#thank you for the adventures its been a good year and it was fun to adventure again at ball | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seokgyuu · 3 months ago

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→ GENRE: smut, college au, crack, angst, bits of fluff MDNI! → PAIRING: Jeonghan x Afab!Fem!Reader (Feat. Seokmin x Afab!Fem!Reader & Seungcheol x Afab!Fem!Reader) → SYNOPSIS: you have never been a person who turns down a challenge, but when your best friend challenges you to hook up with 13 boys in one semester you kind of wish you were.

→ WARNINGS: mentions of death and funerals, alcohol consumption, angst, lowkey depression or at least depressive phase, multiple smut scenes, p in v sex, unprotected sex (who would have thought!), degradation (usage of words: slut, whore), car sex, fingering, more p in v sex, more fingering but in a public space, anal sex, cum play, tell me if i missed anything! → RATING: M

→ WORD COUNT: 17k

previous ; masterlist ; next A/N: oh... hi! guess what!! this is the last chapter before the epilogue!!! oh my god. thank you to everyone who has been reading this absolute chaos of a fic. as always i wanna thank @wongyuseokie for the amazing banner & divider! i also wanna thank @bitchlessdino for betaing this for me! ilysm! also @starlightkyeom for knowing nothing about the fic but reading over a portion for me i wasn't so sure about!! ily jess <3 alright, i have decided to put the taglist at the end for once, so don't be alarmed!! have fun reading and remember we writers thrive on replies, reblogs and asks about our work! (also lets pretend i was punctually with the date)

The atmosphere was gloomy. The rows were filled with people, quiet classical music was accompanying the figures walking into the room one by one. With everyone dressed in black, it almost felt like a black and white movie had it not been for the ray of sunshine shining onto the casket standing at the front of the room.

When everyone found a place to sit, Soonyoung slowly walked over to the podium, completely dressed in black - he had even dyed his hair for the occasion. He held onto the wood in front of him and looked over at the casket, a single tear dropping from his eye that he was quick to wipe away.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said. “I am sure she would be thankful for every single one of you.”

The faces in the front rows looked sad, not a single smile to be seen. Seungcheol next to Vernon, Seungkwan to his right. Then there were Jihoon and Joshua, Mingyu and Wonwoo. Chan and Minghao, Jun and Seokmin. Even Jeonghan sat there, a tissue tapping onto his eyes.

“Y/N was a kind, kind soul,” Soonyoung continues. “Kind and outgoing, she would always be there for her friends.” He paused and looked into the audience, searching for one specific face he didn’t seem to find. Clearing his throat, he got back on track.

“She was funny and adventurous, and her biggest priority in life was that stupid fucking challenge that now has brought her into the grave.”

“Even before I could hit!” Jeonghan shouted and threw his used tissue at the casket.

The casket you were laying in.

Wait what?

Soonyoung nodded, pointing his index at Jeonghan with a sob.

“Yes! Yes, Jeonghan, before you could hit. Before she could finish that challenge that destroyed her long year friendship with-“

As if on cue, the doors to the room flew open, a brightly smiling Jiwoo walking in a pink sparkly dress on her small frame in her hands a basket filled with petals of flowers the same color as her dress. She spun around once, letting the petals fall on top of her and onto the floor.

“We are free of her! Finally, finally free!” She cheered and without any hesitation, the whole party of people joined in, music blasting from invisible speakers, everyone’s clothes suddenly in the brightest colors.

That’s when your body jolted awake, a cold sweat running down your back as you stared into the darkness of your bedroom. Your heart was pounding at triple its usual speed, your hair a mess around your face and it took you a good thirty seconds to understand all of it had been a dream. A dream that, probably, wouldn’t even be too far off in case you did end up dying tomorrow. You fell back down onto the mattress with a sigh, hands rubbing over your face. How awful to dream about your own funeral. And how even more awful to know that your best friend wasn’t your best friend anymore.

You had never struggled with being alone before. You liked your time alone, liked to be by yourself. Or at least it used to be that way. Because now, as you walked through the busy university campus, you suddenly felt like there was nothing worse than being alone. That was how your days went on, how the last few weeks of the semester flew by. Alone with deadlines that at least kept you busy enough to really notice. You had dropped your Friday class to avoid seeing Mingyu at all costs, and your new go-to coffee shop did not have a barista with the name of Joshua working there. It all could have gone back to normal, avoiding men and doing work for your classes.If only there wasn’t Seungcheol checking in with you every few days, making sure you were okay and not beating yourself up too much.

He was somehow the only person not making you feel worse even though he probably should have been the number one man to avoid. His calls lifted you up, and made you feel like at least one person still cared about you in this mess. Made you feel like you didn’t completely fuck up your life, your friendships, and possibly the relationships between several people. Whenever you asked him about him and Jiwoo, he would just say that it was going to get better eventually, that she couldn’t be mad at him forever. You hoped he was right. Not because you had any hope left she would ever stop being mad at you (since you were mad at her too and didn’t think that would change for a while), but because Seungcheol didn’t deserve to be hated by his sister for something you caused.

“Thank you.” The barista smiled as she handed you your coffee. The pastel colors of the interior soothed you as they always did and when you sat down at one of the tables in the back, your headphones back on your head, you finally allowed yourself to be glad the semester was over. Well, classes were over. The semester technically lasted until the new one started in a couple of months.

Settled in your seat with a book and some good music blasting in your ear, you were ready to spend the afternoon in the coffee shop - but destiny had a different plan. Your phone went off, a call came in, and your eyes flickered to your screen, your heart jumping when you saw the caller ID.

“Hi,” you spoke into your phone, your hands clasping around your coffee mug.

“Hey, you.” Cheol’s voice once again calmed you down almost immediately.

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to congratulate you on finishing your classes.” The way his voice sounded you knew there was more than just that. You kept quiet, eyebrows slowly raising as you waited for him to keep going.

“And I was wondering if you’d like to join me on a business trip to Singapore for four days. Before you say anything, this trip has been planned for months and my sister was supposed to join but, you know. So, it is already paid for. We have a beautiful hotel with a beautiful pool, the ocean right outside. I think a vacation would be good for you, baby.”

Baby. You couldn’t even fight the heat spreading through your body. You quickly shook your head and cleared your throat, considering his offer for a second. A trip to Singapore with Cheol, already paid for. Taking Jiwoo’s place… it all sounded like a disaster disguised as a free vacation. But then again, you had never been to Singapore before. In fact, you didn’t even remember the last time when you had been on a vacation. Chewing on your bottom lip, you fought with yourself internally. Did you really deserve to go on a vacation? It wasn’t like you weren’t the one responsible for all the damage that had been done, after all.

This wasn’t an easy decision to make, surely. Your thoughts ran through your mind like they were taking part in a marathon, making it hard to keep track of them. On one hand, a free vacation to one of the most beautiful countries definitely wasn’t in your own budget. On the other hand, though, Seungcheol would be there. Maybe even Seokmin. Jeonghan, perhaps. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath.

“I’ll join the trip on one condition.”

“Condition?” Seungcheol sounded surprised. For good reason - he was offering you a free trip and you had a condition. Talk about brazen.

“I’ll come on the trip if you agree we won’t have sex.”

There was silence on the other side and you shoved your mug between your hands, glancing around the room and happily noticing that no one was paying you any attention. The other guests were either engulfed in their own conversations or working on their laptops with headphones on.

“Okay. If that’s what you want, I’ll respect that.”

Now, it took you a few seconds to understand that Seungcheol had agreed without any interference. Your eyebrows lifted and a smile tugged on your lips.

“Alright then. When do we take off?”

It was two days later, when you got another text from Seungcheol.

Buy yourself some nice things, baby. My treat, of course ;)

The second the ‘ping’ announcing the text had finished ringing in your ears, the doorbell followed suit. Perhaps you shouldn’t have been surprised, considering who you were going on vacation with. Quickly, you pressed on Cheol’s contact, calling him as you walked over to your door, calling up whoever was down there. It must have been one of Seungcheol’s men, you were sure. You just didn’t know who it might be.

“Yes, darling?”

God, the sound of his voice… mixed with the words he said - there was no doubt he didn’t know what he was doing.

“I thought the whole trip is ‘your treat’, Cheol? What is this about?”

The small chuckle he let out on the other end of the line made your stomach turn and flip.

“And it is. But… can a man not want the girl he is courting to have some new clothes to accompany her on the trip?”

Heat immediately started making its way through your body. ‘The girl he is courting’? This little…

“So, what? You’re just deciding I need a new wardrobe for our trip?”

“It doesn’t have to be just clothes, darling. Buy jewelry, a hat, a water bottle. Just let Vernon drive you around the shopping district, alright? Pick whatever you like.”

Vernon was coming? You felt another wave of heat, but this time mixed with ice as well. You hadn’t seen Vernon since that night. Did Seungcheol know about that? He probably did. As much as you wished it wasn’t affecting you anymore - the whole weight of the challenge and what had happened during it caused yet another wave of shame and guilt to almost run you over. Seungcheol was really trying here. Taking you on this trip, even sending someone he most likely knew had slept with you to take you shopping. It felt surreal and it took you a second to notice the knocking on your door.

“Fine, I’ll go with him. I just-,” you stopped mid sentence, once you had opened the door, expecting to see Vernon and being completely thrown off by it being someone else.

“You just?” Seungcheol sounded a bit confused.

“I just- uh, I just don’t really know what to say.”

Seokmin was standing in front of your door in a simple gray suit, white button up underneath the jacket. His warm eyes were filled with silent wariness and you felt a lump forming in your throat.

“That’s okay. Just enjoy yourself, Y/N. Call me later, if you like.”

You nodded as a response, slowly lowering your phone and hanging up the call.

“You’re not Vernon,” you finally said and Seokmin coughed through a laugh.

“Yeah, that, uh, that’s true.”

Silence filled the space between the two of you for a few moments.

Just like Vernon, you also hadn’t really seen Seokmin since the two of you had slept together. Only that day when you had met Jeonghan and saw Jiwoo again, he had been there as well. He had been there and seen you angry and hurt and, god, he had wanted to take you far away from all of it; from Seungcheol and his sick way of feeling like he was helping you, from Jeonghan who turned out to be someone you knew from your past, someone who had hurt you so deeply, and finally from Jiwoo and her hypocritical way of thinking.

Seeing you again only made Seokmin realize how badly he had missed you. And how fucked up it was that he had.

“So, where is Vernon?” You finally broke the silence and Seokmin cleared his throat.

“He’s home. Something in his family came up and he asked me if I could take you instead.”

It was true - Vernon’s mum had needed help with something at their house and so he had asked Seokmin to take over the driving duties, obviously not aware of what kind of door he had just opened. Seokmin hadn’t told anyone about the feelings he harbored for you, in fact, he hadn’t even really admitted them to himself.

But seeing you again, alone without Seungcheol or Vernon or anyone else present… it kind of made it hard to keep pushing away the inevitable.

“Right. Uhm,” you felt your face heat up, not prepared to leave your apartment in the slightest, “come in, I’ll get ready.”

The treacherous heart inside Seokmin’s chest jumped at the invite. He nodded and walked past you, trying to ignore your scent and the way it made him feel. Stop being pathetic, he tried to tell himself as he continued inside, taking his shoes off once the door closed between the two of you.

“Do you want some water? Or coffee?”

How you managed to sound casual - you truly couldn’t tell. It wasn’t like the two of you had left off awkwardly back then. At least not really. But then again, what about your life right now wasn’t awkward? Seokmin and you had slept together and then he had kissed you after, helping you back into your underwear, saying sweet things, and giggling against your cheek.

The memory crept back into your brain and you swallowed it down, trying to forget how you felt when he had been so gentle, so kind. It had almost felt more intimate than the sex itself.

“Water is fine, thank you.”

You nodded at his response and made your way into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from one of the cupboards. There were a thousand thoughts in your head, spiraling and forming new ones with every passing second, but you decided to ignore them.

It was silent between the two of you as you got his water ready, finally placing the glass in front of him on the table. He looked up at you, thanking you quietly. Then, just as you were about to turn, his fingers grabbed around your wrist gently.

“Y/N,” he said, “are you okay?”

Something about the way he asked this question… it touched a part of you, you hadn’t known was there. The part of you that was still young and scared and ashamed. Of course, you had come to terms with most if not all of it being your own fault, your pride had been more important to you than anyone’s feelings - including your own best friend.

All the calls with Seungcheol, yes, they had helped you. He was someone you admired, someone you maybe even felt something for that went beyond admiration. And as much as he eased the aching in your heart, as much as he cared about you and told you not to beat yourself up too much - whenever the call ended it all went back to zero. Seungcheol was still Jiwoo’s brother, he was her family. And when push came to shove, he would always choose her. And that was fine, that was how it should be! In this case, you guessed, it was thanks to Jiwoo not giving him that ultimatum that he still called you, still allowed himself to care about you.

No one else had asked you if you were okay besides Seungcheol. And now Seokmin had and you almost let the dam you had built so carefully break down.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied finally, pulling your hand out of his grasp and giving him a small smile over your shoulder. Seeing his face, his eyes, the way he seemed to really want to know your pain, wanted to take it away from you as good as he could - tears were close to spilling down your cheeks.

“Y/N-,” he began again, but you just cleared your throat.

“I should get ready. I’ll be right there.”

Seokmin watched you hurry into your room and pressed his lips together, deciding to ignore the glass on the table and your obvious lie. Instead, he followed you, opening the door you had just shut and watching you turn around to him with wide eyes.

“Seokmin-,” but he was the one to interrupt you this time.

“You’re not okay, are you?” He came to a halt in front of you and placed his hand on your cheek, staring into your eyes so intensely it almost caused your knees to give in.

“It doesn’t matter, Seokmin,” you whispered then, “I am the one who caused all of this. I made everyone miserable.”

“That’s not true. You can’t keep blaming yourself for things other people played a part in as well, Y/N, that’s not fair.”

“Fair to whom? To me? Seokmin, I… I hurt so many people and for what? A stupid challenge that means absolutely nothing! It was nothing but my pride that was on the line, Seokmin. I let my pride win over anyone else’s well-being. I hurt people, I broke friendships apart, I made siblings hate each other, I-”,

“You can’t seriously think that all of that is just your fault, Y/N. There were other people involved, people who knew better than you. Seungcheol should have known sleeping with you would make Jiwoo uncomfortable. He did it anyway! He didn’t care about her feelings just as much as you. I don’t see him beating himself up half as much as you, I don’t see him shutting out everyone. I don’t know everything that happened, but I promise you, Y/N, it’s not all your own fault. You made mistakes and that’s okay, that’s human. You’re just human, you are allowed to make mistakes.”

Now, tears were rolling down your cheeks, your heart swelling and hurting just the same as you listened to Seokmin’s words.

“If it’s okay, why does it feel so incredibly shitty?” Once again, your voice was merely more than a whisper. Seokmin wiped away your tears with his thumb, his eyes still staring into yours.

“Because you care. You care about those you’ve hurt, Y/N. You’re not even close to the horrible person you think you are.”

The first sob escaped you and you fell against Seokmin’s chest, his arms quick to catch and hold you against him. He patted the back of your head, letting you sob into his jacket without a second thought.

Maybe, just maybe, he felt a little too comfortable with you in his arms considering you were crying. But he allowed himself to feel this way for just a while. Allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of you choosing him over Seungcheol. How many hours had he spent doing that in the time he knew you? He didn’t dare to count.

For a while, you stayed like this. Crying in Seokmin’s arms, feeling comforted by his warmth and his worry. It was different than with Cheol - Seokmin genuinely seemed to try to understand you while his boss stayed on the surface of it all. He acknowledged your pain but never tried to dig into it, or figure out where it was all coming from. It was refreshing, especially after you hadn’t seen Soonyoung in a good while, ever since that fateful party at Joshua and Mingyu’s place.

“Thank you,” you finally breathed out after a good ten minutes of standing there, slowly parting from Seokmin to look up at him. It almost took your breath away - how he looked at you.

“No need to thank me, I am glad to have helped you let some of it out.” He smiled down at you, his hand moving from the back of your head back to your face, slowly caressing your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

This is dangerous.

Suddenly, his proximity dawned on you. His touch tingled on your skin and your stomach turned, heartbeat speeding up. His face was so close, if you moved just a little closer…

And then he did move, just slowly with his lips slightly parted, his eyes unsure and yet so full of determination to take what he wanted. He wanted to kiss you so bad, wanted to feel the softness of your lips, show you how much he cared for you.

You turned your head. Cleared your throat and tried to ignore the heat in your cheeks.

“I should get ready. Wash the crying off my face and change. You, uhm, you can wait in the living room.”

Seokmin felt himself blush, nodding and quickly moving back, parting from you in the process. Probably for the best.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll wait there. Take your time.”

And when he turned around and left, you sank down onto your bed for a few seconds trying to catch your breath. How did you always end up in situations like these? You shook your head, ignoring the thoughts for now, and got back up, walking into the bathroom to wash your face.

As Seokmin and you strode through the shopping street in silence, you couldn’t help but feel lighter. While still worried the internal crisis and weight had subdued immensely all thanks to one push from the man on your right.

You glanced at him, taking in his tall frame and focused eyes. Earlier, when he had asked if you were looking for something specific, you had suggested evening wear, considering the trip would contain a few business dinners you’d probably attend as… well, as Seungcheols date. If you could even call it that. At this point, being “just” his date felt… odd. Not entirely how you saw yourself in his life, but then again, how did you see yourself in his life? As of right now, you were merely the girl responsible for his strained relationship with his sister, the girl he wasn’t allowed to sleep with for the next couple of days and perhaps even ever again. You hadn’t really made your mind up about that yet.

Seokmin held the door for you when you reached the first store you had decided to go into. Normally, you would never go into a high fashion place like this to buy clothes, but considering Seungcheol was paying and he was loaded… why not.

“Welcome”, a nice looking woman with a black bob and shining white teeth greeted you. Seokmin presented her with a slight bow and a smile himself and you quickly followed him, letting your eyes roam over the shelves right after.

Everything in here was beautiful. There wasn’t much on display - something high end shops apparently all did the same way.

Quickly, Seokmin filled the woman in on what you were looking for and once the words “budget doesn’t matter”, she suddenly became your new best friend.

You were thrown into a private room where she and two other women in the same elegant work uniforms as her, offered you and Seokmin champagne and continued to bring in small cakes and finally dresses in all sorts of colours and shapes.

“Jesus,” you mumbled under your breath and Seokmin chuckled next to you on the light red velvet couch, bringing the glass of champagne to his lips.

“Anything catch your eye?” He pointed at the rack of dresses the women had just brought in. Biting down on your bottom lip, you got up from the couch and looked at them more closely, a few of them definitely up your alley.

One was long and dark red like wine, a slit on the side and no sleeves. You told the woman from before, who had introduced herself as Soyeon once the budget had been made clear, and she immediately brought it to the changing room hidden behind a thick cream colored curtain to your right.

You also chose a short yellow dress embroidered with white roses and a mid length hazel off shoulder one that looked incredibly beautiful.

Seokmin watched you thanking Soyeon with a smile on your lips, disappearing behind the curtain a second later to try on the dresses you had picked out. Also presenting Soyeon with a thankful smile, he finally sat in one of the comfortable looking light pink armchairs facing the dressing room.

It took you a few moments, but soon you came out in the first dress. The air around Seokmin became suffocating. You looked stunning. The red dress fit you like a glove, every curve of yours on display. Seokmin had trouble staying seated, shifting on the armchair.

“What do you think?” You asked, turning around once and looking at the handsome man again. He cleared his throat.

“I think you look beautiful.”

Now, it was you who felt suffocated by the air around you. Heat rose in your body and you felt a smile creep onto your lips.

“Thank you. I quite like it myself, too.” You turned to face the full-body mirror to the left framed in gold and took yourself in once more. Yeah, it definitely was beautiful - you were beautiful.

“Would you like some champagne?” Soyeon came back, holding a tray with two glasses of champagne, giving the two of you a wide smile. Seokmin declined as he was still driving, while you accepted with yet another smile.

Soyeon’s eyes stayed on you once you’ve taken the glass from her.

“Miss, this dress looks like it was made for you!” She announced, placing the tray down on the end table between the armchairs. Your smile grew and you turned to look at yourself again.

“Thank you, Soyeon. I think I’ll try on the others as well, but this definitely makes the next round.”

Seokmin chuckled.

“Y/N. If you like them all, you can get them all.” He raised a brow and you slowly moved to face him.

“I- are you sure?”

“Of course.” Seokmin gave you a warm smile and you couldn’t help a happy giggle escaping you. Soyeon let her gaze dart from you to Seokmin and back.

“The two of you make a lovely couple.” She chuckled, giving you a wink.

Immediately, your smile died and made room for widened eyes and a dropped mouth. A lovely couple?

“That’s very kind of you to say, Soyeon, but we actually aren’t a couple.” Seokmin rose from the chair and walked over to you, “WWe’re just… friends.”

Somehow your eyes found his and you felt like you were back in your bedroom earlier. It wasn’t scary to be vulnerable around him, more so the opposite. Maybe, in another life, you could have met under different circumstances and be what Soyeon had thought you were.

“Oh, of course. I apologize." Soyeon left shortly after and you found your way back into the dressing room, trying on another dress. You ignored the yearning feeling for what could have been and moved on, shoving the feeling as far back into your mind as you possibly could.

Seokmin looked at some other dresses and picked out a few, asking Soyeon for skirts and tops as well, which she brought over just a couple minutes later.

Trying on pretty clothes lifted your spirits and almost made you forget all your worries. For a while you could just be as you had been before, a normal girl with nothing on her mind but clothes and getting her degree. You didn’t let any negativity creep up on you for as long as you could - only losing your composure when you tried on a short black dress and found the zipper to be stuck.

Cursing under your breath, you tried to pull it up once more only to fail.

“Seokmin? Could you help me in here?” You called out for the assistant and he immediately rushed in, pushing the curtain back and finding you clad in the sexiest little black dress he had ever seen. When the curtain fell shut behind him, he swallowed.

“What- uhm, what’s up?”

“I can’t get the zipper up, I think it’s stuck.” You explained and he nodded slowly, walking closer and bringing his hands to your back and the zipper.

Fuck, this is torture, he thought, his eyes scanning the smooth skin of your back, noticing you weren’t wearing a bra, which only made this situation so much worse. He swallowed again, clearing his throat before trying to get the zipper up. His fingers graced your skin as he succeeded on the first try, his free hand carefully pushing your hair over your shoulder, causing you to shiver. In fact, all of the current predicament made you shiver. Seokmin’s fingers on your skin, his breath on your neck, his proximity. Your heartbeat sped up, nails digging into your palms. When did you become so weak?

Once the zipper was up, Seokmin knew he should move. He couldn’t, though. Not when your perfume tickled his nose, not when your body heat was slowly mixing with his. Not when all he had to do was lean forward to kiss your neck. He allowed himself to wonder, allowed his mind to go there - his lips on your neck, your eyes falling shut as you enjoyed how he felt. His hands on your waist, caressing you softly. Allowed himself to think about turning you around and kissing your lips, still remembering the taste of them. Oh, how much he wished to kiss you again and if it was only that. Kiss you breathless, kiss you until your mouth was red and swollen, kiss you until you begged him to never stop.

He didn’t let any of that happen, of course.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t wish for him to.

While not being able to read his thoughts, the tension in the air surrounding you tasted just like his thoughts. Sweet and hot and forbidden. His touch burned you like fire but instead of it hurting you, you craved more.

Your eyes flashed to his in the mirror and an image of him taking you right there pierced through your mind. Judging by the way he looked at you, you figured his own thoughts weren’t far off from your own.

“Done,” he breathed and you found yourself turning around to face him, his eyes boring into yours. Every inch of your body was burning for him, yearning for his touch. He was so close, just like in your bedroom, if you just raised your hands to his nape you could bring him down to you, could kiss him the way you wanted to…

“Thanks,” you mumbled back, the tips of your fingers itching to touch him.

It took every bit of self restraint Seokmin had in him to avert his gaze and take a deep breath.

“I think you should take this dress, Y/N. Seungcheol will love it.”

Then, he walked out.

Oh.

You blinked a few times, staring at where he had just stood before. He had left. Really just… left you here. While a part of you was hurt another one was relieved. He had made the right call.

Or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Something changed after that. After leaving the store with four new dresses, two new skirts and a good amount of new tops and a blazer, Seokmin and you visited five more stores before calling it a day. You had gotten more clothes and purses and accessories than you would probably ever need, but considering it was all on Seungcheol… You were more than fine with it.

Seokmin drove you home, your bags on the backseat and you envied them. As lifeless objects, they weren’t submitted to the unspoken words, the thick tension and the longing in the car. Your eyes were glued to the windshield, not daring to even look at Seokmin.

Feeling about the same way as you, Seokmin was glad he was driving, focusing on the street and traffic instead of you. His heart was heavy in his chest and he realized just how fucked he was.

When he parked in front of your building, the engine stopped and nothing to distract him anymore, Seokmin took it upon himself to leave the car first, moving around it to open the door for you. It took all of his willpower not to kiss you when your eyes met his. His mind raced with inappropriate thoughts again and he quickly averted his eyes, hurrying to get the bags out of the car.

“Thanks for bringing me home, Seokmin.” You said, biting down on your lip. He coughed.

“Of course, let me help you get these upstairs.”

It hung in the air, growing more and more dangerous the closer you came to your apartment. The elevator ride was almost unbearable, worse than the car and you hoped and prayed you could get this over with smoothly. Bring him inside to just put the bags down and bid him goodbye.

The second the elevator doors opened with a ‘ping’, you almost sprinted to your door, opening it as quickly as you could. Seokmin was on your heels and you let him in first, closing the door behind you and regretting it immediately.

Now, Seokmin and you weren’t just in close proximity but also in private close proximity.

The bags found their way onto the couch table, Seokmin not yet having turned around to face you since he had entered the apartment.

“Well, that’s all,” he said with a strained voice. He sounded just like you felt. A subtle nod followed his words and when he turned around, his eyes immediately landed on yours.

“Yeah, th-thanks again.” You stumbled over your words, feet glued to the floor. Even if you had wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to move. Seokmin, though, he did move. He moved closer to you, looked like he floated, coming to a halt when all that separated you was one arm length.

“Anytime, Y/N.”

You were suffocating. All air was leaving your lungs instead making room for another wave of longing. Your hands were once again balled at your sides and your body was still frozen, your heartbeat ringing in your ears.

“I should probably leave.” He said but didn’t move.

“Probably, yeah.” Your response was merely a breath. Seokmin swallowed.

Then, he was suddenly right there in your space, his hands on your waist and his head just inches from yours.

“Tell me to go and I will,” he breathed, “Tell me you don’t want me and I will never look back.”

“I-,” you blinked up at him, the itching back in your fingertips, “I can’t do that.”

He sucked in his breath, eyes roaming your face for just a second before he finally closed the last few inches between you.

His lips were still as soft back then. Soft and warm and perfect and, god, where did he learn to kiss like this?

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pushing your body as close to his as possible. His tongue slid over your bottom lip and you allowed him in without hesitation, melting against him.

He moved his hands to the small of your back, feeling your heat meeting his and he couldn’t hold back a moan when your tongue met his. How long had he craved you? How many times had he dreamt of this moment – of you back in his arms, of your lips on his, of your body pressed against him?

All coherent thoughts having left your mind, you lead him to your bedroom, not parting from his lips even once. Your hands ran through his hair, feeling his soft strands between your fingers.

The kissing didn’t stop until your legs hit the bed. While you fell down onto it, your back on the soft mattress, Seokmin looked at you with eyes full of hunger and need but also affection so strong it made your skin tingle. He rid himself of his suit jacket and his shoes, helping you discard your own right after. Then, he got on top of you, his elbows keeping up as he kissed you again. Your hands moved over his back, feeling his muscles under his shirt. He was built like a god, like someone people worshipped back in the day. Someone who deserved to be worshipped now as well.

His thigh slipped between yours and you moaned against his lips, hands now resting on his cheeks as you moved your hips against his thigh, earning a moan from him in return. You needed to feel all of him, needed to feel how hot his skin was, how his skin tasted. So, you moved your fingers to his dress shirt, unbuttoning it with ease and Seokmin moved to kiss your neck, biting into your sensitive skin and making your pussy throb with even more need.

Shoving his shirt off his shoulders only moments later, your nails dragged along his back, the softness of his skin confirming your suspicions. He was perfect.

Nothing about this felt like back at the office when the two of you had fucked the first time. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t full of only sexual tension. There was more this time - but you refused to acknowledge it at this moment. Instead, you kept rubbing your core against his thigh, feeling him flex.

He remembered you doing that the last time too. Remembered your whimpers and moans, remembered how beautifully you had come around his cock. Twice. He growled and moved back up, kissing you hard. He sat up slightly, taking you with him and helping you out of your shirt. Your bra was back on your body and he began kissing your soft skin while you moved your hands to your back shortly, unclasping your bra and letting it fall off your frame.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” Seokmin took one of your nipples into his mouth while his hand squeezed the other, your back arching against him. There were no words to describe how much you wanted, needed him and your core throbbed pathetically.

Pushing you back into the pillows, Seokmin let his mouth roam over your neck and chest, moving down and ridding you of your pants as well. He could smell your arousal, his head dizzy. Oh, how ready he was to taste you.

Sliding between your legs, he pressed his thumb against your clothed folds, feeling just how wet you were. He groaned as he circled his thumb on your clit, your moans becoming more desperate. His hunger only rose, fingers slipping your panties down, allowing him the perfect view of your glistening pussy.

Without hesitation, he dove in, tongue lapping at your juices. Your hands flew to his hair, nails digging into his scalp as you cried out his name, hips rolling against his face as he devoured you.

Tongue flicking against your clit, circling and sucking it into his mouth. If it were up to him, he’d eat you out for days on end. You tasted sweet and bitter at the same time, had him addicted to you within seconds. He reveled in the way you tasted, one of his fingers sneaking up your thigh and finally sinking into your awaiting hole. You gasped, hips rolling harder against him now. He chuckled.

“You want it bad, don’t you, darling?” His breath hit your core and you nodded, eyes rolling back into your skull when his finger began thrusting into you. But you needed more, needed all of him.

“Seokmin, need more, please.”

He obeyed, pushing another finger inside of you, two fingers now filling you over and over. And yet, you still craved more. You wanted him.

“N-not enough!” You cried and Seokmin licked up your folds, a shiver running down your spine.

“Tell me what you need, baby. What do you want?”

“You, need you, Seok!”

Seok. The nickname made his cock twitch.

“You have me, baby.” He was teasing you. And you were falling for it.

“Your cock, Seok, p-please, need it so bad.”

“There we go, was that so hard, my love?”

Quickly, Seokmin pushed down his pants and underwear, heaving himself up, one hand grabbing your thigh and pushing it back as he settled between your legs again. Kneeling in front of you now, he took his cock into his hand, precum already dripping onto your duvet, and brought it to your entrance.

Inch by inch, he pushed himself inside of you, his eyes never leaving your face. You just looked too fucking breathtaking. Arousal so clearly displayed on your features, his cock twitching once he bottomed out. The way your pussy clenched around him, as if to suck him even deeper had him moaning your name desperately.

“Move, Seok, please move,” you whined, hands grabbing for his forearms and he let out a low chuckle.

“Anything for you.” He thrusted once, both of you moaning in unison.

Then, he thrusted again, thrusted slowly and controlled, his cock feeling perfectly smug between your walls. Your legs hooked around his hips and he fell forward, his lips finding yours again in a desperate kiss. Along with the kiss, his thrusts also became less controlled, the pace picking up. His hand roamed your face, grabbing it possessively, his tongue thrusting into your mouth, your own tongue getting entangled with it in the most delicious way.

“You feel so fucking perfect,” he whispered against your lips and you bit down on his lip, kissing him harder. His hips moved at perfect speed, his cock hitting your sweet spot with every thrust. He held you like you were precious, like he never wanted to let you go again. And perhaps that was true.

Feeling himself nearing his climax, Seokmin moved quicker, groans now escaping him every few seconds. His sounds were bringing you closer to your own climax, hips chasing his movements as you licked into his mouth, nails back to leaving marks on his broad back and shoulders.

Oh, how good he took you, how perfect he held you. How gone you were for him.

Your climax rushed over you when he thrusted especially hard, your pussy clenching and twitching, engulfing his cock in another wave of wetness. You moaned loudly, nails digging into his skin and he hissed, sitting back up and leading his hands to your hips. His eyes had gone dark and wild.

The way he fucked you through your orgasm and chased his own was just like his eyes. He was quick and hard, chasing his own high like a madman, like you were nothing but his little perfect toy. And you loved every second of it. Your back arched from the bed and your moans turned into screams of pleasure. A second climax followed you first and this time you allowed yourself to fall even harder - squirts of liquid shooting out of you and onto his cock and your bed, making him see stars as he finally came, pulling out of your warm heat and letting his ropes of white paint your stomach and breasts.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, falling down onto the bed next to you, pulling you into an embrace, head resting on top of yours. You were still breathing heavily and his drying release started to feel uncomfortable on your skin, but you didn’t dare move out of his arms. Despite the realization beginning to creep into your mind, you decided to just pretend. Pretend like you hadn’t just made everything so much more complicated.

The promise you had made yourself to not pursue any of the men you had slept with for the challenge was broken, forgotten and didn’t matter anymore. You should have felt horrible. Defeated and disappointed in yourself.

But you didn’t feel any of those things as you felt Seokmin’s heartbeat against your own, his arms pulling you even closer and his lips pressing a kiss onto the crown of your head. No, you didn’t feel bad at all. And that scared you.

You didn’t stop Seokmin from leaving to get a washing cloth to clean you up. You also didn’t stop him from slipping back into bed with you. And when you both fell asleep, you didn’t stop that either.

When you woke up, there was no trace of Seokmin in your bed or your apartment except for a note pinned to the fridge.

Duty called, I’m sorry. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow - Seokmin

You stared at the note for a few moments, letting the day before play over in your mind. There was no doubt that the decision to sleep with Seokmin and let him spend the night didn't look too good on your track record. And that didn’t even involve how much you had felt during the sex with him. How different it had been from the first time back in Seungcheol’s firm, how different it had been from any of your last sexual encounters.

Sighing, you averted your eyes from Seokmin’s note (and any thoughts about him) and instead looked over to the couch table where all of your bags from the shopping trip were neatly organized. Seokmin had really taken the time to clean up the mess from the day before. God, he was just too… good. In all honesty, you didn’t deserve the goodness of that man in the slightest, he had to be aware of that as well, right?

After turning to make some coffee and drinking it on your little armchair deep in thought, it was an hour later when another ringing disturbed your bit of inner peace.

Someone was at your door and whoever it was softly knocked now, causing you to frown. It couldn’t be Chan, right? He wouldn’t dare to come here when the past few weeks you had successfully avoided each other, would he?

Slowly, you made your way to the door, looking through the peephole with your heart beating like a drum in your chest.

But it wasn’t Chan standing in front of your door, but Soonyoung. Your eyes widened for a second, before you opened the door with a swing, catching Soonyoung by surprise.

“Soonyoung,” you said, “what are you doing here?”

“I-,” the man before you cleared his throat, “well, I missed you. Not- not in like a, uh, romantic sense. Just… hanging out with you. I miss that.”

There was no stopping the warmth around your heart. It captured you and swallowed you whole. Made you jump into Soonyoung’s arms, pressing your face into his neck, hugging him closely.

“I missed you too, Soonyoungie.”

It truly felt like there hadn’t even been weeks of no contact. You and Sooyoung sat down on your couch, talking about everything you had missed in each other’s lives during the time of no talking. As it turned out, Jiwoo had tried to win Soonyoung back but he had turned her down. You felt a slight sting in your stomach hearing him talk about her. As much as you tried not to think about her, it wasn’t exactly easy. She had been your best friend for so many years and somehow all it took was a few months for it to break apart.

“So, you’re really going on vacation with Seungcheol and Seokmin?” Soonyoung was chewing on his bottom lip, his legs pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around them.

You nodded.

“Yup. And Jeonghan, most likely.”

“Oh shit, that’s gonna be… tough.” He scratched his head. Something about his eyes avoiding yours was suspicious.

“What?” You raised your brows.

“Well… you could finish the challenge, right? if he’s coming too, I mean.”

You opened your mouth, only to close it again. Then you shook your head.

“No. I’m done with that challenge. If I weren’t so attached to this apartment I would have left it weeks ago. Just leave everyone behind and start anew - maybe even move to a different city.”

“Even me?” Soonyoung pouted and you rolled your eyes, laughing slightly.

“No, of course not.” You patted his shoulder.

He smiled.

“But still, Y/N. It would kinda… be the perfect end to all of this, don’t you think? Just finally putting the last nail in the coffin. Not to mention it would piss Jiwoo off so much.”

His smile had turned into a grin. You scoffed.

“I don’t want to piss her off, Soonyoung. I think I’ve done enough of that for a lifetime. And also, what makes you think I’d even want to sleep with Jeonghan after all that happened with him?” You grimaced.

“Maybe because he’s hot?” Soonyoung tilted his head, giving you a knowing grin. Groaning, you threw a pillow at his head.

“Okay, and? You make me sound so shallow.”

“You are, at least in this specific, uh, situation. You wouldn’t have slept with all of us if we weren’t at least somewhat hot.”

Now, he wasn’t wrong about that. Clicking your tongue, you gave in.

“Fine, I admit that my main focus during the challenge was to, well, bed people I found hot. Happy now?”

Soonyoung laughed, throwing the pillow right back at you.

“Bed? Pretty sure we’ve done it on this couch as well as the shower and the dining table, Y/N.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, shaking your head.

“It’s just a random saying, don’t be so literal, Soonyoung.”

The two of you talked for the rest of the evening, Soonyoung deciding to stay the night (on the couch!) and drive you to the airport in the morning. It didn’t matter how many times you told him you’d be fine taking a cab, he still insisted. How wonderful to have at least one friend bring some familiarity back into your life.

Your suitcase barely closed, but it still found its way into Soonyoung’s trunk, joined by your backpack and a small handbag. For now, you didn’t allow the nerves to get the best of you. Sure, this was most likely an idea set up to fail, but it could still be fun!

It had been quite the talk you had with Seungcheol about letting someone come pick you up that had not been pre-approved by him, but after pointing out that he was not your boyfriend (and neither was Soonyoung) he gave in and sent you the correct address you had to come to. Because, of course, the man only flew private.

Music was playing quietly in the background as you and Soonyoung sat in the car, waiting for the light to turn green.

“So,” he began then, Dua Lipa’s voice singing about not giving an ex another chance in the background, “you and Seokmin, what’s that about?”

You could feel his eyes on you, burning a hole into your cheek. Clearing your throat, you attempted to play it cool.

“What do you mean? We just had sex, you know, like I had with you.”

“Yeah, but no.” Soonyoung raised his brows, looking back at the windshield when the light switched colors. “You and I fucked, Christian Grey style and all. No “making love” or something. But what you told me about Seokmin and you two nights ago… that’s different.”

Oh, how badly you wanted to disagree. Tell him it wasn’t different. That just because you and Seokmin had slow and intimate sex didn’t mean there was anything else going on. But perhaps starting to be true to your feelings and discussing them with someone you trusted wasn’t the worst idea.

So, you sighed.

“It’s complicated. Yes, there definitely was something. Ever since I met him for the first time there has been… something. When Seungcheol made him and Vernon watch, I was extremely focused on Seokmin and it irked me that he didn’t… you know, do anything. And after I left, he still stayed on my mind. Even with Mingyu, I-,” you took another deep breath, “it doesn’t make sense, it truly doesn’t. Seokmin and I had only so many encounters and yet he somehow managed to linger in my mind the same way Cheol or Mingyu have.”

“Doesn’t that mean something then? That maybe he’s the one?”

The one? What did that even imply? That you fell for him? That you should be with him?

“I don’t believe any of the guys used for the challenge can be ‘the one’, Soonyoung.” You told him, your face serious. “There is too much baggage there. My baggage that I’m not ready to face yet.”

Soonyoung allowed himself to dwell on your words for a few moments, taking a left to enter the highway and taking you to the airport.

“You know, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. No one will deny that some of the choices you made weren’t idea, but you’re aware of that. You faced the consequences of your actions and realized your mistakes – and I think that says much more about you than anything else.” He switches lanes and glances over to you for a second.

“Y/N, it is not your fault these guys fell for you. You didn’t lead them on, you didn’t promise them anything - and that includes me. You need to stop blaming yourself for our feelings when you can’t change anything about them. Wonwoo took everything the way he did because that’s who he is - not because you told him to react that way. Granted, you could have not fucked Chan at Mingyu and Shua’s party, but it happened and what’s done is done. From what I’ve heard and what you’ve told me you never told anyone you wanted something you ended up taking back. You were always true to yourself and your needs and wants even when you got caught up in your feelings sometimes. All of that does not make you a bad person.”

His words hung in the air, swirling around your head and leaving your mouth to dry and your eyes to water. This sounded a lot like what Seokmin had told you. Making mistakes was human and facing your own was a step in the right direction.

“That’s what Seokmin said, too.” You wiped over your eyes with the back of your hand. “He told me I was being too hard on myself, just like you.”

Soonyoung smiled.

“See, two against one, Y/N. We live in a democracy after all.”

You laughed, shaking your head and looking out the window to your right. Just like with Seokmin, you felt lighter, happy that Soonyoung was back in your life and there when you needed him.

“Fine. I’ll… just see what this trip brings. As much as I’d love to forget about my feelings for Cheol, they do exist. And as long as I haven’t figured that out, I don’t know how smart it was to sleep with Seokmin.”

“Don’t forget your feelings for Mingyu.” Soonyoung took the exit for the airport, a grin playing on his lips. You clicked your tongue.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Oh, you are very welcome.”

Five minutes later, Soonyoung’s car was waved through to the part of the airport that was reserved for private fliers. He parked his car outside the main building and helped you get your suitcase out of the trunk, all while you glanced at the glass entrance door every few seconds. You knew Seungcheol was already there - was Seokmin with him? And what about Jeonghan?

“Alright,” Soonyoung held out his arms, “have a safe trip and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You laughed, accepting the offer of a hug, and patted him on the back when your arms were wrapped around him.

“Thank you, Soonie. I’ll text you when we land.”

A big part of you longed for Soonyoung to join you, to be the one person you could confide in during what was surely going to be an eventful trip.

But alas you watched him drive away, taking with him all the confidence you had hoped to keep. Confidence, you would surely need to survive the upcoming days. Heaving a sigh, you grabbed your suitcase and bag, finally making your way over to the entrance door, smiling and slightly bowing at the security standing in front of them.

After giving them your name and handing them your hand luggage, you walked through the glass doors and into a grand hall with only three gates. Two of them were empty, one was a little crowded with people you knew all too well.

Seungcheol had not yet spotted you, too deep in a conversation with Seokmin.

Vernon was sitting on one of the rows of comfortable looking chairs, head down and focused on his phone.

Your eyes looked from Seungcheol and Seokmin to Vernon and further to the left - and you couldn’t help but stop in your steps and gape.

Jeonghan was talking to a tall figure in a well fitted white dress shirt and black dress pants and there was no way this was happening right now.

“Y/N!” Seungcheol had spotted you, a bright smile on his gorgeous face as he jogged over to you, his hand landing on the small of your back as he leaned forward to plant a kiss on your cheek.

A kiss that should have felt sweet and nice in any other situation, but not when Jeonghan’s earlier conversation counterpart stared at you with wide, pretty brown puppy eyes. Not when you had not been prepared to meet him here at the same time as Cheol and Seokmin. Not when you had done everything in your power to forget him.

“Ah yes,” Jeonghan smirked, “meet our German translator. I think you go to the same university, Y/N - do you know Kim Mingyu?”

This little shit. He asked a question he already knew the answer to. There was no way Jiwoo hadn’t told him about Mingyu, nor was there any chance this hadn’t been his doing.

Seungcheol’s smile didn’t falter when he looked down at you, but it did once he saw the look on your face. Something stirred within him then. Jeonghan had been the one to bring Mingyu on board - best of his year, TA for a well known professor, almost fluent in German. Seungcheol didn’t think much about it, after all, Kim Mingyu was a common name in Korea. But now, seeing the way you stared at the man he hired… it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

Mingyu, meanwhile, let his gaze wander from your face to the arm Seungcheol had around you. His body heated up, all these moments of missing and trying to get over you suddenly plummeting to his feet, joined by his broken heart. How many nights had he contemplated calling you? How often had he thought about driving over to your apartment and making you understand how much you meant to him? How wrong you were about cutting him out of your life? And now you stood here, in front of him and his new boss touched you like he knew you, like he had done this a thousand times before. Mingyu’s hands balled.

“The captain just informed me, they are ready for us.”

Seokmin’s voice disrupted the awkward silence and all of you looked over at him. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, a big part of you wanting to run out of the hall and chase after Soonyoung.

You didn’t though. You followed the others outside and onto the private jet, going for the seat furthest in the back, happy when it was only Vernon who sat in the seat opposite yours with a sheepish smile.

Singapore was incredible.

Driving from the airport to your hotel had already taken your breath away. Your eyes had been glued to the window and for a while, you forgot about the rather uncomfortable situation you found yourself in. Thankfully, you shared the car with Seungcheol who was busy on a phone call and didn’t really pay you any mind, while Vernon was driving. Seokmin was in the car ahead with Mingyu and Jeonghan going over the schedule for the week.

Once you reached the hotel, Seokmin checked all of you in, giving you your roomkey in the form of a card first, his eyes meeting yours for only a second. You admired his ability to act like nothing had happened between you as much as you hated it. Rationally, it was better for him to act nonchalant toward you. But your heart told you something different.

Then again, your heart was doing a lot of things at the moment - jumping between the sexy CEO still on the phone, his suit jacket hanging over his arm and shades on his perfect nose, the newly hired translator with his hands buried in his pants and his eyes searching for yours, and finally the assistant who handed out keycards to everyone and looked amazing in his beige linen two piece.

Getting out of the lobby and into the safety of your own room was undoubtedly the best decision right now. And yes, once the door was closed behind you and no one else was around anymore, you finally felt like you could breathe again. The plane ride over had been horrible - the only thing holding you back from somehow jumping out of the plane had been Vernon who told you about this girl he had met and was going to go on a date with and the book you brought.

Six hours had felt like seventeen and only now were you able to actually reflect what was going on. Walking further into the room, you took out your phone and connected it to the wifi, immediately shooting Soonyoung a message.

You: Major SOS, MINGYU is here!!!!

Soonyoung: Mingyu??? WHAT???

You: He was hired as the fucking translator

You: I think I’m gonna be sick

You: Worst part is… I’m pretty sure Jeonghan planned this. Little fucker.

Soonyoung: Jeonghan???? Woah, what the fuck?? I’m so sorry

Soonyoung: What are you gonna do?

You: I have absolutely no idea. I have to get ready for an event in a few hours, I might just… idk… die or smth

Soonyoung: okay first of all, no dying on my watch. you’ll be fine, just… talk to them. maybe its good they are all there? maybe you can like, you know, figure out who you want

You: …

You: yeah no, i’m taking a shower now, bye!!

Locking your phone and throwing it onto the bed, you realized Soonyoung had sadly not helped you with the situation. Fine, maybe you had only talked to him for like… five seconds, but still! You truly didn’t expect yourself to be realistic right now.

Hopping into the shower made you at least feel somewhat better. Washing the flight and the guilt off your body while redirecting your thoughts to the fun you’d surely have at the dinner party; dressing up and doing your make-up and feeling pretty always helped you feel better. And a twisted part of your brain was even excited about looking your best with Seokmin, Seungcheol, and Mingyu to see. Maybe even Jeonghan - showing him what he missed out on and such.

Yes, you decided then when you sat in front of the mirror in the hotel room, you wouldn’t let this tear you down. You wouldn’t let them see how much this affected you. Instead, you’d look your absolute best and make them wish they had you for the night, when in reality none of them would.

Just as you’re about to finish your makeup, still wrapped in the soft white bathrobe the hotel provided, you heard a knock on your door. Quickly, you got up and stalked over to the door, opening it with a swing.

Seokmin stood in front of you, his face hard like stone, not even the slightest emotion creeping over his features when your eyes met. You hate to admit that your heart stung at that.

“Mr. Choi has asked me to let you know you’ll be riding in the car with him again. And for you to be ready in half an hour. Does that work for you?”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe.

“What’s going on with you?” You asked him, ignoring his question.

“I asked you a question.” He dodged you. Your jaw tightened.

“Fine. Yes, that works for me. Now, what’s going on with you?”

Now, you spot a shift in his face, just a millisecond, but you’re sure it was there: pain.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing is going on with me, everything is fine.”

“Why are you lying to me?” You almost reached out, your fingers itching to touch him - just like two days ago. While the tension wasn’t as loaded as back then, you could still feel the invisible string that tugged you toward him.

“I am not lying,” he responded now, his eyes staring into yours, “I’m truly fine.”

He wasn’t fine. He was the opposite of fine. But how could he tell you? How could he let you know that Seungcheol had found out about him picking you up for the shopping spree instead of Vernon and how he had belittled him because of it? How could he let you know that he was nothing compared to Seungcheol. Not to mention Mingyu now showing up, handsome, tall, perfectly built Mingyu with the same interest as you. How could he tell you his heart was hurting and screaming for you to want him the way he wanted you?

There was no way he could ever share that with you, not here, not now. Not when he knew your history with Seungcheol and judging by the way you and Mingyu had looked at each other - there surely was history with him, too. And Seokmin? He was just… someone you slept with twice. Someone you had seen three, maybe four times at best and he really thought he could compare with that?

“Seokmin…,” the soft sound of your voice almost broke him. But he just cleared his throat.

“Like I said. Be ready in half an hour and come down to the lobby.”

When he turned around and walked away, you felt like he had taken a part of you with him.

In the black dress you had bought with Seokmin, you stepped out of the elevator. There was no doubt that you’d take the men’s breath away once they spotted you - and that was exactly what you were going for. With your best poker face, you clutched your purse and strode over to where you saw them all standing in the lobby in fine suits.

Seokmin was focused on his phone, Seungcheol was talking to the hotel manager and Mingyu was speaking with Vernon. Jeonghan was seated on one of the comfortable looking dark green velvet sofas and spotted you first. Sucking in a breath, his eyes roamed over your body - taking in every curve, the dress hugging you like it was made for you. He licked over his bottom lip and got up, walking over to you.

“Now, would you look at that.” He tilted his head when he reached you, eyes glinting in the light of the lobby. You rolled your eyes at him.

“Want to take a picture? It’d last longer.”

Jeonghan chuckled, raising his hand to his chin, rubbing it softly as he continued to look at you.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll have you looking like this saved in my mind forever now.”

The other men now became aware of you too, all of them close to losing their composure when they saw you.

Ignoring Jeonghan, you walked past him and stopped in front of Seungcheol.

“I heard I’m driving with you?”

He looked dashing. But then, when did he not? A dark red suit fitting him perfectly, a black dress shirt underneath, open just a few buttons and showing a silver chain. He was really testing your “no sex” rule.

“Indeed, you are.” He held out his arm, his eyes never leaving you and your hand found its way around his biceps, letting him lead you outside.

It took everything in you not to glance at Mingyu or Seokmin.

Vernon was in the driver’s seat in the limousine, but the window between him and you and Seungcheol was shut. The second Seungcheol got into the car after you, the door shut, he effortlessly grabbed you by the waist and pulled you onto his lap.

You yelped at the sudden lifting and stared down at him with wide eyes. His hands were holding you down thigh and yours flew to his shoulders when Vernon started the car and began to drive.

“Seungcheol, what-,” you began, but the man beneath you shook his head.

“I do the talking, princess,” he scanned your face, “you and Mingyu, what is the situation there? And don’t lie to me.”

A lump formed in your throat. Of course, he’d ask about MIngyu. Cheol wasn’t stupid, more so the opposite. You bit down on your lip.

“He was… one of the first few people I slept with for the challenge,” you began to explain, “but we kind of, well, had a thing going on. Nothing exclusive, obviously, but still. We continued to see each other and sleep together.”

“So, like us?” Cheol’s eyes couldn’t hide the hurt and you felt your stomach drop.

“Yes, but also no. It was different with him and-,”

“Easier, you mean.” Cheol’s face hardened and so did his grab on your waist, “it was easier because he’s not your best friend’s brother.”

God, he was being more dramatic than he needed to be. You sighed, hands moving to his nape.

“Cheol, listen to me. Yes, it was easier, I won’t lie to you about that. But just because it was easier doesn’t mean I feel anything more for him than I do for you.”

What you had considered to be soothing words, only made the stone on Cheol’s face turn even harder. His hands moved, one of them lying on your thigh, while the other moved further up, making your eyes widen again. His fingers brushed against your breasts, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Then, he was on your face, softly caressing your cheek. But while his touch was soft, his face surely wasn’t.

“I told you before, Y/N,” he whispered, “you are mine. You’ve said so yourself. Every time I fuck you, you scream you’re mine.” The hand on your thigh moved up, goosebumps erupting on your skin as he stroked the inside of your thigh, fingertips finding your core. You gasped slightly.

“Seungcheol- I- I told you the condit-,”

“That was before I knew another man who you feel something for will be on this trip,” he shoved your panties to the side and it was utterly embarrassing how wet you had already become from just these few touches.

“I need to remind you, princess, need to show you that only I, only Daddy can take care of you. Will you let Daddy take care of you, princess?”

You couldn’t have stopped the nod even if you had tried.

He crashed his lips against yours right then, and your brain short circuited. It all went so fast. Fingers shoving your panties to the side to slide into your cunt, fucking into you at no mercy, your fingers nearly cramping from how hard you dug them into his nape.

“Look at you, look at how easy it is for me to fuck my fingers into you, princess. How willing you are for Daddy, isn’t that right?”

Your eyes rolled back, a long moan escaping your lips. This man really knew how to push your buttons, how to get you dripping, how to crave more.

His lips moved from your lips to your neck, sucking on your skin and licking over the small marks he left. Motherfucker, you think, marking me right before an event? Is he for real?

The thought vanished though, when he pulled his fingers out of you to open his pants, getting out his cock in record speed. Eyelashes fluttered as you looked down, mouth watering as you saw his big cock, red angry tip with precum inviting you to lick it off. Swallowing, you let your tongue run over your bottom lip, luring a chuckle from Cheol.

“Aw, does daddy’s little slut want to suck his big cock? Are you hungry for it, baby?” You felt your cheeks heat and you raised your head to look at him again, eyes saying more than words could. Cheol swore under his breath, hands back to your hips.

“As much as I’d love to have your mouth on my cock, we don’t have long and I intend to fuck your pussy full of my cum.”

With one quick move, he got your hole right where he needed it, shoving his cock upwards into you. You cried out, nails now digging into his clothed shoulders. Bottoming out, Cheol licked over your lips, your own tongue meeting his and inviting him into your mouth. His hips began their restless pace, holding you down with his one hand, while the other cupped your cheek, the kiss becoming more and more desperate and hot. Your body heated, the coil in your stomach already beginning to tighten.

“Fuck, you don’t even know how much I missed this pussy,” Seungcheol groaned against your lips, his cock fucking up into you hard and quick, hitting you right where you needed him.

“D-Daddy, f-feels so good!” Your voice was whiny and loud and you were pretty sure Vernon could hear you, praying to the universe he didn’t get affected by this and drove you into a car. But then, maybe this wouldn’t even be a bad death - split open on Seungcheol’s cock.

“Yeah, you like getting fucked like a cheap whore, isn’t that right?” His lips searched for yours again, tongue and teeth getting caught up as his cock twitched inside of you. Your cunt clenched around him, craving his release as much as your own.

“No one can fuck you as good as me, princess. Daddy is the one who can give you exactly what you need.”

Vernon took a very sharp left turn, making Cheol lose his balance. Quickly, he saved the two of you from falling to the floor of the limousine, you finding yourself on your back, your dress completely raised up and Cheol on top of you, his cock still buried inside of you. He groaned at the different angle, his head falling back as his hips chased his own high. You grabbed for his arms again, crying out his name and arching your back, needing him deeper, needing him closer.

But Cheol fucked you the way he wanted, fucked you to reach his climax, to claim you as his. He wanted you to walk around that dinner party (read as: around Mingyu) with his cum dripping into your lacey panties.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he breathed out, the mere image of you on his arm saying hello to his business partners with his seed inside of you bringing him much closer to the edge.

“Yes, yes, Daddy, pump me full, fuck,” your head was spinning at this point, your pussy throbbing, stomach tightening. You were close, too, ready to give him your all.

Just that, when Cheol came with your name on his lips, thick ropes of white filling you, he pulled out right when his own orgasm was over, his fingers only pushing his cum back into you, his lips turned to a menacing grin.

“Wha-,” you blinked up at him, but Seungcheol only leaned back, your panties springing back to their place. He wiped his fingers on the inside of his suit jacket and chuckled.

“Oh, you thought you were allowed to cum, princess? After fucking Seokmin the other day?” His eyebrows shot up and your face turned pale. So, that was why Seokmin had behaved that way. Seungcheol had found out.

“Cheol, I can explain.”

“No need, my dear,” he pulled a hand through his hair, checking himself out in the tinted window. He looked ethereal as always. “But for the record, when you finally come to your senses and choose me, my cock is the only one you’ll be choking on, got it?” His eyes shot you a look full of rigour that, funnily enough, just made your pussy throb even harder.

“S-Sir, we- we have arrived.” Vernon’s voice now sounded through the limousine and your head only became hotter.

“Wonderful,” Cheol smiled, “I’ll wait outside the car, darling, maybe check your makeup and hair, you look a little… ravaged.”

The party was an absolute bummer.

At least for you.

Seungcheol had lead you inside, a smirk on his face you wished you could punch right off. With your brain back on inside your head and not down between your legs, you realized just how fucked up the car ride had been. Seungcheol was possessive and rude and you- and you were a complete fool. A fool that was too easily swayed by the man now standing a few feet away, Mingyu next to him and talking to the men he had actually flown here to meet.

You stood in the corner of the room, a standing table in front of you. A glass of white wine stood before you and you lazily sipped on it once in a while, trying to ignore the throbbing between your legs and Cheol’s release soaking your already drenched panties. Not exactly the perfect predicament for a fun evening.

And it was just about to get worse.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jeonghan placed his glass of what looked a lot like whiskey on ice next to your wine and leaned forward, elbows propped on the table.

“Go away.” You just mumbled, bringing your glass back to your lips. Jeonghan pouted slightly.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be so mean to me.”

“You hired Mingyu because you knew exactly who he was. Tell me why that’s not enough reason to be mean to you, even if we leave out everything else you’ve done?”

Jeonghan clicked his tongue, standing back up, his back straight.

“You’re a smart woman, Y/N.” He looked at you, took in you body in the dress, let his eyes wander down your back and to your ass, to the way you had your thighs pressed together, shifting slightly on your feet. His eyebrows rose.

“Well, thanks. Now, leave me alone.”

“Should I really? You look like you could use some help.”

Your head turned to look at him and the knowing smirk on his lips nearly caused you to lose your footing.

“What are you talking about?” You shot at him, placing the glass back down.

Now, Jeonghan slowly leaned forward his mouth only inches from your ear. You hated the effect it had on you - how his breath on your neck suddenly intensified the throbbing in your core, how your nipples stiffened against the soft fabric of your dress.

“I have seen enough horny women to spot them from a mile away, darling.” He licked over his lips. “And I would not mind at all to get you out of this… unfortunate situation.”

As if to underline his statement, his fingers graced your back and you flinched slightly, eyes widening as you stared at him.

“I’m- I’m not-,”

“What? You’re not horny?” He tilted his head, fingers slowly traveling down, brushing against your ass. “I feel like that’s just a very bad lie, Y/N.”

Fuck. His touch truly made electricity shoot through your body. Your need for release was going to win the battle, you already knew. And when you dared to look over at Seungcheol, finding him still focused on his business talk, remembering it was his fault you were feeling this way, you knew there was absolutely no need for you to fight anymore.

“Just so you know, though,” you looked back at him, voice low for only him to hear, “I’m full of Seungcheol’s cum.”

It most definitely shouldn’t have made his cock twitch as hard as it did, hearing these words from you. Jeonghan moved closer to you, his fingers now finally finding their way between your legs. And, holy fuck, you truly were drenched.

“Only makes it wetter, who am I to complain?”

And then his fingers shoved your panties to the side, just like Cheol had earlier. He didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate, no, he just shoved them right into you, your body jerking forward a little, both of your hands holding onto the edges of the table to steady yourself.

“Now, now. Behave yourself,” Jeonghan whispered into your ear, his body placed behind yours, one arm leaning against the table. From an outsider's perspective it just looked like you two were having a very intimate conversation.

He worked his fingers quick and hard, your legs spreading even more for him. It almost made you angry how good he was. How he was about to make you cum with seemingly no effort at all.

“You like this? All these people around us?” His breath truly was going to get you over the edge. “Are you into people possibly catching you? Secretly want them to know what a pretty little whore you are, getting finger fucked in the middle of a million dollar deal?” His lips now met your nape and you literally felt your soul leave your body. Holding back your moan, your fingers cramped around the edges of the table, your hips meeting his thrusts as subtle as you could.

“Are you close, darling? About to cum all over my fingers, hm?” Now, he licked over your sweet skin, your eyes falling shut as you concentrated on the way his fingers hit your sweet spot over and over again, and only a few seconds later-

“Fuck, don’t stop”,” you cried as quietly as you could. The whimper you let out made Jeonghan rock hard in his pants. His eyes were looking down on where his fingers sunk into you at perfect speed, his own low moan making your orgasm rush over you, pussy pulsating around his fingers as he fucked you through it, his eyes glassy as he wondered how good you’d feel around his cock.

“Good girl, came so prettily on my fingers.” Pulling them out, he discreetly turned around, sucking them clean and seeing heaven. How could you smell and taste so goddamn perfect?

Your eyes slowly fluttered open again, relief washing over you when you saw that no one had noticed what had just happened. You cleared your throat and sat back up, drinking another big sip of wine.

“Come to my room,” Jeonghan’s hands were on your hips, his erection pressing against your ass. You hated the small cry stumbling over your lips.

“As much as I… appreciate your help, Jeonghan, I will not sleep with you.” You hoped your tone came across more serious than you actually felt about the statement. Jeonghan groaned lowly, bringing his forehead to your shoulder.

“I know how much you want me, darling. You were practically begging for my cock with your pussy. Fingers aren’t enough for you, you need to be filled with cock, need to be pumped full, that’s what you’re into, isn’t it? I can give that to you.”

His cock was so fucking hard against you. And even though you had just climaxed, your body burned with want. Still, this was Jeonghan. And you wouldn’t fuck him. You couldn’t.

“N-No. I- I don’t want you.” Pathetic. Everyone could tell you were lying. Especially Jeonghan. He chuckled now.

“Fine. I’ll be waiting, though. In case you, you know, change your mind.”

Then, he walked off. And you were desperately needing some fresh air.

You couldn’t catch a break that night.

Standing at the reiling of the balcony, staring out at the magnificent skyline of Singapore was Mingyu.

You wanted to turn around and leave, but just as you were about to, he moved his head, catching you in the corner of his eye. He immediately turned around, his eyes searching for yours.

“Y/N.” The way he said your name, so full of longing and hurt and love made your heart flutter and break at the same time.

“Mingyu.” You felt yet another lump forming in your throat.

He walked over now, his long legs bringing him to you in only three steps. For a minute, neither of you spoke. Only your eyes seemed to communicate. All the memories of the two of you played behind your eyes and you knew, deep down, you missed him.

“I- I wanted to call you so many times.” Mingyu finally broke the silence. You lowered your head.

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Don’t say that.” His hand was trembling as he placed it onto your cheek, bringing your head up to look at him again. “Don’t say that you didn’t miss me.”

Shit. Could he read your mind?

“I told you-,”

“Is it because of him?” The pain in his voice made you want to rip your ears out and throw them off the balcony. “Are you in love with him?”

“Mingyu, this-,”

“Answer me, Y/N. Are you in love with Seokmin?”

Wait, what?

“Seokmin?” You asked, your eyes blinking up at him.

“Yes. I saw the way you look at him. The way he looks at you. I walked out of my room earlier today and you were talking to him. He seemed… in pain. He looked just like how I felt.”

Your head began racing and so did your heart. In love with… Seokmin? Not Seungcheol? He didn’t ask you about Seungcheol, but Seokmin? Something seemed wrong and at the same time…

“I- I don’t know. Mingyu, I am… I am in no headspace to be in love with anyone.” You shook your head, grabbing his wrist with both of your hands and pulling his hand from your face. It almost killed you to see the look in his eyes.

“You felt something for me, didn’t you? You… you had feelings for me, right?” He was asking for too much. He might not know, but he did. Shaking off your hands, he now brought both his hands back to your face, taking a step closer to you.

“Tell me right now, Y/N, that you never had feelings for me. That I was never on your mind as more than just a friend with benefits. If you can’t tell me that, I swear I’ll leave you alone.”

The heart in your chest was about to stop. His words reminded you too much of Seokmin and what he had said before you had given into your longing. Everything inside of you screamed at you to say something, to tell him you never felt anything. But just like Seungcheol, you know he’d see right through your lies. So, you pressed your lips together and lowered your gaze.

“You can’t, can you?” Mingyu whispered, thumb caressing your cheek. Then, he dipped his head and kissed you, kissed you with all of his might, with his heart and soul, with all he could ever give you.

And for a moment, you let him. Let him kiss you, and kissed him back. Arms hanging down your body, but your eyes closed and your head tilted up. You let his tongue swirl around yours, let his hands grab your face like he never wanted to let go.

But then you remember Wonwoo. Remembers Chan. Remember what he’d lose and how foolish it would be of him to choose you over friendships. Remember that he might not even be the one you want, that your heart is torn and divided between three. So, you pushed him away.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I just- I need to go.”

You turned away from him and ran, not caring when he called after you, not caring when your feet brought you back to the party and you downed another three glasses of wine.

And when you saw Jeonghan leave, it only took you five minutes to follow him up the elevator.

The knock on the door was drowned out by your own heartbeat. On a scale from one to ten, this was probably a ten on how dumb this decision was. And yet. Sleeping with Jeonghan would, (a) distract you from your pain and, (b) mean you had finished the Challenge after all. You allowed yourself to concentrate on those two arguments and bit down on your lip when the door finally swung open, revealing Jeonghan with his suit jacket discarded and the first few buttons of his shirt undone.

He looked absolutely angelic. Or as angelic as a devil could look, at least.

And the second he realized it was you, the angelic aura changed into the one of what he actually was. His grin made him almost look feral.

“I knew you’d come.” He said before pulling you against him, the door falling shut behind you. Your breath left your body and your eyes looked up at him, big and round, and Jeonghan wanted nothing more than to devour you.

“This doesn’t change the fact that I hate you,” you mumbled, eyes glued to his. His grin only grew.

“I always thought hate-sex to be the absolute best.”

His kiss made your body shake, your hands flying to his hair, digging your fingers into his scalp. His hands grabbed your thighs, lifting you up, your legs immediately finding their way around his waist. You could feel him against your core, your dress shoved up to your stomach.

He walked over to the bed, dropping you down onto it. You looked at him, eyes dark and mouth red, and he only grinned, flipping you over the next second. You let out a surprised yelp, which turned into a moan when you felt his lips on your nape, kissing down your back and down to the zipper of your dress, opening it with nimble fingers. Every inch of skin he set free, his lips found and kissed, shivers continuously running down your spine.

Together, you freed yourself of the dress, leaving you in only your ruined panties. Jeonghan stared down at you, at your perfect body on his bed, hair sprawled over the sheets, goosebumps on your skin. He kneeled down onto the bed, leaning over you and kissing down your back again, fingers caressing your sides as he moved.

Delicious moans escaped your throat, only making Jeonghan grow even harder in his pants. Kissing and licking his way down, he stopped at the waistband of your underwear, telling you to lift your hips. Said and done, he pulled the underwear off you, leaving you completely bare before him.

“God, aren’t you just beautiful, darling.” He licked over his lips, hands now groping your ass, making you cry out in pleasure. He groaned as well, the firm skin off your ass making his cock twitch. He quickly moved down, pushing your hips forward and heading face first into your soaked folds.

You let out a high-pitched moan when you felt his tongue on you, his nose bumping against your throbbing entrance. He devoured you like you were his favorite meal, hands still kneading your ass and thumb carefully pressing down on your rim. You jerked forward, pleasure shooting through your whole body like an electric shock. He chuckled against your folds, licking through your folds and finally letting his tongue thrust into your cunt, thumb applying more pressure against your rim.

“Oh, gods”, you couldn’t help it, couldn’t help when you came just then for the second time that evening, your orgasm rushing over you. Jeonghan was more than happy to collect your release with his tongue, your taste addicting. He thrusted his tongue back into you, only to pull back and move up, his tongue finding where his thumb had been before. Your fingers gripped the bedsheets and an even louder moan was heard throughout the room, having you hoping and praying the room was soundproof.

Jeonghan thrived on your sounds and continued his spiel, tongue flicking around your rim, getting it nice and wet, very slowly letting it sink into you, all while his right hand moved to your pussy, thumb finding your clit and circling it the same way his tongue was fucking into your rim.

“Fuck- fuck!” You saw stars around your head, saw your next orgasm only minutes away. Licking over your rim one more time, Jeonghan moved back, using his hands now to get rid of his own clothes.

“Who would have thought you like it up the ass, darling. What do you say? Should I prep you and fuck you pretty ass?” As if to underline his question, he slapped your asscheek, making you whimper.

“Y-yes, please, f-fuck,” your mind was clouded with desire and Jeonghan groaned, hands now getting rid of his pants and briefs, throwing them down to your clothes on the floor. Fully naked now, he let his fingers brush over your back again, finally grabbing ahold of your hair and pulling you up. You let out a breathless sound, pussy throbbing.

“Mhm, then I shall do just that… but first.” His hand grabbed around his cock, jerking it off a couple times before bringing it to your pussy and pushing into you. Your moans were music to his ears. You sounded even better than he had ever allowed himself to believe.

He began to fuck your pussy then, his hand still pulling your hair back as his hips moved against yours, his balls slapping against your ass over and over as he sped up his pace.

“Fuck, even with Seungcheol’s cum still inside you, you’re so fucking tight, baby.” He breathed against your ear, biting down on your earlobe. You shuddered and nodded, not entirely sure what you should say or if you even could at this point.

Jeonghan’s movements became more rapid, chasing your high more than his, knowing he was still going to get your ass and come all over it later. The thought alone almost made him spill into you, his cock twitching dangerously.

“Come on, darling, come on my cock. Don’t you want me to fuck your ass? Want me to spill all over it later, hm?”

As much as he would have loved to pump you full, he’d be more than happy with getting his load onto your body. You cried out, pussy pulsating as your third orgasm neared. And when Jeonghan brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles onto it harshly, black dots appeared in front of your eyes when you reached your high, cunt vibrating around Jeonghan as wave after wave of pleasure hit you.

“Yes, that’s right, come on my cock, my pretty little whore.” He fucked you through it, mouth hanging open as he watched the way his cock kept disappearing into you.

When he let go of your hair moments later, you fell down on youR hands and knees, your body still tingling from your orgasm. Jeonghan quickly got down from the bed and opened his suitcase, finding what he needed right then.

“Stay like that, darling.” He hurried to the bathroom, quickly dampening a towel and cleaning his cock of your juices. He might be an ass, but he still didn’t want to endanger you or him. Once he was done, he practically ran back to you, grabbing the lube he had put on the bed earlier.

“Be a doll and lay down, just your ass up in the air- exactly like that, good girl.” You found your head in the pillows, your breath ragged as you wiggled your hips. You really craved him inside you.

Jeonghan made good work of preparing you. Lube on your hole, on his fingers, slowly working you open enough for him to finally sink his aching cock into you.

And when he did, he swore he saw the gates of heaven.

“God, fucking hell,” he groaned, his nails digging into your lower back as he bottomed out. Your eyes rolled back and you felt yourself shiver from pleasure.

Doing his first thrust, Jeonghan almost felt himself spill right then and there.

“You feel so fucking good.”

One, two, three more slow thrusts and he felt like you were ready for what he needed. He tried his first harder and quicker thrust and you whimpered, shoving your hips against his.

“M-more.”

Oh, he was very willing to give you more. Placing his hands on your waist, he threw his head back and fucked into you hard and quick, your walls squeezing him so absolutely fucking perfect he almost believed it to be a dream.

“Fuck yeah, such a good girl, letting me fuck her ass like that.” He leaned forward, sinking even deeper into you and his head hung low as he couldn’t control his groans. His hips crashed against yours over and over, your body needing another release. And when your own finger found your clit, rubbing it desperately, you felt another blackout coming.

“Fuck, are you coming again?” Jeonghan bit down on his lip, eyes rolling back and he pulled out at the exact moment his cock squirted out his load, thick and white and looking like art on your perfect ass. You came just then, your body quivering and you fell forward onto the bed, Jeonghan collapsing right beside you, his chest heaving.

Five minutes, you told yourself. You were just going to give yourself five minutes before you’d leave to your own room.

Just that, when Jeonghan got up and got a towel to clean you up, five minutes hadn’t even been over and you were already fast asleep.

–

How easy it would be to blame it on the alcohol. But sadly, you hadn’t even been that drunk. Jeonghan was already awake when you sat up in his bed, the blanket pressed to your still naked body.

“Sleep well?” He asked over his shoulder. He had already showered, hair still a little wet.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” You asked, ignoring that he was naked from the waist up and getting up. Big mistake, you realized, when you felt an ache in between your legs and… further back.

Jesus, you really let him fuck your ass.

“For what reason?” Jeonghan chuckled.

“Pretty sure people who had hate-sex don’t spend the night in each other’s rooms.” Mumbling, you searched for your clothes on the floor, growing slightly panicked when you didn’t find them.

“Look over there,” Jeonghan pointed at the closet, “your dress is in there. Your underwear, though, I fear that didn’t quite survive yesterday.”

The heat in your cheeks was almost laughable. Continuing to ignore him you grabbed your dress from the closet and quickly slipped into it, thankfully succeeding again to zip it up yourself.

“Well, uhm, I should go then.”

“Breakfast is already over downstairs, but I’d be happy to take you to my favorite brunch place.” Jeonghan smirked at you, knowing full well you were not going to accept his invitation.

“I think I’d rather starve, thank you very much.”

Funny thing, this timing.

Opening the door to Jeonghan’s room and stumbling out, your shoes dangling from your hand and your body still sore, you felt all the color wash away from your face.

Seungcheol, Seokmin and Mingyu all stood in the hallway, probably waiting for Jeonghan. Your breath got stuck in your throat, all their eyes set on you.

“You forgot your pur-,” Jeonghan came out after you now, his eyes immediately catching the three men standing there. His smirk came back when he handed you the handbag.

“Guys, I’ll be right there, just need to put on some shoes!” He winked at them and disappeared back into his room.

The sound of the door closing brought you back to the here and now. Without even second guessing it, you turned away from the three men who haunted your fragile heart and began walking to your own room.

Of course, they followed you.

Of course, they called your name.

And of course, they all stood there with their eyes on you as you looked for the keycard in your purse right outside your door.

“Please tell me you didn’t actually sleep with Jeonghan.” Seungcheol.

“Why would you do that? After the balcony, I- I thought…” Mingyu.

“I shouldn’t have acted the way I did, please- please tell me this is not what it looks like.” Seokmin.

Fuck, your head was hurting.

Everything around you was a blur and you finally found the keycard, taking it out and pressing it against the pad, pushing the door open.

“Y/N!” All three said in unison. And finally, you turned and looked at them. One by one.

Mingyu, on the far right. Tall and handsome and with hurt on his face like you hadn’t seen before. Hadn’t you told him? That you weren’t good for him? That he deserved better? Yet, he was here, standing in front of you and still wanting you. Your heart squeezed inside your chest, in fact, all of your insides felt like they were squished together. Mingyu, who had given you a sense of normal, who had made you laugh, who had understood your desire to finish the challenge, who had stayed by your side and promised to wait for you.

Seungcheol, in the middle. Broad and beautiful and with sadness in his eyes you didn’t think he even had in him. In some twisted way, you knew he loved you. He wanted to be yours and was sure you were his. But he was also the reason you and Jiwoo weren’t friends anymore. He and his charm and the way he made butterflies erupt in your stomach whenever he touched you. He, who matched your energy and who wanted to take care of you.

Seokmin, on the left. Strong and pretty and just as pained as the other two. But there was more behind his eyes. More longing and regret, more needing to be reassured he hadn’t imagined all that had happened between you two. You weren’t stupid and you also weren’t blind. Of course, you had felt it too, of course the encounter at your place had been more than anything you had ever thought could happen to you. But you didn’t really know him, did you? Seokmin wanted to know you. He wanted to know every bit of you. Seokmin wanted to be with you, wanted to be what you needed at all times.

And you?

You, in front of them, took a slow step to the side with trembling lips and let them walk past you one by one into what would be the most important decision of your life.

taglist @ariachavez168, @sandcasltes, @amiga-qmilagraso, @learnthisfeeling, @cersti-mo0, @nixtape-foryou, @minahoeshi, @listxn, @starlight-night0, @havetaeminforbreakfast, @kwonranghae, @haogyuslut, @a-dramatic-girl, @lovercuff, @grapefruithan, @whyokoa, @lovercheol, @cosmicupoftea, @learnthisfeeling, @knucklesdeepmingi, @wonusworldd, @baldi-2, @seventeencaratworld, @kingalls00, @1-800-jeonwonwoo, @hoeforhao, @p-dwiddle-blog, @tsukimiyuukun, @urfavtallgirl222 @Jordand2012, @lcvejordyn, @Jeanjacketjesus, @gaebestie, @hara-98-fan, @human-wthout-dreams, @eburneon, @xiusmarshmallow, @spbrax, @speaknowlwt, @lvlyjisung @yogurttea, @novalpha, @woo8hao, @hgma @akemiixx01@tsukimiyuukun @volitina @haoxiaoba @justhere4kpop @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken, @miriamxsworld, @lexix001, @avyskai @punkhazardlaw, @lostmembrane @magicshop1913 @tigerhoshii @wonuskie, @myseokjinji, @mrtyhqr, @becarat, @f4airyjjosh, @taellien, @lovelyakane, @mauge92, @teeskz, @Kayjcozz, @xyren1, @jeonjungkaka, @nsfwseungcheol, @babybae-shisui, @djisfantastic, @wakandabiitch2, @mailight (if your user is crossed out, i means tumblr is a bitch and wont let me tag you)

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chimcess · 3 months ago

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Pitch Black || jjk (1)

⮞ Chapter One: The Crash Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon, Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 27.7k+ Summary: Stranded on a barren planet lit by three suns, a group of survivors struggle to survive after their transporter crash-lands. Their situation grows dire when pilot Y/N discovers that every 22 years, an eclipse plunges the planet into darkness, unleashing swarms of flesh-eating creatures. Facing both external threats and internal tensions, the group forms a fragile alliance. As mistrust and secrets surface, Y/N's complicated dynamic with convict and murderer Jungkook intensifies, making the fight for survival against the darkness and the creatures even more perilous. Warnings: Strong Language, Side Character Death, Main Character Death, Aliens, Vicious Carnivorous Aliens, Violence, Blood, Jungkook is a huge prick, Cocky too, Talks About Past Characters Dying, Trauma Bonding, Bickering, Arguing, If Kook is a prick then Lee is a dick, Child Death, Graphic Death Scenes, Sexual Tension, Y/N is just trying her best, Jaded Characters, Religious Themes (I mean no harm and do not want to offend anyone), Bad Character Choices, Peter is Iconic (and a dumb ass), Surviving, Alcohol Consumption A/N: First chapter means it's time for the fun to begin. Or in this case, the catastrophe. Thanks for reading!

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The steady hum of the Hunter-Gratzner was like a heartbeat—a constant, low thrum that seeped through Y/N’s boots and kept her anchored in the here and now. It was so familiar she hardly noticed it anymore—until it suddenly stopped. And that silence wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating, the kind that squeezes the air out of your lungs and makes your skin crawl. Not something you ever want to hear in deep space.

Today, though, the hum was going strong, a comforting reminder that the Hunter-Gratzner was doing exactly what it was built to do. Y/N’s fingers moved across the console with quick, confident precision, like they’d been doing this forever. In a way, they had. After so many hours in the pilot’s seat, it felt less like she was guiding the ship and more like she was part of it—a living extension of its circuits and steel.

A burst of static from the Kordis 12 radio broke her concentration. Flight control’s clipped voice cut through the hiss. “Hunter-Gratzner here,” she answered. “Cleared the last planetary marker.” “Copy that, Hunter-Gratzner,” came the calm reply. “You’re in the primary shipping lanes and cleared for main engine burn. Have a good sleep, H-G. Silas, out.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. Her hand tightened on the lever, then she eased it forward. The reactor’s purr deepened into a low, resonant rumble that pulsed through the ship like some ancient predator settling in for a nap. The ride was smooth—remarkably so, given the sketchy charts of the Tangiers System. No stray debris, no glitches, no pirates lurking in the dark.

Her gaze flicked to the console, scanning the numbers until they leveled off. She did a quick mental calculation of her cut: half a percent. Not much, but enough. Every run, every ton of cargo, chipped away at her debts and nudged her further from the past she was trying to outrun. Out here, in the cold black of space, it was all about survival.

Twenty-eight weeks to New Mecca. That was a long, lonely stretch—but Y/N liked it that way. The emptiness suited her. When the rest of the crew went into stasis, it left her with time to think... or not think. To forget. Forget the faces, the regrets, the ghosts.

She leaned back, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic of her synth coffee mug. The bitter taste brought her back down to earth—figuratively speaking. Moments like this, with the ship’s hum in her bones and the console lights glowing softly, made the universe feel almost small and manageable. But even then, those nagging questions crept in.

Is this enough? Enough to change her life? To change her?

She pushed the doubts aside, focusing on the faint pinpricks of light scattered across the viewport. This was why she chose this path. Not many women signed up for these long-haul routes—months of isolation, heavy responsibility, and even heavier risks. Most took safer roles: cooking, medical, logistics. But not her. She wanted the pilot’s seat, the chance to earn her crew’s trust while hurtling them through the void.

And she’d done it. Earned it the hard way. Respect wasn’t handed out; you had to wrestle it into submission with grit and skill. She remembered the sneers at the academy, the snide comments. They only fueled her determination. By the time she graduated from Helion Prime’s technical college, she wasn’t just “that dock rat.” She was Y/N Y/L/N, Docking Pilot.

Her uncle had been the first to call her that, pride shining in his eyes even as he teased her. “Docking Pilot,” he’d say, guiding her hands over the controls of his beat-up transport. “You’ll go places, kid. Farther than I ever did.”

Back then, Helion Prime had felt like the whole world—shimmering dunes, scorching heat, and so much promise. She’d started in botany, thinking maybe helping things grow would heal something inside her. But the cockpit’s call was louder. Flight school swept her up, derailing her neat little plan.

That’s when she met Jimin Park. His grin could slice through any tension, but it was his quiet steadiness that really grounded her. Like her, he understood loss. They clicked right away—two orphans forging a bond without needing words. He was practically family, so much so that her uncle took to calling him “nephew” without hesitation.

When NOSA balked at hiring a “Helion Five girl,” Jimin used his connections. His voice carried weight on Aguerra, a place where religion was considered outdated and logic reigned. Helion Prime’s faith clashed with that worldview, but Jimin made them see beyond prejudices. He landed her an interview with Director Min, and Yoongi—sharp-eyed and no-nonsense—saw her raw talent for what it was: resourceful, adaptable, unbreakable under pressure.

Joining the Starfire crew felt like coming home. She still missed them all—Jimin’s steady humor, Armin’s wild Earth stories, Hoseok and Val’s constant flirting. They were a real team, which was a rare thing in the vacuum of space. But then came the promotion offer.

Co-pilot. Better pay. Easier hours. The catch? Leaving the Starfire.

It had seemed like the practical move. But practicality doesn’t fill the aching void left by Jimin’s laugh or Armin’s tall tales. It doesn’t replace that sense of belonging you’ve finally found and then walked away from.

Now the reactor’s low rumble hummed in her bones as she stared into the endless night. Choices. They always caught up with her in the dark, when everything was still except the glow of the console and the distant stars. Had she chosen right? Or had she traded too much for the hum of this ship and the lonely stretches of black it carried?

She thought of Koah, how he could turn even the most routine haul into a story worth hearing—always full of humor and heart. He made every shared meal feel like an adventure. They’d built something special, too—trust forged in danger and laughter, in moments where they looked out for each other no matter what.

And now? Now she was stuck with Greg fucking Shields.

Shields wasn’t just a bad fit—he was the kind of guy who turned the atmosphere sour the second he walked in. Even the simplest tasks became ordeals under his watch, every word dripping with smugness and spite. Koah had been the glue that held them all together, but Shields felt more like a dead weight dragging them down.

“Passengers are tucked in,” he announced, swaggering onto the bridge with that grating, self-satisfied tone. “All set for the long night.”

Y/N didn’t look up, her fingers gliding over the console with practiced ease. “Coordinates locked?” she asked, voice clipped and all business.

“Getting to it,” he drawled, dragging out the words just enough to poke at her nerves.

She refused to take the bait, though her patience was already thinning. Shields finally tapped in the last sequence, and the console beeped its confirmation.

“Don’t rush me, Fry,” he sneered, throwing out the nickname like an insult, smirking as if daring her to react. “You want me to fly us into a black hole?”

Her jaw tightened, her hands pausing on the controls. Fry. Once upon a time, that name brought warm memories—Uncle Sean calling her from the docks with pride in his voice. But Shields had a knack for twisting it into something ugly.

Then he muttered, “bitch,” just loud enough for her to hear. It was the last straw.

“You’ve got your coordinates,” she said, her voice low and controlled, like the calm before a storm. “Lock them in and get off my bridge.”

Shields opened his mouth, ready to spew more venom, but a gravelly voice cut him off.

“Greg.”

Captain Marshall’s tone carried an authority that left no room for argument. It was deep, steady, and edged with enough menace to make Shields recoil.

“Take a walk. Now.”

Shields hesitated, clearly tempted to protest. But one look at Marshall’s face made him think better of it. With stiff shoulders, he muttered something under his breath and stomped off, the hatch hissing shut behind him.

Marshall turned to Y/N, the corners of his beard twitching in a half-smile. “You good, Frenchie?” he asked, using the nickname she actually liked.

She exhaled, not realizing she’d been holding her breath. “I’m fine, Cap. Thanks.”

He nodded, studying her for a moment before leaning against the console. “Shields is a pain in the ass,” he said, his voice dropping to a more casual tone. “Don’t let him get under your skin. If he keeps this up, he’ll be shown the airlock soon enough.”

She let out a dry laugh. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Believe it,” Marshall said with a growing grin. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, Frenchie. I need you sharp. And because I’m feeling generous, I’ll spare you the disco tonight.”

She groaned theatrically, rolling her eyes. “Finally! Your music tastes are borderline criminal, Cap.”

“It’s a cultural treasure,” he protested, feigning offense.

Their shared laughter cut through the tension, if only for a moment. It reminded Y/N of easier days—back on the Starfire, before hard decisions and new regrets made everything more complicated.

22 Weeks Later

The ship’s hum had always felt like part of her—it was in her bones. Most of the time, she forgot it was there. You only noticed it when it vanished, and that’s usually when panic kicked in and you started praying. But for Y/N, there wasn’t any warning. She didn’t even get a chance to register the silence before the chaos hit.

Her cryo-locker hissed open and spat her onto the deck as if the ship itself was rejecting her. The air felt like a slap—icy, metallic, and stinking of burnt circuits. Alarms shrieked, overlapping and piercing, and her muscles, still useless from cryo-sleep, gave out beneath her. She landed hard, arms barely stopping her face from hitting the cold metal floor.

The Hunter-Gratzner groaned, a deep, agonized sound like the big beast it was had finally given up. Gravity shouldn’t have been working, but it yanked her sideways anyway. Flickering lights threw erratic shadows across the twisted wreckage of the corridor—jagged metal, ruptured walls, and beyond the cracked viewport, a faint orange glow flickered like a distant fire.

Y/N forced herself up, hands shaking so badly she could barely grip the frost-encrusted console. She was cold, nauseous, and terrified, but a single thought pounded in her head:

Get up. Get up.

She wobbled onto unsteady feet, nearly gagging on the hot, chemical stink clinging to the air. Fighting the urge to panic, she staggered toward the nearest cryo-locker. Inside, the plexiglass was smashed, shards clinging to the frame. Blood streaked the interior in frozen arcs, and the body inside—someone she might’ve known—was crumpled and horribly bent. She tore her eyes away, throat burning with bile.

There had to be survivors. There had to be.

Movement flickered in the next locker. Heart hammering, she rushed over and wiped the frost from the glass. Inside, the Captain was stirring, breathing shallowly but alive. Relief hit her like a jolt of adrenaline.

She slammed her hand against the intercom. “Cap’n, can you hear me? The hull’s compromised—it’s holding, but barely. Thank God you’re alive. Hold on, I’m gonna pop your E-release. Red handle—pull it once I clear it, got it?” Her voice came out fast, shaky. “I’ll try to get the warm-ups running—”

Then she heard it: a sharp, staccato crack. Phat-phat-phat. Thin contrails streaked through the air. A heartbeat later, the Captain’s chest exploded, spraying blood across the cryo-glass. Shards of plexiglass and metal blew outward, embedding in the walls. He jerked once, twice, then slumped, his eyes going dark as sparks shot from the ruined console.

Y/N reeled back, hand over her mouth. She’d been staring right at him—and now he was—

A sudden hiss behind her made her spin around, heart hammering. Another cryo-locker flew open, and a man tumbled out, crashing into her. They both hit the deck in a heap, limbs flailing.

“Why the hell did I just fall on you?” he wheezed, scrambling to get off her. He was clearly still half out of it from cryo-sleep.

“The Captain’s dead,” she blurted, voice rasping. “I was looking right at him when—” She stopped, fighting off the horrific images. “The hull’s shot. Shields are gone. We’re—”

“Wait!” His voice jumped an octave, eyes darting around. “Not Shields! No, no, that can’t—” He stared at her, then pointed to himself in confusion. “I’m Shields, right?”

For a moment, she just stared. Then a short, bitter laugh escaped her. “Cryo-sleep,” she muttered. “Fries your brain. Every damn time.”

Shields nodded, looking shell-shocked. “Sure does.” Then his eyes slid over her shoulder, and he went pale.

Y/N didn’t have to turn around to know something was there. The air felt different—colder, heavier, and alive with a presence that made her skin crawl. Fear twisted in her gut, relentless.

“Get dressed,” she snapped, snatching a warm-up suit from a storage compartment and thrusting it at him. Her voice shook, but her hands were already flying over the console, checking readings.

“Fifteen-fifty millibars,” she muttered. “Dropping twenty a minute. Dammit, we’re bleeding air. Something nailed us, and it wasn’t gentle.”

Shields clutched the suit like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands trembling. “Tell me we’re still in the shipping lane,” he begged. “Tell me it’s just stars out there—endless stars.”

Static crackled on the display as Y/N keyed in commands, her heart pounding. When the screen finally cleared, her stomach twisted. Not stars. Not the vast, empty black she’d hoped for. Instead, a planet loomed—huge, angry, its atmosphere swirling with bruised shades of purple and gray, like a living storm ready to devour them.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed, the words dropping from her lips like lead.

Then the ship lurched, starting its fall. It began with a savage, grinding howl as the Hunter-Gratzner tried and failed to fight gravity. Metal tore, supports snapped, and the deck tilted under her feet. She lurched forward, scraping her hands on the jagged edge of a console. Smoke stung her eyes, the acrid stench of burning wires filling her lungs.

Through the viewport, the planet’s churning atmosphere rushed up to meet them, a hungry predator closing in. Too close. Too fast. She forced herself to move despite the slanting corridors and the crushing pull of gravity.

Her headset crackled: Shields’ panicked voice cut through the screech of alarms. “They taught you this in training, right? Frenchie? Please tell me you remember the drills!”

She couldn’t answer. She could hardly think. Her surroundings blurred—frost-coated walls, blood smears, cables sparking overhead as she staggered through. By the time she reached the flight deck, she half-collapsed into the pilot’s seat, vision spinning.

Sweat slicked her fingers as she fumbled with the harness. She muttered curses under her breath until, finally, the clasps locked. Slamming her fist against the console, she prayed the failing systems would cooperate one last time. Damaged panels flickered, crash shutters groaning open to reveal the storm outside.

It was like staring into a swirling cauldron—red and gray clouds boiling in pure rage. They weren’t just falling; they were plunging, yanked down by forces well beyond her control. Her hands moved on instinct, flipping switches and twisting knobs in a frantic attempt to steer them out of this dive.

“Crisis program…” Shields’ voice came again, high-pitched and unsteady. “We’ve still got oxygen—fifteen hundred millibars. Surface pressure… oh, God.” He paused, his words faltering. “Maybe the ship’s in a good mood? For once?”

She pictured him cowering at his station, knuckles white, fear bleeding through every syllable. It spiked her own terror.

“Shields,” she croaked, her throat raw. “Focus.”

The stick suddenly jerked in her hands, fighting her attempts to level out. A faint hiss sounded, followed by a dull, bone-rattling thunk that echoed through the cabin like doom itself.

“Frenchie?” Shields’ voice cracked. “What the hell are you doing?”

The jettison doors were sliding shut. Her hand moved almost of its own accord, toggling latches with icy precision. Her thumb hovered over the switch that would shift the ship’s center of gravity—along with its passengers. She trembled, staring at the storm outside. She could practically feel Shields’ stare burning into her.

“Too much weight,” she said, voice taut as a wire about to snap. “I can’t keep the nose up. If I don’t—”

“You mean the passengers,” Shields interrupted, his breath hitching. “Forty people, Frenchie.”

Her jaw locked. “So we both go down? Out of some noble gesture?”

The silence that followed was worse than any alarm. It pressed in on her, suffocating, while outside, the storm raged. Her thumb quivered on the switch, a cold piece of metal that felt like an executioner’s blade.

She could practically feel the planet’s pull, like a weight on her chest. She imagined the look on Shields’ face—disbelief, maybe betrayal. She couldn’t bring herself to look back.

The ship’s hum, once so comforting, was gone—replaced by the wail of stressed metal and piercing sirens.

“Don’t,” Shields whispered, his tone stripped bare. It wasn’t a command or a plea. It was the broken voice of someone who already knew how this could end.

Her head dropped, a ragged sob or curse catching in her throat—she couldn’t tell which. The planet was swallowing them whole, the shaking and roaring all around an echo of the turmoil inside her. Forty lives weighed on her, crushing her soul.

With a sudden cry, she pounded her fist on the console, rattling loose screws and broken panels. The switch remained untouched.

The cryo-lockers hissed open in unison, a sound too serpentine, too alive. Frost curled over the plexiglass, twisting into vaporous tendrils that slithered toward the dim lights overhead. The ship shuddered. The deck groaned beneath the weight of its own failing systems.

Lee stirred inside his locker, fingers sluggish as they wiped at the frost. His thoughts felt submerged, murky, as if he were rising from a deep-sea dive. The overhead fluorescents flickered erratically, throwing jagged shadows across the metal walls. Something was wrong.

Across the aisle, Jungkook moved—slow, deliberate. The black goggles strapped over his eyes made him unreadable, but the sharp glint of metal between his teeth turned his grin into something feral. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his frame said everything.

Lee’s gaze snapped to the digital display blinking outside his locker. LOCK-OUT PROTOCOL IN EFFECT. ABSOLUTELY NO EARLY RELEASE. His stomach clenched.

Farther up the cabin, Y/N’s hands gripped the controls so tightly her knuckles blanched. The fractured monitors cast sickly light over her face, her breath coming fast and sharp. Behind her, Shields paced in tight, frantic circles, like a caged animal sensing a coming storm.

“Frenchie,” he barked, voice ragged with barely leashed panic. “NOSA—”

Y/N spun, eyes flashing. “NOSA isn’t here.” Her words cut like a scalpel, slicing clean through the rising chaos.

Shields froze, his lips pressing into a hard line. “The captain’s dead,” he said. No ceremony, no buffer. Just the truth. “That makes you in charge.”

Her laugh was bitter, jagged. “In charge?” Her fist slammed against the console, the impact like a gunshot. “You think a few hundred hours in a simulator prepped me for this?”

Shields unbuckled his harness, rising slow. Deliberate. “Don’t touch that switch,” he warned. His voice was even. Dangerous.

Y/N’s thumb hovered over it, sweat slicking her skin. The ship lurched. A shriek of metal tore through the cabin. Sparks rained down like dying stars. Her pulse hammered. And then—she slammed the switch.

“I’m not dying for them,” she muttered.

The Hunter-Gratzner bucked hard, carving a fiery scar across the sky as it plummeted. The hull shrieked. The jettison system hissed—then fell silent.

Nothing happened. The cryo-lockers remained sealed. Y/N’s breath caught. The switch was flipped, the call made. But the ship had refused her. Forty lives still frozen in limbo.

Shields cursed, hands a frantic blur over the interface. “Seventy seconds! You’ve got seventy seconds to level this beast out, Frenchie!”

She didn’t answer. Her focus tunneled in, every move muscle memory now. Switches flipped. Levers yanked. The ship groaned in protest, but she forced it to obey, wrenching it into some semblance of control.

Through the fractured windshield, the planet’s surface loomed—a maze of jagged rock, waiting to devour them whole. A metallic screech—louder than anything before—split the air as an airbrake tore loose, slamming into the windshield. The impact spiderwebbed the glass, splintering light into chaotic shards. The ship spasmed.

“What the hell was that?!” Shields’ voice was barely a breath through the comm.

Y/N didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked to the ground-mapping display—fractured, glitching, but still her only hope.

Sixty meters.

The cockpit rattled. The frame howled. Her hands were cramping, locked in a death grip on the controls.

Thirty.

The cryo-lockers exhaled in unison, a chorus of ghosts awakening. Lee blinked against the mist, lungs burning.

Ten.

The ship screamed. And then—impact.

The world didn’t just break. It detonated. The windscreen imploded, glass bursting inward like a thousand tiny daggers. The shockwave slammed Y/N back against her seat, her harness biting into her ribs. The cockpit filled with dust and debris, a choking maelstrom that turned every breath into a struggle.

In the passenger bay, Lee’s cryo-locker ejected with a violent hiss, spitting him onto the wreckage-strewn floor. His lungs seized as he gasped for air, mind reeling. Sparks flickered, casting eerie, broken light over the twisted remains of the ship.

His gaze caught on a massive crack splitting the hull—a wound too deep, too final.

Then—the groan. Deep, reverberating. A death knell. And the tearing.

A whole section of the ship peeled away, sliding free like dead skin. Rows of cryo-lockers went with it, vanishing into the swirling dust outside. Forty lockers. Forty people. Gone.

Shields’ voice crackled in Lee’s ear, raw, shaking. “We’re still breathing,” he rasped. “Oxygen’s holding at fifteen hundred millibars. Surface pressure… survivable.”

The word sounded like a joke. Lee pushed himself upright, legs shaking, ears ringing. The air was thick with the stench of scorched metal, blood, death. Around him, cries of pain cut through the chaos—some sharp and frantic, others weak, fading.

Jungkook’s cryo-locker was open. Empty. A slow, insidious chill climbed up Lee’s spine. His fingers darted to his hip, searching for his holster—gone. The unease slithered deeper, turning his gut into a leaden knot. He raised his flashlight, the beam cutting jagged arcs through the dust-choked air.

Then—a sound. Metal on metal. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Chains. The hairs on Lee’s neck stood on end. His breath shallowed. Slowly, unwillingly, he turned toward the noise. Two feet lowered into view from the shadows above—bare, bound in chains that whispered with each measured step.

His descent was too smooth, too unnatural. The black goggles strapped over his eyes caught the flickering light, cold and alien. The bit clamped between his teeth forced his mouth into something almost feral—not quite human.

Lee barely had time to react. The chain lashed toward him, a whip of coiled steel snapping tight around his throat. He staggered, hands clawing at the cold metal cutting off his air. Jungkook moved with silent precision, tightening the chain with a slow, measured pull. The darkness swayed. Lee’s vision blurred at the edges.

No. Not like this.

His fingers fumbled for the baton at his side. A flick—snap—and it extended, steel glinting in the fractured light.

Swing.

The first strike glanced off Jungkook’s ribs. No reaction. The second hit harder, enough to make the chain slacken just a fraction—enough to breathe. Lee’s instincts took over. He drove the baton up, hard, straight into Jungkook’s throat.

The force sent them both crashing to the floor. The impact rattled the remnants of the ship around them, a chorus of groaning metal and falling debris. Lee pinned Jungkook down, pressing his forearm hard against his throat. His breath was ragged, raw.

“One chance,” he growled, voice rough with fury. “You blew it.”

The dust began to settle. The ship around them was barely holding together—a skeletal ruin of scorched steel and shattered glass. Then, Lee’s flashlight caught a flicker of movement—a woman. He recognized her from when they boarded. The co-pilot. Her name was lost on him. Blood streaked her face, hair matted to her forehead, breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. But she was breathing.

“Over here,” she rasped. Steady. Unbreakable.

Lee stumbled toward her, boots crunching over shattered wreckage. He crouched, hands moving instinctively, shoving aside the debris pinning her down. The ship groaned with each piece he wrenched free, as if it resented his efforts.

And then—her legs were free. He hauled her up, her weight solid against him, but she barely found her footing before the reality of their situation slammed into her. Not just broken. Annihilated.

Her knees buckled. She sank, hands clawing at the scattered wreckage as if she could piece it all back together. Her lips parted. “Shields.” A whisper.

Then, frantic movement. She shoved aside jagged fragments of steel, shattered screens, the torn remains of the captain’s chair—anything, everything standing between her and what she already knew she’d find.

And then—she did. Strapped to his chair. A metal rod—long, jagged—pierced straight through his chest, impaling him like some grotesque marionette. Blood seeped in slow, dark rivers, pooling beneath him.

His eyes flew open. Wide. Wild. Panic-stricken. “OUT!” His scream ripped through the air. “GET IT OUT OF ME!”

Y/N jerked back, breath hitching. Around her, the others stumbled into the nav-bay, voices colliding in chaotic bursts.

“Pull it out!”

“No, leave it! You’ll kill him!”

“We don’t have a choice—just do it!”

The noise. The suffocating stench of blood and scorched wiring. It all pressed in, a heavy, cloying thing clawing at her senses. Her eyes flicked to the wall—where the med-locker should have been. Gone. Nothing left. Her pulse spiked. No anestaphine. No painkillers. Nothing. But she knew that already. She knew.

Her mind snapped into triage mode, training she hadn’t used since she’d first boarded the Starfire. The H-G had small med kits—scattered across compartments, emergency supplies meant for minor injuries, burns, fractures. Enough for patchwork. Not for this.

A quick scan of the room told her where they were—one in the overhead hatch, another tucked beneath the paneling by the nav station. She didn’t move. Didn’t go for them. Because she knew. Shields was going to die.

It didn’t matter if she used the last of their coagulants, their sterile dressings, their dwindling supply of stim injectors. The rod had pierced deep—a lung, maybe his aorta. If they pulled it, he’d bleed out in seconds. If they left it, he’d drown in his own blood.

There was no saving him. Silence crashed over them. Shields’ breathing was slowing, each rasping gasp a grim countdown. Y/N straightened. Her voice dropped—low, steady. Cold.

“Everyone. Back.”

The others froze, hesitated—then stepped away, shuffling like ghosts. Only Lee lingered. His gaze flicked to Jungkook’s bound form in the corner. Even shackled, Jungkook radiated menace, his stillness more unnerving than motion ever could be.

Y/N barely registered him. Her focus was on Shields. His body trembled beneath her hands, breath thin, ragged. She pressed her palm just above the wound, steadying him. He was shaking. Not from pain. From fear.

His eyes locked onto hers, searching—desperate. “I can’t die like this.”

The words were barely a whisper. Her throat tightened. “You won’t,” she lied. Because that’s what you did for the dying. You gave them something to hold onto. Even if it wasn’t real. She tightened her grip on his hand, let her voice drop to something softer. “This is going to hurt,” she murmured.

The suns hit like a clenched fist, brutal and unrelenting. Twin orbs, one molten red, the other a vicious yellow, scorched the sky and stretched jagged, overlapping shadows across the cracked, barren earth. The heat wasn’t just heat—it was something alive, something with teeth, pressing in, coiling tight around their throats, stealing breath with every shallow inhale. The air was dry, acrid, thick with dust that swirled at their boots, carried by a wind that keened through the desolation like a dying thing whispering its last confession.

The survivors stood in uneasy clusters, their movements wary, shapes distorted against the shimmering horizon. No one strode forward with confidence. Every step was measured, hesitant—like the planet itself might open its mouth and swallow them whole if they made the wrong move.

Daku and Bindi stood apart from the rest, a fortress of two. Daku was stillness carved from stone, his sharp gaze sweeping the alien expanse with the quiet calculation of a man who had survived worse. Bindi, by contrast, was all coiled energy, lean muscle stretched taut over bone, every movement precise. Not panicked. Just prepared.

Peter lingered at the edge of the group, dabbing at his sunburned face with a monogrammed handkerchief that belonged in a boardroom, not here. He let out a brittle, humorless laugh. “Welcome to paradise.” His voice was thin, dry as the air, and it barely made it past his chapped lips. No one laughed. There was no room for humor here.

In the distance, the wreckage of their ship lay sprawled against the cracked earth like the carcass of some great, wounded beast. Twisted metal jutted at odd angles, blackened from the crash, half-buried in the dust like the bones of something the sky had spit out and abandoned. It was silent now, but it didn’t feel still. It felt like it was waiting.

Inside, Y/N moved through the ruins, hands working mechanically, searching through the wreckage for anything salvageable. The silence pressed against her like a second atmosphere—thick, oppressive, wrong. The ship had once been their salvation. Now it was nothing more than a graveyard.

Near the wreckage, the Chrislams had gathered in a tight circle, white robes stark against the dust-streaked ground. Their heads were bowed, their lips moving in silent prayers—or grief. It was hard to tell which. Namjoon stood at their center, broad shoulders squared, his presence anchoring them even as doubt flickered across the younger pilgrims’ faces. Their hands fidgeted at the wooden crosses and crescent pendants hanging from their necks, symbols of faith that suddenly felt like relics of a world too far away to matter anymore.

A boy, no older than fifteen, broke the silence, his voice raw with desperation. “Which way is New Mecca?” His hands were pressed together, pleading. “We need to know where to pray.”

The words hung in the air, weightless, useless. There was no north here. No compass points. No stars to guide them. Just endless wasteland stretching toward an indifferent horizon. Jagged hills clawed at the sky like broken teeth, dark silhouettes against the searing light.

Namjoon lifted his face, squinting against the blinding suns, searching for something—an answer, a direction, a sign. But the sky gave him nothing.

Lee fumbled with a battered compass, flicked it open, watched the needle spin uselessly before snapping it shut with a frustrated hiss. “Even this thing’s lost.” He shoved it back into his pocket.

The ship groaned behind them, a deep, wounded sound, like something exhaling its last breath.

Inside, Y/N sat on the scorched floor, her back pressed against cold metal. Shields’ body was cradled in her lap, his head resting against her chest. The rod that had impaled him was still there—a grotesque, final punctuation mark. His blood was thick and dark against her hands, its metallic tang heavy in the air.

She had tried. God, she had tried. She had shouted orders, whispered reassurances, prayed to gods she never believed in. But none of it had been enough.

The others had moved on, their voices distant through the ruined hull. But Y/N stayed.

Because this wasn’t just a wreckage. It was a grave. And she was the only mourner.

The twin suns poured their merciless light through the jagged tear in the hull, turning dust into molten gold. It shimmered, beautiful in the way cruel things often were—dazzling, deceptive. The light exposed everything. Every failure, every flaw. There was nowhere to hide.

Y/N shifted, her muscles trembling, stiff with exhaustion as she eased Shields’ body to the floor. Her fingers lingered at his shoulder, unwilling to sever that last, fragile tether to the man he had been. The warmth was already leeching from his skin.

Then, slowly, she rose.

Outside was worse.

The heat struck like a hammer, thick, oppressive, pushing against her lungs with every breath. Dust swirled in restless eddies at her feet, the wind sharp as glass, carving at her skin, splitting her lips. A few yards away, the Chrislams knelt in the dirt, heads bowed, lips moving in murmured prayers. Their voices were barely a ripple against the keening wind, but it was the only human sound left in this place. For a moment, she let it fill the cracks inside her, a balm against the unraveling edges of her sanity.

Lee stood apart, one hand raised to shield his eyes against the glare. His jaw was tight, his shoulders locked, a silent fortress against whatever storm raged inside him. When Y/N stepped down from the wreckage, his gaze flicked to her, brief but cutting. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. Some things didn’t need to be said.

The land stretched before them, vast, indifferent. Jagged hills rose like broken ribs, their peaks tearing into the sky. Shadows pooled in the valleys, deep and impenetrable, as though the planet itself was swallowing the light. There was no refuge. No soft place to land. Only the brutal reality of survival.

Y/N swallowed against the rawness in her throat. “We’re on our own now.”

The words weren’t a revelation. They were a sentence.

No rescue was coming. No help would break through this alien sky.

She squared her shoulders beneath the weight of it, forcing one foot in front of the other, because the only way out was forward. Even when everything inside her begged to turn back.

The suns glared down, merciless and unblinking, turning the wreckage into a molten skeleton of what it had once been. Heat shimmered off the twisted metal, a feverish mirage making the debris seem like it was still shifting, still alive. But it wasn’t. It was dead—just like the people who hadn’t made it out.

Y/N climbed the jagged remains of the hull, her boots slipping against scorched metal, her fingers gripping the torn edges of a fractured panel. Her muscles ached, her breath came too short, too shallow. The air was too thin. Too dry. It scraped against her throat like sandpaper, and every inhale felt like a battle she was losing.

Below, the Chrislams knelt in the dust, their white robes dirtied and torn but still stark against the wasteland. Their soft prayers were barely audible over the dry, keening wind—a thread of humanity in a place that had none. Y/N let it wash over her for just a moment, a faint tether to something beyond survival.

Further up the wreckage, the others waited—Lee, Peter, Daku, Bindi, Leo. Their faces were carved with exhaustion, their silence heavier than the heat pressing down on them. Smoke curled from the wreckage behind them, black tendrils rising into the hazy sky. The crash had scarred the earth itself, leaving a deep trench of twisted metal and scorched rock, a wound with no hope of healing.

Y/N reached the top of the wreckage and let her gaze sweep the horizon. The planet stretched out before them in a wasteland of jagged rock and dust, the ground cracked and splintered like old bone. Sharp-edged hills rose in the distance, their peaks like broken teeth against the sky. There was no movement. No color. No life.

Only death, waiting for its turn.

“No one else made it,” she said, her voice low, steady. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an observation. It was a fact, as solid as the wreckage beneath her feet.

Silence stretched between them until Lee finally spoke, his voice dry and edged with bitterness. “They said there’d be a scouting party here.” He gestured toward the empty valley below, his words laced with grim sarcasm. “Guess they forgot the welcome committee.”

Peter coughed, dabbing at his sunburned face with that ridiculous monogrammed handkerchief. “Lovely spot,” he muttered. “Really. I mean, who doesn’t love the sensation of their lungs turning to parchment? Very exotic. Five stars.”

Y/N barely acknowledged him. Her focus was on the facts. The data. “The air’s too thin,” she said, voice clipped, clinical. “Not enough oxygen. Our bodies aren’t used to it. We’ll adjust, but it won’t be comfortable.”

Leo wiped sweat from his forehead, his face pale despite the heat. “Feels like breathing through a straw,” he muttered.

Peter waved his handkerchief dramatically. “Asthmatic here. Literal hell. Can I file a complaint, or is that not an option?”

“Enough,” Daku said, his voice cutting through the noise. His stance was firm, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked onto Y/N. “What happened?”

Y/N exhaled, rolling her shoulders against the weight of the question. “Debris. A rogue comet. A navigational error. I don’t know.” The admission felt like acid on her tongue. “What matters is that we’re here.”

“And alive,” Bindi added. Her tone was even, but there was something behind it—reluctant gratitude. “You got us down. That’s more than most pilots could have done.”

The words stung. Not because they were meant to, but because they weren’t true. Y/N knew that. They thought she’d saved them. But she knew better.

It wasn’t skill that had brought them down in one piece. It was luck. And luck never lasted.

She led them into what remained of the equipment bay, stepping over shattered panels, ducking beneath dangling wires. The air was thick with the scent of burned circuits and something else—something metallic and bitter. Blood.

Failure.

She knelt by a pile of debris and yanked free a suit, its fabric stiff with scorch marks. It would have to do. Holding it up, she said, “Liquid oxygen canisters. We rip them out. Short bursts, make them last. We don’t know how long we’ll need them.”

The group moved into action, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of survival. Leo lingered near her, watching her with an unsettling calm.

“Is someone coming for us?” he asked, voice steady in a way that made her stomach turn. “Or are we just gonna die here?”

The question hit like a stone dropped into deep water, sending ripples through the group. Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers tightened on the suit, knuckles whitening.

The others had paused, their movements stilled by the weight of the words.

Leo tilted his head. “I can handle it,” he said, softer now. “If we’re not making it out, you can just say so.”

Bindi stepped in, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’re not giving up,” she said, her voice calm but absolute. “Not today.”

Leo hesitated, his bravado slipping just enough to reveal the scared kid underneath. Then he nodded.

The cabin reeked of sweat, scorched metal, and desperation. Shadows stretched long in the dim light, pooling in the corners, turning everything into a graveyard of broken machinery and shattered hope.

Y/N’s gaze drifted to the far side of the bulkhead, where Jungkook sat shackled and still, his presence more a quiet threat than anything else. The dark goggles covering his eyes reflected the dim light, a black void revealing nothing—no fear, no anger, no desperation. Just absence.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t test his restraints. Didn’t move at all. That was what made him dangerous.

Yet, despite the cold knot of unease tightening in her stomach, Y/N couldn’t help but notice—he was beautiful.

Not in the clean-cut, manufactured way of men who knew they were being watched. No, there was something raw about him, something untamed. He was tall, all lean muscle wrapped in pale skin, the sinew of a predator coiled beneath the surface. His inky black hair was too long, falling into his face in uneven layers, the kind of overgrowth that should’ve looked unkempt but only made him more striking.

And then there were the tattoos.

They climbed up his arms in a chaotic symphony of ink, patterns and symbols weaving together into something intricate, something deliberate. Black ink against pale skin. A story written in the language of the damned.

Y/N’s throat went dry. Did they stop at his arms? Or did they go further, trailing over his ribs, down his back, curling against his hips? The thought hit like a static charge, sharp and unbidden. She swallowed, dragging her gaze away before she could entertain it any further.

“What about him?” she asked, her voice low, unsure despite herself.

Lee snorted, smirking. “Big Evil? Leave him locked up.”

Y/N forced herself to focus. “We don’t have forever,” she snapped, frustration bubbling up before she could reel it in. She exhaled sharply, running a hand over her face. “He broke out of a max-slam facility. Do you really think a pair of cuffs is enough?”

Lee shrugged, careless. “Only dangerous around humans,” he muttered, his voice thick with implication.

Before Y/N could fire back, movement caught her eye—a thin, silver thread trickling down the hull, glinting against the harsh twin suns.

Her stomach clenched.

Water.

Everything else vanished.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up, scrambling over the wreckage, boots slipping against warped metal. The sting of sharp edges against her palms didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was reaching the cistern before it was too late.

She wrenched open the hatch, metal scorching beneath her fingers. Sunlight flooded in, illuminating the nightmare inside.

A thin, glistening stream dribbled from a deep fracture in the steel, seeping into the cracked earth below. The ground drank greedily, dark stains blooming where the precious liquid had been only moments before.

Y/N’s breath hitched. A curse slipped past her lips, low and raw. This wasn’t just a leak. This was death.

Footsteps crunched behind her, the others approaching in hesitant silence. No one spoke. They didn’t need to. The truth lay bare before them, glinting in the relentless light.

Y/N leaned heavily against the hatch, her fingers pressing against the scalding metal as if to steady herself. Her gaze stayed locked on the dirt, watching helplessly as the last of the water disappeared, vanishing like hope itself.

The planet wasn’t just going to kill them. It was going to make them watch while it did.

A muscle ticked in her jaw. Her nails bit into her palms until pain cut through the spiraling thoughts. No. There wasn’t time for this—not for despair, not for grief. The planet would take everything if they let it, and she refused to give it that satisfaction.

She turned away from the empty cistern, shoulders squared against the weight pressing down on her. The others were watching, sweat streaking their dirt-smeared faces, fear barely concealed behind exhaustion. They were waiting for her to tell them what to do.

“We keep moving,” she said, her voice steady despite the scream clawing at her insides. “We’ll find more. There’s always something out there.”

The words tasted like lies. But lies could keep people alive. And right now, survival was the only thing that mattered.

The cargo hold reeked of scorched wiring and failure—the kind of failure that clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made itself at home. The air was thick with it, stifling, oppressive. Y/N wiped a grimy hand across her forehead and pressed on, stepping over shattered panels and the twisted wreckage of what had once been their future.

Somewhere in this mess, there were MRAs. Mobile Resource Augmenters. Compact, efficient, life-saving. They were designed to extract moisture from the air, convert it into drinkable water, and they sure as hell weren’t cheap. NOSA wouldn’t have sent them on a long-haul mission without at least a few onboard.

She knew they were here, but no one else seemed to care.

Y/N was used to working with the best—astronauts trained to push beyond the limits of human endurance. On Aguerra Prime, her name meant something. She was a government official, a veteran of deep-space missions, one of the top-ranked astronauts in NOSA’s fleet. She had survived hostile environments before.

This, though? This was worse. Because she was surrounded by people who should have been fighting to survive—but weren’t.

Peter moved through the wreckage with a magician’s flourish, fingers dancing over the lock of a sealed crate like he was about to unveil something miraculous. The lid groaned open, dust puffing into the stale air, and inside lay…

Furniture. Tiffany chairs. Polished bronze lecterns. An entire crate filled with useless, gaudy antiques.

Lee let out a sharp whistle, nudging the crate with his boot. “King Tut’s tomb,” he muttered. “Just what we needed.”

Peter’s face lit up, eyes gleaming as he ran a reverent hand over an antique desk. “This,” he murmured, “is Wooten. A very rare piece, mind you.”

Y/N stared at him, patience fraying like old wiring. “A desk?” she asked, her voice sharper than the heat outside. “Not food. Not water. A desk?”

Peter waved her off, as if she were the one being unreasonable. “Not just a desk,” he corrected, prying open a hidden compartment.

Nestled inside, gleaming like a sick joke, sat a row of liquor bottles. Sherry. Scotch. Vintage port.

Y/N felt something snap. “We’re dying of thirst, and you brought booze?”

Peter stiffened, his hand hovering protectively over the bottles. “Two-hundred-year-old single-malt scotch,” he said, tone dripping with wounded pride. “To call it ‘booze’ is like calling foie gras ‘duck guts.’”

Lee barked a laugh, already reaching for a bottle. The seal cracked with a soft pop, and the sharp scent of aged alcohol filled the air, thick and cloying. He raised it mockingly. “Here’s to survival—or whatever the hell he just said.”

Y/N clenched her jaw so tightly it ached.

She had spent the last hour shifting wreckage, trying to move beams twice her weight, searching for anything that could actually keep them alive.

And these idiots were getting drunk.

Her gaze flicked to the scattered debris. There were still places she hadn’t checked, still a chance the MRAs were buried under the twisted metal, waiting for someone to dig them out.

But as she looked around, at Peter cradling his precious scotch, at Lee tipping his bottle back like this was some kind of vacation, at the rest of them barely pretending to care—she felt the fight drain out of her.

No one was going to help her, and she was done trying to save people who didn’t want to be saved.

She exhaled sharply, the decision settling like a stone in her stomach. Without a word, she turned on her heel, stepping away from the wreckage, away from the lost cause unfolding in front of her.

She had been trained to adapt, to survive no matter what. But NOSA had never prepared her for this. The footsteps came before the words.

Namjoon and his followers stepped into the wreckage, their white robes streaked with dust but still somehow immaculate, like they existed just outside the filth and chaos consuming the rest of them. The Chrislams moved with that same unsettling calm, like they hadn’t yet realized the depth of their predicament.

Y/N barely spared them a glance. She was past caring.

But Lee—still riding the high of finding nothing useful—wasn’t about to let them pass without commentary.

He slammed his bottle onto a metal crate with a hollow clink, his frustration breaking through the haze of heat and exhaustion. “For what?” he demanded, voice sharp. “There’s no water. No food. Just rocks, dust, and death as far as the eye can see.”

Namjoon met his glare without flinching. “All deserts have water,” he said softly. “Somewhere.”

Lee let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Great. You talk to God, then? He got directions?”

Namjoon didn’t blink.

“God will lead us there.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and immovable, like the wreckage around them. Y/N bit down on the retort bubbling up in her throat, but the pragmatist in her screamed louder than any prayer. Water didn’t come from faith. It came from work, from tearing apart this wreck until her hands bled.

“While God’s drawing up a map,” she muttered, turning back to the containers, “we’ll keep looking.”

Namjoon inclined his head respectfully and led his followers away, their murmured prayers fading into the distance. For a moment, Y/N envied their calm. Then Peter’s humming broke the quiet, his fingers trailing lovingly over the polished wood of the desk as if cataloging a museum piece. Her jaw tightened, but she swallowed the urge to snap. Wasting energy on him wasn’t worth it.

Lee pried open another container with a sharp kick, sending a plume of dust into the air. Inside was a heap of torn fabric and broken machinery, tangled and useless. He swore under his breath and shoved it aside, his frustration vibrating in every movement. “This is a goddamn joke,” he muttered. “We’re supposed to survive with this?”

“Keep looking,” Y/N snapped. Her voice cracked like a whip, harsh and desperate. The panic simmering just beneath her surface slipped through. “We don’t find water soon, no one’s making it out of here.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the scrape of metal and the mournful whistle of wind through the wreckage. Outside, the suns continued their relentless assault, the wind carrying dust and the heavy weight of despair. Y/N pressed her hand against the ship’s hull, the heat seeping into her palm. Every moment without progress felt like another step closer to death.

She moved toward the equipment bay, her focus narrowing. Somewhere in the wreckage were the pieces of the ship’s water generator. If she could just find them—just piece it together—they wouldn’t have to rely on the barren, unforgiving land outside. But her concentration splintered, fraying with every glance at the others.

Peter’s oblivious grin. Lee’s sharp frustration. Namjoon’s calm certainty. All of it clung to her like the heat, pressing in, pulling her mind away from the task at hand.

Her fingers brushed against a bent panel, her breath hitching as she caught sight of something familiar—part of the generator’s casing. Relief surged, but it was fleeting. The casing was twisted, its edges sharp and useless without the core components. Her chest tightened as she knelt, wrenching it free, her hands shaking as she turned it over in search of something—anything—that could still work.

Behind her, Leo’s small voice cut through the haze. “So,” he said, too calm for a kid his age. “What happens if we don’t find it? The water?”

The question hit her like a blow, her grip tightening on the casing. Around her, the others stilled, their movements halting under the weight of Leo’s words.

“You don’t have to pretend for me,” he added, his tone flat, unflinching. “I can take it.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her breath shaky. When she finally spoke, her voice was brittle, scraping against the silence. “We’ll find it.”

It wasn’t an answer. It was a promise. And God help her, she didn’t know if she could keep it.

The ship groaned like a dying animal, its ruptured hull straining against the inevitable. Twisted metal rasped against itself, the sound a constant needle under the skin, an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Dust hung thick in the air, turned to gold by the merciless twin suns that stabbed through the fractured ceiling. Every breath tasted of scorched circuitry and hydraulic fluid, the scent of ruin and slow decay.

Jungkook sat in the shadows, chained to the bulkhead, utterly still. Not the stillness of resignation—but of patience. Of calculation. His wrists, raw from steel cuffs, rested against his thighs, fingers loose, body deceptively relaxed. The dark goggles strapped over his eyes reflected slivers of fractured light, a predator’s gaze hidden behind black glass. The mouth-bit locked over his teeth was meant to make him less dangerous.

It only made him look like a caged beast waiting for the lock to fail.

The ship shifted again, the wreckage settling into itself. He ignored it. The ship was already dead. That wasn’t his problem.

But Y/N’s absence was. Not that he cared. Not really.

But she was the only one in this mess who wasn’t an idiot. The only one who thought ahead. Moved with purpose. Her voice carried weight, her commands cutting through chaos like a blade. That kind of control was rare. Most people shattered when things got bad. She didn’t.

Still, he’d expected more when he first got a good look at her. Too lean. Too sharp. Built for function, not decoration. No softness, nothing extra. Not the kind of woman who caught his eye.

But then she’d spoken. And the way the room shifted around her—the way even the air seemed to move when she did—had made him reconsider.

Not beautiful, but something. And that something was more interesting than pretty.

Jungkook rolled his shoulders, cataloging the weight of his restraints, the tension in his muscles already fading. The nickname he’d overheard while half-conscious surfaced in his mind.

Frenchie. Too small. Too soft. Didn’t suit her at all.

The cutting torch lay just out of reach, its dull gleam a whisper in the wreckage. His head tilted slightly, lips curling behind the bit—not a smile, something colder. The ship was quiet now, save for the occasional creak, but Jungkook had already mapped every fracture, every weakness, every way out. The crack in the hull above him was subtle, barely there.

To anyone else. To Jungkook, it was an invitation. A flaw. A way through.

He shifted, testing the give of his chains. Metal rasped against metal, a whisper swallowed by the ship’s dying groans. He didn’t flinch. He just moved slower, smoother—a shadow moving through shadows.

Then, without hesitation, a sickening pop shattered the silence.

His left shoulder dislocated, tendons twisting, bones shifting in a grotesque ballet of control. Pain flickered at the edge of his consciousness, a distant thing, irrelevant. His breath remained steady.

Another pop. The right shoulder went next.

He exhaled slowly, muscles flexing, and with a sharp, brutal motion, his arms twisted through the narrow gap between his head and the bulkhead. His hands, now free, hung limp at his sides. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, with a precise, measured force, he rolled his shoulders back into place. The snap of bone meeting socket reverberated through the cabin, a sound that made most men sick.

Jungkook barely noticed.

The cuffs slipped from his wrists, hitting the floor with a final, hollow clatter.

He rose in one smooth motion, unfolding to his full height, presence suddenly too much for the cramped space. The air felt different. Thicker.

He stepped forward, moving toward the torch, his bare feet silent against the floor. The chains lay abandoned behind him, the weight of them meaningless now. The torch was warm against his fingers as he picked it up, rolling it once in his palm, adjusting to its feel.

Then he turned.

The goggles hid his eyes, but the smirk behind the bit was unmistakable.

The cutting torch hummed to life in his grip, a low, vibrating growl that filled the silence.

He was free.

The world beyond the wreckage was a graveyard—heat and silence stretched endlessly in every direction, oppressive, unyielding. Twin suns hung in the sky like merciless sentinels, their light leeching color from the landscape until only stark, blinding desolation remained. The ground was a cracked, scorched wound, dust spiraling in restless eddies, threading through jagged rock formations and yawning craters. In the distance, hills wavered like mirages, ghostly illusions rippling in the heat, always there, never reachable.

Lee stood at the edge of the ruin, half in shadow, half in the unrelenting blaze of the suns. The tang of sweat and burnt metal clung thick in the air, catching at the back of his throat. His pistol rested loosely in his grip, a lifeline more than a weapon. A thing to hold onto. A reminder that he wasn’t defenseless, even if the planet seemed indifferent to the concept of survival.

The silence pressed in, heavy. Wrong.

Silence should’ve been relief. Silence should’ve meant safety. But this wasn’t that kind of quiet. This was the kind that watched. The kind that waited.

His gaze swept the horizon, scanning the brittle, broken ground for something—anything—out of place. But the emptiness was deceptive, shifting, playing tricks on his eyes. The wreckage groaned behind him, metal expanding under the punishing heat. The ship was dying, settling into its grave. He ignored it. There were more immediate concerns.

Then—movement.

Not much. Just a glint, half-buried in the dust. A sliver of something reflecting the twin suns. Lee exhaled slowly, crouched, and reached for it, brushing aside the grit with careful, practiced efficiency.

The object came into view. A curved piece of metal. Scuffed. Worn. Unmistakable. His stomach dropped. The mouth-bit. Jungkook’s.

Lee straightened too fast, the bit still clutched in his hand, his fingers tightening around it like it might bite him. His other hand curled reflexively around the pistol’s grip, knuckles bloodless. The planet, empty and endless just moments ago, now felt like a set of teeth closing in.

Jungkook was loose. The realization landed like a hammer blow, cold despite the heat.

Lee had seen what the man could do—shackled. What he could be, even when restrained by steel and sedation. Now, the shackles were gone. The bit that had kept him contained was nothing more than a useless scrap of metal in Lee’s hand.

And Jungkook was out there. Somewhere. Lee scanned the landscape again, but the terrain mocked him. Too much space. Too many places to disappear. Too many places to hunt from.

The wreckage of the ship loomed behind him. The others were still inside—Bindi, Namjoon, Peter. Oblivious. They had no idea what had just been set loose into their already precarious existence.

Lee’s jaw clenched. Like we needed another way to die.

He turned the bit over in his palm, its edges smooth from use, from time, from teeth. He should’ve known. They all should’ve known. But it had been easier to ignore the truth than to face it.

Now, that denial had come at a cost.

The wind kicked up, whispering through the wreckage, sending dust scuttling across the cracked earth. The sound of it sent a chill down his spine, because it wasn’t the wind he was afraid of.

Lee shoved the bit into his pocket, a grim token of what lurked beyond the ship’s broken hull. Jungkook wasn’t just a problem. He wasn’t just dangerous. He was intentional. A force of nature with purpose. Whatever he wanted, whatever he was planning, it wasn’t going to end well for anyone.

He turned back toward the ship, every muscle wired tight, every step measured. The pistol was steady in his grip now, but the weight of it felt inadequate.

This wasn’t over. Not even close. The silence had changed. It wasn’t just emptiness anymore. It was a warning. Jungkook wasn’t watching from a distance.

The cargo hold was a machine of chaos—loud, desperate, and running on the thin fuel of fear. People moved like scavengers, tearing through storage lockers, prying open crates with bloodied hands, dragging whatever they could find into the nav-bay. Metal clattered, plastic scraped, breathless grunts and muttered curses filled the stale air. Dust spiraled in the fractured sunlight slanting through the ship’s wounds, turning the space into a golden, suffocating haze.

Y/N stood on the outskirts, arms crossed, watching. It wasn’t much of a stockpile, but it was all they had.

The room—once a hub of order and precision—now looked like a battlefield before the war even began. Broken panels, exposed wiring, the remains of shattered instruments littered the floor. In the middle of it all, their growing pile of salvaged weapons stood like an altar to survival.

Lee stepped up first. No hesitation, no wasted motion. He crouched beside the pile and inspected his finds: a pistol, a shotgun, a baton. Well-used, well-loved. The shotgun bore the scars of a hard life—scratched barrel, faded stock—but the way Lee handled it left no doubt. The weapon was an extension of him. He loaded it with quiet efficiency, each metallic clink settling into the uneasy silence.

Behind him, Daku and Bindi added their contributions. A battered pickaxe, a handful of digging tools, and an old hunting boomerang—its edges worn, its surface scarred. Daku flicked his wrist, testing its balance. He nodded once, satisfied. Bindi, hovering close, scanned the room with sharp eyes, daring anyone to question their worth.

Then Namjoon stepped forward.

A ceremonial blade. Ancient. Ornate. The kind meant for rituals, not combat. The hilt gleamed under the dim light, its intricate carvings whispering of old traditions. But the edge—thin, honed—was made to cut. He set it down carefully, with a reverence that stood in stark contrast to the chaos around him.

And then there was Peter.

He stumbled into the room, arms overfilled with weapons that didn’t belong on a battlefield. His face was red, breath heavy, but he carried his haul like it meant something. He nearly tripped over a loose wire before dumping his findings onto the pile.

Silence followed.

Polished war-picks. A blow-dart hunting stick. A collection of relics that belonged in a museum, not a fight for survival.

Lee stared. “The hell are these?”

Peter straightened, his expression hovering somewhere between pride and offense. “Maratha crow-bill war-picks,” he declared, lifting one like a trophy. “Northern India. Extremely rare.”

Daku snorted. He picked up the hunting stick, turning it over in his hands, unimpressed. “And this?”

“Blow-dart hunting stick,” Peter shot back defensively. “Papua New Guinea. One of a kind.”

Daku let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, tossing the stick back onto the pile. “Looks like they went extinct for a reason.”

Peter’s face darkened. His fingers curled around the remaining items like they might be snatched away. “Why are we even bothering with this?” he snapped. “If Jungkook’s gone, he’s gone. Why should we care?”

The air changed. The tension turned solid.

Lee was the first to break the silence. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, his voice razor-edged. “First,” he said, his tone like the cocking of a gun, “because he can only survive out there for so long. Sooner or later, he’s coming back—for supplies. For water. For us.”

He let that settle, let them feel the weight of it.

“Second,” he continued, lowering his voice even further, “because killing is the only thing he’s ever been good at. And he likes it.”

No one spoke. No one moved.

Y/N felt the weight of those words settle into her chest, heavy as a loaded weapon. Jungkook wasn’t just a problem. He wasn’t a rogue element in their calculations.

He was a predator. And they were his prey. As if on cue, the group reached for their weapons.

Lee holstered the shotgun, his grip firm. Daku tested the boomerang again, tracing its edges with quiet precision. Even Peter, reluctant as he was, finally set one of his prized war-picks on the pile, his fingers lingering before he let go.

Y/N reached for the ceremonial blade.

It wasn’t made for this, but it would do. The weight of it felt strange in her hand, but solid. Steady. A promise.

The wind howled through the ruined hull, carrying the dry, metallic scent of the wasteland beyond. The horizon remained still, jagged peaks unmoving, but inside the ship, something had shifted.

The air felt electric. Like the moment before a storm. Y/N glanced at the others, their faces cast in flickering shadows. They were ready—or as ready as they could be.

Jungkook wasn’t gone. He was out there. Watching. Waiting. And now, so were they.

The ship jutted from the earth like a rusted blade, its jagged metal edges catching the dying light of twin suns. One burned a deep red, sinking low on the horizon, while the other clung stubbornly to the sky, casting long, broken shadows across the wasteland. Wind whispered through the wreckage, carrying the dry scent of scorched metal and sand, a faint, restless sound in the vast stillness.

Lee perched high on the hull, rifle balanced against his shoulder. His silhouette was razor-sharp against the sky’s bleeding colors. He moved only when necessary, scanning the horizon with a hunter’s patience, the kind of stillness that meant survival.

Then—movement.

A flicker. A distortion at the edge of his vision. His grip tightened. His breath held. What the hell was that?

The words barely escaped his lips, lost to the wind before anyone below could hear them.

On the ground, the others worked against time, piecing together survival from the ship’s remains. Daku and Bindi crouched over a makeshift workbench—little more than a pile of salvaged crates and twisted panels. They moved with careful efficiency, assembling breather units from scavenged tubing and half-broken filters. Each strap tightened, each valve checked, because failure wasn’t an option.

“Try it now,” Daku muttered, handing one to Leo.

The boy lifted it to his face, inhaling tentatively. A soft hiss, the measured release of oxygen. Relief flickered across his face, there and gone in an instant.

A few yards away, the Chrislams worked in silence, layering cloth over their heads, tying knots with practiced hands. Their transformation was seamless—fluid—turning them into nomads, figures that belonged to this land in a way the rest of them never would. Namjoon moved among them, his presence steady, guiding younger pilgrims as they secured their wrappings.

Y/N stood apart.

Her focus was on Shields. Or rather, what was left of him. His body was wrapped in salvaged cloth, the material rough, inadequate. But it was all she had. She tied the final knot, her fingers lingering for a moment, grounding herself in the task. When she straightened, her shadow stretched long and thin in the fading light.

“Namjoon.” Her voice was steady, though exhaustion clung to its edges. “We need to move before nightfall. While it’s still cool.”

Daku wiped a streak of sweat from his brow, glancing up. “What, you’re heading off too?”

Y/N nodded, jaw tight. “Lee’s leaving you a gun. Just one favor—bury my crew. They didn’t deserve to die here.”

Bindi met her gaze, expression soft but resolute. “We’ll take care of them.”

Then the sound came. Faint at first. A whisper. A reverence.

"Namjoon… Namjoon…"

The wind carried it toward them, weightless yet insistent. The group stilled. One by one, they turned toward the voice, rounding the wreckage to see where it came from.

And then, they saw it.

A blue star.

It flared against the horizon—impossibly bright, too large, too deliberate. It rose slowly, cutting through the burnt reds and oranges of the sunset like a blade. The light spread, stretching long shadows across the cracked land, shifting as if the planet itself had taken a breath.

Bindi exhaled sharply. “My bloody oath.”

“Three suns?” Leo whispered, his voice thin with disbelief.

Daku shook his head, his expression dark. “So much for nightfall.”

“And so much for cocktail hour,” Peter muttered, but the joke died the second it hit the air.

Namjoon stepped forward, bathed in the blue glow. The light painted his face in something almost holy. His voice was calm, steady, carrying the weight of quiet conviction.

“We take this as a sign. A path. A direction from God.”

Before anyone could respond, Lee moved.

He slid down the wreckage, boots kicking up dust as he landed. He straightened, brushing himself off, his rifle still slung across his shoulder. His face was unreadable, his eyes sharp.

“A very good sign,” he said, nodding toward the blue star. “That’s Jungkook’s direction.”

Y/N’s gaze flickered to him, unreadable. “Thought you said you found his restraints over there,” she said, jerking her chin toward the opposite horizon, where the red sun was slipping beneath the cracked earth.

Lee didn’t flinch. “I did.” His voice was even, final. “Which means he’s moving toward sunrise.”

The words settled like a stone in the pit of Y/N’s stomach. Jungkook wasn’t wandering. He wasn’t lost. He had a direction. A purpose. And it was moving closer.

She looked back at the star, its eerie light shifting the landscape into something foreign, something watching. A slow exhale left her lips, her mind sharpening.

“Then we move,” she said, her voice unyielding. “Before he decides to double back.”

No one argued. No one hesitated. Because the truth was simple. They weren’t just running from Jungkook anymore. They were following him.

The horizon shimmered, a mirage of heat and shifting color, an alien dream unraveling in the distance. The landscape stretched out before them like an open wound, raw and unrelenting, bruised in shades of violet and ochre under the double glare of the twin suns. To stare too long was to feel the world slip sideways, the very fabric of reality twisting under the weight of its own unnatural stillness.

They moved in a thin, fragile procession, their figures small against the vastness, nothing more than a line of ghosts fading into the endless heat.

The Chrislams led the way, their voices rising and falling in quiet, hypnotic rhythm. Their steps were deliberate, measured, faith woven into every movement. Incense pots swung gently from their hands, sending tendrils of spiced smoke curling into the air—an offering, a prayer, a plea for something greater than themselves. The scent tangled uneasily with the metallic tang of dust, the dry crackle of a world long since abandoned to silence.

Lee followed at a short distance, shotgun resting easy in his arms, though his grip spoke of exhaustion more than readiness. Sweat streaked through the dust on his face, his makeshift visor—a jagged scrap of plexiglass tied down with wire—biting into his skin. He ignored it. The pain was secondary. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the horizon with the wary focus of a man who understood that stillness could kill just as surely as motion.

Beside him, Y/N shifted the weight of Peter’s ridiculous war-pick across her back. The ornate handle dug into her shoulder with every step, a mockery of their situation. A relic in a place that demanded survival, not sentiment. She had given up rolling her eyes after the first hour—exhaustion had a way of dulling even irritation.

Peter trailed behind, his face pink from the sun, his every step labored. And yet, he cradled his remaining artifact like a sacred object, a lifeline to something that only made sense to him.

The sky loomed, too vast, too fluid, its colors seeping into one another like ink bleeding through paper. The heat distorted the air, turning the horizon into something unreal, something that moved even when it shouldn’t. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t mean peace.

It meant something was waiting.

Y/N fumbled with the cloth she had tried—and failed—to wrap around her head. Her fingers, slick with sweat, kept losing their grip, the fabric slipping no matter how many times she adjusted it. The suns beat down, relentless, burning through her scalp, through her bones.

Namjoon noticed.

He didn’t speak. Just stepped closer, his movements calm, measured. Before she could protest, his hands brushed against hers, taking the cloth with quiet certainty. He wrapped it with the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times, securing each fold, each knot, with practiced ease.

Y/N stiffened. She wasn’t used to small kindnesses.

“It’s too quiet,” she muttered, her voice too loud in the stillness. “You get used to the hum of the ship, the engines… then suddenly, it’s just… nothing.”

Namjoon tied the last knot, adjusting the fabric slightly. “Do you know who Muhammad was?” he asked, his voice low, conversational—like they were discussing something as ordinary as the weather.

She blinked at him. “Some prophet guy?”

His lips twitched. “Some prophet guy.” He stepped back, eyes scanning his work before meeting hers again. “He was a city man, but he had to go to the desert—to the silence—to hear the words of God.”

Y/N squinted against the glare. “So, you were on a pilgrimage? To New Mecca?”

He nodded. “Chrislam teaches that once in every lifetime, there should be a great hajj—a journey. To know God better, yes. But also to know yourself.”

A dry laugh slipped from her lips, brittle as the ground beneath their boots. “Sounds terrifying.”

Namjoon just watched her, waiting.

She exhaled. “I grew up on Helion Five,” she admitted, tugging the cloth slightly, testing its weight. “Not as nice as Prime.”

Something flickered in Namjoon’s expression—recognition, maybe respect. “Least religious of all the Helion planets,” he said. “And the poorest.”

Y/N nodded. “I studied botany on Prime. Spent eight years at the technical institute.”

Namjoon’s face shifted, surprised but pleased. “Then you’ve been to New Mecca.”

“I have.” Her voice softened slightly. “Studied under Dr. Abbas.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in wonder. “Dr. Abbas was a mentor to my uncle. I met him once, when I was young. Brilliant man.”

Y/N nodded. The memories flickered behind her eyes—the towering spires of New Mecca, the hydro-gardens sprawling across the academy, faith and science woven together in delicate balance. It had been an oasis of learning, a place of possibility.

A place that should have led her somewhere better than this.

But then Helion Five ran out of money, and so did she. Her funding dried up, and she ended up back in the dirt, scraping by, until a flight school opportunity on Aguerra Prime sent her halfway across the galaxy.

She didn’t say that part.

At least NOSA paid well. At least the benefits were better than anything in the Helion System.

Namjoon studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “You’re full of surprises.”

Before Y/N could respond, Lee stopped. His entire body locked, every muscle wound tight. His breath sharpened. Then—his voice, low, razor-sharp. “Hold up.”

The words carved through the air, snapping every nerve in Y/N’s body to attention.

Lee lifted his rifle, scanning the horizon. His stance had changed—tight, predatory, every line of his body braced for whatever came next.

A ripple of unease passed through the group.

Y/N stepped forward, pulse quickening. “What is it?”

Lee didn’t answer immediately. He just handed her the scope, his expression grim.

She pressed it to her eye, adjusting to the warped, heat-rippled view. At first, she saw only what she expected—the same endless wasteland, stretching as far as the horizon. The cracked ground, desiccated and lifeless. The swirling dust, shifting restlessly in the dry, scorching wind. The emptiness, vast and absolute.

Then—something.

A cluster of thin, vertical shapes disrupted the monotony of the landscape.

She frowned. Her first instinct labeled them as trees, but the thought was dismissed as quickly as it formed. That was impossible.

She adjusted the focus, scanning for details, but the air above the superheated ground distorted everything. Waves of refracted light bent and twisted the landscape, making the objects shift in and out of coherence. She knew how easily the mind could be deceived under conditions like this—optical illusions born from extreme temperature gradients.

Still, she studied them.

They stood upright, dark against the glare of the horizon, irregular in height and spacing. They weren’t moving. Not even a fraction. No branches trembling in the wind. No leaves fluttering. Just still, rigid silhouettes.

Her jaw tightened.

If they were plant life, they shouldn’t be here. The conditions were too extreme. The heat alone would desiccate any surface vegetation in hours—if not outright kill it. Water, if it existed at all, would be buried deep underground, far from the sun’s reach. Any life here would have adapted to that reality. It would stay hidden, evolving in subterranean networks, safe from radiation and exposure.

But these things stood exposed, unyielding beneath a sky that could boil blood.

She exhaled slowly. If they weren’t trees, then what? Rock formations? But they were too slender, too irregular, lacking the weathered smoothness she’d expect from geological structures shaped by the elements.

Her mind cycled through possibilities.

Dead stalks of something that once lived? Artificial structures? Or just a mirage—some trick of light warping the landscape into false patterns?

She lowered the scope, blinking hard, then looked again with her naked eye. The shapes were still there, but less distinct, as if they faded into the background when not magnified.

That unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Her fingers tightened around the scope.

"Those aren't trees," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.

Y/N lowered the scope, pressing her lips into a thin line. The shapes still lingered on the edge of the horizon, indistinct and unreal, but her mind refused to place them in any known category. That alone made her uneasy.

“They aren’t trees,” she repeated, calmer this time. More certain.

Lee scoffed. “And you know that how?”

She turned to him, pulse steady despite the irritation curling in her chest. “Because trees don’t grow in places like this. Not on a planet this hot, this dry. Any plant life would be subterranean—assuming there’s life at all. Whatever those are, they’re not—”

“We’ll check it out.”

Y/N stiffened. “That’s not what I—”

Lee was already moving, waving for the others to prepare. “Not gonna stand here debating with a pilot who thinks she’s a scientist,” he muttered, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side. “I have a PhD in botany, actually,” she said flatly. “Which is why I’m telling you—”

“And I have a gun,” Lee cut in, not even looking at her. “So we’re gonna make sure.”

Y/N inhaled sharply through her nose. Of course. Of course, he was like this. She’d had his type figured out in the first ten minutes—loud, condescending, the kind of man who couldn’t stomach the idea of someone else knowing more than he did.

“You could just listen to her,” Namjoon interjected, stepping up beside her. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was an edge to his tone, subtle but firm. “She’s probably right. We don’t know what’s out there, and heading straight toward something unknown isn’t exactly smart.”

Lee exhaled sharply, turning back just enough to give Namjoon an unimpressed look. “Yeah? And what’s your plan, genius? Stand around and argue?”

“I think his plan,” Y/N said coolly, “is to use common sense.”

Lee barked a laugh. “Right. Common sense is what gets people killed. We don’t assume, we confirm.” His gaze flicked back to her, sharp with challenge. “Unless you’re scared?”

Y/N’s expression didn’t change, but inside, something clenched. Not in fear—just exhaustion. She’d dealt with men like this her entire career. She knew exactly how this argument would play out. She could cite a hundred scientific reasons why approaching those things was unnecessary at best, dangerous at worst, and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

Lee wanted to stomp over there just to prove he could.

Fine. Let him.

“Whatever,” she muttered, shoving the scope back into his hands. “Let’s go, then.”

She didn’t miss Namjoon’s concerned glance, but she ignored it. If following Lee into a potential death trap was what it took to get him to shut up, so be it.

At least when this inevitably turned out to be a waste of time, she’d get to say I told you so.

The wrecked ship knifed through the barren skyline, its twisted metal ribs jutting like bones against the backdrop of twin burning suns. The land stretched endlessly in every direction—cracked, lifeless, shimmering under the weight of an unrelenting heat. The ship’s remains had become a monument to survival, a jagged scar on an already brutal world.

Perched atop the wreck, Peter reclined as if he were sunbathing at a luxury resort instead of stranded on a hellscape. His misting umbrella—a ridiculous contraption of indulgence and pure audacity—hissed softly, releasing a cooling vapor laced with alcohol. The mist shimmered in the dry air, enveloping him in a cocoon of decadence, as if the wasteland were merely an inconvenience rather than a death sentence.

Below, Daku appeared, dragging a makeshift sled across the scorched earth. The thing groaned under the weight of scavenged supplies—tarps, cables, tools lashed together with salvaged wiring. Sweat slicked his skin, dust clinging to every exposed inch, the heat pressing down on him like a living thing. He barely spared Peter a glance before barking out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Comfy up there?”

Peter angled his umbrella, peering down with a lazy grin. “Incredible, really,” he said, voice dripping with mock sincerity. He lifted his polished flask in a casual toast. “Turns out food and water are highly overrated when you have the finer things in life.”

Daku’s scowl deepened, his fingers tightening around the sled’s rope. “Just keep your bloody-fuckin’ eyes peeled,” he muttered, his accent sharpening with irritation. “Don’t need that ratbag sneakin’ up and takin’ a bite out of my bloody-fuckin’ arse.”

He turned and trudged toward the distant hills, the sled dragging behind him with a slow, agonized scrape. Peter smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his flask before pouring a precise splash into a delicate glass—somehow unbroken despite the crash. He lifted it to his lips, savoring the moment like he wasn’t marooned on a planet actively trying to kill him.

Then—the blade. Cold steel against his throat.

Peter’s breath hitched. His body went still, every instinct screaming don’t move. The pressure was light but undeniable, the knife’s edge sharp enough that even the slightest shift could draw blood. The air around him changed, tightened.

Then a voice, soft, almost amused. “He’d probably get you right here.” The blade tilted, just enough to let Peter feel the danger. “Right under the bone,” Leo murmured. “Quick. Clean. You’d never hear him coming.”

Peter’s fingers twitched toward the war-pick resting across his lap, but he didn’t move. He barely breathed. Because Leo wasn’t bluffing.

Peter’s eyes flicked sideways, catching the boy’s gaze. Those too-bright green eyes—steady, unblinking, holding something that didn’t belong in a face so young. The knife didn’t waver in his hand. His grip was sure, practiced, casual in a way that turned Peter’s stomach.

Peter swallowed carefully, feeling the blade shift with the motion. “Aren’t you a little young to be playing assassin?” he asked, voice light, strained. “What’s the story, then? Did you run away from your parents, or did they run away from you?”

A flicker of something dark passed over Leo’s expression—anger? Amusement? It was gone before Peter could name it. The blade stayed where it was.

Then, after a heartbeat too long, Leo stepped back. The knife withdrew with a flick of his wrist, a smooth, deliberate motion. The tension didn’t break—it just stretched, coiled between them, an unspoken thing that settled heavy in the heat. Leo turned and walked away.

Peter let out a slow, measured breath. His hand brushed over the war-pick in his lap—too late, too useless now—but the weight of it felt like reassurance. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the umbrella, tilting it just enough to cast his face back into shade. He exhaled, steadied himself.

Then, forcing his voice back into something closer to normal, he called after him.

“What exactly are you trying to prove, kid?”

Leo didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. The knife in his hand caught the light as he walked, glinting with every step. A warning. A promise.

Peter watched him disappear into the waves of heat, unease settling like a stone in his chest. He lifted the flask, poured another sip of sherry, and swallowed it down. It tasted bitter now.

The edge of the wreckage was quieter than anywhere else, a pocket of solitude carved into the heat and ruin. Leo sat cross-legged in the dust, her back to the others, their voices distant, muffled by the wind that swept across the barren expanse. The shadow of the hull stretched thin, barely offering relief from the twin suns, but she didn’t care.

She just needed to be alone.

The knife rested across her knee, a sliver of light catching on the steel, glinting as if it had something to say. Her hands hovered above it, fingers twitching, uncertain.

Her curls clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, itching at the back of her neck. They’d been a nuisance all day, an unwanted reminder of something she wasn’t anymore. Something she couldn’t be.

The first time she cut her hair, she’d done it with a shard of broken glass in a back alley on Taurus I, shivering, starving, her hands sticky with someone else’s blood. She’d shed her name that night too, left it behind like the curls that littered the filthy street.

Audrey had died there. Leo had crawled out of the wreckage. Now, here she was again.

Her fingers curled around the knife, steadying it despite the faint tremor in her hands. The first cut was clumsy, the blade snagging against a tangle before slicing through. A curl tumbled down, landing against the dust, dark against the pale ground. She exhaled sharply. Then she cut again.

Each slice was an act of erasure. A deliberate, necessary violence.

The curls fell in thick, heavy strands, coiling like dead things at her feet. She didn’t stop, even when sweat stung her eyes, even when her breath came short and fast. She worked until there was nothing left but uneven stubble, rough against her fingertips.

A breeze ghosted across her scalp, cool and startling, and for a moment, she felt untethered. Unmoored.

She stared down at the pile of curls, scattered like broken promises. Pieces of a girl who no longer existed. Pieces of soft hands and warm voices, of braids woven by someone long dead, of a life stolen before she ever had a chance to claim it.

Her throat tightened, but she swallowed hard, shoving the feeling down. Then, with one sharp motion, she ground her boot into the curls, sweeping them away with a harsh kick. The wind took them, lifting them into the air, scattering them across the wasteland.

She watched until they disappeared.

The knife was dull now, the edge dulled by the thick, stubborn strands it had cut through. She ran her thumb along the blade, then slipped it back into its sheath.

Leo stood slowly, brushing dust from her knees, rolling her shoulders back. She could already feel the questions rising in her mind. Did she cut enough? Would it pass? Would they see through her?

No. They wouldn’t. They saw what they expected to see—a wiry, sharp-edged boy, too young to be dangerous, too hard to be soft.

And that’s all they needed to know. She wasn’t going to tell them. Not Daku. Not Peter. Not even Namjoon. It wasn’t about trust. It was about survival.

She knew what happened to girls out here. She’d seen it. Felt it. She knew how softness got twisted, exploited, broken apart piece by piece. Leo wasn’t going to let that happen to her. Not again. Out here, softness wasn’t just a weakness. It was a death sentence.

Her green eyes flicked toward the horizon. The jagged hills stood like teeth in the distance, waiting for them. They would bring more pain. More danger. That was inevitable.

But Leo would meet them head-on. She had no other choice. Squaring her shoulders, she turned back toward the ship. The others would see her return. But they wouldn’t see her. Not really.

To them, she was just another boy. Just another survivor. Another body moving through this relentless, unforgiving world. And that was exactly how she needed it to be. Audrey was gone, scattered like dust on the wind. Leo was all that was left. And there was no space for softness now.

The rise gave way to something wrong.

Y/N had never expected to find trees—hadn’t even humored the idea. This planet was too hot, too dry, too merciless. Nothing should be growing here, least of all something as delicate as surface-dwelling vegetation. If life existed, it would be underground, hidden away from the blistering heat, surviving on whatever moisture remained trapped beneath the surface.

But what lay ahead wasn’t life at all.

It was bones.

They weren’t scattered remains or the weathered fossils of something long forgotten. No, these were enormous, structured, standing like a grotesque forest of the dead. Ribs the size of starships arched toward the sky, their jagged edges worn by time, bleached to a sickly green by lichen clinging stubbornly to their surfaces. They loomed over the wasteland, casting long, skeletal shadows that twisted and bent under the relentless double suns.

The ground beneath them was no better. Littered with shattered fragments, hollowed-out vertebrae, and the occasional half-buried skull, it was as if something had torn through this place—something big, something merciless.

The young pilgrims, Namjoon’s people, had begun to murmur prayers, their voices hushed and wavering.

“Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…”

Their reverence was tinged with unease, their steps hesitant now, their awe tempered by something much colder.

Y/N lingered at the edge of the rise, adjusting the strap of her pack with a quiet exhale. She had no desire to move forward. Whatever happened here, however long ago it had been, it wasn’t natural. This wasn’t a graveyard. A graveyard implied burial, rest, peace. This?

This was a battlefield.

Lee, of course, had no such caution. He stepped up beside her, his shotgun slung low but ready, his face streaked with sweat and dust. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp, assessing. Always acting like he was in charge. Always acting like he knew best.

"This doesn’t feel right," he muttered.

Y/N barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "No kidding," she murmured, voice dry.

They reached the others just as Namjoon translated a question from one of the younger pilgrims.

“He asks what could have killed so many great things.”

No one answered.

Y/N didn’t think they wanted to know.

They moved deeper, their earlier eagerness replaced by a silent, collective caution. She reached out, running her fingers over one of the towering ribs. The grooves carved into the surface were too precise, too intentional. Not the work of time, nor of nature.

“Killing field,” she murmured, stomach twisting. “Not a graveyard.”

Lee crouched near a pile of smaller bones, picking up a fragment. He turned it over in his hands, brushing away the dust. The surface was smooth, polished by age, but the ends—the ends had been broken.

“Whatever it was,” he said grimly, “it was a long time ago.”

A little ways off, Kai drifted toward one of the massive skulls, its hollow sockets wide and empty, a monument to something long dead. The structure was vast enough to shelter them all, its surface ridged with comb-like formations. Curious, Kai pressed his palm against one of the ridges. The wind shifted, catching within the grooves.

Namjoon, unlike the others, wasn’t entirely lost in the spectacle. His gaze flicked back to Y/N, watching the way her expression remained tight, the way her fingers twitched with irritation.

“You don’t like this,” he observed quietly.

Y/N huffed out a breath. “I don’t like being here at all. This is pointless.” She cast a glance at Lee, who was still inspecting the bones like he was the first person in the universe to ever see a skeleton. “And I don’t like being dragged around by someone who acts like he’s in charge just because he’s loud and armed.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “That’s just Lee. Cop acting like a cop.”

Y/N snorted. “Yeah, well, I didn’t sign up to be bossed around by some overzealous authority figure with a superiority complex.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a dick.” Then, after a beat, “But mostly harmless.”

She side-eyed him. “Mostly.”

He shrugged, the ghost of amusement lingering.

A pause settled between them, quieter, more thoughtful. Y/N glanced at him, debating, then sighed. “Call me Frenchie.”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

“It’s my call sign,” she explained, shifting her weight. “Got it when I was working on the docks with my uncle, and it stuck around. All my friends and family call me. You might as well, since I actually like you.”

Namjoon’s expression softened, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Frenchie,” he repeated, testing the name with obvious care. A slow smile curved his lips. “I like it.”

Y/N nodded, satisfied.

Then Namjoon hesitated. “My mom used to call me Joon.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I haven’t heard it in a long time.”

Y/N looked at him, tilting her head slightly.

“She passed away a few years ago,” he admitted.

Y/N’s chest ached, just a little. She understood that feeling too well. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Namjoon nodded once, accepting, before offering her a small, sad smile. “It’s okay.”

Y/N hesitated, then said, “My parents died when I was little. My aunt and uncle raised me.”

Namjoon’s gaze met hers, understanding passing between them in the space of a heartbeat.

For a moment, they stood there, two people from different worlds, bound by quiet losses and shared irritation for the man currently barking orders at Kai like he had any authority.

Namjoon sighed. “We should probably go stop Lee from doing something stupid.”

Y/N smirked. “Or we could let him and watch what happens.”

Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “Tempting.”

But they both knew they’d step in. Because Lee might be a pain in the ass, but he was still on their side.

A low, hollow hum resonated through the bones. The sound rippled outward, vibrating through the air, sinking into their chests like a pulse of memory. It was deep, mournful—a ghost’s sigh.

Kai’s face lit up, wonder momentarily eclipsing fear. “I’ve never heard anything like this,” he said, turning toward the others, his voice tinged with awe.

His smile froze. Something moved in the skull’s shadow. A face—pale and grinning—emerged from the dark. Kai stumbled back with a strangled yelp, his hands flying up instinctively. It wasn’t a monster. It was Soobin.

He stepped from the depths of the skull, laughter bright and sharp. “Got you good,” he said, grinning.

The tension cracked—momentarily.

Lee was already moving, instincts pulling him into the cavernous space of the skull. The shadows stretched long inside, pooling in uneven recesses. Bones littered the ground, but not the smooth, time-worn ones outside.

These were fresh. Chipped. Splintered. His shotgun swept low, the muzzle nudging against a shattered fragment. The air inside the skull carried an edge, something faintly electric—like the charge before a storm.

Lee exhaled through his nose, slow. "Nothing," he muttered, but his gut said otherwise.

Outside, the group gathered near the towering ribs, unease thickening as the wind hummed through the combed ridges of the skulls, filling the air with a sound too unnatural to be ignored. The massive remains stood like silent guardians over a forgotten tragedy.

High above, Jungkook watched. He was a shadow within the bone, his body pressed into the dense curves of the cavernous skull. The faint light filtering through the ridges illuminated only fragments of him—a glint of movement, a slow, steady breath. He didn’t stir. Didn’t make a sound.

His gaze flicked over the group below. He had been tracking them for hours. From where he crouched, Y/N was the closest. She leaned against the skull’s base, fingers twisting off the spent oxygen canister at her belt. The hiss of escaping air broke the silence.

Jungkook’s grip tightened around the bone-shiv in his hand. Its jagged edge gleamed faintly, a relic carved from the remains of this place. His muscles coiled. His breath was measured. He waited. The hunt hadn’t begun yet. But soon.

Y/N shifted her weight, pressing her back against the massive skull. The warmth of the bone seeped through her clothes, and for a moment, she let herself close her eyes. Just a second—just long enough to exhale, to let the exhaustion settle beneath her ribs before she pushed forward again.

Above her, in the hollowed-out depths of the skull, Jungkook did not blink. He moved with the silence of something bred for patience, for hunting. The bone-shiv in his hand hovered steady, his fingers curling around the carved handle as he leaned forward, the comb-like ridges of the skull framing his motion.

Her hair, damp with sweat, swayed just within reach. A flick of his wrist. A whisper of steel. The blade caught a single lock, slicing it away with surgical precision. Dark strands drifted into his palm, weightless, a piece of her claimed without her ever knowing. He studied them for a moment—expression unreadable—before tucking them into the folds of his makeshift belt. A keepsake. A marker.

Below him, Y/N shifted, oblivious to how close she had come to the edge of her life. She pushed off from the skull, stretching out her sore muscles before turning. “We’d better keep moving,” she said, her voice even, but tired.

Lee’s arrival had been perfectly timed—though she had no idea how perfectly. He stood a few feet away, flask in hand, smirking beneath the sunburned grime on his face. “Care for a sip?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t alcohol supposed to dehydrate you faster?”

Lee shrugged, tipping the flask toward her. “Probably. But it makes you care a whole lot less.”

She hesitated, then took the flask anyway. The liquid burned a path down her throat, hot and punishing, but she swallowed it without complaint. She handed it back, her gaze drifting toward the horizon. The boneyard stretched behind them, vast and silent, too silent.

“We don’t want to be out here when it gets dark,” she said briskly.

Lee nodded, tucking the flask back into his jacket as they fell into step. The group ahead was just visible now, their silhouettes shrinking against the dying light.

The crunch of bone fragments beneath their boots was the only sound between them. They climbed the rise overlooking the wasteland, and then—Lee froze. He moved fast, stepping onto a rock, rifle raised, the scope pressed tight against his eye. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

Y/N felt the shift instantly. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her knife. “What is it?”

Lee didn’t answer at first. He adjusted the scope, lips pressing into a tight line.

“I thought maybe he’d double back,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “Could be trailing us.”

Y/N’s stomach coiled tight. “And?”

Lee exhaled, lowering the scope. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “Left the flask as bait. No bites.” He climbed down, his boots hitting the earth with a crunch. “Guess he’s smarter than that.”

But Lee was wrong. So, so wrong. Back in the shadows of the skull, the truth was different. The flask, once brimming with scotch, now sat empty. Its contents had been poured out—replaced with a handful of coarse, reddish sand. Carefully. Deliberately.

Jungkook crouched deep in the graveyard of bones, his body a seamless part of the ruin, woven into the wreckage of something ancient. The strands of Y/N’s hair were still tucked securely into his belt, their faint scent rising with the heat.

His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled movements, his fingers adjusting the bone shards strapped across his body like armor. He was a ghost. A specter inside the carcass of a long-dead god. Watching. Waiting. And as the group moved farther away, he smiled.

The spired hills rose like shattered teeth against the sky, jagged and sharp, their edges blurred by the feverish shimmer of heat. The ground cracked beneath the weight of the twin suns, a vast, unrelenting plain stretching between the wreckage and the emptiness beyond.

Beneath the meager shade of a tarp strung between two rusted poles, Daku worked in silence.

Each swing of the pickaxe landed with a dull, defiant thud, the ground resisting him at every turn. This planet didn’t want to give up its dead.

A few yards away, the bodies lay wrapped in scavenged cloth. The makeshift shrouds clung awkwardly, shifting slightly in the breeze, as if reluctant to settle. A corner of one cloth lifted—just enough to reveal the curve of a hand, frozen in stillness—before the wind set it back down, as if even the air knew better than to disturb the dead.

Daku didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to. Their presence pressed against his skin, heavy as the heat, heavy as guilt. He drove the pickaxe into the ground again, his muscles burning, his breath ragged. The wreckage of the ship loomed behind him, twisted metal stark against the sky. It felt farther away than it was, separated by more than just distance.

Movement at the edge of his vision made him pause. Bindi stood in the shadow of the ship, watching. She lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate wave. Daku raised his own in return. A small gesture. Too heavy for what it was. But enough. Then he turned back to the earth.

The ground cracked beneath his next swing, reluctant but yielding. The rhythm of digging gave him something to focus on—something other than the weight pressing at the edges of his mind.

“Daku.”

Bindi’s voice carried across the dead landscape, firm but quiet.

He didn’t stop. “You need something?”

She stepped closer, hands on her hips, her presence solid, steady. “You good out here?”

Daku leaned against the shovel, wiping sweat from his brow. His voice came out rough. Flat. “Depends. How good does digging graves in an oven sound to you?”

Bindi snorted. “You could take a break, you know.”

“They deserve better than that,” Daku muttered. No room for argument.

Bindi didn’t try.

She stood there for a moment, gaze lingering, unreadable. Then she turned and disappeared back into the wreckage, leaving him alone with the dust, the heat, and the dead.

Daku worked until his muscles ached, until his hands blistered, until the trench was deep enough to matter.

Then, finally, he turned to the first body. The cloth fluttered slightly as he crouched beside it. Too light. That was the first thing he noticed. The weight was all wrong, the shape beneath the fabric too empty. His breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t let it settle. Didn’t let himself think.

He lifted the body carefully, arms straining as he carried it to the grave. Lowered it into the earth like it meant something.

A breath. A pause. The world around him held still, as if watching. He swallowed hard, then reached for the shovel.

The first shovelful of dirt hit with a dull thud. Then another. Then another. The sound of finality. The sound of something being buried that would never be dug up again.

When it was done, he stepped back, brushing dust from his palms. It wasn’t much. But it was enough. The sound of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Bindi.

“You need help?” she asked.

Daku shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

She didn’t argue. She just stood there with him, both of them framed against the endless, indifferent horizon. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was everything they couldn’t say. Everything they’d lost. Everything they still had left to lose. Daku exhaled, his gaze fixed on the hills in the distance. The sun was sinking, but the heat never left.

“They’ll rest easier now,” Bindi murmured.

Daku tightened his grip on the shovel. “Let’s hope we can say the same for us.”

The canyon yawned ahead, its ribbed spires stretching toward the twin suns like the remains of some ancient beast, clawing at the sky in its final death throes. Heat shimmered off the cracked earth, turning the horizon into something warped and restless. The silence was thick, not the absence of sound, but the kind that pressed in on all sides, heavy with the unshakable feeling that something was watching.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her pack, fingers brushing absently over the worn hilt of her knife as she scanned the terrain. Every step felt heavier, dragged down not just by exhaustion, but by the weight of the stillness.

Ahead, Yeonjun suddenly crouched, his voice low but urgent.

"Captain… Captain!"

Y/N was at his side in seconds, her brow furrowing as she followed his gaze. Half-buried in the dirt was something small and round, coated in dust and split slightly down the middle. At first, it looked like some alien fruit—leathery, weathered, its exposed core stringy and fibrous.

The Chrislams gathered close, murmuring in soft Saramic, their voices tinged with something fragile—hope.

"Could it be food?" one of them asked. "Something edible?"

Y/N brushed the dirt away, fingers tracing the rough, familiar stitching. The realization sank in like a stone dropping into deep water. She lifted it slowly, turning it over in her palm.

Her voice was flat when she spoke. "It’s a baseball."

The murmurs stopped. The small circle of bodies tensed, shoulders tightening, breath catching. The dirt-smudged ball sat in her palm like an artifact from another world. In a way, it was.

Namjoon stepped closer, the usual calm in his eyes sharpening into something watchful. He scanned the canyon’s winding path, his voice measured but weighted.

“We are not alone here, yes?”

Y/N didn’t answer, but her grip on the ball tightened.

Behind her, Lee shifted, his rifle held easy but ready, the sharp cut of his jaw betraying his unease. His fingers brushed the scope, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Never thought we were,” he muttered, the resignation in his tone carrying something else beneath it. Something like readiness.

The canyon widened, opening into a plateau that led toward the spired hills. And there—standing against the base of the jagged rock formations—was a settlement. Or what was left of one.

Rust-streaked shipping containers, stacked into makeshift buildings, leaned into each other like forgotten bones. Tattered sunshades, barely clinging to their rusted poles, flapped weakly in the heated wind, their edges frayed and curling.

The group stopped.

Namjoon moved first, stepping forward with a reverence that didn’t match the decay before them.

"Assalamu alaikum!" Yeonjun called, his voice carrying across the empty space, bouncing off the metal walls.

Nothing. No answer.

Lee peeled off toward a rusted-out moisture-recovery unit, crouching near the battered jugs scattered at its base. He picked one up, shook it. Nothing. Just a hollow rattle of grit inside brittle plastic.

“They ran out,” he said grimly, setting the jug down with finality.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered on the machine, his voice quiet. “Water,” he murmured. “Once, there was water here.”

The pilgrims sank to their knees, hands raised, their voices rising in unison. Allahu Akbar. The sound filled the empty settlement, a prayer swallowed by the bones of a place long past saving.

Y/N watched from the outskirts, the weight of the baseball still heavy in her grip. The prayers filled the space, but they didn’t fill her. Her gaze drifted to the shipping containers. Too still. Too empty. She moved toward one, her steps careful, deliberate. The doors hung crooked, their rusted hinges straining against time. She pushed one open.

Inside, the remains of lives left behind: A tipped-over chair. A rusted lantern. A faint, smeared handprint on the wall.

Y/N dragged her fingers along the broken edge of a table. Her voice was quiet, more to herself than anyone else.

“What happened here?” Lee’s voice, closer than she expected.

“Doesn’t look like they had much of a choice,” he said, gesturing to the scattered jugs, the rusted-out machinery. “This place dried up.”

Namjoon’s voice broke through the weight of the silence. "We search. See what remains."

The group spread out, their movements slow, careful. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken. Y/N turned the baseball over in her hands, a cold certainty settling deep in her chest.

The air inside the structure was stale—not just old, but abandoned. A vacuum where life had once existed and then receded, leaving only the sediment of its passing. The particulate composition of the dust—fine, unbothered—told Y/N that no one had been in here for years.

She stepped forward, careful with her weight distribution, feeling the floor shift just slightly under her boots. Disuse. Wood degradation. Subsurface rot. The building wouldn’t collapse under her, but it was tired.

She cataloged details as she moved—mental notes stacking like research entries in her mind. The table in the center of the room: wooden, refectory-style, approximately two meters in length. Surface dull with oxidized grime. Deep scratches. Cup rings. The wood had absorbed more than just liquid over time—it had absorbed history.

The walls bore framed images—early settlers, hands dirt-streaked and competent, smiling children, a boy gripping a baseball bat. Domesticity in an unrelenting world. A psychological anchor. And yet, they were gone. The structures stood, the ghosts remained, but the people who built them—who bent this world to their will—had vanished.

Where?

Y/N moved deeper inside, her fingertips trailing along the tabletop’s edge. Oil deposits in the grain. Sweat, grease—human residue. She withdrew her hand quickly, as if touching the past too much might make it real again.

She reached for the wall, searching by muscle memory for a switch. “Lights,” she muttered, though she already knew—futility.

Her hand skimmed rough plaster—no switches, no panels. Not even the residual tackiness of adhesive where something had been ripped away. No artificial power grid at all.

Her mind started turning. She moved toward a window, the fabric blackout blinds stiff under her fingers. Why blackouts? She yanked them back, expecting the room to flood with sunlight—

A face stared back. Y/N jerked backward, pulse spiking. Her breath hitched before recognition caught up. Lee. Standing just beyond the glass, his features cut sharp by the exterior glare. He grinned, bemused, almost lazy.

"Try not to get lost in there," he said through the window, voice muffled.

She exhaled sharply, tension bleeding from her muscles. A short, nervous laugh escaped her as she nodded. "Not planning to," she called back.

Lee gave a small wave and stepped away, disappearing into the light. She was alone again. But the silence inside the building had shifted. A creak from behind her.

Y/N pivoted, knife half-drawn, instincts running ahead of her thoughts. Something in the corner caught the light. An orrery.

It sat on a low table, its frame dulled with oxidation but intact. She took a slow, deliberate step forward. The gears inside clicked, stuttered, then began to turn.

The device came to life. Tiny planets, caught in orbits dictated by age-old mechanics, began to move. Uneven. Jerky. The largest celestial body, positioned where a primary sun should be, pulsed faintly—bathed in a perpetual glow.

Y/N stilled. No darkness. Her fingers brushed the frame. "No darkness," she murmured. "No lights, because… no darkness." Her scientific mind caught the pattern before her gut did. Something prickled at the base of her skull. A realization forming too slow to stop the chill crawling up her spine. She turned sharply, stepped back into the sunlight.

The porch creaked beneath her boots, the glare of the twin suns almost too much after the dim interior. She squinted, eyes scanning the barren land for movement.

Then—a flicker. Far out, something glinted. Not naturally. A deliberate reflection. Her breath caught. She moved fast, pushing past a line of laundry still clinging to rusted wire, the faded fabric brushing her arms as she pushed forward.

The glint again. She broke into a jog.The ground crunched beneath her boots, fractured stone and sand shifting as she reached the source— A skiff. Partially buried in the desert’s hungry mouth.

Y/N’s pulse pounded. The fabric wings, tattered and skeletal, flapped weakly in the wind. The hull, sleek despite its damage, bore faded markings—symbols etched by a language older than the ruins around it.

A vessel. A departure. Or an arrival. Her fingers traced the surface—metal, pitted and worn, but solid. Heat radiated from it, even in the already blistering environment. Residual energy storage? Possible thermovoltaic components? Her heart stuttered.

"Allahu Akbar," she whispered, voice trembling between awe and calculation.

She didn’t believe in miracles. But she believed in science. And the science told her one thing: Someone else had been here.

The others caught up within minutes, their footsteps crunching against the fractured ground, but Y/N barely registered them. Her mind was already dissecting, calculating, breaking down the skiff in front of her.

Namjoon reached her first, his approach slow, deliberate—a reverence she couldn’t afford. He placed a hand on the hull, fingers splayed over the scarred metal, his eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. A prayer. A plea. The Chrislams behind him murmured their own, their voices threading through the air like a quiet current of faith. Y/N wasn’t praying. She was analyzing.

Her fingers traced the hull, mapping out the pitting from sand erosion, the carbon scoring along the intake vents, the microfractures spiderwebbing across the surface. Heat residue. That meant energy retention. That meant—

"Think it’ll fly?" Lee’s voice broke through her thoughts. He stood just behind her, rifle slung loose, his gaze sweeping over the vessel with a mix of hope and skepticism.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head, already formulating possibilities, probabilities, limitations. "I don’t know," she admitted, but the words thrilled her. Not in uncertainty, but in possibility.

Her hands moved instinctively, pushing against the skiff’s frame, testing its stability, density, material integrity. The hull composition felt wrong—light but strong, too smooth to be traditional alloys. Not purely terrestrial. Some kind of composite—low-weight, high-tensile resilience.

The intake vents told her more—angled for atmospheric entry, but the heat scoring was shallow. This thing hadn’t been through a rough descent. It hadn’t crashed. It had landed. Her pulse ticked up, the rush of discovery washing over her, every neuron firing at once.

"This isn’t just wreckage," she muttered under her breath. "It was left here."

Lee frowned. "What are you saying?"

She stepped back, surveying the machine as a whole, not just its parts. "Scorch patterns are too controlled for a crash. The way the sand's drifted against it—it's been here a while, but not long enough for total burial. And the material—" she pressed her palm flat against the hull "—it’s still holding latent heat. That means an energy core. That means—"

Lee caught on before she even finished. His breath left him in a short, sharp laugh. "—it might have power," he finished.

Y/N nodded, her mind already racing ahead. If there was power, there was a chance. The skiff wasn’t just a symbol of escape. It was a machine—a problem to solve, a system to understand, a puzzle begging for hands smart enough to unlock it.

For the first time in too long, she felt the familiar pull—not just survival, not just endurance, but science.

"If we can get inside, if the controls are intact, if we can access the core—" she turned to Namjoon, who was still watching her, still measuring her words against his faith.

"We might not be stuck here after all."

The group fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if waiting for the verdict. Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, not in doubt but in determination. For the first time in days, she wasn’t just reacting to survival. She was chasing it.

She looked up, toward the endless stretch of sky. For once, it didn’t feel like a ceiling. It felt like a destination.

Perched atop the ruined ship, Peter reclined in the only way Peter could—utterly unbothered, delicately indulgent, as if this wasteland was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to his standard of living. A toast point rested between two fingers, smeared with glistening caviar, because apparently, nothing—not even being marooned on a hostile planet—could persuade him to lower his standards.

The heat wavered in thick, rippling waves, and yet Peter sat immaculate, his linen trousers untouched by dust, grime, or the creeping dread curling at the edges of reality.

He lifted the toast toward his lips, prepared for the luxury of a bite, when— Scrabbling.

Soft. Imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t listening. A faint, almost instinctual sound. Dirt shifting. Small rocks tumbling. The suggestion of movement.

Peter froze. The toast hovered, suspended between indulgence and survival, as he tilted his head toward the edge of the ship. His sharp gaze narrowed. His hand lowered the toast with slow, deliberate precision onto a neatly folded napkin. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, brushed nonexistent dust from his trousers, and peered over the side.

Nothing. Just the dirt ramp, the heat waves, the small rocks still rolling a little too lazily, as if something—or someone—had climbed up. A muscle ticked in Peter’s jaw.

"This," he muttered under his breath, voice edged with his usual dry sarcasm, "now qualifies as the worst fun I’ve ever had. Stop it."

The wasteland offered no reply. The silence was thick, viscous, wrapping around him, pressing against his skin. The heat crackled off the ship’s hull, and suddenly, the toast and caviar felt obscenely misplaced.

Peter grabbed his war-pick—the ornate, polished relic, absurd in his hands, its weight foreign despite its promise of violence. He descended cautiously, every footstep deliberate, scanning the fractured shadows of the hull.

Still—nothing. His pulse was too fast. He did not like this.

“Leo?” Peter’s voice was low, edged with tension. "Oh, Leo… if this is one of your charming pranks—"

A voice rang out.

“What?”

Peter nearly dropped the war-pick. Leo’s voice was too casual, too far away. That meant—whatever had been up there with him, hadn’t been Leo. Cold certainty locked around Peter’s spine.

His tension sharpened into movement, feet carrying him faster now, deeper into the ship’s fractured belly, where he found Leo and Bindi, elbow-deep in a stubborn storage container, dirt streaking their faces. Both looked up, annoyed.

"Tell me that was you," Peter snapped, his grip tightening on the war-pick.

Leo’s brows furrowed. “Okay, sure, it was me. What’d I do now?”

"You’re assailing my fragile sense of security, that’s what,” Peter shot back. His voice cracked—just slightly—betraying his nerves.

Bindi straightened, her sharp gaze zeroing in. “He’s been right here, mate," she said, unimpressed. "What are you going on about?"

Peter opened his mouth, but— A shadow moved. A flicker across the fractured beams of sunlight slicing through the hull. The three of them froze. The air thickened, pressing in on all sides.

“Daku?” Bindi called, voice tight.

No response.

Leo darted to a narrow crack in the hull, pressing his face to the dusty glass. His breath fogged the surface as his gaze locked onto something.

Daku. Outside, hunched over the graves. Moving slow. Deliberate. Leo’s voice dropped to a whisper. His lips barely moved when he spoke the name they had all been avoiding.

"Jungkook."

Peter went rigid. The war-pick slipped in his sweaty grip. Bindi didn’t hesitate—she ripped the weapon from his hands in one clean motion, her body already moving, her muscles tensed like a spring waiting to snap. Leo followed, boomerang gripped like a lifeline.

The shadows deepened. The air grew heavier. And then—he appeared. Bindi swung first. Her aim was perfect—too perfect. The war-pick sliced through the air— and missed.

“No—!" Leo’s voice cracked. Panic ripped through him.

The man staggered back, arms raised defensively. Not Jungkook. Sunburned skin, blistered raw. A gaunt frame, weak, trembling. He clutched the lever of an emergency cryo-locker, his breath ragged, desperate.

"I thought—" he rasped, voice hoarse. Relief bloomed across his face. His eyes darted over them, hopeful, human, just a survivor—

The gunshot tore through the moment. Louder than the wind, louder than the sky. The bullet hit center mass. Blood sprayed across Bindi’s arm. The man’s body jerked, crumpled. His eyes went wide, confusion etched into his sunburned features before the light in them went out. A single breath. Then silence.

The group turned. Daku stood yards away, pistol still raised. His hands trembled. His chest rose and fell too fast.

"I thought it was him," Daku stammered. His voice cracked, unraveling. "The murdering ratbag. I thought—"

Leo’s face was ashen. His throat bobbed as he whispered, "He was just somebody else."

Daku’s gaze dropped. His hands fell limp at his sides. The pistol slipped from his fingers, clattering against the dirt. His knees buckled. His voice—wrecked, broken, crumbling.

“I thought it was him.”

And in the shadows behind the graves Jungkook watched. Still. Calculating. Amused. The goggles over his eyes caught the light, glinting. For a breath, he lingered, his gaze flicking to the breather strapped to Daku’s chest. Assessing. Weighing. Measuring. Then—like smoke he was gone. Leaving behind nothing. Just the echo of his presence and the weight of a mistake they could never take back.

The skiff crouched on the cracked earth like a carcass picked clean by time. Its fabric wings, once sleek and functional, hung in limp surrender, their edges frayed by wind and heat. The sand had already started reclaiming it, creeping up the landing gear, seeping into every exposed seam. Whatever this ship had been, whatever mission had left it here, was long over.

But it still had answers.

Y/N dropped from the cockpit, her boots crunching against the gritty surface below. She straightened, brushing sand off her hands, her mind already unraveling the mystery beneath the wreckage.

“No juice,” she called over her shoulder. Dead cells, fried circuits, a nest of corroded wiring—this thing hadn’t powered on in years.

Lee stood a few yards away, rifle slung over one shoulder in that lazy-but-ready way of his. He was watching her work, but also watching everything else.

“Controls are fried,” she continued, fingers running over the sun-bleached hull, searching. “Wiring’s a mess, but maybe we could adapt—”

“Shut up.”

Lee’s voice was sharp, cutting through her sentence like a blade. His hand came up, commanding silence. Y/N froze. Not because he had spoken—Lee was an ass, and abrupt orders weren’t new—but because of how he had said it.

His entire posture had shifted. The lazy stance was gone. His body was tight, coiled, head tilted slightly—like a wolf catching the scent of something just out of sight. Predator mode. Y/N’s stomach knotted.

“What?” she asked, voice low.

Lee didn’t answer immediately. His eyes swept the horizon, scanning the jagged rock formations, the dunes shifting lazily under the heat. The air around them felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy. Like the world itself had paused, waiting for something to happen. Y/N’s fingers drifted toward her knife, her pulse accelerating.

“Like my pistola,” Lee muttered.

Y/N frowned. He was hearing gunfire?

No—not gunfire. Something else. Before she could ask, the silence fractured. A sound—soft, metallic, deliberate. Like a latch being tested. Like steel on steel. Like someone was inside the skiff. Y/N’s grip tightened. She glanced at Lee. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He heard it too.

“From the ship?” she whispered.

“Maybe.” His voice was clipped, low. “Or it could be him.”

Jungkook. The name didn’t need to be spoken aloud—his presence was a constant shadow, thick and inescapable. Even when he wasn’t there, he was. A shiver traced down Y/N’s spine, but she swallowed it. Fear wouldn’t help. Answers would. Her focus snapped back to the skiff.

If she could find a serial number, a registry plate, even a manufacturer’s mark, she could start piecing this together. Where had it come from? Who left it here? And more importantly—what planet were they even on? She ran her hands over the hull, searching.

The paint was stripped, the weathering extreme, but beneath the peeling surface, she spotted a faint etching—small, almost invisible, tucked just beneath the intake vent.

Her pulse spiked. Identification markings. Y/N dropped to her knees, yanking out her multi-tool. The tip of the blade scraped carefully over the surface, clearing away grit and oxidation. There. Her brain moved fast.

“PT-221…” she whispered, deciphering the numbers as they appeared. A familiar format.

“This is a personnel transport skiff.”

Lee glanced toward her, but his focus was still half-outward, scanning the horizon. “That mean anything?”

Y/N exhaled hard, her mind racing.

“PT-series ships were manufactured in the Helion System. Specifically” —she brushed away more dirt—“On Prime. However, this one looks weird. An older model from Aguerra Prime or Earth. I'd sixty years, but there's a lot of copycat rebuilds out there. Depending on where we are, it's unlikely that anyone would leave a ship for sixty years with no plan of retrieving it.”

That meant something huge. If this skiff had been manufactured in the Helion System or any of the others that she mentioned, then it had originated from human-inhabited space. That meant they were somewhere mapped. Somewhere reachable. Which meant—they weren’t lost. Not completely.

“This is good, Lee,” she said, voice breathless with revelation. “If I can get into the onboard system—if the black box is still intact—we might be able to pull location logs. Nav data. Even a distress signal history.”

Lee wasn’t looking at her. His grip had shifted on his rifle, tighter. His jaw clenched. Y/N’s excitement fractured.

“Lee,” She barely whispered it.

He didn’t blink. His face was off. For a second, Y/N thought it was just the heat. The pale sheen on his forehead, the way his fingers flexed against the grip of his rifle—subtle signs of dehydration, maybe, or just the endless tension grinding them all down to bone. But then she really looked.

His breathing was wrong. Not labored, exactly, but uneven, like his body was reacting to something before his brain could catch up. His pupils looked a little blown, his skin too clammy for the dry heat pressing down on them. He was sweating, but not the normal kind. A slow, cold kind. Like someone had just ripped a secret out of his chest.

"Lee." Y/N’s voice dropped an octave, sharp with something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name. "What’s wrong?"

No answer. His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched, just once, against the trigger guard. Y/N’s stomach twisted. She barely had time to register it—to react, to decide if she should be worried or just pissed off—before Lee suddenly exhaled hard, shook himself like a man breaking out of a fog.

Then, just like that, his entire expression changed. The tension? Gone. The weird, distant look? Gone. He rolled his shoulders, blinked twice like shaking off a bad dream, then turned toward her with forced nonchalance.

“Sorry—what?” His voice was too normal, too casual, like he hadn’t just short-circuited mid-thought. “Say that again?”

Y/N stared at him. His breath was steadier now. His hand had relaxed on the rifle, no longer clenching like he was waiting for something to spring out of the dark.

But his skin still looked a little too pale under the sunburn. His lips pressed together too tightly. Like he knew she had clocked it. Like he was daring her to push the issue. Y/N narrowed her eyes but didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, she rolled her eyes and turned back to the skiff. "Nothing important, Lee. Just, you know, information that might actually save our lives."

She dropped to her knees again, blade scraping against the etchings on the hull, scanning for anything else. Serial numbers, flight logs—hell, even a maintenance sticker would help. Something to tell her where the hell this thing had come from. Because if she could figure that out, then maybe she could figure out where the hell they were.

The grave site shimmered under the twin suns, the heat so thick it seemed to press against Daku’s chest with every breath. The ground cracked beneath his boots as he dragged the dead man’s body across the dirt, the sled groaning under the weight.

The sound was grating, a harsh scrape against the silence, but the world swallowed it whole. Daku was alone.

The shipwreck loomed behind him, just out of sight, the sun-tarp sagging under the oppressive weight of dead air. The shade did nothing. It just made the place feel more hollow.

He braced himself, hands on his knees, and tried to ignore the way his lungs felt like sandpaper. Sweat burned down his back, soaking into the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t stop.

The grave wasn’t deep. Couldn’t be. The ground was fighting him, resisting every strike of the shovel like it didn’t want to give up its dead.

Then he saw it. Something in the dirt. Daku froze. Half-buried at the bottom of the shallow grave, nestled beneath the loose soil, was an opening. Not just a crack in the earth. Not a burrow. Something else. Too smooth. Too deliberate.

He knelt, breath hitching, his fingers brushing over the edges of the hole. The walls were lined with something fibrous, a texture that wasn’t quite plant, wasn’t quite animal. Dried husks, webbed together in intricate layers. Organic, but wrong.

His stomach twisted. He reached for the handlight clipped to his belt, flicking it on. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating the tunnel’s slope.

The walls reflected faintly. Not like rock, not like dirt—something else. Something that almost looked wet. Then the smell hit him. Acrid. Chemical. Like something had been burned too clean, stripped too sterile.

Daku tilted the light. The tunnel curved downward, disappearing into a place the light couldn’t reach. And then—it moved. Not the tunnel. Something inside it. A ripple. Small at first. Then again. Daku’s heart slammed against his ribs. At first, it looked like shadow, just the way the light played against the uneven walls.

But then he realized it wasn’t the light moving It was something in the dark. Something that was watching him. Then it lunged.

The edges of the burrow split apart with a wet, tearing sound. Like flesh peeling open. A tendril shot out, fast—too fast. It wrapped around Daku’s wrist, cold, slick, unnervingly strong. Panic detonated through him.

He yanked back instinctively, but the thing was stronger. Its grip tightened, pulling him toward the tunnel. Daku screamed. His free hand fumbled for his pistol, but his fingers couldn’t get a grip. The thing’s skin—if you could call it that—was slick, shifting, like oil trying to hold a shape.

Finally, his hand closed around the gun. He fired. The shot shattered the silence. The muzzle flash lit up the hole for a split second, and in that moment, Daku saw it.

Not just a tendril. Not just something reaching. A mass. It was writhing, growing, expanding from the darkness. Daku fired again, his pulse a drumbeat in his skull. The tendril spasmed, rippling like disturbed water. The grip loosened.

Back at the ship, Peter flinched so hard the toast point in his hand toppled, caviar-first, onto the dusty hull. He stared at it. Then at the horizon. Then back at the toast. Then back at the horizon. His mind scrambled for an answer that didn’t exist.

Leo’s head snapped up, boomerang held tight, his knuckles bloodless against the grip.

“That was a gunshot,” he whispered. Like they needed the reminder.

Bindi didn’t hesitate. She dropped into a crouch, war-pick in hand, her eyes locked onto the grave site. Something had happened. Something bad.

Peter scrambled down the side of the ship, his usual swagger gone.

“Tell me that wasn’t just me,” he said, voice pitched too high. “You heard it, right? I’m not going mad?”

Bindi didn’t even look at him. Her focus was all horizon, all muscle, her expression unreadable.

“Course I bloody heard it.” Her voice was clipped, sharp. “The question is, what are we gonna do about it?”

Leo swallowed hard. “That was Daku, wasn’t it?” His voice cracked. “It has to be him.”

Bindi’s head snapped toward him. “Don’t assume.” Her voice was hard, commanding, no room for argument. She rose from her crouch, grip shifting on the war-pick. “Could be anything,” she said. “Or anyone.” A beat. “We stay sharp.”

Leo’s green eyes flickered with something raw. His grip tightened.

“If it wasn’t him…” His voice was barely audible now. “…Then what?”

Peter opened his mouth, ready to quip, ready to deflect—but the look in Bindi’s eyes stopped him cold. She wasn’t joking. This was real.

He shifted uncomfortably, licking his lips, eyes darting toward the ship. “I’m just saying… maybe we think before running headlong into—” He gestured vaguely. “Whatever that was.”

Bindi cut him off.

“Stay here.” Leo flinched, but Bindi didn’t soften. “If anything moves that isn’t me or Daku,” she said, “you scream like the world’s ending.”

Peter opened his mouth again, but she was already moving, slipping toward the gravesite, war-pick held ready. Leo and Peter watched her go. The heat rippled around her, warping the horizon into something unreal.

Leo exhaled sharply, crouching beside Peter, boomerang in a death grip. “…Do you think it’s him?”

Peter didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His gaze was locked on the grave site. Because something was wrong. He could feel it. Finally, he swallowed, dragging a hand down his face.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He glanced toward the horizon, his brow furrowing. “But whatever it is…” His voice dropped. “…It’s close. Too close.”

The second gunshot shattered the graveyard’s silence, the sharp crack tearing through the thick, suffocating heat. The bullet found its mark.

A tendril snapped apart in midair, black ichor spraying outward in a violent arc, sizzling where it struck the dry earth. The air reeked instantly—something acidic, chemical, a stench that clung to the back of Daku’s throat, making his eyes water.

But the thing didn’t stop. The next tendril lashed out, wrapping around his calf before he could react. Then it pulled.

Daku hit the ground hard, his back slamming against the dirt with a dull thud. His breath ripped from his lungs, the wind knocked out of him as he slid toward the gaping burrow.

The thing wasn’t just strong. It was fast. He aimed blind—fired blind, his pistol flashing bright in the gloom. The muzzle flare lit up the nightmare for half a second.

A tangle of limbs. Writhing. Folding in on itself. Not solid. Not liquid. Something in between. The bullets tore through it, but it didn’t bleed right. It shuddered—jerked, rippled like disturbed water—but the tendrils kept coming.

One sliced across his chest, razor-thin but unforgiving, carving deep into his skin. Daku gritted his teeth against the pain, his vision blurring at the edges. His free hand scrambled for purchase, fingers clawing at the dirt, but the earth beneath him was giving way.

The grave was getting deeper. Or maybe he was just getting pulled in. His boots dug into the edge, small rocks tumbling down into the void below. Daku kept shooting, kept fighting, even as his grip weakened.

Another shot. Then—something different. One bullet hit deep. Not just flesh. Something inside it. The thing jerked back for a split second, a violent convulsion rolling through its mass.

Daku felt a spark of hope. But hope never lasted long on this planet. The creature lurched forward with renewed fury, its remaining tendrils snapping around his arms, his waist, his throat.

Everything constricted at once. His lungs spasmed. His vision narrowed. The last scream he tried to release died before it even left his throat.

His gun slipped from his fingers, tumbling into the abyss. Daku was going under. The ground crumbled beneath him. His boots skidded, slipped- Then he was gone. Yanked down. Swallowed whole.

The grave collapsed inward. The dirt settled. The sled sat untouched, its cargo neatly stacked, as if nothing had happened at all.

Overhead, the twin suns burned on. Their heat didn’t care. Their light reached everywhere. Except down there.

Deep in the burrow’s black throat, something shifted. The sound was wet, sickly, like flesh being pulled apart and put back together again. The darkness pressed down, thick and suffocating, as something dragged itself deeper. The creature retreated, its tendrils folding inward, pulling Daku’s motionless body into the abyss.

Deeper. Deeper. The light from the surface faded to nothing. The planet consumed him whole. And the silence that followed was final.

The ground burned through Bindi’s boots, the heat relentless, but she didn’t feel it. She sprinted across the packed, unforgiving earth, her breath tearing from her throat in ragged gasps. The twin suns bore down, their light merciless, the air thick and smothering, clinging to her skin like a second, unwelcome layer.

The makeshift sun-tarp came into view, its edges flapping against the crooked poles, the sound barely a whisper over the thunder in her chest.

She felt it before she saw it. Something was wrong. Bindi skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust. The world tilted slightly, her stomach dropping as she yanked the fabric aside—

And froze. Jungkook was standing there. Still. Silent. Waiting.

He was on the far side of the grave, body eerily relaxed, one hand hanging loosely at his side. In it, a bone-shiv. The blade gleamed faintly, catching the light in a way that shouldn’t have felt threatening—but did.

He didn’t flinch at her arrival. Didn’t step back. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, the slight tilt of his head the only indication that he even acknowledged her presence.

His goggles hid his eyes, but Bindi felt them—felt the weight of his stare like a blade against her ribs. Her gaze dropped and her lungs locked. The grave was empty.

The sled overturned, its contents scattered across the dirt like the remnants of a struggle. Blood smeared the earth, thick, dark, soaking into the fractured ground.

And at the bottom of the pit, something worse. A hole. No—a burrow.

Its edges weren’t normal, weren’t clean or mechanical or natural. The fibrous lining trembled, quivering like raw nerve endings, as if the planet itself had breathed a wound open.

Bindi’s body went cold, even as sweat stung her eyes.

She saw it then- Daku’s boot. Just the boot. Lying a few inches from the grave’s edge. Torn. Scuffed. One lace half-untied, like he’d been dragged right out of it.

Her scream tore through the air. "Daku!" Her voice broke, raw, desperate. "DAKU!" The grave swallowed the sound.

Jungkook still hadn’t moved. The silence around him was louder than her cries, pressing down like a living thing.

Bindi’s hand tightened around the war-pick, both hands now clutching it as though it could anchor her, keep her from falling into the same void. Her chest heaved, her throat aching from the scream, but her rage cut through the fear like a blade through flesh.

Her voice shook, but her fury didn’t. "What did you do?"

Jungkook tilted his head, lips barely twitching. A smirk. Or maybe not. Maybe just a reflex, something almost human, but Bindi knew better. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even acknowledge the accusation.

Her gaze snapped back to the grave—the blood, the torn earth, the quivering maw of the burrow. Something else had been here. Something alive. Something that wasn’t Jungkook.

Her breath hitched, the pieces snapping together in her mind with the speed of pure, visceral instinct. "What is down there?"

It wasn’t a question for him—it was a question for herself. Jungkook finally spoke, his voice low, measured, almost curious.

"Not me."

The words crawled under her skin. Her legs weakened. The hole at the bottom of the grave pulsed faintly. Bindi felt it. Like it was waiting.

Jungkook flicked his head toward the burrow—a gesture so small, so deliberate, it made her stomach lurch. He wasn’t explaining himself. He was telling her to look. Telling her to understand.

Her fingers tightened around the war-pick’s handle. And then—she broke. Her scream ripped from her throat, raw and violent.

"Liar!"

The word shook the air. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it. He just turned. His body moved fluidly, like an animal slipping back into the shadows, a creature untouched by morality, by fear, by regret. And he walked away.

Bindi stood there, breathing hard, hands shaking, staring at the grave like it might come alive beneath her feet. It already had. And whatever had taken Daku was still there.

Waiting. Watching. Hungry. Her chest heaved, her grip white-knuckled on the war-pick. The silence returned, heavier now, an oppressive weight of knowing. And she thought, for the first time, that maybe the real question wasn’t what happened to Daku. Maybe the real question was— How much time did they have left before it came back for them too?

Jungkook ran.

His body moved like liquid through rock, weaving through the towering spires that clawed at the sky like the fossilized ribs of some ancient, long-dead colossus. The terrain twisted violently, sharp-edged canyons and jagged drops designed to kill the unskilled, but Jungkook flowed through them without hesitation. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate, his muscles adjusting instinctively to the unpredictable ground beneath him.

The planet breathed heat and silence, thick and watchful, as if the land itself was waiting for the inevitable collision between predator and prey.

The boots behind him never stopped. Lee was close. His footsteps were methodical, unhurried despite the speed, a hunter keeping his quarry exactly where he wanted it. Then—

CRACK.

A gunshot split the air, shattering the fragile quiet. Jungkook felt it before he registered the pain—a sharp, white-hot kiss slicing across his shoulder. The impact sent him off balance, his body crashing into the ground in a violent sprawl.

Dust exploded around him, thick and blinding. He tumbled, skidding hard, his skin tearing against the brutal terrain. His lungs seized, inhaling grit as his momentum carried him forward—too fast, too out of control—until his body came to a bone-rattling stop.

Jungkook braced, muscles tensed to spring back up, keep moving, keep running— He never got the chance.

A boot slammed onto the back of his neck. Hard. Hard enough to rattle his teeth. The force drove him down, his face pressing into the burning dirt, the rough grit scraping against his cheek. His fingers twitched, instinct clawing at his spine, screaming at him to fight, fight, fight, but the weight was unrelenting.

Lee. Jungkook didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to see the satisfied smirk he knew was on the bastard’s face. Didn’t need to hear his smug, infuriating drawl to know exactly what was coming next.

“Same crap, different planet, huh?”

Jungkook’s breath came shallow and steady, his muscles coiled like a trap waiting to spring. The heat of the twin suns pressed against his exposed skin, but it wasn’t what burned.

Lee leaned in, his boot grinding just a little harder against Jungkook’s spine. “You’re fast. I’ll give you that.” A casual chuckle, like they were discussing the weather and not locked in a decades-long, vicious game of hunt-or-be-hunted. “But you should’ve figured it out by now—” He bent closer, his breath warm against the back of Jungkook’s neck. “You can’t outrun me.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his breath still even, controlled. Lee wasn’t invincible. No one was.

Lee shifted slightly, his shotgun gleaming in the sunlight, still pointed directly at Jungkook’s skull. “I’ll admit,” he continued, his voice dropping to something almost amused, “for a second there, you almost had me. Thought you might actually make it.” A pause. A beat of silence, stretching taut. “But here we are.” Lee sighed dramatically, pressing just a little more weight into his hold. “Same story, different setting.”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched against the dirt. His mind moved faster than his body, calculating every shift in weight, every possible angle to escape. Lee was underestimating him. Not enough to be careless—not yet—but enough to assume this was over.

Jungkook tested the pressure against his neck, shifting just slightly. Lee noticed. The boot pressed down. Hard.

“Don’t,” Lee warned, voice dropping into a growl.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing his body to still, to wait, to let Lee think he’d won. His lips twitched. A fraction of a smile. Lee’s grip on the gun tightened, the movement subtle—a hunter sensing the shift in the air, the moment before a predator strikes.

He leaned down, close enough that Jungkook could feel the smirk in his voice. “Go on,” he whispered. His breath was warm. His tone was taunting. “Try something. I dare you.”

Jungkook’s body went still. Too still. The silence stretched unnatural and tight, buzzing with something unspoken, unreadable. Lee frowned slightly. Jungkook smiled.

By the time Y/N and the Chrislams stumbled back into the settlement, the twin suns hung low and merciless, stretching shadows across the cracked earth like skeletal fingers reaching for something they could never quite grasp.

And then she saw him. Jungkook. Sprawled in the dirt. His wrists shackled, his body wrecked.

One lens of his goggles was shattered, exposing the swollen ruin of his right eye, a bruise blooming deep and dark beneath the glass. Blood caked his face, dried in jagged streaks along his jaw, pooling at the corner of his split lip. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths—the kind that meant he was keeping himself from making a sound, from showing weakness.

The dirt beneath him was stained with sweat and blood, mixing into the dust like he was being absorbed into the planet itself. And standing over him, fists still trembling, was Lee.

His knuckles were raw, his breathing sharp, his entire body locked tight like a spring stretched too far, too long. He wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t even speaking. Just watching. Waiting. Y/N felt the violence in the air before she heard it.

Lee’s voice came low and razor-sharp. "I don’t play that." His fists clenched again, his jaw tightening like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. "I don’t play that, so just try again." His breath was heavy, sharp, every word weighted with rage barely kept in check. “C’mon, Jungkook. Tell me a better lie.”

Y/N moved without thinking. She grabbed Lee’s arm, yanking him back hard. "Ease up!" she snapped, her voice slicing through the oppressive silence. The moment her hand connected, she felt how hot he was—burning with anger, with exertion. His pulse hammered beneath his skin, barely contained.

Lee didn’t turn to her. Didn’t move. And then—Bindi screamed. It was raw, guttural, the kind of sound that didn’t just come from the throat—it came from the bones, from the marrow, from something breaking inside.

She lunged.

Her fist hit Jungkook’s jaw so hard his head snapped sideways, blood spattering from his already-battered lip. His body didn’t even flinch, like he had already been beaten past the point of feeling it. Y/N reacted instantly, throwing herself between them, shoving Bindi back with both hands.

“Bindi! Stop!” she shouted, struggling to hold her back.

Bindi fought against her grip, her whole body shaking, tears streaking clean paths through the dirt on her face.

"You bloody sick animal!" she screamed, her voice splintering. "What’dja do with my Daku?"

Jungkook didn’t answer. Didn’t even lift his head. His expression was eerily blank, his face tilted just enough that one shattered lens reflected the fading light like a dying star. Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She turned to Lee, eyes blazing. “Where’s Daku?” she demanded. “What the hell happened out here?”

Lee finally looked at her. His expression was unreadable—too tight, too locked down. His fists unclenched slowly, like it was taking all his effort not to hit something else. With a sharp nod, he gestured toward Jungkook.

“Ask him.”

Y/N dropped to a crouch beside Jungkook, her voice shifting—softer, but no less urgent.

“Jungkook,” she said, staring at the wreck of his face, at the mess of blood and sweat and silence. “What happened to Daku?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, slow and even, like he was holding on to the only thing he could still control. Then, finally—he lifted his head. His cracked lips parted. But all that came out was a rasping sound. Low. Broken. Like the faint whisper of someone who had screamed themselves hoarse.

His eyes flicked to the horizon. To the jagged spires looming in the distance. Then back to her. His lips moved again. A single word, barely audible.

"Gone."

The world tilted. Bindi let out a choked sob, her legs buckling as she sank to the dirt. Lee’s jaw locked, his knuckles going white as his fingers tightened on the stock of his rifle. Y/N’s stomach plummeted. The weight of Jungkook’s answer pressed down on all of them, thick as smoke, suffocating.

She swallowed hard. Forced the words out. "Gone where? What do you mean gone?"

But Jungkook didn’t answer. His head tipped forward, his chin resting against his chest, his entire body folding in on itself like the fight had finally bled out. Like there was nothing left. Like he had already decided—whatever happened next wasn’t up to him anymore.

Y/N and Lee stood at the edge of the grave, their shadows stretching long over the ruined earth. The silence between them was thick, suffocating, the kind that only came after something had gone horribly, irreversibly wrong.

The scene was a crime scene without a body, a massacre without a corpse. Blood streaked the dirt in wild, erratic patterns, like the desperate brushstrokes of a painter losing control. The grave itself was a wreck, its edges collapsed inward, as if the ground had been alive when it happened, twisting, convulsing, devouring.

Nearby, Daku’s sled lay overturned, its contents scattered across the dirt—a mess of supplies, tangled cables, a crushed water jug. A single boot, scuffed and worn, sat half-buried in the dust, the laces flapping lazily in the wind. But Daku was gone.

Not a body. Not a single trace of him. Just this. This wreckage of struggle and silence. At the bottom of the grave, the hole yawned open, its edges lined with something fibrous and strange, something that looked almost… organic. It pulsed faintly in the breeze, like the twitch of a dying thing.

Y/N swallowed hard. It didn’t look natural. Nothing about this looked natural.

Beside her, Lee crouched, his sharp eyes scanning the ground like he was reading a language only he understood. In his hands, the bone-shiv gleamed, its smooth, curved edge catching the last slivers of dying sunlight. He turned it slowly, letting the light skim its surface, watching how it reflected in sharp, fleeting flashes.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. “He used that?” she asked, her voice low but tight. She didn’t know what answer she wanted.

Lee didn’t look up. Just kept turning the shiv over, like it was some kind of sacred artifact. “Sir Shiv-a-Lot,” he muttered, dry and detached. “He likes to cut.”

The words settled like poison in her gut.

“So why isn’t it bloody?” she pressed, her voice sharper now, her eyes flicking between the blade and Lee’s unreadable face. “If Jungkook did this—if he killed Daku—then where’s the blood?”

Finally, Lee looked at her. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, but there was no humor in it—just something cold and bitter, something dark sitting behind his eyes.

“Maybe he licked it clean.”

The joke hit like a slap. Unwanted. Cruel. Y/N recoiled slightly, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the thought. She turned away from the grave, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, her breath uneven. The wind picked up, whipping dust around them, as if the planet itself was shifting, restless.

“This doesn’t make sense,” she muttered, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind. “None of this does.”

Lee stood, brushing the dirt from his hands, slipping the shiv into his belt. He glanced down at the grave one last time, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark.

“It’s not supposed to make sense,” he said, his tone flat, emotionless. He turned to her, his silhouette washed out against the light. “It’s just supposed to scare the hell out of you.”

The cabin felt too small. Too damn small. The walls creaked, thick with heat and the weight of unspoken things. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and the faint, metallic tang of rusted iron—or maybe that was just him.

Jungkook was slumped against the wall, his shackled hands resting lazily in his lap. His dark hair was damp with sweat, half-hiding the wreck of his face. One lens of his goggles was shattered, exposing a swollen eye already blooming in shades of deep purple and red. Blood stained the cut of his jaw, a slow, sluggish trickle from his split lip. He looked like hell.

But he looked at her. And that was what made Y/N hesitate for half a breath too long. She stormed in, boots hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the metal beneath them. She was pissed. But more than that—she wanted answers.

“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the thick, suffocating air.

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his stillness was a lie. The tension was there, coiled beneath the surface like a blade waiting to strike.

“I’m serious,” she pressed, stepping closer, her fists clenching. “You told them you heard something right before it happened. What was it?” Her jaw tightened. “Talk, or I’ll let Lee finish what he started.”

Something dark flickered across Jungkook’s face—a twitch of amusement, a shadow of something cruel. And then, in a voice roughened by exhaustion and something else, something deeper, he rasped,

“You mean the whispers?”

Y/N frowned. “What whispers?”

Jungkook’s busted lip curled into something feral. Dangerous. Amused.

“The ones that tell you where to cut,” he murmured. His voice was so casual it made her skin crawl. “Left of the spine. Fourth lumbar down. That’s the sweet spot.” He smiled, slow and lazy, like a man reciting a bedtime story. “Gusher. Every time.”

Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t look away. Didn’t let him see that he’d rattled her. Because that’s what he wanted.

“Stop it,” she snapped. “Just stop.”

Jungkook didn’t. He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded like this was all one big joke. “Metallic taste, you know.” His voice was silk stretched thin over barbed wire. “Human blood. Coppery. But add a little peppermint schnapps…” He dragged his tongue over his split lip, smirking when her expression didn’t change. “Almost palatable.”

Y/N clenched her teeth. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the sweat and iron on his skin. He was playing with her. She wasn’t in the mood.

“Why don’t we skip the theatrics and try the truth?” she said coldly.

For a moment, Jungkook just watched her. His smirk softened—not gone, but different now. Something quieter. Something that almost looked like… regret.

“You’re all so scared of me,” he said softly. “Most days, I’d call that a compliment.” His voice was low, nearly lost to the hum of the ship. “But today…” His jaw ticked, his fingers flexing against the cuffs around his wrists. “Today, I’m not the monster you need to be worried about.”

Something in her chest pulled tight.

She took a step closer. “Take off the goggles.”

Jungkook went still. “No.”

Y/N didn’t wait for permission. She reached out and yanked them from his face, snapping the broken strap with a sharp crack. The goggles hit the floor.

Jungkook flinched, like she’d stripped away something vital. Then his eyes opened. Y/N froze.

His pupils were wide, swallowing the dim light. But it was the color that stopped her breath. A ring of shifting hues, flickering between deep emerald and burning amethyst, like oil-slicked glass catching fire. It was mesmerizing. Unnatural. Beautiful.

Her voice came out lower than she expected. “You did this to yourself?”

Jungkook let out a bitter laugh. “Slam doctor.” He tilted his head. “That’s what we called him.”

Y/N nodded. “I’ve heard about it. Never seen it.”

“Lucky you.”

His lips curled, but the smirk didn’t reach those strange, hypnotic eyes. “You’re locked in max-slam. Barely any light. Your eyes feel like they’re burning out of your skull.” He flicked a glance toward the slats of light bleeding through the metal walls. “Some back-alley butcher says, ‘Hey, I can fix that.’” His voice dropped, mocking. “And then you end up here. Three suns frying you alive. Makes you wish for the dark.”

Y/N folded her arms. “You think this is funny?”

Jungkook’s smirk sharpened. “You gotta laugh, sweetheart. Otherwise, you cry. And crying makes you thirsty.” He tapped his temple with one shackled finger. “Pro tip for desert living.”

Y/N let out a slow breath. “You killed before. You don’t deny that. But this one? Daku? You expect me to believe you didn’t?”

Jungkook went still. For a fraction of a second, something cracked in his expression. Then, it was gone—buried beneath that infuriating smirk.

“No, ma’am,” he said smoothly. “Not this time.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Then where is he?”

Jungkook leaned forward, just enough for the heat between them to become noticeable. The chains at his wrists rattled softly, but his focus was all on her. “Look deeper,” he murmured.

The way he said it—low, deliberate, dripping with something she didn’t like—sent a cold, involuntary shiver down her spine.

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

Jungkook didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head, studying her like he was measuring how much she could take before she broke. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper—a voice that sent her stomach twisting with something she didn’t want to name—he said, “Wrong questions.”

She swallowed hard. “What are you talking about?”

Jungkook sat back, his expression unreadable. Deadly.

“Daku ain’t the only one who’s not where he’s supposed to be,” he said softly. “Or haven’t you noticed?”

A chill slid down her spine. His words settled in her chest like a loaded gun.

Y/N’s breath hitched. “What are you saying?”

Jungkook tilted his head, his bruised lips curling slightly. “You’ll see.” His voice was calm, certain, almost amused. And then—softer, darker, almost like a promise: “And when you do? You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Taglist: @fancypeacepersona @ssbb-22 @mar-lo-pap @sathom013 @kimyishin

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bruhstation · 5 months ago

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hello tumbled er

greetings and salutation. it is I, senja heterocaine, speaking to you through your favorite home screens. now you might be wondering: where on earth has senja heterocaine disappeared to these past 5 months? well the answer is as simple as it gets

I focused on my studies.

well yes that is the main reason. but that's like the nerd "obvious" answer. there’s other reasons too. some of which includes me getting into new interests, revisiting my old, hibernating interests, getting involved in university organizations and events, getting more involved in big family stuff since I'm the oldest and the only of-age grandchild of grandma from mom's side.... lots of stuff

so I just finished the third semester of premed school right. honestly speaking, with how I was losing motivation on drawing, the art block post-art fight, and lack of time, I decided to well, take a break. and it’s pretty convenient too since it was early on in the third semester. during the entirety of it I was feeling pretty proud of myself like "oh I've been studying a lot. I've taken a break from drawing and blog stuff. surely things will get better" and it did! not immensely but it's significant enough that for once I don't feel an indescribable sense of terror after the semester ends. the focus of this semester was about reproduction systems and growth and development which is pretty fun? we get to use models and medical phantoms hands-on and poke them with needles and other rube goldberg contraptions. I did miss breeding bacterias in petri dishes and seeing my friends burn the microbiology lab’s ceiling like last semester though. my grades are also improving… slowly but surely

(aftermath not pictured: me lounging on the couch scrolling through quora to see if there are people currently in college wanting to drop out)

maybe I was aiming too high. at least my grades are better than the previous two semesters and my social life is much better than it was back in high school. speaking of exams -- I went through my first osce exam around a week ago (practical exam to see if you can actually perform the skills labs lessons from the entire semester like you're a real physician). it was the most terrifying day of the month. my dentist said I have a big tongue and that’s why I can’t speak properly if I’m being too fast. ntm I WAS NERVOUS!!! MY FIRST OSCE!!! with how I memorized everything I needed, I was pretty confident that I'd pass, though. I didn't and retook the exam the next day. the prelude was the worst crash out ever

ah ptooey. I'll just take it like a champ. my tutor who's 3 years older than me and currently in the anesthetic rotation of co-ass told me that things will get easier but that's very subjective. he's a medical olympiad student after all. my parents are pretty happy though with how my academic life is becoming better so that's that

LETS MOVE ON TO SOMETHING LIGHTER. section B: what I've been getting into ever since bruhstation was put on cryostasis

you know Transformers One (2024)? the transformers movie directed by josh cooley? based on the Transformers(tm) franchise by Takara Tomy and Hasbro? most tragic break up movie of the decade? I watched it twice, squealed once, and left me broken and inconsolable for weeks on end. it made me revisit my dormant transformers interest after 5 years. I've reread the idw comics (mtmte, LL, taao, main transformers comic), and is currently checking out more (reading the wreckers saga right now). god it made me miss rodimus and friends' zany space opera adventures. I've always envisioned casa tidmouth to have the same tone as mtmte... the oftentimes dark humor, fridge horror stuff, weird magic/science, the roller coaster of emotions, confronting the past... its crazy good.

stories where misfits and knuckleheads band together in a confined space while having crazy doctor who-like adventures am I right. like I want casa tidmouth to be like that. remind me to thank 14 year old me for this trip down memory lane. and as usual, I tend to make self-indulgent crossovers of any interest I'm thinking about at the moment with casa tidmouth

a terrifying sneak peak on what's to come.

I've been working on my oc projects too. you may have seen some of them on artfight (graciela, saudade, altair, etc) but I've been focusing the most on graciela and saudade's universe, children's heterotopia. it has the largest amount of characters in any story I've created (not counting casa tidmouth), the most effort put into planning the stories and weaving in its themes about capitalism, patriarchy, period-typical bigotry, etc. there's human experimentation and they're given powers that range from punching super hard to time and space displacement. I also inserted whatever I wanted into the story. sure, yes, there's a lesbians-only organization of which its members are named off the knights of the round table, theres a mafia that focuses more on the family drama and attempted parricide from all angles, and tragic assassin maids of which their names are wuthering heights references. also if you've been following my main tumblr hajimedics for a while, you might've seen my three fairly oddparents ocs. well I've given them the tezuka star system treatment and inserted them into children's heterotopia as well.

I've also gotten into UTAU production! I've made a number of UTAU covers but haven't uploaded them to youtube. only shared them around with my friends on priv twitter. a good friend of mine assisted in the creation of my own UTAU voicebank! their name is TORKA (like "torque"), their voice bank has a slight accent when singing in japanese (because I'm their voice lol) and CV-only, their in-universe lore is that they're an intergalactic train conductor picking up wayfarers and outcasts trying to find a place in the vast universe, and I love them dearly

moving on! this is a thomas the engine and company blog THIS IS A LIFE UPDATE POST

I'd rather not discuss about how I'm doing mentally in deep detail BUT what I'll say is that I can't confidently say "I'm doing better" or "I'm doing worse" because it always depends on the days. things are okay-ish nowadays. some days are scary. some days are boring. I still experience delusions, (ironically) worried about my anhedonia, and believe that certain bouts of confidence will trigger a jinx, but I think I've been controlling myself well? at least? I keep internalizing the belief that I'm an adult. 20 years old. I have to act accordingly and my life in real life is ten times more important than the internet. things are going to change more and more once I graduate premed and began the co-ass program. I have to think 10 steps into the future. building successful connections before you turn 30. sigma grindset and all that. sorry that was my father using my body as a spirit medium

AND ALSO. ALSO. BACK TO THE BLOG DO YOU GUYS REMEMBER THAT ONE TIME I PROMISED TO MAKE A COMIC BASED ON THE RESULTS OF THE 1000 FOLLOWERS POLL AND NEVER DID UNTIL NOW. I'm terribly sorry. I promise I will get into it I SWEAR procrastination is kicking my ass. I have to plan the dialogue and script and stuff AND DRAW BUT

BUT HERE’S THE FUNNY THING

THE BLOG REACHED 2000+ FOLLOWERS A FEW MONTHS AGO

NOW WHAT DO I DO TO CELEBRATE?

I don’t know honestly. I haven’t done the 1000+ followers celebratory comic, and NOW I HAVE 2000+ FOLLOWERS. THERES 2000+ OF YOU NOW!!!!! THAT’S CRAZY (IN A GOOD WAY)!!!! I thank you all for sticking with bruhstation through thick and thin for around 2 and a half years. I’m glad for all your support, fanarts, asks, and such truly. like wow. 2k. in such a short time too! thanks guys. admittedly, I feel kind of guilty to leave everyone hanging for months with nothing to give, especially with such a high follower number. and realistically? I don’t think I’ll be able to draw as much as I used to. like I’ve said earlier, I’ve been busy with my personal life and oc projects. it’s not like I’m abandoning this blog any time soon? I’m just speaking from a logical perspective, given my status as a student and (possibly, hopefully) future doctor too. I don't want to burn myself out posting like thrice a week, answering asks daily, I want to take things slow. at my own pace. maybe I'll focus on designing side characters as well and thinking about their roles in the story! but that's for another day. I’m just glad everyone’s still sticking around and enjoying my silly stuff

I do want to draw more for this blog! I want to put thomas and co. in more situations. make them dance for all our entertainments. but when you’re an adult, you realize that you have your own priorities. you can’t always do the things you wanna do. you can’t just drop something you don’t like out of the blue. sometimes you have to sigh, scratch the back of your neck, and brave it while saying “I sure am getting old”

oh and also I'm a butch lesbian now. still he/they (heavy preference on he/him), still preferring masculine terms like "mr", "sir", "guy", still as crazy as ever. still aroace too and not interested in dating, something that's been a constant in my identity ever since I'm in early high school. little have changed I can assure you this. I am still senja. senja heterocaine from the net.

and thus concludes senja’s life update post! what will the next post after this be about? something gordon-centric again? serious colored art? old men yaoi? silent hill UK localization? place your bets. everyone loves a good laugh

#life update post: now with illustrations #zin.txt #thomas the tank engine #ttte gordon #ttte james #judea (oc)#casa tidmouth #tugs zip #tugs ten cents #fortezza bigg city #very long post #senjart

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bangaveragewhitewine · 1 year ago

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feel the magic

Steve Harrington x Reader

Seven days before Christmas, you find yourself stuck in a snowstorm in the middle of a city you're still finding your place in. You wait out the weather with a handsome stranger.

This prompt is from @allthingsjoeq & @bettyfrommars ❄️ Holiday Prompt Party ❄️ which was so fun! Thank you ladies for sharing these ♥️

You both rush to find shelter in a bookstore or bar during a snowstorm

Word Count: 6.6k

Contents: Set in 90’s Chicago, reader & Steve are both mid-late twenties. Nothing explicit, some kisses and mentions of arousal. Some talk of Steve’s shitty parents. No physical descriptions of reader. Steve Harrington’s charm comes with its own warning.

Note: Thank you @specialagentmonkey for proofreading and being my hype woman as always ♥️

Chicago in December was cold. Very fucking cold.

A million miles from the hot and heavy city you moved to in the summer, there was something about that bitter chill of the air, the frosted pavements and the warm glow of the Christmas lights decked across the city that made it feel like something right out of a movie. You never felt like you could relate to those leading ladies in the romantic comedies and the coming-of-age romances you grew up watching, more like some side-friend character who faded into the background, inconsequential to the plot and action.

It was your first winter in the city, your first Christmas too, and it wasn’t long before you realised that your grandma had been right - investing in a good winter coat was a must for the Windy City. Despite the cold, the shininess of your new adventure in a new city still held up, feeling like the city girl you had always dared to dream of being.

With the holidays too close for comfort - just seven days before you caught a cab to O’Hare to make the journey home - you cashed in some of your overtime and finished work early to hit the city to get the last few presents for friends and family.

The snow had started just before you left the office, a light dusting that made your shopping trip feel even more magical. You had carefully stowed your camera in your bag to snap shots of the big tree at Civic Centre and the lights around City Hall to show your Mom and friends at home. When the snow started to come down heavier and heavier, the fluffy fat flakes falling in the shot made it feel more magical.

As you looked around, soaked in the festivity of it all, you thought that maybe for one day you could play pretend and let yourself feel like the glossy, confident main character of the movie in your head.

By six o’clock the magic of it all had well worn off and you were ready to go home. Your wool winter coat kept you warm-cheeked and overheating as you waited in line in Macy’s to pay for a scarf and fancy hand cream that your Aunt would fake-smile at before tossing it to the side. It felt like years since you had stepped inside the huge store, some sort of liminal purgatory where time didn’t exist and it was far too easy to get lost amongst the shiny Christmas displays and the disorienting overstimulation of the cosmetics and fragrances department.

Your head was surely going to explode if you heard some poor impression of Bing Crosby crooning another Christmassy jingle over the store’s speakers. You were feeling distinctly less festive and fun now - less merry and bright, more murderous and bad-tempered.

Over the tinny muzak and the scratch of your scarf on your too-warm neck, you tuned into the conversation going on behind you.

“That snow is really coming down, huh?”

“Didn’t you hear? It’s some sorta weather-bomb - only going to get heavier.”

You and every other shopper within earshot looked toward the windows, seeing the white flurry instead of the warm glow of Christmas lights.

You became all too aware of the sheer number of bags you were carrying, weighed down with books and gifts and trinkets, the heft of your camera and the bottle of wine you had bought to sip when you got home. The overheated parts of you longed to be cool again, but this felt like some sort of karmic mockery. The tad-too-short-for-work skirt you had chanced and got away with that day felt minuscule beneath your coat as you imagined how cold a weather-bomb was going to be.

By the time you paid and politely refused gift-wrapping for your purchase, the snowstorm had thrown the city into chaos. Traffic was at a near standstill when you reached the front door on State Street, the sidewalks packed with shoppers and commuters battling through the snow and each other to find a way home.

The subway entrance was one street away but seeing the pushing and shoving crowd cramming themselves underground made you feel claustrophobic, twisting hot panic in your gut. Maybe the stop before might be less crazy, you thought, hoping for a better chance of getting home sometime before midnight, so you squeezed away from the crowd and braved the worsening blizzard.

The magic of Christmas had almost fully waned now, despite the snowball fights starting up amongst the gridlocked traffic. You just wanted to get home, feel your fingers and toes again perhaps. You picked your steps through the icy streets, trying not to slip or whack other flustered pedestrians with your bags; they didn’t have the same courtesy or kindness. Patience and Christmas cheer had worn thin, battered by heavy snow.

“Watch it!” one sharp-elbowed woman hissed over her furry coat collar as she shouldered past you, sending you off-balance just as a rogue snowball hit your shoulder.

Had your feet not been aching so badly, you would have stamped like a toddler.

“Bitch.” Your frustrated whisper went unheard as you continued down the block, squinting to pick out a landmark to orient yourself in the snowy city.

You tucked yourself into a side street to regroup and take a breath, attempting to condense your too-many shopping bags to protect the preciously picked-out presents inside. The welcoming glow of a bar sign caught your eye, a blinking beacon through the fluster of snow.

Tucked away down the side street, The Snug appeared like a mirage. Twinkling Christmas lights blurred by the steamed-up windows winked at you, inviting you inside. It was fate.

Surely the snow will stop soon, you thought as you gathered yourself again. One drink and some fries would be plenty of time to let the streets and subways settle.

The cold air made your nose and lungs feel spikey-sore after a few deep steadying breaths. With your bags clutched safely in your hands, you picked your steps toward the almost-hidden bar, dodging patches of ice to get to the door.

Inside was cosy-calm, with clusters of friends and a few fellow solo drinkers hiding from the heavy snow and chaos. It was quieter than the streets and packed subways, their chatter backed by songs queued up from a jukebox glowing in the corner.

You squeezed yourself and your bags into a free booth, taking a load off with a sigh that pulled the tension all the way up from the tips of your toes.

Daringly, you chanced a look in your compact to assess the damage of a day of shopping and going head-to-head with the bitter cold front. Mascara smudged beneath your eyes, hair a riot.

“Shit,” you murmured, pulling the attention from the man at the next table.

He smiled, sympathetic when he saw your flustered state. “You look like you’re in the right place.”

After blowing hair from your face you returned a tight smile. “Thanks, I think.”

His brown eyes widened. “Oh no, no... I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, horrified that he had offended you.

You shook your head, “No, I get it. I look insane. It’s been a day.” Handbag in hand, you looked at him again, smiling a little softer at the flustered stranger. “Could you keep an eye on my bags for a sec? I’m just going to the ladies' room. And the bar.”

The man nodded, sitting back in his chair. “Sure, go for it. I’ll guard them with my life.”

You didn’t miss his charming smile, or the pink tint of embarrassment that lingered on his cheeks after accidentally telling you the truth about just how crazy you looked. You caught the subtle once-over he gave you after your coat was removed and hoped that your sixty-denier tights hadn’t laddered. Your cheeks felt warm again as you made your way to the ladies' room, purse in hand to wrangle your messy hat-hair and fix your face.

As you patted rose-tinted balm onto your lips, you quietly hoped that first impressions could be overwritten.

Armed with a glass of red wine and your receipt for a basket of fries, you returned to your table and tried not to sigh too obnoxiously (or moan) at the relief of sitting down. At the next table, the brown-eyed man was looking over a piece of paper and tapping his pen against his full lower lip.

“Thanks, Stranger,” you said, looking and feeling at least ten times better.

“Oh. You’re welcome,” he said, smiling distractedly before raising his half-drunk beer to you.

You raised your glass in return, sharing that little smile with the stranger before plucking one of the new books from your cluster of bags to distract your busy mind.

Wine and a book in a cosy bar? Maybe the day had not entirely gone to shit.

The stranger went back to his list, and you tried not to let your gaze linger too long on his broad shoulders or his sharp jaw. He looked like he had just finished work, a few shirt buttons undone beneath his navy blazer, his coat and scarf bundled on the chair opposite him with one lonely Macy’s bag on top. You watched him push his honeyed hair back, raking his fingers through the strands falling over his forehead. It was easy to forget to even open your book to start reading in favour of being distracted by him.

There was no denying he was attractive. And there was no denying that you were caught looking when his brown eyes met yours and his lips twitched with a charming smile.

“Steve.”

“Huh?” Wide-eyed, and flushed-hot with embarrassment, you could not find a quick way to explain away your gazing.

“You called me ‘stranger’ before. My name’s Steve.”

“Oh. Of course. Steve.” You gave him your name, watching how he smiled when you said it before repeating it as you had done with his.

“Pretty name. Guess we’re not strangers anymore.”

“I guess not.”

His mouth curved up as he lifted his glass again, taking a slow sip. Your eyes drifted to two perfect moles on his neck as he swallowed; they matched the twin set on his cheek.

Some sort of alarm started to scream in your head; you had forgotten the feeling of being flirted with. If that’s what this was.

“Christmas shopping?” he asked, nodding to your bags.

“Yeah, just about have everything,” you said, “Now I have to wrap it all.” After a steadying sip of wine as your fries arrived, you watched how he twirled his pen between thick fingers, names left uncrossed on the paper in front of him. “Are you stuck?”

Steve slumped back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head before running his fingers through his hair again, making it messy in the most artfully effortless way. “Yeah, a little.” He rubbed his face before looking at you again. “Um, can I pick your brains? I don’t wanna impose…”

This was never how your day was supposed to go. As the snowstorm raged on outside, inside the cosiness of the bar felt like a whole other world miles from your planned evening of gift-wrapping and most of a bottle of wine. Instead, surrounded by soggy shopping bags, you found yourself with the attention of an Adonis-like stranger. You felt like it was some sort of fair deal from the universe.

When you made the move to the city, started afresh with this new chapter, you made yourself promise to take life as it came and not be too uptight. Maybe this was all part of the flow you had vowed to go with…

Smiling at Steve, you pushed your unopened book to the side and leaned forward on your arms, “Sure. Go for it.”

Steve relocated to your booth after a few minutes of chatting. An hour and a half later, he had made himself at home opposite you with his bright smile and dreamy dark eyes.

The bar had become a refuge to a few more bodies seeking shelter from the bitter cold front raging outside. He didn’t need much convincing to share your booth, freeing up the table for a couple huddled together over hot whiskies.

You had insisted on sharing your fries with Steve as you gave suggestions on what he could buy for the last few names on his list. A second basket and another round of drinks had been ordered on his tab when you realised that neither of you would be going home any time soon.

With a greasy-hot fry between your fingers, you tried not to drool over his thick forearms as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, and went back to navigating Steve’s complex network of friends-turned-family.

“So he’s your ex-girlfriend’s little brother? And you stayed friends… because he’s friends with Dustin…? Who’s like your brother?”

As you figured out who the hell ‘Mike’ was, Steve nodded encouragingly and chewed another fry.

“You got it.” His straight white teeth glinted in the warm light of the bar.

“And his sister - Mike’s sister, your ex-girlfriend, Nancy… Is Robin’s girlfriend now? Robin, your best friend?”

“Yep. See, told you you’d wrap your head around it eventually.” His smile was proud as he nudged the fries your way again.

You took two more fries as your reward before nudging the basket back to Steve. You tried not to focus on the way the fries had left his lips shiny, or the pink glow on his cheeks when he caught you staring. Again.

When you realised that this serendipitous stranger who gave you butterflies wasn’t someone else’s boyfriend, you dropped your shoulders and your guard and relaxed into the booth more. You willed yourself to relax, to go with the flow. It was not difficult to let yourself sink deeper into those warm brown eyes of Steve’s as he slowly upped his flirtations and snuck his own barely subtle glances at your lips.

He was smooth.

Steve tapped the paper list with his finger, transferring more salt and oil from the fries to the now annotated and doodled-on list.

“So, any suggestions? He’s the hardest one to buy for, so of course I got him for Secret Santa. Again.” He leaned his head back against the booth. “He’s a little dweeb. Big dweeb now. Taller than me.”

He spoke with such fondness of the kid he swore didn’t like him. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that Steve was maybe one of the most thoughtful people you had ever met. Most of what you had learned about him had been through what he told you about his friends - where he grew up, his collection of poorly paid jobs after high school before going to college in Indianapolis, then onto Chicago. His best friends were never far behind. He would be spending the Holidays with friends and their families instead of his own, which he seemed perfectly fine about.

He was funny too, heavy-handed with charm and kindness. You were definitely done for.

Steve Harrington seemed like an enigma, one you would happily devote hours and hours to figuring out.

The basket fries were pushed back and forth and you wracked your brains to think of a gift for this random college kid you didn’t know. The barman announced that the snow was still coming down heavily, and to make yourselves at home. You had lost all track of time, cosy in the bubble of the booth with your new friend.

His brown eyes fixed on you as he rested his chin in his hand. “All you wanted was a quiet drink and a place to hide from the snow, and now you’re helping some dork with his shopping list. M’sorry, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The butterflies in your gut swooped.

Warm-cheeked, you shrugged, “I don’t mind. It’s distracting me from panicking about how I’ll get home, or if I’ll ever get home. I’m still figuring out the subways.” Picking at the crisp ends of the fries, you tried not to get lost looking into his shiny amber eyes. “I was only going home to wrap presents anyway.”

Steve smiled when you mirrored him, cheek resting on your hand.

“I think this isn’t such a bad way to spend the evening, Steve.”

A pink glow - not entirely from his beer - warmed Steve’s face and he looked down at his almost empty glass. You would think he was being bashful had there not been a grin spreading on his handsome face.

“Oh, you’re trouble.”

You shrugged, attempting to play coy. “What were you supposed to be doing tonight? What are you missing to be here with some strange girl?”

Steve shrugged. “Well, I was Christmas shopping, like you. Killing time. I was supposed to meet my buddy for dinner and drinks, came in to use the phone to cancel when the snow got bad. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow.”

“A buddy on your list?” You asked, nodding to the piece of paper.

“Mhm. Eddie. He didn’t mind too much, I’ll make it up to him.” He sipped his drink again. “He has a gig tomorrow night, so I’ll see if I can help with lifting amps and shit.”

“He’s the heavy metal guy?” you asked, remembering back to Steve labelling him as so easy to buy for.

Steve had not smiled so much in weeks, maybe months. With you, tucked away in The Snug, he basked in the ache in his cheeks, the way you laughed, how you remembered little things about him and his friends.

“I hope these friends of yours realise how much you love them, Steve.”

He liked that blunt edge of your delivery too.

You watched him fluster a little for the second time that evening.

“I do mean that. You’re putting so much of yourself into these presents, not just… I don’t know, throwing money at stuff. There’s so much thought in all of these.” You tapped the paper for emphasis, recognising a little of yourself in the way Steve put thought into his gifts for the ones he loved.

You knew the sting of that thoughtfulness not being returned, or even noticed.

Watching Steve flounder, seeing him resonate with your assessment, you felt a sinking stone in your chest. Too much. Too far. He was still a stranger, a stranger you were practically snowed in with and had probably developed some sort of cabin-fever-bond with, and you had to push it.

“Sorry. Shit. Steve, I should just shut up. I don’t know you, or your friends. I would be so mad if some stranger just-”

His hand, his much bigger, warmer hand, reached for yours and squeezed.

“Stop. It’s okay.” Steve squeezed again, his palm warm as it curved around your hand. “What you said, it’s true. I.. Shit.” He smiled, a sadness in his eyes you had not seen and blamed yourself for, “Here I am dumping my baggage on you.”

Steve sighed but didn’t let your hand go. You didn’t mind; you didn’t want him to.

“My parents just threw money at gifts for me. Totally impersonal shit I didn’t need, or want. They didn’t know me or what I liked, all for appearances and shit like that.” You watched soft fondness pull at the corner of his mouth. “So I put thought into stuff for my friends. They’re my family now. They annoy the hell out of me some days, but I want them to know… I dunno, that I listen. That I hear them. And see them, what they like…”

He trailed off when you turned your hand beneath his and squeezed.

“That’s the sweetest, Steve. They’re very lucky to have you.” Your voice was a gentle murmur, loud enough for him to hear.

He shrugged, playing smooth again despite the reality check he had been dealt. “M’the lucky one. They’re buttheads, but they have my back too. Promise.”

You nodded and tried not to flush when you looked at your joined hands.

“Tell me something about you then, Steve… I don’t even know your last name. What’s your favourite colour?”

He smiled again, back on some new track now after that detour to the trauma dump. “I like yellow. I usually say blue, because when I say yellow people look at me like I’m crazy or somethin’. Yellow. Definitely.”

It clicked then, the warmth of his smile and his presence glowed like yellow sunshine and the golden bulbs of Christmas lights that could warm up the most frigid places. Warm like melted butter on toast and the glow of the lamp beside your bed for reading late into the night. It made you feel warm despite the winter cold.

“And it’s Harrington. Steve Harrington.”

“Yellow suits you, Steve Harrington.”

You and Steve moved on to clove-heavy hot whiskies as you traded questions back and forth, learning about each other little by little. You found it hard not to fall a little bit in love with him as he became less of a stranger to you.

He played basketball in school and swam competitively. His favourite films were Top Gun and Dirty Dancing. He preferred pancakes over waffles and didn’t like bacon on his burgers. You spoke briefly about what you did for work and focused instead on trivial things that showed each other the real you, the real Steve Harrington.

What’s your middle name?

Best Halloween costume?

Most important question ever, crunchy or smooth?

He was as close to perfect as you had ever dreamed someone could be.

Two middle names, Henry Michael.

Maverick, or Sandy from Grease - don’t ask, I’m not drunk enough.

Crunchy, duh. Have you tried it with honey instead of jelly?

A tiny cynical part of you waited for something about him to dislike. You could have kept waiting, kept wondering, but instead you decided to relent to the simple serendipity of it all. Maybe there was nothing to dislike about Steve (Henry Michael) Harrington, and that was perfectly okay.

You sat alone at the table, watching Steve’s broad back as he leaned against the bar to get change for the jukebox. That golden glow of his made him like the North Star in the business of the bar; simultaneously exciting you and making you deliciously nervous.

The first couple of people left the bar to bravely trek home through the mean cold streets a little after nine, promising to call to let the bar staff know they got back safe and advise whether others should stay or chance the journey home. Everyone had agreed to a lock-in until morning if the snow didn’t stop or if the conditions got too dangerous.

You all waited on a collective breath for the phone to ring; drinks flowed, and conversations continued and deepened over strong drinks. Feeling comfortably blurred around the edges, the spirits stayed high despite the less-than-perfect circumstances.

The shrill ringing of the phone behind the bar pulled the air from the room, silence fell.

Home safe. The barman gave a thumbs up and relayed the message that the streets were walkable, a few taxis were running if you were lucky to catch one.

Steve’s searching gaze found yours as everyone else cheered. The bubble had burst.

His smile was a little sad, matching yours despite the good news that you could actually go home. He held up a finger, ‘one sec’, and darted to the jukebox with his handful of change to queue up some songs before you had to say goodbye.

Goodbye.

You didn’t want to say goodbye to Steve Harrington.

A heavy weight settled in your chest as you took stock of your bags, distracting yourself until Steve settled himself across from you again. His hand patted the smooth table top twice, head tilted to look at your face.

“Y’okay?” he asked. “Guess it’s good that we don’t need to sleep here tonight..?”

“Mhm. Definitely. Just… trying to figure out how long it’s going to take me to get home,” you said, not totally a lie. Your smile didn’t meet your eyes, even though you looked forward to getting into your cosy bed with the brushed cotton bedsheets and your fuzzy flannel pyjamas.

“Me too. What way are you headed?” Steve said, an innocent glimmer of hopefulness in his eyes.

When you told him where you lived he nodded. “M’not far from there. I’d… really like to walk you home, if that’s okay? Or try to find a cab…We could share?” Steve rambled a little, his smooth exterior cracking. “Fuck it. I want to make sure you get home safe, and I like talking to you. A little part of me was hoping we’d get snowed in or something so stupid so I could spend more time with you.”

You looked at him across the table, wide-eyed as your heart hammered in your chest.

“Is that crazy of me? I’m coming on way too strong, aren’t I?”

“Steve.”

You smiled, taking his hand. “That would be really great. I kinda hoped the same. I’d like it if you walked me home.”

His smile was blinding as he took your hand between both of his, warm and large. “Okay, great. Cool.”

“Cool,” you echoed, placing your other hand on top of his like a stack as you tried not to giggle or kick your feet.

The familiar opening chords of Old Time Rock and Roll played from the jukebox, making you both grin wider at each other.

“It’s a classic, I couldn’t not put it on,” he said.

You threw your head back, laughing happily as Steve murmur-sang along with Bob Seger, bobbing his head as he crooned quietly for you. You knew about the scar on his arm from when he recreated that scene at a party; slid too hard, right into his mother’s second-favourite vase as his friends cheered him on (then drove him to the ER).

“Don’t tell me you put something from Dirty Dancing on next, Steve,” you teased, seeing his eyes sparkle with a sly sweetness. “Steve!”

Your laugh made him feel tingly-warm all over.

“It’s not Time of My Life or She’s Like the Wind, promise,” he said, smirking as he kept his cards close to his chest. “Promise. We can go when it’s over. If you’re ready to head out?”

You nodded, squeezing his hands before rooting in your bag for your gloves. Knowing that you didn’t have to part ways just yet made the idea of being out in the cold a little more tolerable.

“You been taking photos of the lights?” Steve asked, picking up your camera from the table after taking it out of your bag.

He remembered that ‘new in town’ excitement, still had the photos of him with Robin in front of the tree at Civic Centre (fresh-faced and pink-cheeked after too much mulled wine). The big tree had been nothing on their own lovably wonky tree in their tiny apartment, decorated with cheap baubles and coloured lights and tinsel that shed so much .

“Yeah, to show my Mom. Super cheesy, I know,” you rolled your eyes and watched as Steve turned it so carefully in his hands. “Might get some snaps of the snow, to remember tonight.”

As Steve nodded, an idea bobbed to the surface of your mind.

“Steve? Feel free to say no but… Could I get one of us? To remember…”

As if you would ever forget the night you met Steve Harrington.

Steve watched your teeth sink into your lower lip, let his eyes linger before catching your eyes. You saw the whiskey-brown disappear, swallowed by deep black pupils.

“Only if you get me a copy of it.”

His voice was low, smooth, and made your thighs squeeze - not for the first time that evening either. Without saying as much, you knew it meant he would like to see you again, that he didn’t want to forget you either.

You kept your voice remarkably cool and calm, despite the urge to squeal and kick your feet. “Yeah. Of course…”

He winked before leaning over to catch the attention of the woman at the next table, checking with you before he passed your camera to her with that bright charming smile of his.

The woman directed you both to lean in a little across the small booth table, taking her task very seriously. “You two look great! So cute!” she said, beaming behind the camera.

The opening bars of Hungry Eyes started up as she counted down.

It made the perfect picture; Steve grinning as he watched a giggle burst from your smiling lips. Your head was spinning, your heart beating hard in your chest - when you looked at that photo in years to come, you would never forget that feeling.

He thanked the woman and took the camera back as you soaked the lyrics in, thinking of Steve instead of Swayze. As you tucked the camera away, you realised that the song said more than either of you were brave enough to say out loud.

I feel the magic between you and I…

When your glasses were empty, when the butterflies had settled again, you began to wrap yourselves in your scarves and coats, hats and gloves, and gather your bags and belongings before braving the cold together.

The warmth in your bones from the bar was quickly extinguished by the bitter air outside, though you couldn’t pretend that the snow was not beautiful. A little post-apocalyptic perhaps, but beautiful nonetheless.

“Fuck, that’s cold,” Steve hissed, his words turning to vapour as you set off together, leaving footprints side by side in the crunchy snow.

“No shit,” you teased, giggling at Steve’s scowl.

The combination of frigid air and the alcohol in your blood made you feel delightfully dizzy. Steve’s hair was crushed beneath his beanie hat, the longer ends peeking out beneath between his turned-up coat collar and scarf. Something about how much hair he could squeeze under that fine (expensive) knit hat made you feel terribly fond and giddy about it.

“Okay, smartass. You were such a nice girl in the bar,” he tutted, teasing you back.

“Tricked you,” you shrugged, “I was never nice.” Your chattering teeth make your playful quips much less believable - as if Steve couldn’t see right through you.

“C’mere. Stick by me, we’ll either stay warm or freeze together.” Hooking a hand around your arm, Steve pulled you close to share body heat. Closer than you had been in the bar, body to body, you found that you fit nicely under his arm. Spicy-warm notes of his cologne mixed with whispers of cigarette smoke buried deep in the wool of his coat.

You smiled up at him, a shiver of nervousness down your spine as you realised you were alone together - actually alone now - for the first time.

“This okay?” he asked, pink nose matching his cheeks as he steered you both through the snow.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling back. With your arm wrapped around the thickness of his torso, you squeezed gently and hoped he could feel it through the winter layers. His grin told you he did.

You walked in silence for a while, carrying the weight of ‘when can I see you again?’ and ‘please tell me you feel that spark too?’ with all of your shopping bags.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?” His eyes shone, sparkled with something when he looked down at you.

“We still haven’t figured out a present for Mike…”

Steve hung his head, eyes squeezed shut as your feet slowed down. “This fuckin’ kid.”

He lifted his head after sighing so hard you swore he was going to turn inside out.

“Mike Wheeler is going to be the death of me, I swear to god,” he said, speaking up to the sky. “He’s getting a Sam Goody gift card. Done. I don’t care anymore.”

“Steve Harrington, you can’t pussy-out and get him a gift card,” you tutted, leaning your weight against him to make him swerve.

The way Steve’s laugh echoed through the empty snow-capped streets made your heart flutter. “You did not just accuse me of being a pussy. You’re breaking my heart here, baby.”

When he looked down at you, eyes sparkling with mirth rather than genuine hurt from your playful betrayal, you could not miss how his tongue darted out to wet his pretty pink lips.

Baby echoed in your ears, warming you from the inside.

“You cannot get him a gift card.” Voice quiet and insistent, you squeezed him again, “Think, Steve.”

“I am.” Played-up-pathetic, Steve’s whiney voice made you double-take and giggle at him. “He’s impossible.”

“No one is impossible. Tell me what he likes again. Don’t say ‘nerd shit’, Steve.”

Steve rolled his eyes and you poked his ribs, far too cosy and familiar with the man who was a stranger just a few hours ago.

“Dungeons and Dragons, weed,” he listed, “He writes stuff sometimes, films, uh… Taco Bell?”

“He likes films too?”

“Mm. Studying film. Wants to be a screenwriter or somethin’...”

You hummed and looked up at the clear sky for an answer. “How about… a framed film poster?”

“Say more.” Steve looked down at you, prettier than the stars ever could be.

You forced yourself not to look at his lips, knowing you were a weak tipsy woman at heart. “Well, what’s his favourite film? Posters are pretty easy to find, a nice-ish frame. Slap a bow on it, Merry Christmas, Mike.”

Padded fingers tapped your upper arm as Steve thought, wracking his brains. “When they were kids, they dressed up as Ghostbusters for Halloween. Recreated it this year. Oh, you’re a fuckin’ genius!”

Steve squeezed you tight against his side, and with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, scooped you up with admirable ease to spin around in the snow.

“Steve!” your voice was an undignified yelp, cracked with laughter.

“You’ve saved Christmas!” Steve’s smiling face was brighter than any Christmas lights guiding your path home. Still turning with you, slower now and more careful, he rested his forehead against yours and murmured, “You’re some kinda miracle, baby.”

Steve’s warm whiskey-tinted words whispered over your mouth. Your breath was caught, choked in a gasp in your throat, as he slowed down his spinning to ease you down onto the snowy empty road. Arms still wrapped around each other, shopping bags crushed and be-damned, you stood toe to toe just looking at each other.

“Can I..?” Quietly smooth and charming, Steve’s eyes dipped to your lips.

Instead of giving him an answer, using your words like a big girl, you grabbed a handful of his coat to bring your mouths together in a kiss.

Christmas lights twinkled above you, like movie magic or fairy dust. Lips pressed and lingered, kisses slow and sweet. It was everything you dreamed it would be, better even as Steve hauled you closer still and traced his nose against yours.

Smiling, breaths warming each other’s faces, you let Steve lead the next kiss - after all he had asked so nicely. One gloved hand on your cheek, his lips slotted with yours before he deepened the kiss with a tenderness that made your bones ache. Had he not been holding you so close, had you not been moored safely in the circle of his arms, you would have surely swooned.

His kisses warmed you, sending sparks through your limbs as his tongue grazed yours with a promise of more. You felt his lips tug and smile in response to the tiny gasping noise that escaped from your throat. Slowly, so sweetly, he kissed the side of your mouth and up to the warm apple of your cheek.

“Wanted to do that all night,” he murmured, making sure you were steady to stand before peeling away slightly.

“Me too.” You grinned, a giggle barely held behind your teeth. “Knew you were looking at my lips.”

“Oh yeah? Should’ve kissed you sooner then.” A smiling peck pressed to your lips as your reward, your gold star for being so observant, before you righted and reoriented yourselves for the rest of the walk home.

With most of your bags in Steve’s steady hand (the one that was not keeping you close to his side), you trekked together toward home as more frosty flakes fell from the dark night sky.

The heat of your kiss had melted something more between you, both relieved that you weren’t the delusional one, that you both felt that same something.

Without much traffic, meeting only a few other pedestrians trekking home in the snow, it felt like the journey was about to end far too soon. You passed and pointed out the place where you got your photo-film developed, your favourite diner, Steve’s favourite coffee place which happened to be by the bookstore you liked.

“I don’t wanna be presumptuous,” Steve said, “But I’d love to see you again.” He looked down at your face, feeling his heart beat harder. “I’ve never met someone like you… Y’know, when you click right away?”

“I’d like that, Steve. I’d like that so much.” Butterfly wings fluttered hard in your chest as you watched his smile melt onto his handsome face. “Anyway, I want to know how that Secret Santa goes down.”

His grin was brighter than the snow. “You have full credit for that, honey.” Smiling lips kissed your forehead, just where your hat ended. He had scribbled his number on a clean napkin back at the bar, tucked it in his pocket to slip to you if (when) you said yes to seeing him again.

You let yourself lean into him, nuzzling his cologne-and-smoke-spiced arm before sighing. With your door in sight, you took a breath and made yourself be brave.

“This is me, just up here.”

You spotted the recognition on Steve’s face. This was goodnight - at least it wasn’t goodbye.

“We’re not so far from each other. I’m like.. Five blocks that way.” He pointed off to the left, somewhere you did not bother to follow in favour of looking up at Steve.

Now or never. This didn’t have to be goodnight…

“Hey, so I don't love the idea of you out here on your own in the snow. What if you freeze into an ice cube, or slip and crack your head?”

As your teeth grazed your lower lip, you watched his cheek pulse as he tried not to smile at your dreamed-up worries. Your own smile was barely hidden, ducked briefly behind your thick scarf.

“Huh. I didn’t think of that.” Steve bobbed his head, faux-thoughtful as he considered his next steps. “Pretty perilous…”

“Christmas would be cancelled…” You bit the inside of your cheek.

“Oh shit, you think?” his brows raised beneath his beanie, a knowing smile gave him away. You couldn’t possibly match Steve’s smooth charm.

You took a little breath in before asking the question you both knew the answer to.

“So, you might… You could stay the night? With me. If you want to.”

Steve measured himself and tried not to be too eager at the thought of more time with you, more kisses. “You sure?” he asked, glancing up at your building before looking right back at you.

You nodded slowly, smiling when you spotted the fresh snowflakes on his lashes, dusted over his broad shoulders too. “Mmhm. I’m sure.”

Steve smiled, closing the gap between you to kiss you again as the snow fell. “Then I’ll stay.”

Thank you for reading💙 Likes, reblogs and comments are loved, cherished and stored in a little locket 💙

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fluff #90's steve harrington #steve stranger things #steve harrington x f!reader #promptparty #steve harrington #holiday prompt party #steve harrington fanfic #bangaveragefics

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onskepa · 4 months ago

Note

You know? It would be cool if you could make a crossover between sully family and tonowary family with an old human reader who is immortal and has problems with his memory, forgetting very easily a chit chat he had a few minutes ago and can create ice like the ice king from adventure time and is not respected by any other skypeople who always make fun of him in secret and mock him but the reader leaves them be because with great powers come great responsability.

since this basically ice king persona, I watched a few compilations from that good ol' cartoon. Hope its good! Enjoy!

P.S: He is a she in this! Fem reader!

-------------

Zerok

Memories can be either precious or haunting. Depending on the person and circumstances. Some people prefer to lose them, some desire to keep every single fragment. But some are a bit unfortunate, they simply forget. Not like it's their choice, just bad luck.

Zerok, as many collectively call her, is the oddest person of the human bunch. Yes, everyone is weird in their own way but zerok is just on another level. Many have asked her for something, or if she can assist but zerok….

“What? But I thought you said you wanted the red wires?.....Oh that makes sense, red wires mean KABOOM!! And everyone would be dead. Yeah, you're right, green wires next time!”

“I wish I had a beard….like a really, really, reaaaaaaaaally long beard. Why? So I can fly! Fly fly so high! And stuff my snacks in it too!”

“Oh hi! Nice to meet you! I am….uuuuuhhhh…….”

“Phew, thank you so much lo’ak” norm sighs in relief. Lo’ak climbs down as he just cleared out the vents. Maintaining the airways is a high task that cannot be overlooked if they want to breathe properly.

“Anytime, uncle” lo’ak replies.

Norm goes to a monitor to check the air quality that is now flowing.

“All systems are good. Perfect”

Satisfied with the current status, they both relax as they feel the cool air enter the room.

“How are the coolers holding? I'm surprised it's still holding up all these years?” Lo’ak asks curiously. Coolers in the hellsgate has been shut down in certain areas since they are not in use. It does help to save energy and make it easier to take care of the main cooler tanks.

“So far so good I guess. Zerok takes care of them, "Norm replies.

“Huh!? Who said my name!? Was it you glob…?”

Speak of the devil. Or in this case, speak of the ice queen, since now the room felt extra chilly the second she entered.

“Dad?” lo’ak walks up to his dad with something on his mind.

“What's up?” Jake replies.

Lo’ak takes a moment before asking his question, “why is zerok so……odd?”. Didn't want to say weird as it might come off mean when it's not his intention.

Jake takes a moment, scratching his head, “I honestly don't know. She was already like that when I arrived here. To be honest, she is kind of ok with me. Though she does things that are a bit out of hand…like calling everyone gunter. I have no idea why. I used to remind her, norm, max, everyone tries to remind her of our names. On lucky days she will call anyone by their names, but on not so lucky days, everyone is gunter”

Jake remembers on his first day at the hellsgate. During the briefing, even old quaritch had to warn everyone.

“And if an old weird lady calls you gunter, just roll with it. Also keep your doors locked at night, we dont need another heart attack”

“She is harmless and all good”

“So then why does everyone keep their distance?” lo’ak asks another question.

“Well, naturally humans dont always feel comfortable around odd things or others displaying odd behaviors. Their senses tell them to back away as possible danger. Or other times they just simple dont like to be near odd people”

Lo’ak thought of that over and over. He is odd himself, yet people like to be near him. Maybe zerok is a different kind of odd?

“BOOMBAKLAAAAAAAA~!!”

Zerok jumped from the third floor all the way down to the first floor, for some unknown reason.

Norm just shivered everytime he sees her. Quite literally. Its like her presence brings coldness to the air, in times that are not needed.

“Ugh, its that old hag again…” one of the scientists mutters, ready to boil some warm water.

“I'm surprised she didn't go back like everyone else. We are better off without her” another says. But norm just looks at zerok, yeah she is so weird in so many ways but really isn't harming anyone.

“Why the need to say that?” norm asks one of the other guys.

“Come on norm, we already have spider to deal with. With her around making a mess and shit, its like having a toddler in a old persons body”

“Hey now that aint-”

“GUNTER! LOOK THIS WAY!” zerok shouted. Almost instinctively, everyone turned to see a flash of white light. She took a photo, it seems. Another thing norm doesn't understand, zerok has a niche for photography it seems, but it seems in the most random moments. Never giving anyone a moment to prepare.

“Thanks!” and she runs away, the coldness leaves with her.

Tsireya was enjoying the lake not too far from the omatikaya village. The water feeling amazing, a bit warm but amazing nonetheless. Being away from water has made her and her family feed odd. The need to be one with the element is a must.

But as she takes in the relaxing silence, all of a sudden the water felt….cooler?

Stopping midway of her swim, she looks around and sees an elderly human. Her hands in the edge of the lake dipping into the water. What was she doing?

“Hi, I thought you wanted it cold. Alright bye!!!” and the odd human left.

Tsireya couldn't help but giggle, the human was odd but funny as well.

he side, trying to take in this new update of the old woman.

“Does she posses something to make water cold?” tsireya asks.

Lo’ak can only shrug, “to be honest, Im not sure. Everyone keeps mentioning how the air feels colder when she is around. Cold water is news to me”

Tsireya humms, it would be interesting if she did.

As they walk, they saw kiri and tuk enjoying some beverages with neteyam. They walk over to see.

“What are you guys drinking?” lo’ak asks. Tuk can only humm in happiness while neteyam offers him a bowl.

“Try it” he says. Lo’ak looks at it, was thick in paste but looks smooth as the same time, taking a sip he knew instantly it was banana, but it was mushed and cold? He offers it to tsireya who seems to like it.

“Its good” she compliments.

“Zerok made it for us, don't know how but its really really good. She called it a smoothie” neteyam says.

“Speaking of zerok, has she dont anything weird around you guys? Or seen her doing anything out of the ordinary?” lo’a asks his siblings as he and tsireya sits with them. The other siblings look at each other and try to recall anything.

“Anything and everything she does is out of the ordinary brother, even for human customs” kiri points. Which is technically true.

“I like her, she is funny and makes the silliest dance moves” tuk points out. Remembering the few times zerok shows off her silly dances to her.

“Norm says not everyone likes her, that she is too much to handle” neteyam adds in. Not always he goes to the lab, but when he does, a whisper catches his attention. How many talke so mean behind the old lady.

“Best to ask spider, he should know a thing or two”

“She is not normal” spider says bluntly.

Everyone groaned at his answer, “we already know that cuz” lo’ak mutters.

Spider shook his head, “no, I mean it literally. She is not normal, like by any human standards or human capabilities” he rephrases. Now this many many head turns.

“What do you mean by that?” kiri wonders.

“Best she shows you, come on”

Spider leads them through a couple of halls, turning left and right. This was tsrieya’s first time seeing human structures, so she seeks comfort by holding lo’ak’s hand.

Spider leads them all the way down to the air generators. Lo’ak remembers norm telling him how they often need to be maintained, and that zerok is the only one who does it. They all see that the metal parts are turning slightly red, the temperature growing warm by the second. Spider smiles at this.

“Perfect! Its getting warm” he says.

“How is that good? Feels like we are near a fire”

Spider says nothing more but pushes a button on a nearby wall. In a matter of a few seconds, zerok appears from somewhere.

“Hi gunter!” she greets. Spider huffs, shaking his head lightly, “its spider, zerok. Always has been”. Reminding her for the millionth time.

“Ok gunter” she nods.

Quickly she took notice of the air generators heating up.

“Oh my gloooooooob! Why didn't you tell me spunter!? This should have been taken care of since 5 megalions ago!” she cries out.

“What is a…..megalion…?” tsireya whispers. Lo’ak shrugs, “I have no idea”.

Zerok observes the generator and touches the hottest spot, her hand sizzling from contact.

“Let it gooooooo!! Let it goooooooo!! Can't hold it back anymooooooooooore~!!” she sings out. And as if by odds, ice spewed out from her hands. Layers of ice began to cool off the hot spots, the air no longer hot. The generator was back to being normal.

“YAHOOOOOO~!!” going a bit nuts, zerok then creates snow all over the room, to keep the generator cold longer. The kids were in absolute awe. They have never seen anything like this before!

“Woa!! This is amazing!” tuk cheers, already collecting a bit of snow from the floor.

“Huh?? Do you guys work here too??” zerok stopped what she was doing to just now notice the tall teens.

“Uuuuuuuuhhhhh…….yes?” kiri answers awkwardly.

“Cool!”

“HUH?! Over 300 years old!?” lo’ak shouts in disbelief.

After witnessing what zerok’s ice abilities, the kids simply wanted to know more. Apparently she is more than just a wacky old lady with a liking to the gunter name. She is also immortal.

“Yes” zerok answers as she adds snowflakes to tuk’s ice crown.

“H-how…?” tsireya’s was also trying to process this information. Immortality is simply impossible.

“I dunno, its been so long I cant remember. But my only lead, is a prince” zerok answers honestly.

“If I try to remember, my head begins to hurt, like a loooooooooot. So I dont remember, I forget easily”

Neteyam noticed her polaroid camera at her side.

“Is that why you take pictures? To remember” he questions.

“Yuppa doozers! I have so many pictures, I even forget I took them in the first place! Ok, all done sweetie”

Tuk stands up and admires her ice crown. Giggling, she prances around, loving how pretty it is while also cooling her head. Zerok grabs her camera and takes a picture of tuk. Her smile is now forever preserved.

“So when is your birthday?” kiri asks.

Zerok turns to her curiously, “what birthday?”

“You know, your birthday, to keep track of how old you are…?”

Zerok plays with her camera before looking up in a daze, “dang, I can go for have some bacon pancakes…”

“Zerok? Your birthday…?” kiri tries to remind her.

“What birthday?” zerok asks again, “I dont have a birthday! I dont even know how old I am!”

Kiri quietly gave up, seems this human is just simply full of surprises. Even some zerok isnt aware of.

Night feel, and everyone in the base was heading to bed. Zerok was just putting away her camera while making sure her pillows were extra crunchy with frost.

“Dabadoo, dadaboo, yada yada, dooooooo~!!” she sings a random melody. Going back and forth to put away things, she stops to notice something.

“Oh what a pretty blue girl, wonder where she got that crown” she says to herself. Seeing a picture of a na’vi child wearing a pretty ice grown. Around that photo were other na’vi kids.

“Alright, all set for some sleeps! Tomorrow I should check on spunter, I wonder if he ate anything this month. I know! Ice, who doesnt love ice”

Climbing onto her bed, zerok gets into a comfy position and lets sleep take over. While her eyes remained wide open, snoring away into the dark abyss that is called her inner mind.

aaaaaaaaaand that is it for this one! Got stuck on what else to put but hopefully its good! Until next time! See ya!

--------

Zerok = remember

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xxnashiraxx · 5 months ago

Text

Pairing: Astarion/f!Durge ◇ Astarion/f!OC (Ofelia)

Word Count: 6,119

Tags/Warnings: Mature (slight spice), Soft Astarion, Fluff

Summary: It's December in Baldur’s Gate and the snow is falling on Act 3 of Ofelia's adventure. After falling ill to a cold that prevents her from spreading the joy of Christmas to her companions, they decide to band together and prepare it in secret as a surprise for her. As they look for decorations, gifts, and a tree, Astarion reflects on his time with her and contemplates whether or not his gift will convey the depth of his true feelings...

divider here!

AO3 | Song Reference: Let it Snow!

Hi everyone!!! My apologies for this trainwreck, I tried my best on little time, but I really wanted to write something sweet for these two, and I owe inspiration for this oneshot to @caffeinatedmunchkin ! Thank you again friend!!! I also tried as far as the elvish, so please bear with me ��🏼

Please enjoy- fluff was needed for the season, and I hope everyone has a lovely day if you celebrate!!! ❤️ You do not need to read the main fic to read this one- it's its own little standalone! 💕

“So, you expect us to believe that some jolly old man goes around to every child in your world and delivers gifts on this ‘Christmas Eve’?” Gale's tone, while incredulous, remains cheerful. “That does not seem feasible, given your planet's population.”

“Well, not every child celebrates Christmas, so not all seven billion. But yeah pretty much,” Ofelia’s eyes light with amusement as Gale begins another spiel into logic and probability, causing Astarion to roll his eyes and grumble into the chalice of blood Ofelia had filled for him not but a few minutes ago.

“It's just make-believe!” Ofelia spouts around giggles, her smile bright. “Not real! Something you tell kids so they behave, but the holiday is still the same- parents get their children gifts, blame it on Santa, make cookies and leave milk out for him for his journey, hang stockings on the mantle to see if they get coal if they’re bad or sweets and little toys if they’re good. It's all for fun- I myself most enjoy the snow and decorations.” She sounds wistful as their ragtag group listens. He watches her face twist slightly as if recalling a bad memory, and he pays attention to the warble in her voice when she next speaks.

“I haven't had a real Christmas since I was still young enough to believe… my parents did everything for me, those first nine years. It was always so magical… pazole, tamales, candy, gifts- I wished they wouldn't have, but they'd do everything, take extra shifts just so there was something under the tree for me… I miss them this time of year. Just a little bit extra.” No longer afraid of the warmth that blooms in his chest, he reaches for her and when his hand rests over her shoulder she turns to him and quickly wipes the moisture from the corner of her eye. Her cheeks crease with an appreciative smile and she squeezes his hand in thanks as the others look around.

“Would you want to celebrate it here?” Karlach asks, setting her cleaned plate off to the side on one of the many little tables littered around their common space in the Elfsong.

“You guys want to?” Ofelia asks with a soft huff, hefty emotion washing from her voice amid the sweet hope that spreads over her face.

“We may not have Santa, but why not? The spirit of gift giving and love isn’t foreign here,” Gale smiles, patting Ofelia’s opposite shoulder.

“Okay… yeah! We’ll have to find a tree, and ornaments, and gift wrapping of some kind- paper will do! Stockings to hang over the fire for each of us… day after tomorrow!” Her eyes brighten at each syllable, and for all the teasing he’d love to utter, he can’t find it in himself to poke when this is the happiest she’s looked since they’d arrived in Baldur’s Gate.

And gods, if it isn’t the happiest he’s been, as well. Since Cazador fell. They still have the brain and two of the Dead Three's chosen left, but curse it all to the hells. Right now perhaps they can indulge in some respite from it all. The calm before the storm.

They move through the rest of the day restocking their supplies, tracking down various needs, and chasing some loose ends. They discover more of Orin’s handiwork littered throughout the city, much to Ofelia’s chagrin, but decide to turn in early in the hopes of getting started on their decorating. Unfortunately, fate has other plans.

“I’m afraid healing magic really only works on injuries and the like- I’m sorry, Ofelia. I know how much this meant to you… perhaps we can have it later in the week?” Shadowheart strokes the human’s face softly, her pale hand meeting russet, clammy skin. Ofelia nods, eyes shifting to a corner of the room as the half-elf leaves and shoots Astarion a pitying frown. When the door shuts, he sinks down beside her and strokes the hair off her cheeks and forehead, fever hot against his cold undead hands.

“This sucks…” She mutters, cheeks ruddy with heat as her body fights against an infection they have no hope of combatting with anything but time and herbs. Already, Jaheira had mixed what little items she had into a concoction Ofelia had knocked back minutes ago, and though a bit of color has returned to her lips, she’s not exactly the picture of good health.

“I’m sorry, darling,” He murmurs, resting the back of his hand against her cheek. He knows she likes it when he does, and she typically runs hot, but this is something else entirely and it pulls at his unbeating heart.

“No, it’s okay… it’s been so long since I’ve tried to decorate, but I did try last year- look.” She strains to her right to grab the object that always manages to mystify him and she starts to scroll through the little frozen pictures on her device before holding some up to him. “I got this really stupid fake tiny tree and I put all those little things on it, got some tinsel and hung it up around the doors and windows.” He peers down at the small room she’d once called home- bright metallic garlands trimming the entryways with twinkling lights adorning the small tree that sits on a table in the center of it. His lips tick up at the corners as he sees her in the next photo, bright red painted lips and golden eyelids, some terribly gaudy red and green jumper covering her chest.

“Beautiful, and loud. As always,” She rolls her eyes at his attempt to poke fun, leaning down more fully onto his right elbow as she tucks herself closer to him.

“I wanted to get a big one this time… really show you guys what it looks like, though I’m not sure what the hell I’d do about the bulbs, or lights, or star on top…” She smiles up at him and he feels his chest twinge with guilt. Of course she’d gone and gotten herself sick somehow…

“There’s… always next year,” He says around the strange doubt in his mind. It’s nothing but disbelief- disbelief that she’s with him at all. That she keeps telling him she loves him. That she keeps promising they’ll defeat the brain and get rid of Orin and Gortash and be able to breathe once it’s all over… together. Sometimes the incredulity of it all still catches him off guard.

“You’re such a big softie, really,” He huffs a laugh, reaching down to pinch one of her cheeks before pressing a terse kiss to the crown of her head.

“And the mistletoe, gods, can’t forget the mistletoe!” She groans, pressing a hand over her eyes as she collapses into the pillows.

“Mistletoe?” He questions. She sighs, spreading her fingers enough so that one eye peeps up at him.

“It’s silly, but you hang it up over a doorway- it’s got these spiky green leaves and cute red berries on it- and if you pass under it with someone else you have to kiss. It’s just the rules,” He smiles, lost amid her explanation though enamored by the wonder in her voice as she speaks. “I've never been kissed under the mistletoe, you know…”

“Hmm, you haven't? Seems we'll have to change that in the future.” She giggles under the kiss he presses to her forehead, careful and full of promise. When he stands he strokes her cheek once more before adjusting the blankets.

“Get some rest, I’ll bring back some soup in a little while.” He whispers, taking her device from her to set back onto the nightstand. She pouts up at him, curiosity in her gaze, and he finishes tucking her in. “I’ll be back, promise,”

Once out in the main room, he finds the rest of his travelling companions speaking in hushed voices around the fireplace, Scratch pacing near Astarion’s feet. The dog quickly ducks in before Astarion gets the door shut, and he smirks knowing Ofelia will at least have some company before he returns to bed. Nearly every morning that mutt’s laying between them or with half his body draped over her legs. She doesn’t seem to mind, and he’s starting to grow accustomed to the beast as well, much to his disdain…

“Vampire- what are we doing about this Christmas?” Lae’zel demands as soon as he’s within a few feet of them. He simpers and sits on a lush ottoman, draping one leg over the other as he accepts a glass of wine from Gale.

“Gods, Lae’zel. We’ve only been travelling together for the last few months, I’d expect you’d have remembered my name by now.” His sly remark is met with the githyanki’s signature Tchk! before Shadowheart grins.

“Now, now, try to get along you two. Your mediator isn’t here,” The half-elf snickers, and Astarion sighs, waving a hand towards the others.

“So, what were you all murmuring about before I came out here? I’m assuming it has something to do with dear Lae’zel’s questioning?” He takes a sip of the wine- an expensive sort that flows easily down his throat- and casts his eyes amongst the others as he watches them exchange nods.

“We want to put it on anyway,” Gale explains, the dark liquor in his glass catching the light of the fire. “She spoke so fondly of it this morning, and to get sick now… it isn’t fair.” Astarion hums, pondering the silence that settles over them once Gale is finished.

He’d been of a similar mind as she’d shown him her pictures- it’d be no easy task to find a tree, especially with them being in the heart of the Gate. Then there was the tinsel he’d seen… they’d perhaps be able to find something like that in the city, the baubles…

“My, my, it’s odd being amongst you all once you actually experience an intelligent thought.” Their murmurs of disbelief and annoyance fuel the smirk that spreads over his lips as he waves a hand “I’ve been snooping through her photos and I’ve got some references we can likely use, though wrestling her away from the damn thing will be a feat in and of itself.” Astarion grumbles around another swig.

“Leave that to me,” Shadowheart assures, clapping her hands together once. “I’ll run her a bath in the morning and make sure she stays in it for a few hours. To ‘leech the toxins’ so to speak. It isn’t as if she’s well versed to our healing methods to know I’m making it up,” Astarion nods, pondering, as the others chime in.

“The tree… we won’t be able to sneak that into the city,” Wyll laments, forefinger stroking over the fine hairs on his face.

“If you were able to secure a sapling, I’m sure I’d be able to encourage it to grow quickly enough.” Halsin adds, earning a nod from the Blade.

“I’ll help with that as well,” Jaheira offers, smile on her softly lined face.

“What about the decorations?” Minthara asks, frowning.

“We’ll figure something out- I’m sure there are plenty of merchants with trinkets and baubles around- Sundries may also have something. We should ask Rolan and his siblings, as well. I seem to remember that Lia had some dolls and things made for the children once they got to the city.” Astarion nods at Gale’s words, contemplating.

“And do not forget gifts for her,” Astarion murmurs crossly, eyes flashing around the room. “At least have the common sense to wrap them first,”

“Course not,” Karlach grins a wide, toothy smile, the likes of which sets his teeth on edge. He'll never let on that it does somewhat please him, however. “We'll get gifts for Ofelia and each other!”

They scatter to their personal rooms or beds, plan worked out in the dim candlelight and hearth as if they’re a secret society. He crawls into bed with his lover, her’s and Scratch’s soft snores filling the room much to his amusement. He checks her temperature, sigh soft on his lips as he rests back against the pillows when he finds it unchanged.

As he lays in bed, his mind spins with the possibilities of all the gifts he could possibly get her- if it were up to him, he’d likely not get one at all. Perhaps steal something.

Images of her adorned with pretty scarlet jewels and glistening pearls flood his vision, though something about jewelry feels almost cold and distant- too obvious a choice. Or possibly even too meaningful, something he isn’t ready for…

No… despite her expect-nothing nature, he’d like to at least try to make this sentimental and meaningful. It could be their last celebration, after all, and gods does he care for her too much not to indulge this simple, saccharine wish. He’ll need to put in the effort- just as she puts in the effort to make him feel cared for each day. He wouldn’t be where he is now without her… without her kindness. It’s a blessing he tries not to take for granted, though he does slip up from time to time. He cannot make that mistake now.

He rises from the bed, trancing left for later, as he pulls some items out of his pack and retrieves a tool kit from the main stock supplies. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good at this, but he doesn’t trust someone else to do the job.

***

“I feel better this morning, I swear…” Ofelia grumbles as Astarion kisses her awake. For the umpteenth time, she thanks the gods that he can’t catch her cold. It’s nice to indulge in a tender kiss first thing, though she’s sure she looks positively awful. Pale skin, scarlet cheeks, sweaty and clammy. She huffs a laugh and pushes him away, making to sit up and use the restroom, but her vision tilts and she stays seated, clutching her head.

“You feel better, hmm?” He trills softly, last syllable enunciated with a haughty laugh. Smug bastard.

“I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d say you’re actually enjoying this.” He stands above her, back of his hand pressing against her forehead, and she lets out a soft moan at the relief. The heat behind her eyelids slowly recedes beneath his touch, and she clutches his hand to hold it still as he hums quietly.

“Well, you do push yourself far too much, darling. Though your pain is something I do not take pleasure in, under these circumstances at least,” She rolls her eyes at the smirk over his lips, longing curling low in her belly in spite of the state of her body.

“Yeah well, you and me both.” She sighs, kissing the back of his hand, and he stoops down to place one of his over her forehead.

“I have some errands to run with Gale of all people- Shadowheart volunteered to stay with you, said she would like to try some kind of healing bath? Silly in my opinion, but who am I to question a cleric’s healing skills?” She groans, lying back on the mattress to stare at the ceiling. She’d really wanted to see if she could convince them to let her go out and find decorations, at least put them up… but it’s not looking probable. That and she’d lied about feeling better to worm her way out of staying in today.

“Ughhhhh,” Her long drawn out groan pulls a light chuckle from the elf and she reaches up to pull him down, knee between her thighs on the spare bit of mattress available, hands at either side of her head. She wraps her arms around his torso and clings to him, trying to absorb as much of him as possible before he leaves for the day.

“I’ll be back later, just relax and enjoy your bath. Maybe there'll be a reward in it for you,” She sighs into his neck, pressing a hot kiss to his skin fueled by the promise of his words, and she smiles when his muscles stiffen. “Patience, dear,” He murmurs as he pulls away and she squeezes him one last time before letting go. There’s a knock at their door and Shadowheart appears, arms laden with towels and supplies. Ofelia smiles forlornly at her, her own far too empty in Astarion’s absence.

She doesn’t notice as she’s ushered into the washroom Astarion’s quick swipe of her phone off the nightstand, or his soft smile in her direction. She doesn’t see that smile widen into a pleased grin as his fingers snake around the gift in his pocket, clutching it with a light squeeze.

***

“Do you think she’ll like it in the morning?” Gale asks Astarion softly, the fruits of their labor casting the main room in a festive glow. Somehow, he’d been able to obtain a lighting spell scroll- something Rolan had insisted upon them not paying for once he’d heard it was for Ofelia’s benefit. Astarion had rolled his eyes- that tiefling wizard ever hopelessly infatuated despite Ofelia’s vehement denial- and they’d stopped for some books as Gale’s gift to her before Astarion had found something for the man as well. His eyes also caught on a crystal carved into the shape of a crescent moon for Shadowheart, and upon realizing his gaze was tracking items for his companions, promptly huffed in annoyance. He’d grabbed the item anyway.

“I think a twig in the corner with lights on it would send her into a fit, but this is much better.” Astarion sighs, thanking the help from the Midwinter celebrations going on around the city for the garlands of pine and the berries that now hang in the frame of every doorway. It’s not as gaudy or brightly colored as the decorations in her apartment from the photos he’d shown them all this morning, but it’ll do. Even he’s feeling a bit of wonder gazing at the lovely spruce the two druids in their group had spent nurturing, as well as cladding in brightly colored glass sphere’s Karlach procured from a friend she’d known before she’d been cast into Avernus.

Presents wrapped in paper of varying colors sit beneath the full branches, a blanket protecting them from the cold floor as Scratch paws restlessly at a long, stick shaped present wrapped in blue paper with his name penned gracefully across its front. Astarion smirks- she’ll get a kick out of that one.

“Great job, Fangs. I almost forget you don’t have a functioning heart sometimes.” Karlach’s teary voice scrapes against his nerves and he sneers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t go spreading that around,” They poke fun at him some more, and thankfully he’s saved by Minthara’s short temper as she demands they all get to bed. It’s almost midnight and she’s not missing a stop from the old geezer- much to his amusement. He just barely manages to duck into his room before they dissolve into a debate about whether or not she’d paid attention to Ofelia’s story, shutting it with a soft click as he stalks over to the bed, shedding clothes on the way.

He hears even breathing- her airways finally starting to clear- and just as he slips beneath the sheets he nearly yelps.

“Hiding from me all day- what, I’m sick and you’re out there looking for a replacement after I wither away?” Her tone is playful and he smirks, admiring the color returning to her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes beneath the light of the full moon. Beneath him.

“Hmm, yes, I was shopping for a new lover today. Pity they all didn’t seem to match your prowess at being irritating. And none of them had these- seems I’m doomed to solitude.” His hands cup her breasts, separated from him by the thin layer of her cotton shirt, and she rolls her eyes and pouts.

“All you’d miss are my tits and my attitude. Rude,” A smile at the corner of her lips betrays her and he grins, fangy and wide, before claiming that smile with a kiss. “Missed you…” She hums, arms winding around his waist, and he matches the sound with sincerity, finding that his day while busy was severely lacking her presence. A travesty, indeed.

“Your fever’s gone,” He mumbles, enjoying the taste of her mouth and the way her hips slightly buck into his own, the hands still firmly anchored to her chest kneading softly. She sighs, baring her throat, and it’s all he can do to not sink his teeth in. Just a bit more recovery, and he’ll indulge in her blood again. He’s holding over with animals in the meantime.

“Mmm, whatever was in that bath made me feel a lot better. And whatever the hell concoction Jaheira made me drink earlier, too- tasted awful but I think it helped.” Her eyes find him and he brushes the hair from her face, slowly sinking onto his side and off of her.

“Good, perhaps we can get back on schedule tomorrow since you’ll be done lazing about.” She scowls and smacks his arm away before yanking the sheets up beneath her chin.

“And I was going to offer you my mouth- jerk.”

“I’ll still take it.”

“Haha. Goodnight.” He smirks and presses a kiss to her lips before lying back, eyes tracking over the beams on the ceiling as she snuggles up close and rests her head over his bicep.

“Goodnight, love.” He whispers, heart tethered to the small gift he intends to give her tomorrow, hope brimming at the fringes of his mind as he pictures her opening it.

***

“Astarion! It’s snowing look, look, wake up!” He does with a start as her hands shake his shoulders, startled out of the trance and back into the real world. For once, his reverie was clouded in visions of her and not nightmarish memories, and as he opens his eyes he yawns.

“It’s been snowing the last couple of days,” He murmurs, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he rises and lets her drag him to the window.

“Yeah, but this one’s stuck,” Her grin is nearly contagious and he fights back the compulsion to instead press his cold nose to the back of her neck as he pulls her into his arms, hands resting over her belly.

“It’s cold, white, a pain to deal with… I’m not sure what you’re so excited about.” He mouths lazily at her pulse point, delighted as her heart beat speeds up, and she laughs.

“You realize you’ve just described yourself, right?” His lips idle over her skin and with an annoyed sigh he bites enough to leave the impression of his teeth but not pierce, earning a satisfying gasp of surprise from her.

“Get dressed, I think you can leave quarantine for breakfast, today,” He knows the plan- pretends that the routine is back to normal. She slips from his arms and goes to her pile of clothing- gods, is she messy- and pulls out some comfortable pants and flashes him a look.

“Get out, I’m going to change.” She demands and he scoffs.

“I’ve seen you naked more times than I can remember, why can’t I stay?” He plays the part of mock dissatisfaction, though he’s silently pleased. It’ll give him an opportunity to check and make sure the dullards outside are ready.

“Just- out!” He huffs, pulling on a pair of pants before making for the door. His tadpole seeks Gale’s, and upon confirming that they’re aware it’s just Astarion exiting the room, he slips out and closes the door behind him.

“She almost ready?” Wyll whispers, tweaking some of the garlands over the mantle as Lae’zel places little rocks in each sock. She’d been far too amused at the prospect of coal for naughty behavior, and had been adamant that none of them deserved candy and would all get a piece each to keep them in perspective. He has to admit, it is a little amusing.

“Getting dressed- should be any moment-” Just as the word leaves his mouth, the door behind him opens and he steps to the side with his heart in his throat.

She’s completely silent, hair brushed into soft waves laying down her back, proper attire donning her body save for the slippers on her feet, and they all hold their breath as her gaze sweeps over the room.

“Hu-huh…?” She mumbles, breath catching, and he watches intently as moisture begins to bead in the corners of her eyes. They all exchange glances, frozen in anticipation, before her hands cover her mouth and she starts to sob. “You guys? Are you serious?”

“Merry Christmas!” Most of them chant- Astarion forgets, Minthara’s nose is buried in a fragrant chardonnay but she tilts the glass in acknowledgement- and they all rush her before he has a chance to dodge them. He’s swept up in Karlach’s large wingspan as she tucks them together and squeezes until white blotches dot his vision, yet the delight from Ofelia keeps him from complaining too loudly about it. Mostly.

She turns to him between embraces, eyes round and soft, and his chest goes tight as he offers her a smile reserved for no other but her. It’s sweet when she returns it- steals the breath he doesn’t need from his lungs, and when she goes to pull him in she clings to him and whispers little reverent ‘I love you’s into his ear as if he’d hung the moon itself. Pride and affection blooms within, and he presses kisses to the side of her head where the others can’t see, though he wouldn’t mind if they did. He’s long past the notion of hiding his feelings for her. From himself or otherwise.

They push her into the best seat- one the others usually fight over- and Karlach excitedly pulls gifts from the pile to start passing around. Astarion’s gift to her is tucked behind the tree and hidden- saving the best for last. Hopefully. No, he’s confident.

Ofelia laughs at the coal in the sock, munches on fudge from the bakery near the entrance to the upper city, enjoys the books Gale’s gifted her and the plush dog that Lia had sewn and stuffed. She remarks about the lights, face brighter than he’s ever seen it, and forces Minthara into a tight hug and kiss on her plum cheeks as Ofelia clutches the necklace adorned with a single ruby charm and spider etched into its stone. The drow protests and growls in annoyance, but it’s all really just for show. Once turned away, she smiles into her cup and quickly clears her throat afterward.

They all offer her small trinkets or treats, and he’s content to just sit and watch, but he’s swept up by the spirit of it all as he opens small packages with his name on it. A silver pocket watch from Shadowheart, a silken kerchief from Wyll, a new scabbard for his dagger in dark leather from Lae’zel. He’d not expected anything, even vehemently enunciated that this is for her, not him, but despite his claims it seems no one listened to him. What else is new?

“That’s it!” Karlach proclaims from beside the tree, tossing candy and pastries in her mouth by the fistful as the others sip on warm beverages or partake in alcohol around the heat of the fire. His eyes go to the frosted window, the entire city covered in a blanket of white. He decides, for the first time, that it looks much better this way.

“You didn’t get anything for Ofelia?” Gale asks, and Astarion’s hackles raise as he feels the ire rise and claim the atmosphere.

“I saved the best for last,” He stands with a flourish, calming the mood before his head ends up on a pike. “Besides, who went to all this trouble?”

“Don’t take all the credit!” Shadowheart snaps and he smiles as he turns his back to them, going behind the tree to pluck his gift from beneath an alcove in the wall. His eyes linger over shiny red paper- this, at least, he'd stolen. For a moment, he hesitates. His fingers wrap around it, her name glaring back, and he wonders if this will be good enough. He'd seen everyone's carefully thought out gifts, hells, had even managed to hit the nail on its head a few times for the others. But Ofelia? She's the one he needs to get right. Above all else, he can't fail.

He steels himself and turns, each step towards her smiling face making him question the object in his outstretched hand, and when she takes it he stands stiff and still- making no move to breathe or blink or talk. She gingerly unwraps it at the seams, her pulse racing in his ears as she continues to pry back the paper, and he watches her stop as a soft breath vacates her lungs.

“Star…” It feels as if a century passes before his eyes when she finally speaks, pulling the dagger from the paper to hold up and admire. The metal flashes, light glancing off the engraving near the hilt- one she speaks in hushed tones as if in prayer.

“Nin anor,” Her lips shape around the elegant script as if she's painting it in the air, and once it's hanging around them he knows it's right. Knows it's right in the way she looks at him, in the way the sun, through a break in the clouds, casts a golden glow around her. It breaks on her skin and sinks in, frames her like it did that day in the sand, that day he'd first tasted freedom. The first day he'd met her and had heard her heart quicken beneath the sharp edge of his blade- the blade she now cradles in her hands.

Purpose, like a compulsion, stole his mind the moment chisel met steel. Illuminated by candles, he'd carved in elvish the words he's said to her over and over, again and again. Against her lips as he makes love to her, into the crown of her head as he pulls her into an embrace. Softly, against her forearm as she returned to herself enough to let go of his neck and fight the urge…

“My sun…” He breathes back, and she's out of the chair faster than he can blink. With a laugh that's no more than a huff, he wraps his arms around her and squeezes back, smiles as she laughs and sniffles and sighs.

“I love you,” It's quiet against his ear, and a barely perceptible shiver trembles through his limbs in reply. He'd been worried for nothing, and that's cemented further when she pulls back and the grin on her face renders him speechless.

“A knife? You got her a knife?” Karlach asks, bewildered, and the tension in his limbs falls away when Ofelia looks at him and laughs. This time, he doesn't fight the impulse to join her and it's freeing and juvenile, but worth the joy it brings.

***

“It's the one he threatened me with when we first met,” Ofelia smiles as she finishes off her plate of roast meats, fresh greens and potatoes. She pushes it towards the center of the table, leaning back in the chair as she admires the way the fire looks as it dances in his crimson eyes. He's beautiful, and her heart slams into her ribs like it's trying to break free- that look he gives her never failing to stir an ache in her chest that feels like it consumes just as much as it grows.

“Hmmm… and how is that romantic?” Gale asks around the cookie in his mouth. Ofelia chuckles at his muffled words, about to speak when Minthara beats her to it.

“Is it not provocative to feel the sting of your lover's blade against your skin? The dance between pleasure and pain, the testament of your trust in them not to supply too much pressure lest they end your life?” Gale swallows thickly, stiffening when the drow places her hand on his arm. “If you do not understand, I will show you tonight, wizard.”

Their group laughs, partaking in drinks that almost remind Ofelia of home. Something that tastes like hot chocolate fills her belly as Astarion holds her close, swaying softly to the music that pours from Ofelia's speaker- an old favorite.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,” She murmurs against his shoulder, echoing the melody as he squeezes her hips.

“You liked your gift?” His voice is quiet- almost shy. Her arms circle him tighter, letting him guide her through the room as their companions slowly start to filter off to bed. The entire day had been like a dream- a perfect, beautiful reprieve from pain or worry. Something rare and sweet- sorely missed in the years since and filling the empty hole in her heart with so much that it almost hurts to contain. Family. Love.

“I'll cherish it forever, Star,” She smiles, pulling away to stroke her fingers over his cheek. It's cool beneath them, and his smile is relaxed as it spreads over his face. She bumps the door frame to their room with a soft laugh and his gaze lifts up above her head, causing her to redirect hers and stop almost disbelievingly over green leaves and white berries.

“There weren't any red,” He hums softly, but her throat is dry and her ears are filled with cotton when she looks back at him. Moonlight turns his hair to silver and his skin to marble, and as she looks at him and watches him lean closer, she's not sure if she'll ever deserve the affection he now presses to her lips.

Hands tangle in her long hair, chest to chest, the taste of wine on his tongue- her stomach clenches in fear of the future, of losing it all, of making a mistake or failing to free them from the brain. All of it looms like a dark cloud, trying to swallow her whole, but then he's pushing them into the room, shutting their door and latching it. He's driving her back, legs folding until she's forced to collapse onto the mattress, heat pooling in her belly low and needy when he goes to push her sweater up over her head.

“I feel bad I didn't get anyone else a gift,” She whispers and he snorts, discarding his shirt onto the floor as he starts to untie the shirt barring him from further access.

“Anyone else? What did you get me?” She laughs when he stops, frozen at the sight beneath her clothes.

“I got these a few days ago… was going to at least do this since I couldn't get presents or decorate.” His irises narrow into thin lines between the enlarging of his pupils, gaze dragging down her form as he tugs her pants down and off. Ribbons and lace, scarlet and black, cradle her breasts and expose the underside of them while big red bows conceal her nipples. Her underwear leaves nothing to the imagination, either, and his lips part around a raw hum of appreciation when he discovers with his eyes the way the fabric conveniently vanishes beneath the waistband.

“Gods…” It's brittle and needy and she smiles wickedly when his clothes fall to the floor.

“Unwrap me?” She whispers.

“Yes,” He breathes.

She laughs as his fingers find give on the bows and he pulls them apart, mouth chasing his touch as he pushes her thighs back and sinks inside. She sobs his name as he sets a feverish pace, mind nothing but foggy desire and heady affection. Affection for him, for this, for them. She clings to him like her life depends on it, canting her hips in time with his, every sensation as intense and lovely like she's experiencing it for the first time.

She leans in and kisses his ear, revels in the shivers that shake through his body when she tightens her grip. They're teetering over the edge, now- drawing to a close. But even so, she knows it won't be the end. Not when she's right where she's supposed to be.

Like the phantoms of quivering tree limbs, the warmth of the sand beneath her body, the flash of a blade while rubies danced in her vision she feels him. Feels him in every pore, every beat of her heart as he meets her eyes and opens his mouth to speak. Soft and full of promises they never knew were made that day on the beach.

“Nin anor,”

#merry xmas!!!#bg3 #astarion fluff #astarion fanfic #bg3 christmas #christmas fic

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godsholyhat · 10 days ago

Text

Sketches from an AU where Theresa dresses up as a man and follows Godwin to rescue Henry and Hans.

Hans/Henry, past Henry/Theresa and Henry/Bianca, ambiguous Theresa/Bianca

Warnings for brief mentions of Theresa's near assault at the start of KCD1.

It was near midday when the war party reached the crossroads that led to Trosky Castle, high in the sky above them like some fairy fastness. Theresa, her head aching from the blow of the bombard, ears still ringing, scarcely heard the words being exchanged, but knew only that at any moment her fate might be sealed. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, sluggish in its beating. How ironic, she thought, to have survived the burning of Skalitz only to meet her end here. If she was lucky, they would not see past the armour she wore and would just hang her from the nearest tree. She had always longed for adventure. She could never have known what it would cost.

Beside her, Lord Capon stirred. Lord von Bergow was speaking to him, she realised. She kept her face cast down.

“And what of my serving boy?” asked the young lord, his voice sharp.

“You mean Kobyla’s bastard?” asked von Bergow. “He will go with Sir Istvan. What happens to him after that is none of my concern, nor yours.”

“I mean this boy here,” he said, indicating Theresa. “Young Thomas. He came with Godwin, sent by my uncle. He’s served me since he was a nipper. I’ll need someone to tend to my wounds, and he’s a dab hand at it.”

Bless him, she thought to herself. He owes nothing to me and yet he’s trying to save me. A darker thought came over her — perhaps he was only saving her to use her. She’d heard the stories of Lord Capon, after all: a man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself and who was partially responsible for providing the herbwoman in Ledetchko with a steady business. He’d even taken the last of Karolina’s maidenhead — what she hadn’t already given away to Nicholas, the baker’s son, that is. Theresa’s small dagger lay hidden beneath her mail, tucked into the belt she wore around her gambeson, ready to use should any man get that close. She would use it on Lord Capon if he tried anything with her.

von Bergow snorted, frustrated. “I suppose I can allow it, Sir Hans,” he said briskly. “A nobleman needs his valet after all. But mark my words, he will be your responsibility. My duty of care extends only to you: you will feed and clothe him yourself, and any wages you pay him will come from your pocket.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Capon.

—

She’d fooled around with Matthew, a few years ago, and the experience had been pleasant enough but vaguely disappointing. Henry had been much more fun to sport with, but it was clear the whole time that they were both thinking of someone else, and when he half-heartedly proposed marriage to her at the end, she had known he did not mean it. If her blood had not come at the end of the month, she might have taken him up on the offer, but as it was, her blood came, for they had been careful and he had not spilled inside her. Still, it had been good to know she was desirable, even if she could not shake the feeling that there was a third person standing between them, a woman with dark brown hair and laughing black eyes, and Theresa could still not confidently deny that when Henry kissed her she did not imagine it was Bianca instead.

—

It took her far too long to realise that Lord Capon was in love.

—

“Henry,” she said, recognising him even in the dark. Her lantern cast strange shadows across his face, and she saw for just a moment that he had been weeping. She unslung her shield and set it down against the parapet wall of Suchdol fortress. “Henry, what’s wrong?”

“Tess, will you marry me?” he asked quietly. “If we survive this.”

“Henry, what’s brought this on?” She examined him closely. “Where’s your Lord Capon? I thought he’d be here to see you off.”

“He— I—” The words caught in his throat, and as though illuminated by a flash of lightning, Theresa knew exactly what had come to pass. It was strange, she thought; by any measure she ought to be disappointed to know that the man she loved was in love with someone else. But she had known long ago that what they shared was not the type of love that men and women typically share. Theirs was the love shared by Katherine and Žižka, the love shared between brothers-in-arms, something deeper and more lasting than common affection. She would lay down her life for him, as he would lay down his in return. But she did not love him as a woman ought to love a man.

“You love him,” she said, simply, and he bowed his head, ashamed, shoulders shaking as he wept silently. “Oh, Hal.” She stepped close and touched his cheek. “There’s no shame in it.”

“But there is,” he said. “If I told you the desires of my heart…”

She smiled a little. “What?” she asked quietly. “Do you want him to bugger you? Bend you over the nearest table and take you? Or maybe you want the reverse?”

Henry gave a wet, miserable laugh. “Something like that,” he said. “I love him, Tess.”

“I know,” she said. “He loves you. I worked that out in Maleshov.”

Henry’s eyes, as bright and blue as cornflowers, met hers. “That early?” he asked, confused. “Then why—”

“I don’t think he knew himself. Nor did you.”

“No,” said Henry. “Not until this night.” He sighed and took her hand in his, his bare fingers perfectly fitting between the fingers of her gauntlets. “Have I done wrong by you, Tess? By playing the lover as I did back in Rattay?”

She twined her fingers between his. “No more than I played you false.” She bit her lip, thinking. “That last night in Skalitz, when I didn’t come to the dance… I watched you and Bianca from over by the charcoal wagon. I thought myself jealous of Bianca, that she had won your love so easily. I am not sure now if it was only her I envied.”

“You… her?”

“Is it so strange?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. “If a man can love another man, is it so strange that a maid can love another maid? I do not think that we are so different, men and women.”

“You sound like Rosa,” Henry said, smiling a little.

“Aye,” said Theresa. “She’s a wise woman.” She looked Henry over. “Well,” she asked, nudging him with her elbow. “How was he?”

To her great delight, Henry flushed red. “Capon?”

“Who else, you ox? Was he gentle when he took your maidenhead? Did he make you scream and curl your toes?”

His flush deepened. “I— we didn’t…”

Theresa gave a sigh of disappointment. “Don’t tell me you just held hands and gazed longingly into each other’s eyes.”

“Ah, no, we didn’t,” he said. “He’s… very considerate.”

“Did you cry? You almost did with me.”

“Oh, piss off,” said Henry, but a smile began to creep across his face. “It was nice. And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

Theresa smiled back at him. “A shame.”

The smile faded from Henry’s face. “Have I damned myself?” he asked, after a heavy silence. “I know myself to be a sinner: I’ve killed and I’ve stolen. But this — this is far worse.”

“You’ve fornicated outside wedlock before,” pointed out Theresa.

“Aye. With Bianca, and then you…”

She chewed her lip for a minute, thinking. “Why is that less wicked than whatever you did with your Lord Capon?”

“Because what we did — what I want to do — is a sin so grave that even devils shun it?” His tone was lighthearted, but he was rubbing his hands nervously. She caught them in her own and turned him towards her.

“I do not believe that,” she said gently. Her mouth twisted unhappily. “I do not believe that love is a greater sin than theft, or murder, or — or rape.” She shut her eyes against the memory. Henry had saved her, she reminded herself. Henry had saved her, and she had escaped. She breathed in, filling her lungs, and exhaled slowly. “You love him,” she said. “Christ bade us to love one another. I can see no sin in it.”

“He is to wed another,” said Henry.

“That is something you will have to face on your own,” she said. “I am no priest. Besides, we may not live to see that future. Not unless you succeed tonight.”

He nodded dumbly. “Thank you, Tess,” he said quietly, pressing his forehead against hers. They remained that way until the sound of approaching footsteps broke them apart and Theresa stepped back, picking up her shield as she returned to her role as soldier.

#kingdom come deliverance #hans capon #henry of skalitz #theresa of skalitz #Bianca is the ghost that haunts Theresa as well as Henry #knight!Theresa #or more specifically: Žižka isn't about to turn down an able-bodied fighter so Theresa gets a sword and a bow #my writing

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pedrosgrogu · 1 month ago

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Born Too Late: Chapter 14

pairing/au: neighbor!joel x reader // no outbreak

Warnings: None

Summary: You agree to babysit Sarah until you move. Your summer full of love and fun from the sweet 10 year old. But all good things must come to an end, and someone is fucking heartbroken about it.

a/n: so sorry this is a) so fucking late and b) such a filler. just trying to get back into the swing and also get to the good shit :P i literally do not know what to do or where to go w this fic. like i do but don’t. anyways i graduate in a few weeks so should be able to post more frequently after. xoxoxo thanks to everyone that still reads even with my inconsistent ass updates.

ps i didnt proof bc its 12am and im exhausted sorrryyyyy in advance.

boarders: @evansyhelp

Chapter 13 - Masterlist - Chapter 15 (coming soon)

Joel stands up and walks to the kitchen, your eyes following him. The fridge door opens and a metal cap clinks onto the counter, echoing through the house. He keeps his back to you, standing against the island staring out the kitchen window into the pitch black outside.

Not a sound heard from either of you with the exception of Joel's occasional sniff.

“Joel I-”

“No” he says gently, taking a swig of his beer.

“It’s fine. She can come to the office with me, and stay in the truck or something at job sites. I'll figure it out. I always have.” He says, using his middle finger to brush the tears from underneath his eyes.

“Please let me finish.” You say, your eyes meeting his.

“I'm not moving until August, I can keep her this summer. I didn’t really plan on doing anything anyways.” I pause, taking a deep breath, taking in the weight of the energy in the room.

“Plus, that gives me time to tell her.”

Joel rounds the island in the kitchen, stopping at the edge of it. His eyes full of something, but I cant tell what.

“Yeah. That’ll work. Start next Monday? My hours are all over the place now since the weather is consistently nicer, but if there's any issues just call me. Feel free to do whatever, errands and the like.” He sighs, his voice cracking every other word.

“Sounds good Joel. See you Monday.” I say, my voice barely breaking the sound barrier. I grab my bag without looking at him and walk out the door. Knowing his tears will trigger something in you that you can’t deal with right now.

Every day this summer with Sarah has been an adventure. You guys have watched so many movies that you consider both of you film connoisseurs, you’ve gone to the zoo, the library, the waterpark. Anything you can think of to do with her. Anything to keep the normalcy you have with her for the few short months you’re with her.

The weekends have been even better. You met a nice guy named Nick at a coffeeshop downtown. He was coming out the door when you were going in and bumped into you. Spilling his iced coffee all down your shirt. You wanted to be mad but when he looked up, his piercing green eyes captivated you. And then he spoke, his voice deep and smooth, an accent from up North proving he wasn’t from around here. All that to say, you guys have been seeing each other for about 2 months now and it’s been going great. You’ve been on multiple dates and have shared many quiet nights in each other’s beds. No sex yet, you’re trying to take things slow, and he doesn’t seem to mind.

On the last day before you move, you make your way to Joels and use the key under the flowerpot to let yourself in. You never put it on your keyring. The aroma of coffee and cedar filling your sinuses, you hang your bag on the hook by the door and kick your shoes off.

“Dad she’s here!” you hear from upstairs. A pitter patter of little feet running down the stairs. Sarah runs at you, almost knocking you down.

“Today can we please please PLEASE go to the library? I finished my Boxcar Children book this weekend and need the next one from the series! I'm trying to finish before I go back to school.” She asks excitedly.

“Well, I guess since you asked SO nicely... I don’t see why not! I'm proud of you for finishing already! What was that? 3 days?” I ask, crouching beside her and pulling her close.

If there’s anyone or anything I’m going to miss, its Sarah and her hugs.

“How about some breakfast and a shower, and then you can go, okay? Library doesn’t open for another couple hours anyways.” you hear Joel say, his voice bellowing from upstairs.

“He’s right kiddo. Let’s get some food and a good shower before we go anywhere.” You guide

Sarah toward the kitchen, getting a bowl out of the cabinet and the milk from the fridge.

“So how was your weekend, aside from what sounds like some intense reading?” You ask her. Genuinely curious, as Joels truck was gone all weekend, and no one seemed to go in or out of the house.

“It was good. Dad took me to see Uncle Tommy and we went swimming and played lots of games and ate lots of ice cream.” She smiles, grabbing her bowl of cereal out from in front of me and sitting at the island.

It’s late when Joel gets home, way later than usual. The jobsite is over an hour away and Everything was all backed up today. He’s pissed. His last night to see you, to hear your voice, to drag on conversation just to keep you in his house a little longer, ruined by lazy fucks on the jobsite.

He walks in and you and Sarah are nowhere to be seen. His heart sinks, your car is at your house and the door was locked.

His feet wander up the stairs to Sarahs room, but theres no Sarah. He feels like he could puke. “Sarah?” He calls out, with no response.

“SARAH?!” He says louder, anxiety panging his voice.

He hears a noise come from his room and he runs, slamming the door open.

The bedside table light emitting a soft orange glow. Sarahs body is being swallowed by the comforter and you’re on top of them, holding her head in your arms. Both of you sound asleep. Your light snores lulling each other.

Tears pang his tired eyes. Relief and anxiety at the forefront of his emotions. Fuck. His heart tears a little at the sight, you in his bed again, cradling his baby.

He sighs, gently scooping Sarah up and taking her to her room. Placing a light kiss on her forehead as he tucks her back into her bed.

When he comes back in, you’ve grabbed his pillow and are clutching it between your arms for dear life, drool slowly pooling in the corner of it. He walks over to you, careful to move slowly and quietly. He rubs his fingers across your lips, trying to remember what they felt like on his own.

You begin to stir and his hand darts back to his side.

“Hey sweet girl” he says quietly, his voice gravely.

You stretch, your eyes fluttering open to see Joel standing beside you.

“Hey” you mutter, still trying to wake up, reaching for Sarah.

“Wheres Sar-“ you sit up, rubbing your eyes, your heart racing.

“Hey, hey. She’s alright, I just put her back in her bed.” I start to reach for your hand to help you up but decide against it. Not wanting to push the boundaries you set.

“She had a bad dream, wanted you but you weren’t home yet. I told her I'd lay with her in here and I guess we both fell asleep. Beds too damn comfortable, it forces you to sleep” You say laughing, looking at the floor.

The silence in the air thick, like the humidity on a midsummer day.

You stand up, looking at Joel for what feels like the first time in years.

“I.. I leave Sunday. But I’ll come back over and say bye before I go, if you guys will be home?” You ask, heading toward the bedroom door.

Joels eyes follow you, longingly.

“Yeah, we should be here” he says, his tone soft and meaningful, his brown eyes wet and dark.

“Okay, I’ll see you guys’ Sunday. I’ll text you before I head over.” You say, pulling the door open.

“And Joel?” you look behind you

“Hm?” he says, his eyes heavy and his voice barely audible.

“Thank you. For everything.” You say, smiling back at him, pulling the bedroom door closed behind you as you head to the front door, ready to prepare for your new chapter.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #last of us #neighbor joel x reader #neighbor joel #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #the last of us #neighbor!joel #joel x reader #daddy joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #my writing

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vasito-de-leche · 20 days ago

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;R1999 JOE - "highest of highs, lowest of lows" (2/2)

Joe x Reader 6.1k words hurt/comfort A continuation of this post. Being part of Joe's gang has its ups and downs, chaos being the closest thing you have to a stable routine, every single day full of adventures. Your friends pulled you from the rubble and into the light, you've been with them through thick and thin─and yet, as the years pass, it all grows stale. Repetitive, even. Tiring. A new era approaches. You're not strong enough to hold on and withstand the whirlwind of change, and neither is he. Even so, your faith in the dream Joe has given to all of Haight Street never wavers. You'll find a way out, together. But only if he's willing to move on.

ffffffffffffuck ai scrapers fuck that guy we must thrive and keep creating forever!!! joe undivorce is real now!!!! even if i have to lock my posts for registered users, we must thrive!!!!!! and have fun!!!!! forever!!!!! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I'd like to thank everyone in the R99 RP server and the academy for being there during the struggle of joe undivorce, this part went thru 5 or 4 different drafts. at some point it was meant to start with joe out in the rain playing i wanna know what love is on a boombox outside your window but i had to cut stuff so this part wouldnt be 10k words for no reason

Finally, Joe undivorce, sleepy time joe part 2....! as usual, this is written to be read as platonic or romantic, whatever floats your boat!

That fight weeks ago left a massive rift between the two of you, one that he was certain would simply go away with enough time and space, nothing new.

You'd eventually come crawling back, letting him back into your life with a not-so-playful smack to the head and a smile attempting to break through your angry façade, no one could stay angry forever after all, it's a matter of waiting. And Joe had no problem standing his ground until the end of time, unyielding to change and yet ready to welcome everyone back under his wing. This is the cycle he's used to; this is how he used to argue with his father, his mother and, later on, with Paulina. Whenever he had a tense conversation with Pioneer or Mercuria about the state of their community and the struggle to maintain their promises. Hell, it even happened with Becket and Hollick whenever their playful banter and bickering turned a little too honest, a little too resentful and raw with the stress of routine.

This, Joe reluctantly admits in his mind, is how he deals with everything─when push comes to shove, he burns and burns until the world around him is reduced to ashes, telling himself that he did what he had to for the greater good. There is simply no other way out, and if there were, he would've tried already. This is how things must be, the shitty hand they were all dealt with. And after that? He brushes it off, returning to that dreadful routine of friendly smiles and casual teasing, waiting for the barren land to heal in silence until someone extends an olive branch, a peace offering, a hug or pat on the back to signal the beginning of yet another cycle. He's always been the victor in these one-sided fights one way or another.

But tonight marks the seventh day of Joe's convoluted plan to beg for your forgiveness.

On the first day, he thought he could simply drop by your apartment and sort everything out, face to face, and restore the status quo before dinner─one of your neighbours threw a bucket of cold water at him after he spent an entire hour ringing your doorbell. On the second day, he made sure to call you every fifteen minutes from the restaurant, from the phonebooth across your house, from Hollick's apartment, from any available phone─the only time you picked up is when Joe intercepted the pizza delivery guy on their way to your apartment, only to have you hang up on him the second you heard his voice. The rest of the week continued to spiral, testing his perseverance and creativity for new ways to see you. Every day, the anxiety lodged in his chest would grow bit by bit.

Years of working away at the forge have made his hands as steady as death and yet, at the aftermath of each and every fight when all he can do is accept the silent treatment, Joe realizes that his heart is much too strong to ignore; impulse after impulse, every pump of blood becoming another series of words he will come to regret, every step takein the wrong direction entirely. It's only then that he realizes that he deserves every bitter look, every missed call and every second apart. Only then, when there is no one else to contend with but himself.

He's not so different from the metals under his care─the proud and stubborn iron, all instinct and zero intentions of bending to anyone else's will. And while he himself can keep repeating this cycle over and over, it's easy to forget that not everyone has the time, energy or patience to match his temper. Paulina was either the first one to fully break under the pressure of his presence, or the only one who had the courage to step away from the scorching fire and allow herself room to heal, to grow without him hindering her.

Just how long can keep on pushing until you make the same choice as her?

It makes him anxious just to think about the possibility of making the same mistakes, of letting you go so easily because of his own pride. He's ran out of options, and so he stands perfectly still in front of your door, arms crossed as he fights the urge to pace across the claustrophobic hallway. Have you even been eating well? It's one thing to avoid him, but to avoid the outside world altogether is too extreme, too upsetting. A small plastic bag hangs from his forearm, holding the leftovers from today's shift at Tang's; the tupperware inside is still warm with your favorite food.

Fuck it, he start pacing around. Heavy footsteps mix with the sound of crinkling plastic, the shuffle of the leather jacket hanging awkwardly off his shoulders, the cracking of the joints in his knuckles as Joe attempts to release some of the tension in his body. The muffled roar of engines outside and people passing by, and now, the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder, accompanied by a nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

It's something that is difficult enough to describe to other arcanists, let alone any humans─a judgemental voice that blankets over his brain like a dense fog, a feeling across his body that he can never quite pinpoint. The arcanum he's inherited from his father, which allows him to understand the voices, desires and, to an extent, thoughts of various raw materials and metals. It's an essential ability in his line of work, and yet ...

Give it up, Romeo. Today's not your lucky night.

Your fucking doorknob has the balls to give him sass everytime he comes by.

Joe pays it no mind; it has to be an alloy of sorts, perhaps zinc. Out of all metals, they're the only chatty ones with a penchant for gossip, to criticize everything around them with a condescending clink. The steel grating of the fence outside offers no comment, seeing him time and time again standing under the rain for the chance to catch a glimpse of you through the window. The rusty copper of the stairs is always polite, even when he stumbles and falls day after day climbing to your floor in a frenzy. But this damned thing loved to look down on him, the guardian to your current sanctuary. Its message reaches him loud and clear, so easy to decypher.

Are you going to apologize to them?

Joe hesitates, "I want to."

But there is a key difference between wanting and doing.

He wants to do whatever it takes to make everything go back to normal, to wake up knowing he'll see you joking around with Sputnik at Tang's, that you'll let him drive you around town when none of you have anything better to do than to waste your days away, together. He wants to say sorry, he wants to save the restaurant, he wants his friends to have honest jobs, he wants to stop fighting for scraps. All these things in so little time. But right now, he can't even get that damned door open to see you. He doesn't even know if you're home─much like a misbehaving dog, all Joe seeks is that familiar face to give him permission to come back home.

I want to see you. I want to see you so bad. I want to see you tonight even if it's the last thing I do.

Perhaps this arcane communication is a two-way street, or maybe he's allowed some of his feelings to slip through and show on his face, because the condescending ringing subsides and silence settles once more. Your doorknob shows some mercy and whispers in his mind.

They're here.

There it is. His lifeline.

Joe calls out your name, banging his fists on the door. He's done this before, not in this exact building nor hallway, but with the exact same desperation in his gestures. The thought crosses his mind for a split second as he rattles the doorknob as if he could open it through will alone.

"Listen! It's been a month already, I get that you're mad at me but, shit, can we talk? You can be as angry as you want, you can scream at me and push me around, dump all the extra work and shifts on me, call me an idiot and a meathead─whatever you wanna do to get it out of your system, I'll take it. Just open the door!" When no reply comes, Joe presses his face to the cold surface of the door, trying to hear for any movement within your apartment. Nothing. "Look, I won't judge if you've been survivin' on coffee and instant ramen, but I got some real food here to fill your stomach. You don't even have to let me inside, I just, ugh, me and the guys haven't heard a peep from ya'! C'mon, they're─I'm worried sick, I gotta know you're doin' alright! I took you for granted, alright? I know that now."

The words pour out of his mouth effortlessly after keeping them down for so long, and soon Joe finds himself shaking. Not out of sadness, but a unique type of excitement─or madness─that comes with admiting defeat; to no one's surprise, this is a brand new feeling for him, never allowing any sort of vulnerability to slip to the surface. The bag slips out of his grip and falls to the floor unceremoniously as he drags both hands across his face, feeling the uncomfortable warm, rugged leather on his skin as a way to ground himself. Once he's done, Joe reels backwards a few steps, trying to control his erratic breathing. One step back, then another, and another.

Until he feels a hand resting on the small of his back, gently keeping him at bay.

"Watch it, J. You're gonna end up squishing me if─" Your voice echoes in the hallway and Joe turns as fast as his body allows it, unsure if this tired and slightly irritated voice scolding him is just a product of his imagination. But it isn't, he sees you right there, so close to him. And in the blink of an eye, you find yourself enveloped by Joe, his arms secured around your shoulders as he leans more and more of his weight over your frame as if trying to squeeze the life out of you. "Woah! Hey, hey! Joe─fuck, J, stop! I'm gonna fall over!"

The Sun could crash into the Earth and Joe would still continue to hold you. Burying his nose in your hair, you feel that tense line of his mouth finally curve into a smile─the first one since your fight─and the vibration in his throat as he laughs, amused by the way you struggle helplessly in his grip. How could he not laugh when you're patting his shoulders, pinching his back and poking at his rubs to push him away?

"Okay, okay! I get it, whatever!" Your panic is endearing as he hoist you up effortlessly, so that your feet hover a little above the ground and you have no option but to hold on to him. "Put me down, I'm not going anywhere!"

"How do I know you're not gonna just lock me outta your apartment the second I drop you?" The tone is playful, but the question is genuine. That mocking snort of yours reminds Joe that even though he's finally caught you, there's still a long way before he can make up for that fight. And so, he curls into you once more, this time hiding his face in the crook of your neck. "Don't wanna risk it."

"Fine, do whatever you want. Like always."

For a split second, he frowns and the most immediate thought in his brain is to reply with the same amount of contempt─Fine! Maybe he will! Maybe he should just drag you over to Tang's and sit you down at the office until both of you get so tired of arguing that there'll be no other option but to forgive each other─but he doesn't. Joe catches himself. It takes a moment to swallow his pride, but his grip on you weakens and soon enough, you're back on your feet.

Unbeknownst to Joe, a shiver runs through you, instantly missing his warmth; you curse his stupid arcane skill, his stupid furnace of a body and his stupid sad eyes, tugging at your heartstrings. The cold is not the only thing creeping around─an awkward atmosphere settles as all action comes to a halt. When faced with the real deal, neither of you know what to do, nor how to begin. As a man of simplicity, Joe prepares to apologize as soon as possible, until he notices the brown paper bags settled at your feet.

You follow his line of sight and add, "I went grocery shopping. The uh," there is a small pause as you find the proper words. It's not like you owe him anything, let alone the truth. "I ran out of food. So I went and got some."

He tries to peek inside the bag, and you move the bag away with a gentle sweep of your leg, but it's too late. You know he's seen it, judging by the way Joe crosses his arms with a smug attitude that he simply cannot repress. "Instant ramen."

"Instant ramen." You repeat, internally boiling at the fact that he could read you so well despite this month of silence. It's not weird at all, considering the years you two have spent together, but it still hurts your own pride, if only a little. "What about it?"

It's almost too easy to fall back into the usual banter and the flow of conversation as if nothing happened, but Joe taps at his chin as he looks away. He was never any good at acting. "Nothin'! Nothing wrong with that, just wonderin' how you haven't gotten tired of it yet."

"You're not here to give me cooking tips, Joe." There's a defiant tone in your voice that keeps getting to him. Have you always had this effect on him?

"... What if I am? Is that enough to let me into your apartment and make sure we're cool?" The pause between his words and your reply extends to a worrying degree, Joe feels dizzy waiting for the worst to happen.

Instead, you offer your own olive branch.

"It's late. So you can sleep over, if you want."

You make a bee-line for the kitchen to put your groceries away, leaving him without a single word. The second he realizes he’s standing in your apartment, Joe can’t help but feel out of place; he’s been here plenty of times, he’s crashed on your sofa as many times as he’s crashed his bike, but this is the one and only time he’s felt unwelcomed. No, that isn’t right─this is the first time he’s felt …

Like he doesn’t have the right to intrude in your life.

If he looks closely, he can spot the off-colored patch on the wall from the time Hollick punched a hole through during one of the many movie marathons you hosted, back when Paulina and Tang were still around, and everyone else had more time to waste during those lazy afternoons. A horror movie whose title he can't recall, but the memory of everyone's loud screams during a particularly scary scene plays in his head vividly. There's innocuous and superficial scratches in various places, which he recognizes as Becket's habit of fidgeting around with that butterfly knife he earned during a fight in the ring. He does this often everywhere he goes; if one were to look around the restaurant, they'd immediately find out about Becket's favorite spots just by finding these marks. There's also a few gifts from Mercuria, plants, herbs and incense to remedy whatever ails you. Joe can never remember the purpose of each and every bundle, let alone understand the intricacies of meditation and purification, yet he trusts Mercuria to look out for everyone else's health.

Soon, those bright blue eyes are drawn to a curious sight. There is a wall in your apartment full of photos, polaroids of all shapes and sizes, decorated in a myriad of ways to showcase all your adventures in Haight Street with all of the friends you've made. It's easy for him to recognize each and every face given his own connections with the community, but someone is missing. He is missing from the wall, there is an obvious empty spot where his picture with you should be. His heart sinks a little at this.

Before Joe realizes, he's already calling out your name once again. "Hey, what happened to our picture? The one that was just the two of us."

Peeking his head through the door, he looks for you in that poor excuse of a kitchen, one he can barely fit in without knocking something over. You're holding two mugs in your hands; on the right, he sees your favorite, the one with that pattern he finds horrendous, and on the left, you're holding his favorite mug with the logo that you hate. You usher him out into the living room, silently gesturing for him to stop trying to help carry the warm drinks.

"I took it off the wall." Joe grimaces, and you roll your eyes as you sit on the sofa, scooting over to the side to make space for him. "I didn't rip it apart or draw over your face, if that's what you're worried about."

Oh, thank God.

"It's the only good picture we got, you gotta treasure it." The reply he receives is a noncommital hum, and he knows better than to push it.

The plush cushions cave under his weight as he sits down, making you bounce a little on your own side of the couch, shifting you a little closer to him so that your knee touches his. And while you refuse to meet his eyes, you still allow this moment of closeness. If you lose focus, if you get a little too comfortable in his presence, you know that your body will end up tangled up with his in a mess of limbs as if nothing happened, too used to the casual physical touch Joe shares with those close to him. All the hugs, all the manhandling, all the hair ruffling and playful headlocks. You bite your lip, saddened by the bittersweet tint coating all of these memories. What to say now? How to bring up the elephant in the room?

"Eugh," Joe suddenly blows a raspberry, tongue sticking out in mild disgust. He sets down the cup on the table. "Too sweet for me."

"Oh. Wait, that's mine. Sorry, must've─" You reach out to switch the drinks, but he slides it to the side just out of your reach. A shit-eating grin is plastered all over his face, a knowing grin that twists your insides into a knot. "Huh?"

This faux pas of yours proves to be the perfect opening for his usual antics. Joe leans closer to you, tilting his head towards the mug in your hands; it's your favorite color, with a simple drawing of your favorite animal scattered about. He always loves to poke fun at you for it, calling you childish and immature to see that angry pout in your face. "That one's mine, then?" You nod and he chuckles.

"Dude, what is it?"

"It's not like you to overlook small details, y'know? Got the keenest eye in all of Haight Street. Hell, you can spot a liar from a mile away." One of his fingers traces the rim of the mug in front of him, that sweet drink made just to your liking, feeling every little chip and crevice, a well-loved mug meant for him. It's colored in bright orange with a big, bold font reading 'Too Hot for You' and a small drawing of a steaming cup of coffee. You hate this mug with a passion, and yet you've always taken care of it for him. "Guess you missed me as much as I missed you."

He should've noticed before; you had been using his mug in his absence, you covered his face in every single picture in your house, you were wearing one of his old shirts that he forgot at your place and never bothered asking for again, the faint music coming from the radio in your kitchen is playing one of his favorite stations... It puts Joe's heart at ease to know that he's been on your mind as much as you've been on his these past few weeks. You weren't packing your bags to leave everything behind, you missed him out of all people. He's always been dense, but now that he's taking his time paying attention to you and all the color you add to his life, he finds it difficult to stop himself from smiling.

"Now, aren't you getting ahead of yourself? I wasn't the one who showed up at three in the morning half-drunk, holding up a boombox to play love songs until the neighbours called the cops, was I?"

"Those are some big words for someone who hid around the market stalls, thinking I wouldn't see their little face peek out from the apples and oranges."

"They were bananas." You correct him. "But what about you today, huh? Did you know I was here or were you just hoping that I was just to listen to that little speech?"

"If I tell you, it'll take away all the mystery."

"Joe."

"Okay, okay, fine! Your doorknob ratted ya' out."

“My fucking doorknob ?” He has to stop himself from bursting out laughing at your expression. All he can do is nod as you curse his arcanist heritage; even though it wasn’t as flashy as others’, it still came in handy to hear the voices of metals. “I hate that arcanum of yours─what’s next, my toaster?”

Joe watches as you sink back into the sofa, groaning into your palms. With the awkward tension from before gone, there’s no need to walk on eggshells anymore; he leans backwards as well, finding a comfortable position to lay on his side. After a minute or so, you’re done with your little temper tantrum and tilt your head to meet his eyes for the first time─he smiles and rests his hand on the empty space between your bodies, atop the plush cushions with his palm open, as if asking you for something.

"Just so you know, the little guy put up quite the fight. I don't think it likes me."

“Alright, fine. You said you wanted to make sure we’re cool, so out with it then. I’m all ears.” Your tone is not quite as light nor playful as he hoped, but not as severe either. He feels safe enough to laugh it off. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your own hand approaching his, clenched into a fist but still nearby.

"Where do I even start?" A strained chuckle comes out of him. There is something daunting about meeting your eyes as he delivers yet another speech─hopefully one less rushed and emotional than the one before─and so, Joe opts to look anywhere else; the curve of your lips and your jaw. His gaze moves lower to your neck and collarbone. The way your body folds and squishes as it presses against the couch, as if you were listening to a bedtime story. Your undivided attention, he decides, is daunting. He feels a tug, it's your pointer finger intertwined with his own, encouraging him, and this allows him to continue. "With ... sorry, I guess? I mean, first day I dropped by, I was ready to pick up where we left off and argue a lil' bit more before making up. Doesn't matter now, though. But ... realizing I didn't know how you were holdin' up in here was the worst. I assumed you'd be right there, face smushed against the window, makin' faces at me, cursin' me to hell and back. Maybe even hoping I'd mess up a few orders at Tang's."

Your nimble fingers mess with the cuff of his gloves as you speak, undoing the buttons and sliding the piece of fabric off. Compared to his own skin, yours is so much colder. On instinct, the moment you’re within reach, he takes a hold of your hand, if only to warm you up a little. When you scoot a little closer, his breath is caught up in his throat. "You got one thing right at least; I did cheer when I saw you drop that coffee all over that poor guy. And then ... I got mad, you kept getting all the orders wrong.

“You could’ve just dropped by for your shift.”

“You could’ve just gotten better at waiting tables.”

“Hey, I did get better! It was a stressful week without you around, alright?” When your grip on him tightens, Joe raises your hand up to his face, if only to nuzzle his cheek alongside your skin. Once, twice. In soothing circles. This time, you’re the one staring in quiet wonder, not daring to make a noise and break the moment. Chapped lips press against your knuckles, one by one, as he holds onto you like his life depends on it.

"Don't even remember when it happened, but I was miserable in bed. Didn't feel like going out, didn't feel like doing anything at all─what's the point if the crew wasn't together? I thought about what you said, the shit I said. We were way over the line, man. That's not how I wanna talk to you guys."

"That's how you always talked to us, J." A deep cut, you weren't holding back any punches today. "Took you long to realize, but I'm glad you got there in the end."

"Ugh. My mom raised me to be better than that. It's just ... it just comes out, no warning. The second it's out of my hands, it's as if ... Ah, hell." He draws circles on your skin with his thumb, trying to calm himself down. "It's like ... If I don't have a good grasp back at the forge, if my hand slips or trembles, if I lose focus for one second, it's over. Except it's not so bad in the forge, all I get is a little scare or a little burn, but out there? Someone else gets hurt 'cause of me. Someone goes missing c'ause of me. And that scares the crap outta me."

For once, he tilts his head to look at you with a furrowed brow. The unspoken words linger in the air─What if it was you, what if it was Mercuria, or Pioneer. Or Becket and Hollick. Or any of the orphaned kids that depend on him for a single meal a day, or the homeless that so easily get swept under the rug in a system that wants nothing to do with them? The fact that he's still insisting on being the one to carry all of Haight Street on his back is frustrating, but you choose to let him finish. It's rare enough to see Joe admit he's scared of something, even rarer to see him talk at length about what goes on behind that heroic façade.

"It's fine if you guys get angry at me, it's easier to deal with than have any of y'all elbows deep into trouble with the cops or the Chamber of Commerce. 'Cause we're all a family, yeah? Family's argue all the time, doesn't mean they care any less about each other. I mean, you still know I care a lot, right? Even after our fight?"

How can you answer that? How can you find the words to let him know that no, you don't know. You didn't know. That you don't think families should argue like this on the daily, that whatever happened that day was an unfortunate accident of built up, pent up stress, but still something that left you wondering night after night if you would ever feel the same as before, going about your day while knowing how little regard Joe had for you. Right now, you're contending with almost two decades worth of experiences that shaped Joe into the man he is today, all the things he had to learn on his own against your own life lessons and your own experience. Noticing the contrast between the two of you is fun when it's about the little things; you run cold, he runs hot. He prefers salty, you prefer sweet. You're the brains, he's the muscle. But inspecting the fundamental differences this close makes you freeze in place.

Fear seizes your heart─what if this is the reason you two never see eye to eye, what if this is what eventually breaks the bond you share? So incompatible, too alien to understand one another and find common ground.

Joe squeezes your hand. Your palm rests so nicely in his, your fingers resting in the space between his, pressing against pronounced knuckles and veins. The hands that have held you time and time again with no hesitation at all.

"C'mon, don't leave me hanging. Say something, please?"

You know he's not lying, because you can feel the thin coat of sweat on his skin; Joe's hands get clammy when he gets nervous, but no one notices because he's usually always sweating, either from running errands or being locked in his personal sanctuary, fighting fire and brimstone. You look at him through brand new lenses, as if this were the first time you truly saw him.

"I ..." You swallow the lump formed in your throat. He's been honest, he's here to make amends. It's only fair that you meet him halfway with your own honesty. "You keep saying that you never mean the things you say when we fight, but I do. It was fucked up to bring up Polly─Paulina─but you wouldn't have listened to me if I hadn't! It's─fuck, it's ... You can't say that you care, and then turn around and say all that shit to us─to me─every time thing's go bad. Maybe you can brush it off, but I can't! I don't care if I get angry at some rich suit waltzing into the restaurant, they mean nothing to me. But you?! I don't want to be angry at you all the time. You'd rather hurt us yourself than let something or someone else do that? How is that fair for anyone?!"

It takes you a moment to realize that you're sitting as upright as your body allows it, driven by the tension in your muscles. Joe has let go of your hand at some point, you don't know when, but now, he reaches towards you once more. It takes you another moment to realize he's gently wiping away the hot, angry tears running down your face. Months of feelings are catching up to you now, and now that you know you're crying, it's hard to stop the broken sobs and the sniffling and the aggressive wiping, a futile attempt at trying to keep your face dry. Joe doesn't wait. He hugs you; one arm craddling your head, gently petting you, while the other supports your waist as you reluctantly find a comfortable position.

"I'm sorry, I'm a big, dumb and dense idiot, huh?" a gravelly voice reaches your ears. The way Joe attempts to stand strong for you, to continue those habits of his even as his voice trembles just as much as yours doesn't go unnoticed.

"And stubborn," you manage to croak out in-between hiccups.

"A big, dumb, dense and stubborn idiot." He repeats softly.

"Don't you fucking dare patronize me now, J." The threatening tone in your voice is drowned out by your tears and sobs, but it still earns a solemn nod from him. This is new. "I'm serious. You have to take me and everyone else seriously, instead of running off to do it all yourself!"

"R-right. Yeah, okay. I'll─"

Your head shoots up from its hiding place safely tucked under his chin. "Promise me, J. You say you wanna do better, then start with this. The next time you feel the itch to start a fight with us over something stupid, just talk to me─hell, talk to anyone you want. Just don't go do it all on your own. Promise."

"...One condition; you promise me you'll never run out on me like that ever again. No silent treatment, no avoiding each other for weeks. Tell me to fuck off if you have to, kick me out of the room, but don't cut me out of your life like that without a warning." Joe pauses as he searches for something in your eyes, a hint of helplessness that you've never seen before across his features. "Please."

This is a compromise both of you are willing to take. Resting your forehead against his, you close your eyes and take a deep breath to bask in a quiet moment of understanding─this is how it should be, a fight followed by a reconciliation, a catharsis, a proper ending to know take the next step on the same page. For a moment, you feel his stare and a hint of nervousness as Joe treads through unknown waters, but then he closes his eyes as well.

"Deal." You say.

"Good." Slowly, with you still in his arms, Joe leans backwards until he's laying on the lousy, creaking sofa with you secured atop of him.

His leather jacket lays forgotten on the floor, as do the two mugs by the table, cold and stale. Sirens blare outside on the streets, dealing with the aftermath of parties and bar fights, and cars keep going back and forth the road. But neither of you could care less about such details. All you can concentrate now is the pleasing and gentle movement of Joe's chest as it rises and falls with each and every breath, your head resting gently on top, hearing the tempo of his heartbeat slow down little by little. And all Joe can concentrate now is your weight on him, your full presence after weeks of solitude. Your hair tickles him here and there, and your legs move about restlessly, bumping against his own sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose as a warning to stop taking up so much space.

"Did you do anything about the restaurant while I was gone? We still need funds." Your voice suddenly breaks up the silence, and Joe follows with a long groan. Part of you brings it up just to test the waters, to start yet another playful back and forth. It's hardly an appropriate time to ask him of any serious business, after all. You too want to bask in his company. "You didn't, did you?"

"And you say that I'm stubborn?" At this, you pinch his cheeks and pull hard enough to sting, just a little. "I did! I did, ow! Pioneer's got us covered. But if you wanna talk business, you'll have to come to work tomorrow with me, let everyone know we're back together and stronger than ever, yeah? Tonight we chill, we've earned it."

His joy is palpable and a little suffocating as he squeezes you as tightly as he can. You can feel him press a gentle kiss to the top of your head. How can he not want to squish you until you pop? When you least expect it, Joe shifts to his side, trapping you between his frame and the backrest of the sofa. In such a reduced space, you have no option but to wrap your arms around his waist, looking up at him with feigned indignation.

"You know I have a perfectly decent bed, right? We can just sleep there."

"And let you kick me while you sleep?" Joe yawns, exhaustion catching up to him. "Nah, this is much better."

"And If I have to get up to drink or go to the bathroom?"

"Can't hear you. I'm sleepin' now. And you should too."

You chuckle and move to kiss his chin, then his neck, feeling the bob of his Adam's apple. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his mouth turn into a fine line, resisting the urge to indulge you and keep bothering each other until the sun rises, but you're already satisfied. All that's left is closing your eyes and allow his breathing to lull you to sleep.

"Night, pipsqueak."

"Night, dummy."

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #r1999 #reverse 1999 x reader #reverse 1999 joe #joe #why is it so long? bc i needed to explore my characterization of him for no reason other than i felt like it

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