#and decide to make it a problem for themselves and everyone around them

[salmon404]

Where is my quick queue fucking button. I’m still so upset this shit better have been an April fools joke where they turned it into a site for difficult seeing without magnifiers boomers. Where is my button. Where is my button?!!!?!

[sapphorror]

Y'know... A lot of ZaDr fics have them either gradually drifting into a less contentious status quo or establishing a deeply bizarre multilayered dynamic that is nonetheless very consistent and beholden to its own rules—which works, to be clear, because slavish adherence to the rhythm of their endless 'game' is already their canon baseline.

WITH THAT BEING SAID. I think it would be very funny to depict a ZaDr dynamic in which they're like, on-again off-again nemeses. As they get older theyre gradually forced to acknowledge the true depth of their mutual attachment, but instead of actually improving themselves in any lasting way or compromising the conflicting elements into an ill-definable state of contentious codependence, they just start oscillating wildly between periods of obscenely clingy allyship and devotedly murderous enmity. There's never an in between. They'll dedicate all their energy to trying to horrifically torture each other to death, until one of them gets uncomfortably close to actually dying or an external crisis pushes them together or they just get bored—at which point, they become obnoxiously glued at the hip until one of them relapses into anxiety about their ambitions or an argument escalates past the the point of no return or they just get bored. And every time they both Really Mean It, They're Not Gonna Do This Anymore, before naturally going ahead and doing it again

[rxttenfish]

i ran out of tags on that post oops.

[madebycloud]

Ex at Christmas

violet "vi" x female reader — 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬⠀ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: you've been invited to spend the christmas with your ex-girlfriend's family. only one problem is that your ex-girlfriend has not told anyone that the relationship is over. (requested by anon) warnings/themes: fluff and angst, found family af, fake dating, ex lovers, christmas, family gatherings, secret santa, everyone is alive and happy au, modern au vi just begging for you to take her back? words: 17.3k.... (i got carried away) notes: it's so long i should've cut it into parts but idk where... so suffer (╥﹏╥) — ✩ part one, part two

As always, the last drop is a lively spot. warm, cozy, and familiar. Colorful lights hang from the ceiling, a decorated tree stands in the corner, a 'merry christmas' painted on the wall, even a few strings of garland have been hung from the low ceiling.

People are crowding around the bar. Some are playing pool, some are simply chatting amongst themselves, cigarette smoke curling up toward the ceiling.

Vander's voice snaps you from your thoughts. “Look who finally showed her face around here.” He reaches over the top of the bar to ruffle your hair.

“I know, I know.” You laugh, swatting his hand away. “Things are just... busy, y'know?” 

Vander rests his forearms on the countertop, leaning closer to you. “Just making sure you're still alive. “Been an awful long while since I last saw you.”

“I've been fine, old man.” 

“Glad to hear you're doing alright kid. Haven't seen you around here in, what, three months? You need to come by more often, keep an old guy company.” He chuckles. “I almost thought you'd vanished.”

“You sound like a grandma with kids that never call.”

Vander grins and winks at you, taking a rag and wiping at the bartop. “You're like a kid to me, so I guess it checks out.”

You scoff but say nothing, leaning against the bartop as your eyes start to travel across the room. A few people mill about that you recognize as regular patrons, but other than that, there's pretty much no one of interest.

Vander snorts and lifts the rag to his shoulder. “We're having our christmas gathering again this year, you should swing by. Just like last christmas, eh?”

A lot has changed for you in the past month, and you've been dreading this coming up. “I... don't know. I don't think so.”

Vander raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean you don't know? Not up to seeing the old gang again?”

“Not exactly,” you murmur, the memory of the breakup is still fresh. It's not that you don't want to see your friends, it's just the idea of seeing Vi again. “It's not that, I just... things have changed, especially recently. I don't want to... accidentally make things awkward or something.”

Vander shakes his head and it almost seems like he's laughing at you. “Why would it be awkward?”

“I don't know…” You sigh, your shoulders slumping in resignation. “Nevermind it, I'm going.”

Your words get a smirk out of Vander, and he reaches over to poke your arm. “That's what I like to hear.” He gives you a wink, folding his arms across his chest. “You better show up or I'll drag you here myself. You know I could.”

“Like I'd let you drag me here, old man—there's no way your back can handle that.”

“Ah, you kids these days have no respect for your elders. You're gonna break my old back and then I'll die,” he pretends to sniffle, making you scoff.

Silco then walks over, looping his arms around Vander's shoulders. The two of them exchange a knowing glance before Silco turns his attention to you. “Look who actually decided to show up.”

Vander laughs as he pats Silco's arm. “Cut the kid some slack. They're just here to have a good time.”

Silco chuckles, his eyes still on you. “So are you coming on Christmas?”

You rub at the back of your neck, and just as you're about to answer, Vander beats you to it. “Yeah, she's coming,” he confirms.

Silco hums, he lifts his arm from off Vander, resting it in his hip instead. “Good, I was beginning to think you were going to weasel your way out of it.”

Vander smacks his shoulder. “Lay off, would ya? let the kid breathe.”

Silco relents and waves his hand dismissively. “I'm just saying.” He looks back at you. “We all want you there, you know. It wouldn't be the same without you.”

Hearing them say that makes you feel guilty for even considering not going. You know they mean it. You just hope it won't be too much awkward with Vi there.

Vander nods and smiles. “He's right, you know. Everyone's been asking about you. They'll be happy to have you there.”

“I get it. You don't have to butter me up, old man.”

Vander chuckles, then he glances over his shoulder, gesturing to a small, unassuming box on a nearby table. “Hey, could you grab that little box over there for me?” Silco smirks and nods before moving to get the box, bringing it over and handing it to Vander.

“What's in the box?” you ask.

Vander grins at you, holding the box in his hands. “We're doing a secret santa,” he explains, “and since you’re coming that means you're participating too.”

Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. You'd completely forgotten about the secret santa. You groan in annoyance, running your hands over your face. “I'm still annoyed I got that whoopee cushion from Powder last year.”

“That was a good one. She was so damn proud of herself too, and besides…” Vander pauses, turning to look at you. “You never know, you might get something less annoying this year.” He then holds the box out to you, a smile on his lips.

There's always the possibility you won't get something shitty, but knowing most of your friends... Yeah, that's unlikely.

You look at the box, then up at Vander. You take the box from him. “I hope you're right, old man.”

Vander chuckles before stepping back to talk to Silco.

You turn the box over in your hands, feeling the weight of it. It's not too heavy, and you feel compelled to shake it. But if you do that, you'll probably end up drawing Vander's name, and that's basically cheating.

Sighing, you decide to just bite the bullet. You take the lid off the box, sticking your hand inside. Your fingers rummage around before they eventually close around a folded piece of paper.

You pull out the slip of paper, unfolding it slowly. You glance at the handwriting, then almost roll your eyes.

Of course you got Vi.

Out of all the names you could have drawn, you get the one person you didn't want to get. You could have gotten literally anyone else. Mylo, Claggor, Powder, Silco, or anyone other than Vi. but no, you had to get your ex. Just your luck.

You look at the note again, and the first thought that comes to your mind is...

Well, crap.

You're so focused on the slip of paper in your hands that you don't notice Vander and Silco peeking over your shoulder.

“So, who'd you get?”

Vander's question makes you jump, you quickly stuff the paper into your pocket before they can see who it is.

“No one,” you say, waving your hand to dismiss the question. “It's not important.”

Silco raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you pocketing the paper?”

“It's a secret for a reason.”

Vander and Silco glance at each other, and you can tell they're silently communicating. 

Vander turns back to you a moment later, rubbing his jaw. “A secret, huh? Well, that means whoever you got won't know it's you.”

Silco hums. “That's probably a good thing.” 

“That's kind of the point of a secret Santa.”

Vander nods, scratches his beard before his lips turn up in a smile. “True means you can give them something real nice.”

Silco glances at Vander before looking at you. “Whoever you got is probably going to be very happy when they get their gift.”

You almost snort at Silco's words. Yeah, right. a gift from you? She’ll probably chuck it straight in the trash.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake the thoughts of Vi out of your head. You don't know why you're worried about how she'll react. Why care if she'll like the gift? Why care if she's happy with whatever you get her?

The answer is so obvious, but you don't want to admit it even to yourself.

Vander and Silco are still looking at you, and you realize that you have to say something. Any longer and they might figure it out.

You push those thoughts away. “If they'll actually like it. I'm not the best with gifts.”

“Oh, I'm sure they will,” Silco says, a knowing smirk on his face.

Vander nods. “Just give them something from the heart.”

From the heart, my ass. The only thing you want to give her from the heart is a kick in the ass.

“Because someone's gonna be real happy with something from me.”

Vander and Silco exchange another look again, like they're having an entire conversation without actually saying anything.

You turn away from them, looking out the window. They're probably trying to read your mind, figure out who it is you got. The thought makes your eyes twitch. You don't want them to know. You don't know why, but you really don't want them to know.

“Just do us a favor,” Silco suddenly says, cutting into the silence that had fallen between you. “Try not to stress too hard about it. You'll give yourself gray hairs.”

Vander chuckles at Silco's words, “You'll give us an old heart attack.”

“Ha ha, funny.”

Silco grins at your response. “Well, we're only half-joking.”

Vander's eyes soften. He slaps Silco's shoulder to get him to shut up. “What he means is, you overthink too much,” Vander adds.

Yeah, so what if you overthink? It's a normal thing to do. Especially in situations like this, where you're stuck with the one person you don't want to be.

Why keep thinking about her? You need to stop obsessing over her. She made her choice, and it wasn't you.

You run your fingers to your face, trying to think of something else to distract yourself. It's not like you don't know what you want to get Vi. You just don't know if you should get it.

“I don't overthink,” you grumble, shifting your weight on your feet. 

“Oh yes, you do.”

And they're both right about that. You can't even count how many times you've paced around your apartment, replaying every interaction you had with Vi over and over again in your head. Every word, every touch, and every look. All of it, it's like your brain refuses to let you forget.

You've spent countless nights trying to figure out where you went wrong. What you could have done differently if there was something you could have changed. All of that, just because of one person who tossed you aside without a second thought.

“Listen,” Silco says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look over at him as he stands up straight, a smirk spreads across his lips. “You're going to drive yourself crazy thinking about something that hasn't even happened yet.”

“He's right,” Vander gives you a look before continuing. “And for the love of God, stop overthinking.”

If only it were that simple. If only you could just switch off your brain and stop thinking about everything. But you know damn well you can't do that. Your thoughts are as uncontrollable as the weather, and right now, they're a mess.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your thoughts. “I should probably go,” you mutter, and the two men nod. 

Vander pats you on the back as you start for the door. “Same place, eh?’ he calls after you. 

“Don't think too hard, kid,” Silco adds.

You give them both a nod as you exit the bar, shutting the door behind you.

Christmas is going to be one hell of a mess this year, you can feel it.

Now all you have to do is figure out how the hell you're going to deal with it.

—

You're standing outside of Vander and Silco’s house, the weight of the present in your hands suddenly feeling a thousand times heavier.

You've replayed this moment in your head countless times, but now that it's happening for real, you're not sure if you're ready.

Christmas music drifts out of the house, it's a familiar tune that you've heard a million times.

You push down the anxiety gnawing at your stomach. You shouldn't be feeling so nervous, it's just a gift. Just a present for a secret santa.

But this isn't just anyone, this is Vi. The one person who you didn't want to get. The one person who broke things off without a second thought.

Stop thinking about this. It's just one night. one stupid night, and then it will be over. You can get through this, you can handle being around Vi for one Christmas. No more thinking about her. No more wondering where you went wrong or if you could have done something to change things. Just get through the night and forget about her.

You take another deep breath, straighten up, and square your shoulders. Then, in one moment, you push open the doors to their house and walk inside.

Your eyes search the room, looking for that familiar pink hair. But you don't see her. Your shoulders relax a little. Maybe she's not here yet. That'll give you a few minutes to brace yourself. No one is around right now, probably in their rooms or preparing for the dinner. 

You were so distracted by looking around that you didn't realize someone was standing right behind you until they grabbed you and spun you around. Your eyes meet their powder blue ones, and your mouth suddenly goes dry.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Woah, hey-” you stumble over your words.

“Don't 'woah hey' me,” she snaps, her grip tightening on your arm.

Vander's deep voice cut in before you could even speak. “You've actually came.”

You feel her look away from you, her hand finally falling from your arm. As soon as it does, you rub the skin where she grabbed you.

Vander looks between the two of you and says, “Hand me the gift, kid. I'll put it there.” He gestures towards a christmas tree where the gifts are already sitting underneath.

You quickly hold the present out for him to take.

He takes it before giving both of you another look. “Go easy with your girlfriend, eh?”

You freeze, your heart stopping as his words register. Your eyes widen as you slowly turn your head to look at Vi.

Girlfriend?

“I will.” Before you can even process what's happening, you're being pulled outside.

You yank your arm back from Vi, quickly putting some distance between the two of you. “What's your problem?”

She spins around and scoffs, looking you up and down. “I should be asking you that. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Vander invited me. He asked me to come.”

“Then you should've said no.”

“Wow? just wow.” You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “I know that things didn't go well between us, but you don't get to push me out of this family. They're my family too, and Vander invited me here to celebrate. I have as much right to be here as you do.”

You refuse to break eye contact with her. “You can ignore me all you want, but you don't get to decide how I'm allowed to spend my Christmas. If you want to keep acting like this, fine. Ignore me, pretend I don't exist, just like you've been doing for the past months.”

Vi lets out a laugh, rubbing a hand on her forehead. “They do not know.”

You blink at her. “What do you mean?”

She looks over at the entrance and says, “They all think we're still together.”

Your eyes widen. “What?” you almost shout. “Why the hell would they think that?” “Because I didn't tell them.” She scoffs. “Every time I talk to them, they ask me how you are. Silco and Vander keep making comments about how we make a cute couple. They still think we're together.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell them?” You glare at her. “Were you ever going to?”

“I don't know,” she retorts, throwing her arms up. “They're all so happy about us being together.”

“That's such bullshit,” you snap at her. “That's such a crappy excuse! You should be the one to tell them we broke up.”

She looks away, planting her arm on her hips. “Don't you think I know that?” she shoots back. “It's not that simple. I can't just rip off the bandage like that.”

“Is that it? You’re scared that they'll know?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know how Silco and Vander can get.”

“I know how they get,” you snap back at her. “You're just too much of a pussycat to face them and tell them the truth.”

Her expression hardens, and her jaw clenches. “Look who's talking. You can't even say no to a little family gathering, but here you are.”

“I didn't come here because I wanted to see you. I came for the family, not for you.”

“As if I wanted to see you either. The last thing I wanted was to have to deal with you all night.”

“Fine, you know what? I'll go tell them right now that we broke up. They deserve to know.”

She grabs your wrist before you can take a step towards the door. “Wait”

You look down at her hand, then back up at her. “What?”

“Don't,” she says through gritted teeth. “Just... don't tell them yet.”

You scoff, ripping your arm away from her grip. “Why the hell not? So they can keep thinking we're still together?”

“Just don't tell them tonight. Can you just give me until after Christmas?”

“Why are you still dragging this out? What difference does it make if we wait till then or do it now?”

“Because it's fucking Christmas!” she snaps before dropping her gaze. “Look, it's the holidays. I just... I don't want to ruin Christmas. They've all been looking forward to all of us celebrating together. I don't want to ruin it by spoiling the fun.”

“Wait—let me get this straight. You want to fake it this christmas? Pretend we're still a happy couple?”

She's quiet again. “Yeah,” she whispers, looking down. “Yeah, that's what I'm asking.”

“You're unbelievable, Vi.” You take a deep breath, trying to keep yourself together. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? You're asking me to pretend like we're still together, to pretend that nothing has changed.”

“It's just one day,” she mumbles. “One day, that's all I'm asking for. We can tell them anytime after that, just not tonight, please.”

She even says please. Something about the way she says it makes your heart ache. She looks desperate, like this really means something to her. Who are you kidding? Of course, this means something to her. 

They're her family, they're important to her. And on Christmas, all they want is for everything to be perfect. perfect food, perfect presents, and perfect couples.

You hate the way she's looking at you with those soft, pleading eyes. She always looks at you like that when she wants something, and you always give in. She does it subconsciously, knowing how to get exactly what she wants. And damn it, it works.

“Fine,” you mutter. “You've got your damned wish.”

And there it is. There's the look you've been waiting for. That look of relief that comes to her eyes.

You hate that look. You hate how your heart flutters when she looks like that. You hate it so much. “Yeah?”

“Yes, you've got me for tonight. I'll pretend like we're still together. Happy now?”

There's a flicker of a smile on her face, something quick that's gone before you can even register. “Yeah, thank you.”

She looks away again. Silence falls between the two of you as you shift awkwardly.

This is gonna be a long night.

You sigh, watching as she keeps her focus on the floor. This is so damn awkward.

And it's your own fault for agreeing to this nonsense. There's no way this night doesn't end up being a goddamn catastrophe. You would give anything to just disappear right now.

Powder's voice snaps you out of your thoughts. Peeking her head out of the doorway, looking at the two of you. “Hey, you two. It's cold out there, get your asses in here.”

You look at Vi, waiting for a sign of acknowledgment.

She slowly glances up, her gaze meeting yours. “Come on,” she murmurs, holding out her hand.

Taking a deep breath, you take her hand in yours.

You've held her hand so many times before—more times than you can count. Holding her hand used to be nothing, but now it feels so odd. So awkward.

But she doesn't seem to notice how out of place it feels. She slowly leads you towards the door, squeezing your hand as she pulls you along.

“How are my favorite love birds doing?” Mylo's voice greets you as you both enter.

He slings a casual arm over your shoulders, leaning on your shoulder to get a better look at you. “It's about time you two showed up. I thought for sure you were just gonna keep making out in a corner somewhere.”

It takes everything you have not to elbow him in the stomach. Instead, you keep a neutral expression and chuckle awkwardly, “Yeah, you know us. Can't keep our hands off of each other.”

“You two are sickeningly in love, it's really cute, actually.”

Your eye twitches, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Yeah, we're very in love,” Vi says, and you can tell she's trying not to roll her eyes.

Mylo claps you on the shoulder before releasing you. “Well then, I'm going to go find myself some eggnog.” He leaves towards the kitchen, whistling to himself as he goes.

You turn to look at Vi, and you almost feel a twinge of hatred towards the way she so casually holds your hand, like nothing is wrong.

“Are you okay?”

Her voice brings you back to reality, and suddenly you're all too aware of how hard you're clenching your jaw and the fact that you're basically just glowering at the floor with a storm cloud over your head.

You raise your eyes to meet with hers, and you have to force yourself to release some of the tension. “Yeah, fine,” you mutter. “just cold”

It's a lie, obviously. It's not cold at all. Vander always keeps the place nice and warm.

Not even she's dumb enough to fall for that. She glances around, clearly noticing how you're not really hiding your feelings well.

She runs her thumb over the back of your hand. It's an innocent gesture, one that you've seen dozens of times before. It's not meant to be anything special, it never was. And yet, it still makes your heart skip a beat. 

You have absolutely no idea how you're going to get through this night with both your sanity and your heart still intact.

“Okay,” she finally says, “can you stop clenching your jaw so hard? you look like you're trying to grind your teeth down to the bone. I know this isn't the ideal situation, but please don't go around looking like you want to kill everyone in this room.”

Her fingers squeeze your hand, and you realize just how tightly you're holding her hand in yours. Your knuckles are white, and your fingers are probably digging into her skin.

Gritting your teeth, you loosen your grip. 

“There, that's better… please try and just relax for a bit. This is going to be hellish already, so I at least need you to not look like you hate me every second we're in here.”

You look away from her. “Please don't act like you care.”

“I'm not acting like I care,” she says, a tone just loud enough for only you to hear. “I do care, and that's the problem.”

Of course she has to say something like that right now. Of course she has to hit where it hurts the most.

Care? care about what? about you? about what she put you through, how she broke your heart?

You open your mouth, but your response dies in your throat. You have no idea how to respond to that.

A loud shout interrupts your thoughts, and you both turn around. “Oi! Time for dinner!” Powder yells from the doorway into the kitchen.

Vi mutters under her breath, “finally.”

Powder grins as she waves you both over. “Hurry up or Vander will eat everything and complain about his bad back afterwards.”

“We're coming,” Vi calls back.

The two of you head towards the kitchen. There's a long table in the middle of the room, covered in a red and green tablecloth. Everyone is already crowded around the table, taking their seats as you two enter the room. Vander is at the head of one of the tables, Silco seated beside him. Mylo and Claggor are chatting amongst themselves as Powder takes her seat beside Claggor.

Vi looks at the seating arrangement and sighs, realizing what's about to happen. She pulls you over to the table and sits down, pulling you down into the seat right next to her.

After a few moments, everyone quiets down and turns their attention to Silco.

Silco places his hands together. “It's good to see everyone together like this today. I am thankful that we are all here, safe and healthy.” He glances around the room in a quick survey, seeming to count everyone's attendance. “And what better time to be together than the holidays?”

Powder huffs. “Can we just eat? I'm starving.” 

Silco raises his hand for Powder to stay quiet. “Patience, Pow. First, let's do something a bit… different.”

Mylo and Claggor glance at each other in confusion. “Different?” Mylo repeats.

“Indeed,” Silco replies. “Instead of just diving into our meal, I thought it would be nice if we all took a moment to share a few words about what we are thankful for this year.”

“We're really gonna do this?”

Claggor nudges him. “Be polite, Mylo.”

“He's right, though,” Powder chimes in.

Silco raises an eyebrow at them both. “Is it really such a hassle to express gratitude at the end of the year?”

Mylo and Powder grumble something under their breaths.

Claggor is the first one to respond. “I think it's a fine idea.”

“Thank you, Claggor,” Silco replies, “I'm glad we have at least one cooperative person here.”

After a moment of silence, Vander speaks. “Alright, then I'll go first... I am grateful for my family,” he says as he looks around the room. “I am thankful for my health, for my business, and most of all, that everyone is still here with me and safe.”

“That's so soft,” Powder says, but everyone ignores her.

Vander turns his head and looks directly at Silco, as if he's saying something that's meant to be for Silco's ears only, though everyone can clearly hear. “I'm also thankful for you, Sil,” he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching in a knowing smile.

You're not sure if you're the only one who noticed, but that comment definitely seemed personal and almost a little out of place.

He collects himself quickly and nods at Vander, seemingly not quite sure of what to say. “Thank you, Vander.” 

Silco clears his throat and composes himself, turning his gaze to Powder. “How about you, Pow? Any words of gratitude?”

Powder groans, slouching back in her seat like a child who's been forced to eat her vegetables. “I swear, if you make me say something corny-”

Mylo leans over the table to look at her sister. “Say something nice for once, or you're not getting dessert.”

“Ugh, fine. I am thankful for…” She looks around the room, taking in everyone's faces. “I'm thankful everyone's here and we're all... whatever, happy and healthy or something like that,” she mumbles.

“I'll take whatever I can get,” Silco mutters before turning his attention to Claggor. “What about you, Claggor?”

Claggor seems to be taking a moment to think, like he's actually putting effort into what he will say. “I'm grateful for…” His eyes are almost unfocused as he thinks. After a moment, he glances up to look at Vander. “I'm grateful for the family I have here.”

Vander gives him a warm look in response.

Everyone's gaze turns to Mylo, expecting him to go next.

He fidgets anxiously, shifting in his seat as he glances around the room. “What am I supposed to say?...er, fine... My whole life's a mess, but...at least all you idiots are here to make my life more miserable.”

“We love you too, Mylo” Powder teases. “Real touching. I think I might cry.”

Mylo throws a glare in her direction. “Shut up.”

Silco glances at Vi, his gaze lingering as he waits for Vi to speak.

“I'm thankful for…” Her voice is quieter than usual, more hesitant. She glances at you before continuing. “I'm... thankful for the people I have in my life.”

Everyone's gaze settles on you next, waiting for you to say something. “Well, I... I guess I'm thankful to be able to still participate in this family gathering, even if I haven't seen everyone in a while.” You take a look at Vi before moving on. “Hopefully I can still be here and spend Christmas with all of you next year too.”

She holds your gaze for a moment, almost as if she's processing what you just said… and then, unexpectedly, a smile forms at the corner of her lips.

It's a subtle change, barely noticeable, but you see it. and just seeing her smile, even a small one like that, has butterflies filling your stomach. It's been so long since you've seen her smile like that. A part of you misses it, a part of you yearns to see it more often.

She quickly looks away, and you notice that her cheeks have turned a light shade of pink.

“There, we all said our little cheesy bullshit,” Powder says, clearly getting impatient.

Silco turns to Powder, his expression disapproving. “Language, Pow,” he reminds. 

Vander sighs. “Yes, Powder, mind your language” he adds, earning a mock-offended look from Powder.

“Like you don't swear all the time.”

“I do not swear all the time, Pow,” he protests, although you know it's a lie. Even the most proper and upstanding people swear, and Vander is definitely not that.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Vander huffs but chooses not to add anything. Silco lets out a dry cough to redirect everyone's attention. “Right, now that that's over, let's go ahead and eat, shall we?” Silco says, as if the whole moment of gratitude never happened..

“Finally,” Mylo grumbles, “I was starting to wonder if you forgot about why we all gathered here.”

Silco gives him a look. “Patience is a virtue, Mylo.”

“We've all been patient for the last hour, so spare me.”

Claggor sighs, but thankfully Mylo and Powder seem to settle into silence for the time being.

Silco nods in approval. “Then, shall we begin?”

Vander gets up from his seat, moving to go grab the food.

Powder and Mylo look at Vander expectantly, and they both look like they're about to get out of their seats. Silco gives them a warning look, silencing them before they can get a word out. “Wait until everything is ready.”

They both grumble, but they obediently sit back down. They're impatient, sure, but they at least know better than to piss off Silco.

Vander returns a moment later, setting a platter filled with food on the table. It looks delicious, and the smell is mouthwatering. Your stomach growls a little, reminding you of how hungry you are.

Powder and Mylo are practically drooling, and you honestly wouldn't be surprised if they lunged for the food the moment Silco gave the word.

Thankfully, he doesn't give them any chance. He simply says, “Please, help yourselves,” and Silco has to gesture for them to wait.

They almost get up and move to the table, and they're clearly resisting the temptation to shove each other to try and get to the food faster.

Mylo lets out a curse, and Powder giggles in response. Vi stands up and grabs both of them, grabbing onto their shoulders and holding them back from each other.

“Enough, you two,” she scolds, “there's plenty of food for everyone. Chill out.”

They look at her with expressions that clearly are saying, 'no, we're hungry'. Powder lets out a huff, and Mylo looks like he's one more remark away from shoving her sister.

Vi's expression sharpens, her eyes boring into Mylo and Powder. “No, quit the bullshit, you can wait a few minutes, and if you two can't act like adults about it, neither of you are getting any.”

Mylo immediately shuts up at that, his expression turning more guilty. Powder just looks like she's about to protest, a pout forming on her face. Vi glares at Powder to shush her as well.

“Just quit it,” she says. “You can wait, the food will taste better if you don't shove it all down your throats like dogs.”

“Fine, we'll wait,” she grumbles.

Mylo just nods with a pout, staying quiet.

Vi seems to notice their looks, and she rolls her eyes, staying put just in case. She seems wary as she watches Powder and Mylo, her eyes switching from them to the food on the table.

And sure enough, the moment Silco gestures for everyone to get their food, Powder and Mylo are gone, rushing to claim their plates.

Powder and Mylo shove each other for their own plates. No one says anything though, they're all just used to it. This is just how Powder and Mylo are, and they've come to accept it. Vi doesn't even seem as bothered as everyone else does. 

Mylo seems like he's really close to just pushing Powder to the side and snatching up the slice he wants, and Powder doesn't look any better. Honestly, if Vi didn't step in, there was a chance they'd start throwing punches.

And judging from how the others' looks, especially Silco, they look like they're expecting this. 

It's like this is all completely normal, they know to expect this kind of behavior when food, and more importantly, free food, is involved.

Powder and Mylo finally settle down after their little fight, and they finally begin digging into the food.

Mylo is practically shoving it into his face, eating it like he's been starved for weeks. Powder isn't any better, although at least she's not making a complete mess.

Claggor is significantly slower when it comes to eating, choosing to take his time as he slowly eats as opposed to just shoving the food into his mouth.

Vander eats at a decent pace, and he doesn't seem as starving like Mylo is.

The last one to begin eating is Silco, and surprisingly, there's a smile on his face. He takes one look at how Mylo and Powder are chowing down on their food, then he turns his gaze and looks at you, as if silently asking if you're going to eat.

You take the hint, and you decide to dig into your own food. The food is delicious, and you can't blame Mylo and Powder for basically trying to swallow their food whole.

Vi also begins eating now that everyone's settled down.

Vander laughs, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Slow down a little, you two, the food isn't going anywhere.”

Mylo and Powder both raise their heads at that, and they both look like they're considering it for a moment... but they immediately go back to shoving food down their throats.

Claggor shakes his head as he watches them eat. “You'd think they'd never seen a Christmas dinner before.”

“You know them, they would scarf down all the food in town if they could.”

Powder glances up at that, a small pout forming on her lips. “Hey, it's not our fault we're just starving.”

Mylo nods in agreement, his mouth too full to say anything.

“You both just had eaten before this,” Claggor counters.

Mylo swallows whatever food is in his mouth long enough to argue with Claggor. “And that was hours ago.”

“Yeah,” Powder agrees, “it was practically an eternity since we ate.”

“Two hours is not an eternity,” Claggor retorts. 

“It might as well be,” Powder counters.

Despite the bickering and arguing the dinner feels oddly... domestic, almost.

Claggor looks like the responsible and mature oldest sibling who's done with his siblings nonsense, Vander almost acts like a tired parent, Silco acts more like a stern aunt, and Powder and Mylo act like rowdy kids who are constantly at each other's throats.

Vi sits next to you. She's making sarcastic comments with Silco, laughing at Powder's jokes, and making small talk with Claggor. She even gives Mylo an unimpressed glare when he tries to snatch all the bread for himself.

It's like you're both back to normal. The way she's acting makes your heart ache. She's giving you all the attention a partner would give.

She gives you fond smiles whenever you make a comment, she casually slides an arm around your shoulders, she even scoots her chair a little closer to yours.

Her eyes are soft, her voice is soft, whenever you look at her, she looks back with this affectionate look.

It's so normal, that it almost takes you back to your relationship and how you two were before the breakup.

She's even doing little things, like leaning closer to you, letting a hand rest on your thigh, even discreetly grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers with hers under the table.

You want to hold her tight and never let her go, but your brain keeps reminding you. You two aren't together anymore.

But when you look at her, when she looks at you with that look in her eyes, everything goes quiet. 

Maybe it could work this time.

Maybe you two could just bury the hatchet and move on.

Maybe things could work between you two if you try it out again.

Then you remember the fights, the nights you spent on your bed, crying while Vi was out with friends. You remember how she treated you after the breakup—how she tossed you aside like discarded trash.

You try to ignore it, push it to the back of your head. But it's so hard when Vi sits next to you, close enough for you to catch the scent of her perfume. She smells like cigarettes and leather, something that's so her.

You're so focused on trying to stop yourself from touching her or even getting closer that you're almost surprised when she suddenly leans her head against your shoulder.

She doesn't say anything, just leans against you. She's pressed against your side, her shoulder against your shoulder, her head against yours, her hand on your thigh.

You notice her scent again, now stronger.

Her hair brushes against your neck, the way you can feel the warmth of her body, and the way her thumb draws little circles into your thigh.

She's so close, and yet you want her even closer.

You want to run your hands through her hair, you want to nuzzle your face into her shoulder, you want to feel her hands roaming your body.

You just want her.

Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by Powder, her question pulling you out of your head. “It's been a while since we've seen you two together,” she says, her mouth still full of food.

Claggor shoots Powder a look. “Powder-”

“Shush, I'm just wondering,” she argues, shrugging casually, “has she been avoiding you?”

“No,” you say before anyone can say anything. “We just... haven't had time to schedule any dates, that's all.”

“For months? Haven't had time to schedule a single date for months?”

“Life gets busy, y'know,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

Mylo scoffs at that. “You two are dating, the least you could do is at least manage one date a month.”

Claggor smacks him over the head. Mylo grumbles and rubs the back of his head, shooting his brother a glare. “What? it's true,” he mutters. “We just kind of... we all miss you.”

Vander gives Mylo a disapproving glare. “What Mylo means is, your presence has been sorely missed around here.”

“We all just... we just want you around more,” Powder puts in her two cents, speaking around a mouthful of food again.

You cast a sidelong glance at Vi. You and her are putting up a pretty good facade so far, but Mylo's question seemed to have put her on the spot a little. She catches your glance, and you give her a look that says, just play along. Vi sighs, her hand squeezing your thigh.

“Look, I-” She glances around the table, meeting everyone's eyes before sighing and putting on the most believable expression. “I know we haven't been as... present as we should have been for the past few months. Work just got really hectic.”

“That's true,” you back her up with a nod. “I had to travel away for a business trip a few weeks ago, so it's been pretty hard to find time to spend together.”

Vander, Silco, and Powder all nod in understanding. They're aware of the fact that you have a job in a big city, so it's not an unbelievable explanation.

Mylo, however, snorts and crosses his arms. “You don't have to feed us some lame excuse for not hanging out with us.”

Claggor gives Mylo another smack. “Would you shut up already?”

“Ow!” Mylo grumbles as he rubs his head again, shooting Claggor a dirty look.

Vander sighs. “Regardless, it's good to have you here for Christmas this time.”

Everyone nods and agrees. Powder grins at you, Silco shoots you a small almost-smile, and Claggor and Vander both look genuinely pleased to have you here.

All eyes then land on Mylo, and he shrugs again, mumbling, “I guess it is good to have you here.”

“See, it's a christmas miracle, Mylo isn't being a little prick for once,” Powder teases.

Mylo scowls at her. “Hey, I'm never a little prick-”

“Bullshit.”

Mylo just grumbles again, his eyes narrowing at Powder. “I just think that-”

“Nobody cares what you think,” Powder interrupts again.

That just causes Claggor, Vander, and Silco to laugh. Vi snorts next to you, squeezing your thigh.

The conversation soon changes to talking about old childhood holiday memories.

Mylo tells a story about him stealing Silco's secret chocolate stash when he was twelve. Silco scowls at the memory, but there's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Powder tells a story about the time she accidentally burned the back of Vander's hair with a roman candle. Vander laughs and shakes his head at the memory.

At some point, Claggor chimes in to tell a story about a time he and Mylo accidentally broke a window during a snowball fight. Even Mylo himself laughs at that one.

There's lighthearted banter, friendly jabs, and just a lot of laughter in between. This, this is what it should have been like from the beginning. It reminds you of the way it used to be when you were all younger, but still has a different air to it. In a way, it's almost better than those old days. Everyone's grown, but there's still that same energy that always connected you all as a family... it just feels fuller.

You don't know if it's just the christmas lights playing tricks on your mind, but you swear you can see the faintest tearful sheen in Vander's eyes. He's always had a bit of parental pride and love toward all of you, but seeing you all sitting here together, happy... damn, it must bring back a lot of memories for him.

Silco even looks less grumpy than usual, his mouth twisting into a barely visible smile as the rest of the table continues talking. Yeah, this is how christmas should be…

It almost makes you forget that all of this is fake, almost makes you forget why you and Vi aren't together anymore. It's almost like just for tonight, you can pretend like things are back to how they used to be.

But you know this will not last. When everything is said and done, when christmas night is over and you're all saying your goodbyes, you have no doubt in your mind that you and Vi will go your separate ways again.

You glance at her, taking in the sight of her laughing with the rest. Her eyes are bright, her smile is big, and her entire face lights up with joy. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing your heart to quiet. 

Vi must notice you looking, because she glances over at you. She's looking at you with that look again. You recognize it so easily.

That look... that damn look she's giving you again. The look that makes your heart stutter against your ribs, the look that makes your stomach twist into knots. It's a look that almost makes you want to lean forward and kiss her.

You almost give into your urges. You almost reach out and push a stray strand of hair out of her face, you almost do something to kiss her, almost.

But you don't, you can't. That would spoil the whole 'still dating' facade, and besides.... you have boundaries.

You give her a nod, offering a small smile, and you swear that you see disappointment flash across her eyes.

She looks like she wants to say something, her hand tightening over your knee again, but she seems to change her mind and just smiles back.

Maybe it's just a figment of your own imagination, you think to yourself. Maybe it was a trick of the light or something.

Claggor reaches over to grab something from the middle of the table, and Silco clears his throat. “How about you two?” he says it casually, like he's just making small talk, but there's a hint of concern in his voice. “Any... any problems between the two of you lately?”

You and Vi both sit up straighter. “Problems...?” Vi repeats.

Silco just shrugs, playing it casual. “I don't know, I'm just wondering... a lot of couples who have been together for as long as the two of you have.” He trails off, but everyone at the table knows the implications.

Mylo grumbles. “I swear, if you start talking about how high the divorce rate is—” Claggor elbows Mylo, and he shuts up.

Silco just chuckles. “Oh, I'm sure you two can last.”

Powder rolls her eyes. “These two have been together since forever. You guys were like... practically attached at the hip, from day one.”

“Yeah, we were like that, weren't we?” Vi looks back at you.

“Yeah,” you say with a casualness you don't feel. “Yeah, we were.”

Silco hums. “I remember when you two first started dating.”

“Oh, do you remember that?” Vander says, looking at Silco. “I remember the two of them coming to me the day they decided they were going to be official.”

Claggor nods. “Yeah, and they were so... so mushy. All 'you're mine' and 'we're never going to break up,” he puts on a mock high-pitched voice, imitating you and Vi

“That was the worst,” Powder groans, shoving food into her mouth.

Mylo grins and elbows Claggor. “How many times did you have to stop them from making out all over the bar again?”

“Way too many times.”

“By the way,” Mylo says. “You two aren't doing anything for new years, are you?”

You and Vi exchange glances. “...we haven't made plans yet,” you say slowly, trying to think of excuses.

“Oh, you should come join us then,” Mylo says, leaning back and stretching his arms. “All of us are getting hammered down here for new years, you two should come.”

“Yeah, it'll be fun!” Powder pipes up, eyes lighting up. “You guys will come, won't you? promise you'll come.”

You open your mouth, trying to wrack your brain for excuses, but before you can say anything-

“Of course we'll come.”

You turn to look at Vi, and she just gives you a shrug.

Mylo grins. “Good, good! That'll be fun.” He sits up and points a finger at you both. “I swear, the two of you used to be so much fun at parties, it's like you both went boring when you got older.”

“Hey, just cause we're getting old doesn't mean we suddenly became party poopers,” Vi says defensively. “We're still fun.”

Mylo cackles. “Are you now? I never see you two do anything anymore.” He leans back in his seat. “Ever since you got that fancy shmancy job, you've been too busy to have any fun.”

“We know how to have fun, we have—” you pause, trying to think of the word, “responsibilities now. Responsibilities that a certain someone is too dumb to understand.”

“I understand responsibilities, but I understand the concept that if you don't get wasted while you're young, then you'll wake up at forty, old and boring,” he says, looking at Silco and Vander. “And I want to make the most out of my young and reckless years. Meanwhile, you've already turned into an old, boring fart.”

You scowl at that, but Silco interrupts before you can respond. “Don't knock on old farts just yet. Some of us are old and still know how to have fun.”

“Yeah,” Vander chimes in, nodding his head. “Just because we're old doesn't mean we don't know how to have a good time.”

Mylo rolls his eyes and waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, you old farts can still have fun. You just don't know how to have real fun anymore.” Mylo then pouts. “I just... I miss how it used to be, you know?” He sighs, resting his chin in his hand. “Before all that adult crap, when things were easier.”

“Easier,” Powder mutters, poking at the remains of her food. “Yeah, when we were broke and always hungry, real easy.”

Mylo reaches over and flicks her arm. “Easy doesn't always mean money, you dumbass.”

Powder scowls and smacks his arm back. “Don't call me a dumbass, you dumbass.”

“Then don't be a dumbass,” Mylo snaps back, smacking her again.

Powder smacks him again, harder. “Don't you dare call me a dumbass again.”

Before they can start another childish argument, Silco's voice cuts in. “Enough you two," he says, and they immediately grumble and fall quiet.

“Honestly, I sometimes wonder how the two of you aren't still in high school,” Vander says.

“That's an insult to high schoolers, they're more mature than those two,” Claggor jokes, earning him a smack to the head from both Powder and Mylo.

He yells and puts his hands up in surrender, “ow ow ow, ok ok! don't hurt me!”

Jinx and Mylo laugh, while Silco shakes his head. “See what I mean? Children.”

“And they both insist they're mature enough to be out in the real world, independent and capable,” Vander says, and Silco chuckles.

“They're still just as chaotic now as they were in high school,” Silco says dryly. “Nothing has changed.”

Powder and Mylo both glare at him. “Really? like you two were that much better in high school,” she grumbles.

Silco raises an eyebrow at that. “We certainly weren't as immature as some people,” he says pointedly.

“You guys were probably just as bad as us, you just don't remember."

There's a pause, and Silco and Vander exchange glances before Silco snorts. He tries to bite back a laugh, but it comes out anyway, causing Vander to burst out laughing as well.

“I can't-” Vander wheezes between laughs. “I can't believe... you actually…”

Silco doubles over, laughing even harder. After a moment, he manages to gasp out a few words. “Oh, if you only... if you only knew…”

Powder and Mylo exchange confused glances, while Claggor tilts his head. “What? what happened? what's so funny?”

The laughter finally dies down as Silco composes himself enough to speak. “Nothing, it's nothing,” he says, waving a hand.

“All right, all right,” Vander looks around the table. “I think most of us are done eating. Who wants to help with the dishes?”

There's a collective groan from the rest of the table. No one likes doing dishes.

Powder and Mylo immediately groan out a “not it,” and Claggor follows up with “You all know I'm terrible at dishes-”

“Don't look at me either,” Silco grumbles. Vander just sighs and shakes his head.

and that just leaves you and Vi... great, just great.

You're about to argue as well, anything to get out of being stuck in the kitchen with Vi, but she beats you to it. “Yeah, we'll do it,” she says, before you can even open your mouth.

“Oh, I-” you pause for a moment. You had been fully intending to dodge the chore, but now you can't without looking like an ass and leaving her alone to do dishes.

Vi stands up and picks up the nearest stack of dirty dishes, balancing them on her arms as she turns to you. She shoots you a look, like she's daring you to try and weasel out of helping.

You get the hint, shaking your head and standing up. This is absolutely the last thing you want to do right now.

You follow her to the kitchen, grabbing a few more dishes along the way.

She holds the kitchen door open for you, and you step into the little kitchen with its small stone countertops and simple appliances. You set the dishes down on the counter near the sink, turning to find Vi already rolling up her sleeves.

She's not looking at you, but when she starts to roll up the left side of her shirt sleeve, you swear you can see her eyes dart over to you for a split second.

You pause, staring at the side of her face. You can't tell if she's... no, you must be imagining things. 

She clears her throat, raising one eyebrow. “What, you're not gonna help?”

“No, no, I am,” you hurriedly say.

You're not going to look at her. Not at the way her forearm flexes when she reaches down to turn on the water, not at the way she bends over to grab some dish soap, and definitely not at the way her shirt tightens across her shoulders.

Yeah, you're definitely not going to look at her. Not at the way her fingers move when she soaps up the dishes, not the way her biceps flex when she bends her elbow, and especially not at the way her hair falls into her face when she scrubs at a stubborn stain.

Why is she so fit?

You look down at your own hands, watching the water and soap bubble up between your fingers. You start washing another dish, trying your absolute hardest to look anywhere except at her.

The minutes tick by in awkward silence, but eventually, your mind starts to wander. After all, washing dishes is pretty damn boring.

You glance over at her again, out of the corner of your eye, watching the way her shoulder blades shift under her shirt. The fabric of her shirt is stretched taut against her shoulders, and you wonder what she looks like under it if she still has all the same muscles....

Yeah, okay, you really have to stop staring at her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Well, so much for not looking at her. Your head snaps up at the sound of her voice, and you force yourself to just focus on scrubbing at the glass in your hands. 

“Depends what the question is,” you grumble, shifting a little.

You expect her to ask you something about your current life or something generic. What happened when you were gone, what life was like where you were?

Instead, she asks something completely left-field.

“Do you ever think about us?”

You tense up, the glass in your hands slipping a little in your grip. You were not expecting that question. Hell no, you were literally not expecting that question.

How are you supposed to answer that? yes? no? sometimes?

What was she even expecting to hear? did she want you to say yes, to say that you always thought about her, that you would've come back to her in a heartbeat if you could've? or did she just want to hear you say no, to hear that you moved on, that you had to move on because it was either that or let yourself fall apart?

‘Sometimes’ was definitely not the answer you would've given months ago.

Now, though? you would admit that sometimes, after a rough morning or a particularly lonely night, you'd let yourself think about her. You'd remember those nights you spent in her apartment, on her shitty couch, talking her ear off about everything and nothing, the nights where the two of you would sit on the couch and watch tv, her head resting on your shoulder, and you'd wonder if maybe... just maybe..

You wonder if she thinks about that kind of stuff too, if you cross her mind late at night when she's alone. You wonder if she still thinks about the nights where you would stay in bed together, talking for hours after a particularly good round, your head resting on her chest as she played with your hair, or the mornings where you'd wake up and find her making breakfast for you.

Yeah, you thought about her a lot.

But you couldn't say that to her. You can't tell her that you think about it all the time, about how sometimes you can't fall asleep because you miss the feeling of laying in bed with her, about how you always find your hands searching for her in the middle of the night. No, you absolutely cannot tell her that, no matter how badly you wanted to.

“I used to,” you say instead of letting your thoughts wander any farther. “Not anymore.”

You keep scrubbing, even after there's no longer any more dirt on the glass. Just so you have a reason not to look at her, just so you have a shield from the thoughts you know are brewing in her mind.

She's quiet, and you can feel her looking at you. Looking at you, reading you, trying to figure out if you're telling the truth or not.

After a few moments, she takes a breath like she's going to speak, but then stops herself. It's something you're all too familiar with. She's overthinking something, that much is obvious. She's trying to pick her words carefully, and damn, you just wish she'd spit it out.

The silence feels like it's been going on for a year, but really, it was only around a minute. Your knuckles are turning white from how tightly you're gripping the glass you're washing, and your shoulders are beginning to ache from how tense you are.

“What about you?” you murmur. “Do you... do you think about us?” You force yourself to look over at her, and you instantly wish you hadn't.

She's not looking at you now, she's not watching you suspiciously or anything like that. No, instead she's looking down, staring at the soapy water, and avoiding eye contact with you.

She's quiet for a second, her hands pausing in their scrubbing. “Yeah,” she finally says, “I do.”

Her answer goes straight to your gut and twists deep inside you. You were absolutely expecting a solid “no”, hell, you were even preparing yourself for a cruel “god, no.”

Anything, anything other than “I do.”

She continues scrubbing at a plate as if she hasn't just turned your world upside down. How are you supposed to react to her answer? do you say something, do you not say something?

“Why?” the question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself.

“Why do you think so?”

You don't say anything, you just shrug your shoulders. You genuinely don't know. You'd just blurted out the question without actually knowing what you wanted the answer to be.

Her eyes linger on yours for a few seconds, and you can't quite read them. She looks like she wants to say something, she looks like she wants to reach out and hold you, and you'd bet real money that if circumstances were different, she would've done exactly that.

Instead, she just averts her gaze back to the sink and lets out a sigh. “I don't know... I just do.”

You go back to scrubbing dishes. It's obvious there are a million things that you want to say, that you need to say.

“Oh,” is all you say in response, and the word hangs in the air awkwardly.

You're both quiet after that. It's quiet, except for the faint music playing in the background and the sounds of dishes clinking against one another.

A few times, you catch yourself glancing over at her, trying to pick up any hint of what she could be thinking, what she might say next. But, every time, she stubbornly keeps her eyes down on the dishes she's scrubbing. It's frustrating, the way she just won't look at you, and what pisses you off most is the fact that you understand why she won't look at you.

You have a feeling that if she were to look at you, if she were to meet your eyes right now, she'd either burst into tears or shove you into a storage closet and kiss you until your lungs burned.

You don't know which one would be worse.

It's so quiet, so awkward. You're both just scrubbing and scrubbing, refusing to look at the other.

Every time she takes a breath, you look over at her, convinced she's about to speak. But, time and time again, she doesn't, and the only sound to come from her is a shaky exhale.

It's maddening.

The sound of Claggor's voice finally breaks the stifling silence, and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. He peeks his head into the kitchen, grinning widely. “Yo, you two almost done here? Powder is about to get impatient.”

You're thankful for the interruption, and judging by the look on Vi's face, so is she.

“Yeah, we're done,” Vi says, glancing up from the dish she's been washing for the last ten minutes.

You dry your hands off on a nearby towel, trying to look unaffected. “We're finished.” 

Claggor grins again, “Thank God, Powder is about to start biting people.” He laughs, then disappears back into the main room.

“That sounds like her.” She chuckles, scrubbing her hands off on a towel.

“Guest we should head out there then,” you say, trying to get her to actually look at you.

She hesitates, still running the towel over her hands even though they're no longer wet. She looks down for a moment as if she's contemplating something, then finally lifts her head to look at you.

Her jaw is tense like she's forcing herself to stay quiet. After a few seconds, her features soften a little. “Yeah.”

You want to ask her what she's thinking, you want to ask her why. Instead, you just push the door of the kitchen open and gesture for her to go first.

—

“Now that we've had an amazing dinner, it's time for the best part of the night.”

Everyone gathers around, now sitting either on the couch or on the floor. Powder and Mylo immediately get squished together on the floor. Powder mutters under her breath, “Hey! you're shoving me!”

“Only because you're taking up too much space.”

Vander smiles from his spot on the couch. “Alright! It's time for secret santa. Everyone remembers who they drew, right?”

A group of nods and hums go around as everyone pulls out the slips of paper that have the names they drew.

Vander clasps his hands together. “Good!” he says as he looks around the room, his smile getting wider. “Who wants to go first?”

A few seconds of silence, then Powder’s hand shoots up. As always, she's the most excited one. “me!”

Vander laughs. “Well, look at that, our little girl is so eager. Okay, you can go first, Pow-Pow.”

Powder smiles and scrambles off the floor, almost tripping over herself as she pulls a present from beneath the Christmas tree. She glances down at the tag and grins.

She then scans the room with a giddy smile, then her eyes land on Silco. She bounds over to him, practically shoving the present into his hands as she sits down on the floor next to his legs. 

Silco smiles faintly as he takes the present. “Alright, let's see what you got me, hm?” He's quiet as he carefully unwraps the present, and Powder watches him who barely contains her excitement.

After a moment, the wrapping paper is set aside, and the present is now fully unwrapped. It's just a little box, though Silco is curious as to what's inside.

He glances at Powder as he takes the lid off the box, looking a little wary. Powder just grins at him. “Go on, open it,” she encourages.

He looks back at the box and, with a nod, reaches in and pulls out the item inside. He holds it in his hands and looks at it curiously, then looks at Powdr with a raised eyebrow.

She's still grinning, and she looks extremely pleased with herself. Mylo glances over to look and snorts out a laugh. “Would you look at that?”

Silco looks at the item in his hands, then looks at Powder again. “You got me…” he begins, trying to sound unimpressed. “...a shark plushie?”

Powder nods, her grin getting wider. “Yep!” she exclaims, “I got you a little shark plushie. You like it, right?”

Silco glances at the plushie and then at her again, looking vaguely fond. He carefully sets it down on his lap, then smiles. “I adore it.”

Her grin somehow widens even more. 

Silco chuckles, then looks around. “Who's next?”

Claggor shrugs, raising a hand. “I'll go,” he offers, to which Vander nods.

“Go ahead, Claggs,” he says approvingly.

Claggor gets to his feet from his spot on the floor, then moves to the tree. He crouches down and rummages around, looking for the present with the correct name tag.

A minute passes as a few minutes go by. He eventually stands back up, a small present in his hands. He looks around the room, then his eyes land on Mylo, who's now lying down on the floor and looking very bored.

Claggor moves over to him, tossing the present into his lap. Mylo looks up and catches the present, shooting him a glare. “You couldn't have done that a little nicer?” he complains while sitting up.

Claggor just shrugs and gives him a flat look. “Suck it up,” he tells him bluntly before sitting back down.

Mylo scoffs and begins to unwrap the present, ripping the wrapping paper off carelessly. He tosses the wrapping paper away, then looks down at the present as he tears the box open. He's quiet for a moment, looking at the contents...

..and then he groans, covering his face.

“Oh, come the hell on,” he grumbles, though he sounds more whiny than anything else. He glances up from his hands to give Claggor a withering look. “Dude, seriously?”

“What?”

Mylo just sighs, shooting the toy in the box with a dismayed look. “Really? a stress ball?”

Claggor shrugs. “I thought it was a good idea,” he says, clearly not bothered by Mylo's unimpressed tone. “And you seem to be lacking a bit in the stress management department.”

“Well, excuse me for being a bit stressed when you're being a dick.”

“See, you need the stress ball. You proved my point right there.”

Mylo just groans and throws his head back. He picks up the stress ball and squeezes it hard. “I hate you.”

Claggor merely grins. “I love you too.”

Mylo mutters something under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, then looks up as he addresses the group. “So, who's up next? I'm sure there's some poor sap itching to go.”

Silco raises a hand. “I'll go next,” he offers.

Everyone glances at him, then nods and gestures for him to go. He gets up off the couch and saunters to the tree. He scans the presents beneath it, moving a few aside to find the one he was looking for.

He finally finds it and smirks to himself, grabbing the present and standing up. His eyes sweep over the group. He then turns and walks over to Vander, holding the present out to him.

Vander glances at the present, then at Silco, taking the present and curiously giving it a little shake. “What is it?” he asks curiously.

Silco just grins in a vaguely irritating way and sits back down. “Just open it,” he replies, his voice dripping with innocence.

Vander raises an eyebrow but begins to unwrap the present meticulously, occasionally shooting Silco a glance, as if expecting something. He peels away the wrapping paper to reveal a small box, then looks at Silco, his eyes questioning.

Silco just shrugs and gestures for him to go on. Vander quirks another eyebrow up but opens the box anyway, now intrigued.

Then a snort finally escapes him. He's now fighting to hold back laughter.

Mylo sits up suddenly, looking at Vander, then at Silco, curiosity in his eyes. “What? What is it?” he asks eagerly.

Vander doesn't answer for a moment. He's still staring into the box, looking like he can't believe what he's seeing. He looks up at Silco. “Please tell me you're joking,” he implores.

Silco's smile widens. “I couldn't be more serious,” he replies.

Vander lets out a long, suffering sigh, then digs through the tissue paper and pulls something out of the box.

It's a pair of comically large underwear, one that could practically fit an entire person inside of it.

Vander groans, holding the underwear up and staring at them with slight disgust.

Mylo and Powder both start laughing once they register what the present is. Powder laughs so hard she nearly falls over, clutching her stomach as she howls with laughter.

Vi's eyes widen at the sight of the underwear, her mouth dropping open a little in surprise. As much as it pains her to admit it... she just knows the jokes that Silco is going to start making any minute now.

…and she's right.

“You see, I thought it was a necessary gift.”

“Necessary?” Vander repeats, still holding the underwear up in disbelief.

Silco nods. “Of course. you're getting old, and as you get older... accidents happen.”

“I'm not that old,” Vander grumbles, though he knows it's probably not the best argument.

Silco smirks, raising a hand and waving it dismissively. “Oh, you know what I mean. Things begin to... fail as you age. I simply wanted to make sure you had a spare pair.”

Mylo is now practically rolling on the floor, clutching his sides. “Oh, my god, I can't breathe—this is—this is gold,” he wheezes. Powder is laughing so hard she's choking, practically coughing her lungs up.

Vander looks down at the underwear in his hands. He looks like he wants to throw it into the fire and destroy it right there. He glances up at Silco, giving him a look that clearly says, 'I will get you back for this'.

Silco leans back against the couch and crosses an ankle over his knee. “What? You don't like them? I personally thought they were a good choice.”

Vander opens his mouth to reply, but Powder interrupts him.

“Oh, god,” Powder chokes out, “you should try them on. They'd look perfect on you.”

Vander shoots Powder a glare to kill. “No way in hell,” he mutters firmly, folding his arms and sitting back.

But Powder's not done. “Come on, just try them on,” she wheezes. “It really would be a look for you.”

Vander turns his glare to Powder, his expression clearly saying, 'I will murder you if you keep talking.' “No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

Even Silco is starting to look amused.

“Just for a second,” she teases, “come on, just long enough for us to see. We won't even say anything.”

Van shoots a sneering look at both Silco and Powder. Eventually he lets out an exasperated grumble and stands up, mumbling something he heads into the bathroom with the underwear.

Mylo falls back onto the floor, clutching his stomach.

Silco is laughing too, watching as Vander heads to the bathroom to change.

Mylo is dying of laughter, gasping for air in between wheezes. “Holy shit,” he chokes out. “He's really doing it.”

It takes a few minutes, but the bathroom door swings open and Vander exits, looking like he regrets every decision he's made that led him to this. His face is as red as a tomato as he stomps back over to them in the gigantic underwear.

Mylo and Powder are losing it again, falling over and rolling on the floor with laughter.

Silco is smiling, trying to stifle a laugh. “Oh my,” he says, barely containing his amusement. “They look even better than I imagined.” 

Vander can hardly look anyone in the eye, still red with embarrassment. “I hate you. I hate you all.”

Claggor looks at Silco and Powder, clearly trying not to laugh. “You guys are terrible,” he says, a trace of a smile on his face.

Vi can't hold back her laughter anymore, she's grinning from ear to ear. “You look... perfect,” she comments through a strangled chuckle.

Vander turns his glare on her. “I hate you all,” he repeats, shaking his head.

Powder is still giggling from the floor. “I want pictures.” She holds up her phone.

Vander looks like he wants to smack her head off. “Absolutely not. I forbid it,” he snaps, sounding as serious as someone wearing comically large underwear can.

Powder just pouts, lowering her phone. “Oh, come on,” she says with a whine, looking up at Vander with puppy-dog eyes. “Just a few.”

“No, I'm not having pictures of me in these... embarrassing things circulating the internet.”

“The internet? Who said anything about the internet?” she replies, a smirk on her face. “I just meant... a few for my own personal, um, research.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but Silco chimes in first. “Oh, come on. Humor her. It's the season of giving.”

Vander turns his glare to Silco. “There's no way in hell—”

“Pleeeease?” Powder interrupts, holding out her phone again.

Vander looks like he's about to argue, but Powder is already giving him those damn puppy-dog eyes that he struggles to resist. He hesitates, then, with a grumble, he sighs. “Fine, one picture.”

Powder looks like a kid on Christmas. The instant the word 'picture' leaves Vander's mouth, she leaps to her feet and lifts up her phone. “Stand up straighter.”

Vander obeys, reluctantly straightening up.

“Say cheese.”

Vander grunts, but he cooperates. “Cheese,” he mutters, putting on a strained smile.

Powder snaps the picture, then lowers her phone and looks at it with a satisfied smile. “Oh yeah, you're getting on the naughty list for this one,” she grins, wiggling the phone a little.

Once the picture-taking is over and Vander changes his clothes back, Silco motions for Powder to settle down. 

“Alright, settle down. It's time to continue with the secret Santa,” Silco says, looking at the others.

They all nod in agreement, still snickering but mostly focusing on the present exchange.

“Who wants to go next?” Silco asks, looking around the group.

Mylo looks around, then grins. “My turn.”

Powder rolls her eyes, knowing that look on his face all too well. “Here we go,” she says, preparing herself for whatever nonsense Mylo is about to come up with.

Mylo smirks, holding up his present. “Well, I drew someone's name... and it was a pretty easy choice.” He then looks around the group with mock innocence. “Oh, where's my victim?”

Claggor sighs. “Who exactly is the unlucky person this year?”

“There's only one person who I could have possibly chosen…”

“Would you just spit it out before the suspense kills me?” Powder snaps, impatient.

Mylo huffs. “Jeez, have some patience. Anyway, my secret santa is…”

Claggor puts his head in his hands, bracing himself.

“My secret santa is, drumroll please…” They reluctantly drum their hands against any surface near them.  “My very special secret Santa is…”

Mylo grins, looking from face to face, savoring the moment before he does the big reveal.

“My secret Santa... is Powder!”

“Fuck!” She groans, burying her head in her hands.

“Aww, what's the matter, Pow?” Mylo grins, holding up the wrapped present.

Powder lets out another groan, glaring up at him. “You're the worst,” she mutters, looking like she's praying to any god out there to just put her out of her misery already.

Mylo grins, getting a kick out of her misfortune. “Come on, don't be like that. It could be worse, I could have gotten you a box of spiders,” he teases, shaking the present in her direction.

Powder looks like she's seriously considering that as a better option. “You know what? Give me the spiders. Spiders would be better than whatever it is you got me.”

“Nice try. You're not getting out of it that easily,” he says, holding the present just out of her reach. “You have to open it, come on.”

Powder grumbles in protest, then reluctantly reaches out for the present. She snatches it out of his hands, shooting him a glare. “If I die from this, I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your life,” she mutters, slowly tearing the wrapping paper.

Then, Powder tears back the last piece of wrapping paper, revealing a plain black box. “What the hell is this?”

“You're going to have to open it and see for yourself.”

Powder grumbles, giving Mylo a glare that could freeze hell over. She slowly opens the black box, not sure what to expect. “...Please tell me this is not what I think it is.” 

The others lean in closer, curiosity getting the better of them.

“You did not get me what I think you got me.”

“Oh, you're going to have to be more specific than that,” he replies, trying to hide his smirk.

Powder glares at him, her jaw clenching. “You know what I'm talking about,” she snaps, looking like she's contemplating dumping the contents of the box over his head.

Mylo just shrugs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I honestly have no idea what you're talking about.” 

Vander just rubs his face with one hand, knowing that this situation is about to spiral out of control.

“You're telling me,” Powder hisses, “that you didn't get me exactly what I think you got me?”

“Like I said, you'll have to be a bit more specific,” he responds, looking too smug for his own good.

Powder looks like she's about to explode. “Mylo, I swear to-”

Claggor cuts her off, knowing that she's about to blow her top. “Calm down, Powder,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“I'll calm down when the box goes straight over his head.”

“Why so angry? I thought you'd be excited.”

“I can't wait to make you eat that box.” 

“Oh, I'm so scared.”

Vander interjects, trying to diffuse the tension. “That's enough. No need to start throwing things around.”

“I was just having fun.”

“Yeah, have fun with a black eye.”

“Enough,” Silco says, giving both Powder and Mylo stern looks.

Both Mylo and Powder grumble, reluctantly backing down a bit.

“Can we all just get back to opening presents, please?” Vander asks, exasperated.

The others nod in agreement, though Powder still looks like she's not done with Mylo yet. She glares at him one last time before reluctantly returning to her seat.

Mylo just grins, clearly enjoying having gotten the last word in. He takes his own seat next to Claggor.

The others exchange glances, silently agreeing to not let Powder and Mylo be too close to each other for the rest of the evening.

Silco clears his throat, getting everyone's attention. “Now, who's next?” he asks, looking around the room.

Vander nods, leaning back in his seat. “I'm up next, I guess.” He rummages at the gifts under the Christmas tree. After a few moments of searching, Vander finally finds the present he was looking for. He picks it up, holding it in his lap. “This one's for you,” he says, handing the present to Claggor.

Claggor takes the present, looking curious. He glances down at it, then looks up at Vander with a smile. “Thanks,” he says, starting to unwrap it.

Once the wrapping paper is off, Claggor is holding a box of assorted tools. They range from pliers to wrenches to screwdrivers.

“Just like you requested,” Vander says, watching as Claggor starts inspecting the tools.

“Wow, these are great. Thanks, dad,” he replies, running a hand over the tools in the box.

Vander smiles, pleased to see that Claggor likes his present. “I thought you'd like them. I saw them at the pawnshop the other day and figured you could use them.”

“I definitely will. These are a huge upgrade compared to what I have now.”

Vander reaches over and pats Claggor on the shoulder. “You deserve it. You've been working your ass off lately.” He looks around the room, looking for the next person to take their turn. “Alright, who's up next?” 

Mylo's head suddenly snaps up, a smirk on his face. “Oh goodie, it's Vi's turn.”

“Come on, Vi, your turn,” Silco says, looking a little amused.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses,” she mumbles, getting to her feet and making her way over to the christmas tree.

Vi crouches down, rummaging through the presents. After a few moments, she finally finds the present. She grabs it, standing back up. She looks over at you, looking like she's been caught doing something she's not supposed to do.

She makes her way over to where you're sitting, holding out the present. “Here, this one's for you.” 

You take the present from her, looking down at it. It's heavy in your hands, the wrapping paper slightly crinkled from how hard she was holding it. “Thanks, Vi/” You look up at her.

“Don't mention it, babe,” she mutters, her voice strained.

Powder and Mylo both let out a chorus of ‘aww’ when they heard her use the nickname.

“Shut up, you two,” she says, glaring at them both.

You start unwrapping the present, tearing off the wrapping paper to reveal what's inside.

Once the wrapping paper is off, you're holding a small box. It's plain, made of brown cardboard, and doesn't look like much. But as you look back up at Vi, you can see a hint of nervousness on her face.

She's watching you intently, her expression anxious. 

Still curious, you glance back down at the box in your hands. You lift off the lid, opening it slowly.

There, nestled in a bed of tissue paper, is a necklace. It's a silver chain with a small silver heart pendant. It looks delicate and beautiful, and judging by the look on Vi's face, she spent a lot of time picking it out.

You slowly reach into the box, lifting the necklace out of the tissue paper. You hold it up, letting the chain dangle from your fingers. It glints in the light, the pendants catching the glow from the Christmas tree lights.

Vi is still watching you, her eyes fixed on the necklace. “Do you like it?”

You look up from the necklace, meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I do,” you respond. “...It's beautiful.”

You hold the necklace in your hand, running your thumb over the pendant. Without even thinking, you reach up and clasp the necklace around your neck.

It fits snugly against your skin, the pendant resting on your collarbone.

You look up, catching Vi watching you as you adjust the necklace. “Looks good on you.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, still running your thumb over the pendant.

Mylo and Powder both let out another chorus of ‘aww’ clearly touched by the sight.

Vi shoots them another glare, her eyes narrowing. “Would you two shut up, for Christ's sake?”

“Oh, come on, sis. It's cute” Powder teases.

“Ah, young love,” Silco says. 

Vander chuckles, nodding his head. “I remember my younger days.”

“Don't you mean your younger hookups?” 

Vander grins, holding his hands up. “Guilty as charged.”

Silco laughs, shaking his head. “Some things never change.” Then, he glances around the room, looking for who's turn it is next. “Lasty, who's next?” 

You look around, seeing that almost everyone has given out their gift. It's obvious that your turn is next. “I'm up next.”

You get to your feet, making your way over to where the presents are. then you hold the present in your hands, not looking up quite yet. You can feel Vi's eyes on you.

This is it. You take a deep breath and look up, meeting her gaze. 

You walk over to her, your heart beating faster. You feel nervous, but you try to push it down. You stop in front of her, holding out the present. “Here you go, babe.” 

Vi's expression softens, her eyes darting down to the gift in your hands. She reaches out and grabs it, looking slightly puzzled.

You watch silently as she unwraps the gift. 

“Is this... a sweater?” she asks, bewildered. It's clearly hand-knit, with uneven stitching and a clashing color scheme.

“I made it myself,”

“You made it? Like, with your own two hands?”

“Obviously...”

“I mean... it's…”

“It's hideous?” you suggest.

She winces, like she can't deny it. “Yeah, kinda…” 

“Hey,” you say, mock-indignant. “I spent a lot of time making that, you know.”

“I can tell.”

“Then, try it on.”

Vi hesitates, looking at you warily. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” You nudge her. “Just try it on… for me.”

She sighs, realizing there's no way out of this. “Fine.”

She pulls it over her head, struggling to get her arms through the sleeves. The fit is awkward, and the sweater seems too small. But somehow, it kind of makes her look... cute?

She tugs at the sleeves, looking down at herself. “How do I look?” 

You pretend to look her over, like you're seriously considering the question. “I dunno,” you reply. “it's... something.”

“Be serious. I look like an idiot, don't I?”

“Don't be like that” you tease, reaching out to straighten the collar of the sweater. “It's not that bad.”

“Not ‘that bad?’” she repeats. “Are you kidding? I look like a walking Christmas tree.” She groans, tugging at the sleeves again.

“I think you look…” cute. adorable. “Fine” “That's the best you've got? 'fine?'”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don't know… Something more than just ‘fine’”

“Okay, okay, let me rephrase that, you look…” beautiful, cute, adorable. “...very christmas-y”

“You really know how to boost a girl's ego.”

“I didn't realize you needed your ego stroked.”

“I don't,” she protests, flustered. “I'm just saying, a little bit more enthusiasm would be appreciated.”

Silco clears his throat, drawing everyone's attention. “Ahem, now that the present giving is concluded…”

Silence falls over the room as everyone waits for Silco to speak. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock is the only sound that can be heard.

Silco glances at the clock, a smile on his face. “It appears to be midnight,” he says, pausing for emphasis. “Which means…”

A chorus of “Merry Christmas!” rises up from the group, everyone sounding festive and cheerful. 

You look back to Vi, who is still fiddling with the sweater. “Merry Christmas,” you whisper, not wanting the others to hear.

She glances at you, a smile touching her lips. “Merry Christmas to you too,” she replies, her voice just as quiet as yours.

Awkwardly you glance down at the carpet, unsure of what to say next. 

“Hey,” she says suddenly. “Can I talk to you for a second…? In private?”

“Sure,” you agree, following her as she leads you away from the group.

She leads you into a small back room, closing the door behind her. The room is dimly lit, with only a few bare light bulbs lining the walls. Aside from a few boxes and some old crates, the room is empty.

She turns to face you, leaning against the wall. She's quiet for a moment, her gaze averted to the floor. you can tell she's trying to find the right words, fiddling with the hem of the sweater again.

“Listen,” she begins, finally meeting your eyes. “I know this is weird, and I know things are... difficult right now. But…” She pauses. “I just want to say one thing…”

“Go on,” you encourage.

“I…” she starts, then falters. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Her gaze drops to the floor. “Well, I just…” her fingers fumble at the edge of her sweater. “I just... I miss you.”

Your heart skips a beat as she finally says the words out loud.

You've been wanting her to say that for weeks, months even. After everything that's happened between the two of you, you desperately wanted to hear those very words fall from her lips. But now that she's saying it...

What the hell do you say to that?

You're speechless, stunned into silence by her honesty. You open your mouth, intending to say something. But words seem completely lost to you at this point. You just stand there, staring at her, dumbfounded.

“Say something,” she says. “Say anything. You're just staring at me like an idiot.”

“I don't know what to say.” Because, you really don't know what to say. You have so much you want to say, but somehow the words get stuck in your throat.

“Say you hate me. Say you never want to get back together. Just... say something.”

She's waiting. Waiting for something, anything. An opinion, a response. Anything from you. But what can you say? Do you tell her the truth—that you've missed her so much you can't even sleep at night? that the last month has felt like a living hell, having no contact with her?

You want to tell her that you hate her for throwing you away just to come back around wanting something from you again, but your tongue feels like cotton.

“Say something… yell at me, curse me out, anything!”

But her tone gets under your skin, and suddenly you feel the anger start to build inside of you. 

Who does she think she is, demanding a response from you? she's the one who tossed you aside without a second thought. You're sick of this. You've done everything for her, given her everything she wanted, and here she is, pushing you for more.

It is too much—all too much. Without a word, you turn from her, heading toward the door. You can't do this anymore. 

You hear her call out your name as you shove open the door, but you don't stop. You make your way back, stopping at Vander's side. “Vander, I'm going to head out.”

Vander nods, giving you a knowing look. He can tell something's going on, but he's wise enough not to press the issue. “Alright, kid,” he says gruffly. “Get some rest, yeah?”

You nod your head, forcing a smile onto your face. “Yeah, I'll try,” you say, giving him a wave before starting towards the exit.

When you pass by Silco, he gives you a curious look. You catch his gaze and give him a nod.

Finally, you make your way out the front door. The cold night air hits your face, making you shiver. You take a breath, preparing yourself for the walk home.

But then you hear the door swing open behind you, her footsteps hurry after you. “Wait!” her voice calls out. “Wait, stop!”

You keep walking, your steps quick. You're trying to get as far away from her as possible to outrun all of the feelings that came rushing back to you—

“Let me walk you home.”

Her words cut through your thoughts. You falter, your steps slowing down.

You stop walking, turning around to face her. “What?”

She's standing there, looking like a kicked puppy. Her shoulders are slumped, her expression sheepish. She can tell you're not happy she's followed you out here, but she looks like she doesn't care.

She lets out a huff, her breath coming out in a white cloud in the cold air. “I just... look, whatever happened in there, whatever happened between us... just let me look out for you. Just let me walk you home. I.. I have to know you're safe.”

“I don't need a babysitter.” You practically growl, your irritation obvious. “I can handle myself.”

Vi flinches at your words, but she doesn't back down. If anything, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I know you can,” she says. “I'm not offering to babysit you. I'm just... I'm just asking to walk you home.”

You glance back at the entrance of their house, the warm lights and sounds spilling out into the cold night air.  You turn back to look at her, your voice softer this time. “You don't have to walk me home. We don't have to keep up the act anymore, I'm going home and... you've got better things to do than worry about me.”

“Screw the act. I'm walking you home. It's not up for debate.”

You stare at her, baffled by her insistence. “Seriously? What's the point, Vi? We're not together anymore. Why bother?”

Her jaw clenches, her shoulders tensing. You know she hates this. She hates hearing you say it. Her heart is on her sleeve, and you're tearing pieces out of it, right in front of her.

“Because I care!” she snaps. “Maybe it's hard for you to believe, but I still care about you.”

You shake your head, scoffing at her words. “No, no, no, you don't get to act like you care now. You're the one who broke up with me. You're the one who walked away and left me.”

“I made a mistake,okay? I was a damn idiot, and I screwed up.”

“A mistake?” you echo, scoffing again. “You ended everything, and now you want to walk me home? What, you think that makes up for everything? You think it’s that easy? You threw away everything we had like it meant nothing, like all those months we spent together meant nothing.”

Your voice is trembling with anger as you continue. “And then what did you do? You went around, throwing yourself at anyone that gave you a second glance, like I was nothing. Like I never meant anything to you. Yeah, I know all about that. So don't try to act like you actually care when you clearly didn't give two shits.”

She looks away, her jaw clenching. “I was trying to get over you. I was trying to push you out of my head and it hurts like hell. Every night, every morning, it was like there was a hole inside of me, and no matter how hard I tried to fill it, no matter how many times I went out, how many times I tried to forget you, nothing worked. You were stuck in my head, and I hated it.”

She takes a step closer to you. “I know it sounds stupid. I know it doesn't make any sense. I just... I needed something to distract me, something to keep me from thinking about you. Because it hurt too damn much to think about how much I messed things up.”

“Yeah, congrats. You did a damn good job at distracting yourself, huh? It sure as hell didn't take you very long to get over me.”

She winces again, the guilt written all over her face. “You have no idea how many times I wanted to reach out to you. How many times I thought about coming back to you and begging you to take me back.”

“But you didn't,” you say. “You didn't reach out to me, you didn't try to fix things. So why should I believe you now? Why should I believe that you're sincere when you didn't care enough to fight for us before?”

She looks down, unable to meet your gaze. “What was I supposed to do?” she whispers. “I messed up. I messed things up and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know how to take back what I did, how to make things like they were before I messed up. All I know is that I miss you. I miss you so damn much, and I'd do anything to have you back.”

You swallow hard. Everything she's saying, it's everything you've wanted to hear for months. It feels like a dream.

But you can't let yourself fall back into this. Not when you've worked so hard to move on. Not when you've spent so many nights crying into your pillow, reminding yourself that she didn't care enough to fix things, to fight for you.

“Why now—Why do you want me back now, after all this time? Why didn't you want me back when it mattered, when I needed you?”

She looks up at you, desperation in her eyes. “Because I was an idiot! Because I was stupid, and scared, and I thought walking away would make it easier, but it just made it worse. Because I spent every damn night regretting that I let you go and wishing that I could take it all back. I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry for what I put you through.”

“Sorry doesn't fix things,” you say, your voice shaking. “Sorry doesn't take away the pain, sorry doesn't undo what you did.”

She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I know saying sorry won't magically fix things, but I am sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you, I'm sorry for walking away, I'm sorry for everything I did wrong. Just... just give me a chance. Give me a chance to make things right.”

She takes another step forward, her eyes pleading. “Give me a chance. Let me prove to you that I love you and that I want to make things right. If I screw up again, you can toss me to the curb and never speak to me again. But please, just give me one more chance.”

“I don't know,” you murmur. “I just... I don't know.”

“I'll do anything. I'll get on my knees every day if I have to. I'll beg on my hands and knees. I'll crawl on my hands and knees. I'll grovel on the ground. Just... please, just give me one chance.”

“I'll think about it. Just...just give me some time to think things over.”

“Okay, okay. I'll give you time or whatever you need. Just please don’t shut me out completely.”

Without hesitation, she envelops you in a tight hug. Her arms wrap around your waist, her face burying into your neck. Her body clings to you, every part of her desperate and needy. “I miss you so much,” she mumbles.

You stand awkwardly, unsure of what to do. But then, your body betrays you, your arms slowly wrapping around her.

For the first time in a long while, you're holding her again. Her warmth, her scent, her touch—it’s all so familiar, so painfully familiar. So damn familiar that it hurts.

“I hate you.”

“I don't blame you.” She pulls back, her hands coming up to cup your face. She lifts her hand, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. 

“I hate you so much,” you repeat, a tear falling down your cheek.

“I deserve that,” she says, her thumbs wiping away your tear.

“Damn right you do.”

You have no idea what to do or what to feel. Everything is a mess, and you're drowning in it.

For now, all you could do was hold her tight and bury your face in her shoulder. 

You hated how good she felt against you and how right it felt to be held by her. 

Damn her for making things so confusing, for making you feel so damn much.

You felt her hand rubbing your back, her fingers tracing circles over your skin. It was a soothing gesture, a silent apology for all the pain she had caused. It only made things worse, making your heart ache even more.

If only things had been different. If only she had been more communicative. If only she had been more sensitive to your feelings. If only she had been there for you when you needed her.

If only she hadn't walked away and left you broken. If only she hadn't hurt you the way she had.

And most of all, if only you had been strong enough to push her away and protect yourself from this mess.

But here you are, standing in the middle of a street wrapped in her arms. You felt like a fool, like a damn idiot, for still wanting her after everything.

You wanted to hate her, you wanted to make her suffer the way you had suffered.

But how could you hate her when she was looking at you like that? how could you hate her when she was holding you like this?

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that she still had this kind of effect on you. 

Her eyes met yours, and you saw everything you had missed, everything you had longed for. and you knew, right then, that you were in damn trouble.

—

In the window, Vander and Silco watched you and Vi from afar, the soft glow of the christmas lights casting shadows over their faces.

Silco takes a drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling around him as he exhales. “Your little plan worked quite well,” he says, looking at Vander with a sly smile.

Vander just shrugs, sipping his drink. “I don't know what you are talking about,” he replies, keeping his expression neutral.

“You're not fooling anyone.”

Vander hums, taking another sip of his drink. “I don't know what you mean,” he says again, keeping his gaze locked on you and Vi.

Silco let out a puff of smoke. “Don't play coy, Vander. You knew damn well what you were doing when you rigged that secret santa.”

“I may have had a little influence,” he admits.

“A little influence? oh, don't downplay it. You wanted them back together, and you knew exactly how to make it happen.”

“I have had a hunch that they still cared about each other,” he says, his voice casual. “And plus, I don't want to see Vi moping around for the past months.”

“And we couldn't have that, could we? seeing her moping around like a lovestruck puppy.”

Vander nods. “She was really terrible at hiding it,” he says. “always pacing around, always looking like she lost a puppy.”

Silco takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing rings into the air. “It was painful to watch,” he says, shaking his head.

“It was like watching a kid trying to hide a secret… I just hope they figure things out.”

“I agree,” Silco says, his eyes flickering over to you and Vi. “Hopefully they can work things out.”

“Only time will tell.”

They watch in silence, seeing how you and Vi are still holding each other.

“I still wouldn't forgive you for that damn underwear you got me.”

“That was the funniest thing you could have received.”

Vander grumbles, narrowing his eyes at Silco. “I do not find it funny to receive underwear as a gift.”

notes: idk what is happening

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Hits Different

Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader

Summary: Reader gets jealous when some women start hitting on Aaron at the bar on their team night out

CW: drunk!Hotch, jealous!Reader, mentions of an unsub and murder, drinking, confessions, makeout, Hotch being handsy, kinda needy!Hotch?

a/n: I’m literally obsessed with Aaron Hotchner rn

title track 🎶🥂

~~~

“No— I can’t,” you opposed as your coworkers decided to order another round of shots. Cheeks glowing as the alcohol seeped into you. Smiling as Derek put his arm around you and J.J. reached across the table to encourage you.

It was a Thursday night. You all had just gotten back from a week long endeavor in Utah. Local killer had his sight on some local young women. Killing them in some ritual style way that the drinks helped you fuzz the memory of. Luckily after you had addressed the public, he grew sloppy and was easily caught.

And now, back in your home state, you all crowded into a local bar to relax. And when the BAU “relaxed” it usually involved some heavy drinking.

“Shots! Shots! Sh-Shots!” Penelope and Emily chanted to the tune of the Lil Jon song. You laughed, a subtle snort escaping you. Rossi came back with the tray, beginning to pass them out to everyone.

Aaron Hotchner hovered behind him. Already having downed three glasses of scotch and beaming with alcohol on his face. It was a rare occasion that Hotch got drunk. Usually he just sipped at one drink while everyone else got themselves into trouble. But tonight he decided to let loose. Taking two glasses off the tray and squeezing in next to you in the already tight booth. Sitting them down in front of the two of you. Hooded eyes squinted upward in a closed-mouth smile as his eyebrows raised at you.

And you felt your face completely flush. Since your time at the BAU, you had developed a crush on your superior. Even if it was inappropriate and the age gap was a bit large, you still harbored feelings for him. And moments like this did not help.

Completely engulfed by the aroma of his cologne. Trying not to make it obvious you were smelling him. Hotch wrapped his arm around you absentmindedly. Leaning in and holding one of the glasses up to you. “Are you gonna do a shot with me?” His slightly slurred words melted against your skin. His voice somehow deeper and sultrier than ever. Everyone else was too distracted by the giggling of drunken excitement for more drinks to notice what was happening. It was like you two were alone for a moment.

You smiled, nodding slowly as he passed you the shot in his hand. Picking up the other and wrapping his arm around yours. Intertwined so that your hands were back against your own mouths. You were beyond flustered with the contact he was making with you. Hotch began counting down, both of you throwing the alcohol back on three.

Sucking your teeth as it burned down your throat. Hotch blew his breath out. You watched as his nose scrunched up at the taste. Shaking off the strong taste as Hotch leaned in against you. His head bumping against yours for a moment. Lips pressing against your ear in his drunk state.

“Want me to go get us som’more drinks? You like something more fruity, right?” Hotch suggested, deep voice ringing in your ear. The feeling of his lips grazing your skin had you sweating.

“Only if you’re buying,” you pulled at his tie softly. Causing his eyes to lock into yours, corner of his mouth curving up. His eyes scanned your figure momentarily before getting up and strutting over to the bar.

“Oh. My. God.” J.J.’s voice pulled you back from your staring problem you had with Hotch. You whipped your neck to face her, adjusting your posture in the seat. Shaking your head slightly, “What?”

“What was that about?” J.J. grinned brightly, eyes bouncing from Hotch to you.

“We were just doing some shots together,” you felt your face heating up again. Tongue coming out to wet your lips as your mouth ran dry.

“The only other instances of Hotch getting that close to any of us was when we were hurt,” Spencer chimed in with his analytical sounding tone. Still as smart as ever even while drunk.

“Oh God, you guys,” you shook your head and scooted out of the booth. Stretching your legs for the first time tonight. Hands resting on the table as you got closer to the opposing side. Being eye-to-eye with J.J. and Spencer, “You guys know he acts different when he’s relaxed. It’s nothing.”

Spencer and J.J. exchanged a look of uncertainty. Neither of them believing what you had just said. Rolling your eyes at their smirking expressions. Catching on easily to the feelings you had for your boss.

Downside of having friends who are profilers.

“Drop it,” you pointed at them with two fingers. Your friends began snickering and laughing. You could not help but smile back at them. Laughter was contagious when you were intoxicated. You turned to meet your crush at the bar.

You froze.

Some woman was cuddled up with Hotch at the bar. Breasts peaking out of the top of her thin shirt, curled hair falling below her shoulders, and a beautiful face of makeup. Your heart sank down to your ankles. Watching as her hand trailed his chest. Watching how her perfectly glossed lips popped as she spoke to him inaudibly.

Worst of all: his smile.

SSA Hotchner tended to be gruff and stern. Brooding and unreadable. Purely business around you and the other members of the BAU. Stoic and distant. Something you all agreed was so he did not get overly attached, just in case something happened to one of you. Rarely smiling other than seeing his sweet son, Jack.

Guess tonight was different.

Rosey cheeks and perfect teeth painted his expression. Eyes locked in on the woman before him. Your hands began shaking at your sides. If it was not a cartoon cliche, you would have had smoke coming out of your ears. Teeth grinding together behind tightly pierced lips.

Rethinking any hints he may have given you. Feeling like you had fooled yourself into a crush. Angry that some random bitch woman was getting too friendly with Hotch.

Unable to take it anymore. Jealousy brewing inside you, ready to overflow. You marched up to the bar, immediately pulling Hotch’s attention from the woman.

“Sorry to interrupt—“

“Hi, Y/N,” Hotch smiled at you. Causing butterflies to flutter in your intestines. Especially with the casualty of your first name.

God, he was drunk.

“SSA Y/L/N,” you extended your hand out to the woman, lip twitching when she shined her perfect smile. Flaring your nostrils and locking your jaw when your hand met hers.

“Hi! I’m Hope,” her peppy attitude made you sick to your stomach. Trying your best to fake your expression. Anger causing a slight shake to your demeanor.

“Right…” you trailed off, looking at Hotch whose eyes had not left you yet, “Hotch—“

“C’mon, Y/N. You can call me Aaron here,” he leaned in and whispered to you. Chills ran down your entire body when the heat from his lips radiated against your skin. Swallowing the lump in your throat.

Oh, he was REALLY drunk.

“Aaron,” you started, watching him smile at you saying his first name, “Did you get my drink?”

Hotch’s hand came up cupping his cheek as his eyes squinted, “Oh my God. That’s why I came up here. I totally forgot—“

“Don’t worry about it, Hotch,” your frustration took over your attitude. Fists clinching at your sides. Feeling tears beginning to burn behind your eyes. Deciding to storm off without the drink. Heading towards the long corridor to the bathrooms.

“Y/N—“ Hotch reached out to you with a confusion behind his tone. Not caring enough to listen to whatever excuse his drunken self was gonna give you. Trying your best not to make a scene so none of your coworkers would notice and come after you. Really just needing to be alone.

You leaned against the cold wall, hands holding onto each of your arms. Head resting against the brick of the dimly lit hallway. Fighting your eyes that begged to leak with your feelings. And you felt stupid. Did you really think your own boss would be interested in you? Enough to not get distracted by the beautiful woman at the bar? Please.

Feeling suddenly sober at the heartbreak in your chest. Hands coming up to cover your redening face. Embarrassed that you had even toyed with the notion. Knowing it was completely against protocol to fraternize with coworkers. Let alone with your superior—

“Y/N?” Hotch’s somber voice broke you away from the thoughts filling your mind.

You blinked your eyes open. Manually breathing as your shoulders rose and fell. Controlling the water that begged to pour from your eyes. Clicking your tongue as you spoke, “Hotch.”

“I told you, you could call me Aaron here,” he leaned against the wall beside you. Arms folded over his broad chest. Pondering the informality before looking back to him.

“I thought you saved that for pretty girls at the bar,” you half-heartedly smiled. Flaring your nostrils as you contorted your face to hide your frown.

Hotch laughed, bearing that smile that had you seeing stars. Eyes closing for a moment, giving you the opportunity to linger in it. Enjoying him being this casual with you.

“Is that not what you are?” Hotch asked.

You whipped your head to look at him again. Brows furrowed tightly together as your mouth hung open in confusion. “What?”

Hotch rose a brow, “Are you not a pretty girl? At the bar with me right now?”

You blinked as you stammered, “I— Not like… I mean— not like that girl at the bar…” You trailed off completely dumbfounded by his statement. Hotch watched you with a smile. His own cheeks still red.

“You think I’m pretty?” You finally formed a cohesive sentence unable to stop your mouth from curving into a smile.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Hotch’s hooded eyes stared into yours. Taken aback by that. Questioning for a moment if he was mocking you. Realizing by his expression he was not.

“You’re drunk, Hotch—“

“Aaron,” he corrected, “And, yeah I am drunk. But just drunk enough to finally be honest with you about that.” Hotch’s tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lip. Hand coming up and rubbing his neck at his confession.

“You didn’t have to come back here just to try and make me feel better. You were having a good chat with that woman at the bar. She was so beautiful, and made you smile, and not a part of the BAU, and—“ you covered your mouth getting embarrassed and shameful.

Hotch’s hand caressed your cheek. Pulling you back to him. His brows laid flat against his eyes. Lips pressed firmly together, watching his throat bob with the swallow he took. Thumb rubbing circles into your warm cheek, swiping away the singular line of tears that streamed down.

“I’m sorry— it’s the alcohol, that’s why I’m crying—“

Hotch cut you off by pressing a passionate kiss to your lips. Your eyes flew open. Hand gently resting against his chest as you savored the feeling of his lips on yours. Feeling your breath hitch in your throat and heart swell.

“You taste so sweet,” Hotch groaned, both hands gripping your face now. The primal noises he made causing arousal to swirl around your belly. Feeling its residue stick to your panties. His lips trailed down your jaw to your neck. Nipping against your soft skin as his hands roamed down the backside of your body. Gasping when his large hands groped your ass.

“I get chit-chatty when I’m drunk. That girl at the bar didn’t matter at all,” Hotch promised against your skin with kisses breaking up his sentences.

“You won’t even remember this in the morning,” you giggled when he took your earlobe between his teeth. Feeling a somberness sinking into your gut.

“How could I forgot this?” Hotch breathed into your ear. Sounding like he was desperate and almost completely out of breath, “Forget about you?”

Hotch pulled back to look into your eyes. Really taking in your face before him. Your eyes kept darting between his and his lips. Smiling when you could still taste him on your lips.

You pressed up on your toes, lips meeting his again. Tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Sloppily intertwining together. Huffs and grunts coming from Hotch as he pulled your front flush against his. You blushed at the feeling of his bulge.

“What about the team?” You questioned as the weight of the situation became suddenly apparent.

“I don’t care about them right now,” Hotch pressed his lips back to yours. Kissing away any fear or dread that was in your mind. Completely consuming you. Smiling as you both allowed hands to roam the other’s body.

You broke the kiss momentarily, “So— wait— you mean Rossi thinks I’m pretty too?” You teased him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Watch it,” Hotch smiled with a playful aggression on his tone, capturing you back in a kiss. Laughing together as you pressed lips together.

~~~

[END//?]

// Thank you so much for reading! I’m having such a blast writing for Hotch right now. Honestly, I’m think about making a smutty part 2 to this fic if anyone was interested. If you have requests or want to be tagged in any future Fics, let me know! //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @bondwithme-murderstyle ~ @boybandbaby ~ @hoffmanfan13 ~ @justyourusualash ~ @mrs-ssa-hotch ~

[imastoryteller]

The Paradoxical Character: 19 Unique Trait Pairings

Here’s a list of 19 wildly unusual, highly contrasting trait pairs that blend quirky or fantastical attributes. These could make for delightfully strange, otherworldly, or surreal characters:

Immensely Patient & Chronically Forgetful Character Idea: They can wait for years without complaint but never remember why they started waiting in the first place. Their endless patience is undercut by the confusion of purpose, creating an aura of timeless mystery.

Unbearably Charming & Involuntarily Invisible Character Idea: This character has charisma in spades but is cursed to flicker out of sight randomly. Their allure is magnetic, but people constantly forget they were even there, adding to their mystique and frustration.

Perpetually Cheerful & Pathologically Suspicious Character Idea: They radiate sunshine and kindness yet believe everyone is secretly plotting against them. Their optimism is baffling, considering they’re convinced of hidden dangers everywhere.

Mind-Reading Empath & Emotionally Oblivious Character Idea: Able to feel others’ emotions intensely, yet baffled by their own, this character has no clue how they themselves feel. They’re highly attuned to everyone else but entirely alienated from their own heart.

Limitless Curiosity & Existentially Terrified Character Idea: Endlessly fascinated by every detail of the universe, yet they’re constantly haunted by the fear of the universe itself. Every new discovery brings wonder and intense dread, creating a fascinating internal tug-of-war.

Brilliant Strategist & Hopelessly Absent-Minded Character Idea: A tactical genius who can plan a perfect heist, yet constantly forgets their own plan halfway through. They’re sought after for their brilliance but just as likely to wander off mid-operation.

Supernaturally Persuasive & Pathologically Indecisive Character Idea: They could talk anyone into anything—if only they could decide what they wanted to say. Their powers of persuasion are legendary, but they take forever to make a single choice.

Ancient Wisdom & Childlike Innocence Character Idea: Despite being impossibly old and wise, they approach every situation with the wonder of a child. They’re both sage and novice, baffling people who come seeking advice but receive only wonder-filled observations.

Obscure Knowledge Hoarder & Shameless Gossip Character Idea: They know every forgotten fact of history yet can’t keep a secret to save their life. This character’s deep knowledge clashes hilariously with their loose tongue, turning historical mysteries into idle chatter.

Zen-like Tranquility & Quick to Panic Character Idea: Usually the calmest person in any room, until anything unusual happens, at which point they’re the first to run. People turn to them for peace until their sudden freakouts reveal a hidden, hilarious irony.

Hyper-Logical Thinker & Ridiculously Superstitious Character Idea: Obsessed with logical consistency yet terrified of stepping on cracks or upsetting minor spirits. Their rationality makes them a master problem-solver, but they’re comically fearful of common superstitions.

Effortlessly Graceful & Magically Clumsy Character Idea: They’re naturally elegant in all they do, but objects randomly fly out of their hands or shatter in their presence. They’re revered for poise but cursed by chaos, creating an aura of unpredictable charm.

Telepathically Intuitive & Immensely Gullible Character Idea: Able to sense the unspoken thoughts of others, but easily duped by the most obvious lies. They sense everyone’s hidden motives but constantly believe in harmless nonsense.

Exceptionally Knowledgeable & Epically Lazy Character Idea: They’ve accumulated endless knowledge from books but refuse to do anything with it. They could save the world but prefer napping and observing others fumble around in ignorance.

Magnet for Coincidences & Cynically Skeptical Character Idea: The most absurd things constantly happen around them, yet they refuse to believe in coincidences. This character is a walking contradiction of fate and disbelief, surrounded by odd events they disdain.

Hyper-Attentive Listener & Mute Character Idea: They pick up every nuance of conversation and are incredibly insightful, but they can’t respond out loud. People find comfort in their presence but struggle to understand their silence and deep gaze.

Radiantly Optimistic & Obsessed with Disaster Preparedness Character Idea: Always smiling and convinced things will work out, yet constantly building bunkers and storing supplies. Their sunny outlook is shadowed by an apocalyptic readiness that baffles everyone.

Unbreakable Memory & Instantly Distracted Character Idea: They remember every moment of their life in perfect detail but are so easily distracted that they rarely finish sentences. They’re a walking history book if only they’d stay focused long enough to share it.

Boundless Energy & Always Asleep Character Idea: They have an endless zest for life and could do anything—if they could just stay awake. People are drawn to their energy, but they frequently fall asleep mid-sentence, leaving everyone in suspense.

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Reader/You

WARNINGS/TAGS: Running away, mentions of rituals and sacrifices, adoptive yandads, polyamorous yandads, violence, implied death (no one serious), gender neutral reader, immortality, platonic/parental yandere, infantilization

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Polyamorous dads! <3 I've kind of rushed this near the end, but I've been dealing with some writer's block, so please excuse it ^^; let me know if there are warnings I forgot!

Several years ago, when you were still a child, you had been chosen as a sacrifice to give your village mercy from four powerful Gods, all for a more plentiful harvest. This choice wasn't made willingly on your part.

In fact, you weren't even asked! You were just plucked up from your bed and shoved into the ceremonial temple where offerings were to be taken.

You remember being terrified when you saw the Gods' faces, thinking it was time for your inevitable demise. But that never happened.

Instead, the deities decided you were far too precious to be eaten, and the next thing you knew, they had started raising you as their child.

Autumn has always been the calm and collected one of your parents. He's always there to give you good advice, and amazing food, especially baked goods. It's easy for you to tell him anything and everything.

Winter is quiet most of the time, but is probably the most cuddly. He's always worrying about your comfort, always making sure you've got warm enough clothes on during winter, or tucking you in with extra blankets.

Spring is clingy beyond belief. He hates not being able to be around you, or see you. He cries very easily if he doesn't know where you are. And he loves spending time with you, and gossiping with you.

Summer likes giving piggyback rides, and play fighting with you. He's definitely the most extroverted out of all four of your parents.

Life with them hasn't been too bad over the years, all things considered. Sure, they're all very protective of you, but you know they'll do anything for you at any time.

Now that you're old enough to live away from them though, you feel that things need to change. You want freedom, to have your own life.

The problem is, convincing Autumn, Winter, Spring, and Summer about that is easier said than done.

They like having you all to themselves, after all, so why would they let you leave the nest?

Since Autumn is the easiest to talk to, you nervously approach him as he rakes the yard of leaves. A gust of wind makes some fall back down onto the ground anyway, and you see him sigh deeply, looking quite irritated, until he looks at you.

He immediately softens his gaze at the sight of you, smiling. "Hello, dear! What can I help you with?"

"Um...hey..." You kick at the leaves a bit with your feet, avoiding eye contact with him. "I actually wanna talk with you..." His expression immediately turns worried. "It's nothing that serious! It's just... I think you'd overreact the least."

"I'm listening." Autumn gestures towards one of the garden benches nearby for you to sit, which you do so.

Taking a deep breath first, you try to organize your words. "So... I've been thinking a lot lately..."

"Yes?" Autumn says gently, setting down his rake and sitting next to you. His brows are furrowed, still clearly worried.

"Well, you see, I really appreciate you and everyone else raising me all these years, but..." you hesitate, trying to get the rest of what you need to say out before it hurts his feelings. "I want to be like the other humans, and start living on my own, being more independent... stuff like that."

He blinks slowly as he processes what you just told him. Then suddenly, without saying anything, Autumn stands up, grabs the rake again, and continues gardening.

This... was a surprisingly neutral reaction.

But then again, Autumn never gets mad.

"...Papa? Did you hear me?" you ask cautiously, watching him scoop up the scattered leaves into neat piles.

"I did."

"...and?" Now you're standing, feeling offended by the lack of response.

"And I don't have any response to give."

"You... don't have... any response to give...?" you repeat incredulously. This wasn't going how you wanted it to at all! "Well, I... uh, figured that since you were the most level-headed, that you wouldn't be upset about this!"

"I never said I was angry with you."

His nonchalant attitude makes you frustrated, especially since Autumn still isn't looking at you. "Let me guess: disappointed?"

Autumn finally looks up from what he was doing. "I suppose I'm just... shocked. I can't wrap my head around the fact my child would rather be with humans than with their parents."

"I'm human too," you mutter.

"Yes, but we chose to raise you, keep you safe, nurture you." There's an edge to Autumn's voice now. "You can't possibly want to waste your time among people who didn't even want you in the first place?"

Ouch. He hit you where it hurt, bringing up that you had been a sacrifice.

You glare at your Godly parent. "Don't bring that up, it isn't fair."

"Well, it's true. And now that you're grown, I refuse to lose you. Because I love you dearly," Autumn replies, staring at you intently, the golden sheen in his eyes seeming brighter than normal. "And you will not be leaving us so long as I have something to say about it. That's final."

Before you can protest, he walks back into the house. Feeling annoyed, you head back inside yourself.

If Autumn is saying no, you decide maybe Winter will be more understanding. Just getting permission from one of them should be enough...

You find Winter out on the patio, drinking coffee, as per usual. You're not sure why he does, given he's so tired that even caffeine doesn't make much difference for him, but he seems to enjoy the flavor enough.

When you walk towards him, he gives you a sleepy smile. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hey, Mom." The way he looks at you, like you're his whole world, almost makes you want to abandon your plan entirely. Almost. "Um, is it okay if we talk? About something sort of... well... serious?"

Winter frowns, looking very worried already, but he nods. "Alright..." As he sets down his mug on the little glass table, his fingers shake, something they always do when he's nervous or uncomfortable. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, nothing like that! I promise," you quickly add on, sitting down across from him.

"That's good," Winter breathes a sigh of relief, calming down some. "Then what's wrong?"

Gazing up at Winter's gentle face, you wonder how exactly to go about telling him, so as not to break his heart. Especially since he tends to internalize things far too much.

But after thinking through how best to phrase it, you end up spitting the truth out, unadulterated. "I want to move out."

"What?" Winter's voice cracks on that simple word, pain flashing across his features.

Ugh, that's such a guilt trip. You look away awkwardly. "It's nothing personal, I just want... freedom."

"How am I supposed to take care of you? How will I protect you?" he asks frantically. "Are you unhappy here? If so, I'll fix whatever's wrong. Anything. Did I do something?"

You groan softly. He's taking this worse than Autumn, but not quite how you predicted it either. "It's not that. Really! But... I'm human. I won't live forever like you guys." When you reach out to gently grasp his hand, he recoils. That stings, but you forge onward, determined to make your point. "I just want to make memories while I'm young, instead of... cooped up in here!"

"It's exactly because of your mortality that makes me even more terrified," Winter rasps. "You shouldn't be doing dangerous things. That's what your parents are supposed to prevent." He swallows thickly before continuing, eyes wet with unshed tears. "What would we do without you?"

"I'm going to die eventually," you argue, to which Winter dramatically gasps. "What? I'm stating a fact!"

"Please don't say such cruel things." His voice is barely above a whisper. "I'd rather we stopped having this conversation altogether, in fact."

"You can't avoid this!" You stand when he does. "Please, just... try to understand!" You grab onto his arm desperately. "Mom, please."

At your sad expression, and your soft begging, Winter wavers some. His gaze shifts to the floor. "Even if the others agree to it, which they won't... I won't allow this. I'm sorry."

You groan, sitting back down and burying your head in your hands.

So he's against the idea as well. Of course.

"Kiddo, what the hell happened?" Summer asks, having just witnessed his husband come inside crying.

"I didn't mean to make him cry," you mutter.

"Of course I know that. He's sensitive like your Mama, but that doesn't change what I asked." He sits down next to you, not looking angry. Just concerned. "Wanna tell me what went on with you two?"

You don't even have the energy to beat around the bush anymore. "I want to move out."

Summer's jaw tenses visibly. He frowns. "Oh, yeah?"

"Papa already said no, so did Mom," you explain tiredly, slumping over the table, feeling defeated already. "And I already know what Mama will say, he's the most predictable." And he probably heard the conversations both times from wherever he is inside the house, crying somewhere with Winter now. "Dad, please tell me you understand."

There's silence. Your father inhales deeply through his nose. "Actually, yeah."

Hope blossoms in your chest. He's going to let you leave? This could be your ticket out!

"But," Summer continues, much to your heartbreak, "under no circumstances am I gonna let that happen."

"...what? You literally just agreed with me!"

"Not quite, sunshine," he says. "I do understand wanting independence and all that stuff. But you're my baby, and you will never stop being my baby. I love you so much. If something happened to you, I'd lose my shit—excuse my French. So, unfortunately, I won't be helping you out."

Just like that, your hope is destroyed. "I only live once, I told Mom this too. I don't want to spend all my life here."

"Kid, please, don't make us sound like we're keeping you locked away," Summer murmurs. "Hey, if you want space, I can help build an extension to the house for you. I'm sure everyone else will prefer that over you wanting to move too."

"No!" you shout, surprising Summer with your sudden shift in attitude. "That isn't the fucking point! You are keeping me locked away!"

"What?"

"I haven't had contact with anybody besides you four since I was, like, eight! It isn't fair!"

The man glares at you. "Don't talk to me like that."

"You aren't my dad! None of you are my mom or dad! You're Gods, and you decided to raise me yourselves because... why?! Because you were lonely? You wanted to play house?!" You stand up suddenly, feeling your heart pounding harder than it ever has in your entire life. "I am sick and tired of it all, Dad!"

You know you're out of line. But you're so frustrated that you can't see straight.

Summer stands up as well, staring directly into your eyes. "(Y/n), watch that tone. I don't want to ground you."

"Ground me then! It's not like I'm allowed to go anywhere anyway!" You stomp inside, and Summer doesn't follow you.

When you slam the door shut, you turn to see Autumn, Winter, and a now crying Spring on the couch. Great, just your luck. They heard everything. Spring especially looks miserable.

"Why are you all here?" you question angrily.

Autumn is the first to speak. "I think you know the answer to that."

Spring is quick to hug you. "Why were you saying those things?! Was I a bad Mama?" he sobs, burying his face in your hair.

Sometimes it isn't obvious they have no clue what parenting is supposed to be like, and moments like these make it show. Spring is definitely the hardest to stay mad at.

Though it hurts to push him away when he's crying, you do it anyway, letting him look at you through tears and horror.

"Because none of this is fair!" you snap at all of them. "I hate feeling like a bird trapped in some gilded cage!"

"This is for your protection, (Y/n)," Autumn sighs. He gets off the couch and tries approaching you cautiously, hands raised like you're some wild animal. "We love you."

"You don't love me. You just want to own me like some kind of pet," you retort. "If you really loved me, you would want me to be happy."

"And we want you to live, too!" Winter snaps. "I'm sorry if that is a higher priority to us than anything else."

"Well, guess what?! I'm gonna die eventually, no matter if I stay here for the rest of my life or not!" You storm off, Spring's louder cries and Winter's softer ones fading out as you run to your bedroom.

...

A few hours later, you come downstairs, having calmed down a bit more, though you're worried about seeing your guardians again.

You shuffle into the kitchen, where you see Autumn preparing lunch. Not seeing the others, you walk up to him sheepishly.

"Hi, Papa."

"Hm? I thought you didn't see any of us that way now." His tone of voice is cutting, but you can tell it's hiding a lot of hurt. That's worse than how harsh he's acting towards you.

You sniffle. "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad."

Autumn immediately stops cooking when he sees you crying. He comes over, wiping your tears away carefully, like you'll break beneath his fingertips. "Oh... pumpkin, don't cry."

"I didn't mean to upset everybody like I did," you choke out through hiccups. "I hate fighting."

He sighs softly, wrapping you in his strong arms, bringing you close enough that you can hear his heartbeat, and laying a kiss upon the top of your head. "Me too."

Soon enough, you apologize to Winter, then Spring, and lastly Summer. Thankfully, each and every one of them forgive you, even if they disagree with what you want.

Yet truth is, you aren't sorry. You just want as little as tension as possible.

...

Ever since that day, you thought about escaping, but were always held back because... well, it's hard to have much time to yourself to even think about it, when there's four overprotective Gods who consider you their baby.

Not to mention if you tried escaping in daylight, there would be no chance you would get far at all. Autumn and Spring are almost always tending to the garden, Summer is always doing yard work, and Winter... well, sometimes he just likes to stand outside and drink his coffee or hot cocoa.

But you begin thinking maybe, just maybe, during the nighttime, you'll have a better chance at getting away.

After all, it's getting to the point where you feel like you'll suffocate if you stay in this place for a second longer. The desire to be independent is stronger than anything you've experienced.

You wait until late at night, when you think your parents are asleep, which takes forever.

Then you slip out of bed, creeping across your bedroom and out into the hallway.

Every step makes a loud creak in the silence.

It's eerie, the sensation of knowing nobody's around except for your guardians, who might wake at any moment.

Once you finally reach the front door, you take one last glance behind you. Maybe you're wondering if you should just turn back.

Everyone would be devastated. Spring and Winter would probably spend the rest of their lives bawling, while Summer and Autumn would tear apart the world until they find you again.

Is it worth the trouble?

...well, yeah. If you don't do something, you might go crazy. These people love you more than life itself, but it's constricting nonetheless.

So, with that final thought, you quietly open the door, slipping outside and closing it once more, not daring to breathe in case you're discovered.

...

That night, you sleep at an inn in the nearest town. It takes hours to walk there, and your legs are tired by the end, but the sense of accomplishment that you managed to escape in the first place keeps you from completely breaking down.

You're pretty sure you know they discovered you're gone, because early in the morning a raging snowstorm happens. It's December, so you can tell Winter is beyond upset.

For all the other villagers' sake, you leave before one of them can tear down the entire town trying to find you.

...

Traveling is hard, you soon discover.

Your money runs out quickly, and without the means to earn more, it's almost impossible to find a place. You miss your comfortable bed. Hell, you miss having food readily available for you whenever you want.

What you wouldn't give to have Autumn's amazing cooking or pastries, or Winter's warm cups of cocoa in this chilly weather.

Unfortunately, you can't afford those luxuries now.

In fact, it gets so difficult to pay for rent at a motel that you end up sleeping outside more often than not.

Around the second week, you notice damage happening around you because of you, no doubt. Each village you go to, you hear how the one you had just left was wiped out. You don't need to guess by who.

Even the land around you is decaying. Everything from trees to animals, all dying. People everywhere are suffering.

And it's all because of you.

...

Almost a full month goes by, and it doesn't stop, but you realize with horror that they'll never just let this go. What's a month to you is nothing to beings with thousands of years worth of existence already lived.

The next village, you finally decide this isn't a battle worth fighting anymore. That it's better to give up than to keep causing everyone around you to suffer.

You begin your trek back home.

...

It's the middle of the night when you arrive. There are lights coming from the windows, indicating someone must be awake still. The rest of the landscape looks dead.

You swallow dryly, raising a hand and knocking. Before you can get too worked up about the situation, the door opens, revealing Spring.

He has dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes, looking more disheveled than he's ever been. Tears are quick to flood his eyes, and he claps a trembling hand over his mouth when he sees you.

Then he yanks you into his arms, cradling you close to his chest.

The entire time, he cries incoherently, and you think you hear apologies amongst his sobbing. Spring only pulls away to hold you at arm's length, taking in your neglected appearance.

"Oh, honey," he gasps out between hyperventilation. "Oh, look at you...!"

Before you can explain, you're led inside, the warmth of the interior making you want to collapse right then and there. Instead, Spring brings you over to the couch, setting you down so gently that it feels like he thinks you're made of glass.

He sits down next to you, rubbing circles along your back. "Does anything hurt?" Spring frets. "Oh, baby, you must've been through so much..."

The pressure becomes too much for you. Overwhelmed with exhaustion, stress, and emotion, you burst into tears. Spring doesn't say anything, just continues trying to comfort you.

"Mama," you sob. "Where's everyone else?"

"They went out looking for you, like they have every single day since you disappeared," Spring explains with a shaky sigh.

You feel awful for what you've done. The self-hatred gnaws at you, refusing to let you go.

He holds you for another hour, before the other three are bursting through the front door.

Each of them looks as equally exhausted and broken as Spring. Like they haven't slept properly in days. It hurts seeing them so miserable because of you.

Yet it's short-lived, because as soon as they all realize you're sitting on the couch with Spring, you're pulled into hugs.

Like with Spring, they seem afraid you'll shatter, like cracked porcelain that could break at any second if dropped, yet durable enough to be squeezed just enough.

They all take turns examining you, fretting over your condition. Autumn immediately heads into the kitchen, probably to make you dinner. Spring leaves as well to get pajamas and new clothing ready for you.

Meanwhile Winter and Summer keep holding you.

"How did you survive?" Winter asks, sniffling. "Oh, sweetheart."

"That doesn't matter," Summer whispers, rocking the three of you back and forth slowly. "All that matters is our kid is okay."

All that you can think about is guilt. Mostly for the endless amount of lives they surely ended looking for you. You wish you thought this through sooner, but a part of you had hoped they'd give up after awhile.

"I'm tired," you mutter.

Winter smiles weakly at that. "Dinner is almost ready. We'll let you sleep right after."

You nod numbly.

...

The next day, you wake up cuddled between Spring and Summer. It's funny, usually they're the first ones to rise.

You hear talking from the kitchen, wriggling your way out of their arms before exiting your bedroom, following the sound of the voices. They belong to Autumn and Winter, coming from the dining room.

"...we've been putting it off for too long. If they could handle these past few days, I know they're ready." Autumn. "Don't you want this, too?"

"You're right. I just..." Winter. "We've never done this before, all we know its a painful and dangerous process. What if..."

"It's going to be fine, Winter." Autumn sounds surprisingly soft. "You know we're more than capable of helping them through it."

As quiet as can be, you listen in further, trying not to interrupt. It's odd to be eavesdropping, but they're clearly discussing something concerning you. How could you resist?

"I know." Winter exhales audibly. "I agree this needs to happen, I just doubt they'll like it."

"Better that than the alternative, don't you think?" Autumn hums.

There's a pause. "Of course I do, dear."

"I'm glad you see reason. They are our child, and as their parents, it's only natural to do this to ensure their safety forevermore."

Wait... what?

Your stomach drops, and you retreat back upstairs before you're found, hoping they didn't hear your presence.

Yet you aren't quite able to shake what you just overheard.

They plan on doing something to you, that much is clear. Though you still can't figure out what, exactly, the action might entail. They've never harmed you before. Never abused you in any way.

So why is this scaring you so badly?

Maybe the fear is irrational, but it still makes you queasy, sick with worry.

Later, when Spring and Summer are awake, you all sit down for breakfast together. Their expressions seem... forced. All four of them are acting differently around you.

They keep sharing looks amongst themselves. As if communicating telepathically.

No words need to be spoken aloud, and you wonder if perhaps they're giving each other confirmation of what they're planning to do.

If they know that you know, they don't bring it up.

In fact, nobody says anything for awhile.

Suddenly, Autumn clears his throat.

"So... (Y/n), honey... today... we have something important planned for you."

"What is it?" you ask hesitantly.

Everyone goes quiet, like looking for words, until Summer picks up where he left. "When you left, everyone was thinking about what you said. About, y'know, dying." He pauses to look at the other's in confirmation. "We don't want that, and I think deep down, you don't, either. And luckily for you, we have a solution. We didn't use it sooner, because it can easily backfire if you aren't old enough... but you are now."

"By doing what?" you press nervously.

It's Spring who speaks next. "Immortality. We can make you a God just like us." He smiles brightly. "Won't that be great? You can stay with us forever, be safe, protected from harm, never have to worry again about—"

You cut him off, feeling yourself panicking. "You want to force me to become like you?"

Spring looks heartbroken. "Are you saying you don't want to? Sweetie, humans would kill for a gift like this!"

"Yeah!" Summer exclaims. "It's a blessing."

"It's wrong!" you snap, earning a horrified look from Spring. "It's my choice to make."

"Why are you treating this like we're punishing you?" Summer says incredulously.

"It feels like it," you retort.

Winter interjects with his own two cents. "We're giving you eternal life. Safety. This is the only way you can live without ending up in danger. There is no downside to this."

"Yes there is," you murmur. "I don't want this!"

You try to scramble away, but suddenly there's vines wrapped around your ankles and wrists. With a cry, you fall to the floor.

"Papa!" you yell, pleading with Autumn to reconsider. To let you go. You pull at the vines fruitlessly.

Winter cups your cheek, guiding your face to meet his gaze. "I'm so sorry, sweetie," he whispers, sounding teary. "But I swear to you, we're doing this in your best interests."

Summer nods. "It'll hurt. A lot. But we'll take care of you afterwards." He reaches down to help lift you, while Winter brushes some of your hair out of your eyes. "Promise."

You whimper as your guardians guide you upstairs to another room, struggling the entire time to escape. But it's no use. You can barely move at all.

Autumn grabs an old book he had prepared, apparently. Its spine is nearly falling apart, like it hasn't been touched in years. You assume the magic for what they're about to cast lies somewhere in those pages.

"You'll be okay," Winter breathes. He holds your head to his chest, crying with you, alongside Spring. "This is only a one-time thing, I promise, honey." His voice breaks.

Spring blinks away his tears. "Please don't hate us," he whispers tearfully. "It hurts us, too."

Autumn opens the book and starts reading the incantation.

Immediately, a sharp jolt rips through your body. Your skin is burning from the inside. Every single nerve is alight with pain. You scream. Sobbing, you beg for the agony to stop, but it doesn't. If anything, the pain just gets worse and worse.

Through your screaming, you barely register Winter holding you tighter, or Autumn's voice breaking throughout his reading of the spell.

The pain is searing hot now, shooting straight through your bones.

"We're almost there," Spring chokes out. "It's okay, baby. We love you so much."

You try to breathe, but you can't get enough air. Your lungs are being ripped to shreds, filling with fire every time they expand.

Everything fades from view after that; black spots dancing across your vision, accompanied by ringing in your ears as unconsciousness claims you once more.

...

When you come to, you're still in pain. It's nowhere near as intense as earlier, but it still feels as if your body had been dipped in hot lava and freezing cold water at the same time. Your thoughts race wildly. The only sensation keeping you tethered to reality is the hand running up and down your back.

Finally, opening your eyes slightly, everything begins returning back to clarity.

Summer smiles at you sadly. "Hey, peanut."

The silly nickname always made you laugh, but now you can only stay still, limp in your dad's arms.

"Sorry you're still hurtin', bud. I know it's not a great feeling." He kisses your forehead. "At least we know that was the worst of it, yeah? Things can only get better from here."

You look up, flinching from the light hitting your eyes. Everything is blurry.

Winter and Autumn look back at you. They're relieved. Both of them smile when they see you staring at them.

"There you are. Welcome back to the waking world, pumpkin," Autumn smiles.

"We were so worried about you," Winter murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss on the crown of your head.

Spring comes back with a tray of food and drink. When he notices you're awake, his expression morphs into pure joy. "My little angel! Are you alright? Can you speak, sweetie?"

All four Gods seem nervous for whatever response you have, if any at all.

Instead, you open your mouth and croak out: "Water."

Autumn wordlessly gets you a cup filled with ice chips, and guides you to sip from it gingerly.

Despite having your adoring, cooing parents surrounding you, all you feel is betrayal, hurt, and rage. You're too tired to get angry, though, so you just let your head fall against Summer's chest again.

"Go back to sleep, sunshine." Summer rubs your shoulder soothingly. "We gotcha."

The others nod and murmur their agreement.

You should fight it, insist you're fine, but they're right; you're exhausted. With one final huff, you pass out in Summer's arms.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — extras: jungwon's POV

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 18.1k (LMFAOOOO)

a/n: erm... i know i said i wouldn't be writing anything extra for safe & sound but I saw some of your comments saying how it would be interesting to read from Jungwon's perspective. i realised then, how much detail I was missing out on because I was writing in first perspective. the thought irked me. so I opened my laptop and wrote this... LOL it's not full chapters, just some scenes and extra cuts that I thought would be fun to read in won's POV! enjoy reliving some of the most traumatic moments I guess? as usual, heavy trigger warning for blood, killing, death, ANGST, and morally grey ideologies.

MASTERLIST

Pre-Safe & Sound

The courtroom reeks of cigarette smoke and musty paper, the air so thick it feels like it’s clogging his lungs. Jungwon’s shoulders ache from sitting too stiff for too long, his back pressed against the cold metal of the chair. His fingers tap against his thigh in an impatient rhythm, a habit he’s never quite managed to shake. 

Jungwon is just one of many faces scattered throughout the makeshift courtroom—one of many playing pretend in a crumbling civilisation that wants to believe it’s still standing. Pretending the world hasn’t rotted outside these concrete walls, pretending the rules still matter. The others around him—higher-ups, officers, men and women who hold titles that lost their meaning the day the world went to shit—are watching the spectacle with all the enthusiasm of a pack of vultures waiting for something to die.

It’s always been like this—marble floors and steel walls, designed to intimidate, to remind everyone sitting here of the authority they’ve willingly, or unwillingly, surrendered themselves to. The Future prides itself on order and control. On weeding out the weak. On pruning the unruly.

The General sits at the head of the room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, the insignia on his chest gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Beside him, Sergeant Major Kim of Weapons Control has his mouth twisted into a sneer, his eyes like polished stone.

Jungwon knows this isn’t just a formality. It’s an execution, dressed up in procedure.

“I’m tired of tolerating his shit. So what if he’s a good shot? All the more he’ll turn the muzzle on one of us if he feels like it.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice grates on Jungwon’s nerves, his words nothing more than polished venom, a slow, creeping poison meant to dismantle anyone who steps out of line.

It’s been a solid forty-five minutes since Sergeant Major Kim started making his case against Jay. Not just any case, either. A full-blown, meticulously constructed argument, layered with every possible sin Jay might have committed. Insurbodination. Recklessness. Endangering his comrades during an infiltration of a new community not far from HQ.

Jungwon’s jaw tightens as he listens, only half paying attention to the string of accusations that drip from the Sergeant Major’s mouth. It’s all politics. It’s all bullshit. They’re clinging to some sense of order, some desperate attempt to pretend they have control when the world has already slipped from their grasp.

“Private First Class Park is a liability. Reckless, undisciplined, and worst of all, disobedient. We give orders and he questions them. We set boundaries and he oversteps them. That’s not someone we can rely on.”

The words are familiar. They echo the same rhetoric Jungwon has heard in every damn meeting about Jay. The same tired complaints, the same frustrations disguised as grievances.

But something is different this time. There’s a finality to Sergeant Major Kim’s tone. A hunger for punishment.

Jungwon’s fingers drum against his thigh, the motion so slight it’s almost imperceptible. Outwardly, he remains calm, collected, his expression one of neutrality. But his mind is anything but.

The General leans forward, his hands clasped together on the table before him. “Expulsion has been discussed in the past.” His voice is measured, dispassionate. “But now, the situation has escalated.”

Jungwon’s jaw clenches. Escalated. That’s one way to put it.

Jay’s a good shot. Too good. His skill with a rifle has saved lives more times than anyone can count, his quick thinking turning the tide of more battles than the council has the nerve to acknowledge. And his mouth—well, his mouth is the part they can’t seem to stomach. The bluntness. The refusal to bow to authority when that authority is nothing more than a fragile facade.

Jay had defied orders, yes. Had disregarded direct commands during the last infiltration mission. But Jay’s reasons were sound. Ethical, even. The community they were raiding had families—innocent people trying to survive, same as them. Jay had pushed back, refused to partake in what he deemed an unnecessary massacre. And in doing so, he’d broken the one unspoken rule The Future held above all else—obedience.

“His actions jeopardise the integrity of our system. His insubordination is not only dangerous, but infectious.” Sergeant Major Kim’s eyes narrow, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s daring anyone to disagree.

Jungwon doesn’t. Not outwardly. Not yet.

“Expulsion is the only logical course of action.” Sergeant Major Kim’s voice is calm, collected. “Unless someone can offer a viable alternative.”

The silence is thick, stifling. No one speaks. No one dares to.

But Jungwon can feel it—something coiling in his gut, hot and sharp and undeniable. A warning. A decision.

Expulsion.

He can’t get the word out of his head. They’re going to throw Jay out. Cut him off from their little makeshift organisation like he’s nothing more than a diseased limb that needs to be amputated. And Jungwon knows what happens to those who are expelled. It’s a death sentence. Maybe not right away, but eventually.

Because the world out there doesn’t care if you were once part of a structured society. It doesn’t care if you were skilled or strong or brave. It only cares about whether you can survive. And survival is a lot harder when you’re alone.

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his mind racing. The General is speaking now, his voice calm and detached, as if he’s discussing nothing more than a routine supply run. But Jungwon catches the hesitation. The way his fingers drum against the table. The way his gaze shifts from the Sergeant Major to the others gathered around, gauging their reactions.

Politics. It’s always politics.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to think. His fingers tap harder against his thigh, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. If they really expel Jay, if they really push him out into the world without resources, without allies—

Jungwon doesn’t know why the thought bothers him so much. Doesn’t know why his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles have turned white.

He’s been trained to follow orders. Conditioned to obey, to survive, to keep his head down and his mouth shut.

But for the first time, he’s not sure he can.

He takes a measured breath, his eyes fixed on the General’s. “Expulsion is a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” he says, his voice steady, deliberate. “Jay is reckless, yes. But he’s also resourceful. Skilled. Loyal.”

“Loyal to who, exactly?” Sergeant Major Kim cuts in, his smirk barbed. “Because from where I’m standing, his loyalties lie wherever his own moral compass points. And we can’t afford to keep someone around who values his own judgement above the chain of command.”

“Loyal to us,” Jungwon counters, his voice sharp enough to cut. “To me. And to the rest of our team.”

The words hang in the air, their weight undeniable. Jungwon can see the way the General’s gaze narrows, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as he considers.

“And what would you propose, Staff Sergeant Yang?” The General’s tone is cold, indifferent. “A slap on the wrist? A stern talking-to?”

Jungwon’s mind is already racing, the pieces clicking into place. He has to be careful. One wrong move and he’s signing Jay’s death warrant himself.

“No,” Jungwon says, his voice tight, controlled. “I suggest we redirect his skills. Use his rebellious nature to our advantage. Put him on tasks that require ingenuity and creativity. Give him the freedom to operate without compromising our security.”

“You aren’t just defending him because you know him personally, are you? Bias isn’t a good look in the military, Sergeant Yang.” 

The words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting. Jungwon’s eyes narrow, his posture stiffening as he meets Sergeant Major Kim’s gaze head-on. The sneer twisting the man’s mouth makes Jungwon’s stomach churn. The accusation is there, laid bare for everyone in the room to see.

A murmur ripples through the room, low and treacherous. Judgemental eyes flicker his way—other officers, other officials. Faces he’s seen time and time again, most of them just waiting for him to slip. Because no matter how many times he proves his competence, his loyalty, his efficiency, there are always those who resent his place here. A twenty one-year-old commanding respect, making decisions that affect the lives of hundreds. It’s not natural, they say. It’s not fair.

“I’m defending him because he’s worth defending,” Jungwon says, his voice flat and calm, though his pulse thrums with irritation. “Jay’s unconventional, yes. But so are the challenges we’re facing. If we want to survive—if The Future wants to survive—we can’t afford to be rigid. We need people who think differently. People who aren’t afraid to act when the situation demands it.”

Sergeant Major Kim’s mouth twitches, his gaze turning flinty. “Acting on instinct isn’t the same as insubordination. The man is a liability. And if you can’t see that, perhaps your judgement isn’t as sound as we all thought.”

“Then give him a task that suits his skills,” Jungwon counters, refusing to let the Sergeant’s condescension sink beneath his skin. “Put him somewhere his resourcefulness can be an asset rather than a threat.”

“You’re missing the point, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim drawls, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “This isn’t about skill. It’s about loyalty. It’s about control. And if Park can’t follow orders, then he doesn’t belong here.”

Jungwon’s teeth grind together. The committee’s eyes are on him, assessing, judging. He needs to tread carefully. One wrong word, and he’s not just condemning Jay—he’s signing away their entire group’s place in The Future.

“Sergeant Major Kim,” Jungwon says, voice tight, steady. “If you think that questioning orders is grounds for expulsion, then maybe you need to re-evaluate what you value more—obedience or survival. Because if you can’t adapt, if you can’t make use of the skills people bring to the table, then we’re not building a future at all. We’re just holding on to the past.”

The room goes silent. Eyes shift from Jungwon to Sergeant Major Kim, awaiting his response.

“You’re speaking out of line, Sergeant,” Sergeant Major Kim says, voice cold and clipped. “This is the military and you’re soldiers. Your sole purpose and duty is to follow orders. Your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“My pragmatism is what’s kept us alive,” Jungwon snaps back before he can stop himself. The words hang heavy in the air, his defiance stark against the sterile, calculated atmosphere of the room.

A beat of silence stretches, and Jungwon can feel his own heartbeat pounding against his ribs, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The General clears his throat, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough. This discussion has gone on long enough.” His eyes flicker towards Jungwon, unreadable. “Sergeant Yang has made his case. We will deliberate and make our decision by the end of the week.”

A dismissal.

The others begin to file out of the room, some casting Jungwon wary glances, others looking almost impressed. But he pays them no mind. His focus is on Sergeant Major Kim, who lingers by the doorway, gaze still locked on Jungwon with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey.

“Bias or not, Yang,” Kim says, voice low and venomous. “You’ve just tied yourself to a sinking ship. And when it drags you down, I won’t be there to pull you out.”

The words are a threat. And for the first time since Jungwon walked into this room, he feels the ice creeping into his veins. 

But his expression remains impassive, his shoulders squared, his eyes unwavering. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t let the Sergeant Major see even a flicker of fear. Because he knows now what he has to do.

Jay’s expulsion isn’t a question of if. It’s a question of when.

And Jungwon will be damned if he lets them take his friend without a fight.

As he leaves the room, his mind is already churning, thoughts clicking into place with ruthless precision. If The Future wants to cast Jay out, then fine. They’ll be leaving together.

And there’s nothing—no threat, no authority, no crumbling society—that will stop him.

The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes faintly overhead, muffled by the thick concrete walls of the auxiliary storage bay. The place is empty—technically off-limits after curfew, which makes it perfect for the conversation Jungwon doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

Jay’s leaning against a stack of ration crates, arms crossed, posture defiant in that quietly confrontational way of his. His expression, though unreadable, holds a kind of lazy edge—like he already knows why Jungwon’s here and doesn’t care.

“I take it this isn’t a supply check,” Jay says, tilting his head.

Jungwon steps in, letting the heavy door shut behind him with a dull thud. His voice is low, steady. Controlled, but fraying at the edges. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Jay doesn’t move. “You’ll have to be more specific. I think a lot of things.”

“You disobeyed a direct order, Jay. You blew the infiltration on the west community. Sergeant Major Kim is calling for expulsion.”

At that, Jay’s eyes narrow. “They were unarmed civilians, Jungwon. Not raiders. Families. Kids. We weren’t just ‘infiltrating,’ we were planning to strip them dry and leave them vulnerable.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

Jay scoffs. “Says the guy who helped design half the tactics we use to screw those people over.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the silence is razor-sharp between them. Then he steps forward, closing the distance until there’s nowhere left to hide behind words or sarcasm.

“I told them you weren’t a threat. I vouched for you, Jay. Sat in that goddamn courtroom and played the perfect little soldier so they wouldn’t put you on the list.”

Jay flinches—barely—but Jungwon catches it.

“You think you're some kind of saviour because you questioned one order? You’re not. You’re reckless. You’re lucky they’re only talking expulsion and not something worse.”

“They’re wrong,” Jay bites out. “And you know it.”

“I do,” Jungwon says quietly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you fucked up. You made yourself a target. And now… now I can’t protect you anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of them says anything.

And then Jungwon’s voice lowers further, like the weight of what he’s about to say is too heavy to carry out loud.

“I’m thinking of leaving.”

Jay’s head jerks up, brows drawing together. “What?”

“If they expel you, they’ll monitor the rest of us. And if they find even a trace of sympathy or dissent, we’re next. Me, Jake, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, Sunoo, Heeseung... all of us.”

Jay stares at him, eyes unreadable. “So that’s it? You’re just going to run?”

“No,” Jungwon breathes. “I’m going to take us out before they bury us.”

Another silence. This one charged. Heavier.

Jay’s voice softens, almost uncertain. “Does the rest of the group know?”

“Not yet. I’ll tell them when I figure out how to get us out without getting us all killed.”

That night, the air inside The Future’s inner walls felt unusually still—eerily subdued in a place that never truly slept. The soft hum of generators buzzed overhead, casting stark white light down the sterile hallways of the supply depot. It should have been louder—more movement, more noise, more bodies. But something was off.

Jungwon noticed it the moment he stepped inside.

There were fewer people on duty than protocol demanded. Only two stationed at the check-in desk, one watching the entrance, and none making rounds through the aisles. It wasn’t just a shift change lull—it was a skeleton crew, and they all looked like they hadn’t slept in days.

He didn’t ask why. Not at first. Asking questions in The Future was how you got assigned to more shifts, more silence, more suspicion.

But then he heard it.

Whispers. In the hallways. Low voices crackling over radios. Reports that the outbound retrieval unit—Team D4—never made it back on time. They’d been dispatched earlier that week to collect a shipment from a nearby survivor community. 

But something had gone wrong.

According to murmurs passed between command and medbay, the team was ambushed. Overrun. The dead poured out of the treeline, faster and hungrier than anticipated. Out of twelve, only three returned. All injured. One of them shot in the leg. Another missing an arm. The third didn’t speak—just stared at the floor with blood still drying in his beard.

That explained the silence in the depot. The tension. The missing bodies. Everyone was stretched thin trying to fill the void the dead left behind.

It also explained why tonight—if they were ever going to do it—was the night.

Jungwon turned on his heel and made his way back to the lower barracks, where Jay was already waiting, sharpening the edge of a blade that technically wasn’t authorised for lower division use.

"Team D4?" Jay asked, not looking up.

“Most of them didn’t make it back,” Jungwon replied, voice low. “They’re short-staffed across all zones. Nobody’s looking at us tonight.”

Jay simply nodded.

Because they both knew. This was the window. The only one they might ever get.

And by morning, they wouldn’t be soldiers of The Future anymore. They’d be deserters.

Alive—for now.

But fugitives all the same.

The first night outside The Future feels like stepping onto another planet.

They move fast under the cover of darkness, adrenaline coursing through their veins, every footstep deliberate but uneven with nerves. The plan had been hastily drawn, but executed with terrifying precision—at least on Jungwon’s part. He hadn’t factored in the emotional weight that would follow the moment they drove past the barricade.

They’re not alone. A handful of others—faces half-familiar, half-forgotten—had taken the chance when Jungwon gave the signal. Deserters, they’re called now. Traitors, even. People clinging to the fragments of their humanity in a world that no longer rewards it.

They make camp in the remnants of an abandoned roadside diner. Dusty booths. Shattered windows. A place that probably once smelled of burnt grease and coffee. Tonight, it smells like mildew and ash.

Ni-ki tries to help set up makeshift beds from ripped upholstery while still casting anxious glances at the shadows outside. He’s the youngest, but he doesn’t complain. Just listens when Jungwon gives instructions. Follows every word like it’s law.

Jay sits by the boarded-up window, rifle across his lap. Silent. Watching.

And Jungwon—he doesn't sleep. Instead, he stands alone outside the back exit, staring into the trees, trying not to hear the voices in his head. The ones asking if he did the right thing. The ones whispering the names of the people he didn’t save. The ones asking if it’s worth it.

He doesn't have an answer.

But when he finally looks back at the diner, at the silhouettes of his friends—of his family—huddled together in the quiet, in the cold, something settles in his chest.

Back at The Future, they weren’t just surviving—they were thriving in the roles handed to them, performing with the kind of polished discipline The Future demanded. 

Jake had earned his place in the treatment facility. Respected. Quietly feared, even. He had a mind for detail, a steady hand, and an ability to detach just enough to survive the sight of infected test subjects without flinching. He had a bed. A routine. The luxury of clean scrubs and indoor lighting. And yet, he walked away from it all.

Sunoo manned communications and supplies, his sharp tongue and sharper wit oddly perfect for keeping morale in check. He had access to inventory, conversations, coded maps—he knew where people were and what they needed. And he traded all of that in the second Jungwon came to him with the plan.

Ni-ki, though young, had embedded himself in logistics. Quiet. Observant. Efficient. He knew the flow of shipments and troop placements better than most commanding officers. He could take apart a busted engine and rebuild it before most had even figured out what was wrong. He was becoming indispensable. But Ni-ki didn’t hesitate either.

Even Heeseung, who’d just been promoted to Head of Security two weeks before their escape—an elevation that came with more food, a locked quarters, and actual authority—chose to follow. He’d worked so hard for that title. And in the end, it meant nothing compared to the people he refused to leave behind.

Sunghoon was rising fast, too. A newly appointed drill instructor, his job was to sharpen recruits, to crush fear out of them and replace it with precision. His methods were harsh, but the soldiers he trained survived. He was well on his way to a permanent place in the system. Yet, he too joined the escape.

Because even with their ranks and privileges, they could all feel it: The Future was rotting from the inside out. The higher you climbed, the more of your soul you had to trade in for the view. They could see what was happening to them. To others. And in the end, they decided they'd rather run into the teeth of the dead than sit comfortably while everything human in them slipped away.

So when Jungwon offered them a way out, even those who had the most to lose didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t about leaving safety behind. It was about reclaiming something they’d forgotten they were allowed to have.

Freedom.

Now, that freedom tastes like blood and ash and sleepless nights, but it’s real. 

For the first time in a long time, they get to choose who they are.

And that, they’ve decided, is worth everything.

Part 1

You shift against him in your sleep, and before he even realises it, your head has tilted until it’s resting lightly on his lap.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, barely breathes. Not because it’s uncomfortable. But because he doesn’t know what to do with this—this trust. 

He glances down at your face—peaceful and still, completely unguarded. Your breathing is slow and even, lashes fluttering with whatever dream you’ve slipped into—it gnaws at something inside him, something dormant he thought he’d buried alongside the worst of who he used to be.

His fingers hover awkwardly over his knee before curling into a fist. It takes a second for his body to catch up—then another before his heart finally settles. The weight of you isn’t heavy. It’s… grounding, in a way. Familiar. Even though he doesn’t really know you.

Not yet, anyway.

It’s been a long time since he had a conversation like that with anyone. A real one. Not about supplies or patrols or plans. Not about death or survival. But about feelings. About fear. About loss. 

It’s weird—talking to you. It shouldn’t be this easy. He barely knows you. You’re a stranger. But maybe that’s exactly why it’s easy. There’s no expectations, no history weighing things down. Just two people who’ve seen too much, said too little, and survived more than they should’ve.

Still, something about you makes him feel like he could be honest for once without having to pay for it later.

He thinks back to what he said earlier. About The Future. How he called them monsters. And you’d nodded, like you understood.

But you didn’t. Not really.

Because what you don’t know—what he didn’t say—is that when he talked about the coldness, the control, the cruelty, he wasn’t just talking about the system. He was talking about himself.

You’d looked at him like he was someone good. Like he was someone worth listening to. And he let you. He let you believe it. That’s the part that makes his stomach turn.

He watches your face now, how peaceful it looks, how easily you slipped into rest next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hasn’t done things that would make your blood run cold.

The problem isn’t that he’s afraid you’ll figure him out. It’s that part of him doesn’t want you to. And that part—small and stubborn and stupid—is what terrifies him the most.

The moment he laid eyes on you in that auto shop, he could tell you weren’t from The Future. The sole fact that you were out here, exposed to the dangers of the world beyond those walls meant you weren’t from any of their civilian divisions. And if you were part of the military, He, Jay, Sunghoon, or Heeseung would have recognised you. 

But it’s not just your unfamiliarity that confirms it. It’s the way you act. The way you talk. The way you still believe survival doesn’t have to come at the cost of decency.

You risked yourself to save him back at the motel, didn’t even hesitate. You’d offered him safety before yourself, with that determined look in your eye, like death was just another inconvenience you’d deal with later. You asked nothing in return. You didn’t walk away. And Jungwon doesn’t know what to do with that kind of goodness. That kind of blind, foolish courage.

You were the kind of person who still gave a shit. Who still held on to morality even when the world tried to beat it out of you. Who reached back for others when there was every reason to run. That kind of soul didn’t survive long in this world. People like you aren’t supposed to exist anymore. And yet… here you were—making everything he’s done harder to justify.

He knew then, for sure, that you weren’t one of them. 

The Future didn’t make people like that. 

No one who spent time under that regime would’ve wasted energy on strangers like that.

The camp is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, more unbearable. Somewhere below, Jungwon can hear Heeseung snoring faintly. The occasional shift of movement in the camp. But up here, it's just you, him, and a silence so thick it presses against his ribs.

Your head shifts slightly on his lap, your brows twitching faintly as if sensing his thoughts. He smooths a hand gently over your hair, careful not to wake you. 

He swallows hard, eyes scanning the treeline beyond camp, trying to focus on anything other than the way his body feels too still, too aware. Like he’s being watched. Like he’s watching himself.

He should wake you. He should shift you off and remind you that trust is dangerous, that closeness is a liability. But he doesn’t. He stays still. He lets you sleep.

Not because he wants to. But because he can’t bring himself to interrupt the first quiet moment he’s had in months.

Still, something gnaws at him.

Not pity. He’s long since buried that. No, it’s something more restless. A low, crawling discomfort that settles beneath the surface of his skin. 

He looks down at your sleeping form again, the faint rise and fall of your chest syncing with the rhythm of the wind brushing through the trees. His jaw tightens. He can’t describe it, but there’s a softness about you that reminds him of who he used to be. Who he still wants to be—

Someone who he had forgotten shortly after the world fell apart.

He finds comfort in that thought.

Part 2

The rations are lower than he’d hoped.

Jungwon crouches near the supply crates, fingers counting through the bags of dried grains and tins with fading labels. Heeseung’s estimate from earlier was right—they had enough to last a week if they were careful. Less, now, with one more mouth to feed. He doesn’t blame you, not really. It was his choice to let you stay. His burden to carry, his responsibility to manage. He just didn’t expect how fast everything would dwindle.

His eyes flicked toward you, sitting just a few feet away, chewing quietly on the last of the dried jerky. You didn’t know he’d seen the exchange between you and Heeseung. You didn’t need to. The guilt already lingered in your eyes like smoke. 

He wasn’t angry. He understood. You weren’t deadweight. You pulled more than your share. But it didn’t change the math. Nothing ever changed the math.

He holds one of the dented cans in his palm, thumb brushing over the label, nearly worn down to nothing. He calculates quickly, quietly. Eight mouths, one meal a day, factoring in exhaustion and hunger—

They’d have to start scavenging. Soon.

Still, Jungwon keeps his face calm when he approaches Heeseung. His words are clipped, deliberate: “We’ll have to send a team out to hunt. Latest before noon.”

The others gather instinctively. No one questions it—it’s the way they’ve always operated. Without him barking orders, without a raised voice. He isn’t their leader by title, but by necessity. By trust earned through blood and bone and all the things he’s never said aloud. He stands where others hesitate, and they follow because he always brings them back. He always calculates the outcome.

Except now, the variable is you.

He watches the way Jay glares at you, a quiet resentment simmering under the surface. It’s not even subtle anymore. The jab lands—“We do have one more mouth to feed”—and Jungwon feels a flicker of something hot rise in his chest. Not quite anger. Not yet. But something protective. Something unfamiliar.

He didn’t even need to look at you to know that you took that hit without flinching. You’d gotten good at that—pretending you’re fine. It annoys him. Because he could see through it.

“Jay,” he said simply.

It was enough. Jay looked away, but not before Jungwon saw the frustration still simmering behind his eyes.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice slicing through the tension. Jungwon’s gaze snaps to you immediately, eyes narrowing. The suggestion is unexpected, and he doesn’t like surprises—not when it comes to survival. But you’re already explaining yourself, calm and rational, just like the first time he heard you speak in that busted-up auto shop. That same fire, the same grit. You weren’t lying then, and he doesn’t think you are now.

Still, he challenges you. “You?”

You don’t back down. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself.”

There’s no hesitation in your eyes. No flinch. It’s not a bluff—it’s a debt. You’re trying to repay them, even if you don’t realise that’s what it is. Jungwon recognises the expression. He’s worn it himself before, back when guilt used to be sharp and fresh instead of dull and persistent.

When the volunteers step forward—Heeseung, then Jay—Jungwon watches closely. Jay’s distrust is expected. Heeseung’s trust is reassuring. But it still doesn’t sit right with him.

So he steps forward too. “I’ll go.”

But the moment the words leave his mouth, you’re already challenging him again.

“No, you can’t go.”

And that stuns him more than it should.

He watches you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. You step in closer, your voice low and measured, as if you know that contradicting him in front of the others is dangerous—but you do it anyway. Because you’re not afraid of him. Because you believe what you’re saying.

“They need you here,” you whisper. “They’re rattled. They need their leader.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the way your eyes meet his like you’ve known him longer than you have, but Jungwon hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough to admit to himself that you’re right.

He couldn’t let them fall apart again. Not like before.

His silence is his answer.

“All right,” he concedes at last, softer than the others expect. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?”

He doesn’t know why he says it that way. Not “be careful.” Not “watch each other’s backs.” No, his concern is aimed at you specifically, and that confuses him.

Jungwon watches the group disperse to prepare. The fire’s gone out, and the morning chill begins to creep through the trees. You’re already tying your boots, already too far from him to see the way his jaw clenches as he watches the way you glance around at the others like you were memorising them. It unsettles him. Like you were saying goodbye.

That’s when Jungwon pulls Jay aside, his steps quiet but deliberate as he angles them just out of earshot from the others. The moment feels heavy, calculated. Not a command—but close.

“Make sure she comes back,” Jungwon says, voice low but firm.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, blinking like he’s not sure he heard right. “What?”

“You heard me.” 

Jay’s head tilts slightly, disbelief flickering across his features. “You can’t be serious. I’m not her babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you to babysit,” Jungwon replies, his voice steady, eyes scanning the trees ahead. “I’m asking you to make sure she doesn't run off.”

Jay scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “Why? What’s so special about her?”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “You’ve seen the way she moves. She’s adaptable. Resourceful. Smart. Doesn’t hurt to have someone like that around.”

Jay lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “So what? That doesn’t mean she’s not a threat. You really think you can trust someone who showed up out of nowhere? Remember what happened the last time we trusted somebody? I lost Ji–” Jay cuts himself off, suddenly conscious of his voice raising.

There’s a beat of silence. Jay knows there’s no point arguing with Jungwon, not when he’s already convinced you are some kind of saviour sent down from the heavens. So, he exercises the only form of discontent he can manage by shaking his head and muttering something under his breath before stalking off to grab his pack. 

Jungwon doesn’t call after him. Instead, his eyes drift back to you—your silhouette against the trees, knife sheathed, shoulders squared. You don’t look back. You never do. And that unsettles him more than it should.

Because for all his planning, for all the careful equations he ran in his head—the tactical choices, the contingencies—he never planned for you. Never anticipated the weight of your presence. Never accounted for the way you made the lines between logic and instinct blur. And no matter how he frames it in his mind—no matter how much he tries to reduce you to a number, a risk factor, a variable in a larger equation—he can’t.

You don’t fit. You’re not the plan.

And yet, you’re already part of it.

Part 3

Jungwon can feel the tension rising before anyone speaks—like a storm pressing down on the air, suffocating and inevitable.

He watches you carefully, your fingers curling slightly against your palm, your shoulders square despite the weariness clinging to your frame. You’re pushing. Offering. Volunteering to go in someone’s place. Again. It’s not the first time you’ve done something like this, but it still hits differently now.

He knows what you’re doing. You’re trying to prove something—not just to them, but to yourself.

And then there’s Jay.

“This is insane,” Jay scoffs from where he leans against a tree, arms crossed, eyes hard. “We barely know her, and you want to let her go off into the village?”

The words hit exactly how Jungwon expects them to. He doesn’t move, just watches the way your jaw tightens—just a fraction, but he sees it.

He waits for Jake’s voice. Right on cue.

“Jay,” Jake says without even looking up, his tone sharp and steady. “Again. Not your place to speak.”

It’s almost funny, the way Jake can silence a room. Almost. If the air weren’t already thick with leftover tension. And in his defense, Jake’s anger is not completely misplaced. Jungwon lets the silence linger, lets it press down on the group, watches the way Jay shifts his stance and glances off to the side, jaw clenching. 

You take a breath, and Jungwon instinctively shifts his focus to you again.

“Trust me,” you say, and it’s the way you say it—steady but hollow—that pulls something taut in his chest. “Or better yet, don’t trust me. If anything goes wrong, it’s easier to leave me behind anyway.”

The words land like a stone in his gut. For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Guilt. It coils in Jungwon’s chest like smoke, slow and suffocating. It’s not an emotion he’s allowed himself to feel in a long time���not when he needed to stay sharp, decisive, calculated. And yet, there it is, curling through his ribs the moment your words slip out.

Because he’s thought about it.

He’s thought it, and he hates that he has. It’s how he’s survived this long. Know the numbers. Know the odds. Know when to cut your losses. He’s always been that kind of person. Tactical. Strategic. Even now, even when he tells himself he’s changed, his mind still drifts to the math of survival. He’s still capable of thinking in loss ratios and calculated sacrifices. Still carrying remnants of the machine he once served.

But when you say it—not coldly, but as if you’ve accepted it already—it doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like cruelty.

It’s not just about your willingness to risk yourself. It’s the fact that, deep down, he’d allowed himself to believe it too. And that makes him feel like a monster all over again.

His gaze flicks around the group. Heeseung looks away. Sunoo’s lips are pressed into a thin line. Even Jay shifts uncomfortably.

They’ve all thought it too, haven’t they?

Still, your words echo in his mind, louder than anything else.

It’s easier to leave me behind anyway.

So when he speaks, when he says “Don’t joke about that,” it’s not just to you. It’s to himself. A warning. A plea. Because he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. Doesn’t want to weigh your life like a number on a chart.

And for the first time, he realises: you’re not just another survivor to be measured and managed. You’re something he doesn’t know how to carry—but he wants to try.

So he makes the decision now, quietly, without anyone knowing.

He wants you to come back.

No matter the cost.

The siphon’s slow. Too slow. Jungwon watches the steady trickle of fuel through the tube like it might suddenly stop working, like if he looks away, everything could go to shit again. The sky’s still wrapped in the pale grey of morning, but the air smells like heat’s coming. Another scorcher, probably.

He doesn't look at you or Jay—he keeps his gaze trained on the canister. Keeps his hands steady. Keeps everything steady.

Then your voice cuts through the quiet. "It might not mean anything, but I would’ve done it too.”

Jungwon’s head turns before he can help it. You’re not looking at him—you’re looking at Jay. And Jay, who’s standing on the other side of the tractor, squints at you, clearly caught off guard.

He didn’t understand it at first, but then you say it: “Going after him—I mean.”

And everything freezes for a second.

Jay’s expression shifts. Hardens. “You don’t have to lie to comfort me. I know what I did was wrong.”

Jungwon watches you quietly, his fingers curled into fists beside him. His pulse is steady, but something in his chest tightens. There’s a fire in your voice—not rage, not grief, but something deeper. Something rooted. You speak like someone who’s already lived with loss. Too much of it.

Jungwon doesn't move, but his mind has already left the field. It's spiralling, fast. You’ve done something to him again—upended the quiet order he relies on to stay sane. The structure. The roles. The carefully drawn lines he’s used to separating emotion from survival. You, with your raw words and unwavering eyes, walk right through them.

“But even if you think it’s wrong, you don’t regret it.”

The way you say it... Jungwon flinches inwardly. Because it’s not just a statement. It’s a mirror. And for a moment, he sees his own reflection staring back through the cracks—every line of guilt etched beneath your voice. He’s not even sure who you’re talking to anymore. Jay? Yourself? Him?

Jay tenses, trying to keep that wall up, but it’s already thinning. “What are you trying to say?”

You don’t even blink. “What I’m trying to say is, what you’re feeling is valid. If it were up to me, I would’ve shot him in both ankles. Make sure he couldn’t run to begin with.”

Jungwon’s chest tightens. The field goes quiet.

Jay shoots him a look. “You’re not scared to say that? In front of him?”

You turn slightly. Just enough to meet Jungwon’s gaze. He doesn’t react, not outwardly. But inwardly, there’s a small ripple beneath the surface. Because that’s the second time this morning you’ve challenged something—first his orders, now his image.

“Why would I be?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough. Because no matter how steady he looks, he feels everything ripple underneath—this fracture between who he was and who he wants to be. Between the person who signed off on raids and the person standing here now, listening to you speak like someone who’s survived both sides of the war.

Jay exhales through his nose, like he’s trying not to let something else slip. “You probably already figured it out, but the whole point of this group—the way Jungwon leads us—is to make sure we don’t become the monsters we ran away from. Whatever Jake or the others feel about what I did… that’s valid.”

Jungwon wants to correct him. Wants to tell him that he’s not leading anyone. That he’s just trying to keep the wheels turning long enough for someone else—anyone else—to take over. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on the canister, his fists tight enough that his knuckles start to blanch.

Because Jay’s not entirely wrong. Jungwon is supposed to be the anchor. The one who holds them together, who balances risk and morality like it’s simple math. But even now, hearing it out loud—that he’s the one meant to stop them from falling too far—feels like a lie. A fragile one at best. He’s barely holding himself together as it is. And it’s only about to get harder now that you’re here, making him question things he thought he’d buried.

You speak again, quieter this time. “If I saw someone I love die in front of me, I’d do much more than just shoot someone in the ankle.”

And that sentence? That one stays with him.

Because it reminds him that he doesn’t know who you’ve lost. Doesn’t know how close your grief is to the surface. But whatever it is, it’s carved into your spine. There’s a weight behind your words that’s too heavy to fake.

Jay goes still. “Yeah… it doesn’t bring her back, though.”

“No,” you reply gently. “It doesn’t.”

Silence again. Not heavy this time—just worn. Weathered.

The wind picks up, brushing the overgrown stalks around them. Jungwon’s eyes flick to you. You’re still calm, composed. But there’s a sadness in you too. One he hadn’t noticed before.

“But,” you add, “you seem to forget that it’s also human to want justice. Or revenge. Whatever you want to call it.”

Jungwon watches the way Jay’s expression softens. Just barely. The way your voice threads through the space like balm and blade all at once. And all he can think is that this is what scares him the most. Not that you’re reckless. Not that you challenge him. But that you feel so deeply, and still haven’t hardened yourself into something else. That you’re still fighting like it means something.

Jay mutters, “Justice or revenge… depends on who’s telling the story.”

You nod once. “Or who’s left to tell it.”

It’s a brutal thing to say, but it isn’t cruelty he hears in your voice—it’s clarity. Cold, sharp clarity born of a world where justice and revenge are no longer separate concepts. And what scares him isn’t your willingness to say it. It’s how much he agrees.

Jungwon doesn’t look away. Not now. Because there’s something in you, in the way you speak—raw, candid, without hesitation—that gnaws at his chest. The others follow orders, look to him for structure. But you?

You keep challenging the narrative.

Jay’s shoulders loosen. His eyes drop. “I don’t know what that makes me, though. A monster or just… someone who’s trying to survive.”

And that’s when Jungwon finally speaks.

“It makes you someone who’s still here. Someone who’s still fighting. That’s all that matters.”

His voice is level. Measured. But it rings hollow in his own ears. Because the truth is, it’s a reminder meant for himself just as much as for Jay. Because when you joked earlier about being easy to leave behind, it wasn’t funny—not to him. It was a reminder. That he’s calculating again. Risk versus reward. Just like before. Just like The Future trained him to be. You could’ve died, and he weighed it like an equation.

And even now, he’s still calculating.

But for the first time, he doesn’t want the answer. Because the numbers don’t reflect what’s clawing at him now—the feeling that if something happened to you, the loss wouldn’t be strategic.

It would be personal.

You pick up the tube, pull it free from the tank, and screw the cap back on. Jay lifts the canister, nods once, and starts heading back toward the road without another word.

You and Jungwon walk side by side now. He keeps a few paces from you, but every now and then, his eyes flicker to your profile. You don’t speak. Neither does he. But the silence between you is louder than it used to be.

It unsettles him.

Because just days ago, you were a stranger in the shadows. Another mouth. Another risk. A variable Jungwon wasn’t prepared for. Someone he would’ve discarded in the past, or worse—filed under liability and moved on. Back then, in The Future, everything was numbers. Resources. Probability. Sacrifices. Names didn’t matter. Faces didn’t matter. And you?

You were never supposed to matter.

But now you’re this—this raw, unpredictable thing that keeps catching him off guard. Every time you speak, every time you meet his gaze without flinching, something in him shifts. Rearranges. Like you’re tugging at wires he didn’t know were still connected.

You challenge him—his leadership, his orders, his silence. You don’t do it with arrogance or anger. You do it with honesty. With conviction. With a quiet kind of strength that doesn’t come from training or hierarchy, but from survival. And somewhere along the way, without permission or warning, you've slipped between the cracks of his guarded exterior.

He hates that.

Not because you’re dangerous.

But because you’re not.

Because you remind him of the part of himself he’s spent years burying—the part that wants to believe there’s still something worth protecting that doesn’t serve a strategic advantage. That maybe, just maybe, not everything needs to be calculated. That there are people who still make choices because it feels right, not because the odds are in their favour.

And worse, it mirrors your own thoughts—how just hours earlier, you convinced yourself that walking away would be the safest thing. That leaving them, leaving him, was the right call. Not because you didn’t care, but because you cared too much. Because you’ve seen what happens when you let people in. What it costs.

You told yourself you’d repay them, that you’d disappear before they grew to trust you. Before you grew to trust them. Before the roots took hold.

But they already have. He sees it in the way you offer to hunt, to siphon gas, to carry your weight and more. He sees it in the way you speak to Jay—not with contempt, but with understanding. He sees it, and it frightens him.

Because you’re not just surviving—you’re still human.

And in a world where humanity is often a liability, you are living proof that some parts of it are worth saving. You are proof that maybe he’s not too far gone. That maybe he doesn’t have to bury every soft part of himself to lead.

It’s maddening.

Because this isn’t how it was supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the instinct to keep the group alive. He wasn’t supposed to look at you and think—

Not her. Not if I can help it.

But the thought is there. It has been for a while. And now, no matter how he tries to push it down, it keeps resurfacing.

Because for all his structure and restraint, you’ve introduced something volatile.

Hope.

Part 4

The van bumps down the cracked road, the scent of Jay’s blood thick in the air, the silence louder than the groans fading behind them. Jungwon sits rigid in the passenger seat, fists clenched on his thighs, jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken since they pulled away. Not even when the two men started running after them. Not even when one of them screamed, “Please! We didn’t want it to go this far!”

He hears you, though. The urgency in your voice when you say, “They’re unarmed. They’re not a threat.” You say it like you believe it. Like you need it to be true.

But Jungwon doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because if he opens his mouth, he’s afraid of what might come out.

Because the truth is, he doesn't know anymore.

He used to. Back in The Future, everything was black and white. You either secured the mission or you didn’t. You either survived or you didn’t. There were no in-betweens. No compromises. No emotional attachments to blur the lines.

But that world didn’t have you in it.

You, who looked the man who shot Jay in the eyes and still hesitated to pull the trigger. You, who dared to say out loud what he’s been burying since day one—that if any of them died, he wouldn’t be rational about it. That if you had collapsed into that field with a bullet in your chest, if Jay had died protecting you, Jungwon doesn’t know what he would’ve done. What line he might’ve crossed.

And that terrifies him.

Because now he knows. You were right.

If any of you had died, he would’ve hunted them all down without a second thought. No calculation. No strategy. Just blood. Just rage. 

He knows in the marrow of his bones that he wouldn’t have left survivors. Wouldn’t have spared the two men running after the van, wouldn’t have let anyone surrender. A bullet through the head wouldn’t have been justice. It would’ve been the highest form of mercy he was capable of offering in that moment. Because there wouldn’t be room for compassion. Or mercy. Or even thought.

Only vengeance.

The van rumbles on, Ni-ki’s knuckles white around the wheel. Sunghoon is silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. Sunoo looks sick. Heeseung hasn’t moved from Jay’s side. Jake is still pressing down on the wound, hands trembling. They’re all unravelling.

And it’s his fault.

Because the thing he never accounted for—the variable he couldn’t predict—was what would happen if he started to care.

Now he knows.

Caring makes one reckless.

Caring makes one hesitate.

Caring makes one pull the trigger for someone else and never quite recover from it.

He watches the woods blur past the window. Thinks about the woman who died. The men who tried to kill you. The man who shot Jay. The two who begged for their lives. The part of himself that wanted to give them a chance. And the part that didn’t.

He hears you shift beside him, hears the way your breath shakes as you whisper, “We’ve crossed a line.”

He doesn’t respond.

Because he’s still trying to figure out when exactly he lost sight of it. All he knows is that this—this sickness in his chest, this silent weight pressing against his lungs—is the cost. The toll you pay when you start thinking with your heart instead of your head.

He should’ve never let that happen.

But he did.

Because of you.

Because somewhere between your barbed honesty and quiet defiance, between the way you look at this world like it hasn’t fully beaten you down yet—he let his guard slip.

He doesn’t want to feel this way. Doesn’t want to feel anything. Emotions get people killed. Emotions make you weak. He knew that once. Lived by it.

But now?

Now he’s watching the person beside him become someone they don’t recognise. Just like he did. Just like they all did.

When Jungwon said “I did it for me,” he wasn’t trying to sound cold. He wasn’t trying to push you away.

What he meant—what he couldn’t say in that moment—is that he pulled the trigger so you wouldn't have to.

Because if you had taken that shot—if you had crossed that line—you wouldn’t have come back from it. Not really. Not the way you are now. Not the version of you that still believes in something more than just survival. The version that still pauses before pulling the trigger, that still sees people instead of threats. That still tries.

And that version of you? That fragile, lone, dandelion still clinging to the cracks in this rotted world?

He couldn’t let that die.

Not when you were the first person in a long, long time to make him question who he was outside of tactics and duty. Not when you were the first person to look at him and not just see the soldier, the strategist, the boy bred by The Future to be a weapon—but someone worth saving too.

So yes. He did it for you.

But more selfishly?

He did it so he wouldn’t have to watch you become someone you’re not. He did it so you could stay as somebody who is kind and innocent. Somebody who inspires him to be a better person. You’re not a monster. And he’ll do everything he can to keep it that way.

Because watching that kind of light go out in someone like you?

That would’ve destroyed him.

And he’s already too far gone to survive another kind of loss like that.

Jungwon doesn't know how they got here so fast. One moment he hears them—low groans bleeding through the trees like a warning—and the next he’s pulling you through a sea of rusted cars, adrenaline screaming through his veins. His grip on your wrist is tight, desperate. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. The dead are close. Too close.

He finds the lorry purely on instinct, tossing you up before you even have time to catch your breath. The edge of it scrapes his palms as he climbs up after you, then yanks the tattered tarp over both of you in one swift motion, plunging the space into shadow.

Your voice rises, a startled whisper, but he cuts it off with his hand pressed lightly over your mouth—not harsh, just firm. His other arm braces over you, holding himself there as the first chorus of groans rolls past the truck.

It’s suffocating, the way the air thickens with decay and tension. The sound of their dragging feet fills his ears, an endless wave of hunger just inches away. The metal beneath him vibrates with the weight of it—the horde moving past like a tide of death. If even one of them hears you breathe too loudly, it’s over.

So he holds his breath. And he holds you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, the quickened rhythm of fear making your whole body tremble. You’re shaking, but you’re trying to be brave—trying to stay still despite the instinct to run. He feels your shoulder tucked under his arm, the way your hand clutches at the fabric of his jacket, whether you mean to or not.

He doesn’t look. Not at first.

He’s too busy listening—calculating the distance, counting the footsteps. But when the sound starts to fade, when the worst of them pass and only the stragglers remain, something in him shifts. He glances down.

And he sees you.

Really sees you.

The dim light filtering through the moth-eaten holes in the tarp spills soft patterns across your face—highlighting the curve of your cheek, the flutter of your lashes as you fight to keep your eyes closed. There’s dirt on your skin, a smear of something across your jaw, but you still look... beautiful. Fragile, in a way he doesn’t know how to stomach. It makes his chest ache.

Because he remembers the drugstore. Remembers the exact second he almost lost you.

He remembers the scream—the sound of you calling his name, the thud of your body slamming into the hatch frame, the sickening moment when a rotted hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you back toward death. He’d never moved so fast in his life. Never fired a shot with such fury. He pulled you out of that hatch with every ounce of strength he had left, your blood smearing across his palms, your gasps digging into his ribs like knives.

You could’ve died back there. And the truth is—he wouldn’t have survived it.

And now, lying here in the silence after the storm, your breath brushing his collarbone, your body curled so unconsciously against his—it hits him all over again. The closeness. The danger. The way your hand just curled a little tighter into his jacket.

You shift slightly, and he instinctively pulls you closer, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head. “Stop moving,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice barely more than breath.

He expects you to flinch. To pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you press your cheek closer to his chest, your breath steadying, syncing with his. And it feels like something clicks into place—something that shouldn’t. Something dangerous.

Because in a world like this, closeness is a luxury. Tenderness is a risk. And you… you are a risk he never meant to take.

But lying here now, with the world rotting just inches away, he can’t find it in himself to regret it. Not when your heartbeat thuds against his ribs. Not when you’ve buried your fear in the safety of his arms.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to the dying groans fade into the distance, holding you like you’re the last good thing in this godforsaken world.

Part 5

Jungwon sits on the rooftaop long after the sun has risen, legs bent, arms draped loosely over his knees, the rifle resting at his side, untouched. The morning air is crisp, and the sky above is a pale, uncertain blue—washed-out and faded like a painting left out in the rain. Even the clouds seem hesitant, lingering low and unmoving, as though the weather itself is unsure whether to weep or stay dry. 

From his perch, he has a clear view of the road—the same one you walked away on just an hour ago. It winds past the edge of the camp, disappearing into the hoizon like a thread unraveled too far to follow. And even though he knows better, even though he tells himself not to expect anything, he watches that path like it owes him something. Like maybe if he stares hard enough, you’ll come walking back. That some part of you might still choose to return.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t look away.

The breeze brushes against him, tugging gently at his hair, but he makes no move to push it aside. His body is still, but his mind is anything but. 

He's been up here since you turned your back on him and walked away, since he realised you were gone for good. He didn’t go back down, didn’t speak to the others when they woke up, didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t have the words. He still doesn’t. Because if he says it out loud—if he lets the sound of your absence cross his lips—he’s afraid something inside him will crack so deep it’ll never be put back together.

So he sits.

And he watches.

And he thinks.

About the things you said to each other. Words thrown like knives in the dark, sharp and bitter and honest in the ugliest ways. He thinks about how your voice broke when you told him you couldn’t stay, how your shoulders trembled with the weight of the choice you were making. He thinks about how you looked when you said you couldn’t lose them—couldn’t lose him. 

There was a look in your eyes then—a look he’d never seen before. Not even when Jay nearly died. That time, you were reckless. This time, there’s a look of desperation, grief, something close to love and even closer to fear. Not the kind of fear that comes from facing the dead. The kind that comes from having something to lose.

It’s strange—the silence that follows. It’s not rage. Not yet. Not grief, either. It's a kind of stillness. The kind that presses against the inside of your ribs, caught in the base of your throat like a sob that never quite makes it out. 

He feels it settle into him like a sickness. A slow, crawling thing that starts in his gut and moves outward, hollowing him out. 

You lied.

That’s the first thought that really stings. You stood there, looked him in the eye and said you’d stay. That you’d help carry the burden. That he wasn’t alone.

And now you’re gone.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the sun casting a faint glow across his face. It should feel warm. It doesn’t. Nothing feels warm anymore.

He remembers how your voice shook and how you avoided looking into his eyes when you said you never meant to care. Thinks about the way you flinched when he accused you of being no different from those who left you. The way you looked like you wanted to scream and collapse all at once.

You think he’s good. You told him he was the one holding everything together. That they follow him not because they have to, but because they trust him. Because he’s him.

But you don’t see it the way he does.

They follow him because there’s no one else. Because someone has to make the hard calls. Someone has to carry the weight. And he does. Not because he’s good. But because he’s still standing. That’s all it is.

The good ones are the ones who don’t make it. The ones who hesitate. The ones who don’t pull the trigger.

But Jungwon? He pulled the trigger the moment the world went to shit. And he’s been pulling it ever since.

You're not like him. You're better. Or maybe you were. Maybe he just didn’t want to watch that final part of you die.

But the truth is—you’re not good either. Not really. You’ve lied. You’ve stolen. You’ve done things you’re not proud of. You’ve chosen survival over strangers more times than you’ve admitted. You hold the blade just as well as he does. 

He knows that now.

You think he’s good, and he thinks you are.

But the truth? You’re both just survivors, trying to hold onto what little scraps of humanity you still have left. You're not good. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. But that doesn’t mean you’re monsters either.

Not yet.

Because what neither of you realised—what he’s only beginning to understand as he sits on this rooftop, staring out at the road you vanished down with an ache in his chest—is that the parts of yourselves you’re trying so hard to protect aren’t found in your own strength.

They’re found in each other.

You were his balance. The reminder that the weight could be shared. That maybe he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That maybe not every decision had to be cold and calculated. And he was your anchor. The reason you stayed longer than you should have. The one thing that made you second-guess running. He was the tether pulling you back to something human. 

He grounded you. You softened him.

Neither of you were good. But together, you were better.

And that was enough.

Or it could have been.

He exhales slowly, the sound quiet against the breeze. His eyes don’t leave the road, even though it remains empty. His fingers curl against the rooftop's edge, digging into the concrete until his knuckles pale. The pain’s dulled now, no longer sharp—just a constant, aching throb, like a bruise you forget is there until you move the wrong way.

He should be used to this by now. People always leave. Always look out for themselves. That’s what the world has become. And he’s always known that. It’s why he never lets himself get too close.

But you were different.

You were the exception.

You were the moment he started to hope.

And now, standing there in the pale morning light, your name like a ghost on the back of his tongue, he feels something crack. Not loudly. Not visibly. But deeply.

You’re the greatest loss, Jungwon.

When you said that, he swore his heart was about to jump out of his chest. It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a confession. One wrapped in cowardice and fear. But a confession nonetheless.

And god, he wanted to believe that was enough.

But belief doesn’t change the fact that you still walked away. And Jungwon is left with the thought that he alone wasn't enough to convince you to stay.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the wind run through his hair, letting the world fall quiet again. 

You’re gone and he’s still here. Still watching. Still waiting. 

But the road stays empty and the rooftop stays quiet.

He just sits there, alone. Holding onto the last part of himself you hadn’t taken with you.

And hoping, quietly, that maybe—just maybe—wherever you are, you’re holding onto a piece of him too.

Part 6

The moment you say the word—bit—Jungwon feels the world tilt. It doesn’t make sense. Not immediately. He hears the word. Understands it. But the meaning doesn’t sink in. Not really. Not until he sees your arm.

The torn sleeve. The torn flesh.Teeth marks.

He goes still.

No air enters his lungs. No words form in his mouth. He just stares.

This isn’t happening.

He steps forward, slow and mechanical, like he’s walking through a dream—no, a nightmare—where his body no longer obeys him. Every instinct screams denial, but the evidence is right there, painted in your blood, mocking him.

“You’re lying,” he says.

Because you have to be. Because the alternative—the truth—splits something down the middle of his chest. He can feel it cracking, deep and irreversible.

But you’re not. And he sees it.

In the tremble of your fingers.

In the pale stretch of skin around the wound.

In Jay’s silence.

No. No. No.

The images of your death floods his vision and Jungwon swears he’s slowing losing his mind. He steps closer without thinking, fury and panic colliding in his chest. “Why?” His voice is a snarl now, strangled and broken.

You start to speak, but he cuts you off. He’s spiraling, his voice raw, hoarse, unraveling. “I told you to stay put inside. I told you. You never listen. Fuck–” His voice catches, his fists clench, and the words fall apart before they reach the end.

His hands fly to his head, fingers digging into his hair, tugging, trembling. He can’t hold it in—this storm rising inside him. It’s too much. Too loud. Too fast.

She’s bit. She’s bit. She’s fucking bit.

He sees the blood again—so much blood.

And all he can think is: I should’ve been faster. I should’ve been there. You’re dying and it’s my fault.

You apologise.

He wants to scream.

Because you’re apologising like it’s over. Like you’ve already accepted it. Like he’s just meant to stand here and watch you die.

He doesn't think.

There’s no calculation. No weighing the risks. No strategy. No logic. Because logic doesn’t exist in this moment—not when you’re standing there, blood soaking through your sleeve, skin pale and eyes resigned.

The world goes silent, deafeningly so.

And then, without thinking—without permission, without hesitation, without fear—he lets go of the rifle in his hands. It crashes to the rooftop, forgotten. Worthless.

His feet close the distance in a single breath.

He grabs you, pulls you into him like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. One arm locks tightly around the back of your neck, the other cradles your head, his fingers threading into your hair, holding you against him like a lifeline.

It’s not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s desperate.

Crushing.

He doesn’t realise how hard he’s holding you until his arms begin to ache, until his breath shudders with the effort of keeping you close enough—close enough to feel you breathing. Close enough to feel your heartbeat. Close enough to convince himself you’re still here. Still his. Still alive.

His whole body is trembling. He presses his face into your shoulder, barely breathing, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. Your scent, your warmth—it’s all still here. Still real. Still you.

And it’s killing him.

Because this moment isn’t supposed to be happening.

You’re not supposed to be leaving. You’re not supposed to be dying.

His grip tightens, the pads of his fingers digging into your scalp like he can force your soul to stay through sheer contact alone.

He knows—god, he knows—he should let go. Should be the strong one. The leader.

But he can’t. Because he knows that if he lets go, you’ll start slipping away. And if you slip away—he might not survive it.

And the terrifying part? 

He doesn’t think he wants to. Not if it means going back to a world that doesn’t have you in it.

It’s selfish.

But he doesn't care.

He’s breathing you in like this is the last time he’ll ever be able to. Like this is the last trace of warmth he’ll ever know. And maybe it is.  Because this moment—this second in time where you’re still you—is slipping through his fingers, no matter how tightly he holds on.

And when he feels your arms slowly wrap around his waist, it shatters him. Because you’re comforting him. You’re steadying him when you’re the one who’s dying.

It’s too much.

Your fingers twist into his shirt, creasing the fabric. He holds you tighter in response, burying his face in your hair, letting the scent of ash and blood and you consume him. He doesn’t know how to say goodbye. He doesn't know how to live with this.

He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready.

Then—he feels it.

A hand. Not yours. On his back.

Then another. A body presses in from behind. Then one at his side. Then another. Until the world around him disappears. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s the others closing in, forming a wall around them. A shield. A goodbye.

And something about that breaks him even further. Because he was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to keep you safe.

But he couldn’t even stop this.

So he holds you like a dying man holds a lifeline. Arms locked around you, one hand gripping the nape of your neck, the other wrapped so tightly around your shoulders it must hurt. But you don’t complain. You don’t flinch.

You sink into him.

And that’s what undoes him.

He feels it when you press your cheek to his collarbone, the wet heat of your tears seeping through the fabric of his shirt. He feels the way your body finally gives in to the grief. Not quietly. Not gently. But all at once. Like a dam breaking. Like everything you’ve been holding in—every fear, every sorrow, every buried hope—has chosen now to bleed out.

The first sob wrecks him.

It shatters through his chest like a shockwave, a sound so raw, so guttural, it forces the air from his lungs. And then another. And another. Until you’re sobbing in his arms, uncontrollably, violently, like grief is trying to tear its way out of you.

And still—he doesn’t let go.

Because if this is the last time he gets to hold you, to have you, then he’s going to memorise it. Every trembling breath. Every broken cry. Every heartbeat that still syncs with his. He’s going to carve it into his skin so he’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone so much it made him stupid. So much it made him human.

When you finally start to pull away, when your body begins to shift, the movement feels like a knife. Like losing you in slow motion.

His hand—without thinking—clutches yours, refusing to let it go, even as your breath steadies, even as your sobs die down into a choked stillness. His fingers are shaking. His eyes are burning. But he doesn’t loosen his grip.

And then—then you say the worst thing you possibly could.

“I need to go.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something in him fractures.

It’s not the first time you’ve challenged him, not the first time you’ve spoken with that stubborn fire in your voice—but this? This feels different. The way your tone doesn’t shake. The way your eyes hold his like they’ve already said goodbye.

Jungwon reacts before he can think. “No.”

It’s sharp. A command. A wall. One final barricade against the inevitable.

But you’re already scaling it. With every word, every breath, every look—you’re slipping from his grasp.

“I’m no help up here,” you say, and his gut twists. Your voice is too steady. Too rational. Like you’ve already buried the part of yourself that’s scared. Like this is already decided. “In fact, I’d be a threat. A is still out there. If I don’t find him, he’ll come back. He’ll keep coming back.”

“No.” His hand tightens around your wrist. It’s reflexive. Desperate. His fingers dig in like they can stop time, like pressure alone will keep you tethered. But it’s not enough. You’re still slipping. Slipping like water through cracked palms.

“We can still win, we can—”

“I’ve already lost, Y/N.”

The words escape before he realises he’s said them. And the second they’re out there, hanging in the silence between you, he wants to take them back. Because the look in your eyes—god—it hurts.

You freeze. Just for a second.

But your conviction doesn’t falter. He sees it in your gaze. You’ve already accepted what he can’t even begin to fathom.

“Please, Jungwon.” You step closer, and the distance that’s been widening all night folds in for one fragile moment. “I need to know that you’re safe. Only then can I die in peace.”

He sways. 

He physically sways like the ground’s shifted beneath him. Because that word—die—cuts through him cleaner than any bullet. Any blade. It’s the word that makes it real.

His head shakes before he can stop it, violently, like he can shake the thought loose from reality. His grip tightens around your wrist, trembling now, trembling so hard it’s like his body already knows what his mind refuses to accept.

His gaze drops. He can’t look at you. Not when he knows this is the last time you’ll be standing here, this whole. This you.

So when your hands rise to cup his face, when your fingers brush his skin—warm, gentle, grounding—his hands instinctively come up to hold your wrists, to keep you there, to anchor you. 

And that’s when the panic really sets in.

Because your expression… it’s not defiance. Not anger. Not even sorrow.

It’s peace.

That kind of terrifying, heartbreaking calm only people ready to die wear like a second skin. 

Your thumb grazes his cheek, and it’s so tender it nearly kills him. He wants to scream. Wants to tell you to stop, to fight. Wants to kiss you

You beat him to it.

Your lips press against his, gentle and slow, and it feels like everything in him collapses all at once. It’s a kiss of desperation. It’s grief. It’s love. It’s a goodbye carved into the shape of your lips. Because you’re kissing him like this is the last thing you’ll give him before you walk away. He kisses you back like he’s trying to memorise it. Like he can pull you back from the brink with nothing but the way he feels about you.

You lean your forehead against his, and the moment is still. Timeless.

Then, you step away.

He’s still chasing your warmth when he realises what’s happening. The second your gaze shifts to Jay, Jungwon’s body moves on instinct. His hands reach out, wild with panic.

Too late.

Jay and Heeseung seize his arms just as he lunges, and the world erupts into chaos. He’s thrashing. Screaming. Cursing at both of them, calling out your name over and over like maybe you’ll turn around. Like maybe if he says it enough, you’ll change your mind.

But you don’t.

You walk away.

And he breaks.

He breaks.

Not like before. Not like the quiet grief he’s used to carrying.

This is raw. Ugly. Loud.

He screams until his throat burns, fights against the hands holding him down, eyes locked on the back of your figure as you move further and further away. And the terror—god, the terror—it’s not just about losing you.

It’s the helplessness.

It’s knowing that he’s still alive, still breathing, while you march straight toward death with his name still warm on your lips.

It’s knowing he can’t stop you. 

When you're gone—masked and determined—Jungwon falls to his knees. Not because he’s weak. But because you took the best part of him with you.

And now he’s just a boy again.

Not a leader. Not a survivor. Just someone watching the person he loves choose to die so that he can live.

And god help him—

He would’ve switched places with you in a heartbeat.

A few minutes after you disappear into the horde, Jungwon collapses.

His legs give out beneath him like they were only held up by the ghost of your presence, and now that you're gone, there’s nothing left to keep him upright. He drops hard, first to his knees, then to the cold, unforgiving concrete of the rooftop. And he stays there. Hands pressed flat against the ground like he’s trying to anchor himself to something—anything—that won’t slip through his fingers the way you did.

But it is slipping.

You are.

And no matter how hard he digs his nails into the rooftop, how tightly he curls his fists into the grit and grime beneath him, it won’t stop the splintering sensation inside his chest—like his ribs are cracking open from the inside out.

His whole body is trembling now—violent, uncontrollable tremors racking through him. The adrenaline that had pushed him this far is gone, drained in an instant, leaving only the bone-deep exhaustion, the helplessness, the guilt. His breaths come in short, uneven gasps, like he’s forgotten how to inhale properly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a rasp—barely audible, a ghost of sound that drifts between them like ash.

“Somebody should’ve stopped her.”

No one answers.

Because they all know they couldn’t have.

Sunoo is crouched against the wall, knees hugged tightly to his chest, face buried so deeply that his shoulders are the only thing giving him away—trembling, silent sobs rattling through him. Even Jay, who almost never breaks, has to turn his face to the side, his jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth. His hand covers his mouth like he’s trying to swallow down every raw emotion threatening to spill out. His eyes are red-rimmed, glassy. And he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s okay.

Jungwon doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t need to.

He feels it in the silence—the grief sitting on all of them like an anvil, the unspeakable weight of watching you walk off with death marked into your skin and no one able to stop you.

“Fuck,” Sunghoon mutters from the edge, staring out at the horde below. His voice is hollow. “What do we do now?”

For a moment, no one speaks. But instinctively, they all turn to Jungwon.

Even though they know.

Even though they see the way he’s curled in on himself, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete, like if he stares hard enough, it’ll crack all the way open and swallow him whole. He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Not until he finally forces out three words—empty and trembling.

“I don’t know.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

It eats at the edges of them like rot, and Jungwon wonders—quietly, bitterly—if this was all worth it. If he had just gone with you when you asked. If he’d just agreed to leave. If he hadn’t pulled you back into this place—into this war, this hope, this delusion—would you still be whole right now? Would you still be his?

And he sees it—etched into the others’ faces. That same regret. That same guilt. Especially Ni-ki.

Ni-ki, who had fought you the hardest. Who yelled at you, argued, doubted your intentions. And now you’re the one out there, bleeding, hunted, dying—for a place you never wanted to stay in to begin with.

And just when the silence feels like it’s going to smother them all—

A sound cuts through it.

A muffled giggle.

They all turn at once.

Lieutenant Kim.

She’s still tied to the base of the convenience store sign, her arms bound behind her, the gag damp in her mouth. But her eyes are bright with amusement, glinting in the moonlight like a blade. She’s smiling.

Ni-ki is the first to move, fury snapping through his limbs as he storms over to her and rips the gag from her mouth. 

Lieutenant Kim exhales with exaggerated relief, then sighs dramatically, like this is all beneath her.

“Oh, you’re all so fucking pathetic,” she sneers. “Really. I almost feel bad watching this.”

Her words ripple through the rooftop like a slap. Sunoo doesn’t even look up from where he’s curled in on himself, but his voice trembles with exhausted frustration.

“Ni-ki, shut her up before I throw her off this roof.”

“Oh?” Her smile is twisted. “Even if I can tell you how to save your precious Y/N?”

Everything stops.

“What?” Jungwon’s head jerks up so fast his neck nearly snaps. The crack of his voice sounds like disbelief, but his heart’s already lurching.

Lieutenant Kim doesn’t look at him right away. She’s toying with them—slowly rotating her shoulders, rolling her neck, tasting the sudden shift in power. It’s a game to her.

“I said,” she drawls, as if repeating herself for children, “I know how you can save her.”

“You’re lying,” Jay snaps immediately, his arms folded tight across his chest, his expression cold and controlled—but his eyes flicker.

“I don’t know,” She says, that smug tone curling at the edge of her words. “Am I?” She turns her gaze sharply to Jake. “What do you think, Doctor Sim?”

Jake narrows his eyes, brows furrowed. “How can we save her?”

Lieutenant Kim shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’ll tell you. But only if you let me go.”

Sunghoon scoffs, stepping forward. “We’re not risking that. You could be lying. Stalling. Feeding us bullshit to get free.”

“I’m telling you,” she says sharply, her smile gone now. “You still can save her. But the longer you hesitate, the less time you have. Tick-tock, soldiers.”

“You expect us to believe you?” Sunoo bites out. “She could be dying while you play us like this.”

“And what if I’m not lying?” she continues, locking eyes with Jungwon now. “What if I’m the only one who knows how to stop this?”

Before Sunoo can argue again, Jungwon’s voice slices through the chaos.

“Okay. Deal.”

The word lands like a grenade.

Everyone turns to him.

Sunoo’s mouth opens in protest, but the look on Jungwon’s face silences him before a single syllable can form. Jungwon’s voice is steady. Flat. Unrelenting.

“I give you my word,” he says, his eyes locked on Lieutenant Kim. “You tell us how to save Y/N… and I’ll let you go.”

The wind rustles across the rooftop. Somewhere in the distance, a low groan rises from the ground. The world holds its breath.

Lieutenant Kim tilts her head slowly. She stares at him like she’s trying to read something behind his eyes, something buried deep beneath the mask he wears so well.

“Shame,” she says at last, her smirk returning. “You would’ve made an excellent leader in The Future, Sergeant Yang.”

Jungwon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His fists are clenched tight at his sides.

Lieutenant Kim nods once. “Alright then. I’ll take your word for it.”

She turns to Jake. “You remember the day I came into the treatment facility?” Her tone is casual now, like they’re catching up after a long absence.

Jake nods slowly. “You’d lost your arm. Said you were ambushed.”

She smiles. “I was. By a biter. So I cut it off.” She lifts what remains of her limb as if presenting a trophy. 

“You’re saying…,” Jake murmurs, the horror dawning across his features, “You amputated. And it stopped the infection?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s insane,” Heeseung mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced anymore. Just shaken.

“How do we know you’re not lying out of your ass right now?” Sunoo snaps. “If we cut it off and she dies—”

“She’s dying anyway,” Jay says quietly. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. “She’s already been bitten. What else do we have to lose?”

No one breathes. The rooftop is still.

And Jungwon?

Jungwon’s heart is thundering in his chest. Because this is it. This is the thread. This is the one, impossibly thin thread he didn’t know he was praying for.

And he’s going to grab it with both hands.

Even if it means destroying what’s left of you to keep you alive.

Part 7

Day Zero

The first few hours after you pass out are chaos.

Jungwon doesn’t remember who screamed first. It might’ve been him. He doesn’t remember how they amputated your arm, how Jake’s hands moved with frantic precision, or how Heeseung kept barking orders that no one listened to. He doesn’t even remember when you fell asleep on his shoulders as he sang that lullaby to you.

What he does remember is the first sound you make. It didn’t even register as human. He remembers it tearing through the air, through Jungwon, like something primal and raw and wrong. The way your body arches, every muscle seizing, and your scream rips through him like glass dragged across his ribs.

He also remembers the pained look on your face as Heeseung holds you down, whispering, repeating something over and over—but Jungwon can’t hear it. Even when he wants to look away. Even when his instincts scream at him to close his eyes, to shut it out, to protect himself from the sight of you in so much pain—he doesn’t.

Because this is the cost. Your cost. And if you’re going to bear it, then so is he.

He remembers murmuring your name, again and again, not even sure if you can hear it. His voice is hoarse, breaking under the weight of every syllable. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay. Stay with me.”

But you’re not okay.

And he’s not sure you’re going to stay.

He also remembers the blood. How warm it was, even as it soaked through your shirt. The way it clung to his fingers long after Jake had said, “It’s done.” Long after Sunghoon pressed the iron down and your body stopped seizing. Long after your eyes rolled back and the world went quiet.

He sits beside you through the night, not moving. Not speaking. Not breathing, it feels like.

When the others finally drift into uneasy sleep—some out of exhaustion, some out of fear—he stays.

Your hand is limp in his. Cold.

You should’ve come back different. That’s what he keeps telling himself. You were bit. It was over. That’s what the world said. That’s what they all said. But you didn’t turn. You didn’t die either.

You just... slipped into silence.

He also remembers overhearing the moment you appointed Jay as your executioner. He hadn’t mean to eavesdrop but its hard not to tune you out when all he wants to hear is your voice. He had to take a moment to recollect himself but the thought only twists the knife deeper.

You’re the one dying, and you’re still trying to protect him from the fallout. From having to be the one to end it all.

He feels nauseous.

By the time he makes it back into the room, his throat is raw from holding in everything that wants to shatter him that it hurts to even swallow. And when you look at him, softened eyes unaware of what he’s heard, he says nothing.

He just walks to your side, careful not to let the shaking in his arms show as he drapes the blanket over you. He tucks the edges beneath your body, fingers lingering near your shoulder, pretending nothing has changed.

But it has.

Jay lingers around a few feet away, fingers curled around the handle of a pistol. Jungwon knows why. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He's simply upholding the promise he made to you.

Day One

He still hasn’t slept.

Your fever is rising now, sweat slicking your skin, your body shaking beneath the blankets. Jake does what he can—sponging your forehead, checking your pulse, redressing the stump—but Jungwon doesn’t leave your side. He stares. Watches your chest rise and fall, rise and fall, like if he looks away even once, you’ll stop.

When Jake tries to get him to eat something, Jungwon doesn’t respond. Not really. Just a blank stare. A nod that never leads to a bite.

Heeseung tells him gently, “She’s going to need you when she wakes up. You need your strength.”

But in his head, Jungwon hears: And if she doesn’t wake up, what’s the point?

Day Two

Heeseung sighs as he speak, “We can’t hide out in here forever. I’m sure the horde has thinned out a little, I’ll go see if I can lure them away.” 

“No, I’ll go. Watch after Y/N for me, please.” Jungwon adjusts your blanket as he says.

“What? But you haven’t had proper sleep in days.”

Jungwon doesn’t argue. He just nods, gets up, grabs his rifle, put on the mask and leaves.

The first scream he lets out doesn't sound like his own. It tears out of his throat like grief incarnate, drawing the horde’s attention instantly. All of them. Their heads snap in his direction like puppets on strings, drawn by the sound of something alive—something grieving.

Jungwon bangs his rifle against the edge of the barricade, the metallic clang echoing into the night. Then again. Then again. He can barely hear it over the pounding in his chest.

“Come on,” he shouts. “Come on. You want something to eat?”

Another scream, more hoarse this time. 

The first ones break away from the rest stop like waves caught in a new current. Their groans rise, louder now, a chorus of hunger, and as they move toward him, the others follow. Mindless. Predictable.

He keeps shouting until his throat burns. Until the only thing left is breath and bitterness.

Then he runs.

And they follow.

The sun is just starting to rise by the time he reaches the bus terminal, and his legs are already threatening to give out. He keeps going. He doesn’t look back.

He can hear them behind him. Always. Just far enough to not be on top of him, close enough that he can’t afford to slow down.

There’s blood on his tongue from how hard he’s been biting the inside of his cheek, and he swallows it down like medicine. He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He sees you every time he blinks—your arm, your face, the sound of your voice when you said “do it before I change my mind.”

He doesn’t know what kind of strength it takes to say that. But whatever it is, he clings to it now.

He screams again. Bangs his fist on a rusted signpost. Shoots a round into the air just to make sure they’re still coming.

They are.

The rain begins somewhere near midnight.

It’s cold, sharp, soaking through his clothes, turning the mud beneath his boots into sludge. His muscles scream. His head is pounding. He hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t drank anything. He left without telling anyone where he was going, didn’t even give them time to argue.

He had to go. If he stayed, he would’ve lost his mind.

The horde is quieter now, more sluggish with the rain. They still follow. Not because they understand. Just because it’s what they do. And maybe that’s what scares him more than anything—the simplicity of it.

No purpose. No will. Just motion.

He wonders if that’s what he’s becoming.

Day Three

He passes the village again around noon.

It’s quiet, but not empty.

He spots them first by smell, the rotting air thick with the coppery stench of death. Then he sees them—the two men he left behind. Or what’s left of them.

One has no face. Just torn muscle and glistening bone. The other’s stomach is splayed open like a dissected frog, intestines dragging behind him as he staggers forward without aim, without destination. Their eyes are grey now. Vacant.

Jungwon stops walking. Just for a second. Just long enough for a thought to cut him open: They were people. And we left them behind.

Then he shoots them both. One shot each.

He doesn’t flinch when their bodies hit the ground. Just reloads, turns his back, and keeps walking.

He wonders if that makes him human—or something else entirely.

That night, he finally sees the city.

Just beyond the rise of the hill, it sprawls in fractured silhouettes—buildings collapsed on their sides, smoke rising from craters in the road, the wind rattling broken windows like teeth chattering in a dying skull.

He slumps against the shell of a vending machine, hands shaking.

His feet are blistered. His ribs ache. His jacket is soaked through. His fingers are numb and raw, his voice long since gone.

But he made it.

They’re following him still—thinned out, some lost to the terrain, others distracted by noises that only exists in the city—but enough of them came. Enough of them are far, far away from the rest stop now.

From you.

Jungwon drags himself into the first store he sees, the door already broken in. He barricades what he can. Collapses behind a counter. Pulls the hood of his jacket low.

And for the first time in two days—he cries.

Not loud. Not even with tears.

Just silent shaking, his fingers curled in his hair, his chest folding in like he’s trying to disappear into himself.

He doesn’t sleep.

He just lies there, listening to the moans outside, wondering if you’re still alive.

Day Four

The next morning arrives cloaked in a brittle stillness. The rain that had dogged him for hours has finally stopped, but it’s left behind a colder, meaner kind of silence.

The wind has sharpened with the chill of dawn, slicing through the fabric of Jungwon’s soaked jacket, biting at his skin as if trying to remind him that he’s still alive. Every step he takes feels heavier now—sluggish and deliberate, like his body is finally starting to reckon with what he’s just done. With what it cost.

He glances out at the street, eyes scanning the remnants of the chaos he’d lured away. The horde is dispersing now, their ranks thinned and wandering, scattered like leaves caught in the aftermath of a storm.

His job is done.

But he doesn’t feel victorious. Not even close.

There’s no sense of relief settling into his chest, no triumph pounding in his veins. Just an ache. A dull, echoing emptiness that stretches from his ribs to the soles of his blistered feet.

He should feel proud—he pulled them away, bought them time, gave you a chance—but all he feels is this gaping hollow where something inside him used to live.

So he turns.

And begins the slow, punishing walk back to the rest stop. Back to you.

Not because he knows you’re awake. Not because there’s been any sign, any whisper of hope that you’ve stirred. But because he has to. Because something in his chest—something feral and aching and stubborn—needs to be near you again, even if it’s only to sit beside your motionless body and count your breaths.

Even if you’re no longer breathing at all.

Halfway back, while dragging himself along the road with boots caked in mud and legs that barely hold him upright, he stumbles across a curb overgrown with weeds and cracked cement. And there—sprouting defiantly between the rubble and ruin—is a small patch of wildflowers.

Delicate. Bright. Alive.

They sway in the breeze like they’ve never known the end of the world. As if they exist in a time untouched by rot and ash. And Jungwon doesn’t know what kind they are—hasn’t the faintest clue. He doesn’t even care.

He sees them and thinks of you.

You, curled beneath a threadbare blanket, your forehead damp with fever. You, whispering your final requests with the last of your strength. You, promising you'd be okay—just to spare him.

His breath catches in his throat, and then—

He runs.

Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. He sprints like a man chasing salvation, like a single second might make all the difference between reaching you in time and arriving too late.

His feet pound against the pavement, raw and ragged. He slips once—knees colliding with the ground, palms tearing open on shattered glass. Blood seeps from his hands, but he doesn't stop. He can’t. He presses on, stumbling to his feet with a ragged gasp and pushes forward again, faster, harder, propelled by something that isn’t logic or certainty but need.

Because he doesn’t know if you’re still breathing.

Doesn’t know if the others were able to hold the infection at bay, if the amputation worked, if the fever broke.

He doesn’t know anything.

But he needs to.

Because if you are awake—if you’re still there—if your eyes are open and searching for something to hold onto in this world—then he wants to be the one you see. Wants you to remind him that it’s not too late to hold on to what’s left.

Not hope.

Not some dream of a better world.

Just you.

Because in a world where everything is dying, where everything good slips away too fast—you are the only thing he can still believe in.

Day Five

You still haven’t woken.

The others take turns watching you now. Heeseung insists on it, says Jungwon needs to get some air. He does but only so he could hunt down the remainder of A’s people.

He doesn’t tell them that he’s not hunting them for safety. That he’s hunting them because it’s the only thing that makes the noise in his head stop.

He stalks the woods in silence, teeth clenched, gun steady. Every bullet he fires feels like penance. Every body that hits the ground is a fraction of the rage and helplessness he can’t bleed out any other way.

By the time he returns, you haven’t moved. And he hates that the sight of your motionless figure still makes him hope. 

Day Eight

He starts blaming himself.

Not just for this. For everything. For dragging you back to the camp when you wanted to leave. For believing he could protect anyone. For every command that got someone hurt. For letting you go that night, when you said you were bit.

You had looked him in the eye and told him. And what had he done?

Screamed. Panicked. Held you like you were already slipping through his fingers. You had to be the one to make the plan. To tell them what to do. To walk away. And he let you.

He let you.

Day Eleven

He wakes up from a dream where you died.

Your body had gone cold. Your eyes clouded. But worse—your voice, the one he’d memorised in every tone, every laugh, every biting remark—it was gone. Forever.

He screams himself awake.

Jake and Sunghoon find him on the edge of the rooftop, heaving, fists clenched in his hair, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at the world and tries to remember how to breathe.

Day Twelve

He’s still out there, combing the surrounding woods for any trace of A’s remaining people. 

Deep down, he knows there probably aren’t any left—not this close to the rest stop. But that doesn’t stop him. He keeps going, driven not by strategy or necessity, but by something far more relentless: the need to do something. 

To bleed out the guilt he can’t seem to quiet.

Day Fourteen

You move.

Just your fingers. A twitch. Barely there.

He’s the only one who sees it.

He grabs your hand and nearly crushes it in his grip, whispering your name like a prayer, like a drowning man breaking the surface. But you don’t stir again. And when he tells the others, they think he’s imagining it.

He doesn’t care.

He knows what he saw.

Day Fifteen

The second Jungwon steps past the barricade, he knows something’s changed.

He can’t explain it—there’s no sound, no shout, no rushing footsteps to greet him. Just the stillness of the evening air, the muted creak of the gate behind him, and the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end like some part of him already knows.

He moves automatically, his legs dragging with exhaustion, muscles screaming from days without rest. The rifle slung over his shoulder feels heavier than ever, the dried blood on his sleeves long since stiffened into the fabric. Every step toward the convenience store feels like wading through wet cement, but he keeps going. Because you’re here. Or you were. And that’s all that matters.

Heeseung meets him at the threshold, eyes wide, mouth opening like he’s about to say something—but Jungwon doesn’t stop.

Not until he sees you.

You're standing up. Just barely. But it’s enough to make his heart lurch so violently in his chest that it knocks the breath clean out of him.

You're awake.

You're alive.

His legs buckle.

He doesn’t remember crossing the room. Doesn’t remember letting the rifle slide from his shoulder or the way the others instinctively moved aside for him like they knew—they knew—he wouldn’t be able to wait a second longer. 

And then you look at him.

Eyes tired, swollen, half-lidded from pain and medication, but unmistakably you.

“Y/N.”

Your name breaks in his mouth—raw and jagged, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and the second his skin touches yours, he shatters.

His entire body trembles, the sobs clawing their way up his throat with a force that leaves him breathless. He feels your warmth, your breath, the faint thump of your pulse against his temple—and it’s too much. Too much relief. Too much grief. Too much of everything he’s been holding back. 

And when he feels your hand on his back, pressing into him, returning the embrace, it splits him wide open.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, over and over, like if he says it enough, he can make it true. “You’re awake. God, I thought—” His voice breaks, catching on the words he’s too afraid to finish. “I thought I lost you.”

Your voice is quiet, trembling. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He pulls back, just enough to see your face—drawn, pale, bruised, but alive. Alive. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and aching, and it feels like holding something sacred. He can barely believe it.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice thick with guilt. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

The words don’t make it easier. They just hurt differently. He leans in again, forehead pressed to yours, his breath stuttering as his hands find your waist, gripping like you might fade if he loosens his hold.

“I thought I lost you forever,” he whispers, and this time, the weight of it nearly brings him down again.

And then—then you say it.

“I’m alive.”

Your voice cracks on the words, but they echo like a miracle.

His chest seizes. His breath stalls. “You’re alive.” It slips from his lips like a confession, like an answer to a prayer he didn’t know he was allowed to make. “God, Y/N… you’re alive.”

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to a sob. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel the heat of his tears before they even fall.

He’s crying.

Openly. Unashamedly. His body trembling against yours, breath hitching with every inhale, fingers clutching at your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment. He’s held it in for days—for weeks—and now, with you finally awake, it all comes spilling out.

His arms tighten around you, as if trying to pull you further into him, trying to convince himself that this is real—that this isn’t a dream or some hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and guilt.

And then you kiss him.

Or maybe he kisses you. He doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is the way your lips find his like they’ve done it a thousand times before. It's desperate, clumsy, shaking with emotion, but he pours everything into it—every sleepless night, every scream he swallowed, every prayer he never voiced.

When you whisper his name, it doesn’t sound like pain anymore. It sounds like salvation.

“I’m here,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand promises. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

He feels you collapse against him, your face tucked into the curve of his neck, and the sound of your breathing against his skin grounds him in a way nothing else can. He holds you tighter. Closer.

You’re real.

Somehow. Against every odd, through every horror. You came back.

And now, finally, so does he.

He doesn’t let go of you that night.

Not when the others start filtering in, trying not to stare. Not when Jake quietly checks your vitals and nods in quiet relief. Not even when Sunoo tries to pass him a damp cloth and tells him to “breathe or something.”

He stays curled beside you on that mattress, head tucked near your shoulder, his arms wrapped protectively around you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Because for two weeks, he lived in the space between grief and hope.

And tonight—for the first time in what feels like forever—he gets to choose hope.

Because you're here.

You're alive.

And he never wants to know a world without you again.

part 7 - hope | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: okay NOW i conclude safe & sound... see this is what happens when a writer has major attachment issues. it gives you 18k words on a word document after a series supposedly ended. anyway happy jay day! and I'll come back with many exciting things soon! xoxo

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[oharaslove]

We’ve always seen Grumpy x Sunshine when it comes to Miguel and Reader. Today I present you with Grumpy x Grumpy

Reader who never showed a smile towards anyone in the Society. 

Miguel who notices them in the group meetings. Every Spider has a sense of humour, they smile through the pain, but you didn’t. You were always with a serious expression. You were integrated, at the same time though, you seemed closed off. Not letting anyone come close. 

Miguel who takes interest. There is only one place for a Grumpy person in this lab, and that’s him. Or at least, most people say he is grumpy, not that he believes it 100%. 

Reader who enjoys spending time by themselves, recluding to the rooftop of the Society. A place that, weirdly enough, no one frequents. 

Miguel who looks for Reader in the common spaces, but doesn’t have luck. He didn’t exactly know what he wanted with you, but there was something pulling him towards your person. Did he want to be friends? Was he just curious? No idea.

Miguel who has to admit to Lyla what he is doing, having to accept her teases. “Oooohhh Miguel has got a crush” At which Miguel rolls his eyes. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even know you! How could he have a crush? he definitely has. If it were any other Spider, he would probably not care, but you. You had something. 

Lyla who, after an uncountable amount of mocking, takes pity on Miguel and reveals your location. Miguel who sees you through the security camera, sitting at the edge, dangling your feet. 

Miguel who marches towards your location. No plan in his head. He was just going with the flow. His body guiding him towards what it wanted. You

Reader who is startled by the sudden sound of someone opening the door to the rooftop. Who the hell comes here?. You turned around, spotting Miguel silently watching you from the doorway. You turn around again, rolling your eyes. Whatever. 

Miguel who approaches you. What the hell has he come here for? It’s been a looong minute since he has spoken to a woman, other than work stuff.

Miguel who just stands there, looking off at the distance, while keeping an eye on you from time to time. He was just testing the water, yeah. 

Reader who finds it weird, but let’s it happen. Miguel is the leader of the society after all. Besides, you knew (or at least heard) that he was “grumpy”. Problem, you didn’t know if he really was, or like you, he was misunderstood by everyone. In doubt, better keep quiet. 

Miguel who after a while, decides to go. That was embarrassing enough. But don’t get confused, he would come back, he just needed a plan. 

Miguel who, the first week, just stands there, getting comfortable with your presence, hoping you do too. Until….

“You know you can sit, right?” “Uh… I-” He stutters, not expecting you to talk. You scooch over, even though there is plenty of space. Miguel sits, rather close. He enjoys the view now, but most importantly, the heat emanating from your body. He sighs, step 1 down. 

Days turned into weeks. Now, you two were comfortable. Not talking much yet, but sitting next to each other, enjoying each other’s company while appreciating the skyline. Miguel hadn’t realised how much he needed this, relaxing. After a day being cooped up in the lab, this was a nice change. You would share food with each other, a lovely and quiet picnic between two friends? A boss and a worker? Co-workers? He had no clue, but whatever it was, he liked it. 

But… he wanted more. He felt the need to know you better. So.. that’s how the conversations started. About whatever, whoever… didn’t matter. What matter was that step 2 was down. 

Step 3 was by far the hardest one. Make you laugh. At least a small giggle or a smile, Miguel would be happy with either one. 

Granted, Miguel wasn’t good with jokes either. He didn’t know how the other Spiders did it. But thankfully, as a man of science, he knew how to achieve a goal. 

Miguel who spends quite some time observing the other Spiders. He never had a reason to, but now, he did. He thought that you would like it if he was funny, like the others. Yeah, surely, why wouldn’t you?

Miguel who writes some jokes and practises how to deliver them, over and over again. Lyla was having a blast. The big, “bad”, “grumpy” leader of the Spider Society, creator of Nueva York, was mad about another person. 

Miguel, nervous af, goes to your spot. After meeting for quite some time, you two developed a routine. Always at the same hour, same place. 

Reader who is already there, waiting. You really enjoyed meeting with Miguel, you felt he was the only one who understood you. 

Miguel who slowly approaches you. He could feel sweat dribble from his temple, down to his neck. 

Miguel checks the paper on his hand. Yeah, these jokes would do. 

Miguel who, after a peaceful chit chat, feels comfortable enough to start trying with the jokes. They were awful, to say the least. 

“How would you describe Spiderman’s perfect home? The world wide web!”

Miguel who after every stupid joke watches your reaction. At first, you are confused, but as jokes go by, he can see you trying hard not to smile. 

“What is–” “What are you doing?” you said, your lips tugging up into a smile. you were so adorable. “What do you mean?” “The jokes” you clarify, your smile widening. “I– I was trying to be funny, like the other Spidermen. People seem to like them. I–” “Don’t” you interrupt, your tone and expression serious. 

Miguel wanted to be swallowed by the Earth. He scrunches the paper and fists it. This was all a waste— “I like you just the way you are” You confess, making Miguel snap his head towards you, eyes wide like plates. 

“You– you do?” He must have misheard you. “Mhh” you mumbled, nodding. “Just,” you bite your lip, debating if you should say it or not. “Just be my Miguel. The one you’ve always been” And you smile as bright as the sun, warming Miguel’s hug. 

“Your Miguel” he repeats in a trance. You nod, biting your lip, trying to suppress the smile that had been printed on your face. Nothing could wipe it now. 

Miguel mirrors you, smiling from ear to ear. He looks at his clenched fist, the paper sticking out. He looks at you and laughs, throwing the paper into the city. “I’ll be your Miguel then” He scooches closer to you, giving you the opportunity to lean on his chest, as he rounds your body with his arm. 

“Yeah, my Miguel” you sighed, closing your eyes and melting into his touch. His warm body and heartbeat lulling you to sleep. 

Miguel who kisses the top of your head, before resting his cheek against it. He sighs, step 3 and goal down. 

To the world, you were two Grumpy people. But between you, days were spent between laughs and giggles. Kisses being interrupted by smiles. Just seeing each other made you happy. Life was warm, yellow and red, all together. It didn’t matter how the rest saw you, just that you two were happy and in love. 

[wetpussyju1ce]

the smallest Omega in town takes on the biggest Alpha.

+18 mdni

Alpha!König x Omega!fem reader

note: reader is described as skinny. small wrists and bony knees. shorter than the 141.

John's pack was known to be extremely loyal and fiercely protective over each other. They were nice though, friendly and liked to mingle with other packs and families in the village.

They were also extremely close to each other and in tune with each other's needs. And that's how the pack found out that König, their big, awkward Alpha, needed a bit of help when it came to ruts.

He usually spends them alone, much to his packs disagreement over those arrangements because it can't be good for you, it can't! Then they decided to take matters into their own hands and try to find König a rut partner. It was a very serious matter for them, they coaxed König out of details and descriptions about what he likes. They know he doesn't really have a preference if they're Alpha, Omega or Beta. So that's a good start.

He likes them pretty, soft around the edges and smaller than him, which could be literally anyone in the whole village considering his sheer size.

And that was about it.

So Johnny, Kyle, Simon and John went to work. Looking for willing unmated wolves to spend König's ruts w him. Surprisingly it was easy to find willing partners, they know König, have seen him around and the idea of being impaled on his knot was attractive to quite a few of them.

But the real problem started when König asked for a try-out, before his rut hits, because he knows that a knot of his size could be considered a weapon. And he doesn't want to feel the rejection and hurt during his rut when he realises his partner can't take him, or are scared of hurting.

So they accepted, all of them, pretty Alphas, shy Omegas and tiny Betas.

And it didn't go well, they all believed it could be achievable, like how big can he really be? Body-horror big, apparently because what the fuck.

Oh and König knew to anticipate this. The gods made a joke out of him when building him in his mother's womb. They gave him everything it was to be a perfect Alpha, and gave him the biggest knot that no Omega, or Alphsa/Beta could take. It was ridiculous.

He lost hope and decided to busy himself with rut preparations, stocking up one of their many cottages deep in the forest, away from everyone.

His pack was sad for their sweet Alpha, it pulled at their heart to smell his upset scent. he scented sad and defeated and they really wanted to try harder, to make it all better.

it got to a point where they had no idea what more could they do because obviously nobody could take his knot without causing themselves injuries. and their Alpha can't be alone forever, surely??? I mean, that's a bit dramatic but he obviously craved that type of connection and bond with someone. he can't knot his fist and someone's thighs, forever, it wasnt enough!

and when all hope seemed lost their doorbell rang.

and there she was. the tiniest Omega they've ever seen. well, she wasnt that small, but compared to them, she sure as hell was, dainty and skinny too, bony knees and tiny wrists. she was standing there, wearing a pair of shorts, boots and a t-shirt under a flannel, she looked like she just finished gardening, dirt stuck to her knees and caking her boots.

"Hello?" Simon greeted, confused.

"Is König in?" She asked, looking up at the taller man.

"No, why?" Simon raised a brow.

"Oh and I'm here for the rut partner try-out, thing. if that's still happening." She said, shrugging, all casual.

Simon's mind screeched to a stop, did she say try-outs?? is that how everyone in the village saw it as?? what in the hell??

"What the hell are you talking about?" Simon said, utterly confused.

"What? Did he find someone?" She tilted her head to the side, confused.

"No, no-- Just, what makes you think you can take his knot? You're fucking tiny." Simon went straight to the point.

She smiled, kind and unbothered, "I know he's big, I heard all sorts of things, but I believe I can help, and if it works, I'd also like an arrangement out of it, a heat partner if he'd be willing."

Simon feels like he should slam the door on her face. Just to save her guts from absolute and sure destruction by König's cock because no way in hell would she be able to take him. but then the Omega looks sure of herself. not cocky. just looks friendly and honest and she looks ready to help.

Simon maybe should have asked her to save her guts and go away but he doesn't. he let's her in, not knowing that she has spent years of her heats trying to shove as much of her toys inside her as possible. she doesn't even mention the fact that she ends up fisting her cunt every heat cycle. or when she has a heat partner w a knot, that knot ends up inside her alongside a toy at the same time.

the Omega ends up meeting König, says she would like to help. he disagrees at first because he's not in the mood to take her to the hospital, he really really doesn't want to hurt her. but then she begs him to trust her w the sweetest face he's ever seen, lets him scent honesty all over her and he agrees to give her a chance.

König n the Omega end up talking abt gardening and the sellers at the market and the prices these days. they quickly bond over growing vegetables and their shared dislike for that one guy that sells strawberries and swears that they're that naturally huge (and they're not even sweet, what the hell??)

they agree on a date, and a time, they would try to see how it goes before König's rut hits, and if everything goes alright, they'll spend it together.

when they meet, König's weary, she's not, calm and happy as a clam. she asks him to trust her, and it starts off easy, she holds his hands and König shivers because his are literally giant mitts compared to hers. she sweet talks him into relaxing, she sits on his lap and they start talking a little, then she goes ahead and kisses him and he realises very quickly that he likes that, he really does, her lips taste sweet and her scent is so sweet and delicious.

König's alpha quickly realises that this may actually work and he gets excited in record time, tents his trousers and gets his mouth on her tits, it takes no time for her to start leaking like a broken faucet. König's hand are slippery between her legs and he's about to pass out at the intensity of it all. she's everywhere around him and all he can do is suck on her breasts and purr.

then he gets a finger inside her tight and warm hole. it's wet and feels soft. then another goes next. and another. all the while she's making all sorts of noises, clawing at him, and the more fingers he can push inside her the more he's awed and amazed because for someone so tiny and fragile, she sure as hell can take so much inside her.

König wants a better view so he gets her on the bed, laying on her back and absolutely hammers his fingers inside her cunt, watching her stomach bulge everytime he drives his fingers in.

he's about to lose his mind at the sight alone, and then she cries, squeals and squirts all over his hand and arm.

König then gathers her in his arms, chest to chest, gets his arms under her legs, as they're pressed against her body, practically folding her in half, carrying all of her weight in his massive arms like she was just a doll to him, and finally dips the head of his cock between her pussy lips. he starts to push further in and she's moaning, clawing at his neck, he gets halfway in and he's sweating bullets because she's so tight and she's pulsing around him and yet, he knows she can take more. and he was right because he keeps dropping her on his length until it's all inside, to the root, and she wails, comes again, shaking in his arms and König is losing his mind, his knot swelling in record time. when he comes, he's dizzy and he's heaving like he ran a marathon and he hasn't even thrusted inside of her just yet.

they make all sorts of noises when fucking. it's animalistic. König sounds like he's about to pass out and the Omega sounds like that's what she's been waiting for all of her life. It was filthy, intense and so fucking loud that when Gaz was sent to check on them, as they used one of the many cottages John's pack owns, the moment the smell hits his nose, he freezes and turns back around, he does not want to be anywhere near them if that's how potent their combined scent is.

at least he knows they're having a great time. so he goes back, well, more like runs back to the house, a little bit scared and excited because finally their Alpha got to knot someone!

and when all that's said and done, and the Omega and alpha come back to the shared house the next day. König is out of it, nothing but statics behind his eyes while the Omega looks content, eats everything she's offered by König's pack, starved. but winces once in a while when she moves in a certain way. she scents happy, and König scents confused but content nonetheless. and that's everything his pack wished for.

[lunaria-maharlika]

Pt2Danny Accidentally becomes the Ghost king, the president and the biggest threat to Bruce's social status.

Pt 1 link:

Part 2 Danny becomes the president.

Amity Parkers are the most adaptable people in the world. They're barely fazed by anything.

If you throw them into a situation that they are very unfamiliar with, it'll only take them five minutes to adjust before they start planning on how to live with this situation.

The Amity Parker mindset is: "Oh, I guess this is happening now."

So when the ghosts start attacking? The Amity Parkers immediately look for ways to avoid and protect themselves from the ghosts, not even questioning why ghosts are real. The only thing they think about is, "Damn, there's a ghost. I hope it doesn't attack the theater; I really want to see that movie."

When Phantom had his debut as a hero? The Amity Parkers started looking for ways to help, ways to keep out of his way (some to try and keep him away). The thought running through their minds was, "So this one is trying to protect us? Guess we have a hero now."

Amity Parkers don't spend their time getting mad at the sudden change of routine, the sudden loss of normalcy, or the broken buildings. Amity Parkers don't ask why and how ghosts are real, don't question if all ghosts are evil or if there are some good ghosts, and don't even think of how to get rid of them completely (they're part of the community now). They only look for ways to keep themselves from getting overshadowed. They definitely don't spend time thinking if the ghosts could bring more danger in the future or looking for more information for possible contingency plans. They aren't Batman; they believe that if the present is good, then the future will be better.

Point is, Amity Parkers are resilient and adaptable. They will take everything in stride and focus on the present. So what if some ghosts attack and block the street? They need to get to work, so they'll just drive around it.

After the whole Pariah Dark thing, they become liminal, gaining some form of super strength and glowing eyes (symptoms vary based on how strong the radiation on a person is). A normal human would think, "OH MY GOD, I'M DYING!" The Amity Parkers went, "Oh, cool, this is cool, but now I'm having a problem with opening doors without breaking the knob. Maybe the Fentons could do something about it, make stronger knobs or something."

When some babies started gaining some inhuman features? Some start floating? (Sharper ears, fangs. Babies adapt to things faster, so they get more ecto radiation.) The Amity parents went, "Is there a way to keep my child on the ground without leashing them like a dog?" Then proceeded to make a help blog for other Amity parents dealing with the same things.

So when the ghosts start becoming more of the community rather than enemies, the Amity Parkers just shrugged and asked for a book of ghost customs so they don't accidentally offend them.

When the Fentons started making ghost and human-safe items, no one even questioned why Danny had so much money and was funding his parents' research.

When Danny's name was almost (if not) in everything and he seemed to own most of the town, no one questioned it.

But everything changed when the GIW came again. Even the Amity Parkers weren't expecting this change.

The GIW waltzed in, claiming the liminal town was theirs to play with and started attacking everyone, including the Amity Parkers. The Amity Parkers went full defense mode, protecting the ghosts that were now their friends/neighbors/lovers, making sure that nothing would harm them.

They learned that it was Vlad who called on the GIW. He was pissed and petty that the crown was taken from him and decided to report his liminal town, pretending to be a "concerned mayor" who "wants his people to be healed."

The Amity Parkers were mad... they were furious.

And in the moment they saw Phantom fall to the ground, unconscious, and watched him de-transform from the hero King Phantom to the kid that owns and funds the most helpful companies in town, something changed. Something in the Amity Parkers changed.

Keep in mind that Amity Parkers don't change; they remain the same as they adapt to whatever change the world throws at them.

NEVER ONCE HAD THE AMITY PARKERS DECIDED TO MAKE A CHANGE THEMSELVES.

The first thing they changed? Their mentality. NEVER AGAIN WERE THEY GOING TO LET OUTSIDE FACTORS CHANGE THEIR LIVES. THIS IS THEIR TOWN AND IT WILL STAY THAT WAY.

God help the GIW for being their first victims.

An angry town of liminals, ghosts, and borderline gods, who have access to the Fentons' very destructive and effective technology.

Vs.

The regular GIW humans with anti-ghost tech they stole from the Fentons and nothing against liminals.

The battle was a swift victory, destroying not only the GIW in town but also all of its branches (and Vlad) with almost no traces of them even existing in the first place.

The change didn't stop there, however.

The Amity Parkers banded together with Team Phantom and the Fentons (minus Danny, as he is healing and shouldn't know about their plans; the hero should rest) and took out some of that ghost king money that Danny's trying to get rid of. They crashed the UN meeting while kidnapping the president of America.

The Amity Parkers have decided that Amity Park is theirs; it belongs to the people and its heroes. But how is it supposed to be truly theirs if they have to follow the rules of the country that funded the GIW?

A couple of death threats, bribing, more death threats and more money bribing to make sure the anti ecto acts are gone and the League of Bitches (Phantom called the JL that, and the Amity Parkers decided it was true) doesn't know about it, and a couple of hours in the nightmare realm (courtesy of Fright Knight, who happily participated when he found out what happened), and Amity Park was now its own independent country.

They decided that Tucker was to be a main part of security, letting him put up another firewall like the GIW did to make sure no one knows about their country. They don't want the League of Bitches or any outsider in the King's Haunt. It's theirs now; it belongs to the Ghost King of Amity Park, outsiders be gone.

And when it came to deciding who would be leader? There was no hesitation as they wrote down:

Daniel "Danny Phantom" Fenton, King of the Infinite Realms, King and President of Amity Park.

___________________

A couple of years later, Batman, finding hints of a "Lazarus pit" in Illinois, send Flash to look around for anything suspicious. Flash, hyper focused on following his gps, hits a wall, literally faceplants into it.He double checks his map, the wall wasn't supposed to be there. He goes around it, there no way in, no way out. He goes back to batman and reports.

Pt3 soon.

Tags as requested

@nana-mizu-shiki

@talia-scar123

[save-the-villainous-cat]

"I saw you on TV," the villain said. They stared down at the hero. The hero they had bound to one of the incredibly old machines in the warehouse, the hero who had daringly followed them right into a trap. "It was quite...interesting. If I am allowed to say that."

"Interesting how?" they asked but didn't meet the villain's eyes. Surely, the responsibilities the hero had to bear were crushing them and the villain, despite their absolute distaste for people who pretended to be saviors, was fascinated by the true devotion the hero offered. To everyone.

"You looked like a prophet almost. With your heroic speech, your kind words. My god, you almost convinced me that humanity is inherently good. And with all those people around you? It’s a miracle no one tried to jump on top of you and give themselves voluntarily to our saviour."

"You mean the charity event?" The hero sighed and closed their eyes. "Yeah, I told the organizers it was stupid to do it in a public space. People were there for me, not the charity."

"Did it help, though? Was there a lot of money coming in?" The hero raised a suspicious eyebrow and frowned softly.

"Not really. Not until the anonymous donation." The villain couldn't help but be amused by that. That mysterious donation had certainly provided quite a sum.

"You're unhappy?"

"I'm not exactly...satisfied with my work. I wanted to prove to people that it’s not me who stands for goodness, but that goodness is within everyone. I know that’s cheesy, but…" They took another breath in and the villain was disappointed by themselves for feeling sorry for the hero.

"You feel like an object?" The villain leaned forward. They were tempted to touch the hero’s wrist or maybe even their jawline. But they refrained. They had known each other for a while now, but that wasn’t an excuse to do as they pleased.

Especially when the hero wasn’t in a position to move away.

The problem was: the villain liked the hero. A lot. A bit too much. They weren’t obsessed, they weren’t greedy when it came to the hero, but they had fallen in love a long time ago and it wasn’t exactly easy to get rid of.

They had tried, but they were too attached to their enemy.

"…yeah. I know that sort of comes with the job. People say…inappropriate things about me and I know people who idolise me can be…a lot sometimes."

"Have you ever been harmed by a fan? Touched?"

"…a few times, yeah. I mostly brushed it off." The hero pursed their lips. And the villain’s eyes widened. "I try not to think about it."

"Do you know who…?"

"If I told you, that person would be dead by tomorrow." Wrong, they’d be dead in a few hours, but alright. The villain understood that reasoning. They understood the hero would protect citizens at all costs. "And I also don’t know them."

They stared at each other.

"So…how can I help protect you, then?" the villain asked. They shifted a little, unsure what they expected as answer.

"What?"

"How can I help protect you?"

"Oh…uh…" The hero laughed awkwardly.

"I can hire someone, if you-"

"A hero who needs a bodyguard is a little pathetic, don’t you think?" the hero asked. The villain watched them swallow. They looked a little pale.

"Even if it’s me?"

"You’re being serious about this?"

"I could…ignore my usual activities for your social events and make sure you can preach all your horrible goodness," the villain suggested. They shrugged but still blushed horribly.

"Wha-why?"

"Yes or no? You have three seconds to decide. Three, two-"

"Alright, fine." The hero laughed and this time, they seemed actually happy. "I’ll see you on Monday, then."

"Good." The villain left immediately and tried to ignore their enemy as best as they could.

In the end, the hero had to get out of the trap all by themselves.

[hallwayheart]

'piracy is wrong' ea is a money hungry, soulless corporation lining its pockets with money made off of an audience of 18-30 year olds in the middle of an international cost of living crisis, cashing it in on an era of overconsumption and 'ill buy it for this one feature'. in the past year it's implemented micro-transactions & Well let's be honest, ea takes advantage of consumers through the ea creator network by using them as a marketing technique to get consumers to buy their products and Like yeah that's blatantly obvious but i feel the need to put it into words because frankly it's sinister.

there's a blatant lack of transparency often enough and i understand this is peoples job and i have nothing against anyone who is attached to the network nor am i targeting anyone. at the end of the day ea is the bigger problem and these are regular people who love the sims and i wouldn't deny anyone the opportunity. but it's corrupt and sinister to me that ea uses this network and the gurus to market their products because simmers are far more likely to turn to creators and people in the community that they love to decide on buying a pack, then to examine the features themselves and make a decision. and i think this puts creators in an awkward position of transparency vs appeasing the evil corporation. and i feel for them While also feeling discomforted by this as a whole.

the people making the sims 4 who cared about the sims franchise left a long time ago, or their voices are drowned out so much by everyone around them that we can't hear them anymore. and i'm not telling you to pirate the game and stop giving ea any of your money so the game can die a sad But natural death and modders can take over and fix ea's mess and we can all live happy ever after because that's illegal and a crime but i also logically Cannot stop you from doing it.

what i am saying is to Put on your grown up pants and assess the state of the game, the state of the world, the state of over-consumption and consider how much money you have fed into corporations like EA and how much other people have influenced YOU purchasing things that ultimately didn't live up to your expectations. how many times has an influencer on tiktok talked about how much she loved a waterbottle Enough that you bought it. if you're happy with everything you've ever purchased that's FINE and some people really Truly do love certain ts4 ep's. seasons and growing together are the only ep's i'd recommend people buy, personally, and i don't doubt anyones honesty! But nuance can exist in this conversation. Two things can be true. make choices 4 urself & consider breaking up w ur favourite toxic video game corporation Today.

[tossawary]

I have about 10k of fic that's about as far from SVSSS as I've ever written, taking greater inspiration from fics I've written before, which I've been using as writing warm-up. It's a pre-canon third transmigrator AU from the outsider's perspective of Linguang-Jun. (Linguang-Jun having a great reputation as a hunter is something that I originally came up with for the Stardust AU.)

Like SVSSS Mobei-Jun, Linguang-Jun is fun to write because he sucks pretty bad; it's a LOT of fun to try and write a setup for him that's going to explode eventually (not yet, but eventually, inevitably) and in a specific way. How many parallels can I draw? I think it's amusing to think about how the cringefail ballad of Moshang and all the rest of SVSSS is taking place in the crater where Linguang-Jun's dreams used to be. (That happened to my buddy Tianlang-Jun, too, now that I'm thinking about it, and he decided to make that everyone else's problem.) Such is the life of a mere background character!

I don't know when I'll be posting this to AO3. I don't like to post WIP there unless I can fully focus on them. If I don't continue this story, I'll post it eventually to AO3 as an open-ended one-shot or something. But for now... Enjoy!

Warning for minor character death and graphic violence (and vomiting) in the first part, and also unpleasant demonic attitudes to things. Everyone but Linguang-Jun is an OC.

Chapter One: A God's Spear

There is no greater feeling in the world than the long thrill of the hunt. 

Chasing their prey, they become the laughing winds rushing across the yellow steppes, howling at the heels of the thundering herds, even felling centuries-old pines that have bent for every natural storm but never broken before. They send corpse after corpse of scavengers squawking and flailing for their lives. 

Mobei Yang cannot wait to sink his teeth into the monster wrecking its way across the northern kingdoms. They are chasing a Giant Sea Heron... or rather: the creature that used to be one before it met a hole in the world. Did it breathe the poisonous gases too deeply? Did it feed on the vent's escapees too hungrily? Did it become mesmerized by the shimmering chaotic energy and allow itself to dream where reality itself is torn apart? 

Who knows? Who cares? Mobei Yang's lordly brother doubtlessly hadn't cared to ask the babbling messenger either, before waving the lesser demon on to younger men who can truly appreciate the unique challenges of what an unstable Abyssal gateway can create. 

Already two times the height of a large man, the creature has swelled in size to become twice as large as that. Its brown neck has thickened, its dark head has grown a sharp and lopsided crest, and its unnaturally elongated beak is now the same size as the rest of its body, perhaps, a god's spear capable of swallowing grown demons whole. The giant creature needs its folded, white wings to walk along the ground now, almost like a large monkey or a small bat, but it struts slowly along not unlike a long-necked antelope. 

All the Giant Sea Heron does now is eat: struggling to grow, struggling to sustain its growth, struggling to fill the endless hole that's crawled inside of its core. It has left a bloody, dissatisfied trail behind it. Which the breathless messenger claimed had started with its own former mate and eggs, the messy remains found abandoned in a nest on a high sea cliff. 

The giant creature looks so heavy, lumbering awkwardly around the corpse of a Black-Moon Rhinoceros - the crescent of the horn is unmistakable - to jab its long spear back into the dark guts and yank it apart. Ah, it's picking one of those parasitic snake demons out of the body. 

Its eyes have become enormous, bulbous; they have a sickly pale color and are rimmed with mucus. Abyss-touched creatures are often sick, like Abyssal creatures themselves are often blinded by sunlight. The giant creature doesn't seem to notice anything as a brown fox darts out of the tall grass and steals a piece of the kill that had been tossed aside, nor does it care anything for the circling black vultures that aren't yet nearly so brave. 

Just looking at it, one wouldn't think that the elephantine creature is still hollow-boned enough to fly! Yet when their hunting party ambushes it, the giant creature somehow vaults itself into the sky, folding hideously in on itself and then launching upwards in an ascension even more unnatural than a human's. 

Mobei Yang watches its heavy wingbeats take it high up into the heavenly clouds, beyond the easy reach of most demons. All of their hunting prowess, all of the joy they have spilled on their skill, leaves them with nothing today. But this is nothing! When his faithful followers look anxiously towards him for direction, Mobei Yang is the first to laugh at their failure, at the renewed challenge, and they soon echo him. 

"Any excuse to extend a hunt is a cause for celebration!" Mobei Yang shouts, receiving a gleeful roar in response. "If you want a meal that doesn't fight back, then go back to the Ice Palace, cowards!" 

They don't find it again that day, but the mood is still good when they make camp, freed from the dullness of the courts. At home, Mobei Yang is a prince, sought after and respected, but also one among many formidable clan members working to keep his elder brother's favor. On the hunt like this, he might as well be the Lord of the Northern Desert already. 

The wind picks up as the sun sinks. The clouds darken and writhe against a beautiful, burning sky. Shuang Tao, his right-hand, a frost wind demon, loudly and laughingly recalls some of their best kills, their most daring and reckless feats, over the years. A blur of memories now. 

Mobei Yang knows a great deal about the habits of hunted creatures, but this one is new, even before it became the only thing in the world like it. Weak-minded creatures and demons touched by the Endless Abyss tend to go uselessly mad: short memories and shorter tempers and a thin grasp on reality if any. He's hunted Emperors of the Abyss before, those malformed masses of demonic energy that die with every step they take out of their pits, and White Sea Whales, their clever and vindictive cousins that never took man-shaped forms. 

"I'm preparing myself for disappointment, really," Mobei Yang drawls, accepting a new cup of wine. "But ahhh, that skull will look beautiful in the West Wind Palace... hanging over the hall, I think." 

As they were watching the ruined creature, it must have seen them. It must have been watching them as well. In one moment, Shuang Tao is toasting the evening and tomorrow and every hunt after. In the next moment, the setting sun vanishes all at once, as the Giant Sea Heron falls on them like the wrath of the heavens. 

Its enormous beak spears through a demon before it lands with a heavy thump, before any of them know it's there, and a second demon rolls away from the continuing jab. Not fast enough to escape the sharp drawing of blood. 

The Giant Sea Heron's massive wings crash through the camp as it lands. Mobei Yang is knocked head over heels into the grass and dust. His wine spills everywhere. 

Mobei Yang rolls with the blow and recovers quickly, unharmed, of course. And he is the first to summon his weapon and strike back, hastily followed by his hunters, but the creature is well-fed, unflinching, faster than something of its size should be, lunging like a snake. 

Its spiritual energy is unleashed with its battering wings: it's foul, rotting, almost overwhelming. Ice spears and arrows don't seem to pierce its feathers at all. Hastily formed spells break easily against the burn of its spiritual strength.

Shuang Tao throws an ordinary spear, whistling with the wind behind it, and manages to draw blood from its featherless  leg. But the wound is glancing, a shallow cut in surprisingly thick skin. 

"Mire it!" Mobei Yang shouts, summoning ice around its feet. The ice is too weak, too slow, cracking open immediately. 

He dodges its long beak, its heavy wings, its beak again. It seems fixated on him more than the others - not uncommon when dealing with spiritually starving creatures, it wants the most meal - but it still gets distracted when another hunter tries to rope its wing. It pulls on the wing up sharply, pulls the unready hunter into the air, and then spears the weak demon through with its long beak. 

It's much cleverer than Mobei Yang thought that it was. Much stronger. Not clever enough to live, but still annoying, still thrilling, still enough to bare one's teeth. 

Mobei Yang dances towards Shuang Tao's fallen spear, flips it up with his foot, catches, and then launches it towards the creature's swirling eye. 

His aim is true! Of course! The Giant Sea Heron screeches and thrashes like a dying thing, but the spear clearly doesn't punch deeply enough to hit its brain. The spear falls out in the thrashing. Messily. 

The remaining ten hunters have formed a circle around the Giant Sea Heron, ready just out of easy reach, making it more difficult to kill them all quickly. One of the other hunters makes a second spear-throw for the other eye, not nearly so beautifully. The creature ducks blindness easily and screeches. Its raised feathers crackle with resentful energy. 

Mobei Yang can see it decide to flee. Maybe they're much stronger and cleverer than the creature thought they were too. 

The Giant Sea Heron goes down and tries to launch itself upwards, only to go nowhere, to stumble, to barely keep itself upright. The summoned ice they've been throwing at its feet has easily been cracked and crushed, but the water remains, and it has been skillfully manipulated by the likes of Heng Leyang and Xi Mingzhu. 

The water demons have made a mud pit and the Giant Sea Heron's thrashing has only sunk it deeper into the trap. The half-frozen mud is harder to break. 

The creature's rotten energy rises, bubbles, and then it screeches again, disorienting in its sheer loudness, its hatred and desperation rippling through the air. Most of the hunters cover their ears and it helps very little. The unnatural sound shakes through one's entire body. The first terrible screech is still rippling through the world when the next begins. 

Such venting of power can't be sustainable, but the unnatural screeching makes the battle wretched while it lasts. 

Mobei Yang becomes the black wind around the spearing beak, then twists away to attack this ruined creature, repeatedly. But shifting forms burns under the onslaught of spiritual energy. The hatefulness of it even disrupts him once, forcing him to become solid flesh again, and dodge as an ordinary demon might to avoid a raking of freed talons. 

It's hard work keeping the creature down, baiting it this way and that, keeping out of its deadly reach. They pick and they peck, but none of them are certain how to put this Giant Sea Heron down. The Endless Abyss has made a remarkable ruin here. 

Shuang Tao's young nephew, Shuang Qiang, keeps looking towards Mobei Yang with wide, expectant eyes. This is the young frost wind demon's first hunt with this royal party. Does he expect a retreat to be called here? Does he think that the spoiled, weaker, younger prince will go running back to his lordly brother now, swallowing his pride, begging for help? Mobei Yang has never surrendered in such a way and never will while he lives. 

If a creature can bleed, it can die. Through the ruined eye again might do it... 

Mobei Yang isn't certain how long it's been when a new hunting party appears, but the dying sun hasn't fully drowned yet. They must be local demons, summoned by the screeching or the spiritual rot. 

"They'll get in our way! Keep them back!" Mobei Yang snarls at Shuang Tao, who nods and turns to his nephew. 

He doesn't need assistance. Ordinarily, he might appreciate an audience, but this battle is slipping from fascinating to frustrating. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Mobei Yang tracks young Shuang Qiang's progress. The leader of the newcomers, a rock demon by the look of him, greets their messenger with an ally's gesture. Rather than charge in recklessly, they keep their distance atop the hill. 

Most of them. 

While trying to keep the Giant Sea Heron's feet frozen down, Mobei Yang sees a smaller figure break forward from the new hunting party. Shuang Qiang lunges to catch them and... misses? He shouldn't have missed. The figure running forward obviously isn't as fast or as nimble as Shuang Tao's nephew. 

One of the Hao brothers notices and also tries to grab the intruder, his hand should easily wrap around their spear, and yet... he also somehow fails. An illusion wind demon is fast and not easily fooled, but the Hao brother stumbles as though his hand didn't touch anything at all. 

Shuang Tao lurches to intervene and Mobei Yang whips an ice spear in front of his second's middle. "Wait," he orders, "I want to see this." 

The Giant Sea Heron fixes the approaching figure in its one eye and then spears its enormous beak forward. It should split the intruder, crush them. The enormous creature is faster than this fool. 

The intruder disappears. Mobei Yang isn't sure what happens. The figure's own shadow seemed to leap up to swallow them, or they fell down into it, and the blood-stained beak spears down on nothing. There was no noticeable burst of new spiritual energy. Nothing that could be sensed above the Giant Sea Heron's rotting wrath, at least. 

The Giant Sea Heron tilts its head in obvious confusion. It screeches its unhappiness again, much to everyone else's misery, before... the ruined creature jolts and abruptly cuts itself off. 

"How...?" Shuang Tao says. "On its back?" 

"What terrible posture," Mobei Yang remarks, too surprised to put the proper dryness into it. 

The disappearing intruder has somehow reappeared on the giant creature's back, struggling for balance. Despite their slowness, despite their obvious lack of strength, the shadowy figure somehow manages to drive their spear through the creature's long, feathered neck in a single thrust. Mobei Yang sees the spear tip come out the other side. 

The Giant Sea Heron thrashes wildly to dislodge its attacker. When it tries to screech again, the high shriek quickly dies off into a gurgle of dark blood. 

At first, the disappearing intruder clings to their spear like a tied rag, but they fall off within seconds and then vanish again. 

Where they go, Mobei Yang doesn't care. While the giant creature is distracted, he becomes the black wind again and rushes forward to take their place, to put solid hands on the embedded spear, then to push all of the wrath of a noble ice demon into this critical weak point. 

The ruined creature's neck explodes in a shower of ice, spiritual energy, blood, and no small amount of feathers. The severed head hits the ground with a heavy thump before the body finally topples over in an ungainly heap of wings. 

Mobei Yang rides the collapse down easily. Then he jumps off the body, still holding half of the broken spear in his hand, and looks the weapon over. The shaft is ordinary wood. As he felt when he pushed his spiritual energy into it, the spearhead at his foot appears to be without spell or even decoration. This spear should not have been able to pierce such a creature's throat with such singular ease. 

Some of his hunters are whooping with victory, with relief, but Mobei Yang is distracted away from their celebration of him by a stranger stepping audaciously in front of him. A... teenage boy? 

This demon is a full head shorter than Mobei Yang, which puts them at a taller than average height among most other demons, and their pale face seems young. They're plump like a seal, with large, dark eyes. They have no painted marks or tattoos. Their dark hair is cut shockingly short, close to their head, just long enough to flop over furrowed brows. 

Instead of paying the rightful attention and respect to a prince, the boy is frowning at the broken spear, and first crouches down to pick up the spearhead. Like Mobei Yang, the boy is wearing a fair amount of spilled blood. He must have been close. 

The boy stands up again and looks up with those big, seal-dark eyes. "Hurt?" 

Mobei Yang doesn't understand the word at first, so poorly pronounced, so heavily accented. The boy squints at him, looks him up and down. 

"H-help?" 

As though Mobei Yang didn't just kill the creature that this boy failed to finish. The boy's eyes are already drifting disrespectfully away to one of the dead hunters, partially crushed in the battle, a gruesome but unsurprising sight. Such is life, as they say, such is death. 

One would think so, at least, except that this boy's face turns sickly and he looks hastily away. His body jerks, a hand goes over his mouth, he jerks again, pauses, and then turns away from Mobei Yang completely to vomit on the ground. 

It's not often that Mobei Yang finds himself at a loss for words. The overwhelmed awe that he often inspires in lesser demons usually doesn't realize itself so unintelligibly or pathetically as this. 

"Please, do contain your excitement," Mobei Yang says. 

The boy squints up at him, teary-eyed, only to immediately start gagging again. He holds out a hand, apparently trying to cover up the offending sights. 

"How dare you behave so disrespectfully before a prince!" says one of the nearby hunters, Junjun, a mountain wind demon. "Don't you know who this is?!" 

The boy flinches away from this looming defense, staring warily up at Junjun without any sign of understanding. 

"I don't think he does," Mobei Yang says dryly. 

Unfortunately, Junjun takes this as introductions being in order. "This is the greatest hunter in the Demon Realm! A prince of the ancient rulers of the northern kingdoms, the Northern Desert Clan! The only living brother of the great Mobei-Jun! Linguang-Jun!" 

"Yes, yes, thank you." 

The boy looks between them, turning the spearhead over in his hands again and again, hunching his shoulders. "Sorry," he says, bowing slightly, once to Mobei Yang and twice to Junjun, all equally shallow. "Sorry. Sorry." 

And then, further proving his lack of understanding, the boy turns on his heel and runs away. It's so shamelessly cowardly that Mobei Yang laughs. 

"Stop him!" Mobei Yang calls out to the hunter ahead. "If you can." 

It's one of the Hao brothers, his expression immediately determined. Expecting slippery prey, the hunter should have little trouble; they're all used to disrupting disappearing tricks with their own spiritual energy, all of them practiced at wrestling opponents back into solid forms. 

Mobei Yang is surprised again when the flinching boy slips into his own shadow and then appears on the hunter's other side. 

The Hao brother is enraged, of course, which is at least amusing. The hunter roars and chases after the slow boy, who stumbles, looking over his shoulder with wide eyes, and then vanishes again. The boy reappears and disappears a few times on his way back up the hill. The Hao brother catches him once, only for the boy to apparently melt away in the hunter's hands, despite an obvious attempt to use spiritual energy to disrupt the escape. 

"Enough of that!" Mobei Yang decides, when the comedic pair are too close to the other hunting party. "Stop playing with your prey and come back here!" 

The Hao brother stomps back to join the other surviving hunters, gathering behind Mobei Yang. The newcomers whom Shuang Tao is escorting forward hardly seem fearsome, but appearances do matter. Mobei Yang looks best when he looks better than someone else. 

The boy skirts wide around Shuang Tao and dives back into the party of newcomers, which... doesn't seem to welcome him back with any enthusiasm. Like larger beasts dutifully making way for some tiny but venomous creature. The boy lurks behind the rock demon leader, peeking out warily, like a plump little seal sticking its snout of the ice. 

The rock demon leader is a large fellow, a little taller than Mobei Yang himself, fat and strong. Far more grim than handsome. A stone that ice could crack open without much difficulty, Mobei Yang is sure. 

"Greetings and welcome, Linguang-Jun," rumbles the rock demon. 

"This is Bocheng, the next clan leader of the Flying Mountain Clan," Shuang Tao offers. "Sworn to the Northern Desert Clan, of course, and at our service." 

Bocheng the rock demon appears less than pleased by his required obeisance, but Mobei Yang doesn't care much if some backwater warrior hates the fact that he has a king. So long as all due respect is shown to the future Mobei-Jun. 

"And who is that?" Mobei Yang gestures vaguely behind the rock demon. 

Shan Bocheng the rock demon's frown deepens. Some of the others step plainly away from their leader and the coward, so unwilling to shelter the boy from their superiors, even though demon children are supposedly all precious creatures. Sighing, the rock demon pulls the boy up beside him. His massive hand spreads across the mulish boy's back and touches those hunched shoulders with no trouble. 

"You introduced yourself to my hunting party so audaciously before," Mobei Yang observes. "You truly do have trouble finishing a job, hm?" 

The boy looks around miserably. It's like watching some pitiful sea creature try to crawl back inside its shell. 

"He wants to know your name," Bocheng says to the boy, with the slowness that one might offer to a particularly stupid baby. "Name. Naaaaame." 

Mobei Yang can see the way that the boy's eyes light up, before he bows again, deeper this time, and stays there. 

"Beida Wan," he says. "Sorry. I... sorry. Sorry." 

"That's a rather long name. So unique. Not very lucky, though," Mobei Yang says. Shuang Tao laughs, while some of the other hunters chuckle. 

"Sorry," the boy says again. "I... help." 

Bocheng the rock demon sighs again. The mauling of each word suggests another language, but none of these other clan members are stepping forward to offer their translation services. 

"Does he not speak Tongyu or Beiyu?" Mobei Yang can also follow the whispered conversation between two of the newly come wind demons, but there's no need to enlighten them of that yet. 

"No, we don't know what language he speaks," the rock demon says. "We don't know where he's from." 

"He just appeared one day and now he won't leave," complains a young water demon. "Because he saved Bocheng's life somehow, more or less, we can't just-" 

"Yubo, shut up," says the rock demon. 

"He really didn't know who he was interrupting," the young water demon insists. "Still doesn't. Stupid." 

"Let's hear this mysterious mother tongue," Mobei Yang decides. "Perhaps I or one of my faithful followers, worldly warriors that we are, will recognize a few words of it. Say something, boy." 

When everyone turns their eyes onto him again, the boy once more tries to shrink into a shell that isn't there. It takes some more prodding from the rock demon to get the confused, then annoyed boy to produce more than one word at a time. 

"Whadda fuckayou wan' fro'me?" 

Mobei Yang looks at Shuang Tao, who shrugs unhelpfully, and none of his other hunters step forward. There are many isolated languages and wretched dialects across the Demon Realm alone, but Mobei Yang doesn't even recognize the general sound of this one. It's very flat. 

"You must be a very long way from home," Mobei Yang says finally. 

The boy doesn't answer. He doesn't seem to understand the statement at all, squinting helplessly before taking shelter again behind the rock demon. 

Mobei Yang is distracted then by more conventional affairs. The locals had apparently been watching this destructive creature and had been preparing to kill it themselves, and so now must at least pretend to be grateful that their superiors arrived to defend them. Tradition and respect also demand that these lowly demons make an offer of hospitality. 

Some of his hunters are injured, two are dead, so arrangements must be made. Mobei Yang graciously accepts the hospitality outwardly, while inwardly accepting that there will be some trouble from his mother's family for even briefly associating with one of their many rivals, which is exactly what he'd wished to avoid when they set up their now-ruined camp instead of seeking shelter. Perhaps if he does his hosts sufficient damage during his stay, subtly of course, the familial moaning and groaning will be minimal. 

While Shuang Tao negotiates with the locals regarding the Giant Sea Heron's curse, Mobei Yang studies the intruder again. The Beida boy is staring at the sky, occasionally swallowing retching. He's been staying close to the rock demon like a little fly. How does someone with such obviously poor cultivation have such remarkable abilities? 

In his mysterious language, the boy mumbles to no one: "Didwe jus' killa fuckin' pterosaur...?" Utterly unintelligible. 

Beida Wan is cultivated enough that he eventually notices Mobei Yang watching him. He stares back, at first, his brow furrowed, and then shuffles to hide behind their shared host again. 

Chapter Two: The Wind Demoness 

That night, under the silver moonlight, Mobei Yang has his heart suddenly and ruthlessly stolen from him. 

The Flying Mountain Clan's fortress is built on and into a tall hill, the foundational stonework not unimpressive, presumably the work of several generations of rock demons. Of the many villagers still awake to greet them, Mobei Yang takes note of the mixture of rock and wind, with some noticeable brides of ice or water, some less distinguishable types, and some here and there of the animal kinds. It's all very rustic and quaint. Very homely. 

Mobei Yang is being led to the crown of the fortress in the hill, where rests the clan leader's home and his temporary accommodations. Most of his other hunters will be scattered around the other better residences in this place. 

"Oh, when we heard that monstrous screeching, I didn't dare to dream that your hunting would bring back such a handsome trophy. You are most welcome to our humble home, Linguang-Jun!" 

Mobei Yang looks away from a weathered stone carving of rampaging Red River Horses and up to the speaker standing on a stone ledge. His breath abandons him, as though plucked out of his lungs by fine and clever fingers, as though beaten from his chest in a single, mighty blow, and his unguarded heart is carried out along with it. Looking down upon him, veiled in moonlight, is perhaps the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Peerless. 

He is not, let it be said clearly, a stranger to beautiful women. This demoness is tall, broad-shouldered, and her pale skin glows like untouched snow under the moonlight. Her finely beaded dress glitters faintly as she moves and bares most of her stunningly long legs, which have all the hardness and thickness of a powerful runner, the pride of any wind demon. She's wearing long, complicated braids in richly black hair. With a smile of such pretty fangs, she should be wearing pearls and jewels, instead of merely metal bells and ivory. Her pale gray eyes glow nearly as bright as the moon behind her. 

"We have not had a noble demon lord grace us with his presence in too long! If only I had been given time to prepare for you, Linguang-Jun... Days! A month! A year! We can only hope to meet some of your princely expectations..." 

"All of my expectations when it comes to enjoying my stay have already been effortlessly succeeded," Mobei Yang promises.  

This demoness's indulgent laugh is like the sweetest of songs. He desperately wishes that he wasn't covered in both dust and dried blood for such a fortuitous meeting. Fate can be so cruel. 

"My only disappointment is that we haven't met before," Mobei Yang continues. "Oh calamity, have you been busy battling the heavens for daring to outshine them?" 

"No, for they must be arguing over who among them has to face you in battle, Linguang-Jun, for such a wicked tongue," the laughing demoness answers, her smile wolfish in its wideness. "But the little human gods are welcome to come when they are ready." 

"What handsome trophies that hunt would make," Mobei Yang agrees. "Far more worthy of such a wonderful hostess... whose generosity may also, I hope, extend to her name...?" 

"Xiang Ningyue, the only child of Clan Leader Xiang Peng." 

Before Mobei Yang can remark that her mother must have been the moon itself, that grim-faced rock demon steps forward, pulling that strange, stumbling boy ahead of him again. It's understandable that the local demons wouldn't enjoy seeing their greatest beauty be so appreciated, but the interruption is nevertheless annoying. 

"Wife," says Shan Bocheng the rock demon. "Beida Wan needs to be washed. I'll see you it that our honored guests are given baths as well." 

Mobei Yang closes his mouth. 

Wife? Wife?! 

Xiang Ningyue, the most beautiful woman in the world, lets out a soft moan when she sees the boy covered in blood. "Oh, what did you do to yourself now?" 

Beida Wan frowns up at her and predictably says nothing, still trying to fold himself away into the protective shell that he doesn't have. When Xiang Ningyue sighs and gestures for him to come closer, he shuffles forward without any apparent appreciation for the privilege. 

"You're not coming back into our home looking like this! How am I supposed to-? Oh, fine! Fine!" 

Xiang Ningyue apologizes sweetly to them for this, before throwing out an impressive array of orders towards her husband, their servants, her clansmen, and her clansmen's own servants, as confident and as impatient as a whirlwind. Mobei Yang is still mildly stunned and nauseated when she drags the strange boy off. 

"...If I had such a wife, I wouldn't dare introduce her to any higher demon," Mobei Yang murmurs to Shuang Tao, who snorts in agreement. 

"She seems very willing to be stolen." 

"Mmm, clearly this pile of rocks is a little more interesting than previously known." 

A cold bath is most refreshing, even if the following meals are hasty and unbefitting of their stations: some lamb and vegetable stew, which is at least well-spiced. The accompanying wine is tolerable. 

While eating, Mobei Yang and his attending hunters suffer through a long and dull conversation with the elderly wind demon clan leader, the beautiful Xiang Ningyue's father, and Shan Bocheng, who is apparently the clan leader's most fortunate son-in-law. Mobei Yang wants the Giant Sea Heron's head for himself, that marvelously misshapen skull with its god's spear of a beak will look good mounted somewhere, but he doesn't much care what the locals do with the rest of the monster's awkward corpse. 

Xiang Ningyue rejoins them at this point, with the Beida boy slinking in behind her. The Beida boy's new clothes are less plain than before, but still oversized, now obviously borrowed, beaded and embroidered with the vibrant greens, yellows, and blues that this clan seems to favor. Very modest. The short, wet hair ruins any chance of dignity, sticking out at odd angles like an overgrown tuft of grass, partially covering the boy's eyes. 

Beida Wan is sat in the corner of the room with a bowl of stew, which he eats silently and slowly. Mobei Yang has relatives who have been poisoned who regard their meals with less disgruntled suspicion, and he says as much to the beautiful Xiang Ningyue, who laughs in her delightful manner once more. 

Xiang Ningyue's rock demon husband's glaring misery is quite delightful too, while his guests strive to make his beautiful wife cackle and preen, and so Mobei Yang doesn't call for the strange boy to be brought over to sit with them. He forgets Beida Wan almost entirely, until the boy becomes relevant in his retelling of their Giant Sea Heron hunt. 

"Trying to steal a kill from Linguang-Jun!" Xiang Ningyue laughs. "If I didn't already know that our dear guest Beida Wan is stupid, that would make it clear! How insulting! To think that you would need any help from someone like them..." 

"I can generously forgive our glorious battle being cut short if it brought me to such wonderful company all the sooner," Mobei Yang promises. 

When he looks over one or Xiang Ningyue's fine, broad shoulders, he sees that the strange demon in question is watching everyone very intently. Perhaps Beida Wan heard his name, obviously listening, head tilted shamelessly. 

"Perhaps a little more strength behind that killing blow next time, hm?!" Mobei Yang calls across the room. 

Beside him, Shuang Tao cackles drunkenly, and his other present hunters laugh and toast the stupidity and audacity of youth. The present locals join in. Except for Bocheng the rock demon, of course, though he doesn't move to defend the little fly that was clinging to him earlier. 

Beida Wan looks around at all of them, black-faced, even though there is an embarassing red flush crawling up his face. When he finally comes back to meet Mobei Yang's gaze, he bobs his head, neither quite a nod or a bow, and then stares determinedly at the floor, picking clawlessly at the beads of his trousers.

Xiang Ningyue sighs dramatically. "We've been trying to teach Beida to speak some Tongyu these past few weeks, but it's hard work! The only thing that's flatter and more useless than this demon's ears is their tongue..."  

"Does anyone in your clan have a map that this stranger can at least point at?" Shuang Tao leans forward to ask. "Or does he not know his homeland's geography?" 

Xiang Ningyue sighs even more dramatically. "He just stares at it for far, far too long and says, 'No.' Sometimes, he even shrugs!" 

"Does he perhaps... not want to go home, do you think?" Mobei Yang asks. "A remarkably slow runaway? A rather unfortunate fortune-seeker?" 

"Can he read Tongyu?" Shuang Tao asks. 

"I don't know why Beida would have run away from home, because this demon was clearly spoiled!" Xiang Ningyue complains. "No, they can't read any Tongyu either. They just scribble ugly nonsense characters into the dirt. They claim to be twenty-five years old, if you can believe it! But they're even more useless than a child when it comes to most things!" 

"Claims to be twenty-five?" Shuang Tao presses. "Does he know numbers or is he just counting tallies in the dirt?" 

"Beida can count up to ten using real numbers now," Xiang Ningyue explains, with a nod towards the latter option. "But laundry? Spinning, weaving, building, carving, braiding, cooking... They're such a picky eater, you wouldn't believe it! All useless! So useless! " 

Mobei Yang doesn't do many of those things either, but he can at least feed himself. "You're as generous as you are lovely to have taken such a useless demon into your household," he promises. 

"I know!" 

"Truly magnanimous." 

"At least they're an obedient learner," Xiang Ningyue says, finishing her second cup of wine. "Beida can count on their fingers and make stupid gestures in a way that's almost clever... but it's hard to believe that they're supposed to be older than I am! This demon really should be dead!" 

"Wife," her husband says reproachfully. 

"Where did you find him?" Shuang Tao asks, ignoring the rock demon. 

Xiang Ningyue either can't keep a secret or there isn't one to be kept. "We think that they fell out of the Endless Abyss." 

"Beida can't explain anything yet," says Shan Bocheng the rock demon, as if trying to remind his loose-lipped wife of something. "We don't know anything." 

"The Endless Abyss," Mobei Yang repeats, rubbing his chin. "Well, he's not like any Emperor of the Abyss that I've ever seen spawned in those depths before. He's much too small." 

Xiang Ningyue cackles again, as does Shuang Tao, and Mobei Yang smiles and studies the stranger again. 

A powerful warrior might go into the Endless Abyss to test their own strength, to prove themselves, but Beida Wan is much too cowardly to be an adventurer. 

Weaker demons will seek out the more stable gates into that hellish realm, the openings the least likely to tear them apart, and seek treasure or rare ingredients. One does have to be clever and slippery to survive such expeditions. 

Abyssal openings, natural or summoned, often take victims who stray too close. Some are taken when the hole in the world reacts somehow to the spiritual energy of a living creature. Others get snagged and dragged through by lurking creatures, which often can't live long outside of the Endless Abyss, but are eager for easy prey. The Giant Sea Heron killed today is the least of what the Endless Abyss can do to the things that it swallows. 

Some who are taken by the Endless Abyss manage to break free again. But most weaker demons don't survive such places physically or mentally whole. Especially not picky eaters. 

Even Mobei Yang doesn't hunt often in the Endless Abyss. His expeditions there last no longer than a few days, typically, and only through the most stable guards, better armed and armored than he is now. The lack of sunlight may be reminiscent of northern winters, but the sheer heat of some areas can be atrocious. 

"I think that Beida used to be-" 

"Wife," the rock demon says again. 

"I think," Xiang Ningyue repeats louder than before, "that little Beida used to be human." 

"Human!" shouts Shuang Qiang, the nephew of Shuang Tao, now looking at Beida Wan as though the demon might be diseased. "That's a human?!" 

"Well, not anymore, clearly," Shuang Tao says dryly. His nephew looks alarmed by the prospect of transformation. 

"Calm down, it's not catching," Mobei Yang reminds the other demons. "I hope." He sets his drink down, as the flavor seems to have gone off. "...That thing isn't one of those dream demon puppets is it? One of those artificial demons?" 

"Wife," the rock demon groans. 

"Dream demons tend to sign their work," Shuang Tao muses. 

"Well, yes, they're all narcissistic, everyone knows that," Mobei Yang agrees. "The boy is covering quite a lot of skin..." 

"But what would be the point of pretending not to speak Tongyu? Any grandmother knows how to check for possession! At least most types of possession..." 

"Beida is not possessed," says the rock demon. "We checked. We don't know that Beida was ever human." 

"I do," Xiang Ningyue says loftily. "You just don't like that a human saved your life! She saved my husband, so I spend more time with Beida than anyone, and I'm telling you: no killing instinct! None!" 

"That seems against their efforts to interrupt our hunt," Mobei Yang says mildly. 

"Oh, Beida will kill if you make them, just like they'll help with the butchering, but they're not any good at it," Xiang Ningyue says, nodding. "They'll run in to help, but they don't fight." 

"What does that mean?" young Shuang Qiang asks. 

"Won't scratch at anyone!" Xiang Ningyue says, listing offenses off on her claws. "Won't even snarl! Won't hit! Won't even willingly take a hit!  Not for fun, not for position, not for pride. Beida will run away from any fight, every time, and it makes all the boys and girls so badly behaved." 

"I've never known any demon youth to be able to resist a soft target," Mobei Yang agrees. "Our storytelling hostess, do indulge us, how exactly did your clan find this strange demon?" 

Xiang Ningyue lights up. The story isn't complicated, but it is enthusiastically told by the wind demoness: their hunting party was attacked by an Abyss-touched Sword-Toothed Tiger and her husband was injured in the ambush. Their hunting party had been, for nearly a full day by that point, followed by a stranger who had eluded all attempts to catch them, Beida Wan. Shan Bocheng insists that this distraction was the only reason that the Sword-Toothed Tiger managed to surprise him. 

To everyone's surprise, the cowardly stranger had rushed in at the last moment to assist Shan Bocheng. "Beida somehow put a stick up through the creature's jaw and into its brain," Xiang Ningyue says with an illustrative jab. 

"Without injury?" Mobei Yang asks. Sword-Toothed Tigers generally didn't simply let one approach. 

"Without injury! Owing such a debt, we of course had to take in this poor thing in, especially because Beida followed us home anyway." Xiang Ningyue sighs and says begrudgingly, "Beida does try. A real servant's heart, this demon has." 

As the wind demoness describes nursing her husband back to full strength, her vivaciousness does... falter. Briefly. Her lip wobbles as she mentions how worried she was. She and the rock demon are, according to her, childhood sweethearts, born in the same month only twenty years ago, and there may be genuine fondness between the young couple. 

How annoying. Sunk in a comfortably pool of drunkenness, Mobei Yang falls asleep that night wondering how one might lure such a beautiful demoness away from her marriage and her clan. 

One cannot simply kidnap a woman on a whim. One has to plan these things. 

He's more powerful than some backwater rock demon, of course, far more handsome, and far richer. His lordly brother even gifted him the Northern Desert's magnificent West Wind Palace as soon as he came of age! He can cover Xiang Ningyue in as many real jewels and rare bones as she likes! And when his childless, elderly brother finally passes, Mobei Yang will inevitably inherit all of his ancestral strength and become Mobei-Jun himself, and his lucky wife will have all of the Northern Desert at her whims. 

He certainly wouldn't make his peerless queen share her home with some strange, lost creature who can't speak and won't even fight for themself, neither a servant nor a second spouse... Though, what else does one do when a life debt is owed to such a wretched demon? Too publically to honorably ignore? Mobei Yang falls asleep still wondering. 

Chapter Three: A Clever Trick

The land upon which the Flying Mountain Clan lives belongs to the Northern Desert Clan by conquest, so upon them, Mobei Yang and his hunters cannot impose. Mobei Yang takes advantage of this obligatory hospitality by declaring that they will linger in this fortress for several days, until all injuries are mended and all corpses are tended to. 

"We'll have a real feast tonight!" Xiang Ningyue declares, swirling in excitement, looking out over her little queendom. "With singing and playing for the great hunters! And dancing! There are no more beautiful dancers in all the world than wind demons!" 

"Oh? You know, I've seen many wind demon dances before," Mobei Yang replies. 

The blood of the Northern Desert Clan dominates, but his mother was from the Black Wind Clan and they play on that connecting string often, trying to get Mobei Yang to dance for them where they can. 

"It seems like every dancer of skill has been summoned to the Ice Palace over the years," Mobei Yang continues. His elder brother is very, very fond of dancers. "I think I've seen everything by now." 

Xiang Ningyue smiles with all of her teeth. "You haven't yet seen me," she promises shamelessly. 

Mobei Yang laughs. "I haven't seen anyone like you before," he agrees. "You're a calamity." 

Before he can decide whether or not to get closer, to risk being scratched, a familiar figure plants itself beside them. 

"Mistress Ningyue," Beida Wan says. 

Mobei Yang sighs. "I thought you said that this demon didn't enjoy tasks such as butchering prey? He makes such a mess of your lovely name." 

Xiang Ningyue cackles, her initial annoyance melting away. "I did say that Beida was bad at everything!" 

Beida Wan looks back and forth between them warily. Away from their hosts, Shuang Tao has suggested that the strange boy may be some kind of ridiculous spy, but even Mobei Yang's second can't seem to believe his own suggestion. 

With great effort, the boy says, "Cook... say... help. Mistress Ningyue help?" 

Mobei Yang wonders if the rock demon sent the boy as interference, given that the boy clearly doesn't know better than to get between his betters and their prey. 

"That nasty old cook did not say, 'Help,'" Xiang Ningyue says, but she seems amused. 

"Help," Beida Wan repeats firmly. "Help! Help!" The boy waves his hands back and forth slightly, a mockery of flailing panic. "Help, Mistress Ningyue, help!" 

Xiang Ningyue laughs again and Beida Wan understandably looks pleased with himself for provoking it. Mobei Yang feels surprised that the strange boy is capable of humor despite his handful of Tongyu words. His smile reveals slightly crooked front teeth and small canines. 

The smile fades as Beida Wan looks at Mobei Yang again. "Ahhh..." 

"Ah, something to say to me as well?" 

"Master Bocheng say..." 

"Even repeating things is apparently too difficult," Xiang Ningyue complains. "So useless! A parrot would be a better messenger. And prettier."  

"Tr-trainer-ing," Beida Wan slurs out eventually. "Training. Lingu-Linguang-Jun." 

Mobei Yang bemusedly watches as the strange boy raises his fists, circling them slightly, in a poor fighting stance. It's vaguely reminiscent of a small child play-acting. Then Beida Wan shrugs, with those round cheeks flushed red again, and points down the hill. 

Mobei Yang follows the gesture to see a wide, dirt ring, where some of the local warriors are enthusiastically doing drills and eagerly beckoning some of his watching hunters forward. Such challenges to visitors are extremely common. And likely the only entertainment that Mobei Yang will be offered here until the promised feasting begins later. 

"Oh, we would be honored!" Xiang Ningyue exclaims, more elegantly. "Nothing interesting ever happens here! Some of our youths could stand to be made a little more worldly, Linguang-Jun, if your men would be willing to show us their strength." 

"I am your most gracious guest." 

If nothing else, Mobei Yang can show off for this peerless wind demoness, and perhaps even directly against her inadequate young husband. 

His hostess must excuse herself to the feast preparations, so Mobei Yang is escorted to the training ring by Beida Wan. Or so he assumes that is the strange demon's intention, as the boy steps back and makes a presumptuous beckoning gesture, repeating it often along the stairs and sloping roads downwards. 

It is the closest Mobei Yang has been to this stranger since the bloody death of that ruined creature. He cannot quite resist the urge to reach out and grab an arm. 

Beida Wan startles wildly, but as weakly as a child, before the boy then slips out between the fingers easily. Even with Mobei Yang making a mild spiritual effort to hold onto his prey. The boy simply dissolved like an illusion, with a faint shimmer in the air, before reforming a few skittering steps away. 

There is spiritual energy being used here, Mobei Yang confirms now that he can focus upon it. It's... slippery. Subtle. An insect landing in water: one would perhaps only notice it in a small, still pool. 

Beida Wan is looking at him with wide eyes and no teeth. "No," he says, flatly. 

Then the boy turns and runs ahead to the training ring, as though a wind demoness's son couldn't easily, immediately, close the short distance between them, if he so chose. Where does this Beida Wan come from that that wouldn't be taken as an invitation to chase? 

Mobei Yang follows sedately, ignoring the whispers and curious looks from the local villagers, and also from Shuang Tao, who has come to greet him. His hosts have set up a modestly comfortable and shaded lounging area for him and his hunters to observe the training and challenges, waited upon with drinks and cool cloths by some of the clan leader's servants again. 

Shan Bocheng the rock demon is acting as their master of ceremonies for this impromptu tournament, with Beida Wan lurking behind the young future clan leader again like a little fly that doesn't even bite. 

Predictably, there are several scowling warriors who evidently won't believe in their own inferiority without a demonstration. Just as predictably, there are several eager youths, at least half of whom are likely hoping that they might impress enough to be taken away from this place. 

"I do have some empty space in my hunting party at the moment," Mobei Yang remarks casually to Shuang Tao, just to fan the flames. 

The locals are determined to mark their territory. Some of the older warriors, canny and cultivated, even manage to put Mobei Yang's hunters on their backs several times, albeit inconsistently. Many of the villagers gather eagerly to watch. A group of younger children are squealing and shouting from a rooftop. 

Shan Bocheng is highly skilled for his young age, but not significantly powerful, and he intelligently doesn't dare to challenge Mobei Yang directly. While Mobei Yang is contemplating proposing a "friendly spar" between them, he is challenged directly by a young water demon, with more awe than arrogance, an appetite sharper than his cute teeth. 

"Yubo!" Shan Bocheng snaps. 

"Can't I have ambitions?" complains young Xiang Yubo, a cousin of Xiang Ningyue apparently, only seventeen years old. "Is it so bad to dream of losing a battle to the great Linguang-Jun?" 

Mobei Yang laughs. "I'll consider it," he tells the water demon. 

"I want to fight the boy who tried to take the killing blow from us!" declare one of the Hao brothers. "From the great hunter, Linguang-Jun!" 

Sitting behind Shan Bocheng, Beida Wan is drawing in the dirt with a stick. Unsurprisingly, he seems to be completely unaware that he's been challenged. 

"No," Shan Bocheng says. "Beida can't fight." 

At his name, the boy looks up and then around, squinting for some understanding. He scoots back, a little more behind the rock demon, like a small child. 

"He nearly killed an Abyss-touched Giant Sea Heron," says Xi Mingzhu, another of Mobei Yang's hunters. 

"That's... different." 

"How so?" Mobei Yang calls. 

The rock demon looks amusingly disgruntled, struggling to explain it. "Beida doesn't know how to fight like this." 

"Beida can stab things badly with a spear until they're dead and that's it," says young Xiang Yubo, the water demon. "And that's only if running away doesn't work!" 

"Yubo!" 

"What? It's true!" 

"Just for that... come fight Beida for us." 

"In front of-?! I'm not doing that!" 

Shan Bocheng the rock drmon ignores the whining and looks down at Beida Wan, who is still squinting at everyone. The rock demon picks the boy up by the back of his clothes and puts him on his feet. 

"Go train with Xiang Yubo," Bocheng orders. "Practice fight." 

Beida Wan's face twists up. "No," he says. He looks around at her waiting audience, then back at Shan Bocheng. "No." 

"Yes," Shan Bocheng insists. 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"No! No, no, no!" 

The rock demon has to physically push Beida Wan into the training ring and hand the boy a... staff? It nearly gets dropped. Shan Bocheng throws another staff at Xiang Yubo, who catches it easily and executes a skillful series of twirls, familiarizing himself with the weapon. 

"No... hurt?" Beida Wan says. 

"No hurt," the rock demon confirms. "No kill. Training. Practice. Go." 

Even before the young water demon can lunge forward, Beida vanishes. There one moment, gone the next, in a flicker of shadow and twisting air. He reappears on the other side of the ring without any attempt at counterattack. 

It's clearly frustrating for the young water demon, but it gives Mobei Yang the opportunity to study such remarkable abilities. Most elemental creatures can still be caught, can be followed, can be disrupted, can be forced between forms, unfortunately including Mobei Yang himself. It happened often when he used to spar against his lordly brother and all the overwhelming power of their ancestors. 

Beida Wan is... unrecognizable. Even when watching closely, there's often no clear thread of spiritual energy to follow from one point to the next. A broken trail. 

Shuang Tao is snickering at Beida Wan's clumsy form, the childish slowness, the obvious uncertainty, the unwillingness to strike back. It's distracting. It's understandable. Such remarkable abilities from such pathetic overall cultivation! 

But Mobei Yang wants to know how the boy is slipping away from a superior opponent, another warrior who is clearly experienced in fighting elemental creatures. He focuses on those subtle twists of demonic energy. 

And he finds himself thinking of... the iridescent shimmer in the air above a hungry Abyssal vent. 

Of the twisting flash of an otherworldly spiritual weapon being summoned to a waiting hand. 

Of the whisper when opening a small pouch hiding a deep stomach. 

Of a dream demon's illusions, spun by a creature hidden in another realm entirely. 

Of a monstrous creature disguised as something small, suddenly unfolding itself, ripping a giant's body out of a spiritual web to reveal its spider's trap. 

Of the way the air shakes when a Black Moon Rhinoceros Python screams. 

"...Ah," Mobei Yang says. 

Shuang Tao and the Hao brothers look at him with interest, but Mobei Yang ignores them to lean farther forward. If they can't figure it out, he's not telling them. 

The fight ends when the young water demon manages to trip Beida Wan, not for the first time, and Beida Wan is too dazed to get up before Xiang Yubo swings the tip of the staff up against his throat. The water demon taps for emphasis. 

Mobei Yang can see the boy's nervous swallow, but also the way that Beida Wan is watching the crowd more than his opponent. It's the boy's choice to release his weapon and indicate surrender. The only thing preventing his escape here should be spiritual exhaustion.  

"Well done," Mobei Yang calls out to the young water demon, who was persistent, if ineffective. 

Xiang Yubo pulls the staff back and demonstrates relieved gratitude, after such a frustrating duel. It must have been like trying to pin down a ghostly butterfly. 

Beida Wan rolls himself up and limps back to hide behind Bocheng again, sitting against the wall in a tired heap. 

"Strike back more," the rock demon says to his little fly. 

Beida Wan raises his hand sharply, an inward fist with the middle finger pointed upwards, though he drops it quickly. 

Mobei Yang wonders what that's supposed to mean. A salute? An agreement? An apology? Hard to say when Beida Wan's sweaty, red face is between his knees. 

He understands better now why this young water demon said that Beida Wan only knows how to run and kill. The boy doesn't have the strength or the speed to strike back ordinarily, to wrestle an opponent to the ground, to spar in a skillful way. All Beida Wan can do is sneak close and put a spear through an opponent's critical weak points, using an apparently natural ability to warp space itself around him. 

No wind demon, no matter how quick or powerful, can reach something that has slipped away into another realm entirely. 

Mobei Yang fights the young water demon, because it makes him look generous more than out of any personal interest. He wants to show Shan Bocheng the difference between them, especially with the beautiful Xiang Ningyue now watching from an overlook with some other local wind demonesses, their colorful scarves and skirts flowing like flags in the breeze.

And he wants to see Beida Wan's face seeing a true demon warrior demonstrate some of his strength. The boy alternates freely between very wide eyes and a frowning squint, apparently. 

Mobei Yang indulges a few challengers after that, out of boredom more than curiosity, and likely embarrasses some of them more than originally intended. The Ice Palace attracts countless challengers, fighting for countless reasons, and his lordly brother has become less and less willing to indulge any of them as the years go by; it's a responsibility on top of the countless cousins whose ambitions need to be treated like summer greenery: killed off before they become overgrown. 

The cheering and compliments are appreciated. The naked envy even moreso. "I did apparently have to prove to this clan that I have no need of help during any of my hunts," Mobei Yang says dryly, provoking laughter again. 

The rush of battle, however inglorious, makes impulses more difficult to resist. While lesser demons debate who has to follow such a performance, Mobei Yang looks towards the elusive little fly. 

"Beida Wan!" he calls. 

The boy's head snaps up. Several strings of surrounding conversation are cut off, but Mobei Yang isn't afraid of an audience. He echoes that condescending little beckoning gesture. By the way that Beida Wan's reddened nose wrinkles, Mobei Yang's demand is immediately understood. 

Shan Bocheng hauls the boy up by his collar again and Beida Wan begrudgingly slinks over to stand in front of Mobei Yang. His expression is wary. He remembers to bow in greeting quite belatedly. 

Mobei Yang doesn't give any warning before grabbing the boy's arm again. Again, Beida Wan is too slow to dodge, startling without dignity. 

"Whadda fuck?!" 

It would have been trivial to break this limb, to do far worse, but Mobei Yang waits patiently. He can feel the shift of the boy's elusive spiritual energy even better this way; he can shift his own weighty spiritual energy to counter the forces hastily moving to work here. 

He owes thanks to the depths his ancestors have given him. Perhaps also to the clan priestess who first taught him how to fortify himself against unstable Abyssal gates, so that his body and mind wouldn't be torn to pieces. And to those others who passed down onto him the ancestral knowledge of stabilizing such gates... of destroying them. Though Mobei Yang doesn't think one can discount his own impressive experience, learning how to disrupt summoned weapons and untie folded spaces and all those annoying tricks with just... a little... push. 

Beida Wan grunts, flinches, as the shadows twist and writhe and fail to whisk him away into whatever halfway realm he's been using. He pulls uselessly. He keeps trying, again and again, a panicking animal with a paw stuck fast. 

Mobei Yang keeps denying the boy an escape. It takes continuous effort, a fair amount of spiritual energy, and really, the boy should be grateful that Mobei Yang hasn't accidentally broken this arm. 

"No," Mobei Yang says dryly. 

Beida Wan stops struggling and stares up at him. Really, it reminds Mobei Yang so much of snagging a surfacing seal as a bored youth, all big eyes and flopping rage. 

Whatever this boy was before, human or not, he's just a weak demon now with a single clever trick. Remarkable abilities left raw and uncultivated. Mobei Yang laughs as he releases his unique prey, at yet another successful hunt, however short and simple it turned out to be. 

"You caught Beida," the young water demon, Xiang Yubo, says. "And he actually stayed caught!" 

"Oh, you just have to find the trick of it," Mobei Yang says airily. "Shan Bocheng, tell your clan leader that I've found some new demons for my hunting party!" 

It's like kicking over a wasp nest, with the buzzing that goes through the watching crowd. The rock demon remains grim. 

"Who?" Shan Bocheng says. 

"Such an honor!" Xiang Ningyue calls from her makeshift pavilion of ladies, far more civilized, all of her beauty on display as she leans forward. "The Flying Mountain Clan is honored to run with Linguang-Jun! But which of us are you stealing?" 

"Your young cousin, generous hostess," Mobei Yang falls back. "Xiang Yubo may have the potential to impress!" 

More importantly, the young water demon will give an excuse to return to the Flying Mountain Clan and speak with his relatives. Mobei Yang will simply have to tell his late mother's family, the Black Wind Clan, that he has a complicated plot to destabilize the leadership of their rival clan. 

"It's- Thank you! Thank you, Linguang-Jun! I won't disappoint you- I won't- I'll prove myself worthy-" Xiang Yubo stammers. 

Mobei Yang nods vaguely at the appropriate gratitude. "And I'll have this thing," he adds, pointing. "If you can bear to let this guest leave your hands." 

Xiang Ningyue cackles, as does Shuang Tao. The other laughter around them is more nervous. Beida Wan looks at Mobei Yang's finger like he doesn't know why it's pointing at him; presumably, he doesn't. He shuffles backwards... into the rock demon. 

"I... owe Beida," Shan Bocheng says. 

"And what better reward could you give than a placement with a superior clan?" Mobei Yang says, even though he really doesn't need to ask anyone's permission here. "If there's anything worthwhile to be learned from Beida Wan, the Northern Desert Clan will uncover it." 

"Yes, take them!" Xiang Ningyue calls. "If anyone can make a hunter of Beida, it's you, Linguang-Jun!" 

It's more likely that such a useless warrior will die sooner than later, but Mobei Yang doubts that the Flying Mountain Clan will truly cry over the loss. Perhaps something will be made of these remarkable abilities before that, but perhaps not. 

Shan Bocheng's shoulders sag slightly. The rock demon won't fight over this. 

Mobei Yang smiles down at Beida Wan, who remains wary and confused at first, and then hesitantly smiles back. Weakly. Not threateningly. Obviously false. Quite odd. The humanness is hard to unsee after Xiang Ningyue suggested it. 

"What an opportunity to bring our two clans closer together," Mobei Yang remarks, almost entirely to see Shan Bocheng struggle to remain polite again. "Let's look forward to the new future, hm?" 

[marudol]

kabru and the dungeon lords

kabru is a very critical character to dungeon meshi for a thousand and one reasons, and not merely for his status as the point-of-view character in the story's b-plot. kabru represents the compass by which dungeon meshi's world works. he has big-picture motives that involve the entire world, much grander than the original a-plot of "let's save falin."

he is our classic hero, a character who suffered great personal tragedy and must ensure that no one suffers the same fate. as such, he is a great parallel for dungeon meshi's most integral characters:

the dungeon lords themselves.

🚨manga spoilers ahead.🚨

thistle

picture this: you are a child, separate from anyone else in the world who looks like you due to circumstances beyond your control. you are taken by pale-skinned adults who try to treat you well; who clothe you, feed you, and put a roof over your head.

it is not enough.

who am i describing - kabru, or thistle?

kabru-thistle parallels focus on their shared past as trans-racial adoptees. their shared experiences are not a universal one to all trans-racial adoptions in the dungeon meshi universe: the floke twins are treated well by their gnomish foster (grand)parents; allowed to be children while they are children and treated as adults when they are adults.

not all trans-racial adoptees are given the same courtesy. kabru was raised by an elf who infantilized him, even once he was fully-grown. milsiril did not always know what kabru needed from her, so she defaulted to treating him the way she would treat an elf his age rather than understand what his age meant as a tall-man.

by contrast, thistle was raised by tall-men. freinag saw thistle as a son and so he and delgal thought themselves as brothers. but as delgal aged and matured, thistle remained stagnant. eventually, delgal's relative age surpassed thistle's- but no one could even conceive of that, because thistle's numerical age made the tall-men around him treat him as an adult rather than a teenager.

they both feel immense responsibility for the tragedies suffered by their people. kabru explicitly believes there must be a "reason" he survived utaya and that the reason was to destroy the dungeons to ensure it never happened again, and thistle IS the reason the golden country survived their war, and why eodio made it to adulthood all.

kabru and thistle are characters pre- and post-accomplishing their goals. kabru has yet to assume total responsibility; thistle already has.

they must save them- they must protect them all.

[🩵]

marcille

once upon a time, a child lost a parent before they were ready to, and the trajectory of their life changed forever. desperate to understand, the child grew into an adult and dedicated themself to preventing their personal loss from happening to anyone else ever again. as a result, they looked downward into the dungeon's depths.

they will find the answers they seek.

who am i describing- kabru, or marcille?

marcille and kabru stand as important secondary figures to laios, our main protagonist. in the words of another excellent post, they are the heaven foils to laios's earth. where laios is grounded and thinking about the here and now, they have both identified big picture problems plaguing their world and pursue these goals with intense fervor.

however, these goals have been diverted by censorship. marcille cannot access information about historical ancient magic through traditional means and the elves won't tell kabru what happened to utaya's dungeon, so they both decide to go and do something with their own two hands.

entering the dungeon is a step towards their grander goals, which are both rooted in opposition to long-lived supremacy. critically: the solutions they come to are vastly different.

marcille's solution is very fantastical - "fixing" everyone's lifespans by making EVERYONE long-lived (though her original solution seemed to be more grounded; being a lord gave her the chance to indulge in the full fantasy).

on the other hand, kabru wants something more concrete and based in the real world. he wants to use the dungeon as a means to an end before destroying it entirely, whereas marcille wants the dungeon to be the end. hers is a magic idea borne about by escapism, while kabru wants to solve a societal problem with something tangible to improve the lives of the shorter-lived without resorting to the fantastical.

(note the similarity in these compositions!)

kabru and marcille are aiming for the heavens; they have chosen to act as stewards to bring about a better future for as many people as possible.

but eventually, they must crash back down to earth.

[🩵]

mithrun

a long time ago, a dungeon lord met their maker and the demon ate its fill, but failed to breach the surface. carnage and destruction was sown in its wake. in the aftermath, a survivor dedicated himself completely and utterly to the cause with no room for reproach.

the dungeon will be conquered. and if he has it his way, it will be conquered by his hand.

who am i describing- kabru, or mithrun?

if thistle represents kabru's past and marcille represents kabru's present, than mithrun represents one branch of kabru's future- and a rather bleak one.

mithrun has suffered great tragedy at the hands of a dungeon and, as a result, dedicated himself to be what he believes is his one remaining desire: to finally be consumed entirely. he thinks he has nothing else to live for, so he runs himself ragged every single day just to inch closer and closer at a chance to kill himself while pursuing his goal.

this great fervor is one that kabru artificially mimics long before meeting mithrun. kabru is willing to die for his goals. he does die for his goals. he thinks he is going to die without a chance for resurrection when he sabotages the canaries, which is why his 'last' thought is "it's up to you now, laios!"

remember: kabru believes his survival has to serve a purpose- his survival must have been 'worth it.' in order to make his own survival palettable, kabru dedicates himself entirely to the dungeon's destruction without long-lived intervention as a means to avoid repeating utaya's fate. kabru self-deprives, fails to care for himself, and he is constantly killed in pursuit of his goal to conquer the dungeon before people like the canaries can. while kabru has desires, he only indulges in the one that has guided him for over a decade.

functionally, he and mithrun are identical when they first meet.

kabru has purposefully deprived himself of his desires beyond ensuring another utaya doesn't happen again, and mithrun is proof of what happens when you follow that to its logical conclusion. however, over the course of their week together and the final arc of the story, kabru makes the choice to divert from mithrun's fate.

kabru looks into the eye of his ultimate goal, and in the culmination of his arc, ultimately refuses this destiny.

what do you want, kabru? are you hungry, kabru?

kabru indulges. instead of blindly following through the dungeon's destruction and sacrificing what he wants for the greater good, he wants, and he befriends laios instead of ending his life. he leaves mithrun's fate behind...

...and senshi- one of the most steadfast representatives of dungeon meshi's thesis- sets mithrun on a path where he, too, can learn to chase after newer, healthier desires.

[🩵]

laios

one day, a child was hungry for the answer to a question: "what is wrong with me?"

there is no satisfactory answer. a mother and a sister believe nothing is wrong, but everyone else in their small world disagrees. those eyes, that personality- something must be wrong.

but there is no recourse.

so, these children endeavor to focus on the world around them in ways that won't hurt them. one chooses to study and love humans, because humans are beautiful and complex and amazing. the other chooses to study and love monsters, because monsters are easier to understand and always obey one simple rule: eat or be eaten.

they double down on their interests soon enough. monsters have hurt one child enough, and humans can't get enough of hurting the other.

you know which one is kabru. you know which one is laios- dungeon meshi's fabled narrative foils.

laios and kabru are as textually close to being explicit foils as humanly possible. the first sentence of kabru's page of the adventurer's bible says it perfectly: "in every possible way, he's a contrast with laios. laios loves monsters, while kabru has an endless interest in humans" (56).

in basic terms, a foil character is a character with traits that contrast against another's, typically the main protagonist. this contrast serves to highlight the themes of the story, and we see that illustrated perfectly with laios and kabru.

where kabru has denied himself care, laios gives it to him without thinking. where laios believed no one could ever want to be his friend, kabru proves him wrong. the nature of nourishment and human connection are both critical foundations to dungeon meshi's story, and the main character struggling with human connection while his foil struggles with nourishment is no mistake.

kabru wanted to be laios's friend all along. the b-plot of dungeon meshi is driven by kabru's unconscious desire to understand and ultimately aid one inscrutable laios touden. the reason they cross paths at all is because kabru wants to meet him! he takes a chance when toshiro appears and sees his chance through.

but kabru doesn't realize it until he's already said it. he betrays himself, completely unaware that his supposed interest in the touden siblings skews a little more to the right than he could have possibly known.

killing laios would have been the ultimate preventative measure. he was yet to be dungeon lord, and with the canaries intent on handling marcille, kabru could have dealt with him right then on that cliff. but kabru doesn't take the opportunity because he doesn't want to.

he'd rather befriend laios than see him dead, and he takes the chance by the sleeve and doesn't let go until he is listened to.

and in the end, kabru is rewarded for his leap of faith: laios puts an end to the demon. laios has ensured that another utaya will never happen again.

laios saves the world.

all because kabru allowed himself to be selfish.

[cassiemaebarnes]

Birthday Bucky!!

Bucky x reader

It's my birthday, so you know I had to write some Bucky fics🥳 Couldn't decide on a plot, so I wrote three mini ones :)

Total Word Count: 5,916

(was going to add a bucky gif but this one was funnier😂)

Today was your birthday, and as you got out of bed, you couldn’t help but smile. You have always loved your birthday.

You always felt so self-centered whenever you thought about it, saying you loved a day that was all about you. But in reality, you just loved being celebrated for once.

As you made your way down the compound hallway, you expected a few “happy birthdays,” and maybe even a card, but not much as you walked into the kitchen for breakfast.

But when you stepped in, you were met with a few “good mornings” and a “if you want coffee you’re gonna have to make more.”

You hid the disappointment on your face, but as you started a new pot of coffee, you tried to convince yourself that it was okay. It was early, they just woke up, and it probably wouldn’t register until later anyway.

But when later came, there was still no mention of your birthday.

Not in training, not at lunch, not in the afternoon meetings, not even when you were chilling in the common room that evening, some of the other Avengers coming in and out, making casual conversation.

That’s when you started to think, maybe they planned something bigger than you thought. Maybe – just maybe – they had a surprise party planned for you. Maybe they’d order in from your favorite restaurant, or just have a cake.

But as the others started drifting in and out of the kitchen, warming up leftovers or making something themselves, you knew that wasn’t happening either.

Finally, everyone had eaten and made their way back to their rooms. And you were still sitting on the couch, hoping someone would remember.

But no one did.

You tried not to let it bother you. You haven’t even known them a year, it’s been a while since you talked about your birthday last, and it’s not like you expected them to remember anyway.

But you couldn’t help the tears that started to leak from your eyes when you realized how alone you felt.

You didn’t have any other friends or family left. No one else that would have known. No calls or texts.

You could have just told them, but you didn’t want to seem like you were looking for attention. Didn’t want them to feel like they had to make a big deal out of it. Didn’t want to make them feel bad that they forgot.

But all you wanted, all day, was just to hear someone say “happy birthday.”

You didn’t know how long you sat there, staring at the wall, tears slowly streaming down your face, but you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it was too late.

“Y/n?”

You jumped and looked up.

Bucky was standing over the couch, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed.

“What?” you said, quickly swiping the backs of your hands over your cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

You forced a smile, shaking your head a little too quickly. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Bucky didn’t move. “You’ve been sitting here for a while.”

“I was just…relaxing.”

“In the dark?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

You gave a half-hearted shrug and looked away. “Didn’t feel like turning the lights on.”

He came around the couch, hesitating for a moment before sitting at the far end, giving you space. His voice was gentler now. “You’ve been crying.”

“No, I haven’t.”

He gave you a look – quiet, patient, not pressing, but not buying it either.

You sighed, eyes on the coffee table. “It’s stupid.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “It’s not stupid if it has you this upset.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, debating. He didn’t need to know. It wasn’t his problem. But the words slipped out anyway, soft and strained.

“It’s my birthday.”

Bucky blinked. “Today?”

You nodded once.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, guilt flashing in his expression. “I wish you would’ve said something.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, waving it off with a tired smile. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but you cut in again, trying to redirect.

“I think I just…missed my family a little more today, that’s all.” You gave a shrug like it was no big deal, like that was the full truth. But he could see it in your eyes – that wasn’t the whole story.

Still, he didn’t call you out on it. He just nodded slowly and said, “Well…happy birthday.”

Something in your chest loosened at that. It was small, and a little late, but it was something.

You smiled, a little sad but a little grateful too. “Thanks.”

You stood up after that, brushing your hands against your sides as if to shake the weight of the day off with the motion. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Alright,” Bucky said, watching you go.

You gave him a small nod before walking out of the room.

--

A little while later, you were sitting on your bed, legs tucked under you and a book open in your lap, though you hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. The earlier conversation with Bucky kept replaying in your mind – his quiet apology, the way he’d said happy birthday like it actually mattered to him. You told yourself not to dwell on it, that he’d just felt bad.

Then came a soft knock on your door.

You looked up, startled. It wasn’t that late, but still – unexpected.

When you opened the door, Bucky was standing there.

“Hey,” he said simply. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

He just motioned you to follow him. “You’ll see.”

You hesitated, half-suspicious, half-hopeful. Your brain tried to tamp down your expectations, but your heart didn’t listen. You followed him anyway, barefoot down the hall, trying not to get your hopes up.

When you reached the kitchen, the lights were on – and the room wasn’t empty.

The rest of the team was there, scattered around the counters and table. There was a lopsided cake sitting in the center, icing smudged in some places and candles poking out at awkward angles.

Everyone turned when you walked in, and in near unison, they said:

“Happy birthday!”

You froze.

Apologies immediately followed. Tony started with some dramatic excuse, Steve gave you a genuine “I’m so sorry we forgot,” Nat muttered something that sounded like guilt hidden behind dry humor, and even Sam offered a sheepish, “You should’ve said something, we would’ve made a big deal, you know that.”

You smiled, overwhelmed but somehow lighter than you’d felt all day. “It’s okay. Really. I didn’t tell anyone, so...it’s not your fault.”

Your eyes drifted to Bucky.

He was standing a little off to the side, arms crossed, but there was a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you take it all in.

“You did all this for me?” you asked softly, your eyes locked on his.

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Didn’t want the day to end without someone celebrating you.”

The warmth that bloomed in your chest was almost too much to process. You wanted to say more, to tell him how much it meant, but your throat felt tight.

Instead, you stepped closer to the cake as someone started lighting the candles, the room filled with flickers of golden light. You stared at the glow, the soft hum of voices around you beginning the birthday song.

You looked up, just before you blew out the candles, and your eyes found Bucky again.

He was already watching you, that same quiet smile on his face.

You smiled back – grateful, full-hearted – and made your wish.

I want every birthday to feel like this.

And then, you blew out the candles.

When your alarm went off in the morning, you just turned it off with a sigh.

It was your birthday.

And while that should be a good thing, you’ve never really liked your birthday. You didn’t know why exactly, but you just always seemed to end up crying.

You knew some family and other people would text you, wishing you a happy birthday. But you knew for a fact there wouldn’t be any parties happening at the compound.

This was your first birthday as an Avenger, and you made sure not to make a big deal about when your birthday was. So you hoped that you would have an attention-free birthday.

But that lasted all of 30 minutes.

You went down to the kitchen for breakfast – successfully, with no “happy birthdays.”

After sipping on coffee and grabbing a protein bar, you made your way to the training room before everyone else, always preferring to get some extra warm-ups in before it started.

When you walked in, Bucky was the only other one in there, stretching.

He said hey, you greeted him back, then you started to walk to the other side of the room.

“Happy birthday.”

You froze.

How the hell did he know it was your birthday?

You slowly turned around, eyes wide. “What?”

He froze now, too. “Oh…is it not your birthday?”

You just opened your mouth, then closed it again, trying to figure out how he would know.

“No it is,” you answered, taking a couple steps toward him. “But how did you know that?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, standing straight up now. “You mentioned it once.”

You narrowed your eyes, taking a few more steps toward him. “When?”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you were crazy. “Uhh…I don’t know. Why?”

You stared at him, still baffled. “No, seriously. When did I say that? I don’t remember ever telling you.”

Bucky just shrugged, like it was obvious. “You mentioned it once – maybe a couple months ago? You were talking to Nat about what time of year you hate the most or something. You said your birthday always sucked.”

You blinked. That did sound like something you’d mutter in passing without thinking anyone was really listening.

“But…” you hesitated, still a little thrown. “You remembered that?”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to look confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

You opened your mouth again, searching for an answer, but the words felt heavy in your chest. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “It just…surprises me.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

You gave a small shrug, suddenly feeling a little silly. “I don’t really like my birthday.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. “You don’t?”

“Nope.”

He folded his arms across his chest, watching you now with real curiosity. “Why not?”

“I don’t really have a reason,” you said, looking down at your feet and giving a small shake of your head. “It just always ends up being a bad day. I try not to expect much, and then it still somehow manages to suck.”

There was a pause, and then Bucky said, in a tone that was so matter-of-fact it stunned you, “Well…I’ll make sure it isn’t a bad day for you.”

You looked up sharply, eyes meeting his. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t saying it to be polite.

He meant it.

For a second, you didn’t know what to say. You were used to people brushing your feelings off or awkwardly changing the subject – not promising to make it better.

“…Well,” you said after a beat, the sincerity of his words warming something deep inside you, “thank you.”

You gave him a small, almost shy smile, then turned away and started walking toward the mats. The sound of your shoes echoed softly as you crossed the room to your usual corner to begin stretching.

A few moments later, the rest of the team began to file in – Steve and Sam mid-argument, Natasha sipping coffee like she hadn’t slept, and Clint yawning dramatically as he tossed his gear bag to the side.

But even with all the noise and movement that followed, you still felt that quiet flicker of warmth from earlier.

Because for once…maybe your birthday wouldn’t be a bad day.

--

After training, you headed straight back to your room, muscles sore but heart still unexpectedly light.

The hot shower helped clear your head a little, washing away the sweat and leftover tension from earlier. You changed into a fresh hoodie and leggings, combed your hair, and just as you stepped out the door to head downstairs for lunch, you noticed something.

A small gift bag.

It was sitting neatly right outside your door. Pale blue with silver tissue paper poking out the top.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bent to pick it up, glancing down the hallway like someone might jump out and take credit.

No one did.

You stepped back into your room, set the bag on your bed, and carefully opened it.

Inside was a small card, simple but clearly handwritten.

Hope this one doesn’t suck. Happy Birthday.

– Bucky

You huffed out a surprised breath – half-laugh, half-scoff – as your heart tugged in your chest.

Beneath the card was a small, thoughtful gift. Your favorite kind of tea, a book you’d mentioned in passing weeks ago, and a sleek new knife – something practical, but still somehow personal.

Your fingers brushed over the items as you smiled, something soft and unguarded breaking through your usual quiet shell.

You were still smiling when you headed down to the kitchen.

But when you stepped in, your eyes widened. Lining the counters were containers and boxes from your favorite takeout spot – steam rising from fresh dishes, a spread of every comfort meal you loved most.

“Whoa,” you said, blinking. “What’s going on?”

Tony glanced up from where he was stacking plates. “Just lunch.”

You eyed the food again, mouth already watering. “Is there a reason you ordered from here?”

“Bucky requested it for some reason,” he said. “Which was weird because I didn’t think he liked this place.”

Before you could react, you heard footsteps. Bucky walked in, hair still damp, wearing a clean t-shirt and joggers. He looked relaxed – and when his eyes met yours, a quiet kind of warmth passed between you.

You met him halfway, smiling as you spoke. “Thank you. For the gift. And…everything.”

He gave a half-shrug, obviously downplaying his efforts. “Figured you deserved it.”

You looked at him for a moment, then lowered your voice a little. “Did you tell the others? About today?”

He shook his head. “No. Wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

You paused, touched by how seriously he took that small boundary. And maybe a little surprised by how much that consideration meant to you.

After a breath, you said softly, “No. I didn’t.”

He nodded, respectful and unbothered.

Then, as if on cue, your stomach growled. You both cracked a grin.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

And together, you walked over to the counter, grabbed plates, and started filling them side by side.

You were lounging in your room later that afternoon, scrolling aimlessly through your phone and trying not to think too hard about the day – how unexpectedly good it had turned out – when your phone buzzed.

It was a text from Steve in the group chat.

Hey guys, team dinner at 5 tonight. Don’t miss it.

You frowned slightly, sitting up. That wasn’t unusual – team dinners happened all the time – but the phrasing was oddly formal. Still, you figured it was just one of those days where Steve decided to be overly responsible.

A few hours later, when it was almost 5, you started making your way downstairs.

But when you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped dead in your tracks.

Everyone was already there.

“Happy birthday!” they all chorused.

Your eyes went wide. A huge cake sat on the counter – frosted perfectly, with your name in bold letters and candles already placed, ready to be lit.

You didn’t say anything at first, completely stunned. Your gaze immediately flicked to the one person you were sure had something to do with this.

Bucky was leaning casually against the island, arms crossed, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked almost too pleased with himself.

You blinked, still processing, before shaking your head with a quiet laugh. “You guys…”

“Why didn’t you tell us it was your birthday?” Natasha asked, hands on her hips like she was genuinely offended. “You know we celebrate birthdays around here.”

Sam pointed a chip at you. “Yeah, what the hell, y/n. I would’ve made my world-famous brownies.”

“Tony would’ve gone overboard with decorations,” Clint added.

You let out a soft laugh, feeling your cheeks flush with both embarrassment and joy. “I don’t know…I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve said, “but we will.”

The room chuckled, and you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “Thank you, really.”

“Don’t thank us,” Tony said, waving a hand. “Thank Barnes.”

You glanced over at Bucky again.

He just shrugged like it was nothing, but the slight pink in his cheeks gave him away.

“Wait, wait,” Sam cut in, grinning wide now. “You don’t even know. After lunch, this guy went full sergeant mode.”

“I’m serious,” Clint chimed in, pointing dramatically. “He went door to door like some birthday vigilante. Told all of us the plan, gave assignments.”

“He picked out the cake himself,” Natasha added with a smirk. “Wouldn’t let anyone help. Said he had it handled.”

Bucky looked vaguely horrified as all eyes turned on him. “You guys are so dramatic.”

“You were literally ordering people around,” Bruce said mildly. “It was kind of impressive, honestly.”

You couldn’t stop laughing now, covering your mouth as you turned to Bucky again. “You did all that?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at you. “Didn’t want your birthday to suck.”

Your smile softened, and you took a step closer. “Thank you,” you said again, quieter this time.

He finally looked at you, and the look on his face – slightly shy, slightly proud – made your chest tighten in the best way.

“Anytime,” he murmured.

--

Dinner was loud, messy, and perfect.

Everyone gathered around the big table, plates full of takeout and mismatched drinks clinking together. There was endless banter – Sam complaining about the spice level, Tony bragging about some invention no one asked about, Nat calmly stealing fries off Clint’s plate without looking up.

At some point, the others subtly shuffled chairs and swapped spots so that, somehow, you ended up sitting right next to Bucky.

You didn’t say anything about it.

He didn’t either.

But you felt the slight brush of his knee against yours under the table, and the warm little flicker in your chest told you it wasn’t a coincidence.

After the meal was finished and people were groaning about being too full, Tony dramatically declared it was “cake time,” and Bruce lit the candles while Steve dimmed the lights.

Everyone gathered around the kitchen island, and you stood at the center, cheeks burning as they sang the happy birthday song in varying levels of pitch and enthusiasm. You caught Bucky watching you again – eyes soft, a faint smile on his lips – and just before you blew out the candles, you gave him a grateful look.

Your wish was simple: Let every birthday feel like this one.

Afterward, everyone dug into the cake and ice cream, cracking jokes about sugar crashes and fighting over middle slices.

Eventually, as plates were scraped clean and the sugar haze started to settle in, Steve asked you a question.

“So, what’s the best birthday gift you’ve ever gotten?”

You blinked, thinking. “Hmm…probably when I turned seven. I wanted this purple bike. Like, really wanted it. I talked about it nonstop for months.”

Bucky leaned his elbow on the table, quietly watching you as you spoke.

“My parents acted like they had no idea what I was talking about – kept saying it was too expensive, I was too small, I’d grow out of it. And then boom – there it was in the living room with a giant bow on it. I think I screamed.”

Everyone laughed as you smiled at the memory.

You went quiet for a moment after that, then glanced down at your plate, voice a little softer. “But…I think today might be the best one yet, actually.”

There was a pause.

Then, a collective and heartfelt chorus of “Awww” went around the table.

“Well, we’re glad we could finally celebrate it with you,” Steve said, lifting his glass of soda.

“And we all know who made it happen,” Natasha said, eyes sliding toward Bucky.

You laughed as the teasing began again.

“He organized this whole thing,” Sam said with mock awe.

“Birthday commander,” Clint added. “Ten-hut!”

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky muttered, slouching a little in his seat, clearly embarrassed but grinning all the same.

“You picked a damn good cake, man,” Tony said, patting his shoulder.

You turned toward him, bumping your shoulder gently against his. “You really did.”

He just gave you a sideways glance and said, quiet but sincere, “Told you I’d make sure it wasn’t a bad day.”

And as the night drifted into laughter and stories, you couldn’t help but think – he really did.

Your alarm goes off with a soft chime, cutting through the quiet warmth of you and Bucky’s shared room at the compound. You barely have time to register the sound before Bucky's lips are on you – pressing kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. He peppers your face with affection, slow and sleepy and smiling against your skin.

You laugh, soft and muffled in your pillow, tilting your head just enough to catch his eyes. He’s already grinning.

“Happy birthday, doll,” he murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.

“Thank you,” you whisper back, your heart flipping the way it always does when he looks at you like that. You reach for him and press a kiss to his lips – slow, lingering, and just enough to make him hum contentedly against you.

You stay like that for a little while longer, tangled up in sheets and each other, letting the day stretch out ahead of you. You know training is coming, but right now, the world is just you and him.

Eventually, reluctantly, you both get up and start getting ready. As you pull on your training clothes, you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. The day ahead is already playing out in your mind – lunch with Nat and Wanda, getting your nails done, some much-needed retail therapy, and then dinner with Bucky tonight. A proper date night.

You're still smiling when you and Bucky head downstairs to the kitchen, your fingers brushing against his as you walk. The moment you step through the door, a chorus of voices greets you.

“Happy birthday!”

Everyone is already gathered around, mugs in hand, grinning. There’s a card on the table, standing upright like it's been waiting for you. You pick it up and open it, your chest warming at the familiar, chaotic mix of handwriting and doodles. Everyone signed it.

Bucky moves around the kitchen, making your coffee like he always does. He sets your mug in front of you before you can even ask, the steam curling between you as he leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Sit,” he says, already grabbing ingredients. “Birthday girl doesn’t lift a finger.”

You roll your eyes fondly but take your seat, watching as he whips up a batch of your favorite – chocolate chip pancakes, golden and fluffy and stacked high. He even adds extra chocolate chips, just the way you like.

Breakfast is warm and sweet and full of laughter. It’s everything you love about mornings at the compound – only better, because Bucky keeps sneaking glances at you like you hung the moon.

Once the plates are cleared and coffee cups drained, Bucky stretches, then offers you his hand. “Ready for training?”

You groan half-heartedly, but your fingers curl around his anyway. “Let’s get it over with.”

As you head to the training room together, you’re already counting down the hours until lunch with the girls, your date with Bucky, and whatever else the day might bring. Because so far, it’s perfect – and you’ve got a feeling it’s only going to get better.

--

Training is tougher than usual – either Steve's in a particularly bad mood or you're just too giddy to focus. Probably the latter. Even Bucky, usually dialed in and sharp, keeps sneaking glances at you between sparring drills. At one point, Nat elbows him with a smirk and whispers something that makes him roll his eyes, though the blush on his cheeks gives him away.

By the time you’re done, your muscles ache in that satisfying way, and your hair is sticking to your neck. You shoot Bucky a grin as you part ways in the hallway.

“Quick shower, then I’m off to be spoiled.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple, his metal hand curling gently around your waist. “Good. You deserve it. Have fun with the girls.”

You take a quick shower, letting the hot water ease the tension from your shoulders. You towel off, slipping into the outfit you picked out just for today: something cute but comfy, perfect for brunch and window shopping. Then, you put on some makeup and grab your purse.

By the time you step out of your room, Nat and Wanda are already waiting for you by the elevators.

“Birthday girl is ready,” Nat declares, linking her arm through yours.

Wanda grins and hands you a gift bag. “Just a little something to start the day.”

Inside is a new shade of lipstick Wanda swore would look perfect on you last week, and a new knife, obviously from Nat.

You blink back the sudden warmth in your eyes. “You guys…”

“Don’t get all sappy on us yet,” Nat smirks. “We’ve got mimosas to drink.”

You all pile into one of the cars and head into the city. Lunch is at your favorite brunch spot – outdoor seating, the smell of fresh pastries and coffee in the air, the sun warm on your face. The three of you toast with fruity drinks, laugh too loudly, and share everything from pancakes to avocado toast. Nat insists on ordering a dessert for the table – something with caramel and ice cream – and you nearly fall into a food coma right then and there.

After lunch, it's nails and spa. The place Wanda picked is chic and relaxing, with soft music and cucumber water and cozy chairs. The three of you sit side-by-side getting your nails done, flipping through magazines and comparing colors. You go for a soft birthday-pink with a little shimmer, while Nat chooses a dark red, and Wanda surprises everyone with a glittery teal.

“You have to take a selfie with Bucky tonight,” Wanda says, examining your finished nails. “I need to see his face when he realizes how ridiculously in love with you he is.”

You laugh, heart fluttering, because yeah…you already know he is. And you’re so gone for him, too.

Shopping comes last – mostly browsing, a few impulse buys, and Nat pretending she doesn’t care while picking out a killer leather jacket. You grab a candle that smells like fresh linen and vanilla, and a sweater you know Bucky will love seeing you in.

As the sun starts to dip lower, painting the sky in warm golds and oranges, you all head back to the compound. Your bag is full, your heart is fuller, and you can’t stop smiling.

And now, all you can think about is what comes next: dinner with Bucky, just the two of you. You already know he’s planning something – he’s been too quiet about it not to be. And whatever it is, you’re more than ready.

--

The elevator doors slide open, and you step into the compound with Nat and Wanda, arms full of shopping bags and your cheeks still warm from laughing. As you walk into the common room, you spot most of the guys sprawled out on the couches – Steve with a book, Sam mid-argument with Tony over something on the TV, and Bucky, who jumps up the moment he sees you.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, not even pretending to play it cool. His eyes scan you first – head to toe – then he’s reaching for the bags in your hands.

“Let me get these,” he says, voice low, eyes soft.

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already taking everything out of your arms like it weighs nothing. And then he kisses you – right there, in front of everyone. Warm and slow, his hand cradling your jaw like you’re the only thing that matters.

Sam lets out a dramatic groan. “Damn, man, give us a warning next time!”

Tony whistles. “She leaves for a few hours and you act like she’s been gone for a week.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “Jealous?” he tosses over his shoulder, still entirely focused on you. “C’mon, doll. Let’s get ready.”

He carries everything up like it’s his job, and honestly, maybe it is. By the time you reach your room, he’s already setting the bags gently on the bench at the foot of your bed.

You step into the bathroom while he heads to the closet, the quiet tension of the evening starting to build. The outfit you picked for dinner hangs by the mirror: a dress that makes you feel effortlessly beautiful, the kind Bucky always lingers on a little too long when you wear. You slip into it, your freshly done nails shining against the fabric. You add a pair of earrings and swipe on Wanda’s new lipstick before stepping out of the bathroom.

Bucky is waiting for you in a suit, and when he turns around, his breath catches.

“Wow,” he says simply, eyes locked on you. “You look…”

You smile. “So do you.”

He takes your hand and kisses it – like you’re in a movie, like he does it without thinking. “Ready?”

“Definitely.”

The drive to the restaurant is quiet and peaceful. He plays your favorite playlist in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. The city lights blur past the windows as he takes you to a place you’ve never been, but that looks straight out of a romance novel – high ceilings, flickering candles, soft piano music playing in the background.

He holds every door open. Pulls out your chair. Orders your favorite wine before you even ask. You try not to grin too obviously, but it’s hard. He’s doing the “perfect gentleman” thing to an almost suspicious degree.

Not that you’re complaining.

The dinner is beautiful and amazing, course after course of rich, expertly made food. But the whole time, there’s this energy underneath it all, buzzing beneath Bucky’s smile. He’s trying to be chill, casual, but you know him. You can tell something’s going on.

He keeps checking his watch.

His phone buzzes once, and he flips it over quickly.

He’s got that subtle, telltale edge of nerves that gives him away more than he realizes.

You’ve helped plan enough surprise parties for the team to know the signs. And you have a pretty good idea of what’s waiting for you when you get back to the compound. But you don’t say anything. You let him play it out. Let him have his moment. Because whatever he’s planning – whatever he’s got up his sleeve – you already know it’s going to mean the world.

And for now, you’re perfectly content to sip your wine, smile at Bucky across the table, and enjoy every second of your perfect birthday night.

--

Dinner winds down with a shared dessert, a quiet toast from Bucky, and the kind of silence that feels full, like neither of you wants to break the spell. But eventually, he checks the time and pays the bill with a small, almost secretive smile.

“Ready to head home, birthday girl?”

You nod, your heart already thudding with quiet anticipation.

The drive back is filled with soft music and stolen glances. Bucky’s thumb strokes over your knuckles as he holds your hand the whole way, and that tension you’d been feeling at dinner – the almost playful, charged energy between you – still lingers, stronger now. You know something’s waiting when you get back. You just don’t know how much.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and you’re met with darkness.

The lights on the floor are off – eerily quiet, especially for the compound. Bucky pretends like he’s surprised too, furrowing his brow in mock confusion. “We pay the electric bill this month?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe Tony forgot.”

Then, the lights come on, and everyone jumps out from behind the couches, kitchen island, and even the hallway walls, yelling in unison:

“SURPRISE!!”

Confetti rains from the ceiling in a shower of glitter and paper streamers. A banner stretches across the room that reads “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” in big, glittery letters. Someone sets off a mini party cannon and Sam cheers like a mad man.

There's a massive cake waiting on the table, lit with candles, next to a spread of ice cream and a stack of mismatched bowls. The scent of frosting and sugar fills the air, and the sound of laughter is instant and infectious.

You laugh, loud and unfiltered, spinning toward Bucky with wide eyes. He’s already looking at you, hands in his pockets, that proud, satisfied smile lighting up his whole face.

You step in close and lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You did all this?”

He grins, just a little bashful now. “Maybe I had some help.”

You kiss him – soft and sweet – and whisper, “Thank you. This is perfect.”

The next hour is a blur of warmth and chaos. The team sings a hilariously off-key version of the happy birthday song, with Tony making dramatic hand gestures like he’s conducting a symphony and Thor booming the final line so loudly the windows rattle. You blow out the candles, and Bucky’s standing right behind you, hands gently resting on your hips as everyone cheers.

There’s cake and ice cream and drinks, gifts exchanged, and stories shared.

At one point, as you're sitting on the couch with Bucky’s arm wrapped around you, Nat asks, “So, were you actually surprised?”

You raise your brows, give a little shrug, and smirk. “Well…I kinda had a feeling.”

The whole room erupts in laughter – even Bucky, who leans into you with a mock groan. “I knew you were onto me.”

The night winds down slowly, and people start saying goodnight one by one. The confetti's still in your hair, your lipstick’s worn off, and you’ve never felt more full – of cake, yes, but also of joy.

Eventually, Bucky stands, offering you his hand again, his eyes darker now in the soft lighting. “C’mon, doll,” he murmurs, slipping a hand to the small of your back as he walks you to the elevator. “I’ve got one more gift for you.”

The way he says it – low, intimate, voice curling around the words like a promise – sends a slow, warm shiver up your spine.

You smile as the elevator doors close behind you.

And when you get back to your room, it’s the best gift yet.

The night ends not with laughter, but with whispered words, tangled limbs, and the kind of closeness that feels sacred.

A perfect birthday, wrapped in love – and Bucky.

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Author's Note: promise I'm not trying to ask for attention😭 but if we're birthday twins, happy birthday! And if not and you come back to this on your birthday, happy birthday :)