#height difference is logistically difficult

[therealrjlupin]

I don't think I've ever written smut until now and I far underestimated how much I would have to consider the logistics of positioning!

[princelywritings]

sorry is this a crazy thing to send in Immediately. i may have notifs on your blog and maybe have missed your writing like, a lot.

tenna hcs specifically on the size difference of it all perhaps? 🫶 i think a lot about how hes like...legit maybe 15 ft. the cute parts of it and also thirsts maybe...especially if he realized the reader was into that?

(null included if your heart so desires, hes not my cup of tea but hey. your writing does some things to a man)

while I do believe that they can willingly adjust their size whenever they like, it's obvious that these TV men spend a majority of the time at their "natural" height, as we'll put it. so let's address that!

and I absolutely will include Null, thank you >:)c

just like with previous HCs, I'll split the SFW and 18+ sections!

If You Continue, You Consent To 18+ Content. You Have Been Warned.

Tenna

I like to think that for a little while, initially, Tenna's very worried that his natural height actually puts you off and that you're too nice to comment on it. sure, everything looks bigger on TV, but now he can't help but stress that it's too intimidating, too much for you as a romantic partner! he can voluntarily shrink down to your height for convenience sake, but what about when his emotions get the best of him, or he wants to be affectionate with you onstage while he has to be his natural height? he agonizes over this pretty consistently when the two of you start getting closer.

once it's clarified that you don't mind the fact that he's usually triple your height, he develops slightly interesting methods of affection with such a staggering height difference. one of his favorite gestures is picking you up and carrying you around; you already weigh next to nothing for him, given his robotic nature, so with the added size difference, you're practically the weight and size of a small plushie to him. he'll treat you like one too, carrying you around even when it's unnecessary and smothering you with kisses when he can.

speaking of kisses, they're unsurprisingly difficult with the size difference, much to his grievances. he can still kiss you wherever he'd like, and vice versa, but actual mouth-to-mouth kisses can be somewhat of a struggle but also hilarious in a sense, if you find it funny that his lips are on your entire face... at least the warm buzzing of his screen feels nice on your skin, even as it starts to feel tingly. he preens hard if you start giggling when he kisses you, tickled by the sensations, which only spurs him into giving you more.

something I've thought about now and then is trying to share clothes with Tenna. again, he can shrink down to your height to make whatever he's wearing properly fit you (the only logistics to this if you ever ask how he does that is "TV magic"), but there's something comedic yet endearing in the idea of wearing something of his like a cloak or blanket. no need for a real blanket, his suitcoat has got you covered, literally and metaphorically! and if he wears anything of yours, don't question how it also grows to fit him at his natural height... just make sure he shrinks again before giving it back.

he absolutely adores having your smaller body in his hold during cuddling. whether he's practically surrounding you with himself whilst spooning you or having you lay on his chest, he'll never get over how cute you are, squeezing you close to his body with his arms completely enveloping you. just don't get offended if he compares you to a cat.

Tenna doesn't exactly bring it up, but he's incredibly grateful that you trust him enough to let him handle you when he's at his full height. while his staff aren't exactly scared of him, it's clear that they're not really willing to get too close to him, which he mostly blames on his size compared to them. so it means a lot to him that you're accepting of him like this, and readily willing to allow him so close to you despite the staunch difference in both height and strength between the two of you.

because of his aforementioned worry that you're put off by his height, he might try to adjust himself to a more comfortable size for both your sakes during intimacy at first. it'll likely be more difficult to change his mind on this too, given that at his full size, there's realistically no way for you to be able to take him inside you. he can't stand the thought of hurting you at your most vulnerable.

however, the moment it dawns on him that you not only don't mind the size difference but are into it... well that changes things, doesn't it? that just means he'll have to get creative. no penetration at his full size, of course, but otherwise...

he may not make it obvious at first so as not to startle you, but he definitely gets off on the visual of wrapping a hand around your entire waist – not both hands, just one. being big enough that not only can his large palm press against your entire backside, but that his thumb and middle finger can touch each other at your front without any issue, even with some overlap? he's damn near busting in his pants already. he likes the visual confirmation that if he wanted to, he could easily grab you like this to move you exactly the way he likes... like a toy...

because of his natural size and strength, it's no effort for Tenna to manhandle you around, grabbing and moving you without breaking a metaphorical sweat. this comes in handy when you're in a particularly difficult position, and you're struggling to hold it. just let him hold you however you prefer so you don't wear yourself out before the fun's over. all that he asks is that you hold onto one of his fingers that's nearly digging into your flesh.

while he of course still doesn't want to accidentally hurt you in the heat of the moment, there's just something about the vulnerability in general that gets him going, even more so when he's closer to his natural height. knowing you trust him enough to take care of you, that you're not worried he'll get too ahead of himself and are actually into being so wholy overwhelmed by him... even though he's technically bigger, he can just never get enough of you.

Null

unlike Tenna, Null doesn't care what you think about his intimidating size, both before and after establishing a relationship. go figure. his height gives him an incredible advantage on top of being the Lord of Screens, making it easier to keep anyone who opposes him under his control, even when he has to get physical about it. you're no exception.

because of this, you're even more prone to getting manhandled and carried around by Null than you are by Tenna, and even worse is that he's not exactly the most gentle about it. picking you up by the back of the collar like you're a feral cat, tossing you over his shoulder, or carrying you by your upper body and just letting your legs dangle is how you're usually situated in his hold, with exceptions for when he feels like being a little nicer for once and carrying you properly. at least your legs won't go numb in those instances.

because of the absurd size difference, he's not too willing to bother with kisses, though he won't gripe if you kiss him anywhere. at the very least, he might tease or outright make fun of you for trying to give him a proper kiss when he can easily bite your head off like this. ...he's just joking. but if you want an actual kiss from him, or any from him at all for that matter, you'll have to ask and subsequently deal with his playful jabs at your neediness, as if he isn't already adjusting his height and dragging you closer to him to fulfill your request. what a hypocrite.

Null likes using his height to his advantage, and it varies if it's to your advantage as well. one day he'll use it to get anyone bothering you off your back, telling them to scram or there will be hell to pay, the next he's using it to keep things out of reach for you, either to get you to apologize to him for pissing him off or to get your attention back on him by asking for his help to get it back down. he likes to think he's not obvious about his intentions, but given that everything he steals usually ends up in spots that you know only he can reach... he's not exactly subtle.

he gets a weird protective instinct during cuddling. you're so small and fragile compared to him, and the fact that you're willing to relax this much around him (or on him) makes him want to keep a look out for potential threats that could ruin this. not only that, but he's painfully cautious with himself as well, and might involuntarily freeze up during the first few instances of cuddling together – not just because he's not used to it, but because he doesn't trust that he won't accidentally hurt you with his sheer size and strength. he'll calm down over time, though that habit of tensing up when he thinks someone/something else is nearby won't ever really go away.

just like his original counterpart, Null's also grateful that you don't mind the size difference, even if he basically forced it on you in the beginning. it strokes his ego to know you like his natural height, but due to his staggering size combined with his prickly personality, he's not exactly the most approachable – intentional on his part, this time – so he appreciates that you're not put off by any of this.

yea, go figure that Null unabashedly gets off on the size difference between you and him. he's big on power play, wanting full control and loving the idea of completely overwhelming you while he barely has to do anything... of course, he plans to do more than just the bare minimum, excluding penetration at his full size, but knowing it's so easy for him to make you fall apart for him makes him a bit feral.

another one that enjoys having his hand around your waist, except he'll actually make good on his perverted ideas of grabbing you and moving you like a toy for him to play with. whether that be forcibly grinding your core along his cock, or holding you firm against his screen while he sucks as many orgasms out of you as he desires, he's more than willing to toy with you for as long as he likes, or until you tap out.

going back to his thing for power play, he might enjoy any fear you exhibit a little too much. not that he wants you to be scared of him, but he likes the brief flash of panic in your eyes when he's holding your entire body down with one hand, or dragging a single, large claw down your clothes, delighting in how they tear so easily. don't worry, doll, he'll get you new clothes as compensation, but for now, he really likes the way you shake in his hold, regardless of if it's out of fear or lust.

while penetration isn't feasible while he's at his full height, Null finds it hot and, quite honestly, a bit cute if you try anyway. aw, you want him so bad that you're willing to hurt yourself for his cock? that's adorable, but not happening. he'll let you mouth at it and grind on it all you like, but he's trying to be considerate of your internal organs here. eventually he'll adjust his size so he can fuck you properly, but until then, he's enjoying the visual of his cock being the size of your entire torso, and then some.

when he feels you're being especially irritating one day, don't be surprised if he uses his plug-in cord to tie you up to the point of immobility. usually, it's not long enough to tie you up so much, but at his full size, it's doable. he'll even force it between your teeth to keep you quiet, condescending as he coos over how you involuntarily drool all over his cord. he may act like it's just you that's getting all worked up, but the sensations of your entire body on his cord as well as your teeth biting down on it is forming a noticeable tent in his slacks, so be prepared for what comes next.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

SFX Magazine Issue 372 - Designing Good Omens ❤ 😊

PRODUCTION DESIGNER MICHAEL RALPH REVEALS HOW THE SHOW’S CENTREPIECE SET, WHICKBER STREET, WAS GIVEN A DEVILISHLY CLEVER UPGRADE FOR THE SECOND SEASON

WORDS: DAVE GOLDER

Invisible Columns And Thin Walls “The new studio is Pyramid Studios in Bathgate – it used to be a furniture warehouse. And unfortunately – or fortunately, because I accept these things as not challenges but gifts – right down the middle of that studio are a series of upright columns. But you’ll never spot them on screen. I had to build them in and integrate them into the walls and still get the streets between them. And it worked.

“There’s all sorts of cheeky design values to those sets. Normally a set like this is double-skin. In other words, you do an interior wall and an exterior wall, with an airspace in between. But really, the only time a viewer notices that there’s that width is at the doors and the windows. So I cheated all that. I ended up with single walls everywhere. So the exterior wall is the interior wall, just painted. All I did was make the sash windows and entrances wider to give it some depth as you walked in.”

GOOD OMENS HAD A CHANGE of location for its second season, but hopefully you didn’t notice. Because Whickber Street in Soho upped sticks from an airfield in Hertfordshire to a furniture warehouse in Bathgate, Edinburgh. It’s the kind of nonsensical geographical shenanigans that could only make sense in the crazy world of film and TV, and production designer Michael Ralph was the man in charge of rebuilding and expanding the show’s vast central set. “I wish we could have built more in season one than we did,” says Ralph, whose previous work has included Primeval and Dickensian. “We built the ground floor of everything and the facades of all the shops. But we didn’t build anything higher than that, because we were out on an airfield in a very, very difficult terrain and weather conditions, so we really couldn’t go much higher. Visual effects created the upper levels.”

But with season two the set has gone to a whole other level… literally. “What happened was that the rest of the street became integrated into the series’s storyline,” explains Ralph. “So we needed a record shop, we needed a coffee shop that actually had an inside, we needed a magic shop, we needed the pub. To introduce those meant we had to change the street with a layout that works from a storylines point of view. In other words, things like someone standing at the counter in the record shop had to be able to eyeball somebody standing at the counter in the coffee shop. They had to be able to eyeball Aziraphale sitting in his office in the window of the bookshop. But the rest of it was a pleasure to do inside, because we could expand it and I could go up two storeys.”

For most of the set, which is around 80 metres long and 60 metres wide, the two storeys only applied to the shop frontages, but in the case of Aziraphale’s bookshop, it allowed Ralph to build the mezzanine level for real this time. According to Ralph it became one of the cast and crews’ favourite places to hang out during down time.

But while AZ Fell & Co has grown in height, it actually has a slightly smaller footprint because of the logistics of adapting it to the new studio.

“Everybody swore to me that no one would notice,” says Ralph wryly. “I walked onto it and instinctively knew there was a difference immediately, and they hated me for that. I have this innate sense about spatial awareness and an eye like a spirit level.

“It’s not a lot, though – I think we’ve lost maybe two and a half feet on the front wall internally. I think that there’s a couple of other smaller areas, but only I’d notice. So I can be really annoying to my guys, but only on those levels. Not on any other. They actually quite like me…”

Populating The Bookshop “The props in the new bookshop set were a flawless reproduction from the set decorator Bronwyn Franklin [who is also Ralph’s wife]. It was really the worst-case scenario after season one. She works off the concept art that I produce, but what she does is she adds so much more to the character of the set. She doesn’t buy anything she doesn’t love, or doesn’t fit the character.

“But the things she put a lot of work into finding for season one, they were pretty much one-offs. When we burnt the set down in the sixth episode, we lost a lot of props, many of which had been spotted and appreciated by the fans. So Bronwyn had to discover a new set decorating technique: forensic buying.

“She found it all – duplicates and replicas. It took ages. In that respect, the Covid delay was very helpful for Bron. There’s 7,000 books in there and there’s not one fake book. That’s mainly because… it’s a weird thing to say, but we wanted it to smell and feel like a bookshop to everybody that was in it, all the time.

“It affects everybody subliminally; it affects everybody’s performance – actors and crew – it raises the bar 15 to 20%. And the detail, you know… We love a lot of detail.”

(look at the description under this, they called him 'Azi' hehehehe :D <3)

Aziraphale’s Inspirational Correspondence “There’s not one single scrap of paper on Aziraphale’s desk that isn’t written specifically for Aziraphale. Every single piece is not just fodder that’s been shoved there, it has a purpose; it’s a letter of thanks, or an enquiry about a book or something.

“Michael Sheen is so submerged in his character he would get lost sitting at his own desk, reading his own correspondence between takes. I believe wholeheartedly that if you put that much care into every single piece of detail, on that desk and in that room, that everybody feels it, including the crew, and then they give that set the same respect it deserves.

“They also lift their game because they believe that they’re doing something of so much care and value. Really, it’s a domino effect of passion and care for what you’re producing.”

Alternative Music “My daughter Mickey is lead graphic designer [two of Ralph’s sons worked on the series too, one as a concept artist, the other in props]. They’re the ones that produced all of that handwritten work on the desk. She’s the one that took on the record shop and made up 80 band names so that we didn’t have to get copyright clearance from real bands. Then she produced records and sleeves that spanned 50, 60 years of their recordings, and all of the graphics on the walls.

“I remember Michael and Neil [Gaiman] getting lost following one band’s history on the wall, looking at their posters and albums desperately trying to find out whether they survived that emo period.”

It’s A Kind Of Magic One of the new shops in Whickber Street for season two was Will Goldstone’s Magic Shop, which is full of as many Easter eggs as off-the-shelf conjuring tricks, including a Matt Smith Doctor Who-style fez and a toy orang-utan that’s a nod to Discworld’s The Librarian. Ralph says that while the series is full of references to Gaiman, Pratchett and Doctor Who, Michael Sheen never complained about a lack of Masters Of Sex in-jokes. “He’d be the last person to make that sort of comment!”

Ralph also reveals that the magic shop counter was another one of his wife’s purchases, bought at a Glasgow reclamation yard.

The Anansi Boys Connection Ralph reveals that Good Omens season two used the state-of-the-art special effects tech Volume (famous for its use in The Mandalorian to create virtual backdrops) for just one sequence, but he will be using it extensively elsewhere on another Gaiman TV series being made for Prime Video.

“We used Volume on the opening sequence to create the creation of the universe. I was designing Anansi Boys in duality with this project, which seems an outrageously suicidal thing to do. But it was fantastic and Anansi Boys was all on Volume. So I designed for Volume on one show and not Volume on the other. The complexities and the psychology of both is different.”

[velvetures]

Honorifics

A/N: Yeah... I don't know about this. I'll probably take it down since I'm unsure if it's got enough of a consistent vibe. Let me know if it's actually something you enjoy since I don't write angst or hurt/comfort often. I ALWAYS WRITE HAPPY ENDINGS THO. That's a damn promise. Summary: You've given Ghost a title he hates, and takes it out on you. The situation goes too far, and you're both left trying to figure it out. Reader is nicknamed "Brass" since she's a long-distance shooter/sniper. T/W: angst, cursing, Ghost being an emotionally unstable human, yelling, the reader having a breakdown, smidge of not eating, smidge of not drinking anything, comfort, feelings, female reader, not proofread.

When you joined the task force, things didn’t exactly go as smoothly as you had hoped it would. Training sessions usually ended up with you either getting your ass beat or nearly surviving a full-on embarrassment by the skin of your teeth just to be told that you still weren’t in good enough shape to keep up with them in the field. Surely being a woman didn’t excuse you from being in shape for the kind of work Laswell and Price had brought you in for, but damn if it wasn’t difficult to try and have a one-on-one fight with someone like Soap or Ghost without the benefit you would typically have in a real-world battle situation. The reality that all of the men in the squad were literally the best of the best aside, there could be just barely enough room for you to compete on the same level when it came to sheer physical strength. While that wasn’t your specialty anyway, the Captain made it clear you needed to prove you could handle your own against serious physical fights without assistance. After nearly five weeks of having one of your squad mates slam you on your ass one too many times in the training hall, you finally were able to prove to Price that you could go out in the field and he didn’t have to extend any extra worries for your ability to survive.

Logistically as a sniper, it meant you frequently held a much more distant role in missions. By watching from a scope you could ensure that infiltrations, covert ops, and other hush-hush kinds of operations that typically the 141 wouldn’t have the luxury of. Being the skilled marksman you were, it made sense to take advantage of your talents and also extend you a job that progressed past what you’d experienced in your “standard” military career and multiple tours overseas. However, that meant communications were essentially the backbone of your usefulness aside from your rifle. Next to nothing else, your daily and mission-based work almost exclusively went through Lieutenant Ghost. Which… often proved to be the largest obstacle that you faced aside from making sure that your scope didn’t get bumped off sight the -often- rough flights and drives to insertion points.

The Lieutenant was particularly mean… he certainly didn’t give a single thought to if anyone thought that he was a little too harsh of a personality to swallow. That went for everything you came to learn about Ghost. From his lack of willingness to speak unless required of him, to his unique ability of appearing and disappearing from anywhere without the slightest sound or hint of where he’d come from or gone to. Trained as a distance marksman, even you were impressed that such a massive man could move around like smoke on water. That and his physical appearance; good god above. Surely a man like Ghost had never graced the face of the Earth before, else he’d have been just as mythical in his legendary life and would’ve been known by thousands of people. He stood towering over just about everyone, in whatever room he was in, and compared to your own height it was downright laughable the difference between the two of you as operators.

The one thing that made the biggest impression on you after meeting the Lieutenant was his voice and how he spoke. That thick accent always sounded rough and a little gritty. His deep timbre gave such a commanding authority that if given the choice between getting yelled at by Captain Price or Ghost… there was no choice you’d sit for hours listening to Price threaten you over Ghost. He just sounded so scary and attractive all at the same time. Unsurprisingly, it developed into a subconscious dynamic where you saw Ghost as such a superior officer -and human- that no matter how much you liked to daydream about Ghost in less-than-professional situations… You gave him the utmost respect at all times. Easiest of all to recognize was that from day one, you had never addressed Ghost to his face as anything other than ‘sir’. Not even his rank gave enough nuance to his character and presence, so for you, Ghost was inextricably attached to the name.

Ghost however… didn’t like it.

Such a simple address actually made Ghost grit his teeth beneath the shield of his mask. When he heard you call him that, he automatically related it to how he had called General Shepherd ‘sir’ as a subtle sign of mockery and defiance. Thinking about that made him more than necessarily angry and confused, but he couldn’t really accuse you of having ever been given much of a reason to detest him. Therefore, he had to come to the conclusion that you were doing it out of some kind of respect that a drill sergeant or boot camp instructor had bashed into your brain so hard that it stuck permanently. Not surprising since you were much different from the rest of the task force. Yet he had to revise that after the first six months of you being with them permanently. You had gotten settled in. Enough so that you called the Captain, ‘Cap’… Soap, ‘Johnny’… and Garrick, ‘Gaz’ like everyone else did. Exceptionalities only appeared when it came time for you to be around him or have any sort of interaction that wasn’t the occasional silent nod of acknowledgment when walking past each other in the hallways.

He honestly tried to ignore it and you altogether for that matter in an attempt to keep his bitter anger at a minimum. Seeing such a small and fucking happy woman always lingering around somewhere in the corners of his sight couldn’t be anything but a distraction waiting to happen. A bad habit that he didn’t have the mental capacity or emotional willingness to take on. Fuck… he already had to worry about the 141 as a whole, to begin with. Now you on top of that? It was more responsibility than he’d signed up for initially. Hearing you call him ‘sir’ day in and day out began to take its toll on his self-control. Ghost needed to either find out why you were hellbent on calling him that, or at least be enough of a bastard to you to be reassured that you did it because you wanted a polite way to tell him to shove it up his ass sideways.

The Lieutenant had been being nothing short of a prick in the last few months.

He was making paperwork back at HQ a nightmare that couldn’t be solved alternatively through someone like Gaz or Soap who often didn’t mind playing the part of the unbiased third party. Refusing to sign things when you stopped by his office, outright ignoring your necessary questions, and stonewalling you at every single stop along the way just to yield at the last moment and do everything you’d been asking for so the both of you wouldn’t face heat from any higher-ups. That alone was enough for you to consider talking to Soap privately since he knew Ghost the best… but you’d kept putting it off hoping that it was just a passing phase of shitty attitude.

Your patience and emotional strength fell through the floor after attempting for the third time in a week after something so fucking simple as trying to get his approval and official signature on a post-mission report Price had delegated to you after being called to Washington D.C. for a meeting. It wasn’t a major task, but knowing that the Captain had given you the responsibility first over anyone else made you want to impress him and take care of business without incident. God forbid you do something as simple as ask Ghost to pick up a pen and scribble his name at the bottom of a page so that you could send it on through the higher-up channels. It resulted in the Lieutenant straight-up yelling at you in the middle of the hallway outside his office when he’d found you standing there patiently waiting for him to show up. He wasn’t threatening physically, but it cut much deeper into your pride and feelings than it should have.

With every word that dripped venomously out of his masked mouth, you lost a little extra peace of mind on having such an untouchable and unshakably good opinion of Ghost for so long. This moment of undeserved verbal punishment was enough to make the corners of your eyes burn with inner disgrace, self-doubt, and plain old sadness which motivated you to get the hell out of there before the Lieutenant saw you cry. When you turned your back and walked away right in the middle of his berating for you being “too fucking annoying to tolerate”, your only destination was your personal quarters on the other end of the building where a lock on the door could shut out the entire base for as long as you saw fit. Upon the first estimation, it would be after Captain Price returned so that you could have at least one single chance at not getting a second punishment or dismissal from the squad. The sound of your door slamming shut and your back sliding down against it on your way down to the floor silenced the entire room around you, leaving just enough room for the papers clenched to your chest to flutter onto the ground and your weak cries to sounds amplified.

It was hours before you could drag yourself off the floor and into bed, too tired and wanting to fall back on the trained and instinctual desire to hide away somewhere isolated and not move for hours on end. Being a long-distance marksman gave you the talent of patience insurmountable to the average person, allowing days to pass by without you needing to do more than go to the bathroom before coming right back to a motionless position. That’s what you wanted tonight. You needed to focus all of your energy into your brain alone and use it to sort through the hurt burning through your eyes and throat, and the questioning that gave such a sickening feeling a chance root in your stomach. Questions of if it had been foolish to trust Ghost as much as you did the others, knowing how you’d been warned that he would be difficult to work with. Hoping you hadn’t been truly so ignorant of judging behavior to think that the Lieutenant was something much greater than his behavior had been not only today but for the past months.

The next two days were spent laying near motionless… not hungry or thirsty.

Just thinking, sleeping, and staring at the wall across from your bed.

A solid knock on your door was the first human sound that hadn’t been made by you in over forty-eight hours. You’d not looked at your phone or any communications since locking yourself inside, and there was a good chance someone from the squad had come searching for you after such a long period without seeing or hearing from you. When you refused to answer right away, another harder knock banged on the door twice and rattled the steel in its doorframe. Impatient. Testy. Quite familiar with everything you’ve been through lately. Recognizing the Lieutenant was the one outside made your gut churn all over again. Questioning whether to get up or not wasn’t hard. Laying perfectly still in bed, you waited. If you were being honest though, it’d been a long time since you’d spent so long restricting yourself from basic needs for the purpose of acting like a living phantom. Close to three years since any sniper position had left you utterly abandoned without resources. Only this time it was self-induced and nothing short of a trauma response you wanted to hide away from. Truthfully you couldn’t tell if walking to the door was an easy feat or not. After not drinking anything, using the bathroom wasn’t necessary and the last time you’d stood up didn’t cross your memory clearly.

Ghost slammed his fist against the door again one last time. But he didn’t wait long enough for you to answer before rattling the handle to the door with a heavy sigh that was audible through the cracks separating you. Metal on metal gritted softly and moved the door handle a bit further. Recognizing that as nothing short of Ghost picking the lock to your quarters without the slightest care of how he’d be breaking multiple stipulations laid out for them living in HQ. Either your physical or mental state kept you from giving a damn when the handle gave way fully, leaving a bright fluorescence light flooding in from the hallway into your pitch-black room. It made your eyes water and the urge to turn your head away was strong enough to budge your head into the blankets and pillow surrounding. Heavy boots made the paperwork scattered on the floor crunch softly and the sound of his deep breaths gave away his current state of frustration. Clearly not appreciating being locked out of a room that he had no fucking business being in. A long pause led to shuffling around, and the sound of your desk chair creaking under his weight.

“Gonna say somethin’?” He sounded no less irritated than the last time you’d spoken.

It made your throat burn to even think you’d allowed his to get in your head so deeply just to utterly rip every last bit of security and respect away from you for no damn reason. Your silence made quite the statement, even if the actual task of speaking hadn’t been a totally voluntary one. You’d not moved your jaw in days at this point.

“You’ve missed five drill sessions, two mandatory meetings, and one phone from General Shepherd.”

Listing off your offenses hardly bothered you. The consequences of this had been fully accepted days ago, and Ghost would have to do a lot more to get you up from this bed. You’d trained for hell, and no matter how badly Ghost had ruined your almost loving and patient view of him there weren’t enough men on the planet to make you get up voluntarily. Drastic… yes. Satisfying to your own pride… undoubtedly. When you didn’t even let out a single breath loud enough for Ghost to hear instead of that instant apology or willingness to appease him… please him even, with that little quip of ‘sir’ ready on your tongue, the Lieutenant was up out of that chair so quickly you heard it roll into the wall behind him hard enough to thud against the drywall.

“Goddamn it Brass, I demand a fuckin’ answer!” His loud bark caught your attention, but the feeling of your blankets being ripped off your body was a far more startling sensation.

Baring you to the cold air of the room, all your body managed was to raise chills on your skin in a feeble attempt to keep you warm or alert you to seek out that heat again. Tension exploded into shocked silence when Ghost didn’t utter more than a sharp inhale after getting one, shadowed glimpse of your body totally frozen on your stomach. You knew it couldn’t look great. Snipers could come back looking like skeletons sometimes after a long mission if they were given the orders to stay put. You’d not been laying nearly long enough for that to be the case, but dehydration was certainly a symptom you were ignoring quite easily, as well as the possibility of some minor pressure ulcers that would linger for a few weeks if you didn’t move soon. Ghost wasn’t as familiar with the sight of how you felt internally. Snipers weren’t commonly used or in collaboration with Task Force 141. You’d been their first real look at how the inner workings moved or didn’t, and much of your personal way of doing things had dispelled or blown away any misguided assumptions they’d made about your skills early on. Viewing a sniper after days of doing literally nothing, of her own free will…? That wasn’t healthy or accepted in general military companies. Lucky Ghost got the front-row seat though.

When you heard his movement next to you, weight pressed down the mattress at your side in the shape of his hands, and a low sigh registered.

“Brass…” Failing to even say something, you wondered if your own assessment of yourself wasn’t accurate. “It’s been five days.” His faltered tone was truthful, and it destroyed your semblance of time that had been misled by the absence of sunlight coming in through your room.

You thought about trying to say something, resolve falling flat when swallowing felt difficult. A gloved hand rested against your thigh and Ghost almost growled again, sounding a lot more like he was resisting the urge to squeeze you hard. Only his fingers traced along your hip and over the curve in your waist with a tense and heavy swallow. He was being gentle beyond your concept of his depth of emotion and understanding. Nearly loving as he paused over your ribcage with another pinched sort of sound. Staying like that for what felt like hours, you struggled to keep yourself awake. It had been a struggle to move your tongue in your mouth, testing what mobility you’d lost in the short term. Only Ghost wasn’t leaving like you expected, and suddenly his voice returned it its normal stature.

“This’s Ghost. Get a bay ready now, I’m bringin’ someone in.” The reverb of his voice crackled in a radio you knew hooked to his vest. A backup short-range alternative in the case that SAT couldn’t be established or wasn’t clear enough to rely on in the field. Apparently, he used it to keep in contact with someone on base. Or multiple people for all you knew.

“Copy Ghost.” A static voice could be heard and quickly the room was pitched back into a silence you wanted to remain in, but Ghost was adamant to keep infracting alone with a whole list of other rules that, for whatever reason, just didn’t fucking matter or apply to him.

His other hand searched around the dark until he found your face resting amongst the fabric of your bed, curling his hand around your head and meticulously lifting you so very slowly away from the bed with his other arm steadying your legs that had also been taken up off the mattress. You’d never touched Ghost once in all the time you’d known him. Understanding that with his sour attitude, there couldn’t be a single chance in Hell that touching him was an acceptable action. Whereas with Soap, Gaz, and even on occasion Price: hugs, handshakes, shoves, and other physical touches were common, Ghost totally ignored all human contact. Maybe Hell had frozen over outside of your quarters for your weak and still motionless body to be lifted up against the Lieutenant’s chest and carried preciously outside of your room into the burning light of HQ. His chest heaved deep and quickly against you. Both hands curled around you and flexed tighter each time you were able to hear another set of shoes approaching closer to you. Possessive like a soldier. Silent like a Ghost. Determined.

He takes you straight to the medical hall where three nurses and two of the on-shift doctors are fast to respond to your condition. Only Ghost refuses to let them take you away from him for any reason. Stoically stonewalling them just like he habitually did to you as they begged him to lay you down on a transport bed so they could take you back to a room for assessment. The Lieutenant took you there himself, with the group of nurses and doctors hot on his heels and surrounding your bed once Ghost had you settled down inside a private room.

The whole place smells sterile and like alcohol. It’s not the first time you’ve been here, but these are far different circumstances. You’re still too sensitive to open your eyes, but hands are all over your body, gloves fingers touching around the sore places on weight-bearing points on your body, pricks in your fingertips, and a needle poke to the back of your hand. It’s overstimulating, to say the least, and you’re worried they’re going to think you’ve tried to starve yourself to death or decided that living altogether wasn’t worth it and simply wasting away into your bed was the solution. Right away, one of the voices of the medical professionals breaks that worry in your mind by calling for some of the tests to be staggered, needing time between them for nothing other than your own benefit.

“Treat this no differently than prolonged active reconnaissance,” The female voice states softly. “Being on-the-gun for this long is detrimental to all senses, and she’s going to need a while to wake up in a meaningful way.” She added, voice coming clearer the closer she got to your head.

“You’ve been working very hard, I suspect. Maybe not in the field… but you’re one tough lady.” She commented to you quite personally, her hand falling to your shoulders. “We’re going to get you plenty of fluids and start you on a vitamin drip to get everything running as it should again. You’ve also got some slight bedsores, but as long as we take care of them now, you’ll be right as rain soon, sniper.”

Tests were run, treatments began, and nurse after nurse was brought in with both doctors running rotations in and out of your room for the rest of the night. All of them were under the hard watch of Ghost who’d not moved from his position sitting in the corner of your room where he could see not only you but anyone approaching the door. He’d been very quiet throughout the process, watching and waiting for someone to give him some news about your condition with actual certainty. Stewing over the guilt he felt knowing damn well he was the reason you’d shut down so far and were still unable -or unwilling- to come out of it yet. You’d been nothing but the perfect little woman, doing her job with skill and grace, making everyone around you happier just with one glance in your direction. But fuck, he couldn’t stand seeing someone do the callous profession of killing people with one single squeeze of her finger and still have so much innocent and emotional humanity inside such a small body. Ghost couldn’t wrap his mind around it. So instead of trying to do the right thing and figure it out, he did what a man so out of touch with empathy did: Try to snuff it out.

You threatened him whether you or he realized it in the beginning.

But now he could see it with that crystal fucking clear hindsight. How monstrous he was for punishing you with no foundation other than his own selfish fear of seeing a dynamic he didn’t know was possibly wrapped up inside of you. Sweet and little you, never saying anything to him other than a ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir’. Goddamnit Ghost knew he’d nearly killed you in a way. Seeing days of neglect in your sallow expression, darkened under eyes, and weakened body was more than even his cold heart could take all at one time. Wasting away for someone as useless as himself, all because he’d never given you enough credit for finding something worth liking in him where no one else had. Screaming at you. Cursing your existence. Right in your face, while he’d been too big of a pussy to even take off his own mask he hid behind every day as he utterly destroyed your meaningful position and life working alongside of his and his squad. Owing you his life wouldn’t nearly cover his offenses. Laughably, Ghost admitted his own life or death couldn’t measure up to yours. So instead of saying any kind of bullshit apology, he sat in the corner of your room and denied himself sleep, food, and water because there wasn’t anything else he could do until you’d been considered healthy and strong again.

Almost one week to the day you had been signed off for return to duty with zero restrictions. Your physical and mental evaluations came back clean, and with both Price and Ghost signing off on the doctor’s orders, you returned to your quarters where you expected to see your room exactly as you’d left it before Ghost brought you into the medical wing. Only nothing was as you’d left it. All the paperwork left on the floor was gone, as well as the other documents that had been left on your desk that still needed finishing. All of it was gone. Your bed and all of the bedclothes you’d been taken from were also missing. Replaced with totally brand new bedding in dark hues of dark green and navy blue with a decidedly feminine pattern on the quilt. Items you didn’t own. Or have any idea where they came from. Even the smell of stale air was traded for a woody, and familiar smell that wasn’t of a candle, or room spray; It was from a person. The person who sat in the corner of your room in your desk chair with his massive arms crossed over his chest and dark eyes staring at you through the painted visage of a skull gracing a black compression mask.

“Sir,” You greet hoarsely, still working through some of the non-significant parts of your recovery that lingered. Ghost stood from his seat and met you halfway across your room with a silent nod, his hand reaching out and motioning for you to step closer to him. Warily but complicit, you make the few steps forward and watch his hand turn to slide against your jaw and stay there firmly. “I expected you to be at drill.” You say with a tinge of surprise at the touch of his bare hand resting against your cheek.

“Should be,” He replied flatly. “But I’m not.” You nod a little, biting your tongue when his fingertip rubs over the curve of your ear. His eyes were soft and his unarmored physique was highlighted by the shadows made by the lamp on your side table. He’s inspecting you, you know as much. Clear by his thumb pressing over your pulse point and the minute exactly that he waits before speaking again.

“Do you like the color green?” His question knocks you off guard and his eyes slide over the quilt laying neatly over your bed. You were quick to answer honestly out of mere habit.

“Yes, sir.”

His hand stiffens against your cheek, and Ghost takes another step closer. His boots graze the tips of yours and his chin is nearly tucked against his chest to look down at you properly. You’re breathing a little harder, anticipating another break of his patience and an onslaught of screaming all directed at your apparent mistakes made right in front of his face. Judgments you’d still be unable to solve no matter how much you thought about it or what you did to try and find a solution of healthy -or not- motives. Ghost doesn’t yell though. He actually lowers his face down to yours, eyes locked right on you and an intensity burning there.

“Why do you call me that?” His low growl made you shiver, especially when his hand dropped lower to your throat. Now squeezing, but holding your gaze steady on him, reminding you of his strength. The power over you he’d always held, and given you the instant to call him ‘sir’ in the first place. Everything about Ghost was overwhelming, and you’d always been one wave away from drowning under him.

“You deserve the honor…” You answer, certain. Even if he’d broken your spirit and came back in the aftermath with questions you still believed to be much too complex for a single-sentence answer. Hopefully, he understood a little bit better but the way you leaned against his hand, letting him actually feel the pressure of your throat pressing into his palm. Literally offering your trust in him over again, testing the Lieutenant and watching as his eyes widened. His other hand came up to your face, counteracting the pressure you’d applied to keep your breath and blood flow uninterrupted. His face is still only inches away from yours but unflinching at the close contact.

“Brass,” He murmured, masked face teasing closer with his own lack of control. “I’m not what you think I am.” Your chest tightens with his words, soaked in desperation that heats your lips and cheeks.

“What’s that, sir?” You question, earning another flinch of his fingers against your skin.

“Safe… Trustworthy… Honorable.” He replies, getting even closer. The smooth material ghosted over your lips, and his breathing fanning over you wetly through the damp material. You sigh, feeling lightheaded. Weak in his hands, confused yet happy to have your life held in the palms of his hands. Confused about where his mistrust comes from, but gaining perspective every time he flinches when you address him in the way you always believed he’d feel the most revered and… loved.

“You’re wrong,” You challenge, hands moving from your sides to run up the thin shirt covering his chest. “You’re a man of fear. One that death shakes at the mention of. Even looking at you through my scope a mile away is enough to remind me you’re capable of inhuman things…” Your voice lowers, hearing thoughts straight from your soul escaping without filter from your brain. “Yet you’re human. So much more than anyone sees. Because it’s not evil that keeps you going. It’s the fear and hatred of losing anything that means something to you.” Your hand rests over his chest, hearing his heart thundering against his ribs.

“You’re not a monster, you are terrified of losing everything. That is why I call you ‘sir’, is because you’re a man unlike any other, Ghost.”

Hearing your own voice say his name like that feels so foreign. Coming off your tongue with the letters not fitting together in a way that you’d experienced. But Ghost… he reacts differently. His hands tightened around you and he hugged you against his chest tightly. His chest heaves up and down and the thunder of his heartbeat impossibly quickens until your left ear can’t hear anything but the repetitive thrum of blood coursing through his body. Heavy arms snake around you, one around your head to secure it to him and the other clinging to your waist with his hand fisting into your shirt until it’s skin-tight on your stomach. The Lieutenant practically shakes against you, using your much smaller frame to steady himself.

Yet he’s dropping to one knee on the ground, bringing you down with him until he’s nearly cradling you and softly rocking your weight back and forth. Soothing himself in much the same way a child would after scraping their knee on the sidewalk and the tears have begun to dry up. God, it made the massive man feel so weak; much like you did after he’d yelled at you a week ago. Both of you kneeled on the floor now with all of your wounds opened up to each other and had silently found a calm within the eye of a destructive storm that had been raging against the pair of you while everyone on the outside had been simply looking on with bated breath to see how the ending would play out.

“Brass - I…” Ghost’s voice choked up again, his arms tightening around you. “God, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t ignore you anymore… I’m losing my mind.”

You lean into his chest harder, arms struggling to reach all the way around his wide back in an attempt to support him a little bit. You understood through the way he was grabbing at anything on you he could desperately. So you did all you could and rubbed your hand up and down his back quietly allowing him the time to work through his thoughts. Both of you had been hurt by this, and while the Lieutenant’s form of apology came in the way he’d ushered you for help when you needed it most and unquestionably been the reason behind the way your quarters looked. Now it was you, cradling a man who’d never shown a single crack in his armor, feeling the weight of so many emotional wounds that he was practically bleeding out with pain and palpable regret.

“You don’t have to…” You whisper, resting your forehead against his.

Ghost just nods his head, panting heavily and giving a low sort of whine. “I’m so sorry…”

You smile sadly. “I’m sorry too.”

His eyes soften more, blinking away at wetness brimming at his waterline. “Say it again… please. I need to hear it. God, please.”

“It’s okay…” Your hands cradle his cheeks, feeling the sharp lines and hard muscles. “I’m right here, Ghost. We’re going to do this over again… Together, Ghost.”

Nodding weakly, he meets your gaze as you say his name again. Reveling in it. “Together… together, with you.”

[electricbluebutterflies]

Kastle + weak, sweaty kisses because it's unbearably hot

PG13-ish and also on ao3.

Figures he’d finally get his life together in the middle of a heat wave.

Frank isn’t one to complain about petty things, for so many reasons, but nor is he ignoring that certain current circumstances are… unfortunate. He just wants to make out with his girlfriend, which really shouldn't be a challenge, except it’s the middle of August and record highs outside and her air conditioner is broken and-

Honestly, if ever he has earned the right to be difficult about something that is in no way his fault, this would be the time.

Thing is, he shouldn't even be bothered by this kind of heat. He’s survived worse, and he knows that’s not a fuckin’ competition but he does try to have some kind of perspective and-

God, it’s been a minute since he’s gotten to have normal person problems.

Right now, his world begins and ends with the woman running her fingers through his hair, and he’s not even sure about that touch, and-

He’s not getting laid again until he sees a snowflake outside. Not even thinking about it.

“I’m rethinking how much I hate shower sex,” she murmurs against the side of his face.

“Bad idea. Only works if there’s a height difference and-”

Not that he is in any way complaining about Karen’s… anything. He likes the easy eye contact. And the fact that everything in her apartment is user-friendly. And the fact that she has not stopped wearing heels, cultural cliches be damned. But there are certainly some… logistics one considers, and-

“And I’d break my neck, knowing my luck.”

“Not worth it.”

She rolls her eyes anyways, because this is the annoying reality they have to deal with, and-

“Think it’s supposed to be ten degrees colder next week.”

He answers her with a kiss, and somehow that’s too much. Skin on skin is a bad idea right now – even holding her is a bad idea right now, and that’s usually fine – and he hates this so much, and-

“Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't detach on me.”

“Too fucking hot to do that.”

She takes half a step back and takes her shirt off – still wearing a practical bra under that, and how is that comfortable – and he is just… not there with his own body, and not going to be weird about it, and-

“There go all my dreams of tropical vacations,” she murmurs, almost a laugh.

"Wouldn't have to be tropical. Supposedly Maine is nice this time of year.”

“You suggesting we brave tourist season?”

“Could be worth it.”

Fuck, he can’t define the relationship but he’s suggesting a couples trip. He doesn't know how to do this. At least she’s not the shotgun wedding type.

“Plan it, then. I can vanish for a few days.”

Because that’s ended so well when he’s been involved. Sure.

But he’s trying to be a little more functional these days, and there’s a difference between a long weekend on the coast and, uh, several technical kidnappings, and-

He takes another heartbeat of a kiss, and then a better one, and this is all the best set of ideas he’s ever had, and he’s scared of getting used to it and he wants to get used to it, and-

“Can do.”

[johnlocsin-johnyakuza]

Ever stopped to think about how terrifying Super Earth and The Helldivers must be from the enemies perspective?

Even though the game is satire, Super Earth and, most specifically, The Helldivers, are genuinely kind of terrifying when you see them from the enemy's POV. Not only do you have this massive galactic empire who took out a hyper-advanced race a century ago in the First Galactic War using considerably less advanced technology, but the same hyper-advanced race is finally back trying to square up against us again and getting their ass beat, all while our technology hasn't changed much since the first war. All of this because we are simply just too goddamn patriotic to our home planet to lose it. Our strongest weapon is literally our determination and devotion to Super Earth.

Think about it. You are an Automaton facing down a Helldiver. You ambush them from behind and blast a laser into their back. Without missing a beat, they jump forward, turn 180 degrees and pop you in the chest with their Senator. As you fall to the ground with your vision getting static-y and your systems shutting down, you see them stand up, stick a needle into their neck and shout "MY LIFE FOR SUPER EARTH!" as they sprint off unfazed to a random direction.

The Helldivers, despite how much Arrowhead seems to have wanted to make us look like glorified red shirts, are genuinely an elite force compared to standard SEAF troops.

Let's summarize this:

* We can handle multiple different types of weapons extremely proficiently, including being accurate while running AND diving to the ground, two things that are extremely difficult to do in real life.

* We can sprint for fourty minutes almost non-stop for multiple miles and back to complete our missions, not to mention do a variety of different moves that show off our agility such as the aforementioned diving but also sliding on the floor and climbing large surfaces.

* We can be set on fire, blown up, shot, fall from great heights and suffer multiple different types of terrifying injuries but not only manage to keep our cool but also recover from said injuries using simply some sort of highly-advanced "medicinal" drug that lets us keep fighting like nothing happened.

* A team of four is all that's required to be sent behind enemy lines to perform highly dangerous suicide missions that involve destroying enemy logistics, recovering intel and other types of sabotage in the style of WW2 Paratroopers. Keep in mind these missions are usually not done stealthfully at all and we're often fighting off entire BATTALLIONS of enemies that could easily crush any other 4-man squad. But not the Helldivers. The mental fortitude required to not cave in this sort of situation has to be extremely strong (and patriotic).

* Despite suffering major losses on multiple planets, we are still by all means winning the war and causing major damage to 3 different enemy factions. In one year, we have already killed BILLIONS of enemies on three fronts which is vastly more than our own number of KIA divers (though for full transparency, it is likely many more humans have died whether them being civilians our unseen SEAF personnel, but their numbers are unknown).

* Overzealously brain-dead fanatics, who not only lack fear of death but actively embrace it. (From a militaristic perspective, this is incredibly strong to the point of being absurd. Think of unbreakable units in Total War. All for Super Earth!)

* Exceptionally efficient killing machines. (Their flawless handling of both weapons and equipment suggests they've been trained from a very young age.)

* Access to top-tier technology designed to be both highly reliable and cost-effective. (You can literally drop a bomb on their gear, and it will still function perfectly. They just leave it behind and request a replacement like it's nothing.)

* Complete dehumanization of the enemy due to relentless propaganda. (With constant broadcasts and a star destroyer-sized screen blasting their ideals, even during downtime, they're never free from it.)

* An auto-regulating regime that enforces and encourages constant surveillance among individuals, making the populace their own "prisoners and wardens." (Ties back to the previous point.)

* Absolute obedience and fanaticism from both military and civilian sectors, ensuring a continuous flow of soldiers-whether motivated by "faith" or fear. (Again, see previous points.)

* A completely unstoppable war machine that will keep throwing bodies at you. No matter how many you kill, they'll keep diving. Again... and again... and again... and again...

In short…

BUGS, BOTS, SQUIDS, WE MUST KILL THEM ALL!

LEAVE NO ONE ALIVE!

BURN THEM TO THE GROUND AND SALT THE EARTH!

MY LIFE FOR SUPER EARTH!

Don't let the dissidents fool you into believing The Helldivers are just expendable fools who don't last long in the battlefield. If that were true, we would not be causing as much damage as we are now. Even with our heavy losses, each death is the torch of freedom passed from one soul to the next, be their survival time a mere 10 seconds or an outstanding 40 minutes. Democracy is smiling to us from the skies above and we are doing it proud!

[belovreinozomi]

The Forgotten Neighborhood

Kim Namjoon x Reader (Female)

The air in the quiet pocket of Setagaya, Tokyo, was heavy and damp, smelling of wet soil and late-blooming camellias. For Kim Namjoon, whose life was usually bright stadium lights and constant phone noise, this simple quiet was a great relief. He had rented the small, traditional guesthouse for two weeks using a different name. He wanted to be a regular man, not a star, just someone who could struggle with a difficult door lock or lose a train ticket without anyone caring. The peace he found here felt vital, like a necessary medicine for his overstimulated mind.

The wooden house, aged to a dark, deep color, sat recessed behind a low stone wall. Its small garden was messy but beautiful, filled with uncontrolled greenery. This type of imperfect beauty was what he looked for in his art, in the concept of wabi-sabi, but it was rare in his normal, highly controlled life.

It was late Tuesday afternoon, and the humidity was pressing down. Namjoon was crouched low by the communal recycling bins, sweating slightly. He had managed to sort the plastics and the regular garbage successfully, but the municipal rules for the opaque paper bags were proving impossible to understand. The guide he’d printed was entirely in complex Japanese writing, and his rusty language skills were failing him completely.

“I hate paper,” he muttered softly in Korean, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He just wanted to dispose of his three weeks' worth of poetry drafts and empty coffee cups without causing an international incident.

A shadow fell over him, but there was no rush or judgment in the sudden presence.

“Ah, those should go into the special green nets, not the plastic bags,” a clear, calm voice said in perfectly clear Korean. “The neighborhood association is very strict about paper, especially cardboard. They’ll leave a red sticker on the container if you mix it up.”

Namjoon quickly stood up, feeling the familiar spike of slight panic that always came with being seen. He turned to face the speaker and found himself looking at a woman who seemed entirely composed.

She was of average height, with dark hair tied back simply, and eyes that were both dark and remarkably observant. She carried a small canvas bag and a stack of colorful children’s books. Her skin had a warm, dusky tone, and her expression was one of mild, patient inquiry, the kind you might reserve for a slightly confused tourist, or perhaps a student struggling with a simple task.

“Oh. Thank you,” Namjoon replied, dropping his gaze immediately to the complicated trash schedule. “I apologize. I’m renting the place next door, and I’m finding the logistics challenging.”

“It takes a little while to learn the system here,” she answered easily. She didn't gush, didn't gasp, and most importantly, she didn't seem to be analyzing his face or trying to find an angle for a photo. She treated him exactly like a confused neighbor who needed a simple explanation.

She smoothly took the paper bag from him, placed it inside a firm green mesh container next to the bins, and tied the cord with a decisive tug.

“There you are. Tomorrow is for things that don't burn. Don’t confuse the two, or the entire block will know.” She offered a small, genuine smile that softened her entire face. It was the smile of someone who understood life’s small, necessary rules and accepted them without complaint.

“I really needed the help, thank you,” Namjoon said, feeling immense relief. “I’m Joon, by the way. I’ll only be here for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m Y/N,” she replied, nodding once. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Joon. Try to keep the noise down, please. The walls are thin, and I have school starting early.”

She didn't wait for a response, simply offering a final, friendly nod before heading toward the small, wooden house directly adjacent to his guesthouse. She was home.

Namjoon watched her go, a slow, quiet amusement blooming in his chest. In the space of two minutes, she had fixed his municipal waste problem and issued him a calm, respectful warning, all while treating him like a perfectly normal, non-famous tenant. It was the most wonderfully normal interaction he’d had in months.

(Y/N's) Point of view:

Y/N closed the door to her guesthouse room quietly and leaned back against the cool wood. She allowed herself one slow, deep breath.

Kim Namjoon.

She had known instantly. The moment he stood up from the recycling bins, confused and looking for help, she recognized the famous face she knew from countless photos and lyrics.

But her mind immediately shifted into teacher mode: Do not panic. Meet the chaos with calm. He was a star looking for peace, and she was not going to be the reason he lost it. Her job gave her practice in dealing with people who needed simple, clear direction, whether they were five or thirty.

She walked across her room, her hands shaking slightly from the sudden rush of adrenaline. It was strange. She was a sensible fan; she admired the art, not the fame. And the profound poet whose words comforted her adult life had just been grateful for her advice on cardboard disposal. It was funny.

He introduced himself as Joon.

He was taller than she expected, and seemed slightly awkward doing normal tasks. But his eyes, when he thanked her, were searching and genuinely appreciative. They were the eyes of a person who just needed a moment where no one wanted anything from him except accurate trash sorting.

She poured a glass of water, forcing herself to focus on the cold glass. She decided to stick to her plan: be polite, be helpful, and respect his privacy completely. She was Y/N, the teacher. He was Joon, the man renting next door. That was all.

Yet, a small smile touched her lips. She had told the leader of the world's biggest band to keep the noise down.

Over the next few days, their acquaintance grew in small, quiet moments. Namjoon found himself adopting the neighborhood's slow pace, enjoying the freedom of being just Joon.

He noticed Y/N often leaving early, looking composed and professional. He learned she taught at the nearby ECCE facility, which explained the small, colorful toys and drawings that sometimes spilled from her tote bag. Her composure contrasted sharply with the noise her job must require.

He would sometimes see her returning in the late afternoon, tired but grounded. They exchanged simple, respectful greetings when they passed near the local shop or the shared mailboxes. They rarely spoke for long, but the acknowledgment was comforting, a silent agreement not to disturb the peace of the other.

One rainy Saturday morning, they both ended up at the local laundromat—a tiny space barely big enough for two machines and a bench. Namjoon was waiting for his shirts, staring out at the downpour, when Y/N walked in with a basket full of tiny clothes.

“The rain always hits hardest on laundry day,” Y/N sighed, but her tone was accepting.

“Tell me about it,” Namjoon replied, standing up to let her put her basket down. “These tiny things—are they all yours?”

Y/N laughed, pulling out a pair of bright red mittens. “No, they belong to thirty of my favorite dictators. When you’re an ECCE teacher, the laundry never ends. We deal with paint, mud, and occasionally, strong opinions on sharing.”

“Dictators of sharing,” Namjoon repeated, smiling. “That sounds like a heavy job.”

“It is profound work,” Y/N said, placing a coin in the machine. “The simplest things are often the most profound. Teaching a child how to express a strong emotion without hurting anyone—that’s harder than solving world peace, sometimes. But it’s beautiful.”

She sat down on the bench, pulling out a small, worn paperback book. Namjoon sat opposite her, intrigued.

“I admire that,” he said genuinely. “The commitment to structure and care. I spend my life trying to dismantle structures, to question the system. It’s hard to remember how much stability matters.”

“The system is built on people who were taught, somewhere, how to hold a pencil and how to apologize,” Y/N pointed out, looking up from her book. “We need both. The artist who questions, and the teacher who builds the foundation. I think you and I are both trying to build something lasting, just at opposite ends of the spectrum.”

The conversation that followed was the deepest they had shared. They spoke about the burden of responsibility—his to his global audience and career, hers to the young lives she shaped. They found common ground in the way their work isolated them.

“I feel like I live on an island,” Namjoon admitted softly. “A crowded island, but alone. Everyone is watching the performance, but few people truly see the effort, or the fatigue.”

Y/N put her book down. Her eyes were serious. “I think that happens when you are a deeply responsible person. You focus so much on providing stability for others—your fans, your members, my students—that you forget to build an anchor for yourself. Who takes care of the person responsible for everything?”

Namjoon felt a sharp sense of recognition. She hadn't asked about music, fame, or money. She asked about his spirit.

“It’s rare to talk to someone who understands the weight without being impressed by the height,” he said, leaning forward.

Y/N smiled kindly. “I’m too busy dealing with glitter glue and nap schedules to be impressed by celebrity, Joon. I’m impressed by genuine commitment. And I see that in you.”

Y/N neatly put away the stack of tiny, colorful vests and towels in her room. The conversation in the tiny laundromat still echoed in her mind.

It felt easy. Completely honest. He hadn't treated her job as simple "kids' stuff." He saw the profound responsibility in teaching young children, the effort it took to build a stable foundation. That mutual respect, the way he genuinely listened, meant everything to her.

He had admitted how isolated his life was, talking about the "weight of illusion." Hearing Kim Namjoon, the famous artist, say, "I feel like I live on an island," showed a vulnerability that only the real Joon would share. It was a strange honor.

She liked him. Not with the loud excitement of a typical fan, but with a quiet, sweet appreciation. The man sitting across from her, worried about foreign coins and looking for quiet, was exactly as thoughtful and kind as the poet she admired. The person matched the art.

She realized they weren't just neighbors killing time. They were two adults, both carrying heavy loads of responsibility, trying to figure out how to be stable for others while feeling lonely themselves. This wasn't a celebrity encounter; it was a rare connection built on seeing the effort the other person put into their difficult life. It made the quiet of the guesthouse feel much less lonely, and she deeply respected him for sharing his quiet space with her.

The following afternoon, their connection deepened further at the local vintage shop. Namjoon was looking for old vinyl records. Y/N was searching for specific Japanese children's books.

Namjoon was holding a record by a niche Korean indie artist when Y/N paused next to him.

“That’s a great choice,” she said. “Very moody. I love the way the artist uses sound to describe space.”

Namjoon was surprised. “You know this artist? Most people don't.”

Y/N gave him a small, knowing look. “I follow the Korean music scene closely. I have a lot of time for long listening sessions on my commutes.” She paused, then, speaking slowly, she added, “I know your music well, Joon. I’ve always appreciated the poetry in your lyrics. The way you blend philosophy with personal struggle—it’s very grounding.”

It was the first time she had openly acknowledged his famous identity. She delivered the information not as a gushing fan, but as an informed listener, making a calm statement of fact. Her focus remained on the art, not the status. It was the perfect, sensible way to handle the revelation.

Namjoon felt a huge wave of relief. “Thank you, Y/N. That means a lot. More than you know. Most interactions change the second my name is mentioned.”

“I’m not interested in the performance, Joon,” Y/N said simply, running a finger along the spine of a book. “I’m interested in the person who writes that poetry and who worries about his neighbors’ trash. That person is much more compelling.”

Their shared interest in art led them to a deeper discussion of aesthetics. Namjoon mentioned his passion for pottery and sculpture. Y/N, it turned out, was a keen amateur sketch artist, often drawing scenes from the neighborhood or quick portraits of her sleeping students.

“You should see the small courtyard behind the bookstore,” Y/N suggested. “There is an old, crumbling stone bench there, perfectly overgrown with moss. It’s the definition of beauty in decay.”

They walked together, talking about the philosophy of time and decay. They found the bench, and Namjoon took out his small notepad to sketch the lines of the stone. Y/N sat quietly beside him, occasionally pointing out how the sunlight hit the moss just right.

It was this shared, quiet contemplation that shifted their friendship. They weren't just neighbors; they were two thoughtful souls who had accidentally found a mirror in the middle of a busy world.

Back in her room, the calm of the afternoon stayed with Y/N. Talking about Wabi-Sabi and life’s philosophies with Joon felt so easy, so real. She loved how he listened, and she loved hearing his thoughtful ideas. They were truly on the same page about the important things. This shared view made the feeling in her chest grow stronger—a subtle, sweet affection.

But she fought hard to hide it. She knew her feelings could easily complicate his difficult, public life. He came here needing a break, not a relationship problem. She had to stay calm and steady, like the simple neighbor he trusted. She kept her responses measured and her eyes focused only on the quiet art he was sketching. She wanted him to share his heart without ever feeling pressured to receive hers. For now, the closeness of their minds was enough.

The days passed too quickly. Namjoon knew he had to leave the following morning. The thought of returning to his life felt heavier than ever, now that he knew this quiet haven existed.

He found Y/N on her small balcony that evening. He didn't knock; he simply waited until she saw him from her living room window and invited him over with a gesture.

She led him out to the balcony. The night was clear, the sky velvety black, and the moon was almost full, hanging low and bright over the quiet Tokyo rooftops.

“I brought green tea,” Y/N said, offering him a steaming cup. “For reflection.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a long time, sipping the tea, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of the city.

“I’m leaving before the sun rises tomorrow,” Namjoon finally said, setting his cup down carefully.

Y/N nodded, her face calm. “I know. It feels like you just arrived.”

“It wasn't enough time,” he admitted. “But it was necessary time. I came here looking for a silence I could manage. But I found something else. I found... you.”

He turned in his chair, leaning toward her. “Y/N, I need to be honest. These two weeks, the little conversations about trash and crayons and philosophy—it’s been the most real I’ve felt in years. The noise of my life is often loud enough that I lose my center. I start to float away.”

He reached across the small table, not to take her hand yet, but to rest his fingers near hers.

“You are different,” he continued, his voice low and sincere. “You are so grounded. You treat the important things, like teaching children, with the same careful attention you give to the small things, like my confusion over the recycling. You don't panic. You just... stabilize the area around you.”

He finally let his hand move, gently covering hers. His hand was warm and strong against her cool skin. This was not a sudden, rushed romantic gesture, but the deliberate, mature confirmation of a connection that had been built on respect and understanding.

“I came here seeking solitude, but I found, for the first time in a long time, a feeling of home in your unassuming neighborhood and your company. That feeling comes from your presence, from the light you carry.”

He squeezed her hand gently, looking up at the bright moon. His expression was serious and tender.

“You are the calm, steady presence that reminds me where the center is. You feel like the light that illuminates my chaos. I need that light in my life, even when I’m miles away.”

He smiled, a deep, meaningful expression. “I’m going to call you Moon.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, reflecting the light of the actual moon above them. The nickname, a beautiful nod to the light she represented and a subtle play on his own name, Joon, resonated deeply. “I would like that very much, Joon.”

She turned her hand to hold his, giving him a gentle, mature reassurance that the feeling was mutual.

Namjoon leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving her every chance to move away. He met her gaze until the very last second. He kissed her gently, a soft, mature kiss that carried all the sincerity and respect of their week together, cementing their connection not as a temporary fling, but as the deliberate start of something real and potentially difficult.

They spent the final hour talking, holding hands, discussing the reality of the distance. There were no grand, youthful declarations, only an honest, sensible commitment to making the effort—scheduled video calls, flying when possible, and respecting their separate, demanding lives. It was an adult promise built on mutual respect.

He gave her the wrapped gift: a small, beautiful book of kintsugi art, referencing the concept of golden repair they had discussed earlier, of finding beauty in what is broken or repaired.

“To remember that even the distance and the breaks can make the connection more valuable,” he whispered.

The scent of the night air and green tea still lingered on the small balcony. Y/N walked slowly to the spot where Joon had stood just an hour ago.

Moon. The name settled over her like a warm, heavy blanket. He had seen past the teacher, past the sensible neighbor, and recognized the quiet stability she always fought to maintain. He didn't just admire it; he needed it. To be called his anchor, his light—it felt like the truest thing anyone had ever given her.

When he kissed her, it wasn't a question. It was a firm, gentle statement. It carried all the sincerity of their deep conversations—a mature decision, not a sudden impulse. Her heart felt full, calm, and completely certain. This was real.

The beautiful kintsugi book he gave her, the metaphor of repairing breaks with gold, was a reminder that this relationship would be difficult. It would take effort to cross the distance.

When he said goodbye at her door, she kept her posture straight. She couldn't hug him too tight or beg him to stay. She didn't want to make his difficult morning harder. But she let her eyes speak everything she couldn't say: the fierce affection, the promise of effort, the aching sadness that he was walking away. She prayed he heard it. She saw the matching seriousness in his eyes, a promise to return.

Back in her quiet room, the peace she normally craved felt hollow. The anchor was gone. She missed his thoughtful presence already. Her mind replayed his words: "You are my moon." The hope was real and bright. She looked at the moon outside her window, her new namesake, and knew she would be waiting. She needed her anchor back, and soon.

The next morning, Namjoon left the guesthouse before dawn. He left a small, handwritten note on Y/N’s door thanking her for the "anchor." The transition back to his celebrity life was jarring—the airport noise, the cameras, the immediate rush of responsibility. But this time, he carried a light with him.

Weeks later, Y/N was back in her noisy, bright classroom in the middle of a busy Monday. She was reading a story about the complicated process of sharing blocks when her phone buzzed with a message notification.

It was a photo from Namjoon. He was in his large, bright studio in Seoul, surrounded by recording equipment, expensive art, and towering bookshelves. He was holding up a small, simple charcoal sketch she had given him on the last night—a quick drawing she had made of their quiet neighborhood street and the overgrown stone bench. It was framed, hanging prominently on his studio wall.

The caption was simple, a consistent, personal beacon across the miles:

Miss you, Moon. Two weeks until I see you. Tell the dictators I said hello.

The simple words, the personal nickname, and the promise of more effort confirmed their new reality. Y/N smiled, a deep, calm expression spreading across her face. The noise of the city and the energy of her students no longer felt overwhelming. She was grounded. She had found her own steady light, and it was committed to finding her again.

@thecluelessgirl01-blog

[professorfcknmoriarty]

@resplendeo

Admittedly, deciding spontaneously that he wanted to be six and a half feet tall meant that he didn’t necessarily put a lot of thought into the logistics of it.

Previously, Whitney Jammer had been straddling the line of only-fully-six-foot if he’s standing fully straight and upright, otherwise he’d always been just a little bit under. It’s made his chosen career and passion for basketball a little more difficult than it might otherwise be if he were taller. He’s still good. He’s still really good, but it’s the only thing keeping him from going over the edge of greatness.

So, when he’s imbued with the powers of creation magick itself, he does the first thing that comes to mind.

He makes himself taller.

It’s more normal feeling that he’d expect it to be, no great new awareness of the world around him from this new height of his, except for the fact that his friends are either actually shorter than him now - Evan - or even shorter than him than they already were - K and Sam - which is equal parts thrilling and strange.

Of course, not having a newfound awareness of the world also means that he forgets that he’s too tall for things that never would have gotten him into trouble before.

Doorframes are no longer automatic passes. He hits his head on more than a few as he’s adjusting to the change, until he finally gets to the point where he starts walking into rooms with his hand up on his forehead to automatically block any impact.

It’s a little embarrassing.

More than a little, really.

The clothes he’d been wearing when he’d completed his upgrade had grown as well, fitting his new form, but none of his other clothes fit anymore. He didn’t wear a lot of pants if he could help it, but his sweatpants are all a few inches above his ankles. All the new height isn’t stored in his legs, but based on how much shorter his shorts are, it definitely feels that way.

The shirts he had packed in his duffle bag and the ones back home all expose his midriff a little and somehow they’re a bit tighter on his shoulders, as if they’re a full several sizes too small now.

He has to buy a full new wardrobe, which gets him some looks of confusion from other shoppers when he goes to check-out, wearing ill-fitted clothes. It was this or the jumpsuit.

“Unexpected growth spurt, hon?” the kindly lady at the register asks with a look of understanding.

“Something like that,” Jammer says, a little red in the face. At least he’s found a way to keep his wings hidden from sight most of the time, so she’s not staring at them.

He has to relearn so much that he’s almost just teaching himself how to play basketball again. With newer legs and a different sized torso means slightly longer arms, the rest of his body developing as well to keep him proportional, and that means that even things as simple as picking something up and throwing it suddenly requires conscious effort.

It’s exhausting.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world, though. Not with the way Evan’s eyes darken when he stands over the man, tall enough to tower over him for once.

“Can you reach that for me?” Evan asks, the question light. He doesn’t gesture, but Jammer knows he’s referring to the box of dried noodles that are just out of reach in the very top cabinet. He’s braced against the counter, looking up at Jammer with dark, intense eyes.

“Sure thing,” Jammer says. He doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches up for it.

He hands them over. “Anything else,” he asks, licking his lips before he adds on, “big guy,” to the end of it.

Evan makes a soft, hungry noise for something more than the noodles.

Jammer obliges, dropping the box down to the counter to hold Evan’s face in his hand and tilt it up until it’s the perfect angle for a kiss.

Since he’s kissed Evan, he’s going to have to kiss K and Sam, too, or they’ll both get jealous, but that’s not exactly a hardship.

For now, he gets to enjoy how much Evan likes to be the smaller one and how much he likes being like this.