#most others probably have under a third as many characters

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #24 – Memories of Ice by Steven Erikson

Reading through Malazan is the largest and most intimidating-sounding of my plethora of little reading goals for the year and – though I’ve now fallen off the one-a-month pace – one I’m still on track to complete. Memories of Ice is the third in the series (and good god can you absolutely not start anywhere but the beginning for this) and, sadly, probably my least favourite of the three so far. Not to say that it didn’t have some incredibly high points (and one of the best characters I’ve read this year), but overall the book was just very preoccupied with the subjects and characters that I find the least interesting by some measure. The truly amazing final hundred or so pages very nearly redeemed the whole thing, but at nearly 1200 pages getting to that was at points a slog.

The story occurs more or less simultaneously (I think) with the events of Deadhouse Gates, returning to the protagonists of Gardens of the Moon – most prominently prominently the Malazan Bridgeburners and Anomander Rake. Though honestly the story jumps between so many different POVs I would probably forget several if I tried to list them. It is however significantly more narratively focused than Deadhouse Gates was – this is overwhelmingly the story of the war between the Panion Seer and his horrifying, cannibalistic empire and, well, everyone else. Most of all the ostensibly-outlawed legion of Dujek Onearm and the allied coalition led by Caladin Brood, but there’s at least three or four other armies of note marching against him as well. Intertwined with that are major secondary plots introducing the Chained God, who I’m led to believe is the overarching villain of the series and by his opening moves seems to be living up to the roll, and exploring the past, future, and significance of the t’laan imass beyond their previous role as neanderthal zombie genocidaires and imperial stormtroopers (though they’re still very much that as well).

Being entirely honest, the biggest thing I am taking away from this book is the feeling that I was sold this series under false pretenses. Which is to say – Malazan is always sold as this example of richly detailed, semi-realistic and sociologically informed fantasy, with Erikson’s degrees in archaeology and anthropology mentioned prominently in trying to explain what series’ deal is. I struggled a bit to reconcile this assumption through the first two books in a way that probably gave me slightly odd readings of them, but this finally, forcibly, disabused me of it entirely.

The tipping point was specifically (and most glaringly, though it’s hardly unique here) the Panion Domain and the siege of Capustan. Neither of which make any sense at all without such a generous helping of ‘wizard did it’ that literally the entire book becomes shadowboxing the Seer specifically and his whole empire is nothing but but a vain affectation and exercise in atrocity rather than any sort of actual viable engine of conquest or actual augmenter of his power. You can’t even say the Domain is Mordor – Tolkein spent far more effort sketching out the agricultural and commercial-industrial systems sustaining and equipping Sauron’s endless hordes (and even gave them the occasional general worth a damn). Whereas Erikson - as described the entire army sent to take Capustan should have starved to death or being so riven with disease that the invasion collapsed under its own weight before anyone on the walls saw it. In an empire explicitly devoid of either mines or (save the palace-complex) cities, all that heavy infantry should hardly have the armour to deserve the name, either. Certainly it should not have been in any state to overrun the professionally manned and well-defended walls in a matter of days – given the ostensible size of the army and the shallowness of the command structure, ‘days’ is the time frame it should have taken to pull back one assault wave and send in another.

Taken on its own terms, this is mostly just annoying nitpicking – this is a book where a tenement complex is fought over so fiercely the walls start cracking from the number of corpses stuffed into each level, not one that actually cares about the minutia of provisions and logistics; Berserk not The Witcher. But realizing it was that sort of book was an unpleasantly forced shift of perspective and – having made it – a lot of the cultural detail lavished on the world suddenly started seeming much more shallow and artificial. Though having that understanding certainly made the rest of the plot – mythopeic psycho-drama that it was – much, much easier to appreciate and enjoy.

At this point I might also just have a fundamental issue with how Erikson writes his villains. Or, well, doesn’t write them. In both Deadhouse Gates and Memories of Ice there is a central conceit and character at the heart of the enemy forces that is compelling and absolutely riven with both interest and pathos – and in both cases, we spend essentially no time at all with them. Instead – and somehow even more with the Panion Seer’s minions than the Army of the Apocalypse, which is no mean feat – we spend absolute ages luxuriating in all their bloodthirsty atrocities and the myriad different depravities they inflict upon themselves, each other, and anyone who happens to fall within their grasp. On an emotive level, it makes the Seer’s final redemption ring oddly – like if Star Wars had spent a solid third of the original trilogy on imperial death camps and punitive campaigns filmed in unflinching detail with Darth Vader at the head of every one, but then had his final face-turn occur exactly the same.

Far more problematically – for me at least – the war story that is the book’s spine is just entirely devoid of moral drama or of ambiguity. The Panion Seer’s armies are capital-e Evil in every particular, and are very conveniently also an endless rabid but fundamentally cowardly horde whose only assets are brutality, numbers, and nefarious dark magic. They try exactly one clever strategy in the whole book, which fails instantly, and at no point have a hope of matching their opponents in either skill, courage, or any military virtue you care to name. The Seer’s commanders are given names and titles, but they really needn’t have been – they’re all complete ciphers, and entirely interchangeable besides. There are mentions of Panion missionaries, of the arguments they make to get willing converts and the fact that whole cities have willingly surrendered to them, but we certainly never actually hear or see why – the only emotions any follower of the Domain ever seems to express are hatred or despair (so foolish of the converts to realize that it’s only Malazan whose expansionist propaganda about a benevolent manifest destiny can be trusted, I suppose).

Our heroes, on the other hand, are (with one signposted-from-the-word-go betrayal) universally on the side of the angels, every one of them valorous in battle and fundamentally aligned on every major issue – not to mention clever, selfless, far-sighted, piercingly insightful and deeply principled. Every conflict between members of the coalition armies is a matter of miscommunication and needless wariness or suspicion, and every one can be resolved with an honest exchange in good faith. The point I came closest to just throwing the book against a wall and picking up a history book was when the plot thread – built up for multiple books now! - of how Dujek’s legions being outlawed was just a ruse for political expediency and they had made peace and then allied with Brood and Rake under false pretenses, a bomb at the heart of the fragile alliance just waiting to go off at the worst possible time.

And then it didn’t! Brood, Rake and their officers – who have been prosecuting a successful war against the Malazan empire for years now – all come around to working with that same empire (whose officers have been lying through their teeth to them for weeks or months at this point) in a matter of minutes. Even beyond that – with the exception of King Token Evil Betrayer-to-Be – they all seem to just basically agree that the empire conquering the world would be the best for everyone involved and none of them have much of an objection to it beyond their own explicit selfish interests to begin with. And then they all clasp hands and promise to work together, and the entire plot is more or less forgotten. As is any interesting internal tension or drama among literally any of the characters involved for six or seven hundred pages. It is the first time the series genuinely left me feeling like it was just wasting my time.

But okay, having finished venting my spleen here – as I said, the central war story focused on Whiskeyjack and the Bridgeburners and Rake was enervatingly devoid of real moral conflict, political intrigue or ambiguity. Which is a shame, because the parts of the book that weren’t about Malazans or Anomander Rake were all generally an absolute delight (this seems to be something of a running theme throughout the series so far, if I am being entirely honest). The Grey Swords in general were far, far less tedious than most of Erikson’s dutifully stoic heroic military leaders (interesting, even! I looked forward to their sections in Capustan). And then Itkovian specifically is just the single best character in the whole book by some margin with an arc that – though it somehow could have used more wordcount, god this book had too many POVs – I found just incredibly compelling and really riven with pathos. Silverfox’s dangling go-nowhere plot with Paran was rather tedious, but that aside she was probably the meatiest and most dramatically interesting major character in the whole book, and her dynamic with her mother was absolutely fascinating – the Mhybe herself also being a far more nuanced and interesting character than any of the badass world-shaking heroes getting more prominent billing. Even Caladin Brood at least has some occasionally unwise passion and an interesting struggle at the heart of him. And they’re hardly as dramatically serious – both are more or less macabre comic relief – but both Lady Envy’s epic level D&D party and the pair of itinerant necromancers were just absolute delights every time they were on the page.

Whatever my previous complaining, the entire massive finale – from the arrival at Coral on, really – was just excellent through and through. In no small part because of the sudden dramatic withdrawal of the plot armour that had so clearly been cushioning so many people for so long, and the sudden (usually quite competent!) culmination of so many different plot threads one after another. I will totally admit that I did not see Whiskeyjack dying coming until right before it happened, and (so long as he stays dead) I’m far better disposed to him than if he was going to stay the obvious main character of the universe for any further books (I can only hope Rake does not assume the role too transparently).

The Chained God did feel like a bit of a dog that didn’t bark, for the whole final stretch? He’s a recurring presence in the early chapters of the book, and him recruiting the desperate, resentful, and overwhelmed with pain and spite as the champions of his House is clearly set up as a plot thread. And then is just kind of vanishes – for later books, presumably (one is called House of Chains, after all) – but given how prominent tragic miscommunication is in so many character arcs, I really expected him to appear as a tempting devil sort of presence to Silverfox or the Mhybe at least (or it’s not like Itkovian isn’t already drowning under Christ-allegory energy, why not add a Gethsemane?). Not as though the book needed more things happening in it, I suppose.

Anyway yes; there’s something like two really excellent fantasy novels in here. Shame its as long as three. Still, I’m told the next book in the series leaves behind a lot of the bits I find most exhausting, so looking forward to that.

[dresshistorynerd]

Historically Accurate Jasmine

Another remake! I remade Jasmine for my series of "Historically Accurate" Disney Princesses. I honestly don't like the first version of Jasmine I made five years ago. It's not well drawn, I don't like the design, it doesn't look Jasmine and I incoherently mixed elements from different time periods. I also made some embarrassing blunders in history while explaining my thought process, since back then I was much less familiar with the history of Middle East and India. So I definitely wanted to redo her.

Research and references under the cut!

I do like Aladdin a lot, but let's be real, it's a very Orientalist film. Orientalism is the colonial lens through which the west looks at Asia and North-Africa, or the so called "Orient". It's dehumanizing and fetishistic lens - the west at the same time despises and covets the "Oriental" body. The "Orient" is flattened as one single entity and it's all savage and exotic, backward and mystical. Orientalism is fueled by jealousy and entitled superiority. In Aladdin it's very visible in how the setting blends a lot of very different Asian cultures, flattening large parts of a very diverse continent. It's set in sandy desert, but a lot of the elements of dress especially are much more Indian in aesthetic. Certainly fitted bodices and exposed stomachs are not practical clothes in a desert climate. The characters too are frequently exotised and fetishised with most female characters including Jasmine dressed and posed to appeal to the colonial gaze that covets brown bodies. Jasmine is sexualised much more that any of the white Disney princesses.

Originally the story was going to be more focused, though I can't imagine it ever lacking in Orientalism. It was supposed to be set in Baghdad, but during the production the First Gulf War happened, so they tried to distance it from the original Iraqi setting by setting it to the fictional city of Agrabah. Would there have been less Indian elements? Probably. It is pointed that in the wake of American forever wars in the Middle East, to not cause a stir Disney elected to make the movie more Orientalist. Orientalism was the inoffensive option.

Deciding on the historical setting to ground the redesign in was not simple considering the mess that the movie's setting is. One Thousand And One Nights is a collection (or many collections) of Islamic folktales from Northern Africa to Central and South Asia. So India (especially Mughal India ruled by Muslim dynasty) wouldn't be an incorrect setting and certainly neither would Middle East. The problem is that the film seems to imply there's no meaningful difference. Rather than trying figure out what is the most fitting place and time period for the film, I looked to the origins of the story of Aladdin. Apparently Aladdin’s story was added to One Thousand And One Hundred Nights by a French translator in 1709. He got the story from a Syrian-born Maronite storyteller, Hanna Diyab, who might have come up with the story himself. Most of Syria (at least Aleppo where he was born) was at the time part of Safavid dynasty Persia, so I decided to set my version of Jasmine in 17th century Persia.

I basically based the design on the illustration from 1702-3 by Mu'in Musavvir first below. The more fitted and tailored style with wider skirt likely influenced by European fashion it represents became fashionable in mid 17th century, so it still fits the time period I'm aiming at. The colour is simply perfect for Jasmine and I really like the overall desing. I did look at other art as well to get a better understanding on how the cut of the dress works, so here's couple o more references: second one is "Two Lovers with a Servant Woman" from 1696 by Mu'in Musavvir as well, third and fourth are details from paintings in the Chehel Stoun palace in Isfahan from 1646. Eyebrows grown together was considered especially beautiful feature so of course I gave Jasmine brows like that.

I of course gave her a crown, since she's a princess and depictions of Safavid princesses seem to always have a crown. I found that usually in art women had a white veil with their crown which is why I made her veil white, even though with the scarf band, which was the more typical headwear for women, colourful veils seemed to have been much more popular at the time. The veils in 17th century were also very long. For the crown and jewelry I wasn't as concerned to be using references from mid to late 17th century specifically, since these tend to change slower than other fashions. I based the crown mostly on the first illustration below from c. 1600 by Muhammad-Sharif Musawwir of a Seated Princess and the earrings on the second illustration from c. 1540 by Mirza ‘Ali of a Seated Princess with a Spray of Flowers.

Most of the images I found on this very useful blog which had gathered A LOT of Persian illustrations and paintings in handy timeline. A lot of the information of Safavid fashion I got from this MET Museum write up by Nazanin Hedayat Munroe.

[masochistkatsuki]

Team Player : How to Fuck your Friend Group 101

Pt One → Masterlist

When you're tasked with having sex with every person in your friend group, the friend who put you up to it isn't excluded either. With Mina Ashido, you either go big or go home. It's a life or death (dealing with your friends stupid flirting) situation, and only you can stop it !

Luckily for you, she's your best friend, which means you can have some fun and figure out your next moves on everyone else.

See, now, there are some 'odd' aspects of your friend group. You often found yourself stuck on whether the dynamics in-between members were normal. You'd seen a lot of people who were completely comfortable, content with being physically intimate while having a full understanding of the platonic relationship.

On the other hand, so many people criticized or didn't understand it all. A lot of people could never imagine doing that with their friends. Its not exactly fitting under that definition, is it ? As soon as you crossed that line, you were in-between being friends and something romantic.

So, you never really knew what to think of those moments where you stood on the line of okay and not okay. Everyone in the group had kissed all the others at least once-- stuff like that was just.. regular. The insult gay or skank lost all meaning by your third year. You all were close in a way that was extreme for most highschool friend groups, but even so, the only actual romantic development was between Mina and Kirishima. Right ?

A part of you felt like there was something there, but it was unreachable in your mind. It was stuck to the tip of your tongue, like the perfect word for a situation, but one you just couldn't remember.

It was a mystery you were determined to solve in your Third Year. You weren't one of the top students for nothing.

You'd been scouted by the Public Safety Commission in your last year of junior high, something only Mina knew. Ironically, this led to your first "encounter" with her. If fucking your friends was a course, you learnt Minas lesson first.

It was your second year, and Class 1-A got their hands on alcohol for the first time. By the end of the night, just about everyone was wasted. Of course the class reps stayed sober, and a few people stayed responsible. But the culprits of planning the party, Bakugous friend group, were all fucked up. Especially the classes notorious party girls : Mina, you, and Jirou (who was more dragged into this by extension but still)

You and Mina set her to bed after wiping down her makeup and leaving water and a few ibuprofen pills on her bedside table. From there, you two figured youd ride down the intoxication with a movie in your room.

This turned to you two sharing secrets, past stories, and overall character traits. Highschool drunk bonding really is like no other bond. It was a big part of you two becoming the closest friend duo in the class. You two had calmed down enough to remember what was going on, but the ongoing buzz made the air around you two hotter than it probably would've been.

Still tipsy, you told her your biggest secrets. One, you were in special commission training in order to secure a spot in public safety after graduation.. totally not an insane accomplishment and huge breach of contract to say.. But more important..!

"I think I like girls too.."

The pink hair and skinned girl looked up at you, instead of surprised, or shocked, she only seemed confused. "Girl.. are you just now..?" How did you just drop that insane bomb then act timid about a glass closet ?

"Hey !! What's that supposed to mean ?" You pulled away from where you were resting on top of her before, growing embarrassed.

"Nonono, dont worry !" She pulled you back onto her, "im sorry, I didnt mean to make you uncomfortable." She rubbed softly at your waist. Gentle and soft, something you always loved about her. Its probably why she so easily could coax this information from you.

"Its okay" You brushed the messy pastel fluffs from her eyes, looking straight into them. You had an idea, you just needed to ease the tension in. You knew you were both already feeling it. "You wanted to know more about the Public Safety Commission processes and procedures.. why don't we combine the two ?"

Sharp teeth biting into your neck pulled you out of your thought process. "Minaaa" You sang, finally willing to commit to her challenge.

She looked down at you, "Ohh, you have something in mind, don't you ?" She smiled, she often had to be in charge of people, especially the idiots. You were one of the few people who let others relax as you took a calm control over things. It was something not just she, but everyone liked about you.

You and Mina were two sides of the same coin, similar in a concerning amount of ways, but contrasting like complimentary colors. You two understood the other's wants and desires more than anyone else. If anyone was going to pleasure either of the girls, they knew it'd be their best friend.

It's times like these, when you're practically practicing for your future job, but also stripping Minas leopard tank top from her chest, panting a hot breath over her skin, you wonder if your love for girls and everything about them began with her.

Goosebumps rise across the expansive area, her nipples beginning to harden just slightly. You sigh, "You're so pretty, Mina." You bite softly at her underboob, trailing your tongue towards her sternum.

"I know" She giggled, light and airy. Pulling your hand towards her bright pink dolphin shorts. Throughout the fabric, you felt her wetted lips cling to the cloth, creating a perfect mold of it against your fingers, when you havent even taken anything down there off. "I think I'm ready.."

You smiled, proud you could get such a pretty girl going so fast. Perfect. "Mina Ashido" You spoke softly, but sternly.

She looked up at you giggling, "This is my favorite part !" You held back a smile, as much as she loved these stupid roleplays, she never took them too seriously either. It helped, honestly. Youd probably get embarrassed acting all serious for too long.

You grinned wider, "You have one chance to provide the information needed." adding pressure to the inner area, rubbing softly through the fabric to start a slow, teasing pace. Her head fell back slightly, and while she had bitten her lip to avoid being too loud too quick, a content sigh gave away that you were on the right track. "Or the Public Safety Commission will have to deal with you personally."

She bucked her hips into your palm, grinding steadily against it. The moist fabric and further secreting liquid soaked into your skin. How cute. "Please, just get to it already !!" She whined, but still mischievously flashed her teeth at you.

"Ah, ah" You scolded, though in a joking tone. You pressed your hand against her, giving her the pleasure she began to beg for, but holding her in place. "What was this about flattering comments ?"

"Oooh, so you're actually going to do it ?" She looked pleased, but also kinda shocked. "Youre so amazing~" She teased, though you knew she genuinely meant it, "Im so happy we have someone who'd do anything to protect the public's safety !" Okay now she was trying to rile you up.

You slid your fingers through the shorts and under her panties, resting your middle and pointer fingertips against the hood of her clit. Not enough to do anything serious, but the light touches were going to break her down eventually.

"Lets start." You looked at her, asking if she wanted to continue, not just the physical intimacy but overall conversation. She smiled at you, aegyo sal growing plump under her eyes.

"Sounds good, (Hero Name)." You smirked. You couldnt lie, it was pleasing how into this Mina would get.

"So who from the list is the easiest to start with ?" Your fingers started to slowly circle around where she wanted it, occasionally brushing over it when you were pushing your fingers up left.

Me, obviously, she thought, but her words got caught in her throat. "Mm.. its.." Her legs trembled a bit, spreading out.

'Jesus Mina. You really need to fuck.' You slowed your movements, and placed your spare hand on her thigh, bringing her back to where she was. "Eijirou..", She moaned, voice a little too sensual while saying his name.

You were still quite shocked that she wanted you to actually fuck him as well. In you, her, and Jirous personal group chat, the topic of Mina keeping him in her basement was one of the most recurring conversations. "And how's that ? Be specific, Ashido."

Itd been such a long time since anyone used her last name, in the right context, it could feel like it was someone calling out her given name for the first time. "O..oh.." Her head tilted back. Between her tension with Kirishima, and intense work studies, you doubted shes had the time to herself. You could tell she was more sensitive than usual. "Hes.. real inexperienced.." She sighed, hips bucking slightly as you began to steadily quicken the pace again.

You thought back. There wasn't really a lot to be said about Kirishima. He was a sweet boy, got really hard easily.. unsurprisingly. You tried to come up with anything that could help. He was relentlessly respectful, and of course chivalrous. It's easy to forget hes just a man too.

"Sooo," you began, genuinely curious on how shed answer this next question. "If hes the easiest, why haven't you done anything ?" You began to make the circles smaller, enclosing directly to where she was the most sensitive.

"I..im.." Her legs were beginning to close and open sporadically, she was getting close. "Only you know how to do this stuff to me.. I need you to teach him..!" Without warning, her legs finally snapped shut, and you locked your fingers in a tight spiral against her clit, letting her ride out her first orgasm.

Wow, is she that scared hes gonna suck ?

"Thats hot." You gasped, itd been a while since you got to see Mina like this. She truly was breathtaking. "So.. I think I understand Kirishima.. but I still think you should teach him yourself.." You had an idea of what you were going to do, but hoped Mina would just grow a pair.

"Its even hotter when they magically know." She sighed, a dreamy look on her face. Is this what happens when you read too much Tumblr smut ?

"Thats not.." You still can't believe this is happening. "Its another girl who taught him-"

"Don't worry I can pretend." Oh my god okay shes seriously not gonna fuck him until you do.

You sighed, a little proud of Mina for how fucking insane she could be. Your eyes trailed down her sweaty neck, towards her collar bones and bare chest. Hmm.

"Well," You continued, readjusting your hand so your middle and ring were prodding against her entrance. Your body leaned over hers, and in a familiar move from tonight, the vibrations from your voice rumbled softly on her shoulder. "Keep going, whos next ?"

"Denki-" You slid your fingers in, down to the second knuckle. Of course it was him. You began softly massaging around, relaxing her to the movement.

"Im holding off on him for as long as possible.." You grimaced. Kaminari was one of your best friends, dont yet anyone wrong, but.. well.. its HIM.

"Makes sense.." She sighed. He was definitely going to need the least convincing, but a lot of self motivation and convincing was needed.

It was an unspoken rule that more graphic sexual conversations happened between the guys specifically, and the girls specifically. It wasnt often that theyd seriously talk about it to each other, given the awkward teen hormones going on. The most that was shared was small incriminating details the other group would tease the person for, or things willingly shared during a truth or dare type thing.

But Denki fucking Kaminari. Public group chat, "just learned I have a mommy kink" "hear me out on lactation tho" It wasn't too surprising given he was also friends with Mineta, but goddamnit did he make it everyones problem. Also everyone in that group chat has seen that one specific picture of his dick. Unrelated probably.

"There's some things you should probably know.." Mina continued, whimpering a little as you began you fuck her softly with your fingers. "Hes real fucking stupid, obviously.." She gasped, your fingers getting closer and closer to her gspot. "But he knows a lot .. he probably has files on everyone's sexual preferences and feelings."

you groaned, sinking your teeth into her lower neck, sucking a purple bruise out of her pink skin. "Hes a fuckin psycho.." you lifted yourself up, and brought one of her thighs up to her chest as you deepened your thrusts. "Well.. whos next on our list, Mina ?" You pressed a kiss against the edge of her mouth, her voice finally breaking as breathy moans slipped from her lips.

"Fuck..fuck.. um.." Her eyes struggled to stay open, her legs felt numb from the overstimulation but her lower stomach felt so fucking good. Heat rose through her body as she whined louder and louder. "S-Sero.. Jirou is close after th-though.." Her face was an even brighter pink, a telltale sign of blush for the acid girl.

You slowed your thrusts, opting to grind your fingers against the opening muscles. "Wait.. wait fuck.. no dont stop.." she pleaded. She was definitely close, and the roleplay was beginning to get thrown out her mind.

"Its okay.." you hummed, picking your pace back up. "Just tell me real quick and ill let you cum Mina, okay ?" You smiled, and held her chin in place to make eye contact with you. "Is that okay ?" Your place was back on par with how she liked it.

"Yes yes yes.. oh fuck.. okay .. Sero is.." Her head tilted back, her legs spreading. "Hes the second closest to you, casual sex is easier than you think with him."

Your fingers began beating softly against the edge of her gummy pad. right where she would fall apart. Honestly, you knew she was right. You and Sero constantly would build up sexual tension from conversation or body language alone, it probably would've happened at some point anyway. "Okayy.. and.." You began rubbing circular around the spot, fully preparing to feel her coming around you any second. "What about Jirou ?"

Mina was panting, and struggling to get her words together even more. "J..j.. its.. haaahhh.." She was totally beginning to lose it. You quickened your pace, more interested in seeing her let go again than what she was going to say. Being in the girls group, you already knew most of Jirous sexual preferences anyway.

"Its okay, Mina." You finally fucked your fingers into her gspot dirrectly, using your other arm to lift both of her legs up to her chest, gaining a deep and quick angle. "You did good."

"Fuckfuckfuck oh my.. oh my g..god.." Her hips stuttered against your hold, her warm walls tightening and releasing rapidly against your fingers. "Yes.. fuck.." She had a fucked out smile, eyes fluttering closed contently.

You let her rest, and took your hand away to take care of her. While gathering the warm cloth and a bottle of water (with a lemon slice, she likes citrus after intense.. situations), you briefly reviewed what you knew about Jirou.

She's a lesbian, so you had an easy chance. The issue is she gets flustered easily, you wanted to make sure you didn't scare her away. There was also the Momo situation..

While cleaning up Mina, towling town her sweat and using the warm damp cloth to soak up the mess between her legs, you thought about everything you knew now.

Kirishima is probably similar to Mina, in need of releasing all the tension they've been teasing each other with. You have a good idea of how to relieve him, but also set him up with Ashido once and for all.

Denki is a whore. You'll probably have to out slut him in order to get him to talk. Its going to be a long night for him, taking some time to study the bdsm test wont hurt.

Sero's pretty laid back, if you're upfront about what's going on and why you're doing what you're doing, you know he'll be cool with it. Besides, this is one you're looking forward too.

Jirou might be a bit tricky. You'll let her know your intentions, and set up a personal hang out to just relax and ease into anything at her pace. You can also try and see whats going on with Yaoyorozu !

Oh.. and Katsuki.. Well. There's not really a point in thinking about him. You know nothing. Despite being the first two at the table, he kept everyone locked out of his romantic or sexual life completely, as far as you knew. As it concerned you, he didn't have anything going on. You didnt need to ask Mina about him, you knew he would be the hardest.

As you finished up, you looked back over to the clock. "We're thirty minutes late by the way." You held back a giggle, stuff like this always ended up happening.

"Fuck !" Now this one sounded way less pleased than before.

A/N : Not a lot of Bakugou development, sorry, i like girls more. next chapter should have more though !! speaking of

i think its pretty obvious the order that the characters will go in, but who do you think will be the next chapter focus ?

tag list (ask to be added) : @adv3rs1ty @icarusthefoolish @hyunjinshairband7 @waterfal-ling

[ihavethedreamiesx]

Only You | Bang Chan [NSFW]

Bang Chan - Stray Kids

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~4.5k

Pairing: King! Bang Chan x Noble! AFAB! Reader

Genre: Historical AU!, Joseon Era, Reader-Insert, Fluff, Smut, Some Plot, Strangers-to-Married

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Swearing, Kissing, Oral (F! Receiving), Fingering, First Times (Readers), Breeding Kink (a bit), Unprotected Sex (This is pre-birth control so…), Big Dick! Chan (duh)

Summary: You are a nobleman's daughter and your father is struggling to find you a husband. The king refuses to marry all of the women brought to him and will not take any concubines. You end up meeting each other.

Author's Note: Oh boy! Here is the first part my dudes. I wanted to have this out sooner but I'm living with my uncle with my parents right now and so I don't have the same freedom to hole away in my room all day like I would prefer. Also can't really write smut in the living room with your dad like two seats away from you.

At the bottom I will have a guide for all the untranslated words I use, or this post.

Also, if any of my historical information/words are inaccurate, I apologize, I did the best with what research I could and what I know from watching too many historical K-Dramas.

-> Lee Know's <-

-> Changbin's <-

-> Felix's <-

Revised (1/31/25)

I am cross-posting this on Archive. Please reblog! Share, even if its to the other sites! Let me know if you want to be on the taglist!

Sighing deeply for a third time, you lazily turns the page of your book, head tilting to rest on your shoulder. Your braid falls over your shoulder, the purple daenggi draping down and covering the characters in the book. Doesn’t matter, you aren’t really reading it anyway. Already have several times. It’s nearly impossible to get books you haven't already read several times, or things that are actually interesting to you, because your father won’t let you get them. Most of the books not directed toward women that you have, you more or less smuggled into your house. Because of that, it’s hard to get more, and so you’re once again bored with your choices. A delicate breeze wafts in through the open window, a small bird flittering down to rest on the sill. You look over its various shades of brown feathers and you wonder if you could ever get a book for studying birds. Probably possible, but not probable. Men don’t want women that know more than them, that's why you can't keep a suitor. Your father's voice echoes in your head, and you roll your eyes. Unfortunately, though, it seems he’s right. You’ve had many suitors out of the sons of noblemen, but none of them stay around too long when your conversations turn from dainty and feminine matters to things that actually make them think. Looking out to the sky, you wonder if there’s anyone out there at all that wouldn’t mind your learned state.

 ~₸x₸~

On a day you’re actually able to go out, you’re grateful it was your brother who could go with you. You’re both wandering the various seller's stands and storefronts, only just glancing at most things. If you had a guard escorting you, you wouldn’t be able to smuggle another book home, but your brother will help you. As you pretend to look over various different earrings, you cast a glance from under your sseugaechima to where your brother is at the book seller. Rummaging through what they have, he holds a few up to look closer at the contents before putting them back down. Must all be fiction… Looking back at the wares before you, you nod to the shopkeeper and move on, instead looking at some shoes. You’re closer then to your brother, enough that you can see when he holds a book up toward you, pretending to rest it on his shoulder as he continues looking, likes he’s reserving it. When you catch his side glance, you shake your head no. Already have it. He sniffs, putting it back, and keeps looking. As you move on yourself, across the way, you watch a young nobleman sidle up next to your brother. He’s a great deal shorter; it almost makes you giggle, but you try to remain inconspicuous.

"Oh, m’lord, the book you were looking for arrived!" The book seller slips inside his shop, coming back with a book you’ve never seen anything like before.

"I managed to get in contact with the Arab trader and he got it here all the way from the far west!" The book seller smiles wide, and you’ve fully turned around at that point, your brother looking over his shoulder at you.

"Thank you." The man smiles, handing over a significant string of mun before turning to leave. You aren’t able to react fast enough, and he catches you looking at him. Well, not him, but the book he’s holding. It’s bound in what looks like leather and you’ve never seen writing like it.

"Wait, my lord, this as well!" The shopkeeper reaches under his stall and the man goes back, taking the locally bound book from him.

"Might be hard to read without the translation." The young lord smiles and then goes to leave again, pointedly looking right at you as he does, a small smirk on his face.

"Let's follow him." You whisper to your brother, yanking him down to your level.

"Are you sure? He paid a lot for that, he's not just going to give it to you, and we don't have that kind of money on us."

"I just want to look at it, come on." You hiss out, following after the man before he gets too far out of view. You hear your brother sigh dramatically, but he hurries after you anyway, making sure he doesn’t lose sight of you.

You finally manage to catch up with the man in a small courtyard behind a restaurant not yet open. He’s standing at the edge of the stream, watching it, the two books held in his grasp as he rests his arms behind his back. Right as your brother catches up with you, the man turns around, a playful smile on his face. It’s then you realize how gorgeous he is.

"Interested in this?" He turns toward you, holding the book up, and in your excitement, you drop your sseugaechima, the garment fluttering to the ground.

"(Y/N)!" Your brother scolds, grabbing the head covering. You’ve moved so fast, you’re already standing in front of the man, ogling the book. Even though he’s probably four or even five chon shorter than your brother, he’s still nearly a head taller than you.

"Aigo, put this back on." Your brother drapes the garment back over your head, dragging you back by the shoulders a few steps.

"Wait!" You reach for the book, not having gotten to touch it, but your brother steps in front of you. Stupid societal chauvinism.

"Apologies, my lord, but she's…intense about her hobby." You roll your eyes behind your sibling.

"This isn't a normal book." The other man said, and you roll your eyes harder. Obviously, that's why you want it!

"It's all the way from Dogil." Huh? Where?

"If she wants to look at it, she can." You shove your brother out of the way, so hard he not just stumbles, but falls on his butt. The man holds the book out to you and with shaky hands you take it. The text is so incredibly foreign, and when you flips the book open, it doesn’t even look handwritten. Then again, you can’t be sure since it’s such a foreign script. Little symbols sit in the top corner of each page, and the words are horizontal rather than vertical. Each little letter is so small, the book cramped with lines. It’s heavy too.

"This goes with it." The other man holds the translation book up and you snatch it from his hands without thinking.

"(Y/N)!" Your brother scolds, hurrying to get off the ground.

"She's fine." You move toward a bench and sit down, opening the translation on top of the foreign text. Though, it isn’t a direct translation, just a catalog of what each word means. It would take time to fully translate it.

"C-can I translate it fully?" You look up at the man, your sseugaechima falling off your head again. He smiles and your heart skips a beat, but you aren’t sure if it’s because he smiles, or what the smile means.

"I would rather not just give it to you. What if you don't give it back?" His tone is slightly teasing. You deflate then and he holds back a chuckle.

"You know, I have a lot of far western texts that I don't have the time to translate myself. You could come to my home and do it for me?"

"Wait-" Your brother's tone grows stern and you look between them, the other man holding his hand up to stop the other's words.

"Rather improper I know. Though, the King can get away with quite a bit." The man is smirking, and your eyes widen. What?

"Y-You're-" You meet your brother's gaze and you both fall to your knees before him, bowing so your foreheads touch your hands. Immediately, you realize how brazen your actions were. You’re doomed-

"Don't worry about it." He waves you both off and you stand, head still bowed, avoiding looking at his face. Instead, you glance back at the books. You wonder if the book seller even realizes who he is. Your brother sits up, but remains on one knee, if he stood, he’d be higher than the king. That is not allowed.

"What is your name? Who is your father?" He asks and you swallow hard, trying to get words out. You speak your name and family clan, as well as your father's name and rank. If he tells your father about what happened, you’ll never be allowed to touch another book.

"Your age?

"Twenty-two."

"You're unmarried?" He raises a brow, and you nod sheepishly. Reaching around your back to tug on the end of your braid, hanging down to signify your marital status.

"Your name?" He nods to your brother, and he tells him.

"Well, if you won’t mind showing me to your home. I would like to converse with your father." Oh, no.

~ʘᗩʘ~

Nervously pacing around your room, even down the halls through the building of the estate you inhabit, you wonder what is happening. You had scurried away like a scared mouse once you all returned to your home, looking behind you to the books held by the King. The King! Geez, you feel like you just escaped with your life. You hear your mother being summoned to go to your father and it’s been nearly an hour of them talking.

"(Y/N)." You hear a whisper from outside your bedroom window as you wander around it. You open the shutters and your brother's head barely can look over the sill from where he stands on the narrow edge of the building's platform base.

"What's happening?" You whisper back.

"A servant just brought them our family registry."

"What?" Why the heck would they need that?! Unless…

"You think he's going to court me?" Your legs feel week, you aren’t sure what to make of it. Your father has desperately wanted you married, but not enough to submit you to the palace. A life of luxury and prestige isn’t actually very safe. Most adversaries tend to target the women closest to the king since they’re easier targets. You know the King is unwed, and that the palace officials are just as fed up with him as your father is with you. Sure, you’d rather marry someone for love, but that’s hard to do as a noble. But if you do…that means you can have access to the King's library. Is that his plan to let you translate his foreign books without it being improper? Honestly, you’re fine with it. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. If marrying the king gives you access to even more knowledge and learning, than you’ll happily do it.

~◕ω◕~

After the long meeting, the King leaves, and your mother comes to inform you of the results. You’re right, he wants you to be his wife. But marrying a king to be the queen is much more intense than just being a concubine. Sure, the king has a lot of say, but so does his ministers and the Queen Dowager, his mother. Normally there’s a long selection process, but instead you’re brought to the palace and thoroughly analyzed by palace officials. They interview you rather extensively, then finally, his mother enters. After more questions, she leaves with the officials and you’re left to sit in the pavilion, looking at the water, uncomfortable in your nicest hanbok ensemble. All of your fanciest accessories are in your hair, on your goreum is a heavy norigae, and heavy jade earrings sit in your ears. You twist the jade ring on your finger in nervousness, feeling like you’re waiting for hours. Soon though, the Queen Dowager reenters along with a few handmaidens and a eunuch. You’ve been approved.

~◕‿◕✿~

A grand dowry is sent to your family's estate, and in return your belongings are sent in as well. You’re moved into a palace set aside for the future queen, and you’re beyond grateful that your chest of books makes it to your new home. Waiting for the actual ceremony and coronation, you’re puts through hours of etiquette training and lessons. Over the short time it takes for you to learn everything, and have the ceremony and coronation performed, the King has spent a considerable amount of time with you. Every minute he can spare. He doesn’t want you, nor himself, to marry a stranger. Never having been in love, you’re sure your feelings are either quite similar if not the predecessor for love. In a fleeting whisper he tells you his name is Chan, of course it’s part of his birth name rather than what he was crowned king with. He prefers you call him that though, even if you only can in private. When he can, he’ll bring a few of his foreign books for you to look at, but he says there isn’t time for you start the translations before all of the ceremonies. Chan seems just as passionate about knowledge as you are, and that makes you fall harder. And it appears to work that way for him as well.

The day before the wedding, as he leaves before the time is improper, he presses a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth with his soft lips. Your face blossoms red you’re sure, and he chuckles gently to himself as he leaves.

~◉_◉~

The wedding itself is…a mess. Well, figuratively and only to you. You feel like you’re being directed as a puppet going through so many specific rites and rituals. The most nerve-wracking part of the whole thing is being before so many people. Your tutor is proud you’ve learned all of your etiquette so well and you’re ninety percent sure you do everything just right. By the time night falls, you’re beyond exhausted. You aren’t sure if you’re more excited about your marriage, which feels more real thanks to your blooming feelings, or the future translation work. It’s nice though that your love of scholarly pursuits doesn’t turn him away like all of your other previous suitors.

Finally, though, everything is more or less complete. You’re wandering through the large room of the king's quarters, everything even fancier than where you had been. You pick at the white fabric of your sokchima, feeling naked despite being completely covered. Your hair is still in a chignon, the golden decorative binyeo holding it up makes your head feel heavy. It’s strange to have your hair up like that, but you’re going to have to get used to it. For some reason, it feels nice to have that weight, signifying you’re married, you honestly don’t want to take it out as much as you do want to. So, it stays. You’ve bathed, rather, been washed by maids before going to the king's quarters. You presume he too is washing up, and the longer he takes, the more nervous you get. Finally, the side door that leads further into the palace where the bath hall is opens. Your heart thuds against your rib cage as you see the King enter, also in white garments. He no longer has his headdress on, only the manggeon he wears under his crown is there. You wonder how long his hair is when down.

"My Queen." He smiles and you bite your lip, looking around almost like you’re checking to see if anyone’s around.

"What are you looking for, (Y/N)?" He steps closer, hand going to your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. All the lessons that have been drilled into you make you want to look away, but if he’s okay with it…

"We're really alone?" Not even his Eunuch is there, he follows him everywhere as per his job description.

"Yes, my love." Your breath hitches, the term of affection hitting your heart, and you step just a bit closer.

"W-we-" He steps once more, his lips placing a delicate peck on your forehead. Still not able to get any words out, his kisses move to your cheekbone, the side of your mouth, then his hand cups your jaw, tipping your head up. Your eyes meet his and you can’t keep yours from flitting to his lips. Chan smirks, and you gasp as he kisses you, hard. Your teeth clacked against each other at the force and your head swims, trying desperately to match his pace. You haven't been kissed before, not like this. Chan himself has given you a few small pecks, but this is different. He’s claiming you.

His strong hands grip your waist, one sneaking down your back to pull you closer, the other sneaking up the ties of your sokchima. The hand on your back goes even lower, gripping the flesh of your butt and you huff, Chan's tongue sneaking its way in your mouth. When he withdraws, you heave in breaths, heart racing and with a final tug, your sokchima falls to the floor, leaving you bare. You shiver, goosebumps rising on your skin, but his next actions distract you from the embarrassment of being bare. He undoes the ties of his own garments and as the white fabric pools at his feet, your eyes rapidly dance over him. You’re convinced he was molded directly by the deity of sex, because he’s gorgeous.

"Oh." You sigh and he huffs a laugh, moving closer, taking your hands in his, and bringing them to the ties of his sokbaji. Your hands brushes over him through the cloth, and you freeze.

"A-are you…?"

"No, love. But," his hands run over the bare skin of your back, pulling you to him, your naked breasts pressing to him.

"I’m getting there." Chan whispers in your ear, then he runs his tongue around the ridge, sucking on your earlobe. You whimper, turning your head to allow him access, fingers clenching the hem on his pants. His lips then move to your neck, laying searing kisses on the flesh, strong fingers digging into your skin, and when you’re pulled even closer, you feel his cock hardening in his pants.

"Come with me, my love." He pulls away and you pout in disappointment, making him laugh. The room spins as he yanks you to him, lightly shoving you onto the raised bed. You huff, then squeak when he grabs your ankles, yanking you to the edge of the platform, kneeling on the floor below.

"W-Wait, Chan-!" You try to close your legs, hide yourself from him, but he’s too strong, his hands grip your thighs to keep them spread.

"So cute." He hums and your entire body jerks, back arching as you feel his tongue swipe through your folds, the sensation almost overwhelming. It’s hard to get words out since you can barely take in air, your body immediately catching on fire, blood boiling. You hear him hum as he tastes you, and you flinch when his nose brushes your clit.

"C-Chan, it's too much!" You shudder, not sure how to handle the sensation.

"I need to get you ready, love, I don’t want to hurt you." He finishes his statement by wiggling his tongue inside you. The foreign sensation makes you clench, and he rubs your tense thighs with his thumbs.

"Relax, pretty girl." You try to do as he asks, taking measured breaths, whimpering when his tongue leaves you, flicking your button again. Heat pools in your belly, rising fast and you logically know what’s coming, but have never felt it before.

"I-I…fuck!" Your head tosses back, and he groans at the crass word leaving you. Chan kisses your clit and that sends you over the edge, wind roaring in your ears with your pulse, and you barely register him filling you with a finger.

"You're so fucking tight sweetheart." The curse word riles you up more than it even did when you said it for him. He helps your ride out the orgasm with that finger, each press against your back wall seeming to draw out your climax. Finally, the waves dull, then stop, and you finally recognize his finger inside you. Because he did it when he did, it doesn’t hurt, but it feels weird.

"Oh, you're so good." He smiles wide, his normal warm grin is hot with lust. You mewl when he starts to pump his finger, the wet squelch of your slick and release seems to be louder than anything else.

"That got you nice and wet for me, but you're too tight still." His thumb barely brushes your clit and your pussy clenches, body jerking again, it almost hurt.

"Sorry, love." He continues with the single digit and at some point, he decides to continue, and you let out a shuddering breath when he adds a second. That…doesn’t hurt per se, the slight burn of the stretch is somehow more pleasurable than painful, and you wonder how much his dick will make you sting.

"Oh, oh my-“ You try to hold back a whiny moan when his fingers wiggle and spread, getting you further prepared, the same pleasurable feeling starting to build back.

"Ah!" Chan adds a third finger, and you lift your head to look at him, one knee resting on the bed so he can kneel over you. Eyes flitting down, you notice the tent in his white pants, and you swallow hard. You don’t have any metric to go by since you have never been with or even seen a man naked, but-

"That won’t fit." You whimper, not even seeing him bare yet. Chan huffs a surprised laugh, looking at himself.

"I promise it will~" His fingers crook up again, hitting some intense spot inside you and you shiver at the sudden intensity.

"N-no, no, no!" You whine when he removes his fingers, the pleasure had begun to crest and even if it is overwhelming, it does feel good.

"Hold on, love, I'll fill you back up." You prop on your elbows to watch him, the tie of his sokbaji coming undone by his fingers, then the garment falls. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen.

"Won’t fit." You gasp out and he has a hard time controlling his smug grin.

"Let's see about that." He scoops you up in his arms, moving you up the bed so your head can rest on the pillow. The cool silk of the bedding does nothing to quell the fire Chan has set on your skin, especially not when he prop himself over you.

"I love you." He leans down, nose rubbing over yours and you giggle at the innocent gesture.

"I love you too." Your hands cup his face, and he kisses you again, gentler than the first. Distracting you with the kiss, he hitches one of your knees over his elbow, his free arm bringing his hand back to your slick cunt. His fingers run through your arousal, then he pumps his fist over his hard cock, bringing the fat head to your entrance. Chan pulls back from the kiss, bringing your hands up to his shoulders.

"Dig your nails in if you have to." You should have taken it as a warning, not really sure what he meant. When his cock breaches your core, the heated burn sears through not just your cunt, but all the way through you. Your back arches, and your mouth hangs open in a quiet scream. You can’t tell whether it hurts or is such an intense pleasure your body malfunctions. His cock presses deeper, and you can feel his pulse inside you.

"So tight, fuck, hmm, love you’re just perfect~" He groans, relishing the sting of your nails digging into his skin. After what feels like an eternity, he bottoms out, the head of his dick kissing your womb.

"Y-you're in my throat." You gasp, trying not to clench around him too much, cunt stinging but weeping, a drop of your slick hitting the bedding.

"Does it hurt?" His hand brushes some sweat-damp strands of hair from your brow, and you shudder through some breaths.

"I-I don't know-" You’ve never felt anything like it before, obviously, and your brain seems to be stopping and starting again over and over. He’s being so patient, letting you adjust, but he shifts his weight differently, changing the angle slightly and the sting fades, pleasure rising, and you can’t get words out again. He must notice the change in your gummy walls' pulsing, because he grinds into you slightly and, stronger than before, you cum.

"Woah." Chan forces himself to breathe through your orgasm, the tight vice of your pussy nearly sending him over the edge and gushes of your slick shines on your skin as well as his. Your vision dots with stars and your head swims, you’re finally able to gasp for air, panting as you return to reality.

"Are you okay, love?" He strokes your cheek with his thumb, and you hold his hand to your face with your own. You nod, swallowing a buildup of saliva.

"Y-yes, you…you can move."

"Are you sure?"

"Please~!" Your whimper heightens into a moan as he pulls back just a bit, going slowly back in to make sure it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t. Sure, it feels like he’s carving his cock through you, but it’s more than good.

"Tell me, sweet, if I hurt you." The next thrust, he pulls back a bit further, and back in harder.

"Please, Chan, you- fuck!" He picks up the pace just a bit, still going fairly slow, but the stretch of his fat cock is more than enough stimulation.

"D-don't-"

"Don't what, love?"

"Don't…oh, fuck, please, don't stop. Just-!" Your toes curl, throwing your head back, nails digging into the bedding as he pulls out about halfway, then buries inside you hard. He sits up more, slinging your other leg over his elbow as well, rolling his hips against yours. Chan's eyes skate all over you, beautiful and bare below him, and when he gets to your face he groans. Your eyes are hazy, mouth open, drool pooling from the corners of your lips. You’ve never felt anything even close to the pleasure he’s wreaking on you. You can’t think, and you seem to be losing strength in your body, the crest of another orgasm building.

"Shit- can't hold back anymore love." He grunts and you don’t have enough available thought process to react. He moves his hands to your thighs, pinning your knees up by your shoulders, then he pulls his fat cock out nearly all the way, and starts to pound into you. Tears rose in your eyes from the overwhelming feeling, little squeals of delight forced out of you with each thrust and your cunt spasms. Chan just thunders through your orgasm, not stopping or slowing and your eyes roll back.

"Fuck, you're just perfect love." He huffs a laugh, "oh, I can't wait to fuck you full!" All you can focus on is the heat of his dick and how much hotter your womb will feel full of his cum.

"Pl-please! Chan, please, fuck!" You gasp, his pace growing unsteady, and he finally fucks as deep as he can, hot ropes of cum filling you and painting your cunt white. Your belly is on fire and a combined glob of both of your releases drips out from where your bodies meet. As Chan pants, looking down at your fucked out state, he smiles.

"You're my wife now, only you."

daenggi - the ribbon that was tied around a unmarried girl's braid. sseugaechima - this is the extra-skirt looking garment women would wear over their heads. mun - Joseon Era Korean currency chon - historical unit of measurement, close to an inch. Dogil - Korean word for Germany, might not be completely accurate for the time. hanbok - traditional/historical clothing, most people think of women's dresses, but men's clothes were called this as well. goreum - the ties that fastened the top of a hanbok. norigae - accessories that were tied to the goreum of women's handboks sokchima - basically a dress/skirt like under-garment. binyeo - the long pin that would hold a woman's bun up, mostly used for married women. manggeon - the mesh-like headband men wore to hold their hair in place. sokbaji - pants-like undergarment, mostly worn by women under their chima

Master-List

Taglist: @huldrelokken, @estella-novella, @astrobebba, @kayleefriedchicken, @rhonnie23, @cassandramrn, @qwonyoung23, @minghaosimp, @stresskidz

[determunition]

i took the switcheroo week as an excuse to finally try my hand at some scrybeswap designs! got a bit carried away as you can see, i love doing character design so much

decided to keep their species/major design elements fairly consistent (e.g. grimora's makeup, mag being vague and indistinct, leshy having nonhuman legs, p03 only having one arm) while still switching up their aesthetics as needed; super happy with all of these as a result!

design notes for each scrybe under the cut! def open to any further questions or curiosities, i always think way too hard about characters while designing them lmao

P03:

scrybe of the dead: i went for a possessed tv vibe; he's still mechanical but those bones do have a living soul trapped in them...also shoutout to @squid-hug for suggesting the x-ray machine, i was very tickled by that lmao

scrybe of beasts: overgrown old bot was kind of a given for this one, but i was also thinking that the plants are part of what's keeping him running somehow

scrybe of magicks: the magic eye is the core powering that top monitor, and the two side monitors display what he's seeing with that eye at any given time

grimora:

scrybe of beasts: she's a witch! like a chill terry pratchett kind of witch, she works with a lot of herbs and such; also her makeup is meant to mimic blood drops

scrybe of magicks: magick grimora is more of a warlock type, her magic is a lot more sinister and she almost never opens her eyes (whereas her third eye is basically always open)

scrybe of tech: tech grimora is kind of a wacky machinist-flavored dr. frankenstein; she inscribes by writing on circuitboards!

leshy:

scrybe of the dead: this leshy is a gargoyle/vampire hybrid! i thought a mirror would be fun for him bc you can get two different cultural refs; medusa (bc stone gargoyle), and the idea that vampires don't appear in mirrors!

scrybe of magicks: i decided to make him a bird guy (kinda harpy-esque) bc he's basically a more whimsical baba yaga hermit; the baba yaga thing carries over from slavic folklore obvs. also he has polycoria!

scrybe of tech: tech leshy was super fun, bc he's steampunk! rather than animal legs i gave him digitigrade robot legs, but other than that he's the most like, normal human guy here probably lmao; despite his well-adjusted appearance though i still think he's got a bit of freaky wonk in him

magnificus:

scrybe of the dead: this one was very ring-inspired lol, got those clump of hair you found in the shower drain vibes

scrybe of beasts: bush magnificus real! i think he'd be a bit more quirky trickster fae in this form

scrybe of tech: one of my favorites; tech mag is an emaciated cyborg draped in so many loose cords and wires that you can't tell what he looks like anymore. a lot of those cords are connected to him, and he plugs them in wherever as needed! he also has a drawing stylus, making him just an average art student tbh lmao

[maybeiwasjustjade]

The way Teen Wolf (and subsequently the McCall Pack and Parents) treated Theo is probably one of the most interesting dynamics in the whole show.

And by interesting, I meant downright hypocritical .

Because sure, we can’t kill or plot against people, but hey! Let’s also have the main characters constantly work with adults who did in fact hurt them, torture them, and even murdered them! Let’s have other murderers running around teenagers without problem. Or have them date almost murderers and actual murderers. We’ll even hand out second chances and thirds like candy on halloween!

Allison. Chris Argent. Peter Hale. Aiden. Ethan. Deucalion. Hell, half the McCall Pack at this point.

But hey, we draw the line at Theo fucking Raeken.

Let’s start with Theo’s vague childhood and the events leading up to his the Dread Doctors taking him. The story itself is so nonsensical that it’s a wonder we never actually got the whole true story.

1. We know there must’ve been something wrong with Theo’s health from a young age. No child would believe his sister wanted to give him her heart unless that child has a potentially soon-to-be fatal heart disease.

2. Teen Theo is very different from baby Theo. Enough that Stiles was able to guess that teen Theo wanted something from them. If baby Theo was a burgeoning psychopath or sociopath, Stiles would have mentioned it. He didn’t; baby Theo must’ve been a normal little kid before the Dread Doctors got their hands on him

3. Tara’s death. This happened around 4th grade. We know he was nine. Valack insisted that he was ten, but Theo himself admitted the Doctors were already manipulating him by the age of nine. We don’t know how long it was before that they started whispering in his ears.

4. Theo’s parents must’ve been quite absent. All the other Chimaera subjects were kids that were taken because no one would notice them gone for long periods of time. A nine year old going missing is a lot more obvious than a bunch of 15-16 year olds. So they must’ve manipulated him either during sleep time, or after school. Either way: where the heck were his parents?

Theo might be a good liar, but I don’t believe for a second he killed Tara because he wanted to. Or of his own free will. The Dread Doctors got into his head and manipulated him into doing it by focusing on his desperation to live.

A nine year old boy is abducted and tortured into a living science lab experiment. He spends the next 8 or so years being their only success. He’s exposed constantly to death and blood and torture. He’s raised to be the perfect spy, and was probably tortured into mastering his tells. Remember: at 17, Theo had more control over his shift and powers than even most adults. He was able to hide and manipulate his chemosignals. He was able to keep his heart steady despite lying constantly. Body language, eyes, tone—all manipulated to such a degree even Malia was fooled.

That is not a talent that comes naturally. That is not something a teenager should be able to do, not to mention do it so well he was able to manipulate so many shifters at once. That is something you could be trained and tortured into doing, though.

So you get a traumatized, brainwashed baby spy with murderous tendencies, who is self-serving to a detriment because he spent nearly a decade under the thumb of murderous scientists who could kill him anytime they deemed him no longer necessary. I’m not surprised Theo ended up the way he did: no one lives true that without accepting the need to do the worst possible things to survive.

What I don’t understand is what makes Theo so different from all the other antagonists/anti-heroes/villains that the McCall Pack considers him irredeemable and thus deserving of death.

They forgave Allison for Boyd and Erica and Isaac.

They accepted Chris Argent and his history of spilling innocent blood.

They let Peter live and worked with him after his return in S2. After S4.

Meredith Blake literally got people killed via a deadpool.

Deucalion was healed and allowed to go free despite the carnage he wrought in his revenge.

Nobody hunted down Gerard after needing his help in S5. Or made sure he was indisposed.

Aiden and Ethan were allowed to walk free.

So why Theo?

Kira sent him to hell. The entire McCall Pack stood there and did nothing while he was killed, even when he begged for help. Malia constantly threatens to kill him without remorse or care. Scott told Liam to put him back underground, essentially killing him again.

Oh, but this is the same pack that hands out second chances like candy! Who refuse to take lives or even consider it a possibility. Who works with murderers and killers without issue as long as it’s needed, with far less protest than they did Theo in 6A.

Or is because Theo’s the only one that succeeded, and they can’t accept they lost? This miraculous, spunky, rag-tag pack of teenagers who somehow survived against all odds…lost miserably to a teenager their age.

Even the adults showed more disgust and disdain towards Theo than, again, the literal adults who’ve hurt and killed kids before. You never saw Stilinski threaten anyone the way he did Theo, did you?

Or is it because unlike everyone else, Theo couldn’t really be manipulated? No loved ones or best friends or exes and lovers; no parents or sister alive to be used against him. He had no bridges to be burned, was already operating like a dead man walking.

I just find it funny that Theo had to stay dead and gone, but Peter was placed in Eichen and Gerard in a care home.

[michanvalentine]

Since I talked about my favorite sad Astarion lines, today I’m indulging in some of the funniest ones instead! There are obviously so many—he’s always a delight, at least by my standards. I adore him because, among other things, he’s truly an embarrassing little gremlin. I swear, I don’t know how anyone finds him annoying when teasing him is the most entertaining thing in the world! xD

"Next time? No, no, no." This entire scene has become iconic. It’s simply amazing—what he says, how he says it. I could watch it on a loop with a dumb grin plastered on my face the whole time. He’s absolutely losing it, completely unhinged, and I love him for it. I don’t care about the disapproval, I don’t care that he got splattered under Lathander’s monastery, and I don’t even care about the gold I had to pay Withers for his resurrection. I’d do it a thousand times over, just to have him scream in my face again! xD For the record, the first time I played, I had no idea what was going on and grabbed the weapon without thinking. Then, in full panic mode, I smashed the whole contraption, not even realizing I could escape. The second time, I did things properly and solved the puzzle. But the third time? I went there with the sole purpose of making Astarion lose his mind. It was premeditated. I left him there while I happily ran away, fully knowing what would happen to him. Forgive me, little Star, you know I love you. <3

"Can we kill them? Please, pretty please?" This one caught me off guard, but I absolutely adore it. Neil is, as always, brilliant. It kills me because everything about his body language—on top of the tone of his voice—screams how badly he wants to do it. After all, he’s a vampire, a predator, and as such, he has certain instincts. He crouches slightly, leans forward, and just the thought of it practically makes him pant. A real, proper vampire, who’s almost about to come in his pants at the mere idea of spilling blood. <3 But there’s also a bittersweet note here. The line makes me laugh so much, especially because, among other things, he’s asking for permission to do something horrible in such a cute and playful way. But that’s just it—Astarion is asking for permission from Tav/Durge, subtly emphasizing the dependent relationship that binds them, especially in the beginning. It’s almost like he’s addressing his new master.

"It's not you, it's me. I have standards." I die every time I hear this line, every time I see that smug, punchable face of his when he says it. It’s never actually happened in any of my playthroughs, but it always makes me laugh out loud—complete with a head shake at how utterly… insufferable he is. Seriously, how can you not love him? And let’s be real—his actual standards? The average Astarion-approved partner is a drunken whoremonger at a brothel, probably a full-blown degenerate. I love how he tries to act all refined, as if he’s some discerning, high-class individual who only picks the best. Yeah, sure, babe. Anyway, Tav/Durge must have really pissed him off to get a response like that. But still, I can’t help but laugh—and, weirdly enough, find it kind of endearing. Because even though he’s got the most slappable face in that moment, he's also hiding his vulnerability, and that’s exactly what makes it so good. Astarion is a walking contradiction, and that’s what makes him such a brilliantly layered character—one who constantly makes you feel a whirlwind of emotions, often conflicting ones.

"Gods above, look at you..." No, I’m done. I’m dying. You transform into a horrifying monster with unsettling fangs and four clawed arms, you get horrified stares, concern, and even a full-on scolding from the entire camp—and then there’s him. He just lifts his gaze, completely unfazed, and says this in an almost admiring, even flirtatious tone. The contrast in reactions absolutely kills me. Sure, Astarion is a vampire, a monster in his own right, but there’s a big difference between a smelly Slayer and a pale, well-dressed, ridiculously handsome elf. There's also the possibility that, after everything he’s been through with Cazador, nothing truly horrifies him anymore. But what I love—besides how hilarious this moment is—is that, out of all the companions, he probably has the fewest lines where he actually judges Tav/Durge. At most, he might call them naive if they act like a hero or see the world as a just place. But beyond that? He doesn’t criticize. He accepts almost everything.

"You have a type, don’t you? Elven prostitutes." This line completely caught me off guard—I had to actually stop and think about it to fully get it. And even then, I kept questioning whether he was really saying what I thought he was saying. And yes. Yes, he absolutely is! I lost it. At first, I didn't even connect the dots that he was talking about himself, so obviously, if I’d been visiting brothels and then ended up with him, I had a type! xD I know, I know—the subtext is actually kind of sad. But that's exactly what makes the line so brilliant! Once again, it’s layered with meaning. There's a bit of resentment, his low opinion of himself, his harsh realism, and of course, his ever-present sarcasm. And yet, it’s still funny. Honestly, I’ve never encountered a character before Astarion who can express so much and evoke so much in just a single line. <3

"I'm actually a princess of House Nightstar." This one kills me every time. Especially the way Neil spits out the name of the tarrasque, Jhonatan. The moment I hear "Jhonatan," I completely lose it. This is, of course, pure sarcasm—his go-to defense mechanism to keep people at arm’s length and wriggle out of uncomfortable situations. Tav/Durge is telling him not to hide things anymore, and we all know Astarion hates talking about himself, especially when it comes to painful or difficult topics like his scars or the deal with Mephistopheles. And naturally, this is how he responds. I just can’t! He’s such an idiot! I love him. And for the record... Jhonatan is one of us! A fantastic husband, I’m sure of it! Someone should absolutely write an Astarion x Jhonatan fanfic. xD

I'll stop here for now. I have a million more favorites I could add, but honestly, pretty much everything Astarion says deserves a discussion of its own! Maybe, when I just can't help myself anymore, I'll make another post about his other fantastic lines. xD

[sl33paholics]

Hello, You really surprised me with how detailed you wrote about this fandom. This is something really wow.You are the third person I found on this Tumblr. If requests are still open, can I request about Jotaro, Polnareff and Josuke With a fem s/o reader who is very sexy but innocent and cute (like Bimbo) only she doesn't realize that many people like her. Please~ a little bit nsfw maybe ( It's up to you )

Love love from me to you

Keep Your Eyes In A Different Direction

The JoJos x bimbo!fem!reader

Characters include: Jotaro (p3), Polnareff (p3), and Josuke (p4)

Warning(s): slight nsfw (mentions of female body partz)

Josuke Higashikata

Sometimes, Josuke wonders how he ever bagged you.

I mean, look at you! Such a beautiful body, such a perfect ass. And those cheekbones…as if you were birthed to be the next top super-model in history. Those legs, though, are probably the most sinful things he's ever seen. And your skin…whenever touching it, it's smooth like silk.

It's difficult. It's difficult for Josuke to control the looming perverted eyes of his fellow male classmates at school and those drunk old-heads whenever you two are hanging out after school. It's hard not to think about what would happen if he could get you alone somewhere and take off all that gorgeous clothing. If he could lick the gloss from your lips and feel the softness of your skin beneath him. If he could kiss every inch of your body and feel every one of yours shudder with pleasure under his hands.

Josuke knows you have a reputation at school, just like him, so many admirers wanting to be your boyfriend or some other crazy shit like that. You're popular, and that makes you even more desirable. Even more of an object of desire. And yet, they couldn't. They boys know you two are together. A couple. Officially. But still, they can never bring themselves to do anything but stare at you while you walk across campus.

You're such a fucking tease. How dare you smile at every boy who looks at you in such a way? How could you possibly engage in conversation with boys whose obviously making moves on you and mistake it for a friendly interaction, only for Josuke to grab you by the wrist and pull you away. The worst part is that you don't see anything wrong with what the boys are constantly gawking and staring at you like a zoo animal, if he had the balls to do it, he would make-out in front of them to get his message across.

Although you may be a bit on the ditzy side, he still adores you. Josuke would do literally anything for you. Anything at all. Including getting caught up in some dumbass drama with the guys at school, trying to prove they won't get their hands on you, just so Josuke can get your attention.

Jotaro Kujo

You're his EVERYTHING.

After that long journey from Egypt, the man became a whole new person. As if he wasn't already before after being released from jail.

He needs your undivided attention all the time. Jotaro would never show any weakness in front of you or anybody for that matter, but for him to just squeeze you in an embrace when nobody was looking is something very intimate. Jotaro's just not like that with everyone else who can't handle your touch, but with you, he has nothing to hide. And it is so precious to see him open up, tell you everything about himself and everything. It's as if he's been holding it back since the start.

Jotaro wants to squeeze your big ole thighs every time he hugs you. He wants to bury his face in your neck and sighs happily into it. His hand reaches out to caress your cheek lovingly while his other arm wraps around your waist to pull you closer. Jotaro looks at you with a gaze as soft as the clouds. Hence, when returning to school, Jotaro has been more snappy than ever. Don't get it twisted. No one has DARED to ever approach you once it became known to everyone in the building that you and Jotaro were dating before sudden unfortunate events that had him away for days. He noticed that the boys suddenly got an ego boost. Everyone just assumed that the two of you "broke up" now those simps were getting all lovey dovey towards you.

Instead of telling them off, Jotaro was dumbfounded and reasonably upset when you would engage back with the boys with a teasing tone, a tone that you probably didn't know that was feeding into their egos. All it took for Jotaro was to stand behind you and look down at those boys with murderous intent before they would run off, scuttling like frightened rats.

Jotaro isn't too fond of showing PDA but he would definitely squeeze your ass to get how he's feeling about you to anyone point blank clear as day, and to remind you of your place when it comes to him.

It's no secret that Jotaro has a hard time expressing himself. With someone like yourself, you can easily understand that. You both have different personalities, so you might find yourself constantly struggling to make sense of what Jotaro wants. Jotaro's a complex guy, but he loves you anyway. Someone as pure and gorgeous like yourself, he's always going to protect you like his life depends on it.

Jean Pierre-Polnareff

The connection between you two is strong.

Considering the traumatic 50 day trip he had to endure, getting revenge on his sister, and being able to survive, you were like a new breath of fresh air that man even needed.

Both of you are romantic. Sexy. Outstandingly outgoing. As if it was fate that pulled you two together for you guys to meet in his home-country and begin a new relationship.

However, Jean noticed how much in the country of love, you weren't safe. No, there were just too many...unhinged men gawking at you whenever you guys went out. You would always enage back, because why not? You wouldn't want to look rude when someone is talking to you.

This irked Jean too much. Is this what it felt like to be jealous? To have people constantly hit on you? To ignore the fact that your partner is literally RIGHT THERE and still had the nerve to talk crazy? Oh, his poor heart and soul didn't like this venom feeling. Always expect Jean to make a whole scene just to embarass the guy and show him how annoying he really is and disturbing your evening with your precious boyfriend. He'd be talking about it all the way until the two of you get home.

Being intimate behind closed doors or in public doesn't concern this bubbly French man one bit! Jean loves to show you off to anyone and everyone in his presence, but he's very proud that he is the only person who gets to see you as you truly are: a caring, compassionate, beautiful woman. And yes, he'll do that again and again, just for the sake of showing that he loves you.

From the way he'll dress you up all nicely just to slowly and gently ruin you. How you can never tell what is going on in Jean's mind and how hard he works in every aspect of life just to prove to you that he will never treat you badly. That everything will turn out alright, because he is yours forever.

And those kisses that he's so desperate to give, Jean keeps asking you to give him so that he could feel better. Like they're some sort of therapy for his soul or something. The way the two of you would kiss for hours, with nothing else in between. How long it took for you both to calm down from the intensity of the passion and how his lips would always be covered in a layer of lipstick. It was adorable how embarrassed you are by these things. But also very sexy the way both of your stomachs would flutter with butterflies no matter how long the relationship lasted.

[hanaybuns]

lawyer kara

so i was listening to doramatsu volume 4 (the iromatsu lawyer one) and kept thinking about karamatsu's characterization in the tracks

for the most part, ichimatsu stays consistent to his neet character in both tracks. he's generally lethargic, negative, rude, antagonistic, and plays the straight man while he's a lawyer and the defendant. But i feel like they take karamatsu's character in a really funny direction

like, he's definitely karamatsu in both tracks. he has all of the karamatsu character beats: narcissistic, pathetic, romantic, painful/cringey, generally kind ... but man they dial it up to 100000000. like seriously, every other sentence is filled to the brim with flowery prose and dumb english phrases.

like, look at this, these are some of lawyer karamatsu's lines

and of course... how could i not mention:

and defendant kara isn't any better

i think lawyer kara is much more ooc, but even then defendant kara also goes on a million monologues about love every 0.05 seconds. he's also extra dumb in the defendant track. now one could make the claim that karamatsu is playing a character in the lawyer track, but for the most part if you listen to the other volumes, everyone else is basically the same. kara is really the only character that's like... deeply ooc. i have a couple theories as to why they did this.

so first, these are audio alone, there are no visuals to accompany the dialogue. so the character acting has to be a bit more exaggerated to keep the listener engaged. if you have no visual gags, you have to compensate for that with funny dialogue and sound effects. basically, the quality of the drama track is heavily dependent the dialogue and the line delivery.

and lemme tell you, yuichi nakamura is hysterical in both of these tracks. like genuinely his line delivery is so funny, i highly recommend listening to these tracks again. so a part of the fact that kara is ooc is because they probably wanted to utilize his more poetic, emotional, and passionate sides to make the most out of the medium.

Secondly, these tracks were released in 2016, before seasons 1 and 2. so they honestly didn't actually know much about karamatsu's character, he wasn't as fleshed out as he is now. at this point, the only point of reference they had for when karamatsu was angry was either during gags or in episode 24 (very serious). so they had to experiment a little with what an angry or aggressive kara would look like and i think they came to a really interesting conclusion.

as we know, kara has a tendency to mask his true intentions under the guise of kindness and love.

this is one of the rarer moments from season 1 where he was annoyed that they wanted him to fill the kerosene. but see what he did there? he took his annoyance and wrapped it in a ball of "i'm so cool and kind and loving, i'm doing this out of love''

lawyer kara is that concept, but dialed up to 1000000000. he starts slapping the crap out of ichimatsu under the guise of wanting to help him prove that he's not servile, when in reality, he's probably just being sadistic.

third, shu matsubara (the head writer of ososan) didn't write these tracks. he actually didn't write any of them! the person who wrote these 2 tracks is kazuyuki fudeyasu. he's a very prolific screen writer, here are some of the shows he's worked on:

and many many more! (these are all from his imdb page)

and from what i know, he actually never worked on the show. he's only worked on other audio tracks for doramatsu. so this karamatsu was written by someone who is a very talented writer... but has never written for karamatsu before.

finally, i'll cap this off with the most plausible and important theory of all:

it's fan service.

[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

[greekceltic]

FAQ (Updated 2025)

She/her | 39 | I like cats and rain. My comic: https://catswaycomic.com/ My Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/greekceltic My Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/greekceltic Other links: https://linktr.ee/greekceltic Sorry in advance if you send me a message and I don't get back to you, I tend not to stress over messages/asks. I do try to read them though, and I'm always open to being asked questions about characters or my headworld/stories. I am already aware that my art is being copied. They're blocked. Please stop telling me about it. Rest of my FAQ is under the cut >

Can I repost your work? I don't mind as long as I'm credited. I'm less okay with my work being used as a pageviews grab, but it's probably not worth my time to care. If it's something I've selected to take down and don't have posted anymore, don't. If you can't find a place I have it posted, then default assume you shouldn't repost it. If it's something you commissioned, go for it. You don't need to credit me every time you share it. Once in a while is cool.

Are you okay with fanart? What about OC interactions? Can I post it? Sure, just don't profit off of it and please credit me. If you want to draw my OCs interacting with yours that's also fine (and fun!)- though I prefer situations where their actions make sense. Alf wouldn't make your character cry, for example. He's grumpy but not cruel. Posting it is fine. Is it okay if I take inspiration from your art and concepts? I've been in a situation in recent years where another artist has taken far, far too much. It's a subject I'm pretty burnt out on. I recently saw another artist's take on this and it looked sensible to me. I'm just going to quote theirs. I have tried to find my own words, but right now I find myself more comfortable using someone else's. "Well, if you’re having to ask me for permission, either your design is too similar or you’re being overly nervous about a normal artistic process. You’re absolutely free to use my work as a source of inspiration but I’d strongly encourage you to think about the details from my design you like most, and remix them with other concepts into your own unique take."

Taking inspiration is something everyone does, but please don't become a shadow I get bi-weekly alerts about. Ideally your pool of inspiration will be many artists and concepts re-imagined into something unique to you- and that you're being honest with yourself about the result. Honestly, if you're uncomfortable crediting your source, you already know what you're doing has gone too far.

Your art is being copied! / Will you tell me who the copy cat is? I get a lot of messages about this and am tired. I'm sure if my art ends up somewhere it shouldn't be or there's something really worth my attention I'll find out through friends. Otherwise, I'm just sayin' get a second or third opinion before coming to my inbox. I probably already know about it.

I sent you a message and you didn't respond. Sorry about that. I tend not to stress about messages because it can be a drain. You're more likely to get a response if you let me know from the get go what you want, but nothing is guaranteed. Sometimes I didn't see it, sometimes I got busy or forgot, sometimes I plan to do it later, sometimes I just opted out. It's not personal. Where do you Rp? Are you looking for more partners? Discord mostly. Roleplay consumes a lot of time so these days I mostly only play with my buddy Thema. I probably wouldn't have time to play, but I like to hang around people that do and I don't mind being asked. Just please don't be sad if I never get around to responding! I'm most compatible with people who are comfortable with radio silence.

Can I use your characters in roleplay/as roleplay refs? Considering I actively roleplay my OCs and there's a potential for confusion, I'd rather you didn't. Though I think there's a difference between linking to my art and saying 'this is my character', and linking to it to say 'this has the mood I'm going for, but here's what's different about my character--'. The latter is fine.

Can I make Fan OCs for your setting? Thinking about this makes me tired. Maybe I'll get to a point where I'm more comfortable later, but for now I'd rather you didn't make something directly from my worlds. But lets be real, you don't need my permission to draw cat monsters and I take a huge amount of inspiration from ancient history. Many of my concepts are inspired by things that you can read about and be inspired too. If you see something and are curious if there's a historical source, just ask. Hopefully I'll remember.

Do I have permission to draw NSFW art of your characters? No, for a plethora of reasons, some easy to explain and some not, but I probably can't stop you. Just don't profit off of it or show it to me. Accepting that I can't stop it doesn't change how I feel about it or that my answer is no. What about vore? If I haven't explicitly given you permission to do that, I'd rather you didn't go there. I always ask a creator for permission before I go there with their OC, I'd like the same respect.

Do you have a website for your OCs? I have RP pages for them scattered all over the place and many of them are outdated, but as I type this I recently put some up on Toyhouse. https://toyhou.se/GreekCeltic

Do you have a website for your comic? Sure do. It's an expensive fuck. https://catswaycomic.com/ When does your comic update? Sporadically. I work on it when I have time. My income is solely freelance commissions and Patreon- mostly commissions.

There's other places you could post your comic! Yeah, I know. I may do that someday, but for now I like having my own house, even if it's an expensive fuck. (Not really, the renewal just hits around tax time, Lol).

[spnbabe67]

So Come And Do It For Me

Kinktober Day 15: Phone Sex (D.W.)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem Original Character

Warnings: Smut, Fingering, Masturbation (F. described, M. implied), dirty talk, slight power exchange if you squint

Summary: Cabin fever sets in for Tori as the fifth day alone in the Bunker gets to her. Luckily, Dean calls to take care of his girl.

Word Count: 1640

Authors Note: Title inspired by the song Love Me by Ex Habit

Tag List:

@zepskies @king-of-milf-lovers @nightxcreature

Tori hated being injured. Hated the clean, hospital reminiscent smell of the antiseptic wipes. Hated the way the cast material clung to her lower leg, restricting her mobility. She hated laying in bed all day, or sitting at the table in the library when she could be out with Sam and Dean chasing down leads. Most of all, she hated being useless. Tori didn’t care how many times Dean had tried to placate her, telling her that doing research and being whatever law enforcement contact they needed was helpful. She knew better.

She knew there wasn’t any piece of lore Sam couldn’t find in a library or on that laptop of his. Knew that Bobby or even Garth could play FBI/DNR/U.S. Marshall supervisor 10 times better than she could. It felt, lazy, irresponsible even, to stay sequestered in the Bunker when she could be out there helping people. Saving people, hunting things. That was the motto, not ‘take it easy, let your fractured tibia heal”. Doesn’t really have the same ring to it.

Tori had heard her mom use the phrase ‘hurry up and wait’ many times in her youth, but she’d never truly understood the sentiment behind it until now. Not to mention the fact that loneliness was a monster that had carved a hole in her chest, curled itself up and settled in. Tori’d never realized how quiet the Bunker was without Sam and Dean here. Sure the pipes groaned and the building itself whispered and hummed with all the machinery housed under it’s roof. But with her boys gone, there was no bickering, no classic rock blaring in the kitchen, no clinking of bottles in toast. Just the ambient noises that had her feeling smaller than a flea as she hobbled down the long, empty, hallways.

It was probably her imagination, but Tori could have sworn she had started to wear a track between her and Dean’s bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and the library. It seemed like weeks they’d been gone, but Tori knew it was barely five days. But the seconds blended into minutes and minutes into hours and the hours turned lonely days into even lonelier nights curled up around one of Dean’s flannels she’d shoved onto a pillow in an attempt to pretend it was his chest she fell asleep upon. 

That’s where she was, on her third time rereading the same page in the novel she started, when her cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. Tori sighed, knowing it was Dean on the other end of the line. He called her each night around this time. It warmed her heart, gave her something to look forward to at the end of the day, days that would otherwise bleed together with the lack of sunlight in the Bunker, given the lack of windows; even with the crutches Sam had ran out and got her, she was still too awkward on her feet to try and brave the stairs, feeling a little too much like Bambi than her pride would allow her to acknowledge.

Tori smiled to herself as she accepted the call, bringing her phone to her ear. “Hey.” She greeted him.

“Hey, Sweetheart.” Dean’s voice was soft even though it was slightly distorted over the phone. “How’s my girl today?” 

Tori shrugged, facing a few seconds of silence before she remembered that duh Dean couldn’t see her. “Eh. It’d be better if I was there with you and Sam.”

“I know, Sweetheart, I know.”

Tori shoved away the sadness she felt creeping in at the edges. “How are things going?”

She listened attentively as Dean recounted how he and Sam were tracking some obscure monster from some mythology even Tori hadn’t heard of. Sam, living up to his ‘Boy Genius’ nickname, had found the monster's M.O. in some archaic text buried in the back of the town's library, all of the methods matching to a ‘T’. The hard part, according to Dean, was finding the sucker. 

“I have faith in you Baby.” Tori murmured, rolling from her side onto her back, slinging the hand she wasn’t using to hold the phone to her ear, over her stomach.

“I have faith in you too, Sweetheart.” Dean answered, and Tori could faintly hear what she could only assume was the motel bed’s springs squeak as Dean must have sat down. “You’re so strong, and so brave. You’ll be back out here with us in no time.”

Tori sighed. “I know.” She toyed with the material of her sweatshirt. “I really miss you, De.”

The praise falling from Dean’s lips, traveling across the telephone lines to her ears, had Tori squirming in their bed, heat rushing between her thighs. With Dean gone and the lack of motivation plaguing her, Tori was revved up way too easily. 

“I know Sweetheart. I miss you too.”

“Dean.” Tori could hear her voice become breathy as she toyed with the waistband of the boxers she stole from Dean to wear while he was gone. “I really miss you.”

She could practically see the smirk she knew was forming on her lover's face. The rustling of clothes over the receiver turned her on even more, knowing what Dean was doing. Sam must have been out or the boys had gotten separate rooms for Dean to readily be available to do this with her. Either way, Tori wasn’t gonna question it, grateful that Dean was raring to go just like she was. She knew he was missing her just as badly as she was missing him. He hated leaving her alone, regardless of if it was on a hunt or a simple grocery run.

“You touchin’ yourself Baby?” Dean’s voice had gotten a shade thicker, that gravelly intonation in her ear sending shocks of arousal on a straight shot to her core. 

Tori slid her hand beneath the cotton boxers to slide a nimble finger down the seam of herself. “Mmhm.” She hummed, tipping her head back against the pillow, the movement wafting Dean’s cologne to envelope her. 

“Good girl.” Dean practically growled into the receiver. “I want you to rub that pretty clit of yours real slow, okay?”

Tori suppressed a whine. She didn’t want to go slow, and she knew Dean knew that. Her back arched up off the bed at the first contact of her middle finger against her dully throbbing clit. Behind her eyes she imagined Dean sprawled out on the motel bed, his handsome cock gripped in those big hands of his. She imagined those hands all over her body, one taking the place of her own rubbing small circles around her puffy clit.

“How’s that feel?” His voice caressed the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

“G-Good. Wish it was you touchin’ me, De.” Tori moaned softly as her ministrations had her bucking her hips up, chasing her own hand.

“I’m right here, Sweetheart.” With the phone pressed flush against her ear, it was almost like he was here with her. “I want you to slip one of your fingers inside that tight pussy for me. Keep it slow, Sweetheart. I want you to feel yourself. Take your time with it.”

Her lips parted, mouth dropping open as she thumbed her clit, freeing her middle finger to slip inside herself. Tori curled her finger upwards, her inner walls clenching around the digit as she brushed against that spot that had her moaning unabashedly. Dean praised her, his own voice breathy and raw. She could occasionally hear wet sounds as Dean fucked his fist. The erotic image that conjured spurred her movements, pistoning her finger in and out of herself, adding her ring finger once Dean instructed her to. Her fingers didn’t fill her quite as nicely as Dean’s, but this wouldn’t be the first time she explored her own body, inside and out. Tori ground her hips against her hand, thumb still strumming away at her clit in time with curling her fingers in a come-hither motion. 

“That’s it, Baby. Fuck yourself on your fingers. I bet you look so pretty like this, your fingers shoved to the knuckle in that pretty pink pussy. Wish I was there to lick your taste off of them.”

Tori moaned shakily, unable to form a coherent sentence in the face of the pure filth Dean was whispering in her ear. Her inner walls began to throb around her fingers, that too-good feeling starting to flood her lower belly. She whined his name, her thighs starting to shake, her hips thrusting erratically against her hand.

“I know Baby, me too.” Dean moaned to her. “Just a little longer. Be a good girl and wait for me.”

Tori whined into the receiver, trying to hold back the immense wave of pleasure cresting inside her. She panted, sweat beading on her forehead as she held back her orgasm. Tori moaned his name in a seemingly unbroken loop, a plea for him to give her the word. She cried out, nearly sobbing as Dean gave her the word, her legs going lazy, hips wildly bucking against her fingers as she came. Dean’s guttural moan as he came had her clenching down like a vice around her fingers. 

Tori sighed satisfactorily, pulling her fingers from under her boxers. “I love you, De.” She mumbled sleepily.

“I love you too, Tor.” Dean panted, his voice thick with affection. “I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay.” Tori mumbled, already feeling her eyelids grow heavy. “Be safe and come home to me.”

“I will, Baby. I’ll see you soon.”

Tori murmured more I love you’s before hanging up the call. She sighed, smiling as she tugged the Dean-pillow closer, burying her face into the flannel, dreams of Dean and a promise of seeing him soon lulling her to sleep.

[mithrilhearts]

My takeaway from the past 24+ hours...

There are so many of us that rely on ao3, whether you're a reader or writer. It brings us joy, it gives us an escape from the real world, and it lets us come together as a community to share stories and scenarios about our favorite fandoms and characters. The amount of posts I have seen on multiple platforms lamenting over the DDoS attacks is overwhelming - but with most of them comes a delightful cheer to the volunteers working to resolve this issue.

I've seen so many statements of praise for those volunteers, which is exactly what they deserve, and more. Can you imagine working for over 24 hours straight, on a volunteer basis, against something like this? They're the real MVPs, and I think our appreciation for them gets lost until moments like this rise.

With that said, here is my first real takeaway...

Don't bitch when ao3 does a donation drive. They work hard to keep the archive up and running, and with that costs money. Every server, every new addition or feature you want to see added to help make the site better, it costs money. The legal team that is defending fanfic authors??? MONEY. SO! DON'T! COMPLAIN!

I'm not saying you have to go out and donate your paycheck to ao3 - but I will say that, especially with this situation, if you can donate even a little bit to show your support, it means more than you probably realize, and even if you can't donate (which is totally okay), be kind to those who work on the archive. Send them kind words of encouragement, rather than flaming the archive because it's under attack - because yeah, I've seen people bitching AT ao3 for not working fast enough, or for it still being down. STOP IT.

My second takeaway...

Don't believe everything you see on the internet. Ao3 themselves have advised that the group claiming to take credit for this attack is to be treated with skepticism. And not only that, let's NOT automatically make assumptions about who is responsible just because of an organization's name. It's just a NAME, it doesn't identify a person's origin, background, etc. But I'm not here to dive into that much further. Point: I better not see any Sudanese hatred on my dash, or I will bite you.

My third takeaway...

Treat your fanfic writers with respect. We all now see first hand how much we depend on these stories. As I said above, for some it's an escape, a creative release, and a way to communicate with other people through similar interests. It's a beautiful creation, neither above nor below any other kind of literature.

Consider commenting, reblogging, kudos, anything you can to let the authors know you enjoyed and appreciate their works. Everyone is free to communicate in the way that suits them best, but every little bit is appreciated - as a fanfic writer myself, I can tell you that even a little heart emoji has made my day. It's like receiving a second kudos, and tells me that someone appreciated my efforts enough to give me a double thumbs up.

Any form of communication with the authors is appreciated. It lets them know that people are genuinely interested. We live in a world where INSTANT GRATIFICATION is taking over, but creations such as this take time. Talk with the authors, ask them about their wips, tell them they're doing a great job. Do NOT pester about "when are you updating next?" or the dreaded AI option - again, I will BITE PEOPLE if I see you doing this. Just...have some respect, show your appreciation, it's more than JUST FANFIC.

At the end of the day I guess this post is about being kind. Not pointing fingers or slandering people due to a name. It's about appreciating the things we do have, and not taking them for granted. Whether it's the brave cyber warriors currently fighting these DDoS attacks on the frontline, or the authors writing for not only their enjoyment, but for others too. Let's all respect one another, and show our support when and where we can.

HUGE THANK YOU TO THE VOLUNTEERS AT AO3, YOU ARE THE REAL MVPS!!!

[wtfforged]

how are your shapes so good. does it just come to you naturally or do you have some super secret resource or what? i love your shape language and i'm gonna try to improve mine so if you have any tips that would be greatly appreciated 👍although i get youve been drawing for a while and this stuff can kind of just be ingrained into you so if you cant really think of any thats fine too. love your art!!

HI THANK YOU i went on a super rant so im gonna hide it all under a read more lol

it does come a bit more naturally to me just because i dont really understand how to draw things WITHOUT breaking them down into shapes (especially since i was drawing robots for so long lol), but i also think my artstyle just naturally got more shapey as i tried to have more fun with art and especially as i started incorporating what i enjoyed from artists i like. an obvious example would be oda's art throughout one piece since i genuinely do think my art took a big positive turn as i started reading it lolol. i have so many screenshots of panels i enjoyed or thought looked cool cause he really is just a master at it all- i especially like the way he uses the line of action, shapes, motion, and expressions, and try to study them a lot. i also looked at some of my favorite artists, like bucketofrobots, monstyra, estridd, aciescoutex, or onebadnoodle to name a few who inspired me. Dont tattle on me btw this is our secret.

so first tip is just See how others be doing it. but that can be for literally anything in art not just shape- thats just how i started. im a very monkey see monkey do kind of person

second tip! is literally to break stuff down into their simplest shapes and action lines. which sounds redundant tbh when i type it out but i mean it. simplify things down to their bare components- especially with the parts you want to emphasize in mind- before you build on them (if you build on them at all ofc). heres some examples of some of my sketches when i do make them, and some with outlines for ones that i wasnt super clear/clean about. i literally will block out and break down the forms into simple shapes, even using lasso tool like in the second image first (especially if i really dont know what to draw pose-wise). sorry a lot of these i was playing with perspective but those or drawings where i have a very specific or difficult pose in mind are just the only pieces where i actually have a sketch layer instead of just jumping right to coloring my sketch which is what i do most of the time

and when i say "parts you want to emphasize", im thinking especially with motion or certain parts of a characters design, like really pushing those shapes so that its visually clear What Is Going On. for example, in the 1st sketch above, i wanted to emphasize that zoro was like, sliding in and about to unsheathe his sword in a really cool combat-y pose. or in the 2nd sketch, the character is supposed to be sort of mid-jump so i left some space around him and exaggerated that movement, as well as his thing being that he has cool giant punch-y gauntlets and is probably about to punch some baddie, so i put that right in the camera. and the third is the same, i wanted to exaggerate the running movement as well as the creepy hand since those are important to that character. and here in this fourth image below i wanted to emphasize one character being too pushy and overly friendly, while the other is very uncomfortable about it, so i really played with one leaning into the other and the other leaning away, etc etc you get the idea for the rest of the examples that i redlined.

im sorry if this doesnt make much sense or is hard to read because its too wordy. im not very good at wording stuff right especially with explaining my thought processes. im a bit too much of an instinct type person so it feels like when i explain stuff i just go "and then you go bwaaahhh! and booom! and babam!! and thats how i do it".

so if this sucked heres a post by EtheringtonBros thats kinda similar to what im saying, and a youtube video from fourleafisland that also, is kinda similar to what im saying and has very good points!!!!!!

thank you again!!!!!! sorry this was so long. hell i even wish it was longer just bc i really wanted to include some aforementioned oda screenshots but i got embarrassed of how many of them were just zoro and gave up on searching and i didnt wanna take much longer on this cause im already late to gaming with friends help. just open the manga yourself and look at whenever he draws sanji or luffy. theyre both extremely shape.

[khickuwa]

Reasons Why I Think Jerome Adams is Oedipus. [CHAPTER 13 SPOILERS]

So in the recent events of Main Story 13, we see that Luke finally confronts Oedipus about the drug or, should I say "cure", to Luke's illness. I had my suspicions before, but we have incriminating evidence of this being true in this chapter. Let's go through the facts together:

Oedipus

There are things we know about Oedipus:

He has contacted two individuals within the Story; Skye Harper, the nurse who murdered both Tyson Turner and Gerard Boone's mother by injecting the NXX drug into them; and Luke, receiving an unknown drug with a note from Oedipus that says "try to live on" and meeting him under the guise of a Teddy Bear mascot, sending children to bid Luke his little cryptic messages.

Knowing these facts we can concur two facts from this:

Oedipus is someone who has access to the NXX drug.

Oedipus has access to the hospital to be able to sneak the drug into Skye Harper's hand and a part-time job as a mascot (or several) to be able to relay the message to Luke.

Oedipus knows a lot, he's always at the right place and the right time: about the NXX investigations and the whereabouts of the NXX team if he can figure out who Luke is and where he is.

The only person who would fit this criterion is a little freaky Where's Waldo ass mf with a ridiculous amount of part-time work he could probably use as covers aka Jerome Adams. (Seriously, it's like he knows to be at the right place at the right time every time.)

Here is his character description from the wiki:

Thus we can see that Jerome meets all the criteria because: 1. Access to the NXX Drug - "Jerome claims the Gladiolus Valley Research Center as his former employer", We have also seen several scenes of him previously in the Gladiolus Valley Research Center conversing with Wilson Surge,

2. Access to the hospital - "As a facilitator, he volunteered at various hospitals throughout Stellis." 3. He's aware of the NXX Team's presence and can be at the right time and place. Holding multiple part-time jobs such as a convenience store clerk and a food delivery service (and this time a bear mascot) gives him cover for his activities.

But the most incriminating evidence we have is actually within the exchange between Luke and Oedipus himself.

This is undoubtedly something Jerome Adams would do because: as established in the previous chapters, Jerome Adams works in a hospital and he has handled kids as well. This exchange coincides with all the facts previously mentioned. Ultimately, there's just too many threads that connect Oedipus and Jerome Adams together.

But why is he doing this? I can think of two reasons:

The reason why he is choosing to cooperate with Luke: In this chapter, we can see that both Oedipus and Luke have something to gain from this. Oedipus can run "clinical trials" for the NXX drug on Luke, and well... Luke doesn't have much of a choice here either, does he?

Despite Jerome freaky freaky ways, ultimately, I believe that Jerome has "good intentions" despite his very... twisted way about going about things. I can't wait to see what the new chapters have in store about is backstory and his ties with the NXX drug.

I think there's a reason why Jerome/Oedipus seems to always be hovering around the NXX team. Perhaps we're getting closer to the truth or perhaps he's trying to cooperate with us. But, I don't think Jerome/Oedipus is an enemy if anything, he's more like a third party that is working independently. I could imagine him working together with the NXX team (for a short while perhaps before they start getting at each other's throat again), or maybe even sacrificing himself in the end to ensure the NXX team gets to the root of the problem. That said, I have several other theories storming up in my brain regarding the NXX drug and how all the boys tie in all of this as well.... in another post.

[unordinary-diary]

Arlo’s Ability Potential

Arlo could actually be so fucking OP and I’m not kidding.

In my last entry, I mentioned that Arlo could do so much more with his ability: things ranging from very unlikely to happen in the story, to things that are foreshadowed enough that I genuinely think he’ll be getting a powerup soon.

I’m gonna start with the most reasonable stuff and then wander out into speculation.

First of all: Disks. Do y’all remember Lennon from episode 196-ish?

^ this fucker.

Currently, Arlo’s fighting style is to put up a strong barrier around himself, and watch his enemies hurt themselves with their own recoil damage. His only offensive technique is to put his enemy in a barrier and make it smaller. Now, this has changed in recent chapters, with him developing that softer kind of barrier that he hits people with like a shockwave, but ultimately, his offensive power isn’t very diverse.

However, Lennon up there^ uses his disks in many ways.

He throws them, they’re very sharp, he can use them to fly, and therefore attack from the air. Blyke had a LOT of trouble against this guy.

How is this relevant? Because Arlo can make these disks too.

When Sera, Leilah and Arlo are fighting Spectre agents under the dampener, Arlo conjures one of these disks as a substitute for his usual barrier.

Not only do we know that he can make these, we know that they are significantly easier for him to make and maintain. So, in theory, Arlo should be able to do all of the things Lennon can and more.

With him currently being able to make three regular barriers at once, how many disks could he make? And how many disks could he make while having a full barrier up? I imagine that the future holds lots of fights against large groups of people, so Arlo learning these techniques would be extremely convenient and very well-timed. Especially since being able to attack from the air is super effective against opponents who can’t fly (which is most of them let’s be real) since they usually can’t hit back.

But there’s more things that I think these disks can do.

Imagine him practicing with a ball—

Pick it up, bounce it up and down.

Add another disk, make it ping-pong.

but he could also just put the ball in a regular barrier and just... move it around. Move that sucker to a different location.

he could pick the ball up, carry it really high, then drop it.

Now imagine the ball is a person.

... yeah.

but there’s more that he could do.

say that someone is coming at him with enough strength to break his barrier

If aimed right, the opponent shouldn’t hit the third barrier head on, but rather at an angle. The angle should be enough to prevent the barrier breaking, but still cause significant recoil damage. In this particular scenario, the recoil damage will go straight to the head and neck, using all their force against them. Depending on how much force is coming at him, the third barrier could still break, but it isn’t his main line of defense at least. With practice, Arlo should be able to use disks to divert attacks, and control where his opponent aims. The only person this wouldn’t work against is probably Seraphina bc Arlo can’t react in time.

Another thing to consider is: how small can he make the disks? Could he make little shurikens? If so, would making them very small allow him to make more? Could he stand behind his full barrier, while sending out a flurry of tiny chakrams? And if so, wouldn’t that be dope as fuck? Especially against a large crowd.

And since, in theory, he should be able to fly, he should also be able to make other people fly. Imagine all of them flying on top of a disk with Blyke and Isen loudly singing I Can Show You the World. I see zero reasons why this can’t happen.

Moving away from disks, Arlo should start filling his barrier with stuff. Now, we rarely see characters weaponizing things that aren’t abilities or their bare hands, but it does happen. This is where the idea of water balloons comes in. Fill that sucker in the sink, throw it, then pop it whenever he wants to.

But it’s not just water, he could put anything in there. He could put a shit ton of glitter. He could put sewing needles, caltrops, a big rock, anything. He could probably even put a barrier over his stove, gather steam, compress that shit and make smoke bombs!

But enough with that bitch baby shit.

What about chemicals?

Make water balloons but instead of water it’s hydroflouric acid. Or fill that shit with liquid nitrogen. Make smoke bombs but instead of steam it’s mustard gas— he and his friends will be protected inside a full barrier. There is any number of chemical weapons he could use, and some gases could even be made at home by mixing the wrong cleaning materials.

But what about insects? Go to the woods, find a beehive and yoink that shit.

The main problem with the “putting things in barriers” idea is that he’d have to prepare ahead of time, and keep those barriers up and his ability active until he uses them. That means it isn’t useful unless he knows the fight is gonna happen, and has enough time to prepare before it, but not so much time that he loses energy keeping them up. It’s also not useful if he wants to be non threatening at first, because his ability will need to be active. And also, unlike other weapons, A lot of these can’t be stored. He has to use all of them before the end of the fight— especially since gases can’t be released without using them. So, not very convenient or practical most of the time, but it would be super cool and effective in certain circumstances.

The next unlikely technique for Arlo to develop is vacuums. Arlo could make a really tiny, spherical barrier. Airtight. EXPAND that sucker. Make it real big- a near vacuum inside. Then make a tiny hole in it. Depending the size, that could create some insane suction. Suction is something so versatile that it could actually be a whole ability in its own right. That’s a whole ass mid tier added to Arlo’s already dope skill set. Possibly more.

Seriously, just think about suction for a second. You could bring anything close to you— Arlo actually has an easier method of telekinesis as we’ve gone over, but still— you could probably break and bend things with enough force, divert an attack by sucking it, or your opponent’s body in a different direction, you could cause some severe damage by sucking directly on someone’s skin. (I’m trying so fucking hard not to make a sex joke oh my god)

Here’s where Arlo’s capabilities get… gruesome.

My brother suggested that he could suck someone’s brain out through their skull. I was incredulous, but with enough force and with the tiny suction hole placed on an eye or nose, he definitely could.

But there’s an easier method of killing right there: put the vacuum over someone’s head. It doesn’t have to be an intense enough vacuum to explode their head (it could be though), just enough to suffocate them. Even without killing, suffocation could be used for intimidation or to knock them out.

But if we ARE killing… Arlo could put someone’s whole body in a vacuum and have the same effect as throwing them into space. They explode, their blood boils, it’s fuckin freaky what happens when a person depressurizes.

Even without a vacuum, (or any of these, really) it’s a good thing Arlo isn’t willing to kill because there are about a million ways he easily could.

The question that inspired the whole idea of a vacuum to begin with is: could Arlo make a barrier inside of someone, then expand it? The answer? Probably yes.

This gruesome shit is the reason I imagine Arlo at his full potential to be like… a villain au. Also because having an OP villain doesn’t have the same narrative pitfalls as an OP protagonist.

What’s Arlo’s range like? Could he expand his range with practice? How far out could he shoot a disk? Could he puncture the hull of an empire class battle ship leaving thousands to drown at sea? You know, because it’s so sharp?

Seriously though, could he take down airplanes?

Making barriers bigger or smaller doesn’t seem to affect his energy at all, considering that he never has to shrink it to save energy even when it would make sense (like with the dampener— Arlo just warned that he couldn’t keep it up, then took it down and switched straight to a disk even though there was plenty room to shrink it). So if the size of it doesn’t matter, then how big could he make it? Could he make Atlantis? Pick up a city and put it underwater with a barrier as an air dome? Could he make a dome around the earth and block meteors? Could he crush the core of the earth and blow up the planet if he wanted to??

Sadly, the answer to all of those questions is “probably not”.

Arlo is already super OP, they don’t call it a god tier for nothing. But he could be so much more godlike. I know I got really crazy at the end there, but back up just a little bit and he could realistically be a god among gods with just a little creativity. Especially at the top where the images are. Most of this stuff would not be hard.