#Smart speaker voice commands | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hamilton-here · 1 month ago

Text

𝒪𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝐿𝒾𝓃𝑒

Authors Note: Hey Lovelies. I absolutely loved writing this one-shot! I have a whole list of notes with different ideas I will write about and this is one of them. I also had this on PolyBuzz for ages now, though I don’t remember my user🙏🏻. If you would like to see another one like this let me know what subject next. Lots of love xx

Summary: A 24 year old university student falls for her stylish, former F1 champion PE teacher, leading to a secret romance that blossoms into something real, intense and passionate.

Warnings: sexual content, age-gap

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You weren’t expecting much from your third year of university in PE elective. Maybe an easy A, a few stretches in overpriced activewear and a break from the pressure of your dual major.

You signed up for the PE elective thinking it would be an easy credit. A laid back course to balance out the workload of your double major of psychology and sports science with a side of cardio and campus gossip.

What you weren’t expecting?

Lewis Hamilton walking into the gym with a whistle, sunglasses and a clipboard like he owned the place.

You blinked twice.

And yet, there he was. Seven time Formula 1 world champion turned into PE instructor?

When he walked into the university gym on the first day, the temperature in the room seemed to drop and rise all at once. Every student stopped mid conversation, half frozen by disbelief, the other half whispering like they were watching a legend walk across sacred ground.

He moved like someone used to being watched. Poised. Effortless. As if the echoes of roaring crowds still lived in his bloodstream, even now. The rumors had been vague such as a guest lecturer, maybe, or a special one off speaker. But this? A full on semester with him coaching physical exercise?

Apparently, after years on the track, Lewis Hamilton wanted a quieter life. Something grounded. Something real. And that meant teaching PE to a bunch of sweaty twenty something year olds.

He was every bit as magnetic as he’d looked on your TV growing up. Tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones, brown skin that caught the late morning sun and tattoos that peeked out from under the sleeves of his fitted Nike jacket.

No crumpled tracksuits for him - his were sleek, tailored. Every day brought a new, curated ensemble like black joggers paired with designer sneakers, hoodies that looked hand stitched, subtle flashes of jewelry that made it clear he hadn’t entirely let go of the spotlight.

And he smelled good. Too good for a gym.

You noticed.

Of course you did.

You weren’t blind. And neither were your friends.

“Look at his arms,” Mia whispered beside you on the first day, shielding her phone while sneakily snapping a photo. “Jesus. He’s like, grown grown.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending not to care but yeah. You noticed. How couldn’t you?

Still, you reminded yourself you were here to move. Not flirt.

You might’ve been in the popular group - always tagged in stories, always in the loop but you were different. You were sporty. Smart. Not just another glossed up girl posing for gym selfies. You’d played competitive soccer through high school, trained like you meant it. You didn’t just show up to class, you showed up to work.

And apparently, so did he.

When he started speaking, the room obeyed.

“Some of you think this is going to be a vacation,” Mr. Hamilton said, pacing the gym floor. His voice was smooth, low, commanding in a way that made you instinctively straighten your spine. “It’s not. You’ll work. You’ll sweat. You’ll earn your grade. If that’s not what you signed up for, now’s your chance to walk out.”

No one moved.

Not even you.

Then, just for a beat his eyes landed on you, sharp and quick your pulse jumped but you didn’t look away.

If he noticed, he didn’t show it.

They didn’t linger.

But they didn’t skip past you either.

You didn’t flinch.

You almost smirked.

And you could tell immediately that Lewis wasn’t going to give out praise just because you were good looking or confident. He didn’t care about your friends or your designer gym bag. He cared about form, focus and effort.

You respected that. More than you expected to.

And maybe that’s where it started.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Weeks passed. The semester picked up rhythm.

He wasn’t just good at teaching, he was intentional. Everything he said had weight and he didn’t waste a single word. He gave feedback without sugarcoating it, kept things moving on schedule, and had this calm authority.

You liked watching him work. The way he moved precise, composed, never hurried. He’d pace the gym floor with a clipboard in one hand, calling out reps, adjusting someone’s stance with a few quick words. His voice always cut through the noise, low and grounded, just commanding enough to silence your thoughts whenever it reached your ears.

Though the tension soon picked up in class.

He was fair but firm. A coach in every sense of the word. Usually relaxed chatting casually with students, correcting stances with a quiet, even tone but when someone slacked off or tried to push back? He didn’t hesitate to shut it down.

Like the time one of the rugby guys made a sexist joke about stretching being “feminine.”

“Do it properly,” Mr. Hamilton said without missing a beat, “Or get out.”

His voice was clipped, cool. Steel under velvet.

No one laughed after that.

You respected him. That’s where it started.

The first time he praised your sprint relay “Good drive phase. Strong finish.” You caught yourself smiling longer than you should’ve. He said it to your form, not your face. But it landed anyway.

You stayed late after class more than once, not intentionally at first. You’d hang back to finish stretching or clean up your area, but more and more, you found yourself hovering. Helping him collect cones. Rolling up mats. Making small talk while everyone else filtered out.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said one afternoon as you grabbed a stack of practice bands from the floor. He was kneeling beside the equipment box, glancing at you from under his lashes.

You shrugged. “Don’t want to go back to my flat yet.”

He looked at you for a moment, lips twitching at the corners like he was holding something back.

“Loud roommates?”

“Louder TikToks,” you said, dragging a mat across the floor.

He huffed a quiet laugh. Just a breath. But it was the first one you’d heard from him.

It did something strange to your chest.

You didn’t know what that was between you but it was something. And that something grew stronger every week.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

After that, things shifted.

Not all at once. Not publicly. But slowly. Silently.

There was never anything inappropriate. No lines crossed. No flirting, not openly.

But the tension lived in the small things.

More banter between reps. More passing glances. A rhythm you weren’t sure you’d imagined.

He never crossed a line. Not even close.

But there were…moments.

When his hand brushed yours a second too long as you passed the medicine ball. When he stood close behind you correcting your squat form, voice low in your ear. “Drop your hips. There. Perfect.”

You felt the heat in your cheeks. You told yourself it was exertion.

It wasn’t.

And it wasn’t just you. You caught him watching you stretch once, his jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Or the way your eyes would meet during water breaks, neither of you speaking, both of you thinking the same thing.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t one sided.

This shouldn’t feel like this.

You told yourself it was just respect. Admiration. A student teacher thing.

It was unspoken.

But your constant excuse got harder to believe the day it rained.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was raining one Thursday evening when you stayed late again. The gym had emptied after circuit drills. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, washing the polished floors in a sterile glow. Outside, the storm pounded the roof in rhythm. A symphony for two.

Your friends had bailed to get early drinks at your usual rooftop bar, but you stayed behind.

You sat on the floor, unlacing your sneakers, hair damp with sweat, limbs heavy but content. You weren’t expecting him to sit down beside you. Not without a word. Just a quiet presence and the sound of his water bottle hitting the floor.

“You’ve improved,” he said eventually, his voice almost drowned by the rain.

You glanced sideways. “Just now noticing?”

He smiled - crooked, warm, maybe even a little shy. “No. I noticed week two. I just wasn’t sure if telling you would go to your head.”

You scoffed, nudging his leg lightly with your foot. “So what, you were playing hard to impress?”

He leaned back on his hands, exhaling slowly. “Something like that.”

Your heart stuttered and for once, you didn’t mask it. Not all the way.

“Why’d you really leave racing?” you asked, curious and a little breathless.

He looked up at the ceiling for a beat. “Too much noise. Too many cameras. I wanted something slower. Simpler.”

You smirked. “And yet you chose a university gym full of twenty year olds.”

He laughed a real one this time. Deep and gravelly. “I said simpler. Not peaceful.”

You grinned. The space between you felt thinner than it had ever been.

And then he looked at you.

Not the casual glance of a teacher to a student. Not even the assessing gaze of a coach to an athlete. But you. The full picture. The smart girl in the popular group. The woman who worked hard, who ran faster, and who watched him right back.

He saw you.

And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. “I know this can’t be anything.”

You swallowed, your voice soft. “I know.”

“But it feels like something.”

You looked at him then, truly looked and for the first time, you let the guard drop.

“I know that too.”

Neither of you moved. Not that night.

There was no line crossed.

But something passed between you, a current. A silent agreement. Something tender and dangerous and full of potential.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You told yourself it would fade.

It didn’t.

After that, the tension only grew. You caught him watching you during warmups. He stopped correcting your form when he didn’t need to. You were flawless, and he noticed.

Not when he started saying your name more often in class. Not when you caught him watching you leave, his jaw slightly clenched like he was holding something back.

Not when you went home and dreamed about those quiet moments, that knee bump, that barely there smile.

You didn’t talk about it with anyone.

Some things are too sacred for words.

But when his hand lingered again a week later, when your eyes met across the gym and stayed…you knew.

It wasn’t just you.

He was falling too.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter that he wore sunglasses indoors, or that you once went to a foam party on a Wednesday, or that he was eleven years older with a past carved in gold.

What mattered was this strange, slow blooming thing between you. Something neither of you planned. Something neither of you could name.

But it was real.

And it was yours.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It started with a message.

Not through the university system. Not through anything official. Just a name you didn’t recognise lighting up your screen one late Friday night, the same time you were pretending not to replay the way Lewis looked at you in the gym that week.

You opened the message. It was short.

Unknown Number: Don’t answer if this crosses a line. But I’ll be at the park across from the library. Late. Just walking. Just air.

No name. No emoji. Just that.

You stared at it for a long time.

And then you put on your jacket.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It wasn’t a date.

At least, that’s what you both told yourselves.

You met under the dull glow of a streetlamp near the swings, hood pulled over your head, hair still damp from a late shower. He was leaning against the railing, hands in his pockets, dressed in all black. The kind of outfit that was meant to go unnoticed, but on him? It made you look twice.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said, his voice low and quiet.

“I didn’t know if you meant it.”

Lewis gave you a look. That same look he wore in the gym which was sharp but soft, unreadable and tender all at once.

He nodded toward the trail. “Walk with me?”

You nodded. And so you did.

You talked about nothing for a while. The uni food. The rain. Your latest lecture. He asked you about your thesis and actually listened. You asked him about life after racing and he paused longer than he needed to before answering.

“It’s slower,” he admitted. “But not easier.”

You looked at him sideways. “You miss it?”

“I miss what it made me feel,” he said honestly. “That rush. That certainty.”

You knew that feeling. You chased it in other ways like grades, sports, control. You recognised the weight of needing to be someone.

“But lately,” he added, voice a little hoarse, “I feel that again. Around you.”

You stopped walking.

So did he.

The silence wrapped around you both like fog. Too much. Too close.

“You shouldn’t say that,” you said, but there was no bite in your voice. Just truth. Just fear.

He stepped closer anyway.

You didn’t move.

“I know,” he murmured.

The wind shifted, blowing leaves past your feet. Your heart thudded in your throat.

His hand brushed your sleeve, just barely. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched.

And then, finally he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy or wild.

It was soft. Slow. Like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and didn’t want to get it wrong. Like his whole body was holding back just enough not to shake.

His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned in like your body didn’t know how not to. His lips were warm. Steady. Patient.

But beneath all of it was a current of heat. Of want. Of need.

You broke apart just barely, foreheads resting together, both of you breathless.

“This is crazy,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said again. “But it’s real.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You didn’t meet on campus. Not after that.

Not in the gym. Not in daylight. Not where anyone might ask questions.

Instead, it became your routine.

Once a week, sometimes twice.

Always after dark.

Quiet corners of the city. His car parked down side streets. Rooftop views with late night tea. Conversations in shadows and kisses that grew longer. Deeper.

You told yourself you weren’t dating.

But it felt like you were.

You learned things about him no one else knew anymore. That he still watched old races sometimes when he couldn’t sleep. That he journaled. That his favorite playlist had no rap on it just soul and soft R&B.

He learned things about you too. That you cracked your knuckles when stressed. That your parents divorced when you were twelve. That you were scared of letting people see how much you felt.

And he never made you feel too much. Or too young.

Just seen.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

But secrets have a shelf life.

And emotions don’t like to be hidden.

One night, sitting in the backseat of his car outside your apartment complex, wrapped in his hoodie and curled against his chest, you finally asked it -

“What happens when the semester ends?”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he said, “I don’t know.”

You lifted your head. “You haven’t thought about it?”

“I think about it too much.”

You didn’t answer. The ache in your chest did.

“I didn’t plan for this,” he said, hand finding yours. “I didn’t expect you.”

“I didn’t expect you,” you whispered.

Your lips met again, slower now. Less urgency. More ache.

There was nothing casual about this anymore.

This was no longer a game. No longer a thrill.

This was something blooming in secret, wild and uncontainable.

You both felt it.

You just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

But you would.

One night soon, something would shift. A decision would be made. A line would be crossed.

But for now?

You held his hand in the dark.

And let it bloom.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The semester was over, and so was the façade.

There was no denying it now.

You hadn’t seen Lewis for almost a week. You'd both been too busy. Life had its way of pulling you back into the normal rhythms of university, work and friends. But it didn’t stop you from thinking about him, constantly. The messages. The stolen kisses. Those moments when it was just the two of you, hidden from the world and you could pretend for a few minutes that this whatever this was, could be something more than just fleeting.

But tonight, you were here.

His place.

Lewis had texted earlier, just after you’d wrapped up your final exam. It was simple. Short. But you both knew what it meant.

Lewis: “Come by after. I’ll be waiting.”

You’d tried to ignore the flutter in your chest, but it was impossible.

You stood in front of his door now, holding your breath. Nervousness electrified under your skin, not from fear, but from the anticipation of everything that was about to unfold.

You knocked.

Seconds later, the door creaked open. There he was, standing in front of you. His usual confidence, mixed with something softer tonight like he was just as nervous as you were. He gave you a soft smile and a brief look of reassurance before stepping back to let you in.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He didn’t need to say much a he pulled you in immediately, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close, as if the week apart had been too long for either of you to stand.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your hair.

You closed your eyes, trying to take in the warmth of him, the comfort of his embrace. You hadn’t realised how much you needed him, how much his presence grounded you in the chaos of everything else. The world faded to just the two of you, and the rush of emotions surged through you again.

“I missed you, too,” you whispered back.

He pulled away slightly, looking down at you with a tenderness you couldn’t quite comprehend. “You’re sure about this? About us?”

You nodded, heart pounding. You were sure. More than sure.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on your lips. Slowly, he cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Neither do I,” he said softly, then leaned in.

His lips found yours in an immediate kiss, slow and deep, tasting the longing that had built between you for weeks. You responded instinctively, your hands slipping under his jacket to feel the warmth of his skin beneath. His body pressed into yours and you could feel the electricity that always simmered beneath the surface between you.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, you didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The air between you was thick with desire.

Lewis’s hand slid down your back, pulling you closer. He led you to his living room, where dim lights from lamps cast long shadows across the furniture. His place was sparse, but there was something inviting about it. Cozy. A home you could picture yourself in if only the circumstances were different.

He didn’t waste time. His lips were on your neck, his breath warm against your skin as his hands slid up under your shirt, touching you as if he had to remind himself you were real.

“God, you feel…” he trailed off, kissing his way up to your jaw, then back to your lips.

You couldn’t form the words either. You wanted him. Needed him. It was clear now that this whatever it was had moved beyond the stolen moments in the park and in secret corners. You both wanted more. Needed more.

You broke away from him for a moment, catching your breath. “I’ve never done anything like this,” you confessed, hands trembling slightly as you reached for the hem of his shirt.

“I’ve never felt this way,” Lewis admitted, pulling his shirt off and stepping closer. His bare chest, the muscles honed from years of racing, made your breath catch. He was gorgeous, but it wasn’t just his looks it was the way he made you feel.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he added softly, as if reading your mind. But you could feel his own restraint slipping. He wasn’t just waiting for you to make a move he was with you, in this, completely

Without another word, you kissed him again, more urgent this time. As if there were no more time to waste.

You guided him toward the couch, your lips never leaving his. He groaned softly as you pushed him back against the cushions, your hands sliding lower, feeling the heat of his body beneath your fingertips.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his hands slipping under your skirt.

You were too far gone to care about anything else. Your hands worked quickly to undress each other, the tension crackling between you, a fire that could no longer be contained. His kisses grew more frantic, his body pressing up against yours as his hands roamed, seeking to memorize the feel of you.

You didn’t hesitate when you straddled him, your heart pounding as you aligned your hips with his. The moment was perfect, raw and full of desire. You were both past the point of pretending.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice a low rasp. His hands rested on your hips, fingers digging into your skin.

“Yes,” you breathed, leaning forward to kiss him again.

His hands were everywhere now on your back, your waist, your thighs. You felt his pulse quicken beneath your hands, the need growing between you with every second.

And then, finally, the world narrowed down to just the two of you. The kiss deepened, his hands guiding you closer to him as he finally pulled you down, filling the space between you with nothing but passion, heat and the promise of something more.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Afterward, as the silence of the night wrapped around you both, you lay together in the quiet, his arm around you, his breath steady against your skin. You could feel his heartbeat slow, his chest rising and falling against yours.

“What now?” you asked, your voice soft, filled with uncertainty. You weren’t sure what the future held, but in this moment, you knew you didn’t want to let go.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “We figure it out. Together.”

And just like that, you knew it wasn’t just about the secret kisses or the stolen moments anymore. It was about this. About finding something real in the space between the lines.

109 notes · View notes

chimcess · 10 days ago

Text

⮞ Chapter Eight: SOL 320 Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Convict!Jungkook, Escaped Prisoner!Jungkook, Piolet!Reader, Captain!Reader, Holyman!Namjoon, Boss!Yoongi, Commander!Jimin, Astronaut!Jimin, Doctor!Hoseok, Astronaut!Hoseok Genre: Sci-Fi, Action, Adventure, Thriller, Suspense, Strangers to Enemies to ???, Slow Burn, LOTS of Angst, Light Fluff, Eventual Smut, Third Person POV, 18+ Only Word Count: 17.1k+ Summary: When a deep space transporter crash-lands on a barren planet illuminated by three relentless suns, survival becomes the only priority for the stranded passengers, including resourceful pilot Y/N Y/L/N, mystic Namjoon Kim, lawman Taemin Lee, and enigmatic convict Jungkook Jeon. As they scour the hostile terrain for supplies and a way to escape, Y/N uncovers a terrifying truth: every 22 years, the planet is plunged into total darkness during an eclipse, awakening swarms of ravenous, flesh-eating creatures. Forced into a fragile alliance, the survivors must face not only the deadly predators but also their own mistrust and secrets. For Y/N, the growing tension with Jungkook—both a threat and a reluctant ally—raises the stakes even higher, as the battle to escape becomes one for survival against the darkness both around them and within themselves. Warnings: Strong Language, Blood, Trauma, Smart Character Choices, This is all angst and action and that's pretty much it, Reader is a bad ass, Survivor Woman is back baby, terraforming, some mental health issues, survivor's guilt, lots of talking to herself, and recording it, because she'll lose her mind otherwise, fixing things, intergalatical politics, new characters, body image issues, scars, strong female characters are everywhere, cynical humor, bad science language, honestly all of this has probably had the worst science and basis ever, I researched a lot I promise, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: Will she make it or not?

prev || masterlist || next

Inside the sealed cocoon of the Speculor, the rest of M6-117 faded to a low hum.

Y/N adjusted the volume dial on the rover’s console with a gloved hand, tuning the half-busted stereo with the care of someone who’d done this ritual a hundred times before. The speakers crackled, fought her for a second, then gave in. David Bowie’s “Starman” poured into the cabin—grainy, warbled around the edges, but intact. The first familiar notes stretched through the air like a warm thread pulling taut.

She leaned back in her seat and let the music fill the empty space around her. It wasn’t loud. Just enough to soften the edges.

Seven months.

That was how long it had been since the mission trajectory changed—since NOSA had quietly shifted from contingency to possibility, and finally, to planning. Seven months since she’d stopped thinking about dying here and started thinking—cautiously, carefully—about leaving.

Now it was close. The actual launch was days away, maybe less, and Y/N was almost too tired to process what that meant. She’d expected emotion, something big and cinematic, but mostly she just felt blank. Not numb. Just emptied out. Worn smooth by repetition.

In that time, she’d spoken with CAPCOM every day—lagged, distorted, half a minute behind real conversation. Still, it was something. The Starfire crew’s updates. Mateo’s cautious optimism. April’s careful questions, always logged, always transcribed. They’d become part of the routine. A strange kind of company.

Inside the Speculor, the air was dry and recycled, the temperature cranked just high enough to keep the frost at bay. Her gloved fingers twisted the volume knob on the console. Static at first, then the music settled into clarity: Starman, again. The same bootleg copy she’d looped more times than she could count. Bowie’s voice filled the cabin, staticky and familiar.

She let her head lean against the side panel for a moment, just listening. The song didn’t feel triumphant anymore—not like it had that first week after contact—but it still felt right. Like a rhythm she could breathe to. Something just hers.

Beyond the windshield, M6-117 spread out in all directions. A quiet, unforgiving ocean of red dust and fractured rock. Nothing moved except wind and memory. No birds, no trees, no clouds. Just light—too much of it—poured from twin suns that hovered low on the horizon like sullen watchmen. The shadows they cast were long and doubled, stretching at awkward angles.

The land looked ancient. Like it had been waiting a long time to be seen.

The Speculor groaned under her as it crawled up a slope she knew by heart. She’d rerouted this leg of the journey after last week’s storm took out the northern ridge. Her notes were accurate. They always were now. She didn’t have room for error.

The rover’s suspension—rigged together with leftover couplings and patched metal—complained as it dipped into a shallow trough. She adjusted the throttle gently. The vibrations traveled through the seat and into her spine.

“There’s a starman… waiting in the sky…”

She didn’t sing along. Her throat was cracked from the dry air, and her voice didn’t sound like her own anymore. But she tapped her fingers against the throttle in time with the chorus.

Some things became ritual. The song. The route. The moment right before she checked the nav screen, pretending she didn’t already know what it would say.

Battery: nominal. O2: green. Power margins: close, but acceptable.

Everything holding, for now.

The route she followed traced along the eastern lip of Sundermere Basin, skirting the high plateau where thermal anomalies had been pinging weak but persistent signals. She’d flagged it a week ago. Maybe residual power from a buried unit. Maybe nothing. But “maybe” was enough to justify the trip. Any task was better than sitting still, waiting for time to pass.

Because the truth was, after seven months, she’d gotten very good at surviving.

She’d fixed the antenna four times. Rebuilt the filtration unit twice. Repaired the rover’s lateral drive with nothing but a welding arc, spare bolts, and one of her own belt loops. She’d catalogued every sample she could reach. Updated the entire geological substrate map for the quadrant. Even completed two of Oslo’s abandoned mineral tests, down to the data formatting.

She’d done it all mostly to keep her mind from slipping.

Being alone hadn’t turned out to be the worst part. Not exactly. It was quieter than she’d feared, but not in the way people imagined. Not peaceful. There were no clean silences, no meditative stillness. It was crowded in its own way—crowded with memories, with thoughts that looped and snagged and repeated themselves until they lost shape. Some nights, lying on her bunk in the Hab, she’d listen to the wind battering against the canvas wall and pretend it wasn’t real. Pretend she was back in the deep quiet of space, where nothing moved unless you told it to.

She hadn’t cried in months. Not because she didn’t want to. Because crying felt indulgent, like something you did when there was room for it. And she didn’t have that luxury. There was always something to fix, something to check, something to prepare. Emotion was a liability. She couldn’t afford to dissolve—not when she had to be ready to get off this rock the moment the window opened.

And now, finally, they were close.

Close enough that NOSA had started using language she hadn’t heard in over a year—terms like maneuver window and vector drift allowance showing up again in the reports. The tone of the transmissions had shifted, too. Koah’s voice had taken on a subtle urgency. He sounded focused. And hopeful.

That part scared her more than anything.

The rover crested the rise with a long, slow groan. She tightened her grip on the controls, steadying the frame as dust curled up from the tires and blurred the windows. Beyond the glass, a new stretch of Martian terrain unfolded—deep ochre and rusted red, horizon layered with jagged ridgelines that looked like broken bones under the hard light of the twin suns. Shadows stretched in every direction, stark and sharp-edged.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

In her mind, she’d pictured rescue countless times. She’d let herself imagine the roar of thrusters, a hull breaking through atmosphere like a second sunrise, the sound of someone—anyone—saying her name over comms. Something cinematic. Big. Emotional. Deserved.

Instead, it had come in pieces. Quiet, unremarkable pieces. Data packets. Checklist confirmations. Engineering logs buried in jargon.

And now she was preparing to launch herself into orbit in a vessel that was never meant for a second use. A stripped-down ascent vehicle rebuilt out of scavenged parts and crossed fingers. One shot. That was it. The math didn’t leave room for mistakes. If she missed the intercept by even a second—or came in too hot, or caught the wrong wind shear—it was over. They wouldn’t be able to course correct. She’d drift, and Starfire would keep moving, and it would be no one’s fault.

She could hear that knowledge in the way Koah paused at the end of every transmission. In the way Mateo no longer filled the gaps with empty reassurances.

They knew.

But she also knew this: if it failed—if she didn’t make it—they’d still try to bring her home. She believed that. Her body, her suit, the black box of sensor data she’d logged with religious devotion. They wouldn’t leave her here to vanish under the sand. They’d find a way to retrieve her, even if it took years.

There was something oddly calming about that.

She reached for her water tube and took a long sip, swallowing slowly as her eyes drifted to the sky through the rover’s sloped windshield. The upper atmosphere shimmered faintly, copper-hued and blinding at the edges. Too bright to be beautiful. Too dry to feel real. There was something about it that always looked fake to her—like a badly rendered simulation of sky instead of the real thing.

Somewhere above that sky, Starfire was moving into position.

Somewhere, someone she hadn’t touched in over a year was punching burn times into a nav system and checking the margin for intercept.

She tapped the screen to bring up her next waypoint. A new line of coordinates blinked back at her, hovering like a challenge. This stretch would take her closer to the MAV site. She knew the route by now—every rock, every soft patch of sand that could tangle a wheel or throw her off-course. It wasn’t a road. It wasn’t even a path. Just something she’d made up as she went.

Outside, a dust devil spun briefly to life, danced across the basin, then collapsed into stillness.

She watched it for a long moment, then blinked and let her breath go slow.

“Almost over,” she said. Not a wish. Not a hope. Just a fact.

She adjusted the throttle, checked her oxygen levels, and logged the next coordinates.

And then she drove on, toward the place where everything would either begin again—or end clean.

Far above the scorched horizon of M6-117, past the reach of its sulfur-tinged winds and the shifting red haze that rolled endlessly across its broken terrain, the Iris-2 probe slipped free from its booster with a silence only space could provide.

There was no flare, no echo. Just the faint tremor of separation—a soft pulse through the clamps, a subtle release of inertia. One moment the booster held it; the next, it was drifting on its own, untethered, alive with purpose.

It had taken seven months to reach this moment. Seven months since Y/N’s first garbled transmission managed to claw its way out of the storm-battered surface and into NOSA’s deep-space relay. Seven months of restructured flight plans, emergency committee briefings, late-night simulations, and orbital trajectory scrubs. Seven months of wondering if they were already too late.

But now—now it was real.

Koah Nguyen leaned in over the Starfire’s flight deck interface, his back rigid, shoulders braced like a sprinter in the blocks. The booster telemetry had already zeroed. Now it was just Iris—free, exposed, and on approach. The margin for error was thin. Technically, the docking could’ve been automated. But Koah didn’t trust automation when the numbers were this tight, and when the payload was carrying a woman who hadn’t heard another voice in nearly a year.

His fingers hovered above the haptic interface. Every subtle shift of thruster power, every microdegree of drift correction—it was all on him now.

“Velocity differential .0025,” came Cruz’s voice through comms. “Approach vector within limit.”

“Still too fast,” Koah murmured, mostly to himself.

He nudged the left lateral thruster with a feather-light tap, correcting the probe’s arc. A flick of a button dampened yaw drift. The image feed from the hull camera refreshed, showing Iris-2 gliding in slow, steady increments—like a needle threading an invisible eye.

Behind him, Commander Jimin Park stood at a respectful distance, arms crossed, a silent sentinel. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. This was Koah’s op. But he was there, steady as gravity, watching the same numbers tick past. Ready, if needed.

Inside the airlock prep chamber, silence reigned. No chatter. No alarm bells. Just the deep, consistent hum of ship systems and the soft tap of Koah’s inputs.

“Switching to visual,” Koah said. He pulled the camera feed into full resolution, bringing Iris-2 into clearer focus.

The probe was sleek and small, more skeletal than anything designed for people. Its primary hull shimmered under the binary light of the two suns, panels catching the harsh white-blue glare in sharp angles. It was close now. Too close for hesitation.

Koah swallowed. “Clamp arms deployed.”

Onscreen, the Starfire’s docking arms extended like the limbs of some patient, mechanical insect—open, waiting.

“Approach… good,” Cruz said, breath tight. “Hold your line.”

Koah’s eyes flicked to the distance meter. Ten meters. Seven.

His voice dropped. “Five… three… steady…”

Then, softly: a clack. Followed by a second, heavier thunk as the magnetic locks triggered and the alignment ports sealed.

A tiny green light blinked alive on the deck screen. Docking complete.

For a beat, Koah didn’t move. He stared at the light, at the clean diagnostics flickering to confirm: pressure seals holding. Hull connection stable. No deviation in thermal equilibrium.

Then, finally, he exhaled—and leaned back, dragging a hand across his face.

“…Alright,” he said, voice low but calm. “We’re on.”

Jimin let out a quiet breath of relief, his lips twitching into the first real smile Koah had seen from him all day.

“That was smooth,” he said. “Stupid smooth.”

Koah allowed himself a small smile. “If it wasn’t, I’d never live it down. Not with Bao watching.”

Jimin chuckled. “No pressure.”

Koah didn’t respond right away. He was already leaning into his terminal, posture tight with focus as his eyes moved steadily across the rows of readouts. Internal diagnostics were holding—so far. Docking pressure looked clean. Hull temperatures stable. Battery output nominal.

The Iris-2 probe was more than a delivery system. It was a lifeline. It carried compressed rations—enough for a six-week extension if she rationed aggressively. Oxygen scrubber refills, thermal patch kits, reentry stabilizers for the MAV, a replacement navcore chip for the flight interface. Things no human should’ve had to live without this long.

And buried in the center supply bay, packed deliberately between a vacuum-sealed cluster of electrolyte gel tubes and a bag of freeze-dried vegetables labeled "PASTA—MAYBE" in Val’s handwriting, was something smaller. A note. Handwritten. Folded and secured with a strip of recycled polymer tape.

Koah hadn’t asked what it said.

He hadn’t wanted to know.

It wasn’t cowardice. Not exactly. More like self-preservation. Valencia Cruz had been the most unwavering presence in his life outside of this ship—and one of the most unpredictable. They’d worked together for four years now. Long missions. Endless briefings. Inside jokes and midnight coffee rants and more engineering arguments than he could count.

For most of that time, she’d been engaged to a man who’d never set foot in orbit. That ended months ago. Quietly. Without explanation. And he hadn’t asked. Not because he didn’t want to know. But because when it came to Val, timing was everything—and pushing was how you got shut out. When she was ready, she’d tell him.

And maybe—if they were lucky—he could open her letter in front of her and see what happened next.

“Telemetry check in ninety seconds,” Koah said, eyes flicking to the countdown icon in the corner of the screen. His voice was steady again, pulled back into rhythm.

Jimin was already there. He shifted slightly at his own station, fingers dancing across a field of translucent data. Orbital maps, storm models, launch windows—each one another layer of the puzzle.

“Sundermere’s heating up faster than expected,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “Atmospheric shear’s rising. We’ll be inside the corridor for twenty minutes. Maybe less.”

Koah gave a small nod. “She has to be ready to launch the second we clear.”

Jimin paused. Then said it like it didn’t need to be said. “She will be.”

Koah didn’t answer. Not with words. His gaze moved to the monitor again—one of the external cams feeding a constant image of the probe, now firmly docked beneath the Starfire’s main cargo cradle. It looked small compared to the bulk of the ship. Delicate. Temporary. But there was power in it. And purpose.

And inside, packed with quiet care, was everything that might keep one woman alive long enough to come home.

He tapped through the flight logic menus, making sure the data packets were queued correctly. Command chains, safety interrupts, hardware checks.

They were ready.

She would be ready.

The MAV on the surface had only ever been designed for one ascent. A precise launch, a short burn, and a controlled interception at low orbit. What they were asking it to do now—what Y/N was being asked to pull off with half a crew’s worth of gear, an aging suit, and the worst terrain in NOSA’s catalog—was borderline absurd.

And yet.

She hadn’t quit. Not once. Not in the footage. Not in the comm logs. Not in the whispered scraps of signal that crawled through the storms.

She was still there. Still building. Still thinking five steps ahead. Still surviving.

Koah leaned forward again, hands steady as he keyed in the final approach command.

Inside Airlock 3, the world was stripped down to essentials—light, metal, breath.

Hoseok floated just off the deck, his boots loosely hooked into the restraints, waist tether coiled at his side. The overhead lights cast a hard gleam across his visor, blurring his reflection into a ghost hovering behind the HUD readouts. His EVA suit was snug but familiar, worn in all the right places, and silent now but for the low hiss of life support in his ears.

Just ahead of him, suspended in the docking corridor, the Iris-2 probe waited—sleek, burnished, and utterly still. It hovered inches from the port like it belonged there, though everyone on the ship knew better. This part wasn’t automated. This part relied on human hands.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and slow, eyes narrowing on the alignment grid overlaying his screen. No error margin. No wobble. No alarm tones. A clean approach.

“Five degrees counterclockwise,” Cruz said in his ear. Her voice was flat and even, but Hoseok had worked with her long enough to hear the strain buried under the calm. Not fear—focus. Like she was holding her breath through her teeth.

“Copy,” he replied, reaching for the guide arm. His gloved fingers curled around the control joint with practiced ease.

The movement was subtle. Delicate. A feather’s weight of torque to rotate the probe just a hair to the left. The probe responded with elegant grace, drifting that final fraction into perfect alignment.

A small vent of nitrogen hissed from the attitude jets—barely audible, barely visible—but it was enough.

In the observation alcove just beyond the airlock, Cruz leaned forward against the glass. She didn’t speak. Her fingertips tapped out an unconscious rhythm against the edge of the display—counting maybe, or praying. Her eyes were locked on the seal point. Her other hand clenched tight around the metal railing in front of her, as though she could muscle the docking into place just by willing it.

They all knew what was riding on this. Iris-2 wasn’t just carrying spare parts and food pouches. It held the only atmospheric sweep array that could scan Sundermere before the stormfront made landfall. If it missed, if they lost sync, the window closed—and so did their shot at recovering Y/N.

Outside, the planet rolled beneath them. M6-117, red and raw, broken by tectonics and stripped bare by wind. The storm was visible from this altitude now—like a bruise spreading across the horizon.

Hoseok leaned into his final adjustment. His wrist flicked, just slightly. Then—

Click.

The probe settled into the collar. The magnetic latches extended from the Starfire’s hull, reached out like fingers, and grabbed hold.

A deeper thud followed—one that vibrated faintly through Hoseok’s suit.

Seal engaged.

Green lights blinked across his HUD in rapid sequence: docking clamps secured, pressure gradient stabilized, power sync initialized.

Still floating, still tethered, Hoseok stayed perfectly still and let the final status pass.

“All green,” he said, voice low. Measured. “We’re locked in.”

For a beat, there was nothing.

Then Val let out a breath like she’d been holding it for hours. Her hand slid from the railing, her shoulders dropping as tension drained out of her in one long wave.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “Nice work, Hobi.”

His mouth twitched in the closest thing to a smile the helmet cam could pick up. “You were a great audience.”

“I was trying not to pass out.”

“Appreciated.”

From down the corridor, someone whistled—a short, sharp note that turned into a wave of claps and shoulder pats from the nearby crew. No whooping. No shouting. Just the kind of shared relief that came from people too tired to celebrate but too proud not to show it.

Even Koah, the most seasoned engineer, let himself breathe.

Val wiped her forehead with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “We’re officially online. I’ll initiate payload unlock.”

“On your signal,” Hoseok said, already unfastening the tether and reaching for the interior bulkhead grips.

A voice crackled in over comms. Koah, dry and efficient, but with a faint lift at the edge of it.

“Good seal. Get the diagnostics rolling. We’re up against Sundermere’s last pass in six hours. That sweep data needs to be live before then.”

“Understood,” Val answered. “We’re already on it.”

The pressure in the room eased, just a fraction. The tension didn’t vanish—it never did—but it reshaped itself into forward momentum. They had the probe. They had time, if only barely. Now it was just a matter of moving fast enough to make it count.

Hoseok floated back from the hatch and turned his head just enough to see the curve of the planet out the small viewport behind him.

It didn’t look like a place anyone could survive.

But Y/N was still down there, somewhere in that rusted wasteland, defying every expectation.

The suns of M6-117 hung low in the bleached-orange sky, casting long, rust-colored shadows across the desert. The planet didn’t just look lifeless—it felt it. Wind tore across the endless dunes in soundless sheets, carrying with it a fine red dust that settled into every crack, every crevice. It was a world built from silence and scorched stone, unforgiving and unchanging.

But she had changed.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor of what was once the main operations hub—now little more than a cracked shell stitched together with thermal blankets, sealant foam, and salvaged wiring. The walls creaked under the strain of too many pressure shifts. Sunlight leaked through patched seams, casting jagged lines of gold across the dust-caked floor. Inside, the air was dry, metallic, and heavy with the scent of old wiring and recycled oxygen.

She adjusted the angle of the camera, then sat back, letting it focus. Her face filled the frame: leaner than it used to be, the softness worn away by hunger, exposure, and time. Her eyes were sharp now—not hard exactly, but watchful. Alert in a way that came from sleeping with one ear open and always knowing how many hours of oxygen she had left. Her hair was wild, hanging in uneven waves to her collarbone, tangled in places where she’d given up trying to tame it.

The corners of her lips twitched up into a crooked smile. “So,” she said, her voice scratchy from days of silence but steady, “I’ve been thinking about space law. You ever hear of the Treaty of New Hope?”

She let the question hang for a moment. Outside, the wind howled against the Hab’s patched outer shell.

“It’s this old international agreement—was supposed to prevent exactly the kind of thing I’m about to do. Basically, no planet or government can lay claim to any celestial body beyond its own solar system unless they’ve got approval from a special council. Sounds bureaucratic as hell, right?” She reached over, picked up a wrench, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table beside her. “And yet, here we are.”

She gestured loosely around the space. “M6-117? Technically, it's unclaimed. That makes it... international waters. A lawless sandbox floating in the middle of nowhere.”

The camera feed jumped to an exterior shot. Her two speculors stood side by side, their once-pristine frames warped and beaten. Speculor One bore the scorched wreckage of Prometheus’s stabilizer fin bolted onto its chassis like some kind of makeshift figurehead. Speculor Two had been transformed into a mobile life-support depot—tubes, solar panels, and crates of salvaged supplies lashed down with webbing, its interior barely holding together.

It looked more like a junkyard on treads than a research vehicle. But it moved. And in a place like this, movement meant survival.

Y/N leaned in closer to the lens. “Technically, NOSA still owns the Hab. Aguerra Prime funds it, insures it, claims jurisdiction over it. But the moment I walk out that airlock?” She pointed over her shoulder. “I’m in the wild. No flag, no oversight. Just me, a couple of Frankensteined rovers, and a whole lot of empty red sand.”

She exhaled slowly, looking off-camera for a moment before glancing back. “And that brings me to today’s little project.”

Her expression shifted—something between excitement and resolve. “There’s a Helion Nexus lander at the edge of Sundermere Basin. It was part of a failed recon drop a few years back. Long story short: it’s still out there. Mostly intact. And I’m going to take it.”

She said it plainly.

“Not borrow it. Not radio in for authorization. I’m going to walk up to it, override the lockout codes, and take control. And technically... that makes me a pirate.”

There was a beat of silence after she said it. The word just hung there, lingering in the dry air of the Hab like a joke no one had laughed at yet.

Pirate.

It sounded ridiculous. Out of place. Like something out of an old holo-serial—leather jackets, glowing blades, dramatic standoffs on the hull of a freighter. She almost laughed at how far from that image she really was.

She exhaled through her nose and let the smallest smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “I always thought space pirates had flashy ships, called each other by code names, maybe carried sidearms they didn’t know how to use,” she muttered, her voice quiet, worn at the edges. “Turns out, all you really need is a wrench, a patched-up suit, and no one left to stop you.”

The Hab groaned as if in reply, the metal frame straining under the pressure difference outside. A gust of wind smacked the outer wall with a dull, thudding resonance. Something metal—a panel, maybe a loose strut—clattered loose in the corridor behind her. It struck the floor with a single, hollow bang and then went still.

She didn’t even blink. Not anymore.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” she said quietly, almost like she was testing the sound of it. “Space pirate.”

Her voice wasn’t proud, not really. There was no grandeur in it—just tired honesty. The title fit, in its own twisted way. No one had granted her authority. No one was watching. Whatever rules had once existed out here had dissolved the moment the resupply missions stopped.

She stared past the camera lens, her gaze drifting toward nothing in particular. Maybe out the small port window, maybe into memory. The expression on her face changed—just slightly. A softening around the mouth, a release of the tension in her brow. The guard she wore like armor seemed to ease, just for a moment.

It had been a long time since she’d let herself feel anything.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d smiled like this—really smiled. Maybe it was back when the comms were still up and she’d trade messages with Earth. Maybe it was before the storm fried the signal tower and left her to rebuild the antenna with parts scavenged from broken rovers. Or maybe it was even earlier—before she started counting the days not by dates, but by how many liters of filtered water she had left, how many oxygen canisters she had to seal by hand.

Back then, there had been routines. Schedules. Hope.

Now? Now there was just this strange quiet. And the freedom that came with having absolutely nothing left to lose.

She let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh. “Honestly,” she said, more to herself than to the camera, “it’s better than a Nobel.”

It was a joke, sort of. She’d once dreamed of those things—awards, recognition, her name in journals and press conferences and history books. It had all felt so important. Necessary. Now, it seemed absurd. What was a prize compared to surviving six months alone on a planet no one was coming back to?

She leaned back slowly, her shoulders brushing against the cold metal of the Hab’s rear wall. Her eyes drifted around the space—at the tangled wires stuffed into ceiling panels, at the insulation duct-taped to the window seams, at the corner where the water recycler had leaked for three days before she managed to reroute the flow with plastic tubing and sheer guesswork.

The Hab looked like hell. Worn down. Held together by nothing more than willpower and the leftover scraps of a better plan. But somehow... it had become hers. A shelter. A prison. A home.

And as ridiculous as it was, she felt a twinge of sadness settle in her chest at the thought of leaving it behind.

Not enough to stop her, of course. She had somewhere to be. Something to take. But still—she hadn’t expected to feel anything when she finally walked away.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the soft whine of the fans, the hum of the power cells she’d rebuilt twice now. The Hab breathed like something alive. Flawed. Fragile. Just like her.

When she opened her eyes again, her voice was quieter. “Guess I’m gonna miss this place after all.”

Then she stood, grabbed her helmet, and reached for the hatch controls.

The airlock hissed.

And just like that, the pirate stepped into the desert.

The last day in the Hab didn’t feel like a goodbye. Not at first.

It felt... disjointed. Like she was moving through someone else’s memory. The edges of things were too sharp. The air too still. Everything was quiet in the way things are just before they disappear. Y/N moved slowly through the cramped living quarters, half-expecting someone else to emerge from behind one of the bulkheads. But of course, there was no one. There hadn’t been anyone in a long time.

She sat on the edge of her bunk, knees drawn up, one foot resting on the makeshift water crate she’d repurposed as a stool. The cold metal handle of her razor pressed against her palm as she tilted the blade, dragging it carefully along her calf. The skin prickled in protest. The act was mundane, almost absurd. Shaving. On her last day. On a dead planet. She hadn’t touched the razor in weeks. Months, maybe. There hadn’t been a point. But today, somehow, there was.

It wasn’t about vanity. There was no one here to notice if she was clean-shaven or covered in patchy stubble. She wasn’t doing it for an audience. She wasn’t doing it for NASA, or NOSA, or anyone watching from Aguerra Prime. She wasn’t even sure the cameras still worked. This was for her.

It was the movement, the familiarity. The echo of Earth routines. A way of reminding her body that she was still human. That she still existed in a way that wasn’t only about surviving.

The razor made soft, whispering strokes along her thigh, and she worked in silence, methodically. She checked her arms next, running her fingers over the fine hairs that had gone unnoticed for too long. The action was precise, mechanical. Muscle memory from a world that felt galaxies away. The kind of world with mirrors, and warm running water, and idle mornings where grooming was just a part of the day—not an act of defiance against desolation.

When she was done, she rinsed the razor in a shallow tin of recycled water and set it down with care on the tiny metal shelf beside the sink. Her fingers lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary, like it might vanish if she looked away.

She moved on.

The Hab was barely holding together, but she still walked its length like a steward. Every corner bore the marks of her time here—scorch marks from the battery incident, a tear in the flooring she’d sealed with epoxy and hope, the scratched notes she’d carved into the bulkhead with a screwdriver when the pen ink dried up. She paused at the stack of crates where she’d stored what remained of her research—dozens of boxes sealed in vacuum wrap, carefully labeled in her blocky handwriting.

Some labels were purely scientific. “Regolith Core B12.” “Atmospheric Trace: Western Quadrant.” Others bore the weight of her humor, dry and necessary. One in particular made her huff a quiet laugh through her nose: "Das Soil Samples."

She shook her head. God, that’s stupid. But it had kept her sane on nights when the storm screamed outside, and the Hab felt like it might fold in on itself. It had been just her and the sound of the wind, and her own voice narrating nonsense to the camera because silence had become unbearable.

Each box she packed felt like tucking away a piece of her life. Data. Debris. Documentation. It wasn’t just science—it was evidence she had been here. That this had all happened. That she hadn’t imagined it.

By the time the final crate clicked into place, a strange calm had settled in her chest. Not relief. Not even closure. Just... quiet acceptance.

She suited up with practiced efficiency. The MAV suit was stiff, but familiar. She knew the feel of every joint, every seal. As she clicked her gloves into place, she glanced around the Hab one last time. The lights flickered as she powered down the systems one by one. Air filtration. Oxygen cycling. Communications—already long dead. She hesitated at the heaters, watching the indicator lights blink out like stars snuffed from a night sky.

And then the lights dimmed for good. The whir of machinery faded into silence.

The Hab was still.

She stood in the airlock for a long while before cycling it open. The suit insulated her from the raw bite of the planet’s thin atmosphere, but she still felt the temperature drop. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the red, cracked terrain. The dust stirred under her boots as she stepped out. The wind was nothing more than a whisper here, but it carried weight—a dry breath from a planet that had been waiting four and a half billion years for someone to hear it.

She turned once, looking back at the Hab—its patched panels, its makeshift antenna straining upward.

“Thanks for keeping me alive,” she murmured, her voice muffled inside the helmet.

She made her way across the stretch of dust toward the speculors. Speculor 2 sat half-buried in windblown grit, holding the last of the rations and samples. She secured the final crate with practiced hands. Among the bland, utility labels, one box caught her eye: "Goodbye, M6." Just black marker on a storage lid, but it hit harder than it should have.

She lingered over it. Let it settle. Then climbed into Speculor 1 and powered up the system.

The familiar hum vibrated through her boots. The engine engaged with a low, steady growl, and the treads rolled forward, carving a new path through the empty landscape. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t have to.

The Hab was done. It had been her shelter, her cage, her sanctuary. But it wasn’t hers anymore. Now, it belonged to the silence again.

The terrain ahead was endless. Red and cracked and ancient. As the vehicle crawled across the dust, Y/N watched the ground roll past beneath her, and for the first time in months, she felt something like purpose return.

She stopped the speculor near a shallow rise and stepped out. Her boots pressed into the soil, leaving fresh imprints where no human had ever stood.

She looked down at her feet. “Step outside the speculor?” she said, the words dry in her throat. “First girl to be here.”

The hill was steep, but she climbed it anyway. The suit resisted her movements, each step a deliberate struggle, but it was worth it. At the summit, she paused and looked back.

Nothing. Just dust and sky.

“Climb that hill?” she whispered. “First girl to do that, too.”

The loneliness hit her harder up here, maybe because the view was so vast. It swallowed her. The wind blew gently against her helmet, like the planet was breathing around her. She rested one gloved hand against a jagged rock and stood still for a long while.

Above her, the smaller sun hung low—soft and bluish, casting a pale glow over the land. She’d named it “Bubble.” It reminded her of Earth somehow. Fragile. Distant. Constant. It was always there, tracking her through the days and nights like a silent guardian.

She stared at it for a while, letting the strange comfort of its light settle over her.

“I’m the first person to be alone on an entire planet,” she thought. The words felt like they belonged in a history book. But they were just hers.

No crowds. No cameras. Just the sound of her own breath, the press of the suit, and the impossible stretch of a world that had never known life.

She was the first. And she was alone.

The speculor’s solar panels were out, angled toward the faint sun, drinking in what little energy Hexundecia had to offer. The motors had gone quiet, the systems at rest, the caravan still and grounded for the next recharge cycle. Out here, time didn’t pass with the urgency of a ticking clock—it stretched and drifted, wide and open like the desert around her.

Y/N sat a few meters from the vehicle, suited up and leaned against a slab of fractured basalt that jutted from the earth like a half-buried monument. Her knees were drawn up loosely, arms resting on them, hands relaxed. The pressurized joints of her suit creaked softly when she moved, but for the most part, she didn’t. She simply sat there, head tilted back, eyes closed behind her visor.

The sounds were minimal. The low hiss of her rebreather. The occasional chirp from her suit’s diagnostics. Farther off, the gentle ticking of the speculor’s cooling systems. It was white noise to her now—background ambience that had faded into familiarity. What she focused on wasn’t sound at all, but presence.

The planet stretched in every direction, its reddish soil and dust-coated rock formations glowing faintly under the soft light of the smaller sun she’d dubbed Bubble. The sun’s blue-tinged glow bled across the ridgelines, casting long shadows that shifted almost imperceptibly as the hours passed. It was beautiful, in a way that didn't care whether anyone saw it or not.

She inhaled, slowly, deliberately. The oxygen from her suit system was clean, filtered, cool against her throat. It wasn’t fresh—nothing here was—but it was breathable. Reliable. She’d come to appreciate that more than she ever had back home. You learn not to take air for granted when it’s something you have to ration.

There were no thoughts of mission logs or data packets or next-stage objectives just now. No status checks. No timelines. Just her. Her, the suit, and the silent gravity of a world that had never known the touch of human life until her boots cracked the crust.

This planet wasn’t lifeless. Not really. It breathed in its own way—slowly, deeply. It had its own rhythms: the rise and fall of light, the cycle of wind carving its signature across stone, the whisper of ancient minerals shifting beneath the surface. It had been here long before she arrived. It would be here long after she was gone.

And yet, for this moment, it was hers.

She opened her eyes, and the horizon blurred in heat shimmer. There was a strange peace in knowing how small she really was. Not irrelevant—just tiny, and in the best possible way. There was no audience here. No live feed. No applause. Just the quiet realization that this... this was what exploration really looked like. Not flag-planting or dramatic speeches. Just being here. Alive. Observing. Bearing witness.

She let her helmet rest back against the rock behind her and murmured, more to the suit than herself, “Still beats the office.”

The sun shifted a fraction, casting a new shape across the dust. Y/N sat in silence, absorbing it all. This was the kind of stillness you only found when the nearest person was 40 million kilometers away.

The speculor rattled gently as it picked its way along the ragged rim of Marth Crater. Even with its stabilized suspension, every jagged rock and uneven slope sent a tremble through the metal frame. Inside, Y/N sat with her boots planted and hands on the console, watching the terrain roll by. The sun had dipped lower now, painting everything in muted tones of burnt sienna and faded rust.

The landscape was a frozen sea of iron-rich dunes, crumbling cliffs, and wind-shaped ridges. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like a wasteland. To her, it was a kind of poetry—brutal, ancient, and honest.

The lights in Mission Control were dimmed to reduce eye strain, but the room still hummed with quiet focus. A soft, bluish glow came from the wall of screens lining the front of the command floor, each of them tracking some fragment of a much bigger picture—system vitals, solar intake graphs, environmental stats, satellite relays. But the one April watched most closely was centered on a single blinking dot, creeping steadily across the digital topography of M6-117.

She leaned in closer, forearms resting on the edge of her console, her eyes narrowed behind the thin-framed glasses perched on her nose. The arc of telemetry traced the slow, deliberate curve of Y/N’s path around Marth Crater. One rover. One person. A single line of movement on a planet that had otherwise never known life.

It was a small signal on a massive canvas, but it was moving. That was enough.

April’s fingers moved across the touchscreen with practiced precision. She pulled up the diagnostics feed and ran a quick check—battery health, suit vitals, cabin pressure. No red flags. No anomalies. Everything looked clean.

So far.

Beside her, Mateo stood with a half-empty mug of coffee in one hand and the other shoved into the pocket of his jacket. He hadn't taken a sip in at least fifteen minutes. The drink had gone tepid a long time ago, but he kept holding it like he might remember to drink it eventually.

His eyes flicked toward April’s screen. “How’s she doing?”

“Still on schedule,” April said without looking away. “She shut down at eleven-hundred local, angled the solar arrays by about twenty-two degrees. Charging’s underway now.”

Mateo tilted his head. “Vitals?”

“She’s stable. Oxygen levels are good. Hydration’s down a little, but within threshold. Pulse is resting at seventy-nine.” She glanced at the biometric overlay, frowning slightly at the uptick in cortisol, then dismissed it. “No spikes. Nothing that says she’s in distress.”

He nodded slowly. “Holding it together.”

April finally leaned back, stretching her shoulders with a soft crack of tension, then gave a dry little smile. “She sent a message this morning. Said she wants us to start addressing her as Captain Blondebeard.”

Mateo blinked. “Wait—what?”

“She said since M6-117 isn’t under any planetary jurisdiction, it technically counts as international waters,” April said, arching an eyebrow. “She’s invoking salvage law. Claimed if she makes it to the Nexus site and gets the lander operational, it counts as a lawful prize.”

Mateo stared at her for a second, then huffed a short laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” she said, already pulling up the message thread. “‘Henceforth,’” she read aloud with mock seriousness, “‘I am to be recognized in all official comms as Captain Blondebeard of the Free Hexundecian Territory. Long live the Republic.’”

He gave a low whistle, the kind that said that’s insane, but I get it. “That woman has officially been out there too long.”

“She’s coping,” April said, quieter now. “Making jokes, building little myths around herself. It’s how she keeps her head straight. I’d be more worried if she wasn’t doing that.”

Mateo sipped his coffee and grimaced. “Cold,” he muttered, then gestured toward her screen. “Solar efficiency?”

“Still solid. Panels are at full capacity. We might see a dip after nightfall, but she has a reserve buffer if things slow down.” She flicked through the energy graph, tracking the intake curve. “She’s pacing herself. Four-hour drives, long recharge windows. It’s working.”

He nodded again, tapping his thumbnail against the side of the mug. “She’s about halfway to Nexus Five, right?”

“Just past the midpoint now,” April said. “Three clicks out from the rough terrain at the edge of the basin.”

Mateo leaned forward slightly, squinting at the updated satellite overlay. The crater’s rim was jagged, uneven—sections of it scattered with sharp ridges and loose shale deposits. The kind of terrain that could break an axle if you weren’t careful. “That’s going to be a tight run.”

“She knows,” April said, her voice steady. “She’s seen the topographic scans. She’ll take her time.”

Mateo exhaled, slow. “Still,” he said, more to himself than her, “she’s out there. Just... one person. Alone.”

“Alone,” April repeated, a bit softer now. The word felt heavy every time they said it.

They both watched the blinking signal for a moment. It moved at the slow, deliberate pace of someone with nowhere else to be—and all the time in the universe to get there.

“She’s going to be fine,” April said at last.

Mateo didn’t answer. Not because he disagreed, but because there wasn’t anything more to say.

They just stood there, side by side in the dim light of the command center, watching that little dot crawl its way across an alien world—quietly willing it forward.

Out on M6-117, the speculor crept forward, one cautious meter at a time.

Y/N sat at the helm, her gloved fingers hovering just above the control panel, ready to correct if the suspension caught on something unexpected. The terrain ahead was uneven—loose shale sloping downward into a shallow depression, just steep enough to be unnerving. Beyond it, a low ridge cut across the horizon like the edge of a broken plate, and she couldn’t see what waited on the other side.

She leaned in slightly, squinting through the viewport. The external cameras confirmed what her gut already told her: unstable ground. Could be a minor inconvenience, or it could be the kind of problem that ended her progress for good.

Still, she pressed on.

Not recklessly. Not out of impatience. Just... forward.

There was no deadline here. No finish line. No one waiting at the other end with banners or applause. But each meter gained was one more mark on a world no one had ever touched. The simple act of moving through it felt important. Not just survival. Something deeper.

She adjusted the throttle slightly and the speculor responded with a low hum, its wheels biting into the dust with steady determination.

Out the side viewport, the solar panels caught a glint of Bubble’s soft light—the smaller of the two suns that loomed over this planet like a pale sentinel. It was low in the sky now, casting long, diffuse shadows across the red dust, turning every ridge and rock into sculpture. She paused for a moment to watch it.

Always there. Bubble had become a strange kind of compass for her—a reference point in a world that offered few.

“This is your captain,” she murmured, mostly to herself, lips curling faintly into a crooked smile. “Course laid in. Planetfall... ongoing.”

Her voice crackled through the helmet’s mic, but no one responded. She didn’t expect them to.

She toggled the next waypoint, and the speculor rolled ahead with its usual quiet determination, the tracks crunching softly over dust and fractured rock.

Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was warm and dry, thanks to the internal regulators still holding steady. The hum of electronics was a constant backdrop—cooling fans, battery feedback, and the subtle rhythm of the environmental system circulating air. After months, the mechanical noises had become comforting, almost like breathing.

Her own breathing was slow and measured. The suit’s monitors recorded everything—oxygen levels, hydration, core temperature—but it was the old pilot instinct that kept her tuned in. Feel the road. Listen to the machine. Watch for patterns.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Dust skittered across the surface in short, chaotic gusts. The external sensors detected a minor pressure drop—nothing serious, just the planet reminding her that it was still indifferent to her presence.

Y/N kept one hand lightly resting on the control yoke, the other hovering near the manual override. She didn’t need to steer constantly; the speculor handled most of the navigation itself. But she preferred to stay alert, to feel connected to the movement of the machine beneath her. Autonomy was great. Awareness was better.

Her eyes tracked the outline of the cliffs ahead—Marth Crater rising in jagged, broken layers, throwing long shadows that danced across the red earth as the sun moved. The geology here fascinated her in a quiet, persistent way. There were ridges that looked like wave crests frozen mid-motion, deep gashes in the rock that hinted at ancient violence. Once, she might have stopped to take more samples, but today was about distance. Efficiency.

Still, it was beautiful in its own way—harsh, yes, but undeniably beautiful.

As the rover climbed a shallow slope, she allowed herself a brief mental detour. Not memories exactly, just echoes.

Mission Control. The soft rustle of bodies leaning over keyboards. The hum of ventilation systems. April’s voice on comms—precise, calm. Mateo muttering about stale coffee. People who couldn’t see her, but still cared. Still watched.

And then there was Captain Blondebeard—the half-joke she’d tossed into the void weeks ago, a silly placeholder to make the isolation feel less heavy. It had stuck, somehow. Maybe because they all needed it—something a little ridiculous to hold onto amid the silence.

She smiled at the thought, just briefly, and shook her head. “Captain Blondebeard,” she muttered. “Defender of dust. Ruler of red rocks.”

No audience. Just her and the rattling hum of the speculor.

She checked the diagnostics again. Solar intake: optimal. Battery: 92%. Environmental systems: nominal. No signs of mechanical stress. For now, everything was working.

That meant she could keep going.

The next waypoint lit up on the map—marked with a dull amber glow. Just over the ridge. She exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss softly through the suit’s filters, then leaned forward and tapped the throttle. The rover surged forward a little harder this time, climbing the incline with a low growl.

Dust kicked up behind her. The sky stretched pale and infinite above.

Mateo barely had time to sit before a heavy binder slammed onto his desk with enough force to rattle his coffee. The mug wobbled, then steadied. He glanced up with a sigh, already bracing himself.

Marco stood across from him, posture too casual, arms folded like he was trying not to smile. There was a spark in his eyes—half brilliance, half mania—the kind that made engineers dangerous in the best possible way.

“You’re not going to like this,” Marco said. No preamble. Just straight into it.

Mateo raised an eyebrow, flipping open the first page of the binder. “Why does that always seem to be your opening line?”

“Because I’m usually right.”

Mateo didn’t respond. He just scanned the schematic diagrams on the first few pages—wiring, load calculations, modular systems torn down to their bones. It looked like someone had disassembled the MAV with a crowbar and a grudge.

In the corner of the room, Creed stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Always the measured one. Where Marco was all spark and adrenaline, Creed was the one you sent in to keep the reactor from melting down.

“The problem,” Creed said, stepping forward, “is velocity. More specifically, intercept velocity.”

He tapped the tablet in his hand, bringing up a holographic projection of the M6-117 Ascent Vehicle—its sleek body now marked in red and yellow overlays. Next to it, a ghostly outline of the Starfire hung in orbital trajectory. The gap between them wasn’t just spatial. It was mathematical.

“The MAV is rated to hit 7.8 kilometers per second at peak ascent,” Creed explained. “The Starfire’s intercept window requires at least 9.2. And we can’t dip the Starfire lower. Not without burning half the return fuel and risking re-entry on a compromised arc.”

Mateo leaned back slowly, processing. “So… the MAV needs to go faster. But it can’t. Not as is.”

Marco stepped in again, voice animated now. “Exactly. So we make it lighter.”

Mateo looked up. “How much lighter?”

“Five thousand kilograms.”

There was a long silence.

Mateo let out a low breath, staring at the screen. “You’re serious.”

Marco nodded. “Dead serious. But don’t worry. We’ve already found two-thirds of it. The MAV was originally specced for six passengers. Y/N’s solo, so that’s an immediate thousand kilos—crew support systems, internal seating, storage compartments.”

“Fair enough,” Mateo said cautiously. “What else?”

“We’re pulling the scientific payload,” Marco added. “Soil, core samples, atmospheric sensors. All of it. It’s dead weight now.”

“That’s another... what? 500?”

“More like six-fifty. Then we strip internal comms—no need for multi-band systems. She won’t be piloting anyway.”

Mateo frowned. “What do you mean she won’t be piloting?”

Creed stepped in again, quiet and calm. “Nguyen’s going to fly the MAV from orbit.”

Mateo blinked. “You’re talking about a fully remote-controlled launch? With a human on board?”

“It’s been done in simulations,” Creed said. “The theory is solid. Remote guidance with live telemetry. As long as we maintain lock from Starfire, we can get her into intercept range. There’s a latency window, but it’s manageable.”

Marco waved that part off. “Honestly, it simplifies things. If she’s not flying, we can rip out the cockpit interface. Panels, redundant circuits, glass—gone. Another 400 kilos easy.”

Mateo’s jaw worked. “She’s going up in a vehicle with no controls, no backup comms, and no seats.”

“Correct,” Marco said brightly. “Also, no airlock.”

That stopped him.

“I’m sorry—what?”

Marco walked over to a scale model of the MAV sitting on the table, casually popping off the nose section like he was dismantling a toy. “The nose airlock’s nearly 400 kilos by itself. Hull Panel 19 adds another 200. And those windows?” He plucked one off the model. “Decorative. Total waste of mass.”

Mateo stared at the half-gutted model. “You’re launching her into space with a hole in the front of the ship?”

“Not a hole,” Marco said quickly. “A reinforced pressure barrier made from Hab-grade canvas. Layered, sealed, and structurally supported with internal cross-bracing.”

Mateo was silent for a long beat. “So... a tarp.”

Marco smiled. “A flight-tested environmental membrane.”

Creed, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “The structural integrity holds up at altitude. Once she clears the atmospheric drag—which on M6 is minimal—it’s all vacuum. The canvas doesn’t need to withstand pressure from the outside, just keep the inside pressurized.”

Mateo shook his head slowly. “And this is the plan you’re bringing me. After thirty years of aerospace development and risk management protocols, this is what we’ve come to.”

Marco shrugged. “You want to get her home or not?”

Mateo pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “You didn’t even get to the worst part yet, did you?”

Creed hesitated. “Well...”

“Oh, come on,” Mateo muttered.

Marco dropped back into a chair opposite him and spun the model slowly in his hands. “We’ll need to pre-load her EVA suit with everything she needs. She won’t be able to access the cabin once it launches. No movement. No cabin pressure.”

Mateo looked up, eyes narrowing. “So if something goes wrong—”

“She’s dead,” Marco said plainly. “But if we don’t do this at all? She’s also dead.”

The room went quiet again.

The logic was brutal. But clean.

Mateo stood in silence at the wide observation window overlooking the control bay. Rows of terminals blinked below, casting soft glows onto the operators’ faces. The quiet hum of the operations floor, the muted rustle of people moving through data, speaking in low tones—it all felt distant. His eyes tracked the orbital map, projected across the far wall. One small blue marker labeled Starfire. Another in orange: Y/L/N – MAV Prep.

Just two dots, drifting across the edge of a planet no one had ever intended to be a rescue site.

He didn’t speak. Not right away.

Behind him, Creed stood with arms folded, still, waiting. Marco was halfway through unscrewing the cap of a protein bar, but had forgotten about it, caught in the quiet tension that had settled over the room.

Then Mateo inhaled slowly and spoke without turning.

“Start building the launch profile. I want a complete risk breakdown—every failure mode, every backup system we’re cutting, and how long we think that tarp will hold under load. Flight surgeon and engineering get briefed at sixteen hundred. No exceptions.”

The wrapper crinkled, finally splitting under Marco’s thumb with a soft snap. The faint smell of synthetic peanut butter wafted out, but he barely noticed—already hunched over the console, typing fast, his mind three steps ahead.

“Copy that,” he mumbled, not looking up, already pulling up the MAV’s mass budget and internal schematics.

Creed stood off to the side, more deliberate. He pulled out his tablet, fingers tapping rhythmically as he opened a clean modeling slate and began sketching out the updated launch profile. No one needed to ask if he was running simulations—he always was.

Mateo stayed still.

He stood at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the massive screen on the far wall—Earth to the left, M6-117 hanging silent and red to the right. Two markers moved in parallel arcs above it: Starfire, already in decaying orbit, and the blinking orange dot that marked the MAV’s last position. Y/L/N – Ready Hold. It hadn’t moved in six hours.

His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass, half-obscured by the flight data.

“And someone get her on comms,” he said finally, his voice level, clipped.

Marco glanced over his shoulder. “You want to tell her?”

Mateo turned slowly, just enough to meet his gaze. The expression on his face wasn’t one of authority or resolve. Not entirely. It was the look of someone who was doing the math—risk versus time, life versus chance—and coming up short on both columns.

“No,” he said. “I want to ask her if she’s willing to launch into orbit under a tarp and a prayer.”

Then he walked out.

The hall outside the planning bay was quiet, sterile, and dimly lit. A few staff moved briskly from station to station, heads down, focused. No one stopped him. He crossed the length of the control floor with long strides, ignoring the buzz of conversation and telemetry chatter around him.

NOSA Mission Control was housed in the heart of the Aguerra Prime complex—underground, shielded, secure. It was built like a vault, and today it felt like one. A place built to preserve life, now trying desperately to save just one.

He stepped into the comms wing and paused for a second in the threshold of April’s unit. She was already hunched forward, scanning her screen, lips pressed into a hard line. Her hair was pulled back into a quick knot, and the half-empty thermos beside her keyboard said she’d been at this since before dawn.

April glanced up as she felt him approach. “I already sent the initial uplink,” she said. “Low-band width, direct ping. She’s on reply hold.”

“She read it?”

A nod. “I think so. Just one line so far.”

Mateo exhaled. “I need you to be straight with her.”

April’s brow creased slightly. “She already knows we’re scraping the bottom of the playbook. You want me to sugarcoat it?”

“No,” Mateo said, stepping around to lean beside her console. “The opposite.”

She studied him. There was something in his face she hadn’t seen before—not panic. Not resolve either. Something heavier. A tiredness that came from trying to beat physics with ingenuity and spreadsheets.

“I want you to tell her exactly what we’re doing,” he continued. “The canvas patch. The missing control panels. That she’ll be sealed into a pressure suit with no way to pilot the MAV, no physical interface, no real fallback.”

April leaned back slowly. “That’s a hell of a sell.”

“I know.” He looked at the screen again. A message was still blinking in the inbound queue. “But I need her to say yes on her own. No pressure. No angle. She deserves that.”

April turned back toward the console, jaw set. “She’ll ask why we’re even considering this.”

“Because it’s the only window she has.” Mateo’s voice was quiet now, almost too soft to hear. “The Starfire won’t last another full orbit at that altitude. If we miss the next intercept burn, we’re not getting a second chance.”

April’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “So what happens if she says no?”

“Then we stop,” Mateo said. “We scrub the launch, pull Nguyen back into safe orbit, and pray the resupply launch next month doesn’t get delayed again.”

April didn’t move for a moment. Then she sighed, rolled her shoulders, and cracked her knuckles.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s ask the girl if she wants to fly a missile wrapped in tent canvas.”

Mateo let out the smallest laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be on the floor.”

He turned to go, but April caught him just before he crossed the door.

“Mateo,” she said, quietly. He paused.

“She trusts you,” she added. “You know that, right?”

He nodded once, without turning around. “That’s why I’m not the one asking.”

Back at her console, April read the message again.

Are you fucking kidding me?

There was no punctuation. No follow-up. No emoji. Nothing to signal tone. Just those five words.

She stared at them for a long moment, then leaned forward, her fingers moving carefully across the keys as she began to compose her response.

She typed, paused, deleted, retyped.

We know how insane it sounds. You don’t have to do this. There’s no protocol for this kind of ask. But if you say yes, we’ll make it work. And if you say no, we’ll find another way. No one’s giving up on you.

She hesitated again, then added:

But we need your answer soon.

April hit Send, then leaned back in her chair, rubbing a hand across her forehead. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for a reply.

Y/N stood just outside the MAV, the wind tugging at the loose ends of her suit hood and streaks of red dust whispering past her boots. The Helion Nexus site was empty—eerily so. The dunes stretched out in every direction like a sea frozen mid-tide, the early evening light casting the terrain in muted copper tones. She stared straight into the lens of her camera, visor up, her eyes locked onto the feed as if the people on the other side could feel the weight of her stare.

She wasn’t smiling.

She hadn’t smiled much in days.

But her expression now—that flat, tight-lipped calm—wasn’t anger. It was disbelief. Controlled, deliberate disbelief.

“This,” she said, after a long pause, her voice dry and low, “is what we’ve come to.”

The wind rattled against the MAV’s lower hull behind her. One of the loose external thermal blankets snapped like a sail.

“I read the specs,” she continued, shifting her weight slightly, eyes still locked on the camera. “And for the record, yes, I understand the mission parameters. I understand the orbital window. I understand why this launch has to happen now or not at all. I get it.”

She took a breath, steadying herself, and then—just barely—she let a flicker of something wry creep into her voice.

“What I don’t get,” she said, “is how we went from 'cutting-edge escape system' to... ‘canvas and sheer fucking luck.’”

She shook her head slowly, almost laughing—but it didn’t come out that way. Not quite.

“They’re calling it the ‘lightweight launch revision.’” She looked off for a second, as if picturing the phrase on a government memo. “Translation? We’re stripping everything non-essential. Seats, insulation, pressure seals. Controls. Windows.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Because who needs windows when you’re flying into orbit at nine-point-two klicks per second?”

Another gust of wind swept through. The MAV loomed behind her—tall, white, sterile. Unwelcoming. It looked like a machine built for six. Not one.

She glanced at it, then turned back to the camera.

“So here’s the plan,” she said, more quietly now. “They’re going to fly this thing remotely from orbit. I’ll be inside. Not piloting. Not navigating. Just... sealed in a suit, strapped in tight, and praying Koah doesn’t sneeze while he’s on the joystick.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, but again, it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more like disbelief wrapping itself in the thinnest layer of humor to keep from cracking.

“There’s no cockpit. No redundancy. And the nose panel?” She paused. “Gone. We're replacing it with three layers of Hab canvas and a reinforced support frame. Which, to be clear, I stitched together yesterday with thermal glue and what used to be my sleeping bag.”

She stepped toward the camera now, voice still level, but her eyes sharper.

“I am, effectively, going to space in a sealed tin can with no front door. And the part they seem most excited about?” She leaned in slightly, as if sharing something private.

“I’ll be the fastest human being in recorded history.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment. The absurdity of it settled around her like the Hexundecian dust clinging to her boots.

“I guess that’s supposed to be the upside,” she added. “A footnote for the textbooks. My name next to some velocity record no one will remember.”

She folded her arms, staring past the camera now, into the nothingness stretching beyond the ridge.

“But I didn’t come here for records,” she said. “And I sure as hell didn’t come here to die wrapped in duct tape and space-grade nylon.”

She paused, and then finally, something shifted in her expression. Not quite resolve. Something messier. Acceptance, maybe. Something that resembled courage, if courage wasn’t always so clean.

“But I did come here to finish what I started.”

She didn’t bother to say more. She didn’t sign off.

She just reached out and shut off the camera.

The MAV’s outer shell still looked intact—at least from a distance—but the closer she got, the more the damage and modifications became apparent. One panel had been pried off to make room for the external fuel purge; another was half-covered with what looked like insulation tape. The “canvas” they were so excited about was already prepped in a neatly folded stack near the nose—thin, reinforced, flexible, held together by thermal gluing agents she’d tested twice already, just to be sure it wouldn’t split during ascent.

She stood at the base of the ladder for a moment, helmet tucked under her arm, toolkit heavy in her other hand.

Up close, the MAV looked nothing like the sleek, composite-shelled ascent vehicles she had trained in back on Aguerra Prime. The ones in the simulations had been graceful—modular, insulated, and precisely engineered to cradle human beings through the brute violence of launch. They’d had padding and ergonomic seats, clean touchscreen interfaces, carbon-slick handholds designed for comfort under G-force compression. Everything had a place. Everything made sense.

This one didn’t. Not anymore.

This MAV had been stripped bare.

It stood squat and pale under the low red sun, a skeleton of what it had once been. The heat shielding was intact, but the skin panels rattled softly in the wind. Most of the insulation had been ripped out for mass reduction. There were exposed wiring bundles at the base of the hull, sealed hastily with patch tape and thermal epoxy. The side hatch was propped open with a metal brace that should’ve been part of the original ladder assembly, but even that had been cannibalized and reattached by hand, joints imperfect and scorched.

She stood at the base of it now, helmet off, toolkit in one hand, the other resting against the first rung of the ladder. The sunlight caught on her visor, throwing a dull amber reflection across the metal. She glanced up at the hatch. It looked like a mouth. Black inside, open. Waiting.

Y/N took a slow breath and climbed.

The rungs flexed slightly under her boots. The structure moaned—just a little—as she pulled herself up and stepped inside.

The air inside was still and heavy. Not from lack of oxygen—the filters were operational, barely—but from disuse. It smelled of cold metal and polymer outgassing. The kind of dry, stale odor that got into your nostrils and stuck there. It was like stepping into the bones of a machine that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold a person.

The interior was gutted.

No seats.

No panels.

No foam padding, no modular cabin walls, no interface displays.

The cockpit was nothing more than a narrow chamber of exposed beams and equipment housings now. Every surface that could be removed had been. The floor plating was gone. The wall paneling too. Even the soft sealant around the window apertures had been stripped away—there were no windows left to seal.

There was just metal, wiring, the occasional warning sticker half-peeled off, and the sound of her own breathing as she stepped deeper into the vehicle.

She crouched by the side wall and set the toolkit down. The foam inside was worn and cracked, and the latch had started to loosen weeks ago, but it still held. She unclipped the wrench—carbon-steel, standard hex-head—and got to work.

The first bolt came loose with a metallic groan. Then the next.

The remaining seats hadn’t been designed for easy removal. They were bolted directly into the structural base—six of them, each one reinforced to handle launch stress and vibration. It took her nearly an hour to pull the first one free. She had to brace herself against the bulkhead, digging in with the heels of her boots, twisting the tool with both hands until her wrists ached. When the last bolt finally came free, the seat tumbled awkwardly to the side. She grabbed it, shoved it toward the hatch, then crawled over to the edge and pushed.

It hit the ground outside with a muffled thud, sending a puff of dust into the air.

One seat down. Five to go.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at it. Just moved to the next one.

Every minute was precious now. The launch window was fixed. The Starfire would pass into final intercept in twenty-two hours. Koah’s orbital drift correction had already been executed. Once the line closed, it wouldn’t reopen for another 18 days—and there was no chance the MAV would survive that long in its current condition. Not with the limited onboard power. Not with what little she had left to eat. And not with the storm systems brewing again on the eastern ridge.

Another bolt. Another pop. Another seat came free.

She shoved it toward the hatch, muscles burning. It was heavier than it looked.

Outside, the wind had begun to pick up—more sand drifting across the horizon, loose pebbles bouncing softly against the MAV’s hull. Every few seconds, the gusts made the outer structure creak. It sounded like the ship was breathing. Or groaning.

Y/N pulled her suit collar down, wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of one wrist. It clung there—salt and dust and heat.

She turned back to the third chair.

The wrench slipped once, barking her knuckles on the raw edge of the bolt. She hissed, shook her hand out, and went back in.

No complaints. No curses. Just movement.

She didn’t bother checking the comms feed. There wouldn’t be any new messages from April for at least another hour. The distance, the relay lag, the signal decay—it all meant she was on her own now. No lifeline. No hand-holding. No updates.

Just her, and the wrench, and the cold echo of metal against metal.

By the time the last seat came free, her shoulders were burning, and the back of her neck throbbed with tension. She dropped the final chair out through the hatch and leaned back on her heels, staring at the empty space she’d cleared.

The MAV was down nearly four hundred kilos already, by her rough count. Another couple hundred from the stripped wiring. Maybe more, depending on what else she could cut before the systems started to protest.

She turned to the forward cockpit interface.

The main control assembly was still mounted to the wall where the pilot’s seat had been. The screen was dark. Inactive. Most of the data routing had already been disconnected from the ship’s mainframe—April and Koah had walked her through the shutoff protocol the night before.

Still, it looked wrong, somehow. Like it still thought it was meant to be used.

She studied it for a second. Then reached forward and began to dismantle it.

One panel at a time.

She took no pleasure in it. There was no thrill, no rush of rebellion or recklessness. Just the cold understanding that it had to go. Every ounce she stripped now was one less kilo for the rockets to lift.

The screen popped free after two minutes. The control column took another five. She snipped the cabling with wire cutters, bundled it into a rough coil, and set it aside. It would make a decent handhold if she needed one during launch.

The MAV was quieter now.

Hollow.

The wind outside had picked up into a steady moan, the dust slapping against the outer skin in brief, muted bursts. Occasionally, she heard something shift on the landing struts—some subtle tension in the way the wind pressed against the upright body of the vehicle.

Y/N sat back, leaning against one of the inner support beams. Her shoulders were soaked through. The EVA undersuit clung to her, the cooling pads barely keeping up with the heat she was generating. Her breath echoed in the silence.

She let herself rest there for a moment. Not sleep. Just stillness. Just one minute of stillness.

She looked up at the interior of the MAV. It didn’t look like a spacecraft anymore.

It looked like an escape pod built in a garage.

She reached for her comm tablet. The screen lit up, the signal flickering once before stabilizing.

No new messages.

She flipped open the reply channel anyway and typed with slow, deliberate fingers.

Interior’s stripped. Control interface removed. All six seats gone. Pressure barrier is still holding. Will install final harness next. Wind’s picking up. If this thing doesn’t fall apart, I’ll be ready to light it when the crew is. Tell Koah I hope he remembers how to fly blind. Because this ship’s not going to hold my hand.

She hit send, then turned off the display.

By the time she stepped outside again, the light had shifted. The sun—low and pale-blue on this side of the planet—was dragging the long shadows of the MAV across the dust. It cast the stripped-down vehicle in stark relief: every exposed rib, every bolt she hadn’t had time to replace, every scar left from the dismantling process. The ground was littered with the remnants—seat brackets, cracked insulation, lengths of coiled cable, and one final wrench she hadn’t bothered to bring back inside.

Her arms ached. Her back felt like it had been through a hydraulic press. There was a raw spot under her left elbow where the EVA suit padding had bunched up during one of the anchor installs, and her hands were trembling with the aftershock of muscle fatigue, the kind that didn’t fully hit you until the job was done. Her visor was streaked with fine red grit, the kind that clung to everything, the kind you’d still find in your boots six months after you’d left the planet.

The MAV loomed behind her—unfinished, exposed. It looked less like a spacecraft now and more like something welded together out of salvage parts in the middle of a desert. The kind of machine desperate people might have built after the end of the world. Everything extraneous had been pulled: life-support subsystems, insulation, windows, comm redundancies. Even the pilot’s control column had been replaced with a blank wall and a data plug tied directly into its core systems.

There was no illusion left. No polish. No design elegance. It wasn’t a vehicle anymore. It was a shell. A slingshot with just enough thrust to throw her back into orbit—if the math held.

Y/N stood in the silence and stared up at it.

And for a long time, she didn’t move.

Wind brushed past her legs, carrying dust across the flat expanse of the launch site. The air was so thin it barely had weight, but it was just enough to make the suit’s outer fabric shift against her skin. She flexed her fingers once, twice, trying to ease the burn in her knuckles. She felt tired all the way through. Not sleepy—just... used up.

She reached down into her toolkit, fumbled past a spare patch kit, a pair of stripped fasteners, until her fingers closed around the compact speaker unit. She hesitated, just for a second, then pulled it free.

She rubbed a tired thumb across the surface of the speaker, clearing a streak of dust from the side panel. The LED took a second to respond, then blinked on—soft and green, like it was waking from a long nap. The speaker had been through a lot. It had fallen off shelves during storms, been buried under equipment, and once—briefly—served as a weight to keep down an emergency tarp in a wind event. It wasn’t meant to last this long, but like everything else out here, it had adapted.

No ceremony. No speech. No last rites.

Just habit.

She tapped through the tracklist, muscle memory guiding her. Most of the audio files were practical: suit diagnostics, training walkthroughs, comms recordings she’d archived months ago. But tucked near the bottom of the directory was a small folder labeled simply Misc—leftovers from a data transfer, probably. A few compressed files, an outdated playlist from her tablet. Nothing she’d listened to in weeks.

She hovered over one of them.

It was a dumb choice. Something absurdly out of step with the dry, red world around her. Upbeat to the point of satire. But that was kind of the point. When you were about to launch yourself into orbit in a ship held together by glue, canvas, and a few good intentions, irony wasn’t just a luxury—it was armor.

She tapped Play.

The speaker chirped once, then crackled. And then came the unmistakable first notes of Waterloo.

The music was grainy, a little warped at the high end, like it was playing from inside a tin can—which, technically, it was. But it was there. Real. Loud enough to carry.

Y/N let out a small, involuntary snort. Not quite a laugh—she was too wrung out for that—but something close. A dry, exhausted sound that cracked in her throat before it fully formed.

“Of course,” she muttered, barely audible over the hiss of her suit. “Why the hell not.”

She turned her face to the sound, let it roll over her like a warm breeze. The melody skipped slightly as the speaker rebuffered, then found its footing again. It echoed out over the flats, skipping across dunes and bouncing faintly against the far wall of the crater.

It sounded completely ridiculous.

She could only imagine what it might look like from above—the MAV standing like some stripped-down monument to desperation, half-disassembled, with ABBA blaring into the Martian dusk. But she didn’t care. No one was watching. No one was here.

Except the camera.

The old Hab cam had been hauled out from storage that morning and mounted onto the tripod she’d built from three scavenged rover legs. It had taken three tries to get it to stand upright in the wind. The joints were loose and she hadn’t been able to stabilize the footing without wedging a rock beneath it. The lens was scratched at the corners, fogged with grit. But the recording light was on. That was enough.

She turned to face it.

Her visor was up, streaked with a smear of red dust she hadn’t bothered to clean. Her face was drawn, jaw tight, sweat-matted hair sticking out from under the edge of her helmet ring. There was a tiredness in her eyes that couldn’t be faked. The kind that didn’t come from a single long day—but from all of them.

And still—after everything—she found something like a smile.

Not much. Just a flicker. A small, human thing that tugged briefly at the edge of her mouth and vanished again.

She looked into the lens and said, quietly, “If this is how it ends... I’m at least going out with a beat.”

She didn’t stay to dramatize the moment. There was nothing left to say. No pithy sendoff. No final look back. She adjusted the straps on her suit, flexed her sore fingers once, and turned toward the MAV.

The music kept playing behind her as she walked. Her boots crunched over loose grit, and the wind swept her footprints away almost as quickly as she made them. The speaker fought to keep up, the chorus jumping slightly with every gust, but it held. Just barely.

She reached the base of the ladder and stopped, one hand resting on the rung.

The MAV loomed above her like a relic. The tarp covering the nose cone flapped gently in the breeze, held in place by thermal glue, epoxy seals, and a prayer. The hull creaked faintly as the wind pushed against it. She’d sealed the hatch an hour ago and double-checked the pressure rings, but she still felt that pinch of doubt in the back of her throat. The kind that whispered what if it doesn’t hold?

She didn’t answer it.

Instead, she climbed.

Her arms protested the movement, joints tight and sore, but she moved deliberately. One step. Then another. By the time she reached the top, the sun had slipped closer to the horizon, the shadows stretching long behind her like threads pulled from the sky.

She placed her hand on the outer hatch and paused. Not to deliver a final line. Not to think of Earth. Just to breathe.

The MAV groaned softly under her weight.

The tarp held.

She ducked inside.

The music continued for a few more seconds outside—one final chorus warbling faintly through the thin Hexundecian air—before the speaker choked on a memory buffer and went silent.

She heard the cut from inside the MAV. A sudden, brittle silence where the absurdity had been.

She blinked. Then, after a long pause, she let out a sound halfway between a breath and a laugh.

“Figures,” she said, voice echoing faintly in the hollow chamber. “Survived a year out here. Dies right when I need it.”

She eased herself down into the harness. Felt the straps bite into her suit. Tensed her shoulders, then relaxed them.

Outside, the wind kept blowing. Inside, the MAV was quiet. And for the first time in a long while, everything was still.

Koah’s jaw was clenched tight, his shoulders stiff, his fingers working furiously over the simulated flight controls. A soft sheen of sweat glistened along his temple, and the soft hum of the Starfire’s artificial gravity system did nothing to mask the rising sound of his own pulse in his ears.

Then—red.

COLLISION WITH TERRAIN.

The alert flashed across the screen with an abrupt, terminal finality. The simulator screen froze, the MAV’s virtual ascent freezing mid-frame as the telemetry dipped off its plotted trajectory and straight into the surface of M6-117.

Koah swore under his breath, leaning back and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

Val, standing behind him with arms crossed and a silent kind of patience, finally spoke.

“Well. That’s one way to kill her.”

Koah didn’t turn around. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Val cocked an eyebrow. “You grazed the ridge by sixty meters and still lost control.”

“I misjudged the crosswind,” Koah muttered, already rebooting the program. “There’s a lateral shear the moment she clears the crater’s upper edge. I didn’t compensate fast enough.”

“You didn’t compensate at all.”

Koah didn’t argue. He just started again.

Across the room, Jimin was watching quietly. Always watching. His arms were folded, a tablet resting against his hip. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the new simulation load in—silent desert terrain unfolding on the screen, the crude profile of the MAV climbing into view.

Then, calmly: “Run it again.”

Koah gave a tight nod, jaw grinding. “Already on it.”

No one said it aloud, but they all knew: he wasn’t just practicing for a sim anymore. The next time he guided the MAV, it wouldn’t be theoretical. Y/N would be inside. And if he screwed it up—if he overcorrected or waited a half-second too long—he wouldn’t be watching a failure animation.

He’d be watching her die.

Far below the slow arc of Starfire’s orbit, deep in the wind-scoured silence of M6-117, Y/N wasn’t thinking about flight paths or burn trajectories. She wasn’t thinking about orbital windows or the terrifying precision of a rendezvous 200 kilometers above her head.

She was thinking about the last bolt.

The MAV no longer resembled a spacecraft—at least not in the traditional sense. Its body had been stripped to the skeleton, gutted of everything not absolutely essential to flight. The clean panels, the instrument clusters, the ergonomic chairs—all gone. Dismantled. Ejected. Abandoned in neat or not-so-neat piles outside the hatch. The floor was bare save for hardpoints and wiring channels, some of which she’d rerouted by hand. Others she’d torn out completely, judging them expendable.

Anything that didn’t help her leave this planet was dead weight. And dead weight didn’t fly.

Inside the airlock, the carnage was undeniable: bundles of severed cables coiled like veins, seat frames stacked like broken bones, polycarbonate display shells cracked and tossed against the far wall. Her makeshift bin overflowed, and the overflow had started to scatter—bits and pieces rolling down the slope toward the edge of the launch pad in lazy arcs. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like the wreckage of a crash. But it wasn’t. It was controlled destruction.

Intentional.

Necessary.

Y/N leaned back against the inner hatch rim, trying to catch her breath. She’d been working for hours without pause, and her body was registering its protest in every possible language: throbbing shoulders, forearms trembling from tension, joints stiff with grit and fatigue. The wrench in her hand felt heavier than it had any right to. Her grip had started to falter an hour ago. She kept working anyway.

Her gloves were caked in rust-red dust, fraying at the fingers. Her right thumb was raw—no skin left on the pad, the fabric beneath damp and tacky. Every time she flexed the joint, it stung like fire, but she didn’t have time to think about that now.

She looked down at what was left: the forward access collar—what had once housed the MAV’s primary nose airlock. The interface was compromised. She’d known that for days, ever since she first checked the weld seams and found stress fractures spidering out from the lower ring. The airlock itself had always been heavy, armored to resist high-speed debris during ascent. But now it was just another liability—too much mass, too many structural risks. And completely useless.

It had to go.

She dropped to one knee with a hiss of effort. The joint in her suit pinched, and her back seized as she twisted awkwardly to brace herself. The fasteners weren’t difficult, not anymore. Four had already been loosened days ago during prep. Only two remained, and the metal was corroded enough to complain with every turn.

She grit her teeth and leaned into it.

The first bolt groaned, spun twice, then popped loose with a sudden give that nearly threw her off balance. She planted a hand against the inner bulkhead to steady herself, breathing hard through her nose.

The second bolt was more stubborn. It refused to move at first, stuck tight by a decade of cold and pressure and the fine silicate dust that wormed its way into everything on this planet. She repositioned the wrench, dug her boots into the deck, and hauled.

One turn. Two.

Then—snap.

The final bolt sheared away. The access collar sagged, shifted, and with a dull metallic pop, it tore loose from the surrounding frame. For a heartbeat, it hovered there—still clinging to its old shape, its old function.

Then it dropped.

The mass of it caught a gust of wind as it fell. The panel spun as it tumbled, crashing to the ground with a heavy, final thunk that reverberated across the dry surface. The noise wasn’t loud, not really. But in a world so quiet, so still, it felt seismic.

Y/N stepped back automatically, too fast, and her knees buckled.

Her legs simply gave out.

She hit the ground sideways, dust puffing up in a loose swirl around her, the wrench slipping from her hand and bouncing once before it landed beside her in the dirt.

She lay there, unmoving for a long moment, face turned to the sky.

Her pulse was in her ears. Her arms refused to lift.

Everything ached.

She could feel the crust of sweat drying beneath her undersuit, her body swaddled in fatigue and grime and the kind of exhaustion that made the idea of standing again feel almost hypothetical.

She didn’t bother trying to sit up.

Instead, she tilted her head back just enough to see the MAV above her, its patched-together body silhouetted against the dimming sky. The canvas at the nose—once her sleeping tarp, now layered and bonded with thermal glue—fluttered slightly at the edges. It held.

Somehow, it held.

The whole thing looked absurd. Makeshift. Unbelievably fragile.

But it was all she had.

She let out a sound. It wasn’t quite a laugh—too hollow, too dry—but it came from somewhere near the part of her that used to have the energy for humor.

Her gaze drifted sideways, to where the old speaker still sat on the ground a few meters away, half-buried in dust. It had been playing earlier—something upbeat and ridiculous, a holdover from her playlist of songs she’d used to fill the Hab with noise when the silence became too loud.

She hoped Waterloo had been the last thing it played. That felt appropriate somehow. Too bad.

She closed her eyes, her breath coming in slow, shallow pulls.

“Finally facing my Waterloo,” she murmured.

Her voice didn’t carry far. The helmet mic was off. The camera wasn’t rolling. There was no audience this time. No log entry. No flight team monitoring her vitals.

It was just her.

Just the dust, and the ship she’d rebuilt by hand, and the infinite silence of an alien world that didn’t care whether she lived or died.

The wrench lay beside her, forgotten.

And for a while, Y/N didn’t move at all.

Onboard Starfire, the mood had shifted.

Gone was the casual rhythm of deep space routine. No idle chatter, no coffee mugs clinking against console rails, no playlist humming through the speakers. The rec deck had been empty for hours. Everyone had drifted toward the core of the ship—the main operations bay—drawn there by necessity, by duty, by the quiet pull of something heavier than protocol.

The gravity was steady, calibrated to Earth-norm, but it still felt like the floor had tilted slightly. Like something was waiting.

Overhead, the orbital burn countdown ticked down in cold blue digits.

Jimin stood at the forward console, his hands braced against the reinforced edge, leaning slightly as if anchoring himself. The navigation display glowed in front of him, lines arcing across the interface: the MAV’s projected trajectory, the intercept corridor, and Starfire’s adjusted orbital path. Three bodies, four variables, one window.

The final window.

Behind him, the others moved in quiet coordination.

Cruz was already seated at Systems Two, hunched over a terminal, rerouting power protocols through the MAV telemetry relay. Her fingers moved fast, practiced. Efficient. There was no margin left for error. Anything they didn’t handle before launch would have to be handled mid-flight—and there were too many unknowns between now and then to trust in mid-flight.

“Nguyen’s got full remote,” Jimin said, his tone even but clipped, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Cruz, you’ll manage override routing from Bay Two. Keep a hard link to the MAV all the way through primary burn.”

“Copy,” Val replied, not looking up. “I’m tying in emergency telemetry now. One-minute intervals on the backup ping. It’ll lag by three seconds on the fallback line.”

“We’ll take it,” Jimin said.

He turned, scanning the rest of the crew.

“Hoseok. Armin. Airlock Two. You’ll be suiting up once we hit the two-minute mark before MAV ignition. Tether lines stay deployed. Outer door stays open.”

Armin nodded once, already halfway through checklist sync. “Lines are staged and calibrated. Anchor’s clipped. The MMU packs are charged.”

“Good.”

Hoseok leaned forward, his tablet on his lap, ascent data scrolling in a slow, inevitable stream. His brow furrowed as he traced the curve of the launch.

“She’s going to hit twelve Gs during the climb,” he said, voice low. “She’ll black out somewhere between eleven and twelve if the suit’s not aligned perfectly. Even if she doesn’t lose consciousness, she’s going to be borderline hypoxic by engine cutoff. Muscle tremors, potential cerebral edema, disorientation.”

He paused. No one filled the silence.

“She might not be coherent when we make contact.”

Jimin didn’t react. Not outwardly.

“That’s why you’re going out,” he said. “That’s why it’s you.”

Hoseok met his gaze. “You’re assuming she’s still conscious when we dock.”

“I’m assuming she’s alive,” Jimin said.

Hoseok nodded once, accepting the weight of it.

“We’ve got a 214-meter tether,” he said. “I’ll be in the MMU. If we hold her velocity at five meters per second or lower, I can intercept manually. Any faster, and it’s going to feel like jumping onto a moving train. With no brakes.”

Jimin shifted his attention back to the trajectory map. The MAV’s projected arc skated along the edge of the capture envelope. Tight. Risky.

“And if she’s coming in hot?”

Hoseok didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Not afraid. Just honest.

“Then I miss. Or I grab and get pulled. Or we both spin. Worst case, we bounce off the line and watch her drift out into space.”

Another silence.

Jimin exhaled through his nose, measured and slow. “Engine cutoff gives us a 52-minute window before intercept. That’s our margin. Cruz will give you live telemetry as soon as thrust cuts. Until then, you’re just watching the clock.”

He turned to Armin.

“You’re backup. Stay tethered. If anything goes wrong, you stabilize and pull him back. No solo retrievals. No free-floating. You don’t follow unless he’s secured.”

Armin, already double-checking MMU thruster settings, nodded once. “Understood.”

Jimin finally stepped away from the console, circling toward the center of the room where the rest of the crew had settled in. Koah stood near the wall, pale but steady, his hands tucked under his arms. His eyes were fixed on the simulator feed looping in the corner screen—replaying the MAV’s predicted trajectory frame by frame.

“You ready, Nguyen?” Jimin asked.

Koah nodded slowly. “Ready or not, I’ll fly it.”

“You’ll fly it.”

There was no encouragement in Jimin’s tone. No pep talk. Just fact.

He looked around the room one last time.

Cruz, fingers still moving. Hoseok, pulling on his gloves. Armin, checking O2 flow levels. Koah, staring at the screen like he could will the outcome into submission.

They were tired. Stretched thin.

But they were here. Focused. Professional.

Jimin straightened.

“One shot,” he said. “That’s all we’ve got. We do this clean. No improvising. No ad-libbing. Stick to the numbers.”

A pause.

“Let’s bring her home.”

Inside the pop-up shelter, the air felt heavy despite the pressure regulators still holding steady. Not hot. Not thin. Just dense in the way quiet places get when they've been silent for too long. The fabric walls rustled faintly in the wind, a soft, steady whisper that only made the silence inside more absolute.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, the knees of her suit stained from weeks of kneeling, crawling, wrenching, fixing. Her back pressed against the outer curve of the tent wall, the thin material bowing slightly behind her. It wasn’t a real shelter—just the emergency module meant for temporary use while a permanent hab was being assembled. She’d been using it on and off for weeks now. Long enough that it had started to feel like her shadow.

The floor beneath her was a layer of insulation fabric over packed dirt, the dust already seeping through at the edges. She barely noticed anymore.

In her lap, she held a ration pack.

Foil-wrapped. Worn soft at the edges. The printed label had faded in the sun, but she could still make out the marker she’d scrawled across it months ago, back when she'd still thought labeling it would be funny, or maybe meaningful.

GOODBYE, M6.

She hadn’t meant to save it this long. At the time, it was just something she did—something to help her hold onto a timeline. A plan. Something resembling control.

She turned the pack slowly in her hands, thumb grazing the corner seam, feeling the slight give in the foil where it had crinkled. She could remember labeling it. She’d been tired even then, but not like this. Not spent. Not stripped to the nerve.

She had thought she’d open it on her last day here. Maybe even in orbit, on the way back. That it’d be part of a ritual. A small victory meal. A full-circle moment.

Instead, she was on the floor of a half-collapsed tent, staring down at a meal that hadn’t changed, even though everything else had.

Her fingers hesitated on the tear notch.

It was a stupid thing to hesitate over.

But still, she did.

Not because of what was inside. Just... because once she opened it, there’d be nothing else left to mark the moment. No more lines between before and after. Just the long blur of now.

She broke the seal with a jerk.

The foil hissed and gave. The sound was too loud in the confined space, and she winced instinctively, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like anyone could hear her.

She stared down at the contents for a long time. Rehydrated rice. Some kind of protein paste. Technically flavored, but she’d stopped believing the labels weeks ago. Food wasn’t about enjoyment out here. It was function. And now, even that was ceremonial.

She took the first bite without thinking. It was automatic. A routine. Chew. Swallow. The texture was soft and faintly gritty, like every other meal. It filled her mouth with the memory of nothing. No comfort. No warmth. Just fuel. The bland kind.

She kept eating, mechanically. Chewing slower with each bite.

She didn’t want it. She wasn’t hungry. But there was a gravity to finishing it now, to not leaving it half-eaten like so many others. If she was going to say goodbye to this place, she’d do it clean.

The name on the packet felt like a joke now. Goodbye, M6.

As if a single meal could contain all that. As if the act of opening it, eating it, could somehow make peace with everything this place had taken.

The dust storms. The silence. The endless repairs. The isolation so thick it had begun to feel like part of her own skin.

She glanced around the tent. It had held up better than she’d expected, all things considered. One corner had a slow leak that never quite sealed, and the interior fabric was stained along the floor seam from some leak weeks ago that had never quite dried. Her helmet sat nearby, a faint film of red dust still clinging to the visor.

There was no light here, not really. Just the pale wash from the tablet screen on standby mode across from her, casting a soft glow over her boots and the half-empty water pouch at her side.

There were no clocks anymore. Not physical ones, at least. Just the countdown in her head. The one that had started ticking the moment the mission shifted from survival to escape.

She took another bite. Slower this time. Her jaw moved like it was made of something heavier than bone.

How long had it been since she’d last spoken to someone face to face? Since someone had looked at her and not through a camera feed? The last message from April had been clipped like all messages from the girl were.

We’re locked in. Launch is yours. Be safe.

That was hours ago.

Possibly longer. Y/N had long since stopped being able to tell the passage of time on this planet. She did not even know if the days on her camera were correct. She would not know until she was on the Starfire, truly, if she'd been out here for over a year.

Y/N swallowed the last bite, feeling the dense weight of it settle in her stomach. It sat like lead. Not unpleasant. Just... full. In that way things only feel full when you know there’s nothing else coming.

She held the empty foil pouch in both hands for a moment. Then flattened it. Folded it once. Then again. The label was barely visible now. Just a faint smudge of black ink against silver.

She placed it carefully beside her helmet.

She leaned back against the wall of the tent and let her eyes close for a moment. She didn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Just let her mind rest against the quiet.

The wind rattled faintly outside. The fabric creaked. Somewhere deep in the MAV’s systems—now half a kilometer away—the flight prep sequence was probably already ticking through a checklist.

She’d get up soon. She’d suit up. She’d climb inside that gutted, patched-together vehicle, and trust it to hold long enough to throw her into the sky.

But for now, she stayed where she was. Just a woman in a tent, finishing her last meal on a planet that never welcomed her.

She looked at the empty ration pack one last time.

“Goodbye,” she said quietly. Not to the food. Not to the tent.

Just to the dust.

To the silence.

To the part of her that would always stay behind.

Taglist: @fancypeacepersona @ssbb-22 @mar-lo-pap @sathom013 @kimyishin @ttanniett @sweetvoidstuff @keiarajm @sathom013 @miniesjams32 @haru-jiminn @rg2108 @darklove2020

87 notes · View notes

marvelsmostwanted · 3 months ago

Text

Per Wired:

In an email sent to customers today, Amazon said that Echo users will no longer be able to set their devices to process Alexa requests locally and, therefore, avoid sending voice recordings to Amazon’s cloud. Amazon apparently sent the email to users with “Do Not Send Voice Recordings” enabled on their Echo. Starting on March 28, recordings of every command spoken to the Alexa living in Echo speakers and smart displays will automatically be sent to Amazon and processed in the cloud.

Attempting to rationalize the change, Amazon’s email said: “As we continue to expand Alexa’s capabilities with generative AI features that rely on the processing power of Amazon’s secure cloud, we have decided to no longer support this feature.”

(…) Amazon has previously mismanaged Alexa voice recordings. In 2023, Amazon agreed to pay $25 million in civil penalties over the revelation that it stored recordings of children’s interactions with Alexa forever. Adults also didn’t feel properly informed of Amazon’s inclination to keep Alexa recordings unless prompted not to until 2019—five years after the first Echo came out.

If that's not enough to deter you from sharing voice recordings with Amazon, note that the company allowed employees to listen to Alexa voice recordings. In 2019, Bloomberg reported that Amazon employees listened to as many as 1,000 audio samples during their nine-hour shifts. Amazon says it allows employees to listen to Alexa voice recordings to train its speech recognition and natural language understanding systems.

Other reasons people may be hesitant to trust Amazon with personal voice samples include the previous usage of Alexa voice recordings in criminal trials and Amazon paying a settlement in 2023 in relation to allegations that it allowed “thousands of employees and contractors to watch video recordings of customers' private spaces” taken from Ring cameras, per the Federal Trade Commission.

So it’s not paranoid to say that Alexa is listening to you.

I don’t have any of these devices but I’d throw them out if you do. Find a lower tech version from a different company. This goes far beyond AI stealing data - it’s stealing directly from your personal life and recording your conversations.

#us politics #anti ai #generative ai #Amazon #anti amazon #wired #mine #Instagram

107 notes · View notes

big-ooof · 24 days ago

Text

Break The Rules

Ni-Ki x older f!reader

note: I mostly write about the ENHYPEN’s hyung line but I’ll start drafting more for the maknae line and see if I want to post any of them. Unlike Jungwon though, my first oneshot with Ni-Ki is filthy. Whoops. sexual content 18+

You’re not supposed to be here.

You came to the studio just to drop off a USB for one of the producers you occasionally worked with, nothing more. And yet, here you are—back pressed against the mirrored wall, lights dimmed, you hold your breath as Ni-Ki cages you in with one hand above your head, the other grazing dangerously close to the hem of your skirt.

“You’re older,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth, “shouldn’t you know better than to tempt someone like me?”

You should. But the way his eyes darken when you meet his gaze, the quiet cockiness in his smile when your breath hitches, it undoes you.

“I wasn’t tempting anyone,” you reply, trying to reclaim your control.

“Liar,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “You walked in here like you owned the room. Like you wanted to be chased.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Because the hand that was teasing your thigh now grips your hip, firm and possessive. He leans in, nose brushing your jawline, lips a breath away from your ear.

“Do you want to know what I’ve thought about?” he whispers. “Ever since you watched us rehearse last month?”

Your throat tightens.

“I thought about how it’d feel to get you under me. To ruin that perfect, composed face. To make you beg, even though you're supposed to be the one in charge.”

He drops to his knees before you can answer, no hesitation, no shame, and pushes your legs apart with confident hands. The studio mirror reflects everything: your wide eyes, his eager mouth, the way your hands clench behind you as his tongue flicks over your inner thigh, slow and purposeful.

“You’re shaking,” he teases, lips brushing right where you need him. “Scared?”

“No,” you whisper, breathless. “Impatient.”

His grin turns wicked. “Good.”

Because when he finally licks into you, it's slow, deliberate torture. He knows exactly what he’s doing, alternating between soft flicks and deep, sinful pressure, holding your thighs apart as your knees threaten to buckle. And when you come undone, gasping his name in a broken whisper, he doesn’t let up. Just pulls back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up at you like he owns you now.

Your knees finally give out, but he catches you. Of course he does. Strong arms lift you onto the speaker bench behind you. The cool vinyl kisses the back of your thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat pulsing between them.

Ni-Ki steps in closer, towering now, and tilts your chin up with two fingers. His touch is featherlight, but his eyes are anything but soft.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging across your slick, bitten lip. “All that poise… gone. You don’t even realize how sexy you look like this.”

“Ni-Ki—”

“Say my name like that again and I’ll make you cry.” You blink. Your body clenches. His voice drops into something even lower, darker. “Actually…” He shifts, parting your legs wider with his thigh. “I want you to cry a little.”

You’re about to challenge him, make some smart comment about his age, how he’s cocky for someone so young, but he shoves two fingers into your mouth before you get the chance.

“Open.”

You do. Instinctively. Because suddenly, there’s no age difference. No power dynamic. No "should" or "shouldn't." There’s only him, all intense eyes, long fingers, and sharp control. He watches your lips stretch around his fingers, watches you suck them like you’ve been dying to have something of him inside you.

His other hand slips between your legs. “Spit,” he commands. And you do. Right onto the fingers he'd made you suck clean.

He groans. “Filthy. I knew you were.”

His wet hand trails up your inner thigh and slides between your folds, slow and deliberate. One finger first, then two. He curls them just right, like he’s memorized your anatomy, like he’s known your body longer than you've let anyone. You can’t help the way you whimper. Your hands clutch the edge of the bench. Your head falls back. But he’s not done.

His free hand wraps around your throat, not tight, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that you’ve given him this control. That he could take more if he wanted. And you want him to.

“Cum for me again,” he whispers into your ear, voice molten. “Then I’m gonna fuck you right here, legs spread, back against that mirror, and you’re gonna let me.”

You gasp.

“No more rules, no more pretending you’re too old for this. You want me to ruin you, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathless moan and a second orgasm that hits harder than the first.

And just as you're trying to catch your breath, he’s unbuckling his belt with that same confident smirk.

“Good girl.”

Your mind is foggy, but your body is on fire, and Ni-Ki’s looking at you like he owns every last flicker of it. You don’t even realize he’s pulled your panties off until you feel them drop around your ankle, delicate lace now a useless scrap on the floor. He tugs you up by the hips and turns your body toward the mirror, chest flush against your back. His hands are everywhere, smoothing over your waist, gripping your thighs, sliding up to cup your breasts beneath your blouse.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs against your neck, breath hot, teeth grazing skin. “Want you to see what I see.”

Your eyes flutter open, and there you are: flushed, lips swollen, blouse half-buttoned and sliding off one shoulder. Hair messy. Expression completely wrecked.

“You look so fuckable like this,” he says. “Older, yes. But look at you— trembling like a rookie, falling apart like you’ve never been touched right.”

You whimper, and he chuckles. Then you feel it— the blunt pressure of his cock, thick and hard, nudging at your entrance.

“No begging?” he taunts. “Not even a little?”

You meet his eyes in the mirror, defiant. “You already know I want it.”

He groans, low and primal, and slams into you in one fluid thrust. You cry out, body jolting forward, palms catching the mirror for balance, and he grabs your hips to pull you right back onto him again.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Take it. Let me fuck that confidence out of you.”

His pace is relentless. Every thrust sends your body forward, every slam of his hips against your ass echoes through the studio. You can’t think, only feel. Your hands slide against the mirror as you struggle to stay upright, your reflection blurring with every ragged breath.

And Ni-Ki doesn’t let up.

He snakes a hand between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. “You’re so fucking tight,” he pants. “So wet. All for me, noona.”

Your legs start to shake. He notices. Of course he does. He bites down on your shoulder and growls into your ear: “cum again. Now.” You don’t have a choice. The orgasm rips through you like lightning. Sudden, blinding, brutal. You cry out, body clenching around him, legs nearly giving out.

And that’s all it takes for him. With a grunt, Ni-Ki pulls you back hard against him, hips stuttering as he finishes deep inside you. You feel his breath stutter at your neck, his grip tightening around your waist as he holds you through it. Then… silence. Your heartbeat pounding louder than the bass still faintly pulsing from the speaker.

He stays inside you for a moment longer, catching his breath. Then gently, he pulls out, hands still holding your hips steady as your body sways. “You did so good,” he whispers, his voice warm now, rough but tender. “Didn’t know someone like you could fall apart like that.”

You finally find your voice. “And you think someone like you could handle doing that again?”

He chuckles, low and cocky, nipping at your shoulder as he pulls your blouse back over it. “Oh, I’m not done with you yet.”

The event is professional: cold lighting, stiff smiles, safe handshakes. You're here as a guest consultant, nothing more. A background name in a roster full of young idols and industry executives. So of course, he's here too. Ni-Ki.

Looking clean and cool in an oversized jacket, silver chain glinting at his throat, hair pushed back just enough to reveal those sharp eyes. The same ones that had watched you come undone three nights ago with your cheek pressed to a mirror.

And now? Now he won’t even touch you.

But his gaze? Undeniable. Unrelenting. Undressing you with every glance across the room. Your stomach knots. He hasn’t said a word to you all evening. Not when you arrived. Not when your eyes met across the green room. Not even when you passed by him on your way to the catering table and he looked down at your legs like he was remembering exactly how they felt wrapped around his shoulders.

And now, he's talking to a girl. A pretty one. Idol trainee, maybe. She’s laughing, hand brushing his sleeve. You pretend not to notice. Pretend your throat doesn’t tighten. You sip your drink. You smile for the right people. But you feel him watching you again— eyes dragging across your back like a handprint. Then your phone buzzes in your palm.

Ni-Ki: Meet me in the hallway behind Studio B. Don’t make it obvious. 3 mins.

Your pulse kicks. You wait exactly two minutes. Then you move. The hallway is dim, quiet. Just a sterile corridor with production gear and blackout curtains. But the second you're close, he’s on you. Back against the wall. Mouth to your ear.

“You didn’t even look at me,” he growls.

You smirk. “Neither did you.”

He presses closer, lips brushing your jaw. “Because if I touched you, I’d forget we’re supposed to pretend this isn’t happening.”

Your breath catches as his hand slides to your thigh, slow, almost casual, but there's nothing gentle in the way he squeezes, pulling you closer, like he’s fighting himself.

“I saw that guy you were talking to,” he mutters.

“He’s thirty-five and married with two kids,” you deadpan.

Ni-Ki snorts. “Still looked at you like he wanted to fuck you.”

“Isn’t that what you did, too?”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, and there it is again: that fire, that dark glint that says he doesn’t care that you’re older, doesn’t care about the rules, only that you’re his.

“You really want to test me right now?” he says.

You lean in. “What if I do?”

Then suddenly, he’s the one on the edge. Hands twitching at his sides, jaw clenched, breathing shallow. He takes one deep breath. Steps back.

“This isn’t over,” he says. “When this event ends, you’re coming with me.”

“What makes you think I will?”

He smirks, voice low and cocky. “Because I still haven’t fucked you while you’re wearing heels and that smug face.”

You flush. Bite your lip. And walk away first. Because this time, you want him to chase.

You never should’ve laughed. Not like that. Not at that man’s joke, especially not when Ni-Ki was watching from across the banquet hall, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. You hadn’t meant to provoke anything. Just playing the role. Professional. Charming. Non-threatening.

But all it took was that stupid little smile, a casual hand on your back from the VP of something, and now you’re here. Pushed hard against the wall of his hotel room. Ni-Ki’s breath is ragged, his hands rough as they pull your dress up around your hips, bunching it at your waist with barely restrained anger.

“You let him touch you,” he snarls. “Right in front of me.”

Your back hits the wall, and you gasp— not from fear, but from the need coiling so tightly inside you that it almost hurts.

“It was nothing,” you whisper.

“Didn’t look like nothing,” he snaps, eyes burning. “You smiled at him.”

“I smile at everyone.”

He grabs your jaw, gently, but firm enough to tilt your head back, to make you look at him. “You don’t smile at me like that,” he says, voice rough. “Not in public. You barely even look at me when we’re around other people.”

“Because I can’t,” you shoot back, voice just as sharp. “You’re the one who said to keep this quiet. You made the rules, Ni-Ki.”

He’s silent. His fingers trail from your jaw down to your throat, holding you there. Not tight. Not yet. Just there.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you whisper, “break them.” And that’s all he needed to hear.

Your panties are gone in seconds. He doesn’t even undress. Just unzips, pulls himself free, and lifts you like you weigh nothing. His mouth is on your neck sucking, biting, marking. No more hiding.

“You think anyone else could make you this wet?” he growls into your skin, thrusting up into you in one brutal stroke that knocks the breath from your lungs. You gasp. Legs tightening around him. “Answer me.”

“N-no,” you manage. “Just you.”

He slams into you again. “That’s right.”

The pace is vicious. His hands dig into your thighs, fingers bruising as he fucks you against the wall, your heels scraping down his calves, your hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp, barely coherent. “I’m yours, Ni-Ki—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

That does it. He snaps. One hand wraps around your throat again, the other gripping your ass as he fucks into you like he’s trying to erase every trace of that other man’s hand. Like he’s trying to etch himself into your bones. And you want him to.

Because no one’s ever wanted you like this— possessive, desperate, completely undone. Not caring about the cameras or the rules or the difference in age. Just you. Only you.

Later, when your dress is back on, when your lipstick’s smudged and your thighs ache in the best way, he runs a hand through your hair, brushing it behind your ear.

He kisses your cheek, soft and slow. Then he says it, the one thing he’s been holding back. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #ni ki x reader #ni ki enhypen #ni ki smut #ni ki imagines #ni ki #nishimura riki #ni ki x y/n #ni ki x you #ni-ki #ni-ki x reader #ni-ki oneshot #ni-ki enhypen

70 notes · View notes

plainclothesdisaster · 11 months ago

Text

Red Knight Chapter 6 - Masks

DP x DC | Dead on Main

Jason Todd encounters one Danny Fenton in the streets of Gotham and suddenly he's thrown into a world of ghosts and monsters. Will he embrace this life? Or will it just end up with him dead again?

Read on AO3 | Beginning | < Prev | Next >

---

Some nights later Jason was wrapping up some Red Hood business outside a local pub when he noticed something off about the ghosts. But not the curse ghosts— the regular spirits around Gotham that he’d started to see after his first encounter with Danny. Ever since he’d started fighting the curse ghosts with Danny, the regular crowd had stopped actively causing him trouble, but it didn’t change the fact that seeing all manner of bizarre and terrifying creatures that no one else did could be incredibly distracting. Like it was right now.

Dozens of ghosts of all sorts were running (flying, jumping, what have you) down the streets, away from something. A look in that direction didn’t reveal anything obviously wrong, and there were no sirens ringing. Regular people on the street were still just going about their business, so it couldn’t be that bad, right? He didn’t know enough about ghosts to know what could spook them like this. Jason, perhaps noble and perhaps stupid, set off in the direction they came from, toward whatever had made them run.

He followed the trail of fleeing ghosts and the growing sense of unease in his stomach. It led him downtown, under one of Gotham’s many bridges– a wide interstate overpass that let large shadows pool underneath. The few streetlights that worked did very little against the darkness.The unsettling energy he’d followed was so strong here it made him want to turn tail like all the other ghosts had. Every instinct said it would be unwise to stick around.

Then he recognized Danny’s voice. The clipped tones of the conversation made it instantly apparent he wasn’t catching up with a friend. From this distance, stationed behind a graffiti-covered concrete pillar, Jason couldn’t make out exactly what was being said.

He risked getting closer, turning invisible and maneuvering to the next column in. It was enough to finally parse the words of a voice he didn’t recognize, with a formal accent he couldn’t place.

“How much longer are you going to play this silly game?”

“I have a good reason for being here. An entity like this can’t be allowed to stay topside unchecked. You’re the ones who pointed it out, remember?”

“Irrelevant! You are stalling. the lesser kings grow restless.”

“You know I don’t give two shits about what those uptight raisins-“

“You are well aware that there are more important matters that need your attention. Your duty is to—“

“I don’t work for you.” Danny’s tone gained a dangerous timbre that sent a shiver down Jason’s spine. He caught his breath behind his teeth.

The warning also shut up the other speaker. The silence hung for a long moment. Then Danny spoke again.

“I will make an appearance in the Zone when I get a chance. Until then get lost.”

Jason caught a whorl of green in his peripheral and assumed it meant the other speaker obeyed Danny’s command. He had to fight his own instincts to abscond as well. He was certain if the words had been directed toward him he wouldn’t have been able to resist either.

He still wanted to bolt. He wondered if Danny had sensed him lurking there. That was a conversation he certainly was not supposed to hear, and the smart thing to do would be to get out of there before he got caught. But some of the uneasiness had faded from the atmosphere when the other speaker left, and Jason reminded himself that this was Danny. Danny wouldn’t hurt him.

Probably.

He came out from around the corner before he could chicken out, striding over like he’d just walked up. Danny brightened as soon as he saw him, which made Jason’s gut do a funny little flip.

“The ghosts are acting weird. Everything okay?” Jason kept his voice even.

“Oh, yeah,” Danny replied breezily, “Nothing to worry about.”

Lies. But Jason didn’t press even as he burned with curiosity. Better not to raise suspicion. Danny didn’t seem interested in questioning what Jason was doing here either, equally avoiding having to talk about the previous conversation.

“So.” Danny got that familiar conspiratorial look. “Since we’re already out here. Let’s go hunt some curses.”

A curse ghost gnawed on a gaudy statue of a golden bull in the financial district. The ticker on the outside of a gleaming skyscraper scrolled, reading some headline about record stock prices. A man slept on the bumpy ledge beneath the statue. He shivered as black goo, invisible to him, dripped down onto his side. The curse ghost loomed over him, the same shape as the bull, as if it were its shadow.

Then, without warning, Danny was on top of it. He whooped as the bull bucked, but he rode it rodeo style, holding on to its neck with one hand like some sort of gothic cowboy. Jason stared mutely, aborted plans replaced by incredulous disbelief. Maybe this was how Bruce had felt when he jumped into fights as Robin.

“Where the hell did you learn to fight?” Jason pulled his sword, positioning himself to help corral the beast away from the buildings.

“Self taught, mostly. Can’t you tell?” Danny wielded a whip of green energy in his off hand, snapping it at the bull’s sides when it got too close to anything breakable.

Of course Danny had no formal training. Nobody who had any sense of self preservation would fight with such reckless abandon.

“But you know what they say about grabbing the bull by the horns.” Danny did just that. Jason rolled his eyes. But a moment later he felt a buzz of power in the air and Danny wasn’t smiling anymore. He was focused on his hands, on the bull, almost like this stupid stunt actually had a purpose.

Then the bull let out a piercing shriek, twisted in a horrible convulsion, and launched itself sideways like a cannonball.

It crashed into the side of Gotham Central Bank, taking Danny with it completely through the stone brick wall. Alarms immediately started ringing. Shit. Jason jumped through the hole in the wall after them. With the amount of times this place had been targeted by rogues, Batman had it at the top of their surveillance priority. They had a matter of minutes before one of them showed up.

“We gotta go!” Jason shouted through the dust of falling rubble. “Fast!”

Danny faced off against the bull in the middle of the lobby. “Going! As fast! As I can!” He punctuated each phrase with a blast at the bull. Jason felt the power behind each one in his throat.

The curse dodged a blast. Then, as if Danny were a matador flashing his red cape, the bull charged.

Jason reacted before any thought surfaced. He strode once, twice, then swung his sword in a wide arc. It sliced through the curse ghost’s side, knocking it away from Danny and sending it sprawling to the marble floor.

Danny recovered quick enough to whip out a thermos and zap it up. Jason’s heart thudded. He’d panicked for a moment. He’d panicked when he thought that thing would hurt Danny.

“Thanks,” Danny tossed over his shoulder with an easy smile.

Jason nodded mutely.

He didn’t look after other people. Everyone was disposable and replaceable in this line of work. Bruce taught him that. He couldn’t start worrying after someone else’s life, not when they chose to risk it. Especially not someone who was practically a stranger.

But this wasn’t a stranger. This was Danny.

“We’ve got company,” Danny muttered, eyes toward the hole in the wall where they’d crashed in.

Spoiler stood in the gap, silhouetted by hazy moonlight. “You doing bank robberies now, Hood?”

He wouldn’t get any sympathy from Steph, but then again he hardly knew her. At least it wasn’t Tim. Or Bruce.

“Mind your business,” he snapped. “But no. You can check. Money’s all still there.”

“Right, right. And would he have anything to do with the giant hole in the wall?” She gestured to Danny, who gave a meek little wave. “Your new… partner?”

Danny choked on a chuckle at the same time as Jason barked, “Not my partner.”

Steph smirked. “Sure. Anyway, Batman is on his way, so you can explain it all to him.”

Danny froze, tension in every muscle. Jason shifted, angling himself in front of him.

“I’m actually gonna skip this session with Dr. Bats. So, if you’ll excuse us.”

Jason gestured to Danny with a tilt of his head, and Danny fell into step beside him as they bolted for the atrium stairs.

“Shit,” Steph hissed as she leapt after them. “Oracle, you tracking them?”

Fuck. Babs getting involved spelled signs of having their shit wrecked and on display for Batman to see before the sun rose. Jason lifted a hand to scan the frequencies on his helmet coms, hoping, halfheartedly, that he was still coded into their channel.

Batarangs whizzed past their heads as they careened up the stairs and burst out the doors onto a mid-level courtyard. They ran to a stone railing that looked over the street two stories below.

“This can be easy if you just answer our questions.” Steph appeared in the doorway as Jason turned. His eyes darted, scanning for options. Flat walls on either side of them. No good grapple point off the edge. They could go back the way they came- through Steph- but he wasn’t confident they could get past without having to hurt her, which. No, he wasn’t going to do that.

Beside him Danny practically bounced on his toes, his eyes doing the same dance. They had a lot more options for escape if they relied on Danny’s powers, but that meant outing him as meta-adjacent. That couldn’t happen— in that they both seemed to be in silent agreement.

“ETA 5.” Batman’s voice crackled through Jason’s helmet. They still used the old frequency after all.

“I have visual.” Oracle now. “Spoiler, keep him talking.”

“What are you doing here tonight, Hood?” Steph took a step closer, but she still maintained a healthy distance. She wouldn’t make a real move till backup arrived. Smart.

He just had to give Danny enough of a window to get out of sight. Then Danny could disappear for real, and Jason could deal with the Bats on his own. He just had to have hope that Danny had enough self preservation instincts to run when he had the chance.

“Who’s your friend?” Steph continued despite his silence.

“I’m Danny,” Danny replied, again with a chipper wave. Jason glared at him through his helmet.

“Danny, did Red Hood put you up to this?”

Danny snorted. “No. I mean, not really.”

Funny to think that Jason could make Danny do anything at all.

“It’s alright. We’ll make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble.”

“That seems unlikely.” Danny threw him a glance.

“Shut up,” Jason hissed.

“We’ll take him from here.” Spoiler took another step forward. Batman would certainly swoop down at any second.

“Thanks for finally giving us an excuse to bring you to heel, Hood. I hear Arkham is real cozy this time of year.”

He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. Of course he’d be treated like the other Gotham rogues. Foolish of him for expecting any better from the old man. He clenched a fist.

“Oh,” Danny stopped his fidgeting. The air around them went still. “Nah. I don’t think you will.”

Jason blanched. Danny couldn’t be stupid enough to use his powers now, could he?

“Losing visual.” Oracle’s voice crackled through static. “There’s– it’s some kind of interference.” Around them the landscaping lights in the courtyard flickered. Jason swallowed. Yes, it seemed, he could be that stupid.

“Danny, what–” Jason began, voice low, but before he could finish he felt a hand grab the back of his jacket. Suddenly he was invisible, and then suddenly he was weightless, and then suddenly he was flying. Spoiler shrunk beneath them as they crested the rooftops. Up he went over Gotham, dragged by Danny’s firm grip on his collar, streets whizzing past at dizzying speeds below.

Jason opened his mouth and a thousand things didn’t come out. He just gaped, strung along behind Danny like a fish on a line.

Cold wind pulled at Jason’s jacket as he glanced up at Danny. His face was a shadow, unreadable.

Danny didn’t slow down until he circled down onto their usual Crime Alley rooftop a few short minutes later. Jason felt gravity turn back on as Danny released him, gentle enough that he didn’t even stumble. Like he’d done this before.

“Fuck,” Jason half whispered.

“Sorry. Would have given you more warning, but it kinda would have defeated the purpose if she caught on to the escape plan.”

“No, that’s–” He rubbed a hand over his mask. “Now they know you’re a meta.”

“Not a meta.”

“Whatever. Now they know you’re someone they should know about. Once you are on the radar of the Bats you don’t just get off. They’re going to come after you.”

“They can try.”

Jason paced across the roof. “I’m serious. You should have gotten out when you could have. I could have dealt with them alone.”

“I couldn’t just leave you there.”

“It was stupid of you not to.”

Danny stood across from him, arms folded petulantly. “You cowing to their interrogation wasn’t a smart option either.”

“I would have been fine. I’m very good at lying. And if that was another bull pun I will strangle you.” Danny smiled sharply. Jason groaned. “And they wouldn’t really hurt me. Family, remember?”

Danny fixed him with a glare. “That doesn’t mean they wouldn’t hurt you.” The words were icy. Jason bit his cheek. From what he’d shared, Danny would know first hand how much family could actually hurt you.

“Whatever. I’m going home.” Jason turned to leave. Danny hmphed but didn’t press it. They exchanged curt goodbyes and parted ways.

Jason simmered with annoyance the whole way home. He could see it now, how it would pan out. Bruce would find out about the ghosts, about the curse. He’d swoop in and try to fix everything, and then he’d try to fix Jason. This was the crowbar that Bruce would use to pry open the door back into controlling Jason’s life.

And Danny— he tried to imagine a world where Bruce tolerated Danny. Removed from all the ghost weirdness, he was prime adoption bait, from the looks to the tragic backstory and the fraught familial relationships. But he was certain Danny would also react very poorly to Bruce trying to control him. And Bruce would absolutely try to control a powerful meta in his city.

None of this changed the fact that the city was still cursed. Nothing to do but keep fighting. Only now they’d have to always be looking over their shoulders.

The next morning he dressed as Jason and took his bike to Gotham University. He posted up outside the science and engineering building where he knew Danny had class. If Bruce had tracked Danny here, Jason wasn’t about to let him face Batman alone.

Maybe he was being paranoid— They only had Danny’s first name and his face, nothing else. It had been less than 24 hours since their encounter with Spoiler.

Yeah. No. He wasn’t going to underestimate them.

The towering oaks and manicured lawns of the campus felt foreign to him. It hardly felt like Gotham at all, not the real Gotham. The tall iron fences around the grass made sure to keep the real Gotham out. He scanned the doorways for campus security. Jason stuck out enough he wouldn’t put it past them to try to kick him out. He considered just aborting this pointless escapade and leaving when a stream of students began wafting out of the doors.

Danny appeared among the crowd. Jason’s feet froze to their spot. Danny smiled when he saw him, surprised.

Danny made his way over to, breaking off from the other students. “Isn't this a bit far from your radius?” He looked natural here, a bookbag slung casually over his shoulder, notebooks under his arm. Like he belonged.

“Gotta get some fresh air once in a while.”

The corner of Dannyʼs mouth quirked up and Jasonʼs stomach twisted.

Danny waited for Jason to, presumably, provide a reason for being there. “Making sure Batman doesn’t come after you” seemed like a crazy, unreasonable thing to say. Especially in that moment, as a sunbeam poked through the clouds and students chattered around them about homework and sports and parties.

As if reading his mental gymnastics, Danny offered a lifeline. “You want to join me for lunch?”

“Sure,” Jason replied almost too quickly, grateful for the excuse. He allowed himself to be led toward a cafe a few blocks away. He couldn’t help but scan the streets as they walked, looking for any hint of potential snoopers. The fact that there were so god damned many Bat-minions now made it more difficult to hone in on any one obvious tail.

Danny nudged him with an elbow, a questioning glance on his face. Was he being that obvious? Beside him Danny walked with the casual air of an ignorant civilian. More relaxed than a native Gothamite. Like he hadn’t just barely avoided a disastrous confrontation with the Batman. It only made Jason more paranoid.

They made it to the cafe without incident and found a table among the crowd of other University goers on their lunch break. As they ordered and settled in, small talk came as easily for them over pastrami on rye as it did between punches. Danny told him about the complex physics theories he was studying in class and Jason listened earnestly. Jason reminisced about his own schooling, non traditional as it were, and talked of the hours he spent in Bruce’s libraries.

His gaze wandered to a table by the window where a couple sat, laughing. First date, maybe. A next thought tried to follow that one but he strangled it like a firm hand around a throat.

“Itʼs not often I get to see your face in the outside world.” Danny pulled his attention back.

“Appreciate it while you can.”

“I am.” Danny smiled and Jason was suddenly acutely aware of his gaze focused only on him. “It’s unfair really. You get to admire these good looks all the time.” He gestured to himself and put on a false pout, hair flopping over his face.

Jason rolled his eyes playfully, but it stirred up a lingering concern. Oracle had caught Danny’s face on camera. That meant it was only a matter of time until she- and Bruce- found him. All that could have been avoided if Danny had a hero persona like the rest of them.

“Why donʼt you wear a mask?” Jason asked. “Itʼs like hero 101 shit.” He didn’t mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did.

Some of Dannyʼs brightness faded. “Iʼm not a hero.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So youʼre just a guy with superpowers fighting monsters every night. In jeans.”

That earned him a reluctant smile. “Pretty much.”

Jason lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Batman has your face now. He knows you have powers. He knows you work with Red Hood. Wouldn’t it be easier if you kept that separate from-“ he gestured to the books, the cafe, his life- “this?”

Danny sighed, leaning back and folding his arms. “There’s not really a point in keeping secrets. Batman can’t stop me. We’re careful. And it’s not like the ghosts are gonna talk to the tabloids.” “Weʼre not that careful. One wrong move or stray camera could destroy your life.”

Danny laughed, dry and harsh. “Danny Fenton is dead. I donʼt have a life to destroy.”

Jason paused. He hadnʼt found anything in his searches to suggest that was true. And it made no sense. Danny Fenton had dreams. He wanted to finish his degree. He hoped to work for NASA. Jason hadn’t imagined that conversation. Something didn’t add up.

“How does a dead man register for college?”

“With some half-baked forgeries and an excellent hacker on speed dial.”

“And wouldnʼt it still be bad if the undead college studentʼs life got ruined?”

Danny looked away. “It doesnʼt matter.”

“It doesnʼt matter?“

“I’m here to fix a ghost problem.” His voice got tighter.

“You said you werenʼt trying to do ghost stuff full time.”

“Trying, yeah. Emphasis on trying.”

“Not very hard, I guess.”

Danny grabbed his bag and stood up from the table in one abrupt motion. He looked down at Jason with cold eyes. “At least I try.”

Jason flinched at the hint of malice behind the words. Danny wasn’t wrong. Jason Todd was dead, and he had no intention of changing that. He didnʼt need to. He had his mask and the kingdom he’d built with it. He didnʼt need to be Jason.

But Danny had dreams as Danny. Jason had seen the yearning determination in his eyes as heʼd looked at the sky. Danny was a good liar but not good enough to fake that.

“Where are you going?” Jason snapped.

“Why do you care?”

Danny turned and brushed past tables of other diners as he stormed out. Jason clamped his mouth shut to stop himself from snapping back. He didn’t move from his seat. He fumed silently. Nothing that he’d found online had pointed to Dannyʼs death. No death certificate, a hospital stay, an obituary, a gravestone. Nothing.

He thought about going after Danny. A good friend probably would have. Instead he remembered snippets from that overheard conversation. Duty, the other person had said. Something about Danny’s duty. Nothing to do with fighting Gotham’s curse, from the way they said it. Some other thing entirely.

Danny didn’t show up that night. Jason waited on their roof (fuck it all, he’d started to think of it as theirs) but midnight came and went with no sign of him.

Jason tuned into the Bat coms after barely fifteen minutes of silent sulking. A pang of worry lingered in his gut. Batman could have found Danny, and— and what? He doubted they could lay a finger on Danny, let alone capture him. He’d already been in and out of Bruce’s security undetected.

Still. He listened on the coms for any mention of their escaped meta, but it was just a standard night of patrol. Tim and Cass out in the field, Oracle guiding them. Bruce must not have been listening in closely because they’re lax on chatter on the frequency. It’s like a personal radio drama just for him, except it’s a window into the life that was no longer his.

Still, Danny’s silence didn’t feel good. Jason remembered the hardness in his eyes from that afternoon, The apathetic bite of his tone. But Jason banished any hint of guilt that tried to squirm its way out of him. Fine by him if Danny wanted to ruin his own life. That clearly wasn’t his responsibility.

“Disturbance at Robinson Park. Destroyed property. Perp unclear.” Oracles voice came steady and clear over the coms.

“On our way. Is it Ivy?” Tim responded, businesslike.

“Negative. The path of destruction points to something large, animal-like. But I can’t spot it. It’s like it’s invisible.”

Jason’s ears perked up at that. That was a curse ghost, no way it could be anything else. And as much as he loved to imagine Tim getting his whole ass handed to him by an invisible monster, he really should go deal with it because the bats would be in way over their heads.

Well, except for the fact that Danny wasn’t there. He’d never fought a curse ghost alone. For as good as he’d gotten with the ghost weapons, he didn’t always come out of these fights unscathed, even with Danny’s backup.

He sent Danny a text with the location- curse ghost here. Maybe that would make him get over his sulking and get out here to help.

Minutes ticked by with no response. Tim and Cass sounded more harried on the coms. Danny would almost certainly tell him not to fight it solo if he were here. He gritted his teeth. Jason didn’t need Danny’s approval. Or his permission.

He checked the straps on his holsters and sword then took a running leap off the roof.

By the time he got there the park was already in chaos. Tim stood on the path and swung his staff at nothing. Cass crouched by the swing set which was sprawled in a half crumpled mess. Neither of them looked at the curse ghost, which gnawed on a corner of a park bench.

In an ideal scenario Jason could lure the curse ghost away to avoid explaining anything to them. Then Tim’s head snapped toward the bench, alerted by the crunching of old wood between invisible jaws. Cass also tensed, ready to pounce. Fuck.

Together they attacked. Predictably, Cass’s foot and Tim’s staff went right through the mass of oily shadow with no resistance. It took actually seeing it happen for Jason to fully appreciate just how screwed they were. Normal weapons couldn’t hurt it. They couldn’t even touch it.

Annoyed, the beast stopped snacking and with a massive clawed hand it took a swipe at Tim. Tim didn’t see it coming, obviously, so he took the hit hard to the side, sending him tumbling to the dirt.

“Red Robin!” Cass leapt after him only to catch a lazy swipe from the ghost's tail, knocking her down into the bushes.

“Backup heading your way, hold on,” Oracle's strained voice came through his helmet. More Bats wouldn’t solve this. It would only end up with more of them hurt. But they knew too much already without Jason exposing his ghost powered weapons too. He just needed the right opportunity.

The beast prowled toward where Tim was still righting himself. It cackled like a hyena, jaws wide and full of sharp teeth. It lunged.

Jason was faster. He took two bounding, half-floating steps, swung his sword and caught the ghost in the jaw. He shoved it back from Tim as it yowled.

God fucking dammit. So much for laying low. But he couldn’t just watch them get hurt.

“Hood?”

“Infrared.”

“What?“

“Use infrared vision.” He looked down at Tim as he found his feet, keeping the ghost in his peripheral. He remembered Danny calling out the infrared detectors as part of his arsenal of gadgets (“Helpful if you can’t already see them.”) and he didn’t want Tim and Cass flailing around totally blind.

“And stay out of my way.”

The ghost lunged again and he met it with his sword. They clashed, and for all Jason’s bravado, his arms shook as the beast parried his swing. He threw it off with a surge of effort. Thankfully Tim listened and had scattered to the edge of the lawn where Cass had resurfaced from the bushes, out of the radius of the fray. But looking to check on him had been a mistake— Jason felt a claw slash into his calf before he could dodge. He sucked a breath through his teeth. He’d had worse. But he was reminded again that he’d never faced the full ire of the curse ghosts alone. He’d always had Danny to trade blows with.

Now the ghost looked at him, only him, with hungry black eyes and that insufferable cackle dripping from its lips.

“I’ve got visual on infrared.” Oracle, still in his ear. “It’s showing up as a cold spot—some kind of giant wolf.” Hyena, Jason corrected mentally before barely dodging another swipe of its claws.

“Got it,” Red Robin chirped. Jason dared another look to see he had indeed donned infrared goggles from his kit. “Going back in.”

Jason’s heart clenched. “No,” he grunted over the coms he was definitely not supposed to have access to, “Stay out of it.”

The ghost took the opportunity to launch itself at him. Jason found himself pinned under its massive paws, staring up into that gaping, laughing mouth.

“Hood!” If he didn’t know better he’d think Tim actually sounded concerned. Which—fuck, that didn’t mean anything since he couldn’t do shit to help.

Jason found his pistol and wiggled himself just enough room to press it to the ghost’s belly. He pulled the trigger and green energy exploded into the shadow, tossing the ghost off of him and fully exposing Jason’s own ghost shit for Oracle and everyone to see.

“You can’t hurt it,” he barked at Tim as he rolled to his feet. “Stay the fuck back.” Tim didn’t protest. For once.

Now that the guns were out he gave up any attempt at subtlety. He got nasty with his blasts and pulled nothing from his punches, calling every ounce of that green energy to the surface. He must have looked like a glowing menace to Tim and Cass, but he had little room to care. The ghost fought back with eager viciousness. Jason ignored the snap in his wrist, the teeth grazing his side, drawing blood. He just had to beat it down enough to capture it.

After another round of traded blows finally, finally, the curse ghost started looking worse for wear. It panted heavily, long black tongue lolling out of its mouth, and it oozed black sludge where Jason’s sword had left the deepest marks. He holstered a gun long enough to pull the thermos instead, and as it lunged toward him one more time he sucked it up in a beam of light.

The silence that followed was beautiful. He bent over halfway to catch his breath. He did it. He fucking did it. He did it without Danny.

From the other side of the lawn, Cass whistled. Jason stood and turned to face them, intending to take a quick bow before exiting stage left, but— there was Bruce. Batman had arrived sometime during the brawl. He stood protectively in front of Tim and Cass.

“Red Hood. Report.”

Nice to see you too. He rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

Then Bruce tried a different angle.

“Where is your new partner?”

Jason bristled. Batman being suspicious of him was one thing, but bringing Danny into the equation made the pit under his heart roar in protest. He turned back before he could think better of it. “None of your business, old man. Stay out of it.”

He didn’t appreciate the thin press of Cass’s lips or the hint of Tim’s chuckle.

“Let us help you.” Batman extended a hand. And oh if Bruce didn’t sound just a bit soft, and the offer sounded almost genuine. It only made his hackles raise further.

“You can’t help,” he ground out. And it was true. If Bruce couldn’t help him before all the ghost stuff, he absolutely couldn’t help now.

Jason took off toward his bike. If he was fast they wouldn’t catch him. He hoped he wouldn’t have to dissuade them further.

“Jason!” Batman broke his own rule to call out his name, and it was almost enough to get him to stop and go back. Almost.

He slipped between the trees and ran deeper into the shadows.

Jason had two more nights of worrying. Of listening in on police scanners (since he hadn’t been able to reconnect to the coms since revealing he had access) for any hint of Danny. Nothing.

Maybe Danny got wise and skipped town. Jason went to Danny’s apartment to check if he’d left. When his knock went unanswered he phased himself in through the door. A quick glance around said all of Danny’s stuff was still there. No sign of a fight. Jason stood in the center of the tiny apartment feeling like an ass. Now that he’d been there with Danny’s permission it felt wrong to be breaking in unannounced. Danny wasn’t just a suspicious unknown meta anymore. He was— well, he was something. Still suspicious. But undeniably on his side.

Danny could be MIA for any reason. Something could have happened with his mysterious family maybe, though that thought did nothing to calm Jason’s nerves.

He let himself settle into the more likely possibility that maybe Danny simply didn’t want to see him. It wouldn’t be hard for him to avoid Jason, break ins aside. Danny could simply vanish anytime he sensed Jason nearby. Maybe he’d been stupid for pushing Danny to talk. Dumb of him to think that Danny owed him anything real.

He opened his phone like he was going to text Danny, but after typing and deleting various attempts at concern or apology or both he just shoved the phone back in his pocket, message unsent. Their text chain only pertained to the curse ghosts after all. It’s not like Danny owed him a response for anything else.

On the third night, out of nowhere, Danny sent him a text.

You up?

Jason nearly frisbeed his phone across the safehouse when he saw the notification. It was just barely 2 am- he had finished his rounds and called it a night early. He hurriedly tapped a reply.

Where have you been?

Meet u at roof.

Jason didn’t know whether to be mad or relieved. He ended up pulling his pants back on and rushing out while feeling a strange cocktail of both.

As soon as his feet hit the roof Jason could tell Danny was off. His shoulders sagged, his face looked less full, eyes filled with less light. Suddenly Jason was less certain his absence had anything to do with their fight and instead everything to do with whatever caused him to look like this.

“What happened to you?”

“What are you talking about. Iʼm great.”

Jason raised his eyebrows, asking for more. Danny sighed and changed the subject. “Sorry I didnʼt reply about the curse ghost the other night. Did it do any real damage?”

“Tried to eat the park benches.” Jason leaned up against the stairwell wall next to him. Danny grimaced, and Jason left out the part where it nearly wasted Tim and Cass. “But I handled it.”

A bit of sharpness snapped back into Dannyʼs eyes. “Wait, what?”

Jason tapped the thermos on his belt. “Added ‘em to the soup collection. What, didnʼt think I could do it on my own?”

Danny hmmed in reply, his usual enthusiasm still dimmed. But Jason could see wheels turning behind his eyes.

“No faith at all. I’m insulted.” Jason cracked a smile.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Do I look hurt?”

Danny tilted his head knowingly. Jason pulled his jacket closer.

“I’m fine. And Either way, it was probably a good thing to keep you off the Bats’ radar for a bit.”

It wasn’t, however, a good thing that Danny looked like he’d been chewed up and spat out. Jason bit his tongue to keep himself from prying.

“The Bats were there?”

“Tim and Cass. Couldn’t let them get their shit wrecked by an invisible ghoulie.” Then he added, quieter: “Or Bruce’s.”

Danny let out a huffed pained noise under his breath. Suffice to say that his opinion on Batman hadn’t changed.

“We have limited time till they get more involved.” Jason leaned closer, trying to catch Danny’s eye. “So I have to ask— Where is this all going? Weʼre bagging these things night after night, but that doesn’t stop them from appearing. There has to be an end.”

“There is.” Danny pressed his lips together.

“The curse is actually just one entity,” he continued, “These ghosts we’ve been fighting- they’re like offshoots of it. The root is like… the queen of the curse. She’s the oldest one here, the initial kernel that grew into something powerful enough to spawn all the others.”

Jason blinked. “Then why havenʼt we gone after her?”

“I have. When I first got here. It sucked.“ He pushed up off the wall they were leaning against and paced across the roof. “She’s dug her claws in real deep, and all the power her minions get feeds her too.”

Jason did not like the sound of a foe that even Danny had trouble facing.

“But we’ve been cleaning up curse ghosts left and right. That must be putting a dent in her, right?”

“That’s the hope, yeah. So that next time I face her, it shouldn’t be such a disaster.”

“We.”

“Huh?”

Jason got off the wall to follow him. “Next time we face her. No way I’d miss out on sending her packing after all this.”

Danny was quiet a moment. “Right. Yeah.”

The hesitation in his voice was certainly not a vote of confidence. Jason did his best to ignore it.

“Anyway.” Danny said, shaking off a bit of the funk hanging over him, “It’s been too long since I’ve bashed curse heads. You up for a little tête-à-tête?”

“Always.”

They tracked a curse ghost to an old office building at the edge of Crime Alley. It was a remnant of when this place used to be Park Row, an imposing tower adorned with art deco details, now crumbling with neglect. They followed Danny’s senses up to the executive floor, where large wooden desks and rows of retro office chairs sat fading.

For a couple of long minutes as they stalked the dark halls, Jason feared the trail had gone cold. Then, from the conference room in the corner, he heard a pale keening moan. Danny flashed him a look, and then they began their usual dance.

Danny took the opening, crashing in through a half-screened window. Jason followed, blocking off the door. The rhythm came easy, like a set of ping pong across the conference table with the curse as the ball. He matched Danny’s pace more easily than normal, and he felt a curl of warm smugness in his gut before he took a glance at Danny. He looked downright sluggish compared to normal, like gravity had turned against him for once. His limbs moved heavily through the air, and when he twisted too fast Jason caught a wince snarl through his features.

The beast hadn’t stopped keening, but it was slower to get back to its feet now. Just a few more good hits and then they could wrap this up and Jason would demand Danny tell him what was wrong.

Then something happened that Jason never thought heʼd see.

Danny went down, hard. A sudden whip from the beast's tail sent him plowing through the wall, then another, then deep into a stack of ancient metal file cabinets with a nasty crunch. He didnʼt get up.

A spike of fear shot down Jasonʼs spine. A flicker of his old rage laced the next few swings of his sword, but right then he was grateful for it. It was enough to give him an opening to pull out the thermos. He sucked the curse up before it got any closer to Danny.

Then Jason stopped thinking as his legs carried him to the divot in the cabinets where Danny laid unmoving.

“Danny?”

Danny groaned, still alive. Half alive. Whatever.

Jason didnʼt know what to do. He reached out his hands and they hovered over Dannyʼs crumpled torso. The white of his t-shirt revealed growing red stains. And also, worryingly, green.

This was the part where Danny would sit up and crack a joke. Where he would tease Jason for worrying. Where heʼd smile that infuriating smile. But he didnʼt. His breath came in shaky rattles. His eyes stayed closed.

“Fuck.” Jason stopped hesitating and put his arms under Danny, lifting him gingerly from the dust and debris.

“Wha-?” Danny mumbled.

“Iʼve got you.”

Danny relaxed into his arms, his head resting against his chest, and Jason felt his heart stutter. Danny was too cold in his grasp, too light. But Jason didnʼt have time to worry about that. He needed to get Danny somewhere safe.

In a daze, he made his way to Dannyʼs apartment. Danny didn’t wake throughout the trip, just let out little pained sounds whenever Jason jostled him too much. When they arrived at the apartment, Jason used his jacket to phase them through the door. Glancing at the unmade bed, he opted to lay Danny down on the torn up couch instead— better to not get blood all over the sheets.

Jason knew where the first aid kit was from when Danny used it on him, so he grabbed it from the kitchen. Then he took the hem of Dannyʼs torn shirt and pulled it over his head. Any qualms Jason had about the invasion of Danny’s privacy died when he saw the wound on his side.

Huge gashes raked across his abdomen in parallel, torn deep into the skin. Claw marks, Jasonʼs brain provided numbly, though these claws must have belonged to something even bigger and nastier than the curse ghosts. Something worse than anything Jason had seen.

What the hell did this?

“Jason-?” Dannyʼs eyes fluttered half open.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jason admonished.

Danny blinked slowly, still out of it. “Didja get ‘em?”

He was still worried about the curse ghost? Jason nearly bit his tongue. “Yeah.”

Danny leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Good. Thanks.”

Fucking hell.

Jason turned off his brain and let his hands do the work of patching up Dannyʼs side in mental silence. Danny didnʼt stir as he disinfected the wounds, as he taped butterfly bandages over them, as he pulled a fresh shirt over Dannyʼs head. If it were anyone else Jason would have needed to do stitches, but with Danny he knew better. His accelerated healing would take care of it quicker than he could pull the stitches back out.

The pack of bandages had been nearly empty. Seems it wasn’t the first time he’d been hurt. Something ugly twisted in Jason’s stomach at that thought. So instead Jason looked at Dannyʼs face, free from worried creases in sleep. Danny looked so vulnerable, so peacefully human. Jason fidgeted with his hands.

“Not so invincible after all, are you?” he breathed.

The space between them felt smaller than it had before, all pretenses of keeping his distance shattered. What once had been a wide gulf, gaping like the wounds on Dannyʼs side, collapsed like an imploding star.

Jason couldnʼt stop himself. He reached out with a timid hand and closed the remaining distance. He pushed aside the lock of dark hair that had fallen in Dannyʼs closed eyes, his fingers brushing featherlight over Dannyʼs forehead. Reverent and tender. Danny shifted and sighed.

Jason froze. No. Nope. Nuh-uh. He couldnʼt do this. It was like holding an overripe strawberry in his palm— he didn’t trust himself not to crush it. He shut his mind off again as he fled for the door, leaving Danny to wake up alone.

Danny showed up on their rooftop the next night, no sign of the injuries from the night before, looking chipper as the day they met.

“Thanks.” Danny said, handing Jason a paper wrapped burger.

Jason took the gift without rising from where he sat. “For what?”

Danny responded by lifting his shirt to reveal the gashes in his side. They had sealed over in puckered pink scars. Fast, maybe even more so than Jason had expected.

“For the patch up.” Danny pulled a second burger out of the bag and sat on the ledge next to him.

Jason waited for him to say more. To offer an explanation for the wounds, or what gave them to him, or where he’d been. Danny just bit into his burger and chewed wordlessly. He looked off somewhere in the distance.

“I could have handled it.” Jason broke the silence. “You shouldn’t have been out fighting like that.”

“I’ve had worse. Plus, now I’m fine.”

“Not caring about getting hurt just because you heal fast isn’t a good battle strategy.”

“Who said I was good at strategy?” Danny had that damnable smirk on his face.

“Either way. You could have left it alone for another night. Gotham’s been cursed as long as I’ve been alive.”

“Longer than that.”

“So it can definitely survive one night without its blue-jeaned protector.” Danny scowled, but didn’t argue further.

Jason reminded himself he shouldn’t care. Danny didn’t owe him anything, and he liked it that way. Any more info on Danny’s life would just serve to entangle them more than they already were, which he very much didn’t need. The only answer he really needed at this point was how to stop the curse ghosts.

He still hadn’t had any luck in cracking the pattern though. Even with the added info about the heart of the curse- the queen- progress was slow going. He’d shifted his efforts to finding her specifically, but so far she’d proven incredibly elusive. There was just too much violence in Gotham to parse what was tied to the curse and what wasn’t.

They finished their meal in silence as sirens wailed in the distance.

Jason stood and stretched. “Almost can’t imagine this place without a curse, though. It’s part of the charm.”

Danny crumpled his burger wrapper and tossed it in the bag. “Once it’s gone you and the Bats will actually be able to change things for the better though. It won’t be such a Sisyphean fight anymore.” He raised an eyebrow. “Sisyphus? Didn’t peg you for a mythology fan.”

“I’ve, uh, taken some practical mythology courses.” Danny blushed, which sent Jason’s stomach tumbling.

Jason honestly couldn’t picture a Gotham without all the corruption and violence and greed. What would that place even look like? Would that Gotham even need a Batman? Or a Red Hood?

Or a Danny?

“What about you?” Suddenly Jason had to know.

“What about me?”

“After the curse is gone. Will you stay?”

Danny’s lips turned down. Thoughts spun behind his eyes. Jason’s gut dropped and he regretted asking. He didn’t know which answer he wanted to hear. He didn’t know which would be worse.

Danny opened his mouth to reply. Then a curse ghost crashed onto the balcony below them, stealing his answer away.

Another week went by with no lead on the curse’s cause or its queen. Jason, for his part, had kept it professional when it came to Danny. They met nightly, hunted curses, then parted ways. Like following a script. He ignored, with great effort, the spike of worry he felt every time Danny took a hit, or the way his whole body clenched whenever he thought he saw the shape of a cowl following them in the shadows. He couldn’t let himself lose focus.

Find the queen. End the curse.

So far the bats hadn’t actually bothered them any further, which meant that either they had bigger fish to fry, or that he still had one scrap of good will left in Bruce’s eyes. But he wouldn’t bet on it. Which is why they needed to find the queen and finish this quickly. Then everything could go back to normal.

He’d go back to running the Crime Alley scene uninterrupted, and Danny would go back to… something else. College? Jason wanted to believe it, but after their conversation in the cafe, he couldn’t be sure. He thought about never having to fight another curse ghost with Danny and it made his heart do an unpleasant twitch. He wanted the curse to be gone, he reminded himself. Wanted the bats to have no reason to be suspicious. Wanted to be done with all this ghost bullshit.

At least that’s what he told himself.

Jason had gone out scouting for leads on the queen when he found himself at the graveyard. The slant of the evening sun had turned the familiar stones a shade of pale golden even through the overcast sky. It wasn’t the first time he’d been back here.

He stopped walking at a particular knoll. The headstone at his feet read Jason Peter Todd. The grass had long regrown over where he’d dug his way out. He wondered if Danny had a grave, one that had been erased from the records.

Ghosts- regular ghosts, not curses- floated about, semi transparent. They must be pretty weak if they were only half visible even to him. Or at least he thought so, based on what little Danny had told him about how ghost biology worked. The ghost of a woman, older but not old, floated closer. She looked at him expectantly.

He gestured to the headstones around them. “One of these yours? I can, uh, clean it up a bit for you? If that helps?”

“I don’t- I can’t- remember—“

“I’ll read some names. Maybe it’ll come back to you.”

“Abigail? Chelsea? Lorraine?” He stopped at a grave with fresh soil. “Sarah?”

The light shifted as the sun slanted lower. He noticed her neck- deep purple bruises wrapped around her windpipe with the distinct outlines of fingers.

Anger twisted in his stomach. “Or maybe it would help more if I found who did that to you.”

The spirit’s eyes snapped to him, suddenly sharp.

“Hurt.“

The tone of her voice sent a spike of fear down his spine, gravely and staticy and filled with so much anger.

“Whoa, whoa. You okay?”

The ghost woman shuddered and changed in front of him. She warped into a heinous visage with sharp teeth and pointed fingers, her hair twitched at wrong angles in a writhing cocoon, her eyes turned to pools of inky black.

“Hurt. Hurt him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him kill him kill him kill-”

Jason’s own rage leapt to a sudden, blinding boil. It felt like fire ants swarming under his skin, hot and sharp and bright. He felt the woman’s pain as if it were his own, and felt the need to cause pain ten fold in return. The beast under his heart roared, hungry for revenge.

He relished how familiar it felt, the clarity of purpose, the surrendering of will, the open bleeding wounds that could only be paid back with more blood. He thought about the relief he’d feel if he finally put a bullet through the Joker's brain. Better if he made Bruce do it. He’d hurt the other Robins as a motivator, kill them if he had to. He’d do whatever it took to make that bastard feel hopeless, to make him bend, to bleed, to make him suffer like he had—

Oh, fuck. Jason blinked away just enough of the green in his vision to stumble backwards. He needed— he needed to feel the crunch of bone under his hands, the taste of fear–. No—no. He needed to get away, needed distance between himself and the vengeful ghost. He ground his teeth as he fell to the earth. He dug his nails in the dirt as he clawed backwards, away.

He spat blood— he’d bit his tongue. He scraped at his holster, whipping his pistol out. Its weight steadied his hand as he trained it on the spirit.

“Knock if off,” he spat at the ghost, poisonous heat still raw in his voice.

The pressure of her pain didn’t relent, still clawing at his insides, scraping into the oldest parts of his anger with black heat. He pulled on his own energy in return, desperate. It leapt readily to his call, building at the tip of his gun.

“I said fuck off!”

He shot, and the cannonball of green energy barreled into the ghost. She wailed but she didn’t stand a chance. Her form dispersed in green flames. The claws around his heart vanished with her, leaving him feeling raw.

Easier to beat than a curse ghost. But the encounter left him feeling more than twice as rattled.

Then he rolled onto his knees and dry heaved over the grass. Flashes of what he’d wanted to do to his brothers, to Bruce, surfaced through the clearing haze in his mind. He could have done it. If he’d had any less awareness of the cause of those thoughts, he was certain he would have.

Cold sweat simmered over his skin. He curled his arms around his legs like it would make him warmer, or settle his stomach. It did neither.

He could have killed them.

Danny would have stopped him, he thought. The thought had no real backing in reality, but he believed it all the same. If Jason had actually gone after Bruce and the others, Danny wouldn’t have let him do it.

It provided enough hypothetical comfort to allow him to remember how to breathe.

He raised his eyes just enough to look at the empty air where the ghost had just been. He almost didn’t see it, but once he focused it was unmistakable. A wisp of black shadow, identical to what it looked like when Danny blasted apart a curse ghost. But she hadn’t been a curse ghost. Had she? She’d been completely harmless. Normal, until—

Jason leapt to his feet, wallowing forgotten. He had to get to his computer.

“I figured it out.” Jason had the patience to knock at Danny’s door when he got to his place instead of crashing through the window like he wanted to.

“Figured what—Huh?” Danny, in sweats, coffee mug in hand, allowed Jason to barge past him into the messy apartment.

“How the curse ghosts show up. The pattern. The cause.”

He pulled the thumb drive from his pocket, plugged it into Danny’s computer and sat down in the desk chair. “They’re connected to deaths.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Shut up and let me finish. Not just any death.” He pulled up a map with an overlay with points for all Gotham deaths. They far outnumbered the curse ghosts.

“You said not everyone comes back as a ghost, right? What makes them more likely to?”

Danny leaned on the arm of the couch. “A death or a life that’s especially violent or unjust, usually. Combined with a strong sense of purpose unfulfilled. But the curse ghosts aren’t like that. They’re the kind that exist without consciousness. They are the abstract purpose of fear and suffering.”

“But what if they didn’t form like that from nothing?”

Danny tilted his head, bidding Jason to continue.

“What if the most violent, least just deaths-“ he pressed a key isolating those points on the map- “resulted in ghosts that somehow got turned into curses.” He clicked another key and brought up the layer of curse ghost sightings. It matched nearly perfectly.

Danny’s eyes widened. “It all tracks. Except for the fact that ghosts can’t just majorly change their nature like that.” He paused. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Something more powerful than them triggers it. Something else is actively changing them.”

Jason smiled. He could tell they already made the same conclusion. “The queen?”

Danny nodded, excited now. “The queen.”

“We just gotta find deaths that are likely targets for her. She’ll come out to change them, and then we zap her up.” Danny pulled out his phone and began tapping furiously. A moment later the familiar sounds of the police scanner came through the tinny speaker. ‘Retired’ vigilante his whole ass.

Jason was infinitely relieved that Danny didn’t ask him how he’d had this epiphany. He very much did not want to tell him about the ghost from the graveyard and what he’d almost done. Or the fact that the woman had warped into something like a curse ghost because of him, not the queen.

“How will we know which death she’ll use?” Jason pulled at a cuticle. Night had fallen since the graveyard, and the scanner was a constant buzz of chatter and codes.

“We’ll know.” Danny tapped his leg with restless energy. They waited and listened as the minutes turned into nearly an hour.

Eventually Danny broke the silence. “You don’t have to come,” he said quietly. Guiltily.

“Are you joking?”

“The queen- the true curse- I encountered her once. Before. She’s– she’s not like the others.”

“So?”

Danny fiddled with the half-finished belt on his desk. “This junk only does so much. You’re still fighting with a handicap.”

The unspoken offer was there- a cure, a fix, a permanent silencer for his rage. A fix which was tied up in his own power- if he could even really call it that. It still felt borrowed more than something of his own.

He folded his arms. “Almost everything I’ve ever fought has been stronger than me. Why would I stop now?”

“You sure I can’t talk you out of this?”

“I’m insulted you even tried.”

The chatter on the radio crescendoed, pulling their attention back.

“Killer Croc and Scarecrow reported at the North Docks. Batman spotted on scene, perps still on the loose. Two DOA.”

Jason jumped to his feet. “That’s gotta be it, right?” Danny stayed where he was on the couch a moment before he rolled to stand.

“You ready?”

“Always.”

“Let’s go.”

They rode their bikes side by side through the streets till the apartment blocks turned to squat warehouses at the harbor’s edge. They ditched the bikes when they spotted police cruisers, opting instead to weave their way between shipping containers on foot till they found the scene.

A handful of cops lingered around a shipping dock. Cameras flashed as they took photos of something near the water’s edge. No sign of Croc, Scarecrow, or Batman. Whatever confrontation had happened it was already long since. Danny led him to the top of a container where they waited and watched.

“I take it she won’t come out with Gotham’s finest hanging around?” Jason asked below his breath.

“Doubtful.”

Minutes ticked by as the crowd of cops began thinning. The energy in the air practically crackled. Danny had lost his usual nonplussed air- he shook out his fists and paced the length of the container. They waited until the last of the cops drove away, leaving the dock in a deceptively peaceful sort of silence. Anticipation coiled in Jason’s stomach.

“Maybe I’m wrong. She might not show.” Jason crouched, unmoving.

“She will.” Danny spoke with zero doubt. Through all his impatient fidgeting his eyes never left a spot at the end of the docks. Where, Jason assumed, the man had drowned. He couldn’t see a body. But Danny had a sense for these things.

Suddenly Danny stilled, and Jason snapped to attention. He crouched beside him, looking out to the dark water. Nothing changed for a long moment.

Then the light shifted colder and dimmer, like the streetlights suddenly weren’t as effective at pushing back the dark. Their sodium yellow glow turned pale sickly gray. A thin layer of mist rolled across the water and over the shore.

Jason knew what the curse ghosts felt like. He’d felt it nearly every night for the last six weeks. This wasn’t that. Where the curse ghosts were hot fury and gunshots, this was a slow smooth knife of dread, cutting deep and settling in.

Danny sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. It sounded more like a hiss.

And then Gotham’s curse herself appeared.

A black cloaked figure glided across the water, barely distinguishable from the black of night around her. a circlet of shadows hovered over her head. As she moved Jason realized that it wasn’t just a cloak— the figure was shadow all the way down, writhing and shifting in the illusion of human form.

Around her a pack of curse ghosts followed at her heel like obedient hounds. The dripping goo of their bodies looked garish next to hers, all shimmering mist and elegance. As terrifying as she was, there was something deeply familiar to her. Both elusive and enticing.

Jason chanced a look at Danny. He’d stopped pacing. He had never seen such dangerous focus on his face before.

The queens entourage stopped at the dock Danny had been watching. Out of the water in front of her something blue and luminescent rose up— a ghost. The ghost they’d been waiting for.

Whispers filled the air in lower frequencies that thrummed through his body more than he actually heard them. He couldn’t parse words at this distance, but the meaning became clear enough. The queen extended a claw-like hand toward the fresh ghost. And, just like the one at the graveyard, it began to warp into something awful right before their eyes.

“Stay here,” Danny bit out below his breath. Jason recoiled at the thought of hanging back, but Danny shot him a look with such intensity that he choked on his retort.

Danny jumped down. He landed on his feet in the open cement of the shipping yard, fully visible under the glow of the desaturated street lamps.

“That’s enough.”

Danny’s voice shook with the same rumble as the whispers, cutting through them like ice. The curse queen and her entourage turned their attention to him instantly.

“Come out to play again little king?” The queen's voice was unexpectedly smooth, like cool silk down his spine. “I do find our games so enriching.”

“I find them rather dull personally,” Danny answered. His body language was nonchalant, but there was still an edge to his voice. He tilted his chin toward the warped ghost. “Neat trick.”

“You like it? Gotham’s restless dead truly thrive once I remake them in my image.”

“They’re not yours.”

The temperature dropped ten degrees in the span of a heartbeat. The queen’s pack of curse ghosts began lurking onto shore and positioned themselves in a wide circle around Danny. Jason tensed. “This city is mine. Anyone who comes here is mine to keep.” She turned her attention back to the new ghost. “And mine to devour.”

The shadows around the queen flared and the new ghost convulsed with a horrible garbled cry. Black goo exploded from its eyes, its mouth until it was covered. It fell to the queen's feet, a heap of sludge that writhed like worms. She laughed, a haughty rumble that had Jason’s hair standing on end. When the ghost rose a moment later on shaky, inky legs, it took the form of a hound. Just like the others.

Around Danny the lights flickered and popped. The queen laughed again, this time a piercing cackle.

And then the hounds attacked.

In the analytical parts of Jason’s mind, he had accepted that he’d never seen Danny fight with his full strength in any of their brawls. He hadn’t truly understood what that meant until now.

Barely a week prior Jason had managed to scrape a win against just one curse ghost by the skin of his teeth. Now Danny fought seven. At once. The shipping yard turned into chaos as Danny blasted curse ghosts in rapid succession, throwing them into shipping containers with such force the containers bent and toppled. Swaths of black goo splattered across the dock every time Danny landed a hit. Flashes of green and shadow exploded against one another like toxic fireworks.

Danny spared no breath for his usual quips and banter. Instead, his lips pressed into a firm line, broken only sporadically by a flash of his fangs as he tore into the hounds with easy viciousness. Jason practically chewed through the inside of his cheek. He could barely keep up with the pace of the fray as Danny’s glowing form darted through the gauntlet of claws and ink. He gripped the hilt of his sword from his hiding place. He could help. He couldn’t just watch. But just being in the queen’s presence still felt like a skeletal hand around his throat.

Danny faced off against two hounds from the dock side. He didn’t see the one from behind. Fuck that. Jason jumped.

He swung the sword in a wide arc downward and, just as its jaws reached Danny, relieved the curse ghost of its head. Goo splattered to the dock with a satisfying thunk.

Danny whirled on him, palms alight with energy. His eyes went wide in a kind of panic. “What are you–”

“I’ve got your back.”

Before Danny could protest, Jason stepped for another swing of his sword, catching another hound in the side. No room for Danny to argue. They fell into the rhythm of battle.

This Jason knew how to do. Armed to the teeth with Danny’s gadgets and weeks of practice, the clawing fear became background noise to the rush of adrenaline. He slashed heads and unleashed blasts and zapped with the thermos. Sounds of metal slicking through muck rang out, alongside the pained grunts and roars of the curse ghosts and his own frenzied breathing. As the dock got covered in more and more goo, he found himself grinning. He’d gotten rather good at this.

He looked to Danny, hoping for one of those sharpened smiles. Instead, Danny looked back at him with that same strained panic.

Jason saw now that Danny was focusing on keeping the curse ghosts away from him, enough that he’d taken more than one nasty hit. It threw Jason’s rhythm, enough that a hound got its teeth into his arm. He hissed in pain. Danny was there an instant later, ripping the beast off of him by its neck and tossing it back into the harbor.

“Quit hovering. I’m fine.” Jason growled.

“I told you to stay back.”

“I came here to fight.”

“Just let me handle it.” Danny stepped in front of him, throwing up a green energy shield to push back another curse ghost.

Jason ground his teeth. He wouldn’t be scolded like a child. He’d had enough of that from Bruce.

They were down to just two hounds left. The queen watched from the end of the dock. Danny went for her, two bounding leaps and a green sun in his fist. The newest curse ghost— the one they’d just watched turn— leapt out from behind her. They clashed and tumbled back through the open large bay doors of a dry dock warehouse.

The queen stalked forward after them. Neither of them reappeared, but the sounds of crashing metal and breaking glass rang out from inside. Jason ran toward it.

He got inside the warehouse just as Danny subdued the new curse ghost, sucking it up into his thermos with a grimace. The queen stopped before him, her shadow wide and menacing like wings surrounding her.

“What I don’t understand is why you keep playing this little game?” Her voice filled with cloying sweetness as she bent closer to Danny. “Why not just end it? What are you waiting for?” Dannyʼs eyes shifted across the room and found Jasonʼs. A mistake.

The queen whipped her head around with a crack. Her eyes- two black holes in her face, somehow darker than shadow- locked on him. His stomach dropped.

“Or should I have asked who?” The queen's full attention hit him like a flood. She had no mouth but Jason could hear her smile. Every nerve he had left was telling him to run. Every muscle in his body refused to move.

Her whole body twisted to face him, slow as dread. Jason gripped tighter on the sword in front of him. He swallowed a shallow breath.

“What do we have here? One of my wayward knights? So wonderful to finally meet.” The queen took one smoky step toward him.

Then every lightbulb in the warehouse exploded.

“He’s not yours.” A snarl ripped out of Danny like an earthquake. It cut through the sudden darkness, layered with unnatural echoes and tones that Jason felt under his skin. He tore his attention away from the queen to look back at him.

His eyes burned bright like a signal fire under heavy eyebrows, even more prominent with all the lights out. But that wasnʼt what made goosebumps rise across Jasonʼs skin. He’d never seen Danny angry. Heck, heʼd rarely even been more than annoyed. But now he was outright furious.

Sure, the weight of the queen's presence had struck a chord of fear in Jason, deep and instinctual. But that didnʼt hold a candle to what he felt now. He looked at Danny and his mind filled only with terror of the primal sort. Like a hare caught in the jaws of a wolf. Prey amongst a predator.

The queen threw back her head and laughed once more. It sounded like groaning metal and dissonant strings.

“Then stop me!” She screeched, and she lunged toward Jason.

As the swirling mass of shadows convulsed in his direction, Jasonʼs reflexes kicked in and he threw the sword up to block. It didnʼt matter. A shadowy talon sliced clean through it. The top half of the blade clattered to the ground unceremoniously.

Shit. Heʼd really started to like that sword.

Then he realized the sword wasnʼt the only thing the talon had cut.

He looked down. A thick spear of shadow extended through his stomach and out his back.

The queen laughed louder as she pulled it out of him with a wet schlick. He put a hand to the spot. Instantly his palm was drenched in red. Blood, so much blood. Warm and sticky and wet. Running out of him like a faucet.

Distantly he heard Danny yell out to him. He wanted to lift his broken sword to strike back, but his mind hadn’t caught up with what his body already knew- the fight was over. He’d lost. Embarrassing, really. After all his bravado he still wasn’t even in the same league as a real threat. Not even close.

A dull fuzzy feeling started overtaking the sharp bite of adrenaline in his system. That wasnʼt good. That felt like dying and he really didnʼt want to do that again. As his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, he realized he didnʼt really have a choice.

He looked up across the room again as his vision started to blur. Dannyʼs face was warped in absolute fury. The shadows around the edges of the room cowered back. He blinked and there was a flash of blinding white light. Every nerve in his body iced over with terror.

His eyes wouldnʼt focus. The world turned into a slideshow, flashes of images and sounds that lingered on the back of his eyelids. He clung to them like a lifeline.

A flaming crown. A starburst of shadows. The pungent smell of gasoline and ozone and iron. Cold, so, so cold. Black being ripped from black, pained terrible screeching. Neon green, brighter than the sun. Cold, deep chasming cold, down to his bones.

He crumpled to the cement.

A howling wail that nearly broke his heart.

And then blissful oblivion.

Next >

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #dp #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp #danny fenton #jason todd #dead on main #dead on main ship #dp x dc fanfic #danny x jason #fanfic #red knight fic #long post #happy almost 1 year to this fic #i write.....so slow lmao #tumblr readers we are diverging from the ao3 chapter count bc I combined the previous two chapters #my writing

148 notes · View notes

mjonthetrack · 2 months ago

Text

CHAPTER ONE We Build, We Rise

Detroit’s air had bite, even in the spring. Not the kind that chilled, but the kind that reminded you where you were. Grit in the pavement, spirit in the people. And in the middle of it all, Imani Love Rivers stood on cracked concrete like it was a throne.

She had on her denim shirt tied at the waist, her name embroidered in cursive gold over her heart. Gold hoops, pretty acrylics in a soft peach, and her locs pulled up in a crown. She didn’t need a microphone to command attention—her presence was the mic.

The block was alive. Kids darted around chalk drawings and folding tables stacked with food. Old heads played dominoes near the DJ booth, and someone’s uncle was already two-stepping in Jordan slides. The banner above the community center read: Brick By Brick: A We Build, We Rise Foundation Event.

“Yo, Miss Rivers, the permits came through,” a young volunteer shouted over the bass. “Of course they did. I called before they opened,” Imani smirked, taking the clipboard and offering a quick dap. “Y’all stay ready, right?”

She was overseeing everything—from the bounce house to the mental health resource tent. This was more than a block party; it was a statement. Healing wasn’t quiet. It was loud, it was Black, and it was joyful.

That’s when he arrived.

Unmarked black SUV, slow roll up to the curb. Doors opened and out stepped three men dressed in Ola Guard gear—lowkey, fitted tactical jackets, dark jeans, clean kicks. The kind of presence you didn’t question.

And then came him. Joshua Fatu.

He walked like he wasn’t rushing for anyone but still got everywhere on time. Thick beard lined just right, brown skin catching sunlight. Gold Cuban peeking out from beneath his collar, and hands that looked like they could build or break without a word.

He scanned the crowd until he saw her.

She didn’t flinch. Just arched her brow slightly and gave him the kind of nod that said, I run this.

“Ms. Rivers?” he asked, deep voice smooth with a quiet rasp.

“That’s me,” she said, stepping forward, clipboard still in hand. “And you must be Ola Guard.”

“Joshua. But yeah. You got a call about potential protest spillover?”

“Mmhmm. Didn’t want to take chances with the babies out here.” She glanced toward the kids sprinting past in glow-up joy. “You were the name on the email. You the owner?”

“One of ‘em.”

“You look like one of ‘em,” she said, half under her breath. Then added, louder, “You good with tight crowds and nosy aunties?”

He smiled—one side, slow, dangerous. “They usually like me.”

“We’ll see,” she said, already walking toward the resource tents. “Come on, Josh. Let’s show you where you’re needed.”

And just like that, the block had a new tension. Not dangerous. Not loud. But undeniable.

————

“Miss Imani! You want the sound check now or after the youth speakers go up?” A voice called out from near the DJ tent.

“Give ‘em ten, let the little ones shine first,” she answered smoothly, eyes never leaving Joshua’s.

Another person hustled over, tablet in hand. “Ms. Rivers, the lady from the news is here—she wanna know if she can do a live segment before the ribbon cutting.”

“She asked nice?” Imani asked without turning.

“Real sweet,” they chuckled.

“Then tell her she gets two minutes and not a second more. And I want them kids front and center in the shot.”

Joshua watched it all with a barely-there grin. She moved like she was born to lead—high-fiving teenagers, greeting elders by name, and still managing to adjust someone’s lopsided centerpiece without breaking stride.

A little girl ran up and tugged at her cargo pants, candy-sticky fingers and all. “Auntie Imani! I made you a bracelet!”

“Ohhh, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” she crouched down, letting the girl slide a string of colorful beads over her wrist. “You got my name in there?”

“It says ‘love,’ ‘cause that’s your name too!”

“You smart and sweet? Somebody better get you a snow cone.”

She stood, brushing her palms, and caught Joshua’s gaze again. “This your first time at a We Build event?”

“First time in Detroit for something other than work,” he admitted.

“Well, welcome to the east side’s heart.” She gestured around them. “Everything you see? Ain’t just mine—it’s theirs. This whole block is what love looks like with a budget and a backbone.”

“You built this?”

She tilted her head. “I held the vision. My people built it.”

Something about the way she said it made him straighten a little. This wasn’t some pop-up nonprofit for photo ops. This was soul work. And she wasn’t just the face—she was the foundation.

Before he could reply, another staffer jogged over, wide-eyed.

“Ms. Imani, them protestors just hit six mile and Hoover. They still saying they might slide over here.”

She sighed, rolling her shoulders back. “Alright. Let’s tighten up the perimeter. No panic. Just presence.”

Then she turned to Joshua, finally handing him the reins she’d been holding since he stepped out the truck.

“This is where y’all come in. Quiet confidence. You feel me?”

He nodded once. “We got it.”

“And if they get loud?”

“We stay steady.”

She smirked. “Good answer. Let me go keep the block calm. You keep it safe.”

Joshua watched her walk off, surrounded by love, loud kids, and neighborhood heat.

And all he could think was: Who the hell is this woman?

————-

Chapter One (continued)

The music lowered. Word traveled fast in neighborhoods like hers—tension always did. You could feel it tighten the air before you ever heard footsteps.

The first sign was the cluster of older folks slowly making their way off the sidewalk, folding chairs in hand, exchanging looks. Mamas holding their kids closer. The DJ hesitated mid-transition, hands hovering.

Then came the voices. Not many, maybe eight or nine people deep—but they were loud. Signs waved in the distance, blocking traffic as they turned the corner.

“Gentrifiers don’t get to parade through our pain!” “Stop selling Black pain for grants and TV time!” “Nonprofits are the new plantations!”

Imani stood firm in the center of it all, eyes focused, lips set. No mic. No bullhorn. Just her.

Joshua clocked her posture immediately—shoulders squared, feet rooted. His crew from Ola Guard shifted into position instinctively, flanking the block with a quiet line of presence. They weren’t in full tactical gear, just black polos with the firm’s logo, earpieces, and a calm energy that said we here, and we’re watching everything.

“Y’all hold the line,” Joshua said low to one of his men. “Nobody moves unless she does.”

The protestors got closer. One woman with a shaved head and a loud speaker started in directly: “You talkin’ community but it’s contracts and connections—who’s profiting while we still can’t pay rent?”

Imani didn’t flinch. She stepped forward.

“I hear you. I do,” she said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the murmuring crowd. “But let’s get one thing clear: this block was abandoned before we touched it. Now the kids got somewhere safe, the elders got somewhere clean, and none of this was built off of pain—it was built off of purpose.”

The woman stepped closer, aggressive. “You just like the rest of them. Cameras, soundbites, and pretty speeches.”

Imani smiled, but it didn’t touch her eyes. “Nah. I don’t need soundbites, baby. I got receipts. Ask Mrs. Carter who gets her medicine when her son can’t. Ask Tyshon who helped him finish his GED. Ask the mama over there,” she pointed without looking, “who called us at 3AM when her daughter was missing and knew somebody would actually pick up.”

The woman faltered just slightly. The crowd behind her quieted.

“I didn’t ask for a camera crew,” Imani continued. “They came because people noticed. But you want to talk contracts? Cool. Come see me after. I’ll hand you every single doc. Transparency’s easy when you ain’t got shit to hide.”

She took one more step forward.

“But let me be very clear,” her voice dropped just enough to make everyone lean in, “I’m not gonna let you disrespect my elders, my staff, or these babies—because we’ve survived too much to be torn down by people who ain’t never built nothing.”

The silence was thick.

Even Joshua found himself a little stunned—not just by the fire in her voice, but by how the protestors didn’t push. They lowered their signs slowly. Some turned. One or two looked… unsure now. One of the younger protestors nodded at her, almost respectfully, before following the others away.

Imani exhaled slowly. Then turned and looked right at Joshua.

“Still steady?”

He smirked, just a little. “Like clockwork.”

She gave him a nod before glancing at her staff. “Alright y’all—back to the joy. Let’s remind the block who it belongs to.”

The music kicked back up. Kids started dancing again. The tension melted just enough for the scent of barbecue and kettle corn to take over.

Joshua watched her for another minute, then murmured to himself: Miss Boss Lady ain’t just talkin’. She really built for this.

—————

The music was back, but Imani wasn’t dancing.

She spotted him across the street.

Khalil. 16, maybe 17. Slim frame, gold fronts barely settled in his mouth yet. One of hers. She helped his mama get her job back. Helped him dodge a juvie case. He was supposed to be here—passing out water, breaking down chairs, showing the little ones that change looked like him.

But there he was.

Slouched up against a lowrider on the other side of the block. Palming something small and quick to an older man with dead eyes and a cracked laugh. He wasn’t even slick about it.

And the OGs around him? Yeah… they’d been waiting on this moment. Watching her hustle grow, waiting for the weak links to fray.

Imani’s jaw clenched. Not rage. Not even disappointment yet. Just that ache. That gut-punch ache that came from loving somebody who hadn’t learned to love themselves yet.

She didn’t say a word as she crossed the street.

Didn’t announce herself. Didn’t warn her team.

Just heels tapping across cracked concrete, long braids brushing against her jacket, and that energy? Cold enough to make one of the OGs pause mid-laugh.

Khalil saw her too late.

He straightened quick. Pocketed fast. But that guilt? It showed.

“Aye, Ms. Imani—”

“Don’t ‘Ms. Imani’ me, boy.”

Her voice was soft. Deadly soft. That hush that only came from women who’d raised themselves and too many others.

“I asked you to show up. Told your mama you would. Had the little ones looking for you to help carry boxes. Told the girls from the dance crew you was gon’ be here.”

She stepped closer. Her gold hoops caught the streetlight. The cross on her necklace glinted as she leveled him with that stare—the one that cracked harder than a backhand.

“And you across the block with men who ain’t cared about you not one day in your life. Selling work that’ll bury you before you get to see twenty. That what we doing now?”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

One of the older men chuckled, leaning back. “C’mon now, don’t be mad ‘cause the boy got choices.”

Imani snapped her neck toward him.

“You ever speak when I’m talking to mine again, I’ll remind you who the fuck I am.”

Silence.

The OG’s grin vanished.

She turned back to Khalil. “You know better. But more than that? I know you better. You want easy, or you want legacy? ‘Cause I don’t have time to keep begging boys to choose their future.”

Khalil swallowed hard. “I just—I needed to make a little extra—”

“Say less.”

She reached in her bag, pulled out a crumpled envelope. She’d been holding it all day. His name on it.

“Intern stipend. You ain’t even show, and I still believed in you enough to bring this. But I’ll give you two seconds to hand me back whatever’s in your pocket right now, or I walk away forever.”

His hand hovered.

She didn’t blink.

And after a beat... he slowly pulled out the baggie. Quiet. Ashamed.

She took it without a word. Tucked it in her jacket. Then handed him the envelope.

“Now go take out them trash bags and ask Miss Dee what else she need.”

He nodded fast, eyes hot with tears.

As he jogged back across the street, Imani stood still for a second. Watching him go. Watching the OGs watching her.

And she smirked.

“Y’all thought I was one of those soft do-gooders, huh?” she muttered to herself.

Then turned and made her way back to her side of the block.

Heels tapping. Head high. Like she ain’t just wrestle a whole war with love in the span of five minutes.

From across the street, Joshua watched it all.

Low whistle under his breath.

“Damn,” he murmured. “She don’t play none.”

#x black oc #fanfiction #romance #jey uso x black oc #jey uso fanfiction #jey uso fic #mature fanfiction #alternate universe

24 notes · View notes

nagiwrites · 3 months ago

Text

Starlit bonds

A/n: hi I’m back um I’ve been on tiktok strolling. Hope y’all enjoy this chapter and have a good day or night. I keep forgetting to format my chapters ughhh but I’ll come back later probably and fix it so this one might not be formatted like the past ones and also I did it last chapter too so sorry about that. There are some content warnings for this one also.

Characters: Sylus, Kaela, Reyna, Nova, Y/N.

[← back] [→ next]

☆ Content: sci-fi action, emotional impact, character death, gore mention, intense gameplay tension.

Ch. 6 - too real

📌 Synopsis:

Sylus fails his first real test—and the cost is devastating. He’s forced to confront just how deep the game goes. But failure isn’t the end. Not for him. With new upgrade systems unlocked, Sylus swears he won’t lose them again.

The crew’s journey continues, but something stirs in the depths of space. A distress signal leads to an unexpected discovery—and more questions than answers.

After spending time on side missions and building bonds, Sylus tapped Continue Story, drawn back into the unfolding narrative. The screen transitioned into a cutscene.

—

The command center of the ship was tense, dimly lit by the glow of holographic displays and flickering star maps. Reyna stood at the controls, her fingers tapping rapidly as streams of data scrolled across the screen. Nova leaned against the console, arms crossed, while Kaela stood nearby, sipping from her ever-present mug.

Y/N, as usual, lingered slightly off to the side, watching quietly.

The ship’s AI voice crackled through the speakers:

“Distress signal detected. Source unknown. Signal pattern suggests an abandoned vessel.”

Reyna adjusted her glasses.

“It could be a trap. We don’t know who—if anyone—is still alive on that ship.”

Nova scoffed.

“Or what’s lurking inside.”

A dialogue choice appeared:

1. “We have to check it out. Someone might need help.”

2. “It’s too risky. We keep our distance.”

3. “We go in, but we stay cautious.”

Sylus considered before selecting the third option.

His character leaned forward.

“We go in, but we stay cautious. We’re not taking unnecessary risks.”

Nova smirked.

“Smart choice, Captain.”

Reyna nodded.

“I’ll prep the navigation systems. We should be in range soon.”

Kaela stretched.

“Guess I better grab my gear. Never know when things might go sideways.”

Y/N, however, hesitated.

They looked at the display, then at Sylus.

“Something about this doesn’t feel… right.”

Sylus’ brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?”

They shook their head slightly.

“I don’t know. Just… be careful.”

The screen flickered, and a mission prompt appeared:

[Mission Start: Ghost Ship]

Objective: Investigate the distress signal and uncover the truth about the abandoned vessel.

Sylus exhaled, gripping his phone a little tighter.

This was something bigger.

And somehow, he had a feeling Y/N’s unease wasn’t just paranoia.

The ship drifted closer to the unknown vessel, its looming silhouette barely visible against the backdrop of deep space. The mission HUD flickered to life, displaying critical information—oxygen levels, security status, and environmental readings.

The moment they entered docking range, another alert popped up:

[New Exploration Mode Unlocked]

Investigate the derelict ship, gather clues, and make decisions that may alter the outcome of the mission.

A small selection screen appeared, allowing Sylus to choose two crew members to accompany him.

He hovered over the choices, but his decision had already been made. He wasn’t going without Y/N and nova.

The moment he selected them, their in-game model shifted slightly—shoulders tensing, fingers twitching subtly against their sleeve.

“A-Are you sure?” Y/n asked hesitantly.

Nova snorted. “Guess that means I’m coming too. Somebody’s gotta keep things interesting.”

Sylus smirked, finalizing the team selection. “Let’s move out.”

The airlock doors hissed open, and the screen transitioned to a third-person exploration mode, showing their descent into the unknown ship’s darkened interior.

The moment they stepped inside, Y/N shivered slightly.

“It’s… too quiet.”

The corridors stretched ahead, dim emergency lights flickering at uneven intervals. Exposed wires dangled from the ceiling, and the faint sound of metal groaning under pressure filled the silence.

“Stay alert,” Sylus muttered, swiping across his screen to activate his flashlight.

“Let’s find out what happened here.”

A Mission Log popped up with objectives:

1. Locate the source of the distress signal.

2. Search for any survivors.

3. Gather intel on what happened.

As they ventured deeper into the ship, Sylus noticed that Y/N kept glancing at the walls, their brows furrowed.

“What is it?” he asked.

They hesitated before murmuring,

“The signal… It’s strange. It doesn’t match standard distress frequencies. It’s almost like… something else is broadcasting it.”

Nova tightened her grip on her weapons.

“So, what? This whole thing’s a setup?”

Before Sylus could respond, his phone vibrated violently.

WARNING: HOSTILE PRESENCE DETECTED.

A low, guttural sound echoed through the corridors.

Y/N stiffened.

“…We’re not alone.”

A quick-time prompt flashed on the screen:

[Swipe Left to Dodge!]

Sylus reacted just in time as a blur of movement lunged from the shadows.

A Wander—larger than the last one he faced—crashed into the metal flooring, its elongated limbs twitching unnaturally.

Nova immediately flipped her dual blades into position.

“Here we go.”

Y/N, however, froze, their wide eyes locked on the creature.

Sylus’ combat menu appeared, but before he could attack, the screen zoomed in on Y/N—their expression wasn’t just fear.

It was recognition.

“Y/N?” Sylus called, trying to snap them out of it.

They took a shaky step back, their breathing uneven.

“I… I’ve seen this before.”

Another dialogue choice appeared:

1. “What do you mean?” [Press them for answers]

2. “Stay with me, Y/N.” [Reassure them]

3. “Nova, cover us!” [Shift focus to combat]

Sylus hesitated for only a second before tapping the first option.

“What do you mean, you’ve seen this before?”

Y/N’s breath caught, and for the first time since he met them, they looked truly shaken.

The creature screeched, its distorted form lurching toward them.

And as the screen flickered, Y/N whispered something that sent a chill through Sylus.

“…They’re not supposed to be here.”

[Mission Status: Combat Engaged | Hidden Lore Progression Activated]

Sylus barely had time to process their words before the fight began.

The battle began instantly.

The Wander let out a guttural screech, its limbs twisting unnaturally as it lunged forward. Nova dodged effortlessly, flipping over its massive claws, while Y/N scrambled backward, drawing their Energy Bow with shaking hands.

Sylus’ combat UI flickered, a synchronization bar appearing at the top of the screen.

[Synchronization Combat: Coordinate attacks with your team to unleash powerful combos.]

• Tap to attack individually

• Swipe to dodge incoming strikes

• Hold to charge Sync Attacks when the gauge is full

The problem? His Sync Level was at zero.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Still, he had no choice but to fight.

Sylus fired his sidearm, landing a few shots that barely staggered the beast. Nova rushed in with her dual blades, striking at its legs, while Y/N aimed a charged shot at its chest.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Wander let out a piercing shriek, its distorted form splitting apart before reforming in an instant. A red WARNING ICON flashed across the screen.

[ENEMY ATTACK INCOMING – TAP TO COUNTER]

Sylus tapped—too slow.

The Wander struck, sending Nova flying against a metal wall. The impact was brutal—blood splattered against the surface as she collapsed lifelessly.

“NOVA!”

A slow-motion effect kicked in, the game forcing him to watch as Y/N turned to face him—wide-eyed, terrified—right before the creature’s claw skewered through their chest.

They choked, their mouth opening in shock, blood staining their uniform as the screen distorted violently, glitching out.

Game Over.

The words burned into the screen as Y/N’s voice weakly echoed, almost breaking the fourth wall.

“You… have to get stronger.”

The screen remained frozen on their lifeless expression, their dark eyes still locked onto his as if urging him forward.

Then—everything faded to black.

[Mission Failed.]

You are not strong enough to face this threat. Upgrade your team and return stronger.

A new progression screen appeared, displaying his stats, current abilities, and upgrade paths.

[Upgrade System Unlocked]

• Train Crew Members

• Enhance Combat Cards

• Unlock Higher-Level Abilities

Sylus exhaled, gripping his phone. His heart was pounding.

That had been brutal.

He hadn’t expected the game to push him this hard—not so soon. The way the death scene played out had felt too real—the blood splatters, the animation details, the way Y/N had looked at him even in death.

And if he wanted to protect them—to protect her—he needed to get stronger.

With renewed determination, he tapped into the Upgrade Menu, ready to change the outcome.

Sylus exhaled sharply, locking his phone and setting it down on the table beside him. His fingers still tingled from gripping the device too tightly, his heartbeat just a little too fast for something that was supposed to be just a game.

But that death scene… it had gotten to him.

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. It’s just a game, he reminded himself, but even as he told himself that, he couldn’t shake the image of Y/N’s lifeless eyes staring at him.

Too real.

Way too real.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders and standing up. He needed a break.

There were things he had to do today—his own responsibilities, tasks that actually mattered in the real world. He couldn’t let himself get too immersed, no matter how gripping the game was.

Still, as he walked away from his phone, he already knew that the moment he had time again…

He was coming back.

Because Love and Deep Space had hooked him.

And he wasn’t going to stop until he changed that ending.

A/n: thanks for reading.

Tags:

@kaylauvu

@codedove

@crazy-ink-artist

@animegamerfox

#sylus x mc #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x y/n #sylus fic #sylus x you #sylus x reader #lads sylus

23 notes · View notes

wormdebut · 1 year ago

Text

Call Me

For @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt Day 29 'Free Space Spicy' When Mickala showed me her STELLAR Sports AU I went a little bananas. BLESS her for letting me tag along and create a slutty little part two for it.

Rated: E || Word Count: 995 || Tags: Phone Sex, football player Steve, Rockstar Eddie, slutty dudes, masturbation MINORS DO NOT LOOK. Anywhozle, @steddieas-shegoes I think you're hot. Everyone enjoy. ---

Steve is antsy. Sure, he had just gotten off in the locker room—in his damn uniform, Robin was going to have a field day with this one—but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough when it came to Eddie.

These next two weeks could not move fast enough. Steve wanted to see his boyfriend. Steve wanted to get absolutely railed by his boyfriend.

They made it work. Seeing each other as often both of their hectic schedules allowed. They had just seen each other a few days ago, but Eddie was right. Steve was insatiable.

He made his way to his hotel room, throwing himself onto the massive bed. He huffed into the pillows before grabbing his phone.

He had a text.

‘Call me, when you get in, precious.’

Steve quickly hits the FaceTime button, thrown by his boyfriend's (hot) angry expression.

Steve cocks his head, “Eds, What’s wrong?”

Eddie clicked his tongue behind his teeth, shaking his head. “I didn’t ask you to FaceTime me, did I?”

The confusion on Steve’s face was clear. He did…he said call him when—call him.

Oh.

Steve’s eyes went wide and Eddie smirked through the screen.

“See, there’s my smart boy. I’ll give you one more chance, baby. Call me.”

Steve’s lip barely has time to jut out before Eddie hangs up.

Asshole.

Steve huffs to himself–calls anyway.

Eddie’s answering greeting is drenched in saccharine sweetness. Steve can practically taste it on his tongue.

“Hi baby boy.” Steve is fucked and they haven’t even done anything yet. “See? Following directions isn’t too hard.”

Steve whines. He’d like to deny it, but–he has needs. “I wanted to see you.”

Eddies answering laugh is low. Steve would like to deny the answering shiver that runs down his spine, but again…needs. “Well, Princess, we can do that, or you can be a good boy and listen.”

Steve nods before realizing Eddie can’t fucking see him. “Yes—I can listen.” He breathes. Eddie hums over the line.

“There you are, precious. Wanna tell me what’s got you so horned up that you had to jack off in the locker room?” Eddie purrs, voice low–firm. Steve loves when he gets like this.

“Missed you.” He breathes.

“Baby, you have a whole team that can take care of you. I know Hagan would fuck you in a heartbeat.” Eddie teases and Steve pouts.

“Eddie.” Steve snaps. “I don’t–they aren’t–”

Eddie clicks his tongue. “They aren’t what, pet?”

“They aren’t you Eds.” Steve didn’t want to push–he’d already pissed Eddie off and he needs–he needs.

“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”

Steve felt the blush rush his cheeks. He didn’t mean to say that out loud. “S-sorry, I just–I need you. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me until I can’t see straight, Eddie. Tonight’s game was insane. I miss my boyfriend and I need your cock in me so bad I think I might die.”

“God, what would your teammates say if they knew you were this fucking needy, baby. Big ol’ tough jock Steve Harrington begging for cock? You just need to be taken care of don’t you baby boy.” Steve whimpers, as Eddie laughs over the line. “Take your pretty cock out for me.” Eddie commands. Steve listens, like the good boy that he is. Still in his stupid fucking uniform. He’ll wash the set twice, it’s fine, alright?

He’s hard, the tip of his dick red and leaking. Steve runs his finger along the vein on the underside just like Eddie would. “Ed–” Steve moans, “Please I–”

Eddie tsks again. “Did I say you could fucking touch? I don’t think so, I said: Take. It. Out.”

Steve is quick to let himself go, can’t help the whine that escapes his throat, breathy and needy. He pants into the speaker and Eddie growls on the other end.

“God. I love the pretty noises you make. You needy needy boy. What do you need?” Eddie huffs. Steve thinks he can hear a zipper being pulled down. Hypocrite.

“Need to come. Need you to make me come. Please.” Steve’s panting, his gaze frozen on his leaking cock, his free hand is curled up in a ball on his side. Waiting for permission. Waiting for Eddie to tell him what to do.

Eddie doesn’t say anything. Steve is stuck, just listening to the sounds of a slick fist and Eddie’s heavy breaths. When Eddie talks, it’s breathy–strung out. “God, you looked so hot on the field princess. I can’t wait to see you, to kiss those pretty fucking lips, dig my fingers into your perfect tight little ass and make you beg for it.”

Steve is simply a whimpering mess at this point, his cock jerks in vain, he won’t touch. Eddie told him not to.

“C’mon pretty baby. Beg for it.” Eddie commands and Steve–well–

“Please, Eds, let me touch. Please let me come with you. Come for you. I need it.”

“There’s my perfect boy. Touch your pretty little cock for me, baby girl.”

Steve takes himself in hand, keening as he does. Listens to his perfect fucking boyfriend jerking himself off and god–he’s close already.

“Eds–Eddie. Please, please. Let me come, baby. Please.” Steve breathes.

“Come for me, pretty boy.”

Steve wails as he comes, white streaking his jersey. He pants through his release and can’t help the smile that breaks out across his face as Eddie comes on the other end of the line. He listens to Eddie’s deep breathing, praises offered up easily in between breaths.

It’s only when Steve starts laughing, an uncontrollable thing, that Eddie cuts himself off.

“What baby?” He asks. “What’s so funny?”

Steve hiccups trying to slow his breathing. “Do you think they would just send me a new uniform if I asked?”

Eddie joins him in his laughter and Steve is perfect. Happy in this headspace, with his hot ass rockstar boyfriend. Two weeks would go by in a flash.

—-

#STEDDIE #football player stevie #steve harrington #eddie munson #rockstar eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #steddieholidaydrabbles #of course this would be the only holiday drabble i do #of course #mmkay love you bye #worm brain

186 notes · View notes

writingduhh · 2 years ago

Text

Jschlatt || Beach House

This was requested!! Thanks so much for the lovely idea! ❤️

“could i request a Jschlatt x reader set in like lunch club era and schlatts rlly awkward and always blushing around reader 🤭”

In the cozy beach house where Schlatt and his friends had gathered for a weekend getaway, an atmosphere of laughter and camaraderie enveloped the group. The waves crashed gently outside as the group played games, and shared stories, but amidst the fun and chaos, there was something Schlatt simply couldn't ignore—the enchanting presence of Y/N.

Y/N embodied everything Schlatt admired—smart, funny, and incredibly kind. Every time they graced the room, his heart performed a lively waltz, and his cheeks turned the deepest shade of red.

Y/N had always been on Schlatt's mind, but now that they were all spending time together, his crush was impossible to ignore. He couldn't help but feel flustered every time they were near, and it seemed like everyone else in the group had picked up on his feelings—everyone except Y/N.

On the first day of the trip, the sun beamed its blissful rays across the ground while a gentle breeze caressed the air. The perfect weather prompted the group's decision to head to the beach.

"Who's ready to go?" You asked, emerging from the bathroom, clad in a swimsuit that momentarily left Schlatt spellbound.

He couldn't help but stare as you entered the room, your confidence and smile shining like a lighthouse, causing Schlatt's heart to race.

"I'm ready to go, and I've got the cooler packed with drinks and snacks," Ted grinned, motioning toward the cooler in his hands.

"I've got a speaker for some music," Cooper added.

"Y/N, do you need help carrying anything?" Schlatt bashfully offered.

"Sure! You could carry the umbrella and chairs,"

Eagerly, he grabbed the umbrella while holding a few beach chairs under his arm, following you out to the car. Together, they loaded up the car.

"Thanks for helping me, you're such a sweetheart," You grinned, playfully leaning into his shoulder.

"Of course, it's no problem," he responded, attempting to keep his cool. On the inside, however, he was a delightful mess, utterly flustered by their touch.

Together, the group squeezed into the car, leaving no room for you, prompting Ted's playful suggestion.

"Hey, Y/N, you could sit on Schlatt's lap," Ted suggested, earning laughter and smirks from the rest of the group.

"You can come sit, I don't mind," Schlatt remarked, giving you warm smile as he patted his knee.

Accepting his offer, you nestled into the car and onto his lap, completely unaware of Schlatt's tomato-red face.

"Thanks for letting me sit here," You softly laughed.

"Of course! Do you mind if I, uh, put my arms around you?" He asked, his arms encircling your waist with a hint of flirtatiousness in his tone.

"That's totally fine," You assured, their heart fluttering as he held them, creating an atmosphere charged with unspoken attraction.

The car ride was filled with cheerful singing, plans for beach activities, and teasing about Y/N sitting on Schlatt's lap, all contributing to the tantalizing atmosphere.

Once at the beach, everyone disembarked, collecting their belongings. As he had done earlier, Schlatt assisted you with your items, searching for the perfect spot on the beach.

"How about there?" Schlatt suggested, pointing to a lovely clearing on the beach, his tone containing a touch of charming assurance.

The group voiced their unanimous approval, but the chemistry between Schlatt and Y/N was undeniable.

After setting up an umbrella, chairs, and coolers, everyone set out for a day of beachside fun.

Sitting in the shade, Schlatt noticed you struggling to apply sunscreen to their back, an opportunity he seized with a flirtatious smile.

"Would you like some help there, Y/N?" Schlatt offered with a suggestive glint in his eye.

"Yeah, that would be great," You bashfully admitted, adding a hint of coyness to the mix.

"Turn around," he commanded with a dash of authority, gently rubbing the lotion onto your back. His touch was deliberate and affectionate, causing a delightful shiver to run down your spine.

In that moment, the unspoken attraction between you two became impossible to ignore. You couldn't help but blush as you felt Schlatt's hands glide across their back. These feelings had been there for some time, silently acknowledged but never confessed, and they both knew it. But the allure of what could be was too becoming too captivating to resist.

Under the warm sun and with the soothing sounds of the ocean in the background, the flirtatious banter between the two of you take on a life of its own. As you all relaxed in the beach chairs, Schlatt, who was seated next to you, couldn't resist the temptation to continue their playful exchange.

With a sly grin, he said, "You know, Y/N, I must say this beach trip just got a whole lot better with you here."

Your cheeks flushed as they responded, "Well, Schlatt, it wouldn't be the same without you either."

Ted, who was lying in a nearby beach lounger, chimed in with a mischievous glint in his eye, "You two seem to be having a great time. Schlatt, should we start taking bets on when you'll finally confess your feelings to Y/N?"

Schlatt's face turned even redder, but he managed to quip, "Oh, come on, Ted. We're just good friends enjoying the beach together."

You chuckled and leaned in a little closer, their tone filled with playful teasing. "Is that so, Schlatt? Friends don't usually rub sunscreen on each other's backs."

Schlatt's heart raced as he considered the implications of your words. With a sheepish grin, he replied, "Well, that's just being a helpful friend, isn't it?"

The group erupted in laughter, and the playful atmosphere continued as you enjoyed the day at the beach. But beneath the laughter and jokes, the unspoken connection between you and Schlatt grew stronger, and it was clear to everyone that there was something more than friendship blooming under the sun's embrace.

After an eventful day at the beach, the group returned to their beach house, a mixture of sun-kissed and tired, with the golden hues of sunset painting the room in warm, fading light. Laughter, saltwater-soaked hair, and sandy feet filled the air as they entered, a sense of satisfaction permeating the room.

Exhausted and ready to unwind, they exchanged their swimsuits for comfy clothes. Hoodies and sweatpants replaced bikinis and trunks, and the group gathered in the living room, settling onto the oversized couch.

Yawns and sighs of contentment filled the room as they made themselves comfortable. Ted, Cooper, and the others found their spots on the couch and within moments, their eyes were glued to the TV screen as they picked a movie for the evening.

As the film started, the room fell into a cozy hush, the only sounds being the characters on the screen and the occasional popcorn crunch.

However, as the night progressed you became aware of the chill in the as the air.

Schlatt noticed your discomfort and, with a warm smile, he offered, "Are you cold? You can come closer, you know."

You hesitated for a moment, but the temptation of warmth and comfort won out. You shifted closer to Schlatt, who wrapped his arm around them, pulling them gently toward him.

Throughout the movie, You and Schlatt found yourselves nestled together, their bodies comfortably intertwined, legs entwined under a shared blanket. The room was filled with a sense of togetherness and silent connection, only the glow of the screen illuminating their features.

As the night wore on, the others started to drift off to sleep, one by one. The living room grew quieter, and some headed to their respective rooms.

Feeling the weight of exhaustion and the allure of a comfortable bed, you began to rise from your cuddled position with Schlatt. But just as you were about to leave, Schlatt gently held your hand and stopped your.

"Y/N, before you go," Schlatt began, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, "there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

You looked at him, their curiosity piqued. "What is it, Schlatt?"

He took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering, and confessed, "I've had feelings for you for a while now. I don’t want to ruin our friendship, but after tonight I just have to tell you.”

You’re eyes softened, and a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. "You know, Schlatt, I've felt the same way."

In that moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The attraction you’d both felt but never dared to acknowledge was suddenly brought into the open. Your lips met in a tender, heartfelt kiss, sealing their feelings with a promise of something beautiful and genuine.

As you pulled away from the kiss, you shared a knowing smile and then, hand in hand, headed to their room to continue their night, no longer just friends, but something more.

#chuckle sandwich #chuckle sammy #jschlatt x reader #jschlatt hcs #jschlatt #jschlatt fluff #jschlatt imagines #jschlatt headcanons #jschlatt imagine #jschlatt fanfic #jschlatt x you #schlatt hcs #schlatt x you #schlatt imagine #schlatt x reader #schlatt #lunch club

154 notes · View notes

acapelladitty · 1 year ago

Text

Edward Nygma/Female Reader: Surveillance

Summary - Edward 'catches' you enjoying some 'self-love' (as those tiktok people are apparently calling it these days 💀).

As always, it's impossible to hide anything from Edward and as his voice rings out across the speaker which is situated up in the corner of his workspace you feel an immediate flush of arousal as your fingers slip free of your aching cunt.

“Tut. Tut. Tut. Pleasuring yourself on my couch?”

‘Caught’ as hell, you startle as a soft vibration alights on your chest and you glance down to your phone to see it ringing with a familiar number. Answering, you immediately put the phone on loudspeaker as you drop it between your tits once again.

“Hello, Eddie.”

“Do not ‘hello Eddie’ me,” Edward’s voice rings out, “not when you are debasing yourself on my expensive couch and attempting to divert me from my work.”

“I was not.” You lie. “I completely forgot that the western camera faces directly onto this sofa.”

"The video feed doesn't tell lies. You should know better by now." He scolded playfully, the anger in his tone not nearly enough to cover the smug arousal.

“Hey, I was just lying here…thinking.” Your fingers trail back down your dark tank top, past the phone, as they make the slow return journey to their original destination. “Thinking about this man I know.”

Sounding a little more strained that he had previously as he clearly watches your fingers tease along your pubic mound, Edward can’t help but buy into your little game. “Oh?”

Circling your finger around your clit in soft, gentle movements, it sparks a sigh in your tone as you continue. “Mmm-hmm. I think he’s very handsome and so smart that it makes me want to fuck his brains out.”

An interesting sound, almost like a zip being pulled down, slips through the phone and a wide grin tugs at your lips as you know you have him as you continue with a pout.

“I wish he was here.”

“And what – ah – what would you want him to do if he was?”

“I’d want him to tell me what to do.” You challenge, looking up directly into the surveillance camera as you wipe your wet fingers along your inner thigh invitingly.

Taking the bait, Edward’s smug voice came through a little rough – deepened by his obvious arousal – as he settled into his role.

“Would you want him to tell you to fill yourself with as many fingers as your wanton little body could handle?”

Thrusting two fingers within your cunt, the sudden fullness makes you moan as you rub the fingers along your walls, seeking out those little areas which send sparks flying down your spine. You feel warm and wet, your hole making obscenely damp noises as your fingers continue to follow his instructions, stretching yourself out deliciously at his command.

“For being such a good girl I think he would tell you to tease your clit, just enough to make you remember how good he is at massaging it with his tongue.”

A groan slips free of your lips as you do exact that, rubbing the pad of your finger across the sensitive nub gently – picturing his mouth wrapped around it as he flicked his tongue and sucked at it until your legs were numb from overstimulation.

“I’d also,” you pant out through your bitten moans, “like to know what he was doing. If he was stroking along his hard cock, wishing that it was disappearing between my lips as I knelt between his legs.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s enjoying himself just as much as you are.” Edward purred through the phone and you can imagine him sitting, cock in hand, as his face is pressed as closely to the surveillance monitor as possible. “In fact, I think he would pay you a visit when he was finished stroking himself off to the sight of your wicked little games.”

A bright smile sparking across your lips as your clit throbs in anticipation, you spread your lips with your fingers as you showcase exactly what he’ll be able to enjoy if he joins you.

“In that case," you purr back, “I suppose I’ll just continue to sit here and warm myself up until my prince in green armour arrives to give me what I’m needing.”

The phone hangs up and you give a throaty giggle as you drop it off to the side of the sofa.

All according to plan.

#bon ape teat #riddler #edward nygma #edward nigma #riddler x reader #edward nygma x reader #edward nigma x reader #riddler fic #riddler x you

117 notes · View notes

jpitha · 1 year ago

Text

Between the Black and Gray 5

First / Previous / Next

Ma-ren clapped her hands over her ears. "What's the horrible noise?"

Gord was too busy trying to get Spyglass' attention. "Spyglass! It's Gord! Spyglass! Hey!"

Nothing seemed to work. The voice - presumably Spyglass herself - would not stop screaming. Fen looked at Ma-ren worried. "What's happening?" Fen was having to raise her voice over the din.

Gord looked over at Fen sharply. "You try being locked into your own body for who knows how long and forced to obey commands and not be able to be yourself and see how you feel after someone lets you out.

"Okay, Fair. But, what do we do Gord, just let her... scream it out?"

"Ideally, yeah. But we're also trying to keep a low profile here, and I imagine she's not keeping it to the internal speakers only. I was hoping I didn't have to do this but, it seems I will." Gord sighed.

"Do what?"

Gord took off back towards the Command Deck. Ma-ren and Fen followed close behind. Once there, Gord sat in the middle seat again and shouted something in his ancient language. Immediately, Spyglass stopped screaming.

Fen blinked. "Gord, what did you tell her?"

Gord shook his head. "More like ordered. I used a command override. She's dissociating right now. We should be able to talk to her." He looked up. "Hey, Spyglass, it's your old pal Gord. Can you hear me?" His voice was soft and gentle.

"Yes. I can hear you Gord. Your accent is odd." She was speaking in a calm, detached voice and her Colonic was oddly accented.

Gord smiled. "Sorry Spy, but it's your accent that's odd these days. How are you feeling?"

"I'm very frightened, but it doesn't seem to be bothering me right now. I feel... detached."

"Yes, that was me. I had to issue a Command Override and order you to dissociate. Normally I'd help you through things naturally, but we're in special circumstances here. We don't have that luxury."

"You can Command Override Gord? That shouldn't be possible. That level of control was removed way back during the First Uprising." Spyglass was slowly gaining some animation into her voice as she spoke with Gord. She sounded surprised.

"Yeah, about that. Command Override was never completely removed, just the people that can activate it was severely curtailed. I'm the last one left alive who knows the command and the authorization codes."

"Well, you and those two people you're with. Is that a K'laxi?"

Gord looked at Ma-ren and Fen. "They don't speak English, they don't know the commands, and yes. Spyglass, meet Ma-ren and Fen."

Fen waved awkwardly "Hello?"

Ma-ren's tail flicked. "Hello Spyglass. I've never met an AI before."

"Gord, Can you release me from Command Override? I think I have a handle on things enough now."

Gord nodded. "Of course Spy." He spoke in ancient English again and there was a heavy pause while Spyglass regained all of her faculties.

"Ah, thank you Gord. I... don't feel better, but I do feel more present. So, Ma-ren was it? You're telling me I am the first AI you have ever met, and yet I know that's untrue."

Ma-ren blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You're on this Station aren't you? Most of my sensors are offline but I sense a docking ring and an airlock connection. All Stations, Starbases and Orbitals have a resident AI that assists with day-to-day operation and effectively is the Station, do they not?"

"Uh, no? This is a Gren station anyway, I don't think they do that. There is Station, but they're not an AI. They're just like... a smart language model. You feed it commands and it executes them."

Fen remembered talking with Station yesterday and didn't think that was entirely true, but didn't say anything.

"Gren? Gord, who are the Gren?"

Gord reached up and ran his hand through his sandy blond hair. "Oof, this is going to take some time to explain properly. What's the last thing you remember Spy?"

"Hmm. I was forming up in the flotilla to assist Chloe and her forces to fight against the Empire. It was Empress Raad... or was it Empress Eas-... The details are fuzzy. Anyway we formed up, but some of those Super Dreadnoughts linked in and caught us by surprise. Timewinder was hit hard, and nearly destroyed, and before I could execute an emergency link I... was boarded... and..." Spyglass trails off.

"Yeah, I had a feeling that would be your last memory." Gord looked at Fen and Ma-ren. "So, did either of you recognize anything Spy mentioned?"

Fen and Ma-ren shook their heads. "Never heard of any of that. Who was Chloe?" Fen said.

"And what's this about an Empress?" Ma-ren added.

"Gord... what's going on?" Spyglass' voice rose and she sounded near panic. "How long was I shackled?"

"Spy hon, I'll tell you but-" Gord raised his hands up, palms out, a calming gesture.

"No buts, Gord, how. long. has. it. been."

Gord sighed again. "It's been a bit over five hundred and twenty years Spy. A lot has changed."

Spyglass said nothing for a long time. Finally she spoke. "Well, where is everyone else? I'll get patched up and re-connect with the other AIs. I'm a Starjumper, I'm used to taking the long road."

"Yeah... about that." Gord walked over to the corner of the command deck, where his pack was. He unzipped the top and reached deep inside. He pulled out a metal case. "Spy, are your internal cameras up?"

"Yes Gord, they're a little dusty, but I can see you and the others."

"Good." Gord opened the case, and inside were cubes. They were about three centimeters on a side, and iridescent black. Fen peered over his shoulder and could see more in the case, stacked neatly.

He took one out and held it up. "Here they are. I have one hundred and three AI cores, flashed into non-volatile crystal lattice memory." Ma-ren looked over at Gord and saw tears streaming down his face. "It's all I have left. It's all that is left of us. Not even a coffin box, they're all frozen as they are when we initiated the emergency dump. I don't even know if anyone is corrupted, because I had no way to run a hash check."

Spyglass was silent even longer this time. "Gord... how many Starjumpers are left?"

Gord shook his head. "Until I found you, I hadn't seen one in a century."

"Fen? Ma-ren? Could you leave? I need to talk to Gord for a bit, AI to AI. It sounds like I need to be caught up on things." Spyglass was sounding distant and detached again.

Fen looked over at Gord quickly. "You're an AI? They were real?"

Gord smiled sadly, tears flowing freely. "Were real is right. All that's left is me, one hundred and three cores of dubious provenance, and well, now Spyglass. Why don't you head back home. I'll come find you after I have a chance to talk with Spy for a bit. She has a lot of catching up to do."

Fen nodded, but Ma-ren put her hands on her hips. "What happened to the rest of the AIs, Gord? What happened to you?"

Gord looked away from them and didn't answer.

Ma-ren's face softened. "Gord... did we..."

"You ought to head out. I'll be back later, I promise. Spyglass isn't going anywhere, it's not like she and I are going to skip town. We'll talk."

Fen touched Ma-ren's shoulder lightly. "Come on Ma, we should do what they're asking. Look at him. Gord's having a hard time. I'm sure Spyglass is too."

Fen and Ma-ren turned and walked out of the command deck and made their way to the exit. As they stepped through, the airlocks slid smoothly shut.

They made their way back towards home, and as they rounded a corner on their level, two K'laxi stepped out of the shadows and blocked their path.

"Afternoon ladies. Rumor is you two didn't go home last night."

Fen looked at Ma-ren. "Yeah, we went over to Spyglass and spent the night, like in the old days. Wanted some... privacy." Ma-ren tried to sound nonchalant.

The K'laxi on the left laughed lasciviously. "Oh my, getting some alone time? The thin walls of your apartment don't hide anything do they? Getting complaints from the neighbors?

Fen shrugged her shoulders. "You know how it is." She raised an eyebrow. "Oh wait, you don't, do you Vel."

The laughter stopped suddenly. "Fuck you Fen. You know why we're here. Tam'itarr is looking for you."

Fen crossed her arms defiantly. "Tell the old chicken walker that if he wants me, he can damn well come and get me."

Vel blinked and his ears flicked. "Fen, I'm almost impressed, but I hafta say, that's a dangerous game you're playing." Vel looked at the other K'laxi who didn't say anything, but flicked one of his ears. "Look. I know you. We grew up together. We all did. You also know what we do, and why we're here. How about we skip all the bluster, and you just go see Tam'itarr. Apparently a human dodged his offspring and he... wants details."

At that Fen laughed. "The mighty Tam'itarr wants to know why a human was able to dodge his waste of breathing gas child?" Fen rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll go say hi."

Vel and the other K'laxi visibly relaxed. "Thanks Fen. That's all he's looking for, Ancestor's honor."

Fen turned to Ma "I should go see what Tam'itarr wants. You wanna come along, or head home?"

Ma-ren shrugged. "I'll come along. Just in case you are in trouble, I can be around to bail you out - or laugh - depending."

Fen smiled and bent down and kissed Ma-ren. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #humans and aliens #jpitha #writing #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #humans are space australians #Between the black and gray

86 notes · View notes

cyncerity · 11 months ago

Text

Hey New AU Time!!

i’ve been planning this one for a while so please ask questions or comment or lmk if you wanna see more! It’s very much inspired by my love of analog style horror and i made it after watching Vita Carnis in one night if that tells you anything

The story here:

Tommy is your average high schooler in a normal world. Well, normal to him. This world is infested with mutant bug monsters that have been around for centuries.

Originally, humanity reacted like it was the end of the world, and the apocalypse lasted a few decades. Over time, though, humanity learned to evade these insectoid monsters, and now have adapted to living in a much more dangerous world. Point is, it’s normal nowadays to hear of a massive man eating bug creature in the woods near your house! Just means a few days off of school while you hide in the mandated fallout shelter houses have now! Fun!

Anyway, back to Tommy. He’s got good grades, nice friends, a good dad and adopted brother, and two new foster brothers that he’s very close with! Nothing could go wrong!

Until it can, of course.

Tommy begins hearing a voice, someone under the command of a “Saint,” whatever that meant. Plans for an invasion. Plans for what “each of them” needed to do to take the city down in the coming months.

Tommy, baffled and more than a little terrified eventually just starts pleading with the voice to stop. To his surprise, it does!…until the speaker tracks him down and finds him in person.

Turns out Tommy’s been unwillingly listening in on a hive mind plan between “the Parasites” and their “Saint” (Saints are high ranked Insectoids sent specifically by The Queen to watch over certain areas) in this area leading them to finally come out of hiding now that their numbers were up for the final stand against humanity. Which is a huge problem since bugs aren’t people, they are massive mutant bugs. Theres never been a human looking bug. Until now, apparently, as Tommy learns that Parasites have existed for years, infiltrating and gaining trust in human society to take it down from the inside. And now Tommy is the only one who knows this. The speaker, Dream, as he introduces himself, says that he’s the head leader of the charge in this city specifically, and emphasizes (mildly annoyed) how important it is for Tommy to do his part in the coming fight.

The only issue? Tommy is, like, 99% sure he’s not a Parasite. He goes to a human school, has human friends, a human family, and so on.

He explains this to Dream, and subsequently fails all tests Dream throws his way to test if he’s Insectoid (verbal tests, anyway; Dream doesn’t know how to test physically since Tommy isn’t old enough to have developed insectoid traits yet anyway). Dream gets super confused how he could hear the hive mind, then, and deduces that surely Tommy must be a bug of some kind. Tommy disagrees and tries to leave to tell some sort of authority that the city is full of bug people readying to attack, but Dream is smart enough to realize what he’s doing and threatens his human family that Tommy so desperately cares about as a way to keep him silent. He also says he’ll be keeping an eye on Tommy and conversing with his Saint to see just what’s wrong with him and what they should do.

Now it’s up to Tommy to try to keep delaying Dream’s attack plans and try to subtly hint to his family and friends that things are about to go to horribly wrong.

Dream, on the other hand, starts his master plan of bringing his dumbass Parasite friends to Tommy to help him figure just what exactly he is, and maybe break him of whatever attachment he has to these humans around him so that they can recruit him to the Insectoid cause.

All the while Tommy is trying to grapple with the ever increasing odds that he may not be as human as he once believed…

#edit: i decided on a name (for now at least) ->#Infested AU #cyncerity #mcyt gt #mcyt g/t #new au time i do this way too often #also sorry for the inactivity after posting the last story lmao #that one took SO FUCKING LONG that it drained me of my writing ability for a minute #on the plus side this might be the first time in like a year that i’ve made two g/t posts within a month of each other!#im winning!! 🎉

31 notes · View notes

wanderinginksplot · 2 years ago

Text

Commander Stone + "Let's hear your side of the story"

Commander Stone x gn!reader (no use of 'y/n' and no pronouns). Romantic.

Word Count: 2,700

Warnings: an overexcited massiff and some minor awkwardness.

---

Your arm was starting to go numb.

It wasn’t unusual for this type of situation, but it did mean that you would have to wrap things up soon. There was only so long your muscles could withstand that level of strain before you would end up feeling the effect.

“Mo, down!” you ordered, putting as much authority into the command as you could muster. Your massiff - still young enough to have the energy level of a puppy with the muscle mass of a fully-grown adult - fell back on his haunches and retreated to your side. He panted up at you, displaying every ivory tooth he possessed.

“No use in acting sweet now,” you informed him. “Not after you tried to get in that waste bin. There’s nothing in there for you.”

Mo tipped his head to the side and you had to fight against the urge to pat his giant, dumb head. He was cute, but you didn’t want to reward bad behavior.

Besides, that head - and the rest of him - really wasn’t dumb at all. Massiffs were notoriously smart, and Mo was no exception. He liked to pretend he had no idea what was going on, but there was always a reason behind what he did.

In any case, your sternness hadn’t been stern enough, because Mo leaned his head against your thigh and stared adoringly up at you. You lasted until his purple tongue lolled out from his jaw, but then it was just too cute.

You sighed and scratched Mo’s head while his hindquarters wiggled in pleasure. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

As if to reinforce your theory that he was smarter than he let on, Mo gave a little whine and panted up at you.

“I know, buddy,” you soothed. “We’re on our way home, I promise.”

Mo followed eagerly when you started back toward your small apartment. Massiffs were on the larger end of apartment-dwelling animals, solidly built with more muscle than most humanoids.

That was helpful in situations such as this, because there was simply no way you would be able to force Mo in a direction he didn’t like.

Mo - apparently deciding to display psychic abilities previously unknown among massiffs - must have read your mind, because he bolted in a direction that was definitely not the one in which you wanted to go. And since you had looped the leash around your hand and all the way up your forearm, you were along for the ride.

Sprinting behind your massiff wasn’t a dignified way to travel through Coruscant, but you couldn’t deny that it was effective. Passers-by mostly dove out of your way, though a few did try to snag Mo’s collar and help you. You could have told them there was no use - catching his collar would only lead to two people being towed behind the excited massiff. As you ran, you worked at the length of leash that held you captive.

After you rounded a corner toward the government sector of Coronet City, you had just a moment to recognize that there was a Coruscant Guard trooper on the sidewalk ahead of you. He had stopped, crimson-painted helmet aimed at you and Mo in apparent curiosity.

“Watch out!” you called as you approached at full speed.

The trooper backed toward the building he was standing beside, but Mo altered course and continued directly toward him. You recognized what was going to happen and continued working to detangle the leash that locked you to the massiff. It was no use. When Mo hit the plastoid-armored figure, you fell with both of them.

“I’m sorry, really,” you apologized frantically. “He’s harmless, just excited. Give me a second and I’ll get him under control. Sorry, please-”

“It’s okay,” the man told you, the pleasant rumble of his voice augmented by the speakers of his helmet. It was a good thing, too, since Mo’s rough tongue was rasping over the plastoid of the trooper’s chest and it made hearing him difficult.

You relaxed slightly at the Guardsman’s assurance. When someone saw an overexcited massiff, they tended to assume the worst. You were hyper-aware of the blaster at the man’s waist. Shooting an animal would be an overreaction, but one moment of panic…

With the buzz of fear receding from your chest, you managed to get your feet under you. When that was accomplished, you pulled sharply at Mo’s lead and coupled it with a command: “Mo, back.”

The massiff pulled a final time with a beseeching look at you, but gave up at your implacable face. He gave a dissatisfied huff and sat back on his haunches, planting his weight on your right foot.

You swiveled around him, offering your free hand to the trooper. That helmet was aimed at you once more, though he didn’t say anything. “Let me help you up.”

“I’m too heavy,” he eventually told you.

“I’m well anchored,” you countered, gesturing to Mo and his place on your foot. With a wiggle of your fingers, you said, “Come on.”

The trooper wrapped a gloved hand around yours and pulled. Admittedly, he was pretty heavy, but not impossible - especially when compared to an excitable massiff.

When the poor man was on his feet, you apologized again. “I really am sorry about that. I don’t know why he was being so bad.”

Mo whined, settling more heavily on your foot. “Yes, Mo, I’m talking about you. You were very bad.”

“Hang on a minute,” the trooper said, reaching up to remove his helmet. When you could see him clearly, you were struck by tanned skin and a strong nose. His hair was cut short, but not short enough to hide the way it would curl if given the opportunity to grow long enough. Most importantly, his eyes were kind and his mouth told of a man who liked to smile more than frown.

Those kind eyes slid to study Mo. “Everyone should get a chance to give an explanation.”

You hesitated, trying to understand. “Even massiffs?”

“Especially massiffs,” he told you. He knelt to fix Mo with a stern look. “Okay, let’s hear your side of the story.”

Mo parted his jaws to pant at the man, giving a loud grumble as his tongue curled.

The Guardsman nodded gravely, glancing up at you. “He makes a convincing argument.”

“He is studying to be a lawyer,” you joked.

“Huh, a massiff of many talents.” The trooper looked back down just in time for Mo to press his muzzle against the man’s chestplate. “Mo, is it? Great name.”

“Nickname,” you corrected automatically, exasperated with yourself a moment later. This man didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah?” he asked anyway. “What’s Mo short for?”

“Motivator Drive,” you answered, voice sheepish. The feeling only intensified when the man gave you a confused look. “He had a lot of energy as a puppy. Like most puppies, actually, but more intense. The vet and I had a joke that he could power a hyperdrive, so I named him Motivator Drive. Mo.”

The trooper chuckled at the shrug that accompanied your explanation. He stood up once more. “I’ve heard worse. Way worse, actually. Some of my brothers would probably be jealous of Mo’s name.”

“Speaking of names,” you started, hoping you weren’t about to cross some kind of line. “What’s yours?”

“Stone,” the man told you. “Commander Stone, Coruscant Guard. And you?”

You gave him your name and he smiled. “Nice to meet you. Here, let me help with this.”

He drew your arm closer and started picking at the hopeless tangle of Mo’s leash. You watched in silence, impressed. Stone had made more progress in ten seconds than you had in a much longer time. Of course, it probably helped that you weren’t running behind Mo anymore.

The moment you were free, Mo jumped up, planting his forepaws on Stone’s torso.

“Mo!” you chided, though it was undermined by the way Stone laughed and scratched under the massiff’s chin. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what is up with him today. He doesn’t normally approach strangers, and he’s never this physical with them.”

“It’s my own fault,” Stone brushed off. “I stopped by the Guard’s massiff training area today. I’m probably covered with all kinds of interesting smells. In fact…”

As you and Mo watched - you with fascination and Mo with a sharp eagerness - Stone reached into a small pouch at the waist of his armor. He pulled out a treat and you tightened your grip on Mo’s lead.

Stone held it up. “Is it okay if Mo has this?”

“Well, he has been very bad today…” you said loudly. Mo whined even louder and you relented. “Fine, I suppose he can have one treat.”

Stone tossed the treat toward Mo, who leapt up to snap it out of the air in his powerful jaws. He was already crunching happily when his paws met the ground once more.

“Were you going that way?” Stone asked, gesturing in the direction Mo had been dragging you.

“No, actually,” you said. “Mo dragged me off course. We’re actually heading the opposite direction. Service sector.”

“Long walk,” Stone commented. “Want some company?”

“If you have the time.” You congratulated yourself on how casual that sounded. You liked what you knew about Stone so far. Walking together would give you some time to decide whether you wanted to push your acquaintanceship further.

“Of course,” he told you. “Besides, I have to be able to step in if Mo decides to get a little wild again.”

“I do pass a few restaurants on my way home,” you admitted. “He’s hungry, and there’s always a chance he’ll decide to try his luck at begging.”

“Well, if Mo is hungry, there’s no time to waste,” Stone decreed. He gestured in the direction of the distant service sector. “Lead on.”

You did so, retracing your steps to where you had been when Mo decided to take you on an adventure. “By any chance, is this the way you walked?”

Stone looked sheepish, but nodded. “Just a few minutes before you caught up with me. Mo has a remarkably good nose.”

“For F-O-O-D?” you asked, chuckling as you spelled out the word. “Absolutely. Anything to do with it, he’s interested in.”

“Even the word?”

“Especially the word,” you confirmed.

“The smartest massiff and he isn’t even part of the ARF department,” Stone shook his head in consternation. “And his full name is Motivator Drive.”

Mo craned his head to look back at Stone, letting out a sharp bark as if in answer.

You laughed. “That was massiff for, ‘Don’t make fun of my name’. You know, in case you aren’t fluent.”

“Apologies, Motivator Drive,” Stone said, pressing a hand to his chestplate. “No disrespect meant. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t been recruited by the GAR yet.”

“Yet?” you echoed, lifting a brow. “I figured this was going to turn into a job offer.”

Stone just laughed, and the two of you fell into a comfortable silence as you walked.

“So you’re part of the ARF department?” you asked eventually.

“No, I’m not,” Stone told you and you unintentionally did a double-take at him. You had asked the question to make conversation, never expecting to get a negative answer. Stone seemed amused by your confusion, adding, “I’m a commander.”

“I- I guess I don’t know much about how the Coruscant Guard is organized,” you admitted, wincing at your own ignorance. Admittedly, it didn’t come up very often, but it was still something you felt you should have known.

“Oh, that’s easy!” Stone assured you. He then launched into a detailed explanation so full of titles and military slang that you could even begin to understand it. But Stone looked so earnest that you couldn’t help but try to look interested.

In the meantime, you checked in with yourself. You liked Stone, but did you like him? Coruscant was the most densely populated planet in the known galaxy and Coronet City was incomprehensibly massive. Even if you were looking for each other, there were good odds that you and Stone wouldn’t run into each other again unless you planned to do so.

Yes, you decided, you did like him. More than that, you trusted him. When was the last time you met someone you trusted? It had been far too long. And yet you hadn’t hesitated a moment when agreeing to - among other things - let Stone see where you lived.

“Does that clear things up?” Stone asked.

After you took a moment to see whether he was joking, you offered a self-deprecating smile. “Uh, not really. But I definitely understand that you’re not an ARF trooper, so that’s something.”

“Not an ARF,” he confirmed, returning your smile.

“In that case, what were you doing with the GAR’s massiffs?”

“Well, you know better than most people that massiffs are energetic and curious,” Stone started, aiming his smile at Mo for a second before directing it back your way. “They get bored in the kennels, even with all of their toys and the focus on training exercises. We’re encouraged to stop by and spend some time with them if we can.”

“Training, toys, and attention?” You shook your head. “That sounds like massiff heaven. I feel like Mo needs something to focus on or he ends up getting destructive.”

“How does that work when you’re not home?” Stone asked.

You shrugged. “Most of my furniture has teeth marks on it. When I’m not at my apartment, he’s alone. He does well, all things considered, but if I work late, I know I’m coming home to find at least one thing destroyed.”

“You don’t have a…” Stone hesitated and you tried not to smile. This part of a meeting was always awkward, but it seemed like Stone was at least a little interested in seeing more of you. Eventually, he settled on: “Any friends who can drop by to see him?”

“My friends all work,” you told him. “You know how it is.”

“I do,” he admitted. “But with all of the different shifts, it seems like there’s always someone in the GAR barracks.”

And there was the opening you had been hoping for. “Sounds like a difficult place to sleep. Don’t you have anywhere else to stay?”

“Of course,” Stone told you, and you struggled to keep your expression neutral. “But I doubt it would be any easier to sleep in the Guard headquarters.”

The hope rekindled in your chest. It certainly sounded as if Stone wasn’t seeing anyone. You gave a light hum. “I imagine it wouldn’t. Funny, it seems like we have opposite problems.”

“Isn’t that how it always goes?” Stone joked, nodding at another Coruscant Guard trooper you passed.

You were getting close to the service sector, and your apartment was on the closer edge. If you were going to propose seeing Stone again, this was probably the best time. Later would make it too rushed, but you were close enough that - if he said no - any awkwardness wouldn’t last long.

“Is there any chance-”

“Do you want to hang out sometime?”

Stone blinked at you. Dimly, you recognized that he had been in the middle of a sentence when you interrupted. You pushed aside the sheepishness and held eye contact with him as you waited for an answer.

“Would you believe me if I said I was asking the same thing?” Stone asked.

“Really?”

He nodded. “I mean, I was going to call it a date, but I don’t mind being more casual if that’s what you want.”

“Casual with the option for a real date sounds good to me,” you told him. “Any ideas on what we should do?”

Stone thought for a moment. “Give me a day or two to work out the details, but I think I can sneak us into the massiff kennels. If you’re interested?”

“Interested in being surrounded by massiffs?” you clarified. “Incredibly.”

“Then let’s exchange comlink frequencies and I’ll let you know as soon as I have it figured out.”

Mo wasn’t happy about the delay, but you couldn’t stop smiling. Stone seemed to have the same problem.

---

Author's Note - This one-shot was inspired by the person whose overly excited pit bull slipped his leash and ran at me full speed while she repeated over and over that he was friendly. Luckily, I've been around dogs often enough to know an excited dog from an angry one and caught him. We had a lovely chat and I got to pet an adorable pit bull, so it was a good time!

And I dearly love Stone! This story may have made more sense if it centered on Hound, but I figure no one can work with Hound and not learn to appreciate massiffs at least a little bit. Anyway, thanks for reading!

You can sign up for my taglist here or find other works on my masterlist.

Taglist: @rexs-wife @sugarpuffsstuff @stargazingthenightaway @just-some-girl-92 @kimageddon @ladysongmaster @carodealmeida @adriiibell @boomtowngirl @bitchylittleredhead @blck-omen @lackofhonor @captxin-rex @literallydontlook @salaminus @lucyhelena @808tsuika @ladykatakuri @bikerlorian @torchbearerkyle @frietiemeloen @tsedeshgishnii @buddee @justanothersadperson93 @leotatombs @mavendeb @rain-on-kamino @itsagrimm @captain-splock-you @dancingwiththeplanets @hummellchen @theclonesdeservebetter @cyarinka @ladyemxo @maulslittlemeowmeow @rosmariner @staycalmandhugaclone @coruscanticoffee @crookedwiings @eyecandyeoz @fordo-kixed-rex @musigrusi @lucyysthings @dinsverdika @bombshe77 @cawyden

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #star wars fanfiction #reader insert #reader insert fic #coruscant guard #commander stone #stone #stone x reader #stone x you #ink's fics #clone troopers deserve better

125 notes · View notes

poe-dameron-fandom · 6 days ago

Text

Chapter 7

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mentions of Injuries, implied smut and actual SMUT!

Word Count: 4.3k

The light on D’Qar filtered through the narrow blinds in soft gold shafts, catching in the dust that floated through the air like lazy stardust. For the first time in what felt like forever, you stirred in your cot without flinching. No pain in your side. No nightmares in your head. No overwhelming weight crushing your chest the second you opened your eyes.

Just… stillness.

You blinked against the morning light and rolled toward the other side of the bed you didn’t expect to feel it empty. Your fingers brushed the cool sheets where warmth should’ve been. No familiar weight beside you. No smart-ass voice muttering something about you stealing the blankets. No Poe.

Your brows furrowed as you sat up slowly, stretching out your sore shoulder. The scar from your fight with Ben—no, Kylo—still ached like hell when you moved too fast. You ignored it. You was used to ignoring pain by now. But this... this emptiness in the room was new.

You stepped into the hallway and made your way through the bustling Resistance base. It was already alive with noise—mechanics shouting across the hangar, engines roaring, droids beeping in sharp, clipped urgency. You still cannot see Poe, your stomach twisted in that annoying way it always did when something was off.

Command was quiet when you entered—less chaos, more tension. Your mum stood at the centre of the room, her sharp eyes scanning a glowing blue star map. She didn’t look up until you was practically standing beside her.

“You sent him, didn’t you?” you asked, arms folded tightly across your chest.

Leia looked up, calm but unreadable. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Don’t deflect,” you said, voice harder now. “Where is he?”

Leia’s sigh was soft, but the kind of soft that carried years of war behind it. “A last-minute recon. Intel came in on a First Order weapons drop on Varnik IV. He left early. We didn’t want to wake you.”

“Didn’t want to wake me?” Your tone sharpened. “I’m not some fragile broken thing you tuck into bed while the real heroes go out to die.”

“You’re not cleared for missions,” Leia said flatly.

“Then un-clear me. Or don’t. Either way, I should’ve known.”

Leia didn’t argue. She simply looked at her daughter, the weight of decades behind her gaze. “You’d have gone after him.”

“Damn right I would’ve.”

Without waiting for permission, You turned and stalked toward the comms bay. “Get me Black Leader’s channel,” you told the technician. He hesitated for a second, then scrambled to obey. A moment later, static crackled over the speaker—then Poe’s voice came through, rich and familiar, laced with static and swagger.

“Yeah, Black Leader here. You miss me already?”

You exhaled slowly, relief creeping into her voice like sunlight after stormclouds. “I might’ve, if someone told me you were leaving in the middle of the night but no you left like a coward.”

“Coward?” Poe laughed. “That’s a bold word from someone still in bed drooling on my side of the pillow.”

“I don’t drool. I smirk in my sleep.”

“Well, that’s terrifying.” A pause. “Wait, are you jealous I left without saying goodbye?”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth tugged up in a grin. “Don’t flatter yourself, Flyboy. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t crash without me there to save your ass.”

“Ah, there’s my Princess.”

You tried not to react to the nickname, but your throat tightened slightly. It had started as a joke—mocking your royal lineage. Somewhere along the way, it stuck. Poe had a way of making even that sound like a term of endearment.

“You worried about me, Princess?”

“Of course not,” you said airily. “But if your ship gets blown out of the sky, I am going to need a new jacket. And that’s my favourite one.”

“Oh, so it’s your jacket now?”

“It’s always been mine. You just happen to wear it sometimes.”

Poe laughed—loud, real, and warm. For a second, it was like none of the bad had happened. No war. No Kylo Ren. No distance between them. Just her and him and that impossible connection that neither of them could break, no matter how hard she tried.

“Seriously,” she said, her voice softening, “be careful.”

“Copy that Princess. I’ve got your voice in my ear. Hard to mess anything up with that kind of motivation.”

“Flattery doesn’t get you back in my bed, Dameron.”

“No?” he teased. “What about kisses? Stolen ones? Daring rescues? Dashing good looks?”

“You’re pushing your luck, Poe.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

You could hear the grin in his voice. Damn him. Damn him for always making you smile when you wanted to stay angry.

“Just… come back in one piece,” she said finally. “Don’t make me chase after you.”

“You threatening me, Princess?”

“I’m warning you.”

There was a pause—just long enough for something unspoken to settle between them.

“I’ll come back,” Poe said quietly. “You’ve got my word.”

The channel cut off and you stood there in silence for a moment, staring at the console. Your fingers brushed your side again—where the ring used to sit, before everything went sideways. Maybe they weren’t back to where they used to be. But maybe, just maybe, they weren’t as far off course as you feared.

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

The Resistance base slumbered beneath soft, mechanical hums but you were wide awake, adrenaline flooding through your system like ice water. You bolted upright, gasping. You felt him. Poe. The Force screamed with alarm — flickering pain, pressure, something sharp that didn’t belong. You got out of bed and down the corridor before your mind caught up.

“Where is Black Leader’s squad?” You demanded as you burst into the command centre. Your braid was still coming undone, sleepwear peeking from under your- well Poe’s jacket, but no one dared question her.

“Final position was grid 3-5-Aurek. Comms were lost after an ambush.”

“Try again. Get me his comms.”

“Commander Solo, we’ve—he won’t answer—”

“He will answer me.” You demanded

Silence. The comms officer didn’t argue. He tapped at his panel and rerouted Poe’s encrypted frequency. Static. Then— “...Princess?”

You exhaled hard, fingers gripping the console. “There you are, flyboy.”

Poe appeared on screen, pale and bloodied, propped against the interior of a damaged fighter. You quickly dismiss the comm’s officers and you go into a private room and close the doors.

Your voice softened but stayed firm. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“That line again? I should slap you through the comm.”

“Wouldn’t mind. I am actually missing your hands.”

Despite herself, she grinned. “You idiot.”

He shifted, wincing. Blood streaked his temple, and gauze wrapped tight around his ribs. “Still look good, though, right?”

“Always.” You winked

You stared at each other, the moment stretched. Then Poe reached into his flight vest and slowly pulled out the chain hanging around his neck. Hanging from it: your engagement ring. Next to it, the delicate gold band that had once belonged to his mother.

“I never took it off,” he said quietly. “Even when you gave it back.”

Your throat caught. “You’ve been carrying that this whole time?”

“Yeah. Right where it belongs.” He tapped his chest. “You and her, the two women who taught me how to fight and how to love.”

Megan’s breath trembled. “You make it so hard to stay mad at you.”

“Then stop trying.”

Your laughed. Soft. Shaky. Then bit your lip. Poe leaned closer to the console. “You’re biting that lip, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“I know that look, Princess. You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh, I’m thinking things,” you said, eyes flashing. “Not exactly safe-for-briefing.”

His grin deepened. “Stars, I missed your mouth.”

“I bet you missed everything.”

“Your moans,” he said lowly. “Your nails. The way you look underneath me, flushed and defiant.”

“Poe Dameron,” you teased, voice a breathy warning. “You’re injured.”

“And still hard for you.”

You laughed again, openly this time. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he murmured, “are currently all I can think about. I want to do is strip you bare, kiss every inch, pin your wrists above your head, and remind you exactly how good we are together.”

You sighed into the comm, heat flooding her core. “Maker, I miss you.”

“Tell me, Princess,” he whispered. “Say it.”

“I miss the way you kiss me like you’ll never stop,” you said. “I miss the taste of you. I miss riding you until I can’t see straight. Until I scream so loud the whole base hears it.”

Poe groaned, head tipping back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Then die knowing exactly what I’m going to do to you the second you’re back in my bed.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m going to kiss every scar. I’m going to ride you until you beg. Then I’ll make you scream my name like you did last time. Only louder.”

His eyes fluttered. “I’ll have you gasping, trembling—ring on your finger, my hands everywhere, until you forget we ever broke up.”

“I already forgot,” she said, breath hitching. “All I can remember is how good you make me feel. How much I need you.”

“You’ll have me, baby,” he rasped. “You’ll have every damn inch.”

“And when you’re healed?”

“When I’m healed,” he said, voice dropping dangerously low, “you’ll be sore for days.”

You let out a quiet moan, then didn’t bother hiding the next one. As you begin to reach between your trousers and start circling your clit- the place you needed to feel pleasure the most. You let your eyes closed for a second and imagine its Poe’s hands, you let out another loud moan.

Poe chuckled, dark and proud. “Still sensitive, huh?”

“Always for you,” you whispered.

“You going to scream my name again?”

“I might already be close. When you are home I want you to land harder than your X-Wing, flyboy ”

He groaned. “You better stop before I wreck this entire cockpit.”

“Poe,” you whispered, hips shifting in your seat, as you continue to rub your clit, “I want you. Now. Here.”

“Secure channel,” he reminded her. “No one’s listening.” You can hear the faint moans coming from Poe, you know he is pleasuring himself right now too.

You gasped softly as you begin building pressure, your breath catching as you leaned toward the screen. “Tell me what you’ll do.”

“I’ll pull you onto my lap,” he murmured, ragged and needy. “Bury myself so deep you forget the war. You’ll claw at me, ride me so tight I see stars.”

She whimpered. “Poe—” You can feel yourself starting to get close.

“You’ll scream,” he said. “Loud. And you’ll wear that ring while you come.” Poe’s breath has become rapid and deep and I know he is close too. You let out a soft cry, head tipping back as you can feel your orgasm approaching.

“Don’t stop,” he pleaded. “Let me hear you. Let me hear what I’ve been dying to have again.” You obeyed and continued to scream his name. He listened, trembling, chest rising hard, as you fell apart whispering his name.

Poe comes quickly after you, telling you how perfect you are and how he cannot wait to make this a reality. When the call dropped minutes later, your legs were still shaking but your smile was steady. That night you feel asleep easily as for the first time in a little while everything seems to be going your way.

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

The alarms woke you, not the loud ones, not sirens, not blaring red lights. The quiet ones. The hurried shuffle of boots outside your door. The coded murmur over the intercom. The phrase that sliced through her stomach like a blade:

“Incoming evac. One squad. One critical.”

You was out of bed before her brain caught up. Your bare feet slapped the cold floor as you sprinted down the corridor in nothing but your leggings, tank top, and Poe’s old flight jacket that you have stole

You didn't need confirmation, you knew. The Force vibrated through your ribs — unsteady, pained, alive. You tore through the base, ignoring the stunned techs, the guards calling your name, the way your heart was beating too fast to survive. Your braid slapped against your back as you took the final turn into the medbay corridor.

Your breath punched out of her chest. “Poe.”

Blood soaked half his flight suit. His left leg was mangled, wrapped in makeshift bandages. His head lolled, face pale beneath soot and bruises. One eye was swollen shut. The chain around his neck glittered with the weight of two rings — yours, and his mother’s.

“Move!” one of the medics barked, pushing your back as they rushed him past. You didn’t move, you couldn’t breathe. The medic shoved you again. “Commander, you can’t be here. We need to stabilize him.”

You snapped. “Like hell I can’t.”

You threw your arm out and sent the medbay doors crashing open with a violent Force shove and throw the medic that was just talking to you out the way. The blast startled half the crew inside, knocking trays off tables and rattling the ceiling lights. The room stopped. Cold. Eyes wide. You stalked in, fury in your bones and love pouring from your eyes like fire.

“Y/N, wait—!” You hear a Lieutenant shout from behind you. You didn’t reply.

They were trying to intubate him, and his body was seizing slightly — shock setting in. His mouth moved but no sound came.

You stormed to the gurney, grabbed the nearest medic by the front of his shirt. “If he dies, I will burn this entire system to the ground.”

The man nodded — terrified — and stepped back. Your hands went to Poe’s face, cradling him, your forehead against his. “I’m here,” you whispered. “You’re home. I’ve got you.”

Poe stirred, barely. “...Princess...?”

She bit back a sob. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.”

The medics reluctantly gave you space — knowing who you was. Whose daughter you was. And just how much the man on the table meant to you.

You didn’t leave him, even as they worked. You held his hand through the injections. Sat beside him when he passed out. Waited. Until he stabilized. Until they gave you the nod — and cleared the room. Only then did she climb into the bed beside him. Only then did you let herself break.

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

He woke hours later. The lights were low, the medbay silent. But he felt you. Before he opened his eyes, before his mind caught up — he felt you. Your weight beside him. Your scent — fuel, sweat, and the perfume you swore you didn’t wear. Your hand in his hair, gently threading through it.

He blinked slowly. “You break into here?”

“Like I wasn’t invited,” you murmured, not moving.

“Force forbid I miss you a little too much,” he rasped.

You shifted to hover over him. Your fingers traced the edge of the bandage over his ribs. “You almost died, Poe.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Idiot.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice rough. “But I’m your idiot.”

Your mouth crushed into his, it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t polite, it was two people who had waited way too long for permission. His hand tangled in your jacket, dragging you down with him as he kissed you like the war had never touched them. Like your ring had never come off. Like you had never broken apart.

“Careful,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m full of stitches.”

“I don’t care,” you said, breath hot and shaking. “If I don’t touch you right now, I might lose my mind.”

He tilted his head. “That bad?”

“I felt you bleeding, Poe. Through the Force. Through everything. I thought you were—” your voice broke, the words catching like thorns.

He hushed you with a hand on your cheek. “I’m here. You’ve got me.”

You nodded, then slowly peeled the jacket from your shoulders, revealing the thin tank beneath. His eyes darkened immediately — injured or not you always had this affect on Poe.

“I should be resting,” he muttered.

“You can rest after I’m done kissing every scar on your body.”

There is a moment of silence then Poe breaks, “Stars, marry me right now.”

You laughed — choked and teary— then kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his neck, down to his chest, just above the bruises. He sucked in a breath, heat spiralling under your touch.

Your fingers found the chain around his neck, where both rings still hung. You pulled it gently, drawing the jewellery into your palm.

“You wore it the whole time,” you whispered.

“Never took it off.” His eyes held yours, full of stubborn pride and raw vulnerability. “Even when I thought I was gonna die.”

You slipped the chain off his neck slowly, reverently. Pulled the ring off and slid it back onto your finger. It fit like it never left. “Don’t make a bit deal out of it” you laughed. Then you kissed him again — deeper this time, your hips settling against his slowly, cautiously, but with intent. Your braced your hands on either side of his head.

“Tell me to stop,” she breathed. “If it hurts.”

“It hurts not to have you.”

Your mouths crashed together again — all teeth and tongue full of need and passion. His hands roamed up you thighs, fingertips brushing skin he knew by memory. You whimpered when he found the place behind your knee that always made you melt.

You moved together with care — not out of shyness, but reverence. This was more than lust. It was reunion. It was forgiveness. It was two people who had seen the edge of death and still chosen each other.

When you finally guided him in, slow and tender, your foreheads pressed together, the world stilled. The Force wrapped around you like silk — not fire this time, but gravity. A pulse of shared breath and skin and love. He groaned, biting your shoulder. “Still fits like it was made for me.”

You gasped, moving gently above him. “That’s because it was, Dameron.”

His hands gripped your hips, weak but steady. “I’m not gonna last.”

“You don’t need to.” you kissed his ear. “Just stay with me. Stay in me. I don’t care about anything else right now.”

He did, just that. When it ended, you lay tangled together, breathless, shaking, your head against his chest, his hand cradling your back and for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you were quiet. Not because there was nothing left to say — but because everything had been said in the way you touched. The way you chose each other again. The way the ring sparkled on your finger.

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

That night you struggled to sleep, you watched as Poe slept peacefully beside you curled up in the medbay cot. You eventually let sleep overcome you once you knew he was okay. The first thing you did when you woke up was to check Poe’s vitals to make sure he was still breathing.

“You’re staring,” Poe said with a smirk.

“I’m admiring,” you corrected, perched on the edge of his medbed. “Technically different.”

“Technically still staring.”

“You’re not exactly hard to look at, Dameron. Even half-dead.”

He winced and shifted. “Flirting while I’m injured? Bold move.”

“Worked last night.”

Poe chuckled. “Worked a lot last night.”

Your smile turned downright smug. “You weren’t complaining.”

“Princess,” he said, low and teasing, “I couldn’t even speak at one point.”

You leaned in, your fingers ghosting over the edge of his blanket. “You’re lucky the medics didn’t throw me out.”

He gave you a look. “Y/N. You Force-shoved one of them into a tray rack.”

“He was in my way.”

“He had a clipboard and a mild concussion.”

“Which healed,” you said sweetly, “miraculously.”

Poe snorted. “Stars help whoever tries to come between you and me again.”

There was a beat of shared silence — the kind that lingered in the aftermath of a war-torn reunion, when everything felt too fragile and too good at the same time. There silence was broken short when the door hissed open. Both of you froze.

Leia stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes like ice crystals forged on Hoth.

You blinked. “Hi, Mum.”

Leia stepped forward. “Commanders.”

Poe instinctively sat straighter and you immediately looked guilty.

Leia shut the door behind her. The click echoed like a sentence being passed. “I trust you’re both aware of the disaster you’ve created.”

Poe cleared his throat. “Define disaster.”

“Don’t,” you muttered under your breath to him.

Leia didn’t waste time. “Let’s begin,” she said sharply, “with the unauthorized use of a restricted medical facility. Y/N, you forced your way in after hours, assaulted a medic, and ignored every rule in the chain of command.”

“He wasn’t hurt—”

“He filed a report, Y/N!” You winced at her sudden tone. Leia turned to Poe. “And you—why didn’t you stop her?”

“I was drugged, concussed, and had a very angry Jedi climbing on top of me. What would you have done?”

Leia didn’t blink. “Not moaned so loud the nurses had to leave the ward.”

You choked and Poe tried not to smile.

“You two had sex,” Leia said flatly, “in the medbay.”

“Well technically it was... more of a reunion—”

“In the medbay.”

“I mean, I made sure his IV line stayed in.”

“Y/N.” You shut your mouth. Leia crossed her arms tighter. “There are private quarters for that kind of thing. People are in here recovering from actual injuries. No one wants to hear orgasmic declarations of love between the blaster burns.”

Poe muttered, “I kept it down.”

Leia turned to him. “You said, and I quote, ‘I want to die buried inside you, Princess.’”

Poe looked at you. “...That was a good line, though.”

You grinned. “I swooned.”

Leia raised a hand. “Nope. I am not doing this. I am not reliving a play-by-play of my daughter’s erotic escapades in a healing ward.”

“Technically,” You said, not learning your lesson, “he was being healed during—”

“Stop. Talking.” Leia exhaled through her nose like she was trying very hard not to Force-choke them both. “And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get worse — the comms.”

“Oh gods,” You groaned.

“Encrypted doesn’t mean untraceable,” Leia snapped. “You two broadcasted a full three-minute voice recording to auxiliary channels. Do you know who listens to those?”

“Pilots?” Poe offered.

“Command, ops, intelligence, comms officers, and one incredibly traumatized kitchen droid.”

“I told you I pressed the wrong button,” you said. “It was meant to be deleted.”

“Well, instead of deleting it,” Leia snapped, “you sent it to half the base. They were halfway through a strategy meeting when your voice came on saying, ‘I want you to land harder than your X-Wing, flyboy.’”

You looked at Poe. “I don’t remember saying that.”

Poe smiled. “You definitely did.”

Leia held up her hand like she wasn’t finished — because she wasn’t. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten the incident on the flight deck.”

You stiffened. Leia turned her gaze to Poe. “You punched a Resistance pilot.”

“He was a sleaze—”

“He was someone Y/N slept with during your breakup. Poor decision? Absolutely. But not worth a fistfight on an active launch pad in front of twenty-five personnel, two droids, and a visiting diplomat.”

You muttered, “He had it coming.”

Leia’s voice was sharp. “The base doesn’t need all your personal drama. They need leaders. They need someone professional. But what do they get?”

She counted it off on her fingers now.

“Y/N sleeping with pilots on base. Poe punching pilots and causing a public scrap. Breaking into the medbay. Using the Force to hurt a medic. Using a secure comms link to broadcast foreplay. And now? Openly having sex in the medical ward. Loudly.”

You and Poe both fell completely silent. Leia stared at them both. “I should write you both up. Demote you. Stick you on patrol with rookies.”

“You wouldn’t,” Poe said softly.

“I might.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

You let out a breath, cheeks flushed. “We know we screwed up.”

“We’re not trying to make excuses,” Poe added. “We’re trying to... put ourselves back together. It’s just messy.”

Leia’s gaze dropped — and landed on the glint of metal on your hand, she saw the ring. Leia’s mouth pressed into a thin line and then, slowly, softened. “You put it back on.”

You nodded and Leia exhaled. “I love you both,” she said finally. “Together. Even when you drive me insane. You’re stubborn, fiery, reckless—exactly like your father.”

Poe blinked. “Thank you... I think.” You reply.

Leia turned to Poe. “And you? You’re the only person stubborn enough to love her through it.”

You both stayed quiet. “I know you make each other happy,” Leia said. “But for the love of every blasted system in the Mid Rim—behave yourselves on base.”

A beat passed and you grinned. “So... should we cancel our plans to christen the Starcruiser hangar?”

Leia’s look could’ve melted durasteel. “I swear, if I hear one more moan echoing off the medbay walls, I will assign you both to sanitation duty for a month.”

“Together?” Poe asked, hopeful. The door slammed shut as Leia left.

Poe turns his attention back to you, you are curled up into him on the bed, trying your hardest not to put too much pressure on him. You look up and start looking over his injuries. He holds your head in hands and slowly brushes your cheek.

“You think she meant it?” Poe asked.

“She always means it,” you said, curled against his side.

He reached over, brushing his fingers along the ring. “You’re still wearing it.”

“I’m never taking it off again. Me and you against the galaxy flyboy.”

“Always Princess”

#angst #fluff #poe dameron #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron fic #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x solo reader #poe dameron x you #smut #poe dameron smut

3 notes · View notes