#and when i went to copy and paste it here it only copied like half of it

[shroommush]

Mr Cicle & Robert oneshot

Hey!! Its finally done!! And just in time before i leave on a cruise for a week! I started this like a month ago, so im very happy to see it finished.

As always, this little fic is based off of two characters, Robert and Mr Cicle from Paradoxcicle by @blipple-is-confused on ao3. None of this is canon to that fic and ive added a lot of my own headcanons around, especially when it comes to character backstories, so just keep that in mind.

This is set during the events of chapter 27 and onward, and the word count is 13,308 (i put way too much effort into this)

Warning for: descriptions of gore and lots of death (only mentioned in talking, none actually happens) and general angst

I hope you enjoy this mostly angsty, kinda wholesome attempt at making my two favourite characters bond.

~~~

Robert stared down the basement stairs silently.

After spending some time in the kitchen with Exterminator, Robert had gone to see where Quackity and some of the others had ran off to. Last anyone heard, they'd gone down to the basement.

And so, he found the basement door and stared down its long winding stairs wearily. He felt an unusually cold gust of air blow over him as he stood there, and he couldnt help but get the feeling there was something in that basement he wouldnt like.

It wasnt helping that his cameras exposure was so bad he could barely see half way down the stairs before it was just pitch black.

Well wasnt that great. He was gonna have to go down there to find quackity, wasnt he?

He leaned a little further through the doorway to get a better look- subconciously loosening his grip on his camera by just a bit.

It was then when Mr Cicle came turning the corner, peeking over Roberts shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Robert squinted at the darkness, his cameras lens zooming, still not having noticed the man behind him.

Mr Cicle paused, grinning at Robert as he stared down the stairs, unaware of his suroundings. He raised his hands, gently crept them onto Roberts shoulders and whispered- as hauntingly as possible- "Boo!"

"AGAHAAA!!!" Robert shrieked, his heart dropping as he felt the camera slip out of his grip and go tumbling down the stairs, into the darkness.

"GAH- NO no no no!!" He cried, watching the light at the top of the stairs get farther and farther away, flinching every time the camera hit something. "Not like this!" He gripped the sides of his head like it'd do anything to stabalize his vision.

Was he gonna die? Reset? All because he dropped his camera down a flight of stairs? It sure seemed like it. But he stood there in horror as he felt his stomach go queezy from the motion of the camera flailing, tumbling, and smashing into every stair imaginable.

Until finally, it came to the bottom of the stairs, hitting the basement concrete with a clack and falling onto its side pathetically.

Robert could see himself at the top of the stairs standing beside Mr Cicle, the two of them illuminated from behind. He stared wide eyed and devestated.

He could hear Mr Cicle make a whincing noise and felt him awkwardly pat him on the shoulder, making him flinch.

"Thats my fault, Robert.." he muttered. Robert could see him rub the back of his neck, grimacing down at the camera. "Sorry."

Robert stuttered, stumbling a bit to stand properly with his newly inverted vision. "I-its fine! Dont- dont worry about it." He spat out quickly. "Just- uugh shoot-..." he paused, pushing his lips together in thought. "Could you... help me down the stairs to get it..?" He asked Mr Cicle hesitantly.

Robert could see Mr Cicle turn to look at him, a curious but confused look on his face.

"..uh, sure?" He agreed.

Robert sighed, reaching out a hand for Mr Cicle to guide him. "Sorry its just, really dark. Cant see much." He lied.

Robert took a deep breath. This sucked. So much. This sucked so, so much. But.. he sighed. At least he could still sort of see himself. Losing his camera is never a good thing, but most of the time, as long as its still in close proximity, he's usually able to remotely guide himself until he finds it again.

With Mr Cicle here, though.. it couldnt hurt to get a little extra assistance. Yknow, his visions still completely out of wack, so on his own he could misplace his foot and go tumbling down the stairs. Which wouldnt be fun! But with Mr Cicle guiding him, that possibility's at least a little less likely to happen.

At least he hoped. Mr Cicle gladly took Roberts hand and began taking the first steps down the stairs. Robert grabbed at the walls for support, his legs shaking as he gently reached his foot out to find the next step down. He took a sharp breath each time he put his weight down, the image of him losing his balance and falling face first into the wood playing on repeat in his minds eye.

It wasnt going great so far. But after a moment of awkward silence, he began feeling Mr Cicles eyes on him.

Robert couldnt get a good look of Mr Cicles face through the camera. The two of them were too far away, so their faces were basically just jumbles of colorful pixels. And even worse, Mr Cicle had bright green glasses that completely stopped him from seeing the mans eyes.

But despite all that, he knew he was looking at him.

Maybe it was the fact that he couldnt go down the stairs on his own and was acting like a blind man- even though he technically was. He honestly doubted he was legally allowed to drive at this point.

Or maybe he had made it too obvious that his visions trapped on that camera screen. Most normal people wouldnt shut their eyes and grab for something to steady themsleves after dropping a camera.

Robert grumbled to himself. This was just going great.

Eventually, the two of them made it to the middle of the stairs. It was a lot darker here, and now it seemed like even Mr Cicle was struggling to see.

"Man.. is there a light down here?" The game show host muttered to himself. Even for Robert, it was starting to get kind of hard to see himself in the dark.

Robert hummed, hesitantly putting his foot down on the next step. "There has to be, right?" He added. "I mean.. Quackity and some others went down here, they wouldnt be walking around in pitch darkness, would they?" He suggested.

"Yeah..." Mr Cicle trailed off. "They wouldnt."

Robert flinched and stopped moving as his vision shifted.

Mr Cicle paused and looked at him, confused. "You okay?"

It was then that a faint blue light appeared at the bottom of the stairs, an icy chill running down the twos spines. Mr Cicle slowly turned his head to look at what it was, and was met with a ghostly figure, floating at the bottom of the stairs.

The ghost picked up Roberts camera, turning it around and inspecting it curiously. He had a christmas hat on, the pompom end flopping around his head with randomly flowy motions.

It hummed and grinned to itself, both of the men on the stairs stunned silent.

The ghost glanced up at them and Mr Cicle flinched, Robert grabbing the sides of the stairs harder to keep himself from getting too dizzy.

"Oh, well isnt this an interesting little piece of tech!" The ghost- which looked uncannily similiar to Charlie (it was probably just another one of his characters) spoke, flipping the camera to face himself and smiling again, showing his teeth more. "This belong to you?" He asked.

Robert grimaced at the ghostly sight, instinctually moving his head back to get out of the ghosts face. It did nothing, and he felt stupid.

"Uh- yeah! That belongs to Robert here!" Mr Cicle called out. "Would you be so kind as to return it to him?" He requested, gaining a mischevious look from the ghost.

"Hmmm..." the ghost hummed, performatively stroking his chin and looking at the camera contemplatively. "I could..." he muttered.

A grin crept onto his face.

"...or" he continued. "I could use it to record the next episode of the podcast." He spoke with a grin that showed he was all to proud of himself for coming up with that.

Mr Cicle paused, furrowing his brows and reaching out a hand as if to stop that idea in its tracks. "Uh- no, I dont think you can use that for your podcast, or, whatever it is.." he tried to explain, watching the ghost shoo his hand at him and roll his eyes.

"Why? you dont like sharing?" The ghost asked half heartily.

"W-well no, cause.." Mr Cicle paused. "Uhmm.. well it doesnt belong to you!" He reasoned.

"Okay." The ghost shrugged. "Can I ask the owner for permission to use it?" He asked monotonely.

"Uuh.." Mr Cycle paused, looking over at Robert with a hesitant glance. "I dont know, Robert. Can this man use your camera for a podcast??" He asked.

"No!" Robert exclaimed. "Absolutely not! I need that camera! A-and- it doesnt even work like that, you couldnt properly record anything on there!" He frantically tried reasoning.

"Well, then why do you use it?" The ghost asked with a raised eyebrow. "If its so broken, im sure you wouldnt mind me taking it off your hands." He spoke with a shrug.

Robert cursed under his breath. Why did he say that?? Of course he had to say it was broken, now the ghost will never give it back.

Even Mr Cicle seemed confused by this, looking at Robert and tilting his head. "Wait, yeah... if your cameras broken why are you always recording with it..?" He asked.

"T-that doesnt matter!" Robert tried to distract the two. "Just- give me my camera back! Please!" He pleaded.

"Mmm nope! This is mine now!" The ghost laughed. "If you want it back, you better come get it!" He taunted, turning and zipping out of view.

Robert groaned. "NO! Uughh.." He put a hand up to grab at his hair, shutting his eyes as the vision from his camera turned and moved out of synch with his body. He was starting to feel really motion sick, and it was only getting worse.

Mr Cicle reached out to try and help steady Robert, a look of concern on his face. "Woah- woah! Hey, Robert, you okay??" He asked.

"Im fine! Im fine.." he grumbled. "Can you please go get my camera!" He pleaded.

Mr Cicle paused, looking between Robert and the bottom of the stairs for a moment. Then, he turned to Robert and nodded. "Okay- i'll get it, dont worry." He spoke, turning and dashing down the stairs after the ghost.

"Hey! Come back!" Robert could hear him run off into the basement, his voice getting quieter as he got farther away.

Robert sighed, leaning against the wall as he tried to ignore what was going on in his vision. He took a deep breath, tuning into the sounds around him to try and stay grounded with his body.

He listened to the creaking of the stairs beneath him, the way they felt unstable under his feet. Running his hands along the wall behind him, he tried to visualize where he was standing right now.

He was stood in the middle of the stairs.. leaned against the left wall...

..he could hear some noise from down the stairs..?

He paused, turning to listen for what he had heard. Was that talking? It didnt sound like Mr Cicle. Who was it?

He stood completely still for a while just trying to figure out what it was that he heard. Until it got closer. And slowly he started to realise that people were coming up the stairs.

"Yeah, I dont know what was up with him, man.. I- oh. Robert?" One of the voices spoke, calling out to him.

Robert cleared his throat, leaned against the wall as casually as possible, and turned his head to smile in the direction he'd heard the voices. "Oh, hey guys!" His foot slipped slightly as he tried to lean against the wall, but he managed to catch himself and somewhat keep the pose.

He felt the stairs settle a bit, and he assumed this meant the people coming up them had stopped walking for a second.

"Hey! What are you doing down here?" The voice that had called to him came closer.

"Oh im just- ugh-" Robert stuttered as he felt the stairs shift again, shoving himself back against the wall as it felt like a few people walked past him up the stairs.

A person stumbled a bit and accidentally walked into him.

"Oh, sorry Robert from the backrooms!" The person called, continueing up the stairs again after patting him on the shoulder.

Robert shivered at the slimy texture, reaching up to wipe it off his jacket before pausing. "..from the.. what? Wait what are the backrooms..?" He muttered, following the movement of the stairs shifting with his head, waiting for an answer.

There was no answer, so he turned back to face the other voices, still confused. "Um.. okay, well.. you guys wouldnt have happened to see a.. ghost.. down there, would you?" He asked.

"Oh, boy.. yeah we did." A voice from farther down called out.

"Ough.. yeah.." the voice closest to Robert grumbled. "He forced us to sit in a podcast with him.. I do not reccomend it."

A voice slightly farther than the previous one made a noise of agreement. "Yup. He literally possessed me.. " they shivered. "Stay clear of him if you can." They advised before continueing up the stairs past Robert.

Robert hummed, taking the suggestion into consideration. "Okay... " he nodded. "Well.. he kind of stole my camera, though.. so that might be a bit hard.." he sighed.

"He did?" The voice closest to him asked, and he felt the stairs shift as they came closer to stand beside him. "You mean, like.. the camera you see out of..?" They whispered the last bit, sounding a bit more concerned now.

Robert hesitated. "Um. Yeah..? Wait how do you know that?" He asked anxiously, reaching a hand out to try and find who he was talking to, only to meet something sharp and electric that caused him to pull his hand away fearfully.

"Woah! Okay- dont touch that." The person quickly warned, grabbing Roberts hands gently to keep them from touching anything dangerous. "Its me! Backflippo! I know about your camera thing because i was there when we met you. Do you remember?" He explained hopefully.

Robert wiggled his fingers in backflippos hands, trying to get a feel for where they were but also because he felt awkward with him holding them like that. "Um, yeah, I remember." He nodded. "You have that.. green electric stuff on your shoulder. Im assuming thats what I touched a second ago?"

"Yep.." Backflippo sighed. "Sorry about that, its usually pretty under control.. " he added, sounding a bit defeated. "But- so.. you cant see me right now, right?" He asked.

Robert blinked, noting the fact that right now all he saw was the semi-transparent face of a ghost smiling at his camera. "No. I cant see you." He confirmed.

"Okay, what can you see?" Backflippo asked.

"Uh.." Robert hummed. "The ghost that stole my camera? Dark basement?" He shrugged.

"Okay, that sounds.. dissorienting." Backflippo muttered.

"Tell me about it..." Robert grumbled.

He flinched as he felt the stairs under him shift again, and what he assumed was someone else coming up beside them.

"Hey so, whats going on right now?" The voice asked, and Robert recoiled at the sound of slime moving and dripping right beside him.

Backflippo shifted, Robert assumed he turned to look at the other person. "Oh, I'm just gonna see if I can help Robert get his camera back." He explained.

"Oh- uh, actually." Robert interrupted. "I got Mr Cicle to go get it, you dont- you dont have to go get it for me." He assured Backflippo.

"That weird show host guy? You sent him?" The second voice asked.

"Yes?" Robert answered. "What makes you think he isnt capable?" He asked. "Also, who even are you? I thought the slime guy went upstairs already?"

Robert reached out hesitantly and tried to find whoever it was he was talking to. He grimaced as he felt his hand touch more slime, taking it back and wiping it off on his jacket with a disgusted look on his face.

The voice snickered. "Hey man, keep your hands to yourself! You dont know if I bite or not." They laughed to themselves, which only made Robert more repulsed.

"Ugh okay.." Backflippo spoke up. "Robert, this is Slimecicle. The other guy was just Slime. Theyre both.. made of the same stuff, but theyre very different." He explained.

"Uh, yeah? That other guy is like the exact opposite of me. He doesnt even hide in people's shoes for fun!" He huffed, garnering confused silence from both Robert and Backflippo.

Backflippo took a slow awkward breath and placed one of his hands on Roberts right shoulder. "..okay... well, about your camera." He began. "Are you sure I shouldnt go looking for it anyways? I mean, Mr Cicle doesnt know about your vision thing, does he?" He asked.

Robert sighed. "No, he doesnt.." he muttered, gaining a considerate hum from Backflippo. "..but, I was probably gonna let him know about that once he'd gotten back. I'd feel bad not telling him after this.." he admitted.

"Oh, and he saw me freak out when I dropped my camera, so if I dont explain what was going on, he's just gonna think I was acting crazy." He spoke with an awkward chuckle.

"Ah, fair.." Backflippo sighed. "Okay, well.. we've got a vampire to catch, so we should go." He spoke, gently patting Robert on his shoulder. "Will you be alright here on your own?"

Robert nodded. "Yeah, I think so. Im mostly just standing around waiting for Mr Cicle to come back, so as long as I stand right here, I'll be fine." He smiled, trying to reasure Backflippo.

Backflippo made a noise of hesitation, but sighed anyways. "Alright.. we'll be upstairs. If you need help anytime, just yell." He patted Roberts shoulder again and slowly began walking up the stairs.

Robert smiled and waved them goodbye, listening to the creaking of the stairs get higher and higher as he walked off. He heard Slimecicle snicker closer by and felt a tap on his nose that made him flinch.

"See you later, Rob." Simecicle chuckled. Robert listened as he turned and walked up the stairs behind Backflippo, and slowly dissapeared from his senses.

Robert sighed, silence filling his suroundings again. He didnt like being alone now. But, it would be fine. He reassured himself Mr Cicle would get his camera soon.

He took a deep breath. He was gonna be fine.

~

Well this was going great.

Mr Cicle stared into the pitch black room he'd followed the ghost to. He couldnt see a thing, and he was supposed to go in there to find Roberts camera?

Well great. Just great. He reasured himself it would be fine. Walking into a pitch black room with a ghost he couldnt see, yeah this was fine.

"Ookay..." he huffed, taking a deep breath, pumping out his chest, and taking a shaky step inside. He looked over his shoulder at the small bit of light from the stairs and watched as it was slowly obscured by the door frame.

He sighed, turning to face the darkness again. He jumped as the door slammed shut behind him.

Mr Cicle spun around to face the door, noting how all possible light coming into the room was now completely gone.

He stared wide eyed into the darkness. "U-uhm." He gulped. "Okay.. cool. Awsome. This is great." He spoke to himself. "I love.. the darkness."

Mr Cicle cleared his throat as he slowly started creeping deeper into the room.

"..hello ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to.. the void." He muttered. "I'll be your host, Mr scared." He recited to himself, like saying those familiar lines- all be it a little humorized- would help him be less frightened. He kept walking, speaking more to keep himself grounded.

"I know the maze has a lot of different traps, but 'The Hall of Eternal Darkness' is not one of them." He huffed to himself.

He heard a ghostly chuckle echoe behind him. Spinning around frantically, he saw nothing.

He took a shaky breath, slowly backing away from the noise and continueing slowly in the direction he'd been going.

"Okay.. you want to be scary? Be scary!" He huffed, continueing to step backwards. "I've seen things you cant imagine. Nothing can scare me anymore." He threatened, slowly feeling a shiver run down his spine as he stepped into something cold from behind.

Mr Cicle stopped, standing frozen still as an icy breath could be felt on the back of his neck. He gulped as the room slowly lit up a blue hue, the light coming from something right behind him.

He shut his eyes in resignation as he heard that same chuckle from behind him this time.

A blue semi-transparent face peeked over his shoulder. "Boo." It grinned.

Mr Cicle shivered. He turned and looked hesitantly into the ghosts eyes. "Oh, there you are.." he sighed shakily.

The ghost glared at him for a moment.

"Really?" He droned. "Really! Not even a jump? A flinch??" He gaped. "I do all that work to build up the suspense, and all you say is 'oh THERE you are' EUGHH." He gagged, turning and pouting to himself in the dark.

Mr Cicle hesitated, turning and raising an eyebrow at the ghost, confused. "I.. I mean, yeah?" He shrugged, flinching as the ghost turned to glare at him again. "All you said was 'boo.'" He blinked. "I feel like you were the one who ruined the suspense."

The ghost looked at Mr Cicle and rolled its eyes. "Okay.." it paused. "..fair."

"Well- look." Mr Cicle sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to calm his hastily beating heart. "Where's the camera?" He asked.

"Why do you care." The ghost droned.

"Because it belongs to my friend." He grumbled. "And you cant just take things because you want them, thats rude." He reasoned, taking a step closer to the spectre.

The ghost scoffed. "Oh you wanna know what's rude??" It asked rhetorically. "Blowing up your best friend because they decide to leave your podcast!!" He cried. "Like who does that??" There was a slight crack in his voice.

Mr Cicle blinked, going silent for a moment.

The ghost looked away indignently, and Mr Cicle got the feeling the ghost wasnt talking about him.

"Uh.. wow..." Mr Cicle mumbled. "..that is kinda messed up.." He hummed, scratching his chin.

"Right??" The ghost cried. "Augh- you get it! You know- my friends did that exact thing!" He gasped, pointing his finger at Mr Cicle as to punctuate his statement. "I was all like 'hey guys, ive got a lot on my plate right now, i think im gonna go!' And they were like 'thats fine Charlie! Take care of your own needs!' And then on my final episode of the podcast, they send a pipebomb in the mail and fucking kill me!!" The ghost exclaimed, Mr Cicle watching him cross his arms with a huff.

Mr Cicle watched the ghost for another moment, observing his behaviour curiously. He was beginning to get an idea of what this guys deal might be.. so, to test the waters, he decided to take a step closer.

"Well.." he began, taking a small breath. "..I cant say I've gone through that same thing, but, wow.. thats horrible.." He sighed, watching the ghost cautiously to make sure he hadnt accidentally set it off.

The ghost sighed. "..thank you!" He huffed.

Mr Cicle smiled and nodded before going silent. The ghost also remained quiet, avoiding eye contact.

The two of them said nothing.

The ghost made a noise of defeat and visibly slumped down a bit. "..the camera's on the shelf over there... just take it." He sighed, pointing off to his right.

Mr Cicle blinked. "Oh! Wait, really?" He asked, standing still and staring at the ghost.

"Ugh, yes." The ghost grumbled. "It wont really do me any good, and I was just taking it to get attention." He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "It gets kind of lonely in hell.. and I can only visit the living once a year, so I guess..." he paused. "..I dont know."

Mr Cicle frowned. "Hey.. I.." he paused, something about what the ghost had said made him go quiet. "I've gone through something similiar, so I get it." He muttered. "You just have to find people who will understand what you've been through." He offered with a sympathetic smile.

The ghost sighed. "Yeah.." he agreed. "I guess the only people who know what ive been through are Schlatt and Ted.. but theyre the ones who blew me up." He shrugged.

Mr Cicle paused. "Oh."

The ghost huffed. "Yep." He nodded. "Well I might just go see what theyre up to either way. And now that I'm free from the podcast, they dont get to send me back down to hell once theyre done talking to me.." he spoke with a mischevious grin.

"Ha ha.. okay, well you have fun with that.." he laughed hesitantly, watching the ghost rub its hands together and grin to itself before blinking out of existence, plunging the room into darkness once more.

"Oh-" Mr Cicle groaned. "Great." He sighed. This makes finding the camera harder, doesnt it.

"Alright, well..." he hummed to himself. "He said it was... this shelf?" He turned to his right, running his hands along the plank of wood he'd found that was probably the right shelf.

Going slowly- because he literally could not see a thing- he bumped into a few random items, paint cans, and work tools. So far nothing that felt like a camera.

He was starting to wonder if the camera was actually here, until he heard something. A faint mechanical wrring further down the shelf. Looking over in the direction he'd heard it, he noticed a small blinking light reminiscent of the one on Roberts camera.

He sighed in relief as he went to grab it, feeling his hands come into contact with plastic and metal. "There you are.." he huffed, pulling it off the shelf and slipping his hand into the strap on its side. He turned it around in his hands and confirmed to himself that this was in fact Roberts camera, and not some random item that just felt like a camera.

"Lets get you back to your owner." He huffed, slowly walking back in the direction he thought the door was.

Taking a few steps, he stopped as he realised he, in fact, did not know where the door was.

"Uuhmmm..." he stopped, looking around in the darkness for anything. Literally anything. But despite how much he squinted, he just couldnt pick anything up.

Mr Cicle grumbled to himself. "..shoot." he cursed, tapping his foot against the concrete floor impatiently. "This is going to be a problem.." he muttered.

Mr Cicle looked around for a bit, continueing to try and spot anything that would help him leave. But he just couldnt find anything in the dark. He was about to give up and try something else, when he noticed something.

That same wrrring that he'd heard before. Mechanical movement from the camera. He looked down at the illuminated screen on the camera and noticed it was zooming in and out. All on its own.

Mr Cicle watched it hesitantly for a moment as the thing focused and unfocused, repeating the same thing over and over. What was it doing?

"What the.." he gaped, holding the camera up a bit closer as it continued moving all on its own. Was this thing alive?? Is that why Roberts so protective of it? Because its not just a camera, but a living thing?

Mr Cicle scoffed at his own thoughts. "Either youre alive.. or just broken." He huffed, but he paused as he noticed something on the camera screen.

There. In the dark. There was something in the dark.

He looked up from the camera to see what it was, but-

There was nothing there.

"What?"

Mr Cicle looked back down at the camera. And there it was again. There was something on the camera that he couldnt see in person. What even was it?

He squinted at the image, trying to figure out what the vague shape was. The camera kept zooming in and out, which made it a little harder to focus on the shape, but slowly, he started to see more.

The faint outline of a plastic chair slowly began to appear on the camera screen. It was vague, and just barely visible, but it was there. The camera zoomed in and out a couple more times, at which the chair became clearer. And then it stopped. Hesitantly zooming back out and resting at a wide view.

All of a sudden, Mr Cicle could see so much better on the camera than he could in real life.

"Oh.. " Mr Cicle began to realise what the camera had been doing. "You were adjusting to the darkness.." he remarked, holding the camera up and peering around the room with it.

Now that the camera had better adjusted to how little light there was in the room, it was doing a lot better at seeing things than Mr Cicle was. He took this to his advantage, though. By looking through the camera screen, he spun around until he found the vague outline of a door. As soon as he found it, he dead-lined it straight in that direction, grabbed the door handle and shoved it open as hard as he could.

The door swung open faster than he'd expected, causing him to lose balance and stumble forward. "wAGH-"

Mr Cicle yelped, keeping hold of the door handle to try and catch himself. He managed to stay standing, but almost lost his grip on Roberts camera.

"WOAH! O-okay!!" He gasped, tightening his grip on the camera again and properly standing up. He cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders and brushing his suit vest off. He then adjusted his glasses and acted like it never happened.

"Okay! Wow!" He huffed, taking a deep breath and looking around. "That was quite an.. eventful adventure..." he sighed, spotting the staircase out of the basement and feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

"Lets get out of here.." he smiled, making his way towards the stairs.

~

Robert watched the stairs get closer, watched as Mr Cicle turned the corner, and finally spotted himself standing awkwardly in the middle of the stairway.

"Oh." He gulped. "Mr Cicle!" He put on a smile. Robert tried his best to puppet his body into the right position to make it look like he was facing Mr Cicle and waving at him. "You got my camera!" He called, still struggling to stand upright.

"Hey, Robert.." Mr Cicle sighed. "Yeah, I got your camera." he spoke with a smile, huffing as he started walking up the stairs. "It doesnt look too badly damaged, and it still works.. I think.." he muttered, gently holding the camera towards Robert as he finally made it back to him.

Robert reached out tentatively, feeling his whole body relax as he grabbed hold of his camera. "Oh, thank you.." he exhaled, pulling the camera up to his chest and holding it like a lost child. "Ugh.. fuck..." He let out a very relieved groan.

Mr Cicle looked at him with a hesitant smile. He really was starting to wonder what the deal with that camera was..

Robert smiled and let out a very loud exhale. "Wow! Alright, yeah.. uh.." he hesitated, seeming to think for a moment, flicking his camera in Mr Cicles direction. "I have uh.. some stuff to explain..." he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

"..yeah." Mr Cicle hummed, furrowing his eyebrows, a bit confused. "I.. well I dont want to sound rude, but you have been acting strange since dropping your camera." He confessed, looking back down the stairs. "..and... that thing was moving on its own down there... " he added a bit hesitantly.

Robert grimaced. Of course..

"I dont know if its.. alive? Or.. just, really good at adjusting to different light levels- but something's up with it." Mr Cicle concluded, looking at Robert with a concerned gaze.

Robert knew it was coming. After all of this, he couldnt have possibly expected Mr Cicle to not be curious. Which was fair, he supposed.. he just hated having to figure out a way to explain all of this to him.

"Yeah.. thats the thing." Robert sighed, looking back up to the top of the stairs. "Its a little.. complicated." He paused. "..Confusing..." he grumbled.

Mr Cicle chuckled. "Alright? Everything about tonight has been confusing. I'll be able to handle whatever it is." He spoke with a smile.

Robert grumbled an agreement. Everything about tonight had been confusing. He supposed his own thing might not be as confusing as some other things he'd seen.

Robert looked away, sighing.

"Okay, well.. I cant tell you here." He muttered. "I dont know if you heard, but that vampire guy is on the loose, and I dont want him hearing about this." Robert grumbled, peering up at the top of the stairs hesitantly.

"Oh!" Mr Cicle blinked. "You mean the vampire that puppeted people into attacking everyone??" He asked, a new concern appearing on his face. "That vampire's on the loose??"

Robert sighed. "Yes."

"Huh. Well then." Mr Cicle gulped. "I uh.. I guess I could find somewhere he wouldnt hear..? Or.. probably wouldnt." He huffed, glancing up the stairs as well and slowly stepping up towards the basement door.

Robert raised an eyebrow and followed behind him slowly. "Oh? And where would that be?" He asked.

Mr Cicle smiled. "Somewhere quiet." He answered simply, only confusing Robert even more.

Robert furrowed his eyebrows, and slowed a bit, trying to think of anywhere quiet in the house he could be talking about.

He scoffed to himself. Considering how many people were in the house right now, he didnt think anywhere in the place was quiet.

Well, he couldnt be so sure. Clearly Mr Cicle had somewhere in mind, so he might as well follow and see where this went.

So, following the game show host out of the basement, he kept a keen eye out- or a keen lens out- for anyone that looked vageuly vampirish. Mr Cicle didnt look quite as worried, but he seemed at least a little cautious as well.

Eventually, they reached the back door of the house where Mr Cicle stopped.

Robert paused as Mr Cicle did, looking between him and the outside.

"Oh." He blinked. "Of course. The quiet place is outside." He huffed.

"Yep." Mr Cicle smiled. "Hope you dont mind the cold.. but it should be away from most prying eyes." He offered, gently opening the door and gesturing courtly for Robert to exit.

Robert chuckled at him, bowing his head as he walked through the door and onto the backyard porch. Mr Cicle hadnt been lying about the cold. Robert felt his whole body shiver once he was outside.

Mr Cicle huffed as he stepped through the door behind Robert. He kept hold of the door handle and smoothly shut it right behind him. He then turned to watch Robert look around for a moment, who was looking a little hesitant as he sat down on the porch stairs.

Mr Cicle sighed, going to sit down beside Robert. Robert seemed to be collecting his words for a moment, so Mr Cicle took the time to look up and watch the stars while waiting for him to talk.

Robert on the other hand was fiddling with the strap on his camera as he thought of what to say.

He couldnt just say, straight up, 'hey my camera is my eyes.'.. could he..?

It would be dumb.. but...

Robert groaned. He might as well just go for it. Say the first thing that comes to mind and go from there.

Robert turned to look at Mr Cicle, finding him dead silent facing the sky.

He hesitantly cleared his throat.

Mr Cicle snapped out of his star gazing. "Oh." He saw Robert looking at him a bit cautiously, so he turned to face him better.

"..go ahead." He encouraged with a soft gaze.

Robert let out a tense breath, glancing away for a moment and rolling his eyes.

Get it over with.

"Uhm.. " he gulped, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the back door, just to make sure that vampire wasnt actively listening in. Or, anyone else, for that matter..

He sighed, turned, and started to speak.

"My vision is trapped on this camera." He admitted, not looking at Mr Cicle, who remained silent.

"I havent told anyone yet, because- well its a pretty dumb weakness.." he muttered. "Especially with all this evil bug stuff going on, I'd hate to know what they might do if they found out." He spoke, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"There are a few people who know about it already.. but they only know because they were there when I first showed up." He sighed. "I think it was.. Xiv.. and gillion, and.. Backflippo and Charlie... and they only found out because Xiv thought I was acting weird and decided to find out why." He spoke with a slight chuckle.

He hesitantly glanced over at Mr Cicle, noticing how his eyebrows were furrowed and his lip pressed into a thin line. The show host almost looked at Roberts eyes for a moment, before pausing, and slowly looking down to gaze into the camera lens.

Robert felt his whole body tense as for the first time that night- or for the first time in who knows how long.. someone actually looked him in the eyes.

He immediately pulled the camera away to face straight ahead, a strange feeling in his chest flaring up like electricity.

"Uhm-" he stuttered. "Yeah- so.. when I dropped my camera down the stairs, I honestly thought.." he paused, wondering what else he should tell Mr Cicle about this dumb curse of his. "..I thought... " he trailed off.

"..Robert." Mr Cicle spoke up, making him jump.

Robert turned to look back at Mr Cicle, finding that he was still looking directly down the lens of his camera.

"I.. I did hear you correct, Right? Your vision.. is trapped on that camera. Meaning, all you see comes out of that little lens right there." He spoke, pointing at the cameras lens.

Robert gulped, gritting his teeth and looking away awkwardly.

"Y-yeah.. thats pretty much the situation..." he muttered.

"I cant.. imagine.. what that must be like..." Mr Cicle spoke slowly. "..to have your.. entire perception of reality come out of, this tiny little box." He gently reached out a hand towards the camera, almost subconsiously. Like he was so curious he didnt realise he was moving.

Robert jerked the camera away from Mr Cicles hand, seeing him snap out of his curiosity and pull his hand back.

"Sorry." Mr Cicle blinked. "Its just.. interesting." He hummed.

Robert laughed at that, rolling his eyes at the idea. "Yeah.. interesting is one way of describing it." He spoke grimmly.

Mr Cicle raised an eyebrow, tilting his head at Robert. "Well.. how would you describe it?" He asked, watching Robert pause and contemplate the question for a moment.

"I.." Robert hesitated. "I dont know.."

"Its like.. that feeling when you wake up and you've been lying on your arm all night, and its circulation is so cut off you cant even feel it. And youre just.. holding it with your other hand feeling it move around out of sync with you." He muttered, looking ahead deep in thought. "But even that isnt a good comparison, cause I can still feel my body, im just.. disconnected from it." He held his camera out in front of him to almost show the distance he felt between him and his body. "Its weird... it feels bad." He concluded.

Robert turned to look at Mr Cicle again, seeing his eyes flick about under his green lenses as he tried to rationalize Roberts description in his head. He seemed to understand to some extent, nodding faintly as he stared ahead.

"Thats.. a horrible way to be stuck living.." he mumbled, running a hand over his face and resting it over his mouth, a look of almost disbelief and sympathy in his expression.

"Heh, yeah.. tell me about it.." Robert grumbled. "Oh but imagine trying to escape giant snake lady monsters and skin men in some archictural nightmare of a maze while also having to deal with this camera thing." He offered, turning to grin at Mr Cicle and gesture his camera around like a dumb toy.

Mr Cicle gasped. "Oh- goodness, thats horrid." He spat, looking at Robert with a grimace.

Robert smiled. "Ha! Yeah!" He actually laughed. "I am honestly so glad Charlie found me, because if I had spent another day or two in that hell I might have actually lost it." He spoke with a sigh, not noticing how Mr Cicle went quiet.

Robert let out another sigh and stared out at the backyard. "I do not want to go back there once this is all over." He huffed, leaning back on one of his palms a bit.

Mr Cicle chuckled faintly. "..that makes two of us..." he muttered.

Robert hummed, turning his camera to look at Mr Cicle. The man was leaned forward, elbows rested on his thighs and his gaze focused on the distance.

"I do not. Ever. Want to go back to my place." Mr Cicle spoke, such certianty in his tone that it made Robert sit up a bit.

"Oh...?" Robert trailed off. "..what was it like?" He asked hesitantly. He grimaced as he noticed the instant look of discomfort that came over Mr Cicles face at the question.

The game show host was silent for a moment. But after a small while, he looked over at Robert with a soft smile and a faint laugh. "Are we really doing a joint therapy session right now?" He asked somewhat humurously. "I thought we came out here for you to talk, I dont want to intrude on your time to speak."

Robert scoffed, tossing a hand forward to brush the idea away. "Who cares. Weve all got issues. Weve all come from the head of the same guy. Were all here together." He offered, giving Mr Cicle a considerate smile. "I think the most we can all do for each other is offer some solidarity in how fucked up our lives can be." He spoke, looking Mr Cicle dead in the eyes as best he could.

Mr Cicle looked up into Roberts eyes, smiling for a moment, before hesitating as he noticed just how empty they actually were.

He could tell Robert was moving them to look at him intentionally. But they felt as if they were prepetually staring at something far off behind him. Staring off into the distance with no set target.

Mr Cicle huffed, glancing down just below Roberts chest and locking eyes with his camera. "You make a fair point." He muttered, turning to look ahead in silence again.

"But where do I even begin..." he huffed, wringing his palms together between his knees as he furrowed his eyebrows in contemplation.

"Well, where did it all start?" Robert offered.

Mr Cicle chuckled. "Ah.. well its been so long I can barely remember.."

"I.. used to have a good life. I had friends- who I've since forgotten the names of. I had a home- which I've since forgotten as well... I guess the only thing I was missing was a job." Mr Cicle huffed

"Somewhere. Somehow. I found a job at 'The Maze' as the host of the show. Out of everyone who auditioned they chose me, and I had been so excited to put my acting skills to use, and make a name for myself on the big screen..." He spoke slowly, Robert noticing a faint, reminiscent smile on his face. "I guess I'd been so happy I hadnt questioned a lot of the red flags about that place.." Mr Cicle trailed off.

"When they were making my persona for the show.. they asked me what my name was and found it simple enough to let me use my last name for the show.. 'Cicle'.. Charlie Cicle. Thats my actual name." He looked gently over at Robert. "It fit well enough, and I was all set. They gave me my suit, showed me to my studio, and shut the door for my first day on the job.."

"And it was one of the worst days of my life..." he spoke weakly.

"That show wasnt a show at all. The contestants woke up without any knowledge of how they ended up there, and once they actually entered the maze, they started dropping like flys." He hissed.

Robert noticed Mr Cicles hands twisting around each other tightly, his knuckles almost white.

"Traps at every corner. Pitfalls at every slope. The first group didnt even make it past the second section before they were all dead.. " Mr Cicle grit his teeth.

"Jesus..." Robert gasped.

Mr Cicle chuckled. "Yeah..." he hummed. "I was horrified, to say the least..."

"But.. when I had had enough... and I'd decided to leave.. never come back.." Mr Cicle trailed off. "..I couldnt."

Robert stared at the empty look in Mr Cicles eyes.

"The thing is, they hadnt even locked the door to my recording studio. They didnt need to.. when I left that room and started walking down the hallway to the exit... it just didnt end..."

"I remember passing the door to the studio three times before I really started to panic.. running, and running, and running.. just the same thirty feet of hallway repeated over and over and over..."

"After that... I.. sort of gave up." He admitted, looking away meakly. "Started counting the days. One day, after the next, after the next.. after the next... and each new day there was a new group of contestants. Each new day, a new group of bodies litering the maze.. " he muttered. "I lost count of how long I'd been there once it had been longer than a year..."

Mr Cicle went silent for a moment. Robert did the same, and stared off into the backyard with a horrified look on his face.

After a tense moment of quiet.. Mr Cicle took a deep breath and spoke up again. "After a while... and I mean a while... I got good at hiding the pain." He spoke slowly. "Cameras could come on live at any moment, and being seen sobbing your eyes out on live television was never the best experience... so, I had to switch it up. Put on a facade. I got good at acting like everything was fine."

He looked down a bit awkwardly for a moment. "Thats why.. if youve seen me around much today, you probably will have noticed how little I react to most things." He spoke with a slight chuckle. "I think I spent so long acting like im fine, Ive stopped being able to actually express my emotions properly." He muttered, not seeming to give the idea much thought.

Robert stared open mouthed at Mr Cicle, who wasnt reacting much.

Yep, okay he really wasnt lying. The guy was practically stone faced talking about this.

Mr Cicle looked over at Robert, who seemed absolutely gobsmacked about what he'd just heard. Mr Cicle coughed, sitting up straight and rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away. "Ah.. sorry..." he apologized. "Thats a lot to just.. let out in one go..." he admitted.

"Oh- uh" Robert sat up. "No! No its fine! I asked, okay? You just dilevered a bit more than i was expecting..." he muttered, looking away a bit dazed.

He had known Mr Cicle spent a long time in whatever place hed come from, but geez... that was a lot worse than hed thought it would be...

Mr Cicle was looking off to his side, avoiding eye contact with Robert as he tapped a finger impatiently against his knee. Robert couldnt see his face, but he clearly noticed when he took a deep breath, and gently looked up at the stars above them.

The show hosts anxious fidgeting slowed to a stop once he was watching the sky.

Robert smiled at that. "Well, hey.. at least youre out now, right?" He offered, Mr Cicle pausing and turning to look at him again with a silent gaze. Robert huffed. "And the stars are still here. So, however long you were in there for, it wasnt long enough for them to burn out just yet." He smiled at Mr Cicle.

For a moment, this seemed to comfort the man. Mr Cicle nodded, a faint smile forming on his face as he thought about it.

But then he paused.

Robert realised what he'd done.

"I never told you I was afraid the stars would die out.." Mr Cicle muttered, looking up at Robert with a hesitant expression on his face. Though, for a moment he chuckled. "I mean.. thats one lucky read on me, huh.."

Robert stared at Mr Cicle wide eyed.

"Oh. Yeah. Right, haha! Uhm..- one lucky read!" He started to sweat.

Mr Cicle squinted his eyes at Robert.

Robert stared back really hoping Mr Cicle wouldnt think any harder about this.

The show host tilted his head at Robert and raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You know, just because your vision is trapped on that camera, doesnt mean your face is too." He droned.

"What." Robert blinked, turning his camera around to face himself.

He groaned as he realised he'd been staring wide eyed at Mr Cicle the whole time. "Okay. Uh, fair. I dont have the best poker face." He grumbled, turning his camera around again to face Mr Cicle. "I guess theres still some stuff I havent told you..."

Mr Cicles gaze softened a bit and he tilted his head at Robert. "I see." He hummed. "Maybe you should have a turn telling your story." He offered.

Robert sighed, letting his shoulders fall a bit. "Maybe.." he huffed. "My story's.. surpisingly similiar to yours, I guess."

Robert raised his camera, staring off at the city in the distance as he took a slow breath. "Things started out pretty unassuming.." he began. "My sister had gone missing a week before, and I was determined to find her. So, the first place I decided to check was her school, which had been closed down since."

"I brought this camera with me- which, at the time wasnt what I was seeing out of. But I drove to her school, broke in, and went to find the breaker so I could turn all the lights on. Once I found it..." Robert trailed off.

Mr Cicle gave him a sympathetic look, listening quietly as Robert took a moment to find his words.

"Well.." Robert continued. "I turned on the breaker, and walked back up to the rest of the school. And thats when I realised something was wrong."

"The school wasnt the same as when I'd entered. The layout changed all on its own and the halls and the classrooms just kept going for as long as I could walk. It wouldnt have been that scary if I was all on my own in that maze... but I wasnt.." Robert spoke almost under his breath.

"Monsters, and ghosts, and little girl dolls, all trapped in that hell the same as me. I remember.. the first of the entities I met was a small doll, dressed like a little girl. She'd move when you werent watching her. I tried and failed to trap her in a broom closet.. and when she got me..." Robert trailed off.

"Well.." he sighed. "I think thats when my vision got trapped in this thing." Robert spoke, tapping his camera and turning it to look at Mr Cicle.

"She ripped my eyes out."

Robert saw Mr Cicles eyes widen an inch.

"She tore them right out of their sockets, letting me bleed out from the gaping holes in my face." He spoke, a slight crack in his voice. "But the thing is..." he looked away. "I didnt die."

"Once that doll had actually killed me, I woke up back where I started.. completely unscathed." Robert shrugged.

"I dont know how, or why.. but from that point on, my mortality was directly linked to this cameras survival." He spoke, turning it to face Mr Cicle again. "Every time a new monster killed me, I'd wake up again somewhere new and start the whole escape process over again."

"Oh yeah!" Robert sat up a bit, making Mr Cicle flinch at the sudden movement. "I forgot to say, there were different levels." He hummed. "First it was the school. That was the beginning of it. Then, after finding an elevator, I managed to take it down to a new level, which was a library."

"That levels monster wasnt really that special- I mean, I actually managed to escape it without dying even once!" Robert laughed, still a little proud of how easily hed escaped that one. "It was this humanoid thing with an ear for a head, and it wore a jumper. If I made any noise, it would immediately come running after me and tear up whatever spot it heard me at last." He explained.

Mr Cicle nodded at that, furrowing his eyebrows as he thought about it.

"Yeah.. so pretty easy." Robert shrugged. "The next level was a lot more.. unnerving.." he trailed off.

"I managed to escape that one unscathed too, but it was still one of the scarier ones.. its monster was this.. tall, skinny man walking upside down on its hands.. and it made this- awful gutteral groaning noise all the time." He recalled, shivering at the memory.

"The next few levels were.. fine.." he sighed, leaning forward a bit and running a hand down the back of his neck. "There was this ghost in one of them. It would only show up in the dark and it... I honestly dont know what it did when it caught me.. it was so fast it was kinda just, searing pain and then I woke up back at the start again." Robert shrugged. "But none of that compares to the next level..."

Mr Cicle raised an eyebrow and listened to Robert silently. He had this look in his eye, that Robert could tell he was listening and feeling for his story. He just didnt show it much.

Robert huffed. "Yeah.. uhm.." Robert gulped. "Do you know.. what it feels like.. to be fully conscious while your entire body is actively being digested inside of a giant snake?" He asked Mr Cicle, turning to look him in the eyes with a pained expression.

The show host blinked, his lips parting for a moment like he wanted to say something. But he just stared wide eyed at Robert without a word.

"No.. no I dont." He finally muttered.

Robert chuckled to himself. "Good. You dont want to!" He laughed, turning to stare into the distance again. "This snake, lady, thing. It would slither around the next level- these pool rooms. And if it saw me moving, it would lock onto me with its big fucking eyes and come slithering over faster than I could run. It made these horrible whispering noises- but it wasnt even actual words, just.. a poor imitation of human speech.." he spoke with a sigh.

"Not only did the pools have that snake monster, but it also had the skin man- again! He was just there." Robert shrugged, looking back over at Mr Cicle again.

He paused for a moment, thinking back on everything that happened and whincing at the memories.

"..I dont want to be.. shoved under clorinated water again, and.. ripped open within seconds... " he muttered, his shoulders rising a bit as he remembered the bloody water he laid in, slowly drowning on his own gore. "..Or eaten alive and digested for hours..." he grit his teeth, shuddering at the feeling of crushing bones and melting skin. "..or... have my eyes torn out by little doll hands.." he muttered, shutting his eyes at the idea of it happening again. What felt like uncontrollable tears streaming down his face, actually just being his own blood pouring from his open skull.

"I cant do that again. I'd lose it." Robert spat. "And- im so glad to be out here with everyone- even if its, flipped my perception of reality upside down. Knowing all of that was just some scary story in the head of some guy.." he sighed. "I dont really care. Because i'd rather be just some guys character in the real world, then go back to that hell."

Robert flinched as he felt Mr Cicle put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He turned his camera to look over at him, finding the show host to be looking at him with such sympathy.. it felt uncharacteristic.

"You're free now." Mr Cicle spoke, his eyes looking at him so certianly, it made Robert sit up a bit. "You dont have to worry about any of that anymore." He spoke as reassuringly as possible, a look of genuine pain and empathy in his gaze.

Robert looked at Mr Cicle for a moment. He forced a bit of a smile at those words, but turned to look away again in discomfort.

"But I do.." he muttered, ignoring the look of confusion Mr Cicle gave him. "Even though im out of that maze, im still trapped to this camera. Mr Cicle.." he trailed off, looking back over at the show host again, a tired look in his eyes.

"..I've seen you die." He spoke slowly. "I've seen everyone in this place die, in one way or another... because I'm still cursed." Robert took a long shaky breath. "When those bugs first showed up, you were outside stargazing.. and the sound of your dying screams was the first warning of their arrival."

"I watched Troy murder Peter in cold blood before coming after me.. and then I died, and woke up again minutes before the attack."

Mr Cicle was silent, his eyebrows furrowing more as he looked away slightly.

"I died.. so many times.. just to get everyone in that house out safely... and no one even knows it happened." Robert spoke, incredulous. "They all just think it was luck that we got out of there alive, but I saw every other outcome where we didnt. And all the pain. And the agony. And all of that horror.. it just didnt happen... but I saw it.. and it hurt." He choked out, going to quickly wipe away tears that began to form.

"I cant be free as long as im stuck with this stupid camera." Robert huffed, taking a few deep breaths to try and re-steady himself. "And even if we manage to escape these bugs without dying anymore, the plan is still to send everyone back to their own worlds- and I cant do that! I dont wanna go back!" He cried, finally feeling his emotions well up more and more, failing to keep them down.

"I cant.. I cant do that..." he sniffled. "Not again. Never again. I'll find a way to run off here before I let them send me back."

Robert sat there for a while, sniffling and stuttering, trying to wipe small tears away and act like he wasnt crying. But he wasnt doing a very good job.

Mr Cicle merely watched, his eyes half lidded and his gaze unsettled. He looked like he wanted to say something, but watching Robert struggle to keep himself together, he thought it best to let him sort it out himself. Anyways, he might not be the best at comforting him.

Robert looked away as Mr Cicle did, the two of them now just staring out into the quiet backyard without a word.

"..sorry..." Robert sniffled a small apology as he finally dried all his tears.

"Its okay.." Mr Cicle gently reassured him.

Robert sighed, a loud, exhausted sigh as he properly sat up. Mr Cicle did the same when he noticed Robert, readjusting his bowtie a bit as he sat up better.

"So, uhm.." Robert gulped, running a hand through his hair as he took a deep breath. "I guess i went a little off topic there.. but.. the reason i knew about your fear of the stars burning out, is because you told me about it once when i was trying to stop you from going outside."

Mr Cicles gaze softened a bit at that, glancing over at Robert.

"You were going out to look at the stars, and i asked why you were so adamant about it.. and you basically said that, youd spent so long trapped in the maze, you thought that by-"

"..I thought that by the time I was free, all the stars would have burnt out..." Mr Cicle interrupted, finishing Roberts sentence as he trailed off.

Robert turned to look at him, stunned quiet for a moment. "Yeah." he nodded slowly. "Yeah thats.. basically what you told me.."

Mr Cicle chuckled quietly to himself, a small, genuine smile on his face. "Interesting to think i mentioned that to you before, and yet here, talking to you now, i dont remember it ever happening."

"What, like- us talking to each other like this was always going to happen?" Robert laughed.

Mr Cicle shrugged. "Who knows." He hummed. "But i guess theres something about each of us that we can both find comfort in."

"Hm.." Robert nodded faintly. "Like what?"

Mr Cicle raised an eyebrow, turning to glance at Robert silently for a moment.

"Well.." he started. "I guess were both parralels of each other."

"You were trapped in a maze, cursed to relive the same nightmare over and over. And i was trapped as the conductor of a maze, isolated and cursed to narrate the sufferings of others." Mr Cicle explained, looking gently over at Robert.

"You experienced so much death. And i experienced none of it. And we both had too much of what one of us wanted.. it became a burden."

"You- im assuming- wanted isolation from the pain and the horrors."

"And i wanted... death. Something you had too much of."

"Woah- okay-" Robert stuttered, raising his hands a bit as he looked at Mr Cicle concerned.

"Too much??" Mr Cicle whinced.

"Too much." Robert gasped, looking at Mr Cicle with a concerned gaze. "When did you become such a morbid philosopher?"

Mr Cicle laughed. "Ah.. well when you spend so much time with only yourself to talk to, you kind of start to over-analyze your very existence a little too much." He spoke with a shrug. "So I guess I can get a bit preechy sometimes."

"Yeah..." Robert muttered. "That would make sense.."

Mr Cicle sighed and looked away a bit awkwardly at that.

"Woah! No hey-" Robert blurted quickly. "I think its cool! Honestly- id be stoked if i was able to talk so dramatically all the time!"

Mr Cicle glanced over at him with a faint smile, slightly confused. Though, he seemed amused, at least. "Really.." he scoffed.

"Yeah! Totally! OH OH-" Robert gasped, excitedly going to grab Mr Cicles shoulders and turning him to face him better. "I need you to say.... 'luke... I am your father'." He spoke with a deep grovelly voice, and the biggest grin Mr Cicle had ever seen on his face.

The show host stared slightly dumbfounded at Robert for a good moment, wondering how exactly he was supposed to go about that.

Robert noticed his slight hesitance and gasped. "Do you not have star wars where youre from??" He asked, astounded. "Oh my god- wait you have to- NO- no its.. forget it, just say the line..." he sighed, shaking his head and sitting back a bit.

Mr Cicle blinked at that, opening his mouth but not saying anything for a moment.

After a second.. he cleared his throat, shut his eyes for added drama, sat up a bit, and slowly began to speak...

"Luke.." Mr Cicle hissed, furrowing his eyebrows and opening his eyes to stare into Roberts camera dramatically.

"...I am your father."

Robert kicked his feet up and grinned even wider than before. "AAAAAAHHH YES!!!" He squealed, shaking his fists in excitment. "Thats awsome!!!" He exclaimed with a laugh.

Mr Cicle smiled, laughing a bit at Roberts reaction.

"OH!" Robert gasped. "Can you say 'come with me if you want to live'." He spoke with a strange accent, gaining another confused laugh from Mr Cicle.

"Okay.." the show host chuckled.

"..come with me if you want to live." He spoke sinisterly.

Robert was practically jumping out of his seat at this. "Agh!! Thats so cool!!" He grinned. "Okay! Last one! 'Fly, you fools!' "

"Fly! You fools!" Mr Cicle grinned, adding some dramatic hand gestures and leaning forward a bit.

"DUDE!!" Robert was exstatic. "AGH you could be an actor!!"

"I am an actor!" Mr Cicle laughed.

Robert slapped a hand against his forehead with a groan. "Right! You are.." he laughed.

"Okay, uuuhh..." Robert hummed, bringing a hand up to scratch his chin. "You could be a... really... ominous.. weather reporter." He joked half heartedly.

Mr Cicle chuckled. "Really."

"Look, I dont know.." Robert sighed, grinning a bit awkwardly. "First thing that came to mind." He shrugged.

Mr Cicle nodded at that, humming thoughtfully. "Well.. I could be a really ominous weather reporter." He spoke with a grin, reaching into his vest and pulling out a microphone from seemingly no where.

Robert blinked. "Wait- where did you get that-"

"Ahem!" Mr Cicle cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your local news station where today, I will be giving you all a brief summary of todays weather forecast.." he immediately got into character, speaking into his mircophone which wasnt connected to anything.

Mr Cicle gestured a few things to Robert with his hands, but Robert just looked at him a little confused.

Mr Cicle groaned. "You're the camera man!" He huffed, sitting back up again and readjusting his suit like he was actually in front of an audience.

"Oh!" Robert gasped, rolling his shoulders and positioning his camera up to frame Mr Cicle nicely for whatever bit they were doing.

Mr Cicle cleared his throat. "So! Skys are clear, with no clouds in sight. All of... whatever city this is.. will be staying up late to see just how bright tonights stars can get..." he trailed off, pausing for a moment.

Mr Cicle looked over at Robert, whispering. "Robert, what would an ominous weather reporter say?" He asked. "How do I make the weather seem ominous??"

Robert shrugged. "I dont know. I thought you were an actor! Youre supposed to be good at improve! Just figure something out!" He whispered back.

Mr Cicle huffed, sitting back up properly and readjusting his bowtie. "Well, ladies and gentlemen.. dont star gaze for too long, tonight, because these stars are a little dangerous." He spoke a bit unsure, but smiling none the less.

"Theyre so beautiful.. you might just.. lose yourself... watching them...." Mr Cicle slowly trailed off, opening his eyes wide and dramatically looking up at the sky with a look of mock wonder on his face.

Robert snorted, grinning at the show hosts suprisingly unsettling acting.

He chuckled to himself, slowly panning his camera up to look at the sky. He kept smiling for a while, panning around to see if he could find any stars, but eventually, he paused.

Roberts smile faded a bit as he realised.. he couldnt actually see any stars.

Mr Cicle must have noticed his dissapointed expression, because after a little while, he paused, coming out of his acting bit and looking over at Robert silently. He hesitantly put his microphone away.

Robert huffed, zooming in on the sky, and zooming back out again to see if he could adjust to the skys light levels, but it didnt seem to do much. He kept trying, but it wasnt getting much better.

Mr Cicle tilted his head. "Whats wrong?" He asked, gaining a bit of a sigh from Robert.

"I think my cameras exposure is so bad it cant pick up any of the stars light." He whined, dropping his camera to look back out at the backyard again with a huff. "Figures.."

Mr Cicle furrowed his eyebrows, looking back up at the sky, and all the twinkling stars that filled it.

He frowned.

"I could try and up the exposure?" Mr Cicle offered, turning to look over at Robert again.

Robert looked over at Mr Cicle curiously.

"I know how to work most cameras.. since, it was kind of a requirement for my job at the maze." Mr Cicle shrugged. "So I should be able to help you see more, hopefully.." he smiled, gently reaching out a hand towards Robert, offering to take his camera.

Robert moved his camera back slightly, a little unsure at the idea of handing his camera over. He looked at Mr Cicle with a hesitant gaze, stopping as he noticed the expression on his face.

Mr Cicle looked at Robert, trying his best to look as friendly as possible. "..only if youre okay with it." He spoke, genuinely.

Robert paused for a moment. Hesitant.

But after a tense minute.. he gently handed his camera over to Mr Cicle.

The game show host took a careful breath, carrying the camera over to hold it in front of him, peering down at the illuminated screen.

Despite having held it a little while ago, now he knew just how important this camera was, and felt much more nervous holding it himself. He could see Roberts livelyness in it now, noticing the way it focused on different things and zoomed slightly at each movement. It wasnt just a camera, but his friend.

And he was holding it in both of his hands. So very gently.

Hesitantly reaching up to touch the screen, he found the buttons that let him access the settings.

Robert would have liked to see what Mr Cicle was doing, but the best he got was watching as his vision flashed between different kinds of weird.

Super bright, to super dark, then somewhere in between, and now the colors were all off. It was all starting to feel a little strange.

But after a moment, Mr Cicle slowly raised his camera up to face the sky, peering into the screen as he kept adjusting the settings. Robert held his breath and tapped his finger against the porch beneath him anxiously, just hoping hed find something that worked soon.

Mr Cicle bit his lip, furrowing his brow as he kept looking for a setting he could adjust to help make the stars show up better.

After a quiet minute.. Robert gasped.

Mr Cicle perked up, glancing over at Robert to see his eyes wide and mouth open. His shoulders dropped slightly as his body stared out into the backyard. But Mr Cicle looked back to the camera, held up at the sky, and noticed just how many stars he could see on its screen.

"Oh wow.." Mr Cicle muttered, looking between the sky and Roberts camera, and noticing that somehow, hed managed to get it to pick up more stars than even he could see in person.

Mr Cicle smiled, leaning back on one of his hands to look up at the stars. He kept holding the camera up facing the sky, just so Robert would be able to keep watching them too.

And boy, he sure was.

Robert stared ahead in wonder. Watching the stars in all their pixelated glory, he even started to notice a few colours faintly behind them. It was like he was seeing a ghost he couldnt see before. A very sparkly, colorful ghost.

He didnt even realise he was starting to smile.

They both sat there in silence, neither one of them feeling the need to say anything. Just listening to the wind, and focusing on the lights. It was peaceful. So, very peaceful.

A nice change of pace compared to how the rest of the night had been going.

For just that moment, they didnt have to worry about a single thing.

But then, a rain drop hit Roberts camera lens.

He sat up, eyes widening at the sudden distraction.

Not only had a raindrop appeared on his screen, but slowly, the stars began to dissapear as dark clouds came rolling in over the LA sky.

Another raindrop hit Roberts lens.

And then it started to faintly fall one by one on the porch around them.

Roberts breath hitched, and he sat up as more and more rain began to fall around them.

Mr Cycle looked around, confused. "Oh.. I guess.. my weather forecast wasnt the most accurate." He mumbled, slowly lowering Roberts camera and resting it on his lap.

More and more rain began to fall, water no longer only hitting the cameras lens, but pattering onto its casing as well.

Robert felt his heart skip a beat. "No!" He panicked. "NO! My camera breaks in water!" He cried.

Robert fumbled to find where his camera was, feeling his hands grab onto Mr Cicles shoulder, leaning closer to try and reach towards his lap. His anxiety only grew as the rain grew stronger. And stronger.

It started to pour unusually quickly.

"Mr Cicle!" He couldnt lose this. He begged, please he couldnt lose this.

Not after this. He couldnt die and go back right after opening up to someone like that. He couldnt lose his new friend. Not now.

Mr Cicle noticed Roberts frantic behaviour, awkwardly standing up a bit and trying to shield his face from the now pouring rain. "What? Are you okay?" He asked.

"No!" Robert cried. "If my camera gets wet i'll die! Where is it??"

"Oh!" Mr Cicles eyes went wide.

Robert didnt even have time to get it himself as Mr Cicle jumped into action.

The speed at which he managed to unbutton his vest was unprecedented. Instantly using the right half to wrap up Roberts camera and tuck it close to his chest, cradling it with his right arm as he used his other to guide Robert beside him.

Roberts breathing was fast and his hands were fumbling to figure out where he was. All he could see was the inside of Mr Cicles vest and the rest of his forest green dress shirt. And all he could feel was pouring rain and an arm around his shoulders, slowly walking them both somewhere he couldnt tell.

"Can- can I-" Robert stuttered, wanting to ask for his camera. He was interrupted as he ran into a small ledge by his feet- "aAH!" He gasped, feeling Mr Cicles arm pull him back to keep him from falling forward.

"Woah! Okay-" Mr Cicle cursed. "Just step over. Thats the bottom of the door frame, were heading inside." He gently explained, slightly drowned out by the rain shower around them.

Robert paused, taking a breath to steady himself and raising his foot slightly higher. Stepping down, he felt it hit carpeted floor.

The inside door mat.

Robert let out a sigh as he walked forward, stepping out of Mr Cicles grasp. He grabbed a hold of the open door to keep himself from falling over, but managed to get inside and shake himself off well enough on his own.

Mr Cicle seemed a little suprised by that, but shrugged it off. He used both hands to hold Roberts camera under his vest now, stepping inside and shaking himself off as the door slowly closed.

The show host sighed, raising a soaking arm and looking at himself with a defeated frown. "This'll take hours to dry..." he whined, adjusting his bow which sat half undone, soaked as well.

Robert put his hands against the sides of his head, taking a deep breath and leaning against the wall to try and calm down.

He was fine. Everything was fine.

"You alright?" Mr Cicle called to Robert, watching him perk up as he took his camera out from under his vest. He wiped it off from the remaining rain, and handed it to him, watching Robert relax again now that it was back in his own hands.

Robert stood up a bit, nodding his head. "Yeah. Im alright." He huffed. "Thanks for that."

Mr Cicle smiled. "Its no problem." He nodded.

It was just then that Gillion Tidestrider came walking around the corner.

"Woah!" Gillion paused. "Did the undersea start pouring out there?" He asked with a bit of a smile.

Robert and Mr Cicle both stared back at him, dripping wet in the middle of the hallway.

"The what?" Robert blinked.

"Uh.. i guess you could call it that?" Mr Cicle glanced between gillion and the back door. "Yeah?" He shrugged.

"Huh. You guys look like youre well aquanted with it, then." He shrugged, turned, and walked off to find the living room.

Robert and Mr Cicle stared down the hallway at where the fish man had been last, both too confused to say anything.

Mr Cicle opened his mouth, about to say something.. but he paused. Shook his head. And took off his glasses to wipe the rain off them.

Robert turned to watch him grab his wet vest, use it to wipe off his glasses, put them back on, and then grumble as they remained exactly as wet as theyd been before.

Robert scoffed. "Try your shirt. It looked pretty dry under there." He suggested.

Mr Cicle looked at Robert as he spoke. He paused. "Okay.." and then tried again, as suggested.

He took his glasses, opened up his vest and wiped them on his green dress shirt by his ribs. And sure enough, they came back clear and he smiled as he put them on.

"Would you look at that." He grinned, turning to look at Robert again with a smile.

Robert smiled back, a little amused at how he looked. Mr Cicles previously well kept hair was now dripping over his face, and his whole outfit was practically a puddle.

Mr Cicle, despite this, smiled anyways, and put a gentle hand on Roberts right shoulder. "Robert." He spoke softly. "Im sorry I havent been looking you in the eyes before." He apologised.

Robert hesitated at that, though he rolled his eyes half heartedly after a second. "Dont worry.." he reasured him. "Really, I wouldnt have expected you to know."

"Now, I need to go find somewhere to dry off..." Robert groaned, turning to start walking down the hallway, shifting uncomfortably in his heavy wet jacket.

Mr Cicle sighed, going to follow close behind him. "Me too..." he grumbled. "Getting the wrinkles out of my suit wont be fun either..." he complained, pulling his shirt collar away from his neck uncomfortably as the two continued off down the hall.

Robert hummed. "I wonder if they have a fireplace here, I could curl up by it like a fancy little dog."

"Im not sure we want to have a fancy little dog in the same house as slarf." Mr Cicle commented. "Wolves arent known for being friendly to prey sized hounds."

Robert was quiet for a moment.

After a second, he sighed. "Well im not a shapeshifter-"

"I was joking!" Mr Cicle defended. "Play of words! 'Oh no! Wolves eat small dogs- you compared yourself to a small dog-' is that not- a joke?"

"Not a good one."

"..fair enough."

[bellfilmz]

𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rafe Cameron x Female Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After surviving a plane crash with a mysterious stranger she met mid-flight, she now has to find a way to survive, completely unaware she’s stuck with Rafe Cameron.

⸻

The flight wasn’t full, which was rare. You were tucked into the window seat with a book in hand, earbuds in, and no real expectation of conversation.

Until he sat down beside you.

Tall, tan, expensive cologne—definitely someone used to being looked at. His jaw was sharp, his hair pushed back in a messy, intentional way. And his legs? Long. Obnoxiously so. They stretched too far into your space.

You waited a minute.

Then tugged one earbud out. “Hey, sorry, can you um, move your leg a little? I need to get out.”

He blinked, then looked down like he’d only just realized his knee was blocking your way. “Oh. Yeah—sorry.”

He shifted, and you slid past him into the aisle, heading for the bathroom. When you came back, he was half-asleep, head leaning against the window this time. You had to squeeze by.

The moment you ducked into your row, the plane shook.

Violently.

You lost your balance and fell directly into his lap with a startled gasp.

His arms immediately came around you to steady you. “Whoa—hey, I got you.”

The plane jolted again.

You stayed frozen in his lap, heart hammering.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the intercom, strained, “please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts immediately. We are experiencing some turbulence. Follow all safety protocols.”

You scrambled into your seat, fumbling for your belt. Your hands were shaking too much to clip it in. Panic rose like bile in your throat.

The guy beside you noticed. “Hey—hey, breathe.”

You looked at him, wide eyed.

He leaned closer. “It’s alright. Just copy me, okay? Deep breath in.” He inhaled slowly, holding his hand in front of you like a guide. “And out.”

You tried to match him. It helped. Barely.

“Good,” he said gently. “You’re okay. I promise.”

Then the lights flickered. A scream echoed from the back.

Your stomach dropped. The engine whined.

The last thing you felt was his hand gripping yours.

And then— Black.

⸻

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏.

The sun was blistering when you woke up.

Your lips were cracked. Your hair was full of sand. And you were somehow alive.

You sat up slowly, wincing. Your entire body ached.

And then you saw him kneeling a few feet away, digging through what looked like luggage debris.

You blinked. “You…?”

His head snapped toward you. Relief flooded his face. “Shit—you’re awake.”

You coughed. “What… what happened?”

He stood, walking over. “Plane went down. We’re on an island. No clue where.”

You looked around, finally registering the dense trees and sparkling ocean. Panic rose again.

“I checked the shoreline,” he continued. “Didn’t find anyone else. Just us.”

You stared at him. “How long have we been here?”

“Couple hours, maybe. You hit your head.”

Your fingers went to your temple, brushing a tender bump.

He crouched beside you. “We should move you out of the sun.”

You nodded numbly. “What’s your name?”

“Rafe,” he said simply. “And you?”

You told him.

He stood and offered you a hand. You hesitated, then took it. His grip was strong but careful.

“I think I found a freshwater stream inland,” he said. “And some luggage washed up. We’ve got basics. Not much.”

You followed him slowly, still dazed.

“You’re handling this pretty well,” he added as you reached the edge of the trees.

You gave a humorless laugh. “I’m still in shock.”

Rafe glanced over his shoulder. “Stay in it. It’s better than full panic.”

⸻

The waterfall was like something out of a movie tropical, tucked between palms, flowing into a shallow pool.

You stared, overwhelmed. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“Yeah,” Rafe muttered. “It’s too pretty to be a nightmare.”

He knelt, splashing his face. You followed, letting the cold water hit your skin. It woke you up in a different way.

You sat by the edge, legs pulled to your chest. “I can’t believe we survived.”

Rafe sat beside you. “Me neither.”

The silence settled again.

He looked over at you. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

You blinked. “Should I?”

He smiled faintly. “Guess not. Most people do.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you famous or something?”

He shrugged. “Kind of. Back home. OBX.”

“That where you’re from?”

He nodded.

You watched him for a second. “You helped me on the plane.”

“You fell on me,” he teased, that smirk returning. “Figured I had to make sure you lived. After that level of intimacy.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was falling to my death.”

“Into my lap,” he clarified, grinning now.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. And it was the first time you felt like yourself since the crash.

⸻

𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

He got a fire going somehow. You didn’t ask how you were too busy realizing night on the island was darker than anything you’d known. The stars were brilliant, but the shadows felt alive.

Rafe sat beside you, watching the flames. His arms were scraped. He looked tired, worn, human.

“Why were you flying?” you asked quietly.

“Business,” he replied. “My dad sent me. Something about responsibility.”

You nodded slowly. “I was just trying to get away for a while.”

“Well… mission accomplished.”

You cracked a smile. “Guess so.”

There was a beat of silence.

Rafe leaned back on his hands. “We’ll be alright. Someone will find us.”

You weren’t sure if he believed that or if he just needed you to.

Either way, you let the lie settle between you like a safety net.

The fire crackled.

And for the first time since the crash—you stopped shaking.

⸻

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐?

Tag list info

[lailau7904]

So y'all have seen the Williams F1 Logo before, yeah?

well get ready, becaues I am about to ruin your day!

where does one even begin with this. i am sorry in advance. -just a poor learning graphic design student, who simply tried to enjoy their saturday evening

The Logo

For anyone that doesn't know, here's the Williams F1 Logo. Entirely unedited, copied straight from Wikipedia:

Now like many fans, I actually quite enjoy this logo. I like the modern, sharp edges of it and it's simple yet intriguiging design. It's memorable, while also easily recognizable as a W. I also really enjoy the colour choice (this, however, is entirely a personal preference.)

(entire rant under the cut. please keep reading this took years off my life span.)

How did we even get here?

Let's start at the beginning. How did we even get here? Well I, a poor poor learning graphic designer, was watching this lovely video from Mr. V's Garage about bad F1 Logo's over the past 35 or so seasons. Very interesting, I can only recommend it (but you don't need to watch the video to understand this post)!

Now, to cleanse the palette at the end of the video, Mr. V included a top 10 GOOD logos from this time span, it was very kind of him.

On P4 of this "Good List," Mr. V placed the current Williams F1 Logo, as pictured above. At first I vaguely agreed with this, believing that he probably simply hadn't noticed one of the things that's been bothering me about that Logo since the first time I saw it up close.

The first sign of Trouble

So, what is this mystery issue, you might ask?

It's simple really. You don't necessarily notice it at a first glance, but something about that logo seems off. Taking a second longer, you may notice it yourself.

No, I mean it, take a minute and go look at the logo. It looks wonky as hell, doesn't it?

Well I can tell you the first thing that I personally noticed. The arms of the W aren't in line with the bottom half, see:

(Graphic by @girlrussell who was so kind to let me use it, as it is way prettier than the one I made)

It's a crooked W. There is no good explanation for this. The rest of the font is perfectly fine, geometrical shapes.

Anyway, the good person that I am I went to point this out to my partner ( @leftneb ) who proceeded to inform me that he, infact, was not aware about this and was, quote, "never going to unsee that."

Now, the good FRIEND that I am, I, of course, proceeded to rush into our broader F1 friendgroup to make them suffer for eternity.

What's the logical next step to take? Of course, fix the logo in Adobe Photoshop, you know, as a joke.

(Disclaimer at this point, I am not necessarily the biggest fan of Williams Management Team. I enjoy ALL their drivers this season. I do NOT enjoy James Vowels. Be warned.)(Also I am aware that he probably did not have an influence on the logo)

Trying to fix it. Oh god, I was so innocent back then

Trying to fix the logo in Photoshop is the worst mistake I could've made. THE worst path to take. I could've just giggled about making my friends suffer (which I succeeded in, by the way) and moved on. Instead I ruined a perfectly good Saturday evening, and for what? I don't know anymore.

Anyway, how was I gonna go about fixing the logo in the simplest way possible? Simplest way I could come up with: slap the thing in Photoshop and put two, mirrored boxes at each side to make the sides line up. Small issue, how do I make the thing actually even? Fix: line them up at the intersecting point with the bottom tips of the W.

Here's the result:

Hey, anyone care to explain to me why in THE LORDS NAME the arms are different sized? I mean, surely they weren't before. Surely, certainly, I must've messed up.

I double, I tripple checked. I made sure everything was lined up and made sense. But no.

It just couldn't be. Something was uneven in this logo, something even deeper. Something I could not have predicted when first taking a closer look. It was at this point I realized I had messed up. What rabbit hole had I stumbled across? Certainly, it couldn't get much worse.

And that's when I noticed.

(pictured above; my genuine reaction)

There's MORE? (oh god, the top isn't lined up)

I couldn't believe my eyes. This is the PINNACLE of the sport, and THIS was the logo of one of the competing teams? I mean, yeah, we have a Visa Cash App RB or a Kick Sauber or even a MoneyGram Haas which are all terrible logos, but at least they're CLEAN. (this has not been checked. If anyone wishes to ruin a nice Saturday evening, feel free to check them and tell me how wrong I was in the previous statement!)

But you can see that there is no end in sight for this post. I'm sure you're as scared as I was at this point. By now we were sitting in VC, discussing the horribleness of this logo. I had long informed my irl's about this, who take said design classes with me. And it was one of them who pointed out the next thing that had been bothering me, but I had not been able to put a finger on up to this point.

thE DISTANCE, HOW DID THEY FUCK IT?

I'm afraid I have to confirm your fears.

Yes, those lines are the same length. According to Photoshop, they're on the same level as well, so no flunking with angles.

The gaps of the arms to the main W are not the same. They're differently sized gaps.

It was clear to us, this logo is inherintely flawed. They're subtle issues, but once you pay attention you start to notice things. It all looks slightly wonky and off centre. And eventually, you get paranoid, and start comparing other angles and sizes. And you will keep finding things. This has ruined my life.

HOOOOOW

Honestly, I don't even know what to say. Yes, yes sadly those lines, too, are the same length. Just copied over from one side to the other and layed over on the same height. I admit, they're not layed over perfectly. I was honestly holding back tears at this point. But the point still stands, you can clearly see a difference in width.

Honestly, the only way I can explain it is that at some point there was a mess up of distance or proportions and whoever was designing the logo couldn't pin it down and tried to restore the visual balance by making manual adjustments. And in all honesty? They kinda did a good job, if that's what's happened. I mean, you notice the crookedness of the arms, and then maybe the difference in height, but the rest you probably will not notice if you don't spend too much time staring at it. (like some of us) And even those issues clearly aren't noticeable to the vast majority, considering I had to go point it out to a group chat for my friends at least to notice.

what the fuck is THAT?

Now, the thing about doing this investigative work of prooving a team you dislike is worse in more aspects than you previously thought, is that you do a lot of zooming in. And zooming in means you might notice bits that yours eyes simply overlooked before, because they were too small.

Here you can witness the top of the middle point, that, for whatever reason, really wants to touch the top border of the Logo. I'm relatively certain that's the highest few pixel in the entire graphic, considering earlier chapter "There's MORE?" I have no idea why it looks like that or why they thought it was necessary for it to not end in a clean point.

I just actually have no idea how to even describe what is going on on the top of the left arm. That left hand side, again, touches the side and is therefore the most-left-pixel in the graphic. I, once again, have no idea the purpose of this. However the RIGHT hand side also makes no sense, as it is the most prominent corner in the whole logo. There's pointed corners, and rounded OF corners, but nothing that is trying to form it's own colony in a distant land that hopefully isn't this god awful logo. I hope that blob gets away. I really do. You go king.

i'm loosing my mind

Anyway, the only reason I could come UP with those weird "reachy-outy-bits" was to establish the dimensions of the logo? But if that was the case, I don't understand why they managed to keep all the other potentially border touching corners clean?

Like, look. Those are clean, sharp corners with some clearance off the borders. I have no clue why they managed it here but not with the others.

guys. please.

Backtrackig a little bit, going back to the positioning of the arms.

Do I need to mention that those lines are both the same length and the same (mirrored) angle? I really hope I don't, because I don't think I could be making this shit up. Like, once you roughly know what you need to look for it just kinda becomes easy to find.

As said before, I genuinely do think that most of these issues happened in a chain-reaction. For example, the distances between the main part and the W wouldn't be as noticeable (and they do get noticeable once you start looking at it) if the angle wasn't fucked. And guess what, there's more fucked angles here! Which ALSO influence this specific area of the logo!

this is just embarrasing for you.

something something same line copied over and mirrored etc etc

It's not as visible but the angles defintely don't line up here as well. As mentioned before, these issues for the most part all influence each other. It doesn't really excuse the issues, in my opinion as a designer, because a big company like this shouldn't have these sort of issues in their logo.

So let's review;

to sum it up,

i cannot even BEGIN to explain to you how big of a fucking JOKE this FUCKING logo is. because, i thought to myself, to round the post out, hey, why not show ALL the issues i pointed out in one picture? that would round it out quite nicely, wouldn't it?

Yeah well, this logo sent STRAIGHT FROM HELL just could NOT let me rest. I had only done the lines visualizing the crooked arms in PAINT up until this point, i.e. I had only pulled both up individually. To make a nice "rounding out" picture I still had to add them into PHOTOSHOP. so i did. i pulled up the line. i mirrored the line.

THE ANGLE IS FUCKING DIFFERENT

none. and i mean NONE of my friends had noticed this before. i need you to understand that we looked at this thing with FIVE pair of eyes, and NONE of us noticed that until i thought to myself "Oh I still need to add these specific lines to have ALL the issues I pointed out in my SILLY TUMBLR POST in ONE image" and i get THAT FUCKING SURPRISE

I was PLANNING to round the post out with a statement on how obviously this isn't a serious post. Here, I even had it all written out already because I accidentally started writing it in the last paragraph:

Of course, this is nitpicking, and it's not that serious. I'm aware of that. AS MENTIONED most of these would not be noticeable if we hadn't gone specifically looking for them.

yeah, well, fuck that. i just spent two hours seething about this logo. i'm ending the post on this instead.

[keithyp00]

♡.﹀﹀ Don't Tempt Me ﹀﹀.♡

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: rivals?-to-lovers, romantic tension, slow burn, action, banter, fluff, angst, emotional growth, swearing, physical combat training, unresolved sexual tension, swearing, post-trauma discussions, flirting, kissing, possessive!Bucky, reader getting injured

Word Count: 2.2K

Author Note: Hi guys! Thanks for all the kind messages and tags on my last story! Sorry I'm posting this one so late but I was hanging out with friends all weekend so it was worth it. Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The first time you met Bucky Barnes, he smiled at you just to piss you off.

You'd been warned. Not that he was dangerous- not anymore- but that he was difficult. Quiet. Cold. Resistant to orders. Still figuring out where he belonged. You understood that. You respected it, even.

What you didn't respect was the cocky little smirk he gave you on day one of combat training.

You stood in the middle of the gym, arms crossed, boots planted wide. You watched him approach like he had nowhere to be, eyes half-lidded and mouth curled into something smug.

"Let me guess," he drawled, stepping onto the mat, "you're the one Stark warned me about."

"I'd be flattered," you said flatly. "But Stark thinks warning people is a waste of breath."

His smirk deepened. "He said you were 'a pain in the ass with a left hook like a truck.'"

You lifted a brow. "And he said you were a reformed assassin with trust issues and a martyr complex."

His jaw twitched.

Bingo.

"Don't worry, Barnes," you added. "I'm not here to fix you. Just teach you how to stop getting stabbed in the ribs."

His grin returned, lazy and infuriating. "That type of training happen often?"

"Only on Tuesdays."

You dropped into a stance. He mirrored you.

The room went quiet.

You lunged first.

You fought three rounds that morning.

You won two. He won one. But the one he won? He grinned afterward. The cocky kind. The kind that said I know I'm good and I know it annoys you.

You were sweating, panting, pressing your knuckles into a bruised rib when he leaned over with a smile on his lips, and said nothing.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you."

And Bucky Barnes, damn him, smiled wider. "Don't tempt me, sweetheart."

Your jaw clenched so hard your molars ached.

The next punch you threw nearly broke his nose.

~~~~~

That was six months ago.

Six months of shared gym sessions, smartass remarks, trading bruises, flinging insults like knives, pretending the tension between you wasn't slowly, painfully evolving into something electric.

Every look. Every touch. Every shove on the mat that left one of you staring up at the other- panting, sweating, hearts pounding too loud- was another unspoken do something about it.

Neither of you did.

Until now.

Today, everything goes to hell.

You're late.

You storm into the gym half a minute past seven, hair still damp from a shower, tugging your sleeve down your arm as you cross the floor. Bucky's already there. Of course he is. Stretching. Calm. Annoyingly smug.

"You're late," he says, not even turning around.

"You're alive," you shot back. "Color me shocked."

He stands. Turns. Smirks.

You ignore the twist in your stomach.

"You're in a mood," he notes, stepping onto the mat. "What'd I do now?"

You throw your bag to the side. "Breathe."

He chuckles. "Can't help that, doll."

You square up. He follows. His steps are slow, deliberate. He' s gauging you. He always does. Predicts your next move before you can even make it. You hate it. You crave it.

"Ready to get your ass handed to you again?" You ask.

"You gonna cry when I win this time?"

You lunge.

The fight isn't clean. It's fast. Brutal.

There's frustration under your skin- tight, pulsing- and you know he feels it too.

Every strike is sharper than it should be. Every block is harsher. You're both pissed. At each other. At yourselves. At whatever's been building for too long without breaking.

He grabs your arm mid-swing and twists.

You counter. Legs tangle. You both go down hard.

You land on top of him. Chest heaving.

Palms flat on his shoulders.

And he's smiling.

That same goddamn smile from the first day.

"Still think you can take me?" He pants, voice low and mocking.

Your hands tighten around his shirt. You glare. You hate him. You don't hate him. You want to scream.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you," you snarl.

And this time-

He doesn't smile.

He flips you.

Pins you.

And kisses you.

It's not gentle.

It's desperate.

It's everything you've bitten back in six months- every look, every word, every bruised morning when you touched the place he hit you and smiled because it meant you were worth fighting.

His hands are on your jaw, your waist, your hips. Your fingers tangle in his hair. You bite his lip and he growls. He presses closer, deeper, until you're sure the floor will split open under you.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless. Dazed.

"I warned you," he whispered.

You shove him off.

Then yank him back.

And kiss him again.

~~~~~

Hours pass.

Somehow, you make it out of the gym.

Somehow, you make it upstairs. To your room. To your bed. To his body warm and heavy against yours, tracing scars and biting laughter into your neck.

You don't sleep.

You talk.

He tells you about the nightmares. The guilt. The days he looks in the mirror and still expects to see blood.

You tell him about the pressure. The fear of letting people in. The reason you fight like your life depends on it- because once, it did.

When sleep finally finds you, you're tangled in sheets and each other.

And you're smiling.

~~~~~

The next morning, you wake up alone.

Your heart sinks.

But there's a note on your nightstand.

"Didn't want to wake you. Got called early. I'll see you at 7 sharp. Don't be late this time, smartass."

You smile.

It's your turn now.

"Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you."

You whisper it to the empty room.

And grin.

~~~~~

The note burns a hole in your nightstand all morning.

You read it five times. Memorize the way his handwriting slants, sharp and confident, like the man himself.

You're not late. You're early.

When he walks into the gym at 6:59, your arms are already crossed.

He sees you.

He smiles.

You almost punch him again just for the hell of it.

But instead, you say, "You left without saying goodbye."

He tosses his bag to the side. "Didn't want to wake you."

"I would've forgiven you."

He grins, stepping onto the mat. "You forgive me for kissing you?"

You raise a brow. "That depends."

"On what?"

"If you do it again."

His smile drops.

Then he crosses the mat in three steps, presses a hand to your waist, and kisses you like it's already been months since the first one.

You let him.

You let him take his time. Let him relearn your mouth, your breath, your heartbeat pressed to his chest like a promise.

When you finally break apart, the gym feels warmer. Brighter. Like something settled between you, the storm giving way to something quieter. Steadier.

You don't fight that day. Not with fists, anyway.

But the fire's still there. Always.

~~~~~

Later that week.

You're out on a recon mission. Standard procedure. Simple target. Easy in, easy out.

Until you trip a wire.

You manage to leap back just in time, narrowly avoiding a spike of shrapnel meant for your neck. It clips your shoulder instead. Burn, sting, sting. Nothing deep. Just a mark.

Still-

By the time you limp back to the quinjet, Bucky is pacing the loading ramp like a caged animal.

He sees the blood on your arm.

He snaps.

"Who did that?" He demands.

"Just a misstep."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Relax, Barnes, it's a scratch-"

"Don't tell me to relax when you walk into my sightline bleeding."

You pause. Stare.

"Your sightline?" You echo, pulse ticking.

His jaw is clenched. His fists, tighter.

The he says, voice low:

"I almost lost my mind when I saw you come through the trees. You weren't answering your comms. You weren't responding."

"I didn't-" you swallow. "The wire must've fried the mic. I wasn't ignoring you."

He shakes his head, stepping closer. "You don't get it," he says. "You never fucking get it. You matter now. You matter to me."

The silence that falls between you is thick. Heavy.

Then you whisper, "Try me."

And that's it.

He kisses you again, harder this time. More desperate. His metal hand on your jaw. Your fingers in his jacket. It's less about passion and more about please don't do that again.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged, he says it again:

"You matter to me."

This time, you believe him.

~~~~~

That night.

He doesn't take you back to your room.

He doesn't take you to his either.

He takes you to the roof.

You sit in the quiet. Side by side. Wrapped in a shared blanket. HIs hand brushes yours and you don't pull away.

Below, the city glows.

Above, the sky is clear. Stars like freckles. Familiar. Infinite.

"I hated you," you say softly.

"I know."

"You were arrogant."

"I was."

"And smug."

"That too."

You glance at him. "Still are."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "You still push my buttons."

You turn to him. "What happens now?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at you with something serious in his eyes. Not fear. Not regret.

Hope.

"Now," he starts, "we try."

Your throat tightens. "You sure?"

"No." He reaches for your hand. Threads your fingers together. "But I want to be."

You squeeze his hand. Hard. Grounding. Real.

"Okay," you whisper. "Then we try."

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feel like you're fighting anything.

Except maybe sleep.

~~~~~

You were never good at being vulnerable.

Neither was Bucky.

So maybe it's poetic that your first mission after becoming something more than biting insults and stolen kisses starts with both of you pretending you aren't terrified of what you might lose.

You're packing light. Comms, knives, a Glock, a couple of zip-ties. Enough to finish the job clean.

But Bucky's watching you like you're made of glass.

"Seriously," you matter, holstering your sidearm. "You're hovering."

"I'm not."

"You're literally standing in my light."

"I'm watching your six."

"We're in a hangar."

"Could be threats."

You raise an eyebrow. "Are the lockers gonna jump me?"

He doesn't smile. Just crosses his arms and says, "I didn't sleep last night."

You freeze. The zipper on your gear bag half-done.

"Why not?"

He looks away. "Had a dream. You didn't come back."

The air stills between you.

Quietly, you reach for his hand. Thread your fingers together. You press a kiss to the corner of his jaw and say:

"Then stay close."

~~~~~

The mission: Buenos Aires, Argentina

A weapons auction run by a Hydra offshoot.

You and Bucky are posing as buyers.

You're in a slit-legged silk dress, a thigh holster underneath. He's in a black suit with no tie, hair slicked back, expression unreadable.

You've never seen him like this.

But it's the way his hand lingers on your hip that lights a fuse beneath your skin.

"You're staring," you murmur as you scan the auction room, crowded with men in suits and women with clipped accents and greedy eyes.

"Can't help it."

You look up. "Because I'm hot?"

He smirks. "Because I know what's under that dress."

"Focus, Barnes."

"You started it."

~~~~~

Everything goes wrong at exactly 11:17 p.m.

Someone recognizes you. And ex-Hydra handler you left bleeding on a rooftop two years ago.

There's shouting. A gunshot. Then chaos.

You duck behind a table, return fire, heart hammering. The room's a blur of panic and smoke grenades.

Then you hear it:

"Y/N-!"

Bucky.

You spot him across the room, shielding you with his body as bullets ricochet off marble and glass. His eyes find you. Wild. Terrified.

"You okay?"

You nod. "You?"

He doesn't answer. Just pulls you into him and barrels toward the exit.

~~~~~

Outside, later.

You're bleeding. Again. Shoulder wound. Again.

"Of course it's your shoulder again," Bucky mutters as he presses gauze to the wound in the quinjet. "It's like a beacon for bullets."

You hiss through your teeth. "It's not that bad."

He glares. "You almost died."

"I didn't."

"Because I got to you in time."

You blink. His voice is raw. Quiet. Like it costs him something.

Then, softer: "I can't go through that again."

You say nothing. Just reach up and cradle his face with your good hand.

"Then don't let go."

He turns into your palm. "Promise me something," he whispers.

You nod.

"When this mission shit is over- when it's quiet again- I want you to stay."

"Stay where?"

"With me."

~~~~~

Two days later: Brooklyn. His apartment.

You've never been here.

It's small. Clean. Sparse. Like no one's lived in it for long.

You recognize the signs of someone who never planned to stay.

But then he lets you in.

He shows you the bookshelf. The record player. A photo of him and Steve, tucked behind a dog tag.

You linger at the window. "You really meant it?"

He nods, standing behind you.

"Stay?"

"Yeah."

"Even if I'm bad at this?"

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "So am I."

You lean back into him. "I want to try."

"You already are."

"Then keep me," you whisper.

And he does, right there in his arms.

[judeswhore]

i wna share gloves w jude :(

jude huffed a quiet laugh at the soft pout on your lips.

you were oblivious to his amusement, too focused on the store window in front of you as your gaze tracked the multitude of classic books on display, eyes snagging on the pink copy of little women every other second. he knew you wanted it, you'd mentioned it repeatedly in the last few weeks but he was hoping you weren't in the mood to treat yourself otherwise he'd be returning the one he'd bought you for christmas and swapping it for something else. he watched you rub your hands together for the hundredth time, his smile growing as your pout got a little worse, frown deepening because your fingers were freezing and he knew it even though you'd denied it for the past half an hour.

you were annoyingly stubborn sometimes and jude had warned you of the cold before you'd left the house, had told you to bring gloves because you'd freeze otherwise. but you'd argued you were fine without them, had been adamant it wasn't that cold and they were unnecessary. he knew you were regretting that now with the way you kept rubbing your hands together or tucking them under your armpits but you were too proud to admit you'd been wrong. you didn't want him to know he'd been right so for the past thirty minutes he'd been watching you struggle against the bite of the wind while pouting and glaring at everything around you.

"your fingers are gonna fall off, y'know." he mumbled in your ear, lips brushing the soft curve of it and he felt you startle at the sound of his voice, grinned at the hitch in your breath. he rocked back on his heels when you turned your head in his direction and frowned.

"what’re you on about?"

"your hands are freezing and if you don't let me warm them up your fingers are gonna fall off."

"my hands are fine," you argued, fingers wiggling as though to prove a point but he didn't miss the shiver that went through you with the action. "i don't need you to warm them up."

"you're a terrible liar, sweetheart. c'mere." jude reached out for you, caught at your hands before you could pull away and tugged you closer to him. his gasp was only a little over the top when he felt just how cold they were. "they're like ice!"

"they are not." you huffed and rolled your eyes, tried halfheartedly to tug out of his grip but jude knew he had you now. you'd felt the warmth of his hands and it had thawed your stubbornness a little although he knew you wouldn't give in without an argument. "i already told you i'm fine."

"and i already told you that you're a terrible liar. i've watched you pretend not to be freezing for the past half an hour and you're doing my head in. rubbing them together isn't really doing anything for you, is it?" he asked although he wasn’t really waiting for an answer. he cupped your hands between both of his and brought them up to his lips, held them close as he blew warm air against them. “i told you to bring gloves.”

“i didn’t need them.” you mumbled but you’d shifted even closer to him so you were pressed against his chest and he could feel the little shivers running through you. the crowd of people at the market bustled past the two of you but neither of you paid them much attention, too focused on each other to notice anything happening around you. despite your reluctance to admit defeat, the soft look in your eyes told jude you were grateful he was helping and the way you tried to get even closer to him suggested you were a lot colder than he’d even realised.

“stubborn girl.” he breathed the words against your fingers, pressed a feather light kiss to the tips of them before guiding them inside his half open coat. “keep ‘em there.” they pressed against his chest, curled into the fabric of his hoodie to seek more heat while jude tugged the glove off his right hand. “here, gimme your right hand.”

“jude, you don’t need-“

“give me your hand. mum’ll kill me if i let you get frostbite before christmas.” he gently coaxed your hands back out from his coat and carefully pushed your fingers into the glove that was much too big for you. it took him a few seconds of fiddling to make sure it was comfortably secure and then he grinned at you, knocked his own fingers beneath your chin and surprised you with a quick kiss to your equally as cold lips.

“thank you.” you whispered sheepishly, smile a little shy as you dipped your head to avoid his gaze. he simply shrugged, zipping his coat back up to the top.

“s’alright. i couldn’t take much more of that pout, honestly, you looked like a kicked puppy.” he snorted a laugh when you punched his arm, holding his hands up in mock surrender. your eyes flashed with amusement even when you shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging your lips up. jude admired you for a few seconds, took in the soft smile that made his heart skip a little before he wiggled the fingers of his gloveless hand so you’d slip your own into it. “d’you wanna go get hot chocolate?”

with your fingers now wrapped around his, he turned the two of you towards the crowd of people and started leading you through the thick of it. the contrast in heat between the two of you made him shiver a little, the air biting at his bare skin and he mumbled a quiet curse before stuffing your interlocked hands into his pocket to find a little more warmth. it drew you closer into his side, your shoulder brushing his arm and he felt your head fall softly against him.

“yes, please.” you squeezed his fingers. “can we sit inside somewhere? it might be a little bit colder than i thought.” you admitted and jude couldn’t stop his laugh as he turned and dropped a kiss to the top of your head, his next words muffled by your hair.

“stubborn. girl.”

[guppybibi]

part 2 to the johnny fic!

notes: this was pretty rushed,,,so it is fast paced..if u guys dont like this one i could always rewrite it! :3

taglist: @ennovi-9 @vvenus-child @msilwrites @tessakate @beatriceshadowmarvel2 @montenegroisr (for some reason i cant tag the others??) i'll try to do so in the comments

Grief was never an easy thing to heal from to begin with, so Simon has kept a close eye on you ever since. You refused to believe him at first, trying to pull out some sort of proof that you were with Johnny this past year but to your own shock, there was none. Not a singular one.

Luckily, Simon had a xerox copy of Johnny’s death certificate. The original copy was with you but it seems that it was burned to ashes based on the reaction you gave when Simon dangled it over your face.

But you really weren’t believing him, shielded in the denial you were holding tightly close to you. “Where’s the urn with half of his ashes then, eh?” Simon throws the question at you, his words unintentionally harsher than expected.

But he really doesn't get what you've been trying to convince him to believe, don't you remember spreading Soap’s ashes? He expected you to at least remember that part.

“The…what?” That was all you could manage to say right now, your voice failing you now of all times. “The urn with his ashes.” He repeats, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he intently watches your expression.

Simon starts to wonder how hard of a psychosis you went through, or if you ever took drugs after Johnny’s death. That would explain the hallucinations as well, there's no shame in it either. It's not unusual for someone to turn to substances during mourning, it's a common coping mechanism.

All Simon wants to focus on is you, for you to get better. Fuck Johnny for leaving you alone like this, the pitiful sight almost made Simon's face be a constant scowl.

Okay..maybe he was exaggerating but he’ll definitely throw a middle finger up to the sky later. Simon knows it'll probably make Johnny laugh his ass off…or worry. It really depends if he knew your current situation.

Either way, none of that stuff matters much. You have no choice but to be in Simon’s care.

He’s not quite sure what to do when you start crying into his chest the moment you two stepped into your house, no longer a home. He remains still, lightly patting you on the back as he guides you to the couch.

He’ll be here for a while, won't he?

~~~

It's been weeks since you've known about Johnny’s death, but the only thing Simon could notice was the lack of improvement.

You were rotting in bed, relying on Simon completely for you to do basic tasks. You spent most of the time crying and sleeping, an endless cycle that even made Simon feel like he was going crazy.

“C’mon, eat up, luv. I made you some soup. We're runnin’ out of groceries as well, wanna tag along later?” He offers, holding up the spoon full of soup to your mouth. Expectedly, with a disinterested look, you turn your back on him.

He sighs, putting the bowl aside. “Alright, I won't make you go but the offer is still up.” He says, pausing when he hears footsteps get closer and closer to the door.

It's…weirdly familiar. Simon could recognize people based off of their footsteps alone, but he simply couldn't place his finger on this one. As it got nearer, you seemed to notice it as well..

The two of you make questioning looks at each other. “Stay there, I’ll go check it out.” Simon stood up, making his way to the door until a certain someone pops out.

“Bonnie? Ye there? Git us some groceries.”

…Another shared look between you and Simon.

“Oh good, there yer are, lass. Simon? You're here too? Glad there's another set of hands then.”

Simon’s gaze moved to you, seeing your eyes water up with tears. But that wasn't what caught his attention, it was the hole through this…Johnny’s head.

[autumnalmoons]

Your late-night company (nsfw, mdni, +18 only)

It's smut bc I'm a horny bitch (lovingly), and because I want him to split me in half--I know he can, like c'mon

Viktor x fem!Reader | 2.1K

Notes: PWP, Established relationship, set kinda between act 1 and act 2, Vaginal Fingering, Innapropiate use of Viktor's cane (sorryyyy), Dom!Viktor if you squint, Cockwarming, Nipple play, English isn't my native language so lemme know if i messed up somewhere :)

Ever since he could hear the echo of your heels reverberate around the lab like a second heartbeat, Viktor knew you were onto something—and such rhythm makes his heart pick up speed too, though Viktor’s faster than each one of your carefree strides against the dark marble floor.

You go, smooching his cheek and surely leaving a pink mark on your lipstick. Not that he minds, of course, he's used to leaving his loving marks on you, too, and even now, he can see the now purplish hickey down your collarbone that you’ve been trying to veil with a silk scarf.

“What brings you here, my darling?” Viktor hums, unconsciously seeking your lips. Is that pink lipstick the one that tastes like cherry? He’s a man of science, he’s ought to investigate.

“Nothing much. I came to bring you home,” you say, hugging his slender frame from behind, your chin hooked in the crook of his shoulder, just over his back brace. “I miss my Vitya so, so much…”

Viktor shivers, trying to ground himself in the domestic, seemingly innocent gesture of a kiss over your temple. "I miss you, too, my jewel. Alas, Progress Day is in a couple of weeks, and we need to have everything ready in case a mishap happens.” He sighs, thick brows furrowing in focus. “As usually does.”

You nod. Of course, you understand that his work is a priority, but you also have a good memory; of those two past days when you went to sleep alone. There are those familiar purple bags under his eyes, only darker.

“Hmm, alright,” you say, massaging his scalp for a bit before wandering around the lab. “Then allow me to make you company. This place is filthy, handsome.”

“Chaos potentiates creativity.”

Your chuckle reverberates around the lab, which causes Viktor to lift his chin a little higher, how easily he can make you happy.

He turns back toward his desk, hearing you going toward the closet supply to get a feathery duster, mumbling a song under your breath as you hop around cleaning surfaces and wiping down machinery with a piece of cloth.

It's only a matter of time before your plan starts, and you have calculated it just as perfectly as Viktor's equations; using your knowledge of the man next to you, his existence is the most amazing creation you've seen—much to Viktor's attempts to surpass it with his machines.

You dust off the drawer next to his desk, ‘accidentally’ knocking off one of the pens tossed over the wooden surface, further down against the wall. "Oops!" you say in your best role of an actress, which isn't that good, only for him to look your way.

The floor is cold as you brush it with your fingers, a fine layer of dust and carbon covering it. One of the windows must be open because you can feel the cold autumn wind brushing under your mischievously short skirt, one of Viktor's favorites, right against your already wet folds that the underwear you chose today isn't meant to cover.

You want him to see. Swaying your hips playfully the moment you feel his gaze burn your back.

Over the purring of the machines, you hear his air leave in a sharp inhale.

Between not wearing panties at all, you choose ones made of black lace and cute, little black ribbons decorating the most… enticing areas. The cloth down your pussy was too small, and you had to choose or covering your clit, or covering your core—which of course, you choose the eager bundle of nerves, so Viktor could see you all wet and glistening for him.

Smiling, you push the pen further down his desk, a soft—very inappropriate—groan escaping your lips, copying my memory of one of the sounds you made every time his cock presses that special spot inside of you.

“I liked that pen a lot,” Viktor mutters, though you can hear the smirk in his voice.

By now, you have no idea where that damned pen had gone. “I’m sure I can make it up for you about that,” you say, knees bending slightly, so your pussy can open a little. Only if he ever tries to play the oblivious.

A chair squeaked, and it’s impossible not to start imagining Viktor’s lithe fingers caressing the curve of your ass. Instead, you got the cold metal of his cane’s handle.

“Ah!” He chuckled at hearing your surprised gasp.

“Is that disappointment I hear, my jewel? Or just cold?” He hums, dragging the handle along the folds of your pussy until it brushes your entrance, only the tip. “You’re all dressed up for me. And I wonder… why is that, hmm?” he says, the tip of the cane playing between your folds. “Is it because you’d like to ‘keep me company’?”

“I never told you how I planned to accompany you," You mutter, feeling your legs starting to shake as the cold metal meets your boiling core, thinking that you were about to melt.

“Use your words, darling. If you’re so eager.”

There is a certain edge to his words, the hoarse tone around his R replacing the usual soft tone he uses to whisper to you when you two aren’t in the privacy of your bedroom.

“I… I thought you may need… um…” you say, voice lost with each playful movement of his cane in and out your entrance; barely some inches in, but moving it just right thanks to the exhaustive research Viktor had conducted ever since he caught you with that vibrator. Little by little, your arousal warms the metal, and you wonder if Viktor can feel it, too. “Relaxing.”

“Relaxing? My, I’d say this is rather… distracting,” he chuckles, the wheels of his stool coming closer as you hold your hands against your burning thighs. “A pleasant one, of course, but still a distraction.”

“Oh? Then do I deserve a punishment?” You try your best to quip, though your voice quivers mid-sentence.

There’s barely a heartbeat of silence, and then:

“Bend over the desk,” he says, voice stern. You could almost picture him in one of the Academy’s auditoriums giving a lecture in that tone, absolute, bossy. He knows it, of course. He knows you, after all, just like any of inventions, he had spent several hours studying you. Loving you.

Your walls squeeze nothing at the words, but the light from the descending dusk is enough for him to see it.

“Hmm,” Viktor says. “I wonder how you’ve been pleasing yourself these days that I haven’t returned home, my jewel.”

You attempt to roll over—you want to see him, because he looked just so unfairly stunning with his brown hair stuck to his temples, beads of sweat running down his chest as he bit his lip as seeing you just so shamelessly needy for him, trying to contain himself just a little longer...

He pushes your back down the desk, pinching your butt once he catches you trying to turn your head to see him.

“Oh, no, no, my love. If you are going to distract me, then you must accept the consequences.” He bends down, biting your earlobe before nuzzling his nose down your neck, taking in the sweet essence of your clothes, of your hair, the same one he could always smell on his pillow. The mix of his shampoo makes his grasp on your hips tighten.

You whine, pouted lips parting in a breathless moan when he introduces the handler of his cane inside of you, his thumb lazily rubbing circles on your clit, first clockwise, and then in the contrary direction once he feels your walls starting to contract, ushering your orgasm away.

The wet sounds of the handle coming in and out your soaked cunt fills the lab, Viktor’s stool creaking as he re-position. From the sound of his pants unbuckling, you think you know what he’s doing that needed such a good grip on his seat.

“I wonder if you’d take me as well,” he mumbles, your wet sounds mixed with a new one that could only be Viktor starting to jack off from the view of you. "All those toys and they can't replace me.” He uses his left knee to part your legs even wider, his free hand making a wrinkled mess of your skirt, just above your hips.

You huff, fingers white from grabbing the edge of the desk. “As if I’ve ever disappointed you.”

Viktor chuckles, pinching your clit slightly before letting go. The emptiness fills you when he withdraws his cane, though the narrow length is soon replaced by the thick head of his cock rubbing against your entrance.

“Mmmm,” you hum, satisfied. Your hips buckle against him, trying to take him inside of you in one thrust.  Sadly, Viktor’s punishment for keeping him away from his duties was never.-ending teasing.

Viktor caresses the curve of your ass, his hands going to brush the outline of your hips and waist until his chest is against your back once again, his big length teasing through your folds without actually giving you what you want—and yet, you know you could finish off with only this. Would he be so cruel, though?

“Come here,” he mutters against your ear, sliding a hand around your waist, and pushing you down the seat with him.

You hiss, feeling the quick buckle of his hips as his cock burrows deep inside of you, twitching at the welcoming, wet warmth of your walls. His hands take you by the hips to stop you from starting to ride him.

“Shhh, shhh. Patience, my love,” Viktor coos, nuzzling his face in the side of your neck as he bites a trail of kisses toward your shoulder, fingers gently pulling down one end of the scarf, brushing slowly down your shoulders to reveal the quite generous cut in your neckline.

Humming, approbatory, Viktor returns to his desk, with a firm grip around your waist to keep you still.

He kisses your cheek, putting his cane against the wall. The metal glistens, soaked with your juices against the reddish hue of the dying sunlight.

His right hand pushes your legs open, tangling your legs against the desk to keep them open when his fingers slide down your stomach, fingers lazily rubbing your clit.

Closing your eyes, your head lolls against his shoulder, letting him take your lips in a kiss that lets you taste the bitterness of the coffee he has just drank to keep himself awake during the night.

His tongue passes along your bottom lip, and it’s indeed that cherry-flavored lipstick, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as the hand grabbing your hip raises to grab your breasts when he grows needy, too.

“Vitya…” you moan, voice muffled as he kisses you again.

“My favorite blouse,” Viktor says, tugging down the smock of the front so he could see your lacy black bra. “So easy to access.”

You smile, hips gently swaying side to side against his lap each time he strokes your clit.

Viktor’s fingers work masterfully inside your bra, rubbing your nipple as your hands frantically undo the clip of your top so he can push the bra away.

It’s too much. Between his playful nibbles down your neck, the slow circles drawn on your clit, his fingers pinching your nipples and rubbing them to make the little peaks soft again even his cock filling you, although still, is enough to push you through the edge of pleasure. Legs shiver as your mouth stutters a moan, letting out a cry that Viktor drowned with his mouth.

“We can’t let the guards know what we’re doing, don’t you think, my jewel?”

“Why… why not?” you pant, kissing the mole peeking above his shirt’s collar. “My boyfriend fucks me so good,” you giggle.

Viktor smiled, his cock twitching at your lewd words. Your walls keep squeezing him, greedily wanting to be soaked with his cum.

"I haven't yet today," Viktor hums, deep in thought, kissing your sweaty brow. “Let me finish revising this blueprint, and we’ll go home.”

You pout, but only another heated kiss is necessary to make you respond:

“Okay,” you say, all doe-eyed now that you’re satisfied. Momentarily, of course. And that you had convinced him to go home. “But only this one blueprint. Or I’ll bite you.” You try to stand up, Viktor’s hand yanking you back between his legs before his cock could sleep out from your pussy.

“I never said you could move, my love,” Viktor says, squeezing your hips playfully. “I’d take you can be a good girl while I finish my work?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Viktor chuckles, his free hand starts to rub your overstimulated clit once again. His other hand quickly drops his pen to reach the bottom drawer of his desk, where you can see the outline of the vibrator Viktor keeps there ‘just in case’. “I suppose I just have to tire you up, then.”

[vettelsvee]

GOODBYES ARE BITTERSWEET | Sebastian Vettel ✩₊˚.⋆ PART 2: LOVING HIM WAS RED [PREVIOUS PART] [NEXT PART]

goodbyes are bittersweet masterlist f1 masterlist | ao3 | requests or let's talk!

ferrari sebastian vettel x ex gf!female reader

word count: 3972

summary: seb, after not knowing about her for almost five years, finds out that y/n just went viral on youtube after posting a song that might be written about him

warnings: settled on april 2018 and narrated on seb's pov. curse words, mentions of sex and one night stands. apart from that, just a little bit of background story from seb and reader's relationship

taglist: [@saltycomicsanimalssalad @hc-dutch @mycenterfold @simplyamberj @spitesfvl-blog @jaydaaasworld @lottalove4evelyn @zoeyjadetice2010 @nhfls @jehun @ferralari @cosmoscoffeee @mcmuppet @myescapefromthislife ]

a/n: i know i'm supposed to be posting oscar fics but migraine is killing me today (been quite stressed for the past few days i believe). in the meantime, as i already had it written, here you have part 2 of goodbyes are bittersweet! hope you liked it as much as you liked part 1 (even if it's a bit different). part 3 coming tomorrow if you want so? PLEASE let me know your thoughts and opinions in comments! feedback is appreciated, as well as reblogs <3

© VETTELSVEE (2024). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

2018 April 27th Baku, Azerbaijan

Sebastian

I woke up as soon as I felt the sun’s rays hitting me in the face, and at the same moment I noticed a surprisingly strange warmth next to me, in bed.

I looked at my phone and saw that it was already half-past seven in the morning. Not only had I realized that my alarm hadn’t gone off and I had overslept by an hour and a half, but it was also Y/N’s birthday.

Like every year, there was no response from her to the email I had scheduled to be sent at midnight. 

After almost five years of knowing the bare minimum about her and having seen her a couple of times from afar in Heppenheim, I knew why, deep down, I kept doing it. I still loved her as much as the first day, or even more. I hoped for a reunion where we could tell each other about our lives and start a simple friendship as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t chosen to leave my life and act like she didn’t know me.

I decided to turn over to see what was getting closer and closer to me, almost pushing me off the bed. It wasn’t hard to find myself face to face with blue eyes that were not the green ones I had dreamed of that night.

Suddenly, memories from just a few hours ago started to form in my mind. A few beers I shouldn’t have had at a local pub just because I wanted to escape the blurry memory of Y/N were responsible for me meeting this charming young woman with a wonderful smile.

My head couldn’t piece together how we ended up here, but I suppose her insistence, my invitation for her to accompany me to the hotel, and possibly a taxi ride I paid for were the final results of the goal to escape reality. 

This had been my routine since I realized my ex-girlfriend wasn’t coming back into my life. I didn’t like being this way, and although I had tried to find a stable partner, kindness, fun and a temporary refuge had been the best way to try to forget Y/N Y/L/N, who always found a way to slip into my thoughts at the least expected moment.

I quickly got out of bed and, almost without thinking and without needing to undress, jumped into the shower and did my best to let the warm water make me forget everything I had allowed to happen the night before. I closed my eyes and let myself go as much as I could. I tried to organize my thoughts and find the easiest possible way out of the problem I had gotten myself into, but it was impossible to find one that worked.

I got out of there faster than I would have liked. When I returned to the room, with just the towel wrapped around my waist, leaving my entire torso exposed, I found the person I had been avoiding at all costs.

The brunette was already stretching in bed, dawdling and, surely, not wanting to leave.

“Would you mind leaving?”

My rhetorical question made her just look at me in surprise, her eyes still sleepy.

“Why, Seb? Can’t we spend the day together? I could go with you to the paddock and repeat what we did last night in your room or whatever you call it,” she suggested with a playful smile. “You know as well as I do that it would be fun.”

I felt a knot forming in my stomach at her suggestion. It wasn’t that I hadn’t enjoyed her company or was forbidden to do so, but the simple fact of knowing who was turning thirty today, and that this exact proposal was something I used to do with her...

“I don’t think it’s a good idea...” 

Damn, I didn’t remember her name.

“Alessia.”

“That’s it, Alessia,” I confirmed. “You know how these things are and what it could mean for us to be seen together. We could meet another day as... friends.”

Neither my response nor hers were what the other expected. After hearing her name, I remembered the brief introduction she gave me: a musician just starting out and a member of a highly successful Italian orchestra.

An Italian version of Y/N and, unfortunately for me and possibly the blonde, a successful one.

“The way you moaned my name last night so many times is not something friends usually do. You made me feel special last night. A lot, in fact.” 

“I’m sorry, Alessia, that wasn’t what I meant,” I clarified, my cheeks blushing slightly at her statement. “I hope you enjoyed what we did last night, but it’s time for you to get dressed and go back to your hotel or wherever you’re staying. I have to go to work,” I added, trying not to succumb to her obvious charms. 

After several more attempts to convince me, the girl finally resigned herself and reluctantly accepted my suggestion. I felt uncomfortable when she threw off the sheets and began to gather her clothes, completely naked. I felt even worse as I watched her slow and deliberate movements, as if she were prolonging the inevitable farewell and trying to arouse me. 

I bit my lip and refrained from doing or saying anything when she asked for help zipping up her dress. I could have said no, but I didn’t want to seem rude, especially considering that the time I spent with her had made me feel just as I had with my ex-girlfriend. 

Once we were finished, the Italian approached me with determination. Before I could react, her lips sought mine with clear intention. I instinctively turned my face, causing the kiss to land on my cheek instead of my lips. 

“Alessia…” 

What could I say in a situation like this? Did she deserve the hurt I was going to cause her even though we had only had a night of wild sex, like so many others I had had with other girls? 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured hastily, looking away. “I thought… you know, that we could have something more than just a one-night stand.”

My heart sank at her words, and as I had already foreseen, because it always happened in these cases, guilt overwhelmed me. 

I knew I had been unfair to her by allowing this to happen, by letting her believe there could be something more between us, and that the problem was hers when the only one to blame was me, who hadn’t gotten over the love of my life after four years, now closer to five, of no contact. 

“Alessia, you’re an incredible person,” I began to say, trying to find the right words and not hurt her more, “but right now, all I want to focus on is my work and working on myself. It wouldn’t be fair for you to be part of all this and end up getting hurt.”

“I understand,” she said softly, nodding with a sadness that, although expected, still surprised me. “Thank you for letting me spend this night with you, Sebastian.”

I felt overwhelmed and at the same time a great mixture of relief and remorse as I watched her leave without even looking back. 

When enough time had passed to be sure I wouldn’t run into her, I went down to the hotel lobby still feeling that heaviness invading me. I tried to shake off all of them, but as soon as I saw Britta standing in front of the entrance, arms crossed and with an angry look fixed on me, I knew it was going to be difficult. 

“Sebastian, again?” she asked, full of frustration. 

“Yes, and I’m not going to apologize for something I don’t regret,” I replied sincerely, knowing there was no way to avoid the upcoming conversation. 

“Are you going to keep playing this game much longer?” she reproached as she quickened her pace, trying not to cause too much of a scene or draw attention. “You’ve gone longer than I’d like to say without settling down.” 

“I will when I get tired of sleeping with girls I don’t know, I suppose. Having sex is good for health, you know? Be thankful I don’t cause you many problems after these nights.” 

Britta sighed, and I knew my response was making her lose the little patience she had left. 

“I know you didn’t ask for my opinion, but I think what would make you tired of sleeping with strangers almost every Grand Prix week would be to have some kind of interaction with Y/N.” 

The mention of the blonde’s name made the wave of emotions I had tried to bury for years resurface, hitting me suddenly. 

“You know I can’t do that. It’s impossible. I’ve tried, but she doesn’t want to cooperate.” 

“You should at least try once again, at least. I know there’s nothing, nor anyone, who can change her mind,” and it was true. Y/N was the most stubborn person, for better or worse, that I had ever met in my life. “But I also know that if you keep avoiding facing your feelings and trying to forgive yourself for what happened, you’ll never find the peace you’re not only wishing for but also deserving of.” 

“I know, Britta, but…” 

“But what, Sebastian? It’s just that…” 

“Have you ever heard of the invisible string theory?” 

She raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the change of subject and possibly for not letting her finish. She slowed her pace, and for the first time in the short time we had been together that day, I felt calm and even understood. 

“Yes, I’ve heard something about that,” she said after a few seconds that felt eternal. “What does that have to do with getting over your ex-girlfriend?”

“Well, everything, really,” I declared. “Y/N and I dated, if you can even call it that, for ten days during Christmas of ’99. She was 11, and I was 12, and I was a bit stupid because I ended up breaking up with her when I fell for a classmate who had just moved to Heppenheim and who eventually started dating my cousin.” 

“But…”

“Then Y/N and I became friends again,” I continued, trying not to let her interrupt my impromptu speech, “and it took six years until she told me she loved me. I didn’t want to admit my feelings and decided that not talking to her for four months was the best, not even to offer my condolences after her grandmother’s death… And look, in the end, I asked her to go out with me!”

My PR sighed, possibly tired of hearing that story once again, a story I never got tired of telling because sometimes reality was weirder than fiction.

“I’m going to tell you what I’ve always told you since Y/N left, and I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it: you’re still clinging to the hope that everything will go back to how it was, even though you know it’s not possible,” she said without a hint of doubt. “Even if you ran into her and had a deep conversation, your lives have changed. At least yours has, and I’m sure hers has too.”

“I mentioned the invisible string theory because I feel like there’s something else. I feel, besides there being something unknown that ties us together for some reason, that the third time's the final one,” I finally confessed.

My confession seemed to have caught her off guard. Now, she slowed, and she was passing her accreditation to enter the paddock much more slowly than she usually did.

Maybe she was right, that I was holding on too tightly to the hope that everything would go back to how it was before, but I had been dreaming about Y/N again for many nights after months without doing so. It had never happened before, but the last few days had felt like she had never left my life and had always been there, just apart.

The last time I had that feeling it ended with me seeing her from a distance playing with a little girl she was probably babysitting to earn some extra money.

Obviously, I didn’t dare to approach her because she seemed... happy. Quite happy, actually.

“I’d like to keep talking about this, but I want you to stop thinking about Y/N, at least for a few hours, and focus on today,” my PR’s change in tone let me know she was serious. “We have a lot to do.”

“Then enlighten me, master.”

“First, you have a meeting with the team to discuss possible strategies for practice and what might work for tomorrow’s qualifying,” the blonde began to explain, taking out her planner and going over the day’s schedule. “Then I think you have an interview with SkySports with Nico Rosberg, and maybe a talk for a collaboration with a brand, but I have to check that again.”

“What time am I supposed to meet with the engineers?”

“Around nine-thirty, but...”

I yawned, not bothering to cover my mouth as my PR continued talking. The heaviness in my eyelids was getting worse, and I felt the exhaustion from the previous night starting to take its toll. I looked at my phone and saw that, unfortunately, it was only eight-fifteen.

Was the day going by that slowly?

“Understood,” I replied, pretending I had been paying attention to everything Britta had said. “By the way, do you mind if I go to my driver’s room to have some rest?”

“Sebastian...”

“I had a fantastic night,” I admitted, causing her to cross her arms and once again look at me with a stern expression, “but I didn’t sleep at all, and if I want to perform well, I need to sleep at least for a bit.”

“You have forty-five minutes at most,” the blonde snapped. “Don’t you dare be late, or we’ll have problems. Set your alarm and make sure your phone is on in case someone calls you.”

It won’t be Y/N, that’s for sure.

“I will, don’t worry.”

I left Britta after exchanging a few more words with her and hurried as much as I could. With every step I took, I felt more tired. I knew I should have slept at least six hours, but I succumbed to the temptation last night to, why not say it, have a good time and, as was more than obvious and had become routine since 2014, try to succeed in the mission of forgetting Y/N on her birthday.

Another year, it had been impossible.

I didn’t know if it was due to lack of sleep or lack of attention, but the voices around me seemed increasingly distant. The only thing I could hear as I walked through the pit lane was a growing murmur where the words “viral” and “song” seemed to be the main topics, especially from the mouths of Max, Daniel, and I’d swear Charles.

“Have you heard this song?” I heard Verstappen say. I stopped when the first piano chords began to play. “It’s like a pandemic; it’s everywhere.”

“I don’t know who the girl singing is, but she’s incredibly talented,” Ricciardo continued. “Do we know who...?”

“You don’t know if it’s a girl!” Leclerc reproached, hitting the Australian on the arm. “What if it’s a guy with a high voice?”

I laughed at the younger guys' antics, wondering if my former teammates saw me that way when I was their age.

Losing him was blue like i’d never known Missing him was dark gray all alone Forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met Cos’ loving him was red

If my eyes were almost closing automatically, after hearing the chorus, or whatever it was called, it felt like I had taken an energy drink that had woken me up.

The moment that voice, both raspy and sweet at the same time, penetrated my ear, my hair stood on end. Its familiarity was incredible… but no, it couldn't be her. It was impossible.

"God damn, who can play the piano while singing?" 

"I have two questions," Daniel blurted out, ignoring Charles' words. "The first one is who the fuck it could be, and the second is how the hell they've gotten so much attention out of nowhere."

It's Y/N, who else could it be, I thought.

I tried to control all kinds of thoughts that were running through my head. I knew my ex-girlfriend's voice perfectly, and the one coming from the Dutchman's phone was quite similar to hers.

"Maybe it's a marketing strategy. At least that's what Fernando thinks," Max always had the Spaniard's name in his mouth. "What if it's a marketing strategy by some record label? It could be a plan to generate interest in an artist or a song."

"I highly doubt it. If they wanted to do that, the YouTube account wouldn't be named 151206010614."

Lewis appeared next to me out of nowhere. Quickly taking off his headphones, he also unplugged them from his phone, letting the song play at full volume.

"Seb, are you okay?" insisted the Brit.

"Yes, yes. I was just a bit distracted," I hurried to say.

He didn't seem very satisfied with my answer, but I didn't care. The only thing I was thinking about at that moment was how much I wanted to get to the hospitality area, and how much I wanted to take a micro-nap at this point.

"Are you also distracted thinking about that anonymous person?"

"I can't be distracted by someone I know nothing about other than what I've heard from them," I replied, pointing to the three drivers who were still engrossed in the conversation about the topic.

"I've managed to hear a bit, yes," replied the dark-haired one. "I think I understand music a little more than they do. I'm almost sure it has nothing to do with a record label, and that someone simply uploaded it without any expectations. And look how it went from them."

I looked at him intrigued, understanding little to nothing of what he was saying.

"Since you look confused, I'll explain a bit," Hamilton continued, realizing that I didn't seem to understand much. "It seems they uploaded this song, which happens to be called Red, to YouTube," he hit play and put it on again, now from the beginning, "It seems to be about a failed relationship, but no one knows who sings it or what the real story behind it is."

"Does no one really know anything?" I insisted, finding the situation very strange.

Why was the voice only familiar to me? Could it be because today was Y/N's birthday, and everything reminded me of her much more than usual?

"The only thing we know is that the song is wonderful. Really, I don't know who’s behind this, but if they discover that girl, if it is a girl, and give her a chance, I’m almost sure she can achieve great things."

We decided to move a bit further down the pit lane, exchanging a few words with those we met. Lewis kept talking about the song. I couldn't stop thinking and analyzing the melody, the lyrics, the voice, and especially the user. I knew there was something hidden behind that combination of numbers, and now the priority of sleeping a bit before the first free practice session had taken a back seat.

I tried all possible combinations. Numbers from front to back, in pairs, trios, and even quartets, but nothing seemed to convince me. While the melody of Red continued to resonate from the Mercedes driver's iPhone, my mind kept trying to get the information because something inside me, which was nothing like the feeling I had every April 27th, knew it was Y/N.

I managed to come up with the supposed answer shortly after, recalling some of the important dates for us. If I divided the username into three different sections, with two pairs of numbers each, the first one corresponded to June 15th, 2006.

That was the day I asked Y/N to be my girlfriend. 

If that was right, the second pair of numbers corresponded to January 12th, 2014. I was no longer dating Y/N at that time, but I knew her perfectly, and not to brag, but I was convinced that date must be extremely important to her if it was alongside our anniversary.

I wish I could know what it is that about.

“Are you listening to me?”

Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes

Tell myself it's time now, gotta let go

But moving on from him is impossible

When I still see it all in my head

In burning red

I ignored Lewis after hearing, for the first time paying extremely attention, that bridge. 

Somehow, the song described my feelings perfectly, and I didn’t know why I felt that way. I couldn’t let go of Y/N, not when she had been, and still was, the love of my life. 

I entered WhatsApp almost automatically and went into Y/N's profile. She had no profile picture, but I knew perfectly well that it was her because her contact was still saved with the same name. I quickly wrote to her that I knew it was her hiding behind the song and that somehow, I knew she was talking about me. 

I saw Britta approaching us quickly. She was also engrossed in her phone, her fingers constantly moving over it. I didn’t pay much attention to her because once I showed my desperation to Y/N, I moved on to conveying it to Hanna, trying to convince her to reveal that it was her best friend. 

“Seb, we need to talk,” Roeske hurried to say, almost out of breath. Her gaze was still fixed on her device.

“Britta, I can’t right now, I’m sending…”

“Sebastian Vettel, this is serious.”

When she yanked the phone from my hands and I made eye contact with her, I assumed things didn’t seem to be going very well. The moment she turned her gaze to Lewis and he walked away, patting me on the shoulder, I knew.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, quite angry. “Why are you acting like a neurotic who seems to have lost a million euros on a ridiculous bet?”

“I don’t want you to answer anything related to that song that went viral, Red. I’m telling you, Sebastian, don’t you dare answer anything about that damn song.”

And again, this was another sign that happened to make me feel like I hadn’t gone crazy.

“Sebastian, trust me,” Britta remained firm in her expression, crossing her arms. “I don’t want you to get into trouble because the song was uploaded by…”

“Y/N.”

I saw the answer in her eyes. I knew her and knew she longed to answer me and at the same time, she didn’t. 

Britta knew that, but I also had the feeling she seemed to want to hide something.

“It’s her the one singing, right?” I insisted, but she didn’t answer. “Britta, please: tell me.”

I was desperate, and it was more than obvious. A sigh and a few seconds filled with uncertainty preceded her response:

“If you already know, why do you ask me? You know the sunshine of your life, as you still call her, much better than I do. Of course it’s Y/N,” she revealed, lifting a great weight off my shoulders and, above all, making me believe I could have faith in the future.

[chimcess]

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 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.

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.”

© chimcess, 2025. Do not copy or repost without permission.

Taglist: @fancypeacepersona @ssbb-22 @mar-lo-pap @sathom013 @kimyishin

[demigodsanswer]

I would definitely love to read about Percabeth being a first time parent, how overwhelming it can be when the baby (Sophie) won't stop crying and you don't know why.

some asks have got me thinking about clarisse, so have some chill, genuinely friendly and helpful older clarisse, here to help percabeth

~

They'd tried everything.

The burping. The feeding. Bath time. Story time. Bouncing. Laying down. Sleeping in the crib. Sleeping in the bed. Percy had even tried doing what he could remember of the Solja Boy dance, which did seem to confuse Sophia enough that she stopped crying for about four seconds. But then she picked right back up again.

It wasn't stopping. Their daughter had woken up fussy, and after a diaper change and feeding, she'd started crying, and hadn't stopped for, by Percy's best guess, four and a half years.

"How long has it been?" Percy asked.

"One hour, thirteen minutes, and fifty-nine seconds," Annabeth said, bouncing Sophia in her arms, trying to sooth her.

"I'm texting my mom," Percy decided.

He expected Annabeth to push back, to insist that she could figure out what was wrong with her baby on her own. But she just nodded, too tired, and maybe too overwhelmed to do anything but agree.

Percy What do you do when the baby won't stop crying but nothing's wrong?

And then, he had another idea.

He copy and pasted the text, and sent it off to Clarisse.

If he'd told twelve year-old him that the girl who'd shoved his head in the toilet would become a close adult friend, he wouldn't have believed it. He still didn't really believe it. But they taught at the same school now, and (at least, pre-baby) she and Annabeth went bouldering together on weekends. Even weirder, she had three kids of her own. They were all loud, sticky, chaos junkies who tried to steal Percy's wallet for fun, but Percy liked them. They were cool little kids.

His mom texted back first:

Sally If she doesn't have a fever, you might just have to wait it out. She'll get tired eventually.

Not the thing Percy wanted to tell Annabeth, who's hair seemed to be getting taller and more frizzy as her stress levels grew.

"Here," Percy said, holding out his arms to take Sophia from her. "Lay down in the bedroom for a minute," Percy said. Sophia was only three weeks old. Annabeth was still dealing with post-partum bleeding, adjusting to breast feeding, and hardly sleeping the same as him.

Annabeth handed Sophia over without complaint, and flopped back onto the bed, a hand over her eyes.

Percy stepped out of the room and felt his phone buzz.

Clarisse Want me to help?

That was the worst possible thing she could have said. Maybe they were friends, drinking buddies, coworkers. But have Clarisse help him with his own kid? That was insane.

Percy didn't text her back. He just went back to trying to calm Sophia down. He even let Max, their beagle, try to help by licking her little feet.

Max was not much help.

Someone knocked on the door. Percy stood, Sophia in his arms, and looked through the peep hole.

Clarisse.

She only lived a few floors below them in the same demigod-safe building. War heroes didn't have to pay rent.

"I've got this under control," Percy said, opening the door and letting her in.

"Doesn't sound like it," Clarisse pointed out. She held out her hands, waiting for something.

Percy got defensive, and held onto Sophia. "Fuck off," he said. He said they were friends, he didn't say they were nice to each other.

"Don't be a bitch about it," she said. "You know what you do when she won't stop crying?" Clarisse asked.

Percy looked at her, hoping she knew where this girl's off button was. "What?"

"Hand her to someone else," Clarisse said. "Let me take care of her for a bit. Go lay down. Where's blondie?"

"Laying down," Percy said quietly. "I made her hand her over to me so she could take a break." Percy realized his confession put him in a pretty indefensible position. And sleep did sound great. "Okay, if you're sure," he said, handing Sophia over.

"I am," Clarisse said, cradling the still crying baby in her arms. His daughter's head looked like a tomato. "They teach you how to use a spear yet, kid? It's alright, I'll get you up to speed," Clarisse joked to the baby.

"Har har," Percy said. "She'll be hungry again in like an hour. I'll be out to feed her."

"Bottles in the fridge?" Clarisse asked.

"Yeah, some, and some formula."

"Then just get some sleep. I'll grab you if anything is wrong," Clarisse said.

"What?" Percy asked.

"I'm babysitting for you, dumbass. Get some sleep." And then her tone softened a bit. "No one can handle this all with just two people. I'm serious, get some sleep."

If she was being nice, actually, really nice, then he must look worse than he thought.

"Okay," he agreed. "Now, be nice, mind your manners."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Clarisse said.

"I was talking to you," Percy said, before making the confusing and baffling choice to leave his baby with his middle school bully. The choice seemed less confusing when he saw Annabeth already asleep. He got into bed, mumbled something to her about Clarisse being there, and drifted off next to her.

~

Sometimes babies really did cry for no reason. But she realized fast that this baby was crying because she was gassy. Clarisse laid Sophia on her back and moved her legs to get her hips and belly moving. Within seconds she was farting up a storm.

"Does that feel better?" Clarisse asked.

Sophia responded by scrunching up her face and doing a lot more than just farting. It went up the back. Total nightmare. But nothing unfamiliar.

Clarisse just tossed the white onesie out. It was beyond saving and not worth it.

Their little nursery was picture perfect. Pink and yellow walls with bunny rabbits painted on them, white furniture, hung and folded cute little outfits, neat bins of diapers and whips, in locations optimized for quick changes ... It was cute.

"Your mom knows how to put together a space," Clarisse said, wiping Sophia down with baby wipes. "I bet clean ups like these are easy for your dad." She wasn't crying any more, just staring at her with those big green eyes. "Your his, no doubt. Not that there would be. But you know how the gods can be sometimes ..."

Redressed in a new onesie, Clarisse picked her up and sat in the rocking chair -- plush, white, with a little fabric pocket over the side full of baby books.

"I hope you appreciate all this," Clarisse said, popping a pacifier into her mouth. "Second babies never get anything this nice."

Sophia didn't respond, but Clarisse felt like she at least understood.

Instead of reaching for baby books, Clarisse decided to take the opportunity to tell embarrassing camp stories of Sophia's parents, like the time Percy got pants-ed during Capture the Flag by an oak nymph who got offended after he tripped on one of her roots.

After a few minutes, Sophia started staring at her boobs.

"Those don't do that anymore," Clarisse said. "C'mon, lets get you fed."

It was weird how easily all the baby stuff came back to her, juggling bottles and the kid at once like it was no trouble at all. Her own kids were at summer camp, regular mortal day camp, not Camp Half-Blood yet. She'd have to go get them around four, which gave Percy and Annabeth a solid three more hours to sleep.

"I'll have to teach them how to fart you when they wake up," Clarisse said, balancing the bottle for her. "You'll probably get constipated again too. Happened to Hunter when he was a few months old. He didn't go for four days. We had to give him prune juice. It was a mess."

Sophia didn't seem too interested in that story thought, so Clarisse went back to telling her about how obvious it was that her mom had massive crush on her dad. "We used to tease her about it too. She'd get so red. I think we made her cry once. That wasn't nice of us. But it was funny. But hey, jokes on the rest of us, it all worked out for her."

Fed, burped, and changed, Clarisse rested Sophia in her crib, which probably had never actually been used before. She guessed the baby still slept in Percy and Annabeth's room.

Clarisse couldn't find the baby monitor, which was another sign that the baby was probably never far from the parents in the three weeks she'd been Earth-side. So Clarisse just settled in the rocking chair, put in one headphone, and caught up on some boxing highlights.

Sophia must have used up a lot of her energy screaming her little head off, because she slept for a good, long while. While she was still asleep, Clarisse heard a knock at the door. She got up, and spotted Percy's mom through the peep hole.

"Hi Sally," Clarisse said. She liked Percy's mom. She'd gotten to know her while Clarisse helped search for Percy the few months he'd decided to disappear and worry everyone in his life.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Sally asked, smiling and confused.

"They texted me that they couldn't get the baby to stop crying. I took over, sent them to bed," Clarisse explained.

"How's Sophia doing?" Sally asked, stepping into the place.

"Better. Just gas turned out," Clarisse said.

Sally's mom instincts kicked in in a new way, and she started tidying the living room, picking up toys and burp cloths.

"And how long have Mom and Dad been asleep?"

"Eh, two hours-ish I'd guess," Clarisse said. "I'm glad you're here. I need to head out soon. Got my own kids to worry about."

Sally smiled at her. "Thanks so much for your help. You're a good friend."

Clarisse tried to brush it off, but her face did feel warm. "It was nothing."

"Whenever you need to head out, I can handle things here. I'll let them keep sleeping," Sally said.

Clarisse nodded, and stuck around for a bit more small talk. But when Sophia started crying again, Clarisse took that as her cue to leave.

~

Percy woke up sweaty and disoriented. He looked over and didn't see Sophia in the bassinet. Where was his baby? What time was it? Annabeth was asleep next to him. Should he wake her? No, let her sleep. Their infant couldn't have gotten far.

Hand on Riptide (pen version), he snuck out into the living room.

He relaxed when he saw his mom laying on the floor with Sophia, who was doing tummy time (and doing a pretty good job of it, if Percy said so).

"Ma?" He asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Memories of leaving Sophia with Clarisse came back to him then. "When'd you get here?"

"A few hours ago. Clarisse had to get her kids from camp," Sally explained.

"She called you?" Percy asked.

"No, we just both had the same sense that you and Annabeth needed a break," Sally explained. "How did you sleep?"

"Great," Percy said, "yeah, it was awesome. Is it tomorrow?"

"It's about seven at night," Sally said. "You got a good seven hours, give or take." That was the most sleep he'd gotten in weeks.

"Wow," was all he was able to say.

"How about I order us some pizza?" Sally offered.

"Olives for Annabeth," Percy said, still sleepy. He took his mom's spot on floor and laid in front of his daughter.

He still really couldn't believe she was real. Percy booped her nose, mostly just to have some reason to reassure himself that she was a real, physical person. Sophia wiggled a bit at his touch, and reached a hand out towards him, her little tongue sticking out between her lips.

There was the tiny creature on his floor, and she had his eyes. Percy reached his hand out, and let her wrap her fist around his finger. Her little feet started to kick behind her, happy, it seemed, to be literally wrapped around Percy's finger. There was this persistent heart-swelling sense of disbelief that he felt every time he looked at her for more than a few seconds. It was as if his mind couldn't quite put together that she was real.

"What got you to finally stop screaming?" Percy asked her.

"She was gassy," Sally said. "Clarisse said she got her to fart, and then there was a blow-out situation. And then she was fine."

"Huh," Percy said. "How'd she get her to fart."

"You have to help the baby move her hips," Sally said, tapping away at her phone to place the pizza order.

Percy picked up Sophia, who seemed relieved to be done with tummy time. Percy rested a hand on her chest, the other on her bum, and started to wiggle her hips.

"Shakira, Shakira," he mumbled to himself. "Yeah, those hips don't lie, do they?"

Sophia made a small noise that seemed affirmative, but Percy was pretty sure she wasn't making any actual intentional gestures or noises yet.

"Not like that," Sally said with a laugh, taking her granddaughter away from him and laying her on her back. She started to move Sophia's legs, pressing her knees up to her chest like she was in baby yoga. His mom must have done it right, because Sophia let out a big fart for such a tiny baby.

"It's just so cool to see her really taking after me, you know?" Percy said.

Sally smiled and ruffled his bed head.

"We'll need to wake up Annabeth soon," Sally said. "I'd love to let her sleep, but she'll need to breast feed."

Percy nodded. "I'll do that now, so she can eat when the food gets here."

He tried waking her up like a Disney princess, with true loves kiss. He got "no, fuck off, I'm tired," back.

"My love," Percy said, "I'm sorry, but --"

Before he could finish, Annabeth pulled herself up to sitting. "My boobs hurt. I know." She pulled herself out of bed with a groan. "What time is it?"

"Seven," Percy said.

He thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. "In the morning?"

"No, no, at night! Same day! Clarisse watched Sophia for a while, and got her to stop crying --" Annabeth pouted, her pride obviously wounded. "--and now my mom's here. She ordered us some pizzas."

"Is Sophia okay?" Annabeth asked.

Percy nodded. "Just needed to fart apparently."

"Go figure," Annabeth said, heading towards their bathroom. "I'll be out to feed Sophia in a minute."

"I'll tell her," Percy promised. True to his word, when he got back to the living room, he scooped up his daughter and informed her: "Mommy will be out to feed you soon."

Sophia seemed to understand who mommy was, and wiggled at the mention of her. Percy could have sworn it was intentional. Sophia had a big brain. Well, a big head really. Percy's big head. At Sophia's first doctor's check up two weeks ago, the pediatrician had looked at Annabeth and said: "Usually if a baby's head was that large, we'd be worried and run tests. But looking at your husband, I can see it's just genetic." Annabeth had been laughing about it for weeks.

Percy had to assume Annabeth's big brain was in that big head. Sophia seemed so smart already.

A few minutes later, Annabeth stepped out. For as tired and abrasive as she'd been a moment ago, that seemed to all wash off her when she spotted her baby again.

"There's my girl!" Annabeth said, taking her from Percy. "Did you miss us? Yeah, is your tummy feeling better? I bet you're hungry, yeah, lets get you fed."

With Sophia settled, pizzas on the way, and his mom compulsively cleaning his kitchen (no matter how much he insisted she didn't have to), Percy texted Clarisse.

Percy Thanks for earlier. That was really cool of you. We appreciate it

Clarisse No worries. your kid's pretty cool. less annoying than either of you It takes a village though, seriously anytime, i'm happy to help

Percy looked around at his little family, and remembered the young girl who'd shoved spoonfuls of nectar into his mouth while asking him a confusing string of questions.

He thought about what it would be like to go back and tell twelve year-old him "Hey, one day, you're gonna have a baby with that girl."

He wondered what his 12 year-old self would say. "On purpose?" He guessed.

And yeah. He leaned over and kissed Annabeth's cheek. She smiled at him, caught off guard although not surprised by the sudden burst of physical affection. She just just a kissy face back, and waited for him to deliver a kiss to her lips. On purpose.

~

I've realized I'm no longer thought of as a too Clarisse la Rue fan blog, so that needs to change lmao

[theastralsage]

The Edge of Control - a drabble

❤︎ tags and content: dinner party, semi-public, smut, zayne x f!reader ❤︎ author note: reuploaded 🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/omi.resources ©2025 theastralsage do not repost, copy, translate, or modify

You never expected Zayne to be the one to drag you away- not with the kind of urgency that crackled through his grip as his hand closed around your wrist, firm but not rough, pulling you past the lingering crowd of colleagues and associates with a look that brooked no questions. His usual polished demeanor was gone, or at least pushed to the edge, fraying with each step he took down the corridor, each breath that seemed just a little too sharp, too fast.

The door he found wasn’t locked. It opened easily beneath his touch, revealing what looked like a storage room, dimly lit by a single strip of light overhead, shadows clinging to the corners. He pushed you inside, not harshly, but with the kind of intent that left no room for doubt, and when the door clicked shut behind you, the silence that followed was deafening.

“Zayne,” you began, but your words died in your throat the second his hands found your waist, spinning you gently until your back met the cool wall and his body crowded close, the heat of him pressing into you, his breath unsteady against your cheek.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice low, rough, the words spilling out between shallow breaths, “what you’ve been doing to me tonight.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer.

His mouth was on yours before you could even inhale, his kiss hard, desperate, more like a claim than a question. His hands roamed lower, pulling you closer, molding your body to his until there was no space left- no thought, no hesitation. Just the ache of his mouth moving over yours like he’d finally run out of reasons not to.

The fabric of your dress bunched under his hands, pushed higher with every shift of his fingers until his palms found bare skin, his touch burning and insistent. He groaned softly when your hips bucked against his, the sound muffled by the kiss, and when he pulled away, just barely, to press his forehead to yours, his eyes were dark, wild, the last remnants of control slipping further with every breath.

“I shouldn’t be doing this here,” he murmured, though his hands didn’t stop, sliding up your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh with a kind of reverence that bordered on worship. “But I can’t wait.”

You could feel the heat of him- hard and ready, pressed tight between your bodies and the thrill of it sent a shiver through you, one that he clearly felt, because his grip tightened, his mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing skin in a way that made your knees weaken.

“Zayne,” you gasped, fingers clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.

His name left your lips like a plea, and something in him snapped.

He dropped to his knees, his hands dragging your dress higher, lips trailing down as he went, each kiss lower, each breath hotter.

And he didn’t care about the risk anymore.

He only cared about you.

His mouth was everywhere, hot, open, reverent as he tasted the skin of your thighs, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your hands clutch at his hair like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. The air was thick with the scent of you, the press of him, the sheer urgency in the way he moved, no longer thinking, no longer calculating, just feeling.

“Keep quiet,” he murmured, the words half a groan, half a warning, though the smirk that touched his lips as he kissed higher told you he wanted the opposite. “If they hear us…”

The thought trailed off as his mouth finally reached where you needed him most, and all you could do was bite your lip, stifling the moan that threatened to give you away.

He devoured you, slow at first, tongue tracing languid patterns that made your hips jerk, that made your legs tremble, but when you whimpered his name, broken and breathless, he groaned into you, gripping your thighs tighter as he dragged you closer, his tongue moving faster now, deeper, chasing your undoing like he couldn’t bear to stop until he had all of you.

You shattered in his mouth, hands pressed to your mouth to stifle the cry as your body convulsed, and he didn’t stop- not until he’d wrung every last tremor from you, not until you were gasping his name like a secret against the cool wall, eyes wide and wild.

He stood, his hands already at his belt, his eyes locked on yours as he kissed you again, messy, possessive, tasting you on his lips as he pressed you harder against the wall.

“Turn around,” he growled, and you obeyed, the thrill of it pulsing through you as your hands met the wall, his body covering yours in an instant.

You felt him, hard and desperate, as he pushed into you in one slow, devastating thrust, the groan that tore from his throat raw and ragged.

There was nothing careful now, nothing held back.

He fucked you like he needed it to breathe, hips snapping into yours with a force that made your knees shake, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist so tight you knew you’d feel it for days. Every thrust drove you higher, his breath hot in your ear, his voice low and wrecked.

“So good.. fuck… you feel so good.”

The sound of footsteps echoed faintly down the hall, too close, too real, but neither of you stopped.

If anything, it made him move harder.

You both heard the distant murmur of voices just outside the door, and Zayne bit down on your shoulder, stifling a moan as he buried himself deep, hips grinding into you, the risk only pushing him further.

Your second climax hit hard, sudden, his name ripped from your throat as he followed with a growl, spilling into you, body trembling as he held you there, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, panting.

Silence fell again, heavy, broken only by the fading sound of footsteps retreating, by the ragged breaths you both struggled to catch.

When he finally pulled back, hands still shaking, he helped turn you around, cradling your face, brushing sweat-slick hair from your cheeks.

“I can’t…” he started, voice hoarse, lips parted like he meant to say more.

But all he could do was kiss you, deep and slow, still lost in you.

And when you finally pulled away, when you straightened your dress and he fixed his collar with trembling fingers, he looked at you like he was still trying to remember how to be Zayne again.

“You ruined me,” he whispered, more breath than sound.

And from the way he looked? You knew he didn’t want to be saved.

[kettleinusefornow]

Rough ride..MDNI

CHAPTER 9: Split moment

Sae Itoshi X Reader fic

Contains breakup and miscommunication

Revenge sex

Iceskater!reader

eventual happy ending </3

teenage love

ALOT of angst

CHP1 CHP10 CHP LIST

CHAPTER 9: Split moment

Koyuki bought some popcorn from one of the sellers walking around. Excited chatters filled in the space as time went by. The lights were dimmed slightly as the sport commentators started speaking to the audience.

“Papa! I heard Itoshi Sae is playing! I’m so excited to see him!” 

Koyuki frowned at the statement made by the little boy behind them. 

“He doesn’t know what that bastard is like!” 

“It’s okay Yuki, even though he has a shitty personality, we can’t ignore the fact that he is an amazing football player.”

Koyuki huffed, she couldn’t retaliate Y/N’s statement. 

“Everyone take out your phone cameras! The players are making their entrance!” 

The two lines started walking out, the crowd immediately cheering and screaming as the two teams made their entrance, flashes going off at every corner, picking up almost all of their moments. There he was, Sae Itoshi. 

It was only a second but his eyes seemed to be in pure shock before looking away. Y/N thought she was over him but she too, looked away. 

She looked over at Rin who was already looking at her, she made a small gesture of good luck as he scoffed, turning away. 

‘This is gonna be a long game..’ 

The first half started, the ball picking up speed as the people in blue passed it around. They seemed to have successfully passed to the front before Aiku suddenly appeared, jumping into the air like a monkey and stealing the ball while making some comments to the blue haired guy, as the ball fell out of bounds. 

‘Hm. Aiku does live up to his name..’ 

Y/N glanced at Koyuki who had her eyes on both the ball and Sendou at the same time, impressive to say the least.

The ball had seemed to be passed to Sae now, he ran across the field, past the others and Chigiri before passing to someone else. It was in a flash, he had the ball once again, shooting a goal from the corner into the goal post.

‘How am I supposed to get over that?!..’

Rin seemed to copy what Sae did but unsurprisingly, he couldn't recreate it.  

Y/N sighed as she continued to watch the game with a silent voice. Her and Sae were one topic but RIn and Sae? They had a whole thing on their own. 

Truth be told, the two faces were a sight for sore eyes.. Face cards out of the world. Even when they encountered each other it seemed almost funny to Y/N about how they looked so similar yet they were so different. 

The game moved on. Even though Y/N didn’t want to, her eyes kept following the pink hair that seemed to run around and throw some harsh encouragement at his teammates. Koyuki noticed Y/N’s lingering gaze on him, but she decided not to speak up.

The first half seemed to come to halt, the two teams started to regroup before they headed to their spawnpoint (?).  Koyuki and her mother started to shout out Chigiri’s name but his teammates seemed to gawk at him about something after seeing Koyuki. Y/N didn’t miss the opportunity to gawk to Rin too. 

“Rinrin! Over here!” 

Y/N called out while standing beside Koyuki. That definitely seemed to grab his attention. He looked up but instead of his usual scoff, paired along with ‘lukewarm’ comment, he seemed to not say anything and waved back. Y/N suddenly turned into a bird, freaking out over this. 

———

“Rin! Who's that pretty girl up there?! Is she your girlfriend?!” Bachira asked, while trailing behind him along with Isagi. Otoya seemed to also eavesdrop on their conversation about Y/N. 

“Tch, she’s.. My sister.” He coughed out with some difficulty. 

“Your sister? Yall look nothing alike-”

“Yo! Y/N-chan!” 

Aiku’s loud voice broke through their conversation, catching Y/N’s attention along with a few bystanders on the field. Y/N slightly froze up before reluctantly waving back with a stiff smile. Rin had an extremely puzzled look on his usually stoic face. He looked back to Aiku and back at Y/N. 

He wasn’t the only one with a puzzled look though. The people around Rin were even more confused. ‘Who is this girl that's apparently Rin’s sister and knows the U-20 captain..’ 

Sae saw this whole ordeal take place. His face turned from an annoyed expression to a face exploding with questions and speculations. He slowly turned to Aiku. 

“How do you know her?” 

AIku wanted to laugh out loud right then and there and rub it in his face that he slept with his ex-girlfriend but he couldn’t, not before the game ended. 

“Oh Y/N-chan? Me and her are real close, closer than friends” 

Sae didn’t question anything more. He silently walked back with a blank expression, as if nothing happened. Aiku was slightly sad that it didn’t grow into a bigger discussion.

———

Koyuki seemed to be beaming from one ear to the other while looking at Y/N. 

“The plan’s working.” 

Y/N took a scared glance at Koyuki before sighing and sitting back down. 

“Your plan, not mine.” 

———

Looking at Y/N and Sae in one place, made Rin remember an old memory. Him and Sae were on a ledge eating some ice cream, Y/N seemed to have tuition that evening so she wasn’t with them. 

“Rin, I was thinking about what you think about Y/N.” 

They two looked into the sunset eating popsicles. The weather was both cold and warm, a relaxed feeling was upon them. 

“I mean.. She’s cool, a bit loud but tolerable.. What about you? What do you think about her?” 

Rin already had a jist of what Sae was going to say but he still asked him.  

“Is it cringe if I say I’m going to marry her in the future?” 

Rin stared at Sae with a disgusted face.

“Yes, never say that again, Y/N would explode if she heard you say that..” 

———

The second half took off, a new face was on the grass now, he seemed a bit freaky, jumping around and jumping on Sae at times. Y/N didn’t really like him but she couldn’t point out why.

The vigorous match had to come to a halt, bluelock took the win, but Rin didn’t seem all that happy. 

Y/N and Koyuki cheered for both the teams before sharing their thoughts about the match to each other. They headed down to interview section.

U-20, being the international team, seemed to have a small interview after the match with a news outlet. They started to ask the players all kinds of questions. From how the match was to what their type was in a girl. 

The news reporter turned to Sae, starry eyes. 

“So Itoshi Sae. Is it true that you and top model Yasumi are dating?!” 

‘Huh?..’ 

ERMM I HOPE THIS GETS ENOUGH ATTENTION.. CHPTER 10 ONWARDS ABT TO BE KINDA CRAZY..

©kettleinuse4now | please do not translate, repost, refer without permission | don’t steal and say it’s your own (ahole behavior)

@pinkymangacaps @realrintaro @syleepy @shidoushair @kaiserismine @randomhumans-blog

[bubblyi3]

Between Us, Before Us PART 9 | KTH

“he wasn’t a bad person. just the wrong person too many times.”

pairing: taehung x female reader

genre: slice of life, angst, fluff

word count: 13.6k

content warning: angst, mild smut, trauma, cheating themes, unplanned pregnancy, heartbreak, toxic relationship

summary: between the past and future lies the aching space of now. with taehyung, you've journeyed through love, heartbreak, and growth. once strangers, then lovers, now something more complicated, your connection is shaped by time, mistakes, and second chances. this is the story of who you were when you first fell for him, who you became through the pain, and who you might still become if you dare to hope again. in the space between healing and longing, one thing remains: him.

author's note: hii!! finally the next part lol. i honestly went back and forth a lot trying to figure out how i wanted to go with this, but here it is 🫣 hope you like it!! anywayyy let me know what you think <3

© disclaimer: please do not copy, translate or reproduce any part of this work without my permission. thank you!

taglist: 🌸 @nikkiordonez12

*fiction rooted in real emotions and experiences.

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7 || PART 8

The studio was cloaked in shadows, the dim light barely cutting through the thick haze of creative tension. A deep, pulsing bass throbbed through the walls, vibrating against the worn leather of the couch where Taehyung slumped, headphones resting loosely around his neck. His laptop sat open before him, a half-finished verse blinking mockingly on the screen, the cursor waiting for the spark that refused to come.

In the booth, Jungkook adjusted the mic levels, humming softly. His voice a steady rhythm that usually grounded Taehyung. But tonight, it only made the silence in his own head louder.

Taehyung didn’t hear the music anymore. His thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Nora’s laughter echoed through the morning air as he gently lifted her into the light, her tiny hands reaching for the sky with delight. The way you moved in your oversized hoodie, half-asleep but smiling at him.

He thought back to the quiet evenings you spent curled up together on the couch, sharing stories and dreams, your fingers laced between his as if holding on to a promise. You had become his peace. His purpose.

A soft buzz broke through his daze. His phone lit up on the table.

He glanced at it.

[Y/N]: Did you ever sleep with Jisoo?

The words hit him like a blow to the ribs. He sat up straighter, heart pounding.

His fingers trembled, hovering over the screen. So many answers pressed to the tip of his tongue, none of them right.

Yes. No. I didn’t mean to. It didn’t matter. It was a mistake. You weren’t supposed to find out like this. You weren’t supposed to ever know.

But none of those words formed.

Another buzz.

[Y/N]: Don’t lie to me. Just answer me. Did you sleep with her?

His mouth went dry. The room shrank around him.

Then a third message followed. The one that made his breath stop altogether.

[Y/N]: She called me and told me everything. Is it true?

He didn’t remember tapping the screen. Didn’t remember reading it again and again. But the words carved themselves into his chest. He rubbed his hands over his face, sinking deep into his palms like he could hide there forever.

I’m so fucked.

The door to the booth opened. Jungkook stepped out, pulling off his headphones, sweat gleaming on his brow from the session.

“I think we got it,” he grinned. “You wanna run it back or—”

His smile faltered when his eyes met Taehyung’s pale, broken expression.

“…Hyung?”

Taehyung didn’t look up. His voice was hollow. “Let’s call it.”

Jungkook stepped closer, an old, tight ache settling in his chest. He’d known this moment was coming. Jungkook had feared it for a while now, ever since Taehyung admitted what happened with Jisoo.

Jungkook nodded slowly. “Alright. You good though?” he asked, slinging his hoodie on. “Wanna grab a drink before heading home?”

Taehyung hesitated. Home meant you. Home meant that silence, that storm he wasn’t ready to walk into. That’s only if you were still even there. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, I could use one.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, neon signs blinking like tired stars. Taehyung shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture sunken and silent. Jungkook watched him from the corner of his eye.

By the time they reached the bar, one drink turned into two.

Jungkook didn’t push, just sat beside him as Taehyung spun the rim of his glass, gaze far away.

Taehyung stared at his glass, spinning it slowly like it held the answers. But eventually, he couldn't hold it in anymore.

“She knows,” he finally said.

Jungkook didn’t have to ask who. The name hung heavy in the space between them. “Y/N?”

“She found out about Jisoo,” Taehyung whispered, voice raw. “Jisoo called her. Told her everything. She asked me… directly. She knows.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “Shit…”

“I told myself it didn’t matter,” Taehyung went on, eyes shining with regret. “Back then I was just spiralling. Scared. Stupid. I should’ve known Jisoo was going to open her mouth.”

Jungkook’s hands folded on the table, quiet. Listening.

“I never set boundaries,” Taehyung admitted. “I let people in. I let her in, when all I should’ve done was protect what I had. What we had.” His jaw clenched. “I ruined everything.”

“Hyung…” Jungkook said gently, “You were young. You were hurting. You didn’t know how to—”

“Don’t,” Taehyung snapped, the words sharp with self-loathing.

“Don’t excuse me. I made that choice. I chose to be selfish. And I never told Y/N. I let her build her trust on top of a lie. Every time she smiled at me like I was her safe place... I was just holding onto a secret I didn’t have the guts to say out loud.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly. “You’re not that guy anymore.”

“But what if I am?” Taehyung murmured, finally looking up, eyes dark and rimmed with guilt. “What if I never stopped being him?”

Jungkook didn’t have an answer.

Taehyung pulled out his phone again. No new messages. Just silence.

And the fact that Taehyung hadn’t just failed you or your trust. He had failed as a father, before Nora ever took her first breath.

Jungkook looked at him. The cracked shell of someone who knew he’d ruined the one good thing he had.

“You’re going to have to fight for her,” Jungkook said softly. “Not with flowers. Not with words. With change. With truth. And if it’s too late…”

Taehyung looked up, eyes pleading.

“…then at least you owe her your honesty,” Jungkook finished.

It was just after 8pm. Nora was asleep, tucked in bed with her stuffed bunny and the soft hum of her night light glowing against the wall. You stood in the hallway for a moment, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, trying not to cry.

Your suitcase and her overnight bag sat by the door, already packed. Just with enough changes of clothes, essentials for Nora, the bare minimum to get by. You’d come back for the rest when you had the strength. But tonight?

You couldn’t stay.

Not in this house.

Taehyung still hadn’t replied. No call. No text. No explanation. Just space where his voice should’ve been.

Everything that had been building. Months of trying to trust again, of believing he’d been honest and changed. Cracked apart in one long, suffocating moment. The disbelief, the disappointment, and finally, the numb acceptance. You’d seen enough. Felt enough. This time, you weren't going to wait around for a lie to be wrapped in an apology.

You sent the message without thinking.

[You]: Dad, I need you. Please come pick me up. Right now.

And as always, your dad didn’t need context.

The porch light flickered on a few minutes later. You glanced out the window and saw his car pull up. The same steady rhythm, same quiet presence that had always made you feel safe as a little girl.

When you opened the door, your dad didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside and took the suitcase from your hands.

You nodded toward the bedroom. “She’s asleep. I’ll carry her.”

He followed as you carefully picked up Nora, still half-asleep and clinging to you in a warm, sleepy daze. Her head rested against your shoulder, and you breathed her in, grounding yourself in her scent. A mix of baby shampoo and the soft baby detergent you used for her clothes.

You walked her out to the car. Your dad opened the back door and waited while you gently lowered her into the car seat. He helped you buckle her in, hands moving instinctively like muscle memory from years of fatherhood.

“She okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, voice tight. “Yeah.”

He looked at you for a second longer than necessary, like he could see everything you weren’t saying. Then he opened the passenger side door and waited.

You slid in.

He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t need to. The look in your eyes told him everything. And in the quiet hum of the engine starting, you felt that first breath. The one where you realised you were finally leaving.

Not just the house.

But the version of love that made you feel so small.

And as the car pulled away, taillights fading into the night, you didn’t look back.

You’d come back for the rest another day.

Tonight, you were choosing peace. Even if it hurt.

The drive was quiet. The kind where the silence holds you gently, because there’s nothing left to say. Your dad kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, the way he always did when he was deep in thought. Every now and then, he glanced at you, but never pried. You were grateful for that.

Nora had fallen back asleep in the backseat. Her soft breathing filled the car like a lullaby, a reminder that even in the middle of heartbreak, something innocent and whole still existed.

When the car turned onto your childhood street, your chest tightened. The porch light was already on.

She knew.

Before your dad could even shift the car into park, the front door swung open and there she was. Your mum, in her slippers and dressing gown, eyes wide with worry as she rushed down the steps.

You opened the car door, feet hitting the driveway like they didn’t belong to you. You barely made it a few steps before she was in front of you, arms pulling you in, holding you so tightly you couldn’t breathe.

And that’s when it happened.

Everything that had been bottled up. The numbness, the quiet strength, the effort to hold it all together, just crumbled in one breath. You didn’t mean to cry. But the moment her hand cradled the back of your head and she whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You’re home,” your knees buckled.

You sobbed.

Right there in your mum’s arms, in the middle of the driveway with the cool night air brushing your face, you let it all go. The betrayal. The fear. The months of pretending things were fine. The guilt for bringing Nora into it. The shame for not leaving sooner. The hope that somehow, maybe he’d prove you wrong.

Your mum just held you tighter, rocking you gently like she did when you were little. “You did the right thing,” she whispered over and over again, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re safe now.”

Your dad walked around to the other side of the car and gently lifted Nora out of her carseat, carrying her inside. She didn’t wake. Just curled into his shoulder.

You followed, hand still gripping your mum’s sleeve like a lifeline.

The house smelled like home. Faintly of chamomile tea and laundry powder, and something cooking in the slow cooker she must’ve forgotten to turn off. You stood in the entryway, blinking hard, unsure of what to do now.

“Come on,” your mum said softly, brushing the hair from your face.

“We put clean sheets on your old bed.”

You gave a weak nod and kicked off your shoes.

You didn’t have answers yet. You didn’t know how to explain everything. But for now, you were here. In a house that never made you question your worth.

And somehow, that was enough for tonight.

It was nearly 1am, when Taehyung turned the key and pushed open the front door. The night air clung to his skin, heavy and still. For a moment, he just stood there in the doorway, staring into the darkened shell of the home he once knew. The silence inside greeted him like a stranger.

He stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that echoed down the empty hallway. His footsteps sounded loud against the hardwood floors, and yet, everything else was quiet.

The hallway stretched longer than usual as he walked deeper into the house. The framed photos on the walls looked back at him. Snapshots of smiles, tiny hands wrapped around his fingers, a life once whole. He swallowed hard.

In the living room, everything was in its place. The scatter of toys that usually littered the floor was gone, neatly tucked into bins and baskets. The throw pillows on the couch were fluffed, the blanket folded. It was tidy, in a way that felt like goodbye.

Taehyung’s pulse picked up. He moved quickly to the kitchen, his eyes already scanning. That’s when he saw it.

A single sheet of paper, resting like a quiet truth on the countertop. His name written at the top in looping, familiar handwriting.

He froze.

Then, with fingers that trembled despite his best effort, he reached for it and unfolded it.

Taehyung,

The way his name sat there. There wasn’t any hearts, no nickname, no softness.

I don’t even know where to start. I thought I knew you. Trusted you. But I was wrong. I found out you weren’t being honest with me, and it cuts deeper than I can explain. We were supposed to be building something. But now, I see something was always missing. Your actions speak louder than your words and they always will.

Each line was a blow. Sharp, deliberate, and painful.

I don’t know if you realise how much this hurts. I don’t even know if you care. But I can’t pretend anymore for Nora, I won’t. I’m taking a step back. I need space. She deserves more than this. When you’re ready to talk, call me. We need to figure out arrangements for her. I’ll come back for the rest of my things soon.

He didn’t make it to the end.

His vision blurred, the page crumpling slightly in his fist. The air in the room thinned, pressing into his chest until he had to sit down. The stool by the counter felt too far. His knees felt too weak.

You were gone, and this time it felt different. Not like a fight. Not like a break. But the end.

He looked around again.

The house was the same, but it wasn’t home anymore.

It had only been a few days. Not long by the world’s standards. But to Taehyung, it felt like a lifetime.

He hadn’t seen Nora. Hadn’t texted you. Hadn’t called you.

The guys were scattered around Yoongi’s living room. Beanbags, blankets, and half-opened snack bags left like relics of a night spent trying to distract themselves. A muted movie flickered on the TV, casting soft, uneven light across their faces.

Namjoon tossed popcorn into the air, catching maybe two pieces successfully. “I’m telling you guys. Haejin’s obsessed with this ridiculous competition show where people build entire cities out of LEGO. Last night, some guy’s tower collapsed right before judging and she cried. Like, actual tears.”

Yoongi blinked. “That’s… impressively tragic.”

Namjoon shrugged, grinning. “Hey, it was intense."

Laughter bubbled up, low and scattered.

Except for Taehyung.

He sat sunken into the corner of the couch, a beer sweating in his hand, his eyes somewhere far beyond the TV screen. He hadn’t laughed in days. Not the kind that reached his chest, let alone his eyes.

A pillow flew through the air and hit him squarely.

“Yo. Earth to Tae,” Hoseok said. “You good?”

Taehyung blinked, like coming up through thick fog. “Just tired.”

Yoongi glanced over. Sharp. Observant. He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered.

“Long shift?” Namjoon asked, cracking open a soda.

“Nah,” Taehyung replied, voice flat. “Newbie at work today. Keeps butting heads.”

A lie. Smooth. Practiced.

Jungkook, who knew better, who knew everything. Just nodded and played along.

“Yeah, but man’s got range,” he said casually, though his voice had an edge to it.

Taehyung let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Yeah.”

Silence returned. Heavy this time. Loaded.

Yoongi took a slow sip of his drink, eyes still on him. “How’s Nora? Y/N?”

Taehyung’s fingers tightened around the bottle. “They’re fine.” It sounded too fast and too clipped.

The others didn’t need to speak. The tension said enough.

Namjoon leaned forward, brows knitting. “Tae. What’s going on?”

For a moment, Taehyung said nothing. The bottle now sat between his knees, his thumb anxiously rubbing over the crinkled label.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

“No, it’s not,” Hoseok said quietly. “You’ve been off for days. Talk to us.”

His jaw clenched. His leg bounced once. Then, finally he broke.

“Y/N knows,” he whispered. “She found out I… I cheated.”

The room went still.

Jimin sat upright, eyes wide. “You’re joking.”

Taehyung shook his head once.

Namjoon’s voice was low. Measured. “When? With who?”

Taehyung didn’t answer.

“Taehyung.” Yoongi’s voice cut through, cold and direct. “Say it.”

He swallowed hard. The words felt like glass in his throat. “Jisoo.”

The silence that followed felt like a punch to the chest.

“Are you fucking serious?” Namjoon snapped, sitting up, crushing the soda can in his grip.

Jimin’s expression twisted. Somewhere between betrayal and disbelief. “Tae… come on, man. Jisoo? You knew Y/N couldn’t stand her.”

Hoseok stared at the floor, jaw set. “Did you tell her?”

Taehyung shook his head. His voice cracked. “No. I kept it buried for a long time. It happened before Nora was born… and then I messed up again after.”

He didn’t dare meet their eyes.

“Shit,” Yoongi muttered. “What now?”

Taehyung exhaled shakily. “She left. Took Nora. I don’t know where... maybe to her parents’ place, or Nari’s. She told me when I’m ready to talk, and to figure out arrangements for Nora, to let her know.”

“And how long ago was that?”

The voice came from Jin, who was quiet until now.

Taehyung swallowed, barely holding it together. “Since Sunday.”

Silence again. Thicker this time. No one knew what to say.

Until Namjoon stood and walked over, placing a hand firmly on Taehyung’s back.

“You need to fix this,” he said, not unkind, but firm. “You’ve been doing so well. With Nora, with Y/N. And the second Jisoo came back, you ran scared. Don’t be a coward again, Tae. Own up to it.”

Taehyung blinked fast, swallowing hard.

In his silence, the boys didn’t push any further.

But Jungkook knew.

He saw it. The ache, the regret, the weight of what Taehyung had lost. And the terrifying, growing fear...

That maybe he deserved to.

Later that night, long after the guys had gone quiet and Yoongi’s apartment was cloaked in shadows and leftover tension, Taehyung sat alone.

The movie credits had rolled. The laughter was gone. And still he hadn’t moved.

His beer had long gone warm, untouched on the table beside him. In his hand now was his phone, screen glowing in the dimness.

For a moment, he just stared at it. The urge to call you. God, it almost broke him. To hear your voice, even if it was cold. To tell you he missed you so bad it physically hurt. To say he was sorry.

But he didn’t.

Instead, with a shaky breath, he opened his settings and scrolled to his blocked list. And there it was.

Jisoo.

His thumb hovered. Hesitation thick in his chest. He hated himself for what he was about to do.

But he needed answers. Closure. Something.

With a deep breath and a pit forming in his stomach, he unblocked the number. Then, slowly, typed a message.

He stared at the message for a long time. Then hit send.

The screen hadn’t even dimmed before his phone lit up. Her name flashing across it like some cruel joke.

She had been waiting.

Taehyung sat slouched in the corner booth of the café, the hood of his sweater pulled low like it could shield him from the weight of everything pressing on his chest. The late afternoon light spilled through the windows, soft and indifferent. No one noticed him, but he still sat like he was hiding.

Jisoo arrived ten minutes late, breezing in like this wasn’t the moment everything broke. Like this wasn’t the aftermath.

She slid into the seat across from him, offering a tight smile that didn’t dare reach her eyes. “You look like shit.”

“Feel worse,” he muttered. “Thanks for coming.”

“I almost didn’t.”

He looked at her, surprised. “Then why did you?”

“Because you sounded pathetic,” she said. “And because I figured you’d finally grown the balls to say something real.”

A beat passed. Then he went straight into it.

“She knows.”

Jisoo raised her brows but didn’t flinch. “Yeah, I figured.”

“She found out because of you,” he said, jaw tight. “It wasn’t your place, Jisoo.”

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“You knew it wasn’t your story to tell—”

“Oh, shut up, Taehyung,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare try to pin this on me.”

His mouth opened, ready to argue, but she cut him off.

"Newsflash—it was your story to tell. But you didn’t. You kept lying. Hiding. Stringing both of us along like a goddamn coward.”

“I don't even think you had the guts to say my name around her,” she continued. “You had this whole perfect picture going for you. Your little family. And I get it. I do. I saw it, Tae. I saw how happy you are with her. With Nora. But you were never going to tell her what happened between us. Not when it risked all that.”

“I was trying to protect her—”

“No,” she bit out. “You were trying to protect yourself.”

He looked away, jaw clenched, but she wasn’t done.

“You think I forced any of this? You were the one who kept answering my calls. You were the one who showed up every time I asked. You kept me close because you liked the attention. Because you wanted someone who knew all your mess and didn’t judge you for it. But don’t act like you were innocent. You ran back to me. Every. Single. Time.”

Taehyung’s fists curled in his lap.

“You said you loved her,” she continued, voice low and bitter, “but you kept crawling back to the one person she never trusted. And for what? Because you were bored? Because you needed someone to make you feel wanted when she wasn’t looking?”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not just a bad boyfriend, Taehyung,” she said, voice trembling now. “You made her feel crazy for what she knew deep down. You made me feel like I was the problem, like I was imagining things... when the whole time, you were the one crossing lines.”

His throat felt dry. Like all the air had been pulled from the room.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“No,” she snapped. “You came here to ease your guilt. To make me say it wasn’t all your fault. But it was. You lit the match. I just stopped pretending we weren’t already burning.”

That shut him up completely.

He leaned back slowly, staring down at the scratched table between them. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

"I was getting better. I swear I was..."

Jisoo didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. She just looked tired.

“You don’t deserve her,” she said. “But I guess you figured that out too late.”

He nodded once, feeling empty.

“She’s just Nora’s mom now,” he whispered. “That’s all I get to say. That’s all I earned.”

Jisoo stood, grabbing her bag. “You don’t get to say anything. Not yet. Not until you stop trying to rewrite what happened.”

She paused, looking down at him one last time.

“You loved her? Prove it. Own it. Every piece of it.”

Then she turned and walked out, leaving Taehyung alone in the booth. Still slouched, still drowning, but now finally unable to blame anyone else but himself.

Long after Jisoo had left, the weight of her words sinking deeper with every passing second. His heart pounded in his chest, guilt twisting into something sharper. Regret, desperation, maybe even a flicker of hope.

He pulled out his phone, fingers trembling. For so long, the thought of calling you had been a mix of fear and shame. He was afraid of hearing the silence, the anger, the disappointment. He wasn’t ready to fix everything. Maybe he never would be. But he was ready to try. Ready to face the mess he’d made and be honest with you, no more lies, no more running away.

He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over your name on the screen. Then, with a deep breath, he pressed call.

The phone rang once... twice...

Until finally, your voice came through. Cautious, surprised, but not entirely cold.

“Taehyung?”

He swallowed hard, voice breaking but steady. “Yeah. It’s me. I... I’m ready to talk.”

The next morning, your phone buzzed with a message from Taehyung.

[Taehyung]: Hey. I know you’re at your parents. If you want, I can come pick you up. Maybe we can go somewhere quiet and talk?

You stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back.

[You]: Okay. I’ll be ready in 30.

True to his word, Taehyung pulled up outside your parents’ house shortly after. When you stepped outside, the sunlight caught the tired lines on his face.

He offered a small, uncertain smile. You climbed into the passenger seat, heart hammering with a mix of nerves.

As he drove away, the weight of unspoken things hung between you both. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t heavy with silence or resentment. It was waiting. Waiting for a chance to start healing.

“Where do you want to go?” Taehyung finally asked, eyes on the road but voice gentle.

You looked out the window for a moment before answering, “Somewhere we can just talk. No distractions.”

He nodded slowly.

You chose Namson Park for the conversation. Not because it held any particular meaning, but because it was neutral ground. Quiet. Removed. Somewhere that didn’t echo with old memories.

Taehyung’s eyes were heavy with regret as he finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice thick with guilt. “For everything. For taking so long to reach out, for not answering your messages when you found out. I don’t have a good excuse.”

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could say more. “Sorry isn’t enough anymore, Taehyung."

He flinched but met your gaze.

“I need to know why you thought it was okay to keep something like that from me. Why it was so hard for you to set boundaries. With her, with anyone. Why you stayed in a relationship if you couldn’t be honest.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened, the truth hanging heavily between you. “It’s like you wanted to have a girlfriend but didn’t want to be a boyfriend,” you said quietly, voice breaking. “Like you wanted all the good parts of us. But none of the responsibility. And I was just... there, like a placeholder.”

His jaw clenched, pain flickering across his face. “I never meant to hurt you,” he whispered. “I was scared... scared of facing what I’d done, scared of losing you, scared of who I was becoming.”

You looked away, fighting back tears but keeping your voice firm. “Being scared doesn’t excuse lying. You chose to hide it from me. You chose to betray the person who trusted you most.”

He nodded slowly, voice barely audible. “I know. Sorry won’t fix this. But I want to try — for you, for Nora, for us.”

Your voice trembled slightly, but you kept your chin up. “I gave you so many chances, Taehyung. So much grace. So much of myself. And you took it. Every time and treated it like it was optional.”

He swallowed hard, face falling. “I never wanted to lose you.”

You gave a sad smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “But you did.”

There was a beat of silence.

“All you need to be now is Nora’s dad,” you said. “That’s it. Be consistent. Be present. Show up for her the way you couldn’t for me.”

He blinked back the sting in his eyes, throat tight. “And if I want to show up for you too—”

“You don’t get to,” you said gently, but firmly. “Not anymore.”

The conversation had drained the last of the tension between you. It didn’t fix anything, but it made things final. You had drawn your line, and this time, Taehyung knew there was no space to push past it.

On the quiet ride back to your parents’ house, the silence sat heavy between you. No begging. No bargaining. Just the weight of a goodbye that had already happened.

As he pulled into the driveway, you finally broke it.

“I’ll message you later with a schedule,” you said, voice calm but distant. “I’m thinking maybe alternating weeks. We’ll try it and adjust if we need to.”

Taehyung nodded, staring ahead. “Okay. Yeah, whatever works best for her.”

You added, without meeting his gaze, “I’ll come by later in the week to get the rest of my stuff. I’ll let you know ahead of time. I don’t want it to be awkward.”

He hesitated, then offered gently, “You don’t have to rush—”

“I’m not rushing,” you cut in. “I’m just done.”

That stopped him. He nodded again, slower this time. Like he finally understood what you meant by final.

He cleared his throat. “Can I… see her? Before I go?”

You hesitated for a moment, then stepped out of the car. “I’ll get her.”

When you returned a minute later, Nora was in your arms, freshly changed, her sleepy head nestled against your shoulder. She lifted her head slightly at the sound of the car door opening, blinking through her long lashes with the kind of dazed curiosity only toddlers had.

Taehyung stepped forward gently. “Hey, baby girl…”

At first, she just stared at him, clutching onto your shirt. But as he opened his arms, her little body instinctively leaned toward him.

You passed her over carefully, and the moment she was in his arms, Taehyung melted.

His lips pressed to her soft hair as he held her against his chest. She smelled like baby powder and warm milk, and she let out a small sigh as she adjusted in his arms, settling in like she remembered. Like she missed this too.

His throat tightened.

God, he didn’t realise how much he missed her. Not until now.

Her tiny hand reached up, patting at his cheek, and he gave a breathy laugh that cracked halfway out.

“You’re so big already,” he whispered, brushing a hand down her back. “Did I miss this much?”

You stood back quietly, arms folded across your chest, watching the two of them. He looked at you then, eyes glassy but not pleading. Just full with regret and love.

“She’s doing really well,” you said softly. “My mum’s been helping. She’s got a new routine. She sleeps through most nights.”

Taehyung nodded, gently swaying with Nora still curled in his arms. “She’s perfect.”

You nodded once, then reached out. “Time to go back inside now.”

He pressed one last kiss to her forehead before passing her back carefully. Nora whimpered just a little, reaching for his hoodie string as you carried her back toward the porch.

“Next week,” you reminded him over your shoulder. “I’ll text you the details.”

He stood in the driveway a moment longer, hands in his pockets, watching you disappear inside with his daughter.

The door clicked shut.

And with it, the last piece of what used to be.

The arrangement was clear now. Taehyung would have Nora every weekend. Friday to Sunday. It wasn’t about convenience anymore. It was what had to be done.

After everything. The broken trust, the arguments, the sleepless nights spent crying, you couldn’t let yourself go through it again. There were no more chances left to give. Now, he was just Nora’s dad. That was all he needed to be.

So you focused on what you could control.

Your new work from home HR job became a steady routine. With your communications degree finally being put to use, your days filled up with Zoom calls, planning team check-ins, and writing internal updates. It kept your mind busy and that was the point.

Nora was with you from Monday to Thursday. Those days were full, it's messy, tiring, and sometimes overwhelming but they felt safe. Familiar. She kept you grounded.

Some days it felt different. You could feel the shift before the day even started. Your parents, as always, helped where they could. If you were tied up with a training session or stuck in a long call, they stepped in. Dropping Nora off, picking her up, playing with her while you wrapped things up. They never once complained. If anything, they were just happy to be around her.

And Nora loved them, her tiny smile lighting up the room whenever they were near. In their arms, she felt calm. Protected. Just like you did when you were little.

And so, the new routine began. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t without its aches but it was consistent. And for now, that was enough.

As the days blurred into weeks, you’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to go out. Not for groceries or daycare runs, but to really go out. To be seen. To feel like more than just a mother navigating through survival mode.

Which is exactly why Nari, in all her persistent glory, dragged you into this.

“It’s just a rooftop thing,” she said breezily, stretched across your childhood bed, legs kicking behind her like she had all the time in the world. “You need a break. Like, a real one. Just come.”

You shot her a look from the mirror as you tried on your third outfit.

“I don’t even know whose party it is,” you said, adjusting the neckline of your black satin top.

“Does it matter?” Nari countered. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. Releasing. Unwinding. Remembering you’re not just a mother or a walking to-do list. You’re you.”

Her words stung a little, but not in a bad way. You glanced toward the closed bedroom door where you could hear your parents laughing softly with Nora in the living room.

You turned back to the mirror.

“Okay,” you said quietly. “But I’m not staying late.”

“Famous last words,” Nari teased, rolling onto her back and staring at your ceiling like she was seventeen again.

Your room still looked like it did back then. Same posters clinging to the walls, same bookshelf crowded with old journals and worn paperbacks. But now, scattered between the memories, were signs of your new life. A folded play mat in the corner. A pack of baby wipes on the dresser. Nora’s extra onesies tucked into your drawers, right beside your old concert tees. And the closet was now a mix of your old clothes and the emergency stash of workwear for when you had to jump on video calls unplanned.

You rifled through hangers again. Jeans, dresses, jackets. Nothing felt right. You wanted something that said I still know who I am, but nothing screamed louder than I’m trying too hard.

Eventually, you settled on a navy plaid pleated skirt paired with sheer tights and your favorite knee-high burgundy boots. The ones that always made you feel a little bolder than you were. You layered a soft grey sweater under a dark denim jacket, its silver buttons catching the light as you moved. You left your hair down, slightly tousled.

With just enough makeup. Soft coverage, a sweep of blush, a touch of mascara, and a tinted lip balm. Nothing too heavy, nothing too bare. Just enough to feel like you were showing up for yourself.

“Okay, cutie,” Nari said from your bed, sitting up with a grin. “That’s the one.”

You caught your reflection again, trying not to smile. Trying not to think about Taehyung. Tonight wasn’t about him. Tonight was yours.

You exhaled, slow and steady, then grabbed your bag.

Nora’s laughter echoed down the hallway as you opened the door, and for a second, you hesitated. Before Nari stood up and looped her arm through yours.

“Let’s go remind the world who you are,” she whispered.

You stepped out of your room, the soft click of your boots echoing lightly on the wooden floor as you made your way down the hallway. The living room was wrapped in a familiar warmth. Your dad’s easy laughter, your mum’s gentle hum, and in the center of it all, Nora. She was sitting on the floor, chubby fingers fumbling with puzzle pieces, most of them nowhere near where they belonged.

She looked up the moment she heard your steps. Squealed and grinning.

Your heart ached in the best way.

You crouched down and scooped her into your arms. She giggled as she clung to you, her little arms tight around your neck, her hair soft and sweet, still smelling faintly of baby shampoo and strawberries.

“Be good for grandma and granddad, okay?” you whispered into her hair. “Mummy will be back soon.”

She nodded like she understood, even if time was still a blur at her age. You kissed her cheeks. Once, twice, three times until she squealed and squirmed with laughter.

You stood and gave your mum a quick hug, your dad a thankful smile. “Thanks for watching her tonight,” you said, smoothing down your sleeve, more out of habit than need.

Your mum waved you off. “Go on, love. You need this.”

Your dad grinned. “Just don’t let Nari talk you into dancing on any tables.”

“She’s the dangerous one,” you joked, tilting your head toward Nari, already by the door texting the cab driver like she was coordinating a military op.

You blew Nora one last kiss, gave your parents a grateful wave, and stepped out into the night. The sky had turned that soft indigo blue, the kind that lingered just after sunset, with city lights flickering on like they were in no rush at all.

The cab ride was short, the music low, the window cracked just enough for the breeze to lift strands of your hair. You and Nari didn’t speak much. Just the kind of quiet comfort that comes from being known, even when you’re not saying anything.

When you arrived, the city buzzed around you. The rooftop was already alive. Strings of lights overhead, people clustered in corners with drinks in hand, music pulsing like a heartbeat through the concrete.

As you stepped out of the elevator, Nari grinned and tugged at your wrist. “Come on,” she said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You gave her a look. Half warning and half curiosity.

“One of my many closest friends,” she continued. “He’s just got back from Europe. You’ll love him. Super chill, tall, easy on the eyes, and genuinely nice. Plus, he dances like a maniac when he’s had a few drinks.”

“Sounds dangerous,” you said dryly.

“His name’s Yugyeom,” she added with a playful lilt.

You followed her through the crowd, the scent of perfume, spiked punch, and city air mixing all around you. The music was louder here. Some upbeat track you didn’t recognise but could feel thrumming in your chest.

Nari wasted no time. As soon as you reached the edge of the rooftop, where the music was a little less deafening and the breeze ran cooler, she threw her arms around the tall guy by the railing. He was striking. She wasn't kidding. Soft eyes, warm smile, and an energy that felt calm even in the middle of a buzzing crowd.

“Yugyeom!” she laughed, pulling him into a fierce, joyful hug.

He looked surprised for a moment, then grinned and hugged her back just as easily, clearly happy to see her. His gaze then shifted to you.

“Yugyeom, this is her,” Nari said with playful exaggeration, turning to you like she was unveiling a masterpiece. “My best friend. My partner in crime. The one I’ve been telling you about forever.”

You smiled politely, reaching out to shake his hand. Until she cut in, louder than necessary.

“And she recently broke up with her piece-of-shit boyfriend. Baby daddy, actually.”

Your smile froze. Your eyes darted to her, wide in disbelief. “Nari,” you hissed under your breath, heat rising in your cheeks.

She waved you off, snagging a drink from a passing server as if she hadn’t just blown up your entire dating history in front of everyone. “What? He was a piece of shit. Anyway,” she said, turning back to Yugyeom, “she’s glowing now. working in HR, killing it as a boss mum, and living her best life.”

Yugyeom blinked, clearly caught between amusement and surprise. “Wait… you’re a mum?”

You hesitated for a beat before nodding, a bit shy under his gaze. “Yeah. I have a daughter. Nora. She’s only one.”

Something shifted in his expression. A genuine curiosity, not judgment. “That’s… actually really cool,” he said. “I love kids.”

You tilted your head slightly, unsure if he was just trying to be polite.

“No, seriously,” he went on, smiling now. “I work with them. I teach beginner dance and music classes. Mostly kids between four and seven. They’re chaotic, but honestly, the best part of my week.”

Nari, now smug and sipping her drink like she’d just orchestrated fate itself, elbowed you playfully. “See? I told you the universe has a sense of humour.”

You rolled your eyes at her but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. Yugyeom chuckled too, leaning against the railing as he took a sip from his drink.

“So, Nora, huh?” he asked. “What’s she like?”

And just like that, something softened in you. Walls relaxing slightly, the party noise fading just a bit, as you found yourself telling a stranger about the little girl who changed everything.

Nari wasn’t subtle. Never had been. But she had a sixth sense for when energy shifted, especially when it involved you.

From across the rooftop, she spotted the change in your expression. The way your shoulders relaxed, the slight lean forward, eyes softening as Yugyeom spoke about his work with kids. She didn’t need to hear a word to know something was clicking.

With a raised brow and a knowing smirk, she sashayed over, empty glass in hand.

“Well, well, well,” she teased, sliding in beside you. “You two look cozy.”

You shot her a mild glare, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

Yugyeom chuckled quietly, not falling for it. “We were just talking about her daughter. Nora sounds like a lovely little girl.”

“She is,” Nari declared proudly, ruffling your hair like a smug older sister. “Cutest kid ever.”

“But I’m sensing some good vibes here, so I’m gonna take my nosy self away and leave you two to it.”

She winked, then leaned in close, lowering her voice just enough for only you to hear. “I’ll grab us more drinks. Maybe hit the dance floor too. You good?”

You nodded, about to respond, but she was already melting back into the crowd, hips swaying effortlessly to the beat like she owned the night. You watched her go, amused and a little grateful.

Yugyeom smiled beside you, his tone light. “She’s got a lot of energy.”

“You have no idea,” you said, exhaling a quiet laugh.

Turning back to him, the noise around you faded once more, the city lights sparkling below. For the first time in ages, you felt like yourself. No labels, no expectations. Just you. On a rooftop, with someone new. And yet, whether you liked it or not, someone else lingered quietly in the broken corners of your heart and mind.

The lights strung above danced gently in the wind, casting a warm glow between the two of you. Yugyeom took another sip from his drink and grinned. “Honestly, the reason I like kids so much? I’ve got a whole army of nieces and nephews.”

You raised a brow. “Yeah? How many are we talking?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seven. And counting. My older siblings were busy, apparently.”

“Seven? That’s not a small army, that’s a kingdom.”

“Exactly,” he said, laughing with you. “And I’m known. Unofficially but unanimously... as the best uncle ever.”

You crossed your arms with a playful smirk. “Big claim.”

“It’s earned,” he said confidently. “I show up with snacks. I remember all their birthdays. I’ve sat through every school play and birthday party, even the ones with terrifying clowns and melted cake. And my specialty... I let them paint my face with glitter and call it ‘spa day’ without flinching.”

You tried to hold in your laughter, picturing him surrounded by a group of tiny humans, his face smeared with sparkles and lip gloss.

“Okay,” you said, shaking your head. “That’s actually really sweet.”

He smiled gently at the mention of her. “What’s she like, more you or her dad?”

The question caught you off guard but not in a bad way. It just wasn’t one people usually asked with genuine curiosity.

You shrugged, eyes drifting to the skyline for a moment. “She’s got his eyes. But she’s definitely more like me. Stubborn and curious. She babbles nonstop, even if most of it doesn’t make any sense yet."

He nodded slowly. “That sounds like a good mix.”

You tilted your head. “You really don’t mind that I have a kid?”

Yugyeom met your gaze directly, no hesitation. “Why would I? I think it’s kind of amazing, actually. You’re doing it all. Working, raising a whole person, and still showing up to rooftop parties looking like this.” His tone was warm, teasing, but sincere.

Heat crept into your cheeks again. You looked down, a soft smile forming despite yourself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice a little quieter now. “Sometimes I forget that I’m allowed to be… more than just her mum.”

He leaned his elbow on the railing, turning slightly toward you. “You don’t have to be just anything. You’re allowed to be everything. And whoever you are tonight… I’m glad I get to meet her.”

For a second, the city noise seemed to hush beneath the weight of his words.

And maybe it was the lights, or the way his smile didn’t feel rehearsed, or the fact that someone was finally seeing you beyond what you carried. But something about it made you stay just a little closer, let your guard drop just a little more.

“So,” you began, your voice light, “Nari mentioned you just got back from abroad?”

He nodded, brushing a hand through his hair, his features illuminated by the golden string lights above. “Yeah. I was in Berlin for about a year. Before that, Thailand for a while.”

“Wow,” you said, eyebrows raising. “What were you doing out there?”

“Teaching mostly. Music and dance. Preschool stuff. Mostly movement-based learning. A lot of tapping drums and waving scarves around,” he laughed, eyes crinkling. “But honestly, it taught me more than any class I ever took.”

Your interest piqued. “So you studied education or something?”

Yugyeom tilted his head at your question, that warm smile still playing on his lips. “Actually, I graduated. Finished my degree in music performance. Same year as a few friends who studied acting and visual arts. We were kind of an odd little crew.”

You blinked, surprised. “So you didn’t drop out?”

He shook his head, laughing lightly. “Nope. Made it to the end, cap and gown and all. I think I shocked my professors. I was always late to class and constantly turning in compositions two days past the deadline. But I loved it, in my own chaotic way.”

You smiled, the ease in his voice like sunlight through a window. “That’s kind of impressive. And after that you just… left?”

“Pretty much.” He leaned against the railing again, looking out at the skyline. “I always said I’d take a break, travel for a bit before committing to anything serious. Didn’t mean to ghost everyone, though.”

You tilted your head. “Ghost?”

He winced playfully. “Yeah. I kind of pulled an Irish goodbye after our grad exhibition night. Didn’t say much, just packed up and left for Thailand two weeks later. I still keep in touch with a few people though. Group chats, random check-ins, voice notes that never get replied to until a month later. Those kinds of friendships.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thoughtful smile. “That sounds… familiar.”

He looked at you curiously. “Yeah?”

You gave a noncommittal shrug, not quite ready to unlock that part of your past. Taehyung. He’d studied music too. You’d sat through his recitals, listened to late-night voice memos filled with unfinished melodies. His dream had once been big, bold, and beautiful and you believed in it almost as much as he did. Now, he’s got his own studio, calling the shots for himself.

But tonight wasn’t about him. It was about now.

“You still make music?” you asked, gently shifting the focus.

“Sometimes,” Yugyeom said with a soft smile. “Mostly for the kids now. I turn ‘Let It Go’ into a jazz ballad just to see them lose their minds. They think I’m a wizard.”

You laughed, picturing it. “I bet you are to them.”

“I like it better that way,” he said, looking at you. “Less pressure. More joy.”

The wind picked up slightly, brushing against your arms. You hugged yourself, not because of the cold, but because something about his words landed softly. Something about him. The way he moved through the world, the way he spoke of people. And maybe, this was the start of something new. Something gentler. Something that asked nothing of you but to be present.

The once-buzzing space now held only the gentle hum of the last songs bleeding from the speakers, a few bodies still swaying lazily, unwilling to let the night go just yet. Empty cups littered the tables, laughter had simmered down to soft murmurs, and the city below felt calmer somehow.

You sat beside Yugyeom again, your feet comfortably tucked beneath you. Nari reappeared, a subtle flush on her cheeks and a bright glimmer in her eyes.

“Okay,” she exhaled, flopping dramatically beside you. “I’ve danced enough to cover my cardio for the next three weeks.”

You laughed, glancing at the time on your phone. It was nearly 1am. The thought of your bed had never been more tempting.

“Should we call a cab?” you asked, already gathering your jacket from the back of the chair.

Yugyeom stood, stretching slightly, then turned to you both. “Actually… if you’re okay with it, I can drive you home. My car’s parked just down the street.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “Are you sure?”

He nodded with a gentle smile. “Yeah. I didn’t drink much. I do sober up pretty fast. And I was mostly here for the people. Plus, I’d rather you get home safe and not stuck waiting around for some overpriced ride share.”

Nari nudged you with a smirk. “Isn't he just the best?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Alright. Thanks, Yugyeom. That’s really kind of you.”

The three of you made your way down the stairwell, the air cooler now and refreshing against your skin. The streets were mostly empty, the occasional car passing by, headlights casting brief shadows on the pavement. Yugyeom’s car was tucked neatly along a quiet side street.

He opened the doors for you both without a word, like it was second nature. You slid into the passenger seat while Nari took the back, already pulling out her phone, probably posting photos or videos from the night.

As the engine started and soft music filled the space between you, you found yourself relaxing more than you expected. The city lights blurred past the window, your body sinking into the seat. You glanced over at him, watching the way his hands rested confidently on the wheel, the way his jaw flexed slightly as he hummed to the song playing under his breath.

“Thanks again, really,” you murmured.

He looked over, eyes warm. “Anytime. You were good company."

Nari snorted from the backseat. “Aww, look at you two. Getting all friendly and cozy already.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Your fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. Nari was maybe half asleep already. Or maybe letting you have this little moment uninterrupted.

As he drove on, something in your chest softened, and for the first time in what felt like a long while, the night didn’t feel heavy or tinged with something missing.

It just felt… easy.

As the car moved through the quiet streets, you found yourself leaning your head slightly against the cold, glass window. A grounding contrast to the warmth swirling in your chest. The hum of the road beneath the tires mixed with the soft lo-fi track playing through the speakers, and for a moment, you felt at peace.

Your thoughts, inevitably, drifted to Nora.

It was automatic. Whenever things slowed down, she filled your mind. You pictured her nestled in her crib, clutching her soft unicorn blanket, maybe babbling softly or drifting off to sleep. She always wanted a few gentle kisses goodnight. Tonight, you’d given her extra, just to hold onto the moment a little longer.

Out of habit, you reached for your phone. Halfway through typing a quick message to your dad, just like you used to. On my way home. Even though you knew he was probably already asleep. That’s when you saw it.

A missed message.

From Jungkook.

[JK]: hey. sorry to drop this on you but i figured you should know. tae’s not doing great. he’s really drunk rn. like… really gone. keeps calling your name. not sure who else to tell.

Your heart dropped a little. Not with panic, but with that aching mix of confusion and old pain. A tight inhale caught in your throat. You didn’t reply immediately. Just stared at the screen, your thumb hovering above the keyboard.

You hadn’t spoken to Taehyung in weeks, not really. Just polite handovers when Nora was involved. Civil, distant. You wanted it to be progress.

But here he was again, clawing his way back into your head, even when you were trying to breathe in something new.

“Everything okay?” Yugyeom’s voice came, low but genuine.

You blinked, quickly locking your screen and tucking the phone in your lap. “Yeah,” you lied softly. “Just… checking in.”

He didn’t press. Just gave you a small nod and kept driving, his hand resting comfortably on the wheel, his other adjusting the volume down a little.

And you were grateful for it. For his quiet understanding. For the fact that he didn’t try to pull the thread you weren’t ready to unravel.

Behind you, Nari had gone fully silent, her breathing steady. Definitely asleep.

You stared out the window again, the lights washing over your face, your reflection barely visible in the glass. You were stuck somewhere between two worlds. One where your past still haunted you in unread messages and drunken confessions, and another where kindness was offered without conditions.

You weren’t sure which one would win.

But tonight, you let yourself rest in the in-between.

The car turned down a familiar road lined with sleeping houses, porch lights glowing like quiet guardians. Home was just a few minutes away now, but your thoughts were miles elsewhere.

You stared blankly ahead, Jungkook’s message sitting in your phone like a weight.

Taehyung’s clearly not okay.

You hadn’t replied. You didn’t know how to. What was he expecting from you, exactly?

That you’d drop everything and go to him? Be the one to comfort him through another drunken spiral? Hold him through the night like none of it ever happened?

He was the one who broke you. Who let her come between your relationship. And now, after all of it, he still called for you like you were supposed to come running. You keep reminding yourself that, you and Taehyung weren’t together anymore. You were just co-parents now. Just two people trying to do what was best for Nora.

That’s it.

But the part that hurt the most was how true that had become.

There was a time when he was everything.

Now, he was just Nora’s dad. And you didn’t even feel guilty for saying that in your head.

Yugyeom must’ve sensed the shift in your energy. He glanced over before gently slowing the car and pulling up to your driveway. The engine went quiet except for the low hum of the radio, something soft and piano-based trailing faintly in the background.

“We’re here,” he said quietly.

You nodded, shaking off the fog. “Right. Yeah. Thanks again for the ride. And tonight. It was…”

“Nice,” he finished for you with a small smile. “I’m glad you came.”

You were about to open the door when Nari stirred in the back, stretching with a dramatic groan. “Ugh, are we home? Did I snore?”

“Yes and yes,” you muttered, teasing gently.

Yugyeom chuckled and quickly stepped out of the car to help you both. Nari, still a little wobbly and mumbling about crashing on your bed, stumbled ahead. Yugyeom moved closer, gently slipping an arm around Nari’s waist to steady her as she swayed. You fell into step on the other side, sliding your hand under Nari’s arm to support her as well.

Together, the three of you made your way slowly toward your parents’ house, the quiet night wrapping around you like a soft blanket. When you reached the porch, the warm glow of the light spilled over the steps. Yugyeom’s hand brushed against yours again. Softer this time, but still enough to send a flicker through you. You caught a quick, knowing smile from him before quickly looking away.

“Nari’s good for the night,” you said softly, unlocking the door.

Yugyeom gave a nod, still holding steady on Nari. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You stepped inside, pulling Nari in with a gentle laugh as she mumbled about needing “all the naps.”

Yugyeom lingered on the porch. You turned back toward him, pausing in the doorway. His hands were tucked into his jacket pockets, the breeze shifting his hair just enough to make him look boyish, thoughtful.

“I… hope we see each other again,” you said, your voice low and honest.

He tilted his head, a slow, kind smile pulling at his lips. “I’d really like that. And if you ever want to talk about stuff… you know, life, being a parent, or just jazzified Disney songs. I’m around.”

That made you laugh a little. A real one.

“Thanks, Yugyeom. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he echoed.

With that Nari flopped onto the couch with exaggerated exhaustion, mumbling something you couldn't understand. The house was cozy and quiet, the soft glow of the hallway nightlight casting gentle shadows. The TV was off, leaving the space peaceful. You draped a blanket over Nari and quietly made your way down the hall to your parents’ room. Peeking inside, you saw Nora peacefully nestled in her portable crib, while your parents slept soundly, completely unaware of the world outside.

You leaned against the hallway wall, heart still restless, thumb brushing over your phone. And then, finally. You unlocked it.

Jungkook’s message was still there, waiting.

You hesitated. Then typed slowly.

[You]: Thanks for letting me know. Is he safe?

The reply came fast.

[JK]: yeah, i took him home. he passed out. but he was a mess. i thought maybe hearing your voice would help. sorry if that's out of line.

You exhaled. Closed your eyes.

You knew what Jungkook meant. There had been nights like this before, back when things were still good. When your voice could calm Taehyung, ground him. Back when he still reached for you before things fell apart.

But not now.

Not anymore.

You typed back.

[You]: You did the right thing by being there. But I can’t be the person he calls anymore.

And you meant it. With your whole heart.

Friday came up quicker than you’d anticipated, the days slipping by in a blur until suddenly it was time to hand Nora over to Taehyung for the weekend. You were on your way to meet him at the park. A familiar spot where you’d often crossed paths before.

Your hands gripped the baby bag firmly, loaded with everything Nora might need. Fresh clothes, diapers, wipes, her favorite little blanket, snacks, and a couple of toys. You’d made sure it was all packed perfectly. Taehyung had gotten so used to Nora’s routine by now, even stocking up on a fair share of her essentials at his place. That part eased your mind a little. You didn’t need to worry about anything going wrong while she was with him.

When you arrived, the early evening light was soft, the park quiet except for the faint laughter of kids playing nearby. Taehyung was already there, leaning against a bench with a relaxed but expectant air. His eyes lifted when he saw you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” you greeted, stepping closer with Nora swaddled gently in your arms.

“Hey,” he replied softly, reaching out to take her from you. His arms settled around her protectively, and you couldn’t help but watch the easy way he cradled her.

As you handed over the baby bag, you caught yourself glancing at him, searching for something beneath the calm surface. “Are you okay?” you asked carefully, voice low. There was something different about him, a subtle tension you couldn’t quite place.

Taehyung met your eyes and gave a small nod, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in his expression. “I’m fine. Actually… there’s something I should clear up.” He paused, as if weighing his words.

“Jungkook told me he texted you last week. Said I was drunk and apparently making a mess.”

You smiled gently, appreciating his honesty. “It’s okay. I get it. Just… maybe next time, save the confessions for when you’re sober.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Nora’s forehead. “Deal.”

The moment stretched softly between you. You knew things were far from simple, but for now. With Nora in his arms and the park settling into evening calm around you, it felt like a small peace had settled between you both.

The soft hum of your laptop fan filled the room, mingling with the quiet tapping of your fingers against the keyboard. The late morning light spilled in through the sheer curtains, casting faint shadows on your desk. Your coffee had long gone cold, sitting untouched beside a half-scribbled notepad of reminders you didn’t have the energy to cross off.

Work from home sounded nice on paper, but today your thoughts felt heavy, distracted. You had reports to read, a Zoom call in less than an hour.

Then your phone buzzed quietly beside your elbow, breaking through the haze. You glanced down to see a string of photos from Taehyung lighting up the screen. Nora laughing as bubbles floated around her, her tiny hand clutching a colourful toy. There she was, safe and joyful with her dad for the weekend.

A soft smile touched your lips. Taehyung was savouring these moments just as much as you treasured them from afar. Despite everything, the quiet connection was a comfort.

You set the phone down, ready to slip back into work mode.

This time, the screen lit up with something unexpected

You paused, fingertips hovering above the screen before curiosity got the better of you.

[Unknown]: Hey. I hope this isn’t weird. I got your number from Nari. It’s Yugyeom. The guy from the rooftop party with the clumsy dance moves and Disney opinions. We forgot to swap numbers, didn't we?

You blinked, rereading it once, then twice.

Yugyeom.

You hadn’t thought about him since that night. Not in any deep way, at least. But now that his name was there in plain text, it stirred something light in your chest. That night had felt like a breath of air after being underwater for too long. Easy conversation. Laughter you didn’t have to force. Someone who didn’t look at you with pity or history.

Your lips tugged into a small smile before your fingers began to type.

[You]: Not weird. And yes, I remember you. Hard to forget the kids' dance teacher with surprisingly deep Disney takes and questionable rhythm.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

[Yugyeom]: Guilty as charged. I promise I’m usually smoother, but I had a feeling I might not get another chance to say hi if I didn’t shoot my shot.

You leaned back in your chair, letting out a quiet laugh. It had been a while since anyone made an effort. Not because you weren’t worth the effort. You knew your value. But because your guard had been up. For good reason.

Still, this didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t come with a suitcase full of baggage. It was a guy being bold enough to reach out. No pressure.

It was just human connection.

[You]: Well, you have my attention now. What’s up?

He responded.

[Yugyeom]: Honestly? Nothing fancy. Just thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing. And maybe, if you’re up for it sometime, grab a coffee? Daylight, public space, zero expectations kind of thing.

You stared at the message, something warm settling in your stomach. There was no charm overload, no forced flirtation. Just an invitation. Gentle. Considerate.

You glanced over at your to-do list and the tabs on your screen, still blinking, still demanding. But suddenly, the weight didn’t feel as suffocating.

You looked back at your phone.

[You]: I think I’d like that.

You didn’t know where this would go.

But it felt nice. To be seen, not just as someone’s ex or someone’s mom. But just… you.

Back then, everything smelled like cold brew coffee, dog-eared notebooks, and late-night ramen. The university’s music building buzzed quietly. Muffled beats drifting through the walls, vocal warm-ups echoing off stairwells, fingers tapping rhythms on worn tabletops during lectures.

It was mid-semester, a Thursday evening just as the air outside began to sharpen with the first hint of autumn chill. Taehyung and Yugyeom had claimed one of the old soundproof practice rooms. Not to rehearse this time, but just to hang out. Taehyung strummed lazy chords on his guitar, eyes half-lidded, while Yugyeom balanced a carton of strawberry milk on his knee, the lid slightly dented.

“You ever gonna tell that girl in your harmony class how you feel?” Taehyung asked, glancing sideways.

Yugyeom rolled his eyes. “Dude, not this again. She doesn’t even know my name.”

“She borrowed a pencil from you last week.”

“That’s not love, man.”

Before Taehyung could retort, his phone buzzed on the floor. He glanced down, a soft smile spreading across his face.

He picked up, leaning back against the soundproof wall, the guitar slipping a bit from his lap.

“Hey,” he said, voice instantly softer. “What’s up?”

Your voice came through, playful and warm. “Did I catch you in the middle of your Grammy-worthy performance?”

“Not quite,” he chuckled. “Just killing time. What’s going on?”

You told him about your day. How you nearly slipped on the stairs juggling books and coffee, how one professor had accidentally used the wrong slideshow all lecture. Your voice was lively, filled with little detours and laughs, and Taehyung just listened, grinning like a fool.

Yugyeom watched with a smirk, then leaned close to the phone, shouting dramatically, “Tell her she deserves someone with better coordination!”

You paused, surprised. “Who’s that?”

Taehyung laughed, holding the phone slightly away. “That’s Yugyeom. Ignore him.”

You giggled, and even through the speaker, that laugh warmed Taehyung’s chest. “Hi, Yugyeom. I’ll take my clumsy self elsewhere, then.”

Yugyeom gave Taehyung a thumbs up and mouthed she’s funny, before sipping his strawberry milk.

You stayed on the line a little longer, trading casual goodbyes and half-serious promises to call again. When the call ended, Taehyung still held the phone, a soft smile lingering.

“Is that her?” Yugyeom asked, tossing the empty carton in the bin.

“Yeah,” Taehyung said quietly. “That’s Y/N.”

Taehyung’s lips curved into a soft smile, eyes still on his phone screen. “We’ve been together since senior year of high school. She’s studying communications now, but still figuring out what she wants to do with it. But honestly, she’s a champ. I don’t know how she puts up with me being such a pain in the ass.”

Yugyeom looked over thoughtfully and nodded. “You’re a lucky guy, man.”

Taehyung didn’t respond right away. He just let the silence settle, that small smile lingering. Unaware of how much weight those words would carry in the time to come.

You’d just come back from taking Nora to her very first baby swimming class, spending the rest of the morning shopping and strolling around town. Somewhere between it all, you’d met up with Nari, who was eager to see Nora and catch up.

Weeks had passed since that rooftop party. Somehow Yugyeom had slipped easily into your life. Not as a whirlwind romance but as a steady presence. You still kept your guard up, tightly wound from the past, wary of letting anyone in again. Trust didn’t come easily, especially not after what happened with Taehyung.

But with Yugyeom, it was different. He was patient, kind, the kind of friend who listened without judgment. You caught yourself smiling at his texts, looking forward to conversations that felt light but genuine. Feelings started creeping in but you pushed them aside. You told yourself you couldn’t trust a man anymore.

Then, one Friday afternoon, your phone buzzed.

[Yugyeom]: Get dressed comfy. I’m taking you on a date.

You blinked, rereading the message. A date? You weren’t sure whether to be amused, nervous, or both.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard before texting back.

[You]: Comfy ok. But what kind of date?

Almost instantly, his reply popped up.

[Yugyeom]: Just trust me. Be ready by 6.

Curiosity won out. After a brief pause, you stood and began your evening routine, making sure Nora was fed and bathed before handing her off to your parents, who were more than happy to watch her for the night. When 6 came, Yugyeom arrived right on time. A grin spreading across his face like he was about to reveal a secret.

The car ride was filled with teasing smiles and easy conversation until you saw the glowing lights in the distance—an amusement park.

“You brought me here?” you laughed, surprised.

“Yep,” he said, eyes sparkling. “No pressure. Just fun. No expectations.”

You felt your heart lighten a little. Maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let the guard down. Even if just for tonight.

The crisp evening air was filled with laughter, music, and the scent of popcorn and cotton candy. The amusement park lights blinked like stars come down to earth, casting a warm glow over everything.

Yugyeom held the door open for you with a gentle smile, and you stepped into that bubbly, electric world, feeling a flutter of nerves mixed with excitement.

“Alright,” he said, his voice soft but playful, “first mission is to get us some of those ridiculously oversized stuffed animals.” He pointed to a game booth where people were trying their luck at the claw machine.

You rolled your eyes but laughed. “You’re setting me up to lose, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” he teased. “But win or lose, I’m just happy you’re here.”

You felt your cheeks warm and looked down, fiddling with your jacket zipper.

As you wandered through the park, the two of you slipped into an easy rhythm. You tried the bumper cars. Bumping into each other more than anyone else, and Yugyeom’s laugh was infectious. You let yourself laugh more than you had in weeks, the sound bright and unguarded.

Later, you found yourselves waiting in line for the Ferris wheel, the air cool against your skin. The night stretched out in soft hums of joy around you. When it was your turn, Yugyeom held your hand a little tighter as you stepped into the car.

The city lights shimmered below, but your gaze stayed on him.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I wasn’t sure about this at first.”

He looked at you with those warm, steady eyes. “Me neither. But I’m glad you came.”

The Ferris wheel creaked softly as it lifted you higher, and for a moment, the world felt like it was just the two of you. Suspended in a bubble of something new and tender.

When you reached the top, you both looked out over the glowing park below, your fingers still intertwined.

“I’m not ready to call this a date,” you admitted with a small smile, “but it’s definitely something.”

Yugyeom grinned. “We’ll take it slow. No rush.”

As the wheel turned and you descended back to the ground, you realised maybe, trusting again wasn’t so impossible after all.

And with a soft squeeze of your hand, Yugyeom whispered, “Thank you for trusting me tonight.”

You smiled back, your heart a little lighter, the night full of quiet possibility.

The laughter still lingered in your chest as the car rolled to a stop in front of your house. The amusement park glow felt like it was still clinging to your skin. Your arms were full of plush toys, prizes from a night of playful competition.

Well, mostly Yugyeom’s wins.

“You’re seriously a claw machine wizard,” you said, glancing at the stuffed bunny and oversized banana plush taking up half the backseat.

He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Years of training. I was destined for greatness.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You spoil Nora more than I do.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “She deserves it. Put some of them in her room. She can wake up thinking she’s in a plushie kingdom.”

Before you could respond, he was already out of the car, jogging around to open your door like it was second nature. You stepped out, arms still full of soft, fluffy trophies, and looked at him with a fond shake of your head.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently, reaching to help you carry a few of the toys. His fingers brushed yours, warm and steady.

You were halfway up the path, laughing about the ridiculous banana plush being taller than you, when you spotted someone near the porch.

Your steps slowed.

There he was.

Taehyung.

Standing in a pool of porch light, holding a paper bag that looked like it held snacks or maybe something Nora loved. And small bouquet of wildflowers that looked hand-picked. His head lifted at the sound of your voices. His eyes landed on you first, softening. Then froze as they moved to Yugyeom beside you.

Yugyeom, who still held your hand.

For a beat, no one moved. No one spoke.

You blinked, confused for a moment by the way Taehyung was staring. His expression wasn’t one of simple surprise. It was layered with something heavier. Like the pieces were falling into place in slow motion.

Yugyeom turned his head slightly, sensing the change in energy. And then, recognition sparked.

“…Taehyung?”

Your eyes widened, shifting between them. “Wait—you two know each other?”

The air shifted between them. Between all of you. You felt Yugyeom’s hand fall away from yours entirely as he straightened, his expression unsure. Like he was still trying to process.

He turned toward you, voice quieter now. “This is… the Taehyung?”

You gave a faint nod, not trusting yourself to say anything.

“The ex,” he murmured to himself, then added, “Nora’s dad.”

Yugyeom stepped back slightly, clearly caught off guard. Not angry, but reeling. Like everything you’d ever mentioned about your past had just taken physical form on your doorstep.

Taehyung looked between the two of you, his voice low. “Didn’t know you two were…”

“Yeah,” Yugyeom answered, though it came out uncertain, still laced with disbelief. “Neither did I. Until right now.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with past and present colliding in real time.

Taehyung cleared his throat and held out the paper bag. “Just came to drop off baby snacks for Nora. And… she left one of her plushies in my car.”

You stepped forward to take it from him. “Thanks,” you said softly.

You didn’t say anything about the flowers. But you saw the way his hand tightened around the stems.

Like he wasn’t sure what to do with them anymore.

Yugyeom didn’t move. He was still looking at Taehyung, not with hostility. But with the quiet shock of someone trying to understand how the story he’d been told fit the face in front of him.

And maybe, you thought, Taehyung was doing the same.

You held the bag close to your chest, fingers gripping the top just a little too tightly. The quiet between the three of you was unbearable. Taehyung was the first to break it.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” His eyes flicked toward Yugyeom again, the corner of his jaw tightening like he was biting down on something unspoken. “Didn’t know you’d be back this late.”

You tried to keep your voice even. “We were out.”

“I can see that.”

The way he said it made your chest tighten. Not accusatory, but not casual either. Like he wasn’t sure which emotion he had the right to feel. Taehyung never liked showing jealousy but his silence often said more than his words.

Yugyeom shifted beside you, arms still full of plush toys meant for your daughter. He cleared his throat. “I should probably… head home. Let you guys talk.”

“Yugyeom, you don’t—” you started, turning to him.

But he was already handing you the rest of the toys, his smile strained, like he didn’t quite know how to wear it anymore. “It’s okay Y/N. I get it.”

You reached out impulsively, grabbing his wrist, fingers curling around his jacket. “Wait. Please don’t—”

“I’m not mad,” he said softly, and that almost made it worse. “Just… surprised.”

You nodded slowly, hating the way the air suddenly felt cold. Yugyeom’s kindness had become something you depended on. His presence a quiet comfort. You didn’t realise just how much until this moment, how fragile all of it could be.

He looked between you and Taehyung again, and this time when he spoke, it was more to himself than to anyone else. “You said he broke your heart. I just didn’t know it was him.”

The way he said him carried history. Old memories. You weren’t sure of what. But you could see it on his face now. That old familiarity being rewritten in real time.

Taehyung looked at Yugyeom then, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “We were friends,” he said, quietly.

“Were,” Yugyeom echoed, nodding once. “Guess that makes things easier.”

You flinched at that. At the quiet finality in his tone.

Yugyeom gave you one last look, softer this time. “I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?”

You wanted to say something. To reach out. But nothing would come. So you just nodded again, feeling something in your throat that wouldn’t let you breathe.

He turned and walked back to his car, driving off moments later.

And then it was just you and Taehyung.

The porch light buzzed softly overhead. You turned to him slowly, the paper bag still in your arms, your heart split between two names. Two timelines. Two different versions of who you used to be and who you were trying to become.

Taehyung’s voice was low. “So… you and Yugyeom?”

You nodded once. “We’ve been… spending time together.”

He stared at the ground for a moment, then up at you. “Is it serious?”

You looked away. “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

His shoulders tensed. “But it is now?”

You exhaled, words stuck in your throat. “I don’t know.”

But you did. The way your heart fluttered when Yugyeom laughed. The safety you felt around him. The way he never asked for more than you were ready to give, but somehow still made you want to.

And yet…

Taehyung was standing here, holding flowers and looking at you like you still mattered. Like he still felt something, even if he didn’t know how to say it. It brought everything rushing back. The memories and the heartbreak,

You swallowed hard. “What are you doing here, Taehyung?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Like I said, I just… Nora left her plushie in my car. I brought her snacks. And… I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see you.”

It landed like a bruise.

“Taehyung,” you said softly, your voice fraying, “remember what we talked about. What we are now.”

Just Nora’s parents.

That was the line. You both drew it. You both knew it.

His silence cracked something open.

Your voice wavered, but the words came sharp anyway. “You don’t get to show up and look hurt. You were the one who lied. You were the one who ruined us.”

Taehyung stepped forward, his expression tightening, lips parting as if to deny it. But he didn’t.

He didn’t say a word.

He just looked at you.

Haunted.

Like the weight of it had finally settled in his chest. Like he was just now realising what he’d lost.

And that this time, there was someone else. Someone who knew how to hold you carefully. Without breaking anything.

Especially your heart.

He didn’t even notice when the bouquet slipped from his fingers. The wildflowers he’d hand-picked for you lay forgotten on the concrete, petals crushed beneath his silence.

[and-claudia]

Little Sundress (Charles Xavier x Fem!Reader) SMUT!! DAY 1 of KINKTOBER

Set during First Class

Warnings: sundress kink, oral (f receiving), I think that is it, let me know if I missed one though!!

Wordcount: 1500+

Being in Charle’s childhood home was interesting, to say the least. He and I had very different upbringings, and seeing how massive this place truly was only seemed to prove that more. 

“And here is the kitchen.” He said, “I know it’s not anything crazy b-”

“I love it.” I said, cutting him off. 

He turned to me and smiled. 

“It’s charming. And honestly, anything is better than our tiny one back in Oxford.” I said with a laugh. 

“Well, I am glad you like it. And you do know, you don’t have to cook for all of us.” He said, stepping closer and placing his hands on my hips. 

“I know, but I want to. Plus, it will make me feel more helpful… my mutation isn’t the most useful in a fight.” I said, looking down. 

“That won’t be the case much longer, dear. That’s why we’re here to train and grow our abilities. I believe you’ll be able to copy any mutation of anyone at any time without touching them by the time we’re done.” He said, using his thumb and pointer finger to grab my chin and tilt it up to look at him. 

I smiled at him, “I hope so.” 

I didn’t actually say it to him out loud. Since he was touching my face, I was able to say it to him telepathically. 

Charles finished showing me around and ended in the room we’d be staying in. I took some time to unpack while he went off to do his own thing. Once all my clothes were unpacked I decided to take the chance to shower before I went down stairs to make dinner. We had been traveling all day so I felt a little gross and I knew a shower would feel amazing, especially since I would be getting the hot water before everyone else. 

When I got out, I decided to throw on one of my sun dresses. It was always so rainy in Oxford I hardly ever got a chance to wear them, so I intended to take full advantage of that. I threw on some simple kitten heels so that I wasn’t walking across the mansion barefoot. Then, I made a few adjustments to my outfit before heading out. 

On my way to the kitchen I passed a few Raven. 

“Why are you all dressed up? Are you and Charles going out or something?” She asked, slightly confused. 

“No, not tonight. I am actually just on my way to make everyone dinner. I just never really got to where these dresses often, so I figured I’d take advantage.” I said. 

“Make sure you make it to the kitchen before Charles sees you. He won’t be able to keep his hands to himself once he sees you, and I’d like to make sure we get fed tonight.” She teased, and I just laughed and rolled my eyes before continuing to the kitchen. 

Once I got there I set about getting everything I would need for dinner ready. I was just beginning to chop the vegetables when Erik, Charles and Hank all walked in. 

“Hello, boys,” I said, spinning around to greet them, causing the dress to flow out. 

Erik and Hank both said their own hellos, but Charles was too busy staring… I was starting to think Raven may have been right. 

“Dinner will be ready in probably half an hour.” I informed them. 

“Do you want some help?” Hank offered. 

I was about to tell him that he could help finish chopping while I got the chicken in the oven, but Charles cut me off before I could. 

“I got it, I can help her… you two go ahead and… yeah.” He said, clearly already a little flustered as he walked over to help me. Luckily, the other two men got the hint and left us alone in the kitchen. 

“Well, that was smooth, Charlie…” I teased. 

“What?”

“I got it, I can help her… you two go ahead and… yeah.” I mocked his voice as I repeated what he had just said. 

“Well, can you blame me?” He asked, turning to look me over, not even the slightest bit ashamed of the way his hungry eyes racked over my body. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I said, stepping past him to grab something from the fridge, but he caught my arm. 

“Oh, but you do. It doesn’t take a telepath to know that… but it is useful being one because now I know that you have nothing on under there.” He said, reaching for the hem of my dress but I smacked his hand away. 

“I gotta cook dinner.” I said, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek but he turned his head and I kissed his lips instead which he immediately took advantage of that. His hands gripped my hips as he pulled me against him. 

“Mm, I’d rather start with dessert.” He said against my lips as he grinded his hips against me. 

“Charles, we can’t. Not here.” I said. 

“Who said? It’s my house, I should be able to fuck my girlfriend wherever I please…” In one swift motion, he turned us around so that my back was now to the table that sat in the middle of the room, “And right now, it would please me to fuck her right here.” 

Without our lips separating, he lifted me up onto the table as we continued to make out. His hands slid down to my knees, and he pulled them apart so he could stand between them. 

“What if someone walks in?” I asked, glancing over to the door. 

“Don’t worry about that, darling.” He said, subtly inching my dress up higher and higher. 

He finally broke away from the kiss and gave me a look before dropping down to kneel on one knee between my legs. 

“You should wear these more often, love.” He said as he began planting kisses along the inside of my thigh. 

He left a trail of kisses and a few love bites all the way up my inner thigh. Then, when he reached where I wanted his lips the most, he hesitated. I felt the cool air of him sighing so close, sending a chill up my spine. I was mentally preparing myself to feel his tongue delving into my cunt. So, when I felt his lips press to my other thigh and begin working their way back down it, I accidentally let a small whimper slip through my lips. 

“So impatient.” He mumbled, and I could feel his smirking against my skin. 

“No, you’re just a fucking tease.” I sighed. 

“Oh really? Maybe I should just let you get back to cooking then.” He said, going to stand up. 

I reached forward and caught his shoulder, pushing him back down, “Don’t you dare. You’re going to eat me out.” I said to him telepathically. 

“As you wish.” 

He dropped back down and went straight the my cunt. No time was wasted as he began fucking me with his mouth. His tongue was working wonders. I was trying so hard not to let anyone hear me. 

Suddenly, he pulled away and looked up at me. His lips were shining with a mix of my wetness and his own spit. 

“No, let them hear you, darling.” He said. His eyes were the darkest I had ever seen them. 

He didn’t even wait for me to respond before going back to lapping at my cunt. His nose was now also rubbing up against my clit, sending me soaring towards ecstasy. 

“Fuck, Charles, keep going.” I said, running my hands through his hair, pulling it lightly, which earned a grunt from him that I felt vibrate up through my cunt. 

I could feel that oh so familiar and welcom feeling of the coil tightening, knowing it would snap soon from the tension. Charles must have felt that I was getting close too because he began to speed up. 

“You taste so good, love.” He said to me telepathically, “Wish I could eat you out every day.” 

“Charles…” I moaned out loud, not caring that I could hear my moans echoing off the walls. 

“Go ahead, darling, come all over my tongue.” 

“Fuck!” I moaned as I came. 

Charles refused to let a single drop of my release go to waste as he lapped up every bit of it. Once he was done, he pulled back, chin wet with a mix of my release and his own spit. As he stood, he grabbed the rag from off the table and used it to wipe his chin, and only his chin, before he leaned over to kiss me, allowing me to taste myself on his lips. The kiss was so soft and gentle that I never wanted it to end. That was until I smelt something burning. 

I reluctantly pulled away and glanced around him. 

“Fuck, the chicken burned.” I said. 

Charles turned around and just turned the oven off. 

“Oh well, that gives me more time to fuck you… where shall we take it next? My new office, perhaps?” He asked. 

The thought did excite me, but what was everyone supposed to do for dinner now? 

“Change of plans. Go into town for dinner tonight.” Charles said to everyone in the house using his mind. 

“Problem solved.” He said before leaning in to give me another kiss, “So… my office?” He asked, raising his eyebrow at me. 

Kinktober taglist:

@comicbookslut

[koocycle]

screw up; over wine | drabble i.

synopsis; jungkook wants to make your first date special and unlike any other night you’ve had before. while determined to win your heart over with a fancy, romantic dinner that includes sweet, tasty chardonnay and medium rare steaks, not everything goes according to his plan.

pairing; boyfriend! jungkook x model! female reader

word count; 4.1k

genre; fluff, baby angst probably

warnings; none

timeline; this drabble is set 7 years ago, at the very start of the over wine couple’s relationship where jungkook is a finance major and oc is still active in the modelling industry. they’re both in their early 20s here!

author’s note; a thank you drabble for all the support and encouragement i’ve been receiving the past two weeks!! also a lil drabble for the people who aren’t a fan of angst and still punched through that 38k last chapter :) enjoy this little tidbit of the start their relationship before it all became messy and went downhill

series masterlist | over wine universe

The sound of the lively chatter at the tables surrounding you had gone over your head before. The clinking of cutlery amplifies and bubbles of laughter fill the air the moment Jungkook excuses himself to the bathroom and all of a sudden, you watch yourself become a nerve-wrecking mess, unsure what to do the minute you’re left alone and forced to listen to the couples at the tables on your sides. You can feel their eyes on you, noticing the way they keep glancing at you with some sort of pity in their eyes. The bustling restaurant suddenly feels much more crowded and you can’t help but feel exposed with him now gone, the bill at your table staring back at you like it tells you everything Jungkook didn’t have the balls to say. 

It’s only when the waitress comes back a second time around when you finally search your handbag for your card and hand it to her, plastering a smile on your face that is supposed to copy the one you were previously wearing. You could tell she was getting impatient before, her hair tied into a bun so slick, you were sure she was unable to move the brows at her forehead. 

She’s been eyeing you and Jungkook ever since you came in and sat down, it was hard not to notice, seeing the way her lips pursed as she tongued the front of her teeth when Jungkook ordered you the most expensive Chardonnay on the menu. And at the end, when he left for the bathroom about five seconds after he read the price at the bottom of the receipt, you could swear you saw a vein pop at her forehead. It was funny back then. Though now that he’s been gone for nearly ten minutes, each and every bit of humor has left your body just like you watched it happen to that woman before. The inkling feeling at your chest enlarges each time somebody locks eyes with you and shares that sorrowful, pitiful smile, and you lose it.

You had a good time tonight, that much you can’t deny, and you refuse to be pitied. Especg not by a bunch of strangers. You know everyone at the restaurant had seen it at this point. Seen the way Jungkook had leaned over the table with crossed arms supporting him while that charming, boyish smile painted his face, resulting in a flush to your cheeks as you tried to hide it and blame it on the wine that must have gotten to your head. You felt luckier than anyone else in the room only half an hour ago, where you thought the dates around you couldn’t compare. Like they couldn’t have gotten better than yours by the end of the night.

Yes, embarrassment fills your chest when the waitress hands you back your card and flashes you a knowing smile. However, you refuse to let it bring you down. Humiliation draws over you as you stand up from your seat and make your way over to the corner Jungkook disappeared behind, each step of your stiletto heels to the restaurant’s floor tiles accentuating the flow of your mini dress against your ass. You know eyes are on you, but you ignore it and keep your head high. If you had driven here yourself, you probably would have let the guy rot in the men’s restroom until they had found him, though for now, you still need him for that twenty-minute ride back home.

And it’s not like you mind paying for tonight’s dinner. As a matter of fact, if Jungkook had simply asked you to cover the bill, you know you would’ve reached out for your wallet without a second thought. He made you feel at ease from the start on; ensuring your beef was cooked to perfection, sitting you down on the booth while he did so on the chair. Even double checking whether or not your glass of Chardonnay was sweet enough to your liking, if you needed another napkin at your neck so you wouldn’t stain that pretty little dress, and if you weren’t getting cold right beneath that airconditioning screwed to the ceiling–ready to run back to the car to get your jack from the backseat.

That’s right, you wouldn’t have minded, because Jungkook has been perfect all night. And no matter how many times you thought to yourself “God damn, you’re having a blast and so is he,” you wouldn’t have minded if at the end of the night he’d be like, “hey, this probably isn’t working out and we should never do this again.” Because, sure, then it is what it is. But at least you’ve got more class than him if you think it’s a shitty thing to hide in the men’s restroom the moment the bill is served instead of growing a pair and telling you exactly that in your face.

‘‘Hyung, please, I need you right now.’’ It is the first thing you hear once you round the corner and you come face to face with his back, his phone is held to his ear and it appears his fingers are pinching the bridge at his nose. ‘‘It’s just that I’m really into this girl, and I can swear she feels the same way. I can’t afford fucking it up now. I promise I’ll pay you back by the end of the month, okay?’’

It stings more than you’d like to admit. You lean against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest as you try to process the situation. Part of you wants to confront him right there, tell him the bill has been taken care of and ask him why he brought you here if he knew he couldn’t even pay for it. He could at least tell you to stay within a reasonable budget, where the wine bottle didn’t have to cost 400 bucks and each additional sauce wouldn’t have to cost another 15 on top.

Would he be scared you’d judge him if he brought you some place else?

‘‘I know, I know,’’ he mumbles into his phone, throwing his head back. ‘‘I didn’t want to bring her somewhere downtown and disappoint her, that’s all. How was I supposed to know the prices were that high if they don’t write it down the menu?’’

You have to bite your lip to hold the laughter from escaping. It’s cute, the way he thinks, because the moment you’d see a menu without its prices mentioned, one thing most people would do is run out the building before they charge you for the lukewarm water that’s already served on the table. You can’t help but find his reasoning cute and endearing, his sincerity shining through and you can tell he truly wanted to make tonight special for you. The fact that he was worried about disappointing you speaks volumes about how much he cares. Although, next time around, you’d find him a little cuter if he were honest with you. You really wouldn’t think much less of him if he asked you to pay the bill.

‘‘Thanks, hyung. So much.’’ He breathes out, and you can only figure the person on the other end of the line is transferring the money to his bank account as you stand there. ‘‘I’m dodging a bullet here.’’

It is only when he hangs up the phone that he turns around, halting in his tracks at the sight of you standing there. With his phone still in hand, Min Yoongi’s contact number still displayed on the screen, his expression changes from shock to worry as he sees you standing there, arms folded over another as you’re leaned up against the wall.

‘‘Hi.’’ You smile.

And you have the prettiest smile. Even though it’s closed lipped and seems a little ironic, he thinks you own the most beautiful smile in the room. ‘‘Hey,’’ he says, his eyes faltering even though he’s quick to cover up. Sauntering over, he places a hand at your hip to guide you the other way, over to the cashier. ‘‘I’m sorry that took so long, you know how moms can be.’’ He snickers quietly, ‘‘you’re already two years into college and she still calls every night to ask if you’ve eaten.’’

You stand there, amused by his poor attempt to brush off the situation, His hand on your hip feels warm, and you find yourself swayed by his touch. ‘‘Oh, I see,’’ You play along, unable to suppress the playful glint in your eyes. ‘‘So it was your mom who kept you on the phone for so long? For a hot minute I thought you were bailing on me back here.’’

Jungkook laughs softly, shaking his head. ‘‘With the way you look tonight? I’d be crazy to.’’ His eyes linger on you, shamelessly sneaking down your figure in a long, exposed glance, appreciating the white mini dress that cuts right beneath your ass, accentuating your every curve. He doesn’t even try to hide the boyish grin that works its way up his lips, the hand at your hip instead traveling to the small of your back.

Your cheeks flush a little at the compliment, and you turn to face him completely, a flat hand to his chest. ‘‘Smooth talker,’’ you tease, head tilting sweetly as a rush of warmth flows through you.

He grins, his eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘‘Just speaking the truth,’’ he replies, loving the way your eyes grow so big the moment he holds you close and you start looking up at him. He is still running his hand at your back in small circles as he subtly pulls you closer to him, loving the way you just let him. ‘‘Let’s take care of the bill and get you home safely. Are we all set?’’

You nod cutely, ‘‘I am,’’ you say, and Jungkook guides you around by the waist, his free hand digging into the back pocket of his dress pants before you interrupt him, intertwining your arm with his as you lead the both of you out the door instead. ‘‘And I already took care of it.’’ You teasingly whisper in his ear, the smile that you wear on your face undeniable.

Jungkook’s grin falters, halting in his tracks once you’re outside. His brows furrowed together, clearly taken aback. ‘‘Wait, you paid?’’ He asks softly, seeming a little deflated even as you stand before him with that pretty smile on your face. He usually can’t resist to bring one out himself when your lips break into one, though it comes a little more difficult this time. ‘‘You know you didn’t have to do that, right? I had everything planned out,’’ his hands come to cup your cheeks. ‘‘It was me who asked you out. That means that I’m supposed to treat you tonight.’’

You can see the sincerity in his eyes, and your heart softens at the genuine concern. It is only for a moment that you consider telling him you overheard his phone call with his roommate, and no matter how comfortable Jungkook made you feel tonight alone, you remember it’s only your first date, and you’d hate for things to get sappy so quickly. ‘‘Well, you basically left me all alone with that piece of paper. How could I control myself?’’ It’s supposed to be a lighthearted joke, he can see it in the way you smile at him, but he can’t help but think there’s some truth to it. ‘‘Come on, bring me home,’’ even with the heels you’re wearing, you have to stand on your tippy toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘‘These heels aren’t doing me justice anymore.’’

Jungkook chuckles softly, the tension not yet easing between you even as you drag him to the car by intertwining your hands together. As he opens the door for you to get in, he can’t help but feel like he’s somehow failed today’s date. Looking back at how it must’ve looked like when he ran off to call Min Yoongi for help like he’s still in highschool with a silly little school crush, he feels a pang of embarrassment at the thought of appearing so immature and unprepared in front of you. He wanted everything to be perfect, bring you someplace nice to impress you and show you he could treat you well. Instead, he just looks like a little boy who tried to trick you into paying for the first date.

Even as Jungkook is seated in the drivers’ seat and takes the route back to your home, he turns up the volume of the radio, hoping to drown out the disappointment in himself. He definitely screwed up tonight. He doesn’t even know if he wants you to say something to him; he just knows that you don’t, but the glances you keep sneaking his way for the entire ride back home are enough to make him feel even worse. You can see that something is bothering him, that his playful, flirtatious vibe from before has shifted and is now replaced with something you can’t decipher.

You start to wonder if it’s something you said. Wonder if he’s now getting cold feet and suddenly realizes maybe he didn’t enjoy himself as much as you thought. He hadn’t given you any reason to think like that, though. Not after how sweet he was tonight, not after the way you heard him talk about you over the phone with his friend.

As the car pulls up in front of your place, Jungkook turns off the engine, the radio cutting off as the silence envelopes both of you again. The clicking sound of your seatbelt comes fast and you glance over at him again, finding him already looking at you with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

He gets out and walks you to the door after that, his hands hidden in the pockets of his pants as he doesn’t care to spare you another glance. The shift in energy is obvious between the both of you, not a single soul out on the street at this hour of the day to distract you from the uneasy silence. Your stiletto heels click against the pavement and you have to bite your bottom lip to make the short but uncomfortable way back a little more bearable.

At the end of a date comes a kiss. It’s how it happens in all the romcoms you watch–it happens in all the chick flicks and all the Disney short movies. But this is no Stephanie Perkins love story, not with the way you’re standing there, hugging your arms as the chilly breeze crosses your skin.

‘‘I guess this is where we split ways, right?’’ You finally break the silence, your voice tinged with uncertainty. You don’t want the night to end on such an awkward note, but the tension between you is undeniable.

Jungkook’s gaze softens, and he takes a step closer to you, the distance between your bodies diminishing. ‘‘I had a great time tonight,’’ he admits, his voice gentle as he reaches to unfold your arms, fingertips grazing over them before they get to your soft hands and intertwines them with his own. ‘‘And I really want to see you again,’’ he says quietly, thumbs rubbing over your knuckles. ‘‘You know, if that’s okay with you.’’

You have to tongue the front of your teeth in an attempt to hide that broad smile that’s tugging at the edges of your lips. ‘‘Yeah, I’d like that.’’ You say, and you can feel your heart race against your chest only with the way he’s looking down at you.

‘‘And I’ll be transferring the money right back to your account first thing back home, alright?’’

‘‘Oh,’’ you raise an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting him to bring up the topic of money again. ‘‘Really, that’s okay. I don’t mind having to spend a little. And it doesn’t really matter in the end, does it? We enjoyed ourselves tonight, and that’s probably what’s most important.’’

‘‘It is what’s most important,’’ he agrees with a boyish smile, heavy lidded eyes staring back at you. ‘‘But it was me who asked you to join me for dinner. Therefore it was my responsibility to treat you, you know? To make sure you had a good time, and to guarantee the bill was taken care of and nowhere within your reach.’’ Jungkook says, one hand held against his chest as he tilts his head in the most charming way you can think of. ‘‘That was my mistake. But I won’t be able to go to bed with a good feeling knowing you paid for all that. We didn’t dine at McDonald’s, you know?’’

You can’t help but let out a soft chuckle at his playful reference, because he’s right. There was a lot more on that receipt than two cheeseburgers and fries on the side. Jungkook took you out to wine and dine; told you beforehand to wear the prettiest dress you own and he spared no expense to make sure the evening was special. It was clear he wanted to impress you, even if you hadn’t overheard his phone call.

Your hands caress his chest until they reach to play with the collar of his blouse, as if to fix it. ‘‘Then maybe it’s time we pick out some place that’s a little more affordable, don’t you think?’’ You’re not nagging at him, your voice is gentle, indirectly telling him he doesn’t need to spend money on you that he doesn’t have. ‘‘You know I’d be fine with a pizza and a soda, right?’’

The feeling of your fingertips tickling at his neck makes him bite his lip, your arms leaning on his broad shoulders for support. ‘‘You know I can’t take you out for pizza.’’

You smile, enjoying the closeness between you when his own hands fall to your hips. Tugging you closer, just slightly. ‘‘Why not?’’ You tease, unable to keep that toothy smile off your face. ‘‘I bet we could have just as much fun sharing a pizza as we did tonight.’’

‘‘We would,’’ Jungkook’s eyes meet yours, and he looks a little torn. ‘‘But you’re special,’’ his lips curl into a small smile when the words leave him, watching as you throw your head back a little in surprise, the warmth rising to your cheeks not gone unnoticed. ‘‘And I don’t know… it’s probably just something you do, but you make me want to give you all the things you’ve never been given before, all right?’’

He’s speaking from the heart, and the longer he looks into those eyes of yours, the more this lovestruck feeling intensifies in the deepest pits of his chest. Because it’s true; Jeon Jungkook is smitten. You pick up his FaceTime calls in the middle of the night wearing silken, champagne pink Chanel pajamas, you carry your Miss Dior perfumes in the side pockets of your Armani handbags and your agent takes you out to fine dinings at least once a month–you’re handed all those luxury items by all sorts of brands trying to get a sponsor out of you because, they as well, know you’re something else. Something big.

You stand before him in a dress he doesn’t even want to know the price of, and instead just wants to admire you. How was he ever going to step up his game and give you things you haven’t seen before? Sure, perhaps Jungkook was a little starstruck the moment the price at the end of the bill caught his eye, but when it came to you, it was worth it. He doesn’t make that kind of money yet, but he will, and when he receives his degree and finally does that, then yes, he wants to spoil you rotten. You deserve it all.

Your heart skips a beat at his words, touched by his genuine sentiment. ‘‘Jungkook,’’ you begin softly, your voice tinged with emotion. ‘‘I had a blast tonight, I really did, and I appreciate you so much for the effort you put in the entire evening. But I really hope you didn’t do all of this with the idea I would like you any less if it indeed was just a burger and some fries from McDonald’s.’’

Jungkook’s eyes soften. ‘‘No, that’s not it at all,’’ he assures you, his voice gentle and sincere. ‘‘I wanted to show you a good time, to make you smile.’’

‘‘I smiled all the way to the end of the night,’’ you sing-song, leaning into his touch when you cup his cheeks. ‘‘So no S.O.S phone calls with Min Yoongi at the end of our next date night?’’

He blinks slowly, shifting his gaze downward as a nervous chuckle escapes his lips. ‘‘You overheard my phone call,’’ you watch as the embarrassment overtakes him and you think it’s rather cute how he tries to hide his face from you, the sight of your feet suddenly so much more interesting. ‘‘Isn’t that great.’’ He mumbles, wincing on the inside.

‘‘I did. And there’s nothing to be embarrassed of.’’ You tilt his head back up, forcing him to lock eyes. ‘‘I actually think it’s kind of cute you wanted to impress me. Am I really that intimidating?’’

Jungkook’s cheeks warm, and he can’t help but let out a laugh at your teasing. His thumbs start caressing the material at the small of your back, leaving you a little weak in the knees. ‘‘Intimidating isn’t the right word,’’ he admits, pursing his lips like he’s thinking hard. ‘‘I’d say you’re frightening. And not in a good way, either. Rather like one of those Disney villains that would keep you awake as a kid, you know?’’ He smirks cutely, playfully nudging at your side and causing you to squirm at his arms. ‘‘Ursula or something. You look just like her, the big eyes and the crazy hair and all.’’

‘‘Do I now?’’ You arch a single brow, amusement crippling at your lips.

He hums, tugging you close to him until your bodies are pressed together and you can feel his warmth radiating through his clothes. ‘‘Like two beads of water.’’ He says a little softer now, his breath fanning against your lips as he reaches out to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.

The space between you seems to shrink, the world around you fading into oblivion the more you’re drawn into him. ‘‘You wouldn’t look at me as if you want to kiss me if that were true.’’

Jungkook’s breath catches at your words, and he can’t deny the truth in them. The teasing glint in your eyes sends a jolt of excitement through him, making him want to prove you wrong. His fingers gently trail along your jawline, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine.

‘‘Oh, really?’’ He retorts playfully, his voice low and husky. ‘‘And what if I do want to kiss you?’’ His gaze intensifies, holding you captive as he leans closer, his lips almost brushing against yours. The air cackles with anticipation, and time seems to slow down as the world around you fades away.

Your heart pounds in your chest, matching the rhythm of his as he hovers so close. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and it sends a rush of desire through you. Your fingers instinctively find their way to his chest, the anticipation building between you both.

‘‘Do it and find out.’’

He doesn’t hesitate. You’ve given him the green light and with a surge of boldness running through him, he closes the distance between you, and his lips capture yours in a tender, passionate kiss. It’s a perfect collision of desire, a moment that feels like it was meant to be.

You place a hand to his chest, able to feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. With your fingers slightly curling at the nape of his neck, arm leaning on his shoulder, you dare to pull him closer to you as he copies your body language not much longer after. He pulls you by the small of your back to make sure it curves and you’re pressed chest to chest. Your breaths mingle, lips eagerly brushing against each other as the kiss deepens and you feel a tingling warmth spreading through your body. His touch is tender and possessive, as if he doesn’t want to let you go. Your other hand finds its way to his cheek, caressing it with a soft, adoring touch. It’s a silent reassurance that this is right, that you want this as much as he does.

Time seems to lose all meaning when his lips lingers on yours, it seems like. You’re lost in him, just like how he is lost in you. And when you eventually pull away, your foreheads rest against each other, you both share a soft, contented sigh. Your eyes meet, and a knowing smile passes between you.

‘‘Let’s save the rest for our second date, yeah?’’

Your heart is still racing, and his touch leaves your body feeling electric. You can see the desire in his eyes as gazes down at you, and with a gentle caress at his cheek, you nod in agreement, a playful glint in your eyes.

‘‘Definitely,’’ you whisper, your voice breathless.

As you part ways, you fumble with your keys at the door as Jungkook makes his way back to his car. A sense of contentment washes over you, knowing you’ve found someone who makes your heart race and your soul soar.

And as you steal a glance from over your shoulder only one last time for tonight, you find him doing the same thing at the exact same moment. Your eyes meet, and you cutely avert your eyes back forward the moment it happens, missing the way he bites his bottom lip to hold back a cheeky grin, shaking his head in amusement.

You’re truly one of a kind.

[mithrandirl]

i always get questions when i do a split gifset, and it's a deceptively simple process so i thought i'd try to show how i do it! i don't know if these types of gifsets have a more universally recognized name, but that's what i call them so that's what i'm going with.

i'm going to write this assuming you have a solid familiarity with photoshop and making gifs, but please feel free to send me an ask if anything is unclear. i use video timeline/smart objects so will be showing that (here's a great general tutorial on giffing with timeline). i will also be talking A LOT about gif dimensions, so first let's briefly go over the limits and theory a little bit.

a 1 column gifset can accommodate gifs 540 pixels wide

2 columns = 268 pixels each with a 4 pixel gutter between

3 columns = 177, 178, 177 pixels with 4 pixel gutters

i'm mostly going to talk about 2 column split gifs here (what i will refer to as 2x1 from now on - 2 across and 1 high), but the process is the same for 3 column (3x1) and so on (1x2, 2x2, etc).

so, why would you even want to make a gifset like this? i mean, let’s face it, generally, bigger is better for gifs on tumblr, and there are obvious incentives to 540 width gifs over 268 or 177/8 width, especially since the upload limit went to 10MB. but even 10MB isn’t much when you’re talking about high quality footage. gif making is a constant balance between quality (whatever that means to you: frame dimensions, sharpening, coloring, etc) and file size. split gifs are a cheat to that limitation >:)

i personally believe an untapped frontier of tumblr gifmaking is playing with dimensions and time. that sentence makes me sound like an old-timey sci-fi villain, but you get the idea: gifmaking is an art and there are many fun and interesting ways of exploring the medium. you can do a lot with 268 pixels! longer frame loops to gif longer scenes unbroken, bolder coloring on a wide shot you don’t want to pare down. and, a shorter x axis means the y axis’s bang goes a lot further on a buck. also just if you have a 2 column set but only 5 gifs so you need to make one take up 2 slots. there's a lot of reasons but the most important one is it's fun :) here are some examples of other split gifs i've made: x, x, x

this isn't so much a limitation, more of a shift in how you think about gifs, but it's important to remember that each gif should ideally be doing something still. when making split gifs, it’s easy to pick a wide scene without thinking about how it’ll be split down the middle, and then you’re left with a lot of something on one side and a lot of incongruous nothing on the other - or you're left with a person cut in half awkwardly in the middle. so while a split gif can still be a whole scene, you shouldn’t ignore the break and what it means to the bigger picture. now this is personal preference, but i like to play with the break and make it a part of the gifset. mirrored movement, subjects trapped on either side but still talking to each other, a bird flying from one side to the other. fun with frames! it can be another way of drawing attention to specific images/moments/feelings happening within the same shot.

SIMPLE SPLIT GIFS

to more narrowly define what i’m calling “simple split gifs,” it’s one set of frames split down the middle into two separate gifs that are meant to play concurrently, side by side.

first thing's first, crop your gif and uncheck delete cropped pixels if it is not already (very important). i'm cropping it to the 1x1 size, in this case 268x350. if you need to see how the full size will look, you can try it out with 536 first. but this one is pretty easy, this is the exact center of the frame (the left boundary of this crop is the center line) and both their heads fit within their respective 1x1 crop.

then color as you normally would. if your scene is very different one side to the other, it might be easier for you to color on a wider crop and then either crop again or copy paste your coloring to the smaller crop version. i do that with the 2x6s, but it's usually not that big a deal to color the 2x1s with just the small crop on your canvas at the time. this scene is very symmetrical, both in movement and colors, so i'm good.

now the fun part! once you've got one side how you want it, save/export as you normally would. at this point i also like to make a mental note of how many frames there are.

so i have 49 frames and it's still only ~3MB! this is just an example that i picked from my rotk fancy set, otherwise i probably would have made this gif longer.

then onto the other side, so i ctrl + z my way back to my smart object video timeline. to get to theoden i just drag and drop the smart object 268 pixels over. since this one is in the exact center of the image, it even helpfully guides me (this can get annoying if you are NOT giffing the center of the image fyi, but you can always manually go pixel by pixel too if you need to with your <- -> keyboard buttons. just always remember where you started and count accurately). i can never move around my smart object without hiding the adjustment layers on top of it, so you'll see me do that in this screen recording.

see how it corrected me when i dragged it a few pixels down by accident, and with all those pink guidelines? sometimes photoshop is good 😌

then make sure you still like the coloring, adjust whatever needs to be adjusted, but watch out! don't make any major changes because it still has to match the other side. and export again.

what we perceive as 1 series of frames chopped down the middle is just 2 separate gifs with the same frame rate. when tumblr loads the images, it will run concurrently in the post (even though it never does in the draft post 🙄). and that's it!

COMPLEX SPLIT GIFS

again i'm making up terms, but i call anything with more than 2 components a complex split gifset. i've tweaked some things in the process as i went along, but this is generally how i did the lotr series. these sets are basically just many split gifs with transitions. and here's where endurance becomes a factor :) there's a lot of prep done blind. but if set up well, it will be fairly easy to pull together by the end.

first i decide on my dimensions, using my upper bounds to determine how big i'm going to go. since lotr has very nice large file sizes, i can go pretty big without sacrificing much in quality. i decided on 3 rows of 350 pixel height gifs and it's worked well for me. that means my biggest gif will have a total height of 1050 pixels - fun! you could also do 8 rows, with two 2x2s or just a series of 2x1s that transition to 1x1s. there really is no limit to this except your imagination and source material.

i cap everything i'm going to use before i even open photoshop, then do all of them at once. uncheck delete cropped pixels, then i make my gifs! this is where i spend 90% of the time on this set. every gif should be the size of the smallest 1x1 gif (268x350 for me). i make all 10 into a fully colored, separate psd. (and then i usually go back through all of them a few times to get the colors to match better 😅) for the bigger ones (2x1: 536x350 and 2x6: 536x1050), i just crop them as if they were 1x1 but always thinking about how they will look when big. this gets tricky when i do the big one :) my lazy workaround for that is to basically make it twice: one cropped as it will be and one full size for me to color. then i copy and paste all the coloring layers onto the small one and voila, i know that the coloring in the upper right slice will also look good on the bottom left slice 1050 pixels away because i saw it on the full size version.

coloring is probably the biggest thing i'm thinking about with this kind of set. the whole idea is that these gifs are using the same colors, more or less, throughout each phase. even with the 1x1s, they're still part of a larger color concept, and they should (🤞) work with each other.

in a pinch, i like to eyedrop a color from one gif and add it as an accent to another. one of my 1x1s had a much more muted color palette originally, but i wanted it to have deeper blues and yellows to complement the 1x1 that would go next to it, so i added some gradients on lower opacity over it, color picked from other gifs i already colored.

i keep my coloring and the smart object in separate folders to help me in the final step of combining everything, and then i trim everything down to my lowest common denominator of frames. you might think you need to keep frames pretty minimal if you're doing 3 phases with transitions like this, but there's more room to work with on a small gif, in terms of file size. i usually do 30-50 frames for each phase, with the assumption that i'll be adding a transition on each side of each gif that will eat up some frames (i usually do 4-6 frame fade transitions). for the rotk set my final frame count was 129 and i never went over 8MB on a gif, so there's plenty of space play around with things :)

and then, combine! whatever order you start with, you are stuck with (unless you're getting even more complicated, but we won't go into that lol). for these sets i go small 1x1 -> medium 2x1 -> big 2x6. i like to think of it in phases from this point on. small is the first phase, then medium, then big. then i put in the fade transitions, chopping up the first phase gif so the last one will fade into it, restarting the whole cycle seamlessly. i'm just doing a quick and dirty fade here, but here's a tutorial if you want more explanation on transitions.

at this point i save this psd as its position, "top left" or whatever (usually it's a psb by this point too 🥲), just in case i need to go back to it. then i export this first gif and move on to the rest.

it's the same concept as a simple split gif: drag and drop the smart object to the new position, but now there are multiple phases to keep track of. folder organization has been key for me to keep everything straight. i move through the gifs in a backwards S, starting with the top left. but you could go any direction, just gotta stick with it and remember your counts. in my case, i'm always thinking of 268 pixels over and, for the 2x6, 350 up/down. it's a tedious process, but it goes quick (apart from waiting for photoshop to load each time you export).

i did this series as a color concept aesthetic kind of thing, so my theory was by using the same-ish colors throughout, that would save me in the end when it came time to export. there's only 256 colors max to work with on a gif, and that's usually what gets me over the 10MB limit. but as i said, i have never even gotten close to the size limit on this series. it's pretty hard to reach the limit on 268 pixels, but not impossible. (i did run into that on the emma set i did, and that was hell. but also not an impossible fix in the end.)

and that's it! if you try any of this and have trouble, i'm happy to help if i can but mostly this is a "click around and see what works for you" kind of process. and feel free to tag me on your split gifsets :) i love seeing them <3