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thebestofoneshots · 1 year ago

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MARAUDWEEEN

Feels Like The First Time | James Potter x reader

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Word Count: 6 k

Warnings: Smut, fingering, P in V, lots of praise, consent is sexy, lusty!James, bashful!James, he literally can't take his eyes off you.

Prompt: As a part of the Marauween Series, this fic takes you to an Alternate Universe where James Potter is a fireman, telling the story of how you met, and how your first time came about.

Maraudween is a Halloween-inspired anthology series where each chapter transports you into a distinct alternate universe. From the real world to old western Texas and even through the dark times of vampires. These standalone tales invite you into a realm of boundless potential. Experience the enchantment of Halloween as it weaves its spell, intertwining the magic of costumes, AUs, terror and spice.

NSFW (Smut under the cut) ♡

“What can I get you, sir?” You asked, not looking up from the register as you were trying to close the tab of the previous order. The machine had been acting up lately and no matter how hard you tried, it seemed to take its sweet time between closing an old order and opening the feed to start a new one.

You were almost scowling at it when you heard a low chuckle from behind the counter, you instantly recognized it. The cute fireman, you felt your cheeks flush at the thought.

“Everything all right, angel?” he asked, voice soft even as a little smirk played on his lips.

“James!” you said with a smile, deciding to ignore the machine and talk to the man instead. He lived a few blocks away, in your same building, and he always passed by the shop to get some coffee and a snack before he finished his walk to work. Sometimes he came on his way back too, he was over so often, that you almost knew his orders by memory, “Americano?”

He shook his head “I’m feeling up for something sweeter today.”

You hummed in response, running his typical orders in your head “Late with a pump of strawberry?”

He tilted his head, seemingly thinking about it, you couldn’t help to let your eyes linger over his uniform. He’d typically alternate between blue, yellow and grey. Today he was wearing grey and you would be lying if you said he didn’t look disarmingly attractive. He was big and well built too, but that was a lot easier to appreciate on hotter days when he wasn’t wearing his jacket on top of the usual either crisp white or neat black shirt, “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

You smiled and started writing down the details in his cup. When you realised there was no one on the line behind him, you decided to prepare his drink yourself, instead of passing it over to Marcus, your coworker, and better barista between the two. James knew, and yet, he much better liked the drinks you prepared.

“Want me to add a bit of whipped cream?” You asked.

“You spoil me,” he said with a smile, you turned to give him a questioning look, a smile playing on your lips as he nodded, perhaps that’s why he liked your drinks best, they almost always came along with a smile.

“You do spoil him,” Marcus added as he used one of the machines to draw pictures over a latte.

You gave him a pout as an answer and continued with your preparation. Once it was done you turned around, Marcus had gone off to tend some table and you walked over to James, handing him his cup straight to his hands. His fingers lingered over yours as he took it from you and you felt your stomach flutter, “I’d add some cinnamon for spice,” you told him, he nodded and walked over to the sugar table, doing exactly as you told him.

“Hey, James?”

“Hmm…?”

“Good luck at work today,” you added with a smile, Marcus from one of the tables almost rolled his eyes, while James’ smile only widened.

There was a huge fire that day, you saw it on the news on the small TV in the corner of the shop, one of the old buildings near the centre of the city had caught fire. Since it had been during work hours there hadn’t been that many people inside, and thankfully no one died but about 2 dozen had ended up in the hospital due to smoke toxicity. Or so was reporting the news lady.

“Do you think James’s all right?” you asked, turning to Marcus with a little frown.

“Why don’t you go home and check on him? He lives almost in front of you anyway. This happened about an hour ago, he might be there soon...”

You nodded, and hurried with the wiping of tables, still looking a bit nervous and rushed “I’ll finish up closing,” he added.

“Thank you,” you said as you went to pick up your stuff and remove your uniform from the back room.

Marcus called your name, you turned to him “Bring him something. His favourite treat of whatever… I’m sure you already know it by memory.”

“I… Well, I mean…”

“Don’t play dumb and just take it to him, whatever it might be. Would serve you well, maybe admit that you like him as well.”

You flushed “Shut it, Marcus.”

“He likes you back, did you know?” You gave him a look “Hey it’s true! I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“He’s just polite.”

“Polite my ass, he’s never looked at me like that. Go on, knock on his door, patch him up and admit your crush. Maybe get it going with him too. What do you think he’d look like with those snug pants and a pair of suspenders? Only a pair of suspenders.”

You flushed a lot more this time around, the image floating to your brain unprompted, and you weren’t able to shake it off that easily. Curse your imaginative mind and Markus’ dirty one to put the idea in your head.

“So… his favourite treat?”

“It’s the lemon tart,” you admitted reluctantly. “He orders it whenever he’s feeling down. And also after bad days.” Markus smiled and leaned down to take two of them and place them on a small box for you to take home, “Thank you.”

“Thank me when you’ve seen him with only pants and suspenders!” he joked, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smile still plastered on your face as you did.

You got home after a short walk and went straight for a quick shower. It was then that you heard the thud of heavy boots in the hallway. He was walking towards his apartment. You hurried to finish and changed into simple shorts and a sweatshirt before walking the 2 door distance to his apartment. You took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

There was no answer, you considered leaving, your nerves getting the best of you, but you remembered you still had the lemon tarts and decided to try again. This time you heard some shuffling and then the door opened, revealing James, still wearing his uniform, hair clinging onto his face from sweat and blotches of soot patching his cheeks, he looked tired, but he smiled the moment he saw who it was at the door. “Fancy seeing you here, darling.”

You swallowed, his gaze having a powerful effect on you “I… I uh… I saw the news and well, I assumed you had been there, I guess I was right,” you added after gesturing toward your face, trying to refer to how blotchy he was “I thought I’d come to check if you were all right… I also brought you some of those lemon tarts you really like.”

He stared at you for a second, as if trying to process the fact that you really had taken the trouble to bring him food, just because he’d had a tough day. When he realised you really were there, and not only a fragment of his imagination, he smiled “You picked my favourites,” he said pointing at the box.

You gulped, as if scared of getting caught but nodded “You… order them often,” you said with a shrug.

He hummed “And you know all of your client’s orders?” he asked, a flirty tone slipping as he moved to the side to let you in, nodding towards the kitchen, although you already knew where it was, since the layout of his apartment was almost an exact mirror of yours.

“Only the ones of my favourites,” you responded, which got him to raise his eyebrows as he pulled out two plates and a pair of forks, placing them on the counter. You opened the small box and gracefully served one of the pies on each of the plates, he didn’t wait too long to dig in, moaning at the sweet and acidic flavour.

“You’re the absolute best,” he told you as he continued to eat “Getting this after a fire might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You just giggled at his exaggeration, you didn’t know he didn’t mean only the pie, but also your company. As the two of you finished your meal, you stood up to go back to your apartment but he stopped you, a hand gripping softly onto your forearm “Hey wait!” You turned to him “Let me pay you back.”

You gasped and then shook your head. “Oh no, don’t worry about it, I get free treats since I work there.” But he didn’t let go of your arm just yet.

You saw him bite his cheek, looking to the side as if trying to find the right words “Regardless, I– Let me take you out, yeah?”

“Out… to the door?” You asked with a frown “I mean I know where it is but–”

“Out on a date.”

“You want to– Me?!?” He nodded fervently in response.

“So...?”

You smiled, you were sure you were blushing madly but his nervousness only made him even more adorable “I’d love that.”

He’d taken you to a small Italian restaurant that his friend Sirius had recommended, he told you about his life, about how he got into firefighting and you told him about yours, how you were working at the cafe as a side job to pay for your online studies. He thought you were a hero, which was almost ridiculous because if anyone was saving people between the two, it had been him.

After that date you went on many others, he frequented the cafe a lot more often, sometimes to order something, sometimes to drop by a bouquet of roses or some other kind of flower. Markus had teased you relentlessly after that, but he really was happy to see you happy. He also started giving you treats to take home a lot more often, but that was because he knew you were always sharing them with James.

“Thanks love, see you at dinner?” James asked as he took the takeaway coffee cup from your hands, you had written “Prongs,” and drew a pair of antlers on it just to tease him, since he’d told you about his friends giving him that nickname in school.

You nodded in response “Sure, want me to bring something?”

He leaned over the counter as if it were about to say something of the utmost secrecy “How about some of those chocolate tarts?” he whispered.

“Sounds about perfect to me,” you agreed and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before pulling back. He smiled dumbly after that and waved on the way out, almost bumping into a tall teacher who was also your regular.

“Watch your step, lover boy,” he told him. That day you found out Remus –the teacher who was a regular– and your boyfriend not only knew each other, but had been best friends for the longest time. He’d told you about him many, many times, but you had no way of knowing the calm, concentrated teacher who sat on his laptop grading students was the same mastermind prankster he always called Moony.

“So… how does he look in suspenders?” Markus asked you as he eyed your boyfriend finally leaving.

“Oh… well, I mean… I haven’t– we haven’t-“

“Shut it,” he said turning to you “You’ve been dating for a while now, like 2 months, right? Didn’t you tell me you slept at his apartment the other night?”

“Yeah, I mean, I did… I fell asleep watching the telly and he didn’t want to wake me.”

“I thought you meant something else…” he said as he shook his head “Maybe he’s asexual,” he added with a shrug “Total bummer for you.”

You frowned “I don’t think he– I think he’s just trying to be a gentleman.”

Markus shook his head, unconvinced “Have you tried to initiate anything?”

“We’ve snogged a couple of times.”

“And when it gets more heated?”

You shrugged “Don’t know what to tell ya.”

He hummed “You need to try harder.”

“I need to try?”

“Well to find out at least, don’t you want to?”

You shrugged it off then, but truth be told, the idea had already cemented itself in your brain. You paid closer attention to the times you snogged after that. Be it on the couch, or the counter of yours or his kitchen, it was always romantic kisses and even if he certainly seemed affected, be it his ragged breath, pink lips or expanded pupils, he never pushed for more. Perhaps he really was waiting for you to initiate things.

A few nights later, there was another fire, you had already gotten the key to his apartment so you waited over at his, bringing over some cream puffs and setting yourself on the couch while you waited. He arrived a little late, covered in soot like he had that first time you walked into his house with lemon tarts in your hand. He smiled the moment he spotted you on his sofa “Fancy seeing you here, darling,” he teased, echoing the words he’d said that first night.

You smiled “How are you feeling?” you asked.

He sighed, his shoulders slumped at that “We couldn’t… One of them didn’t make it.” You frowned, you knew he’d torment himself about it all night, so you walked over to him, taking a wet towel as he sat near the counter and started wiping some of the soot from his face.

“‘S not your fault.”

“But if we had gotten there sooner maybe–“

You pulled his chin, making his eyes look straight into yours “Jamie,” you said sternly, trying to ground him “It’s not your fault.”

He sighed again “I know, I know…” he said, and buried his head in your neck, smelling your perfume as he grabbed onto your hips, “Stay over tonight?” he asked “Please, I don’t– I don’t want to be left alone with my thoughts.”

You smiled, placing your hand on the back of his head, brushing it lightly over his messy hair before settling it at the nape of his neck “Of course, my love,” you responded simply, and pulled his shoulders back to look straight at his face “come on, let’s get to the sofa, maybe we can play something on the telly to get your mind off things.”

He pouted “I’m sweaty, and I smell of charred wood.”

You tilted your head, a small smile drawing on your lips “I think you look sexy,” you teased, before grabbing his hand to pull him up and towards the sofa. He had a diverted look as he followed.

They were screening Karate kid for like the 5th time that week, but both of you were watching it patiently. That was until the commercial break started and you turned to James, he had a small frown on his face, almost imperceptible, as if he were trying to hide it from you, but you knew him well enough to know. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

James turned to you, a sorrowful look in his beautiful hazel eyes, “I found them, I tried, but…” You kneeled on the sofa and gave him a bone-crushing hug, or at least your version of one, since you had about half the strength he did anyway. Regardless, you heard the huff of a laugh coming from him.

You gave one last look at the telly, they were still going on some infomercial about a magical razor, yeah, no way in hell he gets distracted by that. “Hey Jaimie,” he hummed in response “How about we find another way to get your mind off things?” you asked, pulling back a little so he could see your face.

He gave you a look, “Like playing Monopoly or…” he didn’t even finish his sentence since you crashed your lips against his with a kiss. He was surprised at first but followed the kiss shortly after. Tightening his grip on your waist.

“Like this?” you said as you pulled out for air. He still had a bit of a frown, so you leaned into him again, determined to erase it with a kiss. He pretty much melted into you again, at some point you crossed your knee over his lap and you were straddling his thigh. You didn’t lean closer to him too fast, you wanted to give him some time.

Your lips started to travel from his lips to his jaw, he was right, he was sweaty, you could feel the salty taste of it as you kissed, and there was something else too, a little bit of that smoked flavour going on. You didn’t care, if anything, it really made him feel sexier. You landed on his neck, and started pressing wet kisses on a section you knew from experience he liked, and you heard a low moan coming from his throat, music to your ears.

“Wait… wait… hold up,” he said as he patted your shoulder softly, you didn’t pull back “Angel, please, I’m gross right now…”

“Don’t care,” you said between kisses “I like the way you taste.”

He stifled grunted after you said that –partly because of what you said, partly because of the way you sucked onto a particularly sensitive part of his neck– it was hard enough for him to restrain himself as it was, and you saying things like that was only making it harder.

You, without quite noticing what you were doing, started grinding against his leg, not quite against his crotch yet thought, you could still think enough to know it’d be too soon. You leaned back, trying to get to his mouth when you spotted him, he had a rather interesting expression on his face, brows furrowed, as if he was trying really hard to concentrate on something, or not to concentrate on something.

You smiled, holding back a laugh before placing your hand on his cheek, he opened his eyes, a worried look on his face “James, what is it darling?”

He swallowed, his breath was heavy, “I’m just… I’m trying not to– thinking of something else.” You raised an eyebrow at him, not sure exactly what was going on until you saw his gaze flicker down to his crotch.

“Oh.” You said quietly, and then, in an outburst of bravery, pulled your hand down to pat him. He hissed, grabbing your hand and pulling it back.

“That– that’s going to make it worse.”

You smiled again, tilting your head just a little as you stared at your beautiful boyfriend “Allow me,” you said softly “I want to make it worse.” He looked at you as if he was trying to decipher whether what you were saying was true, and you leaned in to place a kiss on his cheek “Pretty please?”

You had your forehead against his when he bit his lip and nodded, letting your hand free as you pushed it towards his crotch again. He was a lot harder than you had initially assumed he’d be, but you started rubbing your hand up and down regardless, feeling out his entire length which was nothing short of surprising. His head had somehow ended up on your shoulder again “fuck,” he said and trailed off with a few other curse words you weren’t sure you had heard him say before “That feels incredible Angel, You feel so good,” he whispered.

Eventually, you pulled your hand backward and he gave you the most reproachful look, “Hey… I want to be able to kiss you,” you said softly before leaning in for a kiss and finally closing the gap between your bodies. You had been wearing a pair of simple lycra shorts, so everything felt very close when you finally leaned your hips over his, grinding your core against the rough texture of his firefighter pants.

James was about to moan when you pulled him into a kiss again, so he moaned into your mouth, half attempting to return the kiss. His hands had now travelled to your hips, and he was helping you grind onto him, gripping almost a little too tight, not that you minded. If anything, you thought seeing this less controlled side of him was the hottest thing.

Your hands travelled to his jacket, he’d been so lost in thought when he arrived home that he hadn’t even taken it off, but that was fine, you could help him with that now. You found the plate box and started to unbutton it one by one, he had been so engrossed in you that he didn’t notice what you were doing until you moved your hands to his inside shirt to push the thick jacket to the side.

He helped you shrug it off and you set it to the side of the couch since you knew how much he cared for it. He gave you a smile through huddled lids and this time around he was the one pulling you towards him for another kiss.

You went to the buttons of his pants this time around, grinding on his thigh in an effort to not stop the buildup you’d already created. “Angel what are you…?”

“Material’s too rough,” you managed to mumble. His eyebrows knit in concern and he helped you in an instant. While he did that you fumbled with your shorts and took them off as fast as possible, not sparing a second glance to see where they fell on the floor, they were pretty ruined either way. He didn’t notice you had done that, not until you went back to straddle him and he felt the wet patch of your panties on his trouser. On his cock.

“Fuck dove,” he said when he realized.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, almost shy, thinking he might think it was gross but he shook his head.

“Don’t be, it’s fucking hot,” he said as he grabbed onto your hips again and started sliding you against him, grinding you against him. This time there was a lot more purpose behind his movements, he was quite literally rubbing you right onto his cock, you could feel it almost in between your folds through the two layers of clothing separating you from each other.

The room started feeling too hot, and you removed your hands from the back of his head and brought them to the hem of your sweatshirt, attempting to pull it off when his hands travelled to yours.

He pulled back from the kiss and stared at you, searching for your eyes “You don’t have to– Not because of the…” he took a deep breath, trying to think straight “We don’t have to do this just to distract me.”

Your expression turned soft, as you looked at him. How on earth did I get so lucky? You thought. You licked your lips, biting the bottom as you brought your hands to the side of his face. “It’s not just because of that, I want to do this Jamie, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” He swallowed. “You think that sexy little uniform does nothing to me? I’m only human James.” He chuckled, eyes averting to the side in an adorably bashful expression that you were certain only James Potter would be able to pull off. When he looked back you gave him a teasing smile “Help me?” you asked again, nodding down.

This time it was he who bit back a grin, almost giving you a wink before he let his hands to the hem of your hoodie and helped you pull it off. He stared at you for a second. You were wearing a simple sports bra, nothing fancy, in fact, you’d dare say it was a little embarrassing since the bottom hem was frailing a bit already, but that didn’t seem to matter to James. He was staring at you as if he’d seen the hottest woman on earth. As if you had been wearing the most exquisite set of lingerie.

You blushed, obviously, you blushed, and hid your head on his neck so he wouldn’t notice, pretending you were going for a kiss, but he stopped you. “Hold up, I wanna enjoy the view,” he complained.

“When I’m wearing nicer underwear I’ll let you,” you said, pushing against him to go to his neck again, but he was stronger, if he didn’t want you to move, there was no way in hell you’d be able to move.

“Darling, your underwear is the last thing I’m paying attention to,” he said honestly. You took a deep breath and allowed him to pull you back, his eyes were blown with lust as he stared at you, at your bare shoulders he’d seen a couple of times, although not many since you started going out in winter and it still was winter. At the supple curve of your hips. At your breasts, you felt his hand twitch in your shoulder, as if he was holding himself back from touching anywhere else.

“James,” you said, getting him to turn his gaze back to your face, although you noticed it flicker down a couple of times, “You can touch.”

It was as if that had been all the permission he needed, he brought his hands down, letting them roam through your bare waist as you started to grind against him again. He was harder, if that was even possible. He groaned as you rolled your hips against his, and started trailing kisses down your neck, setting in the curve of your breasts as you continued to dry hump him.

He could see your hardened nipples through the thin cotton fabric. He’d actually seen them harden as he kissed, and then he did something you weren’t expecting, he held your waist and pulled you up a little, you almost whined at the loss of contact, but he pushed his head forward and gave an open mouth kiss to your breast, sucking and nipping through the fabric, you were now helping him hold you up with your own legs and holding onto his strong shoulders, absolutely lost in the feeling of his mouth.

He pulled back, giving you a mischievous look as he trailed his fingers over the frilled hem, there was almost an innocence to the way he was looking at you “May I?” he asked.

“Please.” He was already digging his fingers under the hem and pulling it over your head. “You too,” you added, pulling at his shirt. He quickly passed his hand to the neck of his shirt and yanked it off in a second. You gulped, you’d never seen anyone take their shirt off in such a hot way.

He was staring at you as he placed his hand on your waist and pulled you towards his face, this time licking from the underside of your breast all the way to your nipple before he closed his mouth around it and started sucking again, without the fabric in the middle you could feel his wet tongue and teeth grazing against your sensitive skin, you arched against him, and moaned his name when he bit softly.

His other hand was already massaging your other breast, kneading it and brushing his thumb over your nipple every couple of seconds. It felt incredible, and you relished on the feeling until your neediness got the best of you, “James,” you somehow managed to form the words, and grabbed the hand that was still kneading on your breast, pulling it down, to your core “Here, please.”

You saw him pull back to look at you, and he swallowed thickly but nodded, moving to kiss your neck as he traced his fingers over your wet panties “fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispered between kisses. You gripped onto his shoulder a little harder, when he pressed his finger onto your folds, you were already pretty sensitive from so much rubbing onto his hard uniform pants that even the slightest touch had you on fire.

After toying with you for a bit, he slid his finger through the hem and pushed your panties to the side, digging his fingers on your folds, while his thumb searched for your clit. He found it in the blink of an eye and you were pretty much bucking your hips against his hand in search of more friction. He let out a breathy laugh “So needy,” he said before setting one of his fingers near your entrance and digging it in.

His finger was long, much longer than yours and it reached places you wouldn’t have dreamed of, he curved it in a particular way and you let out a gasp “Yes! Please, James, do that again,” you said as you panted, he obliged, and had you grinding against his hand again in no time.

“Angel you’re too tight,” he whispered as you leaned in to kiss him again, slowly lowering yourself onto his tight. He went in for another finger as you kissed him and swallowed your whimper. He was already moving his fingers and slowly opening them inside of you, trying to prepare you, in case you wanted to continue because hell knew he did.

He pressed his thumb against your clit again, he could feel you faltering on him, your hip movements becoming sloppier as he continued to rub “Jamie I’m gonna…”

He kissed your neck “Please do.”

You leaned closer to him digging your nails into the muscles of his back as you bit your bottom lip. James separated from your neck for a second to look at you, you looked fucking stunning as you whimpered and whispered his name and a few course words almost incoherently.

“So fucking stunning,” he told you with a smile. It took you a second to come back and be able to pay attention to him, to the way he was looking at you.

You huffed a laugh “Shut up Jamie,” you said with a smile as you shook your head, he still had his fingers inside you, and it looked like he didn’t have the intention to remove them any time soon.

“How are we doing?” he asked.

You frowned, “Why do you– oh.” He flicked his thumb over your clit again, thrusting his fingers in and out in a rather sharp way “James you aren’t thinking of…”

“Of course, I’m thinking of it angel, I need to see that pretty face of pure bliss on you again.”

You almost let him convince you but you shook your head. You didn’t miss the way his smile faltered, you leaned into him, making sure to let your clit rub onto his thumb again as you shifted your weight and your hips “Not until I see yours,” you whispered in his ear, bringing your hand down to the hem of his boxers and digging your hand to grope him.

He groaned at your harsh movement, but his head fell back, an expression rather similar to yours as you dragged your hands through his length.

“Help James,” you said, words cut with sharp breaths from the effort you were making to pull his boxers down. He lifted his hips and helped you do it, all the while you continued pumping him. There was already a bit of white precum coating his tip, even if the boxers had sucked up most of it, you used it to allow your hand to glide easier around him.

“Faster,” he asked, you complied, he was already bucking his hips into your hands, “fuck doll I think I’m going to– “ You instantly stopped moving your hand and his eyes snapped open, looking at you like you had betrayed him. But you didn’t give him an explanation, you used your legs to prop forwards and lined him against your entrance “Wait, doll–“ you lowered yourself onto him, “fuck.”

You gulped, allowing yourself to adjust before giving him a look, he was looking at his cock buried in you attentively, and he swallowed thickly, you didn’t wait too much after that, and started grinding onto him, “Fuck Jamie you fill me up so good,” you whispered, as if he needed any more encouragement. You thought he did since he wasn’t moving, but that wasn’t the reason he wasn’t.

He grabbed onto your hips, and halted your movement “fuck, angel, hold up– I need–“You looked at him worriedly, accidentally bucking your hips again as you tried to search for his eyes, and then you felt it. Wet and sticky, inside you. He’d cum.

He looked at you with the most mortified expression on his face, as if he was sorry “I’m– I’m so sorry I…”

You just laughed, placing your hand on his cheek to prompt him to look at you “Hey, It’s okay my love.”

“But I didn’t… Not even like 30 seconds I–“ James was completely flustered, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him that flustered before, you pulled him into a kiss.

“I’m taking it as a cumm-pliment,” you told him, he gave you a reproachful look and you gave him a peck on the lips. A small smile wavered its way towards his lips.

“That’s the– what a terrible pun,” he added. You bucked your hips against him again “fuck.”

You raised your eyebrow at him “Keep insulting my puns and I won’t help you with your little issue,” you threatened playfully as you started to buck your hips again, helping him empty himself completely. This time a lot slower, enjoying the way he felt on you, the way he was filling you up, how much easier it was to glide onto him with his warm cum all over you, some of it dripping to the side of your thigh and onto his already, you continued until he patted on your tight.

You nodded and pulled out slowly, setting yourself on his lap still. He still seemed awfully bashful, “Come on Jamie, I really don’t mind it.”

“But it was– our first time and I… ugh” he placed his hands over his face, groaning as he replayed the events in his head.

You bit your tongue not to laugh. At least he wasn’t thinking of the fire anymore. Mission success? You sighed and placed your hands onto his own and pulled them down, tilting your head a little in search for his eyes.

“How about…” you started, it seemed to gather some of his attention, although he was still looking at you with a dissatisfied expression “We go get a bath, and clean up…” you continued, he had finally lifted his head towards yours “we relax together a little,” you added, letting your fingers trace over his muscles, “we clean all the soot of that pretty face of yours,” you added, pinching his cheek which earned you a playful scowl from his part “and then chill for a while, see what happens next,” you finished, making sure your tone, raised eyebrows and half bitten bottom lip was suggestive enough. He looked at you, a diverted smile playing on his lips. “If it makes you feel better, we can pretend the shower was our first time instead,” you added just to spite him.

He huffed, a smile on his face as he placed his hands on your waist and stood up, holding you against him with ease. You squealed and laughed at the sudden action “James!” you reprimanded “We didn’t even take your boots off, you’re gonna fall and drop me in the process,” he looked down and groaned when he realised it was true. Regardless he tried to jump his way before the two of you ended up back on the couch. You were laughing merrily as he huffed.

“Come on hot fireman,” you told him with a smile “Take off those pretty boots of yours…” you smiled as you sneaked out of his grasp “I’ll meet you in the bathroom.”

He pretty much groaned as he saw you leave, staring at your ass as you disappeared through the door.

A/N: this one came out so much sweeter than I expected it to, but I kind of love it. It really captures that James Potter humour, doesn't it? Maraudween and The Five Senses are the anthology series where I explore writing smut, all as a way to hone my skills for the moment I write it in my Wolfstar x Reader series that's currently being posted on a weekly basis. If you have feedback, please leave it in the comments below. I absolutely love reading your comments <3

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thatswhywelovegermany · 9 months ago

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Aufhocker

An Aufhocker (top sitter), also called Huckup, is a pressure spirit and shapeshifter in German folklore. It is a kind of goblin, who jumps onto the shoulders or backs of hikers who are still out at night, becoming heavier with each step.

The hiker is paralyzed, suffers from feelings of oppression and anxiety and is unable to turn around. The Aufhocker remains sitting on the hiker until he is released by the approaching light, a prayer or the ringing of a bell.

The nightmarish experience often takes place in three phases. The hiker is first approached or accompanied by a sinister being, then the demonic companion grows to supernatural size and finally jumps onto the back of the victim. The Hackestüpp from Düren is one such Aufhocker, who initially accompanies the victims as a playful little dog, then jumps onto their backs, cannot be shaken off and becomes heavier with each step.

Typical haunted places such as streams, bridges, lakes, forests, ditches, crossroads, ravines, churchyards and sites where murders or executions happened are the usual places for an encounter with an Aufhocker, which can result in physical and mental illness and sometimes even death for the hiker. The Bahkauv ("stream calf") of Aachen is an Aufhocker who is said to frighten drunken men at night and ask them to carry him on their shoulders.

Sometimes an Aufhocker first appears as pitiful old women; but they can also take on animal forms such as a bear, a calf (as in the Bahkauv), a werewolf (as in the Stüpp of the Western Rhineland) or a dog (as in the Sürthgens Mossel of the Hürtgenwald forest). Elemental beings such as mermen or will-o'-the-wisps also act as Aufhockers. What is important is not the shape of the Aufhocker, but the oppressiveness of the situation. Aufhockers are not limited to German folklore. An Aufhocker in the shape of an old man is also mentioned in the oriental fairy tale collection One Thousand and One Nights, in which he meets "Sinbad the Sailor" on a deserted island.

The figure of the Aufhocker has its origins in the fear of the revenant, the undead. The oldest reports of Aufhockers clearly speak of "haunting corpses" and not of goblins or ghosts. Unlike Nachzehrers, who did not have to leave their grave if they wanted to harm the living, other undead, like vampires, rose from the grave and stole people's vital force. This could happen in a tangible way by sucking out blood, but also in a more abstract form. As recent research has shown, this also applies to vampires, who are said in the oldest reports to have a damaging effect through "strangling" and "emaciating", but not through bloodsucking. In the western Rhineland, the Aufhocker merges with the werewolf to form the Stüpp, a dangerous monster that unexpectedly jumps on people's shoulders and forces the victims to carry him around, causing trepidations, anxiety, feelings of oppression and panic attacks until they die of exhaustion.

#german mythical creatures #german folklore #aufhocker

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novaursa · 10 days ago

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Between Pride and Fire (heirs of a lion)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the tour

- Next part: royals

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The sun was still rising when Jason Lannister rode out of Casterly Rock’s gates, his cloak trailing behind him like the banners of his house. The air was sharp and cool, heavy with the smell of pine and damp earth, as he led a small hunting party into the western woods. At his side rode Lord Andric Lefford, a stout and affable man whose booming laugh seemed to echo louder than the calls of the hunting horns. The pair had been in good spirits since dawn, their conversation filled with tales of hunts past and whispered wagers about which of them would down the first stag.

“This forest is thick with deer this time of year,” Jason remarked confidently, gripping the reins of his horse with practiced ease. “You’ll see, Andric. By midday, I’ll have you carrying my prize back to the Rock.”

Lord Andric chuckled, his large frame bouncing slightly in the saddle. “Your confidence, my lord, will be your undoing. I’ve a fine hand with the bow—better than any knight in the Westerlands.”

Jason shot him a smirk, his green eyes glinting in the morning light. “Then let us make it a wager. A cask of Arbor Gold to the man who brings down the largest stag.”

“Done!” Andric replied, slapping his thigh with a laugh. “I’ll make certain your wine tastes all the sweeter when it’s poured from my hand.”

Their banter carried easily between the trees as the hunting party made its way deeper into the woods. Dogs darted ahead, noses to the ground, while Jason’s squires lingered a few paces behind, ready with bows and spears. The stillness of the forest was broken only by the soft crackle of hooves over fallen leaves and the occasional bark of a hound catching a scent.

Jason, for his part, felt alive. It had been moons since he’d had the chance to ride out on a proper hunt, with the demands of his new marriage keeping him close to home. It was good to be in the wild again, the wind at his back, the thrill of the chase whispering through the trees.

“Married life suits you well, Jason,” Andric said suddenly, steering his horse closer. “You seem—what’s the word? Settled.”

Jason snorted, though he couldn’t help but grin. “And why shouldn’t I be? My wife is a dragon, Andric. It’s enough to keep any man on his toes.”

“Aye, I’ll bet,” Andric replied with a knowing laugh. “And soon you’ll have a little cub at your side as well. You’ll be a doting father, no doubt.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “A Lannister doesn’t dote, Andric. We roar, and the child will learn to listen.”

“A roar can be gentle when it needs to be,” Andric countered. “Mark me—you’ll be as soft as a lamb when that babe is in your arms.”

Jason rolled his eyes, though his smirk lingered. “We’ll see about that. For now, let’s focus on finding this stag before your boasting puts it to flight.”

Andric laughed again, and the two pressed deeper into the woods, the sun now fully risen, its light filtering through the canopy in broken patches. The hounds picked up speed as they chased a scent, their barks echoing through the trees. Jason urged his stallion forward, his pulse quickening as he readied his spear, certain the hunt was about to reach its climax.

It was then that the shout came.

“My lord! My lord Jason!”

The voice, frantic and breathless, tore through the morning stillness, startling the birds into flight. Jason reined his horse sharply, turning to see one of his men—Ser Thom—burst through the underbrush, his face red and his chest heaving as he scrambled to reach them.

“What is it, Thom?” Jason barked, his mood darkening at the interruption. “You’ve just cost me a prize, man!”

Ser Thom staggered to a halt, his hands bracing on his knees as he gasped for air. “My lord… the princess… her labor has started.”

The words struck like a hammer, and Jason’s easy demeanor vanished in an instant. He stared at Thom, his knuckles whitening around the reins. “What did you say?”

“Princess Y/N, my lord. Her labor began not an hour ago. The maester sent me to find you.”

Jason’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as the world around him seemed to sharpen. He turned to Andric, who watched the scene with wide eyes, clearly uncertain how to respond.

“You’ll have to win that Arbor Gold without me, Andric,” Jason said, his voice tight but steady. “I’m needed at the Rock.”

Lord Andric gave a sharp nod, his expression one of understanding. “Of course. Go to her. The hunt can wait.”

Jason didn’t wait to hear more. He turned his horse with a swift tug of the reins and spurred it hard, galloping back through the trees as Ser Thom struggled to keep pace behind him. The forest flew past in a blur of green, the thundering hooves matching the frantic pounding of his heart.

Her labor. Gods be good.

The thought burned in his mind as he pushed the stallion harder, branches whipping against his cloak. Jason was no stranger to chaos or urgency, but the idea of not being there—of not being by your side—left a taste of fear on his tongue that he couldn’t quite swallow.

By the time Casterly Rock came into view, its towering walls rising above the cliffs, Jason’s face was flushed with wind and sweat, his pulse racing as if he’d just fought a battle. He rode straight into the courtyard, dismounting before the horse had even come to a full stop. The servants barely had time to react as he stormed inside, his boots echoing through the halls.

“Where is she?” he barked at the nearest maid, his voice sharp.

“The princess is in private chambers, my lord,” the girl stammered, bowing low as Jason brushed past her without another word.

He took the stairs two at a time, his chest heaving as he reached the door to chambers. Maester Ronnel and several midwives bustled in and out, their faces tense with concentration. The sound of hurried footsteps, the low murmurs of instruction—it was all too much, yet Jason pushed forward, forcing himself to stop at the threshold.

For just a moment, he paused to catch his breath, his hands bracing on the frame as he forced himself to calm. His world was behind that door, and he would not let his own fear follow him in.

Then, he stepped inside.

The chamber was warm, the hearth blazing and the sunlight softened by heavy curtains. You lay propped against a pile of cushions, your face damp and your silver hair clinging to your brow. Your eyes, tired but sharp as ever, found Jason immediately.

“You made it,” you said breathlessly, though there was a faint, teasing smile on your lips. “Did you win your stag?”

Jason strode to your side and knelt beside the bed, his hand curling around yours as he searched your face for any sign of distress. “You are far more important than any stag,” he said gruffly, though his tone was soft.

You squeezed his hand tightly, letting out a slow breath as another pain seized you. Jason’s jaw tightened, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as he murmured, “I’m here now. You’re not doing this alone.”

“I would hope not,” you retorted weakly, though there was a flicker of your usual spirit in your voice.

Jason pressed a kiss to your temple, his other hand brushing soothingly against your arm. “You’re stronger than any dragon,” he whispered, his voice low and certain. “We’ll see this through together, Y/N.”

The hours that followed passed in a haze of pain, sweat, and the constant hum of whispered instructions from the midwives. The chamber seemed both too loud and too still, the crackling fire and faint scrape of footsteps blending into a rhythm that matched the slow, unbearable pace of your labor.

Maester Ronnel arrived as the pains began to grow sharper, the old man bustling into the room with his robes flapping like a raven’s wings. His face, lined and solemn, betrayed nothing but calm as he inspected your progress. Jason, seated at your side with his hand still firmly grasping yours, glanced nervously between the maester and you.

“She is strong,” Ronnel said as though speaking to no one in particular, his voice even as he straightened. “But we are nearing the final stretch.”

Jason let out a breath, though his thumb continued to stroke your knuckles. “You hear that, wife? You’re nearly through it. The babe will be here before we know it.”

You gave him a look, sweat beading at your temple. “If only you were the one pushing a child into the world, my lord,” you managed between shallow breaths.

Jason smirked faintly, though there was worry in his green eyes as he leaned down to kiss your damp brow. “I’d do it if I could, my fierce dragon. But you’re far braver than I.”

The pains came stronger now, sharper, each one stealing the air from your lungs as you bit back your screams. You didn’t want to cry out—you wouldn’t. A princess of the blood, a dragon’s daughter, did not scream. But no amount of pride could still the meek, strangled yelps that escaped you when the contractions tore through your body.

Jason flinched every time you made a sound, his free hand tightening into a fist at his side as though he could fight the pain for you. “You’re doing well,” he murmured softly, his voice low and steady despite the tension lining his jaw. “You’re stronger than all of them, Y/N. I swear it.”

Maester Ronnel leaned closer, his hands moving gently to examine your progress as another contraction gripped you. You squeezed Jason’s hand so tightly that he let out a faint grunt, though he didn’t pull away.

“The head crowns, Princess,” Ronnel said, his voice calm but firm. “You must push now. When the pain comes, bear down as hard as you can.”

You nodded weakly, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you braced yourself. Jason’s hand was your anchor, his voice low and close to your ear. “Push, Y/N. You’ve fought harder battles than this. The babe’s almost here.”

With a scream—one you could no longer stifle—you bore down, every muscle in your body straining as pain wracked you. The world blurred at the edges, your vision tunneling to the faint, distant cries of the midwives urging you on. Jason’s voice rose above the noise, firm and insistent. “That’s it. You’ve got her. One more, love. Just one more.”

And then, suddenly, the pain broke. The tension snapped like a bowstring, leaving you trembling and gasping as the cries of a babe filled the chamber.

“It’s a girl!” one of the midwives cried out, holding the small, squirming child aloft as the others bustled to wrap her in clean linen. “A beautiful girl.”

Jason let out a shaky breath, his hand falling to your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “You did it,” he whispered, his voice rough with relief. “You did it, Y/N.”

You sagged back against the cushions, chest heaving, too spent to speak. Tears pricked at your eyes as one of the midwives brought the babe to you, swaddled and pink-faced, her cries soft but insistent. Jason stared at the small bundle as though he’d forgotten how to breathe, his face a mix of awe and something deeper, something you couldn’t name.

“A girl,” he murmured, reaching out with tentative fingers to brush them against the babe’s soft cheek. She squirmed at the touch, her cries quieting slightly as Jason’s expression softened into something like wonder. “She’s perfect.”

You smiled faintly, exhaustion tugging at your eyelids as you held the babe against your chest. “She’s ours,” you whispered, pressing your lips to her brow.

But the moment of peace was shattered when another sharp pain tore through you, sudden and unexpected. A cry burst from your lips, louder this time, and Jason jolted as though he’d been struck.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice rising in panic. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

Maester Ronnel stepped closer, frowning as he inspected you. “The afterbirth, my lord. It is nothing to—”

Before he could finish, one of the midwives cried out, her hands trembling as she looked at the maester with wide eyes. “No! It’s—it’s another babe!”

Jason froze, his face going pale as he stared at her. “Another? What in the Seven Hells do you mean another?”

Ronnel’s calm demeanor slipped for the first time, his eyes sharp with surprise as he turned back to you. “Princess, you must push again. There is another child.”

You could barely comprehend his words, the shock and pain mingling into something unbearable as Jason stood there, panicked and helpless. He turned to the maester, his voice taut with disbelief. “You told us nothing of twins!”

Ronnel shook his head briskly, already moving to guide the midwives into action. “It happens, my lord. Rare, but not unheard of. Princess, you must push.”

Jason dropped to his knees beside you again, his hands cupping your face as he leaned close. “Y/N, can you hear me? Another child—another little lion. You can do this. You’re strong enough for this.”

Tears streaked your cheeks as another contraction ripped through you, stronger than the last. Jason’s words were a distant murmur as you braced yourself, summoning every ounce of strength left in you.

“Push, Y/N!” Jason urged, his voice fierce with desperate encouragement. “Push, for them. For us.”

And so you did, screaming through the pain as your body strained against the impossible once more. The sounds of the midwives’ shouts, Jason’s whispered pleas, and the blood pounding in your ears became a cacophony that only ceased when the cry of another babe—thin and sharp—pierced the air.

“It’s a boy!” the midwife shouted, holding up the small, wriggling babe, his face flushed red as his cries echoed through the chamber.

Jason sank back onto his heels, staring at the child with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Twins,” he muttered, almost to himself. “By the gods… twins.”

You could barely keep your eyes open as the midwives moved to clean the boy and wrap him in soft linen, his cries mingling with his sister’s as they brought him to you. Jason hovered close, his face a mix of awe, exhaustion, and something near reverence as he took both babes into his arms—one in each hand.

“A son and a daughter,” he whispered, turning to look at you with eyes that glistened faintly in the firelight. “You’ve given me a son and a daughter, Y/N.”

You managed a faint smile as Jason leaned close, his lips brushing your damp forehead. “You are a miracle, wife. A fierce, impossible miracle.”

The chamber had quieted, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint cries of the twins. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air, a mixture of awe and exhaustion. Jason sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the babes carefully in his arms, as though afraid they might shatter if he held them too tightly.

You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as the midwives tended to you—cleaning away the remnants of the ordeal and whispering soft words of comfort. You hardly heard them, too focused on the sight before you: your husband, the lion of the Westerlands, reduced to something soft and reverent by the two small lives in his arms.

Jason’s green eyes were fixed on the babes, his expression one of wonder as he studied them closely. “Gods,” he breathed, his voice low, almost as if speaking louder might disturb the fragile peace. “Look at them. They are…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, unable to find the words.

“Perfect,” you murmured hoarsely, watching as Jason turned his attention to the firstborn—your daughter.

The little girl was already calming, her cries softening into small, hiccupping breaths. Her tiny face was smooth and pink, her nose small and delicate. A dusting of pale silver hair crowned her head, unmistakably Targaryen, though Jason’s features were already beginning to show in her brow and the shape of her jaw. When she blinked open her eyes—still cloudy, as newborns’ often were—they seemed a deep blue, though you knew time might shift them to the famed violet of your lineage.

Jason tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing tenderly over her cheek. “She has your silver hair,” he said softly, pride mingling with tenderness in his voice. “But look at her chin—that’s Lannister through and through. The best of us both.”

You smiled faintly, your exhaustion lifting slightly as you watched him. “She already has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?”

Jason didn’t deny it, his smirk barely there as he looked back down at the babe. “A lion’s daughter, a dragon’s blood,” he murmured. “A queen among women, I’ll wager.” He glanced over at you, his gaze softening. “She should have a name worthy of her.”

You nodded, shifting slightly as the midwife adjusted the pillows behind your back. “Have you one in mind?”

Jason paused, looking thoughtful as he studied his daughter again. After a moment, he smiled. “Leona,” he said firmly. “For the lion’s pride.” He glanced at you, his green eyes searching for approval. “Do you think it suits her?”

“Leona,” you repeated softly, tasting the name on your tongue. It was strong, but sweet—perfect for a girl who would bear the blood of both Targaryen fire and Lannister gold. You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It suits her well.”

Jason grinned, visibly pleased as he shifted his attention to the boy in his other arm. The secondborn was fussing more loudly than his sister, his tiny face scrunched into a scowl that made Jason chuckle under his breath. “A fierce one already,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across the boy’s cheek. “By the gods, look at him.”

Your son was nearly identical to his sister in his coloring—pale silver hair curled in soft wisps on his head—but there was something undeniably lion-like about him. His nose was straighter, his chin strong, and though his eyes were as clouded as his sister’s, Jason swore he could see a hint of green beneath them.

“This one’s going to give us trouble,” Jason said fondly, his voice quiet as though sharing a secret. “Look at the way he holds his fists—he’s ready to fight the world.”

You let out a soft laugh, wincing slightly as the midwife adjusted your blankets. “And what shall we name this little warrior?”

Jason thought for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the boy. “Loren,” he said at last, the name slipping from his lips with certainty. “A lion’s name. Strong, noble—like the last king of the Rock. He’ll carry it well.”

“Loren,” you repeated, the sound firm and proud. You smiled faintly as you looked at Jason, who now cradled both babes with a care and reverence you had never seen in him before. “Leona and Loren. Our children.”

Jason’s smile softened as he turned to you, his expression unguarded and filled with something far deeper than pride. “Our legacy,” he said quietly.

One of the midwives approached carefully, bowing her head as she gestured to the babes. “Shall we take them, my lord, to be cleaned and swaddled properly?”

Jason hesitated, as though reluctant to let them go, but he nodded after a moment. He stood, carefully passing each babe to the midwife’s waiting arms, his movements slow and deliberate. “Be gentle,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And bring them back to their mother when you’re done.”

“Yes, my lord,” the midwife replied softly before retreating with the twins.

Jason turned back to you, his expression still touched with awe as he sat carefully at your bedside once more. He reached for your hand, holding it gently in both of his as he brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

“You were incredible,” he said softly, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic reverence. “You gave me two perfect children, Y/N.”

You exhaled slowly, exhaustion tugging at you even as warmth filled your chest at his words. “I could not have done it without you here,” you murmured, squeezing his hand weakly. “Though I think we both know they will inherit your stubbornness.”

Jason laughed softly, shaking his head. “Stubborn? My children? Never.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips gently against your temple. “Rest now, wife. You’ve done more than any dragon or lion could ever hope to.”

You let out a faint hum of agreement, your eyelids already growing heavier as the exhaustion pulled you deeper. Jason remained by your side, his hand still wrapped around yours, his presence steady and unwavering.

As your eyes fluttered closed, the faint cries of your babes still echoed softly in the distance, a reminder of what you had brought into the world—Leona and Loren, a perfect blend of fire and gold.

And as Jason watched over you, his gaze softened with pride and love, he knew the truth: no treasure in Casterly Rock, no gold forged from the mines of the Westerlands, would ever compare to what you had given him this day.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was a spectacle of splendor, every inch dripping with Lannister grandeur. Rich crimson banners adorned the walls, their lions roaring proudly beneath the soft glow of countless candles. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, glazed venison, spiced wines, and platters piled high with fruits and honeyed delicacies. The hall smelled of roasted meat and sweet pastries, mingling with the sharp tang of fine wine.

Jason Lannister had spared no expense for the feast to celebrate the birth of his children. A moon had passed since Leona and Loren came into the world, and the lord of Casterly Rock saw fit to remind his bannermen and kin of the legacy he now carried—twins, the pride of both lion and dragon.

The golden-haired lord presided at the head table with you at his side, seated on a raised dais that overlooked the hall. Between the two of you sat the stars of the evening, Leona and Loren, nestled in ornate cradles trimmed with crimson velvet and rich embroidery. The twins were quiet, their faces soft in the candlelight as they slept through the sounds of the feast—completely unfazed by the din of music, laughter, and conversation.

Jason, dressed in a fine crimson tunic trimmed with gold, raised his goblet high as yet another toast was called for. “To Leona and Loren!” shouted Lord Andric Lefford, his voice carrying easily over the noise. “May they bring glory to House Lannister and House Targaryen both!”

“To Leona and Loren!” the hall roared back, goblets raised and wine spilling as men and women cheered.

Jason grinned broadly, pride radiating from him like the sun as he drained his cup in one long pull. He set it down with a thud, leaning toward you with a glint of mischief in his green eyes. “You hear that? They’re already beloved.”

You arched an amused brow as you sipped your own cup—watered wine, at your insistence. “Or they’re beloved because you’ve filled every cup with your finest wine.”

Jason chuckled, unfazed. “It matters not how I buy their affection, only that it’s mine.” He glanced at the twins, his gaze softening despite the jest. “Look at them. It’s as if they know they’re the most important people in the hall.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of silver hair behind your ear as you looked down at your children. “They are,” you replied softly, though your tone carried a quiet pride of its own.

Jason’s grin widened before he turned his attention back to the hall, where more musicians had begun to play. Lords and ladies danced on the cleared stone floor, their laughter rising above the sound of fiddles and drums. Across the way, Andric Lefford raised his cup toward Jason with a knowing smirk.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Jason!” he called, his cheeks flushed with wine. “A fine feast to honor a finer family.”

Jason raised his goblet back in acknowledgment, his voice carrying easily. “Why should I not celebrate? I’ve given Westeros two lions worthy of a song!” He turned to you, nudging your shoulder playfully. “And in two moons, when we arrive in the capital, they’ll have to concede that I am still King Viserys’s favorite son-in-law.”

You gave him a skeptical look, though there was amusement behind it. “You truly believe that?”

Jason smirked, leaning closer. “Of course. Who else could claim that title? Certainly not Ser Laenor Velaryon. That match is as dull as driftwood.”

You sighed, shaking your head even as your lips quirked into a faint smile. “You’d do well to keep those thoughts to yourself when we reach King’s Landing.”

“Why?” Jason asked, his grin unfaltering. “The king loves me, and Rhaenyra… well, she’ll need someone to lighten the mood at her dull, dutiful wedding. And besides—” He swept a hand toward the hall, indicating the merriment and wealth on display. “Who can say their son-in-law throws finer feasts than this? Or gives him grandchildren as splendid as ours?”

Your laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You are the most arrogant man alive.”

Jason tilted his head smugly. “And yet, you love me.”

“Perhaps I’m mad,” you teased, though your gaze softened as you looked at him. He caught the look and grinned in triumph, lifting his cup for another drink.

The sounds of laughter and music swelled as the feast carried on into the evening. Lords congratulated Jason with boisterous back-slapping, ladies cooed over the sleeping babes, and the wine flowed like water. For all his bravado, you knew this was Jason’s way—lavish and loud, ensuring that all within his halls knew that House Lannister thrived and that his children were the beginning of a golden legacy.

As the hour grew later, Lord Andric Lefford joined your table, a cup of wine in one hand and a broad grin on his face. “My lord, my lady,” he greeted, bowing his head briefly before lowering his voice conspiratorially. “A wager, if I may?”

Jason raised an intrigued brow. “A wager? You’ve come to the right man, Andric. Name it.”

“Your son, Loren,” Andric said, pointing toward the cradle, “will grow to be a knight of renown—his Lannister blood demands it. But your daughter…” He smirked faintly. “I say she’ll prove fiercer than her brother. You can see it in her face already.”

Jason laughed loudly, clearly delighted. “You think so? The girl is barely a moon old, Andric. But I like your faith in her.” He turned to you with a grin. “What do you think, wife? Will our daughter outmatch our son?”

You smiled softly, glancing down at Leona and Loren, both still sleeping peacefully. “I think they’ll be whatever they choose to be,” you said simply. “Dragon and lion are a potent mix, after all.”

Jason lifted his cup in salute, his eyes warm as they met yours. “Aye, they are. And they’ll have you to thank for the fire and me for the gold.”

Lord Andric roared with laughter, clapping Jason on the shoulder before turning back to the wine. Jason leaned close to you again, his voice softer this time, meant only for you to hear.

“When we arrive in King’s Landing, let them look at our family and see what true strength is. Rhaenyra may wed her Velaryon prince, but no one—no one—will doubt our power.”

You watched him for a long moment, taking in the pride and fierce determination in his expression. For all his arrogance, there was no mistaking Jason’s love for you or his children.

“You’ll be careful with your words, though, won’t you?” you murmured, brushing your hand lightly against his. “Rhaenyra’s wedding is not our feast.”

Jason smirked but nodded, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. “For you, my fierce dragon, I’ll behave. At least until the wine flows.”

The night stretched on, the hall alight with laughter and song as Jason reveled in the joy of his growing family. And as you sat there, watching your husband bask in the attention of his bannermen while your children slept soundly at your side, you couldn’t help but think that Jason’s confidence—arrogant though it was—might not be entirely misplaced.

After all, who could deny the strength of a lion and a dragon united?

The day had dawned crisp and clear, the first light of the morning spilling in amber shafts over Casterly Rock. Jason Lannister stood in the courtyard, issuing last-minute orders to his men and overseeing the preparation of the procession to King’s Landing. Wagons were being loaded with trunks of clothing, banners, and provisions, while squires scrambled to ready the finest horses for the long journey ahead.

Jason, ever the lion of the West, was in his element—barking orders with an authority that brooked no argument, his crimson cloak rippling behind him like a flag. “See that the carriages are stocked with food for the princess,” he called to one of his stewards. “I’ll not have my wife or the twins suffering on the road because you forgot their comforts.”

“My lord,” the man stammered with a bow, “it will be done.”

Jason turned his attention to the stablemaster, who was busy preparing his stallion. “And what of my armor? I’ll not have it rattling like a butcher’s cart when we ride through the city gates.”

“It’s already secured, my lord,” the man replied nervously.

Jason gave a satisfied nod, adjusting the cuffs of his fine tunic, when a voice broke through the commotion.

“My lord Lannister!”

Jason turned sharply to see two Dragonkeepers approaching him, their robes of black and red marking them as servants of House Targaryen’s ancient tradition. One of them, an older man with a bald head and a sharp nose, bowed low. “Forgive the interruption, my lord, but it is a matter that cannot wait.”

Jason frowned, already suspicious. “What is it?”

“It is about the princess’s dragon, Morrath,” the elder Dragonkeeper replied, his tone grave. “We’ve found something.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “What sort of something?”

“The dragon has laid a clutch of eggs, my lord,” the Dragonkeeper said carefully, as though the words themselves might be dangerous. “Deep in the old mines given to her, where she has made her lair.”

For a moment, Jason could only stare at the man, as though he’d spoken some foreign tongue. “Eggs?” he repeated slowly, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “You’re telling me there are dragon eggs in my mines?”

The younger Dragonkeeper, a wiry man with dark hair tied at the nape of his neck, stepped forward eagerly. “It’s true, my lord. Morrath has hollowed out a chamber deep below, where the stone is still warm from the earth’s heat. There are at least three eggs—large, intact, and promising.”

Jason let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he processed the news. He looked toward the towering cliffs of the Rock as though he might see Morrath herself perched somewhere in the distance, watching. “Gods,” he muttered. “And you’re certain?”

“We would not bring this to you otherwise, my lord,” the elder keeper said firmly. “The eggs are there, nestled in her lair. We must decide what is to be done.”

Jason’s mind raced as he considered the implications. He knew dragons were rare, their eggs rarer still. This was a blessing of sorts—or a curse, depending on who you asked. He didn’t know whether to be in awe or deeply unsettled that his mines now hid such power.

“And what do you propose?” Jason asked at last, his voice sharp as he looked at the keepers. “You’re dragon men. Tell me what should be done.”

The elder Dragonkeeper inclined his head, his expression grave. “We have two choices, my lord. The eggs can be left undisturbed to their fate—perhaps they will hatch naturally under Morrath’s care, or perhaps they will wither in the dark, as many eggs do.”

“And the other?” Jason asked, his green eyes narrowing.

The Dragonkeeper’s voice lowered slightly, almost conspiratorial. “We could take the eggs. With care, my lord, we can attempt to hatch them using methods known only to the keepers—fire, heat, and prayer. If we succeed, the eggs could provide dragons for your children, Lord Loren and Lady Leona.”

Jason stared at the man, the weight of the suggestion settling on his shoulders like a stone. Dragons for his children. His mind conjured the image of Loren astride a black beast like his ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, and of Leona, her silver hair gleaming in the sun as she rode a dragon that could swallow armies whole.

Yet the thought unsettled him just as quickly as it intrigued him. Dragons were not horses or hounds to be tamed. They were fire made flesh, beautiful and deadly—and the Lannister mines were not meant to cradle such power.

“You’re suggesting I steal the eggs from her lair?” Jason asked, his voice tight. “Morrath is no dog to be trifled with. If she catches wind of this…”

The younger Dragonkeeper shifted nervously. “It is not stealing, my lord, but preservation. Dragons do not always tend their clutches. There is a chance she may abandon them entirely—many dragons do.”

Jason let out a sharp breath, glancing back at the flurry of preparations in the courtyard. The idea of dragons hatching beneath Casterly Rock was a vision to inspire both wonder and terror. He thought of his children, still only babes, and what it would mean for them to one day claim a dragon of their own. Power untold, yes—but at what cost?

“What if they fail to hatch?” Jason asked, his tone measured. “Or worse, what if Morrath decides to burn half the Rock to cinders in a rage?”

“It is a risk,” the elder keeper admitted. “But all dragon eggs carry such risks, my lord. It is a choice only you and the princess can make.”

Jason turned toward the Rock, his eyes narrowing as he considered the unseen depths beneath his home. Dragons, eggs, fire and blood—it all felt so foreign, so unnatural here. Casterly Rock was a fortress of stone and gold, not of dragons. But you, his wife, were a dragon’s daughter, and Morrath was your beast.

“I will speak to the princess,” Jason said at last, his voice firm. “She is the dragon’s rider—her judgment will decide this. Until then, no man is to disturb those eggs. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” the Dragonkeepers said in unison, bowing low.

Jason dismissed them with a wave of his hand, his mind still whirling as he turned to oversee the last preparations for departure. The news weighed heavy in his chest, and as he moved through the courtyard, the image of dragon eggs buried deep beneath the Rock refused to leave him.

When he finally returned to you later that morning, he found you seated in your chambers with Leona and Loren close at hand, their soft cries breaking the quiet. Jason paused at the door, watching you as you murmured softly to the babes, your silver hair catching the sunlight that poured in from the high windows.

“What troubles you?” you asked suddenly, not even looking up. You always knew when something was amiss with him.

Jason crossed the room slowly, sinking onto the chair opposite you. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply before speaking. “Morrath has laid a clutch of eggs.”

Your eyes widened slightly, your gaze snapping to him. “Eggs? Where?”

“In the mines,” he replied, leaning forward. “She’s made her lair deep beneath the Rock. The keepers found them—three, large and whole. They say they could try to hatch them for the twins.”

You sat back slowly, your expression thoughtful as your eyes flitted to Leona and Loren. “Dragons for our children,” you murmured, your voice soft.

Jason sighed, rubbing his jaw. “It sounds like a dream—but dragons aren’t dreams, Y/N. They’re fire. I don’t know if we should risk it. If Morrath—”

“She won’t abandon them,” you interrupted softly, your voice certain. “She wouldn’t leave them if she’s guarded them so far. But you’re right—we must tread carefully.”

Jason looked at you, searching your face for answers. “And what would you have us do, wife? Let the eggs lie, or take them?”

You were silent for a long moment, your gaze lingering on your sleeping children. Finally, you looked up at him, your eyes sharp with the fire of your blood. “We will not steal from my dragon,” you said firmly. “But we will not abandon the eggs either. Let the keepers watch, but let Morrath decide their fate.”

Jason nodded, relief flashing briefly across his face. “A fair compromise.” He stood, crossing to the cradles where the twins slept. “For now, let’s focus on our children and the journey ahead. Dragons or not, Loren and Leona will make their mark.”

“And so will we,” you added quietly, your eyes meeting his.

Jason smirked faintly, though his gaze was still shadowed with thought as he looked toward the window, where Casterly Rock loomed strong and proud. Beneath its stone depths, secrets stirred—and whether they brought fire or ash remained to be seen.

From The Testimony of Mushroom, corroborated by Grand Maester Mellos in The Histories of the Dragon’s Heirs

The arrival of House Lannister to the royal wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon was a spectacle unlike any other in the memory of King’s Landing. Jason Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, brought with him the full power and grandeur of the Westerlands to the gates of the Red Keep, and his entrance remains the talk of both noble courts and lowly taverns alike to this very day.

The Lannister procession was seen days before its arrival. Word spread that Jason had brought nearly five hundred retainers, knights, banners, and wagons laden with gold, crimson silks, and gifts of fine artistry. Those who lined the streets claimed the sun itself seemed dimmer when the golden lions marched through the city gates.

The Lannister banners were legion—rich crimson fields adorned with lions roaring in gold—and they snapped boldly in the wind above their gleaming knights, each man armored and arrayed in fine formation. The knights’ capes rippled like a river of blood as they rode, their gilded helms and polished armor catching the sunlight, blinding all who dared look too closely.

Mushroom, hiding amongst the crowds and no doubt lurking for scraps or skirts to chase, described it as follows: “They came not as guests but conquerors. If Jason Lannister had set his mind to stealing King’s Landing, he’d have needed only a few thousand more men. As it was, he needed nothing but his gold to make us feel poorer for seeing it.”

At the head of the procession rode Jason himself, golden-haired and clad in a tunic of crimson velvet with gold-thread embroidery that made him seem a lion made flesh. Beside him rode his wife, Princess Y/N Targaryen, a vision of Valyrian beauty with her silver hair glistening like moonlight beneath the morning sun. She wore a gown of deep Lannister red, trimmed in black and adorned with dragons wrought in golden thread—her husband’s house and her own woven together in perfect harmony. The twins, Leona and Loren, were presented proudly, held aloft in a grand carriage lined with silk, the babe's cries all but drowned by the cheers of the crowd.

Mushroom wrote of this display with his usual crass wit: “One would think the princess had birthed dragons themselves, the way Jason Lannister puffed his chest. He may have ridden a horse, but he strutted like a rooster, crowing over the twins as if no other man had ever sired babes before him.”

Nonetheless, the crowds adored the sight. The people of King’s Landing, ever hungry for spectacle, cheered wildly as Jason lifted one gauntleted hand in greeting, his smirk unmistakable even at a distance. Coins were tossed from the wagons—Lannister gold, glinting in the sun as children scrambled for them on the cobblestones. Women threw flowers and silk ribbons into the path of the carriage, crying out blessings for the babes and praises for Princess Y/N, the dragon who had given the proud lion his heirs.

When the Lannisters reached the Red Keep, King Viserys I himself stood waiting at the gates. The king, though aged and worn from the cares of rule, looked resplendent in his black and gold finery, his crown gleaming atop his head. Beside him stood Princess Rhaenyra, radiant in white and silver, though her expression—if one believed Mushroom—was less than pleased at the scale of her sister’s arrival.

The moment Jason Lannister dismounted, he strode forward with all the confidence of a man who believed the kingdom belonged to him alone. Bowing with an exaggerated flourish, he greeted the king: “Your Grace, the lions of the Rock come bearing fire and gold for you and your house.”

Viserys, who had always held affection for Jason (and perhaps no small admiration for his wit), laughed heartily and clapped the man on the shoulder. “You never do things by halves, do you, Jason?”

“Not when it comes to matters of family, Your Grace,” Jason replied smoothly, turning and extending his arm to help Princess Y/N from to dismount from her horse.

When Y/N stepped forward, holding the swaddled babes in her arms, the king’s face changed entirely. Viserys, who had doted on his daughter since her birth, looked upon the twins with open joy.

“Grandchildren,” he said softly, his voice touched with awe as he approached. “My first grandchildren.”

He peered down at the babes, who squirmed quietly in their silk wrappings. Mushroom, ever the exaggerator, claimed, “The king wept openly. A soppy sight it was, a dragon king humbled by two squalling babes. I half-expected him to crown them both on the spot.”

Grand Maester Mellos, in a far more measured account, recorded that Viserys took each child in turn, cradling them with surprising tenderness for a man of his years. He marveled at Leona’s silver hair—so like her mother’s—and Loren’s fierce scowl, which Jason swore was proof of his Lannister blood.

“They are beautiful,” Viserys declared, his voice carrying so all in attendance could hear. “A blessing to both your houses.”

“Fire and gold,” Jason added, his hand resting lightly at his wife’s back as he grinned, clearly pleased. “A match as strong as the Rock itself, Your Grace.”

Viserys chuckled, handing Loren back to a waiting maid. “You’ve done well, Jason. I trust you’ll not let them be spoiled.”

“Only as much as their mother allows, Your Grace,” Jason replied with an easy laugh.

It was then, Mushroom claimed, that Princess Rhaenyra stepped forward, her expression polite but cool as she regarded her sister. “You’ve brought quite the spectacle with you,” she said softly, her words carefully measured.

Princess Y/N, ever the dragon, replied with a faint smile. “Did you expect anything less, sister? My husband believes a lion should always make an entrance.”

Jason’s booming laugh echoed across the courtyard at that, though some claimed Rhaenyra’s smile thinned ever so slightly. If there was tension between the sisters, it remained unspoken—at least for now.

As the feast for Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding preparations began, the arrival of the Lannisters was on everyone’s lips. Grand Maester Mellos wrote: “It was a day that belonged to Lannisters, a day when lions and dragons shared the stage, and for a moment, the kingdom seemed full of promise.”

Mushroom, of course, had a less charitable view: “Jason Lannister preened like a cat in cream, and the princess gave him cause to. They came, they roared, they conquered the city with smiles and silks. And in that moment, the king’s court forgot all else but the twins—the babes of the West, whose cries were already louder than most men’s swords.”

Thus, Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N entered King’s Landing as a family united by blood, their children heralded as a symbol of strength between the two most powerful houses in the realm. Yet even then, whispers began to swirl like shadows beneath the splendor, for where dragons and lions walked together, peace was rarely known to last.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #fire and blood #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #house targaryen #house lannister #hotd jason #jason lannister #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n #between pride and fire

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shiftersroom · 3 months ago

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how to shift through a lucid dream, according to neville goddard

this method was inspired by neville goddard, and my friend @urlocal-limitesshbic’s dragon tales method. please check it out 💛

in neville goddard’s book “out of this world” he talks about shifting realities through a lucid dream.

“I have discovered that, if I surprise myself dreaming, I can lay hold of any inanimate or stationary form of the dream (a chair, a table, a stairway, a tree) and command myself to awake. At the command to awake, while firmly holding on to the object of the dream, I am pulled through myself with the distinct feeling of awakening from dream. I awaken in dream. I awaken in another sphere holding the object of my dream, to find that I am no longer the servant of my vision but its master, for I am fully conscious and in control of the movements of my attention.”

in another lecture neville talks about grabbing onto a piece of driftwood in a dream and when he woke up, he was in a reality actually in a body of water holding that piece of wood.

“Years ago I felt myself dreaming and I was swimming. I knew it was a dream. I looked up and saw the shore of a primitive island, not the little island where I was born, for that is well cultivated and in no way primitive, but this was primitive. I saw it was an island and I knew I was dreaming, and I saw these strange things like cement posts driven down through the water but they were in a state of decay. They could have been at one time part of a jetty. I could see this peculiar primitive beach and I prolonged the dream, for if you know you are dreaming you need not wake. Something in me began to tell me, as memory began to return, that if I would take hold of one of these pilings and not let it go, and awaken, I would awaken there. I felt it and it was solidly real, just as it would feel here, and my hand did not go through it, and I held on to it and made myself awake; and I awoke in that water on that beach and then I waded ashore. I was no more asleep in that sphere than I am here in this one.”

“It taught me a lesson that if I could touch anything in another world and compel myself to awaken while holding it, I would find it was real. So you do it for your world. A job you want, the home you would occupy, the marriage you want. Sit at the desk at which you would sit, live in the house you want to live in, be married to the sort of person you want to be married to, and if you hold to it in your imagination, then you will make it real in your outer world. The Ancients called this capacity the Western Gate, and tied it in with the sense of touch. If you can hang on to the thing you touch and then awaken, you will find that the thing has become real.”

how to use this method:

1. find an object that you will be holding onto when you wake up in your dr. make it something that would fit in your dr. for example, in my dr it’s 2014, so i’ll wake up holding my old iphone.

2. find that object in your cr. in your cr, it has no power. but in your dreams, it has the power to shift you.

3. use that object as a reality check throughout the day. hold it and ask yourself if you’re dreaming.

4. when you become lucid in a dream, find that object/manifest it (i find it easier to say that when you turn around, it’ll be there - trying to manifest things in dreams can use too much brain power and wake you up)

5. affirm that you are dreaming FROM your dr, and when you wake up, you’ll be holding your item IN your dr.

6. wake up!

the item acts as an anchor. sometimes when we shift through lucid dreams we feel disconnected and like we’re battling to wake up in our dr, but we have nothing firm to grasp to bring us through. but the item is a lifeline to your dr.

—

lmk if you use this method and how it goes!

#shiftblr #shiftersroom #reality shifting #reality shift #shifters #shifting #shifttok #shifting community #shifting blog #loassumption #lucid dreaming method #lucid dreaming #neville goddard

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www-islandofsodor · 6 days ago

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Evening guys; admin here to inform you of something I found extraordinary. There’s a show on Brit Box called Sister Boniface Mysteries where a nun basically solves mysteries for the local police. Now you’re probably thinking: what’s this got to do with Thomas & Friends?

Well, here’s where the kicker comes in: around Christmas 🎄 time, one of their mysteries takes place aboard a GWR auto-coach pulled by none other than a 5700x pannier tank engine. Sound like a certain Great Western engine we all know? Hmm 😉. What makes this even better is near the end when a pregnant 🤰 lady gives birth in a goods van and the whole cast recreates the famous nativity scene.

That whole scene right there really gives new meaning to the phrase: “God’s Wonderful Railway”. I guess Duck was right; there really are two ways of doing things: the wrong way or…The Great Western Way! It has since become my favorite Yuletide mystery special. I highly recommend you check it out; you will not regret it. Plus, it would be a great idea for any Sodor YouTuber to recreate this with Duck playing a pivotal role in the overall story. Just saying 🤷🏼‍♂️. On that note, I wish y’all a very merry Christmas 🎁 and an even greater new year.

#sister boniface mysteries #tales from the little western #planetsodor #thomas and friends #christmas season #great western railway

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onlyseokmins · 9 months ago

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$$60 billion (part 1) • l.s.m.

How did a legendary bounty promised for turning in the wasteland's most infamous outlaw transform into a sick, little inside betting joke amongst your traveling companions? Though you have no idea why they're doing it… you sure as hell don't want that very same gunslinger comrade worth sixty billion double dollars to know anything about it either — but oops — looks like he already does! Damn you and your temper, some unhelpful lip-loosening alcohol, and one no-good, sorry excuse of a preacher you sometimes think of as a friend.

Pairing: outlaw!lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: eventual smut (minors dni!), trigun!au action!au, apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic!au, space western!au, slight enemies to comrades to ??? !au, angst, fluff, they're dumbasses your honor 🙏 Warnings: swearing, blood, death, gore, guns, injuries, destruction, mentions of knives, weapons, violence, creepy monsters and creatures, ptsd, moral ambiguities, dark topics tbh, smoking, unsettling space western things, slight body horror and hints at altered dna, weird religious cults, mentions of eating/food, alcohol, threats, bets among friends, platonic (but not really) nakedness, reader is operating on a short fuse bc I believe u have to be built different for this universe, their communication is abt to be as poor as the plant life 💀 Seungcheol kinda his own warning imho, biggest apology to chan, and we all love seok sm bc he sings abt total slaughter 🙇🏻‍♀️ WC: 19.5k of 32.7k | Part 2 | Read on AO3 A/N: this is for the Now that's 90's - A Seventeen collab and loosely based off/inspired by the Trigun anime/manga! You do not need to know it as I manipulated a whole lot of elements for my own narrative but beware of various spoilers if you do go ahead and check out the series after reading!! I feel like the boys may seem ooc but I had a lot of fun putting this together 😌 Thank you Summer and Isa for hosting this collab and your utmost patience in me finally writing my piece! I hope everyone enjoys this and please check out the other writers in this amazing collab ❤️let me know your thoughts and feel free to ask any questions regarding this au's intricacies!!

Everyone wanted Lee Seokmin.

The cities' great militaries. Bounty hunters. Bandits on the roads. Criminals escaping death row. Prowling pirate gangs. His twin brother. You.

Though you reckoned your "want" for him was a bit… different from others. Well, at least you hope so, goddamn it.

You shiver.

At first, you wanted him just like the mass majority would one day as well — dead. The deed swiftly carried out with a silver pistol aimed at his temple.

Besides, your blood-thirst began before the destruction of July. Unlike most, who angrily shake their fists at the gaping crater on the fifth moon in the spirit of pure vengeance. Yes, the tragic incident of the great city that upped the bounty dangling over his head like a noose to a sixty billion double dollars reward. But Little Ivywood was the first of many places that would end up reduced to ruins after Lee Seokmin set foot there.

Wiped off the map. Wiped from history. Wiped from existence. But never forgotten. Especially not by the small town's only known survivor — you.

Your earliest memories contain little about the events that led up to being left on the doorstep of Little Ivywood's unofficial orphanage. How could they when you were just a baby? One swaddled in a ratty cloth weighted down by a rusted pistol. There was just one simple hint to your past — scribbled nearly illegible on a torn piece of paper dotted with blood — and could only be what the nuns had to assume was your name.

At least that's how Sister Meryl relayed the tale whenever asked, her hands clasped tightly together in praise and gratitude to the Saint that delivered you to them unharmed. The irony, considering Sister Lucia always looks like she'll faint just like the day she opened the convent's side door. It wasn't an easy sight to see or recall, the image of a wailing infant mouthing on the empty muzzle of a gun.

Neither versions of your origin story could be that far off thanks to the scar marring your left hand and the gun held tightly in your right. You've had both for as long as you can remember. And as you grew and changed, so did they.

The scar shrunk and faded through the years, seemingly forgotten amongst a myriad of other markings littered across your skin. Over time, the pistol's rusted parts were repaired or replaced and soon, its shine and character returned. Restored to its former glory while forging a new beginning ahead with a different owner.

But there were two things that stayed constant throughout your years at the orphanage. The first was your birth name. Not even the nuns, who generally loved bestowing scriptural monikers as if they were granting rich titles to unnamed orphans, tried to change yours. The second was a person who you still refuse to call by his baptismal name — Chan.

He helped you, became an assistant of sorts. Originally just some snot-nosed, beanpole of a fellow orphan you didn't really pay much attention to. A scared kid who cried way too loudly even after you'd even taken the time to demonstrate that the gun was safe after he'd been the one continuously pestering to see it. Very much to Sister Constance's chagrin, since it all went down in the middle of confessional time.

But curiosity eventually overturned the initial fear.

Lucky, because by acquiring bravery, Chan could discover his innate talent for gunsmithing. Lanky, noodle arms transformed into well-formed, sinewy muscles. The soft baby skin of his hands roughened with callouses as he whittled away near the convent's underground furnace. He'd spend hours down there, returning with sweat, grime, and charcoal smudged all over his skin after melting together the random metal objects found by digging beneath the basement's unfinished floor.

The Sisters disliked dirt and grime all over the children and tracked through the doors. But it was hard to keep clean out in the middle of a sandy desert. Complaints dwindled thanks to the fellow orphans who would stop their mischief to watch Chan work. And as time passed, his shoulders broadened further, his voice began to deepen, his dark hair grew longer, and those brown eyes started to sparkle with something different from simple, fleeting passion — it was a dream.

The excitable boy would tell you all about it under the stars. Late into the nights when you searched for what had to be remnants of Earthen materials from the Big Fall, he'd chatter on and on.

"Once we're actual adults," — free from the guardianship requirement provided from the orphanage — "we're gonna leave Lil Ivywood behind and explore the great wastelands of Gunsmoke!"

You snort at the ridiculousness of such an idea. "And how do you think we'll survive?"

"Easy-peasy, I'm gonna build a bunch of guns and we're gonna end up so rich. And famous!"

"Yeah, sure. Throw a couple double dollars at the worms, I'm sure they'll let us pass with no problem."

Not one to be deterred by your eternal sarcasm, Chan shakes his head."Nah, that's where you come in. Didn't think I'd let you freeload, right?"

He stands and stretches both of his arms straight out, the ones your roommate had started to gush over. Hands clasped together like Sister Meryl's always do before prayer time and then extending both pointer fingers into a mock handgun, out into the distant sand dunes one rarely dares to stray.

"You gotta be a sharpshooter to not let my hard work go to waste!"

You lazily take aim next to him, handling the freshly restored pistol with uncharacteristic gentleness. While it might officially be yours, it's also Chan's baby.

"Mm-hm, me and my killer skills."

And then you both dissolve into laughter.

It was such a pipe dream and yet; it didn't seem utterly impossible. There were little moments you let yourself imagine it, too — just until the suns peep their heads above the horizon. There was no way you could defend yourself — let alone another person — from the dangers of the desert or it would've been something you'd attempted years ago.

But when Chan spoke of his plans under the glow of the orbiting full moons, confidently mapping an adventure through an area he's never been to or seen before, and dreamed — he easily pulled you under his spell too. It was contagious, exciting, addicting, and most of all — it could really be… possible.

An armory of grade-A weapons. The bank account overflowing with double dollars. Endless boxes of bullets and the refined skills to shoot them; you were the force to be reckoned with and a protector of those who couldn't do it for themselves.

"Do you think… we could really succeed?" you ask one night, running a finger along the familiar engravings on your gun's grip panel.

Chan's grin was as shiny as the circular metal shell he was carving into. You refuse to look his way because of how infectious it could be. Plus, the main reason it was so stinking bright was due to this being the first time you verbally entertained his ideas.

"Oh-ho-ho, doubt my capabilities?"

"Obviously."

If offended — he was not — by the instant agreement, there was no sign of it. Instead, he focused back onto his handicraft, knowing you would eventually spill your true thoughts if he was patient.

There was no rush tonight after all. A star-filled expanse of black blanketed across the sky — one he hoped would never change to blue.

"More like… it's just going to be so risky!"

"And that's why you'll be the —"

"But I've never even held a gun before!" You spot Chan pointedly direct the corner of his gaze to where your hands rest, causing you to flinch them away from the weapon and wave around haphazardly as your cheeks heat. "I mean, like, to shoot! Sister Lucia always says it'd be too dangerous."

"Sister Lucia thinks water that doesn't flow directly out of the holy grail is dangerous."

"Technically, that's true."

"Oh god, she's got you thinkin' the same, too!"

"But she'd probably rather swear by the Saint than ever let me get any bullets…" The thought alone of the devout nun saying the Savior's name in vain makes both of you smirk but yours falls just as quick as it came. "And we're going to need those if we ever want to leave Little Ivywood."

"Well —"

"And I… I'd have to kill things! People, too. I don't know if I can do that, I —"

" — Think fast!"

It's his turn to interrupt, chipper voice ever optimistic as he tosses the finished trinket your way. Thankfully, your reflexes work fast enough to catch it nimbly in time. The oval is hot to the touch after hovering over searing flames and despite its small size, weighs down your right palm as you glance over its etchings.

Satisfied, Chan takes that as his cue to walk toward the nook that shields you from the roaring heat of the furnace. Squatting down so he's eye-level with your knees, he brushes back his tangled mess of hair with one hand and taps knowingly at the barrel of the pistol with the other.

"There's no reason to kill anyone or anything."

"But this can hurt people… I could hurt people."

"You've had this ever since you were a baby and never harmed anyone with it."

"It's… it's never been loaded or…"

"Doesn't need to be. If you smacked someone with it, they'd surely feel that hit." He snickers, tone bordering on the edge of cockiness. "I would know, considering the sturdy and valuable materials used for repairs."

You roll your eyes and mutter, "Show-off," but it lacks true malice behind it.

"And even so," Chan takes one of his hands and pats the back of your free one, unintentionally right over the spot where your scar lies. "You've hurt no one before. Not even me, who annoys you the most!"

"About time you finally realized how merciful I am."

He says your name in earnest, remaining uncharacteristically serious and lays your intertwined hands on top of the gun before squeezing tightly. "Both this and you don't have to kill a single thing or person — ever — if that's not what you want to do. You can aim for non-vital points, shoot up in the air… Bullets or no bullets, just the sight of a weapon alone can be enough of a deterrent for most."

Chewing hesitantly on your lower lip, you let his words sink in and he continues.

"The fact you're aware of the hundreds of risks when handling a weapon like this means you'll be even more cautious when using it. I trust you, so trust in yourself."

Warmth spreads from your interlocked hands and through your entire body like you're wrapped in another one of his sweet hugs, culminating into tears threatening to spill past your lash line. Chan believed in you and though you'd never admit it aloud, it meant the world to you.

"When did you grow up so much?" you tease, letting out an exhale you didn't realize was being held.

"Aw, c'mon! I've been taller than you for months now!"

"Keep dreamin' if it makes you feel better."

Though Chan sasses back by sticking his tongue out, he lets you ruffle his sweaty bangs despite receiving a slightly bruised forehead in return because you forget about the new gift in your hand. Plotting an escape, he stands and pulls you up with him, joined by your clasped hands.

"We should probably head back. Sister Constance's likely gonna ask us to check the Plant before morning mass and you don't want her to catch you dozing off again."

"Last I recall, you were the one she caught napping!"

"But you have the most demerits this week."

"And whose fault is that?!"

Quick as lightning, he nudges you with enough strength to catch you off guard and destabilize your balance. Then he tears away, calling over his shoulder, "Snooze and ya lose!"

"Ugh, this is exactly why — you never play fair!"

Regathering your bearings at record speed, you dash right after Chan. The boy's raucous laughter echoes in your own lungs and you swear the stars twinkle brighter in the nighttime sky. You overtake him right before reaching the convent's door — the same one you were left on — and clutch at his arm before he can reach past to open it.

"Hey… thanks."

He grins all goofy. Chan's well aware you mean much more than that, but he opts to flick your forehead rather than give you grief over it. "Yeah, yeah. I do so much for you, you know?"

"Mm-hm."

"So it's about time to finally pick a name I can carve onto that bad boy. If you don't, I'll put mine there." He nods to your gun excitedly, then points to the oval. "Oh, and I'll make a chain for that soon. Did you decide what you'll put inside?"

"Questions, questions, demands, demands." You wave him off and open the door with a yawn. "I'll think of one. And yeah, you know that Earthen gadget we found? Gonna cut out those papers and put them in there before sleeping."

Once while digging for materials, you had stumbled across a square object that wasn't completely destroyed, unlike many others. After a few experiments of messing with the random knobs and buttons, you determined it could mimic whatever was directly in front of the clear coated lenses. And later — much to your amusement and amazement — it printed out the image on thick, shiny squares.

Fascinating little things those Earthlings created!

You'd luckily put the last few sheets left in the machine to good use. Experimenting with the surrounding scenery that blurrily featured some of Ivywood's buildings, then one of Chan, and finally wrangled a frame that captured both of you together.

"Do you think you'll be able to stabilize it?"

Your tentative question makes him look toward the large, bulbous structure that houses the Plant. The power source Little Ivywood depended upon.

He sports a cheery grin. "Won't know 'til I've tried!"

"Ever considered too much confidence might be a bad thing?"

"If you're jealous, just say so. But with you by my side, there's nothing we can't accomplish together!" He bounces excitedly on his heels. "Besides, I forgot to mention…" Beckoning you with a hand to come closer, you lean in, curious. "I've become quite the master at bargaining. There won't be a single worm who'll refuse a double dollar from the great Chan!"

"What did you do?"

"What haven't I done?"

"You're the worst. Like to ever exist."

"The absolute best, you mean 'cause there'll be no reason for you to waste any bullets or fear cutting a single lifespan short!"

"Goodnight, Chan."

"You mean 'thank you so much, what would I ever do without you, Chan!' but whatever! You can make it up to me tomorrow!"

But tomorrow never came.

Or rather — daybreak arrived in the unrecognizable form of rapid gunfire and screams of terror. The buildings rattled, trembled, and shook from the onslaught just like the people cowering in fear within them.

The dust stirred up in the chapel's hall after a wall unexpectedly collapsed causes you to cough. Amidst the chaos and panic, you spare a glance over your shoulder to see Sister Meryl, who strides confidently to the altar.

She stands with poise and purpose in front of the marbled stone. Steadfast and unwavering in strength because of her faith alone, even as the grand statue of the Saint starts crumbling down with the ceiling tiles falling around it.

It's a visual you're not likely to forget, carved deep into your memory before you flee with the rest. Sister Lucia is flustered as usual, ushering everyone as fast as she can near the grand oak doors that lead out to where additional shouting can be heard and only more pandemonium must await outside.

You're struck with the damning realization.

The gods — they have completely abandoned humankind.

"That would be ten demerits any other day," Sister Constance voice abruptly snaps, "fortunately for you, now is not the time for such things."

It's astonishing how even at this moment, the nun remains on high alert for 'troublemakers'. Her sharp-nailed fingers latch around your wrist as she breezes by — much too similar to when you've been dragged off to detention. And as if that's what's happening, your heels plant firmly in the ground and obstinately tug her back a step.

"What about Sister Meryl? We can't just leave!"

"If you knew what was good for you, you'll obediently obey me. But if you knew that, you'd recognize faithfulness will guide her and the rest of us to safety."

"Nothing guarantees —"

"Those who do not devote themselves truthfully will never understand. Should the Saint deem Sister Meryl's sacrifice to be in vain, then she has failed not only the Holy Bishop and our sacred bonds, but you — one she unnecessarily dotes on — as well."

You want to argue and protest as Sister Constance yanks you forward. But the faint tremors you feel despite the tight grip of her hand and the tensed jawline of the woman whose stoic face is normally unbreakable makes you pause.

She's shaken. She's unsure. She's wavering.

Sister Constance doubts.

And something about that thrills you. Terrifyingly so.

The shock of it all is as startling as the pale sunlight blinding your eyes when the chapel's heavy doors finally get thrown open. Grains of sand swirl through Little Ivywood, diluting the usual brightness of the glowing orbs in the sky and their powerful rays.

A sandstorm brews on the horizon.

That's the least of your worries, though. Blood stains the soil where shrapnel grazed tender flesh. Fellow orphans scream and cry out from their wounds as they struggle to get away from the captors attempting to drag them to the center of town.

With a chill, you alarmingly realize who they're trying to escape from. Women in black and white robes don a wild, crazed look on their faces. The ones who have raised and cared for parentless children throughout many years and tended to every need they could within their means.

The Blessed and Holy Sisterhood of Little Ivywood.

Sister Constance turns and you jump. Both at the horrors of the present and a reminder of how many times a quick movement of hers led to the sharp pain of a switch or ruler tearing into skin. An eerie sound of laughter rings out and your blood runs cold, eyes darting left and right for the source.

And then through the dust particles, looms the sinister silhouette of a figure in a long trench coat flapping in the wind. Spiked hair sticks straight up, retaining its menacing style despite the powerful wind gusts and emphasizing an already impressive height. You gulp, swearing there's a flash of metal followed by a fanged smirk that glints dangerously as Sister Constance tugs you closer to the terrifying shadow beast shrouded by sand swirling in the air.

A declaration of your given name — stern and cold. "Know that your purpose is being fulfilled, that you are serving the great —"

And then comes a shout of your name, this time from someone desperate and panicked. You're yanked forward and then suddenly catapulted backward, grunting at the impact of your body slamming against someone else's.

"You need to go! You need to get out of here!"

"Chan?!"

He clings to you, shifting so his back is to the nun only a few paces past the corner he dashed around for safety and to stall for time. Throwing a cautious look over his shoulder before whispering urgently, "Go! And don't look back!"

"What about you?"

"Don't mind me." The smooth leather of a satchel presses against your palm. "Get movin'!"

"But —"

"Seriously," the boy shoves you forward with a not-so-gentle push. You gape at the audacity and he waves his hand, like he's shooing away a pesky flying worm. Rude. "Please! I'll be right behind you but —"

An eruption of nearby gunfire and a series of high-pitched shing!-like noises interrupt him. He glances again over his shoulder. You cautiously step forward and his head whips back to let out a hiss.

"Chan, what's —"

"Need to grab a few more things, see if any other idiots need help. Just… just get out of town, wait for me by the rocks if it'll make you feel better." He smiles, though it doesn't make those brown eyes of his sparkle like usual. "It'll… it'll all be okay."

You're uncertain and scared. But something about Chan's speaking powers have always made you believe in the impossible. So, you nod resolutely while taking the bag from him and warn, "Promise you'll be safe."

"You hate those kinds of things."

It's true. To you, promises were only made to be broken. And yet…

"… And somehow you've changed my mind before."

The bangs of carnage draw closer. Louder.

"Fine, just go. Please! And don't look back!"

Acquiescing to his pleas, you sprint toward where he pointed. Sitting like giant sentinels lays an outcrop of boulders bordering the western edge of Little Ivywood. The desert is only two paces away, expanding outward into a desolate plain filled with the undulating slopes of dunes. Picking a sizable rock to hide behind, you keep watch for Chan, cringing at the distant sound of gunshots still rapidly being fired.

What was that? What did you see? And what did you almost get dragged into?

What was going on?

Boom!

It's an ear-shattering noise that causes even the great stones around you to tremble from the explosion. A flare of light so bright leaves you no choice but to look away to protect your eyes, ducking behind the rocks as a shield.

When you recover after it dissipates to see what just happened — Little Ivywood is no more.

It's gone.

"No…"

The tiny town reduced to only rubble and ash. What once were rows of square buildings stacked on top of each other to divert the view of a relatively flat lay of the land are now parallel to its surroundings.

"No… no… no…"

Gone.

You don't think twice about running toward the wreckage. Chan is there. Chan has to be there!

"No!"

And most importantly, he has to be alright.

Broken piles of the shoddy architecture littering the landscape prevents you from traversing too far. Bile rises in your throat as you desperately scan for a sign — any sign — for Chan. For survivors. For anyone. Even the air is still, no longer rippling with irritable heat waves and heavy gusts of wind because the blast was strong enough to ward off nature itself and the incoming sandstorm.

For now.

And during the futile search, that's when you spot him. On his knees with his back to you, slouched over in the only clear space amidst the destruction. The tattered fabric of a cerise garment hangs off the man's broad shoulders and pools around his body like a puddle of blood. Reddish-brown bangs tinged with black hang limply as his chin curls further and further into his chest.

I don't understand, you vent to yourself after a couple ungraceful vaults and stumbling through the debris to get closer. This bastard got what he wanted, did what he wanted, and won! So, why is he acting like that? Who destroyed his town? His people?

Finally, you're a couple steps behind him. Thankful, at the very least, for whatever weird state this man is in because it grants you the opportunity to approach and press the cold steel of your pistol to the side of his temple.

"Don't. Move."

You hope it comes out as the threatening command you intend it to be. There's a tense beat of silence as you wait for his next move until you realize he's doing exactly what you demanded.

Then he chuckles. A choked out, watery sort of sound. Your hands start shaking even as they press the barrel harsher against his head.

"Go ahead and shoot."

"Answer me first." Your voice becomes as unsteady as the quakes in your body and you rasp out, "Why… why'd you do it?"

His head lifts and you flinch, but he takes no further action besides staring blankly ahead at the ruins. "I wish I could tell you but… I've been asking myself the same question."

"I — you…! You wreak hell and havoc upon a whole innocent town and… and you don't even know why?!"

"Pathetic, isn't it?" The man laughs again, without a shred of humor. A gloved hand reaches up to wrap around the weapon and you momentarily falter at the force of him leaning into it. The weight pushing it closer into his skull seems hard enough to leave a nasty imprint, as if that should be a main concern right now. "I'd simply like to know how I did it."

"I —"

"Not loaded," he sighs and drops his hand, twisting around to actually get a proper look at whoever was holding him at gunpoint.

You're taken aback by the intensity of death radiating in those dark brown irises that casually observe you through amber-colored, cracked lenses. Your arms fall down, dumbfounded at the stranger's unflinching behavior, the pistol bumping into your thigh. He lets out a "tsk" and then pulls something out of his pocket.

In his opposite palm, clad in a fingerless glove unlike the left, rests a conical golden object. Though you've never seen one in real life before, you think you know what it is. The shape matches the hollow outlines when Chan disassembled the chambers of your gun.

"A cartridge," he says and you blink. "A bullet," he clarifies upon noticing your confusion. Then the man smiles encouragingly. "Go on. Take it."

You're incredulous. "You're okay with handing that over to me?"

"It's what you want, right?" There's a wistful look on his face. "This place… it was your home."

"No," you're quick to refute, shocked at such an automatic response. Then admitting, "I don't even know what a home is."

Innocent town, my ass, is what you derisively admit inward and snort at yourself.

The convent itself was far from comforting. The other orphans with their bright grins when Saint Meryl sang lullabies on the nights you couldn't sleep — those were the kinds of things that made it bearable.

Guilt.

"I — I —"

It overwhelms your senses. Rattling up your entire nervous system and settling a cruel, cruel weight in your chest. You hunch over, chest heaving, and throat burning. There's a thump as your gun falls to the ground, its silvery sharp edges becoming distorted, warped, and blurred through a film of unshed tears in your widened eyes.

"Should've… It should've —"

"Hey, hey…"

"It should've been me!"

The man rises to his full height, brushing off his clothes before crouching down. A sturdy hand grips your shoulder and dutifully encourages your gasping upper body into an upright position. Gently, ever so fragile, he bops your forehead with his and you subconsciously lean against the unexpected support.

He's near enough to ground you to something solid. But distant enough for two strangers whose first meeting is one amidst a crumbling town's travesty. With his close presence comes the scent of gun smoke, though not as bitterly pungent and putrid as you recall from before. It's subtle and smokey, reminiscent of the fire that Chan once proudly stoked in his makeshift forge.

Your body shakes as the tears finally slip free.

"All lives are equally precious, one shouldn't be sacrificed for another."

"… How can… how can you say that so… easily?"

The death-come-over look in his eyes changes to something faraway. Like he's seeing something beyond the destruction surrounding both of you. Those amber lenses don't have to be cracked to draw attention to the fracturing despair radiating behind them.

Then, he shakes his head and shrugs. "Because you should live even when those dear to you are gone. This world is made of love and peace, after all."

Your crying abruptly pauses with the natural effort it takes to let out a scoff. Ignoring your utter scorn and disbelief, the man's gaze drifts to the pistol still on the ground. The tip of a steel-toed boot kicks it up into the air with a flourish, single-handedly catching it to inspect the weapon with practiced ease.

"Live because there's a reason you survived, even if you loathe every second of it. You'll feel like you don't deserve it. But persevere because you should. Because that's what they would've wanted and you keep them alive by living yourself. A burden? Maybe. Why spend such a cursed blessing only dwelling in regret when you can do so much more?"

He offers the gun back, its handle extended in your direction.

"If nothing else, live for yourself most importantly. Help show the world the love and peace it deserves. Even if it couldn't afford to gift it to you. That's what life is all about. The ticket to the future is always blank!" Pausing, he shrugs with a regret-filled smile on his face. "At least that's what I was taught… and what I think."

"… Awfully full of optimism for some dude who wiped out a full town and doesn't even know why."

"Name's Seokmin," he returns, now sporting a cheeky grin as you cautiously reach out for the pistol. Only to be outsmarted with a literal 'sleight-of-hand' and meeting the warmth of fingers and a gloved palm instead of the expectation of hard, cold, and familiar steel.

"Huh?"

"Lee Seokmin, to be precise! And it's a pleasure to meet 'cha! Erm, despite the… terrible circumstances." Seokmin jiggles the gun in front of you with his other hand, almost taunting you to reach for it again.

You don't.

"And what do you call this lovely lady?"

"Nothing."

"A shame. But not everyone cares to name things, 'specially if they don't hold any value." He finally tosses it back and you barely manage to catch it in time with a scowl.

"Just haven't decided."

"I see! Mine's Geranium."

"Oh, like… the flower?"

He visibly perks up at that even further, a radiant smile showcasing two pointy fangs. "You've heard of it?"

"Well," you scratch your cheek, "the, uh, sisters gave a girl that name because of her hair."

There's an uncomfortable pause as the dreadful realization you'll never see those brilliant ruby locks bounce because of her excitement again settles back into your stomach. You swallow, eyes roaming the stranger in front of you for a distraction.

"Um… you must really like the color… red."

Seokmin glances down at the tatters of his scarlet clothes and shrugs. "I guess. Though the one I saw was red, I've heard they come in different colors."

"You've seen a plant? Like a plant plant? A real one! You know — that grows out of the ground and transforms and all that? It doesn't, well…"

Vegetation was a rarely discussed concept. The only thing you knew came out of the poorly written history books in the dusty library's darkest corner. In the desert outskirts, you had a better chance of finding ancient Earth technology that might still be intact to share its plethora of knowledge about the old world humans left behind than hope to find whatever resources the big cities had access to.

"Mm, yeah, a long time ago. But say," he jovially waves the cartridge from before and it glints in the setting rays of the suns. "Would you care to hear this man's story before shooting him?"

And of course, you listened. What other choice did you have, you who lost everything at once? But even back then, something small and precious was planted in the barren depths of your heart. That was just the beginning. It would continue to grow, watered and tended to under the sunny smile of Lee Seokmin — the destroyer of cities and a very wanted man across the planet.

You leave that tiny bit out during the recitation of your past to the inquisitive pastor. Though something you'll regrettably find out later is he's already got you all figured out.

Bastard.

"… So, that's how I met the infamous Lee Seokmin and didn't end up killing him," you declare with a flourish and take a satisfied gulp of cheap beer picked up from some abandoned mart along the way out of Little Jersey.

Draining another bottle dry, you toss away the metal cap, close one eye, and peer through the narrow bottleneck like it's a telescope — albeit a very poor one.

Through the distorted glass stretch endless sand dunes as far as the eye can see. Stars glitter and sparkle amid the glow of the full moons in orbit, temporarily dimmed by a puff of the roguish's man's cigarette that wafts through the inky darkness.

You wonder if he'd be willing to share one.

"A shame," Seungcheol grumbles and offers a white stick from his pocket.

You take it eagerly only to see it's nothing but — a lollipop. The hard candy's become a strange gooey consistency thanks to melting in the desert heat all day and partially re-solidifying during the nighttime's chilly air.

It's stale too.

Fucker.

You let out a disdainful sniff but nod in agreement to his statement. "It is. But he promised me something. Then his bounty increased from a meager six million to sixty billion double dollars after destroying July, putting a hole in the moon, and all that. So… following him around has paid off."

"I guess," he shrugs, "guess I don't really care 'bout yer lil meet-cute story."

You gape at the audacity. "You're the one who fuckin' asked!"

"Well… figured we could bond, ya know? Orphans 'n all that cozy, feel-good shit."

"You know, not a single thing I've said thus far coud be classified as 'cute'."

"Uh-huh."

"And I never took you to be a sentimental fool."

"Hey, now —"

You hold up a hand. "'Thou shall not bear false witness'."

"As if ya even know what that means," Seungcheol retorts and flicks the ashy cigarette stub in your direction, the cross around his neck ironically reflecting in the moonlight. "Was gonna say, if anythin', I put the mental in sentimental, sweet'art."

Well, you certainly wouldn't argue with that point. "…What I do know is that you're doing this all. For him."

"'Ol Needle Noggin, eh?"

"Well… yeah. But he's only part of a bigger picture for you."

"… 'S none o' yer business, ya know? Best to know less."

Your eyes roll. "Sure. That's why you nearly got hit by our car 'cause you wore a suit into the desert and didn't bring a drop of water. All while hauling that stupid, big-ass cross around! And then you insist on joining us — try to scam us! — but hey," you put your hands up, "none of my business."

"Wasn't tryna scam —"

"Hella shady, man... Hella. fuckin'. shady." You're shocked you can see the man's eyes roll in a begrudging defeat behind his black sunglasses — at night, no less — but you nudge him. "C'mon, just tell me! I bet it has to do with Hopeland, something… or someone back at that orphanage."

"Anyone told ya how irritatin' ya are?"

"Only the ones that are equally just as annoying!"

"Tch, woman." Seungcheol messes up the back of his black hair, mouth opening as he cracks his jaw. There's a pregnant pause. "… 'Han was… he was different. Ya wouldn't get it."

"Try me. Evidently you weren't listening very well, were you?" No surprise there. You retrieve the locket that takes refuge beneath your top, a familiar oval swinging from its long chain between the two of you. "Believe it or not, I do get it."

His eyes fixate on it like a pendulum, darting to your face, and then up to the sky. A crooked smile quirks up the corner of his mouth and he lets out a resigned sigh. "Ya really love 'im, don'tcha?"

You feel a funny sensation.

Akin to getting caught in a horde of flying worms and trying to squash down as many as you can. Your answer is hushed and Seungcheol snickers. Unbeknownst to the two of you that an additional pair of ears — assumed to be asleep — also catches your whispered reply.

"So, how much ya gonna pay for confessin'?" the pastor goads and lets out a startled yelp when you try to smash the hand-held bank he totes around that's shaped like a cathedral.

"Oh, go to hell, Choi!"

"Stare any longer and you'll no longer be needin' Sirocco." An amused snicker follows the relaxed drawl. "Bullets're 'bout to start flyin' outta those eyes 'stead of that gun o' yers."

You scowl at the dumb man seated next to you. "It's not like subtlety has ever been a strong suit of yours. But could you at least pay better attention to your surroundings?" A meager amount of golden liquid sloshes against the sides of the glass you pointedly wave around. "Or are you already too drunk to forget where we are?"

"Ain't no lightweight," Seungcheol brags with his fourth pint of the night in hand and a rapacious grin cockily tilting the empty lollipop stick in the corner of his mouth upward. "Can't say the same for the rest, though. Whiskey's stronger than a punch to the gut."

"… You would know. I'm sure it might just taste like water to some by now."

While it might initially elate most visitors to order as many rounds of the only available beverage on the menu as possible, the reality of the situation was much more grim. As if he can read your mind, the man clad in black, gray, and muted silvers flippantly reminds you of why your so-called merry band of travelers are even here.

"Needle Noggin said 'e fixed the Plant up just fine 'n dandy, so here's hopin' we get some clean bathwater t'night."

At those words, your gaze instinctively shoots back to where it focused earlier. Seungcheol snorts and drains his glass with a satisfactory sigh before poking more fun at you.

"Gonna put a hole through his head at this point."

"Not like that's anything new."

"Yeah, but rather than constantly laserin' holes through his skull, ya should be tryna convince him to fill yers up, instead. 'N not referrin' to that empty space behind yer forehead."

"I know exactly what you mean, you perverted freak."

That cracks Seungcheol up. "'N here I was thinkin' ya was gonna end up a nun servin' the Eye of Joshua!"

By now, you're well-accustomed to the hedonistic ways of the man who still keeps a leather band with a cross on it strapped across his Adam's apple, sewn into the cuffs of his black suit, and carries the hulking shape of one on his weary shoulders.

Unfazed, you fire back, "If they even let someone like you into the blessed and holy ranks, then any whore off the streets would be welcome to join."

It's a series of light-hearted jabs you both take in stride. The truth is much darker and deeper, but tonight serves as a tiny snapshot away from the normal weariness of day-to-day survival in Gunsmoke. Right now, you celebrate alongside the residents of Tonim what peace could really look like in the future.

Except you're on edge.

For a reason that's silly compared to the usual adrenaline rush of tracking down Plants nearing red status and defending the area, all the while trying to prevent the inevitable destruction and chaos to follow. Still, it's why you beckon the bartender over for another refill as a positively "tickled-pink" Seungcheol not-so-silently judges.

"Now who's staring?"

"'Kay, but's not with unbridled lust and — " He's cut off by a sharp kick to the side of his shin delivered by one of your heavy combat boots. "And feelin's," gets wheezed out before the pastor falls silent at your nasty scowl paired with Wonwoo's timely arrival.

The saloon owner and de facto authority in town approaches the two of you cautiously. It's no secret who you are, who you're with. What you do and the things that follow when you do what you do. And yet what you've done has saved the town and given its people — especially the younger folk — something that some of them have never experienced before.

Hope.

And that seems to be good enough proof for Wonwoo. Rumors may just be rumors, after all. None of you are like the reports relayed in a tinny voice through the virtually enhanced radios that are non-plant-powered — aka illustriously dubbed by their inventor as VERnons.

"… the Bloody Rain… follows… Lee… Humanoid Typhoon… armed… dangerous. Punisher… cross… machine gun… two unknown… likely… agents…. Bernardelli Insurance…"

The VERnon sitting behind the counter splutters out bits and pieces of information. He side-eyes the device awkwardly and starts fumbling with the buttons, trying to mumble over the static and monotonous voice.

"Can I pour you another drink?"

"Sure," you chuckle, pleased.

The bartender's well-intentioned efforts are fruitless which is to be expected. Only the creator, and those he personally taught, could truly modify the invention as pleased. A part of you hoped to find evidence Hansol had traveled this far but alas, he was probably still searching through the seven major cities for his beloved Milly before attempting to wander through the treacherous wastelands.

A brown, short-haired darling sneaks awe-filled glances at the two of you from the corner where a group of women around your age gather to chat. Seungcheol's the first to catch onto the admiring starry-eyed gaze and winks. Chuckling when a pudgy hand clings tighter to one of the lady's long skirt, using the fabric as a demure little shield against his effortless charisma.

You catch the tail-end of the interaction with the ghost of a smile. If there's one thing that can definitely soften Seungcheol's rough edges, it's children. You can't blame him, reminded of cheery voices and energetic footsteps pounding after your own through the convent's hallways.

The attractive woman wonders what's drawing the younger girl's attention and leans down to whisper in her ear. Gesturing in your direction, you watch as she nods encouragingly and offers a gentle smile, pushing the tiny brunette forward who readily toddles over. The gaps still waiting for pearly white teeth to grow in that shy smile on the little girl's face are endearingly winsome.

"'Lo, Wonu."

The bespectacled man starts, eyes wide as he peers over the counter and just manages to glimpse the top of her mousy brown tufts. "Is that you, Lina? You're not supposed to be here."

"Past yer bedtime, lil one?"

She huffs indignantly at the two men, hands on her hips. "I've once stayed up 'til four in the morning, mister!"

"Oh, Lina…"

"Besides, how can anyone of good standing sleep properly when there's heroes in town?"

"Huh, what a darlin' angel!"

You scoff at your comrade's words. "As if you've ever seen one."

"I do beg your pardon," Wonwoo scrambles to excuse the child's enthusiasm. "Looks like another talk is due with, uh, Sheryl."

"You're just jealous, Wonu. Sherry says they're heroes."

A chubby finger points at you and Seungcheol and the bartender clicks his tongue — partially in reproach and the other half out of embarrassment. The two of you hardly pay any attention to his reaction, seeming to not mind her boldness at all.

"That's right, sweet'art. And don'tchu forget now." In fact, a certain cross-wearing man revels in it. He rummages deep in his pocket and pulls out a lollipop with a flourish. "'N here's a lil magic gift for ya, princess."

You're one step faster, snatching it and unwrapping the candy with a quick inspection. At least it looks fresh and clean. Seungcheol snorts. Ignoring him, you crouch down and hand it to Lina with a gentle smile.

"Remember to be careful with what you take from strangers."

"I know! But you're heroes… and heroes are always good people! You would never hurt me!" Those blue-green eyes are certainly dazzling as she stares into yours, reminiscent of the clean water now filling the town's reservoir. "You're very pretty."

"That might be the highest compliment I've ever received."

"Pretty people don't hurt anyone either! Sherry's super pretty and she's the gentlest I know!"

A very pretty pastor himself snickers for multiple reasons. Meanwhile, Wonwoo laments with a tired sigh, "Dunno what that crazy woman's been teaching her, I swear…"

"You're not supposed to talk about people you like like that, Wonu!" Lina gives them both the stink eye but returns her attention to focus solely on you — Tonim's loveliest savior in her teal-eyed view. "Will I grow up to be as pretty as you?"

Ah, how your heart aches.

"Even prettier."

"I…" She gnaws on her lip, as if it does anything to hide how much her pleased grin glows. "I wanna be a hero, too!"

"Don't see why you wouldn't become one." To you, she already is — in all her innocent radiance and glory.

"Gotta grow big 'n strong first, missy."

"I am strong!"

"Don't doubt it. But wait 'til yer at least twice my age 'fore ya go swingin' at thugs."

She wrinkles her nose. "I'll be in the grave like Grammy if I wait that long, old man!"

Seungcheol guffaws at her unexpected remark and you hear the bartender beg, "Lina, please!" But you focus on all the brilliance in front of you — from precious unkempt locks to blue eyes full of fire and finally to the worn out, dust-covered shoes.

"Hopefully you'll never need a reason to be the hero, though. It's our duty to keep that from happening."

There's too much hidden meaning and brutal experience in your words for her to fully understand. The lull gives a certain pastor an opportunity to sidle back into the conversation, ready to get up to no good as always.

"Ya wanna meet the hero of all heroes, darlin'?"

"Choi —"

"Yeah!" Lina claps ecstatically.

"Go 'head 'n give 'er yer second key," he coaxes quietly with a shit-eating smirk.

"I swear!"

"C'mon… never like keepin' such a sweet gal waitin'!"

After a minute's hesitation, you begrudgingly agree and take it out.

"Thank ya. Now, got a lil mission for ya, Miss Hero-in-the-Makin'."

"Really?!"

Barely able to conceal her exuberance, she reverently takes the key like it's actual gold and not simply plated. Seungcheol ruffles her hair affectionately.

"Y'see the man in all purple?"

"Mhm, yeah! The one that looks like the night sky?"

"Yeah, give 'im it. Make sure to say it's from this pretty lady."

"Choi!"

"Talk to 'im too 'cause he'll love that. He's a real hero, y'know? Truest of 'em all."

"Yes, sir!"

"Attagirl."

Lina scurries off and you turn back to the counter with a sour glare directed at Seungcheol. "What was that all about?"

"Dunno, cute?"

"I'm really sorry about that all," Wonwoo apologetically interrupts with the offer of another refill which is readily accepted. "She… she's very excitable."

"No need for apologizin', man."

"Yeah, she's adorable. Is she yours?"

The bespectacled bartender stutters, almost dropping the glass he's handing to you. "That's, uh, that's my sister!"

"Ah, makes sense! Didn't mean to assume."

He flushes and turns away. But not without mumbling something about it being okay and your comrade groans.

"Reminder — ya get too drunk, 'm not dealin' with ya ass."

"Great, I don't want you near my ass."

"'S not what I meant!"

"Yeah, yeah."

Seungcheol downs another shot and you're quick to follow his lead once Wonwoo hands over another refill per your shared request. However, this time, the stoic man surprisingly lingers and awkwardly fiddles with his wire-rimmed frames, doing his very best to not let his eyes wander your scantily clad figure as your head tilts back to swallow the burning alcohol.

Meanwhile, the pastor's grin turns wolfish.

"So, uh, who are you, really?"

"Curious, eh?" You lean comfortably onto the counter, braced by your forearms and an alluring smile on your face for the handsome saloon owner. His gaze drifts down to your scar-covered hands which also happen to be placed conveniently underneath your breasts.

You'd once said the best disguise and toughest armor was none at all. And why not flaunt your assets — literally — and put them to good use. The desert is hot anyways!

Seungcheol and Seungkwan both called bullshit. Mingyu applauded you and waved his "I respect women's rights, wrongs, and all the above no matter what!" flag. Seokmin — already used to your behavior and attire — had nothing else to say other than his normal quips of, "As long as you're comfortable".

"Well, a-a beautiful woman like yourself has to have everyone wondering."

And you laughed in the face of your haters every time it worked.

"Just a bounty hunter."

Wonwoo nods at the casual answer, recalling the holster strapped around the plush of your thigh beneath short denim shorts. "Where from?"

"Well… around. My hometown was destroyed so…"

"Oh? Same here."

"Ah, camaraderie." You jab a thumb menacingly in the direction of the purple-cloaked figure and the life of tonight's celebration, currently animatedly chattering to Lina. "That's why I'm turning him in."

"He's…?"

"Yup, Lee Seokmin. Yes," you confirm with a smirk at the way Wonwoo's eyes bug out behind his glasses, "that one — the infamous humanoid typhoon. Don't worry, he won't hurt anything or anyone here."

"He's… uh, he's not quite what I expected."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

"You must be pretty badass to reign him in. Heard he's giving what's left of the July regime officers a run for their double dollars."

"For sure. But it's thanks to the other two drunkards, really. Believe it or not, they're Bernardelli insurance agents. Raven-haired one's Seungkwan and the tall one is Mingyu. They're helping to monitor that whopping bounty of mine and prevent any more disasters from happening. Heard I might get a bump in value if I bring him in alive."

"Oh, well, it looks like it's working. And he seems… willing? To come with you?"

"The irony. Always been quite blasé about facing his doom."

"He's really a Plant engineer, too?"

"Of sorts," you huff at his visible confusion but wave your empty glass. "Can I get another?"

He's more than happy to accommodate and returns with two, sliding one over to Seungcheol with a cautious look at the person who seems the closest to you. "And this is…?"

"Pastor. Pleased to meet'cha."

"Oh! Really?"

"A surprising addition to the mix, yeah. But everyone needs to, like, pray sometimes." And under your breath, low enough so only a certain man can hear, "no matter how sketchy they are."

"Do you, hm, officiate weddings?"

The one in question quirks a thick eyebrow. "Ya lookin' to get hitched, boy?"

"M-maybe."

And Seungcheol feels wholly compelled to bless him silently from the bottom of his blackened heart with full sincerity, seeing as how the bespectacled man timidly peeks your way before his gaze darts elsewhere. "Sorry lad, charge 'bout a thousand double dollars minimum."

While the solitary bartender crashes back into the sad reality of capitalism, you jab your elbow into the pastor's ribcage. "Fuckin' scammer."

"Only the best of the best! Ya know, sixty billion's still on the table — 'n it better be callin' my name."

"No one even has sixty billion double dollars!"

"We have 'im." And he points back to where hoots and hollers erupt from the center table of the saloon.

Lina's returned to the woman she was with earlier — presumably her beloved Sherry — but that doesn't mean Seokmin's alone. There's so much disdain in your side-eye, spotting the busty violet-haired sweetheart his arm wraps around. After all, he's the worst kind of ladykiller.

And by that, you mean he absolutely sucks at flirting and can't get or keep a partner to save his life. Yet you're constantly stuck witnessing women, men, and attractive people of all kinds throw themselves at the good-looking man until he opens his mouth and they're put off by his clear lack of suaveness or strange little idiosyncrasies.

"Stop with the stupid bet, it's not happening. Nobody's going to be winning a thing."

"It's called usin' the damn 'magination, darlin'!"

"Which means you need to get better hobbies. You've corrupted my friends!"

"Hah! Them fools were already too invested in this 'fore I ever came along."

"Fill me up again?"

Intent on ignoring Seungcheol, you belatedly realize how aggressive your request comes across. You're also eager for something to help soothe ache in your chest. It comes and goes like a bad toothache — manageable enough to forget about the pain until it returns tenfold.

Thankfully, Wonwoo meekly complies with the back tips of his ears tinged red and Seungcheol barely manages to hide his extreme amount of mirth for the situation behind another glass. In the dim lighting, at certain angles, and with another shot of whiskey settling into your system, you conclude that the handsome saloon owner could certainly pass as Seokmin's brother and vice versa.

But you know the truth.

Familiar with the one who's all too identical to the infamous gunslinger, yet entirely different altogether. Irritation flares in your gut, prickling harsh enough that even the burn of alcohol fails to drown it out.

"I'm turning in for the night."

"Smartin' idea."

"Don't get too smashed."

"You should get smashed."

"Bye, Choi."

Tipsiness is a great excuse to bump purposely into him as you get off the stool. It's only thanks to his genetically enhanced metabolism that the pastor's able to stay upright. He grumbles something that's likely insulting, but standing upright causes you to realize you drank way too much. Everything spins or sways, including your body as you stumble up the stairs.

Somehow, you safely make it to the second level. Above the saloon is a hallway of small bedrooms that Wonwoo generously loans out to routine drunkards or stray travelers. It takes a few minutes of fumbling around but you finally find the lock that matches the first of its paired key and tumble face-first into (thankfully clean) bedsheets.

A hazy mix of drifting in and out of consciousness follows. It's not until the door clicks and there's an ominous creak of floorboards followed by a noticeable presence creeping up at your side that fully rouses you from the feverish dreams of gunfire, explosions, and loss that still plague your mind to this day.

You roll over, intending to assume both an offensive and defensive position against the nighttime visitor, but a hand lands on your shoulder before you can. Still sluggish, there's no way you could ever hope to outmatch the humanoid typhoon, even at your best.

"Hey, you."

It takes a bit for your eyes to adjust to the darkness after hearing his voice — and then there he is. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Seokmin greets you with a fond, megawatt grin. The thumb of his cybernetic prosthesis gently traces little circles over your bare skin. There's a faint hum and glow from its advanced tech mechanics, paired with moonbeams from the window, casting off an ethereal radiance.

"So, you're staying here tonight?"

"But of course, isn't that why you sent such a cute little cherub my way?"

Ah, Lina. You unwittingly smile, remembering how joyful she was to accomplish her mission.

Then your eyes close, nose wrinkling at the copious stench of mixed perfumes and alcohol he brought in and refusing to acknowledge what he says.

"You hella reek."

"Says the one who drank over seven shots."

"… That preacher's a fuckin' tattler. And a liar. And a total scammer. Don't fall for him, Seok."

"Now, what makes you think Seungcheol told me, hm?" He leans down almost nose-to-nose, enough to make yours scrunch even more at the buzzing feeling of how near he is. Your eyes open to squint at him and he winks. "Silly boy tried to mess with god again and max out his intake. Spoiler alert, he failed. Mingyu dragged him back to his room."

"You're the only one I know who can call Choi a 'silly boy'."

"'Cause that's what he is."

"And you need to stop acting like my babysitter!"

You shift away from his gorgeous face and he leans back to give you space, sporting a smug grin. "Then who would take care of you, mayfly?"

"How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?"

"Be nice to me and maybe I won't keep count on how many glasses you down next time," he teases. "But since I'm so kind and forgiving, would you like a nice, warm, relaxing bath?"

Well, it did sound wonderful. TMI, but cleanliness was a luxury when traveling the desert. Even more so when the places you arrived at had Plant issues. Luckily, Seokmin was more than capable of fixing them but even then, circumstances varied. Especially around the one known across Gunsmoke as mankind's first localized human disaster.

"Only if you get one, too."

It slips from your mouth without a thought. But you might as well have told Seokmin you'd gotten him a box full of doughnuts with how delightedly he clasps his hands together.

"As you wish, m'lady!"

And he treats you like one, scooping you up into his arms in a princess-style carry. At least tonight you're more willing to let him do as he wishes, especially when he discards the perfume-infused outerwear. Whiskey, sleepiness, and the smooth material of his undershirt keep you pliant and cuddly well after he'd snatched you off the bed.

Seokmin's already ten times stronger than even a human like Mingyu and his prosthesis only helps take further advantage of that fact. He easily deposits you on the edge of the tub. Normal routine would require untying the tight laces on your combat boots but since you'd kicked them off prior to resting, he skips to the next step.

Deft fingers make quick work unbuttoning your shorts, the prosthetic digits of his left hand then moving to loosen the straps that keep your top on. His other hand holds them together in a pseudo-knot to keep the material in place.

Honoring a sense of modesty, you suppose — even though you've seen each other unclothed before. But you melt into the secure press of his palm paired with the support of his chest against your back as he leans over to turn on the water.

"Let me know if it's a good temperature."

"M'kay."

"You're so agreeable when drunk!"

"And you're still just as annoying."

"Okay, okay," he relents. Amicably even.

Seokmin never enjoys butting heads like Seungcheol constantly does. Although another "mayfly," gets tacked on to the end of his playful yield in a mischievous tone because if there is one thing, it's that he can never tease you enough.

Brown eyes quietly trace the ink and scars that mark your skin, some disappearing or completely hidden beneath the parts that are covered. Finally, they land on the silver chain around your neck, only a breadth away from the tip of his fingers that suddenly twitch at how soft you feel beneath the calloused roughness of his own skin.

You let out a little sigh and it shakes him from his reverie, noticing the tub's filled up past your calves. Guiding one of your hands to where the locket lies beneath your clothes covering your chest, he stands. "Call me if you need anything or just want help getting out, m'lady."

"'Kay."

You're already stripping bare but Seokmin breezes out the door before you can blink. You sigh again and slip into the hot water, enjoying a soak to ease the heaviness you feel.

It's hard to understand this emotional turmoil. Knowing that you don't enjoy feeling this way, you make a false promise to not drink ever again, staying submerged in the water until your fingers wrinkle.

Maybe you fell asleep, maybe you didn't. There's a bathrobe laid on the sink when you're ready to get out that you don't remember from before but who knows. Who cares? It's cozy and you haven't felt this clean in a while.

"All yours," you lazily declare, stepping into the bedroom.

Seokmin perks up from where he casually sits cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with Geranium. A dopey smile lights up his face, gaze moving from the hefty nickel revolver and zoning in on you.

"All mine?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah," he repeats quieter, more to himself, "all mine…" But when you unconsciously shiver, his eyes flash and brows furrow. "C'mere, I warmed the bed up for you."

"Aren't you going to bathe?"

"Yep, so don't miss me too much, my dear mayfly!"

He accompanies it with a saucy wink and saunters into the bathroom, humming. You find yourself in a bit of a daze, head and cheeks holding onto the heat of the steam from your bath (and more). You change into a light tank and cotton shorts before sitting back down. As promised, where Seokmin rested was indeed warm and smells of faint gun smoke that always brings back memories.

"Total slaughter…!"

Splash!

"… Total slaughter…"

Splash!

"I won't leave… a single man alive."

Splash! Splash!

"La de da de dai~," echoes from the bathroom. "Genocide…"

Splash.

"La de da de duh," splash, splash, splash, "an ocean… of blood."

"Let's begin… the killing time."

Seokmin possessed a lovely melodic voice no matter how nonsensical or gruesome the words he sang. Your eyes close with relaxation as he continues into a different tune. Though the lyrics are definitely more hopeful this time, there's a heavy sense of underlying desolation despite the rapid, upbeat tone.

"So…" splash, "on the first evening," splash, "a pebble from somewhere out of nowhere drops upon the dreaming world…"

You think back to how he silently cried when he thought no one was looking after a young stowaway on the sandsteamer broke into the same nostalgic song. Your heart aches in empathy for the woman whose heroic sacrifice saved humankind but left behind irreparable damage to twins she adored.

Rem Saverem.

She was to Seokmin as what Saint Meryl was to you. But your fondness for the nun who dared to favor one random orphan above the other equally ordinary ones with an unprecedented amount of kindness paled in comparison to the devotion Seokmin exhibited for Rem. Her kindness, hope, and love for and of life didn't simply become Seokmin's philosophies — they were a true part of every fiber, woven into his very being.

He was peculiar. Hardheaded — or in Seungkwan's affectionate term: a hardass — when it came to nonviolence. A true pacifist. Even when enemies held him at gunpoint, allies turned their backs on him, and his choice to always save was at the very cost of his well being… Seokmin would choose to tear himself apart limb by limb before ever causing damage or letting harm come to another.

And even if he always chose the world and those living in it first before anything else, that's what you loved the most about him.

"What's got you making that face?"

You're quick to school whatever expression it might be. Your tongue feels fuzzy. You purse your lips as he lumbers closer, freshly dressed in a comfy white long-sleeved shirt and black sweats.

"What face?"

"You know, the one where something's weighing on your mind."

The bed frame dips and squeaks when he flops down to snuggle against you. Still-damp, reddish-brown bangs lay across your shoulder and dampen your skin. The chilled press of the gold hoop in his left earlobe raises bumps wherever it touches as he endearingly nuzzles you.

"There is."

"Tell me."

"You need to dry your hair properly."

"Do it for me."

"… This is on purpose, isn't it?"

Nevertheless, you take the unused towel around his neck and vigorously rub at his head. No complaints or protests defending his honor come from Seokmin. Just the usual little trills of contentment escape as he leans into your touch. Once you're satisfied the job's done well, he plucks the towel from your hands and you fix him with a stern look.

"Well, Seok? You gonna answer me?"

He curls in on his lanky frame, enough so to find room to plop his head pitifully onto your thighs and nuzzle the bare skin with his nose. "Not if you won't answer me first."

"You."

"Hm?"

"Was… thinking about you."

"Oh, really? Dreaming about how cool, dashing, handsome, and awesome I am?"

"… Yeah. I like you."

He chuckles, closing his eyes. More so at the feeling of your fingers idly playing with his strands of hair than seriously taking what you say. "I like you, too!"

"No, I mean," you jostle him harshly as you shift anxiously, tugging a little too hard at his roots. "Something's wrong with me."

"… Mhm yeah, you've been drinking."

"Goddamnit, Seok… that was like hours ago! But… what if… what if I'm in love with you?"

Your fingers retract like you've been caught red-handed stealing Mingyu's pudding and a millisecond later, Seokmin's head flies off your lap as he sits up to stare incredulously at you and can only gasp out one word, "What?"

It comes out more like a statement than a question. You've seen all kinds of emotions appear in those clear brown eyes of his. Emptiness. Excitement. Happiness. Fear. Loneliness. Mysteriousness. Pain. But now, you can hardly make sense of what turmoil is swimming in those murky depths.

"There's no way," he shakes his head — laughter high and brittle. "Fake", is what Seungcheol occasionally points out whenever he spies the gunslinger's smile. You've never believed him until now. "You're drunk."

Seokmin's been hurt before and you know that. It's why you wish for him to be nothing but happy, that there's some truth to the joy he constantly tries to radiate. Hoping some parts are really healing, that he's giving time to let the bloody wounds coagulate — if even just a little.

"It's me. I mean, I'm the one that's drunk," he reiterates, shaking his head.

"Why are you acting like that?"

"… Like what?"

Perhaps you were too hopeful.

"Like I'm making some sort of mistake. Like I'm wrong about this. About us."

And still under the influence of the too-damn-strong alcohol.

"It's… none of that, it's just…"

"You think I don't know what I'm talking about."

"Well, do you?" he fires back rather harshly, "'cause you're still wearing that thing and —"

You wince as his voice breaks off, palm instinctively flying to where the locket rests. "What the hell does that have to do with anything right now? I thought we were over this! Years ago!"

"Maybe you were since you continue to stubbornly follow me everywhere!"

"I'm not the only one!"

"Yeah, 'cause no one ever listens to me!"

"I always listen to you, Seok. Even if the words that come out of your mouth don't match how you actually feel —"

"You don't know how I feel!"

Silence.

Seokmin's chest heaves, wide eyes taking in how you immediately freeze. That look, oh, that look on your face could kill him and his body moves on auto-pilot to stand, directing his gaze to stare daggers into the floorboards. Begging them to rip off like a bandaid and shield him from your wrath.

The wood beneath his feet groans, shaking ever the slightest.

"You're right. How dare I?"

"Wait, mayfly… I —" he switches gears with a plea of your given name.

"And obviously, you have no fuckin' idea how I feel." Now it's your turn to let out a disingenuous chuckle, fake humor cracking under the pressure of sadness it's struggling to mask. "You think all I'm after is revenge more than the actual thought even crosses my mind. You put on this show that nothing bothers you, make assumptions that no one can keep up with you, that you can do it all on your own."

"No, that's not… that's not what I meant! You know how dangerous —"

You stumble ungracefully off the bed, flinching away when Seokmin's words break off as he automatically reaches out. For you. To support and for support.

Yet, it hurts all the more.

"But what do I even know? How can I, when you keep everyone at arm's length? It's like… it's like I don't even know who you are! Like you're someone else, someone I'll never get to understand…"

To others, it might not make sense, possibly the dumbest thing you could say — especially with the state you're in. But you know Seokmin, a fact he's subconsciously taken comfort in.

But you also know Seokmin. Which means you know the exact place to hit him where it hurts the most.

And suddenly, those words you say propel him back into a moment from the past, body free-falling in the sky.

Yelling. Crying. Screaming. Pleading.

Begging that exact phrase and being demanded of the same accusation. All from the one who's falling with him. Whose face mirrors his own, but couldn't be more different in that crucial and devastating moment.

His brother. His twin. His other half who was once his everything — now a total stranger from the person he thought he knew.

A fifty-year-old reunion that should've been a reconciliation, turned into a doomsday.

And for you, the once simple toothache pain is now overwhelming your full body and you refuse to let him see how it's dampened your cheeks. Especially when you hear the pained whisper of the name that escapes his mouth when you're the one that triggered those awful memories. Staggering to the door, you yank it open and he instinctually takes a step forward.

Don't leave me.

You hear the unspoken plea as clearly as if spoken aloud.

"Don't follow me," is what you hiss out instead, and just like when you first met, Seokmin obeys.

When Seungkwan makes room arrangements — if there is enough money to spare when needed and the options are available — he books everyone their own private space. More often than not though, he and Mingyu share a room and so do you and Seokmin.

Out of everyone in the group, you're the only one who is used to putting up with Seokmin's idiosyncrasies and the constant white noise of the cybernetic prosthetics's technology. You've rarely paid mind to having your own space unless Seokmin gets in one of those rare 150-year-old moods and wants some time by himself. Rare in nature, because he doesn't enjoy being left alone with his thoughts that threaten to consume him.

But he'll have to make due tonight. For the first time, you're extremely grateful for Seungkwan's pro-activeness.

You lock the door, crawl into a fresh cold bed, and wet a new pillow — one that lacks the comforting scent of gun smoke — with unshed tears.

For all his short-tempered and sassy mannerisms, Seungkwan is quite the worrywart. When the suns have peeked past the horizon and you're not already downstairs bullying Seungcheol, he's immediately knocking at your door and inquiring about your well-being. You assure him you're just hungover and he reluctantly leaves you be, likely picking up on how terrible you really do sound.

By high noon, Mingyu raps on the door next. He even sweetly offers to share his prized pudding in the hopes that you'll peek your head out. Though you appreciate it, you send him away, too — after reassuring the sensitive man you'll feel better after some rest.

Seungcheol doesn't miss the chance to be annoying times ten. He doesn't indulge in the effort of knocking, opting to make the floorboards squeal by pacing back and forth in front of the door. All the while, muttering this and that about "yer boy's like a pathetic dog and blah, blah, blah" until getting very kindly told to "fuck off!" and dragged back downstairs by a certain raven-haired insurance agent.

Even Seokmin checks in. Four times.

Once and then twice after you'd left and he'd figured out which room was yours. Then two more visits throughout the following day. He doesn't exactly make his presence known — but you know he knows you know he's out there.

If not by the distinct gait you've picked up on listening for after all this time, then by the hesitant thuds of combat boots lingering outside your door. Lost technology whirring with the action it takes to make a fist with his left hand, raising it up to the door and then back down again in self-inflicted defeat.

You refuse to see anyone, choosing to pity yourself first. Wallowing in your feelings and then sleeping as much of the heartache — and more so the hangover — away.

When the moons are visible in accordance to their nightly orbit, you get up to fuss with the mini VERnon in the room's corner. Nothing but static greets you. At the very least, the white noise is better than complete silence. By the time it's morning, you slowly awaken to the virtually enhanced radio trying to catch onto a faint signal. Enough to report the latest news in snippets with its mechanical voice.

"Beast… reported… Tonim town… !"

Your eyes fly open. Now is not the time to be wasting away. Donning a clean set of attire similar to what you wore into town — and with Sirocco strapped comfortingly to your thigh — you descend downstairs.

"Good morning!" Mingyu cheerfully greets with a delighted shout of your name and eagerly waves you over to sit next to him, waving around a promised cup of pudding. "Are you feeling better?"

"Mhm, thanks. Sorry about that, whiskey here sure is strong."

"'S one helluva killer," Seungcheol sulks across from you, still sporting a massive headache and looking worse than that one time Seungkwan hit him with the car.

"You're just weak."

"Wha'zat say 'bout you?"

"Since I can equally acknowledge both my strengths and weaknesses, that makes me infinitely stronger than you'll ever be."

Seungkwan wordlessly hands you a bowl and you graciously accept it. Next to the pastor sits Seokmin, unnaturally quiet. You don't even spare him a glance even though brown eyes burn into the side of your face until you glare his way.

The stack of doughnuts on the plate in front of him remain untouched — minus the smudged icing on one that was likely from Seungcheol trying to swipe it. Evidently, Seokmin was in low spirits if he didn't want to consume his favorite desserts. But, he is still prideful enough to prevent anyone else from snatching the prized delicacy.

How typical.

An awkwardness ensues, charged with an underlying current of tension. A vein forms in Seungkwan's forehead from his blood pressure rising.

Its pulse matches the twitch in the corner of his fake smile as he attempts to make conversation, to which Mingyu — oblivious and happy-go-lucky as ever, bless his heart — replies enthusiastically. Seungcheol stares listlessly into space, twirling a lollipop around and around with his tongue. Next to him is a soul acting like a thunderstorm's personally pouring over him. Seokmin starts pitifully poking at his grand doughnut pile while you ferociously tear into a piece of bread like it's the last supper before swallowing.

"Soonyoung's coming."

Your unexpected, but welcomed, interruption ironically pauses Seungkwan's second diatribe about Hansol's calamitous ingenuity. If possible, the apprehension in the room intensifies tenfold.

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow. "How'd you hear?"

"Tuned the VERnon last night."

"'Course you did."

"Something about the Beast and Tonim came through. Not for sure but…"

"It never hurts to be too prepared!"

"True, 'Gyu. 'N if Soonyoungie's gonna be there, ya know what that likely means…"

You nod in understanding at Seungcheol's implication. "The Crimsonnail."

Seokmin's jaw clenches at the name but it's the disgruntled pastor who continues speaking after a hearty and loud gulp of water. "'Course the Eye of Joshua's gonna send their best two. Soonyoungie's Hoon's eyes 'n ears for these kinda things."

"Or… it could be Jeonghan."

Your noncommittal remark receives Seungcheol's scathing glower. "Bet."

"It wouldn't be the first time," you shrug.

"There haven't been any notable disturbances and the ground's been stable. So hopefully their only goal is to simply antagonize us further."

Antagonize.

A funny word for such a twisted coin game between a hunter and the hunted. You can't and don't blame the younger Bernardelli agent — only you were privy to most of the true horrors Seokmin dealt with behind the scenes, Seungcheol a close second. And because of that, you were usually the one at his side before an encounter with Jihoon and the ever lingering threat and terror of said man's monstrous power.

But today, you get up from the table without so much as a glance in his direction. Only a parting command of "Let's regroup near the entrance at high noon," while Seungkwan and Mingyu exchange looks of minor distress.

The black-haired man in his hangover blues obnoxiously blows a raspberry as you leave.

Later, there are two solid knocks on the door as you get ready. You know who it is before the door swings open after your agreeable hum to enter. Many may be intimidated at the sight of the silver weapon in your gloved hands. Seungkwan and Mingyu make up half of the quartet who aren't.

They take a seat on the bed as you purse your lips at the reflection in the dusty mirror. Then you fuss with the strap for your gun. Satisfyingly re-securing it around your thigh before throwing a carmine trench coat over tight kevlar that covers almost every inch of skin possible.

"Surprised you didn't dye everything else black during a fit of rage."

Your lips curl upwards. "How on Gunsmoke would I manage that?"

"With the way you're acting, 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…' or so the saying goes."

"Really, 'Kwan?"

"I'm an avid supporter of women's rights and especially their wrongs."

"Sure you are."

"You would absolutely look dashing!"

"Thanks, Mingyu. Should've given my color scheme a little more consideration."

"But then you wouldn't have achieved such an infamous moniker. I mean, okay. Maybe the black plague killed tons of Earthlings eons ago but it doesn't have the same ring as 'Sirocco, the bloody rain that follows after the humanoid typhoon'…"

Seungkwan allegedly graduated at the top of his class, leave it to him to spew out all kinds of random facts that you know nothing about. You huff and adjust the brim of the large hat atop your head.

"All that does is make me cringe."

"Uh-huh, so what's making him act like that?"

"Who's acting like what?"

"Fine, keep playing dumb. Did you reject Seokmin or something?"

Mingyu gasps. Dramatically. Hands on cheeks and mouth open in a wide 'o' shape, puppy-dog eyes glistening with despair.

"There's no way!"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Uh-huh."

"Besides, nothing happened so don't think you're gonna wheedle out of me whether you're going to win that stupid bet you two have going with Choi."

"Eh, don't worry. I've been out of the running for a while now, unfortunately."

"The hell did you even throw for?"

He shoots you a deadpan look. "Guess who's aged eighty years watching the two of you dance around each other like dumbasses? Could've sworn you'd be married with a toma farm or a dozen little children by now."

"It's your own damn fault for falling victim to that pastor's salacious schemes. And it's not even remotely like that, so…"

"Someone just doesn't wanna give in."

You stomp your foot, frustration boiling over. "Ugh, I'm never drinking again!"

"Wait… No fucking way…!"

"Literally shut up, Boo."

"I mean Choi did bet you'd confess and you know… get intimate afterwards… if you were drunk so…"

"Oh, so that's why he was so damn pushy last night."

"Dirty cheater."

"You expect anything less from someone like him?"

A sigh. "No."

It's a well-known fact that Seungcheol would rather stoke the flames of hell than ever needlessly dabble with holy water as one might be expected to with his chosen career.

"But judging by both of your moods, evidently nothing happened." The raven-haired man really has the gall to look disappointed that no one won yet pleased Seungcheol didn't, and the gall to point out the obvious. "Anyways, what did you bet on, Mingyu?"

"Don't recall!"

"Figures." Seungkwan's face falls flat against his palm with a groan before dragging it wearily down his face. "Whatever, it's not like it's that serious. Seriously," he adds on, feeling the burn of your perpetual glower. "Don't let it weigh on your mind. We need you fully focused."

"And when have I ever been less than what's expected of me?" You hold up a hand. "Wait! Don't answer. But really, worry more about that idiot."

"Aw, see? You still care!"

"… About that sixty billion bounty, Mingyu? Yeah."

"Sure you do."

"And truthfully, I was talking about Choi, 'Kwan."

"Well, both of them always get into those zany headspaces!"

You shrug at the tall man's truthfulness. "They're both holding a lot of trauma and baggage."

"And you aren't?" Seungkwan snorts with sarcasm dripping from the dig.

"At least mine's manageable. And… hasn't threatened your lives yet."

"As far as we know."

"In fact, I think I've saved your 'so-very-untraumatized' lives more often than not. Stay with me and you'll both be okay."

They good-naturedly give you individual looks of disdain. Perfectly in sync when you accompany that last statement with a devilish smirk and a twirl that flares out your tail coat with a flourish. By no means are they incapable. Clumsy Mingyu can adeptly wield his massive concussion gun when it counts, of course, and Seungkwan stealthily hides several derringer 'throwaway' pistols under his white cloak that he can fire with deadly precision.

Nonetheless, they loyally flank to your side when Tonim's bell tower signifies the hour of high noon has struck. Seungcheol meets the three of you outside the door of the saloon, smoking a cigarette and one arm lazily draped over the Punisher — a terrifying machine gun mockingly designed in the burdening shape of a merciful cross.

You spot Seokmin up ahead. He's standing on the low border wall near the town's entrance, perched next to a pillar for back support with the heel of his boot propped up behind him. Decked out in the usual galaxy ensemble, purple fabric cut off at shoulder-length of the top left sleeve to allow free range of movement for his prosthesis. His hair's slightly gelled up for a more intimidating and dramatic flair and it almost makes you giggle.

But there's that stern gaze focused on the horizon, likely able to see far out into the distance through those amber lenses the human eye can't quite decipher. Despite such a hardened resolve, his head tilts slightly up toward the blue sky with a faint smile on his lips — an honoring appreciation for the beauty and wonder of life despite its inevitable horrors.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue to get your attention while Seungkwan and Mingyu keep walking ahead. "Spiky Hair thinks he's really gonna do it?"

"Won't stop until he's tried every last resort."

"Even if it kills 'im?"

"Even if it kills him."

"This damned situation 'cause of ya know who."

"Dokyeom. DK."

"Nah, nah. There's the asinine version, eh?"

"Absolute pain in my ass?"

He slaps his knee. "Ah, aye… good one! But nah, 's really stupid one, Deathly, uh, er…?"

"… Deadly Knives?"

"Pfft, yeah, 's that one. So, we gotta try 'n stop one genocidal brother from sweepin' out the whole human race 'n tryna convince greedy humans not to keep exploitin' 'em with the other. Back 'n forth again 'n again. I swear…'s only ever gonna be impossible."

"What makes you think it can't happen?"

He looks at you like you're stupid. Maybe you are. But what does that make him? "Both sides — humans versus DK — think they're right 'n too proud to think otherwise."

"So you don't think they'll settle for a compromise. Or at least try to see the other's viewpoint?"

"Hell naw. Ain't no compromisin' when both think they're justified in what they're doin'."

"Well, regardless — you joined a good cause, Choi. World could use a little more peace and love, don't you think?"

He grunts. "Lookit who's corrupted yer ideologies. Don'tcha know what destroyed Earth?"

"And do you know what saved humans? Kindness. Hope. Empathy. Compassion. Change. Making and being the difference. The good kind."

A long time ago, maybe in a different twist of fate, you might've staunchly agreed with Seungcheol. But despite it all, you've been somewhat changed — or like the pastor said, call it a corruption of sorts — by Seokmin's unwavering sense of positivity and kindness no matter how bleak the future.

You admired him. Truly.

"Un-fuckin'-'lievable."

Seungcheol shakes his head as if he's not gearing up, ready and raring to go as he stomps forward to join a fellow 'brother-in-arms'. The thought inwardly makes you smile with affection until you remember you're actually, in fact, mad at Seokmin.

A dust cloud stirs up on the horizon, steadily growing closer to where you stand.

"You're so full of goddamn self-flagellation."

The individual where all your ire is centered on jolts, doing a double-take at your sudden but familiar presence by his side approaching. Or maybe it was the mere fact you were talking to him again. A warm expression overtakes his facial features at the sense of calm that automatically relaxes the tension in his muscles as he looks down at you.

"Well then, hello to you too. Feeling better, mayfly?"

"… Remind me to never drink again."

"I told you —"

"Yeah, yeah." You wave away his nagging and step up on the wall to stand next to him. "Don't worry, I won't be making a mistake like that again."

"… Mistake?"

There's an edge to his tone. Searching. Sometimes you hate how perceptive Seokmin can be. Though he actively acts oblivious and carefree, it's usually a ploy to lower other's guard.

You wonder how long he's known.

So, you sigh. "I'm talking about drinking, of course. And… I wish I could say I forgot even if… I haven't. But it's fine, I know where I stand."

The latter part of your sentence trails off. It's true though. You do know — thankful you can even be next to Seokmin. You might not be with him but at the very least, your place will always be somewhere by his side. Affectionate flings may be sought elsewhere. But they're always temporary. In your heart of hearts, you know you're irreplaceable to him.

And that's going to have to be good enough for you.

The man in question scratches the back of his head. "It's not… it's not like that. I know I fucked up."

"Stop." You grip at his prosthetic, knowing despite how sensitive the sensors are, they won't be able to pick up how you slightly tremble. "It's okay. Really."

Who is it you're trying to reassure?

"Mayfly," Seokmin murmurs. "Look at me."

With the slightest hesitation, your gaze finally rises from its focal point centered on his boots and the stones beneath to meet dark brown eyes. The ache in the gunslinger's chest eases just a little. It's been far too long — a day, in actuality — since he's got to lose himself among the vibrant hues of your irises and he squeezes your free hand in gratitude.

"It's not okay, I want to talk to you. Sober. But…"

"I get it. Now's not the time for a heart-to-heart, especially not in front of your brother's henchmen."

You laugh, for real this time. The sight is breathtaking; it makes Seokmin's eyes crinkle, a fond smile to accompany his affection as he leans in closer to you to whisper a sweet, "Thank you."

Three sets of eyes try to make it very not obvious that they're very obviously totally not watching the overdue interaction with bated breath.

"Oh golly good, they've made up!"

"'Course they would."

"It's about time, I couldn't take the tension anymore."

"Don'tcha think it'll get worse once they start canoodlin'?"

"Good lord," Seungkwan groans, "perish the thought."

"What's wrong with a little love? Yay for love!"

"Well, I don't think they've made it that far yet. But we're getting there. Baby steps."

It would be a good cause for celebration, a resumption of last night's festivities. Unfortunately, the merry moment is cut short with a screech of brakes, signaling the arrival of Jihoon, DK's most elite performer in his unmerry band of henchmen.

Next to the feared Crimsonnail's suitcase sits Soonyoung the Beast. Silver strands peek out behind the unsettling, bug-like circular mask hiding his face. He casually waves, acting like the unnerving discovery behind the innocent, abandoned child — who went by Hoshi — was simply a facade initially put on around your group and not such a grand revelation.

Having sorted that out in the stomach of a giant flying worm serving as a hive mind for Gunsmoke's legion of its original inhabitants and swearing not to let your guard down again, all five of you remain on high alert.

Jihoon's steel-colored eyes flicker to Seungcheol. "Hello there, Undertaker. Or… should I say Judas?"

"Howdy dandy to ya too, ya son of a bitch," the pastor snarls, spitting his cigarette in their direction. Cursing under his breath when the distance and uselessness of the fizzling stub doesn't blow up the engine like he wishes it would.

"Now, now. You don't want to make me mad, do you?"

"Kinda wanna piss ya off as much as ya piss me off, yeah."

"Surely you know what —"

"He means nothing by it." You'd quickly abandoned your post next to Seokmin to place a hand on Seungcheol's taut shoulder. Boldly facing the blonde man's haughty expression with one that's hopefully placating enough on behalf of your comrade. "He's just grumpy because he's still hungover."

"Well, well… if it isn't the humanoid typhoon's little blood shower."

Ugh, you inwardly grimace, why the fuck does everyone have such unflattering nicknames for me?

"Still following him around, I see."

"'S a lot comin' from —"

" — Hasn't gotten rid of me yet!"

"… Seems it," Jihoon sniffs and cocks his head. "Similar to the dilemma I have with this persistent bug."

Soonyoung chortles, neck contorting at an unnatural angle to peer at the driver. "You love me."

"You're delusional."

"Why are you here?"

Seokmin's question comes sharp and pointed like a dagger, a far cry from his usual demeanor. His tone remains detached. Aloof. Vaguely accusatory. Unlike your harried action to cover for Seungcheol, you don't dare divert attention away from the gunslinger who stalks forward after elegantly hopping down from his perch. Despite an outwardly calm demeanor, there's an underlying urgency in his gait that's threatening to snap.

"For amusement. A show, if you will."

"One that's not even orchestrated by Joshua's freakish cult powers!"

Out of all the males surrounding you, you're not sure exactly who growls at the Beast's mere mention of the devil-like figurehead — in fact, it could've been all of them — but there's one noise that rings out above the din of it all.

Click!

You don't need super-hearing to pick up that telltale sound. Not when every person over the age of eighteen in Tonim has a cocked gun trained on each member of your ragtag gang.

"Uh, so… how many times is this?"

"One too fuckin' many," you answer Seungkwan with a petulant hiss and reluctantly mimic him by putting your hands up in the air.

Jihoon cackles. "And when will you fools ever learn?"

"'S my question, actually," the pastor nonchalantly calls over his shoulder, directed at the town's ringleader. "Didn't know ya had it in ya, boy."

You didn't think Wonwoo had it in him either, to be honest. But that's not something you were going to mention aloud with the shaky hold the bespectacled man has on the firearm waveringly aimed at his target — the one whose head is worth a 60 billion double dollars bounty, dead or alive.

"Felnarl. Jeneora Rock. Descartes. Dankin."

There's a faint twitch in one of Seokmin's eyebrows. Seungcheol rolls his eyes, sarcastically muttering under his breath an addition of location names, "Voldoor, Inepril, December, Lewiston…" and Mingyu joins in on the fun with a cheerful, "New Miami!"

Seungkwan watches warily and your jaw clenches. You can feel your teeth grind together in annoyance as Wonwoo's smarmy sneer grows smugger.

"And now, Tonim Town. What?" he jeers, seizing the chance to use the man's silence as a way to ridicule him. "Don't recognize what you've laid waste to? Must I bring up the big ones to jog your memory a little, like the city of July and Augusta or the hole in the fifth moon?"

"Why you —"

Enragement propels you a step forward, but the barrel swinging your way halts your next move mid-step. The sullen look on Wonwoo's face surprisingly holds no malice. He looks saddened, if anything, but you can't bring yourself to feel too much sympathy with the rifle he's now pointed toward you.

"You forgot one."

"Pardon?"

Seokmin's voice is hardly more than a whisper yet it rings out loud and clear amid the tense silence and stillness. "I said, you forgot one. There's not a name of any place or person I'd ever forget. I'm well aware of the ones you're talking about… and more. However, there's somewhere I won't ever forget that no one will ever know existed."

"… Huh?"

"Little Ivywood."

Wonwoo seems so taken aback and the pause unwittingly allows your eyes to drift over to meet Seokmin's brown ones. There are so many emotions conveyed in the sidelong glance — a mixture of regret-filled feelings yet ever so soft — and it lasts a second too long to snap the befuddled aggressor out of his reverie.

"Oh… I see." He pushes up his glasses, the lenses glinting in the pale sunlight like a typical anime villain. The long gun lowers to the ground the same time as he throws back his head to let out a bitter laugh. "So that's how it is! All you do is take and take and take, Lee. Destroy, destroy, destroy; again and again and again!"

"Aye, ole chap's gone off his rocker."

"You've made an ally out of a would-be, should-be enemy and think other victims with their pain and grief don't exist?!"

"Wow," Seungkwan wrinkles his nose in disgust, "yeah… he's gone completely insane."

Mingyu hums in agreement. "A little unhinged! Off the rocks! Unstable even! When can I knock him out?"

You'd love to give the gentle giant the go-ahead. Really. But even so…

"Damn you —"

"Stop it."

The townspeople's uncertainty and hesitance tells you all you need to know, especially when Wonwoo's hysteria leaves them even more perplexed. After years of handling a gun like a second arm, you can spot inexperience and fear of handling a dangerous weapon the second someone is near one. You lower your arms and step forward once more, confidence growing when he makes no move to threaten you further.

"You don't want this."

The corner of his mouth quirks upward, a rueful smile. "You know, I thought we really did share some camaraderie."

"We do."

"Yet you gallivant around with a monster like that?"

"He's not a monster."

"I should've known better, really, when the VERnons said you're the sirocco that follows after the humanoid typhoon. Heroes, my ass! I don't get it, how could you do that to others after what happened to you?"

To us?

It remains unspoken yet you can hear the intent of the accusingly barbed question. Two survivors of a wrecked hometown. Shared camaraderie hadn't been a lie. Even now as you meet the flickering fire in Wonwoo's eyes with a blazing flame in your own, all you can see is a reflection of your past and what you could've turned into in a possible future.

A cold gleam returns to his gaze as he takes your silence as defiance. Or maybe even shamelessness. "How could you turn a blind eye to such a bloody warpath of destruction when you know too well of the tragedy that's left behind?!"

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

"… Excuse me?"

"That's what all of you are doing right now," you declare loudly and some of Tonim's residents whose conscience stings have the decency to avert their eyes. Awareness of their actions seem to weigh down on them, guns lowering ever the slightest and the awkwardness encourages Seungkwan to speak up.

"We would've left peacefully tomorrow."

"But yer actions're gonna be the very cause of the destruction yer tryin' so damn hard to prevent."

"Because you took a bribe!"

There's a stilted, horrified, and collective gasp, so you try to remedy Mingyu's exclamation.

"It's because you let your malice sway you. Tell me, Jeon. What all did you lose?"

"My whole town. Then my parents. Almost my life and nearly Lina's too. My lover…"

"And your sense of self. Plus, the new life you've created here — and those things? Almost lost because of your own accord. Why would you destroy the few good things you're granted?"

Wonwoo's eyebrows scrunch as his face tenses. Your heart goes out to him despite everything, hoping to get your point across as you continue speaking.

"That doesn't negate the losses. The grief. The pain. It never goes away but… you can choose to clean out the wound, put some salve on it, and bandage it or let it fester and infect your body 'til it rots even your soul."

You can hear the shift in the sand as Seokmin approaches to stand next to you. He regards Wonwoo with a kind smile and the understanding, crescent-shaped squint of his eyes is like a punch to the other man's gut.

"…. I —"

" — It's your choice, Jeon. What did they offer you? Money? There are so many bets on July's militia lying about the payout. I mean, c'mon, there's no way a ruined city would have the funds."

"Yer Plant's no longer in red status, so ya won't need to barter no more."

"I'll throw in a better deal — let us go and I'll have Choi marry you and Sherry, free of charge."

His cheeks flush and you inwardly gloat, instincts right on the money. Seungcheol's jaw drops, absolutely flabbergasted, and the townsfolk exchange a few knowing snickers.

"If it's protection you need, we can figure that out too," Seokmin recovers and offers in a low voice. "And if Do — er, Knives — or his gang approached you with a deal, just know that they never hold up their end of the bargain."

"You're lucky you threatened us first. DK's side is a little too slash-happy and trigger-loving to resort to verbal methods. They're the ones you'd want to go after anyways, you see, this man and Knives are twins if you don't look close enough, they're eerily similar at the strangest moments. So the real story is that it's all just spiraled out of control."

"You mean…"

"I won't deny responsibility." Seokmin admits sternly. "It's true that I've wreaked devastation to many towns. Failed to save the people I swore to protect."

"But DK keeps forcing his hand to get Seok to join his genocidal cause. And every time he refuses to do so, his brother throws a tantrum and well, knives go flying everywhere. Literally."

"He's a little…" The gunslinger searches for the right word — and finding that there is none — cringes. "Dramatic."

You stare at him, aghast. "He cut your arm off!"

Wonwoo pales, swallows, and then grimaces, daring to ask, "So… I've had it wrong the whole time?"

"I guess not entirely." You shrug, also guilty as charged years ago. "And obviously not the first."

"And certainly not the last," Seungkwan pipes up.

The bespectacled man looks down at the ground. "I don't… I don't know… Do I even deserve this kind of treatment? This… mercy?"

"No."

With such a blunt answer, Seokmin's quick to protest with an admonishment of your name while Seungkwan and Mingyu suppress smiles at your straightforwardness. Seungcheol freely chuckles, lighting a cigarette.

And Wonwoo's face falls as remorse hits all over again.

"But," you smirk, "what have I told you?"

"Oh, ah… why destroy the few good things life grants me?"

"Good. You were listening. We might get along just fine, after all." You send him a teasing wink. "Camaraderie and all that be damned."

A sheepish look overtakes the man's previously hardened features. And suddenly he's laughing with his head thrown back like earlier, but this time it's with an unrestrained amount of joy. Relief. Hope.

"The ticket to the future is always blank, Wonwoo." Seokmin extends a hand and the other man takes it, the small grin on his face turning into a full-blown smile.

"Guns down, Tonim town. The rest of you, come on out! Let's celebrate!" He calls out to everyone, gesturing for your group to follow. "Drinks are on me to make up for this whole mess. I'm sorry for getting you all involved."

You turn around toward Seokmin, elation written all over your face that he readily mirrors. Just as you're about to grab his hand as he reaches out at the same time, there's a slow, loud handclap that sets off mental warning sirens blaring all over again.

"Conflict resolution. How very touching."

The velvety voice is deceivingly sweet. But beneath the dulcet tones lies a raw and wicked strength. It rings out clearly, even more so when the jubilant mood abruptly dies down as a new figure approaches.

"Aw, c'mon Joshie! Just when it was gettin' good!" Soonyoung whines and you belatedly realize you forgot all about the real enemies at the entrance gate, thinking they had grown bored and left.

"What about that was 'getting good'?"

The Beast huffs at Jihoon's surly attitude, more than likely pouting beneath his mask. "Was really lookin' forward to those free drinks…"

"We don't need drinks and we don't need you, Josh."

If there's one commonality between the adversary and your group, it's the shared disdain for the elegant-looking man dressed in all black fabrics with shiny leather buckles, and slicked-back locks to match.

"Hm. But I think you do."

Chilling ochre-colored eyes couldn't be bothered to look at you, drifting past you and Seokmin like you were nothing more than the grains of sand littering every surface on Gunsmoke. And like a marionette, your head automatically swivels to follow his line of sight, blood draining from your face when you realize what he's looking at.

Lina.

She breaks away from holding onto Sheryl's hand after they emerge from the saloon, bounding toward her brother with excitement all over her face. The arm that isn't supporting his firearm extends gallantly outward, ready to welcome her with a hug as he strolls to meet her halfway.

They're smiling at one another with so much adoration after the intensity from earlier. If you weren't fucking terrified, you'd wish Dokyeom was also there to see how pure a sibling relationship and affection should be.

Instead, your stomach lurches, and Seokmin hisses beside you. With your back turned, you can't see Joshua but you're sure he's smirking when Wonwoo's frame stiffens, body jerking as it moves beyond his control.

Hastily, he's cocking the rifle with expert ease and assuming the perfect position to fire it, something he previously displayed no knowledge on before. Wide eyes have no choice but to peer down the scope and he chokes at how it's unforgivingly aimed directly at his little sister.

She skids to a halt, ten paces away. Hesitant. Wary. Puzzled.

"… Wonu?"

It all plays out in slow motion as you reach for Sirocco, simultaneously screaming out to your friends to alert them and provide cover. Frantic panic swirls in the air like a sandstorm at the turn of events, but even more fear generates when the townspeople can do nothing but helplessly succumb to their limbs moving on their own too.

Despite every single effort and all of his muscles straining not to do it, Wonwoo's pointer finger on the trigger pulls back. It doesn't matter how much he struggles to fight for control, his body refuses to listen. Tears flow from his eyes even though he can't speak, can't yell, can't beg for forgiveness — the vehement sense of horror is the only thing able to overpower Joshua's terrifying control, leaking out a salty excess.

Bang!

Three gunshots ring out at the same time. You fire right before Wonwoo does and Seokmin follows two seconds later. Not because his reaction time is slower. But because he could see and calculate where the bullet's headed after you changed its trajectory by shooting at Wonwoo's barrel.

It doesn't end there.

Seokmin is a half-step closer to Lina and can move at an inhumane speed, diving into a tuck-and-roll to reach her moments before the residents have no choice but to open fire too.

You know he's fast enough to dodge bullets at close range, but the staggered distance spread out among all of those present in the town's square works little for that insane advantage. Instead, the skilled combatant focuses all his attention on shielding Lina beneath the loose flaps of his impenetrable trench coat. She clings tightly to his leg, whimpering.

"Don't worry, I'll protect you."

Continuing to mutter reassurances, he pats her fluffy brown hair with an unshaking cybernetic palm while the other rapidly points his revolver upwards to deflect a bullet that might've been lucky enough to shatter the bridge of his glasses. Then doing the same to one at five o'clock on his right. He angles his body this way and that as if a puppeteer is yanking the strings connected to his limbs to the perverse beat of an unheard tune. The few he misses land harmlessly against the thick kevlar material you're all wearing.

Meanwhile, your steady hand supports the familiar weight of Sirocco. Muscle memory aids you with cocking the gun as you run. Aiming at the closest group of people near them and then — bang!, bang!, bang! — snipe off the barrels on their guns in rapid succession, rendering them useless.

From behind, something flies past your face and nicks the top of your ear — one of the few places unprotected by bulletproof material — causing you to hiss. Scowling over your shoulder, you squint in the direction it came from.

While a complete bastard, Seungcheol is also the most resourceful ray of hope in a shootout like this. The Punisher's automatic artillery relentlessly fires shot after shot, destroying old and weather-beaten guns like they're empty, crushable soda cans. It's faster too. The trigger-happy pastor twirls it around maniacally, taking only the slightest care to not actually kill anyone.

You're a hundred percent sure it's because of Joshua's disturbing power that allows him to reanimate corpses rather than Seokmin's "Thou shalt not kill" lecture and pacifist philosophies that keeps the supposed 'god-fearing' man from snuffing out anyone's life this time around. Despite the bullets whizzing around, you know he'll fare alright with that healing serum of his — just as long as he doesn't overdose on it.

Mingyu rushes over to stand back-to-back with the pastor, x-shaped claws firing out of his 'stun-gun' and immobilizing many of his targets with ease. You can't help but grimace though, wondering if they'll sustain more brain damage from Joshua's nefarious telepathy or a well-meaning concussion that leaves them unconscious and no longer posing a threat. A solid steel object flies past the brown-haired man's head, knocking down the mind-controlled person who was trying to sneak up on him using a blind spot.

"Ooh, thanks, Seungkwan!"

"Pay attention, you blockhead!"

An empty derringer lays at said blockhead's feet and Mingyu kicks it away with a childlike glee. A brand-new loaded pistol is already in Seungkwan's right hand even as he throws away the one in his left toward someone approaching Seungcheol. The young man's never empty-handed for long because with another flashy twirl from out of his cloak and a new handgun is cocked, aimed, and fired.

Despite the distance and conditions, all three work together like clockwork. Different shaped and sized cogs all interconnected to succeed without causing too much harm. And you know you must play your part as well, turning your attention back to the few townsfolk that remain.

"Seokmin, switch!"

It's not like he needs the heads-up. The way you'd both been inching closer to each other every time your gun's fired already issued the forewarning. It's like a subtle tango performed by two fierce allies surrounded by deadly enemies. If you didn't know better, it's similar to an intricate sword dance.

But you knew how dangerous it was to play with knives.

The swift transfer of Lina's warm little body into your arms is a welcome comfort. Seokmin sends you a dazzling smile, one full of confidence at a successful swap.

"Hey there, pretty girl," you coo and your gloved thumb wipes away one of the tear trails cutting through the dirt smudges on her face. "You are so, so, so brave and I'm so, so, so proud of you."

"He," she sniffles, "my… my… br-brother. W-Wonu!"

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, you turn her to face the other way. "Everything's going to fine. I promise. Now, run to Seungcheol. He'll keep you safe while the rest of us finish this."

Seungkwan and Mingyu had effectively disarmed everyone on their end and now worked on dragging the town's unconscious residents inside the saloon and attending to any wounds. The pastor stood guard near the entrance with his Punisher staked firmly into the sandy ground. Although empty of ammunition, the machine gun still served a purpose as a great defender with its imposing cross shape.

With the target assuredly safe — out of sight, out of mind — the control Joshua has over those remaining falters and starts to lose its effect. In the brief lull, Seokmin dashes ahead to deliver a flying kick that helpfully unsheathes the dagger hidden in the sole of his boots, demolishing one more firearm in someone's grip before it can be used again.

Bang!

And with Sirocco's precision, the last two are destroyed as well. You match your comrade's grin and turn triumphantly to where the instigators still stand at the entrance.

There would be no casualties today. You and your comrades would make sure of that.

Joshua, stoic as ever, surveys the aftermath with an air of unbothered gracefulness. Jihoon fumes next to him. Panic spikes when Soonyoung can't be spotted at first until you spy him curled up in the car's front seat — asleep.

You fist bump Seokmin in high spirits. Then fearlessly meet a pair of deep orange eyes devoid of any emotion or warmth, a shift occurs in your smile. Confidence and satisfaction hone the corners of your mouth into a daring smirk and something about the bold taunt causes a rare flicker of humor to cross Joshua's lips. Whether it's scornful pity or simple mockery, you don't have time to figure it out because Jihoon snaps.

Nails.

Several of them fly through the air and their wielder's formidable namesake comes from the daunting color that makes the multitude of piercers look like thin streaks of blood against the pale blue sky. The spikes as long as spears are all fired from Jihoon's large suitcase-turned-crossbow that aims just shy of your left side.

Those steel eyes of his are as sharp as their color. The malice within them feels suffocating, so strong and heavy that it sucks all the breath straight out of your lungs. Only the pain from a nail grazing your cheek is enough to pull your attention away from drowning in the unnerving emotion and you put a hand up to the laceration to soothe the sting.

Wetness oozes from your skin, an unsettling feeling of sliminess accompanying the touch. Puzzled, your fingers retract and you ponder the sheer amount of red viscoelastic fluid coating them. There's so much of it pooling that droplets fall to the sand below while others dribble down past your wrist and under your sleeve, the stain blending right in with the fabric of your coat.

Drip.

"It's all your fault!"

Drip.

"Their blood is on your hands…"

Drip.

"Don't you feel guilty?"

Drip.

"Don't you feel responsible?"

Drip.

"Do you regret being the only one left to live?"

Drip.

Faces you know and voices you cannot recall overlap and echo. Unfamiliar frowning expressions and intonations you remember as once gentle now ridicule, belittle, and find every crack in your well-made armor. Insidious whispers weave inside, entangling themselves within the fragile support structures of your mind and very soul. They point and cackle to one another at such a sorry sight, only for you to realize you're angrily jabbing a pointer finger at your worthless reflection with those cursory words coming straight out of your own mouth.

Drip.

Your head turns robotically, like an early prototype of the lost technology Earthlings created. This time it's Sheryl who's the victim, helplessly well within the trajectory line of Jihoon's rage. Every muscle aches, weighed down by exhaustion. Your shoulder burns. Yet you still somehow find the strength within you to rush toward her, especially hearing Lina's desperate wail as she's held back by a grimacing Seungcheol.

Drip.

Like a comet, Seokmin blazes past. He skids to a stop, effectively shielding the woman right before impact. You're too slow to move. In fact, it feels like an out-of-body experience. As if you're nothing but a hologram inside the floating ship — an artificial intelligence projection with no other choice but to witness the horrors and observe tangible objects scuttle towards their inevitable doom without interference. You're left with no choice but to simply watch as the nails are propelled through the air with the intent to strike.

Drip.

Someone's screaming. Maybe it's you.

Drip.

The nails impale Seokmin without mercy. Strike after strike, they pierce straight through the material of his coat designed to repel only bullets and plunge deep within the muscles beneath his skin. One after the other. So many of them stick out of the man's backside like the skeletal bone formation for wings. He slumps to his knees, falling on top of a bewildered but unharmed Sheryl. When he only lays still with no further action, you're struck with the dreadful knowledge that he may never move again and it fills you with an unfathomable maelstrom of raw grief and anger.

Drip.

Suddenly, you're no longer drowning in invisible quicksand and can move freely again. There's zero hesitation in your now fluid movements — not even when the blond-haired man poises his crossbow directly at you this time. Pulling out the spare gun hidden near your hip, you blast the airborne spikes flying towards you without hesitation.

Bang!

More fall than you shoot. The anger, pain, and grief you wield is enough to tear them apart like they're nothing but worm larvae helplessly caught in a sandstorm. You stalk forward through the crimson ire that relentlessly strikes down, clearing a path that's littered with broken, twisted, and dented nails before resolutely aiming point-blank at Jihoon's forehead.

Click.

More people are screaming and the spiteful cacophony in your mind resumes. But your ears feel like they're filled with cotton and this time you're stuck underwater. Your chest rises and falls, trying and failing to collect yourself.

"… out of it!"

"Hyperventialing -"

"Goddamn it! Get ahold o'yerself, woman!"

The Crimsonnail sneers.

Your cheek stings.

The dissonance reminds you of the wound from before. But this time it feels like a sting, as if someone slapped you — albeit rather gently. Numb, you halt in place and cautiously raise your hand back to your surprisingly unmarred face. But rather than skin, you grasp onto something solid. Something familiar. Something kind. Something loving. Something safe. Something warm. Something that's yours — always has been and always will be.

Someone.

And then… you open your eyes — and find yourself staring directly into Seokmin's sparkling brown ones.

"Y-you're dead," you manage to choke out in disbelief and his eyes incredulously crinkle into half-moons at the statement to hide the tears brimming in them.

The soothing hand caressing your cheek moves to wrap around the barrel of the gun you're pressing to his forehead and he smiles disarmingly. As if what you just said was the funniest thing ever.

"I know, mayfly."

Part 2 | Read the whole thing on AO3

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