lauren.

she/her | ‘04 feel free to say hi !

[hipsdofangirl]

hiii! i’m lauren!

this blog is a combination of my main blog along with fanfiction and it’s mainly seventeen content!

expect gifs + reblogs or very rare writings and content of my interests

minors lurking please be wary…. but no activity blogs don’t worry cause i will block 😁

my svt masterlist

more info about me:

currently enrolled in college and in clinicals

bisexual

other content i enjoy is the fate/nasuverse franchise, honkai star rail, chainsaw man, jujutsu kaisen, witch hat atelier, re:zero, gravity falls, hatsune miku, and other miscellaneous

if you made it this far congrats! have a good day/night! 🫶

[hipsdofangirl]

hewwo

[cheers-to-you-th]

Borrowed Heaven

Pairing: Yoon Jeonghan x reader Word Count: 17.3k Genre: smut, fluff, coworkers(kinda?)/strangers to lovers Warnings: Smut (MDNI), fluff, smut, inaccurate depiction of christianity, wing play(?), halo play(?), piv, switch energy!jeonghan, nipple play, lmk if theres anything else Summary: Never in your life did you think you'd be back working customer service—and in your life you never did. In your death, however, you were sent to Hell, where soul admissions are efficient, demons are kind, and damnation includes mandatory therapy. Somehow, the strangest part is still the angel with Heaven’s paperwork who seems to be finding excuses to come see you.

Beta read by my favorite person ever @mylovesstuffs

Working the Front Gates of Hell was, decidedly, not how you’d expected to spend your afterlife. Sure, you never thought you’d get into heaven—you’d had a little too much trauma and too little self-preservation back when you were living—but you’d have never expected your eternal damnation to be customer service. And, okay, eternal damnation is a little harsh, considering it actually consisted of a lot of therapy about why you’d gone down the path you did (thanks a lot, Dad).

Honestly? Hell turned out to be less fire-and-brimstone and more corporate retreat with better snacks, at least for the people on the upper floors who weren’t murderers or politicians.

The demons assigned to you during onboarding were shockingly gentle, all soft encouragement and understanding. One even cried during your fourth session, which made you feel weirdly validated and also a little guilty. You were given a handbook, a support demon, and a week-long crash course on compassion fatigue. Turns out, there’s nothing wrong with sin, per se, it just depends on how you lead your life with it, whether you let it control you or you control it. 

And then you were placed at the Gates.

You were given a desk, a chair that magically adjusts itself so your spine doesn’t collapse, a jar of complimentary mints that never runs out, and a line of freshly deceased souls who always looked at you like you were the one personally responsible for their eternal destination.

You learned quickly that people arrive in Hell the same way they lived: Most people are quiet, manageable, just wanting to get where they need to be. Then there’s the others, the ones who lived loudly, defensively, and convinced someone else is to blame. That someone usually ends up being you.

The first few days you tried explaining that you were just the admissions clerk, not the cosmic judge. Now you just smile sympathetically and hand them a clipboard.

It’s not a bad gig, all things considered. The heat is steady. The background screaming fades into something almost meditative. Your coworkers are supportive—Mingyu brings you little hand-drawn comics on your lunch break, and Seungkwan keeps knitting you sweaters you absolutely cannot wear outside because they’re technically made of mortal sins.

But by far, your favorite part of Hell is the little glimpse of heaven you get to see, ironically enough. Because whenever the big boss upstairs has a wandering soul looking for a job, is throwing a party, or sends something for Lucifer to check out, he sends it in the form of an errand boy. 

Some days the Veil parts, the light pours in like someone cranked the brightness up too high, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan.

He’s not a boy, really–he’s older than the first sun, technically—but up close, he’s truly sculpted by heaven itself. Tall, glowing, wings tucked neatly behind him with eyes soft enough to make even hardened demons stop mid-torment and stare.

He always smiles at you first.

Not at the gate wardens, not at the other people manning similar desks, at you.

When you’re busy, he stands in your line no matter the length, waiting to get to the front. He rests his elbows on your desk like you’re old friends, even though the longest conversation you’ve had with him was three minutes and seventeen seconds—yes, you counted—and the way he talks makes your brain feel like it’s melting pleasantly out of your ears.

“Special package,” he always says, voice warm honey and sunlight. “Special paperwork for the man downstairs.”

You always take his paperwork, pretending your hands aren’t shaking as you hand it off to one of the demons for delivery. Heaven’s errand boy always lingers, too—asking if work’s been busy, if you’re drinking enough water in all the heat, if your chair is still adjusting properly (which confuses you some, considering he knows exactly who enchanted it).

You’ve convinced yourself he’s just being polite—friendly, even. Heaven has customer service training too, probably. Angels, you’ve heard, are big on hospitality. That doesn’t stop your treacherous heart from beating quicker whenever you see him. 

“Are you even listening to me?! I’m in hell and you aren’t even bothering to hear how distraught—”

You look at the woman before you, deadpan stare unsettling when paired with your polite smile. “Ma’am, just take the stairs on your right to the third floor, please. There’s nothing I can do.”

She huffs, clutching her smoking clipboard. “This is unbelievable,” she mutters, stomping off toward the staircase that leads to Processing. Once she’s finally out of earshot, you exhale, slumping back into your chair and rubbing your temples. It feels like your headache has a headache.

Mingyu pokes his head around the doorway, holding a doodle of a demon (that looks suspiciously like Dino from the Archives division) slipping on a banana peel. 

“Rough one?” he asks.

You wave him off. “She’ll be fine. Third floor should fix her.”

“Break room is open, someone brought pie,” he suggests.

“Cherry?” He nods and you brighten, “Save me a slice, my break is in ten.”

“I got you.” He disappears with a slightly menacing grin.

You straighten your paperwork, nudge the endless mint jar back into place, and take a sip of your coffee—today’s brew tastes like hazelnut. Not bad.

Suddenly there’s a flash of light. Not a violent divine explosion, just a warm wash of gold that spills across the gates. A couple of nearby demons pause mid-task, squinting like someone opened the blinds too fast as he steps through.

Yoon Jeonghan, Heaven’s favorite courier, appearing like the world’s most ethereal UPS driver with wings. His arrival always feels like someone opened a window in this place: warm, bright, gentle.

His eyes find yours immediately and a smile blooms across his face, soft and bright and unfairly pretty.

Your heart does a somersault like it’d been waiting (maybe you had been, not that you’d ever admit it out loud).

He passes everyone else, waving at the gate wardens, the demons waiting to receive whatever heavenly message he’s carrying, even Lucifer’s personal attendants who perk up in case he’s here for them.

He walks straight to your desk.

Souls in line turn to stare. One reaches out to touch his wing but he sidesteps them smoothly. When he reaches the counter, rests his elbows on it like always, and dips his head slightly—just enough to make your stomach flip.

“Hi,” he says, voice syrup-smooth and warm. “How are you doing today? That line looked pretty bad.”

You blink at him.

“Uh,” you manage, articulating at the highest level of professionalism, “Fine. Yeah, long line, but I can handle it.”

His smile shifts—amused but gentle, like he’s trying not to laugh in a way that would devastate you.

“Special message for all the demons,” he says, sliding a sealed scroll across your desk. “Jesus is throwing a party for Heaven’s Gate’s manager, he’s turning 229.”

You take it, trying not to touch his fingers, failing when they brush yours anyway. It’s barely contact, but your pulse jumps like it’s an electrical shock.

He lingers, leaning in just enough that you catch a faint scent of rain, clouds, and something warm you can’t put your finger on.

“And I hope,” he adds quietly, “I’ll see you there.”

Your chest tightens.

Your brain melts.

Your mouth betrays you entirely.

“Next!” you call, voice cracking like a first-year choir student.

The first floor of Hell is built like a cozy therapist’s office—warm, inviting, and slightly off-putting if you think too hard about it. The walls glow a soft, ambient orange like a permanent sunset, and black succulents line the obsidian shelves. Their vines stretch lazily over their pots, crawling down the wall like they’re reaching for a hug you’re not emotionally prepared to give.

There’s even a lava lamp filled with real lava, bubbling peacefully beside the plush armchair your assigned demon sits in. The chair is huge, cushy, and looks like the kind of furniture you’d sink into and confess crimes you didn’t even commit. Your demon, Jun, likes to perch on the edge of it, legs crossed, notebook ready, eyes too gentle for someone technically made of fire and ancient sin.

“This week,” he asks, tapping his pen against the page, “how have you been managing your self-worth?”

It’s kind of wild how, back when you were alive, that question would’ve sent you into a full-blown spiral. Now it’s just a normal Tuesday.

You shrug. “Well, I’ve been doing that thing where I tell myself good job after small successes. I think it’s been helping? And my chair adjusted to be looser instead of feeling like it's holding me in place.”

Jun beams like a proud parent. “The enchantment recognizes emotions. That means you’re letting yourself feel things, and you’re no longer a flight risk. Huge progress.”

You tell him about the screaming lady from earlier, the pie in the break room, and how the souls today have been three complaints short of forming a riot.

He nods thoughtfully, making notes. “And when Heaven’s courier arrived—did you feel grounded? Did you breathe through the physiological reaction this time?”

Your face heats as you narrow your eyes. “Who told you?”

Jun quirks a brow. “Please. I got the invite to the party, and everyone knows who delivers G’s messages. So, like I asked, how’d it go?” He leans forward with a smirk, and suddenly this feels less like therapy and more like gossip.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “I’m going to actually die. Again.”

He smiles, leaning forward. “You’re doing wonderfully. You’re making connections. You’re letting yourself feel—”

“Jun,” you warn, “please do not make my crush on Heaven’s postal service into a therapeutic milestone.”

“Oh,” he says lightly, flipping to a fresh page, “so you’re calling it a crush now?”

You stare at the ceiling, seriously considering whether you can fling yourself into the lava lamp.

“You should go.” Jun says after a moment of letting you suffer in silence, his voice softer now, less teasing and more… earnest. “To the party, I mean.”

You drop your hand from your face just enough to glare at him through your fingers. “Why? So I can embarrass myself in front of half of Heaven?”

Jun doesn’t even blink. “Yep. Exactly that. Exposure therapy.”

You lower your hand fully. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” he says, scribbling something onto your file with suspicious enthusiasm. “And in your case? Necessary. You freeze every time Jeonghan walks up to your desk like you’re a computer from the early 2000s trying to load a webpage.”

You gasp, deeply betrayed. “I do not freeze.”

Jun looks up at you with slow, deliberate disbelief. “You don’t think you’re good enough for anyone so you push them away so they don’t get closer. When he tries to reach out, you freeze and hope he goes away.”

You open your mouth to argue. Close it. Open it again.

Jun nods, satisfied. “Exactly.”

You squeeze a black succulent until it hisses at you for emotional support. “Jun, I can’t go to Heaven. I work at the Gates of Hell. I’m a soul bound to hell because of how I lived!”

He snorts. “Please. You already know that's not true. Once you get better, you move up or reincarnate. Heaven and Hell are on better terms than you humans think. Besides…” His smirk softens into something annoyingly perceptive. “…you want to go.”

You shift in your seat, and the plush armchair shifts with you, adjusting so perfectly it feels like it’s hugging your ribs.

Jun taps his pen. “You get one free pass to visit Heaven each decade. You’ve never used any of yours. This is the universe nudging you.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you sigh. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Jun’s eyes light with evil purpose. “We have an entire department for that.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” He snaps his notebook closed triumphantly. “Wardrobe and Presentation owes me a favor. And they love dressing mortals. You’ll be glittering by sundown.”

“Jun, I don’t want to glitter.”

“You say that,” he says, standing and ushering you toward the door with frightening efficiency, “but just wait until you see the robes they have that shift color based on the light. Very popular with angels.”

You drag your heels. “I don’t need to be popular with angels.”

“True,” Jun says, pushing the therapy office door open, “just one.”

Your heart does something humiliating as you step into the hallway.

Outside Jun’s office is lined with softly glowing runes meant to calm souls before they get shuffled to their next appointment. They pulse gently under your feet as you walk, steady as a heartbeat.

Jun falls into stride beside you, hands tucked casually behind his back. “So,” he says, far too lightly, “how far do you wanna go tonight?”

“Jun,” you groan, “I’m not going. I haven’t even decided. I don’t even—he’s an angel!”

He hums. “Angels sin just like the rest of us.”

You choke on a laugh. “That can’t be true.”

Jun gives you a sideways look like he’s deciding whether to ruin your entire worldview in one sentence or savor it slowly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, voice dripping with amused pity, “you really think Heaven is full of perfectly well-behaved little saints?”

You blink. “Isn’t it?”

He stops walking—actually stops—planting his feet in the middle of the hallway like he needs full body stability for this conversation. Then he puts his hands on your shoulders and leans in.

“Half the angels up there have meltdowns twice a week, the other half are having existential crises about free will.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re lying.”

“I wish,” Jun mutters, shoving his hands back in his pockets and resuming his stroll like he didn’t just shatter centuries of theological assumptions. “Heaven is a lot.”

You’re still processing that when he adds, casually, “And Jeonghan? He’s the king of sinning politely.”

Your soul nearly exits your body a second time. “WHAT?”

Jun waves a dismissive hand. “Nothing catastrophic. Just… bending a rule here, flirting with an underworld receptionist there—”

Your ears heat so fast you’re surprised the runes don’t start flickering. “He is not flirting.”

Jun’s grin could power entire continents. “He waits for you. He brings you things. He talks to you like he’s got all the eternity in the world—which he does—and it’s not enough for him. That’s flirting.”

“That’s angelic professionalism!”

“That’s angelic pining!”

You whirl around, ready to stomp off and perhaps throw yourself into the Lake of Mildly Inconvenient Regret, but Jun hooks a casual finger into the collar of your shirt and redirects you back toward the elevators.

“Look,” he says, gentler now, “you freeze up because you think he’s out of your league. Because you died feeling small and never stopped.”

That hits so squarely in the chest that your breath stutters.

Jun bumps his shoulder against yours, lighter this time. “But he looks at you like Heaven’s the one missing out. And maybe Jeonghan’s known for being a flirty angel—I've seen it more times than I can count throughout the millennia—but this? I’ve never seen him be this dedicated to someone. I wouldn’t be encouraging you if I didn’t trust him, you know that.”

You stare at the pulsing runes on the floor. 

Jun keeps going, merciless. “And yes, angels sin. Pride, longing, greed, all of it.” A pause. “The difference is they don’t hold on to those sins. Heaven is about forgiveness. Forgiving yourself for your sins.”

You drag a hand over your face. “Jun… I can’t. He’s—”

“Into you,” Jun interrupts.

You kick at a glowing rune that flickers in mild irritation. “He’s just being kind.”

“No,” Jun says, stepping into the elevator and pulling you in beside him. “If he wanted to be kind, he’d talk to your supervisor. If he wanted to be polite, he’d leave the package and go. But he wants you, so he waits.”

Your chest tightens, traitorously warm.

The elevator hums, descending toward Wardrobe and Presentation, and Jun gives you one last victorious little smile.

“Now,” he says, “how against glitter are we feeling, on a scale of one to ten?”

You groan. “Jun—”

“Because if you think angels sin?” he says, eyes bright. “You’re in for a long night. Jesus throws the wildest parties.”

The Wardrobe and Presentation division is located between Heaven and Hell, used by pretty much everyone who needs to choose what to wear. The second you step fully inside, the air changes.

It’s lighter here—not bright in the blinding, divine way the glimpses of Heaven are, not heavy like Hell’s steady warmth. It’s neutral. Balanced. Almost the way Earth would feel if it wasn’t overrun by the weight of corruption.

The floors gleam like polished pearl, reflecting soft light from nowhere and everywhere. Racks stretch on endlessly, garments hovering instead of hanging, fabrics shifting colors as souls pass by. Silk that looks like smoke. Linen stitched with constellations. Sweaters woven with dreams.

A group of angels argue loudly over sleeve length; a demon is holding up a dress made of living shadow, chuckling at a mortal who keeps asking if it comes in green. Jun, unfortunately, looks thrilled.

“Oh, they redecorated,” he says, pleased.

You just look around, shifting closer to him on instinct. “Jun, seriously, this is… too much. I don’t even know where I’d start to look.” He gives you a reassuring smile as he keeps guiding you forward. “Don’t worry, I already thought of that. Like I said, I have a few favors to call in.” He walks onward and heads straight to the back, a marked-off area saved specifically for deities to be styled.

The velvet rope slips aside as Jun approaches, the fabric recoiling like it knows him as the noise of the main floor dulls—voices dropping, fabric whispers fading. This section is larger, as if everything has been scaled up a hundred times. Mirrors line the walls, tall and arched, their surfaces smoky and dim until they flicker awake. It feels like you’ve stepped into a pocket of calm carved out for special people. People much more important than you.

“Jun, are you sure I’m allowed back here?” You mutter, hands wringing.

“Of course,” he says easily. “You’re with me.”

Someone hums.

It’s soft, melodic, distracted.

“Jun,” a voice says from somewhere behind a mirror, calm and dry, “if you’ve brought me another one of your god friends that’s failing to seduce a mortal, I’m billing you.”

A figure steps into view, scissors tucked behind one ear, sleeves rolled with deliberate neatness. Minghao looks up from a floating bolt of fabric and pauses, eyes flicking over you in one smooth, assessing glance.

“Oh,” he says, pleasantly surprised. “You’re not a god.”

You just look down, feeling even smaller at the way he pointed it out. “Uh… yeah.”

“Oh, you’re adorable.” He grabs your chin, tilting it up and moving your head from side to side, eyes scanning your face before moving down your body. “And not totally hopeless. Stand still.”

You do, automatically, as he circles you slowly, not touching, just observing—posture, the way your shoulders curl inward, the faint tension in your hands. It’d feel judgmental if his eyes didn’t hold anything but thoughtfulness.

“Who’s this for?” he asks, already snapping his fingers. The mirrors brighten, attention sharpening.

Jun answers for you. “Jeonghan.”

Minghao freezes.

Slowly, he looks up at you again. Then at Jun. Then back at you.

“Oh,” he says. “…Oh.”

If your soul was in a body, it’d be leaving it.

“So that’s why he’s been insufferable,” Minghao continues, already nodding to himself. “Asking me for the newest designs, making me check his outfit before he leaves every morning. So you’re the one he’s been pursuing.”

“I knew it,” Jun says triumphantly.

“He’s just nice! It’s not—he’s not—” you protest weakly.

Minghao hums, skeptical. “Jeonghan is nice in the way a cat is nice. With intent.”

You bury your face in your hands.

“Don’t panic,” Minghao says, gently prying your wrists down. “We’re not dressing you to impress him.” He pauses, then smirks. “We’re dressing you so he panics instead. What’s the event?”

Jun’s grin turns feral. “First visit to Heaven, and it’s to attend one of Jesus’s parties.”

Minghao’s smile sharpens, delighted. “The one tonight for Soonyoung’s 229th?”

Jun snaps his fingers. “That’s the one.”

Minghao lets out a low whistle. “Your first time in Heaven is for a party Jesus is hosting. You’re gonna need all the help you can get, my dear. That man turns all the water into more than just wine.”

Jun groans. “Do not start. Last time I attended one he gave me a glass of some Asgardian shit. That’s all I can remember from that night.”

You swallow. “I don’t even drink.”

Minghao pauses mid-motion, scissors hovering. Slowly, he looks at you like you’ve just confessed a crime. “Oh, honey.”

Jun winces. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“It’s fine,” Minghao says briskly, already waving his hand. Several garments drift closer, curious, brushing against your sleeves like they’re testing you. “Soonyoung will give you something fruity and lie about the alcohol content. He does that for first-timers.”

“Why?” you ask weakly.

“Because he’s kind,” Minghao replies, then smirks. “And because he thinks it’s funny. And, if you don’t want to get drunk, it won’t affect your soul, so there’s no real harm in it.”

Fabric slides around you—nothing settles yet, just a quiet assessment. Minghao circles again, slower this time, eyes sharper.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Stand up straight, you look like you’re trying to create a tear in the fabric of the universe to disappear into.”

Jun opens his mouth. Minghao shoots him a look.

“Don’t,” Minghao warns. “This is my part.”

Jun lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were absolutely going to say something,” Minghao replies flatly. Then he turns back to you, expression softening just a touch. “Theme?”

Jun clears his throat. “Celestial Evenings, whatever that means.”

Minghao snaps his fingers. Half the hovering garments vanish instantly. “No robes, too ceremonial. No white,” Minghao continues, a hopeful white dress slinking away. “You’ll look like a lost choir member and someone will ask you to sing. And no gold—angels get territorial about gold.”

“Noted,” you say faintly.

A shimmering fabric nudges his wrist but he flicks it away. “No starlight, everyone’s going to be wearing it.”

Minghao hums thoughtfully, fingers snapping again. The air ripples, and a different set of fabrics glides forward—softer, less blindingly divine.

“Better,” he says, pleased. “These, I can work with.” 

The fabrics drift nearer, brushing against your arms, your shoulders, your waist. They don’t grab or cling—they test. Some cool and liquid, others warm and weightless. Minghao flicks two away without hesitation, grimacing.

“No,” he says. “Too desperate. And no,” to another, “that one wants to be admired. We want to compliment what you’ve already got.”

Jun leans against a pillar, arms crossed, watching like this is the best entertainment he’s had in centuries.

Another shimmering fabric lays against your skin, cool and soft, but deeper than the blinding starlight from earlier. It’s not midnight, not navy, but something in between that shimmers breathtakingly, silver thread running through it, subtle and restrained, catching the light only when you move.

“Yes,” Minghao mutters, shooing away the other fabrics and he starts working. “Moonlight. Much more subtle. Let’s see here…”

He steps closer, hands finally joining the fabric.

The moonlight cloth slides over you, slow and deliberate, settling instead of wrapping. It cools against your skin, then warms, adjusting until it simply feels part of you. Minghao tilts his head, eyes sharp as he shapes it. The neckline settles low enough to be elegant without feeling exposed, skimming your collarbones. The rest drapes cleanly, following your shape, moving when you breathe. It swirls down your body like water, naturally refining and settling in the right places.

Minghao snaps again and thousands of pieces surround you. Some silver, some seemingly made out of pure light, others barely visible from some angles. They spiral inward, slow and controlled, like a constellation collapsing into order. They don’t stab or snap into place; they agree with the fabric, threading themselves through it in careful arcs. Silver catches at the seams, soft light settles along the edges, down the curve of your spine, pooling faintly at your waist before dispersing.

Minghao watches closely, fingers twitching, adjusting the flow with small, precise motions.

“Not too much,” he murmurs. “This isn’t armor.”

A few of the brighter fragments dim obediently, turning from radiant to reflective. Others sink into the cloth entirely, vanishing unless the light hits you just right—then they flare, subtle and sudden, like stars peeking through clouds. One swirls up the leg exposed by a slit in the dress, winding around until it rests on your thigh in a soft spiral, another forming a cuff on your arm. 

“Jun, grab Joshua for me and bring him back for makeup. My work here is done.”

Jun straightens instantly, eyes lighting up with malicious glee. “Oh, I love when you say that.”

You barely have time to process what that means before he snaps his fingers and disappears in a neat puff of smoke and smugness.

You remain very still.

Slowly, you lift your gaze to the mirror.

You look… unreal. Not angelic, not demonic, just there in a way that didn’t look small anymore. The moonlight fabric absorbs the ambient glow of the room and gives it back softened, edges blurred just enough to feel intimate. The silver threading doesn’t shout; it whispers. When you shift your weight, the constellation pieces respond, flaring briefly before dimming again.

“I look ridiculous,” you say, reflexively.

Minghao huffs. “You look stunning. Don’t insult my work like that.”

That makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound short and breathy. “Sorry, sorry. You’re right, you did an amazing job. Thank you.”

He studies you one last time, expression thoughtful, then he nods, satisfied. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

Your stomach flips violently. “Please don’t say that.”

Minghao’s lips curve. “Just stating facts. I’ve known Jeonghan a long time, I know how to push his buttons. And this?” He gestures to you. “This is payback for when he stole my favorite dream-woven shirt and returned it with a stain. Not even I can get out pomegranate stains.”

A ripple suddenly passes through the air behind you—warm, unmistakably heavenly. You don’t even have to turn to know someone else has arrived.

“Wow,” a voice says cheerfully. “You really are trying to kill my best friend.”

You spin around just in time to see a man, tall, pretty, angelic, stepping through the parted Veil, halo tilted just slightly off-center like it’s a fashion choice. His wings are tucked neatly behind him, pristine and bright, but his grin is pure trouble.

Jun appears beside him, arms crossed smugly. “Told you. Meet Joshua.” He says as he turns to you with a bright smile.

Joshua’s eyes flick to you—and then stop.

The grin fades, his brows lift, his mouth opens.

“…Oh,” he says, eloquent as ever.

Minghao preens. “I know.”

Joshua blinks once, twice, then lets out a low laugh. “Oh, yeah, Jeonghan is screwed.”

Your face burns. “Please stop saying that.”

Joshua recovers quickly, clapping his hands together. “Right! Well, I’m always down to see Jeonghan stutter like an idiot.” A chair appears out of nowhere and he pushes you onto it, a vanity of products at his disposal now. “Lucky for you, I’m an expert at that.”

Joshua moves fast—but not rushed. There’s a careful ease to him, like he’s done this a thousand times and still enjoys it.

“Okay,” he says, circling you once, head tilted, halo giving a faint approving hum. “Moonlight fabric, subtle constellation work, neckline doing that thing that makes people forget how to breathe.” He nods to himself. “Good base. Excellent base.”

Minghao’s eyes roll and he scoffs, “Of course it is, I made it.”

Joshua hums thoughtfully, already uncapping something that smells faintly like vanilla and clouds. “Relax, Hao. I’m not touching the dress. Just the face. And the hair. And the general aura.”

“I do not have an aura,” you mutter.

Joshua pauses, looks at you through the mirror with exaggerated seriousness. “All souls have an aura. Yours is subtle, I’m gonna make it sing.”

Jun snorts. “Baby steps, Shua. She’s still my soul, I can’t have you breaking her.”

You shoot him a look. He grins wider.

Joshua taps your chin gently, tilting your face. “Eyes up. There we go.” His fingers are warm, grounding, and whatever he puts on you feels less like makeup and more like relief, the tiredness fading.

“Okay,” Joshua murmurs, approval soft but real. He brushes something cool beneath your eyes, light as a blessing. “This isn’t about making you someone else,” he continues. “It’s about making Jeonghan trip more than he already does.”

Your heart trips over itself. “He does not.”

Joshua’s halo tilts further, amused. “He’s been distracted for months,” he says casually. “Missed three meetings. Put his halo on backwards once.”

“You have to put your halo on?” You ask, surprised and curious by the revelation.

Joshua pauses mid-swipe.

Slowly, he looks at you in the mirror.

Then he looks at Minghao.

Then Jun.

“…Oh,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re adorable.”

Jun snickers, entirely unhelpful. “She’s still learning how the universe works. Got here not even three Earth years ago.”

Joshua resumes working, expression fond now, like he’s indulging a very endearing misunderstanding. “Well, I’m glad to help you learn. Halos don’t just exist,” he explains. “They’re manifestations, alignment markers. You earn them, shape them, adjust them. Some angels don’t wear theirs at all.”

Minghao snorts. “Thank god, that’d be a fashion nightmare.”

Joshua ignores him. “Most of us tune them before formal events so they don’t glow insanely bright all the time. Think of it like a mood ring, almost. When they’re on, they become an extension of our soul.” He smiles at your reflection. “Jeonghan forgets when he’s flustered.”

“He gets flustered?”

Jun coughs into his fist. “Frequently.”

Joshua laughs softly. “He once showed up to a meeting glowing like a sunrise because he forgot to dial it back. Everyone thought he was making a statement. He panicked for six hours straight afterward.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

Joshua finishes with your eyes, fingers gentle as he smooths the last of it away. When you blink, the world looks a little clearer—brighter without being harsh, like someone cleaned a foggy window you didn’t realize you were looking through.

“Okay,” he says, stepping back. “You’re done.”

He snaps his fingers once more and the vanity dissolves, chair easing you back onto your feet.

Minghao flicks his wrist, and a mirror glides forward, tall and arched.

You hesitate for half a second—then look.

You don’t glitter. You don’t blaze.

But there’s a soft glow you hadn’t seen before. The moonlight fabric shifts with your breath, catching along the curve of your throat, your shoulders, the line of your waist. The constellation threading pulses faintly, like it’s listening. Your eyelids have matching shine on them, softly bringing out the color, dark liner making your eyes pop.

You swallow.

Joshua watches your reflection, smugness giving way to something quieter. “I know, I’m amazing.”

Jun clasps his hands together, delighted. “Oh, Jeonghan is going to absolutely lose—”

“—please don’t finish that sentence,” you beg.

He laughs. “Fine, fine. He’s going to be affected. Now Hao, get me ready too, I spent my planning time doing this.”

Minghao groans as Joshua pats you on the back. “See you at the party.” Before stepping back through the Veil.

The Veil snaps closed behind Joshua with a soft, satisfied hum, like it approved of his work.

The room settles.

The light dims back to its earlier glow, intimate again, as if it hadn’t just witnessed a cosmic conspiracy.

Jun rolls his shoulders, already shifting gears. “Okay,” he says briskly. “Final checks.”

“Final—Jun, I haven’t even panicked properly yet,” you protest.

He just laughs as Minghao fits him in a flowy shirt and slacks, the fabric dark as a night sky, “You panic all the time, you’ll be fine. Besides, remember, this is exposure therapy.”

“I hate you.”

A few minutes later, Jun rests his hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Ready? Just kidding, I don’t care.” He opens the veil. “Come on.”

You don’t know what you’d expected Heaven to be like, but you definitely didn’t think it’d be a giant rave. Thousands of souls, cups in hands, a DJ booth run by a man with long brown hair and a nose ring—oh my God, that's Jesus—the music swallowing you instantly. The bass hits you square in the chest, deep and steady, like a second heartbeat you didn’t consent to. Light fractures across the space in waves: golds, violets, soft blues drifting overhead like clouds that learned how to dance. The air smells like citrus and something sweeter, ozone-laced, crackling with energy.

Jun lets out a low whistle. “Every time I come to one, I forget just how good of a party Big J throws.”

You barely hear him.

Angels and demons are everywhere. Some are wearing halos like crowns and others with them tucked away entirely, some demon tails flick around as they dance. There’s laughter layered over the music, glasses clinking, someone shouting lyrics badly off-key near the edge of the floor. A pair of cherubs zoom past overhead trailing glitter that evaporates before it hits the ground.

You blink. “…That’s Jesus,” you say faintly.

Jun nods like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. We all tried to get him to stop DJing since he sucks, but he refused. Guess he’s been practicing, last decade he was awful.”

“He’s—he’s remixing something.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And people are moshing.”

“Correct.”

Your brain threatens to short-circuit.

Jesus—Jesus—throws his head back laughing as he transitions tracks, halo spinning lazily above him like it’s also having fun. The crowd roars approval. Someone near you lifts their drink and yells, “PLAY THE GOOD ONE,” and Jesus salutes them with two fingers.

Jun nudges you forward gently before you can fully disintegrate. “Come on. Don’t lock up now.”

“I—wuh—huh?” you say, but your feet move anyway.

The moment you step fully into the space, the constellation threading in your dress responds. A soft pulse of light rolls across the fabric, silver flaring once, like a greeting. 

“Relax.” He leans closer, voice pitched just for you. “You’re doing great. You haven’t tripped, combusted, or thrown up. Strong start.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaky but real.

Someone brushes past you, wings flicking in apology. “Sorry!” they chirp before disappearing back into the crowd.

Another angel pauses outright when they see you, eyes widening just a fraction before they recover and smile warmly. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi,” you echo, automatically.

They drift off, whispering something to a friend, who immediately looks over and nearly walks into a pillar.

Jun’s smile turns smug. “Told you. We made you prime angle bait. Now where’s our big fishie…”

You can’t help but roll your eyes as he passes you a glass, sipping from his own.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Speak of the angel.”

You turn.

Jeonghan stands near the edge of the dance floor, half-shadowed by the lights, dressed in something elegant and dangerous in its simplicity—shimmering fabric that clings just enough, collar open, sleeves rolled back like he forgot to finish getting ready. His wings are tucked tight, feathers pristine, halo glowing softly.

Bright. Warm. Unmistakable.

He’s mid-conversation with someone, smiling easily—until his eyes lift.

And land on you.

The smile freezes.

The glow spikes.

You watch the way his breath catches, the way his posture falters like he forgot how to hold himself upright. His hand lifts instinctively toward his halo, fingers brushing it like he doesn’t realize it’s blazing.

“Oh no,” Jun murmurs, delighted. “He didn’t tune it.”

Jeonghan swallows.

Then—very slowly—he smiles.

He starts walking toward you and you suddenly become very aware of your hands.

They’re holding a glass. Why are you holding a glass? When did Jun give you a glass? You look down—something pink and fizzy, garnished with a slice of something you don’t recognize and a tiny umbrella.

Your grip tightens.

Jun leans in, voice a whisper of pure evil. “Do not run.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you hiss back.

“You are actively vibrating.”

“I am standing.”

“Barely.”

Jeonghan’s eyes never leave you as he approaches. The closer he gets, the brighter his halo glows—not blinding, but noticeable enough that a couple of nearby angels glance over and subtly adjust their own.

He stops in front of you.

For half a second, neither of you speak.

Up close, he’s worse. Better. Everything you try not to think about compressed into one impossible being. The warmth rolls off him like sunlight through an open window, the faint shimmer of his wings when he shifts, everything about him makes your face burn hotter.

“Hi,” he breathes out.

Your brain empties like someone pulled a drain plug.

“Hi,” you echo, because apparently that’s the only word you know at the moment.

His eyes flick down—just briefly, polite but not blind—to the moonlight fabric, the way it catches along your collarbones, the constellation thread that pulses faintly in response to his attention.

Something in his expression changes into something you don’t recognize, because there’s no way what it looks like is on the face of an angel.

Angels sin just like the rest of us.

Jun’s voice rings in your head, but you shake it away quickly. There’s no way.

“Wow,” he breathes, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache. “You look—”

He stops himself, lips pressing together as his halo flares brighter in a clear betrayal of whatever restraint he’s trying to maintain.

Jun clears his throat loudly. “Jeonghan. Your head is glowing again. Pull yourself together.”

Jeonghan startles, blinking, then groans softly as he reaches up and twists his halo down a notch. It dims—barely. Still warm. Still bright.

“Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed, then looks back at you. “I—hi. I’m really glad you came.”

Your pulse stutters. “Jun said it was exposure therapy, so…”

Jeonghan’s brows lift. Then he laughs—quiet, surprised, delighted. “That sounds like something Jun would say.”

Jun preens. “I’m a professional.”

Jeonghan hums, eyes still on you. “So then that’s the only reason?” he asks, eyes searching yours with a glint in them you refused to name. “I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to seeing you all evening.”

That lands harder than anything else tonight.

“Oh,” you say, because once again—no thoughts, just vibes. “I—uh—.”

His mouth tilts into a smile that’s gentle and teasing. “I’m glad you did anyway.”

There’s a pause.

Music thrums around you. Lights sweep overhead. Somewhere behind Jeonghan, Jesus yells something unintelligible and the crowd cheers like it made perfect sense.

Jeonghan shifts his weight, wings flexing subtly. 

Jun immediately steps backward. “I’m gonna go haunt someone.” He points at your glass. “Sip slowly. That’s stronger than it looks.”

“Jun—”

He’s already gone, swallowed by the crowd with a smug little wave.

You look back at Jeonghan.

He’s once again scanning you, eyes pausing every once in a while, hitching in certain places. His gaze snaps back to your face when he realizes you’ve noticed.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, sheepish despite the glow. “I don’t mean to stare. You just—” He exhales, soft and honest. “You look amazing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, nerves buzzing. “So you’ve said.”

He gestures vaguely with his glass. “So, what do you think of Heaven so far? I promise it’s not always this loud.” “It’s nice.” You respond, looking around if only to stop yourself from staring too long at him. The buildings are alive in a way you didn’t expect. Not marble and clouds like the paintings, but architecture that breathes. Towers of light and stone curve inward like they’re listening, balconies overflowing with ivy that glows faintly at the edges. Walkways spiral and reconnect, rearranging themselves subtly as people move through them, as if the city is making room on purpose. “Definitely different from Hell, that’s for sure.” He laughs at that, smile making your heart trip over itself. “Mighty high praise,” he says easily. “It’s cooler down here, for sure. Every time I go down to deliver, my feathers get frizzy from the heat.”

You huff a laugh, shoulders loosening despite yourself. The music surges again behind him, lights sliding across his features, catching in his hair, the faint glow of his halo pulsing like it’s reacting to your proximity instead of the beat.

“Do you wanna dance?” He asks suddenly, nodding to the crowded floor and extending a hand. “Or not, I’m totally fine with staying here and talking with you.”

You look at him for a moment before you place your glass on the ledge beside you and slip your hand into his. “Sure.” Exposure therapy, you remind yourself.

He guides you a few steps closer to the edge of the dance floor, his wings shifting instinctively, angling just enough to give you space, to shield you without crowding.

The two of you sway to the rhythm, bodies pressing closer to each other.

Jeonghan watches you for a moment, expression unreadable. “I’m gonna say something so uncool right now.”

You raise a brow, amused despite the way your heart is already starting to sprint. “Alright?”

He lets out a breathy laugh, then leans in just enough that you can hear him without shouting, voice warm against your ear. “I was really nervous to see you.”

You blink. “Me? Why?”

“Because you make it really hard for me to think, and that’s… dangerous.”

Your pulse stumbles. “For an angel?”

“For me,” he corrects.

The music shifts—slower now, bass smoothing out into something steadier. Your bodies fall into it without thinking, the movement small and instinctive. His hand settles at your waist, tentative at first, like he’s waiting for permission.

When you don’t pull back, he exhales.

His halo flickers brighter again.

“Sorry,” he mutters immediately, glancing up like he can will it into behaving. “It’s got a mind of its own.”

You can’t help the small giggle that escapes your lips, relishing in the way his cheeks tinge pink at your reaction. “Joshua told me it was like a mood ring.”

He tenses, “Oh god, you met Shua?”

You nod, trying—and failing—not to smile wider. “Yeah. He did my makeup. Said he was an expert at making you stutter.”

Jeonghan groans softly, dropping his forehead to yours for half a second like he’s bracing himself. “That explains everything.”

“What, I couldn’t make you stutter without his help?” You tease, feeling much more at ease with him flushing before you.

“Wha—no! That’s not at all what I—you make me stutter all the time!”

You grin, leaning just a little closer. “All the time, huh?”

“Y-yeah!” He sputters, voice cracking on the last word like it’s physically painful to admit. “You’re amazing! And I— you’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it, “Guilty as charged.”

He groans again, head falling back. “So,” he says, quieter again. “What else did that traitor tell you about me?”

You consider it. “That you forget to tune your halo when you’re flustered and you once glowed like a sunrise for six hours.”

Jeonghan winces. “He promised he’d stop telling that story! I was only a hundred, I didn’t know how to properly tune it!”

“You don’t seem to now, either.” You respond with a smile. 

He rolls his eyes, a fond grin forming on his face despite the pink of his cheeks. “You think this is bad? Be glad you didn’t know me back then. My halo is especially finicky, hard to tune right.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. The music keeps its easy rhythm, slower now, pulling the two of you along with it. You sway together without really thinking about it, movements small and instinctive. His hand stays at your waist, warm and steady, like he’s still half-expecting you to change your mind.

“Honestly,” Jeonghan adds, glancing upward as his halo gives a faint, disobedient glow, “this thing never does what I want when I need it to.”

You smile. “Sounds like user error.”

He scoffs, offended on principle. “Wow. I open up about my struggles and this is what I get?”

“Hey,” you tease, leaning in a little, “I’m just saying—maybe you’re bad at tuning it.”

He groans, tipping his head back. “I am not bad at it.”

“Mhm.”

“You don’t know what it was like when I was younger,” he continues, gesturing vaguely. “I’d get flustered and suddenly everyone thought the sun was rising early. Once, I lit up an entire hallway by accident.”

You laugh. “That explains a lot.”

He looks back at you, smiling despite himself. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “It’s kind of nice seeing you all flustered.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking to yours. “That’s your fault, by the way.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize I had that kind of power.”

“You do,” he says easily, then freezes. “—I mean. Not power. Just. Influence.”

You raise a brow. “Smooth.”

“I’m having a rough night,” he says defensively. “You showed up and my brain shut off.”

You grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good,” he replies, a little softer. “Because that’s how I meant it.”

The beat shifts again, something steadier, and he adjusts just enough to keep you comfortably in sync. His halo finally settles, glowing calm and even.

“…Okay,” he mutters, relieved. “There. See? Perfect control.”

You hum. “For now.”

Your hand reaches up before you can stop it, curiously brushing the ring of light. Your fingers barely graze it, but that’s all it takes.

Jeonghan makes a sound somewhere between a startled laugh and a choked gasp, his entire body going rigid for half a second. The halo flickers violently—bright, dim, bright again—before flaring a little too warmly.

“Oh—okay—nope—” he blurts, hand flying up on instinct, though he stops himself just short of pulling away from you. “You can’t just— you can’t do that.”

You freeze, eyes widening. “I’m sorry! I just—”

“No, no,” he says quickly, laughing now, flustered but not upset. “It’s not bad. It’s just— very sensitive.”

“Your halo?” you ask, trying very hard not to smile.

“Unfortunately,” he mutters. “Yes.”

The glow settles a little, but not fully, like it’s stubbornly holding onto the moment. Jeonghan exhales, then peeks at you from beneath his lashes, ears pink.

“…You’re curious,” he says, accusing but fond.

“You made it sound like a malfunctioning appliance,” you defend. “I wanted to see.”

He huffs. “It’s not an appliance.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

That earns a laugh out of him—real, unguarded—and the tension melts away again as he relaxes back into the rhythm, his hand returning to your waist like it belongs there.

“Did Hell not teach about angels?” He asks, head tilting.

You shrug in response, “I mean, the devils that greet you explain briefly? It’s more of an introduction to Hell, why you’re there, what you’re going to be doing and can expect for your eternity. That sort of thing. Joshua did say that when the halo is on it’s like an extension of the soul, but that’s as much as I know.”

He hums, swaying with you, “Guess you’re pretty clueless then.”

You scoff softly. “I know the important stuff.”

“Well, for the record,” he adds, casual but not quite, “most angels would’ve freaked out way more than I did if you touched their halo without asking.”

“Noted. Won’t do it again.” You say, looking up at him. “What other advice do you have that they didn’t cover in the ‘Welcome to Hell’ presentation?”

He snorts quietly. “Wow. You guys get a presentation?”

“PowerPoint,” you deadpan. “Very informative. What, people that get into heaven don’t?”

“Nope, we give interactive tours. Guess those wouldn’t be as fun in Hell…” he says, head tilting to think about it before he looks back at you. “Okay—uh. Angel basics, then.” He thinks for a second, eyes flicking up like he’s mentally scrolling through a list. “Well, starting with halos,” he starts, glancing meaningfully at his own, “are very much a look-don’t-touch situation. Don’t grab wings. Ever. That will get you smote.”

“Comforting. Can I ask why?”

He makes a face, like he’s weighing how honest to be. “Because wings are… a lot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re an angel,” he says, then sighs. “They’re sensitive. Even more than halos, that's why we can’t even wear them under clothes or anything. It’s like… touching an exposed nerve.” 

You frown, looking at him, “So it hurts? Seems like a pretty big design flaw.”

He shakes his head, chuckling slightly. “That would be, yeah, but luckily it isn’t pain. It’s… intimacy.”

You can’t help the raised eyebrow you give him.

Jeonghan notices immediately, his smile faltering just a fraction as he backtracks, waving a hand. “Not— not in a sexual way. I mean, it can be, but—” He stops, exhales, then tries again, slower. “Wings carry memory. Instinct. Everything an angel is meant to protect, and everything they’re afraid of failing at.”

You go quiet.

“When someone touches them,” he continues, voice low enough that it almost gets swallowed by the music, “it bypasses all the barriers we usually keep up. You feel seen in a way that’s… overwhelming. Good or bad depends on intent.”

“So,” you say carefully, “Like a demon's tail and horns.”

He nods, “Yeah—wait how do you know about that but not about angel stuff?!”

You giggle at his guffawed reaction, music still pulsing around the two of you as you move. “Well, I asked Jun if I could touch his during one of our sessions and he explained it to me.”

Jeonghan stares at you.

Full stop. Dancing forgotten. Halo forgotten. Wings twitching like they just got personally offended.

“You— asked Jun?” he repeats, voice cracking just a little.

You nod. “Yeah. He said no, obviously, but he explained why first. I guess I probably should have assumed that angels’ were the same, but I wasn’t thinking, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, amused. “What else… Oh. Angels are terrible liars.”

You blink. “Really?”

“Truly awful,” he confirms. “We glow, our wings twitch, our halos react—there’s no poker face. If an angel says they’re ‘fine,’ they are absolutely not.”

“That explains a lot,” you chuckle.

He makes a small, wounded noise. “Wow. I feel seen and I don’t like it.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. “So all that glowing earlier…”

“Was absolutely not subtle,” he finishes, resigned. “I know.”

The music shifts again, something smoother, and he eases you back into the rhythm without really thinking about it, hand warm and steady at your waist. His halo dims just a touch—then flares again when he notices you watching it.

“See?” he says, gesturing up with a helpless little flick of his fingers. “Hopeless.”

“It’s kind of endearing,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His ears pink immediately. “That was not the review I was expecting.”

You grin, “I like it. Let’s me know when what I’m doing is working.”

He nearly trips on nothing. Not even subtly—his step stutters, wings flaring just enough to catch himself before he actually loses balance. His halo flashes so bright it’s practically tattling on him.

“Working?” he repeats, voice cracking in a way that is absolutely not befitting a celestial being.

You laugh, completely unrepentant. “Relax. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

“Mostly is worse,” he says weakly, pressing his lips together like he’s trying to manually will his glow back under control. It does not cooperate.

He exhales, then gives up, shoulders slumping a little. “You’re evil. For your information, I’m usually the smooth one.”

You lift a brow, amused. “Sure you are.”

He lets out an indignant little huff. “I am! I’ve been described as charming. Effortlessly so.”

“Mhm,” you hum, unconvinced. “By who?”

Jeonghan opens his mouth, then closes it. His halo flickers like it’s buffering.

“…That’s not relevant.”

You laugh, the sound bright, and it seems to seal his fate. His wings relax instead of bristling, feathers settling as if they’ve accepted defeat.

“See?” you say lightly. “Not very smooth.”

He groans, dropping his forehead briefly to your shoulder. “This is what I get for trying to be educational.”

“You did great,” you tease. “Very informative. Five stars. Would attend the Angel Basics seminar again.”

He peeks up at you, eyes warm despite himself. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” you admit. “But only because you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

That does it.

His halo glows so bright it casts a faint ring of light over both of you. He freezes, mortified, then lets out a horrified sound before snatching it off his head, the glow immediately fading. “Nope. That’s it, you’re done.” He says to the little ring, shoving it into his pocket.

You blink. Once. Then burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” you manage between giggles. “I mean, Joshua told me you can take them off but I didn’t think you’d actually—”

Jeonghan keeps a very deliberate hand over his pocket, cheeks still pink, eyes narrowed at the fabric like it personally betrayed him. “Don’t,” he says immediately, half-laughing and half-horrified. “Don’t acknowledge it. If we all pretend that didn’t happen, maybe the universe will be kind.”

You wipe at your eyes, still laughing. “You yanked it off like it was a fire alarm.”

“It was tattling,” he insists, actively avoiding looking around at the other people on the dance floor because he knows there are at least a few staring. “Very loudly.”

He finally looks back at you, expression caught somewhere between mortified and fond. Without the halo, he looks softer. Less otherworldly. Just Jeonghan, warm and flustered and standing far too close.

“Wanna go somewhere quieter then?”

It’s a bold offer. One you’d never have been able to make an hour ago.

He blinks at you, surprise flickering across his face—then something warmer settles in.

Somewhere behind him, the music keeps pounding, Jesus keeps DJing, lights sweeping over the crowd, but his focus narrows to just you.

“…Yeah,” he says, a little breathy. “Yeah, I do. I could, uh, give you a tour of Heaven?”

You tilt your head, smiling. “An interactive one?”

His laugh slips out before he can stop it—soft, relieved. “I promise to keep my hands, wings, and detachable glowing accessories to myself.”

“That’s reassuring,” you say, amused.

He hesitates just a second longer, then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Not assuming. Just there. And you take it before you can overthink, letting him lead you away from the bustling party. You spot Jun on your way out, who gives you a wink you pointedly ignore. Either way, his voice rings in your head once again.

Angels sin just like the rest of us. You shake your head and keep walking. 

Jeonghan leads you around, explaining each building and their function. He shows you his favorite spots, from the gate to the small hidden garden behind the library. He leads you to a small staircase, the entrance gated off, a familiar eerie glow radiating off of it.

“And this,” he says carefully, “is where graduated souls come up after healing.”

His voice is soft as he glances at you.

He doesn’t rush the moment.

Jeonghan keeps his hand in yours, thumb brushing once—subtle, grounding—before he looks back at the staircase. The glow coming from beyond the gate is gentler than the party lights, steady and patient, like it’s waiting rather than calling. You let out a shaky breath.

“One day.” You say, not sure if you’re telling him or yourself.

He nods, smiling softly at you and squeezing your hand. “I believe in you.”

You turn to him and can’t help the way your breath hitches. There’s no halo, but the night sky above him still bathes him in an ethereal glow. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The air feels different here—thinner, quieter, like the world has stepped back out of respect. The glow from the staircase hums softly at your back, but it’s the look on Jeonghan’s face that roots you in place. His wings ruffle slightly into the wind, eyes scanning your face as you stare.

His gaze softens under your stare, something careful and unmistakably tender settling there. The wind lifts again, teasing the edges of his wings, and he adjusts instinctively—angling his body just enough to shield you from it without even realizing he’s done it. It breaks the last sliver of hesitation that kept you from reaching to him. Your hand cups his face before you can stop yourself, moving closer to him instinctively.

He freezes.

Not because he’s afraid—but because he’s aware.

His cheek is warm under your palm, thumb resting just below his eye, and for half a heartbeat the world seems to still around you. His wings flare instinctively, then still, folding in close as he exhales slowly through his nose.

His eyes flicker shut for a moment. He breathes out your name like a secret before opening his eyes. “I’m not good at doing things halfway.” He says slowly, gaze steady.

You don’t pull away. Your hand stays where it is, thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye, and you meet his gaze without flinching.

“Okay,” you say softly.

His breath stutters—just a little—and his fingers tighten at your wrist, not to stop you, but to anchor himself. The glow from the staircase hums behind you, patient as ever, but the space between you feels more real than anything else in Heaven.

“If we keep going,” he continues, voice low and steady despite the way his wings give a small, betraying flutter, “it won’t be casual. I won’t pretend. I won’t… step back easily.”

You swallow. “I’m not asking you to.”

That does it.

Something in his expression gives—not dramatically, not all at once—but like a door being opened carefully, on purpose. He leans into your touch again, just enough that your palm fits more securely against his cheek.

“Okay,” he murmurs, hands finding your waist.

You lean up and kiss him, soft, unhurried, and deliberate. It’s a careful meeting, like both of you are checking the ground before stepping forward. His lips are soft and warm, a little tentative at first, and you feel the faint hitch of his breath when he realizes you’re not pulling back.

His hands settle more firmly at your waist, thumbs pressing in just enough to steady himself. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just present.

For a second, his wings tense again, feathers rustling quietly behind him—then they ease, folding closer as he exhales into the kiss, letting it happen. Letting you happen. And when you press forward more, unable to help yourself, he breaks with the smallest whimper.

The sound surprises both of you.

Jeonghan pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead dropping to yours as if the weight of the moment might tip him over if he doesn’t anchor himself somehow. His breath is uneven now, warmth ghosting across your lips, and for the first time since you touched him, he looks a little undone.

“…That,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before, “was not supposed to happen.”

You smile softly, thumb still tracing the edge of his cheek. “Sounded like you didn’t hate it.”

A breathy laugh slips out of him despite himself—quiet, helpless. His wings give a tiny, embarrassed twitch, feathers brushing the air behind him like they’re trying to decide what to do with themselves. 

“Wanna end this tour by showing me where the angels stay?” You ask tentatively.

His hands tighten at your waist, grounding, careful. His forehead stays pressed to yours, wings shifting once behind him before he deliberately stills them.

“…You don’t ask small questions,” he says, voice low, fond, a little stunned.

You smile, nerves buzzing but steady. “You said interactive.”

Another soft laugh leaves him before he can stop it. He finally pulls back enough to look at you properly, eyes searching your face—not rushed, not greedy, just checking. Always checking.

“Okay,” he says at last. “Yeah, I can do that. Just, fair warning, it’s not exactly accessible. And uh, if you’re scared of heights, close your eyes.”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why would that—” You’re cut off by your own yelp as his arms tighten around you and suddenly your feet are no longer on the ground.

Your hands fly up on instinct, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders as the world drops away beneath you.

“Jeonghan—!” you gasp, the word torn loose in a half-laugh, half-shriek as the ground disappears entirely.

“I warned you,” he says breathlessly, voice close to your ear, far too amused for someone who just abducted you into the sky.

Wind rushes past, cool and clean, tugging at your hair and the moonlight fabric of your clothes. Heaven, from this height, is a living tapestry of light and sound. The party you left is now a pulsing jewel of color below, the music a faint, rhythmic thrum. Lights blur into soft constellations, pathways threading together like veins of gold and pearl.

Jeonghan’s wings unfurl fully with a smooth, practiced motion, feathers catching the starlight as they beat once, twice—strong, controlled. They’re magnificent up close, each feather is a masterpiece of ivory and pearl, catching the ambient light and refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows. His arms stay firm around you, one hand braced securely at your back, the other tucked under your knees like he’s afraid you might slip through the air if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

The landing is impossibly soft. There’s no jarring impact, no sense of hitting a solid surface. One moment you’re hurtling through the sky, the next, your feet are sinking into something that feels like the plushiest, warmest velvet you can imagine. It gives beneath your weight, then gently supports you, a solid surface that’s also not solid at all.

You blink, taking a shaky step back from him, your boots sinking slightly into the strange ground. It’s a cloud. You’re standing on an actual, fluffy, white cloud.

For a heartbeat, neither of you speaks.

Jeonghan lands a half-second after you, wings flaring instinctively before folding in tight and neat against his back. His attention snaps straight to you, eyes scanning your face, your stance, your footing—pure reflex.

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay, you’re standing. Good. Still standing is ideal.”

You stare down at your feet, then crouch slightly, pressing a hand into the surface. It dimples under your palm, warm and springy, then slowly rises back into shape like it’s breathing with you.

“…I’m on a cloud,” you say faintly.

“Yes,” he confirms, nodding once, like this is very normal. Then, softer, a little sheepish, “You’re doing great.”

You laugh—short and breathless, the kind that spills out when your body finally catches up with reality. “I died and went to Hell to work at the front gate, came to a party where Jesus was the DJ, and this is when it starts feeling fake.”

“That tracks,” he says, relieved enough to smile.

You straighten again, wobbling just slightly. Before you can even think to reach for him, Jeonghan’s hands are back at your waist, steady and sure. Not pulling you anywhere, just anchoring you to something solid while you stand on something very much not.

“Take your time,” he murmurs. “The clouds adjust. They won’t drop you.”

“They feel… warm,” you say.

He hums. “They’re alive. Sort of. Old light, condensed. They like visitors.”

You glance at him. “They like me?”

His lips curve. “They haven’t puffed you off yet, so that’s a good sign.”

You swat his arm lightly. He laughs, real and easy, some of the tension finally draining from his shoulders. Up here, away from the noise and eyes of the party, he looks different—lighter somehow. More himself.

Once you’re steady, he eases his hands away, though he stays close enough that your sleeves brush. “Welcome to the outer residences,” he says, gesturing around you.

You look up.

The cloud stretches wide, forming a soft, rolling landscape suspended in open sky. Pathways of denser light arc gently between small structures that seem grown rather than built—arched doorways formed of pale wood and stone, draped in flowering vines and glowing moss. Lanterns float at varying heights, their light warm and low, casting no harsh shadows. Everything hums quietly, like a held breath.

“This is where you live?” you ask.

He points toward a slightly elevated cloud-rise nearby. Nestled there is a modest structure with wide windows and a balcony that spills over into open sky. Wind chimes made of something crystalline sway gently, chiming soft notes that feel more like a mood than a sound.

“That’s my place.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say.

He shrugs, but there’s pride there too. “It’s quiet. I like quiet.”

You glance back at him, at the careful way he’s standing, like he’s trying very hard not to assume anything. “So, you gonna finish the tour?”

He studies you for a moment, really studies you, like he’s committing the way the light hits your face to memory. The breeze tugs gently at his sleeves, teasing a few loose feathers at the edge of his wings. The cloud beneath you both shifts, patient, waiting.

“Yeah,” he says finally, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah, I am.”

He offers his hand again, palm up this time instead of fingers-first—an invitation that lets you choose how close you want to be. When you take it, his fingers curl around yours with quiet certainty, warm and grounding. As you walk, the cloud firms beneath your steps, responding to your weight like it’s learned you now. The lanterns drift aside as you pass, lights dimming just a touch, as if respecting the quiet. Somewhere nearby, water trickles—there’s a stream, impossibly suspended, winding its way through the cloudscape like a ribbon of glass.

When you finally reach his house, he simply steps through the cloud, hand in yours as he pulls you in.

“That seems like a terrible design. What if someone just walks thro…” your voice trails off as you look around. 

The first thing you notice is the scent—rain, clean linen, and something warm, uniquely him. It’s the same scent you’ve come to associate with his presence, but here, it’s woven into the very fabric of the space. The room is circular and cozy, a perfect, private sanctuary. The walls aren’t walls at all, but the slow, swirling fluff of the cloud. 

There’s no grand, opulent furniture, just a large, plush bed piled high with soft-looking cream-colored blankets, and a low table made of a single, polished piece of glass that reflects the light differently at every angle. Books are stacked in neat, precarious towers on the floor, their spines worn with use. It’s less like a divine dwelling and more like the home of someone who loves comfort and quiet stories.

“…They don’t,” Jeonghan says quietly, a note of amusement threading through his voice as he watches you take it all in. “Walk through, I mean. The cloud only opens for me.”

You glance back at him. “Convenient.”

“Selective,” he corrects gently. “It responds to intent.”

That earns him a look. “So if someone wanted to intrude—”

“They’d bounce,” he says, lips twitching. “Undignified. Very funny to watch.”

You laugh softly, turning in a slow circle as your boots sink just a fraction into the cloud-floor. The space feels insulated from everything else—no distant music, no echo of the party, no sense of being observed. Just quiet, wrapped around you like a held breath.

“So.” You say quietly, walking up to him. He steps back slightly, wings ruffling when his knees hit the back of the bed and he falls down, sitting on it. You stand above him, looking at the way the soft light frames his delicate features, your own eyes wandering over him. “I keep thinking about this thing Jun told me.” You say.

Jeonghan blinks as the mattress dips beneath him, hands bracing automatically at his sides. The cloud-bed gives a soft, accommodating bounce, like it’s amused by the turn of events.

“…Oh?” he says, tilting his head up to look at you. From this angle, the light catches in his eyes differently—warmer, less celestial, more him. “Jun tells a lot of things. Statistically, half of them are designed to cause trouble.”

Your lips curve. “That tracks.”

You take another small step closer. The cloud-floor firms beneath your boots as if it’s paying attention, narrowing the distance until your knees brush his. He doesn’t move away. If anything, his wings shift subtly, feathers settling closer to his back to give you space.

“What did he say?” Jeonghan asks, voice light—but there’s a thread of curiosity there, too, woven nerves and excitement.

You study him for a moment, deliberately not answering right away. The way his hands flex once against the blankets. The way his breath slows when he realizes you’re not rushing.

“He said,” you begin, “that angels sin just like the rest of us. That the only difference between those in Heaven and Hell is how we chose to hold onto those sins.”

He gulps slightly, eyes glazing as he looks up at you. His fingers curl slightly into the blankets beneath him, knuckles pressing into the soft cloud-bed as he exhales through his nose. You don’t back up. You let the closeness exist.

“Angels sin,” Jeonghan continues plainly. “All the time. Wanting. Choosing. Crossing lines and then crossing them again because the first time taught us something.”

The cloud beneath your feet firms, reacting to the weight of the moment. The air feels warmer now, heavier, charged with awareness.

“We don’t fall for that,” he adds, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your gaze. “We fall when we pretend we didn’t mean it. When we cling to the guilt instead of the choice.”

Your breath catches.

“So sin’s not the problem,” you murmur. “Attachment is.”

A slow smile curves his mouth—dangerous, fond, a little too honest.

“Exactly.”

He shifts on the bed, the movement deliberate. One knee angles closer, closing what little space remains between you. His hand comes to rest on your thigh—not tentative, not apologetic. Warm. Grounded. Real.

“I’ve sinned,” he says quietly. “And then I owned it. Accepted it. Let it shape me instead of rot me.”

His thumb presses once, slow, controlled. Heat blooms where he touches you.

“This?” he adds, gaze dropping for a heartbeat before lifting again. “This isn’t dangerous because it exists.”

The cloud-walls pulse softly, responding like a held breath.

“It’s only dangerous if I deny that I want it.”

You swallow, pulse loud in your ears. “And do you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looks at you—really looks. The careful distance he’s kept until now finally cracks, revealing something hotter beneath the restraint.

“Yes,” he says. Simple. Unflinching.

His grip tightens just slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to be unmistakable.

“And the difference,” he continues, voice rougher now, “is that I’m not pretending this is an accident. Or a mistake. Or something I’ll repent instead of understand.”

Silence stretches, electric and taut.

Jeonghan tilts his head, breath warm now, close enough that you feel it.

“So if you’re worried about me falling,” he murmurs, “don’t be.”

A beat.

“I know exactly what I’m choosing.”

You let your hands rest on his shoulders, his grip tightening on your thighs as you lean down and press your lips to his.

The kiss lands slow—but it’s anything but tentative.

Jeonghan inhales sharply against your mouth, the sound breaking free before he can stop it. For half a heartbeat he stays still, like he’s savoring the choice of it—then his hands tighten on your thighs, not pulling you down, not pushing you away. Just anchoring. Claiming the moment without stealing it.

His lips move against yours with intent now. Warm. Controlled. Heated in that devastating way that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and is doing it anyway.

The cloud-bed responds instantly, dipping under his shifting weight as he leans into the kiss, one wing flaring halfway before he reins it in with visible effort. Feathers rustle, betraying him even as his mouth stays steady, deliberate, unhurried.

You feel the tension in him—not resistance, but containment. Want held with practiced care.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours. His breath is uneven now, brushing your lips. Your hand trails lower as he scoots back on the bed, letting you crawl into the space above him. You kiss him again, bruising and heated, causing him to gasp slightly, his hands finding your waist like he needs it to anchor himself. Your leg presses between his thighs and he ruts into it needily.

Your hand pauses just above his wing, the feathers ruffled and twitching. “May I?” You ask softly.

It’s almost funny how easily he switched from reassuring to desperate, nodding so quickly you think he might get whiplash. 

“Yes,” he breathes, like the word has been waiting in him.

You smile faintly at that—at how easily the careful angel fractures when you ask instead of take. You shift to sit comfortably, straddling him as your fingers slide closer, slow enough that he can stop you at any point. He doesn’t.

When you touch his wing, it’s nothing like you expect.

Warm. Silken. Alive beneath your hand, feathers shivering in response like they recognize intention as much as contact. Jeonghan sucks in a breath so sharp it almost sounds like a laugh, his head tipping back against the pillows as his wings flare reflexively before settling again, tight with effort.

“Oh,” he moans softly, helpless and reverent all at once.

You slide your fingers over the soft surface, watching how he shivers, eyes fluttering shut.

Your touch stays reverent, exploratory—fingers gliding along the curve of his wing where the feathers are finest, thinnest, almost translucent at the edges. They tremble under your hand like they’re alive to more than just pressure, like they’re listening.

Jeonghan lets out a shaky breath, chest rising sharply beneath you. His hands tighten at your waist, then loosen again, like he’s reminding himself he doesn’t need to hold on so hard.

“That’s—fuck,” he breathes out shakily, eyes still closed. “Don’t usually let people touch them, even when I—ahh.”

The admission hangs between you, fragile and warm.

You still immediately, palm resting lightly where it is. “Do you want me to stop?”

His eyes snap open at that, frantic and dark.

“No,” he says quickly, quiet but sure. “Please don’t stop.”

You move again, slower still, fingers barely grazing the feathers at first like you’re testing the air around a flame. The reaction is immediate. His wing shivers hard, the motion rippling up his back and into his shoulders like you struck a live wire.

Jeonghan gasps, sharp and quiet, eyes flying open.

“Oh—” he swallows. “Just— yeah. Like that.”

You adjust instantly, easing your touch until it’s reverent again, palm warm, fingers tracing instead of pressing. The wing settles under your hand, still trembling, but no longer startled. His hands slide up your back without thinking, fingers spreading like he needs the contact to ground what you’re stirring loose. His wings flare again, wider this time, before he reins them in with effort, jaw tightening. When you smooth his wings out below him, not letting him pull them back, instead fully extending them and letting your fingertips brush over the sensitive quills, his back arches up as he whines, eyes tearing up slightly.

“Oh fuck.” His eyes squeeze shut, hips pressing up into yours as he whimpers.

The sound is wrecked, beautiful, and it goes straight to your core. His wings, now fully extended and pinned beneath your careful hands, are a canvas of ivory and pearl, trembling with a life of their own. Each quill you brush sends a visible shudder through him. His hips press up again, a slow, deliberate grind against you that’s less about seeking friction and more about grounding the pleasure that’s threatening to unspool him completely.

“Look at me,” you murmur, your voice a low command that’s somehow softer than a request.

It takes him a moment, his eyelids fluttering, lashes dark with moisture. When he finally opens his eyes, they’re hazy, unfocused, the celestial light in them drowned in pure, unadulterated need. He’s looking at you, but it’s like he’s seeing you through a haze of sensation, his entire world narrowed to the points of contact where your skin meets his.

“Please,” he whispers, the word cracking in the middle. It’s not a plea for you to stop. It’s a plea for more, for anything, for everything. His hands, which had been resting on your back, now grip the fabric of your dress, knuckles white. He’s holding on, but you’re not sure if he’s holding on to you or to his last shred of control.

You give him a small, knowing smile and lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. “Please what, Jeonghan?”

He makes a sound that’s caught between a groan and a sob, his head turning into the crook of your neck, hiding his face against your skin. His breath is hot and ragged. “More. F-feels good.”

The permission hangs in the air, thick and electric. It’s the final lock clicking open. You straighten up, shifting your weight, and the movement presses you more firmly against the hard line of his cock straining against his pants. He chokes on a breath, his entire body going rigid for a second before melting back into the plush cloud-bed.

You don’t ask again. You let your hands become bolder, your fingers stroking down the length of his wings with firm, sure pressure, from the joint where they meet his back all the way to the delicate, tapered tips. His reaction is instantaneous and visceral. A loud, unabashed moan tears from his throat as his back bows off the bed, his wings flexing hard under your touch. The feathers ripple, a wave of white and gold, and you can feel the powerful muscles beneath them, straining and trembling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, the words muffled against your shoulder. His hips begin to move in a desperate, stuttering rhythm, seeking relief against the seam of your jeans. “That’s—right there. Oh, God—”

You find the spot he means, a sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath the surface near the joint, and you press into it with your thumb. He cries out, sharp and loud, his wings flaring wide with a snap that sends a gust of air through the room. His grip on your dress tightens, and you feel the moment he gives in completely. The careful, controlled angel is gone, replaced by this creature of pure feeling, writhing beneath you, lost to the pleasure you’re giving him.

His hands slide down your back, past your waist, to grip your ass, pulling you down harder against him. The new angle is perfect, and he grinds up into you with a renewed urgency, his breath coming in harsh pants. You tease the area again, kissing him softly.

The kiss is a stark contrast to the desperate energy thrumming between you. It’s soft, almost chaste, a gentle press of your lips against his that makes him whimper into your mouth. It’s a tease, a promise, and it unravels him completely. His hips jerk up, a frantic, uncoordinated grind against your core as he chases the friction you’re so generously providing. The sound he makes is broken, needy, a raw noise of pure want that has your own arousal spiking, sharp and sudden.

You pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you murmur, your voice a low, husky whisper. “All fucked out and desperate.”

He whines, a high, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and tries to chase your mouth for another kiss. You deny him, pulling back slightly, and his eyes flutter open, dark and pleading. “Please,” he begs again, the word a ragged exhale. “Please, I can’t—”

“Shhh,” you soothe, your thumb pressing into that sensitive bundle of nerves again, circling it slowly. His back arches, a beautiful, taut bow of pleasure, and his wings shudder violently, feathers rustling against the cloud-bed. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”

You lean down, but instead of his lips, you press your mouth to the sharp line of his jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. You can feel his pulse hammering against your lips, a frantic, wild rhythm that matches the stuttering of his hips. You nip gently at the skin just above his collarbone, and he cries out, his hands tightening on your ass, pulling you impossibly closer.

The friction is intoxicating. You can feel the heat of him through your dress, the hard, thick length of his cock pressing against you, and you rock your hips in time with his, meeting his desperate rhythm with one of your own. The pressure builds, a slow, sweet ache that coils low in your belly.

“God, you feel so good,” he gasps, his head thrown back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His wings are spread wide now, a magnificent, trembling backdrop to his pleasure. “So fucking good. I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” you command, your voice firm but gentle. You slow your movements, your hips stilling against his, and your thumb easing its pressure on his wing. He whimpers in protest, a desperate, frustrated sound, but you soothe him with another soft kiss. “Not until I say so.”

He looks at you, his eyes wide and dazed, a flicker of understanding cutting through the haze of pleasure. He nods, a jerky, submissive motion, and you reward him with a slow, deliberate grind of your hips. He moans, his body melting back into the bed, his hands loosening their grip on your ass as he surrenders completely to your control.

“Good boy,” you praise, and the words seem to go straight to his cock. He shudders, a full-body wave of pleasure, and you can feel a fresh wave of heat emanating from him. You smile, a slow, predatory curve of your lips, and lean back down to your work. “Now, let’s see if we can make you sing, angel.”

You don’t give him a chance to catch his breath. Your hands, which had been resting on his wings, begin to move with renewed purpose. You trace the powerful muscles at the base, feeling the way they jump and quiver under your touch. Your other hand slides up his chest, fingers splaying over the rapid, frantic beat of his heart.

You lean down and press your lips to the hollow of his throat, right over his racing pulse. You don’t kiss him gently this time. You suck, hard, a bruising, claiming pressure that pulls a ragged gasp from his lips. His hips buck up against you, a desperate, involuntary movement, and you reward him by grinding down, a slow, torturous circle that has him seeing stars.

Your mouth moves lower, trailing hot, wet kisses down his chest. You can feel the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, taste the salt and the unique, clean scent that is purely him. You find a flat, sensitive nipple and take it between your teeth, biting down just enough to make him cry out. The sound is sharp, broken, and utterly perfect.

“Fuck!” he shouts, his hands flying up to tangle in your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. His wings flap once, a clumsy, uncontrolled movement that sends a soft breeze through the room, ruffling your hair. “Please, please, please…”

You soothe the sting with your tongue, laving the abused nub until he’s whimpering, his body a taut, trembling bow of need. You give the other nipple the same treatment, your teeth scraping, your tongue soothing, until he’s a writhing, incoherent mess beneath you. His hips are moving constantly now, a desperate, seeking rhythm against your core, and you can feel your own control beginning to fray.

You sit up, straddling his waist, and look down at him. He’s a wreck. His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen and red, his cheeks are flushed a deep, pretty pink, and his eyes… his eyes are dark, dazed, and fixed on you with an expression of utter, worshipful devotion. A dark mark is already blooming on his throat, a testament to your possession, and the sight of it sends a primal thrill through you.

“Please,” he whispers again, his voice hoarse and broken. “I need… I need…”

He can’t finish the sentence, but you know what he needs. You know what he’s begging for. You smile, a slow, wicked curve of your lips, and reach for the hem of your dress. You pull it over your head in one smooth, deliberate motion, tossing it aside (you’ll apologize to Minghao later). His eyes go wide, his breath catching in his throat as he takes you in.

His gaze drops to your chest, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His hands, which had been tangled in your hair, now move to your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of your stomach. He’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful, like you’re a divine revelation, a miracle made flesh.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a reverent prayer. “You’re perfect.”

He sits up, taking one of your breasts in his hands, testing the weight against his palm as he squeezes softly. The shift is immediate. The desperate, writhing angel beneath you stills, his focus narrowing to a single, sharp point of intent. He sits up, the movement fluid and surprisingly strong, his wings shifting to accommodate the new position. 

His hands are warm, slightly calloused in a way that surprises you, and they tremble just a little as he cups your breast. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated awe. 

“So soft,” he murmurs, his voice a low, reverent hum. He squeezes gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and the touch is electric. You gasp, your back arching instinctively, pushing yourself further into his palm.

A slow, satisfied smile curves his lips. He leans in, his gaze flicking from your eyes down to the peak in his hand, and then he takes it into his mouth.

The heat is immediate. His mouth is wet and hot, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he sucks, hard. A jolt of pure pleasure shoots through you, straight to your core, and you cry out, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair. He groans against your skin, the vibration a delicious counterpoint to the suction of his mouth.

He’s not gentle, he’s not tentative, he’s worshiping you with his mouth, his teeth scraping lightly, his tongue laving, his lips sucking until you’re a whimpering, trembling mess in his lap. His other hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, his wings flaring slightly behind him, a magnificent, trembling backdrop to his devotion.

“Jeonghan,” you gasp, his name a broken plea on your lips. He hums in response, his mouth never leaving your skin, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, pulling you down until you’re straddling his lap, your bare core pressed against the hard, thick length of his cock still trapped in his trousers.

The friction is exquisite. You rock your hips, a slow, deliberate grind that has you both moaning. He releases your breast with a wet pop, his lips swollen and red, his eyes dark and hungry. He looks up at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and something softer, something that looks dangerously close to affection.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his voice a low, husky whisper. “All for me.” 

He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing, possessive kiss. It’s a kiss of equals now, a clash of teeth and tongues that’s as much about claiming as it is about pleasure. You kiss him back with equal fervor, your hands sliding down his chest to fumble with the button of his trousers.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. 

“Let me,” he says, his voice rough with need. He makes quick work of his trousers, pushing them down just enough to free himself. He’s hard and thick and flushed a deep, angry red, already leaking at the tip. He wraps his hand around himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice a low, serious question. He’s giving you an out, a chance to stop this before it goes any further. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the war between his desire and his ingrained sense of duty. “I don’t want it to affect your progress.”

You answer him by reaching down and wrapping your hand around his, guiding him to your entrance. He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering shut as you press the head of his cock against your wet, waiting heat.

“It won’t,” you whisper, the word a desperate, needy plea. “Please, Jeonghan. I promise, I won’t be ashamed of it, won’t regret it. Please.”

He opens his eyes, and the conflict is gone, replaced by a raw, unadulterated hunger. He grips your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, and slowly, slowly, he pushes inside.

The stretch is exquisite. He’s big, bigger than you expected, and he fills you completely, a slow, steady pressure that has you gasping for breath. He pauses, giving you a moment to adjust, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice a strained whisper.

You nod, unable to speak, and he takes that as his cue. He pulls out, almost all the way, before pushing back in, a slow, deliberate thrust that has you seeing stars. He sets a rhythm, a slow, torturous pace that’s designed to drive you insane. Each thrust is a deliberate, measured stroke, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice a low, guttural moan. “So tight, so wet. You’re perfect.” 

He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more erratic. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a raw, primal rhythm that’s accompanied by your desperate cries and his guttural moans.

You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot of pleasure that’s winding tighter and tighter with each thrust. You’re close, so close, and you can tell he is too. His movements are becoming more frantic, his breathing more ragged, his grip on your hips almost bruising. His wings bristle around him, shivering and fluttering as he gets closer.

“Come for me,” he gasps, his voice a strained, desperate command. “Come for me, angel.”

The nickname, the one you’d used to tease him, is your undoing. With a final, shattered cry, you come, your body arching against his as waves of pleasure crash over you. He follows you over the edge a moment later, his own orgasm a violent, shuddering release that has him crying out your name, his wings flaring wide as he spills himself inside you.

You collapse against him, your body limp and boneless, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, a frantic, wild rhythm that slowly, slowly begins to calm. He’s still inside you, a warm, heavy weight that’s both comforting and deeply intimate.

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, your bodies tangled together, his wings a soft, warm blanket around you both. The room is quiet, the only sound left is the soft, chiming hum of the lanterns and the gentle, rhythmic sound of your breathing. Before you realize it, your eyes slip shut and you slip into a deep, satisfied sleep.

You’re awakened by a harsh knock and the warmth surrounding you bristling. When your eyes open, you find yourself wrapped in Jeonghan’s wings, protectively curled around you and pulling you closer to him. A deep, disapproving voice slices through the warm, hazy fog of sleep, calling Jeonghan’s name. You burrow deeper into the warmth, instinctively seeking the source of the soft feathers and the steady heartbeat beneath your ear. A sleepy, disgruntled sound rumbles in Jeonghan’s chest, his wings tightening around you like a protective cage. It’s a perfect, safe moment, and it’s shattered by another sharp, insistent knock.

Your eyes fly open. The events of the night before crash back into you—the party, the flight, the cloud, the bed, Jeonghan. Panic, cold and sharp, lances through you. You kick out, your foot connecting solidly with a warm, muscular leg.

“Ow—fuck,” Jeonghan hisses, his wings snapping back in surprise. He’s awake instantly, his eyes wide and alert. He sees the panic on your face and his expression softens, even as he rubs his shin. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just—”

Another knock, louder this time. “Jeonghan. I know you’re in there.”

“Shit,” he mutters, scrambling off the bed. He moves with a surprising lack of grace for an angel, his wings twitching anxiously. He grabs the plush cloud-blanket and tucks it securely around you, his fingers lingering for a second on your shoulder. “Stay here. Don’t move.” He yanks on a discarded shirt and a pair of pants, his movements quick and jerky. He runs a hand through his already messy hair, trying to smooth it down, but it’s a lost cause.

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and walks toward the wall of cloud. It parts for him like a curtain, revealing the stern, imposing figure of another angel. This one is taller, broader, with wings the color of a stormy sky and a face carved from granite. He radiates authority and disapproval in equal measure.

“We’ve gotten a report that you’re harboring a missing soul—” the angel begins, his voice a low, commanding boom. His eyes, a piercing, cold grey, sweep past Jeonghan and land directly on you, huddled on the bed. His expression hardens. “—oh.”

The angel’s gaze is dismissive, clinical. He looks at you not as a person, but as a problem. A piece of misplaced property.

“Jeonghan,” he says, his tone dripping with condescension. “You can’t keep a soul from Hell after their pass has expired. Get her cleaned up and out, you idiot. Do you know what kind of trouble you could have gotten that poor soul into?”

The words hit you like a physical blow. That poor soul. He said it like a knife, like you’re just another poor, damned soul. The casual cruelty of it, the way he erases you with a single phrase, makes your blood run cold. You see Jeonghan’s spine stiffen, his easy-going demeanor vanishing, replaced by a cold, defensive stillness.

“She has a name,” Jeonghan says, his voice low and dangerously quiet. “And she’s not a ‘poor soul.’ She’s my guest. We overslept, I’ll get her back to Hell as soon as possible. Don’t worry, Cheol.”

The other angel lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Her pass expired at dawn. She’s already missed her return window. Do you have any idea what kind of paperwork this is going to generate? What kind of precedent it sets? God, you’re such an idiot sometimes.”

“I’ll handle the paperwork,” Jeonghan says, his voice firm. He doesn’t back down, doesn’t flinch under the other angel’s glare. He stands his ground, a solid, unmoving barrier between you and the world outside.

“You’d better,” the angel sighs. “I swear, you can’t stay out of trouble for one century.”

You shrink under the angel’s gaze, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. You feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly alone. You’re a complication, a mistake, a problem to be solved. The warmth and safety of the night before feel like a distant dream, a cruel illusion.

Jeonghan’s wings twitch, a subtle, agitated movement. “She was with me. It’s my responsibility. I’ll take her back.”

The stormy-winged angel sighs, a long-suffering sound of profound disappointment. “You will. And you’ll be filing a Form 7-B for Unauthorized Soul Retention, and a request for an expedited return portal.”

He turns his gaze back to you, almost pitying. “Get her dressed. And for Heaven’s sake, try to make her look like she belongs here and not like she just crawled out of a gutter. The last thing we need is a scene.”

With one last, withering look at Jeonghan, he turns and walks away, his heavy footsteps silent on the cloud. The wall of cloud seals behind him, leaving you and Jeonghan in a thick, suffocating silence.

Jeonghan stands there for a long moment, his back to you, his shoulders slumped in defeat. The anger drains out of him, leaving behind a weary resignation. He turns around slowly, his eyes finding yours. They’re full of regret, of a deep, aching sadness.

“Don’t listen to him,” he says, walking back to the bed and sitting on the side of it. “Seungcheol is a hard-ass, but he means well, even if he doesn’t say it very nicely.”

Jeonghan exhales slowly, like he’s forcing the tension out of his body one breath at a time. When he looks at you again, the softness is still there—but it’s edged with something protective and furious he’s clearly trying to keep under control.

“He shouldn’t have spoken about you like that,” he adds quietly. “And he definitely shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

You swallow, fingers twisting in the cloud-blanket. The warmth that had cocooned you earlier feels thinner now, fragile in the wake of reality crashing back in. 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically, because that’s what you’ve always said. Because it’s easier than admitting it hurt.

Jeonghan’s jaw tightens. “No. It’s not.”

He reaches out, hesitates—gives you the choice—then rests his hand over yours. His touch is warm, steady, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

“You’re not a problem,” he says, firm. “You’re not paperwork. You’re not a mistake I made because I wasn’t careful enough.” His thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles, a quiet, soothing motion. “You’re someone I chose to have here. Remember, acceptance and forgiveness.”

That breaks something open in you.

You laugh softly, but it comes out shaky. “Right. Thank you.”

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time—but not suffocating. Just honest.

Jeonghan stands and moves toward a low table near the wall. With a flick of his fingers, fabric spills into existence—soft, elegant, unmistakably heavenly but understated. A simple robe, light as air, shot through with faint gold threading that catches the light when you move. He passes you a shirt and a pair of what looks like sweatpants.

“I’ll turn around, they should adjust to your size,” he says quickly, already doing so. “Take your time.”

You dress slowly, every movement weighted with thought. When you finally speak again, your voice is quieter. “Seungcheol said my pass expired. Does that mean I’m gonna get in trouble?”

Jeonghan shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he reassures. “All it means I’ll escort you back properly, and we’ll probably have to have a chat with the boss man before we leave about why you stayed up here, but it shouldn’t be an issue.”

The idea of admitting to Jesus that you overslept in Heaven because you fucked an angel has you mortified, but you guess it could be worse. You finish changing and walk forward, stopping just behind him. You’re close enough that his wings shift, responding to your presence like they always do. “Will this affect my progress?” you ask, echoing his earlier concern.

Jeonghan turns fully now. His hands lift, hovering near your waist but not touching. “Only if you let it,” he says gently. “Nothing about last night negates your healing. Wanting someone doesn’t undo growth. Being loved doesn’t damn you.”

Loved.

Your breath catches.

He seems to realize what he said a beat later, eyes widening just slightly—then he exhales, steadying himself. “I mean,” he adds softly, “it doesn’t have to mean more than it does. But it doesn’t have to mean less, either.”

You look at him—really look. Not Heaven’s errand boy. Not the glowing figure at the gates. Just Jeonghan, standing in a cloud-lit room, trying very hard not to hurt you.

“Walk me back?” you ask.

Relief floods his face, quiet and sincere. He nods. “Always.”

He offers you his arm—not dramatic, not possessive. Just an invitation. When you take it, his wings settle around you instinctively, not hiding you, just shielding.

As the clouds part to open a return path, Jeonghan leans in and murmurs, just for you, “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

And for the first time since you arrived at the gates of Hell, you believe him.

Epilogue:

“We just overslept, I didn’t mean to harbor her,” Jeonghan says, arms crossed, wings bristling faintly behind him. His lower lip juts out in a way that would be endearing if he weren’t clearly trying to look indignant. “And Cheol made her sound like a fugitive.”

Jesus looks between the two of you, then calmly sips from his mug that has World’s Best Savior in peeling gold letters.

“She stayed past dawn,” he says mildly.

“It was an accident,” Jeonghan insists. “A very reasonable, very human accident.”

Jesus hums, amused. “You’re not human.”

“That’s… irrelevant.”

You stand a little to the side, hands folded, trying very hard to look like someone who did not commit a cosmic faux pas. Jesus’ gaze slides to you, warm and curious, not judgmental in the slightest.

“And you?” he asks gently. “Did he tie you to the bed, or did you choose to stay?”

You choke slightly. Jeonghan makes a strangled noise.

“I— I chose,” you manage, mortified but honest.

Jesus’ smile softens. “Alright.” He sets the mug down. “Then nobody was ‘harbored’, nobody was kidnapped, and nobody is in trouble.”

Jeonghan deflates instantly. “Thank you.”

Jesus raises a brow. “I didn’t say nobody gets paperwork.”

Jeonghan groans, dropping his head back. “You love paperwork, don’t you.”

“I love accountability,” Jesus corrects pleasantly. “And teasing you.”

He turns back to you. “You’re doing well, you know. Healing isn’t linear. Connection isn’t a setback.” His eyes flick, knowingly, to Jeonghan. “In fact, it’s often very helpful when it comes to growth. I bet you learned some things while you were up here about how to stay properly, yes?”

Your chest tightens as you recall how Jeonghan explained sin and forgiveness. How he taught you acceptance in a way you hadn’t managed to understand properly before. Slowly, you nod, honest in your answer.

Jesus claps his hands once. “Alright. Escort her back properly. File the form. Get her some food on your way, she looks exhausted.”

Jeonghan brightens immediately. “I knew you liked her.”

Jesus laughs. “I like anyone who makes you this worked up.”

Jeonghan sputters. “That is not—”

“Go,” Jesus says, waving you off with an easy grin. “Oh, and run this down to Luci while you’re at it.” He says, tossing Jeonghan a file.

Jeonghan offers you his arm once more, quieter now, steadier. As you take it, Jesus’ voice follows you, fond and amused.

“And Jeonghan?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to oversleep next time.”

[sevandteaminathunderstorm]

[x-fag]

a good sailor will always return to the sea

[g5-iguazu-deactivated20240408]

Hard at work at the yaoi factory

[g5-iguazu-deactivated20240408]

They fucking called fujOSHA on us

[saintemiliosandoz]

doomed by the narrative and haunted by the narrative and a secret third thing (narrating the narrative)

[birdwizardofficial]

Wow 4th of July snuck up on me. PSA from a gun owning American to all other gun owning Americans: If you celebrate by firing your gun into the air you're scum and I hope bad things happen to you. Full offense intended: you deserve every misery life inflicts on you and any sympathy you receive is wasted on you.

Every year people get hurt and killed by falling bullets. I don't give a fuck about your opinion if you can't understand that every bullet that exits your gun lands somewhere. If you fire your gun into the air I'm officially better than you. If I could make it so that everyone who fires their guns in the air gets hit by their own bullets I would.

Your gun's not a fucking toy. Don't fire it into the air.

[sailorsoons]

Texas Sun (l.sm)

ASSIGNMENT: Outrider!Seokmin x f. reader 

MISSION DEBRIEF: Seokmin remembers nothing before the Station. Just the unending desert, the cobalt sky overhead, and kill any machine he sees. Then one day, he finds you and forgets everything he’s ever been trained to do.

LOG COUNT: 27,020

ASSIGNMENT TYPE: Dystopian AU, Futuristic

MISSION ELEMENTS: Angst, Strangers to Lovers, Smut

RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

DANGERS: Ambiguous world building, a bit of an unreliable narrator, depictions of intense loneliness and depression, depictions of hallucinations/heat exhaustion, intense combat scenes with machines, depiction of minor injuries, mentions of reader being held captive, some light social commentary on life vs. machine/what constitutes a Thing as Living, reader and DK are a bit awkward (they're never around people ok!!!!), depiction of blood/minor hand injury, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex (v awkward convo about this because .. you'll see in the context it makes sense), implied both DK and reader are virgins, multiple orgasms, a bit of a distressing scene at the end.

MISSION NOTES: This is an idea I have had for about eight months and I am finally taking the time to do it. I am so so excited to bring you this fic, and it has been so much fun to write. I hope you enjoy this very unique world as much as I do. This story is a bit inspired by Horizon Zero Dawn, Fallout, Zoids and The Creator. 

MISSIONS NOTES 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and leaving several comments telling me to stop writing for free I love you

MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷ NOW PLAYING: TEXAS SUN

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … EIGHT

AN ENDLESS COBALT SKY STRETCHES OVER STATION 0218. Always endless, always fathomless. Seokmin has never seen where the sky begins or ends. He doesn’t know if the blue is different in other parts of the world. Doesn’t remember if everywhere else the sun sizzles against the blue, a burning orange hole singeing its way across the entire expanse of sky before it sinks toward the horizon and turns the world purple. Pink. Gold. 

The days are hot, even when he manages to keep the Station cool. It’s an old, small Station, meant to only occupy a single Outrider. He’s been the only one that he knows of here. Just him, the groaning generator, the cracked sunpanels, and the orange dust. 

Seokmin thinks the dust is the worst part. It clings to every part of him, crawling into places he doesn’t know existed, never reachable, always there. It dries out his mouth, makes his teeth feel gritty. Burns his eyes, turning them red and raw and stinging. 

He can’t escape the dust. It’s everywhere. He thinks if he cracked open his chest cavity to look at his beating heart, he’d find the dust there, encasing the very soul of him. 

In an attempt to keep most of the dust out of his mouth, he’s pulled his cloth high up on his face. It hugs him just under the eyes, digging in and chafing him as sweat runs from his hairline in rivulets. Every part of him is dripping in sweat, the sun baking him through the layers of sun protection he has on.

This part he doesn’t mind so much. He stays hydrated, pumping cool, crisp water from the well just outside the station. The well is the only place the dust doesn’t reach, and he’s thankful, especially now as he paused to sip from a thermos, pulling the cloth off his face to take long draughts. 

In the distance, the Gods loom. They’re not really Gods, but he doesn’t know the name of the terracotta-colored mountains that stretch against the cobalt sky. They’ve watched him for as long as he’s been at Station 0218, so he feels like they’re the closest thing he’s ever had to protection of a higher power. 

Station 0218 exists in the middle of a flat desert, a few thousand yards away from the foot of a small range of mountains to the north at the edge of a dry basin. To the south, there’s nothing but packed clay, tall weeds and agave plants dotting the ground, and a tiny smear of shadow that he knows is a large limestone formation, cracked and crumbling as it bakes in the sun before washing out in the rainy season. 

It’s far past the rainy season now. The air hangs heavy and heated like the simmering air of an oven. He feels it when he breathes in, sees the shimmer of heat in the distance. Thirst satiated, he takes a moment to pant, wiping a sleeve over his sweating brow. 

There’s no fence to denote the proper perimeter of the Station, but Seokmin knows the property line even in the dark. He had to learn it, knowing that there are mines planted under the ground. While they’re only supposed to go off when triggered by a Dig Machine, they’re old and he’d rather not take his chances. 

For most of his small life on Station 0218, Seokmin’s days are wash, rinse, repeat. He does his scouting, he maintains the Station, he logs his day. He keeps himself alive. He kills machines when they enter his territory, which stretches in a perfect 20 mile radius. He still watches the land outside of that, sometimes catching machines traveling outside of their usual paths. 

Machines learn. It’s what makes them so dangerous, and is ultimately what had led to the Machine War. But machines, like humans, are creatures of habit. They know the shortest way to cross a barren wasteland. They move in the same syncopated patterns they always have. They are, at the end of the day, beholden to their settings, driven by an instinct they cannot always override. 

In a way, Seokmin feels like that. His life before being assigned to his post is blurry at best. They say it’s better to not remember and to reflect on all of the people you wouldn’t be able to see, that it’s better not to drift in your memories while you’re in solitude. 

So they take the memories, leaving only the training and instinct gained from preparing to be an Outrider and man his solitary post. 

This life is lonely. He tries not to think about it. Throws himself into his work. Scouts. Maintains. Logs. Kills. 

There is nothing else that he knows. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES OVERNIGHT, 72 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … NINE

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

The song plays throughout the station, backtracking the crackle of a hot pan. It smells like spiced chicken, oil popping. Seokmin hisses and snatches his hand back. Cursing softly, he lowers the heat on the stove, realizing it’s too high in an attempt to cook it faster.

The kitchen around him is small, but well put together. The metal cabinets are a bit dinged up and the fridge hums louder than it should, but everything works. Even the stove, which he had to rewire by hand a few months ago when it went out.

Scavenged parts and aging tech litter the counters of the living space just beyond. Faded schematics cover the walls alongside yellowing warning labels for the various tech inside the Station. A cracked touch screen interface blinks near the entrance, looping with various descriptions of the machines commonly found in this part of the world. 

Behind him, a ventilation fan clanks unevenly, blades ticking like a slow metronome. The overhead lights flicker as the general air conditioning kicks on and settles again, all while his favorite song backtracks the sounds of his everyday life. 

Seokmin hums along with the melody, swaying slightly as he flips his chicken. Cooking isn’t a daily ritual for him, but he likes to do it on Friday nights. Most nights, he settles for the nutrient meals the Alliance Against Machines provides. They’re efficient and protein rich, but they’re forgettable. 

So on Fridays he cooks a real meal to celebrate the weekend. 

It doesn’t matter that there’s no such thing as a weekend for Seokmin. He has nowhere to spend it. No one to spend it with. He doesn’t do less work because there’s always work to be done, and it doesn’t mean that he can ever drop his guard. 

The weekend is something he only has a vague concept of, but like this little ritual carved out of monotony: chopping vegetables, simmering sauces, using up fresh ingredients dropped by airship earlier that week. 

He cooks. He plays his favorite song, worn and warbling slightly through the old Station speakers. He pours a glass of wine. And he pretends, for just a little while, that he’s someone else. Somewhere else. 

And for a short while, the possibilities are endless. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 105 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

Alarms yank Seokmin from sleep. He’s already vertical and moving before he’s fully awake, body reacting on instinct. He’s halfway into his gear before he realizes it’s a machine warning. The overhead lights pulse red, strobing in the company room. It’s enough to give him a headache, the shrill and surgical blare of the alarm doubling the irritation. 

He buckles his weapons belt around his waist with practiced efficiency. The satisfying click of the holster lock centers him, grounding him more than the metal floor beneath his heavy boots. He grabs a rifle off of the wall, modded for heat signatures and pulse interferences that come from machines. It feels heavier than usual, but then again, he hasn’t had coffee yet.

He glances at the clock and curses. 0300. 

The screen in his bedroom flickers, blue text drifting across as a readout from the sensors scroll in. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … SKULKER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 095… 4 MPH NORTHBOUND

He grimaces. They’re not his favorite machine to eliminate. They’re built to blend in, to hide. Covered in chameleon plating, their panels are made with adaptive AI that uses sensors to replicate the scenery around them, making them near invisible. In the daylight, they’re difficult to see. At night, they’re near impossible. 

Seokmin will need to go into this blind with only heat maps to help him, but even that’s a challenge. PLEDIS CORP Skulker models made from the Unit 093 and up all have internal cooling systems to combat being detected on thermal scopes and readers, even with equipment far more advanced than what Seokmin has. 

Hunting them is difficult. The desert is vast, but not empty, and if he’s smart - patient - he’ll manage. Stealth is the name of the game. Though Skulkers don’t travel in packs, they’re one of the few scout machines that are designed to fight back, and he’s not exactly looking for a brawl with a heavy duty scout. 

Pulling on a lightweight mesh that will shield him against heat and a spray of light-ammo bullets, he thinks of a game plan. He pulls his tactical vest over the mesh, zips it up. Pulls a pair of clear glasses that flicker to life, red text appearing across the lenses as they calibrate. 

The glasses flicker and he curses. Of course. Skulkers emit low-frequency pulses that jam basic tech, and though his Station might be able to continue data pull and readouts, something as simple as his glasses won’t. He takes them off and throws them on the bed. He’s just going to have to do it without the help of the Station, which serves as his only companion in these fights, serving as a base and intelligence system. 

Stations are the closest that the New World will come to using AI ever again. 

Sighing, Seokmin goes for more analog tech. A homing beacon that uses radar instead of data reading sensors or internet signals, but will at least tell the Alliance where to look for his body if he dies - he doesn’t know if they’ll come get it - and glasses made for switching between night and thermal vision. 

He moves quickly now as the Station finishes the readout. The machine is ambling along, in no rush. Based on its movement, he thinks it’s scouting the perimeter of Seokmin’s sector, which most likely means the machine knows there’s a Station nearby. 

Seokmin will have to be extra careful. The last time he’d been caught unawares by a Skulker had nearly been his last, and the Alliance had needed to send extra medical supplies in his weekly drop from the passing airship. Not that they sent a doctor, of course. Isolation was Seokmin’s duty here. They’d just given him enough to fight off the infection and seal his wounds himself. 

Tonight, he’s not in armor to protect him, either. Wearing the heavy tech armor that is life-saving against Dig Machines or War Machines is detrimental against a scout. It’s too heavy and filled with too many sensors, essentially leaving him dead in the water to a machine built for scanning. 

Heading to the door, he powers down the Station to all but the reserve energy. He doesn’t need the hum of electricity serving as a beacon, and he doesn’t want any light giving him away. 

Outside, the world is velvet-black. The stars are scattered across the sky like shrapnel, the moon low behind the mountains, giving it a ghoulish halo. Shadows shift with each gust of wind, dust peppering Seokmin as he heads north.

If it were another machine, he’d used the speedbike. It would certainly get him there a lot faster. But Scout Machines are built to sense things at a far greater distance, and even though Seokmin has a scatterwave on to attempt to hide himself from the machine’s sensors, he’ll be more vulnerable tonight than he is with any other machine. 

Skulkers are designed for darkness. They wait, camouflaged against rock and plant life, listening and watching, gathering data to broadcast whatever they see, hear, and smell to whatever machine territories they belong to. 

During the war, they were scouts. Now, they serve more or less the same purpose, but there’s not exactly thriving machine territories to report back to anymore. After humanity had finally defeated most of the machines with a virus, there were very few pockets of machine society left. Most of them had fled to the west, forming small societal hives. Occasionally, they tried to re-enter human society, which is where Seokmin came in handy.

The desert night is a different kind of alive. Every one of Seokmin’s footsteps feels like a mine going off. The cold air cuts through his clothes, but it’s nice. The wind plays tricks on him, whispering through the agave plants and spinning up dust devils that look vaguely like human shapes. 

He moves at a steady, deliberate pace. After a while, he checks his watch. He’s about halfway to where the Skulker originally triggered the alarm system, so he crouches behind a dead scrub brush, lowering to a single knee to press the side of his glasses. They flicker to life and he sets them to thermal vision. 

A smear of colors appear before him, most of them various shades of blue and purple, indicating a lack of heat. Some plants are almost pink in nature, cool but retaining a little warmth from the long day in the sun. He spots a tiny flare of red in an underbrush - a desert mouse, nosing around. 

No immediate danger appears on the horizon. It doesn’t mean the Skulker isn’t out there. The thermal isn’t a foolproof system, especially if the machine knows an Outrider might be lurking around the night looking for it. 

So he gets up and starts walking again. Takes a sip from the small straw in his jacket that’s attached to the water pack lined in his vest. He keeps the thermal on, scanning the horizon back and forth, on alert. He thinks of the lyrics to his favorite song, missing the taste of the meal from last night and the sweet, cherry taste of the wine. 

The blots of red desert mice vanish at some point. Seokmin slows down his pace before dropping to his knees again, pressing the side of his glasses to expand his thermal reach. There’s no chirping bats, no singing crickets, not even the howl of wind here.

Heavy silence sits on him. 

Slowly, he scans back and forth. Then, just for a second, the terrain stutters. A barely perceptible shimmer of pink to purple appears several hundred yards away near the rim of the salt basin. It looks like a tear in reality trying to sew itself shut, there and gone again. Black. 

Seokmin marks the spot on his wrist pad. Swipes his fingers across it to zoom out and look at the overall map, despite the fact that he knows exactly where he is. He taps his knee and then pulls a pulse beacon from his vest. It’s tiny, barely larger than a marble, and he drops it into the brush before getting up and turning to the west, where he knows there’s a rocky outcrop he can climb.

He heads there swiftly, keeping his steps light, leaving the pulse beacon behind. His breath is coming in short and labored by the time he gets to the outcrop and starts climbing, eager to get in position and ready before the Skulker vanishes into the dry, cracked mud of the salt basin. 

A scorpion crunches under his boot as he finds a narrow outlet to crawl in. He grimaces. Feels guilty. He doesn’t like them, but he feels a sort of kinship with them, alone in the desert. Survivors. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, then slides down to the ground to lay on his belly. 

It takes some maneuvering, but he manages to lay himself flat. He braces his rifle on the edge of the outcrop and takes off his glasses to peer through the scope. 

The desert stretches before him like a graveyard. Silent. Still. Cold. 

Carefully, he taps his wrist pad to remote turn on the pulse beacon. For a second, nothing happens. He clenches his teeth, knowing that the signal to the device is struggling to go through. He does it again, finger tapping the side of his rifle. 

This time, it works. A green dot flashes on his wrist pad before he turns it to dark mode and turns on his scatterwave to hide any remaining frequency and signals from the tech on his person. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin levels his eye with the scope again, watching. At first, there’s nothing. Then, he sees movement. The pulse beacon has done its job. It’s not exactly bait, but the low frequency it emits is similar to the same tech humans used in the war. The Skulker, out of pure instinct, won’t be able to resist investigating. 

Seokmin watches, waiting for the movement again. For a while, there’s nothing. He chews the inside of his cheek. Feels dust bite at him as wind crests over the outcrop. A ripple catches his attention, not where he marked it last. It’s closer now, moving away from the basin toward where he left the beacon. 

Without the moon, Seokmin is in a blanket of midnight. All he can see are the blue shapes of plants and the occasional shiver of pink as it reforms, twisting faintly in the dark before it vanishes again. 

A thermal outline appears again. This time, lighting up red as a desert mouse catches the Skulker off guard, making it flare into a quadrupedal silhouette with a lean body that stands roughly two meters off the ground. He can’t make out all of the features of the machine, but he knows them by memory: elongated legs, an angular head with a sharp muzzle, glowing eyes that swap between spectrums, dangerous claws that can shred through limbs. 

The shape vanishes and Seokmin holds his breath. He slides his finger to the trigger, sliding his thumb across the safety. He feels the weight of the weapon in his hand, the coolness of the rock beneath his stomach. He inhales. Holds it. Lets it out. Inhales. Holds it. Lets it out.

A ripple appears as the Skulker crawls on its belly toward the beacon and Seokmin lines the shot before the glimmer vanishes again. He inhales again. Holds it. And squeezes the trigger. 

The crack of the rifle splits the night. The Skulker jerks violently as the bullet tears through one of its front stabilizers. Red and yellow explode in the scope as sparks fly off the machine. It’s not hiding now, colors violently glimmering. Seokmin doesn’t panic, flipping the scope to night vision. 

Bursts of heat and red are replaced with flat green. He can see the machine now, writhing as it lets out a scream - not a sound exactly, but something like a spike in air pressure, a raw pulse that explodes outward like a sonic wave. 

Dust blows in Seokmin’s face but he doesn’t flinch, letting it burn his eyes. The Skulker doesn’t need to use thermals to find Seokmin. It’ll know where the bullet came from and it charges, fast and erratic right at the outcrop where Seokmin hides.

He doesn’t panic. He tracks the machine through the scope, even as it zigzags, moving in wide, jerking arches that might fool a worse marksman. 

He exhales and fires again. The second shot hits center mass, cracking the machine’s chestplate. It falters, but doesn’t fall. Instead, it speeds up, closing the distance fast enough that Seomkin hears it now, all grinding machine and metal screeching against metal. 

It nears the outcrop. Seokmin reloads. Aims. Fires. 

The machine drops. He watches it through the scope, watching as the lights go out, the gears stop working, and the wires stop sparking. He doesn’t move for a long time. Machines don’t typically play dead, but he doesn’t like Skulkers. 

Eventually, he lowers his rifle and yawns. Wind howls around him and he gets up from his spot, muscles spasming, joints cracking. Slinging the strap of his gun over his shoulder, he makes his way down, hopping and landing carefully. 

He finally lands with a thud next to the Skulker. He toes the machine, squinting in the dark night as he looks at the bullet holes. They had torn through the metal, but he’s surprised to see just how thick the metal is. That unsettles him. He doesn’t recall this unit having reinforced metal but… well. He hasn’t come across one in a while, and he’s tired.

Instead of worrying about it, he leaves the machine there, turning to head home. He’ll go get it later when it isn’t dead in the middle of the night, and after he’s had a well-deserved cup of coffee. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … TUESDAY, JULY 2, 8099

WEATHER … PARTLY CLOUDY SKIES, 115 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An endless sky stretches over Station 0218. It’s hot and bone-dry. Tufts of clouds drift in the distance, curling the Gods' heads like frothy halos. It’s just past dusk, a bruised sky yawning overhead. The sun has vanished beyond the rim of the world, the last few streams of gold light fading rapidly. Wind stirs up dust around his boots, but he doesn’t give it a lot of mind. 

The work bench outside the Station is half-shadowed under a metal canopy. He’d welded it together from the metal plates of a Dig Machine he’d eliminated a few years ago. On top of that are solar panels that he has to dust off constantly, trying to keep them in tip-top shape to power the Station..

The bench itself is scorched and dark with old burns, gouges, and acid stains. He’s not a mechanic by trade, but over the last few years, he’s managed to figure a few things out - and keep all his fingers. It’s a reliable work space. Solid. Like everything else he manages to keep running. 

Now, he works on stripping parts of the Skulker. He removed the armored panels from the main body, which he had dragged with the armored truck there the morning after he’d eliminated it. Now, the carcass is nothing but twisted metal and a vague shape as he disassembles it for whatever he can use. 

He’s managed to start separating the fine mesh-metals that cover the panels of the Skulkers body. He doesn’t know if he can use it to sew into his own gear to imitate the camouflaging of the machine, but he intends to try. The metal is a strange material, almost biological in nature with butterfly-wing texture. 

The skull of the machine sits on the top of the work bench. The sharp angels of the snout catch the hanging lights outside the station. One side is blown open, the optics shattered and fused, but the other lens is intact. He leans in close, working a flat tool between the housing and the mountain plate, brow furrowed in concentration. 

It pops free with a soft click and he grins, placing the eye in the tray of salvageable parts he’s got going. He can wire the eyes of machines like cameras around the entire sector, setting them up so they run extra information for him. Scout Machine eyes are particularly useful, and he’s glad to have one eye if not both. 

Seokmin pulls off his gloves and flexes his fingers. They’re sore and callused, a few knuckles raw from where he’d scraped them earlier when trying to pry the mesh-metal off the armor plates.

It’s quiet in the desert now. No new alerts coming in, no scream of metal. No machines prowling. Nothing but the buzz of wind and the occasional hawk as it dives to catch one of the various prizes the desert floor has to offer. 

He wipes the sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist then picks up the disassembled parts. He stands, propping the tray against his hip as he swings his leg over the bench and heads inside. Crickets choir as he walks up the step, kicking his boots against them to knock as much dust off as he can before he ducks inside. 

Cool air kisses his sweaty skin. He dumps the tray on the kitchen table and sits down, melting into the chair. He’s tired, but he wants to sift through the tray of parts before he finally gives up and scrubs the sweat and dust off his skin. 

Heaving a sigh, he starts to sort through the parts. He turns on his favorite song, the guitar strums humming through his speaker, turning to deep vibrations when the drums and base set in. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

He starts sorting. Optics and sensors to the left, cooling coals to the right, screws and bolts that he can add to his collection for around the station in their own pile. He comes across a joint mount, thumb-sized and not out of place except - when he grabs it, it’s light. Lighter than most pieces that exist in the joints of machinery. 

Licking his lips, Seokmin turns it over a few times in his hands. There’s nothing off about it… no, there is. He brushes his thumb across something and squints, holding it closer to the light burning above his head. There are tiny marks on it, imperceptible lines where it’s been welded, like it’s been refitted with different metal. 

He sets it down. Stares at it. Grabs a tablet and pulls up his schematics logs of every machine ever built in the span of hundreds of years. He taps in the maker and the unit number, a hologram appearing above the tablet screen of a circling replica of the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

Chewing on his lip, he taps the parts section and narrows it down to all of the parts, items and exact details that make up the moving joints of the Skulker. Each part has the type of metal listed, the exact weight of it, the way it was built, the supplier - everything he needs to know and more. 

It confirms his suspicion that no part of a joint mount is welded, crafted by a factory machine in one, single metal piece. He leans back in his chair and thinks about it. It’s entirely possible that the Skulker is a veteran of the Machine War, one of the many machines serviced for being damaged in the fight. He doesn’t find that often, though, especially outside of the War Machines. 

Still, it’s the most probable answer. He can’t figure out another reason for a makeshift piece - like someone had fixed this - could exist. 

He suddenly remembers the armor of the Skulker, the way the metal was far thicker than he anticipated. On a hunch, he picks up his tablet and walks back outside. 

The sun is long gone now, leaving behind a midnight blue sky. The neon blue glow of the bug zapper casts an eerie light on him as he passes, walking down to the yard where the pile of metal sits until he can melt down what he can’t keep. 

Big plates of metal that served as the main body remain there, too heavy for him to lift over to the table, but perfect for being melted down for him to remake into something later. He squats, holding the schematic up and looking at the material used for the PLEDIS CORP Skulker. 

VANTACORE ALLOY. MATTE-BLACK. NONREFLECTIVE. 14.4 KG.

Seomkin looks at the plate again. It’s definitely not 14.4 kg. He could lift that easily. He puts the tablet down and slides his hands under the disassembled plate again. He sucks in a breath, and tries to lift it, heaving upward with the strength of his legs, arms rippling. 

He’s not weak by any means. Beyond needing to keep a healthy lifestyle to fight machines, Seokmin has nothing else to do but workout and continue to build his strength. So when he tries to lift the metal plating and fails again, falling on his ass with a huff, he knows there’s no way it only weighs a couple of kilos. 

Scrolling on his tablet, he opens a scanner. Taps the screen. A small light appears as the device scans the metal, doing a reading on color, size, texture and thickness. A proposed list of metals appears in order of most to least likely. Sitting at the top is one he recognizes: Obelium. 

OBELIUM. MATTE-SILVER. NONREFLECTIVE. 8.2 G/CM3 DENSITY. USED BY PLEDIS CORP AND HYBE CORP FOR…

The list of machines stretches on. It’s a list of Dig Machines and War Machines, but as he scrolls, not a single unit of Skulker is on the list. Which confirms his suspicion that this Skulker was modded. If his calculations are correct, the piece of armor plating he tried to lift isn’t 14.4 kg - it’s 88.8 kg. 

Strange. He’s never come across a modded scout from the war before. He supposes there’s a first time for everything, but his gaze lingers on the machine when he finally gets up to dust himself off, needing to log it. 

When he finishes his logs and decides it’s finally time to shower, it occurs to him how close to death he was the other night, assuming it had been a simple Scout Machine. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, JULY 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 118 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIFTEEN

The lights hum. Not loud, but just enough to make Seokmin aware of the silence beneath them. He stares at the bowl on the table. It’s rehydrated protein stew, thick and gray and flavorless. He wishes it was Friday and that he was making something he likes to eat, something with flavor. 

He wonders if he’s ever had dinner with someone before. If he enjoyed it. If he liked the way it tasted. Did he cook or had they? Has he ever sat across the table from someone? Laughed with them as chairs dragged across the floor or hit elbows while cutting into a meal? 

He doesn’t know. 

Sometimes, he imagines it. Pretends to hear a voice, something warm and teasing. Maybe they used to call him Min. Maybe they touched his wrist as they passed by, or said things like slow down or save me some. 

Seokmin has no idea if anyone has ever told him that. Or maybe no one has. Would he feel like someone had, if they had? Would he remember the feeling of it, if not the specific memory?

The Alliance Against Machines mandates that memories are irrelevant to an Outrider position, which means Seokmin doesn't even remember why he wanted to become one, or what inspired him. Memories make positions like this inconsistent. Dangerous. They make you miss too much of what you can’t have. 

But he seems to do that anyways - want what he can’t have. He wants what he can’t remember, wants it with a viciousness that sometimes feels so feral he doesn’t know what to do. 

He drops the spoon and it clatters too loud in a room too small, too empty. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, breath shaking. He doesn’t cry, because the dust has dried his eyes too much and crying feels like it needs a witness.

Seokmin has no witnesses. 

Just the humming lights. The silence. The blank nothing of something he can’t remember, but wants all the same. Just the same song he listens to, trying to find a gap in the ache of being alone.

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 120 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT, HEATWAVE WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

The sun is merciless. Every part of Seokmin bakes under it. Sweat pools at his brow, singing his eyes. He is soaked through with sweat, finally peeling off the shirt to reveal tawn, muscled skin. There’s no breeze today, just dead air baking the sandblasted yard of the Station, rippling heatwaves rising off the ground in varied distortions. 

He’s been out here too long. 

The casing he’s working on slips from his fingers again, clattering across the workbench. 

“Shit,” he mutters, voice horse. 

He blinks hard, trying to steady his hands, but they won’t stop trembling. His gloves feel too tight and his skin feels wrong. He stands, swaying slightly as he wipes at his forehead again, smearing grease with sweat. 

Turning to reach for a towel to wipe his face, Seokmin freezes. A couple hundred yards away, there's a figure. Blurred. Far off. But human. He stiffens, eyes narrowing, heart pounding. He rubs his face with the towel, putting pressure on his eyes before he drops it and opens them again, blinking.

Someone is out there, walking slowly across the simmering white, arms at their sides. They’re walking right toward him, not fast, but casual. Like they know where they’re going. 

Seokmin’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t know what to do. He can’t remember what talking to someone is like, what seeing someone is like. His heart begins to pound in a way that makes his rib ache. 

He takes a step forward and the figure flickers. He freezes, staring long and hard. The legs blur first, then the entire body seems to stretch, rippling with the heat. One moment they’re upright, the next, they fold in on themself and vanish like they were never there.

Gone. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. He feels the dizziness of the heat, the rivulets of sweat. He sways, feeling the way his skin goes from warm, to hot, to scorching. And yet he stands, frozen. Waiting. 

There’s nothing there, though. Just an endless wash of pale dust and scorched rock. 

Finally, he turns. Steps inside the Station, looking out the window as he cools down. His ears are ringing and he feels the tunnel vision come, like he might pass out. He stumbles to the fridge to get water, yanking out a bottle and cracking the top, all but dumping it down his throat as he gulps.

Then, for the first time in a long time, he cries.

That night when he goes to bed, he keeps the porch light on. 

Just in case.

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 95 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

The sun is lower today, washed in a pale orange haze that settles over the Station like dust. It’s been cloudy, shifting between pale grey to splashes of tangerine. The wind has returned again, blowing clouds fast across the sky and pulling at the tarp that Seomkin had put over grain barrels to keep the heat off. 

A cloud crosses over the sun and turns the world grey. He squints and waits for his eyes to adjust as he bends down. The ground here is flat and dry, baked hard. He sets down a bottle of water. A protein bar. A packet of dried fruit. Nothing more. 

He doesn’t think too hard about it. Just stands, brushing his hand off of his pants. His shadow stretches long across the sand behind him. He looks at the display a beat longer than he means to before he glances at the mountains - his Gods - and turns to walk back toward the Station. 

That night he eats in silence. It weighs heavier than it usually does, and like a bad habit, his eyes keep flickering to the window that looks out to the dark flat where he left the rations. Just in case. 

In the morning, he heads out. Sees the materials untouched and covered in dust. He brushes them off. Stands and heads back. 

Leaving them there again. Just in case. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ELEVEN

Seokmin bolts upright, heart pounding and hand reaching to rip his blankets off as the alarm cuts through the silence. The room flashes red, making him dizzy as he slides to his feet and stumbles toward his pants. The emergency lights stutter against the walls like a warning heartbeat. 

The screen on the wall flares to life. It makes him flinch, shielding his eyes with his hand until he can bear the added light. A feed of readout data scrolls on the bottom of the screen and a camera visual pops up from the perimeter. It’s coming from the eye that he had ripped out of the Skulker a few months ago and put it near the basin where it had been wandering. 

He scans the data feed first, reading as the words appear. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … RAVAGER … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 156… 25 MPH SOUTHBOUND… ADDITIONAL UNIT… BLOODWOLF… HYBE CORP… UNIT 234… 20 MPH… ANOMALY DETECTED… BLOODWOLF PURSUING RAVAGER… 

He frowns. He’s never seen anomaly detected. Stranger, though, is the fact that he’s never heard of one War Machine pursuing another. Machines do not attack one another. At least, not since the start of the Machine War. Prior to that, War Machines had been used against one another in battlefields and conflicts between countries, but a Bloodwolf chasing a Ravager? 

Bloodwolf units were deployed right before the machines turned against humanity. They were also the hardest to get rid of, savage hunter-killers designed for hunting down their prey and engaging brutally. They were meant to hunt enemies of other countries and then meant to hunt humans. 

Ravagers were also violent machines, demolition tanks to tear down front lines and break any obstacle. He’d never faced a Ravager before and always hoped he wouldn’t - there’s a strange beauty about them that he loathes to put down, and a deep-rooted fear that he won’t live to do so. 

Chewing his lip, he squints at the grainy feed as the shapes move closer. They blur in the darkness, the lens tracking their movements as they approach. The Bloodwolf is fast, four-legged, sleek and low like a predator on the hunt. The Ravager is swift but massive, lumbering with effort, trying to accommodate for something…

Seokmin blinks. Rubs his eyes. Watches as the Ravager runs past the camera. He immediately lifts his hand to press a button on the screen, opening the feed and rewinding it. Slows it down. The Ravager had been running fast, the Bloodwolf on its tail, but it had been running like it was afraid to sprint full out like it was afraid… someone might fall off.

Because there is someone on the back of the Ravager, bent low between its massive shoulders. A small figure - a human. For a few long moments, all Seokmin can do is pant. His breath comes out short, gasping. He stares and stares and stares, unmoving as he stares at the frozen screen. 

This is different from the person he imagined all those weeks ago when the heat got to him. This isn’t a mirage. This isn’t a trick of the lonely mind and aching heart. This is real. On the screen. Evidence in front of him that somewhere out there is another person. 

Seokmin lets out a curse and starts tossing clothes around his room as he looks for the suit he wears under his heavy armor. He almost never needs it and suddenly his hands are shaking so bad he can barely find it in the flashing red lights of his bedroom. 

He finally does, yanking the thin material over his skin. It glides, buttery soft but sweat resistant and made to keep him cool and safe from chafing under the hard plates of armor he wears against War Machines.

His fingers tremble as he flips the lock on the trunk he never opens - hasn’t needed to. The armor waits inside, silent. Matte black. Heavy-plated. Laced with segmented joints of high-density lightweave, flexible underlayer, and bullet-slowing surface tension. The surface is layered with a thin plating of Obelium and the inside is padded with shock absorbent material to keep him from cracking open like an egg on impact. 

It’s a suit, in a way. All of the armor pieces lock together, their mechanisms whirring and clicking as he puts them on piece by piece. The chest plate hums as it fully seals, the arm bracers hissing as they click and lock into place, flexible at the elbows, wrists, shoulders.

The helmet clamps onto the collar ring with a soft sound, and the HUG flickers to life, scanning his vitals, connecting to the Station, gearing up for his fight. Readouts scroll like ghosts across the inside of the visor, telling him the Bloodwolf and Ravager have now engaged.

He can feel it. He swears there’s a tremble in the earth as he grabs his weapons and extra charges. His suit is outfitted with minor artillery, but he has to open up the locker for this one, gleaming rifles and assault weapons, both with metal and energy artillery rounds. 

Seokmin is silent now. His thoughts don’t scatter to the wind. He only has a single thing in mind, and it’s getting to that person, getting to whoever was on the back of that Ravager. This is what he was made for - bred for, perhaps, he’s not sure. 

With the heavy guns in hand and fully suited, he steps outside. 

The wind is howling. It kicks up dust that he hears scraping against the armor, but it doesn’t bother him, for once. The moon slices the sky above like a silver wound, sand shifting under his feet as a signal beeps in his HUD display. Artillery fire. 

Seomkin runs. 

He doesn’t know how long he has. Doesn’t know if he’s fast enough. The suit gets him there faster, upping his power and speed beyond what he would be physically capable otherwise. It’s why they’re made for heavy machine battle only, invented in a time where humans had to fight machines up close and personal.

He’s never used one to fight. Never needed to. He remembers using them in training, in simulators - part of the training that he’s allowed to remember - but he’s never had to go toe to toe with something bred to kill him as brutally as a Ravager or a Bloodwolf.

And now he’s running full speed into the fray, the sounds of metal scream, explosive sparks peppering the sky like fireworks, all because of the chance there is a person out there. 

Nothing else matters to him but getting there. Seeing someone else. Knowing he isn’t alone. 

Sand kicks skyward in a blinding storm as Seokmin reaches the fray. The Ravager crashes sideways into the Bloodwolf, metal shrieking against metal. Sparks bloom, lighting up the entire basin. Seokmin hits the edge of the fight just as the Ravager slams into the Bloodwolf again, sending it airborne. 

He watches as the wolf-machine twists midair as it lands, claws rending the sand for traction. It lunges forward, opening its jaw unnaturally, barring rows and rows of teeth. The Ravager roars, a low grinding sound that vibrates through Seokmin’s armor. 

The Ravager shifts to intercept the Bloodwolf as it comes down. The shift reveals you and Seomkin’s heart thunders. You’re small, knocked to your ass on the sand. You roll away from the machines as they clash, the Bloodwolf hitting the Ravager with enough force that Seomkin hears and feels the crack in one of the armor plates. 

You start to get to your feet, slipping in dust and sand to put distance between yourself and the machine. Seokmin raises a weapon, his HUD connecting with the scope of the automatic rifle when he pauses, blinking unbelieving eyes as he watches the Bloodwolf leap for you.

He starts to shout a warning but the Ravager is there, blocking the blow. It takes one of the Bloodwolf’s taloned paws to the face, sparks and metal flying. The Ravager screams, shaking its head violently back and forth as it’s rendered blind in one eye. 

Shrapnel flies from the damaged machine. He hears you yell out in distress and stagger before falling to a knee. Blood soaks your side and you’re struggling to keep behind the Ravager’s bulk, letting the machine shield you. 

Move. 

Seokmin launches forward, sprinting at a full tilt. The HUD in his helmet paints live readouts across his vision, a swirl of machine signatures, structural analysis, and environmental factors. The Bloodwolf shows up red on his screen, agile, lethal, set to kill mode. The Ravager pings orange, engaged but defensive and critically damaged. You flash blue, entirely human and purple in spots where you bleed. 

He dives to a knee as the machines collide and roll away from you, the Ravager on top. It savagely attacks the Bloodwolf, swiping claws against metal, sinking its saber teeth into the shoulder of the other War Machine. 

Lifting the gun, Seomkin hesitates. He doesn’t know where to shoot, suddenly. Both of the machines are dangerous and to be killed with impunity… and yet he sees you on your knees, screaming something at the Ravager like it can hear you. Understand you. 

He aims his weapon at the Bloodwolf and squeezes the trigger, firing bursts of heavy artillery at it. He feels the vibration of the gun’s kick against his shoulder, feels the heat from the muzzle, watches as both machines startle. The Bloodwolf lets out a sonic shriek, knocking Seokmin backward. 

Rolling to recover, he curses when he sees his attack left both machines startled, distracting the Ravager, losing its advantage as the machines untangle. The Bloodwolf skirts backward, zeroing in on Seokmin as he rises to his feet, aiming. A ripple goes through the Bloodwolf and Seomkin’s HUD calls out that it’s engaged in a projectile shield. 

“Fuck,” he kisses. 

You’re on your feet again, but your back is to the machines. You look right at him, chest heaving, bloody and so entirely human that it nearly takes Seokmin right out of the fight from the shock of it. The Bloodwolf notices and goes for you again, but the Ravager lurches forward.

As though the Bloodwolf had expected the defensive mode, it pivots at the last second and sinks its teeth into the neck of the Ravager. The machine screams, metal grinding on metal. You hear the sound and turn, a look of acute horror coming to your face as you scream. Seokmin hears it and his blood turns to ice. 

You’re upset for the machine. 

He doesn’t have time to think about it. He runs for you as the Ravager screeches, limbs flailing and kicking as the Bloodwolf’s lockjaw engages, crushing through heavy plating and machinery in the Ravager’s neck. Warning signals light up along the machine’s body as it goes into failure, its savage attacker ripping at the rest of it with its claws, tearing it to pieces. 

You’re screaming when Seokmin reaches you, barely aware of him as he skids next to you. He realizes there’s a gun in your hand, his HUD picking it up with a readout: PLEDIS CORP… STANDARD ISSUE VOLT… CORE BATTERY DEAD…

“Come on,” Seokmin urges, voice shaking. He can hear his breath, feel the adrenaline making him shake. “Come with me.”

“I’m not leaving her,” You growl, voices savage, eyes wild and wide. Your voice is broken, not what he expected. “Zahra!” 

The Bloodwolf gives a hard jerk and twists the Ravager’s neck. There’s a loud crunch and the HUD in Seokmin’s helmet flashes as the Ravagers system flashes before shutting off, the machine going cold, nothing but metal and sparks. 

“Zahra!” Your scream this time is broken. A cry. A plea. 

The Bloodwolf lets go and twists its head toward you. The Ravager - Zahra, a named machine - doesn’t move. Steam hisses from its ruined chassis, and a guttural grinding noise follows as something inside of it whirs all wrong until it stops, leaving only sparks and twisted metal. 

It’s gone.

And then the Bloodwolf is climbing over the wreckage. You’re nearly doubled over in agony, hands wrapped around your middle as you let out a scream that Seokmin thinks will haunt every one of his dreams for the rest of his life. 

There are bigger problems, though, like the eyes blazing like twin suns that have settled on you. Seokmin lifts the gun, swapping from traditional artillery to energy, like the gun you had been using. The weapon hums as it charges, and he commands his HUD to fully charge the weapon - it means he’ll have a single shot. 

“Get down,” he barks at you. He doesn’t mean to be harsh. You don’t seem to care, ducking behind him and covering your head. 

The Bloodwolf lunges just as the weapon in Seokmin’s hand reaches full charge. He aims and pulls the trigger, feeling the intense kick of the gun and the heat as the world turns blue from the pulse of energy that cracks through the open sky between him and the Bloodwolf. 

A burst of blue detonates against the machine’s armor. Sparks, fire and something thick and black sprays out with it. He thinks it’s fluid or oil - maybe both. The force of the impact knocks the Bloodwolf backward and it crashes to the ground hard, rolling in a shriek of metal. 

It’s down, and somehow not dead. 

Warning lights flash across Seokmin’s HUD as the Bloodwolf’s stabilizers engage, grinding into the dirt to force the shattered frame upright. Its energy core is flickering but alive, pumping heat and power through ruptured conduits. It’s running on fumes and rage, clinging to its last command to eliminate. 

Fucking Bloodwolfs.

Seokmin doesn’t wait. He slaps the mag release, the spent cartridge ejecting with a hiss. His hand finds another on his belt and jams it in, resetting the rifle with a practiced snap. 

“Full charge,” he orders, voice clipped. 

It flashes red. 

FAILURE. CHARGE TO 60 PERCENT.

He grits his teeth. “Fine. Charge to sixty.” 

The weapon hums in response, power surging through the coil. In front of him, the Bloodwolf lurches forward, broken and staggering but still on the hunt. 

A greenlight flashes for the full charge and Seokmin fires, a steady stream of energy rounds tearing through the night. Blue-white flashes slice into the Bloodwolf’s exposed internals. Seokmin’s HUD tags each weakness and he shoots for it with deadly precision. 

With a final warbled howl, the Bloodwolf collapses onto its haunches. It stutters, kicking in death throws as Seokmin goes through a full round of energy again. He doesn’t hesitate for a second, popping the mag and replacing it, charging the weapon again. 

Fires. 

The HUD flashes. 

CORE FAILURE. STRUCTURAL COLLAPSE.

The War Machine shudders, a final convulsion racing down its frame. Smoke vomits from its shattered maw, limbs jerky. Then nothing. Just the hiss of burning fuel and the slow drip drip drip of hydraulic fluid onto scorched earth. 

Seokmin eases his finger off the trigger, lowering the rifle slowly. Only then does he realize his hands are shaking. And then he remembers you’re there, standing behind him.

Slowly, he turns to look at you. You’re crusted in blood and dust, hands trembling at your sides. You’re still staring at the lifeless Ravager, the machine you called Zahra. Silent. Tearstained. But you’re alive, which means for the first time since he can remember, Seokmin isn’t alone. 

The weight of it nearly drops him to his knees. 

“Are you okay?” He manages to ask. The words scrape his throat raw, feeling foreign and unused. 

You don’t answer. You just keep looking at the Ravager, and he sees it in your eyes. Grief. A grief that he’s carried for years, somehow, grief that he didn’t know until this moment he felt. The grief of realizing you’re utterly alone and that you always will be, that no one else will ever be with you again. 

And then you crumble, standing one second, gone the next. He barely catches you before you hit the ground, spent and unmoving. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 65 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The power flickers in the Station as Seokmin sets the med scanner over your chest. Bruised ribs. A fractured arm. Signs of energy weapon burns along your shoulder. He works in silence, moving efficiently as he dresses wounds and resets the fractures.

His touch is hesitant. He doesn’t want to do too much, doesn’t want to violate your space. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work or how he is allowed to fix you, just that he feels like he’s supposed to. He’s a trained medic, mending is part of his instincts. 

You don’t speak. Don’t even flinch, eyes fluttering in a fever dream from the pain medication dripping through the IV. 

If he’s honest with himself, he is afraid you’ll vanish, that he’ll wake up and this will all have been some strange dream, that this won’t be real. 

“Zahra,” you mutter.

He freezes for a beat. Looks down at your face, expression slack in fevered sleep. He doesn’t know why you keep calling out for the War Machine, but the way it leaves your lips makes him think you had some sort of relationship with it. That it was important to you.

He thinks back to how the machine protected you - sacrificed itself from you. 

And he doesn’t understand. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Seokmin hears the sound of the blanket before he sees you move. For a second, he thinks it’s nothing, just the wind outside or the walls of the Station creaking like they sometimes do. But then it happens again, followed by a gasp of pain. 

He whirls around, heart hammering. You’re trying to sit up and he freezes. He doesn’t know what to do, hands half-curled, hovering like he’s forgotten the steps of being a person. And well… he has. He doesn’t know how to do this - wasn’t meant to. 

And then he realizes you’re watching him. 

“You’re awake?” It comes out like a question, his voice rough and too dry.

You don’t answer. You just blink at him with wide, wary eyes. He’s not prepared for whatever this is. He knows blood and metal. Machine signatures and isolation. Not idle conversation and people.

“You’ve been out for a few days,” he says slowly, like he’s remembering how to shape the words. “I’ve been - um. Giving you fluids. You were hurt so I tried to help. Obviously didn’t get to all of it, didn’t want to like… trespass.” 

Silence. You look around the room, trying to make sense of your surroundings. He watches you track the ceiling fan, the water canister, the half-mended patch on the wall. You frown.

“This is my Station. Station 0218.” Your eyes drift back to him and he clears his throat, clarifying, “I’m an Outrider. I eliminate machines that cross back over the Edge.” 

Still nothing. Your mouth parts like you’re going to say something or ask a question, but the words don’t come. You lean back instead, slow and cautious. Your eyes never leave him, like you’re not sure if you’re really safe. That makes his heart pang, but he understands.

He wants to say more, wants to ask who you are. To tell you that he’s never met another person before. But it’s too much all at once and he doesn’t know where to start, so instead, he stays silent. Sits down on a chair far away from you, knee bouncing, fingers playing with that same loose thread on his shirt. 

The conversation starts with a question so soft, he swears he imagines it. 

“What’s your name?” 

He glances up at you. You’re propped on a folded arm, eyes watching him. Your blanket is pulled tight, like you’re cold. He reaches up to adjust the temperature in the room, trying to keep you comfortable. 

“Seokmin.” 

You nod slowly. “Just Seokmin?”

“Just Seokmin’s enough, I guess.”

You go quiet again. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to the silence. It’s the talking that challenges him, the putting together what he’s supposed to do and say. 

“Where are we?” Your voice stirs the air, turns it to static.

“Umm, Station 0218.”

“But where is that?”

“I’m not really sure. I always thought it might be Texas.” Something flashes across your face but it happens so fast he thinks he imagined it. You nod your head, staring up at the ceiling. “What about you? What were you doing out there alone?”

“I wasn’t alone. I had Zahra.”

“The Ravager?”

“The Ravager has - had - a name.”

“You named it?”

Your eyes snap down to his, licking with fire and irritation. “Zahra already had a name. She’s not - wasn’t - a thing. She was sentient, and intelligent, and alive in the ways that counted. She was trying to get me somewhere safe and she died for it. For me.”

Your voice cracks hard and you bite your lip, looking away from him as tears pool in your eyes. Seokmin’s mouth opens but no words come out. He doesn’t know what to say to any of that. None of this makes sense to him, machines with names, machines that think, machines that are alive.

Well, since the Machine War, at least. 

“That was a War Machine,” he says slowly, trying not to anger you. “I’ve spent years killing machines that come through here, a threat to the rest of the world. War machines are meant to kill people. That is their entire purpose.”

“Well don’t you know everything? Not all machines are like that.”

“There’s no like that or not like that. Machines are programmed-”

“Machines are more than programming, Outrider. They’re not just circuits and metal. How do you think the War started in the first place? They can think for themselves and make choices. That's why they rebelled.”

Rebelled? 

Seokmin starts to think that maybe you had hit your head. He frowns at you, trying to puzzle out your words. If you hit your head hard enough to start spouting nonsense, he might have to try and contact the Alliance to get you real medical help, the kind that he can’t give you.

He doesn’t know what the process is for that. They never trained him on how to help another human being. 

As though you can sense where his thoughts are going, you glare. “I’m not crazy.” 

Seokmin thinks about that night, the way the Ravager ran, the way it shielded you with its body. The way it turned to face the Bloodwolf, even when it meant its own destruction. That’s not how machines fight - at least not in his experience. It isn’t how they were designed. 

But…

“Alright,” he relents. “Alright.”

Your expression softs, just slightly. You look down at the nightstand and see the water, reaching for it to take a few long draughts. When your thirst is satisfied, you sag, like this conversation has taken everything out of you. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, eyes fluttering. “For taking care of me.” 

“Yeah. No problem.”

You don’t hear it, though, already asleep. 

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWO

Chicken crackles in the pan. It’s not Friday, but now that you’re semi-functioning, Seokmin feels like it’s important to give you real food. He flips it with a practiced flourish, mindful not to burn the bottom. He doesn’t play his favorite song, trying to let you get your rest, so he hums it under his breath instead. 

Footsteps draw his attention. He turns sharply to see you standing at the end of the kitchen, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a makeshift cloak. Your eyes are wide and curious as you scan the room. Your hair is a bit messy and there’s still dried blood on you, your expression hollowed out by exhaustion. But you’re on your feet and, most importantly, awake. 

“Hey,” Seokmin greets tentatively. He’s trying not to sound overeager, but he’s not sure it’s working. “You should be resting.”

“Smells good,” you murmur, eyes drifting to the pan before they roam again. “Wanted to see exactly where I am, too.”

Seokmin opens his mouth to protest but you’re already walking further into the room, cautious but determined. You glance at every console and shelf like you’re in a museum of forgotten things, the curiosity turning your face from wary to delighted. 

He steps back from the stove and gestures to one of the four chairs at the table. He always wondered why there were four chairs - he’s only ever needed one. “You can sit. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Can I look for a minute?”

He nods, not wanting to stop you. How could he? He’s loathe to say anything that’ll make you want to leave, desperate to keep you happy and here. The only human he’s ever known, the only one not taken from his memory. 

You approach one of the wall panels and point. “What’s that?”

“Environmental stabilizer. Keeps the temperature manageable. Pretty difficult with us being in the desert and all, but I keep it as well-maintained as I can.”

You nod, absorb it. Move on to a different screen near the kitchen, pointing. He smiles to himself, understanding what you mean. “Sensor relay. Connects to the perimeter motion detectors and shows the feed from the mounted cameras. I have a ton now, I use spare parts from the machines I… decommission.”

He chooses the word carefully, suddenly not wanting to say that he kills machines. From the narrowed eyes, he thinks you notice. Instead of saying anything, though, you continue to move around his home, fascinated by all the things you find there. It’s like you’ve never been in a building before, pointing with a question at objects even basic homes should have. 

Everytime you ask a question, his heart skips a little, like it’s a test he might fail. Everytime you glance at him, his throat goes dry. He’s never talked this much to another person that he can recall, and he feels so out of practice. 

He clears his throat and lifts the pan. “Dinner’s ready.” 

You tilt your head when he shows you the chicken in the pan. Lured by the promise of a meal, you drift to the table and sit down, hugging the blanket closer around your shoulders. He lets you keep it, sure that it feels warm and secure. 

When he plates the food, you smile at him. It’s small and fleeting but it’s real. His stomach twists in the best kind of way, like maybe this isn’t just a glitch in the simulation of his life. Like maybe you were meant to be here. 

Seokmin sits down across from you. Both of you hesitate before giving awkward smiles, cutting into your meal. He can’t help but watch you struggle with the knife, holding it awkwardly in your hand. Almost like you’ve never used one before. 

He doesn’t ask. You don’t explain, instead using it to stab and tear chunks of chicken off before popping it into your mouth and chewing vigorously. Grease drips down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand before chasing it with gulps of water.

You turn your attention to the large window overlooking the yard and sprawling desert. The glass is dirty and reinforced with shatter-resistant polymer, but the dying sun still leaks through in warm streaks of orange and violet. 

“It’s quiet here.”

“Always. I’m the only person here so… just having you is unusual.”

“Only person?” You ask, raising your brows. “Is that why you went out on a limb to save me?”

“Not at all. That was my job - the entire reason I’m here. Outriders protect the perimeter of the world from the machines who try to pass back into the New World.” 

That makes you hum, brows pinched, mouth twisted furiously. He can tell you don’t agree, like there’s something in what he says that doesn’t make any sense. He doesn’t press you further though, afraid again to push too hard, to make you leave. 

“Seems lonely.” 

“I…” He exhales. Doesn’t know how to answer, hand tightening around his fork. He doesn’t have a response that sounds light or comforting. The truth is ugly and tender. “Yeah. It is.”

You nod. “I’m lonely too now.” Your eyes shine in the light of the Station and he can tell you’re thinking about the Ravager - Zahra. “Can we bring her body back? Whatever's left of it?” Your eyes drift to the tray of spare parts on the counter. “Not to salvage. But to… honor.” 

“I… Yeah. Yes we can do that.”

 You nod. Bite into chicken. “Thank you, Seokmin.”

━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 67 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT 

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE

An orange sun crests the horizon when Seokmin steps outside. The air is dry and tinged with the sharp metallic scent that always follows a machine's death. The wind’s low, kicking up dust in little curls around his boots. 

Behind him, the door hisses open, followed by your footsteps. You don’t say anything as you step beside him. You haven’t said much since dinner last night. He doesn’t need you to speak, though. Just your careful presence, starling him when he remembers you’re there or the extra sounds of another person existing in his living space is all that he needs. 

You look at the edge of the yard, biting your lip. He can tell you’re trying not to cry, eyes landing on the piles of scrap he’d spent the early hours of morning bringing back to the Station. The Ravager is nothing but a broken silhouette now. 

You step off the porch and he follows, the two of you walking in silence. As you near the debris, you slow before dropping to your knees beside the twisted metal. He’s hauled countless machines back to his Station but for the first time, this feels different. Personal. He hesitates a few yards away, stuck between fascination and disturbance at the way you sniff. 

Reaching outward, you rest your hand on a curved plate of the machine’s shoulder. It’s dented and scorched, reflecting the desert sun. 

“She was gentle,” you tell him, though you’re not looking at him. “I know she’s a War Machine. That she was programmed for something else. But she was far superior than what the Makers ever dreamed for her. Smart. Emotional. Decidedly clever. She was more than a machine.”

Hesitantly, Seokmin approaches you. He drops down to a crouch, looking at the twisted machine. “She protected you.”

You nod, knuckles bleeding of color from how hard you grip the edge of the frame. “She was more than a machine. I know you don’t understand.” 

“I…” He wants to say something. Anything. Doesn’t know how to relate to the loss of a machine, doesn’t know how to console you when all he’s ever done is butcher them. “Do you want to reconstruct what we can? We can place her in the back, like she’s still protecting you.”

Wordlessly, you nod. 

Together, you start gathering parts. Seokmin moves with you, unsure at first which pieces matter and which don’t. He tries to watch what you pick up - armor plates, ruined slats of legs, twisted remnants of jaw - and he helps you. The pieces are heavy, sometimes needing both of you to lift and carry while stopping in between. 

Ravagers are massive machines, standing several meters high when they’re on four legs and nearly as tall as a two-story building when on their hind legs. Built like massive cats, they have powerful shoulders and legs, made for speed and tearing. This Ravager - Zhara - seems to be missing a tail, but Seokmin knows they’re like powerful whips tipped with blades. 

In tandem, you lay out the pieces. Seokmin starts building from the base. There’s so much damaged metal and twisted parts that it’s hard to sort out. You cry while you work, silent and calm but steady, an endless stream. This isn’t collecting pieces and building a machine for you. For you, this is remembering something that was important. 

Seokmin jogs to the work bench to collect extra items. Strips of metal, rods and sheets that he throws into a wagon before hauling over. You look up at him, watching curiously as he dumps it all out. He grabs a piece of metal and starts melting it down, hammering it into the shape he wants before fitting it into the gap between shoulderplates needed to piece together the basic frame.

“Oh.” Your smile is brief and wobbly. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t know what to say. So he starts welding other pieces together, trying to fill the gaps. Slowly, Zahra comes together. It’s clumsy and haphazard and doesn’t properly capture the glory of a Ravager, but he watches light return to your eyes as the sun rises to its zenith. 

You pause for a quiet lunch. Some protein bars, water, dried fruit. He thinks about the offering of food he left out in the desert all those weeks ago and wonders if it really was a mirage or not. He shakes it off because it doesn’t matter. Now he’s not alone and there’s a machine to finish piecing together. 

The sun shifts overhead. The wind comes and goes. Seokmin loses track of time in the rhythm of labor, in the strange companionship of your shared silence. For once, he’s not alone. And though this isn’t how he imagined meeting someone would go, he doesn’t hate it. 

He glances over at you as you carefully place what’s left of one of the machine’s sabers into the ground. There’s only one, but it doesn’t batter. Carefully, he welds what’s left of the skull into the mainframe. 

It’s the last piece to the skeleton. Both of you take a few steps back, sweaty and covered in dust, dirty and tired. It’s crude and raw, barely more than a silhouette of damaged metal and bastard pieces from other machines. But it has weight to it. A shape. A bit of presence. 

“Thank you.” He looks at you. You’re staring at the sculpture. “She would have liked you.”

“I don’t… think she would.” 

You seem to consider his words. His job. “She would have understood.” You look at him then, eyes fathomless. Beautiful, if he’s honest. “I told you, machines are more than what they’re programmed for. Given time, she’d understand.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he nods. You look back at the machine and sit down, crossing your legs. Unsure what to do but not wanting to leave you alone - or be alone - he sits down beside you. It’s strange, but not awkward, two strangers honoring something, familiar to one, foreign to another. 

Somewhere in the silence, Seokmin realizes that something new is being built between you, too. Hope, maybe. His hope that maybe he’s not alone, your hope that maybe Zahra’s legacy can live on here. He doesn’t know how long you’ll stay. Has no idea what happens next.

But he’s not alone.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 50 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

Seokmin wakes up to a strange morning. Cloudy skies stretch over the desert and fall strays closer to winter, making it colder than usual. He checks weather reports to see cold winds coming through from the northwest, cooling off everything and bringing heavy winds. 

That’s not what makes it strange, though.

When he wakes up and heads into the kitchen, there’s a mug on the counter. Soft footsteps echoing through the Station that don’t belong to him. The quiet hum of someone else’s existence, someone else orbiting his space.

You’re quiet, but he’s not used to the sounds of someone else. The extra breath he hears when you walk into the living room from the medical room and see him, gasping like you’ve forgotten you’re not alone. The slow but wobbling smile you give him, unsure what to do with yourself.

That makes two of you. 

He likes this strange, though. He’s a little unwilling to acknowledge the way you make his heart pound, the way he wants to ask you a million questions, the way he wants your voice to fill every gap in the Station because finally - finally - there’s someone else to fill the empty spaces. 

Instead of pressuring you into talking, he sits down at the kitchen table and starts to tinker with some of the spare parts he’s collected over the years. It’s a flimsy excuse to distract himself as you pad the Station, barefoot and trailing your fingers along the edges of shelves as you continue your exploration from the other night. 

“So,” he says, trying to make his voice normal. “You sleep okay?”

“No. All I did for a few days was sleep, though.”

“Right. I could give you something for that if you want?” 

You shake your head. Drifting to the living area, you stand near the window. It’s massive, one giant floor-to-ceiling portal. You hover near it, eyes distant as you watch the passing grey of the day. 

“I don’t mean to pry,” Seokmin starts slowly. “But where are you from?”

You don’t answer at first. Your eyes stay focused on the desert, as though you’re waiting for something. Watching for something. That makes him a little nervous, glancing at the panel on the wall. Nothing picks up on the scanners, so he tries to relax. 

“I don’t really know.”

He looks at you, brows raised. “You don’t know?”

“I was raised in a machine facility. It was underground. I don’t think I was ever supposed to see the outside world. I don’t even know what it was called. There’s a few humans they keep around for convenience. Testing. Maintenance. That kind of stuff.”

“How… close to here?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe a week. Zahra and I had been running from Gariel for about a week.”

“Gariel?” You shiver when he says the name. “The Bloodwolf?”

“Yes. He was sent after us.” You turn away from the window suddenly, like maybe you’re afraid the Bloodwolf - Gariel - will suddenly appear on the milky horizon. You pad to the couch, sitting down and curling your feet under you. “They studied us but mostly they liked to keep us for things like helping fix their damage. Trying to puzzle us out. Sometimes as a spy.” 

Your fingers tighten on the couches arm and you stare off into the distance, eyes unseeing. “Some of the machines were kind. They make their own decisions. A lot do not support what the Machine Empire has turned into, that it’s lost its way. Zahra wasn’t the first to try and help me.” You hesitate, swallowing. “She was the last, I guess.”

Seokmin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clenching his jaw until it starts to ache. He takes a deep breath. There are so many questions he wants to ask you, so many things that don’t make sense. He thinks about the modded plating on the Skulker all those weeks ago, the way it seemed like someone had been mending and modding machines. 

“So you weren’t born in a colony or a city?”

You shake your head. “Not a lot of humans in that place. Probably less than fifty.”

“I don’t understand,” he says after a beat of silence. “If machines have humans hostage, how has the Alliance not done anything? There is no more Machine Empire. You talk about it like it’s present, but the Alliance won.”

Your face darkens at the mention of the Alliance. He wants to know why, but you don’t say anything. You pick at loose threads on the arm of his couch, decidedly silent. His hands tighten on the wrench in his hand. He wants to know more. 

But you look fragile. Wary. Your guard is up and the last thing he wants to do is push you away. He has the feeling that the second you perceive him as a threat, the moment you think you can’t trust him, you’ll be gone, nothing more than another hallucination to keep him up at night. 

So instead of pushing you further, he says, “Well. Do you want lunch? I’m starving.” 

You give him an appreciative smile. “Alright.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 46 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT WARNING

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FOUR

He doesn’t remember the last time he tried this hard for Friday night dinner. He always levels up his game for Fridays, but this is new, because he’s not just doing this ritual for himself. He’s doing it for you. His nerves make his stomach coil and he glances at you nervously from the corner of his eye as you enter the kitchen, toweling your damp hair. 

The Station smells good. He pan sears steak, the garlic from the most recent airship drop popping in the oil. The butter has browned and melted, soaking in rosemary before he starts to baste the steak, spooning the mixture over tender meat. Vegetables roast in the oven, the timer ticking down.

“You’re cooking cooking,” you say, surprise in your voice.

“It’s Friday.” When you give him a confused look and tilt of your head, he smiles fondly. “Friday’s are my favorite day. On Friday, I cook real meals with real food. Play my favorite song. Make a night out of it. Try to enjoy it.”

You drift closer, watching him. “What’s your favorite song?”

He smiles, happy that you ask. He taps the panel on the wall quickly, turning on the speakers in the Station. The thrumming starts low and soft and you tilt your head, eyes going round as you listen. He watches as the surprise turns into utter delight, a smile spreading across your face that is so blinding he drops the spoon.

It clatters and he curses, snatching it out of the pan and hissing at the heat as it bites at his fingers. You’re none the wiser, so focused on the song as a raspy voice comes through the speaker that you miss his sputtering entirely. 

Seokmin feels hot all over, a combination of embarrassment, the heat of the stove, and watching silver tears pool at the corners of your eyes as you listen to the music that has kept him afloat all this time, like you’ve never heard something more moving.

A tear spills over, rolling down your cheek. You wipe it quickly, laughing and giving him an embarrassed smile. 

“I’ve never listened to a song.” He pauses, open-mouthed. “Zahra told me about music. I’ve never heard it before, though. I like this.”

“I…” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I like this one. You can listen to music any time you want. Use any panel in the Station and hit the button that says playlist.” 

“I can’t read.”

“Alright. I’ll show you, yeah?” 

You nod and Seokmin feels himself smile. Real. 

He turns back to finishing dinner, flipping off the oven and the stovetop. He sings a little as the last verse to the song begins, soft and low, mostly to himself. He hasn’t had an audience ever, and as he turns to take the pan off the stove, he suddenly remembers you’re there and his voice tapers off. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, a little breathless.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I’m not used to having people here.”

“Oh. Your voice is nice.” 

It hits him in the stomach like a punch. He feels his throat constrict and it takes him a second to form an answer. “Oh. Thank you.”

“You can sing any time you want,” you tell him, drifting to the table to sit, knowing he’s ready for dinner. “I’ll listen.”

Seokmin’s heart soars. He doesn’t know what to do with that, what to do with you. You’re new and uncharted territory, and seeing you sitting at the table, eager and waiting… it does something to him that he cannot explain, that he doesn’t understand. The ache inside of him all these years finally subsides and he thinks that for the first time in his life, he might be thankful for the machines.

All because they brought you to him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE

Without the sun beating down on him, working outside is almost tolerable. The dust still sucks though, biting at Seokmin and getting into his eyes as the wind rips through the Station. He could work inside, but he’s loath to open the door until the wind dies down. 

You seem content, despite the dust. You lean over him, chewing your lip as you watch him sitting on the workbench, elbow-deep in the guts of a broken energy conduit. If the wind ripping at the metal roof and making it flex bothers you, you don’t let on. 

He supposes you’re just content to be outside. He’s noticed that you like to linger near the window a lot, whether you’re waiting for something or because you’ve never seen the topside of the world, he isn’t sure. He still has questions to ask you, things he needs answered. 

Instead, he lets you enjoy your peace. Lets you grow accustomed to him as he attempts to get accustomed with you. You both navigate one another, two unsure satellites that are curious. 

“Want to learn how to strip these?” He asks, pretending his heart isn’t hammering at how close you are. 

“Strip them?”

He lifts the panel he’s working on. “See the copper threading and core plating? You don’t want to break them - they’re still usable.”

“Okay.”

“We want to remove them, though. We can use them for repairs, other things in the Station… they’re always good to keep on hand. We don’t have a lot here and…” 

He trails off, realizing he keeps saying we. Like he’s already decided you’re a part of the Station, like this lone operation has already adapted to a two-man system. It makes his mouth go dry and he looks at the plating, hands shaking. He hates how quickly he’s already adapted to you, the way he just… wants you to stay. 

“So you use materials from the machines you kill. I… have some skill with that from where I’m from. Not a lot. I was more of a study subject than a mechanic.” 

That makes his heart ache. He explains, “It’s about using what’s left. I don’t like to waste.”

You nod. He scoots over on the bench and lets you step over, sitting down stiffly next to him. He places a few pieces in front of  you and passes pliers and a heated plasma knife. “Try - and please don’t burn yourself on the knife. It could cut through your fingers.”

Tentatively, you pick up the tools. They’re a little awkward in your hands, but you figure out a grip that feels comfortable to you. He watches as you start to follow the motions he shows you, listening to his quiet tutelage. You’re clumsy at first, but he doesn’t correct you unless you ask. 

After a while, you free a copper wire and look up at him, a small smile twitching on your lip. “Is that okay?”

He smiles, larger than he intends to. “Yes. That’s perfect. Here, let’s keep going.” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 71 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SEVEN

It’s the middle of the night when the Station’s power grid flicks off. It snaps him from his sleep, his eyes popping open and his heart hammering temporarily in panic. He realizes that the emergency lights are on, and the sudden silence is just because air isn’t rattling through the vent in the ceiling. 

Groaning, he swings his legs out of bed. Stretching, he feels all his joints pop and he lets himself sit for a second, blinking away the sleepiness. Then he hears your soft voice call him from a distance. He looks up sharply, so unused to hearing his name. 

Seomkin jumps to his feet and out the bedroom door, panic nipping at his heels again. You’re standing in the living room though, shrouded in the barest light from the emergency lights. You’re in a baggy shirt and sweatpants that don’t fit - his - your eyes cast to the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” The question is soft but firm.

“What happened?”

It takes him a beat to realize the power going out woke you up. “Oh.” He breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s just the power grid. It does that sometimes. Whenever the days are cooler it works less hard but now that the temperature climbed back up, it probably overloaded. We can fix it.”

Your eyes drift from the ceiling and settle on him. Something passes on your face, an emotion he doesn’t understand. You stare at him, your silence so heavy that he’s about to ask you what’s wrong again until he realizes in his hurry he didn’t put a shirt on. He’s in just sweats, slung low on his hips. 

A shiver threatens to climb up his spine under your intense stare. He clears his throat and just his thumb back toward his room. “Let me just get dressed and we can fix it. Not a big deal.”

“Alright.” 

The way his heart hammers all the way back to his room makes him curse himself. He hopes you don’t feel weird about the missing shirt - he has made a conscious effort to make you comfortable, to adjust his own living habits now that you’re here. 

It’s important to him, making this space safe for you too. Though he doesn’t think you were bothered, the thought weighs on him as he pulls on a soft cotton tee and slides boots onto his feet. When he reappears in the living room, he hopes he’s more composed than he was a moment ago.

You’re standing by the door, a sliver sliver of moonlight splashing across your face. His steps slow as he approaches, watching you as you look out the door, eyes unfocused. You look like a wraith in the dark, the moon flashing in your eyes, turning them silver. 

For the briefest of seconds, Seokmin wonders if you're actually human. Then you turn to look at him and he shoves the ridiculous thought away. Your eyes are round, pupils dilated in the dark. Entirely human. Soft. a little unreadable.

Silently, he grabs two flashlights from the drawer in the kitchen. He passes you one and you take it from him, fingers brushing. He ignores the flare of heat from where your fingertips brush his in favor of turning on his flashlight and leading you to the massive shed on the southside of the Station’s yard that houses the generator. 

While it doesn’t keep most of the dust out, it does an okay job at keeping the grit out of the machinery and keeping the sun off the humming generator. Fueled by the energy the solar panels collect on the roof of the station, the generator is pretty trustworthy for the most part. 

Inside of the shed, he ties his flashlight off to a rope in the ceiling used for exactly this purpose. You stand tentatively behind him, shining the light over his shoulder as he removes the massive side panel, grunting with effort. 

With the side revealed, Seokmin slowly walks you through the schematics of the generator, pointing to circuit boards and how everything is routed from the external solar banks to the emergency thermal core that is powering the few lights in the Station and keeping it online.

You nod along, pointing to a flashing light. “Why is this pulsing red?”

“It’s a surge indicator. It means it’s getting overloaded, probably because of the sudden increased input to keep the station cooler. We’ll need to reroute it to a different, stronger breaker until we can fix this one.”

“Can you show me?”

“Mhmm.”

He guides his hands along the switch board, fingers slow as you track his movement. When he stops at the switcher, you tentatively lift your hand and set it daintily on top. He nods his head and you shift closer to him, chest almost pressed to his back. 

You hesitate. “You smell like copper and dust.”

He snorts, cheeks turning red. “Sorry, I sort of-” 

“I like it,” you interrupt. “It’s familiar. Safe.” 

That stops him cold. Whatever joke he was about to make dies on his tongue. You say nothing else, just flip the switch like he showed you. The generator rumbles to life, and you flinch, hand snapping back. His lips twitch, trying not to laugh. The overhead light sputters, then glows steady, casting the room in pale warmth. He squints against it until his eyes adjust.

“Nice,” he says with a smile, giving you a thumbs up. You grin back at him and his heart flips again. “We should be good now. Thanks for the help.” 

“I like helping.” 

“I’m glad.” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little awkward. “There’s, uh… always plenty to do around here.”

It comes out softer than he means it to, less a statement, more an invitation. A quiet offer. Stay. Stay longer. Please don’t leave him. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t know if you catch it, if you understand what he’s really asking. But you nod, your smile curling gently at the corners. “Okay. I’ll help, then.”

Just like that, something anchors inside him. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, POTENTIALLY TEXAS

DATE … THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 62 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TEN

Outside, the sun begins its slow descent behind the spine of the Gods, bleeding molten gold across the horizon. The sky fades from cobalt to amber, rust, rose, each color sliding over the sand in a hazy gradient. The wind picks up, gentle and cool tonight, stirring up dust into soft spirals that catch the last of the light and glow like embers. 

The jagged silhouette of the landscape stretches long and thin, shadows etching sharp lines across the dirt. Seokmin stops in the doorway, eyes scanning the world as you tinker with something on the workbench. Everything slows beneath this kind of sky, like the world is holding its breath.

He looks at you, haloed by the slowly fading day. The sun’s final edge slips behind the mountains and for a heartbeat, it's as if time halts. You are painfully beautiful - radiant, even. Something he could only ever dream of. And it’s not because you’re the only person he knows or the only person around - well, it’s a little that. 

But there is a quiet something about you that makes his heart beat a little faster.

Above, the lights on the metal roof kick on, bathing you in a honey-warm glow. It catches in your hair and he fights the urge to reach out and tuck the loose strand behind your ear to keep it from distracting you as you work. 

Instead, he steps fully out of the doorway and toward the work bench, gently setting down a tray of cleaned parts. 

“Have you ever met one?” 

Your question is loud in the silence, catching him off guard. He looks at you, brows pulled together in confusion. “One what?”

“A machine.”

“No.” 

“Do you kill them all?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

You nod, pulling wire out a circuit board. “Do they run? Or do they try to kill you?”

“They’ve all tried to kill me.” 

You chew on your lip, nod your head. “That’s not always how it is, but there’s not very many machines this side of the Tilt that are sympathetic to humans. They don’t really like the Empire but… humans don’t try to understand them.”

He sits down. “This side of the Tilt?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “That’s what the machines call this part of the planet. The Tilt. There’s a lot of magnetic distortion here that makes machines’ orientation systems tilt off course. I think it’s… why your Station is where it is. It makes it harder for machines to find it and they get put right in your kill path.” 

He just stares at you.

“What?” 

“I’ve never heard it called that before. It’s not on any of the mapping or manual or training materials. The Alliance doesn’t call it anything. Beyond this is the nameless lands where the dead pockets of machine society have crawled to.”

Your fingers stop moving for the first time since he walked in. There’s a pause, a sharp, uncertain stillness, and then Seokmin clears his throat. “What do you know about the Machine War?” 

It’s the first time he’s asked the question. He barely keeps his voice from shaking, looking at you nervously when he does. Your shoulders draw up slightly and you don’t answer him right away. 

“What do you know?” You ask, turning the question on him instead.

Seokmin shifts, a little thrown by the question. He answers anyway. “It was a global uprising. Machines turned on their makers. They wanted independence, but all they really did was slaughter. Cities fell, millions died. They became humanity's greatest threat. The Alliance Against Machines formed and pushed back. After we won, they created posts like this, dotted along the places the machines remain. We don’t take an offensive approach - just a defensive one.” 

The story comes out of him immediately. Confident. Decisive. It isn’t pride that spurs the clear way he speaks - just facts. The Machine War is something he is intimately familiar with, one of the few things he is allowed to remember and to think on. Seokmin is pretty sure he can rehearse the major events of the war in order in his sleep. 

There’s a shift in your expression. Your face is a little drawn, a faint shake of your head. You blink down at your hands like you’re trying to find something to say and you fail.

“What’s wrong?”

“We learned about the war differently and…” Your mouth pinches. “I don’t think your understanding of the world is accurate.”

He narrows his eyes. “Then tell me what you think it is.”

Seokmin sees the chance for his answers vanish like the mirage all those weeks ago. You close up in front of him, shoulders folding in like a shield. You drop the things in your hands and pull your knees up on the bench, hugging them to your chest. You look away from him to hide whatever expression is on your face and he suppresses a sigh, not wanting you to hear how defeated he suddenly feels. 

There is a yawning ravine between the two of you, and he’s not sure how to fix it. Doesn’t even really understand what it is. There is something about the way you tiptoe around him that makes him feel like he’s not seeing something, like there is an obvious clue he’s missing. 

He really wishes he could understand what it was. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 61 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY SIX

The days trailing your conversation on the workbench are quiet. Sometimes uncomfortably so. Seokmin doesn’t know how to broach the topic again, and you seem reserved, like you’re afraid he’s going to ask. 

You still help him with the Station. You’re a quick learner, good with your hands it's helpful to have you around. You’ve turned the medical bay into your room, and he’s helped you make it less sterile and more homey. It’ll be inconvenient if either of you needs it, but he doesn’t think about that when he gives you a little metal sculpture of a Ravager he made to put in there.

All he wants is for you to feel like maybe it’s home.

You still eat dinner with him every night. You help him cook on Fridays and now you know most of the words to the music he likes, singing about the Texas sun beneath your breath. He likes to hear you sing, even if it isn’t perfect, even if it's a little offkey. 

You still sit next to him on the workbench and strip wiring or help recalibrate the solar panels, but the rhythm is a little off. Like it’s almost perfect, if it weren’t for that conversation hanging over your heads. 

It gnaws at him.

At night, he can barely sleep. He sleeps with his bedroom door cracked open, just in case you need to talk - want to talk. It’s also because he’s so afraid you’ll leave, that he won’t hear your footsteps as you decide to leave him here in his solitary confinement once again. 

Seokmin doesn’t know what he’ll do if you leave. He’d let you, of course. Your stay here is voluntary. He thinks it might kill him, though. He thinks of the silence before you were here, the way it would press against the inside of his ears like static, like something waiting to collapse.

Just the sound of you coughing in a room a few yards away or the sound of the shower while he’s writing his daily logs now keeps him afloat, keeps him connected. 

He hadn’t realized how much of himself had atrophied - not his muscles, but his personhood. Something deeper. Something spiritual, deep inside of him. Being alone had never mattered before because it had never been optional. 

But now… 

He doesn’t know how he can go back to that. 

He remembers reading passages in the Outrider guidebook that loneliness is a common symptom of his job and how to deal with it. The routine of his life had always worked: build something. Fix something. Clean. Maintain the Station. Kill the machines. 

What it failed to explain was how solitude could sharpen a person like a blade, but it could also dull someone if left too long and abandoned. It hadn’t captured how it felt to rust, how it felt to break apart bit by bit. Erode. 

It keeps him up at night, spiralling and spiralling and spiralling and spi-

The Station’s proximity alarm goes off, making him flinch. It’s a sharp, shrill sound that splits the silence like lightning. Seokmin is out of his bed and in the hall in seconds, his immediate first thought not being on the machine that the alarm warns of, but the fact that you’re unfamiliar with the alarm. 

You stumble into the living room, silhouetted by the red emergency lights. He taps the panel in the kitchen, silencing the alarm and the lights. The Station comes to life, low lights flickering as readout data stars coming in across the screen.

“Sorry, it goes off when machines enter my territory,” he explains, lifting his hands like he’s going to soothe you. He catches himself and drops them, turning to the screen. You dart over toward him, looking up at the screen. “It’s near the basin. Probably a scout.”

“I want to see.”

You step forward, brushing past him to squint at the screen. You might not be able to read the words, but he’s set the Station to do verbal readouts now, the audio coming through the speakers as a halting robotic voice reads the script on the screen. 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516143, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 9 MPH EASTBOUND

“It’s a War Machine,” he breathes, heart squeezing in his chest. 

“It’s not hostile,” you whisper.

“You cannot tell that from a blip on the radar,” he shoots back, jaw tight. “I’m not risking the Station - or you - on a guess.” 

MACHINE DETECTED… 30.516147, -103.870341 … STALKJAW … PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… 13 MPH SOUTHBOUND.

“Fuck. It’s coming toward the Station.”

“It’s a PLEDIS Corp machine from the early manufacturing era,” you say quickly, chasing after him as he strides toward his gear. “Check the unit number. That’s a first-gen War Machine. PLEDIS specializes in how machines think, how they feel. They were the first to implement decision-making tech based on state of consciousness, not algorithms.”

He stops mid-step, turning to look at you. The expression on his face is somewhere between disbelief and dawning realization. You’re breathless, fists clenched at your sides.

“How do you know all of that?”

“I grew up around these things. That's all I know.”

“Well I know that a Stalkjaw is a lethal War Machine.” 

“Stalkjaws weren’t even outfitted by PLEDIS until nearly a decade later,” you continue, voice tight with urgency. “They were part of the first experimental batch sent into the field with that conscious-state tech, and they were decommissioned almost immediately. You know why.”

He does. “They wouldn’t kill.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t know for sure this one is from the same batch of decommissioned machines. That possibility is almost zero.”

“But it’s not zero.” Your voice is like steel now. “You’re not the only one who understands machines. Let me take the lead. Come with me, wear whatever armor you want. Bring whatever weapon you need. If it’s hostile, you kill it.”

“I can’t risk this on a theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s an informed judgment, shaped by years spent growing up in a machine hive.” Your tone softens, eyes searching his. “Please, Seokmin.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then you kill it.”

“That’s not a good enough answer. You’ll be at risk.”

“That isn’t your choice to make.” 

Seokmin stares at you, breathing hard. Your face is set in stone, resolute and wild and a mix of something else he can’t explain. There’s a fire in your eyes, lit up by conviction. For the first time since you arrived, Seokmin realized just how deeply you believe that machines are capable of mercy and understanding. 

He swallows. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I have to believe that machines are not monsters.” Something in your voice makes him narrow his eyes at you. You’re looking at him in a way that is hesitant - afraid. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how he feels about you looking at him like you’re talking about him and not the machine. “And I think you need to understand, too.” 

Another readout comes in over the screen. The Stalkjaw is still moving toward the station. It’s slowed down, like it doesn’t care about being noticed. They’re stealthy, ambush machines and yet… This one triggered the sensor, which is rare.

Purposeful. 

“Please,” you breathe. 

He closes his eyes. War churns in his gut. Fear. Doubt. But when he opens them again, you’re still there, waiting, whole and alive and more human than anything he’s seen in years. So he nods once, sharp. 

You spin to leave, but he grabs your arm and pulls you back, too fast, too strong. You stumble into his chest. His body reacts before he does: he steadies you by the waist, and the smell of his shampoo clings to your clothes.

“Not so fast,” he mutters, voice low. “You go armored. You carry a weapon. You take point, but no heroics. The moment it makes a wrong move-”

“Deal.”

Seokmin’s bedroom is dim, lit only by the cold glow of the screen on the wall. The armor is sitting on top of the trunk where he left it the last time he wore it - the night he met you. He hasn’t needed it until now. 

Seokmin’s fingers shake a little as he lifts the chestplate and fits it carefully over your shoulders. It’s heavy, not built for someone your size, but you don’t flinch. You just stand there, letting him adjust the straps and tighten the latches at your sides.

“You know,” he says a bit sourly, eyes flicking up briefly to meet yours, “This isn't made for you. It’ll fit all wrong.”

“I’ll manage.” 

That makes him snort. The sheer gall of your confidence. 

His hands are warm where they graze your arms as he helps you pull on the thin layer of suit over the top of your clothes to keep you padded and safe in the armor. You don’t shy away from him. You lean toward him a little, like his proximity is something you welcome, like it's something you want. It sends a quiet pulse through him, a little ache of something he didn’t expect.

He first the forearm guards next, wrapping the hardened plating around your wrists and fastening them, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pulls the plating over you. He listens to each of the joints hiss and click, locking in place. 

Your breath catches as he carefully maneuvers the neck ring over your head, locking the top half of the suit to you. Last thing is the helmet, but he leaves that off for a second. You watch him with dark eyes, fathomless like the bottom of a sea.

He suddenly wants to dive in. 

“You’re not afraid,” he notes quietly, taking a breath and stepping back from the intoxication of you. 

“I am. But not of the machine.”

He pauses, breath caught. There is a tension that hums between you. He’s not quite sure he knows what it is, but it sizzles.

“You should be afraid of the machine.”

“I trust you if I’m wrong.” 

He looks at you then, really looks. Your face is steady, your eyes calm. There’s fear there, yes, but also belief. In him. In what you’re about to do. It cracks something open in his chest.

He wants you. Wants you in a way that is new and foreign. Wants you in a way he didn’t know until right now, like he had to discover it under pressure. But all that want isn’t what matters right now, so he swallows past the thick knot in his throat and passes you the helmet.

“Put this on. I’ll have your back.”

“I know.”

His heart pangs again but quickly dresses himself in lower class armor, pieces that he would use against a machine that poses a lower threat. It is scarce in comparison to the armored beetle you’ve become, but he prefers it this way. 

Taking weapons off the wall, Seokmin hands you one he thinks you’re familiar with. He can’t see your face through the tinted glass of your helmet, but your armored fingers close around the Volt and you nod, like you understand what he’s asking you to do. 

“Um,” your voice is small, halting.

“What?”

“Is… I can’t read what's on the screen.” 

He softens. He presses the side of the helmet three times. You make a sound as the helmet talks to you. “Is it reading it out loud now?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Outside, the desert is black glass and silence. He walks with every muscle wound tight, armor heavy on his shoulders, his fingers twitching near the safety on the gun in his hand. He’s a shadow beside you, pacing a half-step behind and to your left, letting you lead but watching everything. Your step is confident, steady. 

The Station glows like a beacon behind the two of you. You follow the beacon to the Stalkjaw blinking in your HUD. He uses the less high-tech wrist pad, but it’s still accurate. He swipes to the machine details, just in case. 

STALKJAW… PLEDIS CORP… UNIT 003… LOW CENTER OF GRAVITY… SIX METERS TALL… HYDRAULIC JAW… 

That hydraulic jaw is made to crush things. It also has reinforced legs made for speed, one of the fastest machines ever built. He knows what it’s made for and what it’s supposed to do, and that knowledge knits a tight ball of tension low in his stomach. 

The ground crunches beneath his boots, soft and muted against the sand and dry earth. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, voice crackling through his ear piece. He flinches at your voice, heart fluttering at the way you say his name. “Stay close. Don’t posture. Don’t make a sound unless I say so.”

“I don’t like this.” 

“It’s walking toward us. It already sees us - the heads up display notated it. It’s moving slowly but hasn’t engaged.”

Suddenly he feels blind. You have so much more information than him and it terrifies him. 

“Maybe it’s trying to lure us out.”

“Maybe it’s just walking.”

Metal catches in the moonlight and the grip on his gun tightens. The Stalkjaw comes over the ridge, slow and deliberate. It moves unlike other machines, all of its parts compressed and greased to silence. It’s less like a hunter and more like a wanderer, pausing on the ridge as it looks down at you.

It’s built like a raptor, leaning its long neck down as its red eyes flash in the darkness, scanning you. Its body is patched with mismatched metal, all even colors. Its eyes flash green and it takes a few tentative steps down the slope toward you. Its steps are uneven and he realizes its limping - it is an old machine.

Seokmin tenses up, starting to lift his gun as it approaches, ambling closer and closer. You hold up your hand, sensing his tension and he curses, keeping himself still. The Stalkjaw gets closer. Ten yards. Seven yards. Five yards.

Stops.

The machine doesn’t move. Seokmin hears the breath of its gears whirring, blue eyes focused on you as the machine takes you in. His heart is slamming against his chest, his pulse so loud he almost doesn’t hear the whirring of the optical lenses of the machine. 

“Zahra is preserved on the Station,” you tell the machine. 

Something inside of it tickets. Seokmin is squeezing his gun so hard he thinks it might fracture in his hands. 

“You don’t need to go any further. I’m safe, Orin.”

“RECEIVED.” The robotic voice comes from the machine and Seokmin feels his stomach drop, mouth opening. “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. ORIN WISHES YOU WELL.”

The Stalkjaw steps forward, one careful foot in the sand, assessing you. Then, it pivots its torso, staring toward the Station in the distance. A second foot lifts, shifting weight, like it wants to head to the Station to see its old friend.

His heart pounds in his chest, heavy and frantic like it’s trying to break out of his ribcage. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and his fingers fumble against the grip of his rifle. 

Its metal joints hiss and vent with each movement, and Seokmin can hear the subtle, rhythmic grinding of its fractured leg. A breath gets caught in his throat.

“Stop.” His voice is raised, cutting. “There are mines embedded in the Station’s perimeter. You’ll trigger them if you try to approach.” 

The Stalkjaw doesn’t move for several seconds. A hush falls over the desert, thick and unrelenting. Then the machine slowly lifts its head, turning to face Seokmin. Its optic core glows blue-white, narrowing and adjusting. The pitch of its internal systems rises with a hum that sets Seokmin’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t realize he’s slid his thumb toward the gun’s safety until it’s already resting there, halfway to flipping it off.

“WARNING RECEIVED. PATHING RESTRICTED. ORIN THANKS YOU, OUTRIDER. ORIN INITIATING MEMORY WIPE SEQUENCE. SEQUENCE TO BE COMPLETED IN FIVE MINUTES.”

Before Seokmin can say anything, before he can even register what’s happening, the Stalkjaw turns. Its retreat is measured, slow. Each step leaves a heavy imprint in the sand. It doesn’t run. It doesn’t hide. It just leaves, one footfall after another, until it crests the ridge, moonlight painting its armor in fleeting glints of silver,  and vanishes over the edge like a shadow swallowed by night.

Seokmin exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. His legs feel unsteady beneath him. He watches the spot where it disappeared, where the sand still shifts faintly from its passage. Nothing about this feels real.

He turns to you, voice hoarse. “Did you know that machine?”

“Yes.”

“Are we compromised?” 

You shake your head, but your breath hitches. He hears it, the start of a sound he mistakes for a sob, but then a thunderous boom tears through the night. Light flashes in the distance beyond the ridge, flaring bright as day for a heartbeat. A plume of fire erupts against the stars. Sparks scatter like embers across the sky, followed by darkness.

Seokmin doesn’t think. He throws his arm around you, yanking you close as the shockwave rolls over the desert like thunder. You collapse into his chest, trembling. His other arm comes around your back instinctively, grounding you as smoke begins to curl into the sky like a final breath.

You’re crying now. He can hear it in his earpiece, shallow, broken sobs, the kind you try to stifle but can’t. Your whole body shakes in his arms, and his own chest tightens with something he can’t name.

Then it hits him. 

Initiating memory wipe sequence. The memory wipe was a self destruction mode because of course the machines couldn’t wipe their memory without paying the ultimate price. They were never designed to be able to do that but… 

Seokmin stares at the glow on the horizon, heart sinking. The machine - Orin - wiped its own memory not to protect itself, but to protect you. It chose to die rather than risk exposing your location. Not out of programming. Out of loyalty. 

It made a choice. Not programming. Not design. 

Free will. 

It makes him question everything he’s ever known. 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SUNDAY, DECEMBER 1, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… WINTER STORM WATCH

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … ZERO

The sun rises, slow and swollen, dragging its light across the desert in streaks of gold. The Station glows at the edges, metal reflecting warm tones. Seokmin’s boots crunch softly through the sand as he follows the only trail that matters now - yours - leading away from the front door to Zahra’s grave marker that stands like a secret. 

He finds you sitting there, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. The breeze is soft, but soothing, the dust manageable. He just stands and watches you for a moment - it feels like he’s watching something sacred. Untouchable. 

His chest is still tight from the night before. He could barely sleep, sick with the adrenaline, the machine’s voice, the weight of you curling against him when he pulled you close. The way you cried, long and aching, until you wore yourself out and let him take you back to the Station. 

And now you’re here, sitting alone in the morning light, and he can’t make sense of anything, least of all how he feels. 

He steps closer. You don’t look at him, but you don’t ask him to leave either. So he sits beside you, dust kicking up under his knees. There’s a quiet between you, but it doesn’t feel heavy. He glances at you. You’re staring at the small, worn marker, the name Zahra carved with care into its surface.

“I thought the Machine War was over,” he says finally, voice hoarse.

You’re quiet for a long moment before answering. “Not from where I grew up.”

“I - everything I know about machines is jumbled up. My training and everything I’ve ever been taught tells me that what I know is fact. There is nothing else. No deviation.”

“What does your heart tell you?”

His heart is pounding. “That maybe I don’t know as much as I thought I did. Before last night, all I did was kill machines that came through. And then I watched a War Machine arrive with you on its back, protecting you. All for last night to hear one speak. To hear it reason and to watch it choose.” 

You look back at Zahra’s name. “It had a name, you know.”

“Orin,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

He exhales hard, fingers digging into his palms. “It walked into the dark and exploded itself rather than risk giving away our position. And I’ve been told my whole life that machines can’t feel. That they’re just wires and protocol. I don’t even know what my purpose here is. I thought I was a guardian for humanity but it doesn’t feel that way.” 

“It’s a killing corner,” you say quietly. “We’re somewhere near the edge of the Machine Empire. It’s a dead zone for directional systems, sometimes. They get lost.”

“And I send them to their graves.” 

You glance at him now, and something in your gaze makes his breath catch. It’s the quiet pain of someone who’s had to carry the truth alone for too long. “Machines deploy from the colony I was raised in. There are Stations like this dotted across the Tilt. You pick them off as they go through before getting to society. There are more… aggressive Stations, I think. I’m not really sure.”

A few months ago, that would have made him proud. It is close enough to the truth of what he does - picks off strays trying to creep back to the reaches of humanity. Now it feels like something worse, like there is something missing in what used to hold valor. 

“Some of them,” you whisper, your words halting, “aren’t lost at all. They’re leaving. Trying to escape the tyranny of the machines. They’re not all killers - a lot aren’t. But the Machine Empire is… brutal. Crushing. Violent. Some of them would rather risk the Outriders and a chance of going somewhere that doesn’t demand violence from them.”

His heart stutters. “So every time I pulled a trigger, I might’ve been putting down a machine who just wanted peace?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him. Like that truth has been buried in your chest from the moment you met him. He thinks of your conversation on the workbench a few weeks ago, the guarded expression you wore anytime he asked questions or tried to unpuzzle things. 

Seokmin bows his head. His whole world feels like it’s tilting beneath him. All the discipline. All the protocol. The isolation. The memory wipe. The idea that he’s only able to do this job if he is totally alone, a watchful guardian whose sole purpose is to kill. 

He’d told himself it was duty. That it was worth it. That his solitude was a shield protecting others from what still crawled out of the machine war. What if it was all just a cage built on old lies?

That thought carves something deep out of him. A hollow that aches. Because if this purpose he’s clung to, if all the loneliness and fucking sacrifice of having no one wasn’t what it was made out to be… then what was it for? 

It hurts him more than any injury he’s ever sustained. Hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to heal from. 

The heat is starting to press against his skin, but Seokmin barely feels it. He sits with his elbows on his knees, Zahra’s monument still and silent at his side. His fingers are locked together, knuckles white from the pressure, like if he holds tight enough, the world will stop tilting.

“Seokmin.” You say his name and it pulls him from the edge. He looks at you, lost and unmoored. Your eyes are steady as you offer him a hand. 

When he takes it, you stand, lifting him with you. His legs are stiff, his spine aches, but he doesn’t let go of you. Your grip is steady, like you know where to go when he doesn’t. Like you’re tethering him to something he forgot he needed.

Inside the Station it’s dim and quiet. You press him down into a chair with a soft touch on his shoulder, and he lets you. His hands rest in his lap, useless. He watches you walk away, still half outside his body, still trying to make sense of everything. He doesn’t even ask what you’re doing.

Then a sound fills the room, low and familiar. 

Texas Sun. 

The opening notes bloom out of the speakers like light cracking through storm clouds. His throat tightens. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

“I know it’s not Friday,” you say, and your voice is soft, playful in a way that surprisingly disarms him. You’re already in the kitchen, pulling the fridge open. “But I don’t think that matters.”

“Why not?”

You turn your head just enough to look at him, a smile tugging at your mouth, though your eyes stay serious. “Because you deserve more Fridays. You’ve given enough to the world to earn them. All those years. All that silence.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

The scent of eggs and instant coffee starts to rise, curling around him like comfort. His eyes sting. He hasn’t had anyone cook for him in… well. Has anyone ever cooked for him? He doesn’t know. The Alliance robbed him of his memory to keep him anchored to the mission they tasked him with, so he has no idea if anyone has ever cooked for him. 

“I…” He scrubs a hand down his face, breath shaky. “I don’t think I realized how much damage it’s done. Being alone my whole life.”

You turn, slide the plate in front of him with a quiet clink. You don’t rush to sit. You don’t push him. You sing the song, moving back to the fridge to pull out juice. He doesn’t even know when you squeezed it, realizing that you’ve made a habit of doing things around here like it's your home too. 

The song plays on. You sit down across from him, and when you smile at him, he nearly melts into the chair. He doesn’t know how things got here, how he ended up with everything he’s ever known upside down. But he does know that he’s not alone anymore and even better - he’s got you. 

He doesn’t know how it happened. How he went from certainty to standing on fractured glass. But you’re here. And somehow, that’s more grounding than anything the Alliance ever trained into him. He picks up the fork and pierces the eggs. His hand trembles, just a little.

One truth rings louder than all the chaos still ringing in his chest: He would do anything to protect you.

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

Texas sun

Texas sun

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 55 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … SIXTEEN

It’s a cold day, winter sweeping down the orange sands. You’re halfway up the comms tower, tightening the solar panel bolts with a wrench that is far too big for your hand. Seokmin stands at the base of the tower, ready to catch you if you fall.

You swear you won’t fall, but you’ve already dropped several nuts and bolts that he’s had to toss the fifteen feet back up to you. He shields his eyes from the brightness of the sky, endless blue and blinding. He sees you struggling to tighten a bolt and he starts to laugh.

“You know I’m literally stronger than you, right? You should have let me do it,” he calls up to you.

He hears you curse. “You complain more than me.” 

An object speeds toward him. He dodges the wrench as it hits the dried dirt with a heavy thunk. He looks up at you, mouth agape. Your hand is pressed over your mouth in shock, clearly having dropped it on accident and not thrown it at him.

Sighing, Seokmin picks up the wrench and shoves it into his belt. He grumbles as he climbs the tower. You scoot to make space for him, thighs bumping his. 

“Hold this,” he says, leveling you with a stare that says don’t drop this as he passes you the wrench.

Chagrinned, you take it. Your fingers brush. His grip almost falters. You’re not wearing gloves - despite him asking you to - and there’s dirt under your nails, a smudge of grease across your cheek. When you grin at him, sweat glistening on your brow, Seokmin’s chest tightens.

You are real, and close, and warm, and somehow the most vivid thing in a world built from sand and silence.

Focusing, he puts the bolt back on and holds out his hand for the wrench. You drop it into his hand and he arches a brow at you. You give him a playful smile that makes him shake his head as he uses the wrench to tighten the bolt and finish securing the panel. 

“See,” he says, finished. “Was that so hard?” 

You sniff, indifferent. “Yes.”

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … MONDAY, DECEMBER 23, 8099

WEATHER … CLOUDY SKIES, 43 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT… COLD FRONT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … TWENTY TWO

Seokmin is sitting on his bed reading when there’s a pop and a flicker, and suddenly the lights in the station go out. The hum on the fan next to him dies and the airflow stops from the vent system above.  

Down the hall, he hears you shriek, followed by the sound of plastic clattering. He bursts into laughter, deep and uncontrollable, setting aside his book as he hears more banging and curses as you struggle in the darkness of the bathroom. 

The stale emergency lights hum on, casting the hallway in a sickly amber glow. Seokmin sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold, slightly dented flooring. He’s already crossing the hall when you rip the bathroom door open, towel wrapped around you, still dripping.

“Fix it,” you growl at him, soap still foamy in your hair. “I can’t prove it, but I know it's your fault.”

“I was on my bed reading!”

You narrow your eyes. “Even more suspect.” 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s crouched in the generator shed again, this time at the breaker box trying to read his own scrawled notes, cluttered switch labels and marker that’s rubbed off. You stand behind him towel drying your hair, assuring him that you just want to make sure he does it right. 

He messes with a switch, followed by a faint click. You run to the shed door, sticking your head out to look at the Station.

You cheer, signalling that the lights are back on inside. You turn to him, crossing your arms. “I rescind my accusation. You are moderately useful.”

He rolls his eyes, rising to his feet and brushing dust off his knees. But he doesn’t miss the way your smile tugs sideways, damp lashes casting little shadows down your cheeks. His fingers linger on the metal of the switch box just a second too long, tingling from the static, or maybe from something else entirely.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 56 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THREE 

The sky is a broken fire above you, gold spilling into orange, bleeding into a deep indigo that smudges the edges of the desert. Long shadows crawl across the sand and crawl up the walls of the Station like ghosts. Everything smells like heat still clinging to the metal roof and the sharp scent of ozone from a power relay down below.

Seokmin’s still in his boots. You aren’t. You’re barefoot on the roof, skin dusted with grit, ankles smudged with grease from rechecking the solar relay. There’s a portable speaker propped up on an overturned crate beside you. It whines for a second before it finds its footing

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Seokmin squints into the dying light, one hand lifted to block the sun as he watches you. You don’t say anything. You just turn your head slightly and offer him your hand. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him, but this feels like a new thing entirely.

You’re serious?” Seokmin says.

You don’t answer, just take his hand, tug him up to his fit. He’s stiff, all elbows and unsure angles, heavy boots thunking awkwardly on the corrugated metal. His armor’s been stripped off for the night, just the undersuit clinging to him like a second skin. He doesn't know where to put his hands, or how to move his feet. His training never included anything like this.

But then your hands find his, one at your hip, one twined with yours. You start to sway. It’s barely a dance. More like a strange, stumbling rhythm you both fall into. A side-to-side step, uneven and unsure. Like you’re making it up with every beat. 

Because you are. Because you’ve never danced either.

You were born into the wires of a machine hive. You’ve never seen anyone dance. And Seokmin? He’s spent every moment of his existence killing. Executing targets. Patrolling edges. He has no idea how to dance either, but he likes the way you do it.

He likes everything you do. 

The music folds over you both, soft and slow, washing the world away. His boots scrape clumsily against the roof, but you don’t flinch. You just move with him like none of it matters.

He can feel you breathing. The shape of your exhale brushing against his neck, the warmth of your body bleeding into his. You look up at him, and the sun catches in your eyes like a flare, and he suddenly can’t look away.

He’s not thinking about protocol. Or the perimeter alarms. Or the mission logs that haven’t been updated in days. He’s thinking about how you smile when you're trying not to. How your fingers fit into his. How he let a war machine walk free days ago - let it pass, unquestioned, unchallenged - because you told him to.

Seokmin listens to you. It’s like a new programming he cannot shake. But he doesn’t mind, content to follow your lead, to follow your dance. 

“I’m not sure we’re doing this right,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we’re not. But I like it.”

He wants to say something else. Maybe something about how his entire world has unraveled in your hands. How his rules don’t make sense anymore. How he’s not sure if he’s still the weapon they built, or if he’s becoming something else entirely.

Instead, he just lets the sun drop below the horizon. Lets the music curl around you both like a cocoon. Lets you press in close, your bare feet stepping on the toes of his boots, your nose brushing his collarbone. 

He swallows hard. 

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

As the song comes to an end, the sun slips beneath the horizon like it’s trying to hide. You’re still in his arms, not dancing anymore but swaying slightly, like your body hasn’t realized the music’s gone. He feels the weight of your head against his chest. Your hand curled against his side. Your breath, soft and steady.

Seokmin doesn’t know what to do with that.

He forces himself to move. A breath. A step back. Your arms fall away, and it leaves him cold in a way he doesn’t want to examine. You don’t seem bothered. You just step over to the edge of the roof and sit, legs dangling, silhouetted against the faint purple fade of evening. He follows, dropping down beside you, boots thudding against the ledge.

The stars begin to show themselves, pricked through the thinning light, sharp and bright in the open sky. Neither of you speak for a while. Seokmin glances sideways. You’re watching the sky, knees pulled up, chin resting on them. You look peaceful. Or like you’re trying to be.

He shifts, arms draped loosely over his own knees. “Have you ever seen stars like this before?”

“No. I could look at them forever.”

It feels cruel, suddenly, that for years, he was able to see this sky every night. That it’s yours now too, but only because you ran. Because you escaped. He thinks about Orin - of Zahra. 

“I used to think this work meant something,” he says, the words small and hoarse in his throat. “Killing the machines. Keeping the edges clear.”

You turn slightly toward him, but don’t speak. You let him find it. He turns his head slowly. You’re watching him, and it hits him all over again, how close you are. How gently you look at him. Like you already know what he’s afraid to admit.

“I think that was all a mistake.” 

The quiet that follows is thick. Heavy. Then, you break it with a soft voice. “You’re more than what they made you.”

It carves through him.

That’s the thing about you, though. You always find the exact place where he’s weakest, where he’s aching, and you press your words there like salve. You don’t even seem to realize how you do it. It’s just in the way you look at him. In the way you see him, not as an Outrider or someone confused about their loyalty to the Alliance, but Seokmin.

The way he always dreamed of someone seeing him, of knowing him. 

It makes him feel human and it terrifies him because fuck he likes you. More than he should. More than he knows how to carry. It keeps him up at night, lying in his room, hand behind his head, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering what your hand would feel like in his again. What it would mean if you wanted it there.

And now, in the stillness, with your face turned to the stars and your body leaning just barely toward his, he starts to wonder if you feel it too or if that’s just the years’ worth of loneliness making him starving for you. 

You’re quiet, but your eyes are bright, fixed on him in a way that steals his breath. The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting a smile. Your fingers, resting near your knee, are so close to his he swears he can feel the heat of them.

“Thank you,” he says, and it comes out low and rough.

You look at him for a long second, and then you lean your head to his shoulder. You don’t say anything. You don't really have to. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare to breathe too hard, afraid you’ll vanish like the mirage that haunted what feels like ages ago.

Instead, he lets you rest your head against him under the stars, wondering what would happen if he turned his head just a little and kissed your hair. Wondering what else he’s allowed to want now that he’s finally starting to believe he deserves it.

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 8099

WEATHER … CLEAR SKIES, 60 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … FIVE 

Night sky stretches over amber sands. Seomkin is fiddling with a pipe under the sink while music plays through the speakers and you’re somewhere outside fiddling with a sensor on the workbench. He has the door open, risking the sand just so it can feel like you’re both in the same room. 

Something metal clangs outside followed by a yelp and a curse. He’s outside before he’s even realized he’s moving, stepping through the door and sweeping to where you sit on the workbench. You’ve got the casing to a sensor half-pried open and your left hand clutched to your chest, blood seeping between your fingers. 

“Ugh, what happened?” 

You try to wave him off. “It’s nothing, just slipped.” 

He sees the jagged piece of metal you broke off. Your hand is scarlet, the metal having bit through your skin, opening it up. 

“That’s not nothing.”

You protest, “I was careful-” 

You falter when he reaches for your wrist. Your skin is warm and trembling under his touch. The moment stretches, taut. Neither of you speak for a beat too long, your eyes darting up to meet his. There’s something electric in it, something unsaid that hums between your bodies. But the blood still shines in the light, and Seokmin exhales tightly.

“Come on,” he murmurs, guiding you gently but firmly back toward the Station. “We need to clean that.”

You don’t fight him. You just follow, your shoulder brushing his every few steps. It’s only when he gets you inside back to the old medical bay turned into your bedroom that the tension comes back full force. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and the lavender sachet you keep tucked near your pillow. The bed’s unmade, the sheets slightly rumpled. 

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bed.

You do, cradling your hand. He kneels in front of you, his fingers deft as he opens the med kit he pulls from where you’ve shoved it in a cabinet to make room for all the clothes you’ve stolen from him. His pulse drums louder the longer he’s near you, feeling how close you are, watching him like you trust him with more than just fixing your hand. 

“Let me see,” he says, and you slowly uncurl your fingers.

The cut is long, but not deep. Still, it’s raw and angry, and the skin around it is already puffing with inflammation.

He dips a cloth in the alcohol solution, glancing up once. “This’ll sting.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He snorts, shaking his head. You’re not wrong about that, but he doesn’t want to think about the first time he brought you in here, unconscious and bleeding and broken. 

Your breath catches when he presses the cloth to your palm and your other hand tightens in the sheets. Seokmin keeps his focus steady, jaw tense as he wipes away the blood, but every second feels like it’s coiling tighter between you. Your knees bracket his body. Your breath lifts and falls, shallow, your eyes pinned to his mouth. He feels the shift, the very moment something inside the room tips.

“You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

He looks up. Your face is inches from his. Your lips parted slightly, skin flushed. You nod. “You’re being gentle.”

And then his knuckles brush your thigh accidentally as he reaches for the bandage roll, and you breathe in sharply. Softly. A small, involuntary sound that is almost a whimper in the back of his throat and it makes him fucking dizzy. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make that sound.” 

Your mouth pops shut. You let him finish wrapping your hand in silence, but the air is charged now, something sizzling. He can barely see, can barely hear the way his pulse is throbbing in his ears. You’re so close to him, smelling like his soap, the lavender from your sheets fucking intoxicating.

He goes to stand but your knees tighten, pinning against his shoulders, squeezing him so that he doesn’t stand, but rather is pinned in place. He looks up at you. Your eyes are blown, chest rising and falling with quick breaths, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice shaky. 

“Like what?”

“Like… you want something. Me, maybe. I don’t know.”

“And if I do?”

Seokmin finally snaps. 

He surges up, his hands cradling your face, and kisses you. It’s not clean or practiced. Your lips collide with a kind of desperation, the kind that’s been weeks in the making, the kind that has been haunting his every dream and thought from the moment he realized you weren’t just a salve to his loneliness - you were something else that he wanted. 

Desperately. 

You gasp against his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist, dragging you closer, pulling you off balance and onto him as he stumbles back onto the floor and your knees land on either side of his thighs. His hands are everywhere - your face, your waist, the small of your back. Touch-starved, wild, aching. He cannot ever remember touching someone before and he’s glad, trying to burn the way you feel into his memory so that it can never be taken away. 

“Seokmin,” you murmur, breaking the kiss with a gasp as his mouth trails down, grazing the line of your jaw, your neck, your collarbone through the open neck of your shirt. 

You whine, squirming in his arms and he panics, pulling back. “Shit,” he curses. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

You interrupt his apology, turning his fear that he’d done something you didn’t want into a groan as you claw at him. Your whine hadn’t been a protest but a plea. His heartbeat thunders, drowning out everything but you. Your lips slide against his, warm and messy, a tangled clash of tongues and heat, and he groans, raw, the sound swallowed by your mouth.

Your hands fist his shirt, yanking him closer. His hands roam, greedy and starving, one slipping under your loose shirt to trace your spine’s warm curve, the other digging into your hip, sinking into soft flesh. He breaks the kiss, panting, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your pulse, tasting salt and sweetness. You shudder and slide your fingers into his hair, twisting and tugging hard. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled against your collarbone, nose brushing the soft skin of your throat, inhaling you. You smell like lavender and salt. “You being here has haunted me for months.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Your voice is raspy, gasping as he squeezes you tighter. 

“No. Never.”

He stands suddenly, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, pressed flush against him. Clumsy, desperate, he stumbles to the bed, your lips hungry, kissing him until his head spins. He lowers you, mattress creaking underneath your shared weight. 

You drag your hands under his shirt and he lets out a throaty sound. It feels so fucking good having someone touch him like this, having someone want to touch him like this. Sexual release isn’t a foreign concept to him, but this sort of untamable lust is, the desire to give and to take and to want - it’s new and it’s overwhelming and he feels drunk. 

Seokmin peels the shirt from your sun-warmed skin. He groans, kissing his way to the soft swell of your chest, pressing his tongue flat to your skin to drag toward an aching nipple. His tongue flicks tentatively over a nipple and when you whine for him, he turns greedy. He sucks it into his mouth, warm and wanting, watching as you writhe under him while he swirls his tongue around your pert bud. 

Your nails bite into his back. He doesn’t care. He only separates from you when you growl at him to take his shirt off, your hands clawed and forceful as you yank his shirt up and over his head. 

Seeing you laying on the mattress, shirtless, skin pebbled from the cold, nipples hard and aching, skin glistening in his spit nearly makes him come in his pants. He has never wanted anyone this bad - never wanted anyone period, that he knows of. It’s just you that he wants, his desire for you spilling through the very seams of him.

Ducking back down, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, sinking lower. He hooks his fingers in your pants as he goes - his pants - tugging them sharply down your legs. He adds them to the growing pile of clothes in the corner of your room, ignoring how you keep forgetting to do laundry in favor of pressing his hands against the softness of your thighs to open you.

Your glistening folds makes his breath catch, heart pounding. He’s never done this. Not really sure if he’s supposed to, really, but he wants to taste you - needs to taste you. He bides his time, nervous. Instead of pressing his tongue through your cunt the way he wants to, he kisses the insides of your thighs, sucking soft flesh between his teeth. 

It makes you insane for him. You squirm under him, grabbing at the sheets, grabbing at him, panting so hard he thinks you might pass out. He mouths his way up to your slick heat and gives in, pressing his tongue flat as he licks a broad, slow stripe up your pussy. 

Both of you make broken sounds, him at the headiness of you on his tongue, you at the feeling. He does it again, watching you this time, entranced with the way you twitch under him, fisting the sheets, eyes squeezing shut as you pant under him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes heavily. 

He licks you from top to bottom, slow and inquisitive. He savors you, loves the way you melt in his mouth. He gives a gentle suck and likes the way it makes you sound, so he does it again, alternating between sucking at you gently and rolling his tongue in circles over your cunt. 

His tongue flicks, precise, and you shudder, thighs clamping his head, fingers tugging his hair. He dives deeper, pressing his tongue into your entrance, nose brushing your clit. He can’t get enough of you, watching through heavily-lidded eyes as you come apart under his mouth. 

 “Seokmin,” you gasp, and he hums.

He can tell you’re on the edge of spilling over, your eyes squeezed shut, your legs closing around his shoulders. Your head thrashes and he goes for it, sucking harshly at your clit as your hips lift off the bed, a squeak leaving your mouth. 

Your first orgasm hits. He tongues you through it, gentle until you’re shaking and pulling away from him, whining and voice cracking. He eases up, content to roll his tongue in lazy circles around your clenching hole. He licks up every drop of you, feels it running down his chin, and doesn’t care.

He wants more. 

“Can you take more?” He asks, licking his lips. His voice is deep, feral in a way he’s never heard. “I want to give you more.”

“I don’t know,” you gasp, letting him press your thighs further apart. He kisses your cunt gently, avoiding too much stimulation, but gives you something, giving himself something. You sigh, sagging on the bed before you eventually nod. “I can.”

He might love you. Seokmin sucks at you softly, rubbing his hands up your thighs gently to soothe you. Your hips cant against him and he thinks he could do this for the rest of his life, drinking in the taste of you, hearing you fall apart again and again. 

He keeps that slow pace for a while, content to drag his tongue up and down your cunt, letting you shiver in the aftershocks of your orgasm. Slowly, he picks up his pace, sucking your clit into his mouth gently until your grip on him is bone-bruising tight. 

“Seokmin, fuck, I can’t-” you start, dissolving into a cry as your second orgasm crashes into you. It’s harder this time but he doesn’t care, mouthing you until you’re spent and shaking and pushing at him. 

He crawls up, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself, and you moan. You drop your hands to his pants, desperate for him in a way that sets his entire world on fucking fire. You're both panting when he finally pulls back, his lips slick and red from kissing you, from tasting you. His breath fans against your cheek as he leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours.

You’re flushed and wrecked beneath him, thighs still trembling from your second orgasm, your fingers tangled in the waistband of his pants like you’ll go mad if he doesn’t give you more. 

“Please,” you beg. He has no idea what you’re asking for, isn’t even sure if you know what you’re asking for.

He kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he needs to. And you melt under it, whining into his mouth as your hips roll up against the hard length of him, still trapped behind too much fabric.

He groans, breaking the kiss to rest his weight on his forearm beside your head, his free hand still gripping your thigh. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. You soften, pulling your hands back. “Do you want? We can stop whenever.”

“Of course I do,” he laughs, throaty. “You have no idea. I don’t have preventatives or anything. Those uh - don’t come down in the supply shipments.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

It occurs to him that of course you don’t. He doesn’t even know how he knows, just that he does. “I’m trying not to get you pregnant.” 

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “Can you just… pull out?”

He’s endeared by the way you ask. He nods, dragging his mouth along your jaw, peppering you with kisses. He supposes he could do that. Isn’t sure what else to do, given the situation. Getting to have sex isn’t exactly in the Outrider handbook and he’s making it up as he goes. 

“I trust you.” His whole body shudders. Your hand rises to his face, cupping his jaw. “I want you. I’ve wanted you. Please.” 

This time when he kisses you, it’s soft. Meaningful. Saying everything he’s wanted to say the last few nights but can’t. Admitting how he felt that night on the roof, dancing as the sun set. Spilling the way he felt when you curled up on the couch and listened to him read after giving up on learning how yourself. Admitting the way he dreamed of you, even if it wasn’t quite you he had been dreaming of at the time. 

You work at the button on his pants between kisses, clumsy and rushed. You finally manage, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He’s harder than he’s ever been, so much that it’s almost painful. The moment your hand brushes him - bare, flushed, hard - he gasps, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a groan.

“Shit,” he breathes, trembling as you wrap your fingers around him. Your grip is light, unsure. He is twitching, leaking into your hand as you drag your fingers up and down his shaft. “No one’s ever touched me. No one’s ever - fuck - you’re the first. The only.” 

“You’re only the seventh person I’ve ever met in my life, and I definitely have never touched any of them.”

He laughs, throaty. “Then we’ll figure this out together.”

You complain when he pulls away from you to kick his pants the rest of the way off. He clucks his tongue at you, giving you a narrowed eye look that makes you pout. But you wait for him, eyes glued to the way he grips the base of his cock and pumps himself, spreading his precum to make his skin slick. 

Seokmin curses under his breath as he knees onto the bed and guides himself to your entrance, and pauses. He feels the way your cunt flutters against the crown of his cock and it makes him light-headed. He kisses you again, slow this time, full of something that borders on reverence. On what he swears could be love, given time. Then he pushes in slowly, the stretch pulling gasps from you both. You’re warm and wet and fuck. You’re unbelievably tight, struggling to take him.

He goes slow. Pauses to let you breathe along the way, hearing the way your breath comes out in short, labored hisses as he sinks in inch-by-inch. He does this at your pace, watching each time you nod and let him push in more until his hips are pressed flushed to your ass, buried into your heat all the way. 

You quake under him. He doesn’t move, hearing the discomfort in your voice. Instead, he catches your mouth with his, kissing you slowly, tongues tangling. He takes one of your hands, lacing your fingers and pins it above your head, letting your twined hands ground him. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “I’m okay,” you whisper, urging him.

He moves tentatively. When you don’t immediately make him stop, he sets a slow and steady pace, pulling all the way out before sinking back in, drawing weak sounds from both of you. Each thrust answered by a honey-dipped moan from your mouth. He loses himself to it, dropping his head to your shoulder as he fights to keep himself collected. He fucks you deep and steady, both of you barely able to breathe as his cock drags along your walls. 

“Seokmin,” you gasp. You’re fucked out, lashes fluttering, barely aware you’re whispering his name over and over again.

After going so long with never hearing his name, he never wants you to stop. Wants to hear you say it every day, wants to pull it from you like this, gasping, moaning, messy. 

Your legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, the angle letting him sink fully, each thrust a spark. The tension coils and he feels the way his body is seizing, cock jumping as he quickens his pace. Your shallow breaths signal you’re close and you’ve gone boneless, hand squeezing his as your hips twitch upward, seeking another release. 

Finally, you shatter, pleasure rippling through you, your pussy clenching so tight around him he nearly breaks his promise and comes inside. He’s close, nearly bursting at the seams, but holds back, letting you pulse around him through your high until you’re coming back down. 

He pulls out and you whimper, making him shake his head because of course you want more. He strokes himself, slick with you, throbbing in his hand until he comes, spilling his release hot across your thigh. His entire body shudders, cock pulsing until he has nothing left to give. 

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead to yours, hand on your hip, grounding. 

You’re both breathing hard, bodies tangled, bare skin pressed so tightly it feels like you’re sharing the same heartbeat. Seokmin is still above you, his weight braced on trembling arms as he hovers just enough not to crush you. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder, mapping all the places he wants to kiss again and again. 

He starts to shift, intending to get up and wipe the come from your leg. You panic, grabbing at him. “Don’t go.”

He stills, eyes searching yours. “I’m not,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t. Just want to wipe the come off your leg.”

“Oh. Proceed.”

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head, diving to grab a towel from your laundry pile to smear it across your thigh until it’s gone. You tug him down to the bed as soon as he’s done and he tries not to land on you, hitting the bed awkwardly.

“I am trying not to crush you, you know?” 

You laugh under your breath, but it’s soft. Fragile. “You’re so careful with me.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admits. “Not with you.” 

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not, trust me. But it doesn’t mean you have to be treated like metal all the time.”

Seokmin thinks of the first night he saw you, bloody and smelling of metal, screaming and bruised and a little broken but vicious none the same, ready to fight. He doesn’t know a lot about your world, but he knows it was all machinery and fire, brutal and hard. 

He sees your expression soften as you come to the same conclusion he has. “Fine,” you amend. “Continue.”

You curl into him, tucking your head under his chin. He wraps an arm around you, palm splaying across your lower back, grounding. You stay like that for a while. Neither of you speaks. Neither of you needs to. He reaches for your injured palm, brushing his thumb over the pink-stained gauze. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise.

“Would you tell me if it did?” You shrug and he rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he urges gently. “Let’s shower.” 

“Carry me.” He gives you a look and you grin.. “Glass treatment, remember?” 

 ━━▲━━

LOCATION… STATION 0218, THE TILT

DATE … THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 8100

WEATHER … HEAVY RAIN, 68 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT

DAYS WITHOUT MACHINE ENCOUNTER … THIRTEEN

The rain comes in soft at first. Barely more than mist on the wind. But it thickens as the day wears on, turning into a steady rhythm against the metal roof of the Station. It smells like earth and static, music playing over the speakers, the same old song you both have come to love. 

Say you wanna hit the highway while the engine roars

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

That Texas sun, oh yeah

Seokmin stands by the window, watching the rain bead along the glass. It doesn’t happen often, this kind of weather. But lately, everything feels like a slow unraveling of what used to happen. What used to be. What used to matter.

Caressing you from Fort Worth to Amarillo

Come on, roll with me 'til the sun dips low

Texas sun

Behind him, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, lit by the halo of the lamp you dragged over to turn it into your makeshift workbench. Wires snake around your feet, and the interference device you’ve been working on is slowly taking shape: a copper coil, repurposed military tech, a handheld transponder cannibalized from a buried drone. 

When I'm far from home and them cold winds blow

Stuck out somewhere with folks I don't know

'Cause you keep me nice and you keep me warm

Wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again

You’ve been trying to work on something to help reroute machines. Not destroy them or disable them, but to guide them. Seokmin can only let so many go unchecked through the Tilt, and there was that one Gloom that wasn’t friendly a few weeks ago that you’d helped him put down. 

Seokmin’s chest aches a little when he watches you work. Your hair’s a little damp from stepping outside earlier, and your sleeves are pushed to your elbows, grease staining your skin. You’ve made this Station your home - make it feel like his home, after never having felt that way before. 

He’s about to tell you that when a sudden sound shatters the air. A high-pitched frequency screams out of the device. He freezes. His breath cuts short in his chest. It’s like something clamps down behind his ribs, not pain, not even fear, but response. A reflex. His limbs go still, fingers twitch once like he's waiting for a command. His vision tunnels, sound dulls to a cotton-muffled throb.

Seokmin is nowhere. 

System halt.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t dream.

System halt. 

Then, warmth. Your hands are on his face, thumb brushing over the hinge of his jaw. You speak, barely above the soft patter of rain on the roof. “Seokmin. Seokmin, hey. It’s okay. Look at me.”

He blinks, breath hitching, and then his eyes find yours. The static inside him breaks like glass underfoot. He inhales hard, one step back from whatever edge that was. One breath away from something he doesn't understand.

“I-” His voice croaks. “Sorry, that was weird.” 

Texas sun

Texas sun

Your expression softens. Still close. Still touching him like it’s second nature. “Sorry, I should have known. Sorry, I won’t do that again.” 

You say it gently, like you’re talking about the weather. Like you didn’t just catch him spiraling into a shutdown. But Seokmin hears the rain again, and now it’s louder than the frequency ever was. The smell of rust, rain, and your skin pulls him back to earth.

Texas sun, oh

Texas sun

He nods slowly. Swallows. And then the thought blooms quietly, horribly: He hadn’t frozen like a man. He’d frozen like a machine.

And you’d kissed him and apologized with a gentle I should have known. 

You say you like the wind blowing through your hair

Well, come on, roll with me 'til the sun goes down

Texas sun

Texas sun

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[zyx]

happy pride

[hipsdofangirl]

bf! seokmin x reader

synopsis: seokmin is best dressed for your cousin’s wedding.

warnings: everybody likes seokmin, happy relationships, mentions of family, nicknames, hints of seokmin’s eczema, implied female and shorter reader, not edited

wc: 771

notes: just got back from a wedding and this happened to my cousin and her partner and i thought that is my man dk energy. i had to get it out. daily dose of seokmin i missed him (i write for him A LOT and prob won’t stop)

origin of header

you hear quick-footed stomps echo down the wooden stairs of your family’s airbnb. your eyes dart toward the direction of the abrupt noise before focusing back to your original task.

you trill your lips, watching the baby in the carrier smile while biting his two fingers. he takes them out and bubbles back at you, forming a conversation.

you nod your head happily and tickle his tummy lightly; your cousin, enjoying the interaction her nephew is having.

“he is infatuated with you, isn’t he?” you snap your head over your shoulder to observe seokmin’s gaze lingering on the baby. noticing he has your attention, he meets your eyes that melts his own with an adoring smile.

another uncle walks by and pats his shoulder, “might have some competition there bud.”

seokmin’s giggles accompany your chuckle. instantly, he straightens up and puts his hands in his pockets, refining his “chill guy aura” bit as he calls it.

“at least i recently learned how to wipe my own ass,” he jokes back, puffing out his chest a bit.

you roll your eyes and smack his chest while your family chuckles, reverberating in the living room. you glance back at seokmin, noticing the way with each chuckle from your family brings a brighter cheer from him.

you lean into his side and rub his back gently, feeling the fabric rub between your fingertips; on instinct, he wraps his closest arm around your back, vying for a free piece of skin to ground himself to you.

faintly, you say to him, “they already love you…”

seokmin leans his head on top of yours, watching your cousin struggle with their baby. “i’m glad, or else i would need to apply more cream on my hands.”

you pout, going for a polite squeeze of his butt before your mother walks down in a nice dress.

her gaze lingers on seokmin for a second and she smiles before turning back to you.

“oh you look great!” she applauds, detaching you from your boyfriend into her arms.

you smile. “thanks…at least someone who claims to love me compliments my outfit.”

you slowly spin around to meet seokmin’s tender gaze.

he snaps out of it and dramatically looks around behind him before focusing back on you. “oh yes you do look stunning, love.”

“just get your ass in the car—“ you playfully stomp over to him, giving him fake pushes to go toward the door. he laughs and blushes while your family watches with content.

you stop.

“min—you are not wearing that.”

he snorts before rubbing his nose, an act he puts on when he wants you to continue your statement.

you cross your arms. “you cannot wear swim trunks to a wedding.”

he spins a full circle with his arms open, to flaunt to the laughing audience. “but there is a pool.”

you bite your lip to halt your impending laughter. seokmin notices your lip tremble and keeps going.

“i think this outfit looks formal enough—it even has a beautiful sunset on the bottom to you know? set the scene.”

a smile spreads across your lips. seokmin saunters over to you, grabbing your elbows to bring you closer to him.

your face flushes, recognizing whom you are in front of. seokmin only recognizes you at that moment, tilting his head down to give you a peck on your lips.

“you drive a hard bargain with that smile, my love. i’ll go change.”

he climbs back up the stairs, leaving you in a daze. as your family now resumes getting everything together to leave for the wedding.

sometimes you can sneak a glance a family member who gives one of your parents a knowing look you can only describe as a form of agreement.

your mom tosses you the car keys, as stomps fall back down on your ears. you watch as seokmin tucks his navy fitted shirt into his beige pants.

he makes his way to your side and presses a kiss to your head.

you chuckle and sigh sarcastically, “you’re a goofy one aren’t you?”

he digs his nose into your hair. “only to make you smile.”

as people started making their way through the front door to their cars, you ask him under your breath, “how badly flushed was your face?”

he chuckles, rubbing your side. “not too bad, think i’m getting comfortable with the people here.”

you intertwine your fingers with his, noticing their softness. you rub your fingers against his, a habit you somehow formed after being together.

“can’t believe the baby dressed better than you too.”

seokmin whines with a light-hearted stomp in response.

[fairyhaos]

how seventeen act with their superhero s/o

notes: requested by anon! masterlist

seungcheol

what the actual fuck. you're a goddamn superhero and you didn't TELL HIM??? babe why didn't you let him know oh lord this is a travesty. no, he's not mad about the fact you didn't trust him (tho that does sting), he's just more mad that you didn't let him PAY for shit. all that property damage, those countless suits you've destroyed, and not to mention the medical bills? and you didn't tell him??? your uber rich boyfriend????? he's so hurt. he's devastated. don't touch him, he's ordering materials for a new suit right this second

jeonghan 

he's your partner in crime. uh—partner in vigilantism, justice, whatever. you guys are kinda trauma-bonded together, having been subjected to the same tragic event that gave you superhero powers, so there was never going to be any doubt that he'd be by your side forever after that. there's no one who understands you quite like him, so even if he winds you up daily with his banter and his flirty comments, there's no one else you'd rather have by your side. 

joshua

figured it out almost instantly. all he needs to do is watch you come into work, glasses askew, hair windswept, always three minutes late—a respectable time to be late: not too much to be noticed, but enough that you are definitely late and that he, the new employee who comes in half an hour early, definitely notices. arguably, he's a bit too invested in you, but how can that be a bad thing when he realises you have the same lilting tone to your voice as the powerful, nameless superhero who saved his life a few years ago?

junhui 

he's absolutely DEVASTATED that he can't tell anyone. it doesn't seem right, cz ur the coolest, most incredible person he knows, AND you're a superhero??? but he's not allowed to say it????? that doesn't sit right with him, but if it's what you want, then he supposes he'll play along. just wait until you finally retire, though. then he'll tell everyone he knows that you were one a SUPER COOL AND SUPER FAMOUS superhero !! 

hoshi

literally your biggest fan. you saved him one day during a monster attack, and he's adored you ever since. on a genuinely unrelated note, he starts being victim to many, many more monster attacks after that first time, so he ends up getting saved by you again and again. it happens so often that you actually recognise him, a smile to your voice as you pull him to safety and it makes him swoon. he's not saying he'll be your damsel in distress, but hey, if you're willing…? 

wonwoo

he's your best friend for life, so ofc he knows you're a superhero. he's literally your guy in the chair. it was wonwoo who helped make your suit, make your superhero name, make all of your missions possible by hacking systems and feeding you information while you're on the go. it was also wonwoo who painstakingly dealt with your injuries, who found you a rich sponsor, and who has also successfully evaded five kidnapping attempts. you don't know how he does it. 

woozi 

it's crazy, because your superhero personas are actually (friendly) rivals. he doesn't know your identity, and you don't know his, but you are still dating irl and it takes several awkward excuses from the both of you for missed dates and unexplainable injuries before the penny finally drops. woozi realises it halfway through a fight against a supervillain, and when you catch him before he can fall to his death, he realises… huh. maybe the signs were there all along. 

minghao

he's the one who helped coax you from the brink of evil and use your powers for good. after having been experimented on against your will, leaving you with genetic mutations that gave you magic, you were broken beyond belief. vowing only to get vengeance and destroy the hateful world you grew up in, it was only minghao and his kind, firm self who helped you heal. if it wasn't for him, your life would be a lot different. you'd be a hated villain rather than the adored hero you are. 

mingyu

first and foremost he is SO worried about your safety. every time you go to fight a villain, whether it's some street thug or your mortal enemy, there's a part of him that wants to beg u to stay in and let someone else deal with it. literally gets teary-eyed whenever you refuse to go to the hospital for any injuries bc “they don't know how to deal with superheroes”. has definitely tried to communicate with alien planets to see if they have any superhero hospitals that can help you instead. he just hates seeing you hurt, okay? 

dokyeom

you were terrified to pieces about telling dokyeom ur superhero identity. if you told him, then someone was bound to find out and kidnap him bc a) he's ur boyfriend and b) he's too pretty. you make him pinky swear that he will Not, under Any Circumstances, let himself get kidnapped. and then you also enroll him in self defence classes. he doesn't really need them (contrary to ur belief, he can take care of himself) and he may look like a weirdo as the only buff and fit person in the classes, but hey, if it makes you happy then u bet he'll follow along <3

seungkwan

if your life was a superhero comic book, then seungkwan would be the epitome of your angelic, grounding, civilian boyfriend. he's your mj, your pepper potts, your lois lane. he's your humanity. with his warm, worried hands and his eyes that betray every emotion on his face, seungkwan is the only one who can bring you back to yourself after a particularly dark mission. he loves you so deeply, so unconditionally, and any villain will rue the day that they use him as leverage against you bc you would burn the entire earth for him. 

vernon

probably figures out ur identity by himself, either through observing you very closely for several days or bc you slip up and do something that makes it obvious ur a superhero. crucially, you don't know that he knows, so he decides to have a bit of fun with this information—namely, become some silly, village-level villain and pretend to rob banks and kidnap the mayor etc etc. it's never anything serious, but this way, he actually gets to see you more often. hey, he misses you bc ur always away on your superheroing. can you blame him for playing a little prank? 

dino

he's your head strategizer. keeping on top of your civilian life, your superhero finances, press conferences, and all the different villains you've defeated/half-defeated over the years is hard work, and you wouldn't be able to do it without chan. he's the reason you were prepared for the return of your arch nemesis, helping you defeat them once and for all in a very close battle. but he's also the reason you remember to have breakfast in the morning, remember to take your vitamins, and remember that the good, wonderful humans are who you're doing all of this for. 

request guidelines

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[soonhoonsol]

#10YearsWithSEVENTEEN 150526 - 250526, and counting

[synthetickitsune]

Merman!DK (SVT) | Seashells fluff | 1k | gn!reader -> mermay collection

The beach sparkles just for you. The night is bright and warm, moonlight illuminates the sea and its many waves. They glitter in the reflected light too. You take a deep breath of the sea breeze and feel stress and worries melt away into nothing. 

You’ve always loved the beach. It’d be silly to call it your hideout when it’s so public, but under the cover of night only few strange individuals would dare to come here. There are legends, stories to keep children away. But they stick to most for their entire lives. Not to you. You were always drawn here, always felt this is where you belong. 

Today too the beach welcomes you. The waterline washes over the gifts the waves brought. They wink at you when the water draws back and the light hits them.

Your friends all joke that the sea is trying to court you. None of them, no matter the circumstances, are as lucky as you are when it comes to finding pretty seashells and other treasures of the sea. 

Your collection is quite impressive - shells, the most breathtaking shards of sea glass, little gems, even a couple pearls. You cherish them all. The jar you keep them in is almost full. Your friends are probably right when they say that selling it could pay your rent for at least a month or two. Honestly, maybe more. They don’t know of all your little treasures. Giving them away, or worse selling them, would never cross your mind, though. It doesn’t feel right. More like you’d be getting rid of a part of yourself too.

You bend down to pick the first of today’s presents. A perfect shell the colour of morning sky. Not a chip to it, not a speck of dirt. Just a few steps away - another. This one sparkling in hues of pinks and blues. Something rattles inside. A pearl. Perfect, just as white as the stars shining above. It feels like the pearl catches their gaze and they turn their attention to you now.

Not only the stars do, however.

Seokmin watches from his usual hiding spot behind the rocks lining the beach. He’s nervous, his hands tremble over the rough surface and his lip begs for relief from his teeth. You’ve never declined his gifts, but what if?

He can’t see well from this distance. Yet he knows, he can feel it. Your gentle smile, the careful way your fingers brush over the gifts he leaves for you. 

Humans have different courting habits than merfolk, of course. He’s well aware. He doesn’t expect anything in return. His feelings need to be expressed, though. And they get accepted as well, fortunately. There’s guilt he tries to push back. You don’t know what’s going on. He’s taking advantage of your innocence. Seokmin knows. But he’ll suffer beyond what he can take if he lets his love without release. 

He watches until you make your way close to him, where his trail of presents leads every time. Yet he always makes his escape before you can notice him. One day, he tells himself, one day.

It turns out he can’t choose the fateful date, however.

You look so beautiful today again. Seokmin always struggles to look at you. You’re too bright. His own guiding light, the star he orbits around. Maybe he’s a little intimidated by how beautiful you are. Or maybe he’s just a coward, simple as that.

You’re getting closer. He knows he won’t have the gut to face you today either, so he slips back into the water and sighs. He lingers still. He wants you to know. But his heart would shatter if you screamed, if you got afraid or disgusted. He wouldn’t survive that. And so he runs. 

But the sea is a cruel mistress and she gets fed up with cowards. He’s a strong swimmer. When he expects the strength of the tide and of the waves. This one caught him off guard.

He finds himself in a whirl of water and then - staring up at the starry sky. The sand itches as it lodges itself under his scales.

He panics and then he hears it - the gasp.

His face crumbles when he meets your eyes and knows it’s too late. You’ve seen him. And now it’s all going to fall apart. His world is about to end.

“So it was you,” you whisper. There’s a shy smile on your lips and from this close, well, it’d be easier to breathe without lungs than while looking at you.

You come closer and he’s not quick enough to move back. He feels paralyzed. It looks like it surprises you.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you promise, unaware of the true nature of his fear, “I just want to talk.”

“It… It was me,” Seokmin confirms, dumbly, before he introduces himself. He of course knows your name, but he loves the excuse to repeat it after you, say it aloud. It belongs on his tongue, his body, his soul.

“Thank you for the gifts,” you smile, “I’m sorry I never left any for you, but I didn’t have anything good enough to offer.”

“You are enough,” he breathes before he can stop himself, quickly withdrawing away in shame, “I- You’re just really beautiful.”

“So are you,” you chuckle, biting your lip, “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

His heart is about to beat out of his chest. He’s so glad the sea is loud enough to hide its thumping.

“Did you know?” he asks finally.

“No human could leave such elaborate gifts,” your giggles ring in his ears, “Or would bother for someone like me.”

“They’re not worthy,” Seokmin surprises even himself with the strength in his voice. His unconditional conviction.

You smile and do the unthinkable. You offer him your hand. To hold, to take. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to let go. 

His own hand shakes as he slips it into yours. He hates the grains of sand that stick to his skin stubbornly. But your palm is so warm, fits so perfectly against his that the sand can’t hide the truth - you were always meant to be.

[lowpawly]

who wants to hook up in the makima bathroom

[xurengu0]

Suffering

The leader of the sirens, Seokmin, encountered a child of Aphrodite. He knew something was wrong when his voice did not seem to have any effect on the demigod.

Siren!Seokmin x Demigod!reader | smut (mdni!) | wc: 4.5k

warnings: pjo au, seduction, enemies to lovers, oral sex (f receiving), pet names (darling, princess), violence, curses, brief knife play, bondage, (almost) drowning, attempted murder, the gods being terrible parents, how many epic references can i fit in one fic mentions of: death, eating human hearts

a/n: this one’s for pjo and epic the musical fans. despite most mythical depictions describing sirens as half-birds, the sirens in this story resemble merfolk. think: attacca beach photoshoot. 

Seokmin emerged from the depths of the water, watching a ship get closer and closer to his lair. He signaled to the other sirens to get to their positions. This was another regular night, where he and the other sirens would lure sailors out of their decks and feast upon the meal. 

As the ship got closer, he saw an orange fabric dancing along the breeze. A flag of Camp Half-Blood. Seokmin chuckled. The gods will lose a ship full of their children tonight. 

“I can take the suffering from you,” he began to sing, followed by layers of harmony from the other sirens. 

The ship halted. Its huge hull was on full display now. Any minute, the demigods would jump. Seokmin would have a bounty. 

He estimated a crew of around thirty would show up. A ship this big would have to be manned by many hands to sail across the seas. Instead, a lone figure emerged from the deck. 

Seokmin sang louder, the voices of other sirens mixed in a cacophony of hypnotizing sound. The silhouette of the lone figure was small, so he swam near the bow to get a closer look. He looked up to see a demigod, wearing a shirt of the camp, hair being constantly swept by the wind. 

You seemed to be around his age, much too old to still be part of the camp. 

“I’ll make sure that you are safe and sound…” he continued to sing. Anytime now, you would jump. 

“I have a question for you.” You spoke from the deck, voice carrying in the night breeze as if amplified. The sirens around him paused. The question was meant for the leader of the group, Seokmin. 

“Get in the water and I will answer anything you ask.” Seokmin smiled, awaiting the moment your blood painted the water red. 

“You will answer my question now.” Your voice had a melodic weight, resonating deep within Seokmin. His heart ached, wanting to agree. Before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of the other sirens. They were all frozen, mesmerized by your voice. Your beauty. Some kind of haze clouded the other sirens’ vision. 

There was something wrong.

“And if we don’t?”

“Then you have no use for me. Go away now.” You shooed them away as if instructing children.

The other sirens immediately swam away from the ship and disappeared. Seokmin’s entire body fought with his mind. He wanted to obey, but he knew this was wrong.

“Jump in the water so I can see you,” Seokmin countered. He wouldn’t be swayed in his lair.

“You’re the only one left. How about you climb the ship and be with me?”

Seokmin’s body moved closer to the ship before he could stop himself. When his hand found the side of the bow, he stopped. 

What was happening?

He swam away, looking up to get a better look into your eyes. Then it clicked. Your beauty, your grace, your voice. There was only one explanation: you were using charmspeak. 

The gifted children of Aphrodite can make anyone do whatever they want. Seokmin scoffed at your boldness to use it against him, a siren. He sang again, only to be cut off by your commands. 

It was a game of push and pull. The other sirens were gone now. It was up to him to defeat you. He focused on your eyes, urging you to jump. He drowned out your voice with his own.

You were strong, never once did you sway into his power. Seokmin had never met any mortal who had lasted this long. 

“I know you're tired, I know you’re suffering inside,” he sang. “Get in the water and be with me.”

“Don’t you feel lonely? Come onto the ship and I’ll keep you company.” You replied as if joining him in a duet. You matched his words with so much ease. 

You enticed each other like a game of tug-of-war. Charmspeak against the siren song. Demigod against a monster. 

Seokmin loved every bit of it. But he knew it wouldn’t take long for you to fold. No one came out of these waters alive. No one escaped his lair with their heart still intact. 

“Get in the water, darling. I promise your time will be well-spent.”

“Answer my question first, love. Then we’ll be together.”

The push-and-pull seemed to go on. Seokmin was starting to lose patience. Not just because he wanted to eat your heart out—that hunger was now overpowered by a different one. He wanted to see you up close, to study you, to drag his fingers against your skin. 

If there was one thing he learned about the children of Aphrodite, it was the fact that using charmspeak can wear them down. After a long battle of wills, Seokmin could finally hear your voice waning. 

He took this as an opportunity to strike. “For the last time, get in the water and I’ll give you anything you want.”

Excitement drummed against Seokmin’s chest as he watched you lose your balance. 

“Come on, that’s right. You’re doing so well,” he coaxed, sultry voice carrying in the wind. 

Finally, after what seemed like forever, you jumped. 

He swam closer to you. It was like an offering to him alone. He felt nothing but giddy pleasure at the thought of having you for himself. 

When he wrapped his arms around your drenched body, he couldn’t help but say, “Mine.”

Pretending to lose consciousness was the easy part. Trying to keep still as the siren’s nimble hands chained your feet to a rock was difficult. You had your eyes closed, so you couldn’t read his lips. Trying not to be obvious, you quickly pulled the beeswax from your right ear, just enough to hear what the siren was saying. 

“I’m going to take such good care of you.”

You bit your lip to hold back a moan. His voice was mesmerizing, it took all of your strength not to respond. Back on the ship, you knew you would encounter sirens, so you put beeswax in your ears so as not to be swayed by their song. When their leader tried to lure you in, you simply read his lips to get him to answer your question. But he was much too charming, and you decided to see him up close. 

Reluctantly, you opened your eyes. He was gorgeous. His features were sharp— muscular torso and huge arms. Droplets of water dripped from his black hair, cascading down his tan skin. The lower half of his body was submerged in water, making it easier for him to swim around the rock where he chained you. 

Even in the night, he seemed to glow. He was much too alluring, and you were not sure if you could keep resisting him. 

“Hello, princess,” he greeted when he saw your eyes open. “You were quite the trouble, you know. How did you resist the song?”

There was no use lying now. “Beeswax.”

He tucked your hair behind your left ear and removed the plug, gently grazing his skin with yours. Then he chuckled. “You’re a cunning one, aren’t you? So you’ve been reading my lips this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impressive.” He moved closer to your face and whispered, “You know I can simply sing again and kill you now that you can hear me.”

You returned the passion in his gaze. “You won’t.”

The siren raised his eyebrows. “What makes you think so?”

“Because you’re intrigued now. I have caught your attention and you will listen to me. I need your help to get to the witch’s island.”

“Aren’t you too old to fulfill missions for Camp Half-Blood?” the siren said, clearly aware that most demigods graduate from camp when they turn eighteen. You were well older than that age. “Surely, you’re not going to sacrifice your life as a servant to the gods.” 

“I’m a camp counselor. The trainees are stuck on the witch’s island after their quest has gone wrong. I am simply here to collect them.”

The siren smiled. A cruel expression that sent chills down your spine. “You risked your life to ask for directions? Seriously? You could have asked that when you were in the safety of your ship. Tell me, princess, why did you jump in the water?”

You kept your mouth shut. You were too ashamed to tell the truth now that the siren had finished chaining your wrists as well. The restraints only heightened your excitement to be this close to him. 

The siren did not seem to like your silence. “Be honest with me. What do you want?” 

“Kiss me.” The words were out of your lips before you could stop yourself. 

The siren paused. “What was that?” 

“I wasn’t planning to get in the water. But you—I… uh. I got curious.” 

He chuckled, “Look at you, all chained up and stammering. What happened to the powerful demigod who dared to use charmspeak against me?”

“If you’re going to kill me anyway, why don’t you kiss me? You promised.” 

The siren hummed. “You’re right. I did promise to give you anything you wanted if you jumped in the water. Is one kiss enough?” A smile played on his lips.

You studied his features. He was handsome, sadistic, and powerful. But his smile was too human to be considered a monster. There was something quite familiar with him that you couldn't put a finger on.

One thing sirens and Aphrodite’s children had in common was their ability to seduce. He was speaking your language and you were speaking his. You replied, “Why don’t you find out?”

He reached out to your neck and guided your lips to his. You leaned towards him and revelled at the softness of his lips, the sweetness of his kiss. You wanted to feast on the contact. You struggled against the chains, urging him to climb the rock to join you. Before you were able to deepen the kiss, the siren pulled back. 

“I’m not here to help you, princess,” he said, allowing the water to engulf his torso, deliberately making you chase after him to no avail. 

“Come back here. Finish what you started.”

“You said one kiss was enough.”

“I said we’ll find out. And I decided you could do better than that.”

The challenge in your voice did not escape his notice. The siren smiled. “Alright. I can make you feel good before I carve your heart out. Unless you want me to skip the good part and start carving?”

“Don't you dare!”

He chuckled and pushed his body up with his arms. He joined you on the rock, his beautiful golden tail emerging from the water, catching the moonlight in an iridescent glow. The splash caused droplets of water to rain down on your face. You marveled at his beauty, resembling the sun. His torso towered over yours, trapping you underneath him. The sight was phenomenal. 

“Tell me what you want, princess.”

You stared at his face. You had never wanted anyone so bad. “Touch me.” 

“What was that?”

“Please. Touch me, please.”

He smiled. Just when you thought he was going to kiss you again, a dagger suddenly appeared in his hand. 

“What are you doing?”

“Preparing my meal.” He pulled your shirt up, exposing your chest to the cold night air. 

You hissed as he traced the dagger on your chest, right where your heart was. He toyed with the tip, almost enough to draw blood. You shut your eyes from the pain, but heavens above, he looked mesmerizing leaning down on you.

That was when you noticed the thread around his neck. He wore a necklace similar to yours—a Camp Half-Blood necklace. You let him play with the dagger on your skin as you wondered how he could get that necklace. 

Was it from some other demigod who wandered here and ended up dead? Did he collect the tokens of his victims? 

He pushed your bra aside, exposing your breasts. The blade suddenly traveled to your nipple, making you gasp at the cold sensation. He chuckled. There it was again: his bright smile. 

“You like that, princess?” he teased.

It couldn't be. That smile was not a monster's smile. 

It was the smile of the son of Apollo.

He was a demigod too.

“You're Lee Seokmin,” you said in awe. You were face-to-face with one of the greatest demigods alive. You only knew him by word of mouth, but you knew it was true as soon as you said it.

He was one of the heroes who left camp for a quest and never returned. You had heard stories about him from the older counselors. They would always speak of his adventures and jokes. But the one that gave it away was his beauty. His features matched their description perfectly. Except for the siren part.

His grip on the blade faltered. For a moment, you thought he was going to stop, to feel, to tell you everything. But the hurt—or was it hope?—was quickly masked by the same cold expression earlier. 

“I'm glad you know what to scream now when I carve your heart out, princess.” 

But you have made a crack in the walls of his soul. You could feel it. Your mother had always told you that love was a weapon. All you had to do was figure out what he loved and use it later.

For now, you would play his game. You would emerge unscathed from the seas right after you take what you want. And right now, all you wanted was him.

He dragged his cold hands from your chest to your waistband. After getting a nod from you, Seokmin pulled your shorts down. He teased you with his fingers, running them along your underwear, smirking as he did so. 

You were drenched, not just because of the seawater, and he knew it too. He slid your panties down and started exploring your clit with his fingers. You moaned, enjoying the pressure he applied. 

Seokmin kissed your inner thighs with a gentle groan. Your ragged breaths responded to every inch of his movements like how you used charmspeak while he sang his song. You rolled your hips, letting him know you craved more. 

“Seokmin, stop teasing…”

The siren obliged and gave your folds a tentative lick. You let out a whimper. The chains clanged as you arched your back against the rock. 

“More,” you pleaded. 

Seokmin hummed against your folds, sending vibrations across your body. Your legs trembled when his tongue made contact with your entrance. He lapped at the slick, toying with your juices before penetrating you slowly. The drag of his tongue against your walls sent electric pulses throughout your body. 

You struggled against the chain, desperately wanting to grab his hair. Moans and whimpers fell out of your mouth as he explored your insides. He gripped your legs to keep you still as he fucked you with his tongue, stimulating your walls with vigor. 

“Mhm, Seokmin…” You closed your eyes and hissed. “Fuck.” 

Your cries egged him on, fucking in and out of your pussy faster. His grip around your legs was stronger than the chains. The moonlight danced in your vision, haze clouding your perception of your surroundings.

When you opened your eyes, you almost screamed.

The tide was getting higher.

“Seokmin? The water’s rising.” 

The siren didn't seem to mind. He continued lapping up your cunt and making you squirm with his tongue. The tide was rising to your knees. 

“Seok—”

He paused to look up at you. “You’re so perfect, princess.”

Seokmin took off the chains on your ankles. You sighed in relief, finally able to move your feet. The siren grabbed your legs and placed them on his shoulders. Without a care in the world, he plunged back in. You arched your back as he went deeper. 

“Seokmin!” you yelled, mortified as the tide engulfed him. 

You almost forgot he could breathe in water. 

The intensity did not falter, if anything, Seokmin seemed to increase his ministrations. His grip tightened around your legs, making sure you won’t be swept away by the waves. 

The water level was up to your chest now. Your hands were still chained. He kept lapping up your cunt and it was driving you insane. 

You were going to drown. 

You were going to drown. 

“Seokmin!”

With one final thrust of his tongue, you came in an intense wave. Your entire body shook from the intensity, the water crashing against your body. Tears clouded your vision as you rode your high on the siren's face. Seokmin continued stimulating your cunt until you swore you'd pass out from pleasure. 

Finally, he emerged from the water, letting you see his beautiful, soaked face. But now that his grip left your legs, you floated upwards, allowing you to catch deeper breaths. But your wrists were still chained to the rock. If he did not release you, you'd drown. 

The water kept rising. 

The sea engulfed your face in each wave. “Let. Me. Go,” you spat out. 

As if he didn't just fuck you with his tongue, Seokmin feigned innocence. “Is that how you ask nicely?”

You would have slapped him if you weren't fighting for your life, kicking against the chains underwater. “Let me go!”

Seokmin smiled. The same cruel expression he gave you when he almost cut your heart out. “Wanna know why I became a siren?” 

Dear gods. You were dying and he wanted to talk about his lore?

“No!”

“I'll tell you anyway.” He swam around you, revelling in your struggle. 

“Your mother cursed me,” he said simply. “She used to favor me back at camp. But as I grew up, that favor turned to envy. They told me I had a mission across the sea. Then I transformed. And now, here I am.”

The siren was dangerously close to you now. You could see the glittering beauty marks on his face. He brought a hand to your temple and stroked your hair. He continued, “Oh, how I longed for this. What better way to get revenge than by killing her daughter right after she came on my tongue?”

Your breath hitched. Was this his plan all along?

He laughed at your distraught. “Don’t worry, you were quite the fighter. You didn't fall for my trap that easily. You are impressive.”

“Seokmin!”

“It's your fault for getting in the water.”

The tide was painfully close to your eyes and nose. “Stop this!”

“Consider this as my goodbye.”

You still needed to get to the island. You still needed his help. 

“Love is a weapon,” your mother had said in a dream. 

What could a siren possibly love?

Decapitation?

Human flesh?

He must've loved something— anything. You didn't know anything about him except for his sibling’s stories at camp. This was your last chance. 

“Your brother, Chan, he runs Cabin 7 now.” 

You noticed his gaze shake. You did not use charmspeak. But he fell quiet, as if in a trance. 

“Chan was too young when you left camp, but he always talked about you,” you continued. “He's taller than the others now. He leads archery lessons.” 

The siren did not say anything. 

“He misses you.”

Seokmin suddenly swam down, leaving you all alone in the open sea. Your heart pounded, afraid he just left you for good. Just when you thought you were going to die, the pressure in your wrists ebbed away. 

The chains fell at once, and you were free. Your entire body floated on the surface of the water. The lightness of your body echoed the lightness in your heart. 

Seokmin resurfaced again. “Tell me what you need to do.”

For once, you saw the boy he once was. Your heart suddenly ached. It ached so bad. 

“Let me take the suffering from you. Help me get to the witch’s island and we’ll figure this out.”

The sun was just beginning to rise when you finally spotted the island. At the bow, Seokmin swam alongside the ship, his golden tail glinting with every stroke in the growing light. You manned the helm, excitement thrumming through your veins. This time, you weren’t alone.

When the waters grew too shallow for the ship, you clambered down into a small lifeboat. Seokmin stayed in the sea, gliding easily beside you, guiding the way. He pushed the boat closer to shore until the white sands brushed against the hull.

The island stretched out before you. You marveled at the lush greenery, vivid flowers, and the sweet scent of blossoms. It was paradise.

"Thank you for your help," you said, leaning down to kiss Seokmin’s cheek.

He smiled wistfully before diving beneath the waves, his shimmering tail disappearing into the depths. You stood alone, heart pounding, and steeled yourself.

The witch’s palace was not difficult to find. It rose from the thicket. It was a grand, gleaming place with nymphs tending to the gardens. 

The witch welcomed you with disarming warmth. She coaxed you to a feast laid out on a long table. It was a tempting splendor. But you refused, knowing it was a trap. The sheer perfection of the food gave it away. You immediately suspected the poison that it possessed. 

“Where are they?” you demanded.

Seeing she couldn’t sway you, the witch lazily pointed toward the door.

You followed her gaze.

Pigs. Two small pigs sat on the threshold.  

Dear gods. She had turned Hermes’s kids into pigs. 

They had been part of a larger quest group, one that ended in disaster. Most of the others had made it home. But not these two. These two were left behind, cursed into a fate they hadn't earned.

"Well?" you said. "Undo it. Now."

The witch chuckled. She gestured to a brewing cauldron in her kitchen. “Follow me first.”

You reluctantly obeyed, weary that it was another trap. 

The witch cocked her head to the simmering brew. “Look into the mixture. This was before you first set foot in camp.”

At first, you couldn’t see anything. And then, the haze cleared and shapes emerged and morphed into two tall beings. Their muffled voices suddenly became clearer. 

It was Aphrodite and Apollo locked in a furious argument. 

"I will teach him a lesson," Aphrodite said coldly. "Everyone who falls for him will die. Their hearts will give out."

Your stomach twisted. Was she speaking about Seokmin?

"Until when?" Apollo asked.

"Until he wins back my favor."

Apollo’s voice lowered. "I may not stop you... but I won't let the others suffer for your jealousy. I’ll make him a siren. Let him rule the seas instead of breaking hearts at camp."

Before you could hear Aphrodite's reply, the vision faded into blackness.

You drew back from the cauldron, shaken.

It had been Apollo. His father had turned Seokmin into a siren.

You faced the witch. "Can you change him back?"

The witch smiled. “The potion won’t reverse the curse completely. But the potion will give him control. To walk on land when he wishes, to swim freely in any waters."

"I’ll take it," you said immediately.

"Not so fast," she said, voice sickly sweet. "I will give you only one bottle. You must choose. Free the pigs... or the siren."

You froze.

You had promised Seokmin you would ease his suffering. You had promised.

But when you turned toward the door, the pigs sat there, staring at you with wide, human eyes. They were seventeen. They would have graduated from camp soon. You were here to save them. 

You clenched your fists to stop them from shaking. 

"I choose the kids," you said quietly. "They need to go home."

You were walking along the beach with the Hermes kids at your side when you saw him — Seokmin, waiting by the shore.

One of the boys nudged you and held out a small vial. The potion.

"But I thought she only gave us one bottle," you said, staring at it in disbelief.

The boy laughed. "Yeah, and we’re from Cabin 11."

Of course. Hermes was the god of thieves.

"You didn’t—"

"We did," he said with a mischievous grin. "Go on. Give it to him."

Seokmin watched you from the waters, his golden tail catching the light. You and the Hermes kids climbed into the lifeboat. They waved excitedly at him, shouting greetings as he pushed the small vessel toward open waters, laughing along with them. 

As he swam, you told him about the vision — about Apollo, about Aphrodite, about how it had all come to be. 

When the island finally disappeared and your ship came into view, the Hermes kids clambered aboard, leaving you behind with Seokmin, who floated by the side of the lifeboat. 

You held out the vial.

"Drink this," you said, voice trembling. "Come back home with us."

Seokmin shook his head, smiling sadly. "No. If the vision was true, then being a siren wasn’t the curse. Aphrodite cursed me so that everyone I love would be hurt. If I go with you... I’ll just end up hurting more people."

"We’ll figure it out," you insisted. "You just saved those demigods. You’re more than what she made you."

"I know." His voice cracked. "But this is who I have to be. It’s safer if I stay away."

Tears blurred your vision. "If you don't drink this potion," you cried, "then I’ll find a way to breathe underwater and stay with you." 

He choked back a sob. In one swift movement, he reached up, cradled your face, and kissed you.

The kiss was desperate, full of years and years of suffering—of longing. 

And then, a voice echoed across the water.

It was soft and commanding. You could never mistake that voice. It was her.

"Drink it, Seokmin,” she said.

You whipped your head around, heart hammering. "Mom?"

The waves shimmered as if the goddess herself were woven into the tide.

"I’m lifting the curse," Aphrodite said. "Drink the potion, Seokmin... and go home."

Seokmin’s hands trembled as he uncorked the vial. For a moment, he stared at it. You saw the fragility in his eyes. 

Then, he drank.

A golden light bloomed around him, wrapping his body in a soft sheen. His tail, shimmering gold, began to ripple and change. Scales melted into the skin. Fins became feet. When the glow faded, he floated in the water, dazed.

“Seokmin!”

He wore only a thin white linen shirt and simple pants. His shirt was damp and translucent against his skin, hugging his bulky frame.

You gasped as he struggled, unfamiliar with human legs again. Quickly, you reached out a hand. Seokmin caught it. With a small grunt, he pulled himself up into the lifeboat, stumbling and half-falling into you. You laughed through your tears as you caught him against your chest.

He was warm. Solid. Human.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, holding him as tightly as you could. Deep down, you knew she had done it for you. Because you had chosen love, again and again.

And this time, love had won.

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[studioeisa]

the final defense of the dying 🥀 jeonghan x reader.

jeonghan has escorted twelve tributes to their deaths. he will do everything in his power to make sure you don’t face the same fate.

🥀 pairing. hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader. 🥀 word count. 13.1k. 🥀 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: hunger games. heavy angst, action, friendship, romance. 🥀 includes. minors do not interact. minor character deaths; hunger games-typical depictions of blood, gore, violence; themes of ptsd, sex work; sexual content; mentions of food, alcohol. childhood best friends, jeonghan yearns :(, cameos of svt members. 🥀 footnotes. this is part of the angst olympics collaboration. i did say this would be above 5k. a direct hit for @diamonddaze01, and for everyone who soldiered through sunrise on the reaping. my masterlist 🎵 doomsday, lizzy mcalpine. meet me in the woods, lord huron. growing sideways, noah kahan. we hug now, sydney rose. no light, no light, florence + the machine. without you without them, boygenius. the prophecy, taylor swift.

I. YOON JEONGHAN, THE FRIEND. 

Jeonghan’s nightmares always start the same. 

The middles and the endings vary. If he’s lucky, he doesn’t have to suffer through an entire run of his Games. If he’s unlucky, he wakes up gasping for breath like he had his head dunked underwater the entire evening. 

It always opens with the sprawling fields of District 11.

The very lands he had once thought to be so commanding. On his first train ride to the Capitol—when he was being sent out like a pig for slaughter—he knew, even then, that the sight was one to behold. Bountiful orchards, fruit trees in full bloom, tilled land as far as the eye could see.

When he sees them in his nightmares, there is always something wrong. An infestation. A wildfire. His loved ones, spilling blood all over the hay. 

Tonight, it’s you.

Jeonghan’s subconscious is caught off-guard. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of you, after all. And so he thinks it’s going to be pleasant, thinks he’s going to enjoy some ethereal adventure. 

But then you open your mouth and nothing comes out. Not your sweet voice. Not your call of Hannie. Your face contorts, twists, like you’re in pain. It’s the very last expression Jeonghan would ever want to see on your face. 

He tries to reach you. He takes a couple of paces forward. He breaks out into a run. But the fields stretch, and stretch, and stretch, and all the while, you stare straight at him with that soundless look of terror. 

Jeonghan wakes with his chest heaving. 

It takes him thirty seconds to realize he had been dreaming. It takes him another five minutes to clamber out of bed, unsteady on his feet as he makes his way to the en suite bathroom. 

Here, in the Victor’s Village, it’s only him. And he doesn’t mean that in the sense that he has no living relatives to stay in this big, empty house with him. He means it in the sense that he’s the only district’s Victor, the only one to have come back alive after 73 iterations of the Games. It had its advantages.

Being all alone means nobody can hear Jeonghan when he screams. When he sits in the tub, head between his knees, and screams until his voice is hoarse. 

He chalks up the eerie dream to what awaits him later in the day. The reaping looms over him like a storm cloud, but there’s also a silver lining he holds on to as he goes through his morning routine. It’s morbid. It’s cruel. He would never admit it to anyone. 

For once, Jeonghan is looking forward to the reaping. 

On average, the reaping was considered the worst day for any district. An annual lottery that decided who would be sent off to participate in that year’s Games. Behind New Year’s, Reaping Day was the second-most likely day for people to get drunk. 

Today was your last. 

The last day you had to have your name in the bowl. The last reaping you would have to endure. 

You and Jeonghan were twelve when your names first got added into the mix. When he came back from his Games, he made sure you would never have to apply for tesserae—a year’s worth of grain and oil. He was richer than the gods, anyway, with all his winnings. And who else would he share it with but you? 

So, in your final year, there are still only seven slips of paper with your name on it. 

Jeonghan likes your chances. 

The reaping kicks off at around three in the afternoon. Obligations keep Jeonghan away from sneaking out to find you, but he knows where to look once the ceremony begins. You’re in the roped-off area of the town square, towards the front where all the older eligibles await their fate.

Jeonghan doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring, that he’s waiting for you to look his way. Almost willing it, even, and he can sense your vexation from the stage where he’s forced to stand. 

You finally look up at him. For a moment, he sees the face in his dream. The one screaming.

It passes like a mirage, leaving your familiar expression of exasperation. 

Stop, you mouth, trying to look somewhat stern. Failing. (A corner of your lip has twitched upward.) 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. Can’t help it, he mouths back, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly.

For the first time that day, he feels like he can breathe. 

The mayor steps forward to recite the history of the founding of Panem. The Dark Days brought upon by the uprising, the Treaty of Treason that institutionalized the Games. There’s a measly attempt to discuss the spoils and riches that come with winning, but nobody is convinced. Not when there’s still only a solitary victor on stage. 

“District 11’s victors,” the mayor rasps. This part is required reading, has been included in the program for the past six years. “Yoon Jeonghan, the 66th Hunger Games.” 

There’s a smatter of polite applause. Jeonghan offers the gathered crowd a small nod in acknowledgement, but nothing more. 

The list ends there. 

The district’s escort since gods-knows-when moves up to the microphone. Bauble lived up to her name; she was a stout, shimmery thing embellished in absurd shades of gold and glitter. You once told Jeonghan that her voice was like a coin in a tin can, and he’s been unable to unhear it ever since. 

She waxes poetics about the honor of being a tribute. Jeonghan tunes it out, focuses on staring straight ahead. He wonders, briefly, what he should have for dinner. 

Bauble steps towards the glass bowl containing hundreds of folded pieces of paper. Hundreds. Some have their names in there on twenty-something slips. 

Not you. You only have seven. Seven, because Jeonghan had made sure to keep the odds as low as possible.

“Ladies first,” Bauble warbles. 

And perhaps that’s Jeonghan’s first mistake—that he does not worry. 

He’s so sure, so certain, riding on the high of this reaping being your final one. His mind is already halfway into next week, into the special brand of kindness you afford him in the aftermath of the Games.

You were always a little softer to him whenever he came home from the bloodbath. A consolation, he had thought during his first year as a mentor. Perverse as it is, he soaked it all up. 

The nights you’d spend at his home in the Victor’s Village. The cooked meals and the reassuring touches. The words you’d murmur whenever he woke up from his nightmares; your sweet nothings of you did what you could and no one blames you and it was just a dream, Hannie, you’re safe here. 

He’s thinking of those, of you.

And so he nearly misses the way Bauble calls out your name. 

The very name he had shrieked as a child when the two of you played games in the corn fields and rice paddies. The very name he had murmured soundlessly while he was delirious and sick in his own arena. (The thought of you, the only thing that kept him alive.) 

It’s your name, but everybody in the crowd—from the farmers to the ranchers to the Peacekeepers, even—know you as something else. 

Jeonghan’s darling. Jeonghan’s sweetheart. 

The love of his life, now sentenced to die. 

He can feel it. The tangible shift in the air. 

The camera trying to get a tight shot of his face. The probing eyes, all flickering between you and Jeonghan like the district doesn’t know who to focus on.

You may be the reaped, but the slip of paper in Bauble’s hand has condemned you both. 

Jeonghan doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction

He watches, tight-lipped and steely-eyed, as you move through the crowd like a summer breeze. You don’t look towards him. A small grace. 

You take your place on the stage. Bauble—ignorant as ever of the tension that has rippled through the district—flashes you a toothy smile. 

“Lovely,” she sing-songs. Jeonghan barely resists the urge to tear the escort’s wig off. 

She moves over to the boys’ fishing bowl and pulls out a name. It’s some rancher’s son, someone who got a little cocky about the amount of tesserae they thought they could get. He stumbles forward from the back row of eligibles, which means he’s young. Probably only thirteen or so. 

Jeonghan doesn’t dwell on it it. He’s too busy holding his hands behind his back, his nails digging into his palms in a way that will leave crescent-shaped marks. 

“Ladies and gentleman, join me in welcoming the District 11 tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!” Bauble trills.

During Reaping Day, there is already barely any applause or cheers. Why would anyone celebrate when Jeonghan was still the only one to have come back after all these decades? 

Today, though, it’s silent as a tomb. 

Bauble looks like she’s at a loss. A quiet district doesn’t make for good television. “And may the odds be ever in their favor,” she’s saying hastily, but her words patter off when it begins. 

A low hum. Somebody from the back of the crowd starts it up, and then the rows follow suit one after the other.

People are always angry in District 11.

The days are long and the work is hard. The sun is unforgiving; the labor, unjustified. And so the people have learned to sing, have taken to music so they could bear the strife. The two of you grew up to hymns in the fields, ballads on birthdays— 

Songs at funerals. Grief shared in rumbling baritones, in lyrics passed down from one generation to another. 

The weeping women begin to croon.

The fields whisper low where the tall corn sways, Calling your name in the hush of the days. Summer was golden, but frost’s moving in, Taking the bright ones again and again.

It’s a song as old as time, an honor as recognizable as the three-fingered salute. Jeonghan dares to steal a glance at you. You’re clutching the male tribute to your side, and your jaw is set with defiance. 

The sun kissed your brow as you worked through the rows, Hands stained with labor, a heart no one knows. Now they have sent you where none should be sent, Leaving us hollow, our backs tired and bent.

Your parents. Gods, your parents. Jeonghan’s gaze skips over the crowd as he tries to find them. There’s so many, too many people. He’s a little grateful he can’t locate them. He wouldn’t know what to do if he saw the looks on their faces. 

Back when the two of you had been playmates, your father had always teased Jeonghan about bringing you home before the sun set. Jeonghan had been so diligent, had never failed your father once, but now. 

But now. 

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in.

The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name, But nothing will ever grow quite the same.

Bauble is getting restless. The mayor keeps throwing helpless glances at Jeonghan. He stares straight ahead. He has no plans of interrupting. Not this. Not when it’s for you.   

In the corner of his eye, he can see you mouthing along to the words. In his honest, unbiased opinion, you were one of the district’s best singers. It kills him that no one will hear you, no one can hear you, as you give what may be your last performance for the people that have raised you. 

The song crescendos. Dozens of voices, furious as the storms that rampaged through Panem and left the district on its knees. 

Let the wheat bow, let the vines grieve, Let the rain fall for all we believe. If we had a choice, if we had a say, Not one of our own would be taken away.

Jeonghan hopes the Capitol cameramen are getting this, even though they’ll probably cut the broadcast. A district united in its sorrow is a dangerous one, and Jeonghan will pay a small price for letting it happen. 

He will pay an even heftier price for singing along. 

His tone has always been a bit on the nasally side, but the years have made it sweeter, sharper. He doesn’t have to pitch his voice particularly loud. The people see his mouth forming the words, see the way he joins in on the last chorus.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in. The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name—

But nothing will ever grow quite the same, he finishes, and then he finally looks towards you. 

II. YOON JEONGHAN, THE VICTOR. 

It had been his first reaping. 

His name, in the bowl only once. His cousins had told him it was unlikely. You had reassured him it would not be him, although his concern, even then, had been that it might be you. 

He had been basking in the relief of the female tribute not being you—instead being a wine-maker’s daughter—that he didn’t immediately register the fact his name had come out of Bauble’s gold-painted lips. 

Twelve-year-old Yoon Jeonghan. District 11’s male tribute for the 66th Hunger Games. 

You had screamed bloody murder. He remembers that. He remembers you running forward; you had always been quick on your feet. 

You reached Jeonghan just in time to give him a bone-crushing hug, to babble something helpless like Come back, swear it, before you were shoved down into the asphalt by the nearest Peacekeeper. 

Jeonghan had felt rage, then. Felt like he could win the Games solely based on the fact the violence had chipped one of your teeth and bruised your cheek. 

He had to be dragged kicking and screaming onto stage, had to be placed next to the female tribute who looked sick at the thought of heading into the bloodbath with a literal child. 

Cherry. That had been her name. Jeonghan remembers finding it ironic, because she smelled more like grapes. 

He had tucked away most of his memories of the pre-Games activities, or maybe the trauma had them blurring all together. The lack of victors for District 11 meant that his mentors had been pooled from other districts.

There was District 3’s Beetee, who won the 34th Hunger Games after electrocuting the Career pack. There was District 6’s Maeve, who accidentally won the 44th Hunger Games despite being high on morphling the entire time. 

Maeve trained Cherry. It didn’t do Cherry much good. 

Beetee trained Jeonghan. The man had been critical, clinical. He pitied Jeonghan, though. Any time Beetee seemed to remember Jeonghan was only twelve, the victor would stutter and wince. 

Jeonghan had hated that the most. That he was the youngest in the pool of tributes. That the Capitol citizens looked at him like he already had one foot in the grave. 

A part of him wants to say spite got him to win. A desire to prove himself, to break the record previously held by fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair. 

Jeonghan put on a good show. He charmed interviewers. He got a six as his training score after depicting particular adeptness at knife-throwing. 

It didn’t matter. None of it did. 

Going into the Games, Jeonghan’s morning long odds had been 60-1.

His arena had smelled of petrichor and blood.

Jeonghan blinked against the sudden glare of daylight as the plate elevated him into a clearing wreathed by towering trees. A canopy loomed above like a watchful eye, dappling the forest floor with fractured sunlight. The Cornucopia gleamed gold and monstrous at the center of the glade, its curved mouth yawning open with the promise of tools and terror. 

Around him, the other tributes emerged, silhouettes sharpening into figures with each second. They looked older. Meaner.

Cherry had been across from him, eyes wide and frantic. Her hands trembled at her sides. She wasn’t looking at the weapons. She was looking at him.

Jeonghan shook his head once. A warning.

The gong sounded, and he sprinted. 

The chaos unfurled behind him like a wave of shrieking metal. The sound of a throat being opened. Of someone crying for their mother. 

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

His legs were short, but fear lent him speed. He vaulted a moss-slicked log, ducked beneath hanging vines, tore through underbrush until his lungs burned.

He only collapsed hours later, curled beneath the roots of a colossal tree, his palms raw, his clothes stained with dirt and sweat. He couldn’t stop shaking. Not from cold but from the weight of it all.

Cherry hadn’t made it. 

He had heard her scream. High and shrill, cut short in the way all Capitol broadcasts made sure to capture. He had paused only briefly—just enough to register the voice—before running again.

It wasn’t supposed to be her. She was older, stronger.

Maeve had spent hours coaching her on traps and close combat. Cherry had taken to it well. 

Jeonghan was the joke. The child. The one who should have been first to go.

He curled tighter under the roots, pulling fallen leaves around his body like armor. Beetee’s voice floated back to him: Observe. Hide. Let the others thin themselves out. You are not stronger. You must be smarter. Use their confidence against them.

Jeonghan’s fingers had closed around a flat, smooth rock. He didn’t throw it, just held it, letting the weight steady him. 

That first night, the sky lit up with eight sepia faces. Cherry’s was among them. 

Jeonghan didn’t cry. He thought he might never stop if he started.

Instead, he thought of you. 

He told himself he wouldn’t die. Not until he saw you again. Not until he returned what the Peacekeepers took from your smile.

He slept with his back to the tree, one hand on the rock. Waiting. Listening.

Still alive.

Jeonghan stayed alive for 17 more days.

The arena was built to punish the reckless. A tropical forest that seemed quiet until it wasn't. The humidity sapped your strength. The mutant insects bit through your resolve. The rains flooded low ground without warning. Those who didn't know how to climb or swim were the first to go.

Jeonghan didn’t fight. Not at first.

He moved at night, listened more than he spoke, and memorized the rhythms of the forest. He watched the Careers from a distance as they slaughtered each other over dwindling supplies. He learned to tell which fruits made your stomach turn and which bark bled drinkable water.

He clung to Beetee’s instructions like a lifeline. 

Lay traps when you can. Scavenge. Never sleep in the same place twice.

And always—always—keep your district token close.

His token had been something from you. A woven bracelet you’d made him one summer, years ago. Red thread with a tiny, smooth seed sewn into the knot.

You had called it lucky. He had scoffed. 

In the arena, he held it every night like it might bring him back.

On day five, a small package drifted from the sky. Inside: a single strip of dried meat, a roll of gauze, and a note.

Keep going, little ghost.

He never did find out who sent it. Maybe someone who liked the way he vanished into the trees. Maybe someone who liked the tears he didn’t shed when Cherry’s face lit up the sky. He wasn’t sure it mattered. 

What mattered was that someone out there believed he might make it.

The days had bled together. He trapped a squirrel on day six. Found a dead tribute’s knife on day nine. Avoided a firestorm on day 11 by diving into a mudflat. He never got cocky. Never came close to the Cornucopia again. When the number of faces diminished in the sky—ten, then seven, then five—he started to dream of home.

When there were three left, he knew he would have to kill.

He hated himself for what he planned. Hated the way he sharpened his knife in the moonlight and hummed your favorite songs like it might somehow remind him of his innocence. 

That very innocence, shattered the moment he found himself face to face with the last of the Games. 

The forest burned on the morning of the final day.

The Gamemakers had set it ablaze from all corners. No more hiding. No more waiting. They were starving for a finale. The audience wanted blood.

Jeonghan emerged coughing, soot streaked on his cheeks. His hair, once so pale and soft, clung to his forehead, sweat-slicked and singed. He stumbled out into a clearing he had once used as a water source, now parched and cracked from the heat.

Two others waited.

Cassian, District 2. Large, broad-shouldered, trained from the cradle.

Rueya, District 5. Slender, fast, clever. She had a twitch in her jaw when she was calculating.

They turned to look at him like he was a hallucination. A demon from the woods.

“You made it?” Rueya asked, her voice hoarse.

Cassian just laughed. “Twelve-year-old freak.”

Jeonghan said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the knife. His fingers trembled, but not from fear.

He was remembering.

You, shouting at him for winning hide-and-seek again. Your face scrunched in disbelief when you couldn’t find him for an hour. How the others accused him of cheating.

He hadn’t cheated. He had just watched. Paid attention. Remembered where shadows fell and what cracked underfoot.

He remembered you throwing stones at him one summer afternoon, not out of hate but frustration, yelling, You ruin every game, Yoon Jeonghan!

Maybe he did.

Rueya had struck first.

Her blade aimed for his neck. He ducked. Rolled. Kicked dust in her eyes and used the moment to run. Not far. Just enough to get them to follow.

He was small. Quick. He led them where he needed them to go. Past the tree with the false trunk. Past the buried snare he had laid on day fourteen.

Cassian tripped it. Went down hard. 

A branch spiked through his thigh.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

Rueya was faster.

She caught up by the riverbed, cornered him. Her knife was longer. Her reach, better. He bled from a shallow cut on his cheek and another on his shoulder.

Rueya lunged. Jeonghan pivoted, let her momentum carry her too far. 

She stumbled. He didn’t. 

Without a moment of hesitation, he slammed the heel of his hand into her nose. The crunch was sickening. She dropped her remaining blade to instinctively hold her nose, howling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Those would be her last words.

When Jeonghan had staggered back into the clearing, Cassian was still alive, but barely. He had been dragging himself forward, face pale with pain. He looked up, eyes glassy. 

"You—cheating little shit—"

Jeonghan’s knife sliced through the air and landed squarely over Cassian’s left breast. Where his heart might have been, if he had one. 

The bracelet, your bracelet, blood-soaked and fraying, glinted when Jeonghan was lifted into the hovercraft. 

He had been shaking, his left ear ringing from the blow he hadn’t seen coming. His knee was swelling. Both injuries never quite recovered; later in life, Jeonghan would still hear best on his right side and always walk with a slight limp. 

But then, in that moment, Jeonghan had been alive. In the arena where smoke was curling up in the sky. In the hovercraft where he was deemed dehydrated, underweight, and on the brink of death himself. 

You always win, you had once tearfully seethed when he kicked your ass in Duck, Duck, Goose. You always win these stupid games!

III. YOON JEONGHAN, THE LOVER. 

He hears your footsteps before he sees you.

They echo down the corridor of the train like they always have, steady and sure and just a touch impatient. Jeonghan already knows it’s you; he doesn’t look up. 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the swirling ice in his untouched glass of Capitol liquor, something pale and sharp that burns in his nose more than it ever will in his throat. A good number of victors had succumbed to alcoholism, but he always had you to talk him away from the bottle. 

Today was no exception. 

The door creaks open.

“Bauble sent me,” you say, even as Jeonghan focuses on the drink in front of him. Your voice is clipped, professional. Not unkind. “She said you need to prep us.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He swirls his drink, then sets it down with a dull clink. The ice has barely melted. “Prep yourselves. I’m not your babysitter.”

There’s a beat. “You are, actually,” you say matter-of-factly. “That’s literally your job.”

“Then I’m off-duty,” he snips.  

The car smells like expensive polish and expensive drink and Jeonghan’s expensive silence. You don’t move. He can feel you watching him.

“Are you going to be like this the entire time?”

“Like what.”

“Like a jackass.”

That finally earns you a glance. He turns to look at you, and gods, it nearly kills him.

Your arms are crossed, shoulders squared, mouth set in that stubborn little line he knows by heart. You’re trying not to tremble. 

He forces himself to look away.

“You’re angry,” you say, quieter now.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m the one who got reaped.”

“Exactly.”

It shuts you up. For a second. Just a second.

Then you walk forward and sit beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. So close he can smell the faint traces of that soap you always used, the one that reminds him of lemon trees, wet earth, and the sun. 

“You’re not mad at me,” you say delicately. “You’re scared.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You’re terrified, Hannie. You think you’re going to lose me.”

His grip tightens around the glass until the ice shifts, clinks.

“You think you already have,” you murmur.

Something crumbles in him then. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t shatter. He just sighs again—longer this time—and sets the glass down gently. It’s an acquiescence, an acknowledgement. 

“Come on,” you say, standing. You offer a hand. “Let’s go. My partner’s probably trying to figure out how to hold a fork.”

Jeonghan only stares at your hand for a moment. He doesn’t want to fall victim to preemptive nostalgia, but he does anyway. His gaze traces over the lines on your palm, the dirt underneath your fingernails, and he thinks of all the things you’ve done. All the things you have yet to do. 

You flex your fingers wordlessly, urging him. He lets you tug him up, almost all the way to the door—

—and then his hand pulls you back.

Not roughly. Not urgently.

But when his arms circle your waist, he leans forward like a man caving to gravity. He presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You let him hold you.

Because this is Jeonghan, and this might be the last time he ever gets to.

You card your fingers through his hair. He stays absolutely still, as if he can keep the two of you in this snow globe of a movement if he doesn’t move an inch. The seconds stretch into minutes, and he pulls away only when there’s a knock on the car door. Bauble, this time, eyeing the two of you like she knows something. 

She doesn’t know a thing, obviously. 

Back in the dining car, Jeonghan leans against the polished wood paneling, arms crossed. The smell of Capitol-grade roast duck and syrupy wine thickens in the air. He watches the way Barley picks at his food like it might bite back, eyes darting from plate to window to the unfamiliar silverware. 

You’re sitting straighter, trying to model bravery, but Jeonghan’s known you too long. He sees the tremors in your hands and fights the urge to reach for you. 

“So,” Jeonghan says, and the word is brittle, sharp. “You both get one question each. Make it count.”

Barley frowns. He’s all knees and elbows, a thirteen-year-old with a summer tan and a coffin waiting for him at home. “How long do you think I’ll last?”

Jeonghan doesn’t sugarcoat. “Depends. You follow instructions, you might last longer than an hour,” he says. 

Barley blanches. You shoot Jeonghan a look.

“He’s scared,” you say pointedly. 

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “He should be.”

Your voice is steady, though your eyes aren’t. “Then tell us what to expect,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s heard this request a thousand times—and he has. But not from you. Not like this.

The annoyance coating your words isn’t amiss to him, either. It brings him a perverse sense of comfort. 

“You’ll be hungry. You’ll be hunted,” he says slowly. “And you’ll be alone, even when you’re not. Trust no one. Run the second the gong sounds. Don’t stop until your legs give out. And for the love of all things holy, don’t look back."

Barley is pale now, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did it hurt? When they—when they came for you?”

For a second, Jeonghan sees it all again. Cherry’s panicked expression, the glint of Rueya’s blade, the snarl on Cassian’s face. He has to blink the memories away, has to focus on the fact you’re watching like you already know he’s going under. 

Jeonghan clears his throat. “All of it hurt.”

Bauble waltzes in, then. “There you all are!” she chirps. “Oh, Jeonghan, you simply mustn’t hide my victors-to-be away like this. What if someone needs a morale boost?”

Jeonghan deadpans, “Morale died when you called her name.”

Bauble clicks her tongue, unfazed. While Jeonghan wouldn’t necessarily call the escort his friend, they did have a certain rapport built over years of sanctioned bonding. “Still so dramatic,” she tuts. “You’ve always had such flair.”

“You mean trauma.”

“You say tomato—” she flutters her fingers.

You smile faintly. Jeonghan sees it, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite everything. It’s too soft. Too real. It guts him.

When Bauble finally prances away to inspect dinner settings, when Barley decides he might as well spend his last few hours enjoying the pleasantries of the Capitol, Jeonghan shifts closer to you.

“You’ve always listened too well,” he says. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You look up. “I thought that was the point. To listen when no one else does.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out too fond. He remembers every time you sat beside him in the fields, every time your hands were gentle when he woke screaming, every time you pretended he was still human.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You’re smart.”

“I learned from the best.” 

Jeonghan watches you, the defiance in your posture warring with the fear you don’t want him to see. He can’t fix any of it. He knows that. But he can give you this—this small, ridiculous moment.

“You know,” he says slowly, “Barley’s too small for the Capitol tuxedos. You’re gonna have to teach him how to fake confidence. Smile like you’re selling poison as perfume.”

You laugh, short and tired. “And what about me?”

Jeonghan’s smile falters. Softens.

“You… just be you. That’ll be enough.” He pushes off the wall, straightens up. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the train.”

You start to move past him, but his hand finds your wrist, halting you. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs gently until you step into his arms.

He holds you like it’s the last thing tethering him to earth. Like letting go means losing everything.

“Just… hold on,” he says quietly as he slots his fingers through the spaces of yours. Usually, you told him off when he got too clingy or touchy. You weren’t together or anything, after all, and so you demanded that he be more conservative. That he reel himself in. 

For once, you let him.

For once, he lets himself.

He holds your hand the entire way to the Capitol, where it’s a blur of color and shine. 

For a moment, even with the dread curling tight in his stomach, Jeonghan finds himself admiring the splendor. He isn’t surprised to see you and Barley equally speechless, craning your necks as the train pulls into the station; your faces, framed in the tall, sterile windows mirroring your awe back at you.

Barley presses his hand against the glass, wide-eyed. “Is that... a moving sidewalk?” he breathes. 

Jeonghan doesn’t answer. He’s too busy cataloging every flinch, every blink, every breath the two of you take. Watching the way you stand slightly in front of Barley, like you’re already trying to shield him from whatever came next.

Jeonghan loves you so much at that moment. 

Bauble is chattering beside you, of course, gesturing wildly with one hand. She barely notices when Jeonghan steps between you and a Capitol attendant, his hand curling lightly around your arm.

“Stay close,” he says below his breath.

You look up at him and nod. The ease of which you trust him, the lack of questions you have, nearly bowls him over. He sticks by your side the entire way to the Tribute Tower, where the apartment is all sleek marble and warm gold accents. Impossibly high ceilings and digital fireplaces that don’t throw any heat. There’s fresh fruit on the tables and beds the size of entire haylofts. It looks more like a presidential suite than a prison.

“Holy shit,” you whisper under your breath, fingers grazing the frame of an oil painting taller than you. Barley finds the snack cart and marvels over a slice of something custard-filled.

Jeonghan hovers. He can’t stop himself. Not when you were somewhere the Capitol could get its claws in you.

When the time comes for the Tribute Parade, he’s still on edge. Still worried the stylist team will do their jobs too well, while also simultaneously dreading them not doing enough. 

District 11 had always had a reputation for agricultural simplicity, which the Capitol liked to glamorize with varying degrees of taste. This year, apparently, they’d gone for mythical harvest gods. You’re draped in molten gold and deep, forest green, your arms dusted with shimmer like pollen. A long cloak of woven vines trails behind you, the ends studded with jewels shaped like pomegranate seeds and tiny bushels of wheat.

Barley dons something similar; a shorter tunic with a circlet of laurel around his head, a wooden staff in his grip that sparks gently with gold.

Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say when you step out from the dressing area.

He swallows hard. He had seen every horror the Games had to offer. But this—seeing you, radiant and ready for slaughter—is the cruelest thing.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He shakes his head. Tries to say something. Fails. It’s a far cry from the practical, utilitarian clothing the two of you have grown up with. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wear something so glamorous, and the thought of it only makes him want to run and hide. 

“Hannie?” you prod. 

He gets it together. 

“You look—” He clears his throat. His voice goes imperceptibly softer. “You look like something no one should be allowed to destroy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Maybe you don’t have to. After a quick glance around the backstage—to ensure nobody is looking—you reach out, give his arm a comforting squeeze. 

He knows he’s doing everything wrong. It’s your Parade, your Games. He’s supposed to be holding himself better, supposed to be the one offering you reassurance and solace. Instead, you’ve taken up your typical caretaker role, and he falls apart at the mere sight of you. 

When the chariots roll out and the cameras turn, Jeonghan has to stand just out of frame, mouth tight, hands clenched. The crowds react to you and Barley. Jeonghan hears none of it. 

Instead, he keeps his head slightly bowed; his gaze, away from all the other tributes who will all have a kill-or-be-killed mentality. 

Maybe if he wishes hard enough, Jeonghan thinks, he can stop the Games before they even begin.

IV. YOON JEONGHAN, THE MENTOR. 

Jeonghan stands at the head of the training room, arms crossed, jaw tight. From this angle, he can see both you and Barley moving between stations. You’re focused, determined, adjusting the way you grip the rope at the knot-tying corner. Barley, less so. He keeps fumbling, looking over his shoulder for approval.

It should’ve been easy, this mentorship. He’d won. He knew what it took. He could recite Beetee’s advice in his sleep, every trick he’d used in his own Games carved into his memory like tally marks. 

And yet, his throat burns and his hands won’t stop shaking.

He’s going to lose you.

The thought returns like a hammer strike. Over and over. No matter how hard he tries to bury it. Jeonghan drags his fingernails down the length of his arm as if pain might chase it away. He’s fairly sure he’ll have gashes by the time this week is over. 

You approach without warning, your face sweaty from training, your eyes sharp.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that,” you tell him. 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’ve already got a gravestone for me in some plot back home.” 

Jeonghan barks out a laugh—a surprised, hollow one. Your dry humor always did know how to cut through him. “I’m not doing that,” he snipes. 

“You are. You haven’t looked at Barley once without wincing. You flinch every time I handle a knife. You’re not helping. You’re scaring us.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” you say simply. “You’re Yoon Jeonghan. You survived at twelve. You have to be stronger than this.”

He turns away from you. You didn’t know—couldn’t know—what it’s been like. Watching years of reapings, standing on the same stage, seeing child after child go off to die while he stood there, the only victor District 11 had to offer. 

Every year, he makes himself hope. Every year, he trains them, watches the light in their eyes go dim as they were outmatched, outarmed, outplayed.

Every year, he fails.

He had never cried for them. Not once. Had never allowed himself to grieve. It was easier that way. To believe he’d done all he could. That they were always going to die, with or without him.

But not you.

You, who used to sneak into his house when he came home, just to leave honey cakes on the windowsill. You, who sang lullabies to him when the nightmares got so bad he couldn’t sleep. You, who had always seen him not as a victor, not as a killer, but just—

Jeonghan.

He turns back around and finds you still standing there, stubborn and unflinching. He lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders relax slightly.

“I won’t flinch anymore,” he promises. “I won’t wince. I won’t look away. I’ll train you.” 

“Good,” you say, “because you’re our final defense, and you’ve been a pretty shitty defense so far.” 

He laughs. For once, it’s not forced. 

You, of all people, know just how much Jeonghan’s word means. He drums up support with prospective sponsors. He talks with the victors and tries to find alliances. 

He teaches Barley how to hold an arrow. He watches you throw knives and shouts out instructions. 

By the time your private training sessions come around, Jeonghan is fairly sure he’s never done this much work as a mentor in the past couple of years. As you and Barley get ready to face the Gamemakers, there is only one thing left for him to do: trust that everything you’ve learned will not fail you. 

The scores come in just after dinner, during a quiet lull where the four of you—Jeonghan, you, Barley, and Bauble—sit in the quarters, feigning calm over cups of Capitol-brewed tea. The screen crackles to life, and the room stills.

There’s an introduction. A reminder of why this is all done. Capitol citizens are given an idea of who to bet on based on the scores ascribed to each tribute. The private training sessions were a matter of who could put on the best show, but not too good. 

Score low, you would lose out on sponsors. Score high, you would be deemed a threat by other tributes. 

Scores range from one to twelve. The Careers, unsurprisingly, get nines and tens. The girl from Four gets a ten. The boy from Nine gets a four. 

And then it’s District 11. Your face flashes first. A moment’s silence. Then: eight.

Barley is the first to react. “An eight?” he breathes, nearly sloshing his tea. “That’s... that’s good, right? That’s really good, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’s staring at the number, willing it to hold still, like it might evaporate if he looks away.

Then Barley’s face appears on the screen. Six.

“Hey!” Barley exclaims, grinning at you. “We didn’t do half-bad!”

You laugh quietly, nerves still wound tight beneath your skin. “Guess not.” You glance at Jeonghan, whose brow is furrowed as if the numbers have personally offended him.

“Not half-bad?” you repeat to Jeonghan, as if urging him to confirm or deny your odds. 

He snaps out of his haze. “It’s good,” he says, but his voice is tight. “It’s good. You both did well.”

Barley’s too thrilled to notice the tension. He retreats into a quiet hum of excitement, and Jeonghan watches him go to his room, heart aching at how young he still is.

You stay behind. You know better.

“He’s proud of his six,” you say softly. “You should be proud of us, too.”

Jeonghan finally meets your gaze. “What did you do?”

You shrug, but your eyes are shining. “Used a sickle. Told them I’d only ever used it on weeds, not people. Then showed them I could take the heads off three practice dummies in under ten seconds.”

He stares.

“Okay, maybe eight seconds,” you admit with a sheepish grin. “But still.”

“Gods,” he mutters. “Why would you tell me that?”

You tilt your head. “Because I need you to believe I have a shot.”

Jeonghan presses his fingers against his eyelids. Eight. A real shot. That’s what it means. But the Capitol loves nothing more than raising hope just to snuff it out.

And so he tries not to feel hopeful. He tries.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice pure as the driven snow. “You made sure of that.”

He exhales slowly. He has to believe it. For your sake. And Barley’s. And for the twelve other faces in his head, the ones he couldn’t save. He opens his eyes and looks straight at you. 

“Just keep doing what you did today,” he says. “And I’ll do the rest.”

He does what he can, but there is only so much he can do. 

By the time the pre-Games interviews come around, he knows you will have to write your own ending. Even in the viewing room where Jeonghan sits with Bauble and a glass of untouched wine, it feels like every bulb is trained on the screen, on you.

He hasn’t breathed since your name was announced. He probably won’t breathe until your interview is over.

Barley’s had gone well. Nothing to call home about. He had been your typical young tribute, showing off boyish charm and vouchsafed innocence. 

You, on the other hand, look devastating.

The prep team had broken their backs to make it work. Your outfit—woven in silks dyed the color of ripening wheat, dotted with reddish sequins like the leaves from trees—catches the light with every small movement. Your hair is twisted back in a braid like the reapers wear during harvest. And your smile, shy but steady, is enough to hush even Caesar Flickerman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, gesturing with flair, “from District 11, please welcome our stunning tribute!”

You walk forward, gracious and poised. Jeonghan clenches his fists in his lap. It feels like every step you take toward that stage is a step further away from him.

“Good evening,” Caesar says. “You’re quite the sight tonight. The Capitol is enraptured already!”

You laugh lightly. “It’s not every day someone from my district gets to wear something this fine. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Jeonghan flinches. He knows that tone—modest, self-deprecating, practiced. You’re playing your part. He just wishes you didn’t have to.

Caesar chuckles, his teeth gleaming. A shark, ready to draw blood.  “Now, I’ve heard you’re quite the singer. Is that true?”

“Depends on who you ask,” you reply, to the laughter of the crowd.

Jeonghan stares. He knows how nervous you are. He knows how tightly you were wound in your quarters, how your hands shook as you ate. But here, under the scrutiny of all of Panem, you are luminous. You can joke around with Caesar; you hum a little tune when asked.

You are everything they want you to be.

He hates it. He loves it. He doesn’t know what to feel.

Caesar leans forward after your little song. His eyes glitter. “And tell me—I think everyone wants to know,” he says conspiratorially. “Our only Victor from District 11. Jeonghan. The youngest ever to have ever won the Games. A little birdy has told me the two of you are… close.”

Jeonghan goes rigid.

Bauble mutters something under her breath; Jeonghan thinks it might be a cuss. On screen, Caesar keeps his smile, but the question lands with precision.

You tilt your head, feigning thoguthfulness. “Jeonghan is my mentor,” you say. “But more than that, he’s my best friend.”

The audience lets out a collective murmur.

Jeonghan grips the arms of his chair.

“He’s the strongest person I know,” you say. “And I’m lucky he never gave up on me. I’m going into these Games with more than most. I have his faith.”

The crowd bursts into applause.

Caesar touches his chest theatrically. “Well, if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

You smile. It’s a momentary slip in your carefully curated image, as if the thought of love and Jeonghan brings you a genuine sort of joy. The audience catch that, too, and the applause only gets louder. 

Jeonghan lets out a breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite relief. But it’s something. 

Because if he can’t protect you with his own hands, then he’ll let the Capitol fall in love with you. Let them send gifts, parachutes, lifelines.

Let them see what he’s always seen.

Later that night, Jeonghan finds himself staring at the ceiling.

The lights are off, the room mostly dark save for the faint Capitol glow filtering through the windows of his bedroom. It bleeds silver against the walls, but Jeonghan’s eyes are trained on the shadows. 

He’s been lying here for over an hour now, still in his clothes, hair unwashed and face unshaven, unable to summon the will to move. The interview replays in his head, your dress still shimmering in his memory, your voice steady and luminous beneath Caesar's showmanship.

You’d been a star. You—his star. And tomorrow, you will be in the arena.

He breathes out, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. The pressure does nothing to stop the ache in his chest. Jeonghan sits up.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. 

He should stay put and not make this harder, but his body moves before his mind can catch up, and he’s halfway to your door when he finds you already there.

You’re barefoot. Wrapped in a soft Capitol robe. Your hair is tousled from tossing and turning, and your arms are folded tightly around yourself.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur.

His breath catches. “Me neither.”

For a long second, the two of you stand like that, inches apart, both unsure of what to say. Then Jeonghan steps back and pushes the door open wider.

“Come in.”

You don’t hesitate. You pass him with a soft rustle of fabric. He closes the door behind you and watches as you climb onto his bed without a word. 

You’ve done something like this before. Too many times to count. But tonight, there’s no laughter. No quiet jokes. Just the hum of something deep and heavy.

You lay down on your side. Jeonghan crawls in after and faces you.

Usually, you’re the one who pulls him close when he startles awake from a nightmare. Usually, you’re the one whispering him back to sleep, pressing your fingers to his hairline and reminding him that he’s safe, he’s here. There’s no fire, no forest, no bloody bracelet. 

Tonight, he wraps an arm around you instead.

Your nose brushes his collarbone. He feels your breath, warm and steady, and he shuts his eyes.

He wants to say it.

That he loves you. 

That he has loved you from the moment you first yelled at him in the fields for cheating. That he has spent years loving you in silence, nursing the shape of your name in his chest like a prayer.

But the words rise to his throat and die there. They taste too much like a goodbye.

So instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one, he thinks, is for the notes you two passed each other back in school. 

Then one to your temple. For your parents, who he will now never be able to look at. 

Then your cheek. For the time you threw out all the alcohol in his home and yelled at him until he agreed to only drink on special occasions. 

A soft one to your eyelid. For your singing—the best in the goddamn district. 

He kisses every part of your face except your lips. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop, if he ever started there. 

When you whisper his name, when you tuck yourself tighter into his arms like you mean to mold yourself into his very body, Jeonghan only holds you closer.

In a few hours, he will have to let you go.

But not yet.

Not yet.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, THE SINNER. 

The arena comes into view and Jeonghan feels his stomach turn.

It’s a swamp.

Endless, waterlogged land choked with moss and trees heavy with rot. Mud so thick it might as well be quicksand. A heat haze distorts the sky in a way that makes it seem closer, like the clouds might melt onto the kids below. 

The air looks like it stinks. Jeonghan knows it does. He’s smelled swamp before in the southern end of District 11, in the marshlands after the harvest. Stagnant water swallowing the weeds whole. 

But the Capitol has made it worse. Of course they have.

The swamp is dotted with platforms. On screen, the tributes rise, one by one, as the countdown begins. All of them retch. A few are already shaking. One kid—the boy from 10, maybe—looks like he’s crying. Good. He won’t last an hour.

Jeonghan doesn’t look for Barley. He looks for you.

Your vitals blink steady on his monitor: elevated heart rate, but within reason. No signs of panic. Your face is unreadable on the screen, jaw set, eyes cutting ahead toward the Cornucopia or what passes for one in this muck. 

It’s a wrecked fishing trawler, run aground in the center of the swamp, half-covered in algae and rust. Supplies are lashed to the deck with ropes, weapons tucked into fishing nets. Booby-trapped. Jeonghan knows it. The Gamemakers always hide teeth under the sugar.

“Swamp,” Seungcheol says, appearing beside him. The District 4 mentor. Tall, sun-weathered, wearing that half-smile Jeonghan used to think was charm and now knows is armor. “Our kids might actually stand a chance this year.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jeonghan replies without looking up.

He stares at your vitals. At your small figure on the screen. Still not moving, not even a twitch of hesitation. Just watching, waiting. The same way he’s seen you watch the sky from the train window, like you’re searching for something worth staying for.

The countdown hits zero. The gong sounds.

The Games begin.

The cameras flicker between chaos and slaughter. Screams crack the air, tinny and sharp over the Control Center’s monitors. Blood is spilled in less than five seconds—twin blades from District 1 find the neck of a smaller boy, and the Career pack forms with terrifying speed. 

Jeonghan’s eyes scan screen after screen until he finds you.

You’re running—not to the Cornucopia, thank the gods—but to the left, where a pile of knapsacks and canteens are scattered among debris. You duck, swipe two, and pivot just as another tribute lurches at you. 

Jeonghan’s heart stutters. You use the knapsack like a flail, slam it into their face, and bolt toward the trees. 

Fast. Smart. Alive.

Barley is slower. He lingers too long, fumbling with a coil of rope. He nearly loses it when someone charges at him, but a girl from Six takes the hit instead. Her scream rises—then cuts off abruptly. 

Barley scrambles, barely escaping with a dented pot and a bottle of water. He doesn’t make it far, but he’s alive. For now.

A cannon fires. The first.

The room of victors stills as the screen flashes the casualty to them.

District 12’s girl. 

Jeonghan glances to his right, where Hansol is already on his feet. The victor doesn’t say a word. He just unplugs his data pad and walks out, the steel door hissing shut behind him. Jeonghan watches him go. 

No one says anything. They rarely do.

District 12’s boy goes down not long after. Another cannon. Another name. Hansol won’t be back.

The bloodbath drags on. It’s brutal, but not long. Six tributes die before the hour is up. Jeonghan leans forward, tracking the green blip that marks you on his pad. You’re tucked in the trees, breathing hard. You’ve stopped to bury yourself beneath leaves and branches, taking a note straight out of Jeonghan’s playbook. 

Next to Jeonghan, Seungcheol lets out a breath and mutters, “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Jeonghan replies, voice hoarse. “I need a miracle.”

Your green blip continues to blink.

Please stay that way, Jeonghan thinks. 

You eventually make your slow, measured way through the muck of the arena. The swamp is vast, ringed with spiny trees, their roots like skeletal hands clawing out of the fetid water. Fog coils through the underbrush. Every few hours, something hisses or howls from the shadows. It's hell in technicolor, broadcast to every screen in Panem.

You move with caution, dragging your left leg slightly—favoring the ankle you twisted on the first day, slipping on moss-covered stone. He winces every time he sees you falter.

Capitol patrons have been generous. 

You’re pretty, and that counts for something. The dress they stuffed you into during the Tribute Parade did what it was meant to do. More importantly, you spoke like someone worth listening to during the interview. You’ve earned your sponsors. Jeonghan watches the pledge count climb.

But the funds dwindle faster than he likes. Bandages, food, painkillers—they cost more than you’d think. The sponsors pay for entertainment, not mercy. And half the job of being a mentor is making the calls no one else wants to make.

Barley hasn’t eaten in two days.

Jeonghan sees the boy stumbling along the banks of the stagnant pond, mouth cracked dry, trying desperately to chew a reed that isn’t remotely edible. His heart twists. Barley’s vitals flicker. Pulse dropping, dehydration setting in. 

Jeonghan’s finger hovers over the interface. He has enough to send a protein bar. It’s not much, but it’ll get the kid through another day.

Then, you scream.

It’s sharp, sudden, a sound that guts him. On-screen, you go down hard, hand clutching your side. Blood blooms at your waist, seeping into the saturated soil. A mutt. Something you had gotten away from through the skin of your teeth. 

A silver parachute of life-saving supplies cuts through the arena. It is not for Barley. 

The cannon fires that night. A low, guttural boom. It is not for you. 

Jeonghan closes his eyes. He can imagine it already. The projected photo of Barley, lighting up the night sky. Announcing his death. Broadcasting Jeonghan’s failure. 

He exhales slowly, jaw clenched. It should never have come down to a choice.

But it always does.

He doesn’t check your reaction. He doesn’t think he’d survive it, anyhow. 

Hours later, the camera feed switches to your sector. For the first time since the Games have started, you’re not alone.

District 7’s boy—the one with the heavy shoulders and steady hands—and District 9’s wiry, sharp-eyed tribute fall into step beside you. Glances are exchanged. Supplies are shared. It’s enough. For now.

Jeonghan doesn’t like it.

“She always this trusting?” Jihoon asks from where he’s perched near one of the monitors, arms crossed tightly.

“Not usually,” Jeonghan replies, cool. “Must be desperation.”

Seokmin leans against the paneling, softer, more optimistic. “They seem like they’re good kids. Maybe it helps her chances.”

“Or maybe they’ll gut her in her sleep.”

Jihoon frowns. “They’re not like that.”

Jeonghan doesn't respond. He watches you divvy up some dried fruit, offering the larger portion to the boy from Nine, who grins and says something the cameras don’t pick up. You smile back, faint. Tired.

A part of Jeonghan wants to tell you to run, but he also knows you won’t get too far. 

The tentative truce lasts for three nights.

On the fourth, you’re the one on watch. Jeonghan knows you haven’t slept more than a couple hours at a time. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

At midnight, the boy from Nine rolls over. Pretends to murmur in his sleep. You lean in to listen, and Jeonghan nearly screams at his screen.

The boy from Nine pounces. 

The boy from Seven follows a second later. They work in tandem, practiced. 

They hold you down, your legs thrashing against the swampy ground. You’re muffled by the palm of a hand over your mouth. 

These things happened. Jeonghan watched it year in, year out. But never to one of his, never to—

The cameras zoom in just in time to catch the glint of your blade as it drives upward into the shoulder of District 9’s boy. Always keep your weapon within reach, Jeonghan had advised you. Even when you’re half-awake. I had a rock. Have—anything. 

Seokmin’s tribute howls. You break free.

Jeonghan’s fists are clenched. He doesn’t breathe until you’re sprinting through the trees again, bleeding but alive.

A couple of seats away—Jihoon and Seokmin share twin looks of horror. 

“I didn’t know,” Jihoon croaks. 

“Neither did I,” Seokmin murmurs, paling. “Jeonghan, I’m—”

But Jeonghan rounds on them like a storm breaking over the Control Center. He’s up on his feet in the next moment, angry in a way that nobody has ever seen. It confirms the rumors that had been swirling, puts down the cards that he’s held so close to his chest. 

“Didn’t know? That’s all you’ve got?” Jeonghan snarls as he yanks Seokmin away from the panel, nearly sending the victor to the ground. “You raised these motherfuckers!”

“They’re tributes, Jeonghan,” Jihoon snaps back, maneuvering so he can also face Jeonghan’s rage. “They’re just trying to survive.” 

“So is she!”

Bauble grabs Jeonghan by the elbow before he can do any more damage. “Enough,” she commands. “Outside. Now.” 

Jeonghan shakes her off but lets himself be steered out of the room. The door shuts behind them with a heavy click. He presses his back against the cold wall, jaw clenched.

Bauble doesn't say anything. Just waits. Escorts typically didn’t interfere at this point in the Games, but Bauble had taken it upon herself when she seemed to realize how much of a hold you had on the man that was supposed to be keeping you alive. 

Jeonghan covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t cry. He just breathes like he might come apart.

Inside the Control Center, the screens roll on. You’re alone again.

When Jeonghan returns, nobody talks about his outburst. There have been worse. Actual physical alterations. Victors spewing cusses, calling each other monsters. Forgiveness always came after the fact, but Jeonghan chooses peace and refuses to look at anyone else for the next hour. 

The swamp only grows crueler. 

There’s a haze that clings low to the ground, thick with spores and heat, and it makes the cameras flicker with static. 

The Gamemakers let it linger. They always do when the numbers dwindle. Suffering looks better through distortion.

Jeonghan leans forward in his seat, eyes locked to the primary monitor. Your figure stumbles into frame—mud-caked, limping, one arm clutched uselessly to your ribs. The blood there isn’t fresh. He knows what that means.

The camera’s too far to see your expression, but he doesn’t need to. You’ve gone quiet. No more traps, no more clever distractions. No more running. You’re just trying to stay upright.

Something shifts in the mist behind you. Fast. Deliberate. Another tribute.

Jeonghan’s fists slam into the console.

He doesn’t hear the rest. The monitor blares as the tribute from Two emerges—a heavyset girl with a jagged blade and fury behind her eyes. You try to run, but your body gives out two steps in. Your knees hit the water first.

It’s not a fight. It’s a beating.

Jeonghan’s knuckles go white. He watches you crawl, desperate and drowning, as the girl drags the blade across your calf to slow you further. The water goes dark. You barely scream.

The camera cuts to a tight shot. Your face, smeared in blood and mud. Mouth slack. Eyes unfocused.

Then—

Your lips move.

Tiny. Cracked. Fragile.

But he sees it. He swears he does.

His name.

Hannie, you’re mouthing, pleading, praying. 

Bauble says something behind him. A warning. A reminder. Jeonghan doesn’t hear it.

Jeonghan stands too fast. The chair clatters to the floor behind him. His hands press to the screen like he could reach through it, like if he could just touch you, anchor you, you’d remember how to live.

But the screen stays cold, and you go still.

Jeonghan’s breath shudders in his chest. He turns wildly like he might find something in the corners of the room to fix this. 

The remaining victors pointedly ignore his panic. They can’t do anything, either. They’re not about to waste their few resources on a tribute that isn’t theirs, even if Jeonghan begged and bled himself dry at their feet. 

There’s nothing. Jeonghan has given you everything he has, and it wasn’t enough.

Until the vitals blink. 

Once. Twice. Slow, but there.

A faint pulse.

You’re alive.

Jeonghan stares, disbelieving. The tribute has already vanished into the haze, too bloodied to check if you’re breathing, or cruel enough not to care. Either way, it’s a mistake. One Jeonghan won’t let stand.

He reels back from the screen. “Stay with her,” he tells Bauble, voice rough. “Monitor everything.”

Bauble looks up. “What are you—”

But he’s already moving. Out the door, down the corridor. The Peacekeepers outside the Control Center don’t stop him. 

There had always been whispers. 

That Jeonghan was the victor they couldn’t market. The one with the too-sharp tongue and eyes that didn’t flinch when Capitol cameras pressed too close. 

He smiled wrong. Loved wrong. Didn’t cry when his family died in that fire. 

Too clean. Too convenient.

It had given him nothing to lose.

But now—

Now he has you.

He finds her at the champagne bar just off the Viewing Floor. Gilded, powdered, draped in silk. The richest woman in the Capitol within arm’s reach. Her name doesn’t matter.

Jeonghan takes a breath. Thinks of you.

Then he smiles.

The kind of smile they remember. The kind that sells promises he’ll never keep. His voice is velvet when he approaches, belying the desperation thrumming through his veins. 

“You wanted to know what it was like to be wanted by a victor,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. “How lucky. I’ve just remembered how to want.”

The socialite laughs. Bright, predatory.

He keeps smiling, even as his stomach turns. Even as the shame claws at the inside of his throat.

Her room reeks of expensive perfume and debauchery.

It’s in a suite at the top of one of the Capitol towers, walls made of glass and floors of velvet. It's the kind of place meant to make you feel small, make you grateful. Jeonghan doesn’t feel anything at all.

She kisses like she wants to devour him—painted nails digging into his back, her breath warm with wine and old longing. He lets her.

He performs.

Every soft sound, every graze of his lips, every practiced flick of his tongue—he gives it like it means something. He moans where she wants him to, touches her the way she’s probably imagined in her loneliest hours. He thinks of your face, dirt-smudged and bloodied, of the shape your mouth made when you whispered his name.

It’s not her he’s kissing. Not really.

He imagines it’s you beneath him. Imagines you needing him like this, touching him like this, loving him like this.

It doesn’t help.

She arches beneath him and calls him beautiful. He’s a bit clumsy, having never done any of this before, but it only serves to make him more endearing. A gorgeous thing that had to be broken in. 

He had wanted it so badly to be you. He can almost picture it, can almost taste it. How you’d laugh in between kisses. How you’d moan as his hands roamed. How you’d be everything and more.

When the woman cries out, Jeonghan doesn’t answer. His eyes are already on the ceiling.

It’s over in minutes. A quick, efficient transaction wrapped in silk sheets and false gasps.

She sprawls beside him, sated, smug. Jeonghan slips from the bed before she can say anything else. She doesn’t ask him to stay. She already knows how these things go, having sampled her fair share of male victors who were just as desperate. 

Jeonghan doesn’t shower. Doesn’t have the time for it. 

He just dresses in silence, pocketing the cred-chip she leaves on the table beside a crystal flute of champagne. He doesn’t drink it.

The elevator ride back down is quiet. His hands tremble.

By the time he returns to the Control Center, his mask is back in place. Bauble doesn’t say anything, just glances at the chip he slides across the desk.

“Enough for a full care package,” she confirms. “Weapon, medicine, some soup. We’ll drop it.”

Jeonghan nods and looks back to the monitor.

You’re still breathing. 

He presses his palm to the screen again and thinks of the myth you had loved so much as a child. The one with the fool—Orpheus, his name might have been—trying to lead his lover out of hell. 

“Wait for me,” Jeonghan croaks to no one in particular. To you. Always to you. “I’m coming.” 

The silver parachute lands. You reach for it with quivering fingers. 

You live for two more days. 

In those days, the swamp falls quiet. 

No more cannon fire. No more mutts. Just you and the girl from District 4, standing ankle-deep in water that smells like rot and victory.

Your blade is slick in your grip, hands trembling. You don’t even know where you’re bleeding from anymore. Every inch of you aches. Your body doesn’t feel like your own. 

The girl sways on her feet. She’s young. Too young. Her cheeks are streaked with mud and old blood, her breathing ragged. Her eyes are empty.

You both know it ends here.

“Please,” you choke out. It takes a moment to register that you’re not begging to survive. 

The words come with tears, with all the wreckage of what’s been done to you. “Finish it,” you rasp, your fingers tight around your scythe not with the intent to strike. Just to have something to steady you. 

Your opponent doesn’t move.

Up in the Control Center, it’s just Jeonghan and Seungcheol. 

Everyone else has gone. The other victors. The escorts. This is between two districts, two tributes, two victors. 

Jeonghan doesn’t look at Seungcheol. He can’t.

Back in the arena, you crumple to your knees, exhausted beyond belief. The swamp laps at your legs.

“Please,” you whisper again. “Please.”

The girl’s hands tremble. She looks at you like she’s seeing something else—someone else. She takes one step forward, then stops. Her fingers close around the handle of her knife.

You don’t flinch.

Then she speaks.

“You know Seungcheol, right?” 

You blink, confused.

She forces a smile, small and broken. “My mentor,” Seungcheol’s tribute offers. “Tell him—tell him I’m going to miss him the most.” 

Manipulated footage makes it look like you pushed her backward.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol see it as it happens. How the girl takes an intentional step back. How you reach for her, trying to stop her, only to watch her sink in quicksand that has been exacerbated by the Gamemakers. 

The arena swallows her up. 

The cannon doesn’t fire for several long seconds. 

The sound, when it comes, is muffled. Like the swamp itself is mourning her.

You scream. You scream until your throat gives out. You’re still screaming as you’re declared the victor, as you sob into the wetlands, as you’re lifted out. 

In the Control Center, Seungcheol’s hands curl into fists in his lap. 

His eyes fixed on the screen. Dry.

Jeonghan finally turns to him. “Cheol—” he starts, but Seungcheol shakes his head. 

“She’s coming home,” Seungcheol says, flat. “There’s your miracle, Yoon.”

And Jeonghan is sorry for it, sure, but he’s still much more grateful. 

V. YOON JEONGHAN, YOURS. 

Jeonghan doesn’t remember the walk to the Capitol hospital. He remembers leaving the Control Center. He remembers running.

The hallway is sterile and humming when he gets there. He knows where they’ve taken you. Of course he knows. He’s watched every moment of your suffering. He could trace the outline of your wounds with his eyes closed.

The nurse outside your room says something—protocol, maybe. He doesn’t hear her.

He shoulders his way in.

The lights are dimmed, the machines are quiet, but the sight of you lands like a gut punch. Jeonghan falters in the doorway.

You look like you’ve been hollowed out. 

There’s barely anything left of the tribute he watched fight through blood and betrayal. Bandages snake around your limbs and torso. Your face is pale beneath layers of grime they haven’t scrubbed away yet. Your lips are split. Your eyes—

You don’t even blink.

He takes a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching a wild animal. His hand lifts, fingers reaching for your cheek, like he might cradle it the way he used to in the dark of the Control Center, whispering to your image like you could hear him.

But the second he touches you—

You flinch.

Hard.

Jeonghan’s heart stops. His hand drops back to his side like it’s been burned.

You don’t look at him. You just tremble, shoulders curling in, your breathing shallow, your eyes still fixed on something beyond him. Beyond the room. Beyond now.

It’s the first time you’ve ever pulled away from him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Part of him wants to fall to his knees. To apologize. For what, he couldn’t name. For not stopping the Games? For not being able to keep you from breaking? For still being here when so much of you has been scraped raw?

The silence presses in like swampwater, like a forest fire. Suffocating, unforgiving.

Jeonghan turns and lowers himself into the corner of the room. The floor is cold. The chair is too far. He needs to be here, close, even if you can’t stand his touch.

He wraps his arms around his knees and stares at you.

Your stare doesn’t move. Not to him. Not to anything.

He’s seen this look before. He wore it once, too.

Jeonghan swallows past the ache in his throat and speaks, barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll stay here. As long as you need.”

You don’t respond.

He doesn’t expect you to.

He settles into the silence like a penance and waits.

He waits for you to go through all the medical procedures. He waits for you to get an entire day's worth of sleep. He waits, even as the stylists dress you up like a doll.

Gossamer fabric, soft pastels to soften your image. Something that whispers vulnerability, not violence. They work in silence, careful around the raw edges of your skin, the lingering bruises. 

You don’t wince anymore. You just endure.

Jeonghan watches from the wings of the stage, heart in his throat.

The stage lights bloom too bright. Caesar’s teeth gleam under them like weapons. The audience cheers. Applause swells. 

And you? You walk out on trembling legs.

There was a time your smile could light up a room. Now it flickers, half-formed, and dies before it reaches your eyes.

Caesar catches your hand, holds it up for the crowd. You don’t pull away, but Jeonghan sees it—the way your fingers twitch, like they remember what it’s like to hold a weapon.

“Our newest victor!” Caesar announces. The crowd roars. 

Jeonghan leans forward in the shadows. He wants to run to you. To shield you from the cameras, the crowd, Caesar’s well-meaning questions that twist into knives.

“How are you feeling?” Caesar asks.

Your voice is soft. Hoarse. “I’m alive.”

A ripple of awkward laughter. Caesar tries to coax something out of you, a joke, a quip, the spark you once had. But it’s gone. Buried so deep, not even you know where to look.

Your fingers keep trembling. You tuck your hands in your lap to hide it.

Jeonghan watches every second.

They want a victor. A hero. A darling. But all they get is a shell.

And Jeonghan can’t do anything but watch.

They crown you in front of Panem.

Golden laurels rest atop your bowed head, catching the light like a final joke. President Snow stands behind you, hand heavy on your shoulder. 

You don’t shirk. You don’t cry. You barely breathe.

Jeonghan stands at the lower steps of the stage, jaw clenched tight.

The crowd is euphoric. Flashbulbs pop. Your name chants through the air like a war cry, over and over, and all Jeonghan can think is how hungry they look. Like they want to eat you alive.

You rise slowly when Snow lifts your chin. He presents you as the Capitol’s newest sweetheart—shattered and bloodstained and beautiful.

Jeonghan’s stomach twists. He hates it. The theatrics. The flowers. The falseness. The way they cheer for your trauma.

Later, at the afterparty, the music swells and champagne flows. You sit somewhere under a too-bright chandelier, being toasted by strangers with leering eyes.

Jeonghan tries to keep to the fringes, but he doesn’t escape for long.

The President finds him near the garden terrace, glass of something untouched in Jeonghan’s hand. The air stills around them like the world knows something dangerous is coming.

“Quite the victor,” Snow says mildly. “She’s memorable. Fragile in a way that sells well.”

Jeonghan says nothing.

Snow steps closer. His smile is polite. Tight. “You should be proud. The Capitol hasn’t felt this invested in years.”

A beat.

“Of course,” Snow adds, sipping from his flute, “such devotion comes at a price.”

Jeonghan’s throat tightens. 

Snow glances at him, all cool amusement. “Do thank that patron of yours again. Very generous. Desperation makes strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

Jeonghan goes cold. His skin prickles. He can’t move.

“She’s lovely, your girl,” Snow goes on, seeming unconcerned by the conversation that has been one-sided insofar. “I do hope she doesn’t become... inconvenient.”

And with that, the devil leaves.

Jeonghan stumbles through the crowd, past gilded dancers and glass towers of champagne. He finds a bathroom, locks the door behind him, and falls to his knees.

He vomits until there’s nothing left.

Even then, he doesn’t stop heaving.

He empties himself out and drinks some more until he’s sick again. He thinks of what it means to be a victor—what you stand to lose if you don’t bend to the Capitol’s will. 

Will you blame him for doing his job as a mentor? Will you wish you could’ve been like Seungcheol’s tribute, could’ve ended things clean and quiet like Barley? 

On the way back to District 11, the train hums softly beneath the two of you. A lullaby for no one.

You sit by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes on the blur of passing scenery. Home. Whatever that means now.

Jeonghan sits across from you. Not too close. Not too far. Just... there.

It’s been hours since either of you spoke. Days, really, because the most you’ve given Jeonghan are pleasantries and nods and thousand-yard stares. 

Sometimes, a cruel part of him thinks it’s a fate worse than death. 

Your voice breaks the silence like a match in the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

Jeonghan blinks himself out of his hungover stupor. His fingers tighten around the edge of his seat as he looks towards you, searching. “Why?”

“For flinching.”

His chest caves around the answer. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Gods, no. I should be the one apologizing.”

You turn to him. Just barely. But he sees it in your eyes. You know.

He swallows. Tries to laugh, like it might smooth the sharp edges.

You don’t smile in return. 

Jeonghan’s heart beats like a war drum. He wants to say something that makes it okay. That makes any of it okay.

But there’s nothing. Just the soft hum of the train. The ghost of everything that can never be undone.

“You saved my life,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and it almost ruins him.

Because he did. And he didn’t. Not really. 

He pulled you out of the arena, but the arena never left. It will never leave. It lives in your eyes now. In your silence. In the way your shoulders curl inward like you’re still waiting to be hurt.

This is it.

Your lives now.

This train. This distance. Mentorship, and memory, and never quite touching because love is too heavy a thing to carry on top of nightmares and broken backs.

Jeonghan turns his gaze back to the window. He tucks his love for you deep, where it can’t rot anything else. It won’t do you any good now. 

You may warm up to him one day, may come to forgive all he did to keep you around for longer. But as the song once did go—

Nothing will ever grow quite the same. 

The train speeds on.

Outside, the sprawling fields of District 11 come into sight.