#and honestly it makes no sense for either of them

[crystaltoa]

I feel like such a mean old nasty hag saying this but… do they not plan on existing past the age of 35? In their 20s a breakup wouldn’t necessarily destroy their lives (or they could bounce back from it at least) because there would be another rich guy around the corner, but it’s going to get harder and harder with more competition as time goes on.

Fascinating that it’s considered ‘eroticising’ the inequality. I’m bad at picking up these things as I’m very ace, but now that I see it I can’t unsee it. interesting that boyfriends/husbands don’t appear prominently in this imagery, if at all, and it seems that the content is targeted at straight women. But the partner is not the fantasy, he’s just the key to unlocking the fantasy.

Gen Z and younger millennials have been previously known for ‘quiet quitting’ and other anti-work attitudes, which is not in itself a gendered phenomenon. It stems from the cost of living crisis and the state of the modern workforce and the dawning reality that getting ahead and meeting traditional milestones is bordering on impossible for many, work is not rewarding in the emotional or financial sense, and that one might as well try to actually enjoy their current existence rather that running themselves into the ground for a hypothetical better future.

While there is a lot to be said for living in and enjoying the moment, avoiding thoughts of the future isn’t healthy when taken to its logical extreme. Something I’ve observed as a general trend in women across generations is being caught up so much in the day-to-day stuff that they forget to take care of their future, especially financially. Honestly, I think part of my own interest in personal finance came from the realisation that I wasn’t straight and that I couldn’t gamble on marrying someone who would know all the things I didn’t and make good decisions to ensure a happy future.

Which led me to the realisation that actually, straight women shouldn’t gamble on this either. But many of them still do, even those who consider themselves quite progressive. And from talking to others I learned that also, a lot of men don’t know much about personal finance either, it’s just often assumed by their partners that they know what they’re doing (*glares at my parents*). Apathy toward the future is bad for everybody.

I don’t think GenZ’s disinterest in work or “ little treat” hedonism is inherently a problem. Nor do I think not working carries any moral weight one way or another. I am very much pro-UBI and I think it’s actually essential to achieving true equality. But the stay-at-home trophy fantasy plays off the generation-wide frustration with work and appears to provide a solution, which can be very dangerous if not viewed with healthy skepticism.

this little glamorized misogyny "joke" has run its course right. can we leave this corny demonic shit in 2023. it is done now. we've had enough.

[hoiststowline]

Would you be able to do crush/relationship headcanons for Perceptor? I just need some more of my nerdy guy 👉🏻👈🏻

_perceptor x reader hc’s 

[a/n: sure! honestly, me too. I had sm fun writing these!! <3!!]

you’d be blissfully unaware for a long while in reference to the fact that perceptor harbors romantic feelings for you, especially with how he behaves after such a realization consumes him. not even in a vague sense, because he isn’t sharing that information, confident that he can not only keep this suppressed, but keep up appearances as normal. perceptor is unable to part with the sentiment so willingly, not when he’s already mapped out about nine different scenarios that all end with you saying no. in his mind, it’s particulars that are best to keep to himself, waiting for a better suited time then trying to shove it from his processor. even if it arises effortlessly, without doubt, every time you’re in the same room as him. perceptor carries on being friendly and congenial with you, never directing personal frustrations your way. it’s like nothing ever occurred to him, but his outward demeanor does not match the rampaging thoughts that are circling his processor on a daily basis. 

it’s become a standoff, whether you bring your feelings forward first or perceptor loses the ability to keep his stifled. and on those placing bets, it’s more than likely the former, as perceptor is pretty sure he could carry such a secret far longer. he’s found himself cowardly in that sense, afraid to break something that doesn’t need to be remedied. it’s perfect the way it is, your current friendship, and while he would be immensely elated to see it escalate to a romantic status, he’s convinced himself otherwise. the copious amounts of ‘advice’ and relentless nudging wasn’t entirely helping his case either, feeling like every time he caught your attention, someone else caught that he was after it in the first place. 

upon entering a romantic relationship, it’s effortless to tell that the things he was already doing for you were silent displays of affection. quality time or acts of service I can see being his love languages, but heavy on acts of service. anything that perceptor can assist you with, it’s an immediate response, no questions asked. he’s also the type of mech to do it without being prompted, but if you approach him with a difficult problem he’s more than happy to offer advice if that’s what you’re seeking on the subject. speaking of, he’s also a very good listener as well, hearing you out from beginning to end before proposing suggestions or pointers. you can actively see him thinking it through, wanting to extend the best possible counsel, hopeful to lead you in the best direction. on the other hand, perceptor finds himself approaching you for opinions and direction as well, pleased to have your undivided attention and suggestions for a resolution.

affection is for behind closed doors and there only. it’s private, and while perceptor is overjoyed to oblige you in the solitude of his quarters, there are small gestures that happen outside of them. well-deserved wins or favorable outcomes merit celebration. perceptor finds that high-fives regarding achievements make you laugh. laughter of delight, soft and meaningful as if you can’t quite find the right words to say at the given moment. neither could he, as to why he proffered his servo to you, knowing that you would wordlessly understand the implication. on several occasions, he’s willing to let you sit on his lap while he’s working, so long as it’s not dangerous. if there’s a chance for you to get hurt, it’s an instant no, but in the early stages of tests and assessments you are more than welcome to join him. perceptor sometimes waits for you to ask, other times, an impatience arises and he’d rather just have you right where he can see you. whilst sitting on his lap, he definitely hunches a bit so he can mumble each step of what he’s doing, voice just above a whisper.

[viienrose]

Honestly, as a hard Wenclair shipper, I don’t hate on Wyler fans. I’ve decided to write an analysis about Wyler as a way to better understand them. Even if I don’t share their love for the ship, it doesn’t erase some good points.

The character of Wednesday, throughout the different adaptations, has always shown some kind of affection for the kind and shy boy-next-door type. Tyler kind of fits this description — even if, in my opinion, Eugene is a literal copy-paste of that stereotype and was clearly relegated to the “little brother” figure.

So Wyler can make some kind of sense. The dark and sharp character paired with the sweet counterpart is always a great combination. Opposites attract, am I right?

Another argument for Wyler is that Tyler turning into a dangerous monster wouldn’t necessarily be a red flag for an Addams. On the contrary, it’s actually a good argument — the Addams family loves the strange and macabre.

However, a Hyde must have a master. There has to be a power dynamic. Tyler will never truly be in control of the beast. And the Addams seem to value balance and equality in their relationships. It would also be unfair to Tyler to be forced into obedience. Even if Wednesday became his new master, it would make their relationship based on a lack of free will from one party. It sounds incredibly toxic.

The part that gets really questionable is the Hyde itself.

Like, I get that Laurel tortured and controlled Tyler, but he admitted to enjoying killing people. I also understand that it’s supposed to be interpreted through the lens of psychological/emotional/sexual abuse, and that Tyler liking the thrill of the dirty work he was forced into could be a trauma response.

But how much control does a Hyde really have?

That’s a big question throughout the show:

• Did Tyler really like killing?

• Is the Hyde another being within himself that subdues his “real” self?

• Or is it just his dark impulses surfacing?

• Is Tyler a good guy under the pressure of the Hyde, or was he the Hyde all along?

That brings us to the next point:

We don’t know Tyler.

We don’t know Tyler with the Hyde.

And through season one, we come to understand that Tyler was the Hyde. But it left us wondering: Was the Hyde Tyler?

Is Tyler a psychopathic murderer, or was he forced to act under the stronger will of a savage alter ego?

Are they the same or two separate beings? How do we even divide the responsibility between the two?

I really hope the show gives us more insight into it.

Since we don’t have answers yet, I can’t imagine Wednesday being involved with Tyler.

She obviously had an affection or at least an interest in the sweet coffee boy — but that wasn’t really Tyler.

The Hyde is part of Tyler, whether he likes it or not. Wednesday liked the version Tyler showed her — not his real self.

He basically lied to her to get close. He led her to Laurel even if he had some liking for her. Was he entirely controlled? Maybe, but either way, it’s safe to say Wednesday no longer holds any real attachment to him.

Another important point — even if it’s just common sense — is that Wednesday would absolutely hate Tyler if he truly meant those murders.

The Addams family might be creepy and kooky, but they have a strong sense of justice and solid values. They’re goth, not evil.

—

Now, some projections based on what we learn about Tyler in the future:

• Best-case scenario: He was subjected by the Hyde and gets help to control it, healing from his trauma. It would take time. He could then be redeemed and reintegrated into the outcast world, with a better understanding of Hydes and protections against the abuse he suffered.

• Worst-case scenario: The dark personality of the Hyde was always part of him, even before it “woke up.” In that case, Tyler holds responsibility for his crimes, is non-redeemable, and goes full villain mode.

Honestly, I’d be happy with either.

The actor playing Tyler is amazing, and I can easily see him nailing both versions.

Still, I think Tyler would be the perfect opponent for Wednesday rather than a potential suitor.

As you might have guessed from this analysis, I really dig his character — mostly for the mystery and potential he still holds.

—

Now that I’ve written this whole text about making peace with Wyler fans, I want to point out something:

We kind of have the same argument as Wenclair fans!

The opposites attract trope. The Addams’ fascination with monstrous creatures.

We’re not so different after all.

Let’s just enjoy the show in our own ways without turning on each other’s throats.

[bloggerspam]

This fic seriously blew up in a way that kind of scares me. I didn't expect so many people to like my silly little fic---I see and read all of your comments, but I simply am too anxious/frankly scared of the sheer amount of them to actually respond.

Forgive me, truly. Hopefully the fic lives up to the hype!

===

Truth be told, Jazz didn't think Ellie would make it this far.

She honestly didn't think Danny would make it this far either, not that she'd ever tell him that because it'd either crush him or make him mad.

She thought that maybe, at a push, Ellie would accidentally phase through something (she's still getting the hang of it) whilst playing with Dad.

She even thought that maybe Danny would be seen putting stuff into his body (he's always been so mad that Ellie is better at it, and adamantly uses himself as a purse in retaliation).

She didn't think that they'd catch out another family member's powers. much less an entirely new cousin.

Admittedly, she's kind of proud of her siblings—proud of herself, even.

Mom had assured her a thousand times that nobody would notice, and to be fair to her nobody noticed Ellie until Baby Jon got involved.

She wonders if Conner or Baby Jon would notice if Dan joined them (he's still on probation though, so it might not be for a long while if ever in their lifetime, which is a shame).

The fact that Uncle Clark (because it must have been Uncle Clark, Aunt Lois would never have thrown her sons into the deep end this way) thought the same way makes Jazz cringe at the Walker Family Genes.

Perhaps, instead of calling it Fenton Luck, it should be re-dubbed as Walker Luck.

"So you're both metas," Ellie hums, bringing Jazz back to the present, "But Jon only got his recently?"

"Uh huh." Baby Jon confirms, munching on the food that Jazz sent Danny to grab for the group. "Got them just after the last reunion."

"That doesn't explain your supposed brother's sudden appearance." Danny points out, biting into a mini pie himself, Jazz sits back to let her siblings do the questioning, pulling out her phone to a specific text conversation as she keeps half an eye on the kids.

"I'm not an affair baby," Conner reminds them, dejectedly sipping his juicebox, "But Clark donated to a sperm bank once, and long story short, the Kents took me in to save me from a bad situation about four years ago."

"That's another thing that bothers me," Danny points a crumby finger at Conner, "You call Aunt Lois 'Mom' so naturally but you call Uncle Clark by his name. Why?"

"Clar—Dad didn't really react well to my existence." Conner grumbles, "He thought someone, ugh, I don't really know what he thought, but it wasn't great."

"Dad was a butthead for sure." Baby Jon chimes in, "But Uncle Bruce beat him up a little bit, and then tattled to Mom."

"Uncle Bruce?" Jazz daintily pops a grape into her mouth, the crispy juice flooding her senses as she ponders. This all seems plausible, but something about it is…off. Plus, if Uncle Clark really was that bad she's going to have words with him. She shoots off another text. "Uncle Bruce from Iowa, or the Uncle Bruce from the Big Apple?"

"Uncle Bruce as in my best friend's dad." Baby Jon clarifies, toothy smile a little messy around the edges with crumbs. "Uncle Bruce is Dad's best friend in the whole world, and his son Damian is my best friend in the whole world too."

"Anyway, me and dear old Dad are better now, but old habits die hard, y'know?" Conner grumbles, juicebox making loud crackling noises as the juice comes to an end. "Enough about us, what about you guys?"

"What about us?" Ellie tilts her head, mouth full of fudge. Jazz puts her phone down, grabbing a napkin to wipe a smudge of chocolate off her cheek. "We're metas."

"But Cousin Danny said it was a new development." Baby Jon argues, "I didn't even know the Walker Family had meta-genes—Ma said they didn't."

"There's bound to be at least a couple, big family like this. Dad has the meta-gene." Jazz pipes in, shrugging when Baby Jon looks over at her. "I mean, you've seen him,"

"I have not." Conner deadpans, making Ellie and Jazz giggle.

"Dad's like an off brand Kool-aid Man." Danny rolls his eyes, flopping back into the grass. "I got my powers three years ago."

"What?!" Baby Jon looks affronted, "That means I've had my powers longer than you!"

"And I'm still better at controlling my powers than you are." Danny agrees, smugly haughty in tone. "What's that feel like?"

Jazz has to smother her laugh—Danny does have an unusual ease with his powers. The hardest part for him has always been remembering what powers he has access to. Danny's always been like this with the littler cousins, and it always makes her laugh.

Before Baby Jon can retort anything else Ellie interjects by flopping over onto Danny, making him oof.

"I hate to say it, but big brother is just that good." Ellie huffs. digging her elbow into Danny's stomach as if in retaliation. "I got my powers just after him, and I still have trouble with my powers."

"You're not that bad." Danny feigns hurt, twisting and rolling around until he's got her in a headlock. "You just keep forgetting where the bar is."

That, and she only just got some stability in her genetic make up. With Mom and Dad helping with some ethical, wholesome science Ellie was finally able to stabilize the ecto in her chemical make up. She's been having a rough go, getting used to her powers and staying more human this past year.

"Crazy coincidental that you both got your powers so close to each other." Conner hums, watching Ellie and Danny wrestle with a weird kind of fascination. He looks over to Baby Jon, awkwardly patting him on the head twice. "Don't worry, you'll get the hang of hiding your powers."

"If Uncle Clark can't teach you, I'm sure your brother can." Danny smirks, down at Baby Jon. "He's not as good as me, but…"

"Wha—" Conner's head whips to stare at Danny, "I'm not—I didn't—"

"Danny." Jazz scolds, shooting her brother a look. "We do not out people!"

"I'm informing him that I know so he knows to do better." Danny sticks his nose up, "I am not outing him, I'm trying to help."

"You mean you were being competitive." Jazz rolls her eyes. "Pretending to be better at hiding your meta-status when you voluntarily used your powers to nab Ellie and Baby Jon is certainly a very interesting way to try and help."

"I'm just sayin'." Danny singsongs, smartassed-ly pointing out, "It's not like you didn't notice, and Ellie would have found out eventually."

Conner whips his gaze to her now, as if to silently ask if this is true. Jazz has no choice but to smile sheepishly at him in response—clearly he at least has some kind of advanced hearing if he was able to direct Jazz to the others so quickly.

Conner slumps in defeat as his little brother laughs at him. He wordlessly pushes Baby Jon into the grass in response, which starts another scuffle that Ellie inexplicably joins in on.

"How did you get your powers anyway, Baby Jon?" Danny asks once they've all settled once more. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

"I just grew into mine!" Baby Jon smiles, "But thanks for worryin'. What about you?"

"Got em on a dare." Danny brushes off, plopping Ellie into his lap so he can play with her hair again, "Barely even noticed."

Jazz hits him on the back of the head. "Do not."

Danny grumbles, but says nothing. She's going to have to have a big boy conversation with him about being so blase about his death, mark her words.

"Danny had to go to the hospital." Ellie informs them, patting Danny on the leg. Jazz bites the inside of her cheek against the surge of grief that almost overwhelms her. "I got my powers because I'm—"

"Because of very private circumstances." Jazz interjects, firmly. Ellie's jaw shuts with a clack, burying her face into Danny's chest. Danny pats her hair soothingly, and Jazz rubs her back to apologize for cutting her off. "We're not particularly hiding it from the family, but things could get messy back home if someone found out."

"Are you from a small town or something? Dealing with meta-prejudice?" Conner asks, eyeing Ellie with a look Jazz doesn't like. It reeks of sympathy, the kind that you know first hand. Perhaps the bad situation Conner escaped from was meta-status related…She's definitely going to have to probe Uncle Clark later, or perhaps ask Aunt Lois about Conner's previous home.

"Wasn't it in Illinois?" Baby Jon hums, tilting into his brother. Conner doesn't seem to be used to contact, which concerns her—though it's a relief that he seems caring of his little brother. She watches as he hesitatingly wraps an arm around Baby Jon, as if unused to it despite the supposed four years with the Kents.

"Pennsylvania." Jazz gently corrects, reaching over to pet Danny's hair. "Don't worry, it's nothing serious. It's just a hassle."

Amity Park accepted Ellie's existence with little trouble, chalking it up to the Drs. Fenton's quirky natures to adopt some random cousin from one of Dad's late siblings.

But if Danny and Ellie's so-called meta status became public they'd have to be very careful to only show specific powers unrelated to their ghost sides.

There's also the matter of the GIW, and that entire…thing.

"If you say so." Conner eyes the siblings, crushing Baby Jon closer as if imagining worst case scenarios. "But if you need help, I know someone who works for the Justice League."

"Uncle Bruce funds the Justice League's space tower thing." Baby Jon explains, which is interesting but ultimately irrelevant—it's not like the Justice League did anything about the GIW before.

Though she can't really blame them, as far as she knows Amity Park never filed a complaint and it's not like the Justice League can be everywhere. Besides, Danny's got a handle on the ghost situation, and Mom and Dad are doing…something about the GIW with Vlad.

"It's fine." Danny waves them off, scoffing at the very idea. He's become very unimpressed with the JL lately, Martian Manhunter not-withstanding. "We can handle it."

Conner looks like he has something to say about that, but before he can get another word out a commotion of familiar voices nearby catches their attention.

"Oh no." Jazz and Danny say in unison, looking at each other and hurriedly getting up. Danny scoops Ellie up, holding her like a sack of potatoes and following after Jazz as she rushes towards the noise. Ellie simply lets him, going limp and brushing off the grass on Danny's shirt where she can reach.

"What? What's happening?" Conner jumps up, frantically looking around for a threat. Baby Jon grabs him by the sleeve and drags him to try and catch up.

"Ancients, they really just tossed you into the deep end huh?" Danny grumbles, giving a disapproving glance down at Baby Jon. Their little cousin sheepishly smiles back up, which Danny responds with a roll of his eyes. "Just so you know, this reaction would'a been another reason to be caught out."

"Dad said he got it!" Baby Jon tries to defend, but doesn't bother explaining the situation to his older brother.

"Well he clearly didn't!" Conner practically yells, hooking an arm around his brother's waist and catching up with her and her siblings. "So will someone please explain what the hell has you guys—"

Conner cuts himself off as they round the corner, a familiar (to Jazz and Danny) scene greeting them just behind the little gathering of trees that line the edge of the backyard.

Mom and Uncle Clark are, as usual, yelling at each other.

Aunt Lois looks very done, one hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose. Great Aunt Martha is fixing Aunt Lois's hair and clothes, patting down her own hair once her daughter-in-law's all sorted. There's a basket of more mini pies on the grass next to their feet.

"Uncle Clark and Mom have had Grade-A Wagyu Beef with each other since they were kids." Ellie stage whispers to Conner, before bidding Danny to let her down. He does so easily, placing her between himself and Conner, who has also put Jon down to his other side.

"Oh you've always been like this! Golden Boy Clark Kent, can't do no wrong so he never thinks things through!" Mom is yelling, throwing her hands up in utter disgust.

"Me? You're the one who ruined prom with your experiments—" Uncle Clark has his arms crossed defensively, leaning down to meet Mom's height, "Mad Maddie Walker back at it again with her shenanigans, never lettin' sleepin' dogs lie, always gotta poke the hornet's nest!"

"Oh please, you should thank me for that prom disaster, what with that god awful suit Aunt Martha got you." Mom leans around Uncle Clark, smiling sheepishly at Great Aunt Martha. "No offense, Auntie."

"None taken, dear." Great Aunt Martha laughs gently, as Uncle Clark yells indignantly at the same time, "It was a nice suit!"

"It was periwinkle blue with ruffles, Clark. You're god damned lucky my experiment got you and you still fit Pa's suits." Mom scoffs, turning back to Uncle Clark with a sneer.

"I had to pay full price for that rental, had to use up all my Summer wages!" Uncle Clark retorts, but Mom isn't having it.

"And you should be thankin' me, like I said! Got that Lana girl all up in your business now didn't I?"

Aunt Lois snorts then, which makes Uncle Clark glow red. "You leave Lana outta this Maddie, and you weren't no better, sneakin' off with the Miller's boy, you think nobody knew?"

Mom sputters, turning red herself. "You were two states away, how did you know about that!"

"Distance didn't stop you from ruinin' my prom now did it!" They're in each other's faces now, which is comical considering the height difference,

Jazz decides that enough is enough. "Mom, you promised you would behave!"

"Jazz!" Mom jolts, backing away with a sweet smile and ignoring her scolding per usual. "Honey, what are you doin' all the way over here?"

"We heard the commotion, Mom." Jazz rolls her eyes. "What did Uncle Clark supposedly do this time?"

"Your Uncle Clark here," Mom's smile suddenly looks razor sharp. "is apparently Superman."

The silence that follows is very very loud, much louder than Uncle Clark and Mom bickering, much louder than the crowd on the other side of the row of houses where the rest of their giant family is still partying it up.

Aunt Lois face palms, the slap of it jolting every one back into breathing. Great Aunt Martha sighs gustily, hand pressed to her cheek

"Fuck," Conner finally says, breathing the curse out before saying louder, "Fuck, they're right, I get it from you—Batman's going to kick your ass."

A chorus of voices overlap each other in varying tones to yell out in unison:

"Language!"

Cousins, Clones and Conning the Family

Family Reunion AU, where cousins Maddie and Clark try to smuggle their clone children into the family reunion that happens every 5 years and pretend they've been there the whole time.

Spoiler alert, one of them does significantly better than the other. Mainly Kid POV, and also on AO3! Multichapter. ===

The problem with big family reunions, Danny thinks, is how utterly fucking lost Danny is all the gosh dang time.

"Well now, you're Maddie's son now ain'tcha? How old is you now?" The woman standing before him guffaws, ruffling his hair. He lets it, trying desperately to remember the speadsheet Jazz created for the family and (obviously) failing to recall this woman's name.

Agatha? Selene? Riri? No, Aunt Riri is over there—

"Yes ma'am," Danny smiles up at the unnamed aunt, accent going a little twangy like it always does at these functions, "I'll be hittin' 17 in a coupl'a months or so."

"My, my, you youngin's sure grow like weeds!" The aunt coos, gesturing to a height by her hip, "You used to be this tall last time I saw ya, betcha don't r'member me now do ya?"

It's a trap. If he says he doesn't remember, which is expected at reunions such as these that happen every 5 years or longer, she'll start going on and on about the stories she has of the family. Danny would have to stand here and demure and laugh at these cousins he doesn't really remember too well, but know enough to know that she's gotten them all mixed up.

"Pshaw," Danny doesn't react when a whisper breathes the answer into his ear, "I'd never forget a pretty lady like you, Aunt Helena!"

It works like a charm.

The second he's out of her clutches, he feels around for a cold spot. There, trailing just behind him, is Ellie. She's not invisible anymore, so he tucks her under his arm and bee-lines it towards the metaphorical kid's table.

"Thanks, Ellie. Weren't you supposed to stay with Dad?" Danny leads them around, trying to avoid any other mishaps. "Did Jazz send you?"

"She made me flashcards!" Ellie smirks up at him, ignoring his other question and pulling a corner of an index card out from the palm of her hand. She's always been better than him at manipulating the ecto in her body, for obvious reasons. Danny's not bitter about it at all.

"Damn, all I got was a presentation." Danny grumbles. Jazz and Dad somehow know every single one of their family members, which is ludicrous when even Mom doesn't know despite it being her side of the family.

He still can't really believe how big his family actually is, but he supposes that's natural. He only sees them once every couple of years, the only relative they see even on a remotely regular basis is Aunt Alicia, who has no kids and refuses (rightfully so) to remarry.

Danny's fine with that, he gets the best of both worlds after all. Cozy holiday stays with Aunt Alicia and he has places to stay all over the country if he really needs it, no questions asked.

Plus, crazy as they can be, these reunions have always felt like a big country festival for Danny.

"She likes me better." Ellie snickers, tugging him back to avoid Uncle Charlie's drunken stumbling.

"Everyone likes you better," Danny rolls his eyes, pushing Ellie's head down and ducking to avoid a stray kid's toy flying overhead, "I like you better."

As if somehow knowing Danny's being self deprecating again, Jazz shows up to smack him on the head. "I like both of you equally in special ways."

Danny makes a disgruntled noise, grumbling as he rubs his head, "Mooooom, Jazz is therapizing me again!"

Even though he was only half joking, Mom does show up specifically to laugh at him. "Honey, your father and I love all our children equally!"

"It's a secret," Dad says from behind Jazz, kids climbing all over him, "But Ellie's the favorite!"

"Jack!" Mom yells at the same time Jazz screams, "Dad!"

Ellie dissolves into giggles, making everyone but Dad helplessly laugh. It's good to see Ellie laugh, she does it a lot but it still doesn't feel like it's enough. Danny picks her up, giggling mess and all, and tosses her at Dad.

She lands, as expected, straight into the pile of children who scream and accept her easily.

"Nice." Jazz chuckles, this time patting him gently on his head in approval. Danny shrugs, dusting his hands off and heading back towards salvation: the food.

He and Jazz mingle a bit, exchanging greetings and school updates with the Aunts and Uncles they occasionally bump into, making their way slowly through and keeping an eye out for the other cousins.

Eventually, Jazz gets nabbed by Cousin Dermot just as Danny reaches the table, tossing a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth and chewing with glee. The locals of the family usually something potluck style—and though Dad's genes are strong and the Fentons can't cook, the bulk of the Walker family definitely can.

In fact—Great Aunt Martha said she was going to bring some mini pies right?

Danny spies a pile of them in the middle of the large table and reaches for one, only to bump into the spikes of black fingerless gloves.

The gloves are, of course, attached to someone else.

It's a boy, around Danny's age, in a spiked leather jacket (matching the gloves) and white tee shirt with ripped jeans. He's got the tiniest John Lennon sunglasses and piercings everywhere—it makes Danny squint at him, with how much the sun keeps catching on everything—the spikes, the piercings, the metal arms of the sunglasses, is this dude also wearing lipgloss?

Danny's not judging, a guy can appreciate proper hydration to avoid chapped lips or even just for the aesthetic, but it doesn't help with the glare.

"Sorry, my bad." Right, okay, city slicker then. Not that Danny's much of a country boy or anything. "Did my spikes get you?"

Maybe Cousin Jenny brought a plus one? Danny eyes the guys jeans—they look tight. Was Cousin Mark into guys? Is this dude a guy or possibly a masculine girl? Ack. Stupid sun frying his brain.

"It's okay," Danny says, blinking away and tossing mini pie to the other person. "Aunt Martha's pies are worth the minor injury. You comin' in with one of the cousins?"

"Uh, yeah." Citypunk looks at Danny nervously, "I mean, I am one of the cousins." The guy bites his lips, shrugging, "Uh, one of the Kents, actually. Ma's real proud of the pies."

Danny blinks.

"…You're not Jon." Danny says, very carefully and slowly.

"…No…" Stranger Danger draws his vowels out, "I'm Conner. His, uh, older brother? Can't blame ya for being confused though!"

"…You can't." Danny agrees, because out of the two them, Danny definitely isn't to blame for the confusion.

"Yeah, lots of cousins, and all," Curiouser and Curiouser beams at Danny, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck, "Plus, I know Jon's more sociable at these things."

"Right, he really is rambunctious, that guy." Danny nods, as if that's the problem, and not the fact that Danny knows every single cousin his age. Big as his family might be, Danny's generation came out the smallest. Cousin Jenny and Cousin Mark are the only two his age.

With Ellie and Jazz each being four years younger and older than Danny, and the other cousins being well beyond those ages in gaps, there is no way this guy is a cousin.

"Don't worry," Punk'd laughs self deprecatingly, "I know he's the favorite. even if Mom won't admit it."

Danny feels a vein throb in his right temple.

He's unsure if he should slowly back away or get up in the guy's face. It's just—now that Danny thinks about it, if wedding crashing is a thing, does that mean family reunion crashing is a thing too?

What's the protocol here? Should he fight this guy for having the audacity to use Great Aunt Martha's name in vein?

Wait, no, that's Jesus.

Is Great Aunt Martha Catholic? ...Is that the one with Jesus, or was that Christianity?

Wait, Danny, you knuckle head, Uncle Clark was adopted. Conner could be adopted too! Even though he looks exactly like that Uncle Clark when he was younger…

"Is this your first time at a reunion?" Danny ventures, "We only have 'em—"

"Every 5 years, yeah." Conner huffs, "Nah, I just used to hide with Ma in the kitchens."

Okay, clearly Great Aunt Martha isn't in on this, because Danny used to hide with Great Aunt Martha in the kitchens. Danny's about to lose his shit on this guy—or maybe sic Ellie on him. Whichever is worse.

"Oh yeah? That's must have been cozy." Danny grits out, taking a deep breath so his eyes don't flash.

"Yeah, it was!" Conner beams shyly. though all Danny sees is a smug smirk. "She's real nice-like, I'm sure you know. Real lucky to have her for a Grandma."

"Real lucky." Danny agrees, because Great Aunt Martha really was one of the better Great Aunts. Though most of the Walker Kin were hardy and tough, in that badass kind of way. Mom really liked Great Aunt Martha's lessons on bull wranglin' back when they were younger. "Speakin' of, she ain't here?"

"Nah," Conner makes a sad little pout. "She hadta stop by Auntie Agatha's for an emergency. She left two days ago, so she's runnin' a little behind. Cl—Dad went to go pick her up."

Danny squints at the possible imposter. That sounded like he was going to call Uncle Clark by his name, which makes things confusing for Danny. Guy will call Aunt Lois Mom but he won't call Uncle Clark Dad easily?  Maybe he's a kid Aunt Lois had before marrying Uncle Clark? But Aunt Lois would never hide a kid, and Great Aunt Martha would never let her treat a kid like that. That's not even taking into account that this kid looks way too much like Uncle Clark for it to be a fucking coincidence. Plus, Danny knew about Aunt Aggie's emergency and how she might not be making it to this year's reunion—this gives Conner's story credibility.

But Danny knows that the best way to lie is with truths, even if the truths are confusing.

So what the hell is going on? Is Clockwork fucking with him? Did an alternate timeline get switched with his?

It wouldn't be the first time, but Clockwork at least had the decency to let him know at least.

"What the—" Danny blinks, as Conner picks up a very familiar, eye-searingly green colored post it note that was stuck to the plate under a mini pie. "Is this yours?"

"Yeah," Danny huffs. taking the note and rolling his eyes as lies roll off his tongue, "Sorry, y'know how it goes with Jazz."

"Oh, yeah." And Danny has to give it Conner, he at least rolls with the punches real quick, "I heard about it but didn't ever uh, see it in action."

"Really?" Danny feigns surprise, head pulsing in irritation at the words all is as it should be written in purple pen. There's no mocking smiley face, but Danny feels it in the ink anyway. "Thought she got all the cousins at the last reunion."

Conner chuckles nervously, "Oh, yeah—Guess I'm just, easy to miss you know?"

"Uh huh…" Danny eyes the guy and his piercings and very distinct style, from the tip of his clearly styled hair and needlessly ostentatious big black studded boots. "…Right."

Conner laughs, wincing. "These're new. High school debut."

"…You're a freshman?" Danny tilts his head, squinting.

"Junior." Conner automatically corrects, before stiffening. "…I just wanted to reinvent myself for Junior Prom."

"Right." Danny repeats, drawing out the vowels and finally giving up. He can tell Conner already knows what Danny is going to ask, and is trying to exit this conversation post-haste.

Fortunately for Conner and unfortunately for Danny, Jazz comes barreling in, almost knocking the former out in the process as she grips the latter's biceps tightly with her eyes wide and nervous.

Unfortunately for Conner and fortunately for Danny, though the look in Jazz's eyes thoroughly distracts the latter and gives the former a window to escape, Jazz's hissed out words end up keeping Conner rooted to the floor.

"Baby Jon has powers!" Jazz hisses as she moves Danny away from the possible imposter a couple feet. Even though she says it low enough for only Danny to hear, Conner's wide eyes as he whips his gaze towards them suggests that Jon's not the only one with powers.

And then words actually register along with that thought.

Danny hisses out the first thing he thinks of. "Since when?? I thought he took after Aunt Lois!"

"Since now," Jazz gruffs, switching her grip to drag Danny away, "and I need you to do something about it!"

"What?" Danny doesn't struggle, going along even as he eyes Conner who seems to be following them at a distance. "Why?"

Jazz pushes him towards the kid's area, rushing out a frantic "He's in the bounce house with Ellie!"

Danny freezes, or tries to even as Jazz keeps tugging him along, before shaking off her hand and booking it towards the bounce house.

Once the bounce house (a castle) comes into view, Danny clocks several things in succession:

One: Ellie and Jon are thankfully the only ones in the bounce house right now.

Two: Ellie and Jon are laughing, and through the mesh Danny can see Ellie watching Jon jump way too high to be considered normal.

And three: The bounce house is about to fucking tip over.

There's a gaggle of Aunts herding the younger cousins towards the food that's dense enough for cover, but sparse enough for Danny to dash through.

Between one blink and the next, he disappears.

[novvabee]

sunkiller x reader bedroom thoughts…

ok hear me out. i personally don’t think that this “relationship” would work unless you all hated each other. hear me out!!!

so, if you’re in hufflepuff or ravenclaw, i can just imagine that james being the gryffindor golden boy would get annoying fast. same with barty being the chaotic slytherin poster child. but even if you share either of their houses… i still feel like they’d get old.

now, you all hate each other right? so this makes the absolute perfect friends with benefits situation. you would all agree that it was purely for sex and that there were to be no strings attached (and come on we all know how that goes.) and it doesn’t bother them, james being hung up on lily or regulus or whoever, and barty the same with evan… you all just need something of a distraction.you all agreed that hate fucking is just so much better.

now james is so needy and whiny and it honestly surprises you and barty at first because you’re used to him being so confident and cocky in day to day life. he is so touch starved that you’d think he had an awful childhood or something. he loves when you ride him so that he can watch hot hot you look and burn the image into his brain forever (he also wouldn’t mind if you choked him a lil). he is aggressive in the way that he gropes your thighs, hips, ass, tits, anything he can get his hands on. you figured out quite early on that james LOVES praise. so, whenever you want to get what you want out of him, you’re sure to throw in a few praises and reassuring words, telling him how good he is making you feel and calling him a “good boy”. now barty is the complete opposite, he likes to tease james and rile him up, so he’ll usually say something along the lines of “oh come on, potter, you can do better than that” or “you’re doing it wrong, god, needy and useless”, purposely trying to confuse him. james would secretly like the challenge that barty gives, wanting to please both of you no matter what.

now barty is aggressive in a different way… while james may leave bruises in wake of his fingers gripping your skin, barty leaves behind red hand prints along your ass and thighs. he absolutely loves to watch as james fucks you first and point out everything he’s doing “wrong” and afterwards fucking you in a more brutal way. i feel like, he’s taller than james, yes, and more lanky, but he is fit/toned in his own right and this makes it so easy to manhandle you from position to position in just the way he likes. it also gives him a fighting chance to overpower james and “assert his dominance” or whatever. he loves to have either you or james on your knees in front of him but prefers to be fucking you while you suck james off so that he can either purposely fuck you so hard that your gagging on james or too distracted and forget about james entirely. he loves the noises both you and james make and tries his damn hardest to make those noises come out each and every time. i feel like barty would also try and make you and james compete in certain ways, he would pay more attention to one of you than the other and make the other fight for his attention, usually that ends up being james because he likes hearing james potter beg for him. i think that james would be better at oral for both of you, but barty would be better at fucking both of you, each knowing just what to do.

i feel like barty would definitely dip once you’re all done. he would immediately just put his clothes back on and say something like “let me know when you wanna fuck again” and leave. but james would stay for a while after, cuddling you and lazily basking in the post sex bliss with you, allowing you both to relax and catch your breath for a minute. you allow him to stay until you come to your senses and finally kick him out.

[eashgirl]

Tf One AU idea

What if like Decepticon Bee and Autobot Starscream but it occured at the exact same time?

Imagine Optimus already grieving the loss of his best friend — and then, on top of that, his new friend decides to leave with him too. I get it though; B wouldn’t want anyone to be alone, so he’s not siding with Megatron because he agrees with him, but because that’s his friend. And Optimus just has to sit there and accept it — like, yeah, it hurts, but... oh well. It’s their choice, and he has to respect it.

Then he and Elita turn around — and Starscream’s still there.

After Elita tells him to leave, he just flat-out refuses — for a bunch of complicated reasons he won’t say out loud. But really, it mostly comes down to the fact that he just doesn’t want to. Probably out of pure pettiness, since he’s still bitter about being demoted. He figures there’s no point in going back anyway, and now he wants to start grabbing power here instead.

(Also because he’s secretly homesick and dealing with a lot of internalized issues he won’t admit. And a lot of them are related to the Primes and the nagging sense of guilt which he totally won't admit even under threat, tbh my headcanon is a lot of the High Guard do hold a sense of Guilt of failing at their jobs I think Starscream Shockwave and Soundwave would have it to a greater degree since they were high ranking members)

And technically, the High Guard was supposed to serve the Primes — and from his point of view, Optimus was clearly the stronger one. So why should he leave?

Meanwhile, he’s just conveniently ignoring the whole "participated in terrorism" part.

Now Elita and Optimus aren’t just trying to build a faction from scratch while preparing for a possible war against the Decepticons or Quintessons — they’re also grieving the loss of two friends and stuck dealing with someone who basically has no moral compass left. There goes their mental stability.

Meanwhile, to make things even more painfully ironic, a lot of the Decepticons and old High Guard actually end up liking B. He’s like their weird, annoying little brother — it’s a toxic mess, but some of them genuinely care about him.

Bottom line: they’re having way more luck than Optimus and Elita right now.

Meanwhile, Megatron’s still spiraling, but he’s actually trying to be nice to B — he really does appreciate that at least one of his friends stuck with him. But sometimes, no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t keep it together.

Not that B’s having a great time either. Honestly, the only ones who are actually nice to him are Soundwave, maybe Thundercracker, and a few other bots here and there. (Totally not me pushing my Thunderbee agenda.)

Meanwhile, Shockwave and Elita are both just out here having the absolute worst day of their lives

The thing is, no one’s personalities are actually different in this AU. B still doesn’t really approve of Megatron’s actions — just like in the movie — so he’s not exactly a hardcore Decepticon supporter or anything. He just feels lonely overall, he wants to befriend everyone but they are all either hardened veterans who don't want to talk too much to him or straight up ignore his presence unless it's to do something they want,he wants to talk to D/Megatron but the latter is just acting so distant and he can't even talk to Elita and Optimus either.

He also doesn't like violence too much and is horrified seeing what the decepticons are becoming but feels overall so lonely.

Starscream is still Starscream. He’s still trying to pull the same stunts he used to with Megatron, except now he’s doing it with Optimus — and the difference is, Optimus and Elita absolutely do not put up with his crap. So he has no choice but to back off... though of course, he still makes himself a pain for everyone around him.

And he can’t exactly go crawling back to Megatron either, because at this point Megatron would just see him as a traitor. So Starscream’s basically stuck trying to make the best of the mess he threw himself into, since he really can't go back even if he wanted to since Shockwave and Soundwave are not picking up his calls( because he deliberately ignored their calls) and he's overall not having a good time because he legitimately would not leave even when he was banished Elita forced his ass to do community service including help rebuild some of the buildings he destroyed which he still holds resentment over. Because over 70+ bots destroyed those building why is he the only one who has to rebuild them lol? It took quite a while but he did do it out of spite. (Not entirely by himself because Optimus was feeling sympathetic)

Pushing my Elita/Starscream as rivals agenda they both end up in arguments over battle strategies and straight up every possible thing ever and she is so fed up. I ironically think he would try pulling off most of the stunts on her rather than Optimus because Optimus is Prime no point in trying to challenge that, but he can try to one-up Elita or atleast get on her nerves and she is 2 seconds away from personally kicking him out of Iacon.

Meanwhile, Optimus and Elita just want B to come back home.

There's a lot of pettiness in this AU Megatron thoroughly knows yeah maybe this isn't working out but he just doesn't want to show any weakness Infront of Optimus, so over battle calls he just tries to pretend B is much happier here than with you, Optimus is fine with their choice even if it pains him but like are you really sure about that because B is looking unhappy? Meanwhile Starscream passive aggressive interactions with Shockwave and Soundwave to see how well they are faring without him.

Soundwave is doing perfectly fine actually he's not even mad, he just thinks it's unconventional and kind of funny,Shockwave is mad because he now has to deal with B's ramblings by himself. He and Starscream have petty interactions

"you replaced me with the yellow bug?"

"quit saying that!no one replaced you, you left on your own".

The end result is no one is happy, but everyone has a horrible time adjusting. Resulting in a weirdly different timeline of events. B might eventually defect once he realizes this is definitely not working and if Megatron does something to make him make that choice,I don't know about Starscream yet if in an AU like this would he even have much of a reason to go to the Decepticons besides maybe kinship?

I have the entire outline of this plotted out to a possible 25 chapter fic, but I can only publish it after exams, fun fact I had this idea in January in the literal middle of my mock exams I had free time after finishing the paper and came up with it lol.

I don't know if anyone already made an AU like this but just wanted to share my thoughts. I just thought it would be funny. I've seen the idea float around in the fandom and a tag in ao3 but I think the one who originally created the decepticon bee AU is yuukirita so I'd say it's partially inspired by it the other part is just me thinking there are 4 of the quartret and with Megatron and the tripe S trio that would also be a quartet wouldn't it be funny if Bee went with Megatron and Starscream stayed back? That's the idea really.

But plz check out their AU it's great.

[fatcathappycat]

10 Ace Attorney fics that made me >LOL<

(part 1)

Reading AA fanfics on Ao3 has been my 'go to' choice for self-care this past year. The following are works that literally made me either snort, giggle, cackle or laugh out loud. As usual, these are in no particular order, because creating a sense of order in life is an illusion, and fics are to be enjoyed and celebrated, not ranked ;p

1. Vocal Exercises by SapphireWine

Rating: G Words: 4,756 Read time: 20 mins

Phoenix has a secret talent!! I laughed out loud so hard at this story's climax, I think I hurt myself (the best kind of hurt ;) ). And like so many of SapphireWine's fics, the story is so sweet (new love getting to know each other) and crisp (that snappy dialogue!) and savory (mmmmm tasty Narumitsu). I wrote in my bookmark that this fic is a sweet little ol’ onion if onions were like apples maybe, and covered in feelings.

~≧◡≦~

2. Eureka Moment by Kantayra

Rating: T Words: 673 Read time: 5 mins

"Miles discovers that, to his embarrassment, he is just as much of a total dork in bed as he is in everything else." Ahem, ngl, this is now firmly established in my head canon. Kantayra is one of my 'go to' Narumitsu Master authors. They specialize in short, sharp and hilarious ficlets, and I highly recommend all their work. This author will show up again in my fic recs, guaranteed.

~≧◡≦~

3. A Collective Groan by Kantayra

Rating: E Words: 6,321 Read time: 30 min

"Miles prided himself on his self-control, or at least he would if only Phoenix would stop being so incurably Phoenix." OOP! See! I was (w)right, here is another one by Kantayra. In addition to being a Narumitsu Master, they are a freaking Pun Master! OMG the PUNS!!!! And the fact these are Mile’s weakness! I am so dang happy I found this author and this fic in particular. I'm laughing even as I'm typing this, remembering some of them.

~≧◡≦~

4. The Crushing Weight of Inevitability by Kantayra

Rating: E Words: 6,321 Read time: 30 min

And sorry, I can't help but slip in yet another gem by Kantayra! (Honestly, I might have to do a dedicated post on them in the future). "How Edgeworth applies for a job: smugly, confidently, remorselessly, and with plenty of snark." In the form of a heavily cited resume, this is another absolutely fantastic ‘pun fic’ from this fabulous creator.

~≧◡≦~

5. Worse than we could have imagined (2 part series) by hi_its_ellis

Rating: T Words: 5,813 Read time: 25 min

Our favourite idiots being, well, idiots. By yes, another one of the authors I consider a 'Narumitsu Master.' In the author's notes, they say "I intended this to be Really Soft and it turned out Really Stupid" I happen to love soft and stupid so there we go... but it also has heart, so there we go twice.

~≧◡≦~

6. Texts & Turnabouts by YanagiKana

Rating: T Words: 40K? Read time: 3 hours (?)

I love chat fics. They are such a fun character vehicle. This one is missing a few graphics but still really, really enjoyable and I hope this talented author comes back and gives us more. :)

~≧◡≦~

7. It Would Feel So Good To Make You Mine by hi_its_ellis, lowbatteryhealth

Rating: T Words: 54,615 Read time: 4 hours

I am the 590th bookmark for this epic tale from two of the most diabolically minded pair of Narumitsu Masters in the fandom, celebrating the most epic game of Gay Chicken ™️ ❤️🐔💙 Read and enjoy, you won’t be disappointed! I would also file this one under 'required reading for Narumitsu fanon'

~≧◡≦~

8. A Beginner's Guide on How Not to Write Steel Samurai Fanfiction by chameleonwrites

Rating: T Words: 16,058 Read time: 65 mins

"Verity Baytum, a court stenographer, has a secret passion for writing Steel Samurai fanfiction based around the pairing Magisteel. When she finds an unlikely source of inspiration during her job, she can't help but watch court proceedings in search of further lines that fit her fics."

"Yaaay!!!! Sooo much fun, just like the description implies! Very Ao3 and discord community vibes. Verity is a really likeable and charismatic Original Character and I would love to read more about her! - If you are craving more, I suggest a chaser of Kantayra's 'Court(ing) Record' ;)

~≧◡≦~

9. Twelfth night by zombiekittiez for Gheyn

Rating: T Words: 5,156 Read time: 20 mins

“Phoenix hand feeds him a berry, sweet and sun-warmed. Also, slightly crunchy from the sandy soil. Resigned, Miles chews and swallows. Three days in and he is already eating dirt.” Time-loop au comedy hijinks by another one of my 'go to' authors.

~≧◡≦~

10. Certifiably Yours (2 part series) by Gheyn

Rating: T Words: 5,156 Read time: 20 mins

If you like fics that reference the language of flowers, or how meticulous Miles is, this fic is for you. And I'm finishing strong here, folks. This 2-part series is LOL perfect! Tears! TEARS!! In my eyes from laughing so hard. So sweet! So romantic! So silly! So good. Hiiiiighly recommended. ❤️💙

~≧◡≦~

And that's it for another week! I hope you enjoy these as much as I have. Look forward to a part 2 in the near future {;)

Do you have a favourite AA LOL fic? Please share in the comments! And THANK YOU!!!!! to all the incredibly wonderful punny, funny awesome authors cited here. I luuuuurve you!

❤️ ♥‿♥ ❤️

[chimcess]

⮞ Chapter Four: Dark Fury (Part One) 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, Jungkook is a huge prick, Cocky too, Talks About Past Characters Dying, Trauma Bonding, Bickering, Arguing, Graphic Death Scenes, Jaded Characters, Religious Themes (I mean no harm and do not want to offend anyone), Bad Character Choices, SUSPENSE, ANGST, In Namjoon we trust, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, suppressed feelings, deranged psychopaths, guns, gore, Outlaw gives off big collector vibes, and I mean that literally, 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!

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In the center of the New Oslo Space Administration, a hall that once buzzed with celebration now sat heavy with silence. The walls, scrubbed to a relentless white, gleamed under the clinical glare of overhead lights—so clean it was almost aggressive, as if any trace of real life had been wiped out long ago. Above, thin panels of recessed lighting poured down a harsh, surgical brightness that flattened every edge and erased every shadow. Comfort had never been part of the blueprint.

The ceiling stretched high overhead, a lattice of glass-smooth alloy and layered panels, packed with pale, cold lights that made everything below look stark and brittle. What used to be a press hall—a place where new orbital colonies were announced with champagne and handshakes—now buzzed faintly with a low, nervous current. Reporters filled the sharply angled rows of seating, sitting stiffly, their faces tight with the kind of apprehension that kept them quiet. No one dared to break the stillness. Only the distant whirr of surveillance drones and the faint, mechanical ticking from the timekeepers embedded in the walls stirred the air.

Beneath the sterile flood of artificial daylight, Yoongi Min stood alone.

He wasn’t exactly young anymore, but he wasn’t old either—caught in that quiet middle place carved out by years of navigating crises and silent, sleepless nights in war rooms. His stance was rigid, trained over decades to betray no fear. His hair was slicked back, the first hints of gray just beginning to thread at his temples. His face, pale in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone who had lived most of his life under the twin suns of Aguerra Prime, showed the fine beginnings of lines around his eyes and mouth.

In his hands, he held a red folder—simple, worn, almost inconspicuous. The spine sagged from too many openings; the corners were frayed, softened by time and handling. It looked like the kind of thing that might get overlooked in a place like this. It wasn’t.

When Yoongi finally spoke, the sound of his voice caught the room off guard. It wasn’t loud or commanding—just steady. Low. Controlled in a way that made you listen closer without meaning to. His S’s carried a faint rasp, like the tail-end of static on an old comms channel. There was something about it—like the voice of someone used to delivering bad news, and doing it carefully.

“At zero four thirty local standard,” he began, each word unhurried, shaped with a kind of quiet finality, “NOSA’s orbital tracking array picked up an object—a fast-moving meteor that crossed paths with the civilian transport Hunter-Gratzner, en route to New Mecca.”

The name dropped like a stone. Not just data. Not just a ship. That name meant something.

The Hunter-Gratzner had been missing for over a month. People stopped saying it out loud after the first few days—just whispered it in prayers or on old signal boards, hoping for something. Anything. It wasn’t just a transport. It was families. Workers. Students. It was a hundred hopes wrapped in one hull, gone silent.

“The impact disabled its navigational systems,” Yoongi continued. “The vessel lost control and crash-landed on an uninhabited planet. Designation: M6-117.”

He paused—not for drama, but because the truth needed air.

Then, quieter, “Hades.”

That name, too, wasn’t new. Every pilot had heard it, tucked in the corners of old space. A place that didn’t show up clearly on starcharts, like the universe itself was trying to forget it. Lost ships. Broken signals. A survey team that went dark three decades ago and never came back. Their names redacted, their logs buried.

Yoongi’s hands shifted slightly around the red folder.

“There were forty souls aboard,” he said. “Eight crew. Thirty-two passengers. Captain Theodore Marshall died on impact. The co-pilot, Y/N Y/L/N, took command. Navigator Gregory Shields initiated emergency protocol. He didn’t survive the first day.”

He read the names slowly. Like each one deserved to land.

Yoongi stood at the podium, shoulders square, the folder in his hands marked only by a NOSA emblem and an older classification tag that had been partially scratched out—CONFIDENTIAL | LEVEL FOUR.

He flipped it open again, even though the pages weren’t necessary anymore. He knew the story by heart.

“There’s evidence the ship’s trajectory wasn’t an accident,” he said, tone sharpening—not louder, but with precision. “Navigator Gregory Shields manually altered course before entering cryo-stasis. There were no backup checks. No secondary alerts. The system didn’t flag the reroute because the flightpath remained mathematically valid... just deadly.”

He looked out across the press chamber.

“We believe he was paid. And a bounty hunter was onboard.”

The air shifted. Shoulders tensed. It wasn’t dramatic, just quiet—sharp-eyed people registering new gravity.

“The hunter’s target,” Yoongi said, “was Jungkook Jeon.”

The room went still. That name didn’t need context, but it carried weight just the same. Jeon had lived at the edge of myth—once a Strikeforce Ranger, elite beyond measure, then a traitor during the Sigma Uprising, blamed for the assassination of his own commanding officer. Disappeared after the Outer Rim collapsed. His name was a ghost story whispered in mercenary camps and prison transports.

“Jeon was aboard as a prisoner,” Yoongi continued. “Chained. Under heavy sedation. Transported under warrant for extraction.”

A voice from the right side of the room: “So this wasn’t just a transport. This was a bounty run disguised as a civilian haul?”

“Yes,” Yoongi confirmed. “The civilian manifest was real. The bounty was embedded—intentionally quiet. Shields altered the route, likely paid directly. We believe the plan was to bring the ship out of NOSA-controlled lanes, into a no-response corridor. Clean handoff. Simple extraction.”

He let a beat pass. “It wasn’t simple.”

A woman in the second row stood halfway. “And this was all done with no oversight? No NOSA fail-safes?”

Yoongi nodded once. “Shields had access and authority. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent—just a course change during the stasis window. But the route intersected with a meteor cluster. The ship was struck. The shielding failed. They went down on M6-117.”

He flipped a page in the folder—not for show, just rhythm. Anchoring.

“M6-117 has three suns. A tri-helix orbit. For most of its cycle, the surface stays in daylight—years of sun. Harsh terrain. Deep ravines. But once every twenty-two Earth months, the planetary orbit aligns with its moon cluster.”

A larger screen behind him flickered to life, showing orbital diagrams, eclipse projections.

“The result,” Yoongi said, “is full eclipse. No starlight. No planetary glow. Just pitch black.”

He paused. Not long—just enough to make space for what came next.

“And when the dark comes... something else comes with it.”

Front row, an older reporter with deep orbital tattoos leaned in. “You’re confirming... that this wasn’t just an ecological anomaly?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “This wasn’t weather. It wasn’t terrain. Thirty years ago, a NOSA survey team landed on M6-117. Their transmissions lasted just under forty hours. Fragments only—distorted visuals, audio clips of movement in the dark, what sounded like screams echoing in underground tunnels. Then... silence. Mission loss was recorded as environmental failure. But those files were quietly buried.”

The screen behind him showed a grainy image—a partial silhouette of something hunched and clawed. The timestamp was thirty-two years old.

“We now know the cause was biological. Subterranean predators. Nocturnal. Carnivorous. Hyper-aggressive. We call them Bioraptors.”

A reporter near the back—one of the offworlders—asked, “Why didn’t NOSA return?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment.

“We didn’t want to believe what we saw. The risk was too high. And honestly... no one thought anyone would land there again.”

Another voice: “The survivors didn’t know, did they?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “They had no idea.”

He shifted, the story finally ready to unfold in full.

“After the crash, Co-pilot Y/N Y/L/N assumed command. Captain Marshall died on impact. Shields was killed within hours—exact cause unknown. Y/L/N organized what remained of the crew and passengers: two Earth prospectors, a relics dealer, the bounty hunter, a child, a holy man, his missionaries—and Jeon.”

That name again.

“Jeon was restrained at first. But Y/N fought for his release. Not out of trust—but survival. They were exposed. No food. No comms. They needed every capable hand.”

“Did he help?” someone asked bluntly.

Yoongi met their gaze. “Yes. He saved lives.”

The screen now displayed a map of their path across the surface—miles on foot. Some terrain shown in red: areas later confirmed to house tunnel openings.

“They moved at day. Hunted parts from old wrecks. Found a barely functional skiff, hidden in the ravine. Y/N and one of the prospectors—Bindi Ariki—repaired it using power cells pulled from a derelict mining rig. They had a window. One hour before total darkness.”

He breathed.

“Four made it: Y/N, Jeon, the child, the holy man. Bioraptors were already emerging, and took out the others as they made the long trek to the other wrecksite. Y/N secured the child and the holy man on the shuttle. She went back for Jeon.”

Another long pause.

“They almost made it.”

Now the room was hushed. Every note of Yoongi’s voice landed like weight on a scale.

“She carried him. He’d taken a strike defending the others. But just before they reached the light—the Bioraptors took her.”

A reporter whispered, “Her body?”

“Never recovered,” Yoongi said. “But her story didn’t end there.”

He opened a final section of the folder.

“The shuttle was captured in orbit by a mercenary vessel. We believe they were hired to reclaim Jeon. All three passengers were taken. But Jeon turned the ambush. Freed the other two. Killed the crew. He died from wounds sustained during the escape.”

There was a silence then—not empty, but full of something impossible to name.

“The shuttle landed at New Mecca eleven standard days later. The child and the holy man survived. And they told us everything.”

Yoongi closed the folder one last time.

“Co-pilot Y/N Y/L/N perished on M6-117. She will be remembered—for her leadership. Her strength. And the future she gave others a chance to reach.”

Another hand went up. This time cautious. “Do you believe this was preventable?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I believe the people who lived owe everything to the people who didn’t. And I believe if NOSA had listened to its own lost team thirty years ago… maybe this planet would’ve stayed off our charts. Maybe a course reroute would’ve raised a flag. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.”

A few seconds passed.

“But if someone had to fall... there’s no one else we would’ve trusted to lead them in the dark.”

He stepped back from the podium.

One Week Earlier

Jungkook leaned against the edge of the pilot’s console, arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed on the stars slipping past the viewport. The slow drift of space didn’t calm him—if anything, it made the silence feel heavier. Like the galaxy was holding its breath.

Namjoon stood nearby, quiet now, whatever he’d needed to say already out there between them. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low. Not ceremonial, not polished. Just quiet. Honest.

“It’s sad,” he said, not taking his eyes off the void. “Leaving her down there like that. Her family’s never gonna get anything. No closure. No funeral. Just silence.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and tired.

“She deserved better.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened, and he stayed focused on the stars like they might give him something back. They didn’t.

Namjoon gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else, and let his hand rest lightly on the edge of the console. Then he turned and walked off, the soft hiss of the door sealing behind him.

Jungkook stayed.

The hum of the ship was the only sound now—low and steady, mechanical breathing. After a while, he pushed off the console and moved down the corridor, his boots barely making a sound against the metal. The ship always felt bigger at night. Too much space. Too few people.

He passed by the small berth where Leo slept. The girl had been having nightmares again—loud ones. Screaming in her sleep, scratching at the sheets. The kind of fear that didn’t care whether you were awake or not. He paused outside the door. Thought about checking in. He’d do it later. Make sure she hadn’t clawed herself bloody again.

He kept walking, but his mind didn’t come with him.

Frenchie, that’s what she called herself. The nickname came out of nowhere, like she didn’t think twice about it. He never asked why. Figured he’d get the story eventually—when things slowed down, when they weren’t fighting for air or light. He didn’t think there wouldn’t be time.

They’d known each other for what, a day? Maybe a little more, if you counted the way time stretched and bled on that planet. One day. That was it. But it didn’t matter. That day carved her into him deeper than most people did in a lifetime.

By the time he reached his quarters, the lights were already dim. He didn’t turn them up. Just slid onto the narrow cot, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto. It didn’t.

She was still with him. Not her face exactly—faces fade. It was the shape of her, the presence. That feeling she left in the room, even when she wasn’t in it. The way she looked at him—direct, unafraid, like she saw something in him worth dragging back into the light.

He let out a breath. Short. Almost a laugh. Almost.

If she could see him now, wherever the hell dead people end up, she’d probably have that crooked little smirk on her face. The one she wore right before she’d crack a joke or kick someone’s ass just to make a point.

Look what I did to you, Jungkook. You’re not such a complete bastard after all.

He almost smiled at the thought. Almost.

He loved that mouth of hers. Sharp as hell. Didn't let anything slide. Not even him.

But the truth didn’t care about charm. The truth was colder.

Memories don’t die. They just stay there, quiet and heavy. Reminders.

And she was wrong. He hadn’t changed. Not in any real way. Maybe she’d made him hesitate. Maybe she’d made him hope. But it didn’t last. It couldn’t.

If she’d survived… if they’d somehow made it off that rock together… he would’ve ruined it. Ruined her. Not because he wanted to. Just because that’s what he did. She got too close. Made him forget for a second who he was, what he was built for. Made him wonder about things that had no business existing in his world.

And that kind of thing? That was dangerous.

She’d looked at him like there was something human still buried in there. And she believed in it. Believed in him.

He could still hear her voice—soft, steady, maybe even a little sad when she said it: “There’s got to be some part of you that wants to rejoin the human race.”

She meant it. God help her, she really thought he could come back from wherever he’d gone.

And that scared the shit out of him more than anything with claws or teeth.

She thought he stayed with the group—her, Leo, Namjoon—because of her. Because she pulled him back. Maybe she had. Maybe that was the worst part.

But he told himself it was smart. Tactical. Safety in numbers. Better odds if help came. And if help didn’t come? He’d outlast them. He always did.

That’s what he told himself.

Then Leo had looked up at him, covered in ash and sweat and blood, and said “Never had a doubt.”

And he’d believed it. She trusted him. Just like Y/N had.

And Y/N… she’d protected him. Lied for him. Not to save herself, not even to keep the peace. She did it because she thought he deserved a chance.

No one had ever done that for him.

And now she was gone.

And all the things he didn’t say—couldn’t say—pressed down on his chest like a second gravity.

He didn’t save her.

Didn’t even try. He froze. Watched it happen. Watched her turn around for him.

And now he didn’t know how to feel.

He hated her for it. For being that stupid. For believing in something that wasn’t there.

But he loved her for it too.

And that tore him up worse than any wound.

Lying there in the dark, the hum of the ship in his ears, he realized he didn’t even know what he was supposed to feel. Grief? Guilt? Rage? All of it? None of it?

She died going back for him.

And he couldn’t find one single reason why she would.

Not for him.

Not for what he was.

He turned onto his side, the cot creaking beneath him, the thin blanket cool against his skin.

It had only been three days since they left the planet.

Three days.

And already, he thought about her more with each one. Her face getting clearer the further he got from where she died.

The alarm wasn’t just loud—it felt alive. It screamed through the skiff like it was trying to claw its way out of the metal, shrill and unrelenting, bouncing down the narrow corridor walls until it became part of your blood pressure. Red strobes pulsed overhead, flooding the cockpit in waves of crimson that hit the eyes like a warning flare. The light moved like a heartbeat—fast, panicked, dying.

The control panel was a mess. Warnings stacked on warnings, lights blinking out of sync, system failures cascading like dominos. Every button screamed for attention. The nav screen had gone from glitchy to almost useless, flashing garbled data in sickly orange script.

“Hull breach contained. Engines operating at 170 percent capacity,” the onboard AI reported, clinical as ever.

The ship didn’t care if they made it.

Jungkook moved fast, but there was no panic in his hands—just speed. Muscle memory. Focus. His jaw was set tight beneath his goggles, sweat stinging his eyes, but his fingers never fumbled. They flew across the console, rerouting power from places that didn’t have any left to give.

The ship was failing. He could feel it in the floor—each tremble under his boots more desperate than the last. The whole frame groaned like it was holding its breath, like it knew it wasn’t going to make it.

Behind him, Leo sat stiff in the co-pilot’s chair. Her knees were pulled up slightly, boots braced against the bulkhead like she was trying to ground herself in something. Her patched-up jumpsuit hung loose on her, and she looked even smaller in the red light. Quiet, but not calm. Her lips were pressed in a hard line, but her eyes were wide—too wide. She wasn’t looking at the controls anymore. She was watching Jungkook.

On the other side, Namjoon was still. His hands worked slowly over a string of worn prayer beads. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Just the rhythm of his lips—like maybe if he kept going, the ship wouldn’t tear apart around them.

“Engine and hull failure imminent under current parameters,” the computer said, calm and cold.

The skiff jolted. Hard.

Metal screamed. Panels rattled. Jungkook slammed his hand out to steady himself, then shoved another lever forward with too much force. The ship groaned louder in protest.

Outside the cockpit, the Trinidad filled the viewport. Big. Beautiful. Terrifying. A cruiser built like a cathedral—sharp lines, gold-trimmed plating, gunmetal veins running beneath polished armor. It wasn’t flying so much as lurking, and the tether line pulling them toward it felt more like a noose than a rescue.

The cable had them. They were being dragged—no propulsion, no fight left in the engine. Just a dead weight being reeled into the belly of something much bigger.

Leo leaned forward, voice low, bitter. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Jungkook didn’t look up. No point. No time. Bad feelings didn’t change trajectory.

He didn’t speak.

The cockpit dimmed. Systems started dying one by one. Screens faded. The noise dropped away like someone had turned down the volume on the whole universe. The engine gave one last wheeze of heat, and then—nothing.

The ship went still.

Jungkook exhaled and sat back, his body finally catching up to the silence. His goggles reflected the last flicker from the dash, one final blink before darkness took over.

He turned his head just slightly. Looked at Leo.

“First you’re a boy, then a girl, now a psychic,” he said, voice dry. “Careful what you wish for.”

Leo let out a shaky breath. Could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been panic. Hard to tell.

Before she could answer, a voice cracked over the comms.

“Unidentified craft. State your purpose and contents.”

The three of them froze.

Namjoon’s fingers stopped on the beads. Leo’s expression snapped back to blank. Jungkook’s hands hovered over the dead controls.

Out the viewport, the Trinidad opened up. Massive bay doors unfurled with precision, the glow of internal lights spilling out like a halo around a mouth too wide. Inside, the crew moved with calm efficiency—figures in white uniforms, their faces obscured by interface helmets. Augmented reality panels glowed across their armor, data syncing in real-time as they prepared to receive… whatever they thought this was.

And at the center of it all stood Typhon.

Tall. Pale. Designed, not grown. His boots echoed as he walked across the command deck, each step deliberate. No wasted motion. He didn’t need to raise his voice—when he spoke again, the ship seemed to carry it.

“Unidentified craft, state your purpose and contents.”

Jungkook’s voice came through on comms, flat and casual. “Name’s Lee. Just a hauler. Ship blew on a short run. Got two civvies onboard. No cargo. Nothing worth selling.”

There was a pause. Then the faint sound of data being pulled, processed. A technician tilted their head. Something blinked red on their visor.

The bounty came up.

1,126,000 UD. Dead or alive.

Typhon smiled. Just a little. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well then, Mr. Lee,” he said, “what brings you this far out? Not much out here but dust and wreckage.”

Jungkook didn’t skip a beat. “Bounty hunter. Got turned around. Fuel cell blew. Nothing noble.”

Typhon tilted his head. “Looks like we’re in the same business.”

Up on a raised platform at the rear of the deck, a woman sat—motionless, veiled in white, her face hidden beneath layers of fabric that shimmered like glass. She made no sound. Just watched. And then, slowly, she nodded once.

Typhon didn’t hesitate.

“Bring them in.”

The cable pulled tight with a mechanical groan. The skiff jerked slightly as the slack disappeared, and then it began the slow crawl forward, dragged through space like a hooked fish.

Leo stared out the viewport, eyes fixed on the massive bulk of the Trinidad ahead. The cruiser’s hangar doors were yawning open now, gaping like some metal beast waiting to feed.

“They’re reeling us in,” she said, voice flat, thin.

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just kept one hand on the side panel, steadying himself as the ship was drawn into the docking bay.

The Trinidad swallowed the skiff whole.

A dull thud echoed through the hull as the landing clamps hit. There was a brief hiss—pressure equalizing. Then another thud. Heavier. Final. The bay doors slammed shut behind them with a clang that reverberated down the frame like a coffin being sealed.

“Ship is secure in Bay 3.” The voice from overhead was automated, clipped. No warmth. No welcome.

Silence followed. Not peaceful—oppressive. A kind of silence that felt earned. Like something had died in it.

Jungkook struck a match.

The flame caught fast, flickering orange in the dim cockpit. For a second, it lit his face—sweat-slick, focused, jaw tight. Then he touched it to the tip of a handheld torch and let it roar to life.

He dropped to a knee near the bulkhead panel and pressed the flame to the ship’s internal fire sensor. The heat would fry the scanner for just long enough—muddle the data, scramble the signatures. One last trick before the curtain went up.

Namjoon leaned forward, watching. “That’s… clever.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He wasn’t doing this for points. It was the kind of thing you did when you didn’t plan to get caught—and definitely didn’t plan to explain yourself.

Leo glanced toward him, uncertainty in her voice now. “You think that’s gonna work? That it’ll be enough?”

Still no answer.

The torch hissed, spitting heat. A few more seconds. The sensor casing blackened and warped.

Jungkook muttered, just loud enough to cut through the quiet: “Hold your breath.”

Across the hangar, in the Trinidad’s command deck, the mood was sterile and sharp. The lighting was low, just enough to make the glowing data walls pop. Readouts flowed along the arc of the room—everything from structural scans to environmental profiles to biometrics.

The skiff showed up on every screen. Docked. Vulnerable. Slowly being dissected line by line by the ship’s scanners.

Typhon stood dead center in the room. Tall. Unshaken. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift his weight. His voice didn’t rise unless there was a reason.

“Report.”

One word. That was enough.

Freddy, perched at the main terminal, squinted at the data. “Two adult signatures. Weak. Third… not consistent. Could be residual heat. Could be a juvenile. Or…” He hesitated. “Could just be engine wash.”

Typhon didn’t even blink. “Find out.”

Back in the skiff, the torch died. Jungkook closed the panel. Leo was sitting stiff, shoulders drawn in tight, breathing shallow. Her arms were wrapped across her chest, her fingers dug into the sleeves of her jumpsuit. Namjoon whispered a prayer, low and steady—maybe for them. Maybe for whoever walked through that hatch first.

On the bridge, Freddy frowned.

“Running a tighter sweep… wait.”

Typhon didn’t move, but the air changed around him. “What is it.”

Freddy blinked hard, tapping the screen. “They’re gone.”

“Gone,” Typhon repeated.

Freddy nodded, still staring at the monitor. “All three heat signatures just… vanished. Like they were never there.”

Typhon’s jaw shifted. Just once. No emotion. Just recalibration.

“Full breach protocol,” he said. “Prep the team.”

Far below deck, a low alarm chimed. A hatch slammed open. Boots hit steel in tight, rhythmic strides. A dozen mercenaries—lean, geared, practiced—moved fast down the corridor. Armor plates clicked into place. Mag-locks on their boots sparked and sealed.

Typhon moved with them, pacing like a man walking into a boardroom, not a breach op. At the hangar, two sentries were already posted.

The first—Gunner—leaned casually against the wall, cigarette tucked behind his ear. His armor was scratched up, half-unzipped, a permanent smirk carved into his face.

The second was all silence. A woman with a close-cut buzz, a black eye-patch, and an expression that didn’t change for anything.

Typhon stopped between them. “Anything?”

Gunner shrugged. “I locked it myself. No motion. No breach. Atmosphere’s flatlined.”

Typhon stepped to the window. Looked out at the skiff—small, dented, still.

“Pressurize.”

The air hissed into the bay—slow at first, then building. It moved like a whisper, filling the room with a quiet, tense hum. A soft green light blinked to life on the outer seal.

“Green for breach,” Gunner said. “O2’s thin, but it’ll hold.”

Typhon stepped back and gave a single nod—sharp, economical.

The mercenaries moved in.

They advanced without a word, rifles up, line tight. Each step was practiced, precise. No wasted motion. One broke formation—a smaller guy in a sleek zero-G rig, fast and quiet. He bounded forward in low gravity, using the bay floor like a springboard. Three strong strides and he hit the side of the skiff, magnetized boots clamping on with a heavy clunk. He crawled across the hull like a spider, hugging the curvature of the wing, working fast toward the hatch.

No noise. Just the soft whir of his suit servos and the faint click of tools being unpacked.

A small puck-shaped device was placed over the hatch lock. It blinked once, then started spinning—a magnetic bypass tool, top-grade. He leaned back slightly, fingers flying over the interface.

Hiss.

The seal disengaged with a low pop.

And then everything went to hell.

The hatch blew outward with a concussive blast—a contained charge that wasn’t designed to destroy, but to stun. A wall of thick, white foam surged from the opening, dense and fast, coating everything in seconds. No sound—just pressure. Pure force in a vacuum.

Three mercs were knocked off their feet immediately. One slammed into a wall and stayed down. Two vanished into the mass—swallowed whole. The lockpicker was thrown clear, landing hard and skidding across the deck, foam trailing from his gear. He choked, clawing at his faceplate.

“What the hell is this?” he gasped. “Foam?”

Typhon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed, calculating.

“A trap.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t have to.

“Fall back. Now.”

Some obeyed. Some didn’t get the chance. The foam wasn’t ordinary. It writhed—chemically reactive, thickening by the second, dragging bodies into itself like a slow tidal wave. A merc screamed, muffled and short-lived, his voice dying under the weight of the compound.

Fire suppressant—repurposed. Smart. Brutal. Designed to suck the air out of lungs and silence screams before they started.

The remaining mercs at the perimeter held their ground, rifles aimed, scanning for movement. The bay lights stuttered once as backup systems kicked in.

Typhon didn’t move. He just watched.

“He has to breathe sometime,” he muttered.

And then he did.

Leo surfaced first, breaking through the foam with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, panicked. One of the mercs opened fire instantly. A tight burst. The rounds tore into the foam just as she ducked back under, disappearing in a churn of white.

Namjoon came up next—gasped, blinked, gone. Another burst of rounds shredded the air where he’d been.

Then silence.

Then chaos.

Jungkook burst from the foam like a goddamn missile—silent, fast, feral. He didn’t pause. Didn’t look. Just moved.

One merc went down before he even registered the threat—a crushed windpipe under a sharp elbow. The second tried to turn, but Jungkook disarmed him with a clean strike, spun the rifle in his hands, and used the butt to collapse the man’s throat.

A third stumbled backward. Jungkook kicked him square in the chest—sent him flying into a support beam. The crunch was loud even through sealed helmets.

He wasn’t fighting. He was erasing.

He vaulted to the ledge—two more waiting. He stripped a weapon from one, slammed it across the other's helmet, and pinned the second to the bulkhead with his forearm. The rifle in his other hand came up like a whisper.

From the foam, Leo reemerged, soaked and gasping, dragging a rifle with her.

She caught her breath just enough to shout, “That’s nothing, scarecrow! He’s gonna kick your—”

A round screamed past her head. She yelped, ducked, then was pulled under again by the shifting foam, her shout swallowed mid-word.

Typhon watched all of it from behind the glass. His lips curled, just slightly. Not amusement. Appreciation.

“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” he said over comms—voice calm, clear, cutting.

Jungkook didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up. Another merc lunged at him with a baton—Jungkook caught the swing mid-arc and drove a knee into the man’s ribs, then tossed him into the wall like a rag doll. The impact echoed through the bay.

Blood—small, floating spheres of it—drifted in the low gravity, glinting under the harsh lights like dark rubies.

But Typhon wasn’t watching the fight anymore.

His eyes had locked on Leo.

She’d dragged herself back up, coughing foam out of her lungs, just in time to see Typhon step forward. His boot slammed into her chest, dropping her hard. The air left her in a sharp grunt.

She gasped, arms raised, stunned but not broken.

Typhon leveled his pistol at her, one eye narrowed down the sight.

“Stay down.”

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. There was something in the set of her jaw—a refusal to break, even when it made no sense.

Jungkook’s voice cut through, low and cold.

“Call off your lapdog.”

Typhon didn’t glance back. But his finger curled slightly on the trigger.

Jungkook stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He had one of the mercs pinned beneath his knee, a curved shiv at the man’s throat. The kind of weapon that wasn’t standard issue. The kind that had stories behind it.

“Before his trying to impress you gets him killed,” Jungkook said, eyes locked on Typhon.

For a second, everything held still.

The foam churned in lazy spirals across the bay, thick and clinging, full of bodies and blood that hadn’t yet settled. Rifles were up. Triggers hovered. No one moved. Not yet. The whole hangar was waiting—watching.

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

He stood in the middle of the wreckage like it belonged to him. Eyes forward, breath even. Hands still, but ready. Every inch of him was wound tight beneath the surface. A man born from this kind of chaos.

Above them, movement.

A figure stepped into the light overhead—graceful, deliberate. Like a performer walking onto a stage she already owned.

Loralai Youngblood.

Her robe was bone-white, trailing behind her in slow waves. It hung too clean for a place like this, almost religious in its softness. But as she moved, the fabric parted just enough to reveal a sleek, polished exo-frame beneath. Cybernetic. Expensive. More sculpted than engineered. A whisper of otherworldly tech that didn’t belong in a hangar full of mercs and corpses.

“Am I that easy to spot?” she asked, voice lilting, amused. “You make it sound like I enjoy the drama.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as his gaze snapped to her. “Call it what you want. Just tell him to lower the damn weapon.”

Youngblood drifted closer, eyes skimming over the scene without concern. Her smile was polite, but thin—like something she wore out of habit, not emotion.

“You’ll have to forgive Typhon,” she said. “He gets ahead of himself sometimes. It's part of the job.” She looked down at the carnage like it was spilled coffee on her favorite rug. “Still. Can’t say I blame him.”

She met Jungkook’s eyes. “You have a reputation, Jungkook.”

He didn’t answer. She already knew he wouldn’t.

“Yes, Jungkook. I know your name. And more than just that,” she added, like she was letting him in on a secret.

His voice dropped. Gravel and warning. “Keep digging and you’ll find something sharp.”

Her laugh was soft. Almost kind. Almost.

“I’m not here to fight you. Not unless you make me.” She nodded to the foam-streaked floor. “But if it saves me another cleanup crew and a PR nightmare… I’d appreciate if you dropped the blade.”

Jungkook’s grip tightened just slightly. “Not gonna happen.”

Her smile flickered. Not gone, just... cracked.

She gave a subtle look to Typhon.

The blade at Leo’s forehead shifted—barely. Just enough to leave a thin line of red down her skin. She didn’t scream. But her breath caught. Her hands twitched in the air—raised, trembling.

“The girl,” Jungkook said flatly, “doesn’t matter to me.”

Youngblood raised an eyebrow. “Then help me understand. Why risk this much for someone you don’t care about?” She turned to Leo, then back again. “Unless, of course... she got to you.”

Leo’s breath hitched. Her shoulders were shaking now, barely holding together. Namjoon had finally emerged from the foam, his robes soaked and streaked, blood and suppressant clinging to his skin. He watched silently, his expression grim.

But Jungkook didn’t move.

Everything around him had slowed—background noise drowned out by the way Leo was looking at him. Not begging. Not pleading. Just watching. Like she needed to know, right then, what kind of man she’d followed through hell.

One tear slid from her eye. It caught the light.

“She’s a cover story,” Jungkook said quietly. “That’s all.”

The words hung in the air. Dry. Final. Like smoke from a long-dead fire.

“You shoot her now,” he added, eyes still locked on Typhon, “you’re just saving me the effort.”

Youngblood’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a grin pulling at the corner.

“Then I have your blessing.”

Typhon’s grip shifted. He adjusted the barrel just slightly—one finger already beginning its pull—

Thunk.

Jungkook’s shiv spun through the air in a perfect arc. The blade struck the rifle’s barrel and knocked it upward just as the trigger was pulled. The shot cracked into the bay ceiling with a sharp metallic ping, sending sparks raining down.

Leo gasped, hands flying up to shield her face. The shot hadn’t touched her, but it had been close enough to feel.

Typhon didn’t flinch. He didn’t even react. But his finger eased off the trigger.

Youngblood didn’t turn around. She just started walking away, her robe trailing like nothing had happened at all.

“I think I know you better than you know yourself,” she said over her shoulder. “And I think you’re lying.”

Jungkook watched her go, jaw clenched, saying nothing.

“Now’s not the time,” he muttered under his breath.

The merc still pinned beneath his boot struggled weakly, reaching for something—anything. Jungkook shifted his weight. There was a snap. Then stillness.

“Lock them down,” Youngblood called out. “We’re finished here.”

Typhon stepped back. He holstered the weapon, but not before giving Leo a final look—impassive, clinical. A single drop of blood still traced its way down her temple.

Mercs poured into the bay like water breaking through a dam. All business. No adrenaline. Just cleanup.

Leo didn’t resist when one of them grabbed her by the collar and hauled her upright. Her feet scraped, boots dragging across the floor. Her eyes were unfocused now, but not broken. She didn’t cry out. Didn’t cry at all.

Jungkook didn’t fight either.

But his eyes never stopped moving.

And if you looked closely—really looked—you’d see it:

He was counting. Doors. Guns. Guards.

Behind the group, Typhon fell in step beside Youngblood. His voice was low, barely audible over the clank of boots on metal.

“My apologies.”

Youngblood let out a small laugh. It didn’t warm anything. “Typhon, you know what those mean to me.” She didn’t look at him. “You did what you were told. A few bodies? Acceptable cost.”

Typhon nodded once, just enough to acknowledge the blood on his hands wasn’t a mistake—it was math.

“What about him?” he asked.

Youngblood’s pace slowed, her lips pulling into something between a smirk and a promise. “Slowly,” she said. “Bring Jungkook to the conservatory. I’ve got… something in mind.”

“And the others?”

She waved her hand like brushing crumbs from a table. “Unfreeze more mercs. Replacements are easy.”

Outside, the skiff that had brought them was jettisoned from the bay like trash. No ceremony. It tumbled once, struck the side of the Trinidad’s engine housing, and bounced off, spiraling into the dark.

Inside the cruiser, Jungkook lay strapped to an immobilizer—arms pinned, chest locked down. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look afraid. He just watched.

Namjoon and Leo were ahead of him, forced down a long corridor lit by strips of flickering white light. The walls were metal, matte black, cold. Industrial. Functional.

Leo’s feet barely touched the floor—her captor dragging her like she wasn’t even worth the full effort. Namjoon walked, hands bound at the wrists, back straight. Calm.

“Ever seen a ship like this before?” Namjoon asked, voice quiet.

“Plenty,” Jungkook muttered. “Just trying to figure out how they fit the pieces together.”

Namjoon’s gaze swept the walls—lined in cryo-pods, dozens of them. Some empty, others with shadows barely visible through the frost. Men. Women. Frozen for a reason.

“It’s a plantation model,” Namjoon said. “Ships like this leave port loaded with mercs and bounty contracts. They float for months. Years, if the crew holds together.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Growing soldiers instead of crops.”

Namjoon nodded once. “Bodies on one end. Labor on the other.”

Leo’s voice cut in, barely above a whisper. “Just add heat.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to her. She wasn’t being sarcastic. Just tired. But she was still sharp.

He turned his attention to Namjoon again. “You know a lot for a holy man.”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. “I listen.”

Jungkook’s smirk was brief. “Gotta be a real special brand of desperate to sign up for this kind of hell.”

A merc walking beside them stopped. Turned. Big guy. Thick armor. No patience. He slammed the butt of his rifle into Jungkook’s face without a word.

The crack echoed down the hall. Jungkook’s head jerked sideways, lip split open.

He spat blood to the floor, gave the man a slow once-over. “That wasn’t about the comment,” he said flatly. “You just needed a win today.”

Leo barked out a small, bitter laugh. She didn’t smile for long, but it was enough.

The corridor opened into a wider passage lined with more guards. The temperature dropped—not cold, exactly, but sterile. Like a morgue. The walls were clean. Too clean.

At the far end, a new voice barked: “Split ’em.”

The man who spoke—red hair, broad shoulders, hands like slabs of alloy—grabbed Leo by the shoulder and jerked her to the side. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it made a point. His name tag said BYRNE, but the way he moved said don’t test me.

Leo tensed but didn’t fight. Not yet.

Byrne looked at Namjoon. “You too, preacher.”

Namjoon nodded slightly, the expression on his face unreadable. Peaceful. Maybe performative. Maybe not. “I’ll pray.”

“For me?” Jungkook called out, half-laughing through blood.

Namjoon didn’t look back. “Not for me.”

Jungkook snorted.

Byrne shoved Leo toward a side hall. “Let’s go.”

Leo twisted in his grip, just enough to look back. Her voice cracked around the edge when she shouted, “I’m not leaving you, Jungkook! I’ll find you!”

He didn’t respond.

But for the first time, his expression changed. Not panic. Not pain. Just something tight around the eyes. Not for himself—for her. Because he knew her well enough to believe she meant it. And that kind of loyalty? That kind of promise?

That could get her killed.

He didn’t say a word as the guards rolled him down the corridor. The table moved smooth, gliding over polished floors that gleamed too much for a ship like this. But Jungkook wasn’t focused on the ride. His eyes stayed busy.

Counting boots. Watching doors. Marking every camera and shadow.

They wheeled him through a heavy door that hissed open like a lung exhaling stale breath.

The room inside was... strange.

It was clean—painfully so. Every surface gleamed under cold, sterile light, but that light wasn’t white. It was a deep, electric blue that made the shadows hum and the edges of things blur. There was something wrong with the color—it made depth look flat, made solid things feel translucent. Unreal.

The air hit him like frost. Thin and cold, dry enough to burn in his nose. The kind of climate you set for machines, not people.

Then there were the shapes.

Figures lined the walls and corners, lit from below by recessed floor lights. They weren’t statues exactly. Not in the traditional sense. They were... human-shaped. Mostly. But the more he looked, the less he liked what he saw. Arms bent wrong. Ribs that flared out too far. Mouths frozen in screams that looked too detailed to be sculpted.

In the center of the room stood a towering cone—matte black, smooth, unnaturally reflective. It shimmered slightly in the ambient glow like it was absorbing the light, not reflecting it.

Around it: the figures. Silent. Watching.

“Set him down and leave,” Typhon said.

No ceremony. Just a flat command.

The mercs unlatched the restraints. No words, no glances. The table was wheeled out as fast as it had come in, vanishing through the thick doors with a quiet thunk.

Jungkook stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, his muscles stiff from being pinned down. The floor glowed faintly beneath his boots—each step lighting up as he walked. He didn’t like it. The tech was too quiet, too intentional.

He only got a few steps in before something caught his eye.

A statue. Human form. Nearly life-sized. The posture was... strange. Shoulders hunched, head tilted slightly, arms half-raised like it had been caught mid-reaction. There was power in it—muscle, tension—but also something broken in the stance. Like whoever it had been, they hadn’t died well.

The plaque at its base read: KILLER OF MEN: FURYA

Jungkook’s lips curled at the name. Familiar. He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. The detail was eerie—every muscle line, every pore. This wasn’t sculpture. This was capture. Preservation. A body flash-frozen in time.

His hand moved up, instinctive, almost curious—reaching toward the statue’s lip.

Then it moved.

A tongue flicked out—thin, fast, wet. Just enough to lick his fingertip.

He jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. “What the hell—”

“You like it?” a voice asked, silk-smooth and too amused.

Jungkook spun. Loralai Youngblood stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the blue glow, one hand holding a glass of something deep red that shimmered like blood in stasis. Her robe—long, silver-white—trailed behind her like it had its own gravity.

The Furyan statue turned toward her. Slowly. Like it knew who was in charge.

Typhon stepped up behind Jungkook. Fast. Too fast.

There was a sharp, clean stab of pain—something sliding into the base of his neck. He dropped to his knees, hands catching the floor just before his face hit. His body shook once, a cold fire racing down his spine.

“Son of a—” he growled through gritted teeth.

Youngblood took her time walking in. She set her glass on a sleek chrome pedestal, casual as if this was her parlor and not some waking nightmare.

“Precaution,” she said lightly, waving her hand. “If you get any ideas—say, murdering me—I press a button, and that little implant Typhon just gifted you? Well, let’s say it ends things... fast.”

Jungkook rose to his feet slowly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was low, rough. “You’re not freezing me like one of your art pieces.”

She smiled, sharp and effortless. “Of course not. You’re for my private collection.”

She gestured toward the cone at the center of the room. As she moved, the light shifted slightly—and with it, the illusion of the space broke.

There were more of them.

Dozens. Maybe more.

Not statues—people. Or what had been people. Bodies suspended mid-motion, frozen in positions that told a story: panic, rage, surrender. Every face locked in its final expression.

Jungkook’s eyes swept the room.

It wasn’t a conservatory.

It was a gallery of endings.

Commander Angel Hitchcock moved down the dim corridor like she owned it—not fast, but with purpose. Her green-and-gray environ-suit was scuffed from years of use, the kind you didn’t replace unless it stopped sealing. Her boots hit the grated floor with a steady metallic clang, each step echoing in the empty passage like a countdown.

The hallway was cold. Not just temperature—ship cold. Recycled air, too clean to trust. Walls lined with frost-sealed cryo-chambers, each one dark and quiet like coffins for the not-quite-dead.

She stopped at a wall-mounted panel and keyed in a string of commands. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale light on her face. Sharp angles. No makeup. No softness. Just function.

REVIVE: KING?

She didn’t hesitate. Tapped yes.

Hydraulics hissed. Gears locked and disengaged. A chamber slid out with a groan, as if the ship itself wasn’t thrilled about what it was waking up.

The cryo-tube extended from the wall like a tongue spitting something out. Frost cracked along the seams. Inside, a figure twitched.

The man hit the floor hard—bare skin on freezing steel. He dropped to his knees in the decontamination chamber, gasping, face slick with cryo-sweat. A second later, he surged forward like an animal. Slammed into the glass with a shoulder and let out a guttural snarl.

“Miss me?” he rasped, voice shredded from months—or maybe years—of silence.

Hitchcock didn’t flinch. Just stepped back, pressed a gloved finger to the controls, and started the purge.

Steam hissed around him, the automated system blasting him with decontaminants. He stood there like it was nothing, letting the chemicals wash off the freeze. He shook his head, flinging water like a dog, then grinned.

“Mmm,” he muttered, eyes wild but sharp. “Fresh as a f***in’ daisy.”

The chamber hissed open, and he stepped out barefoot, half-naked, still dripping. No shame. No nerves. Just motion.

Hitchcock handed him a duffel—worn, stitched, tagged. His gear.

She didn’t say his name. Just, “Suit up. Report in.”

That was all he needed.

King pulled the bag open and started pulling on layers without breaking eye contact, checking the straps on his boots like he was reacquainting himself with an old friend. Then came the weapon—a compact scatter rifle with a folding stock and enough kick to knock a man through a bulkhead. He flipped it once, just to hear it click.

“Must be something serious,” she said, dryly. “You don’t wake up someone like you unless things are about to go sideways.”

He looked at her, eyes gleaming, grin spreading like a bad idea.

“Sister,” he said, voice low and ready, “I certainly hope so.”

Youngblood moved through the gallery like she was giving a private tour. Her voice was light, casual, the kind of tone you'd expect at a high-end auction, not in a tomb full of monsters. Jungkook followed, every step slow, eyes scanning—part curiosity, part survival. Typhon stayed back, silent, but watching. Always watching.

Jungkook folded his arms, masking the unease crawling up his spine. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You track these people down, throw resources into catching ‘em alive… and this is what you do with them? Line ‘em up like trophies?”

Youngblood didn’t turn. Just smiled to herself as she drifted past another figure—one twisted so badly its silhouette barely looked human. “You’re missing the point,” she said, her voice velvet over steel.

Jungkook snorted quietly. “What point? You’ve got a gallery full of killers worth a fortune and you’re using them for interior design.”

She stopped in front of a pair—locked in some grotesque, almost intimate tangle. A man and a woman. Hard to tell which parts belonged to who. She reached out, ran her fingertips along the rigid curve of a shoulder, almost tender.

“You see waste,” she murmured. “I see legacy. These aren’t corpses, Jungkook. They’re monuments. Each one used to be the most dangerous person in some corner of the galaxy. Some of them entire systems wanted gone. The lives they took? Too many to count. Too many to forget.”

She looked at him then, her eyes sharp and bright. “I don’t waste that kind of history.”

Jungkook’s jaw shifted, his tone edged with disdain. “Yeah. Still not what I’d call ‘livin.’”

The light caught her face just right when her smile faded. It was only for a second, but something slipped through—something cold.

“They’re not dead,” she said softly.

He blinked, then turned to the statue she was facing. Looked closer.

The man’s face was frozen in a perfect expression. Calm. Too calm. His eyes slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of blinking—or trying to blink.

Youngblood leaned in. “Still breathing. Just barely. Cryo slowed to the point where seconds feel like days. No sleep. No escape. Just... thought.”

Jungkook’s stomach turned, but he kept his face blank. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“And what’s that supposed to be?” he asked. “Mercy?”

She walked again, drawing him deeper into the space. The gallery shifted around them—figures more twisted, more broken. Arms fused to spines. Mouths contorted in impossible ways. It stopped feeling like a collection and started feeling like a warning.

Eventually, they reached a curtain.

Thick. Heavy. Blood-red. The kind of fabric that looked like it had weight even when it didn’t move.

Youngblood paused, turned to him like a magician before the reveal.

“They’re conscious, Jungkook. Every second. The brain keeps going, trapped inside the same memory loop. Over and over.” Her voice dropped, almost reverent. “It’s a better sentence than anything a slam can give. No cells. No guards. Just… them. And who they were.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “And what do you think that turns them into?”

She smiled again, slow. “Art.”

He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Your taste is garbage.”

She didn’t react. Just gave a small nod.

“Typhon.”

The man stepped forward. One hand raised. A click.

The curtain rose.

The platform wasn’t a gallery. It was a pit—wide and deep, with metal railings lining the edge. Red lights pulsed beneath the floor, slow and rhythmic, like the place itself was breathing.

Two mercs stood at either side. One of them Jungkook recognized—a pig-faced bastard who’d grinned too much during the last scuffle.

Jungkook stepped up to the edge.

He stopped cold.

Below them, suspended over the void, were Namjoon and Leo.

Both stood barefoot on smooth, unstable spheres—barely the size of their feet. Hands cuffed behind their backs. Necks looped in thin suspension cords, tight enough that one bad move would tip the balance.

Namjoon’s head hung low, body trembling with the effort to stay upright. Leo’s knees were shaking visibly, her chin lifted in forced defiance—but her eyes searched the shadows, wild with fear.

Youngblood came to stand beside him, calm as ever. “This is the difference between you and me.”

He didn’t take his eyes off them. “Yeah,” he muttered. “You’re insane.”

She reached up, touched his cheek.

He flinched, but didn’t move.

“You don’t understand beauty,” she whispered. “Not yet. But you will.”

He shoved her hand away.

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” he said. “But I’m not your canvas.”

She laughed under her breath, low and indulgent. “You already are.”

Her voice dropped, almost affectionate. “You make art, Jungkook. You carve it into bodies. You leave it behind every time someone tries to stop you. The difference is, I preserve it. I elevate it.”

Jungkook turned back toward the pit, every nerve tight, jaw locked, heart thudding in his throat.

Leo looked up from below, swaying slightly where she stood on that fragile orb of a platform. Her legs trembled from the strain, but her voice was steady.

“I said I’d find you, didn’t I?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His chest had already tightened with the kind of rage that clouded the edges of reason. He turned his head slowly toward Youngblood.

She stood a few steps behind him—composed, casual, one arm draped across her midsection as she idly swirled the wine in her glass. Watching. Not like a tactician or a soldier, but like a patron at an exhibit she’d paid dearly to attend.

“What do you want?” Jungkook asked, his voice hoarse, cracked with fury.

Youngblood smiled, slow and measured, her words curling out with a calm that made them land even harder. “I want to see you in motion,” she said, voice low. “Not through files. Not after cleanup crews. I want to see you... work.”

She took a step closer, her heels silent against the polished floor.

“I’ve spent the last ten years chasing men like you. I’ve read the reports, seen the aftermath. Bullet holes. Burn marks. Piles of bodies. But it’s always... after. Cold. Quiet.” Her eyes met his, and for the first time, they burned with something like obsession. “Now I want to see what happens before all of that.”

Typhon moved to her side and pressed a control panel embedded in the wall.

The sound that followed was deep and mechanical—ancient tech waking up. Across the far end of the chamber, thick steel doors creaked and parted with a groan that echoed off the high walls.

Down in the pit, Leo’s face drained of color. Her shoulders jerked. Namjoon’s muscles tensed, his whole body fighting to stay upright, the veins in his neck straining against the cord that kept him one slip from the end.

Up on the ledge, Youngblood took a slow sip from her glass and sighed, as if this was exactly the kind of theater she’d hoped for.

“I want to see what everyone’s so afraid of,” she said. “I want to see you, Jungkook. At your peak. At your worst.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—cold, humorless. He stepped in, slow, until he was close enough that she could feel the heat off his skin.

“I get out of here,” he said quietly, “you’re gonna see it again.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur.

“From this close.”

Youngblood didn’t blink. Her expression didn’t falter. She raised her hand, and with almost theatrical flair, lifted his chin with something small and gleaming between her fingers—his own shiv. Reclaimed. Mocked.

She let it hang there for a second, the sharp tip kissing just beneath his jaw. Then she let go, and the blade clattered to the floor between them.

“I’m not interested in threats,” she said, her tone velvet but firm. “I want your masterpiece. An artist is nothing without his tools.”

Jungkook stepped back, his face unreadable. He glanced down at the shiv, then back up.

That’s when Typhon moved—silent, imposing, stepping between him and the weapon like a wall of armor and muscle.

Jungkook didn’t back down. He just looked up at the man, slow and steady, reading him.

“When we meet again,” he said, voice low, like a promise, “I’m gonna bury that blade in your eye.”

Typhon didn’t answer.

Jungkook stepped around him, bent at the waist, and picked up the shiv. No rush. Just a clean, deliberate motion, like he was slipping back into a version of himself he hadn’t worn in a while.

Jungkook rose slowly, sliding his goggles down over his eyes. The red glow from the pit caught the lenses just right, turning his expression into something not quite human—eyes faintly reflective, cold, animal.

“Let him in,” Youngblood said, her voice slicing clean through the silence.

Two mercs moved in—boots loud on the steel floor. Jungkook didn’t resist. He let the first one circle behind him, posture slack, as if compliant.

Then he turned.

One step, one twist—his boot drove hard into the side of the pig-faced merc’s head. Bone cracked. The man dropped like scrap metal.

The second merc started to lift his weapon, but he was too slow. Jungkook closed the distance in a blur and drove the shiv up under his ribs. One smooth motion. No wasted effort.

The first merc groaned, pushing himself upright, rage painted across his busted face. He lunged.

They went over the edge together.

The air split around them as they crashed into the pit below. But Jungkook twisted mid-fall, landing hard on top. The merc hit first, breath knocked from his lungs, shiv at his throat. Jungkook didn’t finish it—not yet. He stood, leaving the man wheezing on the floor.

Above, Youngblood didn’t flinch. She set the remote for Jungkook’s implant aside and lifted something else: a slim pair of polished optic lenses, old-world elegant—opera glasses reworked for ultraviolet.

“Switch it,” she said. “Ultraviolet.”

The lighting shifted. The blood-red glow vanished, replaced by a strange violet haze. Shadows sharpened. Every edge turned stark and surreal.

Jungkook blinked behind his goggles. The dark bloomed into life.

Two faint glimmers began to form in the far corners of his vision—indistinct at first, like heat waves. Then, they took shape.

Massive. Fluid. Tentacled.

Each had a pulsing mass at its core, like a brain encased in jelly, spinning slowly, lit from within. Not solid—translucent. Their bodies shimmered, phasing between visibility and shadow, like they didn’t fully exist in one place.

There wasn’t one.

There were two.

Jungkook exhaled, low and steady. “Namjoon.”

A pause. “Start praying.”

Namjoon’s voice cracked through the pit. “I was on a pilgrimage,” he muttered, his voice distant. “Just a damn pilgrimage.”

Leo was pale, her breath shaky. “This is bad, huh?”

Jungkook didn’t look at her. “Give it a minute.”

One of the shrill shifted, its long limbs trailing across the floor, dragging filaments behind it. The UV light bent around its form, warping its outline.

Then it moved.

Fast.

A tentacle lashed through the air toward the wounded merc. He never had a chance. His panicked gunfire lit up the cavern—wild, useless.

The tentacle coiled around him.

There was a snap of bone, then a piercing scream as the shrill pulled him close and injected something. His body seized, twitched. Then swelled.

Then burst.

A glowing spray of blood and tissue misted into the air, scattering across the pit floor.

Leo gagged.

Namjoon didn’t move.

Jungkook didn’t blink.

The second shrill turned toward him.

It lunged.

Jungkook moved with it, sliding beneath the strike, twisting low. He grabbed hold of one of its tendrils as it whipped past. It flung him off like dead weight. He flew, hard, slamming into the orb Leo balanced on.

It bucked under the impact. She screamed, arms flailing, collar yanking tight against her throat.

“Leo!” Namjoon shouted. He kicked off, rolling his own orb closer, using his shoulder to brace hers before she could fall. They held each other, both gasping, barely stable.

Jungkook hit the floor hard, but rolled with it, coming up fast. The creature was already pivoting, trying to flank him. He stepped in and slashed—one clean stroke.

The blade met flesh.

A hiss, like gas escaping a pressure valve. The shrill recoiled, flickering out of visibility for half a second before reforming with a sickening ripple.

Jungkook didn’t stop.

He advanced, carving through the haze. His movements were precise—nothing flashy. Just survival sharpened into muscle memory. Each strike aimed to cripple, not kill.

Behind him, the second shrill shifted direction. Its pulsing core lit up brighter as it turned on Namjoon and Leo.

“Move!” Jungkook shouted.

They were already reacting—working the collar ropes, using the tether to drag their orbs in tandem. They kicked off together, rolling straight into the beast’s path.

It stumbled, briefly disoriented.

Jungkook heard their coughing, their struggle to stay upright. He turned, sprinted, and vaulted. His boots hit the second shrill’s back mid-motion.

He drove the blade deep, straight into the core.

The creature shuddered, spasmed, then collapsed—its body dissolving into twitching muscle and light.

Jungkook hit the floor hard, shoulders absorbing the impact, the shiv still in his grip. Leo and Namjoon landed beside him in a heap, breathless and shaken.

“Get her up,” he said, already scanning the dark edges of the pit. His voice was tight, clipped. No time for softness.

“I can’t see!” Namjoon coughed, his voice raw.

“You don’t want to,” Jungkook muttered, not looking back. His goggles locked forward, catching the shimmer of movement—fluid, inhuman.

The shrill were circling now. Slow at first. Coordinated. Their bodies shifted in and out of the UV light, limbs trailing across the stone like liquid shadows. Tentacles moved with eerie precision, each one anticipating the other’s motion.

Jungkook didn’t wait.

One struck fast—too fast for the eye, but not for him. He moved like instinct given shape. Slipped sideways, spun into the blow, and let his restraint chain catch the impact. The force shattered the links.

The shiv came up like a reflex.

“You wanna go?” he said under his breath, locking eyes with the creature’s flickering core. “Let’s go.”

It lunged. He met it, blade-first.

The tentacle dropped, still writhing as it hit the ground. The other shrill hesitated, their movements suddenly less certain. Sizing him up.

Above, Youngblood leaned forward, wine forgotten. “Beautiful,” she breathed, reverent.

Typhon stood stone-still next to her. “The shrill are an exquisite species.”

She barely turned her head. “I wasn’t talking about the shrill.”

Down in the pit, Jungkook crouched low, reading the shift in their body language. One shrill moved to shield the injured one, forming a wall of limbs and light.

“They’re gonna kill him!” Leo choked, trying to push forward.

Namjoon caught her arm, pulling her back with a grip firmer than his voice. “Wait.”

The two creatures separated. Slowly. Deliberately.

Jungkook stepped back a half pace, shiv up, shoulders tight. He didn’t blink.

Then Leo’s voice broke the air.

“Jungkook!”

He didn’t hesitate. Grabbed one of the balancing spheres and shoved it hard into the wounded shrill. The orb hit with a hollow thud, knocking the creature off its footing. Jungkook followed with a fast, brutal slice, cutting deep.

The thing dropped in two halves, its body folding into itself like wet cloth.

He stared down, chest rising and falling. For a second, he couldn’t believe how fast it went down.

“Huh?”

“Jungkook—no!”

Leo’s scream snapped him around. The second shrill was already on him.

It wrapped around his arms with impossible strength, pinning him in place. He grunted, trying to twist, to shift—but the thing was too strong, too tight.

“Leo, stay back!” Namjoon shouted.

She didn’t. She tore herself free and ran toward them, grabbing the severed tentacle from the ground. She swung it, raw and desperate, around the creature’s neck. It thrashed, flinging her off like a rag doll.

She hit hard, skidding across the floor—but close. Close enough.

Jungkook saw her near the shiv. Saw her hand close around it, slick with black ichor.

“Jungkook?” she rasped, her voice shaking.

He reached for her—blood on his lips, limbs straining.

“Here!” she shouted.

The throw wasn’t perfect. But it was close enough.

He caught it clean.

A breath. A blink. Then the blade was moving—slicing through the restraint on his wrist in a single, practiced stroke.

The shrill reared back, stinger lifted, coiled like a whip ready to snap.

He didn’t back off.

Instead, he grabbed the tentacle Leo had dropped, looped it around his forearm, and pulled—dragging himself forward into the creature’s body.

A reckless move. A killer’s instinct.

He drove the shiv deep.

Right into its core.

The shrill froze.

Then it ruptured—its bioluminescent center collapsing in a burst of searing light. UV flared across the room. The sound was like glass under pressure—stretching, then snapping all at once.

Then—silence.

Everything went dark.

A beat later, the overhead lights flickered back to life—dull, industrial, humming with age.

And then came the clapping.

Slow. Measured. Hands meeting with the kind of rhythm that didn’t applaud success—just confirmed it.

Leo was curled on her side, chest heaving. Namjoon was on his knees, dazed, blinking hard. His hands shook.

Jungkook sat for a moment, head bowed, goggles cracked but still in place. Then he stood, quiet and steady. No celebration. No quip.

Above them, high on the steel balcony, Youngblood and Typhon stood like they were watching a play’s final act. The lighting cast long shadows behind them, painting their silhouettes across the far wall.

“Bravo!” Youngblood’s voice rang out—sharp, rich, soaked in something halfway between mockery and genuine awe. “The grace. The detail. The sheer violence of it. Exquisite.”

Down in the pit, Namjoon and Leo exchanged a glance. She was smiling. Not pleasantly. Not politely. She was smiling like a woman watching a private collection expand.

Leo’s stomach turned. “Is she serious?”

Namjoon didn’t answer. His eyes were already on Jungkook.

Jungkook stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling. His jaw was tight, shoulders drawn back. He wasn’t breathing hard, but his eyes hadn’t moved from Youngblood once.

He opened his mouth to speak—but cut himself off.

“Give—”

“What?” Namjoon asked, wary.

Jungkook looked over at him. “The knife.”

Namjoon hesitated. Then nodded.

He crouched next to the shrill’s corpse, reached into the split torso, and yanked the shiv free with a wet, tearing sound. He didn’t flinch—there was no room left for that. He tossed the blade underhand.

Jungkook caught it.

Above, Youngblood continued as if the whole scene was part of her script.

“Such raw beauty,” she murmured. “But it leaves one dilemma.”

Leo stiffened. “She’s not gonna say it…”

Youngblood smiled, slow and poisonous. “How will I ever have you mounted in a way that does you justice?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just lowered the blade and pressed the tip to the side of his neck.

Leo took half a step toward him. “Wait—Jungkook, what are you doing?”

But he was already cutting.

The blade worked under his skin—fast, efficient. Blood welled and ran in thin rivers down his collarbone, warm against the cold of the pit. His face was still, focused, teeth clenched against the pain.

Then: the flicker of metal.

He pulled it free.

A tiny black device—slick with blood. Mechanical legs twitched faintly, clinging to nothing.

Youngblood’s expression cracked. For the first time, the mask slipped. She lunged for her remote.

“You gonna keep that?” Leo muttered faintly, one hand pressed over her mouth.

Youngblood’s voice turned brittle. “Looks like you’ll have to be an abstract.”

But Jungkook moved first.

He hurled the implant. Fast. High.

“Down!” he shouted.

Leo and Namjoon dropped. No hesitation.

The device struck just below the balcony’s edge.

Youngblood hit the button.

The explosion kicked a thunderclap through the room. Heat. Light. Shrapnel.

Jungkook was thrown backwards, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The blast echoed around the pit, then dissolved into a dense, swirling smoke.

Above, metal groaned.

Youngblood stumbled forward, coughing, ash on her cheek. Fury twisted her features into something jagged. She leaned over the railing, searching through the haze.

The smoke thinned. Enough to see.

Typhon stepped forward beside her, silent and still. His face unreadable.

Below, Leo was already crawling toward Jungkook, her hands bloody, trembling.

“You good?” she asked, breathless.

He groaned and propped himself up on one elbow. “Been worse.”

Namjoon was already on his feet. No words. His eyes locked on the ragged hole in the far wall—an exit, maybe. Maybe.

He didn’t wait.

He ran.

Youngblood’s scream tore through the metal chamber, high and shrill with fury. “We’ll need a full pursuit force!”

Typhon didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just raised one brow. “With what personnel?”

“All of them,” she snapped. “Even the ‘Golls. I don’t care. If it holds a weapon or breathes through a tube, I want it moving. Now.”

She spun, heel striking the top of Typhon’s foot with a sharp twist—rage too tightly wound to keep in.

Around them, the cryo-pods hissed open one by one, venting pale mist into the already tense air. Rows of mercenaries stumbled out half-conscious, coughing, blinking against the low light. Some reached for weapons before they were even fully awake—instincts faster than thought.

Far from the chaos, deeper in the ship where the lights buzzed dim and wires hung loose from panels, a different kind of energy moved.

King crouched low in front of an old terminal, cracked fingers flying across the keys. The screen flickered to life, casting a soft blue light over his face.

Jungkook’s file popped up. The bounty number took up half the screen.

1,126,000 UD.

King whistled. “Well, aren’t you expensive,” he muttered, grinning.

Behind him, boots clanged against the grated floor. Commander Hitchcock stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face like stone.

“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doing?” she asked.

“Just browsing,” King replied without looking up. “Company files. Light reading.”

“Stow it,” she snapped, stepping closer. “We’ve got runners. Orders are clean—shoot on sight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” King said with a half-hearted salute, barely suppressing a smirk as she turned and walked off.

Elsewhere in the bowels of the ship, the world was weightless.

Jungkook moved first, drifting through a corridor choked with zero-g debris. Every motion was practiced—fluid. Namjoon followed, his hands light on the walls, guiding himself with calm precision. Behind them, Leo struggled to stay centered, arms flailing slightly as she kicked off too hard and bounced off a pipe.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“Focus,” Jungkook said.

Behind them, the first wave of mercenaries dropped into the pit like angry wasps. They swept flashlights across the destruction—the burst shrill, the splattered walls.

King stepped into something wet. Looked down. Grimaced.

“Ugh. What was that?”

“Shut up and take point,” Hitchcock barked.

He wiped his boot on a piece of broken paneling, then looked up toward the observation deck. Youngblood was there, her face hidden in silhouette, hands gripping the rail so tight her knuckles had gone pale.

He offered her a lazy salute.

She didn’t respond.

“Burn ‘em,” Hitchcock said flatly.

King exhaled. “All right, boys—time to get sweaty.”

Gravity slammed back without warning.

Jungkook hit first, absorbing the impact in a tight roll. He came up fast, moving already. Behind him, Namjoon landed solidly, while Leo stumbled, catching herself on a broken conduit.

A deep, guttural noise rumbled through the walls—like something exhaling behind the metal.

Leo froze. “What the hell was that?”

Jungkook raised a hand, signaling stillness. “Don’t move.”

But the stillness didn’t last.

The second wave of trackers entered, boots pounding, weapons raised. Behind them came something else.

Something worse.

It clanked as it moved—metal limbs, hydraulics whining. But the rest of it was flesh. Stitched-together muscle and exposed nerves, thick cables feeding into its skull. It sniffed at the air like a dog that hadn’t eaten in days.

Its handler crouched, wiped blood from the floor, and smeared it across a feeding plate mounted to its snout.

“Let it go.”

Six Golls held the ropes. Five obeyed. The sixth tried—then screamed as the thing yanked him forward, dragging him into the dark.

Jungkook was already climbing—up a twisted support beam toward a crumbling catwalk. His muscles burned. Every step counted. At the top, he reached down without thinking.

“Come on!” he called.

Leo grabbed his arm just as flashlight beams hit her back. Jungkook pulled hard, flipping her over the ledge with a grunt. She hit the floor beside him with a yelp, still scrambling for breath.

Below, King’s voice crackled through comms. “What the—”

Gunfire.

A round clipped Jungkook’s shoulder. He staggered, caught himself, and turned with a wince. Blood soaked through his sleeve.

“You’re hit,” Namjoon said, eyes scanning him.

“Him?” Leo snapped, still breathless. “He nearly ripped me in half!”

“It’s just a graze,” Jungkook said, voice low, brushing it off.

Then the sound came again.

Louder. Closer.

That thing was moving fast.

“That bitch,” King muttered, already backing away. “Move!”

He shoved one of the other mercs aside and broke into a run, heading for the path Jungkook had carved—like he’d been planning it all along.

Jungkook stopped on a flat stretch of metal grating, just below a half-collapsed catwalk. He turned, breathing through his nose, eyes sweeping the corridor behind them.

Leo stumbled up behind him, face pale, sweat sticking strands of hair to her cheeks. She was trying to keep pace, but her legs were starting to shake. Every breath she took came in fast and shallow.

“We can’t stop,” Namjoon said, glancing back, his voice low and urgent.

“We’re not outrunning it,” Jungkook replied, calm—but final. “Not all three of us.”

Leo straightened instinctively, trying to make herself stand taller. “What? I can keep up.”

Jungkook didn’t look at her right away. When he did, his tone softened, but the edge was still there. “Maybe someday.”

He looked up. Above them, tucked just below the docking bay's support beams, was a small maintenance crawlspace—half-hidden by shadow, just out of direct line-of-sight.

He pointed. “Get her up there. Flight deck’s not far. Upper level, aft side.”

Namjoon nodded without hesitation. “I know the way.”

“Wait there. Let whatever’s chasing us pass through,” Jungkook said, already turning his attention toward the darkened corridor beyond. “When it does, you move. No looking back. No matter what you hear.”

Leo blinked. “We’ll wait for you.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes had already moved past her, tracking movement in the shadows. He stepped away, blade drawn. The light caught the edge of it just enough to glint.

“What are you gonna do?” Leo asked, but he was already gone—disappearing into the dark.

Blood hit the floor in neat, heavy drops. Jungkook sliced a clean line across his arm, dragging the blade deliberately. He didn’t wince. The pain grounded him, kept him focused.

The trail was no accident.

Far behind, mercenaries stormed through the corridor. Their lights sliced through the gloom, beams flashing across walls streaked with soot and rust.

Namjoon held Leo close in the crawlspace, her breathing shallow, hands clenched into fists.

Below them, King crouched over the blood trail, two fingers touching the fresh smear. He lifted his hand, studying the slick red against his glove.

“Smart bastard,” he muttered. His eyes tracked the path ahead, then flicked to the squad behind him. He didn’t wait for orders—just moved, following the trail like a hound on scent.

Leo shifted. “Where do we even—?”

Namjoon’s hand clamped gently over her mouth. Not harsh, not afraid. Just... controlled.

“Leo. Shh.”

She froze.

The ship was suddenly too quiet. Too still.

Then it came—deep, metallic footfalls echoing through the hull. Each step vibrated through the floor panels, a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Something was coming.

Leo’s eyes widened. Her hand found Namjoon’s sleeve, gripping tight. He didn’t flinch. He just waited—barely breathing. The beast’s roar rolled through the corridor like thunder, long and guttural.

It passed. Heavy steps retreating.

Only then did Namjoon move, peeking through the slats to check the corridor. Nothing. For now.

“We’ve got to help him,” Leo whispered, voice shaking. “He won’t make it alone.”

Namjoon looked at her. Really looked. Then shook his head.

“Sometimes, helping means leaving.”

She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. The words hung heavy between them. Truth, brutal and necessary.

Far below, in the corridor, floodlights snapped on, painting the walls in harsh, clinical white.

“Fan out. Clean sweep,” Commander Hitchcock barked. Her team responded like clockwork—silent, coordinated, rifles raised as they moved room to room.

“Something here,” called Donna, one of the forward scouts, crouched over a scrap of torn cloth smeared with blood.

She picked it up delicately, glancing toward Hitchcock.

King stepped closer, eyes narrowing. His whole body tensed.

“Don’t—” he started.

Too late.

Donna turned the fabric over in her hands.

“Oh, shit,” Hitchcock muttered.

A low rumble shook the walls. Deeper than before.

The Goll was coming.

It wasn’t subtle—nothing about it was. Half-machine, half-flesh, its limbs hit the floor like dropped anvils. Tubes pumped fluid into open muscle. Metal teeth glinted in its warped jaw.

King backed up, fast, drawing his weapon.

“Guns up!” someone shouted. Too late.

The beast rounded the corner.

No pause. No roar.

It hit the team like a battering ram.

Rifles barked in quick, sharp bursts—but the rounds barely slowed the thing down. The Goll moved straight through the fire like it was walking through rain. Donna didn’t even get a scream out. One swing of its massive arm, and she was airborne, her body cracking against the wall with a sickening, final sound. Everyone nearby flinched—but no one looked twice. There wasn’t time.

King dropped low, rolling behind a half-shattered support bulkhead. He risked a glance.

Bad call.

The creature had already carved through two more—just ripped them open like wet paper. Its claws glistened in the emergency lights, streaked with blood and fluid.

King’s expression changed—gone was the smirk, the commentary. He fired once, not at the beast, but at the wall. A sewage pipe ruptured with a loud hiss, spraying black water and chemicals. Without hesitation, he dove into the flood, letting it carry him down into darkness.

Hitchcock never got the chance.

The Goll spotted her mid-shout, and lunged. The crunch of impact was brutal—sickening. Then nothing. Just a torn uniform and a smear across the deck.

And that’s when Jungkook dropped.

He came out of the ceiling—no words, no sound—just a blur of movement and weight. He landed hard on the Goll’s back, all his momentum driving the blade down and in.

It found soft tissue, somewhere deep beneath the armored spine. The creature roared—less fury now, more agony. It stumbled forward, legs buckling.

Jungkook held on tight, twisting the blade with both hands until something deep inside the thing gave. The Goll dropped hard, its frame twitching as systems shorted and flesh spasmed.

Jungkook pulled the shiv free and rolled off before the beast fully collapsed. He landed in a crouch, breathing hard.

He stood over the wreckage, chest rising and falling, eyes scanning the quiet that followed. His shoulder bled from where the graze hadn’t clotted, but he didn’t seem to notice. His gaze flicked to a cyborg body half-buried in debris. One arm gone, but the torso armor—intact.

He grunted to himself.

“Not putting that tank back on,” he muttered. Then eyed the cyborg’s gear again. “But that might do.”

Up ahead, Namjoon was already at work, prying open a floor panel with his hands. The cover came loose with a groan of warped metal. He ducked his head and peered down.

A tunnel. Just a few meters. The flight deck was at the far end—quiet, lit in low blue strips. Empty.

He slipped through, crawling forward. He’d barely cleared the edge when something slammed into the back of his skull.

Hard.

He hit the deck with a thud, lights spinning.

Leo followed fast, hands scrambling for the same edge.

She barely had time to register what she saw before a hand caught the back of her neck and yanked her through like luggage.

Typhon.

He lifted her effortlessly, his grip ironclad. Her boots kicked against the floor, hands flying up to fight. She slammed her fist into his jaw—once, twice.

Nothing.

His face didn’t twitch.

Then his hand closed around her throat.

Not a squeeze. A clamp—a controlled crush, like someone picking up glass and daring it to shatter.

Leo’s legs kicked once, her vision tunneling. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, ragged and fast.

Then a voice cut through the air—low, sharp, and unmistakably cold.

“Let her go.”

Typhon’s eyes shifted—slow, deliberate. He didn’t look surprised. He just lowered her gently to the floor, his hand slipping away like nothing had happened.

Leo dropped to her knees, coughing hard, hands pressed to her neck.

Jungkook stepped out of the shadows, his stance steady, the shiv in his right hand catching just enough light to gleam.

“You want me,” he said quietly. “Not her.”

He took a step forward.

“You want a shot at the title?”

Typhon’s lip twitched into something close to a smirk. 

Jungkook’s fist hit the steel wall hard. The clang echoed through the space like a warning bell, not just sound—but intent. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. Across from him, Typhon stepped forward calmly, like none of this was a surprise. Like he’d been waiting.

He peeled off his long coat with mechanical ease. No rush. No wasted movement. His expression was unreadable—just the steady calculation of someone who'd survived more fights than he could count.

Jungkook didn’t wait for ceremony. His shiv was already in hand, blade glinting under the harsh fluorescents.

Typhon pulled a sidearm, but didn’t lift it. Instead, he dismantled it as he walked—piece by piece—then let it clatter to the floor. He was choosing the other weapon. The one that made this personal.

A long, curved blade came next. Hand-forged, clean. It hummed when it moved. It wasn’t for show.

They faced each other, silent. No banter. No taunts. Just air moving between them, charged like a stormfront.

Jungkook moved first.

He came in fast but stopped short—just outside Typhon’s reach. Testing him.

Typhon didn’t flinch. He jabbed.

Jungkook slipped it. Knocked the sword aside with a snap of his boot and closed the gap.

The first flurry was close-range—tight, fast, vicious. Blades scraped, fists collided, breath caught in chests. Typhon’s strikes were disciplined. Measured. Jungkook’s were sharp, fast, and dirty. He wasn’t dancing—he was trying to end it.

Typhon ducked a throat strike and spun behind him. Jungkook reversed, catching the man’s forearm mid-swing and twisting. The sword dropped. Jungkook kicked it across the floor.

But Typhon wasn’t unarmed for long. He slammed his elbow into Jungkook’s ribs, then drove a knee into his leg. Jungkook staggered, grunted—but didn’t go down.

They separated. Breathed.

Then came at each other again.

No finesse now. Just blunt force. Jungkook’s knuckles cracked across Typhon’s jaw. Typhon shoved him into the wall. Jungkook rebounded and drove his shoulder into Typhon’s gut, lifting the bigger man briefly off the ground. They hit the floor hard, grappling in a tangle of limbs and breath.

A boot connected. Jungkook’s shiv skidded across the room.

Typhon rolled to his feet, grabbed the sword again, and advanced.

Jungkook saw it coming. No blade. No backup. Just a broken field of debris around him. And a severed power line—sparking, twitching.

As Typhon raised the sword, Jungkook moved. He dove, rolled under the swing, and grabbed the live cable. He yanked it tight, flipped it over Typhon’s head, and pulled.

The choke was instant.

Typhon clawed at the wire, his blade falling loose. Sparks hissed against his skin. He tried to pivot, throw him off. Jungkook held on, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled.

Then—snap.

Typhon’s free hand sliced the wire with a utility blade from his belt. Power surged one last time before the lights went out.

Blackness.

Just the sound of heavy breathing.

A footstep.

A scrape.

Then—crack.

The wet sound of something breaking. Not metal. Bone.

Then a scream—ragged, short-lived, cut off like a bad signal.

The emergency lights sputtered to life. Dim, red, flickering.

Typhon was on the floor, twisted on his side, his body twitching in the fading current. Jungkook stood over him, face unreadable, blood on his hands. The shiv—his—was buried clean through Typhon’s eye socket, the hilt flush against his skull.

No words for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “I told you that was coming.”

Namjoon groaned, low and hoarse, as pain dragged him out of unconsciousness. His head throbbed. A sharp, pulsing ache just behind his right eye. He blinked, eyes adjusting slowly to the flickering light above him. Cold metal under his palms. Smoke in the air.

Beside him, Leo lay still.

He turned toward her, reaching out with a hand that didn’t feel entirely steady. He shook her gently by the shoulder.

“Leo,” he murmured.

Nothing.

His breath caught for a moment. Panic surged—sharp and uninvited—until he saw her chest rise, shallow but steady. She was out cold, not gone.

Namjoon exhaled, steadying himself before pushing upright, his joints stiff from whatever blast or fall had knocked them flat. His eyes scanned the hangar—dim, scattered with debris—and then landed on Jungkook.

Jungkook was walking toward them, slower than usual. He cradled his left arm tight to his ribs. Blood soaked through the fabric in thick blotches, but he didn’t stop. His face was pale, lips drawn tight. No sound but the soft drag of his boots on the floor.

Namjoon rose, still holding Leo, watching Jungkook approach.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the words dry in his mouth.

Jungkook paused. Lifted his eyes.

“Prepping the ship,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “So… it’s over?”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. Just looked toward the bay doors, the flickering lights, the wreck of what had almost been their grave. Then back to Namjoon. A flicker crossed his face. Something like relief—but only for a breath.

“Not yet,” he said.

The doors to the launch corridor groaned open.

For a second, they all just stood there—no alarms, no monsters, no orders coming through their ears. Just stillness.

Then a sound. Subtle. Wrong.

Jungkook’s head snapped around.

Standing in the open doorway was Youngblood.

Her hair clung to her face in clumps, soaked in blood. Her gown—once pristine—was torn, stained, half-charred. She held herself together by sheer spite. Her eyes locked on Jungkook with feral focus. She was smiling.

“Thought you’d just leave?” she asked, her voice hollow.

The gun in her hand shook, just a little.

“Should’ve mounted you when I had the chance,” she whispered.

Then she fired.

The crack of the gunshot echoed like thunder in the metal belly of the ship.

Jungkook’s body jerked. He hit the ground hard, his leg folding under him. The impact was rough—raw. His head bounced once. He didn’t move again.

“Stinking savage,” Youngblood spat, stumbling closer, the gun still raised.

Namjoon froze. Leo was stirring now, blinking, dazed, but trying to sit up.

Youngblood’s hand trembled as she pointed the barrel at Jungkook’s head, eyes glassy.

Her finger curled again.

The shot never came.

A second gunshot rang out—short, sharp, final.

Youngblood’s head snapped back. Then it wasn’t there.

Her body collapsed like a dropped coat.

The silence that followed was brutal. No one moved for a second. Just the soft clink of the gun hitting the ground.

Smoke drifted from the barrel in Leo’s hand.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Namjoon helped Jungkook sit up. Blood trickled from his side, soaking into his waistband, but he was breathing.

“Damn,” Jungkook rasped. “You always this dramatic?”

Leo stared down at Youngblood’s body. “She was going to shoot you again.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Namjoon snorted quietly. Leo didn’t smile.

Jungkook grinned, just a little. Then winced.

The shuttle broke free of the Trinidad’s pull like it had been holding its breath.

Outside, the black was endless. Cold. Empty. The wreck behind them was already just a shadow.

Inside, the engines hummed steady and low. A mechanical heartbeat. No chatter. No alarms. Just the quiet tension of people who weren’t sure what came next.

Jungkook sat slouched in the pilot’s chair, his body loose with exhaustion, one arm cradled in a torn sling of salvaged cloth. The goggles he wore were scratched at the edges, grime smudged into the lenses, but he kept them on. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because he didn’t want to look too closely at what was ahead—or behind.

He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Namjoon stepped forward from the corridor, slow and careful not to disturb the quiet.

“Jungkook.”

No response at first.

“Jungkook,” he repeated, lower this time.

The pilot’s head tilted slightly, eyes still on the stars. “We got a problem?”

Namjoon shifted, his hand brushing the edge of the console. “No. Not back there, anyway.” His gaze flicked to the distant debris field shrinking in the rear scope. “It’s what’s in front of us I’m worried about.”

Jungkook finally looked at him—just a glance.

Behind them, Leo lay curled on the bench meant for gear storage, not people. She was wrapped in an old thermal blanket, one hand clenched around Typhon’s weapon like it was a lifeline. Her breathing was even, but her fingers twitched every few seconds. Like her body hadn’t realized it could rest yet.

Namjoon followed Jungkook’s gaze.

“She’s changed,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure she knows how to come back from this.”

Jungkook’s eyes stayed on her a moment longer, unreadable. Then he spoke, low and blunt:

“She’ll end up like me.”

Namjoon didn’t argue. Just looked down at the floor, lips pressed into a line. Silence stretched between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just honest.

Jungkook eased himself back into the pilot’s seat, the leather torn and stiff beneath him. His injured arm was tucked close to his body, the sling damp with blood at the shoulder. He worked the console with his other hand—efficient, practiced. Like muscle memory doing the heavy lifting.

A row of green lights blinked to life across the dash. Soft glows spread across his face—cool blues, dull greens. Nothing harsh. Nothing loud. Just the quiet hum of a ship on the edge of silence.

The nav system buzzed once, screen flickering to a crawl as the starmap unfolded. A scatter of constellations shimmered across the glass like oil on water. Jungkook scrolled through them, eyes moving quick but deliberate. He paused when he hit one system—small, out of the way.

“UV system,” he muttered. Just loud enough for himself.

Namjoon, who’d been standing just off his shoulder, leaned in slightly. His presence was quiet, but solid. “Where’s that?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just keyed in the new coordinates and leaned back, his breath slow and shallow.

Namjoon watched him for a long moment. He didn’t press.

Jungkook finally spoke, voice low. “I’m dropping you and Leo at New Mecca.”

Namjoon frowned gently. “New Mecca?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said. “Wasn’t that the plan? Safe port. Clean exit. It’s yours.”

He didn’t look at Namjoon, but he could feel the man’s eyes on him. Thoughtful. Heavy with concern.

“And you?” Namjoon asked.

“I’ll disappear before docking. Sneak out through the lower chute if the seals hold.” He exhaled slowly. “You tell them I died on the Trinidad. Keep it simple.”

Namjoon stepped back a pace, his brow furrowed. “You don’t have to do that.”

Jungkook’s fingers paused over the controls. “I do.”

“You think you’re protecting us by doing this,” Namjoon said gently.

Jungkook gave a tired half-smile. “Am I wrong?”

Namjoon didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either. He just looked down at the floor between them, then back up at the younger man in the pilot’s seat.

“You saved her,” he said quietly. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve run.”

Jungkook shrugged with his good shoulder. “Didn’t feel like running.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “You say that like it means nothing. But it means everything to her.”

The shuttle’s engines shifted tone—deeper now, resonant. The course had locked in. They were committed.

Outside, stars bent and slipped past the viewplate in streaks, like rain on glass. The Trinidad—ruined and burning—was already behind them. Just another piece of debris in the black.

Jungkook sat quietly, watching it fade.

Namjoon turned to leave, but hesitated.

“If you change your mind,” he said gently, “there’s room on that planet for all of us.”

Jungkook didn’t turn.

“Some people don’t get to come back,” he murmured. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t make sure others did.”

Namjoon didn’t speak again. He just nodded—once—and walked away, the soft thud of his boots fading down the corridor.

Jungkook stayed there, alone at the controls, hand still on the throttle. He didn’t move.

He just watched the stars and thought about the someone who didn’t make it either.

The flight deck was quiet now. Too quiet.

No alarms. No comms. Just the faint crackle of fried circuits and the slow, lazy spin of a busted fan overhead. The kind of silence that only happens after a massacre—when even the ship seems unsure whether it’s still alive.

King stood near the edge, just outside the docking threshold, arms folded, weight shifted onto one blood-crusted boot. The other was planted in something sticky that used to be part of a merc. He didn’t look down. Didn’t care.

The hangar bay stretched out behind him like the inside of a gutted animal. Smoke drifted along the ceiling. The lights flickered and dimmed, like they were giving up.

He watched the shuttle.

Just a glint at first, a speck of movement against the black. Then it was gone—swallowed up by the void.

Still, he stared after it. Silent. Brow furrowed. A vein twitching just above his temple.

“Jungkook,” he muttered.

The name tasted like rust and regret. Like something he’d been chewing on too long.

He licked a cut on his lip and spat off the edge of the deck. The blood hit metal with a soft tch.

“We ain’t done,” he said, low and even. Not a threat. Not even a promise. Just fact.

His voice didn’t echo.

He didn’t move.

Just kept standing there, hands still, boots glued to the carnage beneath him, eyes locked on where the stars had swallowed the shuttle whole.

Taglist: @fancypeacepersona @ssbb-22 @mar-lo-pap @sathom013 @kimyishin @ttanniett @sweetvoidstuff @keiarajm @sathom013 @miniesjams32

[the-impulse-to-love]

so. house veridian and feathered host

ive been thinking more n more ab the "divide" betwen house veridian and feathered host. and with the two songs off of EIA about the consequences of fame, i'm inclined to believe it relates to that.

more specifically:

house veridian represents the desire to push forward with the band; they must "endure" feelings of burnout

vessel (and the others ofc) care about the fanbase. this much is evident from the music and rituals. something something damocles something something him apologizing for not always being able to deliver his best. he wants to deliver out of love and care, but it's difficult since he's ultimately a person who struggles with his own problems and stress. nonetheless, he's trying to endure.

"the house" can also refer to the fanbase and community. collectively, we have to endure any setbacks or incidents within the fandom (such as. the whole thing with caramel) by reflecting and improving our behaviour as fans. for instance, respecting the band's boundaries which is something they explicitly asked for in caramel. hell, the house might collapse if we can't get our shit together.

the idea of fight (fight vs flight). fight is actively engaging with the issue at hand and figuring out how to beat it/work around it.

so, "enduring" is more so figuring out how to overcome negative thoughts and make the whole process (songwriting, touring, etc) more healthy for everyone involved. bc it's clear with damocles and caramel that it is taking a toll on vessel (and the band).

whereas

feathered host represents the desire to stop; the desire to "break the cycle"

the cycle in this case likely refers to what vessel described in damocles: "and i play discordant days on repeat / till the tape runs out on me," or he has to replay his struggles in his mind to adequately write about them. this is obviously draining.

it can also refer to music industry itself and consumerism, in which artists are often treated as a mere tool to pump out content and generate revenue. we know that sleep token also has some sorta exclusive licensing deal with rca, likely meaning they have more control than the standard artist with their work. (good for them!)

however, it's still a cycle of consumerism and the band is expected to pump out songs and go on tours and whatnot, both by the fans and the music industry.

so, breaking the cycle could either mean stopping the band altogether (which. i honestly don't think will happen for the foreseeable future. this would be in a very literal sense). rather, i think it is finding a better way to navigate making content in which the tiring cycle is broken, or at least minimized so it takes less of a toll on everyone involved. breaking a cycle doesn't mean the extreme option has to be taken.

as for tying into the idea of "flight" (fight vs flight), it would mean escaping the problem at hand which. isn't a bad thing. it's alright to take a step back and take a break, yk?

and i don't think either of these are ultimately Bad Decisions, you know? it wouldn't really make sense to have the fans vote like that for either as well...

instead, i think it's a struggle to find balance between the two ideas.

how do you sustain something you care so deeply about even if it drains you? do you stop altogether? do you take a break? do you just push on and hope it gets better?

if this idea is true, i don't think there will be a clear "winner” with the two sides. rather, they're two ideas that can coexist, but it's just a matter of how.

how can the band and community be sustained/endure while breaking the cycle of consumerism and creative exploitation?

and it's a collaborative effort. we, as fans, have to sorta realize how to be more respectful towards the band and understand that they're ultimately People.

so. basically i'm inclined to believe this might be the theme of EIA. obviously, we still have seven songs left (maybe even the bonus tracks) but. Just A Theory

[joyswonderland1108]

Imagine having a massive fandom and still flopping at basic strategy.

I can't believe i'm making yet another post about this but here we are.

You know what's absolutely wild to me? The fact that Jimin fanbases are now out here joining forces with other fandoms because BTS's own damn fandom couldn't get their act together when faced with the simplest test: two members in the same poll.

Like... Hello? How is it that a fandom famous for being "so big" and "so organized" suddenly can't manage basic strategic thinking? Where did all that OT7 brainpower go? Took a collective nap?

Let's be real, we all KNOW there are solos out there voting for either Jimin or RM. That's whatever, solos will solo. But the rest of you, the so-called OT7s.. Where the hell were you? Sitting there frozen because you "couldn't decide"? Babe. It's called splitting your votes evenly until the deadline is near, and THEN throwing your full weight behind whoever needs the push.

It's not rocket science. It's literally common sense. Balance. Logic. Teamwork makes the dream work. Heard of it?

But nooo, instead we get this situation where an actual BTS member's fanbase has to go BEGGING other fandoms for help, because "ARMY" were too busy being indecisive or messy.

Tell me that's not the most embarrassing thing ever. I'll wait.

Honestly, the fact that this is even needed to be said..

Embarassing is not even strong enough. Tragic.

Let me just drop a tutorial based on the current events:

How to lose a poll in 3 easy steps: a Masterclass by OT7s Step 1 : Have TWO members in a poll. Panic. Forget how voting works. Become a "deer in headlights" for 5 business days straight. Step 2 : Let the solos do all the work while the so-called "OT7s" sit there twiddling their thumbs because "OMG who I pick?? both are precious uwu. But do you think RM deserves the win this time? Or is it Jimin?" (Spoiler: you pick BOTH if you're that indecisive and not trying to be shady with one member. You divide your votes evenly. This is preschool-level math.) Step 3 : Watch one fanbase realize the Titanic is sinking and have to go beg OTHER fandoms for help because BTS's own fandom was too busy being confused or forcing others to vote for one member instead of letting people do whatever the fuck they want or at the very least come up with a fair strategy. Congratulations, you played yourself.

Meanwhile, a logical person seeing this mess:

For those not wanting to choose between the two, vote 50/50 until deadline approaches.

See who's closer to winning.

Dump all votes there.

Go outside and touch grass because it's literally not that hard.

But no, let's make it humiliating! Let's make it so bad that ARMY, the fandom known for eating awards, has to phone a friend because they couldn't handle a poll with two members without self-destructing, failing miserably at finding the best fair and square strategy. (Again this is not about solos who are already decided on who to vote for, or those who individually already decided who to go for, i'm talking about stupid ass OT7 accounts who are creating division in the fandom, forcing others to vote for who THEY decided is best suited or according to them is best deserving to win this time. Bfr)

Honestly, peak comedy. I would laugh if it wasn't so secondhand embarrassing.

[azaharinflames]

I didn’t start my day planning on being mean, but a certain portion of this fandom decided that they couldn’t keep Lou’s name out of their mouths so now I have thoughts.

We have RG brought on as a main, but frankly Eddie as a character has never gone anywhere. I was never much of an RG fan even before the unsavory things he said, but from what I have read, he hasn’t seemed to have brought much to the role beyond what was in the script. And yes, I get that he’s not a writer or the show runner, but Tim has shown himself to be amenable to good suggestions from the actors (which is why JLH ended up with Chim instead of Eddie, a decision from which his character never recovered).

Then you have the string of unsuccessful (potential) love interests who were all recurring. Similarly, I get that as a recurring you have even less agency than as a main and that’s even worse if you are a woman. All the same, the actors who played Ana, Taylor, Marisol, Lucy, and  death doula whose name alludes me but I’m too lazy to look up, brought NOTHING to the role outside of what was on the page. Granted, these characters were all written in way that made them doomed to fail, but if any one of them had brought something to the table to endear them to the GA and make the narrative work, they would have lasted/had the potential to be endgame level love interests. But it was early in the show’s run you say. Big deal. There are plenty of examples in television where a character was brought in for a handful of episodes early on and they either were kept (or else brought back) as a significant cast member.

And then there’s Lou. Looking back at the season 7 interviews, there is a clear gap between how Tim originally envisioned Tommy compared to Lou’s head canon. Tim saw a happy go lucky starter relationship guy with a hot and heavy make out session in 7x4. Tommy saw a protective guy with layers and past trauma who would deliver a tender 7x4 first kiss. Tim may get some things wrong, but he’s not such an egomaniac that he would go with the worse idea just because it was his. We will never know, but I don’t think Tim committed to making Tommy a significant/possible endgame LI until late season 7 or even while writing 8a. If Lou had done what RG or any of the actors who played Buck/Eddie’s past LI had done, i.e., read the script as is and contributed NOTHING, then Tommy would have been long gone. All this is to say that complaining about Lou having thoughts about his non-main character is tantamount to complaining that the man showed up and did his damned job to the best of his ability. The fact that he has clearly done so much work despite being really good looking in an industry that strongly favors attractiveness gives him extra points my book. Instead of hating on him, maybe they should be asking themselves why their guy didn’t do the same. 

I think you make an excellent point, Nonnie, and I love the way you put it.

At the end of the day, a big reason why we all love Tommy (and Bucktommy) as much as we do has to do with Lou (and with Oliver as well, when talking about the couple). Because Lou took the time and care to create Tommy and make him a bigger and deeper character than what the script said. Because he took so much care and advocated for what he thought made more sense for the character (i.e. their first kiss). It makes us love the character, and love him after seeing how much he cares, and ultimately it reflects very positively on the show.

I do think RG has given his input here and there (it was per his insistence that Marisol came back in S8), but it does feel like he rarely digs deeper into what he's given. At the very least, that's the impression I get (so anyone can disagree with it, that's fine!). I've never particularly connected with Eddie, and I am personally frustrated with the missed potential he has. If he stays, I honestly wish for the writers to figure out what the hell they want to do with him long term.

Anyway. I get your frustration, Nonnie. Bobs have been utterly insufferable since the interview, and the accusations I've seen coming from them? Ngl, there aren't words in the English language to describe what I think about them.

[maxdibert]

I think the reason Lily didn’t really leave Severus sooner is because she might have felt responsible or obliged to be his friend, as she was his main emotional connection, and I think she was smart enough to recognize that and see the power dynamics and imbalance in their relationship. I can see her growing resentful or overwhelmed by that as she started being more emotionally distant from him. Or maybe she started distancing herself because she was overwhelmed by how much Severus was emotionally relying on her, and with her making new connections, she might have just drifted away over the years. I can therefore see her creating excuses for why he's bad or why he doesn’t deserve her. I can see her twisting reality against him, such as justifying James's treatment of him because he's into the Dark Arts. I think they had a very dysfunctional friendship because they both had different personalities and different communication styles and never talked things through. But I definitely think the reason they split up was on both of them, equally.

Yes, and I truly think that viewing it as a profoundly dysfunctional relationship is the most accurate approach. That’s why I believe that even if the "Mudblood" incident hadn't happened, they would have eventually gone their separate ways. Because it wasn’t a relationship based on shared interests or real understanding. They didn’t truly understand each other. It was one of those relationships you maintain (in Lily’s case, as the one with a normal cognitive and emotional development) simply because it has always been there, because it’s habit. But I also believe that she probably felt some sense of responsibility, or simply didn’t fully grasp that she could let that friendship go whenever she wished, because Severus had always been there, and sometimes it’s hard to realise you don't owe permanence to someone just because they've always existed in your life.

Severus carried far too much emotional baggage for a teenager to be able to handle. It wasn’t Lily’s responsibility, and she certainly didn’t have the maturity to fully understand it either. Even as an adult, maintaining a friendship like that can be incredibly draining, because being someone’s main attachment figure is an enormous burden, and obviously, a teenager isn’t equipped to manage that. It would have been different if Severus had found someone as broken as he was, because damaged people often understand one another better, and sharing trauma can make difficult personalities easier to bear. But Lily didn’t know what trauma was — she hadn’t the faintest idea. The worst thing that had happened to her was being called a mudblood once or twice — in other words, practically nothing in comparison.

And honestly, Severus couldn’t see that she was drifting away from him, or that there were things about him that bothered her. For Severus, the only important thing was that they remained friends. When he insisted on that, he revealed a very anxious type of attachment, needing her to constantly reaffirm the relationship between them. She was always the dominant one, always the one guiding the friendship. He never contradicted her; and if he did, and she got upset, he would immediately retract and fall silent because he didn’t want to upset her. Severus was not himself with Lily — Severus was whoever he thought Lily wouldn’t find upsetting, because he needed to preserve that friendship at all costs. For him, it was the most important thing in his life. And that is not a healthy relationship — that is a relationship of complete dependence. He was emotionally dependent on her, and she was not dependent on him. It was not a balanced relationship, and sooner or later, it was bound to break down.

I’ve said it before: the main problem between them was that neither of them ever stopped to try and truly understand the other.

[tcoaal]

I think people don't talk about Ashley's rape as much is because the lead up to Andrew's rape scene was more explicit and so it stayed longer in people's mind. While the mention of her rape was in a summary, though both are obviously still horrible, and I do think Ashley's should be acknowledge more but that's the only reason I can think of people not talking about? Because I've also wondered why I haven't seen much discussion about Ashley's rape. The closest post I've come across that talked about it was someone saying that Ashley had a breakdown because she was vulnerable while drunk, allowing herself to slip from Leyley and wasn't able to control the situation as she would have sober (your post was the second I've seen someone talk about her rape in comparison)

that makes a lot of sense tbh! i saw it really early on, so maybe it didn't occur to me just how easy it is to miss honestly. i think it's a really important aspect of Shots and Such and vaguely suspect it will continue to be a major theme in TCOAAL going forward.

i do feel like, that is such a fucking wrong statement on whoever made that lmao.

"Ashley had a breakdown because she was vulnerable while drunk, allowing herself to slip from Leyley and wasn't able to control the situation as she would have sober" no, Ashley had a breakdown because she was raped. that's a normal reaction to that. if what Andrew did to Ashley in that ending isn't rape, then what happened to him can't be rape either: it happened to both of them at the hands of the other. i see a lot of people see it as dubcon and i don't feel like arguing about it if it is or not, but it's still at least to me equal in what they did.

if anything, we should be having more posts about the fact Andrew doesn't seem to register anything that happened as rape as opposed to particularly bad sex even though he acknowledges Ashley could go to jail for it given that he's completely incapable of understanding her problem with it, but that's for another post. maybe a new analysis post...?

[slytherinshua]

☆　EYES FULL OF STARS　( 박후민 )

genre hurt/comfort , baku x fem!reader   cw spoilers for weak hero class 2 (fic takes place sometime during ep 6) , injuries (cuts and bruises) , not proofread   wc 800   request yes   note there's no one more obsessed w ryeoun's big beautiful eyes than me i could post a gifset of baku later (i did make this gif just for the fic tho ejkfjkd)   net @kstrucknet

You don’t remember much before you blacked out. Union guys threatening you, some with weapons, some just with words. Na Baekjin asked you where Baku was. You wouldn’t tell him. Maybe you should have risked his safety to protect yours. He was physically stronger, a skill fighter, and smart in these kinds of situations. He would’ve handled it, like he always did. But he was pushed between a rock and a hard place, and you just wanted to give him a break for even one day.

After he had refused to continue doing Baekjin’s little tasks, he came to stay with you. No one knew about you. At least, Baku thought no one knew about you. It wasn’t hard for the Union to track you down, figure out the connection between you two, and use you as leverage to get to Baku. Baekjin freely used your boyfriend’s friends and father, and now you.

You attended a completely different school; only saw Baku on some days of the week. You kept yourself out of the trouble the guys were facing. Baku didn’t want you to get involved in any way, and only told you the least concerning parts of what was happening. It shouldn’t have to concern you what mess Eunjang High was facing. It was his job to deal with it. He never thought Baekjin would somehow get his hands on you.

When Baku got the impudent call from Baekjin asking if he would still refuse to do what he wanted when they had you hostage, he saw red. More than a few faces left bloodstained that night. Baku left with you in his arms. 

You stirred in his arms halfway back to your apartment, groaning in pain and blinking your eyes open. He walked a little slower and held you a little tighter. 

“Baku… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I should’ve made sure they never got to you. It’s on me for thinking they wouldn’t find you,” he sighed, gulping down the guilt and trying to find the means to smile. For you. 

“Hey… I’m okay. You got me now,” you closed your eyes again, smiling through the exhaustion and pain. Being in your boyfriend’s arms always gave you a sense of comfort. Even when you had bruises all over your body and multiple cuts. Even when you could still picture it all fresh in your mind. 

Baku had the basic first aid kits in his room, along with plenty of bandages he was used to applying by himself. He made sure you were comfortable on his bed before starting to inspect where all your injuries were.

“Tell me honestly. How badly did you beat them up?” you asked, nervous for the answer. Baku knew not to cross the line, but there was no one he was more protective over than you. As soon as you got hurt, all sense went out the window. You could imagine the levels he could reach to get back at them. 

“They’re all still alive,” he said carefully, flashing you a reassuring smile that did nothing to curb your worries.

“Park Humin.”

He frowned, hands pausing their unwrapping of a large bandage. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Baku,” you corrected, your voice softer this time. “Violence isn’t the answer for violence.”

“It’s the only language they understand,” he said simply. “I don’t like it either. You know I’d never fight someone unnecessarily,” he reached for your hand, the gentle squeeze he gave you enough to relax your tense muscles. 

“I know. I just don’t want you to get hurt too.”

He nodded, “I’ll make sure I don’t then, okay?” He smiled; the kind of big grin that you could always count on to make you feel better. 

“Okay,” you smiled as well. More tentative and held back than Baku, like you knew that the situation was much more complicated than promises to not get hurt could suffice for. But you chose to let his words silence your anxiety for a while. For the current moment, you were both safe. That was all that mattered. 

“Let’s get you bandaged up,” Baku got back to work, disinfecting any scrape or cut and covering them with carefully placed bandages. Each time you winced from the pain, he would kiss you gently, and by the end of it, the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. 

Some people only saw your boyfriend as loud and overbearing, while others feared his physical strength. Most students at Eunjang High respected him, but rarely did they ever get to know him. Few knew the challenges he faced, and even fewer knew how caring he truly was. 

But you knew him inside out, and if there was ever anyone who you would stick by for the rest of your life, Baku was just that. 

k-drama taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @cha3w0n-hearts,, @candewlsy,, @cosmicwintr,, @blossominghunnie,, @parkjennykim,, @seunghancore,, @emmylksblog,, @bananabubble,, @hrtsvivis,, @hursheys,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows

[somethingcatholic]

been having thoughts abt the nevermore characters as animals/furries lately so.. here’s the ones i have somewhat figured out

lenore - deer, i know a raven technically makes more sense and i like that too, i kind of switch between the two.. but since its very likely that theo is the stag i like the idea of them looking VERY similar so shes a deer! i think she’d possibly have increased testosterone in this specific au (so that she can have antlers as leo) i’m not entirely sure on the logistics of this tho..

pluto - obviously a cat.. i don’t think this needs explaining

duke - not entirely sure on this but a weasel, i think it suits with the fact that he was an escape artist before he died!

morella - either an irish hare or a sheep.. the irish hare is irelands unofficial national animal and i feel like morella just has to be something irish, my reasoning for the hare is simply just that it reminded me of her.. but from what i know they often represent rebirth within folklore which is a little funny considering yk.. the fact she’s in nevermore competing for rebirth.

the sheep is also an unofficial irish symbol also technically not about sheep but their wool is used in aran jumpers (a type of irish sweater that i think is popular outside of the country? at least it seems to be?) sheep are pretty stereotypically irish in my mind and they’re adorable just like morella

will - coydog, he was originally just a coyote to me but after 119 and considering how loyal he is to monty i feel like he has to be part dog. he’d probably be a coyote/mutt mix

the rest of the characters are very vague since i haven’t given much thought to them but i’ll say them anyway.. if u have any better ideas please talk to me about them

annabel - possibly a dove? her spectre would be a bleeding heart dove and she’d be a white dove. the only reason i’m hesitant on this one is the fact that lenore would be a deer so i feel like annabel has to be a mammal too

berenice - a bat, this is mainly just because of the fact her spectre is a vampire.. i can’t think of anything else that could suit her

ada - a cat, i don’t really have a reason for this i just think it suits her..

monty - either a cougar or a wolf, for some reason a cougar just makes sense for him in my head and the wolf is because of what i chose for will, i think he has to be something intimidating and both of these animals work for that?

eulalie - i honestly have no idea.. i was thinking a sable could work but im not set on that at all

prospero - the only thing i could think of possibly suiting him was an italian greyhound but i don’t think it really works..

[writing-whump]

On the train

We are starting the road trip! Have some sick Rip at the train with Dylan and Hector.

"Are you sure you don't want to come?" Hector said, chewing his lower lip.

"Totally sure," Arnie repeated.

"Absolutely and completely?"

"Urreversibly," Arnie said with a grin.

"I don't know. Isaiah is finally feeling better, the trip is a great opportunity to spend quality time with him..."

Arnie lifted his hands. "Go and enjoy it. I'm glad you guys are reconnecting."

"You should be reconnecting too."

"You need it more. Besides, it's basically a wolf road trip."

"I'm taking Olive to meet Isaiah. He is taking Seline. They are historical tourist cities. Enough space for humans."

"It's gonna be all couply and cheezy. I won't stand in the way."

Hector must have looked pathetic, because Arnie's expression softened.

"To be real with you, I'm really okay. I don't believe you are neglecting me or leaving me out. I want to try to have two weeks for myself without your check ins and control and random bursts into the place."

Hector eyed him sceptically. "That makes me want to go even less. What do you want to do without my supervision?"

Arnie stuck his tounge at him. "No parties, passing out drunk or doing drugs. Swear. I'm gonna be responsible."

Hector frowned, looking down.

A sigh from Arnie. "Hex, I love you, man, but you are smothering me. I'm trying to make friends outside the freaking pack and I can't have them over, stay over and you scare whoever stops by the door. Please, just go."

"Arnie..." He didn't know what to say. It made sense. It also made his chest heavy with panic and dread.

"We are gonna figure something out, okay? I'll look into apartments-"

Hector jumped up from where he had been leaning against the table. "What-"

"Two apartments," Arnie cut in. "Two. Next to each other. So you can hover behind another wall, if you won't allow me the student dormitory. And honestly, this could solve crap for you too. You spend most of your waking time with Olive in that tiny place, cause you can't bring her over to the pack base. You need a place where you can be together and you can keep me safe. Perfect solution."

"I have no idea where such a place could be," Hector said dryly, looking away in shame. Maybe he really did spent a lot of time with Olive now. He hated he couldn't have his two most important people at one place.

Sure, he did get Arnie and Olive together from time to time and they were on good terms. But he couldn't bring Olive to the pack as his human girlfriend. Not as his chosen partner. It was dangerous and risking an upheaval he wasn't ready to deal with. He needed more people in his corner first.

Plus, it would put Olive in danger too. Uncomfortable at the very least. He didn't know how to explain what being with him would entail...and if he could, he would spare her from it for as long as it was possible.

"I can't believe you're gonna leave me alone with Rip," Hector said, cause it was easier than acknowledging the rest.

Arnie watched him knowingly though. "It's not gonna be so bad. You spend 2 days in the car with him last summer. A one day train ride will be much easier."

"That's just the first part. I thought you would be there keeping me company."

"You will have Dylan and then Isaiah, Sel and Olive waiting for you there after the flight. You won't even notice the guy for the rest of the trip."

"That would be too soon. I don't like him."

Arnie chuckled. "I don't think so. You are jealous, but that's not really his fault, is it?"

"I know. It's Isaiah's."

That earned him an eyeroll. "Jeez. One of these days, you could also stop thinking about relationships in hierarchies. People don't just get replaced, they create new roles for themselves."

The younger boy leaned into Hector's side casually. "I'm so not worried about Olive replacing me or whatever you keep stringing up in Hector-fantasy-land, okay? Go and enjoy the trip."

...

Rip wasn't particularly happy about the travel arrangement either.

On one hand it was cool they didn’t have to take an extra car for him. And that this wasn’t a training trip but a real holiday kind of thing.

Rip loved travelling. He had managed to criss-cross most of Europe on his own — on top of trains, hitchhiking rides, walking the backroads. He avoided crowds and tourist traps, sure, but he could move through cities on top of roofs with his parkouring skills just fine.

Being invited like this—being trusted enough to tag along with Isaiah, Seline and Dylan—it was unbelievable. He was still getting over his excitement and disbelief.

Okay, not trusted exactly. Isaiah probably wanted him as backup. Extra eyes and muscle. Someone who could move fast, stay alert, cover for them if things went south. Maybe, maybe, Isaiah felt a little safer with Rip watching his back when he wasn't at a hundred percent.

That was fine. Rip could be useful. He wanted to be useful.

It had been a couple of weeks since Isaiah's hospital release and he had reassured them all he was ready—which they had believed, once Seline confirmed it.

Rip was glad just to be included. He would bring his best game. Be sharp, strong, effective. Maybe if he proved himself enough, Isaiah would trust him again on future trips. Even the ones involving wolves.

Especially the ones involving wolves.

The last half-year under Isaiah’s care—going with him to meets, not just lurking in the shadows—had been so different. Like someone had pulled a blindfold from his eyes.

He hadn’t even realized he had gotten used to living like that. Half-blind, half-feral.

Isaiah was helping him see it.

Rip had thought he didn’t miss wolves. Or company. But being seen—being able to walk through crowds without shrinking, to meet the eyes of those who would have spat on him before—it was different.

He had fought for survival, for his right to exist, wherever he went.

But now he could walk among wolves who once judged him an outcast and a waste of oxygen—and face them directly.

It made him feel dangerous. In a good way.

Not that he knew what Isaiah was really after. The guy moved like he was playing three games at once, seeing five different meanings where Rip barely caught one. Held ten agendas, eleven sets of cards.

Rip didn’t get it. But somehow, Isaiah always ended up helping people. Even the ones no one bothered with.

It was...something to see.

Isaiah wasn’t perfect. Wasn’t even easy to read most days. But what he was building—whatever this was—it felt solid. It felt good.

Rip wasn't supposed to think about that. As long as wasn't betraying strays and he wasn't hurting anyone who didn't piss him off nonetheless, he didn't give a shit about what he did. Feelings really had nothing to do with life.

This was new. Risky, even. He wasn’t sure what the hell was happening to him. But he knew this much: He wanted to stick around and see what Isaiah did next.

...shame he was stuck with Hector of all people in the train. They had their own compartment, so it was just Rip, Dylan and Hector. Even with the six seats, it felt way too crowded.

Rip offered to come on his own. He could hitchhike the trains just fine, thank you. But then Dylan said he would come with him and Isaiah shook his head in that exasperated way...but nobody wanted to make it difficult on Isaiah so early after his recovery and there was no way Rip could handle a flight.

So here they were. In the spirit of being helpful, Hector offered to take the train with them, sending his girlfriend ahead with Seline and Isaiah to fly for one hour, instead of riding the night train.

Rip honestly wondered how long this pretense would last. Someone with such a fiery temperament as Hector wouldn't take long.

On most days, Rip considered himself quite resistant to most things. But he didn't like loud, explosive people demanding attention and things to be their way with that implied or else.

Hector fit that to a T.

"I'm telling you, trains are the most comfortable rides," Dylan said, getting comfortable over two seats next to Rip. "Rode them for half of my life. You can move more than in a car or plane, you are way more steady, there are snack bars. What's not to like?"

Rip had to admire how unconcerned Dylan was. Crowds of people filling the train in the other compartments didn't seem to register to him at all. For all looks and purposes, he acted like a real human.

Dylan's shadow was so tightly suppressed that Rip could barely feel it. That had its own kind of limitations. Getting in touch with it would take a couple of days. But it was more than fitting for a two-week road trip through Italy.

Hector scoffed. "The best is obviously the car. You can control the ride, stop and go off some predetermined path. That's why we are getting a rental car, when we arrive and you two are both going to be okay with it."

Dylan rolled his eyes, which was precisely what Rip wanted to do. Someone should remind Hector that he wasn't in charge of them, like with every other wolf in his life.

Someone other than Rip, preferably.

Rip crossed his arms, like that would keep Hector out. He didn’t want to need him for anything. Mildly disappointed by not having Isaiah there was one thing, but he couldn't even talk with Dylan like he wanted to. Not with Hector staring at Rip the way like he wanted to have a fight Rip couldn't retaliate.

Urgh.

Dylan wasn't bothered. Got himself earphones and kept showing Rip some kind of game on his phone that made Rip's eyes hurt.

The stray wolf was content to get some sleep. If Isaiah was there, he would want to show off and be alert and helpful. But with Hector eager to be in charge and Dylan's shoulder against this, he didn't care.

Rip wasn't sure why he was feeling so sleepy. He kept yawning, although he could go less than 4 hours of sleep a day and be fine for a couple of weeks—something Isaiah wouldn't allow him, anyway.

It was unsettling, feeling this sleepy with Hector right there, glaring and scowling.

There was this pressure behind his eyes though. When the promised snack handling mini-bar came over, Dylan cheerfully took over their orders and got sparkling water, coffee, croissants...

Rip wanted to share into Dylan's enthusiasm, but the smell of the croissant and coffee repelled him. Settling on sipping the sparkling water, he couldn't understand the feeling of unease that was drying his throat.

The sparkling water wasn’t sitting right.

Half an hour later, his stomach sloshed with every lurch of the train, bloated and tight. The compartment felt smaller by the minute, buzzing like a tin can full of bees.

Rip shifted in his seat, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Heat pulsed under his skin.

Tried to forget the noise, the motion, the way Hector’s scowl seemed to scrape against him even when he wasn’t looking. But the heaviness behind his eyes wouldn’t go away. And every breath tasted like iron and heat.

Rip leaned his elbow on the armrest, pressing his forehead into his palm.

The coolness helped, a little.

At least until the train jerked again and the nausea sloshed back, hotter and heavier.

He shifted, trying to breathe slower. Maybe if he focused on the window—on the blur of trees and concrete flashing past—it would ground him. He rested his forehead lightly against the glass.

The cold bit into his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The buzzing in his ears didn’t stop. Neither did the sickly heat pooling deep in his stomach, twisting like a rope pulled too tight.

He heard Dylan laughing beside him, tapping something on his phone, chatting about a game Rip wasn’t even registering anymore.

He didn’t have the air to answer anyway.

Rip closed his eyes, trying not to look obvious, trying not to draw attention.

Dylan didn’t notice. Hector sure as hell wouldn’t care.

The pressure behind his eyes had turned into a pounding throb now.

Each sway of the train sent another wave rolling through him—heat, cold, nausea, dizziness—until he didn’t know if he could stay upright.

He gritted his teeth. Counted down stops in his head.

Tried to convince himself it wasn’t that bad. He just needed to last a little longer.

He elbowed Dylan into the side. "H-hic-how much longer?"

Dylan blinked, pulling out one earbud. He checked the time on his phone. "Uh... two hours down, about five more to Bologna, if everything’s on time," he said easily. Then he turned properly toward Rip, frowning. "You good?"

Rip nodded, which was a mistake. The world tilted sideways for a second, the heat in his face flashing hotter, making his stomach clench. He jerked his head away, pressing it back against the cold glass like it could pin him there, hold him still.

"Yeah," Rip muttered hoarsely. "Fine."

Dylan didn’t look convinced.

"You’re pale, man. Like...ghost-level pale," he said, peering closer.

He lowered his voice. "You gonna be sick?"

Rip tightened his jaw. He hated the question. He hated the hiccup that slipped out again when he tried to answer.

"I’m good," he said through gritted teeth. Mostly because if he said anything else, he wasn’t sure he’d keep it together.

Dylan didn’t push, but Rip could feel his friend hovering now, his easygoing buzz replaced with a low, sharp awareness — the kind only wolves could slip into when something was wrong.

"Uhm," Dylan said, voice sarcastic now, "you say it, but you don't look it. Just lemme know if you need-"

Another hiccup cut him off, rough and wet in Rip’s throat. He hunched lower, elbow slipping off the armrest as he pressed his fists against his mouth.

The train rocked slightly, and Rip swallowed hard against the rising bile. The sparkling water sloshed miserably inside him, his stomach cramping up in waves.

"Obviously not fine," Hector said dryly. "Get him into a bathroom before he throws up all over the seats. The train's too full to find a new compartment of our own."

Somewhere beyond the pounding in his head, he registered Dylan getting to his feet, dragging him up by the arm.

Rip wanted to snap back, but the words wouldn't come. The train lurched and he lost his balance, stumbling sideways into the seat.

A strong hand caught his arm at the elbow.

Hector.

Rip flinched instinctively, but Hector just steadied him with a grim, impatient look. "Get a grip," Hector muttered under his breath.

Dylan was already at the door, sliding it open and peering out into the corridor. His eyes were blown wide and he was glancing at them and back, as if not sure what to do, how to best intervene. "Bathroom’s two cars down," Dylan announced. "Come on. You can make it."

Rip tried to push himself upright, but the movement made his vision gray out around the edges. He swayed—and Hector caught him again, this time gripping his shoulder with a steadier, almost awkward firmness.

"Move it," Hector said, quieter now. Not as angry, just brisk. Far cry from Isaiah's calm, gentle tone, though.

Rip swallowed down another hiccup, the taste of bile burning higher in his throat.

The train lurched, stronger and faster than he'd expected, throwing Rip sideways. His vision was all out of sorts, stomach in turmoil, insides practically wringing together.

Dylan was too many steps away, hurrying towards the bathroom and then jumping back for him.

"D-" Rip coughed, then gagged into his hand. Another violent lurch. He couldn't catch his balance at all, shoulder hitting the door of another compartment hard. He squeezed his eyes shut, sweaty bangs falling into his vision. "S-stop moving so fast- I can't-"

"Okay, okay," Dylan said, suddenly appearing by his side. He hooked his arm around Rip's, giving him something to latch onto. The walk was painfully slow, Dylan holding into the railing in the hall while Rip held onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

Rip retched into his hand, the sparkles climbing up his throat, but managed to swallow it back down. It made him stumble, legs all tangled up.

Dylan grunted with the effort of keeping them upright. "Almost there."

The bathroom door loomed ahead, just a few steps more, and Dylan kicked it open with his foot.

Rip basically fell inside against the small sink built into the wall and sank to his knees painfully. The moment he was sure they were inside, disgust shivered through him like lightning from the sheer crampiness. And his body gave out.

He lurched against the movement of the train, seeing stars as the water rocketed out of him. His stomach squeezed and he groaned as his breakfast made a reappearance into that dark grey toilet.

"Christ," Dylan cursed beside him, trying to fit his long limbs inside the bathroom. He had to keep it halfway open.

Rip was panting over the toilet, not feeling better at all. He burped up another mouthful of bread crust, wrapping an arm around his gurgling middle.

"You are okay, man. Did the sandwich from morning-"

Rip whimpered at the mention, pressing his forehead into his elbow. "D-don't talk about food..."

The toilet flushed above him. Shortly after, Dylan lowered himself next to Rip, rubbing between his shoulder blades. "What brought this on? We did the same thing all day...if you aren't allergic to Hector, that is. Totally fair."

That should have made him laugh, he knew, but all he managed was a hitch and a queasy hiccup. "I still feel so sick, D."

Dylan squeezed his shoulder, his hand warm. "Now that we are on it, do you like, get motion sick?"

"I didn't before..."

Dylan pressed the back of his hand to Rip's cheek from behind. "Well, you aren't feverish, so that's the only explanation I got for now."

"G-got something that would make it better?" Rip's stomach rolled along the train, a whole new wave of nausea crashing over him.

"Not here, I'm afraid. We can get you something for carsickness when we stop." Dylan sounded as mournful as Rip felt. "I'm sorry."

Rip just groaned, curling tighter against the cabinet. This was going to be a hellish ride.