#shards of the moon and stars

[shards-of-the-moon-and-stars]

Btw anything I've said in the past abt these guys? THROW IT OUT it's not canon anymore. SOME worldbuilding elements carry over but throw out ANY character lore

[shyfurby]

✨𝒫𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝓁𝒶𝓈𝒽𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉✨

[burningblake]

there are some funny scenes, and I love the han leia ben moments, but other than that, this book is boring, I'm struggling

[yanderedrabbles]

The Fisherman and The Starwife

There was a sea at the edge of the world. And a fisherman who tried to catch moonlight. And a bride who was plucked right out of the sky. Do you care to hear their story?

It started on a cold night at the edge of the world. Nights were almost always cold in that place where the land falls away forever, but this was a freezing night even by those standards. The sea churned with shards of ice and the waves chimed like rolling glass.

A fisherman was getting ready to cast his lines. And though most fisherman in most parts of the world are busiest at dawn and dusk, this particular man did all his work in the very dead of night.

The nets he cast weren't like any a normal sailor would know. They were woven out of glass - each string made up of hundreds, thousands of clear beads. For this fisherman wasn't concerned with salmon or roe but with another sort of quarry entirely.

This fisherman was fishing for moonlight.

Moonlight was perhaps the most elusive thing to catch. It poured over the land but couldn't be speared or hooked or trapped. Just one pearl of moonlight was considered a king's ransom. Five pearls was enough to buy a man a kingdom. Ten would keep his children and his children's children fed and wealthy for centuries.

But fishing for moonlight was dangerous too. The only place it could be caught was at the very edge of the world, where the sea and sky were so close they almost touched. And the sea here was rough, not just with waves that grew wilder every hour, but with sea bears and moon hounds that could flip a warship with just a flick of their tails.

The fisherman knew all this. He'd seen countless men come and die in their attempts to catch moonlight. Their bodies swallowed by the ice sea, faces blue and bloodless as they sunk below the waves.

The fisherman knew the dangers, but he still went out every night in his tar bottomed boat. For the fisherman had a secret. A way to calm the waves and the water beasts alike.

(And oh, it was a secret costly bought. He'd traded ten years of his life to a sea hag for it and considered it a fair deal).

The fisherman knew the tune of the sea. Each night he would recline in his boat after casting his lines, and unwrap his pan flute from its oilskin. He would play the notes as the sea hag taught him - soft and sweet like the tide crawling out, sharp like the crack of lightning on the waves, mournful as the open ocean.

The sea would listen, and finally calm. The sea bears would dive deep and dream of arctic caves. The wind would cease its mourning. When the fisherman played his flute, all the beasts in the sea silenced their queer voices to hear it.

On this night, the moon was full and bright. Her daughters, the stars, reflected their icy beauty off the water. His music drifted far in the quiet and tonight even more so.

In the spreading canvas of the night sky, one star leaned down to better hear the music.

It was like nothing you'd ever heard before. It wasn't the subtle, tinkling music of the night sky. It wasn't the sweet song of the moon. It was mournful and wild, and you were so focused on it that you didn't feel yourself slipping until it was too late.

A scream. And a spash. And in the span of a breath, a star fell straight out of the sky and into the sea.

The fisherman sat up with a start, and without thinking, reached into the water and hauled you onto his boat.

At first he didn't know what he was looking at. Your hair was soaked and the beads in your hair shone so bright they hurt his eyes. He couldn't understand it - not even with all the strange things he'd seen. How could a girl suddenly appear in place so lonely and remote? Did you fall from the sky?

You sat shivering at the bottom of his boat, too stunned by your fall to realise where you were. And oh, you were the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

In that moment, the fisherman had a choice.

You were dazed and soaking wet. Anything he did to you, you wouldn't be able to fight back. He still had his nets and ropes; he could grab you and take to shore, could force you to be his wife. He was handsome, but strange in his ways and dreams. He didn't have a wife or a lover or even the memory of one. No one would be surprised if he caved to his loneliness and stole whatever good fortune came his way.

For a long, painful moment he was tempted. It would be so lovely to have a warm bed and a warm body waiting for him after a cold, dangerous night. He worked so hard for so little - didn't he deserve a reward?

Instead, he pulled off his oilskin and draped it around your shoulders.

"Be still," he said softly. "Breathe deeply. I will take us back to shore and build you a fire. You won't be cold for long."

You looked up at him, eyes all wide and wet. "Th-thank you."

When he reached the shore, you stumbled and fell to your knees, teeth chattering. You were a creature of starlight and shadow - your feet were never meant to touch the ground.

Carefully, for you looked to him so frail in the thin light of the moon, he picked you up. You smelled like salt and sea, but underneath it was the burning ozone smell of a fallen star. Perhaps that was when he first started to suspect what you were. That what he held in his arms wasn't built of blood and bone.

He brought you to his house and put you down on the hearth. True to his word, he stoked the fire until it roared. You put your palms out to it cautiously, for although your uncle Sun was said to be fire all the way through, you'd never actually seen something burning. Your fingers were so cold they ached and the warmth was a welcome relief.

"Here." He wrapped a blanket around you and set a mug of mulled wine in your hand. "Warm up a little. And then dry yourself off. The sea chill gets in your bones if you aren't careful."

"Wh-where am I?"

He looked at the fire and sighed. "On the shore of the hinterland sea, at the very edge of the world. I fear you're very far from home, wherever it may be."

The wine was warm and sweet, spiced with the last of his cloves and ginger. You drank and finally your teeth stopped chattering.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a fisherman."

You set the cup down carefully, still unsteady. "What is a fisherman?"

He raised his brows but answered you all the same. "Someone who catches fish. Either to sell or to eat. Often both."

You considered this. Stars lived off ether and cloud dust. You had no idea why anyone would want to eat fish of all things.

"What fish do you catch?"

"Ah, that's a difficult question." There was a gleam of amusement in his storm grey eyes. "I'm not like other fisherman. I fish for moonlight instead of animals."

"Moonlight?" That confused you. How could someone catch something so intangible? Did they eat it as well?

"Yes. If you're careful and clever, you can catch moonlight when it reaches down and touches the sea. It's a fortune made to catch even a little."

He looked at you carefully. In the firelight, it was clear you were no ordinary human. Perhaps you weren't mortal at all. As your hair dried, it took on a sheen like starlight dancing on water. Your teeth were small and sharp when you smiled, your pupils shaped like stars in the centre of your irises. It was his turn to ask a question, though he thought he already knew the answer.

"Where do you come from?"

You tilted your head liked he asked the most obvious thing in the world. "From the sky of course. Usually I'm between my sisters Astra and Vena."

He smiled and reached down to throw a log on the fire as though the third brightest star in the night sky wasn't shivering on his hearth.

"Would you like to change into some dry clothes? I haven't any dresses for you to wear, but anything is better than the wet and the cold."

"Oh, yes please."

He brought you the softest, finest shirt he owned.

"I'll wait outside until you're done."

You tilted your head again in that sharp, bird like way. "Why do you have to wait outside?"

He almost choked on his tongue before he could answer. "Because I'm a man and you're... not. It wouldn't be proper."

"But it's cold outside."

You were already dropping the blanket and the oilskin he borrowed you. Underneath it, you wore a silvery white robe that was still wet enough to be see-through. He hurriedly turned away from you, jaw clenched tight.

"It's fine. I'd rather..."

He could hear the whisper of your robe as it fell. He froze, mind racing.

"Rather what?"

Rather not be thinking of you naked in front of my fire.

"... Nevermind. It's nothing."

"You can turn around and stop clenching your hands now," you said, amused.

You were wearing his shirt, the collar gaping at your collarbones. You rubbed the hem between your fingers. "What material is this?"

"Just homespun."

He gathered your still damp robes and marvelled at the almost silk feel of them - woven so light that if it weren't for the water he'd barely feel their weight.

"I like it," you said. "It's warm."

He hung your clothes to dry on the back of a chair. "You can sleep in my bed tonight. I'll sleep by the hearth."

"Oh." You thought about it. "Is it 'not proper' to sleep together?"

Gods in Heaven have mercy.

"No," he said, carefully avoiding your eyes. "It's not proper. That's the sort of thing only a husband and wife can do."

"My mother is married to the Tide. Did you know that? He's not a very nice man."

The fisherman didn't need you to tell him how unpredictable and cruel the tide could be. He made his living by its whims.

"Have you met him?" he asked.

"Once or twice." You came to stand behind him and watched as he made the bed comfortable for you. Fluffing his meagre pillow and dusting out the blanket.

"You have very nice hands," you said. The fisherman stilled. His hands were rough from the salt and hooks and lines of his trade. They ached on bad nights. Were nicked with scars upon scars, a strata of hurts.

You reached forward and took hold of his fingers, drew them towards you. Your hands were soft as only ones untouched by labour could be. 

"You say you are a man, and that we're different. How so?"

He sighed and let you pull him towards you.

"You are from the heavens. You know nothing of cruelty or greed or love. Mankind, earth - it's not the same." He paused. "If I were another, you might be in danger around me."

You looked in his eyes - oh, you creature of starlight, one of a kind, too pure and rare for his common touch.

"My sister once fell to the earth. When she returned, she told me of love. And of lovers. Do you...have a lover?"

He smiled, rueful. "No. This is a cold, remote place. And it's a cold, remote life I've chosen for myself."

"Do you want one?"

You were still holding his hand, and he was all too aware of it. How would your hands feel, touching other parts of him?

"It doesn't matter," he finally managed to answer. "I have nothing to offer. No wealth, no great learning, no family honour."

"Oh, but you are kind. You are gentle. You saved my life and invited me into your home, asking for no thanks in return. Is the world of Man so evil, that these things mean nothing?"

"They mean less than you seem to think."

You held his palm to your cheek, tilted your head into his touch. His hands were rough as only ones knowing hard labour could be. What would they feel like, touching other parts of you?

"My mother told me a boon granted is one that must be repaid. Tell me fisherman at the end of the world, what would you have in exchange for saving my life?"

You. I would have you, girl too beautiful for even my dreams.

Instead he said, "Nought. My mother told me a kindness given should not expect to be repaid in kind. All I would have is that you recover, and return to the place you belong."

You sighed and dropped his hand. "As you will, so shall it be."

That night, you slept on a thin mattress and dreamt of the dark sea outside the door. And he slept not at all.

You were awake at the first sign of morning light. You were firmer on your feet and you made it to the door without stumbling.

The fisherman heard you and fought the urge to stand. If you wished to leave before the dawn, he wouldn't stop you. Already he'd met a creature few thought existed. He would be greedy to hope for more of you.

You didn't leave. You stood on his threshold and watched the sun rise at the edge of the world. For though you knew your uncle through stories and messages, you'd never seen him.

"Hello uncle," you said to the pink and orange sky.

"Hello niece. What are you doing upon the earth, so far from your place in heaven?"

"I grew distracted with music and fell into the sea. But a man rescued me and now here I stand."

"I would caution you, niece of mine. I rise and set each day. And each day I see Mankind's cruelty to one another. Murder and imprisonment and awful acts of lust. Linger not too long in this place, lest your man think to do what so many others before him have done."

"Oh uncle, he is not like the stories I have heard. Not like the monsters you warn me against. The earth might indeed be filled with danger, but here I think myself to be safe."

Your uncle sighed and clouds parted in great gusts. "Niece, things are never as clear as they seem. Not when you stand upon the earth. Take my advice and return to your sisters as soon as the night arrives. Your mother has seen even more than I the awful lechery of Man."

You smiled at your uncle, proud and burning creature that he was. "Thank you uncle. But this place is filled with strange and wondrous things. I can not return until I've satisfied my curiosity."

"As you say, blood of mine. But know that regardless of how we love you, neither your mother nor I can protect you when you're out of our reach. Anything that happens, you must fend off on your own."

You glanced back into the cottage, and at the fisherman sprawled on the hearth. "I am not so alone as you fear, uncle."

The fisherman could understand little of your conversation. He could not hear the sun's voice. When he heard your footsteps whispering towards him, he forced himself to hold still. Was this it? A final whispered goodbye?

You knelt at his side and brushed your knuckles against his cheekbone. "Will you wake, saviour of mine? The new day comes."

He opened his eyes. "You're still here."

"Does that displease you?"

"No!" He sat up in a hurry, eyes locked on yours. "Never. Please, stay as long you'd like."

You smiled, secretly pleased. "What do you do in the day?"

He thought for a moment. "I work at night, and the day is spent mending my nets. But you're here now. I think I'd rather show you the secrets and wonders of this place."

"You said few people come to the edge of the world. What secrets could there be?"

"Oh, plenty. All the more secret for having seldom been found."

He turned away from you and built up the fire. "It will be cold today, and the wind will be sharp. Still, would you like to see what I wish to show?"

You watched the firelight flicker across his face - lined at the eyes like he smiled too often, tanned and ruddy from the sea.

"Yes," you said, "I'd like that."

He borrowed you thick furs to wear and wrapped a scarf around your neck. Your robes had dried overnight but one glance at them was enough to know they weren't nearly warm enough.

He packed a small pack with food and wine. At the door, he held your hand while you got used to having the fine pebbles of the beach under your feet.

A cold wind was blowing from the north and stirring the patchy snow on the ground.You could almost hear a voice in it, coldly amused.

"A star so far from heaven?"

And another, softer. Pitying almost.

"Run back to your sisters, little star. The hearts of men have no room for mercy, or for you."

When the wind disappeared, so too did the voices. You leaned closer against your fisherman and let him lead you down the beach. The still rising sun painted the water orange, and the stones reflected it as a bright gold.

Oh, how many colours in this new world. How wonderful the gold, the silver, the thousand shades in between.

"Do you walk the beach often?" you asked.

"No." He sounded amused. "At least, certainly not with company."

He lead you towards a high embankment, and a narrow path crawling up it's side. He kept hold of you as you climbed, his arm steady and strong around you. The loose stones of the beach hardened to shale that crumbled if you stepped too heavily, the path growing steeper as the embankment curved around the cliffside.

The sun was well above the water when you reached the top. But oh, was it worth the effort. The view from the cliff dwarfed anything you'd seen before. The ocean stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, the water black near the shore and then lightening to a dark greenish-blue. The sun caught on the peaks of the waves, turning them aquamarine and gold.

The fisherman set out his bundle of food on a rock. Fresh bread, a thick hunk of cheese, raisins. You ate breakfast with the sea spread at your feet and the warm south wind tugging at your hair.

You pressed the cheese and raisins between two slices of bread and held it to his lips. "Try it like this. It's incredible."

He raised a skeptical brow but leaned down to eat from your hand.

"Sweet," he said, eyes crinkling with his smile.

You thought the cliff and its view was his secret, but that was far from it. After you ate, he led you to a small, hidden path carved into the cliffside. You wavered - the drop down was beyond treacherous.

He held both your hands in his and showed you how to walk down the carved steps.

"I won't let you fall. I promise."

You believed him.

The path led to a cave, its entrance little more than a gash in the cliffside. You squeezed through, not sure what to expect.

What you saw made you gasp. Your fisherman hadn't brought you to a cave at all, but to the last remains of a castle. You stood in a great hall, it's pillars carved out of the stalactites. Moss had grown over the walls and the ceiling, and the whole room glowed a deep blue.

"What is this place?"

"The barrow of a long dead king. Killed before his time, killed in vain."

Flowers were pushing up through the cracked floor tiles. Strange blue flowers that only grew in the dark. Their pollen rose in golden clouds when you passed them by.

"Oh, no place so strange and wondrous exists in the sky."

You twirled in place, your eyes on the ceiling and its strange, twisting patterns. The fisherman watched you, his heart pulling him in two different directions. Would it be so wrong to keep you? To ask you stay with him for the rest of your days?

Yes, some fierce part of him whispered back. You cannot keep a star from the sky. You think you could love her. But what sort of love is captivity?

You grabbed his hands and pulled him from his thoughts.

"Will you dance with me? My sister says palaces are filled with dancing, with music. This dead king must feel awfully lonely, with a hall so cold and quiet."

He followed you, hands slipping to your waist.

"I must warn you. I'm no king's man, to dance gracefully."

You laughed and let him twirl you in his arms.

"I don't want a king's man, nor a knight, nor a prince," you told him, "I only want you."

He caught you again, dropping you in a slow, graceful dip.

"Don't be cruel, little star," he whispered. "To give me dreams I can never have."

The night flower pollen hung in the air, dancing in patterns from your movement. The room was a mosaic of midnight blue and gold. You reached up and brushed your fingers across his lips.

"I am never cruel. I offer what I willingly give."

It would have been so easy to kiss you then. To have, even for just a moment, a love so far out of reach.

"No," he said quietly. "You're too good for me. I will not pull a star from the sky for my own satisfaction."

He put you back on your feet and let you go.

The walk home was quiet. He held you when he needed to, but his touch was light. Afraid almost.

He stoked the fire and showed you how to feed it. Showed you where the food was kept and how to slice the bread. And then he left you.

He claimed to be going fishing, but his nets and lines stayed in the corner of the room.

You watched him from the door until he was out of sight. And then you curled up on the narrow windowsill and waited for his return.

In your chest, your heart ached in a way you couldn't explain.

You asked him to take you with him that night. He hesitated, his glass nets slung over his shoulder.

"It's dangerous."

"Perhaps so, but I want to hear your music again. The sound I fell from heaven for. Will you not let me hear it once more?"

He gave in and told you to sit as still as you could, for the waves were rougher than usual. The night was clear, and as he rowed you out to sea, you sisters' voices chimed in your head.

"Little sister, why do you stay upon the earth? Your place in heaven is cold and empty."

"Little sister, does the man do you harm? Does he hold you prisoner?"

"Little sister, mother worries for you. Will you speak to her?"

"Little sister, will you not come home?"

"Soon," you promised them. "Soon."

The fisherman cast his nets and began to play his tune. And all thoughts of your sisters and your home vanished. To watch him at sea was to witness a creature in its element. Calm and careful, slow and thoughtful.

You didn't leave that night. Or the one after that. Your mother moved through her phases and still you chose to stay on the earth.

You learned how to light and keep a fire, how to mend the fisherman's lines and snares, how to bake bread and mull wine. You learned to sleep with the moon and rise with the sun.

"Oh niece," you uncle sighed, "I fear this love will be your undoing."

"Love? Is that what I feel? This aching in my heart?"

"Love indeed. Why else would a star choose to be a fishwife?"

At first, your fisherman tried to keep his distance. But you were persistent in your questions, in your conversation, in following him wherever he went.

Finally he caved. Started speaking to you without holding himself back, started taking his meals with you. He was careful not to touch you, and perhaps even more careful not to let you touch him. It was friendship, companionship - but always tinged with longing. You would sometimes catch him watching you, eyes sad as the sea.

Each night your fisherman would tell you a story. Both of you sitting on the hearth rug, his hands carving the tale out of the air, his eyes twinkling. Stories of love, of bravery, of treachery.

He told you of a queen carved from the sea foam, of a wolf who shed its skin to find a bride, of cities so bright and sprawling that to see them from above was to think earth and heaven had switched places.

You would dream of his stories, and of his hands. Skimming down your back, warm and strong.

A full month after your fall, your mother frowned down at you and demanded to know when you would be done with your adventure. You wavered, for your mother wasn't the type to accept a flimsy answer.

"When our story is all told," you finally replied.

She kept her frown, but your man was returning from the sea and you were too distracted by him to notice it.

You would happily have stayed just as you were. Sleeping in his bed and sharing his clothes, waking to see him already in front of the fire. But your luck changed - yours for the worse and his for the better.

For the fisherman finally caught moonlight.

You were with him when he reeled his nets in, and you both saw the silver gleam break the water at the same time. He stilled, eyes wide.

"I can't believe it."

He plucked the pearl from its string and let it sit on his palm. It cast its glow all the way across the boat and still beyond. There was no doubt now as to why moonlight was so valuable. Looking into it, you could see what your mother saw. Could see the ocean spread at your feet, could see the stars dancing, could see the breadth of heaven and earth.

"Here." He dropped it into your palm and closed your fingers around it. "Hold onto it."

You looked at him, eyes wide. "You trust me with it?"

He smiled his crooked half smile. "I trust you with more than your know, little star."

As he rowed back to shore, you wondered at how your life might change. Hadn't he once said that the only goal of a fisherman at the edge of the world was to catch moonlight? That even a little was a fortune made?

Would he leave the sea? Would he leave you?

When you were back in the cottage and out of sight of your mother, you felt brave enough to ask.

"Oh, never. I'll never leave you, little star. Not for as long as you'll have me."

You looked at the pearl in your palm. A fortune made... What did that really mean?

"What now?"

He came to stand behind you, reaching out to carefully run his fingertip across the shimmering surface.

"Now I will head away. To civilisation. To find a way to sell it without getting my heart cut out first."

"Why would anyone do that?"

He sighed. "Because of its value. Some men will do terrible things to possess a single beautiful thing."

That worried you.

"I want to come with you," you said.

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. "I would have it no other way."

The preparations took almost two weeks. Food to be dried, smoked and packed. Water to be stored. Clothes to be mended and altered for travelling. The boat to be tarred and dragged ashore.

The fisherman was in no hurry. He still told you stories at night, the moon pearl sitting in a box between you and lending its strange silver light to the tellings.

If you'd known what was to come, you would have thrown that cursed thing back into the sea. But though you were many things, you were not an oracle. You couldn't guess the misery it would bring.

On the day before you and your fisherman planned to leave, three men came to visit.

They wore the deep black of thieves and killers, and the knives at their belts spoke plenty of their profession.

They found you both on the beach at sunset, wrapping canvas around the boat. Their shadows stretched long in the fading light, so you weren't sure what you were seeing until they were too close to avoid.

Your fisherman stood to greet them, though from his eyes you could tell he wasn't pleased.

"An unpleasant place, this," said the first of the three.

"Cold and miserable," said the second.

"Though we suppose it does have its charms," said the third.

The fisherman considered them for a long while before replying.

"An unpleasant place, aye. The work is dangerous and the reward an impossible dream. Still, some of us are suited to places like these."

The first of the killers looked at you, ran his eyes over your body.

"For you perhaps. But what of your woman? Surely she would like somewhere warmer."

The fisherman tensed. Just the tiniest tightening of his shoulders, but you noticed it all the same.

"I keep her as warm as she needs," he said.

That made the men smirk. Made them eye each other like the joke was oh so funny. The sun was almost gone now and the brightest of your sisters were peaking out of the purple sky. You could feel their worry at the back of your mind.

"Hurry and come away, little sister. I like not the look of these men."

"Quickly. Before they play any tricks."

You didn't like the look of the strangers either, but you refused to leave the fisherman on his own. Whatever this was, perhaps it might still end well.

The leader rolled his shoulders, sighed like this was as mildly unpleasant as a persistent itch. And then he pulled a moon pearl out of his pocket.

It was much smaller than the one your fisherman caught, but it had a strange red tint to it that made you shiver. If you looked closely, you could see yourself in it. Not a reflection, but a view from on high. Whoever these strangers were, they'd been watching you.

"Enchanted to find others like it. Thought it wasn't worth the money at first. Never bloody did anything," the first one said.

"Not until a few week ago at least," another continued.

You felt yourself going cold. They knew.

Your fisherman must have realised the same thing, because his eyes slipped to you and the pearl hidden on a tether under your shirt.

"That's all you want?"

They looked at each other again, and whatever passed between them was only for them and the wind to know.

"Aye," said the third, "That's all - the bounty of the night sky. Give us that and we'll leave you be."

Your fisherman shrugged like they weren't demanding a king's ransom and then some. He turned to you and carefully pulled the pearl free of its cord. You grabbed his hands and held them.

"Why?" you whispered.

He looked in your eyes and there wasn't any regret there. No grief or anger over losing the thing he'd spent years fishing for.

"I worry of losing something far more precious than a stone."

He pulled away from you before you could stop him and tossed the pearl to the leader. He caught it easily and held it to his eye.

"A finer thing I've never held," the thief said.

"Aye, and a finer thing I've never seen," said the other.

"But that's not all you have, is it fisherman?" said the third.

The fisherman rolled his shoulders and anyone could see the threat in it.

"That's the only thing of value here. The only thing you can take. So have joy of it, and be gone from this place."

"Daughter."

Your mother's voice was sharp. "Come away. Now. These men mean you harm worse than you realise."

"Not yet," you murmured, "Not while my love stays."

The thieves smiled at each other. Nasty grins filled with blades.

"Oh, but you have another thing worth perhaps even more than moonlight. Tell me, fisherman at the edge of the world, how did you rip a star from the sky?"

The fisherman snarled, all quiet calm forgotten.

"Come now, don't be so hostile," the thief mocked. "You promised us the bounty of the night sky. That was our deal."

"The star is not mine to keep nor give."

The thieves laughed. "She wears your clothes and helps in your labour and whispers her secrets to you. How can you claim that she isn't yours?"

The fisherman kept his hands loose at his sides but it wasn't only you who noticed his eyes dart to his knife, stuck into the roll of canvas you were working with.

You reached out and grabbed at his hand. It was dawning on you now what your mother meant. These men were worse than you first assumed, and to stay in their presence was to invite death to your door.

A star leaping back to heaven is an easy thing. Your bones are light and your magic is strong. But to take a human with you? That was another matter entirely. Their feet were rooted to the earth, their bones weighed down by the nature of their birth. You pulled with all the magic you had, but you couldn't move him. Your heart was a fluttering, panicked thing in your chest.

"Mother, please."

"I cannot," your mother said, her voice torn with grief. "He is of the earth. I cannot lift him to heaven no matter my strength."

The fisherman and the thieves didn't seem to notice your efforts. Their eyes were on each other, hackles raised.

The thieves moved first. Drew their knives and rushed your man all at once.

But the fisherman didn't survive on the hinterland sea by being slow or cautious. He pushed you behind him and in one graceful step, pulled his knife loose from the canvas. He slashed at the closest man, his blade a silvery arc that turned the night red with misted blood. The man fell away, clutching his eyes and screaming.

The fisherman was too slow to dodge the oncoming strike, so he threw his arm up and let the leader's blade carve a long furrow down his forearm. Blood welled at his elbow and fell onto the black pebbles of the beach.

He kept you behind him as he retreated, his eyes darting between the two standing thieves.

You were frozen. Eyes glued on the fallen man and the blood welling up between his fingers.

So this is what you meant. That Mankind will do terrible things to each other without a second thought. Oh uncle, I'm sorry I doubted you.

Your mind raced. How to escape with your man alive and in one piece?

The two thieves were spreading out, flanking him as wolves would. The blood from his arm had soaked his side and you could tell he was growing pale.

You needed to fight. You needed to kill. But how?

Stars are no great terror. You aren't like the moon, who can wreck cities with her pull on the sea. Not like the sun, who can turn crops to dust and cities to deserts. You had no weapon, no strength, no great magic.

But I must have something.

Oh. Oh. You did indeed have something. A little magic of your own. There was a reason people wished on the brightest stars. There was a reason a falling star was considered lucky. And you, well, you were one of the brightest stars in the night sky.

No great magic, but maybe you didn't need to move mountains or spilt the sea in half.

Your fisherman once showed you how to use a needle and thread, told you that sometimes injuries were sewn up just like a ripped shirt. You focused on that now. Thread in, thread out. You pulled your fingers through the air like you were sewing a sail.

The fisherman flinched but kept his injured arm raised. There was a faint glow from under his sleeve and the blood slowed it's dripping. His steps grew steadier.

As though sensing the change, the thieves pounced. Coming at him from two sides at once. He wouldn't be able to fend them both off.

You acted without thinking. Earth magic and sky magic didn't mix well, but you were beyond caring. You pulled at the ground with your magic and one of the thieves fell, their leg thigh deep in a narrow sinkhole. The fisherman took the opportunity he'd been given. He stabbed his knife into the man's throat, all the way up to the handle. There was an awful, wet choking sound when he ripped it out.

You looked away, sick. And that's when the final thief stabbed your man in the back. The blade sunk deep into his shoulder and he roared, whirling around. Too late, too late. The attacker had a second blade ready and when the fisherman turned, he plunged it straight between his ribs.

You screamed.

The fisherman fell to his knees, blood not just trickling but pouring down his chest.

You caught him before he fell entirely, his head falling back against your collarbone. When they said the dead had no light in their eyes, you finally understood what they meant. You could see it fading.

You poured your magic into him, not caring about technique or luck or skill. That little bit of brightness that makes a star glow, you gave it all to him. Your hands were glowing silver, burning like the coldest night.

And still the blood came. Still his life bled out of him.

"Please," you begged. "Please."

What more could you do? You were light headed, cold.

"Stop!"

Your mother's voice was a frantic shout.

"You'll kill yourself giving him that. Stop it daughter. Stop now!"

Kill yourself? Hope bloomed in your heart. The world needed balance. Death was meticulous with his scales. If you burnt yourself out, wasn't that one life gone? Didn't that mean another could stay?

If you gave your life for his, would he live?

You didn't hear your mother scream. Didn't hear your sisters' horror echo through the night. You dug for that last glimmer inside of you, the last breath of the brightest star.

You gave it to the man you loved.

Kindness need not be repaid in kind, he'd said. But he saved your life. He showed you tenderness, care. You loved him. And if only his body was left, you owed him.

You kissed his hair. Pressed your cheek against him. You felt so cold. Colder even than the night you fell into the sea. I'm dying, you realised. There wasn't fear there. Only regret.

Was it ever so hard to breathe? Your lungs stuttered. You barely cared. All you needed was to know he would live.

The last thief standing watched you for a long while. Saw your glow fading. What use was a dying star to him? He picked up the moon pearls, skirted the injured man who was still rolling on the ground and left. If there was honour amount thieves, he didn't have any.

You were beginning to think it all for nought. He was a limp, heavy weight against you.

"Please," you whispered. "Please."

He stirred. Drew in a breath thick with blood, like the first gasp of a drowning man. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were shaped like stars.

"Love," he whispered. He reached up and cupped your cheek in his palm. "Oh, love."

You kissed him. His lips were rough, but not in an unpleasant way. There was blood on your mouth when you pulled away.

"All those nights with you just across the room, all I ever wanted was to feel your lips on mine."

You sighed, pressed his palm closer against your cheek. "Oh, love. That we could have had more time."

He was still drowsy, still reeling from blood loss. But at your words his eyes sharpened.

"We have time."

He sat up slowly, his hand still on your cheek, his knees in the dirt.

"We do. Don't we?"

Whatever he saw on your face was answer enough.

"No."

"Yes." It wasn't you who answered, and perhaps it was the nature of the speaker that only you heard him.

You looked beyond your lover's shoulder. Standing in his shroud, Death waited.

"A fair trade?" you asked.

The fisherman turned to follow your eyes, but all he saw was the open sea.

"Better than fair."

Death shook his head, long nails click clacking on the handle of his staff.

"It is rare indeed that I claim one of your kind."

There was no triumph in his voice, no sorrow. He truly was implacable as the grave.

"Who do you see?" The fisherman asked you, hands gripping your shoulders, frantic.

You thought he already knew. He was not so long out of the underworld that he could forget the feeling of Death's footsteps passing by. He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.

"No, no. Reverse whatever you've done. My time has come and passed." His voice was raw, flayed by the salt of blood and tears. "Please."

You grabbed a handful of his shirt, felt the heart beating strong and true in his chest. "I cannot. I will not."

Above you, the moon and the stars wept.

"Daughter. Oh, my poor daughter."

"Little sister, gone, gone, gone where we cannot follow."

Death brushed his hand across your brow and you shuddered. The fisherman pulled you closer, spoke to the air where Death stood.

"Take me instead. It's me you came for, it's me you want. You won't be cheated by a fisherman, will you? So do as you came to do."

"Fair is fair, fisherman at the edge of the world," Death said in a voice like bones rattling.

"A life must be taken. The scales must balance. Even the stars in heaven die at my hand."

The fisherman paled. Very few heard the voice of Death while they still lived, and fewer still kept their minds together after. It was the sound of the tomb, the grave, the earth thudding on the coffin top. When he spoke, his voice was wretched with grief.

"I'm begging you. Let her live."

"We beseech you, let our sister go," the stars chorused after him.

"Please," said the moon. "Please have mercy, Lord of the end."

Death stood at the edge of the world and all of heaven begged him to be kind. Just once. Just for a moment.

"No."

You felt his hand on your heart. And then you felt nothing at all.

The fisherman knew the second it happened. Your body sagged against him, your fingers dropped from his shirt.

He cradled your body and wept his terrible grief into your faded dress.

Death held your soul between his fingers. The size of a moon pearl, but ten thousand times as bright. Few things in his collection were quite as fine.

"I will not be cheated. Not by the innocent nor the wicked."

The wind and the sea sighed. They knew all too well how inflexible he could be. To all the witnesses, this should have been the end. Lovers were not spared by Death. Why would he make an exception now?

And to all who knew the moon, in her timed phases and careful rotation, this too should have been the end. But the thing they most often seemed to forget was this; the moon was still a mother. And though you were dead and on the earth, you were still her blood.

"A link!" your mother whispered to herself. "He lives with a part of her inside him, creature of the earth that he is."

Death didn't notice when the moon reached down for your body. Why would he? The soul was what mattered to him. But she wasn't called the wise woman for nothing. He was about to leave, about to step from one world to the other, when your mother snatched your soul straight out of his hand.

Too late, too late he whirled to catch it, to curse at the moon's trickery. Already she was gone, your body and the fisherman gone with her.

Death cursed, gathered his shroud to pursue, when the Tide finally spoke. The moon's husband was quick to anger and slow to forgive, but he loved his wife. Hated to see her grieve.

"Still yourself, bone lord. I ask you not for mercy or for kindness. I ask you simply to trade."

"What could you have, sea beast? Drowned men are a dime a dozen. What can you offer for a star's soul?"

The Tide sighed, for he knew that Death measured by a metric none living or dead fully understood.

"I can give you a mermaid's heart, still beating with the pull of the waves. I can give you a fishwife, still young and in love. I can give you the most beautiful of my pets, to forever keep as own."

Death laughed, as terrible and grating as a tomb opening.

"No deal at all, sea beast. Life for life must willingly be given."

"I thought so," said the Tide. "But if you are as quick and wise as they say, you would look to the heavens and realise whatever soul you wanted is beyond your reach."

In the sky, twin stars burned. The third brightest in the sky.

Death laughed again. "Oh, the moon is a tricky one indeed. Two stars, sharing a soul."

You might have expected him to be angry, might have expected cursing and rage. Thought he would reach up and pull you both from the sky. But few understood the whims and wiles of Death.

He gathered his shroud and smiled and winked away. He would have you eventually. No one could escape him forever. But a star lives a long time and when it came down to it, he didn't mind waiting.

Death of all people could appreciate a good trick.

You pulled in a breath that rasped and burned. When you opened your eyes, the fisherman was kneeling at your side, your head in his lap.

"My love, how do I live?" You sat up slowly, afraid that he somehow undid the magic you cast.

"You've done a dangerous thing, daughter of mine."

Your mother stood waiting for you, her robes silver and red and the dusty gold of a full moon hanging low in the sky.

"Mother!"

"Don't stand. You're still weak." She frowned at you, and at the fisherman at your side.

"I did not think to ever have a son-in-law. And I did not think to ever watch my daughter die."

You looked her in her eyes, pale silver from end to end. "I'm sorry to have done that to you mother. But I'm not sorry for my choice."

She sighed, harsh from trying to hide her grief.

"You have him now, daughter of mine. The man you gave your own life for. I hope he was worth the sacrifice."

"He was. He is."

The fisherman's arms tightened around you and his head dropped to your shoulder. He was crying, but only you knew, only you could feel his hot tears soaking into your dress.

"Very well. Have your moment with your man. And then come and take your place."

She left you. For a second between the moment she opened and closed the door, you could see the faces of your sisters. Still worried, still pale.

The hall of your mother's palace was quiet. The fisherman kept his forehead pressed against your shoulder, breathing hard.

"I never should have kept you," he said finally. "I should have sent you back to the sky the second you landed in my arms. Oh love, how could I be so selfish?"

"Don't you dare say that. All you did was show me kindness. It was I who chose to stay. And even now, my only regret is that I bought you to such grief."

You intertwined your hands with his.

"I love you. I loved you the moment I heard your music and fell from the sky to hear it better."

He brought your knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss against your fingers.

"I loved you the moment I pulled you from the sea." Another kiss pressed against your hands. "I loved you the moment you spoke to me, the moment you smiled."

You hesitated, suddenly unsure. "I've made you give up your dream of catching moonlight."

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, I've caught myself something much better than moonlight tonight."

I've caught myself a bride. And oh, I'm never letting her go.

If you look to the sky at dawn and dusk, you'll see twin stars. They always rise together, always move across the heavens in tandem, always set hand in hand. Lovers wish on them, pray that Death is as kind to them as he once was at the edge of the world. Fishermen sail by them, trust the steadiness of their light to bring their boats safely home. And stories are told of them. Of the fisherman who tried to catch moonlight. And the bride who was plucked straight out of the sea.

The third brightest stars in the the night sky - the Fisherman and the Starwife.

[divinit3a]

eldritch aliens? . . . anyone order eldritch aliens with a false, "mimic" style body? . . . oops, wrong table--

alien au's are much fun. "cute" monsters that are actually horrifying parasites are fun. Why not both ?!

I really, really love sci-fi stories like Scavengers Reign, where there's cosmic horror and unnatural monsters... But also learning the beauty of the alien lifeforms, the circle of life far outside your control.

the concept is very vague in my head, but--

Sun & Moon (& Eclipse)

origin planet is semi-aquatic, hence the sea-star, vampire squid aesthetic

species is part of a hive-mind; being so far away from their home has severed this connection

highly adaptable; can change forms, reconstruct their body, mimic lifeforms to "better blend in"

"faces" and "limbs" are all faux, like an angler fish's lure; actual eyes and mouths are throughout body

cant speak (yet?) - would use telepathy which im sure feels great inside people's skulls

tidbits of YN

A lone scientist on a retro-tech space station orbiting a long-since changed Earth, studying parasite samples

Really loves cats - has a cat named Chimera on board, actually!

Story Crumbs / Premise

You are going to die. As glass shards float all around you in the endless void of space, the thought strikes you like a meteor. Worse than the targeted beams that cleaved your spacecraft in half. The cold, suffocating isolation of space beckons you to float for infinity. Then all at once, your world envelopes in a blinding white as limbs stretch out to envelope you, and you are plummeting down to Earth below.

. . . and that's all Ive got for now :D ty ty for reading the sillies~

[onlyswan]

summary: in which you want to turn back the clock and jungkook wants you to stay.

idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / angst, fluff / word count: 5.8k

content/warnings: mistreatment of service workers / oc felt inappropriately touched by a customer (only mentioned in passing) / (oc works part-time in a restaurant) (then quits) / another dive into oc’s lore / allusion to death / grief grief grief / lots of crying :( / jk wants to move in together :") / mention of s*x (24/7=heaven?) / mention of period blood (they’re in diff contexts js to be clear lol) / u will get pissed and cry and laugh it’s fun <3

playlist! knees - iu ; chinese satellite - phoebe bridgers ; love wins all - iu

> in which masterlist

note: contains lil flashblacks from the giving up drabbles ^^ can be found in the timeline masterlist above this incase u haven’t read them and want to ^^ listen to love wins all when jungkook tells oc to wear their seatbelt (trust me). tried to encapsulate the epiphany of oh. everything’s going to be okay because i am loved when i’m at my lowest. as always reblogs & feedback are appreciated :") come chat!!

—

the rusty swing-set creaks as you unsteadily swing back and forth, staring lifelessly at your white socks and shoes stained with burnt orange. you look up to the sky but the moon and the stars are shrouded by the clouds. not even your favorite snack can poison your sadness with optimism. mouthful of bungeoppang, but you taste nothing, and every swallow only adds to the heaviness weighing on your chest.

your shift should be ending by now, which means you probably should be heading home, but your limbs have given up and refuses to move.

jungkook’s special ringtone ceaselessly disrupts the night scene’s quiet, but there’s no point in answering his calls when you know no words would come out of you.

“are you an imbecile?! you can’t understand basic instructions?!”

“ma’am, i’m so sorry. i’ll take it back and give you the right ord-”

“we’re fucking starving! move faster!”

you flinch as the bowl collides with the tiled floor, producing an ear-splitting sound that reverberates throughout the entire restaurant. you want to give the woman the benefit of the doubt and believe that she just shoved the bowl a little too harshly due to her frustration, but you have a hand over your mouth not due to shock, but the inexplicable pain of having your skin burnt by the piping hot soup… and she’s just… there.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry! please understand. she’s just in a bad mood. she’s not- she’s not usually like this.”

you stand on your spot, frozen and speechless, as her husband profusely apologizes. you’re only jolted out from trance when you feel him wiping your legs with crumpled tissue papers, a little too farther up for your comfort. a fleeting tug-of-war ensues when you forcefully rip them away from his hands. you thank him despite not meaning it.

you grip the edge of your skirt as you sit on your heels, picking up the broken shards of glass scattered across the floor. a concerned co-worker swoops in with a broom and you instantly jump the opportunity to save yourself from the mortifying stares, mumbling another thank you as you take your leave.

“you said table six.”

“____, i’m sorry. that was a fault on my part.”

your manager observes your current state. his stare lingers at your feet.

“but they don’t know that! she literally burnt me!”

“look, we don’t have to take this too far. it couldn’t have been that hot. we can see you’re still walking.” his condescending tone makes you feel so small, but it fuels the anger inside of you. “you don’t have to pay for the damages, so let’s just put this behind us.”

you gasp in disbelief, and it borders on a laugh. you feel crazy. you can’t believe this is actually happening to you. he can’t be fucking serious.

the workers in the kitchen remain quiet as tension arises, minds a tornado of thoughts but mouths remaining shut in fear of getting on the bad side of their superior.

“well you…” you hastily strip off your apron, bunching it up into one big ball. “don’t have to pay me anymore, because i fucking quit! i hope this place burns down!”

and you ensure that it hits him on the face before you turn around to march out of the kitchen. on the way out of the restaurant, you nonchalantly grab a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting off the cap as you push the door open. you leave a wet trail behind your steps as you pour the cold water over your feet, a poor attempt to soothe the sharp pain of the injury.

you know it will be alright eventually; you will heal, but this… this is leaving a permanent scar on your dignity.

with a vexed groan, you retrieve your vibrating phone from your pocket.

LAST EVICTION NOTICE— you do not even bother reading the rest of the words that come after that.

“fuck!” you scream, throwing the bottle at the nearest wall, hands coming up to your hair to roughly pull in frustration. the heels of your palm dig into your eyes and your knees give way to the ground. “this is a nightmare.”

it dawns on you that you’ve finally arrived at a surface on the rock bottom that you so awfully dread. you find yourself standing here— infront of the atm machine, staring blankly at the large number displayed on the screen. this money isn’t yours. this didn’t come from your blood, sweat, and tears. it’s an amount that you’re supposed to accept as a payment for the eulogies you had to deliver. you swore you would never do this, but desperate times come when you’re forced to swallow your pride and allow it to rot you from the inside.

you’re once again faced with the ugly difference between surviving and living.

you grab the cash, hastily pushing them inside the pocket of your jacket as if you’re being burnt by them. you feel so nauseous; if only emptying your stomach would untangle its knots.

you don’t need anything from anyone. this is the first and the last time, you swear to yourself in place of your defeated oath.

you don’t want jungkook to see you like this, helpless and hollow, the antonym of the sun he willingly flew too close to. you look pathetic seeking for solace in an abandoned playground, unfortunate soul stuck at fifteen, in denial of the passage of time.

but there goes your lover running towards you, calling out your name, and you begin praying for yourself to disappear into thin air.

much to your disappointment, no wiser being grants your plea, and now you have a man tucking you in his safe embrace, uncaring of his knees being bruised by the ground.

does he need to surprise you when you least anticipate his presence?

“i’ve been looking everywhere for you! i went to pick you up at the restaurant but they told me that you quit! what happened?”

he pulls away, tenderly cupping your cheeks in his warm hands.

“was it your boss again? it’s him, isn’t it? what did he do?”

jungkook dies a little inside. your glassy eyes study his face, a clear picture of distress and concern, but at the same time, they seem so far away… like you’re not certain if you’re truly here.

you unconsciously squirm— your feet retract themselves, escaping underneath the swing; and your ankles twist, and twist, one hiding behind the other.

this doesn’t feel like being stripped naked.

you feel like you’re being turned inside out.

“what’s wrong? baby…” he utters sadly as tears drip from your lashes—one by one— even they are lost and hesitant.

your distant stare remains.

he doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you’re crying. it’s a frightening sight and he doesn’t know what else to do. he holds you in his arms but you feel too stiff for this to be comfortable. the time passes, and he lets it do so in silence.

he waits for you to come back to him.

he waits, and waits, and waits.

“jungkook… i want to go home.”

“okay. i’ll bring you home, baby.” he strokes your hair, breathing out in relief. “yours? or mine?”

only for his world to crumble into pieces.

“my mom…” you whisper, breathless, releasing yourself from his embrace. “i want to be with my mom.”

and only then does he see traces of emotions written on your face.

“i miss my mom so much.”

the crack of your voice gives him an opening to catch a glimpse of your heart, that is but a mosaic of broken parts. pain, grief, longing… the past two years haven’t been enough to make him well-acquainted with the anatomy of your afflictions. he has only witnessed you speak of your family with a proud and affectionate beam; old stories that spark the agent of joy. and despite knowing that you must’ve been battling your pain all these years all alone, he couldn’t bring himself to meddle with how you handled your grief. however, if he’s going to be completely truthful, he was terrified of this— of seeing you so unmoored and broken. his pain is no comparison. quite frankly, it is an insult to yours.

“i miss her so, so, so much. what do i do? i…” you sobs become uncontrollable, overcome by the weight of the world crashing down on you.

how is it possible that you feel nothing and too much at the same time? is what you would often ask before, but today you realize that your pain simply goes beyond what any of your human parts is able to fathom.

“this is too hard… it’s too tiring. i can’t- i can’t. i don’t want to be here anymore. i’m always so scared. i don’t know what i’m doing anym-”

“shh, shhh, baby- baby, breathe for me-”

“how did my life end up like this? i don’t understand! the world- it’s so cruel- i can’t stand it.”

jungkook wipes away your tears, but it’s no use. once you break down, it becomes impossible to remedy. nonetheless, that doesn’t deter your boyfriend from trying. he gathers your weeping and trembling vessel in an attempt to glue you back together, and in while doing so, he also wills himself to be strong for you.

“why did she have to go after them and leave me all alone here? am i not her child too?”

the obtuse questions you’ve been too afraid to ask out loud are being brought out in the open, spilling out from the torn seams of your soul as they’ve become too agonizing to annihilate over and over and over again.

you know the answer. you know she didn’t want to leave.

but you can’t help but to be angry at the fact that her heart gave up. you don’t understand why it had to happen and why you’re being grinded in the mouth of the world.

“i’m tired, i’m so tired. it’s so unfair… i need her with me too…”

jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, gently rocking your tangled bodies — a defense mechanism. you’re succumbing to defeat as if it’s been long overdue; even your voice is giving up on you.

if he had to imagine, the earth must have shared his current dread when it witnessed a solar eclipse for the first time, wired to assume the worst of perpetual darkness.

“jungkook…”

your weak fists desperately grasping at the fabric of his hoodie— the final thread you are hanging on. your words break into stutters and hiccups, salty tears slipping past your lips and stirring their bitter taste.

“i just want to go and be my mom’s child again.”

and he would truly fucking hate to try and get into the implication of your words, but if jungkook is going to be completely truthful— he is terrified beyond words can say. of this; of witnessing you slip away from everything you’ve ever known; of losing you. maybe he’s being selfish, but whatever it takes, he will make you stay.

he swallows the lump in his throat, hurriedly drying his eyes with his sleeve before facing you.

“listen to me, okay…?” his voice isn’t enough to pull your head from underwater; he lightly taps your cheek, even though it breaks his heart. “hey, hey, hey. look at me, baby- look at me.”

he searches for your eyes, begging them to focus on him. and it’s silly, what he does next, pressing a kiss to your lips as if this is a fairytale. but then it works— you tilt your head to subtly nuzzle your cheek against his palm— and he has to quickly recover from being taken aback. you effortlessly make a slave out of his heart.

“you never stopped being her child. and that will never happen! because even with them being gone, you haven’t stopped trying your best to be a good child and older sibling to them. i… i’m a witness to that. every single day. are you hearing me?”

can he get some sort of sign whether he is doing this right or wrong?

“you’re not alone here because you have me. you do know that, right?”

and you want to believe him… you do. but just like how you’re clinging onto him right now for dear life, you can’t forget how you had to beg him to stay.

“so stop working all these jobs! please, i’m begging you! it must also break your mom’s heart to see you torturing yourself like this. it’s not healthy! just focus on studying and let me take away your burdens, please?”

you stop breathing; your features soften like you’ve made it out of a nightmare.

“jungkook…”

“let’s live together, baby.” he sounds sure; he sounds steady, but the waver of his eyes beseeches you. “you’ve been so good to me, even when i didn’t deserve it. please… let me love you in my own way too.”

“stop. i told you… i’m still thinking about it.” you say meekly, avoiding his intense gaze. “i mean, let’s be honest. what would your family even think of me? your aunt already hates me. what if she uses this to prove that she was right about me and-”

“fuck what everyone else thinks. i couldn’t care less.”

the reminder of the disrespect you were subjected to because of him has him seething all over again. his jaw clenches in anger, and he feels obligated to take a deep breath so he can keep himself composed. growing up, he was always taught to be the bigger person, but he simply can’t implore himself to do that if it means turning a blind eye to your hurt.

“i won’t let her get away with that type of bullshit so don’t even bother thinking about her anymore. i’ll take care of it. we can’t let that get into our heads. right, baby? we said that?” his thumb caresses your cheek softly, and you hold on to his wrist, silent as you try to understand him through the thick haze clouding your mind. “i want to be with the person i love. how could that be so wrong?”

you slowly shake your head in response, a little hesitant.

“i won’t leave again. no matter how hard you push me away, i will stay within your reach.”

and here he is, kneeling infront of you, seeking to make true of what he solemnly vowed to you.

are you going to take this away from him? after everything you’ve gone through together?

he is the only thing you have left to lose.

“i love you.” you whisper, initiating the hug this time.

you’re holding him tight, like you don’t ever want to let go, and it brings jungkook to the brink of tears once more.

“i love you so much.”

he sweetly kisses your cheek, but when you pull away to give him that look, a wordless command for more, his lips finally meet yours for the first time in forty-eight hours. they slowly curve into a smile, not at all surprised that he’s tasting sugar. he’d go through hell and back to experience this kind of kiss one time, only to do it all over again.

“let’s go home?”

you blink at him cluelessly. you don’t know why he’s wearing a dimpled smile out of the blue, neither do you know which home he is referring to. nevertheless, you intertwine your fingers with his, choosing to save yourself from this forlorn neverland.

there’s just… one teeny… tiny problem…

“shit,” you mutter to yourself, freezing on your tracks.

“what’s wrong?”

you awkwardly glance down at your shoes, the origin of the squeaky sound that was impossible to be missed by your ears. after inspecting you from head to toe, a worried expression morphs on his face, and you can only show him a shy wince in response.

“i don’t want to make your car dirty.”

“baby…”

his chest feels so much heavier. he is nearly blinded with red. he wants to scream and be infuriated. what the fuck happened back there?

you merely shrug, sending him a forced smile. “do you still have those extra slippers?”

—

“jungkook, i can do it myself.”

he clicks his tongue, his hand around your calf gripping. “stay still!”

you watch him from the passenger seat, your legs dangling from the edge as he carefully takes off your shoes and socks, yet again kneeling on the ground.

“does it hurt a lot?”

“not… a lot.” you answer through gritted teeth.

perhaps the stinging never did quell; it was just pushed to the back of your mind when more painful things surfaced succeeding it.

“who did this to you, huh? i need to go back there and make them pay! what kind of decent human being would do that?!”

“a miserable woman in a miserable marriage.”

in her eyes, you may be naive and she, the decades old wiser— but who is the one with a lover who would wash not their dirty hands, but their feet that have walked a million miles?

“i feel bad for her.” you comment absentmindedly.

you’re too far deep in awe watching jungkook gingerly clean your bare feet with his hands and a bottle of cool water, doing what you were meant to do earlier, if only granted that you weren’t erupting with rage.

“____, you’re too nice.”

“you’re too nice.” you argue. “also, those shoes are hopeless. just throw them away.”

he glances at you with fondness, shaking his head as he softly pats you dry with a clean towel. you stifle a gasp. it’s no longer as bad as before, but your skin still feels warm and raw. this wasn’t in the job description. you decide that you can practice empathy, as well as your strong belief in karma, at the same time. at this moment, you hope that the universe is already crafting tricks up its sleeve, because you’re in a world of fucking pain.

“there you go. wait until we get off the car before you wear the slippers, alright? and you’re not allowed to wear tight shoes.”

he rises to his feet, not wasting the opportunity to steal a kiss.

“yeah, it was wildly uncomfortable.” you mumble against his lips, tugging at his collar to properly respond to his display of affection. “thank you.”

“wear your seatbelt.” his eyes shines with a glint of with uncontainable excitement. “we’re going home.”

—

you stir as jungkook gently shakes your body awake, his muffled voice gradually becoming clearer as you gain your consciousness.

“wake up, baby. we’re here.”

you tiredly rub off the sleep from your swollen eyes, discovering your boyfriend waiting for you where the door of the passenger seat should be.

“let’s get you some more rest.” he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, before standing aside to make way for you, offering his hand as a gentleman.

you must still be dreaming. you assumed he would bring you to his apartment, but you do not recognize this place. this is a different parking space, a different parking lot.

“um… t-this is…” you stumble on your words, feeling lost. “where are we?”

“home,” he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and turn them into little crescent moons.

you must still be dreaming. the clock attached to a nearby pillar strikes midnight, and unbeknownst to you, a brand new day awaits beyond the dark and empty sky.

you were so thoroughly convinced that you’ve been living a life past the point of salvation… but life stands before you overflowing with hope and glowing with ardor.

you take his hand and allow him to whisk you away to another world.

—

this is beginning to feel real, jungkook thinks as he presses the elevator button. earlier’s excitement becomes interweaved with nervousness. he’s a little dizzy as the giant box ascends. if you feel his hand’s growing clamminess, you don’t show it, your clasp still as firm as before.

“you bought another house…”

“hmm, but this one is a secret.” a confession that is yours truly. “this one is ours.”

your eyes wordlessly speak with each other. neither of you imagined following your hearts could materialize your future plans to the present time. what goes beyond dreaming of beautiful things is still foreign to the both of you, but jungkook is here, willing to free fall with you.

the elevator dings.

he guides you through a well-lit hallway, to a door, and you pay close attention as he punches in the passcode— another set of numbers you ought to have memorized alongside birthdays and anniversaries and id numbers.

your heart races but everything else moves in slow motion. the door opens and you get swallowed by the need to remember every moment so vividly as if you’re reliving it.

the first time you set foot into your own apartment,, the empty space daunted you despite its modest dimensions. however, right now, your head is tracing half of a circle, from left to right, just to study this large space in its entirety— and all you can think about are the endless possibilities forming intimate images of a sanctuary in your head— a place where fears and sadness can co-exist with tenderness and joy.

beside you, jungkook patiently holds your hand.

“this one is ours…” you repeat the words, more so to convince yourself, and they drip with disbelief.

you follow his lead as he walks to the other half of the room, bare feet sliding across the floor.

“this is the living room, and the other side is the kitchen.”

he faces you with a wide grin, the kind he wears when he wants to tell you something he is proud of.

“i was thinking that if we get a big television bolted on the wall…”

he gestures to the blank canvas, letting go of your hand to draw an invisible rectangle on the air with his arms fully outstretched.

“then we can easily watch even from the kitchen.”

he puffs up his chest, side-eyeing you expectantly.

“genius, right?”

“and greedy.” you blink. “i don’t think that’s safe to do while you’re cooking.”

“but i’ll be very, very careful!”

“that’s the bare minimum when you’re holding a knife.”

“okay! i look forward to arguing with you about that on a different day!”

his enthusiasm doesn’t waver. in fact, it is fueled. how could it not? when you’re starting to sound exactly like a couple who lives together?

he captures your wrist and tugs you towards the other side of the room, but you pull him back with a noise of protest.

“are we not going to address…” you hang on to your words, eyes wandering to the floor where there are signs of living. “whatever is going on here?”

a single mattress with a single pillow; a folded blanket neatly sitting on top of it. surrounding them are bottles of water, a laptop, a speaker, and a basket of what you assume are skincare products.

“i’ve been sleeping here lately…”

“i can see that.”

“i didn’t want to buy furnitures yet while you haven’t given me an answer… i just thought that if we’re living together, then we should decide on those things as a couple.”

…he dips down to kiss you. “it was hell without you…”

his teeth captures your bottom lip, nipping at the supple flesh.

“going to build a life with you. i’ll build furniture, and they’re going to be ours.”

jungkook feels your stare. oblivious of your thoughts reigning chaos, he tilts his head in question.

how long has he been planning this?

“you okay?”

you blink away the tears brimming your eyes. you shake your head, clinging to his arm. “where were you taking me?”

“this is the kitchen!”

a smile of contentment graces your lips. you’re guilty of admiring the pure, unadulterated joy on jungkook’s face instead of what he is passionately endorsing to you.

“this is the fridge!” he presents to you, swinging the door open. “but there’s nothing inside.”

“what are you saying? there is something.”

the two of you peer at the green can of soda, chilsung cider, left at a far corner. the refrigerator light casts over your curious faces.

“oh, that’s still there?”

the animated sound of your giggles prompts him to look at you, and he couldn’t be more glad to be laughing with you again, bellies aching at the same time.

“do you want it?”

“it’s not peach.”

“let’s move on then!”

there are cups of ramyeon and packs of dried seaweed on the countertop, the photo of his dinner that he sent last night still vivid in your memory. your hand daintily brushes across the white marble, stealing a feel as jungkook drags you to a new space.

“this is the second kitchen and laundry room!”

he waits for a reaction as you survey the room and its overhead cabinets.

“it’s not supposed to be the pantry…? eh, you know what? cooking and doing laundry are more of your thing so you can have them however you want.”

you turn on your heel to walk away, and jungkook follows behind you, celebrating his victory by punching the air and whisper-shouting a yeah!

“what’s here?”

you reach another hallway beside the living room.

“what’s here?” he zooms past you to open a door. “bathroom. there’s a bathtub! but i still need to install grip bars so no one will slip.”

he needs to stop saying things that make you want to make him your husband on the spot.

“and we have my favorite part! the master bedroom, of course!” he swings the door open on the other side. ���where else would we spend the most time in?”

“wow, really? i thought you were also endorsing the living room as the bedroom.” you jokingly quirk an eyebrow.

“nonsense!” he cheekily chides you. “you deserve better than that.”

you take a step, peeking inside the empty room that you estimate to be as twice as larger than yours. you can’t say that you care so much about its size, because behind the white curtains, you reel at the prospect of the natural light shining over your face every time you wake up. your mornings have been gloomy since you arrived at seoul four years ago.

he sneaks his arms around your waist, your back resting against his chest, and your being feels so light you might just begin floating when he lets go.

“let’s stay like this for a while.”

“okay,” he puts his chin on top of your shoulder, his soft smile becoming permanent.

the two of you stand at the bedroom’s doorway; the cusp of what could be your entire lives.

“what’s that other room?”

“which one?”

“i don’t know. i see it from the side of my eye.”

he cackles at your humorous nonchalance. “i have more to show you. there’s a guest room… if we decide it to be.”

“cute. i have somewhere else to sleep when i’m mad at you.”

“that’s fine,” he replies after a beat of silence. “at least i’d know where to find you.”

“don’t make me change my mind.”

he cries out your name childishly, burying his face by the crook of your neck. he hugs you tighter. he wants to sleep every night drowning in the sweet scent of your hair. if he had to choose, it would be the most peaceful way to go.

“we have a walk-in closet too!”

“i expected nothing less.” you giggle, not a stranger to his lifestyle. “what’s exciting is that we can finally have a big bed.”

“but i like our small beds.”

“cuddling isn’t all that fun during the summer. trust me, you’d eventually want space.”

“nuh-uh! that’s what aircons are for!”

you roll your eyes at his persistence. “then why did you choose such a huge apartment if you wanted a small bed?”

“so we can have all the space to slow-dance to love songs.”

jungkook, ever the charmer. the butterflies in your stomach come alive beneath his embrace.

“why are you suddenly quiet?” he laughs. “was that too cheesy?”

“no!”

“really?” he spins you around, and heat creeps to your cheeks when he leans in so close that you can perfectly distinguish the brown in his eyes. “so have you given it more thought?”

“given what more thought?”

“there’s nothing to be scared of. it’s only the two of us here, see?” he tells you like overeager puppy. “will you move in with me?”

if this is a dream, you wish to never wake up from it. to have a person care for you this deeply and unconditionally, you want to believe that you have done something right to deserve it.

“i just don’t think you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

his eyebrows knit together in defense. “what does that mean?”

“the thing is… yeah, sex 24/7 and cuddling and having first times together, that sounds amazing and all… but living with me would probably drive you crazy.”

a tired yawn almost interrupts the end of your sentence, and you cover your face out of courtesy. you sniffle and wipe your teary eyes with the back of your hand.

“i’ve lived on my own for so long. i’m messy and clumsy and i’m used to having everything my way… i mean… i’m willing to compromise, but i can’t promise i won’t be insufferable as hell about it.”

“ah, seriously! you scared me for nothing!” he exclaims, throwing his head back with a groan. “baby, i’ve been living with six other men for the past decade. you know that there was a time when we even slept together in one small room. can you imagine how that must’ve been like for a bunch of teenage boys…? you? messy? think about it again. living with you can’t possibly get worse than that. you don’t have to worry about me! really, i can take it! watch me!”

“but i bleed every month.”

“i’m a man. seeing a little blood doesn’t faze me.”

you make a face. “it’s actually a lot.”

“yah, why are you acting like we haven’t been together for two years?”

“it’s different living together!”

“it’s only natural! i don’t care!”

a noise of complaint bubbles in your throat when he shakes you by your shoulders, coaxing you with an whiny “please baby.”

your chest deflates in defeat. “sure, i guess… as long as we have the big bed, and the slow-dancing-”

“done!” he doesn’t waste his breath, not keen on wasting this opportunity. “anything you want, you have it!”

you narrow your eyes. “and i’ll keep my tutoring job.”

“will you punch the next guy that insists you study at his dorm for me?”

“or i can just keep saying no firmly, baby boy.”

and with that pet name, he instantly folds. “okay.”

“okay?”

“okay, since that’s the only one that you genuinely like.”

“you-” your teeth unconsciously finds your bottom lip to dig into, and you inhale sharply. “…you really love me, don’t you?”

suddenly, you’re raising your voice and waving your hands in the air. you’re feeling too many emotions at once; it’s like when you mix all the colors in a palette and end up creating black. you’re angry and happy and you may be fucking crying again.

“you were just picking up speakers one night and a pretty stranger offers you some boring food and now you want to be stuck with me forever?”

your fist throws a restrained punch to his chest, shoving him backwards.

“oh my god, you’re so stupid!”

jungkook finds this too amusing, tries to hide that he is enjoying this but a smirk is plastered on his face.

“you are loved by so many,” he brushes away the hair that has fallen over your eyes. he tucks them behind you ears and tenderly holds your face in his warm hands. “but i’m confident that i love you the most.”

you are the muse in his dreams. your perfume clings to his clothes. you make him the happiest man on the planet and your pain torments him. what is this, if not love?

“and if that makes me the stupid one? then so be it.”

“when did it become a competition?”

“since you got yourself a competitive boyfriend!”

“okay, fine! let’s make it my fault!”

you throw your arms around his neck, peppering kisses all over his face until he’s an uncontainable giggling mess.

“i’m drowning in kisses! nobody help!”

and you hope you’re hugging him close enough that he can feel the love and gratitude flowing through your veins. your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh— tranquility triumphs over chaos.

“are you falling asleep standing up again?”

“no!” you blatantly lie, drawing back with innocence masking your drowsiness. “we still need to go online shopping!”

“what are we buying?”

your face lights up. “appliances first?”

“appliances?” he cheerfully says. “sure! let’s get you new shoes too!”

as he gets dragged to the living room where his laptop is, he mumbles something with an enamored expression. “i should keep working hard.”

—

“yah, why are looking at me like that?” jungkook chuckles upon feeling your poorly concealed stare, diverting his attention away from the laptop over his stomach. “i’m the real deal. the tv is over there, on the screen.”

“just because…”

you snuggle closer to his side, heart fluttering when his arm that is your pillow moves to also hold you. you don’t really mind a small bed. this is the most favorable consequence a nuisance could have.

“i feel sorry.”

“sorry? for what?”

“because i made you sad, didn’t i? i hate that so much.” you sniffle, hand coming up to pat his cheek affectionately. “i know it must be hard for you too.”

“you’re the one who’s in a lot of pain.” he means to firmly speak, but the tremble of his voice rudely refuses to cooperate. “how could you even think of me feeling sad?”

“because i love you. of course i always think of you.” you argue, bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “i can’t do that now?”

he sighs. “you know that’s not what i meant.”

a kiss is planted on your forehead— tender and cherishing.

“let’s be happy, baby.”

the sharp edges of jungkook’s fears are eroded in a way. in a universe that relentlessly challenges you to be optimistic, your heart that is well-versed in loving continues to rise above it all.

you echo his words wistfully. “let’s be happy.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

[albondiguilla007]

Pregnant Draco Fics

My guilty pleasure, ngl. Tell me what other ships/tropes you’d like to see.

✨ The Guest / 59k / In consequence of an accidental spell, Harry and Draco's five-year-old daughter is sent ten years into the past, where she meets her teenaged parents. Awkwardness ensues.

Draco’s inner monologue is hilarious, I had so much fun reading his pov. Plus, Molly is adorable.

✨ Essence / 87k / In his sixth year, Draco reaches for the only shard of sanity he can find, and puts his desperate faith into magic, the thing that has always set him apart as a pureblood wizard. The magic he unleashes though, is old, powerful, and maybe even more desperate than Draco himself, to leave an essence of life behind.

The little bump isn't what he needs to carry out his mission, but it might be the thing that saves him.

The pregnancy part is a bit confusing ngl, but later it really pays off. I enjoyed the domesticity of this fic immensely, even if Harry is a bit of an asshole at times. (He gets over it.)

✨ Can’t Fight the Moonlight / 16k / "How is it possible that neither of you thought to pay attention to the moon cycle?"

"It was cloudy," Harry said. "And we were drunk. We were very, very drunk."

"This just gets better," Hermione said.

"How could you have been so stupid?"

"In my defence," Harry said, "I had no idea that I should have been paying attention to the moon cycle. I'm not going to lie, I didn't even know men could get pregnant. It's been like, one long life lesson all round."

Or: the one where Harry accidentally gets Draco pregnant, both of them fail to talk about their feelings, and in the end, there's a baby.

✨ Expectant / 62k / After he accidentally gets Malfoy pregnant on a drunken fuck at a club, Harry doesn't anticipate that it'd be just as easy to fall in love with him.

✨ In Our Blood / 37k / Draco is an accomplished pure-blood curse breaker, and Harry is tasked with accompanying him on his latest job-cleaning up the Van Boer mansion, which has been under a devastating fertility curse for seven generations.

✨ What If When He Sees Me (I Like Him And He Knows It?) / 23k / In the post-war haze, Draco and Harry spent a drunken night together. Two months later, Draco learned that he was pregnant. Harry, though, doesn't remember their night together. And so, Draco decided to keep quiet.

He didn't expect to room with Harry at Hogwarts or to grow close to him, but fate had always had a cruel sense of humour when it came to them, hadn't it?

✨ The Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune / 19k / If Astoria refuses to carry their child, Draco will-which is how he finds himself alone, pregnant, and a patient of Healer Potter's.

✨ The Man Who Forgot / 250k / After ten years of marriage, Harry forgets. The more things change, the more Draco Malfoy is still up to something.

You’re gonna SOB with this fic, but it will be worth it, I promise.

✨ A Star Danced / 65k / Draco Malfoy has the world as his feet.

He's twenty-three, first pick Seeker for Puddlemere United, has brilliant friends and a life he adores.

The very last thing Draco wants is an unplanned pregnancy, especially one where the other father just so happens to be Harry Potter.

Life, however, has other plans for him.

✨ If Wishes Were Children / 14k / Harry Potter has tried to move on with his life after Draco Malfoy walked away from him months before with little or no explanation, but it's been hard. Then, on a joyous day at the Burrow, Narcissa

Malfoy makes an unexpected appearance...

✨ Remember When I Loved You / 112k / When Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for eighth year pregnant, vile rumours start spreading like wildfire. The Daily Prophet is full of wild speculations and outrageous assertions. Professor McGonagall seems to know something, and Malfoy's firm refusal to reveal the other father simply adds more fuel to the flames.

Harry Potter is desperately curious about the identity of the father of Malfoy's child. He feels utterly dumbfounded when an ancient paternal bond activates in the Great Hall, proclaiming him as the father. And what's worse, Draco Malfoy looks just as shocked as he feels.

✨ No One Ever Told Me / 25k / Harry marries Draco to get him out of Azkaban.

Things get weird. And confusing. And then weird some more.

✨ Learn to Fly / 25k / January 2004: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are two of the finest Seekers in England, deadly rivals and secret lovers.

As far as Draco is concerned, that's how it'll stay forever. He is betrothed to beautiful heiress Astoria Greengrass, and they are due to have a big summer wedding.

Everything changes during a hotly fought Arrows versus Wimbourne game when Draco falls from his broom. To his huge shock, when Draco awakes in St Mungo's, he discovers he is pregnant.

What will Draco do, now everything in his tidily compartmentalised life has to change?

✨ Hexed! / 34k / Harry uses the wrong hex, and Draco suffers the consequences.

✨ Luckiest Baby In The World / / "You're staring," Malfoy says.

"I'm not." Harry is. He just - he can't see it.

"You can't see it yet, Potter." Malfoy sounds miffed.

"I'm not trying to," Harry lies, finally tearing his eyes away; he looks out the window in a desperate attempt to get a single thought into his head that isn't what the fuck.

"Look," Malfoy says. "It's not like I'm telling you that you have to be a part of its life. I only-"

"How do you know it's mine?" The question is out of his mouth before

Harry can think better of it, and he immediately regrets it because of the way Malfoy's face shutters, turns cold.

✨ Once and Never Again / 40k / One morning after with his sworn enemy should be enough to warn Draco that he's going down a dangerous path.

But does he learn? Of course not. Month after month, he finds himself returning to Potter's embrace. What is wrong with him?

[astraystayyh]

If the world was ending

Felix x reader. Estranged childhood best friends to lovers. Angst and happy ending. highly recommend listening to If the world was ending while reading :)

Felix has always been there with you, from the moment you've met him when you were 8 years old, until he suddenly no longer was, and you were left to grapple with the consequences of his absence- and those of his return.

cw: description of a car accident, reader has a fear of loud noises.

skz song series masterlist

12 march 2011 

Screeching brakes, a jarring collision, glass shattering all around you, shards of it embedding into your tender skin. You are too young to understand it all, but you know it's bad. You are suddenly upside down, the only thing helping you stay put is the seatbelt fastened around you. You didn't really like seatbelts but your mom always insisted on you wearing one.

Your mom, you can't see her face, she's upside down too, and she isn't talking. That's unusual because you're crying and she isn't turning around to comfort you. Someone is screaming outside of your car, and then you are pulled out. You don't know who's touching you, and you want them to stop. Where is your mom? Why did they not pull her out too?

An ambulance approaches you; its loud sirens feel like pine needles drilling into your skull. You try to cover your ears but your hands are covered in blood. The world around you is painted red- the flashing lights of the sirens and the liquid oozing from your cuts. It’s no longer your favorite color.

27 may 2011 

You are playing in the playground near your home, waving at your mom from the top of the slide. She's gotten better, she smiles more easily at you now. And you are trying to be a good kid too; you help wash the dishes and you clean your room all by yourself. You don't want your mom to feel sad again and go back to that dreaded hospital. 

You slide out, happy giggles leaving your mouth, before climbing up the tiny stairs once again. But as you reach the top, an ambulance rushes by the playground. You don't know what's happening, but you suddenly feel shards of glass on your skin once again. Your hands are shaking as you sit on the floor, curling around yourself in a ball.  

"What's wrong?" someone asks and you lift your head tentatively. It's a young boy, he's looking at you worriedly, a tiny pout on his lips. 

"I don't like ambulances," you hiccup, burying your head in your knees again. 

Suddenly, small hands cover your ears, muffling the shrill sound of sirens. They are warm and sticky from the red popsicle he’s still holding.

"Now you can't hear them," he giggles, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents. Despite your raging fear, a smile finds its way into your lips.

"What's those on your face," you ask with a small voice, pointing at the faint marks dusting his cheeks. 

"They're called freckles," he says proudly and you nod. 

"They're pretty."

"Thank you!" he grins at you, his hands still covering your ears. The tightness in your chest seems to dissipate slowly before his kind smile- the shadows never stood a chance in front of the sun. 

"What's your name?" 

"Felix. And you?"

"Yn." 

"We should be friends," he beams and you grin back, agreeing wholeheartedly. "We should." 

15 november 2021 

You are sitting on the grass of that very same playground, Felix still by your side. The night breeze is cooling as it brushes against your bodies, and you're wearing his red sweater. It smells like his cologne and your perfume- an intoxicating scent you've come to memorize by heart. 

His nose tip is rosy from the cold, and you can't resist tapping it playfully. "Your nose is pink," you giggle, and he smiles, gently bopping yours in return. 

"So is yours."

You look at him as he gazes up at the stars above. You love Felix, it has always been crystal clear to you. From the moment he planted the seed of his friendship into your soul, and throughout the years when it bloomed into something more, bigger than the two of you. It wrapped around your being entirely, binding itself into your every atom, until all you saw is his reflection in you. 

And you were tired of treading the line between friendship and something more. You wanted, no craved being with him, your yearning so intense it spilled from you each time he was around. In rosy cheeks and shaky fingers and eyes that soften only when they rest on him- evidence of your love imprinted all upon you. 

You take in a deep breath, before laying your hand gently on his cheek, turning his face to meet yours. His eyes widen slightly at the soft touch, and you lean in closer to him. You brush your nose against his, slowly, "to warm it up," you whisper, as his breath hitches in his throat. 

He's close, he's so close, you can almost taste the brownies you shared earlier on his lips. You can see his freckles ever so clearly, constellations you often find yourself getting lost in. Your hand is still on his cheek, and you can feel it burning up under your palm. 

You close your eyes, as his lips are now just a breath away from yours. It's electrifying- having him so near to the way you've always dreamed, fantasized about. But he needs to be the one to take the jump, all he has to do is lean in a bit, and you'd kiss him. You won't ever let go. 

"Lixie...," you choke out, "kiss me." 

"I want to." His voice is hoarse with emotion, as if fighting with himself for self-restraint. 

"So do it," you ask, swiping your thumb gently across his cheek. Your breaths mingle with one another in a dizzying dance. 

"I'm leaving," he says so faintly, you believe for a second that you've imagined it. 

"What?" you ask, leaning a bit away to be able to look at him. 

"I'm leaving," he repeats, his eyes tightly shut. "We're moving to another country, for my dad's job." 

"You're leaving me?" you ask, bewildered. 

"I'm not leaving you-"

"But you are. You won't be here anymore." You drop your hand, taking hurried steps away from him. Touching him didn't feel electrifying anymore, it felt horrible and nauseous, because you won't get to do it again. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to-" 

"How long have you known?" 

"Yn..."

"Felix," you say, tone stern. "How long?" 

"Six months," he whispers and a bitter chuckle escapes your lips.

"When are you leaving?"

"In a week." 

The pain becomes unbearable, and you turn your back to him so he wouldn't see your rapidly falling tears. You are angry, as a disguise for the sadness threatening to drown you. Him leaving tasted like the salty water you gulp when you dive in too quickly into the ocean. And you did dive in, in him, in his soul and everything that made up Felix. And now he was leaving you, with no anchor to help you float again.

"Is that why you insisted on spending so much time with me lately? Because you were leaving?" 

"You need to understand I didn't know how to tell you, I- I don't even know who I am without you." He pleads, his own eyes shimmering with unshed tears, reminding you of tiny diamonds. That's how it is with Felix, you found beauty in everything he did- even tearing your heart in half. 

"Maybe you should've thought of how I would feel. You were thinking of leaving me while I..." Your voice breaks and you take a shaky breath.  "While I was falling in love with you." 

"I'm in love with you too," he quickly says, reaching out to hold your hand. "I love you, I always have." He's wrapping his arms around you, and you're letting him because it feels safe and secure. Because he’s still your Felix, even if he's leaving you behind. 

You wonder what you must have done in a past life, what a horrible person you could've been for the universe to treat you this cruelly. To hand you everything you've ever wanted in a silver platter, and snatch it from your hands before you could dare to grab it. 

"We'll make it work," he mumbles into your hair, placing a tender kiss on your temple. "We'll talk and we can be together."

"No, we can't. I'll just hold you back from living your new life, I can't have that." 

"Don't talk like that, please," his voice wavers, words barely managing to slip out of his mouth. Regret overtakes your body so suddenly at the thought of his lips- you shouldn't have tried to kiss him. Maybe then he wouldn't have told you he was leaving. 

"It's the truth. we'll grow to hate each other, distance will put a strain on us. I'd rather not talk to you than have you resent me." 

"But-"

"Just hold me," you cut him off. "As if nothing's happening, please." 

And he complies because Felix always does. Because he loves you and as much as he doesn't want to, he knows you're right. 

•••••

It's been three months since Felix left- the days passed by agonizingly slowly, and yet the months went by in a blur, a hauntingly vivid reminder of what once was. At first, the texts between you two were frequent, but as time wore on, the messages grew sporadic, from your end, mostly. Seeing him flourish in his new life felt like salt on an open wound, a reminder that he was moving on while you were still anchored in memories of him. 

You saw him in every corner of your city. The smell of brownies that he's made countless times, each time you felt sad. The way he kissed your cheek each time he won a game, while you were lying on his bed, bored. The way he hugged you whenever you were sick, gently tucking strands of your hair behind your ear. The way he covered your ears instinctively at each loud noise, knowing how scared it made you still. 

And you've felt each of these emotions since he was gone. You were sad and bored and sick and happy and scared. And he wasn't here with you through them. Each moment away from Felix seemed to magnify what could have been- what should have been between the two of you.

There is a building construction next to you, loud cement blocks crashing to the ground. And you are curled around yourself in a protective ball, covering your ears with your hands, because Felix isn't here to do it anymore for you. 

You and Felix have grown with one another, your soul carefully woven into his, like two threads intricately stitched into the same tapestry. Him leaving felt like half of your body was cut off from you, and you were left alone to figure out how to function with an incomplete heart. 

17 july 2023 

Summer break meant coming back home and sleeping in your childhood bedroom once again. Memories of Felix still lingered in there- posters he has given you and his red sweater that you've never found the courage to throw away. It doesn't hurt as much to remember him, the sharp pain morphed into a dull ache you've grown accustomed to by now. 

You're watching the TV mindlessly when someone knocks on your door, and you go to open it without a second thought, expecting it to be your parents. It wasn't.

"Felix?" you stammer, stumbling back in shock. You blink repeatedly, in a desperate attempt to make sure he's not a figment of your twisted imagination. You haven't uttered his name in so long, and the syllables felt both foreign and familiar in your mouth. 

"It's me," he smiles sheepishly, his hand scratching the back of his neck. 

"You are here," you whisper, stating the obvious. He didn't change much, his kind brown eyes and freckles still as captivating as before. But his features were sharper, prettier, and the sight of him is making you dizzy once again. 

"I am." 

"What are you doing here?" You ask cautiously, opening the door a bit wider to let him in. 

"I requested a transfer to your university. I wanted to come back. I missed home, and I missed you," he adds softly, making a turmoil of emotions surge within you. 

You clear your throat. "So, you are back for good?" 

"I am," he says, smiling slightly at you as if to gauge your reaction. You stay silent and his grin falters; his tongue resting against the inside of his cheek, a habit he hasn't let go of apparently. He then walks to the kitchen and you follow suit. You don't have to show him around, he knows your home like the back of his hand. He spent most of his childhood here after all, even though his house was only a few blocks away. 

"How have you been?" he asks as he opens the cupboard to take out a glass. He closes its door softly, careful not to make it thud. 

"I'm good. It's summer break so I'm finally back home, what about you?"

"I'm good too. It's nice to be back." 

Your conversation is strained and awkward, so unnatural of you both. There was so much to say, so much to ask about, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak. He felt like uncharted territory to you now, one you didn't have the strength to discover once again.

"It's your mom's birthday tomorrow, right?" he smiles and you nod. 

"Should we make her our cookies? Like we used to before I..." 

"Before you left," you finish, bitterness dripping from your tone.

Hurt flashes in his eyes and you feel your heart suddenly clench in your chest. It was unfair for you to treat him this way. He was only seventeen and if your parents were to move away you would've followed them too. 

"Okay, let's do it." You smile sincerely for the first time since he came back to you. 

You both move seamlessly in the kitchen, each knowing your tasks like a choreographed dance. This was a tradition that started when you were twelve years old. You'd brown the butter while he beat the egg and sugar together. He'd sift the flour while you cut up chocolate. He'd mix it all while you preheat the oven. And then you'd roll the dough together. 

Your hands brush against one another as you shape up the cookies, and it feels so intense you almost drop to the floor. You miss him, you miss him so much and he's near you and you can't seem to think straight anymore. 

When the cookies are finally in the oven, he silently washes the dishes while you dry them. He abruptly pauses, hands still covered in soap before turning back to you. 

"Can we talk? Please?" he says too quickly as if he's been overthinking asking this question. 

"I'm busy today," you scramble to think of an excuse, you weren't ready to face him yet. 

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm staying with my mom, then there is Han’s party."

"I'll be there too. We can talk then, please?" he asks, eagerness evident in his voice. 

"Fine. Let's talk there," you concede and he nods, awkwardly shifting in his place. He finishes the dishes before drying his hands. You avoid his gaze and he sighs softly. "I'll get going. Tell your mom happy birthday from me." 

"Will do." You smile tightly and he does the same, before finally leaving your home, and in his trail, a maelstrom of emotions you weren't certain how to deal with.

18 july 2023 

You're at the reunion party Han is hosting with all your high school friends. You watch as Felix takes turns talking to everybody. He fits right in here, a puzzle perfectly clicking in place as if he's never left. He's telling a joke to Chan who laughs loudly, hitting Minho's arm repeatedly. Everyone is happy he's back, because they never had to gravel with the consequences of his absence. Because he's never ripped their heart out. 

Felix is looking for you around the room- he hasn't seen you in a while. He assumes you're somewhere around the house, and that you'd like to talk when time has passed. The knot in his stomach tightens as the weight of your conversation dawns on him, he longs to be with you, to undo the past two years he has spent away from you. But he's afraid to mess everything up, once again, so he stays near his friends who are now pulling him outside of the house.

"We have a surprise for you," Han says excitedly before pointing at the sky, "look." 

Fireworks, a dazzling show of blue, red and yellow. And Felix feels as if the colors were drained out of his face and splattered into the night sky before him.

"Where is yn?" he turns to Chan, eyes wide.

"Inside, I think. Why?"

"Stop- stop this, don't start any more fireworks," he urges the boy who's looking at him worriedly. 

"Why, what's wrong? We have a warrant to start them, don't worry."

"No, no you don't understand. Yn hates loud noises," he explains frantically, before bolting inside the house. 

He's yelling your name, and you are nowhere to be found, the sound of the fireworks so loud he isn't even sure you can hear him. 

He opens door after door, and after painstakingly long seconds he finally finds you in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, your head buried in your knees. Just like you were twelve years ago. 

Felix doesn't waste any time, kneeling in front of you to cover your ears with his hands, you look up at him, waterline brimming with unshed tears. 

"It's okay, I'm here. Just focus on my voice," he smiles reassuringly at you, and you clasp your hands on top of his, doing your best to muffle the sound of the explosions. 

"Your hands are still small," you attempt to joke, as hot tears trail down your cheeks. You hated how scared you still were. 

"The perfect size to cover your ears," he smiles at you, his eyes softening when they take in your distressed state. 

You hiccup, overcome by a new wave of emotion- for an entirely different reason this time. "You came." 

"I'll always come. Even if the world was ending, I'll... I'll come to you," he smiles, biting his lower lip to stop his own tears from falling. 

"It'd be useless if you came then. There would be nothing for us to do," you manage to say through shaky breaths. 

"But I'd be with you," he insists, gaze unwavering, "It will be scary for you. I imagine it will be loud, the world can't end silently." 

"Mine did, when you left." Felix's eyes go wide at your words, and you don't care that you are baring your soul entirely to him. "Please don't leave me again. I hate goodbyes with you." 

"Why would we ever say goodbye again, hm?" he reassures, his knuckles brushing against your cheek softly. "I'm never leaving you, as long as you'll have me, I'm here," he whispers, before pulling you into his chest.

Your hands find his back, and his cheek rests on top of your head. And you both close your eyes, an exhale of relief leaving you both at the same time. The world grows dark around the two of you, the only thing you saw was his heart and the overflowing love he still bore for you.

You felt as if you were wandering blind and you could finally see again, as if the string tying you to him wrapped tightly around the both of you, trapping you in his warm embrace.

You don't know what will happen next, but he's holding you now, and he'll hold you when the world is ending, and that is enough.

[cutieeva]

Koi No Yokan

恋の予感とは、初めて会った人に対して、まだ恋に落ちていないが、いずれ愛に発展する運命を感じること。

❛ 恋の予感 ❜

𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐮𝐣𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐮 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧

Female Reader

𝐓𝐡��� 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 : 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐

"Hello everyone, I am your new literature teacher. (Y/N) (L/N), Hopefully we will have a wonderful year together". (Y/N) finish with a smile on her lips. The blood rush roaring beneath her skin from nervous and fear, watching each collage students visage. Some with snickering curl up their lips, others laid their cheek on their folded palm and few grinning ear to ear.

She likes the smiley ones, they are nice enough to hide their implusive thoughts and the way sun rays shone behind them seem like angels with wide smile that has that reputation to not ruin by saying fleeing bad remarks about teachers reassures her. 

"Well, let's begin. Shall we ?" A thousand phantom needles dance beneath her skin, an invisible swarm that prickle from the crown of her head to the tips of her trembling fingers. It took her a breath—then another—to realize the sensation was her imagination of the oppressive feeling from dozens of students eyes.

A clawing rose in her chest—a primal, animal thing that raked at her ribs, desperate to drag her down into the thick, black water of the melancholy she’d barely escaped. She could have sunk, willingly. But, she refuse. She clench to that final shard of self-control with her fingers gone white and stiff. One hand hid behind the wooden desk, its edges smooth and forgiving, as she curl it into a fist so tight her nails carve crescent moons into her palm. She long for the sting, for the bite of pain to anchor her—but no blood came. Just pressure. Silent punishment.

And still—she smile. A grin not too wide, nor too narrow. A calculated curvature of lips rehearsed to look unforced. Friendly. Approachable. Happy.

"The poems was written by...". Her blossom lips were shaping into the sentence she was speaking, clear alphabet once curl her lips, another wide open and sometimes darting the little red tongue out to stroke the bottom lip only to hidden away. "It was from the time when he first felt love for someone, as a man does for a woman. It was so unnatural to him, so new… he couldn’t understand it. Not at first. But once he did, it changed him. He began to dedicate the seasons to her—each turning leaf, each thawing snow—he saw her in all of it. In every shift of the world, he found her". His eyes finally above his resting gaze from her lips with words dancing over his head to her eyes. They sparkle in those dark hue, not the way sun does rather of how stars does in abyss. Dim a little, almost untraceable if not searched enough.

He doesn't know why his attention wasn't confine to her lecture or the book below him. Instead to the figure speaking them. Strange it is.

Megumi’s fingers move with a quiet, aimless restlessness. The end of his ballpoint pen hovers near the pad of his thumb, then slowly makes contact—pressing down with a steady, deliberate weight. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to dimple the skin, to leave a shallow impression. The plastic tip settles there, unmoving.

His gaze is distant, unfocused, yet his hand remains occupied—applying just enough pressure to feel it. Not pain. Not even discomfort. Only presence. A sensation grounded in the soft give of flesh beneath the pen.

"Unfortunately his reality didn't end happily because at that era who he fell for was a older divorced woman while he was a young lad. She despite attracted to him couldn't accept in shame and he desperately only yearned for her that he died alone without ever marrying or loving anyone else apart from that woman". Sigh pass through her and sorrow bleed into her that for some reason irritates him. Terribly so he look below.

Then she begin to utter the poems in her sweet voice he thought she was singing, looking like a doll and eyes immersed more into her own world of words than the class. It feast a green feeling within him.

"Okay, any questions ?" A female student, long midnight hair pulled in ponytail raise her hand.

"Yes, you". Megumi’s breath catches mid-inhale, suspended. The quiet tapping of his pen halts instantly, stilled by something far louder: the thunderous beat of his heart. It pounds against his ribcage, each thud louder than the last, drowning out the world.

"Mam, you mentioned the man's name but never his first love's name. What's her name ?" Ah, a gust of air breeze from his lips, few seconds rounding his cheeks before remaining the same and again he could feel the cool breeze not the blaze summer in this spring. It wasn't him she was seeing.

A hallow twist inside him he couldn't understand. Nothing today is.

"Well, because he never wrote the woman's name. All we know how he address her as spring because they meet at this beautiful cherry blossom season". Her pair of eyes glide to the window, more to the pink branches cheery perk in their glory. She loves them. He could tell by the soften gaze.

"Anyone else ?" She ask, no one raise their hands and the class ended. She took her belongings and step away, the wind blew her a kiss, fluttering her strand of hair away he felt warm. Too warm when the icy palm connect to his warmful cheek a chill crawl into his spine.

"Hey ! What are doing ?" He lightly slap away the cold hand of yuji who pout, tilts his head.

"Checking if your blushing face feels as warm as the color". The sentence earns a sharp glare.

"I am not blushing". His face even and voice steady.

"You are". Yuji repeats. Megumi roll his eyes around, press his lips thin and decide to not speak meaningless words.

━━━━━━━━

"So, are you fitting well ?" Sensei Gojo ask, air of confident flowing around him, she wishes she bears as well. She did, not anymore. "Oh ! I wanted to ask you, why did you transfer here so suddenly because I heard in your previous school you were the most liked teacher ?" His crook his eyebrow and she almost stop in her walking side by side him.

Her lips are tightly close, she couldn't bear open to him and tell the unpleasant truth. It was a shameful and doubtful one that sounds more a lie scrabbled over the truth when it's the other way around.

"Oh ! Megumi-Chan !" A distraction came swift and unbidden. Gojo's attention shift effortlessly, and hers follow, gaze landing on the dark-haired boy standing ahead. Gunmetal eyes met hers—startle it was, perhaps, though the moment was too brief to trust. A trick of the mind, she thought, another fragment of misplaced perception.

"Chan?" The word left her lips before she could still it.

Gojo hum in delight, already falling into step beside the boy, his hand settling over his shoulder with easy familiarity. There was no flinch, no tension, no betrayal of surprise on the younger's.

"He's my son."

The words settle heavy between them. Her gaze flitter from one face to the other, searching for a resemblance, for some quiet proof of the claim. But it was not recognition that shaped her expression—it was something closer to disbelief.

"They look nothing alike". She murmur on her own and noticing Gojo's guffaw and megumi's clench jaw realization sink in (Y/N). "Oh. I am sorry". She bow, movements precise, practiced. The tilt of her head sent strands of hair cascading forward, baring the delicate curve of her neck to the molten glow of the dying sun. The warmth brush against her skin.

His adam apple roll down along the tiny ripple of his saliva reach his ears he find unlikeable.

"It's alright. He is adopted that's why". The female teacher nod. "Tell me, Megumi-chan. How far you are liking her teaching ?" The corner of his mouth curve, an unmistakable provocation. He was humored by his own game, but his student refuse to indulge him. With a dismissive shove, Megumi brush past, unbother, forging ahead without sparing him a glance.

As he pass her, the air between them grew taut. Their shoulders near—too close—but before contact could be made, she shift, withdrawing into herself, severing even the possibility of touch.

"Huh ? Strange… he never neglects formalities with teachers.” Gojo blink, head tilting in mild perplexity, the rare fissure of genuine confusion cracking through his otherwise insouciant demeanor.

"He dislike me". She thought.

━━━━━━━━

"So, I am leaving this fill up part for homework ! Hope you all do it correctly !" Groans and complains surround the walls of her class and despite the mundane negativety, her chest rose and fell happpily. She missed this, dearly for three years and it's wonderful to be back to her second home. She loves teaching, her first thought begin for new ways to teach and end writing down in a journal she decide to keep after that incident.

Giggy fingers buzz in warmth, excited to unfold the shapes of books in order to flip them, feel the crisp page and tender edges of them in front of another set of students. Showering the students her insights and indulge in it. Her feet quick to march to her another class escaping the eyes of a student glued to her figure.

━━━━━━━━

"Submit your homework here". Standing behind her desk, she welcome the students with a warm morning and her open hand point to the one resting on another notebooks, sized in perfect manner with it's spines in line on top of desk. All the students did when entering the class, eyes gleam with surprise yet actions docile at the order. 

That's when the spiky fuchsia head man named she learnt Yuji come along his friend, Megumi. The energetic one (Y/N) notice not only submit one notebook but two. One that belong's to Megumi from the name written on it. Her brows furrow, slight confusion in it as her line of gaze flicker to the man in question sitting right in front of her, the first bench with white earphones dove into his earbuds.

"Is he avoiding me ?" Curious. She walk to him. His gaze rest on his desk when a tender (S/C) palm fold in fist come into his view, knock twice on the hard object to gain his attention that he has a bad hunch of. So bad hunch, he swallow and with hesitation meet the ones he is desperately trying to forget.

Her same palm retreat and point towards her own empty ears and sign to take his earphones off. "Class is about to begin". His eyes shamefully fell on those lips again that he quickly avert to her eyes. The way her satisfied curve that softens the edges of her face, creasing the skin at the corners of her smile for some reason scares Megumi of how hard his heart pound against his bones.

She turn around and start the class, a class that he once could focus on, not anymore because of how uncontrollable his eyes inch by inch only glue to her figure, from her mole/freckles/bare skin to her dress that wrap around her waist to her end of hair stray behind her shoulder once only to return on front and the two unclasps buttons revealing a little bit of teasing skin to her palms shaping to flow with her words unconsciously.

It is hypnotizing. So much so he simply lower his gaze to his own notebook and write her words that so easily feels like a balm to his soul.

"The flowing breeze would mean in this sentence.." Her sentence continue with her eyes falling on megumi. His dominate palm noting her words however his cheek rest on his back of other palm prompted on table, his lips pressed in thin line still commanded yet his face nearly hidden in the shadow of his hair never once look above apart from the start of class. If she recalls correctly.

For long stretching minutes her eyes stay on him before moving to the entire bunch.

Soon the class come to an end and she knows one thing. He never looked up towards the board despite her writing important notes that may come to exam.

━━━━━━━━

Few clouds clot the dusty blue sky welcoming the sun to shine it's brightest glory, lit the world up at the same time warm the fragile humans too much some carries umbrella for shelter and others from the bus stand so is (Y/N) holding her purse and standing inside the shed of the rather crowded bus stand waiting for her destined bus to arrive.

Her head titled lazily, watching in daze the various vehicles running to their little worlds she wish to return hers fast. Her eyes then caught glimpse of a familiar ink messy head stand on the otherside of the stand and before her eyes further gaze the man, buzzing bus arrive loudly screeching on the road stealing her attention and feet on it's own accord hurry to be inside.

"Thank god, it came fast". A relieve sigh breath out, her fingers grip the door handle to climb inside and her feet quicker than the passengers behind her to sit on the seat, holding the strap of her purse to keep on her lap but a elder man nuged her arm causing the purse to slip on the floor. Panic pump her mind of thousands careless people's feet crushing her possession she bend down empty the seat to pick the bag further from her reach in her previous sitting position.

Suddenly a hand pear through her vision from the side wore a watch on it's wrist held her purse and hand her over. "Thank you. Thank you very much." The gratitude spill from her lips, a reflex more than thought. But when she look up, the words falter.

Megumi.

His expression mirror her own—wide-eyed, momentarily struck still. But only for an instant. His gaze flicker downward, drawn to the point where their fingers met, where the warmth of touch linger too long. A muscle in his jaw flex, his grip tightening. And then, as if the contact burn, his fingers uncurl. The purse drop between them with a muted thud, its fall oddly deliberate and he stand up to seize a seat for him to sit.

"What the ?" Brows narrow together tightly in confusion as she pick up her purse and stand up too late to find all seats occupied leaving her to stand in front of her student. A peculiar one who strangely seem to dislike her.

Holding the handholder, her knees graze to his for a mere second filling a flicker of unease pass through his face, subtle but there, betraying itself in the slight downturn of his lips, the restless motion of his fingers curling against his knee. He exhale through his nose, head tipping back against the window.

Again her knees bend to meet his because of people passing behind her. Restless prickles underneath his skin.

Again they brush, her warm bleeding through him by his thin cloth infecting his irritation to spread outside to his feet to rock itself back and forth.

Again. She sigh uncomfortably of the people pushing her while him, pursuing his lips with anger.

The bus finally rolled to move before a pause so did his mind aware of his feet rocking put it to stop.

(Y/N)'s (E/C) eyes went near him but his gaze remains fixed on the world outside the window. The scenery blurs past, a fleeting mosaic of colors, but his mind isn’t there. His head rests against the cool glass, the pressure gentle, as if he’s trying to escape—to imagine himself somewhere, anywhere, but here.

(Y/N)'s mind revisit the strong reaction of her student and the seed of question only grow more intensely of why he hates her. Or the very least dislike her enough to go as far as to not help her the moment he recognize her ?

Her eyes glance around the busy people. The two aged woman drowsily on either side of megumi and others on their phones. "Megumi-San". She softly calls out.

He heard. His eyes wide slightly and breath stop for seconds and the breeze suddenly become hotter and his throat moist.

He didn't react further, didn't look nor dare glance.

"Megumi-San ?" She calls again. Her teeth press into the inside of her cheek, gnawing with frustration, as her eyes flicker over him, studying every small shift of his being. She knows he hears her, She sees his ears, those delicate markers of his awareness, betray him, flicking upward, betraying his feigned ignorance.

Once again looking around she part her lips, debting whether to speak or not and her implusive curiosity won. "Why do you dislike me ?"

Now his brows knitted. No, he doesn't hate her. Wrong, he doesn't hate her. Not at all. It just.....he only feels irritated and uneasy.

Finally his eyes meet her. In a glare. Not the unkind (Y/N) had to be used of rather it resembling of a caution cat more than anything.

The bus jerks to a sudden halt, the force of it throwing her body forward, an involuntary swing that catches her breath. Her hand reaches out instinctively, fingers curling tightly around the metal handhold, desperate to steady herself against the chaos of motion. The shock of the stop pulses through her veins, a sharp spike of panic that flares across her skin, and as though the tension in her spine infects him.

His body shifts, his hands grip her waist— his fingers dig into the soft curve of her, pressing so deeply it’s as if he wants to sink into her, to melt into the pliability of her skin, until the fabric between them is the only barrier left. The pressure intensifies, the cloth of her shirt stretching tight, as if he seeks to erase the last trace of distance, of separation.

"Excuse me". A lady says, pushing (Y/N) to go out with others. The crowd stirs, the moment of quiet intimacy between them rupturing like a fragile bubble.

Megumi is snap from the trance of her presence, the weight of her warmth still clinging to him, like a phantom touch he cannot shake. His body trembles slightly, nerves alive with the lingering echo of her proximity. His hands, still trembling from their hold on her waist, release her with a quiet struggle, fingers slowly loosening their grip as though the very act of letting go costs him a part of himself.

He stands and moves closer, drawn to her like the pull of the tide, but a strange, unsettling fear grips his chest. His heart beats like thunder, each thrum threatening to expose the chaos within him. He is afraid she will hear it—this desperate, frantic rhythm that speaks of something more than mere proximity.

She looks up, just slightly, her gaze finding his in a delicate, fleeting moment, like a soft brush of wind against the skin. He gaze at her.

"I believe you shouldn't be a teacher". He replied. The line of his mouth harden and the firmness colored his voice a gray cold. Then he walk away from her. Not waiting for her reaction nor voice.

Leaving the teacher in wonder of what he meant by that ? Did her past finally ruined her present that even a fellow student could see it ? Is she still no good ?

The bus lurches forward, its engine growling low, pulling her from the haze of thought. Through the glass, she caught a glimpse of him, his back rigid, unmoving. And then, as the bus carried her away, he was gone. Megumi watch it go far from the tail of his eyes and bend down, palms cover his face.

"Fuck it !" He doesn't know what possessed him to say it. The green monster feastering or what.

━━━━━━━━

The sky hangs heavy, a reflection of the mood that wraps itself around him—gloomy, suffocating. The light blue of the day sinks slowly, swallowed by the deep, unforgiving blue of the ocean’s belly, a color so dark it seems to devour the light. Even the sun, yesterday's bold and sharp, cowers behind the thick, oppressive blankets of clouds that loom above, threatening to break open and spill their heavy weight at any moment. The air is thick with the promise of a storm, yet it lingers in suffocating stillness, a quiet tension building with each passing second.

Megumi clears his throat, at the tick of clock, before a subtle rhythm in the background, now grows louder, each second stretching into an eternity that presses against his chest. It’s like a drumbeat in his ears, urging him, forcing him to look—to look at the empty desk in front of him, where Miss (L/N) should be.

Her absence is a weight, a silent scream in the hollow space between him and her. The desk sits there, untouched, as if mocking him with its emptiness. The clock ticks on, merciless, and the seconds stretch like an endless expanse of ocean—deep, dark, and unyielding.

Tik. Tock.

The salty water is now dancing on the ground, pit pat. Pooling around playfully around any objects if step into the puddle and Megumi wants to drown on it. "Why did I insult her ? Why the fuck did—". His berates stop at the pair of steps following her voice. That soft nightingale.

"Good morning students. I am extremely sorry for my late arrival due to the traffic jam and the rain". His eyes flicker to her little round soaked drops on the coat's shoulder and the glinting ends of her ponytail.

A relieve like no other spill over his heart unclasping all the rigid nerves, clenching furrow and that suffocating regret chewing on his mind.

She open her book, holding the marker and connect to the white board writing away like any other day. Pretending nothing and meeting his eyes with that sweet smile that has no motives behind.

He couldn't understand. Why is she not asking anything ? Scolding ? Insulting ? So he waited. He waited leading the class to end. He waited to see his friends and other students go away.

He still is waiting when (Y/N) shut the fat book blowing a air and hold it to walk away finally causing him to stand on his feet. "Miss (L/N)". He calls her for the first time. She turn, surprise evident and nods for him to speak.

"Why aren't you scolding or—". Agitation itch his mind to look away, avert his gaze when her heat of gaze could he feel. "— or". He repeats unable to really say like a childish boy. His eyes focusing on any objects, lips parting and closing when he felt her come closer.

Her sugary coated perfume stick to his nose settling him in a strange calmness. He isn't the one to like sweetness but this is just light enough for him. Good enough.

"Are you asking related to what happen yesterday ?" He nods, his eyes refuse to meet her, her voice sweet to chuckle. A genuine one that anyone can trust. "Well, because I think I do deserve to be a teacher". He look at her. The small curve of her lips widen and his eyes couldn't help follow the notion soaring to her eyes again.

"Let me tell you why I became a teacher." A flicker of warmth illuminated her eyes, as though she were gazing into a cherished memory. "And it’s certainly not to teach students like you". A quiet, sheepish smile softened her expression, yet a hint of wistfulness lingered. "I fell in love with stories, with poetry—the kind of love that makes you ache. Once, I told this endless love to the teacher who made me fall in love with literature and he told me, ‘If you wish to be forever buried in books, why not become a teacher? No one is greater in this role than the one who loves words more than paychecks, who breathes stories rather than just teaches them.’

She finished with the same gentle smile he had seen at their first meeting.

"That’s it ?" Perplexity cloud his face as he tilt his head.

"That’s it." She nod, her lips curling into a playful, knowing smile.

"Not the usual speech about loving to teach students ? No grand backstory ?" She shake her head and he found it adorable. Adorable ? His brows knitted at the strange word choice.

Noticing his reaction, she raised a brow. "Did that make you see me in a different light ?" Megumi thought for a moment, then shake his head. No, it wasn’t that. It was something else—something inexplicably familiar, like an old sensation stirring in his chest now.

"Well," she continued, "I became a teacher for myself. I believe I deserve it because I love this job. When you love something so much that you can’t bear to let it slip away—when that love turns obsessive, possessive—then isn’t it only right to claim it ?"

Her words linger in the air.

"Then are you happy in it ?". Her expression shift. His eyes caught the hesitation, saw the tighten blades on her neck. For a moment he thought she would leave wordlessly or smile back only but she replies. "I am now". She whisper, a tremble in her words— a flinch of her tongue.

Now. What a odd wording that reside his mind even after she return her rayful smile and walk away with grace. "So, was she unhappy before ?" He questions.

━━━━━━━━

"Good morning". She greets holding the books of her class. "Good morning". She bow her head to the second student passing in the hallway. "Good morning". To the next one. The soles of her heel shoes tap the cool stones of the university and her head only eyeing her below after greeting the upcoming students and regretting the choice of heels that throbbing her toe spreading the disease up her calfs.

"Good morning". The man's voice was fleeting but familiar though vaguely so and for a moment as brief as it was, her gaze broke away from herself to Megumi behind and with a budding smile she greet back, her sour mind somehow smooth, cheery than before.

And the line of smile only waned by the weight of her body solely on her uncomfortable heels but it resume back it's length on her face and her fingers curl tightly to her books pressed on her chest.

His gaze drop, catching the telltale flush of her reddened toe where the shoe bit too cruelly into soft skin. His mouth press into a straight line. He look ahead again, expression unmove, though a quiet dampness settle over his mood, heavier than before.

━━━━━━━━

Balancing the weight of the stacked notebooks in one hand, he shift them slightly in their heft before freeing his other palm. With the back of his knuckles, he struck the door twice in quick succession. The wood groaned beneath the impact, a dull, reluctant sound.

"Come in."

At her word, he press the door open and step inside, his gaze flickering toward her face. There was no sweetness clinging to his gums, no lingering syrup at the back of his throat, but something in him slacken, uncoiled. The rigidity in his chest ease, the weight of his breath lighten. It was not warmth, not quite, but the sensation coursed down his throat like a thing thick and heady, settling somewhere deep—something almost giddy pooling beneath his tongue.

Her pen trace swift, deliberate strokes across the paper, red ink circling, numbering. At his presence, her eyes lift, and a small grin touch the corner of her lips—a fleeting thing, no deeper than the surface. “ Thank you.”

Empty and airy his hands become, and in their absence, his fingers twitch idly at his sides. His gaze wonder, slipping across the office with the quiet aimlessness of a thing unmoored. It drift first to the window beside her, where the sun hung golden against the pale sky, then—inevitably, inexorably—back to the singular presence that anchored his thoughts. (Y/N). The unwelcome fixation. The object of a quiet, unusual unrest. The sightline he traced, without fail, day after day.

Her fingers brush against her neck, tucking aside the stray wisps of hair that clung to dampen skin. A thin bead of moisture curved along the slope of her throat, lingering at the hollow of her collarbone—unhurried, savoring its descent—before it slip beneath the fabric of her blouse and vanished from sight.

His breath thicken.

“What happened?”

The words pull his gaze sharp to the wall. He will his voice to steady, to level out, but the stiffness at the back of his throat did not abate.

“Aren’t you going back to class?”

“I am.”

He let his focus anchor once more to the window, fixing it there with an iron resolve. When he left, he did not look back. Not as the door groaned shut behind him. Not as his spine met the solid frame, his breath spilling quiet and slow between his fingers as they laced over his face.

His mind unravel the past, tracing the seams where their paths had woven together, day after day of how she been quiet, uncertain—hesitant in the way she moved through the corridors, her presence slipping between shadows, careful not to linger too long in the light now time had touched her, coaxed something new from beneath her skin. Now, she walked with a languid ease, shoulders kissed golden by the sun, her voice threading through the air without falter.

He has noticed. Every moment. Every step. Every insolent inch of growth.

His tongue rolled against the ridge of his molars, slow and contemplative, the press of muscle a measured weight against his cheek. He exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking downward, where the nameplate gleamed in the low light. Her name.

His long fingers hover just above the surface, it's shadow skim the metal, touching it easily unlike him. the heat of his skin near enough to stain, but never making contact. Never closing the distance.

The thought curled tight in his chest, a coil of tension unspent. His hand withdrew, folding back into his palm as he turned, the steady cadence of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of the empty hall.

𝑻𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅

It was supposed to be a one-shot, but I decided to stretch it into two parts and let it develop with a slow burn.

[coldbronzemoon]

And Now We're Back to Get Some More

A fic for @aroace-get-out-of-my-face 's fic "A Good Day to Die (Again)".

I just want these sadsacks to have a good time on their mini-road trip. This can be found on Ao3 too.

There was a lull in conversation in the car. It was not the first, and probably won’t be the last. Ford was grateful to have Stanley here in the car with him—so, so grateful, if whatever being that caused the time loop, should they exist, ever revealed itself to him he’d do whatever it demanded with no questions—but filling silence for multiple hours straight was still a tall task.

Both their voices were a bit raspy five hours in. Stan was still driving; Ford tried to persuade his brother to let him take the wheel on account of the bad bruise on Stan’s arm from being tackled to the ground during their reunion, but Stan stalwartly refused.

So Ford was in the passenger’s seat with the map, watching the cusps of trees on the side of the highway grow into woods and forests the further north they traveled. It was a pretty sight, most of the drive. He didn’t have the chance to admire it while he was driving down south dozens of times.

His heart jolted in his chest, thinking of the last week. The many last weeks. He looked at Stanley, for a second utterly convinced that the loop would reset and Ford would wake up and scream himself hoarse for a minute because dammit, he did it, he did it, don’t fucking take this from him and steal a car and drive and drive and drive and make it to the casino just to see Stan get shot through the head—

But Stanley was there, one hand on the wheel and the other arm braced on the rolled-down window like a trucker. There wasn’t any blood or bone fragments or brain splatter. He was just sitting there, squinting out at the road. He probably shouldn't be squinting, they weren’t facing the sun at the moment. 

He opened his mouth, intending to ask about that. But he happened to look out the window at the sky, and it was the time of the year that the moon was visible in the sky in the day, and his brain leapt from the moon, to the stars, to the smoggy, dark canopy of sky over Glass Shard Beach, to them as children giving up on the real sky and looking at star charts instead.

“Tell me about Castor and Pollux,” he said.

It had been an old… not game, exactly, but an old pastime. The two of them had both liked Greek mythology when they were younger—for Stan it had mostly been an interest in the wars and magical powers and warriors with swords, but he suffered Ford’s interest in other parts of the mythology too. Ford would tell him all about a god, and Stanley would remember it. 

Then he’d tell the tales he learned back to Ford. He was much better at making them proper stories than Ford, who always talked about things like a series of facts. Stanley made them fun.

When had their last round of myths been told? Ford thought it might’ve been around thirteen. Stan had braces then, and Ford hadn’t gotten his yet. He thought that his last recollection of Stanley telling Greek myths involved the lisp he gained for that period of time.

Pollux had been Polluc’shhh. Because it had been Castor and Pollux then, too. That had been their favorite constellation myth.

Twins, boxers, sailors. It was like they were cast in the image of those two gods. Back then, they would jokingly plot to change their names to Castor and Pollux after they sailed away, because anything was better than Stan and Stan, and get into scuffles over who had to be Castor and who got to be Pollux.

After all, Pollux was the immortal one. Ford would insist on Stan being Pollux if they were to fight over it again. Maybe Stan was already Pollux, in a way. What was a time loop if not a form of immortality?

Stanley blinked out of his harsh squint and glanced at him for a moment. Only a moment; Ford had already given him hell for keeping his eyes off the road because he was not dying in a car crash after everything.

“When the hell did you turn into resin, you sap,” Stan said.

“Are you going to tell me about them or not?” Ford said, ignoring the question entirely. The answer would be the moment I realized you could really die, and for now they were ignoring the amount of death that had happened for their collective sanity.

Stan sighed, a grand production, and said, “Alright, lessee if I remember anything...”

“Keep your eyes on the road while you remember,” Ford said.

He unfolded the map in his lap even though they had miles before any exits as Stan sighed and hummed and clicked his tongue just to be annoying. Ford was annoyed, which was annoying in of itself, but fondness overtook everything else.

“Right, stop me if I get it wrong, but Castor and Pollux, they were these twin brothers. Real hotshots, handsome as hell, as all twins are—”

Ford laughed. He had forgotten that Stan always started the myth like that. He wouldn’t have remembered it without Stan doing it again, and the thought unsettled him for a second.

But it was alright that Ford had forgotten. It was alright, because Stan was here, and telling the story again, and he’d always be here to do everything Ford had forgotten he did because nothing like what happened in that casino parking lot was ever allowed to happen again.

He settled into the seat of the El Diablo and let Stanley’s guff voice wash over him. 

-----------------------------

At some point into Stan’s recollection of the lives of Castor and Pollux, which had slid into a recollection of a group of bikers Stan had run with in his early twenties, Stan abruptly stopped talking and pointed out a billboard.

Ford blinked awake from what wasn’t exactly a nap—he was still listening to Stanley—but nearly counted as one. He almost missed the billboard, and for a second was sure he misread it as it passed by.

The billboard declared that on an upcoming exit there was a “TRAIN OF TAXIDERMY”, featuring a picture of a rundown-looking set of boxcars that presumably held the taxidermy.

“That looks shitty as hell,” Stan said gleefully. “We should go see it.”

“They’re going to charge us twenty dollars each to look at stuffed rabbits,” Ford said.

“Sure are. We should go anyway. I’ve always seen signs for these stupid things and never gone.”

Ford considered Stanley from the corner of his eye. His brother could pay for his own fee with his casino winnings, so that wasn’t a problem… Ford remembered Stanley always having a fascination with this sort of thing. He’d happily point out any dead animals they saw in the area and listen on as Ford poked them with sticks and tried to determine the cause of death.

It wasn’t like Ford hadn’t also enjoyed himself. Hell, maybe the place would have some genuinely decent taxidermy, which would be interesting to look at. Maybe it’d even have something cursed!

“Why not?” he said. “Let’s go see it. It’ll add, what, an hour getting back?”

Stanley whooped with delight as Ford bent over the map and marked the exit for the Train of Taxidermy with a red marker Stan kept in the glove compartment. 

The tourist trap was easy to find on account of the multiple signs pointing out where to go and clarifying how many miles more to get to it. The sight of the wooden pointing arms and faded white letters claiming to “shock” and “amaze” filled Ford with a rush of nostalgia for the boardwalk carnival of their childhood.

Coming up on the train itself—a bold claim, really, it was three boxcars set on an abandoned track, all of them painted lurid colors—was a slightly disappointing sight after all the fanfare. Stan and Ford got out of the car and made their way to the wooden stall near the parking lot for the site anyway. The pair were still riding the wave of getting out of an endless prison of death and were determined to enjoy themselves.

They engaged with the tourist trap’s cashier with a level of enthusiasm and ecstasy that had the bored teenage employee scrutinizing them with narrowed eyes, probably looking for signs of a different kind of ecstasy.

Still, they were directed to enter any boxcar they chose despite the wary look. Ford had no doubt that it had less to do with the girl being sure they were drug-free and more to do with the fact she wasn’t paid enough to care either way.

The hot pink boxcar was the closest one, and boasted “HUGE RACKS AND IMPRESSIVE BODIES”. Stan marched ahead to that one without Ford’s input, and Ford was forced to follow after.

He supposed he could’ve chosen to take one of the cars not emblazoned with a suggestive slogan, but that would require letting Stanley out of his sight. And that simply wasn’t going to happen.

It turned out that the car was mostly filled with deer, and dear Moses, they were awful. Stan was already cackling at the utterly hideous buck’s head that was mounted on the far wall, whose expression in death could only be described as ‘perturbed’. There were multiple doe in the car as well, posed in what was probably supposed to be frolicing motions, but looked more like seizures. The fur and skin were obviously stitched together from several deer, and yet it seemed far too tight over the false bone and muscle inside.

“I could do better,” Stan said, prodding at the buck’s antlers. There was no one around to stop him from doing it. “These things were obviously glued on—if you’re gonna do that, go big! Give it twenty antlers! Put up a plaque saying it grew a new set every year, ‘cept the last set never fell off.”

“Deer live ten years at best,” Ford pointed out, studying the buck as well. The glass eyes had an almost hypnotic quality despite being set into the eye sockets like the maker had just thrown them haphazardly and hoped they’d stick.

Stan shrugged, grinning. “So it was a half-immortal deer on top of the antler thing. Double the fun.”

Ford laughed in spite of himself.

The other two cars were similarly terrible. The second one, painted a suspect green, was filled with birds upon birds upon birds. Half of them were obviously pigeons painted to be other birds, the rest a collection of haggard birds of exotic nationalities that were surely the result of illegal animal smuggling. One of them was a charbroiled chicken carcass in a glass case that claimed to be the remains of a phoenix, a notion Ford spent a good long while ranting about as Stan came up with increasingly absurd ways for it to be a real phoenix corpse despite the fake nature of everything else.

The yellow-coated third car was the best in that it fully descended into the realm of absurdity. Animals had been butchered into pieces and sown back together into complete mishmashes of chimeras that strained the imagination and one’s sense of good taste. There was a wolf with hawk wings, a squirrel with a scorpion’s tail, a snake with what looked disturbingly like human teeth.

“I can’t believe this place hasn’t been shut down,” Ford said, wishing he could study those teeth in more detail. Were they human?

Unfortunately, even he had enough awareness to know you couldn’t go asking to please have the taxidermy snake in an exhibit to test its teeth. That might invite questions like, ‘how are you going to test if they’re human?’ 

“Shit, I can,” Stan said, examining a set of mice with insect wings stapled to their backs on a small table. “Pigs suck at their jobs, what do they care about some weirdo making monsters in the woods?”

“I suppose.”

It took them another twenty minutes of making fun of the stitching and poor attempts at musculature before they wandered back out, having thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They passed the teenage employee as they went, who made no attempt to hide the joint she was smoking. Ford suspected Stan was right on the money; no local authorities of any kind cared about this place.

Back in the car, Stan paused a moment in starting the car, pulling something out of his coat pockets. Ford let out a shout of surprise as Stan dumped a handful of the taxidermy fairy mice into his lap.

“Be quiet or she’s gonna get on our asses,” Stan said. “Anyway, here’s some mementos. Don’t thank me too hard, now.”

The grin on his face could only be described as shit-eating. 

Ford burst into peals of laughter, trying not to let the mice fall into the foot-space of the passenger seat without actually touching them with his bare hands. “Stanley, I can’t believe you. These things are going to give me rabies.”

Stan snorted. “Y’can’t get rabies like that.” Doubt flickered on his face. “Can you?”

“No,” Ford admitted, unwilling to be wrong even for the bit. “But if anything could manage it, it’d be these awful things.”

The mice peered up at him with glassy, beady eyes. They seemed to beg for death despite being dead.

“You love ‘em. They’re exactly your type’a shit,” Stan said.

“They are not!”

Stanley started the car and peeled out of the parking lot before Ford could even think of returning the horrible mice to their resting place. He laughed at all of Ford’s furious spluttering, not in the least bit afraid or concerned about Ford’s ire.

And maybe there was a reason Ford relented so easily. He already knew where to put the awful things in his cabin.

-----------------------------

Adjusting to being in Ford’s house was… odd.

Part of it was that when Stan ever managed to picture where Ford was living, it was usually off in the city, doing important science stuff in important science places. Somewhere big and blocky and white, science-y and all. He had known that Ford was here from calls from his mom, but the reality never really settled in his mind as the truth.

The big cabin in woods a drive out from a small lumber town was not that. It didn’t fit the eager seventeen year old Stan remembered, so ready to be part of something huge and bustling. Something more than the slow, boring crawl of a tiny beach town.

But then, he couldn’t have imagined that twiggy version of his brother getting the shoulders and arms to successfully tackle him to the ground or the speed to sprint after him without getting winded. Couldn’t have imagined that Ford gleefully stealing a car.

He couldn’t have imagined that version of Ford looking so crushed at the thought of him being dead, either, so maybe it was a good thing he found Ford had changed from what he was. Besides, he was still completely Ford in all the ways that mattered, in the madcap enthusiasm and the grammarian ways and the rambling and the tapping of his fingers, which eased the sting of finding his twin had changed in his absence. 

Actually being in the house also helped. It looked like a movie prop department for every mad scientist thriller ever made had exploded in the place, aka exactly what Stan would’ve imagined for Ford. After chasing the gnomes—the gnomes, what the fuck —out of the cabin and falling asleep on the floor for the first night, Ford had vaguely apologized for not cleaning up and then immediately got distracted trying to arrange jars filled with something on some shelving.

Stan wasn’t allowed to help on account of Ford having a specific organizational method in mind, which Stan had never been able to parse even after seventeen years of living with the guy. Mostly he ended up prodding at the anatomical skeleton Ford had in the house for some reason. Weren’t these things real bones? 

It was here in this house that both was and wasn’t everything Stan imagined for Ford that a lot of things Stan had tried to avoid thinking about swam to the forefront.

“How many times did we repeat the week?” Stan found himself asking.

Ford stopped in place, staring off into the distance. It was the sort of concentrated look that Stan vaguely remembered, one that meant Ford was doing a lot of math in his head. Or that he felt nauseous and was trying not to upchuck onto his own shoes. It was a toss-up when they were kids; Ford’s stomach had been pretty weak.

“I believe it was at least several months worth,” he said. “Maybe even close to half a year.”

“No,” Stan said, on principle. It couldn’t have been half a year.

“There are only fifty-two weeks in a year. You found a lot of ways to kill yourself.”

There was a momentary silence. Stan regretted bringing it up; they’d been doing pretty damn good at leaving the fact that Stan had wanted to kill himself pretty badly to the one conversation in the Stanleymobile. He guessed that was on him for thinking he could get away with never talking about it again.

Abruptly, Ford said, “Ma was the one to tell me.”

“Oh, shit,” Stan said. “I thought you were lying about Ma calling you about me.”

Ford frowned. “Well, I was—she never called me to warn me you were suicidal, she called to tell me you were dead.”

“Shit,” Stan said again, with great feeling.

The look Ford gave him was half-way between confused and incredulous, and he supposed he deserved it. Ford had mentioned that before, hadn't he? That Stan's deaths kept getting to him in the end.

It wouldn’t be right to say Stan hadn’t thought his family would learn about his death; he had, especially in the beginning. He’d gone for a drifter’s death out where no one could find him until identification would be a waste.

At some point, though, that aspect had just… faded away. The impact of what he was doing didn’t feel real. It didn’t matter that he was dying, that others were learn that he had died. Hell, a couple times he’d gone for deaths that would make a scene, would maybe end up on the news if the news cycle had ever been allowed to get past Friday. Those would’ve certainly made it back to the rest of the Pines.

Stan had forgotten the fact that by leaving a body to be identified, his mom would learn that he had died. How he had died. That she’d have to ring up Ford and probably Shermie too to break the news.

He wanted to ask what their mom had sounded like relaying his death. He didn’t actually want to know.

Too bad, Ford was already speaking again. “It was her every time. Well, every time there was a phone call to receive; sometimes I’d go the whole week without one and I always wondered… oh, and our dad called once.”

“Pa?” Stan repeated. “Pa called?”

If what his mom had sounded like was something Stan didn’t want to imagine, what his dad had sounded like was something he couldn’t imagine. The concept of his father taking the time to call Ford and give the news just didn’t make sense.

Ford’s jaw tightened and he rearranged a few jars with unnecessary force. “Yes. It was when you—when you were murdered.”

“By old Gas Bag?”

His twin let out a sharp laugh, looking quite surprised at having done so. “Gas Bag?”

“He had a stupid last name!” Stanley said, gesturing defensively. “And he was a gas bag. Full of hot air.”

The fledgling smile on Ford’s face faded as he continued to survey his shelves. “Yes, the first time with him, I believe. Pa called, as he had been the one to confirm who you were. He usually was.”

Stanley didn’t know how to feel about that little tidbit. Wincingly, his mind flipped through some of his deaths like a receptionist flipping through her rolodex of phone numbers. Shot himself in the head, in the mouth, jumped, poisoned himself with cleaning supplies, lit himself on fire…

Very few of them ever left his body looking very…palatable. And while Stan’s relationship and opinion of his dad could be described as ‘complicated’ on the best of days, he wasn’t sure he wanted the old man to have to see him like that. 

He stared at the anatomical skeleton some more. At least it ke[t Ma from seeing what was left of him. That was something.

Ford broke him out of his morbid reverie. “I’m going to punch him the next time I see him.”

“Who, Gas Bag?” Stan said, baffled. He was pretty sure they’d never meet again.

“No, Pa,” Ford said. “When he called, he—he had the gall to blame you for it, you know. That you were dead, that you were living the kind of life where someone might murder you. I remembered thinking for a second that he might regret it, you know, that he’d understand what he’d done, by the way he was acting—but it was your fault. Of course. It had to be your fault, not his. Not even your dead body could shake him of that.”

Ford’s voice was filled with a cold venom Stan had never heard before. 

He tried to muster up much of a reaction to what Ford actually said, but he found himself oddly distant to it. Of course Pa made it all his fault again. That was an old pattern Stan had taken way too long to notice.

Maybe his dad did regret it. Maybe he didn’t. That version of his dad was as dead as Stan tried to make himself. He never really existed.

“Sounds like Pa,” Stan muttered, flicking the arm of the skeleton and watching it swing in response. 

Ford’s expression contorted. He marched away, and left Stan wondering what was happening. His brother returned with several things: the mice Stan had purloined for him in a plastic bag they had mustered up at some point, a stack of post-it notes, and a marker. Ford wrote “CURSE PA NEXT OPPORTUNITY” and stuck it right on the doorframe to the storage room. Then he set about aggressively arranging the fairy-mice in the space on his shelves.

Stan did not find the post-it note weirdly heart-warming. He didn’t.

-----------------------------

Stan woke up with a start. For a long second, he didn’t recognize the ceiling above him, and his heart seized in his chest—where was the water-damage pattern of the motel room he spent months getting used to? 

The fact that it was dark wood above him threw him even more. Most places he ended up in while sleeping didn’t involve homey cabin interiors. More bare concrete and plaster and maybe some dried blood or vomit no one bothered to clean up.

His gaze swung around the room. Then he really almost had a heart-attack, because Moses, there was someone standing in the frame of the doorway, the light shining behind them blocking out all detail until they were a shadowy silhouette. 

Stanley nearly got his hands on the lamp on the bedside table before his brain caught up to everything and his eyes adjusted to the light to make out the other person’s face. The motel, yes, the loops and the many deaths of Stanley Pines, and then, suddenly and miraculously, his last death and Ford dragging him back to his house in Backwater, Oregon.

It was just Ford. Just Ford, standing in his— his! That was novel—bedroom’s doorway in the perfect way to look like he was about to murder the hell out of Stan. Classic Sixer. His knack for menacing would be applaudable if he could actually do it on purpose.

As Ford stood there in the dark like a creep, he looked steadily at Stan and said: “Stanley, I want you to know that if you ever change your mind and actually manage to kill yourself, I’m going to kill myself right after. Just so you’re aware.”

A hysterical bark of laughter burst out of Stan before he could help it. Whatever he’d expected Ford to say, it wasn’t that. The laughter was swiftly followed by a, “Stanford, holy shit.”

“I’m being completely sincere,” Ford clarified. “Ideally, I’d just resurrect you somehow, but if that doesn’t work I’m coming after you.”

The worst thing was that Stan believed him without a doubt. Man, they were fucked up.

“Fuck’s sake, Pollux,” he infused the nickname with as much sarcasm as he could manage, “I’m not killing myself. Not today, not tomorrow, not in the next eighty years. Please get out of my room.”

Ford sighed like Stan was being the weird one here. But he did leave, departing with an unnecessary flourish of the bathrobe he was wearing for some reason. 

“I would do it!” Ford called one more time as he shut the door.

Stan sighed and looked up at the dark wood of the ceiling, the house creaking slightly with Ford’s movements back to his own room.. 

He was the happiest he’d ever been in his life.

[artflameball]

Got a commission to do my favorite wlw ship, so I decided to do my OCs, Reya and Skylar :] I get a chance to show their new designs now, which is neat!

[i only posted this because someone donated money to palestine and sent me the receipt. i'm not posting any art unless someone does that. check my pinned post for more info.]

[shards-of-the-moon-and-stars]

This has aged hilariously because I can now say, emphatically, YES

have any of the main cast ever killed anybody? If so, is it another plot point

Yes and no.

[chimcess]

The Lost Boys || jjk

Chapter One: Welcome to Santa Carla Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Vampire!AU, Action, Horror, Suspense, Drama, Thriller, Comedy, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, ANGST, Fluff, Smut Other Tags: Human!Jungkook, Thrall!Jungkook, Thrall!Reader, Vampire!Jimin, Vampire!Taehyung, Vampire!Yoongi, Young!Namjoon, Young!Seokjin Word Count: 27.8k+ Summary: Teenage brothers Jungkook and Jung-Hyun relocate with their mother to a quiet town in Northern California. As Jung-Hyun bonds with two like-minded comic book enthusiasts, Namjoon and Seokjin, the more brooding Jungkook becomes captivated by Y/N. However, he soon discovers that Y/N is entangled with Jimin, the charismatic leader of a dangerous local vampire gang. Warnings: Death, Blood drinking, vampire attack, emotional manipulation, mind manipulation, mean vampires, vampires acting like vampires, star-crossed lovers, mates, teen angst, dubious consent, oral (f receiving), conspiracy theorist teenage boys, self-hatred, depression, crying, self-blame, Jimin is not a good person, none of them are, because they're all vampires, banter, running away, missing people, ignoring red flags, strong language, voyeurism A/N: I've been in my movie bag recently, and thought why not do one of my favorite movies of all time? The Lost Boys holds so much sentimental value for me. I remember watching it with my dad when I was little, and it's held a special place in my heart as an avid horror fan ever since. I hope I was able to convey that with this mini-series. Thanks so much for reading.

masterlist || next

The ocean stretched endlessly into the horizon, shimmering like diamonds beneath the pale, unblinking gaze of the moon. Each ripple on its restless surface danced with the ghost of starlight, alive and undulating with a rhythm as ancient as the earth itself. Waves rolled forward in a relentless ballet, their foamy crests glowing faintly in the moonlight before crashing against the shore with a soothing sound. Along the coastline, bonfires blazed fiercely, their flames licking the air as if trying to grasp the infinite night. Shadows played across the sand, flickering and elongating, casting a warm, golden hue on the faces of those who gathered around them. The air was heavy with salt and the tang of wood smoke, alive with laughter.

Just beyond the glow of the fires, the Santa Carla Boardwalk was packed. It was chaos and wonder wrapped together, a carnival of sound, light, and motion. Neon signs blinked in dizzying patterns, their colors reflecting off the ocean like shards of stained glass. The Ferris Wheel loomed large against the velvet sky, its glowing, lazy rotations casting halos of light onto the water below. The air was thick with the mingling scents of caramel corn, fried dough, and the faint metallic tang of machinery. Laughter and screams of delight collided with the booming bass of carnival music. Arcades buzzed and chimed, their flashing screens enticing would-be champions, while thrill rides screeched and spun, their passengers caught in a mix of terror and exhilaration. The boardwalk was alive—an unapologetic display of everything Santa Carla had to offer.

Near the center of the boardwalk stood the carousel house, its ornate structure glowing softly beneath strings of twinkling bulbs. Inside, the calliope wheezed out its hauntingly cheerful tune, a melody that felt slightly too jaunty against the restless energy the night carried. Painted horses and gilded benches spun in a slow circle, their colors worn but vibrant under the flickering lights. Children laughed as they climbed onto the carousel, while teenagers lounged carelessly, their voices loud and unrestrained. But the scene wasn’t all innocence. Looming at the edge of the carousel were the Swell Brigade, a pack of self-proclaimed kings of the beach, their arrogance as bold as the slogans stamped across their T-shirts: My Beach, My Wave. They moved as if they owned the boardwalk, laughing too loud, their swagger unmistakable.

Then, as if on cue, they appeared. Just outside of the lights and glamour, four teenage boys stood watching as people passed by.

The Lost Boys, a small rival group who did not seem intimidated by the Brigade as much as the others. The surfers all noticed when they arrived, as it was always at night, and the boys carried a strange, almost feral quality when they came to the Boardwalk.

Jimin was the first to step into the light, his tall, commanding presence impossible to ignore. He moved with a fluid confidence, a magnetism that turned heads instinctively. His smile was faint but piercing, and his hair was the color of freshly picked cotton. His pale skin matched the other three’s, and his eyes were black. They almost seemed hungry as he followed a particularly pretty girl as she passed by completely unaware of his presence.

 Behind him, Taeyang, Yoongi, and Taehyung followed, each of them striking in their own way. They didn’t walk so much as glide, their movements casual but calculated, each step perfectly synchronized. Taehyung and Taehyung both had dark, black hair with equally sharp and pale faces. Yoongi was the softest in the group, his eyes the only thing carrying edge, and his skin the palest of the four. He had dark bags under his eyes and seemed perpetually bored.

Greg, the self-proclaimed king of the Swell Brigade, lounged on a carousel bench, his arm slung tightly around Shelly as if she were a trophy rather than his girlfriend. His smirk was a challenge, cold and smug, his eyes fixed on the group lingering too close to his territory. He despised the Lost Boys. Always skulking around the boardwalk like they owned the place. Freaks.

But Shelly’s gaze had wandered. Her eyes lingered just a little too long on Jimin—curiosity flickering like the bonfire's glow in her pupils. Jimin caught her look and smiled, warm yet distant, like he knew something Greg didn’t.

Greg’s smirk faltered. His grip on Shelly’s arm tightened, his fingers digging into her skin. When Yoongi passed too close, Greg saw his opportunity. With deliberate carelessness, he stretched out his foot and caught Yoongi’s ankle.

Yoongi stumbled, nearly sprawling face-first into the sand before catching himself. He shot Greg a murderous glare, knuckles clenching at his sides.

"Watch where you're walking, asshole," Greg drawled, his grin wide and mean.

Yoongi took a step forward, eyes flashing, but Jimin appeared beside him, placing a calming hand on his arm. Jimin moved like smoke, his presence quiet yet undeniable. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. Just standing there was enough to still Yoongi’s brewing anger.

The Swell Brigade shifted uneasily. A few had started laughing, but now their chuckles faltered. The Lost Boys weren’t loud or showy, but there was something unsettling about them. Something sharp, like walking barefoot on glass and not knowing when you’d get cut.

“Do we have a problem?” Jimin asked, voice smooth yet sharp. His dark eyes locked onto Greg’s.

Greg sneered. "Yeah, we sure do."

“And what would that be, dickhead?” Taehyung cut in, stepping closer with a lopsided grin. His squared smile stretched too wide, and the exaggerated amusement in his face made Greg’s stomach twist. Taehyung always looked like he was halfway between a joke and something much worse.

Greg shook it off. "Eyes off my girl, Casper."

The Swell Brigade laughed, but when Yoongi and Taehyung joined in, their chuckles died awkwardly. Taehyung’s grin was far too pleased, and Yoongi’s smile looked predatory, sharp and glinting.

“Casper?” Jimin chuckled. “That’s a good one. How long did it take you to come up with that joke?”

Shelly stifled a giggle behind her hand. Taehyung’s eyes flicked to her, and he winked, smug and deliberate. Shelly’s cheeks flushed crimson as she turned her face away.

Greg’s face darkened. His grip on Shelly’s arm turned to a shove, pushing her away from him so roughly she stumbled.

“You’re making eyes at them now?” he barked, voice rising. “Are you kidding me? You’re into these pale freaks who smell like they’ve been rotting behind a dumpster?”

“I-I wasn’t—” Shelly stammered, her voice trembling. Her eyes were wide and wet, but Greg cut her off before the tears could spill.

“Leave the lady alone,” Jimin said, stepping forward. His voice was calm, but there was steel in it now.

Greg spun on him, face twisted with rage. “Stay out of this.”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect women?” Jimin’s voice stayed cold and even, his eyes glinting like a knife's edge. "Especially the ones you claim to love."

Greg’s face turned blotchy with anger. His fists clenched, shoulders rising. For a moment, it seemed like he’d swing. The Lost Boys stiffened, ready to retaliate.

Then the security guard appeared, lumbering into view with a flashlight in hand.

He was massive, his uniform straining at the seams, and he carried his nightstick with the authority of someone who believed himself untouchable. He wasted no time, striding forward and jabbing the tip of the stick against Jimin’s throat.

“I thought I told you to stay off the boardwalk,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that silenced the scene.

For a moment, Jimin didn’t move. His dark eyes locked onto the guard’s, unwavering. It was a battle of wills, a moment stretched taut. Then, slowly, that same disarming smile appeared on Jimin’s face.

“Come on,” he said softly to his friends, his voice calm and unbothered. “Let’s go.”

The guard’s gaze followed them, a mix of relief and suspicion etched across his face. Then he turned to Greg and the Swell Brigade. “You too. Off the boardwalk. Now.”

Greg hesitated, his wounded pride flickering across his features. Someone called his name and grabbed his arm. Reluctantly, Greg and his crew shuffled away, their bravado deflated.

Jimin turned to Shelly, his voice softer now.

“You okay?”

Shelly nodded weakly, brushing her hair back from her face. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Thanks.”

Jimin gave her a small smile and turned away, disappearing into the dark with his strange little group. The wind picked up, stirring the bonfire’s flames higher. Shelly lingered a moment longer, still staring after him.

Taehyung threw a look at her over his shoulder, and Shelly couldn’t help but smile.

“Come find me,” he shouted, his smile dazzling and radiant.

“I see you now,” she countered.

Detaching himself from the other three, Taehyung made his way over. Shelly seemed hypnotized by his presence and did not hesitate to take his outstretched hand.

As they walked away together, Taehyung grinned over his shoulder at Jimin. "See you boys later."

Jimin shook his head, unimpressed. "Back before sunrise," he muttered.

"Always, boss," Taehyung shot back, beaming. “Hope you three are just as lucky.”

"We will be," Jimin deadpanned, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Taeyang already saw something he liked earlier. We’re going to help him find her.”

“I found mine,” Taehyung leaned into Shelly, sniffing her hair. The ginger sighed dreamily, clutching his hand even tighter. “And she looks delicious.”

Jimin’s smile sharpened. “Enjoy your snack,” he called. “We’re in the mood for something... a little more fattening.”

Laughing darkly, the three of them melted into the shadows, leaving the boardwalk behind.

The boardwalk emptied soon after, the carnival’s vibrant energy fading as the rides powered down one by one. The neon lights blinked out, plunging the scene into a hollow, eerie darkness. Even the calliope music stuttered and stopped, leaving only the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean shimmered on, indifferent and eternal.

The vast, empty parking lot stretched out like a graveyard of concrete, illuminated by the cold, flickering glow of a single streetlamp. The security guard leaned against his car door, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low and tired.

“Yeah, I’ll be home soon,” he muttered. His gaze swept the lot, scanning the shadows like he expected something to lunge from the dark. “I just had to deal with those weird kids again... Yeah, those ones. They’re always hanging around.”

He paused, fingers drumming anxiously on his car roof. “No, no. Don’t wait up. I’ll grab something on the way home.” His voice dropped even lower. “Yeah... love you too.”

The call ended with a soft beep. He exhaled sharply and stuffed the phone into his pocket. The strange tension that had clung to the air all night seemed to thicken. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it felt wrong. Heavy.

He fumbled for his keys, fingers trembling slightly. His nerves felt shot, frayed at the edges by too many unsettling encounters on the boardwalk. The sound of his own breathing felt too loud in the quiet.

Then came a gust of wind—a rush of air so sudden and sharp it felt like the night itself had exhaled. It swirled around him, stirring up loose papers and dust, and with it came a sound. A screech, high-pitched and unnatural, like nails dragged across glass. The sound dissolved almost instantly, replaced by something worse: whispers.

They were soft, maddeningly quick, and layered over each other in a chaotic symphony. Words melted into words, impossible to parse, like a language spoken by something that had only recently learned how to mimic human speech. The guard’s breath hitched, his instincts screaming at him to move, to run. But fear rooted him in place. His head snapped up as he turned in all directions, eyes darting wildly for the source of the noise.

The whispers stopped.

In that split second of silence, he caught movement—a flicker of something above him. His lips parted, ready to shout, but he never got the chance.

It happened so fast. One moment, he was standing there, and the next, he was gone. Yanked upward into the night with such force that his body blurred, a flash of dull blue uniform vanishing into the blackness above. His lunch pail hit the asphalt with a metallic clang, bouncing once, twice, before settling on its side.

The silence returned, but this time it was charged, alive with the aftermath of something unnatural. The lot was empty again, save for the lunch pail and the eerie hum of the streetlamp. The wind shifted toward the beach, where the waves lapped against the shore with quiet indifference, as if nothing at all had happened.

Then came the sound of impact.

A sickening thud echoed across the shoreline. The guard’s body landed in the wet sand, a lifeless heap. He was grotesque now, drained of all the vitality that had once defined him. His skin was ashen, his face sunken, his eyes wide open in a glassy stare of horror. Veins snaked darkly across his deflated form, as if the blood within him had been pulled out with vicious precision. He looked hollow, almost weightless, like a balloon someone had sucked the air from but left untied.

Jimin crouched over the body, his lips stained a deep crimson, his breath heavy with exhilaration. The predatory gleam in his eyes flickered like molten gold under the moonlight. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood further, and grinned—a grin that was equal parts satisfaction and hunger, because for Jimin, the kill was never just about feeding. It was about the thrill of the hunt, the raw power that coursed through him every time he took a life.

Behind him, the others emerged from the shadows, their figures half-illuminated by the moonlight. Taeyang walked with an easy swagger, dragging his fingers through his dark hair as his sharp, gleaming fangs caught the light. Yoongi stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with approval. Taehyung leaned casually against a nearby boulder, his lips curled into a smirk as he observed the scene.

“That was messy,” Taeyang remarked, his voice low and smooth, tinged with dark amusement.

Jimin tilted his head, the grin never leaving his face. “Messy’s more fun,” he replied, licking a smear of blood from his thumb.

“Not for him,” Taehyung quipped, gesturing to the deflated corpse on the sand. The four of them erupted into quiet laughter, the sound sharp and mocking, a stark contrast to the quiet, lifeless night.

“Careful, Jimin,” Yoongi said, his voice honeyed but laced with warning. “You’re going to draw too much attention. We don’t need another hunt interrupted by cops.” 

Jimin stood, brushing sand from his knees as he turned to face Yoongi.

“Let them come,” he said, his tone daring, almost eager. “They’ll end up just like him.” He jerked his chin toward the body without looking, as if it were nothing more than a discarded piece of trash. 

The group moved closer to the shore, the waves crashing softly at their feet as the horizon began to pale with the first hints of dawn. They weren’t afraid of the approaching light—Santa Carla’s rocky cliffs and endless network of caves provided all the cover they needed. But even as the stars began to fade, the night still felt alive, charged with the chaos they left in their wake.

"So," Jimin asked, casually wiping his mouth again and adjusting his jacket with practiced ease, "how did you boys fare tonight?" His tone was light, but there was something colder, sharper beneath it, a sense of curiosity laced with a silent challenge.

Taehyung flashed a wide grin, his teeth gleaming white in the dim light. "I had a sip from Shelly," he said, his voice smooth, a dark chuckle rising in his chest. "Just enough to keep her docile. She won’t remember a thing by morning. Poor thing. She thinks she's in love with me." He let out a low, sinister laugh. "Humans are so easy to manipulate."

Yoongi’s laugh joined in, a low, almost animalistic sound rumbling in his chest as he leaned against the hood of a nearby car, his eyes glowing faintly in the shadows. “Yang and I found a couple parked near the cliffside,” he said, his voice still smooth but with an edge of satisfaction. “You should’ve seen their faces when I knocked on the window. Priceless.”

Taehyung’s grin widened, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And you shared?”

Yoongi shrugged lazily, the movement almost feline in its grace. “Seemed fair enough. We were hungry.”

Taeyang, who had been standing off to the side, grinned, his sharp features illuminated by the fading moonlight. “They were pretty drunk,” he added, his voice light with amusement. “Hardly even struggled. They didn’t know what hit ‘em.”

“And the car?” Jimin asked, his smile turning sharper, more predatory as he turned his gaze toward Taeyang. His curiosity was evident, but there was also something darker, a hunger in his eyes.

Taeyang’s grin turned wicked, colder than before. "Off the cliff," he said, his words slow and deliberate. "Tomorrow morning, when they fish it out, they’ll think the brakes failed. An accident. No one will ask any questions. It’ll be perfect."

Jimin’s approval was evident in his low murmur, a satisfied smile curling on his lips. "Nice," he said, his voice smooth like silk, his eyes glinting with something dangerous.

Yoongi stretched lazily, his silhouette dark and sharp against the pale light of the dying moon. His expression was relaxed, and a light smile spread across his face when Taehyung made his way over and kissed his cheek. "We should go," he said, his voice calm. "The night’s over."

Jimin glanced back at the body one final time, his grin melting into something far colder, more deliberate. The playful tone faded from his eyes as they turned steely, calculating. “Not for him,” he murmured, the words slipping out like a promise as he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows.

The waves continued to crash rhythmically against the shore, sweeping away the traces of the night’s activities, erasing the evidence left in the sand. The parking lot was silent once again, as though the horrors that had taken place there had never occurred. And as the sun began to rise, casting the first pale light over Santa Carla, the town stirred to life, blissfully unaware of the monsters that roamed the night.

Morning arrived on the Pacific Coast as it always did—effortlessly golden, washing the world in a soft, honeyed glow. The sound of waves crashing against the shore blended with the distant cries of gulls circling overhead, painting the perfect picture of a summer day. Along the coastal highway, a beat-up Land Rover rumbled steadily, towing a tired-looking U-Haul trailer. The vehicle was laden with the weight of more than just luggage—it carried the heavy, complicated promise of a fresh start. A new beginning. Or so Wanda Jeon liked to tell herself.

The Land Rover hugged the curves of the road as the ocean sparkled to one side, its surface catching the morning light like scattered diamonds. On the other side, jagged cliffs jutted up toward the endless sky, rugged and untamed. Wanda Jeon gripped the wheel casually, her tanned arm resting out the window, her dark hair fluttering in the salt-tinged breeze. She liked the feel of the air on her skin, even if the wind whipped in too aggressively. It was better than the stale, oppressive stillness she had left behind in the Midwest. This was freedom—or as close to it as a single mother dragging her two sons across the country in a car on its last legs could get.

Her given name was Won-Young, but no one called her that anymore. Not since high school, when her family first moved to California and she’d chosen “Wanda” as a way to make herself fit into a world that didn’t seem to have space for her. Even now, years later, the name stuck. No one but her late mother had called her Won-Young in years, and even her father avoided it. Wanda exhaled, shaking off the weight of the thought.

In the passenger seat, Jung-Hyun, her eleven-year-old, sat slouched with his arms crossed, a scowl firmly etched onto his face. The boy had mastered the art of disdain early, and he wore it like a badge. Outside the car window, the Pacific stretched endlessly, blue and shimmering, but Jung-Hyun regarded it with the same irritation he reserved for vegetables. “What’s that smell?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

“That,” Wanda replied, inhaling deeply through her nose, “is the ocean. Salty, fresh, alive—nothing like it.”

“It smells like something died,” Jung-Hyun deadpanned, leaning further away from the window.

In the backseat, Jungkook, her seventeen-year-old, was no more cheerful. He lounged in sullen silence, his headphones firmly in place and his arms folded across his chest. Bam, his oversized Doberman, lay sprawled beside him, taking up more than his fair share of the seat. Bam’s massive head rested on Jungkook’s lap, the dog snoring softly, oblivious to the tension in the car.

Jungkook shifted slightly but didn’t bother removing his headphones. His dark eyes stared out the window, seeing everything but taking in nothing. Wanda glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He was a walking storm cloud, and no amount of sunshine from the Pacific Coast seemed capable of breaking through.

“We’re getting close,” Wanda said, her voice bright and hopeful.

“Great,” Jungkook muttered, though his tone suggested otherwise.

Jung-Hyun wrinkled his nose again and pointed out the window. “What’s with all the bikers?”

Wanda craned her neck and spotted a pack of motorcycles roaring past them, their riders clad in leather and denim, tattoos snaking up their arms. They disappeared into the distance, their engines growling like thunder.

“Welcome to California,” she said lightly, her attempt at humor falling flat.

The Land Rover crested a hill, and the town of Santa Carla came into view. It unfolded below them like a postcard, all charm and energy. The boardwalk stretched along the beach, dotted with colorful shops, carnival rides, and a steady stream of tourists and locals weaving through the crowd. Beyond it, the ocean sparkled invitingly, waves rolling toward the shore in endless rhythm. The town seemed alive, buzzing with the kind of vibrancy that only summer could bring.

Up ahead, a billboard loomed over the highway. Its cheerful, brightly painted letters read: Welcome to Santa Carla. Beneath it, the slogan promised endless fun: The Beach, The Boardwalk, The Perfect Summer. But as they passed the sign, Jungkook twisted in his seat, catching a glimpse of the back. Spray-painted in jagged black letters were the words: MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD.

He stared at it for a long moment, his brows furrowing. But he didn’t say anything.

The car rolled into town, navigating the narrow streets lined with surf shops, diners, and street performers. Wanda pulled into a gas station near the boardwalk, its pumps weathered and faded but functional. She stepped out of the car, stretching her legs as she grabbed the nozzle to fill the tank.

Jung-Hyun practically bolted from the car, his earlier disdain forgotten as he caught sight of the boardwalk. “Mom! There’s an amusement park! Right on the beach!” he called, his voice tinged with rare excitement.

“That’s the boardwalk,” Wanda explained, smiling despite herself. “We’ll go later.”

Jung-Hyun groaned but didn’t argue, already craning his neck to take in the roller coasters and Ferris wheel in the distance.

Jungkook, meanwhile, had stepped out of the car, heading toward the trailer with a purpose. He yanked open the U-Haul and rolled out his motorbike, a sleek Honda with chipped paint that still managed to look impressive.

“I need to stretch my legs,” he said, his voice flat as he brushed past Wanda and wheeled the bike onto the pavement.

She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t disappear. Your grandfather’s expecting us, and we’ve got unpacking to do.”

Jungkook shrugged, the engine roaring to life beneath him. “I’ll be back,” he said, his tone not unkind, but distant.

Wanda sighed, watching as he sped off down the street, Bam barking in protest from the backseat. She ruffled the dog’s ears through the window before handing a crumpled five-dollar bill to Jung-Hyun.

“See those kids by the dumpster?” she said, nodding toward two gaunt teenagers rummaging through a trash bin nearby. “Give this to them. Tell them to get something to eat.”

Jung-Hyun frowned. “I thought we were poor.”

“Not that poor,” Wanda replied, her tone firm but gentle.

He hesitated, then jogged over to deliver the money. The teens looked up, startled, their hollow eyes lighting up briefly as they mumbled their thanks. Wanda watched them carefully, her expression softening. Something about them felt familiar—too familiar.

But before she could dwell on it, the sound of a distant carnival ride bell rang out, blending with the hum of the boardwalk. Santa Carla was alive with possibility, its surface dazzling and bright. But beneath it, something darker stirred. Wanda couldn’t feel it yet, but Jungkook had. And it was only a matter of time before they all did.

“Use some of it to call home!” Wanda shouted after the teenagers, her voice carrying across the gas station as they disappeared into the chaos of Santa Carla’s streets. One of them turned and waved, his gaunt face splitting into a grin.

“Hey, thanks, lady!” he called, his voice already fading into the hum of passing cars and the distant crash of waves.

Wanda watched them go, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she climbed back into the Land Rover. For a moment, her fingers lingered on the steering wheel, her gaze drifting to where the teenagers had been. “Those kids look like me twenty years ago,” she murmured, half to herself, her tone heavy with a mixture of nostalgia and something harder to define.

Jung-Hyun perked up from the passenger seat, glancing at her with a raised brow. “You mean when you ran away from home? Hitchhiked all the way to Berkeley? Spent the night freezing in Golden Gate Park and begged for spare change the next morning?”

Wanda groaned, leaning her head against the back of her seat before shooting him a playful glare. “You’ve heard this story before?”

“Only about a million times. I’m starting to think it happened to me,” he said dryly, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.

Wanda shook her head with a laugh, starting the car and pulling back onto the road. As the boardwalk faded into the distance behind them, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Santa Carla stretched out ahead, its secrets shimmering just out of reach, waiting for them to discover—or stumble upon—them.

The long, winding road that led to their destination seemed like it had been forgotten by time. Trees loomed on either side, their shadows stretching across the cracked asphalt as if trying to pull the Land Rover and its weary passengers into their embrace. The house appeared at the end of the road like a mirage—rugged, weatherworn, and sprawling. Its wood was dark and peeling, the paint long faded to a patchwork of gray and green.

“It looks like something out of a horror movie,” Jung-Hyun muttered as the car rolled to a stop, his eyes narrowing at the sagging porch.

The yard was wild and unkempt, overgrown grass swaying in the breeze as though it were alive. And there, on the porch, a figure slumped in an ancient rocking chair. He—or rather, it—was still, too still, with a wide-brimmed hat tilted low over his face and one hand dangling lifelessly off the armrest.

Wanda stepped out of the car, her boots crunching against the gravel as she shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun.

“That’s him?” Jungkook asked from behind her, his voice as unimpressed as ever. He pulled off his helmet, shaking his hair out in a way that was just a little too perfect, even in the glaring sunlight.

“That’s Harabeoji,” Wanda said, but there was hesitation in her voice.

“He looks dead,” Jungkook remarked flatly, leaning his weight against his bike as though he was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

Wanda’s jaw tightened as she climbed the creaking steps, every one of them groaning under her weight. She paused, staring at the unmoving figure in the chair. Her fingers hesitated in midair before she finally reached out, her voice trembling just slightly. “Dad?”

Jung-Hyun leaned out of the car window, his expression somewhere between concern and opportunity. “If he’s dead, can we move back to Phoenix?”

Wanda shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass, but before she could speak, the man in the chair suddenly came to life. His head shot up, revealing twinkling eyes and a grin wide enough to split his weathered face in two.

“Playin’ dead,” Min-chul Jeon declared with a raspy chuckle. “And from what I heard, doin’ a damn good job of it, too.”

Wanda let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, laughing despite herself as she threw her arms around him. “God, Dad, you scared me!”

Min-chul patted her back, his voice warm. “Well, consider it payback for scarin’ me for the first twenty years of your life.”

Behind them, Jungkook and Jung-Hyun exchanged a glance, equal parts confusion and discomfort.

The interior of the house was exactly as Wanda had remembered—or maybe worse. Dust clung to every surface, catching the sunlight in golden motes that floated lazily through the air. The furniture looked like it had been there since the dawn of time, upholstered in fabrics that had seen better decades. Every available surface was cluttered with trinkets and oddities—wooden carvings, jars filled with mysterious contents, and stacks upon stacks of books, their spines cracked and faded.

“Cool place,” Jungkook muttered, dragging his weights through the door. He paused long enough to do a few bicep curls, the veins in his arms bulging unnecessarily.

“Can’t even go five minutes without flexing,” Jung-Hyun quipped, carrying an armload of comic books that he promptly dumped onto the floor.

“Will you give Mom a break?” Jungkook shot back, leaning on the doorway with the ease of someone who knew he was stronger and taller.

Jung-Hyun rolled his eyes dramatically, flopping onto the couch with the kind of flair that only an eleven-year-old could muster. “Fine. But seriously, has anyone noticed? There’s no TV. No malls. No Wi-Fi. How am I supposed to live here? I won’t even have MTV!”

“Hey, we’re broke,” Jungkook reminded him, grabbing a box and hauling it toward the stairs.

“Even broke people have TVs,” Jung-Hyun grumbled, crossing his arms.

“Knock it off,” Wanda said from the porch, her voice cutting through their bickering like a whip.

Outside, Bam darted across the yard, barking excitedly as he explored every corner of his new domain. Wanda and Min-chul worked side by side, unloading the U-Haul with practiced efficiency.

“You know,” Min-chul said, lowering a heavy box to the ground, “most women I know improve their situation by getting divorced.”

Wanda let out a breathless laugh, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Yeah, well, a long court battle wouldn’t have helped anybody. It was time to move on.” She hesitated, glancing toward the house. “Thanks for letting us stay, Dad.”

Min-chul patted her shoulder, his grip firm but kind. “We’re family, kiddo. That’s what we do.”

From upstairs came the unmistakable sound of a scuffle, followed by Jung-Hyun’s indignant yell.

“This room’s mine!” Jungkook’s voice rang out, muffled but unmistakably smug.

“Over my dead body!”

A crash followed, and then the thundering of feet down the stairs as Jung-Hyun bolted for safety. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, his face red and his voice trailing behind him. “Help me, Mom! Help!”

From outside, Wanda’s voice floated back, dry and amused. “Soon.”

Jung-Hyun’s footsteps pounded against the wooden floor as he sprinted into the living room, his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear Jungkook’s heavy boots thudding just behind him, getting closer with each step. Desperation sharpened his instincts as he skidded to a stop in front of a pair of large sliding doors. Without thinking, he yanked them open, slipped inside, and slammed them shut behind him, pressing his back against the smooth wood.

For a moment, silence. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving, but he thought he might have gotten away. Relief began to wash over him—until he took a good look at his surroundings.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, which cast long, eerie shadows across the space. It was a grotesque museum of death. Mounted animal heads adorned every inch of the walls—deer, antelope, a bear, and even a wolf, its lips pulled back in a permanent snarl. Below them were rows of shelves cluttered with jars filled with glassy, disembodied eyes and scraps of fur. Boxes stacked high in the corners spilled over with tools and materials: wooden molds, needles, and what appeared to be half-finished animal bodies, their forms unsettlingly lifelike yet incomplete.

Jung-Hyun swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the macabre display. He felt like he’d stepped straight into a horror movie, the kind where the audience screams for the character to get out, but they never listen. His stomach churned. Were the eyes on the wolf following him? He took a shaky step back, only to trip over something solid and fleshy. An antelope’s severed head rolled across the floor, its lifeless glass eyes staring up at him.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, shuddering.

The moment shattered as the door behind him burst open. Jungkook strode in, his face a mixture of triumph and annoyance. His shadow loomed over the younger boy, cast long by the single bulb swaying above them.

“Gotcha,” Jungkook said, his voice low and smug.

Jung-Hyun scrambled backward, his foot catching on a discarded pelt. “This place is so freaking weird,” he muttered, his gaze darting to a raccoon frozen mid-snarl on the nearest shelf. “What is wrong with this house?”

Jungkook was about to fire back with one of his usual quips when a gruff voice cut through the tense silence.

“Rules!”

Both boys froze as Min-chul appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He stood like a sentinel, his sharp gaze flicking between them. The room seemed to grow smaller under his presence.

“I told you to stay outta here,” Min-chul said, his voice carrying an edge that left no room for argument. “This room’s not for kids.”

Jung-Hyun and Jungkook glanced at each other, uneasy, but Min-chul didn’t linger. He jerked his head toward the hallway. “Come with me. Both of you.”

Reluctantly, they followed. Min-chul led them to the kitchen, where he threw open the refrigerator door with an exaggerated flourish. He pointed to the middle shelf, which was marked with a piece of cardboard and scrawled black marker: “Old Fart’s Shelf.”

“This here,” Min-chul declared, tapping the shelf with authority, “is mine. Root beer, double-thick Mint Oreos, and leftover brisket. Nobody touches this shelf. You hear me?”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow but nodded solemnly, while Jung-Hyun mumbled something that might have been agreement. Min-chul slammed the fridge shut, but the lecture wasn’t over. He pointed to the corner of the kitchen table, where an ancient, dog-eared copy of TV Guide sat.

“And when the mailman brings the TV Guide,” Min-chul continued, “sometimes the address label peels up on the corner. You’ll be tempted to pick at it. Don’t. You’ll ruin the cover.”

Jung-Hyun furrowed his brow. “You... still get the TV Guide?”

Min-chul shot him a look, his lips quirking upward in amusement. “I don’t have a TV. But if you read the TV Guide, you don’t need a TV.”

Jungkook bit his lip to keep from laughing, but Jung-Hyun’s jaw dropped in incredulity. Before either of them could comment, Min-chul gave a satisfied nod and disappeared back into the depths of the house, leaving the boys to exchange baffled looks.

“This guy is certifiable,” Jung-Hyun muttered.

“Certifiable,” Jungkook agreed, grinning.

As the evening stretched on, the house began to settle into its peculiar rhythm. The chaos of the day—the chasing, the strange rules, the taxidermy horrors—faded into the background, leaving a kind of quiet harmony in its place. In the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and running water filled the air as Wanda, Jungkook, and Jung-Hyun tackled the daunting mountain of post-dinner cleanup. The sink overflowed with suds, the counters were crowded with plates and pans, and Wanda’s trusty old radio sat perched on the windowsill, tuned to her favorite oldies station.

Jung-Hyun, elbow-deep in soap suds, worked at scrubbing a particularly stubborn baking dish. He scowled as he scraped at the caked-on residue, muttering under his breath. “What did you even cook in this, cement?”

Behind him, Jungkook smirked as he dried a stack of plates. “Maybe if you didn’t spend half of dinner whining about the vegetables, you’d know.”

“Whatever,” Jung-Hyun muttered, rolling his eyes.

Wanda, humming along to the music, seemed oblivious to the bickering. She had the cheerful energy of someone who genuinely enjoyed the mundane rituals of life, even doing dishes. Her voice rose and fell with the tunes on the radio, a little off-key but endearing all the same. Jung-Hyun had long ago complained that her station played nothing but “ancient songs no one under sixty cares about,” but Wanda had just laughed and cranked the volume.

And then, it happened.

The unmistakable opening notes of “Land of a Thousand Dances” crackled through the speakers, breaking through the background noise of running water and clinking dishes. Wanda froze mid-scrub, her eyes widening as if she’d just been struck by divine inspiration. Her face lit up, her expression transforming from tired to electric in an instant.

“Oh, you guys have no idea!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with glee. Without another word, she carefully set the dish she was holding down on the counter, wiped her hands on her apron, and spun around to face the boys. She clapped her hands in rhythm to the beat, her hips already swaying.

“This is the song,” she declared, her voice rising over the music. “Watch and learn.”

Before either of them could react, she launched into an energetic dance, clapping and twisting like she’d been transported back in time. Her movements were unselfconscious and full of joy, the kind of dancing that didn’t care if anyone was watching. She spun in place, kicking her feet and clapping above her head, all while grinning like a teenager at a school dance.

Jung-Hyun stared at her, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?” he asked, incredulous.

“This,” Wanda said, grabbing his hands before he could escape, “is pony time!”

With a tug, she pulled him away from the sink. At first, he stood stiff and mortified, his arms limp as she tried to swing them. “Mom, stop! This is so embarrassing!” he protested, glancing nervously at Jungkook, who was leaning casually against the counter, clearly enjoying the show.

But Wanda was relentless. She kicked her feet out in a ridiculous two-step, her laughter bubbling over as she swung her arms like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Come on, kiddo, loosen up!” she urged, spinning him in a clumsy circle.

Jung-Hyun’s mortification started to crack under the weight of her sheer joy. He caught her rhythm, stumbling at first but then tentatively swaying his hips to the beat. A grin began to creep onto his face, and he added a little bounce to his steps. Wanda cheered, clapping wildly, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

To his own surprise, Jung-Hyun let go. He mimicked Wanda’s moves, exaggerating them to ridiculous proportions—a wildly uncoordinated shimmy here, a dramatic spin there. Wanda doubled over laughing, nearly collapsing from the effort of keeping up.

“Jungkook!” Wanda called out, waving her arms to beckon him. “Come on, don’t be a party pooper!”

Jungkook shook his head, still holding a dish towel. “No way. You two look insane.”

“Don’t be lame,” Jung-Hyun said, his face flushed but grinning ear to ear. He threw in another exaggerated shimmy for good measure, making Wanda laugh so hard she had to clutch the counter to steady herself.

Wanda wasn’t about to give up. She danced closer to Jungkook, her hands on her hips. “You’re not too cool to dance with your family, are you?” she teased, her voice sing-song and playful.

Jungkook sighed dramatically, setting down the plate he’d been drying. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping forward. “But only so you’ll stop bugging me.”

At first, his movements were stiff and awkward. He shuffled his feet and swayed half-heartedly, his face betraying his discomfort. Wanda whooped, clapping her hands, while Jung-Hyun burst into laughter.

“Wow, you’ve got so much rhythm,” Jung-Hyun teased. “Maybe take it down a notch before you hurt yourself.”

Jungkook shot him a look, but gradually, his reluctance began to melt away. He copied Wanda’s spins and kicks, finding the beat in his own careful way. Slowly but surely, he began to loosen up, his lips twitching upward in spite of himself.

The three of them danced together, their laughter echoing through the kitchen. Wanda threw her arms up and clapped above her head, Jung-Hyun tried (and failed) to moonwalk across the tiles, and Jungkook broke into an exaggerated, awkward robot dance that sent Wanda into a fit of giggles.

Soap suds clung to their forearms, and their mismatched socks skidded across the wet floor, but none of them cared. The music blared, the dishes were forgotten, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the house was filled with pure, unrestrained joy.

By the time the song ended, all three of them were breathless, leaning against the counters and laughing so hard their sides hurt. The world outside, with all its weirdness and worries, felt miles away.

In that kitchen, with the radio still playing softly and the laughter lingering in the air, everything felt lighter.

The beach pulsed with life, alive with the energy of the night. Bonfires dotted the shore like beacons, their golden flames licking at the dark sky. The firelight danced on the waves, casting fleeting shadows that wove in and out of the frothy surf. The air was thick with the mingling scents of salt, smoke, and the faint tang of sunscreen lingering on sunburnt skin. Everywhere, people moved in chaotic clusters, talking too loud and laughing like the night would never end.

Jungkook and Jung-Hyun navigated the throng, weaving between groups sprawled on blankets or perched on coolers, dodging the occasional stray Frisbee. Jung-Hyun was preoccupied, fussing over his appearance with the nervous energy of someone painfully aware of how much they didn’t fit in. His shirt was crisp, the kind of brand-new that still carried faint fold lines, and he tugged at the sleeves like they didn’t belong to him. His hands repeatedly flew to his hair, smoothing it, ruffling it, then smoothing it again, as though he could bully the stubborn strands into submission.

“Stop fidgeting,” Jungkook said, his tone hovering somewhere between teasing and affectionate.

Jung-Hyun shot him a look, his lips pressed tight. “I can’t help it. My hair sucks. My clothes suck. I suck.”

Jungkook chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re fine.”

“I want to change everything—my hair, my clothes, my face,” Jung-Hyun muttered, his voice muffled as he glared down at his sneakers.

Jungkook grinned, nudging him lightly. “You’re beautiful,” he said simply.

Jung-Hyun snorted, the words bouncing off him like rain on a windshield. But before he could argue, the music crashed over them, huge and consuming. They had reached the boardwalk steps, where a makeshift stage had been set up, and a rock band was tearing into a blistering set. The bass thrummed in the air, so heavy it felt like a second heartbeat.

The crowd here was different from the groups scattered on the beach. It wasn’t casual. It was raw, electric. People danced with abandon, their bodies moving like they were possessed by the rhythm. The energy was infectious, a kind of wild freedom that made Jung-Hyun falter for a moment, unsure if he wanted to dive in or retreat.

Jungkook, however, was unbothered. He guided them through the chaos, stepping over discarded cups and swerving around flailing arms as if he’d done it a hundred times before. The heat of the crowd, the press of bodies, the unrelenting noise—all of it blurred together into a haze of sound and motion.

And then, Jungkook saw her.

She was standing just outside the crowd, close enough to feel the pulse of the music but far enough to remain untouched by the frenzy. The first thing he noticed was how still she was, like the eye of a storm. Her hair fell in loose waves that caught the light of the stage, glowing like a halo against the darkness. She was tall, or maybe it was just the way she carried herself—self-assured in a way that made the world seem to tilt ever so slightly around her.

Her eyes were what stopped him.

Even from a distance, they drew him in, dark and deep and filled with something he couldn’t quite name. She wasn’t staring at the stage like everyone else; her gaze flicked across the crowd with a kind of detached curiosity, as if she were observing rather than participating. She didn’t look like she belonged to the chaos, but rather like she had been dropped into it by mistake.

She wasn’t alone. A boy stood beside her, younger than her, with a mop of dark hair and a face that seemed too perfect, too polished. He clung to her presence like a lifeline, but something about the way she stood—the slight angle of her body, the distance in her gaze—made it clear she wasn’t his. She wasn’t anyone’s.

Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, her eyes lifted and met Jungkook’s.

In that moment, the world stopped.

The music faded to a dull hum, the crowd blurred into shadow, and it was just the two of them—two strangers suspended in a fleeting moment that felt more real than anything around them. Jungkook’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t explain. He didn’t know her, but somehow, it didn’t feel like the first time he’d seen her. She wasn’t smiling, but there was something in her gaze that made the air between them hum.

A smile tugged at his lips, tentative and genuine. His heart thudded against his ribs, faster now, like it was trying to keep up with the energy of the moment.

She didn’t smile back.

Instead, her expression shifted, something unreadable flickering across her face. She turned away, reaching for the younger boy’s hand. Without a word, she slipped into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of moving bodies as quickly as she’d appeared.

Jungkook blinked, as if waking from a dream. The noise of the world rushed back in, sudden and overwhelming. He stood frozen for a moment, his pulse still racing, before grabbing Jung-Hyun by the arm.

“Come on,” he said, his voice sharp with urgency.

“What?” Jung-Hyun protested, stumbling to keep up as Jungkook pulled him toward the spot where she had vanished. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

But Jungkook didn’t answer. He couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put words to the pull he felt in his chest. All he knew was that he couldn’t just let her disappear. Not yet.

A few blocks away from the chaos of the beach, the pier was quieter, though it still buzzed with its own brand of energy. The sound of waves lapping against the pilings mixed with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Wanda walked along the weathered wooden boards, her soft summer skirt twisting and snapping in the ocean breeze. Strings of fairy lights hung between the posts of waterfront restaurants, their reflections shimmering in the dark water below. The air smelled of fried food, saltwater, and the faint tang of gasoline drifting from nearby boat rental stands.

She passed a souvenir shop, its windows crammed with snow globes, gaudy seashell necklaces, and T-shirts printed with slogans like I Survived the Santa Carla Summer! Farther down, a man with wild gray hair and a tie-dye shirt stood atop a crate, gesturing wildly as he shouted into the night about peace, love, and some convoluted conspiracy involving UFOs and the local mayor. Wanda slowed her pace, amused by the spectacle.

Nearby, a tourist couple paused, watching the man with wide-eyed curiosity. Wanda stepped closer to them, her voice light and teasing as she said, “I think I dated that guy once.”

The couple laughed, startled, and Wanda smiled briefly before moving on. They melted into the crowd, swept away by the flow of people enjoying the warm summer evening.

Her smile faded as she approached a weathered kiosk plastered with layers of flyers. Most of them were the usual clutter—ads for fishing charters, yoga classes, and overpriced apartments—but it was the other flyers, the ones with grainy, faded photos of missing children, that gave her pause.

She stopped, her eyes scanning the rows of somber faces staring back at her. A woman was standing nearby, taping up a new flyer. Wanda glanced at it. This one wasn’t for a child. It was a man—a security guard, his round, friendly face frozen in a photograph that seemed too cheerful for the bold “MISSING” written above it.

Their eyes met briefly. Wanda gave the woman a small, understanding nod, her expression softening with shared sadness, before moving on. She barely glanced at the "HELP WANTED" sign taped to the window of a nearby restaurant before something else caught her attention—a boy, maybe six or seven years old, standing alone in the swirl of tourists.

His small figure stood out, still and unsure amid the constant motion of the crowd. Wanda hesitated, scanning the area for someone who might belong to him. No one came forward. Her heart squeezed as she approached him, crouching down to his level.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice gentle but steady. “Are you lost?”

The boy nodded, his eyes wide and glassy. His lip trembled, and Wanda could see the fear creeping up on him like a storm cloud.

“It’s okay,” she said, holding out her hand. “We’ll find whoever you’re looking for, I promise.”

The boy slipped his small hand into hers, and Wanda led him carefully through the throng of tourists. Her eyes darted from face to face, searching for someone who might be panicking, calling out a name, looking for this boy. But no one seemed to notice.

The glow of a neon sign caught her attention—a video store with the words REWIND PARADISE flashing in bright pink and blue. She pushed open the door, the buzzer overhead letting out a sharp metallic ding.

The store smelled faintly of dust and nostalgia. It was a strange mishmash of glossy VHS tapes, fading movie posters, and shelves of kitschy souvenirs. Dozens of small TVs mounted along the walls played a chaotic mix of cartoons, music videos, and movie trailers. Their colors bled together, turning the air into a kaleidoscope of light.

Behind the counter, Hoseok Jung looked up, his face breaking into a wide grin when he saw Wanda. Hoseok was younger than most business owners in town, with an easy smile and a perpetually relaxed demeanor.

“Wanda!” he greeted warmly, his hands resting on the counter. But before he could say more, the buzzer sounded again.

A group of boys sauntered in, their entrance marked by loud, cocky laughter. They moved with practiced swagger, dressed in leather jackets and ripped jeans, their energy brash and unapologetic. At the head of the group was Jimin, his sharp smile brimming with mischief.

Hoseok’s expression hardened instantly. “I told you not to come in here anymore,” he said, his voice firm but calm.

Jimin just smiled wider, unbothered. He led his crew deeper into the store, their boots scuffing loudly against the floor.

Wanda stepped forward, the little boy still clutching her hand. “This boy seems to be lost,” she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the tension.

Before Hoseok could respond, the door flew open again, and a young woman burst inside. Her face was flushed with panic, her eyes wild until they landed on the boy.

“Terry!” she cried, rushing forward to scoop him into her arms. Her relief was palpable as she hugged him tightly, tears streaming down her face. She turned to Wanda and Hoseok, thanking them over and over, her voice shaking.

Hoseok handed the boy a lollipop from a jar on the counter, giving him a kind smile before the two of them disappeared back into the night.

Then, with a playful flourish, he held another lollipop out to Wanda. “For you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No, thanks,” she said, smiling.

As she turned back to the door, the Lost Boys shuffled past, their presence leaving a faint charge in the air. Jimin lingered for a second, his sharp eyes flicking to Hoseok before he followed his crew outside.

“They’re just kids,” Wanda said, watching as the boys climbed onto their bikes, revving the engines before roaring off into the night.

“Wild kids,” Hoseok corrected, leaning casually against the counter.

Wanda’s lips curved into a wry smile. “We were wild once too. Only they dress better.”

Hoseok chuckled, his smile softening. “You’ve got a generous nature, Wanda. I like that in a person. My name’s Hoseok.”

“Wanda,” she replied, her tone light but sincere.

“So,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “what brings you into my fine establishment? Looking for a tape? I’ve got the best selection in Santa Carla.”

She shook her head. “Not looking for a tape.” She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the counter. “What I need is—”

“A job,” Hoseok finished for her, his knowing grin widening.

Wanda sighed, half-laughing. “Do I look that desperate?”

“Desperate? Nah,” he said, waving a hand. “But you’ve got that look.”

Meanwhile, back on the boardwalk, Jungkook was still moving, weaving through the thick, lively crowd as though propelled by some invisible force. Jung-Hyun trailed behind him, his sneakers scuffing against the wooden planks in protest. The boardwalk was alive, bursting with sound and energy—music blared from arcades, vendors shouted about hot dogs and funnel cakes, and the occasional scream from a rollercoaster in the distance punctuated the cacophony.

“Where are we going?” Jung-Hyun demanded, his tone a mixture of irritation and confusion as he tried to match Jungkook’s pace.

“Nowhere,” Jungkook said distractedly, his eyes scanning every corner of the bustling boardwalk.

“Then why the rush?” Jung-Hyun huffed, throwing his arms up dramatically. He finally pieced it together, narrowing his eyes at Jungkook’s focused expression. “You’re chasing that girl, aren’t you? Just admit it! I’m at the mercy of your sex glands!”

Jungkook didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. He simply picked up his pace, his head turning side to side as though he might spot her any second.

Jung-Hyun groaned, finally grinding to a halt. “You’re unbelievable. Chasing some random girl through a crowd like you’re in a bad romance movie. You know what? Forget it. I’ve got better things to do than play sidekick in your hormonal escapades.”

Jungkook barely acknowledged him, muttering, “Then go.” His attention was glued to the sea of faces ahead, his heart pounding as if she might be just around the next corner.

Rolling his eyes, Jung-Hyun turned on his heel and wandered toward a small, cluttered storefront that had caught his eye. Above the doorway hung a crooked sign that read Collector’s Den Comics and Oddities. The window display was crammed with stacks of faded comics, dusty action figures, and cardboard cutouts of superheroes whose colors had long since faded in the sun.

The inside of the shop was dimly lit and smelled like old paper and wood polish, the air heavy with nostalgia. The faint sound of a box fan hummed from somewhere in the back. Jung-Hyun stepped inside, the buzz of the boardwalk fading into a muffled background hum. He wandered the narrow aisles, his fingers grazing over the spines of comic books lined up in rows. Each one seemed to whisper a story, waiting to be uncovered.

As he turned a corner, he spotted two boys hunched over a large box of comics. They were lean, sharp-featured, and looked like they’d walked straight out of an action movie, all leather jackets and cocky attitudes. They moved with an air of self-importance, stacking comics on the shelves as though the task were life or death.

“You can’t put Superman DC #3400 with the #500s,” Jung-Hyun said casually, stopping in his tracks and pointing to the offending stack. “Different artist. Different era.”

The two boys froze, their heads snapping up to stare at him. It was as though he’d spoken some forbidden language. One of them, the taller of the two with sharp cheekbones and hair that flopped into his eyes, frowned and leaned closer to inspect the comics in question.

“He’s right,” Seokjin muttered, nudging the other boy, Namjoon.

Namjoon’s face twisted in annoyance. “Great. A critic,” he grumbled but began rearranging the stack begrudgingly.

Jung-Hyun smirked, stepping closer and glancing at the shelves around them. “And those Archies? Yeah, they don’t belong here. They go with the Richie Rich comics. Over there.” He pointed to the far corner of the store.

Namjoon shot him a look that could curdle milk. “Where the hell are you from, Krypton?”

“Phoenix, actually,” Jung-Hyun replied without missing a beat, clearly unbothered by the hostility. He reached out to pick up a nearby comic, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. “And no, I’m not just passing through. I’m a resident as of today. So yeah, you’ll probably be seeing a lot of me.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes and reached for a comic off the shelf. He thrust it into Jung-Hyun’s hands with a little too much force.

“If you’re gonna live here,�� Namjoon said, his tone clipped, “you’ll need this.”

Jung-Hyun glanced down at the cover. Vampires Everywhere, the title screamed in bold red letters, the art depicting a grotesque vampire with sharp fangs and glowing red eyes.

“I don’t like horror comics,” Jung-Hyun said, holding it back out toward Namjoon.

Seokjin, who had been quietly watching the exchange, suddenly smirked. His expression was knowing, almost conspiratorial. “This one isn’t for fun,” he said, his voice low. “It’s for survival.”

Jung-Hyun raised an eyebrow, unsure if they were messing with him or if they were just that weird. Namjoon didn’t elaborate, just gave him a long, unreadable look before turning back to the box of comics.

“Okay,” Jung-Hyun said slowly, setting the comic down on a nearby stack. “Well, thanks for the… advice?”

Namjoon didn’t look up, but Seokjin gave him a sly smile. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Feeling more puzzled than ever, Jung-Hyun turned and made his way back toward the front of the store. The boardwalk’s noise greeted him as he stepped outside, but he couldn’t shake the strange, lingering tension he’d felt in the shop.

Out on the boardwalk, Jungkook was still nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, Jung-Hyun stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked right back inside. The comic shop boys’ cryptic words buzzed faintly in the back of his mind, but he shook them off. This town was already weird enough without adding cryptic warnings about horror comics into the mix.

The boardwalk came alive at night, a kaleidoscope of lights, noise, and energy that felt almost electric. It was a place where the ordinary became extraordinary—where the sea breeze carried not just the scent of salt and funnel cakes but the promise of something strange and fleeting, something that could only happen here. Jungkook moved through the crowd with a quiet determination, his pace steady but purposeful. His eyes swept over the faces, the swirl of colors, the dizzying spin of carnival rides in the distance, all of it blurring into a background that didn’t matter. He was looking for her.

The music spilling from the rides and arcades thumped faintly in his chest, the sound layered with the shouts of vendors, the laughter of teenagers, and the occasional crash of the ocean against the shore. The air tasted alive, charged, and Jungkook inhaled deeply, his heart hammering in sync with the chaotic rhythm around him.

It wasn’t hard to spot her. Even in the sea of people, she stood out, moving through the chaos like a ripple of calm in a storm. There was something about her—something in the way she walked, like she existed on the edges of the world, separate and untouchable, carrying a quiet grace that the noise couldn’t reach. Beside her, the boy stayed close, clutching her hand as if it were his anchor. His wide, nervous eyes darted around, not quite fitting in with the dazzling, almost surreal energy of the boardwalk.

Jungkook trailed behind them, keeping a careful distance. He told himself it wasn’t obvious—just a passing coincidence that he happened to be walking the same direction. But the truth was harder to deny with each step he took. His heart pounded, louder than the music, louder than the carnival barker shouting about ring toss prizes. He didn’t know what he was going to say if he caught up to her, or even if he should say anything at all. Yet the idea of letting her slip away, of losing her in this sea of strangers, felt unbearable.

She stopped suddenly, turning on her heel so sharply that Jungkook nearly stumbled. Her eyes locked onto his, cutting straight through the crowd, the noise, the distance. They were steady and unflinching, a quiet challenge that made his breath catch.

“Are you following me?” she asked, her voice clear and calm, slicing through the din like a blade.

Jungkook froze. For a moment, he was nothing but a deer caught in headlights, all his bravado crumbling in the face of her directness. “Well, I...” he began, his voice faltering as the words tangled in his throat.

Her head tilted slightly, her expression more curious than hostile. She wasn’t accusing him—she was asking. It gave him just enough courage to speak.

“Did you want to talk to me?” she prompted when he hesitated, her tone laced with faint amusement, like she was humoring him.

He swallowed hard, scrambling for something to say. “Yeah. Sure. I mean—yeah.”

Her eyebrows lifted expectantly, her gaze steady as she waited. “Okay. Talk.”

Jungkook’s mind went blank. He wanted to say something meaningful, something that would make her stay, something that would explain why he felt like the world had tilted when he first saw her. But all he could manage was, “I, uh... I just thought you looked... different.”

Her lips curved, just barely, into the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn’t mockery; it was curiosity. Before he could say anything else—before he could even begin to gather his thoughts—Jung-Hyun appeared at his side, panting and clutching a comic book like it was a prize he’d fought to win.

“Mom’s here,” Jung-Hyun announced, his voice cutting through the moment with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop.

The girl’s gaze flicked to Jung-Hyun, then to the comic in his hands. The almost-smile returned, softer this time, and she looked back at Jungkook. “Nice talking to you,” she said, her voice teasing but not unkind. Then she turned, the boy beside her clinging to her hand as they melted back into the crowd.

Jungkook stood rooted to the spot, watching her disappear until the lights and movement swallowed her whole. He let out a slow breath, his chest tight, his heart still hammering as though he’d run a mile.

Later, Jungkook leaned against the family’s battered Rover, arguing with Wanda while Jung-Hyun climbed into the backseat, already thumbing through his newly acquired comic.

“It’s early,” Jungkook protested, crossing his arms. “Why do we have to leave already?”

Wanda raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Early? It’s past ten, Jungkook. Bring your own wheels tomorrow night, and you can stay as long as you want. Well—until eleven thirty. Maybe.”

“I’ll hitch,” Jungkook shot back, his tone challenging.

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Wanda retorted, her arms folding across her chest in a way that brooked no argument.

From inside the car, Jung-Hyun chimed in with a smirk, his voice light and teasing. “Mom, you hitched all the way to Berkeley once, remember?”

Jungkook seized the opening immediately. “Yeah, Mom!”

Wanda sighed, shaking her head but unable to hide the flicker of amusement on her face. “Five minutes,” she relented finally, pointing a finger at him for emphasis. “Five. And if you’re not back by then, I’m leaving without you.”

Jungkook didn’t wait for her to change her mind. He was already disappearing into the crowd, his heart racing as he retraced his steps.

From the backseat, Jung-Hyun leaned out the window, grinning knowingly. “He met a girl,” he said, his tone dripping with mischief.

Wanda rolled her eyes, pulling the driver’s door open and sliding into the seat. “I guess no one cares that I got a job today.”

Jung-Hyun didn’t miss a beat. “Can we get a TV now?” he asked, deadpan.

Wanda laughed despite herself, shaking her head as she started the car. “Priorities, I swear.”

Jungkook’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped back onto the boardwalk, his eyes scanning the familiar yet chaotic scene. The noise and colors blurred around him, but his gaze was fixed on her, the girl who seemed to haunt his thoughts even when she wasn’t there. He’d caught glimpses of her throughout the night, like an elusive shadow dancing on the edge of his perception, but this time, he knew he was close. He could feel it in the way his pulse quickened, the way his steps moved a little faster, almost instinctively, as if his body knew exactly where he was headed.

And then, there she was again, standing near the edge of the boardwalk. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

A group of boys surrounded her, each one with a presence that seemed to carve out space in the world around them. Their laughter was loud, reckless, the kind that echoed off the boardwalk like a challenge thrown out to the universe. They wore leather jackets, the worn, well-loved kind that had seen a thousand nights under neon lights. Their motorcycles were parked haphazardly nearby, engines still warm from the ride, the chrome shining in the streetlights like predators waiting to pounce.

Jungkook’s stomach tightened, the familiar knot of unease twisting deeper inside him. He stopped in his tracks, just a few steps away from the group, watching her. She was standing with them, her hand resting lightly on Moon’s shoulder—his girl, it seemed—but there was something about her that didn’t quite fit. Something in the way she stood, the way her eyes lingered a little too long on the horizon, as though she were somewhere else, somewhere apart from the chaos that swirled around her. She didn’t belong to them, not entirely. Not the way they belonged to each other.

Jungkook’s presence didn’t go unnoticed. The boys all turned their eyes toward him, their stares cutting through the noise. Their expressions were unreadable, too cool to be bothered, yet there was something about the way they looked at him that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t hostility, not the kind he’d expected. It was worse. It was indifference. They didn’t see him as a threat. They didn’t see him as anything at all.

A man with bright blonde hair, sharp features that could have belonged to a movie star, swung a leg over one of the bikes. His movements were smooth, practiced, like he had done this a thousand times before. His eyes found Jungkook’s for a split second, a look that seemed to say everything and nothing all at once. Without a word, he revved the engine, the sound booming in the night air like a challenge to the world itself.

The girl, his girl, climbed onto the bike behind him. She slid her arms around his waist, and for a brief moment, Jungkook saw something flicker in her eyes—a glance, a fleeting connection that made his heart tighten, his breath catch. It was there, and then it was gone, replaced by the cool, disinterested mask she wore whenever she was surrounded by them. She glanced back at him just before they roared off, the sound of the engine growing louder, pulling them into the night. A flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, something soft, almost wistful, before she disappeared into the dark expanse of the boardwalk.

Jungkook stood frozen in place, his heart still pounding in his chest. The sound of the motorcycles faded into the distance, but it felt like an eternity had passed. The bright lights of the boardwalk seemed to blur, the edges of his vision fading as the night swallowed everything around him. For a moment, he felt like the last person left on Earth. Like the world had moved on without him, leaving him behind to stand in the silence.

The laughter, the chatter, the music—everything that had once felt so alive now seemed distant, almost hollow. Jungkook's gaze remained fixed on the spot where they had disappeared, the empty space where she had just been. His mind raced, chasing the echoes of her smile, the way she had looked at him, and the way everything had slipped away just as quickly as it had appeared.

He didn’t know why he had followed her, why he couldn’t let her go. It wasn’t like him to get caught up in something so... fleeting. But now, standing alone in the middle of the boardwalk, he realized that what he had seen wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It was something deeper, something that had grabbed hold of him when he wasn’t looking. Something he couldn’t quite understand yet.

But as the lights flickered around him and the boardwalk buzzed with life, Jungkook knew one thing for sure: this wasn’t the last time he would see her. Somehow, he was certain of it.

The early morning air on the beach felt cool and crisp, the first light of dawn filtering through the haze of leftover smoke from the bonfires the night before. The sand was still warm in places, remnants of the heat that had radiated through the night, but now it was peaceful, with only the faint hum of the ocean and the occasional rustle of blankets from the few runaways still curled up on the dunes, trying to capture a few more hours of sleep.

Jungkook parked his bike near the surf rental shack, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath the tires a comforting sound. He glanced over his shoulder to see Jung-Hyun trailing behind him, dragging his surfboard in the sand like it was the heaviest thing he’d ever carried. His little brother wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here, but Jungkook had made sure to bring him along. They had always stuck together, no matter how much they teased or picked on each other. A day at the beach might’ve seemed like the last place a kid his age would want to be, but Jungkook wasn’t about to let that stop him.

Jung-Hyun sighed loudly, his voice a little more dramatic than necessary. “Do I have to do this? The ocean’s not going anywhere, you know.”

Jungkook shot him a grin, clearly enjoying the torment. “Come on, Jung-Hyun. You know, before there were malls, there was, like... the ocean,” he said, his tone almost as if he were describing some great unknown frontier, the kind of thing that would make any kid curious—if they could just get over how terrible the idea sounded at first.

Jung-Hyun didn’t seem convinced. He rolled his eyes dramatically, muttering something under his breath that Jungkook didn’t catch, but he could guess. With a sigh that was as deep as the ocean itself, Jung-Hyun reluctantly grabbed his wetsuit, pulling it on with a little too much effort, like he was preparing to enter battle.

Jungkook watched him for a second before shaking his head, unable to hold back a small laugh. “You know, if you actually wanted to be good at this, you’d have to stop complaining,” he teased, pulling his board out from the shack.

Jung-Hyun stuck his tongue out at him, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. Despite the teasing, despite the near-constant bickering, there wasn’t anyone Jungkook would rather have by his side. Even if the age gap between them was huge—Jungkook was 18, and Jung-Hyun was just 11—the bond between them was undeniable.

Jungkook led the way into the water, his athleticism taking over as he practically glided across the waves. Despite not being a surfing pro, he was fast, and his natural skill at almost anything he tried was evident as he carved through the waves with ease. For a few moments, as the saltwater sprayed his face and the waves rolled beneath his board, he forgot about everything—the mess of the town, the confusion he sometimes felt in this new place, and even the girl who seemed to slip through his thoughts every time he thought he had a grasp on her. For those brief, blissful moments, there was nothing but the water, the board, and the rush of freedom.

Jung-Hyun, on the other hand, was having a less graceful time. He tried—oh, how he tried—but after a few disastrous attempts, his board more often than not ended up nose-first in the sand, and he sat down on the shore, scowling but secretly amused at his own inability to catch a wave. His eyes never strayed too far from Jungkook, though. There was a mixture of admiration and envy on his face, his gaze flicking between his older brother and the sea, wishing that just once, he could do it too.

Even the seals on the rocks seemed more impressed with Jungkook’s natural ease, letting out loud barks that, to Jungkook’s ears, almost sounded like laughter.

Still, no matter how frustrated Jung-Hyun got, he never complained. He always stuck by Jungkook, no matter how much he might grumble about it. The teasing, the poking fun—it was all part of their relationship, the way they understood each other without even having to say a word. Jungkook might have been the older brother, but they were equals in their own way, and they had each other’s backs no matter what.

That was, until the local crew showed up.

The Swell Brigade—the so-called kings of the beach—rolled in, cutting through the waves like they owned the ocean. Greg, the leader, was the first to spot Jungkook. With his wild hair and too-wide grin, he didn’t waste any time making his presence known. “My beach, my wave, dude,” he called out, cutting directly in front of Jungkook with a smirk that could only be described as the type of arrogance that came with knowing exactly how to rattle someone.

Before Jungkook could even react, the wave he had been riding disappeared beneath him. He wiped out spectacularly, falling hard into the water, the surfboard slipping out from under him in a tangle of limbs. From the shore, the seals barked again, their noisy calls sounding like they were laughing at him as the cold water rushed over his body.

Jung-Hyun couldn’t help but laugh from the beach, watching as his brother struggled to get back on his feet. “Guess it’s not just the ocean you have to fight against, huh?” he teased, clearly enjoying the rare moment of seeing Jungkook falter.

Jungkook pushed himself up, wiping the saltwater out of his eyes with a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talking. I’ll get you next time,” he called back, unbothered by the teasing. He was more focused on getting back out there. But as he paddled back into the surf, he caught his brother’s gaze, and for a brief second, Jungkook saw the admiration and the unspoken bond between them in his younger sibling’s eyes. It was always the same, no matter how many times they picked on each other—at the end of the day, they were in it together.

As the golden light of dusk began to fade into evening, Wanda stood behind the counter of the video store, her first day on the job stretching on just a little longer. The familiar scent of popcorn, old films, and a faint hint of mildew clung to the air. The hum of the neon sign outside cast a soft glow over the aisles lined with dusty VHS tapes. Maria, the sharp-dressed cashier who had taken her under her wing, leaned casually against the counter beside her. Maria was effortlessly cool in a way that Wanda admired, with her smart blazer and confident air. She had a quick smile and a sharp tongue, the kind of person who could talk her way out of anything.

Maria was giving Wanda a crash course in customer service, showing her the register’s buttons, explaining the peculiarities of their outdated card reader, and sharing odd bits of advice about the regular customers.

“I’d be out on the street if it wasn’t for Hoseok,” Maria said, tapping a fingernail against the countertop absentmindedly. “Nobody would’ve given me a job the way I looked when I walked in here. But he doesn’t care about that. He saw something in me. And now… well, here I am. Making it work.”

Wanda nodded, genuinely impressed. “He sounds like a good guy.”

Maria smirked, eyes glinting. “You’ll find out for yourself. He’s got his quirks, but he’s loyal. If you work for him, you’re family.”

Wanda glanced around the store, her curiosity piqued. “I haven’t seen him all day. Is he coming by soon?”

Maria shrugged, one eyebrow raised. “He only comes in at night, usually. He’s busy opening another store in Los Gatos. It’s much bigger than this one.” She made a motion with her hands as if to indicate something grand, perhaps a new adventure in the making. “You know, he’s been working on that for months. I swear, if I had that much on my plate, I’d be pulling my hair out. But he seems to handle it all. Like, no sweat.”

Wanda let out a breath, both fascinated and exhausted just thinking about it. Running a business—especially more than one—had to be overwhelming. Still, something about the way Maria spoke about Hoseok made it clear that there was a respect, maybe even an affection, there.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a motorcycle engine pulling up outside, its roar familiar. She turned her head, squinting through the window to see Jungkook and Jung-Hyun rolling up to the curb on Jungkook’s bike. The older of the two leaned against the handlebars as the engine sputtered to a stop.

“I’ll be right back,” Wanda muttered, glancing at Maria for a quick second. Maria just gave her a thumbs-up, then settled back against the counter.

Wanda stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against her skin. She took a few strides toward the boys, a smile already forming on her face as she saw Jung-Hyun hop off the bike with his usual energy, nearly tripping over the kickstand as he rushed to the sidewalk.

Jungkook, however, didn’t immediately get off. He kept the engine running, his face blank but his eyes scanning the area, as if he had somewhere else he needed to be.

“Hey!” Wanda greeted, hands on her hips as she tried to gauge his mood. “I get off in twenty minutes. I thought maybe we could all grab a bite together.”

Jungkook’s lips twitched in a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shook his head without hesitation, voice flat as he said, “I’ll pass.”

Wanda opened her mouth to protest, but before she could string together an argument, Jungkook revved the engine, the loud rumble filling the air. Without another word, he peeled off into the night, tires screeching briefly before he was swallowed up by the darkness.

Wanda watched him go, the warm glow of the store lights behind her seeming to pulse in rhythm with the pang of disappointment in her chest. She exhaled slowly, trying not to feel rejected. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d brushed her off.

Jung-Hyun, still standing at her side, turned to look at her, a faint grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “I guess we’re not eating together, huh?”

Wanda shot him a sidelong glance, trying to hide the sudden melancholy. “Looks like it,” she said, trying to make it sound casual, but she could feel the slight sting at the back of her throat.

Jung-Hyun’s grin widened, though, as he elbowed her gently, his usual energy filling the space between them. “Well, maybe you’re better off. I mean, who wants to eat with that guy anyway?” His tone was teasing, but there was a hint of concern there too. Even though he was younger, Jung-Hyun could always tell when things weren’t quite right, even when Wanda did her best to hide it.

Wanda laughed softly, her attention now fully on him. “Oh, don’t pretend you’re on my side. You’re probably just as bad as he is.”

Jung-Hyun gave her an exaggerated look of mock offense. “What? I’m the good brother,” he protested, raising his hands as though in surrender. “You can’t blame me for his bad attitude. I’m a perfectly good influence.”

Wanda rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She glanced back toward the video store, the lights from inside casting long shadows along the sidewalk. “Come on. Let’s head inside. I have to finish my shift.”

“Right,” Jung-Hyun said with a dramatic sigh, pulling at the collar of his jacket as he followed her inside. “Guess we’ll have to find someone else to eat with.”

Wanda watched him disappear inside the store, and as she followed, her thoughts lingered on Jungkook. She wasn’t sure why his rejection stung so much. Maybe it was because she had hoped, even if just for a moment, that he might have changed his mind about her. Or maybe she was just too tired of being alone in a place that still felt unfamiliar. Either way, for now, she had to focus on her job, on the small, familiar comfort of being needed.

She let out a breath, adjusting the collar of her work shirt. Tomorrow’s another day.

Jungkook adjusted the black leather jacket for the third time, tugging at the sleeves as he studied his reflection in the cracked mirror propped haphazardly against the wall of the punk shop. The leather was still stiff, the smell of newness mixed with a faint scent of the store itself. But when he looked at it—really looked—he felt something shift, like it was made just for him. The jacket fit perfectly, hugging his shoulders and waist in just the right way, like it was a part of him that he’d only just discovered.

He tested its weight by rolling his shoulders, checking how the leather moved with him, how it felt almost like a second skin. He liked it. He liked how it gave him a sense of rawness, a sense of belonging in this strange new town. The boys from the pier would wear something like this. It made him feel... dangerous, in a way that he didn’t mind at all.

After a final glance at himself, he stepped outside, the bustling energy of the boardwalk hitting him immediately. The bright lights, the laughter of strangers, the clink of coins being dropped into machines. The smell of fried dough and sunscreen hung thick in the warm evening air, mixing with the salty ocean breeze. The world felt alive around him, buzzing with an almost magnetic energy that was as much a part of him as the jacket he was wearing.

Jungkook adjusted his boots, feeling the familiar thrum of excitement that came with a night out on the pier. But something shifted as he walked, a quiet hum under his skin, like there was something else in the air. As his boots clicked against the wooden planks, his gaze flicked to a piercing stand nearby, a sharp glint catching his attention. He stopped for a moment, looking at the needle glistening under the lights.

A silver hoop, maybe. Or a stud. He imagined it in his ear, how it might change his look, give him something new.

“It’s a rip-off,” a voice interrupted his thoughts, cutting through the noise around him.

Jungkook turned, blinking in surprise. There, just behind him, was the girl. Y/N. She stood effortlessly in the glow of the boardwalk lights, her hair catching the neon hues, her lips pulled into a teasing smile. He felt a flicker of warmth in his chest at the sight of her.

“Hi,” he managed, his voice coming out a little softer, a little more breathless than he meant it to. It was a little too loud in contrast to how quiet the moment felt.

“If you want your ear pierced,” she said, as casual as if she were talking about the weather, “I’ll do it.”

Jungkook blinked, not sure if she was serious or just teasing him, but when she began walking, he didn’t hesitate for a second. He was already following her, a pull in his chest guiding him toward wherever she was going.

“What’s your name?” he asked, matching her pace, his curiosity about her growing with each step.

“Y/N,” she replied simply, glancing at him sideways, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “My mom called me Star, but that was a long time ago.”

“Oh,” Jungkook chuckled, a grin creeping up on his face. “Your folks, too, huh?”

Her eyes flicked over to him, the corner of her lips dropping just a bit in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly realizing how personal that was. “Ex-hippies,” he clarified with a shrug. “My mom was one. I came this close to being called Moon Child. Or Moon Beam. Or something like that.”

Y/N's lips quirked up in amusement, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “But you’re Jungkook?”

“Yeah,” he said, the grin widening on his face, not even trying to hide the joy of the moment. “But Y/N’s great. I like Y/N.”

Her smile softened, her eyes not leaving his as she spoke with a quiet warmth. “Me too.”

Jungkook felt something—he couldn’t quite place it—flutter in his chest, like he’d just taken a step closer to something real, something important. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like they’d already crossed some invisible line, something that made him feel oddly at ease around her. More comfortable than he’d ever felt with someone he barely knew.

“I’m Jungkook,” he said, almost as if the words had slipped out without him thinking about them.

Y/N glanced at him again, her smile growing wider as she echoed his tone, mirroring his playful inflection. “Jungkook’s great. I like Jungkook.”

The simple words, said with such lightness, made Jungkook’s heart skip. She wasn’t trying to impress him or charm him—she was just being herself, and something about it felt effortless. Almost like he was meant to be here, walking beside her, sharing this strange, beautiful little moment.

They walked in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, like they had known each other for years. He could feel the space between them closing with each step they took, and the more they walked, the more he realized just how easy it felt to be around her.

“I guess you’re new around here,” she said, breaking the silence, her voice as steady as ever.

“Sort of,” Jungkook replied, glancing over at her, feeling that tug of connection again. “We used to come here in the summers when I was a kid. Now we’re here... permanently.”

Y/N’s eyes softened a little, and Jungkook could almost feel the quiet happiness that flickered across her face. It was subtle, but there—like she was glad to hear it, glad to know he wasn’t just passing through.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his nerves catching up to him for a second. But before he could second-guess himself, he added, “Wanna get something to eat?”

She tilted her head slightly, like she was considering it for a moment. Her gaze locked onto his with an intensity that almost made him forget how to breathe, but when she spoke, her voice was light, almost teasing. “Okay.”

The simple word—so casual, so effortless—made Jungkook’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t quite explain. But he didn’t have to. All that mattered was that they were walking together, side by side, and in that moment, it felt like nothing else mattered.

They walked side by side, their footsteps falling into a rhythm that seemed too easy to be real. The boardwalk lights flickered above them, casting long shadows that stretched and swayed like ghosts across the weathered wood beneath their feet. But the flicker of the lights, the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees—they didn’t matter. Nothing around them seemed to matter. It was just the two of them, the distance between them narrowing with each step, each shared glance, each word.

Jungkook couldn’t quite place it, the feeling gnawing at him. It wasn’t bad, but it was strange. They’d only just met, yet already, it felt like he’d known her for years. There was something about Y/N that made him feel like he was coming home to something familiar—something he didn’t know he was missing. Maybe it was the way she was so effortlessly herself, so sure of her place in the world. She didn’t seem rushed, didn’t seem burdened by the small things that typically weighed him down. And that made him feel lighter somehow, as if it was okay to just exist in the same space without needing anything to be different.

He could feel the pull to be around her without even trying. And the way she teased him—it wasn’t mocking, but a game. A game he wasn’t quite sure how to play, but he wanted to learn.

"So," Jungkook said, his voice cutting through the comfortable silence. "You really think you can pierce my ear?"

Y/N’s lips curved into that mischievous smile, the one that always made his stomach do that little flip. She glanced over at him, her eyes sparkling with a challenge. "Why not? I’ve got a steady hand." She said it with such confidence that for a moment, he almost believed her. Almost.

"I’m pretty sure this is a bad idea," Jungkook said, his voice betraying a laugh that bubbled up before he could stop it. "What if you give me an infection or something?"

Y/N raised an eyebrow, the playful seriousness of her expression making it hard to tell whether she was joking or not. "Well, Jungkook, if you want to not look like a total badass, that’s on you. But if you want to wear a hoop like a rock star, you’ve gotta risk it."

Jungkook snorted, the joke wasn’t even that funny, but the way she delivered it—so deadpan and serious—made it hilarious. It wasn’t just a laugh; it was a real laugh. The kind that made his chest warm and his stomach hurt in the best possible way. He hadn’t realized how much he needed something like that until it happened.

The distance between them continued to shrink, their laughter and easy conversation weaving the space between them into something comfortable, something almost… familiar. She didn’t mind his jokes, or the fact that sometimes, he wasn’t as quick with the witty remarks as she was. Instead, she laughed, genuinely, because she liked the way he saw things. And with every word exchanged, every laugh shared, Jungkook felt it—a pull, something deeper than just curiosity. He wanted to know more, not just about her, but about her, the kind of knowing that didn’t come with explanations.

"So," Jungkook said, his voice softening, the playful tone gone as quickly as it came. "Tell me about yourself. What’s your story? I mean, we’re talking about my potential ear piercing, but I don’t even know where you’re from."

Y/N’s expression shifted, her eyes losing focus for a moment, as if she were thinking about what to say. She wasn’t a stranger to silence, to careful words. He could tell that much. And when she spoke, her voice was quieter, the words more measured, as though each one held some kind of weight.

"I’m from Portland," she said, as if it was nothing, as if it was something everyone knew, and maybe it was, in her world.

She shrugged a little, the motion easy, but Jungkook could feel the tension in it, the way it tugged at her—she wasn’t giving him the whole story. And that was fine. He wasn’t in a rush to have her spill everything all at once. He could wait.

"And your parents?" he asked, curiosity slipping out before he had a chance to stop it.

Y/N’s smile twisted into something wry, and for the first time, she looked like someone who was used to telling stories she didn’t quite want to share. "Eh," she said. "My mom’s a character. You’d probably get along with her—she’s all about living life on the edge, never sticking to the rules. But she’s also a bit of a hippie. She’s got this whole free spirit thing going on. Dad’s the opposite. My brother is… indifferent, for the most part. He was my only friend for a while."

Jungkook’s grin matched hers, the corners of his mouth pulling upward in a way that felt good. "Sounds like my kind of people."

Y/N’s eyes glinted with amusement. "I thought you might say that," she teased, her voice dropping into that same playful rhythm. "So, what about you? You’ve got the whole ‘tough guy in a leather jacket’ vibe going on. What’s your deal?"

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but the smile that tugged at his lips couldn’t be suppressed. "I’m not tough. You just haven’t seen me cry yet."

Y/N’s laugh was loud and unrestrained. The kind of laugh that didn’t just fill the space—it took over it. Jungkook felt a warmth spread through his chest, something real and unforced. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t because she had to. It was because she wanted to. She threw her head back, the sound of her laugh making her seem so much more carefree, so much more alive. In that moment, she wasn’t trying to hide anything. She wasn’t holding back.

"Yeah, I can see that," she said, still laughing. "You’re definitely more ‘brooding tough guy’ than ‘vulnerable softie.’"

"I can be soft," Jungkook protested, laughing at himself. "You just haven’t seen it yet."

"I’ll take your word for it," she replied, her eyes sparkling with something deeper now, something that felt like understanding. Maybe even acceptance.

The conversation shifted back into something easy, something familiar. Neither of them seemed to be in a rush to get to the car. The walk, which should have been a mere ten minutes, felt like it stretched into hours. Every moment between them felt too significant to let go of too quickly. Every glance, every word, every shared silence was like a promise. And Jungkook realized, somewhere in the middle of all of it, how strange it was—how close he already felt to her.

It wasn’t just the jokes, or the teasing, or the stories they shared. It was something else. Something deeper. It was the way she understood him, without him having to explain it. The way she seemed to know when he was holding back and when he needed to laugh, even when the joke wasn’t all that funny. She just… got him. In a way that didn’t require any kind of explanation, and for the first time in a long time, Jungkook felt that same understanding reflected back at him.

"You really know how to make me laugh," he said, his voice low, the words slipping out before he had a chance to think them through.

Y/N glanced at him sideways, surprise flashing across her face, before a small, shy smile tugged at her lips. "I’m glad I’m good for something."

Jungkook stopped walking for a moment, turning to face her fully. His words came out before he had a chance to consider the weight of them. "You’re good for a lot more than that."

Y/N looked up at him then, her gaze steady, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped. The sounds around them faded, the air thickened, and it was just the two of them, standing on the boardwalk, looking at each other like they were seeing something more than just the surface.

They didn’t move, didn’t speak for a few moments. The soft hum of the boardwalk was the only sound that remained. The lights overhead flickered in time with their steps, their rhythm so naturally synced it felt like they’d been walking together for years.

"So, Oregon, huh?" Jungkook asked, breaking the silence, his voice quieter now, a little softer.

Y/N stiffened just a fraction, only for a second, before she shook it off, her lips pressing together, as if the mention of home held more than she was ready to share.

"Yeah," she said after a beat, her tone casual but guarded. "It’s beautiful there, you know? The forests, the coast. It’s like a different world."

Jungkook nodded, sensing the hesitation in her voice. He didn’t push it. "Sounds nice. I’ve always wanted to go, actually. Never had the chance."

Y/N’s gaze shifted ahead, her eyes becoming distant, and for a second, it felt like she was somewhere else entirely. Jungkook caught the faintest tension in her shoulders before she shrugged, as if shaking off whatever thoughts had clouded her mind. “It’s nice, yeah. But I mean, you know how it is. Home’s just a place, right?”

The way she said it made something inside him stir, like there was more she wasn’t saying. More she wasn’t ready to share. Jungkook’s instincts told him to be careful, but his curiosity pulled him closer, even if just for a moment. He took a half step toward her, trying not to crowd her space, but close enough to show he was genuinely interested. “Yeah,” he said slowly, not wanting to press too hard but feeling something pull at him. “So, what’s it like… leaving all that behind?”

She didn’t look at him right away. Her eyes stayed trained on the path ahead, and he could see her jaw tighten ever so slightly, like she was steeling herself against the question. But just as quickly, she relaxed, the tension in her posture easing. A half-laugh escaped her lips, and when she finally glanced at him, there was that playful spark in her eyes again. “You sound like an interview or something.”

Jungkook blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in her tone. She grinned, and for a second, he was unsure whether to feel relieved or more confused. “It’s not that bad, really. People always think it’s this big dramatic thing. But it’s not. You just... leave, and then you figure things out.”

He didn’t press further. There was something in her voice that told him she wasn’t ready to unpack it all. Instead, he smiled and decided to pivot to safer ground. “So what about that piercing thing?” he asked, keeping his tone light. “You serious about giving me a piercing?”

Her smile widened, the teasing edge back in full force. “You really wanna know about my ear-piercing skills?” she asked with a playful challenge in her voice. “Okay, fine. I don’t have a license for it, but I promise I’m great with a needle. You trust me, right?”

Jungkook couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know, Y/N. I think I’ll pass on that one.”

They both chuckled, and the conversation flowed with that easy, back-and-forth rhythm that felt familiar despite the newness between them. It was like they were already comfortable with each other, as if they’d been doing this forever. But still, Jungkook couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more beneath the surface of her words. The way she’d brushed off Oregon. The way her tone had shifted just a little too quickly when he’d asked about it. It made him wonder what she was really running from.

"Anyway," Y/N said, almost as if sensing the change in his thoughts, her voice light but the shift unmistakable. "What about you? How’d you end up here?"

Jungkook felt the weight of the question, and though a part of him wanted to keep the door open for her, to ask her about her story, he decided to answer first. After all, they were still strangers, and maybe it was too soon to dig deep into the stuff they both seemed to be hiding. He could feel the subtle distance between them now, but he didn’t mind. Not yet.

“Well,” he said, falling back into the easy rhythm of their conversation, “we used to come here for summers when I was a kid. But this time... it’s permanent. My family moved here recently.”

“Permanent, huh?” Y/N mused, her voice low, thoughtful. She glanced sideways at him, her smile soft but knowing. “That’s a big deal.”

Jungkook caught the look in her eyes, something like recognition, something like a shared understanding. She didn’t press, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew more about what “permanent” really meant than she was letting on. Instead of pushing, he laughed lightly, keeping the tone playful. “Yeah, same sob story as everyone else. Divorce, mom kept the kids, dad left never to be seen again, and we moved for a fresh start.”

For a moment, the silence between them felt like the weight of their unspoken stories hanging in the air. The conversation drifted on after that, touching on trivial things—movies they liked, music they both hated, the weirdness of growing up in a place that never quite felt like home. But even in those small moments, Jungkook felt like they were already sharing something deeper, something unspoken that didn’t need to be said. Every word, every glance, pulled him closer to her, like they were orbiting each other in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

They were almost to his bike when the sound of motorcycles roared into the parking lot, their engines loud and confident in the still night. The Lost Boys appeared in a rush of leather and chrome, the air around them thick with their presence. Moon was perched behind Yoongi, small but wiry, full of restless energy. Jimin’s Triumph gleamed under the boardwalk lights, its polished chrome a stark contrast to the dust and grit of the surrounding night.

Jungkook felt a knot form in his stomach. He didn’t need to count the bikes to know he was outnumbered. Outclassed.

Jimin’s gaze locked onto them, and more specifically, onto Y/N. “Where you going?” he asked, his voice casual but edged with something sharper, like a challenge that wasn’t quite obvious yet.

“For a ride,” Y/N replied, her tone even, unfazed.

Jimin tilted his head, his lip curling into a smirk, half amusement, half something else. “With him?” he asked, gesturing toward Jungkook.

“Yeah,” Y/N said, and for a moment, her words hung in the air between them, defiant, a challenge in their own right.

Jimin revved his engine, the sound vibrating through Jungkook’s chest, making his pulse quicken. The other Lost Boys exchanged quick, unreadable glances. Jungkook could feel the air thicken, like something was about to happen, something that was only just starting to unravel.

“I’m Jimin,” he said, his tone friendly in the way a lion might introduce itself to a gazelle. He gestured lazily toward the others. “Yoongi. Taehyung. Taeyang.”

From the back of Yoongi’s bike, Moon piped up, his voice eager. “Hi, I’m Moon!”

Y/N turned to Jungkook then, nodding toward him. “This is Jungkook.”

A heavy silence hung over the group, thick with unspoken words. Jungkook shifted, feeling the tension between them like a live wire in the air.

“So,” he said, trying to break the silence, “we still going?”

Jimin’s eyes flicked to Jungkook’s bike, then back to him, calculating. “Honda 250, huh?”

“That’s right,” Jungkook said, his voice steady, even though his hands were itching to just leave. To make it stop, to get away from the pressure building in his chest.

Jimin smiled, that sharp, knowing smile that made Jungkook feel like he was being sized up. “C’mon, Y/N. Climb on.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened, his heart racing. “Y/N?”

For a moment, she hesitated, and Jungkook saw it—just a flicker of something soft in her eyes, a small moment where she seemed to reconsider. But then, with a smile that was almost apologetic, she stepped past him, her movements fluid as she swung onto Jimin’s bike, her arms wrapping around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched.

“Know where Hudson’s Bluff is?” Jimin asked, his voice rising over the rumble of the engine. “Overlooking the point?”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but he knew exactly what Jimin meant.

“You don’t have to beat me, Jungkook,” Jimin said, his smirk widening, “Just try to keep up.”

And with that, Jimin gunned the engine, the Triumph roaring to life. The others followed in a rush, their bikes kicking up gravel as they tore into the night. Y/N didn’t look back.

Jungkook climbed onto his Honda, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn’t have a Triumph, didn’t have the raw power Jimin’s bike had, but he had something else—grit. Enough to try to keep up, at least. The boardwalk lights were shrinking in his mirrors, but he didn’t slow down.

The motorcycles roared down the wooden steps of the boardwalk, each jolt vibrating through Jungkook's arms and legs. His grip tightened on the handlebars as the bikes bounced over the uneven ground, the sound of the engines mixing with the crash of waves against the shore. Behind him, the beach stretched out—empty save for the scattered, startled couples who shrank back as the Lost Boys ripped through the sand, leaving behind a trail of chaos and dust.

Jungkook didn’t know why he was still following. The sand kicked up behind his Honda, the wheels spinning out, but he wasn’t about to back down. Not with Y/N’s laughter floating back to him, the sound carried on the wind like a promise of something wild. Not with the Lost Boys ahead, their faces glowing with the kind of reckless joy that came with living on the edge.

They hit the surf, the tires skimming the water’s edge, sending up sprays of salty mist. Jungkook squinted through the chaos, trying to keep up, watching as the others didn’t even think about slowing down. Instead, they sped up, racing toward the distant pier. It loomed like a giant in the darkness, the pilings reaching up like jagged teeth ready to rip through the night.

He was already too close to turn back.

The sound of the engines became deafening as the Lost Boys shot between the wooden pilings, weaving in and out like they had done this a thousand times. Jungkook’s heart beat faster, and despite himself, he slowed. The gaps between the pilings seemed impossibly narrow now, the wood rising up like an obstacle course meant to break someone who dared try.

But they didn’t slow down. Not Jimin, not Yoongi, not anyone. They moved through the gaps like they were born for it.

Jungkook hesitated for a breath, his hands squeezing tighter on the grips of his bike, but then he followed. The roar of his Honda filled his ears as he threaded his way between the pilings, the sand-slick tires skidding once, then catching, sending him sliding just a fraction too far. He bit his lip, pushing himself harder, focusing on the road ahead.

By the time he broke free from the pier, the beach stretched out wide before him, empty and raw, but no less dangerous. The dunes rose in the distance, their edges aglow with the orange flicker of another bonfire. He could hear the roar of engines ahead of him, and even though his heart was pounding in his chest, a part of him could feel it too—this pull, this challenge to be a part of something that felt just as reckless as he was.

Jimin led the charge, his bike climbing a dune like it was nothing. The Lost Boys followed one by one, their motorcycles soaring into the air, silhouettes against the firelight before they landed back on the sand, riding effortlessly as if they had always known how to defy gravity.

Jungkook pulled back, his stomach a tight knot as he approached the base of the dune. His mind screamed at him to turn around, but the roar of the bikes and the pull of the moment pushed him forward. The fire’s heat slapped his face for a split second before he gunned the throttle, his bike launching into the air.

The world spun for a heartbeat, the flames from the bonfire flashing by in a dizzying blur, and then—he hit the sand. The bike wobbled violently beneath him, but he hung on, teeth clenched, fighting the instinct to let go. The bike’s tires found purchase, and he shot forward, breathless and wild-eyed.

On the other side of the fire, the Lost Boys were waiting for him, grinning like they had just won a race. Y/N turned back toward him, her hair wild from the wind, her smile something that could have been meant for anyone, but he knew—he felt it. It was for him.

Before he had time to catch his breath, they were off again. The bikes roared forward, and the sand gave way to harder ground as they raced toward a railroad trestle, its dark silhouette etched against the starry sky.

Jimin fell back, pulling alongside Jungkook, his bike roaring at full speed. Y/N’s hair streamed behind her like a banner, and for a moment, her hand reached out toward him. Her fingers brushed his, and the sensation of it lingered, a jolt of something unspoken. His heart skipped in his chest.

Jimin caught his gaze, his grin sharp and knowing. “Now we race!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the night like a challenge.

Without waiting for an answer, Jimin revved his Triumph and shot forward, the roar of the engine almost deafening. Jungkook pushed the throttle harder, chasing after him.

The trestle was gone in a blur of speed, and ahead of them loomed Hudson’s Bluff—a flat, wide stretch of land that seemed endless in the night. But Jungkook knew it wasn’t. The edge was coming, a sheer drop that would send him five hundred feet straight into the crash of waves below.

Jimin didn’t even hesitate. His bike sped toward the edge, dangerously close, too fast—and for a moment, Jungkook thought he wouldn’t stop.

He didn’t. His bike screamed ahead, and Jungkook’s hands tightened on the brakes. His Honda skidded, the tires biting into the dirt as he fought to control it, heart in his throat, eyes locked on the horizon.

Just before the edge, his bike jerked to a stop, sliding sideways on the loose earth. He barely caught himself, the terror still squeezing at his chest. When he looked up, Jimin was already there, his Triumph’s front tire hanging perilously over the abyss, the cool calm of the moment in stark contrast to the chaos of the race.

Jimin was still grinning when he straightened, his eyes flicking to Jungkook with a challenge in them.

Without thinking, Jungkook swung his fist, connecting with Jimin’s jaw. The impact snapped through the air, the sound ringing out over the quiet. Jimin staggered back, but when he regained his balance, his grin was wider than before, dangerous now.

“How far are you willing to go, Jungkook?” he asked, his voice low but loaded with something Jungkook couldn’t quite place.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.

Jimin motioned to the others, who fell in behind him, their bikes roaring back to life. They moved toward the stairs, the old wooden steps creaking under the weight of the group. Jungkook followed, his breath still unsteady, heart still racing. But he wasn’t turning back. Not now. Not with Y/N’s smile burning through him like a brand.

When they reached the cave, he stopped dead.

It wasn’t just a cave. It was a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

A Victorian hotel lay sprawled beneath the rock, half-sunken into the earth, its broken lobby tilted like something out of a forgotten era. Wrought-iron elevators, crumbling but still standing, and a mural that stretched across the walls in shattered pieces. Moonlight poured through the cracks in the ceiling, casting sharp silver light over the ruins.

Jungkook stood frozen, unsure if he should turn around or take another step further into the madness. But then Y/N smiled at him again, and it was the kind of smile that dared him to keep going. So, he did. He took one more step into the dark.

The cave was thick with a damp chill that pressed against Jungkook’s skin, the kind of cold that gnawed at the bones. The air smelled of wet earth and something ancient, like the earth had been holding its breath for years. Shafts of moonlight sliced through jagged cracks in the ceiling, casting harsh, silver beams that illuminated the ruins in uneven light. A Victorian hotel lobby, frozen in time and buried deep within the rocks, lay sprawled out before him. The walls, cracked and crumbling, were covered in layers of dust, and the remnants of a forgotten era whispered through the shadows.

The wrought-iron elevator stood frozen, rusted, and tilting at an odd, awkward angle, as though it had been abandoned in a hurry. The front desk—once grand—was now just a shadow of itself, its wood warped and split from years of neglect. Behind it, the murals—vibrant at one point, perhaps—now only offered faded traces of scenes that told half-forgotten stories. The plaster walls, peeling and cracked, barely held onto the ghosts of their former self. The whole place felt wrong, like it had been swallowed by the earth in some moment of chaos, as if the land had taken back what was never meant to be there in the first place.

Jungkook couldn’t tear his eyes away from the eerie grandeur of it all, the surreal sight of the forgotten hotel, but Jimin’s voice cut through the weight of the silence.

“This was the hottest resort in Santa Carla about eighty years ago,” Jimin said, his voice casual, but laced with an authority that made it impossible to ignore. He leaned against a broken column, one hand sliding casually into his pocket, the other holding a smirk that seemed as much a part of him as the shadows around them. His eyes glinted in the dim light, filled with mischief. “Too bad they built it right on top of the San Andreas fault.”

Jungkook turned his head, tearing his gaze from the decaying remnants of the hotel and trying to mask his unease. Jimin paused for a moment, his eyes holding the weight of a story that Jungkook hadn’t yet heard. The silence stretched, the shadows creeping closer, as though the cave itself was listening, waiting.

“In 1906,” Jimin continued, his voice dropping lower as he leaned in slightly, like he was about to tell a ghost story, “when the big one hit San Francisco, the ground opened up.” He let the words hang in the air, his eyes dancing in the moonlight. “This place didn’t stand a chance. Took a header right into the crack. Swallowed it whole.”

Jungkook felt the chill in the air deepen. The remnants of the hotel suddenly felt more like a tomb than a place once filled with laughter and life. His eyes darted around the cave, trying to make sense of it, but the room seemed to be closing in, pressing in on him. He didn’t want to ask questions; didn’t want to know how it was possible, but the words echoed in his head, unshakable.

“Man, you wouldn’t believe the cool stuff we’ve found in here,” Yoongi’s voice broke through the tension, dry as the brittle beams above them. His tone was casual, but there was something else behind it—a quiet, eerie fascination.

Jungkook shifted uneasily on his feet. The air felt thick, as though the cave itself was alive, breathing, watching him, its walls pressing in like the eyes of something ancient and knowing. He could almost hear it—like the ground beneath them was pulsing, waiting for something. For what, he couldn’t say, but the feeling crawled down his spine, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.

His gaze turned toward Y/N. He didn’t have to say anything—he just needed to see her, needed to feel like everything was still real. She caught his eye and smiled at him, soft but steady, her presence a quiet anchor amidst the creeping shadows. She reached for his hand, the warmth of her touch grounding him in the moment.

“C’mon, Jungkook,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, her fingers wrapping around his hand like a promise. “I want to go.”

He opened his mouth to reply, to offer something—an excuse, a reason to leave—but before he could speak, Jimin’s voice sliced through the air, cutting him off.

“No. Stick around,” Jimin said, his voice sharp, commanding, as if there was no room for argument.

Jungkook hesitated, caught between Y/N’s reassuring touch and the pressure of Jimin’s gaze. He opened his mouth, trying to deflect, to offer some sort of out. “We were gonna grab some food,” he mumbled, his voice trailing off like it didn’t belong in this place.

Jimin’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with something dangerous. “Good idea,” he said, his tone playful yet strangely firm. He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Taeyang. We’re hungry.”

Taeyang, as silent as ever, nodded without a word and disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind only the faint sound of footsteps fading into the darkness.

Jimin lit a joint, the flicker of the lighter briefly illuminating his sharp features, casting them in an eerie glow. He took a slow drag, his eyes never leaving Jungkook’s face, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke that curled lazily toward the cracked ceiling. “See?” Jimin said, holding the joint out toward Jungkook with an almost casual air. “All you gotta do is ask. How about an appetizer?”

Jungkook froze, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes in the cave fall on him. The joint hovered between them, suspended in the cool air, the dark shadows stretching long and deep. For a moment, time seemed to slow. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like the entire cave was holding its breath.

Y/N shifted beside him, her expression troubled, but she said nothing. She didn’t pull away, didn’t step back—but he could feel the tension in her body, the subtle shift in her energy. She was waiting for him to make a choice, just as he was waiting for something to shift, for the right moment to step away.

But the longer he stood there, the more he felt the pull of something—something dark, something that felt just as much a part of this place as the broken walls and forgotten memories. The silence stretched on, heavy and thick with unspoken words. Finally, unable to stand the pressure, Jungkook reached out.

His fingers brushed the edge of the joint, and the moment he took it, the air seemed to thicken, the darkness around them pressing in even more. The cave felt darker now, the shadows deeper, more alive, as if the place was swallowing him whole. The weight of the eyes on him, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and damp earth, made it feel as though he had crossed some invisible line.

Y/N squeezed his hand tighter, her fingers wrapped around his like a lifeline, but even her presence couldn’t dispel the sense of wrongness that clung to the cave. Jungkook’s chest tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the joint. The pull of the night, the others, it all felt too strong to ignore.

The cave waited. It watched. And Jungkook had just made his choice.

Across town, the atmosphere was quieter, yet the tension was no less palpable. The house, tucked away in a neighborhood that buzzed with the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog, had a calm that felt almost unnatural in its stillness. Inside, Jung-Hyun lay sprawled on his bed, the soft rustle of pages filling the silence. His back was against the headboard, his legs bent at an awkward angle as he propped a comic book against his knees. Vampires Everywhere was emblazoned in bold, lurid letters across the cover, the artwork vibrant and chaotic, just the way he liked it. He flipped through the panels, his eyes darting back and forth, drinking in the fantastical scenes of bloodsuckers, supernatural creatures, and haunted cities. Each page seemed to draw him deeper, a temporary escape from the world beyond the paper.

He was so absorbed in the story that he didn’t even hear the soft footsteps approaching his room until the door creaked open, just a crack. Wanda, his mother, poked her head into the space, her figure briefly framed by the hallway light before it flickered out of sight. “Ten o’clock. Lights out,” she called out, her voice not unkind but firm, the way a parent’s voice often was when there was no room for argument. She tossed a sweater into the closet, not looking at him as she spoke.

Jung-Hyun barely acknowledged her, his gaze still glued to the page in front of him. “Mom,” he muttered, not looking up. His voice was laced with the exhaustion of adolescence—half rebellion, half resignation.

Wanda hesitated in the doorway for a moment, then let out a sigh. Her fingers curled around the doorknob, her eyes scanning the room like she was about to say something, but she didn’t seem to know how to frame it. “I can’t sleep with the closet door open, either,” she added after a long beat, the words lingering in the air. “Not even a crack.” There was a pause before she laughed softly, but the sound was hollow, as though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Your father didn’t mind, though. He could leave it wide open for all he cared. Actually…” She trailed off for a second, her voice dropping a bit. “I think one of the reasons I divorced him was because he never believed… in the horror of the closet monster.”

Jung-Hyun raised an eyebrow, momentarily distracted from the comic. “Closet monster?” His tone was dry, laced with curiosity but also amusement, like he was humoring her, but he didn’t expect any real explanation.

Just as Wanda opened her mouth to reply, a deep voice rumbled from behind them, sending both of them into a sudden jolt of surprise.

“Closet monster?” Min-chul’s voice boomed, rich with humor and mischief, coming from just behind them. Wanda and Jung-Hyun yelped in unison, as startled as if a ghost had materialized in the room. They spun around in tandem, both of them wide-eyed, only to find Min-chul leaning casually against the doorframe, his signature grin spread across his face, completely unphased by their shock.

“Dad!” Wanda scolded with a gasp, her heart still pounding in her chest. Her expression was a mix of exasperation and affection, but the edge of annoyance was clear in her voice. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

Min-chul raised a hand in mock surrender, his grin only growing wider. “It’s called the Indian walk,” he said proudly, his tone almost too pleased with himself. “Walking without making a sound.”

Jung-Hyun rolled his eyes, already used to his father’s antics. But before he could say anything, Min-chul stepped further into the room, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He was holding something behind his back, hiding it like it was some kind of secret treasure, but the way he was grinning, it was clear that whatever it was, it was meant to be a surprise.

Min-chul made a dramatic flourish, his free hand swooping outward as he revealed the object behind his back. “Brought you a little something to dress up your room, Jung-Hyun,” he said, his voice dripping with excitement.

Jung-Hyun blinked in disbelief as he looked at the grotesque thing in his father’s hands. It was a stuffed woodchuck, its fur matted and dirty with age, its teeth bared in a perpetual snarl, the glassy eyes wide and unblinking. The thing was so ugly, so unnervingly lifelike in its grotesque posture, that Jung-Hyun had to resist the urge to cringe. He forced a grateful smile, even though everything inside him recoiled. “Thanks, Harabeoji,” he said weakly, the words tasting foreign on his tongue.

Min-chul beamed with pride, placing the stuffed animal carefully on the dresser like it was the most precious thing in the world. His voice was warm, a deep affection in the way he spoke. “Lots more where he came from.”

Wanda shuddered, clearly not as thrilled with the gift as her husband was. She covered it with a polite nod, trying to mask the unease in her face. “Lights out, Jung-Hyun,” she said briskly, her voice now taking on that motherly authority. She took Min-chul by the arm and gently steered him toward the door, her movements a little quicker than usual, as though she was eager to get away from the unsettling addition to their son’s room.

Jung-Hyun sat there in silence, his eyes locked on the stuffed woodchuck, its glassy stare boring into him. The dim light from the bedside lamp made the creature’s teeth gleam eerily, as if it was alive, watching him with some hidden knowledge. The room suddenly felt colder, darker, the shadows stretching unnaturally around the strange gift. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, trying to lose himself in the pages of his comic again, but it was impossible to ignore the grotesque figure sitting on the dresser.

Minutes passed, and Jung-Hyun found his gaze drifting back to the woodchuck. Its eyes seemed to follow him, every move he made—its sharp, bared teeth gleaming in the half-light. Something about it gnawed at him, as if it was waiting for him to do something, or perhaps waiting for something to happen. He couldn’t focus on his comic anymore. The words blurred in front of him, and the images lost their power. He could still hear the quiet, oppressive atmosphere of the room, the silence hanging heavy with an unsettling presence.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. With a frustrated grunt, he pushed himself off the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a soft thud. His heart was racing, his nerves frayed by the unsettling sensation creeping up his spine. Without thinking, he marched over to the dresser, grabbed the revolting stuffed woodchuck, and tossed it into the closet, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary.

The closet door groaned in protest, but the room was suddenly quieter, almost calmer. Jung-Hyun let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his pulse still pounding in his ears. He stood there for a moment, staring at the closet door, the brief flash of fear slowly ebbing away. But even as he tried to calm himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the room wasn’t as empty as it seemed. The dark corners seemed to hold something, something that he couldn’t quite name.

Back in the cave, the atmosphere was undeniably shifting. The earlier tension that had filled the air was slowly melting away, like mist under the warmth of the sun. Music began to pulse through the cavernous space from a battered old boombox perched on a broken stone ledge. The bass reverberated off the jagged rock walls, a hypnotic beat that seemed to seep into the very bones of the cave. Taehyung, ever the free spirit, was in his element—gracefully gliding on his skateboard across the uneven stone floor. His movements were fluid, each turn, flip, and slide a perfect synchronization with the rhythm of the music. It was as if his body was made for the music, dancing in the air as much as it was skating along the ground. The others lounged around him, each of them in their own space, enjoying the break from earlier tension. Some sat casually on the rocks, legs dangling or stretched out lazily, while others leaned against the columns of stone or sprawled in the shadows. Laughter, casual chatter, and the steady thrum of the boombox formed a kind of strange harmony.

Jungkook, still feeling somewhat out of place and unnerved by the cave's overwhelming sense of otherness, was the one to break the spell. His voice cut through the music like a knife, his words awkward but genuine. “Where are you guys from?” he asked, his curiosity forcing the question out before he could think better of it.

Yoongi glanced at him from where he was lounging against a stone pillar, a lazy smirk stretching across his face. “We’re from right here,” he answered, his voice calm, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Jungkook blinked in confusion. “No, I mean… where do you live?” His voice was hesitant, unsure if he was missing something, but his question felt too big to leave unasked.

The moment hung in the air for a second, and then Taehyung let out a sharp laugh—an almost mocking sound, but not unkind. It was as if Jungkook had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. He spun his skateboard around, the wheels screeching against the stone, before leaning casually against a rock. “Right here,” Taehyung replied, gesturing widely around the cave as though the entire cavern was the answer. “This is where we live, Jungkook.”

The whole group chuckled at that, the tension from earlier dissolving completely as they fell back into their comfortable rhythm. But Jungkook, now even more bewildered than before, wasn’t letting it go that easily. “You live here? Your folks let you?” he asked, still incredulous. The question slipped out before he could stop it, and the group fell into a quiet pause.

Yoongi’s eyebrow arched, his expression both amused and mildly confused. “Is he talking parents?” he asked, looking at the others, as though Jungkook had just asked about some long-forgotten relic of the past.

Taehyung leaned back with a grin, his laugh bursting from him again. “What are they?” His voice dripped with playful sarcasm, and his smile only widened as the others joined in, their laughter echoing off the stone walls of the cave.

Jimin, who had been leaning lazily against a broken pillar near Jungkook, watched the whole exchange with a knowing gleam in his eyes. He sidled closer, his movements slow and deliberate. There was a strange glint in his eyes as he spoke, his voice low, seductive almost. “We do what we want, Jungkook,” he said, his words dripping with a kind of dangerous freedom. “We have complete freedom. No parents. No rules.” He tilted his head, his expression suddenly intense. “Hell, we’re as free as birds.”

The weight of Jimin’s words hung in the air like a promise, an invitation to something deeper, darker. But before Jungkook could process what he was hearing, a new presence appeared—Taeyang, emerging from the shadows, carrying cartons of takeout food. The sight of the food brought a strange sense of normalcy back, a grounding force amidst the bizarre and unsettling atmosphere. Jimin clapped him on the back in greeting, taking the containers from him with a flourish, as if he were presenting an offering.

“Chinese! Good choice,” Jimin said with an exaggerated smile, cracking open a carton of food and handing it to Jungkook with an almost ceremonial air. “Guests first,” he added, his voice laced with mock politeness.

Jungkook hesitated for a moment, eyeing the carton warily. The others watched him with barely contained amusement, their gazes flicking between him and the food. Jungkook’s stomach growled, betraying his discomfort. After a brief, tense moment, he took the carton from Jimin, feeling the weight of their gaze on him as if they were waiting for him to do something more than simply eat. Slowly, almost cautiously, he scooped a spoonful of rice into his mouth, trying to ignore the growing knot in his stomach.

Jimin, still watching him with an amused glint in his eyes, leaned in just a little closer, his voice lowering to a whisper of mock innocence. “So,” he said, “how do you like those maggots, Jungkook?”

Jungkook froze. His stomach dropped, and the world seemed to tilt. “What?” he asked, his voice tight with confusion and horror.

Jimin’s grin widened, dark and wicked. “You’re eating maggots,” he said, his voice full of glee. “How do they taste?”

Jungkook’s blood ran cold as he stared down at the carton in his hands. The rice, which had seemed so ordinary moments before, was no longer just rice. It was alive. He blinked in disbelief, but the writhing mass of maggots was unmistakable—thousands of tiny, squirming creatures crawling over one another, their translucent bodies glistening in the dim light. He gagged, his stomach lurching violently. Without thinking, he spit out the mouthful he had taken and threw the carton to the ground.

But when the carton spilled open, all that fell out was plain, harmless rice. No maggots. No worms. Just rice.

The entire cave erupted in laughter. It was loud, raucous, and the sound bounced off the stone walls, filling every corner of the space. Jungkook’s face burned with humiliation, his pulse racing with a mix of anger and confusion. He stood there, frozen, unsure of whether to laugh or to retreat.

Y/N, who had been sitting nearby, stood abruptly, her voice cutting through the chaos like a sharp blade. “That’s enough,” she said, her tone harsh, protective.

Jimin raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. “Sorry, Jungkook,” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. “No hard feelings, huh?” He offered him a new carton, this time filled with noodles. “Here. Try these noodles.”

Jungkook eyed the carton warily, his stomach still churning from the earlier shock. He opened it slowly, the feeling of dread tightening in his chest. But when he looked inside, his stomach flipped again. The noodles weren’t just noodles. They were alive—twisting, writhing, and slimy, the noodles moving in a grotesque dance of their own.

Jimin, unfazed, raised an eyebrow and echoed Jungkook’s horror. “Worms?” he asked with mock confusion, then tilted the carton back, letting the wriggling mass of noodles slide into his mouth. The sound of the noodles slithering over his lips and disappearing down his throat was obscene, a sickeningly satisfying slurp.

Jungkook couldn’t hold it in any longer. Panic surged through him, and he grabbed Jimin’s arm, his heart pounding in his chest. “Don’t! Stop!” he begged, his voice rising with fear.

Jimin simply grinned, swallowing the last of the noodles with ease. “Why? They’re only noodles,” he said casually, offering the carton back to Jungkook, as if the thing was completely normal. But this time, when Jungkook looked inside, the noodles were just… noodles. Harmless. Innocuous. No worms.

The boys around them howled with laughter again, their voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of amusement, as if they were all in on a joke that Jungkook didn’t understand. He felt a cold sweat break out along his spine, the ground beneath him seeming to shift and buckle. The sense of unreality clung to him, his grip on what was real loosening.

“That’s enough!” Y/N snapped again, her voice cutting through the ruckus like a whip. She stood tall, her eyes flashing with something protective, something fierce.

The music shifted again, the boombox crackling before a new song slammed into the space, deep and throbbing with a rhythm that vibrated through the entire cavern. The beat was alive, wrapping around the walls, seeping into the stones, flowing through every crack and crevice. The air hummed with it. It was so powerful, so immersive, that it seemed to pulse from the very walls themselves. Every note, every beat urged them all to move, to surrender to the music. It had a strange power—an irresistible pull that made the cave feel less like a place and more like a living thing, like it was breathing along with them.

Y/N, ever the force of nature, grabbed Jungkook’s hand without hesitation, pulling him towards the center of the room, toward the pulse of the music. Her grip was firm, but there was a lightness to her that made him want to follow her anywhere. She moved effortlessly, flowing like water, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. There was a kind of gravity to her, like she could make the whole world bend to her will without even trying. Jungkook felt himself moving along with her, his body reluctantly obeying her silent command. His laughter came out nervous, hesitant, as he tried to match her fluid movements, but his body was betraying him. The joint Jimin had handed him earlier was doing its work—his limbs felt heavy and loose, his movements sluggish, and his balance was slightly off. The world around him seemed to tilt, edges blurring, the lights flashing just a little too brightly, the music too loud, but somehow it was exhilarating. He felt caught in the undertow of it all, unable to fight the current.

Jimin, leaning against a crumbling pillar with a relaxed grin, watched them with a sly glint in his eyes. His posture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes tracked them with predatory attention, as if he were amused by some private joke. Then, as if a thought had occurred to him, he reached behind him and pulled an old, dark bottle from a dusty shelf. It was a relic, something forgotten and weathered, the label too faded to read. He uncorked it with an exaggerated flick of his wrist, the sound sharp in the space, and poured its contents into a crinkled paper cup. The liquid inside was a dark, rich color—deep crimson, almost too thick to be liquid. He sauntered over to Jungkook, the smile on his face widening, and extended the cup toward him with a flourish, like it was a gift.

“Drink,” Jimin said smoothly, his voice as warm as honey, thick with something dangerous, something like temptation.

Jungkook hesitated, eyeing the cup with a mix of curiosity and caution. But before he could reach for it, Y/N's hand shot out, gripping his wrist with a surprising strength. Her fingers were cool against his skin, and her eyes were wide, urgent. Her face was close, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her skin, the heat of her breath as she leaned in.

“Don’t, Jungkook. You don’t have to,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm, like a warning he didn’t know how to ignore. “It’s blood.”

Her words hit him like a punch, a sudden jolt of reality amidst the haze. For a second, everything paused. The world seemed to freeze around him. His eyes searched hers, trying to make sense of the words, but they didn’t make sense. Blood? He blinked slowly, his mind trying to process it, but all he could do was laugh, a low, amused chuckle escaping his lips.

“Blood. Right,” he said, as though he were indulging in some bizarre joke. He raised the cup to his lips, swirling the thick liquid inside, watching it glint in the dim light. “Good joke, Y/N.”

But before she could stop him again, Jungkook tipped the cup back and drank. The liquid was warm, thicker than any drink he’d ever tasted, and when it slid down his throat, it felt almost alive. The room seemed to hold its breath as everyone watched him. His skin prickled with the sensation of their eyes on him. The liquid slid over his tongue, and a strange taste bloomed in his mouth. It was iron—sharp and metallic—but there was something else, something deeper and darker, something that set his nerves alight. It was the taste of something ancient, something primal.

When the cup pulled away from his mouth, it left a streak of the liquid at the corner of his lips, the red stain a stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. For a moment, he just stared at the cup in his hand, a faint, bitter taste lingering in the back of his throat. But then, something inside him snapped. The edges of his vision blurred, the world tilting dangerously, like the ground had given way beneath him.

And then, it wasn’t just spinning—it was flying.

The sensation of weightlessness hit him all at once, like he was floating, like the air had turned to something thick and viscous. He felt himself rising, slowly, impossibly high, the room shrinking beneath him, the laughter, the music, the faces all blurring together into a kaleidoscope of sound and color. He drifted upward, weightless, his body a balloon on the wind. Everything around him began to feel distant, dreamlike—he could hear their voices, but they were muffled, like he was listening through a veil.

Jungkook’s head spun with the vertigo, the dizzying feeling of floating just above reality. He barely felt the impact as he stumbled, his body moving of its own accord, and fell forward, collapsing into Y/N’s lap.

The moment he made contact with her, everything shifted. Y/N went completely still beneath him, her body rigid with tension. He could feel it—her legs trembling with the effort to hold still, the tension in her muscles pulling tight like a string. It was strange against the loose, languid feeling that had taken over him, as if his own body were made of soft, flowing water. The contrast felt like a jolt, something electric running through him. The others, the Lost Boys, were still laughing behind him, their voices loud and jeering, but Jungkook didn’t care. He could hear the amusement in their voices, but it didn’t bother him. Not now. Not when Y/N smelled like everything he needed to breathe.

He buried his face into the soft folds of her skirt, his body relaxing further into the cushion of her lap. There was a heady, intoxicating scent wafting from her skin, something salty and sweet, mixed with the faint iron tang of blood. The smell was different from anyone else. It was a pulse, a steady rhythm that sent his senses spinning, tugging at something deep inside him. It was warm, and cold, all at once—a strange balance, woven together into something intoxicating. Something that made his head spin even harder, made him want to stay close, closer.

His hand moved almost of its own accord, lifting to gently rest on her knee, the warmth of her skin beneath his touch like fire against the coolness of his fingers. He looked up at her, his head heavy, his vision too soft, too slow. A smile curved across his lips.

“Give me a kiss, Y/N?” he asked, his voice thick with something else now. Something dreamlike, delirious.

Y/N froze. For a brief moment, she didn’t move, her gaze flicking to him like a darting bird. And then, almost too fast to follow, she turned her head away. The sudden shift in her energy was jarring, her tension radiating off her in waves. Jungkook’s heart stuttered in confusion.

Her voice trembled, laced with something darker than he could comprehend. “Jungkook, you’re covered in blood.”

Jungkook blinked, trying to process her words, before he twisted his body, lifting himself slightly to glance at his chest. His eyes followed the trail of crimson across his clothes, the deep red staining his hands, his lips. He raised a shaky hand to his mouth, wiping at the blood that had dripped down, and stared at his fingers. The blood was thick and sticky, the taste still heavy on his tongue.

“Whoops,” he murmured absently, the words coming out almost too lightly. He chuckled softly, a sound that felt both out of place and completely right.

It felt so absurd. So funny.

The realization hit him with a strange, almost unbearable humor. His mother would be so disappointed. She’d always told him not to play with his food.

The thought made him laugh, and it bubbled up from deep within him, a loud, infectious sound. The laughter echoed around him, mixing with the distant amusement of the others, the voices of the Lost Boys rising in a wave of shared mirth. The sound was light, fizzy, like champagne bubbles popping against his skin, in his veins. It warmed him from the inside, loosening everything left within him. Everything became soft, pliable, as if he were melting into the air itself.

He felt so good. So light. So... free.

But Y/N didn’t join in the laughter. In fact, the tension in her body seemed to heighten. She was shaking now, trembling beneath him. It was subtle, but it was there, and it immediately stopped the warm, drunken hum that had been surrounding him. Jungkook’s smile faltered as he turned to her, his hand reaching up to gently touch her cheek. He needed to understand why she wasn’t laughing, why she wasn’t joining him in this dizzying, euphoric feeling.

“Y/N?” he asked softly, his voice full of concern. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her body stiff beneath him, but when she turned to look at him, her eyes were burning with something he couldn’t place. They were full of something fierce—something accusing.

Jungkook’s heart skipped a beat. “Y/N?” he asked again, his voice more urgent now.

Her gaze flicked past him, up toward the curtain drawn around their alcove, her brow furrowing with anger. There was something in her look—something dark and knowing. She was staring at something behind him, beyond him, as if she could see into the heart of the cave.

Jungkook shifted slightly, his body sluggish, but he managed to raise himself on his elbows to follow her gaze.

And there, standing just outside the alcove, was Jimin.

His hands were tucked into the pockets of his overcoat, his stance relaxed, but there was a predatory edge to his smile, a cold, twisted satisfaction in the way his eyes flicked between them.

It takes two tries, his limbs all liquid and unfamiliar, but Jungkook manages to lever himself up onto his elbows. To put his mouth closer to Y/N’s ear. “Did he do something?”

A shudder races through Y/N’s whole body, a shudder that Jungkook, lying in her lap and pressed up close against her everywhere he can, can feel. It’s strangely fascinating. He wants to make her do it again.

There’s something almost like despair in her voice when Y/N says, “Jungkook…”

She says it, watching him, like he should know what she means. What’s going on. Why she’s so upset.

Jimin tucks his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and leans back against the wall, watching them both with a switchblade sliver of a smile.

For the first time, the dizzy haze of satisfied well-being that’s descended over Jungkook feels strangely uncomfortable. Like a soft, warm blanket that’s somehow got tangled over his face. Muffling. Smothering. Suffocating.

He flops himself over onto his side, resting his head against Y/N’s thigh, putting his back to Jimin and his eyes back on Y/N. “Ignore him,” Jungkook advises, and Y/N gives a choked little laugh in the back of her throat, pressing the heel of one hand against her mouth. “Y/N?”

“Jungkook -” Y/N starts, like she’s about to explain why it’s not that simple, and why Jungkook should be upset too, and a whole lot of other things that are going to ruin this moment of pure uncomplicated good that Jungkook’s already starting to realize isn’t going to last forever.

She stops, though, biting off whatever misery she has in mind, when Jungkook draws a finger up the inside of her leg.

He takes his time about it, tracing a lazy pattern around the jut of her anklebone and zigzagging back and forth up her calf to her knee. Y/N’s breath hitches, the hot pulse under her skin surging, as Jungkook doodles invisible circles around the hinge of her knee for a moment before spanning it with his hand and squeezing, digging his thumb into the soft place just above the joint. Her leg jerks, involuntarily Jungkook thinks, and she gives another of those fascinating shudders that he likes.

“Ignore him, Y/N,” Jungkook repeats, even though he can still feel Jimin’s laser-blue eyes boring into his back, Jimin’s attention brushing over him like the whisper of the lacy curtain drifting in the faintest swell of sea-breeze. He thinks of the ways Jimin had looked at him, when he had to watch Y/N walk away from him to climb onto the back of Jimin’s bike, and drags his grip a little higher, bunching up Y/N’s skirt to reveal the smooth expanse of her skin.

A little helpless whimper spills out of Y/N as Jungkook shifts away from his place against her thigh to settle between her legs.

Jungkook takes a moment to plant a gentle kiss to the inside of her knee where, a moment before, he’d dug his thumb in. The sob that catches on Y/N’s breath, heavy and harsh in their little bubble of lace-edged silence, cracks in half partway through.

Y/N smells amazing, and Jungkook can’t get enough. He kisses his way up the inside of her thigh, savoring the way her muscles quaver under his touch, and brushes his lips against the coarse dark curls spilling past the edges of her plain cotton panties as he buries his nose in the crook of her hip and inhales. She’s all sweet and salt together, like crackerjack, like cotton candy on the pier, with that iron rush just below the surface setting Jungkook’s back teeth buzzing and something wild clawing inside his chest. This close to the core of her, her animal musk, her heat, nearly drowns the sweetness out. And that moonlight-cold thing that Jungkook can’t describe slices through it all like vinegar dashed over the salty richness of fresh-from-the-fryer French fries, like the sting of sour candy in a penny-candy bag. She’s mouthwatering.

He wants to devour her.

He wants to make her feel better.

He thinks he can do two things at once.

Y/N lets out a hitching gasp as Jungkook presses a soft kiss to the tiny satin bow decorating the waistband of her panties, then directly over the damp patch of flimsy fabric that’s all that separates her from the world. He lingers there a moment, breathing her in, before he drags himself away to start ministering to the inside of her other thigh. He doesn’t have to. And he’s tempted not to draw this out, make them both suffer, any longer. Tempted just to plunge right in.

But he wants to make Y/N forget whatever it is that’s making her sad. Whatever it is that Jimin’s done that’s disappointed her.

Jungkook can – and he will – kiss it better.

Y/N’s shaking by the time he works his way back up, trembling with the effort, it seems like, of holding herself still. Jungkook can hear the fabric of her skirt shifting and shuffling as she bunches fistfuls of it up and squeezes, then carefully, slowly, releases.

He grins into the soft meat of her thigh, and then shifts over and licks a long stripe up the crotch of her panties.

Y/N jerks, her hips bucking up suddenly enough to catch Jungkook off his guard and bash her pelvic bone against his nose. He thinks he makes some muffled noise of protest, but if there’s pain, it’s gone again in the next thought, erased by the pure euphoria of finally, finally getting a taste of her. She’s soaked right through the thin fabric. Yet another piece of evidence to add to the growing pile that, no matter how she’s fighting for whatever reason not to show it, Y/N’s enjoying this.

Now that Jungkook’s had a taste, though, every thought he had about slowly teasing Y/N up to the edge flies right out of his head. Her restraint seems to crumble in tandem with Jungkook’s, if the way her fists are suddenly clawing into his hair instead of in her skirts is anything to judge by. She doesn’t sound like she’s even trying to bite back or disguise the ragged gasp and long, low, hungry moan that she lets out when he tears open the offending barrier between his lips and hers, when he breathes an almost rapturous sigh against her suddenly-bared flesh. The dark red gash that opens within her darker thatch of curls is as tantalizing, as irresistible, as the bottle of wine Jimin had opened in his face earlier tonight, and the last of Jungkook’s resistance melts as easily before it.

And the surrender is every bit as sweet.

Y/N’s fists tug at his hair as he buries his face into the wet heat of her, his scalp stinging in the pull of her directionless grip. Jungkook lets her yank him closer, force him deeper, as he tries to map out every crook and crevice of her with his tongue. The taste of her is as incredible as the smell of her was, but somehow just a thousand times more, and Jungkook enthusiastically hunts down every trace of ephemeral sweetness and bitter-bright acidity in the flood of hot slick juices smearing his face, coating his tongue.

And every needy sound he manages to wring out of Y/N, every twitch or buck or arch or quiver, sends a little thrill shivering through Jungkook. He’s half-hard in his jeans without even being touched. He might put a hand down to deal with that, if he weren’t so busy focusing on pinning Y/N’s hips down into the cushions, working a couple of fingers into her alongside his tongue.

There’s a prickling awareness that rises slowly up Jungkook’s spine that they’re still being watched, a sort of feeling of nakedness even though he’s still fully dressed in his bloodstained clothes. A feeling of being exposed, under Jimin’s cool, watchful attention.

Somehow, it doesn’t dampen the fire in Jungkook’s blood for this, for Y/N, for everything.

Actually, it’s very much the opposite.

Jungkook’s head is spinning, and for a moment, he’s entirely consumed by Y/N—by the heat and the softness of her, the way she feels against him, like she could melt him into the bed with a single breath. Her thighs tighten around his head, her body trembling, and he loses himself in her pulse, thundering loud enough to fill his ears. It’s a beautiful thing, that moment, when nothing else exists but the two of them—when he can’t remember how long it’s been since he’s felt so weightless, so free. He barely notices how time stretches, or how much of it passes, until her grip loosens, then tightens in his hair again, and her breath comes fast and shallow, full of tremors that ripple down to him.

And then it’s over. She collapses back against the cushions, her thighs falling away from his ears, and Jungkook watches as her chest rises and falls in time with her heart. She’s quiet now, peaceful in the aftermath, and the only sounds in the space between them are the unsteady rhythm of her breathing and the pulse in her throat.

Jungkook’s hands slide slowly from her body, the movement almost reluctant, but the heat between them is too much to ignore, and he can’t help himself. He lifts his torso off the bed, positioning himself on his elbows, wanting to look at her, to connect with her. The moment feels almost sacred, something shared between them that is impossible to put into words. He wants to see her face, to savor this, but when he opens his mouth to speak, he’s struck by the deafening silence that surrounds them. It’s thick, unsettling, almost suffocating.

“Now, how about… that… kiss...” His voice falters, the words hanging in the air like a fragile thread, but before he can finish, he stops himself. His eyes catch something that makes his blood run cold.

Her face is wet. The tears are rolling down her cheeks, leaving streaks through the mess of blood still marking her skin—marks from his hands. The realization hits him hard. She’s crying. His stomach tightens, and a wave of panic rises within him, threatening to overwhelm him. Why? Did he hurt her in some way? The thought grips him so intensely, his heart races and his breath catches in his throat. The weight of the unknown forces him into action.

He moves quickly, but his hands are clumsy, fumbling with her skirts, covering her with an urgency he doesn’t understand. His eyes scan her face, lingering on the tears, on the frown pulling at her features. His own heart skips a beat, and for a split second, he can’t breathe. "Y/N? What’s the matter?" he asks, his voice sounding raw, hollow in the wide gap between them.

For a moment, she doesn’t answer. The stillness stretches between them like an eternity. Her eyes don’t meet his; instead, they remain fixed on something unseen in the shadows, distant and unfocused. It unsettles him more than he’d like to admit. The silence is loud, deafening, and the chill in the air gnaws at his bones.

“No, Jungkook,” she says at last, her voice faint, almost lost in the stillness. “No, you didn’t hurt me.”

A rush of relief washes over him, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaping his lips in a shaky sigh. The panic that had seized him begins to loosen its grip, but it doesn’t fully dissipate. There’s still something gnawing at him, a feeling he can’t shake. He shifts, sitting back against the alcove wall, pulling himself as far from her as the confined space allows. The dried blood on his shirt cracks with the motion, flaking off and falling in little pieces onto the soft sheets beneath them. It seems so insignificant now, a remnant of something that no longer matters.

“I never wanna hurt you, Y/N,” he mutters, mostly to himself, the words escaping in a quiet, almost desperate tone. His eyes drift to the empty space around them, the eerie stillness pressing in, and the distant sound of laughter from their friends outside feels like a memory from a lifetime ago. It doesn’t feel lighthearted anymore; it feels distant. Cold. His mind races as the weight of the silence becomes heavier.

Y/N remains still, her body slack against the bed, her eyes unfocused, lost in her own thoughts. Then, after what feels like an eternity, she exhales a deep, shuddering breath, the sound almost a release. The tension in the room seems to lighten, just a little, as if some unseen weight is lifted, but it’s not enough to ease Jungkook completely. “Come here,” she murmurs softly, her voice inviting him, pulling him toward her.

She shifts, making space for him, and Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. He crawls up the bed, lying beside her, his head resting against her shoulder. The warmth of her body is a balm to the cold tension still hanging in the air. Her fingers begin to stroke through his hair, the movement so soft, so soothing, it almost feels unreal. His body relaxes at the sensation, his breathing slowing, becoming steadier, though something remains in the back of his mind, tugging at him, an unease that refuses to leave.

“You’ll need to leave before sunrise,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, as though speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment they’ve created. “The light can still make its way in here unless you go deeper.”

Jungkook hums softly in acknowledgment, but the urgency doesn’t sink in. He knows there’s time—there’s always time. The others won’t leave him to the sun. Whatever that meant. Jungkook was too tired to really think about it.

Yet, despite her warmth and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat under his ear, a quiet, unshakable dread lingers in his chest. It’s a feeling he can’t explain, a tug at the back of his mind, as if something is just out of reach, something he’s missing.

The sensation grows stronger as he drifts, a faint unease twisting in his gut. The last thing he’s aware of before sleep overtakes him is the sticky, uncomfortable feeling of dried blood on his skin, a reminder of everything that has happened—of everything yet to come.

Y/N lies still, her body feeling the comforting weight of Jungkook’s head against her shoulder, the soft, steady rhythm of his breath like a lullaby against her skin. She runs her fingers through his hair absently, the touch gentle, almost tender, but her mind is far from at ease. The afterglow of their intimacy lingers in her limbs, a warmth spreading through her chest, a comfortable ache that makes her smile even as it tugs at her muscles. It’s the kind of ache that signifies satisfaction, fulfillment. But even with that warmth, her thoughts keep pulling her away from the present moment.

The others.

She knows they heard. The sounds they made, the intimacy they shared—it wasn’t quiet. It was raw, too raw to be concealed. The thought makes her flush with embarrassment, heat crawling up her neck and into her cheeks. It’s not just that they heard—it’s that she couldn’t control herself. The way she gave in, the way she let go, her need overwhelming everything. She knows it wasn’t a mistake, that she enjoyed it, but the thought of the others knowing, of them hearing her give herself over to that craving—it makes her skin crawl with discomfort.

But it’s not about them. Not entirely. It’s Jimin.

Jimin, the one who has always been pulling the strings behind the scenes. She knows he orchestrated this, knows that he’s been playing her from the start. He knew how much she wanted Jungkook, how much she craved him, even when she didn’t fully admit it to herself. He’s been manipulating the situation, twisting her feelings, driving her toward the very thing she fears most.

Jimin wants her to drink from Jungkook. He wants her to cross the line, to take that final step into the darkness, to complete the transformation into what she’s meant to be—a vampire. And she can feel it now, deep within her veins. The craving. The hunger. The sharp, burning need that calls to her, a need she’s never been able to deny. It scares her.

Her hand tightens in Jungkook’s hair, her nails grazing his scalp lightly, and a shudder runs through her. It’s not his fault. She knows that. He’s just a pawn in Jimin’s game. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know that she’s being pushed, cornered, manipulated into something she’s not ready for. He doesn’t know that when he leaves, when the morning comes, he will forget all of this. But she knows she won’t.

The weight of that knowledge presses down on her chest, her heart quickening as the room grows darker and quieter. The others had heard, yes, but it’s not just them. It’s Jimin. He’s always known what was happening between them, what it would mean, what it could do to her.

And now he’s pushing her. Driving her toward something she’s doesn’t want to be.

Her breath hitches as she pulls Jungkook closer, holding him against her, as though clinging to something she can’t bear to lose. Her pulse quickens, the heat of his body against hers igniting a fire in her chest. But beneath it all, there’s fear. Fear of herself. Fear of the part of her that’s already too far gone.

But for now, she lets the fear slip away, allowing herself to sink into the comfort of the moment. Jimin may have his plans, but in this moment, all she wants is him—just him. She’ll deal with everything else in the morning.

The stillness of the room is broken only by the soft rhythm of Jungkook’s breathing, slow and steady against her shoulder. He’s asleep now, the weight of his body relaxed against hers, his warmth like a lifeline, grounding her in the chaos of her thoughts. The others are gone, their footsteps long faded from the halls, leaving her with nothing but the haunting silence of the night. She knows it’s late—too late, in fact, but the thoughts pressing in on her won’t let her rest. The shadows of her past are closing in, blurring with the present, and she can’t ignore them any longer.

Her fingers move absentmindedly through Jungkook’s hair, the strands soft beneath her touch. She should feel at peace, should let herself bask in the closeness between them. But there’s something gnawing at her, something she can’t shake, even with him right here, so close, his warmth seeping into her skin. She exhales slowly, allowing herself a moment of quiet reflection, a moment to think, to remember.

It feels like a lifetime ago, the first time she met Jimin.

She remembers how she had been drawn to him instantly, the magnetic pull of his presence undeniable. There had been something intoxicating about him, the way he spoke, the way he moved. He had an ease about him, a confidence that made everything else seem irrelevant. The first time their eyes met, something in her had shifted. It wasn’t love, not exactly—but it was something powerful, something she couldn’t ignore. At first, it was fascination, then admiration, then infatuation. He’d been so charming, so kind, so understanding. She hadn’t even known what she was getting herself into when she had started spending time with him, when he began to peel back the layers of her own desires, showing her things she didn’t even know she was hungry for.

He had taken her in, so carefully, so smoothly, and in a way, she had let herself be swept away by him. By the promises he’d whispered to her in the dark, by the way he had promised her strength, power, freedom. She had believed him then, believed in his every word, thinking that this—this life—was the answer. It was intoxicating, a beautiful lie wrapped in velvet words.

But now, as she lies in the dark, with Jungkook’s head resting on her shoulder, she wonders how much of her decisions were really her own. How much of what she’d felt for Jimin had been carefully orchestrated. Had he known all along? Had he planned this? Had he known she would be the one to cross the line, the one to fall so completely for Jungkook?

It’s been almost a year since her half-life began, and already, the edges of her human memories are beginning to blur, fading into nothingness. She’s forgetting things—small things, big things—the faces of her family, the warmth of the sun, the feeling of rain on her skin. It scares her more than she cares to admit.

The line between human and vampire is thin, too thin. She feels it every day, every minute, as if the very essence of who she was is being chipped away, leaving only fragments of the person she used to be.

She knows that vampires have mates, that there is something deeper, something unexplainable between them and the person they’re bound to. She’s seen it between Yoongi and Taehyung, how they’ve been together for almost twelve years. Yoongi was the first to be changed, by Jimin himself, and the moment he laid eyes on Taehyung, there was no question. Yoongi had wanted him. Needed him. It had been instinct, a magnetic pull that neither of them could resist.

And now, it’s her turn.

She feels it in her bones. The pull toward Jungkook is undeniable, powerful in ways she never expected. From the very first time they met, she had felt it, this bond that she couldn’t explain. The chemistry between them was electric, crackling with something deep, something primal. At first, she had been terrified. Terrified of how badly she wanted him, terrified of what that meant, terrified of what would happen to her, to him, if she gave into it.

But she couldn’t stop.

She couldn’t stop wanting him, needing him, and that terrified her even more. The pull to be with him was too strong to resist, too deep. It was like an ache that couldn’t be filled by anything else, a yearning that clawed at her chest with every breath she took. She can’t live without him, can’t imagine a future where he isn’t there by her side, where his hands aren’t tracing the lines of her skin, where his voice isn’t whispering in her ear.

But even as she craves him, even as she longs for him in a way that consumes her, there’s the undeniable truth that haunts her: it’s her fault that he’s here. It’s her fault that he drank Jimin’s blood, that his transformation has already begun. She had known, in that moment, that it was too late. That one decision had sealed his fate, tied him to her in ways she wasn’t sure he would be able to survive.

It was her fault.

Her fault that he had gotten pulled into the mess that is her life, that he had become a part of the twisted game Jimin had started. She knows that Jimin’s manipulations have played a part in this too, in pushing them both toward this inevitable conclusion. But still, it’s her fault. If she hadn’t been so reckless, so willing to give in, none of this would have happened.

Her fingers tighten around Jungkook’s hair, the pressure grounding her, but it does little to ease the ache in her chest. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know that, soon, he’ll be just like her. He doesn’t know that this bond they share will make it harder and harder for him to resist the pull of his own transformation. She wishes she could tell him, but she knows he would never understand. How could he? How could he understand that the very thing he’s wanted—wanted so badly—could destroy him?

A quiet sob rises in her throat, but she swallows it quickly, not wanting to disturb him. Her heart breaks for him. For them. For what they could have been, if only they hadn’t been swept into this dark, cruel reality.

She presses her face against the top of his head, inhaling the scent of him—of his skin, his warmth, his blood. It’s intoxicating, too much, and yet she can’t get enough. She feels herself unraveling at the thought of him changing, of what that will mean for both of them.

But no matter how much it terrifies her, there’s no going back. They’re tied together, bound in ways neither of them can fully comprehend. And as she lies there, with Jungkook in her arms, she realizes with a heavy heart that, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t true, she can’t live without him.

[englishsub]

book rec by me

so you want to get back into reading books but have no idea where to start and disdain booktok (if you get me started on this however i will become an unskippable cutscene so that's for another day). understandable. there is so much out there and it is all so overwhelming and you don't even know what you like now that you've been a decade out of the game. again, understandable. it does not have to be scary. i will help you. below i have created some categories that can get you started.

i want to read Literature

literary fiction, with crossover from historical fiction and magical realism

PEACH BLOSSOM SPRING by melissa fu

THE VASTER WILDS by lauren groff

THE FAMILY CHAO by lan samantha chang

OUTER DARK by cormac mccarthy

SEVERANCE by ling ma

LIGHT FROM UNCOMMON STARS by ryka aoki

IDENTITTI by mithu m. sanyal

PIRANESI by susanna clarke

i want to read sci-fi/fantasy that won't break my brain

sci-fi and fantasy that is gentler on the brain cells. easier to grasp magic systems with multiple but not an overwhelming number of overlapping plotlines

EMILY WILDE'S ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF FAERIES by heather fawcett

KINGS OF THE WYLD by nicholas eames

THE JASMINE THRONE by tasha suri

THE CITY OF BRASS by s.a. chakraborty

A RIVER ENCHANTED by rebecca ross

JUNIPER AND THORN by ava reid

BLACK SUN by rebecca roanhorse

THE FINAL STRIFE by saara el-arifi

THE BONE SHARD DAUGHTER by andrea stewart

i want to read sci-fi/fantasy that forces me to lock the fuck in

i would not recommend picking these up as your first foray back into books after many years of not reading recreationally, but i'm not your mom.

THE SPEAR CUTS THROUGH WATER by simon jimenez

JADE CITY by fonda lee

THE FIFTH SEASON by n.k. jemisin

THE RAGE OF DRAGONS by evan winter

A MEMORY CALLED EMPIRE by arkady martine

GIDEON THE NINTH by tamsyn muir

THE ART OF PROPHECY by wesley chu

THE GRACE OF KINGS by ken liu

horrify me!

there is far more to the horror literary canon than stephen king and dean koontz, i promise. consider looking up warnings for these.

TENDER IS THE FLESH by agustina bazterrica

THE RUINS by scott smith

CONFESSIONS by kanae minato

EPISODE THIRTEEN by craig dilouie

REPRIEVE by james han mattson

MARY by nat cassidy

DEAD SILENCE by s.a. barnes

AUDITION by ryu murakami

THE SALT GROWS HEAVY by cassandra khaw

don't care, i want romance

some of these feature crossover genres, like fantasy and horror.

VAMPIRES OF EL NORTE by isabel cañas

DAUGHTER OF THE MOON GODDESS by sue lynn tan

SEVEN DAYS IN JUNE by tia williams

HAPPY PLACE by emily henry

ONE DARK WINDOW by rachel gillig

i want QUEER romance

again, a mix of historical, fantasy, and contemporary crossover genres.

WE COULD BE SO GOOD by cat sebastian

IN MEMORIAM by alice winn

MOST ARDENTLY by gabe cole novoa

A STRANGE AND STUBBORN ENDURANCE by foz meadows

A MARVELLOUS LIGHT by freya marske

THE EMPEROR AND THE ENDLESS PALACE by justinian huang

SPELL BOUND by f.t. lukens

SORRY, BRO by taleen voskuni

ONE LAST STOP by casey mcquiston

DELILAH GREEN DOESN'T CARE by ashley herring blake

i haven't felt anything since i read percy jackson/the hunger games in middle school/high school

adventure is still out there.

SCYTHE by neil shusterman

WE HUNT THE FLAME by hafsah faizal

SIX OF CROWS by leigh bardugo

GEARBREAKERS by zoe hana mikuta

i'll read anything that's not straight or white

many books in the above categories fit this, but here's even more, across a variety of genres.

LAST NIGHT AT THE TELEGRAPH CLUB by malinda lo

BABEL by r.f. kuang

WHEN THE RECKONING COMES by latanya mcqueen

THE UNBROKEN by c.l. clark

IF YOU'LL HAVE ME (graphic novel) by eunnie

LEGEND OF THE WHITE SNAKE by sher lee

THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE THE TIME WAR by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone

SHE WHO BECAME THE SUN by shelley parker-chan

"all ya books suck"

like any other genre or book age group, there are duds and there are standouts. ya is not special in this regard. try some of these!

DIVINE RIVALS by rebecca ross

STRIKE THE ZITHER by joan he

THE RED PALACE by june hur

A STUDY IN DROWNING by ava reid

EMPIRE OF SAND by tasha suri

LEGENDBORN by tracy deonn

i check out and read a lot of these books for free via my local library by using the libby app (you can even add your friends' library cards to gain access to libraries in places you don't live). when i'm feeling like reading via audiobook, i use libro fm!

look, no one HAS TO read diversely. no one is going to be reverse fahrenheit 451'd and locked in a room with no fanfic and only books and not let out until they work their way through the entire literary canon. but reading, and reading widely, and reading diversely, is what teaches people to form their own opinions and question the things they are told. it's why they hang up stuff like "READ READ READ!!" in grade school classrooms.

we live under systems that increasingly benefit from going unquestioned. no, of course reading ASSASSIN'S APPRENTICE by robin hobb is not going to dismantle these systems tomorrow, nor probably even in our lifetimes. but doing it will help set up a world capable of doing it in the future. and until further notice, we are all part of this wretched world. might as well read a good story while we're here.

anyway, i'm reading THE WEST PASSAGE by jared pechaček and the new cmq book this week.

[christinesficrecs]

Hey! You are amazing! Thank you for everything you do for the fandom!

Do you have any recommendations for cute fics where they have pet names for each other?

Thanks!

Hey! ❤️ These are the ones I have.

I love this one if you haven't read it yet. 🥰

Baby, You’re Like Lightning In A Bottle by TriskeleHale | 35.8K | Explicit

Derek is ninety-eight percent sure Stiles hates him. So, he feels like his bewilderment is justified when the omega offers to help him through his rut.

Sugar Pie (Honey Bunch) by larriecloudss | 2.6K

Stiles just really loves to annoy Derek with pet names.

Don’t Call Me Buttercup by ElloPoppet | 15.8K

Isaac wants to do Secret Santa. Derek is bad at gifts. Stiles helps, and also practices making Derek uncomfortable with awful, cutesy pet names along the way.

Derek secretly loves the pet names. Oh, and he loves Stiles as well.

The Moon’s Gonna Follow Me Home by turningterrific | 82.8K | Explicit

Derek doesn’t want to call the window repair guy. He doesn’t want to sweep up the glass. He’ll inevitably miss a few shards and pull them out of the bottom of his bare feet for weeks.

He doesn’t want to try to make this place feel like home when it isn’t.

Derek stayed in Beacon Hills and tried to make it work because he wanted pack, wanted purpose. He gave his best effort and found himself back where he started: alone, with a few begrudging allies. He’s tired, and even though his werewolf body heals quickly, he feels the weary ache down to his center.

He packs his car with the few things he cares about enough to drag them from place to place. He locks the loft and calls a realtor about listing the building he’d bought in a misguided attempt to secure a future.

And then he leaves.

Inside This Place Is Warm by wolfcloaks | 40K | Explicit

Where Derek and Stiles are complete dweebs in love and jump to horribly inaccurate conclusions

Take My Hand, Take My Whole Life Too by MereLoup | 82.9K | Explicit

Derek spent too much time, walking amongst the ashes of his life and refusing to move on into the future; refusing to move past the anguish. But somewhere along the way he found purpose, rebuilt this house, found his mate, and he realized that this didn’t have to be the end, that he could continue the legacy of the Hale pack and carry on the traditions and rebuild his life. And now, in this house, with his pack, he was beginning the next generation of the Hale Pack with the most incredible mate he could have ever dreamed of.

Six Minutes by  CosmoKid | 4.3K

“What do you want?” Derek practically grows when Stiles is near enough to hear. He can definitely feel the werewolf vibes coming from the guy as well as the fuck off vibes that roll off him in tsunami-sized waves.

Stiles has one thing he needs to say to Derek, but he also has eight million questions to ask him about the werewolf thing and he can barely sort out his thoughts as it is, let alone when there’s a ridiculously attractive werewolf who’s basically Adonis staring at him. Derek takes another drag of his cigarette and raises his eyebrows at Stiles expectantly. He shivers and blurts out, “Six minutes.”

salt and a waltz by  The Byger (Byacolate) | 7.4K

In which Stiles is a faerie and Derek is sick and tired of not being able to fuck him.

Hey Ewe by  wuffedoutalpha | 7.3K

In which Derek cares more than Stiles originally thought he did.

Or four times Derek sneaks Stiles gifts and the one time Stiles gets why (plus one).

Endearments and Interventions by  Captain_Loki | 1.2K

Stiles calls Derek “baby” one time, and exactly one time only. It goes a little like the time he clasped a hand to Derek’s shoulder in the front seat of the jeep only three years previously. Derek levels him with the same incredulous look of stunned disbelief as he did then.

Even the stars they burn by  rufflefeather | 5.7K

Derek finds out quite by accident what makes Stiles shut up. If he reveals along the way that he didn’t always carry this darkness around, then that’s entirely Stiles’ fault.

Back to Beacon Hills by  surrenderdammit | 10.4K

Stiles is a born werefox, returning to Beacon Hills with the hopes of starting over and finding some sort of home again. Maybe he can finally stay in one place long enough for his scent to catch.

[headphonemouse]

we finally have them all so I tried identifying all the things that could help determine what the hell these cards are trying to represent. Under the cut is just the alt text copypasted.

Senkuu holding up test tubes, standing before a lab table. Behind him is the medusa device. In the background is the moon rising over the earth.

Ryusui sitting cross legged over a throne, featuring a ship's wheel over the backrest and two ram figureheads at the arm rests. In the background is the ocean and the horizon.

Chrome sitting cross legged in the air. He's inspecting a green stone in his hand and holding a bindle over his shoulder. Behind him is (?) one of the copper plates that he made for the hand crank generator. The background features distant rock formations on the horizon.

Ukyo standing holding his bow and nocking an arrow. Behind him is a set of scales. Behind that is a radar display. The background is the ocean floor.

Kohaku posing in a golden field. In the foreground is bunches of red and white flowers. The red flowers are larger, I'm uncertain if it's five or six petals. They look similar to lilies or amaryllis but the leaves are ovate rather than linear. The white flowers are tiny, with five petals and no discernible stem structure. Behind her is a male lion, followed by an image of her iron shield. The background is field, green hills, then sky.

Tsukasa standing, holding a shell necklace in one hand. He is framed by a wreath of leafy vines. In the foreground is clouds framing the bottom part of the picture. The background is a blue sky.

Suika standing in ankle deep water, near the shore of what looks like a river. In the foreground are leafy vines. The leaves have three distinct lobes and the leaf margins are entire rather than undulated, so they're unlikely to be watermelon leaves. They look more like passionfruit. Surrounding Suika are six floating 8-pointed stars. The one directly over her head is gold while the others range from white to pale blue. The background is land scattered with sparse vegetation, and a night sky.

Yuzuriha and Taiju standing together under their camphor tree. They are holding a large red ribbon that twists over their heads.

Hyoga standing holding his spear. He is surrounded by ice shards blowing off of the glacier around his feet.

Kirisame and Moz standing before a cliff. Kirisame is holding a small club while Moz is holding a spear. There are stylized clouds surrounding them. Behind them is an image of the Petrification Kingdom's emblem.

Kinro and Ginro standing before Ishigami Village's entrance bridge, crossing their silver and gold tipped spears. A circular image of an Ishigami village home's entrance with its dark purple curtains is behind them. Save for Chrome's tower, all the village buildings have these purple curtains for doors.

Nikki and Minami sitting together. Behind them is an image of the ISS crew's glass record cut into the shape of a crescent, behind which is Minami's camera lens. The background glows orange surrounding the record/camera image, and it's hard to tell what exactly it is. It could be the sun.

Gen sitting criss-cross on the ground. There are five 8-pointed stars floating around him. He is holding up one hand, above which floats a glowing purple crystal. It seems to be night time.