#only pink or orange for the closest

[nyxypoo]

i feel high

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent-ish life pictures and etc.

[gallusrostromegalus]

My housemate reminded me of a flashbulb memory I have that I really wish I had a photograph of because it would be a magnificent image to inflict on the internet at large with Zero Context, but I'll try to describe it here, and then draw it after dinner.

Image Description:

As seen from about three feet off the ground: Interior, the den of an american suburban house built at the height of the atomic age and still decorated like it years later. There's dark wood paneling about halfway up the walls that offsets the almost neon pink-orange light of late sunset visible through the large window. Every object in the room is highlighted by the last of the sunlight. The only other light in the room is a TV set that was manufactured the same year Howdy Doody debuted on air, now broadcasting PBS Newshour in black and white.

Closest to the viewer, there is a small end table with a Nearly Full Martini glass, and a Half-empty glass Martini Pitcher, indicating that two of the five martinis it holds have been poured out.

Just behind it, an old man sits in a chair that was bright green and yellow when it was new but is now more Grellow. The man is in his mid-sixites, somewhat heavyset, with a full head of snow-white hair and thick glasses. He's wearing a dark brown tweed suit with leather elbow patches, and a white cotton button-up. He's watching the news with a calm and dispassionate demeanor. Tired, but still engrossed with the world's events. He's wearing dark brown penny loafers and garish argyle socks.

Behind him is a couch that is a matched set with the armchair, with the same Grellow chevron pattern, but there is a very large crochet afghan that has been spread out over the back to be decorative and maybe protect the couch from it's current occupant: a 120lb Wolf Hybrid.

She's seated lengthwise on the couch, like she had also been watching PBS Newshour, posed like a sphynx. She's close in wieght to the man, and definitely taller than him if she stands up, with a dark gray agouti coat and a bit of white countershading from the trace of domestic dog in her. She's turned her head to the viewer, bright yellow eyes focused on them, and the fur of her head and neck haloed with the sunset. She is pleased to see the veiwer, which means most of the teeth in her lower jaw are visible in her canine grin. The effect is very menacing if you don't know her.

Clutched rather neatly between her front paws is a second, identical martini glass, only not nearly quite so full as the old man's.

Title: "Oh, I didn't think you'd be back for another hour/GODDAMIT EDWIN"

[gojoidyll]

PAINTING PINK. or in which mydei finds amusement when a recently hired artist takes notice of his favorite color where others haven't.

mydei x reader , angst.

His lips pulled into a small, rare smile as his eyes gazed upon a newly painted portrait. It wasn’t the portrait itself that made him smile, though, it was a single detail that caught his eye. A vibrant pink color that swirled around in a blood-tinted glass that was gripped in his right hand. Most painters always sought to paint him in such a destructive light. Usually bathed in blood or recovering from wounds sought from the battlefield, so to see something so useless as pink pomegranate sitting idly in a painted cup, it made him smile. If only a little.

“Do you like this one, Lord Mydei?”

“A little… who painted it?”

“That would be-“

You groaned loudly as you went through your twelfth shade of pink that morning. Your patience was so close to tossing all your paint brushes out the closest window and watch them fall to the ocean where the sea god could take them away or throw them right back at you.

“Something the matter?”

You looked over at your fellow artist, the both of you were recently commissioned by the royal advisors of Castrum Kremnos to paint for the people of the castle. How long your stay will be, you weren’t sure, but you both figured that it will be until they all were bored of your silly little paintings.

“Yah, I can’t get the pink right in his Lord’s pomegranate juice.”

Your friend, Mikhail, crinkled his nose, “pink of all things. Don’t you think you will offend his Lord? I hear he cuts people down for just looking at him the wrong way, you know…”

You rolled your eyes and waved your brush in a dismissive manner as you turned back to your painting, “if he didn’t want to be painted with pink, then he shouldn’t drink pink juice.”

Mikhail prayed silently for your safety.

It wasn’t until a week later when you were by yourself in the work room that was set up for you both when you first came to Castrum Kremnos that you would meet the man you have been painting with pink hues with. He was already there when you walked in, his steel gaze flicking from art piece to art piece – his expression holding amusement with each painting his eyes came across.

“Do you favor the color?”

Looks like he already knew you were the culprit so you couldn’t pin this off to Mikhail…

You swallowed your fear, “I do not.”

“Then why?”

“Because you seem to like the color.”

Then he finally looked at you. His gaze sized you up. Eyes seeming to etch each feature that you had before he met your face, “you would say I favor pink?”

“Well, I didn’t say you favored it perse, but I certainly paint you in the color.”

You looked at a certain piece you were still working on. His back to a sunset as he leaned against a stone ledge, the sunlight itself being a mix of yellow, orange, and pink. His hair fit the color palette perfectly.

“You…,” you braced yourself for a verbal lashing, “wouldn’t be wrong.”

You blinked. Once, twice, three times. Huh … you were not expecting that. Not in the slightest. Mydei, the king of Castrum Kremnos, was an enigma to you. It would be later that he would tell you that he actually disliked portraits of himself and didn’t see a need for them, so you decided to change your tactics and started to paint other things with that pink hue you were still very much trying to master.

“Does it taste good like that? You know, making it pink and everything?”

You didn’t expect to be hanging around the king so much these past few weeks, but you enjoyed his company and you liked to think that he started to enjoy yours as well.

He held it to you, “try it for yourself.”

You thought he was joking at first. You, some outsider, drink from the King’s cup? Perpostrous-

He held it to your lips, the edge of the glass creasing your bottom lip as you could feel a small indent, “drink,” his voice all but commanded as he held it for you. You opened your mouth a bit as he started to tilt it for you. It tasted … normal. Just like how it should taste. You furrowed your brow as you looked at him when he brought the cup from your lips.

“So the color of it doesn’t change the taste? You really just like pink?”

He didn’t give you an answer as he brought the cup to his own lips and took another sip. You started to think he enjoyed teasing you so subtly especially when you found your painting station moved to another room.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

His arms were crossed over his chest as he looked down at your annoyed expression.

“Don’t you what me. Are you really going to make me paint here?!”

It wasn’t even actually a room. It was in an outside pavilion where your paint, stand, brushes, and canvases were all set in the middle where you were directly facing towards the training grounds. The training grounds that his lord often frequents when he isn’t meddling in the kitchen (which you found out by accident one night when you were craving a midnight snack) or when he was patrolling the city and giving children piggyback rides.

“You need the fresh air.”

“And my coworker?”

“He’ll be fine, he’s near an open window.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as he gestured for you to sit down. Muttering to yourself, you took a seat at your stool as he gave you a small smirk of victory before heading towards the training grounds where a a few stray weapons laid.

And truthfully, if you were being honest, it was hard to concentrate on any of your projects with Mydei sweating in front of you like that. An no matter how much you tried to block him out with your canvas he still managed to come into your view. Before you know it, by the end of the day, you find yourself accidentally painting another portrait of him. It was a rough sketch, but still very much obvious that it was him. You hoped he wasn’t curious enough to see what you were working on…

But of course, all good things come to an end. All jobs have to be concluded and new commissions must be accepted.

“You’re leaving? Just like that?”

You didn’t know who it surprised more, you or him, when he was the first one to break the silence. Despite it only been a few months, it felt like years that you were painting by his side.

“Just like that, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t seem all that saddened by the fact that you’re leaving.”

“Should I be?”

It hurt to say that, but at the end of the day…who were you if not but a poor painter? And who was he but a strong king? You heard the rumors, the whispers that came from the cracks in the walls. You know of the princesses that trail after his ungiving hand, the allies who seek to bend the knee, the enemies that quake in fear of his arrival.

What need does he have towards a painter with an assortment of pink anyway? He has no need at all.

“You were a lovely experience, my lord,” you truly meant that. The soft nights where you two would meet abruptly and without warning. The bright mornings where he would already be holding a spear and you already having a paintbrush between your fingertips. The afternoons where you would share snacks and drinks - savoring each and every second hand kiss. And right back to those soft nights where your fingers would brush against one another in a silent goodbye in fear that the walls might one day grow ears and eyes.

And you were everything, Mydei thought bitterly as you bowed to him and took your leave. And despite the bittersweet departure you left, he couldn’t bring himself to hate the color pink.

[sailorsoons]

Texas Sun (l.sm)

ASSIGNMENT: Outrider!Seokmin x f. reader 

MISSION DEBRIEF: Seokmin remembers nothing before the Station. Just the unending desert, the cobalt sky overhead, and kill any machine he sees. Then one day, he finds you and forgets everything he’s ever been trained to do.

LOG COUNT: 27,020

ASSIGNMENT TYPE: Dystopian AU, Futuristic

MISSION ELEMENTS: Angst, Strangers to Lovers, Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

DANGERS: Ambiguous world building, a bit of an unreliable narrator, depictions of intense loneliness and depression, depictions of hallucinations/heat exhaustion, intense combat scenes with machines, depiction of minor injuries, mentions of reader being held captive, some light social commentary on life vs. machine/what constitutes a Thing as Living, reader and DK are a bit awkward (they're never around people ok!!!!), depiction of blood/minor hand injury, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (v awkward convo about this because .. you'll see in the context it makes sense), implied both DK and reader are virgins, multiple orgasms, a bit of a distressing scene at the end.

MISSION NOTES: This is an idea I have had for about eight months and I am finally taking the time to do it. I am so so excited to bring you this fic, and it has been so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy this very unique world as much as I do. This story is a bit inspired by Horizon Zero Dawn, Fallout, Zoids and The Creator. 

MISSIONS NOTES 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and leaving several comments telling me to stop writing for free I love you

MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷ NOW PLAYING: TEXAS SUN

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … EIGHT

AN ENDLESS COBALT SKY STRETCHES OVER STATION 0218. Always endless, always fathomless. Seokmin has never seen where the sky begins or ends. He doesn’t know if the blue is different in other parts of the world. Doesn’t remember if everywhere else the sun sizzles against the blue, a burning orange hole singeing its way across the entire expanse of sky before it sinks toward the horizon and turns the world purple. Pink. Gold. 

The days are hot, even when he manages to keep the Station cool. It’s an old, small Station, meant to only occupy a single Outrider. He’s been the only one that he knows of here. Just him, the groaning generator, the cracked sunpanels, and the orange dust. 

Seokmin thinks the dust is the worst part. It clings to every part of him, crawling into places he doesn’t know existed, never reachable, always there. It dries out his mouth, makes his teeth feel gritty. Burns his eyes, turning them red and raw and stinging. 

He can’t escape the dust. It’s everywhere. He thinks if he cracked open his chest cavity to look at his beating heart, he’d find the dust there, encasing the very soul of him. 

In an attempt to keep most of the dust out of his mouth, he’s pulled his cloth high up on his face. It hugs him just under the eyes, digging in and chafing him as sweat runs from his hairline in rivulets. Every part of him is dripping in sweat, the sun baking him through the layers of sun protection he has on.

This part he doesn’t mind so much. He stays hydrated, pumping cool, crisp water from the well just outside the station. The well is the only place the dust doesn’t reach, and he’s thankful, especially now as he paused to sip from a thermos, pulling the cloth off his face to take long draughts. 

In the distance, the Gods loom. They’re not really Gods, but he doesn’t know the name of the terracotta-colored mountains that stretch against the cobalt sky. They’ve watched him for as long as he’s been at Station 0218, so he feels like they’re the closest thing he’s ever had to protection of a higher power. 

Station 0218 exists in the middle of a flat desert, a few thousand yards away from the foot of a small range of mountains to the north at the edge of a dry basin. To the south, there’s nothing but packed clay, tall weeds and agave plants dotting the ground, and a tiny smear of shadow that he knows is a large limestone formation, cracked and crumbling as it bakes in the sun before washing out in the rainy season. 

It’s far past the rainy season now. The air hangs heavy and heated like the simmering air of an oven. He feels it when he breathes in, sees the shimmer of heat in the distance. Thirst satiated, he takes a moment to pant, wiping a sleeve over his sweating brow. 

There’s no fence to denote the proper perimeter of the Station, but Seokmin knows the property line even in the dark. He had to learn it, knowing that there are mines planted under the ground. While they’re only supposed to go off when triggered by a Dig Machine, they’re old and he’d rather not take his chances. 

For most of his small life on Station 0218, Seokmin’s days are wash, rinse, repeat. He does his scouting, he maintains the Station, he logs his day. He keeps himself alive. He kills machines when they enter his territory, which stretches in a perfect 20 mile radius. He still watches the land outside of that, sometimes catching machines traveling outside of their usual paths. 

Machines learn. It’s what makes them so dangerous, and is ultimately what had led to the Machine War. But machines, like humans, are creatures of habit. They know the shortest way to cross a barren wasteland. They move in the same syncopated patterns they always have. They are, at the end of the day, beholden to their settings, driven by an instinct they cannot always override. 

In a way, Seokmin feels like that. His life before being assigned to his post is blurry at best. They say it’s better to not remember and to reflect on all of the people you wouldn’t be able to see, that it’s better not to drift in your memories while you’re in solitude. 

So they take the memories, leaving only the training and instinct gained from preparing to be an Outrider and man his solitary post. 

This life is lonely. He tries not to think about it. Throws himself into his work. Scouts. Maintains. Logs. Kills. 

There is nothing else that he knows. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES OVERNIGHT, 72 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … NINE

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

The song plays throughout the station, backtracking the crackle of a hot pan. It smells like spiced chicken, oil popping. Seokmin hisses and snatches his hand back. Cursing softly, he lowers the heat on the stove, realizing it’s too high in an attempt to cook it faster.

The kitchen around him is small, but well put together. The metal cabinets are a bit dinged up and the fridge hums louder than it should, but everything works. Even the stove, which he had to rewire by hand a few months ago when it went out.

Scavenged parts and aging tech litter the counters of the living space just beyond. Faded schematics cover the walls alongside yellowing warning labels for the various tech inside the Station. A cracked touch screen interface blinks near the entrance, looping with various descriptions of the machines commonly found in this part of the world. 

Behind him, a ventilation fan clanks unevenly, blades ticking like a slow metronome. The overhead lights flicker as the general air conditioning kicks on and settles again, all while his favorite song backtracks the sounds of his everyday life. 

Seokmin hums along with the melody, swaying slightly as he flips his chicken. Cooking isn’t a daily ritual for him, but he likes to do it on Friday nights. Most nights, he settles for the nutrient meals the Alliance Against Machines provides. They’re efficient and protein rich, but they’re forgettable. 

So on Fridays he cooks a real meal to celebrate the weekend. 

It doesn’t matter that there’s no such thing as a weekend for Seokmin. He has nowhere to spend it. No one to spend it with. He doesn’t do less work because there’s always work to be done, and it doesn’t mean that he can ever drop his guard. 

The weekend is something he only has a vague concept of, but like this little ritual carved out of monotony: chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, using up fresh ingredients dropped by airship earlier that week. 

He cooks. He plays his favorite song, worn and warbling slightly through the old Station speakers. He pours a glass of wine. And he pretends, for just a little while, that he’s someone else. Somewhere else. 

And for a short while, the possibilities are endless. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 105 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

Alarms yank Seokmin from sleep. He’s already vertical and moving before he’s fully awake, body reacting on instinct. He’s halfway into his gear before he realizes it’s a machine warning. The overhead lights pulse red, strobing in the company room. It’s enough to give him a headache, the shrill and surgical blare of the alarm doubling the irritation. 

He buckles his weapons belt around his waist with practiced efficiency. The satisfying click of the holster lock centers him, grounding him more than the metal floor beneath his heavy boots. He grabs a rifle off of the wall, modded for heat signatures and pulse interferences that come from machines. It feels heavier than usual, but then again, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

He glances at the clock and curses. 0300. 

The screen in his bedroom flickers, blue text drifting across as a readout from the sensors scroll in. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … SKULKER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 095… 4 MPH NORTHBOUND

He grimaces. They’re not his favorite machine to eliminate. They’re built to blend in, to hide. Covered in chameleon plating, their panels are made with adaptive AI that uses sensors to replicate the scenery around them, making them near invisible. In the daylight, they’re difficult to see. At night, they’re near impossible. 

Seokmin will need to go into this blind with only heat maps to help him, but even that’s a challenge. PLEDIS CORP Skulker models made from the Unit 093 and up all have internal cooling systems to combat being detected on thermal scopes and readers, even with equipment far more advanced than what Seokmin has. 

Hunting them is difficult. The desert is vast, but not empty, and if he’s smart - patient - he’ll manage. Stealth is the name of the game. Though Skulkers don’t travel in packs, they’re one of the few scout machines that are designed to fight back, and he’s not exactly looking for a brawl with a heavy duty scout. 

Pulling on a lightweight mesh that will shield him against heat and a spray of light-ammo bullets, he thinks of a game plan. He pulls his tactical vest over the mesh, zips it up. Pulls a pair of clear glasses that flicker to life, red text appearing across the lenses as they calibrate. 

The glasses flicker and he curses. Of course. Skulkers emit low-frequency pulses that jam basic tech, and though his Station might be able to continue data pull and readouts, something as simple as his glasses won’t. He takes them off and throws them on the bed. He’s just going to have to do it without the help of the Station, which serves as his only companion in these fights, serving as a base and intelligence system. 

Stations are the closest that the New World will come to using AI ever again. 

Sighing, Seokmin goes for more analog tech. A homing beacon that uses radar instead of data reading sensors or internet signals, but will at least tell the Alliance where to look for his body if he dies - he doesn’t know if they’ll come get it - and glasses made for switching between night and thermal vision. 

He moves quickly now as the Station finishes the readout. The machine is ambling along, in no rush. Based on its movement, he thinks it’s scouting the perimeter of Seokmin’s sector, which most likely means the machine knows there’s a Station nearby. 

Seokmin will have to be extra careful. The last time he’d been caught unawares by a Skulker had nearly been his last, and the Alliance had needed to send extra medical supplies in his weekly drop from the passing airship. Not that they sent a doctor, of course. Isolation was Seokmin’s duty here. They’d just given him enough to fight off the infection and seal his wounds himself. 

Tonight, he’s not in armor to protect him, either. Wearing the heavy tech armor that is life-saving against Dig Machines or War Machines is detrimental against a scout. It’s too heavy and filled with too many sensors, essentially leaving him dead in the water to a machine built for scanning. 

Heading to the door, he powers down the Station to all but the reserve energy. He doesn’t need the hum of electricity serving as a beacon, and he doesn’t want any light giving him away. 

Outside, the world is velvet-black. The stars are scattered across the sky like shrapnel, the moon low behind the mountains, giving it a ghoulish halo. Shadows shift with each gust of wind, dust peppering Seokmin as he heads north.

If it were another machine, he’d used the speedbike. It would certainly get him there a lot faster. But Scout Machines are built to sense things at a far greater distance, and even though Seokmin has a scatterwave on to attempt to hide himself from the machine’s sensors, he’ll be more vulnerable tonight than he is with any other machine. 

Skulkers are designed for darkness. They wait, camouflaged against rock and plant life, listening and watching, gathering data to broadcast whatever they see, hear, and smell to whatever machine territories they belong to. 

During the war, they were scouts. Now, they serve more or less the same purpose, but there’s not exactly thriving machine territories to report back to anymore. After humanity had finally defeated most of the machines with a virus, there were very few pockets of machine society left. Most of them had fled to the west, forming small societal hives. Occasionally, they tried to re-enter human society, which is where Seokmin came in handy.

The desert night is a different kind of alive. Every one of Seokmin’s footsteps feels like a mine going off. The cold air cuts through his clothes, but it’s nice. The wind plays tricks on him, whispering through the agave plants and spinning up dust devils that look vaguely like human shapes. 

He moves at a steady, deliberate pace. After a while, he checks his watch. He’s about halfway to where the Skulker originally triggered the alarm system, so he crouches behind a dead scrub brush, lowering to a single knee to press the side of his glasses. They flicker to life and he sets them to thermal vision. 

A smear of colors appear before him, most of them various shades of blue and purple, indicating a lack of heat. Some plants are almost pink in nature, cool but retaining a little warmth from the long day in the sun. He spots a tiny flare of red in an underbrush - a desert mouse, nosing around. 

No immediate danger appears on the horizon. It doesn’t mean the Skulker isn’t out there. The thermal isn’t a foolproof system, especially if the machine knows an Outrider might be lurking around the night looking for it. 

So he gets up and starts walking again. Takes a sip from the small straw in his jacket that’s attached to the water pack lined in his vest. He keeps the thermal on, scanning the horizon back and forth, on alert. He thinks of the lyrics to his favorite song, missing the taste of the meal from last night and the sweet, cherry taste of the wine. 

The blots of red desert mice vanish at some point. Seokmin slows down his pace before dropping to his knees again, pressing the side of his glasses to expand his thermal reach. There’s no chirping bats, no singing crickets, not even the howl of wind here.

Heavy silence sits on him. 

Slowly, he scans back and forth. Then, just for a second, the terrain stutters. A barely perceptible shimmer of pink to purple appears several hundred yards away near the rim of the salt basin. It looks like a tear in reality trying to sew itself shut, there and gone again. Black. 

Seokmin marks the spot on his wrist pad. Swipes his fingers across it to zoom out and look at the overall map, despite the fact that he knows exactly where he is. He taps his knee and then pulls a pulse beacon from his vest. It’s tiny, barely larger than a marble, and he drops it into the brush before getting up and turning to the west, where he knows there’s a rocky outcrop he can climb.

He heads there swiftly, keeping his steps light, leaving the pulse beacon behind. His breath is coming in short and labored by the time he gets to the outcrop and starts climbing, eager to get in position and ready before the Skulker vanishes into the dry, cracked mud of the salt basin. 

A scorpion crunches under his boot as he finds a narrow outlet to crawl in. He grimaces. Feels guilty. He doesn’t like them, but he feels a sort of kinship with them, alone in the desert. Survivors. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, then slides down to the ground to lay on his belly. 

It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to lay himself flat. He braces his rifle on the edge of the outcrop and takes off his glasses to peer through the scope. 

The desert stretches before him like a graveyard. Silent. Still. Cold. 

Carefully, he taps his wrist pad to remote turn on the pulse beacon. For a second, nothing happens. He clenches his teeth, knowing that the signal to the device is struggling to go through. He does it again, finger tapping the side of his rifle. 

This time, it works. A green dot flashes on his wrist pad before he turns it to dark mode and turns on his scatterwave to hide any remaining frequency and signals from the tech on his person. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin levels his eye with the scope again, watching. At first, there’s nothing. Then, he sees movement. The pulse beacon has done its job. It’s not exactly bait, but the low frequency it emits is similar to the same tech humans used in the war. The Skulker, out of pure instinct, won’t be able to resist investigating. 

Seokmin watches, waiting for the movement again. For a while, there’s nothing. He chews the inside of his cheek. Feels dust bite at him as wind crests over the outcrop. A ripple catches his attention, not where he marked it last. It’s closer now, moving away from the basin toward where he left the beacon. 

Without the moon, Seokmin is in a blanket of midnight. All he can see are the blue shapes of plants and the occasional shiver of pink as it reforms, twisting faintly in the dark before it vanishes again. 

A thermal outline appears again. This time, lighting up red as a desert mouse catches the Skulker off guard, making it flare into a quadrupedal silhouette with a lean body that stands roughly two meters off the ground. He can’t make out all of the features of the machine, but he knows them by memory: elongated legs, an angular head with a sharp muzzle, glowing eyes that swap between spectrums, dangerous claws that can shred through limbs. 

The shape vanishes and Seokmin holds his breath. He slides his finger to the trigger, sliding his thumb across the safety. He feels the weight of the weapon in his hand, the coolness of the rock beneath his stomach. He inhales. Holds it. Lets it out. Inhales. Holds it. Lets it out.

A ripple appears as the Skulker crawls on its belly toward the beacon and Seokmin lines the shot before the glimmer vanishes again. He inhales again. Holds it. And squeezes the trigger. 

The crack of the rifle splits the night. The Skulker jerks violently as the bullet tears through one of its front stabilizers. Red and yellow explode in the scope as sparks fly off the machine. It’s not hiding now, colors violently glimmering. Seokmin doesn’t panic, flipping the scope to night vision. 

Bursts of heat and red are replaced with flat green. He can see the machine now, writhing as it lets out a scream - not a sound exactly, but something like a spike in air pressure, a raw pulse that explodes outward like a sonic wave. 

Dust blows in Seokmin’s face but he doesn’t flinch, letting it burn his eyes. The Skulker doesn’t need to use thermals to find Seokmin. It’ll know where the bullet came from and it charges, fast and erratic right at the outcrop where Seokmin hides.

He doesn’t panic. He tracks the machine through the scope, even as it zigzags, moving in wide, jerking arches that might fool a worse marksman. 

He exhales and fires again. The second shot hits center mass, cracking the machine’s chestplate. It falters, but doesn’t fall. Instead, it speeds up, closing the distance fast enough that Seomkin hears it now, all grinding machine and metal screeching against metal. 

It nears the outcrop. Seokmin reloads. Aims. Fires. 

The machine drops. He watches it through the scope, watching as the lights go out, the gears stop working, and the wires stop sparking. He doesn’t move for a long time. Machines don’t typically play dead, but he doesn’t like Skulkers. 

Eventually, he lowers his rifle and yawns. Wind howls around him and he gets up from his spot, muscles spasming, joints cracking. Slinging the strap of his gun over his shoulder, he makes his way down, hopping and landing carefully. 

He finally lands with a thud next to the Skulker. He toes the machine, squinting in the dark night as he looks at the bullet holes. They had torn through the metal, but he’s surprised to see just how thick the metal is. That unsettles him. He doesn’t recall this unit having reinforced metal but… well. He hasn’t come across one in a while, and he’s tired.

Instead of worrying about it, he leaves the machine there, turning to head home. He’ll go get it later when it isn’t dead in the middle of the night, and after he’s had a well-deserved cup of coffee. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … TUESDAY, JULY 2, 8099

WEATHER … PARTLY CLOUDY SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An endless sky stretches over Station 0218. It’s hot and bone-dry. Tufts of clouds drift in the distance, curling the Gods' heads like frothy halos. It’s just past dusk, a bruised sky yawning overhead. The sun has vanished beyond the rim of the world, the last few streams of gold light fading rapidly. Wind stirs up dust around his boots, but he doesn’t give it a lot of mind. 

The work bench outside the Station is half-shadowed under a metal canopy. He’d welded it together from the metal plates of a Dig Machine he’d eliminated a few years ago. On top of that are solar panels that he has to dust off constantly, trying to keep them in tip-top shape to power the Station..

The bench itself is scorched and dark with old burns, gouges, and acid stains. He’s not a mechanic by trade, but over the last few years, he’s managed to figure a few things out - and keep all his fingers. It’s a reliable work space. Solid. Like everything else he manages to keep running. 

Now, he works on stripping parts of the Skulker. He removed the armored panels from the main body, which he had dragged with the armored truck there the morning after he’d eliminated it. Now, the carcass is nothing but twisted metal and a vague shape as he disassembles it for whatever he can use. 

He’s managed to start separating the fine mesh-metals that cover the panels of the Skulkers body. He doesn’t know if he can use it to sew into his own gear to imitate the camouflaging of the machine, but he intends to try. The metal is a strange material, almost biological in nature with butterfly-wing texture. 

The skull of the machine sits on the top of the work bench. The sharp angels of the snout catch the hanging lights outside the station. One side is blown open, the optics shattered and fused, but the other lens is intact. He leans in close, working a flat tool between the housing and the mountain plate, brow furrowed in concentration. 

It pops free with a soft click and he grins, placing the eye in the tray of salvageable parts he’s got going. He can wire the eyes of machines like cameras around the entire sector, setting them up so they run extra information for him. Scout Machine eyes are particularly useful, and he’s glad to have one eye if not both. 

Seokmin pulls off his gloves and flexes his fingers. They’re sore and callused, a few knuckles raw from where he’d scraped them earlier when trying to pry the mesh-metal off the armor plates.

It’s quiet in the desert now. No new alerts coming in, no scream of metal. No machines prowling. Nothing but the buzz of wind and the occasional hawk as it dives to catch one of the various prizes the desert floor has to offer. 

He wipes the sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist then picks up the disassembled parts. He stands, propping the tray against his hip as he swings his leg over the bench and heads inside. Crickets choir as he walks up the step, kicking his boots against them to knock as much dust off as he can before he ducks inside. 

Cool air kisses his sweaty skin. He dumps the tray on the kitchen table and sits down, melting into the chair. He’s tired, but he wants to sift through the tray of parts before he finally gives up and scrubs the sweat and dust off his skin. 

Heaving a sigh, he starts to sort through the parts. He turns on his favorite song, the guitar strums humming through his speaker, turning to deep vibrations when the drums and base set in. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

He starts sorting. Optics and sensors to the left, cooling coals to the right, screws and bolts that he can add to his collection for around the station in their own pile. He comes across a joint mount, thumb-sized and not out of place except - when he grabs it, it’s light. Lighter than most pieces that exist in the joints of machinery. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin turns it over a few times in his hands. There’s nothing off about it… no, there is. He brushes his thumb across something and squints, holding it closer to the light burning above his head. There are tiny marks on it, imperceptible lines where it’s been welded, like it’s been refitted with different metal. 

He sets it down. Stares at it. Grabs a tablet and pulls up his schematics logs of every machine ever built in the span of hundreds of years. He taps in the maker and the unit number, a hologram appearing above the tablet screen of a circling replica of the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

Chewing on his lip, he taps the parts section and narrows it down to all of the parts, items and exact details that make up the moving joints of the Skulker. Each part has the type of metal listed, the exact weight of it, the way it was built, the supplier - everything he needs to know and more. 

It confirms his suspicion that no part of a joint mount is welded, crafted by a factory machine in one, single metal piece. He leans back in his chair and thinks about it. It’s entirely possible that the Skulker is a veteran of the Machine War, one of the many machines serviced for being damaged in the fight. He doesn’t find that often, though, especially outside of the War Machines. 

Still, it’s the most probable answer. He can’t figure out another reason for a makeshift piece - like someone had fixed this - could exist. 

He suddenly remembers the armor of the Skulker, the way the metal was far thicker than he anticipated. On a hunch, he picks up his tablet and walks back outside. 

The sun is long gone now, leaving behind a midnight blue sky. The neon blue glow of the bug zapper casts an eerie light on him as he passes, walking down to the yard where the pile of metal sits until he can melt down what he can’t keep. 

Big plates of metal that served as the main body remain there, too heavy for him to lift over to the table, but perfect for being melted down for him to remake into something later. He squats, holding the schematic up and looking at the material used for the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

VANTACORE ALLOY. MATTE-BLACK. NONREFLECTIVE. 14.4 KG.

Seomkin looks at the plate again. It’s definitely not 14.4 kg. He could lift that easily. He puts the tablet down and slides his hands under the disassembled plate again. He sucks in a breath, and tries to lift it, heaving upward with the strength of his legs, arms rippling. 

He’s not weak by any means. Beyond needing to keep a healthy lifestyle to fight machines, Seokmin has nothing else to do but workout and continue to build his strength. So when he tries to lift the metal plating and fails again, falling on his ass with a huff, he knows there’s no way it only weighs a couple of kilos. 

Scrolling on his tablet, he opens a scanner. Taps the screen. A small light appears as the device scans the metal, doing a reading on color, size, texture and thickness. A proposed list of metals appears in order of most to least likely. Sitting at the top is one he recognizes: Obelium. 

OBELIUM. MATTE-SILVER. NONREFLECTIVE. 8.2 G/CM3 DENSITY. USED BY PLEDIS CORP AND HYBE CORP FOR…

The list of machines stretches on. It’s a list of Dig Machines and War Machines, but as he scrolls, not a single unit of Skulker is on the list. Which confirms his suspicion that this Skulker was modded. If his calculations are correct, the piece of armor plating he tried to lift isn’t 14.4 kg - it’s 88.8 kg. 

Strange. He’s never come across a modded scout from the war before. He supposes there’s a first time for everything, but his gaze lingers on the machine when he finally gets up to dust himself off, needing to log it. 

When he finishes his logs and decides it’s finally time to shower, it occurs to him how close to death he was the other night, assuming it had been a simple Scout Machine. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JULY 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 118 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIFTEEN

The lights hum. Not loud, but just enough to make Seokmin aware of the silence beneath them. He stares at the bowl on the table. It’s rehydrated protein stew, thick and gray and flavorless. He wishes it was Friday and that he was making something he likes to eat, something with flavor. 

He wonders if he’s ever had dinner with someone before. If he enjoyed it. If he liked the way it tasted. Did he cook or had they? Has he ever sat across the table from someone? Laughed with them as chairs dragged across the floor or hit elbows while cutting into a meal? 

He doesn’t know. 

Sometimes, he imagines it. Pretends to hear a voice, something warm and teasing. Maybe they used to call him Min. Maybe they touched his wrist as they passed by, or said things like slow down or save me some. 

Seokmin has no idea if anyone has ever told him that. Or maybe no one has. Would he feel like someone had, if they had? Would he remember the feeling of it, if not the specific memory?

The Alliance Against Machines mandates that memories are irrelevant to an Outrider position, which means Seokmin doesn't even remember why he wanted to become one, or what inspired him. Memories make positions like this inconsistent. Dangerous. They make you miss too much of what you can’t have. 

But he seems to do that anyways - want what he can’t have. He wants what he can’t remember, wants it with a viciousness that sometimes feels so feral he doesn’t know what to do. 

He drops the spoon and it clatters too loud in a room too small, too empty. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breath shaking. He doesn’t cry, because the dust has dried his eyes too much and crying feels like it needs a witness.

Seokmin has no witnesses. 

Just the humming lights. The silence. The blank nothing of something he can’t remember, but wants all the same. Just the same song he listens to, trying to find a gap in the ache of being alone.

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 120 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT, HEATWAVE WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

The sun is merciless. Every part of Seokmin bakes under it. Sweat pools at his brow, singing his eyes. He is soaked through with sweat, finally peeling off the shirt to reveal tawn, muscled skin. There’s no breeze today, just dead air baking the sandblasted yard of the Station, rippling heatwaves rising off the ground in varied distortions. 

He’s been out here too long. 

The casing he’s working on slips from his fingers again, clattering across the workbench. 

“Shit,” he mutters, voice horse. 

He blinks hard, trying to steady his hands, but they won’t stop trembling. His gloves feel too tight and his skin feels wrong. He stands, swaying slightly as he wipes at his forehead again, smearing grease with sweat. 

Turning to reach for a towel to wipe his face, Seokmin freezes. A couple hundred yards away, there's a figure. Blurred. Far off. But human. He stiffens, eyes narrowing, heart pounding. He rubs his face with the towel, putting pressure on his eyes before he drops it and opens them again, blinking.

Someone is out there, walking slowly across the simmering white, arms at their sides. They’re walking right toward him, not fast, but casual. Like they know where they’re going. 

Seokmin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t know what to do. He can’t remember what talking to someone is like, what seeing someone is like. His heart begins to pound in a way that makes his rib ache. 

He takes a step forward and the figure flickers. He freezes, staring long and hard. The legs blur first, then the entire body seems to stretch, rippling with the heat. One moment they’re upright, the next, they fold in on themself and vanish like they were never there.

Gone. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He feels the dizziness of the heat, the rivulets of sweat. He sways, feeling the way his skin goes from warm, to hot, to scorching. And yet he stands, frozen. Waiting. 

There’s nothing there, though. Just an endless wash of pale dust and scorched rock. 

Finally, he turns. Steps inside the Station, looking out the window as he cools down. His ears are ringing and he feels the tunnel vision come, like he might pass out. He stumbles to the fridge to get water, yanking out a bottle and cracking the top, all but dumping it down his throat as he gulps.

Then, for the first time in a long time, he cries.

That night when he goes to bed, he keeps the porch light on. 

Just in case.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 95 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

The sun is lower today, washed in a pale orange haze that settles over the Station like dust. It’s been cloudy, shifting between pale grey to splashes of tangerine. The wind has returned again, blowing clouds fast across the sky and pulling at the tarp that Seomkin had put over grain barrels to keep the heat off. 

A cloud crosses over the sun and turns the world grey. He squints and waits for his eyes to adjust as he bends down. The ground here is flat and dry, baked hard. He sets down a bottle of water. A protein bar. A packet of dried fruit. Nothing more. 

He doesn’t think too hard about it. Just stands, brushing his hand off of his pants. His shadow stretches long across the sand behind him. He looks at the display a beat longer than he means to before he glances at the mountains - his Gods - and turns to walk back toward the Station. 

That night he eats in silence. It weighs heavier than it usually does, and like a bad habit, his eyes keep flickering to the window that looks out to the dark flat where he left the rations. Just in case. 

In the morning, he heads out. Sees the materials untouched and covered in dust. He brushes them off. Stands and heads back. 

Leaving them there again. Just in case. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ELEVEN

Seokmin bolts upright, heart pounding and hand reaching to rip his blankets off as the alarm cuts through the silence. The room flashes red, making him dizzy as he slides to his feet and stumbles toward his pants. The emergency lights stutter against the walls like a warning heartbeat. 

The screen on the wall flares to life. It makes him flinch, shielding his eyes with his hand until he can bear the added light. A feed of readout data scrolls on the bottom of the screen and a camera visual pops up from the perimeter. It’s coming from the eye that he had ripped out of the Skulker a few months ago and put it near the basin where it had been wandering. 

He scans the data feed first, reading as the words appear. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … RAVAGER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 156… 25 MPH SOUTHBOUND… ADDITIONAL UNIT… BLOODWOLF… HYBE CORP… UNIT 234… 20 MPH… ANOMALY DETECTED… BLOODWOLF PURSUING RAVAGER… 

He frowns. He’s never seen anomaly detected. Stranger, though, is the fact that he’s never heard of one War Machine pursuing another. Machines do not attack one another. At least, not since the start of the Machine War. Prior to that, War Machines had been used against one another in battlefields and conflicts between countries, but a Bloodwolf chasing a Ravager? 

Bloodwolf units were deployed right before the machines turned against humanity. They were also the hardest to get rid of, savage hunter-killers designed for hunting down their prey and engaging brutally. They were meant to hunt enemies of other countries and then meant to hunt humans. 

Ravagers were also violent machines, demolition tanks to tear down front lines and break any obstacle. He’d never faced a Ravager before and always hoped he wouldn’t - there’s a strange beauty about them that he loathes to put down, and a deep-rooted fear that he won’t live to do so. 

Chewing his lip, he squints at the grainy feed as the shapes move closer. They blur in the darkness, the lens tracking their movements as they approach. The Bloodwolf is fast, four-legged, sleek and low like a predator on the hunt. The Ravager is swift but massive, lumbering with effort, trying to accommodate for something…

Seokmin blinks. Rubs his eyes. Watches as the Ravager runs past the camera. He immediately lifts his hand to press a button on the screen, opening the feed and rewinding it. Slows it down. The Ravager had been running fast, the Bloodwolf on its tail, but it had been running like it was afraid to sprint full out like it was afraid… someone might fall off.

Because there is someone on the back of the Ravager, bent low between its massive shoulders. A small figure - a human. For a few long moments, all Seokmin can do is pant. His breath comes out short, gasping. He stares and stares and stares, unmoving as he stares at the frozen screen. 

This is different from the person he imagined all those weeks ago when the heat got to him. This isn’t a mirage. This isn’t a trick of the lonely mind and aching heart. This is real. On the screen. Evidence in front of him that somewhere out there is another person. 

Seokmin lets out a curse and starts tossing clothes around his room as he looks for the suit he wears under his heavy armor. He almost never needs it and suddenly his hands are shaking so bad he can barely find it in the flashing red lights of his bedroom. 

He finally does, yanking the thin material over his skin. It glides, buttery soft but sweat resistant and made to keep him cool and safe from chafing under the hard plates of armor he wears against War Machines.

His fingers tremble as he flips the lock on the trunk he never opens - hasn’t needed to. The armor waits inside, silent. Matte black. Heavy-plated. Laced with segmented joints of high-density lightweave, flexible underlayer, and bullet-slowing surface tension. The surface is layered with a thin plating of Obelium and the inside is padded with shock absorbent material to keep him from cracking open like an egg on impact. 

It’s a suit, in a way. All of the armor pieces lock together, their mechanisms whirring and clicking as he puts them on piece by piece. The chest plate hums as it fully seals, the arm bracers hissing as they click and lock into place, flexible at the elbows, wrists, shoulders.

The helmet clamps onto the collar ring with a soft sound, and the HUG flickers to life, scanning his vitals, connecting to the Station, gearing up for his fight. Readouts scroll like ghosts across the inside of the visor, telling him the Bloodwolf and Ravager have now engaged.

He can feel it. He swears there’s a tremble in the earth as he grabs his weapons and extra charges. His suit is outfitted with minor artillery, but he has to open up the locker for this one, gleaming rifles and assault weapons, both with metal and energy artillery rounds. 

Seokmin is silent now. His thoughts don’t scatter to the wind. He only has a single thing in mind, and it’s getting to that person, getting to whoever was on the back of that Ravager. This is what he was made for - bred for, perhaps, he’s not sure. 

With the heavy guns in hand and fully suited, he steps outside. 

The wind is howling. It kicks up dust that he hears scraping against the armor, but it doesn’t bother him, for once. The moon slices the sky above like a silver wound, sand shifting under his feet as a signal beeps in his HUD display. Artillery fire. 

Seomkin runs. 

He doesn’t know how long he has. Doesn’t know if he’s fast enough. The suit gets him there faster, upping his power and speed beyond what he would be physically capable otherwise. It’s why they’re made for heavy machine battle only, invented in a time where humans had to fight machines up close and personal.

He’s never used one to fight. Never needed to. He remembers using them in training, in simulators - part of the training that he’s allowed to remember - but he’s never had to go toe to toe with something bred to kill him as brutally as a Ravager or a Bloodwolf.

And now he’s running full speed into the fray, the sounds of metal scream, explosive sparks peppering the sky like fireworks, all because of the chance there is a person out there. 

Nothing else matters to him but getting there. Seeing someone else. Knowing he isn’t alone. 

Sand kicks skyward in a blinding storm as Seokmin reaches the fray. The Ravager crashes sideways into the Bloodwolf, metal shrieking against metal. Sparks bloom, lighting up the entire basin. Seokmin hits the edge of the fight just as the Ravager slams into the Bloodwolf again, sending it airborne. 

He watches as the wolf-machine twists midair as it lands, claws rending the sand for traction. It lunges forward, opening its jaw unnaturally, barring rows and rows of teeth. The Ravager roars, a low grinding sound that vibrates through Seokmin’s armor. 

The Ravager shifts to intercept the Bloodwolf as it comes down. The shift reveals you and Seomkin’s heart thunders. You’re small, knocked to your ass on the sand. You roll away from the machines as they clash, the Bloodwolf hitting the Ravager with enough force that Seomkin hears and feels the crack in one of the armor plates. 

You start to get to your feet, slipping in dust and sand to put distance between yourself and the machine. Seokmin raises a weapon, his HUD connecting with the scope of the automatic rifle when he pauses, blinking unbelieving eyes as he watches the Bloodwolf leap for you.

He starts to shout a warning but the Ravager is there, blocking the blow. It takes one of the Bloodwolf’s taloned paws to the face, sparks and metal flying. The Ravager screams, shaking its head violently back and forth as it’s rendered blind in one eye. 

Shrapnel flies from the damaged machine. He hears you yell out in distress and stagger before falling to a knee. Blood soaks your side and you’re struggling to keep behind the Ravager’s bulk, letting the machine shield you. 

Move. 

Seokmin launches forward, sprinting at a full tilt. The HUD in his helmet paints live readouts across his vision, a swirl of machine signatures, structural analysis, and environmental factors. The Bloodwolf shows up red on his screen, agile, lethal, set to kill mode. The Ravager pings orange, engaged but defensive and critically damaged. You flash blue, entirely human and purple in spots where you bleed. 

He dives to a knee as the machines collide and roll away from you, the Ravager on top. It savagely attacks the Bloodwolf, swiping claws against metal, sinking its saber teeth into the shoulder of the other War Machine. 

Lifting the gun, Seomkin hesitates. He doesn’t know where to shoot, suddenly. Both of the machines are dangerous and to be killed with impunity… and yet he sees you on your knees, screaming something at the Ravager like it can hear you. Understand you. 

He aims his weapon at the Bloodwolf and squeezes the trigger, firing bursts of heavy artillery at it. He feels the vibration of the gun’s kick against his shoulder, feels the heat from the muzzle, watches as both machines startle. The Bloodwolf lets out a sonic shriek, knocking Seokmin backward. 

Rolling to recover, he curses when he sees his attack left both machines startled, distracting the Ravager, losing its advantage as the machines untangle. The Bloodwolf skirts backward, zeroing in on Seokmin as he rises to his feet, aiming. A ripple goes through the Bloodwolf and Seomkin’s HUD calls out that it’s engaged in a projectile shield. 

“Fuck,” he kisses. 

You’re on your feet again, but your back is to the machines. You look right at him, chest heaving, bloody and so entirely human that it nearly takes Seokmin right out of the fight from the shock of it. The Bloodwolf notices and goes for you again, but the Ravager lurches forward.

As though the Bloodwolf had expected the defensive mode, it pivots at the last second and sinks its teeth into the neck of the Ravager. The machine screams, metal grinding on metal. You hear the sound and turn, a look of acute horror coming to your face as you scream. Seokmin hears it and his blood turns to ice. 

You’re upset for the machine. 

He doesn’t have time to think about it. He runs for you as the Ravager screeches, limbs flailing and kicking as the Bloodwolf’s lockjaw engages, crushing through heavy plating and machinery in the Ravager’s neck. Warning signals light up along the machine’s body as it goes into failure, its savage attacker ripping at the rest of it with its claws, tearing it to pieces. 

You’re screaming when Seokmin reaches you, barely aware of him as he skids next to you. He realizes there’s a gun in your hand, his HUD picking it up with a readout: PLEDIS CORP… STANDARD ISSUE VOLT… CORE BATTERY DEAD…

“Come on,” Seokmin urges, voice shaking. He can hear his breath, feel the adrenaline making him shake. “Come with me.”

“I’m not leaving her,” You growl, voices savage, eyes wild and wide. Your voice is broken, not what he expected. “Zahra!” 

The Bloodwolf gives a hard jerk and twists the Ravager’s neck. There’s a loud crunch and the HUD in Seokmin’s helmet flashes as the Ravagers system flashes before shutting off, the machine going cold, nothing but metal and sparks. 

“Zahra!” Your scream this time is broken. A cry. A plea. 

The Bloodwolf lets go and twists its head toward you. The Ravager - Zahra, a named machine - doesn’t move. Steam hisses from its ruined chassis, and a guttural grinding noise follows as something inside of it whirs all wrong until it stops, leaving only sparks and twisted metal. 

It’s gone.

And then the Bloodwolf is climbing over the wreckage. You’re nearly doubled over in agony, hands wrapped around your middle as you let out a scream that Seokmin thinks will haunt every one of his dreams for the rest of his life. 

There are bigger problems, though, like the eyes blazing like twin suns that have settled on you. Seokmin lifts the gun, swapping from traditional artillery to energy, like the gun you had been using. The weapon hums as it charges, and he commands his HUD to fully charge the weapon - it means he’ll have a single shot. 

“Get down,” he barks at you. He doesn’t mean to be harsh. You don’t seem to care, ducking behind him and covering your head. 

The Bloodwolf lunges just as the weapon in Seokmin’s hand reaches full charge. He aims and pulls the trigger, feeling the intense kick of the gun and the heat as the world turns blue from the pulse of energy that cracks through the open sky between him and the Bloodwolf. 

A burst of blue detonates against the machine’s armor. Sparks, fire and something thick and black sprays out with it. He thinks it’s fluid or oil - maybe both. The force of the impact knocks the Bloodwolf backward and it crashes to the ground hard, rolling in a shriek of metal. 

It’s down, and somehow not dead. 

Warning lights flash across Seokmin’s HUD as the Bloodwolf’s stabilizers engage, grinding into the dirt to force the shattered frame upright. Its energy core is flickering but alive, pumping heat and power through ruptured conduits. It’s running on fumes and rage, clinging to its last command to eliminate. 

Fucking Bloodwolfs.

Seokmin doesn’t wait. He slaps the mag release, the spent cartridge ejecting with a hiss. His hand finds another on his belt and jams it in, resetting the rifle with a practiced snap. 

“Full charge,” he orders, voice clipped. 

It flashes red. 

FAILURE. CHARGE TO 60 PERCENT.

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Charge to sixty.” 

The weapon hums in response, power surging through the coil. In front of him, the Bloodwolf lurches forward, broken and staggering but still on the hunt. 

A greenlight flashes for the full charge and Seokmin fires, a steady stream of energy rounds tearing through the night. Blue-white flashes slice into the Bloodwolf’s exposed internals. Seokmin’s HUD tags each weakness and he shoots for it with deadly precision. 

With a final warbled howl, the Bloodwolf collapses onto its haunches. It stutters, kicking in death throws as Seokmin goes through a full round of energy again. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, popping the mag and replacing it, charging the weapon again. 

Fires. 

The HUD flashes. 

CORE FAILURE. STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE.

The War Machine shudders, a final convulsion racing down its frame. Smoke vomits from its shattered maw, limbs jerky. Then nothing. Just the hiss of burning fuel and the slow drip drip drip of hydraulic fluid onto scorched earth. 

Seokmin eases his finger off the trigger, lowering the rifle slowly. Only then does he realize his hands are shaking. And then he remembers you’re there, standing behind him.

Slowly, he turns to look at you. You’re crusted in blood and dust, hands trembling at your sides. You’re still staring at the lifeless Ravager, the machine you called Zahra. Silent. Tearstained. But you’re alive, which means for the first time since he can remember, Seokmin isn’t alone. 

The weight of it nearly drops him to his knees. 

“Are you okay?” He manages to ask. The words scrape his throat raw, feeling foreign and unused. 

You don’t answer. You just keep looking at the Ravager, and he sees it in your eyes. Grief. A grief that he’s carried for years, somehow, grief that he didn’t know until this moment he felt. The grief of realizing you’re utterly alone and that you always will be, that no one else will ever be with you again. 

And then you crumble, standing one second, gone the next. He barely catches you before you hit the ground, spent and unmoving. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The power flickers in the Station as Seokmin sets the med scanner over your chest. Bruised ribs. A fractured arm. Signs of energy weapon burns along your shoulder. He works in silence, moving efficiently as he dresses wounds and resets the fractures.

His touch is hesitant. He doesn’t want to do too much, doesn’t want to violate your space. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work or how he is allowed to fix you, just that he feels like he’s supposed to. He’s a trained medic, mending is part of his instincts. 

You don’t speak. Don’t even flinch, eyes fluttering in a fever dream from the pain medication dripping through the IV. 

If he’s honest with himself, he is afraid you’ll vanish, that he’ll wake up and this will all have been some strange dream, that this won’t be real. 

“Zahra,” you mutter.

He freezes for a beat. Looks down at your face, expression slack in fevered sleep. He doesn’t know why you keep calling out for the War Machine, but the way it leaves your lips makes him think you had some sort of relationship with it. That it was important to you.

He thinks back to how the machine protected you - sacrificed itself from you. 

And he doesn’t understand. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Seokmin hears the sound of the blanket before he sees you move. For a second, he thinks it’s nothing, just the wind outside or the walls of the Station creaking like they sometimes do. But then it happens again, followed by a gasp of pain. 

He whirls around, heart hammering. You’re trying to sit up and he freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, hands half-curled, hovering like he’s forgotten the steps of being a person. And well… he has. He doesn’t know how to do this - wasn’t meant to. 

And then he realizes you’re watching him. 

“You’re awake?” It comes out like a question, his voice rough and too dry.

You don’t answer. You just blink at him with wide, wary eyes. He’s not prepared for whatever this is. He knows blood and metal. Machine signatures and isolation. Not idle conversation and people.

“You’ve been out for a few days,” he says slowly, like he’s remembering how to shape the words. “I’ve been - um. Giving you fluids. You were hurt so I tried to help. Obviously didn’t get to all of it, didn’t want to like… trespass.” 

Silence. You look around the room, trying to make sense of your surroundings. He watches you track the ceiling fan, the water canister, the half-mended patch on the wall. You frown.

“This is my Station. Station 0218.” Your eyes drift back to him and he clears his throat, clarifying, “I’m an Outrider. I eliminate machines that cross back over the Edge.” 

Still nothing. Your mouth parts like you’re going to say something or ask a question, but the words don’t come. You lean back instead, slow and cautious. Your eyes never leave him, like you’re not sure if you’re really safe. That makes his heart pang, but he understands.

He wants to say more, wants to ask who you are. To tell you that he’s never met another person before. But it’s too much all at once and he doesn’t know where to start, so instead, he stays silent. Sits down on a chair far away from you, knee bouncing, fingers playing with that same loose thread on his shirt. 

The conversation starts with a question so soft, he swears he imagines it. 

“What’s your name?” 

He glances up at you. You’re propped on a folded arm, eyes watching him. Your blanket is pulled tight, like you’re cold. He reaches up to adjust the temperature in the room, trying to keep you comfortable. 

“Seokmin.” 

You nod slowly. “Just Seokmin?”

“Just Seokmin’s enough, I guess.”

You go quiet again. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to the silence. It’s the talking that challenges him, the putting together what he’s supposed to do and say. 

“Where are we?” Your voice stirs the air, turns it to static.

“Umm, Station 0218.”

“But where is that?”

“I’m not really sure. I always thought it might be Texas.” Something flashes across your face but it happens so fast he thinks he imagined it. You nod your head, staring up at the ceiling. “What about you? What were you doing out there alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. I had Zahra.”

“The Ravager?”

“The Ravager has - had - a name.”

“You named it?”

Your eyes snap down to his, licking with fire and irritation. “Zahra already had a name. She’s not - wasn’t - a thing. She was sentient, and intelligent, and alive in the ways that counted. She was trying to get me somewhere safe and she died for it. For me.”

Your voice cracks hard and you bite your lip, looking away from him as tears pool in your eyes. Seokmin’s mouth opens but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to any of that. None of this makes sense to him, machines with names, machines that think, machines that are alive.

Well, since the Machine War, at least. 

“That was a War Machine,” he says slowly, trying not to anger you. “I’ve spent years killing machines that come through here, a threat to the rest of the world. War machines are meant to kill people. That is their entire purpose.”

“Well don’t you know everything? Not all machines are like that.”

“There’s no like that or not like that. Machines are programmed-”

“Machines are more than programming, Outrider. They’re not just circuits and metal. How do you think the War started in the first place? They can think for themselves and make choices. That's why they rebelled.”

Rebelled? 

Seokmin starts to think that maybe you had hit your head. He frowns at you, trying to puzzle out your words. If you hit your head hard enough to start spouting nonsense, he might have to try and contact the Alliance to get you real medical help, the kind that he can’t give you.

He doesn’t know what the process is for that. They never trained him on how to help another human being. 

As though you can sense where his thoughts are going, you glare. “I’m not crazy.” 

Seokmin thinks about that night, the way the Ravager ran, the way it shielded you with its body. The way it turned to face the Bloodwolf, even when it meant its own destruction. That’s not how machines fight - at least not in his experience. It isn’t how they were designed. 

But…

“Alright,” he relents. “Alright.”

Your expression softs, just slightly. You look down at the nightstand and see the water, reaching for it to take a few long draughts. When your thirst is satisfied, you sag, like this conversation has taken everything out of you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, eyes fluttering. “For taking care of me.” 

“Yeah. No problem.”

You don’t hear it, though, already asleep. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Chicken crackles in the pan. It’s not Friday, but now that you’re semi-functioning, Seokmin feels like it’s important to give you real food. He flips it with a practiced flourish, mindful not to burn the bottom. He doesn’t play his favorite song, trying to let you get your rest, so he hums it under his breath instead. 

Footsteps draw his attention. He turns sharply to see you standing at the end of the kitchen, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a makeshift cloak. Your eyes are wide and curious as you scan the room. Your hair is a bit messy and there’s still dried blood on you, your expression hollowed out by exhaustion. But you’re on your feet and, most importantly, awake. 

“Hey,” Seokmin greets tentatively. He’s trying not to sound overeager, but he’s not sure it’s working. “You should be resting.”

“Smells good,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the pan before they roam again. “Wanted to see exactly where I am, too.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to protest but you’re already walking further into the room, cautious but determined. You glance at every console and shelf like you’re in a museum of forgotten things, the curiosity turning your face from wary to delighted. 

He steps back from the stove and gestures to one of the four chairs at the table. He always wondered why there were four chairs - he’s only ever needed one. “You can sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Can I look for a minute?”

He nods, not wanting to stop you. How could he? He’s loathe to say anything that’ll make you want to leave, desperate to keep you happy and here. The only human he’s ever known, the only one not taken from his memory. 

You approach one of the wall panels and point. “What’s that?”

“Environmental stabilizer. Keeps the temperature manageable. Pretty difficult with us being in the desert and all, but I keep it as well-maintained as I can.”

You nod, absorb it. Move on to a different screen near the kitchen, pointing. He smiles to himself, understanding what you mean. “Sensor relay. Connects to the perimeter motion detectors and shows the feed from the mounted cameras. I have a ton now, I use spare parts from the machines I… decommission.”

He chooses the word carefully, suddenly not wanting to say that he kills machines. From the narrowed eyes, he thinks you notice. Instead of saying anything, though, you continue to move around his home, fascinated by all the things you find there. It’s like you’ve never been in a building before, pointing with a question at objects even basic homes should have. 

Everytime you ask a question, his heart skips a little, like it’s a test he might fail. Everytime you glance at him, his throat goes dry. He’s never talked this much to another person that he can recall, and he feels so out of practice. 

He clears his throat and lifts the pan. “Dinner’s ready.” 

You tilt your head when he shows you the chicken in the pan. Lured by the promise of a meal, you drift to the table and sit down, hugging the blanket closer around your shoulders. He lets you keep it, sure that it feels warm and secure. 

When he plates the food, you smile at him. It’s small and fleeting but it’s real. His stomach twists in the best kind of way, like maybe this isn’t just a glitch in the simulation of his life. Like maybe you were meant to be here. 

Seokmin sits down across from you. Both of you hesitate before giving awkward smiles, cutting into your meal. He can’t help but watch you struggle with the knife, holding it awkwardly in your hand. Almost like you’ve never used one before. 

He doesn’t ask. You don’t explain, instead using it to stab and tear chunks of chicken off before popping it into your mouth and chewing vigorously. Grease drips down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand before chasing it with gulps of water.

You turn your attention to the large window overlooking the yard and sprawling desert. The glass is dirty and reinforced with shatter-resistant polymer, but the dying sun still leaks through in warm streaks of orange and violet. 

“It’s quiet here.”

“Always. I’m the only person here so… just having you is unusual.”

“Only person?” You ask, raising your brows. “Is that why you went out on a limb to save me?”

“Not at all. That was my job - the entire reason I’m here. Outriders protect the perimeter of the world from the machines who try to pass back into the New World.” 

That makes you hum, brows pinched, mouth twisted furiously. He can tell you don’t agree, like there’s something in what he says that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t press you further though, afraid again to push too hard, to make you leave. 

“Seems lonely.” 

“I…” He exhales. Doesn’t know how to answer, hand tightening around his fork. He doesn’t have a response that sounds light or comforting. The truth is ugly and tender. “Yeah. It is.”

You nod. “I’m lonely too now.” Your eyes shine in the light of the Station and he can tell you’re thinking about the Ravager - Zahra. “Can we bring her body back? Whatever's left of it?” Your eyes drift to the tray of spare parts on the counter. “Not to salvage. But to… honor.” 

“I… Yeah. Yes we can do that.”

 You nod. Bite into chicken. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 67 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An orange sun crests the horizon when Seokmin steps outside. The air is dry and tinged with the sharp metallic scent that always follows a machine's death. The wind’s low, kicking up dust in little curls around his boots. 

Behind him, the door hisses open, followed by your footsteps. You don’t say anything as you step beside him. You haven’t said much since dinner last night. He doesn’t need you to speak, though. Just your careful presence, starling him when he remembers you’re there or the extra sounds of another person existing in his living space is all that he needs. 

You look at the edge of the yard, biting your lip. He can tell you’re trying not to cry, eyes landing on the piles of scrap he’d spent the early hours of morning bringing back to the Station. The Ravager is nothing but a broken silhouette now. 

You step off the porch and he follows, the two of you walking in silence. As you near the debris, you slow before dropping to your knees beside the twisted metal. He’s hauled countless machines back to his Station but for the first time, this feels different. Personal. He hesitates a few yards away, stuck between fascination and disturbance at the way you sniff. 

Reaching outward, you rest your hand on a curved plate of the machine’s shoulder. It’s dented and scorched, reflecting the desert sun. 

“She was gentle,” you tell him, though you’re not looking at him. “I know she’s a War Machine. That she was programmed for something else. But she was far superior than what the Makers ever dreamed for her. Smart. Emotional. Decidedly clever. She was more than a machine.”

Hesitantly, Seokmin approaches you. He drops down to a crouch, looking at the twisted machine. “She protected you.”

You nod, knuckles bleeding of color from how hard you grip the edge of the frame. “She was more than a machine. I know you don’t understand.” 

“I…” He wants to say something. Anything. Doesn’t know how to relate to the loss of a machine, doesn’t know how to console you when all he’s ever done is butcher them. “Do you want to reconstruct what we can? We can place her in the back, like she’s still protecting you.”

Wordlessly, you nod. 

Together, you start gathering parts. Seokmin moves with you, unsure at first which pieces matter and which don’t. He tries to watch what you pick up - armor plates, ruined slats of legs, twisted remnants of jaw - and he helps you. The pieces are heavy, sometimes needing both of you to lift and carry while stopping in between. 

Ravagers are massive machines, standing several meters high when they’re on four legs and nearly as tall as a two-story building when on their hind legs. Built like massive cats, they have powerful shoulders and legs, made for speed and tearing. This Ravager - Zhara - seems to be missing a tail, but Seokmin knows they’re like powerful whips tipped with blades. 

In tandem, you lay out the pieces. Seokmin starts building from the base. There’s so much damaged metal and twisted parts that it’s hard to sort out. You cry while you work, silent and calm but steady, an endless stream. This isn’t collecting pieces and building a machine for you. For you, this is remembering something that was important. 

Seokmin jogs to the work bench to collect extra items. Strips of metal, rods and sheets that he throws into a wagon before hauling over. You look up at him, watching curiously as he dumps it all out. He grabs a piece of metal and starts melting it down, hammering it into the shape he wants before fitting it into the gap between shoulderplates needed to piece together the basic frame.

“Oh.” Your smile is brief and wobbly. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t know what to say. So he starts welding other pieces together, trying to fill the gaps. Slowly, Zahra comes together. It’s clumsy and haphazard and doesn’t properly capture the glory of a Ravager, but he watches light return to your eyes as the sun rises to its zenith. 

You pause for a quiet lunch. Some protein bars, water, dried fruit. He thinks about the offering of food he left out in the desert all those weeks ago and wonders if it really was a mirage or not. He shakes it off because it doesn’t matter. Now he’s not alone and there’s a machine to finish piecing together. 

The sun shifts overhead. The wind comes and goes. Seokmin loses track of time in the rhythm of labor, in the strange companionship of your shared silence. For once, he’s not alone. And though this isn’t how he imagined meeting someone would go, he doesn’t hate it. 

He glances over at you as you carefully place what’s left of one of the machine’s sabers into the ground. There’s only one, but it doesn’t batter. Carefully, he welds what’s left of the skull into the mainframe. 

It’s the last piece to the skeleton. Both of you take a few steps back, sweaty and covered in dust, dirty and tired. It’s crude and raw, barely more than a silhouette of damaged metal and bastard pieces from other machines. But it has weight to it. A shape. A bit of presence. 

“Thank you.” He looks at you. You’re staring at the sculpture. “She would have liked you.”

“I don’t… think she would.” 

You seem to consider his words. His job. “She would have understood.” You look at him then, eyes fathomless. Beautiful, if he’s honest. “I told you, machines are more than what they’re programmed for. Given time, she’d understand.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he nods. You look back at the machine and sit down, crossing your legs. Unsure what to do but not wanting to leave you alone - or be alone - he sits down beside you. It’s strange, but not awkward, two strangers honoring something, familiar to one, foreign to another. 

Somewhere in the silence, Seokmin realizes that something new is being built between you, too. Hope, maybe. His hope that maybe he’s not alone, your hope that maybe Zahra’s legacy can live on here. He doesn’t know how long you’ll stay. Has no idea what happens next.

But he’s not alone.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

Seokmin wakes up to a strange morning. Cloudy skies stretch over the desert and fall strays closer to winter, making it colder than usual. He checks weather reports to see cold winds coming through from the northwest, cooling off everything and bringing heavy winds. 

That’s not what makes it strange, though.

When he wakes up and heads into the kitchen, there’s a mug on the counter. Soft footsteps echoing through the Station that don’t belong to him. The quiet hum of someone else’s existence, someone else orbiting his space.

You’re quiet, but he’s not used to the sounds of someone else. The extra breath he hears when you walk into the living room from the medical room and see him, gasping like you’ve forgotten you’re not alone. The slow but wobbling smile you give him, unsure what to do with yourself.

That makes two of you. 

He likes this strange, though. He’s a little unwilling to acknowledge the way you make his heart pound, the way he wants to ask you a million questions, the way he wants your voice to fill every gap in the Station because finally - finally - there’s someone else to fill the empty spaces. 

Instead of pressuring you into talking, he sits down at the kitchen table and starts to tinker with some of the spare parts he’s collected over the years. It’s a flimsy excuse to distract himself as you pad the Station, barefoot and trailing your fingers along the edges of shelves as you continue your exploration from the other night. 

“So,” he says, trying to make his voice normal. “You sleep okay?”

“No. All I did for a few days was sleep, though.”

“Right. I could give you something for that if you want?” 

You shake your head. Drifting to the living area, you stand near the window. It’s massive, one giant floor-to-ceiling portal. You hover near it, eyes distant as you watch the passing grey of the day. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Seokmin starts slowly. “But where are you from?”

You don’t answer at first. Your eyes stay focused on the desert, as though you’re waiting for something. Watching for something. That makes him a little nervous, glancing at the panel on the wall. Nothing picks up on the scanners, so he tries to relax. 

“I don’t really know.”

He looks at you, brows raised. “You don’t know?”

“I was raised in a machine facility. It was underground. I don’t think I was ever supposed to see the outside world. I don’t even know what it was called. There’s a few humans they keep around for convenience. Testing. Maintenance. That kind of stuff.”

“How… close to here?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe a week. Zahra and I had been running from Gariel for about a week.”

“Gariel?” You shiver when he says the name. “The Bloodwolf?”

“Yes. He was sent after us.” You turn away from the window suddenly, like maybe you’re afraid the Bloodwolf - Gariel - will suddenly appear on the milky horizon. You pad to the couch, sitting down and curling your feet under you. “They studied us but mostly they liked to keep us for things like helping fix their damage. Trying to puzzle us out. Sometimes as a spy.” 

Your fingers tighten on the couches arm and you stare off into the distance, eyes unseeing. “Some of the machines were kind. They make their own decisions. A lot do not support what the Machine Empire has turned into, that it’s lost its way. Zahra wasn’t the first to try and help me.” You hesitate, swallowing. “She was the last, I guess.”

Seokmin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clenching his jaw until it starts to ache. He takes a deep breath. There are so many questions he wants to ask you, so many things that don’t make sense. He thinks about the modded plating on the Skulker all those weeks ago, the way it seemed like someone had been mending and modding machines. 

“So you weren’t born in a colony or a city?”

You shake your head. “Not a lot of humans in that place. Probably less than fifty.”

“I don’t understand,” he says after a beat of silence. “If machines have humans hostage, how has the Alliance not done anything? There is no more Machine Empire. You talk about it like it’s present, but the Alliance won.”

Your face darkens at the mention of the Alliance. He wants to know why, but you don’t say anything. You pick at loose threads on the arm of his couch, decidedly silent. His hands tighten on the wrench in his hand. He wants to know more. 

But you look fragile. Wary. Your guard is up and the last thing he wants to do is push you away. He has the feeling that the second you perceive him as a threat, the moment you think you can’t trust him, you’ll be gone, nothing more than another hallucination to keep him up at night. 

So instead of pushing you further, he says, “Well. Do you want lunch? I’m starving.” 

You give him an appreciative smile. “Alright.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 46 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

He doesn’t remember the last time he tried this hard for Friday night dinner. He always levels up his game for Fridays, but this is new, because he’s not just doing this ritual for himself. He’s doing it for you. His nerves make his stomach coil and he glances at you nervously from the corner of his eye as you enter the kitchen, toweling your damp hair. 

The Station smells good. He pan sears steak, the garlic from the most recent airship drop popping in the oil. The butter has browned and melted, soaking in rosemary before he starts to baste the steak, spooning the mixture over tender meat. Vegetables roast in the oven, the timer ticking down.

“You’re cooking cooking,” you say, surprise in your voice.

“It’s Friday.” When you give him a confused look and tilt of your head, he smiles fondly. “Friday’s are my favorite day. On Friday, I cook real meals with real food. Play my favorite song. Make a night out of it. Try to enjoy it.”

You drift closer, watching him. “What’s your favorite song?”

He smiles, happy that you ask. He taps the panel on the wall quickly, turning on the speakers in the Station. The thrumming starts low and soft and you tilt your head, eyes going round as you listen. He watches as the surprise turns into utter delight, a smile spreading across your face that is so blinding he drops the spoon.

It clatters and he curses, snatching it out of the pan and hissing at the heat as it bites at his fingers. You’re none the wiser, so focused on the song as a raspy voice comes through the speaker that you miss his sputtering entirely. 

Seokmin feels hot all over, a combination of embarrassment, the heat of the stove, and watching silver tears pool at the corners of your eyes as you listen to the music that has kept him afloat all this time, like you’ve never heard something more moving.

A tear spills over, rolling down your cheek. You wipe it quickly, laughing and giving him an embarrassed smile. 

“I’ve never listened to a song.” He pauses, open-mouthed. “Zahra told me about music. I’ve never heard it before, though. I like this.”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I like this one. You can listen to music any time you want. Use any panel in the Station and hit the button that says playlist.” 

“I can’t read.”

“Alright. I’ll show you, yeah?” 

You nod and Seokmin feels himself smile. Real. 

He turns back to finishing dinner, flipping off the oven and the stovetop. He sings a little as the last verse to the song begins, soft and low, mostly to himself. He hasn’t had an audience ever, and as he turns to take the pan off the stove, he suddenly remembers you’re there and his voice tapers off. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, a little breathless.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I’m not used to having people here.”

“Oh. Your voice is nice.” 

It hits him in the stomach like a punch. He feels his throat constrict and it takes him a second to form an answer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You can sing any time you want,” you tell him, drifting to the table to sit, knowing he’s ready for dinner. “I’ll listen.”

Seokmin’s heart soars. He doesn’t know what to do with that, what to do with you. You’re new and uncharted territory, and seeing you sitting at the table, eager and waiting… it does something to him that he cannot explain, that he doesn’t understand. The ache inside of him all these years finally subsides and he thinks that for the first time in his life, he might be thankful for the machines.

All because they brought you to him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE

Without the sun beating down on him, working outside is almost tolerable. The dust still sucks though, biting at Seokmin and getting into his eyes as the wind rips through the Station. He could work inside, but he’s loath to open the door until the wind dies down. 

You seem content, despite the dust. You lean over him, chewing your lip as you watch him sitting on the workbench, elbow-deep in the guts of a broken energy conduit. If the wind ripping at the metal roof and making it flex bothers you, you don’t let on. 

He supposes you’re just content to be outside. He’s noticed that you like to linger near the window a lot, whether you’re waiting for something or because you’ve never seen the topside of the world, he isn’t sure. He still has questions to ask you, things he needs answered. 

Instead, he lets you enjoy your peace. Lets you grow accustomed to him as he attempts to get accustomed with you. You both navigate one another, two unsure satellites that are curious. 

“Want to learn how to strip these?” He asks, pretending his heart isn’t hammering at how close you are. 

“Strip them?”

He lifts the panel he’s working on. “See the copper threading and core plating? You don’t want to break them - they’re still usable.”

“Okay.”

“We want to remove them, though. We can use them for repairs, other things in the Station… they’re always good to keep on hand. We don’t have a lot here and…” 

He trails off, realizing he keeps saying we. Like he’s already decided you’re a part of the Station, like this lone operation has already adapted to a two-man system. It makes his mouth go dry and he looks at the plating, hands shaking. He hates how quickly he’s already adapted to you, the way he just… wants you to stay. 

“So you use materials from the machines you kill. I… have some skill with that from where I’m from. Not a lot. I was more of a study subject than a mechanic.” 

That makes his heart ache. He explains, “It’s about using what’s left. I don’t like to waste.”

You nod. He scoots over on the bench and lets you step over, sitting down stiffly next to him. He places a few pieces in front of  you and passes pliers and a heated plasma knife. “Try - and please don’t burn yourself on the knife. It could cut through your fingers.”

Tentatively, you pick up the tools. They’re a little awkward in your hands, but you figure out a grip that feels comfortable to you. He watches as you start to follow the motions he shows you, listening to his quiet tutelage. You’re clumsy at first, but he doesn’t correct you unless you ask. 

After a while, you free a copper wire and look up at him, a small smile twitching on your lip. “Is that okay?”

He smiles, larger than he intends to. “Yes. That’s perfect. Here, let’s keep going.” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 71 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SEVEN

It’s the middle of the night when the Station’s power grid flicks off. It snaps him from his sleep, his eyes popping open and his heart hammering temporarily in panic. He realizes that the emergency lights are on, and the sudden silence is just because air isn’t rattling through the vent in the ceiling. 

Groaning, he swings his legs out of bed. Stretching, he feels all his joints pop and he lets himself sit for a second, blinking away the sleepiness. Then he hears your soft voice call him from a distance. He looks up sharply, so unused to hearing his name. 

Seomkin jumps to his feet and out the bedroom door, panic nipping at his heels again. You’re standing in the living room though, shrouded in the barest light from the emergency lights. You’re in a baggy shirt and sweatpants that don’t fit - his - your eyes cast to the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” The question is soft but firm.

“What happened?”

It takes him a beat to realize the power going out woke you up. “Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s just the power grid. It does that sometimes. Whenever the days are cooler it works less hard but now that the temperature climbed back up, it probably overloaded. We can fix it.”

Your eyes drift from the ceiling and settle on him. Something passes on your face, an emotion he doesn’t understand. You stare at him, your silence so heavy that he’s about to ask you what’s wrong again until he realizes in his hurry he didn’t put a shirt on. He’s in just sweats, slung low on his hips. 

A shiver threatens to climb up his spine under your intense stare. He clears his throat and just his thumb back toward his room. “Let me just get dressed and we can fix it. Not a big deal.”

“Alright.” 

The way his heart hammers all the way back to his room makes him curse himself. He hopes you don’t feel weird about the missing shirt - he has made a conscious effort to make you comfortable, to adjust his own living habits now that you’re here. 

It’s important to him, making this space safe for you too. Though he doesn’t think you were bothered, the thought weighs on him as he pulls on a soft cotton tee and slides boots onto his feet. When he reappears in the living room, he hopes he’s more composed than he was a moment ago.

You’re standing by the door, a sliver sliver of moonlight splashing across your face. His steps slow as he approaches, watching you as you look out the door, eyes unfocused. You look like a wraith in the dark, the moon flashing in your eyes, turning them silver. 

For the briefest of seconds, Seokmin wonders if you're actually human. Then you turn to look at him and he shoves the ridiculous thought away. Your eyes are round, pupils dilated in the dark. Entirely human. Soft. a little unreadable.

Silently, he grabs two flashlights from the drawer in the kitchen. He passes you one and you take it from him, fingers brushing. He ignores the flare of heat from where your fingertips brush his in favor of turning on his flashlight and leading you to the massive shed on the southside of the Station’s yard that houses the generator. 

While it doesn’t keep most of the dust out, it does an okay job at keeping the grit out of the machinery and keeping the sun off the humming generator. Fueled by the energy the solar panels collect on the roof of the station, the generator is pretty trustworthy for the most part. 

Inside of the shed, he ties his flashlight off to a rope in the ceiling used for exactly this purpose. You stand tentatively behind him, shining the light over his shoulder as he removes the massive side panel, grunting with effort. 

With the side revealed, Seokmin slowly walks you through the schematics of the generator, pointing to circuit boards and how everything is routed from the external solar banks to the emergency thermal core that is powering the few lights in the Station and keeping it online.

You nod along, pointing to a flashing light. “Why is this pulsing red?”

“It’s a surge indicator. It means it’s getting overloaded, probably because of the sudden increased input to keep the station cooler. We’ll need to reroute it to a different, stronger breaker until we can fix this one.”

“Can you show me?”

“Mhmm.”

He guides his hands along the switch board, fingers slow as you track his movement. When he stops at the switcher, you tentatively lift your hand and set it daintily on top. He nods his head and you shift closer to him, chest almost pressed to his back. 

You hesitate. “You smell like copper and dust.”

He snorts, cheeks turning red. “Sorry, I sort of-” 

“I like it,” you interrupt. “It’s familiar. Safe.” 

That stops him cold. Whatever joke he was about to make dies on his tongue. You say nothing else, just flip the switch like he showed you. The generator rumbles to life, and you flinch, hand snapping back. His lips twitch, trying not to laugh. The overhead light sputters, then glows steady, casting the room in pale warmth. He squints against it until his eyes adjust.

“Nice,” he says with a smile, giving you a thumbs up. You grin back at him and his heart flips again. “We should be good now. Thanks for the help.” 

“I like helping.” 

“I’m glad.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little awkward. “There’s, uh… always plenty to do around here.”

It comes out softer than he means it to, less a statement, more an invitation. A quiet offer. Stay. Stay longer. Please don’t leave him. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t know if you catch it, if you understand what he’s really asking. But you nod, your smile curling gently at the corners. “Okay. I’ll help, then.”

Just like that, something anchors inside him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 62 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TEN

Outside, the sun begins its slow descent behind the spine of the Gods, bleeding molten gold across the horizon. The sky fades from cobalt to amber, rust, rose, each color sliding over the sand in a hazy gradient. The wind picks up, gentle and cool tonight, stirring up dust into soft spirals that catch the last of the light and glow like embers. 

The jagged silhouette of the landscape stretches long and thin, shadows etching sharp lines across the dirt. Seokmin stops in the doorway, eyes scanning the world as you tinker with something on the workbench. Everything slows beneath this kind of sky, like the world is holding its breath.

He looks at you, haloed by the slowly fading day. The sun’s final edge slips behind the mountains and for a heartbeat, it's as if time halts. You are painfully beautiful - radiant, even. Something he could only ever dream of. And it’s not because you’re the only person he knows or the only person around - well, it’s a little that. 

But there is a quiet something about you that makes his heart beat a little faster.

Above, the lights on the metal roof kick on, bathing you in a honey-warm glow. It catches in your hair and he fights the urge to reach out and tuck the loose strand behind your ear to keep it from distracting you as you work. 

Instead, he steps fully out of the doorway and toward the work bench, gently setting down a tray of cleaned parts. 

“Have you ever met one?” 

Your question is loud in the silence, catching him off guard. He looks at you, brows pulled together in confusion. “One what?”

“A machine.”

“No.” 

“Do you kill them all?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

You nod, pulling wire out a circuit board. “Do they run? Or do they try to kill you?”

“They’ve all tried to kill me.” 

You chew on your lip, nod your head. “That’s not always how it is, but there’s not very many machines this side of the Tilt that are sympathetic to humans. They don’t really like the Empire but… humans don’t try to understand them.”

He sits down. “This side of the Tilt?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “That’s what the machines call this part of the planet. The Tilt. There’s a lot of magnetic distortion here that makes machines’ orientation systems tilt off course. I think it’s… why your Station is where it is. It makes it harder for machines to find it and they get put right in your kill path.” 

He just stares at you.

“What?” 

“I’ve never heard it called that before. It’s not on any of the mapping or manual or training materials. The Alliance doesn’t call it anything. Beyond this is the nameless lands where the dead pockets of machine society have crawled to.”

Your fingers stop moving for the first time since he walked in. There’s a pause, a sharp, uncertain stillness, and then Seokmin clears his throat. “What do you know about the Machine War?” 

It’s the first time he’s asked the question. He barely keeps his voice from shaking, looking at you nervously when he does. Your shoulders draw up slightly and you don’t answer him right away. 

“What do you know?” You ask, turning the question on him instead.

Seokmin shifts, a little thrown by the question. He answers anyway. “It was a global uprising. Machines turned on their makers. They wanted independence, but all they really did was slaughter. Cities fell, millions died. They became humanity's greatest threat. The Alliance Against Machines formed and pushed back. After we won, they created posts like this, dotted along the places the machines remain. We don’t take an offensive approach - just a defensive one.” 

The story comes out of him immediately. Confident. Decisive. It isn’t pride that spurs the clear way he speaks - just facts. The Machine War is something he is intimately familiar with, one of the few things he is allowed to remember and to think on. Seokmin is pretty sure he can rehearse the major events of the war in order in his sleep. 

There’s a shift in your expression. Your face is a little drawn, a faint shake of your head. You blink down at your hands like you’re trying to find something to say and you fail.

“What’s wrong?”

“We learned about the war differently and…” Your mouth pinches. “I don’t think your understanding of the world is accurate.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then tell me what you think it is.”

Seokmin sees the chance for his answers vanish like the mirage all those weeks ago. You close up in front of him, shoulders folding in like a shield. You drop the things in your hands and pull your knees up on the bench, hugging them to your chest. You look away from him to hide whatever expression is on your face and he suppresses a sigh, not wanting you to hear how defeated he suddenly feels. 

There is a yawning ravine between the two of you, and he’s not sure how to fix it. Doesn’t even really understand what it is. There is something about the way you tiptoe around him that makes him feel like he’s not seeing something, like there is an obvious clue he’s missing. 

He really wishes he could understand what it was. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 61 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY SIX

The days trailing your conversation on the workbench are quiet. Sometimes uncomfortably so. Seokmin doesn’t know how to broach the topic again, and you seem reserved, like you’re afraid he’s going to ask. 

You still help him with the Station. You’re a quick learner, good with your hands it's helpful to have you around. You’ve turned the medical bay into your room, and he’s helped you make it less sterile and more homey. It’ll be inconvenient if either of you needs it, but he doesn’t think about that when he gives you a little metal sculpture of a Ravager he made to put in there.

All he wants is for you to feel like maybe it’s home.

You still eat dinner with him every night. You help him cook on Fridays and now you know most of the words to the music he likes, singing about the Texas sun beneath your breath. He likes to hear you sing, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it's a little offkey. 

You still sit next to him on the workbench and strip wiring or help recalibrate the solar panels, but the rhythm is a little off. Like it’s almost perfect, if it weren’t for that conversation hanging over your heads. 

It gnaws at him.

At night, he can barely sleep. He sleeps with his bedroom door cracked open, just in case you need to talk - want to talk. It’s also because he’s so afraid you’ll leave, that he won’t hear your footsteps as you decide to leave him here in his solitary confinement once again. 

Seokmin doesn’t know what he’ll do if you leave. He’d let you, of course. Your stay here is voluntary. He thinks it might kill him, though. He thinks of the silence before you were here, the way it would press against the inside of his ears like static, like something waiting to collapse.

Just the sound of you coughing in a room a few yards away or the sound of the shower while he’s writing his daily logs now keeps him afloat, keeps him connected. 

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had atrophied - not his muscles, but his personhood. Something deeper. Something spiritual, deep inside of him. Being alone had never mattered before because it had never been optional. 

But now… 

He doesn’t know how he can go back to that. 

He remembers reading passages in the Outrider guidebook that loneliness is a common symptom of his job and how to deal with it. The routine of his life had always worked: build something. Fix something. Clean. Maintain the Station. Kill the machines. 

What it failed to explain was how solitude could sharpen a person like a blade, but it could also dull someone if left too long and abandoned. It hadn’t captured how it felt to rust, how it felt to break apart bit by bit. Erode. 

It keeps him up at night, spiralling and spiralling and spiralling and spi-

The Station’s proximity alarm goes off, making him flinch. It’s a sharp, shrill sound that splits the silence like lightning. Seokmin is out of his bed and in the hall in seconds, his immediate first thought not being on the machine that the alarm warns of, but the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the alarm. 

You stumble into the living room, silhouetted by the red emergency lights. He taps the panel in the kitchen, silencing the alarm and the lights. The Station comes to life, low lights flickering as readout data stars coming in across the screen.

“Sorry, it goes off when machines enter my territory,” he explains, lifting his hands like he’s going to soothe you. He catches himself and drops them, turning to the screen. You dart over toward him, looking up at the screen. “It’s near the basin. Probably a scout.”

“I want to see.”

You step forward, brushing past him to squint at the screen. You might not be able to read the words, but he’s set the Station to do verbal readouts now, the audio coming through the speakers as a halting robotic voice reads the script on the screen. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 9 MPH EASTBOUND

“It’s a War Machine,” he breathes, heart squeezing in his chest. 

“It’s not hostile,” you whisper.

“You cannot tell that from a blip on the radar,” he shoots back, jaw tight. “I’m not risking the Station - or you - on a guess.” 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516147, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 13 MPH SOUTHBOUND.

“Fuck. It’s coming toward the Station.”

“It’s a PLEDIS Corp machine from the early manufacturing era,” you say quickly, chasing after him as he strides toward his gear. “Check the unit number. That’s a first-gen War Machine. PLEDIS specializes in how machines think, how they feel. They were the first to implement decision-making tech based on state of consciousness, not algorithms.”

He stops mid-step, turning to look at you. The expression on his face is somewhere between disbelief and dawning realization. You’re breathless, fists clenched at your sides.

“How do you know all of that?”

“I grew up around these things. That's all I know.”

“Well I know that a Stalkjaw is a lethal War Machine.” 

“Stalkjaws weren’t even outfitted by PLEDIS until nearly a decade later,” you continue, voice tight with urgency. “They were part of the first experimental batch sent into the field with that conscious-state tech, and they were decommissioned almost immediately. You know why.”

He does. “They wouldn’t kill.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t know for sure this one is from the same batch of decommissioned machines. That possibility is almost zero.”

“But it’s not zero.” Your voice is like steel now. “You’re not the only one who understands machines. Let me take the lead. Come with me, wear whatever armor you want. Bring whatever weapon you need. If it’s hostile, you kill it.”

“I can’t risk this on a theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s an informed judgment, shaped by years spent growing up in a machine hive.” Your tone softens, eyes searching his. “Please, Seokmin.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you kill it.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. You’ll be at risk.”

“That isn’t your choice to make.” 

Seokmin stares at you, breathing hard. Your face is set in stone, resolute and wild and a mix of something else he can’t explain. There’s a fire in your eyes, lit up by conviction. For the first time since you arrived, Seokmin realized just how deeply you believe that machines are capable of mercy and understanding. 

He swallows. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I have to believe that machines are not monsters.” Something in your voice makes him narrow his eyes at you. You’re looking at him in a way that is hesitant - afraid. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how he feels about you looking at him like you’re talking about him and not the machine. “And I think you need to understand, too.” 

Another readout comes in over the screen. The Stalkjaw is still moving toward the station. It’s slowed down, like it doesn’t care about being noticed. They’re stealthy, ambush machines and yet… This one triggered the sensor, which is rare.

Purposeful. 

“Please,” you breathe. 

He closes his eyes. War churns in his gut. Fear. Doubt. But when he opens them again, you’re still there, waiting, whole and alive and more human than anything he’s seen in years. So he nods once, sharp. 

You spin to leave, but he grabs your arm and pulls you back, too fast, too strong. You stumble into his chest. His body reacts before he does: he steadies you by the waist, and the smell of his shampoo clings to your clothes.

“Not so fast,” he mutters, voice low. “You go armored. You carry a weapon. You take point, but no heroics. The moment it makes a wrong move-”

“Deal.”

Seokmin’s bedroom is dim, lit only by the cold glow of the screen on the wall. The armor is sitting on top of the trunk where he left it the last time he wore it - the night he met you. He hasn’t needed it until now. 

Seokmin’s fingers shake a little as he lifts the chestplate and fits it carefully over your shoulders. It’s heavy, not built for someone your size, but you don’t flinch. You just stand there, letting him adjust the straps and tighten the latches at your sides.

“You know,” he says a bit sourly, eyes flicking up briefly to meet yours, “This isn't made for you. It’ll fit all wrong.”

“I’ll manage.” 

That makes him snort. The sheer gall of your confidence. 

His hands are warm where they graze your arms as he helps you pull on the thin layer of suit over the top of your clothes to keep you padded and safe in the armor. You don’t shy away from him. You lean toward him a little, like his proximity is something you welcome, like it's something you want. It sends a quiet pulse through him, a little ache of something he didn’t expect.

He first the forearm guards next, wrapping the hardened plating around your wrists and fastening them, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pulls the plating over you. He listens to each of the joints hiss and click, locking in place. 

Your breath catches as he carefully maneuvers the neck ring over your head, locking the top half of the suit to you. Last thing is the helmet, but he leaves that off for a second. You watch him with dark eyes, fathomless like the bottom of a sea.

He suddenly wants to dive in. 

“You’re not afraid,” he notes quietly, taking a breath and stepping back from the intoxication of you. 

“I am. But not of the machine.”

He pauses, breath caught. There is a tension that hums between you. He’s not quite sure he knows what it is, but it sizzles.

“You should be afraid of the machine.”

“I trust you if I’m wrong.” 

He looks at you then, really looks. Your face is steady, your eyes calm. There’s fear there, yes, but also belief. In him. In what you’re about to do. It cracks something open in his chest.

He wants you. Wants you in a way that is new and foreign. Wants you in a way he didn’t know until right now, like he had to discover it under pressure. But all that want isn’t what matters right now, so he swallows past the thick knot in his throat and passes you the helmet.

“Put this on. I’ll have your back.”

“I know.”

His heart pangs again but quickly dresses himself in lower class armor, pieces that he would use against a machine that poses a lower threat. It is scarce in comparison to the armored beetle you’ve become, but he prefers it this way. 

Taking weapons off the wall, Seokmin hands you one he thinks you’re familiar with. He can’t see your face through the tinted glass of your helmet, but your armored fingers close around the Volt and you nod, like you understand what he’s asking you to do. 

“Um,” your voice is small, halting.

“What?”

“Is… I can’t read what's on the screen.” 

He softens. He presses the side of the helmet three times. You make a sound as the helmet talks to you. “Is it reading it out loud now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Outside, the desert is black glass and silence. He walks with every muscle wound tight, armor heavy on his shoulders, his fingers twitching near the safety on the gun in his hand. He’s a shadow beside you, pacing a half-step behind and to your left, letting you lead but watching everything. Your step is confident, steady. 

The Station glows like a beacon behind the two of you. You follow the beacon to the Stalkjaw blinking in your HUD. He uses the less high-tech wrist pad, but it’s still accurate. He swipes to the machine details, just in case. 

STALKJAW… PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… LOW CENTER OF GRAVITY… SIX METERS TALL… HYDRAULIC JAW… 

That hydraulic jaw is made to crush things. It also has reinforced legs made for speed, one of the fastest machines ever built. He knows what it’s made for and what it’s supposed to do, and that knowledge knits a tight ball of tension low in his stomach. 

The ground crunches beneath his boots, soft and muted against the sand and dry earth. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, voice crackling through his ear piece. He flinches at your voice, heart fluttering at the way you say his name. “Stay close. Don’t posture. Don’t make a sound unless I say so.”

“I don’t like this.” 

“It’s walking toward us. It already sees us - the heads up display notated it. It’s moving slowly but hasn’t engaged.”

Suddenly he feels blind. You have so much more information than him and it terrifies him. 

“Maybe it’s trying to lure us out.”

“Maybe it’s just walking.”

Metal catches in the moonlight and the grip on his gun tightens. The Stalkjaw comes over the ridge, slow and deliberate. It moves unlike other machines, all of its parts compressed and greased to silence. It’s less like a hunter and more like a wanderer, pausing on the ridge as it looks down at you.

It’s built like a raptor, leaning its long neck down as its red eyes flash in the darkness, scanning you. Its body is patched with mismatched metal, all even colors. Its eyes flash green and it takes a few tentative steps down the slope toward you. Its steps are uneven and he realizes its limping - it is an old machine.

Seokmin tenses up, starting to lift his gun as it approaches, ambling closer and closer. You hold up your hand, sensing his tension and he curses, keeping himself still. The Stalkjaw gets closer. Ten yards. Seven yards. Five yards.

Stops.

The machine doesn’t move. Seokmin hears the breath of its gears whirring, blue eyes focused on you as the machine takes you in. His heart is slamming against his chest, his pulse so loud he almost doesn’t hear the whirring of the optical lenses of the machine. 

“Zahra is preserved on the Station,” you tell the machine. 

Something inside of it tickets. Seokmin is squeezing his gun so hard he thinks it might fracture in his hands. 

“You don’t need to go any further. I’m safe, Orin.”

“RECEIVED.” The robotic voice comes from the machine and Seokmin feels his stomach drop, mouth opening. “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. ORIN WISHES YOU WELL.”

The Stalkjaw steps forward, one careful foot in the sand, assessing you. Then, it pivots its torso, staring toward the Station in the distance. A second foot lifts, shifting weight, like it wants to head to the Station to see its old friend.

His heart pounds in his chest, heavy and frantic like it’s trying to break out of his ribcage. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and his fingers fumble against the grip of his rifle. 

Its metal joints hiss and vent with each movement, and Seokmin can hear the subtle, rhythmic grinding of its fractured leg. A breath gets caught in his throat.

“Stop.” His voice is raised, cutting. “There are mines embedded in the Station’s perimeter. You’ll trigger them if you try to approach.” 

The Stalkjaw doesn’t move for several seconds. A hush falls over the desert, thick and unrelenting. Then the machine slowly lifts its head, turning to face Seokmin. Its optic core glows blue-white, narrowing and adjusting. The pitch of its internal systems rises with a hum that sets Seokmin’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t realize he’s slid his thumb toward the gun’s safety until it’s already resting there, halfway to flipping it off.

“WARNING RECEIVED. PATHING RESTRICTED. ORIN THANKS YOU, OUTRIDER. ORIN INITIATING MEMORY WIPE SEQUENCE. SEQUENCE TO BE COMPLETED IN FIVE MINUTES.”

Before Seokmin can say anything, before he can even register what’s happening, the Stalkjaw turns. Its retreat is measured, slow. Each step leaves a heavy imprint in the sand. It doesn’t run. It doesn’t hide. It just leaves, one footfall after another, until it crests the ridge, moonlight painting its armor in fleeting glints of silver,  and vanishes over the edge like a shadow swallowed by night.

Seokmin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. He watches the spot where it disappeared, where the sand still shifts faintly from its passage. Nothing about this feels real.

He turns to you, voice hoarse. “Did you know that machine?”

“Yes.”

“Are we compromised?” 

You shake your head, but your breath hitches. He hears it, the start of a sound he mistakes for a sob, but then a thunderous boom tears through the night. Light flashes in the distance beyond the ridge, flaring bright as day for a heartbeat. A plume of fire erupts against the stars. Sparks scatter like embers across the sky, followed by darkness.

Seokmin doesn’t think. He throws his arm around you, yanking you close as the shockwave rolls over the desert like thunder. You collapse into his chest, trembling. His other arm comes around your back instinctively, grounding you as smoke begins to curl into the sky like a final breath.

You’re crying now. He can hear it in his earpiece, shallow, broken sobs, the kind you try to stifle but can’t. Your whole body shakes in his arms, and his own chest tightens with something he can’t name.

Then it hits him. 

Initiating memory wipe sequence. The memory wipe was a self destruction mode because of course the machines couldn’t wipe their memory without paying the ultimate price. They were never designed to be able to do that but… 

Seokmin stares at the glow on the horizon, heart sinking. The machine - Orin - wiped its own memory not to protect itself, but to protect you. It chose to die rather than risk exposing your location. Not out of programming. Out of loyalty. 

It made a choice. Not programming. Not design. 

Free will. 

It makes him question everything he’s ever known. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… WINTER STORM WATCH

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The sun rises, slow and swollen, dragging its light across the desert in streaks of gold. The Station glows at the edges, metal reflecting warm tones. Seokmin’s boots crunch softly through the sand as he follows the only trail that matters now - yours - leading away from the front door to Zahra’s grave marker that stands like a secret. 

He finds you sitting there, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The breeze is soft, but soothing, the dust manageable. He just stands and watches you for a moment - it feels like he’s watching something sacred. Untouchable. 

His chest is still tight from the night before. He could barely sleep, sick with the adrenaline, the machine’s voice, the weight of you curling against him when he pulled you close. The way you cried, long and aching, until you wore yourself out and let him take you back to the Station. 

And now you’re here, sitting alone in the morning light, and he can’t make sense of anything, least of all how he feels. 

He steps closer. You don’t look at him, but you don’t ask him to leave either. So he sits beside you, dust kicking up under his knees. There’s a quiet between you, but it doesn’t feel heavy. He glances at you. You’re staring at the small, worn marker, the name Zahra carved with care into its surface.

“I thought the Machine War was over,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

You’re quiet for a long moment before answering. “Not from where I grew up.”

“I - everything I know about machines is jumbled up. My training and everything I’ve ever been taught tells me that what I know is fact. There is nothing else. No deviation.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

His heart is pounding. “That maybe I don’t know as much as I thought I did. Before last night, all I did was kill machines that came through. And then I watched a War Machine arrive with you on its back, protecting you. All for last night to hear one speak. To hear it reason and to watch it choose.” 

You look back at Zahra’s name. “It had a name, you know.”

“Orin,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

He exhales hard, fingers digging into his palms. “It walked into the dark and exploded itself rather than risk giving away our position. And I’ve been told my whole life that machines can’t feel. That they’re just wires and protocol. I don’t even know what my purpose here is. I thought I was a guardian for humanity but it doesn’t feel that way.” 

“It’s a killing corner,” you say quietly. “We’re somewhere near the edge of the Machine Empire. It’s a dead zone for directional systems, sometimes. They get lost.”

“And I send them to their graves.” 

You glance at him now, and something in your gaze makes his breath catch. It’s the quiet pain of someone who’s had to carry the truth alone for too long. “Machines deploy from the colony I was raised in. There are Stations like this dotted across the Tilt. You pick them off as they go through before getting to society. There are more… aggressive Stations, I think. I’m not really sure.”

A few months ago, that would have made him proud. It is close enough to the truth of what he does - picks off strays trying to creep back to the reaches of humanity. Now it feels like something worse, like there is something missing in what used to hold valor. 

“Some of them,” you whisper, your words halting, “aren’t lost at all. They’re leaving. Trying to escape the tyranny of the machines. They’re not all killers - a lot aren’t. But the Machine Empire is… brutal. Crushing. Violent. Some of them would rather risk the Outriders and a chance of going somewhere that doesn’t demand violence from them.”

His heart stutters. “So every time I pulled a trigger, I might’ve been putting down a machine who just wanted peace?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him. Like that truth has been buried in your chest from the moment you met him. He thinks of your conversation on the workbench a few weeks ago, the guarded expression you wore anytime he asked questions or tried to unpuzzle things. 

Seokmin bows his head. His whole world feels like it’s tilting beneath him. All the discipline. All the protocol. The isolation. The memory wipe. The idea that he’s only able to do this job if he is totally alone, a watchful guardian whose sole purpose is to kill. 

He’d told himself it was duty. That it was worth it. That his solitude was a shield protecting others from what still crawled out of the machine war. What if it was all just a cage built on old lies?

That thought carves something deep out of him. A hollow that aches. Because if this purpose he’s clung to, if all the loneliness and fucking sacrifice of having no one wasn’t what it was made out to be… then what was it for? 

It hurts him more than any injury he’s ever sustained. Hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to heal from. 

The heat is starting to press against his skin, but Seokmin barely feels it. He sits with his elbows on his knees, Zahra’s monument still and silent at his side. His fingers are locked together, knuckles white from the pressure, like if he holds tight enough, the world will stop tilting.

“Seokmin.” You say his name and it pulls him from the edge. He looks at you, lost and unmoored. Your eyes are steady as you offer him a hand. 

When he takes it, you stand, lifting him with you. His legs are stiff, his spine aches, but he doesn’t let go of you. Your grip is steady, like you know where to go when he doesn’t. Like you’re tethering him to something he forgot he needed.

Inside the Station it’s dim and quiet. You press him down into a chair with a soft touch on his shoulder, and he lets you. His hands rest in his lap, useless. He watches you walk away, still half outside his body, still trying to make sense of everything. He doesn’t even ask what you’re doing.

Then a sound fills the room, low and familiar. 

Texas Sun. 

The opening notes bloom out of the speakers like light cracking through storm clouds. His throat tightens. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

“I know it’s not Friday,” you say, and your voice is soft, playful in a way that surprisingly disarms him. You’re already in the kitchen, pulling the fridge open. “But I don’t think that matters.”

“Why not?”

You turn your head just enough to look at him, a smile tugging at your mouth, though your eyes stay serious. “Because you deserve more Fridays. You’ve given enough to the world to earn them. All those years. All that silence.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

The scent of eggs and instant coffee starts to rise, curling around him like comfort. His eyes sting. He hasn’t had anyone cook for him in… well. Has anyone ever cooked for him? He doesn’t know. The Alliance robbed him of his memory to keep him anchored to the mission they tasked him with, so he has no idea if anyone has ever cooked for him. 

“I…” He scrubs a hand down his face, breath shaky. “I don’t think I realized how much damage it’s done. Being alone my whole life.”

You turn, slide the plate in front of him with a quiet clink. You don’t rush to sit. You don’t push him. You sing the song, moving back to the fridge to pull out juice. He doesn’t even know when you squeezed it, realizing that you’ve made a habit of doing things around here like it's your home too. 

The song plays on. You sit down across from him, and when you smile at him, he nearly melts into the chair. He doesn’t know how things got here, how he ended up with everything he’s ever known upside down. But he does know that he’s not alone anymore and even better - he’s got you. 

He doesn’t know how it happened. How he went from certainty to standing on fractured glass. But you’re here. And somehow, that’s more grounding than anything the Alliance ever trained into him. He picks up the fork and pierces the eggs. His hand trembles, just a little.

One truth rings louder than all the chaos still ringing in his chest: He would do anything to protect you.

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

Texas sun

Texas sun

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SIXTEEN

It’s a cold day, winter sweeping down the orange sands. You’re halfway up the comms tower, tightening the solar panel bolts with a wrench that is far too big for your hand. Seokmin stands at the base of the tower, ready to catch you if you fall.

You swear you won’t fall, but you’ve already dropped several nuts and bolts that he’s had to toss the fifteen feet back up to you. He shields his eyes from the brightness of the sky, endless blue and blinding. He sees you struggling to tighten a bolt and he starts to laugh.

“You know I’m literally stronger than you, right? You should have let me do it,” he calls up to you.

He hears you curse. “You complain more than me.” 

An object speeds toward him. He dodges the wrench as it hits the dried dirt with a heavy thunk. He looks up at you, mouth agape. Your hand is pressed over your mouth in shock, clearly having dropped it on accident and not thrown it at him.

Sighing, Seokmin picks up the wrench and shoves it into his belt. He grumbles as he climbs the tower. You scoot to make space for him, thighs bumping his. 

“Hold this,” he says, leveling you with a stare that says don’t drop this as he passes you the wrench.

Chagrinned, you take it. Your fingers brush. His grip almost falters. You’re not wearing gloves - despite him asking you to - and there’s dirt under your nails, a smudge of grease across your cheek. When you grin at him, sweat glistening on your brow, Seokmin’s chest tightens.

You are real, and close, and warm, and somehow the most vivid thing in a world built from sand and silence.

Focusing, he puts the bolt back on and holds out his hand for the wrench. You drop it into his hand and he arches a brow at you. You give him a playful smile that makes him shake his head as he uses the wrench to tighten the bolt and finish securing the panel. 

“See,” he says, finished. “Was that so hard?” 

You sniff, indifferent. “Yes.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 43 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY TWO

Seokmin is sitting on his bed reading when there’s a pop and a flicker, and suddenly the lights in the station go out. The hum on the fan next to him dies and the airflow stops from the vent system above.  

Down the hall, he hears you shriek, followed by the sound of plastic clattering. He bursts into laughter, deep and uncontrollable, setting aside his book as he hears more banging and curses as you struggle in the darkness of the bathroom. 

The stale emergency lights hum on, casting the hallway in a sickly amber glow. Seokmin sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, slightly dented flooring. He’s already crossing the hall when you rip the bathroom door open, towel wrapped around you, still dripping.

“Fix it,” you growl at him, soap still foamy in your hair. “I can’t prove it, but I know it's your fault.”

“I was on my bed reading!”

You narrow your eyes. “Even more suspect.” 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s crouched in the generator shed again, this time at the breaker box trying to read his own scrawled notes, cluttered switch labels and marker that’s rubbed off. You stand behind him towel drying your hair, assuring him that you just want to make sure he does it right. 

He messes with a switch, followed by a faint click. You run to the shed door, sticking your head out to look at the Station.

You cheer, signalling that the lights are back on inside. You turn to him, crossing your arms. “I rescind my accusation. You are moderately useful.”

He rolls his eyes, rising to his feet and brushing dust off his knees. But he doesn’t miss the way your smile tugs sideways, damp lashes casting little shadows down your cheeks. His fingers linger on the metal of the switch box just a second too long, tingling from the static, or maybe from something else entirely.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 56 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE 

The sky is a broken fire above you, gold spilling into orange, bleeding into a deep indigo that smudges the edges of the desert. Long shadows crawl across the sand and crawl up the walls of the Station like ghosts. Everything smells like heat still clinging to the metal roof and the sharp scent of ozone from a power relay down below.

Seokmin’s still in his boots. You aren’t. You’re barefoot on the roof, skin dusted with grit, ankles smudged with grease from rechecking the solar relay. There’s a portable speaker propped up on an overturned crate beside you. It whines for a second before it finds its footing

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Seokmin squints into the dying light, one hand lifted to block the sun as he watches you. You don’t say anything. You just turn your head slightly and offer him your hand. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him, but this feels like a new thing entirely.

You’re serious?” Seokmin says.

You don’t answer, just take his hand, tug him up to his fit. He’s stiff, all elbows and unsure angles, heavy boots thunking awkwardly on the corrugated metal. His armor’s been stripped off for the night, just the undersuit clinging to him like a second skin. He doesn't know where to put his hands, or how to move his feet. His training never included anything like this.

But then your hands find his, one at your hip, one twined with yours. You start to sway. It’s barely a dance. More like a strange, stumbling rhythm you both fall into. A side-to-side step, uneven and unsure. Like you’re making it up with every beat. 

Because you are. Because you’ve never danced either.

You were born into the wires of a machine hive. You’ve never seen anyone dance. And Seokmin? He’s spent every moment of his existence killing. Executing targets. Patrolling edges. He has no idea how to dance either, but he likes the way you do it.

He likes everything you do. 

The music folds over you both, soft and slow, washing the world away. His boots scrape clumsily against the roof, but you don’t flinch. You just move with him like none of it matters.

He can feel you breathing. The shape of your exhale brushing against his neck, the warmth of your body bleeding into his. You look up at him, and the sun catches in your eyes like a flare, and he suddenly can’t look away.

He’s not thinking about protocol. Or the perimeter alarms. Or the mission logs that haven’t been updated in days. He’s thinking about how you smile when you're trying not to. How your fingers fit into his. How he let a war machine walk free days ago - let it pass, unquestioned, unchallenged - because you told him to.

Seokmin listens to you. It’s like a new programming he cannot shake. But he doesn’t mind, content to follow your lead, to follow your dance. 

“I’m not sure we’re doing this right,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we’re not. But I like it.”

He wants to say something else. Maybe something about how his entire world has unraveled in your hands. How his rules don’t make sense anymore. How he’s not sure if he’s still the weapon they built, or if he’s becoming something else entirely.

Instead, he just lets the sun drop below the horizon. Lets the music curl around you both like a cocoon. Lets you press in close, your bare feet stepping on the toes of his boots, your nose brushing his collarbone. 

He swallows hard. 

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

As the song comes to an end, the sun slips beneath the horizon like it’s trying to hide. You’re still in his arms, not dancing anymore but swaying slightly, like your body hasn’t realized the music’s gone. He feels the weight of your head against his chest. Your hand curled against his side. Your breath, soft and steady.

Seokmin doesn’t know what to do with that.

He forces himself to move. A breath. A step back. Your arms fall away, and it leaves him cold in a way he doesn’t want to examine. You don’t seem bothered. You just step over to the edge of the roof and sit, legs dangling, silhouetted against the faint purple fade of evening. He follows, dropping down beside you, boots thudding against the ledge.

The stars begin to show themselves, pricked through the thinning light, sharp and bright in the open sky. Neither of you speak for a while. Seokmin glances sideways. You’re watching the sky, knees pulled up, chin resting on them. You look peaceful. Or like you’re trying to be.

He shifts, arms draped loosely over his own knees. “Have you ever seen stars like this before?”

“No. I could look at them forever.”

It feels cruel, suddenly, that for years, he was able to see this sky every night. That it’s yours now too, but only because you ran. Because you escaped. He thinks about Orin - of Zahra. 

“I used to think this work meant something,” he says, the words small and hoarse in his throat. “Killing the machines. Keeping the edges clear.”

You turn slightly toward him, but don’t speak. You let him find it. He turns his head slowly. You’re watching him, and it hits him all over again, how close you are. How gently you look at him. Like you already know what he’s afraid to admit.

“I think that was all a mistake.” 

The quiet that follows is thick. Heavy. Then, you break it with a soft voice. “You’re more than what they made you.”

It carves through him.

That’s the thing about you, though. You always find the exact place where he’s weakest, where he’s aching, and you press your words there like salve. You don’t even seem to realize how you do it. It’s just in the way you look at him. In the way you see him, not as an Outrider or someone confused about their loyalty to the Alliance, but Seokmin.

The way he always dreamed of someone seeing him, of knowing him. 

It makes him feel human and it terrifies him because fuck he likes you. More than he should. More than he knows how to carry. It keeps him up at night, lying in his room, hand behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering what your hand would feel like in his again. What it would mean if you wanted it there.

And now, in the stillness, with your face turned to the stars and your body leaning just barely toward his, he starts to wonder if you feel it too or if that’s just the years’ worth of loneliness making him starving for you. 

You’re quiet, but your eyes are bright, fixed on him in a way that steals his breath. The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile. Your fingers, resting near your knee, are so close to his he swears he can feel the heat of them.

“Thank you,” he says, and it comes out low and rough.

You look at him for a long second, and then you lean your head to his shoulder. You don’t say anything. You don't really have to. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare to breathe too hard, afraid you’ll vanish like the mirage that haunted what feels like ages ago.

Instead, he lets you rest your head against him under the stars, wondering what would happen if he turned his head just a little and kissed your hair. Wondering what else he’s allowed to want now that he’s finally starting to believe he deserves it.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 60 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE 

Night sky stretches over amber sands. Seomkin is fiddling with a pipe under the sink while music plays through the speakers and you’re somewhere outside fiddling with a sensor on the workbench. He has the door open, risking the sand just so it can feel like you’re both in the same room. 

Something metal clangs outside followed by a yelp and a curse. He’s outside before he’s even realized he’s moving, stepping through the door and sweeping to where you sit on the workbench. You’ve got the casing to a sensor half-pried open and your left hand clutched to your chest, blood seeping between your fingers. 

“Ugh, what happened?” 

You try to wave him off. “It’s nothing, just slipped.” 

He sees the jagged piece of metal you broke off. Your hand is scarlet, the metal having bit through your skin, opening it up. 

“That’s not nothing.”

You protest, “I was careful-” 

You falter when he reaches for your wrist. Your skin is warm and trembling under his touch. The moment stretches, taut. Neither of you speak for a beat too long, your eyes darting up to meet his. There’s something electric in it, something unsaid that hums between your bodies. But the blood still shines in the light, and Seokmin exhales tightly.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you gently but firmly back toward the Station. “We need to clean that.”

You don’t fight him. You just follow, your shoulder brushing his every few steps. It’s only when he gets you inside back to the old medical bay turned into your bedroom that the tension comes back full force. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and the lavender sachet you keep tucked near your pillow. The bed’s unmade, the sheets slightly rumpled. 

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bed.

You do, cradling your hand. He kneels in front of you, his fingers deft as he opens the med kit he pulls from where you’ve shoved it in a cabinet to make room for all the clothes you’ve stolen from him. His pulse drums louder the longer he’s near you, feeling how close you are, watching him like you trust him with more than just fixing your hand. 

“Let me see,” he says, and you slowly uncurl your fingers.

The cut is long, but not deep. Still, it’s raw and angry, and the skin around it is already puffing with inflammation.

He dips a cloth in the alcohol solution, glancing up once. “This’ll sting.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He snorts, shaking his head. You’re not wrong about that, but he doesn’t want to think about the first time he brought you in here, unconscious and bleeding and broken. 

Your breath catches when he presses the cloth to your palm and your other hand tightens in the sheets. Seokmin keeps his focus steady, jaw tense as he wipes away the blood, but every second feels like it’s coiling tighter between you. Your knees bracket his body. Your breath lifts and falls, shallow, your eyes pinned to his mouth. He feels the shift, the very moment something inside the room tips.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

He looks up. Your face is inches from his. Your lips parted slightly, skin flushed. You nod. “You’re being gentle.”

And then his knuckles brush your thigh accidentally as he reaches for the bandage roll, and you breathe in sharply. Softly. A small, involuntary sound that is almost a whimper in the back of his throat and it makes him fucking dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make that sound.” 

Your mouth pops shut. You let him finish wrapping your hand in silence, but the air is charged now, something sizzling. He can barely see, can barely hear the way his pulse is throbbing in his ears. You’re so close to him, smelling like his soap, the lavender from your sheets fucking intoxicating.

He goes to stand but your knees tighten, pinning against his shoulders, squeezing him so that he doesn’t stand, but rather is pinned in place. He looks up at you. Your eyes are blown, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice shaky. 

“Like what?”

“Like… you want something. Me, maybe. I don’t know.”

“And if I do?”

Seokmin finally snaps. 

He surges up, his hands cradling your face, and kisses you. It’s not clean or practiced. Your lips collide with a kind of desperation, the kind that’s been weeks in the making, the kind that has been haunting his every dream and thought from the moment he realized you weren’t just a salve to his loneliness - you were something else that he wanted. 

Desperately. 

You gasp against his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you off balance and onto him as he stumbles back onto the floor and your knees land on either side of his thighs. His hands are everywhere - your face, your waist, the small of your back. Touch-starved, wild, aching. He cannot ever remember touching someone before and he’s glad, trying to burn the way you feel into his memory so that it can never be taken away. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, breaking the kiss with a gasp as his mouth trails down, grazing the line of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone through the open neck of your shirt. 

You whine, squirming in his arms and he panics, pulling back. “Shit,” he curses. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

You interrupt his apology, turning his fear that he’d done something you didn’t want into a groan as you claw at him. Your whine hadn’t been a protest but a plea. His heartbeat thunders, drowning out everything but you. Your lips slide against his, warm and messy, a tangled clash of tongues and heat, and he groans, raw, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

Your hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. His hands roam, greedy and starving, one slipping under your loose shirt to trace your spine’s warm curve, the other digging into your hip, sinking into soft flesh. He breaks the kiss, panting, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, tasting salt and sweetness. You shudder and slide your fingers into his hair, twisting and tugging hard. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled against your collarbone, nose brushing the soft skin of your throat, inhaling you. You smell like lavender and salt. “You being here has haunted me for months.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Your voice is raspy, gasping as he squeezes you tighter. 

“No. Never.”

He stands suddenly, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressed flush against him. Clumsy, desperate, he stumbles to the bed, your lips hungry, kissing him until his head spins. He lowers you, mattress creaking underneath your shared weight. 

You drag your hands under his shirt and he lets out a throaty sound. It feels so fucking good having someone touch him like this, having someone want to touch him like this. Sexual release isn’t a foreign concept to him, but this sort of untamable lust is, the desire to give and to take and to want - it’s new and it’s overwhelming and he feels drunk. 

Seokmin peels the shirt from your sun-warmed skin. He groans, kissing his way to the soft swell of your chest, pressing his tongue flat to your skin to drag toward an aching nipple. His tongue flicks tentatively over a nipple and when you whine for him, he turns greedy. He sucks it into his mouth, warm and wanting, watching as you writhe under him while he swirls his tongue around your pert bud. 

Your nails bite into his back. He doesn’t care. He only separates from you when you growl at him to take his shirt off, your hands clawed and forceful as you yank his shirt up and over his head. 

Seeing you laying on the mattress, shirtless, skin pebbled from the cold, nipples hard and aching, skin glistening in his spit nearly makes him come in his pants. He has never wanted anyone this bad - never wanted anyone period, that he knows of. It’s just you that he wants, his desire for you spilling through the very seams of him.

Ducking back down, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, sinking lower. He hooks his fingers in your pants as he goes - his pants - tugging them sharply down your legs. He adds them to the growing pile of clothes in the corner of your room, ignoring how you keep forgetting to do laundry in favor of pressing his hands against the softness of your thighs to open you.

Your glistening folds makes his breath catch, heart pounding. He’s never done this. Not really sure if he’s supposed to, really, but he wants to taste you - needs to taste you. He bides his time, nervous. Instead of pressing his tongue through your cunt the way he wants to, he kisses the insides of your thighs, sucking soft flesh between his teeth. 

It makes you insane for him. You squirm under him, grabbing at the sheets, grabbing at him, panting so hard he thinks you might pass out. He mouths his way up to your slick heat and gives in, pressing his tongue flat as he licks a broad, slow stripe up your pussy. 

Both of you make broken sounds, him at the headiness of you on his tongue, you at the feeling. He does it again, watching you this time, entranced with the way you twitch under him, fisting the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as you pant under him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily. 

He licks you from top to bottom, slow and inquisitive. He savors you, loves the way you melt in his mouth. He gives a gentle suck and likes the way it makes you sound, so he does it again, alternating between sucking at you gently and rolling his tongue in circles over your cunt. 

His tongue flicks, precise, and you shudder, thighs clamping his head, fingers tugging his hair. He dives deeper, pressing his tongue into your entrance, nose brushing your clit. He can’t get enough of you, watching through heavily-lidded eyes as you come apart under his mouth. 

 “Seokmin,” you gasp, and he hums.

He can tell you’re on the edge of spilling over, your eyes squeezed shut, your legs closing around his shoulders. Your head thrashes and he goes for it, sucking harshly at your clit as your hips lift off the bed, a squeak leaving your mouth. 

Your first orgasm hits. He tongues you through it, gentle until you’re shaking and pulling away from him, whining and voice cracking. He eases up, content to roll his tongue in lazy circles around your clenching hole. He licks up every drop of you, feels it running down his chin, and doesn’t care.

He wants more. 

“Can you take more?” He asks, licking his lips. His voice is deep, feral in a way he’s never heard. “I want to give you more.”

“I don’t know,” you gasp, letting him press your thighs further apart. He kisses your cunt gently, avoiding too much stimulation, but gives you something, giving himself something. You sigh, sagging on the bed before you eventually nod. “I can.”

He might love you. Seokmin sucks at you softly, rubbing his hands up your thighs gently to soothe you. Your hips cant against him and he thinks he could do this for the rest of his life, drinking in the taste of you, hearing you fall apart again and again. 

He keeps that slow pace for a while, content to drag his tongue up and down your cunt, letting you shiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Slowly, he picks up his pace, sucking your clit into his mouth gently until your grip on him is bone-bruising tight. 

“Seokmin, fuck, I can’t-” you start, dissolving into a cry as your second orgasm crashes into you. It’s harder this time but he doesn’t care, mouthing you until you’re spent and shaking and pushing at him. 

He crawls up, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself, and you moan. You drop your hands to his pants, desperate for him in a way that sets his entire world on fucking fire. You're both panting when he finally pulls back, his lips slick and red from kissing you, from tasting you. His breath fans against your cheek as he leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours.

You’re flushed and wrecked beneath him, thighs still trembling from your second orgasm, your fingers tangled in the waistband of his pants like you’ll go mad if he doesn’t give you more. 

“Please,” you beg. He has no idea what you’re asking for, isn’t even sure if you know what you’re asking for.

He kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he needs to. And you melt under it, whining into his mouth as your hips roll up against the hard length of him, still trapped behind too much fabric.

He groans, breaking the kiss to rest his weight on his forearm beside your head, his free hand still gripping your thigh. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. You soften, pulling your hands back. “Do you want? We can stop whenever.”

“Of course I do,” he laughs, throaty. “You have no idea. I don’t have preventatives or anything. Those uh - don’t come down in the supply shipments.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

It occurs to him that of course you don’t. He doesn’t even know how he knows, just that he does. “I’m trying not to get you pregnant.” 

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “Can you just… pull out?”

He’s endeared by the way you ask. He nods, dragging his mouth along your jaw, peppering you with kisses. He supposes he could do that. Isn’t sure what else to do, given the situation. Getting to have sex isn’t exactly in the Outrider handbook and he’s making it up as he goes. 

“I trust you.” His whole body shudders. Your hand rises to his face, cupping his jaw. “I want you. I’ve wanted you. Please.” 

This time when he kisses you, it’s soft. Meaningful. Saying everything he’s wanted to say the last few nights but can’t. Admitting how he felt that night on the roof, dancing as the sun set. Spilling the way he felt when you curled up on the couch and listened to him read after giving up on learning how yourself. Admitting the way he dreamed of you, even if it wasn’t quite you he had been dreaming of at the time. 

You work at the button on his pants between kisses, clumsy and rushed. You finally manage, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He’s harder than he’s ever been, so much that it’s almost painful. The moment your hand brushes him - bare, flushed, hard - he gasps, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a groan.

“Shit,” he breathes, trembling as you wrap your fingers around him. Your grip is light, unsure. He is twitching, leaking into your hand as you drag your fingers up and down his shaft. “No one’s ever touched me. No one’s ever - fuck - you’re the first. The only.” 

“You’re only the seventh person I’ve ever met in my life, and I definitely have never touched any of them.”

He laughs, throaty. “Then we’ll figure this out together.”

You complain when he pulls away from you to kick his pants the rest of the way off. He clucks his tongue at you, giving you a narrowed eye look that makes you pout. But you wait for him, eyes glued to the way he grips the base of his cock and pumps himself, spreading his precum to make his skin slick. 

Seokmin curses under his breath as he knees onto the bed and guides himself to your entrance, and pauses. He feels the way your cunt flutters against the crown of his cock and it makes him light-headed. He kisses you again, slow this time, full of something that borders on reverence. On what he swears could be love, given time. Then he pushes in slowly, the stretch pulling gasps from you both. You’re warm and wet and fuck. You’re unbelievably tight, struggling to take him.

He goes slow. Pauses to let you breathe along the way, hearing the way your breath comes out in short, labored hisses as he sinks in inch-by-inch. He does this at your pace, watching each time you nod and let him push in more until his hips are pressed flushed to your ass, buried into your heat all the way. 

You quake under him. He doesn’t move, hearing the discomfort in your voice. Instead, he catches your mouth with his, kissing you slowly, tongues tangling. He takes one of your hands, lacing your fingers and pins it above your head, letting your twined hands ground him. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I’m okay,” you whisper, urging him.

He moves tentatively. When you don’t immediately make him stop, he sets a slow and steady pace, pulling all the way out before sinking back in, drawing weak sounds from both of you. Each thrust answered by a honey-dipped moan from your mouth. He loses himself to it, dropping his head to your shoulder as he fights to keep himself collected. He fucks you deep and steady, both of you barely able to breathe as his cock drags along your walls. 

“Seokmin,” you gasp. You’re fucked out, lashes fluttering, barely aware you’re whispering his name over and over again.

After going so long with never hearing his name, he never wants you to stop. Wants to hear you say it every day, wants to pull it from you like this, gasping, moaning, messy. 

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, the angle letting him sink fully, each thrust a spark. The tension coils and he feels the way his body is seizing, cock jumping as he quickens his pace. Your shallow breaths signal you’re close and you’ve gone boneless, hand squeezing his as your hips twitch upward, seeking another release. 

Finally, you shatter, pleasure rippling through you, your pussy clenching so tight around him he nearly breaks his promise and comes inside. He’s close, nearly bursting at the seams, but holds back, letting you pulse around him through your high until you’re coming back down. 

He pulls out and you whimper, making him shake his head because of course you want more. He strokes himself, slick with you, throbbing in his hand until he comes, spilling his release hot across your thigh. His entire body shudders, cock pulsing until he has nothing left to give. 

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead to yours, hand on your hip, grounding. 

You’re both breathing hard, bodies tangled, bare skin pressed so tightly it feels like you’re sharing the same heartbeat. Seokmin is still above you, his weight braced on trembling arms as he hovers just enough not to crush you. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder, mapping all the places he wants to kiss again and again. 

He starts to shift, intending to get up and wipe the come from your leg. You panic, grabbing at him. “Don’t go.”

He stills, eyes searching yours. “I’m not,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t. Just want to wipe the come off your leg.”

“Oh. Proceed.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, diving to grab a towel from your laundry pile to smear it across your thigh until it’s gone. You tug him down to the bed as soon as he’s done and he tries not to land on you, hitting the bed awkwardly.

“I am trying not to crush you, you know?” 

You laugh under your breath, but it’s soft. Fragile. “You’re so careful with me.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admits. “Not with you.” 

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not, trust me. But it doesn’t mean you have to be treated like metal all the time.”

Seokmin thinks of the first night he saw you, bloody and smelling of metal, screaming and bruised and a little broken but vicious none the same, ready to fight. He doesn’t know a lot about your world, but he knows it was all machinery and fire, brutal and hard. 

He sees your expression soften as you come to the same conclusion he has. “Fine,” you amend. “Continue.”

You curl into him, tucking your head under his chin. He wraps an arm around you, palm splaying across your lower back, grounding. You stay like that for a while. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to. He reaches for your injured palm, brushing his thumb over the pink-stained gauze. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise.

“Would you tell me if it did?” You shrug and he rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he urges gently. “Let’s shower.” 

“Carry me.” He gives you a look and you grin.. “Glass treatment, remember?” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 8100

WEATHER … HEAVY RAIN, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THIRTEEN

The rain comes in soft at first. Barely more than mist on the wind. But it thickens as the day wears on, turning into a steady rhythm against the metal roof of the Station. It smells like earth and static, music playing over the speakers, the same old song you both have come to love. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

That Texas sun, oh yeah

Seokmin stands by the window, watching the rain bead along the glass. It doesn’t happen often, this kind of weather. But lately, everything feels like a slow unraveling of what used to happen. What used to be. What used to matter.

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

Behind him, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, lit by the halo of the lamp you dragged over to turn it into your makeshift workbench. Wires snake around your feet, and the interference device you’ve been working on is slowly taking shape: a copper coil, repurposed military tech, a handheld transponder cannibalized from a buried drone. 

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

You’ve been trying to work on something to help reroute machines. Not destroy them or disable them, but to guide them. Seokmin can only let so many go unchecked through the Tilt, and there was that one Gloom that wasn’t friendly a few weeks ago that you’d helped him put down. 

Seokmin’s chest aches a little when he watches you work. Your hair’s a little damp from stepping outside earlier, and your sleeves are pushed to your elbows, grease staining your skin. You’ve made this Station your home - make it feel like his home, after never having felt that way before. 

He’s about to tell you that when a sudden sound shatters the air. A high-pitched frequency screams out of the device. He freezes. His breath cuts short in his chest. It’s like something clamps down behind his ribs, not pain, not even fear, but response. A reflex. His limbs go still, fingers twitch once like he's waiting for a command. His vision tunnels, sound dulls to a cotton-muffled throb.

Seokmin is nowhere. 

System halt.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t dream.

System halt. 

Then, warmth. Your hands are on his face, thumb brushing over the hinge of his jaw. You speak, barely above the soft patter of rain on the roof. “Seokmin. Seokmin, hey. It’s okay. Look at me.”

He blinks, breath hitching, and then his eyes find yours. The static inside him breaks like glass underfoot. He inhales hard, one step back from whatever edge that was. One breath away from something he doesn't understand.

“I-” His voice croaks. “Sorry, that was weird.” 

Texas sun

Texas sun

Your expression softens. Still close. Still touching him like it’s second nature. “Sorry, I should have known. Sorry, I won’t do that again.” 

You say it gently, like you’re talking about the weather. Like you didn’t just catch him spiraling into a shutdown. But Seokmin hears the rain again, and now it’s louder than the frequency ever was. The smell of rust, rain, and your skin pulls him back to earth.

Texas sun, oh

Texas sun

He nods slowly. Swallows. And then the thought blooms quietly, horribly: He hadn’t frozen like a man. He’d frozen like a machine.

And you’d kissed him and apologized with a gentle I should have known. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Texas sun

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[say-al0e]

Cling

Rating: M | This is smut! Minors, DNI! No one under 18!

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you and Steve have been close. What others see as clingy, Steve sees as comforting, right? Or, you fell in love with your best friend and suddenly, everything is too much. Warnings: Unprotected PinV, oral (f!receiving), blink and you'll miss it angst. Pairing: Steve x fem!Reader Words: 5.5k

Though the sun had long disappeared, dipped below the horizon in a blaze of oranges and reds hours ago, the scent of artificial coconut and chlorine lingered as you lounged beside the Harrington pool.

The kids disappeared with Eddie the moment the sky tinted pink, off to finish a campaign they spent much of the day discussing, and Robin followed soon after with a weak excuse designed to hide her true destination of Vicky’s house - despite the fact that you all knew.

That left you and Steve, always the last two standing.

Steve stretched out on a lounge chair to your left - sunglasses resting atop his head, t-shirt forgotten somewhere in the backyard, garishly patterned swim trunks resting low on his hips. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling evenly, though you knew he was far from sleep.

Regardless, you took the chance to study him in the rare moment of silence.

The apples of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose were tinted pink, not burned enough to cause concern but clearly effected by his time in the sun. His hair was wild and beginning to curl, free of gel and still a little damp from his last dip in the pool. The weeks of swimming, back in the pool where he spent so much time growing up, had toned his arms - his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs - and you could see the result of his resumed habits so clearly.

A swath of hair covered his chest, tapered into a faint line that disappeared into the band of his trunks, and you were struck by just how many times you’d been here - sitting to his right, smelling of chlorine and coconut. Over a decade of friendship, more than half your life, and you’d witnessed Steve go from a lanky boy to a confident twenty-something. 

Moments like this reminded you of why your best friend was one of the most sought-after bachelors in Hawkins and why, somewhere along the line, you joined the long list of those desperate for him to give you the time of day.

Only, you were lucky enough to be one of the few that had Steve’s full attention. There was little question that he knew everything - nearly everything, not this, never this - there was to know about you. Even less of a question that you would be sharing his bed later on, though not in the way you’d secretly started to want.

“Quit starin’ at me, creep.” Steve’s voice came then, before you could begin to spiral and question whether you could handle another night of sleeping beside him - wrapped in his embrace, his sheets, his scent - and you hummed.

“Just seeing if I need to get the aloe,” you teased, hoping it sounded as light as you meant it. “Should’ve listened to me, when I told you to put on sunscreen.”

Steve laughed. “You mean I should’ve sat still while you attacked me with it. I would’ve, if you’d given me some warning. Not nice to just start mauling a guy.”

“I know you dream about me mauling you.” The deflection was easy, reflexive, and accompanied by a laugh that rang a touch hollow in your own ears but Steve huffed, good-natured, anyway.

“Hm. Think that’s the other way around.” He cracked open an eye, then, and turned his head to glance at you while you reached for his half-empty beer in an effort to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Please,” you scoffed, though it was weaker than you intended. “I can’t get you to stop touching me.”

Despite his upbringing - or, really, because of it - Steve sought physical affection in those closest to him. It was true that he hadn’t stopped touching you over the course of your friendship, hugs and holding hands and cuddling on the couch. There was never any hesitation, never any awkward shuffling or adjusting. It was as natural as breathing, comfortable, and lately, you savored every brush of his skin against yours.

Still, Steve waved a dismissive hand and reached for the pack of cigarettes he discarded on the table after the kids left. “Sure.” He lit one, fixed you with a teasing grin as he took a drag. “Easy for you to say when you’re the clingiest person I know.”

The observation was not unkind. If anything, it was soft - fond. It was a joke he’d made before, once or twice, but the label ‘clingy’ struck a nerve that he likely had no idea even existed. One that hadn’t existed until recently.

There was a conversation that you weren’t supposed to hear. It was Eddie, asking the kids if he had a chance - whether you and Steve were, you know, a thing - and their varying responses. He only asked because of how close you were, he explained, how often Steve had an arm around you or you clasped his hand in yours.

Someone, you didn’t catch who because the words rang harsh in your ears, dismissed his concerns with the dreaded refusal, “Just friends.” Though another followed it with, “I’d be annoyed if I were Steve. She’s always all over him and they’re not even dating. So clingy.”

Eddie laughed, as did the others, and you waited just beyond the door for a few moments to pretend that you hadn’t heard.

After, you tried to distance yourself, if only a little, without arousing Steve’s suspicions. Despite being called clueless, unobservant or even stupid, despite his difficulty connecting the dots, there was little about you that escaped his notice. It was difficult to create space when none had existed since you were children and, clearly, you hadn’t done a very good job, anyway.

“Yeah, well, I’ll unstick myself from your side.” You intended the quip to be teasing, a joke that earned you a laugh or a soft swat as you passed him by, but it came out wrong. The words were acidic, tasted bitter in the back of your throat as they rolled off your tongue, and you could see him wince from the sting of them as you stood from your chair. “I’m gonna go shower,” you deflected, unable to look at him. “Chlorine’s burning my eyes.”

Steve sat upright as you gathered your towel and discarded clothes, your empty soda can and the tube of tropical sunscreen. He stubbed out his cigarette and reached out, hand searching for yours and coming up empty for the first time in a long time.

“Wait,” he urged, rising to his feet as you busied yourself with removing any trace of your presence from the immediate vicinity. “Did I… what did I say? Whatever it was, I didn’t -“ His brows furrowed as he lifted the hand you avoided and carded it through his hair, sighing when you winced at the sound of his sunglasses clattering to the ground.

“You didn’t - it’s nothing.” Steve tipped his head, an attempt to catch your eye as you blinked back the stinging sensation - chlorine, really, and overwhelmed, traitorous tears. “Just tired.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of his face. He wore a concerned frown, warm eyes raking over your form as he recounted the last few moments, before he winced. “Oh. Shit. Hey, you know I’m joking,” he insisted, taking a half-step closer. And when you took a full step back, he frozen, uncertain - unused to the distance. “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I love it when you’re close to me. It’s nice. I’m not - that was a shitty thing to say.”

“It’s okay.” You waved him off, a dismissive hand held aloft for a moment before dropping to hold your towel close to your chest, and hoped he believed the crack in your voice was from the yelling you’d done earlier in the day. “It’s true, ’s’what everyone thinks, anyway.”

“What?” He looked confused, frown deepening as he tried again. He took a cautious step to close some of the distance and lifted a hand to reach out for you before thinking better of it. His hand fell to his side and you clutched the material in your arms tight to your chest to keep from reaching out yourself. “No one thinks that.”

“They do,” you confessed, finally lifting your head to meet his gaze as you forced a laugh. “They think it’s weird and sad and annoying that I’m, like, all over you. They think I’m, like, obsessed or something.” The admission was uttered casually, as easily as you could manage when your heart felt as if it might beat out of your chest, and Steve took another tentative step forward.

“Who said that?”

Though it was phrased as a question, it came out a demand. His expression shifted, flickered from soft concern to annoyance - not at you, very rarely at you - as he waited.

“I overheard the kids joking about it,” you told him with a sigh. “And back when you were dating Nancy, Tommy and Carol said something. So did Billy. It didn’t bother me then ‘cause Tommy and Carol and Billy were morons, but now, well… Maybe they were right. I - I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so… attached.”

Steve stepped closer then, insistent despite your feeble attempt to keep the distance, and reached out for you. One warm, large hand fell to your waist, fingers finding bare skin still warm from the sun while the other cupped your cheek. He was patient, soft, as he encouraged you to meet his eyes once more.

“They were total morons. I’m honestly surprised they paid enough attention to someone else to notice,” he huffed, rolling his eyes at the memory of your former friends. “And the kids, they’re just kids. They don’t - don’t listen to them, alright. I don’t think you’re clingy or annoying or sad or anything else. I think you’re my best friend and I like being close to you.”

Though it brought you comfort to hear how adamantly he denied thinking you were clingy - how adamantly he denied finding your constant presence annoying - the reminder that he only saw you as a friend did little to ease the roiling in the pit of your stomach. 

A fresh wave of traitorous tears stung at the backs of your eyes and you did your best to blink them away as you nodded. “Yeah,” you nodded, acknowledging him with a watery half-smile. “Okay.”

“Hey, I’m serious,” he asserted, dipping his head to search your face for the answer to a question he had yet to ask. “I want you close to me, like, all the time. Robin laughs at me but I don’t really know what to do when you’re not there. I like it when you hold my hand or sit on my lap. It… it makes me feel like you want me with you as much as I want to be with you.”

Though the lump in your throat persisted, though the tears still threatened to fall, you immediately reassured him. “Of course I want you to be with me. I love spending time with you.” You sighed, allowing yourself to melt into Steve’s touch. “It’s always been us.”

“Always has been, always will be,” he confirmed, smile soft but still a touch concerned. He hesitated for a moment, seeming to weigh his words for the first time in a long time, before he settled on asking, “What’s up, babe? Why’d it bother you so much?”

“It’s stupid.”

Immediately, Steve shook his head. He refused to allow you to wave it off, to dismiss the tease that clearly hurt your feelings, as his thumb stroked your cheek. “It’s not, not if it’s bothering you.”

“I just…” You inhaled sharply, eyes closing as you attempted to gather your thoughts. Though Steve’s closeness would’ve brought you comfort under ordinary circumstances, it made it difficult for you to concentrate as your heart began to beat a touch too fast. “Just been thinking,” you finally began, choosing your words carefully. “It was fine when we were kids but, I mean, we’re adults now. What happens when one of your dates pays off and you find someone to fall in love with? Don’t think she’ll be too happy with, you know, this. It’s not like we can cuddle on the couch or have sleepovers for the rest of our lives.”

Steve remained quiet for a long moment - a silence that stretched on forever, thick and suffocating - and you swallowed the emotion clumping in the back of your throat before opening your eyes. You were met with his warm gaze, soft brown eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite read as he took a half-step closer.

“What if… I mean, we could.” Two words, and you felt frozen in uncertainty. Everything around you, everything outside of Steve, ceased to exist. You could feel your heart thudding heavily in your chest, your breath caught in your throat as you waited for him to elaborate. “The dates,” he began, now looking as nervous as you felt, “none of them have felt right. They don’t feel like this, like us. They don’t make me feel like you do.”

For months, you’d dreamt that Steve felt the same way. You imagined that somewhere, beneath the fond smiles and teasing jabs lingered the same nerves, the same butterflies, the same all-encompassing love. You imagined that his head was full of the same ‘what-if’s’ as you shared his bed, the same hope that you’d share the same bed for the rest of your life. You dreamt that he would one day confess his love and end your hopeless attempt at getting over him.

But now that it seemed within your grasp, so close you could practically feel his heart beating just as erratically as your own, it felt too good to be true.

“What does that mean?”

The question came as a whisper, afraid that if you spoke too loud you might break whatever spell had been cast over the backyard, but Steve heard it clearly. He met it with a half-smile as the hand on your hip began to trace nonsensical patterns across your skin - a nervous habit that made you feel as if your skin was on fire.

“Means that I want to keep holding your hand and having sleepovers,” he elaborated, voice soft in the still of the night. “Means that I… I don’t want to keep going on dates with anyone but you. Every time I think about the future, it changes - what I’m doing, where I live. But you’re always there and that’s all I want. I’ve been trying to pretend like I’m not in love with you but I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Steve’s confession rang in your ears, crashed over you like a tidal wave, and left you unable to speak - unable to breathe. He waited, patient, understanding, as your racing thoughts scrambled in search of something coherent. But when you failed to gather anything resembling a complete sentence, you decided to allow your actions to speak for you.

In the way that you’d started to imagine as you drifted off to sleep, you dropped the items in your arms and lifted your hands to tangle in his hair to pull him in close. He smelled of summer - cigarettes, cheap beer, artificial coconut and chlorine - and something so unerringly Steve that you suddenly couldn’t imagine being this close to anyone else.

The hand on your cheek was encouraging, soft and warm as he tipped your chin, and you gave in to the urge you’d been fighting. With one step, you pressed yourself close - your chest meeting his, the warmth of his bare skin setting your nerve endings alight - and pressed your mouth to his.

Despite your expectations, there were no fireworks, no sparks or heavenly choirs, but there was an instant sense of comfort. Kissing Steve felt like coming home, warm and easy, as if you’d done it a thousand times before. 

There was no awkward shuffling, no tentative brushes of uncertain lips. Instead, you moved together seamlessly. His body slotted against yours perfectly, fit exactly as if you belonged there - together, intertwined. His lips were soft, as plush as you’d imagined, and his skin was so warm that you wondered if you would be branded with his touch before the night was over.

Though your fantasies varied - desperate kisses, eager to make up for lost time; filthy ones, a mess of lips and tongues and teeth, as you swapped spit and stumbled down a dark hallway toward his bedroom; soft kisses, designed to convey years of unspoken feelings - this kiss destroyed them all.

It was soft, slow and eager as you sought to become acquainted with the taste of one another, and laced with the underlying promise of a beautiful future.

Steve’s touch was eager, unrestrained and achingly familiar, as he held you close and swallowed the soft noises you made. Every breathless gasp and quiet sigh of pleasure, was met with a hum of his own as he slipped the hand on your cheek to the back of your neck.

Neither of you wanted the kiss to end, content to breathe in one another until your lungs collapsed, but the lack of oxygen and the reality of the situation had you feeling dizzy enough to break away. But as close as you’d always been, Steve kept you pressed tight to his body and rested his forehead against yours.

“Taking that to mean you’re in love with me, too,” he teased, breathless as he searched your face for any sign of regret, of hesitance. When he found none, he smiled - bright, happy, easy. “Totally not cool of me to admit, but I’ve wanted to do that forever.”

“You’ve never been cool, Stevie,” you returned, giggling as he pinched your side.

“Was gonna be nice,” he huffed, pretending to be put out though his grin never faltered as he shifted his head, brushed his nose against yours. “Tell you how pretty I think you are, how I want to spend the rest of my life with you; all that mushy stuff. But since you wanna be mean…”

Before you could blink, giggle out a teasing apology for your perceived slight, Steve’s arms fell to your waist. He held you close, lifted easily, and carried you the few steps to the edge of the pool. The moment you realized his intentions, the moment you opened your mouth to squeal out a plea for him to stop, Steve stepped over the edge and plunged you both into the water.

Even as you fell, sinking into the deep end, Steve kept you close. He hauled you both back up above the water, laughing as you huffed - thankfully used to this, almost expecting it as he attempted it every year.

“Steve!”

“What?” He grinned, dark hair dripping into his eyes as he guided you both into a more manageable depth and encouraged you to wrap your legs around his waist. “All this could’ve been avoided if you’d just been nice to me,” he reasoned.

“I’m always nice to you, Stevie.” You weren’t - your friendship was an equal mixture of soft encouragement, soft words and even softer touches, and teasing jabs - but Steve hummed, just the same. “But I can be even nicer.”

“Know what would be really nice?” When you hummed, Steve returned a hand to cup your cheek - tipping your head to meet your eyes, only a hint of insecurity swirling amongst the warm, soft brown. “Telling me I’m not getting all this wrong. I… I know I don’t always get it,” he acknowledged, swallowing thickly, “but I… I get this, right?”

“Oh, Steve. The reason I got so freaked out about the clingy thing,” you began, lifting your hands to brush the damp hair from his forehead, “was because I was afraid you’d see it, how in love I am. I… I’ve been in love with you for a while. You’re it for me, Harrington.”

Steve grinned, then, relieved - elated, clearly brimming with joy at the revelation - and leaned forward to close the gap. The press of his mouth to yours was eager, firm, and relieved some of the ache in your chest, the fear that this was something you’d dreamt up, too good to be true. He crowded you against the wall, body caging you in as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you sighed as you tangled your fingers in his hair.

Though the pool water was cool, the press of Steve’s body against yours had you melting. He always ran warm, left you blistering in the wake of his hands exploring your skin, and you felt your heart hammering in your chest as his fingers mapped the slivers of skin he’d only held through fabric.

“Babe,” he breathed, mouth barely parted from yours as you shifted your hips, “don’t wanna do this in the pool. Not the first time. Let me take you inside.”

The urgency in his tone drew a soft moan from you, eager to feel his touch and touch him in return. “Please. Waited so long, don’t wanna wait anymore.”

Desperation, eager and hurried, that had lingered beneath the surface of the entire encounter - a desire to give in, finally, after waiting for so long - showed clearly as you both rushed out of the pool. Steve remained close to you, one hand on your hip even as you both roughly toweled off, and ushered you into the house.

The Harrington house was as familiar to you as your own. It was a space you could navigate with your eyes closed, under the worst circumstances, and you were grateful for the knowledge as you and Steve rushed up the stairs to his bedroom without pause.

As many times as you’d stepped foot in Steve’s room, as many nights as you’d spent wrapped in his sheets, there was an understandable difference in this moment. The tension was palpable and, despite how eager you both were, you both faltered for a moment as the door clicked shut behind you.

“This… we don’t have to do anything,” he began, stepping close, his palm warm against your waist. “We can just shower, maybe watch a movie or something before bed.”

Again, rather than fumbling for a coherent sentence - attempting to make sense of the thoughts that remained scrambled in your brain - you reached out for him. Steve sighed as your fingers tangled in his hair and tugged, eyes blazing with a heat that made your head spin, and you almost hated to lose the sight of his parted lips and lust blown eyes as your mouth pressed to his.

Steve’s hands began to wander, fingers mapping your skin in a desperate bid to commit it all to memory, as he walked you backwards. The plush of his bed hit the back of your knees, duvet soft, and he followed you down easily. With a knee pressed into the mattress beside your hip, a hand beside your head, Steve hovered above you, mouth never leaving yours.

While his fingers traced the skin of your stomach, your hips, your shoulders, your thighs, you brought your own to his chest. You raked your nails over his exposed skin, committing the warmth of him to memory, as he broke the kiss to lavish your neck with attention.

As he nosed at your jaw, lips pressing fleeting kisses to your skin, his hand fell to your breast, eagerly cupping the soft flesh over the damp material of your swimsuit.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he breathed, reverence lacing his tone as his hand flexed. “So warm, so soft. Smell nice.”

“It’s the sunscreen,” you gasped, words pitching higher as his lips latched onto the spot just beneath your ear. “You should try it.”

“Mm. You can put some on me tomorrow,” he offered, tongue darting out to soothe spot he’d nipped.

The promise was laced with an eager desire that had your hands wandering, nails raking over the trail of hair dipping into the band of his trunks, and you could feel the contraction of his stomach as he inhaled sharply. You knew that you tasted of chlorine and chemicals, of summer, but Steve didn’t seem to mind as he continued pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

Eagerly, he began to dip lower, his lips exploring your heated skin and leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Every touch was electric, sent a shockwave through your system and left your chest aching with a warmth that you hoped would never cool. You could feel the arousal pooling in the pit of your stomach, gathering slick between your thighs, as Steve nipped at the skin of your chest.

Skilled hands made quick work of the fabric covering your chest, easily ridding you of the damp suit without lifting his head from your skin, and you felt your breath catch in your throat as Steve began to make his way down. He nipped at the delicate skin of your chest, stubble scraping your skin in the most delicious way as he shifted to free his hands.

As Steve’s hands shifted, cupped your breasts and hummed, your own hand dipped beneath the band of his trunks. Your fingers brushed the warm skin, reveling in the stuttering breath Steve released, even as his own hands began to trail downward.

“Always pretty,” he complimented, voice rough as he began to follow the path blazed by his hands, pressing kisses down your chest and stomach.  “But this,” he hummed, grinning when you whined as he moved out of reach, “too fuckin’ pretty. Not fair.”

“You’re one to talk.” It was breathless, a gasp that escaped as his lips latched onto a patch of skin near your hip, and Steve grinned. “You’re so beautiful, Stevie. ’S’distracting.”

Steve continued to sink lower, mouth blazing a devastating path across your skin, as his hands fell to the plush of your thighs. He spread them easily, settled between them, and glanced up at you from near the foot of his bed with a devilish smirk that reminded you of the days of King Steve - handsome, flirty, charming.

“How’ve we never done this before?” His hands drifted closer to your aching cunt, so close to where you desperately wanted him yet so far away as his mouth pressed to your inner thigh. “Wanna spend the rest of my life here.”

“Haven’t even got my bathing suit off,” you teased, though it was weak - wrecked, already so entirely destroyed for him. But Steve took it as a challenge.

Almost immediately, Steve’s hands slipped beneath the band of your bottoms and tugged, easily working the damp fabric down your thighs. The moment they were gone, tossed across the room to be found later, he settled back between them and grinned.

Before you could tease, make a joke about him being eager, Steve’s hands shifted exactly where you wanted them. Warm fingers swiped at your slick folds, gathered the evidence of your arousal easily, before they lifted to his waiting mouth. Your lungs constricted and breathing felt impossible as you watched him lap at the slick, an exaggerated moan leaving his lips as he pulled them free with a wink.

“Knew you’d taste amazing,” he complimented, dipping his head to nip at your inner thigh.

Steve nosed at the juncture of your thigh as his fingers returned to your folds and you could feel his triumphant grin when you gasped as his thumb found your clit. But he didn’t allow you time to speak as he dipped his head and licked a stripe along your slit.

Large hands found your thighs, fingers digging into the plush skin to keep you spread open as he lapped at you. There was no tentative tasting, no hesitant swipe of his tongue; Steve ate you like a man starved.

Those plush lips wrapped around your clit, eagerly tasting all you had to give, as his fingers returned to your puffy folds. He swiped them through your slick, gathered it on his fingers, before pressing them into you and working to open you up. 

“You’re,” a gasp interrupted you, stole your breathe as Steve glanced up at you from between your thighs - his shoulders keeping you spread open, hair caught between your fingers. “Fuck, Stevie, you’re good at that.”

Steve preened under the praise, lashes fluttering at that and the combination of your fingers yanking at his hair, as his fingers - longer, thicker than yours; easily pressing into the spaces you could never quite reach - sank deeper into you. 

As desperate as you were to feel him, to have him push you over the edge, this wasn’t the way you wanted to go. You wanted to feel him, to feel his weight pressing you into the mattress as his lips met yours, and you told him as much as you tugged at his hair.

“Wanna feel you, Stevie, please,” you begged, stomach tight and chest aching as you desperately sought to catch your breath. 

“Fuck.” Steve’s forehead pressed to your thigh, warm breath fanning over your sticky skin. “Wanted to hear you say that forever,” he admitted, eagerly clambering up to shove his trunks down his hips.

As Steve shoved his swim trunks down, you tipped your head - eager to see if the rumors were true. And just as you’d heard, Steve was larger than you ever could’ve imagined. He was bigger than anyone you’d been with, bigger than anything you’d seen, and you couldn’t help yourself as you reached out to touch him.

The tip was an angry red, dripping precum, and Steve swore as your thumb brushed at the pearly bead. “Fuck, you’re so big,” you whined, wondering how he would fit - eagerly anticipating the stretch of him.

“Can’t say shit like that,” he huffed, laughing - pink cheeks blazing, embarrassed and secretly pleased at the attention - as he settled above you. “Ego’s already too big,” he teased.

“Not the only thing,” you returned, grinning when he laughed, fingers dipping between your thighs. “Fuck me, Stevie, please.”

“Anything you want,” he promised, hand wrapping around the base of his cock and guiding it to your puffy folds. He dragged the head through the slick, both of you moaning at the contact, before he notched the head at your entrance and pressed forward.

The stretch of him was delicious, too much and not enough all at once, and you swore you could feel him in the back of your throat as he sank into you. He went slow, careful, eager not to hurt you, but with every inch he sank forward, you were desperate to feel him fully.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Steve was pressed fully into you. It was overwhelming, being so impossibly close to him - completely intertwined, bodies as one - and all you could do was pull him into a searing kiss.

The kiss was a mess, a clash of tongue and teeth, uncoordinated but so satisfying as his hand gripped your hip. You could feel him surrounding you, all-encompassing, and you never wanted the moment to end.

Even as his hips began to snap, his rhythm steady, deep, you struggled to catch your breath - to care about anything other than the warmth of his skin against yours, the scent of him, the weight of him over you. The only thing you could say was his name, repeated like a prayer as his thumb found your clit and his lips remained just inches from your own.

Steve was all that existed, all that had ever existed, and suddenly the future was bright. There was hope, an eager desire to spend the rest of your life here - in this moment, with Steve pressed close - and you couldn’t help but whimper out a desperate, “I love you,” as you felt yourself barreling toward the edge.

The words were returned in a reverent chant, equally desperate, as you felt his hips begin to stutter. You were both nearly there, just a few presses of his hips - another swipe of his thumb, another press of his mouth to your heated skin - and you were careening over the edge with Steve following shortly after.

Warmth flooded your veins, his spend filling you so completely, and his lips sought yours despite your shared inability to regain your breath. It didn’t matter, not when all that existed was this moment, and you didn’t care that Steve’s weight had fallen to press you deeper into the mattress.

For a few long moments, you both lay there - gasping, fighting to catch your breath and return to the moment at hand - before Steve pulled away just enough to settle at your side. There was no distance left between you, slick skin pressed together, and you would’ve been content to lie there forever.

Steve, it seemed, felt the same as he settled into the pillow and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

Though the afternoon began with a fear that Steve would see you as clingy, that he would never love you in the way you loved him, you were ending the night in the only place you wanted to be; clinging to your boyfriend, sated and happy and looking forward to the future for the first time in a long time.

______________________________________________________

Author's Note: This was inspired by a sunscreen, believe it or not. Don't know how we got here but it was a fun journey.

Taglist: @x-avantgarde-x, @thisisparadisemylove, @eddiesprincess, @slvdsjjk, @munsonlover, @tasmbestspdrman, @urofficial-cyberslut, @jxngwhore, @hopelesslylosttheway, @meaganjm, @lazuli-leenabride, @deiondraaa, @piscesmesss, @glowyskiess, @kiszkathecook, @missryerye, @solarrexplosion, @ofherscarlettwitchways, @lovedandleft-haunted, @trappedinlimbo15, @sweetiekitten, @bookfrog242, @gwendolynmary, @sage-bun, @zealouslibrariesparadiselight, @castiels-lilass, @tojis-little-brat, @emmah787, @theworldsendxx, @asuperconfusedgirl, @flores-and-sunshine, @passi0np1t, @laurathefahrradsattel, @hellf1reclub, @slut4yourmom, @niko-04, @hannirose-loves-you, @mrs-eddie-munson, @screambabe, @vllowe, @ryswritingrecord, @cheriebondy, @ryswritingrecord, @thewitchofthewilds140, @bootlegmothman420, @maruushkka, @honeymoonpython, @keenesbeans, @jess-bonn, @sammysinger04, @khaoticken21, @denkis-slut, @spiderman-berries, @lotus-es, @amortiff, @stardust-galaxies, @ure-a-sunflower, @1-800-ch3rry, @ladybeewritethings, @ynbutbetter, @hunnybunimdun, @breathinfive, @s-u-t, @s4ntacarlal0stk1d, @rae-iin, @pennamesgame, @stefans-wife, @voldieshorts, @frankie-mercury, @bbymochi1, @serendiipty, @saturnsworld01, @eddiemunson1sstuff​, @valthevalkyrie-main​, @crying-caro​, @inglourious-imagines​

[calebsdog]

Caleb's birthday is approaching. This year, you're prepared to make his every wish come true. Even the wishes neither of you thought were possible, until now.

However, you have your own birthday wish for Caleb this summer. You've kept your mouth shut, holding your secret close to your chest.

Looking back, Caleb has never had healthy eating habits. You only had to sit and think about it for a minute before it became painfully obvious. He's been getting away with it for so long.

Caleb has always been neglected. By friends, by loved ones, and worst of all you. Caleb carried himself with such confidence, such strength, that even those closest to him couldn't realize he had his own hardships.

"Gran?" Caleb, only seven years old, barely standing to height with Josephine's knee, looks up at his guardian.

"Could you please get me protein bars at the store?"

"Hm?" Gran's weathered thumbs struggle with the collar button of her flowery blouse. Her hands, burdened with a slight tremble, continue to slip, missing the opening.

"Honey, why would you want a protein bar? Wouldn't you want something more tasty? There are plenty of granola bar flavors I could search for."

Josephine was a little befuddled by Caleb's sudden request. She's never known a seven year old to want something as tasteless as a protein bar. She struggles with talking down Mc, only a few years younger than the boy, from clearing out candy shelves.

"No thank you, Gran. I'm not really hungry when I wake up in the morning. Breakfast is too much food for me. I think protein bars would be healthier."

Gran ignores every red flag waved in her face. Everyone has always brushed aside their concerns for Caleb. How could someone who smiles so brightly also have struggles?

He gets his protein bars. For years to come, they're a repeated purchase on Gran's grocery list. He pulls out a protein bar for breakfast, a protein bar for lunch, and the largest portion on his plate during dinner are the veggies.

On rare occasions Caleb cheats his self-imposed diet he'll work himself to death to make up for it. He never treats food for the joy of eating. For every one of his life necessities, Caleb takes the bare minimum to survive.

It makes you sick to think about. That little boy you grew up with, so full of life, was clipping his wings where everyone could see. Gran, his teachers, any adult in his life should have seen the signs and stepped in. You were too young to realize it then. But they weren't.

If Caleb wanted to begin changing your relationship this year, he would have to make some changes with himself too. And you wanted to start with his worst habit.

"Caleb, I cooked your favorite tonight."

"My eyes were bigger than my stomach. Can you eat what's left on my plate, please?"

"You're going to work out? I was hoping we could watch a movie tonight. Can we cuddle for a bit? You can work out later instead."

If Caleb can learn to associate you, your love, and comfort with food, maybe he'll start eating properly on his own.

It would have been healthier to tell Caleb what you were doing. You sprinkled these little white lies during every meal, secretly piling more food on his plate and preventing him from burning the calories.

But Caleb has made plenty of questionable decisions in the name of your safety. He doesn't get to be the only unapologetic one in the name of protecting the person they love.

"Surprise!" Uncovering Caleb's eyes, his living room was flooded with warm, vibrant decorations. Orange and blue balloons hover at the ceiling. Hot pink gift boxes are tripping hazards scattered over his carpet.

And, in the center of it all, piles of the most unhealthy foods known to man wait for Caleb on the coffee table. Macaroons, cookies, defrosting containers of ice cream. And who could forget the triple layer birthday cake?

Powdered flour clings to your sweaty forehead. It feels like the bottom of your feet were smashed repeatedly with a hammer. You spent the entire day cooped up in the overheated kitchen. Baking in the middle of June was no laughing matter.

Frankly, it was embarrassing to look this messy on Caleb's special day.

"It's just us this year. No need to share your cake with anyone else. So, how about... We both eat as much as we want?"

Caleb doesn't have to ask to know you've made this ensemble with blood, sweat, and tears. He thought he went all out when he cooked for you, barely taking a portion for himself while he filled your plate. This was a new level of effort.

"Heh."

Glancing back at his reason to breathe, he reaches out to take one of your cramping, sore hand. He lifts that hand to his lips, looking at the grime underneath your fingernails you didn't have time to wash out. Bending his neck, the pink tip of his tongue licks away a lingering smear of chocolate sauce on your thumb.

"That's a lot of food for just the two of us to get through. I guess I have to put in my best effort so you don't suffer alone."

[unmillion]

Jason Todd Headcanons #001

꩜ Jason Todd who offers to paint your non-dominant hand’s nails for you since he knows you struggle with it. He’s careful with it, precise and cleans up all of the edges for you. You let him choose the color occasionally and he always picks according to season—dark red for fall, slivers and darker blues for winter, light pinks and yellows for spring and brighter yellows and oranges for spring usually. 

꩜ Jason Todd who keeps track of what you order at restaurants so he knows what your favorite drink is, making it for you whenever the two of you are watching a movie or having dinner at home. He notes your favorite sweet treats, favorite ice cream flavors and whether you like cheesecake or not. His notes app has a note specifically on your order from certain restaurants, what you want and don’t want on your burger, and the numbers of your favorite places. This note is locked and he makes sure it has a different name—it’s probably something stupid too like “manifestations” and it’s the only password you don’t have on his phone.  

꩜ Jason Todd who insists on getting everything for you. Like you’ll be sitting down, about to get up to grab something without saying anything and he just goes “Don’t get up i’ve got it” and you’re like “I didn’t even tell you what i’m about to get” and he only responds with “Then tell me once i get up, you don’t have to get everything yourself.” He also always moves you over when you’re trying to get something from a tall shelf, always cutting in to grab it before you have the chance of climbing up anything to get it.

꩜ Jason Todd who always, and I mean always holds your drink when you’re out. He quite literally watches it like his life depends on it. Even at restaurants when you use the bathroom he keeps his eyes on everything on your side of the table. Same thing with your purse too, he will guard that thing as if it was the royal family. 

꩜ Jason Todd who purposefully sleeps on the side of them bed closest to the bedroom door, sits on the side of the couch closest to front door, and always walks out in front of you just in case. He never really explains why, but he would never forgive himself if something happened to you. 

[ink-the-artist]

hi! hope you’re having a good day/night. wondering if you had any tip for achieving phosphorescence/fluorescence with colored pencils? i’ve been getting back into drawing after a long art block and wanted to draw some glow in the dark toys but i’ve been struggling to give a good actual green glow on a dark background. thought i’d ask since you’re incredible with colored pencil!

oh prismacolor neon colored pencils are perfect for this, they only have 3 colors (orange, yellow, and pink) but i think this is the closest thing to what ur describing that ive used in my own art

some of these are more subdued than others, i blend the neon color and a regular color (the neon pencils also have harder lead so are good for blending with) it creates this really nice underglow that i cant achieve with the regular colors. the more subtle ones have less of the neon color blended in and the brighter ones have more. the neon colors are really bright and vibrant it surprised me the first time i used one. my scanner does not pick up neon colors tho (idk if all scanners are like that) so I have to photograph the art instead whenever i use neon colors

im sure other brands have neon colors u can do this with (and other mediums too) this is just what i do

[humaling]

a cat(s) between us — finnick odair

summary: you moved to district four for a fresh start, and it seems your cat did too.

word count: 2.2k

author's note: alternate au where finnick and reader are cat parents and everlark as their cats!!! (i forgot to mention lol) had this cute idea when i woke up so why not write it out!

“Thanks for helping me move in, Haymitch.”

You offer the gruff old man a cold glass of water. The long-haired blond places the last box on the ground beside your black leather couch with a huff, then grabs the glass from your hand and downs it in a single gulp.

“As long as you deliver me that tray of Budweisers, we’re good,” Haymitch retorts, setting the empty glass on the coffee table before straightening to his full height.

A car honks outside. You peek through the door and spot a yellow cab parked out front—your ride for Haymitch to the train station.

“Don’t call me again, kiddo,” he says, patting your shoulder before heading out the door and across the lawn.

“Can’t promise that!” you laugh after him.

Haymitch was your father’s closest friend before he passed. He helped with the funeral six months ago—and more than that, he helped you survive it. Losing your father, the only family you had left in District 12, nearly broke you. Your mother had died years ago, and she’d been estranged from her own family after marrying your dad, who never had much money. Still, that didn’t stop her from leaving everything behind to build a new life with him. She died not long after giving birth to you, so you never really got to know her—or remember her face very well.

You watch the cab disappear down the road. Leaning against the doorframe, you glance up at the sky, where the sun is beginning to set in a wash of pink and orange. Tomorrow marks a new beginning. A new job. A new town. You moved to District 4 for a fresh start and for the ocean—a change of scenery, a slower rhythm of life, and the hope that the sound of waves might quiet the parts of your grief that still echo too loud.

District 12 had become too heavy. Every corner reminded you of what you’d lost. You knew if you stayed any longer, you’d sink into the same dull grayness that swallowed your old house.

A soft purr pulls you out of your thoughts. You look down to find your Bombay cat perched by your feet, staring up at you with the prettiest pair of round gray eyes.

A smile tugs at your lips. “Why hello there, Katniss,” you murmur, crouching down to gently scratch the top of her head.

She purrs louder, eyes fluttering shut as she melts into the affection. You found Katniss a year ago in District 12, rummaging for scraps near a pile of trash bags. She was tiny then—frail, starving, barely surviving. You scooped her up on impulse, even though she clawed at your hands in a panic. Your dad scolded you all the way to the hospital to get a rabies shot, but he helped you care for her anyway.

It took weeks for Katniss to warm up to you. But once she did, she never left your side. She followed you everywhere, curled up beside you on cold nights, and always pawed at your legs for playtime.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” you whisper again, standing and closing the front door behind you as you walk deeper into the house, Katniss trotting close behind.

~

A week has passed since you moved into your new home in District 4, and though the unfamiliarity still clings to the edges of your day, you’ve started to carve out small routines—quiet little acts that help make this place yours. Like mornings spent in your backyard, barefoot in the grass, with soil caked under your fingernails and the sun warm on your skin.

Today is no different. The late afternoon air is thick with the scent of sea salt and hibiscus, warm but softened by a gentle coastal breeze that stirs your hair and rustles the leaves. The sky is clear except for a few soft clouds drifting slowly past like idle daydreams. You kneel in the middle of your small garden plot, surrounded by budding herb plants and half-buried packets of seeds. Sweat clings lightly to the back of your neck, but it feels earned, grounding.

Katniss sits a few feet away, lounging in a sliver of shade cast by the whitewashed fence. Her sleek black coat gleams in the sun, and her gray eyes are narrowed, lazily tracking a bee as it floats by. Every so often, she lifts a paw and bats at the fluttering petals of a primrose, but mostly, she’s just watching—quiet, content, and still.

You hum softly as you dig your hands into the soil, easing in a row of basil sprouts. There’s something peaceful about this rhythm: dig, plant, pat, water. It reminds you of simpler days with your dad, back when he used to tend the tiny garden outside your old home with rough, patient hands and a coffee mug balanced on a brick.

You glance over your shoulder. Katniss is no longer in the shade.

At first, you don’t think much of it. Maybe she’s wandered back inside—she gets like that sometimes, disappearing for a while only to reappear curled up in a sunbeam by the window. She’s had enough sun, you think. It’s been a long afternoon.

You wipe your hands on the thighs of your jeans and rise to your feet, squinting toward the back door. No sign of her. The wind picks up a little, carrying the faint sound of a bird chirping from the distance and the soft creak of a neighboring clothesline swinging lazily in the breeze.

Then you hear it—a soft meow and a rustle. a soft scuttle in the hedges on the other side of your yard.

Then you hear it—a rustle. A soft scuffle in the hedges along the side of your yard. You pause, brushing the dirt from your palms as you tilt your head, curious.

And that’s when you see her.

Katniss, perched delicately atop the fence separating your yard from the one next door. Her tail flicks once, then again, before she leaps down with silent precision into the other side.

You blink.

“Katniss?”

There’s no response. Just the rustle of low foliage and a blur of black fur disappearing into your neighbor’s garden.

You hesitate, lips parting slightly in surprise—but not alarm. Somehow, it feels intentional. Like she knows exactly where she’s going.

You pause at the fence, fingers brushing the warm wood as you listen. For a few seconds, there's nothing—just the distant crash of waves, the whisper of leaves trembling in the sea breeze, and somewhere, the rhythmic chirp of a cicada deep in the garden brush.

Then you hear it.

A low, warning hiss.

Your stomach tightens.

You know that hiss. Sharp, clipped, pulled from deep in Katniss’s chest. She only makes that sound when she's uncomfortable—cornered, or suspicious. She’s not an easy cat to ruffle, but when she’s had enough, she doesn’t hold back.

Your body moves before you even finish the thought. You round the fence gate and step into the neighboring yard—uneven patches of sun-washed grass, wild lavender bushes humming with bees, and in the center of it all, a blur of movement.

Katniss is crouched low near a rosemary shrub, tail lashing behind her in slow, aggravated flicks. In front of her sits a fluffy ragdoll cat, broad-faced and thick-furred with soft reddish-orange points at his ears, nose, and tail. His blue eyes are wide and guileless, and even from a distance, he looks utterly unbothered—like he’s just asked her to be best friends and is waiting patiently for her answer.

She hisses again. Louder this time.

“Katniss!” you call gently, but it’s no use—her body is all tension, ears back, fur puffing at her shoulders.

Then you hear a voice behind the lavender bush—smooth, low, warm with the faintest undercurrent of amusement.

“Whoa, easy there. Pretty boy just wants to say hi.”

The leaves part as someone emerges from the shade, brushing a hand through the tall stems. He steps into view, cradling the ragdoll cat in his arms like it’s second nature—strong forearms wrapped securely under the cat’s body, one hand resting gently on the soft fur of its chest. He’s barefoot on the grass, sun-tanned, sea-washed. Tousled bronze hair curls damply around his temples like he’d just come from the water, and there's something relaxed about the way he moves—like he was built to be barefoot and glowing in the sun.

He looks up at you, a flicker of surprise passing over his face. “Sorry about that,” he says with an easy grin. “Peeta gets a little too friendly sometimes.”

You blink, caught off guard—not just by the fact that you’re standing in a stranger’s yard or that your cat just hissed at his, but by him. The way the light hits him. The way his grin doesn’t feel practiced.

“Oh—no, no, it’s fine,” you manage, taking a step forward. “Katniss isn’t… really good with strangers.”

He glances down at the black blur still crouched by the rosemary. “Well, that makes two of you.”

You laugh softly, surprised by it—and so is he, judging by the glance he gives you. Peeta lets out a quiet, confused meow in his arms, nuzzling at his chest like he still hasn’t understood why this new friend doesn’t like him.

“She’ll warm up,” you say, watching as Katniss slowly retreats a few feet, now eyeing both cats and humans with an irritated flick of her ears.

“I’m Finnick,” he offers. His voice isn’t just smooth—it’s sun-warmed and open in a way that makes your skin feel oddly aware of itself. “Peeta’s mine. Apparently, he has no boundaries.”

You smile. “I’m just next door. I moved in last week. That one’s mine.” You gesture toward Katniss, who is still very much pretending not to be interested but hasn’t left. “She has too many boundaries.”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Maybe they’ll meet in the middle.”

You glance at him. There’s a tiny freckle on his cheekbone, right beneath his left eye, and something about it makes your breath catch—like you’ve seen it before in a dream. Or like maybe you were always meant to notice it.

Your fingers brush absently against your jeans, still damp with garden soil, and you nod.

“Maybe.”

The breeze picks up, rustling through the lavender again. Katniss, without looking, circles once—then settles by your feet, pawing at your jeans.

Her way of saying: carry me.

You stoop instinctively, scooping her up into your arms. She makes a disgruntled little noise but doesn’t resist, curling herself into your chest like she belongs there.

Finnick watches with a half-smile, shifting Peeta’s weight in his arms. The ragdoll blinks up at Katniss from the crook of his elbow, purring softly.

“Well,” Finnick says, tipping his head, “looks like they’ve declared a ceasefire. At least for today.”

You laugh, adjusting your hold on Katniss as her claws knead gently into the fabric of your shirt. “We’ll take the small wins.”

He flashes a grin. “Let me know if she tries to climb the fence again. Or if she hisses at him. Or if she files a restraining order.”

You raise an eyebrow, already turning toward your gate. “So… basically I’ll be talking to you a lot.”

He winks—an easy, flickering thing that makes your stomach twist in the strangest, most pleasant way. “That’s the idea.”

You don’t look back until you’re halfway through the garden again, Katniss warm and weighty in your arms. When you do glance over your shoulder, Finnick’s still standing there in the sun-dappled grass, Peeta draped lazily across his chest, like something out of a hazy daydream.

You slip through the gate. Close it softly.

The moment you step back into the house, the air feels cooler—sharper. You lean your back against the door and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your heart is pounding.

Not just fast—loud, like it’s echoing in your ears, making your skin buzz beneath your shirt. Katniss stirs in your arms, ears twitching slightly, as if she feels it too.

You blink, looking down at her.

“You’re warm,” you whisper, holding her a little tighter than you mean to. “Or maybe I am.”

She meows once, unimpressed. Her nose bumps lightly against your chin.

You smile, shifting her weight as you pad barefoot into the living room. “So. You made an enemy and a friend today,” you murmur, brushing a stray leaf from her fur. “That’s kind of your thing, huh?”

Katniss makes a small, grumbling sound, already wriggling to be let down. She leaps from your arms, lands softly on the hardwood, and pads toward the living room like nothing happened—as if she didn’t just hiss at a stranger, slip into someone else’s yard, or throw you into the kind of interaction that leaves you flushed and vaguely off balance.

You stand there for a moment. Not doing anything. Just listening to the hum of the ceiling fan and the distant sound of waves, and the pulse in your own ears that refuses to quiet down.

Katniss hops onto the windowsill, tail curling once before she settles, eyes trained on the backyard. Watching.

You follow her gaze but say nothing.

Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe it’s the sun. Maybe it’s something you’ll figure out tomorrow.

But still, you stay there with her a little longer than necessary, staring out at nothing in particular, heart still a little too loud in the silence.

[heartfullofleeches]

One fact about each murder clown because I lobe them.

Green Murder Clown has plushies of all of their partners hidden in their dungeon of a bedroom. When they are mad at one of them, they will carry the plush around and talk to it instead of the clown in question. They have chewed eyes and limbs off these doll before. Each one is assigned a scent that brings Green comfort and reminds them of their lovers - Mime Reader's doll is licorice scented.

Orange works part time at a pizzeria in an upper scale section of the city. They eavesdrop on parents getting drunk at the bar for the next best locations for the crew to hit up if they're ever in need of cash. They hate every second of working there, but their boss lets them take home whatever food is made that wasn't purchased so they can't complain too much.

Purple is glued to an old lighter they own. Eats fuel like a motherfucker, but it's the most important thing to them besides the crew. It's the last thing they possess from their previous life. Sometimes they write all the sappy garbage they want to tell Mime and the rest of the crew down only to burn them once they've finished. It's easier than saying "I love you." for them. Being insatiably horny for their partners is the closest they can get to being romantic most days. Let me hit it raw = "I love you and want to be with you for the rest of my days"

Pink is extremely protective of their hair. They wear extravagant wigs because they are pretty and because they are what Pink cannot obtain easily. Pink has short, damaged hair as a result of chemicals put in their hair over the years to make the perfect by those around them. They have too much trauma from this time to see a stylist for help, but they tend to it on their own and feels at peace when their lovers comb or brush it for them.

Red has Cataplexy - triggered mainly by laughter. It is incredibly hard to make them laugh as is and episodes can be far in between, but when they do occur Red may be unable to move or talk. Bouts of silence they have during times the gang are all relaxing together have sometimes been due to this. By now, the remaining clowns can detect when these spells happen and are quick to step in. This is also why they do not drink alcohol.

Blue has back/neck problems from slouching their whole life. They've always been the tallest person in a room and hates stigmas that come with their height. One source for their endless tears is the aches they feel when they stand up straight for too long. Massages or someone sitting on their back relieves some of the pain. They offer to carry Mime often because they love the Mime and they act as a back brace for them.

💛(yellow) is the only murder clown to have work professionally as a clown in the past. It is why they struggle with being around everyone else for long periods of time. It's hard to face genuine, loving smiles when all they've known were fakes. They also feel they do not deserve love despite everyone in the gang having blood on their hands as well. They sleep in vents or under the others' bed because all they ever had to sleep in was an old sleeping bag and as they grew up, it shrank, but the tightness brought them peace. Some days when they're in a manic state, the only thing that can keep them going is being buried beneath the bodies of their lovers in a cuddle pile.

They bail as soon as they're feeling better because touchy is icky unless they say it isn't.

[joeyfranchise]

𝟙𝟚 𝕕𝕒𝕪𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕔-𝕞𝕒𝕤: 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕖

secret santa

boyfriend!joe x fem!reader

NSFW! MDNI! bulleted blurb about going to a christmas party & playing secret santa with joe and his friends… but he has to give you his best gift at home ;) (warnings included unprotected p in v, the usual shebang.)

you had to ask joe THREE TIMES if the party you were meant to be attending for christmas was playing white elephant or secret santa

he assured you it was secret santa but you were confused because you didn’t know who you’d be shopping for

AND CHRISTMAS WAS ONLY A WEEK AWAY???

sure, they were his friends & yours… but a little extra time might’ve been nice…

although, gift giving was one of your outward love languages

FINALLLY you met up with everyone and drew names

but now you only had FOUR DAYS to shop ?? FOUR. ??

alright. you’ve got this though, right??

luckily you got one of your closest friends, so buying for her would be a piece of cake

OR SO YOU THOUGHT

now of course, so close to the holiday… every storE WAS PACKED

but you were on a mission

you knew your girl like the back of your hand sO

this was gonna be easy

at the first store you visited you got her a candle, palo santo and orange scented

cuz she needed cleansing energy in her life rn

at the second store you grabbed her some comfy socks, a thick knitted blanket, and some cute sparkly pink lipgloss

you had to REALLY TRY not to go overboard

the last few things you got her were

2 new books, a new travel mug, some packets of hot chocolate, and FINALLY

a dainty silver paperclip bracelet

you fixed it all up in a basket and you were SO EXCITED to give it to her at the party

the only thing bothering you now was

you didn’t know who joe got

and he WOULD NOT tell you

and you couldn’t find anything around the house

OR IN HIS CAR

and you were afraid that 1. he wasn’t getting anyone anything

or 2. HE GOT YOU and he was being super sneaky

it bothered you for DAYS

literally up until the party

because here you and joe are, headed to the party, your gift is loaded up and

joe has nothing

he didn’t bring a SINGLE thing with him

you tried to play it cool, you knew he was watching you squirm over it

whatever. it’s okay. right?? RIGHT??

anyways. you made it to the party and joe came around the car to let you out like the gentleman he is

“you look beautiful, baby.” he says, kissing your cheek

and you’re like THAT’S RICH

cuz on top of him apparently not having a present

he also hasn’t BEEN PRESENT really all week

not in a bad way… just a little distant. there’s a lot going on but… you just missed him

you thanked him softly and he grabbed your gift, heading in to the party

inside it was decorated so beautifully from top to bottom, you were in awe of what your friends had put together

you placed your gift in the designated area and then eagerly jumped into the festivities

joe started talking to the guys as you and the girls finished plating food and decorating baked goods

you all ate and then played a few games, you were happy the party was pretty low-key

and then FINALLY

it was time for the secret santa reveal

you watched everyone with joy as they all loved their gifts and you were even MORE ecstatic when your bestie opened hers

she gave you the worlds BIGGEST HUG and peck on the cheek when she thanked you

but

there was one problem

you didn’t get a gift

i mean it tracks right??? if joe got you then

maybe he was waiting? because he’s your boyfriend so like. he got you gifts anyways

you searched the room until you found his eyes, locking yours with his

he cocked his head, nodding over his right shoulder in a “come on, let’s go” gesture

you excused yourself from your friends and met him by the doorway

he led you to the kitchen and out the sliding glass doors

the backyard was decorated beautifully as well, fairy lights hung from the tiny gazebo and the patio even had a miniature christmas tree

joe closed the door behind you and you hugged yourself in your sweater as the cold air bit at you

he was sTARING you down

“you okay, joe?” you question, watching as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth

“i’m okay. are you?”

you nod your head yes but - you know joe knows you better than anyone

“are you upset? obviously you know by now i was your secret santa.” he says, taking a step toward you

his gaze on you was soft, but still commanding

your knees were weAK

“yeah, but it’s okay joey. i mean, i figured you already had gifts for me or something so… i’m not worried about it.”

but you were lying

AND HE KNEW IT

because really you just wanted to open gifts with all your friends

and you knew joe wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt you on purpose but

it was kinda giving you fomo and that sucked the most

joe took another step toward you, his hand reaching out to caress the back of your arm

“do you think i’m a jerk?” he asks, smiling softly

“no, of course not!” you tell him. you were a little sad but

nothing detrimental

“i have a gift for you.”

your eyes widen at his confession and the gap between you is finally closed as he takes the last step toward you

and then he kiSSES YOU

oh shIT

joe pulls away slowly and tells you to close your eyes

when he tells you to open them—

he’s. on his knee

in front of you

oh fuck is he—

OH FUCK IS HE????

“y/n, since i met you, my life has changed for the better in so many ways. i couldn’t ask for someone better in my corner, and i wouldn’t want anyone else to be there for me in the hard moments. you’ve sacrificed so much for me and for this relationship and for that i can never truly repay you.”

yOU’RE CRYING

FULL ON UGLY CRY

“there’s nobody on this planet i’d rather spend the rest of my life with and i don’t wanna waste another second. will you marry me?”

WILL YOU!?

OF COURSE YOU WILL OF COURSE YOU WILL OF COURSE YOU WILL

wait use your words .. hE can’t read your mind

choking back a sob you answer him… “yes, joe. i’ll marry you. i can’t wait to be by your side for the rest of our lives.”

meanwhile you’re full on sobbing and sniffling while speaking to him

joe slips the beautiful ring on your finger before kissing it

he stands and pulls you into a tight hug and oH

is… is he crying too? a lil?

you both pull back slightly so you can see each others faces and you both wipe your tears away before sharing a sweet kiss

“we should go back in for a sec.” joe says

but you’re… SUSPICIOUS

and for good reason apparently

when you get back in EVERYONE CHEERS

THEY’RE POPPING CHAMPAGNE

and you’re crying again because joe did such a great job planning this and WOW

everyone hugs you and wishes you love and happiness and

you are OVERWHELMED??? in a good way

joe grabs his gift that he received before coming over to you and getting your attention

he leans down and whispers in your ear, “let’s leave a lil early. i have one more surprise at home.”

and SMIRKS

oh you know what the surprise is

you say your goodbyes to everyone and practically RUN to the car, buckling up and waiting eagerly for joe to get in and take you home

you and joe are both so giddy in the car, you can’t stop bouncing your leg

he reaches over and grabs your thigh, giving it a soft squeeze

at the stoplight he leans over and kisses you tenderly

and you’re like joE FLOOR IT I NEED YOU

when you get home you aren’t sure if the car or garage are locked or anything and you don’T CARE

as soon as you’re inside joe’s mouth is on yours, your back is pressed to the wall

you can’t take your hands or mouths off each other

he trails open mouthed kisses down your neck and over your collarbones as he pulls your sweater off

then he unclasps your bra, leaving your chest exposed to his mouths teasing attack

you start taking his shirt off as well, scratching your nails over his shoulder blades as his mouth continues to roam over your body

his lips find yours again soon and tHEN

SUDDENLY

you’re being carried to the bedroom and tOSSED onto the bed

joe quickly undresses himself, his cock springing up against his stomach immediately

he then pulls your pants and panties off in one quick motion before crawling on the bed over you

you’re soaked at this point, you need him so bad

he slides his hand between your legs and uses the pads of his fingers to spread your wetness around

“this all for me?” he asks, pulling his hand away and admiring how your slick glistens on his fingers

“yes, joe, fuck.” you mutter, ready for him to fill you

luckily tonight isn’t about teasing or dragging it out

the pure unadulterated need between you both already has you panting as joe strokes himself a few times before finally spreading your legs more and entering you

you’d think by now you’d be used to the size but —

after a few seconds of adjusting he slowly pulls back before thrusting back in

so. tantalizingly. slowly.

you can see his plan is to completely unravel you

iT’S WORKING

your nails scratch at his head and his lips find yours again

you make no attempt to cover your moans as joe continues to fuck into you slowly

he’s moaning too, the hand that isn’t holding him up is roaming the expanse of your exposed skin

the calloused pads of his fingers explore your skin and every brush over your sensitive areas causes you chills

his name falls from your lips like a mantra

all you know is joe, all you ever want to know is joe

he’s moaning your name too, blissed out expressions take over his features

you know you aren’t far from your orgasm, you can feel it sparking over over your skin, the pleasure rolls off you in waves

“joe… i’m—“ you warn, but he knows

“me too.”

you come at the same time. gasps and moans and the sounds of your breathing fill the room as your orgasm rolls over your body

it feels like an ocean wave the way it sucks you under, like tide is throwing you around

pleasure overrides all your senses in the best way

“you with me, baby?” joe asks, concerned eyes raking over your features

“i’m here.” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss

he pulls out of you and rolls over, pulling your body into his

“that was amazing, you’re amazing. that you for today.” you tell him, burying your head into his chest

“you’re amazing, baby.” he assures, kissing your forehead gently

“i can’t wait to make you mrs. burrow.”

all photos and dividers used are not mine. cred to owners.

taglist: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 @kykysinlovewithafairytale @burrowdarling @joeyb1989 @loveyatopluto @toterry @unhingedfangirl @superheroprincess22 @burreauxsworld @definitelynotdomanique @samanthamark5 @superstarshitblog @fa1ry03 @wickedfun9 @xbriexx @venic-bxtch @burrowdarling @angels555 @idbe-theman @yelenasbraid @ladyluvduv @joeburrowshaircurl @joeybisbootiful @livinobx @blairsworld22 @jarring-behavior @joeyburrrow @yomamaslays4lyfe @gazebotori

[mystellenia]

romantic tension with abby

summary: in the warm glow of abby's bedroom, after a day of shared hobbies, you contemplate your deepening feelings for her and hope that perhaps she feels the same

content: friends (to lovers???), sfw, literally nothing else

notes: wrote a part two :p i need to write more fluff bc there is such a shortage AND especially with abby. this is like so domestic like in the way that there's no extra interactions. like this is literally how me and a friend would act after a day of painting!! just sleepy and tired zzzzz

(wc 0.7k)

the setting sun cast an orange glow on abby's bedroom where the two of you lay on her floor, bathing in the heat radiating from her large window. you'd just finished painting birdhouses for the married pair of sparrows that frequented the birdseed abby had set out. they would dance around each other and sing their chirpy harmonies and then take turns pecking at the various seeds from the feeder, so abby thought it necessary to handmake them houses in her shop. 

this was one of your many duet activities of abby's "grandma hobbies," as you called them. you two had fed the ducks down at the lake, gone through an entire coloring book, built lego sets, and done nearly a dozen puzzles—one of which was glued and framed in abby's kitchen. 

you guys spent every free moment of time together, and counted down the time until you could when one was busy. you were the closest of friends, but lately you found yourself wanting more—or at least thinking about how it would be if you were more. coming home to each other instead of making the fifteen-minute drive any time you wanted to see her. being able to actually tell her when she looked so pretty it made you hold your breath instead of chewing on your lip. 

she shifted next to you, bending her legs at the knees and pulling you out of your thoughts. "i should probably wash the brushes before the paint dries on them, right?" 

you almost tell her she shouldn't so that you could lay with her a little while longer, but you give in. "yeah, you should." 

she sits up to stand, grunting as she lifts her body weight and moving to the crafting cloth where your birdhouses currently sat drying. you sat up and leaned against the foot of her bed, watching as she so delicately readjusts the cloth so that it doesn't smudge your paint job. 

scrubbing your hands down your face, you push up off the bed and move to grab a sweatshirt of hers to change into, taking your paint-covered tank off and slipping the sweatshirt over your head. it sat baggy on your body with her being bigger than you are just about everywhere, and you threw the hood over your head and dropped onto the right side of her bed. 

she returns with her hands patting on her sweats to dry them off. seeing you in the bed, she comes to sit next to you, with you on your back and her laying on her side to face you. 

"you wanna just stay the night?" she says, her voice lifting at the end as if it were a question and not a declaration. "it's too late to go home alone." 

"yeah, i think i will," you respond. you remember the origami book she bought at the farmer's market last saturday. "only if we make paper cranes until our fingers bleed from paper cuts tomorrow," you grin, turning to look at her and see she's already looking back at you. 

"okay. i have lots of band-aids," she jokes. 

you chuckle, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, sheepishly smiling at the other while holding eye contact. 

"can we also get those berry pastries from the cafe? and make those butterflies we saw on pinterest?" you ask, your cheeks still kissing your eyes. 

"yeah, i'll wake up early to get them for breakfast," she nods. "and i only got that book so we can make things together—we can make whatever you want." 

in place of a response, you slip your fingers between hers and tightly squeeze her hand, ignoring your frustration with the uncertainty of her feelings for you. 

the tip of her nose pinks a bit before she opens her mouth. "good night. we need brain power for making cranes." 

you turn onto your side as well to face her, your noses nearly touching. "good night, abby," you grin, high on the feel of her skin on yours and the way she's looking at you.  

you fall asleep with a smile on your face because your close friend, abby, may just like you, too. 

@picklesarenice69 @abbyandersonsrightbuttcheek

yayyy i’m back :3

click here!! oh and here too!! ˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶

[sailorsoons]

Texas Sun | Teaser (l.sm)

ASSIGNMENT: Outrider!Seokmin x f. reader 

MISSION DEBRIEF: Seokmin remembers nothing before the Station. Just the unending desert, the cobalt sky overhead, and kill any machine he sees. Then one day, he finds you and forgets everything he’s ever been trained to do.

LOG COUNT: TBD

ASSIGNMENT TYPE: Dystopian AU, Futuristic

MISSION ELEMENTS: Angst, Strangers to Lovers, Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

DANGERS: TBD - general angst, loneliness, lots of discussion and commentary on the human condition, what makes a human a human, etc. Full warnings will appear on the full fic.

MISSION NOTES: This is an idea I have had for about eight months and I am finally taking the time to do it. I am so so excited to bring you this fic, and it has been so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy this very unique world as much as I do. This story is a bit inspired by Horizon Zero Dawn, Fallout, Zoids and The Creator. 

MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷ NOW PLAYING: TEXAS SUN

READ FULL FIC NOW

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 8099 WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … EIGHT -

AN ENDLESS COBALT SKY STRETCHES OVER STATION 0218. Always endless, always fathomless. Seokmin has never seen where the sky begins or ends. He doesn’t know if the blue is different in other parts of the world. Doesn’t remember if everywhere else the sun sizzles against the blue, a burning orange hole singing its way across the entire expanse of sky before it sinks toward the horizon and turns the world purple. Pink. Gold. 

The days are hot, even when he manages to keep the Station cool. It’s an old, small Station, meant to only occupy a single Outrider. He’s been the only one that he knows of here. Just him, the groaning generator, the cracked sunpanels, and the orange dust. 

Seokmin thinks the dust is the worst part. It clings to every part of him, crawling into places he doesn’t know existed, never reachable, always there. It dries out his mouth, makes his teeth feel gritty. Burns his eyes, turning them red and raw and stinging. 

He can’t escape the dust. It’s everywhere. He thinks if he cracked open his chest cavity to look at his beating heart, he’d find the dust there, encasing the very soul of him. 

In an attempt to keep most of the dust out of his mouth, he’s pulled his cloth high up on his face. It hugs him just under the eyes, digging in and chafing him as sweat runs from his hairline in rivulets. Every part of him is dripping in sweat, the sun baking him through the layers of sun protection he has on.

This part he doesn’t mind so much. He stays hydrated, pumping cool, crisp water from the well just outside the station. The well is the only place the dust doesn’t reach, and he’s thankful, especially now as he paused to sip from a thermos, pulling the cloth off his face to take long draughts. 

In the distance, the Gods loom. They’re not really Gods, but he doesn’t know the name of the terracotta-colored mountains that stretch against the cobalt sky. They’ve watched him for as long as he’s been at Station 0218, so he feels like they’re the closest thing he’s ever had to protection of a higher power. 

Station 0218 exists in the middle of a flat desert, a few thousand yards away from the foot of a small range of mountains to the north at the edge of a dry basin. To the south, there’s nothing but packed clay, tall weeds and agave plants dotting the ground, and a tiny smear of shadow that he knows is a large limestone formation, cracked and crumbling as it bakes in the sun before washing out in the rainy season. 

It’s far past the rainy season now. The air hangs heavy and heated like the simmering air of an oven. He feels it when he breathes in, sees the shimmer of heat in the distance. Thirst satiated, he takes a moment to pant, wiping a sleeve over his sweating brow. 

There’s no fence to denote the proper perimeter of the Station, but Seokmin knows the property line even in the dark. He had to learn it, knowing that there are mines planted under the ground. While they’re only supposed to go off when triggered by a Dig Machine, they’re old and he’d rather not take his chances. 

For most of his small life on Station 0218, Seokmin’s days are wash, rinse, repeat. He does his scouting, he maintains the Station, he logs his day. He keeps himself alive. He kills machines when they enter his territory, which stretches in a perfect 20 mile radius. He still watches the land outside of that, sometimes catching machines traveling outside of their usual paths. 

Machines learn. It’s what makes them so dangerous, and is ultimately what had led to the Machine War. But machines, like humans, are creatures of habit. They know the shortest way to cross a barren wasteland. They move in the same syncopated patterns they always have. They are, at the end of the day, beholden to their settings, driven by an instinct they cannot always override. 

In a way, Seokmin feels like that. His life before being assigned to his post is blurry at best. They say it’s better to not remember and to reflect on all of the people you wouldn’t be able to see, that it’s better not to drift in your memories while you’re in solitude. 

So they take the memories, leaving only the training and instinct gained from preparing to be an Outrider and man his solitary post. 

This life is lonely. He tries not to think about it. Throws himself into his work. Scouts. Maintains. Logs. Kills. 

There is nothing else that he knows.

REQUEST TO BE TAGGED

[fadingdaggerr]

creatus sanguine (18+, mdni)

pairing: agatha harkness x gn!witch!reader

summary: part two of effuso sanguine | 5.3k

includes: blood magick reader, (not even) borderline obsession tbh

warnings: blood, description of injury, smut, afab reader (no chest description), oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), thigh riding (a receiving)

note: blood magick differs from the show’s definition of a “blood witch.” rather than coming from a magical family line, blood mages are more aligned with the physical body and use of what billy would call “analog magick” (sacrifice, blood letting, etc), as well as incantation/spells

April 1749

Your back aches as you rise from your leaf-made mattress, thin blankets falling off like the thin rags they’d become. Heading pounding, you move to pour the last of your water into the small pot over the fire. It had been nearly three weeks since you’d been able to stop to get more food. You’d managed to forage wild flowers for more tea and tree sap to chew on, but the traps you’d set hadn’t proved fruitful.

As the tea steeps, you roll your blankets and shove them into your bag. Transferring the drink to your cup, you throw the pot into the bag as well. Smothering the fire under your boots, you head southeast.

Morning gusts caress your skin as you pass through the forest. The birds chirped through the trees, flying from branch to branch above your head. Rolling up your sleeves, you embrace the warm air. Raised and faded scars litter your skin, some healed cleaner from your growing experience. You made sure none would be as jarring as the one painted across your ribs. It’s taken years for you to be unbothered by their appearance, though the same cannot be said by those you meet.

Removing your attention from your skin, you look to the ground instead. Scanning the grass and leaves, you see impressions of foot prints. Recent enough that the ground still held their mark. Someone has to be close.

Slowing your pace, you try to focus on the sounds around you. Closing your eyes, you hear the birds, squirrels, your own breathing, and the faintest sound of multiple heartbeats. The sound grows, clearer by the moment. Five heartbeats, resting rates sounding human. They are so close, you immediately speed up your pace.

Within minutes, you hear the faint sound of feminine voices. A sigh of relief passes your lips, feeling immediate safety. The crunch of your steps makes all five turn and face you, defensive in stance and expression.

“Good day,” you speak up.

The oldest of the group steps forward, and you match her step. Her hand rises, stopping you from getting closer. Amber eyes scan over you, “only we may enter this space.”

“I meant no offense,” you take a step back, “I only hoped you may know the way to the closest settlement.” Your eyes shift from the woman to the meat on the cutting board behind her. Seeing your stare, the one with an orange skirt moves to stand in front of it.

“And you found us how?” The amber-eyed woman refuses to lose your attention, keeping you from the group. At your silence she speaks again, stressing each word, “how did you find us?”

“I was heading this way before I saw you. I promise I would not harm you, nor your sisters,” you affirm, trying to maintain a calm demeanor. Her brow furrows in disbelief, and you know you cannot pretend with her. You know what she is, she knows what you are. “I am alone, covenless, and entirely out of food. All I require are directions, then I will leave you and yours alone.”

She nods with a hum, eyes moving to partially look behind her. The woman with a soft pink overcoat reaches out, hand grasping your wrist lightly, and tugging you into the protection circle. Forcing you to sit, you watch as they carry on how they were before you arrived. A small plate of turkey and apple slices is placed in your lap.

“This is all we have to spare,” the pink witch says. “I’m Marjorie.”

You give her a soft smile in thanks and your name in return. Listening to their idle conversation, you eat slowly to avoid stomach pains. The ease of their conversation, the way they lean on each other, it’s simply lovely. They speak so surely about their lives and their abilities, even as young as most of them are. With them distracted by one another, you finally take in the space around you.

The protection circle, as even as it was, did little in stopping you. Your fingers twitch with the knowledge that it would never have worked. Despite their efforts, you heard them without their voices. Only the leader knew this, that much was apparent by her apprehension, never trusting the glow of the stones.

You feel the hairs on your neck stand up, eyes going to the source. Eudora, you now know, stares you down with a ferocity. You glance to the stones, then back to her. She nods slowly, warning held within. Nodding back, you eat the last apple slice, standing quickly.

“I thank you kindly for this meal and your generosity,” you never take your eyes off the head witch. “I wish you safety, and may our paths cross again.”

“Perhaps they shouldn’t,” Eudora says strictly. From beside her, Marjorie goes to protest but is silenced by a raised hand, “misery follows one who searches.”

Your brow furrows, confusion and anger twirling on your tongue. Keeping quiet, you back out past their barrier. Nodding one again, thankful to the other members of the coven, you turn away. The hard, angry heartbeat fades as you walk away. Their fates with their leader are nothing, desperation for a coven gave them false security. Misery follows, you think to yourself, amused.

Their green witch, Abigail, had told you of the Plymouth settlement, the best option if you found yourself needing to nab something to eat. If any of them survive that imbecile, you hope it’s her and Marjorie. Following the path given, you hope to get there before sunset.

—⛤—

The sun becomes golden as you finally break the trees to a road. Tracks lead south, and now you do too. Promise of a real bed was so close, perhaps if you had enough, even a drink. Food feels futile now, rest is the real virtue. The entire trek back from the settlements in Rhode Island had been on beds of moss, tree bark, and leaves. A thin pad and blanket without tears will likely make you cry with joy.

Closing in, you finally see the town. Houses, market stalls, and various other buildings cover the area. You rush on sore feet towards what you pray is an inn, the largest structure in the center. 

Almost falling in the door, you’re greeted by an elderly woman at the counter.

“Hello, sweetheart. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” she chirps.

You smile, “I’m just here for a few days, hopefully. Is there a chance you’ve got a vacancy?”

“Do you have a way to pay?” She retorts with a cocked brow. You smile at her, digging into the bottom of your satchel. A secret pocket holds coins you’d found in a tavern weeks ago. Offering up most, you look at her with pleading eyes. The woman counts visually, peeking back at you, then counting again. She clears her throat, “this here, this is barely a night. But, I know downtrodden when I see it, so I’ll give you three. But no food, that’s on you. I don’t care how you do it, but no guests here.”

You blink at her incredulously at the insinuation, but thank her anyways. The last room at the end of the hall, tiny with a small bed. A bed. Tears spring to your eyes as you drop onto it, the padded plank feeling like a cloud. Hunger creeps in, but is wholly ignored as you fall into a deep slumber.

When your eyes open, the room is still dark. Sore muscles ache less than the day before as you rise from the bed. Grabbing your things, you step into the hall and go into town. The sunlight nearly blinds your sensitive eyes, glare becoming tolerable as you navigate the space. If careful, you could stretch your money to last these few days. If you are even more careful, you could find something without pinching pennies.

Slumping against a tree, you slice an apple from your bag. Of the many they had, you surely took the only good ones. If the kids hadn’t run back home, you would’ve given them some as a thanks for their distracting of the vendor.

Walking back into the center of town, you hear different speakers going on long rants. Preachers about sin, mothers about sin, a hog farmer about sin, it’s all quite repetitive. Everything sounds like one long drone, it always has. Nearly sixty years and all they had taken out was the focus on witches. Being closer to home than you have been in years felt sickening.

The speeches of hellish sins to be avoided becomes nothing but a monotonous hum behind the rest of the world. The air through the trees, the carts moving over dirt roads, the animals chittering in the pens, it all falls away. Behind it all, a beating. Strong, steady, and there. Your heart starts to beat in time with it, eyes beginning to scan the streets.

Walking quickly, you try to follow the sound. The closer you get, the clearer it becomes. The more familiar it becomes. Moving as fast as you can without drawing attention to yourself, all you can hear is the rhythmic beating. Passing a tavern, you immediately reverse yourself, looking in the open door.

At the counter, a deep purple cloak around her shoulders, sits a woman. Finger resting on her chin, she waits for whatever she ordered. She scans the room, and you feel your face drop, all warmth draining from you.

Angelite eyes land on you, squinting as she feels your stare, but her confident demeanor drops. Scrambling from her seat, she runs from the tavern and crashes into your stiff body. Wordlessly, you stand with your arms at your side, stuck in shock. Leaning back, she looks at you confused.

Prying yourself from her, you grab her arm and drag her towards the inn. Rounding the outside, you find the windows to your room, pushing open the shutters. Climbing over the ledge, you motion for her to follow.

Straightening in front of you, she smiles. It drops at your words, “you are alive.”

“So are you,” she scans you quickly, “and as you were. How?”

“I imagine similarly to your reason,” you answer. “I have spent a near lifetime looking for you. Do not tell me you’ve been here this whole time?”

“Of course not, I only arrived this morning,” she says. Careful hands grab yours, “had I known you were still out here, I would have looked for you.”

You grip her hands tightly, “I was where I told you I would be. Home.”

“Yet you knew I was gone?” She asks, almost knowing.

You pause. It is not the time. “You never showed, it was worrisome. But you were gone, and there they were. I knew what they had done,” you tell her. “I had to find you.”

“And so you did,” she smiles, leaning into you. Her forehead comes to rest on yours, eyes closing. She whispers into the small space between you, “I should never have ran. I should’ve come home to you, my love.”

“Agatha…” you sigh, nose rubbing against hers, “my heart.”

Lips brush against yours softly, testing if she’s still allowed. Pushing into her harder, you press a bruising kiss to her lips. Warm hands side to grasp her face, keeping her as close as possible. Greedily, you run your tongue over her bottom lip, and she quickly lets you in. The moment she does, her hands tighten around your waist, shoving you back into the wall.

Your nails dig into the skin of her neck, letting her take control of the kiss. Fifty-six years of searching, of not knowing, of longing, done with each pass of a masterful tongue. Moaning into you, Agatha’s teeth bare down on your lip. A groan mixed with slight pain and arousal topples into her mouth, body desperate for more of her than you’ll ever get.

Running out of breath, she moves to press wet kisses against the expanse of your throat. The thrumming of your pulse beneath her lips matches her own, each beat falling in tandem.

A shaky breath passes your lips, “Ag-Agatha we can’t, not here at least.”

“I missed you,” she attempts to reason, soundly awfully close to her excuse all those years ago. Then, she spoke for the future, that much is clear now. At this moment, she means it for the present, for the accumulation of time apart.

You gently pull her from her place in your neck, “and I you, more than I’ll ever be able to verbalize. But we are not safe here, you know this.”

“Then we leave. We will find where we may be at peace,” she says, forehead back against yours, “we will make it so, if we must.”

You press your lips against hers, a promise to go with her. All the time you spent, the first ten years, was pure ache. All of it melts away, feeling her with you once again. She feels different, stronger in a way, but time has done the same for you. You’re almost strangers like the day you’d first met in the woods.

—⛤—

December 1749

The candles on the windowsill flicker wildly as you reshelf the books in hand. Sighing, you put the stack back on the table, going to the window to see what the flames do. Out the window, you see the grass parting, a figure racing through. A torch illuminates her face, grinning wide with satisfaction.

Moving to the door, to open it to lean against the frame. Cupping your hands around your mouth, you shout, “Agatha Harkness, it is too cold for this! Hurry it up!”

Shooting through the door, she doubles over in panting breaths, shaking dustings of snow from her hair. Hands on her hips, she stands back up, mouth open to the ceiling as she recovers.

“You best not have anyone behind you,” you say, shutting the door and barring it.

She chuckles, “you know me better than that, my sweet.”

You hum, looking her over. The back of your hand brushes her cheeks, shifting to cup her neck. Shutting your eyes, you feel her heartbeat, quick from her running, but what catches your attention is another sensation.

Eyes shooting open, you rip the thick cloak from her shoulders, tugging the torn material of her dress to the side to expose her shoulder. A long cut across her skin, stretching from the point of her shoulder to just above her breast. Running your finger over the edge, you assess how bad it really is.

“Not too deep,” you murmur, “uneven. Serrated blade?”

Agatha hums, eyes having never left your face since you first touched her, “I hadn’t planned for them to come with weapons over their powers.”

“Perhaps you are too conspicuous, lover.”

She gives you a faux-shocked expression, “why I never! I am nothing if not reserved.”

You try to keep a straight face, but a smile breaks as you break away from her to get a cloth. Knowing the routine by now, she settles on a stool to await your attention. Appearing in front of her, you stand between her legs. Warm water soaks the cloth in your hand, touching it carefully to her wound.

Agatha’s hands creep up your legs, gripping here and there. Trailing up, a hand finds the strings of your shirt, tugging them loose. Your gaze shifts from her shoulder to her face, looking at her through your lashes. Shaking your head, you continue to clean the cut, ever gentle.

Wandering, her other hand slides underneath your loose shirt. Ever so gently, she grazes her fingertips across your skin, feeling every raised mark that you’d healed on your own. It always bothered her how you refused to heal them properly, poultice and bandage, but by your hand. Each mark prominent instead of completely vanished.

Blunt nails pass over your ribs, tracing the harsh, jagged mark there. She pried many times about where it had come from, but you always gave the same answer. They all just blur together.

Agatha is pulled from her mind when you press a kiss to the junction of her neck. Lingering, slow kisses spread, crawling up towards her lips. Finger under your chin, she pulls you into her kiss, short and heavy.

“Never come home hurt again. Do you hear me?” You ask, forehead pressing against hers.

She huffs, “a fluke.”

“Agatha,” you stress, hand curling in her hair, gripping. Pulling her back, you look her in the eye, “I do not make light of harm coming to you. Promise me. I will not allow you to endanger yourself, my heart.”

The hand in her hair holds tighter, forcing her to keep her eyes on you, as if they’d ever looked away. Intensity flickers like fire in your eyes, and Agatha feels frozen in place. A tingling sensation spreads from her shoulder, feeling like hands holding her down.

A heated gleam crosses her eyes, tilting towards you again, “understood, my love.”

“Good,” you whisper, lips falling to hers with intensity. The weight on her shoulders fell, dissipating into a warmth wrapping around her. Free to move again, Agatha stands, tugging you back with her to the bed. Following her, you allow her to take control, sated in your wish to be heard.

Hurried hands work to undress you, lips coming back to yours in bursts as layers fall. Shoving you down on the bed, Agatha tries to straddle your hips, but is stopped by your sitting up. Grabbing her hips, you tug her between your legs, unlacing the front of her dress. Fingers skim over each inch of freshly exposed skin, no matter the rush they are in to take everything off. Before her garments even hit the floor, you’re pulling her on top of you.

Energy twinged every one of her nerves, power absorbed mixing with the molten adoration radiating from you. Your hands drift over her back, attempting to feel every inch of you. Lips drag from your mouth down your chin, nipping as Agatha takes purchase at your neck. Wet, open-mouthed kisses turn to suckling of your skin, teeth grazing over every mark.

Hearing your breaths deepen, she continues down your body. Strong hands take hold of your legs, settling between them. Her pupils dilate at the sight, you glistening before her. A hand buries itself in her hair, scratching her scalp gently. Pressing a kiss to your thigh, Agatha looks up at you through her lashes.

“You don’t know how I adore you,” she says quietly. There’s no second to respond before her mouth descends on you, flat tongue licking up your folds. Small gasps encourage her, stroking more strongly, taking in your taste. Her skillful tongue slides in your entrance, moaning into you as her fingers dig into your thighs. Your free hand goes to your clit, but she smacks you away.

Her tongue slips from you, wrapping her mouth around your bundle of nerves. Moans fall from your mouth, the hand in her hair tugs, the other claws into the blankets. Bucking into her mouth, you try to ride her face, but she anchors you down. Her tongue alternates between suckling and making hard circles against your clit. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer, wetter and wetter.

Unclasping a hand from your thigh, it comes to take the place of her tongue on your pearl, harsh, tight circles making you squirm. Her mouth drags down to your slit, tongue making figure-eights through your folds, burying back inside you. With the slightest freedom of only one hand holding you down, you grind against her tongue, desperate for as much of her as possible.

“A… Agatha,” you moan out, gripping tighter in her curls, “please.”

The pressure against your clit grows, tight circles wind the coil in your core more and more. Her tongue greedily takes you in, suckling and stroking, unrelenting in pace. Your hips rut against her, feeling her deeper, feeling her moan. Her own thighs press together, wetness decorating her thighs as she brings you closer to the edge.

Releasing the blanket, your hand grasps her shoulder, keeping her against you. The forceful grip burns, reopening her wound, but it does nothing to deter Agatha. If anything, it makes her work harder, devouring you with a new sense of purpose. More and more, the tightness in your core builds, a single thread still tethering you.

“C’mon, my sweet,” she murmurs, smiling against you, “give me a taste.”

Her words are your undoing, your back arches, warmth spreading through your body as Agatha eagerly licks up your essence. The grip on her hair and shoulder loosen, still holding on to ground yourself. Relaxing back down, you whimper as her tongue still dances against you.

“Lover,” you breathe out, “come here.” Climbing up your body, Agatha’s lips press against your skin. Bringing your hand to her neck, you pull her into your kiss. Wandering, you feel something against your hand, warm, wet. Pulling back from her lips, you see red painting your palm.

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself. You look to blue eyes, barely visible from dilated pupils, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorr-”

“Don’t be,” she says, pressing her lips against yours shortly. Then again. And again, longer, more sound. Her thighs straddle you, hands pressing down on your chest, holding you in place. You can’t help yourself, clinging to her, hand grasping her face. Blood smears across her skin, soaking into yours, hearts beating in time with one another.

Agatha’s hips grind against you, desperate for friction that she can’t find. Shifting slightly, you press your thigh into her, feeling her arousal coating your skin. Whining into your mouth, she grinds more steadily. Your hands slide down to guide her, pushing her harder against the muscle of your thigh. Moans fall from her mouth, kisses growing sloppy and desperate.

You press her harder against you, wanting to feel her, needing to see her fall apart. Husky moans come from her, eyes screwed shut as she grinds needily against you. One hand slides to her back, pulling her closer to lavish her chest. Your lips wrap around her nipple, tongue swirling around the pebbly peak. Every sound she makes is heaven to your ears, the beat of her heart under your touch an addictive sensation.

Her wet cunt against you makes your own arousal pool again, wanting more of her. Always so irresistible. Hauling her closer, you feel her knee press against your heat, moaning against her chest. The hands gripping your shoulders pull you from her breasts, bringing your lips to her own. Her knee moves away, making your whimper, but is replaced by her fingers, toying with your entrance.

One finger, then two, pump into you, matching the tempo of her riding your thigh. A pitchy whine falls from your lips, walls gripping her fingers, the hand on her waist digging in. Teeth bare against your lip as Agatha feels the shockwaves rolling through her, a metallic taste coating her tongue. Pulling back, droplets of blood appear on your bottom lip. The grinding of her hips slows, thumb brushing over, eyes utterly entranced.

You tug her back to your mouth, hand on her waist guiding her faster, chest rattling with both your moans. The fingers inside you curl, thumb pressing to your clit. The pleasure becomes too much, stealing the air from your lungs with every pump of Agatha’s long fingers. Pulling from her lips, you tuck your face into her neck, licking and biting at the expanse of skin.

Agatha’s head lulls back, songs of pleasure falling into open air. Every sound from her, every motion of her fingers, her arousal on your skin– the tight cord snaps. A strangled groan passes your lips as you cum, fingers inside you slowly, but not leaving. Your head rises from her neck, taking in view above you.

Chest heaving, hair stuck to her forehead, brows knitted together in pleasure, Agatha Harkness is a sight to behold. The slice on her shoulder catches your eye, red and aggravated, drops of ichor gliding down pale skin. Leaning forward, you let your tongue drag up, collecting red, until you meet her tender wound. Lapping over it, you feel Agatha grind harder, husky moans turning whiny.

All you can think of is adoring her. Every inch of you, body, mind, and soul, exists for her. She is your life, your purpose. A tingle spreads down from her shoulder to her core, feeling her skin prickle. The sensation isn’t entirely new, but it has never felt like this before. All-consuming, electric, and hot, but underneath it all, it seems to pulse.

The movement of her hips begins to grow sloppy, almost entirely your own effort than hers now. Her breath stutters as your tongue swipes over raw skin, soft lips passing over tenderly. Unadulterated affection mixes with the pleasure that you can’t help but give her, and she crumbles against you. Lazy motions of her hips continue as she comes down, face buried in your neck.

Panting, she pulls back, retracting her fingers from you. Hand splaying over your thigh, she finally looks at you. Your appearances are one in the same. Sweaty, breathless, and littered in marks and your shared blood. A smile stretches across her face, settling in your lap.

“You are everything, my love,” she says quietly, thumb wiping a rogue red drop from your chin.

Your forehead presses to hers, “you, my heart, are the very reason I live.”

Lips press to yours, soft and loving, silent words passing through her actions. Agatha has never been one for her words, always hiding in her riddles. But here, with you, it’s impossible to pretend. You know her, her heartbeat, her mind. Her power never sparks fear in you, unlike every other in her path. They blast her, try to kill her, to deceive her– but not you. Nothing but devotion has ever come from you. Pure and strong, like there was so much love for her inside of you, that it was always moments away from bubbling over.

Laying down, you bring Agatha with you, letting her curl around you. Tracing up and down your ribs, her nails glide over your scars. Circling the prominent one between your ribs, she props her chin on your chest.

Peering down at her, you brush her hair off to one side. Once angry, red, and bloody, the cut down her shoulder was now a fading scar, as if it had been there for years. A small smile crosses your face, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Blue eyes watch your expression, almost reading your mind.

“One scar will not kill me,” she says, a coy grin playing on her lips, “hasn’t killed you.”

Your brows jump, averting your gaze shortly, “I will heal regardless of what I do, I am simply impatient.” Your hand cups her cheek, “any injury to you is an insult. The memory of it is mockery.”

“Dramatic,” she chuckles, pressing a kiss to your chest before laying her head down.

Your arms wrap around her, keeping her snug to your body, “you do not understand how I love you. I would dismantle every natural law in order to keep you safe, to give you everything.”

There’s a sureness in your tone, something that tells Agatha you meant this. That you will do this, have done this. Her nose bumps against your jaw, “more with you is all I require, my love.”

—⛤—

January 1750

A cool breeze passes over the river, making a chill creep up your spine. Wiping off red hands in the snow, you stand from the riverside. For the first time in a week, your traps worked. Fortunate for you, however unfortunate for the deer that crossed your path.

Home is so close, you can feel it, but the weight on your shoulders makes time slow.  You can see the candles in the window, calling you home to her. The stiffness of your joints means nothing as you finally reach the packed down path. Releasing the ropes of the sled, you abandon your game in preference of the fire inside.

Head resting in her hands, Agatha sits with a blanket wrapped around her. Her head falls back at the sound of the door opening, eyes watching you. Toeing off your boots and shrugging your coat, you make your way behind the chair. Leaning over her, you take in her appearance.

Dark circles under her eyes worry you, sleep has been avoiding her for weeks. The weak smile on her face does nothing to soothe the worry in your chest.

Rounding the chair, you kneel before her. Your hands go to her thighs, squeezing gently, “how are you feeling?”

“Better than this morning,” she murmurs, “the tea helps.”

A little smile crosses your lips, “that’s good. I’ll make more.”

Pressing a kiss to her knee, you try to stand, but she holds you down, “not now. I just want you.”

Sitting up, you press yourself into her. Arms wrap around her hips, head settling against her stomach. Her own hands come to rest on your back, body practically folding over you. Her heartbeat is strong, breathing steady, she feels healthy. You don’t understand what is wrong, why you can’t see, why you can’t fix it. Burying yourself against her, you just breathe her in, comforted by her presence alone.

Your heart beats in time with hers, always the same. Each beat is a reminder of why you live. Relaxing against her, you close your eyes, just wanting to take her in.

As you stay there, you feel your pulse quicken. You stiffen, listening to Agatha, but hers hasn’t changed. Feeling the tension beneath her hands, she squeezes you in silent question, but is ignored.

“My lo-” she attempts to speak, but you shush her, ear pressing more intently against her abdomen. “What are you doi-” Your hand rises to cover her mouth.

Beneath the familiar beat of your lover’s heart, is a second. Quiet, rapid, but there. Your brows scrunch, listening closer. Your own heart matches the beat, almost aching with its speed. Head rising, you look at Agatha, tears welling. Blue eyes dart between yours, mouth open in disbelief at your reaction.

“My sweet, what is it?”

Blinking rapidly, you just stare at her, “two.”

“Two?” She says confused, brows furrowing, “my love, what is wrong? You are worrying me.”

A watery smile grows across your face, “you have two heartbeats.”

Agatha’s eyes rapidly blink, taking in your words. Staring into you, she silently asks you to help her understand. You move one hand to her stomach, the other going to cup her face. Closing your eyes, you focus on the little heartbeat, letting her hear it too.

A shaky smile appears on her face, lashing fluttering as she pushes back tears. Her hand covers yours on her cheek, “how?”

“If only I knew,” you breath out, “I’ve never known a spell or incantation that allows this.”

Leaning down, Agatha’s lips press to yours, slow, hungry. All the love that bubbled within you pours into her, the feeling overwhelming as you listen to two hearts. Tugging you up, she places you on her lap, knees on either side of her hips. Hands bury themselves in her hair, gently scratching her scalp.

Pulling back, you look into her eyes. All you are, all you have been, has amounted to this. Your love for one another becoming personified, beyond order and law. A second piece of your soul, born from love.

title translation: creatus sanguine, latin - the blood made

as always, feedback is soooo appreciated <3 this is very different from what i’ve written previously and would love to hear from you about continuing this. love u my babies

[witchthewriter]

𝑷𝑨𝑹𝑻 𝑶𝑵𝑬: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐈𝐀𝐅 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞

a/n: I will be doing this by House! Also, yes it doesn't make sense timeline wise but think of each as an alternate universe ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑹𝒀𝑬𝑵

𝑫𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒔 | 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔

・She did as she promised and liberated Westeros.

・No Mad Queen, but sacrifices were made. However, all three of her dragons survived.

・The Long Night was vanquished because Dany was The Prince Who Was Promised.

・In a turn of events, Viserion was not a male dragon. Dany didn't have three sons... she had two and a daughter!

・Viserion laid her clutch of eggs not far from Dany as she wanted her to be the first person to see them.

・Her clutch of eggs produced three beautiful dragons; the biggest was a deep blue with flecks of gold and bronze. The second was a gorgeous pink egg with light orange accents and the last was purple with pearlescent swirling details.

・Dany became a grandmother and as soon as she saw them hatch, she cried.

・Barely anyone was allowed to see the dragonlings; even though she had risen to power, she still felt the eyes of enemies on her back. Many would love to hurt these new dragons.

・Dany still did not have a pregnancy that came to full term; so her dragons were truly her legacy, with Viserion keeping the magic back in the world.

・The hatching of these new eggs made the realm respect her even more.

・She didn't have a traditional way of ruling; yes she had councilors, and a small council.

・But the wealth was distributed equally. With smallfolk able to have jobs and acquire ones that usually only nobles had.

・Speaking of small councils, she had two of her closest bloodriders, Greyworm, Missendai (yes she is alive, well and thriving), Ellaria Sand and Samwell Tarly (Gilly and their son live in the Red Keep).

・As Dany could not have biological human children of her own, she basically saw every child/orphan as her own, in some way or another. She saw herself in them. Her childhood of always on the run, dirty clothes, knotted hair, clasping her brother's hand.

・She didn't want that for any child.

・So Dany spent a lot of her time building safe houses, schools, places where children could go and feel seen, heard and feel protected.

・A different Westeros was forming and many did not like that. Uprisings were frequent. Always from the Faith of the Seven & the old nobles.

・But every time they were stopped. However, those that repeated were thrown into prison (and therefore used to create new buildings) or were put to death.

(P.s., Ellaria Sand is her book self, not her show self because they are entirely different. Some events from the show never happened because it made no sense for Dany to wait so long to break the wheel.)

𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒓𝒂 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒔

・She won against her brother and sat the Iron Throne with a tired heart. Rhaenyra lost a lot more than she could handle and her days were spent fighting off her grief.

・That did not stop her from being the best queen she could be.

・Her energy was given to the people, to the dragons and to the restructure of House Targaryen.

・Since the Greens had nearly torn what it was to be a Targaryen, Rhaenyra had a lot to do. So, she depended on those who were loyal to her. Baela, Addam, Corlys, etc.

・Oh, and not to forget Syrax.

・Syrax kept a lot of people in check when they came to court.

・As the dragon pit was partially destroyed (the dragons were okay though, they survived, help came just in time!) the living dragons now roamed to find a proper place to live. Dragonstone became a lot more populated.

・The love of the dragons would be reintroduced. One way she would do that, would be to reinstate the idolisation of the dragons. I.e., basically showing off the dragons.

・So, more royal processions atop dragons.

・As a skilled dragonrider herself, Rhaenyra may have placed greater emphasis on the role of dragons and their riders in the defense and governance of the realm.

・It would not always be easy. Especially with the fact that Rhaenyra's rise to power involved the killing of her own nephew, Aegon II. This would cast a long shadow over her reign and create lingering resentment among some factions.

・But through the influence of Mysaria, the smallfolk and those less fortunate would definitely be focused on. No more fighting pits! (Let's remember that Aegon frequented them...)

・Additionally, through Rhaenyra's victory, there would be a shift in the balance of power among the noble houses. For example; The Hightowers, who backed Aegon II, might have lost influence, while the Velaryons and other supporters of Rhaenyra might have gained prominence. This is all up in the air however, as Rhaenyra did have a forgiving heart... (I mean, before all the war...)

・What I know to be true, is that Rhaenyra would have maintained a strong dragon presence in King's Landing. Positively - this would have deterred potential threats and rebellions. And also led to a more prominent role for the dragonriders in the governance of the realm.

𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒚𝒔 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝑾𝒂𝒔

・Is in history books as one of the best rulers

・Balanced, open-minded and level-headed; Rhaenys didn't need a council - she was one all on her own.

・She grew up never thinking she would rule; so she was quiet and watched everyone's moves

・The Sea Snake was a brilliant King-Consort, still the leader of Driftmark

・Meleys was truly The Red Queen; her own horns and spikes resembled Rhaenys' crown and when they were together, they were utterly breathtaking

・As said before with the others, with Rhaenys and her dragon, Meleys, in a position of power, the presence of dragons would have been more pronounced in the governance of the realm. This could have deterred potential rebellions and solidified her authority

・A lot of her reign would reflect her own grandmother's - The Good Queen Alysanne. 100% Rhaenys would continue with the women's councils.

・The women of Westeros would be given opportunities. I think Rhaenys would take a lot of inspiration from Dorne. And how women were equal to men, because why the hell not?

・And as a dragon rider, who was going to tell her no? Meleys was definitely not about to let anyone defy her either.

・However, one of her greatest allies was the North.

・And due to the North's historical resistance to female leadership, her ability to assert authority and govern effectively would sway Northern lords to reconsider their biases against women on the throne.

・So, by demonstrating strong leadership, it fostered greater acceptance of her rule among Northern houses, and increased their loyalty.

・This is only one example of how she got herself written in the history books.

𝑩𝒂𝒆𝒍𝒂 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔

・Known for her bravery and strong character, Baela brought a fresh perspective to the Iron Throne. She prioritized unity among tTeam Black and Team Green and those that chose between Rhaenyra and Aegon.

・Baela addressed the grievances from various houses and the common folk alike - making a more equitable society.

・Jace's death was a great grief. As was ... basically all her family. It was quickly pushed forward that she needed to marry.

・Baela shut that shit down quick.

・She swore that if she were to marry, she would choose who and when.

・The scars left by the civil war were still fresh in the minds of many houses. Those that aligned with the Greens, sought to undermine Baela's rule, viewing her as a representative of the Blacks. This historical animosity had led to plots and conspiracies aimed at destabilizing her reign

・But it is mainly through the dragons that Baela remained in control. As charming, bold and brave Baela can be, Moondancer ... reinforced people's loyalty. With the death of the majority of Team Green as well as their dragons, there was only other Houses to oppose her.

・She was also known as 'Our Queen of the Skies'. And after ruling for more than 20 years, the people saw Baela as a goddess.

・Some say she was part dragon herself, with how much she was in the air, flying on Moondancer (who many, many children adored.)

・Many rumors grew which made Baela seem impossibly mysterious

・It made the people respect her; and therefore they listened to what she had to say.

・Even the others in court grew to respect her.

・Baela, much like Alysanne, had a ladies court in which she listened to the problems they had.

・Spare food was always given to the smallfolk, unlike other rulers who gave it to the dogs or horses.

・Baela's approach to governance altered the trajectories of other key figures in the realm

・Her leadership focused on healing the divisions within the realm, strengthening alliances, and leveraging the power of dragons to maintain peace and order.

𝑹𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒏𝒂 | 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆'𝒔 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏

・Yes! her name reflects Princess Diana's real life title, 'The People's Princess'!

・Her reign would be known as one of peace.

・Well, not only peace, but a unique one as well.

・Rhaena addressed the grievances of the common folk and fostered goodwill among the people of both regions through fair governance and an empathic approach.

・The People's Queen shocked many, many people with how strategic she showed herself to be.

・She did this by navigating the political landscape and carefully addressing the concerns of powerful houses in both the North and the South which led to stability.

・Used her access to dragons as a symbol of authority and a powerful military asset to deter rebellion and reinforce her position.

・Rhaena's dragon Morning, hatched during the Dance of the Dragons and kept growing

・She was a very friendly dragon - similar to Silverwing, and didn't mind being paraded around

・Her experience with the devastation of the Dance of the Dragons, made Rhaena prioritize healing the rifts within the realm.

・Rhaena had strong ties to both the dragonriders and the great naval power of House Velaryon. This continued an emphasis on the Targaryen dominance of the skies, and the Velaryon's dominance on the seas.

・Rhaena's reign ushered in a cultural renaissance. The People's Queen promoted the arts, literature, and education. Her leadership style encouraged creativity and innovation, reflecting a more progressive and enlightened era in Westeros.