, then it will dissappear, and they know that if they turn to look, it will disappear too. Maybe its actually him, haunting the track, maybe its just a mirage, because he may be gone but the desert remembers, the crash track remembers. Nobody knows, but those older joys, the ones that knew Kobra, that raced with him, hardly any of them race anymore, they're fully able to, there’s just no fun in crossing the finish line and being neck to neck with a ghost.

Ao3

#umm me when. kobra kid . legacies. ough #ttlotfk #feelijg very autistic 2nitw #danger days #the true lives of the fabulous killjoys #mcr danger days #kobra kid #the fabulous killjoys #corvidscrap

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cherrythepuppet · 8 months

Text

Corpse Puppet [Part 6]

Describing how Wally looks was difficult? So I just kinda combined Emily and Wally appearance description because I'm a lazy moron

We know the drill @sketchquill

The silence scared them as they heard sounds if something breaking, (Y/n) looked towards the oak tree and saw the ground shaking and beginning to break openafter a minute a person crawled out of the ground

the person was 3 feet tall with an average build, yellow fleece skin and blue hair styled into a tall, spiraled pompador, There is a hole in his left cheek that shows that his skin is deteriorating

On his right hand, Under his left arm is some exposed muscle, although his actual left arm is only bone His right ribs are showing due to the hole in his suit, His right leg is almost completely bone except for the skin that still covered his foot and his ankle

"I Do" he said as he came closer to (Y/n)(Y/n) fell to the ground out of shock and backed up as the Corpse held out his hand for them(Y/n) scrambled to their feet as the corpse continued to walked towards them, (Y/n) turned around and ran as fast as they could

They ran into a tree with branches sticking out as (Y/n) struggled to get out they saw the Corpse coming closer so they pulled the branches off of them unfortunately ripping some of the fabric off their sleeves As (Y/n) ran, running for their life from the Corpse chasing them

As they ran they felt tired and out of breath, but they couldn't stop runningThey tried to escape but the Corpse was getting closer. they wanted to scream but no sound came out of their mouth, (Y/n) was too scared to do anything

As the Corpse got closer, they tripped and fell to the ground. they tried to get up and run again but the Corpse was catching up(Y/n) ran through the woods, breathing heavily as they tried to keep going

They had been running for so long that they had lost their sense of direction, and they was no longer sure where they were. As they approached the edge of a frozen river stream, their feet slipped on the ice and they fell, hitting their head on a nearby gravestone

As (Y/n) rubbed their eyes, they saw the Corpse up ahead. Knowing the undead was near, they quickly ran to the bridgeOut of breath, they looked back and didn't see the Corpse following them

With a sense of relief, they crossed safely to the other side But as they took a moment to catch their breath, a chilling feeling crept up their spine then felt a cold hand on their shoulder and then the Corpse grabbed their hand and spun (Y/n) to face them as they held (Y/n) for a moment

"You may kiss the groom" he said as he leaned in and crows surrounded them....then everything went dark.....

(Y/n) fluttered thier eyes open and saw the Corpse along with other skeletons, corpses, etc all standing around them "A new arrival!" one of the exclaimed "They must've fainted! Are you all right?" The Corpse asked as he held (Y/n)'s head "What? What happened?" (Y/n) asked

"By Jove, man. Looks like we've got ourselves a breather!" A skeleton yelled "Do they have a dead brother?" Another asked then a child skeleton poked (Y/n) "their still soft!" They said"A toast, then To the newlyweds!" A Star looking Corpse exclaimed "Newlyweds?" (Y/n) asked as they looked around

"ln the woods, you said your vows so perfectly!" The corpse said "l did?" (Y/n) mumbled "l did! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" (Y/n) yelled as they hit their head on the bar counter "Coming through, Coming through "My name is Darling, l am the head waiter l will be creating your wedding feast" A fabulous corpse person said

"Wedding feast! l'm salivating" A home on a string said as they popped out of the corpse's eye "Maggots" the Corpse chuckled as everyone got closer to (Y/n) "Keep away!" (Y/n) yelled as she grabbed a sword with a Star Corpse attached to it

"l've got a-...l've got a...Star! And l'm not afraid to use them! l want some questions! Now!" (Y/n) told everyone "Answers. l think you mean 'answers.'' the star said "Thank you, yes, answers! l need answers! What's going on here? where am l? Who are you?" (Y/n) asked "Well, that's kind of a long story" the corpse mumbled

"What a story it is! A tragic tale of romance, passion and murder most foul" Someone saidThe person who said that was a Corpse as well except He had a rather large, overweight, and plushy build. His fur was light blue, with multicolored spots all over his body

He had floppy, dark blue ears. His eyes were rounded and downturned, with black pupils and orange eyelids.There was a dark blue spot on his right eye. His eyebrows were short and black. He had a round navy nose. His mouth was red with a pink tongue. The apples of his cheeks were also blue

He wore a multicolored vest with a black collar. He had a red tie around his neck, patterned with a dog bone and orange and yellow spots with teal border patterns. He wore a mini red top hat with a yellow band and had a tobacco pipe in his mouth

"This is gonna be good!" The Star exclaimed as random music started playing.....

#welcome home #welcome home au #wally darling #wally darling x reader #corpse puppet au #fanfic

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mcflymemes · 9 months

Text

PROMPTS FROM HITMAN: WORLD OF ASSASSINATION * assorted dialogue from the video game, adjust as necessary

majestic, isn't it?

someone knows about us.

we received your message. loud and clear, might i add.

i dare say the possibilities are endless.

the situation... it's complicated.

this could be dangerous, and i thought you deserved to know. so... now you know.

in his own special way, he cares about you... and vice versa.

i didn't catch your name.

that's for you. keep it on you at all times.

i have seen the consequences. i have felt the cost. that's what defines me.

none of you are safe anymore.

someone's been meddling in our affairs.

that's why we're hiring you to take him down.

if it seems like a conspiracy, it probably isn't.

i hope you know what you just did.

does it matter? i was told there'd be no second chances.

anyone can kill.

get out of my sight.

they sent me here to spy on him.

don't believe everything you hear.

very well. it's your show.

look, i'm not an asshole. of course i'm concerned.

so what happens now?

you do catch on fast.

i want us to meet. your room.

all right. consider it done.

i think technology hates me.

you can't be trusted.

i have found that whoever wields the sword decides who holds the pen.

smile, [name]. your reputation is safe.

there are no second chances. not here.

maybe i'm not the only one being tested.

i read your case file. impressive work.

do you realize what kind of world you've been shaping?

i'm [name], i'll take you to your quarters.

someone likes to keep secrets.

they kept you alive because they needed you and now they don't.

that part is my job.

when we need you, we will contact you.

i don't care which of you does it. it's mandatory.

he did not, however, factor me into the equation.

you're not a superhero. they don't exist.

for sure. i'll keep an eye out.

you did well, [name], i'm proud of you.

i followed you from italy.

that... is your target.

powerful men have fallen by your hand. but by the same token, others have risen.

knowing your enemy is only half the victory.

secrets are our stock-in-trade.

shit. still no answer.

i think we could help each other.

i think i'm in. but i want to be clear on a few details.

from what i hear, you have a few of your own.

i'm not like you, in case you're wondering.

if they can bend the rules, then so can i.

that's not a name.

you know the expression "know your enemy?"

tell me. what did it feel like, taking lives?

is that why you came here? why you let us test you?

i should leave you to prepare.

are you sure about this?

i don't believe it. i took every precaution.

all agents have weak spots.

give me a chance, [name].

our team found no records of any kind. no name, nothing.

are you still determined?

may i inquire why?

at first glance, an impossible task. then again, i do know how you love a challenge.

we will be watching.

how is this our problem?

i wish i had been informed.

people die, [name]. it happens all the time, even to us.

there is no sign of forced entry. no alarms. nothing.

in the meantime, keep him under close watch.

perhaps i see possibility where others see limitation.

now you will do the same.

i play dirty. that's how you defeat a stronger opponent. you strike from behind.

well, this is just fabulous, isn't it?

good. i'll be upstairs.

this was no coincidence.

i should tell you, the trail went dead after romania.

you're making us look bad.

this is the universe's way of telling you to quit, to get out of the game while you still can.

can i offer you a drink?

i thought they were a myth.

someone's playing a game, [name]. the question is... against whom?

we can't allow ourselves to be manipulated.

so... what are we actually doing here?

i just pulled some strings.

i thought that was the point?

i will take full responsibility.

vary your strategy. improvise.

i can't believe we beat him at his own game.

his death will not be investigated.

i know you don't care about politics.

i guess when you're invisible, you stop looking over your shoulder.

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hotpinkboots · 7 months

Note

I am back with more Corpse Bride Emily, and today, I would like to ask for gn!darling comforting and reassuring Emily? Giving her affection, praising her, telling her generally sweet things, saying how they'll stay together forever, etc. Super teeth rotting fluff with how Emily would react to it and all

Take care, take your time, and keep up the fabulous work! Make sure to stay healthy! ♡

~~~~~~~~~~

~𝓔𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 x GN!Reader Fluff Headcanons~

~~~~~~~~~~

Does anybody truly understand the pure joy I get when somebody requests with Emily? DOES ANYBODY TRULY UNDERSTAND

I completely went off on this and just typed all the fluff I could think of

Summary: Just Emily and the reader being the sweetest couple to ever exist 🥺

Warning(s): None, just some dead people lmao

~Enjoy~

★★★★

𝓔𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂

★★★★

~Having such a sweet lover makes her heart feel like it's beating again, and her cold dead skin practically feels warm with life.

~Emily simply adores how you dote on her.

~She'll giggle and playfully make an "oh, stop" motion in response.

~Or, she'll bat her lovely lashes and look down, bashfully avoiding eye contact, while her hand comes to rest against her décolletage. If her heart could still beat, it would have been thumping rather hard against her chest.

~Emily has every single bit of trust in you.

~Occasionally, Maggot will get in her head (literally) about something, if you've done even the tiniest thing such as leaving her early for personal matters you must attend to. Poor Emily is encouraged by Maggot to follow you to make sure you aren't out cheating.

~He's actually rather protective of Emily, believe it or not, he gets feisty and fired up for her like he's going to fight somebody.

~So, it's most definitely not that he's purposely trying to make her second guess herself about you, but he just wishes her the best. His mildly sarcastic humor isn't supposed to be cruel towards her, but he has to be there to knock some sense into her if needed, for she can be a bit too naive.

~Once Maggot believes that you're just as sweet as you act, he accepts that and stops trying to make comments about you (unless he gets bored, which then he sometimes may make a few snotty jokes).

~Emily always returns your affections.

~If she ever feels a bit self conscious about herself, you listen to her, then reassure her of her beauty. Not only is she pretty on the outside, she's pretty on the inside.

~She has such a sweet and gentle soul, your words of commitment and adoration never fail to make her melt.

~She very much enjoys holding your hand while you're out together. Gives your hand a little squeeze now and then. Emily likes feeling your hand in hers, and she sometimes rubs little circles into your hand with her thumb.

~If you let go of her hand before she's ready, her hand might literally pop off and keep hold of yours.

~She felt a bit embarrassed about it for a moment until she realized that you had found it to be cute.

~Everybody in The Land Of The Dead seems to know you two, and they often comment on what a sweet couple you and Emily are.

~You'll hear a lot of aww-ing, and people love watching you and Emily dance together at the jazz bar.

~Emily takes every sweet thing you say to heart. She remembers just about every compliment you've given her, every sweet look from across the room.

~She loves it when you refer to her as your wife rather than just calling her by name.

~In return, she refers to you in conversation as her lover or partner.

~Occasionally flaunts her wedding ring by talking with her hands more than needed.

~10/10 best wife ever

~~~~~~~~~~

Request Guidelines!

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Join my Discord Server! There you can talk about my fanfiction, roleplay, chat, watch movies and listen to music with other fandom nerds!:

~~~~~~~~~~

~Love, PinkBoots

#pink's fanfic #corpse bride #corpse bride emily #emily corpse bride #emily x reader #emily x reader corpse bride #corpse bride emily x reader #tim burton

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lokislytherin · 1 year

Text

devil by the window

pairing: current canon idol!dg x gender neutral journalist!reader

summary: you’re just going to interview dg - your bias, your celebrity crush - on behalf of dispatch. what could go wrong?

chapters: one / two

a/n: dg being sus, as y’all are interested 👀👀 this fic does not have any sussy content as in dg will not be taking his pants off. tits may or may not be bared but his pants and yours will be staying firmly on! title from ‘devil by the window’ by tomorrow x together (txt)! enjoy~

warning: canon compliant violence. also reader is kind of horny but that’s the majority of tumblr dg stans so y’all should be thanking me really

there's no way around it: dg is your ultimate bias.

you've been enchanted by him since the moment he debuted - visuals, vocals, dancing, rapping, he's the epitome of talent. he's young and charismatic too, charming half the women in seoul the second he steps foot on stage for the first time. according to the news, he's only a month older than you. he'll change the idol industry, you told your boss back at the time, eyes bright. he'll change the world.

your boss looked back at you, a lowly intern fresh out of high school with nothing to your name, not even a bachelor's degree, only raw enthusiasm for hunting down the truth. okay.

it's very obvious he didn't believe you. you were a nobody, after all.

now, you're twenty-one and studying media and communications at seoul national university, the most prestigious university in south korea. you've got more experience and reference letters to boot. you're interning for dispatch, the most (in)famous entertainment news company in korea. they say they're willing to take you in as an official journalist the second you graduate.

even if dispatch is pretty shitty to idols, your old boss can suck it. you’re working for dispatch now.

it's been four years since dg debuted, and you're still his biggest fan. if dg has a million fans, you're one of them. if dg has ten fans, you're one of them. if dg has one fan, it's you. if dg has no fans, you're probably dead.

which is why you're currently panicking, bouncing off the walls with hysteria at four in the morning. all your colleagues know you as the local dg hard stan, so as the one with the most knowledge about dg you've been scheduled to shadow a sunbae from the journalism department to interview the one and only dg for a cover article in twelve hours.

dg doesn't know who you are, but you've been to every single one of his concerts and fan meets, bought every single one of his albums and made a shrine to him out of photocards. you know him - or at least the version he shows the public - as well as you know your own skin.

you've got yourself a nice outfit: a white blouse with flowy sleeves, a black corset to accentuate your figure, black pants that are just long enough to show off your nice legs. it's better than you've dressed for any date, which would probably explain why you've never had a romantic relationship before. you've always put dg and your studies before everything else, after all.

you’re not sure how long you sleep for, but you shoot out of bed immediately after your alarm starts screaming, and the rest of the morning passes in a similar haze. you don’t even remember getting to the interview spot, but when you do, you’re a whole fifteen minutes early. at least your make-up is looking fabulous.

“excuse me,” says a familiar voice, “are you from dispatch?”

your heart skips a beat. you turn around, and-

“oh,” you breathe, feeling a little weak in the knees.

dg is tall.

he’s taller than he looks on television, and even though he has only the slightest of makeup on his face, the ceo of ptj entertainment is as beautiful as any renaissance painting. he looks almost unreal.

he smiles down at you, warm and friendly. he feels like someone you can trust. “i’ll take that as a yes, then.”

all you can do is nod, because you don’t trust yourself enough to speak.

“would you like to head in first?” dg gestures towards one of the rooms - there are two security guards outside, both of them shooting you dirty looks. you catch dg shooting them an even dirtier look, and they look away, like wounded dogs with their tails between their legs. “you’re the newbie, aren’t you? we can have a little chat before your colleague arrives.”

that sounds a little like a threat, now. but at the same time, dg could make you do anything he wanted and you’d probably thank him for it. “i- i-”

“be not afraid,” he says, still smiling at you, almost inhumanly beautiful. it’s almost like he knows how you joke about him being angel incarnate. well, you’re not scared of him, you’re scared of you. “i don’t bite.” he leans down, and you go cross-eyed at the proximity. “unless you want me to.”

“i- i-”

“i’m kidding, i’m kidding.” he guides you into the room, relaxing onto the couch opposite yours. you’re a rabbit who strolled into the den of a lion, timidly perched on the edge of the loveseat. dg has no shame in reclining across the back of the couch, legs splayed out so he takes up most of the sofa even though he’s only one man. you try your best not to look at the space between his toned thighs, because even if you want to know whether dg really does have the biggest cock out of all the idols, now is not the time to find out.

only then do you realize you haven’t introduced yourself. you jump up and bow, ninety-degrees. “my name is y/n! it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir, i’m a really big fan!”

that doesn’t even begin to cover how big of a fan you are, but he doesn’t have to know that.

he gestures towards your bag, and you finally notice the limited edition that’s been hanging there the whole time. you had to fight people for that. “i could tell.”

ahhhh, that’s so embarrassing! and unprofessional!

“it’s cute. you can call me dagyeom, by the way. that’s my name, after all. no need for dg-ssi. we’re around the same age anyway. as for sir...” he smirks. “you can save that for elsewhere.”

“elsewhere? like... where?”

he spreads his legs wider, like he’s making space for something. he raises an eyebrow almost invitingly. “where do you think?”

is he... flirting? with you? oh god, he’s flirting with you.

nothing in all of your years as a journalist or a dg fan has ever prepared you for this. you’ve never heard anything about him flirting. he’s insanely good at hiding from the press and the cameras. you’ve never been assigned to professionally stalk him before (you’re much better with a frontal approach), but some of your colleagues have, and all of them were caught in the act. he barely even does aegyo for the fanservice.

you give yourself a mental smack in the head. this is the interview of a lifetime! you are face to face with the person you’ve admired for years! you cannot let yourself be horny on main!

he laughs, amusement dancing on his lips as he watches countless emotions flicker across your face in the span of a few seconds. “cute.”

ehhhhhh?

just as that moment, your sunbae barges in. he’s huffing and puffing, clearly having run here, but he’s on time. nobody had told you which sunbae you would be shadowing, but you had been desperately hoping it wasn’t him. you’ve shown nothing but respect for him, as you should, but let’s not even talk about inches, not once has he ever shown you even a centimeter of respect. so he’s late, huh? it feels mean, but you hope he made a bad impression in front of dg. “dagyeom-ssi-”

dagyeom smiles, frigid and unamused, a stark contrast from the way he’d smiled at you. even his spread legs feels less like a calling and more like a threat, although it’s dominant and overbearing either way. “call me dg.”

your sunbae swallows and nods. “dg-ssi, we can begin the interview now.”

wow. dagyeom is really, really biased.

it looks like there’s still a lot you don’t know about him, but your heart flutters in your chest at the feeling of being able to know more.

you’re pretty experienced with interviews - you know the journalist should lead the conversation, and always ask for elaborations from the interviewee. but this time, dagyeom is the one in the lead, constantly offering you chances to speak and ask questions while blatantly ignoring your sunbae.

both of you journalists are helpless under the full force of his charisma as he drives the conversation, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your shoulder. if this interview was a car, your sunbae would’ve been stuffed in the trunk, or tied up with a rope and dragged along behind the car. but when you ask about his past and why he became an idol, he becomes tight-lipped.

there’s probably a reason why he never talks about his past, after all. you were just trying to see if you could get a scoop out of things, or be the first to find out.

“i just thought it was neat,” he says with a shrug. “singing and dancing and making money off that.”

you ask him about his thoughts on aegyo next, and giggle when he makes a face. dagyeom has always hated acting cute for the cameras, but you think he’s cuter when he’s pouting like that and complaining about fan-service.

(you are a much bigger fan for the more… physical kind of fan-service, so to speak. but you would die of shame before admitting to his face that you got all hot and bothered when he ripped his shirt off for a show in the middle of a rap. and that time when he modelled for calvin klein, with the waistband of his boxers peeking out under his tight jeans. and the rich boy concept photos with him in the pool, smirking lavisciously. those toned pecs… the lick-able abs… hhhhnnnnnggggg~

enough, enough! you’ll die of shame right now if you don’t stop thinking about that. luckily, you’re good at multitasking, and you’re fully capable of taking notes dutifully while imagining dagyeom bending you over the table.)

the interview comes to an end all too soon, with all your questions answered except the ones about his past, or his worst fears. he’s been rather vague about some of them, but as an idol and ceo of an entertainment company, dagyeom likes to keep whatever privacy he can, and as a respectful journalist you won’t pry too deeply. even if you did, you’d find out in your own time and never tell him.

just before your sunbae drags you off, dagyeom holds you back, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards him. you gasp as he catches you gracefully when you stumble, steady hands on your waist. his hands are big enough to wrap around you entirely, and the realisation makes your cheeks heat. “i’ll keep in touch. i’ve seen your other works. you’re too good for the likes of dispatch.”

“my other…?!”

you can feel his minty breath fanning across your cheeks when he speaks. “see you soon, jagiya. don’t let me down.”

you’re not sure how you don’t faint on the spot, or collapse completely when an email from ptj entertainment pops up in your inbox half a day later, formally requesting you to join the company as part of the media and communications department.

you email them your cv, resume, all your reference letters. i’m still doing my bachelor’s degree in journalism at snu.

this time, kang dagyeom emails you back personally. that’s perfectly fine with me. you can start as soon as next week.

you terminate your internship contract at dispatch at the end of the week. good riddance to the sunbae who had disrespected you. you’ve got the job of your dreams.

#dg #diego kang #kang dagyeom #lee jihoon #james lee #lookism #lookism fic #dg x reader #lookism x reader #me before: ok after i finish sonny x reader i'll never write x reader again. fuckin cringe #me doing this bc i could not resist the idea of dg [redacted for spoilers read to find out]: oh. damn #and then i saw someone say jagiya instead of jeogiyo n i was like oh! byelingual dumbhead gun moment!#and now i have not one but 2 lookism x reader fics #how?? where?? nani tf???#i swear to god i come up with x reader fic ideas every now and then and i Hate it #mainly bc i find reading x reader awkward #bc hello... yn is another character... they aint me...#but writing yn tho. developing yn as their own character even tho that is most definitely not the purpose of x reader fics.#i like that #i tried reading dg x reader fics to see how u guys write dg in general but literally everything was smut #please i am jus a fluff/crack/crime writer

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worldserasingandcreatinginmymind · 22 hours

Text

Bloody Beetle | Part Ten

Summary: buckle up folks, it's the final showdown

Pairing: Steven x reader, Marc x reader, Harrow x reader, Layla x reader

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: fighting, deaths...

A/N: as always spelling and grammar are not my strongest skills so please be kind :)

Part Nine | Series Masterlist

- - - - -

Layla’s POV

She wants to stop you from surrendering yourself, she knows it’s dangerous.

But she also knows neither of you have time to think of another plan.

As soon as you step out from behind the wall she wastes no time in sneaking over to where Osiris’ avatar is and pulls him to safety.

“Hey! hey, hey…” She says as she tries to keep him upright and conscious. “How do we stop Ammit?!”

“This chamber is our most powerful place.” He wheezes. “From here we need to imprision Ammit in a mortal form.”

“A body instead of a statue. She’d be vulnerable… okay, how do we do it?”

“We need more avatars than we have left…” he says before collapsing to the ground.

“No, no no!” Layla tries to wake him, but when she checks his pulse she realises he’s gone. She thinks for a moment, pondering her options. Reluctantly she summons Taweret and agrees to be her temporary avatar.

“I am so thrilled! We are gonna have so much fun together.” Taweret says excitedly. “I have a fabulous costume in mind.”

The sound of Harrow’s shout bounces off the walls, getting Layla’s attention. She peers around to watch.

Harrow is stood in front of you protectively, talking to Ammit. Almost pleading with her.

“What could she possibly do in the future that is so bad that she deserves this?”

“She will be the one to kill you.”

Ammit’s reply sends the room silent. A few disciples spare glances at each other but no one dares make a sound. Layla notices the heartbreak on Harrow’s face.

She watches as you try to stand, try to reason with Harrow, convince him Ammit is lying.

She watches as Harrow turns to you, and reaches out to help you up from the floor.

She watches as he drives a dagger deep into your stomach and she has to fight with herself not to run over and kill Harrow herself. She knows with Ammit behind him he is too powerful for her to fight alone.

She watches as everyone just steps over you, leaving you to die. Not a single one of them even pausing for a moment to consider helping you.

As soon as they’re out she runs to you, calling your name. You manage to roll over and look at her and she sees the moment the last bit of life leaves you. Your body going still, eyes glassing over as you lay limp on the ground. She crouches next to you, checking and double checking for a pulse. Begging you to wake up, to not leave her alone.

But that’s what she is now… Alone…

Marc is dead. You are dead. Without anyone to help her, she’s sure she will be next.

— — — —

Y/N’s POV

“Where am I?” You ask aloud, glancing at the bright white nothingness around you. “Steven? Marc? Anyone?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” A voice calls from everywhere at once.

“Hello?” You respond.

“I am Osiris, god of the underworld.”

“…okay…”

“I have granted you resurrection but I ask something of you in return… Become my avatar.”

“Uh, look I don't think I'm really the person to be asking. I don't know how to be an avatar, I don't even really know what it means… I just know that Marc said it’s bad. Like being a slave? And I really don't want that-”

“You won’t be a slave, you will be powerful.”

“I’m sorry, but my answer is no. And if that means you have to send me back to the Duat then… I accept my fate.”

“I admire your honesty and bravery Y/N. But we need more avatars than we have left if we are to defeat Ammit.” Osiris speaks calm but firm. “Take the powers that come with being my avatar, use them to defeat Ammit and when the job is done I will take them back from you. I will expect nothing more from you. You may continue to live your life free from any burden.”

“So just like, a temporary deal? Right?”

“Yes.”

“And once Ammit is dealt with, I can just be normal again?”

“Yes.” Osiris pauses. “Do you accept?”

“I do.”

— — — —

You gasp as you sit bolt upright on the cold stone floor of the pyramid, making Layla jump.

“Y/N?!” She says, grabbing your arms to ground you as you flail around in a panic. “I got, I got you.”

You take deep breaths, clutching your hands to your stomach. You lift your shirt and watch in shock as the wound from the dagger closes itself, leaving you fully healed. Any weakness left from Harrow’s staff is gone too. You feel amazing.

“What… what just happened?” Layla says, wiping tears from her face and staring at your stomach. She helps you up off the floor. “You were dead!”

“Osiris healed me.” You say, in shock yourself. Then you notice Layla’s outfit. Her mundane clothes from before gone, replaced with a gold and white Egyptian armour. “What are you wearing?”

“Taweret chose it.” She says before explaining how she agreed to be her temporary avatar. You in turn explained the deal Osiris offered you.

“Well, you look badass.” You say and she laughs. “Wait, if I’m an avatar too now, does that mean I get a costume too?”

A bright light swirls around you and when it disappears you’ve changed. No more blood soaked clothes. Instead you're wearing green armour, similar to Layla’s, with white and gold fabric wrapped around your body. Attached to your back is a long golden staff with a hooked end.

You look down at your clothes in amazement, then up at Layla. The two of you look at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter. You don't really know why you're laughing, but after the stress of the last few days it feels like a welcome break.

“So, what do we do now?” You says once you composed yourself. Layla sighs, shaking her head.

“I guess, we try to save the world.”

— — — —

The two of you head outside. To your surprise the sky is as dark as night, even though you're pretty sure it’s still daytime. The sky is filled with purple lights, flying up from across the city and towards the other side of the pyramid where Ammit is.

“She’s consuming souls.” Layla says as you watch horrified. The more lights she swallows the bigger she grows. She’s already almost the same size as the pyramid.

“How are we supposed to stop her?!” You ask, looking around frantically. You look up at the top of the pyramid. Harrow is up there, a purple glowing light surrounds him as he chants in a language you don't recognise.

Before you can say anything, someone flies up to the pyramid and begins to fight Harrow. You recognise the person to be the same as the action figure you found in the museum, dressed head toe in white.

“Who is that?” You ask Layla, turning her attention to the scene on the pyramid.

“Marc?” She gasps before turning to you. “Did Osiris resurrect him too?”

“I- I don't know. Maybe? I didn’t see him after we made it through the gates-”

You stop talking suddenly when you notice Khonshu appear next to Ammit. He goes to hit her with his staff but she reaches out a scaly hand and stops him. They begin to fight as Harrow and Marc fly though the air toward the town, still fighting each other. Khonshu manages to knock Ammit over and she comes crashing down near near you. The force of her slamming into the pyramid sends a cloud of dust and sand over you and Layla.

“Little bugs.” Khonshu says when he notices he almost flattened the two of you. “Go! Help Marc.”

Layla rolls her eyes at him as she wipes dust from her clothes before turning to you and nodding. You run away from the pyramid in the direction that Marc and Harrow had gone.

The streets are chaos. Everywhere you look Ammit’s disciples are grabbing people, judging their scales. You watch as Bobbi grabs someone. They begin to shake then fall to the floor as a purple light emerges from them and flies up into the sky. Those who aren’t distracted staring at the dark sky are running, screaming, from the disciples. As you begin fighting off disciples you notice Marc laying on the ground on the other side of the town square, Harrow stood over him with his cane pointed down at him. It starts to glow purple.

Layla swoops in just in time and knocks Harrow away. He fires purple light from his cane at Layla, but she reflects it with the golden armoured wings attached to her arms and it bounces back at Harrow. It sends him flying backwards into a crowd of people.

You knock out the guy you're fighting and run over to Marc. His face now uncovered and he spots you over Layla’s shoulder as he’s hugging her. As you get closer his clothes change to a white three piece suit.

“Y/N!” Steven’s voice calls happily as he hugs you tightly. His hand finds the crook attached to your back. “Oh my God, that- that’s Osiris’ crook! Oh that’s bloody brilliant that! Wow!”

“Steven I know this is a massive deal for you but we have to stop Harrow.” You say, smiling at him.

“Right yeah, sorry you just- you look amazing!” He smiles, turning to Layla. “You both do.”

You hear a scream and turn to see a woman with two young children being cornered by a group of disciples.

“I’ll go. You two get Harrow.” You say and Steven places a kiss on your cheek before he and Layla run into the crowd and begin fighting.

You run the other way, grabbing the crook and using it to pull the first bad guy away. You swing him round and send him crashing into the side of a nearby building. The others turn on you, but you effortlessly manage to dodge their attacks and one by one knock them all out. You help the mother and her children find somewhere safe to hide before turning your attention back to the others just in time to see Harrow fighting Marc.

“You need only remove one weed from the garden. You!” He says, purple light blasting from his cane at Marc.

Marc grabs one of his crescent moon shaped blades but Harrow uses the power from his cane to control Marc’s hand. Layla runs toward them but Harrow sends the blade flying at her and it pins her arm to the side of the truck, before sending a huge blast of power at Marc, forcing him down on his back. On a building above them you see Ammit has also overpowered Khonshu, pinning him down with his own staff.

Harrow advances towards Marc and you run, throwing yourself in between them.

“STOP!” You shout and Harrow looks at you like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Y/N..?” He says breathlessly. “You’re-”

“Alive? Yeah, I was surprised too.” You say sarcastically. “Why are you doing this? You told me you wanted to stop her!”

“That was before…”

“Before what?”

“Before I knew you would betray me!” He shouts, hitting you with a flash of power from his cane. It knocks you flying out of the way, rolling across the dusty ground. You feel like the wind has been knocked from you as you lay on the ground trying to get your breath back. Harrow advances on Marc again, raising his cane and slamming it into his chest. Purple light streams up through the cane, killing him slowly.

“NO!” You scream, scrambling to try to get up but a heavy boot comes down on your back. Bobbi stands over you, keeping you down, forcing you to watch. You look over at Layla, she’s surrounded by disciples, using her golden armoured wings to deflect the bullets being fired at her.

Marc turns his head to look at you before his eyes turn white.

You can’t really describe what happened next. Something takes over Marc and sends him into a killing frenzy. He’s unstoppable as he takes on multiple disciples at once, slaughtering each one without breaking a sweat. He turns to you and you feel Bobbi remove her foot from your back. She backs away but Marc throws a blade at her and it lodges itself in her forehead, killing her instantly. He locks eyes with you and you don't recognise him at all. That’s not Marc anymore, and it definitely isn’t Steven. He winks at you before taking on Harrow. It doesn’t take long for him to overpower him. Its only as he’s about to kill him that he freezes, his posture changing. He drops Harrow’s unconscious body and looks around in horror at the war zone around him.

“That wasn’t you, was it Steven?” He says and his suit changes. “Not a chance mate.”

He looks at you and you get up, dusting yourself down as you make your way over to him.

“Are you alright?” He asks, placing his hands on your face and checking you over.

“I’m fine, I’m more worried about you.” You reply.

“Marc?” Layla calls, freeing herself from where Harrow had trapped her. Steven changes back to Marc. “What the hell was that?”

“I blacked out.” He says. He looks genuinely worried.

A rumbling from the building next to you draws your attention to Ammit dragging Khonshu away.

“Get Harrow!” Layla says “I know how to stop Ammit.”

— — — —

Marc carries Harrow and you both follow Layla back to the tomb in the pyramid. Once inside Marc throws Harrow down on one of the stones.

“The power of the room will help us bind Ammit to Harrow’s body.” Layla explains. “Quick grab my hand so we can start the spell.”

Marc takes Layla’s hand and you take Marc’s. The three of you start chanting the spell in an ancient language, the words must be given to you by the gods because you have no idea what you're actually saying. A circle of light fills the tomb, surrounding the three of you and Harrow. Purple light descends down into Harrow’s body as the spell works. Harrow gasps awake, his wild eyes looking at the three of you.

“You can never contain me!” Ammit speaks through him. “I’ll never stop!”

“Do the honours, little bug.” Khonshu appears next to you and hands you the same dagger Harrow had earlier used to kill you. “Finish it! Leave neither of them alive.”

You look at the dagger, still stained with your own blood and feel anger boil inside you. You step up to Harrow, grabbing him by his collar and pulling him up to face you. His bright blue eyes stare into your own.

“Do it.” He croaks. He looks utterly defeated, ready to accept his fate.

You lift the dagger high, ready to plunge. Then you hear Ammit’s words from earlier.

‘She will be the one to kill you.’

You hesitate, thinking over those words. If you kill him now that means she was right about you.

“While he lives, so does she.” Khonshu’s words ring in your ears.

While Harrow lives, so does Ammit. Trapped in a mortal body.

“I said I wouldn’t kill you and I meant it.” You drop Harrow back down on the stone and throw the dagger to the floor. “There are worse fates than death.”

You turn your back and walk away.

“Weak little bug.” Khonshu mocks but you ignore him.

Layla takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I have to finish this.” Marc says suddenly, taking one of his blades and readying himself to stab Harrow. “If not I’ll never be free.”

“Marc!” Layla shouts. “You have a choice. You are free!”

“The choice is vengeance! We cannot take the chance that Ammit finds a way out. She will kill again.”

“Now you sound just like her.” Marc says, throwing his blade away. “You want them dead, do it yourself. Now release us!”

“As you wish.” Khonshu says before disappearing.

Marc’s suit starts to disappear, a bright white light shines out of his chest and fills the room. For a moment you’re blinded, and when the light fades you find Marc on his knees. His normal clothes have returned. You and Layla go to him, crouching beside him.

“Marc? Are you okay?” Layla asks, full of concern. He looks at her and nods.

“He’s gone.” He smiles. “Thank you for stopping me.”

“What do we with him?” You ask, looking over at Harrow still laying on the stone.

“Lock him up.” Marc replies. “He’s killed so many people there’s no chance he’ll never ever be released. He’ll be locked away until the day he dies. And then Ammit will be gone too.”

You can hear Harrow incoherently babbling away to himself, and you feel a sort of sadness creep in.

“You did the right thing Y/N.” Layla says, noticing the frown on your face.

“Then why do I feel so… weird?”

“Love…” Steven’s voice instantly makes you feel a bit calmer and he places his hands gently on your face, forcing you to look away from Harrow. “Hey, look at me… You died today. And then you came back. And then you helped save the world from a giant crocodile lady.” He says making you laugh. “That’s a lot to take in. You're allowed to feel weird. In fact I’d be worried if you felt normal after all that.”

“I know he did some really awful things but I- I almost kind of feel sorry for him. Is that wrong?” You admit and Steven smiles lovingly.

“That just proves even more that Ammit’s scales were wrong about you. You are a good person with a kind heart. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

He moves his hands to hold yours and you give him a small smile.

“Thank you.” You share a kiss, before remembering Layla is currently watching you kiss her ex husband. You pull away, giving her an awkward smile. “We should probably get going.”

“Yeah…” Steven laughs, picking up on the awkwardness of the situation. “Back to good old London town. Get this guy put away… behind bars… where he belongs…”

“Guys it’s fine.” Layla says, laughing at Steven’s awkward rambling. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Are you sure?” Marc’s voice again. He walks closer to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I know I wasn’t the best husband. You deserved so much more.”

“It’s okay Marc, honestly. We’re better as friends.” She smiles a genuine smile at him. “Besides, I’ve decided I’m staying here in Egypt.”

“What?” You say, moving to join them. “You’re not coming with us?”

“While we were fighting out there, a young girl asked me if I was an Egyptian superhero and it made me realise, we didn’t have anything like that. But now we do. I’m going to stay here and work with Taweret to give more young Egyptian girls someone to look up to.” She smiles. “Plus, England is too cold anyway.”

“You got that right.” You laugh as you give her a tight hug. “you are gonna be the most badass superhero ever. But I’m gonna miss you.”

“You too.” She says and turns to Marc. “Look after her, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“Yes ma’am.”

— — — —

Some Time Later

You headed back to England with Marc and Steven taking turns to take the body. Though you knew Steven best, the more time you spent with Marc the more you enjoyed his company too.

Ammit’s presence in Harrow’s body meant he became more and more mentally unstable. He spent a lot of time rambling incoherently and occasionally Ammit would takeover, shouting about how she would escape and make everyone pay. Because of this, Harrow was admitted to Sienkiewicz Psychiatric Hospital in London.

A few days after Harrow was committed, you went to visit him. You don't know why, you just felt like you needed to be sure he was safely locked away. When the nurses first brought you to him, you almost didn’t recognise him. He was sat in a wheelchair, his ankles restrained to it. He looked lost, vulnerable. It made a part of you feel quite sad.

“Hi Arthur.” You say quietly. He looks up at you blankly.

“He’s on quite strong medication, so he may not talk very much.” The nurse explains and you nod. “I’ll just be on the other side of the room, shout if you need me.”

“Thanks.” You reply, watching her as she goes to sit with another patient on the far side of the room. You sit down at the table opposite Arthur. “How are you doing? Have you settled in here?” You ask but get no response. You start to feel awkward. You look around the room, trying to think of something to say. You glance down at the table and see paper with some lines painted randomly on it. “Did you paint that?” Harrow looks down at it and nods. “You enjoy painting?” He nods again. “How about we do some together.”

You grab two more pieces of paper, putting one in front go Harrow and the other in front of yourself, and you start to paint. Harrow joins in and the two of you sit quietly together making your own little pictures.

When your picture is done you show Harrow and he smiles at the simple flower you have painted. He shows you his, just a triangle.

“It’s good.” You smile.

“It’s a pyramid. Like the ones they have in Egypt.” He says, slowly sounding more like himself. “Have you ever been?”

“To Egypt?” You ask and he nods. “Yeah I’ve been, with you. You took me there, remember?”

He stares at you for a long moment, a flicker of something like hurt flashes on his face, and then he goes blank again. You try to make more conversation, but he doesn’t say much after that.

Not long after the nurse comes back and tells you visiting time is over. You slide your flower painting across the table to Harrow.

“You can keep this.” You say smiling. “Goodbye Arthur.”

You get up and start to walk away.

“Y/N!” He calls, making you stop and turn back. “I’m really sorry I killed you.”

You didn’t say anything back, you just nod at him as the nurse leads you out.

As you sign yourself out the nurse speaks to you.

“That is the most alert and talkative we’ve seen him since he arrived. You must be someone important to him.”

Her words replayed through your head for the rest of the day and that night as you sat down to eat dinner with Steven you told him about it.

“I’ve been thinking, I might go back and see him again.”

“Really?” Steven asks. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“You didn’t see him today Steven, he’s different. The dangerous man that we knew is gone. Now he just seems so… lost. I guess a part of me feels responsible for that.”

“Love…” Steven sighs, putting down his food to fully concentrate on you. “Harrow is where he is now because of the things HE did. The choices HE made. You gave him plenty of chances, even after he murdered you!” He reaches across the table to hold your hands. “Listen, Marc wants me to tell you not to go but I know that will make you want to do it even more.” He says and you laugh, nodding. “If this is something you really want to do, if it makes you feel better, then I think you should do it. Just, please be careful.”

“I will.”

The following week you head back to the hospital and do some more painting with Arthur. It soon became a regular thing. The more you visited the more chatty he became. He started to tell you about life in hospital, sharing stories about the other patients and in turn you told him about your life. Although he initially looked hurt to find out you and Steven were now dating, ultimately he said he was happy to see you happy.

If you hadn’t known him before, you wouldn’t guess this was once the leader of a cult intent on releasing a dangerous Egyptian goddess into the world. You’d never guess how much damage he had caused just weeks ago. And you’d certainly never guess that dangerous Egyptian goddess was now trapped inside him. There were hints occasionally that Ammit was trying to take over, to shout abuse at you, but Harrow always made sure she couldn’t hurt you.

You didn’t talk about what happened in Egypt, you didn’t want to drag it all up again. He wasn’t the same person now anyway. And at least he’d apologised to you. Instead you chose to give him a fresh start, and just enjoy your weekly visits talking and painting with Arthur Harrow.

—

Epilogue

One morning you woke up to a voice in your head.

Osiris’ voice.

“The deal is done. I release you from your duty.”

“What?”

“Ammit had been defeated.”

“Yeah, but that was weeks ago.” You say, not understanding why he’s waited till now to talk to you. “We imprisoned her in Arthur Harrow’s body and they’re both locked up.”

“I release you from your duty.” He repeats and you feel a strange sensation move through your body. Then nothing.

“Osiris?” You call out, but no reply. “Well that was weird…”

“You alright love?” Steven asks as he comes into the bedroom and hands you a cup of coffee.

“Osiris just released me.” You say confused as Steven sits on the bed next to you.

“Well that’s a good thing innit?” He replies with a smile.

“Yeah, definitely. It’s just… why now? Why this exact moment instead of when we bound Ammit or when her and Harrow were first locked away? What’s so special about this morning?”

“Osiris is a busy guy, maybe he didn’t have time until now. Or maybe you're just thinking into it too much…”

“I just think it’s a bit odd that’s all.”

“That’s the gods for ya, all a bit odd. I don't think us humans are supposed to understand ‘em.”

“You’re probably right.” You say before taking a sip of your coffee. “Anyway, where did you disappear to this morning?”

“What do you mean?” Steven asks blankly.

“I woke up in the early hours and you were gone.”

“I don't remember going anywhere… Marc?” He shifts and Marc speaks “Don't look at me. I thought we were sleeping all night.”

“Do you need the restraints back on the bed?”

“Only if you want them back” Marc says flirtatiously, flashing you a mischievous grin. He shifts again and Steven comes back. “Oy, back off you.” He says to Marc before focusing on you. "I probably just went to get water and don't remember. Don't worry about it.” He kisses you on the forehead. “Right, I’ve gotta get to work, laters gators.”

“Laters.” You laugh, and blow him a kiss. He mimes catching it and putting it in his pocket before leaving.

You decide to put the Osiris thing out of your head. Steven’s right, there’s no point trying to understand the mind of a god. You finish your coffee before you get out of bed and get ready for the day.

In the afternoon you head to the hospital as usual, and are surprised to see police cars parked outside the building. As soon as you step inside the nurse you’ve become used to seeing comes over to you.

“Y/N, please come with me.” She says, leading you into a small side room with a police officer inside.

“Is everything alright?”

“Please take a seat.” The officer says and gestures to the chairs. You sit down in one, the nurse sits next to you.

“What’s going on?” You ask, getting nervous.

“Miss Y/L/N, earlier this morning someone came into the hospital, murdered three members of staff and left with Arthur Harrow.”

“What?! Who?”

“We don't know yet. The CCTV cameras were damaged. All we have is a few eye witnesses who say they saw a smartly dressed man wearing a flat cap wheeling Harrow out of the building.” The officer explains, and you feel your heart start to race. If Harrow is out then Ammit could escape. The nurse notices your breathing has picked up and reached over to hold your hand. “I’m sorry, I understand this must be distressing. Harrow is your friend, correct?”

“Uh… yeah…” you reply, trying to focus on what the officer is saying and not the panic running around your head.

“According to the sign in sheets you’re the only regular visitor he has. Do you have any idea of who could have done this? Or why they would have done this?”

You search your brain for any options. The only people who really know who he is are yourself, Marc, Steven and Layla. You definitely didn’t do it. Marc and Steven wouldn’t have done it, and you can’t imagine Layla would have. You realise the officer is still looking at you for an answer.

“No, no sorry. I- I don't think he has anyone else.”

“Here, take my card. If you think of anything give me a call.” The officer hands you a small business card and the nurse leads you back out the room.

“Are you going to be okay? I know you’re quite close to him.” She asks, noticing how shook up you are she places a gentle hand on your arm. “Do you want me to call someone to pick you up?”

“I’ll be fine, thank you though.” You smile at her as you reach the door out the building. “You have my number, will you please let me know if there’s any news?”

“Of course. Take care Y/N.”

You head outside, and cross the street to where there’s a small park. You find an empty bench and sit for a moment to process the news and what that could mean. Who could have known Harrow was there? Who could have wanted him out? Maybe there’s another Ammit fanatic out there who wants her released?

A shudder goes down your spine at the thought of her getting out.

You take your phone from your pocket and phone Steven. It rings out. You roll your eyes and try Marc’s number instead, incase he’s got the body right now. They have separate phones and refuse to answer each other’s if it rings. His goes straight to voicemail. That’s unusual. You check the time, 4pm. Steven will probably be getting ready to leave work.

Needing to talk to someone you FaceTime Layla, she picks up almost straight away.

“Y/N! Hey!” She says happily, her smile drops when she see’s your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Hey, uh… sorry to call I just, I need to talk to someone and Steven and Marc aren’t answering and no one else will understand-”

“Y/N, you don't need to apologise. What’s happened?”

“Harrow’s gone.” You blurt out and she stares through the phone at you. “Someone took him from the hospital this morning, they don't know who did it and they have no idea where he is. I’m scared, Layla.”

“Hey, alright, it’s going to be alright.” She says, though her voice has a hint of panic. “And you can’t get through to Marc?”

“His phone is off. I think Steven will be leaving work soon.”

“Okay, you head over to find him. I’ll keep trying his phone.” She says and you nod. “Y/N?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna be okay.” She says and you get the feeling she’s trying reassure herself as much as she is you. You nod and she hangs up the phone before you start walking toward the road, looking for a taxi.

In the distance you see a white limo heading towards you. Usually you’d think nothing of it. You see a lot of different vehicles in London. But something about this one got your attention. The personalised number plate.

‘SPKTR’

You can’t help but stare at it as it gets closer to you. Something in your gut telling you to run.

The car slows down as it gets closer to you and you can just about make out though the windows that the driver is wearing a flat cap. The limo pulls over and stops next to you. The driver gets out and you stare at him confused.

“Marc…?” It’s definitely Marc’s body, but the expression isn’t Marc or Steven. It’s the same one you recognise from Egypt. The one who so easily fought and killed all Harrow’s disciples. Another alter?

“Hola, mi amor.”

He winks at you as he walks around the front of the car, past you and opens the door at the back of the limo for you. He gestures for you to get in. You hesitantly walk to where the door is and peer in. You have to slam your hand over your mouth to stop a scream from escaping.

There on the back seat is Harrow, a bullet hole in his forehead.

You back away but the driver pushes you inside and slams the door closed. You scramble to get out, to get away from the corpse, but the door is locked. You bang against the door, screaming for someone to let you out and then you hear a voice from inside the limo.

“Hello little bug.”

A/N: Thank you so so so much for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed this series as much as I loved writing it. please feel free to comment or send me an ask, I would love to hear your thoughts :)

Taglist : @sleepylunarwolf / @ahookedheroespureheart / @sleepyamaya / @spicydonut25 / @kult6 / @uncle-eggy / @malaanii/ @toracainz / @pinkiestwinkie / @galacticstxrdust / @mateihavenoidea / @xmariakx / @oscarissac2099 / @whycantwebefriendz / @parkeepingparker / @scoliobean

#moon knight #Steven Grant x reader #Marc Spector x reader #moon knight x reader #layla el faouly x reader #layla el faouly #Steven grant #marc spector #khonshu x reader #osiris #Arthur Harrow #arthur harrow x reader #ammit

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