#prev same!! the second choice for me

[kenyummy]

✰ 04. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 04. fantastic four.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: had to wrack my brain to remember what math i was learning in seventh grade LMAO . sometimes i forget damian is just a little guy in like seventh to eighth grade. crazy. and please let me know if there's any mistakes with pronouns/gender!!! i want to keep this open to everybody so im always trying my best ❤️

also ive realised how chopped harry is in the comics after taking my rose coloured lenses off. basically he and mj have their look in the ultimate spiderman TV show (in my eyes anyway, i kind of just described their appearance based off tgat lmaooo)

prev. ✰ masterlist ✰ next.

School has never felt so bland for you. Sure, it was never your favourite thing in the world—except for maybe biology—but you'd think that discovering a whole new world in your last year would make it a little more interesting.

It didn't.

It's been three weeks since you crash landed here in Gotham. The most you'd gotten from your family was an awkward "how are you" occasionally, and a lot of staring.

You'd only shown yourself as Spidey a few times to the public, but never stayed for those pesky news reporters shoving their microphones into your face. You'd never liked interviews, anyway.

The only highlight of your long days were MJ and Harry. You'd gotten over the initial shock of Harry being in love with you—convincing yourself that it really wasn't you he liked; it was this world's original you. (Though—that fact still lingers in the back of your mind whenever you talk).

Apart from that, school truly was uneventful. Your kooky art teacher was the only one of whom you actually liked, and it seemed the education here was rather lax. Uncaring. Not good for your future, surely—but you wouldn't have a future here, and you're sure this [name] Wayne will be just fine.

Speaking of schooling—the people here really seemed to hate the Gotham Prep kids. More than what a petty rivalry should be—it was pure malice.

Harry was especially adamant about this.

"They're all dumb, entitled rich kids who use daddy's money to get whatever they want, you know." He stabs his fork into a dry cut of chicken violently. Then points, accusatory, at MJ—who already presents a sneer to him. "And don't you start lumping me in with them—you know I'm not like that."

Her face twists, but soon she grins cheekily. "Okay, fine. Yeah, you're totally not, otherwise nobody here would like you one bit. And who doesn't love Harry, huh?"

"Oh, be quiet," But still, he smiles—damn his head is big. He glances over at you. You're picking around at your soggy broccoli with a frown. "Hey, [name]. Don't two of your brothers go to Gotham Prep?"

You look up at your ginger friend, head tilted to the side before it clicked. Oh, right. Tim and that young boy—Damian, if you remember correctly. Tim barely ever went to school if your diary was still accurate, and Damian had little choice but to.

(Doesn't seem like he'd be the social butterfly type, though.)

"Yeah, they do." You nod, still fiddling around with that vegetable.

"Not that I'm not glad that you're here—but why don't you go to school with them?" MJ leans forward in her seat. "I mean, isn't it easier for siblings to go to the same school?"

Your eyes widen for a second.

There's a few ways you can go about this.

One—you tell them everything you know about your other self. About how you never felt included enough to ask. How you never spent time with them. How it always felt like everything and everyone else was more important than you. How you suffered silently—begging for their attention for years like a house pet becoming a stray.

Two—you could tell them you have absolutely no idea because you have none of your memories of anything from the past years of this life—how you don't even remember all your siblings names half the time.

Or three, and your personal favourite—you can just lie.

It doesn't take a serial genius to figure out which one you chose.

"I guess I just didn't like the rich private school vibe they had going on." A smile falls over your lips. "Plus—you guys were coming here, so it gave me even more of a reason to attend, you know?"

You're not entirely sure that's true. But—if these two were anything like the Harry and MJ you know—then this would probably be right.

Judging from their smiles, your detective skills haven't failed you yet.

"Man!" MJ lolls her head back, groaning. "Can't believe I'm friends with two rich kids who get to choose which school they want—the beat down public or sleek rich private."

"Don't go dissing this school just because you're jealous of their uniforms," Harry snickers, pressing his index finger into MJ's cheek. She huffs and slaps him away.

"Silence, nepo baby. Your dad is basically Lex Luthor if he wasn't bald."

Harry looks more confused than offended at her comment, "Okay, but my dad isn't an evil mastermind plotting against a red and blue suited superhero."

You press your lips together thinly and look to the side, eyes focused on anything but him. Oh, Harry—if only you knew.

Damian Wayne had never truly seen the point of highschool.

Raised by assassains all his life—he had little room, time, and desire to learn about all this nonsense. While he enjoyed arts and fine literature—he couldn't find it within himself to care about the American Revolution, or whatever other ridiculous thing happened in history.

His maths teacher was absolutely, indubitably pathetic. Always on his phone as he assigns mountains of homework (because he never bothers to explain the complex materials they're given) on the latest subject—whether it be those blasted simultaneous equations, or to factorise useless monic trinomials. Even calculating tax and interest on the stupidest of cases.

Damian found himself sitting in the corner of his class in silence, staring down, bored, at the book in front of him. He truly hated math. There's so much real work to be done—crime to fight, plotting organisations to take down.

But his father, as always, is unmoving in his conviction that school is important. For Damian especially, anyway; Drake can skip as often as he likes because he's a senior already. Truly, ridiculous.

For Damian, and—oh.

You.

Bruce always seemed especially insistent on you two going to school. Even when everyone but him knew you skipped every few days and simply come home to wait.

Wait for what? For them?

His brows furrow. Suddenly, the black and white equations on the sheet blur and he zones out. Thinking.

You always did. From the day he'd walked into the manor, you were always there. Unconsciously, he'd notice it. A trait of a good assassin is that they can spot everyone in the room.

A trait of a great assassin is that they can spot everyone inside and watching.

Always, you were watching. Those pitiful stares. Desperate like a unloved pet. If he cared a little more (if any at all), he would've felt sorrow for your state.

Always wanting, but never asking. Never taking. Simply waiting for it all to come to you. He would never understand it. He would never understand you.

He would never understand how somebody could allow themselves to be so weak.

Like everybody else—when he first entered the manor, he proposed to fight you. Assuming—being the child of his father, like he was—you were worthy. That you were strong.

He doesn't know how he could've been so wrong. You immediantly reacted, gasping and clutching your face. He'd nicked it with the edge of his blade after he unsheathed it. You looked at the blood dotting your fingertips, then back at him, eyes wide.

Immediantly, Bruce rushed to his side and pushed him behind his larger, imposing figure—telling you to not interact with him because he's different to regular people. Different to you.

He watched you storm off from behind his father's legs; anger practically blaring off your figure.

Later—he happened to overhear you and Grayson talking quietly. Telling you to not be too hard on Damian, because he's troubled. That he's had a difficult life. At first—he was a tad offended—but that offence could not compare to the absolute fury burning in your eyes.

Though, it all melted away when Grayson's hand ruffled your hair. Like a little kid, you stared up at him, soft and starry-eyed as you unconsciously murmured you'd forgive your new little brother.

Damian dry-heaved. You were so goddamn weak.

So weak, and so normal. Everything you did was completely regular. You were on the same wavelength as the civilians he saved from burning rubble. The same as people who walked down the street, talking about their favourite Justice League member. Who cowered in fear in front of villains—to be saved by those heroes. By him.

You were nothing, and yet everything he could never have been.

(What child does not long for normalcy?)

Damian always thought you were rather helpless, regardless of how regular you were—and seeing you with that bullet lodged in your shoulder—he was right. Not being able to dodge something like a bullet—there was no wonder you never become a vigilante. There was no wonder you needed to be protected.

... Though—he began to think back.

Who did? Protect you; that is.

Whoever it was, they did a pretty awful job at it.

Damian strums his fingers against the hardwood table rhythmically. Face blank but mind running rapidly.

It couldn't have been Todd. No—he seemed to be in a frazzled state of mania when carrying your bleeding body in your arms. Perhaps he too, believed you were safe with the rest of his family.

(Oh how wrong Todd was—he looked livid.)

... Grayson?

No. When he's not in Blüdhaven, he is almost always with the other vigilantes within the family. Not here nor there, and certainly not close enough to protect you.

Not Drake. He never cared enough, despite everything. Not Cain, either. Though the silent protector type—she had too much on her plate to worry about you as well.

Gordon and Brown had their own families to worry about.

And his—your father? The Batman? There was no time for a regular child like you in the Batman's life of vigilantism. Whom he sworn to protect in his crusade now lay bleeding out in his great failure's arms.

...

Did you truly have nobody?

...

Damian couldn't really imagine it. He'd always assumed you had many friends to fill the void that yoir family left with their civilian clothes. ... Perhaps you did. He wouldn't know.

You are his only half sibling. In this world, only he is truly your brother, and you are his only older sibling. Does that not give him the slightest of responsibility?

He'd always been taught to keep everybody at arms length—even his own family. The whole world is out to get the Demon's grandson, then he must fight it. But his father taught him differently.

To protect those who cannot protect themselves—to keep those he cares about safe at any cost.

What of you? He does not care for you in the way an ordinary sibling should. Seeing you so weak, defenceless against him—must mean you trust him in some way.

(It's hard for him to fathom being able to feel so unprotected in a world he was taught was trying to extinguish him at every turn).

Regardless of how you don't belong—or how frosty you act toward your youngest brother—he has a duty.

No matter how hard you try—you can never sever the blood you two share. The others do not have this duty—but he does, because in the end, you are his. None of the others bothered, so Damian must.

You are everything he could never be, he has realised. But in the end, you are blood. It runs thicker in the veins than any water, and that is one of the most important things to Damian.

Seeing that same blood—his blood—spill out of you carelessly—that is a sight he will never bear witness to again.

Damian was the first one out the door as soon as the bell chimed in his ear. His bag slung tightly around his shoulders and textbook under his arm; he rushed into the familiar sight of a sleek, large car.

He shuts the door as he climbs into the backseat (Bruce said he was still too short to sit in the front, much to his son's displeasure). "Hello, Pennyworth."

Alfred glances back at him through the rear view mirror. "Good afternoon, Master Damian. How was school?"

"Same as usual. A waste of time." He clicks his seatbelt shut as the car begins to move. Alfred only hums, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

"I'm unsurprised to hear you say so. I do hope you understand why exactly, you are enrolled in school, however. And why Master Bruce is so adamant about your attendance."

Damian knows. He's always known, because it has been drilled into his head like a mantra. Talia and Ra's Al Ghul weren't math teachers—and most of his time really was spent training and sparring to be the best he could be.

He was not illiterate, nor stupid. Rather smart, actually. However, he didn't exactly learn algebra and chemistry with the League of Assassins.

He grumbles. "I know, Pennyworth. Father cannot seem to stop reminding me that all these things are far more important than stopping the endless wave of crime in Gotham."

If he weren't on the road—Alfred surely would've given him a nasty look. "Master Damian, please—your sincerity is positively slaughtering me."

Damian rolls his eyes, opting to stop this fruitless conversation and look outside the windows instead. At the outside world—the sky already paling to deep auburn shades as they drive through the endless roads.

He watched all the cars moving past; hurrying to get to their destination. Each with their own story and reason for being there. Every single one with their own thoughts and worries. Some with children, others with pets, and some with piles of groceries.

All with their own, individual lives. Including him.

A bus, too. It stops for a moment at a sheltered space, then drives away, leaving a few people standing under the shade.

An elderly lady with a man, presumably her son, walking away with her. A woman with frizzy red hair and freckles dotted over her nose. A few schoolkids—some his age, some older. Clearly from the public school on the other side of Gotham, if only to judge from the scantily clad clothes some of the older students wore—

Wait, is that you?

He sits up—the car slowly coming to a stop at a red light. His eyes don't leave your figure as he presses his nose against the window; observing.

You look around at the people that pass by you—gripping your bag close to your side and rushing into the nearest alleyway.

He waits for a few moments. This red light feels rather long—but what feels longer is watching and waiting for you to come out of that alleyway.

You never do.

Even as the car begins to move once more, driving past the intersection, he crawls as far back as possible to even get a glimpse—but you never show.

Just today, he had decided to be the one to take up the mantle and protect you. Just today, during a boring math class, he has decided that since you are his blood, he must keep a helpless civilian like you safe.

And now you're gone. Are you dead, or something?

(Deep down, his stomach twists at the thought.)

"Pennyworth, pull over." Hid voice is more taut than he had imagined. "Now."

Alfred looks back, glancing at the streets around. He doesn't question the young boy, simply doing as he is asked and pulling over to a deserted parking area.

When he has parked the car, he turns around and sees Damian slipping his Robin mask on—somehow already fully suited up.

His eyes widen, "Master Damian, what—"

"I have something to do. Let Father know I will be back home late."

Opening the door, Damian rushes out and pulls out his grappling hook, swinging onto the nearest building's roof and looking around.

He spots the alleyway you'd run into. It is still. Absolutely no movement nor any looks from passer-bys. He rushes across the roves towards where the dark side seeped into the crack of the buildings.

Maybe you'd taken another way out?

But looking at the alleyway now, it's more like a dip between the buildings to stand in more than anything. It was blocked off on the other side.

So where...???

He drops down, landing on his soles and squinting as he stares around into the dark. There's nothing.

No people, nor bodies, and certainly not anything to indicate anybody was ever here.

Except...

He glances at the wall. Theres a white cocoon-esque oval webbed to the wall. Those same webs he'd seen all that time ago—from that spider. That would show up then leave immediantly. Never staying for longer than they had to.

Dodging all of his and Batman's attempts at asking who you were, and what you were doing in Gotham. Always swinging away into the distance before they could be subdued.

Now, he stares at their ball of webbing and wonders if it truly is an arachnid he's dealing with.

He pokes it, looking it up and down. Then, he sees it. Through the small holes in the webs and the translucent, silk-like material—he finally sees it.

Your bag.

He tears off the webbing faster than he can think, getting the sticky substance stuck to his gloves and clothes; he barely even notices it. He grabs your bag and stares it, swallowing hard.

His mind buzzes with an unfamiliar staticky feeling and he suddenly feels sick to his stomach. Despite all the noise in his ear—his brain is able to comprehend one singular question.

... What did that arachnid do to you?

Clothed fingers digging deep into the leather fabric of the bag—clearly worn down and fading. Old. He would get Father to purchase you another. ... When he sees you next. Because he will.

His jaw clenches hard.

Damian throws the bag over his shoulder and grapples up—swinging onto a building roof and running across.

Running for what, he isn't sure. But what he is sure of, is that once he gets his hands on that arachnid, it will not be kind.

To find out what happened to you—that is his duty as your blood sibling.

He decides that in this life, he will be your protector. In the next, if he is ever given a chance to be normal like you—he will become a doctor. Or perhaps a painter. Or a poet. Maybe he will ask you to help him decide when he finds you and that arachnid.

... Yes, that sounds good.

You cut through the cool wind as you swing through the city. Grinning widely underneath your mask—you don't think you've ever been so happy since you landed here.

You're sure nobody will take your stuff. Even if they do, you could always just get whatever else you needed again. You were far too excited to dwell on the small stuff right about now.

Landing on a rooftop, crouched—you walk down the wall of the apartment complex, and look around for civilians. As he told you—the streets around the back of the building were practically deserted.

You count the amount of rooms from the side, up and down.

"Row 5, Apartment block... 2..." You hum, and nod to yourself.

You tap your necklace and the nanobots all crawl off your body, leaving you in your regular clothes. You land safely on the balcony of the room you were given.

You smooth out your flared jeans and take in a deep breath. Then, you bring up your knuckles, and knock.

The glass screen door opens before you can say fantastic.

A small pair of arms wrap around your torso and knock you backwards—you fall on your ass and let out a loud laugh.

"Spidey!!! [name]!!!"

"Is that who I think it is?!" You tease, eyes squinted upwards and the young kid buries into your stomach. His giggles are muffled by the fabric and he squeezes you so tight you'd be inclined to choke—if it wasn't you. "Frankie!! How's my favourite Richard?"

"I can't believe you'd say that, [name]. That hurts." A familiarly sweet voice speaks.

"Sue!" You grin, taking in the sight of the blonde and her husband by her side. You get up—Franklin stumbles behind you—and crash into her arms.

She chuckles, patting your back and smiling down at you, "I missed you too, [name]. You always manage to find yourself in the strangest situations, don't you?"

Reed cradles his chin, "Well, we were technically the cause of this distortion in reality, Susan—"

But seeing the expression on both your and his wife's face; he stops himself. Only smiling sheepishly. "My apologies. It's great to see you again, [name]. I didn't think we'd find another familiar face in a different universe."

"You're getting better at this, Reed." You lift yourself from Sue's comforting cradle and grin brightly up at him. "I didn't think I'd see all of you guys again, either. When you all disappeared for so long—I was wondering if something bad happened."

"Hah! Ta us? You kiddin'? Ya more bug-brained 'den that spider that bit ya!"

"Ben!!!" You go flying toward the rock-encased man and wrap your arms around his comfortingly tough neck. He spins you around and lets you down with a loud laugh.

"'Ey kid, how're ya? Heard ya tackled ol' matchstick 'ere outta the sky!" He slaps his rocky chest laughing—in the corner of your eye, Johnny stands behind him, unimpressed.

He walks up beside you, swinging an arm around your neck and snarks, "Yeah—well, Spidey's always been known for catching people off guard, huh? Creepin' up when you least expect it."

"You're making [name] sound like a villain, Unc!" Frankin, who had found himself attached to the side of your shirt, sticks out his tongue.

Johnny recoils, face falling in pure horror as he dramatically points at the young boy, "UNC??!! I... I'm an Unc now...??? I'm not even 19! I can't be an Unc!!!"

You burst out into laughter at the genuineness of Johnny's expression, watching as he freaks out about being "old". Sue and Reed roll their eyes—while Ben is there with you, laughing his ass off like he'd just gotten a home run on Yancy Street.

Franklin looks at your laughing expression and starts giggling along—jumping up and down beside you with sparkling eyes.

"Stop laughing, [name]! We're the same age!" Johnny points, accusatory. "If I'm an Unc, you're a...!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm cooler than Uncle Johnny anyways, right Frankie?" You grin, picking up Franklin as he cuddles into your neck.

"Mhm!" He nods eagerly.

Johnny sends you a blazing glare, lips pouted out. "You and me. We're—" He gestures to the two of you. "—gonna have some issues, here. Okay. Everyone knows I'm the cool Uncle."

"No, that's Benny!" Franklin points to Ben.

The look on Johnny's face shifts into utter disbelief—Ben falls out of his chair laughing wildly.

"Gosh, I missed you so much, kid." You pull at one of Franklin's cheeks and chuckle. He stares at you in awe for a few seconds, before hugging the side of your head and giggling.

"I missed you too!"

That same warmth fills each crevice and pore of your body, as you huddle close to your dear friends and let yourself feel at home for this small moment.

Meanwhile, in the dark of night, a pair of azure eyes watches, sharp and unnerving in the back of your skull.

You notice it. Of course you do. Your mind is tingling with that buzz—but you want to enjoy this night of nothing but home, even if only once.

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[ggukivrse]

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 06

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, fluff, angst, arguing :’(, jk’s an asshole in this i’m sorry, (eventual) explicit sexual content, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.6k

notes: okay first of all, i’m SO sorry for the wait. second of all, this chapter was meant to be much longer but i split it into two :< anyways, likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are sooo appreciated!! enjoy (?) reading my angels <33 (and pls don’t hate me </3)

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⤷ chapter six — tv

“and i’ll be in denial for at least a little while / what about the plans we made.”

The kitchen is quiet, only filled by the soft buzz of the fridge and the distant sound of waves. You take a slow sip from your mug, fingers curled around the ceramic.

The coffee's still warm, just the way you like it — strong, slightly bitter, just enough milk to soften the edge. You’d made Jungkook’s the same way you always have. You didn’t even think about it. Just moved through the motions like you’ve done a hundred mornings before.

But that was nearly half an hour ago.

His mug is still sitting on the counter. Steam long gone, surface barely warm. You glance at it for the third — maybe fourth — time, as if expecting it to have vanished. It hasn’t. It’s still there, untouched.

And so is the space beside you.

You haven’t seen him since waking up.

You’d stirred sometime around eight, alone. No arm slung over your waist, no weight shifting the mattress beside you, no sleepy grumble against your shoulder. Just cold sheets and a quiet room. The fan was still spinning overhead lazily, and the only thing on the nightstand that hadn’t been yours was a single bottle of water.

You’d stared at the ceiling for a few minutes after that.

It would’ve been easier if you hadn’t let yourself get used to waking up like that again. If you hadn’t let it feel like something.

But you did, because you always do, with him. Even now.

So when you eventually got out of bed, you made two cups of coffee. One for you. One for him.

You tell yourself it was just habit. But that’s only half-true.

Because the other half — the part you don’t say out loud — is that you were kind of hoping he’d show up.

That you could sit across from him, trade casual conversation, build your way back into something steady enough to finally ask the things you’ve been swallowing down since the breakup. Finally ask the things you wanted to ignore last night when you kissed him.

What happened?

What changed?

Why did it feel like he was ready to spend the rest of your life with you, and then suddenly, he wasn't?

You’ve been sitting with those questions for weeks. Letting them settle into your bones. Last night had started to smooth out the edges. That kiss, the way he held you, the weight of him tucked against your back — none of it felt like someone who’d let go for good.

But this morning?

This morning feels like the reset button was hit again. Like you’re back at square one.

And it’s starting to scare you.

You take another sip from your mug.

It’s not just that he left. It’s the fact that you have no idea where he went, or why, or when he’s coming back. It’s that your questions are still sitting in your chest, unanswered. It’s that his coffee is still sitting in front of you, lukewarm.

It’s that you keep hoping for something that keeps slipping away.

And sure, it could be nothing. He could walk into the kitchen any minute and prove that all of your overthinking was for nothing and place a kiss against your temple as he silently confirms that you guys are finally okay again. But as you stare down at nothing in specific, eyes unfocused on the ground, you can't ignore the feeling that it's not going to be that easy.

A hand waving in front of your face breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Hello? Earth to ___?"

You blink and turn to find Kiara standing in front of you, one brow raised, one hand waving dramatically in front of your face.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling back a little, caught off guard. “You scared me.”

She grins. “I said your name twice. Thought you died standing up.”

You force a breath through your nose, trying to ease the tension from your shoulders. “Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Clearly,” Kiara says, folding her arms as she leans back against the island across from you. “You were staring at that coffee like you were possessed or something.”

You glance back down at Jungkook’s mug. The coffee inside has gone a dull, murky brown. It's oddly fitting.

“Just thinking,” you murmur.

Kiara gives you a long look, tilting her head slightly. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

You expect her to pivot the conversation, maybe ask what time you’re heading to the beach, or what’s for breakfast.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she says, softer now, “Is everything okay with you and Jungkook?”

Your stomach drops, and you're too slow to catch the surprise on your face before it shows.

She doesn’t look accusatory. Just curious. Maybe a little concerned.

You think about what Jungkook said — that your acting sucks.

Clearly, he was more right than you gave him credit for if this is the second time someone has thought that something was off between you two.

You give Kiara a tight smile, trying to play it off. “Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end and Kiara’s face shifts. Her eyes narrow, expression flattening just a little.

God. You suck at this.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you.

And when you glance past her, you realise Ari and Yasmine are both in the kitchen now too. You didn’t even hear them come in. They're hovering by the counter, not pretending they didn’t hear the conversation. Yasmine raises her eyebrows at you as if to say, Really? That’s the best you’ve got?

You laugh, the sound a little too loud and a little too fake.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing going on. We’re totally fine,” you insist. You try to make it sound breezy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. But there’s this edge of strain in your tone that even you can hear now.

Yasmine exchanges a quick glance with Ari. Ari raises a single brow.

“____,” Kiara says, and her voice almost sympathetic. “We love you to death. If anything if going on, you can tell us. We will fight that man if needed.”

You snort at the ridiculousness of the offer, trying to ignore the way they're all watching you.

“Okay, maybe don’t plan my best friend’s murder right in front of me,” Jimin says around a half-yawn, wandering into the kitchen. His hair is a mess — flattened on one side and fluffy on the other — and his hoodie is inside out. His expression, though, is amused as hell.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. It’s half a laugh, really — short and quiet, but enough to break the tension hanging over you. Your shoulders drop just slightly.

“No one said murder,” Kiara replies, looking entirely unbothered. “We said ‘fight.’ With fists. Maybe knees.”

“Maybe a little arson,” Yasmine adds, chewing on the edge of a strawberry she pulled from the fridge.

Jimin walks past them and reaches up to grab a granola bar from the top shelf. “You know I’m contractually obligated to defend Jungkook’s honour,” he says through a yawn, unwrapping the bar. “Even if he’s being an idiot. Which, to be fair, is frequent.”

“Then maybe pass that message along,” Ari says, deadpan.

He finally glances toward you then, eyes briefly scanning your face. He doesn’t say anything — and thankfully, he doesn’t ask — but something in his expression softens. Like he can see the way you’re slightly curled in on yourself, even if you’re trying to fake calm.

The semi-circle of concern around you shifts a little to make room for him, and he steps into it without hesitation, granola bar still in hand. It’s oddly comforting, how casually he folds into the space — like maybe if he acts normal, things will be normal.

And you’re grateful for it. The way attention slides off you and onto Jimin’s sudden presence.

You sip your coffee again, and it tastes slightly better now. Or maybe it’s just that your heart’s not pounding against your ribs anymore.

“Actually, I actually need to tell you guys something,” Jimin says once he’s halfway through the bar, mouth still kind of full. “Before everyone disappears into the sand for the rest of the day.”

You tilt your head, turning slightly more in his direction.

Jimin finishes chewing, wipes his hands on the front of his hoodie — inside-out tag flipping up in the process — and leans casually against the counter.

“Okay,” he starts, tone turning slightly serious. “This doesn’t leave this room. At least not yet.”

Immediately, all of you perk up.

“Oh my god,” Kiara says, leaning in. “Are we finally getting the tea?”

“Someone’s pregnant,” Yasmine whispers like it’s a wild theory, eyes wide.

“Wrong group,” Ari deadpans.

You snort.

“No one’s pregnant,” Jimin says. “But something is happening. And it’s big. So, swear you won’t say anything to Haeun.”

You all nod in varying degrees of seriousness. A chorus of “obviously” and “duh”s.

“Seokjin’s proposing.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. Not because no one saw it coming — but because even when you expect something, hearing it said out loud hits differently.

“No way,” Ari breathes.

“Finally,” Yasmine grins, clapping once. “She’s going to lose it.”

“I knew it,” Kiara says, not even pretending to be surprised. “He’s been acting weird since we got here.”

“Super obvious,” Ari agrees. “He kept spacing out yesterday during volleyball. I asked him if he was okay and he just said, ‘Just picturing things.’ I thought he meant, like… strategy?”

You set your coffee down, half-smiling. “That man has never strategised a day in his life.”

Jimin nods, serious. “Exactly. So, the plan is— he’s doing it the day after tomorrow. Right at sunset. On the back deck. He wants to keep it lowkey but still romantic. Just the group, nothing flashy. He’s got this whole thing with the fairy lights and stuff. It’s very... Jin.”

Yasmine clasps her hands together with a little squeal. “Do we get to be part of it?”

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at her. “Actually, he wants you to take pictures. Nothing major. Just candids. And the rest of us just need to, like, not make it weird.”

“What do you mean not make it weird?” Ari asks.

“I mean like… don’t swarm them,” Jimin says. “Don’t make it a whole scene. Just let it happen and then we can scream after she says yes.”

You all nod.

“God, they’re gonna be so annoying and in love,” Kiara sighs. “Good for them. Can’t wait.”

Jimin’s expression softens as he talks — and you can tell how much this means to him. How long he’s probably been sitting on it. How relieved he is to finally let it out. He’s one of Jin’s closest friends — the fact that Jin looped him in says everything.

“Wait, does Haeun know anything?” Ari asks.

“Not a clue,” Jimin says, grinning. “She thinks she’s just getting a sunset drink on the deck with Jin tomorrow before dinner. Meanwhile, he’s been carrying around the ring like it’s a live bomb.”

“She’s gonna be a mess,” you say quietly, voice warm.

"They're both gonna be a mess," Kiara replies, and you smile.

Honestly, it feels good to think about something else — to imagine someone else’s future for a while. One that's good and certain.

Not murky. Not lukewarm. Not tangled up in old habits and unfinished questions.

And just as that lightness settles in — just as you feel your chest unclench, just a little — the glass doors behind you slide open with a low hiss.

Everyone freezes.

The sliding door clicks back into place, the sound of it too sharp in the sudden stillness. Jimin’s eyes dart past you. Kiara, mid-sip of her drink, lowers her glass. No one says anything.

Your breath catches as you look over Yasmine's shoulder.

Please not Haeun, you think. Pleasepleaseplease.

Jungkook.

Helmet in one hand, motorbike keys hooked around two fingers on the other.

You're heart tugs with relief.

You’re glad he’s here.

Not because things are fine. Not because you know what you’re going to say. But because not knowing where he was all morning had started to eat at you, slow and annoying and persistent. Like something you couldn’t scratch out of your skin.

Jimin’s the first to speak.

“Fuck, man,” he says, twisting toward the door. “You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were Haeun.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile. “Sorry.”

He steps further into the kitchen, the door soft-clicking shut behind him, and sets the helmet down on the island with a dull thud. The keys land beside it with a jingle. The whole group relaxes and the conversation starts backs up, but you’re barely tracking it.

Your eyes stay on Jungkook.

And his eyes don’t quite stay on you, but they flicker. Once. Then back down.

He moves to the cabinet and pulls out a mug from the same shelf you used earlier.

You pause, glancing at the mug still sitting beside your own on the counter. You hesitate for a second before you slide it toward him with your fingertips.

“Here,” you say. “I made one for you already.”

He pauses mid-motion, the clean mug in his hand, and his eyes drop to the one you nudged forward, then back up at you.

“I’m fine. Thanks though." He gives you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh.

Okay.

Maybe he just wants tea or something. You've never known him to be a tea person, but you don't dwell on it that much.

You're already moving to shrug it off when you catch a glance — just over the rim of your mug — of him moving back toward the coffee pot, and you watch, with a slow-burning disbelief, as he starts making the exact same cup of coffee that’s still sitting in front of him.

Same brand. Same scoop. Same splash of milk from the fridge. He reaches for the sugar and adds the same amount.

You stare.

Seriously?

You don’t say it out loud, but it hovers in your expression. Long enough that Ari, who’s been half-listening while peeling a clementine beside you, gives you the smallest nudge with her elbow.

You don’t even glance at her.

Your eyes are still on Jungkook.

He doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t care.

The air shifts around you and it feels like you’ve suddenly dropped into a scene you weren’t given the script for. Because it’s not about the coffee, really. It’s never just about the coffee.

It’s about how easily he dismissed it. Dismissed you so easily, as if you were nothing more than a stranger.

And maybe it’s petty, but come on. You made that cup for him. It wasn’t some random gesture. You got up, went through the routine, thought about what he’d want, even left it sitting there like a peace offering. And he’d rather go through the whole process again himself than take what you’d already done for him?

Fine.

You sip your own drink again, and try tune back into the conversation.

Jimin is talking about how Seokjin tried to smuggle the ring through airport security without Haeun seeing. Kiara makes a joke about hiding it in his shampoo bottle. Yasmine laughs so hard she nearly drops her bowl of strawberries.

And for a moment, it’s fine.

You even smile a little. Force yourself to pull your eyes away from Jungkook and land somewhere safer — like Jimin’s dramatic re-enactment of Seokjin’s TSA panic face.

But when your gaze flicks back, just for a second, you find Jungkook leaning against the opposite counter, sipping his freshly made coffee like he didn’t just say a whole lot by saying nothing.

And you don’t say anything either. Because what are you going to do — call him out for rejecting your cup of coffee?

So you let the conversation keep moving. You nod along. You laugh in the right places. You keep your expression neutral. Maybe a little too neutral.

But your jaw is just the tiniest bit tight. And your fingers wrap around your mug a little firmer than before.

Guess you weren't just overthinking after all.

The rain starts as a mist before quickly turning into a steady downpour.

You and Haeun are halfway back from the beach by the time it hits properly. She doesn’t bother running, and neither do you. You just glance up once at the thick, grey sky and laugh a little under your breath. She grins beside you, jogging lightly as she shakes water out of her ponytail.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she says, smug.

You’d been adamant about it, insisting that it would be warm as usual when you asked Haeun to come swim with you. She’d shown you her weather app and you’d waved it off with a dramatic, “Those things are never right.” Now, soaked halfway to the bone and blinking through the drizzle, you’re starting to eat your words.

"Yeah yeah, whatever."

By the time you step inside the house through the glass sliding doors, your legs are lightly dusted with sand and your hair is sticking to the sides of your neck, still damp from the ocean, and now slightly tangled from the breeze.

It’s warmer in the house, and for the first time since the trip started, everyone is inside. No one has slipped off to the beach or disappeared with a book to some random corner of the deck.

You brush your fingers through your hair absently as you kick off your flip flops near the threshold. Haeun’s already moved toward the kitchen, mumbling something about tea, leaving you to linger for a second by the open space where the wooden floor transitions into the living room rug.

Jimin and Taehyung are on the floor by the coffee table, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths with miserable aim and laughing at their failures. Ari’s curled up with Namjoon on one end of the abnormally large couch that takes up almost half of the room, the two of them watching something muted on the TV while Kiara and Yasmine scroll through their phones on the floor beside them, bickering about which photos to post later.

And there's Jungkook.

He's sitting on the other end of the couch, knees propped up, thumbing idly through something on his phone.

He looks calm. Not relaxed, exactly — Jungkook doesn’t really do relaxed when he’s spaced out, but his shoulders aren’t hunched like they were this morning, and his jaw isn’t clenched. He just sits there scrolling.

You hadn’t seen him on the beach. You’re not even sure where he’d gone off to all morning, after the coffee exchange that had been awkward enough to replay itself in your brain on loop.

It’s not that you’re trying to obsess, but it’s hard not to notice when someone you used to know inside out starts moving like a stranger.

You take a slow breath, brushing your hand down your thigh once — a nervous gesture you don’t bother disguising — and cross the rest of the living room, stepping carefully over Taehyung’s outstretched legs as you make your way toward the couch.

There’s an open space beside Jungkook and you decide take it.

But before you can even properly sit down or bring up your knees to get comfortable, Jungkook's already standing.

You watch as he crosses the living room and drops down into the armchair beside Yoongi without a single word, disbelief painting your features for a second before reel your expression back to neutral.

You don’t look at anyone.

You definitely don’t look at Jungkook.

Instead, you keep your gaze pinned to the muted television in front of you — some vaguely familiar movie playing with the subtitles on — and try to ignore the way your heartbeat has picked up in your ears.

It’s not a big deal. Not technically. Maybe he just wanted to sit by Yoongi. Maybe you’re reading too much into it. Again.

But still.

Still.

You cross one leg over the other, trying to breathe through the stiffness now crawling up the back of your neck. You can feel a strand of hair clinging to your collarbone. You reach up and tuck it behind your ear just to do something with your hands.

“Hey,” Jimin says suddenly from the floor, glancing back toward you, “you two get caught in the rain?”

You force your mouth into a small smile. “A little.”

“Dumbasses,” Taehyung says fondly, tossing a kernel of popcorn that smacks Jimin square in the cheek. “Told you it was gonna pour.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Haeun calls from the kitchen, voice slightly muffled from the distance.

You hum in agreement, mostly to say something, but your voice barely makes it out. You don’t think anyone notices.

Except maybe Kiara, who glances at you briefly from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to make you shift in your seat.

You try not to look again. At him.

You fail.

Jungkook’s posture hasn’t changed — one arm resting on the armrest, the other slung low in his lap. He’s facing the TV, but his gaze isn’t fixed on anything in particular.

This isn’t normal. Not even close.

Not that anything has been normal since the breakup, but this is different. Cold in a way he’s never been with you — even when you fought. Even when you broke up.

It’s the kind of distance that doesn’t come from anger. It’s more deliberate than that.

And you really don’t know what you did to deserve it.

The rain doesn’t last. It trails off sometime after the movie ends — not that you can remember a single scene of it — and by the time it does, the sky outside is starting to dip in colour.

You keep your eyes on your hands, loosely folded in your lap, while the rest of the group starts to migrate back outside into the pool and the beach. Someone tugs open the back door and lets the salt-heavy breeze rush back in. Kiara walks past and ruffles your hair lightly, says something about joining them soon. You nod, even though you’re not sure you will.

You don’t even register Jungkook until he’s moving past the arm of the couch.

“Jungkook,” you say.

He stops just in front of the door to the front.

He doesn’t turn fully. Just glances over his shoulder, enough to let you know he heard.

You stand before your courage can second-guess you. “Can we talk?”

A beat of silence passes. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

It takes you a second to process his words.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting.

“I just—” Jungkook shifts, hand flexing at his side like he’s trying not to clench it. “I think we’re handling things fine. Everyone still believes us, right? That’s the whole point.”

You stare at him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He exhales, but doesn't respond.

“I’m not talking about the deal. I’m talking about you— us— and the fact that you’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I haven’t—”

“Yes, you have,” you cut in, voice firmer now. “You wouldn’t even look at me this morning. You’ve barely said more than three words since last night.”

“I thought you wanted space,” he says quietly, finally turning around to face you. “I figured, after yesterday, that it’d be easier if I just gave you room.”

“Easier?” you echo. “For who?”

He swallows. His gaze drops. You can see the tension in the way his shoulders pull in slightly, like he’s trying to fold himself smaller.

“I’m just trying not to make this harder than it already is."

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising behind your ribs. There’s a line between being careful and being cowardly, and you don’t know when Jungkook crossed it — only that he’s already miles past it now, still walking away from a conversation he won’t even let you have.

“And moving when I sit beside you— what’s that supposed to be?” you ask. “Because if that’s you being careful, it really fucking sucks.”

His jaw twitches.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Jungkook? Because you’re not talking to me. You won’t even look at me.”

His lips part like he wants to say something before he stops himself.

You wait, but he doesn’t answer.

He just stands there in silence, eyes unreadable, like he’s scared whatever comes out of his mouth next will be the wrong thing.

And that frustrates you more than anything else.

Because you just want the truth, not silence. Even if it hurts. Even if it means hearing him say that he doesn't love you anymore. Because at least, then you’d know.

You cross your arms slowly, swallowing the lump that has started forming in your throat.

“You can’t just fucking kiss me one day and ignore me the next.”

“Look, I’m—” He exhales harshly. “I’m sorry the kiss didn’t mean anything, okay?

You freeze.

Something inside you falters, buckles under the weight of it. You try to breathe around the burn clawing up your throat, but the room suddenly feels too stuffy.

You press your nails into your palms. You can feel your pulse there — quick, shallow, and it’s the only thing anchoring you to the moment. You don't trust yourself to speak, so you don't.

Jungkook's voice is soft when he eventually speaks. “We only have to do this shit for one more day. That’s it. I’ll stay out of your way until then, and when it’s over, we can pack our bags, go home, and you never have to talk to me again.”

You stand there for half a second too long. Long enough for the silence to feel thick again. Long enough to think — maybe he’ll take it back, or stop you. Maybe he’ll say something else.

But he doesn’t, so you turn.

You walk away, footsteps too loud against the hardwood. Your throat is tight, your chest worse. You make your way outside and up the stairs into you room, shutting the door with a quiet click — not because you're calm, but because slamming it would mean he still matters enough to make you angry.

And right now, you're trying not to let him matter at all.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the blank wall, trying to will yourself not to cry.

You don’t win that one. Not completely.

But you wipe away your tears before they can stain your face, because if anyone comes looking, you’ll lie. If he comes looking, you won’t open the door.

Still, you wait for the sound of footsteps outside the room.

None come.

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

[onlyangel4]

healing a heart i didn't break. LH44. MV1. SMAU. part three.

cheater! lewis hamilton x reader. max verstappen x reader.

when your boyfriend of three years fumbles, his rival is there to put the pieces of your heart back together bit by bit.

warnings: 14 year age gap with lewis. cursing. cheating.

author's note: our girl finally getting the treatment she deserves

prev // next

faceclaim: camilla morrone

y/ninsta posted a story

written: nothing could keep me away from austin

y/nupdates

liked by user12, user45, user62 and 15,629 others

y/nupdates: it is official mother is not missing the austin gp. she had us wondering whether she would be present after the news that dropped on friday and her not being present at qualifying but she is back in the paddock. as usual arriving with charles and alex. fits like this are one of the many things that make y/n the perfect wag.

view all 530 comments

user12: i'm so glad she didn't miss austin she is on the record so many times saying that it is her favourite date in the calender because of the chaos.

user45: the fit! y/exbff could never

user62: she is a better woman than me, i would be in bed eating my weight in ice cream if what happened to her happened to me

y/ninsta posted a story

written: change of scenery

f1updates

liked by user22, f1fan7, user54 and 250,028 others

f1updates: lewis hamilton faces engine failure during the 23rd lap and DNFs in austin.

view all 5,682 comments

user22: i call that karma

user54: oh no what a shame

f1fan7: y/n cursed that bitch

user52: the way the sky camera man knows exactly what he is doing. it cut from lewis getting out of his car to y/exbff looking all concerned and then to y/n sat in the rb garage just sipping her drink with a straw unbothered

f1

liked by maxverstappen, y/ninsta, f1fan32 and 920,310

f1: and he does it again. max verstappen takes poll at austin with norris in second and russell in third.

view all 19,283 comments

f1fan32: can't wait to see what mad max has to say about lewis' dnf

user61: he is going to have so much to say but red bull will silence him

y/nfan2: the way he hugged y/n when he got off podium. this friendship was so unexpected but it is so perfect

user51: they are so sunshine x grumpy coded and i love it

y/ninsta posted a story

written: an outfit change before dinner with my favourite people

y/ninsta

liked by maxverstappen, danielricciardo, alexandrasaintmleux and 761,982

y/ninsta: these past few months have been some of the worst of my entire life but the people in these picture + many more have made it one hundred times better. i love you all and i miss seeing you in the paddock however i am sure that with our many group chats i will still manage to annoy you all. so many exciting things on the horizon.

view all 7,284 comments

maxverstappen: going to miss your light in the paddock

y/ninsta: and i'm gonna miss all the free redbull

danielricciardo: and where did you get that last photo from

landonorris: i was about to ask the same thing

y/ninsta: you are both so stupid you stole my phone to take it

alexandrasaintmleux: charles is laughing at me for having tears in my eyes

y/ninsta: we are practically neighbors babe, you will see me all the time

y/nfan: y/n living in france? is she back in her model era?

carmenmundt: gonna miss my garage buddy but this is the right choice my love

y/ninsta: thank you my love

taglist: @sinofwriting @toldyouitwasamelodrama @formulaal

@minkyungseokie @shrbehndwn @gr1mes-cc @nichmeddar

@liberty-barnes @kravitzwhore @annaluna12

[viviansturns]

𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌

╰┈➤ 𝒃𝒔𝒇!𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝒃𝒔𝒇!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒄

prev parts: how you met, graduation, facetime calls, you're here, almost

angst, kissing, crying

you do exactly the opposite of what he says and ignore him for a week.

not because you hate him. not because you’re punishing him. but because you don’t know what to say.

the kiss keeps replaying in your head—how gentle it was, how warm, how completely certain he’d been. and how utterly unsure you’d felt. you didn’t regret it. but you also didn’t know what to do with it.

you can’t sleep. you can’t focus. and you definitely can’t talk to him—not until you figure out if you want to risk everything.

then, after seven days of silence, your phone buzzes.

chris:

i know you probably don’t wanna hear from me rn but i just wanna say. nothing has to happen. ever.

i meant what i said. i like you. but i care about you way more than my feelings.

i’d rather have you in my life as a friend than not have you at all.

just please don’t disappear, i really need you

you stare at the message for a long time.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. you type. delete. type again.

then you make a choice that your whole body is screaming at you not to do.

you:

can you come over?

fifteen minutes later, there’s a soft knock at your door. when you open it, he’s standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking like he hasn’t slept well either.

he’s in that hoodie he always wears when he’s nervous—grey, sleeves tugged over his hands.

you let him in.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just steps inside, the silence hanging heavy. then he holds up 7/11 chips and gives a weak smile. “peace offering. one sweet, one spicy.”

you roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “so thoughtful.”

he shrugs, follows you into the living room, and drops onto the couch like he’s at home. you sit too, but you leave space between you. not a chasm, but not nothing.

he looks around like he’s stalling. “you’ve moved your bookshelf.”

“it’s been like that for a while.”

“oh.”

another silence.

then: “you don’t have to say anything,” he says suddenly. “i know i dumped a lot on you. i shouldn’t have. you didn’t ask for any of it.”

you chew your cheek. “it wasn’t dumping. you were honest.”

he looks over. “still. if i scared you off…”

“you didn’t.”

“but you ignored me for a week.”

you flinch, and his voice softens. “i’m not trying to guilt you. i just—i need you to know i don’t expect anything. i swear. you could tell me you never want to talk about it again and i’d still want to sit here and talk about dumb movies with you.”

you glance at him. “why?”

chris smiles, barely. “because i’d rather be your friend than nothing at all.”

that sentence hits you in the gut.

you shift a little closer, almost without meaning to. “so you don’t regret kissing me?”

“not for a second.”

you stare at him. “even if it messed everything up?” he kind of flinches at the accusation.

“it didn’t mess anything up. i just—” he pauses. “i think we’re just figuring out what this is. that’s allowed.”

your chest tightens. he’s always been good at that—saying the one thing that loosens the knot inside you.

“you’re good at this,” you mutter.

“at what?”

“being patient. making things easier for me.”

chris laughs under his breath. “you think this is easy? i’m sitting here two feet from you and trying not to say everything that’s in my head.”

“what’s in your head?”

he looks at you. he hesitates before saying, “that i missed you like hell this week. that i’ve liked you for so long it makes my brain hurt. that you’re allowed to not feel the same, but i’d still show up anytime you asked.”

you blink. your pulse is in your ears.

the couch suddenly feels smaller.

he notices you staring and laughs nervously. “sorry. that was—”

“chris.”

his mouth shuts. you shift toward him—just a little—and this time, he shifts too.

“can i…” you trail off. you’ve never asked this before. it feels huge.

chris’ eyes soften. “you don’t have to ask.”

“i want to.”

you’re close enough to see the tiny freckle just under his left eye.

“then yeah,” he says, barely above a whisper. “you can.”

you lean in, and so does he, like gravity is taking care of it for you.

the kiss is slow. careful. like you’re both afraid to move too fast and lose it.

his lips are warm, familiar. one hand brushes your cheek, tentative, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch you like this.

you kiss him again, deeper this time. less scared.

and he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months— no, years.

your hand finds his shoulder, gripping slightly like you need something to hold onto. he’s solid. steady. but everything else in you is trembling.

he kisses you like he’s memorizing it. like he’s waited too long to risk getting it wrong. there’s nothing rushed, nothing hungry—just soft, aching reverence.

his nose brushes yours. you can feel the curve of his smile against your mouth, and it makes your stomach somersault.

when he pulls back just an inch, eyes still closed, his voice is barely a whisper. “you’re gonna kill me, y/n.”

before you can say anything, he wraps his arms around you.

gently. carefully. like you’re something delicate he’s scared to break.

you sink into it instantly. your cheek against his chest, his chin tucked over your shoulder. he holds you close, hands splayed across your back, grounding you. one of them finds its way into your hair, cradling the back of your head.

he breathes you in. a quiet inhale against your temple, like you’re the first deep breath he’s been allowed to take in weeks. maybe longer.

neither of you speak.

but he sways a little, side to side, like he’s rocking you through it. his heartbeat is steady where your hands rest on his chest.

and then he whispers, just for you to hear, “i’ve wanted to do that forever.”

you look up at him, trembling. “i’m so scared.”

his arms tighten just slightly, like he’s trying to protect you from something invisible. his voice stays low, almost hesitant. “why are you scared?”

you swallow, the words catching in your throat before they fall out in a whisper. “because i’m gonna mess it up. i’m gonna mess you up.”

his expression doesn’t change. 

“y/n,” he says softly, “i’m not breakable.”

“you don’t know that,” you say, voice cracking. “you know what i’m like when i panic or push people away or when things stop feeling easy. i—i shut down. i run. i ruin everything.”

he doesn’t argue. doesn’t lie and tell you something just to make it go away.

instead, he brushes his thumb along your jaw and says, “then i’ll stay. even when it’s hard.”

you laugh—barely, shakily—but the tears are already slipping down your cheeks. you try to wipe them away with the back of your hand, but more follow, and your chest caves in a little with the weight of it all.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “i don’t know why i’m crying.”

chris doesn’t flinch. just watches you, eyes glassy, like he’s been holding his own flood back for your sake.

and then, softly—half a breath, half a smile—he says, “y’know i can’t not cry when you’re crying.”

he pulls you back in and you melt against him, both of you half-laughing, half-sobbing into each other’s shoulders. it’s ridiculous and overwhelming and warm. his hands are in your hair again, yours fisted into his hoodie like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

okkkkk so they're figuring things out... lwk not sure where to go from here, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE IM BEGGING U TO SEND IN REQUESTS. pls. 😊😊

taglist - @sturnbrooke @emely9274 @arianna1342 @gemzyy @namelesssav @chestersturn @ellieluvssturniolos @tits4matt @vanteguccir @luke8989 @matt-sturnioloo @glee2skkii @riggysworld @sturnslux3 @cass-sturn @auttysturnz @oopsiedaisydeer @chrismakesmewet @whore4chris @sturns-mermaid @eeyoresturnz @httpssturns @chrxsprettygirl @bernardsbendystraws @chrisbratt333 @aurorasturnz @iluvchr1s @sturniolosymphony @slvt4subchratt @sturn-ath3na @chrispycremedonut @matts-hersheys-kisses  @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @aka-persephone @ajskorner

lots of love!!!

[keen-li]

All Aisle Ever Need 03 | jjk

chapter: 3/ ?

summary:

pairing: Jungkook x fem reader.

story type: series.

genre: exes to lovers, second chance au, right person wrong timing, lack of communication, forced proximity, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut.

rating: m. Mdni

wordcount: 3.7k+

warnings for chapter: troubled parental dynamics/figures. It's implied that they are both grown, Jungkook is older than reader (the age is subjective). cussing. found family, flashbacks. none really from here on.

a/n: this is when we get into a little more of the back story.

A/n: it's not a friday but here you go...

date: 13/05/25

note: this is not the first chapter

prev | next

story under cut.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Waking up early on a no-work day is great, though it does feel like a self-inflicted punishment today. Your body aches, and you can hardly move your neck. Your bed has always been comfortable and brought you nothing more than that. But last night, the sleep you got was in intervals. And that's rare for you. Each beginning had you slipping off because of how tired you were, but then your eyes snapped open from a dream.

The dreams varied from random childhood memories to Jungkook leaning against the door frame and smiling at you, still in the outfit you gave him. It felt too real. The waking you would say that was a nightmare, but the dream never caused you an inch of discomfort. It's nothing but a dream.

Maybe the smile was a threat. Everything feels like a threat to your life, to never let it be the same again. Because from now on, your life won't be the same.

Regardless of being able to sleep or not, you like waking up early. You have more time in the day that way.

You still don't know how to process yesterday. You try to remember the happy moments, but they get covered with his face. Yesterday, you were so angry at him and at everything, and today you're still upset. Now it's more about yourself. Maybe you should just take this oppo—no.

You don't have to take shit; this doesn't mean a single thing. It was a fucked-up coincidence.

You’re married to your fucking ex... sigh.

You're a meme to the universe at this point.

But of course, your ex is the best choice but the worst at the same time.

You thought sneaking out extra early to take your dress to the laundry would help you deal with this, but no... it’s making you feel worse because now you have to wonder if Jungkook is awake or not.

He sleeps longer than you; it’s not a surprise.

Something in you wants to avoid him at all costs, and after he leaves your house, you plan on doing that. But right now, you have to deal with it.

You’ve never been the type to kick people out, but you've never been shy to tell them when they've overstayed. Has he overstayed? Honestly, he should’ve never stayed, but—your fault again.

You’re kinder than you thought you would be. Because you should’ve called that Uber yesterday.

You sit in your car, thinking about whether you should go in or not, and you’ve never felt more childish. It’s your house; you shouldn’t be afraid to just walk in.

You don’t have to speak to him anyway; just walk in and do your stuff.

“Morning.”

You should’ve stayed in the car longer.

You scare yourself; the first thing you hear is his voice. You thought he'd still be asleep.

His voice is slow and flows out casually, clearly still in the hands of sleep.

You glance at him once, still stuck and taking your time to close the door. He eyes you from behind your island counter, wondering why you stand frozen.

“Thought you ran from me.” He smiles, licking the drop of coffee off his lip.

He thought you ran? Did you?

“You went into my room?” You finally move from your spot and into the kitchen. You’re so hungry. You knew you should’ve stopped by a café, but heaven knows what stopped you. Because now that you’re here, you don’t feel like anything you eat will sit in your stomach.

How would he know you weren’t here unless he looked into your room? You haven’t done your bed shit... did he go in your room? You don’t know why you panic at the thought of someone seeing you at a low point.

Because you’re not yourself right now.

Maybe you were running away.

“Wouldn’t dare.” He chuckles, staring deeper into his coffee.

He knows better than to. You already expressed that he wasn’t a guest here, so he doesn’t plan on doing anything further to anger you. Even making this coffee was a question mark for him.

“You left the door open,” he explains.

You freeze.

“I did what?”

“You left the door open,” he repeats. What? Are you about to yell at him?

You scoff, shaking your head. “Doesn’t sound like me.” You brush him off because you would never do that.

“Just telling you.” He retreats; it’s not something important to have a discussion on, but he thought you should know. If he wasn’t here and you did that, who knows what would’ve happened? You do live in a more secure apartment building, but nothing’s 100%.

He knows it’s something you wouldn’t do, but you look ‘not yourself today.’ Is it because of him?

You ignore everything; that's the affirmation of this whole thing, right? So that’s what you’re going to do. And something that helps you with that is your coffee.

So, pulling open your cabinet, you search the perimeter for the coffee bags you had. You swore you had them. They'd be almost done by now, but they’re there.

“You finished the coffee?” you turn sharply to the only person with a cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry.”

Great, now you’re going to have to drink tea. It’s fine; you like it, but coffee has always been a better stress reliever. And of course, it just had to be him to ruin the only thing you found solace in.

You accept it and choose to just reach for your mug—“It’s fin—are you using my mug!?”

“Am I?” He stares at the mug. It’s the first one he saw, and it was pretty. He didn't realize it, though. Are you upset? At this point, everything is a landmine in this house.

You roll your eyes. “You’re kidding, right? Is this how you act elsewhere?” He doesn’t respond. “Don’t be so comfortable.”

“You can have it...” There’s definitely a better way for you to set your boundaries with him, but like you said, it’s your house. Honestly, he should just go home. Nothing about being here feels welcoming.

He wants to give it back, but you’re already grabbing another.

You're both silent as you make your cup.

Words itch at Jungkook's throat as he just watches you. There's a lot he wants to say, but where to start? The thought of your reaction has him doubting if he shouldn’t just go home.

Mornings with you were once different from this. Back then, he'd be hovering over your shoulder as you both made breakfast. He preferred you sat, but you didn't like the idea of just sitting when you could help out.

And even when Jungkook forced you to just sit down and watch him, you couldn't just sit. So you would repack his pantry.

He smiles.

“You need to refill your pantry,” he suggests, not as hastily as you hear it, but as an observation. And maybe a conversation filler.

“With some new stuff as well.” Years back, when he would come to yours, he’d find the same type of food you have right now. He’s not sure if you’re just a super fan of the brands, and that’s cool, but you surely can’t have the same taste.

“I’ll be fine.” You walk past him.

You didn’t want to think much about it last night when you gave him the pants, but now you realize you should’ve sacrificed some sleep to find him a shirt. You hate it, but you've got eyes, and he's right in front of you. You hate how you notice how much he's changed. He's bigger—muscles, of course. Not that the pants are hiding much. Geez. You really don't like the best for you.

You never thought tattoos were something that were interesting to look at. Your mother said they were a useless commitment. But now, looking at Jungkook... they aren't that bad. But maybe it's just him. He looks good in them; you'll give him that.

But away from that type of thinking, you do hate that he doesn't seem uncomfortable at all. He's too casual with this.

And the flashbacks to days when you’d stay over at his (which was all you ever did). Thoughts of you laughing at something stupid he said or him—No. No, think.

“How did you sleep?”

Him speaking doesn’t help you in any way. It’s exactly what you don’t want to do.

“We don’t need to speak, you know?” You spit out. What are you even looking for? You can’t keep walking around.

Breakfast—you wanted to make breakfast.

“We’re going to have to.” It’s a truth you want to avoid. But it’s possible if you both agree that you don’t have to talk about anything. Doesn’t he realize that that’s better?

Still walking around, you pretend to not hear him. “Did you leave my room how you found it?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes at how you ignore him, but he’ll bite.

“Thought room service was going to do that.” He laughs, and you’re not amused. You can dish out so many remarks but can’t take them.

Not trusting him at all, you’re quick to take a peek at the guest room.

It’s clean. It’s clean.

“Not gonna cuss me out?” The smug look on his face has you rolling your eyes. Fine, he did one small thing you didn’t expect of him, so what?

“I don’t usually leave my pillows like that, but you tried.”

He laughs lightly.

Shit has never been this awkward between him and a woman before. And he’s never not known what to do. But you always seem to take him out of himself, honestly. You’re really going to be the test of if he’s changed or not.

Finally deciding to get serious, you open your fridge, and you groan at the sight. Not much to see, honestly.

“I told you, you need to refill.”

Being so caught up with the wedding, you forgot to go grocery shopping. In truth, you didn’t think you would need to. After the wedding, you thought you and your husband would move in together or find somewhere else to live, and that would be that. You didn’t want to waste food.

Maybe it was dumb to think that.

But it’s fine. You just grab a snack.

“We can go out for breakfast,” Jungkook suggests warmly, walking over to the sink to rinse it.

“Who’s we?”

He pauses.

“You wouldn't want to?”

You don’t answer for a second, but your stomach does a good job at speaking for you. You hate it sometimes.

Jungkook chuckles internally, and it threatens to slip past his lips when you try to deny it. If it was life or death, you would really rather die than let him help you. It’s a shame.

“Just because we’re married doesn’t mean you need me in your plans.”

“I would do this for anyone,” he's quick to correct.

“So generous.”

He rolls his eyes. But he won’t let your stubbornness stop him. “I’ll bring you back something then.”

You raise a brow, but you can’t deny the idea speaks to you. Even through your frustration, you won't deny that Jungkook is caring. He's a lot of things you can't seem to put together.

The day you left, you promised you'd never try to decipher what Jungkook was or was not because it didn't matter. It doesn’t matter.

“You’re coming back?”

Jungkook thinks for a second. He has overstayed, huh? Maybe he's running away from going home too. “Now that you’ve said it, no.”

It’s what you wanted; why is your chest tightening?

“But I would appreciate it if you could drive me back to mine.”

“J-just call an Uber.”

“Are we gonna discuss this again?” he chuckles. “We know how it’ll end.” He teases for your kindness last night.

"You slept with him?"

You roll your eyes at Jisoo’s reaction to you telling her Jungkook slept at yours.

Taehyung hasn't said much since you called them. You have no clue what has him busy behind the camera.

When coming back home, you stopped by the store just to buy food that will last you till you have to leave for the honeymoon.

You sigh. You're excited to be going out of the country, but the circumstances aren't ideal, so you wonder if you will enjoy it. You want to because it's been a while since you went on a trip and just relaxed.

While dropping him off, Jungkook offered for you to come in, and he could make something for you. But just like him, you didn’t want to have to speak to his mother, so you dodged that.

"What the heck? No, I didn't." The scowl on your face tells them how you feel about the idea.

Why the hell would that be the first thing she would think to ask?

"He just didn’t want to go home. And honestly, I get it." You shake your head at the memory of Jungkook's parents. His dad's cool, but his mother...

"His mother is kind of a bitch?" You question if that's how you should refer to her. It's not like it's wrong. You wouldn’t say it to her face or Jungkook's, but you do think it. Jungkook would get it, right? He's said it to you before.

"Is that how you're addressing your mother-in-law?" Jisoo laughs teasingly, and you follow.

"Honestly, if you met her, you would agree." You say defensively. You respect elders, but Jungkook’s mother? Lol.

"So he's got mommy issues?" Taehyung finally speaks.

You pause to think. "I guess you could say that." You frown when you think about it. And when you think more, you connect the dots and realize... "She's like my dad."

Small hums fall out of your friends' mouths.

It's only now that you're realizing how similar you and Jungkook could be. But you don't know much about him still. Why the hell did you love him in the first place? You barely knew a single thing about what you should’ve known about him. You guess you knew him; that’s enough, right?

You met his family. He's never met yours; maybe you're the one who wasn't serious.

You're shocked his mother didn't walk up to you at the wedding. Maybe she didn't remember you? But with the way she analyzed you that day, she should be able to remember.

What does she think of you now? Everything she says is so backhanded, honestly; you don't care to know.

"You seem to be feeling better."

"Yeah, you were a bitch yesterday."

You laugh out when Taehyung abruptly spits out his drink. You almost spit out your latte. "I was not." You definitely were. And the side eyes they give you are evidence of their disagreement.

You're not normally like that, but when you are, you're glad you have friends to tell you. They're never shy to do so. "I'm sorry for that. I was just so—"

"It's okay; we understand."

You pout and share a smile with them.

"So would you care to share what happened between the two of you?"

Oh—you could only dodge so far.

"If you want to," Jisoo adds, so you don't feel any pressure.

You have no issue with sharing it with them. Who else would you tell? But it’s definitely going to be embarrassing.

"It's nothing Shakespeare-worthy." You blush, embarrassed, hands over your face. Are you really going to have to relive it?

It really isn't anything special. You'd been with him for two years. Two years, and you were inching away from being anything serious the more days went on.

It was confusing because everything about you two felt serious.

You shared 'I love yous' (him first). You spent most of your time together and talked often. Jungkook would never go a day without sending a "hi" text. Everything felt set in stone and serious.

-

-

Flashback: Two Years Ago

-

-

"You okay?" Jungkook coos, brushing the loose hair off your face.

"Huh?" You finally tear your eyes off the one spot you've been staring at.

Jungkook, noticing the blank look on your face, pulls you in playfully. "You look sad." You laugh when he nuzzles his nose into your neck. "I don't like when you're sad."

Laughing, you pull him away and speak through a giggle. "I'm not sad."

He pauses his attacks to look at your face. "Then what's wrong?" He stares at every inch of your face and watches it closely as it falls once again. There's definitely something bothering you, and his brows furrow at the thought.

You stare at the wrinkles on his white duvet. How do you ask what you want to ask?

You pick at your cheek.

"Don't do that." He strokes the cheek that your teeth attack, and immediately you stop.

Whatever it is you want to say requires a more serious tone. So he sits up, the material sliding down his torso. You sit up as well.

"You can talk to me, you know, right?" He reassures you. You rarely get this nervous or awkward. But of late, he can definitely feel a shift on your part, which has led him to draw back a bit. But not enough to make you feel like he doesn't care.

He wouldn't say he's the best at this, but he tries; he wants to be good at this.

Honestly, he doesn't like where your silence is going. What are you about to say?

"I know." You know you can talk to Jungkook about anything, but there are things that are just so hard to talk about with someone you doubt could be there the next few years. You hate to trauma dump on somebody, and then the next moment, you're breaking up, and he's using those things against you. Would Jungkook do that? You're not sure.

Jungkook has honestly been a breath of fresh air for you in terms of relationships. But you're getting older, and you can't keep playing around. You're not even in an established relationship.

You never questioned the non-commitment in the beginning because you never thought things would last between you two. It was just a hookup, but the things turned casual, and soon casual hookups turned into casual conversations and casual laughter. Months turned into a year. And things would have been great if you both clearly didn't feel deeply for what you had.

It's honestly the most complicated situationship. You were basically a couple without the title.

Why? On your part, you would say you were scared things would change once you brought up commitment, or maybe you weren't the commitment type. You have no clue what it is you want, that's why it's hard to bring it up. But maybe whatever he says may push your mind to one direction.

"Talk to me, baby." He says, pulling you into him and placing a kiss on your temple.

You hate this. Hate this confusion. So you pull back and get off the bed.

Jungkook's confused by your actions. He sits at the edge of the bed.

"I can't do this."

Communication is so crucial, but you've been too carried away to do so. You never had goals or intentions for this relationship; it just happened, and you just let it. It was nice to not have expectations for anything.

How the hell did you survive this for almost a year?

But things are getting confusing, and now you realize.

"What do you think we are?" It's a genuine question, one with weight and could change a lot. You never really knew; you hooked up, but it never felt like that, and honestly, it was never always that. You always hung out and did non-sexual stuff. You talked, you laughed, and you even cried in front of him once, though it was because of a movie. If somebody saw the way you hung out, honestly, they would pin it as a friendship. Were you two friends? A fucked-up way to be friends.

"Huh?"

Yeah, you're just as confused.

"Where's this coming from?"

You roll your eyes.

"Don't you wonder?" You take a seat by his desk that's at the end of his bedroom. Jungkook watches your every movement. There's a lot of stuff he'd like to notice, like the way his shirt slides up when you sit down or the way your skin glows from the rays of sun from his window. But he can't; all he's thinking about is your question.

What are you actually?

"I don't know," he responds, and you scoff. "We never talked about it, really."

"We should talk about it."

If you weren't upset over nothing before what he says after surely guarantees that.

"What's there to say?" He chuckles. What's there really to say?

You scoff. "Well, do you want to be something?"

Jungkook pauses, stands, and walks over to you.

Just like you, he never really thought much of this in the beginning. But as time went on, he did grow feelings for you. And it was nice to not have a label or to even think of labels. It's not like he cheated or was disloyal to you. He was all yours, just without a label.

And there's nothing wrong with that to him. Labels aren't that serious. He doesn't need a label to treat you right. He's been doing that just fine.

"Huh? You want to be something?" He caresses your cheek as you look up at him. Why does he make your knees weak? That fucking smile. He's always too calm and always know show to calm you.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. "I don't know, Jungkook. I just... I don't want to keep pretending like this is nothing when it feels like so much more."

A embarrassing to say but you feel like you can trust him with it.

He nods slowly, processing your words. "I get it. I really do. But what if we just keep it like this for a while longer? No pressure, no labels. Just us."

You want to argue, to push for something more concrete, but the sincerity in his eyes makes you hesitate. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you both need more time to figure things out.

Maybe labels don't mean much.

"Okay," you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. "But we need to be honest with each other."

"Deal," he replies, a smile breaking across his face. "I promise."

But being honest with eachother was the last thing that happened...

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

A/n: we're now going to get into more of the back story so the following chapter will be flashbacks. I know its not a Friday but I wanted to get this out cause i missed Friday...

A/n 2: i'm sorry if this chapter was ass, this week's been busy and mentally draining. if you didn't like it please don't tell me and if you did like it please let me know.

i'm getting to the point where i'm getting insecure about everything i put down, so i hope i get through that but anyways i don't mean to sob... I will keep writing it though, I'm not giving up...

anyways I hope you enjoyed.

same time next week?

Lets discuss in the replies 🖐😊

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @granataepfelchen @jksusawife @notsevenwithyou @llallaaa @kmpj9 @lryf @smileyshaven @dragonflygurl4 @mar-lo-pap @blueberriesm @vantelover1306 @bjoriis @alana4610 @khadeeeeej

note: to join taglist just inbox.

every note, reply and reblog is appreciated.

[winxanity-ii]

𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Sorry, not an update, but I'll try to keep this short...

I just wanted to take a second to speak directly and honestly with y'all after posting that last chapter (CHAPTER 42.5: WRATH WEARS MANY FACES). I've been seeing a few responses that, while valid in feeling, have also reminded me why I normally don't look at comments after publishing something heavy.

Let me be clear: I know this chapter was a lot. It was violent. It was cruel. It was painful. That was intentional.

This isn't fluff. This isn't comfort every chapter. This is a mythos-based story, rooted in ancient violence, power imbalance, and divine wrath.

I'm not here writing gore for fun or romanticizing harm—but I am writing a story where gods and mortals alike are capable of monstrous things, especially when they feel justified.

Chapter 42.5 was especially meant to remind you who Apollo, Hermes, and Telemachus really are—how close they sit to the divine cruelty of Olympus. I love them, yes. They're soft to MC, yes. But they are not soft to the world and those they deem unimportant/useless. That contrast is what makes their tenderness meaningful.

And I've hidden Hermes' darker side behind jokes long enough. Some of y'all forgot he's a god, and a trickster, and someone with centuries of blood under his belt. There's nothing squeaky clean about him.

If the chapter bothered you—I understand. It's not meant to sit easy. And for those of you who felt empathy for Melanion, or said this felt too much... I respect your reactions. Seriously. You're allowed to feel conflicted. That's what good storytelling should do.

But what isn't okay is the passive-aggressive commentary about my choices as a writer. I've been transparent from the beginning: this fic isn't some wholesome, "MC gets babied 24/7" kind of tale. It's a dark, myth-heavy journey with stakes and consequences. You don't get a kiss in Chapter 2 here. You had to wait because the world I'm building doesn't hand out softness that easily.

And I can't help but find it a bit hypocritical how some folks cheer for Andreia to die, but pity the man who murdered MC in cold blood. Y'all got mad at her for emotional cruelty, but want grace for someone who left them bleeding in an alley? We must not have grown up reading the same myths lol.

I'm not saying you can't critique or feel strongly. You're welcome to disagree. To feel things deeply. That's human. But don't twist the space/story I've created into something it was never meant to be. This isn't an Epic Musical fluff AU (hence the note of not needing to actually know about it). This is Olympus. This is blood-soaked marble. This is war, consequence, and love wrapped in power dynamics. I've made that plenty clear with me writing out the suitors carnage in chapter 6 instead of summarizing it.

And I say this with love but also honesty: if my content, tone, or direction rubs you the wrong way, it's okay to step away. Truly. I'll never beg anyone to read something outside their comfort zone.

Also—and this might be petty but I'm adding it here anyway—I'm even more annoyed because I had to spoil a big MC-related moment to my own sister. 😭

We promised to treat each other as authors, only editing each other's chapters once we’d both read them fully. That was the deal. But she noticed I was acting off and pushed me about it—kept asking what was wrong and finally told me to just rant before it ate me alive. So I did.

And man, I'm a damn blabbermouth because once I started venting, it all spilled out. Do you know how hard it was keeping a main plot twist from her? Only to have to reveal it because sister issues come first?? 😭💀

But yeah, back to being serious, this is my second serious fic, one where I'm trying to do something I can look back on and be like 'Xani, you ate that up fr.' And if that means I have to block people who threaten the joy or safety of my creative space?

Then so be it—rejection sensitivity or not.

That being said, I'm taking a real break from updating. I know I said I was taking a break after the last chapter, but the truth is, I was just trying to pace myself and stay ahead without losing momentum...but now I mean it—for real. I think I need an actual one to cool off and not spiral.

And yeah... maybe this rant feels a little intense or childish to some of y'all, but I needed to say it or I was just gonna end up doing something impulsive that I'd end up regretting later.

To those of you who do get it, who read carefully and trust the process—thank you. Deeply.

I'll see y'all soon 🖤

—Xani

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[chimcess]

⮞ 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?

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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.

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[lush-escape]

The Vigilante's Guide to Grief

pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader wc: 1.3k a/n: sorry for the slow update - work was crazy. being a stand in hotel housekeeper is no joke. i cleaned up a LEECH. if you or anyone you know leaves their hotel room looking like a pig sty? your mom's a hoe. also I messed up on the last chapter's title - ignore that, I fixed it. prev: shock next: anger

Stage two: Denial

Hey,

It's Friday the 13th. We should be watching scary movies right now like we do every year. The classics. Halloween, scary movie, Friday the 13 obviously. A new final destination came out. You always loved watching those stupid movies, making fun of everyone's stupid choices. Christy (the stupid therapist who's not that stupid) told me it can be “healing” to keep traditions like that alive. I think it's dumb. No one will ever have commentary like you do. No one else in the family can handle horror movies like you do. It wouldn't be the same. Besides - that was our thing. You and me. Ever since we were kids.

Jason can feel those heavy emotions weighing down on his chest. For a second it's harder to breathe. He takes a second to breathe, to let his mind relax. And then his phone dings. And then again. And again.

With a sigh he picks it up. An influx of messages from the Batfam group chat. Playful warnings to stay safe this Friday the 13th.

“Jay!” You let out an excited little laugh as you curl up into your favorite corner of the couch with a blanket draped over your lap. “Hurry up, you're wasting valuable movie time.”

Jay chuckles lowly from the kitchen of your shared apartment, “‘m almost done in here, baby. Start the movie - I'll be there in a second.” He's in the kitchen getting together snacks on a tray. Popcorn, your favorite candy, cookies.

“No way, I'm not starting it without you. I've been waiting all week for this.” You look over the back of the couch and catch sight of him with his back turned to you. Big, hulking Jason looking soft as ever in your top cramped kitchen getting sweets and snacks. You let out a small sigh, your smile turning soft. There's a warmth that spreads from your chest to your stomach as it hits you just how much you do love him.

“Stop it.” He finally speaks up with a tone of amusement. He knows you so well he doesn't even have to look at you to know you're staring.

“No.” You tease him back, your smile growing more playful. “I can't help it, you're too hot to ignore.”

And even though you can't see his face you know he's blushing.

“Shut up,” You hear him mutter, bashful. “Don't say stupid shit like that.”

You laugh at him, “What? It's true.” Your voice is more loving, adoring, and it makes Jason falter for a split second.

“Whatever, you're crazy.” He teases with a shake of his head before he's in the living room with you.

“Yeah, crazy in love.” You exaggerate batting your eyelashes before popping a piece of popcorn into your mouth.

“God, you're obnoxious.” Jason smirks with a roll of his eyes as he's sitting next to you. He props his feet onto the coffee table in front of the two of you and slings his arm over the back of the couch. A silent invitation for you to cuddle into him which you happily accept.

With your head on Jason's chest and your arm around his stomach he pushes play on the remote and pulls you even closer to him.

“Ready to watch some people die?” He asks and you snort a laugh in response.

part of me hates that they don't get it.

Jason is sidetracking now, putting his every thought down.

They haven't lost anyone like I have. I know they lost you too. They all loved you love you. But they don't get it. Normal things like today? It's just another Friday to them. To me it's one of the days I can't even turn on the tv or look at my phone without thinking of you even more than I already do. It's fucking hard baby. So fucking hard

Jason stops to blink away a tear, “Dammit…” he can hear himself sniffle and he hates it. He clears his throat and continues writing.

Some days I don't want to believe you're gone…

The manor was eerily silent that day. An official two weeks after your death, one after your funeral service. It was a small gathering; the Wayne's, the Kent's, Roy and Lian and your best friend. Your parents didn't show up, blaming Jason and the Wayne family for your “mysterious” death.

Jason doesn't like to think about it. So he doesn't.

As Jason walks through the manor he already knows where everyone is, where to avoid. Duke is on patrol, Damian is doing homework in the library, Tim and B are in the cave working a case, Dick is in Blüdhaven, Steph and Cass are training in the gym.

Except Dick wasn't in Blüdhaven. Jason rounds the corner to the kitchen to find him sitting at the island staring at a cup in front of him.

Jason doesn't greet Dick, not verbally anyway, just gives a grunt of acknowledgement. Dick looks up and he can see how tired Jason is. It makes his heart ache for his little brother. There's stubble on his face, the bags under his eyes are deep and purple.

“Hey,” Dick speaks up. His voice is quiet, a little tired. A sign that he's struggling just a bit. He watches Jason pull a beer from the fridge and he sighs. For once in his life he's <I>nervous</I>. He knows Jason stopped drinking a long time ago for you. It started as a bet that turned into a habit. He's scared to bring it up but there's something nagging at him in his brain to do so.

“Thought you stopped…” Dick mumbles. He sees Jason stiffen.

“Whaddya mean?” Jason asks, he's refusing to look at Dick as he takes a long swig.

Dick hesitates, “The bet… you both-”

“Look,” Jason forces a laugh, it doesn't even sound like him, “what she doesn't know won't hurt her. Just don't say anything and I won't get in trouble.” He jokes.

There's silence. It's heavy and tense and awkward and Dick audibly swallows. He stammers for a second. While still dealing with his own grief he was having to handle Jason's as well. He felt a pit open in his stomach.

“Jay…” Dick's voice is so soft and so tender that it makes Jason turn to face him. And when he does finally turn around Dick can see how hard he's fighting to hold it together.

“What?” Jason asks in a shaky voice.

“She.. there's no one…” Dick doesn't know how to navigate this. “She's not coming back, Jay…” the words came out thick and choked one.

Jason shakes his head and forces on another smile, it doesn't even look human at this point.

“You've always been pretty funny, y'know that.” Another drink of beer. “‘course she's coming back. She just- she's just.. not,” Jason clears his throat “, not here right now. It's fine. She'll be back soon.”

Dick wonders how long Jason's been feeling like this, how long he's been in denial or if it's a new thing he's going through. But part of him is afraid to call Jason out on it, to burst his little bubble of happiness in the midst of his despair. And honestly? A small part of him also wants to believe that you're gone, that you'll be back soon from some little trip or something.

“Oh… yeah, okay. I won't say anything, Jay.” Dick is almost whispering now as he chokes on the lump in his throat.

The part of Jason's brain that knows this is just a defense mechanism is relieved.

“Thanks, Dickie.” He claps Dick on the shoulder as he walks by.

But I know you are. I hate it. I hate accepting it. This

Jason pauses his writing before finally sighing in defeat.

this isn't how it was supposed to be.

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[megumismyhusband]

spilled coffee & stolen hearts

chapter 16: almost something 

it was a quiet evening, the streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, casting long shadows across the pavement as you walked alongside rin. the usual sounds of the city seemed muffled, like the world had softened around you both.

“you really don’t have to walk me home,” you said, glancing over at rin. his steps were slow, deliberate, like he wasn’t in any rush.

“i’m fine,” rin muttered, his tone a little more distracted than usual, though not unkind. his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and he kept his gaze straight ahead.

you fell into an easy rhythm, walking side by side without saying much. it wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was a quiet weight between you, something you couldn’t quite name.

the silence stretched out, and you decided to break it. “so, how’s everything going with your team?”

rin glanced at you for a split second, then looked away, his gaze far off. “same as always. a few new drills. nothing special.”

you raised an eyebrow, a little skeptical. “nothing special? that sounds like a boring day.”

he shrugged, his pace never faltering. “it’s just how it is. nothing to get worked up over.”

there was a momentary pause as you both walked, and you couldn’t help but notice that rin’s usual air of detachment seemed to have softened. his tone, though casual, had a hint of something that felt almost… uncertain?

you didn’t comment on it, but a small part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more going on than he was letting on.

“so,” you said after a beat, “you ever get tired of all this?”

rin’s eyes flicked to you briefly, almost like he hadn’t expected the question. he let out a quiet exhale, looking down at the pavement as he walked. “sometimes. but it’s not like I have much of a choice.”

you nodded, sensing the weight behind his words. “yeah, I get that.”

the conversation faded again, but the tension still lingered, thick and unspoken. you found yourself sneaking glances at him, wondering if he could feel it too—the strange shift in the air.

when you neared your house, you slowed down, feeling the moment slipping away. “well, this is me.”

rin stopped walking but didn’t immediately look at you. he kept his eyes forward, and for a moment, you could almost feel the hesitation in his stance.

“yeah,” he muttered, his voice lower now. “you, uh… good?”

you nodded. “yeah, I’m good.”

you were about to turn and head inside when you heard his voice again, softer than before. “I—”

he cut himself off, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair. you looked back at him, confused.

“you… what?” you asked, a bit amused by the sudden shift.

rin just shook his head quickly, muttering, “it’s nothing.”

you stared at him for a second, a little taken aback. “you sure?”

he nodded, his expression unreadable. “yeah. just…” he trailed off, his gaze flicking away. “never mind.”

you could feel a smile tug at your lips at how odd and fleeting that moment was, but you didn’t press him. instead, you simply nodded.

“alright, then. see you, rin.”

“yeah, later,” he muttered, his tone more like usual—distant, but somehow softer too.

as you turned to walk into the building, you glanced over your shoulder at him, catching a glimpse of his back before you disappeared inside.

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series MASTERLIST

[usagiarchive]

angel of the codeine scene — [09] over and and over again

prev / masterlist / afterword

sypnosis. [ 1.6k words. epilogue ] — The end of the suffering and the beginning of a new start.

usagi's note: HI i hope u guys read my afterword, there is so much i wanna say, but in case u guys, don't read it, i just really wanna say thanku for choosing to read this, ily guys, thanks for reading until the end <3

Rex Lapis was not indifferent.

He tries really hard to give Liyue and its people the epilogue after the war, to preserve the peace they protect, and to give his remaining yaksha the epilogue he deserves.

He tries, really.

Because he couldn't give the same to himself.

In a war where you are blessed to find love, you will be cursed to choose who to protect. Yourself? Your people? Or your lover?

There are no multiple choices, you can only choose one.

Rex Lapis had to find out the hard way.

He sends for Baizhu-yisheng and Changsheng-xiaoren again, just to make sure his warrior doesn't lose hope.

To make sure he doesn't have regrets.

To make sure he gets his own epilogue.

At sunset, they perform the ritual once again.

…

The hair on the back of Xiao's next rose once he saw the golden beacon of light once more.

He's seen this once.

Back when…

He… it… he doesn't want to hope.

The Conqueror of Demons hears his god's summons. He goes.

…

“Are you sure it's alright to do this…?” Baizhu asks as he helps clothe your…? (was it still you?) body…? into new garments.

“To do what?” Rex Lapis asks as he ties your hair up.

You- or rather what Baizhu thinks is a reincarnation of you, has been blinking sleepily for the past half hour, leaning over to Liyue’s Archon.

“To bring her back to life?”

“Hm…” The Archon thinks as he pets your head, “She's not dead, hasn't been at all,”

Baizhu's eyebrows knit together, waiting for the man to explain.

“But, the scene at Luhua Pool?”

He merely laughs, “Simply to immortalize her,” he says, “Luhua Pool is a door to a different plane of existence, it serves to preserve her memories and soul,”

Rex Lapis’ eyes stare at him and smile, “This right here is only a body, a… shell of sorts,”

Baizhu feels horrified at this but at the same time he is intrigued, with this kind of creation, would it be possible to immortalize a normal human?

“Worry not, this has been done many times before, I've done this with Ganyu, too, though her place of transmission was different, Cloud Retainer and Moon Carver have gone through a similar process back in the war,”

Changsheng hisses amusedly at her companion's reaction.

“Baizhu-yisheng, Changsheng-xiaoren? Would you accompany me to Luhua Pool?”

…

There are only a few times Xiao has felt sick to his stomach.

The first was when he was told to eat dreams for the first time.

The second was when he lost you at the river.

The third was when he learned that the other Yaksha had succumbed to death.

And the fourth was when he realized he killed you.

Seeing Luhua Pool again, with Rex Lapis' back to him, was the fifth.

The Archon knew of his presence even before he neared the ground.

“Xiao,” he greets.

“Morax,” Xiao kneels.

“Stand.”

Weapons do not question their wielder. Servants do not question their masters. Demons do not question their gods-

He faces his Archon, “Why?”

Rex Lapis steps aside and he sees…

You.

Zhongli lets out a small sad smile when he sees the warrior buckle at the knees at the sight of you.

“I… How… Is this… Is this a mockery? A punishment?” his warrior says as he tries his hardest not to show emotion in front of his god.

“No, Xiao,” he says as he places a shoulder on his and guides him to you, “A solace.”

“A reprieve.”

“I don't- I don't understand- why would-”

“Would you like to do the honors of bringing her back to you?”

You stare at him with curiosity as Zhongli guides Xiao to you.

You're quiet again.

“Dip her in the water, she already knows what to do, you just need to hold her, I'll take care of the rest,” his voice ever assuring.

“Qingxin…”

Xiao carries you in his arms, the same way he did when he brought you here to rest, he slowly eases you into the water, eyes on you the whole time, watching for any sign of discomfort.

But you only stared back at him, holding nothing of the memories from before.

“Close your eyes, okay?” he murmurs.

Once he sees you nod and your eyes flutter shut, he lowers you deeper into the water until your face is submerged and Rex Lapis begins to chant with Changsheng.

“Qingxin,” Xiao closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours under the water.

“Come back to me.”

…

In the dusk, among the quiet of the night, Luhua Pool glows with beauty, the fireflies string around to illuminate and enhance the reflection of the moon above.

…

Your hand catches onto the back of Xiao's neck and he lifts your face above the water.

The chanting from the two has already ended and they stand to watch as the conqueror of demons wipe away the water from your face as you cough a bit.

His hand stays to cup your face.

“Xiansheng?”

Tears drip onto your face without him even realising it.

“Forgive me,” he chokes on his words, “I never- I never meant to- to hurt you, or- or to lose control, I- I should've been faster, I should've- should've asked for- asked for he-”

“Hey, hey, no,” you say as you pull him into your neck, “I'm fine, I'm here, I'm with you,”

Xiao sobs even harder into your neck, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry,” he repeats over and over.

You pull Xiao, your Xiao, into your arms and give him the tightest embrace you could muster with your current strength right now and he bunches the back of your hanfu as he hugs you loosely, not wanting to hurt you with his strength.

As he buries his face into your neck, you're caught with the sight of Morax looking at the two of you with a smile, Baizhu-yisheng and Changsheng-xiaoren nowhere to be found.

“Thank you,” you mouth.

He nods and leaves in a trail of golden light.

You thread your fingers into Xiao's hair and he sighs the last of his sobs into your skin.

“Xiansheng, should we go home?”

Xiao pulls away from you and nods, wiping at his face with his hands, you giggle as you help him, his eyes still rimmed with red.

“Come now, we have a lot to talk about,” you say and he warps away.

…

That night was the most you've ever heard Xiao talk, or at least according to your memories, which were still a bit fuzzy, but you remember enough from your first reincarnation.

The memories from your time with Xiao in the war were even fuzzier now, as if they were books you've read but can't remember the context of, only returning in feelings or scents.

Xiao has apologized more than eighty times that night, his tears endless as you comfort him in your arms.

“Don't worry, now that the whole reincarnating thing is an option, you won't get rid of me so easily,”

“I wish not to be rid of you at all,” he says, voice still stuffy from crying.

“How cute,” you say as you pinch the cheek that wasn't resting on your chest, “The conqueror of demons all so soft,”

…

The two of you talk for the rest of the night, helping each other understand, and taking the time to make him understand that it wasn't his fault.

Xiao promises never to hurt you again and you promise never to leave his side for too long.

After all, his karmic debt, even if significantly reduced by your previous incarnation, was still active.

You decide to get tea with Morax the next day.

…

“Ah, that,” he says as he pours a fruit blend tea, sunsettia and apple tea, “Well, to be frank with you, I haven't the slightest idea of how you reduced his karmic debt,”

“Wait, you mean to tell me that you created me to 'heal him', but you yourself have no idea how to?”

It was… a bit unnerving for Xiao to hear you question his Archon so openly.

“Yes, forgive me, dear, I only wanted a reprieve for your beloved,” he says and takes a sip of his tea.

“That's so… hmph,” you huff and take a sip of your tea.

“Well, what about how I heal him?” You ask a different question.

“I have my suspicions that it aided your untimely death,” Morax says.

“What?”

“Well, the universe must find balance, to take is to be given, and to be given is to take.”

Xiao's brows knit together, “Are you saying she died because she healed me?”

“Yes, Xiao, although I can bring her back, so I do not think it will be an issue, on another note, too, the karmic debt does not further resurface after she somehow heals it,”

The warrior holds his head, that was… a lot of information to take in… he takes a look at you and sighs, this will surely be your topic for the night.

“Wait, I don't get it, if you could bring me back, why didn't you bring Guizhong-xiangsheng back?”

The Archon smiles sadly.

“Because her body didn't have a medium to preserve her memories,” he paused, “She did not want to be reincarnated, she told me so,”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” you apologize as you pour him another cup of tea.

He laughs at that, “No worries, my child, it is in the past, I'm sure wherever Guizhong is now, she is happier and at peace,”

He looks up at the sky and feels the breeze flow through his hair.

As you look at Xiao, who seems to enjoy the breeze of the wind, too, you think.

You'll choose Xiao.

You'll choose to reincarnate.

You'll heal him and rid him of his karmic debt.

Over and over again.

Until you both get the epilogue you deserve.

prev / masterlist / afterword

usagi's note: ITS 😭 OVER 😭 I 😭 CANT 😭 BELIEVE 😭 IT 😭 im so thankful to everyone who read seriously ily all, to those in the taglist, tysm, i never would've imagined people would actually read this, pls read the afterword if u have time!! im gonna say a lot there, i hope u all take care mwa !! see u next time gbye!!

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@usagiarchive 2025. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

[leaderwon]

chapter 45 — INK & MEMORY

wc — 500+

prev — masterlist — next

It takes days before the embarrassment dulls. You spend most of your time in bed, blinds drawn, phone on Do Not Disturb. You can’t stop replaying the way Sunghoon looked at you, calm, almost pitying — as you stumbled through that drunken confession.

Confused. That’s what you’d said. And he had believed you.

You told him you didn’t know what you felt. And he believed that.

But that wasn’t the truth, was it?

Because as the days go by, and your head starts to clear, you remember things. Stupid things. Little things. And every single one of them has his name written all over it.

You remember the way he’d always walk on the side closest to the road. The way he’d quietly take your tray and dump it when you forgot. How he’d never laugh when you tripped over your words, just wait patiently and let you try again.

And then there were the times he’d show up outside your apartment when you were sick, pretending he "just happened to be in the area" with soup in hand.

You remember it all now. The warmth of those moments, the familiarity of him. The softness.

He had always been there.

You lie on your bed, fingers tangled in your blanket, and the guilt hits you like a wave. Because he had always been there. And you had looked right through him.

Not anymore.

You pull yourself out of bed and reach for your notebook. It's the one you used to use for journaling, back before everything exploded. Most of the pages are empty now, except for messy, half written thoughts and angry scribbles.

But this page, this one will be different.

You start writing. No edits. No second guesses.

Dear Sunghoon,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever give it to you. But I need to write it.

I need to say this somewhere, even if it’s just to myself.

I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I knew.

It’s not the kind of love that comes with fireworks and drama. It’s not loud or chaotic. It’s not like how it was with Jake or even Jay. It’s quieter. Softer. Slower. Like I blinked and one day I realized you were the only person who’s ever made me feel safe just by being around.

I miss you. Not just in the way people say they miss someone. I miss the you that would wait for me after class. The you who always knew when I needed to get out of my own head. The you who never pushed, who always stayed just long enough.

You told me you wouldn’t be my rebound.

You were right.

You’re not my rebound. You were never second choice. You were just… someone I didn’t understand I needed until it was too late.

I don’t expect anything from this. I don’t expect you to forgive me, or talk to me, or ever feel the same. I just needed to admit it.

I love you. And I’m sorry I didn’t know it sooner.

Love, Y/N

You stare at the letter for a long time after the ink dries. Then, without thinking too hard, you fold it once and tuck it into the back of your notebook. It’s not meant to be sent. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But for the first time in a long time, something in your chest feels lighter.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[fellominaarcher]

GOT MARRIED - YOO JIMIN; KARINA X FEM!READER

13. Finale; Redamancy 1.

chapters || prev. || next

notes: this is a little longer than usual and kinda terrible.

One month later...

"Weekend" by Taeyeon blasted from the Bluetooth speaker, connected to Jimin’s latest iPhone. She bounced around the room with the brightest grin on her face, dancing along to the choreography as if she were performing for a live audience.

Meanwhile, the Aespa members were in the middle of outfit selection for an upcoming event. Some of them were having their color analysis done, but none of that seemed to matter to Jimin — who was practically radiating with joy.

Recently, Yoo Jimin had been extra cheerful. Suspiciously cheerful. Perhaps it was the excitement of the event itself — after all, it was a prestigious gala, one of the biggest in South Korea, attracting A-list actors, musicians, and socialites.

Featuring top singers and K-pop groups.

Or maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with a certain lead vocalist of DayDream.

Coincidentally, it was also the middle of fall — Jang Y/N’s favorite season. And, as if by some contagious magic, Jimin seemed to have fallen in love with it too.

The atmosphere in the styling room was light, except for the growing confusion among the Aespa members, their manager, and even the stylists. It wasn’t every day they saw this version of Karina — grinning ear to ear, twirling around like a Disney princess, and looking like she had been personally blessed by the gods of serotonin.

Yizhuo, never one to hold back, chuckled as she shook her head. “Whaaaat? Why is Jimin unnie soooo... different?” she asked, though she was smiling too, amused by the sight.

Aeri shrugged, arms crossed. “Not sureee, but I think we all know what or who induced this level of happiness,” she said, watching Jimin prance around the room like she had just won the lottery.

Minjeong, who had been sitting back and watching with mild interest, simply nodded. "Good for her. I believe she deserves it."

Jimin, still in her own little world, spun around dramatically before bumping her hip against Minjeong, who merely sighed at the affectionate attack. Finally, Jimin flopped onto a chair, ready for her color analysis and styling recommendations.

As she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she saw it, her own ridiculously bright smile. It was because of Y/N. Jimin bit her lip, suppressing a giggle. How did she get this whipped?

Just thinking about Y/N made her smile like an idiot. And when she thought about all the... other things they had done, well — she nearly combusted right then and there. It made her look even prettier, almost annoyingly so.

And the realization hit her again.

I want this.

I want this over and over, with the same person, Jang Y/N.

Because she was whipped. Absolutely, stupidly, dangerously in love. Jimin sighed dreamily, but her thoughts quickly took a sharp turn.

Wait… did Y/N fall for me first?

Or did she fall for me much later? Or was it somewhere in the middle of the "We Got Married" filming?

Her expression turned from dreamy to deeply contemplative.

Without a second thought, she shot up from her seat, holding up a hand to stop the stylist behind her. “Wait —”

The room stilled for a moment as she grabbed her phone from the makeup table. She stared at it intensely, biting her lower lip.

“Do I call her and ask?” Jimin muttered to herself, tilting her head as if debating her life choices.

Her curious expression was adorably dumb.

The way she looked so intensely focused made her own reflection appear ridiculously serious. She pursed her lips. No, but really... do I call her?

The stylist, who had been mid-motion in showing Jimin a set of outfit options on a tablet, blinked at her in confusion. "Who is it...?" she asked, slightly baffled by the sudden shift in conversation.

Aeri, sensing that Jimin was about to expose her stupid cheese cat tendencies to an innocent bystander, immediately stepped in. Placing both hands on Jimin’s shoulders, she gave her a firm but amused shake.

Jimin, still determined, pouted. "But what if —"

"Don’t," Aeri repeated firmly, giving her a little shake before sighing. "But if you really wanna call her, just do it. Don’t make it weird."

Jimin huffed, crossing her arms. "I wouldn’t make it weird." Blinked. Blinked. Looking at Aeri with her big eyes.

"You’re already making it weird." Minjeong deadpanned from the couch without even looking up from her phone.

Yizhuo, who had been sipping on her smoothie, smirked. "Yeah, unnie, I think you should just text her. Or better yet, show up at her dorm unannounced like a real crazy girlfriend." The maknae suggested playfully.

Jimin gasped dramatically. "I am not a crazy girlfriend!" She retorted and placed a hand on her chest with her mouth agape.

Aeri sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I mean, don’t be you about it.” Aeri emphasized Yoo Jimin's weirdness.

Jimin, pouting, dramatically pressed a hand to her chest again. “Excuse me? I am a perfectly normal person in love —”

Aeri, deadpan, simply replied, “Last week you called Y/N at 2 AM to tell her you saw two cats sitting side by side and it reminded you of your relationship." Ended with a gesture that simply proved her point.

Jimin huffed. “That was a very deep and meaningful moment —”

“JUST CALL HER!” Aeri groaned, lightly shaking Jimin’s shoulders before letting her go.

Jimin grinned, unlocking her phone as she muttered under her breath, “She totally fell for me first," confidently with a smirk on her face.

And with that, the room returned to its usual chaos — except now, everyone was waiting to see if Jimin would actually go through with the call or chicken out at the last second.

Either way, this gala was about to be very interesting.

Aespa Post-Photoshoot Interview

The photoshoot had just wrapped up, and the Aespa members were now seated on plush stools in front of a sleek white backdrop. They were still dressed in their elegant photoshoot outfits — each of them styled differently to reflect their personalities.

A staff member handed each of them a mic, and the interviewer, a friendly-looking woman in a crisp dark blue blazer, smiled as she glanced at her cue cards.

“Alright, let’s start with Winter.”

Winter, sitting with her legs crossed and hands neatly folded on her lap, raised an eyebrow with a tiny cute smile.

“Winter, what was your most recent favorite meal?”

Winter’s smirk widened. “Oh, I had tteokbokki with cheese last night, and it was amazing.” She placed a hand over her chest dramatically.

The interviewer chuckled. “That sounds painful but worth it.”

“It was,” Winter confirmed, sighing but then she cutely smiled at the interviewer as well.

“Fashion-wise, since you all just finished a photoshoot, how did you feel about the outfits today?”

Winter leaned back slightly, glancing down at her ensemble — a sleek black and white suit tailored perfectly to her frame. “Honestly? I loved mine. It made me feel like a CEO.” She adjusted her collar. “Like I should be sitting in a high-rise office making important calls.”

Giselle nodded her head, agreeing. “You do look like you’re about to fire someone.” She told Winter as she looked at Winter's outfit.

Winter smirked, lifting an imaginary phone to her ear. “Hello? Yeah, you’re done.” She acted it out while chuckling softly.

The members laughed, and the interviewer smiled. “I can see it! Alright, last question — who was the last person you called?”

Winter blinked and looked down, deep in thought. “Oh… right. My food delivery guy.” There was no hesitation in her answer.

There was a brief pause before Ningning giggled. “You didn’t even have to think that hard about it?” She turned her head to the right to look at Winter.

Winter shrugged. “He’s very important to me.”

The interviewer turned to Giselle, who was sitting comfortably with one arm resting on the back of her chair.

“Giselle, which artist have you been listening to recently?”

Giselle tilted her head thoughtfully before responding. “Lately, I’ve been in an R&B and hip-hop mood. Brent Faiyaz, SZA, and some classic Drake have been on repeat.” She gestured to the camera.

Ningning leaned in with interest. “What era of Drake, though? That says a lot about a person.”

Giselle smirked. “Take Care era, obviously.” There was a proud smile on Giselle's face.

The members all nodded in approval and they all looked back at the interviewer, getting ready for the next questions.

“One TV series you’d recommend watching?”

Giselle lit up, suddenly leaning forward. “Oh! Brooklyn Nine-Nine! It’s my comfort show.” She grinned before straightening her posture. “Actually, hold on —”

Without warning, Giselle started singing, perfectly mimicking the famous Brooklyn Nine-Nine cold open scene.

"Tell me whyyyyy —"

Winter immediately picked up on it, covering her mouth in shock before jumping in.

"Ain’t nothin’ but a heartache!"

The interviewer was wiping away tears from laughter. “That was the best answer to this question I’ve ever gotten.” Still grinning, she moved on. “How do you like your bread?”

Giselle blinked before laughing. “Okay, that’s the most random question so far.” She sucked in her breath deeply and she thought about the question for a second.

The interviewer smiled. “But very important.”

Giselle nodded, playing along. “Alright, well, I like my bread like my music—soft on the inside, a little toasted, and preferably served with something good on top.”

Winter gave her a slow clap. “Poetic.” While nodding her head.

“Thank you, thank you,” Giselle said, bowing dramatically.

The interviewer turned to Ningning, who was still giggling from Giselle’s antics.

“Ningning, what are your three favorite colors?”

Ningning straightened up, flipping her hair back. “Red, black, and…” she paused for effect, “...sparkly.”

The interviewer blinked. “Uh… sparkly?”

“Yes,” Ningning said with conviction. “Sparkly is a color in my heart.” And she looked so proud of it too.

“A variety show you’d like to guest in?”

Ningning smirked mischievously. “Single’s Inferno.” Oh Ningning, you're a menace.

The interviewer’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?” She tilted her head at the answer.

“Only for me to choose no one in the end,” Ningning added, then laughed.

The members lost it as the interviewer clapped in amusement.

“What do you like to do in your free time?”

Ningning stretched her arms. “Oh, that’s easy. Sleep. Nap. Dream. Hibernate.” Ningning had her priority straight.

Winter clapped. “A woman of consistency.”

“Thank you,” Ningning said proudly.

Finally, the interviewer turned to Karina, who had been listening with a soft smile, her posture straight but relaxed.

“Karina, your recent favorite thing?”

Karina’s eyes lit up. “Flowers! Recently, someone gave me a bouquet of baby’s breath, daisies, and carnations.” She answered the question enthusiastically with a smile on her face.

The interviewer raised a brow. “That sounds special,” she added on a teasing tone in her voice, “Romantic too."

Karina chuckled, a little bashful. “Yeah… and that person is going to teach me how to frame the flowers once they dry out.” She looked particularly excited mentioning the flowers.

The members exchanged knowing glances but didn’t say anything.

“Your favorite song at the moment?”

Karina hesitated slightly before smiling. “Love, Maybe.” She exhaled softly. “It’s from my favorite K-drama, and someone special shared it with me.” Karina smiled at the thought of it.

The interviewer tilted her head. “That makes it even more meaningful.”

Karina nodded. “It really does.” She replied while tapping her nails on her knee.

“What was the last video you watched on YouTube?”

Karina blinked. “Fancams.” She immediately made a nonchalant expression to feign innocence and to not attract that much attention.

The interviewer smiled. “Whose?” Curious at Karina's simple answer to the question.

Karina cleared her throat. “Just… you know, K-pop girl group members.” It was hard playing pretend but it can be fun.

Giselle leaned forward. “Which members?” She playfully asked Karina with a teasing tone.

Karina avoided eye contact. “Does it matter?” She sat up straight and looked straight at the camera.

Ningning gasped. “You’re down bad.” Ningning joined in with the teasing while laughing.

Karina groaned as the members laughed.

────────────────────

KpopNewz Twitter Post

@kpopnewz: "Karina of Aespa is going viral after revealing that someone gifted her a bouquet of baby’s breath, daisies, and carnations—flowers with deep symbolic meanings. She also hinted that her current favorite song, Love, Maybe, was shared with her by someone special. Fans are buzzing with speculation! #Karina #Aespa"

─────────────────────

@kwangyatheories: These flower choices are not random. Someone put thought into this.

@kdramaluvrr: What if it’s Lee Jaewook?? 👀

@daydreamcvmsock: The fact that Y/N mentioned these exact flowers in an interview once… coincidence?? I think NOT.

@ningning_slayerism: Meanwhile, Ningning just wants to go on Single’s Inferno to reject men LMFAO.

[blueishspace]

Hero, Villain God 47

(Prev) (Next) (First)

*Grian's pov*

You run back to your apartment, you do not appreciate having to do this at all. You had a whole thing pre-planned and they ruined it for you!

Creating an outfit is not the hard part, you can do that pretty easily with the snap of a finger but no matter how oblivuous Scar might be he's still definitely going to question it were you to arrive with an outfit that looks professionally made. You don't think you could justify it without being called out...

...So of course you have to also make it look homemade, like it was made with stuff you had around the apartment in half an hour, what an un-cute start to your sidekick career.

You settle on a pink and blue hoodie and a mask, not the best outfit but you did what you had to to make it look legit... On theme but not outlandish enough to be questioned. And if it is questioned... you'll deal with that later when it becomes a problem.

...And with that you are just in time to pick Hotguy up and make it to Las Nevadas before the commotion ends.

"Cuteguy? Is that?"

"Yep, not my ...first choice but it will have to do... So how do I look?"

"You look like a vigilante when, dressed like that"

"That's hardly my fault Hotguy."

"... Yeah, I know"

...

"You didn't answer, how do I look?"

"Great! I mean, not that you usually look not great, you always look good! But it fits you really well- it looks cool I mean hot I mean...good???"

"Are you.. ok?"

"....I'm... I'm just really tired."

... You can relate with that, a lot has happened in the span of a few hours... especially for you.

"Yep"

"... Sooo, are you ready for your debut?"

"Unfortunately"

"Oh C'mon It's going to be... great?"

He can't even manage to sound like he believes it, zero out of ten encouragement here...one out if ten, at least he's trying.

"So...uh...let's go!"

And he just books it! You are having deja-vu to when Flame did this exact same thing when you met him the first time. What's with super powered people and running away randomly?

"I see how it is Hotguy!"

And you spread your wings and fly to him.

As you approach Las Nevadas you hear the sound of sirens, you forgot about those. In hindsight you really should have thought of the attention a group of notorious villains fighting a group of vigilantes in front of a major casino and hotel would garner, oh well.

You look towards Scar, he is... slightly upset, clearly this is bigger then he expected...you wonder just how little the hero association actually knew and how little of that they actually told him. Considering past presedent you don't have very high hopes.

You kinda wish he would just stop being nice, go a bit apeshit even, for once and tear into them...is that how you use the phrase? You heard Martyn say it during the movie marathon and it definitely fits your opinion on the matter...either way, you really wish he would do something like that even though it probably would cause problems it would also be very satisfying to watch...like Legally Blonde! Nice reference, you learned so much today, you are so proud of yourself.

You land down near the chaos, on top of one of the nearby building, Quackity is gone because he must have chosen to be smart about it and left in the confusion... Flame is currently fighting Xonorth, Worm man is dealing with the Doctor, Seraphin with Mot and you are fighting with you...This is going to get confusing real soon.

You hear Hotguy sighs from your left, you turn towards him, his expression is even more unconfortable then it was earlier.

"This isn't..."

"Well, what now Hotguy?"

"I don't... The association sent us after the vigilantes ..."

You can sense the doubt in bis tone, is he having second thoughts.

"But?"

"I don't think we should target them, we should get the villains...?"

"Uh?"

You turn fully to him.

"T-that makes more sense right? Villains...villains are worse then vigilantes so...they should be the one we get??"

"Makes sense to me?"

"So..."

"So we are working with vigilantes? Even though that's the opposite of what the hero association said?"

"..."

He's silent for a few moments, before you can try to spur him on he steps foward.

"I think so... Just this once."

"Sounds good to me, I'm right behind you."

He turns towards you and smiles, then he jumps into the fray and you follow suit immediately after.

It's a bit much controlling three bodies at once but you think you manage it pretty well! Mother Spore dodges a swipe to the left, Poultryman trows an egg at a guy on the right, Cuteguy slashes a tendril in half... All in all you would say you are doing pretty well.

Chaos is your domain and this almost all vs all is refreshing and sweet and invigorating! Still It's different from how you normally view your domain, usually It's more detached, more uninteresting...but being in the middle of it? Extremely confusing and doubly as entertaining. You get lost in the confusion in the best possible way.

Cuteguy jumps on Mot and Mother Spore summon a mushroom wall around herself and Poultryman uses his wings to deck Paroh. You jump from side to side, fly and swipe and dash and at one point you even do a backflip from no reason other then because It sounded fun and you had no reason not do it...

After a while all the fighting does start to meld together as you get more lost in it, to be fair It's been a while since you have been able to do something like this so you end up being very intense about it-

...

And then you hear a strangled cry and everything goes quiet. You turn. All three of you turn towards the noise, the world itself almost wraps in vortex as you hear a scream of someone very familiar.

You turn and you see a tendril, one of Xonorth's... It's passing right trough Scar's heart, you can see his suit darken around the point in which the tendril makes contact with flesh, you look as crimson blood begins to coat the appendage. You turn and for a second it is silence...And then everything stops.

*End of Chapter 9*

[serejae]

WE CANT BE FRIENDS | 16. BUT ID LIKE TO JUST PRETEND

(written)

prev | next

warning: im gonna pretend we're in korea for this chapter so jaehyun can drink LOLSIES, i also know barely anything about drinking so if its not accurate OOPS #20y/owhocantdrinkstrugglesbcshesscaredofthelaw

mstl

taglist @lilriswife4life @cherrytaesan @tubatu-lovie @woonsbot @guiltysungho @taylorluvation @kage-yaa @lionhanie @dearly-somber @nicholasluvbot @nujeskz @unhakki @lblossom21 @crispy-kirby @seunghancore @nctrawberries @i03jae @icewons @miidorei @hanbinniesmango @helpsplease @dongminz

ps: it doesnt get better from here until wayyy after ;-)

(a few minutes ago) EPISODE 5

"what are we even supposed to do?" jaehyun said as he took another shot. "i uh have to ask you questions" woonhak explained as he repositioned the camera up to face jaehyun. jaehyun hummed as he took another shot "are you okay? you took like 10 shots since we got here and i haven't even started recording yet" woonhak looked up from the camera concerned. "pfft what do you know about drinking" jaehyun laughed looking at woonhak, woonhak scoffed "not much, but i know this relates back to yn". the older one looked away "just record or something i don't know..."

"now we have myung jaehyun. i'll ask you questions and you can answer away from yn. i assure you she won't see this footage...well unless she watches this but that's beside the point." woonhak adjusted the camera a bit. "so i CAN answer the question? i have a choice?" jaehyun asked rather tipsy. "no sorry, you WILL answer these."

"what are your opinions on L/N Y/N?"

jaehyun took another shot before answering. "Yn? she's...I MISS HER" he suddenly erupted into tears taking back woonhak but content is content...

"i cant live without her i dont know how i haven't died yet during these 2 years. shes all i constantly think about, when i go to the store, i think about her, when i sleep, i think about her, when I'm even in my fucking office i think about her and that was the main thing that drove me away from her." he sobbed into his hands. woonhak giggled a bit at the sight and zoomed into jaehyun crying. "I'm gonna have to put a 'her' count in here..."

"I thought you ended things because of music, your job?"

"FUCK THE JOB! i'm done, i'll take it all back and work at fucking wendys if it means i can stay with her. my music career is a flop! YOU know" jaehyun pointed at woonhak to which he nods "THEY know" he pointed at the camera "SHE knows" he points at his heart "I just cant take not being around her anymore. we don't have to be friends we don't have to date again I just want her back in my life completely without messing everything up. i'd literally argue with her for the rest of my life even if it hurts me rather than never talk to her at all and it hurts because she makes it look so simple, not missing me, not talking to me. but it's fair enough isn't it? if i had just shut my mouth for that one day i would've realized that music doesn't compare to her, but why'd i have to realize so late?"

"do you still think about her?"

"of course i do" he cried even more, woonhak was pretty sure jaehyuns drink was more tears than alcohol now "you know..." jaehyun giggled for a second 'the roman empire? how its like a joke that all guys think of it often, she, y/n are you watching this?" jaehyun gets close to the camera, his nose touching the lens, too drunk to realize anything. "yn, you're my roman empire, there's not a second i don't think about you. i wake up , its you, i go to sleep, its you, i eat, its you, hell i could strip right now and dance-“ “that's enough" woonhak stops him. "i just wonder why you think so deeply about her, shes just a girl-" jaehyun cuts woonhaks words offended "DONT. shes not just some random girl, shes yn. the first person who understood me, the first person i felt comfortable with, the first person to support my music career, and i just, let her go. for the same music career i left her for. clearly, you've never been in love or never been in love and lost that same person due to your dumb actions..."

"then why were you acting so cold to her today?"

"fuck, woonhak. its all a persona, i'm trying to convince myself I'm over her, but clearly, it's not working, at all. even today i used all the force in me not to fold and when i complained about it on my twitter this random sea jae something account commented...but i remember she did comment under my comment saying "its not like me and her will get together" with a "haha" like what does that mean...is it a sign from the universe?" jaehyun looked over at woonhak with a sad smile trying to convince himself he's not that effected by you despite going on a 30 minute rant about you. woonhak laughed a bit. jaehyun looked down at his shot glass and stared.

"do you think she misses me...like ever?" he turned again to woonhak who stared at jaehyun in pity. "she-" woonhak paused and shook his head "directors shouldn't get involved" jaehyuns body shot over to face woonhak "YOUR NOT A DIRECTOR YOUR A 17 YEAR OLD BOY" "18 in Korea" woonhak added "I DONT CARE, YOUR A 17 OR 18 BOY WHO IS FAILING HIS FILM MAKING CLASS WITH A NEGATIVE NUMBER. WHAT DOES SHE SAY ABOUT ME."

"fine, i'll show you." woonhak logs into his phone and text you to help him out. "oops, phone died" jaehyun groaned and face planted into the table.

(NOW)

you texted woonhak that you were outside and you saw him drag jaehyun out. "damn he's out." taesan said from your backseat. you hum in agreement. woonhak approaches the car and opens the back seat to throw jaehyun in until taesan stops him "put jaehyun in the passenger seat" "but you're back here-"

"woonhak. put. jaehyun. in. the. damn. front. seat."

woonhak placed jaehyun in the front seat and got in the back.

jaehyun turned his head to you as you were driving

"yn?" he asked softly "yeah?" "do you ever miss me?"

you dont reply, looking in your rear view mirror you see woonhak and taesan sleeping. sighing you turn back to jaehyun when you stop at a red light, he looked at you with soft doe eyes that could break any minute. but you couldn't help but admire his features shining in the red light, you hadn't got a good look at him until now and damn, he was still so...

BEEP

right. "back then yeah" you lied, or maybe not, who cares

"i still miss you, a lot. Every day i wake up and my heart aches for you, only to see an empty cold space in the spot next to me. i know, i know everyone tells me and i got the signal from you, i know I'm stupid for ending a relationship over music, SoundCloud especially but i don't want to move on. if i put on earth with one other girl and her only i wouldn't even speak to her, i'd make a stick doll and name it after you, talk to it every day, because yn, you're the only person I've ever needed and i hate that i lost the one person who kept me going, that i still dream of, that i can't move on from, i just wish i didn't let you go at all.

do you...still think we'd be together if i hadn't ruined us?"

you pause staring at the gearstick "maybe in another life" you replied lowly afraid your voice would crack. you blink back tears refusing to even look at him. you hear him catch his breath and realize he's crying "i just wish it could be this life. i want it to be this life, yn, I'll do anything for it to be this life please. let me back in your life."

"jaehyun no, you're drunk"

"drunk words are sober thoughts"

taesan said from the backseat still with his eyes closed. you realize both woonhak and taesan have been faking sleeping the entire time.

"get out" you said. taesan opened his eyes and realized yall were in front of his and jaehyuns house. OH RIGHT, thanks yn" you hum as you watch taesan help jaehyun out. "take care" you said to both of them, before jaehyun gets through the door he turns back at you and smiles softly

"ugh i shouldve recorded that"

oh.

you forgot he was there.

[balladeerssong]

Scaramouche x fem!Reader smau. masterlist.

prev. | PART IX. - almost. | next.

in which silence is good and bad at the same time.. (written part).

Much to your surprise, by the time you got ready after agreeing to take a walk with Kunikuzushi, he was already outside of your apartment's door. The streets were dimly lit, but it wasn't hard to notice his puffy, red eyes under the streetlights. There was never silence between you two - you usually kept the convo going with whatever was on your mind. However, this time around you knew he didn't need that right now. He simpy needed someone to be silent with; someone to keep him grounded while he lets the soft wind sort his thoughts for him.

You walked in a lazy pace on the route you took the first time you hung out. The park you stopped at was one you visited countless times before during your previous years at the Akademiya, but being there with Kuni in such a comfortable silence it felt so different, it would be hard to explain. Sitting side by side on the swings, both of you gently pushing yourselves back and forth while countless thoughts occupy both of your minds.

It wasn't until your phone lit up in your hand, a text notification appearing on your screen. You took a glance at Kuni, who seemed to be too lost in thought to even notice. You took a second to open and read the messages you've recieved.

A serious message from Ajax? Surely a "once in a blue moon" experience.

You thought for a second. Issuing a call in such a serene moment would be so disrespectful, no? He probably wants to talk about something regarding the duo stream on sunday, that can probably wait a few hours.

His short response gave your heart a light squeeze. It was never your intention to hurt his feelings, but sometimes it was hard to tell if he's being serious or not. It's really just about the stream.. right?

"That message you got must be interesting. You look so distressed." Kuni's voice was quiet as he spoke. The tears he likely shed a while ago were still straining his throat.

"Oh, just one of my friends asking me where I am. Nothing to worry about."

He nodded in response, his feet slowly dangling in the air below him. He was looking at the full moon above the park, perfectly visible - its reflection in his eyes serving as a spotlight to give a clear view of his uncried tears. It felt like such a perfect moment to say something. To ask what happened, to tell him it's okay, but nothing left your mouth.

"Sumeru is great, I like it so far." He spoke before you could. Despite the comical timing to say this, it sounded genuine.

"I'm glad you do! You being here is great as well." You shot him a sweet smile, an innocent, unsuspecting one.

He wanted to tell you, he wanted to tell you everything on his mind. How his best friend was right. How he fell in love with you after the first day, how he got attached so quickly he never spent a single break in uni without you solely because of it. How his mother never loved him, never spent time with him, gods, she never even LOOKED at him. And when he saw the way you smile at him so effortlessly, how natural it is for you to be kind to him, to guide and help him, he immediately felt the bleeding hole on his heart starting to heal. But at the end of the day it was all a dirty, pitiful excuse in his head.

So maybe silence is the best choice for now.

[isacksteban]

Cinnamon — Strollonso (8) (prev)

A month.

That’s how long it had been since Fernando had heard from Lance.

His group was still attending his lectures every week and turning in their assignments on time, but it wasn’t the same. Lance’s laughter wasn’t there to light up the room, nor was his curious gaze that always lingered a second too long.

It wasn’t his boy’s group.

Fernando had tried not to dwell on it, convincing himself that Lance was just busy or laying low to keep their secret safe. But as the weeks turned into a month, the ache in his chest grew heavier.

One afternoon, Fernando found himself wandering aimlessly through the aisles of a nearby market, trying to distract himself from the constant emptiness he felt. He was debating between two brands of coffee when he heard a familiar voice.

“Professor Alonso?”

Fernando turned, his heart skipping a beat as his eyes landed on Lance. He looked different — brighter, in a way, but there was a stiffness in his posture that Fernando couldn’t ignore.

“Lance,” Fernando breathed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Lance offered a hesitant smile. “Hi.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Fernando’s instinct was to reach out, to touch him, to hold him, but something in Lance’s expression stopped him.

“It’s been a while,” Fernando said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Yeah,” Lance said, shifting uncomfortably. He glanced around, as if making sure no one was watching.

“How have you been?” Fernando asked, his eyes searching Lance’s face for any sign of the warmth he remembered.

“I’ve been…” Lance hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I’ve been good. Really good, actually.”

Fernando frowned. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Lance’s jaw tightened, and he looked down at the floor. “I had to,” he said quietly.

Fernando’s heart sank. “Why?”

Lance looked up, meeting his eyes with a resolve that Fernando hadn’t seen before. “Because what we did… it was a mistake.”

The words hit Fernando like a punch to the gut. “A mistake?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lance nodded, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I’ve been spending time with my dad. Going to shul every Shabbat, praying daily with the kohen. I’ve realized that… that what I felt for you wasn’t right. It was the satan in me, pulling me away from God’s path.”

Fernando’s chest tightened, his hands trembling as he set the coffee down. “Lance, fuck, you can’t seriously believe that—”

“I do,” Lance interrupted, his voice firm. “I have to believe it. It’s the only way I can make sense of everything.”

Fernando took a step closer, his voice soft and desperate. “Lance, what we had wasn’t evil. It wasn’t wrong. It was real.”

Lance’s eyes glistened, but he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve made my choice. I’m back on God’s path now, and I can’t… I can’t let myself stray again. My dad has business opprotunities lined up for me and at this rate i'll graduate a whole semester early.”

Fernando felt his heart shatter. “Is that really how you feel?”

Lance hesitated, his resolve faltering for a brief moment — is it? But then he nodded. “Yes.”

Fernando took a step back, his hands falling to his sides. “If that’s what you want,” he said quietly.

“It is,” Lance said, though his voice wavered.

They stood there in silence for a moment, the weight of their unspoken emotions hanging heavily between them.

“Goodbye, Professor,” Lance said finally, turning to leave.

Fernando watched him go, his chest aching with every step Lance took away from him. He wanted to call out, to stop him, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything.

Lance barely made it through the door of his house before the tears started. He nodded stiffly at his father, who was seated in the living room, before retreating upstairs to his bathroom.

Once the lock clicked behind him, the floodgates opened. Lance sank to the cool tile floor, burying his face in his hands as sobs wracked his body. His shoulders heaved with the force of it, the weight of everything he’d been holding in finally crashing down on him.

The image of Fernando’s face — hurt, desperate, pleading — replayed over and over in his mind. His words had been so final, so resolute, and yet his heart screamed that it wasn’t true. That he didn’t believe any of it. That he was lying to Fernando, to himself, to everyone.

He cried until his throat burned, his chest aching from the effort. He barely registered the sound of his father’s footsteps on the stairs, the soft knock at the bathroom door.

“Lance?” Lawrence’s voice was cautious, concerned. “Are you okay?”

Lance pressed his hands to his mouth, trying to stifle his sobs, but it was useless.

“Lance, open the door, my boy.”

His father’s tone was gentle, but firm, and Lance knew he wouldn’t go away. With trembling hands, he reached up and unlocked the door before retreating to the corner of the bathroom, his knees pulled tightly to his chest.

Lawrence stepped inside, his expression softening instantly when he saw his son. “Oh, Lance…” Suddenly the boy in front of him had went back in time ten years, it was as though his nineteen year old son was crying over how the kids at school called him mean names all over again. It hurt Lawrence more than anything else.

Without hesitation, he crossed the room and knelt beside him, pulling him into a firm embrace. Lance didn’t resist, clinging to his father as if he were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“It’s okay,” Lawrence murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Lance’s back. “God, Lance. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. It would never be okay.

“I’m sorry,” Lance choked out, his voice muffled against his father’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I tried so hard to get better, I thought it was working.”

Lawrence pulled back just enough to look at him, his greying brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about? There is absolutely nothing that is wrong with you.”

Lance shook his head violently, fresh tears streaming down his face. “I miss him,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I miss him so much.”

Lawrence’s confusion deepened. “Who?”

Lance hesitated, his chest tightening as he debated whether to say it. But the guilt, the shame, the overwhelming need to unburden himself finally won out.

“Fernando,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “Dad, I miss Fernando.”

For a moment, Lawrence said nothing, the weight of Lance’s confession sinking in. His face shifted from confusion to something softer, more understanding.

“Oh, Lance,” he said quietly, pulling his son back into his arms. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Lance repeated, his voice broken. “I didn’t mean to disappoint you. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You didn’t disappoint me,” Lawrence assured him, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’re my son, and I love you. Nothing will ever change that.”

Lance clung to him, his tears soaking into his father’s shirt. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of relief, a tiny sliver of hope that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

Lawrence held him tighter, his mind racing as he tried to process everything.

After a long silence, Lance finally spoke, his voice shaky and raw. “I’m still in love with him.”

Lawrence froze for a moment, his breath hitching. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look Lance in the eyes. “Lance…”

“I tried, Dad,” Lance said, his voice cracking. “I’ve been going to shul every Shabbat. I pray every day. I’ve done everything the kohen told me to do. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t go away.”

Lawrence’s brows furrowed, his heart breaking at the sight of his son’s anguish. “Lance, love isn’t something you can just erase. It’s not something you can force out of yourself.”

“But it’s wrong!” Lance cried, his fists clenching in frustration. “I know it’s wrong. I know it’s against everything I’m supposed to believe, but I can’t stop feeling this way. I feel like I’m broken, like I’m tainted.”

“You’re not broken,” Lawrence said firmly, his hands gripping Lance’s shoulders. “You’re not tainted.”

Lance shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “Then why does it feel like God’s given up on me? Why do I feel like I’m not good enough to be forgiven?”

“Lance…” Lawrence’s voice softened, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “God hasn’t given up on you. And you don’t need forgiveness for loving someone.” He paused, his gaze steady as he added, “I need to apologize for not realizing sooner that you really do love him.”

Lance’s breath hitched, his tears momentarily stopping as he looked up at his father in disbelief. “What?”

Lawrence sighed, cupping the back of Lance’s head in a comforting gesture. “You’ve been tearing yourself apart trying to be someone you’re not because you thought that’s what I wanted. I don’t want you to suffer, Lance. If Fernando is who makes you happy… then I’ll simply have to accept that.”

Lance’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He searched his father’s face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt, but found none. “You… you mean it?”

“I do,” Lawrence said firmly. “But there are conditions.”

Lance’s heart began to race. “What kind of conditions?”

“For one, no more sneaking around,” Lawrence said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “If you’re serious about this, I need you both to be honest with me. I don’t want to find out things secondhand or not at all.”

Lance nodded quickly, relief beginning to replace the dread in his chest. “Okay. We can do that.”

“Second,” Lawrence continued, “you both need to be careful and keep things appropriate. He’s older, and your relationship will face a lot of scrutiny. If you’re going to be together, you need to show the world that it’s built on respect and love, not just… passion.”

Lance’s cheeks flushed, but he nodded again. “We will. I promise.”

Lawrence sighed, pulling his son into another hug. “I’m trusting you, Lance. Both of you. Don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t,” Lance said, his voice trembling with gratitude. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you for… for understanding.”

Lawrence held him tightly, his own emotions threatening to spill over. “I just want you to be happy, son. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

"Does this mean I get my phone and my car back?" Lance whispered, almost laughing at his own question.

Lawrence held him tightly, his own emotions threatening to spill over. “I just want you to be happy, son. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Does this mean I get my phone and my car back?” Lance whispered, almost laughing at his own question.

Lawrence pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “We’ll talk about it. One step at a time.”

Lance chuckled softly, the weight on his chest finally beginning to lift. He wiped his face and stood up, his mind already racing with thoughts of what to do next. “I, uh… I need to call Fernando. He deserves to know.”

Lawrence hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Go ahead. But remind him that he still needs to meet me — properly this time.”

Lance didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed his phone and retreated to his room, closing the door behind him. His hands trembled slightly as he scrolled to Fernando’s number and hit call.

The phone didn't even get the chance to ring twice before Fernando picked up. “Lance?” His voice was cautious, but there was a hint of hope in it.

“Hey, it’s me,” Lance said quickly, his voice cracking with nervous energy. “I— uhm, look, I know I seemed completely crazy earlier, but everything’s okay now. It’s all okay.”

Fernando’s breath audibly hitched. “What do you mean?”

Lance sat down on the edge of his bed, smiling despite himself. “I talked to my dad. Well, more like he found me crying in the bathroom, and we had a long talk. He knows about us, Fernando. And he’s okay with it. Now he ism He just… wants us to stop hiding and to keep things appropriate.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment before Fernando said softly, “He knows? And he’s okay with it?”

“Yeah,” Lance said, his voice light with relief. “He actually told me he just wants me to be happy. Can you believe that?”

Fernando chuckled, the sound warm and disbelieving. “I’m trying to. And you’re sure he’s not planning to come after me with a lawyer or something?”

Lance laughed. “No, no lawyers. He just said you have to meet him. Officially, I mean.”

Fernando groaned playfully. “He knows me already, Lance. We went to university together. I’m pretty sure I’ve beaten him at poker more than once.”

Lance grinned. “Yeah, he told me that too. I think he’s more curious about us as a… couple.”

Fernando was quiet for a moment before he said softly, “Lance, I’m really proud of you. For talking to him, for being honest. That couldn’t have been easy. God, you're amazing.”

“It wasn’t,” Lance admitted. “But I couldn’t keep pretending. And now… now we don’t have to hide. But all my classes are online so that's final...”

Fernando’s laugh was warm and steady. “We’ll do this right, Lance. And you'll just get your degree through Google, then.”

“Yeah, Google,” Lance echoed, a smile spreading across his face. For the first time in what felt like forever, things were finally starting to look up.