As time passes, the bonds between the IPRE increase and that probably increases the power of the engine. Right at the beginning, though, as they’re racing away from one of the early worlds, Davenport has the sinking realization that it’s not enough. The engine is not running on enough power to outrun the apocalypse again, and of course it isn’t, because it was designed for a leisurely two-month exploration and not a high-speed chase. They’re not going to make it. And he thinks his crew must realize that, too, because they’re all nervously glancing out of the windows as he narrowly evades another deadly blow.
Damn it all, they’re his responsibility, they look to him for guidance and he’s going to get all of them killed because he couldn’t do the one thing he’s best at well enough. They’re good people and they don’t deserve this. He doesn’t know why, but suddenly it’s vital that they all know that they’re more to him than just strangers.
“If we don’t make it out of this,” he calls over his shoulder, “I want you all to know that it was an honor to travel with you.” He can’t turn his attention away from where they’re going, but he can feel their stares on his back. And, because he’s the best at what he does, he can feel the ship shudder slightly under him, gaining the smallest surge of extra energy in the engine.
The bonds engine, which runs on bonds. Fuck.
Davenport calls out again, this time with far less gravitas: “If any of you want to, I don’t know, hug it out or something now would be a great time.”
It takes a moment for them to catch on, but they’re his crew, so of course they do.
“I think you have beautiful eyes!” It’s Barry, suddenly the approximate complexion of a tomato, and he’s got his face in his hands seconds later so it’s not even clear who he was talking to but the outburst sets the rest of them off.
“Lucretia, you have lovely handwriting even though I can’t read a damn word!”
“Magnus, for the love of whatever gods are watching, you are very brave but please stop getting yourself killed?”
“Those cupcakes without the icing that you made are kickass, Taako!” (And, somewhere in the background an indignant shriek of “Muffins? Do you mean muffins, Magnus?”)
“You make the best coffee at three in the morning which is some kind of fucking lost art, and that’s the only reason you’re allowed to correct my notes even though I was absolutely right about that last equation you erased, wasn’t I?”
“That was an accident, Lup - Merle I think your approach to both horticulture and religion are… uniquely inspired.”
“Davenport, you are a very brave leader and I appreciate all of the difficult decisions you make.”
They’ve almost got it. They’re almost there, they might make it after all, they just need a little more power.
It comes from a very unlikely source.
“That’s just our luck, right?” Taako is looking out of the window, and he sees what Davenport sees, that the force chasing them is still just a little too fast. “Finally get used to having these chucklefucks around and now we’re gonna get eaten. Finally find some people worth keeping and boom, apocalypse. It’s fucking ridiculous.”
Everyone is staring again. Taako’s ears twitch lower as he realizes what he’s just said, aloud, at a clearly audible volume and obviously unintentionally. Magnus sniffles a little, clearly moved, and mutters “Aw, dude.”
Lup sneaks up on Taako and hugs him from behind, holding him firmly in place as Magnus and then the others join in. Davenport is the only one who notices the moment when they outrun the Hunger one more time, just barely slipping through its grasp.
(Davenport considers organized bonding activities after that, but he watches his crew make a mess of breakfast together the next morning, and he realizes that isn’t necessary.)
Yuuri despises socializing with people he doesn’t know, but his unconventional family and marriage is one of the hottest gossip topics in town especially among the other mums. One day, he decides to just fuck it all…and sorely regrets it afterwards.
exists in a perpetual state of breathtaking, extended agony in the liminal space between my summer aesthetic & my autumn aesthetic, eating bomb pops in knee-high wool socks while crying to lana del rey in a pile of fake bats and copies of The Great Gatsby
Summary: You’ve been eighteen years old for ten years when Jungkook first moves in. Pairing: Jungkook | Reader Genre: Fluff/Angst; Roommate/Soulmate AU (In which you stop aging when you turn 18 until you meet your soulmate) Word Count: 12,038 Author’s Note: I was going to wait and upload the whole thing in one giant oneshot but for the stake of everyone’s sanity, it’ll be split into two parts. props to @minsvga for always being down to beta!
The morning comes like clockwork, obviously, but sometimes you wish it didn’t. Sometimes, the morning is like an unexpected gust of wind, blowing away the present and the comfort and leaving you alone with nothing but your thoughts and the disappointing feeling akin to the sensation of something missing from your life. Which, considering everything the world and the fates and the bonds that connect individuals together and all the shit like that, is not too far off from a relevant problem in your life.
The days seem to blend together, time slipping between your fingers but leaving you with no opportunity or way to stop it or prolong it. You certainly feel different, older somehow and probably wiser, and you’re sure it shows in your eyes, in the curl of your lips, in the longing touch of your smile.
But you crawl out of bed in the morning, feet landing like a gentle sigh on the carpet, following the hall down to your bathroom until you’re situated in front of the sink and taking a long glance at your reflection. You don’t know why you insist to yourself to always look at the mirror, because it’s not like anything would have changed overnight, nothing ever really does. You take in your expression, the skin of your face and the darkness of your eyes, a harsh contrast to the youth of your face, the curve of your nose and the sharpness of your jawline—you: fresh, and young and not a day over eighteen-years-old, just as you have been for ten years.
This has been the way of human life since its creation, a science with no explanation and a connection that cannot be seen or heard or even felt. It’s a different kind of connection, moreso the type of link that brings two people together, two people whoever has a hand in predetermination believe would be the best fit for each other. A soulmate, an individual meant to compliment you in every aspect, someone gifted to you from unidentifiable figures; figures you would not even believe existed if not for the world they created and built, a world you now inhabited.
In theory, the unspoken rules of the whole soulmate business seemed easy: a case in which the aging process stops at the eighteen until one’s soulmate came along, done so in order for the pair of them to gain the ability to grow old together, experience life together, be there for each other during the true ups and downs of college and jobs and family. Every single person you’ve ever stumbled upon each has their own story, their own tales of their relationship. You’ve met people in a relationship that never grew, friends who realized they were each other’s everything, individuals who went through years upon years upon years of life with a soulmate fresh out of the gate—always a variety, never a wrong answer or a right one. Yet, they all seem happy, no matter where the path of life seems to take them.
But now that you’ve been eighteen for a solid ten years, you’re ready to call major bullshit on every single individual who dared to look you in the eye and tell you that they don’t care about the unwinding of fate.