#<- prev NO ITS TOTALLY OKAY

[oh-cramity-its-amity]

ROSEGOLD!!! YEAHHHHH!!! ROSEGOLD MY BELOVED!!! (but also amity and gus too <3)

"Canon divergence" but it's giving characters the close friendships I think they would have had if canon had expanded a little more.

[anambermusicbox]

.

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 7: Apologize

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary: When you call it quits on secrets, it’s funny how more of them spill out. Then Harry comes sprinting after you, begging for forgiveness. I mean, how can you say no to that face? Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 10,5k, ROMANCE, feelings!!! fluffy, rom-com, lust, passion, jealousy, dirty talk, love triangle authors note: Thank you all for your support, asks, comments, reblogs and likes. I appreciate each and every one of you! Love you all!

As the elevator headed up to the penthouse, disbelief hit you hard. How could Harry have lied to you like that? You’d been cleaning his place without even knowing it. It felt like a total betrayal, but honestly, you were more pissed off than anything. Then another thought struck you—those cameras. Had he been watching you this entire time?

“Jerk. Fuckin' asshole.”

“Huh?”

Right, you were in the elevator with Mia, this little girl you just met, both of you heading to the same flat. But it was clear you had a shared goal. The elevator chimed as you reached the penthouse, and Mia stopped you. “I need to do something first.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confused.

Mia peeked out of the elevator, checking the area. “The cameras,” she said.

You were caught off guard.

“I can’t let my mom find out I’m here, so I need to shut them down before we go in.”

“Your mom is Maria, right?”

“You know her too? Who even are you?”

With a smirk, you said, “Just think of me as your partner in crime.”

Mia raised an eyebrow. “Partner in crime?”

Leaning in a bit, you said, “I want to take down those damn cameras too.”

She thought about it for a second, narrowed her eyes, and then glanced at your uniform. “So that’s you, huh? My mom mentioned you.”

“What did she say?”

She smirked. “You are the girl who made Uncle Harry look like he’d been hit by a truck.”

You giggled. “I really want to hit him with a truck right now. Because you see, I didn't know it was his apartment when I was cleaning here, he played a trick on me. And as if that wasn't enough, he watched me on the cameras. So what do you say, partner? You want to smash those cameras?”

She frowned. “Smash them? What are you, a vandal?” She took his tablet out of her school bag. “Here, I'll activate the app here, but since we're partners, I need you to turn on the signal first, can you do that?”

You felt like an idiot next to this smart 10-year-old girl. “Okay, tell me what to do, partner.”

“Since you're the cleaning lady who always comes here...”

“Maid.” 

“Yeah, maid, whatever. I need you to go to the control panel on the wall and choose the option to connect to nearby devices.” 

You frowned. “Why can’t I just walk over and hit the button to turn off the camera? There has to be an option for that.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks Einstein, if you do that, the camera's feed will be disabled and Uncle Harry will receive a notification, which could make him suspicious. I’ll just link to the camera from the tablet and adjust its angle. Then there won't be anything to worry about. It's not like Uncle Harry is going to be monitoring the camera constantly during his meetings at work.”

Now you felt even more silly; it was a super clever plan. “Wow, you’re really smart,” you said. She styled her hair like her mom. “I know. Just go do what I say.”

You chuckled softly, “Understood, ma’am.”

She flashed a grin.

As you entered the apartment, you acted casually, avoiding the cameras while strolling down the corridor. “It feels like I’m in a movie,” you whispered to yourself. You quickly connected to the cameras through the control panel’s touch screen and hit "add device." Moments later, Mia's tablets name appeared, confirming the connection.

“Connection complete,” Mia announced as she walked in.

“High five, girl!” you said, extending your hand.

She laughed and high-fived you back. “We make an awesome team. I like you.”

“I like you too, Mia,” you replied with a wink.

Looking at the cameras, you realized Mia was indeed controlling them from her tablet. They were all aimed toward the corners, so as long as you didn’t walk by, the cameras wouldn’t catch you. Mia sprawled out on the couch as if it were her own home and started watching a video on her tablet. Glancing at her knee, you noticed it was slightly bleeding.

“Hey, let me take care of that knee,” you said, heading to grab a first aid kit. When you returned, you sat beside her and cleaned her wound with some alcohol. “Is this because you skipped school today? Is it about your mom?”

She sighed. “Yeah, it’s about her and my dad. They keep saying they’ll get divorced, but nothing changes.”

You paused. That must be tough for her. “I didn’t know; that sounds rough. How do you feel about it?”

She shrugged. “I just want them to figure it out already. I’m so tired of their drama and constant arguing.”

“I get it. If it ever gets to be too much, just call me. My place isn’t nearly as big as this one—barely bigger than the living room—but I’ll make room for you. What do you think?”

Mia smiled with a maturity beyond her years. “Thanks, you’re a really good friend.”

You smiled back and wrapped her knee with some bandages. “Alright, don’t take this off until tomorrow, got it?” 

“Got it, thanks,” he said as he flopped back onto the couch. “You’re mad at him, huh?” 

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m really angry. I just want to break everything in here,” you muttered while glancing around. 

“How mature,” he remarked quietly. 

Feeling a bit embarrassed, you looked at her. “I mean, of course I won’t actually do that.” 

“My mom did,” she replied, surprisingly calm. “She broke everything in Dad’s office. You adults can be super childish sometimes, and then want us to act like we’re grown-ups.” 

You let out a nervous laugh. “You’re not wrong; we can be pretty childish about things.” 

“Just talk it out and figure it out,” she said.

You grabbed the first aid kit and stood up. “What if I’m so mad at him that I don’t even want to talk?”

She smiled. “I don’t think you are.” You raised an eyebrow. “Well, I hope you are not, because I don’t want him to be upset.” She was messing with something on her tablet.

You loved how she was just like her mom, always keeping an eye on Harry. “I don’t want to upset him, honey, but I have to make him eat a little humble pie, okay?”

“But you’ll forgive him later, right?” she asked with hope in her voice.

“Of course, I love him,” you said softly.

“Awesome,” she said, clearly happy, and went back to playing with the tablet.

“Well, I guess I should get back to my chores,” you said, heading into the kitchen to start cleaning up.

“What's up?”

Oliver stepped into his office to find Harry staring at his tablet with a frown.

“There’s something wrong with the cameras. They won’t rotate and there’s no sound coming through. Do you think there's a bug in the app?”

“Maybe your girlfriend got fed up with the cameras and sabotaged them,” he quipped, taking a closer look. “Let me see.”

“I can't blame her,” Harry replied, guilt creeping in.

Oliver noticed Harry’s troubled look as he fiddled with the app. “Seriously, when are you going to tell her?”

“I’m planning to do it tonight,” Harry said with determination. “I just couldn’t find the right moment this morning.”

At that moment, Maria walked into the office. “Harry, I'm seriously considering taking that tablet away from you. You’ve been messing with it more than Mia. I worked really hard to convince them—it’s not worth ruining the meeting over.”

“He was just worried he couldn’t see his girlfriend on the camera,” Oliver muttered.

Harry shot him a glare.

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m calling her right now and telling her everything,” Maria said, pulling out her phone.

Harry jumped up and grabbed the phone from her hand. “Stay out of it. I’ll handle this.”

Just then, her phone began to ring. “School,” Harry said, handing her phone back to Maria.

Maria picked up immediately. “Hello? Yes, this is her mom.”

Harry glanced at Oliver. “Have you fixed it yet?”

“Nope, it’s weird. It’s like someone else has logged into the cameras on their phone and taken over.”

“What did you just say?”

They both turned to Maria, who looked concerned. “Okay,” she said, hanging up.

Harry frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Mia,” Maria said as she dialed another number. “Her teacher said she didn’t show up to school today. Come on, pick up the damn phone.” But Maria’s face dropped when Mia's dad said he hadn’t seen her either.

“Or perhaps she went back home,” Oliver added.

“We’ll find out now,” Maria said, pulling up an app on her phone.

Harry moved closer to her. “What are you doing?”

“Tracking Mia with a smartwatch app,” she said, waiting for the app to locate her. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll try the app that tracks her phone.”

“Geez, Maria. Have you planted a bug on her, too?” Oliver said with a smirk.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she did,” Harry scoffed.

“You’ll understand when you become parents,” Maria replied, giving them a pointed look.

“Hopefully not for a long time,” Oliver said.

Harry chuckled at the idea.

“There! I’ve got it,” Maria said, her eyes widening. “Oh no. Harry, you need to see this,” she said, showing him her phone screen.

Harry froze, staring at the location the app found. “No…Fuck...”

Oliver leaned over to take a look. “Damn, this is your apartment.”

Cleaning duty today felt tougher than usual. Ever since you discovered it was Harry’s house, things had started to feel different, especially now that you were technically his girlfriend. It made you feel a bit like a housewife, which was both thrilling and painful at the same time. You still needed answers, as you felt genuinely hurt. But your love for him was so strong—what could you really do? Deep down, you weren’t sure how long you could cling to your anger. With your pride and stubbornness tossed aside, you weren’t thinking straight anymore, so you chose to let it go for now.

As you walked through the hallway with the cleaning bucket, your eyes landed on that door—the locked door.

The secret room.

What was Harry hiding behind it? There were no keys in sight, so how would you ever get it open?

Did Mia know about this room?

When you walked in to check on her, her eyes were closed; was she asleep? Just as you turned to slip out quietly, you caught a hint of a muffled sound—no, she was crying.

“Mia? Are you okay?”

She sniffled and nodded, but kept her eyes shut. You moved to sit beside her on the couch. “Hey, what’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing... just nothing.”

You gently patted her head. “You sure?  You can tell me. I'll keep it between us, I promise.”

“My mom and dad... I hate them, especially my mom. They decided to get divorced without even consulting me. I don’t want them to split up, but they didn’t even ask how I feel. They won’t love me anymore, and they’re going to be busier with their work.”

“Shh, don’t think like that. Of course, they’ll still love you. They’re your parents, and their love for you will never fade, I assure you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a mother’s love for her child is unconditional; it can’t just vanish. You're not the reason they're breaking up, I swear. Sometimes, even if adults love each other, things get messy, and splitting up is the only way to handle it. It might seem like the end, but it can also lead to something better.”

“Really?” she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy.

“Absolutely, trust me. You’re lucky to have both your mom and dad around; I’m sure they’ll take care of you, even if things change. I kind of envy you because I lost my mom, and I'll never get the chance to tell her how much I miss her. I wish she were still alive. As for my dad... it feels like he doesn’t care about me—he doesn’t even bother to call, you know?” Your voice cracked slightly. “But your mom and dad are with you and must have been searching for you all morning, haven’t they, Mia? I’m sure they are worried—”

Looking down, you saw that she had fallen asleep, holding your hand tightly. A smile crossed your face as you wrapped your other arm around her. Suddenly, you felt tired too, and before you knew it, you drifted off beside her.

“Mia? Sweetie?” Maria called out for her daughter.

You blinked awake, realizing Harry’s face was mere inches from yours, and his hand was gently resting on your cheek. You stared at him for a moment before pushing his hand away and getting off the couch.

How did you even fall asleep?

Mia stirred and rubbed her eyes. “Mom?”

“What happened to your knee?” Maria's voice rang out.

“It’s nothing, just a little scrape. I fell in the street, and she helped me clean and bandage it.” She pointed to you.

All eyes turned to you, but you avoided their gazes. You forced a smile at Mia and quickly looked away. “I think it’s time for me to go. I hope you enjoyed my service, Mr. Castillo,” you said, trying to sound casual as you made your way to the door.

Oliver stood by the entryway, looking guilty.

“Wait,” Harry called after you. Just then, Maria touched your shoulder.

“Thank you. I’m so relieved that Mia has been with you all day,” she said, pulling you into a hug that took you by surprise.

“You’re welcome, she’s a very smart girl,” you replied, feeling a bit evasive.

She beamed at you, and you offered a smile back, though it felt awkward given the situation.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Harry approached you from behind, his voice soft but insistent.

You turned to face him. “With whom? With your girlfriend? Or with your maid-in?”

Harry let out a troubled sigh, his frustration evident as he glared at you. You turned away again. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, stepping closer to the door.

Maria nudged Harry from behind, encouraging him to move. He stepped in front of you, causing you to halt abruptly.

“How can you say there’s nothing to talk about? There’s plenty,” he insisted, moving closer and locking eyes with you.

You turned your head away again. “Were you trying to get revenge? If you wanted to talk, you should have spoken up sooner.”

“Revenge?” he replied, confused.

“So because I lied to you from the start and deceived you, this was your way of getting back at me?”

“I would never, never do that,” he shook his head, his expression earnest.

“Is it out of pity then?”

His brown eyes darkened with frustration. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Then why, Harry? Why did you hire me for this job without giving me a heads-up? You totally deceived me. Did you actually enjoy watching me on camera the whole time?”

“I’m sorry. I felt responsible because you were unemployed because of me, and I wanted to help—”

“It wasn’t because of you! Besides, I could have found a job myself. You didn’t need to use your money or power. Did you really think I would feel better about this? Right now, I just feel like a complete idiot. How could you do this to me?”

Maria took Mia’s hand and started to leave. “You two talk it out; we’ll give you some space, come on, Ollie.”

“No, there’s nothing left to say,” you snapped angrily.

"But you'll forgive him later, won't you?" 

"Of course, I love him." 

Oh no, that sounds just like what you told Mia earlier.

Did she record you? 

"Mia!" you complained, glancing at her.

She just shrugged, holding her tablet. "Sorry, my finger slipped."

"That's my girl," Mia said with a giggle, as she high-fived her. 

Oliver chuckled, and Harry smiled. 

But you narrowed your eyes at them, feeling furious. 

"Oops, we should get going," she said to her mother. They quickly headed for the elevator, leaving you alone with Harry.

But before you could go after them, Harry came up behind you, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off your feet.

“What are you doing? Harry! Put me down!” 

“Nope. You're going to listen, sweetheart. No more running away.” 

“Let go!” you protested, but he refused to budge. 

 He carried you to the couch and set you down next to him, holding your hands tightly, but you turned your head away. 

“Baby, please forgive me. I tried to explain before, but I just couldn’t find the right words. I thought helping you find a job would make you happy. I never meant to offend or hurt you; please believe that.” 

“Did it have to be your house?” you grumbled. 

“Isn’t this better than being at someone else's place?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. 

His hand trembled as he sighed. “I mean, I hate this too. It hurts to see you so exhausted, to watch you work so hard, and I can’t stand the thought of your beautiful hands being worn down in those cleaning gloves. I want to kiss those lovely fingers, to cherish them.” 

As he began to kiss your fingers one by one, your heart raced. You almost let your guard down, almost kissed him.

Almost.

“Harry,” you whispered. “This is my job, and—” 

“Don’t,” he interjected, frustration evident in his voice. “Can’t you just skip the cleaning? You can keep working with Chef Bruno, but please, no more cleaning.” 

“Is it because you don’t want to introduce your girlfriend in that way?” 

“No, what I mean is—” 

You stood up, your frustration boiling over. “I’m sorry, but this is my life. I have no problem introducing you to my friends, but it seems you hesitate to do the same. I can’t change who I am.” 

He rose to his feet as well. “I don’t know how we ended up here. I never intended for this to happen. Listen-” 

“Harry, you listen. I understand your intentions, and I appreciate them, but I wish you had considered how I might feel in all of this. And I can't do this if...” 

“Wait a minute, why do I feel like you’re giving a breakup speech?” 

“Because I am,” you said, tears brimming in your eyes. 

“No, no, no, don’t do that.” He moved closer, but you took a step back and raised your hand. 

“We agreed there would be no secrets between us, but we couldn’t even manage that. How can our relationship develop from here?” 

“There are no secrets left now that everything is out in the open,” he said, trying to smile. You crossed your arms and bit your lip, acknowledging his point. Then he drew nearer and wrapped his arms around you.

“I promise, baby, there will never be any secrets between us again, I swear,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his breath soft and tender. “Please don’t leave me.” The plea struck deep within you, twisting like a knife. How could you even entertain such a thought? The very idea of parting from him was unbearable, a wound that throbbed in your chest and brought stinging tears to your eyes. It was the last thing you wanted—a painful notion that sent ripples of hurt through your heart.

In that moment, you set aside all other emotions and surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, allowing yourself to rest your head on his chest for a while.

“What about that locked room?” you asked then, glancing toward it, wiping your tears meanwhile. “I wonder what you’re hiding behind that door.” 

A sly grin crept across his face. “Do you want to see it? But promise me that once you see what’s inside, you’ll tell me you love me again, and you won’t leave me. Deal?” 

“It all depends on what’s in there.” 

He chuckled, then walked into the bedroom, still holding your hand. Nervousness washed over you as you tried to pull your hand back. 

“Relax, I’m not trying to lure you into bed,” he laughed. “At least, not right now.” 

“You wish,” you grunted. 

He chuckled as he opened the nightstand drawer. “Funny. You were practically begging me last night. I can still hear you meowing.” 

Your cheeks flushed. “I don’t remember any of that,” you lied. 

He pulled out a box from the drawer and took out a key. “I have the scars on my back to prove it, kitten,” he teased. 

Your face was burning now, as red as a tomato. “Stop it and do what you need to do.” 

Chuckling, he held up the key, “Here it is; come on,” taking your hand again. 

Together, you stood in front of the locked door. Harry inserted the key into the lock and paused to look at you. “Are you ready, baby? The big secret is about to be revealed.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Stop showing off and open the damn door,” you muttered. 

Grinning, he unlocked the door and stepped back, inviting you in with his hand.

You hesitated before stepping into the room, shocked at what you saw. 

To your left stood a massive floor-to-ceiling wardrobe filled with clothes, and to your right was a complete wardrobe of bags and shoes. In the center was an elegant dressing table. Harry slid open the wardrobe, revealing all the clothes and shoes he had ever bought you, carefully arranged. He embraced you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder and kissing your cheek. “It’s all yours. This room is for you. I was waiting for you to say yes to me before I revealed it to you.  I kept it locked and tried to stay away, but I found it hard to resist many times,” he whispered, nuzzling along the curve of your neck.

You were rendered speechless, taken aback. Then you noticed a jewelry box on the dresser. “Isn’t that the earring?” You walked over, picked it up, and examined it closely. “Have you had this all along?” 

“Oops, looks like another secret is out,” he said with a chuckle. 

You shot him a pointed look. “You really. Why didn’t you say anything when I told you I would pay you back?” 

“Because you broke my heart,” he replied softly. “You told me you never wanted to see me again, so I thought the earring would be a good excuse to get you to meet me.” 

“You're unbelievable,” you shot back, your irritation surfacing. 

“What about you?” he countered, but then his expression softened as he noticed the look on your face. “I love you,” he confessed, his lips forming the word like an apology. 

Damn he was so cute.

His adorableness made you giggle despite yourself. 

“You didn’t say it again.” 

“Say what?” 

“Do you want me to make you say it? Just like last night,” he whispered, leaning in close. “You remember how well that turned out.” His lips brushed against your earlobe as his hand slowly slipped down, hovering dangerously close to your thigh. Your reaction was instinctive; you caught his hand. However, his lips found their way to your neck, and you couldn't help but bite your lower lip and roll your eyes. “Harry, stop.” 

“I know you want me, baby; don’t try to deny it,” he purred, his voice low and teasing. 

“No, you’re wrong,” you replied, almost breathless. 

“Then why are you holding my hand so tightly?” he whispered, a smirk playing on his lips. 

You withdrew your hand quickly, shocked at your own reaction.

What the fuck?

When did this escalate?

You frowned at his chuckle. “I really hate you,” you whined, though your irritation was half-hearted. 

“No, you don't,” he laughed, clearly enjoying the banter. 

“Well, I really like this room, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you. And it definitely doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into bed with you,” you declared stubbornly. 

“Then what do I need to do to win your forgiveness? I’ll do anything,” he said, voice dripping with seduction.

The look he gave you was enough to make you avert your gaze. 

“I don’t know; I need to think,” you said, fighting back a giggle. “But I have to go now—I told Bruno I would head to the hotel early.” You turned to leave the room. 

He followed right behind you. “I’ll give you a ride.” 

You responded without looking back. “Well, if you’re that eager.”

With a smile, he followed you behind as you walked toward the elevator.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” Harry asked again as he parked the car in front of the hotel.

“You just asked me that five minutes ago."

“I’ll keep asking until you say you forgive me,” he replied, shutting off the engine.

You opened the door and turned to him. “At least let me think it over.”

He took your hand, pulled you closer, and placed a quick kiss on your cheek. “Whatever you say, kitty. Good luck at work.”

“Thanks for the ride,” you said with a faint smile, stepping out and closing the door behind you.

As you made your way to the hotel entrance, Harry watched you from the driver’s seat. Just then, you spotted Alan getting out of his own car, heading your way.

“Good evening,” he greeted you.

You turned and smiled, “Good evening, Mr. Finnegan.”

“Come on, call me Alan already, will you?”

Harry, watching from a distance, muttered, “Asshole.” Trying to keep his cool, he stepped out of the car and approached you two. “Baby,” he called out, and before you could react, he spun you around and kissed you so passionately that it left you breathless. Pulling back, he glanced at Alan and added, “I almost took off without kissing my girlfriend goodbye.” The way he said “girlfriend” caught his attention and everyone around the street.

Alan’s expression darkened.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, caught off-guard by how intimate the kiss had been.

“Anyway, I should be on my way,” he said.

"Yeah, you do that," you said, squinting at him and gesturing for him to leave.

“Good night, Finnegan,” Harry said, getting into his car, clearly amused by Alan's reaction.

Shaking your head at Harry, you noticed Alan squinting at him, clearly unamused. “I didn’t realize you were with him,” Alan said as he walked inside.

“Well, things are a bit complicated,” you murmured.

“Not surprising, things always get messy with Castillo,” Alan muttered quietly. 

“Excuse me?”

“I just... You really should think twice about being with him,” he warned lightly.

“Alan, it’s—”

“Anyway, I suppose my employees’ personal lives are none of my business,” he said with a smirk, heading toward the elevator.

What just happened?

Why had he said that?

And why was he suddenly in a good mood?

You really should have asked Harry about the weird thing between them, but now you had to focus—you had a kitchen to get to.

Things were really hectic in the kitchen, and as if that weren’t enough, Alan was having a business lunch in the dining room and asked you to make some desserts just for him. As you handed off the treats to the waitstaff, he called you over and praised your work. If he wasn’t your boss, you might have said something about his overwhelming attention, but you figured it was best to keep quiet until your internship was over. Then, just when you thought the day couldn’t get any worse, Melanie called.

“What do you want?” you asked, annoyed.

“What do I want? I need you to talk to my dad, and I want you to do it right now, like you promised!”

“I will, but I've been super busy and haven’t had time yet.”

“Well, it’s on you. If my dad doesn’t let me come back home, I’ll just crash at your place.”

“Wait, what? You called my house a disgusting little flat. Aren’t you with Nate? Can’t he help you out?”

“Don’t even mention that jerk!”

“Did you two break up already? Wow, that was quick, even for you.”

“Just drop it, okay? It’s none of your business. Talk to my dad tomorrow night or I’ll make your life miserable!”

“As if you weren’t already a pain in my ass!” you shot back and hung up in frustration. As you walked toward the exit, muttering under your breath, someone called out from behind.

Ugh, it was Alan again.

“Are you okay? You sounded like you were venting at someone on the phone,” he said, wearing that annoying smile.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“Well, if you did it, they probably deserved it,” he said, grinning.

Just when you thought it was over, you turned to leave but almost bumped into the revolving door. Alan grabbed your arm, pulling you back.

“Watch out!” he said.

What the hell?

You could’ve easily dodged the door; you weren't that clumsy. His other arm wrapped around you, too.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” you said, carefully pushing his hand away. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he replied, watching you walk away as you stormed out. Your phone buzzed again, but you ignored it; you weren’t in the mood for more of Melanie’s drama.

Suddenly, you heard footsteps behind you and turned to see Harry.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? Are you okay?” he asked, and just seeing him made you feel so much better.

“Yeah, sorry, thought it was Melanie,” you said, spotting the bouquet of pink roses he was holding.

“Is she still being a pain?”

“Forget about her; I’ll handle it. Are those for me?” you asked, trying to hide your smile.

“Of course they are, beautiful,” he said, handing you the flowers.

“Thanks,” you said, taking a whiff of the roses.

“Come on, let’s get to the car.”

As you walked together, he leaned closer. “Am I forgiven?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not in a day, ol'man.”

Harry sighed and opened the back door for you. “So, if I asked you to spend the night at my apartment instead of going home, you wouldn’t consider it?”

Ah, damn...

Those puppy-dog eyes and dangerously tempting lips made it hard to say no, but you somehow managed to act like you weren't interested, thanks to your stubbornness.

And the oscar goes to...

“N-no, sorry, I need to check on Zoe. She’s still home alone,” you stammered.

He sighed again and closed the door after you settled in the car.

“Hey, Ollie,” you said while he was chilling in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, girl! How’s it going? You two good now?”

“We’re good, right, baby?” Harry said, sitting next to you.

“Kind of,” you muttered, still eyeing the roses in your lap.

“Kind of?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged, teasing him.

“Come on, really? Okay, I’m taking you on a date tomorrow night, and we’re going to sort everything out,” Harry grumbled.

“Uh-oh,” Oliver chimed in as he drove.

You squinted at Harry. “If you ask me with that tone, you might be going on that date alone.”

“Okay, sorry,” he said with a sigh. "Would you like to accompany me for dinner tomorrow night, lovely lady?"

You giggled but kept your expression cool. “Um, let me check my calendar first.”

Oliver chuckled.

Harry squinted again.

“Alright, fine. But I need to have a quick chat with Jack tomorrow. If he agrees, you can pick me up at the hotel again.”

He smiled widely taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. “As you wish, darling.”

As you stepped into the apartment, the sweet scent of the bouquet Harry had given you lingered in the air, enveloping you until you finally reached your place with the flowers cradled in your arms. When you opened the door and walked inside, you were taken aback by the scene in front of you.

“Oh sweet Jesus!”

John and Zoe were on the couch, wrapped up in a passionate kiss—thankfully, they were fully dressed. The moment they noticed you, they pulled apart, and John shot up from the couch, his face a canvas of embarrassment.

But you felt even more embarrassed. “Oh, I’m sorry, guys, I, uh…”

“No, no, no, I’m so sorry!” John stuttered, quickly averting his gaze, adjusting his hair.

“Awkward,” Zoe murmured, covering her mouth in surprise. “I thought you were with your boyfriend,” she added, glancing at you and the bouquet still in your hands.

“Well, yeah… I mean, no, I wasn’t. It’s a long story.”

“I’d better be going. Bye, girls. Good night,” John said, grabbing his jacket and making a hasty exit.

Once the door closed behind him, you turned back to Zoe. "Jesus, girl, what just happened?"

Zoe huffed in disbelief. "I have no idea! He helped me change my bandage, touched my leg and then… suddenly we kissed. It was so strange, but it felt amazing."

“Strange”? You seemed pretty into it."

“It might have turned into something really hot if you hadn’t barged in,” she replied with a hint of annoyance.

“Sue me,” you muttered, placing the flowers in a vase on the table.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. You were with him last night, right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s a long story.”

“Still not officially together? Seriously, get your shit together already. What’s going on with you two?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. Just when I think things are finally going well, something messes it all up, and I'm left feeling hurt again…”

“Uh-oh, spill everything.”

"Okay, do you want something cold to drink?"

"Yes, please! I’m dying of heat over here."

You giggled as you made your way to the fridge. “So if I had come in five minutes later, would you have been completely undressed? Good thing I didn’t.”

“You're so bad,” she laughed.

You began the day with that text that pinged on your phone the moment you woke up, that familiar message from the person you had been longing to hear from, the one you had been waiting for eagerly.

Morning, kitten. The sun is shining, the birds are singing— Isn't it the perfect day to make you feel like forgiving?

Was he rhyming?

He was really good at it or bad not sure, but he would have to try a little harder.

Hmm. I'm not sure if today is the day. You'll know for sure tonight, doll. I'll make you. Hmm, how ambitious. Always I am.

After you changed, you stepped into the living room and saw Zoe was getting ready.

“Where are you off to?”

“To the hospital to get my ankle checked.”

“Do you want some company?”

“John will,” she replied with a cheeky smile. “Besides, you’ll be off on your date with Harry tonight, right?”

Your cheeks warmed at the thought. “Well, yes, maybe.”

“I’m planning to invite John over for dinner, and he’d better come clean about something tonight.”

“Oh, I see, you’re trying to get rid of me, huh?”

"Come on, he shares an apartment with three guys; it’s more convenient for us to be here."

“Okay, don’t worry, I won’t crash tonight,” you replied with a grin, thoughts drifting to Harry’s bedroom.  

“Awesome!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands.  

“Wow, you could be a bit less eager about this.”

“Sorry, but I can’t help it, I’m in love,” she said, giggling.  

“Apology accepted,” you responded, grabbed your bag, and headed out the door. Just then, you bumped into John in the hallway. “Hey."

“Hey there. How’s work treating you?”

"Good. Listen, John, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what’s up?"

"Do you have feelings for Zoe?"

"Yes, she’s a wonderful person, and cute too," he said, smiling.

He was definitely into her.

“I mean, I thought there was something going on between you and that woman Lucy at the wedding. I need to know if you really like Zoe.”

"Lucy is just my childhood friend and ex. But, don't you know her already?"

"I only know she's Alan's girlfriend and a matchmaker."

John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Surprised that Castillo hasn’t told you about her."

“What’s there to tell?”

John let out a troubled sigh. “You know, I’m not sure if it’s a good time for me to drop this on you, but those two were actually together a few years ago.”

Damn, you were worried about this. "So that’s why," you murmured after a brief pause.  

“Listen, he will share the details with you, but Lucy isn't like you or Zoe. She deceived both me and Castillo, leaving us heartbroken in the end. I can't hold a grudge against her because we share this strange bond, but I promise you, I’ll never hurt Zoe because of this."

You nodded. "It better stay that way, John. You should tell her as soon as possible, or I will," you said. After receiving a nod from him, you turned and headed down the stairs to leave the building.

All day long, as you worked, your thoughts kept drifting back to Lucy. You regretted asking John about her. It wasn’t just that Harry hadn’t mentioned her—after all, that was fine considering the incident had happened years ago. What truly unnerved you was the possibility of her showing up at any moment, especially as Alan's girlfriend. It felt like trouble was just around the corner, and you couldn’t shake that feeling. Alan himself was another source of tension; his frequent encounters with you and his growing interest were weighing heavily on your mind. You knew deep down that sooner or later, things were bound to get complicated.

You really hoped this internship would wrap up soon, and that Chef Bruno would write you a glowing letter of recommendation. Yet, with the fair approaching and the day ticking down, you had to press on through the culinary internship.

Earlier, you'd called Jack, and he had already said he wanted to meet. As you waited at the table, you spotted him approaching and stood up to greet him. "Thanks for taking the time to meet me here," you said, shaking Jack's hand as he took a seat across from you.

"Of course, no problem," he replied, settling into his seat.

"Jack, about Melanie—"

"Save your breath, honey. I’m not here for her."

You were taken aback. "What do you mean? I thought that’s why you came—"

He pulled out a bunch of newspapers and magazines from his bag and dropped them on the table with a bang, making the glasses and plates rattle.

Your eyes went wide. “What’s all this?”

“Why don’t you check for yourself?”

Following his lead, you picked up the top magazine, and your heart sank at the sight of your own image on the cover. Someone had captured a photo of you and Harry dancing at the wedding from a distance.

Who is the mystery girl dancing with famous businessman Harry Castillo? the headline read.

You quickly grabbed another magazine, revealing a picture of you and Melanie.

Get ready for a surprising twist! How did the maid in Melanie Johnson's mansion pretend to be her and trap a famous billionaire?

“Ugh, what a bunch of vultures,” you muttered, shaking your head.

As you continued flipping through the articles, the headlines turned more shocking. Words like "gold digger," "sneaky housekeeper," and "fortune hunter" jumped out at you.

"That's what I was warning you about," Jack said. "I don't want you to worry, though—none of these magazines have been printed yet. These are all test editions. We managed to confiscate them before they went into mass production, and Harry’s assistant has ensured the online stories have been taken down."

You looked up at him, relief washing over you. "Thank you, Jack."

"You don’t need to thank me for dealing with the news, which includes Melanie; I did that for my own reasons. But regarding the rest..." He pointed to the magazine cover with your dancing picture. "This is the thing I wanted to discuss. I see you as a daughter, so take this advice from a father to his daughter: end whatever is happening between you and Harry before it spirals out of control. If this keeps up, there’ll be more stories about you, people will dig into your past, and in the end, it’s you who’ll get hurt. Do you understand?"

You sighed. "Jack, I honestly get what you’re saying, and I do appreciate it. But there's nothing in my past or family that I’m worried about. Gossip like this finds someone new to focus on every day; it could just as easily be me one day and someone else the next."

He paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. "So, it appears there's something more between you two than I realized. You've made up your mind. Well, it's your life, after all. I just hope you don’t wind up hurt and come to regret this decision.”

"Jack."

You both turned your heads, and damn it was—Alan. He usually didn’t come to the hotel on Saturday nights, but today was clearly an exception.

Of course.

Jack stood up to shake his hand. "Alan."

"How are you? Didn’t see you at the wedding."

"I was in D.C.," Jack replied. Just then, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and answered. Alan looked at you with a smile, and you returned it.

Damn, he might have noticed the magazines on the table, you thought.

"Sorry, I’ve got to leave," Jack said suddenly.

You stood up, worry creeping in. "Is everything okay?"

"Melanie," he hissed, frustration clear in his voice. "She ran away from home."

"What do you mean she ran away? Or have you been keeping her locked up?" Your voice rose higher than you meant it to.

You couldn't shake off the memory of that one time Jack had locked her in her room, and it had ended poorly. A shudder ran through you at the thought.

"I had no choice. I thought she’d see reason and come to her senses, but apparently, I was wrong."

"Jack, are you out of your mind? Do you really not know your daughter? Locking her up isn’t the solution!"

Heads in the dining room turned toward you.

"You’re right. I messed up this time, but I couldn’t let her keep hanging out with that playboy Nate."

"I can’t say I blame you for that," you replied quietly.

"Anyway, I really have to go. Catch you later, Alan."

"See you, Jack."

As Jack strolled away, casting a backward glance, a heavy sadness settled in your chest. Melanie hadn't matured much and was acting like a nightmare. Despite his faults, Jack was a good father—if only he showed a little more genuine care to his daughter more than his work.

"Sounds like Melanie’s giving Jack a rough time," Alan said, still holding onto that smile.

"Yeah, she’s a bit immature," you admitted quietly.

To your surprise, Alan looked around the table and sat down in Jack’s vacated chair.

"Have a seat; your dessert's still waiting."

You did your best to keep it together and not roll your eyes. "Thanks, but I really need to go—"

"Just give me five minutes, alright?" he said, leaning in a bit closer.

You glanced at your watch, thinking about how Harry would be picking you up in about an hour. With a sigh, you plopped back down. "Fine."

"Thanks," he said, adjusting his suit jacket and settling in. "I know what happened here last time." You looked at him in surprise; this wasn't what you expected. "About what Lucy did..." He paused and took a breath. "I want to say sorry on her behalf."

Your eyes widened. “Alan, it’s okay. But if you start treating me differently because of her, it will only make her dislike me more. Plus, this kind of stuff probably isn't over yet."

“It won’t happen again,” he stated firmly. “I won’t allow it in my hotel. I broke up with her, and I doubt she will be coming back here.”

“That can’t be the only reason you decided to break up with her, right?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No, but it played a part. It’s disgraceful to have such disrespect shown here, especially towards our customers. I was wrong about her; she’s not the kind and innocent person I thought she was.”

"I’m sorry," you said, your tone a touch insincere.

"Not me," he replied with a grin. "I’m kind of relieved."

What was that supposed to mean?

A nagging feeling grew as you sensed he was gearing up to say something you wouldn’t like.

"One of the reasons I broke up was because of a question she asked me."

Oh, please, let this be over.

"She wanted to know if I had feelings for you."

You fought to maintain a neutral expression.

Don't say that, please don't.

"I couldn't answer her because, honestly, I actually have feelings for you that I didn't realize until now."

That was more than you could handle.

"Alan, do you even realize what you’re saying?"

"Yes, I’m fully aware."

You sighed deeply. "Maybe you’re mistaken," you suggested, looking away and starting to shake your foot nervously.

"No, I absolutely know how I feel now. I like you." He reached across the table and took your hand, catching you off guard.

You quickly pulled away. "Alan, I’m with Harry."

"You mentioned before that things were complicated between you two," he said, casually picking up one of the magazines.

"That doesn’t mean I don’t love him," you shot back, your voice sharp.

His serious expression told you he wasn’t taking it lightly.

You stood up, feeling a surge of urgency. "Look, Alan, whatever you’re feeling, you need to let it go, or I won’t be able to stay here."

"Are you really going to quit your internship?"

"If I have to, yes," you affirmed.

"Alright, I won’t pressure you unless you come to me yourself."

Surprise and annoyance washed over you. "That’s not going to happen."

He leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile on his face. "Don’t be so sure; life has a funny way of surprising us.”

What the fuck?

Your phone started ringing, and you just held it in your hand without answering as you rushed out of the dining room, still shaken by what had just happened. It was Nate calling, so you definitely weren't picking up; you quickly silenced your phone. Taking a deep breath, you let it all go and shifted your focus to getting ready for your date. Harry had offered to buy you a dress again earlier, but you turned him down. This date was meant to feel like a fresh start, a first date of sorts, and you wanted to treat yourself to the entire process.

During lunch break, you popped into one of those upscale department stores and slipped into the black, shimmering backless dress you had chosen—probably the priciest dress you had ever bought, costing almost four months' salary. You tried to keep a positive mindset; nothing would ruin tonight. The expensive Birman black shoes that Melanie had given you the night before matches perfectly with the dress. Just as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup, your phone rang again, but your smile quickly faded when you glanced at the screen.

It wasn’t Harry.

Seeing "Trouble" light up the screen only added to your anxiety.

No way were you picking up.

The phone could ring its heart out. When it rang again as you reached for your red lipstick—perfectly matching your nails—you pushed on, determined to finish your look.

However, the incessant ringing soon got on your nerves, and you finally answered, ready to give Melanie a piece of your mind. “Look, I can’t deal with your drama right now—”

“It’s me, Garry.”

You could barely hear him over the loud music in the background. “Garry? What are you doing on Melanie’s phone? And where in the world are you?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her for a while; she’s completely wasted, and I don’t know how to handle this. Please, I need your help.”

“Look, I have a very important date tonight—”

“And it seems we have our new volunteer dancer!” a woman’s voice chimed in, followed by masculine cheers and applause.

Oh man.

“Don’t tell me you’re at a strip club!”

“You just heard it. I’ll try to drag her out of here, but you need to hurry. I’ll send you the location.” Garry hung up before you could say anything. “Garry! Hold on—what the hell! What kind of night is this?” you exclaimed, quickly changing up your outfit and bolting out of the room.

When the taxi driver brought you in front of the strip club, you were cursing inside, nervous and angry. It was too much, the strip club was too much, even for her. How could she be so thoughtless and reckless?

At the entrance to the door, unfortunately, everyone was staring at you, including the women.

Oh that's right, you were all dressed up, probably looked breathtaking, but it wasn't to come here, damn it, it was to meet your boyfriend. 

Things got even worse when you entered the club. You've never been in a club like this before, it wasn't like other nightclubs.

You're thinking, No shit, I wish it was.

The music was blaring, and two girls were dancing on stage. Some men were cheering and staring at you.

Great.

Ignoring the gazes, you spotted Garry and made your way to him. However, just like the other guys, he seemed fixated on the girls performing. “Hey!” you nudged him.

“Oh you're here? Wow girl, you look great, but I wish you hadn't come here wearing a dress like this.” he said, looking around at the men.

“I couldn't change because you called me while I was getting ready for my date.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, but Melanie's gone crazy.”

“Where is she?”

“She was going on stage and tripped and fell, I was tried to check her but the women wouldn't let me in. That's why I called you.”

“Goddamn it,” you grumbled, shoving your purse at him. “Hold this, I’ll go get her, and then we’ll all head to the car together, okay?”

“Got it. I’ll wait here.”

Just as you left, Garry couldn’t help himself when your phone started ringing non-stop. He didn’t think to check your purse without asking, but when it rang like crazy, he finally picked it up. “Yeah?”

Harry nearly wrecked his car when he heard a guy’s voice on the other end. “Who the hell are you? Why are you answering my girlfriend’s phone?”

“Mr. Castillo, you probably don’t remember me, but I’m Mr. Johnson's driver.”

“Wait, is that club music I hear? Where is she?”

“We're at the strip club. It’s kind of complicated.”

Harry was stunned and slammed on the brakes, making the tires screech on the road. The car behind him honked and yelled, but he didn’t care. “Just tell me where the club is!”

"Melanie, I swear to God, if you don't come with me right now, I'll drag you out of here by yanking your hair if I have to! I'll do it, believe me, I will!"

“Not until Nate gets here!” she snapped.

The girl was not only drunk but also trying to climb onto the stage. You were tugging at her from behind the curtain, hoping Garry could lend a hand, but she was putting up a fight.

“Hey, you two, get lost! Stay clear of the stage!” one of the dancers hissed at you.

“I'm not interested; as you see, I'm trying to get her out of here!” you retorted, still struggling to pull Melanie back.

“No! I’m going up there! I paid for it!” Melanie shouted defiantly.

“What did you just say?” you exclaimed, bewildered. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Leave them alone, girls,” an older woman chimed in, casting a knowing glance at you. “The guys who wanted you on stage shelled out a lot of cash,” she said with a sly smile.

Melanie laughed. “See? They’re dying to see me! Nate needs to get over here right now, call him!”

“It wasn’t for you,” the woman replied, eyes darting between Melanie and you. She surveyed you up and down, a smirk playing on her lips. “They paid for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “I’m not a dancer or stripper.”

“That doesn’t matter, darling. You look fantastic. I could even give you half the take.”

“What the fuck? You promised me that I’d go on stage! Not her!”

You narrowed your eyes and glared at Melanie. “No one’s going up there!” you shouted firmly.

“Enough with this! Girls,” the woman called out, and the two dancers approached you, trying to take off your jacket.

“Hey! Get your hands off me! What do you think you’re doing?” you exclaimed, wrestling against them.

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t overreact. Just trust yourself,” she replied, grabbing your wrist. But before she could pull you away, someone else seized her arm and pushed it back.

“Leave her alone!”

When you spotted Harry, a mix of surprise and embarrassment washed over you, yet relief followed quickly. He grabbed your arm, pulling you behind him, and draped his jacket around you, wrapping you with it.

“Hey, mister, what do you think you’re doing?” the woman asked, taken aback.

"If you touch my girl again, I'll bring this club down!" Harry growled.

Just then, a man approached you two, dressed in a suit. "Mr. Castillo, there's been a terrible misunderstanding. Please forgive us, sir." He then turned to the girls. "Get back to work and return the money to those customers." 

"And give me back my jacket!" you shouted. 

Harry reached over, snatched it from one of the girls, and pulled you closer. "Are you okay?" 

You nodded. "Yeah, thanks. Melanie! Harry, stop her!" you exclaimed, pointing at her. Harry grasped her arm and pulled her away from the stage. 

That's when Nate strolled in, his phone in hand, ready to take pictures. "Oh no, did I miss the show?"

The son of a bitch was grinning.

"It's all your fault!" you shot at him. 

Garry came over to Melanie. "Miss Johnson, let’s head to the car, please." 

Melanie clung to Harry's arm touching his face. "Hey, old man, want a lap dance?" She was clearly trying to make Nate jealous, but it was Harry she had her hands on. 

Your man. 

Harry chuckled as he gently pushed her hand away. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm not interested."

Wait a minute.

Not only was Melanie, but almost all the women dancers were looking Harry up and down. A wave of jealousy washed over you.

And then you lost it.

You were so angry that you pulled her off of her by the hair. "You little slut, who do you think you're touching?" You pushed her towards Nate. "Take your girlfriend and get the hell out of my life! Garry, you call Jack right now!" you said to him. Grabbing Harry's hand tightly, "Let's get the hell out of here." you urged.

He was still laughing as you pulled him out with you.

“Stop laughing, Harry,” you scolded as you made your way to the car.

“But you were so cute when you protected me from real Melanie back there,” he replied, still chuckling.

You paused and turned to face him. “Are you really enjoying this?”

“Actually I don’t know what to think. Do you know how angry I was when I saw you here with those women? And those men… the way they look at you? I think I hate the real Melanie.”

“Welcome to the club,” you replied sarcastically. “But I’m sorry; you are right. I shouldn't have come here. Tonight was supposed to be special, and now it’s all ruined—just like my hair,” you said, running your fingers through your locks.

Harry glanced at the clock. “Um, the restaurant is about to close.”

“I really messed up,” you said, biting your lip. “I’ve ruined everything.”

He gently took your face in his hands. “Nothing’s ruined, baby. We’re going to plan B.”

“You had a plan B?” you asked, intrigued.

“I just came up with it,” he said with a grin. “Come on, we’re starting over.”

You smiled. “Okay, but where’s your car?”

“There it is,” he said, pointing to a red sport car.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “But it’s a Mustang GT!”

“That’s right. I rented it just for tonight,” he said, pulling the keys from his pocket and handing them to you. “So, am I forgiven now?”

You snatched the keys from his grasp. “Let me take it for a spin, and I’ll think about it.”

He laughed, and as you slid into the driver’s seat, he took the passenger seat beside you. You fastened your seatbelt and started the engine. “Hold on tight, ol'man.”

“Drive carefully, honey. The streets of New York are a whole different beast compared to the traffic you dealt with back in Paris.” 

You shot him a playful glance before slamming your foot on the gas. “I accept the challenge.”

“Hey, that wasn’t a challenge,” he retorted, his eyes wide as he clutched the seat.

You laughed, the thrill coursing through you. “Relax! A little excitement never hurt anyone.”

“You excite me enough in that dress, babe,” he grinned, glancing at you with a mix of admiration and mischief. 

After a few exhilarating laps, embarrassment washed over you when the flashing lights of a police radar caught you speeding through the night. Still, you found a way to enjoy the moment, laughing together as you swung by a 24-hour diner to grab some late-night munchies before heading toward Harry’s building. “Wow, that was an incredible ride."

“Yeah, it was a blast, even if it’s going to cost me a few hundred bucks in fines,” Harry said, opening the car door.

“Oops, sorry about that,” you said, stepping out of the car.

As he opened the trunk, he pulled out a huge bouquet of roses. “If it hadn’t been for that strip club incident, I would have met you at the hotel with this.”

“Harry,” you murmured, touched.

“Here you go, Cinderella—99 roses.”

You raised an eyebrow as you accepted the bouquet. “Why not a hundred?”

“That’s you,” he said, smiling sweetly. “The hundredth rose is you.”

You felt yourself melting at his words.

“That’s very romantic, ol'man. Thank you,” you said, reaching out to kiss his cheek.

“So, you forgive me now, right?” he asked, extending his arm so you could take it.

“Come here,” you said, encouraging him to lean closer. He complied, and you shared a tender kiss, sweet and gentle. “You’re forgiven, Mr. Castillo.” 

He grinned, wrapping his arms around your waist, leaning in to kiss you again, this time with more passion, the world around you fading away. But since you were still out on the street, you gently pushed him back, laughter in your eyes. “Save the rest for later, mister.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer with one arm still wrapped around your waist, and together you strolled toward the entrance.

“Here we have some Bordeaux wine,” he said as you unpacked the food and set the plates on the table. 

“Parfait,” you replied with a smile, embracing the French language. 

With skilled hands, he uncorked the wine using a polished corkscrew, the soft pop echoing in the cozy room, and poured the ruby liquid into your glasses, its rich color glinting in the soft light. 

“Hmm, delicious,” you remarked, savoring the first sip. 

As you shared the meal, the conversation flowed effortlessly, weaving in and out of tales about Melanie and the others, laughter bubbling up like the wine in your glasses. “That’s actually much better,” you said softly, feeling the warmth of the evening. “I mean, it’s better that we’re here than in a bustling restaurant.”

“I couldn’t agree more; it’s just the two of us,” he replied, his fingers entwining with yours.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your gaze locking with his, a deep connection simmering in the air between you. 

He sighed and stood up, a hint of excitement in his voice. “I have something for you.” 

“Another surprise?” you asked, intrigued. 

He returned with a small box, sitting back down and handing it to you across the table. Different from any jewelry box you’d seen, it piqued your curiosity.

"I’ve been pondering this all day, and I've come to a realization. I always wanted you to be part of my world, but I was missing something important," he said as you opened the box. Inside, you found a card and a key. nstantly, you recognized them; it was the very card and key you had used countless times for the elevator and the apartment door.

“Harry,” you gasped, taken aback. “You mentioned that you don’t feel like you fit in my world, so how about letting me into yours?”

Your eyes filled with tears as you rose and embraced him tightly. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.” 

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you before leaning in for a kiss. Then, he turned on some soft music from the stereo. “Will you dance with me?” 

You nodded. “Absolutely.” 

You found yourselves swaying together, lost in the slow, sweet melody, savoring the magic of the moment in comfortable silence.

But then the tension between you began to rise. Harry ran his hand through the fabric of your dress. “Great choice of dress by the way.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” he whispered.

“What about my bra?” you said huskily, guiding his hand to the lace strap of it.

“I admire it,” he purred.

You lifted the skirt of the dress, revealing your lace garter stockings. “My stockings?” your eyes twinkling.

He smiled at you and reached out, drawing a circle on your leg with his fingertip. Leaning forward, he placed a kiss on the side of your neck. “I worship it, baby,” he said, his voice breathy and deep.

Your arm found its way around his waist, and your fingertips caressed his back. “Mmm. Keep doing that, please.”

He chuckled and continued, his hands slowly creeping up under your dress. You gave a deep, breathy moan when he latched on to the spot behind your ear, licking, sucking. Getting eager, you found his lips and kissed him, your tongue sweeping into his mouth tentatively. He responded by grabbing your hips and pulling you, lifting you into his lap. Then you broke the kiss to unbutton his shirt.

Taking a brief moment to admire you he let you stripped him out of his shirt before kissing you deeply, exploring your mouth hungrily. Popping the clasp on your bra with ease he let it fell to the floor, whilst he kissed a path between your breasts leaving a trail of goose flesh in his wake. Noticing your nipples were already pert betraying your arousal, taking one between his thumb and forefinger he rolled it making you cried out, lowering his head he circled you other with his tongue before drawing it into his hot mouth and sucking. He could feel his cock straining against the his pants but he ignored it focusing all his attention on you. He repeated the action with your other nipple before moving on, his lips gliding down over your ribs, across your stomach towards the garter belt and waistband of your panties.

Hooking his thumbs into the lace, he pulled the small scrap of material down your shapely legs until you could kick them off, but letting the garter belt still be on you. Kneeling before you he cupped your hips bringing you closer to him inhaling your scent, then he ran his tongue along your wet folds the cry that escaped you when he circled your clit was guttural, he felt his cock throb begging for attention but he ignored it once again. Slowly he worked you over, teasing you with shallow thrusts of his tongue into your velvety softness over and over again until your skin was slick with sweat and your thighs began to tremble.

“Please,” you begged, your fingers tangled in his curls, clinging to him. In answer to your plea, he flicked his tongue over your swollen bundle of nerves until you cried out when your orgasm hit. Keeping a tight grip on your hips, he held you steady, letting you ride it out before kissing his way back up your body, finally claiming your lips once more. You tasted yourself on his tongue, but you didn’t care; you devoured each other desperately.

Once your equilibrium returned, your hands found his belt, quickly you unbuckled it and pulled it from the loops before popping the buttons on his fly and pushing the material down over his hips. He shucked his pants and his boxers off and before he knew it your hand was around the base of his throbbing member and you were pumping him into your fist. He gritted his teeth, "Fuck, baby, you are such a needy kitten aren't you? Good girl. But there’s no way I’ll last if you keep that up."

Taking your hands in his, he threaded your fingers together and crushed his lips to yours once more, pinning you against the wall with your interlocked hands above your head. You gasped in response. His aching cock lied heavily against your core, you shuddered. He realized he couldn’t stand it anymore; he needed to be inside you.

Hoisting you up, he hooked your legs around his waist, pushing into you in one smooth stroke.

"Harry," you moaned, feeling dizzy with incredible consuming lust.

Your hair was plastered to your sweaty face now and in the throes of passion when your pupils dilate, cheeks flushed.

"You're breathtakingly beautiful just like this, darling," he hummed.

You were soft and warm, and your walls gripped him tightly as he thrust into you, making love to you against the wall. God he’s missed you so damn much, burying his head into the crook of your shoulder he picked up his pace, he knew you were close because he can feel your inner walls begin to tremble around him. Your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, your heels press into his firm ass as he pounds into you deeper and deeper.

As you ran your fingers through his hair down to his neck, spurring him on with sweet cries. "Harder, faster, please."

"Fuck," he growled, pressed his forehead against yours so that he held your gaze as your second orgasm striked. You screamed his name as your body locked up, your sex gripping his cock in an iron grasp.

He made an incoherent sound and cursed as your orgasm triggered his, and he released himself inside of you. You collapsed into each other a hot, sticky, sweaty mess, panting heavily. When finally he caught his breath, he ran his nose along your smiling devilishly down at you.

“So how was it, baby?” he asked waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Fast, delicious, hair-raisingly good,” you giggled.

"How about a second round? This time in the bedroom?" he panted, still catching his breath.

You tightened your arms around him playfully. “You betcha, mister."

Just as your words finished, he scooped you up and rushed toward the bedroom, causing your laughter to ring out cheekily through the hall.

Thanks for reading! I really appreciate your comments, likes, and reblogs. I'd love to hear what you think about the chapter!

here's the taglist...

@balhoneysweetstuff @orcasoul @pedroslut4eva @lailathepedritofan @queenofodds @darkheartgatita @ccmoonshine @suzysface @javiismyhsbnd @aurorathegreekprincess @daejangandimja @longlivekingminnn @jisungandpedrolover @urlivingdeadgirl @laliceee @sincerelywithheartt @indiegirlunited @fancyyoouu @blackborndue @shinymusicpanda @her-fandom-sanctum @aegoniipascal @zanylightmilkshake @bonadeaamo @spencercmlover @heramj @pedroloverbilmemkac @churchofjoemiller @urlivingdeadgirl @thanyatargaryen @icanbringyouinhot @universallygentlemenharmony @bitchyfestnight @sukivenue @l1zzygr0nt @pedrofan @javiismyhsbnd @00honey @brittmb115 @picketniffler @javiismyhsbnd @00honey @kneelarmhstrung @zanylightmilkshake @melsunshine @inept-the-magnificent @catofash @secretlettersfromyourlove @pedge-page @speaktothehandpeasants @krystal---meth @pasc4lfuzz @brittmb115 @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @kneelarmhstrung @pedrofan @l1zzygr0nt @sukivenue @cherri-zaza @0-moonbeam-0 @krystal---meth @joelmillerpascal @harrington-thedad @darkheartgatita @javiismyhsbnd

If you want me to add you to the tag list or remove you from it, just let me know! if I missed your name, I'm sorry, remind me, plz.

lots of love 💋💋❤️❤️

[corkinavoid]

To add to that, I bet Tim doesn't notice any of it.

Hold on, I'm not going the way you might think I'm going, hear me out.

Tim was raised by Drakes. He was raised as a socialite kid in a society where good looks mattered and where they were praised. That comes with a lot of standards (not necessarily good or healthy ones, but that's a completely different topic of discussion).

Point is, he is aware of his looks.

Yet, after he became Robin, then Wayne, then Red Robin, it became kind of a distant awareness because there were infinitely more important things to focus and be proud of. Tim is smart, proficient with many weapons, strong, intelligent, a CEO, a vigilante, and everything else. Matters of beauty kind of get put on a backburner when you've got Ra's al Ghul on the loose and a company to run.

So, Tim knows he looks good. He just kind of... doesn't care about it since no one in the family ever reminded him that it's supposed to matter.

Now. Do any of you remember the scene with 'You're hot, cupcake' from Arcane?

That's exactly how Danny and Tim started dating (minus the brothel, let's say it was just a bar or something), and it's a hill I will die on.

The Tim Drake Heartthrob Conspiracy

It started as a slow, creeping suspicion. A few throwaway comments here, a couple of odd interactions there. At first, no one thought much of it.

One day, Dick was grabbing coffee near Wayne Enterprises when he overheard two interns chatting in line. “I saw Tim Drake today, and let me tell you, I think I’ve developed a new celebrity crush,” one of them said, giggling.

Dick nearly choked on his iced latte. Tim? Celebrity crush? He shook it off, chalking it up to the occasional corporate crush, nothing out of the ordinary for someone who runs a massive company. But then he heard it again the next week at a Titan’s briefing. Garfield leaned over to him during a meeting, nodding toward Tim across the room.

“Man, Tim’s really come into his own, huh? Guy’s kinda a looker now,” Gar commented.

Dick blinked, then frowned. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, come on, Nightwing,” Gar teased, “you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed! The quiet broody thing is working for him. I bet half of Gotham has a crush on him.”

By the time Dick got back to Gotham, the gears were turning in his head. Did half of Gotham have a crush on Tim?

Then it happened again. This time it was Damian’s turn.

He had been sparring with Jon in the Batcave, when their conversation drifted, as it often did. “You ever think about what it would be like to date someone like Tim?” Jon asked, completely out of the blue.

Damian froze, mid-punch. “What?”

“I mean, he’s smart, right? Responsible, kinda low-key. Would probably make a great boyfriend,” Jon continued, completely oblivious to the growing horror on Damian’s face.

“Grayson and Todd, are enough. I refuse to let another sibling of mine become Gotham’s romantic fascination!” Damian exclaimed later that night at the dinner table. The others laughed, assuming Damian was just being overly dramatic, as usual.

But the seed had been planted.

It didn’t take long for the other Batfamily members to start picking up on the signs.

Steph first noticed when she logged onto a Wayne Enterprises fan forum (because yes, those exist) and saw a thread that was simply titled, “Tim Drake’s Glow-Up Appreciation Post”. The page was filled with comments fawning over him—talking about his “sharp jawline,” his “dark, mysterious aura,” and how “charming” he was during interviews.

Naturally, Steph sent the link to Cass with a laughing emoji. “Look at our boy, growing up into Gotham’s next heartbreaker,” she joked.

But as more and more of these comments popped up in the oddest places, Steph’s joking tone faded. Was Tim really the next heartthrob?

The realization hit Jason last, as most things concerning Tim usually did. He was scrolling through his usual online haunts, browsing forums that discussed Gotham’s vigilantes, when he stumbled on something unusual.

A post titled: Top 10 Reasons Why Red Robin is the Best Looking Vigilante in Gotham.

Jason almost clicked out of it immediately, assuming it was some kind of joke. But no. There were paragraphs. Analysis. Photos that somehow made Tim look like a damn model, even in his ridiculous Red Robin cape.

Jason scrolled through in disbelief, not sure what he was more stunned by: the fact that people were thirsting after Tim, or that someone had gone to this much effort to explain why he was hot.

“That’s it. The internet is officially broken,” Jason muttered to himself, before sending a screenshot to the family group chat with the caption: Since when did Tim become a fashion icon?

The real kicker, though, was Alfred. After weeks of the Batfamily casually throwing around jokes about Tim’s newly discovered “status,” Alfred finally made his observation one morning over breakfast.

“Master Timothy has always had a certain quiet charm about him,” Alfred said as he served coffee, completely unbothered by the ensuing chaos.

Dick, nearly spilling his coffee: “Wait, you knew about this? Why didn’t you say something?”

Alfred raised a brow. “It hardly seemed necessary. I assumed you all were already aware of Master Timothy’s appeal.”

Appeal. Appeal.

Jason was laughing so hard he had to leave the room, while Steph and Cass exchanged glances that said everything: they needed to re-evaluate everything about their little brother.

The whole Batfamily was still coming to terms with it. They joked, they teased, but there was an undeniable shift. When they looked at Tim now, they saw what others had apparently been seeing for years—a quietly confident, strikingly intelligent young man who had somehow grown into one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors.

Of course, the moment that really sealed the deal came when Tim rode into the Batcave one evening on his Red Bird bike, wearing hastily thrown on stylish outfit—a black leather jacket, perfectly fitted jeans, and a shirt that gave him a casual, yet effortlessly cool look. Running a hand through his still damp hair, a look of mild annoyance on his face.

“Sorry, I’m running late. Got a date.”

For a moment, the Batfamily just stared.

Holy. Shit.

And then, as if on cue, Dick, Steph, Cass, Duke, Jason, and even Damian had the same thought at the same time: Oh my God, Tim Drake is the Batfamily’s biggest heartthrob.

The realization was almost too much to handle.

[f14fun]

pixelated love (!simmer x mv1) - chapter 2

synopsis: in which the famous three time world champion max verstappen wants to learn how to play the sims 4. except, he doesn't really know how to. so what does he do, search up a youtube tutorial. low-and-behold, y/n's video is the first he watches.

smau ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ prev | next | series index ˚୨୧⋆｡

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

yourusername:

yourusername: WATCH LIVE ON TWITCH: i dominate my sub (max verstappen) as we play the sims 4 together - he's streaming too, ig 🙄🙄

(pls subscribe to my patreon and all of the cool cc looks that I put together)

view comments:

maxverstappen1: That is not the picture that we agreed on you to post, Y/N.

yourusername: deal with it max emillian 🙄

maxverstappen1: I look horrible, please delete it.

yourusername: max, i mean it in the best way possible, but you look so babygirl 😍😘🥺

maxverstappen1: This? Means me?

yourusername: SEE?!? the word fits u, totally 😁😁😁

maxverstappen1: ???

user1: LMFAO MAX??!

user2: this is the most unlikely pairing/collab of the year, i'm bewildered

user3: ABSOLUTELY LIVING for this unhinged duo >>>

user4: the way they type is COMPLETELY THE OPPOSITE FROM EACH OTHER

user5: and we are totally living for it??

user6: they match each others freak in the phattest opposite directions its so funny everytime they interact

user7: this is the type of deluluship that i aspire to have one day

yourusername: DWAI! you will reach my level of mental illness and one day have to live in a mental insane aslyum like me! (my bedroom playing sims twenty-four seven)

user7: oh!- 😀 (trembling)

maxverstappen1: It's spelled as asylum*** @/yourusername.

yourusername: 😐😐😐 not funny

user8: ☠️☠️🫵🏾

user9: love to see a set of people constantly being able to humble each other, prime entertainment

user10: guys, the stream is so fucking funnny PLS WATCH IT RN.

user10: like my mom came in to tell me to eat dinner and she heard HOW FUNNY and UNHINGED it was and decided to join me 😭

yourusername: w mother fr ‼️‼️

yourusername: now max, this is a PRIME EXAMPLE of a MILF.

yourusername: watch and learn, okay!

maxverstappen1: I am still very confused...

yourusername: mom i'll learn from >>> mom i'd like to fuck

liked by maxverstappen1

maxverstappen1: Ohhh, I see

user11: the BLATANT gaslighting has me IN TEARS. 💀💀

user11: like this is what she chooses to do the minute she gets noticed by a f1 driver HELPPPP

user12: this is MORE UNHINGED version of everything in the yt video i beg for u guys to join in on the stream i swear, NO REGRETS FRRR

user13: when she started teaching max the words to club classics by charli xcx mid stream 😭😭😭

user14: NOT A REAL EXPERIENCE. LMFAO.

yourusername: what can i say, i just need to educate this man in pop culture 😁

yourusername: i swear he is gen-z guys, just with a tinge of millenial in him (we are working on fixing that!!)

maxverstappen1: Yeah, I wanna dance to me, I wanna dance to A.G, I wanna dance with George @/georgerussel63

georgerussel63: ???

georgerussel63: Eww mate, I will not dance with you Max

georgerussel63: You can't dance well, so no thanks 🙃

yourusername: i already like you george

yourusername: you are very funny

georgerussel63: Why, thank you. May I ask who you are?

yourusername: only the funniest girl on earth ‼️🎀🌍🫨🌋

georgerussel63: I'll give that title to my girlfriend, thank you very much, but you can take a close second

yourusername: i'll take it 😁😁🤣

maxverstappen1: ☹️☹️

user15: it's okay max, you can be babygirl in the corner with me

user16: george russel once again rendering max bitchless, in front of a hot girl nontheless ☹️

yourusername: it's okay, max is my bitch 😈💦😼

user17: girl, i'm astonished everytime you open your mouth

liked by yourusername

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

taglist: @hiireadstuff @sinofwriting @mehrmonga @the-untamed-soul @glai1023-blog @loloekie @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @sheastri @llando4norris @gwginnyweasley @carmenita122

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

author's note: ty guys for reading this fic! 😍🫶🏾 part three will be out sometime within the next week, comment if you want to be added to the taglist! ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

[red5cars]

surroghoap pt.2

prev I next

cw: none

this was a bad idea.

it was all you could think about. on the drive there, when you pulled into the driveway of their nice secluded home, even sitting on the couch next to the mastiff who exhales more spit than air.

earlier, you pulled on your nicest casual dress, a long green number that was shapeless modest. you wanted to appear like someone who had their shit together, not an on-the-way-drop-out who got pregnant after some nameless fling.

the dog slobbering all over the fabric dampens your image.

“aye! git off th' couch ya wet beast!” the scot, johnny, snaps at the dog, his finger pointing towards the hallway. an echoing bark escapes the mastiff's mouth, but johnny doesn't loosen up, a low growl leaving his lips. the display of dominance takes you by surprise, but the dog seems used to it, slinking off the couch and retreating elsewhere.

as he does, johnny turns to face you with an apologetics smile on his face, “sorry, we dinnae git many guests, ‘specially fresh ones,” his word choice makes you squirm, the imagery of a red marbled slab flashing through your head.

“no worries,” you reassure, discomfort pushed to the deepest depths, “not the first time i was stained with dog spit,” regret fills you immediately as the words leave your mouth. to think, this man welcomed you into his home and the first thing you did was make a smart comment. what a charming guest you are.

much to your relief, johnny doesn’t seem offended at all. in fact, he finds your comment amusing, the corners of his lips curling upward until the sound of the kettle screaming makes his face scrunch.

“so, th’ drive wasnae too bad?” he asks, the little gap between the kitchen in the living room obscuring him. you can tell he's moving, lifting something by the way his muscles flex under the soft lights of the kitchen.

not here to oogle, you remind yourself, fingers interlocking over your lap, "yeah, it was fine. but i have to ask," you can see his head lift, eyes still on the kettle but some of his attention on you, "why meet here? why not in the city?"

johnny hums, as if he was expecting this question. briefly, you wonder if he has a monologue, offering his explanation through the phrasings of a sonnet.

"nae to keen 'bout loud 'n' crowded places," he states simply, lifting something and beginning his trek back to the living area. okay, so that isn't a totally alarming response.. but still rings a few bells.

"oh.. care to elaborate?" it's not that you want to press him, there's just.. a need too. there's not enough benefit to suade your doubt. he stands before you now, hinged at the hips to set down the a tray. three little mugs filled with what you assume is tea. steam snakes its way up from the cups, only to fade a few centimeters out.

"well.." his voice drops with his weight, settling into one of the comfy chairs before you. it succumbs to his mass quickly, once again showing off his impressive size, "best if ah show ye," and before you can ask show me what? he turns his head to the side, running his fingers through an overgrown buzz. it takes a minute of searching, his fingers and lengthy mohawk in the way, but your eyes widen upon finding it.

a pink, jagged line that starts somewhere on his hairline and ends before it can reach the back of his head.

in all honesty, you're surprised you didn't notice it the first time, a testament to his good looks and a showcase of how much of an ignorant ass you can be.

"sorry i didn't mean to-" he cuts you off with the shake of his head, an understanding smile on his face. "it's a'richt, lass. in fine fettle, y'ken? jus' cannae handle the city like ah used tae," his smile turns sympathetic, but you both know that you aren't the one who needs to be pitied.

there's an itch to right this wrong. even if it doesn't affect johnny, you're own assumptions and actions will be ingrained into your head till you forget about them, then remember it in the midst of doing some mundane task. your mouth begins to part when the door suddenly opens, the mastiff suddenly appearing from the hallway, spit and its paws hitting the floor.

the beast runs past you, happily (and loudly) barking at whoever entered. you expect to see johnny wear an expression of irritation considering how he reprimanded the dog last time, but it's the opposite. there's a fondness in his eyes as he looks behind you, warmth radiating from him.

"ther' ye are, si," he says once the dog has quieted down, but his heavy pants offer some unpleasant background, "thought ah wis gonna do this by maeself."

slowly, you turn your head, finding who you presume is 'si'. if anything, he looks less like a person and more like a.. presence. despite him standing right there, you feel him better then you see him. all you can really make out are his eyes, brown like the various oak logs that barricade their home.

he doesn't say anything, looking at you and johnny through narrow slits.

eventually his gaze ends on you, almost analyzing you all the while he pets the dog's head (who presses himself cheerfully against si. huge dog needs a huge owner you suppose).

"whose 'is?" it seems his analysis didn't provide anything useful, johnny being the one to fill in the blanks with a sigh, "the surrogate, simon." you swear you can hear him tack on an exasperated 'forgetful bastard', but it could be anything.

si, well, simon, stares at you for what seems like an eternity before speaking again, "i see," it's like locking eyes with medusa, his gaze turning you nearly statue-esque in your seat.

"well," simon finally lifts his gaze on you and a weight lifts off your shoulders till it's dropped again when he says, "best start then."

[glass-clown]

[FIRST ID: A screenshot of a Facebook post by Jane Friedman that says, "As of today, there are about half a dozen books being sold on Amazon, with my name on them, that I did not write or publish. Some huckster generated them using AI, hoping to make a quick buck from people who don't realize I'm not the author. Unforuntately, these scam books were also added to my official Goodreads profile. I don't think the larger public understands that author don't directly control what books appear on their profile. They are automatically added via Amazon and/or submitted by users. To get them removed is not an easy process. [in all caps] A brief update [end caps]: After going back and forth a few times with Amazon on this issue, I was notified these junk books would not be removed based on the information I provided. Since I do not own copyright in these AI works and since my name is not trademarked, I'm not sure what can be done." Attached is an image of a rusty dumpster with fire and smoke coming out of it. Above the screenshot is a Tweet by Gabe Hudson @ gabehudson.bsky.social that says, "Dear god what fresh hell is this for writers?" /END OF FIRST ID]

[SECOND ID: A screenshot of a message conversation between @jenovacomplete and an Amazon customer service member whose name has been blocked out. The first message is by jenovacomplete, set at 10:49 pm, that says, "Ah, I haven't ordered from them. I just wanted to see if there was any way to report their fraudulent reproduction. If there isn't, that's fine! Thank you for your time!" At 10:54 pm the customer service member replies, "Okay. Thank you for been on online, The product from Amazon are genuine and correct . You can order from Amazon. No worries from shopping amazon." /END OF ALL IDS]

-

I found an interesting excerpt in an article about this case:

""All this time, public outcry over the case from other authors and observers mounted on Twitter. Finally, on Tuesday morning, Amazon reversed its decision and removed the titles from its platform. A company spokesperson sent Gizmodo a statement explaining its decision.

"We have clear content guidelines governing which books can be listed for sale and promptly investigate any book when a concern is raised," Amazon spokesperson Ashley Vanicek told Gizmodo. "We welcome author feedback and work directly with authors to address any issues they raise and where we have made an error, we correct it. We invest heavily to provide a trustworthy shopping experience and protect customers and authors from misuse of our service."

Amazon declined to comment further when asked to elaborate on what particular rule or policy was violated that led to the AI-generated content being removed. Friedman said she's confident the growing backlash on social media contributed to the ecommerce's reversal. That's good news for her, but will come as little solace to other, smaller writers who lack her same level of prominence.

"I do think it was the public outcry," the author said. "Obviously you shouldn’t have to raise a shitstorm in order to get them to do the right thing."" — "Amazon Removes AI-Generated Books That Spoofed an Author's Byline" by Mark DeGeurin on Gizmodo

[justarkive]

TABLE 3 | JJK ch24

*.°* pairing : pre!military jk x waitress/ secret fuckbuddy reader

"For good service, and cute waitresses."

warnings: smut, alc consumption, fluff, profanity, angst, humour, fluff, celebrity au, idolljungkook, mentions of other kpop groups/idols, inner conflict, insecurity, fluff at the start!! they kiss eachother w lipstick and take pics. but turns sad real quick lol

smut warnings: unprotected sex, they both cry during it, “please dont leave me”, he tries dirty talking mid way and realises thats not what u need, no prep lol, riding, sideways fucking, missionary, aftercare, kissing, its sad but still filthy, oral f receiving, forced eye contact.

wc: longggg

this fic is not meant to represent the real jungkook or any other characters mentioned!

*.°* taglist: @jenniebyrubies @dreamersparacosm @darklove2020 @rayyrayy10 @elinaki92 @alana4610 @bjoriis @kaitieskidmore97 @cuntessaiii @lovingkoalaface @bigsteppagangsterizzie @hangescn @angie-x3

masterlist | < prev, next >

The diner is buzzing today, but you barely hear it.

The hum of conversation, the clatter of plates, the distant sizzle of something frying in the kitchen—it’s all just background noise to the thoughts spinning in your head.

Jungkook rushed out of Nari’s apartment hours ago, muttering something about a last-minute meeting, and you haven’t heard from him since. Not that it’s weird—he’s insanely busy these days, and you’re trying really hard not to let that little fact ruin your mood.

But there’s only three days left.

Three.

When Jungkook told you he had a week left, you didn’t think he meant he was leaving on Friday.

Friday.

And it’s already Tuesday.

And it’s like time is slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you try to hold onto it.

You push through your shift, doing your best to keep up with Nari’s usual antics—she’s thriving off your distracted state, making fun of you for staring into space one too many times—but it’s all so much.

Before you know it, the shift is over.

Nari drops you home, pulling up outside your apartment with a tired sigh. “You okay?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She squints at you. “Liar.”

You sniff, and she groans, already regretting asking. “Go call your stupid boyfriend.” She teases.

“He’s not my—”

“Shut up, yes, he is.”

You roll your eyes, shoving her playfully before stepping out of the car. And the second you’re inside, you call Jungkook.

It only rings twice before he picks up. “Hey, baby.”

The sound of his voice makes your heart ache. “I miss you.”

A pause. Then a quiet sigh. “I know. I miss you, too.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying so hard to keep your voice steady. “I can’t believe it’s so soon.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t be sorry,” you say quickly. “It’s just… I don’t know. Are you free right now?”

There’s a pause. “Right now?”

“Yeah, now.”

“Shit, baby, I wish—” He sighs again. “I have to be up early tomorrow. I’m seeing my family all day, so I don’t think—”

“You’re not gonna see me tomorrow?”

Jungkook hesitates. “I can drop by in the morning—”

And then— You wail.

Like, full-on dramatic sobbing.

“Noooooo,” you cry, clutching your pillow for emotional support. “Please, don’t gooo, please, Jungkook, I can’t do this—”

“What the fuck—” Jungkook panics. “Baby, stop—”

“Jungkook, I’m gonna diiiieeee,” you wail louder, rolling onto your back. “I can’t live without you for one night, pleaseee—”

“Oh, my fucking—”

“Jungkooooooook—”

“Fine!” he finally yells, defeated. “ Fine, fine, I’ll come, but only for a few hours, stop crying baby I-!”

You immediately stop sniffling. “Really?”

Jungkook squints at his phone. Suspicious.

“Yes, really, but I swear to god, if I show up and you’re asleep, I’ll kill you.”

You beam, wiping your totally fake tears. “Okay, hurry up.”

But then—guilt.

“Oh my god, wait, you don’t have to,” you say quickly. “I’m sorry, you’re probably exhausted, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s fine,” Jungkook interrupts. “Really. I wanna see you anyway. But seriously. Only a few hours, okay?”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

You don’t.

But he doesn’t have to know that.

Just like you predicted, when Jungkook finally shows up, he looks exhausted.

His eyes are heavy, his shoulders slouched, and the second he steps inside, he lets out a long breath like he’s been waiting all day to finally be here.

And suddenly, you feel so guilty. “I’m sorry,” you say immediately, suddenly feeling small as you stand there in your hoodie. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, stop,” Jungkook interrupts, shaking his head as he pulls you in. His arms wrap tight around you, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. “I love you, okay? We don’t have much time left, so I’m making the most of it.”

You soften. “Okay.”

“Let’s forget about it for now,” he murmurs against your skin before pulling back. “I’m only staying till twelve, so, three hours.”

You pout, already feeling the time slipping away. “That’s not enough.”

Jungkook sighs, brushing his fingers down your cheek. “I’ll stop by in the morning if you really want me to.”

Your eyes widen. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

You hold out your pinky, and Jungkook huffs a laugh before linking his with yours, pressing a kiss to the side of your hand for good measure.

And with that, you both settle into your bedroom, climbing onto your bed like it’s just another normal night. You talk about everything and nothing at the same time, just enjoying each other’s presence, fingers tangled together on the sheets.

At some point, you get curious. “So, what do you think you’ll get up to in the military?”

Jungkook hums, shifting onto his side to look at you. “I don’t know. I’m definitely not excited, but I guess it’ll be nice to have a break.”

You nod, listening intently as he sighs. “Unfortunately, I can’t be in one of the fancier units, though.”

“Why?”

“Visible tattoos,” he shrugs. “You can’t enlist in certain sectors if you have them. I’ll probably end up in something boring.”

Your brows furrow. “Wait—does that mean you’ll still be working out?”

Jungkook gives you a look. “Why do you sound excited?”

You sit up slightly. “Does this mean you’ll get bigger?”

He squints. “Maybe. Yes. I don’t know—do you want me to?”

Your entire face lights up. “Yes, oh my god, yes—” You bounce on the bed, grinning. “Please!”

Jungkook laughs, grabbing your wrists to stop you from shaking the bed. “I’m already big!”

“But imagine— bigger!”

Jungkook groans, flopping onto his back dramatically. “Why do I feel like you’re gonna make me send you muscle updates when I’m there?”

“Oh, I am,” you confirm, grinning. “Get ready for me to demand flexing videos every week.”

He rolls over, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you down until you’re nose to nose. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

You grin.

A few minutes later, you’re perched on Jungkook’s lap, lips fused to his, hands in his hair, completely lost in him. It’s like you can’t help it—like there’s this unspoken rule now that you have to touch him, kiss him, hold onto him as much as possible while you still can.

Jungkook clearly has the same thought, because the second you try pulling back, he’s tugging you right back in, hands firm on your hips.

But you just giggle, pushing at his chest. “No, wait. I have an idea.”

Jungkook groans dramatically, head falling back against the headboard. “Baby, c’mon—”

You ignore him, scrambling for your nightstand until your fingers close around a tube of lipstick.

Jungkook eyes you warily. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, you pop the cap off and swipe the color across your lips. Then, before he can react, you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. Then another. And another.

“Y/N—!” He squirms, laughing as you attack his face, leaving imprints of your lips across his skin. “Stop, that tickles!”

“No,” you say simply, completely unbothered. “You’re cute.”

“Stop calling me cute.”

“You are cute.”

Jungkook groans in defeat, letting you assault his face with kisses while his hands absentmindedly squeeze at your waist.

You grab your Polaroid camera and snap a picture before he can react.

“Hey—!”

Too late. You’re already shaking it, grinning down at the image of his completely kiss-covered face. “Oh, this is going on the wall.”

Jungkook watches as you add it right next to the first-ever picture you took of him—the one where he was buried under your plushies.

The little collection is growing.

You turn back to him. “Okay, take your shirt off.”

Jungkook perks up. “Oh?” He doesn’t hesitate, tugging it over his head in one smooth motion.

You beam. “Good.” Then, you lean down and repeat the process—pressing kisses along his collarbones, his chest, each of his abs—until he’s laughing, trying to twist away from the ticklish sensation.

“Baby—stop, I can’t—”

“Nope.” You snap another picture of him, now covered in even more lipstick stains. “I win.”

Jungkook watches as you struggle to find more space on the wall, eventually just sticking them in random spots. One even goes into your phone case.

“You’re insane,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“You love it.”

He hums, and then, suddenly, “My turn.”

You blink. “What? No—”

Too late. He grabs the lipstick from your hand, rolling you onto your back in one swift motion. “Stay still,” he murmurs, straddling your waist.

“Jungkook—”

“Shhh,” he hushes you, uncapping the lipstick. His touch is slow, careful as he smears the color across his lips. His fingers linger against your jaw, his eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in.

You’re blushing, gripping at his arm for support.

Compared to how frantic you were before, Jungkook is slow.

Painfully, teasingly slow.

And when he finally leans down, he starts his attack—pressing deliberate kisses all over your cheeks, your jaw, your collarbone, your neck—taking his sweet time.

You squirm, flustered, but he just smirks. “What? You don’t like it when it’s you?”

You grab a pillow and whack him with it.

Jungkook cackles, reaching for your camera. “How do I use this thing?”

You scoff. “Oh, so you’re not a camera expert anymore?”

“I don’t know how to use your kiddie camera.”

You gasp, offended. “It’s not a kiddie camera! It’s a Polaroid, for your information.”

Jungkook grins. “I know how to use it—I just wanted you to teach me.”

You roll your eyes, guiding his hands over the camera. “Like this.”

Jungkook snaps a bunch of pictures of you, grinning at the results. But instead of giving them to you, he tucks a few into his pocket.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“I’m keeping them.”

You pause, realizing. “Will you look at them when you’re gone?”

He shrugs, smiling softly. “Maybe.”

The mood shifts. You’re both curled up in bed now, Jungkook holding you close, rubbing small circles on your back. You feel him shift, checking the time.

“Babe, I have to leave soon.”

You tense. “I know.”

And then it hits you again.

An hour left until he has to go.

Three days left until he’s gone for real.

Jungkook knows you’re thinking about it—he sees it in your face. So he tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I promise I’ll come by tomorrow.”

You nod. “I know.”

“I’ll text you. I’ll update you about everything.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur. “I know you’ll miss your family, too.”

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah. I will.”

And then you realize—it’s not just you he’s leaving.

It’s his family. His members. His fans.

It’s everyone.

And suddenly, you feel selfish.

Jungkook notices the shift in you immediately, his hand finding your cheek. “Hey. You’re okay. I promise.”

You don’t answer. But you do let yourself relax into him, nuzzling into his chest, letting his heartbeat soothe you. Eventually, you drift off—still covered in his kisses.

Jungkook waits until you’re fully asleep before gently rummaging through your nightstand, looking for wipes. He knows what it’s like to fall asleep with makeup on—it always makes him feel gross in the morning—so he carefully cleans the lipstick off your skin, making sure to be gentle as you unconsciously nuzzle into his touch.

When he’s done, he presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another. And another.

He doesn’t want to leave.

Not now. Not in three days.

He debates staying, but then you stir, your brows furrowing slightly, and he knows he can’t.

So instead, he whispers, “I love you so much.”

And even in your sleep, you mewl at the sound of it, your body immediately relaxing, like it’s enough for now.

Jungkook stands there for a moment, just watching you, before finally slipping out of bed.

He takes in the sight of your room—the little details, the chaos, the way it perfectly reflects you—and he finds himself smiling.

His eyes land on your Polaroid wall, at all the little moments captured there.

He debates taking down one of the pictures you took of him earlier, thinking he doesn’t look great in it, but in the end, he leaves it. And just before he leaves, he snaps one last picture of you—fast asleep, peaceful, his favorite sight in the world.

——

Jungkook drives home in silence.

The whole way there, his heart feels full—so much so that it’s almost enough to distract him from what’s coming. Almost.

But then, the second he steps into his apartment, the feeling changes. He goes through the motions—taking off his shoes, tossing his bag onto the couch, getting ready for bed—but it all feels too normal. Like it’s just another night. Like tomorrow won’t be another countdown to leaving.

And the second he touches his bed, it hits him all at once. The sob breaks out of him before he can even stop it. He curls in on himself, gripping his sheets, his chest aching in a way he can’t even describe.

He doesn’t want to go.

He doesn’t want to go.

And before he can even think about it, his fingers are already dialing your number.

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times. No answer.

You’re asleep.

He knows he shouldn’t wake you up, so he stops himself from calling again—but the loneliness is too much, the silence in his apartment is too loud, and before he knows it, he’s calling again.

But not you this time.

Namjoon answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

Jungkook chokes on a sob. “Hyung—”

“Jungkook? What’s wrong?”

And then it all comes out.

“I don’t want to go,” Jungkook cries, his chest heaving as he grips the phone like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice is raw, cracking under the weight of everything. “I don’t—I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to leave her—”

Namjoon sighs on the other end, the kind of sigh that carries years of understanding. The kind that says, I know this hurts.

“I know,” he says softly.

“I can’t do it,” Jungkook gasps, shaking his head even though Namjoon can’t see him. “I can’t—I can’t wake up tomorrow and pretend everything’s fine. It’s not fine. I just—” His voice breaks, and the silence that follows is filled with his quiet, shaking breaths.

“You have to,” Namjoon says after a beat, gentle but firm. “You knew this day would come. It’s not forever, Jungkook.”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut. “It feels like forever.”

Namjoon hums, thoughtful. “She took you back, right?”

Jungkook nods through his tears, even though Namjoon isn’t there to see it. “Yeah.”

“Then she’ll wait for you.”

Jungkook’s throat tightens. He wants to believe that—he really does. But the fear is suffocating.

“What if she doesn’t?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “What if she moves on? What if—” His voice cracks again, and he bites his lip hard to keep it together. “I love her. I told her, properly this time. At the beach. And she—she looked at me like I was her whole world.”

Namjoon is quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “Then trust her, Jungkook.”

Jungkook sniffles. “But what if—”

Namjoon cuts him off, echoing his words from when he’d given him advice a long time ago, “Then that’s a risk you have to take.”

Jungkook hates that answer. Because it’s not the reassurance he wants. It’s not a guarantee. But he knows Namjoon is right.

His fingers loosen around his phone, exhausted, defeated. “I watched her fall asleep earlier,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “She was just… there. So warm. So peaceful. Like she knew she was safe with me.”

Namjoon hums again, quieter this time. “And you’ll have that again. Maybe not soon. Maybe not next month. But you will.”

Jungkook swallows down another sob. “I don’t want to do this without her.”

“You’re not doing this without her,” Namjoon corrects him. “She’s still with you. And if she’s the one, she’ll still be there when you come back.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply. He just breathes, listening to Namjoon’s steady presence on the other end. It’s quiet, the only sound their breathing, and somehow, that makes it easier.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

Jungkook drifts off, his phone still in his hand, with Namjoon still on the line

——

When Jungkook wakes up, it’s to his alarm blaring at 5 AM.

His head is heavy, his throat is dry from crying, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it—he has to meet his family soon.

Without thinking, he reaches for his phone. His fingers type out a message before he can overthink it.

Jungkook [5:07 AM]: hi baby, im coming in like an hour. do you want anything?

No response. You’re probably still asleep.

He sighs, pushing himself out of bed, rubbing at his tired eyes. Then, he hops in the shower, letting the water wash away everything from the night before. There’s still some remnants on lipstick on his chest and his abdomen and he scrubs away even if it physically hurts him to.

When he steps out, he doesn’t check his phone right away. Because if you haven’t responded yet, he’s not sure if he can handle that feeling right now. Jungkook gets in his car, barely even processing the motion of turning the keys in the ignition. His mind is elsewhere.

Two days.

Two days is nothing.

Today and tomorrow.

He exhales sharply through his nose, gripping the steering wheel a little too tight as he pulls out onto the road. He knows today is supposed to be for his family. He’s not mad about it—he misses them, and he wants to see them before he goes.

But at the same time…

He’d rather be with you.

He shakes the thought away, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he focuses on driving. Not like it matters. He still has this morning, at least.

His stomach grumbles, but instead of stopping somewhere for himself, he takes a sharp turn, heading towards a tiny, shitty food truck that he knows has just opened for the morning. The kind of place that only locals know about, nothing fancy, nothing overhyped—just good, simple food.

You’d love it.

So he pulls up without hesitation, quickly placing an order for pancakes and waiting impatiently, checking the time on his phone every other second.

5:30 AM.

He still has time. It’s not enough, but it’ll have to be. His fingers tap against his thigh as he debates his next move.

The field.

His chest clenches at the thought.

Fuck it. By the time he gets his order, he’s already made up his mind. The drive to the field is second nature at this point, muscle memory guiding him as he turns onto the small, secluded road leading there.

When he finally parks, he steps out, stretching his arms with a sigh as the cool morning air washes over him. The sun isn’t fully up yet, but there’s a soft golden glow in the distance, and for a moment, Jungkook just stands there, taking it in.

He wonders if you’re awake yet.

He wonders if you’d be mad if you knew he was here without you.

But he doesn’t dwell on it for long—he steps forward, wandering into the field, eyes scanning for the small patches of daisies that always seem to grow in the same spots.

It takes a few minutes, but he finds them, crouching down and picking a few with careful hands, letting the scent of the fresh petals fill his nose.

And then, without wasting another second, he’s back in his car, pancakes in one hand, flowers in the other, driving straight to your apartment.

Jungkook knocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he glances down at the bag of pancakes in his hand and the small bunch of daisies in the other.

It’s almost six now.

It takes a bit longer than usual for you to answer, and he figures you’re probably still asleep. He doesn’t mind waiting.

And then, finally—

The door creaks open, and—

Oh.

His heart clenches so hard it almost fucking hurts.

You’re standing there, still groggy with sleep, wearing a t-shirt that barely covers the tops of your thighs, your hair messy from sleep, one eye squinted shut as you rub at it lazily. You let out a soft yawn, blinking at him like you’re still processing the fact that he’s even here.

And then—

Your eyes widen, fully waking up as you beam at him, and before he can even get a word out, you reach forward, tugging him inside by the sleeve of his hoodie and wrapping your arms around him.

Jungkook barely has time to react before he’s melting into you, inhaling the faint traces of your shampoo as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

You’re so warm.

And it sucks.

It fucking sucks that he only has two days left with you.

But for now—for you, and for himself—he pretends that he’s not leaving at all.

Jungkook expects you to pull him into the kitchen like always, maybe tease him for being up so early, maybe sit across from him at the counter as you both eat.

Instead—

You take the bag from his hands, peeking inside curiously. “What’s this?”

He raises a brow. “Pancakes. And flowers. Duh.”

You smile, stepping closer to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, baby.”

His heart stutters.

But before he can say anything, you drop the bag on the counter and—

Take his hand.

And pull him toward your bedroom.

Jungkook blinks. Wait.

He’s confused for a second, expecting you to sit him down or do something—but you just stand there, looking a little sheepish, rubbing at your arm before mumbling—

“Can you just… hold me?”

His chest tightens.

For a second, all he can do is stare. And then, he tugs you in gently, leading you back to the bed without another word. You follow without hesitation, crawling under the sheets as he settles in beside you.

You snuggle into his side immediately, arms wrapped around his waist, face tucked into his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Jungkook exhales deeply, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms winding securely around you.

Two days.

He pretends it’s forever.

The room is quiet.

Neither of you really sleep. You just lay there, wrapped up in each other, lost in silence. Jungkook keeps his eyes on the ceiling, willing himself not to cry. He counts his breaths, focuses on the steady rhythm of your fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against his ribs. Every touch feels like a memory being burned into his skin.

He swallows.

Two days. And then, he feels it.

The slight tremble of your body against his. The way your breath starts to hitch. Jungkook’s brows furrow, and he tilts his head to look at you.

And that’s when he sees—

The tears slipping down your cheeks, soaking into his shirt.

His stomach drops.

“Baby…,” he whispers, heart clenching as he cups your cheek, trying to tilt your face toward his. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer. You just break.

“Please don’t go,” you sob, gripping his shirt in your fists like it’s the only thing keeping you together. “Jungkook, please, don’t—please—”

His chest caves in.

“Baby,” he whispers, his own voice shaking now, his throat burning as he tries to hold it together.

But he can’t. Not when you’re begging like this.

Not when he has no choice but to leave.

He tightens his grip around you, presses his face into your hair, kisses your temple between ragged breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Because what else is there to say?

You keep crying.

Jungkook just holds you tighter, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, neither of you will have to let go.

Jungkook exhales shakily, his forehead pressed against yours, his own tears mixing with yours. Your breath is uneven, your body trembling against his, and he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to make this better.

So he kisses you.

Soft, at first. A silent plea, a desperate apology. His lips catch your cries, drinking them in like they’re the last thing he’ll ever have of you. He feels the way your hands fist into his shirt tighter, pulling him closer like you want to crawl into him, like you never want there to be space between you again.

And then you kiss him back.

It’s messy, wet from tears, but you don’t care. Your lips move against his with urgency, with something bordering on desperation, and Jungkook groans softly when you press closer, shifting in his lap, making it impossible for him to think of anything but you.

You break away for a moment, but he doesn’t let you go far. He chases after you, lips brushing yours as he breathes out, “Y/N—”

And then you’re kissing him again.

Harder, needier.

Jungkook tilts his head, deepens the kiss, one hand slipping under your shirt to press against the warm skin of your waist. His thumb traces over your hip bone, slow, teasing, grounding himself in the feel of you.

Because this—

This is what he wants to remember.

The way you taste, the way you sound when he swallows down another whimper, the way you need him like he needs you.

And when you shift again, rolling your hips against his, your hands slipping beneath his hoodie—

Jungkook loses himself completely.

Your hands tremble as they push his hoodie up, fingertips trailing over the warmth of his skin. You’re not just touching him—you’re memorizing him, pressing your palms flat against his stomach like you can carve the shape of him into your skin, like you can hold onto him in a way time won’t steal from you.

Jungkook shudders beneath your touch, a sharp breath stuttering against your lips. “Baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked, pleading, but he doesn’t know what for. For you to slow down? To never stop? To let him drown in you until he forgets he ever has to leave?

He doesn’t know.

But then you’re kissing him again—slower this time, softer. Like you’re trying to soothe the ache neither of you can put into words. Your lips are swollen, warm, and Jungkook melts into you when your fingers slide into his hair, pulling, tugging, grounding him.

His hands roam too—sweeping over your back, gripping at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He feels the way your body moves with his, how perfectly you fit against him, and it makes something inside him snap.

“Please,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. “Jungkook, please.”

And he knows what you’re asking for.

His hands shake as he peels your shirt off, as he presses reverent kisses down your throat, over your collarbones, his lips mapping out every inch of skin he can reach. His name leaves your lips in a breathless sigh when he takes one of your breasts into his mouth, his tongue slow and worshipful, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together.

But it’s useless.

Because you’re moving against him, rolling your hips in time with the soft sucks of his mouth, and his resolve is crumbling.

You tilt his face up, guiding him back to your lips, and when your thighs tighten around him, he knows he’s lost.

Your fingers tremble as they trace the shape of his face, committing every dip and curve to memory. The slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips, the sharp cut of his jawline. You look at him like you’ll never get to again, and the thought alone makes fresh tears sting your eyes.

Jungkook notices. Of course he does.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice thick, strained. He lifts a hand to wipe at your tears, but before he can, you’re leaning in—pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He stills beneath you.

He’s always the one giving you forehead kisses, tucking you close, making you feel safe, adored. They’re your favorite—always have been. But now, it’s you pressing one to his skin, letting your lips linger against the warmth of him, as if you can pour all your love into this one kiss.

Jungkook exhales sharply. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, like he’s trying to hold back something thick and uncontainable. But you don’t let him—don’t let him retreat into that quiet sadness.

Instead, you kiss him again. And again.

Soft, lingering presses of your lips along his temples, down to the curve of his cheekbone. Then his nose. His jaw.

“I love you,” you whisper between each kiss, voice trembling but sure. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Jungkook shatters.

His hands tighten on your waist, like he wants to pull you in, fuse you to him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt. Just lets you continue, lets you map out every inch of his body with your mouth.

You kiss down his throat, feeling the way it vibrates as he exhales shakily, his pulse hammering against your lips. You don’t stop. Your fingers slide beneath the hem of his hoodie, peeling it away from his skin. The fabric lifts easily, exposing the smooth planes of his chest, and you waste no time pressing your mouth to the skin there, too.

His collarbones, his shoulders, the firm stretch of his arms—everywhere you can reach, you kiss. Slow, reverent. Worshipful.

By the time you’re tugging at his waistband, Jungkook is a mess beneath you—his chest rising and falling rapidly, his fingers digging into the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering him to reality.

And when you press a final, lingering kiss to the inside of his thigh, Jungkook exhales a shaky, wrecked, “Baby…”

Like he’s already breaking.

Like he doesn’t know how to survive this kind of love.

Jungkook’s hands tremble where they grip your waist, his breath ragged as you press kiss after kiss into his skin—his chest, his stomach, the sharp cut of his hip. You’re not thinking anymore, not planning. Just feeling. Memorizing.

Your fingers slide beneath his waistband, tugging. He lifts his hips instinctively, letting you strip away the last barrier between you, and you don’t waste a second. You straddle him, chest heaving, tears still streaking your cheeks as you take him in your hand, guiding him to where you need him most.

Jungkook stiffens. “Wait, baby, you need—”

You don’t let him finish.

You sink down in one motion, gasping as he fills you, as your body stretches to accommodate him, as he presses so deep it knocks the air from your lungs.

Jungkook’s head snaps back against the pillow. His mouth falls open, a choked groan breaking from his throat as his hands fly to your hips, gripping tight like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose it completely.

“Fuck—” His voice is wrecked. “Baby, you—shit, you didn’t—”

You shake your head frantically, cutting him off, pressing a palm over his mouth as your whole body trembles. You don’t care. You don’t care. You just need him.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice breaking, your nails digging into his chest. “Please don’t go.”

Jungkook’s entire body tenses beneath you.

Your hand falls from his mouth, sliding up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as you lean in. Your lips ghost over his, but you don’t kiss him. Just breathe him in, feel the warmth of his skin, the way he’s shaking from the effort of holding himself together.

“What am I gonna do without you?” Your voice cracks. A fresh wave of tears spills over, dripping onto his cheeks. “I don’t know how to be without you, Jungkook.”

His jaw clenches, his brows furrowing in raw agony. He shakes his head, like he wants to say something, like he wants to comfort you, but he can’t. Because he doesn’t know how.

Because he doesn’t know how to be without you either.

And then you move.

You roll your hips, slow, deep, and Jungkook breaks.

A strangled groan rips from his throat, his hands flying to your ass, gripping hard, as if he can somehow press you closer, somehow keep you here. His head tilts back, exposing his throat, and you kiss him there, feeling the way he swallows thickly beneath your lips.

You lift yourself up and sink down again, choking on a sob as he fills you, as he stretches you so perfectly it hurts. But it’s good. It’s right. Like he belongs here.

Like he belongs with you.

Jungkook pants beneath you, his fingers digging into your skin, but he doesn’t rush you. Just lets you take what you need, lets you set the pace, lets you use him the way he wants to use you.

For comfort. For love. For something to hold onto when everything else is slipping away.

And when you look down at him, when your eyes meet his—

Jungkook looks ruined.

His bottom lip trembles, his dark eyes glassy, pleading, like he’s trying so fucking hard not to cry, trying so fucking hard to be strong.

And you can’t take it.

You bury your face in his shoulder, sobbing against his skin, whispering please, please, please between every ragged breath.

Jungkook presses a hand to the back of your head, cradling you close, his lips finding your temple.

“I love you,” he breathes, voice shaking. “I love you, I love you—”

And then his hands are gripping tighter, his hips rising to meet yours, and you know he’s losing himself, giving himself to you the same way you’re giving yourself to him.

Because there’s no tomorrow.

Not yet.

Right now, there’s only this.

You don’t know how you find the strength to do it.

To lift your head. To force your hands to loosen from their desperate clutch on his body. To just look at him.

Jungkook is barely holding himself together. His chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, his lashes damp, his lips swollen and parted like he’s trying to catch the words before they escape him. But you see it in his eyes.

He’s breaking.

And you don’t have time for that.

You don’t have time for any of it.

So you do the only thing you can.

You push through it. You suck it up.

You exhale shakily, press your forehead to his, and whisper, “Jungkook.”

His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like he’s trying to memorize the way you say his name, the way your breath warms his lips, the way your voice trembles but still holds him.

And then you move.

You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart, your fingers slipping into his hair as you rock your hips against him, slow, deep, dragging him into you over and over and over again.

Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands skimming up your back, gripping tight, his nails digging in just enough to ground himself.

And then he’s breathing it back.

“I love you.”

You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut, pressing your lips to his jaw, his cheek, his temple.

“I love you, I love you so much—”

He gasps, his grip tightening, his head tilting back just slightly, enough for you to kiss down his throat, to feel the way he swallows against your lips, to hear the way his breath hitches.

“Please don’t go.”

Jungkook chokes on a sound that’s not quite a sob, not quite a moan, something raw and shattered and so fucking helpless.

And then his arms lock around you, crushing you against him, as he buries his face in your shoulder, his voice breaking completely.

“I don’t wanna go.”

Your entire body tenses. Your breath stutters in your throat.

“I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go—”

It’s the first time he’s said it. The first time he’s let it slip, the first time he’s let himself admit it—that he doesn’t want to leave you. That it’s killing him. That if he had a choice, if the world would just fucking let him—

He would stay.

Your nails sink into his skin, your hips grinding down harder, desperate, frantic, like you can somehow make him stay, like you can fuse yourself to him, like you can press him so deep inside you that he’ll never leave.

“Then stay,” you whisper.

Jungkook’s breath shudders against your skin, his fingers curling into your flesh like he wants to.

Like he wants to so fucking bad.

He doesn’t know what to do with this, with you, with the weight of everything pressing into his chest like a vice. He’s gripping onto you like you’ll slip through his fingers the second he lets go, like he’ll wake up tomorrow and you’ll be nothing but a dream.

“Then stay.”

Your words echo in his skull, looping, endless, clawing at something deep inside him.

He can’t.

He wants to. But he can’t.

And so—he panics.

“Gonna miss this pussy so much,” he mutters, his voice strained, desperate, trying to ground himself in something, anything, trying to fill the unbearable silence that follows his own fucking admission. His hands skim down your back, gripping your hips, fingers digging into your skin.

“Miss feeling you wrapped around me like this—”

You inhale sharply, body tensing, and—fuck.

No.

No, that’s not what you need.

Jungkook realizes it the second the words leave his mouth. The second he hears himself, hears how it sounds—like he’s trying to distract himself, like he’s trying to make this just about fucking when it’s so much more.

He hears the way your breath shakes, how your grip loosens ever so slightly, how you start to pull away—

And he panics again.

“Shit—baby—”

His body moves before his mind catches up.

He flips you over in one swift motion, pressing you into the mattress, his breath ragged, his heart pounding, something frantic and terrified behind his eyes as he cages you beneath him.

Your wide, tear-filled gaze meets his, your lip trembling, and Jungkook’s entire body locks up.

Fuck.

He nearly loses it right then and there. Nearly breaks. But instead—he just moves.

He doesn’t know how to make this better. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to fix the mess he’s made.

So he just— Kisses you.

Soft.

Deep.

He pours everything into it, every unspoken word, every apology, every ounce of guilt, every single part of him that belongs to you.

His hands trace up your sides, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

Like he’s trying to hold on just a little longer.

Jungkook collapses against you.

All of his weight, all of his warmth, all of him—pressing you into the mattress, crushing you, suffocating you, swallowing you whole.

And you let him.

Because if he’s on you, if he’s in you, if he’s covering every inch of your body with his, then maybe—just maybe—you won’t have to face the sight of him leaving.

“Fuck—”

His breath stutters against your neck, his voice wrecked, helpless, and the only thing keeping him from fully melting into you is the slow, deep drag of his hips, the way he’s sinking into you like he never wants to leave.

Like he never wants to stop.

“Jungkook—”

His name leaves your lips in a desperate sob, your hands clawing at him, grasping, clutching, threading through his hair, pressing into his back, like you’re begging him to stay.

His jaw clenches, his fingers digging into the sheets on either side of your head, his entire body trembling with the weight of his own emotions.

“I love you,” you whisper, voice breaking, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I love you so much—please, please—”

Jungkook’s body locks up.

You feel the sharp, unsteady inhale against your throat, the way his hips slow, the way his entire frame shudders above you.

And then. He moves. Faster. Harder.

Like he’s trying to drown himself in you.

Like he’s trying to answer you in the only way he can.

“I don’t wanna go,” he chokes out, voice thick, breath ragged. His hands find yours, fisting them into the sheets, lacing your fingers together, grounding himself in the way you squeeze back. “Fuck, baby, I don’t wanna go—”

But he has to.

And you both know it.

You barely notice when Jungkook shifts, when he maneuvers you onto your side with him, pulling you flush against his chest, his body curving around yours like he’s shielding you from reality itself.

But you do notice the way he rolls his hips against you, slow, deliberate, grinding against your soaked, swollen folds like he’s trying to commit the sensation to memory.

And fuck—

Maybe he is.

“Jungkook—”

His name comes out in a breathy whimper, your head tipping back against his shoulder, your hand scrambling for purchase over the strong muscle of his forearm, his bicep—anything to keep you grounded.

Because his cock—hot, heavy, throbbing—keeps pressing against your entrance, sliding through the slick mess of your arousal, teasing, toying, like he wants to sink in but can’t bring himself to do it yet.

Like he isn’t ready.

“Shh, baby—” His voice is hoarse, thick with something unreadable. His lips press against your bare shoulder, dragging over your skin, his nose brushing along your throat as he breathes you in. “Just let me—”

His mouth trails lower.

And lower.

Until he reaches your chest.

His arm tightens around your waist as he dips his head, lips finding the curve of your breast, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there before his tongue flicks over your nipple.

And you swear—

It’s not even lustful.

It’s worship.

The way his mouth latches around the sensitive bud, the way his hand cups your other breast, kneading, memorizing, the way he hums against you, like he wants to take his time, like he wants to savor every inch of you.

“Jungkook, please—“

He shudders. You feel it against your spine, the way his breath stutters, the way his hips jerk forward, pressing his length right against where you need him.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, voice strained, mouth still pressing kisses over the swell of your chest, over your racing heart. “I know—”

And then he grabs your chin. Tilts your head back—forces you to look at him.

That’s his breaking point.

Because the second your glassy eyes meet his, the second he sees the devastation mirrored in them, the reality of it all crashes into him.

And he crumbles. “Fuck—”

A strangled sob rips from his throat as he buries his face in your neck, pressing impossibly closer, hips stuttering as he finally pushes inside.

And then—

You’re both crying.

Sobbing into each other’s skin, moaning between gasps of breath, holding onto one another like it’s the last time.

Because it is.

Jungkook’s hand slides under your neck, cradling it, supporting your head as he tilts your chin back, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat to him. And then—

He pulls you closer.

Flush against him, like he wants to melt into you, fuse your bodies together until there’s nothing separating you anymore.

“Baby—” His voice is broken, wrecked, his breath hot against your skin as he presses his forehead into the back of your head, lips parting against your damp, heated flesh.

And then—

He opens you up.

His hand skims down, trembling fingers slipping between your thighs, urging them wider, needing to feel more of you, needing to bury himself so deep you’ll still feel him even after he’s gone.

And you let him.

You let him spread you open, let him take you, let him push in harder—

Until he’s slamming his hips against you in deep, desperate thrusts, shaking with the force of it, choking on every ragged breath, every shuddering gasp.

And god—

You’re both crying.

Crying into each other’s mouths, into each other’s skin, tears mixing with sweat as you claw at his arms, at the hand cradling your neck, clinging to him, needing him closer, harder, deeper.

“Jungkook—please—”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore.

To stay? To never stop? To love you forever?

But he does.

And it destroys him.

“I don’t wanna go—” he gasps, voice cracking, hips jerking forward as he buries his face in your neck, body shuddering against yours. “Fuck, baby, I don’t—I can’t—”

You feel his tears hot against your skin, feel the way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go, afraid to leave, and god—

You can’t stop touching him.

Your hands are everywhere—gripping his wrist where it holds your neck, clutching at his forearm, dragging over the sweat-slicked muscle of his thigh, his stomach, memorizing the hard planes of his body the way he’s trying to memorize you.

Because this—

This is all you have left.

Your hands come up—shaking, desperate—gripping his wrists, stopping him from moving.

And then—

You push him.

Jungkook barely has time to catch himself before he’s on his back, chest rising and falling in unsteady gasps as you hover above him, eyes wet, cheeks damp, tears slipping down your chin.

You sniffle, rubbing at them frantically, like if you just wipe them away, maybe this won’t feel so real.

But it is real.

He’s leaving.

And there’s nothing you can do about it.

A broken sob spills from your lips as you lower yourself back down, knees pressing into the mattress, hands trembling as you splay them over his chest—warm, solid, here.

And then—

You nuzzle into his neck.

Curl into him like you’re trying to disappear inside of him, like if you press yourself close enough, maybe you won’t have to let him go.

His hands find your hips, big and steady, guiding you gently—up, down, slow, like he’s trying to lull you, soothe you, even as his own breath shudders with restraint.

“Shh,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple, voice thick, aching.

But you can’t.

You can’t stop crying, can’t stop the way your fingers tangle in his hair, can’t stop the way your lips press to his forehead like you’re trying to imprint the words into him—

“I’ll miss you so much—”

A sharp inhale against your skin.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me—please, please don’t do this—”

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, but it’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough.

You sniffle again, shaking your head, pressing your forehead against his, tears slipping between your lips as you whimper—

“I miss you—”

And Jungkook breaks. Because you say it like he’s already gone.

A strangled noise rips from his throat as his grip on your waist tightens, arms wrapping fully around you, locking you against him as he thrusts up, rolling his hips into yours, trying to chase something he doesn’t know how to hold onto.

“Baby, please—”

His voice cracks, raw, wrecked, and god—

He’s getting harder.

Because he can feel it—the grief, the desperation, the fucking longing—twisting into something unbearable, something that only makes him want you more, love you more, need you more.

“Please don’t say that,” he rasps, burying his face in your shoulder, breath hot, uneven. “I love you so much—so fucking much—”

And then—

He takes over.

Because your pace is faltering, your body trembling from the weight of it all, from the sheer, devastating force of what you’re about to lose.

And Jungkook—

Jungkook can’t let you bear it alone.

But then—

Jungkook pulls you back.

His hands come up—big, warm, trembling—and they cup your face, fingers pressing into the damp skin of your cheeks, thumbs catching stray tears that refuse to stop falling.

You resist.

You don’t want to look at him.

You can’t bear it.

But he won’t let you hide. “Baby—” His voice is a wreck, breathless and broken, and he forces your forehead against his, holds you there, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid you might shatter in his hands.

“I love you,” he murmurs, over and over, lips brushing yours with every shaky exhale. “I love you so fucking much, I’ll be back, I swear I’ll be back—”

And you just shake your head, tears slipping onto his skin, slipping between your lips as you sob.

“But you’ll be gone—”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut.

“You won’t be here—”

His chest is heaving, his entire body shuddering beneath you, his fingers digging into your skin as you whisper, “I’ll miss this. I’ll miss you.”

And then he breaks. “I know,” he chokes, voice cracking, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

And then—

“Just—just let go for me.”

It’s not a command. It’s a plea.

Because it hurts—

It hurts to feel you like this, to hear you like this, to know that he’s about to leave you like this.

So you do. You let go. You both do.

You scream.

It’s not just pleasure.

It’s everything.

It’s grief and desperation and love and loss, and Jungkook takes it all, swallows it down as his own release rips through him, as he gasps into your mouth, as he lets go right alongside you.

And then—

Then he breathes.

He breathes into your mouth like it’s his only supply of air, like he’s trying to fill you with everything he has left to give.

Like if he breathes deep enough—

Maybe he can stay.

——

Jungkook is still moving inside you.

Barely.

Just these tiny, barely-there thrusts, like he’s trying to soothe you, like he’s trying to lull you down from everything, from the wreckage of it all.

Your sobs have quieted.

You’re just breathing now. Blank, staring past his shoulder, into the dark, your body heavy against him.

And Jungkook hates it.

He rubs a hand down your back, slow and steady, pressing you closer, whispering soft things against your temple—your name, baby, I love you, I’ve got you.

And then, gently— “Baby, can you lift yourself?”

You just shake your head. Barely make a sound, just this tiny, broken grunt that he feels more than hears.

And he laughs.

Sniffles, still recovering, his chest still shaking from the mess of it all, but he laughs—just a little, just enough.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, voice thick, and then—

He lifts you.

His cock bends in an uncomfortable way, and he hisses, but it slips out, and he doesn’t care—not about the sting, not about the way you’re leaking onto his stomach, not about anything except the way you nuzzle into his neck like you never want to leave.

And then—

“That was really fucking sad.” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the words cut through the thick, heavy silence, and Jungkook laughs.

Like, actually laughs.

Because, fuck, it really was.

He keeps laughing for a second, shaking his head, still wiping at his face, still recovering, and then—

Then he softens. Then he looks at you, tucking the damp strands of hair away from your face, and says—

“I’m sorry.”

Soft, real.

And then he leans in, kisses your forehead the same way he always does—

The same way that makes your heart ache.

The same way that makes you feel loved.

And you breathe.

You breathe, and you whisper, “I know. I’m sorry for breaking down like that. I don’t know why—”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, firm. “No, you’re not the one who should be sorry right now. It’s me.”

And for a second, you don’t say anything.

You just look at him—his wet lashes, his swollen lips, the raw emotion still lingering in his eyes—

And then—

You press a kiss to his forehead.

Just soft. Just gentle.

And Jungkook freezes. Because you’ve never done that before.

His breath catches, his eyes flicker shut, and when he exhales, it’s shaky, but so, so full of warmth. Jungkook doesn’t say anything at first. He just breathes, coming down from the high of you, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your bare hip, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin.

And then he sees the time.

Shit.

He doesn’t let you notice, though. He forces himself to stay in the moment for a little longer, brushing your hair back, pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he sits up, slipping out of bed.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let him, let him help you into the bathroom, let him be gentle with you. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just wets a washcloth and runs it over your skin, his touch careful, reverent. He presses another kiss to your forehead before handing you a fresh pair of clothes.

“Go eat,” he says. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

You don’t argue, slipping into the kitchen while he gathers himself. When he finally comes out, you’re already halfway through your now cold pancakes, sitting on the counter, swinging your legs absentmindedly.

He watches you for a second, committing it to memory.

Then, finally, he checks the time.

Eight. He’s already late.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Baby, I gotta go.”

You pause mid-bite, your expression dropping just slightly before you school it into something neutral. “Oh,” you say. “Right.”

Jungkook steps between your legs, hands coming up to hold your face. You lean into his touch immediately, and something about it makes his chest ache.

“You’ll be okay,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your cheek.

You know he doesn’t just mean tonight.

You nod, forcing a small smile. “You’ll text me?”

“Of course.”

And then he kisses you, slow and lingering, like he’s trying to make it last. Like he wants you to remember.

You will.

Jungkook lingers in the doorway, looking at you like he doesn’t want to leave. Like he’s willing himself to step out, to break the moment before it breaks him.

“I love you,” he says, voice soft.

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

He presses one last kiss to your forehead, squeezing your waist before finally pulling away.

“Bye, baby,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. “Bye.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut, and you just… stare at it.

You don’t know how long you stay there, sitting on the counter, breakfast forgotten, staring at the empty space where Jungkook just was.

It’s weird.

For the past few months, every single day has had him in it. Whether it was just a text or a call or him physically showing up, he was always there.

And now, in two days, he won’t be.

Your stomach twists, and just as the overwhelming realization starts sinking in—

Your ringtone blares from your bedroom.

You already know who it is before you even check.

You scramble for your phone, pressing it to your ear.

“Hey, bitch, you getting ready?”

You barely have time to answer before your voice wobbles. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“You sound sad,” Nari says suspiciously. “What’s up?”

And then— The floodgates open.

“I don’t want him to go,” you wail, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“Oh—”

“I don’t, Nari! I really, really don’t!”

There’s a shuffle on the other end, like she’s sitting up straighter. “Oh, babe…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I just— We just—” You suck in a breath, chest aching. “It was so much. It was—” You shake your head, unable to find the words. “It wasn’t just sex, it was—God, I don’t even know how to explain it.”

“Like love?” Nari offers gently.

You let out a watery laugh. “Yeah. Like love.”

She sighs, softer this time. “I know.”

“I can’t believe he’s leaving,” you whisper, staring blankly at your reflection in the mirror. Your mascara is already smudged again. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to wake up and not have him here. I don’t want to go back to how it was before—”

“You won’t,” Nari interrupts. “Even if he’s gone for a while, it’s not the same as before. He’s yours now, isn’t he?”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because… is he?

You’ve never said it out loud. Never defined it. But it feels like he is. Right?

“…God, I don’t know anymore,” you groan, rubbing your hands down your face. “I hate him.”

“You don’t,” she says simply.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

You huff, frustrated. “That’s the problem!”

Nari laughs, and despite everything, you find yourself smiling weakly.

A beat of silence. Then, gently, “You’ll be okay, babe. I promise.”

You take a deep breath, trying to believe her. “I’ve had to redo my mascara, like, seven times.”

She groans. “And you’re gonna redo it an eighth if you keep crying. Now hurry up before our boss has another meltdown.”

You sigh, sniffing one last time. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No, I don’t.”

“That’s my girl. Love you, bye.”

You close your eyes. “Love you, bye.”

You hang up, taking another deep breath, shaking off the sadness.

Work. You just have to get through work.

You pick up your mascara again. Round eight.

Nari pulls up to your building, glancing at you with a smug grin. You really didn’t wanna get the bus today, so Nari had kindly offered to take you.

“You look pitiful,” she says.

You groan, throwing your head back against the seat. “I literally just was crying, that’s not my fault.”

“No, it’s Jungkook’s.”

You glare at her. “So are you driving me to work, or what?”

She hums, dragging it out, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of effort.”

“Nari.”

“Maybe if you beg.”

You groan. “Pleaseeee, oh my god, you know you were gonna take me anyway—”

She smirks, finally shifting gears. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

“You’re a demon,” you grumble, crossing your arms as she pulls out.

“Yeah, but you love me.”

Unfortunately.

The drive is short, and Nari makes sure to grab your face before you step out, inspecting you like a concerned mother.

“Okay, you look fine. Let’s go.”

You drag yourself inside, already dreading the day.

The morning is slow, as usual. The diner hums with the same familiar sounds—the coffee machines, the occasional chatter, the soft rustling of newspapers from the old man who sits in the corner every morning without fail.

You’re zoning out, trying to will yourself to get back into your normal routine when your phone vibrates in your pocket.

Jungkook [9:14AM]: are you at work rn? you probably are. just checking in.

You bite your lip, quickly typing back.

You [9:15AM]: yeah, just started. slow morning. where are you now?

It doesn’t take him long to reply.

Jungkook [9:15AM]: im close to my parents house now. kinda excited actually. but i miss you.

Your chest tightens a little.

You [9:16AM]: i miss you too.

You keep texting back and forth for a bit—him telling you about his plans for the day, you filling him in on how your boss has already screamed about a missing bag of coffee beans. It feels normal. Comfortable. Like he’s still here.

And for now, you let yourself enjoy that.

[ivysprophecy]

sharpest tools

warnings: dual POV HAHA so im not saying i know jj or that this is how he thinks or whatever im simply doing it for a change of pace and writing style, wanted to experiment a little so by all means if this isnt your thing pls keep scrolling. mentions of extreme anxiety, mentions of chronic pain meds, over the counter meds

word count: 2299

prev. | next

masterlist

summary: after your fight blows out of proportion both you and jj are left wondering what just happened? and the poor pogues are caught in the crossfires trying to delegate and reunite the two idiots. because neither of them are the sharpest tools in the shed.

jj's pov

"jj... jj wake up," my eyes open enough to see someone crouching in front of me.

why the hell is sarah waking me up?

i move to sit up forgetting i slept in the hammock last night so i swing and struggle for a second before gaining my balance back.

"whats up?"

she hands me a water and some aspirin she snagged from the kitchen, from the looks of it no one else is awake. "just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"i appreciate it sar but im good. i swear," i take a swig of the water before swallowing the pain killers, "theres absolutely nothing wrong," because really i dont know that the fuck is wrong.

"im guessing you dont wanna talk about what happened last night?"

"honest to god sarah im not even sure what happened- that girl kissed me and before i could get her off me y/n swooped in and exploded."

sarah sits criss cross on the grass next to the hammock looking over at me with an odd look on her face.

"so you didnt mean to kiss her?"

"no- sarah i didnt kiss that girl i swear on my life. she was asking me a question about directions and all of a sudden shes got me pinned against the rocks. honest," i hold my hands up in surrender feeling interrogated, "i'd never do that to y/n"

"im not saying you would- its just that we didnt know until last night so... speaking of that. what the fuck was that about?"

everyone has so many questions and honestly i do too, i dont know half of the answers. feels like i wiped out and i cant find the shore.

i just wish she'd talk to me. like im sure if shed just let me get two words in i could reassure her but i dont know what shes thinking right now and its killing me.

i hate it. i hate that i caused this.

but in my defense it kinda feels like she blew it way out of proportion if she had just let me explain this whole thing would be okay.

"i just... i dont know sar- she had all this anxiety about relationships and whatever- i dont really get it but she said she wanted to keep it between the two of us. who was i to tell her no ya know? i just wanna be with her."

sarah just kinda looks at me with wide eyes.

"what?"

"youre like- down bad arent you? youre totally whipped."

"i wouldnt say that-" she interrupts me.

"jj maybanks got a girlfriend... this is headline news," she chuckles making me roll my eyes. i thought we were having a serious conversation, not that i try to have those often but i could use her advice on the subject.

"sarah seriously- what the hell do i do? i barely know what happened last night how am i supposed to fix what i dont know is fucked up?"

"well from the tid bit you told me? sounds like shes massively overthinking and just saw the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it just so happened to fit into her warped little nightmare."

what the fuck did she just say?

"so youre saying this is just all in her head?"

"no- well- kind of... from the sounds of it shes got a lot of anxiety and trust issues. shes probably trying to self sabotage the relationship."

i let out a frustrated sigh, "can you not talk like a therapist for a minute?"

"jj what im saying is you both dont know how to handle the situation. you need to talk to each other, have a real discussion not just scream in each others faces like last night."

"i tried to talk to her! she wouldnt listen!"

sarah lets out a laugh letting her head hang as her body shook from the laughter. pushing some hair out of her face she turns her body to face me more head on.

"jj- it was the heat of the moment and she was scared and upset. of course she wasnt going to listen... now that shes had time to cool off? you might have a better shot."

"but what if she doesnt believe me?" look i dont like admitting that i get a little insecure sometimes, but id rather do that than fuck my relationship with y/n.

because god ive been trying for so long i dont know what im gonna do if i lose her.

i really need to see her. "is she awake?"

"not yet i dont think... why? what are you gonna do?" i stand up running my hands through my untamed hair trying to wake up a little bit.

"im gonna try to make it up to her- make sure shes up by the time i get home. 'kay?"

"home? what the fuck are you talking about jj? where are you going?" sarah stands up as she sees me walking towards my bike. her voice raising so it will carry enough for me to hear.

"dont worry bout it!"

with those final words i take off down the dirt road...

readers pov

ugh. my head is pounding. i need excedrin.

god last night was a horrible combination for my chronic migraines.

i walk into the kitchen and see john b and pope huddled in the corner making shushing noises before turning around to face me.

"there she is!" i shove my hand in john bs face to shut him up.

"its nine am. wheres the medicine cabinet my head is throbbing." poor sweet pope hands me the bottle of pills and a cold water. god bless him. "thank you," i let out a whine as i tilt my head back to take the medicine. "sorry ive got a killer migraine."

"oh-" they exchange glances with one another before pope speaks up in a hushed tone, "go lay down- let the meds work. and drink your water."

i squint at him, seeing how nervous he is. he wants to say something. they both do.

is this headache bearable enough to get this conversation over with? technically yes. should i use it as an excuse to ignore everything? probably not...

"its okay. we can talk. i can tell you want to."

"thank god" jb expresses before pope hits him in the chest, which leads to john b throwing his arms up in defense "what? you said we needed to talk to her!"

"yea but not force her to!"

"guys- cmon its fine. really. i know its a lot so lets just get this over with. yes jj and i had been dating for a month. yes we didnt tell anyone on purpose, i didnt want the pressure. i dont know if he kissed that girl or not but i freaked out and just wanted to be alone. i didnt mean to hurt his feelings but i was obviously upset so i said things i didnt mean. there. happy?"

both the boys look at me with bug eyes, "a month?!" they exclaim together.

"my god- yes. a month. its really not a big deal-"

"yes it is y/n- thats a huge step for you and jj. i thought the whole casual thing would flame out. this is a huge commitment for the both of you," pope reminds me, as if i wasnt aware. i

i was simply trying to down play it to give myself a reason to care less, seems like thats not happening any time soon.

"what are you my doctor?"

"i think what pope is trying to say is... were a little worried about you y/n/n... what happened last night- you kinda flew off the handle."

i whip my head around so fast i get dizzy, grabbing the counter for stability.

"excuse me? i flew off the handle? jj was the one kissing other girls-"

"y/n i think deep down you know thats not true-"

"no- no you dont get to tell me im crazy and then tell me what im thinking- this is my relationship. this is exactly why i didnt wanna tell everyone because i knew youd all stick your noses in it. what happened is between me and jj. no one else."

pope reaches out to steady me seeing me sway a little, "woah- okay maybe we should put a pause in this convo-"

"im fine pope. i just dont see how this is anyones business."

"we're not saying its our business y/n/n, were just worried about you. youre not acting like yourself. you seem anxious, paranoid, you know- just not normal," pope pleaded with me, making me sit on one of the dining chairs.

"right-" john be interjected, "all were trying to point out is we all know jj would never ever put his whatever you wanna call it with you in jeopardy. hes whipped. theres no way he went and kissed another girl."

i see where theyre coming from. i really do. i want to believe it but there are too many things playing in my head that tell me otherwise.

on one hand, i know jj would never hurt me. not on purpose, and to cheat is definitely with a purpose. hes always reassured me that its just me and since we got serious he hasnt given me a reason to doubt him.

but on the other... just seeing her all over him is so hard to forget. it all happened so fast, i dont know how long theyd been kissing for, maybe i got there just as it happened or maybe itd been going on for a while i have no idea. too many factors.

"y/n if you listen to literally anything we say let it be that we know jj loves you," i look up at the curly haired boy whos basically grown to be my brother.

"thats a big word for elmo-"

pope runs a hand over his face with a sigh, "for the love of god be serious for a minute," 'theyre made for each other' he thinks to himself. "just hear him out. please. for some reason he loves you a lot-"

"hey!"

"-and if were speaking freely youre the one whos put all of this at stake because all the rest of know jj didnt kiss that girl. youre the only one who has doubts. so talk to him. please. were begging you."

"... 'we're?' youve all talked about this?"

"of course we have- it all unraveled in front of us what else did you expect? by the way i was supposed to tell you sarah is siked for you- maybe nows not the time," john be stops himself scratching the back of his head.

honestly it gets a giggle out of me.

"okay.. yea. ill talk to him. where is he? is he here?"

pope looks out the window in the front yard, where he can see sarah peeking in before moving out os sight to pretend she wasnt listening in.

"he was here- he slept outside last night. wanted to give you space since you both normally share the couch."

oh... thats- sweet.

fuck. maybe i am screwing all of this up.

"can i come in now??" i hear sarah yell from the other side of the door.

"get in here!" i raise my voice a little testing my headache, which ironically has somehow gotten a little better.

sarah walks through the door. letting out a rather dramatic sigh, "finally. sorry- jj got some big idea and left on his bike a few minutes ago. said to have y'n awake by the time he gets back so... i dont really know what to do now."

john b looks at his wife and i notice... its like how jj looks at me.

fuck.

fuck fuck fuck.

"do you know where he went??" i look at sarah with a begging tone and pleading tone.

she shakes her head "sorry honey bun," she teases with a smile. "but since weve got time... john b, pope, and i will go get some breakfast while we wait for jj to get back. you stay here- give you two some space to work it all out."

"what? no its fine- really you dont have to go..."

sarah walks up to me grabbing me by the shoulder with some stupid fucking grin like shes all knowing, "girl. youre gonna be fine. youll talk, kiss, and make up and be the happiest couple ever. it will be sickening, trust me id know. relax. it will be fine. you and jj will be able to work this out, im sure."

and with that john b grabs the keys to the twinkie heading out the door following wifes orders, with pope following in suit with an apologetic shrug.

sarah gives me a teasing kiss on the forehead, "well be back soon sweetie be safe."

"oh fuck off- bring back bacon and coffee please," she salutes me before walking outside with the boys.

"no one ever said she was the sharpest tool in the shed," john b quips as he steps into the twinkie with a sigh before turning the ignition.

pope hops in the back letting out a small laugh "yea thats for sure."

"neither of them are," sarah rebuts looking over at john b as they all laugh. "theyre both as sharp as a dull spoon"

"what the fuck did you just say?" jb looks over at her with a quizzical look on his face.

"just drive routledge."

[suzukiblu]

Day twenty-one of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” ( no cut today, we die like Steph's tolerance for her dad's bullshit ). prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

He should be taking notes, Tim realizes. This is a new and unprecedented level of supervillain behavior that his fifteen-year plan can only aspire to reach. 

“Asdfghjk,” he says, which is apparently actually an actual sound that an actual person can actually make, go figure. Learn something new every day. 

Kon laughs at him, the fucking bastard. Tim would probably swear vengeance but unfortunately Kon looks way too damn pretty and way too damn happy doing it and is not wearing a single thing he didn't buy him and bought him a camera with his first allowance and wants to see him skateboard and has also laughed so many times tonight that Tim is starting to develop the opposite of a tolerance for it. Like, he's getting weaker and weaker to it the more exposure he gets, which is in his opinion total bullshit and totally unfair but is unfortunately still happening. 

. . . well, not necessarily unfortunately, since it’s specifically happening because Kon keeps laughing and looking happy about it, but that’s besides the point. Somehow. In some way. Just–somehow. 

“You’re so fuckin’ cute, babe,” Kon says, grinning at him again. He keeps doing that too. He keeps laughing, and grinning, and just–just all these things that Tim is not prepared for and honestly doesn’t even know how he could’ve been? There’s having five minutes of prep time and there’s situations that are just impossible to prepare for because how could he have fucking KNOWN. How?! How could he ever have?!?!

Literally not possible, Tim is certain. 

“You’re actually incorrigible,” he says, quickly flipping his dropped board onto its wheels with a foot and then giving it a quick pop to the tail and hooking a foot underneath it to kick it up into his hand. Kon looks delighted, his eyes immediately lighting up. 

“Sick!” he says. Tim felt like maybe he was getting in a win for a second there, except Kon being genuinely delighted is actually even worse and he thinks he’s just, like, kind of screwed in general now? Kon’s not supposed to be genuinely delighted by things, he’s supposed to pretend to be too cool to be impressed or just jealous that someone else is getting attention! 

Tim really, really could not have ever been prepared for this. 

“So like, do you know any cool tricks?” Kon asks with a wider grin, still looking way too genuine about his excitement. Tim is resigned to ruining his best non-funerary/non-gala slacks and possibly also his shirt and definitely also his dignity. His dignity is as scuffed as the shoe he just dropped his board on, and frankly that’s being optimistic. 

Extremely optimistic. 

“I know a couple okay ones,” Tim says, since Robin-level parkour doesn’t count as either “tricks” or anything he could show Kon, and also he’s screamingly out of practice, and also he was never really that good a skateboarder even when he had the time to do it regularly, plus skill decay is a thing and– 

“That mean you’re gonna show me a trick or two, daddy?” Kon asks, grinning slyly at him.

[chimcess]

⮞ Chapter Four: Dark Fury (Part Two) Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 16k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Side Character Death, Violence, Blood, Talks About Past Characters Dying, Trauma, Graphic Injury scenes, Jaded Characters, LIGHT Religious Themes (I mean no harm and do not want to offend anyone), Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, preforming surgery on one's self, Gardening, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: So, because Tumblr makes no sense, I'm having to cut this chapter in half because of a text block issue. So, you'll technically be getting two updates at once (even though it's the same chapter). Yay. I love this flatform so much. Thanks for reading!

prev || masterlist || next

The skies above M6-117 were quiet now. Empty, wide, and harsh. The kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace—just the absence of screaming.

The eclipse had ended. The suns had returned, casting a bleached-blue glare across the scorched landscape. The heat came fast, drying blood, baking bones, erasing evidence. The bioraptors had vanished back underground, like the monsters they were—real, but unseen.

The wind hadn’t stopped. It kicked up grit in steady waves, howling across the dunes and cliffs. Thin, high-pitched. Like something still mourning.

In the shadow of a broken rockslide, part of a cave lay half-buried in sand and debris. Inside, it was cooler. Still. The air stank of blood and dust and something darker.

A body lay on the ground, facedown in the red sand.

It twitched.

Then again.

A low, strangled gasp broke the silence. Y/N Y/L/N dragged in a breath like it hurt. Her fingers clawed at the sand, trying to push herself up, but her muscles didn’t answer right away. She blinked, dust clinging to her lashes, and saw only the ground in front of her face.

Her mind spun. Pain screamed at her from every direction. Her ribs were cracked. Something deep in her gut pulsed with fire. But she was alive.

She wasn’t sure how.

She shifted—and the pain in her side became unbearable. She cried out, a rough, animal sound, sharp enough to echo. Her hand pressed instinctively to the source, only to feel the jagged, cold edge of something unnatural jutting from her body.

It was part of a bioraptor. The broken tip of its antenna—long, thin, sharp—embedded just below her ribs.

She stared at it.

Her breathing turned shallow.

She could feel the warm trickle of blood around it. Too much blood.

Her hands trembled as they hovered near the wound.

“Okay,” she whispered. It didn’t sound like her. “Okay… okay…”

She took a breath. Just one. Then wrapped her fingers around the antenna and yanked.

It came free with a wet pop.

The pain dropped her flat again. She couldn’t even scream—her breath caught in her throat like broken glass. For a second, everything went gray at the edges. She fought to stay conscious. One hand pressed into the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Her other hand dug into the sand, anchoring her.

Move. Just move.

She rolled onto her side, breath ragged. Her fingers found the antenna again and, slowly, shakily, she used it like a crutch to pull herself up.

The suns outside were merciless. Light poured through the cracked stone above, stinging her eyes. She squinted, shielding her face as she staggered toward the cave’s opening. Each step was an argument with gravity. Her legs barely held.

But she made it.

Outside, the wind hit her like a slap. Sand scraped at her skin, got into her wounds. Her jumpsuit was torn, crusted with blood and dust. Her lips were cracked. Her throat burned.

She looked out over the desert.

Nothing but dunes. Heat shimmered off the sand in waves. But in the far distance, barely visible, was the broken spine of the Hunter-Gratzner. Half-buried. Still smoldering.

She stared at it like it was a promise. Or a curse.

Then she started walking.

She leaned hard on the antenna, every step like dragging dead weight. Her breath came in low, steady huffs. No room for panic. No energy for hope.

Her mind kept flashing images—pieces that didn’t fit right. Screaming in the dark. Jungkook’s voice, sharp and close. Leo. Namjoon. The ship rising into the sky without her. Or maybe that was just a dream. Maybe it hadn’t made it off the ground.

She didn’t know.

She walked anyway.

At some point, her knees buckled and she hit the sand hard. She stayed there a while, staring at nothing, waiting for her legs to stop shaking. Then she pushed herself back up.

The wreck was closer now.

It took everything she had left.

When she reached the wreck, her legs gave out. No dramatics—just gravity, and her body finally saying enough. She collapsed at the base of the scorched hull, the heat from the metal pressing into her cheek. For a second, she stayed there, breathing shallow and fast, the air burning in her lungs.

She pressed her face to the ship’s skin like it might recognize her. Might remember what she’d given to get back here.

It didn’t.

She dragged herself through the narrow corridor, her hand leaving a smearing trail of blood across the wall. The inside of the ship was hollowed out, quiet in a way that felt too final. Sunlight leaked through bent panels in thin, golden shafts. Dust floated in the beams. Everything else was still.

She found a corner—small, cramped, out of the sun—and dropped there. Her back hit the wall, and she slid down with a grunt, her body one long, dull scream of nerves. The jumpsuit clung to the wound. She peeled it back slowly, trying not to scream when the fabric tore away dried blood.

The wound was worse than she’d let herself believe. Deep. Angry. Still bleeding. She swallowed hard as she probed it with trembling fingers—and felt it. A shard of something still inside her. Bone? Metal? No. She knew exactly what it was: the antenna. A piece of that thing. Still with her.

She almost laughed. She didn’t.

Instead, she grabbed what was left of her belt and tied off a section of fabric over the wound. It was sloppy. Crude. But it was what she had. Her fingers hovered there a moment, pressing, breathing.

Her head dropped back against the wall, her jaw clenched. Every breath came with a spike of pain. And exhaustion… it was creeping in fast. The kind that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that felt like sleep—but leaned closer to surrender.

Memories came in flickers. Not in order. Not clear.

Darkness, wet and full of teeth. The glowworm bottle shaking in her hand. Screams she didn’t know if she’d imagined or made. The taste of her own blood. The moment the antenna had gone in.

But there’d been something else.

Another one of them—bigger, meaner—crashing into the one that had pinned her. Claws raking flesh, jaws tearing. It hadn’t been mercy. Just hunger. A bigger predator taking down the competition. It didn’t come for her. Not then. Just devoured its own.

She didn’t remember crawling to the cave. Didn’t remember sealing the entrance. Just remembered the sound—their claws dragging across the rock, trying to dig her out. The pressure in her ears. Her own heartbeat louder than everything else.

And then, nothing.

Until now.

She blinked the sweat from her eyes and forced herself to move. The med bay wasn’t far. She didn’t think about what would happen if it had already been stripped. She just moved. Every step was calculated, robotic.

The medical kit was still there. Dusty, kicked halfway under a cabinet, but untouched.

She didn’t let herself feel relieved. Just opened it.

Anesthetic. Forceps. Needle. Thread.

Her hands shook too hard to hold anything steady. The syringe took two tries before she got the plunger back. She jammed the needle into the flesh around the wound. Didn’t flinch. Just exhaled, slow and ragged.

The numbing was partial. That was enough.

She picked up the forceps.

For a long time, she didn’t move. Just stared at the open kit. At her own bloodied fingers. At the wound.

Just get it over with.

The forceps slid in.

The pain was savage. She didn’t scream this time—just clenched her teeth so hard her jaw locked. Her body tried to curl in on itself, but she kept going, deeper, until she felt it.

A click of metal against metal.

She yanked.

It came out slick and sharp, the jagged end of the bioraptor’s antenna glinting red in the dim light.

She dropped it to the floor. Let it roll where it wanted.

She had to rest. Just for a second. Just a second.

But the blood kept coming.

She forced herself upright. Threaded the needle with shaking fingers. She didn’t think. Didn’t let her mind go anywhere but forward.

Each stitch was its own nightmare.

When it was done, she slumped again, panting, her skin cold despite the heat. Her hand rested on the bandage, her eyes tracking the slow drip of blood still escaping.

She tilted her head back. Stared up at the ceiling like it might say something useful.

Nothing came.

No voice. No rescue. No answer.

Just her.

She licked her dry lips, voice cracked and flat.

“…Fuck.”

It had been about a week since she’d dragged herself back to the wreck, bloody, broken, and sure she'd die there. Time didn’t work the same on M6-117. There were no nights anymore—just the relentless weight of heat and light from the planet’s three suns, painting everything in bleached gold and bruised shadow. Days blurred. Pain blurred. All of it became one long stretch of surviving.

The wound in her side was still tender, stitched tight by unsteady hands and whatever thread she could scavenge from a torn flight jacket. Every movement tugged at it—sharp reminders that she wasn’t out of danger, just walking beside it now.

But she was moving. That was something.

Her world had shrunk to a routine. A grim, necessary rhythm of searching for water in fractured pipes, picking through twisted metal for anything she could turn into a tool, a weapon, or fuel. And when she wasn’t scavenging, she was listening—really listening. For breathing that wasn’t hers. For claws. For the scratch of something still out there.

The wreck had gone silent after the eclipse ended. No bioraptors. No screaming. Just the groan of stressed metal and her own footsteps echoing off bulkheads.

She'd made a corner of the cryochamber hers. The cryo unit was done for, split open like an overripe fruit, but the space was small, shielded, and out of the way. She’d insulated the floor with old uniforms and a couple ruined blankets. It stank of old coolant and dried blood, but at least it stayed cool when the heat got bad.

The walls still bore remnants of what the ship used to be—old NOSA placards peeling at the edges, blinking panels that flashed error codes in dying green light, and soot trails streaked across the ceiling from the fire suppression system kicking in too late. It was a grave, really. She lived inside a grave. But it was better than nothing.

That morning, she forced herself to explore farther.

Her muscles ached—worse in the mornings, like her body needed convincing to keep trying. She kept her hand on the wall as she moved through the corridor, half for balance, half to feel something solid beneath her fingers.

She found herself at a section they hadn’t touched much before. Starboard storage, mostly sealed during the worst of it. Back when there were others to consider—people who needed her to be strong, fast, efficient. No time for curiosity. Only priorities: food, light, defense.

Now there was only her. And time. Too much of it.

The first door barely gave under her weight—half-crushed, bent inward like it had tried to fold itself shut during the crash. Y/N pressed her shoulder to it, felt the resistance, then forced it open just enough to slip through.

The metal scraped against itself with a harsh groan. She ducked low, her breath catching as the movement tugged at the stitched wound in her side. She winced but kept going, inching through the narrow gap until she was inside.

The air was dry and stale. Hot. It smelled of scorched plastic and oxidized metal, and when she moved, a thin layer of ash and dust rose around her in lazy swirls. Her hand instinctively covered her mouth as she coughed.

The space was wrecked—storage bay maybe, or a utility room. Hard to tell. The walls were blackened with soot, panels popped loose from their bolts. Most of the crates had been crushed flat or ripped open, their contents spilled and warped from heat. Burned rations. Melted circuitry. Garbage.

She kept digging anyway. You couldn’t afford to pass anything up. Every scrap might mean one more hour alive.

Then her hand brushed something solid. Cold. Square-edged.

She froze. Reached again, slower this time. Whatever it was, it was lodged under a twisted shelf. She gave it a hard yank, and it came loose with a pop of static from the surrounding debris.

A camera.

NOSA-issued. Military-grade. Tough build. Matte black casing scuffed and scratched, the sort of thing meant to survive impact, weather, time. Her fingers curled around it like it might vanish. She turned it over, thumb brushing against the ridged power switch.

The screen blinked on with a low whir, grainy at first, then steadier.

The timestamp burned on the corner of the display: the day of the crash.

Her stomach turned. Not from the wound, not this time.

She stared at the date. Blinked. Her thumb hovered near the playback button.

What could possibly be on here? Footage from the wreck? A log? A view of her, maybe, shouting over the storm, trying to keep people alive, trying to outrun the dark.

Or something worse.

She let the camera rest in her lap. Leaned back against the edge of a crate and rubbed her hand across her face. Her skin felt dry and cracked, caked with dirt and dried sweat. The heat in this part of the wreck was worse. Less airflow. Fewer cracks in the hull.

“Right,” she muttered, looking down at the device. “Like any of this would’ve made a difference.”

The camera didn’t reply. Just sat there, screen glowing, lens aimed up like it was waiting. Like it was listening.

She hated that it almost felt alive. Too many days with only your own voice bouncing off the walls, and you started assigning souls to objects.

Still… the idea didn’t leave her. Not all the way. She could use it. Record something. Not a distress call—she wasn’t dumb enough to believe that kind of miracle was coming. But maybe just to talk. Something to anchor her to herself.

She didn’t press record.

Not yet.

Instead, she set it gently on the edge of a crate and stood, steadying herself with one hand. Her legs ached, and the muscles around her wound were starting to throb. She ignored it. There were more rooms to check. More corners of this grave to dig through.

She climbed through a low break in the wall, into another part of the ship—this one better preserved. Still messy. Still broken. But more intact. Storage crates littered the space, some cracked open, some still sealed.

She knelt beside the nearest pile. Pain flared up her side again, sharp and deep. She sucked in a breath and kept going.

Found food packs—sealed. Clean. Enough for maybe another week, if rationed right. A length of rope. A hand torch. Small wins. The kind that could mean everything.

She carried it all back to the cryo chamber in two trips. Set it down carefully on her makeshift bedding. Let herself breathe.

Her eyes drifted back to the camera.

It hadn’t moved. Of course it hadn’t. But it felt like it was waiting. Still. Quiet. Expecting something.

“Maybe later,” she said, mostly to herself.

But even as she turned away, the idea lingered. Not hope. Not exactly.

Just... the need to remember she was still a person. And that maybe, somewhere down the line, someone would want to know what happened here.

Even if it was only the walls.

The camera sputtered awake with a groan, like it resented the effort. The motor’s whine was sluggish, hesitant—like something half-dead remembering how to breathe. The lens jittered before settling, the flicker reminding her of a dying candle—just barely clinging on. It wasn’t a victory, not even close. But after the fire, the impact, and the soul-crushing silence of the days that followed, the damn thing still worked. She didn’t feel triumphant. If anything, it felt like the universe was mocking her.

She leaned into the frame, face streaked with dirt, sweat gleaming under the camera’s dull red light. Her eyes were hollowed by fatigue, lids heavy like sandbags. Hair plastered to her temples in grimy clumps, tangled and wild, a clear message that survival had long since outranked vanity. She squinted at the screen, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the focus. Her fingers, stiff and awkward, moved like they didn’t remember what finesse was.

“Okay,” she said hoarsely, voice cracked like the desert floor outside. She swallowed and tried again, quieter this time. “Okay…”

The timestamp blinked to life: HUNTER GRATZNER – SOL 19 – 06:53. She stared at the numbers, let them sit there, heavy as lead. Nineteen sols. Almost three weeks since the crash. Almost three weeks since everything splintered apart. Somehow it felt like forever and yesterday at the same time.

She leaned back, dragging a hand across her brow and only smearing more dirt across it. “This is… Y/N Y/L/N. Pilot.” Her tone was flat, too drained to bother with formality. She could’ve been filling out a form, not recording what might be her last words. “Logging this… just in case.”

Her voice trailed off into the heat-thick air. The only sound was the low whir of the camera. Then, suddenly, a bitter laugh escaped her—sharp, involuntary. “Just in case I don’t make it.”

Her eyes drifted toward the cramped walls of the survival shelter. They looked closer than before, like they were shrinking inward. She blinked hard, tried to focus. But her thoughts had a way of slipping off-course these days. She blamed the heat. She blamed the silence.

The first week after the crash was a mess of pain and blackout stretches. That damned bone had punctured her side—jagged and deep—and pulling it out nearly knocked her out cold. She’d spent two full days sprawled across the remains of the cockpit, bleeding into the floor, half-conscious and half-delirious. Every movement felt like a death sentence. The bleeding slowed eventually, and she’d tied together enough scraps of uniform to hold herself together.

By day three, she’d clawed her way to what was left of the storage compartments and scavenged a crude medkit. Nothing sterile, nothing proper, but enough to keep the infection at bay. Enough to survive.

Since then, survival had been a matter of cataloging and rationing. What was left? What still worked? Most of the ship was scrap—gutted, burned, twisted beyond recognition—but there were pockets of salvage. A stash of dehydrated meal packs. Some intact water lines, though who knew how long they’d hold. The pressure unit was holding, barely. The oxygen regulator had hairline fractures she hadn’t figured out how to seal yet. Time was running out. Breath by breath.

And the heat. Gods, the heat. The planet didn’t cool. Ever. With three suns in staggered orbit, there was no real night, just a dimming. A pause. She wasn’t sticking around for the next sunset—not when that was a couple of decades away. The constant pressure of it was maddening. Sweat pooled beneath her clothes, dried in salty crusts. Finding a tube of half-used sunscreen in one of the cabins had felt like discovering gold. She'd applied it like it was sacred, smoothing it over her arms and face with a reverence she didn’t even know she had left. For a few moments, she’d felt like a person again.

Now, she stared into the camera, her voice quieter. “Probably won’t make it,” she said, almost like she was sharing a secret with herself. “Not unless I can fix the ship… or find something better.”

Her gaze hardened, locking onto the lens like it was someone to talk to. “It’s oh-six-fifty-three, Sol nineteen. And I’m still here.” She let the words hang, heavy and strange. “Obviously.” It was meant to be sarcasm, but it landed like an empty shell.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her body folding in on itself. “I bet this’ll come as a shock. To NOSA. To… whoever’s watching. Surprise, I guess.” She exhaled slowly, one corner of her mouth twitching in what might have been a smile if there’d been any humor left in her.

“They think I’m dead. All of them. Honestly? So did I.”

Her hand curled into a fist, knuckles pale. Then she held something up—a jagged, bloodstained piece of bone. It caught the light like something sacred and awful. “This tore through me,” she said, eyes locked on it. “Ripped me open like tissue paper. I thought I was done.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I should’ve been done.”

She turned the bone slowly in her hand, studying it like it might tell her something. “But it saved me. Long enough for the bleeding to stop. Long enough to crawl somewhere safe.” She paused, jaw tightening. “Three days. Three godsdamn days. Hiding in a fucking cave. Praying those bioraptors wouldn’t sniff me out.”

She looked toward the viewport, her eyes following the jagged line of the horizon. Nothing but dust and rock and heat as far as she could see—like the planet had been built just to wear people down. No signs of life. No movement. Just stillness and that same bone-dry silence that stretched forever. A place that didn’t give a damn if you lived or died.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Jungkook…”

She paused, swallowing around something thick in her throat. It took effort to keep her voice steady. “If you ever hear this… just know it wasn’t your fault. None of it was. Shit just went sideways.” Her jaw tensed. “You did what you had to. I get it.”

She let the silence sit for a second, then added, softer, “If I’d been in your shoes… I would’ve done the same.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and her whole body seemed to cave in on itself, like the weight of everything finally settled on her shoulders. “I’m glad you made it,” she said quietly. “All of you.”

The quiet that followed was thick and suffocating. After a moment, she let out a sharp breath and dragged a hand down her face, like she could wipe off the fatigue. “So yeah,” she muttered, the edge in her voice dulled by exhaustion. “That’s where we’re at.”

She straightened up a little, like it was some kind of formality. “Y/N Y/L/N. Stranded on planet M6-117.” Her eyes scanned the room, as if it still surprised her that this cramped little pod was all she had left. “No comms, because—” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Well, the ship’s a fireball now. So, there’s that.”

Her hand swept vaguely around the tiny habitat. It trembled a little as she gestured. “Even if I could send a signal, the closest manned mission isn’t anywhere near this quadrant. Not for years. Maybe decades. And I’ve got thirty-one days’ worth of supplies. That’s my clock.”

She took a breath, slower this time. “If the oxygenator dies, that’s it. No backup. I just… stop breathing. If the water reclaimer fails, dehydration’s next. If there’s a breach and this place heats up?” She shook her head slightly. “I’ll cook before I even know what hit me.”

Her voice cracked, barely holding together. “And if none of that happens... I still run out of food.”

Her eyes lingered on the camera lens, but they were distant now, like she wasn’t really seeing it. Like she was already somewhere else in her mind, farther away than the stars.

After a long beat, she reached for the console. Her fingers hovered for a second—then pressed the button.

The screen flickered off, and the silence rushed back in like a wave.

Y/N sat on the makeshift bunk she’d pieced together, her back pressed against the icy metal wall. The chill seeped through her jumpsuit, a sharp contrast to the constant, oppressive heat of M6-117. Her stitches pulled faintly with every shift of her weight, a dull, nagging reminder of how fragile her body had become. Heavy lifting? Out of the question. Even breathing too hard felt like it might tear her apart. Every motion had to be slow, deliberate, calculated—none of which came naturally to her.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the wall in an uneven rhythm, the faint sound filling the silence around her. The days had started to blur together, stretching endlessly into a haze of pain and exhaustion. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. She had no way to tell how long she’d been sitting there, staring at the opposite wall and letting her thoughts wander like loose debris floating in zero gravity.

The ship was a wreck. It had been from the moment it slammed into the desert, but with every passing day, it seemed to decay further. Panels hung precariously from the ceiling, some blackened and melted from electrical fires. Wires dangled like severed vines, swaying faintly every time she moved or the ship groaned in the wind. Dust—or maybe ash—coated the cracks in the floor, a constant reminder of the violence that had brought her here.

The smell was the worst: a mix of burnt plastic, old sweat, and something metallic that she couldn’t quite place. It clung to her skin, her clothes, the walls. There was no escaping it.

She shifted slightly, wincing as her stitches tugged again. Her fingers fell still, resting limply in her lap, as her thoughts drifted to the others. She hoped they were safe now, wherever they were, but the not knowing gnawed at her.

Jungkook’s face appeared unbidden in her mind, sharp and vivid as though he were standing in front of her. His eyes came first—those strange, unnerving, beautiful eyes. They were like polished silver, catching the light in ways that didn’t seem possible. They’d always made her feel a little unsteady, like he could see through her, into the parts she tried to keep hidden.

Where was he now? Safe on some station, no doubt, his cocky smirk driving everyone around him crazy. The thought made her stomach twist, a mixture of relief and something else she didn’t want to name.

And yet, her mind refused to let him go. She remembered his laugh, low and rough around the edges, and the way his shoulders always seemed too broad for whatever cramped space they were stuck in. She thought about the time he’d leaned close to her after she went back for Captain’s log, blood dried to her knuckles, and licked the blood off her hand like it was nothing.

The memory hit her like a jolt, and she flinched, physically recoiling from the thought. What the hell was wrong with her? Thinking about him like that, here, now, when she didn’t even know if she’d survive the week?

Her jaw tightened, and she shook her head, forcing the memory down into the depths of her mind where it belonged. Jungkook was gone. Namjoon and Leo were gone. And she was here, alone, on a planet no one cared about, clinging to life in the ruins of what used to be a ship.

She ran a hand over her face, exhaling shakily. Forcing her mind away from Jungkook, she thought about Namjoon and Leo instead. Namjoon, steady and calm even when the world was crumbling around them. He’d been the one to keep everyone together after the crash, the one who made everything seem so miniscule in the grand scheme of things. Who hoped and prayed to a God that she openly mocked. Well, look where that got her.

She hoped he’d found some semblance of peace, though she doubted he’d ever let himself rest.

And Leo—sweet, quiet Leo, who’d seemed so afraid and brave all at the same time and had a laugh that could light up a room. She could still hear her humming softly to herself as she worked, could still see the way her hands moved with the boomerang that she’d grown fond of during the short stay here. She deserved safety. She deserved a future.

Y/N could only imagine what the girl faced on these ships that made her pretend to be a boy.

Y/N knew because she had her own stories to tell. It was a shame the two of them never got to bond. She was a good girl, a sweet girl, and needed a home like Jimin had. 

Oh God, Jim… He must think I’m dead.

Her chest ached with the weight of it all. She wanted to believe they’d made it, that the escape shuttle had gotten them somewhere safe. But hope was a dangerous thing out here.

Her gaze drifted to the cracks in the floor again, her fingers tapping absently against her knee. The silence pressed in around her, heavy and suffocating, as her thoughts spiraled in slow, relentless circles.

She wanted to move. To do something—anything—to break the stillness. But her body rebelled against her, reminding her with every ache and throb that she wasn’t ready yet.

"Tomorrow," she muttered, her voice hoarse and thin in the empty room. "Tomorrow, I'll start again."

But tonight, she would sit in her makeshift bunk, staring at the scorched walls, and try not to think about the eyes she couldn’t forget or the faces she might never see again.

The horizon had that strange, muted glow again, the kind that came when only one of the planet’s three suns was awake. It wasn’t exactly dawn—not in the way she remembered it from Helion 5—but it was the closest thing this godforsaken rock could offer. Y/N sat on a flat patch of charred metal outside the remains of the Hunter Gratzner, watching the pale orange light crawl across the jagged landscape. She knew the second sun would start peeking over the horizon soon, and if her mental clock was still reliable, that meant it was about six or seven in the morning back home.

When the third sun joined the party, it’d feel more like late afternoon, and the heat would grow even more unbearable. For now, the air was heavy but tolerable. A small mercy. She stretched her legs out in front of her, boots scuffed and battered, and stared out at the endless expanse of sand and rock. Nothing moved out there, not even a whisper of wind. This planet didn’t do “gentle.” It just existed, glaring down at her with its triple suns, daring her to survive another day.

She sighed and got to her feet, wincing as her muscles protested. The Hunter Gratzner was more like a wreckage with a roof than a proper ship these days, but it was home—for now. She ducked through the hatch and into the cramped quarters, the smell of metal and stale air greeting her like an old, annoying friend.

Her first stop was the toilet. Not glamorous, but necessary. The vacuum system roared to life, sucking the waste away and beginning its overly complicated drying procedure. Y/N stood there, half-listening to the machine whine and hum, her mind wandering. When it finished, she glanced back at the result—a silver bag sealed tight like a little alien gift.

She tilted her head, studying it. An idea started to form, half-baked and ridiculous, but the beginnings of something useful. “Huh,” she muttered under her breath, filing it away for later.

The rest of the morning was dedicated to inventory. Again. It wasn’t exciting, but it was important. She crouched next to the ration packs she’d pulled from the wreckage over the last few days, stacking them into neat, slightly obsessive piles. Most of it was unremarkable—protein bricks, nutrient paste, the kind of stuff that made eating feel more like a chore than a comfort. But one case caught her eye.

“DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SOLVARA,” the label read in bold, almost cheerful letters.

Solvara. Y/N snorted. The odds of her making it to Solvara felt about as likely as the suns setting on this planet anytime soon. Still, she tapped the edge of the case thoughtfully before moving on. Maybe it was worth saving. For morale or whatever.

The hours blurred after that. She worked on autopilot, sorting through supplies, patching what she could, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her stomach. By the time the second sun was high enough to heat the air into its usual suffocating blanket, she found herself sitting in the semi-darkness of the ship, surrounded by stacks of rations and scattered tools. She stared at the walls, at the faint flicker of the broken console, at nothing in particular.

It was the kind of stillness that didn’t feel restful—just hollow. Her thoughts circled back to the same questions, the same numbers. How long could she last? How much water did she really have? What if the pressure machine gave out tomorrow? Or the oxygen pack? There were too many variables, and the math was starting to feel like an enemy she couldn’t outsmart.

Y/N shook her head, forcing herself to sit up straighter. Enough. She needed to do something, anything, to stop the spiral. “Get up,” she muttered to herself. Her voice was rough, dry from dehydration and disuse. “Come on. Move.”

She pushed herself to her feet, scanning the room with purpose now. Her fingers trailed over the scattered wreckage, pausing every so often as she searched for... something. There. Tucked into the corner of a storage compartment. A pencil. It was small and unassuming, the kind of thing that would’ve been forgettable on any other day.

But not today.

She yanked a notecard free from one of the ship’s dusty manuals, the paper slightly yellowed but intact. Back to basics. No screens, no touchpads, no malfunctioning tech—just pencil and paper, like it was the old days.

Y/N sat down at the tiny table bolted to the floor and started writing. The pencil scratched across the card, leaving behind numbers and symbols, equations that didn’t look like much but felt monumental in her mind. Water consumption rates. Oxygen usage. Repair estimates. She wrote it all down, no matter how grim the answers looked.

“Let’s do the math,” she whispered, her voice steady this time. She kept writing.

The camera was rolling again, its tiny red light blinking steadily as Y/N adjusted its angle. She leaned into the frame, her face slightly less tragic than it had been in previous recordings. She’d cleaned up—sort of. The layers of grime and sweat were still there, and her hair, while still tangled, no longer clung to her forehead like a second skin. She looked more human. Barely.

She exhaled slowly, straightened her back, and looked directly at the camera lens. “After arriving in New Mecca,” she began, her voice steady but edged with dry sarcasm, “my crew was only supposed to be awake for thirty-one days before going back into cryosleep. For redundancy, NOSA sent enough food to last for sixty-eight days. For three people.”

She paused, letting the weight of the numbers settle in her mind—and maybe for whoever might watch this someday. “So for just me, that’s three hundred days. Four hundred if I get creative.” Her lips twisted into a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which means I still have to figure out how to grow food. Here. On a planet where nothing grows.”

Reaching for one of the mission briefs, she held it close to the lens. The bold, official lettering across the top read Co-Pilot, but just above it, in her own handwriting, the word “Botanist” had been scrawled in jagged letters. She tapped the scratched-out title with a finger. “Luckily, I’m the co-pilot for a reason,” she added with mock cheer. “God, I’m so glad I studied botany.”

Her voice turned deadpan, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “M6-117 will come to fear my botany powers.” She let the silence hang for a moment before cutting the feed.

The camera’s perspective shifted as Y/N carried it outside, the glare of the twin suns washing the screen in a harsh, blinding white before the auto-filter finally kicked in. Slowly, the barren world beyond the wreckage came into focus. Jagged red sands stretched endlessly in every direction, the dunes rippling like frozen waves. It was beautiful, in a way, but beauty couldn’t hide its cruelty. The planet was desolate, a hostile wasteland that mocked her with its emptiness.

Her boots crunched against the sand as she trudged forward, every step a deliberate effort. The sharp tug of her stitches with each movement was a constant reminder of her limitations, a small but insistent pain that kept her grounded in the reality of her fragile survival.

Tucked securely under her arm was a stack of sealed silver bags, their reflective surfaces gleaming in the oppressive sunlight. Compost material. Every single one of them. It wasn’t glamorous or pleasant, but it was necessary. She’d scrounged every bit of organic waste she could find over the past weeks, hoarding it like treasure. If her plan had even a sliver of hope, she would need it all.

Her destination loomed ahead: the Hab. It wasn’t much to look at—a mismatched structure cobbled together from the remains of the ship. Panels that once carried vital systems now served as patchwork walls. Observation deck glass had been repurposed into crude, dusty windows. Dented cryochamber lids insulated the roof. The entire thing leaned slightly to one side, as though daring the wind to knock it down.

But it wouldn’t. Y/N had made sure of that.

It had taken her weeks of slow, painstaking effort to build the Hab, every minute a struggle against her aching body and the unforgiving heat. Every bolt she’d fastened and panel she’d secured had been an act of stubborn defiance. It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t have to be.

As she stared at the Hab, she couldn't help but remember Koah Nguyen, her old crew mate. She still saw his face in her mind, the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about engineering, his hands always moving in that precise, methodical rhythm. Koah had been the pilot of the Starfire, and an engineer to boot. He’d been a walking encyclopedia of mechanics, someone who could fix anything—from starship engines to the tiny gadgets that never seemed to work quite right on the ship.

When she first met him, Y/N had been a little intimidated by how effortlessly Koah could repair everything. She’d been content to stay in her co-pilot role, figuring her job was keeping the ship flying while he handled the nuts and bolts of it. But Koah had a different idea. “You’re gonna need to know this stuff if you're gonna make it,” he’d told her one night, flashing her that crooked grin of his as he set down a welding torch. “A ship doesn’t fly itself, you know?”

The two of them had spent hours together, over the course of many trips, with Koah showing her the basics of engineering. He’d taught her how to patch a hull, how to recalibrate a plasma vent, how to wire a circuit when it wasn’t quite cooperating. At first, it was just another thing to tick off her list, but soon she found herself enjoying it. The rhythmic process of taking something broken and making it whole had its own kind of satisfaction. Sometimes, after long days of flying, they’d meet up outside of work and work on one of Koah’s welding projects. It wasn’t just about fixing things anymore. It was about creating something, about making beautiful things out of metal scraps and old, discarded parts.

Koah was an artist with metal. He’d often bring out pieces he was working on—small sculptures made of twisted pieces of scrap metal, intricate shapes that, at first glance, seemed like chaotic messes but came together in unexpected ways. Y/N had always admired his ability to see art in something that most people would throw away. They’d spend evenings together in his workshop—sometimes laughing, sometimes in complete silence as they both focused on their projects. He always made her feel like she was part of something bigger than just the ship and the mission.

If she had stayed on the Starfire, she wouldn’t be here now.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered like a stubborn fog. He would’ve found it hilarious, Y/N thought, glancing back at the Hab. She could almost hear his voice teasing her now, the lighthearted tone he’d use when he saw her struggling with the wiring or the metalwork. “Not bad for a botanist,” he’d say, giving her a sarcastic wink, “but you still can’t hold a candle to my welds.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She could practically see him there, grinning, as he passed her a welder’s mask. They’d work on metal together until the stars outside began to dim, the quiet hum of the ship their only company.

Now, the Hab stood as a testament to everything Koah had taught her, and she hated to admit it, but it was comforting in a way. Each metal panel she’d carefully cut and welded into place, each beam she’d reinforced, each crooked corner—was a small victory. She could hear his voice now, an echo in her mind: “You’ve got this, Y/N. Just one piece at a time.”

And she had done it, one painful piece at a time. She had taken scraps and forged something functional from the wreckage, just as Koah would have.

It wasn’t pretty, but it didn’t have to be. The Hab was a survival mechanism, built from the remnants of her past crew, from the skills Koah had shared with her. He’d never have imagined that she’d be here alone, making a home out of the wreckage of her ship, but Y/N could almost hear his voice in her ear: "You always did make the best of things."

Inside, the air offered little relief. The temperature was only marginally cooler, but it was enough to keep her moving. She placed the silver bags onto a counter made from a scavenged section of the hull, then walked to the water reclaimer in the corner. It hummed faintly as it dispensed lukewarm water into a container. Not fresh. Not clean. But drinkable.

She carried the container back to her makeshift kitchen station, where a rudimentary compost bin waited for its next grim addition. The bin was a patchwork creation, much like the Hab itself, built from leftover crates and reinforced with scraps of metal. Its lid hung open, waiting expectantly.

Y/N set the container down and stared at the silver bags. Her stomach twisted in anticipation of what came next. “Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than anything. “You can do this. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

Her fingers hesitated on the seal of the first bag, but she forced herself to tear it open.

The smell hit her instantly—a wave of rot and decay so pungent it felt like a physical blow. She gagged, stumbling back a step, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she choked out, her voice muffled behind her palm. “What have I done?”

The answer was obvious, but there was no turning back. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a deep breath of what passed for fresh air, and tore open another bag. The stench deepened, an unholy mix of decomposition and an odor she couldn’t identify but knew she’d never forget. She dumped the contents of each bag into the bin, one after another, her hands trembling as she worked.

By the time she finished, her stomach churned, her mouth dry. She leaned heavily on the counter, gasping for air that didn’t reek of death. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand, determined not to lose her nerve. The compost bin was full now, its contents a nauseating slurry of organic matter that sloshed slightly as she moved.

She stared at it, her nose wrinkled and her expression grim. This mess—this putrid, rancid soup—was supposed to be the start of her plan. Her first step in growing food on a planet that had never known life.

She let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over her face. “M6-117 will definitely fear my botany powers,” she muttered, her tone dry, almost bitter. She glanced at the camera perched on the counter, its red light still blinking. “Don’t laugh,” she added, pointing at it as though it could respond.

Turning back to the bin, she grabbed a stirring rod and braced herself for the next unpleasant step.

The dirt was dry. Too dry. Each grain of sand seemed to mock her, unyielding, as if the planet itself had conspired to make her struggle just a little bit harder. Y/N scooped it into the container with a small shovel she’d salvaged from the wreckage. Her movements were slow, deliberate, each scoop a reminder of the reality she couldn’t escape. The relentless heat pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating any energy she might have had. She’d been at this for hours, maybe days—it was impossible to tell anymore. The days had blurred together into an endless cycle of exhaustion and tiny victories, and she could no longer tell when one bled into the next.

With each scoop, the shovel hit the ground with a faint clink, like a tiny rebellion against the barren land. It wasn’t much—just a handful of dry dirt, nothing more—but it was all she had to work with. She winced as her wrist twinged from the impact, shaking it out before continuing, her fingers raw from the constant effort. She couldn’t afford to stop. Not yet. Not when she was so close.

The walk back to the Hunter Gratzner was short, but the container felt heavier with each step, its weight dragging at her arms. By the time she reached the airlock, her muscles were burning, her joints screaming in protest. She muttered something under her breath—probably a curse, probably aimed at the planet itself—and trudged through the airlock, her face set in grim determination.

Inside the Hab, she placed the container down in the corner she’d cleared a few days ago. The dirt spilled out in a dry cascade, joining the small pile she’d started. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It had to grow. She needed it to.

Time continued to pass in a blur, but by the time Sol 25 rolled around, the pile of dirt had grown considerably. Y/N stood in the doorway, arms full of another container, her face a mix of exhaustion and determination. The pile of dirt looked almost ridiculous in the center of her Hab, a mountain of Hexundecian soil in the middle of a place that was meant to be her shelter. But it didn’t matter. Ridiculous was better than dead. She wasn’t going to let herself fail.

On Sol 28, the plan began to take shape. Y/N spread the dirt across the Hab’s floor, smoothing it out with her hands, the reddish dust caking beneath her nails as her fingers worked through the dirt. It was tedious work, but it was necessary. The heat made everything feel like it was happening in slow motion, each movement taking more energy than it should. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, not even pausing to think about the pain in her body. Her stitches tugged uncomfortably, but she ignored it. There was no time to slow down.

As she spread the dirt, her gaze flicked toward the compost bin in the corner. The smell that radiated from it had only gotten worse in the past few days, growing stronger and more unbearable. She glared at it for a long moment, nose wrinkling. She had to deal with it. She had no other choice.

“Okay,” she muttered, steeling herself. “Let’s do this.”

Taking a deep breath, she opened the compost bin. The smell hit her immediately—sharp, rancid, and overwhelming. She gagged, instinctively covering her nose with her arm, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every step she took, every task she completed, was part of the bigger plan. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the bin and began dumping its contents over the dirt. The mixture of decaying organic matter sloshed out in a wet mess, and her stomach churned. It smelled worse than she’d imagined, like something was rotting inside of her, and her throat burned. She stumbled back, gasping for air, but forced herself to move forward. She couldn’t afford to stop now.

“Oh God,” she wheezed, stumbling back a step. “That’s... that’s horrible.”

But she kept going. She opened bag after bag, each one worse than the last, the smell making her gag and her vision swim. She couldn’t even tell if the foul stench was from the bags or the sour taste in her mouth. When she finally finished, she stood there, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. The pile was an ugly, soupy mess now, but it was a necessary evil. The dirt and compost would have to be the foundation for something greater. She wasn’t sure what that would be yet, but she had to try.

By Sol 31, the Hab had transformed. It wasn’t just the floor anymore; the dirt had spread across every available surface. The countertops were covered, the bunks cleared away and replaced with layers of soil. Even the table was buried beneath a thick layer of dirt. The Hab looked like a mad scientist’s lab, chaotic and strange, but there was no other way. She had to make it work.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, a knife in hand, carefully cutting into a pile of potatoes. She sliced them into neat quarters, making sure each piece had at least two eyes. The process was slow, meticulous, but it was soothing in its own way. It gave her focus, something to ground her mind as her thoughts often spiraled. She placed the potato quarters into neat rows in the soil, pressing them gently into the dirt. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t much. But it was a start. It was the first step in building something that could sustain her.

As she worked, her hand brushed against something small and metallic in the corner of one of the bunks. Curious, she reached down and picked it up. A data stick. She squinted at it, turning it over in her fingers. “Huh,” she muttered to herself. She hadn’t seen one of these in ages.

Plugging it into the computer, she leaned back in the chair, fingers crossed as the contents loaded. A list of files appeared on the screen, and she clicked on the first one. The screen flickered to life, and a cheesy title card filled the frame. It was Star Trek. She couldn’t help but laugh. Of course it was. Shields had loved this show. He’d talk about it for hours during quiet moments in between shifts—rambling on about warp drives and the Prime Directive like they were the truth, his excitement contagious. Y/N had rolled her eyes at the time, dismissing it as childish, a distraction from the mission. But now, as she sat there in the silence of her broken Hab, the sight of the show made her smile.

“Of course,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It was strange, the little things that could make her smile now. She hadn’t known how much she’d miss these trivialities, these small bits of normalcy.

But then it hit her. The smile faded as the reality settled in. Shields would never watch this show again. He was gone, just like Captain Marshall, just like the rest of the crew. The weight of that truth hit her harder than the barren landscape outside. She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she pushed the thought away. There was no room for grief now. She had no time for it.

Instead, she leaned forward, determined, as if making a silent promise to herself.

“Star Trek it is then,” she said quietly, her voice just above a whisper. She would make it her new favorite show. And in doing so, she would keep a piece of them alive.

"The problem is water," Y/N muttered to herself, her voice barely more than a whisper. It came out thin, brittle, like the very air she was dragging into her lungs. It wasn’t the first time she’d voiced this frustration, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. There was always something, wasn’t there? Water. Food. Air. The constant gnawing feeling that the planet itself was conspiring against her, as if Hades resented her every step. Today, though, it was water. That was the issue that was eating away at her with the most urgency.

Her eyes narrowed as she adjusted the straps of her gear, the weight of the shotgun pressing against her chest. The weapon felt reassuring against her ribs with every step—solid, reliable. A reminder that she wasn’t entirely defenseless out here, not yet. It wasn’t much in the face of an unforgiving world, but it was something. She needed to keep moving, keep thinking. Focus. She had to focus.

The walk to the settlement was long—longer than it used to be—and the terrain was uneven, with cracks and ridges that slowed her pace. The air was thick with dust, the ground coated with a fine layer of reddish sand that clung to her boots like an ever-present reminder of the planet’s hostility. Every step left a trail, as if the planet itself wanted to track her every movement. The twin suns hung overhead, relentless, their heat pressing down on her, baking everything in sight. The light was harsh, unforgiving, and it made the shadows look sharper, more dangerous, more alive.

She tried not to think about the cracks in the stone, or what might be lurking within them—whether some predator was watching her from afar, or something worse was silently biding its time. The thought gnawed at her, but she pushed it back. There was nothing to be done for it, not right now.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, steady but strained. Her body was moving almost automatically now, one foot in front of the other, the path she’d been following for what felt like forever etched into her muscle memory. Her stitches tugged at her side with every step, but the discomfort was dull compared to the burning ache in her chest, the weight of the abandonment still heavy there.

When the settlement came into view, Y/N couldn’t help but pause. The place looked even worse than she remembered. It had once been a bustling outpost, a last chance for survival, but now it was a graveyard—metal skeletons, shattered hopes, rusting away under the relentless assault of the Martian elements. There was nothing left here, nothing but the bones of a failed dream. This was the place where Jungkook, Leo, and Namjoon had found the skiff that they used to escape. The same skiff they’d used to leave her behind. She could almost picture them, as if they were still here—Jungkook’s quiet determination, Leo’s nervous energy, Namjoon’s steady faith in something greater than themselves.

They had thought she was dead. Y/N couldn’t blame them for leaving. Not really. The wound she’d sustained—it had been deep, jagged, the kind of wound that should have finished her off. But somehow, she’d survived. She’d dragged herself back from the edge of death, stitched herself back together with the same stubbornness that kept her walking every day. She remembered Jungkook’s face as they left, that final glance filled with hesitation, confusion, guilt. He’d thought she was gone. And for a moment, she almost had been.

Shaking her head, Y/N forced herself to focus. She didn’t have the luxury of self-pity here. Not anymore. Not with survival on the line.

The settlement was eerily silent as she approached, the kind of silence that pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. The only sounds were the faint crunch of her boots against the dirt and the soft hum of the wind that stirred the dust in lazy eddies. Her shotgun felt heavier in her hands now, the weight comforting as she scanned the area. Every instinct in her screamed at her to stay alert. The place had been abandoned for weeks, but that didn’t mean it was safe. This planet had a way of surprising you when you let your guard down.

Y/N moved carefully through the wreckage, her eyes flicking over the scattered debris, looking for anything useful. The first thing she found was a set of blueprints, the faded paper curled and torn but still legible enough to be useful. They had to be. She rolled them up tightly, tucking them into her bag. Something else caught her attention—small, solar-powered gadgets, scattered haphazardly across a broken table. They probably wouldn’t do much, but they could come in handy later, and right now, she couldn’t afford to leave anything behind.

Her fingers brushed over the eclipse dial next. The metal was cold beneath her gloves, smooth and unyielding. She paused for a moment, her heart skipping a beat as memories of that suffocating darkness washed over her—an endless void that had pressed down on her, stealing her breath, her sanity. She hated that dial. It wasn’t just a tool; it was a reminder of that terrible night when everything had gone wrong. A symbol of how close she had come to losing it all. But sentiment didn’t have a place here, not anymore. With a resigned exhale, she grabbed the dial, shoving the memories to the back of her mind.

The next stop was where the skiff had been, the spot where it had been hastily abandoned in the wake of their escape. The sand around the area was still disturbed, the evidence of their flight still visible in the shifting dunes. Y/N scanned the ground, her eyes sharp, looking for anything they might have left behind. She needed anything that could help her survive—anything at all.

Her gaze landed on something distant, something that caught the light in a way that made her heart skip. She moved toward it, her boots crunching softly against the sand, her shotgun still at the ready, even though she knew the chances of something hostile were slim.

It was another sandcat—or rather, what was left of one. The vehicle’s frame was bent and crumpled, its front half caved in like it had been struck by something massive. It wasn’t going anywhere, not in this lifetime. But Y/N didn’t care about that. Her eyes swept over the wreckage, and then—there it was. Beneath the undercarriage of the sandcat, barely visible from where she stood, something caught her eye.

A Hydrazine tank.

Her breath caught in her throat. She knew exactly what this meant. It wasn’t much, not yet, but it was something. Something that could be useful. She crouched down, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. The heat from the suns was relentless, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The connections on the tank looked fragile, delicate. This wasn’t a job for brute strength. No, she needed patience, steady hands—things she didn’t exactly have in abundance right now.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself, trying to steady her breathing. “One thing at a time.”

Her fingers were trembling as she reached for the first connector, the metal cool against her skin. She took a slow breath, steadying herself before loosening the first piece, then the second. It wasn’t easy. The tank was heavier than she’d expected, the connections stubborn. Every movement felt like it took more energy than she had. But she kept going. She had to.

With a final grunt of effort, she managed to free the tank from the wreckage, setting it down carefully beside her. She sat back on her heels, breathing hard, the effort of the task still making her pulse race. For a long moment, she just stared at the tank. Her mind raced with the possibilities. It wasn’t the solution to her water problem—not yet.

“I’ve created one hundred and twenty-six square meters of soil,” Y/N said into the camera, her voice steady despite the rivulets of sweat dripping down her temple and disappearing into the grime streaked across her face. Dirt clung stubbornly to her skin, and her hair stuck to her neck in damp, wild tangles. She wasn’t trying to look triumphant—it wasn’t like there was anyone left to see her—but there was a flicker of pride in her voice anyway. “But each cubic meter needs forty liters of water to be farmable. So, I gotta make a lot of water.”

She paused, leaning forward slightly. The faintest twitch of a smile ghosted over her lips, but it didn’t last long. “Fortunately, I know the recipe. Take hydrogen. Add oxygen. Burn.” She held the word, let it hang in the air, her tone dipping into something darker. “Unfortunately… burn.”

Her breath escaped in a long sigh as she leaned back in the chair, turning her head to glance at the chaos behind her. The Hab looked less like a living space and more like the aftermath of an explosion in a junkyard. Piles of salvaged parts cluttered every available surface, jumbled together with tools, wiring, and half-built contraptions. At the center of it all, sitting smugly on her workbench like a prize, was the Hydrazine tank she’d dragged from the wreckage of the sandcat. It gleamed under the weak artificial light, a reminder of just how thin the line was between salvation and annihilation.

“I have hundreds of liters of unused Hydrazine,” she continued, gesturing toward the tank. “If I run the Hydrazine over an iridium catalyst, it’ll separate into N2 and H2…” Her voice trailed off as she stood, picking up the camera and swinging it toward her workbench. “Science time.”

The next few hours were a blur of sweat, ingenuity, and no small amount of duct tape. She started with the basics, piecing together a crude laboratory using whatever she could scavenge. Torn trash bags became the walls of a makeshift tent draped over her workbench, their edges secured with layers of tape. It wasn’t pretty, and it sagged in the middle, but it would do the job—or so she hoped.

“Not bad,” she muttered, stepping back to inspect her work. Her hands were already filthy, her gloves doing little to protect her from the grime that seemed to coat everything in the Hab.

Next, she turned her attention to ventilation. She’d torn an air hose from an old EVA suit earlier, the edges still jagged from where she’d ripped it free in a fit of frustration. Now, she taped it to the top of her makeshift tent, securing it to the ceiling to act as a chimney. “That’ll do,” she murmured under her breath, wiping her brow with her sleeve.

The room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the oxygen tank as she vented it. She leaned in close, sparking the gas with a few frayed wires from a battery pack. The flame that leapt to life was small but bright, and Y/N couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. “Whoosh,” she whispered, as if narrating the moment for an audience that wasn’t there.

The next step was more delicate. She adjusted her goggles, the scratched lenses fogging slightly as she exhaled. Her hands hovered over the Hydrazine tank, careful and deliberate as she started the flow. The liquid sizzled the moment it hit the iridium catalyst, disappearing in a flash of vapor that shot up the chimney. Her eyes followed the plume, watching as small bursts of flame sputtered out the other end.

“It’s working,” she whispered, her grin widening. Her gaze flicked to the instruments she’d rigged up—a mix of actual equipment and salvaged scraps—monitoring the temperature and flow rate with hawk-like focus. She repeated the process again and again, each cycle of vaporized Hydrazine bringing her one step closer to the water she so desperately needed.

By the time she sat down in front of the camera again, her muscles ached, and her hair clung to her face in damp, sweaty strands. The chaos of her makeshift lab spread out around her like a disaster zone. She wiped her goggles clean with the edge of her shirt, leaving a streak of dirt in their place. “Then I just need to direct the hydrogen into a small area and burn it,” she said, leaning slightly toward the lens. “Luckily, in the history of humanity, nothing bad has ever happened from lighting hydrogen on fire.”

She stared at the camera for a long moment, her expression blank but faintly amused. Then she blinked, shrugged, and continued. “Believe it or not, the real challenge has been finding something that will hold a flame. New Oslo hates fire because of the whole ‘fire makes everyone die in space’ thing. So, everything we brought with us is flame retardant. With one notable exception…” She reached off-camera and pulled a pack into view, unzipping it with practiced ease. “Namjoon Kim’s personal items.”

Her grin turned sharp as she pulled out a small wooden cross, holding it up to the camera and turning it over in her fingers. “Sorry, Mr. Kim,” she said, her tone mock-apologetic. “If you didn’t want me to go through your stuff, you shouldn’t have left me for dead on a desolate planet.”

She reached for the knife strapped to her belt and began shaving thin curls of wood off the cross, each stroke precise and steady. The sound of the blade against the wood filled the room, a rhythmic counterpoint to the hum of the equipment around her. “I figure God won’t mind,” she added, glancing up at the camera with a raised eyebrow. “Considering the situation.”

The knife moved slowly but deliberately, the pile of shavings growing with every careful pass. Y/N’s hands never wavered, her focus razor-sharp. This was survival, messy and dangerous and imperfect. And she’d take it over nothing every time.

Y/N was still at it, even though every muscle in her body begged her to stop. Her arms felt like lead, her shoulders stiff from hours hunched over her workbench. The air in the Hab was thick and stale, clinging to her skin along with the sweat and grime that had become her constant companions. Time blurred here—had it been hours? Days? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care to check. Survival was the only clock that mattered, and it kept ticking, whether she kept up with it or not.

She swiped her forearm across her forehead, smearing a dark streak of grease across her temple. Her hair clung to her damp skin, strands sticking out at odd angles where the heat and her helmet had flattened them earlier. Her lips were dry, cracked from dehydration, and her throat burned with each shallow breath, but none of that mattered. Not yet. Not until this worked.

The steps were second nature by now, her hands moving with the kind of automatic precision that came from repetition rather than confidence. Vent the oxygen. Ignite the torch. Burn the hydrogen. She murmured each step under her breath like a mantra, her voice thin and raspy, barely audible over the quiet hum of the equipment.

Her eyes flicked to the atmospheric analyzer. The numbers blinked back at her, steady and impersonal. She frowned, leaning in closer. Was that reading… higher than usual? It was a tiny discrepancy, just enough to tickle the edges of her exhaustion-fogged mind. She should have stopped. She should have double-checked the setup, recalculated the variables. But she didn’t. The weight of her own fatigue pressed the thought down until it slipped away entirely. It was fine. It had to be fine.

She struck the torch.

The explosion was immediate, a roar of heat and light that sucked the air out of the room. For a single, terrifying moment, Y/N was weightless, her body thrown backward as the force of the blast ripped through the Hab. She slammed into the wall hard, the impact jarring every bone in her body.

Her ears rang with the deafening aftermath, the sharp, high-pitched whine drowning out everything else. She lay crumpled on the floor, her chest heaving as she struggled to pull in air. Her lungs felt tight, her ribs screaming in protest with each shallow inhale. Her head spun, a dull ache blooming at the base of her skull where it had struck the floor.

For a moment, she stayed there, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unfocused eyes. Her brain scrambled to piece together what had just happened, but the only coherent thought she could muster was: I’m alive. Somehow.

She pushed herself upright slowly, her arms trembling with the effort. Every inch of her body ached, and her skin prickled uncomfortably where the heat of the blast had singed her clothes. The edges of her sleeves were blackened, threads curling like burnt paper. Her hair, already a tangled disaster, now sported uneven patches that smelled faintly of burnt keratin.

She groaned, a hoarse, broken sound, and crawled toward the camera, which, miraculously, had stayed intact. It blinked at her like a curious bystander, untouched by the chaos surrounding it.

Y/N collapsed in front of the lens, sitting back heavily against the wall. For a long moment, she said nothing, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then, finally, she looked up, meeting the camera’s unblinking gaze.

“So,” she began, her voice scratchy and uneven, “yes. I blew myself up.”

Her lips quirked into a weak smile, the expression more wry than amused. She gestured vaguely toward the wreckage behind her. “Best guess? I forgot to account for the excess oxygen I’ve been exhaling when I did my calculations. Because I’m stupid.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before she forced them open again. The ringing in her ears hadn’t stopped, but she was getting used to it now, the noise settling into the background like white noise.

“Interesting side note,” she said, her tone conversational, almost detached. “This is how the Jet Propulsion Laboratory was founded. Five guys at Strikeforce Academy were trying to make rocket fuel and nearly burned down their dorm. Rather than expel them, General… East? I want to say East? Anyway, he banished them to Aguerra Prime and told them to keep working.”

She waved a hand lazily, the movement more a suggestion than an actual gesture. “And now we have a space program. See? I pay attention.”

Her gaze drifted back to the camera, her expression softening into something more resigned. “I’m gonna get back to work. As soon as my ears stop ringing.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she stayed where she was, her legs sprawled out in front of her and her shoulders slumped against the wall. The Hab was eerily quiet now, the earlier chaos replaced by a strange, heavy stillness. Smoke hung faintly in the air, curling upward in lazy spirals, and the faint smell of singed metal lingered in her nose.

Y/N let her head fall forward, staring at the ground with unfocused eyes. For a while, she just sat there, her body too tired to move, her mind too drained to think. She wasn’t done—not even close—but for now, she let herself rest.

Y/N was back at it. Her movements were steady, almost methodical now, but there was still a hint of tension in the way her shoulders hunched and her jaw tightened. She checked her math for the fifth time, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the table. The numbers were good. The O₂ levels were where they needed to be. Everything was in place.

She glanced at the camera, raising an eyebrow as if daring it to witness her fail. Then, with a small, humorless smile, she crossed her fingers. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath, wincing as she lit the torch.

Nothing exploded. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Phew.” The Hydrazine started to vent, the faint hiss of the gas escaping into the controlled environment a comforting sound. Controlled chaos—her specialty now.

Hours later, she stepped back from the table, her body aching but her mind alight with hope. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, smearing sweat and grime into the creases of her skin. Her hands were clammy, slick with sweat that hadn’t been there earlier. Something caught her eye, and she turned toward the walls.

Condensation. Tiny beads of water dotted the smooth surfaces, glinting faintly in the artificial light. She reached out, tracing a droplet with her fingertip, watching as it slid down the wall. It felt surreal, like a rainforest trapped inside the sterile walls of her Hab. She blinked, then turned toward the water reclaimer.

Her hands trembled as she lifted the lid from the tank. It was full. Not just damp, not just a few measly drops, but filled with water. Her breath caught, and then, finally, she smiled. A real, honest-to-God grin that lit up her tired face. She let out a shaky laugh, the sound breaking the heavy quiet of the room.

Over the next few weeks, time became a blur of movement and repetition. Days stretched endlessly under the triple suns of M6-117, each one bleeding into the next as Y/N worked tirelessly. The sun wouldn’t set again for another twenty-five years, not on this planet, but she’d already lived through its terrifying darkness once. She didn’t need a reminder of what the eclipse brought. For now, the constant daylight was her ally, even if the heat and pressure made every task harder.

Inside the Hab, every surface was a testament to her persistence. Soil covered the floors, tables, bunks—anywhere she could make room. Her equipment, rigged together with salvaged parts and duct tape, gave the place a chaotic, mad-scientist vibe. The atmosphere was a strange mix of desperation and ingenuity, every corner filled with evidence of her determination to survive.

Her days followed a relentless cycle. She vented Hydrazine, checked the readouts on her makeshift lab, and collected water from the reclaimer. She spread the precious liquid over the soil, making sure each patch got just enough to stay damp. She ate quickly, barely tasting the nutrient-dense food bricks she rationed so carefully. Then she went back to work.

She slept when her body forced her to, collapsing onto her makeshift bed in the corner of the Hab. Her dreams were restless, filled with flashes of her crew, the skiff disappearing into the sky, the dark shapes that had hunted them during the eclipse. But when she woke, she put the ghosts aside and pulled on her patched-up spacesuit. The air on M6-117 was technically breathable, but the higher pressure and lower oxygen levels made every task feel like running uphill. With the suit, she could work faster, longer, without the constant ache in her chest.

She hauled more dirt inside, her arms burning with effort as she carried the heavy containers. She vented Hydrazine again. She ate, she slept, and she worked.

Days sped by, a blur of movement and monotony, but Y/N never stopped. The pile of soil in the corner grew larger, spreading across the Hab like a living thing. Her hands were constantly dirty now, the dark grime of the soil embedded under her nails, a permanent part of her.

In the quiet moments, when the work slowed, her gaze would drift toward one particular patch of soil in the corner. It was smaller than the rest, a deliberate experiment within the larger chaos. She’d spent extra time on that spot, watering it carefully, checking the light, running her fingers through the dirt like she was coaxing it to life.

And then, one day, it happened.

The first sign was small. A tiny green sprout, barely breaking the surface, its fragile stem trembling as if unsure of its place in the world. Y/N froze when she saw it, her breath catching in her throat. She crouched down and all she could do was stare at her miracle.

[deadhands69]

Hitching a Ride would you like fries with that?

Tomura Shigaraki x Reader 

Dabi/Touya Todoroki x Reader

[separately]

Choose your own adventure with Shig//Dabi routes. This chapter has shorter optional sections and an extra shared part to scroll to at the end. 

prev ◁ this is part 2 ▷ next [series masterlist]

As you crack your eyes, the golden light breaks through the horizon. In your bleary vision, you notice that the driver has changed. You can hear Spinner’s gentle snores a seat back while Twice is behind the wheel. He hums along to the radio while his navigator, Toga, is still passed out. Her arms wrapped around a giant bag of gummy bears. 

You don't recall waking up when they switched, but you decide quickly that Twice is a better driver. The van rolls smoothly over the neverending stretch of road you can see above the dashboard. 

It feels like a dream. 

Tomura Shigaraki ᝰ⛐ 

Your head is still on Shigaraki’s shoulder, his face glowing in the light as you clutch the sleeve of his sweatshirt. You don’t recall cuddling up to him, but it would appear that your sleeping body had its own agenda. Not that you mind, he’s pretty and the warmth of his body is a nice change from your usual mornings. He begins to stir so you slowly extricate yourself from his arm. 

For the first time since climbing into this van, you have a chance to really look at him. He's beautiful. The morning glow illuminating his features. 

A bump in the road jolts everyone awake. 

Groggily, Shigaraki opens his eyes. “What time is it?”

“7:48,” Twice answers, “and we’re about fifteen minutes out from our next gas station stop.”

“Cool,” he mumbles, leaning back into the window.

Pulling into the parking lot, he perks up again. 

“Everyone remember the rules? If you see a wanted sign or yourself on the news-”

“Leave,” the group grumbles. 

“And if you’re going to steal anything-”

“Do it quickly,” Toga finishes, “yeah, yeah. We’ve been over this.”

“You have five minutes,” he reiterates. 

The group piles out quickly, spreading in every direction. You're a bit slower, grabbing your bag before you make your way towards the restroom to wash your face and clean up a bit. 

A man bumps into you. Instinctively you yank your bag away, jumping more than necessary in the process. 

Shigaraki glances at the lumpy cash-filled sack before looking at you knowingly. No one has explicitly asked about it and you appreciate that. Even if you know you look like a stereotypical bank robber in an old movie. 

[scroll to continue the story] 

Dabi/Touya Todoroki ᝰ⛐

Your head rests on Dabi's chest, one of his arms slung casually around your shoulders. You feel the warmth of his body against yours, it's comforting in a way you haven't experienced in a while. You remember him falling asleep before you, hands folded in his lap. He must have moved in his sleep, you both did. In any case, you definitely don't mind. 

A bump in the road jostles you all, making him jump in his seat. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbles, moving his arm. 

“No, it's totally okay,” you respond. More than okay. 

The two of you sit quietly, looking out the window but with occasional glances at each other. It's nice, you decide, having someone to pay attention to. Having someone paying attention to you. 

In almost no time, the van rolls into a gas station parking lot. 

The group grumbles their way through some ground rules, but you're hardly listening. You've been to a gas station before. 

Packing up your only belongings, the giant bag of stolen money at your feet, you climb out of the van quickly as the doors open. 

A man bumps into you on his way out the door, making you jump back and wrap your arms around your bag. 

“A little overprotective of that, huh?”

You instinctively pull the lumpy sack a closer at the mention of it but he makes no moves to press further. Instead, he just rolls his beautiful eyes. 

“Come on,” he begins walking towards the back of the store, “Shigaraki will be pissed if we drag our feet in here.”

⛙ Continued ⛙

While in the bathroom, you transfer some of the money to your pocket. For the first time, actually seeing the contents of the bag. Some combination of excitement, shock, and terrifying protectiveness overwhelms you. You've never seen, let alone been in possession of, that much money in your life. And, so far, you got away with it. A pang of anxiety shoots through you. 

Trying to tuck the feeling away, you splash some cold water on your face. Pull yourself together, it's fine. 

Rushing out the door, you grab a toothbrush, get something to eat and drink, then head outside to meet up with everyone else. 

Dabi is smoking by road; Spinner is filling the gas tank. Only Magne has returned to her seat. Even Shigaraki broke his five minute rule, filling a less expensive soft drink cup with coffee. 

You watch as Twice and Toga debate over candy flavors before shoving them all in their pockets. Compress is nowhere to be found. 

Eventually, everyone is wrangled comes back together and the van moves on. 

The day flies by quickly. 

“I'm hungry,” whines Toga from the passenger seat, “I've eaten nothing but gummy bears for three days now!”

“And who's fault is that?” asks Dabi, “you should have stolen more than candy when we stopped earlier.”

She's not the only one though, none of you have had “real” food for a while and you're starting to feel it. 

A few minutes later, you see a fast food drive thru sign in the distance and offer to pay. It's the least you can do for the ride. 

“Welcome ta Fat Gums, can I take your order,” a grouchy voice rings out through the speaker. It's more of a command than an ask. 

Toga picks half the dessert menu and a small order of fries. 

Both Dabi and Shigaraki barely order anything, even if you know they have to be starving. 

Halfway through ordering, you hear a loud scream coming from the building. 

The voice on the speaker groans then continues like it's nothing.

“Pull up ta the next window!” without turning the headset off, he continues, “has no one started the fries? Do I have to do everything around here?”

When the van rolls around the building, the window opens and a cloud of black smoke billows out. You hand the money to a muscular arm you can only barely make out as the air clears. 

“Soy Sauce!” yells the angry one who you now assume is shift manager. 

“I'm on break,” a voice answers. 

“Not now you aren't! You're on grill,” he yells, still not realizing the microphone is on, “Dunce Face electrocuted himself again.”

“Again?? How? I thought we made that harder to lick?” 

Through the window you watch a different cloud of smoke follow the dark haired boy you know as ‘Soy Sauce’ as the bathroom door opens. In a booth nearby, a very dazed blonde is drooling on himself.

The food is still burning. 

“Um, is he okay?” you ask. 

“Oh, yeah,” the red haired boy handing you change responds, a little too cheerfully. “Don't worry, this happens all the time.”

Through the hazy air, you notice a girl with pink hair dancing around the kitchen. She seems to be tasked with filling the soft drink cups; they're overflowing.

It takes a solid fifteen minutes for your food to come out, the boy stationed at the register awkwardly attempting to make conversation with what he assumes is a very unconventional church group. There's an air of discomfort around everyone involved, disrupted only by the sporadic yells coming from in the building. Finally, four large bags of food make their way into your hands. 

“I'm really sorry about them,” he says with an awkward smile before whispering, “we threw some extra fries in there. On the house.”

You thank him and the van lurches back onto the road. Food is dispersed and you all dig in, quickly realizing it's the worst fast food you've ever had in your life. Half of it's burnt, the other half is frozen. 

Only the fries are edible. 

Hours later, you're all beginning to crash. Spinner has been driving half the day and he's becoming delirious. Twice is too tired to switch back again. 

“We'll pull off somewhere and sleep in here, there's not enough money to spend it on hotels.” Shigaraki reminds the group. Once more, you chime in, happy to help. 

It takes nearly an hour to find a motel who's ‘no vacancy’ sign hasn't been lit up for the night. You snag the last four rooms which, assuming they all have two beds, should be the perfect amount of space to accommodate the group. 

The lobby is run down and a bit grungy. The carpet could use a good deep cleaning and there's a prevalent mustiness that you can't quite place. Still, you know it'll be the most comfortable any of you have been in a long time. 

You pay in cash. Key cards are issued and dispensed. Even in the haze of drowsiness, everyone's autopilot gets them through. 

People instinctively pair up. Toga and Magne. Twice and Spinner. You look around the lobby and everyone's already picked a roommate for the night. 

Well, almost everyone.

next part - series masterlist - bnha masterlist

[jadeoru]

SMUDGED LIPSTICK

07: silent treatment -> prev / mlist / next

now playing: tightrope - movements 🎶

Awkward. Everything about this was awkward. You were sitting on the floor beside the bed, your back pressed against the bed frame. You haven’t looked at him once. He sat on the bed beside you, sitting cross-legged on the edge of it.  He was shamelessly staring at you; yet you refused to even acknowledge his existence. He silently admired your features, watching as you typed away on your phone. After taking a quick peek at your screen, he deducted that you were writing song lyrics. His eyebrows raised up briefly, face filled with amusement. Selfishly, he was glad to be here during your writing process. He thought to himself that maybe if this song gets finished, you might decide to release it to the world. And maybe, if that were to happen, you might add this song to future setlists; perform it for thousands to see. Then, maybe, just maybe, as the words you typed out right here beside him left your lips, maybe you would think of him; you would remember this moment. He shoved his ‘maybe’s’ aside, and watched your face scrunch up in concentration. As he watched you structure each verse carefully, only one thought crossed his mind:

Holy shit, you’re beautiful.

He’s glad you haven’t told him off for staring yet because god, he missed your face. He missed hearing your voice, even if your words were fueled by hatred; disgust. You made even the most incoherent of ramblings sound like poetry. His eyes scanned your face, putting every inch of your skin to memory, almost in fear that he would never get the chance to see it again. His heart panged at the thought of never seeing these expressions of yours again - how your tongue darted across your bottom lip. You shifted around on the floor. He knew you were incredibly uncomfortable down there, but your spite and pettiness outweighed any discomfort you felt. He fidgeted with his phone, trying to look like he was doing something, anything. He tried to act as if he wasn’t as desperate as he really was.

He failed.

Clearing his throat, he spoke up. “So are y-” “no.” ouch. You shut him down immediately, not even bothering to hear him out. He deserved it, he thought to himself. He would try again regardless. He would keep trying to get a word that wasn’t ‘no’ or ‘shut up’ out of you, no matter how annoying he got. But after the sixth time, it was evident to him that this would be a lot harder than it seemed. He was ashamed of how pathetic he was towards you, but the thought of giving up hasn’t crossed his mind once. If you didn’t want to speak physically, maybe there were other ways to get a conversation out of you.

He turned his phone on, and quickly added you to his contacts, before beginning to type.

extra:

BOKUAKA IS REAL!!!

sakusa feels SO pathetic but he always feels that way when it comes to you

you somehow always leave him speechless

but that doesn't mean anything!!!! he just misses your friendship!! thats all!!! totally!!

i wonder what the song yn was writing is about 🤔🤔

noya and hinata are having the equivalent of a 6 year old girls sleepover

like theyre giggling and talking about boys n shit

7 chapters in and they still hate each other.... oops...

its okay guys we're getting to the good part i promise

good things are coming!!!

kinda!

TAGLIST: @gojoed @itsdragonius @sleepy-writer84 @anianurst @yuminako @wolffmaiden @tenjikusstuff4 @juie13 @ilyless @arachnoia @choizzn @3lectraheart @diorzs @le000xxgrd @aboveasphodel @petrus1989 @aria-in-wonderland @sugarrhiccupp @bbybibi @walllflowerrrsss @wave2mia @loveelylacey @marimisses @alpha-mommy69

reply to this or send me an ask to be added to the taglist ! ^__^

[its-luna-noel]

bondage | gojo x reader

Satoru very clearly told you what the rules were. It’s your own fault you didn’t listen.

warnings: 18+, MDNI, f!reader, smut, bondage, soft dom!gojo x brat!reader, praise

word count: 1.1k

part 2/31 prev. chapter | next chapter

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hope you enjoy!

Satoru very clearly told you what the rules were. It’s your own fault you didn’t listen.

You’re currently whining and pouting as he handcuffs your wrists over your head, fighting him half-heartedly. You know that once his mind is set on a punishment, all you’ll do is make it worse for yourself if you try to get away.

Satoru just chuckles, kissing along your neck and shoulders as he holds you in place for a moment longer. “I told you no touching,” he says again. “And you didn’t listen.”

You know. You know, you know, you know. But how are you supposed to resist touching that perfect hair, when his head is between your thighs and he’s doing everything just right?

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks rhetorically as he continues to kiss lower, his lips and tongue traveling across your chest and stomach. “You can’t just listen for once; you always have to be a brat.

You want to respond, to say that you didn’t want to misbehave, that the rules were just totally unfair, but before you can he’s back at your cunt, and you lose all the fight left in you.

Satoru grins up at you, his tongue already working sinfully against your folds, picking up where he left off. He’s already drowning in you, your wetness all over his chin, his lips. But he continues his reverent work, picking up right where he left off.

You’re writhing, body arched against the bed with your hands linked above your head, pushing your chest out even more. Satoru takes advantage of this, leaning up to grab a handful of one breast and squeeze. All the while his tongue continues its loving assault on you, bringing you as far to the edge as he can.

And then he brings you over, and he locks his arms around your hips to keep you from running, his own arms a form of restraint as your arms tug against the cuffs.

Your body tries to buck against his hold as you ride out your orgasm, but he doesn’t let you go. His tongue continues to lap at you long after you’ve come back down, your body slumping into the mattress once more. Only then does he pull back, wiping his chin on your inner thigh before leaving kisses to the sensitive skin.

Your breathing has yet to even back out. “O-Okay, now… now you can free me right?”

He grins up at you wolfishly and gently bites your thigh. “Not a chance, pretty girl.”

So you start your whining again.

As Satoru raises himself from your hips, he rolls his eyes at your pouting. He watches you for a while, but when you start tugging on the handcuffs enough to strain your limbs, his eyes flash. He grabs your jaw, grip firm but not painful. His thumb gently ghosts over your jawline, providing just enough reassurance in the dominant move. “Good girls don’t hurt themselves while tied up. If you hurt yourself on those cuffs, you’re going to be punished.”

So you stop pulling. But you don’t stop complaining.

“Satoru I wanna touch you!”

“Beg for it like a good girl,” is his only response, repeated over and over again.

And you grumble at that, refusing to do what he says, wanting to find a way to deny him exactly what he wants. But he just grabs your hips and positions you where he needs you, and then he lays you out and pushes himself inside you, and your will starts to shatter.

Satoru laughs into the crook of your neck, breath puffing against your bare skin as he starts to slowly drag his hips back and forth, fucking you slow and deep. “Yeah, that shut you up, huh? You damn brat.”

You just moan helplessly, head tilted back against the pillows, hands still clasped together above your head. “Oh, Satoru…”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Satoru, I…” Your body arches off the bed again. “I wanna touch you….”

“Beg me for it. Convince me to let you up.” His hips start knocking against yours, faster and harder, holding you firmly in place as he moves.

You whine again, but then you feel him stroking you from the inside, just barely brushing your g-spot. There’s nothing you can do to stop it now. “I need to touch you, Satoru, please. Please let me. I wanna touch you, to make you feel good. Please let me.”

“There you go.” His voice is light and encouraging as he leans over, his hips going still inside you as he reaches for the handcuffs. You groan quietly at the sensation. “Such a good girl.”

The handcuffs unclasp and he puts them to the side before turning his gaze to you. He takes your wrists in his hands, checking for any redness or pain. When he finds none, he lifts one hand to his lips, kissing gently. He repeats the action on the other wrist, then brings your hands down so your palms are pressed against the planes of his chest. He holds your hands there for a moment before letting you go, allowing you to touch him as you like. As your fingers trace his muscles, he starts up his movements again, lifting your thighs and hitching them to his hips as he thrusts into you.

Your hands roam like you’re making up for lost time. You touch his chest, his belly, his hips. Then your hands slide up his arms, gripping his muscles for a moment before stroking up his shoulders, his neck, to his face. You cradle his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss, tasting him as your fingers finally settle into his hair, tugging oh so gently on the white locks. He groans softly into your mouth, continuing his steady rhythm as he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs. “You know what good girls get, don’t you?”

You nod breathlessly. A reward.

His lips brush your cheek gently. “What do you want, pretty girl?”

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes sparkling up at him. “I wanna– tie you up,” you say as he continues to pump into you.

He laughs, too, dropping his head and shaking it a little before looking back at you. He’s smiling. “You’ll have to be really, really good to earn that, pretty girl.” He leans in, eyes mischievous. “But yeah, one day I’ll give you that reward.”

And so you take that as a promise.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next

[soombee]

ଳ⋆｡˚𖦹 caught in the current of you — 01 , fish facts & a lil chemistry

warnings ! none

wordcount ; 573 / 0.5k words

‘thoughts’ -> “out loud”

7:30 am — chemistry

you didn’t expect to be particularly THIS nervous to present in today’s class, but then, your fine shyt, leehan, steps up to the front of the room and, all of a sudden, all your worries faded away just from the sight of his face

your heart beats raises, beating out of your chest as you remember last night’s venture through his twitter feed. he’s looking as fine as ever — in front of you, wearing a grey sweater with his tousled hair. he’s so effortlessly handsome.

‘thank god i decided to sit infront.’ you think to yourself, feeling blood flush your face

i mean, sure he’s in your chem lab, but you’re pretty sure he’s never really noticed you beyond the few shared glances when you’re stationed nearby each other and it’s killing you. but right now, standing at the front of the classroom, leehan looks so different — focused frown and tired eyes, presumably from the night before, trying to memorize the material he researched. he chose to present on the chemistry of ocean ecosystems and, judging by the look in his eyes, you can just tell that this isn’t just a topic to him

leehan starts to babble, giving the class a basic breakdown of marine life chemistry, but within seconds, he’s diving deeper, animatedly describing the ocean’s ecosystem as if it’s a living, breathing puzzle he’s trying to solve. his hands gestures excitedly when he talks about the bonds between organisms and how they rely on each other to thrive in the depths of the ocean. there’s something captivating in the way he speaks — like he’s not just presenting but inviting the whole class into his world. and slowly, you find yourself leaning forward, totally hooked, oh, on the presentation too i guess!

“and then there’s the corydoras catfish,” he says, smiling a little as he describes its contribution to the ocean system, “they’re very social fish so they’re barely alone!” the whole class might just hear a random fact, but you catch something else; a glimpse of leehan’s dedication to understanding even the smallest details about marine life, making your attraction towards him grow deeper

“i’m such a fool for u..” you confess under your breath, perchance wanting him to know how you felt about him

he dives into a ramble about coral reefs, the chemistry of their growth, and how they’re as fragile as they are beautiful. his face lights up with every word, not even glancing at his notes. it’s clear his passion isn’t just shallow—his dedication being your newfound obsession

by the time he wraps up, you’re practically just staring at him; not even in a “focused” way, you were ogling at him. this wasn’t just a class presentation; it was like getting to peek into a hidden part of his mind, one filled with excitement for something he loves. you can’t help but smile a little bigger, heart pounding in a way you didn’t see coming—even if he was fine shyt

for a brief second, leehan glances your way, as if noticing you’re there—you quickly drop your gaze, hoping he doesn’t catch the blush creeping onto your face

‘this is crazy,’ you think, ‘who tf falls for someone because of a lecture on fish!?’ but as soon as he sits down, you steal another glance, you’re definitely in too deep

“okay next up!” stupid chem professor distracting you from admiring fine shyt. 🫤

if u dont get the pineapple reference click here 🍍🍍🍍

prev | m.list | next

taglist (open) ! @saintriots @yourmyst4r @sftsohee @httpenhoon @alisonyus

[arthur-lesters-tits]

to the bazaar! Good luck Franny and I'll attack anyone who hurts her 🤺🤺

we'll see what we can trade those items for, thank you! I found some coins and a weird looking dagger..maybe we should keep that to ourselves. We need a new bag, this one won't be able to carry forever so we'll see how much we can trade down there.

though as we near the bazaar i can't help but feel a little worried, the closer we get the more people seem to stare. I'm worried they'll know we're not from here and refuse to trade but then again, there are all kinds of people so maybe I'm over thinking

day 41 in the dreamlands

as i mentioned, @arthur-lesters-ribcage , last night francessca and i set out to rob the house of some kid that bullied her.

when we got to the house (just an average bungalow) it was covered in a big tent, we crawled under it and lucky for us all the windows were open! we scared off the pest control with the duck tape, the way they screamed... it was like the sound fried all the nerves in their body.

once inside though, we found every room was drenched in fog, making it difficult to see or even think. as we walked around, there was no sign of the goat and their thousand young. we could hear them moving in every direction, upstairs, under the floorboards, in the walls. the rooms were dark, who knows if they were watching us from the corners?

i don't know if it was just the fog or the fumes playing tricks but the house's layout was... weird. winding hallways with no doors, stairs that led up to walls, and the whole structure seemed to form a spiral.

we picked up a few things as we went: a nintendo ds, condiments, a lamp, an Alexa, and a soda stream. that should be enough to get us supplies @arthur-lesters-tits ! if franny hadn't been there i wouldn't have found anything valuable, i'd have just raided the fridge and cupboards.

i'd hoped to find drugs in the bathroom, they can be worth a lot, and we did find some - in the bedroom, in an ornate wooden box with some funky symbols. might be some kind of spiritual thing? perhaps the secret to getting out of the dreamlands is to first be in a higher state of mind!

when we reached the centre of the spiral, we weren't dumb enough to go down the staircase to the basement - i've gone down enough holes in my lifetime, thank you arthur.

the basement doorknob turned. two guys came out. thought they might be pest control but seeing their empty bags, and black bandanas, they must've been thieves like us... they were very pissed off that we'd gotten the goods first so they chased us all through the house. they evaded the pocket sand attack by use of their second pair of eyelids...

franny and i got out another window, and it was there in the space between the tent and the house: the goat's thousand young, all of their eyes glowing red, swarming in on us. the kids weren't cute and fuzzy, but fleshy and veiny like newborn birds, and brought a stench of urine to the stuffy tent. their teeth were square and ground down on our skin as if it were grass. the two men chasing us had closed the window behind us so we couldn't get back in.

franny didn't make it out alive.

but!

after i got out of the tent, she appeared before me as a ghost. she's surprisingly happy about it, now she can haunt the kids that bullied her. she's going to see if the haunted house they dared her to go to is actually haunted. hope if there's other spirits there that they're nice to her.

so all in all, i'm calling this a major W. if i see those other thieves again though they're gonna get the Wrath of the Gut!

anyway, to the bazaar!