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wintaerbaer · 4 months

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things we don’t say: part 5 (kth)

banner credit: @itaeewon

summary: Three years after graduating college, everything seems to be falling into place for you: stable job, cozy apartment, and a long-term boyfriend with a ring box hidden in his desk drawer. But when a mutual friend makes a remark that your best friend of nearly two decades is clearly in love with you, you realize that life may not be as simple as it seems.

pairing: Taehyung x Reader (with some VERY brief Seokjin x Reader and Yoongi x Reader)

rating: 18+

genres: best friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, slow burn, angst, fluff, eventual smut

word count: 12.1k

chapter warnings: jeon jungkook, seventeen is here because i needed fill-ins (also they’re not singers but their music still canonically exists in-universe so good luck figuring that one out), a wedding!, tae is WHIPPED, the infamous butt debate, jealousy (plural), jimin has terrible timing, alcohol consumption ft. a drinking game, a mega cliffhanger i’m so sorry

a/n: while not required, i highly recommend reading the prequel drabble if you haven’t yet as it has some heavy relevance to this part and the next! special thanks to @btsborahaee and @jeonwiixard for beta-ing this chapter and letting me gush and brainstorm in their inboxes on the regular <3 also, shout outs to @animeniacss and @taegularities for sprinting with me all the time (and a forehead kiss to rid for coming up with the idea for the bathroom scene, mwah)!

PREVIOUS // SERIES MASTERLIST // MASTERLIST

Read on ao3

"After today, I never want to see a ribbon ever again."

Jimin fumbles his fingers over the thin string, throwing his hands up in a huff when the slippery material resists his efforts to tie it. With Hoseok and Sunny's wedding only two weeks away, you'd offered to help out with some of the prep work, and Taehyung suggested hosting a mini prep party at your apartment as part of his efforts to make new memories since you'd moved back. True to his word, he’s been at your place nearly every day the past few weeks, cooking dinner with you and rewatching your favorite shows from high school.

You have to admit it’s been pleasantly domestic.

"It's not that bad," you say, finishing off your own ribbon around one of the tiny boxes of chocolate which will be distributed to each of the two-hundred-plus guests as a wedding favor.

"No, I'm serious. I don't even want to tie my shoes anymore. I'm a Crocs guy now."

"I've heard girls love sport mode," Taehyung quietly teases. "Is that right, Y/N?"

The flirtatiousness of his tone startles you, and your eyes snap up to meet his where he sits across from you at the dining room table. He's smiling one of those mischievous grins that makes your stomach churn, belly lurching when he stuns you with a wink before turning back to his own tiny box.

What the fu—

"If any of you show up to my wedding in Crocs, I'm kicking you out," Sunny grumbles.

Hoseok smacks his lips as he ties off a ribbon. "Does that also go for—"

"You as well, yes."

Your group settles into a momentary silence at her declaration—not a sound besides the ripple of ribbon and paper. At least until—

“I got laid wearing Crocs once.”

The entire table groans in unison, and you toss a bit of balled up wrapping paper at Jungkook's chest that bounces pathetically to the floor as Jimin boos. “No one cares about your sexcapades, Kook.”

“What, it was impressive!” he argues. “Just be thankful I'm not bringing any of them to the wedding.”

“I almost wish you were,” Hoseok grumbles. “You'd better not be picking up anyone inappropriate that night. Sisters, cousins, aunts—”

“That was one time!”

“—and anyone else even remotely close to family are off limits.”

Jungkook is quiet for a long moment, pouting to himself, before he says, “Moms?”

The table boos again, more bits of wrapping paper flying his way.

“I'm kidding! Kidding!”

“Actually, Y/N,” Sunny murmurs, leaning towards you. “I hate to bring it up, but are you planning on bringing anyone else in Jace’s place?” Her expression is one of compassionate regret, with pursed lips and a furrowed brow, but the question still hits you low in your chest, knocking the wind out of you.

“I feel terrible asking,” she continues, “but one of my friends from high school originally declined a plus-one, and now she’s asking if there’s any way we can squeeze in this guy she met two weeks ago, and normally I’d tell her no, there’s no way I can change the head count two weeks out and who is this guy anyway, but then I figured that we do technically have an extra spot so we could fit him in, but I’d definitely give you the option to bring someone else first if you wa—“

“It’s fine,” you say, trying to ignore the way everyone else around the table is now looking on in sympathy. “I have no one else to bring. Let her guy come.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” It feels like you’re dying inside, but you try to look unbothered, especially since you can feel Taehyung’s eyes on you. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay,” Sunny quietly agrees, just as Hoseok suddenly jumps in at her side.

“You know, Tae isn’t bringing anyone to the wedding either,” he says, looking between the two of you. “Why don’t you just go together?”

“I’m also going alo—“ There’s a thump under the table and Jungkook immediately shuts his mouth.

You glance at Taehyung, who’s looking back at you with a dip in his eyebrows and parted lips. It was probably a given that you would spend time at the wedding hanging out already, but wouldn’t going together mean something else entirely? A promise of dancing and proximity and a label the two of you have never shared?

Perhaps that’s the reason why he’s staring at you with a touch of discomfort. Your own skin prickles at the thought, and so you scratch away the itch at your chin and deflect.

“That’s okay. We don’t have to.” Then you stand from the table sharply, hitting your limits with this conversation. “I’ll be right back.”

You head for the bathroom, not even needing to do anything in there, but sure that you can busy yourself for a few minutes to get your emotions under control away from your friends. But as you’re about to swing the door shut behind you, a large hand reaches out to stop it with a thud, and Taehyung quickly slips in before closing the door himself.

“Tae, what are you—“

“Come with me.”

You’re practically chest-to-chest, and if not for the fact that you’ve stopped breathing with his question, you’d probably be pressed up against him in the tight space.

“What?”

He licks his lips, pulls in air through his nose like he’s bracing himself.

“Come to the wedding with me.”

The room is heavy with silence as his request fully sinks in, the air between you thick and hot as you try to get some of it into your lungs. It’s hard, though, to develop a coherent thought with him standing so close—his scent engulfing you and dark, searching eyes fixated on your expression.

“I don’t kno—“ you begin, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Why not? Like Hobi said, neither of us is bringing anyone already.” His fingers brush yours—an apology for mentioning it again. “So why not go together and…not be as alone.”

You shift on your feet. “But you do know that you don’t have to do this. I’m fine without a plus one. There’s no shame in it for me.”

“Y/N,” he huffs. “You know that I like being around you, right?” He nudges gently against the underside of your chin, making you look at him directly. “I wouldn’t have stuck around this long if I didn’t.”

You’re still skeptical—nervous about the implications of what this would look like, especially when you just got out of a relationship. To you, it feels very much like teasing a boundary. But Taehyung is all nerves in front of you, gaze darting up-and-down your face and a tiny pull at the corner of his mouth telling you that he’s chewing on his lip.

And of course, because it’s him, you cave.

“Okay.”

He beams and, not for the first time, you feel your chest lighten at the sight of his boxy smile. “Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, smiling back.

“Okay.” Almost impossibly, his grin gets even wider, and you can see the wheels begin to turn in his head. “Do you have a dress picked out yet? What color is it? I can match you.”

It takes you aback. You wouldn’t have even thought about that. “Emerald green.”

“Emerald green,” he repeats, something registering behind his eyes, and he licks his lips again. “Okay. Great.”

He shifts like he's getting ready to leave, but you catch his fingers to reel him back. And you hate to put it out there, hate to even bring it up, but after everything you’ve been through, you need the clarity.

“And Tae,” you say, “this isn’t a date, right?”

He gives a slow blink, a wave of unknown emotion rippling from forehead to chin before he smiles gently at you, eyes softening at the corners. “Of course not.”

You nod. “Okay.” And a small part of you feels…disappointed?

But there's no time to dwell on it as he exits the bathroom, and you follow him out in spite of doing exactly zero bathroom things. You return to the dining room together, your friends clearly trying to look nonchalant as they diligently work on their party favors but being way too quiet to not have been trying to eavesdrop on your conversation.

“Sunny,” Taehyung says as you take your seats, looking positively brighter. “Just make sure we're sitting next to each other, yeah?”

She snorts. “As if you were anywhere else to begin with.”

Blue skies stretch endlessly in front of you, wind running through your hair and sunlight filtering in through the sunroof as you and Taehyung make the trip to the lakeside resort where Hoseok and Sunny are to be married. He's the absolute picture of relaxation in the driver's seat, wearing sunglasses and a mindless smile with his fingers wrapped delicately around the steering wheel like vines.

He'd opened the door for you when he picked you up, a seemingly spontaneous gesture that had left you both shy and blushing. But if the afternoon started with a touch of unusual awkwardness between you, the prospect of your “not a date” wedding date making itself known, it has since evaporated in the hot summer air. At this point, you’ve spent the past hour chatting, playing road trip games (Taehyung somehow destroying you in the alphabet game in spite of having to focus on driving), and burning through three boxes of Pepero.

“These are an addiction, I swear,” you say, crunching down on a chocolate-filled stick and clapping your hands in delight. Taehyung’s eyes leave the road for a second as he takes you in and grins.

“Was that the last of it?”

“Oh.” You peer into the box. Empty. “Yeah. Sorry. Did you want it?”

“No, it’s fine. You can have it.”

“I sure hope so since I already swallowed it.”

He laughs, whole face lighting up with it, and you feel something turn over behind your ribcage as if someone’s flipped your heart like a pancake. It makes you think that even though you were supposed to be making this trip with a different person, you’re glad it’s him instead.

My love only amounts to this.

The lyrics ring out through the car, and Taehyung leans forward suddenly, turning up the volume on the stereo.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s your favorite song!” he joyfully says. “I know you like to sing along.”

You stare at him blankly, taken aback because you don’t think you’ve ever mentioned this to him. When did he notice…?

“C’mon, sing with me. Play a song I know and one step. Hold my hands and put my feet in, two steps.”

His sweet baritone sounds out beside you, and you feel a grin break out across your face. You always forget what a joy it is to hear Taehyung sing.

“The person to know all my secrets is you,” you sing, joining along. “So I’m even more thankful.”

“Sometimes when you get tired, and I see you crying with your head down, I don't know what to do. What can I do?”

You’re both belting it out at the top of your lungs by the time it gets to the chorus, and you think the sun has somehow moved inside the car with how bright and warm you feel.

My love only amounts to this. But thank you for staying by my side, my baby.

Your car charges down the road, trailing laughter and joy in its wake, and your chest feels light for the first time in weeks.

Even if my love only amounts to this. I'll be your umbrella in the rain. I'll protect you on all your days.

Jimin, Maya, and Jungkook meet you in the hotel lobby—a marble behemoth with wrought iron staircases and sofas that definitely cost more than your rent—and you all line up to check in, gawking at the elaborate chandelier that hangs above your heads.

“How did they even afford this place?” Jimin wonders.

Maya sucks her teeth. “At this rate? I think they might have mob ties.”

“Feet pics,” Jungkook says simply.

Once everyone has obtained their key cards, you set off to find your rooms. You’re all on the same floor since a certain section was booked specifically for the wedding, but with you having a room with only a single queen-sized bed, you’re down the hall and away from the others who booked doubles.

While Jimin, Maya, and Jungkook break off to get acclimated in their own respective rooms, Taehyung follows you into yours with a touch of melancholy, your luggage slung over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re fine here alone?” he asks, setting your bag on the ground. “I can room with you if you’d like. I’m sure Kook wouldn’t mind.”

“There’s only one bed,” you point out, blushing.

Taehyung also goes slightly pink. “Well yeah, but the other week we just…or I can take the couch. Or we can ask Kook to swap rooms?”

“It’s okay,” you say. “I’m alone at the apartment all the time anyway.”

He nods, looking oddly shot down. “Alright. But if you change your mind, just ask.”

“Unlikely,” you tease with a wrinkle of your nose. “You snore.”

He gasps, feigning hurt. “I do not.”

He doesn’t. But you still tilt your head solemnly, pressing your lips together as if preparing to deliver bad news. “You do.”

“Shit,” he sighs before the two of you break down in giggles.

A few hours later, the five of you wind up at the resort’s restaurant for dinner, lamenting the exorbitant prices but enjoying an incredible meal. The night dwindles down as you settle in at the bar, figuring you can have a couple drinks before resting up for tomorrow’s big day. With a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, you have a perfect view of the lake outside and the glow of the sunset spreading out above the trees. It tints the room orange, seeping onto every surface, including Taehyung’s forearms resting atop the bar.

You trace his veins with your eyes, study the way they trail to his hands curled lightly around his low ball glass. Your friends are talking about plans for tomorrow, but you’re not paying much attention; you’re far more interested in trying to figure out when your best friend’s arms started looking like that.

“And don’t worry, Chim. If I have the chance to get lucky, I’ll make sure not to use our room,” Maya says, placing a hand over her heart in pledge. “No locking you out because I’m a good friend.”

But Jungkook has tensed up next to you, and in spite of the cute pout of his lips, the creasing of his forehead suggests that he’s genuinely upset. “Hook-up? You’re going to find a hook-up?”

Maya looks at him incredulously, drink paused halfway to her lips. “Possibly. Aren’t you?”

“I…” His teeth bite into his lip. “It’s a wedding.”

She barks out a devilish laugh. “So? When has that ever stopped you?” A spiteful glare is sent his way that even has you shrinking behind him in secondhand shame. “Since when do you have morals?”

Taehyung’s knee squeezes against yours under the bar—a warning, probably, but your brain momentarily becomes fixated on the weight of it, on how nice it feels to have his warmth pressed against you. It’s not until he taps a finger against your thigh, signaling with his eyes at the sullen man behind you, that you pass on the touch, giving Jungkook’s elbow a gentle nudge in support and encouragement. He takes a quick look at you with sad, vulnerable eyes, and you’re reminded of how flustered he’d been during your conversation a few weeks ago.

“I was actually thinking,” he begins, more serious than you’ve ever seen him, “that maybe we could go together since neither of us have dates.”

Maya snorts, setting her drink down firmly on the countertop. “Why, so you can ditch me halfway through for the first woman that flutters her eyelashes at you? No thanks.”

Jungkook physically recoils like he’s been slapped, the force sending him back so far that he practically winds up in your lap. “You really think I would do that?”

His voice is tiny, hurt dripping from every syllable, and it makes Maya finally look up, face dropping as she seems to realize the wounds she’s inflicted upon him.

Her brows draw together, and she opens her mouth to say something but is interrupted by the bartender popping up to ask if anyone needs a refill. By the time he leaves, the moment’s passed, and Jungkook briskly stands up, throwing some money down on the bar.

“I’m done. See you guys tomorrow.” And he strides out towards the hotel lobby.

You hop to your feet, shaking your head at Maya. “That was uncalled for.”

She looks guilty but says nothing, rubbing a finger along the rim of her glass, and you follow Jungkook out, calling his name as he approaches the elevators.

“Jungkook!”

He spins to face you with a frown, thumbs hooked in his pants pockets like he’s trying to look casual, but his eyes betray his discomfort. “What?”

“She didn’t mean that,” you say, slightly breathless from your jog across the lobby. “I know she didn’t.”

“Sure she did. That’s who she is. Always speaks her mind.” He shrugs, shirt rippling over his shoulders. “It’s fine. I don’t care.”

“Don’t you though?” you ask. “You’re not a bad guy, Kook. You deserve simple respect at least.”

“Maybe I don’t.” The elevator dings, and he steps inside, turning back to you with a final sad smile. “Night, Y/N.”

A sense of dread taps into the back of your skull, fear that your original inkling on this relationship was perhaps correct. Though you’ve since warmed up to the idea of Maya and Jungkook as a potential couple, it was this exact tension that you were worried about—their fire and gasoline dynamic harboring implications that could blow up your entire friend group.

Taehyung strolls up next to you as the doors roll shut, sighing as he comes to a stop. “He okay?”

“No, but don’t try telling him that.”

He purses his lips. “I had a quick talk with Maya. Reminded her that just because she’s had bad experiences with guys in the past doesn’t give her the right to take it out on him.”

“Good,” you say. “She probably needed to hear it.”

A nod as he assesses your figure and asks, “Are you coming back to the bar? I already covered your tab.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you back—“

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You can make it up to me a different time.”

You smirk at him, stepping closer. “How about I roll it into your Christmas present?”

“Deal.”

You let out a soft laugh, and he offers to walk you up, pressing the button to call the elevator back. The two of you chat about nothing in particular as you make your way to the third floor, commenting on the ridiculously patterned carpet in the halls and laughing about the strangely risqué photos that you noticed hanging in the rooms.

When you arrive at your door, you swipe your key card over the sensor, turning the light from red to green and wishing Taehyung goodnight, but he loops his fingers around your wrist to lightly tug you back.

“Y/N.” He curls his bottom lip over his teeth, head dipping towards the ground in a shy smile as he searches for his words. “I’m…really looking forward to tomorrow. It’s going to be fun.”

He’s adorable; he truly is. Seventeen years of affection, and he still finds ways to endear you to him even more, bits of gold from the lamps catching on the browns of his eyes as he stands before you.

“It is,” you say, tongue tied around your own apprehension. He hums and looks like he wants to say more—tangles his fingers in front of him and chews on his lip as he fidgets. But after a moment passes—you still stuck on his eyes—he jerks his chin down in a nod, says goodnight, and leaves you standing at your door in confusion, taking one look back as he swipes his own key card down the hall and disappears into his room.

You enter your own space with your mind whirling, not sure what the hell just happened but also sure that you’re not upset about it. And once you’ve gone through your bedtime routine and settled in for the night, you fall asleep thinking about brown eyes and shy smiles, welcoming the most restful sleep you’ve had in weeks.

You awake to the sound of Maya knocking on your door promptly at 9am with her suitcase in hand, casually making her way to your bed when you let her in and picking up the hotel menu from the side table while you stare at her. "What are you doing?" "We are going to order room service and watch some shitty TV, and then I am going to help you get you ready for your date." "It's not a date," you say on impulse, though you're internally tamping down the involuntary flutter that's tickling your stomach. "If it's anything, it's a guy taking pity on his unexpectedly-single friend." "Pity date then." She says it with a nonchalant wave of her hand and doesn't give you the chance to speak when you open your mouth to protest. "Y/N, please, just give me the chance to make his jaw drop. If there really is nothing there like you say there is, then what's the harm?" The harm, you think to yourself, is the tingling feeling that's been increasing in intensity when you've been around Taehyung recently, warmth flooding your body at just the thought of him. Your brain has been desperately explaining it away, chalking it up to years of familiarity and comfort being stoked by the emotional trauma which (you're quick to remind yourself) you're still working through. No, Y/N, I don’t have feelings for you. It's these thoughts that, in the end, have you acquiescing as Maya lets out a joyful squeal. At the very least, you make your friend happy and get some well-deserved girl bonding time. Really, what's the harm?

The idea has barely finished running through your mind when you’re already beginning to regret it and wondering what the hell you just got yourself into. Maya wheels her entire suitcase to the foot of your bed and pulls out no less than seven bags of make-up, a curling iron, hairspray, four different brushes, and a straightener.

“Are you doing the entire wedding party after this?” you ask incredulously. “Why did you bring so much?”

“Needed to be ready for anything,” she says, organizing her tools into neat rows. “When I’m done with you, every straight man and half the women will be falling at your feet.”

Your face heats, and you subconsciously rub at your arm. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Okay, then just one man.” She raises her arms, fingers arranged into a square through which she peers at you like she’s sizing you up for a photograph. “Hmm, where should we start?”

You and Maya make your way to the resort's event hall a little while before the ceremony is scheduled to begin. Seating doesn't seem to have opened yet as guests mill about the entryway, the buzz of conversation filling the space above your heads, and the two of you pause at the top of the stairs to see if you can spot your friends. "I think Kook's got a purple tie," she says, peering around. "And you know what he's wearing why?" you ask, but she ignores you. "Oh, look, there they are." Maya's goal may have been to get Taehyung's jaw to drop, but you're left stunned when you look over to where he's standing with Jimin and Jungkook, the now-familiar tingle rippling through your veins once again. His black suit is perfectly tailored, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow waist, emerald green tie wrapped around his neck to match the color of your dress as promised. He's slicked his hair back and away from his eyes so you're able to see how they nervously dart between Jimin and Jungkook, clearly not listening to whatever it is they're enthusiastically saying. Actually, once you look more closely, everything about his body language screams nerves for some reason, his hands moving back and forth to play with the hems of his jacket before smoothing the lapels over and over again. Maya waves, grabbing Jimin's attention, and you watch as he grins at the two of you before leaning in to say something to Taehyung, pointing at where you're standing. Maybe, you think, just maybe you appreciate Maya's plan from this morning after Taehyung glances up at you. His incessantly-moving fingers finally still—halfway through re-adjusting his tie—and his perfect Cupid's-bow-lips pop open, eyes wide as he soaks you in in your floor-length gown. Maya’s worked your hair into loose curls cascading over your shoulders and bare back, and while you convinced her to not go wild with the make-up, she strong-armed you into agreeing to a deep red lipstick that’s only accentuated by the green of your dress. A smug cough comes from your right (clearly Maya's pleased with her work) as you descend the stairs and approach the trio of men. Jimin and Jungkook greet you brightly while Taehyung still looks mildly concussed, continuing to stare at you with his mouth half-open. "Alright there, Tae?" you ask, reaching up to adjust and smooth out his tie, messy from where his hands had frozen on it.

The pads of your fingers are hot where they brush against the hard muscle of his chest, and you try not to read too deeply into the pounding of his heart. Taehyung makes a weird noise akin to what you'd imagine a drowning fish would sound like, and Jungkook gives him a sharp slap on the back, which seems to knock him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into. "Incredible!" he blurts, and you almost want to laugh at the reset-button-like effect Jungkook's smack seems to have on him. He clears his throat, composing himself further. "I, um—you, I mean. You look incredible." You thank him, ignoring the second wave of smugness that comes from Maya's direction, just as the event staff open the doors and begin ushering guests into the hall. Taehyung offers you his arm, and you gladly take it as he guides you to sit alongside your friends.

The wedding hall is as grandiose as the rest of the hotel, with columns ornamenting the sides of the room and a massive flower arch constituting the altar. You all talk as you wait for the ceremony to begin, admiring the decor (the bright bouquets of red, purple, and blue flowers pop against the stark white of the venue) and trying to see if you recognize any of the guests.

“Oh, there’s Sunny’s cousin Chan,” Maya says, peering out over the room. “Remember we met him at that party one time?”

“Didn’t the two of you drunkenly make-out?” you ask.

Jimin frowns. “I thought they hooked up.”

“No, Y/N is right.” She fixes her hair, oblivious to the way Jungkook is now staring at the man in question, hackles raised. “Wouldn’t say no to that happening again; he was good with his hands. Tae, are you alright? You’re looking at Y/N like she’s sprouted four more arms.”

You swivel your head around to see Taehyung next to you, entirely flushed red above the shoulders. He licks his lips as he meets your eyes, blinking furiously like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “Sorry, I spaced out.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Maya waves a dismissive hand, shuffling her attention to Jimin to ask if he knows about the music choices for the ceremony.

A throat clears on your right. “You do look nice. Really.” Taehyung looks utterly sheepish, his head tilted low as he softly pays you the compliment, and it reminds you of how shy he was last night as well. A butterfly takes flight in your chest, and now you’re the one blushing.

“Thank you. You cleaned up nicely, too,” you reply, and he blinks at you in a way that has you second guessing your words. “Not that you don’t always clean up nicely. And not that you don’t normally look very handsome. Because you do. Look very handsome, I mean. All the time.”

His bashfulness morphs into amusement, lips quirking up in an affectionate smile. “Oh, really?”

Your face heats up even more, mouth opening to respond with you don’t even know what, and you’re grateful when a hush falls over the room, the beginning notes of a wedding march signaling the ceremony’s start.

Hoseok appears first, looking dapper in a full tuxedo and grinning ear-to-ear. He walks down the aisle with long strides like he can’t possibly get to the end fast enough, bouncing on his toes as he settles into his spot.

The officiant is next, followed by Iseul and Seokmin, one of Hoseok’s childhood friends. Hana and Namjoon stroll in arm-in-arm after that, then Yumi and Jiho, and finally, everyone rises to their feet as Sunny appears at the entrance and begins her walk in, gaze finding only her groom.

Just as Sunny reaches the head of the aisle, a teary-eyed Hoseok taking her hands in his, another image, one which had once occupied your mind almost constantly but hadn't plagued you in weeks, takes hold: you and Jace in a similar setting, pledging forever to each other in front of your friends and family.

Maybe you had gotten ahead of yourself—the discovery of the ring box in his desk along with the natural longevity of your relationship sparking your imagination—but in the weeks leading up to your heartbreak, you had allowed your mind to plan—what kind of dress you'd wear, the colors you'd pick out, what you might say in your vows. It seems stupid now, dwelling on a future that's already evaporated into nothingness, but seeing the echoes of your dreams being played out in front of you, it’s like you can feel the sand physically slipping through your fingers.

Right as it starts to become too much, as you feel your chest tighten and heart ache, there's a brush of skin against the side of your hand, and glancing down, you see that Taehyung's reached over to quietly hook his pinky with yours. You turn to face him, but he keeps his eyes directed on the bride and groom, face neutral and unreadable, and you know he's giving you the chance to pull away, no questions asked.

But the gesture has warmth flooding through you, thawing the ice of your previous thoughts, and so you move to slip your hand under his, lacing your fingers and pressing your palms together tightly.

Taehyung looks at you then, a shy smile crinkling his eyes and twisting up the corners of his mouth, and you grin back, the previous ache in your chest replaced with a steady flutter as he begins to skim his thumb back and forth in a gentle caress.

You stay that way for the rest of the ceremony—watching your friends vow eternity to each other, Taehyung's hand tethered with yours.

Classical music drifts from the speakers at the back of the room as you find your seats for the reception. The ballroom is tremendous, with tall, arched ceilings, a gorgeous chandelier, and a wide dance floor that you’re sure will see a ton of action later. With the tables seating eight, you see that you’ve been placed in a grouping of you, Taehyung, Maya, Jimin, Jungkook, and three of Hoseok’s medical school friends, who introduce themselves as Wonwoo, Joshua, and Mingyu.

Thankfully, your group hits it off immediately. Wonwoo is rather reserved, more an observer of those around him than anything, but Taehyung and Jimin quickly strike up a conversation with Joshua about college after the latter mentions having gone to the same school as you, albeit never crossing paths. Maya and Mingyu, meanwhile, immediately fall into their own introductions, talking about how they know Hoseok and Mingyu’s studies to become a doctor.

“If you ever need a headshot or something, let me know,” Maya says, laying a hand on his arm. Across the table, Jungkook's head shoots up. “I do work as a photographer and would be happy to help.”

“Oh, really?” Mingyu makes no move to remove her hand; if anything, he shifts even closer. “What are your rates?”

“For you? Free of charge. Any friend of Hoseok is a friend of mine.” They're in their own little bubble now, Jungkook watching wide-eyed. “Besides, you'd be doing me a favor. With a face like that, you're a photographer's dream. Perfect model.”

Mingyu smirks. “A face like what?”

“Dangerously handsome.”

“HEY, WHAT DO YOU GUYS WANT TO SPECIALIZE IN?”

Jungkook practically screams it, and not only do Maya and Mingyu turn to look at him in bewilderment, but so does the rest of the table and a few guests in the neighboring seats.

Joshua clears his throat awkwardly, eying Jungkook like he might be rabid. “I’m trying for pediatrics.”

“Surgery,” Wonwoo says.

Maya turns towards her new companion. “What about you, Mingyu?”

He leans back in his chair. Gives a light tug on his tie. “I have a residency lined up in obstetrics and gynecology.”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me—”

“Jungkook,” Taehyung says, cutting him off as he slides his chair back from the table. “Why don’t you help me get a round of drinks?”

“But—“

“C’mon.” He says it gently, like he’s trying to coax a toddler, and rises to his feet, giving you a gentle tap on the shoulder as he goes. “Cosmo?”

“Yes, please,” you say, and he nods, dropping a quick wink your way as Jungkook joins him, grumbling under his breath.

Joshua watches them walk away in the direction of the bar. “Is he always this…”

“Annoying?” Maya scoffs.

“Transparent.” Wonwoo quietly smirks.

A gentle laugh sounds on your left as Jimin hears. “I don’t know that anyone has ever described Jungkook as subtle in his life.”

Maya frowns, Mingyu looking downright perplexed at her side. “I don’t think I quite understand what’s going on,” he begins, but Maya soothes him with another press of her hand to his arm.

“Don’t worry about him. It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Tell me more about your residency.”

The reception passes in a swirl of music and drinks and food—and oh goodness, the food. Plates heaped with calamari, crab legs, and tiny filets wrapped in bacon are placed at the table by wait staff as your group digs in. Even Jungkook is placated, no longer scowling at Maya and Mingyu.

"Ughhh, I am never eating this well again," Jimin groans, stretching back in his chair and giving an exaggerated rub to his belly.

"You'd best get ready to," Taehyung says from your other side. "This isn't even dinner."

"This isn't even dinner?!"

Dinner turns out to be just as delicious and lavish as the appetizers, and it's no surprise that once dancing starts, your friends opt to stay seated for a while longer talking and digesting. As the party climbs to a full swing, Mingyu asks Maya to dance, Jimin and Jungkook start a debate on whether the butt is one body part or two, and Taehyung excuses himself to the restroom.

“It’s one part that’s split!” Jimin loudly exclaims. “The top is connected!”

“Jimin, go home, stand in front of the mirror, and pull your right ass cheek up. See if your left cheek comes up with it, and then get back to me, you absolute clown.”

“Do they do this a lot?” Joshua asks, the two idiots arguing between you.

“At least once a month.” You take a sip of your drink as you look on, bored. “I’m pretty sure this one is a rerun from last Halloween.”

“It’s one,” Wonwoo says, amused.

A flash of green catches your eye, and you look up to see Taehyung standing by the side of the bar, speaking with a woman. She's about your age, you think, and pretty, wearing a low-cut dress that certainly accentuates her chest.

She and Taehyung are talking excitedly, and you can tell he's putting the charm on—eyes bright, signature boxy smile lighting up his face. Nausea simmers in the pit of your stomach, and you force your attention back towards Jimin and Jungkook, trying to focus on whatever nonsense they're debating now.

This isn't a “date-date,” you remind yourself. And Taehyung hasn't had a relationship in a year—not since he was so torn up after Luna. He deserves to meet someone.

You’re spaced out next to your friends, still only halfway listening to them jabber on about butt cheeks, when a slow song starts up over the speakers and, within seconds, a hand is being extended over your shoulder.

You look up to find Taehyung's eyes gazing steadily down at you, a small but confident smile playing on his lips.

"Dance with me?"

And in spite of the unease that had plagued you only moments ago, you don't hesitate to let him wrap up your small hand in his large one and lead you to the dance floor. His palm settles on your lower back to pull you in close, and maybe it’s the proximity or the intoxicating smell of his cologne that weakens your resolve, but you find the words spilling out.

"Did you get her number?"

Taehyung looks at you quizzically, brow furrowing in confusion. "Whose?"

"The woman at the bar."

His face relaxes as he realizes. "Oh, yeah. I did."

"Good." You manage a smile. Why does it feel so hard? "It really is…good you're getting back out there. Are you going to ask her on a date?"

He laughs, mischief in his eyes. "I don't think her fiancé would like that." And now it's your turn to look confused.

"Her fiancé?"

"I met the two of them through Hoseok a couple times so we've chatted. Nice people." He nods his head, and you look over to see the woman now dancing with a man not too far from you. "They just got engaged, and she knows I'm a photographer so she asked if I'd be interested in doing the wedding. I said I'd call her this week to talk about it."

"Oh." You can feel your face flush, but there's no doubting the relief that floods through you. And Taehyung surely notices, grinning down at you in amusement.

"Were you jealous?"

"No!" you say, but perhaps a little too quickly because Taehyung laughs, his fingers applying a gentle pressure to your back to pull you closer.

"I'm here with you," he murmurs matter-of-factly.

You shake your head at him. "It's fine, Tae. If someone catches your eye…like I said, it could be good—"

"I'm here with you," he repeats, more firmly this time. He releases your hand for a moment to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, and you have to look away. You spot Hoseok and Sunny swaying together in the middle of the dance floor, pressed closely together and smiling at each other like they're the only two people in the world. What it must be like to have someone look at you like that, you think, to hold you like you're something precious to be cherished. You had thought Jace made you feel that way, but now, watching your friends gaze at each other so delicately, so in love, you're no longer sure he even came close.

"What are you looking at?" Taehyung's voice rouses you out of your thoughts, and you suddenly notice his hand has drifted a little higher to where the back of your dress dips down low, exposing your bare skin.

Trying to pass off the shiver that involuntarily runs through you as a nod, you gesture at the newly married couple. "They're so good together."

Taehyung follows your line of sight, watching Hoseok lean down to murmur something in Sunny's ear that makes her giggle and press her face into his chest. "They are."

"Can you imagine loving someone like that?" Your voice is a bare whisper as if the words slipped out on their own accord, like a wish you didn't even realize you were making.

Taehyung's fingers splay at your spine, gently tugging you in until your hips are bumping his. Startled, your eyes snap back to him, breath catching in your chest. He's gazing at you intently, but as opposed to the intense fire that you've seen from him at times, there's only a deep warmth to his brown irises that you're not sure you've ever seen before. He looks at you with softness, with both a sense of familiarity and wonder that can only be attributed to your many years of companionship, and you see it all swimming behind his eyes—every day spent together seeking refuge from your families, every stupid childhood fight, every time you comforted each other through the bad days. And before you can deflect, can explain away the question as a rhetorical slip of the tongue, you hear his answer come out on a breath.

"Yes."

There’s a weight to it, the word landing from his lips like a stone into water, and you suddenly forget where you are. The world around you fades away: faces, music, and noise all receding into the background until it’s just him and you, you and him.

Just like it’s always been.

Taehyung's head dips towards you as if pulled by gravity, and your body responds in turn, hand sliding from his shoulder to the hair at the nape of his neck and eyes fluttering shut. Your breaths mingle together, his nose lightly brushing against yours, and you find yourself on the brink of keening forward, on the brink of diving headfirst into a place of no return, when—

"Hey, we're going to step outside for some air. Do you guys wanna—oh."

You spring apart. Jimin is staring at the two of you, eyes so wide you're worried they might fall out of his head. His hand is still half-raised, pointing in the direction of the doors behind him, and you use this to make your escape.

"Yeah sounds good I'll come outside definitely," you babble before speeding towards the exit. Glancing back over your shoulder, you see Jimin say something animatedly to Taehyung, but the latter shakes his head and mumbles something back, his face pink.

The night air is cool on your skin, and you could not be more grateful for it because what the fuck was that?

Were you really about to kiss your best friend? Or was he going to kiss you? Things had certainly been…different between you two recently, but this surely would have been an awful idea. If something went wrong or there was a misunderstanding, you'd likely never be able to come back from it.

He said he doesn't have feelings for you.

…But do you have feelings for him?

Maybe yes, his smile has always set your heart alight unlike anything else and yes, your brain seems to have been lingering recently on how damn handsome he is and yes, you'd do anything for him at the drop of a hat—follow him anywhere—but given your history, of course you would, right? He's your best friend.

And he deserves to be more than a rebound. Because that's what this must be—lingering heartbreak amplified by the emotions of a wedding. You may have even imagined Taehyung leaning towards you, a desperate fantasy of a mind just wanting to be loved.

That's it, you decide. Your brain must have finally snapped into a world of delusion.

You're so caught up in your thoughts that you don't hear Jungkook approach you, practically jumping out of your skin when he places a gentle hand on your arm.

"Y/N—shit—you okay?" He looks at you with his big doe eyes wide and apologetic.

"Yeah," you say, as your racing heart begins to calm. "You just startled me."

"Sorry, I tried to call you, but I don't think you heard. We're back over there if you want to join us." He nods his head in the direction of a patio area behind him, and you spot Namjoon, Joshua, and Wonwoo sitting around a table next to an elegant fountain, its ornamental lights illuminating the magnificent swan sitting atop it. They’re all laughing and, for some reason, the sight makes your chest tighten.

"Um, maybe in a little bit. I think I might just need a walk right now."

Jungkook studies you, biting ever so slightly into his bottom lip, and you think you see something in the way of understanding behind his eyes (you wonder if it has anything to do with the notable absence of Maya and Mingyu). "Do you want company?"

When you just give him a small smile and shake your head, he nods.

"Okay, well…you know where to find us." He moves to rejoin the others, but then turns back towards you, taking easy steps on his heels. "And just shout if you need a friend."

You meander around the outside of the hotel, following the stone path that paves its way around the perimeter. There's a certain kind of peace out here. Though the summer is nearing its close, you can still hear crickets chirping in the grass and spot the occasional firefly dangling in the air. You focus on the swishing of the cars out on the main road and try to let the sound clear your mind, but as you settle on a short brick wall overlooking the property's enormous lake, you realize it's no use.

Your eyes drift closed as you sink into the grief once again, let it slowly overtake you like quicksand until your lungs are crushed and burning. But more than anything, you’re simply exhausted—perpetually drained by the demons which have once again arrived to feast on your psyche.

At this point, you think most of your frustration lies with yourself. Maybe you’re being overdramatic, maybe you should be over it by now—if only you were stronger, more resilient. Not the miserable pushover you feel you’ve turned out to be. Harsh? Yes. Unfair? Perhaps. This does feel like the breaking point in your life’s long line of abandonments, digging up feelings you haven’t felt since you were a child.

But that being said, it also makes you feel like you should be used to it by now. Should be used to having to bounce back—what else can you expect from the world at this point, really? What a fool you were to even think that this time would be different.

The sound of quiet footsteps has you opening your eyes again, and you’re not sure whether the man in front of you is the first or last person you want to see right now.

Taehyung has his hands in his pockets, watching you with that calculated expression he always has on when he’s trying to gauge your mood. But all you can see in his face on your end is concern, not a hint of awkwardness or trepidation after what just transpired between the two of you in the ballroom.

So it really must have been all in your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Kook said you seemed upset.”

“I’m fine.” You try to push out a smile, but he unsurprisingly sees right through it, closing the gap between you and gesturing at the spot to your right.

“Mind if I sit?”

You’re still not entirely in the mood for company but you can’t bring yourself to say no to him, so you give the tiniest of nods and Taehyung settles on the wall next to you.

The two of you sit in silence for a bit, the buzz of the surrounding trees continuing its serenade. Taehyung doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything, only provides a steady presence. On particularly bad days when you were kids, you’d both wander down to the local playground and sit on the swings for a while. Sometimes you’d talk—either to rant and let it all out or make each other laugh to distract yourselves—but most nights, you’d just sit in the quiet and enjoy the feeling of not being alone.

It feels like that now, with Taehyung’s warmth radiating at your shoulder and the stars hanging above, but tonight, you’re compelled to speak.

“I’m really pathetic, huh?”

Taehyung’s eyes flash as he looks over at you, but he doesn’t interrupt, sensing you want to say more.

“I’m at my friends’ wedding, I’m supposed to be celebrating them and their love for each other, and instead I’m out here having a pity party.” You scoff. “It’s pathetic and selfish.”

“First of all, we are out here having a pity party,” Taehyung begins, and it draws a sudden laugh from you that you think sounds halfway deranged, but he only smiles.

"Secondly, you're not pathetic, and you're not selfish. You just went through a traumatic event, you know? You're allowed to have emotions."

"I know, but I just don't…want to," you sigh. "I just want it all to stop. I'm so tired of feeling weighed down especially on a day like this, but it's like it just doesn't end. The reminders don't end."

"You thought he'd be here," Taehyung says softly, and though his head nods slightly in understanding, his voice is tinged with sadness. "You miss him."

"I—that's not exactly it, no," you quickly say, not wanting him to think that you somehow regret being here with him. "Given what he did…like you’ve said, it's not forgivable, so it's not like I wish he was here. I mean, sure, are there some days where I reflexively think about him and stuff? Of course—we were together for four years—but I…still would prefer to never see him again."

Taehyung lets out a short sigh that you interpret as approval, but he stays quiet, giving you time to work out your thoughts.

"I think it's more the loss of security than anything. Seeing Hoseok and Sunny up at the alter…I couldn't help thinking that I was so, so close to that—to having that one person that I could commit to walking through life with. A partner, a friend, just someone to have day-in and day-out. Forever." You choke up, a fresh wave of tears lodging in your throat that you try to keep down. Taehyung is stiff next to you, staring down at his hands in his lap.

"And I want that, Tae. I want that so bad. But it's…so scary to start from scratch after feeling that close. I feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm just constantly overwhelmed and feel like I can't outrun it, and then I feel guilty on days like this because I shouldn't be letting it get to me, and—"

"Hey, hey, Y/N, shhhh." Taehyung finally jumps in as you begin to spiral, reaching out to take your hand in his. "You don't have to worry or feel guilty because you are going to have all of that. Okay? You will."

"You can't know that."

"I do." He slips his pinky around yours briefly before his hand comes up to cup your jaw, guiding your eyes to his. "I promise you. I don't know how far out it'll be, but one day we'll all be together again at a place like this, and it'll be your turn." He gets a faraway look in his eye, seemingly perceiving something that you're struggling to even grab a glimpse of right now. "It'll be everything you've ever dreamed of—intimate and outdoors, right? I know you always said growing up that you were going to get married at the Spring Day Gardens. If you still want it, it'll be yours."

You let his words draw you in, painting you a picture so beautiful you're afraid to even let your heart believe in it. But his baritone voice presses on.

"And it'll be perfect. Not a cloud in the sky—nothing but sunshine. And we'll all be there, and you'll have your favorite lily bouquet and your perfect dress…"

Something stops him, and he blinks at you, dropping his palm from your face and glancing away at the lights from the party before resuming his tale.

"And the guy…" He licks his lips, and you feel the hand that's still holding yours tighten ever so slightly. "He's going to love you so much. Properly love you. He's going to see you come down that aisle and weep because he's just going to know that he's the luckiest guy in the universe. And if he doesn't cry right away, I'll kick him in the shins up there until he does because in spite of what Jimin and Jungkook think, we all know that I'm actually your best man."

You let out a watery giggle, the tears flowing freely now, and Taehyung reaches up to swipe a few off your cheeks, letting out a chuckle of his own.

"I want to believe you," you say quietly. "And hopefully one day I will. I just…I need more time."

"Whatever you need, you know I'm here for you," he murmurs, and you nod.

You fall back into silence for a few moments, Taehyung dutifully continuing to hold your hand while you lightly sniffle and wipe at your cheeks.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to go back to the party like this—I think you ruined my make-up," you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

"Maybe, but you're the prettiest raccoon I've ever seen."

You laugh in earnest now, your shoulders shaking with it, and Taehyung smiles at you before suddenly rising to his feet.

"Wait here," he says, and then he's jogging back up towards the venue.

The silence envelops you again as you continue to mull over Taehyung's vision. Your battered heart is hesitant to dream, all of your imaginings coming in with fuzzy edges and blurry details that you just can't seem to place. But you're sure Taehyung was definitely right about one thing—you can't imagine a situation where you get married without him standing by your side.

It's a handful of minutes later when the man himself finally reappears with a hand behind his back and a mischievous smile on his face. When you raise your eyebrows at him in question, he comes to a halt in front of you and presents a full fifth of your favorite whiskey.

"What do you say we get out of here?"

The dim hotel lights cast a soft glow about the room as you and Taehyung pass the bottle back and forth, the mood significantly more casual than the extravagant party you just ditched. The decor may be fancy—Hoseok and Sunny certainly didn’t skimp when it came to location—but the two of you are perfectly rumpled, stretched out on the expensive sheets: you having removed your make-up and changed into your pajamas and Taehyung propped up against the headboard with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his jacket and tie tossed over the couch.

You’ve started up a game of Truth or Drink, a somewhat milder version of Truth or Dare, where you get to take turns asking each other questions, and the respondent has the chance to either answer the question or take a mouthful of whiskey. Normally, between you and Taehyung, such a game would be low stakes, with your shared years and few secrets between you making it hard to ask challenging questions. But something about tonight and the need for a distraction seems to have made both of you competitive, going for questions that you know the other wouldn’t want to answer.

“What was the last thing you cried about?”

“One thing you don’t like about me?”

“Favorite position?”

“Did you really lose your virginity in a tree house?”

“What’s your greatest fear?”

"If you could have anything in the world right now, what would it be?"

"Oh God, one of those cupcakes from Sweet Night Bakery," you groan. It was a place you had passed every day on the way to school, the wafting scents of cookies and cakes playing pied piper to your youthful noses. You had always dreamed of one day being able to afford the expensive pastries but had fled your hometown before having the adult money to do so.

"Seriously? Anything in the world and you want a cupcake?" Taehyung laughs, pink tongue poking out from behind his teeth.

"It's not just anything, it's one of my life's dreams," you counter, playfully shaking a fist at him for emphasis, but Taehyung seems unconvinced. "Fine then, if you have such a good answer. Same question."

He tilts his head at you, a mild haze in his eyes that tells you that while he's not drunk-drunk, he's definitely tipsy. A beat passes and he takes a drink.

"Ooh, mysterious," you slur. "But I win."

"Alright, alright." He grins at you. "I concede to your sugary dreams."

You mirror his smile, observe the way his fingers curl in his lap as you try to think of your next question. He’s always had nice hands—so delicate and careful with everything he touches. It’s odd, you think, how such gentleness could emerge from a home and upbringing that was anything but. How someone as bright as Taehyung could come from such darkness.

“Do you want kids one day?”

The question takes him by surprise when you ask it, and he physically startles, turning the bottle in his hands slowly. “I don’t know. Why?” He looks at you then, and you feel like you can see a riddle being worked out in his head. “Where did that question come from?”

“I don’t know,” you echo. “You spent so much time earlier imagining a future for me. I realized that we’ve never really talked about what you want for yourself outside of your career.”

Growing up, you’d discussed your dreams for the future, of course. But while you have always skewed towards the romantic, envisioning rings and weddings and vows, Taehyung’s always been much more practical and career-oriented—his plans always involved degrees and promotions and retirement funds.

A beat passes as he continues to fidget with the whiskey bottle before he again says, “I’m really not sure.”

“Well think about it now,” you challenge. “Or drink up.”

He chuckles to himself, some private joke in his head. “It would terrify me, I think. But I’d love them with everything I’ve got. Want to give them everything I didn’t have and be better than my parents were.”

You hum in agreement; you’ve had the same thoughts on occasion. Some who grew up in your situation may have been turned off the idea of children—and the idea does scare you in certain respects—but you’ve always been stubborn. “It’d be a chance to prove that it doesn’t have to be that hard. That you didn’t deserve what you went through.”

Fingers graze against yours in a subtle show of kinship. As always, you understand each other. “Exactly.”

And he may be struggling to imagine it, but you can see it so clearly: a small boy with big, brown eyes and a boxy smile riding on Taehyung’s shoulders. The two of them playing in the sand at the beach house or walking down the street together—the boy’s tiny hand tucked safely in his father’s.

The image chokes you up, fills you with so much warmth you think you might burst.

“You’d be an amazing father, Tae.”

There’s not a single doubt in your mind about it—that this incredible, thoughtful, selfless man would also be a wonderful dad. He doesn’t look so sure, but a flicker of recognition passes through him.

“You’ve said that to me once before,” he murmurs.

“I did?”

A nod. “One time when you were drunk junior year.”

You don’t remember it, the memory lost to the alcohol. “I guess drunk me has flashes of brilliance.”

“Maybe we’ll see someday.”

“I hope we will.”

Suddenly nervous, he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in the long column of his neck. “But it’d have to be with the right person.”

“Has there ever been anyone who you thought was close?”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “You’re asking a disproportionate amount of questions.”

Reaching over, you pull the bottle from his hands, drink down a mouthful of burning liquor, and set it right back in his lap. “Answer.”

Wide eyes appraise you through the dim light; he looks almost impressed. “No.”

“No, there’s never been someone you could see a future with, or no, you won’t answer?”

“The first one,” he says. “I’ve never been with someone I could imagine having kids with.”

You frown, the blunt despondence in his tone cutting. “Not even Luna?”

A look is thrown your way—pursed lips and creased brow telling you that’s a stupid question.

“What happened with her?”

He scoffs, lips immediately wrapping around the bottle as he takes a gulp.

“So something did happen.”

“We broke up,” he states. “That’s what happened.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never said why.”

He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. As if you’ve just asked him what he wants for dinner and not why the longest relationship of his life ended. “We weren’t compatible.”

You can’t help but sigh, a small part of you hurt that he still refuses to talk about it, that he’s closed this part of himself off to you. “You don’t trust me?”

“Y/N, no.” He shakes his head, looking genuinely remorseful to have given you that impression. “That’s not it. It’s just…impossibly complicated—“

“Was it me?” You’re suddenly reminded of a conversation with Maya from weeks ago, when she’d suggested that you were the reason all of Taehyung’s relationships had failed.

His lips part, tongue pushing into his cheek like he’s trying to hold words back.

“It was, wasn’t it?” you push, and his teeth dig into his tongue now, chewing. “You can tell me. I can handle i—“

“You were part of it, yes.”

In spite of what you’ve just said, the words land like a blow. You’ve spent years watching him go through breakup after breakup, and now you find out that you were a source of that anguish all along—helped fuel that heartbreak in his life.

It pains you to think you’ve been holding him back.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” you whisper.

“Because there was nothing to tell. It didn’t matter.”

“It does matter, Tae. If I’m getting in the way of your relationships…I want you to be happy.”

“You make me happy.”

That silences you, the sincerity in his voice leaving you blinking at him, and he continues.

“She didn’t like how close we are—most of them haven’t. But it doesn’t matter because at the end of the day, I’ll always choose you. And that’s the end of it. Nothing left to tell.”

You feel like you should protest this, insist on him putting himself and his future first.

But given similar circumstances, wouldn’t you do the same for him?

“Did Jace ever give you shit about us?” he asks, reading your mind.

He had, ranting about Taehyung that night in some fucked up attempt to explain away why you’d found him in bed with another woman. Before then, you hadn’t noticed the signs: hadn’t picked up on his reluctance to spend time with your friends, hadn’t read into the way he stuck close to your side on the rare occasions he did, a possessive arm always tight around your waist.

It all made sense afterwards, and you hate that the vulnerability and anguish of the moment made you question your own actions. You never would’ve shut Taehyung out—never in a million years—but it initially made you think that maybe if you’d been more attentive towards Jace, had been more sensitive to his feelings, that maybe you wouldn’t have wound up in the situation you did.

You recognize now that he didn’t deserve it in the end, obviously, but heartbreak is a funny thing.

Not wanting to have to admit to any of that out loud, you whisk the bottle from Taehyung’s hands again and drink. He watches the movement of your throat with heavy, knowing eyes, immediately taking the whiskey back for his own sip once you’ve finished.

“I must admit,” he says, the alcohol clearly loosening his tongue as he sags against the headboard. “I’m a little relieved about things ending for you and Jace. Aside from him being a certified douchebag, I mean.”

You frown, not sure where he’s going with this, and the look on your face must come across as offense because he’s quick to clarify.

“Not that I liked seeing you hurt.” He shakes his head, and you can see some anger at the situation still lingering under the surface. “No, never. But I just…now I get to keep you longer at least.”

“Keep me?”

“Yeah, this…” He wags a finger between you. “You know this has to end one day, right?”

The whiskey should be warming, but your veins fill with ice at his words. Losing Jace was one thing. Losing Taehyung would be a different matter entirely.

“You’re always going to have me,” you say, reaching for his pinky.

But he pulls his hand away.

“Not like this.” He smiles with what you assume to be intended comfort, but his entire demeanor is tainted with sadness. “One day, when you have the dream guy and the family and the white picket fence, there won’t be room for me. Not like this.”

It feels like earlier—him trying to paint you a picture of a possible future for you—but unlike earlier, you can’t picture this future. You don’t want it. Not if he’s not there.

“Tae—“

“It’s okay, Y/N.” He gives another sad smile, takes another drink. “No husband is going to want a third wheel hanging around. I understand. I want you to be happy, too.”

But you wouldn’t be happy without him, and in many ways, you’ve always known that to be true. But that knowledge hits you now with such force, such raw truth, that it renders you speechless and leaves you staring at him, drunken eyes laser-focused as if discovering the very center of the universe.

You want to challenge him on his statement, make him see that he’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But the alcohol muddles your thoughts, has your brain dropping half-formed sentences through your mind like Scrabble pieces that you can’t quite wrangle into a coherent thought.

Taehyung takes your silence for agreement and, seeming to suddenly realize that some kind of line has just been crossed, takes the quiet opportunity to flip the conversation back to your game.

“The shoes you gave me for my seventeenth birthday,” he begins, the words tipping out slow and oddly calculated for someone who’s had as much to drink as he has. “Where did the money come from?”

You know where he’s going with this. And it’s perhaps the only secret you’ve kept from him in the entirety of your friendship. “Christmas money, I told you.”

“No, really.”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“I never saw that house decorated for Christmas even once.”

“Could’ve been from an aunt or uncle.”

“But it wasn’t, was it?”

It wasn’t. You snuck the money out of your father’s desk one day knowing that he wouldn’t have even noticed it was missing. Absent-minded in everything aside from work, your father had misplaced things constantly. You drink. And even though it’s supposed to be an avoidance of the question, it gives him his answer.

“I knew it.”

“They weren’t going to miss it, and you needed it more.”

“You could’ve gotten in so much trouble.”

“I knew I wouldn’t. I didn’t. And it was worth the risk regardless.”

Looking back, you wish you’d had more of a fear of getting caught—wish your parents would’ve scolded you, screamed at you, anything. It would’ve been better than the indifference you’d been met with day in and day out. As if you were invisible.

Taehyung’s head swings from side-to-side. “You shouldn’t have. I would’ve been okay.”

“And you shouldn’t have punched Jace in that club, but you did anyway, didn’t you?”

“That’s different.”

“It’s not. You’re not the only one who gets to put your ass on the line for the people you care about. You were worth the risk.”

He blinks, regarding you as if you’ve presented him with some outlandish concept. Like you’ve asked him to explain rocket science or open-heart surgery. “Then you should’ve told me then.”

“You would’ve given them back.”

“Maybe, but then at least we would’ve been in it together instead of you lying to me.”

“And you’ve never lied to me?”

He hesitates, tongue tracing his bottom lip. “No.”

“Okay, then. Truth or drink: what’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?”

You know there must be one, can read it in the way his shoulder is suddenly pressed against yours as he tilts into you. Fingertips skim the bare skin of your knee, tentative in their movements, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath as the distance between you closes to mere centimeters, his gaze roaming your face and snagging on your mouth.

And you feel it—the pull that you’ve always felt towards him, the gravitational force that’s kept you in the same orbit since you were children. Two souls that intertwined the moment they sensed the other’s presence with a flash of awareness and said, You, you, you.

Thinking back on the entirety of your life, you don’t know how you possibly could have made it through without him: your best friend, your partner, your sanctuary. In such a volatile world—a turbulent youth marred by uncertainty and sorrow—he took your hand and held you steady, made sure you didn’t go through it alone.

In hindsight, you can’t truly regret it. Yes, there will always be a part of you that will resent your parents, wish that they would have loved you enough to spare you the hurt and stress they put you through. But just like the night when he brought you back to your apartment—held you close as you fell asleep in his embrace—your memories with him far outweigh the trauma you endured. When you think of your time spent growing up, he is by far the brightest star, outshining any darkness that may have lingered at the corners. It’s not the empty house or your parents’ stony faces that you think of first, but him: blanket forts and starry nights and walks in the park and blurry photographs and sometimes tears, sure, but only with him there to hold you.

Looking at this man in front of you, in every familiar line of his face and body, you know, without a crumb of doubt, that you’d do it all again. Screw Jace and Luna and your parents and anyone else who’s expressed disdain at your closeness with him. He’s written into every line of your history, every memory that’s worth something. And he may fight you on it, but he’s worth every risk you’ve ever taken—you would’ve stolen a thousand pairs of shoes for him. You’d move mountains and drain the oceans if he needed you to. You’d do anything.

You couldn’t live without him. You don’t want to live without him.

A moment of clarity, a wave of revelation as you lock eyes and are met with your favorite color. And at long last, you find the words.

I love you.

Your heart throws itself off a cliff…

And you lean in to press your lips to his.

a/n: happy holidays to all who celebrate 😊

#taehyung x reader #taehyung x you #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #bts x reader #bts x you #bts imagines #taehyung imagines #taehyung fic #taehyung fanfic #bts fluff #bts angst #taehyung #bts fic #bts fanfic

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justagalwhowrites · 1 year

Text

Master List

What I've been working on lately. All works are 18+, minors DNI

Now accepting requests :)

A note on tipping (AKA please read before you tip!)

Joel Miller x Female Reader

Oneshots/Requests

Undone (Dom!Joel Miller x Sub!Female Reader)

Homecoming (DBF!Joel x Female Reader)

Lavender No Outbreak AU Masterlist

Sick Leave (Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender)

Date Night (Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender)

Girl Dad (Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender)

Long Day (Joel Miller x Female Reader from Lavender AU)

Long Distance (DBF!Joel Miller x Female Reader from Homecoming)

Pick Me (Joel Miller x Female Reader)

Proof of Life (Darkish!Joel Miller x Female Reader, QZ era)

The Watch (Joel Miller x Female Reader, QZ era)

Fucksgiving 2K23: Gray Sweatpants

Game Time - A New in Town College Football One Shot

Wonderland - A Lavender No Outbreak AU One Shot

Yearling

After years of surviving in the wilds of Wyoming after the cordyceps outbreak, you find yourself in Jackson. It's a town filled with friendly faces and the kind of world you hardly remember, let alone can connect with or understand. But one man - Joel Miller, another loner, like you - makes you think that trying to find your place in society again might be worth it.

A slow burn friends-to-lovers fan fic.

Masterlist

Halcyon

When your life falls apart, you find yourself back in your hometown of Austin, Texas for the first time in more than a decade. Eager to make your own way after a rough divorce, you reconnect with your high school best friend Joel Miller - a man you never thought would be in your life again.

Things have changed since your falling out just before you left for college but friendship with Joel comes easy. His life isn't in any better shape than your own and the two of you make a vow to get your acts together - personal, professional and romantic - in the span of a year. But will your burgeoning connection make it so you can figure everything out or will your history together get in the way?

Masterlist

Run Rabbit

It was just over a year after the world ended that you were captured by Joel and Tommy Miller. They’re harsh, they’re cold and they’re killers. But, as a nurse, you’re a valuable person to have around and they’re not the worst thing wandering the wasteland that was the United States. And there might be more to these men than meets the eye.

Masterlist

Holly Jolly

Joel Miller has never been a fan of Christmas. It's stressful, it's expensive and it's depressing. But a chance meeting in line to take his five-year-old daughter to see Santa might just change that.

Masterlist

New in Town

When you move to Austin for work, your best friend Sarah recommends that you hang out with her dad, Joel, to get to know the area. Sarah just never mentioned the fact that her dad is just your type.

Masterlist

Haunted House - A Halloween one shot

Manic Monday - A New in Town Drabble

Lavender

An age-gap grumpy/sunshine friends-to-lovers (and eventually friends-to-lovers-to-enemies-to-friends-to-lovers) fanfic that starts pre-outbreak. Will be long running and updated regularly and run through the outbreak and at least season one of TLOU.

Lavender Masterlist

Lavender No Outbreak AU Masterlist

My casting of the OCs

Found Family - Fan Art

Joel & Doc - Fan Art

The Mandalorian x Female Reader

Excerpts and previews of Beskar Doll (found in total on AO3), an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers slow burn fic.

Tumblr Chapter Master List

Buycika - a Beskar Doll Drabble

Growing - A Beskar Doll Drabble

For You - A Collection of Requests Benefitting Palestine

Featuring Joel Miller, Oberyn Martell, Din Djarin

#fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #din djarin #enemies to friends to lovers #smut fic #slow burn #mandalorian x female reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader smut #the last of us hbo #tlou #smut #masterlist

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burnednotburied · 16 days

Text

Chapter 1: A New Prophet

AO3 Link

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slow burn; enemies to friends to lovers; animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/injury; cutting (not to self, but still); religious/cult-like ideas

Note: So the idea for this started as a prequel to my first fic (linked here), but ended up turning into much more. It basically follows the plot of Abby’s Seattle Day 1, diverging from canon where necessary and using dialogue from the game wherever possible. I split this part into two chapters because it’s so long.

This is a lot of build-up (important to the story and hopefully enjoyable to read), but I promise romance is on the horizon!

Also, the idea of deadnaming or misgendering Lev—even in the flashback part where they’re little kids and wouldn’t have known otherwise—physically pains me, so we’re going to pretend that reader has been calling Lev “L” as a nickname for forever.

Hope you enjoy! :)

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April 2038

Abby knew as much about the Scars as any of her fellow WLF members.

She knew that the group was founded by a woman who claimed to have a vision after the initial outbreak of Cordyceps brain infection in 2013, and then started spouting some bullshit about how it was all just a punishment for the sins of humanity. Said that the way to move forward was to go back to the basics. Live off the land. Reject technology and progress and pretty much all the good things in life.

She knew that they live on the island but they wouldn’t fucking stay on it, and that there was once a truce but they broke it, forcing the WLF into an endless war.

She knew that they fought hard and killed brutally, without hesitation or remorse.

She knew that, especially now that Joel was taken care of, killing Scars was pretty much her life’s purpose.

And she knew that the woman who started all of this became known as The Prophet. And that Isaac gave the order to have her killed ten years ago.

It was for that reason that Abby thought Isaac must have misspoken when he opened with:

“The Prophet is on the move.”

He was standing over the large map of Seattle in the center of the room, hands braced on the table, head down in thought.

She didn’t know what to make of that. Or how to respond. A quick glance over at Manny confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who was confused.

One of them had to ask. It seemed Isaac wasn’t going to fill in the gaps unprompted.

“The Prophet?” Manny questioned hesitantly. “Sir… respectfully… She’s been dead for years. Died before we even joined.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m the one who killed her.” Isaac was always calm and measured, almost always spoke quietly. But sometimes there was something beneath his words, just below the surface. Something seething and kind of terrifying, although Abby would never admit that out loud. This was one of those times.

“My unwilling informants downstairs,” he said, referring to the captive Scars being held and interrogated on the building’s lower levels, “tell me that they have a new Prophet. One their Elders have been quietly grooming for the role for the last decade, maybe even longer.”

“Okay so… What does that mean?” Abby asked, finding her voice. This was not the conversation she was expecting to have when she heard that Isaac wanted to talk to them. She had hoped to get some answers about what was going on with Owen.

“There’s a reason why they’ve been more resilient lately. Bolder. Even more bat-shit than normal.” He clenched his fists on the table. “This… Neo-Prophet,” Isaac almost laughed, the words coated in venom, “is about to fully step into her role. She is of age now. Or so I’ve been told.”

Abby stared at Isaac, still waiting for him to tell her what all of this meant. And what exactly he wanted her to do about it.

Manny jumped in. “What? So the Scars are… celebrating? You’re saying that’s why they’ve been ballsier? Killing more of us. Pushing further inland.”

Abby let out a short laugh. “If this is what it looks like when they’re happy, I don’t want to see what happens when they’re mad.”

Isaac remained stoic. “They have a renewed sense of purpose. When we killed their first Prophet, the Scars were enraged. They fought hard for vengeance. But people will only fight on behalf of a dead woman for so long. Passion for the cause wanes without something tangible to fight for. They need that higher authority to look to. They need someone to honor and defend. Their Elders were smart enough to know that their people need a unifying symbol. A living one.”

“Right, and you said that unifying symbol was on the move so…” Abby said. “Want us to hunt her down? See what they’ll do when we take away their new favorite toy?”

“No,” Isaac said quickly. “She’s not our target. We’ll get to her in due time.”

“Then wha—”

He cut her off. “The Prophet will be leaving the island soon, for the first time. In fact, it’s possible she’s already here. One of our captives tells me there will be some sort of initiation for her. I don’t know what that entails, but I’m sure it will involve attempting to kill some of ours. I’ll spend some more time with our friends downstairs and see if I can’t get any more information on that. We’ll try to prevent it if we can, but that’s not our main focus right now.” Abby opened her mouth to protest, only to be cut off once again. “With the Prophet away and many of their best soldiers traveling with her, the island will be more vulnerable than ever.”

Manny gestured to the map, reinserting himself into the conversation. “Sir, we’ve tried attacking their island and—”

“Not like this,” Isaac said. “Not with everyone. There’s a big storm a few days out. We’re going to use it to mask our approach. And you two are going to lead the first wave. Pick your squads. Start prepping.”

“And the Prophet?” Abby asked.

“One battle at a time, Abby.”

“Are we sure it would be a battle?” she pressed. “Isaac, she’s just one girl.”

“You would be foolish to underestimate this unknown enemy. Besides the likelihood that the best of the Scars will be at her side, I don’t doubt that she will be a very skilled fighter in her own right.” Abby huffed. Isaac continued, “And if she’s anything like her predecessor, the greatest threat is in her words. Not her actions. I watched some of my most loyal soldiers abandon our cause for theirs after just one conversation with the one who came before her.”

At this, Abby raised her eyebrows, ready to argue. A look from Manny shut her up.

“We’ve only got one shot at this… And this is bigger than any of us.” Isaac pushed off the table, walking over to Abby and placing a hand on her arm. “I need you, Abby.”

She shifted uncomfortably before relenting, giving a curt nod. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good.” He pulled away, heading toward the door. “Look over the plans and go through your rosters.”

“I want Owen,” she said. Abby thought Isaac could at least give her that.

When he denied her permission to go look for Owen, Abby went anyway.

----------------------------------------------------------------

March 2030 (8 Years Earlier)

The day of your scarring had been the first time Haven saw the sun in weeks.

Your mother said it was a sign. But your mother thought everything was a sign.

She told you that, no matter what, you were not to cry. That you, her only child, would not disgrace her by shedding tears during your ceremony.

You were to be brave. And strong.

The Prophet herself had ordained the act of scarring for all of her followers. A symbol of the innate imperfection of mankind. And so her people would never forget their own failings, even in the midst of their unending efforts towards perfection.

No one was meant to question the Prophet’s teachings, or the Elders who had taken on the responsibility of interpreting those teachings and carrying out Her will since Her death two years prior.

You could feel your mother’s breath against the back of your head as she huffed and decided that she was once again unsatisfied with your hair, roughly taking it down and beginning again for the fourth time.

While she worked, you sat still on the wooden stool in front of her and stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to memorize your features as they were now.

This was the last time you would see the face you knew. Next time you looked in the mirror, you would be different. Would you feel different?

You tried to picture yourself scarred, with two thin lines running from each of your ears to the corners of your mouth. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to fall at the thought.

But there would be no crying today.

Instead, you let your eyes wander to your mother’s reflection, hovering just behind and above yours in the mirror. You examined her face. Of course, you had never seen her without her scars, but you’d always thought your mother was beautiful.

Maybe the change in your appearance would not be so drastic. Maybe it was vain to care.

You were not supposed to be vain.

Once your mother was satisfied with the look of the braided crown of your hair, she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, meeting you gaze in the mirror.

“We are imperfect beings,” she recited. You joined your voice with hers for the second part, “And thus we make ourselves imperfect in Her eyes.”

She smiled softly, squeezing your arms lightly. “Good girl. I’m proud of you. I know you will do wonderfully today.” You tried to return her smile. “Now. Get dressed. I laid your clothes out on the bed.”

She turned to leave you, pausing in the doorway. “Remember what I said, child. No tears today. Do you understand?”

You nodded quickly. Obediently.

She seemed pleased as she left the room.

You changed quickly, wondering if she had been able to tell that you’d spent the whole night before crying. You hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep.

The stool squeaked as you sat back down, not sure what to do with yourself while you waited. You met your own eyes in the mirror once more, this time immediately averting your gaze. You felt sick. And close to tears. And so very scared.

On the other side of the door, you could hear Yara and her mom greeting your mother. The eight-year-old asked if she could come inside to see you. After just a moment of hesitation, your mother allowed it, and you could hear the slight creak of the door as she came in.

Yara said your name quietly, standing just inside the door. You turned to look at her. She smiled, happy to see you, just as always.

“Happy birthday!” she whispered excitedly, closing the distance between you and wrapping her arms around you tightly. You squeezed her back, holding her close for longer than usual. Yara, never one to be the first to break a hug, lingered for as long as you wanted her there.

You were neighbors, and your mothers had grown up together and had always been close. And although Yara was four years younger than you, the two of you were close too. She and five-year-old baby L were your siblings, as far as you were concerned.

Yara was mature for her age, even more so than most of your other friends. You knew you could trust her, so with her you were honest.

“I’m really scared,” you said quietly into her hair, still not releasing her from the embrace.

“I know,” she whispered back, squeezing you even tighter. “You’re the bravest person ever though. I know you can do this.”

You finally let go, retreating back to your stool, but Yara stayed close by, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly with one hand.

“She will be with you through this, and for all the days of your life,” she said, earnest. “Our pain is Her pain, and Her pain is ours.”

You couldn’t help but make a mental note of the fact that the Prophet actually did not receive the same scars as all of her followers, so perhaps this one specific pain is one that was not, in fact, shared between to two of you.

But Yara’s comment was made with a level of sincerity that you couldn’t help but admire—and borderline envied—so you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself.

Her presence was always a comfort, so you allowed yourself to relish in it for a quiet minute before your mother reentered the room.

“It’s time to leave,” she said simply. Firmly.

Behind her, just outside the door, you could see Yara’s mom standing there, holding a quiet but curious little L’s hand. They would all be walking over with you to witness the ceremony.

You forced yourself to stand, brushed your hands down your thighs as if to clear some nonexistent dust and smooth the phantom wrinkles. For a moment, you considered taking one last look in the mirror, but ultimately deciding against it. It would feel strange to do so, now that everyone was watching you and waiting.

For the briefest moment, you thought about making a run for it. Stealing a boat or even attempting to make the swim to the mainland. You could survive on your own, or maybe even join the Wolves. You weren’t scarred yet. You could lie about where you came from, and they would probably take you in…

The hiss of your name from your mother’s mouth ripped you back into reality, along with a gentle nudge from Yara.

You took a deep breath and started walking.

Once the home of the Prophet herself, Sanctuary was one of your people’s primary places of worship, second only to Martyr’s Gate on the mainland. (You had never seen it – You’d never left the island – so Sanctuary was where you most often prayed.)

Scarring ceremonies were held there, always on a child’s twelfth birthday.

You had witnessed many friends receive their scars. It was customary to attend the ceremonies of those close to you. Family, friends.

The process was always the same.

Elder Constance would lead all those gathered in a prayer, holding the ceremonial blade. You would recite a version of the Prophet’s Prayer. The blade would be blessed. Then Elder Duncan would make the incisions before welcoming you as an official member, a child of the Prophet.

It never took very long. Everyone had work to get back to, tasks to fulfill.

You would soon come to find that your ceremony would not be like any of those others.

The first indication of this was the sheer number of people who were gathered at Sanctuary. You had never seen this many people gathered in one place at one time, many of the faces you did not recognize.

As you approached the dais, the crowd silently parted for you, all eyes examining you carefully as if looking for something unseen. You couldn’t begin guess what it was.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to cry. To hold your mother’s hand. You wanted to not be here at all. Ever. For this to be a horrible nightmare.

Why were there so many people here?

Your eyes met Elder Constance’s. She was stiff and serious, as always, but there was a brightness in her eyes that you were not accustomed to seeing. A quick glance at Elder Duncan revealed a similar expression on his face.

The other five Elders also stood on the stage. Another thing that was unusual for a simple scarring ceremony.

Had you done something wrong? Were you in trouble?

You looked ahead, and your legs continued to carry you forward, despite your internal protestations.

When your feet were nearly touching the first step up, you stopped. And although your mind went blank, your body remembered what to do.

You bowed your head to each of the Elders, silently waiting to be greeted and invited onto the dais.

“Welcome, child, on this most joyous day!” Elder Constance’s voice boomed, carrying enough for everyone gathered to hear. “Come. Join us.”

You fought the urge to turn around and find your mother. You wanted to look at her face, to see if she knew what was happening.

But you knew that any moves you made in this moment other than exactly what was expected of you would be seen as hesitation, and therefore disgraceful. And you didn’t want your mother to be angry.

So you did as Elder Constance said, and you climbed the steps.

Your vision blurred. You tried to focus on your breathing.

“Two years ago, the ignoble Wolves took our beloved Prophet from us,” she began once you were standing center-stage. The reaction from the audience was instantaneous, full of outrage and despair. Elder Constance allowed this to continue for several moments before holding up her hand; and the noise stopped just a quickly as it began.

“But She is not dead! For the Prophet’s spirit cannot be killed by the evils of mankind.” The crowd hung on her every word as she continued, “She lives in all of us. In our actions and in our virtues. In Her teachings.”

“Here before you are all of your Elders, appointed to this honorable position by our Prophet, most wonderful and wise. She speaks to us, and it is our duty—our privilege—to share her words with you.”

“But today, She does not have words for us.” Elder Constance paused, the audience hushed, waiting for the reveal. “It is Her heavenly desire to give us a new source of hope. An advocate. A champion… A new Prophet.”

Elder Constance’s hands landed on your shoulders.

“Today, She has chosen Her successor.”

The crowd erupted in celebration.

You went completely numb and tuned them all out.

The Elders continued to speak, and the people continued to celebrate. All the while, your mind was reeling and your face was blank.

A new Prophet?

There can’t be a new Prophet.

What does that even mean?

There have never been any prophets except for THE Prophet.

And if there does need to be a new Prophet, why would it be you?

Why you?

It can’t be you.

If any of your questions were answered, you didn’t hear it above the ringing in your head.

Your attention was drawn to the blade that was now in Elder Constance’s hands, and you forced yourself to again begin to listen.

“…The Neo-Prophet will take on her full responsibilities when the time is right. But until then…” She continued on with familiar words, ones used in a typical scarring ceremony to bless the blade before it was used.

The knife was then passed down the line of Elders, each of them lifting it above their head and reciting the same words.

Your legs suddenly felt very weak.

Elder Duncan blessed the blade last and stepped forward, positioning himself just a couple feet away from you. You turned to him just as you knew you were supposed to.

This was the part in the ceremony when you would usually say a version of The Prophet’s Prayer. You weren’t sure if you were still meant to do that, given the circumstances, but you were operating solely on instincts now, so you began, “The world is not in balance, but I will do my part to right it.”

You weren’t speaking nearly as loud as the Elders had. You hoped you were loud enough. You hoped you were doing it right.

The pleased look on Elder Duncan’s face indicated that you had done well, but before you could go on with the next line, all of the Elders continued the prayer together:

“You will lead us through the storm May the current be calm May You guide us home.”

Their words had been slightly altered from the classic prayer, different than you would’ve said it if you had been given the chance. The strangest part was that they were speaking to you.

Almost like they were praying to you…

Elder Duncan took another step forward, gripping the knife.

You expected him to use his other hand to lift your face, to hold it at the best angle for the scarring. You’d seen him do the same to others many times before.

This was the part that you knew was coming. You had been at least attempting to prepare for it. You could handle it.

But you were thrown off once again when instead, he took your right wrist in his free hand and gently pressed your fingers down, making you form a fist. He then lifted your hand until it was by your ear, knuckles facing inward, arm bent at the elbow. His own hand gripped your elbow, holding your arm in place.

You were frozen, with no choice but to watch as the knife met the outside of your forearm and sank in. A slow, straight line was carved from the top of your wrist all the way to your elbow.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t cry. You did as you were told.

You wanted to go home.

“We are imperfect beings. And thus, we make ourselves imperfect in Your eyes.” Elder Duncan said, meeting your gaze. “It is for this reason that we proudly wear our scars on our faces.”

When his work was done, he released your right elbow and moved on to the left, lifting that arm into the same position. “But the Prophet, in Her kindness, bears the weight of our imperfections, carrying all of us in her arms. This is why You will wear your scars here.”

“Remember that You are part of us, but set apart.” The blade pierced the skin of your left forearm, and a twin incision was formed. “We look to You, Prophet. May She guide you. May She protect you.” With that, he took a step back, lowering the knife.

You slowly lowered your arms to your sides and turned back to face the enraptured crowd.

Finally, you found your mother among them.

And she was crying.

“My friends,” Elder Constance declared, gesticulating dramatically, “Your Prophet!”

The cheers were deafening.

As you scanned the masses, you felt the blood ooze down your arms and curl around your fingers, pooling on the ground by your feet.

You found Yara, who was somehow clapping and cheering more enthusiastically than anyone else. And then you saw L, held up on their mother’s hip, face concerned, eyes wide and wary.

At least someone was as skeptical as you were.

You wondered if you would get to go home now.

But Elder Constance placed her hands on your shoulders again, this time turning you and leading you in the opposite direction, into the Prophet’s grand house. Into Sanctuary.

There, servants’ gentle hands carefully cleaned your stinging wounds, took down and brushed out your hair, and helped you change into a new white dress.

You would never live in your mother’s house again.

And it would be eight years before anyone addressed you by your name.

#the wolf and the prophet #my writing #abby anderson #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby tlou #tlou2 #abby anderson fanfic #abby anderson fic

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returnsandreturns · 7 months

Text

they get high and also honest

(i don't KNOW where aziraphale read about shotgunning but it had to happen. also maybe continue on and put this on ao3?)

“It was wonderful to see Adam again, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale says.

“Mmm, yes,” Crowley says, unenthusiastically. “Did you understand a word he said?”

“Oh, not a word,” Aziraphale breathes, relieved.

“He’s just a kid,” Crowley says, then laughs, surprising himself. “That’s kind of–nice, actually. After everything.”

“It is nice,” Aziraphale says, smiling before he walks past him to lock the door to the shop. “Although, he’s really a teenager more than a kid. The smell alone.”

“Smell of hormones,” Crowley says, “and energy drinks and Snapchat and–”

“Marijuana,” Aziraphale says, surprised, and Crowley turns to see him bent down and picking up a small plastic bag folded in half. “I thought I recognized the smell.”

“Why did you recognize it?” Crowley asks, squinting at him, gasping when Aziraphale looks nothing but coy. "Have you partaken, angel?"

“. . .you know that period in the seventies where we didn’t really speak much?” Aziraphale asks, apparently waiting for Crowley’s hesitant nod before he goes on. “I spent quite a lot of it. . .thinking. And smoking, on occasion. Medicinally."

“For what ailment?” Crowley asks, laughing.

“Spot of depression,” Aziraphale says, simply, no emotions on his face besides a small and, frankly, suspicious smile.

“Why were you depressed?” Crowley asks, with every emotion visible on his face, probably. He might not have been the best person to turn to in the event of an emotional crisis but he would have tried. Things got strange and tense after the holy water–perhaps, more specifically, after Aziraphale gently turned him down when he didn’t even know what he was asking for. He wanted to give him his space. Slow down.

In 1972, he bought the newest Bowie album and fell asleep to Starman playing in the background. He woke up two years later, paced up and down Aziraphale’s street fifty times, caught eyes with him through the window for just a moment before he ran off. He bought a copy of Diamond Dogs from the record store nearby then went back to his flat and slept for the majority of the decade.

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose, stares somewhere over Crowley’s shoulder for a long moment before he meets his eyes and says, softly, “We didn’t speak at all that decade, did we?”

“We had lunch once,” Crowley says, feeling like his heart is entirely too aware of this whole situation, wanting to touch him but not sure where, “in 1972.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, after a beat, like he’s remembering how painfully awkward it was just trying to be whatever their brand of normal was. “Would you–would you like to smoke with me, perhaps? It would be wrong to give it back to Adam and encourage the behavior. But it's. . .also wrong to let it go to waste, don’t you think?”

“For the record, this is not what I expected to happen today,” Crowley says, smiling, “but sure, angel. Let’s smoke, I guess.”

***

When they’re upstairs, Aziraphale makes sure that the smoke will not penetrate anything to reach the books downstairs or leave a lingering smell, sitting Crowley down on the small sofa to watch as he digs around and eventually pulls out a delicate looking glass pipe. It looks brand new, no burns at all, milky white with pale blue flowers painted on it.

Aziraphale is silent as he neatly packs the pipe and barely rubs his thumb over the rim of it to light it.

“For you,” he says, offering it to Crowley before sitting next to him, just an inch or two between them.

Crowley coughs as soon as he takes a hit, turning into a laugh when he sees Aziraphale watching him kind of smugly.

“Don’t judge me, angel,” he says, handing him the pipe. “I’ve hardly done this. Apparently been living a pure and righteous existence compared to you."

“And God said, behold,” Aziraphale says, solemnly, “I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the–”

“Oh, don’t quote Genesis at me, you bastard,” Crowley says, nudging him gently. “I was there.”

Aziraphale takes a hit and Crowley watches every godforsaken second of it, allowing himself the indiscretion given the context, taking in the sight of the pipe parting Aziraphale’s lips and his eye fluttering shut and the long lingering moment of peace before he slowly blows the smoke out.

“You’re, uh,” Crowley says, faintly. “You’re good at that.”

“How so?” Aziraphale asks, happily.

“Well, you look good,” Crowley clarifies, freezing until Aziraphale blushes and looks even more pleased with himself. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You need to take it slower, I think,” Aziraphale says, relighting it and biting his lip for a distracting moment before he asks, “May I?” and lifts the pipe to Crowley’s mouth.

“. . .uh huh,” Crowley says, shocked at Aziraphale’s soft fingers touching his jaw to keep him still but immediately listening when he tells him to breathe in slowly and tells him when to stop.

“Hold it in,” Aziraphale says, softly, setting the pipe carefully on the table before resting a hand on Crowley’s chest like he wants to feel his breathing. “Now breathe out, dear.”

It’s definitely smoother.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, satisfied.

“Here I am,” Crowley says, thoroughly shaken.

***

Crowley manages to get Aziraphale to do it one more time, just to be safe, before he takes a hit on his own and already feels like he’s melting into the sofa, staring shamelessly when Aziraphale shifts forward to pull off his jacket and waistcoat.

Aziraphile slowly rolls up his sleeves and unbuttons exactly one button.

"A bit stifled," he says, sitting back again, leaning against Crowley heavily.

"Sure," Crowley says, swallowing hard. "Am I meant to be feeling it much yet?"

"It may take some time," Aziraphale says, smiling sideways at him. "How are you feeling now?"

"Good," Crowley says, smiling back because he can't help himself. "Very good."

***

"You did not," Crowley says, grinning.

"I did," Aziraphale says, laughing. "And I was never welcome at Buckingham Palace again."

"You fascinate me," Crowley says, without a hint of sarcasm.

At some point, he was down to a black t-shirt and jeans, everything else abandoned on the floor with Aziraphale's clothing. It is an unfamiliar sight that he can't stop glancing down at.

At another point, his arm found its way around Aziraphale's shoulders, then his waist instead, and Aziraphale just cuddled close instead of commenting on it. It feels like time is moving differently and like he's breathing under water and, ultimately, like they can be what they want to be without driving away the urge with stupid fears. He can't hold onto a thought for very long other than how good he feels. It's lovely.

"What are you thinking about?" Aziraphale asks, lifting his head, after they've both gone silent.

". . .when you said I went too fast, in my car all those years ago," he says, because that's been on his mind ever since. "What did you think I wanted?"

"Oh," Aziraphale says, softly. "Well, I thought maybe it was. . .what I wanted, as well. What I was trying not to want."

"Angel," Crowley says. He really wants a straight answer for once, something other than wait and see and lingering looks, but then Aziraphale is relighting the pipe.

"Let me try something," he says. "I've never done it but I've read–well, just breathe in when our mouths touch, dear."

Crowley watches Aziraphale take another hit, feeling paralyzed for just a moment when Aziraphale slides fingers into hair to hold him in place before he's leaning in so they're pressed together as he slots his mouth over Crowley's and breathes out slowly.

Crowley doesn't cough at all this time and Aziraphale stays right there, touches their foreheads together, murmurs his name like a goddamn blessing.

"I want you," Crowley says, breathlessly, winding his arms around Aziraphale like he might change his mind. "Please, angel, please-can I have you?"

Every word and every kiss that Aziraphale gives him after feels like it will linger forever, hovering around in the air between them, a gentle buzzing under his skin. He is feeling everything so much.

"Yes," Aziraphale says, kissing his mouth. "Yes, anything you want." His cheek. "My beautiful boy." The tip of his nose. "So brave."

"Dunno about brave," Crowley murmurs.

"For me, you are," Aziraphale says, stroking his cheek. "You always have been."

Crowley would do anything for him. If being brave is part of that, maybe he is.

They kiss for an indeterminate amount of time, Aziraphale mostly in his lap, until Aziraphale pulls away just enough to murmur, "Should we sober up, darling? Maybe talk?"

" I'd like to touch you a while longer," Crowley admits, brushing fingers down Aziraphale's throat, tracing down underneath his loose collar. "I think I might be braver this way, actually."

Aziraphale smiles down at him warmly and starts to unbutton the rest of his shirt.

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #my fic

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spacexseven · 1 year

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sorry for the late reply! And to answer some of your questions in the tags, it’s actually all three. A “final girl” is a basically a trope that means a character (usually protagonist) that is “pure, feminine, and the victim” during a horror film. They’re usually a victim of chance or have a distant past connection to the killer. Be it their intelligence, connection, or simply pure luck, the final girl is able to avoid death until the end where: 1) they survive to the end and defeat their killer 2) they escape or 3) they die regardless. I was thinking of killer! yan bsd, but I was also intrigued with a victim/final girl! bsd. An example of an idea that’s currently plaguing my mind is Final Girl! Nikolai. I liked the idea of a serial killer targeting magician/or whimsical (maybe ability users) people and choosing nikolai as target. cat and mouse chase, and they end getting the drop on him (how? idk). Its kinda a slow burn horror, but regardless nikolai fights back. this is a gist and example. Tuna, i’m so sorry about throwing this ramble dump at you. 🙈 this is just an idea, nothing you actually have to do. im just happy sharing this with you - 🦄

ahahahaha....there was a lot i had to say about this, but i kept it as brief as i could because i Might...might do a series/oneshot w this au. Maybe </3 thank you for sharing this gem of an idea i am very excited to dig in nomnomnom. tagged under 'sk reader au 🐟'

gn! reader, is a serial killer & implied to have an ability that can 'collect' other abilities. can be read as a yandere reader.

cw: stalking, murder, violence

ability users are fascinating little things.

especially when they try everything in their power to stay alive. it's a wonderful sight, to see those that always stood above regular people, to see those regarded as gifted, desperately attempt to survive. there was something intoxicating about holding power above the same ability users that were feared by all.

but your interest was less in the users and more in the ability itself.

there was a lot you hoped to learn about abilities, regardless of the type. there must be a reason as to why some were sentient, why some were so much more powerful than others, why some were uncontrollable, and the best way to learn, was of course, through the ability itself. you were willing to do anything to satisfy your curiousity, even if it meant the user had to die for their abilities to join your collection.

you had fond memories with all of them; flawless made for an exhilarating fight, always a step ahead until you sunk your claws into the frightened figure of a dark-eyed ability user, rashōmon was unique, the dark mass almost besting you, but, in the end, you stood victorious over a sickly body—even if you hadn't gone after it, this was an ability that wasn't meant to survive for long, and you liked to think that it was for the best that it joined you instead of disappearing with its user. and of course, discourse on decadence was unforgettable. you remembered it belonged to some goverment agent who was hot on your trail—it was the closest anyone came to stopping you—and your most recent kill.

usually, you didn't like picking favorites. each ability was fascinating and unique in its own way, but it was undeniable that one in particular stood out to you.

the overcoat was an interesting ability. at first sight, it appeared quite simple, but you had viewed it in action too many times to know just how frightening it was. how easy it was to turn it into a lethal weapon—to reach in and twist out a limb or to drain out the blood from a vein. the seemingly unlimited potential of the ability, however, was only one of the aspects that intrigued you.

generally, you've never cared for the users as much as you did their abilities. while you enjoyed the brutal torture you made them suffer, and you liked hunting them down, they always came secondary to their abilities. you didn't care to know their names or their personal stories. despite all that, a name—nikolai gogol—had made his way on your list of targets, scrawled next to his ability.

it'd only take you a minute to identify nikolai in a sea of people.

whether he had the scar over his eye showing or hidden, whether he was wearing glasses or colored contacts, no matter what wig he wore or how ordinary he tried to look, you would immediately be able to point him out. no disguise, no false identity could hide him from you—you know this because he's tried, many times now, to fool you. but you've always known it was him, from the slightest strain of his voice when disguised, the unsettling blankness in his gaze when he looked at you, the subtle upturn of his lips when he approached you. you knew it was him from the way he titled his head when asking you a question, the way he said your name, and even the syllables he stressed when he spoke.

he approached you first as a police officer, then as a detective, a local politician, and even an assassin. You had already noted down each encounter you had with him, the details of each false identity, and what you had learned from it. it was a feat in itself that nikolai had survived so many encounters with you. perhaps it was because of your growing obsession with him,

(somehow, you always knew that your last victim would be nikolai. he'd be a fitting end for your legacy, as the ability user who had been watching you from the very start. the only ability user you could see as more than a shell for his powers. the only one who escaped you once.)

initially, you believed that nikolai followed you around for self-driven justice, to punish you for your crimes. (the policeman getup convinced you of that much), but instead of lunging at you, he watched, enraptured, as you stole the perfect crime, and he followed you closely as you stalked the user of falling camellia, doing nothing to stop you either time. and every time after that, be it walking past him in the busy streets of yokohama or meeting him as your taxi driver, nikolai had yet to try and expose your crimes and exact revenge. he never held a blade up to your throat, never used the very frightening ability of his on you.

his passivity, however, did nothing to quench your bloodthirst.

it was you who attacked him first.

you're no stranger to hunting down your prey. it was something you anticipated now, the sound of footsteps making their way around corners, the sight of shaking shoulders and trembling hands as they hid behind walls, the way fear consumed them when you finally cornered them; you relished in the hunt as much as you did the result.

nikolai doesn't make it much of a hunt. he's quick, with his coat fluttering around him. his footsteps, you remember, are light and quick, his breathing staggered as he laughed wildly. he snatches up your gun with a hand through his coat, and shoots blindly. there is despair consuming his mind, no panic climbing up his spine. his heart rate accelerates not out of fear, but out of thrill, and he looks at you with unrestrained elation. this was no hunt, nikolai wasn't hiding from you—this was a chase. just as you approached a dead end, and you think you can finally, finally, shove him into a corner, nikolai turns to smile at you one last time, before disappearing into a flurry of his coat. as you stand alone, a dark glove laid on the floor ahead of you catches your attention; his glove might have caught on a jagged end and fallen, you think. after cleaning up his mess, you silently pocket it, still haunted by that uninhibited look and that devilish grin.

nikolai is everywhere after that, taunting you.

he sits across you from the train, he takes your order in a restaurant, he applauds you from a distance, after watching you drag away yet another body, congratulating you on another successful kill.

"next time," he smiles at you, all coy and enticing, "i hope it's me."

you hope so too, but you don't let him have the pleasure of knowing that. the scowl on your blood-streaked face sends him spinning away in giggles.

it wasn't the next time, but after a few more dead bodies and many more warnings about your work are played on the news, you meet nikolai again. nikolai gogol is no easy prey, but you're not one to be bested twice. this time, you don't let him run. you're finally on top of him, blood pooling out of where your knife was stuck in his thigh, his coat ripped off him and abandoned somewhere else. it would be so easy to kill him now, so easy to watch him bleed out and claim his ability as yours, but for the first time, you hesitated on delivering the killing blow.

this time, it's not the ability you're after, is it?

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letteredlettered · 8 months

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new fic

Hello, I have started posting a new fic. For once, I'm really really happy with something I've written AND it's a complete, very long story, a thing that hasn't happened since 2019!

I liked it so much I even wrote a real summary! If you know me at all means I was TRULY invested; I haven't felt so happy about a fic since Away Childish Things!!! Here's the stuff:

Title: Say More

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)

Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Mò Xuányǔ

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Warnings: AU – modern setting, pining, mutual pining, slow burn, wwx struggles with Mandarin and feeling connected to Chinese culture, this is not a large plot point but bears mention, non-graphic drug use, non-graphic withdrawal, drug addiction, one suicidal thought, negative thought, compulsory heterosexuality, wwx kisses a girl, questioning sexuality, gay realization, some gender confusion and questions without serious gender questioning, incorrect definition of omnisexuality, open relationship, masochistic fantasies, non-graphic sadomasochistic realities, humiliation fantasies, submissive fantasies, some D/s realities, one condomless blowjob, suggestions of some unhealthy co-dependence, possessiveness, slight consensual non-consent, frottage

Summary: Wei Ying and Lan Zhan were best friends in high school, until they weren’t.

When they meet again, over a decade later, Wei Ying knows exactly what’s going to happen. Until he doesn’t.

They’re normal people, navigating a normal friendship, except they’re not. Turns out, they never were.

The fic is here: Say More

#the untamed #cql #my fic

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worstqueerbaittournament · 11 months

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Before you complain about the picture: I asked people to send in better pictures of Grif and Simmons and NOBODY DID

Submission message for Janis: Mean Girls - Janis + Person who submitted Janis here. Yes, I meant the movie. The whole time it is implied she's a lesbian only for her to end up with a dude lol

Submission message for Grif and Simmons: Hi! I’m submitting Grif and Simmons from Red vs. Blue. I think they’re the worst personally because I’ve spent a third of my life being queerbaited by someone’s fucking halo ocs.

Additional propaganda: Meanwhile Janis from Mean Girls IS queerbaiting:

She’s presented as a lesbian throughout the film

She gets very emotionally attached to girls and tries to sabotage them after they ‘betray’ her and become more interested in boys/popularity (Regina in the past, Cady during the film)

Proudly declares herself a “big lesbo” to half the school during her trust-fall scene

Wears a suit to Prom and kisses her gay best friend Damien, they both show complete disgust afterwards

But in the LITERAL LAST SCENE OF THE FILM, she’s shown dating a guy and kissing him.

((I also haven’t seen the musical yet, so I can’t comment there))

Vote Janis, she’s the only right answer.

this ain't enough information about Grif and Simmons; these two are literally the intro character for the entire series. The first conversation they had became a running joke and repeating theme to the point that, years later, it was used in a dramatic moment so Grif could identify Simmons while fight an evil look-alike. When one of them got injured, the other donated various body parts, including skin and organs, and then became a cyborg, thus having the metaphor of "becoming part of each other" and "you have my heart". They still bicker constantly and and trade insults. They've been glued at the hip for more than a decade. The one time they were split up, it was treated like a devastating divorce, with one of them using the line "I quit you". They then both proceeded to have mutual pining and emotional withdrawl from being apart because they're just THAT codependent. They've been forced to share living space, and immediately devolved into having old-married-couple situations. During a planet-wide sex party, they fooled around in a closet, everybody knows this happened, but they refuse to fully acknowledge it. The VA for Grif even plainly stated that "Grif is in love with Simmons". Simmons once mentioned that he and Grif carved their initials into a tree. When we see the "inner worlds" of their minds, Grif's is almost empty except for a tiny Simmons that runs around to annoy him, and Simmons imagines a Grif that has to do whatever he says, but STILL insults him because Grif can't stop being Grif.They had a talk show together and even called themselves their ship-name "Grimmons". They've been having one long conversation for 2 decades. They're slow-burning like a tire fire. They're married, but they'll never properly get together. IT'S BEEN 2 DECADES

Let's not forget Tucker's actually-in-the-show commentary when he's spying on them over the radio of "I've only been listening to them for five minutes but I can tell they're really in love. Why can't they see it?”

It's literally been two decades.

#janis #janis mean girls #mean girls #simmons x grif #red vs blue #tournament

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justsomerandomfanfic · 10 months

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Humans And Mutants - Logan Howlett X Female Reader

Title: Past Illuminated

Previous Chapter | Current Chapter | Next Chapter

Logan Howlett X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Jean, Ororo, Mystique (Mentioned), Magento, Stryker (Mentioned), Kurt, Bobby, Rogue, Charles (Mentioned), and Pyro (Mentioned)

WC: 1,455

Warnings: X-Men canon fighting, still canon storyline soft of, Logan's past mentioned, slow burn, tension, child abuse mentioned, slight angst, mini fluff

Logan, Jean, Ororo, and Y/N sat on one side of the campfire, while Magneto and Mystique sat on the other. They stared at each other in silence. You fidgeted in your spot, staring into the fire until it made your face hot and your eyes tear up slightly. You blinked rapidly before looking down at the grass, digging your boots into the dirt below.

“His name is William Stryker.” Magneto finally spoke.

“What does he want?” Ororo asked as she sat on the log in front of the fire.

Logan glared at Magneto, not trusting the man before him, “That’s exactly the same question we should be asking Magneto.” Logan answered, irritated, and the man in question just sighed as Logan continued, “So, what is it? What do you want?”

“When Stryker invaded your mansion he stole an essential piece of its hardware.” Magneto spoke as Ororo pursed her lips in confusion, her eyes narrowed.

“Cerebro?” She asked as Magneto shifted in his seat.

Magneto cleared his throat before speaking, “Charles and I built Cerebro as a tool, a tool I believed would unite us all. But, the good Professor, as with all things, never truly explored its full potential.” He explained as you, Jean, and Ororo listened carefully, as Logan boiled in his seat. “In the wrong hands, I fear it could be used as a powerful weapon against mutants.”

He finished.

“But Stryker would need the Professor to operate it.” Jean spoke up, as Magneto nodded.

“Which is the only reason why I think he’s still alive.” Magneto said deeply.

Logan glared at Magneto, unable to push his suspicions away, what did he have planned?

~~~

At the kid’s camp, Pyro stared at the fire, lost in it as Bobby turned to Rouge. “Can you hear what they’re saying?” He asked his girlfriend as she shook her head.

“They’re too quiet.” She stated.

“I… I can get a closer look.” Kurt said sheepishly, wanting to help the teens.

“How?” Rouge asked him, tilting her head.

In a cloud of smoke, Kurt vanished as the teens stared at each other, impressed.

“Nice.” Bobby said, a small grin on his face.

High above the campfire, the Nightcrawler hung upside-down by his tail. No one noticed him as Logan continued to glare at Magento, not believing him at all. “How would Stryker know where Cerebro is or how it works?”

Magneto paused, he lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his neck, exposing his round scar. He seemed flustered and resigned before he spoke up once more, “Because I told him. Stryker has positive methods of… Persuasion, even against a mutant as strong as Charles.”

Magneto continued.

“Please understand if we don’t take it all in good faith, but why do you need us?” Ororo asked, tilting her head to the side, as Magneto cleared his throat.

“Stryker has a base he’s been operating out of for decades. And I don’t know where it is. But I suspect one of you might.” He turned to Logan and eyed him skeptically.

Logan ignored Magento’s gaze, “Who the hell is this Stryker anyway?”

“Are you sure you don’t remember, Logan? The metal on your bones carries his signature.” Magneto said as Logan just stared at him.

The understanding escaped through his body. Magneto looked to Jean, she looked back to Magneto. “But the Professor tried…” Logan began only for Magento to interrupt him.

“No, he didn’t. He's always known.”

Realization gave way to much doubt and dishonesty. Logan turned to Jean.

“I can’t. If those memories exist, they’re buried very deep.” Jean spoke, frowning as Logan turned to stare at the fire.

A long moment of stillness went on until someone conversed. The night air was chill but the fire in front of the X-Team, Magneto, and Mystique kept them warm. Crickets could be heard, chirping, hiding in the bushes and tall grass. You bit your lip briefly, rubbing your hands together as you tried to warm them. You tried to choose whether or not to speak up or not. You never really spoke about your past or any of your other powers. This was going to be a huge step for you, but this was important to Logan and the team… Mostly to Logan. You knew that if you were in his position, you’d want to know what had happened in your forgotten past.

You looked over at Logan, his dark eyes lit up by the flames of the fire in front of him. A deep frown laid on his face, his hair disheveled and hands clasped tightly on his lap. You could feel the pain radiating off of him. You needed to speak up.

“I can do it.” Everyone turned towards you, making you feel a little bit nervous with all the sudden eyes on you.

“I thought you had teleportation?” Ororo asked, confused as you let out a small hiss through your teeth, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Oh, I do. But, that’s not all I can do.” You spoke before explaining, “I was… I was experimented on when I was little. The scientists injected me with stuff and electrified my mind in hopes of me getting a genetic mutation or any mutation for that matter. At the end of their torture, I ended up with mind mutations powers.” You finished, unable to look anyone in the eyes as you finally told your truth.

“What can you do?” Jean asked, making you shrug a shoulder, fidgeting with a patch on the left arm of your jacket.

“I- I can read memories, and I can erase memories, and more. And I think I could do it.” Minutes later, everyone sat silently as they watched you leave your spot and walk over to Logan. Sitting down beside him, you turned your body to face him. Waiting patiently, you watched as Logan slowly turned to you, staring down at you uncertainly. Slowly, you reached both your hands out towards his face, making his back a bit. “Chillax.” You tried to calm him with a soft whisper. You closed your eyes, your hands finding their place on his stubbled cheeks, your fingers brushing his temple.

Logan looked at you before closing his own eyes, “I hope you know what you’re doing…” He muttered, only for you to shush him.

“Shut up, I’m working here.”

You grimaced as blurry visions from Logan’s mind flashed in your mind. Your mind saw many images, blurry and confusing, coming and going swiftly until it came to one. You could see Logan clearly. He was at a bar, talking to a military officer. It flashed again to Logan riding in the back of a military truck. The truck was driving past a tremendous frozen barrier, entering a tunnel from above ground. There was snowfall everywhere. It flashed again, Logan walked into a medical lab, doctors crowded around a giant tank. Then, in the last vision, you watched in horror as Logan screamed and yelled in pain. The water in the tank splashing and sloshing around as he trembled and tried to escape the restraints. With a flash, the images end. You pull away, exhausted, you hold onto your head as your heart raced; trying to regain your breath. You held back tears as you looked up at Logan.

“Stryker is at Alkali Lake.” You answered, your voice soft, as the others around you looked at you in shock.

“I was just there. I saw that base. Nothing’s left.” Logan said insistently, as you only shook your head, regretting it after as a headache began to spawn.

“That’s because he’s below it.” You muttered, before quickly getting up from the old log and heading over to the teenagers.

Logan watched as you left, his hands clenching and unclenching before he reluctantly looked away. He stared back at the fire, wanting to know what you had seen. You were able to break through his mind, past the barrier, and see his past. You were able to see what he went thought, and he wanted to know what it was. For years he was searching for the answers... And you had them all. Glancing over to the teens' fire, you sat on the cold, damp grass, holding the side of your head.

Logan wanted to go over there and talk to you, but what you had done for him had seemed to have taken a lot out of you. He didn't want to bother you, no matter how desperately he wanted to know about his forgotten past. Logan also began to wonder, as he watched as you flopped onto the grass below you, he wondered more about you... And why he was feeling this way.

------

@ashdoctor @powergirlsupremacy

Slashed out means Tumblr won't let me tag you.

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spacetimewithstuartgary · 5 months

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NASA’s NEOWISE Celebrates 10 Years, Plans End of Mission

The asteroid and comet-hunting infrared space telescope has gathered an impressive haul of observations, but it’s now at the mercy of the Sun, which is accelerating its demise.

NASA’s NEOWISE has had a busy decade. Since its reactivated mission began on Dec. 13, 2013, the space telescope has discovered a once-in-a-lifetime comet, observed more than 3,000 near-Earth objects, bolstered international planetary defense strategies, and supported another NASA mission’s rendezvous with a distant asteroid. And that’s just a partial list of accomplishments.

But all good things must come to an end: Solar activity is causing NEOWISE – short for Near-Earth Object Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer – to fall out of orbit. By early 2025, the spacecraft is expected to drop low enough into Earth’s atmosphere that it will become unusable. Eventually, it will reenter our atmosphere, entirely burning up.

About every 11 years, the Sun experiences a cycle of increased activity that peaks during a period called solar maximum. Explosive events, such as solar flares and coronal mass ejections, become more frequent and heat up our planet’s atmosphere, causing it to expand. Atmospheric gases increase drag on satellites orbiting Earth, slowing them down. With the Sun currently approaching its next maximum, NEOWISE will no longer be able to maintain its orbit above our atmosphere.

“The mission has planned for this day a long time. After several years of calm, the Sun is waking back up,” said Joseph Masiero, NEOWISE’s deputy principal investigator and a scientist at IPAC, a research organization at Caltech in Pasadena, California. “We are at the mercy of solar activity, and with no means to keep us in orbit, NEOWISE is now slowly spiraling back to Earth.”

WISE Beginnings

The past 10 years represent a second life for the spacecraft. Managed by NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Southern California, NEOWISE repurposed a different mission that launched in 2009: the Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer (WISE). Data from WISE and NEOWISE has been used to study distant galaxies, cool stars, exploding white dwarf stars, outgassing comets, near-Earth asteroids, and more.

In 2010, WISE achieved its scientific goal of conducting an all-sky infrared survey with far greater sensitivity than previous surveys. The WISE mission also found tens of millions of actively feeding supermassive black holes across the sky. Through the Disk Detective project, citizen scientists have used WISE data to find circumstellar disks, which are spinning clouds of gas, dust, and rubble around stars.

Invisible to the naked eye, infrared wavelengths are emitted by warm objects. To keep the heat generated by WISE itself from interfering with its observations of infrared wavelengths, the spacecraft relied on cryogenic coolant. After the coolant ran out and WISE had mapped the sky twice, NASA put the spacecraft into hibernation in February 2011.

Without coolant, the space telescope could no longer observe the universe’s coldest objects, but it could still see near-Earth asteroids and comets, which are heated by the Sun. So NASA reactivated the spacecraft in 2013 with a more specialized role in mind: aiding planetary defense efforts by surveying and studying those objects, which can stray into our planet’s orbital neighborhood and create a potential impact hazard.

Astronomers could not only rely on the mission to seek out these objects, but also use its data to figure out their size and albedo – how much sunlight their surfaces reflect – and to gather clues about the minerals and rocks they’re composed of.

“NEOWISE has showcased the importance of having an infrared space survey telescope as part of NASA’s planetary defense strategy while also keeping tabs on other objects in the solar system and beyond,” said Amy Mainzer, the mission’s principal investigator at the University of Arizona in Tucson.

Mainzer is also leading NASA’s upcoming NEO Surveyor, which will build on NEOWISE’s legacy. The next-generation infrared space telescope will seek out some of the hardest-to-find near-Earth objects, such as dark asteroids and comets that don’t reflect much visible light, as well as objects that approach Earth from the direction of the Sun. Scheduled for launch in 2027, the JPL-managed mission will also search for objects known as Earth Trojans – asteroids that lead or trail our planet’s orbit – the first of which WISE discovered in 2011.

Comet NEOWISE and Beyond

Since becoming NEOWISE, the mission has scanned the entire sky over 20 times and made 1.45 million infrared measurements of over 44,000 solar system objects. That includes more than 3,000 near-Earth objects, 215 of which NEOWISE discovered. Data from the mission has contributed to refining the orbits of these objects while gauging their size as well.

Its forte is characterizing near-Earth asteroids. In 2021, NEOWISE became a key component of an international planetary defense exercise that focused on the hazardous asteroid Apophis.

The mission has also discovered 25 comets, including the long-period comet C/2020 F3 (NEOWISE). The comet became a dazzling celestial object visible in the Northern Hemisphere for several weeks in 2020 and the first comet that could be seen by the naked eye since 2007, when Comet McNaught was primarily visible in the Southern Hemisphere.

Future researchers will continue to rely on the vast archive of NEOWISE observations to make new discoveries, similar to the way researchers used WISE data from 2010 long after the observations were made to characterize asteroid Dinkinesh in support of NASA’s Lucy mission before its October 2023 encounter.

“This is a bittersweet moment. It’s sad to see this trailblazing mission come to an end, but we know there’s more treasure hiding in the survey data,” said Masiero. “NEOWISE has a vast archive, covering a very long period of time, that will inevitably advance the science of the infrared universe long after the spacecraft is gone.”

More About the Mission

NEOWISE and NEO Surveyor support the objectives of NASA’s Planetary Defense Coordination Office (PDCO) at NASA Headquarters in Washington. The NASA Authorization Act of 2005 directed NASA to discover and characterize at least 90% of the near-Earth objects more than 140 meters (460 feet) across that come within 30 million miles (48 million kilometers) of our planet’s orbit. Objects of this size can cause significant regional damage, or worse, should they impact the Earth.

JPL manages and operates the NEOWISE mission for PDCO within the Science Mission Directorate. The Space Dynamics Laboratory in Logan, Utah, built the science instrument. Ball Aerospace & Technologies Corp. of Boulder, Colorado, built the spacecraft. Science data processing takes place at IPAC at Caltech. Caltech manages JPL for NASA.

TOP IMAGE....NEOWISE is depicted in an artist’s concept in front of an image of the infrared sky that the mission captured. The string of red dots moving across the sky near the center of the image is Holda, the first asteroid the space telescope detected shortly after being reactivated in 2013. Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

LOWER IMAGE.... Comet C/2020 F3 NEOWISE appears as a trio of fuzzy red dots in this composite of several infrared images captured by the NEOWISE mission on March 27, 2020. These observations helped astronomers determine the comet’s path shortly after its discovery. Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

#science #space #astronomy #physics #news #nasa #astrophysics

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neo-shitty · 2 years

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slow dancing in a burning room — l.dh

description. the past ripples in the present, the currents of history crashing on the shores of the new day. in the halls of a place you’ve never been, you and haechan are caught up in a riptide—your paths always destined to meet, forever entwined and doomed to the same fate. is history really bound to repeat itself no matter how hard you try to change it?

pairings. lee donghyuck x female reader

genre. angst, suspense, fluff, established relationship!au, soulmates!au, reincarnation!au, museum!au

warnings. suggestive jokes, major character death(s), mentions of arson and suicide, reader’s discretion is advised.

word count. 14.1k

notes. 2022 really is becoming the year i finish ideas i had way back in 2020. i planned on making a playlist for this but, honestly, i only ever listened to all i wanted by paramore throughout the whole writing process. so go listen to the queen belt out one high note after the other and (try to) enjoy this fic bc i enjoyed writing it! :) | taglist: @rae-blogging @cavaree @late-minhours @soobin-chois @kkooongie @hyunkins @httpmuffin

Places you have seen but never been to hold a certain peculiarity to them, a veil shrouding its exterior in a mist meant to draw the eye in but never allowing anything closer. By virtue of human curiosity, you wonder what it keeps behind its closed doors, what entities fill the hollowness inside. There’s only so much you can draw out of your imagination, images concocted of what you assumed places like these would look like on the inside but you could never be certain.

When you look at places you’ve been, you see not only its windows and the solid walls that make up its exteriors. You see the partitions that subdivide it into layers, into floors, into rooms. You see the patterned tiles that people step on, the boards that line the ceiling, the doors that lead to other hidden nooks. Memories from before keep the place alive, each glimpse sending you back to the past in a half-second as you remember what you did when you’ve been there last. It’s normal, it’s human. Except when it shouldn’t be.

The mansion looms across the street from where the bus drops you off, its roof leveled with the rest of the buildings nearby, even dwarfed. What it lacks there, it makes up for in the way it occupies four lots until the next street—leaving no room for backyard neighbors. As you walk up to the front, past the shrubs that lined its front yard, its presence dawns on you. It was something that has been there long before you have, withstanding more tests of time than its modern neighbors that flank it.

When something is just there, you learn to underestimate it. The mansion turned museum was nothing but a view you passed on the way to the school, a break from the glass panes of skyscrapers and fences. The lot was encapsulated, shielded from the gust that aged the whole avenue through the past few decades. It has stood there since the 80s, built by the then president Na Minju as a guest house for foreign visitors who’d like to stay somewhere outside the capital city. You know little to none of its history, just how it nearly fell into ruin because of an accident and rebuilt for keepsake.

It’s the closest you’ve been to the mansion ever since but it doesn’t feel like it when you walk up the marble steps leading up to the entrance. Everything feels familiar, though you shrug it off thinking it’s because you looked at the mansion’s exterior enough that it’s embedded in your mind. Then you hear echoes of laughter down empty halls, the shuffle of heels and boots across a chessboard flooring, and a glimpse of an enormous chandelier dangling from the ceiling.

The images surge through you in a blink and they’re gone just as quick, vivid as a memory and fluid as a dream. You’ve never seen inside the mansion before but it feels as though you had it mapped out and memorized like the back of your hand. The feeling gnaws in the back of your mind, that unshakeable instinct that you have been there before, you just couldn’t remember when.

The others aren’t at the entrance when you arrive, the veranda empty and quiet. There are no plaid-bottomed people, no chatter of hyperactive kids burning patience to get inside. Your heels click against marble as you walk up to the tall entry way, its wooden doors open but unwelcoming.

“Are you here for the tour?”

You startle at the voice, skipping a few steps away from the direction it came from. The shadows by the door stir as a woman emerges, the pair of glasses balanced on her nose catching the bits of light from the outside. Without them, you would’ve barely seen her at all.

The woman studies you when you nod, her eyes falling on the patch on your left chest. She turns away, picking up a record book to hand it to you, “Fill it out. They can’t be far into the house, the tour just started.”

Nodding, you sign your name beneath other familiar ones. Even with your head down, you can feel her staring, the heaviness making you stiffen under her watch. Her gaze seeps through like she can sense your every motion, every molecule of oxygen that makes its way to your lungs, every pulse that drums against your skin. The heaviness of her stare is bone-chilling, making you just as aware of your actions as you think she is.

When you’re through with signing everything you meet her eyes and it’s her turn to startle when she’s caught staring. “Is there anything else I need to do?” you ask, handing the book back.

The woman shakes her head, “Go ahead.”

Your thanks comes out in a mutter as you turn your attention away from her and into the museum as your own tour of it begins. You still feel her boring holes down your back even long after you leave.

The grand entrance opens to a spacious hall, resembling nothing of a standard home living room. The room alone spans the width of the building with a ceiling too high for your own liking held up by off-white pillars. Blue velvet caked the walls in a muted lapis hue, accented by brown and gold that exuded elegance even at its age. Where standard lights should be are chandeliers, dangling in even intervals off a tiled ceiling, not as bright as they used to and leaving patches of darkness all around the hall.

There is nothing here but an unoccupied sofa set far too small compared to the rest of the room. You move along, your shoes tapping against the mosaic of tiles that made the flooring and echoing down the whole hall. The house is beautiful now, less beautiful than it was in its prime. The velvet walls have been recently refurbished and the pillars repainted, but there are indents and signs of wearing that were beyond fixing. It’s not hard to imagine how it looked back when it was just built, back when the president and his family walked the halls before it was left to rot. The house flickers where your gaze falls and you catch glimpses of how the house was like, what paintings hung on which walls, which doors led to which crevices. For a moment, you wish you visited the house earlier, back when its glory was in full display.

But the feeling washes out just as quick as it came like a wave crashing on the shore for a second before retreating back into the sea. Just as it would cost much to restore it, you knew it took a fortune to build it in the first place. The nostalgia for a place that you’ve never been vanishes, replaced by a twist that makes you sick. The house was built on a graveyard, its foundation the bones of those who were never allowed to step foot inside. It was pieced together, brick by boring brick, by those who worked tirelessly to make ends meet only to never receive the fruits of their labor; all of it funneled into the pockets of the rich and the selfish who never once lifted a finger beyond commanding those they looked down upon.

“You just got here and you’re frowning already?”

The call reverberates through the whole floor, the mansion’s closed structure only amplifying his voice. You turn to the end of the hall where the staircases are, twin snakes of steel twisting up to bite into the second floor veranda. Haechan leans against the railing, his figure standing out against the banister.

“Be careful, I heard they’re repainting.” It’s a white lie but it serves its petty purpose and he backs away from the railing, wiping his arm free of non-existent fresh paint.

“Funny.”

He waits for you at the top of the staircase and you take the time to climb up. The second floor follows the same motif; blue walls and accents of white and gold. On your left, the veranda meets with the mansion’s front wall.

“There’s nothing interesting there, just rooms,” says Haechan.

The pattern of doors and empty walls repeats until the end of the hall, this side of the floor nothing but a mirror of the opposite. “For a family of three, they have way too many rooms.”

Haechan tails behind you, shadowing your footsteps as you walk into one of the bedrooms. “They’re all guest rooms.”

“I can tell.”

“And they all look the same.”

Where you expect natural light to peek through was a window bolted shut, draped with a thick curtain spanning the height of the entire room. It was as if they meant for the place to remain untouched and preserved, mediating the effects of time as the years passed.

A single bed wide enough for two is pushed against the wall, adjacent to a tall cabinet with a full body mirror embedded to its door. The only other touch of life in the room was the low table that accented the center of the floor and the dresser pushed aside. Low things and high ceilings for not even middle-sized people.

You walk a door down, peeking through the doorway of another room.

“See, I told you.”

Haechan is both right and wrong. While the rooms contain the same essentials—bed, cabinet, dresser, table—they are arranged differently. The bed is pushed against the opposite wall, the cabinet sits beside the ever-shut windows. Your patience thins when you reach the third door, finding the same things in different order and you no longer bother to check the other rooms.

“Let’s go,” he points down the hall to the other end of the veranda. Instead of a front wall, the other end is a pair of double doors leading further into the mansion. “They went through there.”

You find yourselves in another central room, one that opens into new rooms in each cardinal direction except from where you came from where a grand staircase led up to the next floor. To your left there is another reception area like the one in the floor below, a ratan set topped with the same signages that asked visitors to not sit on them. Haechan vanishes when you turn back, the central room going quiet with only your footsteps echoing against the marble floors.

“Hey, _____. I’m in here!”

His voice comes from the other room and it’s the giddiness laced in his tone that tells you this is where he left off the tour to come and get you.

Through an arch, the room branches into a closed annex—a conference hall. A long wooden table occupies the majority of the space, flanked with a couple of wooden chairs on each side. You find Haechan at the end of the table. “Sit across me,” he says, slowly pulling the chair on his end, wary of the way it scratches against the tiles.

Your eyes pan over to the other end, the offer tempting, but you catch another ‘Thank you for not sitting!’ sign. “I don’t think we’re allowed to.”

But Haechan’s already making himself comfortable on the chair down the table, the chair creaking every so slightly beneath his wait. “That’s alright. No one’s watching.”

There is no one else but the both of you this far out into the mansion. Outside, the second floor is devoid of any footsteps and the closest you could hear of anyone is the muffled voice of who you think is the tour guide echoing off the walls of the third floor.

Haechan cheers in silence, pumped fist and all smiles as you cross the room to where the chair is, watching as you squeeze yourself between it and the table before you take your place. The chair doesn’t give way when you put your weight on it, sturdy even at its age. Neither does Haechan’s, even as he leans against the back, his figure dwarfed with the chair’s enormity. It’s taller than the rest of the chairs, matching only the one you sat on.

“Do you think people still hear each other this far away?” he asks, and you hear him but that’s only because you were the only two people around.

“I never thought of that.”

You try to imagine a room full of people and then suddenly, you weren’t imagining it anymore. The chairs on either side of you are occupied with men and women clad in fancy suits and gowns, their secretaries coming and going on call but never staying. The image transcends to reality when you look back on the table to find that it’s no longer empty. Gone was the flimsy signage, replaced with a half-eaten banquet touched with only gloved fingers.

Across the table, Haechan is in a suit of his own, his head cocked as he listens to the man on the seat closest to him. The air is warm with the presence of other people, the chandeliers are brighter. Pairs of lips open and shut, their mouths moving as if to speak but their words never reach you. Their voices come faint and muffled, grumbled as if you’re hearing them from the bottom of a swimming pool.

“Haechan,” you call out, expecting your voice to come out just as muffled. But he hears it through the barrier and the water drains out when his eyes snap back to you.

Everything is gone in a blink of an eye; the people beside you, the table cleared, the room plunged back into the eerie darkness the rest of the museum had.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Is there a ghost behind me?”

The boy twists in his seat, his head turning a complete one hundred and eighty to study the vacancy behind him. There is nothing there, of course. The lack of a presence comforts him just as much as it bothers you. A second ago, the room felt suffocating with the number of people talking all at once. You hear the laughter, the clinks of metal against glass, the shuffling of people filing in and out.

Clearly, there was nothing there. It wasn’t inherently impossible for a room full of people to appear and disappear in a blink of an eye.

“It’s nothing.”

The conference hall falls quiet when you leave it, back in the still state it had been before you walked in. Haechan follows you out, passing you to peek at the last annex.

“There you are! Where have you been?”

Even the new voice seems familiar when you hear it, your vision floating between the present and the past in a foggy haze that puts you off. Jeno makes his way down the grandiose staircase, his stomps muffled by the carpet running up the steps. For a moment you don’t see him in uniform; midnight black where there should be plaid print, a button-down where his polo shirt was, holding a silver pitcher as he rushes on his way down. Then the vision fades.

You shake it off, looking over your shoulder to call Haechan back to the central room. He emerges from the shadows with a smile on his face, agreeing to ditch the boring annex for the next floor.

Jeno waits half-way up, a sly smirk adorning his lips when you meet him. “What were you two doing?” he teases, his eyebrows arched.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Haechan answers.

You, on the other hand, don’t miss the chance to strike at the other boy’s chest when you walk past him.

The staircase spans the entire wall between the double doors and it opens to an even larger hole on the floor of the third level. The white marble of its steps is blanketed with a red carpet, its railings a brownish-gold. You feel the air shift when you reach the top and you’re unsure if it’s because of the climb up, or the poor ventilation. The air is thicker, humid now that you’re deeper into the house. Sweats beads on your skin but the surroundings keep it trapped in your skin, making you feel sticky.

The marble tiles end here, swapped with a mahogany floor glazed in a top coat that shines in the same way the tiles do. Your footsteps thud against its surface, the wooden bricks knocking when your weight shifts. The others are here, the floor noisier than the ones you were in. Haechan, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen.

You’re left alone in the main room, the voices of the others muffled behind the walls. The right wall is holed with three arches, each one leading into the bedrooms of each family member—one for the president, one for his wife, and one for his only child. Paintings occupied the spaces between the arches, filling the vacancy of the spacious walls.

You make your way to the back of the floor where the main attraction of the room was. It was the sole piece of the house you’ve seen whenever you looked up the house. On the back wall was a scaled portrait of the three family members, framed by white spires drilling into the ceiling. No other light in the mansion illuminated anything else the same way it does the painting, spotlights fixated and shining so bright the masterpiece’s blemishes are drowned out by the light.

Na Yeongsuk sat on a throne chair; her hands bright with gold and her neck adorned in stones that glinted even in painting. She wore only the best, the painter paying special attention to show that the silk she wore was fine even without you having to touch it. Her hair was pinned up in a halo around her head, an ironic show of her rule as the wife of the fifth republic’s president. Her head was tilted to the front, her lips never smiling.

Beside her, the late president stood in full military uniform. Na Minju had a chest-full of medals, each one representing battles won by the nation, each one he never fought. He pressed his cap against his stomach with a gloved hand, the other draped over the throne where his wife sat. Like her, he stared straight forward—stoic, uncaring. The coldness of his stare transcends the stillness of his image, a mirror of how his presence lingers in the present in the shadow of those who remained loyal to him and his family.

Then Na Jaemin, the sole person in the painting with a tinge of a smile tugging on the corners of his lips. But there is no brightness in his eyes, devoid of emotions like the others with him. He was at his prime then, sharp jaw, wide-eyed, and the epitome of a gentleman. He grew up to be nothing like he used to, a shell of the charm of his younger self, a man on strings in the hands of a dead puppeteer.

The main room of the third floor is mostly vacant besides the grand staircase and its banister, but not as empty as the floor below. All four quadrants of the room are alight with paintings and tables, one space even occupied by a grand piano.

When the others file back into the room, Haechan heads straight to it. A sweet melody fills the air as his fingers fall on the ivory keys. It’s a familiar tune but it’s something you can’t quite put your finger on. He picks up, the pace shifting from slow to an up-beat waltz. Before you know it, your vision is stirring again and it feels as if you’re both in the empty hall but aren’t. The past swamps your present, the colors of the walls more vibrant. There is a rush of people around you, people talking with no sound and they’re not in the same uniform you’re wearing.

But Haechan misses a note and the vision breaks. He tries it again, only to find that the key itself was off tune so he leaves it be.

“I’ve said this countless times today but I feel the need to say it again.” A voice booms through the hall, louder than any other whisper. Everyone else falls quiet as the voice fills the room, chatter turning into hushed whispers as a woman walks through the last of the arches and into the third floor hall. “I’m reminding all of you to please refrain from touching any of the items in the house, including furniture, paintings, sculptures, and pianos.”

The woman eyes the corner where the boys were, only to find the piano vacated and the people nearby looking at anything just to avoid her gaze. The rest of the crowd reenters the main hall, their voices no longer muted by walls and partitions. The emptiness of the house is filled with indistinguishable mutters, however only partly. Even with a few dozen people in the same space, it doesn’t feel crowded.

Your friends greet you as they pass, their cameras flashing at the portraits hanging on the wall and at the nimble artifacts that decorate the other spaces. The tour guide points at a portrait of the president and his wife on one of the walls between the archways.

“Yeongsuk, whenever interviewed about their marriage, always answered that it was fated—meant to be,” the tour guide says, followed by a humorless laugh from the back of the room. “She recalls that when they first got acquainted, she saw a red string linking her to someone in the room which she soon found out was Minju. She said that when her eyes met, she knew he was the one he was going to marry.”

“And look where that got us?” Heads turn to the back of the crowd where the boys are. Jeno meets the gazes that watch him fearlessly, an eyebrow cocked with the mixed reactions that stirred his audience. “You believe in that? Maybe she didn’t see a red string of fate, maybe she saw his bank account full of money.”

“Full of money he stole?” Haechan adds, his eyes elsewhere to avoid the stares bearing down on him. Watered down snickers fill the room, even a giggle bubbles out of your lips at his comment. But the joke isn’t funny.

The tour guide quiets the crowd a second time but it isn’t because she had something to add to her description of the paintings. When you turn to look back at her, you know by her eyes she took offense to it—the joke scarring her for all the wrong reasons.

It was during the Na regime that the country saw one of its biggest recessions. Corrupt practices went by unnoticed under the corrupt leadership. While the rest of the country starved, the rich managed to live in luxury, their lavish living at the expense of everyone else’s sacrifices. It was one thing you loathed about the house; the image of their bodies slipping down these wide halls while others roamed the streets homeless, enduring the most inhumane places just to have somewhere to rest.

You can’t help but pity her, the tour guide and her furious stare at the boys who made those light comments. To see these pieces of history preserved disgusted you, to hear the Na regime glorified, even worse. You pity those who have cloth draped over their eyes, blinded by the same people they worship. But what could you do when you’re taught to never bite the hand that feeds you?

The whole floor is divided by yet another wall but isn’t empty like its second floor counterpart. On its surface is a painting, the white base of the canvas completely covered beneath layers upon layers of oil. Unlike the family portrait, there are no lights that draw your attention to it, the image blending into the shadows.

It takes your focus to make out its details and you understand why it’s left as it is. The painting is too grotesque, set apart from the rest of its kind. It paints multiple figures but a single one takes your focus at the center, a limp man being dragged away with a trail of his own blood trailing him. Beside him lie other carcasses, some abandoned and others crowded. It’s the sole one that draws a scene out of reality, where the subjects don’t pose to be recreated. It tells a tale of an underground, a picture painted from memory of someone who had been behind the scenes of a gladiator show. It means to disturb the comfortable, to remind them what expense others suffer for their entertainment. You think the Na’s kept it for solely its history, its purpose brushed under the rug.

The tour guide doesn’t even bother turning anyone’s attention to it and it remains out of everyone’s focus, no one caring enough to ask about it.

“Let’s move on to the next room, shall we?” she says, not even batting an eye its way.

She steers the crowd to one of the entrances to the other hall, and even with the towering wooden doors still shut, you already know what lies beyond it.

“This is the ballroom of the Na’s where they held their parties whenever their guests came to visit.” The massive room makes up the rest of the floor, the counterpart of the grand entrance on the first floor. The ceiling is tent-like, meeting down the center of the chamber and held up with arches spaced out to keep it from falling. The floor is spacious and devoid of obstructions, the walls velvet decorated with paintings like the rest of the house.

But its center-piece is a showstealer, a chandelier with an enormity befitting the rest of the room. It hangs from a web of beams, clawing down on the air like branches of a tree with light bulbs for leaves. It dwarves all the others in the mansion, ominous with its enormity in the middle of the room.

Distracted, you don’t notice it when Haechan slips beside you, hooking his arm around yours before pulling over. “Let’s dance,” he says and the squeak you let out when you lose your balance draws the attention of the people around you.

Giggles and whistles fill the air as you stumble after him. The tour guide lets you be, remnants of what happened in the room before gone completely. Someone in the room hums a tune, the same one Haechan never finished on the piano earlier.

There are no lyrics to it but Haechan sings it like it does. He leads you with a single hand, gently tugging you by your fingers when you don’t fight him anymore. Others join you on the dance floor but you barely make out who they are as he spins you around. When you come right back to meet him, he holds out one of your arms, your hands clasped, while the other rests behind your shoulder blade.

“I don’t know how to dance, Haechan,” you tell him. Your hold on him is flimsy, your posture crooked compared to his.

But he keeps you in the closed position, clicking his tongue as he leads you around. You feel the eyes watching you from the sidelines, seeing how you fall a half-step behind him. His steps are calculated, mapping out the floor even when he’s never been here, while yours are always too short and off-beat. He spins you one way, slowly inching you both closer to the spot beneath the chandelier.

Your hold on him tightens. “We can dance anywhere in this damn hall, just not there!” you say, whispering in the most aggressive tone you could manage without letting the others around you hear.

He peers at you for a moment, smirking and you know he’s only going to ignore your warning, steering the both of you closer and closer to the chandelier. But you drop your arms, letting him go.

Haechan chases after you, grabbing you by the arm when you walk away from him. When he spins you around to face him, you’re met with another face. No, it’s the same face but his hair is waxed in a way that reveals his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced with a black suit with a tie to match it, and so is yours because of the lace lining your arms. The room is cold, the wind from outside sweeping into the room through the open windows. It’s dark outside and the lights in the room shine bright, a ceiling of faux stars over a sea of slow drifting people, all orbiting around the moonshine of the centerpiece.

He keeps one hand clasped with yours, the other resting by your waist instead of your shoulder. And it’s in the slowness of everything around you that you get a better view of the crowd watching, the mumbles they utter and the eyes that follow you as you sweep by. Couples flock around you but something tells you that you’re the center of their attention—you and the boy you’re dancing with.

“_____.”

The air feels humid again, the windows are shut and there are beads of sweat that dot your forehead. The chandelier hangs above you in its ominous enormity, looming overhead like it’s bound to come crashing down on you at any given moment. There are no eyes watching you now, no one besides the classmates who’ve lingered to take photos of the architecture.

You let go of Haechan almost too quickly, your hands feeling clammy from the prolonged clasp.

“You looked like you were enjoying the dance. I didn’t want to spoil it, but the tour guide said she’ll switch the lights off on us if we take any longer.” he explains, a humorless laugh following it.

But you only give him a nod, half-distracted, following the crowd out the ballroom and leaving him behind without meaning to. Still, you feel tethered to the spot beneath the chandelier in the same way a part of you remained seated at the end of the long table. Again, you try to shake it off, but the feeling lingers like an itch beneath your skin that you can’t satiate. It entrances you the same way deja vu does, tricking your mind into thinking that you’ve been in the same place even when you haven’t.

You walk out the ballroom through the other pair of doors, greeted by a wall of photographs—the only part of the mansion completely nonexistent back when it was still lived in. Numerous photos line the blank space, covering the wall from floor to ceiling. The photos are large, its content easy to make out even at a distance. There are photos from trips to other places, family photos of the Na’s along with equally powerful families, photos of the mansion back when it was first built, parties that have been held along with the guests that attended it. Dates and details were written in plaques beneath each photo, ending the series in the year 1984 with pictures from what was labeled as “The Last Party”.

“Trivia,” the woman upfront said, “the mansion nearly burned down in the 1980s during a party. Two people managed to sneak in, light a fire which nearly destroyed the whole place.”

Gasps, a lot of them, they fill the air before the crowd argues to call it an act of stupidity or a show of courageousness.

“While most of the guests made it out unscathed, it was that act that sparked the revolt that eventually put an end to the rule of the Na’s.” The woman goes on to explain why the third floor barely resembles the rest of the building, rebuilt on substandard materials to preserve the mansion’s structure rather than its original glory. The Na’s never set foot in it ever since.

It isn’t new information but it isn’t because it’s the first thing that comes up when you look the place up. You were there, the single thought dawns on you like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head—chilling your whole body and cementing you to the floor where you stood. The fear holds you to the ground, its enormity beyond the eerie atmosphere of the worn down place. But it’s the familiarity of the black and white images, the memories that resurface when you stared at it too long. You remember it like a memory of something that happened recently, vivid in your mind even when you’ve seen only glimpses of it.

There’s a gentle tug on your hand, a feeling you mistake as the images draw you to them. It’s faint, a mere brush and you barely notice it with your attention fixated elsewhere. You’re staring at one of the photos from The Last Party, one taken from the ballroom. The first family sat on two throne-like seats, flanked by their guests for the night. It’s a panoramic shot, women by Yeongsuk’s side and men by Minju’s.

By the first lady, there’s a blurred face, the image of a turned head captured as the camera flashes. Even without seeing her face you feel the tethers tying you to it, an unexplainable instinct that you are the one in the image. Because you can remember what she’s looking at, you can remember the reason why she turned her head in the first place.

“It was said that the culprits were photographed in these photos so we chose to hang them here as a reminder to honor what they had done or at least what they were said to be fighting for,” the tour guide says, humorous and mocking. “It was a rather controversial case at the time but it died out when the other party refused to speak about it on top of the eventual ousting of Na Minju.”

“What happened?” A single voice asks from the crowd.

It’s nothing you don’t know, and if it wouldn’t be off-putting to answer it yourself you would’ve. But you let the tour guide continue, “The culprits have been said to have committed a double suicide to avoid questioning and arrest. One of them was identified as the child of Na’s trusted generals, kickstarting the rumors of a coup d’etat stirring the military. The Na’s, with their dwindling trust in their own people, resorted to taking matters into their own hands. But we all know how that ended.”

The revolution, the inevitable oust, the victory of the people. Even without her dropping names, their faces pop up in your mind. The generals who plotted against them, the ones who turned a blind eye on their crimes as a show of loyalty. You know which general suffered the weight of the rumors of the uprising, the bitter irony that he never once showed any opposition to the ruling family. You knew who was to blame, the one he referred to as a disgrace, and you pick him out of the dozen faces in the photographs.

The tug on your finger comes again, this time earning your attention. A thread was looped around your finger, twisting against the small extremity from another entity’s influence. But you’re not moving, your arm glued to your side. You stood unmoving before the wall of photographs, barely taking in the surge of memories that come one after the other.

A blur of movement sweeps your periphery, a pair coming up to stand by your side. “You see that? I told you he looks exactly like you!” The voice belongs to Jeno and you turn to find him pointing out a face in the panorama.

The thread pulls on you now, enough to yank the finger out of the order it rested against your thighs. It moves on its own volition, tickling your skin as it twists with more movement. The other end becomes visible as another person walks over, the loop tied loosely around another boy’s finger. When you look at him, the thread stops pulling. Instead, it bursts into flames like your gaze had struck a match and set it on fire. It nips at your finger but never burns, licking up the thread clinging onto your hand.

“Donghyuck.” The name isn’t his but it’s what slips out of your mouth naturally. The surprise on your face is mirrored in his, moments before his turn into a look of confusion. You’re unsure where the feeling is coming from, the surge of panic as if your lungs were filling with water instead of air. It burns when you try to breathe, your vision clouding up and your heartbeat erratic, even when you know you’re in open air. Your heart pounds against your chest, loud enough you hear it pulsing in your ear. “Donghyuck, we have to go.”

He doesn’t move but the panic is blinding. Your mind urges you to run, unknowing of what you’re running away from. Around you, the walls are crumbling, closing in on your twin figures standing by the walls marred with fragments of history the Na’s want the world to see. The feeling shrinks, the beams groaning as they lowered inch by boring inch. The flame looped around your finger now stings but it never seems to scorch your skin. It zips across the space between you and Donghyuck like it was laced in gasoline.

“Hyuck!”

It comes out as a hiccup but where the flame touches his skin, he shows no signs of feeling it. You rush up to him, finally freeing your body of your own mind’s prison. You pinch at it, tugging it away, pat it down to let the fire die out but it holds. When you turn to look around, you find that the thread isn’t the only thing burning. The room is on fire; curtains, paintings, carpet, walls. Everything around you is engulfed in a roaring bright flame, crackling as it licks up the spires swirling to the ceiling.

“We have to leave,” you say, adamant, your irritation rising when he doesn’t mirror your worry.

Donghyuck remains immovable, like his feet replaced yours the second you were free from the burning flooring. Like everything else about your visions, you see him talking but his words are gibberish to you, drowned out by your breaths and the pulse drumming your ears. This was it, you were doomed.

The smoke grows thicker as you stay there longer, toxins filling the spaces where oxygen should be. Your hand curls around his arm, your grip tight as you try to yank him elsewhere. But you’re now too weak, adrenaline already dwindling. The staircase down is close yet it feels like an impossible journey. The smell of charred wood is nauseating, feeling it weigh on your lungs with the ashes you’ve inhaled. You cough between your words, your attempts to lead him out nothing but futile.

Donghyuck shakes your grip off gently but it makes you lose what little balance holds you up, your fall prevented when he moves just as quick to catch you. He holds you upright to keep you standing, even as you begin to feel your body shutting down. His hands are warm against your cheek, the finger with the thread looped a tad bit warmer. He’s saying something, another thing you can’t make out in the haze of your dizziness. His face is the last thing you see moments before your exhaustion pulls you under.

The party is in full swing by the time the person you were expecting reappears back in the stock room. The heavy wooden door groans as it’s pushed open, your panic making your blood run cold until a familiar mop of hair pops in through the door.

“Put that damn pan down, it’s just me.”

Lee Jeno slips through the crack in the doorway, pushing the door back shut behind him just as quick as he opened it. The air seals again, stilling now that you’re trapped inside the cramped-up stockroom. It feels hotter now with another presence sharing the oxygen, or maybe it’s just your heart pumping erratically in your ribcage. Still, now with him here, you finally take your first breath of relief in what felt like hours.

Even with Donghyuck’s word that this annex of the mansion would be devoid of people, your paranoia doesn’t fall tranquil. Rightfully so because you’ve heard footsteps drumming against the floor outside, matching the pace of your heart whenever they came too close. What would you do if they found you here? Beat them up with whatever item you could find so you could escape? What would you do then if you stumble upon one of their guards? That’s a problem for another time. You scour the junk pile for something lightweight but hard-hitting, praising whoever was watching over you when you come upon their kitchenware set, wielding a pan for a melee weapon.

Still, things have gone in your favor. The man you were waiting for was here now and the realization of what you were about to do looms over you like a black cloud sinking. The steel pitchers sit on top of the craters, the thick scent of gasoline nauseating but you’ve learned to endure it.

“What took you so long?” you ask. You don’t really know how long you’ve been there, no watches or clocks to tell you how much time has passed. It felt like a while, time stretched as your anxiousness grew with every off-sounding footstep, even longer with nothing better to do but to inhale gasoline. “Did we need to wait for everyone to be gathered in the ballroom?”

But whatever sign the man on the top floor sent you, it was here now—the wait was over. In the minutes you spent isolated, the stunt felt less nerve-wracking; your fear dragged out and lulled into a dull hum in the back of your mind.

Jeno eyes you from across the room, which wasn’t too far with what little space the room had. Things piled in stacks on either side of you, all threatening to topple over with the slightest misstep. “Don’t get mad.”

“Take your chances.”

He purses his lips, braves himself to tell you. It couldn’t be that bad, right? “Donghyuck waited for his parents to leave.”

It’s not as bad as you expected but the news leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. It wasn’t something you'd call off the plan for, nor something you’d hold against him. You take it easier than Jeno thinks you would, the simple ‘okay’ not being the reaction he was looking forward to. Maybe it was the nerve-wracking task ahead that made you think straight, rationality overtaking your pettiness. The difference in social classes comes clear at the final moment. You’ve spent a number of your dates hating the rich, loathing those who have the power to help others yet choose not to because who were they if there was no one to look down upon?

The thought of Donghyuck coming from a family like that annoyed you, even when you knew he couldn’t do anything about it. There was an irritability towards him that you couldn’t explain to his face, maybe even an internalized insecurity fueled by the hierarchy of social classes.

When he first started showing up to the rallies, you were skeptical about it, a lot of you were. Everyone skirted around him, avoiding him entirely whenever he tried to get more involved than he already was. There was an unspoken consensus, that he was not an ally but another attempt tof the government to source out who to question for information, a key to dismantling the growing resistance.

Looking back on it, everyone’s perspectives were valid. But it took guts to be the general’s son and to be openly at odds with their parents’ loyalties. Now, he was the ticket to the execution of your plan, the love-child of hatred towards lavish snobs and a collective worn out patience for a better governance—unachievable under a selfish man’s rule.

“_____.”

“It’s fine.” You tell him, trying to be more understanding of the situation rather than lashing out.

There was no time to police Donghyuck for giving his family a free pass when he was the reason you even made it this far. Far from what you’ve long grown up to, family was still family to him, curse his soft heart for thinking so. But of the three of you, if things went south from here, he had the most to lose. Turning a blind eye to this was the least you could do.

You turn your attention to other matters, moving to the pitchers lined up on top of the craters. One aisle of pitchers is filled with Coca-Cola, fizzled out with how long Jeno took to get back here. The ice you were keeping had begun to melt, the styrofoam boxes’ floor covered in a thin layer of freezing water. You fill the pitchers with ice one by one, the ice numbing your shaking nerves. It isn’t the best way to momentarily calm yourself but it works.

“These hold actual drinks,” you tell him, pointing out the distinctions. “These have gasoline.”

You pop one of the lids up, the smell of gasoline comes up like a fume that jams your nostrils. Jeno cringes. Having two people pouring gasoline around would be too inconspicuous so the other had to orbit around along with the other waiters to serve actual beverages—the both of you switching roles every other pitcher.

The stockroom is adjacent to the kitchen and you walk out to a flurry of service people, coming and going to fulfill their roles. You exit out of the annex, into the central room of the second floor. The grand staircase is decorated, its entryway accented with bows of cloth. You easily blend in and it kills you to bow at every elite you brush into.

Jeno follows you out but you lose him in the hall of gowns and suits, never imagining the third floor to be as crowded as it was. There aren’t that many people, you assume the rest are behind the closed doors—lost in the hypnosis of the ballroom. The guests here are chatting while walking, drinking and talking. The piano is put to use, ivory keys simulated by a man, and a soothing tune fills the room. It’s meant to calm those who've begun to drink too much, to let the mind rest, but it makes you restless.

You begin your roleplay of playing waitress, bowing at men in suits and girls in dresses and offering to fill up their glasses like the other waiters. Across the room, you see Jeno casually making his way around, mirroring your actions of bows and greetings. These rich people are simple-minded creatures, they love having their egos stroked. Any show of submission blinded them with a sense of superiority, everything else goes unnoticed. Jeno pours the contents of his pitcher on the floor instead of the glasses on the table—everyone who’s close to noticing, you sweep away, steering their attention away from Jeno as subtle as you can. Both of you work in tandem, in a harmony you didn’t expect you’d pull off that easily. You weren’t there to pour gasoline in the waiting room alone, the best people weren’t even here.

Some time into the second cycle, you decide to give it a rest, both to recuperate and rethink your strategies. Your sources were diminishing by each round and the ballroom remained inaccessible. You momentarily set the pitcher down on a table in front of you, taking a moment to breathe away from the gasoline.

But when you turn back around to the table, it’s gone—both the pitcher and the table you set it on. The room shrunk around you, the wide hall of the third floor turning into a meter-wide cubicle. A mirror hangs on the wall in front of you, the sink a clean slate of marble laid out where the table was. Your face is wet, water dripping down your cheek where you splashed it. Your blood boils beneath your skin, frustration mixing with your anxiousness that you went this far for nothing.

“If I didn’t come out, I wouldn’t have known you started with the plan.”

You spin around and find Donghyuck standing by the doorway. He leans against the frame, dressed in a manner different from how you always see him. He’s dressed in a suit, the classic black and white elite wear. He’s recognizable but not easily, his hair swept up where it should be patted down.

“The ballroom doors are locked, I don’t think they’ll let just any waiter in,” you answer.

“I got that covered. I’ll get Jeno in, but I need someone in the room along with me,” he says.

When Donghyuck comes into the light, he isn’t empty-handed. A gown unfurls itself before you, its skirts swaying when he lets it go. The dress is almost the same shade as the lapis hue that coats the walls, more vibrant and studded with silver that grint in the faint light. It’s a beautiful dress and while you know it’s something he’s offering you to wear, you’re not sure if you’ll suit it. Your disbelief tumbles out of your lips, your gratitude falling short.

You run your fingers along the bodice, the fibers fine against your skin. “Where did you get this?”

“Connections. I happen to have a lot of them,” he says, scratching his head as you check it out. “Try it, I think it would fit you.”

“I don’t think it would suit me.”

“You look good in anything.” When you look back at him, he isn’t looking. His eyes study the dress as he hands it, meeting your gaze only when you take it from him. You notice the moment he realizes what he let slip out, the dilation of his eyes when it occurs to him that he was thinking out loud. But he doesn’t add on to it. “Meet me inside. I’ll find you, don’t worry.”

He doesn’t wait on you, leaving you alone in the dimly lit comfort room. You strip out of the waiter’s uniform, disposing of it in a garbage chute beneath the sink which was impractical if you didn’t want to leave any traces. But if you succeeded with what you were about to, you didn’t have to worry about anything you would be leaving behind.

There is one thing you keep from it, a small packet in a ziplock bag that you kept in your breast pocket. You pat down the dress for any pockets, surprised to find a shallow one by the side that’s visible beneath the pleats of the skirt. You scramble through the dressers for anything, makeup to touch yourself up with, colors to smear on your lips, anything to make you a bit more presentable than haggard. Your hair isn’t as bad as you think it is, holding its place even after your rounds as a waitress. It takes a knock on the comfort room door for you to rush out.

Unbeknownst to your knowledge, you open the way to the ballroom. The chandelier centerpiece holds much of the decor, the meters upon meters of cloth meeting up in a swirl in the middle of the room. Tables full of guests make up the border around the dance floor, empty with no dancers swaying about. At a corner, musicians play jazz to accompany the chatter that fills the room in a consistent buzz.

When the tune switches from jazz to a more mellow song, the crowd woos. From his family’s table, Na Jaemin rises, ushered by the host to pick a girl in the crowd to dance. But the room is crowded, it isn’t an easy task. His eyes pass yours easily, not even expecting them to linger on you for longer than a second. He picks a girl from one of the tables close to you, noting that the girl hails from a family on par with the Na’s in riches. It doesn’t take long for you to piece that it’s scripted, a chess piece nudged by Na Minju to retain power over fields he doesn’t fully control.

You don’t move away from the doorway just yet, so you notice it when a familiar figure walks in. Jeno was now clad in a black vest, a permit for entry into the ballroom for those who were serving. When he passes, you catch a quiff of the gasoline—one of the pitchers he carried holding it, but you hope that no one else does. You try not to turn to where he slips into the crowd, doing his work in stealth. It feels like walking on a tightrope, how everything could be ruined by a single mistake.

Everyone else’s attention is still elsewhere, on the pair making the most out of the dance floor. It helps that the people here are half-intoxicated, senses dulled and easily hypnotized.

Jaemin, entranced as he was, turned his head too often to the crowd. His head would snap in a certain direction, eyebrows furrowed as howls of laughter erupted from the audience. With his patience thinned, he drags someone out into the dance floor. “If you’re such a loudmouth about it, come here and dance!”

The man he yanks from the seats stumbles, his head bowed in petty laughter. Jaemin stirs himself and his partner away, leaving the poor boy at the mercy of his friends by the table. But right as he’s about to take his seat again, his chair is occupied, leaving him standing at the edge of the dance floor.

“Looks like we have another young boy willing to dance!” announces the host and the crowd cheers, others laughing while others woo him. “Is there anyone who wants to share a dance with General Lee’s eldest son?”

He looks around the room, lost in the sea of attention. Mothers offer their daughters, never really meaning them in genuine interest in the boy himself, but in the influence of his family. Donghyuck stands at the center, his eyes searching the sea of people. He looks far and wide, turning in directions where you aren’t. When his gaze does eventually pass you, you feel your heart drop when he looks on in the same way Jaemin did.

In the seconds it took him to look back at you, you started rethinking whether he only needed you inside the ballroom to help Jeno with his work—the dress a mere prop to look the part. You feel the blood rise to your cheeks, the sheer embarrassment of getting your hopes up making you want to curl into a ball.

But his eyes find yours again, a second late as if your mind failed to register it was you the first time he looked around. He makes his way to the crowd, eyes following him where he walks until he finds his way to you. You try to drown out the wave of whispers you’re overhearing, the backhanded compliments both from the people around and the host whose voice was amplified by his microphone. He bows, shy and awkward, the way he would greet a complete stranger.

In the eyes of the people around you, you are a new face, nobody’s daughter. It’s all an elaborate act and you’re just there to play along. You’re hoping the Na’s wouldn’t pay too much attention, the strangeness of your face tied with the rationality that you might just be one of the people they knew by name not by face—not someone scheming on something.

The crowd woos as he takes your hand, leading you to the dance floor. The song is slow, befitting for the swaying that Donghyuck guides you in. His hand rests on your waist, while yours hesitantly brush his shoulders, free hands clasped together as the dance begins. You can feel the people’s eyes on you, even with the president’s son on the same floor as you were.

The eyes follow you even as he spins you around, catching you and guiding you as you waltz over the carpet—the ominous chandelier dangling over your heads but out of your worries. Donghyuck still belonged to a prominent family, his charismatic personality a show-stealer in conventions. But who were you? Whose daughter were you?

“Screw this plan, Donghyuck. We’re drawing more attention,” you whisper at him, your voice drowned out by the music.

“That’s the point,” he answers.

From the corner of your eye, you catch a dim figure moving through the crowd like a shadow, behind rows of distracted rich folk. Chatter envelops the room and with the music overlapping it, everything else in between was brushed under the rugs. You stiffen when the Na’s themselves rise from their seats, joining the people on the dance floor.

Donghyuck feels the shift in your hold, adjusting his hand to keep them clasped comfortably. “Keep your eyes on me,” he whispers, never looking. He squeezes you through a closing gap between two couples, spinning you at the next free space to guide you further away from the crowd gathering on the dance floor. But the audience who remained seated still have their eyes drawn to you, the swaying of black and blue still hypnotizing in the sea of dazzles.

You know his actions are calculated and it takes you longer to take into account why he was eager to steal the spotlight. He carries himself with a confidence that exudes his being, though it spills over and splashes on you a tadbit. It’s in the middle of the dance that you realize that he wants their eyes on him, on the both of you—the spilling of gasoline going right under their noses as their eyes are drawn to the subjects at the center. There’s the president and his first lady, the president’s son and who could be his future wife, the right hand’s son and the girl from nowhere.

He knows the controversy that smears his name, the rumors that he befriended one of the leaders of the resistance and became one of them. Of course, that wasn’t the entire truth, but does that really matter if it’s not what the people believe? Their version of the truth, the one glazed with half-truths and scandals made to appeal, would come out eventually—probably sooner than you both think. Your faces will be plastered on papers and shown on TV screens, regardless of how tonight ends.

In that moment, you realize that Donghyuck wants to be seen, your images embedded in their minds long after the night is over. He wants them to know that if this all goes up in flames, he wants them to remember that you’re the two people who planned it. Whatever happens, whether you get out scathed or die trying, you’ve done what you could to fight for what you believed in—for the betterment of the whole at the expense of a few sacrifices. Here, with your hand in his, the fear feels distant, your desire for a freedom withheld from you by the people inside the room clouding the possibility that this might be your last night alive. Then so be it.

A camera from the corner flashes once, capturing the dance floor and the couples locked in embrace. When it flashes again, you’re no longer on the dance floor and Donghyuck is nowhere.

The dance floor is empty, the ghosts of the tipsy dancers the sole things lingering. The air hangs heavy, alcohol mixing with the scent of gasoline. It’s a nauseating mix, the figures in your vision lagging whenever you turn other ways. You stand at the end of a row of women, squeezed against the body of someone you don’t recognize.

“Madam,” the man behind the camera peeks behind the mechanism, “move, if you want to be included in the photo!”

Complaints down the row urge you to move, pressing yourself up against the next girl even when you don’t want to be situated beside her, nor in the shot they were urging you to be in. You never belonged there in the first place. Even with your bodies pressed together, you feel the social divide. What you wore lacked in luster, your entire being not befitting the socialite status. They don’t even know you, but the mystery clouding your being doesn’t even suffice in making you pass off as one of them.

But the photo is the last thing you need to stick around for, the time bomb ticking its last seconds.

Then you hear it, the clink of metal against metal and your head turns. A lamp mounted on one of the tables toppled over the edge, shattering just as the camera flashes to snap the photo and before you know it, you’re running. Jeno’s silhouette slips from behind the crowd, out the door before the people around could realize what happened. The lamp’s glass shatters as it hits the floor, the fire inside meeting the thin coat of gasoline at rest on the floor. An explosion rattles the room, shaking the windows by the corner where the lamp fell.

The whole room erupts into chaos, the air growing hotter as the fire spreads across the floor. Panicked screams echo around the chamber, each person scrambling for the exit—but you’re already there, slipping past the door Jeno left open. You slam it back shut in their faces, hearing the doors on the opposite side swinging shut as Donghyuck comes out.

Behind the doors, you could hear their panicked screams, the exits barricaded by a wall of fire with doorknobs slicked with the same oil burning the rest of the room. You know the fire is spreading but not fast enough, because the hall outside the ballroom remains untouched. The guests outside look at you, their foreheads creased in confusion. The cacophony of screams is distant but audible. You don’t have it in you to act like you managed to escape before the others did, you’re no saint in the situation. You’re not here to clean your name, you’re here to burn the mansion to the ground with everyone in it.

“What’s going on?” a man asks Donghyuck as he passes him. The young boy doesn’t answer, his eyes fixated on you. He holds something in his hand, a gold rectangle fitting snugly in his palm. Without a single word exchanged, you get him and what he’s suggesting, the fate you’ve decided for everyone who chose to attend the ball.

You find the pitcher you set aside from earlier, taking it with you as you march to the top of the grand staircase leading down. It’s half-empty but it’s enough. You spill its contents on the floor by the steps, Donghyuck strikes it just as the doors to the ballroom burst open with a herd of people spilling out.

A single bodyguard catches your eyes, his face twisted in a permanent scowl. His arm is draped protectively over the president, the powerful man reduced to a spitfire of curses. He’s the first to identify you as a culprit, his face knowing that he’s looking straight into the eyes of the one responsible. It explained the stranger in the crowd, one he chose to ignore. And if he survives the night, he’s one of the few whose fates are tied with yours—who was he as a bodyguard, if he let things like this slip? You hope he realizes he’s a mere pawn in a bigger game, easy to lose.

“Get them!” The voice is hoarse and deep, only the first of the series of commands that labeled you as enemies of the state. Seize them! Kill them!

The orders are barked not by the head of security but the president himself. You don’t get to glimpse at him longer, the floor burning up as the lighter hits the floor. You rush down the staircase, never looking back. Heavy footfalls chase after you, thundering across the top floor as they try to catch up. The counterflow of people is harder to navigate but you make it to the annex where Jeno mapped an exit route free of waiting guards.

“Help me with this!” You look back to see Donghyuck trying to push a wooden cabinet to the kitchen doorway, a temporary blockade to give you more time to run. The wood splinters your skin but you can’t bring yourself to mind it. A single gun fires, the bullet completely missing you. It won’t be soon before they rain bullets on the room.

“That’ll hold, come on!”

You make it out of the mansion, slipping out a fire exit, an unguarded back door. The backyard is an empty lot, nothing but a helipad and a stagnant swimming pool. Once you’re off property, the soldiers would be easier to lose in the maze of houses. You try to hold, even as your shoes carve against the skin of your ankles.

Your vision shifts too many times for you to count. The place changes with every doorway you barge through, with every alley you slip past, with every corner that you turn. You run through the trails of a forest, down the sidewalks of city blocks. There are endless roads and confusing mazes, sceneries you couldn’t enjoy in your panic. Your feet throb beneath you, the switches in terrain wearing you down until you would rather chop them off than run any longer.

But finally, you stop somewhere. You don’t know how long you’ve been on the run from the world, unknowing of who to trust and which people to turn to. Donghyuck no longer wore his suit, your dress long discarded. The clothes you wear are inconspicuous, rendering you both invisible to the eye at first glance. Where you got it, you refuse to recall it; the thought of the extent you’d go for your own survival too horrifying.

You’ve dreamt about this house countless times before, the darkness no longer shrouding the face of your companion in a shadow. This part of the nightmare is always vivid, its ending unchangeable no matter how hard you try to change your choices. It happens everytime; word for word, detail by detail.

You’re not sure where you are in the city but you know that you haven’t made it far. The town you live in is small, the borders heavily guarded ever since the incident happened. There are trucks roving the streets night and day. You have nowhere to go, no one to trust, nothing else you could do but wait it out. But you couldn’t hold on another day without food, your throat dry permanently. Your feet hurt when you tried to walk, bleeding whenever you put too much weight on it.

It could’ve just been hours, a few days at most, since you set the mansion on fire. The whole city is on lockdown, searching for the three known culprits of the fire. You haven’t seen Jeno since he slipped out of the ballroom and with the tabloids still looking for three people, you know he hasn’t fallen into their hands yet. You could only hope that he was doing better than you both were.

You were stuck inside a room of an abandoned home, the first place of solitude you managed to find in what felt like days. By the doorway, Donghyuck listens for anything that could indicate that the soldiers were close by. In his hands was a pistol, a single one he managed to snag before you left the mansion. You haven’t had the chance to use it yet, saving the numbered bullets for the worst of emergencies.

You’re seated slumped against the wall opposite to him, your feet unrecognizable with the pattern of blisters on your skin. You lost your shoes today, your soles heavily wounded with the terrain you covered. The mere act of standing is an insurmountable task, shifting your weight even worse. You had no choice but to rest and while your feet throbbed sore, you could no longer feel the pain of the open wounds.

“We can rest for the night,” he says. “Then we can try moving again tomorrow, we might just run into Jeno.”

Or worse, the police. He’s been saying this for days now, his means to cope with the dawning consequences of your actions. You think it’s naive for him to keep believing that Jeno was still out looking for them—Jeno, whose family didn’t abandon him the way Donghyuck’s did. But you think it’s his sole beacon of hope, the light at the end of the tunnel. You don’t blame him for anything, his upbringing in silver spoons and rose-colored glasses clouding how bad your situation had gotten.

After the uproar from both sides, you might as well assume that you were on your own. There was no knowing who were trying to save themselves from the government’s wrath and who were genuinely looking out to help those who needed it. They were hunted down either way, unsafe in unfamiliar territory. There’s an uprising waiting in the horizon, a coup d’etat suspected in the ranks stemming from General Lee’s involvement. Whatever you sparked, it’s not large enough to overthrow the administration yet—the fire doused just as easily as it was started, in the same way the mansion fire died that night despite your efforts.

“We don’t have a night, Donghyuck.” The boy remains quiet, his shoulders slumping as he considers your words. “They’re bound to find us here. If they don’t burst in now, it could be any time soon.”

You know this because you slowed your progress down significantly today, catching eyes with countless military folk in this side of the city. You know they’re watching, they know where you are. They’re only waiting on the perfect chance to make the catch.

Across the room, Donghyuck doesn’t add on to it. It’s been an argument you’ve been having for days now, today worse than others with the weight of your injury. You barely made it through each day without being trailed, it’s a miracle you even held up for this long. But you’ve finally been backed into the corner, your feet utterly useless and you’re both tired fighting off something inevitable.

Tonight, he finally looks helpless—unbelieving of his own belief that you’d cross paths with Jeno and miraculously escaping the clutches of the military. The past few days show on his skin, sunken cheeks and dark under-eyes. You’re both worn out, will to continue going on diminished.

“How about you try to get away while you still can?”

Donghyuck’s head snaps in your direction, “And leave you here? I won’t let them take you.”

His voice fills the room, the first distinguishable sound besides your breathing. It shatters the silence momentarily, falling back into quiet as if it had never happened at all. It was a mistake, a dead giveaway that you were both in the house, in that room in particular if the right ears heard you. But it seems that you’ve come to terms with it, and so did he.

I won’t let them take you. It makes you smile because it used to work. His dad in the higher ranks, regardless of his reputation to maintain, let you off along with the others whenever he could. It was easier done than said, an automatic blind eye. Now that he was suspected for being involved, he was nowhere, not even bothering to look for his son. You figured that if this was the end, there was no way of justifying the means. To what extent did the general love his son, where did his loyalties really lie?

“They won’t take me.” The packet feels heavy against your breast pocket. You pat it out of the pouch, holding the plastic before the both of you. The pills hang suspended in the air in between, three lethal doses of a heart-stopping drug you kept in case the worse happened. “Not alive at least.”

Donghyuck turns the lock, hooking the latch on as the door’s last stand to anyone barging in. Walking over he keeps his gaze on either the floor or you, never once on the packet. The look he gives you is solemn, his face painted in moonlight.

“I can’t force you out of here, huh?” he asks, stopping by your feet.

“I don’t think I can take another step without falling over.” You wriggle your feet, wincing when a wound reopens. “You have a shot out of here, so take it.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Donghyuck mumbles. “I dragged you into this, I planned the whole thing and you think I’d run away? If you think I’d do the same thing my father did, I won’t. I mean I think about it, but I’m not doing it.”

You find him staring at you in the darkness. The days have worn you out enough that his sadness doesn’t even show on his face. Where there should’ve been a gnawing grief for a life to be lost, there was relief. This was the end of the line for you, the consequences of your actions awaiting you like the jury’s judgment. You’ve reached the point of no return, the ending clear as day with only the matter of getting there.

Even when you know how this ends, you don’t skip through the few moments. The night is quiet, too quiet. The paranoia seeps into your mind and it has every reason to. You know how the night ends but you didn’t know that then, and you had seconds before you hear the first signs of them coming for you.

Donghyuck takes his place, tucking his feet beneath his legs as he sits on the space next to you. It occurs to you that you’ve never had him this close before, or you never cared enough to notice. Your hostility towards nepotism kids is mediated when it comes to him, albeit a little too late.

“I heard the mansion’s fine. Third floor was charred but no one died.” he says. It’s strange to feel relief at the news when you haven’t thought of them back when you doused the floorboards in gasoline. You heard the rumors too, but with the family’s history with lying to the media, you don’t trust their word on it. “Did you regret what we did?”

It takes you a moment to answer, torn between which part you were supposed to regret on—making it this far, or letting your conscience mull over the innocent lives that could’ve been lost if the house did burn up in flames.

Still, you shake your head. “No.”

“Even with the state we’re in right now?” Stuck inside a bedroom of an abandoned house, resting against filthy walls and seated on filthy floors. You haven’t had a full meal in days now, proper sleep for far longer.

Again, you answer with a shake of your head.

“Even if we die tonight?” Donghyuck asks, his eyes glinting in the moonlight as he looks at you. In the pools of darkness lies fear, right in the center of it.

Then you hear it, the first knock on the front door, the arrival of an unwanted guest. The fist rattles the wood, the thuds deep and whole. You can hear the jingle of the lock barely holding, the sound of a bolt falling off its hook.

“They’re he—”

He never gets to finish it, his airway jammed with the pill you chucked into his mouth. His hands fly up to yours as you reach for him, an instinct triggered muscle gripping on your wrist but eventually loosening. He remains quiet, never once shaking his head to get the pill out. You lift his chin up, watching gravity pull the pill down his throat, Adam’ apple bobbing as he swallows.

“I would’ve taken it without your help,” he says and you notice the pill taking effect almost immediately when he breathes slower, his words staggered between breaths that run out too quickly.

“I won’t leave you,” you tell him as his body slowly gives way to the drug, slumped against your upright figure. “Even if we die tonight.”

He never answers again.

You take matters into your own hands, untangling his slim fingers from the gun he held. Outside, the bangs get louder, no longer a singular force trying to break it down. The barrel is cold against your temple when you hold it but your fingers never bring themselves to pull the trigger. You’ve tried this before, always stopping on the second before you put your strength to it. A coward, even in your final moments.

So you resort to the pill, the two remaining pieces finding home in your tongue as you down them. It feels like the opposite of coffee, palpitations in reverse. You feel the drowsiness immediately, the world around you blurring and fading as the side effects kick in. The thud of the front door comes muted, their footsteps muffled as they race up the stairs to the only bedroom that showed any signs of living. If they wanted to, they could’ve stormed you through the windows. Why they chose not to was beyond you.

They try the doorknob once, then twice, concluding that it had been locked the third time. But even with the doorknob detached, the bolt remains intact. You’re thankful for the few seconds of extra time. Donghyuck’s head rests limply against your shoulder and you sandwich him in between—your own head against his. If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought that he was just sleeping. But there is no breath fogging up the air but yours and soon enough, that would disappear too.

You die with the secrets of tonight buried with you. You wished you didn’t have to take the pill tonight but it was heaven compared to torture; death by your own hands a thousand times better a death from someone else’s. There is no cruelty beyond your shortened time, but you knew the consequences of your actions long before you agreed to execute the plan. You feel the wave of fatigue pulse through you, almost like the gentle waves that sweep the coast you lie on. You stared at the door until your own eyelids gave in.

You only hear the door being knocked down, the bolt finally giving. The footsteps drum against the wooden floorboards, louder than your heart when the latter was supposed to out do it. Voices fill the quiet room. To this day, even as the dream replays itself in your mind over and over, you still can’t make out what they’re saying.

When you open your eyes this time, the view is different, but you feel just as bad. You wake up with your chest tight, your heart pounding. The bed beneath you creaks as you shoot upright, tears spilling out of your eyes from sorrow you couldn’t quite place. When you cry it leaves your throat dry, your lips trembling. It felt like the first gasp of fresh air when you break the surface, all the while remembering the ache as the water filled your lungs. Your cheeks were damp in a streak to your hairline, you must’ve been crying for a while now—trying countless times to wake yourself up from the nightmare. You remember nothing but the heaviness that weighs down on your chest, the way it tricks you into thinking that whatever the dream was, it was real.

Even when foreign skin touches yours, you still feel alone, stuck in the space that your mind has trapped you in. The cage is further now, its iron bars off in the horizon, but it’s still there.

“Hey, I’m here. It’s over.” Is it?

You wander the fog of your mind, the anchor keeping you steady distant in the bottom but its presence keeps you tethered. The bed shifts as the voice moves closer, the tinge of familiarity sending a wave of relief through your unnerved system.

“I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you.” You wonder if he’s saying it in response to something you were saying in your dream. His arms wrap in a shell enclosing you, melting into him as you let his warmth course through you. He rubs circles against your back, quelling the storm that clouded your mind. He whispers reassurances, each one barely getting to you with the haze you were still trying to navigate through.

But you catch a quiff of his perfume, the muskiness of it colluding your system, and it’s the last tug that pulls you back to the shore. You’re here now, not in the void of the dream you couldn’t piece together.

You peel him away from you, one arm at a time. While your breaths shudder, cut every few inhales, you’re feeling better now. You’ve run out of tears to cry.

“Where are we? What happened?” you ask, brushing the back of your palm against your cheek.

“Outside,” Haechan says, “inside the emergency response team’s tent. You were saying things back there, I couldn’t remember what exactly you were saying, then you passed out. They said it must’ve been the poor ventilation.”

You nod, remembering the feeling of the room closing in on you, the thickness of the air and your chest constricting. A cacophony of voices echo in your ear, too many people talking at once that you’re barely making sense of anything. Even when it makes sense, you feel that the explanation lacks something.

“Why did you wake up crying? Did you have a bad dream?” Haechan’s hand brushes against your cheek, thumb brushing where another tear threatens to spill.

Why did you wake up crying? When you breathe, your airways are clogged, your inhales reduced to sniffles. The tightness of your throat hasn’t gone yet, even as you downed the glass of water handed to you. Most of the ache is still there, the feeling looming like a dark sky over you. Your chest felt trampled upon, the leather soles pressed against your helpless body even as you tried to stand. There is a heaviness you can’t shake off, one weighing your shoulders as you try to piece together the image of your dream from the sand beneath your feet. No matter how hard you raked your mind for the reasons, you just couldn’t remember.

“It was bad,” you tell him, “but I can’t remember what it was about.”

Haechan seems satisfied with your answer even when you aren’t, it wasn’t something that hasn’t happened before. “Maybe it was the place, the whole house was pretty but it gave me goosebumps where we went,” he says. You can’t see the mansion from here, the tent’s white walls blocking the view. You remember how the house looked, the ambiance, the regal majesticness of a piece of the past preserved in the present. The richness of its history bled through its walls, haunting even after decades. “If you’re feeling well enough, we can leave.”

“The tour’s over?” You test your feet slowly, your lower limbs shaking as you put your weight on it. Your soles burn when you press them against the floor, but you manage to keep yourself upright.

“You alright?” Haechan grabs you at the smallest sign of imbalance, his hold keeping you steady. “You want to go back? And if you faint again?”

“What about you?”

Haechan just shakes his head, the subject dropped without another word. You don’t question it then but you realize that you should have. There was something about the place, something about an inanimate object holding just as much personality as a person would—maybe even more. Something about the place and the tethers you feel towards it even when you were a mere visitor.

You walk away bearing a heaviness you can’t put a finger on, the ache in your chest rooting from something you can’t bring yourself to remember. You forget about it soon enough, just another bad dream better off left forgotten. But it resurfaces when you pass it on your way to school, leaving you wondering what about the place keeps you drawn to it.

Curiosity was one thing, a centrifugal force that propels the entire human race forward. But you were no influential person, your curiosity wouldn’t lead you places no one else has ever been. It was something you could shove aside for the betterment of your well-being, even when it gnaws every time you pass the mansion by.

Ignorance is bliss. Like an instinct, something in your mind tells you that things were better left off that way, knowledge locked away out of your reach. You don’t ask him about it, but things have never been the same between you and Haechan ever since.

#haechan angst #nct angst #haechan fluff #nct fluff #ficscafe #neowritingsnet #nct-writers #kwritersworldnet #haechan x reader #haechan imagines #haechan scenarios #nct imagines #nct scenario #nct haechan #haechan blurbs #haechan drabbles #toff.writes

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reds-skull · 3 months

Text

BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

This chapter was quite fun to write, even if it was hard.

Its name is "Vainglory"

Page 7 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 3:

An aged trader spoke to him, a witty man of many lessons,

You shan’t let a monster follow you, a being made of evil,

Fuelled only by malice and hate, a beast of the devil’s doing,

Run along blind man, leave lest it takes you down a sinful path.

The blind man, in wisdom or in foolishness,

Asks the Beast, shall I trust you?

The beast, in honesty or in deceit,

Tells it is only to be led, not to lead,

And if it finds itself, pushing down a death way,

May the fallen knight, strike down the Beast himself.

Ghost doesn’t remember the last time he’s had something as decadent as an orange to eat. Even a few minutes later, its sweet taste does not dissipate from his tongue.

Soap has been quiet since he cornered him, but he can feel the man’s gaze burn the side of his face. He’s… an odd one, that’s for damn sure. Says he’s been discharged, but has more skills than many SAS operators Ghost has worked with in the past. Soap may not be the strongest, but he’s cunning, can work on the fly, pushes against orders but not enough to actually disturb the mission.

Ghost would ask why the hell he was discharged if they weren’t about to split paths. The houses are becoming sparser and smaller, the fields surrounding the city almost in sight.

It hasn’t been… exactly unpleasant, having someone on his six, surprising as it is.

Perhaps, when he finally dies, he’ll see this memory among the many, many regrets and tainted dreams.

But now? Now, he needs to get out of here. Figure out how to obtain an antidote, go under the radar, and watch. Wait for the right moment to strike the Hunter down. Nobody crosses Ghost and lives to tell the tale.

“Think we’re far enough for ye to call for exfil?” the Sergeant says, slowing to a stop. Ghost surveys the area.

There’s one truck he could use. For a short moment, he wonders if he should drag Soap out with him. Ghost knows, no matter how smart the Scot is, he’s going to run out of kindling eventually. Malice only takes you so far.

He shakes the thought away the next. He works alone. The Hunter just harshly reminded him of why.

He covertly unsheathes a knife. Ghost doesn’t want to hurt the Sergeant, he’s not unfair in his violence, but he rather be ready for a fight than find himself bleeding into the muddy ground.

“Seems as good as any-” movement to his left catches his attention, and Ghost swings around to watch two soldiers closing in on them.

“Drop your weapons!” a gruff voice commands. A voice of a man that has been smoking cigars for the better part of a decade, who wears a daft hat that never seems to come off, a man with a kind smile and kinder eyes.

No… why would he be here? Ghost shakily exhales. He must be wrong…

Next to him, Soap already raised his guard, aiming his rifle at the soldiers, “identify yerselves!”

The larger man steps forward, and Ghost feels his control slipping, slipping, slipping.

Malice can only get you so far, and even metal caskets eventually rust and crumble.

Under his breath, a dead man whispers, “...Price?”

“We’re with the British Army! Now put. Your weapons. Down.” the man repeats, and Soap feels his mouth gape open. Have they come to rescue Ghost? He almost takes his eyes off to smile at the Lieutenant, but they’re still considered hostiles for the SAS soldiers.

Soap lets his rifle fall and raises his arms, “thank God yer here, this place has gone to hell,” he grins, “I’m-”

“John MacTavish?”

Soap blinks, staring at the other man, “...Gaz? Steamin’ Jesus, what are the chances!”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick steps forth, gun still raised but aim obviously faltering, “John, what the fuck are you doing here?!”. The other man’s brows shoot up, “isn’t that…”

Soap’s smile wobbles, “ah, ye see, it’s a long story-”

A hand drops on his shoulder, and he finally eyes Ghost. Soap’s brows furrow at the sight. He looks more tense than he’s ever seen him.

Instantly, Gaz and his partner train their aim on them again, “let him go, Ghost!” Gaz snarls.

“Wait, yer all misunderstanding this,” Soap raises his arms, placating, “Ghost’s with us-”

The bite of a sharp blade at his throat makes his voice fade. Ghost drags him to his chest, a large arm wrapping around his shoulders. Soap’s eyes widen, “...Ghost?”

The mass at his back breathes heavily. Gaz freezes, but the other man pushes, “he has nothing to do with this. Let him go.”

“Can’t do that, Captain.” Ghost drawls, his tone cool, a stark contrast to his taut and shivering form.

Gaz drops his gun, and the Captain copies him, both raising their arms in surrender. “What do you want?” Gaz spits, venomous and burning.

Ghost takes a step back, “the truck. You follow us, John gets offed.” Soap grinds his teeth.

Something ugly brews within him, arrows of treachery pierce his heart, rivers of blood flow down his body. Leaving only hate.

The realization drips through him, that nothing about Ghost made sense because he was lying.

“You got it.” the Captain grounds, “but let the lad go.”

Another two steps backwards. Soap should attack him. Even with a knife at his throat, he can take him down with him. Let them both be burnt up with bitterness and cruelty.

And yet he does nothing, as the man drags him further back. Because John is weak, at his core, and betrayal brought forth the man behind his mask.

“I’ll drop him a few miles off the city.” Ghost says by his ear. He can’t even feel his breath through the mask. “As long as you don’t follow, Price.”

Captain Price? Of taskforce 141? Fuck, if he was sent here to take out Ghost, Soap has been fucking running around with an international criminal.

The Captain’s gaze hardens, and Gaz tells him, “we’ll get you back, brother. Just… listen to him for now.”

Aye, he’s gonna listen. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna fucking obey.

Soap flashes a smile at Gaz, trying to calm him a little. He hasn’t seen the man in so long, his brother. Ever since joining his new taskforce…

Fuckin’ hell, he joined the 141. No wonder he didn’t have time for him.

Ghost drags him into the driver’s sit, pulling out his pistol to aim at his head. The Lieutenant- no, he probably lied about that too, the man sits at the passenger sit and shoves the pistol at his face, “drive.”

Soap finds the ignition key (oh how he wishes he didn’t, now that would put a wrench in this walloper’s plans) and starts the truck. He solemnly watches the figures of Price and Gaz, as he shifts the gears and drives up to the dirt road.

Ghost keeps his gun glued to his temple, eyes hidden in shadow.

Soap swallows around the bitter blood in his mouth, and drives into the night.

“Yer a real piece of shite, ye know that?” Soap growls again, voice almost hoarse from cursing. His maw would slap him a new one if she heard how he’s talking.

Ghost is, as he was for the entire drive, silent. The pistol never strayed from his head, but the bastard’s eyes have fogged over, zoned out at a distant point in the horizon. Soap doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, but at least he’s letting him take out his frustrations.

He grips the steering wheel tighter, watching his knuckles turn white. Soap’s hands start feeling numb. It doesn’t distract him enough, so he continues yelling at Ghost.

Soap doesn’t want to admit it, even to himself, because he’s already weak enough, but…

He thought Ghost could be someone he trusted. More than anyone else he met in the past year.

And… it hurts. Somewhere in his heart that isn’t fuelled with anger, there’s a place that aches.

He’s losing control. Price wasn’t supposed to be here, and certainly not after him. Ghost kept his tracks hidden, knew how to get around the systems he worked with for so long.

It wasn’t him. He was too careful.

The Hunter. Could they have alerted the 141? Must have. But Price wouldn’t be sent after him, the British Army has used him before.

Unless he’s considered too dangerous to keep anymore.

Even the most useful attack dog will be put down if it bites the hand that holds the leash.

Why did he take the Sergeant? He should’ve killed them. Should’ve killed them all. Trusting the Captain’s word was dumb.

(You’re a good man, Simon. Don’t let them erase that-)

He knows he should be focused, on the road, on their back., listen in to see if Soap is spouting anything useful between his badmouthing. Make sure Price keeps his promise.

(Price always keeps his promise, except when he promised they’ll all come home that day-)

But Ghost is wading deep waters, memories constantly floating and sinking. Voices, dead and alive, sing for him, and like sirens, their only wish is to drown and consume him.

(You stabbed him in the back, because all you know to do is hurt-)

“-and I should’ve never trusted ye, you fuckin’ bawbag. Yer mask is feckin’ stupid, ye know that? I had a better fashion sense at twelve-”

Ghost blinks back into reality. The Sergeant runs his mouth, obviously spitting whatever comes to mind, talking for the sake of filling the silence, it seems.

“-I wasted a good bottle of chlorine gas on ye, that shite doesn’t exactly grow on trees-”

The water recedes, and his lungs finally fill with air. Ghost shakes off the last of his mementoes, and examines the view outside the windshield.

The city is far behind them, now hidden by a hill they apparently drove over a few minutes back. The fields around them are pitch black, the only light emanating from the truck, leaving the crops washed out.

Nobody has followed them. Good. He can still salvage this mission.

He considers staying quiet before deciding he should at least try to gather more intel, “How do you know Captain Price?”

Soap’s mouth clamps shut, his shoulders jump minutely as he startles from his monologue. The Sergeant recovers quickly, sending him a fiery glare, “so he remembers I exist, let me bring the feckin’ confetti. It’s none of yers, ye cunt.”

Ghost sneers under the mask, “if you’re not going to say anything useful, shut your trap.”

“Or what, ye gonna make me?”

He taps the barrel to Soap’s temple, to which Soap responds by rolling his eyes, “yer stupid, but not stupid enough to shoot the man driving the truck yer in.”

This man is fucking impossible when he hates you, isn’t he? Ghost relents, quieting again. He’s not going to waste his time.

A flash of light makes his heart skip a beat. From the narrowing of Soap’s eyes, he caught it too. Ghost turns around to check the road behind them.

Headlights. Multiple vehicles.

Ghost presses the pistol at Soap’s head, “drive faster.”

It’s not the 141.

(Even years later, the dead man has a hold on Ghost, screaming, “he would never betray us”-)

Soap seems to come to the same conclusion, stomping the gas pedal and accelerating, “yer old friends?”

“The Hunter.” Ghost grinds his teeth. The vehicles speed up behind them, and he can make out at least 6 armored trucks. “Where’s your rifle?”

Soap scoffs, “left it with Price and Gaz, when ye decided to stab me in the fucking back!”

One of the trucks bumps their rear, making Ghost and Soap jerk forward. Bullets start dinging off the exterior, and Ghost locks eyes with the driver. He brings his hands up, lining up the iron sights of his pistol with his head.

Time seems to stop when he presses the trigger. The bullet shoots through glass, straight into the driver’s head, the soldier slumping forward and losing control over the vehicle.

Time speeds back up when the enemy’s truck hits them with full force, forcing both of them off the road.

Ghost hears Soap scream before they hit the ditch, the truck flipping over.

For a few moments, the world is silent. His ears ring something awful, and his eyes are closed. It’s not until Soap groans besides him that Ghost refocuses back.

“Ngh… Steamin’ hell…” Soap unclasps his seatbelt, falling on his back. He kicks the window open while Ghost follows him.

The trucks park on the road, soldiers shouting commends to each other. Ghost and Soap crawl out of the wreckage, the crops around them covering them, for now.

Ghost opens his mouth to order Soap, but stops himself at the look the Sergeant is giving him. It’s as if the man is assessing who would best who in a fight. Ghost grips on his pistol tighter. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill Soap, if it came to that.

(He wouldn’t hesitate breaking Price’s trust-)

No. He can’t betray yet another person. Not the Captain.

The stars above them cloud over, the night skies all the more darker, shadows threatening to swallow the world whole, when red lights slice through them, leaving bleeding trails behind.

The Hunter’s soldiers are shooting flares. Soap’s eyes widen, their color dulled by crimson red, and Ghost grabs his arm and starts running. Soap sputters behind him before picking up his pace.

Ghost is losing control. He knows, leaving the Sergeant behind is the most logical step. Alone, he can slip into the nightshadow, disappear like the ghost he is. But a nameless grave is being unearthed, a man raising from a cracked casket. A man who is far less rational than Ghost, a man that can’t leave the Sergeant to die.

“Where are we going?!” Soap shouts.

Ghost doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a plan, his movements are dictated by the instincts of a dying animal.

The flares burn closer, red creeping around his peripheral, a gruesome helo cinching tighter.

Soap’s arm is warm under his fingertips, the man behind him breathing heavily. Ghost keeps running, because they can’t do anything but flee. Cornered and surrounded, fate only brings them certain death.

Ghost only feels a tingling sensation shoot down the left side of his body as a warning, before his arm and leg locks up, and he falls to the ground. His body is shaking, fighting the poison eating away at his blood.

Soap falls with him, dragged down by his stiff arm. “The fuck- let go!”

Ghost stares at his hand, the limb feels detached from him. In his mind, he commends the arm to move, but in reality it is still, causing a phantom hand to swing around. Soap pries his hand away, face scrunched up in fury, before he looks up at Ghost’s eyes.

What do you see, a dead man wants to ask.

Do you see a soldier, a monster,

Or a corpse?

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parageist · 5 months

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If you were a slugcat what would your powers, your special mutations be? Also backstory maybe? :3

okay well i do have a slugcat OC but they don’t exactly represent me: they’re called The Hermit, and is gray with green-tipped limbs and markings. their hands are large and webbed, allowing them to climb walls and ceilings quick like a lizard, but their walking speeds and spear damage is pretty average. they make up for this by being quite crafty, and dons a pair of ancient binocular goggles. when using this ability, time slows (even slower than the effects of mushrooms), and you can freely move the camera around the room, allowing you to quickly take notice of everything in the room. though when using the goggles, you can’t control the hermit’s movement or throws at all, but it will warn you if a projectile or predator is approaching them. also after you take notice of something off-screen, it will show a faint marker at the edge of the screen pointing to it. you can customize this to show creatures, objects, exits, shortcuts, etc. the markers disappear once you leave the current room.

anyway, onto lore! [THIS IS GONNA BE A LONG ONE LMAO]

(this takes place a little bit before spearmaster’s campaign) the hermit once lived in the slugtree, but during their time the current leaders of the tribe were a lot more anxious about leaving the territory. despite this, one day the hermit leads a large expedition to find some ancient technology hermit claims will improve the lives of all the slugcats. this goes horribly wrong, and everyone but hermit is lost in the excursion. when they return, the hermit is exiled from the slugtree, never to return. because of this, they feel an intense fear of ever going outside again, and spends the next decade of their life in isolation, living in the remains of one of those giant transmission towers.

they never leave the tower, but over the years they transform a lot of it into their own massive fort, easily traversing the structure with their wall and ceiling climbing. maybe life as a hermit isn’t that bad?

then one day, they find a peculiar, spear-sized needle in one of the tower’s many shelters, alongside a wall scribbled in drawings. the hermit is fascinated by this concept of “art”, alongside the mysterious needle. finally tired of endlessly scavenging parts and improving their fort, the hermit embarks picks up two new hobbies: drawing and finding out who or what left that needle. they manage to find an ancient telescope and set it up, spending most of the day watching from atop their tower for any new travelers, while at night they retreat to the lantern-lit shelters and draw (mainly fanart of the carvings they found, which are of a strange being with antennae and seven dots on their forehead.).

eventually, they find something. a glimpse of a purple slugcat with a large be-speckled tail, carrying two white spears, traveling from the direction of the slugtree to somewhere in the distance. despite the hermit’s fear of the outside world, a primal urge burns inside them to follow this purple stranger into the fog. the next cycle a close call with a vulture sends them running back inside the safety, though they continue to ponder this for many cycles, scribbling drawings of the mysterious traveler everywhere.

deja vu strikes the hermit, as they catch yet another glimpse of the tantalizing stranger, this time traveling the opposite way, back towards the slugtree. this infatuation the hermit has with them leads them to slide down the tower and get a closer look at them. from the safety of some rafters, they observe the traveler pulling white needles from their tail and hurling them at lizards. at some point, the hermit accidentally makes a noise, and the spearmaster looks up at them, surprising the hermit with their lack of a mouth, before both of them slink away into the shadows.

the next day, the hermit returns to that spot, finding more of the spearmaster’s drawings of creatures and beings unknown to the hermit, including that same antennaed entity, confirming this is the same slugcat who left that needle here so many cycles ago. inspired by the spearmaster’s beautiful combat skills, the hermit ties rope to a pair of spears leftover by the purple traveler, fashioning two “grappling hooks” they can use to pull impaled prey closer or assist with climbing, as the rope is also tied to their back. (these two spears + rope both occupy a back slot and free up the hermit’s hands when not in use. when you have an empty hand, press grab and up to unsheath one of them. you can throw it and it does the same damage a normal spear does, but it can’t travel further than about double the length of saint’s tongue. this frees up the hand you previously had the spear in, but if you want to reel it in, you have to keep at least one hand free, and having two hands free increases the reel-in speed and force. to pull it back, hold C. once within grabbing distance, you can press grab to yank it out and return it to your back sheath slot. also keep in mind the hermit has two rope spears, and if one of them is already deployed, you can up+grab another and throw it, maintaining the original rope connection. however, if both of your spears are impaled into two different large objects/creatures and one or both of them is moving away from the other, one of the spears will be dislodged once the impaled creature moves further than the max rope length. extremely fast or forceful creatures/objects may also dislodge even if you just have one spear deployed, but most of the time they’ll stick into whatever they’re impaled to until removed. also, when both spears are out and grappled to two different objects, you can hold C to reel in the first one and V to reel in the second. keep in mind though that unlike grapple worms or saint’s tongue, the spears aren’t strong enough to allow you to dangle from impaled ceilings, and you need both spears to scale a wall, though im unsure why you would want to do that as you can just climb walls/ceilings with your webbed feet. the rope spears are designed for pulling things closer, though with both of them impaled into the same creature you can theoretically grapple to it and let it pull you along lmao)

anyway, back to story. the hermit becomes even more obsessed with art, drawing the spearmaster and the strange creatures they drew everywhere inside their tower. this helps them pass the time and keep insanity at bay, but the hermit can’t keep doing this forever. one day, either the tantalizing stranger returns for a 4th time and forces their curiosity to leave the tower, or the hermit’s transformation of their home tower leads to the creatures and plants they feed on eventually dying out, forcing them to leave and find food elsewhere.

turns out, it’s a combination of the two. the spearmaster is seen once again traveling back into the unknown, and the hermit uses their dwindling food supplies as an excuse to face their fears and satisfy their obsessive curiosity. though even if the hermit’s tower was crawling with nutritious prey and their dreams weren’t plagued with the spearmaster obsession, it seems the universe has an extra, third safeguard in place to force the hermit out of their tower. past the slugtree, far far in the distance, one of the giant cubes that dominates the horizon, crumples into the ground, shaking the land for miles with a deafening rumble. and whether it’s due to a design flaw or the hermit’s modifications, their home tower collapses in half, leaving them disoriented and destitute. hopefully their tools and the knowledge they gathered from the spearmaster’s scribbles will be enough to keep them alive, as they embark on a mission through the unknown to track down their mysterious idol.

this takes them through the following regions:

-Crumbling Skyway: an old railway bridge, with half of the hermit’s collapsed tower home crashed into it. through the railway itself is only about one or two rooms thick, it supports a variety of plants and creatures that dangle from its underside. below that is the

-Dandelion Forest: growing from the mud flats of this part of the outer expanse is a grove of lighter-than-air puffballs, connected to the ground by vines. despite being a separate biome from the skyway above, the roots that dangle from it seem to form a symbiotic relationship with the floating dandelion trees below, perhaps even being two parts of the same creature’s life cycle. whether the hermit takes the skyway or the forest floor doesn’t matter, as either way brings them to

-Midpoint Factory: a large hulking mass of steel, filled with a variety of both mechanical and biological instruments made for producing specific parts for the iterator project. though after it was abandoned in the ascension, most of the bizarre, purposed mechano-organisms remain alive inside, some still producing parts for a long-abandoned project. on top of this factory facility is a subregion called the interchange, where resources and parts for the iterator project would be put on trains and distributed to other sites in the local group. at this point the hermit has lost track of which direction the spearmaster went, and there is a secret path that will take you towards NSH’s facility, but most of the evidence points you the other way, towards the

-Hazy Spires: following the railway bridge, the ground below gives way to a hazy abyss, where bizarre structures pierce through the toxic smog. these are remains of an old bioengineering compound; matrixes of mixers and separators, where organic chemicals and the ingredients for purposed organisms were synthesized. many species were even grown in situ here, escaping from their confines and roaming the complex. at lower levels of the facility, the toxic haze grows thick enough to be dangerous, though the hermit is able to fashion a gas mask to survive the deep sections for short periods of time. eventually, the hermit discovers the collapsed railway bridge gives way and they have to ride some giant flying organism to get across the gap. on the other side is a subregion but it’s so large it may as well be it’s own, the

-Organometallic Refinery: a bioengineering compound more specified for forging a special steel alloy, infused with microbes for a self-healing effect. this facility could be considered more lifeless than the one next door, but it simply lacks a biodiverse ecosystem, as the organometal refinement process leaves the building too toxic for many creatures. though it’s unknown how much of the hazy abyss below the factory spires is created from industrial activity, as beneath the toxic clouds is a massive sinkhole called the

-Vent Zone: at the end of the organometallic refinery, the hermit finally catches up with the spearmaster after all the agonizing factory structures they passed through. both don’t know how to react, as neither have interacted with another slugcat in ages, with spearmaster having never met another of their kind before. but they look out into the distance together, as a looming superstructure grows closer and the fog grows thicker. they mount a giant flying creature to cross the vast expanse of haze between the retaining wall and the refinery, but not too far into their journey, a vulture attacks them, and the hermit panics, falling off into the abyss below. somehow they survive, waking up in a massive sinkhole. the terrain is filled with acid pools alongside the rubble of the collapsed railway bridge, and even during the day the air is dark and hard to breathe. the proximity to the hermit’s destination results in deadly, acidic rain that drowns the sinkhole every night. the hermit’s skin is chemically burnt from injuries, and can no longer stick to walls or ceilings, relying on only their spears, goggles, and gas mask to keep on surviving. what little life manages to sustain itself down here is unlike anything else, being borderline impossible to kill. as the hermit stumbles through the mangled mess of acid, mud, and metal, they eventually come across a crumbling wall, and realize this sinkhole must be a recent development. it turns out a vast aquifer once stood here, right above a chamber of void fluid. ever since ancient construction activities damaged the thin crust separating this aquifer from the void sea protrusion, the two fluids have mixed, resulting in a reducing chemical reaction, decomposing water into its base elements and allowing it to recombine into much more reactive compounds. this, combined with the draining of the aquifer for the nearby iterator facility, has led to a mixture of toxic gases and acid bubbling from the ground, creating the vent zone and the layer of haze on top of it. as the hermit scales the crumbling, slanting wall, unable to use their climbing ability, they eventually make it above the layer of smog, into the facility grounds of Seven Red Suns. first off, they cut through a passage near the top of the retaining wall through to the other side, a vast reservoir known as

-Darkwater: SRS’s facility was built in an unconventional configuration, with one of their can’s legs being right on top of the retaining wall. this means that right after the hermit steps through the wall into SRS’s facility grounds, they’re beneath their can’s underhang. the first subregion of this shaded reservoir is the Treatment Center, where pumped groundwater would be purified before being sent up SRS’s leg. a bunch of scavengers have made the refineries and water-agitators their home. past that is the Lakebed Pipeline, which during dry seasons, would transfer water across the bottom of the reservoir into the Treatment Center. during wet seasons though, the whole reservoir would be full of water, creating a vast lake underneath SRS’s shadow, even partially submerging the treatment center. however, as more iterators went online, the climate became much wetter, and so maintenance orders on the pipeline were stopped, as even during the dry seasons the reservoir was full. even before the mass ascension the lakebed pipeline fell into disrepair, which came back to bite SRS all these centuries later. the recent earthquake caused by moon’s collapse resulted in the vent zone sinkhole caving in, damaging half of SRS’s water intake systems, draining the darkwater reservoir, and what little remains of the lakebed pipeline has barely enough capacity to supply SRS with water. most of SRS’s critical systems are intact and operational for the meantime, but the creation of spearmaster will be the last bioengineering project SRS can attempt without drying up. anyway, past the lakebed pipeline is the last subregion of darkwater, the Exterior Pumping Station, which takes in water from beyond SRS’s can and pumps it across darkwater and through the treatment center, up into SRS’s easternmost leg. through this mechanical mess of pipes and pumps lies the source of half of SRS’s groundwater, the

-Underground River: a snaking maze of natural caverns and artificial conduits, the underground river is quite small compared to the other regions but it felt distinct enough to not just be a subregion of somewhere else. the dank caves and tunnels are home to a diverse selection of life, mostly adapted to breathe underwater as the conduits flood with water when the rain comes. the river eventually branches into two paths, but i’ll continue through the one which leads up into a sewer system beneath

-Derelict Cityscape: one of the oldest cities in ancient history, that sits at the bottom of a massive cliff. it was abandoned long before SRS’s construction, as most of its inhabitants chose to scale the massive cliff it’s built next to once technology allowed them to modify themselves to breathe at those altitudes. then some time later the iterator project started, and the first ever generation-2 model, Seven Red Suns, was built a few miles past the cliff, sandwiching the derelict cityscape between the two sides. what few stubborn ancients who remained at the bottom of this canyon were forced to leave once the iterator came online, drenching the ancient city in rain. the nearby cliff acts to trap most of the moisture exhaled by SRS in the canyon, resulting in the abandoned city being vastly overgrown and humid, with some buildings being completely unrecognizable as the high moisture allowed nature to overtake them. some of the more modern buildings are still standing however they lack the luxuries and advanced technologies of the living cell block skyscrapers atop iterator cans. speaking of cans, if you go to the eastern edge of the city, you’ll end up at the base of the leg of

-Seven Red Suns: okay im gonna be honest i haven’t drawn the map for this area yet but this is the end of the hermit’s journey. they finally reunite with spearmaster and meet SRS, who at first is cautious, as the spearmaster nearly died saving the hermit, but the hermit expresses their admiration for spearmaster, and SRS eventually comes around, adopting hermit, who is now The Apprentice. spearmaster, SRS, and the apprentice all teach each other different things from their journeys, and maybe one day spears and apprenti fall in love and maybe have slugpups and SRS becomes a scug grandpa or whatever the non binary equivalent to that is lmao. but yeah, that’s the end of the hermit’s journey of becoming the apprentice, but i still have some ideas i wanna write down. somewhere in SRS’s can is a blocked off area, where they first experimented with bioengineering. they were very young and experienced when they began this however, resulting in the creation of many bizarre, useless, or dangerous organisms. but to SRS they were all still living creatures, and they couldn’t just kill them all or release them into the environment, so now there’s a secret lab inside his can full of mutant beasts and it plays out like the true lab from undertale. maybe there’s even some prototypes to spearmaster in there, SRS is super guilty but doesn’t know how to deal with it, and eventually, far after spears’s and apprenti’s campaign someone discovers it and SRS has to deal with it finally. another cool idea i had for SRS’s structure is for the top to be a giant empty grassland instead of a desolate wasteland, which also lacks a city. the reason why? well that leads us to my next region idea, where you take a precipice-like skybridge across the canyon to the aptly named

-Cliffside: if you kept going to the west through the underground river, you would end up in a giant waterfall which connects up into the bottom of a giant cliff. you can also reach this area at the western side of the derelict cityscape. this cliff is natural, unlike a retaining wall or iterator can wall, with many primitive, *ancient* ancient structures carved into the rock, long since abandoned or eroded from the humid exhalation of SRS. there are a bunch of more modern structures too, including experimental city designs the ancients undertook, and a sort of giant elevator that goes to the top. there’s also a bunch of scavenger settlements along the cliffside, covered in moss and roots. once you near the top, you’ll find the giant sky bridge that crosses the canyon over to SRS’s can, and on the top of the cliff is a massive plateau that stretches out for miles above the clouds, obscured by a gigasized city, the

-Continental Capitol: the end of what i have planned so far. before the ancients built SRS, they relocated from what’s now the derelict cityscape, far above the clouds, scaling Cliffside, and founded a new city atop this plateau. because of the cultural significance and long history of this city’s population, the new city became one of the many capitals of the ancient’s global empire. this one grew so large it was known as the administrative capitol of one of the planet’s entire continents, housing nearly a hundred million ancients in its towering constructs. so yeah, after they built SRS, they had no need for a city on top, as the continental capitol was already built atop a plateau above the clouds, and was safe from the rain. now the top of SRS’s can is just a flat empty sea of grass, with a radio mast in the middle

one more bonus concept: sometime in the future but probably before saint’s time, the activity in the vent zone has damaged the retaining wall to the point where SRS’s eastern leg collapses into the sinkhole with it, breaking their can in half. maybe this also unlocks the hidden mutant lab area and spears/apprenti/their descendants discover it and SRS has to explain themselves (as also half of them fell into an acid sinkhole lmao). i also think a lava region would be really cool but i have no clue how tectonics and volcanism works in a world where the mantle is void fluid instead of magma lmao. i already handwaved the vent zone’s creation as a result of void fluid “vaporizing” water but im not sure how i could explain it turning rock into magma. either way, the geological activity from the vent zone continues, causing severe damage to SRS’s facility and can. hey, you gotta figure out a unique way for each iterator to die out instead of them all just decaying from time!

also not even kidding, this post took me over three fucking hours to complete lmao. i have been doing nothing but typing this on my phone in complete silence, checking my notes and drawings and transcribing them here, and getting up for a bathroom break once, every so often plugging my phone back in. shit it may even be four hours by now xD

anyway, this one is definitely going in the parageist classics. oh and here are sketches i have so far (i didn’t even draw the hermit/apprentice yet lmao, i just focused on all the cool regions, i love drawing maps :3)

#saved #rain world #rain world spoilers #rain world region concept #rain world concept #rain world oc #rain world srs #seven red suns #spearmaster #rain world spearmaster

14 notes · View notes

metataxy · 2 months

Text

Richter Belmont as Half-Vampire Fic

Something I'm playing with:

So Olrox abducts Richter, and leaves Julia behind, almost fatally wounded. He takes the Belmont boy south, to his ancient allies among the Mexica, and farther, to the hidden places in ancient Quechua strongholds as yet undiscovered by the colonizers. Olrox is both a devoted parent and a demanding teacher. Richter Belmont, in turn, learns his lessons with the aim of successfully killing or running away from his captor.

Then, at age 15, after fighting Spaniards alongside the men he'd befriended in the village, Richter is wounded in the battle. As the weeks pass, the village experiences a smallpox outbreak. And despite his European heritage, in his weakened condition, Richter falls deathly ill---

------------------------------------------------

Olrox

Little Belmont was going to die.

It had been only seven years since his lover Etow died, five since he took little Belmont for his own and trained the brilliant, hateful boy into the beginnings of a warrior who would have been worshipped for an age, in his time. And now, the boy was barely breathing, burning with fever, unlike to live the night.

Olrox had lived five hundred years. It didn’t seem possible that he should suffer so much more in this decade than any other.

The boy was fighting for air, barely conscious.

The tutor he'd found for the boy, Eliza, looked up at him from where she placed a cold compress to the youth’s forehead.

“We could turn him,” the vampire woman said, tenderly daubing his face with a wet cloth. “He’s old enough to fend for himself.”

Olrox recoiled. “He’s fifteen.”

“They’ve been turned younger,” Eliza said quietly, and then, “some of my Childer were younger.”

“Are they happy to be forever children?”

“They’re happy to be alive,” Eliza told him. She wasn’t arguing with him, just stating the facts. “And they weren’t children, really, after awhile.”

Olrox stared at Belmont.

“He can’t hate you any more than he already does. And you can’t say this wasn’t what you planned for him, from the start.”

“I planned to turn him in his prime,” he told her. “Turn him when he was the greatest warrior he could possibly be as a man, and then let his damned murderous mother see what he would be as a vampire. He would be great.”

“He still can be,” Eliza told him.

Olrox paused, and then considered.

He lengthened his claws and cut his own forearm.

“What are you doing? Olrox, you can’t be thinking of just feeding him your blood. Most of the time they just turn into thralls. Or go mad. He’d be wasted, either way. You can’t predict what will happen.”

“Neither can you,” Olrox told her, letting the blood dribble down into Belmont’s open mouth. “Neither of us ever could ever predict anything of the brat, except his disobedience. It might turn him mad, it might kill him, it might even heal him, but it won’t make him a thrall, Eliza. He’s too Belmont for that.”

The boy reflexively swallowed. Olrox pulled his wrist away and licked the wound closed.

“And now we wait.”

--------------------------------------------------

He didn’t improve, but he didn’t worsen either. Against all expectation of the shaman, he lived through the night.

They gave him water and broth in small enough amounts that he didn’t simply choke on it. He didn’t awake.

And the next night, Olrox dosed him with his blood a second time.

It continued like this for what seemed to Olrox an age. It was a long time for anyone to be this sickly, and not die. Belmont continued to lose flesh. His teeth loosened in their gums. His nails were pulling off the nailbeds. His extremities looked bruised, the edges of his ears almost gangrenous. His pulse slowed, and some nights, Olrox waited with bated breath between the boy’s heartbeats, expecting each one to be the last. At some time after a month though (by Eliza’s reckoning, because Olrox had stopped counting the nights long ago) his fever broke.

And then, he began to heal in a way Olrox couldn’t have hoped for.

His skin began to clear. His pulse never sped up, but became steadier. He’d become more bone than flesh, but even that seemed to be slowly reversing itself. Olrox fed him from his own veins twice a night now, after sunset and before sunrise.

Nor did the loss of flesh seem to affect his strength in any way either.

One night, as Olrox held his wrist to Belmont’s lips, the boy’s hand twitched. The next, his entire arm moved, and a week later, he sleepily bit into Olrox’s bleeding arm, pulling his meal from it in long swallows.

When Olrox pulled him off, Belmont made a vague noise of protest, before settling into a deep and easy sleep. And there was a canine tooth broken off in Olrox’s bicep.

He looked at it.

He carefully lifted Belmont’s upper lip, and got nipped for his troubles. He couldn’t bother to feel annoyed though. There was another tooth growing in to replace the missing one.

As for the rest of him…

He forced the brat’s jaw open to reclaim his finger, and brushed back a brown lock. He rubbed at the greying flesh on boy’s ear. It fell away in flakes. The skin beneath was healthy, the shape subtly different from before. His nails had fallen out, but new ones had begun to grow out from the bases.

He wrapped his hand in a wool cloth, picked up the boy’s silver locket from the nightstand, and carefully, let only a single link of the chain brush the boy’s skin.

Belmont hissed, his eyes almost fluttering open, though there was a barely a mark left behind. Olrox set the locket back on the nightstand, reopened his arm, and put it back to the boy’s mouth. The boy settled like a child suckling at his mother’s teat, and Olrox smiled.

“So it’s like that then, Belmont.”

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Richter

He awoke to an empty room.

The constant pain of the weeks before, in his skin, his throat, his eyes, had all but disappeared. He thought he was blind, or was that part of the delirium? He stared up at the cracked stone ceiling of the temple for a long time, simply appreciating his vision.

Then, he sat up slowly, and braced himself to see the ruin the disease must have made of his body.

He held up his hand, and blinked at the expanse of scabs and new pink skin. He rubbed experimentally at a clot of skin and dried blood. It flaked off at his touch, revealing unblemished flesh beneath. The nails were gone, but regrowing from their beds.

He’d seen people die of this sort of smallpox before. He’d known himself for dead when he’d felt the pustules on his arms, crowded one over another in long sheets under his skin. How had he lived?

He looked down his chest, his groin, his legs. He was nude beneath the sheets. The skin there was the same—mottled with scabs and healing skin. His toenails had blackened or fallen out like his fingernails.

He felt his face.

He was entirely bald except for his eyelashes, even his eyebrows had disappeared. His face felt unfamiliar, the angles sharpened with the loss of flesh. He moved his tongue around his mouth to feel the sockets of his missing teeth, and swore at the sudden pain. Had he aggravated some half-healed wound?

He poked a finger into his mouth to check, and hissed in incredulity, withdrawing it. It was cut as though by a dull razor, and bled sluggishly.

A horrible possibility occurred to him.

He reached more carefully into his mouth, felt gingerly along the roots of his loose or half-grown incisors, until he came to his canines.

They were entirely new, and yet, longer by half than even the few human teeth that hadn’t yet been pushed out of his gums by the new set growing beneath them. It made sense, he thought dully, that his changed body had prioritized their growth above all else. A vampire without fangs couldn’t feed.

The housemaid, Lily, stopped at the entrance of the room, all but dropped the candle and the emptied chamberpot she’d carried, and called down the stairs. “He’s awake! The young warrior is awake!”

He heard the purposeful tread of Olrox’s feet upon the steps. He looked out the window, gauged the distance to the ground.

For the first time, he realized it was night, and there was no lamp in his room.

Olrox came.

“So you are awake.”

He said nothing, only stared out the window. Would the drop kill him?

“It won’t kill you,” Olrox told him, coming up beside him. “It might break your legs, but those can be repaired. With enough blood.”

Richter cursed inwardly.

“Stay out of my head.”

“It’s not entirely voluntary,” Olrox explained mildly. “Surely you know that, even if our bond is not quite as powerful as that of a true sire and childe.” He nodded at the bed. “Sit down.”

He felt the dreamy urge to do as the man asked and didn’t.

“Why did you do it? Why turn me into a vampire? I thought you didn’t turn children!”

“Little Belmont,” Olrox pacified, “you’re not a true vampire, or I’d have put you in the cellars to wait out the morning. You’re a dhampir, half human, and as for turning you, I had no notion giving you my blood would have this effect. It only changes humans with vampiric ancestry, as you well know. Your European vampires are so careful about preventing anything of the sort that I’d never imagined this result.” Olrox paused, leaning against the wall. “Though I am far from displeased.”

He turned his head to look out the window, pulled back his hair, baring the long line of his throat over his scarred chest.

Richter stared at the muscles of his neck, at his unmoving jugular. He ripped his eyes away to see Olrox looking back at him.

“You’re not healed yet,” the man told him, his voice soft in a way he’d heard him to speak to Eliza, to his bedmates, to infants, but never to Richter.

Richter stepped back. “No.”

A flicker of his fingertips and the man had opened his neck. The smell bloomed in the air, the actual taste of it, new pennies and sour milk, nothing to how Richter’s mind translated the sense of its inherent magic. It was ozone and lightning, was the gleam of a jaguar’s eye by torchlight and the lamp burning in his stepfather’s window to welcome him home. He felt lightheaded, as much with hunger for the man’s blood as with longing for all the lies it promised.

He shook, and forced himself to stop breathing, so he could at least remove the physical temptation of the smell. It hardly helped. The sensation of Olrox’s magic lingered.

“I won’t force you,” Olrox told him. “You can survive without, for now. But you won’t finish healing without regular feeding.”

Richter stepped back a pace, then another, and then ran from the room.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

--------------------------------------------------------

Annnnd then, time skip. Richter is all, "Oh no, I can't drink blood, surely this problem will go away if I starve myself!" Except then he comes upon a crowd of Spaniards butchering and carrying off the people of the village, his people, and the shock of it combines with his starvation to send him into bloodlust.

He absolutely massacres the thirty or so Spaniards present and retains just enough control to let his people flee back to Olrox with the news of his sudden loss of control. It happens at noon though, and Olrox is forced to wait until twilight to find what's happened to his Belmont childe...

----------------------------------------------------------

Evening finally came. He hurried to the edge of the clearing. He smelt it before he saw it. The tang of blood hung on the air, with the notes of urine and scat below it.

These people had known they were going to die, had died in fear and agony.

The bodies of the Spanish soldiers lay strewn about like broken dolls, their limbs hanging loosely from their sockets, or in many cases, ripped away. A few had been decapitated messily. The wounds varied. He saw clean cuts to the throat from knife thrusts, bloody faces from where the nose had been broken into the skull, pistol wounds, saber cuts. More than a few bore bitemarks, and one had his throat torn out to the spine.

There were a few still alive, moaning on the ground, too crippled to move. Over one of these crouched little boy Belmont, fangs deep in the soldier’s neck. His jaws and neck worked to pull whatever vitality was left in the dying man. He shook him like a mastiff with a toy as the man ran dry.

Oh, if only his mother could see him now.

He was all over blood. It had soaked into his ragged shirt and breeches, and clotted in his hair. What he hadn’t swallowed had spilled onto the ground. The rock was slick with it.

Olrox approached, and the boy turned and flashed his fangs at him, hissing, before Olrox gentled him with a thought across the bond that re-emerged that day. The boy grumbled, turning back to his kill, tearing unsuccessfully at the neck.

“The heart, dear boy,” Olrox explained. He elongated his claws, and in a move practiced over the centuries, tore through the bowels up into the ribcage, and prized the heart loose from the chest. The boy, half feral from his first hunt and the sudden satiation of his hunger, bit into it, sucking its every cavity clean of blood.

With his childe so distracted, Olrox was able to examine him.

There were holes in his clothes that would have come from bullets and knives, but the skin beneath was unmarred. The last smallpox scabs had peeled away, leaving him entirely without blemish beneath all the blood. The remainder of his teeth had grown in. In the first sign he’d shown of Olrox’s own magic, his nails had transformed, elongating to more closely resemble claws.

He finished on the heart and would have moved to the next whimpering Spaniard, had Olrox not stopped him.

“No, darling,” he urged. “Finish this one. Try the other pulse points first.” He slashed open the dead man’s wrist. Whether the boy had regained enough awareness to understand him, or it was simply the instinct of a fledgeling following its sire’s orders, Richter latched onto the wrist he’d opened.

Olrox turned to the Spaniard whose death he’d just delayed. Broken legs, broken hand, able to speak though, which was all Olrox needed of him.

“Now,” Olrox began, “tell us what you did with our people, and I won’t hunt down every man of your family and bleed them dry.”

-----------------------------------------------------

He kept the least damaged and most knowledgeable of the Spaniards, a priest, to serve as a guide. Olrox lifted him to the edge of the clearing, far from Richter, and the men brought him back to the village from there. No vampire blood for him: he could heal the long and painful way.

He took Richter’s hand and led him back to the temple when the moon waned. The boy didn’t fight him either, but followed mutely.

He removed the boy’s clothes and bathed him in the pool. His hair, grown an inch overnight, was a darker brown than he remembered. He dried him, dressed him, and took him to sleep in the catacombs, held close as breathing against his own body.

They awoke like that. Richter might have been awake for some time before, but he hadn’t moved, his round eyes staring at Olrox’s.

“They killed her,” Richter said helplessly. “They killed her and they took the others—”

“I know.”

“We have to get them back.”

“We will,” Olrox promised him. With or without little Belmont, he would have vowed to do it, but it would be so much easier with a daywalker.

“Please, I,” the boy’s breath hitched, and Olrox waited.

“I need to fight better. I need to know what you know.”

“You fought well enough. There are more than two dozen soldiers dead.”

“They cut Lily's throat in front of me. If I’d been quicker—if I knew your magic—I could have saved her. I need to save the others.”

Olrox stared at him fixedly.

“You understand what that would entail.” Olrox pulled back his hair meaningfully, as he'd done so many times before, exposing his throat.

“Yes,” Belmont said, looking him in the eye. His mouth opened, exposing a glint of his fang. “Yes. I understand.”

The words rang true across their bond, and then, at last, the boy accepted, clamping onto his shoulder to drink, long and deep. When long minutes later he released his sire, he removed his shirt without prompting. For the first time, Richter Belmont offered Olrox his neck willingly.

This was what he’d imagined, long ago, as the completion of his revenge against Julia Belmont, and yet, now, it felt like it had nothing to do with her. That Julia Belmont had nothing to do with the half-feral youth he’d raised, still less to do with the ravening dhampir waiting impatiently under his hands.

He bared his fangs and bit down.

The taste of a human child, those overtones of strawberries and sunlight, had passed from his blood. It tasted not so bitter now as a vampire’s blood, but complex, sweet and sharp as the first time his father had made him a hot bowl of ground chocolate and chilies. And with it, came Richter’s surrender—a wash of memory and feeling and the immediacy of his mind finally opening to his sire.

The memories of Julia Belmont, of the woman Olrox had devoted so much of the last decade to hating, crashed over him. The woman, rumpled in sleep, face pouchy with fatigue, standing over the boy’s bed and telling him a story. The woman’s arms, strong as any man’s, holding him close, until he fell asleep in her grasp. Sitting in a carriage between a handsome tall man and his even more handsome mother, both of them dressed in man’s clothing, admiring their swords, Julia promising him one just like it when he came of age.

Olrox. Olrox’s attempt to kill his mother. Olrox killing the people on their travels who Richter had dared to warn about the vampires. Olrox teaching him to shoot a bow and arrow, to throw a knife, to harvest plants, to control his magic. Olrox tutoring him in Spanish, in Nahuatl, in Portuguese. Olrox whipping him for yet another escape attempt. Olrox’s teeth in his neck, a painful and terrifying event that had evolved, with use, into a routine discomfort, and with adolescence, into a reluctant pleasure. Then, the hazy memories of his illness: his teeth in Olrox’s arm, the deep, sweet pull of his sire’s blood, the growing proximity of their minds, right up until the change had taken Richter fully, and he’d used his sudden vigour to shove Olrox away.

And now, his anger at the Spaniards, an anger that equaled Olrox’s when Julia had killed Etow, his resolve to kill, and underlying that, his complete comprehension of Olrox’s own desire for vengeance.

They laid there, sprawled in the clearing, Olrox just holding the youth in his arms, barely sucking at his neck at all, just leaving his fangs locked into his childe’s neck, grounding him as surely as a father’s hand on his shoulder. Richter picked up his sire’s hand, deliberately rolled up the sleeve, bit down again in turn. The boy’s venom wasn’t as potent as a true vampire’s, but he still felt a pleasing lassitude ease through his body.

When the sky began to pale with the first light of morning, Olrox led his son down into the temple, and laid him down to sleep in his tomb. They slept there together all day, until they rose with the moon, and for the first time, the boy followed him willingly into the forest.

Then, they began in earnest.

--------------------------

Notes:

(1) This is a continuation, I guess, of the short story I posted on AO3 about the first seven minutes of Nocturne from Olrox's perspective.

(2) Etow is named after the Mahican chief who went to see Queen Anne in 1710

(3) I'm pretty sure Olrox would be a terrifying parental figure. The Mexica were by all accounts very engaged in their children's education (see if your library has a copy of 'Maya to Aztec: Ancient Mesoamerica revealed'), but the punishments recorded in the Codex Mendoza for disobedient boys were brutal. It's possible those were exaggerated by Spaniards to emphasize the supposed barbarity of the Aztecs, but the illustrations in the Codex Mendoza were done by indigenous artists, so...? (shrugs)

(4) I have no idea if the Spaniards would be running around and randomly killing/enslaving Quechua in the late 1700s, or if that was just a 16th c thing... anyone history buffs wanna weigh in?

(5) Alucard is a dhampir and therefore spent lots of time having sex. Most of the people who wouldn't have freaked out that he was a dhampir were Belmonts, Speakers, or others in their circles. Ergo: my headcanon is that Alucard sired MANY Belmonts over the last 300 years, the most recent of which being Richter's granddad (yes, Alucard had incest with his own descendants). Being part vampire has its perks for humans (re: all the Belmont special abilities), BUT long exposure to vampire blood or life-threatening conditions can trigger a transformation from human to dhampir.

The transformation could also have all kinds of fun reprecussions for when Richter meets Alucard and Juste :D

Go to Part 2 -->

#olrox #castlevania nocturne #richter belmont #vampire richter belmont #mesoamerican history

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